Imperfect Reason

Moving on and ever onward

2010-01-13T11:17:00.003-05:00

I have moved my blog to Word Press mostly because I can. I have my other history blog over there and really like the way it works. So, please feel free to try this spot.

Imperfect Reason <---- this is a link, although it doesn't show very well. See, an issue.

Please stop this now

2009-09-16T16:03:00.001-04:00

I rather feel sorry for President Obama. I don't like the way his running the country into the poor house and I would never, ever vote for him. But, I feel sorry for him.

His defenders can't stop noticing he's black. Any time someone – like me, say – dislikes his policies and disagrees with his over abundant spending habits, that person is all of a sudden a racist. Maybe we don't like his policies because we don't like his policies. However, his defenders come to his "aid" and call anyone not backing up his ridiculous propositions as being racist.

The poor man can't win for losing. He is a socialist and therefore I don't like him. He wants to tax and spend not only me and my children, but my grandchildren and great-grandchildren into oblivion. He had the most liberal spending record of anyone in the Senate prior to arriving at his new office. It isn't surprising he is willing to spend us all into nothingness. But I can't like him for it; I can't support his policies.

This has nothing to do with his skin color. It has to do with his fiscal irresponsibility. Saying a national health plan won't increase spending or taxes is ludicrous. Where is the nearly trillion dollars coming from? It is coming from the taxpayers. Right now, people without insurance can continue to buy food and clothing while paying for shelter and forego the purchase of insurance. They can also buy vacations and what-not while foregoing the purchase of insurance, but that's a different story.

If there is a national health plan, it will need to be funded. And it will be funded by taxes. Taxes aren't optional. They just take the money and spend it without any conscience whatsoever. The people who are going to be funding this program are the people who can't afford to buy their own insurance. Taxes are withheld before you buy your groceries or pay your rent. You don't even get to decide if you want to buy what the government is buying. They just take your money from you and buy what they think you want.

It is how the government works. Telling me any different is lying. They make a program that looks good on paper without thinking of all the side effects. It is like the law in Nebraska allowing children to be safely dropped off at hospitals after birth, except without a cut off date. Someone drove from Florida to drop their kids off. Lawmakers didn't think it through adequately.

Same with most socialist programs. President Johnson decided we would have a Great Society and instituted plans to make sure no one was neglected who could not care for themselves. What he and Congress didn't realize was the devastating side effects. Instead of fathers/husbands working to support their families, they abandoned them so the government would pay for the dependent children. And what we got was the destruction of inner city families.

Congress is good at looking at their programs intent without looking at loopholes or unintended side effects. There are plenty in the health care plan. But, since we are so focused on the health care plan, no one is watching the borders of our country. Instead of making sure we have safe borders, we are going to be giving amnesty, along with lots and lots of money to illegal aliens who ask for it. I'm not sure if the health care plan is even the real plan, or just a smoke screen to be able to pass a whole raft of stupid laws allowing a whole bunch of stupid things to happen.

And I say all this knowing I don't like the current President's policies. I don't really care what color his skin is. I can dislike what he says and does just fine regardless of his tan. And I wish his defenders would come up with something other than accusing anyone who disagrees with him of being racist. It isn't a racial thing; it's a socialist thing.

Family Saga

2009-08-29T14:16:00.002-04:00

I can't be the only person who is tired of hearing what a saint the late Senator Edward Kennedy was. Because I don't wish to incite a riot and all that, I've kept silent. But every time someone mentions his death, I want to hear how Mary Jo must be "so happy" to see him again.

Mary Jo Kopkechne died on July 19, 1969 when a completely sober (according to the Senator) man lost his way and drove his car off the Chappaquiddick bridge. This completely sober and caring individual claimed to have been lost and still managed to be driving fast enough to not only drive off the bridge, but to flip the car over.

He managed to extricate himself from the wreck. He claims he dove several times to find the passenger in the car. Unsuccessfully. He was able to contact several people, however none of them were authorities. One assumes it was his father, the bankroll, and some cronies. When the car was discovered, well, good old Ted had answers.

Since enough time had passed, there was no sense in doing a blood alcohol level. Ted Kennedy, known for his ability to drink somehow was not drinking on this one night. He was given a two month suspended sentence for leaving the scene of an accident. Most people who kill someone in a car accident are charged with manslaughter, but if you have enough money, that's not always true.

Mary Jo was an only child and 28 years old at the time of her death.

Forty years later, Ted the Saint, is dead. This incident has haunted him all his life, poor baby. And it was instrumental in his inability to launch a Presidential run. Poor man. His political dreams dashed all because he killed someone. What unjust punishment.

All I want to do is scream. The rich, white guy killed someone and left the scene. If any of us regular folk did that, we wouldn't be walking around free, let alone sitting in the Senate making laws for only other people to follow.

The Kennedy saga continues with his son, the cocaine using OxyContin abusing Representative from Rhode Island. The guy who helped his cousin get away with rape, the guy who keeps getting drunk and wrecking his cars, although admittedly, he isn't the man his father was, he doesn't kill anyone.

How does a family go from the PT-109 to this?

Dying to be Healthy

2009-08-13T10:01:00.000-04:00

I'm getting older by the minute. We all are, but it starts to catch up with us after a certain point in time. The aging process is inexorably moving toward entropy. And it is my job to stave off that finality for as long as possible. Or something like that.

Mostly I'm worried about my clothes. I have a lot of clothes. Many, many pieces of clothing fill a walk-in closet, a double closet, a dresser, two chests of drawers, and a smaller antique washstand. Then there are Christmas sweaters stored under my bed, a few items in storage upstairs, and my coats.

I have lots of clothes because I've stayed relatively the same size for most of my adult life. Many of my clothes are over ten years old, but still look like new. When you have this much stuff to choose from, you don't need to wear the same thing all the time. So stuff doesn't get worn out. That, and I'm old and take good care of my possessions. So, my clothes last a long time and I keep buying more. I could off load some, but … I'm sure I will want to wear it some day, some where for some event I might have to attend. Although I rarely attend events anymore, this is always a looming possibility.

My clothes are important to me. And so, my self has to stay the same size as my clothes. This isn't as easy as it once was. I used to be quite active. Now – not so much. My fingers get a great workout as I type and my right hand is "awesome" after a brisk workout with the mouse. Otherwise, I'm pretty stationary. I just sit here and – well, sit. Unless I bring a snack into my office and eat while I sit.

This is not working out as well as I might have hoped. I'm gaining weight. I stopped drinking coffee all day long and instead of two pots per day, I'm down to three cups – okay, mugs. But still only three. But I keep going into the kitchen, looking for coffee, and find food instead. Also not a good dieting plan.

I was religiously using the elliptical until I hit some sort of brick wall in February. Then I stopped. A trip to the doctor's office revealed a bit of an anomaly with my blood work and a repeat test reiterated the fact. I'm getting older and all this sitting isn't the best exercise plan in the world. I would be healthier if I moved more.

So I fired up the elliptical again. I began slowly and have gotten a bit more aggressive with time. I'm up to P4 or the fourth preset program. There are thirteen of these. I was up to P8 when I quit in February. So five times a week (I have Fridays and Sundays off) I do thirty minutes of self torture. I'm not seeing that it is really doing me any good. I'm not losing weight – although that probably has a lot more to do with intake rather than expenditure.

I've taken to hooking up the Wii again and doing the step routine for ten minutes. It gives me nearly a thousand steps up and down. I can manage ten minutes of absolute boredom, but just barely. I'm not sure what else I could do while marching up and down; back and forth. But it is mind crushingly boring to do this. It also helps me focus when I sit back down, so it isn't all bad.

I wear a heart rate monitor on the elliptical. The Wii isn't strenuous as it will only let me go so fast and still count the steps. I have my heart rate set to yell at me when I get over 160 beats per minute. It does, on occasion have to tell me to slow down. Some days I watch it more closely than others.

Today, the alarm never went off. However, I was getting light headed by the end of the thirty minutes. I had to power my way through the last few minutes, telling myself it would soon be all over. I went slowly and didn't get my usual mileage in. I have no idea why some days are so difficult. Two days ago, my heart rate monitor beeped at me three times and I never felt bad. Today, I felt bad and the monitor was happy.

I just keep forcing myself to do this. I hope my next trip to the doctor's office shows some improvement. Otherwise, I have no idea how I will bribe myself to continue.

Keep America Beautiful

2009-08-06T09:41:00.001-04:00

That was a slogan years ago to stop Americans from littering. We were supposed to care enough about our country to want to keep the roadways, highways and byways, and country lanes all clean and free of clutter. It has mostly worked.

There are, however, some people who flaunt the rules of the general population and purposely set up roadside litter. They call them "memorials" or some such thing. When someone dies in a motor vehicle accident, it somehow means "you are permitted to litter here" and society has come to accept it.

I don't.

Get your memorials out of here. If you don't die on a road, you don't get a second cross or angel set up in your honor. When we sold Mom's house, we did not demand the new owners keep a cross to her memory set up in the house. We have Mom buried in a cemetery and there is a memorial to her THERE.

I'm not sure which is the more annoying to me. There was a horrible crash up at the corner of our development. An unlicensed, illegal alien was driving a old beat up pickup truck. He rammed into a stopped car so hard, the car was propelled across the median and struck by oncoming traffic. The speed limit is 55 mph there. I'm guess there were three deaths.

It was all horrible. I feel really sorry for the bereaved family. The man driving the pickup is probably in jail now, but that doesn't help them. Neither does the third (possibly fourth) shrine they have set up along the road side. Those of us who know the story still don't really care. I'm sorry if that sounds harsh, but really – I don't care. I know it is all horrible and I used to be sorry for you. Now, I just wish you would take your trash and grieve on your own time. It has been years now.

Then there are the people who put up a shrine along the road because they are so bereft. Years pass. They never touch it again. It deteriorates and looks even crappier. I would like to see the trash pickers who go down the streets at times take these heaps of litter and dispose of them.

Even more upsetting to me is the outpouring of community support when a small child is killed. Outside the child's home or at the scene of whatever terrible event occurred, there are mounds of stuffed teddy bears or plush toys. This doesn't help the poor child. That kid is gone and beyond the need for toys. I would love to see some enterprising soul come by and take all the donated and useless toys to the nearest homeless shelter or abused women's shelter or the closest welfare office. Give the toys to kids who don't have any but can still play with them.

All in all, this outpouring of public grief is ridiculous. The public doesn't really need to be so involved in your private life. That is why it is called "private" life – it is yours, privately.

If we don't want to just use cemeteries for our remembrance of those who died before us, perhaps we can just do away with them. They aren't being as useful as they can.

Or maybe we can simply stop littering the roads. I don't need to know this stuff. And I'm usually thinking "So that's where the drunk guy was." Unless I'm thinking "So that's where the driver fell asleep at the wheel." Or maybe perhaps, "I guess that speed really does kill." What I never think is "God, bless this soul." I'm too busy being disgusted by the mess.

Love you, baby

2009-07-22T10:58:00.002-04:00

I have been derelict in my duties. And I've been feeling really, really guilty about it. I've wasted so much energy feeling guilty, I could have used it all to do what I should have been doing instead of feeling guilty about not doing it. Such is the way of humans.

I have been maintaining daily posts on my Word Press Little Bits of History blog. I have been maintaining daily posts for Examiner.com. For the first, I usually have to polish or add or improve the text before I post it. Little Bits of History is from the first volume, something I've never been that happy with. But to put it out in front of the world, just in case, I have to fix it. Examiner, on the other hand, needs links and pictures. So while I don't have to polish the text, it takes me a fair amount of time to find the extras.

I've been moderating one forum and my DSis/baby – also known to me as Cheri and to the forum as Time Pig) – has gotten me to join another forum. She also talked me into Skype and Facebook. All great ways to spend time. Time I will never get back. Spent and gone. And instead of doing this, writing on my first blog, I fritter away time doing essentially nothing.

And it isn't like I don't have important news. Francesca Rose was born on June 29. She was absolutely perfect and hasn't changed since. Well, she is already getting bigger and stronger, but she is still perfect. She was born via Cesarean section at 7 PM. Cheri was in town visiting (she comes for all my granddaughters' births) and we were at the hospital – after a stop at Carter's Outlet – the very next day.

I got to hold Frankie before she was 24 hours old. Eight pounds, three ounces and 21 inches of perfection. Soft and mushy. Cuddly and wiggly. Eyes startled wide with wonder at this bright place.

The baby and her parents were home by the weekend and not having the sense God gave spit, we descended on them again. Nothing a new mother wants more, especially after surgery, than to have in-laws drop by. But … I needed a baby fix. And so I got one. I was a baby hog and monopolized our time with the sweetest newborn on the planet.

The next weekend, the new parents and the old parents were requesting a break. We stayed away from the babies and luxuriated in old cootness. We even went out to dinner using our gas money for a meal out.

But this past weekend, we were back again. We celebrated Morgan's birthday, which is always fun. Little kids have no trouble with expressing greed. Pure greed. It's great. Oh, to be young again.

Before we hit that party, we stopped by Frankie's house and talked to her parents while I held and stroked and kissed and loved this new member of our family.

Frankie, we are your people. We are here for you. Today, tomorrow, forever. You are the best newborn we got. And I should have told you that sooner. I did whisper it to you. Now I will shout it to the world. Love you, baby.

Friends

2009-05-28T10:03:00.001-04:00

My best friend from childhood lived in the house behind mine, diagonally. A quick run through our back yards and we were together.

My best friend from high school lived about two miles from my house, as driven in my car – okay, my mother's car. Closer as the crow flies, but neither of us were crows, so we drove or had to be driven.

My young adult friends were neighbors or coworkers. Close at one part of the day or another.

In 1996, we got our second computer and it had a modem. I was not very computer savvy, but I did have AOL and could finally send and receive e-mail and met many nice people in chat rooms. My community of friends now spanned the globe.

This new phenomenon, friends you have never met, isn't really entirely new. In ages past, there was something called "pen pals" and people who had never met would write long letters to each other with weeks or months or even years passing between correspondence. They knew they were separated by distances too great to travel, but they still wrote.

Some were established in school days as a teacher's project and kept going. Some were people interested in some topic and writing to others who were like minded, some famous and some not. Some of these pen pal letters blossomed into more. Elizabeth Barrett met Robert Browning this way.

Beginning in 1996, my insular world became global. I could instantaneously communicate with people on every continent. It was amazing. You can't imagine the speed of a 2400 baud modem as compared to the Pony Express.

With this new method of communication came a new set of problems. For me, a word person, one of them was what in the hell do I call these people? They aren't acquaintances since I've never met them. In fact, one could have walked past me at any time and I wouldn't have known. They weren't friends for I hardly knew them. I mean, how much of what we say online is the honest, to goodness, all out truth.

I never told about the stupid things I did. I never confessed to being less than the picture I wanted to paint. This realm was a world where I could remake myself in my own image. I wouldn't be petty or mean spirited. I wouldn't be a klutz or graceless. I would deliver the perfect bon mot or riposte in each verbal dual. Who would know any different? And how many other people were going to reveal their flaws and so why should I? So, how well did any of know each other. That's not real and it's not friends.

That's what I told myself.

But I've been online for over a decade now. I'm a little more comfortable calling my long standing … I still don't know what to call them, really. We write back and forth. We celebrate and commiserate. We share successes and console over failures.

And now, I not only have e-mail, I'm involved in forums where people are dear to me. I know so much about so many of my friends, but not how they look. They could still walk right past me and I wouldn't know them. But when something happens, it is real. Cyber is the way we converse, but cyber isn't where my heart lies.

I still care about people and there are real people on the other end of the electron stream. Many of them I have come to know. I'm still talking to people I first met in an AOL chat room over a decade ago. I'm closer to my online friends than I am with old neighbors from places where I used to live. I still e-mail with them, but not as frequently. Unless I have no e-mail address, then it's once a year Christmas letters.

But I still feel funny. Some of my best friends, some of the people I run toward to share my happy moments, reach toward for consolation in sad times, and offer a virtual shoulder to when times are tough for them … these people are "virtual" in the world of electronics. But they are real in my heart.

What happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas. What happens online remains with me cherished and tended. My friends. Yes, they are my friends.

Sied, I've know your first name for a long time, but you are sied to me and always will be. Dear friend, I miss you already. Though we never met, we talked on the phone a couple times and we were … what? Internet Idiots? Cyber Sidekicks? Network Ninnies? Friends. Coworkers. Supporters. Cheerleaders. Always just a click away.

Sleep well. Your friends are still rooting for you.

Too Many Outlets?

2009-05-25T10:19:00.001-04:00

I have been writing. Really.

I signed up for a 31 days to a better blog and then opted to start a whole different blog in a whole different place to see how that went. I can write without a problem. My problem lies in the marketing aspect of my writing.

I have been writing my Little Bits of History for about three and a half years now. They were published, in an abbreviated form at RGQ for a little more than three years. But I hit a roadblock. It wasn't so much writer's block as a sense of failure or maybe just disappointment.

I have had my essays looked at by a real book publisher at a writer's seminar. She said they were a great idea, but she was a fiction editor and had no idea where to tell me to look for a publisher. She gave me names, I looked, they weren't the right venue either. I'm not even now sure of the right venue. As I said, I'm a writer, not a marketer.

But, with the 31 days thing, I needed something to do for 31 days. I have all these already written essays on my computer. My first year's essays are not quite up to my current standard. I have learned many things in the threes plus years of actually writing day in and day out. I believe my newer essays are better than my older ones.

So I decided to polish up my old essays. I use what's there, but give them a little extra and get them more in line with my current standards. Then I posted them in a Word Press blog. According to my 31 days thing, I needed to market. No matter how brilliant one's writing, it is useless without the reader.

I belong to two different writing forums (and a history forum and a trivia forum). Well, I'm signed up a third writing forum, but am inactive there. It's just way too large. In the writing forums, I posted links to my history essays at Word Press.

A couple of exciting things have since happened. One of my writing forums is run by a fellow Carolinian and he directed me to Examiner.com. They are now allowing me to publish my essays there. Only this one lets me do some other spiffy things. I get to be paid, for one thing. Not much and it would be more if I got more hits.

However, each day it tells me how many hits my page got, how many are average for my city outlet, and how many are average for my topic area. I'm consistently higher than the average. So thanks to any and all who are clicking on my writing. Readers are just great.

Dave is also a member of one of my writing forums. He has recently published an e-booklet on blogging. He included my Little Bits of History as one of his examples on writing a blog. Thanks so much, Dave.

But that got me to thinking. I've been writing. Really. I have daily historical essays put up on two different sites and they are completely different topics. But I've been so busy with writing, buffing things up, finding links, finding pictures I'm permitted to use, getting everything posted, updating links at other sites, and all the myriad details – I've neglected to write here.

So, here is this.
Here is Little Bits of History.
Here is Examiner.com.

Reading for Understanding

2009-05-11T09:50:00.000-04:00

We all live in the same world together. Some of us, regardless of what anyone says, are smarter than average and some are sadly dumber than average. This has little to do with basic intelligence, but a lot to do with our understanding of how the world works.

In the US we all get to go to school for free, if we choose, up to the 12^th grade. Some schools are better than other. Some schools are better funded, some have a better clientele, some have better staff, some have better surroundings.

Schools today are doing way too much socializing. They have to because the parents are not properly teaching their children things they have to know to get along in the world. So the teacher has to explain the word "no" means "no" and isn't contingent upon the whine level of the frustrated soul who simply wants to hoard all the blocks and not share with the group.

Sharing is important in the world at large. We don't usually have to share something as meaningless as blocks, but we share space, the roads, our community, our tax dollars, etc. We all have to know how to deal with frustration and the world telling us "no" all dang day long.

You don't think the world does this? When is the last time you drove anywhere? Did you only have green lights? I hate to have to stop. I think it would be really cool if every traffic signal was green for me. But I stop at each red light because if we all disobeyed the traffic lights, none of us could drive. We have been socialized.

So schools are teaching too many kids what "no" means because they haven't yet learned this by the age of five. This is cutting into important time available to teach.

We need this teaching because we need to know stuff. We need the back story or we can't understand what in the world anyone is talking about currently. Educated people pull up for reference the history they have learned for current events. When someone says "Sistine Chapel" they aren't thinking some small backwoods church, but envisioning the huge, elaborately decorated cathedral in Rome. We don't need to go into the whole back story, we can talk about whatever current event is taking place.

When parents are told to read to their children and they shrug it off, they are teaching their children. They are teaching them bad things, but they are teaching them nonetheless. There are so many excuses why they can't read to their kids. The reasons are 1. too busy, 2. too lazy, or 3. illiterate themselves.

Here is a plan for the illiterate parents. Our schools have done a great job in teaching students to decode words. Most people in the US who can't read are not illiterate, but functionally illiterate. They can read the words, but they can't make any sense out of them. That is because they don't have the back story. Writing, like speaking, means you start somewhere and it is usually in the middle of the story. If someone doesn't pull up the entire mental picture of the Sistine Chapel, the following story will not make any sense. We need the back story.

If you have a limited vocabulary and a limited understanding and aren't sure how to go about reading with your children, here is how to help everyone. Public libraries as well as school libraries have two distinct sections. There is a fiction section and there is "fact" section. The fact books are sorted by numbers on the spine. This is the Dewey Decimal System. Each number represents subject matter.

Within each number are smaller numbers. I remember 636 as being pets or animals. So a 636.01 book is about a specific animal. These books are written at various comprehension levels. Some are written for primary grades, some are written for middle school understanding levels, some are written for adults. If the parents read the beginning books to their children, not only will the children learn, but so will the adults.

Beginning books have a smaller, more limited vocabulary. They explain what the words mean. Many give pronunciation guides for difficult words. They tell the back story. If you begin with these easiest books and work your way up through more difficult books, everyone benefits. Everyone.

The child benefits, the parent or caretaker benefits, the schools benefit, and society benefits. Both the child and adult will increase their understanding of the back story. Both the child and adult will improve their literacy rating. And most important, the child will learn that reading is a skill to be savored.

Everyone can move a little further to the right on that curve of who is smart and who isn't. Knowing the back story gives you an edge and lets you learn more, read better, and improves your chances in this scary world.

And if at all possible, learn what the word "no" means.

Prolific Spending

2009-05-03T11:09:00.002-04:00

I will admit right up front, I do not think of President Obama as The Savior or even a prince. I think he is an ill-equipped man facing an impossible job. I don't know if anyone was properly equipped for this disaster, but a junior senator was not it.

So, what have our tax dollars been spent on this past week? Mr. Most Biggest Spender of the Senate has remained true to his past and helped us with our economy this week.

First there was the Swine Flu Pandemic to deal with. This media event was brought to you by inaccurate media hype and frightened people in the streets clamoring for safety. The idiots in charge have gone so far as to appease the media circus by actually wiping out the disease with a stroke of a pen. The World Health Organization stopped Swine Flu by naming it Influenza A H1N1 because that is much easier to deal with.

The media continue to call it Swine Flu because no one is going to continually write out that Influenza A H1N1 crap. Too much shift key involved. And, no one would know what you were talking about or the local idiot on the street would think there was a second killer flu out to decimate the over crowded planet.

At least the WHO is now showing Influenza A H1N1 updates when searching for Swine Flu updates. They aren't top on the list and the most recent thing looks like it is from last month, but they are parsing now.

More people have died of not the Swine Flu since the pandemic was announced than have died of this horrific killer. The media is now pointing out that many well people are flooding hospital emergency rooms because they have been scared half to death by the media telling them we are all going to die of Swine Flu and these silly people believed what they read or heard.

What has our Savior done? Well according to the press, "President Barack Obama has asked Congress for $1.5 billion in emergency funding, but it's unlikely that money would trickle down to local agencies."

Okay, what was this supposed to be for? Well, we needed to stockpile Tamiflu and Relenza. Apparently the evil drug manufacturers who prey on the unsuspecting public at all times trying like hell to just make an extra buck off the ill and infirm, were too stupid to see this money making bonanza. The government needed to waste $1.5 billion in some effort to … what? Did the drug manufacturers need to be forced to produce a hot selling item? This has never happened before.

What else was in the news this week? Chrysler went belly up. Well, they filed Chapter 11. This is after Chrysler Financial got a $1.5 billion bailout in January. This week, they got just a measly, pitiful $500,000 but it's not sure how that is going to really work, since they just filed that whole chapter thing. There is also a couple hundred million, okay, $280,130,000 set aside to cover Chrysler warranties. This doesn't count the billions of dollars also given to the other car makers. This is just Chrysler's share of my money.

I think I am supposed to feel bad for the CEO of Chrysler who will be leaving without any golden parachute. Pity. Mr. Nardelli left Home Depot after earning $32 million his last year and with a $210 million golden parachute. I sure hope he doesn’t end up on welfare now that he is going to have to not get millions of dollars for failing. He, like Lee Iacocca, took only a nominal salary while at Chrysler. He, unlike Iacocca, failed.

The UAW is, of course, distraught. Their bargaining power has just weakened with the forced closing (for at least two months) of Chrysler manufacturing plants. And this, right after they didn't ask for more money. So Obama, the UAW, and Chrysler all lied to the little guy who apparently hadn't noticed that no one is buying cars and so there is no real need to make any more right now, thank you very much. Go home now.

Those individual citizens who over extended themselves after President Clinton changed the laws on lending aren't given the same backing. Their bad choices lead to their own downfall. I just hope all the people who have had their homes taken away from them will get back on their feet and start being able to share the tax burden. Big Government needs their input.

Good Drivers Gone Bad

2009-04-17T14:45:00.000-04:00

Most drivers think they are above average in their ability to maneuver motor vehicles. Way more than half of drivers believe they are in the top half. They probably drive as well as they compute mathematical problems.

Many drivers use their cell phones while cruising down the road. Some are merely chatting while others are texting their many close friends. Most who do this insist it does not impair their ability to control their cars, trucks, or SUVs. And yet …

While sharing the road with the above named drivers, one is often able to witness erratic behaviors. Vehicles bob and weave, speed up briefly, and then slow down. They are inattentive and have difficulty wending their way amidst the hazards on the road or even something as simple as turning a corner. (It was the turning a simple corner that got this idea started today.) When the out of control vehicle can finally be passed safely, invariable the driver is: 1.) older than dirt and nagged God at the creation or 2.) on the phone.

We all know how annoying those old people can be. They can't see or hear well, their judgment is impaired, and reaction times have slowed. Old people grew up in times when things were slower. The speeds on the nation's highways go faster than ever. They are timid and unsure and get in the way of the people with Places To Go.

Those people, the ones with Destinations, are on the phone updating their wide group of friends about the erratic driving of the old coot in front of the caller. As soon as possible, they whip around the offending old person, oblivious of oncoming traffic or barely missing another car while changing lanes. The old fart is passed, the caller resumes (only if we are all lucky) the driving lane, becomes engrossed in a new conversation, and slows down by at least twenty miles per hour.

Then I, the driver behind them both, get a chance to once again compare and contrast the bad drivers in front of me. Frankly, I don't see much difference. Driving is a privilege and a responsibility. If you are too old and feeble, I'm terribly sorry but you don't belong on the road. You are danger to yourself and others. If you are on the phone – Hang up and drive. You are just as much a danger as the old fart you despise.

When Would You Like to Have Lived?

2009-04-15T11:49:00.001-04:00

This is a great topic to explore. It was posed on my Writers' Forum a while ago. I've also joined a History Forum and it is a question there, as well.

What would have been your ideal place in history? We look at history books and decide when it would have been a great time to live.

Well, first of all, I'm female. So unless I only step back less than a hundred years, I have to give up my first class citizenship and become an automatic second class citizen just by virtue of my gender. I won't have the rights and freedoms I currently enjoy. Sorry, that's the reality of history.

If I were male or willing to give up my autonomy, I could travel back in time and perhaps be … well, a serf. Most people were not free no matter where they lived until democratic practices came into fashion. Feudal or aristocratic societies did not favor the common man, let alone the common woman. So kiss your autonomy goodbye.

But let's say you are somehow going to go from one of the hoi polloi today to one of the rich and semi-famous of yesteryear. Okay, you are a titled or landed person with control over your own life and have a lifestyle beyond the common drudge who serves you, willingly or unwillingly. You aren't the servant who is bowing and scraping or even the butler who only needs to bow, but you are the Master of the House. How are you with a sword? Or a mace? How well do you sit a horse? While wielding a sword?

You are in Europe and have a castle at your disposal. How great is that? But it's winter. Oh my. You are cold. You are rich and cold. There is no central heat and castles were at best, drafty. Your beautiful tapestries are hung in order to keep out most of the wind and you have servants to light fires all over the castle. Of course, this creates a lot of smoke and smudge, but at least you are warmer than the serfs who support you.

And you would like to read something. Even the aristocracy was often illiterate, but you are one of the lucky few who aren't. And, you have something new to read. Some hand copied Bible probably; they were the most frequent type of book produced. So, it's six PM and you have some time to read. But it's winter, in England. It's already dark and gloomy. You can't switch on a light, they haven't been invented yet. So your servant lights an oil lamp. They don't make much light, but what they lack in light they make up in smoke and more smudge.

