The Introspective Liar

The Art Of Obsession

2010-02-07T21:06:00.014-06:00

I've been silent for a long time now. Not because I have nothing to say. Well, maybe because I have nothing to say. I don't know. I just know that my stressful life continues to be stressful, but probably no worse than the next guy's. And stress generally makes me quiet.

When I get too stressed I retreat. I retreat into my books, my music, myself. During these times I tend to become intensely interested in something that has never really interested me before. Intensity bordering on obsession. I can't count all of the subjects that have caught my attention, occupied my every waking thought, every moment of my day not absolutely required to sustain my family and me. And I approach each obsession identically. I read. I read everything I can get my hands on about the subject. Most people who develop an interest in gardening tend to go to the local nursery, pick out a few plants, buy a trowel, a box of fertilizer and go dig a hole. They may watch a few episodes of Victory Garden or pick up a gardening magazine. I did all that. But not before I bought out my local Barnes & Noble bookstore gardening section. Last count, I had 40+ gardening books.

These go with my 60+ cookbooks, my 20+ books on sewing and tailoring, etc., a bigger selection of poetry books than my Barnes & Noble, and god knows how many books about specific periods of time in British or American history.

I have a new obsession. Something I never really thought much about before. Art History. I don't know what triggered this fascination. All I know is thanks to my "square-headed boyfriend" (my spouse's pet name for my MacBook) the history of art is at my feet, or at least my fingertips. I've found some of the most amazing resources, galleries, museums, etc. on line. So much information in fact, that I've only bought a handful of books. (Well only a handful if we don't count the ebooks and audiobooks. But those don't count. At least to me.)

This is still a fairly new obsession. I am a novice. But I am fascinated and it seems like I fall in love with a new artist daily. I would like to share some of my findings and tie them to my other obsessions in the Liar. But I promise nothing.

I will at least share a couple of observations I have made so far - predominately about my own personal taste.

1. I thought I liked Impressionist art. I don't think I do though. Too blurry. (I have learned quite a bit of real art-related terminology - contrapposto, staffage, tenebrism - but I still find that words like "blurry", "bright" or "fuzzy" work for me.)

2. Like a magpie, I am drawn to bright colors and shiny things. So specific artistic periods or movements - Rococo, Orientalism, Pre-Raphaelite - have caught my attention and my imagination so far.

3. Throughout history it was OK to paint naked women and children (and naked men to a lessor degree) and not be accused of pornography, as long as you gave the naked people common mythological names. An artist fond of painting nudes could paint to their heart's content as long as the pictures bore the name of Leda, Callisto or Diana. Name them Nessie, Mabel or Betty and the same painting was deemed unsuitable for polite society.

4. Religious-themed art seems to be the most violent. And often the darkest. Especially Christian art. Like actual religion, I've yet to see much in this artistic genre that appeals to me.

5. To appreciate art, just like appreciating life, go with what catches your attention. What makes you stop, pause and rethink everything you've thought up to that point. Then take the time to take a closer look. Try and determine exactly what it is about a particular piece that appeals to you. What speaks to you. Read what the experts say about the particular artist or the particular piece of work. But don't let their words color your opinion. Art truly is in the eye of the beholder. It speaks to you or it doesn't. An "expert's" opinion can't change that.

Here is a small sampling of what speaks to me. I will try and explain why next time.

A Woman in a Turban - Anne-Louis Girodet Trioson

Self Portrait (1835) - Emile-Jean-Horace Vernet

Temptation (1880), William Adolphe Bouguereau

The Painter's Honeymoon (1864) - Frederic Leighton

The Rape of Europa (1734) - François Boucher

Dear Rat

2010-01-24T07:48:00.003-06:00

You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old,
Or your head will be sunk by your heels;
And summer gales and Killer Whales
Are bad for baby seals.
Are bad for baby seals, dear rat,
As bad as bad can be.
But splash and grow strong,
And you can't be wrong,
Child of the Open Sea!

Rudyard Kipling

Some day I will understand the deep meaning of these words of wisdom. In the meantime, I just enjoy them.

Hello again, perhaps

2009-08-13T21:20:00.006-05:00

I'm not certain why I'm posting tonight. I have been thinking of doing so for several days. The lure has been strong, there are ideas enough to go around several times. But it has not been ... right. Tonight it is. Perhaps tomorrow it won't be.

But I do not feel compelled to post something witty, entertaining, thought provokingly original. I just want to post a perfect Sonnet. The one that has captured my attention since I first read it many, many years ago. From the poet who's voice often resides inside my head.

Sonnet VI

This door you might not open, and you did;
So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed. . . . Here is no treasure hid,
No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain
For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,
But only what you see. . . . Look yet again --
An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept
Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
Unto the threshold of this room to-night
That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours. I seek another place.

... Edna St. Vincent Millay

I hope someone reads this someday, here or someplace else and it means as much to them as it means to me.

Exhausted Longing

2009-07-08T22:05:00.003-05:00

It's late. I'm tired. Hate one day flight trips - in and out. Traveling for work used to be fun. Now just tedious.

It's late. I'm tired. He's not home. His regular Wednesday night commitment. I usually enjoy my Wednesday nights alone. But not tonight. Didn't get home from airport until after 8:00. It's late. I'm tired.

When he comes home I will want. And hope he wants too. Eyes drooping, bed beckoning, pillows calling. Can I stay awake long enough to enjoy what I want if I get it? Will he want nothing, or want more than I can give in my current state? Who knows? I don't.

It's late. I'm tired.

The Sound of Hell Breaking Loose

2009-07-07T20:18:00.005-05:00

Here is the deal. At a youngish age you marry a man-boy you love. At least you think you love him. You know you feel different emotions towards him than you’ve ever felt for another boy. There was never the overwhelming sensation of an initial crush. In fact what grew between you grew slowly, methodically, at least on your side. But once it reached that point of recognition you knew this was unique. And to your young mind, unique feelings about a boy must equal love.

You feel terribly lucky because he also proves to be a good friend. You feel even luckier because he seems totally enthralled by you; even by the parts of you other boys quickly became disillusioned of. And there were lots of those parts, although most of them centered on your sharp tongue, your impatience over the general immaturity of boys and your quick disdain of any weakness you perceive in others. But he doesn’t see the negative parts, or if he does, they don’t bother him.

You continue to grow up alongside this man-boy. You start careers, buy a house, raise a family. Through the years the romance fades but never completely deserts you. Magazines tell you that you have sex far more frequently than most couples your age and married as long as you have been married. You consider this a good sign, but you absently wonder how long you have to be married before the nomenclature changes from ‘making love’ to ‘having sex’. Since you appear to be ahead in the game, you don’t worry too much. And the sex, well, if it isn’t heart-stopping and thrilling, it isn’t unpleasant either and you still enjoy the closeness and the intimacy the act requires.

There are times when you feel a frisson of desire for another man. Sometimes that frisson is quite strong. So strong you at least unconsciously consider whether you should sidestep your partner, whether temporarily or permanently and explore your options. But you are not that kind of person. To protect yourself you take steps to assure that you probably could not act on those feelings even if you wanted to, because they would not be reciprocated. You let yourself go. Just a little. Enough to declare to the world that you are not in play, but not enough to cause concern in the man-boy. You suspect he suffers similar experiences, but instinctively trust he is no more likely to act on those desires than you are.

You and your man-boy, now far more man than boy, become comfortable, complacent, and totally absorbed in the daily rigmarole of life. None of which are bad things to be are they? You don’t talk a great deal, but on occasion you and he find yourselves engrossed in an extensive and wide ranging conversation about issues that are important to you both. And those occasions feed your soul. Remind you that you made the right choice. Remind you why you married this man.

One subject you rarely discuss is sex. You have it. Exactly as you have been having it for the last several years. But you don’t talk about it. You don’t discuss your evolving fantasy lives. You don’t discuss what type of pornography or erotica the other finds interesting. You don’t discuss burgeoning desires, risks you are willing to take or activities currently outside your comfort zone that you think you would like to move inside.

Then something quite strange and wonderful occurs. You get old. Well, not old exactly, but definitely middle aged (as long as we are not talking about precisely the middle of your ultimate age - you don’t plan on living to be 102.) Weird things start happening to your body. As weird as what happened to your body at the beginning of your sexual journey. And those weird things affect your mind. How you think and how you feel about sex.

Your kids are grown. Your body is back under your control. At least it stops going wacky every few months as it decides whether to go through the process one more time and push an egg out the door, even though it has been years since those eggs had an open path to their ultimate destination. Your body settles into a new phase that doesn’t require near as much thinking, planning or scheduling. Now your mind has time to ponder. And time to listen to your body. It does.

You determine that the status quo can not continue. You give this a great deal of thought. Should you change partners for the rest of the dance? Should you give up entirely on your unrequited passions? Should you be demanding, take control, insist that what happens beneath the sheets must change? This last option is easy to dismiss since it is the opposite of what you are seeking beneath those sheets.

While you are busy trying to figure this out you are also sending out signals. The signals aren’t explicit but they are picked up by the man’s radar. Then you realize that your radar is picking up new signals from his direction as well.

Suddenly you both realize your signals are on the same bandwidth. After many, many years of meandering down paths that sometimes run parallel and sometimes are wildly divergent, your paths suddenly collide. The desires roiling suddenly bubble to the top then spill over. And you and this man you married such a very long time ago suddenly realize that your most intimate thoughts and dreams mirror and compliment his. It dawns on both of you that something, some infinitesimal and unconscious yin spoke to the other’s yang all those years ago, then lay buried right under the surface until the time was right to reveal yourself to each other.

And then all hell breaks loose.

When the Surreal JUST ((Keeps)) Getting "Realer" ??!!!

2009-07-04T21:30:00.005-05:00

(Note-title edited by Sarah Palin)

I feel like I should have something insightful and witty to say about the train wreck that is Governor Sanford and the latest, bizarrely disastrous adventure in the life of Sarah Palin. There are no words to adequately express what fruitcakes both of them are.

Infidelity among male politicians is becoming so commonplace it is farcical. It no longer elicits a reaction from me. But, how the governor of a state thinks he can leave his post for 5 days without anyone knowing where he is defies reality. And then believe that after being so blindingly irresponsible, he should keep his job. Even though it sounds like the man is truly in love and his heart is breaking I can rustle up no sympathy. All I can think to say are words Denis Leary sates so eloquently - "Shut the fuck up!" Get that man off of my TV.

And then there is Sarah Palin. She opens her mouth and idiocy tumbles out. If it wasn't so painful to watch her try and form a cohesive thought it would be funny.

When I am a governor and decide I am bored with the job after two years I might decide to quit so I can make a bunch of money and to stave off the scandal that keeps encroaching on my dysfunctional life. I might decide not to worry about how much money other people and the state spent to get me elected governor, not to mention the thousands of hours willing volunteers spent knocking on doors and calling people encouraging them to vote for me. I might not care that I am leaving a government in the lurch while deeply involved in a disastrous financial crisis and I might not worry that I am leaving my mess for others to clean up. I might not stop to think about the fact that a large majority of US voters felt I lacked sufficient experience to be elected Vice President, and that another 7 months as an absentee governor probably didn't garner me much more experience. I might not even worry about that I will forever be labeled as a quitter, or as my husband would describe me, as a chicken-shit.

But, I would never, ever, ever in my wildest dreams think to begin what could be considered the most important speech in my political life to date, a turning point in my career, with this ringing introduction:

"Hi Alaska"

If you haven't read the text of her announcement, you must. It defies explanation or logic. Then, just for kicks go to Facebook and read her July 4th message. However, unless you want to loose your dinner, be plagued with nightmares or start babbling incoherently, I urge you not to read the replies to her Facebook post. They made my eyes bleed.

The Illusion of Control

2009-07-02T20:51:00.005-05:00

have spent most of my life clinging rabidly to my supposed self-control. I've lived the ebb and flow of needing to feel in charge of every aspect of every event, person or location that invades my personal space to facing an overwhelming desire to give all control away. It is the conundrum I face a thousand times a day.

For years, my ego convinced me that my struggle was unique. Surely no other woman felt the constant conflict between mastering her own destiny and resigning herself to fate. Even with my closest friends, control isn't a topic that comes up in our conversations. We talk about important issues and trivial issues. We don’t talk about how much or how little control we exert over ourselves, our bodies, our domains. Regardless of how infrequently it is discussed, it is ever present.

Exercising self control is a universal struggle for women. It is not limited to women in developed countries where women have at least on paper, if not in fact, equal rights with men. While what I feel the desperate need to control in my own small plot of life is dramatically different than what a woman in Somalia fights to control, the fight is still there. It is the stakes that differ.

Interestingly, the realization that I am not struggling alone came through reading erotica. Primarily women-written erotica. Control is such a common theme in erotica it often becomes trivialized. The plots evolve around the continual barter for control of the central character’s emotions, her body, her life. Once I became attuned to the theme, I began to see it in everything I read -- contemporary fiction, historical mysteries, epic novels. If it was written by a woman with a woman protagonist, regardless of the plot or the genre, the issue of control is always there, right under the surface.

I don't believe this is such a defining issue for men. Perhaps they struggle more consistently with the issue of power. Closely related to control, but distinctly different in so many ways.

Some men probably struggle with self-control issues all the time and all men probably struggle with the issue at some point in their life. For men though, I don't believe self-control is a constant irritant, the splinter embedded in the palm of your hand you feel compelled to continually dig, never removing and always pushing deeper.

My one year of high school sociology obviously makes me totally qualified to spout out sociological theory so here goes: I assume that this distinction stems from the fact that since the dawn of humankind, men have had almost all of the control and women very little of it. While some women are fortunate to live in societies that grant them some level of control over themselves, most of the women on earth still exist in world where any control they have is limited, transitory, hard won and quickly lost.

And for the women who now hold some control over their own destiny, there is always that nagging thought in the back of our heads warning us that our hard won control can always be snatched back from us, with very little effort.

Back from the universal to the personal - my need for control is often the overwhelming fuel that feeds my fire. It can be exhausting. There are so many times I long to hand it over to someone else. Long to ask someone else to just take care of things (me) for awhile, so I can catch my breath.

That person in my life has always been a man. My father, my boyfriend, my spouse, a coworker. And there's the rub. That nagging fear that if I give in, give over control to the man in my life, the world could shift backwards and I would never regain what I have loaned. I realize the injustice in this thought. The men I speak of are enlightened and fair. They would never intentionally take permanent control over me, would be insulted if I even suggested this was a concern.

This brings me back to women’s erotica. A genre with an historically limited audience. While men could pick up Playboy, Hustler, et al at the nearest convenience store and gain fairly easy access to pornographic films, a woman did not have easy access to erotica.

As in so many other situations, the internet is the great equalizer. Erotica written for the female audience flourishes online. I know this because I find myself continually ferreting it out.

So much of that erotica focuses on dominant/submissive relationships with women generally, but not always, in the submissive role. Often times she struggles against this role and only reluctantly gives in. And I wonder how close to the bone these stories cut. Wonder if a self confident, successful in their own right woman, can truly give up the control she fought so hard to obtain. Cede it over to a man who will likely never be willing to give it back. If she understands that by this single act she may be considered less than she was by everyone, except perhaps, the person who accepted her gift. Is that enough? I don’t believe it ever could be for me. But maybe ...

Compulsive Reading Materials

2009-06-25T23:34:00.009-05:00

I haven't changed my reading list on the side panel in quite awhile. Partly because I seem to be either( a) too lazy to keep it up to date or( c) too busy to do so. I am constantly striving for the middle ground, but fear (b) will always allude me.

However, the main reason I haven't updated it regularly is I am indulging in one of my periodic reading ruts. One of the banes of my existence is the series author. The authors that write two, thirty seven or sixty eight books all featuring the same cast of characters. If I come across them when only one or two books have been published, then I can usually control my addiction. By the time the next book in the series comes out I have moved on to other reading interests. But if I wait until five or six or even more books in the series are published, then I am lost. I become obsessed with reading each book in the series, reading them in the correct order and not stopping until I have read every frigging one of the damn things.

Occasionally this turns out OK. If the fifth book or the twelfth book in the series is as well written and entertaining as the first, I consider my obsession time well spent. Most of the Anne Rice Vampire Series were entertaining to read and at one time I eagerly awaited the publishing of the next book. I can't say the last book was as good as the first, but I read them all. Strangely, none of her other series ever captured my attention.

Most of the time, the series loses its creative energy after the first couple of books. But once I get started, if the next book is available, I am on a mission. I'm determined to get through them all. Regardless of how unreadable the sixth or twenty seventh book might be.

I'm sure this goes back to my early reading habits. I used to keep written lists of books in a series and cross each one off as I turned the last page. I worked my way through Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon, Donna Parker, Cherry Ames, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Louisa May Alcott and the Anne of Green Gable series. I even read all of the Walt Disney- Annette series and the Lennon Sisters mysteries. (This last statement is one of the most humiliating confessions I have ever made.)

I also believe I inherited this quirk from my mom. When she died, in the back of her closet were three grocery bags full of Agatha Christi paperback mysteries. I am certain she read them all. Perhaps in one setting. Or at least on one year.

Now I am engrossed in the Anne Perry mysteries featuring Charlotte & Thomas Pitt. I should say I was engrossed when I was reading the third and fourth books in the series. The first couple were not particularly well written. They were her first published books and there was absolutely no development of the main characters. The next few improved steadily. I am now on book 12. I think there are 25 in the series. The improvement stalled around book 8. They are still readable, but not compelling. Regardless, whether I want to or not, I will probably get through them all. Fortunately, they are fast reads and several are audio-books, so my ipod can speed the process along.

A part of me realizes that reading a book because it is number 16 in a series rather than reading it for the pleasure of reading is not particularly noble. I assume authors that find commercial success with a particular set of characters or a particular narrative stick with their story not because they can't write about other subjects, but rather - why spoil a good thing? Or as my father-in-law used to say, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

And yet I persist. Even though I have a backlog of books I really want to read, they will wait until I have pushed my way through the Victorian world of Charlotte & Thomas Pitt. I still see little character development, but each book does touch on issues of the day - suffrage, class struggle, child labor, the impact of the industrial age on society. If it was an issue at the time the characters played their roles, Anne Perry weaves it into the story. That keeps them engaging. Plus, I have to admit Ms. Perry's own weird history also helps keeps me interested in the series.

I am actually a person of few compulsions. And this one seems fairly benign. I just hope Ms. Perry is done writing Pitt books. I can't take much more.

The Writer's Life - But Not Mine

2009-06-21T22:00:00.005-05:00

This post has floundered as a draft for several days. Every time I start to work on it something changes in my online universe. The topic remains relevant, but new facts must be inserted. Which means already penned sections must go, or else it will be epic in its final proportion. Perhaps the exorcised sections will show up in another post.

What prompted my musings in the first place was this post by Susannah Breslin on her blog The Reverse Cowgirl. I read her work regularly and am fascinated by her ability to take a world most people find ugly, dirty and disconcerting and point out the beauty, even if it is a heartbreakingly sad beauty, that lurks beneath.

She later advised on Twitter that the young man whose inquiry she responded to was not pleased with her response. I can understand that. However, I found it ... clarifying. And refreshing. The honesty in her words is a slap in the face to many people who believe they are the next Bronte sister or even the next Carl Bernstein and all they have to do is form a complete sentence, then readers will flock to their words. It propelled me towards proactively stating what has gradually been dawning on me for several months.

I remember clearly the day I decided to be a writer. I was in the 5th grade. Our assignment was to cut a picture out of a magazine and write a story about the picture. My selection was a picture of a girl about my age, looking out a window at gray, drizzly skies. I named her Anastasia. I have no idea why. I decided she was sad. About as complex an emotion as I was up to in 5th grade.

The real reason she was sad will be saved for a future post. Suffice it to say that the reason I used in my story was that her dog had just died.

My teacher loved it. On this assignment she did something she had never done before. Right next to the bright red 100% scratched boldly across the paper she wrote: "You should be a writer when you grow up." That sealed the deal. From that day forward, while I mentioned other ambitions, finished school, began a career in financial services, got married and had kids, I knew in my heart that I was born to write.

In a single act, 125 words written on a Big Chief tablet with a picture from a magazine pasted across the top, the driving ambition of my life crystallized.

Flash forward many, many years. I write a killer business letter. I can reduce an underling to tears reading the eloquently scathing first sentence in an email missive from me. I write contracts, I write policy language and I write magazine articles regarding my industry that everyone agrees are informative, educational and never dry. I proofed, edited and occasionally rewrote both of my kids through high school and college. I've written short stories and essays - even the beginnings of what I dreamed would be a novel. I've kept a journal and have been writing in this space since January.

But am I a writer? God no. I have a way with words, especially in formal, business documents. I am witty and articulate. I have an extensive vocabulary and love to show it off. However, I am not and could never be confused with a serious "writer" aka "author" of great works. I am a journeyman - not an artist.

And that is becoming OK with me. It was a painful revelation at first. But, I've discovered several other things in life I am really, really good at, so there is compensation.

I am occasionally envious of people who do have real talent. But mainly I just enjoy reading what their talent reaps. I am amazed that some of my favorites, who are so incredibly and obviously gifted, are either still struggling for recognition or don't realize themselves that their gift goes way beyond simple skill.

And that leads me to the next post that prompted this confession. One of my very favorite writers is Remittance Girl. Her fiction is adult in nature. But to say she is a gifted writer is an understatement. I read what she writes and am awed. Even if the particular story doesn't appeal to me, her imagination, her storytelling skills and her ability to draw the reader in, until they become the character and see the world through the eyes of the character is beyond the ability of many successful and published authors. Her reverence of the written word is always obvious. Why she is not consistently on top of the NY Times bestseller list is a mystery to me.

I read this recent post on her blog, which was her reasoned response to a totally irrelevant remark posted as a comment to one of her current stories in progress. The remark had absolutely nothing to do with what she had written and was only made to be hurtful to RG. Instead, it made the poster seem small in stature and spirit as well as just plain ignorant.

I cannot read what RG writes compare it to what I write and say with a straight face that we are both similarly gifted and talented writers. But I can be pissed when someone belittles her talent so stupidly, almost to the point I take it personally.

