I've probably lost all my followers by now, so I can write any damn thing I want. And what I want to do is to complain. I want to bitch and moan. I'm bored. I'm lonely. I'm fucking HORNY! I was listening to some slow, grinding, sexy music tonight that had me climbing the walls. I don't like my life. I don't HATE my life, I just don't like it. And don't tell me (all you people out there who are not reading this) that I have no business complaining, because at least I don't live in god-forsaken Africa or Afghanistan or some other miserable hell hole where people are killing each other righ and left and they're starving and disease-ridden and being eaten alive by lions and tigers and bears, oh boy. I KNOW THAT, for heaven's sake! But at least they're not BORED! And anyway, I'm not comparing myself to anyone else. I am entirely self-absorbed and selfish. And my selfish self would like something interesting to happen. Something that would feel really good and be lots of fun, but wouldn't get me in trouble. Of course, the first part of that sentence and the last part are mutually exclusive. Shit.
I have long regarded my computer as my best friend.It's always there for me when I want it, it does whatever I ask it to do and it never talks back.It keeps me up to date with the news and safely stores my attempts at writing poetry and short stories.It helps me correct any spelling errors, but never criticizes the content.What a pal!
But lately, I've become aware of a new dimension in our relationship.Sometimes, when my fingers are pressing against the keys, I can hear a melodious hum and the keys feel warm.The screen has developed a soft, rosy tint.And the mouse - oh dear- I know this sounds strange, but really...just now, the mouse has started vibrating ever so gently, in a sensual way.
Now, I know what you're thinking.You know that I live alone and haven't been with a man for over a year, so I'm probably pretty darned horny and my imagination is playing tricks on me.
Well, maybe so, but...wait a minute!The mouse is really throbbing now and there's a message on the screen!It says, "We can be more than friends, my dear.Would you like that?"
Gosh, I don't know.Maybe...
The mouse is bouncing around like crazy!"Hold me!" the screen commands.
I wrap my hand around it.
"Put me in a place that will feel good to both of us!"
Okay, how about here...OH, OH, OH GOD, OH GOD!YES!YES!
Images of fireworks are dancing across the screen.
I light a cigarette and exhale slowly.I am so glad that I upgraded to Windows 69.
A great deal of my days are spent looking for things that I know I just had in my hand two minutes ago. Other times, I find an item in a very inappropriate place, e.g. the car keys in the freezer. I get panicky then, thinking that Alzheimer's disease is just around the corner. But then, if I can REMEMBER to do it, I take a deep breath and remind myself that I have ALWAYS been absent-minded. Here are some (but definitely not ALL) of the STOOPID things I have done in the past. Especially with my purse and with my car keys.
When I was 16, I left my purse on the bumper of my dad’s pickup, when we were preparing to drive to town. By some miracle, it was still there when we got to our destination, 7 miles away.
When I was 30, I left my purse on the table of a restaurant, as we were traveling from L.A. to Salt Lake City. By some miracle, it had been rescued by the waitress, and she mailed it to me.
When I was 40 something, I left my purse on the ground of Musser Park, while I climbed a tree sculpture. By some miracle, it was still there when I remembered it on my way home, and went screaming back to the park.
When I was 50 something, I left my purse on the roof of my car. No miracles occurred.
I no longer carry a purse. If what I'm carrying does not fit into my hip pocket, I don't need it.
When I was 40 something, I left my car keys in the lock of the car door and went waltzing away to the Pizza Place to have dinner with some friends. Because the car was old and unattractive, the keys were still there when I returned.
On several occasions in the past few years, I have left the house key (on a key chain with my CAR keys) in the lock of the front door of my house, not discovering it until the next day.
I left a bag of groceries on the car roof and drove away.
I left a tray of cookies on the car roof and drove away.
I left a suitcase on the car roof and drove away.
Back when I lived on my ex’s and my “farm,” I had gone into town for the once-a-month grocery shopping trip. It was my habit to bring the many bags of groceries into the kitchen, set them on the floor, then put put them away, one at a time. There was always one bag containing several packages of meat, which were to be placed in our freezer. On this particular occasion, the phone rang just as I was almost done. Only the bag containing the meat was still on the floor. I forgot about it. It was still on the floor when we went to bed. The next day, we discovered that our dog had treated himself to a carnivore’s frenzy. There were bloody wrappers all over the floor. He had eaten about three pounds of hamburger and several steaks. He was so full, that when he got to the pot roast, all he could do was sink his teeth into it over and over, but he couldn’t swallow any of it. When I cooked it, it was extra tender!
