AWRIGHT, AWREADY!

Ben commented on my last post, with this powerful rebuttal:

"Different names for different ceremonies sets a very dangerous precedent for inequality. As children we're exposed to all sorts of stories, fairy tales and promises that one day we will fall in love and get married. To then discover that you will never get married, just 'civilly partnered' or 'unioned', just because you are incapable of being attracted to a certain type of person, already makes you feel as if you're not quite part of the human race. A rose by any other name, on this occasion, smells a little token.

I think the real crux is that it really doesn't affect anyone other than the people getting married/partnered/unioned - whatever the name or euphemism. I think that's why the placard-waving masses voting for Prop 8 come across as so unpleasant. What right do such people have to dictate how other people should love each other, and what therefore constitutes a valid expression of that bond?

The most offensive suggestion of all remains that gay men and women should be happy they can "marry" at all now, and thus by extension near-servile for no longer being imprisoned, beaten and murdered. In many parts of the world, they still are."

I have to admit, he has succeeded in making me change my mind. This sentence is particularly moving: "To then discover that you will never get married, just 'civilly partnered' or 'unioned', just because you are incapable of being attracted to a certain type of person, already makes you feel as if you're not quite part of the human race."

Okay guys, get married. As Ben, Lisa, Bill, and DistributorCap all said, it doesn't affect the rest of us, so what's the big deal? And as for a same-sex marriage not fitting the dictionary definition of "marriage," definitions change with time. After all, the word "gay" used to mean "filled with or inspiring mirth..."

A Rose By Any Other Name Still Could Be Legally Binding

While I am a registered Independent, I do tend to be liberal on most social issues. I'm pro-choice, pro-birth-control and pro-sex-ed in the schools. I favor legalization of marijuana. I'm anti-attempts-to-shove-religion-down-my-throat, but the Golden Rule rocks. I'm comfortable with people of other races. I have no problem with gays, lesbians and trans-gender people. "Live and let live" is my motto.

But...and y'all knew there was going to be a "but" in here...I simply cannot understand the fanatical drive by many gays and liberals to try to legalize gay "marriage!" I can understand and am supportive of the wish of same-sex couples to legalize their unions. It is desirable, spiritually and legally, to have their relationship officially recognized. But why insist on calling the union a "marriage?" My Funk & Wagnalls Dictionary defines marriage as "a compact entered into by a man and a woman, based on mutual regard, to live together as husband and wife until separated by death." That's the definition, like it or not! I can call my shoes "gloves," but they're not going to fit on my hands. I can call a red light "green," but if I try to drive through it, I'll have problems. So why not compromise and call the union between a man and a man or a woman and a woman something else? What's wrong with the term, "civil union?" Why insist on using the word "marriage?" I believe that much of the general public's opposition would fade away, if we could compromise on that one point. If you don't like "civil union," think of something else. Invent a new word! New words are added to our lexicon all the time. Call it a "garriage" for gay men and a "larriage" for lesbian women. I'm being silly with those suggestions, of course. But I'm not kidding about the idea of creating a new term for same-sex unions.
What do you think?

If Only...

I'm feeling regretful tonight. I keep thinking of all the things I did that I shouldn't have done and all the things I didn't do that I should have. There is no bigger waste of time and energy than dwelling on the past, yet I can't seem to let it go. My son told me recently that I talk more about the past than anyone he knows. I think (hope) that I don't carry on about my sundry regrets when I'm talking to my kids. I think (hope) that I just tell them stories about my childhood and young adulthood, some of which are amusing, and some are depressing, but interesting (I think and hope). I also enjoy relating anecdotes about their childhoods, which I find amusing, but are met with grim expressions, eye-rolling, and "Please, Mom, not again!"

As for the regrets, I am playing with the idea of developing some sort of ritual that will help me purge myself of them, once and for all. Maybe I could write them down on post-it notes, one per page, and then ball up the page, one at a time, and burn them. Or flush them down the toilet, one whole flush for each note. I'll need a mental acknowledgement and reinforcement of the act. Perhaps a spoken affirmation of the purge and the resulting freedom from guilt - a little mantra I can recite with each flush or flame.

Okay, I'm going to work on it now. I'll let you know how it goes...