And finally, a third event that just occurred and insisted I make room for it in this post. If no one else sees the connection between what Susannah Breslin said, the post on Remittance Girl's blog, the post I mention below and my willingness to finally admit I am not a writer - sorry. It makes sense to me.

There is a gentleman named Deity. He has a blog I've read regularly for a couple of years. He recently admitted to being burned out and stopped posting a couple of months ago. His decision was a loss felt by many. Just this afternoon he offered this small gift. A short piece infused with the joy of the everyday, the comfort of routine and a love of one's place in life. It moved me to tears.

He is a writer. I am not.

Crashing

2009-06-18T21:40:00.006-05:00

Flipping through channels, I happened on Dave Matthews Band video for "Crash Into Me". The song has been a favorite since the first time I heard it. An alluring siren call. There are songs you hear that make you feel happy, make you feel sorrowful, fill you with joy. This song elicits nothing but a burning need to shag.

The video is perhaps a little too surreal. It is beautiful, a visual masterpiece, but the meaning of some of the imagery goes right over my head.

That hardly matters though. Everything about the song, the arrangement, the lyrics, the mix, everything appeals to me. Every aspect of the song begs you to sink, to join, to crash. I love it.

The Allure of Men

2009-06-11T19:24:00.004-05:00

I am a woman of uncomplicated tastes. Especially when it comes to what is sexually attractive about a man. To me, it is nothing so crass as rippling biceps, a broad chest or an over-sized bulge at crotch level. Those are enticing furbelows I grant you, but I am always more attracted to the subtle touches of masculinity.

That said, it isn't a subject I devote a great deal of thought to. I know what I like. And I don't have to give words to it when I see it. My appreciation is ... instinctive.

But the topic came up at lunch today. I could tell that the other women in the conversation had thought about it. Had attached words to what solicits an instinctive reaction in them. Which made me question myself. Could I express it, if required? So, as I went through an extremely stressful afternoon, I kept calming myself by bringing my mind back to the subject of what makes a man sexy to me. Here is, I think, my top ten.

10. A man who looks as equally at home in a faded, worn T-Shirt with the name of a beer or a band that hasn't existed in 20 years as he does in a the finest cotton dress shirt with French cuffs and understated cuff links.

9. A man with a sense of comfort in themselves and in their bodies. A comfort that is inviting. That makes you want to sink down into them, like you would sink into a hammock on a summer afternoon or a rug before a fire on a winter night.

8. A quick wit. The best foreplay is conversation. The very best foreplay is conversation filled with risque innuendo, playful threats and double entendres. Followed closely by graphic and descriptive comments at appropriate junctures, once the time for foreplay has passed. I'm sure that mental agility bears a direct correlation to physical agility.

7. A man whose sense of what makes a woman sexy matches the definition of me.

6. The texture of the skin right behind a man's ears. There are so few places on a man's clothed body that feels satiny smooth and warm. A tiny spot you can appreciate because it isn't rock-solid or hairy or rough. It serves as a harbinger for the spots you can't easily access with his clothes on that hopefully shares that texture.

5. A man who knows when to shut up. I know this is typically a complaint men make of women. But I find men who prattle even more annoying than I find chatty women.

4. A man proficient with the use of all of his given senses. A man who relies only on his visual sense when he evaluates a woman misses so much. A man who breaths your scent and finds it intoxicating, who can't seem to touch you enough to ever satisfy his need, who thinks you taste better than his very favorite beer, the devil's food cake his mother bakes for his birthday or peanut butter and a man who listens, appreciates your sound and is always attuned to it when you are together, is delicious.

3. A boyish smile. If an 85 year old man smiles at me with a crooked, boyish grin, I melt. I'm a sucker for a lopsided, mischievous, 'awe shucks' smile every time.

2. A man who is curious. A man who is willing to try almost anything. A man who has very few items on his mental checklist of sexual activities that he is unwilling to contemplate. A man who possesses an amazing imagination and isn't afraid to use it. A man with a highly developed sense of adventure.

1. Eyes. Eyes that are deep-set, almost sleepy looking, yet always look engaged and interested. Eyes that are as fascinating to stare into when they are half closed and unfocused as they are when they are wide open and intent on you. Eyes that are clear and clearly reveal every emotion as it passes through his mind. Eyes that tell the story of the man.

Relevancy, or Thoughts Upon the Psyche of Gnats

2009-06-08T19:43:00.007-05:00

I'm not posting and I'm not sure why. I think part of the reason is I started this blog to become more disciplined in my writing, and as I have freely admitted numerous times, I am not a disciplined person. The more I try and impose self-discipline, the more likely I am to rebel. It is inevitable.

Other fascinations are now engaging my attention. As I have also admitted, I have the attention span of a gnat. My life is a series of discovering a new fascination, spending an intense but relatively brief period of time learning all I can about the subject, slaking my thirst, then losing interest and and moving on to the next topic of which I find myself enamored. Throughout my life, this pattern has repeated itself more times than I can count.

I also find myself focusing even more inwardly than usual. Always introspective, always introverted, I go through periods in my life when these aspects of my personality increase their already sizable control of my psyche. Right now I feel the need to cocoon myself, both physically and mentally.

I learned a long time ago to go with the flow of my thoughts, my interests, my current mindset. I've also learned that if I don't particularly like the Lulu I am at the moment, if I wait a few minutes that Lulu will be replaced by another, hopefully more likable version of myself.

I will continue to post, when I feel I can say what I need to say. I would like to think that what I say may be of interest to others as well. But that is secondary to me. I have a difficult enough time being relevant to me, to worry about being relevant to others.

The Simple Life

2009-05-22T13:34:00.003-05:00

I am a very simple person. Really. I am not high maintenance and can easily manage myself with very little outside supervision. Somewhat absent minded, somewhat lacking in common sense. Introverted to the point of self-involvement, but hey, at least that means I am not wasting much of your time, yet able to bring forth some measure of empathy when called for.

I need only the following (and the order of priority changes day to day):

1. Periodic non-sexual attention from the spouse.
2. More than periodic sexual attention from the spouse.
3. Knowledge that my grown kids are occupied, safe and reasonably content.
4. Knowledge that my dad, even if not living an ideal of life is safe and reasonably engaged.
5. Books, in any format, with a steady stream instantly available so I never have to worry about being stuck with 'nothing to read', a fate almost worse than death in my mind.
6. Occasional acknowledgement of my existence from my cat.
7. My Mac Book and a fast Internet connection - and the charger that goes with it.
8. My iPod/iPhone, full of my music and the charger that goes with it.
9. Occasional updates on the health and well being of extended family and my few closest friends.
10. My sheets changed regularly.
11. Some dirt to dig in periodically. Actually planting something would be nice but not mandatory.
12. A refrigerator stocked with my food necessities of the day, which right now are: Diet Coke (always) jello sugar free pudding, celery, baby romaine lettuce, baby spinach, sun dried tomatoes, reduced sugar peanut butter, Havarti cheese, skim milk, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, dried cranberries and pecans. Oh and occasionally some chicken or tuna salad thrown in for good measure. There are always more foods I like, but this collection can keep me going for weeks.
13. My bathtub and bath salts
14. Lulu Guinness perfume (the original scent)
15. A couple of personal appliances that shall remain unnamed.
16. If forced to leave the house, appropriate clothing beyond my yoga pants/tee shirt or nightgown.
17. Yoga
18. Reliable transportation to periodically get me from here to there, but I'm not picky about the mode - whatever works is fine with me.
19. Tweezers

That's about it. Certainly a bountiful of needs compared to those of a monk. But still, if you think about it, it's not a lot in the big scheme of things.

I need to remind myself of this periodically. Knowing this makes me content. I could want or demand far more from life, but I've learned the hard way, that more rarely equals better. So I can live happily with what I have.

Just Checking In

2009-05-20T21:20:00.002-05:00

Not sleeping. Not sure why. Usually not a problem for me.

Work has actually been going well, at least until today. I'm back to working far too many hours, but I'm only working as much as I feel like. Between increased office time, doing some gardening, opening up the porch for the summer and various other projects, weddings, parties, etc. (not to mention some very interesting new marital adventures) I haven't been that interested in my trusty MacBook (or as my family calls it - my square headed boyfriend). So, less posting, less following of blogs, less everything.

That will change. It always does. I tend to have the attention span of a gnat. Till then though, be well.

Yes, This is a Look of Extreme Disinterest On My Face

2009-05-13T19:02:00.005-05:00

A couple of years ago I read a very interesting book - The Brief History of the Dead by Kevin Brockmeier. A rather warped but wonderful take on the afterlife, certainly as plausible as any other ideas floating around. I highly recommend it.

The central character, central because every other character in the book existed solely because she did, is the very last person alive on earth. Certainly not a character the reader would envy. Definitely a frightening and lonely existence.

Today I say give me frightening and lonely please. I actually do envy the lucky fuck at the center of this novel.

Some people have the ability to project this air of caring compassion, even though they are incredibly self-centered and anything you say to them goes in one ear and out the other. While you are talking they are maintaining eye contact, nodding their head at the right moment and wincing sympathetically whenever you pause. You are certain they are taking to heart every word you say.

What they are actually doing is deciding what they want to eat for lunch, what book they are planning to read next, if their butt looks big in their slacks, and when will this jack-ass ever shut up? To them your voice sounds just like Charlie Brown's teacher in the animated cartoons. No matter how profound your comments, your listener hears "Waah-waah-wah-wa-wa waaha."

Almost all the time, I am that listener. Except minus the ability to project an air of caring compassion. Most the time I have trouble drumming up even an air of mild disinterest.

And yet, some days it seems like the whole world lines up to air their grievances and bare their souls to me. It happens so consistently and in large enough numbers that I am pretty sure there is a concentrated effort by the rest of the world to force me to focus on every one's thoughts but my own.

Maybe an email goes out calling for volunteers. Maybe there is a phone tree. "Hi. Just reminding you that you're scheduled to annoy Lulu for 30 minutes next Tuesday by talking about the boil that has popped up on your butt, your marginally intelligent son's futile quest to get accepted at Harvard, your endless list of sins attributable to your ex husband, the bastard, and why your grocery store quit selling your favorite brand of peanut butter. Oh, an don't forget to call the 10 people on your list and tell them they are scheduled to bug her that day too."

People ... people. Take a closer look at my face. That blank stare you get when you start prattling on is there for a reason. It is saying "I don't care." It is screeching "Go away-leave me alone." When I look disinterested, shockingly, it's because I am.

I say this not just in the hope of getting people to leave me the hell alone. I say it for the rest of the world's benefit. People tell me things, concerns, worries, partly because they think I can help them, or fix what is broken. I can't. It takes everything I've got some days just to remember to feed the cat, wear shoes that match and open the garage door before I start the car. Don't count on me. I sure don't.

Thank you. I feel much better now.

The Books That Came To Me

2009-05-11T07:27:00.005-05:00

Nixy Valentine wrote about what makes libraries special today. It brought back such a flood of memories I couldn't contain them in a comment on her blog.

When I was growing up a Bookmobile parked three doors down from my house, every other week. I am always surprised when someone doesn't know about bookmobiles, so let me explain.

Our bookmobile was a mobile library that moved throughout our area in order to bring the library to the people. I've always assumed they were intended for rural communities where access to an actual library was limited.

I grew up in a mid-western suburb about 3 miles from the nearest public library branch, so I've never understood why we had a bookmobile, but was elated that we did.

It was a converted small bus with bookshelves lining the sides and a single shelf down the middle. Small and cramped, but to me it was paradise. I grew up in a house full of books, they were usually the most common gift we received at birthdays and Christmas. Plus, we made regular trips to the public library and my schools had well stocked libraries.

Still, the bookmobile was special. It came to me. And if I told the driver what I was looking for, the next time he came, he would hand it to me, holding it back from everyone else, just to grant my request.

Through that bookmobile I devoured the entire series of Nancy Drew, Bobbsey Twins, Donna Parker and Cherry Ames. I owned some of the books in the Little House, Anne of Green Gables and Louisa May Alcott series, but the bookmobile provided me the rest.

Besides the more recent series, the bookmobile introduced me to so many classics, The Little Princess, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farms, Hans Brinker and Heidi. As I grew older it introduced me to Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice.

My bookmobile gave its greatest gift to me by introducing the book that is still my favorite today - A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, by Betty Smith. That book speaks to me in a way no other book ever has. I read it again every three or four years. But I will never forget the first time I read it, selecting it from the bookshelf in the cramped bookmobile, walking up the street to my house, I was so excited I couldn't even wait until I got inside. I sat down on my front porch, opened the book, and fell in love.

Just What You Didn't Know You Wanted

2009-05-10T20:22:00.007-05:00

Mother's Day still surprises me every year. I know the day itself is coming, I'm just still surprised and a little disbelieving that I actually qualify as an honoree of the day. Which is a little disturbing since my eldest child is closer to 30 than 20.

I have been a mother for over a quarter of a century and I'm still not sure I understand how that actually happened. I mean, I understand the science behind the condition, but the fact that I am a parent still catches me off guard.

Up until shortly after my eldest was born and almost died, I was absolutely convinced I would never be a parent. The role didn't interest me, didn't suit me and didn't deserve me, at least it didn't deserve my ineptitude and incompetence. I'd had a less than stellar role model. And at the same time I was honest enough with myself to know I had not been an easy child to raise. I sure the hell wouldn't want to raise another me.

I have frequently felt so unprepared for the job that even though the closest I ever came to medical school was my high school biology class, I probably would have been better equipped to be the doctor in the delivery process, instead of the potential parent. Even today I sometimes feel my kids would have been better off if I had taken the role of obstetrician instead of mother in their introduction to the world.

While I can admire them, I will never be able to relate to women who's life calling is to be a mother. I've never had the maternal instinct 'pull' that those women have.

But I have learned that while maternal instinct may not be overflowing in me, it seems to show up when I really, really need it. The best way I can describe it is to say I go through motherhood in stops and spurts. For long periods of time that instinct lays fallow, not called on, not needed. But periodically the small reserve of maternal instinct I do have senses danger, trouble or anxiety involving my children and that instinct launches into hyper-drive. Like the 90 lb weakling who gets such a rush of adrenaline they can lift a full size car off a person trapped beneath it, for short spurts of time, when it is most needed, I become Super Mom.

I will never be the mother either of my children deserve. But in spite of my ineptitude both of them grew into amazing adults. Fortunately their Dad is a wonderful Dad for both of them. He makes up for a lot of my parental shortcomings. As they grew and matured I found parenting easier. Now that we can relate as adults, I find being their friend extraordinarily easy.

Mother's Day reminds me of something terribly important. Sometimes you don't know what you are capable of or what you need in your life. When you are this dense, periodically the gods, your dead ancestors, the tooth fairy or whomever you believe in smacks you across the head and in their infinite wisdom presents you with a gift you didn't even know you wanted. When that happens, shut up and take the gift.

An Abbreviated and Partial Listing

2009-05-09T19:35:00.004-05:00

I will not:

Join AARP.
Join any women's organization that has anything to do with 'Red Hats'.
Frequent the website WOWoWOW.
Stop Using Profanities.
Stop listening to new music and new artists.
Ever even think about moving to a Retirement Community.
Go to the Dr. more frequently than I get my hair cut and colored.
Talk about going to the Dr. with as much excitement as I talk about a vacation, a wonderful book or a great movie.
Discuss my medication, high blood pressure, cholesterol level or any other chronic condition I might develop in the future.
Stop showing cleavage when the occasion calls for it.
Buy any clothing from Quacker Factory or other labels of its ilk.
Wear holiday themed clothing - no sweatshirts with pumpkins and witches, no sweaters with Santa and a Christmas Tree.
Stop making love, having sex or just plain fucking.
Ever apologize for anything I did in my past or be embarassed of the laws I broke.
Stop pointing out injustices or jack-asses to preserve my personal comfort.
Start tolerating stupidity.
Stop being curious.
Stop learning new things.

It's Circus Time

2009-05-08T18:50:00.002-05:00

Right now I am just leaving my office on a Friday night. Terribly sad. As usual I am turning off the lights and locking the place up.

I've worked in the same field since I was 20 years old. I've done extremely well for myself and considering I am employed in a very old, very conservative industry, if you have to be employed in this industry, my special niche is probably about as glamorous as it gets. I certainly experience a great deal more diversity in my day to day work than others in this line of business do.

I've also been responsible for managing staff for 15 years. I've managed as few as 5 and as many as 50, predominately professionals. Overall I've enjoyed it. I like, or used to like, training people, encouraging and motivating them to succeed. I'm not a particularly personable or warm person and have always been uncomfortable with the sympathetic/empathetic aspect of managing staff. I know how to manage to each persons strengths and weaknesses, I just don't enjoy doing it, so anymore, I don't. Well, I still do, sometimes. But it no longer feels natural to me. Through the years I've become very adept at the distancing part of managing people. I've learned the hard way how difficult it is to manage friends. I am surprisingly efficient at firing people, something I am ashamed to even admit.

This is the career and industry I know. It is a career and industry that can still, on occasion, entertain me. But by and large, I am bored much of the time. And boredom, far more than happiness or pleasure, governs my attitude and my attention span. And this is the dirty secret about why I am always the last person at work in the evening. For the first time in my career, my attention span seems to last for shorter and shorter durations. So I work longer hours, just to accomplish the same amount of work I would have accomplished 2 years ago expending an hour to hour and a half less time. I need more breaks and more distractions to get through the day.

I think sometimes that I would like to try something new, walk away from what I do, have done for so long, and do very, very well. So many obstacles. Let's see - old dog, new tricks comes to mind, unwillingness to make certain adjustments at this point in my life, comfort level, reputation and respect and then there's the big one ... money.

I am not ready to even begin contemplating retirement. I know it is not a stage of life I will handle gracefully. Fortunately, it is still many years away.

But, I am wondering, am I too grown up now to run away and join the circus?

A Warning

2009-05-08T17:10:00.005-05:00

Recently I wrote that I wanted to get back to my original purpose of this blog. Trying to write honestly about how I feel, what I am learning, what I think and not worrying about who will read it, and how it will be perceived, banking on the probability that very few will ever read it and I will never know how it is perceived.

Somewhat easier said than done.

But, in honor of my trifecta I am giving myself a gift. Between now and the 16th I am going to try to post more frequently and post about what I really want to talk about at the moment, no matter how inane or foolish I sound. We will see how this goes. I don't do foolish well.

Time Flys, While Standing Still - The Dates that Count

2009-05-08T17:00:00.002-05:00

This weekend is the start of the annual trifecta in my family. Between now and May 16 falls Mother’s Day, my birthday and our wedding anniversary.

At the time the stars aligned, I didn’t plan for these momentous occasions to fall so close together. I was actually born on Mother’s Day and every six (or is it seven?) years, the two events collide. My mother never forgave me for the inconvenience of labor and childbirth on a holiday created to recognize her supreme sacrifice and one of the few upsides she’d discovered to the whole parenting thing.

Twenty years later, she decreed that no daughter of hers would bring shame to the family by becoming a teen-aged bride. Three days after my twentieth birthday, I married.

I’m not sure why we started calling this time of year the trifecta. It probably has something to do with the fact that the Kentucky Derby runs right around these dates. Ever since I became a mother, the most recent of the 3 holidays I qualified for, we treat the individual dates more like a season. A low key season to be sure, but a season.

My sister in law, who believes in massive celebrations for every personal holiday, (she manages to stretch her April birthday celebration into a 30 day bacchanal) feels sorry for me that all 3 days fall so close together. I miss two other occasions each year to be feted. She says it is almost as sad as being born on Christmas.

I like the symmetry of it though. It sounds old fashioned and decidedly un-feminist to say, but the natural progression from birth to marriage to motherhood sort of appeals to me. I can’t decide however, whether I should shoot for dying during this time frame or not. It seems fitting to do so.

On the other hand, I had no say in being born, and had no plans to experience the other two events up until a good 10 minutes after each one had happened. Marriage and motherhood never factored into my plans and ambitions. I stumbled into both and realize daily how lucky I was.

Time has been a great deal on my mind lately. In earlier posts, I’ve touched on how my view of time and its constancy is evolving. As I approach the annual reminder of the three most momentous events in my life, I am again rolling the idea of the passage of time around in my head.

While I realize the marking of events by days on a calendar is artificial, it is the way humankind marks events. The number of hours in a day, days in a week, weeks in a month and months in a year may be supported by mathematical calculations, but they are not elemental. Not essential for our existence. We could decree tomorrow that we will start measuring and marking the passage of time by a single revolution of Saturn around the sun, by the passage of Halley’s Comet by the earth, or the life cycle of salmon.

If we changed our measurement of time, what would happen to my birthday, my anniversary? How would it be marked? How would I know when to expect gifts, breakfast in bed and extra-special anniversary sex?

Fortunately, I don’t see this as an issue looming large on the horizon. We are creatures of habit, so while our current method of delineating years isn’t perfect (think: leap year) we are not likely to change to Saturn’s or salmon’s cycles anytime soon.

The real question is, the year after I die, is my birthday still my birthday? Does the fact that a person, now dead, was born on that date have any relevance? I always remember my Mother’s birthday, twenty years after her death. I remember my grandparent’s anniversary. I celebrate neither. No presents, no breakfast in bed, no extra-special anniversary sex. After I am gone, no one else will remember either event.

Even birthdays of the dead that we do celebrate – Lincoln’s and Washington’s – have become inaccurate for convenience sake. So, do I pause in quiet appreciation of Lincoln’s birthday on February 12th or on Presidents Day?

I like the idea that for as long as humans exist on earth and their measurement of time does not change, May 12th will always be my birthday, whether anyone is alive who even knew of my existence or not. It isn’t the remembrance or the celebration that marks the date. It is the fact that the date exists and on that date in one year of thousands, I was born. It is another small way I mark my immortality, my existence beyond the finite borders of birth and death.

WAG #10 Participants

2009-05-06T07:38:00.002-05:00

Here are the participants in WAG #10. Please read and let them know you enjoyed their work. Instructions for next week are below as well. Thanks!

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group

Heidi Ervin (New WAG Member!)

Dasos (New WAG Member!)

Lulu

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

“WAG #110: Scaredy-Cat” Another people-watching exercise! Choose a stranger and observe him/her for a little while. Now give them a phobia. A full-on, jump on the chair, scream like a little girl, unreasonable fear. (Or however you imagine them to respond.) Try to choose something that fits the person you’re watching, and let us know what it is about them that clued you in to their secret fear. The object is not just to describe the fear, but to make us understand why it fits with this particular person.