If you happened to go back in time and be one of the masses, how in the world would you cope? How do even light the dang oil lamp, if you happened to get hold of one? There aren't matches yet, so you can't do that. And you certainly can't flick your Bic.

But you are Lord of the Manor and you would like a little late night snack. So you go to the larder and pour yourself some … well, it can't be much. There was no refrigerator, there is a larder. There is room temperature milk and since this is winter, it's cold. Now, if it were a bright summer evening, it wouldn't be cold milk, because of the whole room temperature thing. And you can't get most of the liquid refreshment we have today. Let me tell, I've tasted mead and it isn't all that great.

If you go back as just a regular Joe, there are other problems. You are cold and so need to stoke up the fire in the fireplace. If THAT went out, same problem with the whole start up the lamp. But, let's pretend you could get it started. Now you are hungry. How do you even bake bread without an oven? What exactly are you going to eat? How many ways can you make soup? No chips or pretzels, no soda, no fast food of any sort. You will be lucky to see any meat for special occasions, so I hope you like a subsistence vegetarian diet.

How will you support yourself? You know no useful skills. Being able to format text in Microsoft Word isn't going to be very useful. Even being literate is fairly useless, because books are VERY expensive. Knowing how to write is useless unless you also learned how to write with a quill. Paper is also VERY expensive.

Almost everything we know and use today wasn't around in the current fashion a few hundred years ago. And many people choose to go back even farther in time.

There was no treatment for many of the diseases that are slight annoyances today. Diabetics died young. Hemophiliacs died young. Appendicitis killed. High blood pressure killed. Accidents killed. Childbirth killed. Life was short and mean. The average age of death came decades faster than today. Someone my age would be old, today I'm "middle aged" and can count on about another thirty years alive.

When we read the history books, we think of the glory or beauty depicted. Some people mentioned the gorgeous art works or elevated societies. Well, yes. But we have that today for the lucky who have the money to enjoy it. Unless you are insisting your time travel is going to let you go back in time and enter a different economic class, you better be prepared to simply starve or freeze to death. And that doesn't seem like much fun.

Building a Better Mousetrap

2009-04-08T10:53:00.002-04:00

I have taken up a challenge offered by ProBlogger to improve my blog in 31 days. In that vein, I've decided to try to post my Little Bits of History essays and see if I can interest someone with some funds to help me get it published in some form.

So I built a new blogging space and began posting my history articles. And then, I find I'm supposed to make a list. Having a list is somehow supposed to help me drive traffic. Many of the most popular websites are nothing more than lists, linking to other websites. I'm not sure how to make my history essays into a list of any sort or how that would help.

I guess at the end of the month, or maybe at the end of each week, I could link to the previous week's topics and create a table of contents of sorts. Seems redundant.

So I thought I would try a list over here, just to be able to say I did it. The lists could also just be bullet points, a way to clarify thoughts, according to Darren.

So my topic of choice here today is: Roadside Memorials.

Highway fatalities are on the rise. In 1990 there were about 25,000 deaths from car accidents and by 2000 the number had been increased to 43,000. I have no figure for current motor vehicle accident fatalities.

Those figures are a per year rate so the numbers keep stock piling. There are crosses and angels and pots of flowers decaying all over the roadways. What is the purpose of this?

The people who really care will never be able to forget where their loved ones died. The rest of us, frankly, don't care. We have enough problems of our own. Memorials are great which is why they make graveyards. If you don't like that, get an urn for the ashes. Please stop littering my country's roads.

Most items left along the sides of the roads are considered to be trash. These seem to be an exception.

If you feel you must annoy the rest of the population with your insistence that your loved one's death is more important than ours, please remember:

1. These are distractions for other drivers.

2. They need to be maintained or they rot into a pile of frank trash.

3. They should diminish with time, not grow as you add more memorabilia.

4. What would the planet look like if everyone placed these shrines at the sites of death?

If the intersection was so dangerous that your family member was killed there, why are you placing something to cause even further distraction? Intersection memorials are growing in number as people are killed by others running red lights. So what is the purpose of pulling the eyes away from the traffic lights?

Some of these memorials have been there so long they are faded, paint is peeling, the wood is rotting. They look horrible. If you don't care enough to take care of the trash you put up along the side of the road, it should be removed.

Some people are very good at upkeep. And they keep adding more and more items to the memorial. Stop that.

My mother had a heart attack and died in the bathroom. We have since sold her house. What if we demanded a memorial of a cross (Mom was Catholic) be kept in the bathroom? This is absurd.

People die and are killed and no one gets out of here alive. It is sad when a life is tragically cut short. For those who are suffering with fatal, debilitating disease, they will tell you, "Well, at least it was quick."

I have no idea when the process of placing trash along the road began, but it needs to stop. Many crosses are in the middle of nowhere. Those scream, "This moron passed out behind the wheel and ran into these trees." Why would you want that tale told to the world? Perhaps they mean to say, "This is where a really bad driver met his or her end."

Whatever they are meant to convey, it is nothing the rest of the world is going to care about. Those who are affected, already care. The rest of us might be seeing a different message than the one you think you are sending. Please, take your trash and dispose of it properly. And keep your memories of your loved ones sacred in your heart.

Another Day

2009-04-03T23:08:00.001-04:00

Once again, there is trouble in the world of adults. One might think a group of adults could behave in a manner consistent with decorum and grace. One would be wrong. It is enough to give one a headache. Or maybe two or six or so.

And so another day might have been ruined. Except life is nothing if not for the choices we make. And I have to choose to do the best job I can and then realize some people just opt to be Mr. or Ms Crankypants.

Rather than permitting the Crankypants Contingency the power to ruin my day, I will choose to look at all the good things out there in the Rest of the Entire World instead.

Today was a beautiful day. The sun came out after several days of rain. The grass is turning the delicate shade of spring green as are the buds on the trees. The flowers are blooming. Even the kudzu is in bloom this time of year, making a beautiful and delicate lavender patchwork quilt spread across the trees.

I opened my office windows and a fresh breeze blew in. It was cleansed from days of rain and the pine pollen seems to have vanished, if not entirely then at least enough to not be an irritant.

My stint at the hospital as a volunteer was pleasant. The work load today was light and the nurses were congenial and the doctors were delightful. And, with all my work completed, I left an hour early.

I went to the grocery store and got a loaf of my favorite bread, sliced and now ready to brighten my breakfasts for the coming days. Cranberry and walnut bread is a great way to start the days. Add some fresh brewed coffee and fresh fruit and the meal becomes a feast.

I got a couple essays done today and learned about Australia's national airline and the RAF pilot who broke the sound barrier, on land. I suppose there are people who always need to push the envelope. I'm not certain why anyone needs to drive over 700 mph for any distance, but it probably is quite a rush, as it were.

Dinner was nice. Dick and I ate out on the lanai, with the windows open and a soft breeze blowing. Even the food was good.

My sister called and had some funny stories. Well, they were funny now and as she told them, but since it was my sister telling the stories, they had just a twinge of the horrific, as only her life can hold. It is always nice to talk to my sisters and the laughter always brightens even the darkest of days.

So, all in all, it was a good day. And I'm grateful for it.

Moderation is Key

2009-03-31T15:16:00.000-04:00

I am a moderator on a writers' forum. There are still over 8,000 members at My Writers Circle but many of them are not active.

I understand those who were once active and don't participate at the moment, waiting for the right opportunity to jump in once again. I have no idea why so many people go to the trouble of signing up for the forum and never post even one thing. I see no benefit to being a member if you never use the membership.

But there are many who do participate on a daily basis. Many of them are honing skills and not yet published at all. Some are published in a variety of places but all without pay. I fit into that category. And some are already published for pay in a variety of places.

So there is a mix of people. Some are able to help and some are in dire need of the advice and helpful hints available. Mostly it works out quite well. Most of the members are cordial and do their best to help one another. Not all advice is sound, mirroring the real world.

Some days my moderating is an easy job. I just stroll through the boards and make sure all is going smoothly. I offer help where I can. Since I'm a grammar fiend, I generally feel comfortable with those aspects of critique. Since I'm totally lost with the show and tell aspect of fiction, I generally leave that alone. I've learned to never, ever critique some people's work since I just irritate them all to hell and back. So, I don't bother and if they misuse words and butcher the grammar, perhaps some other soul will mosey past and help them out. Or they can just get their writing dismissed at a publisher's desk.

I have noticed something over the last several months. As the economy continues to nosedive, so goes manners and tact. There seems to be a direct correlation between job security and personal security as evidenced by graceful demeanor.

I've watched our once solid nest egg dwindle from ostrich size to robin size and hope I never have to witness the hummingbird size. But I might. And it makes me crankier. I'm less patient with anyone and everyone. However, before I hit the send button, I try to remember the person or people who will read my words did not have anything to do with the current market crash.

And I have the blue stars indicative of my 'status' as a moderator. Even though I'm no better at anything than before I got the blue stars, since they appeared, I've gained a certain luster. I stand out with the stars, even though it's really not more than a couple extra buttons at my disposal.

I've seen people who are gracious get all unglued over the silliest of things. I've seen people who are posturing behind made up names, looking for a fight. And we are writers. We are all (okay, not all) very good with words. It is our stock in trade, our ammunition of choice. We can lob volleys of explosive verbiage and knock out an enemy across the globe. Except, here on a writers' forum, the opponent is equally armed.

And the death toll keeps rising. What should be a difference of opinion easily worked out (since everyone is so good with words and should understand compromise and negotiation) turns into carnage. On the forum, deregistered users turn from a blue name with a link to other pages, into a black name with the telltale Guest under their last chosen screen name.

The forum is coming up with far too many Guests where once there was Hero Member or something nice, even Newbie looks better.

I feel like a failure. I'm the one who is supposed to be moderating the people – who do not HAVE to be adults but mostly are. I know I'm good with words. But I'm no longer effective. I have no idea how to respond to the hostilities by supposedly sane adults. They are arguing over ideas, all acceptable ideas, like it is the last chance to protect their mothers from death – a horrible lingering death. They have lost their minds.

And we keep losing members.

Society today

2009-03-24T09:57:00.000-04:00

Is the field of psychology a function of society?

I'm reading about how children are scared for life if an authority figure raises a voice in anger toward them. There goes the planet.

But really. There is a contingency stating yelling at children irreparably harms them. Forever. They are lessened by the 'violence' of the act. They point to the psychology contingent saying they have proved this.

I've been watching some You Tube clips and I like the nature ones. Say you are watching a bunch of lionesses with their cubs. All is well for a while with the cubs practicing their skills and horsing around, as it were. Then, as all children in crowds do, they get out of control. A lioness will take a paw with claws withdrawn and smack the living crap out the cub. The cub can roll for feet. A lion will roar. Now that's yelling.

That's how Mother Nature intended it. Most mother/child relationships in the wild show mothers walloping the living daylights out of their offspring. There isn't a lot of forgiveness out there. If you make a mistake, you are someone's lunch. Mothers have to teach their children how to survive.

Then we have people and society. Walloping children who misbehaved used to be the norm. Now it is an abomination before God if there is a God. If not, it is an abomination before Man.

Baby lions aren't damaged by being smacked across the veldt but swatting a child on the diapered behind will destroy him. How did this happen?

Psychology is an inexact science. I have an acquaintance who claims if it isn't in numbers, it isn't science. So maybe psychology/psychiatry isn't even science. The practice is merely a reflection of the norms of society.

In the wild, incest isn't an issue. In the world of psychology, this is a biggie. We have complexes and diagnoses and it is enough to make us all shudder. Mother Nature doesn't think so, society does.

In the wild, violence is a way of life. It is kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. Even plant life has developed traits to ensure its survival – i.e. poisonous plants. In civilization, we have become so frightened of violence we have abdicated all sense. And added a variety of diseases to the DSM-IV.

Somehow, what was once normal behavior is now the reason for all that is bad. Instead, perhaps we should look at the societies themselves. We were not made for this overcrowding and the constant stimulus we endure today. In olden times, 150 years ago, nightfall meant you were done for the day. There were candles and oil lamps, but the jobs needing light were finished until the next day's sunris

In the evening, there was talk. The television wasn't switched on and the computer wasn't calling out to us. Video games weren't screaming in the background. There was true social interaction.

We call our modern parenting into question when any child is reprimanded and believe we are wounding him or her. Just look at how violent our society has become, it is said. And it is because of poor parenting and violence perpetrated against the child. You can treat a patient for bad parenting. How do you treat someone for bad world? But it is my contention that the world has become too much for us little humans.

There is no bonding time. Parents are rushed and so plop their children in front of a television beginning with Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer and continuing on to the reruns viewed over and over in nursing homes.

We expect our children to learn the rules of the game by osmosis or observation rather than by knocking sense into the heads. We are so frightened of the big, bad world we keep trying to make it safe. It was never safe. It will never be safe. And what we do is often counter productive.

We have wandered far from how Mother Nature intended us to be. Things won't much improve until we learn the rules of the game from her and then willingly teach them to our offspring. So take that.

Things that are stressing me today

2009-03-17T21:08:00.001-04:00

1. There is a definite chance no one will be working by the end of the month.
2. I might have to go out and get some menial and demeaning job.
3. I might have to get my license reinstated and get a horrible off-shift job.
4. I was told I am a blithering idiot, but in a nice way.
5. I somehow became the enemy for events outside my control.
6. I wish for things to happen and yet don't take the steps to achieve what I want.

Then there are the normal things I worry about:

1. My children and their families
2. My sisters and their families
3. World crises and disasters
4. General ill will at home and abroad
5. Stupid people with too much power and control
6. The futility of it all

Aside from all that, I'm to be cheerful and upbeat. There is no purpose in being sad, blue, depressed, or less than happy. Life is what you make it. And if you get lemons, add some sugar and water and presto, chango you have lemonade.

Even my dog has an ear infection again.

I think I am permitted to get away from the happy factory people and look at life right here in my office. It isn't all that cheery right now. I'm uncertain as to what will happen in the near term and how that will effect the long term.

I've always been the consummate worrier and I'm very good at it. If I can worry when there is nothing to really worry about, I'm really good to go with the current state of affairs both globally and locally.

So, I'm not having a good day. This is in part due to all that is happening. It is also due in part to someone needing a scapegoat and picking me. I have no idea why that happened, but I must say – I don't like it. I'm innocent of all wrongdoing but some how I am being labeled Villain Of All That Could Go Wrong. Seems little over the top. But I'm going to take a deep breath and pretend I live at Tara.

Tomorrow is another day.
Thank God.

Rules

2009-03-12T12:48:00.003-04:00

Life is constrained by rules. Life is defined by the rules of society, the laws of nature, and our moral code. Rules can come from the mountaintop engraved on tablets of stone or be fleeting as those set up by a few six-year-olds inventing a game for the afternoon. Rules show us the edges between approved and banned behaviors.

And yet, pushing the envelope seems to be another rule. Testing the edges, expanding the boundaries. It ticks me off.

In the last couple months, I've signed up for a couple different writing forums. I love my original forum, MWC. However, there are times when I want to run free without the extra pressure of being one of the bosses, one of the bad guys, one of the enforcers of the rules. I don't mind following the rules, but I hate having to argue with offenders about why there are rules at all.

There are all sorts of rules. On all three forums there are word games. This is not surprising since writers tend to like words. I have been a member of MWC of about one and a half years. I know all the games and all the rules. The other two forums are newer to me. Before I enter into any of the games, I look at the first page to see what the rules are. Then I play within the rules. Doesn't seem so difficult to me.

Not so fast there, cowboy. Apparently it is difficult. Reading the rules and following the rules stifles creativity – I'm told. Not just for these silly games, but for all writing. Over and over again, there are discussions about spelling, grammar, and punctuation. "Why?" is the plaintive cry, "why must I follow the rules?"

Because if you don't, you look like an idiot. Well, I'm not supposed to say that. I'm supposed to couch my response in terms of readability or salability. What it amounts to is this: When you don't write clearly with proper word usage, you look like an idiot.

Simple.

You would think people hoping to make a living at the written word would have some concept about this. You would be wrong. Creativity is seen to trump all. Free expression is seen as high art. Rules are seen as limiting.

What would happen if I followed no rules andsimplytypedeverything here with oUt yous-in the reel wrdz n sch? I suppose you can read that, but why would you want to work so hard? There are sections with people defending their right to misuse to, too, and two because it's two mch ifort too figer witch won is write. And then they go over to the show and tell portion and spout all these rules.

This week, MWC is sponsoring a set of five contests with prizes offered. The prizes are writing software provided by our sponsor, WCCL. We have a bunch of new people signed up so they can enter the contests. That's great. They are even playing on the boards and getting involved in MWC life. That's great. They are playing the word games because they are fun, easy, and not quite as scary as posting writing to be critiqued or to offer some critique on other people's writing. That's great.

They don't seem to have the idea of reading the rules first. It is hard enough to play a game with people scattered all over the globe. The way it can work is if we all follow the rules.

Even more amazing to me are the entries for the contests. The rules are spelled out with great exactitude. Nick sets the parameters. We go over them before they are posted and make sure the rules are correct and complete. Many eyes make sure we are doing the best we can to make sure the playing field is even for all.

When they are posted, there is space for feedback and clarification. We try to answer questions as soon as possible since there is a time limit for the entries. And yet…

People are taking the time to enter the contests without reading and following the rules. Whatever they send in may be brilliant, but it isn't going to win. The rules are the limits; the boundaries. They apply to all. Even the special people.

Waiting

2009-03-03T16:29:00.000-05:00

"Patience is a virtue." – My mother, every time I was impatient. Which was often.

I've gotten worse, too.

When I was little (no walking to school stories, I promise) we had no Internet. If I wanted to look something up, I had to walk over to the bookcase, find the appropriate volume of the encyclopedia, find the article that would answer my question and then look up associated bits and pieces by pulling out different volumes. There was no instant lookup. There were no links.

When I was little and needed to change the television station, I had to get up and walk to the TV set and physically change the dial. There were only three basic channels and eventually, there were a few more added. If I wanted to know what was on any of the channels, I had to look it up in the TV Guide kept out and handy on the side table next to Dad's chair. And then put it back in the right spot.

If I wasn't around when lunch was cooked and then wanted to heat it up, I had to use a pan and stove. No microwaves. Those came out later. I bought myself one for a wedding present, but before that … stovetop. Or wrap things up in foil and heat it up in the oven. Better be home when a meal was served because the reheating process was odious.

If I was out and about and needed to phone home, I had to find a pay phone. I had to wander around, find the phone, have a dime handy, and then place the call. Then I had to hope someone was home to answer the phone because there was no answering machine.

We had a popcorn popper that looked like a wok with a huge yellow tinted top. To get popcorn, you put oil in the wok and let it heat and then added the popcorn and put the lid on. As it popped, you had time to melt the butter in a special cute little saucepan. Eventually there was popcorn. And it tasted a whole lot better than the microwave kind. But it took forever.

The coffeepot was very odd. Mom had a drip coffee maker. Anne had a percolator. Mom's coffee was made by putting already boiling water into the top piece, and it dripped through to the coffee grounds where it was filtered through to become coffee. Anne's electric percolator heated the water and then spurted it up through the coffee grounds. Any coffee not finished before it got cold had to be heated, again using the stovetop.

I finally got online in 1995. We got our second computer and this one had a modem. I signed up with AOL and had my dial up service. Every time I wanted to get online I had to start my computer which took minutes, then click on the AOL program and wait for it to load, I told it to sign on, the modem started up, dialed the number, tried to get a server, did its computer things, and I got the guy saying Welcome, you've got mail. Well, hopefully he said that. I had a modem with a 2600 baud rate. Whew.

Eventually I got broadband and eventually that got faster, too. My computer is always on and always online. When I need to look something up, I come to my office and shake the mouse waking my computer. I click on the browser, open Wikipedia and type in what I need. Unless its something I type into Google and then click the links through.

When I'm in Wikipedia and reading things – actually just about any site – there are links where I can click through. Any questions can be immediately answered. I have the world at my fingertips.

I grew up with black-and-white TV and now I have You Tube. And now I get impatient when You Tube buffers. I get cranky when the ads take so long to download and the content won't show until they finish, that I often just click off the site entirely.

I used to be able to wait for something to happen. Not always as patiently as my mother would like, but with a little more equanimity than I can muster today. With the world only a click away, I've gotten more and more impatient. When my computer stalls or bogs down, when a file doesn't load instantaneously, I'm angry.

When a link doesn't work, I become upset. Lately, on MWC, there have been problems with stalled access and messed up notification of board postings. Now really, this is not the end of the world. But I get so impatient. All I have to do is click refresh or hit F5 and the new stuff appears. Is that really so hard? Well, apparently it is.

My mother is up in heaven shaking her head. Patti, patience is a virtue. I do believe I can hear that being whispered.

Privacy and Stupidity

2009-02-27T15:40:00.002-05:00

Here in the US, every visit to a doctor, every visit to a hospital, every visit to any type of health care provider is governed by the HIPPA laws. The US Department of Health and Human Services if worried that my private health information may not be private enough. So there are rules upon rules and forms upon forms. There are reams of rules, stacks of forms and then there is the:

HCAHPS. Hospital Consumer Assessment of Healthcare Provider and Systems. The government sponsors the collection of data from recently hospitalized patients. The survey is sent to a named person regarding a stay at a named facility. So much for privacy there, Big Government.

The Survey is built to elicit the patient's or perhaps client's perspective on the hospital stay. I don't know what term the medical community is using for sick people right now. They used to be patients and then they were clients. I have no idea what they are anymore. Income stream, I guess.

Anyway, the questions are either Yes or No, which is straight forward. Then the assessment is judged as Never, Sometimes, Usually, or Always.

How often did the nurses treat you with courtesy and respect? asks the survey (formatting from survey maintained). I guess that's fairly straight forward. Maybe. Some patients (I'm just going to call them that for this) are quite sensitive and if you aren't overly solicitous, you are rude. If you aren't fawning, you are rude. If you tell them it isn't time yet for the paid medication, you are rude.

The second question is did the nurses listen carefully to you? As a woman, as a nurse, and as a mother I've learned how to multitask. If I didn't do three things at once, I would have never gotten everything done. How in the hell can someone else tell if I'm listening carefully. Some people feel slighted if you don't stop everything and sit down with your hands folded and listen CAREFULLY to them. Great. I can sit there and my mind can be a million miles away. Or I can be fiddling with the IV and comprehend everything you say, words and nuance.

How often did nurses explain things in a way you could understand is the next question. So, if I use normal adult words and you have a little baby vocabulary but are too embarrassed to tell me you have no idea what I'm talking about when I use a word like "urine" which I think is a common word, I guess I would be graded poorly. No question on whether or not the patient asked clarifying questions if things weren't explained to his or her satisfaction.

Next question is how about how long it took for staff to answer the call button. Well, how long is relative. But actual wording is how often did you "get help as soon as you wanted it." Well, I don’t care how fast you can answer those bells, by the time you get to the room, it is already too late because "as soon as" happened before the call bell was hit.

The coup de grace for me was this question: During this hospital stay, how often was your pain well controlled? Now, let's say you had some major surgery. Let's also say you were a drug addict or alcoholic at some point in your past. Even if you were a casual drug user or moderate drinker, this is a problem now. There is nothing here to see what sort of patient is answering the questionnaire. But if you were a heroin user at one time, I can pretty much guarantee that you are not going to answer this question with the Always choice. Very low likelihood of the Usually, too.

There are people who are suffering the agony of the damned when they get a hangnail. Their pain is not going to be controlled after major abdominal surgery. It's not. Get over it. Won't happen. There are people who can be so soporific they are almost not breathing, but open their eyes to tell the world they are in such pain that on a scale of one to ten, they are at about fourteen.

Some hospitals cater to a different client base and their patients may be more of the entitled mindset. If they come to the hospital with a problem that doesn't warrant an MRI, but they want an MRI, they are going to feel slighted or less cared for. There is no way to compare a patient's expectations that are unreasonable to one whose expectations actually align with reality.

Just today in Annie's Mailbox was an angry woman whose husband suffered from arthritis. She was outraged at doctors who couldn't prescribe something to help her husband's disease. All they could give him was more pain medicine. Well, there isn't anything to cure the disease. That same mindset is going to skew these results as well.

So all in all, I'm thinking this is against HIPPA privacy codes and will result in faulty "science" numbers.

But all the compiling of answers and making of graphs and charts and listing each hospital against the other will, I'm sure give people jobs. So in these trying economic times, this is probably just fine and dandy.

February Almost Over

2009-02-23T09:45:00.000-05:00

I finally went to my home owners association web page again to see if the people who begged to be on the board have lived up to their "campaign" promises. Nope. Everyone who had a little bio in the newsletter sent to each home owner said their main concern was a lack of communication.

And immediately after the annual board meeting where there were new board members elected, there was a tentative minutes report posted. That was last November. It is still there as tentative. There was no meeting in December. January did have a meeting and the minutes should have been approved in February and posted. The November meeting's minutes should also have been approved.

There is no other message after the November temporary minutes. There is no approved minutes for November let alone January. There are no tentative minutes from February's meeting. No word at all since November.

There is a message board there as well. There is not one single message from 2009. I'm too lazy to actually count the days, but according to Wikipedia is the 54^th day of the year. I could probably go back there and find out how far back in 2008 the last entry was, but who cares?

The only notice we get from our esteemed HOA is when the annual fee is due. And if we commit some major infraction such as putting the trash can out too soon or leaving it out too long. THEN they can communicate with the homeowner.

There are several houses here that have been foreclosed on. They remain empty. Haunting reminders of the economic times. Windows peering out on the world without benefit of curtain or drapery. And, as an added bonus, since the local twice a week newspaper has decided to just toss one day's paper in the yard each week without needing to subscribe, the empty houses are accumulating these soggy, yellowing packages of old news.

I have no idea who the association is going to yell at for the messy yards with the papers killing off portions of the grass. But at least come spring, there won't be as much too tall grass for them to not have anyone to yell at about. Boy, is that a convoluted sentence. But I live in a convoluted place.

I did see in the line item budget that came last fall that my yearly annual fee will, in part, help to sponsor the neighborhood swim team. I had two sons who joined in several sports. Baseball, soccer, football, hockey, and lacrosse. Each team had a fee. We, as parents who wanted our kids in sports, paid the fees. The hockey and lacrosse fees were in the hundreds of dollars per year. And we had to buy all the equipment ourselves. I have no idea why I'm paying for some kid I've never met to swim. I wish I wasn't. I'm a curmudgeon, perhaps, but I don't think it really takes a village to let some spoiled little brat swim. Let the parents of the spoiled little brat pay for it. I paid for the two spoiled little brats I had.

So that has been my February. Not much to do. But lots to complain about. Especially if you look for it. And I do.

Not much

2009-02-13T18:41:00.001-05:00

It had been a while since I've last written a blog entry. It is because there has been nothing much going on.

I've read a book, am half way through another, and nearly finished with a third. I've played a bazillion computer games.

I'm going to be a grandmother to a new baby, but the little darling refused to cooperate and we still don't know if it is XX or XY.

We went to Hilton Head on Sunday and had a great time. I have a whole bunch of pictures, but I can't actually update my web page because my old computer is broken and my new one doesn't have the correct program.

That is pretty much the sum total of my last ten days.

Do?

2009-02-04T07:22:00.000-05:00

What do I do? I write words that no one will read. I write paragraphs lost in bits and bytes, sitting on servers, ignored. I write essays stored in memory and forgotten, lost and alone.

I dream. But not well enough. I pretend, but with a decided lack of realism. I waste time.

I play Solitaire. Thousands of games of solitaire. I have an 84% win rate. I play insipid computer games. There are new games to download every Tuesday. They are so stupid in and of themselves, they need a story line to connect the rounds. And so …

I edit the words in front of me and wonder why someone who writes this poorly is paid and I am not. They are writing in English, which is probably a foreign language. At least I hope so. No one raised in the tongue should be this rotten at writing out one sentence at a time.

I become irritated. I see horrible writers published. I am not a literary writer. I am not a genius writer. I am not a bad writer. But … realistically, I am not ever going to be a remunerated writer.

There are millions upon millions of blogs. I can write there. No one reads it, but I can write it. There are billions upon billions of web pages. I can write there,too. No one reads it there either, but I can write it.

I need something to do with my days, and so I write. But it is getting to be more of a drain each day. Why am I writing? If it is to please myself, I'm no longer pleased. And I'm the only one who reads it. So what's the point?

I woke in what should have been the middle of the night, but it was too close to morning. So I began mulling over my problems at four-something ante meridian. I should have been sleeping. It would have been more useful.

How many unpublished books of essays do I need? I think I have enough of those. Could I take Cassie and make it into a novel? Maybe. Then I could have more unpublished crap sitting on my computer, taking up memory, serving no purpose.

I could be one of those ladies who lunch. Except I have no one to lunch with. I could join groups hither and yon. I've tried that. I prefer being lonely at home to being lonely in a group. So will forego that torture.

People who are busy, long for days in which to have nothing on a To Do List. They have no idea what they are asking for. If you have no To Do List, you really don't even need to get out of bed, either at four in the morning or noon.

