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.

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.

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.

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.

Getting It Right

FREE Clip Art 

For the first time since I began, I finally got into the Live Chat given by my professor, Dr. Debra Shingledecker. The point is that I was using the expected time as the real time and not the actual time, which is an hour ahead of me now that I am in EST (eastern standard time). I was all right when I lived in Colorado. That was Mountain Standard Time and 2 hours ahead of here in Ohio. I should have stayed in Colorado then I would already be set and be on time since I have been dealing with EST and living in MST (2 hours ahead of the east) for nearly a decade.

I did not have trouble with the time change and already figured the time was earlier or later due to the time zone, except that I do not have the time zones set now that I am here in Ohio. I will have to fix that.

At any rate, I do not have to do the extra credit of writing a summary on today's live chat since I lived through it. Dr. Deb already gave me the credit for attending the Live Chat today and I will have to deal with that instead of writing another summary.

Dr. Deb replied to an email I sent her and she praised my scores already (100%) and mentioned that I am doing fine and that my plans for resuscitating my drawing skills are good and ahead of schedule. I may not be able to stand it -- kudos and a pat on the head without the inevitable stab in the back I came to expect from Mom -- and now my siblings. It is all part of the paradigm of being caught up in Mom's dysfunctional and often abusive parenting style. Carol has picked that up from Mom and now she will have to unlearn Mom's style after she reads my new book, "Tattletale".

What do I know best -- how to journal and write about myself and my family -- and my life. Everything is game because I am a writer, but also because Mom taught me that telling the truth is preferable to the lies and games she played her whole life. She was abusive and lied frequently, but calling someone a liar was not always the truth when it came from her. She was setting me up so that no one would believe me and she could continue to abuse me psychologically, and sometimes physically, without compunction.

There are a couple of truths I learned from my parents. Mom was a liar and she loved to play games with other people's heads (mostly mine, but often all of her children) and Dad was a gossip. Dad loved to gossip more than a woman gossiping over the back fence, but Dad preferred to gossip about his children, me and the other three biologically born children. Dad gossiped most often when throwing one of us under the bus to get himself out of whatever hot water Mom had boiling on the stove ready to push him into the pot. Throwing someone else, especially one of his children, was preferable to being flayed alive or boiled in the pot.

The things one has to do to make a marriage work. I never learned to work the system which is why I have been twice divorced and have taken MEN off the menu. I like men, and I liked boys, but not at the cost of throwing them under the bus or playing with their heads.

Dad threw us under the bus or told on us, but Mom patted us (mostly me) on the head before shoving a knife into our backs -- or slapping us in the face. First the praise and then the slap in the face. That was Mom and no doubts about it.

I do not think Mom fooled anyone about her favorite child (my brother) and her favorite target (me). the neighbors all knew what to expect with Mom because they saw her in action every single day. She did not even fool her brothers and sisters in the church. Often they would come up to me to let me know what they thought of her and what they thought of me -- "You didn't deserve that." Some of their comments were not lost on me and I knew they came from a heartfelt place where they were letting me know they would have treated me better than Mom. I thanked them and nodded and went on about my business. I knew better than to be seen by Mom consorting with the enemy (from her perspective) and that telling Mom would have ended in tears and regret (mine). I was smart enough not to get caught in the trap and wise enough not to let Mom know what people thought of her -- not that Mom would have believed me anyway.

I am sure somewhere within Mom she knew that she was not coming off as innocent and nice as she believed herself to be. Carol believes that no one sees her as I see her -- and have written her in the story of my life. Carol believes that everyone sees her as nice and law-abiding, even generous at times, but Carol, like Mom, believes her own press.

Many of the people we have known over the decades of our lives have characterized my sister as a brat -- and she is. I do not add spoiled to the brat, but I do not need to do so since Carol knows she is spoiled and has had more perks than most people. Carol also knows that she is not the first in Mom's affections because she is not Jimmy, our younger brother and the apple of Mom's eye. Even Beanie, the youngest, knows that in the hierarchy of affection, she comes last because Jimmy her elder brother is still the boy and Beanie is just a girl and not the BOY in Mom's affections.

This is the order of favoritism in our house. I, the oldest, am last; Carol, the first born daughter, is second in Mom's affections, but still far above me, the adopted daughter; Jimmy is first and foremost because he was born with a penis; and Beanie is last because she was born last and was disappointing to Mom because she was not born with a penis. Even so, had she been born a boy, Jimmy would still be first in Mom's affections -- and in her eyes.

