"Madam Z," I tell myself, from time to time, "you must learn to acknowledge your mistakes and move on."

But, I don't listen to myself. I try to salvage the unsalvagable. "But I spent so much time - money - effort on it! I can't let it go to waste!"

"Foolish woman! It's better to let it go; forget about it - put it in the garbage and try again another day. If you're going to eat/do something that's not good for you, at least be damned sure it tastes/feels good."

The most recent battle is still being waged. The subject of the dispute is a batch of truffles. Why, you may ask, would someone try to make her own truffles, when she could get a perfectly good bag of ready-made truffles at the corner store for 3 or 4 bucks? That is a legitimate and worthy question. Why indeed? Temporary insanity cannot be ruled out.

It gets worse. I had a perfectly good bag of Ghirardelli milk chocolate chips in the cupboard, that I have been chipping away at for several days, a tiny handful now and then, when I must have something sweet. They are heavenly. I also had a couple ounces of dark chocolate which isn't anywhere near as good, but is purportedly "good for you." THEN! I bought a can of sweetened condensed milk, for some goddamned reason, which I don't even remember, and it had a recipe on the label for homemade truffles. I was electrified by this! I didn't even know ordinary people could make truffles! They seem too exotic to be made at home, at least at my home. The recipe was deceptively simple: 1 can condensed milk, 18 ounces of semi-sweet chocolate chips and 1 tablespoon of vanilla. Put milk in saucepan, add chips, heat till chocolate is melted, add vanilla, and refrigerate till firm. Roll into balls and cover with some kind of coating. (I completely ignored this last step, since it's the inside that I was interested in.)

Okay. I didn't have 18 oz of semi-sweet chocolate chips, but I had those milk chocolate chips and a couple oz of that dark chocolate, so that should work, shouldn't it? SHOULDN'T IT? In case you're wondering, the answer is NO. Well, maybe it SHOULD'VE worked, but it DIDN'T. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't particularly good. It wasn't anywhere near as good as the plain goddamned chocolate chips were! And I used up about $6 worth of ingredients making the stupid stuff! So I stuck it back in the refrigerator, hoping it would taste better the next day.

It didn't. My self told myself to just throw the shit away. I certainly don't need the calories, anyway. But NO! I had a new plan! Melt the ill-fated concoction again and add a bunch of peanut butter to it! That'll show my smartass Self!

Oh man!!! It is now resting peacefully in the compost heap.

Question: Was he GREAT, or was he GREAT?

Answer: HE WAS GREAT!

He was calm, confident, self-assured and gave one hell of a speech. Plenty of lofty goals. Plenty of inspiring acknowledgements. Never flubbed a line. Promised something for everyone. I loved what he said. But I do have a question for him:

Um...President Obama, sir...How are we going to PAY for all these worthy goals?

It's Just Dust!

The best thing about blogging (and other Internet activities) is that it gives me an excuse not to do other things; things I do not want to do. Such as dusting. I do not like to dust. I don't know why. I put it off until the dust gets high enough that I could probably plant seeds in it, and have an indoor garden.

The drawback of blogging (and other Internet activities) is that my computer sits on my desk, which has a large, dust collecting surface, with two shelves mounted on the desk, one of which is at eye-level, and both of which are covered with dust. I don't notice it at night, because the light is dim. But in the daytime, the sun slants through the window behind the desk and highlights the evidence of my shameful neglect. Fortunately, I have a short attention span, so it's usually not a big problem. Unless, that is, I start to think about the composition of dust. That is what I am doing now. What's IN that shit, anyway? I think I read somewhere that a lot of it is dead skin cells, and the dust mites that feed on the skin cells (but I'm not going to think about that now, or I would get all paranoid and probably have to set fire to all the surfaces). Then there's the regular dirt that gets airborne and then lands on the furniture. There's hair, too. And probably all kinds of dead insect parts. Much of it is surely just small fibres from clothing and furniture upholstery. When my kids were little, we had a couple episodes of pinworm infestation, and our family doctor told me that the pinworm eggs were probably covering every surface in the house and the only hope for not reinfecting us all was to thoroughly dust and disinfect all those surfaces (along with boiling every piece of bedding and clothing that we owned). And while I'm pretty darn sure that neither Hubby nor I are afflicted with PW, I still think of that possible component of dust, on the rare occasion that I do break out the Swifters.

Bottom line is that there's no good reason to stir up that yukky stuff very often. Let sleeping dust lie... until, of course, my mother-in-law is due for a visit. When that happens, the dust will fly!

Two Words, Four Words, Six Words, Eight

Okay, I'm tired of haiku. I'm going to experiment with a new, less challenging format to express my lack of thoughts. Or something like that. How's this?


I will.
I will write it.
I will write my story now.
But first, I will eat some ice cream.
Oh no! The ice cream froze my brain!
My story is encased in ice.
I won't write it.
I can't.



Or this...


Why me?
I am not worthy.
Huh? I am? Are you sure?
Okay, here goes; remember... you asked for it.
Once upon a time, I lived in boxcars.
A fairly good-looking prince rescued me.
Or so I thought.
I escaped.



Th..th..that's all folks!

Haiku in the Dark

I can't fall asleep

I'm afraid I won't wake up

So I watch the clock

Why am I alive?

In bed, the question haunts me

I have no purpose

Do I sound morbid?