I have no idea what I do. I know what I did. I can create a laundry list of what I did. All past tense. I have no idea what I do, present tense. Which leads me to the conclusion that I have no idea about future tense, either.

Thirty more years of this. What to do.

Small Minded People

2009-01-29T07:18:00.000-05:00

I live in an area governed by the USA, the state of South Carolina, the country of Dorchester, the city of North Charleston, and the megalomaniacs of the Home Owners Association.

I can access informational and forum boards for the USA, SC, Dorchester, and the N Charleston without much trouble. To access my HOA website, I have had to sign in with a password that it WILL NOT STORE. So each time I have to tell it I am still at my computer in my house and I would really like to see what is behind Door Number Two.

They have a message board there and they almost took it down after I posted a few things I found wrong with the management of the HOA. Only nice things are to be posted. No one posts anything there. The last message was from months and months ago. They have REAMS of rules for us to follow, most making no sense whatsoever. The rules can be found there, but the actual list was scanned in and placed a PDF and since it is scanned and not text, it is not searchable.

They have disorganized yelling matches once a month and dub them Board Meetings. Then a month later, they approve the minutes from the previous meeting and about two to three weeks later, they are finally posted on the website. It is now February and there are still TENTATIVE minutes there from the Annual Meeting, held in November. There was no meeting in December. Nothing is from January. February is a lost cause.

That's what I went to see - if there were any communiques from the brilliant, efficient, hard-working people who RAN FOR OFFICE and begged to be on the f*ckin board so they could boss me around.

I find, instead of my retained password that Chrome keeps handy for me, a new interface they are gleefully bragging about.

Please remember this is an INFORMATION only site. There is nothing monetary going on there. I asked once what we were hiding other than all the stupid nitpicking squabbles over insignificant and pointless rules. (That's why they don't like me posting on the forum, a habit I have stopped no matter how stupid or egregiously inane they become.)

To sign in today I need to answer THREE (3) security questions and change my easy to type password into something with at least one uppercase and one lowercase letter and one numeral. This is not a high security site. I have no idea why anyone can't see where the link is to my garbage collection schedule calendar.

These people are complete morons. I was going to send THEM this note, but it is full of polysyllabic words and I'm sure they wouldn't understand it. So instead, I'm venting. I know it does no good. I knew better than to buy with a HOA. I've never seen one that did anything useful. They are horrid institutions giving small people with tiny minds (I will not comment on physical aspects, but will privately surmise) powers over normal people. They should all be disbanded realizing they are a scourge upon the Earth. HOAs are works of the devil.

Thank you for reading this far. I needed to say this.

I'm a Writer

2009-01-28T09:44:00.001-05:00

I'm not sure if I'm an author, but I know I am a writer, because I write. I'm not certain I know how to auth.

I write a lot. I write history essays that are published three times a week. I write a lead article once a week. All for RGQ. I have over a dozen short stories published in two different MWC books. I got a little short, true story published at Milspeak.

I'm finally convincing myself I'm a writer. Now I've hit the next hurdle.

Now I find I'm not a marketing expert.

The history essays are what I enjoy writing the most. I've described them as follows:

I write 400-500 word essays on one historical event for each day's date. Most "On This Day" articles are a list of birth dates, death anniversaries, and/or one sentence descriptions of events. Instead, I select one topic for the day and expound on it. I then add four quotations at the end of each essay to either illustrate the subject matter or give a voice to the historical person.

Each day of the year holds a variety of possible topics. I choose subjects ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous, from horrifying to redemptive, and representing the global community while spanning recorded history. Some of the essays deal with topics of far-reaching consequences; some are stories of the "I didn't know that" variety. All of them are entertaining and enlightening snippets of the larger, grander human experience.

I think that says it nicely. What I would like to do is be published for pay. I thought writing a book including 365 or 366 essays would make a great bathroom book, trivia book, or educational book.

I think the daily essays would make a great start to a social studies class at the junior high or high school level. Since each class starts with everyone getting settled and some clerical work deemed necessary by the paper pushers of the world, there are a couple of wasted minutes just begging for some form of instruction. Reading one of my essays each day would take up those few minutes without undue strain and actually set the mood for the class to follow.

A friend suggested they would make a great article in a newspaper. As listed above, most of the On This Day articles out there simply list who was born and sometimes add who died on the date. I bring one story to life.

I've written about the day SpaghettiOs by Franco American hit the shelves. I've written about the end of World War I. I've written about patents being applied for, lawsuits reaching conclusions, and cartoons being broadcast. I've learned a tremendous amount of trivia and actual history as I've written up my daily ditty.

But now, I find that newspapers probably won't be interested in this unless I can show that it is worth their time to even look at it. I'm not to send samples, but I have to send samples. I need to be published in order to get published.

I am probably going to end up publishing a book through a self-publishing or vanity press place. And the problem with those is that anyone can and does do that. I see the writing that can and is offered to these places. It makes me cringe. A "wrighter" I've met via the Internet has four books published, according to the wrighter.

It is difficult to take these publishing houses seriously because such seriously horrible writing is published by them. There are some decent things published as well. There are more good writers than publishing houses can or are willing to fund.

I have no answers. I have issues and concerns. I know my essays are entertaining and well-researched, as well as well-written. I know I'm going to end up with them in print some way. All I need is some luck.

Field Jacket

2009-01-18T13:00:00.000-05:00

The year was 1971. I was fresh out of high school and attending a local community college. A friend of mine had a crush on a newly discharged Marine. She pressured me into accompanying her to the table in the cafeteria where six to eight green-clad men sat.

Each day we arrived in the cafeteria to a chorus of catcalls and wolf whistles. The men seated at the table (today I would refer to them as boys, but then they were men) were not always the same ones. Sometimes they actually attended their classes. Sometimes they were off somewhere else.

But it was always a group of young men freshly discharged from the Marines. They were usually quite nice and yet there were bouts of anger. Especially when some conscientious objector objected to their presence. They were a little older than the other students. They were far more worldly and even world-weary.

Eventually my friend fell out of infatuation with her young man. I, however, kept returning to the Marine table. They didn't seem to mind.

One of the young men was smaller than the others, but seemed very good natured. He had a charming sense of humor and could tell a great story. He had joined the USMC, much to his father's chagrin, after breaking up with a girlfriend. The young man, not the father. The father had been wounded twice while fighting in the Pacific theater during World War II. The father was also ex-Marine.

But the young man joined The Corps and was promised two years, Vietnam, and a hard time. He got the two years and the hard time, but somehow – through the kindness of a Colonel who liked him – managed to stay stateside. The other young men at the table had all served in Nam. One, the small man's best friend, had been discharged after being seriously wounded.

There were stories at that table. There were confrontations at that table. There was one young lady falling in like with one young Marine at that table.

Eventually, the Marine asked me out and we had a really nice time. We went on to regularly date. We were in some classes together and we arranged to have even more classes together for the next quarter. All seemed to be going fine.

And then, one day, I committed a mortal sin. As I sat at a table full of combat hardened Marines, and my own sweet darling, I said something innocuous about their Army jackets.

I will never, ever forget the lecture about the difference between Army jackets and field jackets. Marines do not, little lady, ever wear – under pain of death – Army jackets. Marines wear field jackets. They also do not wear Army boots. They wear combat boots. Fatigues are just that, there is no Army in the name.

The lecture continued for several strained minutes. I sat blinking in stunned silence as I was instructed about the life and rules of the military in general and the US Marine Corps in particular. I never made that same mistake again.

In the years since, I have lost touch with several of those at the cafeteria table from many years ago. I lost one to death, exacerbated by his war injury. I lost contact with others as our lives took divergent paths. I still remain in contact with a rare few.

Somewhere over the years, in many moves around the country, the field jacket disappeared. It was disposed of, with reverence, I'm sure. I've kept the Marine.

Grandpa's Jacket

2009-01-14T20:04:00.002-05:00

My grandfather died in 1962. I was ten that year and my memories of him are dim. I know that Grandma slipped on the ice and broke her hip. I don't know when, but I have no memory of her walking without a walker or eventually trapped in a wheelchair.

I remember Grandpa gently and tenderly taking care of his wife. I remember him making the house more accessible for her before handicapped accessible was widespread. They lived over 500 miles away from us and we didn't see them often. Every time we did see them, Grandpa proudly asked if I remembered having the chicken pox and being so miserable. He was the only person who could make me happy. I was about one and a half years old at the time and I remember nothing. But he was always so happy to remind me that once in my life, he had been my hero, my savior. He, and he alone, even more than Mommy or Daddy, he had comforted me.

That thought seemed to comfort him. I got so sick of hearing that same tired story. He never tired of telling it and I listened. Probably without much grace.

It was late fall/early winter when he died. I came home from school and learned that he had suffered a heart attack and died in his green recliner. I can still remember the first thought that ran through my head. "Who will tell me that story now?" and I knew I would miss hearing it.

I have.

I don't know how, when, or even why, but my own father came to own Grandpa's jacket. It is a tan suede and buttery soft confection. The tag in the lining says it was made by Sportswear with Grace by Grais. I just looked it up on the Internet. Rubin Grais was a Russian Jew who emigrated to Chicago and made leather goods. I can attest to his skill. He produced jackets and coats in the 1940s and 1950s. I still have no idea how old Grandpa's coat is, but now I know a little more.

By the 1960s it was my Dad's jacket. He didn't wear it every day, but he wore it often. The coat eventually came into my possession. I wore it for a while and then I had to do something. The coat was now at least 40 years old and the collar and cuffs were frayed. And so I took it to a tailor and paid probably more than Grandpa paid for the jacket itself. I got a new collar, cuffs, and waistband put on. The color wasn't exactly the same as the old ones and at first it made the whole jacket feel "wrong."

It got cold again recently and I got Grandpa's jacket out. It is still buttery soft, maybe even more than when it was new. The new collar, cuffs, and waistband now look normal to me. The lining is in perfect condition. The jacket is a little big for me, but that gives me plenty of room for a sweater underneath.

Rubin did a great job in making his jackets. This one has lasted for decades. It has lasted through three owners.

I did make one mistake. I thought back in 1962 that I would never hear Grandpa tell me how he was the only one who could comfort me when I was sick. But, instead, every time I put on the jacket, I can feel his arms around me, see his smiling face and hear the words, "Remember when …"

Good Luck; Bad Luck

2009-01-12T10:11:00.001-05:00

I have been wearing contact lenses for nearly forty years. I've lost a few over the decades, but never enough to justify the cost of insurance on the little buggers. Usually, when I drop one or it leaps to freedom, I manage to relocate it and return it to its proper resting place. Usually; not always.

Over the years I've had various problems with my eyes. I used to be a little bit of a jock and played an inordinate amount of racquetball. I injured myself on a fairly routine basis. I got hit in the eye and eventually developed a cataract. I had surgery for that when I was 39 years old - so it's been a while.

Since then, I've had various types and kinds of contacts. I am terribly near sighted and even with an implanted lens in one eye, can't read without some visual help. At the time of my surgery, implanted lenses could not correct astigmatism. So I have always also had a contact. Then I can't read with that eye because of the way eyeballs normally work is altered with the surgery. My vision is better than it was pre-op, but it is not perfect.

So, for the first few years, I had an implant, a contact, and wore reading glasses to read. Lens build-up, I called it. I couldn't read a price tag while shopping unless I got my reading glasses out. I couldn't walk around a mall wearing the reading glasses or I got nauseous.

Then I got mono-vision contacts and I could read and see distance. Neither one crystal clear, but functional. Then, because others I knew had a great deal of luck with bifocal contacts, I tried that. But only for one eye. Since my surgery eye is odd, they won't work. I was supposed to be able to read with these really expensive contacts. I did this last fall. I have been wearing reading glasses ever since every time I want to read anything.

Saturday morning, I lost my expensive bifocal contact. It would be cheaper to pay for a new eye exam and go back to mono vision contacts than to replace the expensive contact. I was free of the odious terrible choice.

I did look all over for the missing piece of plastic. It was gone. My job for today was to call the eye doctor and make an appointment.

I have never, ever found a contact three days after I lost it. Until today.

I am still going to get rid of this non-functioning lens, but now I don't feel so pressured.

I may buy a spare contact this time, just in case.
And why do I keep losing the right one? If I lost the left one, I have a newer spare and it really doesn't matter, since it isn't as strong a prescription.

If I knew how, I would put in the little notes here
I can see clearly now .....

When is luck good and when is it bad?

Back to Work

2008-12-26T14:03:00.000-05:00

When you are your own boss, how do you complain about management? I haven't had an outside boss in quite a while. I am the boss. Of me. I get to determine what I will do and when I will do it. It's heady stuff. Until you need to blame someone and there is no one to blame.

So I decided I needed a break. I had "things to do" and "places to go." So I took some time off. In fact, since my bibliography has time stamped items in it, I know I took 20 days off. I'm not sure what I really did in three weeks time, but I know what I didn't do. I didn't write.

Oh, I wrote a blog entry or maybe even two. I wrote some flash fiction. I wrote a few lead articles for my Wednesday RGQ issue, since I volunteered to take on another free writing assignment. What I didn't write was any history essays.

I baked eight types of cookies. I went to visit family in Florida along with the regular visits to Hilton Head. I decorated the house for Christmas. I continued with my hospital volunteer stint. I did lots of stuff.

My old laptop was trying to die. And rather than wait until everything was lost and computers were once again full price, I got a new laptop. That meant I had two days of setting up a new laptop to get it to where it was once again functional for me. I had to install the programs I wanted. I had to update the things I needed to update. I had to delete the preinstalled stuff I didn't want. It took two days.

Much of that time was spent downloading the games I play on the computer. I had many, many games. I have some games once again installed. I really didn't play all the games I had on the other computer, but I played lots. I have been doing that as well. Playing games.

I find it relaxing to play games but I always look back and think what I could have been doing instead that would have been far more productive. I know I could have January completely finished instead of only one-quarter done if only I had been writing instead of playing games.

The trouble is the boss didn't make me. The boss let me slack off for a while. I gave myself a free pass. And now I feel like I'm behind. I'm not really behind, but I'm not as far ahead as I like to be.

So today I got on the Wii and then the elliptical. I got showered and dressed and sat down to write. I know all about an ice storm that hit Canada and the northeast US in 1998. I know about Prague Spring and Alexander Dubcak's efforts to bring freedom to Czechoslovakia. I learned about Marie Montessori and a horrible fire at Mercy Hospital in Davenport, Iowa.

And I remembered why I enjoy doing this. I love learning. I knew about Montessori schools, but not as much as I know now. And I had never heard about any of the other stuff. I suppose I knew about the ice storm, but it didn't really register. I was in Ohio and unaffected.

Now I know things. They aren't Earth shattering things and I lived quite well before today in spite of not knowing them. But my life is now richer; my experience of history is broader. And if I'm going to broaden something, I would much rather it be my horizons.

Ah, the glory of being back to work.

Learning to be Unobservant

2008-12-07T07:54:00.001-05:00

I've been online for over a decade. I pay my access fee and do very little shopping via the Internet. I'm told shopping online is a wonderful way to outwit the maddening throng and save gas. Great.

I shop mostly in the Clearance Aisles and it is difficult to find what I want online. I also always try on the clothing before I purchase anything because they aren't truthful with the sizing. I can wear anything from a size 6 to a size 12 and have it fit. So I have to try clothing on.

Shopping online is not an adventure for me. I don't have a PayPal or an eBay account. I've used neither – ever.

Online advertisements are an irritating fact of life. Watching television offers one the same delight. The promotional time is when I fast forward my not-TiVo recorded shows or when I get up and hit the kitchen or bathroom, depending on where I was during the last commercial break.

That's not so much of an option with webpages. Instead, I've learned to just not really see the ads. They have flashing crap and five second animations that play over and over and are supposed to draw the eye. Instead, more and more people are learning to simply ignore the distraction.

The really annoying ones are those that scream at me as I load a page. Thankfully, I'm not out there reading Dear Abby while I'm supposed to be working. Those loud ads can really get you in trouble in a cube farm. I'm not sure what the creator was thinking. "Let's make this so horrible that no one will use any site that uses our ads during working hours." Perhaps it was devised by someone who actually owns a company.

Since we all installed Pop-up blockers, they went to Pop Under ads. There you are reading some text and all of a sudden, the page shifts to the IQ for Dummies or something. They tell you they think you are stupid for even looking at the ad and this is supposed to help somehow? TIP: If you leave one pop under ad open, it will just keep reloading and let you read subsequent pages without flashing the screen all over.

Lately, Webshots has been using highly intrusive ads. They usurp the entire screen and make you click something to get to the page that was the original URL. I don't click on anything I haven't selected for myself. TIP: Hit refresh or F5, or simply click on your Favorite or Bookmark again – the annoying thing only loads the first hit of the day.

Why are the ads getting so annoying that the pages themselves are almost unusable? What good is this supposed to do? I understand a recession and downturn of the economy. What I don't understand is making life so miserable for the consumer, they don't even want to use your product. The smaller ads pay by the number of hits, and who will visit a site that becomes so annoying?

People who make ads: Your advertisement is not the feature of the webpage and should not usurp the page in question. Businesses that run websites: Don't tick off your loyal users, because there are billions of pages out there and we may just get too tired of trying to outwit your scheming little hearts.

Protip: Left click and hit close and you never have to see the pop under ad.

The computer is your friend, it's other users you need to watch out for.

Circles

2008-12-03T08:27:00.003-05:00

Life just keeps on even when I'm too tired to match the pace. Or, time flies when you are having fun. I don't really know which is the problem, but I do know it has been too long since I've posted something here.

I have no idea why I feel I must continually post something here. That may need examination.

Things have been happening.

I was sick and it took much longer to recover than I thought it would.
We went away for Thanksgiving and I was away from my computer. This should have made the world slow down if not come to a complete stop. It didn't. I will need to find the reason for this.
While at my son's house, I spied a grainy picture on his desk. It was the Nugget! My newest grandchild. But I wrecked his surprise and that saddened me. He told me I could use his computer. He even came into his office and started it up for me. But I wrecked the surprise. Morgan is getting so old already. She will be almost three before the next one gets here. Another chance to get it all right. I can't wait.
The writing forum where I'm a moderator had a firestorm over the weekend with me smack dab in the middle of it. It was time consuming (hours and hours of time consumed) and the teenager on the provoking side still, to this very minute, does not see anything wrong with his behavior. He is aggrieved and his little feelings are destroyed because Copernicus was correct. It is all so sad. I got a headache, this kid got a dose of reality, and the forum got to see a public tantrum thrown by a self-righteous whiner. This kid does not need any help in raising his self of steam. He has more than his share already.
Bruce retired from RGQ. Mike writes the Monday and Friday lead article. He also works. The administration side of RGQ fell into his lap. He could, if absolutely needed, write a Wednesday article. The ezine could go to a twice a week format. Or, I could write the Wednesday article. Bruce approached me this past spring and asked if I would mind doing that. Bruce, Mike, and I all agreed that my history piece would remain even on Wednesday – me reluctantly. Today was my debut.

So, I've been running in circles without accomplishing as much as I had hoped. I was to have completed and proofread June by now, but I'm still not finished. I really need to get working on my upcoming history pieces so when I have to write the lead, I have the space to work.

I need to finish up Christmas shopping. I need to write my Christmas letter and get my Christmas cards sent out. I need to start baking my Christmas cookies. I need to begin working on scrapbooks I wish to build. I need to ….

I have a massage scheduled for later this morning. That's what I really need

Anatomy of the Common Cold

2008-11-20T10:29:00.000-05:00

I began getting sick last week. At first, I coughed a lot and my nose sort of, kind of, maybe needed a Kleenex® every 15 minutes. But it wasn't too bad. I just had to keep blowing my nose for no real good reason, other than to make my nose sore. And because I thought I should.

I coughed. I sneezed. It wasn't too bad. Until it got worse.

On Sunday, we went to see the kids as we usually do. I had a month of essays to edit and so I took them in the car. I read them out loud which is entertaining for the driver – or so he claims. And I edit as I read and so it is productive for me. I got a little more than half way through the month on the way down.

We stayed for a few hours, ate lunch, played games, went for a walk, and then had to come back home. I continued reading the essays out loud. But my voice had changed. It went from its normal pitch to quite raspy. And from quite raspy to even worse, more like frog croaking. But I finished off the month as the sun began to set and was quiet the rest of the way home.

By Monday, my voice was almost entirely gone. I hadn't hardly slept at all because I would cough and sneeze and forget to breathe. Even with a bit of effort, breathing was less satisfying than it should be. I woke at 3 AM and never did get back to sleep. I tried drinking lemon tea. I gave up and went to coffee and went on with my day. My voice was barely audible even if I was shouting. And what managed to come out was only partial words. Amazingly, my throat didn't hurt. I just couldn't talk.

On Tuesday, my voice was a little better, although still on the scary side. I still wasn't sleeping. I was now running through Kleenex® at an amazing rate. I looked horrible, my voice was croaking, and other than being really tired and with burning eyes, I didn't feel bad.

LC had surgery on her left knee on Friday. She had four stitches put in and is now wearing a lampshade on her head to keep her away from the surgical site. At least that was the theory. Because she is so long, she managed to get to her knee on Tuesday evening. She ripped out one stitch before we caught her. We then had to get through the night before I could get her to the vet's again. We tried wrapping her leg, but that didn't work before and it still didn't work now even with better supplies. We needed to make the lampshade bigger so she couldn't get to her leg. The stupid dog was outsmarting the two humans. This was humiliating.

We tried a couple things without any success. Once she figured out how to get to her knee, she was good to go back at it repeatedly. Looking through supplies in the house, I came upon large binder clips. We placed the clips all around the end of the lampshade, making it quite large and unwieldy and hampering her ability to chew her leg off. It made a comical picture and if she wasn't already so miserable, I would have taken a picture. But she hates the camera and didn't need one more thing to go wrong.

I went to bed early with a dog right there with a noisy lampshade on her head. She did wake me up twice during the night as she stirred in her bed. The clips dragging on the floor were enough to wake me up. But I went right back to sleep. I woke up Wednesday actually rested.

But my voice was still bad. Not as bad as it had been. I also had some of my appetite back and could actually eat a whole meal. My eyes had stopped burning after a night's sleep. I was still going through Kleenex® by the box, but I was getting better. I also took LC to the vet and we got a larger lampshade for her. The remaining stitches are intact.

Today, Thursday, I woke up with my voice almost back to normal. But I'm trying to cough my head off. And sneezing. My God, I can't stop sneezing. Each day is slightly different. One thing is better and another thing is worse. I finally decided to call in sick for tomorrow's volunteer stint. I wouldn’t want me coughing all over a fresh post-op patient, so I will assume no one else does, either.

Now that I've done that, I will probably wake up tomorrow completely cured. At least I can hope that happens.

I'm Unbalanced

2008-11-11T10:51:00.000-05:00

I've been striving, working, toiling, attempting to regain the body I had when I was my children's ages. I have no idea where it went, but I'm going to guess it found solace in Velvet Fudge Sauce or a bag of potato chips. Wherever it went, it seems to adore the place as it will not come back without undue coaxing on my part.

To that end [that's a pun there] I have been exercising. First I bought an elliptical torture system and began to slowly acclimate myself to a more active lifestyle. Of course, since I spend most of my day in front of my computer, wiggling my toes on occasion would be a more active lifestyle.

At any rate, I began moving daily [Sunday's off] and could get into some of my pants with zippers. They still need to have a little stretch or give to them, but I can fit in more of my pants than before I started this lifestyle choice.

I've tried doing the elliptical with books on CD playing. I've tried it to music. Today, I read while slogging through 30 minutes of what my son tells me I will come to enjoy. I believe that will be the week after hell freezes over and with global warming and all …

At any rate, my sister and partner in crime mentioned the wonders of Wii. Being old and lazy, I was skeptical but my baby sister said playing with a Wii was fun and burned calories and made exercise more of a game. Since I hate exercise that is exercise and I used to love playing games, I shelled out the money for a Wii and a Wii Fit.

Wii Fit is a balance board. It measures the pressure across the board and moves a cursor or game controller by sensing your shifting balance. To be physically fit, according to Wii, I need to have some sense of balance and be able to move the control by shifting my weight right, left, forward, backward, or some combination of the moves.

I keep being told I'm unbalanced. I have no sense of balance and cannot shift appropriately to make the games really work. It is frustrating. My sister told me that my competitiveness was 'sucking the fun' right out of the games. If I didn't need to always be perfect and always do everything just so, if I would just enjoy the moment – then I would have more fun.

Wii Fit has four different sections. There is Yoga, Strength Training, Aerobics, and Balance. One of the games in the Balance section is downhill skiing. By shifting weight on the balance board, you can ski between all the flags and end your run with pride. In theory. I can't. I was complaining about this very game when my sister did the whole sucking joy thing.

I tried to take her words to heart. I don't need to be perfect. I'm old and just beginning to work on getting back into some shape other than 'puff ball.' So I spent the afternoon in quiet pursuits. My sister called me that evening to tell me she had hit the slopes with a perfect score and achieved some extra levels. I mentioned the whole non-competitive thing and she just laughed maniacally.

I still can't do it. I'm failing. I'm unbalanced. The game asks me if I trip while I walk.

But, on a happier note, I can hula hoop like you wouldn't believe.

Socialism

2008-11-06T12:53:00.001-05:00

Barack Obama's presidential win made the message boards on the British forum where I play. They were so happy a Socialist was going to ru(i)n our country, because they apparently find the Socialist regime in England wonderful. At least, that's what they seemed to be saying. I did not use the word Socialist. And they were all happy about Karl Marx and saying just how much like Karl the Rock was.

So what exactly did Karl say that was so impressive? He said, "From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs." What most idiots forget is the first half of this little ditty. They are very concerned with the second half.

A political cartoon by Clay Bennett from my mail today had a picture of a ballot with "Decision 2008" written across the top and two choices. The first was "We" and the second was "Me." This got me to thinking, which is probably gratifying to Mr. Bennett. What it made me think, however, is not what he probably expected.

I voted to keep my stuff. I like a Capitalist society where people who work hard and are diligent are rewarded with the fruits of their labors. I don't want to pay more taxes so people who don't work can have the same life-style as me. If they want the same life-style, I'm willing to allow them to work just as hard as I have all my life. I'm assuming, and maybe I'm incorrect, that would put me in the "Me" category for the cartoonist.

Why is someone who wants me to support them, to lift them up to my level by supplying the rewards of what I've worked, why is someone unwilling to work considered a "We?" Those people who would benefit from my labor seem far more "Me" than anyone who simply wanted to keep the things they worked for. I am not asking the "We" people for anything more than to simply be left alone. THEY want MY stuff. That seems far more egocentric than me just wanting to keep what I've earned.

Wednesday I looked at the election results and began to worry about what we've managed to accumulate over decades of hard work and self-deprivation. I was hoping to live a reasonable life and be able to leave my kids an inheritance. Good-by inheritance. If I'm going to be taxed to the rate of Socialized America, I'm not going to be able to save anymore funding. What we currently have should last us, maybe. But that isn't with a much higher taxation rate.

I've lived within my means all my life. When we couldn't afford fancy vacations, we didn't take them. If we didn't have the cash, we didn't buy it (excluding house and car) and we lived without credit card debt. I worked all day and came home and cooked dinner. We rarely went out to eat and we still don't. And for all that deprivation, what's my reward? I should support someone else.

Marx has a beginning part of his famous quote that is usually totally ignored. "From each according to his abilities" means everyone should be out in the work force doing something. If you are too stupid for anything else, you can babysit for the people who are skilled at something. No stay-at-home moms. That's not all you are able to do.

The reason this didn't work in the USSR was because if there is no incentive (higher pay or more reward) for good work than bad, why work harder? The reason the US grew so quickly from upstart colony to world power was because when we worked hard, we received the benefit of our labor. The more you tax, the less the benefit. The less reason to work hard.

Dad always said that no poor person ever made a job for anyone else. The workers need a place to work. As crummy as the Vanderbilts or Carnegies might have been, they created jobs with their wealth. Without Ford or Olds, what factory workers would have a job making cars? We need those with bright ideas to be able to profit from all the hard work they have invested in their product.

So what did I decide about money? I decided to spend it all. After taxes. I have enough for at least the next few years. Then I will became a "We" and hope there are enough "Me" folks to continue to support me in their life-style.

BTW, Open Secret says the Obama campaign raised $639 million and spent $573 million on his win. McCain's campaign raised $360 million and spent $293 million. Why are Republicans considered the "rich" folks?

Leave Me Alone

2008-11-02T12:16:00.000-05:00

I've written in the past about my complete dislike for telemarketers. I'm on the Do Not Call list and it has helped tremendously. Apparently, political pollsters are not part of the group constrained by the list, but that's not my issue.

Yesterday, I was at my computer when I saw two women approaching my house. They were unfashionably dressed and carrying books. Always a bad sign. I knew they were going to try to sell me God. I hate being sold someone else's brand of God. I have my own brand, thank you very much.