Special thanks to Christine Kirchoff for this week’s topic idea! Email NixyValentine AT gmail DOT com to contribute topic ideas. It’s very helpful!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #11 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear! If you do not, I will use the name as it appears on your email.) Deadline: next Tuesday, May 12th.

Writing Adventure Group #10 - I Butchered This

2009-05-05T17:51:00.016-05:00

Here is my entry to WAG #10. The instructions: “WAG #10: The Professional” As we go through our days, we’re surrounded by people doing everyday jobs: the guy that reads the gas meter, cashiers, bank tellers, security guards, doctors, circus clowns… This week, your assignment is to observe someone doing a job (their profession should be one you don’t know that much about). Describe him/her and also what they’re doing, why they’re doing it (as best you can tell), and how. Feel free to use your imagination, but don’t forget the concrete observation!

I grew up in the beef capital of the world. As a child I would go to lunch with my Dad at the steakhouse restaurant in the stockyards. Going in through the backdoor, scraping my Keds at the boot scrape for the stockyard workers, it never dawned on me that what I was eating came from the cattle I saw moving through the chutes as we walked from the parking lot to the restaurant. Once I realized where my sandwich was coming from, that restaurant lost it's appeal.

Today, while we buy our groceries at a large, modern and well appointed supermarket, we still buy our meat at a small, old fashioned butcher shop. It's my husband's idea, not mine. I do best when I don't think about, much less look at, where meat actually comes from and what it looks like before it is delivered to me in pristine, white, butcher paper.

I try to send my husband, a handy kid or anyone I can rope into going to the butcher shop so I don't have to. Occasionally though, it can't be helped. I have to go to the meat market. I have to look at and interact with the butcher.

Butchers alternately repel and fascinate me. If I think about what they do, I can't eat the product they create. Yet I am fascinated about why a person becomes a butcher. What makes them decide that they want to work 40 hours a week cutting through dead muscle, fat and bone, trimming what was once part of a living creature into an unrecognizable mass wrapped in Styrofoam and plastic wrap?

I watch the butchers at my meat market and wonder what they do when they go through the white swinging door with my bone-in Boston Butt (a cut of pork used for my family's secret recipe for pork tenderloin sandwiches) and come back with a pile of translucent, paper-thin slices of pale pink elasticity with all trace of bone removed. What do they think about as they slice through that hunk of hog that used to be the hind quarter of a living creature? And what exactly goes on in that back room that am I not supposed to see? It can't be as bad as what I imagine. At least I hope it can't. My imaginings run to the carnage in the first 20 minutes of the movie Saving Private Ryan.

Is being a butcher more or less pleasant now that the meat comes to them already partially processed and their job is made easier thanks to the advent of electric saws, grinders and tenderizers? Do the old-timers still reminisce about their long-retired favorite cleaver?

Do butcher's prefer to work with a specific animal, much like an artist prefers still life to landscapes? I would assume that some butchers work better in the chicken medium than the pork. Is that true? Why? Is it a visual, olfactory or a tactile preference?

If I were forced to become a butcher tomorrow, something I haven't given much thought to, I think I would prefer chickens over red-meated animals. Even though the only chickens we eat now are boneless, skinless breasts, I have cut up whole fryers before, without disgusting myself too much. But I've also watched chickens have their necks rung or their heads chopped off. I've seen the headless bodies jerk and jump. And I realize if I was a butcher, I would picture that process every time I picked up a fryer or a hen in order to separate the thighs from the legs, the breasts from the wings.

As I've studied butchers through the years I have made one interesting discovery. As a kid I remember feeling nauseous when I'd watch a butcher, who's white apron was heavily spattered with blood, talk to my grandmother about such questionable meat products as suet, gizzards, blood sausage and that great mystery - mincemeat, all of which she used regularly. By my observation butcher apron's today are considerably less bloody than they were when I was a child. I don't think this is one of those instances where my childhood perception of something is warped by the passage of time. I think they really are less bloody.

Which begs the question, do they just change their aprons more often, or has the miracle of modern science somehow engineered cattle and poultry so they aren't as bloody as they used to be?

A Train Wreck that Didn't Wait to Happen

2009-05-02T16:57:00.007-05:00

We just got home from a wedding. I’d never met the bride. The groom is my husband’s friend. We’ve been introduced, but I don’t really know him. I was happy to go anyway.

I like weddings. Especially weddings that I am not in and I am not paying for. People are generally well behaved and they look their most presentable.

I usually get teary-eyed. The only wedding I’ve been to as an adult that didn’t make me weepy was my son’s. However, the bride and I were the only 2 people in the packed church not sobbing. I think the two of us determined someone had to remain calm and collected and since no one else seemed willing to fill that role, least of all my son or his father, it fell to us. But that is another story.

I’ve never met a married woman who doesn’t cry at weddings. Sometimes for joy, sometimes in sorrow, who can say. There aren’t that many events that trigger wedding memories so it isn’t unexpected that while the couple of the hour are saying their vows, the married people in the audience are thinking about another ceremony, another day.

When I think back on my wedding, specific moments, responses, and reactions will be forever burned in my memory. It’s nice that at least a couple of times a year we get invited to a wedding and I can spend a few minutes leafing back through those memories and savoring them again. The greatest hits list of my wedding includes the following:

1. My mother, in her infinite logic, decided to have my dog put down the morning of my wedding. She thought I would be so consumed with wedding nerves, I wouldn’t have time to be upset about the death of my pet. So while I was getting dressed, my older brother was given the task of delivering my beloved Scotty to the vets for his own ‘special’ day. Then, to assure I truly would be too busy to focus on her announcement, she apprised me of the act just as we arrived at the reception.

(Even though it dilutes the impact of this tender tale, in an effort at full disclosure I will admit that my dog was suffering terribly from a condition that medicine could no longer control and more than one vet had told us there was nothing else they could do for him. So the action wasn’t unreasonable, the timing just sucked.)

2. The week before the wedding my then fiancé's aunt loudly labeled my cousin a ‘filthy scab’ at a wedding shower my cousin was hosting. This was the result of a heated argument squished between insipid wedding shower games. The subject was an upcoming teacher’s strike in our state. Actually ‘filthy scab’ was the tamest of the invectives my future aunt by marriage used. She had a foul mouth. A really foul mouth. I usually admired her colorful use of profanity. I’ve been known to repeat a few of her more original epitaphs myself. But, that day I wasn’t admiring. I was livid.

Bows and ribbon were flying, the little pastel mints were aimed and thrown with deadly force. My future mother in law was trying to shield my new china place settings with her own body. I was frantically looking for the Sabatier Boning Knife I’d just opened. Whether to hide it from my cousin or use it myself, I will never know. But I was ready to call the whole thing off. It took my soon-to-be husband several hours in the back seat of his car to remind me again why I wanted to marry him, regardless of his aunt. The wedding back on, I still threatened to carry the boning knife down the aisle, in case his aunt did anything else to piss me off.

3. Shortly before the wedding, my grandmother, did her duty and had a ‘talk’ with me about married life. Her major concern had to do with my insubstantial dowery. Evidently the paltry 6 sets of pillowcases and the 7 'days of the week' tea towels I had painstakingly embroidered between the ages of 8 and 12 - which I admit, didn’t exactly fill my hope chest - reflected poorly on her. But this was not the lead-in to the discussion. It was prompted by my showing her the entirely appropriate undergarments I’d bought to wear on my wedding day. I happened to mention my fiancé was with me when I purchased them. This revelation led to one of my grandmother’s famous non sequiturs. With a straight face she pronounced -

“I have never allowed your grandfather to shop with me for such intimacies. Nor would we ever even discuss such things. That would be as good as admitting I actually wore them.”

The ‘talk’ went downhill from there. I often wondered how she would have reacted if I confessed that sometimes, I actually did not.

4. All of my attempts to exclude my father’s new wife from the festivities failed. It wasn’t that I didn’t want her there. It was that I hated her. She was a year younger than my oldest sister. She was sickeningly sweet and dishonestly devout; a beautiful porcelain doll, but the facade masked Medusa. She made my dad downright giddy. According to my husband, this last offense was because she possessed ice-cream cone tits. Evidently the engineering skill required to get those breasts in that specific type of bra to assure that you always saw her boobs at least 5 minutes before she actually entered the room, and they were always positioned parallel to the floor, appealed to my father, the architect. Or so the logic went. All I knew was when she entered a room she sucked all the life out of it.

My parent’s divorce was bitter, scandalous, and still very raw. But my mother assured me that with a little help she could rise above the occasion and survive the forced proximity. Unfortunately my mother’s helpmates were Valium and vodka, both of which I generally discouraged. For my wedding day though, I gladly accepted all the help they could give her. I personally witnessed her take her little pills, and kept the vodka bottle close by.

5. At the reception I backed into my husband, who had a cigarette in his hand, and caught my wedding dress on fire.

Then, there was the crooked paint-by-number (I’m serious) larger than life-sized painting of Jesus above the alter that took center stage in our pictures. There was the obvious fact that all members of the wedding party, except for my dad and possibly the minister, had recently indulged in some form of mind altering substance. I could go on and on.

Ah, good times. Good times. I think I will skip weddings for awhile.

A Different Voice

2009-05-02T13:50:00.007-05:00

I finally mentioned my blog to my husband a couple of weeks ago. I wasn't worried about him seeing anything I wrote. But we live so closely in each other's pockets, sometimes it is nice to do something without the other knowing. This never lasts too long. We are both compelled to periodically spill our guts.

When I finally told him about Liar, I got the reaction I expected. "That's nice babe, have you seen my ipod/car keys/glasses/ball cap/laptop/earbuds/cellphone?" I suspected he read a few posts, just to make sure I didn't embarrass him too badly and once reassured, he promptly forgot about it.

So I was surprised when he told me he'd written about the Neil Young concert he'd just gone to. Surprised not that he wrote about it, after all it combined several of his obsessions - music, Neil Young, tube amplifiers and hybrid cars. Surprised because he asked if I would think about posting what he wrote. I told him I was glad to share, as long as he wasn't expecting an actual audience to read his words. He said he realized this wasn't exactly Huffington Post, so I am happily obliging:

When Neil Young came to my hometown in concert, he did not disappoint the faithful that came to see the legendary performer who’s music and socially conscious voice has been strong enough to keep shining from the decade that ushered in Richard Nixon to the decade that ushered out George Bush.

The evening began without a formal announcement about the opening act. The band Everest came out while the crowd was still milling and as technicians continued to make adjustments to the equipment that crowded the stage. By the time they finished their first number people began to take notice that someone was performing and within seconds they had everyone’s attention. Then they ripped into several well-crafted songs that caused the small crowd to calm down and focus. The last number they played had a wonderful guitar frenzy that echoed like a steel bullwhip cracking in the now-full arena.

After Everest finished their set I could have gone home feeling my money was well spent. I suspect the Neville Brothers who followed them felt the same as I did. When they took the stage after Everest they were unable to build on the energy that Everest generated and a noticeable let-down followed each of their songs. Finally there was a small spike when Aaron Neville sang a solo. I am sure they would have sounded better in a New Orleans bar with the sound of clinking glasses in the background.

Finally, it was time for Young. He started loud and proud with a new song that got the sparks flying again. Many of his new songs are laced with lyrics about Young’s hybrid car project, the LincVolt. While these new songs were good they did not fill my craving to hear him sing his old standards. I would have to exercise a little more patience before Neil would serve up the old stuff, because next he hunkered down into an almost fifteen minute screaming guitar set that left me thinking of Miles Davis; while amazing it lacked cohesion and while beautiful it was laborious.

Several well-known standards followed with a few more new songs tossed in. His finale was an excellent cover of the Beatles song “A Day in the Life” that brought the crowd to it’s feet. As he reached the end of the song he got down close to one of the bigger amplifiers causing peels of feedback distortion. Just when you thought he was about to let up on the electronic whining and howling, he got a little crazier and ripped at the guitar strings like a mad werewolf until they all broke. He skillfully used the broken strings like little whips to play the guitar pickups on the now string-less guitar that was leaning against the amplifier, battered and broken. Then, abruptly the stage lights when down and he was gone. I felt a warm sensation of contentment sweep over me, as I joined the crowd in thunderous applause.

I have to hand it to Young. There are not many performers his age that would have the guts to let a group like Everest open for him, at the risk of having the raw energy of a much younger group suck all the air out of the arena before the main act even took the stage. But this night Neil Young proved he is still infected with the restless energy of youth. I am sure this kind of thinking never enter his mind and I hope it never does.

Note - the tee shirt graphics refer to Sal Trentino Electronics and the shirt is available at Young's website.

Finding Your Own Voice

2009-04-30T22:20:00.007-05:00

The writer of a blog I've read fairly faithfully the last year or so recently announced that he was stopping, at least for now, but perhaps permanently. Since I always looked forward to his posts, I will regret his absence.

His final post made me stop and ponder this process. He admitted keeping it up had become a chore, not the pleasure it was when he started. And he felt he placed too much emphasis on the volume of visitors to his site, taking pleasure when the numbers ticked up and frustrated when they went down. (I am paraphrasing here a little I think. I hope my understanding of his position is correct.)

The Liar is in it's infancy compared to the departing blog. And yet, I already understood and empathized with much of what he said. When I realized that I too had some of those feelings, I went back to my first couple of posts, tried to remember what drew me to the process and compared that to where I sit today.

In my first post I said that I didn't really expect others to read my little efforts at written cohesive thought. That I was doing this for me, not for them. I forced myself to rethink those statements and decide if they were true when I said them and if they are true now.

I needed to reevaluate for two reasons. First because while I said I didn't expect others to read my writings, I find I do pay attention to any post that garners comments. I periodically check how many times my profile has been viewed, feeling a slight thrill when the number jumps up. And I have taken to posting any Liar updates on Twitter to announce to my, albeit quite small Twitter universe that there is a new update they might want to go read.

The other reason I questioned my initial statement was I have about 10 unpublished posts in various states of editing. I open them up periodically, try and work on them, then get distracted, save the edit again then do something else. I have finally come to the conclusion that I haven't finished any of them, because they are about topics I don't really care about, or they have been edited in such a way that they have lost the important kernel that means so much to me.

Finally, it dawned on me that I was trying to write posts that I thought others might want to see, rather than writing posts that said what I wanted to say. Big difference.

So, where does this leave me?

I started this for myself. I did it because I thought it would make me a more disciplined writer. I needed a routine, a responsibility that compelled me to write on a somewhat regular schedule. I did it to help me improve my writing skills. To learn editing brevity and hopefully stop using 15 words when 1 will do. I did it so I would write honestly about issues I care about, because I know that I am more honest if I am in a venue that offers at least the remote possibility someone else might see it, than I will ever be with myself, in my head. And I did it because I love to write, regardless of whether I have any skill or ability. How good I am with connecting words into readable and enjoyable sentences is not nearly as important to me as just writing.

I understand that if I am going to keep writing in this venue for any length of time, I must write about what I want to write about and I must say it the way I want to say it. If I don't I will quickly lose interest and start looking for another option to meet my needs. If someone happens across it and finds it interesting, that is wonderful. If they don't that is OK too.

I realize that I will continue to be happy when I have evidence that someone read what I wrote. I will continue to do the limited amount of self-promotion I do now. But the words and the topics and the voice will be genuinely mine.

Thanks Deity!

Virginia Foxx Disgusts Me

2009-04-29T20:46:00.005-05:00

Just when I think I've heard the most disgusting hate-filled tirade that could ever be said, I find that there is someone waiting in the wings ready to take my disgust level up one more notch. What has repulsed me to this degree? Read about it here, on Huffington Post.

I must admit I am not familiar with Virginia Foxx, the Congresswoman from North Carolina. No longer. She has repulsed me enough by this insensitive lie that serves no purpose that she will now move up to the top of my list of Republican Congressional Jack-Asses, right after the always wacky Michele Bachmann.

There was absolutely no reason to repeat the lies about a murder victim. Matthew Shepard never did anything to deserve this vitriolic spew. Ms. Virginia Foxx should be ashamed of herself. She certainly disgusts me.

It Just Keeps Getting Worse

2009-04-28T16:13:00.007-05:00

Another disturbing, distressing and depressing piece on the US secret torture camps from Der Spiegel - New Evidence of a Secret Torture Prison via Salon.

I started to ask one more time, what the hell were we thinking? However, that answer is now painfully clear to me. We weren't thinking. Or, more accurately, those in charge were incapable of thought.

Irony doesn't begin to describe the potential result hinted at in this article. If the former Polish Prime Minister is indicted for abuse of power for accommodating the US and its secret prison, and the Bush administration doesn't even get their hand slapped, what does that say about the moral values of this country?

Disgusting in the extreme.

A Real Relationship

2009-04-27T21:10:00.012-05:00

Just finished an article about Nan and Gay Talese's marriage in New York magazine. Entitled A Nonfiction Marriage it seems to be an honest portrayal of a 50 year marriage, warts and all.

It focuses on the late 1970's when Mr. Talese was researching his book Thy Neighbor's Wife, about the sexual revolution. To say he got 'into' the research is something of an understatement. He managed a massage parlor and lived in a nudist colony. Needless to say his marriage to Ms Talese, a well-respected editor, suffered. Yet they remained together despite infidelities, two high profile careers and a great deal of negative press aimed at Gay.

What I found most interesting about the article were the twists and turns of this long term marriage. In their late 70s today, their 50 year marriage survived, and survived in the public eye. A real accomplishment. The two are able to discuss the role sex and infidelity played in the marriage, although admittedly he is more willing to discuss those aspects than she is.

This article highlighted what is lacking in both traditional and online media today - a discussion regarding mature marriages or long term partnerships and what makes them work. Regardless of the press outlet, no one talks about this subject. So rarely is it discussed one might believe that there is no such thing as a successful 30, 40 or 50 year-long marriage. We know this is not the case. Because of baby boomers, even with divorce rates, the percentage of long term marriages today is higher than it has ever been.

I believe the lack of discussion is rooted in our societal belief that people old enough to be married for 30, 40 or 50 years are not considered desirable, sexual, romantic or sadly, relevant.

This mind set could be excused when considering the generations prior to our parents. The odds of a 40 or 50 year marriage weren't that great. The average life expectancy, especially for men, insured that long term marriages were the exception rather than the rule. However, the baby boom generation and those that follow guarantee that, if marriage as an institution survives, people will routinely have 50, 60 or even 70 year-long marriages. If those involved in a marriage of this duration truly can't be desirable, sexual, romantic or relevant, then the institution of marriage is in jeopardy.

My husband and I married young by today's standards. I was barely out of my teens. He was only slightly older. Conceivably, we may be married 60 or even 65 years, before one of us dies. That's a long time to spend with one person and a critical factor that people approaching marriage should seriously contemplate. But it will feel even longer if maturing couples are isolated, out of touch or unimportant in their society. If the issues that matter to them are not explored. If frank discussions regarding fidelity, sexuality, physical changes and long-term contentment have no outlet, it may lead to isolation, misunderstanding and missed opportunity.

As children we all tend to think our parents had sex the exact number of times required to produce us and our siblings. I sometimes wonder if we ever outgrow that misconception. We look at people married for 20 or 30 years and make equally simplistic assumptions about their relationship. The one thing I am certain of is the longer you are married or in a committed relationship, the more experiences you live through as a couple, the richer, more complex and more rewarding your relationship becomes.

A Satisfying Sunday, In More Ways Than One

2009-04-26T21:53:00.006-05:00

ll in all a great Sunday. My daughter and I spent several hours together without coming to blows. It was downright enjoyable. Of course knowing that she is leaving soon made it easier for both of us. I love her dearly, she is amazing and brilliant and hysterically funny. We know each other too well, are way too alike. We will miss each other terribly, but she is grown, needs to be on her own, needs to try and fail and try and succeed. And, she freely admits she is as ready to be away from us and back on her own as we are to have her gone. The next couple of weeks will be bittersweet, this parting will have a finality that her comings and goings from college never had. But it is time.

On another note, after shopping with my daughter, I came home to a husband bearing gifts, and insisting on a Sunday afternoon 'nap'. I feel somewhat uncomfortable discussing my youngest child and my husband's gifts in the same post. So, I will let someone else express my gratitude and delight in the man I married.

I first read this poem in high school, well before I understood at least some of it's meaning. I shared it with my husband way before he was my husband when we were "quite a new thing." (I do not mean to imply that I expect him to have any memory of any poem shared with him in our early days, unless it was in Penthouse penned by Miss July and printed on her stomach with a staple in the middle, or possibly in Mad Magazine. I am not that naive.) It still fits so well today.

i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new.

e.e. cummings

The Morality of it All

2009-04-25T12:26:00.002-05:00

There are so many topics I want to discuss and one issue I want to avoid discussing entirely. However, I must address it out loud, or in writing, before I can move on. I am compelled to write this, not to sway others or promote my specific position. This post is truly just for me.

As difficult as it is to admit, I am not a particularly moral person in many ways. I believe morality exists for the greater good. It helps keep people’s baser instincts at bay, insuring the survival of the species. Along with laws and regulations, morals kept us from killing each other and dying off thousands of years ago, acting as cues to remind us to “not go there” unless we want to invite calamity.

I have the intelligence and ability to avoid calamity without cues constantly reminding me to take care. I operate on the assumption that if I skate on some of those cues, I still won’t cause the collapse of the society. Hence, I don’t experience the moral outrage others feel regularly when someone behaves in a ‘socially’ immoral fashion. A person’s proclivities and any deviation from the norm are their business and I won’t judge. Only if their behavior negatively impacts another living creature’s life, do I believe society has a responsibility to step in to stop the behavior and restore those damaged by it. Even then, my concern is for those hurt, not for the state of the perpetrator’s moral soul.

I admit this about myself to show that I am neither an idealist or one who goes through life in a state of continual moral outrage.

However, some issues raise my moral hackles. When a wrong perpetrated damages humanity as a whole, it is morally reprehensible and must come to an immediate halt. Whomever is responsible needs to either understand the error of their ways and beg forgiveness or be forced to bear retribution for their actions.