I'm not - I just need some light

The sunrise will help

I'll look to the east

Wait for the first rays of sun

There goes the alarm

It's time to get up

I've been awake long enough

Now I will sleepwalk

Diary of a Mad Teenager

Today I was rummaging through my disorganized filing cabinet, looking for my passport. I didn't find the passport, but I did find my ancient diary, which I kept from age 12 to 16. I come across it once every decade or so. Sometimes I read a few entries and sometimes I just toss it back into the past. Today I read it from start to finish. Talk about depressing! My parents were divorced and my sisters and I lived with our smart, but unwise, mother. She was always looking for "something better," whether it was a man, a job, or a place to live. So we moved every year, she had a different job every year, and a different man every year. The year I was 14, all three of those categories were something worse. The man, Freddie, was an alcoholic who couldn't hold a job. We moved to a god-forsaken tiny town far from L.A. Then Mom's idiot, alcoholic brother Bob moved in with us. He couldn't hold a job, either. Mom couldn't get a job, because she couldn't drive and we lived too far from town to walk or catch a bus. In L.A., she was always able to get a job, because she was smart and could convince any prospective employer that she could do the job, whatever it was. And, within two weeks on the job, she could do it and do it well. And back then, you could take a bus to anywhere you wanted to go.

But out in the boonies of Yucaipa, with no transportation, she was S.O.L. My sisters and I were also S.O.L. We lived in this crappy little house with no heat (no money for propane), a discontented, regretful mother, and at least three (idiot, alcoholic Uncle Bob brought his idiot alcoholic friend George in to live with us) idiot, alcoholic men. They would host parties for their drunken bum friends on Saturday nights. I remember one night when Freddie was so drunk and sick that he threw up on the kitchen table. It was sooooo nasty! Mom was trying to wipe it up and asked me to help, but I refused, pointing out that it was she who chose to live with the idiot, not me.

After almost a year of that S.O.L.ness, my dad managed to rescue Mom and us girls and set us up in a nice, warm, clean little apartment, back in L.A. Mom got a good job and we had about six months of relative bliss, before yet another adventure reared its head.

I swear - I'm going to BURN THAT FUCKING DIARY!

I meet once or twice a month with three fellow amateur writers. Our stated goal is to inspire and encourage one another to get serious about our writing. But mostly we just sit around, drinking wine and shooting the shit, until finally one of us will say, "Okay, let's do our writing exercise now." Then we each throw out an arbitrary word, and we must each incorporate the four words into an extemporaneous story. We set the timer for 20 minutes and go to town!

Last week, the four words were: Naked, Bulgaria, Prison and Camels. I had such fun writing my story, that I simply must share it with you. ( You lucky devils!)

I was sitting, stark naked, in a Bulgarian prison cell, smoking the last cigarette from my beat-up pack of Camels. I had hidden the pack under a dead rat in the corner of the cell and allowed myself just one smoke each night, after the guard dozed off, which he did every night at midnight. You could set your clock by his first snore, if you had a clock, which I didn’t. I didn’t have a goddamned thing, except that pack of Camels, and now it was empty. The rat was in pretty bad shape too, not just from normal putrefaction, but also from me rearranging it every night for the past 20 days. But now, I could leave it alone, since the pack was as empty as my future. I had no hope of ever being released. I had no hope of ever being clothed again, or even given a blanket. Those goddamned Bulgarians were so goddamned mad at me, they wanted me to suffer as much as possible, without actually touching me, since they were all familiar with the details of the Geneva Convention.

It all started three weeks ago, when I was in the airport, trying to get to Poland. I wanted to go to Poland to do some research on the origin of Polish jokes. I wondered if a whole nation of people actually could be so dumb as to justify the volumes of jokes that started with the line, “What did the Polack…(fill in the blank).” So, while I was standing in that airport, where NO one spoke one WORD of English, I struck up a conversation with a guard, using my English – Bulgarian dictionary. That probably would have worked just fine, if I had known how to pronounce those idiot words they use. Apparently, the words are distinguished by some arcane set of accents and emphases, and if you put the emphasis on the wrong syllable, it can change the meaning of the word. So – when I was trying to ask the guard how long it was until the next plane would arrive, HE thought I asked how long was his DICK! He smiled and said, “Very long,” which I thought meant the plane wouldn’t be there for a very long time. Then, I tried to tell him I wanted to go home, and he thought I meant I wanted to go to HIS home and grabbed me and headed for the exit. So, I shot him, of course!

Then everyone in the whole airport was pissed off, even though there were plenty of other guards. I told them it was all their fault, because they had such a stupid language and why don’t they just speak English, like civilized people. So, the intolerant, unreasonable bastards stripped me down, looking for explosives, they said, but they didn’t check the one place where I had hastily stuck my pack of Camels. Thank goodness, because I would have gone nuts in that cold, rat-infested cell, without that one little thing to look forward to, each night.

I don’t know what I’ll do now.

Rotting on the Vine

That's what I feel like I'm doing tonight. I haven't had any excitement in my life for so long, I probably wouldn't even recognize it if it bit me on the ass. Hubby can't seem to stay up past 8 o'clock, most nights, while I, on the other hand, can't even consider going to bed until at least 11. So I wander around the house for three hours, feeling disgruntled and frustrated. We go out to eat maybe twice a year, on my birthday and Valentine's day. Maybe a movie, you say? Surely you jest! And it seems like a lifetime ago since we went dancing. Oh fucking well! I can entertain myself, goddamn it! The Internet is helpful in that regard. I enjoy reading your blogs. Googling random names and ideas keeps me busy for short intervals. Sometimes, if I have enough caffeine still circulating in my bothered brain, I make lists of things I should do "tomorrow." The list gets buried in the festering mass of papers piled on my desk, and has virtually no chance of ever having anything crossed off, but making the list gives me a fleeting sense of accomplishment. The various lists always include something about writing.

e.g. MAKE OUTLINE OF LIFE FOR USE IN WRITING AUTOBIOGRAPHY

or WRITE SHORT STORY ABOUT INFIDELITY

or DIG OUT ONE OF YOUR STUPID SHORT STORIES AND SEND SOMEPLACE

or FINISH THAT GODDAMNED POEM YOU STARTED A MONTH AGO

It just occured to me that I never include anything about posting on my blog. And yet, I do manage to do that at least two or three times a month. And...it doesn't feel like a chore. I actually ENJOY tapping out my little unplanned ephemereal messages.

