Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Review: The Magnesium Solution


I received this book through UPS yesterday and read through it last night.

I was concerned about a resident here who was told she had to lose weight and take diuretics or go to the hospital. I bought this book to let her know about the options for treatment, options I myself had refused, and suggested another method for treatment instead of the course her doctor put her on. Now, I choose to publish this review here and on Amazon and let people know there is much more to their physicians' treatment and options that lie before them.

Once again I take to the Internet to publish this review and sound the call that we are all willing to take treatment into our own hands. I stand up and speak out, give them a voice in their own treatment. I am their advocate -- and yours -- and will continue to speak out from what I learn and what I know.

Dr. Jay Cohen, the author of this small book, deserves to be heard. You can buy his book on Amazon or anywhere his book is sold. This, too, is in your hands and you have control. I am only a guide along the path of life showing you the way.

This book, small though it in size, was published through the auspices of SquareOne Health Guide and is available to you wherever books are sold, like Amazon. Purchase it for yourself or check it out at your public library.

Dr. Cohen's biography is listed in the back of this book and he can be found on Amazon or throughout the Internet and his credentials are quite impressive. He, like Dr. William Davis, who wrote the "Wheat Belly" books are both available to you through Amazon and other venues. Search it out, read the book, and spread the word. This review will remain for you to read, copy, and share on Facebook, Twitter, Amazon, and Good Reads, or wherever you believe it will do the most good for you and for others.

Dr. Cohen's experience and expertise are listed in his book and you will be able to disseminate the word wherever you choose. I will do the same. I am after all in college now in order to take up the mantle of being your advocate, your voice, and continuing my work on your behalf though I was forcibly retired by my supervisors. College is my first step and I will continue to be your advocate, though I will not continue as a medical transcriptionist since my job has been ended and my contract canceled.

Dr. Cohen's book is small but full of information that we, the people, have been unaware of until now. I applaud Dr. Cohen's desire to get the news out where we, the people, can purchase his book and avail ourselves of its good news.

Good news The Magnesium Solution for High Blood Pressure is indeed and I place it here for all to see, marvel, and read for themselves.

I have heard about the deficiency of magnesium and the use of magnesium to treat hypertension (high blood pressure) since I was in the hospital after my trek from Colorado to Ohio on a bus. My family has decided against supporting me, but I am not daunted as I was when my mother threatened to disown me over 40 years ago when I decided against pursuing a career in the Air Force or the military because she said, "Only whores and tramps go into the military." I was afraid of being disowned and I am no longer afraid of being disowned. My siblings have disowned me because of what I write or, as BB says, because of my mouth. I did not die when Beanie left me a message on my phone and told me not to contact her. The ever again was implied but I am not afraid and will continue to speak out and stand before the world to speak for others.

I will also take to Twitter and spread the word as well. I will not stop until I am elected once my college career has launched me on my third career in politics. Until then, I will continue to speak out in print and spread the word as an advocate for you and for the voters of the state of Ohio where I currently live. You may vote for me or contribute to my coming campaign as you choose. This is just one stop I will make as I proceed forward with my continuing education and publication.

When I was in rehab, I was told I was hypertensive and the drugs they gave me had horrible side effects. I refused to take the drugs and refused to subject myself to further drugs, deciding to treat myself with natural means. To treat the constipation and the even greater hypertension, I refused treatment. I chose instead to drink prune or apple juice three times daily and thus the bloody constipation ended. The magnesium came later as I published in my post yesterday detailing BB's high blood pressure and the Mushroom and Beanie's migraine headaches. I have since continued to help a fellow resident (in fact several residents) treat her hypertension, weight gain, and diabetes with the information in this book and the words I have printed out and given to them.

Dr. Cohen, like Dr. William Davis of the Wheat Belly series, has done his research and published his work in this book. I strongly suggest you buy the book, borrow it, or get it at Amazon for your Kindle reader. Read it for yourself. You will thank me and you may also share the book however you choose. The book, short as it is, is as necessary for you to read and use as you will. I have bought and sent to friends and relatives "The Wheat Belly" books and will continue to do so as I have. I do not have a job and cannot afford to buy you all this book because my income, such as it is, is meager. I merely point the way, and hope you will buy or borrow the book for yourselves. You will not be sorry.

Aside from the story of how Dr. Cohen came to write this book and why, you will be grateful to him, as I am, and spread the news. Dr. Cohen's background and mission is clear -- to acquaint you with the facts about magnesium and why you need it. Theraworx, as I outlined in yesterday's post, is a quick and efficacious way to get magnesium into your body without the bother of taking pills and having to deal with the usual method of getting magnesium into your body where it will have to deal with assimilation and bio-availability. Theraworx eliminates the usual method of swallowing a pill and is as efficacious as Dr. Drew Pinsky outlines in his television commercials. His foam is absorbed quickly into the skin (transdermal) and is incorporated into the body through the skin. What better way for your body to get the magnesium necessary to your health? You can still buy and swallow the pills and deal with the usual side effects of choosing which version of magnesium will work for you, but I am certain that applying the Theraworx foam is the quickest, safest, and best way to get magnesium into your body. Sally, my friend here at Messiah Community also soaks her feet in Epsom salts, which also contains magnesium, and gets magnesium through the use of Theraworx and the Epsom salts and her magnesium levels are increasing. She will not go to the hospital to continue treatment since she has found this way of supplementing her magnesium.

Though Dr. Cohen did not suggest Theraworx or Epsom salts, he would applaud the use of Theraworx and Epsom salts as I suggested to get the necessary magnesium into the body. Sally will eventually have to transition to taking magnesium supplements (or not) in order to continue her treatment. Whatever works -- for her and for you. The point is that she is getting sufficient magnesium to satisfy her physician's treatment and that is enough -- for now.

I give Dr. Jay Cohen four stars for his book, "The Magnesium Solution", and encourage you all to treat your hypertension (migraines, etc.) by increasing your magnesium levels. Doing so will extend your life, stave off strokes and damage to your body and organs, and see you well on your way to health and a long life.

That is all. Disperse.

Tuesday, February 19, 2019

Food is Medicine

I have advocated food as the source of curing many medical ills, especially diabetes.

Have you heard of the product, Theraworx? It is for the elimination of muscle cramps. I would also suggest using Theraworx for treating migraine headaches and high blood pressure. Theraworx is a magnesium foam that does indeed alleviate muscle cramps and so is an efficacious therapy for people who have been taking medications for high blood pressure.

Beanie has had her ears pierced and that alleviated her migraines for a while, but she had to have her ears pierced again when the tragus became larger and her migraines came back. I would suggest instead that she purchase Theraworx and apply the foam to the bottom of her feet once or twice a day and her migraines would go away without having her ears pierced again. The real cause of her migraines is a deficiency of magnesium and so Theraworx would work better and be far more effective than her tragal piercings. Theraworx costs about $20 for a bottle at Walmart and is likely similarly priced at Walgreen's and QVC. A $20 bottle of Theraworx would be far less expensive than what BB pays for her medications, which is a whole lot less expensive and far more lasting than her current prescriptions. Her blood pressure would also be regulated and her doctor would cheer her decrease in hypertension, though he would not get the bonus of having to write prescriptions or being given kudos by Big Pharma.

I have been against the drugs given out by doctors my whole life. Mom believed that if you had a problem, she had a pill. I was against this philosophy and have treated myself by using food as medicine. I can cure your obesity with food. I can cure your high blood pressure with food. I can cure almost all your ills with food. Food is indeed medicine and good food is good medicine, but it will not line your doctor's pockets from Big Pharma. It will, however, make you healthier and alleviate your medical ills and diseases. Go to the source: get magnesium.

Which would you prefer: getting healthier by eating good foods or taking another prescription written by your family doctor?

Mom took medication for her migraines and she suffered from high blood pressure at the end of her life. Both problems, the migraines and the high blood pressure (hypertension in medical terms) could have been cured by the application or ingestion of magnesium. The Mushroom suffers from migraines and he could be cured by eating leafy green vegetables full of magnesium, but the quickest and best way of getting magnesium would be to purchase Theraworx and apply it to the bottom of his feet. The magnesium foam would work just as well as eating sufficient leafy green vegetables from organic farmers, but Theraworx is still far cheaper than another prescription from his doctor.

Which would you prefer? Magnesium foam applied to your feet and/or legs, eating lots of leafy green vegetables from organic sources, or taking yet another prescription for which you will have to pay far more than a bottle of Theraworx? It's your choice. Now choose.

Applying the Theraworx to the bottom of your feet and to your legs is the quickest and best way of getting magnesium in sufficient amounts to alleviate your magnesium deficiency or you can go to a farmer's market and buy a lot of organic leafy greens and make a salad. You could also go to your favorite health market and buy a magnesium supplement, but do not forget to also get sufficient calcium since magnesium is best metabolized with calcium, as in CalMag, or by applying Theraworx to the bottom of your feet and your legs. Theraworx would be the transdermal method to get your magnesium and I prefer the organic magnesium by purchasing lots of leafy green vegetables and having a big salad slathered with copious amount of healthy and tasty bleu cheese dressing, especially when prepared with healthy coconut oil or other natural oil like avocado, macadamia, olive oil, or other healthy natural oil to dress your salad. With the bleu cheese dressing, you will also get sufficient calcium to go with those leafy green organic vegetables and that also would be less expensive than whatever your doctor prescribes in pill form like BB takes.