I wrote about it at MWC. And I've been amused and astounded by some of the comments. I feel as if I'm assaulted when uninvited people enter my domain. I see absolutely no difference between a telemarketer and some door-to-door God-seller. I have been able to read for 50 years now and if I were in need of either God or cable service, I could let my fingers do the walking through the yellow pages and find out where to go in search of either.

I'm sure when the two families left here, all they did was go around the corner and start again. How terribly unfair to the little girl they were forcing on this outing. She looked to be the same size as Aiden. How cruel it would be to take him canvassing door-to-door instead of allowing him to benefit from the beautiful place God made for mankind. I just kept thinking the darling kid should have been on a soccer field. The parents weren't taking care of her needs, but forcing a small child to take care of their needs. Poor parenting if nothing else.

I also noticed it was the women who came sans child to my house. I guess they felt less likely to be sworn at. So the little girl went with the two men. I guess she was supposed to keep surly homeowners from swearing at her dad. Another point for poor parenting. I didn't swear at the women, but not because of anything to do with them, but more to do with my own code of conduct. If I were in the swearing frame of mind, I would have been doubly encouraged by the presence of a child, not quelled. I mean, if you don't want irate homeowners to swear in front of your kid, leave the kid at home. This is not rocket science.

I am about ready to find a Jehovah's Witness hall and stand in the parking lot after services and preach Catholicism. I know the drill. I can recite the Nicene Creed and offer them salvation through Jesus Christ as first delivered here on Earth, not some watered down subsidiary, but the real deal. The Church with Peter, who was the rock Jesus built his church upon. Says so right in that book they were carrying with them.

But that would take some effort on my part and frankly, these dimwits aren't worth the time or trouble. I'm dismayed at their use of children, however. It seems like I should have called Children's Services or something. There has to be some way to protect small children from incompetent adults.

Equal?

2008-10-17T15:57:00.000-04:00

California First Lady Mrs. Schwarzenegger is hosting a big shindig for women and giving out Minerva awards to five women. Maria Shriver is honoring Gloria Steinem, Billie Jean King, and three other women. Maria, Gloria, and Billie Jean were on Oprah.

We were told to be the heroes we've been waiting for. We were told to strive to be like men. We were told this by a bunch of women dripping in make up. Ms Shriver had enough eye makeup on to "highlight" her eyes but mostly made her look like a raccoon. Ms Steinem came out on stage in a see through brown blouse with heavy patch pockets and skin tight leather pants. Even Ms King was made up and wearing a single strand of pearls.

I usually am in my house and don't venture out much. I rarely wear makeup. But on Fridays when I go to work as a volunteer, I put on "my face." Except it isn't my face. My face is what I usually have on when I'm sitting here in front of my computer typing away. I put on society's face when I go to the hospital.

There was not a gray hair to be seen on Oprah's show even though both Ms Steinem and Ms King managed to tell their ages (74 and 64 respectively, if I'm remembering correctly). I looked it up, I did remember correctly. Both Ms Shriver and Ms Winfrey are in their 50s. And all these women who advocate for equality have not one gray hair.

Men let their hair go gray. And they may wear some makeup on television, but only enough to make sure the lights don't shine. They aren't made up in the same way women are. They don't wear skin tight clothes unless they are some sort of rock band or something. They wear a suit with a jacket covering up a multitude of sins.

Instead, three of the four women were wearing tight, curve enhancing clothing. The jock wasn't. Thank you Billie Jean. I can forgive the pearls and too much makeup just for the fact you wore non-sexualizing clothing.

Sure, we all want to look good. But why can men look good with gray hair and no makeup? Why have we worked so hard worrying about who loads the dishwasher while still courting to men's tastes by wearing clothing and makeup that make us look like tramps? Why hasn't this been part of the message? Why are we still so focused on looks.

As Steinem came out on stage, Oprah said, "This is what 74 can look like!" So what? Are looks what we should strive for? Not intelligence or morality. Just looks? Am I only as good as I can appear? What about my ability to be a responsible citizen of the world? Is that only secondary to how well I can age?

"Baby, you've come a long way" but "Baby, you have a long way yet to go."

Who's Job Is It?

2008-10-13T11:51:00.002-04:00

Bringing children up in today's society is treacherous. Discipline is looked on askance and then when children behave outrageously, the unwashed masses want to know what went wrong. Well, what went wrong is the parents did not teach the child how to be in the world.

Discipline is not hitting or even spanking. Discipline is teaching a child how to control the primal urges so we can live in society. As very young people, only concerned with the ego, they need to be taught we live closely in community and must restrain our wants because they impede the other person's needs.

Discipline is showing a child that unsocial behaviors have consequences. Acting inappropriately causes untoward events. Discipline is also teaching the child what the appropriate behaviors would be and giving them the space to incorporate that lesson into their own idea of how to be in the world.

So when the big brother swats the little brother, a mother might separate them and discuss other options to the big guy while letting him sit still for a while and think it through and offering solace to the little guy and perhaps find out just exactly what set the assault into motion and if necessary, teaching how to not be provocative.

These are not easy lessons to learn and usually take many instances of teaching and separation to incorporate them into one's life choices. It is a job lasting for years. Babies are nothing but ego. Toddlers know there is 'other' but don't really care about it. What the self wants is paramount and the only concern when choosing behaviors.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the young child is taught the rules of society. It is the work of years to make an entirely ego-based baby into a functioning adult. There are glimmers of hope spread out teasingly during the years. A small child shares nicely. The magic words are spoken without prompting. Words are used instead of fists. Self-sacrifices are offered to the younger, the weaker, the underdog.

All this work, years of labor, is the job a parent takes on when electing to have a child. There is more to raising babies into responsible adults than merely buying groceries, clothes, providing housing, and carting their ungrateful butts to school. It is more than wiping runny noses and attending games or recitals. It is, in the most important part, teaching the offspring how to behave in the world.

The world will not accept those who don't learn this lesson. The world shuns them, dismisses them, or locks them away in prisons. A child must learn to live within society.

As a grandparent, what is my job? It is the parents who teach discipline, self-mastery, the right way to behave. So what is left?

I think, perhaps, it my job to teach forgiveness. To teach a child that making a mistake means it must be corrected, but the child is loved, cherished, and will rise above the mistake. The child, the precious child, is forgiven. Not because of the child, but because the world cannot demand perfection. The world can only demand effort towards perfection. Perfect doesn't exist.

Aiden banged the chair against the wall. Joe told him to stop. Aiden banged again. Joe looked at the paint chipped away. Aiden looked at the white spot on the blue wall. The spot that wasn't there just moments ago.

In all honesty. If Joey had made a hole in my wall when he was five, I would have been angry. I would have pointed out the hole and how I had just told him to stop and now look. Look. At. The. Mess. I told you. That's what I would have done. That is what Joe did.

And Aiden was remorseful. Tears welled up in his eyes. He's five. He had no idea walls would crumble when struck. Walls are solid. Walls don't just fall apart. Except, he learned, they do. His daddy was mad. He looked at me. Tears ready to spill.

And, instead of being the parent and the disciplinarian, I had a different lesson to teach. One of forgiveness. The wall can be fixed. The culprit was unaware, even though warned, that disaster was near. Next time, he would listen to wiser people. But right now, he needed forgiveness.

The world will not abide willful malfeasance. But the world will grant forgiveness for small errors and hope you learned your lesson. And Nana will, too. Because she loves you. (Daddy forgave, too, but his was a different lesson to teach. And he still had his mother to confront.)

Melting Pot

2008-10-09T11:26:00.001-04:00

The idea of a melting pot as an analogy for the United States has been with us for a long time. The US is an ideal of ethnic convergence. Other cultures come to our shores and are taken into our society. They say.

I was watching a Dr. Phil show on racism. There were several guests and audience participation was encouraged. Dr. Phil mentioned the African-Americans, the Hispanics, the Asian-Americans, and the white people. What? Everyone gets to be capitalized, but the white people. Why aren't they Caucasians?

I find it annoying to have to continually type out African-American, so I don't. I have it hot-keyed into my computer so it pops up easily. I belong to a worldwide forum for writers and one nitwit, so unclear on the concept, berated another writer for calling someone 'black' and insisted they were African-American. The writer, a British citizen, replied icily but civilly, they were not American anything, they were British.

Why am I not European-American. More than that, since my ancestry is not from the Mediterranean Sea region, why am I not Northern European-American? My blond heritage comes from the Celts and the Germans. Why do I only get to be lower-cased white?

What about blacks whose immediate ancestors aren't from Africa, but come to America from some other part of the globe? Are they African-American still? Why am I a color, and a poorly named color at that, while no one else is?

And furthering the semantic problem …

Oprah had a show with half the audience men and half women and the show discussed health issues concerning one half of the audience or another. She had an expert in the field of neurology and brain study, who said over and over. "Men's brains" did this or that and then, "female brains" did something else. The counterpart to men, madam doctor, is women. The counterpart to female, is male. The terms are not complete synonyms, hence the need for different words. Women are human, females can be anything.

If we need to pussyfoot around and be all politically correct for everyone else, why does no one have to worry about my poor little feelings either as a Caucasian or as a woman? I understand the ERA did not pass, but really.

I am WOMAN, hear me roar.
Not I am FEMALE, hear me roar.

If everyone else gets a capital letter, may I please have one, too?

Thank you.

Petty and Petulant

2008-10-04T11:49:00.001-04:00

I last got my nails done on September 16. I should have gotten my nails done sometime this week, but I didn't go. Nails grow faster in the summer. I know that. I am supposed to feel pampered when I take time for myself.

I hate going to get my nails done. They have a woman there who seems to now be my personal nail filler and she is new to the profession and takes twice as long as the owner of the shop. She usually hurts me at least once during the procedure that seems to take forever. It's not as bad as the guy who made eight of my fingers bleed, but still …

I put off going to get my nails done because I'm lazy and I don't find the task to be a pleasant one. However, I hate my home grown nails. My nails are thin and they split. My hands always look like a chew my nails for dessert when in fact, I don't bite my nails. They just look like it.

The cost of a nail fill is $15 plus a tip, even for the woman who takes for damn ever and hurts me. I did not tip the guy who got carried away and caused way too much hemorrhaging. I really should get them done every two weeks in the summer and can wait for another few days in the winter when nails grow slower.

I'm not on the verge of economic collapse. I am not eating cat food. I'm not as wealthy as I was a few months ago. I have no idea where the current economic fiasco is heading and how long it will take to recover, but it's not looking especially promising today.

I don't go anywhere or do anything. I spend four hours a week volunteering and they really don't care what I look like to do that. I wear scrubs and have to wear a paper hat and paper booties and my nails are the least of my concerns.

The nails are bothersome when they get too long. I type all the time and they get in the way and get caught on the keys. They are longer than my real nails ever could be and although I've had them long for over a year, there are still things I can't do with my hands because of the nails.

I was lowering a window last night and popped a nail off. I knew I had to go on Monday and get them filled in anyway. This isn't a catastrophe. But … should I really keep up this nonsense? It is costly in a time of economic uncertainty. I'm spending about $375 per year on nails.

I like the way they look when I'm finished, but I hate going to get them done. It's not even as though I have a long list of "Things To Do." I have nothing to do 99.9% of the time. I still hate going and I hate it taking an hour instead of a half-hour. As I approach the time to get a fill, they are too long and in my way.

And yet, I hate the way my hands look without the nails and they will look much worse if I pop the other nine nails off because my real nails are abused when putting on the fake nails. They look horrific under there. And they will continue to be even thinner, more fragile, less able to grow until they are completely grown out. That process will takes months.

I'm so torn over such a stupid little thing. I want the nails without having to go and get the nails, pay for the nails, take care of the nails.

So, with a national recession looming, the possibility of another Great Depression, and wars scattered across the planet, I'm worried about my nails.

I'm Scaring Myself

2008-09-29T14:04:00.001-04:00

I have been researching and writing and reading and writing and looking and writing for my Little Bits of History, Volume 3 for almost eleven months. I know this because when I put in the references formatted at Wikipedia, they come with a date and time stamp. I started volume three on October 30, 2007.

I finished up the researching, topic finding, and Monday, Wednesday, Friday writing last week. I edited the months of November and December. I shortened the essays and selected which quotes were to go to RGQ. I put all that into Dreamweaver and then sent off the various things to the people I need to send things to. I'm officially finished with the year.

Now I can start on the Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday essays. I was waiting for a new week and going to begin. Instead, last evening I was too energized to just watch television or play computer games. I began writing up the intervening essays.

I wrote two more this morning and will continue to write more this afternoon. After I finish this. I have so much energy and so much drive. If I can get this finished, I can get on to another project. Maybe fiction, maybe humorous essays.

I know part of this is just the euphoria of finishing up part of the project. But part of it, I believe, is from being physically active. No matter what its origins, the feeling of being excited about anything is wonderful.

I need to look into learning how to write fiction with a lighter hand. Apparently, my style isn't what publishers are looking for in today's market. They want story-tellers to not tell the story. We are supposed to "show" the story. I'm told if I show it, I will improve my writing and marketability. I don't know if I will improve the writing. I'm not all that impressed by the whole show mentality. But I do want to be published.

When I asked about this at MWC, someone scoffed at the novels of only 50,000 words, saying that isn't enough to show a story. It probably isn't. It was enough, however, for Rex Stout to tell me a story. And Nicholas Blake, and Peter Ellis, and Anne Perry. Even Sue Grafton, before she got too far into the alphabet and became unreadable.

That's my whole issue. The stories on the market today aren't any more complex than these older writers. They are just packaged in 70,000-80,000 words or more. They are still 200 page stories wrapped up in 375 page books.

I need to see if this is the only way to write in today's market. I need to find out if babbling about, eschewing adverbs and even adjectives while trying to describe something easily summed up with the appropriate modifier, is really the way to write today. Maybe that has something to do with the print on demand market.

But first, I have to finish Little Bits of History, Volume 3, and get it ready to see print as Volume 1. Print is good.

I Can't Believe I Missed It

2008-09-25T14:06:00.002-04:00

I've been doing this exercise thing on and off my entire life. Really. I called it other things years ago, but it was exercise. When I was a kid, I was outside riding my bike, jumping off the boathouse roof, or playing Man from U.N.C.L.E. with Marcia.

I didn't play sports in high school, but I was in the band, the marching band. I carried a tuba I never did learn how to play. I played both clarinet and flute in concert band, but for marching around, I opted to carry a fiberglass tuba and not have to wear a hat and ruin my hair.

After high school, I went on to college and took my requisite physical education classes. I kept getting jobs that were physically more than sitting at a desk. I graduated from nursing school and my job became far more physical.

At the age of 27 I took up racquetball. I not only played the game now and then, I really took up the sport. I was eventually playing 9-12 hours per week. Admittedly, part of the time was recuperating between games. But I was at the gym and playing at a game that required both dexterous movement and powerful forehand backhand hits, but also caused me to build up quite a muscular frame.

Something happened after the last move back to Elyria. First, no racquetball and with it the loss of muscle tone and cardiac stamina. I then quit nursing and got jobs that entailed sitting. I went back to college and sat some more. I then taught for three years and was on my feet again. But it isn't the same as a workout.

After the move to South Carolina I became not only sedentary, but stationary. I sat at home, I got a job sitting at work. I quit that and sat at home some more. I've tried Curves for a while and water aerobics for a while. Both were fine, but stultifying and time constrained. The Curves place was only 15 minutes away, so I spent an hour (15 there, 30 exercising, 15 home) or twice the time needed. Water aerobics lasted an hour, but the place was 30 minutes away. Same problem, but it was also a scheduled class.

I've done nothing for over a year. Well, exercise-wise. I've gained weight. I've felt sluggish. I've gotten more and more depressed the more weight I've gained and the more sluggish I've become. Something had to change. I needed to be active again.

I got the elliptical knowing I'm so cheap I will use it only because I can't stand to waste that much money. I forced myself on the machine six days in a row and then consulted my personal trainer, AKA my son. He sent me a four week workout program. I've followed it.

Monday and Tuesday I did 20 minutes and then Wednesday I took off. Now, here is the scary part. I stayed up late Tuesday night and didn't go to bed until 2 AM Wednesday morning. I woke up late and reveled in the thought that I didn't need to exercise. It was a scheduled day off and I could immediately get to my e-mail. No postponing, no sweating. Just languishing around.

It was awful. I ate more yesterday, especially more junk food than I have been eating since the exercise equipment darkened my door. I was more restless yesterday. I didn't write as much yesterday. I paced more yesterday. It wasn't my best day.

Today I got up late again because I was up late again last night taking care of issues on the forum where I moderate. I got up, had one cup of coffee sitting on the porch. Then I got up on the elliptical and did my 25 minutes as Craig said I should. I then read my e-mail – nothing important there and the forum stayed quiet after I went to bed. I have written more today, eaten less, and feel better.

I can't believe I'm going to say this, but: I missed exercising.

Still Not Skinny!

2008-09-20T09:04:00.002-04:00

I wish it was that instantaneous. Getting fat wasn't that quickly accomplished, so I need to practice patience. And fortitude.

That's the part I wish to briefly discuss. Fortitude. My exercise machine arrived on Tuesday and I have used it every day since. I barely got through Tuesday. I was pushing the thing too fast. That was stupid, but I'm a novice at this.

On Wednesday I was smarter. I put my book on CD on and still burned calories and still went at a reasonable pace, but my heart didn't try to leap out of my chest and run for cover hiding in the bag of potato chips. I burned about 10 fewer calories and felt much better.

Wednesday evening I finished my book on CD. Oh no. An excuse. My plan was to listen to books while I exercised and I had no book to listen to. I searched for an escape clause and smiled slyly.

Thursday I got a CD of 1960s songs and fired up the elliptical and did my 15 minutes getting about the same results as Wednesday but not as easily. I can keep up a steady pace and not kill myself when listening to books, but when exercising to music, I tend to go at the pace of whatever beat is playing on the CD. This turned out to be problematical.

Friday I volunteer at the hospital. Ah ha. Another excuse. Poring over my escape clause manual, I found it right there. Working and exercising. Tough it out, you weenie. So I set my alarm early enough to be able to get my fat ass up on the elliptical prior to going into the hospital.

And now, the conundrum. What am I supposed to do with Saturday? Do I need to exercise on the weekends? Do I only take Sunday off? I AM taking Sunday off. There was never any question about that. But I didn't know what to do about Saturday. Is this an escape clause thing? Was I 'supposed' to exercise today or not?

I have no idea what my plan is. I have no plan so I have no idea what it is supposed to even look like. So instead of letting myself get a day off, I got back up on the elliptical, again with a book on CD. I really need to keep a stock of these on hand. I have a much easier time not competing with a beat. I did my 15 minutes.

Now, all I need is a plan. I have two different sets of goals for next week. I have no idea which set to go with. I need a personal trainer.

My Pants Aren't Getting Any Looser

2008-09-16T18:19:00.001-04:00

I've been wearing stretch pants or too tight pants all year. This past spring, in an effort to burn calories, I attempted to roller blade. This is not a good thing for an old coot who has no sense of balance.

The emergency room bill and the doctors' bills are all finally paid. I'm about 99% better with a twinge in my arm when I move the wrong way. If I knew exactly what the wrong way was, I would stop moving like that. But I don't and so every once in a while, I'm struck with a sharp pain and thereby reminded that I can be incredibly stupid.

I had an outfit all selected to wear to my daughter-in-law's wedding shower. But I didn't wear it. It was too tight. I might have squeezed into it, but there was no way I could drive to Hilton Head and back while my pants cut off my circulation and made me miserable. So I wore something else. Something looser. Something that fit my fat ass.

I love my clothes. I have so many really nice clothes. And darling outfits. And accessories that match. Closets and dressers full of clothes. And I can fit in fewer than 10 pairs of pants. I realize that is more than some people own in total. But I have many, many more pairs. I have around 30 pairs of Capri pants alone.

I either need to get my butt back to the size of my pants, or I need to surrender to the advance of both old age and laziness. For it is laziness that is the problem. I used to be far more active. I burn next to no calories moving my fingers across the keyboard. And I spend hours and hours each day doing just that. And then eating.

By the end of the day, I'm so edgy from my self-imposed lack of movement that I can't sit still. But I have no place to expend the pent up energy. When I take my dog for a walk, she reminds me that she is no longer young and has legs approximately one-twelfth as long as mine and must run just so I can mosey. When I want to really walk at a fair clip, she is panting like a lizard on a hot rock before we get home.

I wanted to burn up some energy. I like to pretend I can ride my bike. But I have a list of excuses.
1. It is trapped in the garage.
2. It is hot and muggy.
3. The new road means far more traffic and it is no longer as safe.
4. I'm too lazy to get my fat butt on the cushioned seat.

So that wasn't working for me. Next brilliant idea. Get a treadmill. I called my son, the exercise guru and/or nut, depending on your outlook. But he was busy out in the world. Who knew that could happen? So I called my sister who miraculously was at home. She suggested an elliptical machine instead of a treadmill. We discussed advantages and each of us clicked through options online while we talked so she could point out various options that would mean something to me.

By the time my son called back, I was talking about buying an elliptical machine for the house. When I asked him if he thought it was stupid, he pointed out that it was not nearly as dumb as an AARP card holder buying roller blades for the first time and then trying them out without pads. Point made.

So I have been in a race with the Baby Sister over who could get an elliptical in the house first. I purchased mine on Saturday but was willing to pay someone to lug the 288 pound machine into my house and set it up for me. I figured the dog didn't deserve to have us put it together.

I got a call this morning and while on the phone, the call waiting was ringing, but I needed to finish the call I was on. When I got done, my cell phone was ringing and there was Baby Sister bragging that she had just finished a 30 minute workout on her in home elliptical machine. The one she purchased the night before, brought home with her, and put together herself.

The phone call I was on was the guy coming to my house to put the elliptical together. He was coming this afternoon. He showed up at about 2.45 and left about 3.20 with the entire machine set up. It took my sister about 2 hours to build hers. There were two guys here and they never swore. So it was worth it to me to have them build it for me.

Craig said to start out slow and gradually increase my workout. I didn't attempt a 30 minute workout. Good thing. I tried 15 minutes. I made it, but it wasn't easy. However, I'm looking forward to the next time. There are all sorts of preset things on this machine. I can do a workout for calorie burning or for my heart health. Or I can just enjoy not falling down and nearly killing myself.

Ways to Spend Time

2008-09-11T16:17:00.001-04:00

I have lots of time and I need to figure out better ways to spend it. I currently spend an inordinate amount of time playing silly computer games. Hours. And hours. I would never have had this amount of time to waste when I was younger. Mostly because back then I spent an inordinate amount of time playing racquetball.

I spent about 9-10 hours per week at the YMCA where I played the sport and it took about 30 minutes each way, for another three hours per week in travel time. That's 13 hours per week on one activity. I think I spend more time than that right now playing computer games.

I also used to work. I wanted to work 3 eight hour days and actually had to fight to stop being assigned 4 eight hours days. I figured out a way to work 3 six hour days which was the best. I didn't have to work through an unpaid meal break which automatically shortened the day by 30 minutes. So instead of over 9 hours per working day at work, I was only gone slightly more than 6.5 hours per day. That accounted, when I finally got it working for me, for about 20 hours a week wasted on working.

I read a lot of books back then. Some of the medication for my migraines made reading long and in-depth books less appealing. Even so, I never gave up reading even when taking the most disruptive drugs. I also did crossword puzzles. Lots of those.

I no longer play racquetball or work. I've looked into both propositions and neither is working for me at this present location. I still read and do occasional crossword puzzles. What I do is waste way too much time on silly things on the computer. I can actually get upset and have a hard time sleeping because I've been debating (okay, arguing) with people online. People who I have never met and never intend to meet. They have no sway over my real-time life. And I waste all this time and energy with them.

Instead, what I should (isn't that a horrible word – should?) be doing is working on a diet and exercise regimen that will help me lose 15-20 pounds so I can not only fit in my clothes again, but feel better about myself and my health. I should push away from the keyboard and hop on my bike and ride for an hour a day. The weather is no longer stultifying and it would be good for me both physically and mentally. Probably spiritually, too.

I could spend some time that I waste clicking on things here at the computer looking up some healthy recipes. I have chicken, pork, beef, and fish just waiting to be cooked up in some delicious ways. Instead, I will eat potato chips in the late afternoon and then not really be hungry and so slap some food together and call it dinner. But I could and should really change that.

I've been reading fewer books than in past years. I'm not sure why. I think I'm too restless to sit still long enough to really read something. Mostly because I'm too often sitting in front of my computer and when I move to a different room, I'm too tired of sitting all day. So I don't sit still and read. I can't seem to sit still unless I'm in front of the computer.

The computer – that seems to be a central theme to my problems. I could maybe force myself to turn it off, but I actually do write after researching history stuff right here on the computer. I just spend too much time in inconsequential, mind-dulling pursuits. I need a better way to spend my time. It's precious and once it's gone, it's gone.

Is This Supposed to Help?

2008-09-06T06:20:00.001-04:00

I use my computer and its high speed Internet access in really crappy ways. I do not use it for anything even remotely for what it was built for. I don't do any wonderful gaming (although I play lots of stupid little games) nor do I create movies or make music or do any of the myriad things Bill Gates likes to think I might want to do with a computer.

I do a lot of word processing. Mostly what I do is word processing. I then copy and paste that into my web page maker and post some of it on the web. I play a few really simple games (game size rarely exceeds 50 MB so you know they aren't all that wonderful). And I read stuff on the web.

That last part is getting more and more annoying. I've always been curious about other people's lives. I don't know if everyone is a voyeur like this, but I always have been. I guess it is controlled gossip. Even as a kid, I read Dear Abby in the family newspaper, along with the comics. There really isn't much else in a newspaper for a kid.

With the Internet, I can read Dear Abby and Annie's Mailbox online. Great. This is twice the gossip. Annie's Mailbox's hosting site started with the pop-under ads a long time ago. They are annoying. They take your focus away from the web page you are viewing and when you try to scroll nothing happens. I know how to right-click on the second IE page on my taskbar and click Close on it and basically ignore it. But it is a pain.

Dear Abby threw in a couple of these this past week. I hate these things. I would never, ever, not ever click on one. It only encourages the people making my online experience annoying. I understand revenue streams. I even click on the occasional ad embedded in the pages. I hate these new windows.

I began using Webshots when the whole thing was free. Then they went to a paid subscription and I can only get some of the pictures, and so many folders, and the most I can download is five pictures per day. Unless I pay. I don't pay. I have almost 4,000 pictures to scroll through for my desktop and screensaver. That is enough. They have, however, started a new ad campaign that is horrible. It plays a darling little movie instead of giving me the picture I clicked on. I can either reload the page or click Close on the movie. I would never, ever, not ever click on the ad or use any service that couldn't figure out how to be less intrusive. People stuck with dial-up are more than annoyed, since this large download literally makes it impossible for them.

I know I'm not a very good consumer. I buy groceries. More than I really need, even. But that doesn't help boost the economy so much. I don't online shop. I don't have a PayPal account. I don't have an eBay account, or an Amazon account. I don't watch television so I'm not pressured to buy a lot of crap I don't need for 8 minutes out of each half hour.

I have a house and car. I've got two closets and three dressers full of clothes and shoes. My computer still works and my office is stuffed with candles and paper. And as I mentioned above, I buy groceries. There really isn't anything I need. And to annoy me to the ends of the earth is no way to induce me to buy it. Or use it. Or whatever it is they hope to gain with ads. I really don't know what the goal is, as I never read them. I click Go Away Scumbag and then get on with my perusing the page I opened. All by myself. Without pop-ups or pop-unders.

If everyone was like-minded, if everyone simply ignored them, they would go away. But someone, somewhere, is clicking on them. I hope the afterlife is full of mouse click after mouse click after mouse click after …

Anyway, I hope those morons get what they so richly deserve. They probably buy from telemarketers, too.

The Wedding

2008-09-02T18:36:00.002-04:00

The big party weekend is past and I'm recovered, or as much as can be expected considering my age and the circumstances.

We arrived in Hilton Head on Thursday and met with Barb, Bill, Ruth, Tom and Bobbi, and Jim. We went out to dinner and had a lovely evening. The old people were all tired, but those in their 20s just love to push the envelope. And they pushed in a bad part of town.

Jim got in around 3 AM, sorta. His brother got him to the room door, but couldn't quite manage to get him into the room. This woke the mother, who was not amused. The father, like all fathers around the world, pretended to sleep through the fracas. All we knew in the morning was that Jim got home late and with only one shoe. We later found out the baby brother lost both shoes.

We met at Joe and Sarah's house and then separated. The kids were going parasailing. We worked around the house and got things in order for the Rehearsal Dinner that was happening that night, sans rehearsal. Erin had to get back to the house and work on the wedding cake. Really, she had to start making the wedding cake.

We were at Wal-Mart around noon to get the beer and wine and paper products for the party that night. We ran into Erin and Aunt Leslie. Shopping.