GOOD LORD! Maybe the secret to success (however one may define "success") is to just DO something, without TELLING YOURSELF TO DO IT! Ooooohhh...I'm getting dizzy....

I'm Here to Help

I had originally planned to write on the subject of how to insure world peace while restoring the stock market and curing the common cold. But then I came down with this really bad cold, caused by my lowered resistance brought about by worrying about world war and the lousy stock market. So I decided to talk some more about the still timely subject of New Year’s resolutions, instead.

My mind is fairly boiling with ideas of how other people could and should improve their lives. It’s much easier to make resolutions for other people, than for myself. I am hereby starting "Madam Z’s Resolution Counseling Service." Some of you folks out there in the blogosphere could give me a little encouragement by asking what I would recommend for you. Don’t worry about me being too harsh. I probably wouldn’t tell you anything that you haven’t already heard from your mother or your spouse. But it would probably be easier for you to accept advice from a disinterested third-party.

Come to think of it, my Resolution Counseling Service, if successful, could help me achieve one of my personal goals for 2009: “Make some extra money without doing any tedious extra work.” I know what you’re thinking, “Isn’t that type of service a bit too seasonal? After all, New Years’ resolutions are typically made only on January 1 of each year.” This shows how much you need my help in devising creative solutions to your inadequacies. You see, a new “New Year” could begin on any day, and end 365 days later! The resolutions you made on January 1, and broke on January 8, can be discarded and re-thought. Just return to my blog, and for a small consultation fee (PayPal accepted), I will help you come up with more realistic goals. For instance, your January 1 vow to never eat, or even think about eating, another piece of chocolate as long as you live was a bit too ambitious. So let’s start over. It’s January 13, the first day of the new, New Year - 1/13/09 through1/12/10. Let’s modify that resolution: “I solemnly vow to never, ever eat so much chocolate that I throw up.” Now that’s a promise that most of us could keep.

Let’s move on to the more lofty goals. Most of us have, at one time or another, or many times and another, resolved to lose weight in the coming year. Consider how negative that sounds! Lose weight? Do you really want to lose? Lose is what we do in the stock market! Lose is what we do to our car keys in a crowded mall. No! We should resolve to gain! Resolve to gain weight in the coming year! Think of the satisfaction when you step on the scale one year from today and find that you have actually gained something. Your 401(k) is emaciated, but you have another solid ten pounds on your belly. Now that’s putting something away for the future.

How about smoking? Have you promised yourself you would quit smoking this year? Again, a negative approach. Do you want to be a quitter? No! Be a starter. Start each day with a brand new cigarette. Light up! Make that stogie glow! With your 401(k) in the dumpster, you can’t afford to live past retirement anyway. You see? Setting realistic goals is practical and satisfying.

To prove to you that I practice what I preach, I’ll show you my own brand new resolution:
I hereby resolve to start my new Resolution Advisory Service sometime in the next year, at some arbitrary date, yet to be determined. Watch for the announcement in a future post. You guys need my help.

This is a story I wrote with Harry B. Sanderson's help for Six Sentences. Sentences #1, #3 and #6 are based on a seminal event in little Miss Z's childhood. Harry filled in the blanks.

THOU SHALT NOT!

Ten-year-old Miss Z was in her bible study class, listening to glowering Mr. Wingnut exhorting her and the other children to obey god's ten commandments or risk burning in hell, and she was pretty scared and wanted to be sure she didn't break any of those rules, but then, omigod, she realized that she didn't know what commandment number six meant, so how could she know whether or not she was doing it?

Her fifth grade class had already studied prefixes and suffixes, but try as she may she could not figure how adding "ery" could change the otherwise familiar word “adult” into something sinful. or for that matter how she could be guilty of anything beyond childery, whatever that was, anyway. So she raised her hand, waving frantically, until Mr. Wingnut stopped exhorting long enough to say, "What IS it, Miss Z," and Miss Z blurted out her question, "What does adultery mean?"

The frank question triggered deeply embedded left-wing alerts and Wingnut stumbled, stammering, "Tax and spend...er, uh...liberal media...oh wait REDISTRIBUTE! that's what... oh geez…” Adept at exhortery, he'd suffered a failure in strategery by allowing the question.

Miss Z was puzzled by her teacher's obvious discomfort, but she was relieved, because she was from a poor family that had nothing to distribute, much less redistribute, so she was pretty sure she would not be committing adultery, at least not until she was an adult and maybe have some money of her own.

My New Year’s Resolutions

In 2009, I resolve to stop thinking that I am the Center of the Universe. I will no longer feel responsible for things beyond my control. It's not my fault that the world is going to Hell in a hand basket! No more letters to politicians, pleading for world peace. They're men. They want to fight. No more contributions to charitable organizations. They use the pittance I am able to send them for postage to send me more solicitations. Sorry, Polar bears! Sorry,Whales! Talk to the Humvee drivers and big oil executives.