I prefer food as medicine, always have, but I have offered and suggested Theraworx for residents here at Messiah Community in order to make sure they get their magnesium boost. Doctors prescribe calcium channel blockers and calcium agonists to patients with hypertension, but that is the Big Pharma way of getting what Theraworx gives you cheaper and more effectively. The calcium channel blockers and calcium agonists like Capoten, Vasotec, Lotensin, Lipitor, Propranalol, Tenormin, Cardizem, diltiazem, nifedipine, verapamil, Atenolol, enalapril, captopril, benazepril, etc.
You choose. Get the magnesium you need through food or through a pill, or you can apply magnesium to your feet and legs and get it that way. You choose.

Or you can get your ears pierced and solve your problem that way. Remember, the tragus will enlarge and you will have to get your tragal piercing done again and again and again as long as you wish to be free of migraines. Or you can apply Theraworx foam to the bottom of your feet and legs. You could also soak your feet in Epsom salts because they also are a source of magnesium. Magnesium is what you need to lower your blood pressure, cure your migraines, stop muscle cramps, etc. Choose your magnesium and get it the best way possible. I prefer my medicine in my food, bio-available and tasty.

That is all. Disperse.

Monday, February 18, 2019

The Price of Truth

I have received a message from Beanie. She has asked me not to contact her again -- and I will not. She has not answered any of my messages and has not responded to my emails. That is the way things are these days.

I have not had a visit from BB, who promised to visit, which is why I live here in Urbana to be closer to her. I warned here even before moving here that things were about to change for her and that her grandson, now ten and beginning to wish to spend time with those his own age, would not hold her interest long. He is growing up and would rather spend his weekends with his buddies. He is no longer a child but entering the first flush of puberty and choosing his own path in life.

BB warned me that my family has turned against me because of my mouth. It is not my mouth that gives me trouble from my family, but my propensity to write what I see and what affects me. My families actions do indeed affect me and I will write about it. The apartment manager insists that I write what I do and that it upsets my family (which it does and often sets me at odds with my family). That is all part of life and particularly part of this life -- my life.

I have no doubt that my family will not support me when I plunge deep into the political arena and they will not vote for me. I've no qualms about that nor do I expect them to vote for me because we are related. That may be what most people in politics believe; their families will pull together and be seen as supporting them but I have no illusions there.

I do not speak truth to shame the devil (as many people will and do say) but to speak the truth, however painful or onerous it is to whomever. I will speak the truth and not shame the devil -- or my family come to that. I will be true and speak true no matter what comes. I will not, as in times past or even times present, fail to speak or fib just to gain the people's favor. I will not keep a mistress or be a mistress because my family choose to ally themselves with another family, thus marrying me off for the family's good and keep a mistress or be a mistress -- or in the case of the Clintons -- buy off or pay off an inconvenient mistress or get rid of an illegitimate son -- just to be a political success. And I will not mouth platitudes for political success. What you see -- and what you read and hear -- is the truth from my perspective. If I am found wrong later, I will also acknowledge I was wrong and that my information is fallible. But I will not shy away from the truth or make nice just to make my family -- or the people I represent -- happy. That is not (and has not been) my way.

Since I do not believe in the devil -- or in man-made gods -- I have no one to please or harm but myself. I came to grips with the knowledge that my father was not as he claimed to be -- a heterosexual -- and he hid in the closet and played it straight for the rest of the world. Maybe that is what was behind Mom's constant abuse of him and why she could not forgive him for his indiscretions. She tortured him for her own ego and used her power over him to keep him on the straight and narrow path. She abhorred his drinking and he could never fool her by drinking vodka. Her nose was far too keen and so by drinking vodka he only fooled himself; he never fooled her nor did he ever fool the man-made god and Jesus, come to that. He lived a lie all of his life and never repented, though he went to the altar many times, often Mom led the way likely got her own sins and errors as much as for his

But I will not follow their path nor will I change my manner of writing. I have previously kept my thoughts private in my written journals, but now (thanks to Mom and Beanie) I am released to publish my own middle-aged meanderings online in full view of the world. I do not shrink from what I once feared -- hiding the truth. Mom has read all that I had written and asked kept from her, which was not done as Mom gained access and read it all: good, bad, and indifferent. She found out that my world did not revolve around her nor did I blame her for as much as she visited on me. Instead, I was mapping my progress along the road of life (my life) without shame or regret or apology.

At least in that regard, Beanie did me a favor by not burning my journals to keep Mom from them. I might have regretted that she had failed me by not burning the journals, but now I am glad that Mom knew the truth, even the truth about Dad, though no doubt she already knew and had kept it from herself and abused Dad in her own way. That was her way -- abusing her husband for the rest of their lives together, even using me to talk him back home when he had quit her and walked away. I regret that I was used thus, but that is in the past and I loved Dad and would have done anything to keep him at home and married to Mom because I was a child and easily manipulated.

You may say that parents should not use their children so callously, but they do and I am proof. I did not know the full scope of Mom's perfidy with regard to Dad and her marriage, but that is in the past and I know that, just as I know that Dad's behavior is also in the past and it does not stay in the past because it is part of my life and I hide nothing. I speak the truth, even when it hurts me. Life is not an easy path and the road to heaven and hell is before us. Whether we travel the broad road paved to heaven or hell, it is the road we choose and final judgment will come in the end.

I do not believe that St. Peter stands at the gate to welcome those who are rewarded with walking through the pearly gates and watches those who travel the broad, paved path to hell with regret while a tear streaks silently down his cheek. Heaven and hell are reward and punishment and I have never believed in them and I questioned how a fire could harm an eternal soul. I wrote about it endlessly and often argued with Mom over that one issue. My path was decided before I drew my first breath and is now solidified in that I have chosen to be an atheist because I do not believe in man-made gods or demons. I believe in the Universal Creator, he whom the Muslims call Allah. Allah is no more the universal creator than I am the man in the moon, but I doubt my saying so -- or writing so -- would change the beliefs of millions of Muslims who are caught in the web Mohammed wove around his believers 1400 years ago, and they are caught in the trap, willingly, because they are not allowed to question the words of a warped and cruel dwarf who was caught in his own madness, trapped by his pernicious and wealthy wife and further trapped by his prepubescent bride protecting her position and catered to his madness in her innocence. Muslims will have to face that and either cast their beliefs aside and join the rest of sane humanity instead of becoming martyrs for their reward in Paradise. It does not exist, but they will have to deal with that I as I have and face the facts.

My future it would seem is bleak and friendless, but I believe that I am the corporeal reality while the Universal Creator figures himself (or itself) out. That is it and all about it.

And so I wish my family had seen me and the truth differently, but they have their way and I have mine. I will not trade lies for truth for them and I will not do so to join a political party like Bernie Sanders did. I will speak the truth no matter how hard it is for others (including my family) to read or hear. I will not be false, but at least I will couch their names and identities as I have with Beanie, BB, and the Mushroom or Idiot (not that nicknames or couching names have fooled the truly determined) but at least it will make my family feel better about what they read or hear and thus they may end up voting for me and/or supporting me as they have not done until now.

The best (or worst) is yet to come.

That is all. Disperse.

Friday, February 15, 2019

Oysters or Fish?

I doubt that my siblings know that Dad was a closeted bisexual. They may suspect, and the Idiot knows, but that is as far as it goes.

It was following the social trends that made the HBO show turn his father into a closeted homosexual who came out publicly just for him. There are a lot of gay men who posed as straight men during the decades in the past. They needed to pass in order to stay in the closet and remain undiscovered.

I am reminded of "Virginia Hams" who had such a deep voice and trotted it out at gay clubs throughout the city. He was just one of many. His mother did not like that he was so out and proud about it. She told him she would have had a size four wedgie stuck in her head if she had disrespected her mother the way he had used her. I'm sure there would have been many grownup children with wedgies sticking out of their foreheads if all the gay children came out and made no bones about it.

My Dad's mother would not have thrown her wedgie at him since she died when he was ten and was not around when he went through puberty. Dad came from Cynthiana, Ohio, a very small town and I doubt that he would have come out in such a place without having been beaten to death for it. I have no doubt that he knew he was that way, but he stayed in the closet. Coming out was not an option, not for him anyway.

Besides, I doubt he was a committed homosexual, but rather a bisexual passing as straight, which is something he had always done. He kept himself to himself and did not parade around or flame like an out and proud queen. Dad had his mannerisms, but he was a man, a good man. There was no loose talk where he was concerned, not that his children or his family knew about. Mom chose him when she met him at age eleven and decided then and there that she would marry him -- and marry him she did when he came back from camp, asked her father for her hand, and married her in their living room. All signed, sealed, and delivered so to speak. 

Dad had already walked away from his Japanese lover, leaving his half breed daughter behind. We all knew about his daughter and that she was being raised by her grandparents in the family home. More than that, we do not know, although I am sure I could find out more and write about it. I choose not to.

I wrote to Dad over the years and asked him to record his story, but he refused and I didn't press too hard. I did get a bit of his story, about how he was so poor and backward he went barefoot to school. DAd also told me stories about going to the movies when he accompanied his older brother, Don, to his post near Chicago. Dad hitchhiked back home when he came back from Korea the first time, but that was Dad's way. He told funny stories, but not too much. Dad kept his life close to the vest and did not talk much about his personal life.