It does not matter that Beanie, like me, can do anything a boy can do (sometimes better than a boy), but she still suffers from the handicap of being born a daughter when everyone knows that boys (men) come first in the world. Like me, Beanie should join the #MeToo movement because we have been abused and set aside because she is short and small while I am tall and well built -- both born without penises. We may be fond of the penis, being heterosexual, and our only accomplishment has been in producing sons.

Although Beanie and I had sons, our sons do not carry our father's name of Cornwell. They carry the names of the men we married who planted the seeds of their sons inside of us. In Mom's eyes, we can be forgiven -- to a point -- because we bore sons, but only to a point.

Mom sided with Beanie's first husband, abuser that he was, and told Beanie that she would stand against her when the issue came to court even though her son-in-law was an abuser of the first order and abused Beanie because Beanie chose to ally herself with other men who were not her husband. Beanie preferred the company of men, most of them pleasanter in her eyes than her husband, but sinful since they were not her husband. Beanie had affairs and neither her husband nor Mom knew about these affairs. Only I knew about them because Beanie trusted me. That was back in the days when Beanie told me everything and I kept that knowledge to my journals and then in my public journals online where Laura, our cousin, could dig it up, read it, and send Carol to do the dirty work of telling Mom about her daughter's sins. The real point was Laura getting Carol to tell Mom who would tell Beanie who would then jump on me.

Laura had her own agenda -- fixing her aunt's wagon by putting all of her daughters in the soup and getting some of her father's own back from his older sister, the one who had caused him so much grief and suffering his whole life because Mom pitted their mother, our grandmother, Lottie, against him. It was the one instance when Mom preferred to be the apple of her mother's eye and align herself against her own children, Jimmy excluded because he was the apple of her eye. Mom supplanted her older brother, Jack, the man for whom I was named and who died of leukemia five years before I was born, and her younger brother, Bob, the selfsame man for whom Laura set her sights on her aunt's sinful daughters -- me, Carol, and Beanie.

That is the problem with dysfunctional families -- not only does the family get it in the neck, but first cousins set their sights on making every cousin pay. Jimmy got out of the trap because he did not get involved. Jimmy was sacrosanct. He was the boy. He was perfect in her aunt's eyes and untouchable -- at least where Laura was concerned. Laura was canny enough to leave Jimmy out of her plans and schemes because she could not get purchase where he was concerned. It was easier to get her aunt's three daughters in the soup since we were all suffering because we did not have penises.

Maybe I am being too harsh in my characterization of Laura -- or maybe not. I have far more experience writing about my own family, my own siblings and Mom and Dad than I do when I add in the cousins. It is not that I do not see the cousins clearly or recognize the dysfunction when I see it, but I just have more experience writing about my immediate family and have only mentioned my Uncle Bob in glowing and almost reverent terms.

It is not that I do not see my cousins as shining examples of honor and truth but that I see my siblings so much clearer and have far more decades of experience writing about them. I may get into the cousin side of things later.

Or not.

I see the same dysfunctions in my cousins, but not as clearly as I see my own familial ring of dysfunction and issues. When it comes down to it, I guess I am what Carol called me decades ago -- a tattletale. Though I have chosen to follow my Mom's example by proving my case and verifying the truth of my allegations, I am what Carol decided about me when she first wet the bed and I got blamed for it, a tattletale. I prefer to think of myself as a historian or biographer, but you call it what you will. I put things in a new light and I get to shine the light.

That is all. Disperse.

Do Not ABOLISH the Electoral College

When I was a child, I thought as a child, but then I grew up and began to think with discernment -- and realize how wrong I was. I did not have the knowledge that I now possess. I acted as a child who is deprived of her candy and was fit to be tied. I did not know whereof I spoke. 

That was the case when it came to the Electoral College. I was incensed when Clinton became POTUS. I thought he was a fraud and a rapist, but he was elected and the Electoral College confirmed his election. I was devastated. How could this rapist become our next US POTUS? Did people not see they had elected a rapist and a fraud? 

Evidently not. I had to go down to the board of elections in downtown Columbus, Ohio, stand in line with the Welfare recipients, and listen to their drivel. They did not have a clue. I was married at that time and my new husband worked at the polling station, but we had just moved and did not get our status changed and so we had to go downtown to the Board of Elections and vote with everyone else who had not changed their status. If I only knew then what I know now. 