I will no longer deny myself the pleasure of eating chocolate for fear of becoming fat. I'm fifty years old! No one gives a rat's ass whether I get fat or not! They're not looking at me! I will no longer make any attempt to be fashionable. (See the preceding sentence.) My new mantra will be, "If it feels good, wear it."

I will no longer be concerned with any but the most basic social graces. I will, of course, try not to pass gas in public, but I will say whatever I damn well please. No one gives a rat's ass what I say! They're not listening!

I just wish that I were a smoker and a drinker, so I could resolve to not try to give up those bad habits. But, I doubt that anyone would notice, anyway, given my extremely small and remote place in the Universe.

Thank you for not reading this, or caring what I think, or what I resolve.

Braindrops Keep Falling From My Head

(These materialized while I was on an airplane recently)

We're suspended in air

Between the ocean and sky

Someday we will land

____________

I have no headphones

I cannot hear the movie

I saved five dollars

____________

I have a headache

Why don't I take some aspirin?

Perhaps I like pain

____________

Neurotic, you say?

No! Just dreadfully nervous

And a bit anxious

____________

Life is not easy
I try to understand it
It's quite confusing
____________

Where are my ideas?

I've looked everywhere for them

Perhaps they are gone

Hai-ku. Kan-yu?

I have decided that my life could be adequately expressed in a series of Haikus. Are you familiar with haiku? It is a Japanese form of poetry (I think so, anyway) consisting of three lines, the first line has five syllables, the second has seven syllables and the third has five syllables.

Here are some samples of my Nipponic attempts:

I wish I could write

I would tell a dark story

That no one would read

_________

I hear the music

It flows over my body

and jangles my mind

__________

I'll tell your fortune

Sit down, and show me your palm

It's all written there

__________

I gather sea shells

From yard sales, not from the sea

It's much easier

__________

I tried to hate you

But it was impossible

I love you too much

___________

The day is over

I hear the clock striking twelve

Now I'll go to sleep

___________

Quick! Call the doctor! I've been infected with the Splotchy Story Virus (aka V3)

Here are Splotchy's rules:
Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours.

Ready? Set? GO!

The bus was more crowded than usual. It was bitterly cold outside, and I hadn't prepared for it. I noticed that a fair number of the riders were dressed curiously. As I glanced around, I stretched my feet and kicked up against a large, heavy cardboard box laying under the seat in front of me. (Splotchy)
Rivulets of sweat began cascading down my face and I hurriedly wiped one from my brow before its salty bitterness could burn my precious, precious electric eye. No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to my allergy to cardboard that always resulted in patches of bloody pustules and mottled skin akin to a poorly applied KISS® -- see, Gene? Put your lawyers away -- makeup job nor the fact that a fair number of the riders were curiously dressed like a toupee-less, yet masterfully make-upped Chaim Witz nor the fact that motionless tentacles were protruding from a number of randomly punched holes in the cardboard box that bore the hideous label Contents, frozen spawn of Old One, 72 oz. nor the realization that I had forgotten my glasses and couldn't see not whom, but what, was slowly shambling down the aisle towards me, its apparently glistening appendages slopping on the possibly filthy floor of this potential deathtrap of a bus recklessly driven by an attractively miniskirted, yet maniacal, maniac, her lapel bearing a button barely visible underneath a swath of jet-black hair and emblazoned with I worship Dagon, ask me how!, which I never did by the way.No, the fright couldn't simply be attributed to any of those mundane things. My wind wandered, dreaming up all sorts of misadventure where I stared death in the face and he stared back and then we had a series of staring contests of which I think I won nearly 40% of them, an excellent number against an entity bearing a head-lopping scythe, don't you think?I stared out the window, and the undulating, slowly shifting, tree-saturated landscape stared back. I won that contest but quickly remembered the old saw about looking into the abyss and having it stick its tongue out. I pulled my electric eye back into the bus and stared ahead instead.Next, a cavalcade of nervous fumbling and rummaging through my pockets to make sure I had an extra nine volt battery. I did -- the apparently glistening appendages slopping ever closer amidst a cacophony of bizarre, intermittent noise -- so I knew I wouldn't have to worry about my electric eye running out of juice until I got back.Which, of course, turned out to be the case, for how else could you be reading this erratic, poorly-written account of horror, unless you stumbled upon the abandoned wreckage of the bus and were rifling through my strangely mutilated corpse severely underdressed for the freezing weather and found this sheet of crumpled and charred paper riddled with poor penmanship along with my wallet that contained a drivers license, library card, work ID, three singles and a bus ticket!But you didn't because I'm not dead, for I just handed the bus ticket to the shambling beast which indeed was slimy for it -- and it, despite its general human visage, was the most accurate description I could muster -- was close enough that I didn't need my glasses."Last stoop fer yew vis'turs."Ahead in the distance, beyond the cardboard box's melting water -- at least, I assumed it was water, and you know what they say when you assume: Nyarlathotep tears you a new one, chump -- pooling at my feet, the creepy troupe of riders and the inhuman coughing of it, bathed by the light of the red moon, I saw the low, yet eerily distinct skyline of Arkham. (Randal)