Dad had had an affair with a woman when he was married to Mom and she never let him forget it. She punished him for decades. That was her way. She was vindictive and venomous, not to mention full of ego. She was Mom and there was no doubt about it -- or her. Nobody could hold a grudge like Mom could. Dad could tell you about it. He knew first hand.

Mom could be generous, but she would never let you forget it. That was her way. She could be nice, but not without a price. I knew she had an evil side to her. I experienced it often enough. She would pat me on the back -- or the head -- and then slap me right in the face. I never got the compliment without the immediate slap.

Or maybe it was just me that she patted then slapped in the face. She was not a subtle woman. She was as uncompromising as her brother, my Uncle Bob, who did not trust her and complained about how she had forced him out of the family. Or maybe that is his version of it. Who knows? Mom is dead. Dad is dead. Uncle Bob died last year. That is that.

Mom would have wished to be liked, which is why she was so generous. She would keep the price for her generosity to herself, much as Bessie the Bullfrog does. Bessie prefers people to think of her as nice, but she threw my advice (then BE NICE) back in my face. C'est la vie.

Or la guerre come to that.

Whether or not Mom knew about Dad's proclivities, she did not spread them about. That is my job, except that it is not my job. I talk about my life from my perspective. Since I have no relationship with my siblings, it is not strange that my siblings do not know about Dad being closeted. It is something that they would keep quiet about if they did know.

I am not telling this to shock them or hurt them. I am only telling the truth because I am trying to come to terms with it. I have known about Dad's behavior for decades, but it was not up to me to shove him out of the closet. This is all part of my biography and so I talk about it. Dad is part of my life and I knew so in it goes.

The point is that I did not think much about this until I watched the BBC version of "Aristocrats" whether Julian Fellowes portrayed the Duke faithfully because Julian was a bit of a flamer (out and proud). As I said earlier, the UK is out and proud about their homosexuals. The USA is much less so. That was the first time I saw Julian when he was being himself and out of the closet, which made me wonder about the Duke of Richmond.

Homosexuals have been around forever and everyone knew about them. There is this scene in Spartacus where Laurence Olivier informs Tony Curtis of the realities of life. "...Some people like fish and some people prefer oysters. That is the difference.: Olivier was telling Curtis that he swung both ways and he was asking if Curtis was straight or gay. Olivier was deciding whether Curtis was going to be his slave or not. Curtis was not going to swing Olivier's way. His friendship with Spartacus was of the brotherly kind and not the swinging kind. Too bad, Olivier. 

I have always known that boys (men) could not grow up without at least one encounter. No doubt, it was the same for Dad and boys of his kind growing up. Or maybe it happened in the Army. Who knows? It happened.

Men have always been of easier virtue than women and took full advantage of that. Maybe that is why men can be so casual about sex in the first place. It all goes into what makes the man prefer oysters as Olivier put it. 

Whether Julian portrayed the Duke of Richmond correctly, I found it odd that Julian would take on the role. Julian is, after all, a thespian and was a thespian before he became a screenwriter -- or playwright. Julian as the Duke made me reassess what I thought I knew.

When it comes down to it, whether men are gay or straight, they think about sex all the time. that is a given. Even my brother must do so, whether or not he flies to England over the Christmas holidays. He knows, one way or the other, he will get his wick waxed, which is why he is going in the first place. No doubt, Dad also suffered the tortures of the testosterone, with or without Mom's consent, and so he turned to the closet and let his wrists go limp. Maybe that is why Mom was so adamant about Dad spending time with John in Colon.

John was an expatriate, paid to stay in Colon in Panama by his wealthy mother who worked in cosmetics. John was obviously a gay man and Dad spending time with John was tantamount to an admission of being homosexual himself.

Or not.

There it is -- Dad's extra-martial proclivities. I figured Dad was at best bisexual, but maybe he was just that casual about sex and sexual liaisons. When it comes down to it, it makes no difference to me. Though he was an inveterate gossip, he was still a good man, a very good man. I don't care whether or not he was bi-sexual or homosexual, he was the best man I knew and I love him without boundaries or shaming or anything demeaning. Dad is who he was and I accepted him unconditionally. He is and was my father. He was also my uncle and I loved him in spite of his faux pas. I did not judge him nor did I shame him or expect more of him that there was.

James Cary Cornwell was my father and I accepted him unconditionally. His private life was his own, though I will reserve the right to consider writing about him and John. That is my privilege.

That is all. Disperse.

Thursday, February 14, 2019

Hiding in Plain Sight

By now, most of you know that there have been homosexuals in the movie industry who had to hide their proclivities from the world and had PR agents to cover up their perceived peccadillos. When unscrupulous people got hold of the truth, they approached the closeted actor or actress -- though it was less obvious with women and all too obvious when men were involved -- with a blackmail scheme, the victim either valued his or her anonymity so much they fell into the trap and thus the criminals got richer and got a hold on the victim for as long as blackmailing was lucrative.

Some few of the blackmailers gave up, took the money, and ran with it -- or plowed the ill-gotten gains into their private plans. The rest kept tapping the victim until he or she had had enough and either snuffed the criminal or refused to pay. There are books and movies full of these homosexuals. 

I would propose that those from Great Britain who had their own tussles with such scenes took the high road and came out with what the world already knew -- homosexuals exist and some of them pretend to be heterosexuals and had children. No doubt, there were those who could not come to grips with life in the straight world and would not give up their closeted lives. There are books full of them, but I am coming to realize that the UK has cornered the market on putting their soiled linen out for the world to see and let the devil take the hindmost.

I knew as a child that the flamboyant Liberace was forever his mother's golden-haired boy to his death. I did not need my mother to tell me that Liberace was simply a talented pianist. She may have secretly believed that Liberace was indeed a limp-wristed queer, though she would never say so out loud. I was surprised to find out that Robert Reed, Dick Sargent, and others were also homosexuals. Mom would never tolerate the term gay in reference to homosexuals and she called us out when we used the term gay.

Mom was adamant about using the correct terms when referring to deviants and so we called them homosexuals or whispered gay under our breath until she became comfortable with the term. I don't think she ever did. Mom never even allowed cursing and we never heard her or Dad curse in front of us. The only response was soap in the mouth (and we didn't get the Lifebuoy but liquid dish soap, which is much harder to get rid of once the soap is out of your mouth. I think that's why she used it, to make the nasty taste last much longer. I found out that brushing my teeth, tongue, and as much of the inside of my mouth as possible with toothpaste was the only way to clear out as much of the soapy taste as possible. It's no trip to the cabinet where sugary donuts or the strong bite of Coca Cola were kept. Either suffer or don't curse. That was the message she proposed to leave us with. I chose the toothpaste.

At any rate, in realizing that the closeted male actors were let out of the closet, I was reminded of my own father about whom foster children gossiped was not so far wrong. The Mushroom knew about Dad but kept his mouth shut and rounded on the favored foster child with whispers of "Shut up!" or "You were mistaken." 

All my life I had heard and seen things about my Dad that would have made Mom blush -- or clock the jackass in the mouth with her fist. She was still enough of a tomboy to settle such things with a roundhouse to the jaw or some such retribution. She would brook no such talk. Dad was her husband and had fathered her children and that was it and all about it.

More talk like that surfaced when Dad was dying of prostate cancer that had settled in his bones and caused him prodigious pain and grief. Dad turned to the bottle, something he had given up when Mom and he were saved and went to church full time. Dad did not like to buck the system or upset Mom and so he went. He had sufficient humility and close enough ties to the Lord that he was not unsettled by closeting the truth, and he certainly did not mind Mom closeting or quashing talk of his indiscretions when he was under the influence of alcohol. He drank vodka to cover his fall off the wagon and into a vat of booze. It did not work, not at all. Mom had the keenest sense of smell in the world. She could even spot a vodka drinker, even Dad.

I think that's where cousin, Bobbi Jean, was teased about having to smell her food -- the unspoken part was like Virginia. Bobbi Jean did indeed smell her food before putting it in her mouth and was teased about it, but it was not a joke and it was not nice (according to those keeping track of what is and isn't nice). It was a form of shaming and bullying, neither of which would go down well if certain people heard it said that such things were said out loud. They would come back and tell me that they wanted to be seen as nice, to which I would reply, "Then BE NICE." I call things as I see them, which is why I have written about this subject on my personal journal but have not shared it -- until now. I am writing my autobiography and that includes what I know, have known, and have come to learn.

It came to me (and I have known about homosexuality in history and in reality) for most of my life. I am not a homosexual, as I have adequately revealed multiple times and in multiple places, but I am boy crazy as Mom called me. I really like boys (men). I have no qualms about the fact that I have always enjoyed the company and the friendship of the opposite sex. I became someone who is of a shy and retiring nature, mostly due to Mom's blaming and shaming, keeping my feelings about boys to myself. Mom had a habit of reading my letters from friends I left behind and had no boundaries where personal space (mostly mine) were concerned. She constantly looked for my diary (I call them journals now) and rooted it out wherever I had hidden it. I also hid my personal letters, but Mom was less doggedly determined to root out my correspondence (and there was a lot of it over the years), thus I kept most of my secrets safe and out of Mom's hands.