Clinton was elected and the Electoral College ratified his election. A bigger FUBAR I could not imagine and I was ready to vote the Electoral College out of existence. Principles of Democracy (POD) was taken out of our high school and POD no longer existed in our high school curriculum. I did not know what I was missing. I was glad I would not have to suffer through POD my senior year and was grateful. I should not have been grateful. I should have been upset and angry. 

But I was neither upset nor angry. 

I missed a core concept of my education and would regret it in later years -- later years like now -- and the first time I missed it was when I protested against Clinton's election as POTUS. A bigger criminal did not exist and I only knew about the death let loose in Canada because of Slick Willy and his wife's greed. All of that was because Slick Willey had changed the laws governing prison inmates that allowed their blood to be sold to Canada. Their blood was not checked and their diseases (HIV, AIDs, hepatitis, etc.) were passed on to the good people of Canada who trusted the United States POTUS. Canadians could not have trusted an oilier and more reprehensible snake -- the same snake that we, the people, had elected as our President. 

It did not matter (to me at least) that Clinton was a snake or that he had possibly raped a British citizen when he was studying over there. He was a smart and articulate Rhodes scholar. He was touted as the first black president of the US. Acting like you are black is not the same thing as being black. 

I can tell you that though I look white, I am not white. I am black and a Native American. I just look white. The black comes from an escaped slave who was adopted into the Cherokee tribe. My Native American genes come from my great grandmother, who was a bona fide Cherokee and was listed on the Cherokee rolls. Luckily, she never had to walk the Trail of Tears. She was already married to an Englishman, the same Englishman who was related to General George Cornwallis -- of the battle of York fame -- or infamy -- depending on which side your family hailed from. We Cornwells, (that includes me) were of the wrong side of the Cornwallis family, a son, not in the family line (inheritance wise), and had been shipped off to the colonies to make his way in the world and bring back a fortune. Instead, the son married a Cherokee woman, as many Englishmen and foreigners of the time did, and thus her DNA came down to me, an adopted Cornwell who was also born a Cornwell because my biological mother, Anne Cornwell, was from the same line of descent. 

Though my bio Mom had strawberry blonde hair, she was of the same line of descent as her brother (my Dad, who was also a blond) and also contained black and Cherokee DNA. Aunt Anne would never get her DNA tested and still will not, so she will never know what she could claim as her genetic heritage. She knows her grandmother is Cherokee and that is fine with her, though she would not claim it is of any importance since I told her two years ago that she was not her father's (Cary Cornwell) biological daughter. She was born of a liaison between her mother and some other man's getting and thus illegitimate, except that Cary Cornwell, the only father she knew, had no hand -- or other appendage -- in her birth. Grandpa Cornwell claimed her and that made her legitimate -- at least as far as law is concerned. The rest is a fantasy of blood (DNA) and whatever happened between Grandpa and Grandma Cornwell that resulted in Grandma Cornwell going to Columbus to live with her family before Anne was born. Another secret that I, her biological daughter, told her because the only way to get AB-negative blood from a family with A-positive blood is to have a parent (her father) with AB-negative blood. That is how I found out the truth that had been hidden her whole life. She was not adopted as my Uncle Don claimed; she was illegitimate as far as blood can tell now, which is the other reason Aunt Anne will never get her DNA tested. 

In the end, it does not matter to me or to my Aunt Anne what her DNA says because if we want it, we ill have to wait until she is dead to get a sample to tell. It does not matter. She can keep her secret and believe that she was adopted instead of born of an affair her mother that resulted in Aunt Anne's birth. No one will ever know, unless they are me or whoever reads what I write and believes that. 

Aunt Anne is proud of her rare blood type. She has donated her blood for decades and probably saved a lot of AB-negative lives, so maybe they, too, will believe me -- if they read what I write.  

In DNA roulette, I did not get my bio-mom's blood type (AB-negative), but it seems my eldest son, David Scott, did get her blood type. I did not know that fact until he called me and told me I was wrong about getting your blood type from your parents. Any other blood type, like AB-negative, can only be passed from the parent to the child. Since I had no other lover, he got his blood type via DNA roulette -- from my bio Mom and not from an illicit affair when Dave and I were married. Sorry, David Scott, you are not proof of my illicit affair, but the random chance of DNA roulette. You got your blood type via my bio Mom's blood and not from my putting horns on your father's head. Oh, well. 