We got everything on the list that could be gotten at Wal-Mart. I thought it was a super Wal-Mart, but it wasn't. We went to the grocery store to pick up all the things we needed there. Dick waited for them to slice – s-l-o-w-l-y slice up some lunch meat while I did the rest of the shopping. We got home just in time for Mitch, Joe, Aiden, and Dylan to throw together a sandwich and take off for the boat.

Matt had said the kids could come since it wasn't a regular parasailing trip, but a special outing for the groom and his friends. Aiden was going to draw me a map of all they saw. They were going to see sharks and monsters. I got no map. Instead, Aiden went up into the sky with his Dad and they parasailed together. How fun is that?

Next we were ready for the party. We picked up ten pizzas from Fat Baby and got to spend a few hours of calm before the storm. We got back to the hotel and tossed and turned in anticipation of the big day.

We got the Plantation House decorated and it looked beautiful. The chairs were set up outdoors for an outside wedding. The fountain in the pond splashed, fish jumped, flowers bloomed and the whole wedding was beautiful.

The Bride and Groom were lovely. Their children were adorable. The guests were celebratory. The whole thing was freaking exhausting. But lovely.

We got the place cleaned up and the kids returned to their house by 9.30. Walking up to the house, Aiden proclaimed, "That was the BEST party." You really can't get a better approval rating.

We headed back to the hotel. Tired, but happy. We are now officially in laws. We met all the other Hysell/Blush folks for breakfast and then got our belongings and the dog and headed back home.

The Bride and Groom finally could relax. As Sarah said, "I have my life back." All the work and planning, the sweat, worry, and toil, were worth it. It really was the BEST party.

Close

2008-08-28T10:35:00.000-04:00

The Big Day is approaching. We are heading to Hilton Head this afternoon and I won't be home again until I'm a mother-in-law.

Ick.

Mother. In. Law. That has such a horrid connotation. MILs are awful people who interfere and boss around hapless DILs and make them miserable. I don't want to be that type of MIL.

Mothers of daughters can do things to daughters, say things to daughters, be certain ways with daughters that are absolutely forbidden to mothers of the in-law variety. I know this. I know this because I have a MIL myself. My own mother might have said the exact same thing as my MIL and I would accept it from Mom but not from Ruth. Because, Mom was MOM and Ruth was not. She was His Mom, and that is not the same.

I have sons and so I will never get away with saying the same thing to my daughters of the heart that I could have possibly said to daughters of the womb. I know I can say things to my sons that no one else can. It is because I am the Mom, the one and only Mom. Regardless of anything else ever, I'm the Mom.

I assume this is the same with stepmothers, although I don't have much experience with that. My parents were on their starter marriage as were my in-laws, as am I. I would think the whole issue with stepparents is the 'you aren't my parent' variety and is true because the stepparent is NOT the parent. And so, as the MIL I need to remember I am not the mother.

Luckily, my DIL is wonderful. She is beautiful inside and out. She is fun and funny. She is artistic and practical. She is industrious and yet has time to give to others. She shares well. She is a great cook. She has beautiful children, although that may be partly due to my own gene pool. Regardless, the kids are great, too.

We have known each other for years. We have laughed and cried together for years. We have looked at Joe and wondered for years. We have hugged and kissed babies for years. This really is nothing new. It is the same, but different.

I wish … I want … my DIL to always know she is welcome to all I have. I am giving her one of the most precious things I've ever – not quite possessed, but felt was my own. I am giving her my precious son. One of my favorite people in all the world. And that's just the beginning.

I know she has a mother. But now, with a twist of the legal system, I'm going to have a daughter. I am so thrilled. A girl. I've always wanted one.

Thanks, Joe, for getting me a daughter. And such a great one, too.

Only Because I Love Her

2008-08-24T09:31:00.003-04:00

I knew it was going to be bad, but I didn't think it would be that bad. My soon to be daughter-in-law is a kind, sweet woman. She is graceful. She is beautiful. She doesn't ask for much. She is shy.

She hesitantly called and asked if I would like to be involved in the pre-wedding parties. I was thrilled. Of course I would like to be part of the joy. I am so glad she is becoming part of our legal family, since she has had a place in my heart for a long time now.

So I said I would love to come to the brunch and the wedding shower. And then …

Last weekend, we found out the hinting at embarrassment and innuendo included in the invitation was real tyranny. Apparently the hostess knew enough not to actually tell us what she planned because the answer would have been a resounding "No, thanks!" Probably screamed at high decibel level. So stealth strumpet went on with her plans.

Last week I knew it was going to involve a sex toy party so the hostess could make money off her 'friend's' (and I'm not really sure about that title) upcoming nuptials. She entrapped Sarah's friends into attending a party for Sarah that turned out to be a party for the hostess, Jaclyn.

I can be a good sport about most things. I graciously (at least I hope I was gracious) met Sarah's friends. I talked with a few guests. I took pictures of all the smiling beautiful young women. I enjoyed one Mimosa and then had to fend off proffered alcohol with several demurs. I'm not sure why my not drinking offends people, but that is a different issue.

So the sex toy people finally arrived. I placed myself in a position across from the bride so I could photograph her opening her real shower gifts. It put me at the beginning of the line and I was handed countless vibrators and assorted what-nots.

The first thing we were told by the sex toy party people was that "what happens in this room, stays in this room." And the second thing was "if anything makes you uncomfortable, you can leave the room or we will stop." Since they didn't stick by the second, I'm not feeling all that compelled to follow the first.

Side note: they passed out a few toys that were advertised as able to use "while in the car." I thought people on cell phones were bad drivers, but apparently little vibrating finger covers will help pass the time while locked in rush hour traffic (exacerbated by the wrecks caused by inattentive drivers).

We played a game like Hot Potato and the two sex toy reps contrived to make sure the Mother and Mother-in-law were the last two people up. I mean, what can be more fun that showing grandmothers playing with sex toys? Amy won a vibrator and I won the chance to be totally humiliated and any last shred of dignity take away from me in a public place and in front of relative strangers and my son's bosses' wives.

As Bitch (I'm sure she told us her name, but I have no idea what it is) came to me to put a black plastic 'leatherette' harness with a pink penis sticking out of it over my head, I crouched and covered. I kept saying no. She kept trying. I explained I was old and might have a heart attack. She told me she was a CCU nurse and could revive me. (I wish I knew her name so I could get her license revoked. This person should NOT be around patients.)

No matter what I did, she didn't leave me alone. I managed to just sit there holding the disgusting toy while everyone took my picture and laughed because there is nothing like total humiliation. Nothing.

Of course, it wasn't only about me. Bitch also humiliated my lovely, sweet, kind, precious daughter-in-law. She was forced into participating in a second humiliating and cruel game. But because she is lovely and didn't want to embarrass Jaclyn, who seems totally beyond embarrassment to me, she participated with far more grace than I could muster.

Since we were permitted out of our seats for the second humiliation fest, we managed to avoid going back to the room. This should have been a hint to Bitch and Co-Bitch, but not so much. They were now passing out a tingling gel on little tongue depressors. But of course, this wasn't to go on your tongue. We were to go to the bathroom and put this crap on our crotch. I managed to avoid Bitch and yet she tracked me down and proffered the offensive goo. I declined. She tried again. I politely declined. She insisted. I reminded her, no longer politely, about her rule to not force anything and I didn't want the shit. She left.

Bitch and Co-Bitch then insisted we come and all sit down for more 'fun and excitement' while they went through the rest of their product line. As soon as B&CB left to go into the back room to take orders, more than half the women fled the scene. This upset Jaclyn. I'm not sure why. If she thought this was such a wonderful idea for a brunch, why wasn't it listed on the invitation? She knew this was a bad idea and did it anyway and then was upset when no one wanted to cooperate. No kidding.

My next hurdle will be meeting most of these young women again on Tuesday. There will be a real shower with real shower games. Colleen will be permitted to attend because it won't be offensive. But I will be there meeting women who will remember me as the old woman with a plastic dick on her chest. Great. I can hardly wait. Humiliation au duex.

That Crazy Prediction Game

2008-08-19T15:48:00.001-04:00

I'm reading a book where 60 of 'the best minds' in the world predict where we will all be in 50 years time. If these are the best we got, it's no wonder we are in such a mess.

Many of the essay authors are Nobel Laureates so they must know something. The trouble comes when they try to predict globally instead of within their little specialty. The first essay was so Pollyannaish I almost quit reading.

According to the first writer, there will be 11 billion people living on Earth and her colonies and everyone will be fed, clothed, and sheltered. There will be no menial labor because it will all be done by robots and humans will be engaged in 'information processing' of one sort or another. No word on what happens to the below average intelligence humans – or half the population.

Several other authors bemoan the serious reshaping of the continents due to global warming. The one person who claims there will be perhaps a six inch rise in water level worldwide and says it is impossible to tell what will really happen in the next 50 years regardless of what is done to pervert the world economies is the expert on Climatology. What John R. Christy does believe is "that the accumulating economic development throughout the world will not be sidetracked by calls to 'stop global warming,' which are ultimately designed to inhibit access to affordable energy." Especially for a high tide.

The expert on heart disease tells of a future with no more heart attacks. He laments the recent increase in heart disease, but is happy about the drop in cancers. Hello, Mr. Expert. But you see, we all have to die of something. When we started to halt demise from cancers, we got old enough to die of heart disease and stroke, both results of the aging vascular tree. What exactly does this expert think we are going to eventually die of?

And almost everyone in the book – so far anyway – has talked about increased lifespan. We are all going to live for 125-150 years or so and this isn't going to harm the population of the planet in any way. Only one person – again, so far – has noticed that an aging population is going to be somewhat detrimental and that we are going to have to do something drastic to halt the birth rate if we are postponing the death rate.

One author who has apparently come down out of his/her ivory tower has noticed that not only Americans, but everybody is getting fatter. We are eating an unhealthy diet of too much this and that, but mostly too much. Where we used to be plagued by scarcity, now much of the industrialized world is plagued by abundance.

One tree hugger opines that the world population will stabilize at around 8-9 billion and we will all be eating organically grown food and all will be healthy as horses. The person who actually understands farming points out that organically grown food means scarce food and without the technological advances of agribusiness, there won't be enough food even for the 6.5 billion people here today, let alone another couple billion here or there. That doesn't even account for the nincompoops calling for ethanol made from grain crops to fuel cars.

What I seem to be seeing is a bunch of smart people who are only smart in their one little area of expertise but without qualms about predicting what will happen across the board. Not understanding what they are talking about doesn't even seem to slow them down. It is no wonder the man-on-the-street can't keep up with where we are headed. Even the people in the upper reaches of intelligence can't seem to figure it out.

It is amazing to me how stupid these very smart people can be. They don't seem to be able to see beyond their own personal causes or agendas. They can't seem to figure out that their specialty isn't the whole ball of wax and there may just be a few other points to consider.

We are in a world of hurt here.

Not Just Americans

2008-08-15T07:30:00.001-04:00

The Daily Telegraph reported on a British couple in trouble with the community. Adam Hinton, 32, is banned from the apartment belonging to his girlfriend Kerry Norris, 29.

It seems the couple is not very decorous. The neighbors have been complaining for years, since 2006 in fact. They play loud music, headboards bang, and there are screamed obscenities. Also, Norris sunbathes naked.

Residents went to the Brighton and Hove City Council and asked for an injunction for the couple to tone it down a notch. They did not comply and so a second request was made. Now Hinton is not permitted within 100 metres of Norris' home.

And, of course, children and their sensibilities were invoked in the complaint with a neighbor pointing out a small child should not be subjected to the obscene verbiage.

Well, how did this happen? I thought the United States was the only country worried about the sex lives of other adults. Here it turns out other countries can be just as worried as the Puritanical Americans.

Brighton and Hove is located in southern England and the article was found at The Australian.

It seems to me, we Americans are pointed to as the quintessential up-tight idiots of the planet. Yet I've never read about a community banning two adults access to each other. Oh, we sensationalize sex at every opportunity. The headlines are full of public officials in extra-curricular sexual mishaps. It seems having a 'love child' is pretty standard fare from Jesse Jackson to John Edwards. Then there are Governors who tell the world and their wife at the same time they are leaving to join their gay lover – cuz who doesn't want to hear that in front of live cameras?

No, sex is the same around the world. And nosy neighbors and voyeurs are the same around the world. We love the stories of sex gone wrong for those people because it makes us feel better about the sex at our house, which is usually less spectacular than in the movies. Or novels. Or poetry. Because it is the normal everyday experience to think someone somewhere is having more fun, we like to make sure those fun-loving folks get their come uppance.

So all you loud folks out there, don't use louder music to cover the noise, move the bed away from the wall, and for goodness sake, stop screaming – especially dirty stuff. WTF is the matter with you?

Purpose

2008-08-12T11:58:00.001-04:00

Living a life of purpose is a goal or maybe just a skill. Finding meaning in the purpose is the job of religion or philosophy. Contemplative tasks don't seen to provide much meaning.

My purposes are many. I am daughter and sister, keeping memories of family of origin alive. I'm wife and mother, creating a new family. I'm grandmother, passing on the stories to small children.

I am a nurse, although no longer licensed. It is something one can't get over or past. The information that was essential to my job will not abandon me now, even though it is no longer needed. It does have some value when I do my volunteer stint at the hospital. I'm still asked for medical advice fairly often.

I am a teacher, although no longer in a classroom. I'm still asked for technical advice fairly often.

I am a writer, perhaps even an author. I've written about trips to Ireland, Alaska, and across the country. I've written essays about events for each day of the year. I've written accounts of fictional characters trapped in a different space, time, or dimension. I've written up some of the stories about my family.

And yet …

I feel adrift, purposeless. I have no hard and fast schedule of events to point to when I say what I do with my days. A neighbor is absolutely amazed that I don't work and sit at my computer all day. I have no answer when he asks what I do. I write, but not all day. I read, but not all day. I do laundry and cook, but not all day. I do this and that. I keep the house running and functional. I make sure there is toilet paper and potato chips, whatever is needed.

After years of juggling ten things at once and managing to work, play, read, and raise a family I'm now 'retired' and free to do what I want. The problem with that is figuring out what I want. I write, but I don't want to do the work involved in getting the writing published. I don't know if it is fear of success or more likely fear of failure. I don't want to learn how to market myself. I just want to write.

But I want people to read what I write so I have to learn to market myself and get my work published on a larger scale than it is currently. My website is okay; but rarely visited. How many others have websites with the same problem. With 6.5 billion people, one would think an audience would be easy. But as in real life, more people want to talk than want to listen.

So I drift through days with time weighing heavy on my hands. I could have used some of this time years ago when I was juggling the ten things at once. Then I didn't have enough and now I have too much. There seems no happy medium.

I would have thought that by this time in my life I would have figured out what my purpose is. But, apparently not.

The Boy Who Cried 'Wolf' or The National Weather Service

2008-08-05T21:05:00.001-04:00

Edouard hit Galveston to much fanfare – for a thunderstorm. Usually these aren't named, but if they form over a body of water, then they can be. Especially if the Weather Service needs to glorify itself.

Because there is a television station that spends all day, every day telling us about the weather, it must be glorified. Instead of just having weather like we always had before, now we have Weather. Important. Rain. Snow. Sleet. Hail. And everything gets a Severe Weather Warning.

I get severe weather warnings if it is sunny and hot. I watched all winter when northern states were issued severe weather warnings when it was cold. Hot and cold are problems, but they aren't severe. They might be if you are caught outdoors without access to shelter. But that means every day is full of severe weather.

Yes, according to the National Weather Service, that would be just about right. Everything is a crisis. Everything needs our immediate attention. And funding. Money is important. Weather is important. Weather has its own television station, so it must be Very Important.

This was supposed to be a huge hurricane year because of the global warming caused by mankind's use of fossil fuels and cows farting. Just because there have been Ice Ages and glacial retreats since before mankind came down out of the trees is no reason to believe that there is a cyclical weather pattern that has increases and decreases in temperature.

And we, as a race of selfish, piggy beings with the world revolving around us, must be the cause. We are behaving like five year olds who believe their parents' divorce is somehow their fault. The world is huge and we can abuse natural resources. But even nasty, grubby humans can't change the weather on Mars, who's temperature is also rising.

Anyway, back to the Weather Service. In order to appear important, they issue warning for heat, cold, rain, rain elsewhere, fog, and any other reason they can think of. Then, when something really bad happens, people don't listen. Katrina was just one more storm with the Weather Service up in arms yet again. Ho hum.

But that time it was real. After screaming "Wolf!" over and over and again and again, it isn't really any wonder people don't listen. Since Ed, the Storm, blew in with sustained winds that are lower than some of our afternoon showers here, we can assume there have been five named storms so far this year. On the Atlantic side. Storms big enough and bad enough to rate a name. And so far, they have been pretty much a bunch of nothings.

This year, there is an added feature on the National Weather Service's Hurricane Watch page. They are putting little yellow or orange circles on the map about areas that are pre-storm or forming storms. But you have to look quickly because these forming storms peter out into nothingness. Just one more way to keep poking at us.

There are storms out there, but not daily. Even though the TV needs to have something to say for the 24 hours per day they are on the air. And there is really very little to say about the weather. Unless there is something devastating. A tornado blowing through, a hurricane with real hurricane-force winds, tsunamis, hail the size of baseballs.

But the weather isn't all that co-operative. Meteorology isn't that exact. And so the weather folks don't keep saying maybe and perhaps a storm will hit. It might not and it could well be mild. That doesn't sell airtime. Nope. There are Storms approaching and You should Beware – and listen to the Weather Channel. Because you know, we have weather every single day.

Family

2008-07-30T12:05:00.000-04:00

And so we come to the time of the week where I notice I've not written anything here. That is not to say that I have not been writing this week. In fact, I've written quite a bit in the last week, just not here.

I've written about sewing machines (1846 models cost $125 at a time when the average yearly income was $500, making them a co-op purchase). I've written about Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning and found they never lived in Portugal, but Portuguese was a pet name Robert gave to his wife. I've written about tanks and their first use in WWI, not all that spectacular to start, but they eventually "took off" with speeds today 20 times faster than the original version. I've written about the Hoover Dam that irked FDR so much he changed it back to Boulder Dam which never was correct as it was built across Black Canyon. I've written about Wheel of Fortune and found that Vanna claps her hands 28,000 times per season, all while dressed spectacularly. And I wrote about a patriot who had only one life to give for his country and was astounded to learn Nathan Hale was only 21 when he died in service to his Commander-in-Chief.

I've also written a little piece about surviving a not-tornado. (I fully intend to return to the writing of my family stories on my webpage.) I've survived tornados that caused less damage than the one that wasn't. I have the pictures to prove the devastating effects of high winds regardless of their classification.

I've also printed out my sister adventure story. I was shocked, and I do mean shocked, to learn how much blabbing I did. There are pictures included, but still. The printout was 50 pages long. Not about 50. Not nearly 50. Exactly 50. And I didn't even write up the whole thing. I could have extended the saga immensely by including the first week and a half when we packed, sorted, and held a garage sale with such scope we had to have departments and ancillary sites to hold items for sale.

Instead, I began the tale of travel when we actually began travelling. Although I did continue it until my own departure. I apologize to anyone actually living in Kansas, if there are any people living there, but I never need to drive through Kansas again. It was the most tedious and boring state, partly because of the length of time and mostly because there was absolutely nothing to do there except stare out the window. And worry about running out of gas.

Everyone expects Texas to be huge and take a lot of time to drive through. Texas also has a few things to do. We visited the largest cross in the Western Hemisphere. It was beautiful and there was a whole display of life sized bronze statues surrounding the cross telling the story of the Passion of Christ. There was a gift shop as well. It was the one place I would have spent money for professional grade pictures and they sold none. Astounding. They took donations and they sold other holy type stuff, but no simple books of postcard style pictures. I would have thought it was a no-brainer. Each of the stops with the bronzes as a separate picture as well as the huge cross in the middle. But, they didn't offer to take my money in the one place I would have given it to them.

Of course, I wrote this in bits and pieces and have not even proofread the whole thing. But, part of the fun of this type of writing is that it's informal. I'm sure there are typos, misspelled words, and sentences that are – at best – not quite right. I wrote in the early morning or late evening and didn't spend much time on balanced composition. All I wanted to do was get down the fun we were having. The stories we were making. The love we shared.

It might have worked.

No Muse

2008-07-23T17:02:00.000-04:00

I know I should be writing something for my blog. There may soon be some snippy message from my son telling me that writers write and I need to add something to my space on the Internet.

The problem is simple. I don't have a burning topic I wish to put forth. I don't even have a slightly simmering or only smoking topic. I'm fresh out of topic.

My sister, in a move of complete tenderness and total lack of self preservation, told me that I can be just a little grumpy about life in general. She pointed out that I can get angry over silly things, inconsequential things, unimportant things.

She's right. But then, both of my sisters have this particular gift as well. We just all get upset by different things, making one person's silly and inconsequential, another person's bane of existence.

(Topic ahead.)

I have a cell phone. I rarely use my cell phone and even more rarely do so in a public place. I remember a time before cell phones when life continued even if you were out of reach of the rest of the planet while shopping or going to the bathroom. This is no longer true. The entire world can reach out and touch you at any time.

And people answer their phones no matter what. Any call placed has a 99.534% chance of being answered. The rest of the time, the person is passed out after too much partying.

What I can't figure out is why the person placing a call takes precedence over the people actually present with the recipient of the call. However, people will be out to dinner and answer their cell phone leaving the dinner partner privy to half a conversation while trying to look nonchalant and uninterested.

People shopping are amazing. Mothers love to talk to their friends while wasting time at Wal-Mart. I see this routinely as I spend both too much time and too much money inside the behemoth. These young women are talking to their friends and often as not, they are discussing Friend C and her boyfriend trouble with Friend B while Child A sits in the seat part of the cart screaming his fool head off. They may even tell their children to be quiet because Mommy is on the phone. I want to reach out and touch them. Hard. Several times.

Surely our life isn't so crowded that we have to spend every available shopping minute on the phone. Wait until you get home and instead of tuning into another senseless, useless, waste of time reality TV show, call your friends. You can even do this after you have put the baby to bed. This is what we used to do before cell phones.

Or else, and here is a real challenge, you could simply stop talking about your 'other' friends behind their backs and conversation would, if not completely dry up, decrease by 87.639%.

So, yes. I do, in fact, get angry for the dumbest reason. Watching the kids aged three and younger who are trapped in a shopping cart while their mothers are oblivious to them and the rest of the world is one of those things. Pay attention to your kids. They are the ones who will be selecting your nursing home.

Airlines Don't Care

2008-07-17T14:09:00.002-04:00

I just got back from a whirlwind trip. I flew up to Cleveland (which has always been a two plane trip since no one goes anywhere from the Charleston airport except to a hub of some sort). That was a month ago. My short flight to the hub is so quick they don't even serve a drink. They never have. The longer flight had a drink and some wonderful pretzels. I think there may have been 17 small pretzels in the bag.

My return flight is what I'm going to talk about now. I just came back. When I purchased my ticket, luggage was still expected to go with travelers. Now, not so much. If you want to take luggage with you on your trip, you have to pay for your luggage to fly, too. You are permitted one carry-on and one personal item. Anything more and you have to pay. Of course, with everyone trying to cram their stuff in one carry-on and one personal item, the storage bins get full really fast. This is not the airline's problem, but the flyer's.

I was given a Papal blessing or Presidential pardon or something. Because my ticket was purchased before they started charging for luggage, I got to bring my clothes with me on my four week vacation. Everyone was happy I had clothes.

Side note: when I got to the airport in June, I had already printed my boarding passes from home, but this wasn't enough airline work for me to do. I also had to check in my own luggage.

When I got the Phoenix Airport, I knew I had to check in my own luggage, but the first thing the machine wanted was a credit card. I wasn't going to give them one, so a person (real, live, and on the clock) had to help me.

My ticket said I was to have an "in flight café" included in my flight plan. Not so fast there, buster. Things change. Instead, I got on my 3.5 hour flight at noon and expected to have some sort of food offered. Something more than the 17 small pretzels. Instead, I was offered a chance to purchase a chicken sandwich and Caesar salad boxed up and wrapped in plastic for some indeterminate time for the price of $7. My other choice was a "snack box" containing God alone knows what but all nicely boxed and wrapped in plastic for the low price of $5. I rarely eat pretzels and so passed on the snack box. The chicken sandwich was too scary for me to try.

Luckily I had packed three granola bars and some salt water taffy I had purchased. On the 3.5 (really 3 hours and 44 minutes) flight, I was offered a drink. I am a coffee drinker and so chose that. I was given a 6-ounce cup that was about ¾ full along with some creamer. That was it. Nothing else. At all. Four ounces of coffee. Nearly four hours of flying.

They only sold quart bottles of water at the airport and I had to carry my laptop and my carry-on and really did not have enough hands to carry the bottle of water. I had assumed I would be fed and watered on the plane. If you are flying in the US and want to not die of dehydration – bring your own water. But not TO the airport as you are not permitted to bring water into the place because of security.

Next, there was an in flight movie. Airlines used to give the disposable headphones to the passengers for free. They cost perhaps fifty cents each, but are probably cheaper because I'm sure they buy in bulk. Last year they were selling for $2. This year, they went for $5.

The last straw came at my intermediate destination. I was lucky enough to have my plane land only two gates away from my departure for my next plane. I ducked into a bathroom and some enterprising women were granted the right to empty the paper towel dispensers, tear the sheets off into single use amounts, and put a tip jar in place of me waving my hands in front of the automatic paper dispenser.

I understand the price of gasoline is causing the cost of flights to increase. But really, the airlines are making it so distasteful to fly, they are going to put themselves out of business.
It is great to be home.

Travel Issues

2008-07-05T19:54:00.001-04:00

Traveling is full of perils.

We drove 2,000 miles without incident. However, some place along the way, I lost my ability to send email from my normal program, thereby losing my address book in the process.

Then we got to the destination and found that our Internet connection left the country. We are trying to figure out a way to remedy this whole situation.

As promised, I've been writing about our adventures. My tales of travel are located on my webpage.

I would happily send out an email telling people I have included this on my page, but as I said, I have no address book to mail from.

Packing

2008-06-28T07:29:00.001-04:00

I can't remember the last time I worked this hard. My sister's house isn't huge but it has lots of nooks and crannies for storage. And they were all once filled to capacity and slightly beyond. There were a lot of things packed before I arrived and yet …

Many, many more boxes have been packed and stowed and there is still more to go. I've moved and in the early years had to do it all myself. I've helped Joe move and, inadvertently, Matt as well. Moving across the country (or state) is far different from moving down the street. I've always had an abundance of help moving far distances.

The exhausting part has been the weeding out of the essential from the non-essential. And then selling off the non-essential. One garage sale was held a few weeks ago and a second was held this past week. We had departments set up with the neighbor's garage as the furniture show room and the patio as the seasonal section. The greenhouse was where we put the extra clothes but we ran into a problem when we found the dresser also full of clothing.

There was a craft section, several bookcases full of both hardback and paperback books. We set up an electronics section near the plug. There was a children's center, linens, crafts, kitchenware, and candles. Tons of candles. The clothesline was hung with the flag banners and wind socks.

They came in droves. They came by the bus load I believe. The first day of the sale, Gulf Road was blocked and everyone was directed right past our signs of a garage sale.

Vini. Vidi. Visa. They came. They saw. They shopped. We sold items ridiculously cheap. Dresses (and they were all very nice dresses) for $1. Mom's suits, beautifully tailored and cared for were $2. Christopher & Banks sweaters were $1. Hard cover books were a quarter and paperbacks were a dime. Everything must go.

But of course, it didn't. So we took all the remaining beautiful clothing and donated it to a shelter for abused women. They help these women complete their education and get some job skills and then dress them for their job interviews and get them started on a path to success. It is a wonderful concept.

Then a woman from the Humane Society came with her grandson and great-grandson and took the rest of our items away. The Human Society is having their own rummage sale with proceeds going to protect their animal friends.

My sister made thousands of dollars during the two sales. Enough to pay for getting the remaining crap moved across the country.

Of course she didn't do it alone. Mary Jo brought the doughnuts and the laughter. Rose and Roseann have been the most incredible friends. I have never seen two woman work so hard and so long in such an altruistic manner. Days in the heat – lugging furniture in an out of the garage, depending on the cloud cover. Arranging and rearranging items in an effort to better market and sell off the stuff. Bringing tables to help display the crap and packing up the stuff to get ready for the Humane Society's pick up.

All this was overwhelming. But it's not all. They will be back to help with packing the big truck. And after that, I will be able to tell the story of Thelma and Louise and Louise driving across the country.

And So It Begins

2008-06-19T08:02:00.000-04:00

I have officially begun my sister vacation. It is a working vacation. I will be helping out with the packing and sorting and moving and unpacking. It sounds like a lot of work. But with three of us, it will be less.

They picked me up from the airport and we stopped for something to eat on the way home. We had a quiet evening. But we did manage to sort through a couple of boxes of stuff and get it ready for either moving or a yard sale.

It seems so odd that I will soon have no place to call home in Elyria. Even when Mom's house was sold, I still had a home here. I've always had a home here. Ever since I was born. Here.