I have listened to the recent ebb and flow of opinion surrounding the fact that the US government not only sanctioned but actively carried out acts of torture against human beings. I have read the documents released to date, although the reading wasn’t necessary to resolve the issue to my mental satisfaction.

I am now tired of the debate, tired of the discussion. The mere fact that anyone attempts to debate that torture is not always unacceptable demeans us all. I demand the debate end immediately.

If only I had that power. I don’t, but the facts do. And here are the facts, or rather the single fact that matters:

Torturing is wrong. Specifically, torturing an enemy to gain advantage in conflict is wrong.

There is no ambiguity to this statement. It is wrong. It was wrong long before the Geneva Convention declared it so. It will always be wrong.

This is not a debatable point. It is not a topic for discussion. It is fact.

We need to quickly and collectively agree on this fact, take steps necessary to show the world we realize this. If we do not, we risk damaging humanity to the point that the next absolute wrong which humankind has collectively agreed upon, will start sounding less and less absolute.

We must take this discussion out of politics and patriotism. Torture has nothing to do with politics. This is not an issue like universal health care or changes to the tax code. It is not a topic that one group of people can be “for” and another group “against”. It is wrong. Always wrong. Always.

Likewise it is not OK for the US to say it is acceptable for us to torture you but still unacceptable for you to torture us. Again, let me repeat myself. It is wrong. Always wrong. Always.

I will not discuss the issue of torture leading to valuable intelligence. It has been shown repeatedly that it does not. But that is not the point. Even if torture led to valuable intelligence, it doesn’t matter. The act is still wrong. There is no greater good that can ever be served by torture.

Why is it not painfully obvious to every human being that torture doesn’t just damage the person it is inflicted upon? It damages all of us.

A CIA operative participates in water-boarding an inmate 80+ times in a month. Let’s think about who is impacted by this:

1. Obviously the inmate. The physical and psychological damage is permanent. They don’t “get over” this. Their chance of ever assuming a normal place in society is gone. They are scarred for life. “So what,” you might say, “they are terrorists, they killed innocent people, they attacked the US.” First, that has no bearing on the key fact. Torture is wrong. And second, evidently many were not terrorists, at least not then, they had not killed innocent people, and they certainly did not attack the US. Among those tortured were the innocent.

2. The operatives performing the torture. They face two potential outcomes. They may become totally devoid of concern for humanity, because they’ve participated in the most base and evil actions against humanity and faced no repercussions. Or, like the actual victim, they are mentally and psychologically scarred for life. This is not something a person participates in and then walks away unscathed.

3. The community or society of the inmate. Knowing that another country doesn’t hesitate to pick up people in their community, sometimes with no cause other than mistaken identity or poor intelligence and tortures them, is never going to endear the torturing country or it’s citizens to that community. Torture understandably breeds hatred. Hatred breeds violence. While I am not a religious person, the whole “eye for an eye” argument is not lost on me. The fact that we tortured any citizen of another country means that our citizens, including soldiers, are not safe from torture in that country again. How can we blame Pakistanis or Iraqis for torturing our citizens, when we have done the same to theirs?

4. Citizens of other countries, especially allies that have a stake in the continued strength and support of the US. Their estimation of us is lessened.
They lose confidence that we will react and respond as we have in the past. They cease to trust us and may look to other alliances. Partners that they hold in higher esteem. Or partners that react consistently, so at least they know what to expect and where they stand.

5. The citizens of the country that tortures. We’ve belittled and demeaned ourselves in the eyes of the world. The US has always been sanctimonious, but we had a reason to be that way. We believed in the dignity of man and did not treat even our worst enemies in such a way that ran counter to that belief. Now we have. People who represent us, the citizens of this country have tortured others. We assume the guilt of our representatives. We cannot be surprised or shocked when the esteem or at least reluctant respect we used to take for granted is gone. By behaving so deplorably, our value as humans is lessened.

By the actions instigated by a few, the value of the entire human race is lessened.

During the eight years George Bush was my President I thought about the demise and ultimate fall of the great empires through out history. Did Roman citizens realize that their empire was slowly crumbling, or were they blind to the fact until it was too late to act? Were there signs or hints that the empire was in trouble, cracks in the foundation that pointed to what lay ahead? Did anyone see these cracks, point them out to others even if they were repeatedly ignored or ridiculed? Did the Roman government truly believe it was invincible and no matter how heinous of act they might commit their rule was absolute and for always?

Watching what has happened in the US during this debate over an undebatable topic, I think I found my answer.

Writing Adventure Group #8 Participants

2009-04-22T20:05:00.001-05:00

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group

Pallavi Agarwal (On Facebook)

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

“WAG #9: Warning!” Last week the topic was to make something ugly sound beautiful, so this time let’s do the opposite! Choose an unfamiliar object (in other words, one you have no history with) that strikes you as beautiful, appealing, or somehow desirable etc… some ideas might be: a child, a sunset, an attractive shop window, a scenic view, a piece of art, an appetising meal in a restaurant… and write about it in such as way as to make it unappealing or even disgusting, frightening or repulsive to your reader. If you did last week’s topic as well (Rose Colored Glasses) I’d be very interested to know which of these was harder for you!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #8 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, April 28th.

WAG #8 - Signs of Life

2009-04-21T13:34:00.009-05:00

This is my contribution to week 8 of the Writing Adventure Group. Here are the instructions:
“WAG #8: Rose Colored Glasses” Go out and choose an unfamiliar object (in other words, one you have no history with) that strikes you as ugly, repulsive, annoying, etc… some ideas might be: a wad of squashed gum on the pavement, a dead squirrel on the side of the road, an ugly sign, a loud construction site, a tacky sculpture in a charity shop… and write about it in such as way as to make it appealing to your reader. Really sell it! Use whatever words you want and cheat as much as you want, but do your best! Unfortunately I have difficulty following instructions, but I tried. It is a lot more fun to describe something repulsive than it is to describe something appealing. Thanks again to Nixy Valentine for putting this together.

It started with a smell. A noxious, rancid smell. The scent of rot was so strong, I began pulling everything out of my pantry closet and sticking it under my nose. While I rationally realized a can of tomato paste and a metal colander could not be the source of such a stench, even they weren't excused from my sniff.

Finally, the closet was empty but the stench was still there. I'd just about decided to take the shelves out, smell each one of them and then step into the closet to breath in lungfuls of the walls hoping they would point me towards the source of the odor.

Instead I got down on me knees and peered into the dark cavity under the lowest shelf. I was certain I'd pulled everything out that was on the floor, but as I bent down for one more look, the smell was overwhelming.

The closet is deep, my arms are not long and I was fairly certain I didn't want to actually touch whatever smelled so horrible. I retrieved a pair of kitchen tongs, got back down on the ground and swept the tongs across the closet floor, until they thunked into something soft and squishy.

Imagining all of the terrible things it could be, I screwed up my courage, grasped it in the tongs and slowly pulled it out.

At first, the blob was so misshapen, other than realizing it wasn't a dead mouse, or something worse, I wasn't able to identify its original nature. And the stench was now so overwhelming I knew I couldn't keep it in the house a minute longer.

Stepping out into the back yard, I gulped a couple of breaths of clean air, then examined at arms and tongs length whatever it was I'd found.

It had at one time been bulbous I could tell. It was so soft I could have squished it in two with the tongs, but I could guess that at one time it had been firm. It was a deep reddish-brown, yet translucent. As I realized it was composed of several translucent layers I finally identified the culprit. I'd unearthed a rotten onion. God knows how long it had festered, alone in the dark, in the farthest corner of my pantry floor.

Now that the mystery was solved, I was ready to dispose of the offending onion, and reluctantly start deciding what I should use to clean the pantry floor.

As I was walking towards the compost heap, with the onion still in the tongs and as far away from my nose as I could carry it, I absently turned my arm exposing the other side of the rotted root. There, peaking out was a small flag of bright green, partially folded within the tongs, so I hadn't noticed it immediately. Clear as day though, was a sign of new life, reaching out of it's fetid core and looking for the light.

Of course I didn't think of it quite so poetically as I was tossing it into the compost pile. That metaphor didn't enter my head until I started writing this. At the time I was literally blinded by the stink.

The Option that He Chose

2009-04-20T17:09:00.002-05:00

A man I knew professionally died yesterday. While I find it difficult to believe, he evidently committed suicide.

I say I find it difficult to believe not because I knew him so well that I know suicide was not in his nature. That is not true. I did not know him that well. I worked with him for about 10 years, spoke to him on the phone several times a year and usually met for lunch or drinks each fall at an industry symposium we both attended. Our primary commonality was our small niche of an extremely large industry. Most of our knowledge about each other revolved around that niche and our careers.

I had lunch with him last fall. It was a beautiful San Francisco day. A little chilly but the sky was a brilliant blue, showing the city off at its best. His long-term girlfriend had traveled with him, as she did almost every year, and they were staying for the weekend. My husband was due in the next day and we had a long weekend planned as well. Our lunch conversation was both work and personal-related. He told me about how his new corporate owner was working out, what had changed and what seemed to be staying the same. He also offered up critical comments about certain competitors of mine, something I am always eager to hear. I suggested people and markets he should contact on business that I could not handle. Primarily though, we talked about the weekend ahead and what each couple planned to do. It was relaxing lunch, not between two old friends, but certainly between two old acquaintances.

My impression of this gentleman was just that. He was a gentleman and a gentle spirit, coming across as soft-spoken, well mannered and almost courtly. He seemed, if not ecstatically happy with his life, at least content. He appeared to have strong personal relationships and seemed rooted in his community.

I am having a great deal of difficulty connecting the impression of the man I knew to a person who could commit suicide. I am not close enough that I will likely ever fully know or understand why he did this. I don’t really want to know the details. It would feel like I was intruding on others private pain. While I am surprised and saddened, I realize by the end of this week the news will have receded from my active thoughts. There will be others though, his girlfriend, his family and his close friends who will mourn their loss for a very long time.

Even though my acquaintance was casual, superficial, I never imagined this man in pain. His death reminds me that we never know another person as well as we think we do. We never know ourselves as well as we think we do.

I can honestly say that thoughts of killing myself have never crossed my mind. Even through the roughest times of my life, I never considered this even a remotely potential possibility. The concept is beyond my comprehension. Or, is it?

Do all humans have a switch in their brain, one they are not even aware of until they find themselves reaching out and contemplating pulling that switch? Is there a specific line for all of us, hard-coded in our DNA perhaps? A line that once crossed suddenly makes the idea of taking your own life move from the fantastic and impossible to the feasible and possible. Am I just not aware of my switch because I have never come close to crossing that line? Can I continue to exist, smug in the knowledge that I will never consider this option? Or, is a little humility in order? Is this a case of “there but for the grace of god go I?”

I am not really looking for answers to my questions. Some self-knowledge can be a dangerous thing. I just know I feel terrible sorrow for my acquaintance and for all those who loved him that he left behind.

The Mess that Ate My Brain

2009-04-19T18:45:00.011-05:00

A frightening event that I knew was inevitable, but hoped could be postponed, can not. I now have 9 draft posts all in various stages of dress. Every time I click the "Edit post" tab, there they sit with their smugly challenging Draft label in bold orange letters.

This is a problem for me. It means I am not focused. And when I am not focused I accomplish absolutely nothing.

When I have too many tasty bits floating around in my brain or on a screen I become incapable of turning any of them into full fledged meals. At the same time, I have difficulty concentrating on anything but those bits. Little, unimportant parts of my life like my job, kids, spouse, eating and breathing tend to be back burnered, while I try and figure out how to round up all these bits, arrange them in some manageable configuration and deal with them in an orderly fashion, one piece of tasty goodness at a time.

I've suffered through this before. Each time I seem to work my way out of the situation, but have yet to come up with a consistent remedy. Probably my favorite trick is to combine every random topic floating in my brain into one essay or story. Needless to say, unless there is a common factor shared by all of the partial ideas rolling in my head, this becomes quite difficult. Actually, it is pretty easy for me. I just take each thought and connect them with an "and" or "also", making one long run-on sentence. Unfortunately, it makes absolutely no sense to any one attempting to read it.

So, I will forge on and hopefully over the next couple of days I will achieve clarity regarding at least some of my pending posts and finish them up. I am bound and determined to contribute to the Writing Adventure Group this week, since I missed last week, but am drawing a complete blank on that topic, so we will see. In the meantime if anyone can come up with a meaningful way to combine into one comprehend-able piece the following topics, I am all ears:

1. Vacuum tube stereo systems;
2. Daughter striking out on her own (finally!);
3. My compassionate nature, or the lack thereof;
4. My ruminations on the issue of government sanctioned torture;
5. An exploration of how a close friendship can survive a business deal gone bad;
6. The complexities of uncomplicated sex (short story);
7. My attempt to make my small yard put the Chelsea Flower Show to shame;
8. The dearth of women related websites that are aimed at women over the age of 35, that are still meaningful and relevant - (aka why I hate the new WOWoWOW website so god damn much);
9. The Australian who came to Easter dinner;
10. A tale of two commitment-phobes (short story);
11. Plastic surgery for cats;
12. The WAG assignment, find something ugly and describe it beautifully (greatly abbreviated);
13. The basement that ate my family; and
14. The use of Thorazine to induce lactation and why this made me a terrible mother.

Just listing this has overwhelmed me. Off to bed.

Seeking Compassion Among the Flowers

2009-04-17T07:56:00.005-05:00

Thinking a lot about compassion lately. What makes me feel compassionate, what draws my caring forth is one of those areas where I am quickly discovering I don't know myself quite as well as I thought.

My thoughts were garbled enough but then I read the released Bush/Justice Dept memos yesterday and they went from garbled to chaotic. There is something I need to say. Say it at least to me. But the words are not forming into any meaningful order in my head right now.

I will continue to ponder the subject of compassion through the weekend. Working in the garden is where I am most likely to clear my head and focus. So this weekend I dig.

My Heart Aches

2009-04-16T21:14:00.005-05:00

I have read about half of the Bush administration memos released today regarding the use of torture. I am not certain why I am finding the memos so shocking. While they only confirm what we already know, seeing the words in black and white has a very chilling affect.

I won't go into the apparent decision not to punish those that engaged in torture. If I think to much about what this failure to own up to our own worst faults says about this country, I will likely start crying and I can't do that right now.

I feel so personally appalled by our behavior as a nation, the need to apologize to the world is almost overwhelming.

As I have said before, I still don't understand why the rest of the world doesn't shun us, much like many fundamental religious sects shun their members who have left their faith. It would not surprise me if other countries simply turned their backs on us and acted as though we no longer exist.

There is absolutely no circumstance whatsoever when two wrongs can make a right. We have sunk to the level of all that we say we detest and identify as evil.

I rarely feel shame. But I feel it tonight.

Percolating Reading #2

2009-04-15T21:03:00.007-05:00

I wish I had the time to read everything that catches my attention on the web. Unfortunately, if I spent 24/7 reading, I still would not be able to read my fill. One of the ways I keep up with at least a small portion of what I want to read is to rely on several aggregators and bloggers who seem to instinctively know exactly what I want to read.

Bernie Latham at Brittle Hum of the Republic most consistently meets my taste. I generally agree with him on political issues but more importantly, his sense of the absurd and his concept of beauty tend to correlate with mine. He is always a must read. I told Bernie lately he had become my version of Internet Cliff Notes.

Bernie directs readers to Andrew Sullivan at The Daily Dish (The Atlantic Magazine online). I have no idea how Andrew pulls together all the information he is able to compile. I just know I am sure to find several posts of interest every day.

Bob Cesca's Goddamn Awesome Blog! Go! is another favorite blog. It has several great writers and is almost always hysterically funny as well.

Alas, A Blog is interesting. They spend too much time discussing the TV series The Dollhouse and can take the whole "inherent worth of all people" /political correctness a little too far. But still an interesting read. It has multiple regular bloggers and a couple of them are great.

Like so many millions of people, my first stop every time I go online is Huffington Post. I read the blogs and I also get quick access to the best articles from every newspaper, magazine or website.

I'm still not sure how I feel about The Daily Beast. I like some of their columnists, especially Christopher Buckley and Ana Marie Cox. (I can't believe I just said I liked a Buckley.) Their Cheat Sheet section is great if you just have a couple of minutes and want to know the headlines in quick order.

A new site I'm exploring is True/Slant. I haven't had a lot of time to spend perusing yet, but I might be in love. I will read about anything Matt Taibbi writes.

Finally a few articles I personally recommend. A couple are over a week old, I just haven't had a chance to post them yet. From the New York Times - A City of Strangers and Kindness. My Father has Parkinson's. I'm not ashamed to admit this story made me cry.

Also from the Times - How to End a War, Eisenhower's Way. Thanks to Bernie or I would have missed this. I am rethinking Eisenhower's presidency in a more positive light.

From the Guardian - Age Shall Not Wither Them and the piece on Jezebel that led me to it - What if Women Weren't Afraid to Grow Old? Included a surprisingly telling quote from Madonna "Once you reach a certain age you're not allowed to be adventurous, you're not allowed to be sexual. I mean, is there a rule? Are you supposed to just die?"

Finally, last week's Newsweek Cover Story - The End of Christian America. The topic has been in the news continually lately. This article gives a great overview.

I noticed a headline today that asked if the Internet was making us "dumber". I am sure it probably can. I've spent a fair amount of time on websites that do nothing but present silliness. However, it can also make us more intelligent, of that I have no doubt. Its just trying to find enough hours in the day to cram all this knowledge into my head that trips me up.

I Must Respond

2009-04-14T07:28:00.008-05:00

I sit, staring at my computer screen pondering whether words that can be read by so many are meant just for one. The darkness lends the written intimacies a devious intent.

I look for undercurrents churning below the surface of each sentence. At once the hidden context becomes clear. This sudden clarity, overwhelming in its intensity, makes the darkness surrounding me shift in nature from discomforted to depraved.

I sit transfixed, as your demands settle suffocatingly upon my chest. Slowing my now shallow breath I steady myself and reread the words. Surely I will find the intent, if not the actual language, more benign than comprehended at first glance. But your thoughts, your demands remain constant. There is no re-interpretation to be had.

Suddenly my dark and enclosed space is claustrophobic. A force is pressing in. Squeezing out the last of my resistance.

I cannot see the danger yet, cannot feel the damage. Pray I still have one more chance to close the door between us and walk away.

Too late I realize the power of the words marching across the screen. The danger is the words. The words already control my mind. What remains of me will surely follow. The damage has been done.

In Sickness And In Health

2009-04-12T00:34:00.006-05:00

I swear to god if there is a disease or physical ailment my husband does not pine for, it’s only because he’s never heard of it. As we watch new drug commercials on TV, I’m noticing they never actually name the disease. Then I’m wondering how bad the disease must be if the man in the commercial will risk the possibility of lactation, anal leakage and premature death in order to partake of this medication. On the other hand, my husband’s thoughts run to, “Damn, I always like orange pills and the name sounds kind of like a sports car. And his girlfriend is hot so that means women think the pill’s sexy. What the hell, I think I’ll give the doctor a call and tell him I need it. Maybe he’ll write me a script.”

I don’t believe a doctor has actually prescribed a drug for my husband that he doesn’t really need. Yet he has amassed a collection of bottles and brightly colored pills that would make Walgreen’s envious. As best I can tell, he doesn’t actually take all of them. Rather he sorts and ponders, reliving memories of a specific ailment long resolved. And new prescriptions are introduced to the collection much like a philatelist lovingly placing the postage stamp that completes a prized collection.

My husband and I are well-suited in so many ways, partially because we’ve known each other forever, so had the opportunity to compromise and barter until we’ve arrived at a generally compatible condition. But history aside, we see eye-to-eye on most subjects. We agree on politics (left, thank you), organized religion (no, thank you) and children (if they are behaving brilliantly we both agree they were my idea, but if they are being jackasses, we both agree they were his.)

Regarding our personalities, while he might disagree just a smidgen, I think we both know that he speaks for both of us, but I think for both of us. Actually, we both agree on who does the speaking since I am often non-communicative and talking is his favorite pastime, but we divvy up the ‘thinking’ thing. He has an abundance of common sense, I have absolutely none. I provide the theory, he provides the real world application, which I then dissect, analyze and critique endlessly.

Likewise our approach to health and well being is compatible. We do as we please with our diet and sedentary life style, then periodically the urge kicks in and we get serious about our appetites and exercise. Eventually we slip back into our bad habits, until the next time we are roused to action. This erratic health and fitness plan has served so far, although we realize we can’t go on in this fashion indefinitely.

However, there is a marked difference in how we deal with one aspect of our health. Illness reveals a yawning gap in our rapport.

First, what I consider sick, others consider dead. Aches and pains that come with age and lifestyle exist for me as much as the next person. I just absolutely refuse to acknowledge or discuss them, because I think anything I can ignore is manageable. (Unfortunately, I feel this way about many things.) If I feel so poorly I can no longer ignore the discomfort, my usual approach is to will infirmity to leave my body immediately. Surprisingly this sometimes works. When it doesn’t and I must accept my illness, I lock myself in our bedroom and countenance no visitors, no matter how caring (annoying) or compassionate (obnoxious).

When in actual pain, my preferred method of treatment is to buck up until I hit my maximum tolerance level, which is quite high. Once I hit that point I want drugs. Big honking, pain killing drugs. I want them injected directly into my blood stream and I want the dosage to be high enough that I pass out and stay that way until the pain subsides. No pansy-ass extra strength Tylenol. I want morphine, straight up please.

My better half, however, has a different story. Some people start their day with a to-do list, writing down the twenty tasks they absolutely must accomplish that day. My husband starts his day similarly. Except his to-do list is a my-aches list. Not content to commit each tremor and twinge to paper, he shares his list with me, out loud, in detail.

I understand this compelling need to review the litany of insults to his physical well being. He truly enjoys basking in every leg cramp, touch of indigestion, back ache, dry sinus, watery eye, suspicious rash … I could go on, but will spare you the gorier details. Evaluating each malady, comparing how it feels or looks today versus yesterday, noticing any new ailment and thinking wistfully of those that have exited his body is his reassurance that he still lives. If he wasn’t alive he reasons, he wouldn’t hurt so damn much.

I believe my husband shares his aches and pains with me for two reasons. First because my physical response to his litany, whether it be a distracted “yes dear”, an eye roll, an exaggerated sigh or rolling over in the bed and putting a pillow over my head is proof to him that I too am still alive.