Arkum hums with a high electric whine, a noise that is like tinnitus to the nth. The man with the monocle who was so strangely dressed coughed on me as the bus lurched to a stop. I hope it wasn't the virus. Now I hunch my shoulders against the freezing wind that hugs the frozen ground. I have two cloptomiters to go before I'm home and it's dark but for the purple neon gloom, looking like a distant nuclear disaster but is merely low light bouncing off the distant metropolis along with the nearly unbearable high whine. And then the wind blows it back upon itself and for a few moments of relief I almost hear silence. I can barely see the ground beneath my feet.What was I thinking when I dressed for the day? My feet are freezing. Thank the dog for the electric eye. I can see the faintly pink glow of my signature footprint along this well trod strip of stone. But it seems eerily empty for now. Odd. This time of night is usually humming with voices coming out of the dark. All I hear is the high city hum and the wind. Several layers of skirts fly up from a gust of wind and I almost topple backward. These tall rubber boots on their platforms are wonderful in a crowd, extend the stride, and strengthen the buttocks, lifting its heft of weight into the air like a pillow. But skirts?I hear the dog once and know I will turn left half way up the lane to my bunker. His voice always rings out once when I reach this spot and even without the eye I turn left, arm raised, palm flattened upward to make contact with the wire of the compound. I trail my gloved fingers along the fence until I feel the gate. Here I must remove my glove and place my naked palm against the freezing surface of the palm ID pad. And it slides open almost silently. I enter and hear it slide shut behind me. It locks with a hollow sound that makes me shudder with pleasure. Now small photocell lights flank the path like little pale full moons.I have a single bunker. I am gifted in certain arts. I can talk to the mad and read their minds. I can smell danger. And I am old. No small accomplishment in these times. So the dog, as he calls himself, and I live together in a cube of concrete with a pyramid roof alone, in silence, but for the sound of my own voice softly talking to myself and his rare great bark or low growl.He doesn't rise when I come in. But I hear him panting softly in his dark corner. The room is only warmed with his body heat. All the fuel was burned long ago. But food will be brought for both of us. He could so warm me better if we slept together but he will not. So I wear all my clothes trying to keep from shivering. I would never ask to sleep in his bed but have invited him into mine. Often. No luck.And now before my fingers stiffen in the cold I must answer the questions sent to me by the mad. Only the mad understand the mad, but not all the mad have my gift to hear their inner voices. We are all somewhat gifted. Some of us have visions, hear voices, but I can only listen to the inner voice, the one that never says aloud what it most fears.(Utah Savage)

The irony of hating that Will Smith movie where he was the only pure human he knew of makes me laugh until I cry only once a day usually, but this makes the second time today.
I'd like to be able to distract myself from this existence as I sometimes can with some maudlin or quirky tale that was uploaded to this confounded eye, but for the time being I just place it on its charger, wondering yet again what renewable substance has been able to sustain the charger's life these 25 years. If I knew that, would I be freezing here like this?
I wish someone, anyone, could or would answer that question. I wish Lilith were here to ponder it with me.

Yes, there are the halflings, but they really are not very good company. The electronic portions of them seem to override most of their humanness. But, compared to those the blogoscopic entities have fully infiltrated, they are a veritable schmorgesborg of spontaneity. I am not sure if I should admit that my insane mother was right and that my "specialness" would "save" me in the end, but those like me are few and far between these days.

What was once a blessing, my telepathic tendencies, has become such a curse that I would no doubt kill myself were it not for Lilith. My only hope is to find her. (Freida Bee)

But wait! If my telepathic tendencies were more reliable, I would know where Lilith is. But I do not know where she is. So perhaps I should rely more on my psychopathic tendencies, which are very reliable. You may recall that I am mad… quite mad, I might add, and in my delusional state I am certain that I no longer need Lilith to ponder with or pander to, as the case may be. What I do need, and need badly, is a man! A real man, 100% human, and with only one tentacle (ahem), if you know what I mean.

I am keeping my electric eye open (thank Xeus for that extra 9 volt battery!), but so far, neither the slimy, multi-tentacled, oddly dressed, freaks on the bus, nor the selfish dog-man in my cold concrete cube measure up to my strict standards.
Of course, there is a strong possibility that I should lower my standards, given the fact that, as I mentioned earlier, I am fricking old and getting older by the minute, and I’m crazy as a lonesome loon howling at the moon. So, I think I’ll try something different…maybe a train ride. I think there’s some kind of law that requires train engineers to be human, and it’ll be nice and warm in that engine room. (Madam Z )

I hereby tag:
Katie Schwartz
Spartacus
Bill Stankus
The Japing Ape
Honeysmack

Never Mind. I'm Good.

I was just sitting here feeling sorry for myself because my life is so dull and boring

and winter is coming and my feet are always cold and I have nothing to show for having lived another day and my shoulder hurts and I want to eat that last Snickers bar from Halloween, but I'm so afraid of getting fat and it's dark outside and I don't remember the last time I actually had fun, AND THEN I remembered tonight's news report on Zimbabwe. As if the poor people didn't have enough trouble, with a totally disfunctional government, civil war, horridly-hyper-inflation, famine, no clean drinking water and who knows what else, NOW they have been stricken with CHOLERA! The camera chronicled people dead and dying, mothers crying over their sick and dying children, and poorly equipped hospitals that are overflowing with desperate sick and dying people.

And THEN I thought, I HAVE NOTHING TO COMPLAIN ABOUT! NOTHING, NOTHING NOTHING!!! I am SO thankful I don't live in Africa.

On the other hand, it's much warmer there than here, and the sun shines longer and no one would care if I got fat, and not every country in Africa is as bad off as Zimbabwe. There's uh...or maybe...hmmm...

Never mind.

The end.

I'm Thankful Thanksgiving is Over!