We are on to the next adventure. We three sisters will be separated by hundreds of miles of geography and less than a hair's breadth of heart. No matter how far away on the globe, my sisters are one button away on my phone. One click away on my computer. Close.

Even far apart, we are close. I can't imagine warring with my sisters. Even the one who snuck into my closet and wore my clothes or ate my personally purchased chocolate. Certainly not the one who gave me all the 'shit jobs' while we baked thousands of Christmas cookies. Nope. These are my sisters. My lovely, wonderful sisters.

And we get to be together working and driving across the country. Four weeks of work and fun. Four weeks of playing games, telling stories, and laughing. Four weeks. Far too short a time.

For My Son

2008-06-14T09:41:00.001-04:00

"Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful." - Samuel Johnson

Some astounding news from the medical community is something I've known for a long time. They have found, much to their amazement, that admitting an error makes the patient less likely to sue. For a long time, it was thought that ignoring the issue was a way to not admit any wrongdoing and hopefully avoid a judgment. They were wrong.

I watched one of my favorite surgeons make an error through no fault of his own (IMHO). He had asked the anesthetist to not paralyze the patient as he had to check nerve response. The anesthetist went on a coffee break and did not tell the relief person about this request. The relief person gave a paralytic agent to the patient. I have no idea why. I was on my own coffee break at the time.

Because the surgeon had no idea his request had been ignored, he tested a band, which did not respond, and so assumed it was the tendon sheath and not the neural sheath. It was the nerve and it was severed and it was a bad thing. When the original anesthetist returned to the room, he advised the surgeon about the paralytic agent. The mistake was then discovered and we tried desperately and futilely to repair the nerve.

After the case the surgeon went out and immediately talked with the family and explained the nerve damage and possible repercussions. He did not blame anesthesia. It was ultimately his responsibility to make sure that his nerve testing was on active nerves. He was devastated by the error and I had never seen him so upset with himself. Not anesthesia, himself.

He told the family what he could do to help them. As soon as the patient was awake enough to understand, he was told about the error. The patient did not sue the doctor. His admittance, repentance, and apology did not mitigate the disaster, but they did help to keep the whole thing out of the legal system.

The integrity of the doctor was overwhelming. I've never respected a man more thoroughly than this young doctor.

Making a mistake is bad. Even when other people help you make the mistakes, it is still bad. They are mis takes. Actions taken wrongly. Bad things.

I have made many mistakes in my life. There are many times when I have also made good choices, sometimes through pure stupidity or dumb luck. When I have made a mistake, I have been mortified. This is not something that should be happening. I should not make mistakes. I should not ever, EVER HEAR ME? make a mistake. I, and I alone in the world, should live without error. Isn't that a stupid way to feel?

I've made mistakes and then tried to cover them up. That does NOT work. It makes things worse rather than better. I have had to swallow my pride to salvage my integrity. I have had to admit my frailty, my humanness, my relationship to the common man trudging across the dusty plains of Mother Earth. I am not perfect. I am no better than the lowest, stupidest, foulest creature. I made a mistake. Shame, shame, shame.

Eventually I raise my head and notice the world carrying on without me while I wallow in self pity and self denigration. My mistakes have been minor. Relatively speaking. I've never started a war, even if I've started a fight. I've never slaughtered millions, even if I've been acerbic and cutting with my remarks. I've wasted money that could have been used in far better ways.

But the most important thing I've done is learned from my mistakes. I've tried to learn from other people's mistakes as well because I don't really have time to make them all myself. (Someone else said that first, but I'm not looking it up to see who.)

The only people who don't make any mistakes are the people who do nothing. If at first you don't succeed – try, try again. There are many proverbs telling us how to overcome the sense of failure after making a mistake. Edison mentioned that all his errors while trying to create a light bulb were not mistakes. He had learned 10,000 ways to not make a light bulb.

Denying an error, continuing on as if nothing happened is disingenuous. Owning up to a mistake, rectifying it, taking the necessary steps to stop the damage, and most of all learning from the experience takes courage – and integrity.

Sound and Fury

2008-06-09T08:13:00.002-04:00

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? – author unknown. The philosophical question was probably first posed by some 20th century thinker. It asks about the relationship between event and observation of the event.

Can something exist without being perceived? Is there a sound if there are no ears to hear it? That is the philosophical conundrum. Or maybe it is whether or not the unobserved world behaves in the same manner as the observed world. Perhaps Schopenhauer's cat knows. Maybe, instead, it is asking if there is a difference between what actually is and what seems to be.

To paraphrase: If a writer writes something and no one reads it, is that person still an author?

Is the act of writing what makes someone an author or is it the act of a second person reading the written words? Do I write if no one reads? Do I speak if no one listens?

The act of writing leaves a more concrete trail than the ephemeral waves of sound produced by compressed air. The transient sound is here and then gone, unrecorded. Producing written works leaves a more tangible effect. There are words on paper or screen. As I punch at various keys on the board, letters appear on the screen and eventually there are words, paragraphs, essays, stories, letters, any manner of written work.

By writing a grocery list, I have placed letters that symbolize words onto a paper in order to remind myself to get cream of mushroom soup when I go to the store. Does this simple act make me an author? Is an author something more than someone who writes words? Is there some community to the word 'author' that is lacking from the word 'writer?'

Of course the list is written. A spreadsheet is written as well. Does creating a spreadsheet make one an author? Is it only specific types of writing which causes the scribbler to turn into an author? Or is it that someone else is reading what has been scribbled?

Does that mean that if I give the shopping list to my husband so he can remember to purchase the soup, I am now an author? Or if a spreadsheet is attached as a file and sent to co-workers, does the creator become an author?

What is the difference between writer and author? A writer writes; does an author auth? Does one only become an author after so many people read the words produced? Do they have to be specific forms of words? Is it the act of remuneration?

According to the web, an author is:
1. The writer of a book, article, or other text.
2. One who practices writing as a profession.
3. One who writes or constructs an electronic document or system, such as a website.
4. An originator or creator, as of a theory or plan.

This doesn't mention any relationship between writer and reader. Without the reader, what use is the writer?

Tell Me a Story

2008-06-06T17:29:00.002-04:00

Children have been asking since the dawn of time to be told a story. Today, with television and DVDs rampant, they will sometimes also ask to see a movie. These are two different things.

Sue Grafton's alphabet series began in 1982 when Kinsey Millhone began her sparky, snappy career with A is for Alibi. In 208 pages a crime was solved. Kinsey has charmed many readers and Grafton has become quite successful. Somewhere around the middle of the alphabet, Grafton decided to craft literature rather than write delightful stories. The 2007 book, T is for Trespass, is the latest in the series. The 200 page story is wrapped in 387 pages of prose. I stopped reading around the letter P.

Rex Stout wrote 47 Nero Wolfe books, each one was between 150 and 200 pages long. They are enjoyable. They tell a story. They don't contain extra prose in order to 'show' me anything. They simply, clearly, concisely tell me a story. I like that.

Someone, I have no idea who, told authors to 'show, don't tell' the story. So people shout like fans at a Michigan vs. Ohio State college football game instead of shouting excitedly. For some unknown reason, adverbs are the pariah in the world of words. Splitting infinitives, once a capital offense and now an annoyance only to old grammarians, may have been the lovely adverb's downfall. Gene Roddenberry sent his Star Trek crew to boldly go where no man had been before rather than going boldly, infinitive intact. They weren't traveling around space like Thor marching across Valhalla on a collision course with Zeus on Mount Olympus. No, they went 'boldly' and we all understood.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, Marcel Proust must have written epic films. Remembrance of Things Past is published in a three book set while In Search of Lost Time is six books. The 'lost time' probably went missing while reading Proust.

Why aren't people reading books today? Why, with list after list of best-selling titles, do people think that we aren't reading? But if we agree that young people aren't reading as many books as we would like, we as authors should ask ourselves why. We are raising a generation used to rapid fire images and then expect them to wade through extraneous verbiage produced to make some college professor happy. No wonder they don't read. Miranda can be in love with Reginald without the relationship spelled out in florid and useless prose. Get to the action. Tell the dang story.

The story must be engaging. Literature has its place, but story-telling predates literature by millennia. Both are valid. Shunning story-telling for the sake of literature is just as silly as the reverse. Mark Twain wrote both, but not by design. He wrote stories so well, they became literature.

I like adverbs. I will continue to sing 'Lolly, Lolly, Lolly; Get Your Adverbs Here' from Schoolhouse Rock. I will tell my story with verve and will use all parts of speech as indicated. I will gladly have my characters move through the tale doing this and that and using the language as I would if actually telling the story face to face. I hope readers like being treated with respect. Surely anyone old enough to read will know what 'gladly' means and I don't have to show them through smiling faces lined with happiness.

What Are They Thinking?

2008-06-02T07:02:00.002-04:00

This was in Annie's Mailbox on June 2, 2008:
Dear Annie: This is in response to "Snubbed," whose in-laws didn't include the spouses in the family photo at her father-in-law's birthday.

I can do her one better. My in-laws didn't want to include me in my own wedding photo. My husband's parents have all of their other children's wedding photos on their wall, but not one of them includes the in-law grooms or brides. They are only shots of their own children, plus the parents.

I put a stop to that. I made sure I was in my wedding photo, along with my husband, his siblings and parents. — Midwest Wife

Dear Midwest: You're right — not including the spouse in the family wedding photo takes the cake. With all the layers.

What?
They only got one picture of the whole wedding? There was no picture of just the bride and her parents? And the bride with her mother and step-father and the bride with her father and step-mother and the groom only with all the permutations of his family would have ruined the whole day for her?

And the dimwits who write this column agree?

Mom kept a picture of Pam in her bridal gown, me in my bridal gown, and Cheri had no picture of just the bride because it was a newly 'professional' photographer.

What is so horrible about parents wanting a picture of just them and just their child on an important day? The bride poses all over with just herself: looking forward, glancing backwards over the train of her gown, showing off herself and her dress. And somehow this woman is so nasty that she can't allow her husband and his parents one picture without her elbowing her way into it?

Holidays are going to be wonderful for this kind soul. They will revolve only around her. One – okay, this one – can only hope that she has a son or two and gets told on some important day in his life, she isn't permitted to bask in the glow of his contentment as there will be no contentment, only some other person's selfish need to control.

So, when the groom finally tires of this self-centered woman's need to be the star and finally divorces her ass, his parents will remove the picture of the 'wall of fame' parents like to keep. They will have no record of just them and their offspring because this mean and nasty woman could only see the world as it revolves around her and had no idea parents sometimes like to share a moment with just their child.

I certainly hope the woman who wrote this letter learns at some point that even on Bride's Day, she isn't the only person in the world. And I hope her parents-in-law can find it in their hearts to forgive her for being a totally senseless and selfish, mean, nasty, inconsiderate, and vile person.

And I hope the husband will some day come to his senses and explain the universe to his misguided wife. It is NOT all about her.

Surviving the Cure

2008-05-28T09:02:00.001-04:00

On the three week anniversary of my stupendous idiotic stunt, I had a massage scheduled. I first had it scheduled for last week, but due to other illnesses, I had to postpone what I knew was my last hope of feeling better.

Gil came in and I showed him my arm. My partially immobile arm. The one that couldn't straighten out or bend completely. I thought that the straightening out pain was muscular and the bending was neural, but even that may have been an error.

The first few days post-trauma, I used the sling constantly. Then my neck began to hurt so much that I switched to an intermittent usage of the sling, only when needed. Mostly I held my arm in a static position by muscles alone or by propping it with my good arm.

Therein lies a problem. After three weeks of tucking my arm in mostly a 90º angle, it didn't want to un-angle. The muscles themselves had begun to atrophy or contract. Or else, perhaps they were so cramped from a constant holding pattern they simply couldn't work any more.

Gil worked on my neck and arm and I can now almost completely straighten it out. I would say I am about 95% there, perhaps even more. If I let it hurt. Straightening out my arm is all muscle pain. There is nothing tingling and nothing shooting up or down my arm. Bending my arm, however, entails both muscular pain and the numbing, shooting stuff I associate with nerve involvement.

So my plan is to allow the muscular pain to just happen. My arm needs to move through the pain in order to get back my full range of motion. I'm willing to live with constant low grade pain for a couple days in order to get my arm back long term. I'm a little more worried about the nerve stuff.

Pain is nature's way of telling us to stop doing that, whatever that is. The muscular pain is simply from misuse. The nerve pain is from a damaged nerve, something I don't wish to further damage. I'm willing to go through the stretching, cramping, tearing stuff for the muscles, but nerves aren't supposed to do that. But if I continue to not bend my arm up, the muscles are only going to get worse.

So, I took a walk around the block with my arm down at my side with the hefty weight of the dog's leash further exercising the muscles. Pitiful, but there it is. I'm willing to keep bending my arm until I get any of that buzzing stuff going on. Then, I stop. I don't wish to exacerbate any swelling and compression around the nerve itself.

This is the best I can figure out to do right now. I hope that in the next three weeks I will get myself completely healed. I won't be nearly as useful for moving across the country as a crippled old lady. I better get that fixed prior to my departure. I'm working on it.

I have another massage scheduled for next week and that will hopefully loosen up any more muscle contractures that I've not been able to loosen up on my own.

With all this sitting around and doing nothing, I'm frightened to step back on the scale. If I was too fat before all this happened, I can only surmise it is worse now.

On a happier note, I bought three more pairs of stretch pants.

Sick and Tired

2008-05-22T11:06:00.001-04:00

I'm tired of being sick and tired. I know that a majority of my issues are self-inflicted which only makes the matter worse. There really is no comfort in knowing that I did this to myself. At least when I broke my ankle playing racquetball, I both won the game even though injured and had a shiny cast to prove I had a boo-boo.

I won nothing. I looked pitiful. I'm still looking pitiful. And there is no cast. I stopped wearing the sling within days because it hurt my neck too much.

I've looked up the treatment for my particular boo-boo and the treatment is to let time heal all wounds. Unless it gets worse and then there are other things that might work, but the essential treatment is to do nothing. I've got that covered.

I cannot straighten my arm. Even if I ignore the pain and just go for it, I cannot straighten my arm. This is a concern. But if I allow time to heal all my wounds, it should be able to straighten my arm at some time in the mists of the future. It should stop hurting eventually, too. Great. I have the exact opposite of the patience-of-a-saint – whatever that may be. I'm completely unenchanted with this whole fiasco. And yet, despite my feelings about it, the boo-boo lingers.

I have been coughing now for three weeks. I thought colds were supposed to last for two weeks with a doctor's help or a fortnight if left alone. Still, it's been over three weeks. My sore throat comes and goes. The cough was almost completely gone and then after a day or two of respite, it came back with such force that I sometimes look for a lung or two to go flying across the room with the rest of my innards in hot pursuit. I cough until I can't breath. I cough until I'm choking and gasping for air. I cough so hard that I sometimes try to even bend my left arm to help in some way driving a white-hot shaft of pain up to my shoulder and out my fingertips.

I've given up trying to sleep. If I lie down, I nearly choke to death. I've camped out in a recliner the last couple nights and dozed in between choking fits. I've sucked on cough drops until my whole mouth is puckered. I knocked over a glass of water in the middle of the night giving me even one more thing to whine about.

With holding my arm funny and sleeping in a chair and choking and hacking my way through my days, my arthritic neck is snapping like a turtle during mating season (do snapping turtles snap more during mating season?). My neck is so full of creaking that I listen to the snap, crackle, pop each time I turn my head. I'm sure it is loud enough for others to hear, maybe as far away as downtown.

I had a massage scheduled for this afternoon, but I can't lie down without choking to death and most therapists don't like you coughing in their faces. So regardless of how much good it might have done for my arm and definitely would have done for my neck and shoulders, I had to cancel the one thing that was sure to make me feel better. I will hopefully be well enough by next Tuesday, when my boo-boo will be three weeks old, my cold will be four weeks old and my neck will be striving for the century mark.

Since cough syrups that come by prescription only contain codeine, and since I had no such cough syrup in the house, in the middle of the night I devised my own strategy. After waking yet again in the middle of a choking fit, I realized that the good ER doctor had given me pain pills for my arm. Hydrocodone, synthetic codeine. I took one. I actually got a few hours of uninterrupted sleep and woke up with a neck so stiff I could barely turn my head. But sleep! Blissful sleep.

I then noticed that my caffeine intake from the day before had been too low and that my now throbbing arteries in my head were not happy with me. With enough time and freshly brewed coffee, this passed quickly. If only my lungs, elbow, and neck could speak to the coffee-happy arteries.

Life is what happens when we are busy making other plans. And so the saga of the boo-boo continues.

Possible Topics

2008-05-18T19:57:00.000-04:00

As I sit here and think of things to talk about, I'm struck by a plethora of issues that have crossed my mind this week.

I've been noticing far too many women wearing tops that are completely inappropriate. The new style is made to accentuate boobs and so there is a top that is supposed to have material that is gathered under the breasts. However, some women are either 1) too old and saggy or 2) too fat for the tops they choose. And so the seam with the gathering is not scooped under their boobs, but rather they are looking like bandoliers with stripes across their chests. Do they not have mirrors?

Then there are people who drive like they are the only people on the road. They are either not concentrating on their whereabouts or are just inconsiderate. But they have traffic backed up with people trying to get around them while creating traffic hazards for all concerned. One clod was going 45 mph down Interstate 95 and had all of us at risk due to the one car's idiot driver.

My injured arm is wearing on my patience. I have very little patience to start with and I'm totally at the end of it. I needed a jar opened, there was no one here but one-armed me and it takes two arms to open a jar or far more experience being one handed than I have been able to accumulate. I accosted a perfect stranger who was simply riding his bike down the road, but due to the kindness of strangers, I got my pasta sauce opened. Thank you, stranger. I hope you get some play out of the story, as I have nothing else to offer you.

We went to Sculpture in the South this weekend. There are some very talented people out there who are able to create beautiful art. Some of the pieces were absolutely breathtaking. All of the price tags could suck the air from a large room. There were a couple of large sculptures that had price tags around $50K, but most of the pieces were much more reasonably priced for just a few thousand dollars. I'm not a connoisseur of fine art and I have no desire to dedicate a portion of my house or life to caring for it. But it was very pretty to look at. And the day was perfect as well.

I finally found the book I needed for the book club. I read it, I enjoyed it. It was nothing I would have found on my own. This is the reason I joined a couple book clubs. It paid off. What a fun thing. I had tried to find the book previously. I thought the date for the meeting was last Wednesday, but it turns out that it is this coming Wednesday. So I still had time. So I called one last book store and miraculously, they had just gotten an order in and there was one still unpacked in the back room. They would hold it for me and so I went and picked it up. If I hadn't hurt my arm and been delayed, I wouldn't have been able to find the book at all. Sometimes things just work out.

Aiden was in a musical play at school. It was mostly the kindergarten classes, but the pre-K kids got to perform at the end for a couple songs. Joe has his video camera from when he was really filming stuff. He videoed the presentation. Morgan was thrilled with seeing people she knew up there on the television. It was finally time for the kids to perform and Aiden was up on stage. The kids were spectacular. They had hand and arm movements to go with the songs. Aiden was happy to move his hands, but his lips never moved. The kid next to him wasn't quite settled and when he irritated Aiden, he was given the mean look that immediately made him bug the person on his other side and leave Aiden alone. That look is the best.

I've been working on the fiction stuff trying to figure out where it is going. I never know what's going to happen to my characters until I begin to write. I had solved a problem here and there and had no idea what to do with them next. They somehow figured it out for themselves and I found a new tack to take. I am amazed at the process of writing fiction. When I write non-fiction, I have to stick to certain pre-ordained rules. Not so with the fiction, especially with the premise I'm working with. All in all, I'm learning new stuff all the time.

As I look around, I notice that there are many things I could talk about here. Some days, I feel like there is nothing out there to talk about, but I know that all it takes is fresh eyes. The world is a fascinating place, if you only take the time to see.

One Week Later

2008-05-13T19:47:00.001-04:00

I knew as I left the hospital with my arm in a sling that I was going to have trouble with typing. It was one of the least problematic issues I've encountered during the past week. I typed one handed and it took a very long time, but it wasn't like I had anything of great urgency to tackle. Just sitting around being hurt was all I was capable of doing.

If you have an arm that neither bends acutely or straightens out, you are stuck with a pretty useless limb. I can't get a potato chip to my mouth with my left hand even now. It is still painful to get my contacts in place.

Zippers really take two hands to use. My purse slides all over a surface while I try to zip it back up. I can't hook up my underwear properly so … perhaps that is too much information.

It takes two hands to put in a ponytail. It takes two hands to dry your hands. It takes two hands to open up packages, or teeth and one hand when desperate.

It takes two hands to eat a steak or pork roast or chicken breast because they must be cut into bite sized pieces. It is why I've been eating soup and salads and cheese on crackers. I can't cut up the meat, so I've not been eating that. Well, I can eat bacon. Yum, bacon.

While it is possible to pull my pants on, I can't wear anything with a real waistband because I cannot button or snap anything since my clothing is a little on the too tight side to begin with and I only have the one arm and hand. I can get my elastic waist pants up but I look almost as graceful as I was as I skated down the driveway on my inline skates. Yes, it looks that bad as I hop around tugging first one side and then inching up the other. It makes me really think hard about making a trip to bathroom. "Do I really have to go or can I wait. Really, bladder, you can wait a while and we can make one less trip per day," I say to myself by mid-afternoon.

All the little things were astounding. But catastrophically, I couldn't hold the babies for Mother's Day because it would hurt. I had to wear the sling in the car because my arm was aching held in one position for too long.

My arm is bruised in a most curious fashion. I wish I knew exactly how I injured myself. The bruising covers far more area than I thought it would. I keep trying to do something new and it flares up and then I'm taking another pain pill to deaden the ouch factor.

What I miss the most, however, is the ability to take care of myself. I'm alone for a few days, so I'm stuck caring for myself which means that there are certain things that I can't have right now. I wanted tuna in my leftover macaroni salad, but it takes two hands to operate the can opener. I ate plain macaroni salad. It's not like I'm going to perish, but I am going to whine. See?

My arm is getting better each day. It will soon be completely healed and I can get back to my normal life. I hate being dependent and I hate being thwarted. I keep telling myself that I at least have my dominant hand working to full capacity.

I sure hope by a two week post-idiot blog entry I can tell you all that I'm perfectly well and functioning to my normal slug rate. At least I'm typing with two hands again.

I'm Too Old for This

2008-05-06T16:54:00.001-04:00

Perhaps I should have entitled this 'I Should Know Better' instead. Let me start out by saying that I'm typing this one handed. At least I'm typing it right handed, so things could be worse.

Prelude
Since I am unemployed, I have nothing but free time. I have very little structure to my days and vast stretches of open time. One of my favorite pastimes – since I was five years old and first learned how, is reading. I enjoy reading. I enjoy learning. I enjoy being entertained and creating the author's world in my own imagination.

Watching television or a movie means I surrender my imaginative process to the producer, director, and actors. I prefer my own version, stimulated by the author over the version created to fit within the current constraints of film (video).

Reading, however enjoyable it is, does not burn many calories. Even when reading a heavy tome. And I often read paperbacks. Not only does the act of reading not burn many calories, it is also a wonderful time to ingest calories. Reading a book while munching on potato chips or some other treat is a splendid way to spend a sunny afternoon or stormy evening.

Then there is the inescapable fact that I am getting older by the second. Each day adds more time to my accumulated stay on Mother Earth. I started out my journey here as an infant, moved towards toddler, crept up on pre-schooler, sped into student, ran into teenaged years, hurried into adulthood, and zipped into grandparent status. Now, with AARP card clutched tightly in hand, I am old and careening toward decrepit.

The older I get, the slower things work. Instant recall is no longer instantaneous. Running is really jogging. My metabolism has slowed down. So even though I now have only a bowl of potato chips while I read instead of the whole bag like I used to do, I'm gaining weight. And there is the crux of the problem.

I'm getting fat. Not by any true medical standards, but my own standards. I find my size six clothing tight and uncomfortable. This wouldn't be as much of a problem if I had fewer size six clothes. But I have one walk-in closet, one double closet, and three dressers full of that size. Unless you count Nana's antique piece as a dresser and then I have four. Too many items to replace.

What I need to do, therefore, is keep my fat ass the same size as my clothes. This used to be easy. I had an active job requiring me to do many physically challenging things. I played racquetball and sports with the kids. I moved more and burned calories at a greater rate even as I sat still.

I have tried various methods of exercise since moving south and being sedentary. I went to Curves, I've done water aerobics. I rode my bike. I walk the dog. I really hate to exercise no matter what. I find it abysmal to spend more time on the trip back and forth to the gym than in actual exercise. (There is no logic there because as a slug, I really have nothing else to do with my time.)

I figured that a good way to burn calories would be to get some inline skates. I have watched many people skating past my window as I sit in front of my computer. It looks fun. I got the skates. I put them on for the first time today. Before my grandson was allowed on his skateboard, he was covered in pads – knees, elbows, gloves, and helmet. Me – just gloves.

I was unsteady as might be considered normal. I asked my husband to supervise in case I should fall. I fell. He stood in the driveway and looked on as I yelled 'it hurts' over and over. I had been standing still when my feet flew out from under me. I landed flat on my too fat ass which is thankfully over-padded. When the jarring, stinging pain receded from my posterior, I found my left elbow very painful. I could move it, but only with great pain. And my fingers were going numb.

Finally, after either six lifetimes or a few seconds – depending on perspective – my husband helped me get the skates off and watched me hobble into the house. He immediately got me some ice but my arm continued to cause me considerable pain. We went to the hospital.

I was given a couple pain pills so that I could move my arm adequately to get decent x-rays. The films proved to be negative. I have a bruise and some swelling. But mostly I have a highly irritated ulnar nerve that would like my arm to remain perfectly still and don't even think about moving any fingers.

So, I will be returning the inline skates. I'm really too old to be this stupid. I may have to learn to just like having a wardrobe consisting entirely of a few pairs of stretch pants that will accommodate my copious hind end.

Ben Franklin said that he didn't mind so much being old, but he hated being old and fat. Yep.

Moving Day

2008-05-02T17:23:00.000-04:00

I have moved a few times. I have taken four people (2 adults, 2 small children) across the state. Then, ten years later I moved 3.5 people (2 adults, 1 college kid who didn't really live with us any more, 1 teenager) back across the state. No pets. Then I moved two adults and one dog across several states.

When I get ready to move, I know far in advance that it will happen. Months in advance. I have to put a house up for sale and look for a new one to purchase. Then I move. I call up the utilities and cancel them at one end and have them scheduled to initiate at the other. I have moving people scheduled to pack up my stuff. Then load up my stuff. Then move my stuff. And finally deliver my stuff.

I have learned that it is much easier to throw away much of the crap before you move. It is really a pain to have to lift it out of a large box, unwrap it from copious amounts of newsprint, and find out that it is trash and so throw it out. It is easier to do all that before it is packed and moved and delivered.

The last time I moved, I worked for months de-crapping. I got rid of an enormous amount of junk. I took boatloads of books to the library and clothes to Goodwill. I got rid of extra things, doubles or triples of items that don't need replication. I threw away a lot of stuff.

I also stopped buying lots of stuff. I don't know when I began hoarding food because I've never starved to death. But I have way too much food in my house. I've been doing this for a very long time now. At least without a basement, I have less room for extra food and so have less extra food, but I still have too much food. Before I move, I stop buying food. We can eat for several months on the food I currently have in the house, which means that I still transport food around the world as I move from place to place.

Moving is difficult. It is expensive. If I throw all this stuff away, I might not have the funds to buy replacements if I need them when I get to my destination. And so I vacillated about tossing stuff. And then when I got to the next place, I found that I had too much crap and continued to have to de-crap and toss more stuff. Carefully packed and wrapped stuff. Lots of extra stuff. That I didn't need.

I know it is difficult to move.

It is much easier to move someone else. I did not have to make any choices about what to take, what not to take, the wisdom or foolishness of moving an item from one place to the next. I just followed directions and watched the kids. It was fun to move. It was still a lot of work but I didn't have to make any decisions.

I need the practice. I have a couple more moves to help with. I can help my other son move. I can and will, if he wants.

I am helping my sister move. Long distance move. All at once move. The kind of move that I am more used to. But without corporate sponsorship. So moving unneeded crap is costly. It was costly for me, too. But costly to the corporation, not personally.

De-crapping is difficult because we become attached to our possessions. However, most of our possessions aren't really all that important.

Unless it is your favorite toy or needed blanket. Those are indispensible.

Writing For Fun, Not Profit

2008-04-24T16:16:00.001-04:00

What do you do? I hate that question. What do I do? I sit in front of a computer several hours a day. For about 30 minutes a day, I write fiction. Then for about 15 minutes a day, I format my webpage, upload new files and amended files, then check to make sure all the links work and then update my profile on MWC.

Then I spend anywhere from 1 – 2 hours finding a topic, researching that topic, and writing an essay, then finding a few quotes to highlight what I've written, and finally research the dates for essays that aren't a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday. And some days I just ignore the whole Little Bits of History thing altogether and only write the fiction piece. The rest of my time at the computer, I'm playing games. Important games, like Solitaire, and Find the Pictures.