Plus, he truly can’t conceive that others don’t revel in their afflictions as he does. He actually pities me. I’m not certain if his pity stems from his belief that I don’t have my own afflictions to revel in, or he believes that I have my own aches and pains, but they seem paltry compared to his obviously impressive list, so I am embarrassed to share. He definitely feels generous when sharing his with me.

And so we sit. Me, adamantly denying there is absolutely anything wrong with me, even after my arm falls off, my jaw is permanently locked and I’ve lost all sensation from the waist down. My husband, continually chronicling his daily aches and pains, hoarding his pills so he is prepared for the oncoming plague that is lurking just around the corner, but in reality, healthy as a horse. We were obviously made for each other.

Writing Adventure Group #6 Participants

2009-04-08T07:08:00.004-05:00

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group

“WAG #7: Imaginings” This one is people-watching with a twist. Observe a stranger and sketch a brief background for them, including a secret. Then describe why they are in that particular place at that particular time (where you ran into them) and how it will affect their future. Feel free to be creative, but don’t forget to describe the concrete reality that made you pick them in the first place! (Thank you to Christine Kirchoff for this week’s WAG topic!)

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #7 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, April 14th.

WAG #6 - Overheard

2009-04-07T19:23:00.005-05:00

“WAG #6: Overheard” Another people-watching exercise this week! This time, let’s listen! Choose a stranger and do your best to overhear what they say, and then write it down. It can be on the phone, to someone else, or even them talking to themselves. What does their voice, word choice, or tone tell you about them? Feel free to write their exact words OR write it as you would for fictional dialogue. By now you guys know the rules aren’t what’s important, but the experience!

My overheard conversation (in a bar as you might guess). I've thought of adding to it, but I think it is complete unto itself.

"I thought you gave up drinking for Lent?"

"I did."

"Then what are you doing here and why are you drunk?"

"I gave up drinking. I didn't give up bars."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And if you gave up drinking why are you drunk?"

Long pause ...

"You know, I really don't know. Ask me later, when I'm sober."

Also a brief plug. If you write you probably love words. If you do and you haven't gone to http://www.savethewords.org/ go now, before it is too late. Save a word, while you still can.

In Dire Need of a Surveyor

2009-04-06T07:30:00.010-05:00

A blog I follow with an eloquent author admitted to feeling momentarily tapped** lately. He was temporarily experiencing difficulty coming up with additional topics in the general area of his specialty and invited his readers to respond with questions they would like him to answer.

I thought about his invitation and while there are several things about him and his life I am mildly curious about, those questions seemed intrusive, inappropriate. I have yet to see a Blogging Etiquette for Dummies book, but my own internal Emily Post, who sounds suspiciously like my mother, would have slapped my hand with a ruler if I’d been so impertinent as to type those questions out.

But I’ve felt a strange affinity for this blog ever since I came across it. Something about the voice of the author and the way he reveals his thoughts and his thought process in written words captures the imagination. So I took a couple of days and thought about issues we might have in common. Something I am grappling with that he might have some insight into. And I thought of one.

I have been pondering boundaries. To be specific, my particular, personal boundaries. Where they lie? Do I push them? Would I recognize a boundary if I saw it? What does it feel like to cross one? Will I know I've crossed it if I do? Do they even exist? I am not talking exclusively of moral or sexual or physical or mental or emotional boundaries. Rather, I am talking about them all, en masse. To me, they are interwoven and cannot be separated.

When my mind turned to this subject I was initially surprised. I assumed the delineations of my personal boundaries were marked years ago. Isn’t that what your teenage years and your 20s are for? Pushing the envelope and learning from the results? If I recall I did quite a bit, some might say an extreme amount, of pushing at that time, so the issue of my borderlines should have been resolved to my mind's satisfaction many years ago.

Evidently that is not the case. Something made me realize that if my boundaries were set in stone, then surely I would hit them periodically as I go through my day, recognize the wall for what it is, and step away. But try as I might, I can’t recall that ever happening.

This leads me with two distressing conclusions. Either I lead such a staid and predictable life that I have never come close to hitting the boundaries I established at a much younger age, or conversely I have no set boundaries or they are set so far out in the boonies that I will never bump against them. If the correct conclusion is the first, then I have wasted a lot of time being safe. If it is the second, the possibilities are overwhelming.

This is a mystery I have to solve. I have some conflicting clues to start with. I know that when I decide to do something, it is useless to try and talk me out of it, no matter how unwise my decision. I will be ruthlessly driven to go after it, regardless of the consequences. Fortunately this isn’t a common occurrence for me, or I would be divorced, unemployed or dead by now.

I can and often do become comfortable with the status quo, even if I believe the status quo could be improved upon. This tends to happen not when I don’t care about something. More often it happens when I don’t care enough.

I can’t recall that I’ve done anything I’ve felt ashamed of in a very, very long time. Which I’m afraid means I’m either frightfully dull or I have no sense of what is shame worthy.

I tend to make decisions quickly and move on. I very rarely second guess myself, often to my detriment. Nor do I get that feeling I have heard others speak of where the hair stands up on the back of your neck and you decide to rethink your plan.

I think these issues are all tied to how I perceive the boundaries of my life. I just don’t know what they all mean.

Meanwhile, the blogger whose inquiry I responded to has replied to my questions about how he defines his boundaries. I will incorporate his perspective into my clues and continue investigating. If any one else is grappling with this issue, I would love feedback from you as well.

To be continued ...

** This is an adult only site. If you are under 18, please don't.

A Wit to Brighten even the Grayest Day

2009-04-05T19:44:00.006-05:00

Another gray day. Spring is taking its own sweet time getting here and I am ready to explode. No point in going outside. Even I am not masochistic enough to try and enjoy the outdoors in this weather.

I cheered myself up with one of my favorite Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers movies The Barkleys of Broadway, followed by Astaire and Audrey Hepburn at her most luminous in Funny Face. I love Funny Face, even though Astaire is way too old for Hepburn, primarily because of Hepburn's amazing wardrobe. As the face of a magazine, her couture clothes are timeless, elegant and look as though they were meant to be worn exclusively by her, which I'm sure they were. Kate Moss and Claudia Schiffer can only dream of looking half as amazing as Hepburn looks in this movie.

When I was a little girl it seemed to be on TV every Saturday afternoon. I was absolutely adamant that when I married I would wear the wedding dress Hepburn wore in Funny Face.

The Barkleys of Broadway was Fred and Ginger's last movie together. They were great, but what makes this movie a favorite of mine is it costarred Oscar Levant. A brilliant composer, pianist, actor and wit whose life was far more tragic than it should have been. He died when I was still a kid and hadn't appeared in public for years before that. But I was exposed to him through several musicals he appeared in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Even as a child watching a movie two generations old, I thought he was hysterically funny with his very dry, very deadpan, very cutting wit. He is truly timeless.

It wasn't until many years later that I learned much about his life, and how sadly he declined. But his wit lives on.

"Happiness isn't something you experience; it's something you remember."

"I am no more humble than my talents require."

"I envy people who drink. At least they have something to blame everything on."

"I find that girl completely resistible."

My personal favorite and still apropos today:

"I once said cynically of a politician, 'He'll doublecross that bridge when he comes to it.' "

A Technophobia Free Zone

2009-04-04T21:30:00.010-05:00

ne of the mandatory requirements of my career is a general understanding of technology systems, software and networks and the Internet. I don't need a detailed, technical understanding. I'm not a programmer, a developer or an engineer. Rather, I need to understand the basic components and how they fit together, how people use technology and how they use the Internet. As I discussed here, I especially need to know what happens when their use goes horribly wrong.

An example of this was the over-hyped potential disaster of Y2K. I spent the 3 years prior to 1-1-2000 alternately worrying about planes falling out of the sky, ATMs going dark, security systems shutting down, the potential of murder and mayhem , while at the same time pushing out reports reassuring the higher ups it would be fine. As cold as it sounds, I was actually disappointed when nothing terrible happened. I felt as if I had wasted several years of my life.

Overall though, I feel lucky to have the opportunity to spend a great deal of my time exploring the technology that runs our lives and the Internet that increasingly seems hardwired into our minds. My exploration and interaction on the web has progressed through the years from university library bulletin boards to the dial-in networks of Prodigy and CompuServe, from Lycos and Infoseek to Google, from The Well to Facebook.

Usually I learn just enough about each new trend, site or technology to understand its purpose, its allure and its weakness. Some have interested me far more than others and I have become a serious user and proponent. Others don't hold my interest to the same degree. I often dive into something new, then go silent, popping back in periodically to see what has changed.

I can't tell you exactly why but certain technological innovations and web destinations have captured my attention and affection - Audible, Wikipedia, Ask (although they should never have dropped Jeeves), Mozilla, Internet Archive, IMDB, too many blogs to name and the logic and ease of use of ASPs and SaaS. And I must mention my infatuation with all things Apple.

Others, such as AOL, ebay, Craigslist, MySpace, youTube, digg, MSN and most anything Microsoft related have not really rocked my boat. The jury is still out on Twitter for me.

I learned the hard way to be objective and keep a certain distance between myself and the latest Internet candy. In early 1999 I needed to understand the appeal and the process of downloading music. I started out exploring RealNetworks, Listen.com and eMusic. Then I moved on to the mother of all music download sites - Napster. I hate to admit this, since I am someone who believes in the sanctity of copyrights, but many, many, many, many pirated downloads later I understood Napster and it's allure. (I now gladly fork over my 99 cents a song at iTunes.)

I think one of the most democratic aspects of the internet, especially for someone that did not grow up wired, is the individual user's ability to pick and choose what they like and what they don't. What works for them and doesn't. Don't 'get' Twitter? Fine don't do it. Still love the quirkiness of The Well? Have at it.

One of the downsides with the rapid evolution of technology is I find something I love, but it eventually changes or disappears. I still can't talk about my decade long infatuation with the original Lotus 123. The best personal, money management software ever was Andrew Tobias' Managing Your Money. A DOS based application, it died years ago, but I still think of the cheesy graphics and smile. I resent the loss of the previous version of my 'My Yahoo' home page and while I am much better behaved now, I still get wistful for the instant gratification that was Napster.

Percolating Reading

2009-04-04T09:02:00.004-05:00

Sometimes, things cannot be re-said to any advantage. Paraphrasing, redacting or abridging often do considerable harm to the intent and understanding of the original document. This week I read several articles, columns, etc. that are worth sharing. And sharing in their original form.

The story of an intriguing Civil War mystery, its amazing solution based on pure synchronicity and several questions that have yet to be answered in the New York Times piece: Whose Father Was He? by Errol Morris. It's a five parter, but worth every minute spent.

In the New Yorker, a couple of articles I've been meaning to mention for several days. Both, the original and a follow up deal with the apparent resurgence of Populism in this country and it's relationship to the evident paranoia currently gripping the right. Read both of George Packer's articles. Very insightful. Populism and Paranoia and the followup More Paranoia Both are fascinating reads. And thanks to Bernie Lantham at Brittle Hum of the Republic for pointing me towards these. His blog has basically become my reading and viewing list. He seems to be able to slog through all of the flotsam and jetsam and point me in the right direction towards the things I absolutely must see.

An absolutely heartbreaking article in Salon by Ann Bauer, The Monster Inside My Son One of the saddest stories I've read in a long time. It made my heart and my soul ache for her, her son and her entire family.

Finally, and on a much lighter note - the story of how our collective fascination with nonsensical branding, our unquenchable appetite to consume ever increasing amounts of ephemera and useless tchotchkes can spiral horribly out of control - if you have never visited the blog Hello Kitty Hell, you absolutely must.

Talk Dirty with Me

2009-04-02T20:28:00.008-05:00

I have a filthy mouth. I have since I was a teenager. If my mother were still alive, I would suggest you just ask her about it. Of course, she might still confirm this, even though she is dead. In fact she would probably tell you my love of the profane is one of the trials she was forced to endure that eventually led to her premature death.

I love words in general and have, I believe, a larger than average vocabulary. I try to use that vocabulary regularly. Not to show off, but because I believe that in some way words are sacred and we can't afford to lose them. So I do my best to keep words from falling out of use.

In spite of the fact that I have an abundant supply of expressive words at my fingertips, words that clearly make my point without offending anyone, I still like to curse. Through the years, I have tried to break the habit, but with little success. I thought I would quit cussing when I had children. But when your first child is deaf, there seems to be little point to reining in your expletives. And by the time the second one came along, the habit was too ingrained. I have learned to regulate my use of profanity in certain situations, but with varying degrees of success.

I like to cuss for several reasons. First, sometimes nothing but a cuss word will do. There are certain situations that can only be summed up by the liberal use of "Fuck!" (To me, the most multifarious word in the English language. It is applicable to almost any occasion or situation.) Sometimes a man behaves in such a way that the only moniker that applies is "Prick". Sometimes a woman is just a plain and simple "Bitch". You can use words that might not cause offense, but the appropriate cuss word, allows you to express your opinion in a pithy and succinct manner and there is no confusion about how you really feel about the subject.

I also like cuss words, because I think talking dirty in bed is sexy. I always have. Nothing is more of a turn off than anatomically and politically correct language between the sheets. The two least sexy words in the English language are penis and vagina. I'm sorry, but it is the truth. I want to be called names in bed that, if I were called them outside of bed, would be a justifiable reason for pistols at dawn. And I like to call the anatomy of the person in bed with me (alright, my husband) by the most profane labels I can come up with. And then I often giggle, which defeats the purpose, or so he tells me.

I also recently discovered a third reason I like curse words. Historically, profanity has been seen as a tool of the young or the uneducated. I am neither. And while I don't necessarily aspire to anything that makes me appear less educated, I do aspire to anything that makes me feel younger than I am. This revelation came to me in a discussion with my grown daughter, who has, unfortunately, inherited my love of profanity, although I don't think she has attained my level of expertise. How we got into this discussion, I don't recall. But at some point I admitted to her that "Having a potty mouth makes me feel younger, edgier, more cool." At that she started laughing hysterically. When I pressed her to tell me what was so funny, as she was wiping the tears from her eyes, she told me that I was defeating the purpose of using profanity to appear edgier or cool if I was going to refer to cussing as "having a potty mouth". Then she pointed out the dichotomy of many of my language choices.

So,now I am once again, trying to clean up my language. I have decreed that I am striking certain words from my vocabulary from here on. Words I have used all my whole life. Words like "potty", "tinkle", "booby", "popo" and "weewee". After all, it is never my intent to offend.

Time Flying, While Standing Still - My Son, The Atom

2009-04-01T18:30:00.007-05:00

Inside a chest in my living room is a picture of my son. Not my son exactly. If it was my son exactly, today he would be upwards of 175 years old.

It is an early photograph, made well before 1900, of a man who looks like he is in his late 20s. If you saw this picture and if you knew my son, you would be absolutely certain the photo was one of those campy pictures taken at Disney World. The ones where you dress up in old fashioned clothes and with a new digital camera they take a picture of you that looks like it was made in the 1880s.

It isn’t. It really is an old picture and it is a picture of a predecessor of mine. It was in a great aunt's photo album I inherited. The picture was taken in Springfield, Illinois by a Dexter Studio. But that is all I know. I have no clue who he is and what his relationship is to me and more interestingly, to my son.

I’ve stared at this picture many times. I suppose I hope if I look closely enough all will be made clear. So far, no luck.

But I am endlessly fascinated. Was my son's doppelgänger like him in more ways than just appearance? Did he have his gentle and loving heart? His incessant and annoying habit of asking the same question over and over again, just to make sure you understood him? Was he emotional? Quick to anger, quick to diffuse and quick to show boundless affection? Did he love to endlessly discuss his varied interests, everything from Calvinism to college basketball, from politics to the true significance of the fact that Darth Vader was Luke Skywaker’s father? Did he wear his spiritual beliefs on his sleeve? Did his mother shake her head too, wondering how a child born out of her decidedly non-religious body, developed such a deep and abiding Christian faith, thankfully tempered by a strong underpinning of liberal values?

My scientific training is limited to a high school biology class and a fascination with, though not an understanding of, the physicist Richard Feynman. As an adult I get my science from writers who speak English, not science. Probably my favorite non-scientific book about science is Bill Bryson’s A Short History of Nearly Everything.

One of my favorite sections is his discussion of the atom. In it, experts tell me through him that every atom I possess has passed through several stars and millions of organisms before joining my other atoms and arranging themselves into me. And when I die, they will disassemble and move off to create other organisms - an oak leaf, a trout, an aphid or maybe another human. (If I have butchered his explanation, I sincerely apologize.)

I find this concept comforting. It is, for me, about as close to a statement of faith as I will ever come. As I look at the picture of the young man who is not my son, I think about this explanation of atoms. And I wonder if the group of atoms that arranged themselves to form this man perhaps enjoyed the experience so much, they decided to get back together at some point in the future and do it again. Voila, my son.

A silly fantasy, I realize, but this exercise brings me back around to my concept of time. I may exist right here, at this time, right now. But my atoms transcend time, existing before me, and surviving long after my death. If I am the sum of my parts, and my most elemental parts are the atoms that compose me, then as long as they exist in any fashion, don't I as well?

Writing Adventure Group Participants - WAG #5

2009-04-01T12:37:00.000-05:00

Please read and enjoy!

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group

Cora Zane
Iain Martin
Christine Kirchoff
Nancy J Parra
Sharon Donovan
Nixy Valentine
Lulu
Jon Strother
Marsha Moore

Next week’s Writing Adventure:
“WAG #6: Overheard” Another people-watching exercise this week! This time, let’s listen! Choose a stranger and do your best to overhear what they say, and then write it down. It can be on the phone, to someone else, or even them talking to themselves. What does their voice, word choice, or tone tell you about them? Feel free to write their exact words OR write it as you would for fictional dialogue. By now you guys know the rules aren’t what’s important, but the experience!
Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #6 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, April 7th.

On the Shelf (WAG #5)

2009-03-31T12:35:00.013-05:00

This week’s adventure instructions: “WAG #5: Life In Motion” Sometimes it’s good to approach writing like taking a photograph with words. On the other hand, it’s important to remember that a scene is always in transition. For this week’s adventure, sit in a good observation spot and notice how the scene in front of you changes from one minute to the next. Has the light changed? The sounds? The people? What’s different now compared to when you first arrived? Is there anything you can see (or hear, smell, etc) that is changing right in front of you? Be creative and break the rules! This week is all about change! More about the Writing Adventure Group

I avoid nursing homes if I can. Whenever I'm forced to spend time in them I wonder about the billions of dollars spent every year to extend the average age of mortality one more year. I don't understand the drive to continually push upward the life span of a human if all we are going to do is warehouse him during those extended years.

Unfortunately my family recently accepted we had no option but to move my father into a care center. Which means I will regularly drive several hours to spend a weekend with my Dad, so he knows I have not forgotten him.

I spent last weekend in his new home, which as nursing facilities go, isn't bad. It is clean, comfortable and accessible. The staff seems caring and compassionate and my Dad, the world's biggest flirt, has charmed all the nurses to the degree that every time I show up there are at least one or two in his room, sitting, chatting and laughing with him.

I previously noticed that a particular female resident always sat on a love seat across from the nurses' station. Few details about her appearance registered, beyond her constancy to her post. When I showed up this weekend she was on duty, sitting, looking down at her hands and oblivious to everything going on around her. Busy with my Dad and the to-do list he had waiting for me, I didn't pay her much attention.

On Saturday afternoon I deposited my dad in his room for a nap. He was exhausted but content after a morning shopping for boxer shorts at J.C. Penney and lunch at his favorite BBQ joint. While he napped I went to talk with the nurse about his medication. She was on the phone when I got to the nurses' station. As I waited for her call to end, I observed the elderly female sentry still on duty.

Looking closely, I noted she sat almost perfectly still. Her head was bowed, and she stared intently at her hands in her lap, as though she was confused about where the hands had come from and who they belonged to. The only movement was her feet which shuffled rhythmically back and forth, the soles of her brown, sensible pumps shooshing across the linoleum floor. I noticed her bright pant suit, which looked expensive and the height of fashion for the over 80 set. She wore several rings, a pearl necklace and large pearl earrings. Someone still cared terribly about her appearance. Cared enough to insist she be dressed and fully accessorized each day.

My mind began to wander, thinking of the long drive home and how I was going to fit everything my step-mother insisted I take home in my car. I glanced up just as the woman's head was nodding back down to stare at her hands in her lap. I'd not seen her raise her head so didn't know what triggered the movement.

This slight movement captured my attention so I focused fully on her. Nothing happened for several minutes. A steady stream of staff, other residents and visitors walked by and she made no indication she was aware of them as they disturbed the air surrounding her. Her eyes continued to stare at her hands and her feet continued to shoosh. Nothing caught her attention until a large man came around the corner and walked past her. As he began to pass, her face shot up and she looked at him expectantly, with a slight smile on her face. He was oblivious to her attention and kept walking towards the exit. She watched his back for a few seconds, visibly sighed, then lowered her head back down to continue studying the mysterious hands she'd found resting on her lap.

Later that day, as I waited for Dad to finish his dinner, I had the chance to observe the woman again. I watched as she went through what seemed to be a random routine to me, but to her was evidently predictable and comforting. Staring at her lap, shooshing her shoes and occasionally looking up as certain people passed her by.

In about fifteen minutes I watched her acknowledge two passers-by. She continued to ignore everyone who walked past, except for two different men with nothing in common except their large frames. I couldn't tell how she differentiated between these two men and everyone else. Was it the size of the shadow they cast, the weight of their footsteps, the cadence of their step? Both times, her head raised, her lips curved up slightly and she followed the man with her eyes, until she realized he wasn't approaching her. As soon as she understood he wasn't headed towards her, she lowered her head and went back to her meditation.

Like my Dad, most of the care center residents previously lived in the surrounding retirement community, so many residents knew each other before they moved into the care center. Wanting to know her story, I asked Dad about her. He didn't know her, had never met her. Sadly though, he told me there were several women who sat throughout the complex, seemingly unaware of their surroundings.

I will never know what it was about those 3 men that brought this woman out of her reverie and back among the living, at least for a moment. Perhaps she had grown sons and hoped they were visiting. Perhaps her mind wasn't in this time or this year. She may have expected to raise her head and see her dead husband, an ex-lover, an ex-employer or just an old friend.