I was less scrupulous with one friend's letters when I was barely into puberty, which is how Mom caught wind of me knowing about French kissing and the ins and outs of dating, a fact that Mom must have thanked heaven for since we had moved from Hampton Roads, Virginia back to Ohio. I was saved from further contamination by this older and more experienced friend. Mom would have to keep me ignorant of that on her own, which she did by breaking up potentially dangerous situations by coming downstairs in her man's pajamas with her face scrubbed clean of all makeup wearing her dark hairnet over her neatly cut and styled hair with a big hole ripped in the seat of the her pajama bottoms with the intention of what the boy had in store for him if he kept up his fondling and caressing without being able to take me to the altar and make it legal.

I knew what she was doing, but I was evidently enough of a prize that the making out session lapses were of infrequent duration. No, I did not want to get pregnant nor go too far as Mom thought, but I did enjoy making out when the opportunity presented itself and my boyfriend sufficiently alluring. That is how I got caught when I dated Dave Woodard. Mom did not like him either, but at least he asked my Dad for my hand in marriage and proposed to me in front of my parents on bended knee on my birthday when I turned eighteen.

The rest of this story will have to proceed on another day at another time since I was talking about being closeted.

That is all. Disperse.

Wednesday, January 30, 2019

The Use and Practicality of Insurance

 Since I moved back east to be a part of the world, be in society, be part of the world, really a part of the world. I moved back to Ohio because Ohio is where I was born. Ohio is part of my world, part of my life, and part of my plans for the future. Too bad my world does not include my family. They are busy working for a living. I have no living, which is why I decided to go to college and turn my plans for college into plans for a life in politics.

No, do not go there. I am not planning to become one of THOSE politicians. I plan to be an advocate, looking out for the people who have been forgotten or let fall through the cracks. I will get a law degree and be a voice for those people. One thing I can count on is that my family will not vote for me and probably will not support me; they are too busy with their own lives and working for a living.

I have had my subcontractor's contract canceled by the company I worked for over the past two years. I do not approach college and attending college with the same contempt my employer treated me when they decided I was not producing enough medical documents and thus canceled my contract.

I told them I had not been able to work since I moved back here to Ohio, giving up my yearly vacation to take a bus back to Ohio. My fellow travelers, particularly the men, were kinder than my employer and my family. Beanie decided I was decrepit and past it, but I think Beanie took on too much (out of the kindness of her heart -- while she was working for a living) and decided she was doing so much for me that she had no time left for her new husband. She had decided I was less able to do for myself than I was, although I was weaker than I should be and definitely have been. The gentlemen on the bus were more solicitous and helpful than Beanie was because she had decided what I was able to do, but I could not do the laundry or bathe myself since I was using a walker.

What I really think is that Beanie became regretful of taking care of me. I paid for what she brought in terms of food and clothing. I would have paid for the laundry if she had asked. I could not fold the clothes or do the laundry since I was not allowed to stay with her in her husband's home. I was not welcome -- not by her husband or by her.

Beanie is one of those people who take on too much and begin to regret offering and regret doing things for the other person  -- even if they are paying for their own motel and food. Beanie decided I was decrepit and past it. She was wrong. Beanie is one of those people who mean well and then regret doing things for people. I have no doubt she regretted taking care of Dad because she lived closer to our parents that BB and Jimmy did, and they never offered to help or spell Beanie because she lived closer. The resentment and regret settled in and Beanie did her duty by Dad, but she wished she had help from BB and the Idiot. Never happened. They worked for a living.

So did Beanie, but her proximity was stronger than any feelings for Dad or my parents came into the equation. I had earlier told BB and Beanie and the Idiot that I was NOT moving back to Ohio to take care of our parents. They figured I could live with our parents and take care of theme first hand. I am after all the adopted child and should take care of our parents. I did not have a job as far as my siblings could see since I did not work in an office or for the state like all three of my siblings did.

But I did work. That I worked from home -- and had for years -- did not count in their eyes. It was something I could give up to care for our parents and let them do their REAL jobs while I could fill in whenever.

Right!

It did not matter that I had a life in Colorado because they worked for a living. So did I. My work could be done from the comfort of my home as far as they were concerned. It did not matter to them.

I had a real job. I worked regular hours, sometimes all night, and I never got holidays or weekends off unless I traded my vacation for those holidays and weekends. They never did get the fact that I did work and had a schedule to keep. I had responsibilities and all the things they had, but I was not giving up my life in Colorado to move back to Ohio to be their sacrificial lamb, their caregiver for Dad who was dying of prostate cancer and taking care of Mom who was getting older because I was adopted and owed them (my parents and my siblings) my life.

Not happening. I was not their go-for or their sacrificial lamb. I did not owe them my life because my parents chose to adopt me so they could have children of their own. Our parents almost had a daughter and a son, the daughter and son Aunt Edith had promised them, but then Aunt Edit took her children back, depriving Mom of her children. Luckily, Aunt Edith, another of Dad's sisters, was pregnant and she agreed to give them her unborn child (me) and thus I was born and given to my parents (Aunt Anne's brother and sister-in-law) and they adopted me.

Mom never did get over not getting Jimmy and Dixie from Aunt Edith, but she got me. Just before I was born (about a month), Mom got pregnant with BB and had her nine months later, following with the Idiot four years later and Beanie ten years later. Adopting me worked for them -- they got pregnant with their own children, two girls and a boy. If it had not been for me being born, BB, the Idiot, and Beanie would not have been born. They owe their lives to me. Mom developed a mother's instinct when she and Dad adopted me and thus calmed down sufficiently to bear her own children.

But I know better. Yes, adopting me made it possible for Mom to have her own children -- and her boy. The inability to get pregnant had nothing to do with me, except in the sense of a physical disability of having Rh-negative blood being married to an Rh-positive husband. The blood did not mingle. Luckily, BB and the Idiot are both Rh-negative children, but Beanie has the same blood type as Dad, A-positive, and caused problems when she was born, putting Mom at risk because she was still O-negative and Beanie being A-positive put Mom at risk with having a child who was Rh-positive, thus causing Mom to hemorrhage and Beanie's life was at risk because their blood types were incompatible, dangerously incompatible, which had caused the previous miscarriages and the spontaneous miscarriages that led to adopting me in the first place. I had proved my worth and had made it possible for Mom to stop obsessing about getting pregnant and made it possible for her to get pregnant because Mom's psychosomatic issues were put onto the back burner. Like I said, my siblings would not have been born if our parents had not adopted me in the first place. I was the insurance policy our parents counted on to make it possible to have their own biological children.

Now that the biological children have been born, they still see me as the outsider, the one who does not belong in their family. I am the changeling, the trade-off, the one who was bought and paid for and had supplanted their positions in our family. I was the first born. I was first.

I learned the score later. In Mom's affections, I was last. The Idiot was first in Mom's affections, then came BB, and lastly came Beanie for the same reason BB was second in Mom's affections. She may have been Mom's firstborn, but the Idiot was first because he was the boy

I knew it did not matter that I was smarter than the others (in terms of grades). All that matter was that I was not born a boy. End of story.

I was the insurance plan, the sure thing that had failed to get Mom pregnant, but biology was against her -- and my family did not know that fact. The counted on the mental state that kept Mom from being pregnant as much as her biology did.

It does not matter that Mom got pregnant -- was able to conceive naturally. It did not matter that I was the firstborn or that I made my siblings' births possible by being adopted. It did not matter that I was not the boy that Mom craved; she got her boy later, conceived him five years after I was born. He was named after Dad, though the Idiot would have had to end up with a different name I had been born a boy or Aunt Edith had kept her word and Mom adopt her Jimmy, leaving Jimmy with something else like Cary of Don or whatever. Being older and getting Dad's name, the Idiot would have been left with another name, even though it would not be Dad's name because it would already be taken by Jimmy, Aunt Edith's boy, but I would still have been last anyway. Being smart and having a lot of questions would not have raised me to the position that a boy -- or two boys -- would have occupied. Mom believed boys were better. Another girl was just another girl -- and a smart aleck girl who asked too many questions come to that.

About the only good thing I did, outside of getting better grades and being universally liked by teachers and other people, was asking questions of people who came to give Mom another Jehovah's Bible or another Watch Tower publication. Mom used me to stymy (dumbfound) Jehovah's Witnesses and run them off sooner. I was always asking inconvenient questions, the kind Mom could not answer without reminding me that God's plans and answers were not for the likes of me -- an ordinary person, and a girl.

Mom wanted to show me off -- to demonstrate my talents for friends and relatives to prove she had the best of the bargain -- a child to brag on. I was Mom's insurance on staying in the public eye by having talents, like drawing, painting, and good grades, to prove her worth as a good parent. I was her insurance policy, a policy that would mature earlier than the insurance she and Dad had when they died.

Nowadays, death is not the only way to get insurance. Insurance policies now include Home Shield and Car Shield to ensure the health and workability of your appliances and vehicles. Now that we, the people, want to keep our appliances and vehicles in good working order without the expense of having to pay for break-downs and long time of use out of pocket. Get an insurance policy that will cut the cost of unplanned breakdowns and hard use. In a way, the insurance companies have diversified their portfolios and included other health-related issues that will bring in the money.