At any rate, I was writing about the Electoral College and not about rare blood types. I was surprised when I realized what had happened and how Aunt Anne ended up with a rare blood type instead of the blood type A-positive as all of the rest of the Cornwells have. 

Back to the Electoral College and the school board taking out POD (Principles of Democracy) from my high school curriculum. 

I was young and I believed in the fairness of the Constitution -- until Slick Willy (Bill Clinton) was elected. I wanted to abolish the Electoral College, vote it out of the Constitution -- until now. I was young and idealistic, but I have since learned that the Electoral College was put into place by the forefathers so that a President of the United States (POTUS) is not elected solely by popular vote. The Electoral College is necessary so that our elections do not resemble a mob vote, which is what happened when Donald Trump was elected POTUS and ratified by the Electoral College. 

Hillary Clinton (married to Slick Willy) would have abolished the Electoral College when Trump was elected so that she would be the POTUS and not Trump. Many of the US people would agree with her -- as I once would have agreed in my youth because I did not study POD and realize the purpose of the Electoral College. The United States was formed so that neither blood (royal family bloodlines) nor popular vote would rule. The Electoral College prohibits a popular vote by itself. Donald Trump did not get the popular vote, but the Electoral College ratified his election as President of the United States, though a whole lot of Democrats would have abolished the Electoral College and removed Trump from office all due to Trump Derangement Syndrome. 

Seriously? You would abolish the protection the forefathers put into place because you do not like who got elected? You were singing a very different tune when Obama was elected and the Electoral College ratified the vote, leaving him in as POTUS despite the many birthers who believe Obama to have been born in Kenya. No, Obama was not born in Hawaii and his long form birth certification IS a forgery, but he was not born in Kenya. He is a US citizen and he was born in the United States, just not in Hawaii as was claimed. That is how he is listed, but he was not born in Hawaii. Hawaii was the only state in the Union where his birth could be announced in the paper and the birth certificate follow. 

No, Barack Obama, Jr., was not born in Hawaii and his biological father is not Barack Obama, Sr. Stanley Ann Dunham chose him as Barry's father because she admired him. She was already pregnant when she met Barack, Sr. and they got married. According to the time line and Ann Dunham move to Washington state to have her baby the year before Barry counts his birth date, Barry was born of a liaison between Malcolm X and Ann Dunham. That would prove that Barry was born on US soil, a native son, but Malcolm X was already married and, despite being a Muslim, he had only the one wife and could not legally marry Ann Dunham or claim Barry as his son, Ann Dunham chose Barack Obama, Sr. to be her unborn child's father. 

Barack, Sr. was a Muslim (at the time) and he was black, so Barack, Sr. was the right choice. Ann Dunham could not have married Malcolm X nor could she marry her parents' black neighbor, but she did the next best thing -- she married a Muslim of Kenyan origin studying in the US who was also a man she admired. No doubt Barack, Sr. knew the truth and it is certain Barry knows the truth but cannot claim it in public or his career would be over. Barry would also be discredited if it were known that Barry was Malcolm X's son (something else that would create a following, but would not play well -- the illegitimate son of Malcolm X). 

I will already be branded a liar or a fantasist, and my siblings would agree, but these facts fit the truth and I prefer the truth. I do not have a lot of money to get a DNA test, but these facts would play almost as good as the birther conspiracy that Barry has turned to his own benefit politically and financially. I doubt that the truth about who are Sasha and Malia's biological parents would play as well politically, but who knows? The conspiracy theory that Michelle Obama is a man keeps the hype building when the truth is that Michelle was born a woman and is not a man, though that would probably suit Barry better since he is a homosexual. Until last election, an openly gay man could not be elected -- that is until Colorado elected its first openly homosexual Republican governor. Barry was not at the crest of that political wave and would not have been elected until recently. Then again, being a Democrat would also have put the lid on that nonstarter. 

Slick Willy claimed to be the first black POTUS, but that turned out to be Barry Soetoro AKA Barack Obama, Jr., though Barry was not black, but biracial -- half black-half white.  Slick Willey had a biracial son, but Hillary put a lid on that illicit affair. Good thing the illegitimate son did not go into politics. Who knows? One thing we do know is that neither Slick Willey nor Hillary Clinton ever got the DNA test and did not prove Danny Williams, Slick Willy's illegitimate biracial son, to be a hoax. That dog won't hunt. 