The next time I go see Dad, I think I will try and engage her, even though he tells me he doesn't think she can be engaged. I would like to know what periodically pulls her out of storage and back into the life she once lived.

Time Flying While Standing Still - The Longer Now

2009-03-27T22:05:00.006-05:00

I can rarely say I am embarrassed about anything I ever read. From bodice-ripping romance novels to Mad magazine, from lurid real life crime stories to pretty raunchy erotica, I am an equal opportunity reader. And if I read it, I am usually willing to talk about it.

There have been two books I have read in the last 20 years that I tend to not own up to.

The first was American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. The second was The Celestine Prophecy by James Redfield. My embarrassment regarding both of them stems from very different reasons. I thought the story of American Psycho was beyond disturbing and offensive. And it takes a whole lot to disturb or offend me. However, the book was so well crafted and I was already a fan of Mr. Ellis, so as much as I was disgusted by the words spilling off of the pages, he hooked me. I finished it, threw away the paperback and avoided discussing it until now. (In an effort to partially redeem myself, I did not go to the movie and have intensely disliked Christian Bale ever since the film came out.)

On the other hand, I thought The Celestine Prophecy was one of the most poorly written books I have ever struggled through. But I was going through my brief “new-agey” phase at the time and the pull of the plot was stronger than my resistance to Mr. Redfield’s weak story telling. In the intervening years, my interest in the topics discussed in the book largely deserted me. Except for one phrase that has stuck with me since the first time I read them on a page.

The Longer Now …

If I think back, I have a vague memory of what Mr. Redfield meant when he used the phrase. And I have seen it used several times since then. I believe that my personal interpretation of the phrase is based on the description provided in the book. But as the words rolled themselves around in my brain for almost 20 years, I think my concept veered from what he intended.

When I envision the longer now I see it as a call to expand our view of history and our place in it. I see our place in the world as existing before we were here and continuing after we are gone. The old Chinese proverb about a silken red thread that ties people together comes closest to describing my view.

I am not attempting philosophical, theological or metaphysical discourse here. I leave that to the experts. Nor am I channeling my new-age persona of twenty years ago. She is long dead. I am talking about fact.

Several people lived 400 years ago (or 800 or 200) that made decisions or took actions that resulted in me being here today. They decided to migrate to the new world or they didn’t. They decided to marry and have children rather than enter the priesthood. They decided to marry one boy from their village versus another. They gave up their agrarian existence and learned a trade. And those actions, just like the millions of actions that occurred before and the millions that have occurred since make it possible for me to sit here today with my specific DNA.

At that same time several people or groups of people made decisions or took a course of action that had a direct impact on the world I live in today. Wars were fought, ships were launched, trade was created, empires were built, science advanced. The world I exist in, move through and experience my life within could have been dramatically different if a single battle was not won, if a ship was lost at sea, if an empire was not launched.

Of course this applies to the generations and the world order that will continue after my death. Who I married, the choice to have children, the work I do, the decisions I’ve made and causes I’ve supported will all have an impact on those coming after me, no matter how mundane or trivial they seem to me now.

This is, to me, the true measure of immortality.

Considering time from this perspective - that “now” is not just this minute, just this day, just this year, but a steady progression of lives and events occurring before, during and after the few moments of my lifetime and are all essential to my very existence, gives me a broadened sense of immediacy … the longer now.

I, Michael Steele

2009-03-26T07:45:00.005-05:00

This post on Bob Cesca's Goddamn Awesome Blog! got me thinking about the total absurdity of Michael Steele. I realized that someone this bizarre cannot be real. They must be some one's (and in this instance I believe the culprits are space aliens) idea of a joke. So I did some digging and sure enough I found a picture of the real Michael Steele before the space aliens gave him an almost humanoid appearance and sat him in our midst to mystify, entertain and distract us while they implemented their plan to take over the earth.

Mr. Steele before his transformation:

Humor - Moving at the Speed of Light or: The Teleprompter Speaks

2009-03-25T16:40:00.005-05:00

I've been reading the brouhaha regariding Obama's use of a teleprompter last night for his prepared statement before the press conference. And this is an issue, why? Think of how much more intelligent George Bush might have sounded if he had used one occassionally. Of course this is based on the assumption he could have read the damn thing.

Anyway - the teleprompter in an attempt to defray the controversy has decided to take its case directly to the people - and has launched its own blog, that actually looks like it has been around for several years.

Go see it - it is hysterical: Barack Obama's Teleprompter's Blog

Writing Adventure Group News

2009-03-25T08:33:00.006-05:00

Here are the links for the participants in this weeks Writing Adventure Group. Please visit each and let them know how great (and brave) they all are. If you would like to join the WAG the instructions are at the top of the list. Details on next weeks adventure follow at the end. Thanks so much for Nixy Valentine for organizing and planning everything!

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

“WAG #5: Life In Motion” Sometimes it’s good to approach writing like taking a photograph with words. On the other hand, it’s important to remember that a scene is always in transition. For this week’s adventure, sit in a good observation spot and notice how the scene in front of you changes from one minute to the next. Has the light changed? The sounds? The people? What’s different now compared to when you first arrived? Is there anything you can see (or hear, smell, etc) that is changing right in front of you? Be creative and break the rules! This week is all about change!

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #5 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, March 31st.

I'm Pretty Sure Adam Smith Is Rolling Over In His Grave

2009-03-24T22:10:00.013-05:00

I am not an economist. I do not even have an amateur's understanding of the subject. Nor has it ever been a subject of great interest to me, even though I work in an offshoot of the financial sector. (Evidently there are quite a few people who know very little about economics but have been running the financial sector for several years now.) I have spent months trying to understand what has happened to the economy of this country and now the entire world. To date, here is what I have learned:

1. When a global problem occurs the natural instinct is to blame the superpower. And in this situation, I believe the blame does fall largely on US shoulders.

2. Deregulation of banks was a really, really bad idea, something that a few people seemed to understand at the time. I knew there was a reason besides his immensely irritating voice that I always cringed whenever Phil Gramm popped up on my TV. But evidently some otherwise intelligent people also went along with the idea. Thank god Bush's plan to privatize social security and hand it over to these same deregulated banks died.

3. Somehow a whole new class of people was created in the last 15 years - the investor class. While some people in the middle class seem to naively believe they are part of this class, because their 401Ks are invested in the market, that's chump change baby. The real scions of Wall Street know that the true investor class is made up of a very few, very wealthy people. This is totally obvious to me. There is no single "class" that could ever be broad enough to encompass both me and Warren Buffet.

4. Evidently no one has any oversight over the Federal Reserve and it's leadership. Why? The SEC is largely ineffectual and yet it continues to exist. Why? And what the hell is the Office of Thrift Supervision?

5. Having people who were totally immersed in the culture that lead to this mess - Hank Paulson, Neel Kashkari, Tim Geithner, to name a few - be responsible for cleaning it up is a really bad idea.

6. Paul Krugman, who I initially liked and probably has some very good ideas, sounds increasingly whiny and petulant that he hasn't been brought into the inner circle, because, after all, he has a Nobel Prize. I don't care how smart he is, no one likes sour grapes and he needs to ratchet it down a notch or two or no one will listen to him.

7. I still like President Obama, but there is an end to my patience. On the economy anyway, I believe he is headed in the wrong direction and is listening to very bad advice. Evidently there was heated debate over Geithner's new plan between Geithner and David Axelrod and Geithner won. President Obama, dance with who brought you. Trust David Axelrod who is, in part, largely responsible for putting you in the White House. Geithner is looking out for his buddies and assuring he has an office and desk to go back to on Wall Street, once he is out of a job in DC.

8. I can't get too worked up about the jack-asses at CNBC, because I have it on very good authority that no one actually watches the network. People working in investments keep it on all day as background noise, so when a client calls, it sounds like they are on the floor of the exchange. However I do think it is a sad statement on journalism in this country that the host of a comedy news show on basic cable is the Edward R. Murrow of the 21st century. Evidently Jon Stewart agrees with me on this.

Finally, I have read a couple of excellent articles in the last few days that have gone a long way towards explaining to me, the economically - challenged little guy, what the hell is going on. I encourage everyone to read both. (And if the two views expressed actually disagree with each other in parts, please don't tell me. I feel pretty good about just getting through both of them.) Read these now:

No Return to Normal - James K. Galbraith

The Big Takeover - Matt Taibbi

Shhhhhh (WAG #4)

2009-03-24T06:45:00.010-05:00

This is my post for the Writing Adventure Group. The topic is: “WAG #4: Do You Hear What I Hear?” Detailed instructions for this assignment are here.

Early Friday morning. Strolling up the steps to my front door. It’s 6:15, I’m back from my walk and have about 30 minutes to spare before I need to jump in the shower and dress for work.

Thinking about the weekend ahead I realize I might not have another chance to do my WAG #4 exercise, so I plop down on my front stoop, take off my ear buds and turn off my ipod, silencing Ben Folds. I am ready to listen.

Home is in an older neighborhood in my city. Good sized houses on very small lots, so close together that what happens in your neighbor’s home or yard is heard in yours. My block is a mix of elderly women and their yappy little dogs, young families and their colicky little babies and every kind of family and accompanying noise in between. I love it.

Day and night, we are surrounded by sound. Neighbors, kids, animals, security alarms, repairmen, delivery trucks, trash trucks, lawn mowers, you name it, there is never a time when my block is devoid of someone or something making noise. And if the melody isn’t enough, we are short blocks from a major thoroughfare, and not too far beyond that, railroad tracks, allowing the intermittent sounds of police sirens, motorcycles and trains to provide the underlying harmony.

So I sit, prepared to be assailed by noise. Prepared to sort it all out, and focus.

And … nothing. Not a sound. No birds singing, no dishes clattering through the open kitchen window of the house next door, no dogs barking, no garage doors opening expressing their lurching, creaking complaints, no carpool drivers honking in the neighbor’s driveway, no nothing. As my mind clears I realize I can hear the low but persistent buzz of the mercury vapor street lights. But even the buzz is subdued, barely registering in my brain.

I sit for five minutes in almost total silence. Listening intently to the sound of nothing.

Then it begins. I hear my husband, with his early morning heavy-footed, half asleep zombie walk, stomp into our bathroom directly over my stoop. Next door, the Boston terrier and two golden labs shoot into their backyard yip-yipping and barking to let everyone know they are on duty for the day. A neighbor’s cat saunters up to her front stoop, exhausted from her long night of patrolling her turf and howling impatiently to be let in. The newspaper truck with its questionable muffler turns onto my street and my ears are filled with the steady thwack as the paper hits each driveway and the deep belch of the truck backfiring every 50 feet.

At that moment the huge SUV across the street comes growling and rumbling to ignition. SUVs always sound terribly disappointed at their lot in life. In that growl I hear the grumbling complaint that they were meant for bigger, more important journeys. Instead, they groused, they are wasted on trivialities like going to the grocery store and dropping the kids off at school.

I get up and head inside. I have heard what I needed to hear. The silence.

-------------------------------------------------

As I started this assignment, it propelled me towards finalizing another piece I have been meaning to post. It is here (the previous post) and my assignment might make more sense if the other post is read as well.

Quiet Please

2009-03-23T22:07:00.010-05:00

My grown son is profoundly deaf. Meaning, if he was standing next to a jet engine just as it began accelerating to takeoff, he would feel the vibration, but he wouldn’t hear a sound. Nothing. His hearing loss is absolute.

Through the years he and I have often discussed the state of my hearing and his deafness and the difference each has made in our lives. As he has grown, I have stopped focusing on everything he has missed and started paying more attention to all that he has not. And he has gained the maturity necessary to eloquently express the experience of being deaf. I think I have given him a general understanding of the concept of hearing. More importantly, he has given me a glimpse of what it means to hear nothing at all.

This peek into the exclusive, absolutely silent world that so few humans inhabit, has allowed me to understand at least a little, not only the downsides of being deaf, but the upsides as well. The ability to focus, the lack of distraction and the heightened awareness of your other senses. The benefits of thinking visually and processing information in pictures rather than verbally and in words. The ability to express yourself in a far more eloquent language that utilizes your whole body, not just your mouth. And the utter lack of self consciousness when it comes to the noises your body and your emotions make, because you never hear them.

Most importantly I have learned through him the sense of ease and comfort in silence, something that does not come easily to hearing people. We are so accustomed to the noisy accompaniment to our lives that we can’t function without the TV or radio blaring while we are on the phone, running the vacuum cleaner and standing next to the washing machine as it spins.

I have also learned that my silence, at its most silent, is considerably noisier than his. As a person who’s hearing functions properly, I will never be able to hear the silence he experiences. If I was in a sound proof booth, I would still hear my breathing, my pulse, the creak of my knee, the sound of my upper and lower teeth connecting. My son has never heard music, or sirens or bells … or his own breath.

But even though the silence I experience is louder than his, he has taught me the comfort that can be found in quiet. So now, when I get a few moments to spend listening to absolutely nothing, I try and take the time to enjoy it.

Wacca Wacca!

2009-03-20T22:06:00.014-05:00

I think I have a pretty good sense of humor. I know what's funny and what's not. I frequently say stuff that makes people laugh loudly. Unfortunately, when this happens I'm not usually trying to be funny.

I also have a very good memory. Maybe not quite as good as it was 10 years ago, but by most standards, still above average ... where was I? ... oh yeah.

These two facts should lead you to believe I have a good memory for humor. For jokes.

I don't. In the +/- half century I have been around, my calculations have determined that I have likely heard at least 2,000 jokes. Several of them multiple times. Some as recent as last week. And yet I could not tell you a single joke right now, if my life depended on it.

Well, that's not exactly true. I remember one knock knock jokes from grade school. It dealt with bananas and oranges. I also remember the first dirty joke I ever heard. I thought it was hysterical and weeks after first hearing it I would still crack up every time it flashed in head. Are you ready? Here is the first dirty joke I ever heard and the only one I remember:

A little boy fell in a mud puddle.

Pause. I have no idea ...

Moving on. While I do not have a single joke stored in my brain, except for the two aforementioned doozies, my memory chips do have access to exactly four punchlines. I have long since forgotten the point of each. But like my first dirty joke, each of these four punch lines periodically bubble up to the top of my frontal lobe, or whatever part of your brain stores your sense of humor, and when they do, I find them as hysterically funny now as I did the first time I heard them. That is, the time when I actually heard the joke that made the punchline funny.

It is probably a good thing that I don't actually remember the jokes. I know one of them was truly 'off color', as my mother would say. And one of them would be terribly politically incorrect in today's climate. In fact I remember just enough about that joke to realize that if I knew it, I would never tell it. But without the joke, the punchline is inoffensive.

Anyway, these four punchlines tickle my funny bone every time I hear them. In these tough times I thought the world might appreciate a little levity. So I decided to share these with the world and hope the bring the same smile to your face and same spring in your step as they do for me. Here they are, in no particular order.

1. That's a long way to tip a rarey.
2. For a nickle I will, I will, I will.
3. You can't fuck so you might as well mow the lawn.
4. Frayed Knot.

Are you laughing hysterically yet? I am. I actually had to stop typing for a few minutes to compose myself. These are real comedy gems!

By the way, if any of these sound familiar and you would like to apprise me of the jokes themselves, I would be eternally grateful. I won't remember them ten minutes after you tell me. But I will still be grateful.

Please Read This

2009-03-19T21:40:00.003-05:00

Taking Steps: fair

This is the most powerful statement I have read in many, many years. The more people that read this, the more hope I have.

Writing Adventure Group News

2009-03-18T13:00:00.006-05:00

Here is a link to the writers and their entries for the this weeks Writing Adventure Group. I am also attaching the instructions for next week. If anyone else is interested in joining, please do. It has been a lot of fun.

How to Join the Writing Adventure Group
Cora
Iain Martin
Nancy J Parra
Marsha
Jesse Blair
Jon
Nixy Valentine

Next week’s Writing Adventure:
“WAG #4: Do You Hear What I Hear?” So often, our brain filters out the sounds we hear every day, but sounds can make a story so much more concrete and help your readers feel like they’re really there in a story. This week, go out, sit and listen. (Close your eyes if that helps!) Let your attention move from the obvious sounds to the subtle ones. Try to take in the sounds you usually filter out, whether it’s voices, traffic, children, the hum of overhead lights, or whatever. Write a short description of the sounds and your experience, especially anything unexpected.

Post the results on your blog, and read this post about the group for information on how to notify me so your post will be properly included in next week’s list. (Note, please include WAG #4 in the subject heading and tell me how you want your name to appear please!) Deadline: next Tuesday, March 24th.

People Watching & Saving Lives - One Bar at a Time ( WAG #3)

2009-03-17T20:37:00.008-05:00

Here is the 3rd installment of the Writing Adventure Group. Instructions: Sit somewhere that you can watch strangers passing by. Choose someone that you don’t know, but you can imagine being friends with. Describe them in concrete terms, particularly whatever it is about them you find appealing (or unappealing!) Feel free to also write what you imagine that makes you warm to them, but don’t forget to describe reality as well!

Sitting in a bar alone is never comfortable. Even if it’s a nice bar inside a nice restaurant. Even when I know I am not destined to be alone for long. Waiting for a perpetually late coworker and out of town clients caught on a delayed flight, doesn’t make my current situation palatable.

Though, the martini I am nursing might help just a little. Now that I think about it, if I have a second drink I won’t be nearly as uncomfortable as I am now. If I drink a third, I might not even notice when my dinner companions show up. But that won’t happen. Sometimes being practical and conscientious is such a pain in the ass.

I am surreptitiously indulging in my favorite pastime - people watching. This is somewhat more dangerous when done in a bar than say, outside in the park or at the grocery store. Alcohol emboldens people, including me. I’ve caught myself studying someone a little too long, forgetting the unspoken etiquette of people watching - eyes can drift slowly past, but can never appear to settle on a specific person for any period of time. And in bars, the watchee, emboldened by their own alcoholic fortification, is far more likely to stare back. Almost always unpleasant.

Taking a sip of my drink, I lower my head and place the glass back on my table. Looking up, grumbling again about the coworker who will be late for his own funeral, I stare at the door, willing it to open. It does.

My mind immediately registers that this is not my coworker or my clients. It is just a youngish, nondescript boy-man.

I should now explain that I suffer from a condition caused by being the mother of a grown son. The calendar says my grown son is a man. To me, he is still my little boy. This affliction unfortunately, extends to any young man I see that appears to be roughly the same age as my son. The world sees a man. I see a boy. It is as though a whole generation of boys will never grow to manhood in my eyes. Perpetual Peter Pans.

As I contemplate this somewhat creepy mindset, I realize my eyes are still fixed on the young man walking into the bar. Lost in thought, I haven’t really been seeing him. But if he catches me, he will think I am staring at him. About then, my eyes refocus, I take in the expression on his face and realize he has arrived at exactly that conclusion.

Feeling foolish, I quickly drop my eyes back to my drink, and lift the glass towards my mouth, willing myself to not look rattled. As I tip the glass, my eyes look up and look straight into his. We are 20 feet apart and the room is dark enough I can’t tell what color those eyes are. But from underneath their lazy lids they catch the ambient lighting perfectly and reflect all the stars in the sky. He is grinning at me. As if he knows exactly how much that will increase my discomfort.

Actually, it pisses me off. He sees this and just grins a little larger, then turns to his friends at the table and easily enters their conversation, as if the little battle of wills never occurred.
I am not that gracious. I continue to stare.

As I look, I realize my initial impression is correct, he is young, no more than five or six years older than my son. But I see nothing boyish about him. Average height and slightly built, he still exudes something inherently masculine. Short brown hair, combed back, with a hairline that has decided it would be more comfortable if it sat back just a little further on his head, a nose almost too large for his other facial features, and a mouth that looks small, but can’t be, not to grin the way it does, are the facts readily available to my perusal.

Then the waitress sets his drink down on the table and he reaches for it. That is when I notice his hands. They aren’t out of proportion with his body, but seem to be primarily composed of fingers. I am sure there are palms somewhere, but his long, thin fingers draw all attention. They are mesmerizing, especially when they move. Those hands should be insured. They must belong to a concert pianist, a surgeon or the reincarnation of Casanova. Surely he puts those fingers to good use.

Something jerks my attention away from his hands and I search for the distraction. His eyes have landed on me again. I feel emboldened. I raise my glass, tipping it in his direction. Giving me a genuinely warm smile, he does the same.

Suddenly, my clients appear by my side. I'm so distracted I didn’t see them arrive, even with the door directly in my sight. Europeans, so no handshakes, instead the prerequisite three cheek kisses that always seems so familiar to me. But I like these two men, we are old friends. I am quickly caught up in their apologies for being late and the story of their flight from hell.

As I slide back into work mode, my mind releases the mental rope connecting me to the young man across the bar. Over the course of the next twenty minutes, I occasionally feel my senses being tweaked and realize he is glancing my way.

When I can sneak a peek without looking obvious or rude to my companions, I do the same. In one of these peeks, my mind, which has been rapidly thumbing through my internal thesaurus since the moment he walked in the door, comes up with the word that captures his essence. Sensual. Not sexual, not hot, not handsome. Sensual. An adjective I rarely apply to a man.

Finally, my late coworker arrives. As usual, he is so energetic and so good humored, despite my best effort, I feel my frustration towards him ebb.

I barely notice the young woman he is holding the door for, allowing her to enter before him. She doesn’t register in my mind until I realize she is heading towards the table of my young sensualist. As soon as I am aware of her destination she demands my full attention. Petite, very thin, you can tell she is a woman but has the body of a barely teenage girl. Pretty auburn hair, pleasant but somewhat bland features. She’s well dressed but stood rigidly uncomfortable, uptight.

Somehow, just looking at her I realize she has no imagination or joy inside of her. What comes next is inevitable, but I am still loathe to accept it. Young Mr. Sensuality puts his arm around her waist, pulls her close and kisses her. It looks like he intended to get her mouth, but settled for her cheek. She stood, unbending and distant.

“What a waste” I said to myself. He deserves a pretty young thing, Gatsby’s Daisy, a lithe ballerina dancing attendance and basking in his sensual glow.