As we, the people, move closer and closer to socialist health care, insurance companies will have to find other ways to get their money from us. They will have to branch out into the home and the garage, paying to fix appliances and vehicles since the health care industry will only be available to the wealthy. The wealthy will always have insurance, but the average American will always have to repair their appliances and vehicles, and having insurance that we pay for it monthly or yearly is as ubiquitous as health insurance for everyone else under government funded health care.

Insurance is as necessary as health insurance until the government begins funding the socialist health care system.

Unfortunately, there is no insurance in families -- unless you count unconditional love and care. When my parents died, any insurance I had with my own family died with them. There is the guilt factor where my siblings are concerned -- the kind that comes with empty promises and taking on too much until regret sets in. I will have to do what I have always done -- fend for myself, do for myself. Now that I am back in Ohio and have struck out with old friends -- the male kind -- I am back to where I have always been -- by myself doing for myself by myself. That is why I will take my good will towards others, unconditional good will, and be an advocate to stand for others and give others a voice and remind the rest of the world that they cannot be forgotten, left out, and ignored. I will speak for others and stand for others. I will be their advocate; I will be the rest of the world's insurance policy -- at least as far as Ohio and the United State of America are concerned.

That is all. Disperse.

Saturday, January 26, 2019

All in the Eyes

I remember a time when I was not so infatuated with Don. I even told him that even across a crowded room he would not catch my eye. Why would he? I thought. He is bald and much older than I was (about 12 years) and, though he was well dressed (in a suit and tie), he was not my type

At that point in our relationship (and it was a relationship at that point), we could be honest with each other. We were having an affair, so honesty was permissible. Or not. He was married, had two children (his daughter was in college and his son was probably a senior in high school), and his wife and he were on the road to divorce -- as I saw it. Don was not the kind of man who would give in at the end of a thirty-year marriage without a fight. He was still having sexual relations with his wife, Lois, who was still mostly in the picture. Lois was a bulldog and not going to give up without a fight as far as I could see. I should probably say snapping turtle since she would never let Don go without making sure she had a really good settlement.

Their daughter was studying art in college and ensconced in her own life. She had a boyfriend she liked and lived with, but she was not so involved in her own life she would miss the clues in her father's life -- like a mistress.

We (Don and I) did not dare to go too far into the whole issue of her father having an affair and her parents' marriage on the rocks. No, Don and I had to be discreet or he would be blown out of the water. I did not want that to happen since he was my employer.

I, innocent that I was, did not want to end our affair, but I was confident -- and so was Don -- that I could meet his daughter, have a conversation, and go on with my -- our -- lives. Don was confident he could bring about a meeting between his daughter and me on neutral ground -- The Humidor, a club in downtown Cleveland where Don went to share his poetry -- his live poetry. His wife, Lois, would not come; she was not interested in poetry, except in the usual marital sense of being present. Don's daughter would be interested. She was daddy's girl and she was an artist, so bound to be interested in her father's poetry at The Humidor; she would be there.

I would be there, too, since Don and I had been there before and would be again. I was also interested in Don's poetry since I was a writer (another artist) and creative types tend to travel together to be supportive of each other. No doubt, that is why his daughter was going to be there -- not to meet me, though she would be there and she would meet me, but to be supportive of her father's creative endeavor, his poetry reading in public.

And so she and I would finally meet and hopefully like each other and get to know each other without blowing Don's cover (his affair with his much younger female employee.  Her mother had met the employee (me) and had pronounced me as no threat at all to her marriage or to Don since the employee was fat.

She (Lois) had seen me, met me, and dismissed me because I was fat. Don was thin as a rake and his wife was shorter and very petite -- a mere five feet to my five feet eight inches -- and I was fat. No threat to his marriage or his wife as far as she could see. Lois did not see the reason in being at The Humidor since she was not worried and she had to work on documents pertaining to her long term care facility. No sense letting her husband's hobbies (poetry) getting in the way of her promotion at her job. Her daughter would attend the reading and she would get on with her work.

And so it went.

I, for the first time since Don and I began our affair, would drive to downtown Cleveland and arrive at The Humidor separately. I would get a table by myself and he would get a table for himself and his daughter. We would sit apart and, at some point, he would see me, recognize me, and introduce me to his daughter. No harm, no foul. Don and I would be safe -- or rather he would be safe from detection, either by his daughter who would not tell his wife that she had met me and that she had liked me. That is the scenario Don and I had painted in bright, cheery colors.

That is not what happened.

After a horrible miscommunication and screwed up directions, I ended up on the side of town where Cleveland had its projects -- the poor side of town, the criminally active side of town. I am not the shrinking violet type nor am I the panic when I get lost type. I did what any thinking person would do, I stopped at a 7/11 store to get clearer directions. The bonus was that a police car was out front and I met the officer inside the store.

No, the officer was not getting a donut. He was responding to the cashier's alert that a shoplifting criminal had been seen. It was late at night and dark and the police officer had thwarted the perp's plan to steal the money from the store's till. The perp got away -- his driver took off with the perp as he emerged from the store and took off down the road probably to lose the cops in the projects, but it never got that far. The perp (sans cash or loot of any kind) jumped into the car and the driver sped away as I parked my car and went into the store. I was in no danger and the officer was especially kind and helpful to me. He offered to show me the way, getting into his vehicle and leading me down the road (the opposite way to which I had arrived) and waited for me to pull up behind him before heading off down the road.

The officer did not so much as pause at stop lights. Ignoring the lights, he drove through, waving at me through the window to follow, which I did reluctantly -- and somewhat hesitantly. I was following the police so would be in no trouble and in no danger of getting a traffic violation. I followed the officer to the right side of town and began to recognize the street where The Humidor existed. The officer stopped and came back to my car to tell me I was on the right track and The Humidor was right down there -- pointing to the sidewalk where the stairs went down into the sidewalk. The Humidor's sign was visible and I was finally there. I thanked the officer who politely touched his hat and then my hand resting on the window of my car before walking back to his cruiser, getting inside, and driving off having done what I thought was a good deed for the day: he had protected and served the public -- me.

I was soon safely inside The Humidor and ensconced at a table near the back, alone with a drink on the table in front of me, and I waited for Don and his daughter to arrive. I did not have a lot of time to cool my heels and noticed Don and his daughter arrive and take a seat. Her boyfriend (I assume it was her boyfriend since he held her chair and sat down next to her) seated her and sat down between her and Don, chatting amiably.

I was nervous and a bit anxious since they had arrived and were just a table away. I kept an eye on Don, but not so anyone would notice. I tried to listen to their conversation, but the club was noisy and I could not hear anything. Don did not notice me and did not even look in my direction. He was engaged in conversation with his daughter and her boyfriend, laughing and explaining the history of how he came to be there at The Humidor to recite his poetry. I already knew all that, so I did not join in the conversation, stayed silent, and waited for some hint as to when -- and if -- he would introduce me.

He did not.

Don did not even notice me when the emcee called him to the stage where he pulled his poems from his jacket, took a deep breath, licked his lips, and began to read -- and perform -- his poetry. It was Poetry Slam night and everyone else got up on stage and performed their poems. Don was not the poetry slam kind of poet. He was a poet, but much like me who never remembers his writing well enough to recite without reading my notes, Don did not so much as perform his work, he read them.

He read some of his racier poems, but not the poems he wrote about me or about anything that could be construed as being about a young female (or a mistress), just poems that had racy details like ripe peaches warm from the sun and dripping with nectar falling into his hands, and such like.

As soon as he finished and took his seat (still without recognizing me or introducing me to his daughter and her boyfriend), they chatted quietly about Don's performance and marveled at the much younger poets who wore dredlocks and were pierced in various places in their eyebrows, lips, and one young girl had a diamond stud in her nose gesticulated, screamed, and performed their poems to thunderous applause.

Don had rated a polite smattering of respectful applause, but no thunder echoed in that smoky and darkened club -- and no sign of recognition nor did he turn to me or introduce me to his daughter or her boyfriend. After a polite interval, the boyfriend stood up, reached his hand to Don's daughter, and assisted her to stand, helped her into her coat (it was winter after all), waited patiently for Don to rise and shake his hand, and they left. Don followed them out the door and into the blackness beyond the fog of cigarette and cigar smoke, leaving me behind unrecognized and still waiting to be introduced. ''

The eyes certainly do not have it. He did not notice me sitting at the table next to him. He would not have crossed the room -- or turn around -- to look at me. 

I finished my drink and began to stand when the gentleman behind me touched my elbow and asked if I would like to sit down."'No, I think it is time for me to go home."

"Will you be all right to drive?" he asked.

"Of course. I only had one Irish coffee, and it was more coffee than Irish," I said. "After the one coffee, I just drank ice water. That was hours ago. I will be fine to drive," I assured him.

"Just checking," he said. The cops have been out in force and I did not want you to be arrested for drunk driving."

"I think I could walk a straight line after half a dozen glasses of ice water," I said. "Thank you."