Oh man! Where should I start? It's not that my in-laws mistreat me, it's just that we are so different from one another. They're Irish Catholics - I'm a heathen. They are not affectionate with one another. It's my nature to be demonstrative. Except for the mother and one brother, they all drink beer and wine non-stop from noon to midnight. I seldom drink, because I am fearful of getting drunk and acting like an idiot. (I saw way too much of that when I was a child.) But the worst thing is that NO ONE gets my sense of humor and only one or two of them has any interest whatsoever in anything I have to say. If I had to be around them more than once or twice a year, I would be convinced that I was the most boring person ever to walk the earth. Fortunately, I have more positive reactions from my own family and friends, so I try to remember that and not get too demoralized.

Bear with me for an example of what it's like. Several of us will be sitting around the table, chatting. Something will strike me as funny, and I make a joke. The conversation stops, everyone becomes stony-faced, and after a few moments of silence they continue talking. I flush with embarrassment and leave the table. It's as though I have thrown a dead fish onto the table. Everyone looks at it with mild disgust and then turn away. You'd think I would have learned by now to just STFU! One of the other sisters-in-law does that. She just gets silently smashed and reads a book through most of the festivities.

Oh well. The food is good and there's no violence, so I shouldn't complain. And, even though my mother-in-law helpfully explained to me that I should cut my hair and regain the weight I lost when I was sick, because long hair and lost weight make a woman look even older than she is, I still love her, because if not for her I wouldn't have my sweet hubby.

Oy veh! Six hour drive tomorrow morning. Going to mother-in-law's for Thanksgiving. Get up at 5:30 A-fucking-M! Make nice with all the in-laws, while fretting that they're looking at every wrinkle on my face and thinking "Why did my brother marry someone so much older than him?"

Oh well. In ninety-six hours we'll be back home and I can be "old" in peace.

Peace.

How do I love thee, Blogging? Let me count the ways.

1. I can yammer on and on, about anything I want, and no one interrupts me! How cool is that?

2. I can make false assertions, present fiction as fact, describe myself as tall and willowy, and no one corrects me! That's pretty darned cool also.

3. I can say fuck, shit, cunt, prick, fuckety-fuck-fuck, suckety-suck, lickety lick, 69 x 69, and no one censors me.

4. I can make lame jokes, and no one groans (at least I can't hear the groans...).

5. I can pretend that I have friends out there in the ether, even though we've never seen one another, heard each other's voices, or touched, tasted or smelled one another. Maybe, in a way, blogging is kind of a "sixth sense."

6. I can entertain myself by reading the truly clever stuff that some of my favorite bloggers write, like grant miller, katie schwartz, dr. monkey, politits, some guy, spartacus, whineguide, oneman, billstankus and so many others.

7. I can yammer on and on, make false asserions and lame jokes in the "comments" section of other people's blogs, when I'm too lazy to think of something to write about in my own blog.

8. What's not to love?

If It Feels Good, Don't Do It!

This quote from George H. Smith is, to me, a brilliant and concise commentary on what I regard as one of the most unfortunate aspects of the Christian religion.

"Christianity cannot erase man's need for pleasure, nor can it eradicate the various sources of pleasure.

What it can do, however, and what it has been extremely effective in accomplishing, is to inculcate guilt in connection with pleasure.

The pursuit of pleasure, when accompanied by guilt, becomes a means of perpetuating chronic guilt, and this serves to reinforce one's dependence on God.

Christianity, with some exceptions, has never explicitly advocated human misery; it prefers instead to speak of sacrifices in this life so that benefits may be garnered in the life to come.

One invests in this life, so to speak, and collects interest in the next.

Fortunately for Christianity, the dead cannot return for a refund."
-- George H. Smith

Your Body Language Talks Better Than You Do

I watched an interesting History Channel program on body language tonight. The two "experts" who were making the presentation claim that 93% of human communication is through body language. At first I thought, "You guys are nuts!" But by the end of the program I thought, "Shit! Maybe they're right!"

They showed lots of real life examples of things people do with their hands, their shoulders, their eyes, their heads, the way they walk, and so on. Then they analysed the significance of those movements and it made a lot of sense.

The most amusing example was the film footage of Bill Clinton making his Monica denial. "I did not have sexual relations with that woman," he stated firmly. In the meantime, he was poking his index finger in the air in one direction, while his eyes were looking in the opposite direction. Apparently, if someone is telling the truth, his finger and his eyes are pointed in the same direction, preferably at his audience.
The saddest example was poor Richard Nixon during his infamous debate with John Kennedy, back in 1960. The camera focused on him wringing his hands, behind his back, while sweating profusely and looking unhappy. JFK, on the other hand was a perfect picture of self-confidence and poise. You didn't even have to listen to their words, in order to know who would make the better president.
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The "experts" (I wish I could remember their names, but...) talked about body language "coaches" and gave some before and after examples of their training. The most interesting to me was Hillary Clinton. It showed film footage of her, back in the early years of Bill's administration. In public presentations she often looked down, her shoulders slightly forward, and didn't look straight at the camera. Quite the shy lass. But she got some coaching, and look at her now. Standing straight, eyes forward, pointing her finger at various admirers, she is the picture of confidence and authority.
The hand-wringing discussion struck a chord with me. They called it something else, but of course I can't remember what. But essentially it was touching your hand with the other in order to calm and comfort yourself. I know for a fact that I am always fiddling with my hands when I am stressed or uncomfortable.



Of course, facial expressions are a dead giveaway too. They illustrated that with several amusing examples.



Can you imagine what Tony Blair is thinking at this moment?




If you could see my face at this moment, you would probably deduce that I am very sleepy, even if I were to swear I am not.