I'm ahead of the game with the history essays. I'm up to the second week of July already. My plan, and I suppose if I publish a real plan I may be more inclined to actually do something about it … anyway I do have a plan.

The plan is to work on all the essays I need for the year for RGQ and get them ready for publication. And then I will write up the topics that I have researched already, finishing an entire book of essays. I've done this once and the essays can be seen on my website under the history portion. But in all honesty, I think my writing improved as the year progressed. First I wrote only small pieces for RGQ and then tried to flesh them out later. I find this extremely difficult to do.

And then, even when I began writing longer essays for publication, I still find them less than – well, I find them to be crappy. By the middle of the year and certainly by the end of the year, I found my writing style, my voice, my comfort zone, my way to tell the stories that make history the fun and wonderful playground that it truly is.

That means the Little Bits of History, Volume 1 isn't anything I would want published with my name on the cover. I've reworked the essays and think they are better than when I first started, but they certainly aren't up to what I consider my standard today.

Now, I write a four paragraph essay on a topic, find the quotes, edit the whole, and then chop it down to use for RGQ. There are very, very rare times when I send the entire essay in. Maybe all of three times, so far in over two years. Certainly not more than that, and probably only twice. I usually send in a two paragraph piece but there are times when I need three paragraphs to tell the story. I only use three of the 4-5 quotes I've used for my own text.

I have yet to be paid for any writing. I give it away for free. My fiction is free, also at my website and I've written nearly 100 pieces of the serialized work. I read it, my son reads it, and maybe a few other people read it. Maybe. Probably not.

The advantage to this is that if I ever believe that I have an entire novel there, I will simply take down the pages and publish it as a book and no one will have seen the dang thing before. It's there for now, and it's free for now. But eventually, it may cost you to read it. But sometimes that is what makes us think it is worth the time and effort. You get what you pay for. Maybe.

So why keep doing it? Because I can. Frankly, I've read other people's writing. Some of it is wonderful and they are magical story tellers who hold my interest in an iron grip. Page-turners, if you will. And then there are others who write ungrammatical, meandering, vague prose that means nothing. I know I write better than that. I absolutely know that to be true. And so I continue. Because I can. Because it is there. Because.

If you must, please feel free to point out the ungrammatical prose. It might do you some good.

Winning Isn't Everything

2008-04-20T19:42:00.002-04:00

I've belonged to MWC for a while now. It seems I joined late in October of last year, so I'm coming up to half a year there. I entered a fiction contest soon after arriving and won, but there were few entries and so…

I was goaded or threatened or something like that into entering into a poetry challenge. I am not a poet. I don't even particularly care for modern poetry with all its free verse and prose with funny line breaks. It isn't anything that I think I can do or wish to do. But to help out a friend who personally asked for a contribution, I entered.

The premise of the contest was to write a poem of praise. It was to be in praise of yourself but if that was too outré, you could write a poem about someone else. I am embarrassed by own self aggrandizing and therefore wrote a poem about someone else.

Paean of Praise

My gene pool swam the ocean from Ireland to the USA.
Speakeasies during Prohibition let the painter feed his family.
Left with four young children after his bride's untimely death.
All this is my past.

Always laughing, telling tall tales, playing the fiddle.
Playing the guitar while his children danced and sang.
Holding his family together against all odds.
All this is my past.

Tall – at least in the eyes of his children.
Daddy and Hero merged as one.
The only parent still able to shelter his precious loves.
All this is my past.

Sunny disposition even in his grief.
Hopeful and trusting in a God who stayed nearby to help.
Vivacious and companionable to friends and family.
All this is my past.

Cuddly as a bear to four lost children.
Protective as a lioness to four lost children.
Entertaining as a monkey to four lost children.
All this is my past.

Motherless children comforted by Mother Nature in disguise.
Timeless sunshine glimpsed in the ever-present smile.
Hidden tears that fall like rain.
All this is my past.

I only met him once when I was but three months old.
This hero, this father, this stubborn son of Ireland.
He has spread his gift of love into every moment of my life.
All this is my grandfather.

There were over a dozen entries. Somehow, I won. I like the feeling of what I wrote. The originator of the challenge had listed what she thought should go into a praise poem and I went topic by topic and wrote the above in less than 30 minutes and typed it up and sent it off.

Now I'm in charge of the next contest. I found out that was the punishment for winning when I won the fiction contest. I'm not sure how else one would go about continually having contests because they are a fair amount of work. You have to solicit (that should read – beg) for entries and then you have to solicit (beg, again) for people to vote. All in all, it creates quite a bit of work. I never in a million years thought that I would win a poetry contest.

What I prefer, over free verse, is the structured rhythm and rhyme of old fashioned poetry. For my contest, I am having people write sonnets. Fourteen lines in a proscribed rhyming pattern set in iambic pentameter. Poetry as Shakespeare meant it to be. You can peek at the entry requirements, if you like.

What Makes a Book "Good"?

2008-04-16T17:36:00.000-04:00

I read. A lot. An awful lot. But not as many books so far this year as in years past. You see, I've joined a couple of book clubs and have been forced to read several books that were not of my own choosing. Some of these books have taken far more of my time to read than others.

I usually sit down with a book and in the course of a few days have consumed the thing. However, when it is a book that I'm not particularly fond of, I tend to read sparingly and then set the book aside only to be haunted by it on my next pass through the living room. It mocks me.

The book will sit there looking 'intellectual' or 'scholarly' or some such thing. I want a book that is 'entertaining' and yet I don't mind it being 'instructional' as long as the first point of entertaining is still met.

I read an entire book that mercifully was short. I say mercifully because although I read the entire book, I have no idea what it was that I read. I know it was a series of essays that were concerned with convoluted ways of looking at time. Each new essay or chapter was a new way of seeing time, but they all stemmed from a particular point in time and then strayed off. When I noticed this, I became too concerned with this paradox to do anything more than shake my head in dismay. The book is considered to be well-written. Perhaps it is. In my case, it was not well read. National Bestsellership notwithstanding.

I like books that are delightful to read. They do not have to be fiction. Well written non-fiction is a joy to read, as well. I've read many non-fiction books and enjoyed them immensely. They were entertaining as well as instructional or scholarly.

I've recently read some award winning books that were spectacularly difficult to read. They were not enjoyable. The prose was stilted and difficult to follow. The story line was uninteresting. Or the books were simply not to my liking. I am not the sole judge and jury about what makes a good book. I am the only person who can say whether or not a book that I've read or tried to read is any good for me.

I have no idea what is the standard of measure that is being used to judge a book as meritorious or not. Sometimes it must just be the weight of the Author's name. Perhaps it is simply a 'hot topic' that makes a book a best seller or award winner. I know that some books make the list simply because someone starts talking about them.

I read The Secret before I knew that it was some hot topic book. It didn't make particular sense to me then. I've read some of the books and articles that the first book inspired. It is making it's own little cottage industry. The Da Vinci Code did the same thing. Although I must say, I liked The Da Vinci Code much more than The Secret.

I still don't understand why some book is a best seller and I can barely muddle through it and some books or authors I love never make it past the starting gate. I am going to keep reading the books that are part of the reading groups. But what I've noticed others doing and what I may start myself, is to read only part of the book and then sigh and act too busy and say, "I just didn't have time to read the rest, but I will later." That is so much nicer than saying, "This book was a piece of crap and I couldn’t force myself to finish it. I never will because I only have so much time on Earth and I have already wasted more of it than this book deserves." Now there is a book review.

I used to force myself to read any book I started. But I figured out that it was a stupid plan back when I was in high school. Just because I'm in a book club or two is no reason for me to renege on a perfectly good plan. Here on out, if I don't like a book, I will simply quit reading it. If the people who read the whole thing can make it sound appealing enough during the book discussion, I may pick it back up.

I have a list a mile long of books I want to read. I'm going to stop wasting my time wading through books I don't like.

So, what are you reading?

What Are We Doing?

2008-04-09T20:32:00.000-04:00

I am a voracious reader. As soon as I was told about the wonderful code of letters and sounds, I began to read everything in front of me. If there are words in front of my eyes, I'm reading them. Even if I'm not interested. This frequently happens when a cereal box is in front of me while I'm having breakfast. I can't help but read it. Every time.

I not only read currents things, like cereal boxes, but older words as well. Rex Stout (1886-1975) wrote a series of detective fiction stories based on Nero Wolfe and ostensibly recorded by his sidekick, Archie Goodwin. There were 33 novels and 39 short stories about Mr. Wolfe. They were written from 1934 onward.

Wolfe is described as 5'11" tall and weighing "one-seventh of a ton" which is seen as an obscenely large amount. It is 286 pounds.

Even in 1975 nearly 300 pounds was considered quite large. Today – not so much. There are people weighing hundreds of pounds greater than the remarkably obese Nero Wolfe. Not quite topping 300 pounds is almost svelte in today's world. What are we doing? What are we thinking? What have we done to ourselves?

By the year 2003, the last year CDC has in their statistics and handy for me, there was no state in the union with less than 15% of its residents listed as obese. Twelve states were "only" 15-19% obese, four were more than 25% obese, the rest falling in between. This is more than simply sad, it is outrageous.

I could rework this and put it in my own words, but I'm lazy. So a direct copy and paste from CDC: "Over the past 20 years, the proportion of overweight children ages six through 11 has more than doubled and the rate for adolescents ages 12 through 19 has tripled."

Today, parents are all about schools being accountable, the world at large being accountable, everyone taking responsibility for their actions – except themselves and their precious little snowflakes. Okay, large snowflakes. Parents are so busy working to provide for their offspring – Xbox 360 and HDTV are no longer simply extravagances, but absolute necessities. Anyway, it takes so much time and energy to buy them things, that they aren't taking actual care of the kids.

I hear that it takes two incomes to raise a child. Unless it is a divorced woman earning only 70% of men's wages and then it only takes one income. But if there are two parents, by God, they better both be working and exhausted and picking up McDonald's on the way home from another late day at the office. Or maybe just ordering a couple extra large pizzas with everything.

Exercise? Kids need supervision outdoors and so it is easier to just plug in a DVD or a video game and let them vegetate in from of a screen.

Schools had abandoned physical education, but are starting to adopt the programs again because kids don't play outdoors after school. They are in an after school program until the last minute when they are picked up by a frazzled overwrought parent with the sack of McDonald's in the car. By then it is dark and homework has to be done because the schools just expect so much from kids today.

Parents aren't taking any better care of themselves. They are eating the junk food along with the kids. They can barely get through work and routine household tasks without worrying about anything so time consuming as playing a game of catch in the backyard or biking together on the weekend. There is laundry to do and floors to wash and tasks to complete.

How much of that second income that is 'needed' is going to pay for the after school program and the fast food/junk food or already prepared grocery store items? How much is spent on gas for the commute? How much goes to clothing that is workplace appropriate? And to increased tax rates? How much of that second income is actually increased household revenue?

We are selling ourselves and our children so that we can have a super large television set when there is nothing but crap on it. We surrender our health so that we can purchase our children toys that they have no time to play with. We stress ourselves out trying to stuff too much life into each day so that we overeat as a way to ease the stress, which causes more stress as we worry about our weight.

As I walk down the street I see far too many people who make Nero Wolfe look skinny. That's sad.

Critical Irony

2008-04-05T13:35:00.003-04:00

I love being part of MWC and there is another site out there administrated through the same venue.

It is a site designed to make me feel better about myself. But I'm not supposed to ever really feel bad about myself, so I am unsure how I can improve.

I read this line on a to do list: Continue to love myself thoroughly, WITHOUT criticism

And I answered it:
I am unsure about loving myself without criticism. I am a work in progress. If I don't permit any criticism to bubble up to the surface, how will I know where to work for improvement? When I feel like I've not done my best, not lived the way I know I might, dropped the ball, lowered the bar, failed ...

When I can identify where there is a weakness, I will know where to work for improvement. If I accept the me today, just as I am, thinking that it is the perfection of myself, then tomorrow I will be no better than I am now. I will simply be a day older.

Rather, if I look at where my life isn't meeting my own or even other people's expectation, I can then determine where best to spend my energy at improving. Tomorrow will come and perhaps I will be better than I was today. If I can accept the critical evaluation and learn from it. And then go on to improve my situation.

Dear me, I was simply wrong.
Wizard said this to me:
Stop being unsure of loving yourself. Right now. Immediately.

Ok, you're a masterpiece "in progress" but suppose you're where you're supposed to be, who you're supposed to be and that you have a great sense of humor.

Who says you have to improve? You could be perfect - as you.

You always did what you could with what you knew at the time. Was it your best? Who knows? It might just be that you search for, dig around and scratch all over trying to find a weakness, shining all your light and energy on it and boom, you'll find a weakness. Do you win if you find more? Hmmmm...

If you accept the you today, you will love yourself more, and make choices based on that love and open all kinds of doors that will stubbornly remain locked if you focus on any perceived imperfections.

You can only live to yourself. There is no one else and there is no spoon. Hee hee.

Really, though, SpChick, love yourself, totally, fully, completely, without reservation or purpose of evasion and all will be well.

Sincerely, wishing you all the best, folderol, etc.
The great and powerful Oz

I replied:
Perhaps we don't share the same definitions for certain words. I'm overwhelmingly in love with myself. I am awe-inpiringly in love with myself. I'm a certified egoist (as opposed to egotist which is cloying self love).

That doesn't mean that I can't notice that I'm impatient with people who drive erratically while on the cell phone, getting all angry in my car and adding to the general bad driving conditions. If I were less impatient, it would be good thing for all. For me, especially.

But without the critique of my own behavior, without any criticism, I might just decide that I need to be even more controlling, rather than less. By loving myself unconditionally but still evaluating my progress through life, I think that I have a better chance of becoming the person I wish to become.

Perhaps it would feel better if I say I evaluate my performance and find places in which improvement would benefit me. But that is just another way to say the same thing as "criticism."

Nope, I'm still wrong.

Sune told me:
When you look at persanal flaws or mistakes or short comings...Do it with LOVE for the Self..as looking at a innocent child..!!
What would Jesus do if he sees the same situation?

Only Forgive for he who has done the mistake..!

Beating or punishing consciously or unconsciously doesn't improve the situation...as we're used to do that!

The false-self..Body/Personality, sees imperfections in itself and in others all the time ....while the Real-self/ spirit just be in peace having nothing to do with anything!!

We think, we are the False-self...and never-ending dilemma of perfection...You better read this book for more understanding Spchick...this is a GREAT book!!
"The Disappearance of the Universe" by Gary Renard

I thought that a bit of irony was in order and responded:
You think it might help me improve?

Irony was totally missed when Sune wrote back:
I certainly do as it did for so many...It will help to see much more clearly in any situation or with any other person!!

Have a go Dear, You'll thank yourself for dong that later!!
cheers

And then again sent a link for this:
Read the topics in Inner child healing..Spchick..while you're here!!

Apparently people who have never met me are able to look at me critically and see where I need improvement, but I must accept myself as I am and not look critically at my behaviors or underlying ideation because I must love myself exactly as I am. But no one else has to do that and I'm simply wrong.

Ah, the irony. I think I will continue with the criticism of my unwanted behaviors and my attempt to correct them without worrying about other people who don't know me telling me how to be a better person.

A Rose by Any Name

2008-04-03T08:56:00.001-04:00

So, I started out the day reading Dear Abby. I really started out the day by getting some coffee, but after that …

A while ago someone asked about marrying someone with Multiple Personality Disorder. Today there were a plethora of responses from people who have lived with that issue.

When a small child is severely abused, the sanest thing to do is hide away inside his or her own mind. That is where there is safety. Other personalities take the heat of the abuse. That second personality may also wish to escape, leaving a third to suffer the consequences.

The issue isn't just the multiple personalities, but the underlying abuse as well. Years ago this was simply called Multiple Personality Disorder, a brilliantly descriptive name. Today, it is called Dissociative Identity Disorder or DID. Unless you are some nutcase and then you call it Multiple Personality Gift or MPG – because the child escaped the devastating abuse by a perfectly wonderful method – a gift.

What?

Shakespeare said, through Juliet:
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

What in God's name are we doing to the English language. There are more than a half million words in it, more than five times the number Shakespeare himself had to work with. We should be able to make things abundantly clear. Instead, we try to obfuscate at every turn.

Garbage men are now Sanitation Workers. I was a secretary with the lofty name of Administrative Assistant, but the wages of a secretary. In order to not have 'men' in any title, we have the perfectly lovely term Chairperson. We were playing a game that asked for actors and had to argue over whether or not girl people could be included. While the Oscars have both Best Actor and Best Actress, when listed as occupation 'actor' covers everyone regardless of gender.

I can deal with Fire Fighters and Police Officers as a way to make women feel better about getting less pay for the same job. We have the language with us so why worry about that esoteric thing – wages. Instead of getting equality in the job market, we have silly job titles without any substance. Men are afflicted with this same puffed up verbiage but they have the paycheck, so why worry.

Everybody knew what Lou Gehrig's Disease was. I could look up to see what the letters ALS stand for, but it really stands for Lou Gehrig's Disease. We do this frequently. It's like everyone is afraid of what they are saying. It might be offensive. The PC crowd might get all in a snit. So let's say the same thing in a new way.

A Sanitation Worker is still picking up my garbage and putting it into a truck and has the highest percentage of on-the-job injuries. But at least the title is better. It's still outside work in the freezing cold or sweltering heat. And in that heat the garbage still stinks to high heaven. None of the unappealing aspects of the job were erased with the name change. But is sounds nice.

No wonder we have so many words in the English language today. We need them to hide behind lest we actually put forth a thought or idea which might offend someone somewhere. Of course, any thought or idea will offend someone somewhere which is probably why there are so many horrible thoughts running around in their fine language lurking about, trying not to get PC corrected.

Employment

2008-03-21T14:01:00.000-04:00

Having a job and an income is a very good thing. While money isn't everything, it makes shopping easier. Without a job and without a stream of income, we have been extremely careful with expenditures. No going out to eat. No new clothing. No extras. Careful, careful, careful.

The job offer came through and the paper work arrived, was signed and faxed back to the sender. The job starts April 1, no joke. First he goes to Cleveland and then comes home to get his laundry done and then goes to Dallas.

There are places he will be visiting that I would find fun to visit as well. Instead, I have a dog. It would be more fun for him to have company on his travels and fun for me to see some new places. Instead, I will be tending to a moping dog.

When the kids were little and each trip was a major undertaking, like preparing for the storming of the beaches at Normandy, we had no pets. Then, when I was free, I got this stupid dog. Now I have the dog and would like to be able to pick up and go but can't because I would need advance planning. You know, like when they stormed the beaches at Normandy.

I don't really understand my motivation to get this dog. But I did. She was supposed to be a lap dog, but since she weighs more than fifty pounds, she is a little too much for my lap. She was a horrible puppy and destroyed two sofas, one loveseat, one dining room table, two dining room chairs, a deacon's bench, two rocking chairs, and ate the carpet. I don't know why she didn't end up dead with all that.

When she was a puppy, she was horribly ill and it cost a lot of money that we could have spent replacing furniture to cure her. And we did. She was one ice cube away from being even more expensive and admitted to doggie hospital. She recovered.

Then there are the myriad ear infections, another in progress right now. And allergies to grass, and surgery on her ear, and the cost of continual treats. I have saved all her vet papers and could add up the cost incurred, but that would just make me cry.

I am not sure why I still have a dog. She doesn't even come running to the door when I come home. She does that when anyone else comes to the house, but me … that's just too much trouble. She won't go outside unless I get my fat ass up out of the chair and walk to the back door so that someone else can open it up. But she won't just go out for someone else. Just me. Then, I'm special. Coming in the door? Not so much.

So, I have a dog that is neurotic, deathly afraid of wind and rain, lightening and thunder, and raised voices. I have a dog that ignores me unless it is meal time or she think she might get a treat from the top of the fridge. And because of this ideal pet, I can't travel the way I would like.

I'm not quite sure that this is a good trade off. I've heard that dogs, special among pets, are unconditional lovers. They adore their owners. They live for their owners. They worship at the altar of Owner. Not my dog. I wonder if she is doing something wrong, or if I am.

Fiction, Inc.

2008-03-14T15:50:00.002-04:00

I'm most comfortable writing non-fiction. I'm not sure if it is because I don’t have to fabricate a story so much as put the relevant facts into some sort of tale. Or if it's because it is easier to report a story rather than create one.

At any rate, I've been writing for years. I wrote "news" items for a monthly magazine called Landen Living as the reporter from Montgomery Hills. There was little news to relate, but I managed to fill my allotted space with birthday and anniversary wishes and sporting events and milestones from the constituency.

Then I wrote up business proposals and even a book on how to run a system that my partner and I created in college. Again, dry factual stuff. I warned my classmates that programs needed to have an operator's manual, but they neglected to create one. The nearly 50 page booklet explained each and every step of the program we were giving a Luddite on campus.

For over two years now, I've been writing history essays for Really Good Quotes. I find events for each date of the year and tell the story about the events I choose. I then find a few quotes to highlight the essay. All neat and tidy. Just the facts, ma'am, just the fact. I feel like Joe Friday would like my stuff.

Then I started writing this fiction nonsense. I have Cassie and a host of characters moving about an unformed landscape. Amazing. I have created my characters and given them space to move in. But that isn't the most astounding part.

You see, I'm lazy. I know I'm lazy. I'm perfectly content with being lazy. It is easier to name my file first and then write the story because of my file structure on my computer. Since my stories are related, I reread what I wrote the previous day before taking up the tale again today.

If I name the file immediately, I have less clicking to do. It saves steps. At least it is supposed to save steps. It would definitely save steps if I only named them with the date. But instead, I have both date and title of the day's story as my title for the file.

And there is the problem. I read yesterday's story and think that I know where the story is going today. So I name the story and save the file. Then I write the story. You might think, that as the author, I have total control over what is going to happen. I thought it worked that way. It does not work that way. At least, not for me.

I begin typing and all of a sudden I find that things are not going the way I had anticipated. Instead of this happening, that happens. I thought that my plan would evolve into this set of events and all of a sudden I find that the story has veered down a fork in the road and isn't leading in the direction I had assumed it would go.

Then, because I was saving time and energy, I find myself with a story title that has absolutely nothing to do with the story I've just written. Things didn't go in the direction I had assumed they would go. The story took on a life of its own and moved down a path I didn't even know existed. And now, I have to do a lot more clicking to get rid of the old no longer useful title and re-title the tale with something that has some minor relevance to whatever I've just written.

I don't know where these ideas come from. Perhaps I just don't have the right idea about what I'm writing. I don't have any long range plans. I had a plan long ago, but I've given up on that. I can't even plan what I'm typing in a page and a half let alone what I will be typing for the next several weeks or even a few days.

I've heard that you should have an outline when you write fiction. I don't know if that would work for me in any way because I really have no idea where this story is taking me. Cassie apparently has her own ideas. So do George, Ooljie, Kisho, Hiro, Doston, Zastrill, Sten, Frau, and even High Lord Thorton. Ralph had ideas, and I had plans for Ralph. Too bad now, buster. All bets are off.

My new plan is going to be to write the dang story first and then name it. I may have a few more clicks, but it will save me time and energy in the long run. I sure wish I knew what was going to happen to Cassie. I find that I like her a little more each day and I hope that things work out for her.

What Is the Difference?

2008-03-07T17:58:00.001-05:00

What makes a request from one person truly sound like a request, while the same request from someone else sounds like a demeaning order?

I have tried to figure that out for the last few weeks. It isn't the tone of voice, at least I don't think so. It's not saying "please" while making the request or a "thank you" after having fulfilled the request.

It seems to me to be an overall attitude. I believe that some people can make a request, forgetting the niceties of please and thank you and yet have it still come across as a request. There is a feeling or sense of gratitude even when it is unspoken.

Perhaps the difference lies in what is done in between the myriad requests. I believe it is in the attitude of the person making the request.

I was a nurse for over 20 years. I am now a volunteer in a hospital one day a week. Everyone I volunteer with knows that I used to be a nurse, but no longer practice. Nursing, like being Catholic, is something you don't just get over. You may no longer practice, but all the rules and regulations, all the information, are still floating around inside. You can't get past it.

I spent 12 years trying to anticipate the needs of those around me. It is what made me a really good OR nurse. I knew that Dr. A always looked at the x-ray reports as soon as the portable in-room x-ray marked a spot. And so, unlike my peers, I had the chart open for him to read the x-ray. It always made him smile. It made me smile, too. I was doing my job, and doing it well. It really is the little things that make the difference in job performance.

And so with volunteering, I try to anticipate the needs of the nurses. The longer I've been in one place, the easier it is to learn the routine and flow and be able to plan accordingly. It is simply what I do. Nurse A likes a copy of this while Nurse B doesn't. Therefore, I make a copy for Nurse A and don't for Nurse B. How easy is that?

Some days are more hectic than others. It's been that way since the dawn of time and is no different whether I'm a licensed nurse myself or the volunteer helping the other licensed nurses. There is a feeling of togetherness or divisiveness that permeates a room. The togetherness feeling fosters a sense of gratitude whether the magic words are spoken or not.

Perhaps it is an overall attitude. Complaining people, crabby people, whining people, tend to bring the mood of a room down. Even when they say please or thank you, it is with a sense of necessity and has nothing to do with the sincere appreciation of the endeavors of others to help make the day go more smoothly. And that, I believe, is the crux of the problem.

Some people are naturally willing to accept and give help and they tend to offer sincere hints at gratitude for help given in return. Crabby or complaining people tend to look for what went wrong, what is going wrong, or what will go wrong in the near or far future. To them, life is just one damn thing after the other and there is little appreciation or even notice of all the good that is going on around them.

And so, there are times when I feel like I have truly helped people who are involved in a demanding and stressful job. And then there are times when I feel like a subservient idiot who should be thankful that the world has allowed me to keep breathing. Amazingly enough, I do more, go more out of my way, and find more enjoyment in helping the former and spend less time in actually helping the latter. Making, I suppose, a self-fulfilling prophecy for the whiner.

Thank you for reading this.

Blog Entry

2008-03-03T10:50:00.001-05:00

The blackness is closing in again. The edges have been dark for about a week or two now, but the edges are getting closer and closer together. I hate this black place; I know it is of my own making.

I don't know what made the dark come this time. I could probably think up lots of reasons. None of them would be true. The darkness comes from inside and works out, not the other way around. The reasons I could possibly list are all external and so of no consequence.

Today is another beautiful sunny day. The sky is clear blue – cerulean. I like that word. It's not like there is no liking or no pleasure, it is just that everything is shrouded in black. It's beautiful, but it doesn't matter.

When I get into this place, I wish everything would just stop. If I were diagnosed with a life-threatening illness right now, I would spurn all treatment. If I thought I was having a heart attack while sitting in my chair, I would continue to sit – and wait.

What keeps me from meeting total oblivion is that I'm ashamed what my funeral would be like. There were times past when a funeral would have been attending not only by the obligatory family, but by friends and co-workers.

And that is the crux of my problem. The reason for the bleak black hole of my current despair. I have no friends. A funeral would be attended by a handful of family and maybe some of Dick's golfing buddies, there to support him. Maybe.

I am so isolated. I am so lonely. I'm told that my family loves me, but I feel so unlovable that I find it ludicrous. My place seems to be filled by a hollow, shallow, old creature who is bitter and distant. I can play the part of wife, mother, grandmother, sister – but it feels empty. I do what I am supposed to do. I am fearful to ask for anything because I don't know how severely or casually (and I'm not sure which is worse) the request will be denied.

I have what most people would enjoy. Why can't I enjoy it? Perhaps because joy increases when shared and I don't have any way to share, probably it is because I don't have the joy to start with.

I've been in this place before. But I'm staying here more and more. I miss, desperately miss, everyone on the deck drinking coffee, eating Chex Mix, and watching the kids play. I hate sitting in my house day after day, alone and lonely. I wait for the email bell to ring, pretending that it means that someone cares, when it is usually one of the myriad mailings I sign up for and has nothing of any personal contact whatsoever.

I've joined some groups and see people in the group and then come back home to my isolation. I've been in solitary confinement now for four years and I'm still unsure of my crime.

The prison walls were built by me. I wish I could find the key to open the door. I simply hate my life and don't have enough imagination, strength, or will to change it.

Writer, Inc.

2008-02-26T07:20:00.000-05:00

Last Monday, Station Shorts was put back up on Lulu. We resolved our problems. One writer left not only the project, but the entire message board. She took her marbles and left in a huff. The person she was 'defending' in this maneuver, remained and is still included in the book.

With her departure and the tentative loss of another writer's work, we included two new writers and three more of my stories. I ended up with a dozen pieces in the book. Out of 70 or so stories. We lost only one writer and the new version is actually a longer book than the first.

I placed my order soon after awakening on Monday morning, before something else untoward happened. Lulu has myriad printing and shipping options. They ranged to nearly eight times the actual price of the book to dirt cheap. I chose 'dirt cheap' as I had already waited for over a month to get it. I could wait a few days longer without getting all upset.