I drove home and driving was easier than I thought since I finally knew how to get to The Humidor and would be traveling home on the freeway. The road was slick. It had been snowing and sleeting since I had been inside The Humidor, but slick roads bring out the stupid in other drivers. That night was just such a night for idiots on the road. Good thing I had drunk very little of the Iris coffee. I had never liked coffee -- it was too bitter -- and no amount of Irish cream would change my mind. I did not smoke either, but was brought up in a house where Mom smoked, and so did my Grandma, Grandpa, and my aunt -- all of whom were back in Columbus and unaware that I was out and about on such a night.

As soon as I thought I was no worse for wear, I hit a slick spot and careened toward the back of an empty semi truck. I remembered to keep my foot off the brake and steered slowly into the spin. I slowly and very deliberately caromed off the guard rail until I was pointed back the way I had come. I was shaken but alive and unhurt. The car was still running and no one still driving the freeway had noticed I had had an accident. Not even the police since I saw no police and no cruisers flashing red lights at me. I was safe and unharmed -- and I was unnoticed by drivers heading down the road, opposite to where I was facing. The car was still running and I suddenly had the feeling that I would still be good enough to drive. The truck I almost hit had continued on his way, had not even noticed I almost hit him, and my car was still running.

I looked out at the traffic, waiting for a good time to see if the car could drive, pulled out onto the freeway, hands shaking, turned back around, and headed for home. The car still drove. I had not actually crashed into the guardrail. I was safe, my car still drove, and I soon exited the freeway, hands still shaking, and pulled off at the Budget Motel where I currently lived, parked the car, took a few deep, deep breaths, stilled my hands, and got out of the car. After putting my key in the door, I pushed open the door, hung up my jacket, and fell onto the bed, and did not even notice the door was still ajar. I levered myself up, shut and locked the door, kicked off my shoes, and crawled into bed with my clothes still on.

I was home at last.

I was alive.

I was safe.

Don had not recognized me or introduced me.

The evening was a bust, but I did not care. I was alive, unhurt, and my hands had stopped shaking.

I was alive.

I did not realize anything until the next morning when the phone jangled me awake.

"Who the f...?"

That is all. Disperse.

Friday, January 25, 2019

Compliments Can Be Honest and Heartfelt

The way she looked at me, looking deeply into my eyes, I had a flicker of thought that maybe she had lived in California so long she had become Californicated and she was hitting on me.

No, the flicker passed and I got back into my own head. Sally was not hitting on me. She was looking deeply into my eyes because she was actually complimenting me and being surprised. She could not tell whether my eyes were green or blue or grey. I told Sally that I had always considered my eyes grey and that is what I put on my state ID, but my eyes are actually turquoise -- blue and green. I have changeable eyes -- always have. I come from a family of blue-eyed people, but I do actually have turquoise eyes, that striking combination of blue and green that is far prettier than the turquoise stones that make up squash blossom necklaces or armlets, bracelets, etc. made of turquoise.

Sally was serious and so am I. Elizabeth Taylor had lavender eyes and I have turquoise eyes. There are such beautiful, arresting, and noticeable eye colors. I am one of them and I appreciate the people who notice, marvel, and mention their surprise and delight to me. It is not always about sex or lust or even sexual in nature. It is nice to be noticed and complimented -- and not just 'you have such a pretty face,' the way my Mom complimented me. Mom always coupled her compliments ('such a pretty face") with the slap in the fact.

Sally's compliment was not that kind of compliment because there was no slap. She was offering to do me a favor and hours later appeared at my door with the favor done and her surprise patently evident. Her compliment was very nice to see and hear and I was flattered. I am usually flattered when someone does something nice for me -- like Jim or Ken buying me a meal because they were buying meals for themselves and wanted to treat me. I had already mentioned that I could not pay them back because I was out of money, but they also knew that Meals On Wheels (MOW) had not shown up that day and they did not completely understand that I was comfortable with intermittent fasting. I accepted their kindness and let them know how much I appreciate their kindness. I always pay them back with a meal when I have food in the house and with keto because they do not understand or are knowledgeable about nutritional ketogenic lifestyles. It is also nice to serve them a fat bomb or a treat made without sugar and made with coconut or alternative flour.

I want to help people understand that there are many ways to live one's life and not all of them will make them sick or leave them with cancer or nearer death because they are fasting. I think of "A Chorus Line" where the auditioning actor is keeping his mother from eating cat food when he does not feed her and she cannot afford to feed herself. Sometimes, intermittent fasting is beneficial and healthful -- with moderation.

Or as my new friend says, Balanceology is also acceptable. Balance in all things -- especially food and dealing with other people -- is beneficial and healthy. Check it out at Balanceology by Al William Johnson. From what I have read so far, the introduction is well written and right on target. I have hopes for the rest of the book and believe it will be a good book.

I do not want to queer my review, but I do know what is good (to me) and what I like and will recommend, hence my surprise, delight, and appreciation of Sally's compliment to me.

Once upon a time, I wished I had eyes like Elizabeth Taylor, but turquoise-colored eyes are just as remarkable as lavender. I will take them since that is what I ended up with.

Anyway, I appreciate it when another person looks up and looks into another person's eyes, really sees them, and compliments them. I think most people compliment another out of some feeling of noticing and not knowing what else to say except "Your eyes are remarkable." I will take it and I will offer a compliment in return.

For me, of late, the best compliment other than thank you is not noticing their average eyes are more than average and saying so. How many people have lavender or turquoise eyes? If you happen to notice that someone else's eyes are remarkable and memorable, tell them. You do not have to be in love or lust or anything other than complimentary and looking deeply into the other's eyes. You do not have to have sex or romance on your mind. You obviously care enough to look up and look into another's eyes because you want to be noticed and that you are noticing that you share this life with the other person. It pays to notice and compliment another, but be sincere -- very sincere. Do not fake it and do not take advantage of the other person because you noticed them and looked into their eyes -- or their souls. You are present. They are present. Be glad and share the fact that you are glad to be in their presence and appreciate them -- and their remarkable eyes.

Do not follow your compliment with a slap in the face like my Mom.  Be truthful and open and honest. You would be surprised how often a civil response will stay an angry hand and maybe even a slap in the face, especially if you do not pinch their bottoms or have wrong thoughts.

Compliments also do not have to be followed with a slap in the face or a proposition. You decide if you would rather be nice and honest or abusive or want to get into the other person's pants -- or pocketbook.

That is all. Disperse.

Thursday, January 24, 2019

Not Even A Date

My mother told me all the time I "had such a pretty face." She was also surprisingly kind to my bio-mom, always marveling at how smooth and hairless her legs were. No real surprise since Mom had the hairiest legs I had ever seen. She was always shaving, which is probably why she forbid me to shave my legs to keep me from being caught in the trap she found herself in -- dry legs and lots of stubble -- when she word pedal pushers or exposed her legs.

I got the bug when I hit puberty and went to high school where I saw the stubbly legs of those around me. I wanted to be able to shave my legs. That did not happen when I was a freshman, but I could wait. I had to wait just like I had to wait to date. I could not date until I was actually sixteen years old. I guess Mom thought that if I did not date, I would not be at risk for pregnancy or whatever else Mom thought was likely when I was old enough -- marriage?

I dated when I turned sixteen. I fended off unwanted proposals -- propositions -- when I dated. I was known for not being someone who was loose in school and did not kiss anyone at all. I was the opposite of an easy lay. Boys dated me because they were sure they would be the one to become the one who would lead me down the primrose path.

Didn't happen.

The boys I dated were friends, except for the one boy (an older guy, a senior) I really liked. He was the handsomest guy I had ever seen. He worked in the library and he often wore a black shirt and a white silk tie. He was friendly, but never more than civil and polite. He was friendly.

No matter how much time I spent with him, all we did was talk and get to know each other. My crush went on unabated. I really liked him. I did not notice his best friend, Paul Rasor, who was also a senior and related to a radio/television personality, but he was just a friend. I liked Paul, but he was not the apple of my eye, the guy I had a crush on. Dick Strawser was the guy for me. I was getting nowhere with Dick Strawser. Paul Rasor told me that Dick really liked me, but not enough as far as I was concerned.

The more we talked, the more I got to know Dick, and the more I wanted. I wanted a date.

Dick told me he did not date. He was still stuck on his old girlfriend. She was out of the picture and so he was alone and did not date. Dick's paramour was his crush. I was nothing more than a friend and he did not date friends. I was out of luck -- or so I thought. Paul told me that Dick liked me -- he really liked me, but I was a freshman. It would take time, but I would either become a sophomore or a junior and closer to Dick's age. Then Dick would ask me out, Paul said.

I could wait. I had to wait to be sixteen before Mom would allow me to date. I waited and I turned sixteen. I eventually was asked out, but it was not with Dick Strawser. I liked the guy who asked me out, but he was not the one. I went out, suffered the embarrassment of my dates seeing Mom walk down the stairs from the second floor wearing a pair of men's pajamas with a big hole in the seat just to embarrass me and to let me know it was time for my guest to go home. Her freshly washed face looking as greasy as if she had slathered a pound of cold cream on her face. Mom's point was to embarrass me -- or to at least let my dates know it was time to go home. I think the ripped pajamas was the first clue for the guy to go home. Her ready for bed appearance left no doubt in their minds -- or mine for that reason.