HAIKUCKOO

It was just Wham-Bam

You did not say "Thank-you-ma'am"

You have no manners

I try to play fair

But I always come in last

Only cheaters win

Give me those flowers

I will crush them underfoot

I will break your heart

What? I can't hear you

Are you begging for mercy

Ha! Don't make me laugh

Okay, I give up

I can't make myself hate you

I love you too much

Let's try it again

This time let me be on top

Ah...that's much better

Growing Pains

Today I took a break from playing with myself and worked in the garden. I spaded a 6' x 8' area. I spread composted manure. I raked it all smooth. I planted five 6' rows of seeds, one each of Simpson lettuce, some kind of exotic lettuce mixture, peas, carrots and Swiss chard. Then I came back into the house, took a double dose of ibuprofin, and curled up on the bed, moaning (with pain, not pleasure). Tomorrow I will attempt to duplicate that performance and add another six feet to the length of the five rows. But if my latent masochism will not rise to the challenge...well, at least I have those first seeds launched. And I should be recovered enough by Saturday to resume the project.

Gardening is probably the only domestic chore that I enjoy. My father was an avid gardener and when I was a little girl I was happy to help him, however I could. I have fond memories of Daddy showing me how to prepare the soil and plant the seeds. Then, when they sprouted and reached a certain height, he showed me how to thin the plants. He was a big, strong hard-working man, with big, rough hands. But when he was thinning the carrots or lettuce, he was amazingly precise and almost gentle. Though he's been gone for twenty-two years, I think of him every single time I work in

the garden, and even though I'm a die-hard atheist and don't believe in an afterlife, I can feel him looking over my shoulder, smiling his approval.

Do It Yourself !

Can someone please explain to me why we are taught that masturbation is "wrong?" It feels good. It doesn't hurt anyone. You can't get pregnant doing it. You can't get venereal disease from doing it. You don't have to take a shower first, if you don't want to. No one has to be "in the mood" but you. What's not to like?

But no! We are made to feel guilty and ashamed of doing it. When I was a child, I "knew" that I was a verrrrry bad girl for "playing with myself." I don't remember now how this knowledge was imparted to me, but it was intense. I continued to think this as I grew older. When I started dating, the "dates" always ended up with a wild necking session in the back seat of the boyfriend's car. For the first couple of years, I managed to avoid "going all the way," but the necking always got me so hot and bothered that when I got home and went to bed I could not sleep until Mr. Hand did his dirty work. Then I would be flooded with guilt and promise myself I would never do it again. But then, Saturday night, the drive-in movie, and my resolve would go up in smoke. When I got married the first time, my husband had no clue (and very little interest) how to satisfy me, so I was still on my own. But again...shame followed every episode of self gratification.

Fortunately, I finally outgrew that curse. Renouncing religion helped a lot. Embracing logic helped even more. I remember asking myself, "What on earth is wrong with it? Who does it hurt? How can it be bad to make yourself feel good?" And then it occurred to me that there may be some evolutionary reason for the human arm to be just the right length to easily place one's hand on one's genitals! Ahhhhhhh...!
And oh, how I would like to place my hand on this cowboy's genitals...


Mind you, I'm not recommending "rubbin' the nubbin" or "rockin' the cock" in public! And I have a long way to go before I'd be able to write a post like Captain Smack's "Interesting things I have done to my penis" or write a story like Phillip Roth's "Portnoy's Complaint," where he describes in excruciating detail what he did with some raw calf liver, but this post is a start.

The Big "O"

My first "real" job (9 to 5, weekly paycheck, dictatorial boss) was at a K-Mart in Salt Lake City, back in the '70s. The bosses were all male and the underlings all female. I was full of feminist ideals that had no chance of being realized, and was always boiling with unexpressed rebellion. Since I was married at that time to the king of MCPs (that's Male Chauvinist Pigs, for all you ignorant youngun's out there), I had a double whammy of sexist suppression. My co-workers were an interesting mix of up-tight Mormons and would-be hippies. Even some of the Mormon ladies were longing to be free. I think I was the only California transplant in our little crowd, and my relatively liberal talk and mannerisms aroused suspicion in some and admiration in others. After a few months of employment, I had become friendly with 4 or 5 women and we would have lunch together almost every day.