And then I am caught up in my coworker’s completely outlandish and always hysterical reason for his delay in arriving. The conversation swerves towards industry gossip, our European friends’ itinerary and an upcoming conference. My mind is engaged and the young man who occupied my thoughts so fully is now pushed completely out.

Finally we begin to gather our belongings to head into the restaurant for dinner. I look up just as he passes by. His arm still around her waist, as they pass he turns back and catches my eye. I raise my eyebrow skeptically in the direction of his companion. He grins broadly, shrugs his shoulders and slightly shakes his head.

Good, I think. He realizes his mistake. I have saved another total stranger from a partnership fate worse than death. My work here is done and suddenly I am starving.

Sex In the Library - An Anthology

2009-03-16T22:31:00.007-05:00

If you love books and you love sex, Remittance Girl has done you a great service. After a couple of conversations with friends about the sexual allure of bookstores and libraries, she posted a challenge on her website inviting fellow readers and writers to pen a piece about just that - sex and books - or more specifically the places that house books. You can read the rules for the challenge on Remittance Girl's website here.

I took up the challenge and had a lot of fun. More importantly though, there were 10 other amazing entries. I encourage you, if you are a fan of erotica or romantic erotica, to take a peek.

Just a reminder - this would be considered Adult Content. If you aren't 18 or older please don't check it out.

Time Flying, While Standing Still - Eternally Eighteen

2009-03-15T20:05:00.012-05:00

In today’s world, I realize my marriage is the exception, rather than the rule. You see, I married a man I have known since the third grade. Not exactly childhood sweethearts, we didn’t start dating until we were 18, but he shares most of my earliest memories. Even though we rarely interacted before we started dating, we can reminisce about our fifth grade train trip to Chicago, a specific teacher we both hated, and the fact that we were in the same place and probably no more than a few yards apart when we learned that Bobby Kennedy died.

We experienced the same fads, lived through the same controversies, mourned the same losses, and shared numerous family friends, as we grew up. Because our memories run parallel, we rarely have to explain ourselves, never question if the other one “knows what we mean?” and easily fill in gaps in each others memories.

We talk about how strange it would be to marry someone you first meet as an adult. We know this is common, but to us it is inconceivable that we could be married to anyone that didn’t remember a certain classmate’s pet iguana, buying candy at the ancient corner market, how frightening the old shoe repair shop owner and his even older mother were and spending recess playing run-across, a game that seems to have been invented and played exclusively at our grade school.

We didn’t begin our romantic relationship as innocents by any means. Growing up when we did (free clinics dispensing free birth control pills, easy access to abortions, no threat of AIDS, no other STDs that a couple of shots of penicillin couldn’t take care of, liberal usage of illegal substances, the height of the sexual revolution and the tail end of the 1960’s counterculture) no one had any excuse to be innocent. If you have seen the movie Dazed and Confused, you’ve seen our youth. Indulging was easy, so why not?

In many ways I believe that knowing someone as long and as intimately as we have known each other makes the passage of time more pronounced. After all, I not only compare my husband’s looks today to the day we were married, or the day our first child was born, I compare them to how he looked playing tether ball in the third grade.

There is one place though, that time seems to stop for us, when the boy and girl and the man and woman hang in suspended animation.

We’ve had frequent, pleasurable and satisfying sex for 30+ years now. There have been ebbs and flows, brought on by factors usually beyond our control. But in this area, we have been surprisingly consistent. Sex is critical to the success of our marriage and we would argue, to any marriage. The physicality of our relationship is, after our kids and certain shared, personally-historic moments, the strongest tie that binds us.

Of course we’ve physically changed a great deal since those early days. While we see each other clearly most of the time, can identify every wrinkle or blemish, every gray hair (or would be gray hair without a dye job) or the lack of hair entirely - when we are in bed, we are 18 again.

In the heat of the all-consuming moment, if you could get my attention long enough to ask me what my partner looks like, I would tell you this: about 6’1” tall and 180 pounds; brown wavy hair with a cowlick that flips the left side of his bangs into a curl and long sideburns that are wider at the bottom than the top, (not mutton chops but not too far removed); probably in need of a good shave, but I love the stubble; full lips that look slightly swollen when they break into a shy smile; hazel, deep set eyes that make it appear as if he just woke up, just got high or both; a light sprinkling of brown chest hair on a long olive-skinned torso; muscular fore and upper arms; a beautiful body without a blemish or a wrinkle to be found, except for one lengthy scar that makes him look a little dangerous; and a Johnson (his favorite name for it) that springs to firm life the second he sees, hears, smells or senses my proximity, no matter how many times it sprang to life and was satiated in the last 24 hours.

If you could get his attention at this delicate moment and pose the same question, here is my husband’s description of me (I know, because I asked this before): about 5’5” and maybe 130 pounds; medium brown, shoulder length hair; large hazel eyes, that get even larger just before, well, you know …; small mouth with thin lips, unless they’d been kissed for a very long time; pale, pale skin that looks so delicate, as if even a feather-like touch would bruise; breasts, man those breasts, more than a handful, always there, looking perky - big enough she should wear a bra, but so glad she doesn’t; small waist, but a soft, rounded tummy-pillow that curves down into hips that echo that roundness on the backside; a perfect, hmmm ... for this he prefers the feline name ... that is always in a state of optimal readiness for him; a beautiful body without a blemish or a wrinkle to be found.

Sadly, in the cold, hard light of day we both admit we have not had sex with the person we are describing in probably 28 or 29 years. Obviously he has changed and I have changed. Even though I'm unwilling to provide a list of the most dramatic changes (some desirable, but many regrettable), I will at least admit the obvious. Our bodies have not been blemish or wrinkle free in many, many years. But when we are most intimate, when the tie between us is strongest, we are both still 18.

So, as I reflect back on my original understanding of the passage of time, the linear march I’ve described, I begin to see our most intimate visions of each other in a different light. I have moved them from the “Memory” column to the “Reality” column on the spreadsheet in my brain. I firmly believe that the closest any of us comes to perfection is that single moment when our minds and our bodies cross that line. That moment of release makes us our most real, our most genuine, our most authentic. If in that moment my husband is the 18 year old lover of my youth, isn’t that real, genuine and authentic as well?

Time Flying, While Standing Still - The Child Eternal

2009-03-14T12:30:00.005-05:00

In my dad’s wallet is my picture. His baby girl, his princess. I was a daddy’s girl, I freely admit. Spoiled rotten. I thought my dad was the strongest, smartest man on earth. And like any man, if a female no matter what her age, is willing to think that about them, who are they to argue?

I know he admires the woman I’ve become. He is proud of all of my accomplishments, both personal and professional. He gives me a great deal of credit for how well adjusted and level headed my kids have turned out. And as a man with 3 less than stellar marriages under his belt, he is especially pleased that I seem to be able to make marriage work for me, when it never did for him. I frequently have to remind him that my husband was a key participant in both the child rearing and the marriage (and deserves an overwhelming majority of the credit for both.) But, as a doting father, he still gives me all the glory.

I find it both sweet, touching and embarrassing that at his age (80+) and mine, he still brags about my career and professional accomplishments to anyone who will listen. Just like he used to brag about my grades and every childhood accomplishment.

I'm not saying my relationship with my dad has always been idyllic. We've had some very rough passages, long stretches of time when I would have nothing to do with him. My childhood hero worship died a long time ago. I think I see him fairly clearly now. Like everyone, he has carried an overflowing bagful of faults as he lived his life. But he also has qualities and much to admire. When you are worshiping a hero, you may be blind to the faults, but you are also blind to the real gifts contained. Now I think I see both.

But the point I want to make is, even though I know he recognizes and is proud of the adult I’ve become, the picture in my dad’s wallet, is my second grade class picture.

Looking at it now it is obvious I had recently taken scissors to my bangs, yet again. According to my mother, this was a common theme of my childhood. I was missing a couple of my front teeth so I am sporting an extremely unattractive grin. My ears are sticking out from my fine, absolutely straight hair and my facial expression makes me look some what troll-like. It might be the worst picture I have ever taken in my life.

I know though, that when my dad closes his eyes and conjures up my image, he is conjuring up Lulu at seven. The little girl in that picture that was absolutely certain her dad was the greatest man on earth.

For a long time I never understood why he kept this particular photo. I’ve taken so many pictures through the years and in most of them I look very attractive. But, it has gradually dawned on me that how cute or how homely I was in that picture didn’t matter to him at all. What mattered to my dad was the memory of me, when I loved him the most.

It has taken an even longer time to understand that his memory of me is also his reality. Even though he rationally knows I am a grown woman, I am also still his little girl. To him, the grown woman and the little girl aren’t separated by forty years. They both exist in his reality at the very same time. There is no succession of Lulus in his mind. Lulu at one, Lulu at twelve, Lulu at thirty. There is just me. One, twelve, thirty and this very moment, all at the very same time.

Time Flying, While Standing Still - Introduction

2009-03-13T19:00:00.006-05:00

I’ve never been one to ruminate over the passage of time. While I hate many of the inconveniences brought on by supposed maturity, I can’t say I mind the passing of one decade more than the one before. I’ve always bought into the notion that time marches inexorably onward, laid out along a linear path, never swerving from it’s quest for the next great milestone of my insignificant life.

However, several recent instances and and re-awakened memories have caused me to question this unerring belief. These questions regarding my lifelong vision of the passage of time stem from … well … the passage of time.

One of the advantages of aging is that the longer you live the more personal history you create and the more personal history you create the easier it is to detect patterns in that history. As I’ve perused memories over the last few months, I’ve been reminded of several instances that seem to repudiate the pattern of my belief in the linear passage of time. Each instance, on its own is not enough to make me question that belief. But as I consider the whole, I’ve reached the conclusion that I have been wrong, yet again.

Since I find I’m wrong about so many things on a maddeningly regular basis, I tend to accept my wrongheadedness with much more grace than I used to. Most of the time when I realize my error, if it isn’t causing a problem for anyone else, I acknowledge it and move on, There aren’t enough hours in the day to properly atone for every error of my ways.

But this issue of time and its passage is something that requires additional thought and attention. And so like Rod Serling, I invite you to enter the Twilight Zone of my mind. However, while I always hate to see the “To be continued” scroll at the end of an episode of a favorite TV show, I think I would bore both any reader and myself, if I attempt to describe and dissect all of the incidences that have led me to question my concept of time. So, I will pick up this thread from time to time, examine another incident and hopefully reveal my changing beliefs as I pick my way through these posts. I will identify each as belonging to this thread in the title.

Writing Adventure Group

2009-03-10T19:39:00.006-05:00

Nixy Valentine has started a writing group for anyone who would like to join. She hopes to build a community of writers intent on improving their observational and writing skills. This is actually the 2nd week and the 2nd challenge. I was too immersed in family dramas last week to meet the deadline. But this week, I am offering up my contribution

To get full details regarding the Writing Adventure Group and see last weeks efforts, just click on the title of this post. I will also provide links to the participants on the Liar.

In the meantime, here are the instructions to this week's challenge: ... go outside, and sit for a minute. (This can be in your yard or garden, on a city street, in a park, in a shopping centre, where ever you choose!) Soak in everything you see, hear, smell, etc, for a moment, and then describe something that you did not notice at first. This can be anything! Just make it something that you overlooked when you first arrived. Keep your descriptions as concrete as possible!

And here is my entry:

I’ve promised myself that next weekend, rain or shine, I dig in dirt. I can hardly wait.

This weekend, I was content to appreciate the results of dirt-digging done last fall. Hundreds of daffodils, planted in mass, cutting wide swaths of yellow, pink and cream across my still winter-brown yard. Dependable, consistent, harbingers of spring.

Sitting on a retaining wall, admiring the fruits of my autumnal labor, I felt the immense satisfaction that comes to those who make things grow.

As I surveyed the proof that spring was settling in, my eye was caught by a flutter of pale peach and creamy white, waving eagerly to catch my attention. A single, Salomé Daffodil in the middle of the new herb bed I laid out and tilled last fall. Twenty feet from the nearest grouping of it’s relatives. Certainly not where I planted it. Definitely not where it was supposed to be.

Whether I accidentally moved the bulb as I was transferring dirt and compost or dropped it as I was planting bulbs last fall, I’ll never know. It might have been the handiwork of an industrious squirrel or the dig-happy dog next door.

I stared at the lone daffodil that mocked my attempt at organized landscape design. I was so put out by the bloom’s temerity I walked over to my herb bed, fully intending to pull it up, bulb and all. By the time the bloom was in reach I realized the silliness of my reaction. I decided to cut the flower and appreciate it indoors and in a vase.

Bending to snip the stem of the flower, I paused to admire its charm. Looking at my massed plantings, I had not realized the depth of the color of the cup, an almost rose-pink where the cup attaches to the petals, gradually fading out to a soft, translucent peach. I also noticed that each cream colored petal bulged in the middle, so the widest part of the petal was not at its base, but midpoint between the base and tip. Another detail lost to the eye when it wasn’t focusing on a single flower. Stepping away from the lone bloom, I granted it a reprieve.

At that point I came to two, specific conclusions. First, beauty often gets lost in a crowd. Sometimes you need to see it standing separately, on its own, in order to appreciate the sight. And second, I was spending way too much time thinking about one damn flower.

To Cute for Our Own Good

2009-03-07T20:12:00.006-06:00

My husband and I will soon celebrate our one-third of a century anniversary. (Do the math.) We've known each other considerably longer. We are a dying breed in this age where people move on average every two years. We grew up together. Childhood sweethearts.

Technically, even though we have known each other since childhood, we didn't start dating until we were both eighteen. People tend to go "awwwww" when they hear our journey to couple-dom and discover how long we've been together. It makes me feel cute. And I hate to feel cute. I've threatened divorce several times for that very reason.

But what makes feeling cute almost worth it is when they ask what finally brought the two of us together. If my spouse opens his mouth first he says something appropriate about falling in love with me on the playground in grade school. If I answer first, I tell the truth. A shared passion for illegal, recreational drugs accompanied by lots of hot sex. (But not on the playground in grade school.) Their reaction tells me a lot about the person.

My better half claims he really did have a crush on me in elementary school. He freely admits he frequented the underside of the old fashioned Monkey Bars, staring upward towards heaven, whenever I was perched on top. Since we were in grade school during the neolithic age, strict dress codes still required that girls wear dresses. Pants or shorts were forbidden. The unintended result of this dress code was that my husband swears he can describe in detail every pair of underpants I wore in the fourth grade.

Ever since he made this slightly off-putting confession, prudently waiting until the ring was on my finger and the marriage license duly witnessed and signed, I've been alternately repelled and intrigued by the visual his confession creates in my mind. I am touched though, that he equated my underpanted ass to heaven.

Lately I have been toying with the idea of switching my normal response to the queries about what finally got us together. I'm thinking about attributing it to my better half's, fascination with little girl's underpants, conveniently leaving off the detail that he was 10 years old at the time, and had no interest in actually wearing them himself. He already cringes every time I mention the sex and drugs thing. This might send him over the top.

Grimmly Perverse?

2009-03-05T07:40:00.006-06:00

Hmmmmmm. Nothing further I need to say about this. It's the title to an old fairy tale. I assume it was written for children, but maybe the Brothers Grimm wrote 'adult' stories as well? I'd better check it out.

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

2009-03-04T22:30:00.003-06:00

The lyrics of the 1970s Stealer's Wheel song Stuck In the Middle With You has been on continuous repeat mode in my head since yesterday. I literally am stuck in the middle, facing stressful situations on both sides of the generational divide. I know from talking to others that this is a common predicament faced by many of my contemporaries, sandwiched between two adult generations.

I have a highly intelligent and well educated grown daughter (trust me, I have the college loans to prove it) who has been looking for a job in her chosen field with absolutely no luck, since she graduated with her Masters. She held a temporary position for several months, but since that ended she has been unemployed. And her field is not that narrow. She's increasingly frustrated and scared because not only is she not hearing back on the hundreds of resumes sent and calls made so far, the job postings themselves are drying up as the economy worsens.

Yesterday she received one more rejection and it was the proverbial straw that broke her back. Suddenly I found myself playing a part I haven't played in a few years. Suddenly, she needed her mommy. And for me, being a mommy means you absorb and take on the stress of your child. You feel their pain.

We know she will get a job and will eventually even get the type of job she actually wants. But the job market she faces is enough to shock anyone, especially someone who is just now entering the workplace.

As I was absorbed in this crisis I got my second distress signal. One I knew was headed my way, but was hoping would hold off for a few more weeks. My elderly parents called to tell me that my dad fell nine times last weekend. He broke a couple of ribs and bruised and bloodied a large portion of his body. He has suffered from a debilitating and progressive disease for over 20 years. The care he needs is more than my step-mother, with health issues of her own, can provide. His kids all live several hundred miles away.

He needs to move into a nursing facility. Sooner, rather than later. I know that no matter how much I wish we had other options, we don't. My dad knows it too. While I was hoping that there would be some last minute reprieve - a new drug, a new treatment or something, I knew he was hoping his reprieve would be final. He is tired of living his life, and I can't really blame him. He wanted to be done with it, before this came to pass.

I remember the conversations my dad and I had when he was making decisions about his elderly parents, and facing the inevitability of their deaths. I realized at the time that one day I would be in his shoes. But I didn't have a sense of how overwhelming it would feel.

I remember telling my much younger daughter that if she worked hard, excelled in school and focused on her dreams she could do and accomplish anything she wanted. I hadn't banked on the stumbling block of the biggest economic recession in 75 years. And my frustrated inability to fix this for her is overwhelming too.

So yesterday was tough. Today a little better. From the day I was born I was a daughter. From the day my first child was born, I was a mother. I love my children and I love my parents more than words can express. And I realize that along with the innumerable benefits these relationships offer, there are also downsides.

But do the downsides have to happen on the same day?

Sledge Hammer Part 2

2009-03-04T05:49:00.011-06:00

Part 2 of a fictional conversation I am struggling with. I need perspective. The total conversation is part of a bigger piece but doesn't fit well. Part 1 is below.

*************************************************************************************

She looked up at him, shook her head slightly trying to focus on his question. When she said nothing, he encouraged her.

“You prefaced that point as your first reason. Which indicates to me there is probably a second. Perhaps even a third or a fourth? What is it?”

“Just one more” she admitted reluctantly. “But it’s more difficult to explain than the first.”

“Try me.”

God, that smile was wicked. Wicked, unnerving, demanding.

“The second reason.” She snorted at the complex simplicity of the words about to be said. “The second reason is, regardless of what John Donne says, I am an island. I need very little attention or interaction with others. I don’t seek approval or disapproval. I am most comfortable in my own company. I care for my family and closest friends, but can go for long stretches of time without connecting, and never feel the lack.”

She paused, knowing she needed to add a clarifying explanation. “I know this sounds contradictory to my control issues, but it isn't. One does not have to be an extroverted motor mouth to manage the world. Exerting control over a situation can often be done with very little conversation or direct interaction. Sometimes, the most effective way I control a situation is to remove myself physically from it.”

She looked at him and smiled conspiratorially. He knew exactly what she was talking about.

“I’ve no idea why I am like this. I’ve never really tried to figure it out. It suits me, so why question it? I’m aware, at least conceptually, that I miss out on the depth of feelings others experience -- that my inability to depend on others or seek their counsel has made my life, at times, more difficult than it had to be. But I’ve found benefits through the years as well.”

A pause to regroup, gather strength. A strength she desperately needed because she did not want to confess this to anyone, ever. This was her secret, a secret that sharing, even with one other person, a person she knew would understand, meant giving up total control of certain aspects of herself. Made her vulnerable.

“It is more than mental self-containment. It's physical self-containment as well. I’ve built a wall around me that is invisible to the eye, but next to impossible to breach. I’ve tried to explain the physical aspect before, with little success.” Knowing she would likely be unsuccessful again, her frustration surfaced.

“The best explanation … look … it’s like you live in a brick house. Between you and the outside world are layers of brick, insulation, wooden joists and iron support beams, sheet rock , plaster, paint and wallpaper. If someone wants your attention and they tap on a brick on the outside of your home, you aren’t going to even notice. To get your attention, they either have to come in through a door or window, or they have to take a sledge hammer to the walls to break through all the layers.

The walls around me are the same as the walls of that house. And my physical contact with most people is limited to a light tap on the brick. So light, it usually never registers with me. It is as if it never happened.

My unapproachability, my introversion, rarely allows anyone to approach me through an unlocked door or cracked window.

What this leaves me then, is the sledge hammer. The intensity of the contact is what matters. It takes this to get my attention, to drag a response out of me. The feeling of someone patting me on the back is like tapping on a brick, it is never going register. I am oblivious to it. So sometimes, just to make sure I still feel at all, I need that sledge hammer."

My Supposition of mr. cummings Take on CPAC

2009-03-01T20:26:00.016-06:00

I've been reading wrap ups of the CPAC conference, listening to clips of presentations from Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, Jon Bolton, Michael Steele and my favorite space-cadet, Michele Bachmann. Yes, it's true, I've felt particularly masochistic all weekend. Fortunately my review of the conference provided more than enough pain to meet my needs.

I am not sure putting this many people with this level of imbecilic genius in the same room is safe. It's certainly not sane.

For some reason, as I read and viewed the lowlights of the event, an e.e. cummings poem kept popping into my head. I wouldn't say I love this poem. But I've always been drawn to some of the imagery, especially the last line. I've just never really known what to do with it, a fact that if mr. cummings were still alive, would surely keep him up nights. It spoke to me the first time I read it. I just never knew what it was saying until now. I think he has perfectly described the lunacy of this gathering in a few short lines. (I am apologizing in advance, not to the participants at CPAC, but to any serious student of mr. cummings who my amateurish interpretation of his work offends.)

the boys i mean are not refined

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

e.e. cummings

Sledge Hammer Part 1

2009-02-28T20:09:00.004-06:00

This is part 1 of a two part fictional conversation. At least as fictional as any writing can ever be. There is always the grain of truth in words put to paper. OK, not paper, but you know what I mean. To me, the joy of reading is forming your own opinion about what rings true and what does not.

Written as a small part of a much larger piece, I've struggled with this conversation for months. And I continue to struggle with it now. I am hoping that putting it out there on display will allow me the chance to discover it anew and a fresh perspective will give me the push I need to finalize it and move on.