Maybe I Did, or Maybe I Didn't

Last night I attended a lecture by an author who supposedly knows what he's talking about, on the subject of "Writing the Memoir." I have the attention span of a autistic gnat, so I didn't get much out of it. But I do remember one line that he attributed to someone whose name I can't remember. It was something like, "Writing your memoir is easy. Just make it up as you go along." The lecturer disagreed with that advice, but I like it. After all, who can remember every single detail of every single event in his murky past? And who, upon reading what you have written, could reliably dispute your rendition? He or she may disagree, because, after all, we all take away our own impressions of any given event. But, unless he can produce a documentary video of the event, his word has no more weight than yours. Also, according to Mr. Memoir, it's acceptable to take more liberties with a memoir than an autobiography. So...I think I will discard my fantasies of someday writing my autobiography and replace them with fantasies of writing my memoirs.

Orrrrrr...I can just continue to wander around all day, moving items from spot A to spot B, picking leaves out of the flowerbed, arguing with myself about whether or not it's okay to eat the Peanut Butter Cups left over from Halloween, reading 50 different blogs, working the N.Y. Times crossword puzzles, fantasizing about cleaning out the bulging closets, drawers, attic and basement, and attempting to recover my lost youth.

A Highjacked Meme via Bill Stankus via Willow

The Truth, the Whole Truth, Induced by Self-Coercion

My uncle once: Was so drunk that he let me drive the car from L.A. to Arizona, even though I was only 14 and didn’t know how to drive.

Never in my life: Have I committed suicide.

When I was five: I was ready to quit Kindergarten after the first day, because I was so disgusted that I hadn’t been taught to read and to type.

High school was: Okay, except for Phys Ed, which was one long lesson in humiliation and shame.

I will never forget: The day I finally got the courage to jump out of a swing while it was in motion, on the high upward arc. I was 25 years old.

Once I met: John Wayne. I was 11 years old and was with my mother in a liquor store in Pomona, CA. She was buying cigarettes and chatting with the proprietor. I was perusing the rack of paperback novels, especially the ones with naughty pictures on the covers. John Wayne walked in and went to the counter. Mom and the shopkeeper were electrified. They started talking. I picked out the book with the naughtiest cover and took it to the counter. Without showing the book, I interrupted the adults and asked Mom if she would buy me the book. She said no. I started whining, and Mr. Movie Star said, “I’ll buy you a book. Which one do you want?” I placed the book on the counter and all three adults gasped. Mom said, “You can’t have that!” Mr. Movie Star grabbed his cigarettes and exited the store. We left shortly after. Mom was angry with me for the rest of the day.

Once at a bar: I was trying to act more sophisticated than I was and drank TWO WHOLE Guinness Stouts. I was so drunk that my friends confiscated my keys and drove me home.

By noon I’m usually: Up, showered, dressed and ready for a nap.

Last night: I thought briefly about setting the clocks back an hour, but wasn’t able to hold the thought long enough to actually do it.

If I only had: A heart, some courage and a brain, maybe I could be sympathetic, brave and smart.

Next time I go to church: I will tell the congregation to go home, because god is dead.

What worries me most: No attempt at humor here. I worry most about the possibility of World War.

You’ll know I’m lying when: I say I’m not worried.

What I miss most about the 80’s is: Being able to dance for hours on end. To illustrate how totally “hip” I was…my absolutely favorite dance was the Polish Hop (a particularly vigorous form of Polka).

If I were a character in Shakespeare: I’d be fictitious and talk funny.

A better name for me would be: Esmeralda

I have a hard time understanding: Particle physics.

If I ever go back to school: Please kidnap me and lock me up until I come back to my senses!

You know I like you if: I tell you more about myself than you want to know.

Take my advice, never: Walk down a dark alley at night, while you’re naked and drunk.

My ideal breakfast is: Fresh blueberry muffins and hot cocoa, served to me in bed, by a guy who looks like Rocky I, wearing his “wife-beater” t-shirt.

If you visit my hometown, I suggest you: Carry a gun.

Why won’t people: Stop blowing each other up!

The world could do without: Talk radio.

I’d rather lick the belly of a cockroach than: Shake hands with Dick Cheney.

My favorite blonds are: Fat and homely.

If I do anything well, it’s: Bitch and moan.

And, by the way: I saw what you were doing last night.

Sounds Good..... But.....

Well, I watched the Obama Show. It was good - well executed, well produced and directed. He looked great, sounded great, made a lot of big promises. But, except for the $10 billion a month to be saved by getting out of Iraq, I didn't hear anything about how all of this largesse is to be paid for. On the contrary, he promised a tax reduction for everyone earning less than $200,000 per year. That's most of us. Implied, of course, though I didn't hear him actually say it in this particular ad, is that he will raise taxes on those earning more than $200k. I'm too lazy to do the research and the math, but I doubt that he could raise taxes on the relatively wealthy enough to pay for more than a small part of his lofty promises.

So, where does that leave us, if he gets elected (and I hope he does, as it's better than the alternative)? Answer: It will leave us deeper in debt, borrowing even more from foreign countries to finance our profligate spending. How long can that go on? No one knows, because it's all new territory. We've never had such a huge national debt. And there seems to be no plan to try to reduce it. Instead, we have Santa Obamaclaus with his big sack of goodies, handing them out to all the smiling, wide-eyed, admiring "children."

I just hope his elves don't go on strike.

And The Subject Is...

Okay, the economy is sick and I'm sick of the economy. Let's talk about something else.