We had a good time discussing how we detested our jobs, how frustrated we were with our lives and...you guessed it...our sex lives. One day, the subject concerned the female orgasm, or lack thereof. Jill said, "I've never had an orgasm with my husband. If I don't do it myself, it just doesn't happen." Jan claimed that, "Oh, my husband is a wonderful lover. I come every time." We all looked at her, in surprise. I said, "Really?" She blushed. "Well, almost every time." Julie said, "Well, your husband probably knows something about foreplay. My husband's idea of foreplay is to let me look at his boner for a few seconds before jumping me." We all laughed. Then, sweet, slow, little Jeannie, who had been quiet until then, chimed in. "Some women don't even know what an organism is!" Somehow, we all managed to stifle our giggles and I resisted the urge to say something like, "I think most of us know that 'an organism' is a living being..." Instead, we all muttered things like, "Yeah, that's right, poor dears," and then it was time to go back to work.

Ten years later, I fell under the spell of Pan-man. His exquisite lovemaking made me realize that, until then, *I* had not known what an orgasm could be. He was an organism like no other.

Company's Coming!

So...I had to tidy up. First...I hung my shell art that I made a couple of years ago. These two pieces have been moldering away in the basement, but now they are prominently displayed. I think they are pretty. I can't draw or paint, but boy can I glue!

Then....I dusted! You should have seen my dust cloth when I was done. No, you shouldn't have. No one but I, the negligent perpetrator, should be subjected to that disgusting sight.

First, I dusted the desk, and all the tschochkes on it.

Then, the shadow box in the kitchen. It took almost a half-hour, by the time I finished fussing with them. Everything had to be just right!

Finally, the window sill in the living room. Isn't it exotic looking? I just love all the little doo-dads I have all over the house. The only drawback is that it takes forever to dust all of them.

Well, that was boring, wasn't it? Next time I'll talk about sex. I can hardly wait!

Talk Radio Blows

According to certain blowhards who spew their nonsense over the radio waves for three hours a day (that's three hours for each blowhard, one after another, from noon until midnight), five days a week, our feckless country is heading, full-tilt, toward SOCIALISM, maybe even FASCISM! These dire predictions are based on the actions of the evil BARACK HUSSEIN OBAMA in his first six weeks in the hot seat. (The fattest of the blowhards has taken to including President Obama's middle name in his references to him, as though Obama had chosen that name himself.)


Apparently, neither of the afternoon blowhards has access to a dictionary, or they might not be so cavalier in their accusations. I, however, have my trusty 1947 Funk and Wagnalls New College Standard Dictionary (inherited from my father) by my side, and I will share with you the official definitions of "socialism" and "fascism."

Socialism: A theory of political and economic organization advocating public collective ownership of the means of production, public collective management of all industries, and production for need and use instead of profit.

Fascism: Any authoritarian, anti-democratic, anti-socialistic (emphasis is mine) system of government in which economic control by the state, militaristic nationalism, propaganda, and the crushing of opposition by means of secret police emphasize the supremacy of the state over the individual.

Okay, let's start with socialism. Call me naive, but I'm pretty darned sure that Obama has no ideological fantasies of the government owning and managing all production and industries. I think he's just trying to shovel cash their (banks and auto manufacturers) way, hoping to shore them up until they can dig themselves out of the hole they're in. And to keep it from looking like an out-and-out handout (like the crazyass TARP fiasco, which OBAMA HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH), the government is taking part ownership in the businesses. I'm not sure this is all a great idea, but my thirty-year-old Bachelor's Degree in Economics does not qualify me to second-guess the "experts."
Now, fascism. The blowhard who throws this term around sounds as though he thinks fascism is an extreme form of socialism! I believe that Communism is the more appropriate term for an extreme form of socialism and I would like to remind him that in WWII the Communist Russians were fighting, tooth and nail, against the Fascist Nazis! And that is the least of the problem with using that vile word in connection with Obama's fledgling government. Look at the definition again, Mr. Big Fat Idiot, and tell me what part of it you can honestly say you believe applies to our democratically elected, knocking-himself-out-trying-to-unify-us President.

Unlike some blowhards, I don't want President Obama to fail. I want him to succeed, because if he succeeds, we all succeed. Even if I don't agree with everything he's doing, I respect him and his team and am willing to concede that they know more than I do about the dire straits we seem to be in. To those who oppose the actions of the administration, I say fine! We're a democracy. Let's hear your plan! Don't just stir the pot of discontent and rebellion if you don't have any ideas of your own, other than constantly invoking the memory of that senile old fart, Ronald Reagan.

"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