******************************************************************************************
“How does it help?”

Raising her eyes slowly, she swept him into focus. Shoes, dark cordovan, buffed bright. His knees bent, relaxed, slightly spread. The crease in his slacks - where hips meet groin - and the angular lines of his frame in the chair move again from horizontal to vertical. Glancing at the zipper; regretfully noting no strain of fabric or pressure pushing against the fly. Upwards to his chest, the white dress shirt, so cool, so crisp; begging to be tugged, twisted, crushed. Rep tie, no jacket.

Arriving at his face, her eyes dart to each feature, in an effort to postpone what she knew must come next. Finally recognizing there would be no further delay, her eyes met his. She saw no demand, no command, merely the forward march towards the inescapable conclusion he alone would dictate. He had asked. She would answer. And in those eyes she found the strength to forcibly pull her words up from the back of her throat and propel them out of her mouth.

“I have no idea. Nor, can I say where the need comes from, only that it exists.” She paused and realized her breath was shallow. Forcing herself to fill her lungs she went on. “I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to prove that it doesn’t. I’ve finally accepted, at least theoretically, that it does.”

She hoped that admitting her acceptance, her need would be enough. She should have known better. Information was his commodity, his weapon of choice. Never satisfied with just the final decision or essential facts, he required all the background, the details, the whys and wherefores. And since he required, she would provide.

“I can try and explain, but my explanation makes little sense, even to me.”

“Well then, let’s see if I can’t make some sense of it. Sometimes you just need a fresh perspective.” He smiled as if to reassure her that his words were innocent, kindly. She knew better.

Recognizing that the inevitable always occurs eventually, she determined it was in her best interest to be done with it. Get all the facts out, subject everything she felt to the cold, hard light of his disapproval. She’d always hated confessions; hearing or giving them. She just wanted this one over. Taking another lung-full of air, willing her voice to remain calm, she began, bound and determined to expel the words as quickly as possible.

“First, there is the ‘control’ factor. I know this sounds trite, but, there it is. I’ve spent my life controlling everything around me. I was born managing, dictating, delegating. Exerting control has always come naturally to me. Other people seem to sense this and generally fall in line.” She smiled deprecatingly, recognizing the sound of her own ego. “I used to kid myself into believing that people accepted my overreaching control because my ideas or decisions were obviously correct. But I’ve reluctantly been forced to admit that most of the time people go along with me because I am such a pain in the ass when they don’t.”

She thought about this last statement for a minute then went on. “Actually that’s not entirely correct. I think most people are always looking for someone to lead them. Someone stronger, who will make the decisions so they don’t have to. So they never have to be wrong.” She could have continued down this vein, but sensed this was a digression he would not tolerate for long.

Pushing forward in her seat, as if to give impetuous to her words she got back on subject. “To me, every moment of every day is consumed with managing the minutia of my life and the lives of those around me.”

She recognized she was speaking to a fellow traveler. Someone who’s need to not just control but actually dominate every situation and every person was even stronger than her own. It was what she found so fascinating.

“But how this impacts my proclivities? Well … sometimes, everybody needs to not be in charge. Their brain needs time to ask, not tell. They need to not be the dependable one. They need to be the dependent one.

I’ve always assumed most people with my temperament find this down time naturally in some aspect of their lives. But, I don’t seem to be able to shift into that natural, not-in-charge downtime. At least not on my own. I think my brain is missing an ‘off’ switch that comes standard in most minds.” She sighed, feeling suddenly exhausted. She hated talking about this. It zapped her energy and played hell with her emotions. One brief glance at his face told her there was no option except to forge ahead.

“What appeals to me ... what I find alluring … is placing myself in a situation I absolutely cannot control. To know in advance that decisions will be made by someone else and that their control will not be ceded back to me. To accept, because you have no choice. And you will not act, just react.” She smiles almost wistfully, recalling the sensations. “The liberation of not having to think three steps ahead all the time is a heady notion. To just focus on the sensations of the mind and the body as they occur. In the moment. In that instant.”

She stopped. Relieved. She’d done it. Wasn’t sure how much sense she’d made, but she’d said it. She sat back in the chair, surprised at the sharp flair of pain along her spine and the tension in her shoulder and upper back muscles. Her confession had been more stressful than she’d realized.

“And the second?”

All a Twitter

2009-02-25T20:20:00.024-06:00

I am at an age where I am no longer desired by advertisers on either end of the spectrum. I am not interested in ads for X-Box or Play Stations, Proactive acne products, Red Bull, any brand of beer or condoms. Nor am I interested in ads showcasing emergency medical alert systems, Video Professor computer training CDs, Hoveround Scooters or any entertainment attraction in Branson, Missouri.

Likewise, I'm increasingly aware that I straddle two generational extremes when it comes to technology. While most of my contemporaries think that I am truly wired -- as technically geeky as anyone my age can be; compared to my kids, and generally anyone under the age of 35, my use and understanding of technology is antiquated. Their take on tech and what their elders do with it compares to how I viewed the old timers I worked with at my first real job. The women who called everybody else "kid" in a voice so gravelly they sounded like Harvey Fierstein with a head cold. The 'gals' who woke up in the morning and went to bed at night with a cigarette dangling from their red lipstick-slashed lips (back when people used to smoke anywhere they damn well pleased because this was a free country goddamnit!) and drank their lunch of gin & tonics or scotch & sodas at the bar downstairs. The ones who still insisted on using manual typewriters and were proud of it, while I smugly typed away on my brand new IBM Selectric with the little ball that flipped for each letter and built in correction tape. Now that was technology.

Where was this ramble down memory lane going? Oh yeah, sorry.

This wide technology gulf, which I attempt to span in my own small way, was highlighted last night and the pundits will be talking about it for weeks.

Nothing looks more ridiculous than someone attempting to use technology they do not understand, at a time they should not be using it, and fucking it up as they do so. I should know. I've made an ass of myself many, many times this way. It is one of my favorite ways to look foolish.

Evidently the "in" thing now for the over 55, white, male, conservative, republican, member of congress set is to clumsily Tweet on their Blackberry (another technological advancement they are just now learning about and are reportedly most interested in the alarm clock and brick breaker.) To Twitter loudly and proudly for the whole world to see. When their sole job at the time, a job the taxpayers were paying them to do, was to sit quietly and listen to the President's address. Was that too much to ask? But, moving on... then to Twitter really stupid stuff before they realized that people would actually read what they said. And then when the stupid stuff was read by the wrong person, to blame it on an aide.

And if the 'aide' excuse was actually used, which is the sadder picture - a senator Twittering his contempt of the Speaker of the House without understanding the process well enough to realize just who would have access to his comments, or, a senator who wants to appear hip, even though he doesn't have a clue, so he asks his 22 year old aide to Twitter and pass it off as if it is coming from the senator? Pitiful

This unfortunate situation must be dealt with, before we are overwhelmed with head on Hovercraft collisions because 85 year old hipsters are too busy Twitting to watch where they are going. Or before a new icon appears on our Blackberrys, which when pressed, alerts the local emergency call center that an octogenarian, in a Twitting frenzy, overturned her walker and fell on top of it, and was thereby unable to get up.

I am reluctantly realizing technology is passing me by. No matter how hard I try, my Blackberry will never be fully integrated into my life, the way my daughter's iPhone is. Her iPhone is as much a
part of her body as her ears or her toes. To me, my Blackberry is simply a convenient and useful accessory.

While I spend multiple hours each day socially networking, getting my news, exploring and commenting on blogs, listening to podcasts and watching video online, I doubt I will ever feel comfortable using Twitter, just as I never got the appeal of instant messaging. (I assume this is an age thing. But my sometimes, extreme antisocial tendencies may be a factor.)

While this 'technological pass-over' does distress me, I've never wanted to be one of those women who at the age of fifty attempted and failed to look, act and dress like I was twenty-five. If an outfit looks great on a sixteen year old, it will probably look awful on me. If a specific technology is second nature to a sixteen year old, it will probably never be totally comfortable to me.

So to the senators and congressmen who looked utterly foolish last night I say "Gentlemen, be content that you have figured out how to send email. Put down your Blackberry and walk away from the Twitter."

Random Rivulets of Reason

2009-02-21T11:24:00.013-06:00

I see a line and feel compelled to blur it. I’m color blind to black and white.

Nothing pisses people off as much as someone advising they are only playing the “devil’s advocate.” The devil doesn’t need an advocate. He can make his own arguments. So I always avoid this trite catch phrase. But I never avoid the act. ... I argue. Therefore I am.

Regardless of the recent changes in government, the tone of discourse in this country seems to be getting worse each day. I am beginning to believe we should pass federal legislation requiring that “if you don’t have something nice to say about someone, don’t fucking say it!” That should shut the annoying assholes up. And don’t make me name names. You know who you are busters.

I’ve read several articles this week by or about sanctimonious twits who feel compelled to point out the upside of another Great Depression, by using the far right code words that send shivers of fear down my spine: cultural renewal, rediscovered virtues, a return to modesty and … ugh … last but not least - family values.

Don’t get me wrong, I think each of these are excellent states of being. It’s the right’s, especially the religious right’s narrow minded, bigoted and exclusionary definitions of each that pisses me off. If I have my druthers, I say thanks, but no thanks to another Great Depression. If that is what it takes to get my morals in line I prefer to stay uncultured, lacking in virtue, immodest and of little value.

Brief

2009-02-20T19:53:00.003-06:00

I love words.

And To

2009-02-19T18:29:00.003-06:00

I can never use too many.

The Point

2009-02-18T18:32:00.006-06:00

Except when I am blogging.

What's In A Name?

2009-02-17T21:14:00.006-06:00

Why the Introspective Liar? Because the older I get, the less certain I am. I now question whether long held assumptions are accurate. Lately I’ve realized that at least some of them, are not.

I thought I was essentially honest, if not always with others, then at least with myself. Through the years, no matter how hectic my life, there have been pockets of time when I was overly reflective, introspective. This led me to believe I knew myself well. I should. I’d sure spent enough time thinking about me. Because of this assumed self-awareness, I’ve claimed that I am my own worst critic and that I am painfully aware of all my faults and foibles. I believed I dressed myself down far more often and far more sternly than anyone else ever would. But now, I’m not so sure.

Rationally I know this current re-evaluation of my essential Lulu-ness has a great deal to do with the fact that I have more time on my hands to think. My career, my family, my friends and my outside interests still occupy much of my time, but not to the degree they did when my kids were younger and my ambition ran rampant.

As I’ve said before, if I have extra time on my hands my instinctive response is to fill it with worry. Right now there is so much in the world to worry about. But too much worrying about things over which I have no control is hazardous to my mental health. To avoid spending all of my available “worry” time bemoaning the fate of mankind in general, which I realize I can do very little to affect, I spend time worrying about my little corner of mankind – my family, my closest friends and mainly, me.

I know. Extremely self centered. It is embarrassing to even admit. But even more embarrassing is that I have concluded I don’t know myself as well as I thought I did. And some of what I do know, I’m not sure I like.

The only thing that keeps me from being absolutely mortified to admit this is knowing I am not unique. We all operate under misconceptions about ourselves. If we didn’t, suicide rates would be much higher. This doesn’t exonerate me, but at least it keeps me from feeling quite so alone in my confusion.

What I am not certain of is, have I been blind to some of the less positive aspects of me or have I recognized them and then lied about their existence? This is one of the primary reasons I decided to start committing some of the ephemera drifting through my mind to print and posting it for the world to see.

I don’t really expect the world to see my scribbling, because I don’t expect an actual audience. I only read what I write, because I kind of have to. If I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t. But I am
hopeful that knowing what I post could potentially be seen by someone at sometime, will keep what I say more honest.

Some would argue that knowing others might read what they write about themselves would make what they write less honest, instead of more so. But I’m one of those people that, while normally introverted and reserved, will, if given an audience and an opportunity, blurt out intimate details about themselves with absolutely no provocation. Details that are often completely inappropriate to the situation. Which probably explains why I am introverted and reserved. Limiting my speaking and interaction with others is about the only way I can guarantee I won’t suddenly confess something I would rather no one knew.

This blog, by forcing me to face that audience and opportunity, whether actual or theoretical, should assure that I will periodically reveal personal truths about myself, whether I want to or not. It won’t always be pretty, it may be embarrassing, but it will be me at my most honest.

I have several (meaning more than 5 but somewhere less than 50,000) specific examples of “misconceptions”, a more palatable way of describing the untruths, which have guided much of my life to date. For instance, I have finally accepted that I exaggerate far more often than I would previously admit to myself. Especially about numbers. If I say something occurred 60 times, you can be certain that it did occur. But the number of occurrences is probably closer to 6 … or 7. Maybe 8, tops.

I would die of mortification ( or maybe boredom) if I set out to provide a comprehensive compendium of all the internal lies I have labored under, lo these many years. And if someone else happened to come across a thorough listing of my internal fibs they would likely find childbirth or passing kidney stones far less painful and far more fun.

But my heretofore misinterpretations (read:lies) about Lulu will pop up, as they are unearthed. They will be inserted into my musings and rants over the course of these posts. When they are, I will disclose them as part of my ongoing effort towards honest introspection. At least I think I'm being truthful when I promise full disclosure. But “truth” and “lies” are such relative concepts. Aren’t they?

Feeling Hopeful

2009-02-15T21:57:00.006-06:00

Proof that a few simple words strung together just so, are capable of providing a little moment of perfection in an imperfect day. Thank you Mr. Auden!

The More Loving One

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

W H Auden

A Jury of Whose Peers?

2009-02-14T15:18:00.010-06:00

I had jury duty last week. It was the seventh time I’ve been summoned, but never served. My profession usually guarantees rejection from civil trial juries and many criminal cases as well. So, I assumed I’d present myself at the court house on Monday morning and be out of there and back to work before lunch.

The jury supervisor did a general pre-screening of the jury pool, but it wasn’t as detailed as in the past, so I wasn’t shocked when my name was called to be on a panel of 70 potential jurors. I assumed I would get weeded out quickly once the lawyers started asking questions. I wondered though, why they needed a panel so large just to fill 12 spots?

The voir dire began after lunch. We were told only that the allegations were contractual and discriminatory in nature, but as the questions started we could fill in details. Throughout the voir dire, I raised my hand to answer several questions. I personally knew one of the witnesses the defense intended to call. I even knew the defense attorney. The heart of the case involved legal and contractual issues related directly to my job. When asked I’d shared that I’d had experience firing people and was aware of the regulations regarding what someone could and could not be fired for. I was one of the panel members who expressed frustration over a specific personality trait of the plaintiff’s that sounded like a critical piece of the defendant’s case. I let the defense attorney know that I had relatives who suffered from the same physical ailment of the plaintiff and that I was sympathetic to those with this particular ailment.

I thought I was far from an ideal juror for either side. I felt certain I would not be selected.

Listening to the lawyers and the judge ask questions I was struck by how many people on the panel were suffering hardships just by being there. I realized that some might be exaggerating, but most were honest. It's difficult for even the most skilled liar to let fibs slip easily off their tongue when they are in a court room, under oath and facing a judge.

There were several who were recently laid off and needed to be looking for a job or were working as day laborers to make ends meet. There were young mothers who could only get childcare if they could pay for it and they absolutely could not pay for it. The guy next to me was to start a new job that very day after being out of work for three months. He was worried how missing his first week would be viewed. There was a woman who’d finally found a job but it was in Salt Lake City and she had to pack and move her family that very week. There was a retired gentleman who’d just gone back to work on the morning shift at McDonalds. And a young man with a wife and a five day old baby at home all alone.

At least half of those employed told the judge they would not be paid their wages while on jury duty. And the $6.00 a day the state paid jurors didn’t begin to replace what they were missing.

Then, just when I thought there couldn’t be a bleaker statement about the dire state of our economy, one of the attorneys asked for a show of hands of people who did not have health insurance, a central issue in the case. Out of the 70, at least 20 raised their hands.

At one point the defense attorney, in what I guessed was an attempt at graciousness, told the panel that he appreciated the pressure they were under. He really did. But he admonished, serving on a jury was their civic duty. Then he asked if it would bother any of the prospective jurors that the plaintiff and the defendant were both well compensated physicians who were in a dispute over money and benefits. As it registered with the panel that both parties in the suit probably made more in one year than they might make in five or ten years, the atmosphere turned almost mutinous.

Regardless of the question asked, many panel members took the time allotted to answer the question to express their growing anger. Their frustration wasn’t limited to the understood financial imbalance - that they were being asked to put aside their basic necessities - finding a job, taking care of kids, feeding a family, to listen to a couple of doctors bicker over what was probably chump change to them. They were pissed about the state of health care in this country overall. They spoke of watching family members being misdiagnosed and suffering through unnecessary procedures. They complained about the high cost of health insurance and the restrictions imposed. They spoke of the inability of physicians to be sympathetic to the patients concerns, their unwillingness to take the time to know their patients and their propensity of talking down to their patients. Several stated that they felt medical professionals treated them like second class citizens.

I was amazed. The lawyers tried to cut people off and actually spoke over a couple of them. But the judge didn’t do anything to stop the process. I looked at her at one point and realized she actually looked happy about the strange turn of events. But then again, maybe this was normal behavior. Having no prior experience to compare it to, maybe it just seemed surreal to me.

I was heartened because the people around me, no matter how down on their luck, were still willing to engage in the discussion. Willing to express the anger that has been boiling through a major swath of the citizenry for years. I looked at the lines drawn between the lawyers and doctors on one side and the masses on the other and understood the meaning of the term “class warfare”. I realized that as much as the U.S. likes to be viewed as a class-less society, it only takes a catastrophe like our current economic morass for the differences between those that got and those that don’t to become crystal clear. That thought was more than a little frightening to me.

I realized I was watching a small but mighty populist revolt and was awed.

Control was eventually enforced and the panel was excused while the jury was chosen. As we waited in the hall, the case was not discussed, but people continued to vent their frustration and their fears. People broke into groups and commiserated with each other or talked on their cell phones to family, co-workers or friends.

I was surprised when I was selected. It still made no sense to me. Until I looked around at who had not been chosen. I realized that both attorneys had obviously steered clear of anyone involved in the last bit of the voir dire. Anyone who expressed frustration and anger was excused. Then I noticed that everyone I could remember who’d claimed a sincere hardship were excused as well. I gave the judge credit for that. Once those two groups were culled out of the panel there weren’t very many of us left. Barely enough to fill 12 chairs and a couple extra to serve as alternates. Looking at the group that remained, I was pretty sure we were no one’s idea of a perfect jury and in different circumstances we might have been the first to be excused. But, I finally understood why the original panel was so large.

The trial was alternately boring, petty and aggravating. Neither side was sympathetic. The plaintiff came across as whiny and incredibly naive. The defendant seemed supercilious and smug. The attorneys didn't come across much better, but they didn't have much to work with. (And unfortunately, when the jurors finally got to talk about the case in deliberation, I was actually one of the more upbeat and less critical members.) The issue could have easily been solved in mediation. The actual trial took four full days. The jury, once we accepted that we could not have everyone involved beheaded on the spot, deliberated for slightly less than 30 minutes.

Looking back, I wish my opportunity to serve on a jury was for a case of substance, a case that would make me feel like I was making a real contribution by serving. I’m sure most people, if they have to sit for a week or more, want the case to be noble in nature. My guess is the vast majority of cases have nothing noble about them.

But I was impressed by the afternoon I spent in the jury panel. There were several eloquent speakers who shared their fears, anger and frustration. There were people to whom life had been horribly unkind lately. But they were still engaged in the process, willing to contribute and trying to move forward. Mostly though, I sensed that they represented a larger segment of citizens, who for so long have silently put up with the status quo, and have now decided to start talking. And to quote Peter Finch in Network what they're saying is they are “mad as hell and they’re not going to take this anymore!”

The Introspective Liar

The Art Of Obsession

Dear Rat

Hello again, perhaps

Exhausted Longing

The Sound of Hell Breaking Loose

When the *Surreal* JUST ((Keeps)) Getting "Realer" ??!!!

The Illusion of Control

Compulsive Reading Materials

The Writer's Life - But Not Mine

Crashing

The Allure of Men

Relevancy, or Thoughts Upon the Psyche of Gnats

The Simple Life

Just Checking In

Yes, This is a Look of Extreme Disinterest On My Face

The Books That Came To Me

Just What You Didn't Know You Wanted

An Abbreviated and Partial Listing

It's Circus Time

A Warning

Time Flys, While Standing Still - The Dates that Count

WAG #10 Participants

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

Writing Adventure Group #10 - I Butchered This

A Train Wreck that Didn't Wait to Happen

A Different Voice

Finding Your Own Voice

Virginia Foxx Disgusts Me

It Just Keeps Getting Worse

A Real Relationship

A Satisfying Sunday, In More Ways Than One

The Morality of it All

Writing Adventure Group #8 Participants

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

WAG #8 - Signs of Life

The Option that He Chose

The Mess that Ate My Brain

Seeking Compassion Among the Flowers

My Heart Aches

Percolating Reading #2

I Must Respond

In Sickness And In Health

Writing Adventure Group #6 Participants

WAG #6 - Overheard

In Dire Need of a Surveyor

A Wit to Brighten even the Grayest Day

A Technophobia Free Zone

Percolating Reading

Talk Dirty with Me

Time Flying, While Standing Still - My Son, The Atom

Writing Adventure Group Participants - WAG #5

On the Shelf (WAG #5)

Time Flying While Standing Still - The Longer Now

I, Michael Steele

Humor - Moving at the Speed of Light or: The Teleprompter Speaks

Writing Adventure Group News

Next week’s Writing Adventure:

I'm Pretty Sure Adam Smith Is Rolling Over In His Grave

Shhhhhh (WAG #4)

Quiet Please

Wacca Wacca!

Please Read This

Writing Adventure Group News

People Watching & Saving Lives - One Bar at a Time ( WAG #3)

Sex In the Library - An Anthology

Time Flying, While Standing Still - Eternally Eighteen

Time Flying, While Standing Still - The Child Eternal

Time Flying, While Standing Still - Introduction

Writing Adventure Group

To Cute for Our Own Good

Grimmly Perverse?

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

Sledge Hammer Part 2

My Supposition of mr. cummings Take on CPAC

Sledge Hammer Part 1

All a Twitter

Random Rivulets of Reason

Brief

And To

When the Surreal JUST ((Keeps)) Getting "Realer" ??!!!