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Politics? Hell no! I'm sick of politics.
Well, that pretty much leaves sex. I'm not sick of sex. I love sex. Sex soothes. Sex satisfies. I could go get the dictionary and find some more "s" words to continue in that vein, but I'm not that ambitious. It's Friday night. I'm tired. But I'm not tired of sex. Sex in the sunshine. Sex in the sauna. It's all good. Not that I'm obsessed with sex!
Solitary sex is okay, but not as much fun as shared sex, which can be stunning. Sex is stimulating. Sex is scintillating. But sometimes sex is too short, which can make me sorrowful. So I go elsewhere to seek satisfaction. Not really. I just wanted to use three s-words in one sentence.












Sex in the summer. Sex in the spring. Not so much in the winter. Winter is coming, but I'm not.

So ends my sordid saga.

Apparently, many newspapers refused to print this most excellent cartoon by Berkeley Breathed. He explained their reluctance thus: "Fear doesn't so much rule the wood pulp news industry. More like pee-on-themselves existential terror."

And there you have it, in a buttshell.

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Salon.com recently interviewed Berkeley Breathed about his life after ending his Opus cartoon on November 2. One question was:

Your children's books seem to appeal to your gentler, Charles Schulz side. But how -- without Opus -- will you exercise your Michael Moore side?

BB: I'll be on my couch Sunday mornings screaming at Brokaw and Stephanopoulos to call out the blathering bastards on their stupid fucking talking points and pin the dancing, lying, spinning Tasmanian Weasels down about something, ANYTHING for Christ Bloody Sake THE COUNTRY IS GETTING STEERED INTO CHAOS AND INSOLVENCY AND WAR BY ITS UNREAD UNINFORMED DULLARD SHEEP CONSTITUENCIES AND YOU JUST LET THE CANDIDATE SAY ONE MORE TIME WITHOUT OBJECTION THAT HE'S GOING TO CUT TAXES WHILE HE CALLS FOR FREE 24 KARAT GOLD FRANKFURTERS TO BE INSERTED INTO EVERY AMERICAN'S ASS JUST BECAUSE BUTT BULLION POLLS WELL.

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Has anyone, anywhere, described our current American political scene as well as this?

A Thing By Any Other Name

I have great difficulty in determining what is truly important. I can be very self-centered, and judge importance in terms of how the thing or event affects me, and those whom I love. While I know abstractly that global warming, the credit crisis, rising unemployment and the duplicity of politicians are much more important than my photographs of my children and grandchildren and those few remaining pieces of depression glass that I managed to salvage from the wreckage of my mother's life, I'm pretty sure that I would shed more tears over the loss of those photos and cups than I would over the failure of another bank or brokerage house. (I am also pretty sure that the previous sentence was way too long.)
I will illustrate my lack of sense of perspective with a small example of a recent Z-Meltdown. I had a glass statuette of a three-headed, winged dragon that I prized. It sat on a special stand in front of the window in our living room. It had no great monetary value, but it sparkled in the sunlight and pleased me every time I looked at it. And then, one fateful day, Hubby reached across it to open the blinds and KNOCKED IT OFF THE TABLE AND IT SHATTERED INTO TOO MANY PIECES TO REASSEMBLE (he had broken it before, but into only two pieces, which he was able to mend). I screeched and swore and cried like someone had been killed in front of my eyes. Hubby was defensive and I was unforgiving. We were both unhappy for the rest of the day. Then, at some point, I realized that the glass dragon was just a FUCKING THING, but my husband was the man I love and treasure and need more than any mere object. I apologized, we snuggled, and all was well. I will try hard to remember this example, and save my hysterics for something truly important, like a speeding comet heading straight for Wall Street. OH SHIT!

It's About Time

I have 36 minutes to kill before the "debate" between The Moosehunter and the Bloviator begins. That's 36 minutes of precious time, that could be spent wisely or wasted. Thinking about that makes me think of "time," in general. What is time, anyway? If we didn't use it, would we still have it later? If we waste it, will there be less of it for someone else? If we use it wisely, will be less old when our time is up? How do we "spend" our limited stockpile of time? I can't speak for rest of you, but here are some broad categories of my own time usage:

1. Things I do to survive, some being pleasant (eating) and some not (cooking).

2. Things I do just for fun (playing).

3. Things I do that aren't fun in the doing (working), but have fun results (getting paid).

4. Things I do that are fun in the doing and have fun results (gardening). (Fooled you, huh?)

5. Things I do that are fun, but are bad for me (eating too much chocolate).

6. Things I do that are not fun, but are good for me (sit-ups).

7. Thinking about things that I would do if I had more money.

8. Thinking about things that I would do if I had more time.

9. Thinking about things that I would do if I were older.

10. Thinking about things that I would do if I were younger.

11. Thinking about things I should have done, but now it's too late.

12. Thinking about things I shouldn't have done, but now it's too late.

13. Dreaming up implausible ideas to make unpleasant times go faster and pleasant times go slower.

Hmmm...I still have 15 minutes before the debacle, so I'll work on number 13. Maybe I could invent some kind of "anesthetic" that I could take before performing an unpleasant task. Something that would not impair performance, but would make the chore totally painless and, when finished, be forever banished from my conscious memory. For example, I used to think that I wanted to write a book. But after discovering that writing a book is very hard work and would take a very long time, I realized that what I really want is to have written a book! Then I could just rest on my laurels, rake in the royalties, and retire at my prime. All I have to do is discover some way of putting myself into a state of suspended animation, operating on automatic pilot while the book writes itself. When I wake up, the nanuscript will be all ready to send to the publisher (who has, in the meantime, given me a hefty advance in anticipation of the brilliant tome).

But before I figure out how to induce this "working-trance" state, I think I should devote some time to part 2 of number 13. How to make pleasant times go slower. That will require some consultation with hubby...

Oops! It's time!