I got a notice that my book shipped on Wednesday and it arrived in Saturday's mail. I'm not sure how much faster any other shipping method would have worked. I had my printed and bound book in hand in under a week. I was and remain absolutely thrilled with that. Ecstatic, even.

I know that I am writer because I write. I write a blog. I write a serial fiction piece. I write historical essays. I write. I'm a writer. But to date, everything I've written has been available on a screen or off my very own printer. I've never seen my words printed elsewhere and bound together and for sale. I don't see any profit from this – all proceeds go to Amnesty International. But apparently my work is good enough to think that maybe someone somewhere would pay to see it. Thrilling.

A few months ago I joined a reading group. It is interesting enough that I joined a second one as well. Last night I went to my first writers group. I had this scheduled for a few weeks now. This was not predicated on receiving my book in the mail. I opted to act more like an author than simply a writer. And I was pointed in the direction of this group and was told that I would be welcome should I opt to attend.

They, too, have a compilation book on sale. A Gathering of Flowers is at Amazon and is advertised as poetry, short stories, and essays.

I met the editor of the local newspaper (and two more small local papers), a woman whose 18th book had hit the stands that day, local names I recognized, and other people dedicated to the proposition that words are important. I had a lovely evening and actually felt included.

With each new tentative step I take, I feel that I'm coming closer and closer to being the storyteller that my mother used to speak about – her own Daddy. Francis Francis was born in Ireland, had the instinctive gift of gab that is often bestowed by Kissing the Blarney Stone, and was said to be a delightful story teller. I've kissed the Blarney Stone, walking up and then down the 100 steps to reach it and return to ground. I believe it was symbolic because my 'gift of gab' remains in the same high gear it has always been in. What has changed is the number of times I've written the stories down.

I started first with my voluminous account of my trip to Ireland. The Emerald Island is captivating, our stories were personal but timeless. The beauty of castle ruins, the joys of traveling with a group, and the bonding experience between sisters and mother was unique.

I wrote an entire travel book about our adventures in Alaska and found that to be as fun, but for different reasons, as my first travelogue.

And now, I'm a published author who is part of an authors group. The only thing I really miss right now is being able to tell Mom. "Hey, Mom. Can you hear me now? Isn't this grand?"

My New Hero

2008-02-19T14:52:00.002-05:00

Roy Baumeister, PhD and Professor of Psychology at Florida State University analyzed about 15,000 studies that averred that increasing self-esteem would help everybody. First, he found that only 200 studies actually held to rigid scientific standards. And those studies proved exactly the opposite of the general mantra. Telling people they are wonderful doesn't make them wonderful. Wow!

Dr. Baumeister said, "There's no question you get the best results with highly contingent praise and criticism. That means praising exactly what you did right and criticizing exactly what you did wrong. Just praising kids regardless of how they do contains very little useful information; if anything, it has a negative effect on learning. I've had to revise my opinions about self-esteem several times; I'm kind of done with it. I don't think it can deliver much of what we want. Self-control, self-regulation – these give a whole lot more bang for the buck, deliver a lot more in practical results. I think self-esteem is relegated, if not to Siberia, at least to the Urals."

I wonder how long it will take to make everyone realize that the self-esteem bandwagon was far more band and it wasn't going anywhere. We have raised a generation of kids who are horrible at fact finding. Even if you can't find the Pacific Ocean on the globe is no reason to feel bad about anything and you are still good at geography. Just because you can't spell or write a complete sentence is no reason to doubt your ability to become the next best-selling author.

It seems that some of the authorities are finally noticing that simple praise, especially unearned praise, is counter-productive. Why should anyone strive to improve if they are perfect just they way they are? This is the crux of the self-esteem problem. Not everything we do is perfect. Most things are far from hitting anywhere close to the mark. When we are given constructive help in finding the errors, we have a chance of correcting them. When we tell Little Snowflake that everything is the best ever, Little Snowflake never sees where to place extra effort in order to improve.

Education has taken the stance that telling students that they are doing well is somehow supposed to make everybody brilliant. Some schools have stopped honor rolls because Snowflake might get his or her little feelings hurt because the attained GPA doesn't meet the standards. So the kids who worked their tails off to actually earn good grades aren't permitted to do any of that "showing off" stuff so that the less smart (or less driven) students don't feel bad.

They go to college and spend an entire year taking non-credit remedial classes so that they might be able to do college level work. Why hasn't anyone noticed that high schools are turning out many of their students unable to continue on with education at a higher level? And these are colleges that are offering watered down curricula.

I'm not sure who started this whole tell-them-they-are-perfect crap. It should have been obvious long ago that it isn't working. Instead, the loony tunes who sing this song just keep saying that we aren't instilling enough self-esteem in the children.

It is called self-esteem because it is something you see for yourself. You feel good about yourself when you actually achieve something. We aren't born knowing everything. We must learn it. When we finally master something, a sense of accomplishment leads to an increased sense of self worth and mastery. Even the dumb kids can see when their papers aren't like the smart kids' papers. And yes, even at a very young age, we know who is smart and who isn't. The smart kids always know the right answers. They always can answer. But even they – the smart kids – don't know everything. And they can improve. If someone would simply point out the exact place where improvement is possible.

Poor Thing

2008-02-14T14:05:00.000-05:00

I went to Wal-Mart and it was an adventure. I found cool things for the grandchildren for Valentine's Day. No rush since I can't see them today anyway. And pistachios were on sale so I got some. The lettuce was wilted, so I will wait and get some at Publix tomorrow. I had seven items in my cart, including a gallon of milk which was why I even bothered with a cart at all.

I went to the 20 OR LESS checkout since – as I said – I had only seven items. A woman in front of me was just mean and nasty. She might have been five foot tall, but maybe not. She was 81-years-old as she screamed several times. The gentleman right behind her saw her unloading her entire cart and moved to a different line.

I merely stood there. I really wasn't in any hurry and so it was no big deal – until she started with the screaming. "I can barely walk. I'm 81-years-old. I need to be here."

I was startled as I hadn't even given her my "mean mother look" and yet she was flailing her skinny little arms around and saying horrible things about South Carolina and loading more and more items onto the small counter and the cooler behind it. The woman who was already paying for her goods said, "But it's the express lane. For 20 items or less." This simply set off more screaming.

My Wal-Mart is a Super Center so it is rather large. In the southwest corner is the pet department. Mean Old Bat (MOB) had lots of individual packets of dog food and dog treats. In the northeast corner of the store is the produce department. MOB had some kale. And MOB had managed to walk all over the entire store to gather together all the myriad items that she was purchasing. I did not point this out. I stayed quiet and watched her shout at people coming into the store.

The cashier could reach the items that MOB placed on the counter, but the items on the cooler were out of her reach. MOB just watched her try to reach the stuff. The cashier was not much taller than MOB. So I stepped up and moved all the things from the cooler on to the counter so the cashier could reach them. The cashier thanked me. MOB said, "I don't thank anyone. I don't even thank God."

Apparently.

I made no comment to that either but by this time there was a line behind me. I turned to the woman behind, with two items in her cart, and said, "She seems angry." That woman said, "Well, you did a nice thing anyway." And again I didn't say what I wanted, which was that I did it for the cashier, not for MOB.

So the witch bought $118 and some change worth of groceries in the speed checkout lane. And she wanted to charge it. But she didn't know how to work the credit card slider thing because the picture was just too difficult for someone who is 81-years-old. The cashier helped her with that and then she signed. Nothing happened. We all waited, so I told MOB that she had to hit OK on the board. "Well, I can't remember everything, I'm 81-years-old."

Well, yes. My mother-in-law is 85 and has had a total knee replacement. She doesn't abuse the fast checkout lanes. My mother was 84 when she died and I never, ever saw her behave in such an egregious manner. When her leg bothered her, she walked slower. We couldn't even get her to park close to the doors because she had a new car and someone might ding the doors.

When it was my turn to get my seven items paid for I quietly said to the cashier, "I never said anything to her." And the cashier said, "She always acts like that when she comes in here."

And this MOB left the store, stupid and crippled and unable to function and got her parcels into her car, (apparently being 81-years-old was in no way affecting her driving) and drove home to her dogs who are the only nice things in South Carolina, according to MOB.

My grandchildren are in South Carolina, you old bat, and they are very nice. And may the force be with you. And if you ever get back on speaking terms with your God, your life might improve. And dear sweet Mother of God, stop being so crabby. Oh, and have a Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart.

Irony, Thy Name is Human

2008-02-11T11:06:00.001-05:00

So, I've been a full time housewife now for a few weeks and the whole togetherness all the time, every day, was wearing a little thin. I really like to behave oddly without an audience. I sing – poorly – with the radio or stereo. I dance around rooms. I don't like an audience for this. The kids used to sneak up on me and it drove me nuts. But they all moved out years ago.

I listen to books on CD and you really need to follow along with those. And then someone walks through the house, making noise or even – shudder – speaking to me and I have to go back and stop the CD and reverse and then I more often than not have to start at the track's beginning.

Or he stands and watches me cook – my time to listen to the book on CD – and I'm not sure of the purpose of this. I was turning off the CD for a while, but that seemed pointless. We barely have enough to share through the quick process of eating dinner. "What did you do today, dear?" is a rather pointless question when you have spent the entire day together.

I'm used to more alone time. And I miss it. But … now for the irony … he's away golfing for a week and the silence and solitude is grating on my nerves. Great, now I'm not comfortable with him here OR with him gone.

I think that we are still in flux and unsure of the future and that the uncertainty is unsettling. I'm still not certain that I can remain a housewife. I may have to go out and get a meaningless job of some sort or another. That is going to cut into my playtime. Perhaps if I were really busy, I would stop recording 3 hours of stupid, meaningless programming each day, even though I can watch them in 2.25 hours.

Maybe if I had something real to do with my 24 hours, I wouldn't spend so many of them playing computer games. I would still write and I would still read, but my already 10,000+ solitaire games would probably increase at a slower rate. Not to mention the other games I waste so much time with.

But the silence isn't quite so golden. I really miss interacting with people. Real people. I post to message boards and send and receive emails. I have blogs and a website. I'm connected via a land line and cell phone. And I've not yet had a need to speak today except to ask the dog if she wanted to go outside.

I wonder how upset I will be with myself in the coming decades when I look back on this time and see myself just wallowing in nothingness here. I'm told that intelligent people can't be bored. Pshaw. I absolutely know that I'm intelligent. And I absolutely know that I'm bored.

Blogging Has Issues

2008-02-06T21:56:00.001-05:00

I've tried. Lord knows, I've tried. I tried Yahoo's blog and it was simply not working for me. I have to go back and edit far too often and Yahoo doesn't like that. I can understand. I would like perfection on the first run, too. I don't often get there, but I would like it.

So I created another blog for my Station Shorts here at blogspot. However, not wanting to inundate my readers with messages on a daily basis telling them that I have in fact written another portion of the story, I only send out a reminder about how busy I've been every three days.

So on Wednesday and Saturday I send out a little mailing that has the latest three tales with a brief (very brief) summary of what the story is about. I put them in chronological order in the email reminder. And send a link.

But blogs build up from the base. The newest is always on top, which is great for a normal blog because usually what I wrote about before has no bearing whatsoever on what I'm writing about now.

With fiction, at least the fiction that I'm working with, each story is predicated on the day before. They really make far more sense when read in the order written, which is backwards on a blog.

This was driving me nuts and made it difficult for some people to follow my stories. Something had to be done. I didn't think that blogging was going to change for me and if it did, then this blog would be messed up. I needed another solution.

There was only one that I could come up with. Design my own website and link my stories together one after the other. No backwards stuff. Everything one day after the other. Turn the page, read the next one. Hit next, get the latest one.

And then, I realized that I'm not 'just' a writer of fiction. I'm also a writer of non-fiction. I have a whole book of non-fiction written. Essays written for all 366 days of the year. They are all ready and only need to be formatted into a website.

"This should be easy," I said to myself. Now all I needed to do is get a domain name, create a website, upload the thing, and have everything in order. Easy as pie. It's taken me several days to do this one easy thing.

But I have my own website. And you can go visit it. All you need to do is click on this link.

No Fault of My Own

2008-01-29T09:31:00.001-05:00

Life can sometimes throw you a curve ball. Things go along, and every day is pretty much the same as the day before. And then, poof, things aren't the same anymore.

I've had a few of these momentous change days. Close to 34 years ago, everything was simple. I was a student in nursing school working towards my RN and my husband was working retail and going to school. And then we were going to have a baby. Just like that.

Poof.

Everything changed. We would forever more be parents with all the joys and responsibilities that entailed. There was no going back. Everything was changed. I did finish nursing school, Craig was 13 weeks old at the time. I did manage to get my license after passing the State Boards. I did learn about diaper rash, colic, and eventually became a dreaded soccer mom. Nothing has been the same since. I couldn’t even imagine the changes on that long ago day in the doctor's office when he said, "You are pregnant."

Years later I noticed that things were in the proverbial handbasket and heading for hell. I told my husband that he had three months to get things back on track or the boys and I would be gone. He did. But in that re-examining period, he noticed that he not only repeatedly and continually told me about how much he hated his job, he really and truly hated his job. He asked me if I would support us while he looked for a new job and I said yes. He handed in his resignation letter and instead, got a promotion and transfer.

Poof.

All of a sudden, everything changed. We moved. We raised our children far away from their grandparents. We left our secure home and moved across the state. And then poof, again. And we moved back. And then poof again, and we moved to South Carolina. Much farther away.

Sometimes, without warning, things change. Sometimes, there is a warning. Sometimes we miss the warning.

Poof.

Everything changed again. After working since he was 14, never without a job, always able to support his family either with or without me providing a second income – after all that, suddenly he was without a job. He went to work on Friday morning gainfully employed although hating the job (again or still?) and came home "not fitting into the company's future plans."

Not only has he always had a job, but for many of those years, his job entailed traveling and so I was more or less accustomed to having the house to myself during the day and often all evening and night, too. This has been a huge adjustment. We are in each other's way. We are walking on eggshells trying not to overly annoy each other. This new life style lacks a bit of style.

But as with other changes, I assume that this one will prove to be a blessing, so far in disguise. We have always made it before, and I assume we will again. He will find a job. It may be with a pay scale such that I will again be in the working world, too. But we aren't going to be living on cat food diets and in cardboard boxes. This, too, will all work out.

I'm happier when my life is routinely working. This upset in my routine, this uncertainty about the future, this latest hiccup – it's really just annoying. There could have been a string of four-letter words with derivations in there, but it wouldn't have really altered the amount of annoyance inherent in the situation.

Perhaps I will be able to write – quite soon, if I have my way about it – about a new poof experience. His new job. One that he can like or at least tolerate without rancor. One that will last until we are really ready to retire.

Maybe everyday has some small poof moment to it and I'm just really good at ignoring the small ways my life changes on a daily basis. What I'm perfectly certain about is this – we will survive this.

Dashed Dreams

2008-01-23T12:17:00.001-05:00

Well, I was published for a bit there. Now, not so much. It seems that the Monday Quarterbacks have just tons of ideas about how this should have been done. Not that they shared those ideas during the doing portion, but now ...

So I guess that the two people who were dissatisfied are now all happy, warm and fuzzy. The other 16 are maybe not. This one isn't. And I probably won't forget being all cold and brittle. I wanted my book. I worked for my book.

But it's gone now. I don't know if it will ever come back. I don't know if 18 people can agree on things. I know that two people are on my shit list. They were able to whine, whine, whine, but weren't there for the work, work, work.

But at any rate, the book is off the market. There is no Lulu link that works. I'm back to unpublished in print.

I sure hope that the two people who didn't like the way this was run will take control of the "way things should be" and do it right their damn selves. But I am fairly certain that it won't happen. They will have said what they needed and then expect someone else to fulfill those needs for them. That's the way things usually work.

I will hopefully be able to come back here and post a new link to a print book with my name in it. Probably not. I'm betting the those who "knew" more and better will now crawl back into the woodwork and the book will just slowly fade away to memory. Because if they couldn't even be bothered to read their mails or message boards, God knows they will be far too busy and important to actually do any of the work that went into getting it up for sale.

So long author. It was nice while it lasted. More than a mere 15 minutes, I had days. Now back to my regularly scheduled oblivion.

Writer's Dream

2008-01-21T12:38:00.000-05:00

I have always loved words. When I learned that they had no intention of teaching me to read in kindergarten, I refused to go back. My mother showed me the code – the secret of the alphabet. I've been hooked ever since.

I love to read. I read books and magazines. I read newspapers and notices. I read the back of cereal boxes if that is all that is available. Words cry out to be decoded. Words speak to me.

I played with writing when I was a teenager. I wrote horrid stories and worse poetry. It was awful. And then my life caught up with me and I was too busy to write. But I never gave up reading.

I went back to writing after that 'empty nest' part of my life kicked in. I had time again. My stories were still horrid, but I wasn't writing for a large audience. I wrote to see if I could. I think I can. I know I've gotten better with practice.

I'm good with writing essays, especially opinion pieces. When I have an opinion, I can list reasons why not only I have that opinion, but why you should, too. When I went back to college in my dotage, I learned that I could also write business essays and technical manuals.

Then I found RGQ and wrote letters in the comments section. Lots of letters. And then I pitched an idea to Bruce about a little 'this day in history' thing that has grown into my essays with attendant quotes in the three issues every week. And I've filled in the off days and have an entire book written containing expanded essays with at least four quotes per essay that I would love to see published. But that takes a lot of work and I've not done that – yet.

Publishing is very hard work. Writing is easy for me. I don't do too much polishing. I type, I spell check, I reread and correct, I plop it up on a blog or message board. Finished! I understand that some people agonize over each word. I agonize over the flaws I see, but I only notice them after I've plopped them somewhere.

At MWC, there was a message thread called Station Shorts where people wrote flash fiction about characters who were abandoned or no longer used by their Boss or Author. It was fun and imaginative. The word play was exhilarating. And the thread grew. And more people contributed. And I joined in the fun, even though I was new to MWC and late to the game.

Then someone mentioned that we could publish the whole and there were volunteers to put together the string of about 70 stories into a cohesive whole. Mark Hoffman, Citabria, is my hero. I cannot even imagine the number of hours he put into the job of getting us all published. But he was willing to take on the task of making the book.

And so now, about 50 years after I first learned to read, I'm published in a book. Me. And Tim and Gyppo, and about 10 to 15 more of us playful people who learned to love words long ago, or in some cases – not so long ago. We have a book for sale! On Lulu, where you, yes you, can buy a copy.

I've been published in a monthly magazine put out by a HOA where we once lived. I've been published in a scientific journal as a co-author on a psychology study, I've been published in RGQ, and I've been published on my blogs. But now I'm part of a book.

A real book. Station Shorts is for sale. And, get this, I'm one of the authors. I am beyond thrilled. You've got my word on that.

Politics

2008-01-14T17:12:00.000-05:00

I do not have the least bit of faith in the political process. I do not believe a word that passes the lips of any of the Presidential candidates. It is my heartfelt belief that they – one an all, of any political party or none – will say whatever they think will get them elected.

It is my belief that they – one and all, regardless of party affiliation – are only seeking the office for self-aggrandizing power. There is no reason for me to believe that one candidate or another will in any way better my life.

It is my belief that any candidate will promise anything to get elected and then will tax me unmercifully to make sure that I'm powerless against the machine. Someone will lower my current status of health care while taxing me more than I am currently paying for health insurance, all in the name of "helping."

Someone will do something to make sure that everyone who doesn't work will have the same luxuries that I, as a working person, can enjoy. Karl Marx must be rolling in his grave laughing. He said that democracy would devolve or perhaps he thought it was evolve into communism.
Everyone wants something for nothing. Kids go to school and expect to be taught without putting in the effort to learn. Everyone is disabled or differently abled in some way that means that they must be catered to in order to level the playing field. Jobs should pay better and work shouldn't be so difficult.

There is no free lunch. Every thing that is given to the constituency is taken from the constituency, run through the red tape and skimmed, and then given back more useless than ever. Every "helpful" program has ended up hurting the people it was designed to help. From Unions to Welfare.

Jobs leave the country because union workers don't work. They attain seniority. Welfare creates a system of entitlement and robs the person of the humanity they were born with. The War on Drugs makes criminals where none really exist. Thank you big government.

I have been pestered for about two weeks now with several phone calls per week from AARP needing to talk to the head of household. Apparently AARP hasn't yet heard that women are now voting and given equal status before the law and not just puppets for their husbands. I have told and told the people calling from a hidden phone number and probably from someone who bought the AARP contact list, that he works and isn't home during the day.

I have offered to talk to whatever idiot it is that is calling me, but have been repeatedly told that they can't talk to me because I'm not the boss of myself and do only what the head of the household tells me to do, I'm worthless and not a thinking or rational being. I'm secondary and unimportant.

I guess I was close enough to murder today when I again was called – twice – and on the second time the caller said she would speak to me, even though they were supposed to talk to a male cuz I'm worthless. She wanted to know if we had yet received a booklet put out by AARP listing what each candidate has said about "affordable health care" and some other issue. I had seen the mailing. I saw it on the way to the trash.

I assured her that we had gotten it and would study it diligently before casting any votes, because if a politician said it – ever – even once in their whole lives, then by God, mom, and apple pie, they will stick to whatever rhetoric they have spewed. Because there has never, not in all of recorded history, ever been even one politician who went back on a platform promise once they were elected.

Hopefully, I will not be getting any more phone calls. I know in my heart that it doesn't matter. Politician, at this level of government, are all a pack of self-aggrandizing liars, thieves, and scurrilous dogs. Nothing they say can be believed. Their real and true and only message is "I want to be elected. Vote for me."

Dissatisfied

2008-01-08T11:05:00.000-05:00

I thought I would separate my usual blog stuff from my Station Shorts. I thought I was being smart. But as so often happens, it didn't work out as planned. Robert Burns is rolling in his grave laughing.

This is not an endorsement. However, Blogspot has some really nice features that Geocities at Yahoo seems to have forgotten. The most important one for me is the ability to edit a post. There is an option to edit posts over there. And I did try it. Unfortunately, "Your post could not be saved" was the response in tone if not exact words.

The only way for me to edit was to delete it and repost it. Now, that isn't a horrible thing, except that my stories are based on the previous tale and so … getting them out of order was going to be a problem. So if I needed to edit post 2, I had to delete it and repost it and then delete and repost #3, #4, etc. all the way to the end.

I had some glaring issues and I wanted them corrected. So I did all that. Then I found something else that really needed help. And then I got really disgusted. It isn't supposed to be that difficult.

So I created The Station all over again at Blogspot. Now, this place isn't perfect, either. When I copied and pasted from a Word document into the text window over at Yahoo, the text that I had italicized on my computer stayed in italics in the new window. Not so much here at Blogspot. It will continue to hold onto links okay, but any other type of formatting gets tossed when I paste into the text window.

But at least I can see that I didn't italicize Hotel California or Wizard of Oz and go back and edit the post and have everything stay in a nice neat line. So I am giving up one kind of problem which was driving me to distraction and getting a smaller problem in return.

The other thing that I couldn't understand over at Yahoo was the spacing between paragraphs. They apparently like white space over there. One blank line is really sufficient to the task of paragraph delimitation. I'm not sure why Yahoo insisted on so much space. If I left the spaces in from my own typing then the space was even worse. It was all confusing.

I know that technology is our friend. I even like technology. Most of the time. I like it when I can get it to do what I want done. I'm not so happy with it when it remains perverse, sticking to the program as initiated by some geek behind the screen who didn't know what I wanted or was just messing with me cuz he could and so there. (That was a run-on sentence resulting from high distress and frustration.)

My son wisely informed me to include links to the my stories when sending out reminders that there were new ones put up for reading. So at least I won't have too difficult a time telling people that my site changed. I've changed the link over at My Writers Circle so they can find my stories, too.

Writers' Strike

2008-01-02T16:06:00.001-05:00

I am a writer. I am an unpaid writer, unlike people in Hollywood who are usually paid, but are now on strike and not being paid, either.

Jay Leno is going back to work tonight, Wednesday, January 2, 2008. He has been supportive of the writers but since talks broke down nearly a month ago and there are no new talks scheduled, according to Jay, he is going to put his other 100 employees back to work.

It seems that the sticking point of this strike is how people are to be compensated when their product is used over the Internet. I understand wanting to continue to be paid for work that is in continuous use. I would like to be paid for anything I write, first, second, or continual use be damned.

So how do people feel about this? According to the responses at Market Watch, some people are not happy. Some other people are not sympathetic at all. According to one person, without writers, television will come to a grinding halt and will cease to exist.

The strike began on November 5, 2007 and as far as I can tell, there are still people on the television. Some shows don't need writers. Reality shows, talk shows, game shows. Other shows are in reruns until this strike is over. And more and more people are using Indie stuff from the cursed Internet to fill in the gap.

A man who designed conveyors for the auto industry tried to explain his stand by pointing out the irony of his demands for a piece of every car ever built, sold, resold, or scrapped if it used his conveyor system while being built. And some writer sympathizer, or perhaps simply writer, pointed out that unskilled labor was not the same a skilled writing.

First of all, designing a system is not unskilled labor.

Then the writer went on to point out that without writers a show is worthless. Oh my. There are so many shows that are worthless with writers. And then there are so many people who would love to be given the chance to become a paid writer (pick me, over here, pick me) that this is a somewhat ludicrous statement.

So second of all, writers are swarming all over the planet and if the most talented ones are currently working in Hollywood, it speaks horribly about talent and what talent alone can do.

I think I am supposed to support the writers' strike, but I don't really think that I do. I think that writers are paid to write and get paid for work in syndication as well. The Internet isn't generating tons of funds, unless these are the writers who script porn, which makes money over the net as well as anywhere else. If they are those particular writers, surely they don't think that their work is essential to the production. I mean, really, what sort of plot/dialog/suspense can a writer add to porn?

I don't really know the whole background story, but I do know that the writers are losing support with the unwashed masses. It's been two months now and nothing much is going on in the negotiation front. Soon, the Indies will be selling their finished product to the Networks and all the huffy, over-inflated, self-aggrandizing writers will find out that television CAN get along without them. Be careful what you wish for.

Tea for Two

2007-12-31T06:58:00.001-05:00

Hiro came back into the room where he had left Carrie for a few minutes while gathering the tea supplies. He carried them in on a bamboo tray that was ornately carved with flying, fire breathing dragons. He walked to a low table and set the tray down.

"Have a seat," he motioned toward some pillows scattered around the table. Instead, Carrie stood gaping at the tray. Hiro sat and began to mess with the equipment.

"What is that? I've never seen anything like that." Carrie was baffled by the contraption sitting in the center of the tray. She knew what the cups and saucers were.

"Almond cookie type treats to go with the tea," Hiro answered.

"No, the contraption in the middle, what is that?"

"Oh, isn't this something? It is a Denubian teapot. From some future where this planet, Denub, catered to drinkers of fine tea. It does something that makes tea perfectly. I have no idea what it is made of, but it works within seconds to produce some of the best tea in the Universe. It runs on batteries, so it doesn't matter that my house here isn't wired for power."

"What? I thought you were a Samurai from some distant past and you dress like someone from the past and you have a teapot from some future?"

"Cassie, this is The Station. Everyone from everywhere is here. What happened when you shopped for your journal?"

"Well, I walked down the street and found a dry goods store and it turned into a Wal-Mart in front of my eyes and then I entered and purchased what I needed. Now that I think about it, it was laid out exactly like my Wal-Mart at home, not like some different Wal-Mart where I couldn't find anything. Isn't that handy?"

"It's not handy, it's how The Station is. But if you had wanted to shop in the dry goods store, you could have. Or it could have become any store in your era or any store in the future. What sits on that area here in The Station is a store. It become any store you want it to become. You could have shopped at … name some fancy store from your time."

"Niemen-Marcus, or Saks Fifth Avenue."

"Yes, you could have shopped there, if you had thought of that."

"Well. Mr. Samurai from the past, how did you think of a Bamboozled Teapot Store of the Future?"

Hiro laughed. It was deep, rumbling sound. "Denubian. You aren't the first person I've spoken to here. I met a Denubian who talked about the Universe's Best Tea and then was able to concoct the store. Do you think that Samurai look exactly like I do now? We don't. I really should have my hair tied in a specific topknot, but that always made my head itch. It isn't required here and so I don't do that. I carry my weapons because that is comfortable for me. Anything that I particularly liked, I've kept; that which I didn't, I've discarded.

"I've actually kept this portion of my house just as a Samurai house would be in 1600 Japan, but back in the kitchen, it's all modern. Circa 2300 in your time."

Carrie was stunned. She had no idea she would be able to have all of eternity here. She grasped now that she was the Author of this portion of her life and her Boss was without control here. She smiled to herself, but Hiro noticed the curl of her lips and smiled in response.

"Well, can we have some tea?" she asked. Hiro pushed three different areas of the teapot and within two minutes the couple was drinking some of the best tea ever made in the entire Universe.