Mom was a fright. With her heavy dark hairnet covering her short hair, her face clean of makeup, and the ripped men's pajama bottoms, she was ready for bed. The Cornwell house was closed for the night. I do not think anyone but me noticed that she was not wearing a bra. Everything that Mom could do to make certain I was untouched and embarrassed was present. When Mom walked past the living room, I doubt nobody would have stayed. My chastity was intact. Mom was very efficient in running boys out. Nobody could have lasted after she made her entrance and said good night loudly as she passed from the hallway into the dining room and then into her bedroom.

I had suffered through the usual problems of dating with my mother being as embarrassing as possible. If I could get through that, I could deal with anything. I stepped up my plan with Dick, spending more time talking to him than in getting or reading books. I wanted Dick. I did not want to read yet another namby-pamby romance novel.

I threw out all kinds of possibilities like walking in the park or going on a hike or bicycle riding. Anything to get Dick to ask me out.

Then I hit pay dirt. He would agree to take a walk in the park with me this weekend. We would go to Darby Creek Park. Some date. I had to drive, but he would walk over to my house first. And so I drove out to Darby Creek Park. It was not far, took little time to get there, but we stopped at KFC and got a bucket of chicken and some sides, and I drove.

It took very little time before we were out walking around the trails, listening to the birds (it was spring after all), and heading inevitably toward Darby Creek. Dick walked across the creek, hopping from one rock to another, and I followed. Mistake.

I followed until I missed a rock my footing and sat down in the rushing creek, getting wet. What a nuisance. I fell into the creek while Dick watched me tumble backside first into the water. He offered a helping hand to lift me out of the water and I rushed across the rest of the creek to the little island. I did not make another misstep and I did not fall into the creek again. Good thing. I was as wet as I could be, embarrassed as I could be, but my dignity was intact -- until Dick suggested I take off my wet clothes, lay them over a bush or on the grass, and let them dry.

I could not believe my ears. Dick wanted to see me naked.

Or not.

We laid out the blanket I had brought with me and we sat down. I would dry out eventually, but Dick urged me to slip off my clothes and lay them out to dry. I demurred.

My heart pounded as if it would burst out of my chest.

It was logical. I was wet and there was a breeze. I shivered in my wet clothes, but I kept them on. I did relax enough to lie on my side on the blanket and we talked. I finally found out what had happened between Dick and his girlfriend and why he did not date.

Seems she was a couple years older than he and he was inexperienced and -- young -- just as I was inexperienced and young. I was shivering so hard my teeth sounded like castanets. Dick urged me to at least take off the wet clothes and lie in the sun with him.

I told him I was fine, almost dry.

"If you're embarrassed," he said, "I could take off my clothes and we would look like we were out sunning ourselves in our bathing suits. Nothing to be ashamed about."

He was so matter-of-fact about it. He even slipped off his jeans, folded them, and took off his shirt, folded it, and laid them in a pile on the corner of the blanket." He looked around. "No one is coming, Get out of those wet clothes," he urged.

No one was coming, but I was nearly dry and my teeth had stopped chattering. The day was warm and the sun was shining. I hesitated but I didn't take off my clothes. I lay back down on my side, picked a four-leaf clover and stuck it in my mouth, savoring the taste of the spring grass as I kept talking. I explained I was almost dry and we could get up and go any time he was ready.

"Well, if you're not going to get undressed then I'll put my clothes back on," he said.

He was dressed in a moment while I lay back down on the blanket, closed my eyes, and listened to the birds. I felt my pants. I was almost completely dry. With my eyes closed, listening to the birds, I relaxed. Good thing the creek was not high and I did not get very wet at all. The danger was past, Dick had put his clothes back on, and we relaxed in the sun streaming through the trees.

Eventually, we drifted into conversation, stopping whenever we heard an interesting bird. I did not know the names of the birds, but Dick did, regaling me with his greater knowledge. The sun hid behind some clouds and it was after twelve. We got up, folded the blanket, and took turns carrying it back to the parking lot. I almost got naked, but had not crossed that bridge yet. Dick had not even kissed me, so why take off my clothes just to dry my pants after I fell into the creek? It was not the proper time. Better to get naked after we have kissed and dated at least a couple of times.

If today was any indication, especially after he told me how it was for him when he and his ex-girlfriend had made out in the garage, he was never going to ask me out. He was never going to take me to the movies or ask me to dinner with his family.

Obviously, he was still hooked on his ex-girlfriend. He liked me the way he liked a next door neighbor, but he did not really like me. He could not like me enough to ask me out. He did not date. He was still waiting for his ex-girlfriend to ask him out -- or move back to town.

We got the chicken out of my car and ate at the picnic table in the park. We were half finished when it started raining. We threw the food into the bucket, grabbed the blanket, and ran for the shelter.

"Good thing it hadn't rained before now or you would have been soaked," he said.

"Good thing," I echoed.

If it had rained, the creek would have been full and I would have had to strip and lay my clothes out to dry after I fell into the creek. Good thing indeed.

We ate the rest of the KFC in the car before we left the park. I was no closer to Dick asking me out, but I was glad to have bought KFC and fed him so he would not go home hungry. He did not get to see me naked and I had not lost my virginity or my chastity. Good thing.

I drove him back to my house and he walked home.

Dad ragged me about feeding Dick. I don't think he liked Dick Strawser. Dad saw Dick Strawser as an opportunist, someone who would let the girl pay for food and not even ask for a date or pay her back for the financial outlay. I am not sure I liked Dick either, but I hoped that we would remain friends for a while, just long enough for him to ask me out. As far as Dad was concerned, Dick Strawser was a bum.

I doubted it would happen since we were almost at the end of school. He had not asked me to the prom -- and I doubted he would since he was not planning to go to the prom. His plans all centered around hooking up with his ex-girlfriend. I did not even figure into his plans. Dad was right about that. I knew Dad would be very upset if I ever saw Dick again, but I did not think I would. He was going to go away to college and hook up with his ex-girlfriend, or people his own age. I would be left behind, forgotten.

I had only been the girl who fell into the creek and got wet. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to remember.

Next year, I would be a junior. there would be other times, other boys, other dates. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to fret over. This too would pass.

All I had to remember was that I had missed my opportunity and I had never been kissed by Dick Strawser. That is all I had to remember this day by -- not being kissed -- or asked for a date -- by Dick Strawser.

Well, that and his black shirt and white silk tie. That too was worth remembering.

Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Banned

Growing up, I knew I was pretty. Mom told me over and over, "You have such a pretty face," as if my pretty face trumped my brains and talent. As long as I had a pretty face, that was all I needed. It may have been all she needed, but the only thing I needed was a penis. That would make everything possible. Boys had all the breaks. Jimmy could do reprehensible things and because he was a boy -- Mom's boy -- all would be forgiven. As long as he had a penis, Jimmy got all the breaks and everything he ever wanted, except when he misbehaved and the neighbors across the street from us in Hampton Roads, Virginia banned him from their yard. The Alexanders, Mrs. Alexander, banned Carol, too. If Jimmy was in trouble it meant he had followed Carol into trouble and Mrs. Alexander forbid them from entering her yard. Carol and Jimmy sat on the edge of the street, their legs dangling into the rain ditch, making sure they did not get any closer. They knew that either Mrs. Alexander's daughters would run and tell on them, tattle to their mother.

I stayed out of the drama, not only because I was not forbidden the yard but because when whatever happened, I had been playing or adventuring with Butchie and Bobby, the Alexanders' oldest boys. They did not suffer a child such as Jimmy and they did not like Carol either. As far as Butchie and Bobby were concerned, Carol was a spoiled brat, just like Jimmy. She was a fussy spoiled brat who always changed her clothes a bunch of times a day. That was too much for the boys.

Their sisters, Debbie and their other little sister were irritating tattletales and the boys treated them as older brothers always treated sisters -- avoiding them as much as possible.

The only Cornwell the boys liked was me, nearly the same age and much more approachable and friendly -- that opposite of Carol and Jimmy. The only other Alexander who liked Jimmy was Juma, the Alexanders' youngest child who had been born in Africa when their father was stationed in Libya with the Air Force.

Dad was Army, but Mr. Alexander was Air Force. He was stationed at Langley Air Force Base where Mom worked a second job. Langley was where the CIA had The Shop of Stephen King's horror novels where the telekinetic -- Fire Starter -- had lived when she was kidnapped by the CIA after the unthinkable happened -- a Fire Starter was born to two students that supplemented their income by volunteering for testing (a study put together by the CIA where student volunteers were given LSD and whatever symptoms occurred were carefully watched by CIA operatives.

No, I do not think that Mr. Alexander was a CIA operative, just an airman who was stationed at Langley -- probably a sergeant or other noncom just like my dad who was a sergeant and stationed at the Army base, Fort Monroe. Fort Monroe was on the peninsula where Dad caught pigeons to add to his backyard collection. Dad built cages for the pigeons and kept them there. That is where I learned how to feed the pigeons, putting corn in their beaks and massaging their necks to encourage the food to go down.

I loved feeding the pigeons and enjoyed holding and feeding the pigeons, especially when they flew around the yard and over the picnic table in the back yard where one of the pigeons let loose as it flew over the table. The bird lime landed on the bite of steak just before Mom put it in her mouth. She was horrified and dumped the mess when she dropped the forkful on the ground. Horrors. Ick! "Jim," she told Dad, get rid of those filthy birds." Mom may have ordered their deaths, but Dad shooed them into the cages and locked the birds away from sight.