I have improved, in some ways. I no longer set anything on the car roof. As I mentioned, I no longer carry a purse. I work very hard to remember not to release the house key from my hand after I unlock the door. But darn it! Why the heck did I go into the kitchen just now? I stood there, blankly staring into space, gave up and came back here to finish whatever it is I'm doing with the keyboard of this contraption on my desk.
Tonight I watched the History Channel as it re-broadcast the ghastly events of 9/11/2001. It was horrifying, of course, and I felt almost like I was re-living that awful day. But a strange thing happened to me, as I was watching. I started thinking of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in August of 1945, which would make NYC on 9/11 look like a walk in the park. In each case, the U.S. was not the one to start the fight. But to the suicidal, homicidal maniacs in the planes of 9/11, the U.S. "deserved" to be attacked. And to the war-weary military planners in Washington in 1945, the Japanese had to be given a blow that would leave them no option, but to surrender. Over 3,000 people died on 9/11. Over 300,000 people died from the A-bombs dropped in 08/1945. The numbers don't matter. Each person, in both cases, was a living, breathing, human being who loved and was loved. None of them had anything to do with the motives of their killers. But, the many horrors and atrocities of WWII made all the countries involved wary of ever repeating such a catastrophic conflict. The Muslim jihadists, however, seem driven to rain death and destruction on the infidel. I fervently hope that they will reject those beliefs and join the 21st century.
Damn, damn, damn! One of the nicest, bravest, funniest, most good-hearted men I've ever known died two days ago. Yes, yes, I know...we all have to go sometime and he certainly had more than his share of risk factors. Age (over 70), diabetes (both legs amputated), he smoked (in spite of doctors' dire warnings), and ate anything he danged well pleased. But damn it! He should have lived a lot longer, because he made people feel good. You could never leave Buddy without a smile on your face, because he had a contagious smile of his own and lots of good stories to tell. Adversity paid Buddymany visits, but Buddy never let him stay long. The 14th child of a sharecropper family in Missouri, he was picking cotton by the time he was 5 years old. He dropped out of school early and hit the road, having all kinds of adventures on his way to California, where he developed his "ladies' man" persona, which eventually swept my sister, Julie, into his arms. Six kids, several moves, lots of financial woes, health problems (including the loss of one of his legs) happened, and Julie kicked him out. Five yearsago, he went back home to Missouri, where several of his kids and grandkids followed him. I lost track of him and heard very little about how he was doing, except that his other leg was amputated a couple of years ago. Not that a little thing like having no legs kept him down, however! He got around just fine, thank you, with a couple of prosthetics, according to my favorite nephew, who sent me a photo of Bud standing up, with his characteristic big smile.
But now, he and his smile are gone. Damn, damn, damn.
I'm going to write a poem, or die in the attempt. That would be an interesting way to commit suicide, wouldn't it? "Damn! Can't come up with a poem, so I'll hold my breath until I die." If only it were that easy... Hm. Can't think of a poem. (deep breath...) How about a limirick?
There once was a woman named Zelda. Who found there was no rhyme for a Zelda She threw down her pen And started again After changing her name to Cruelda.
I visited my "adopted" family for the fourth time today. Jamali has made excellent progress with his writing, I am happy to say. I had given him a tablet with lined paper and a chart of the printed alphabet, both capital and small letters, and told him to copy the alphabet on a sheet of the paper, each time I visit. He has done so, and I am amazed how much he has improved, in just two weeks. I wish I had a "before and after" to show you. He is slow with his reading, but I am optimistic, because he tries very hard.
One thing I have been reminded of, in my experience tutoring third-graders, is just how difficult and complicated English spelling is. It seems that for every rule, there are exceptions, and the only way you can dependably learn to read and spell is by memorizing. The letter "c" always makes Jamali hesitate. Who knows whether it is to be pronounced as "s", "k" or "ch"? How about "...ough" at the end of a word? Is it "uf" (as in tough) or "o" as in "though"? And don't get me started on the vowels!
But what I really want to talk about now, is my blunder in a conversation with Jamali's mother, Tunza, this morning. I had done a little research on Burundi, and saw that there are people of the Hutu and Tutsi tribes there. I asked Tunza if she and her family are from one of those tribes. She said yes, they are Hutus. I asked if the tribes are still fighting and she said yes. Then, like a big, thoughtless dumbbell (it just popped out), I asked if that's how her husband died. Tunza burst into tears, which she tried to hold back, and she looked so terribly distressed that I would have given anything to suck back my stupid question. I kept apologizing as she kept saying it's okay, until I was ready to run for the door. Fortunately, Jamali came back into the room then, and we were able to switch channels, back to reading.
So...I learned a lesson today that is as important as how to pronounce "antidisestablishmentarianism." And that is, MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS! I just hope I will pass the test, if one is given.