Mom fussed and fretted the rest of the weekend, even after the Alexanders went home after playing cards that night. Mom fussed and fretted the rest of the night. Mom and Dad argued all night. Dad laughed about the pigeon's accurate aim. Mom fussed and fretted, furious and upset that Dad had not destroyed the filthy birds. I silently snickered as I had since the pigeon had fouled Mom's steak, but softly so no one could hear me. Carol was upset because Mom was upset and Jimmy fell to sleep still snickering under his breath. Jimmy was a child, he thought it was funny -- until he fell asleep.

Mom fussed at Dad until even I fell asleep. Mom was determined Dad get rid of "those filthy things" once and for all. Whatever dire consequences Mom threatened, the incident was forgotten as all such incidents fade into the past in time.

No doubt Mom planned to let the pigeons loose or contrive to leave the cage door unlocked and open so the filthy things would fly away and leave her food untouched in the future. She refused to ever eat in the back yard. "There will be no more cookouts," she said. Carol was silent. Jimmy whined and fussed. I went out the front door to go across the street.

Mom called me back from the front porch. "You are forbidden to go across the street," she said. I stopped dead in my tracks and she turned around and went back into the house. She knew without a doubt I would soon follow. I was very well behaved, an obedient daughter.

I cast a regretful look behind me as first Bobby and then Butchie stopped in their tracks looking while I walked slowly away, casting glances back at the Alexanders, shrugging my shoulders, and proceeding through the front gate, closing the gate, and dragging my heels as I walked up the stairs into the house. I closed the door behind me, locking eyes with Butchie and Bobby before I closed the door.

Mom pounced on me as soon as the door was closed. "You are not to go into the Alexanders' yard."

"But Mom...," I complained.

"You are forbidden to go over there."

"Mrs. Alexander cast Carol and Jimmy out of their yard. I was not banned," I said.

"You are not going to go to the Alexanders. As long as Jimmy and Carol are banned, you will be banned."

"But Mom...," I complained.

"Not another word." Mom put her foot down and I knew there was nothing I could say or do. Jimmy and Carol were banned and now so was I. End of story. There was no story I could tell, no excuse I could give, nothing I could say that would make Mom relent. If Jimmy and Carol were banned, I was banned. Mom was leveling the playing field. Whatever trouble Jimmy and Carol had gotten into, the Alexanders would have to do without me, too. Mr. and Mrs. Alexander would plead with her -- explain things from their perspective, but Mom would never relent. As long as Jimmy and Carol were banned, I would share their punishment.

Jimmy and Carol had been banned before. I would wait it out until Mom felt Jimmy and Carol were banned no longer. I had shared the banning before. Jimmy would be out, and Carol with him as long as the punishment stood.

Go to your room," Mom said.

At least I had my books. I stomped up the stairs, closed the door between the room I shared with Carol and Jimmy's room, and flopped down on the bed. I had been planning to read, "Heidi" by Johanna Spyri when Aunt Anne sent it for my birthday last week. I had read it once right after I received it, but I would enjoy reading it again. Soon Adeleide was seated on a stool eating melted cheese her grandfather had made and drinking fresh goat milk from one of Grandfather's goats after Peter, the goatherd, brought the goats back and marched off down the Alp to his grandmother's home. As Heidi drifted off to sleep in the linens stuffed with fresh hay beneath the stars visible through the hole in the roof. I could almost smell the fresh hay and heard the roaring of the pines bending here and there in the wind soughing through the pines on the Alp, book clutched to my chest, head nestled in the pillow beneath my head.

"Dinner," Mom called up the stairs. I rubbed my eyes and stumbled up from my nap. I could make it down the stairs to the bathroom, wash my hands, and go to the kitchen for dinner. It smelled good. Meatloaf. I would be glad to scoop up potatoes and carrots and place them around the meatloaf.

Dad was still dressed in his uniform as he filled the plates and passed one to Carol, Jimmy, and me. then he filled Mom's plate and passed it to her, filled his own plate, and Mom bowed her head and had Jimmy say Grace.

For now, the ban would be enforced. Good thing the weekend would soon arrive and I would pack up the weekly delivery of TV Guide. I would have to go door to door to sell the TV Guide as soon as I finished my piano lesson with the old German woman. If I was lucky and had learned my lesson, Mrs. Marquardt would not smack my hands with the ruler. I would play the piano (badly if I had not practiced enough) and would spend the morning smelling Mrs. Marquardt's apartment and the big box of rasins she always fed the pigeons that landed on her second floor apartment window sill. I would learn do my lesson and maybe she would set me something new, something as good as The Spinning Song I learned last month. I hope, I hope.

I would practice after dinner as soon as I washed the dishes. Maybe for once Carol would wash and I would dry, but more likely Carol would not do her part of the chore and I would end up washing the dishes -- again. Mom let Carol get away with it and would order me to wash the dishes. She said it was easier to get me to do the chores than to argue with Carol. I really hoped Carol would do her chores and I could practice my lesson. If I dried the dishes, I would be able to practice sooner.

Carol cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink. She turned on the hot water, squirted the soap in the sink, and picked up the dish rag. "I'll dry," she said.

"It's your turn," I said.

"I washed the dishes last night," she said.

Mom walked in. "Just do the dishes," Mom said.
 
I decided I could practice sooner if I washed the dishes. Mom said she would make up a chore list and post it on the fridge. Wouldn't matter. Even if Mom wrote down the chores, Carol would still make sure she got out of it. I would end up doing the dishes, so I might as well get to it so I could practice.  Sooner started, sooner done. I pulled on the rubber gloves, picked up the dishcloth, and started the dishes.

 "Don't forget to wipe the table and sweep the floor," Mom said.

Sooner started, sooner done. Carol would not even pick up the boom and dustpan and sweep the floor. there was not a chore she would ditch and I would end up doing it all. Right now, I'd wash and she would rag me about washing the dishes faster so she could dry the dishes and put them away.

I washed. Carol griped, hand held out for the next dish. She continued griping and holding out her dish towel covered hand. "Why don't you sweep the floor. I'll get done sooner and you can dry."

"You just want to get me to do your work," Carol said.

"The kitchen has to be cleaned one way or the other. Why don't you sweep the floor?"I asked.

"No, you sweep the floor as soon as you finish washing the dishes."

"Why can't you just sweep the floor?" I asked.

"You would do anything to get out of doing the dishes," she said.

"And you would pile the sweeping on my shoulders and get out of your share of the chores," I said. "When Mom posts the chores list tomorrow, you'll have to do your chores and I won't have to do them for you."

"Wanna bet?" she asked.

"How are you going to slip out of it if Mom writes up the list?"

"I will have studying to do."

"So do I tonight, but I'm washing the dishes."

She dropped the plate into the sink.

"I just washed that," I protested.

"It was dirty," she quipped.

"Where?" I asked, washing the dish again and rinsing it in the other sink.

Carol picked up the dripping dish, let it drip into the dishwater, and scrutinized it closely, wiping the dish slowly as if trying t catch the food so she could show me I was doing a bad job. Finally, she finished wiping the dish, stacked it on top of the clean dishes, and lifted them into the cabinet. "You finally got it clean," she said.

I wash another couple of dishes, rinsed them, and stacked them in the drainer. "You're getting behind," I said.

"Forgot the silverware," she said.

"Go get the broom and sweep the floor," I said.

"Get the rest of the dishes from the table and do the silverware. And don't forget the pots and pans," she ordered.

"As soon as you sweep the floor," I said.

"Fat chance," she said. "Mom will make you do it."

"I'm washing the dishes."

"Mom will make you sweep the floor, too."

"I'm washing the dishes."

"I have homework.  Just watch."

When Mom came into the kitchen, Carol whined about having homework to do. Mom let her go as soon as she dried the silverware. She ordered me to sweep the floor and take out the trash. It would not do to complain. Carol got her way and I will sweep the floor and take out the trash. Maybe I would get time to practice tomorrow . Mom tacked the chore list on the fridge. Days of the week were marked across the top and my name was listed in tomorrow's chore. Carol's name did not appear anywhere. You will wash this week and Carol will wash next week."

"I did the dishes tonight. why do  I have to do them the rest of the week?" I asked.

"You will take turns. You do this week and Carol will do next week. You will switch weeks."

"Like we switched every other day?"

"It is easier to manage weeks. Days can get lost. You will switch weeks and since you started this week, Carol will take next week."

"Until she whines and fusses and you decide it is easier to make me do it," I said.

"You're whining and fussing and I haven't asked Carol to take over," Mom said.

"Because Carol's whining and fussing is louder than mine." I said.

Mom and I went back and forth arguing until she put an end to the argument. She slapped me in the face.

No matter whether or not the argument was over tonight, we would argue again. It was inevitable. Carol would win and I would lose. I might as well resign myself to doing the dishes. Carol will not do her share and Mom will back her up. Might as well get it over with. I finished the dishes, wiped off the table, picked up the broom and swept the floor. I wiped out the sink, dried the dishes. wiped the table, and wrapped the trash before I took it out and set it outside the gate for the trash men to pick it up tomorrow. When I got home from school, I would bring in the trashcan and start dinner. Tomorrow is another day and Carol is still my conniving sister. C'est la vie.

That is all. Disperse.