The Electoral College still exists to keep the United States from the popular vote for the POTUS, even if the Electoral College ratified Donald Trump's presidency. No, I did not vote for Trump. I voted for someone else -- and it was not Hillary either. I still think Trump is a clown, but at least he has made good on more of his campaign promises than anyone in past history, including the Clintons. He is a narcissist, but then so is Obama. He has had many wives, but he has married all of the women and did not sneak an illegitimate child past us -- or fake a DNA test to prove the illegitimate child is not his. Trump claims all of his children. 

I grew up. I am not the idealist I was when I was a teenager. I am, however, someone who still believes in the political system and will run for office once I finish college and will run for the House of Representatives. If I get elected, I will have run as an advocate for seniors and an advocate for the truth and for the little people -- the ones who have been marginalized, ignored, and/or let fall through the cracks. There is one thing I have changed my mind about -- and that is politics. I believe that I can speak for the people and do good for we, the people, of the United States. Who knows? Maybe I will be POTUS and will pray to be ratified by the Electoral College. Or then again, I might end up as I once hoped I would be a Supreme Court Justice serving for life. I wonder which POTUS will choose me for the SCOTUS. Democrat or Republican since I am a bona fide Independent. 

That is all. Disperse. 

Leveling the Playing Field

Since I am enrolled in college, I am learning that there are different learning styles: auditory, visual, kinesthetic, and tactile. I started out being a visual learner, but I studied while in school while listening to music. Cannot do that now since I get focused on the lyrics and the music and forget what I'm supposed to be studying. I have since moved on. I have changed styles, preferring to do whatever I am studying, like practicing Morse code on a mocked-up Morse code keyer. I couldn't learn Morse code just by studying what was in the text. I really needed to tap out the codes in order to learn the code well enough to pass the test and get my radio operator's license. I am still a radio operator; that is good until 2025.

You see, I had to learn Morse code since I was planning a book on the United States being forced back into the Stone Age because an enemy, probably the Russians, the Chinese, or the North Koreans, had set off an EMP pulse and knocked out all of our technology. I believed we could win a war against a technologically advanced enemy by going low tech. I believed that we, the United States, could defeat a technologically superior aggressor by using low tech weapons. Our army and air force were built of ultralights and used Morse code, which is why I had to learn Morse code in order to write about it accurately, hence I decided to earn my radio operator's license and learned Morse code.

I have always been a researcher, but to me, research was not going to cut it for me with this book -- a book I never completed since I went back to my time homeless in New Orleans and jailed for being a notorious madam, which I was not. The New Orleans police department realized they did not have enough evidence to charge me and kicked me out during an ice storm. I ended up back in the Quarter, hooked up with my friends, and went back to work as a hot dog salesman for Lucky Dogs. I called the book Among Women. I finished that book and planned to write the sequel, but got lost along the way -- very much like I did with the technologically inferior ultralight air force and the Morse code using soldiers who fought the technologically superior aggressors.

If you did not notice, you would have figured it out soon enough since I believe in the underdog and in writing a book about the underdog defeating a superior force. Still sounds like a good book to me and maybe I will get back to it and build my army and air force using low tech weapons. I still might. Anything is possible.

The thing is that I have quite a few talents that I do very well. I just cannot settle down for very long with only one or two creative endeavors. I always need to have several projects going at once. Maybe that is the real problem, using only one talent at a time, finishing what I started, and then moving on.

Or not.

I like having several pots and pans on the stove at the same time. It always turns out better when I am cooking. I have less success when I have more than one creative project going at the same time. I lose interest or lose focus and find myself drifting over to another task, another project, something else. I am usually not so unfocused, but it seems I am these days. Maybe I need to go to a psychologist or get some testing or just get down to business. I have been told that several readers would like to know what happened to Pearl (that is me) after she got out of jail. Where did she go? Where did she end up? Did she ever manage to get a job and work toward a lucrative job?

I will never tell since I might finish the book I started with Among Men and publish it, sending it out into the world and winning myself a publishing contract.

Or not.

I am much like the woman who is dying for water in the desert, falls into a pool of water, and drinks myself until I am sated at last.

Or not.

I was showing Mel, one of the residents here in Messiah, that I once had talent as an artist. I was surprised by everything I showed him and that really did not even scratch the surface of what I have done and what I am still capable of now that I have realized that while my talents are dulled with lack of use, I can still draw credibly well.

I think that is the real problem -- knowing I can do something with practice and getting back into the practice and honing my skills. When I first began drawing as a child, I practiced on whatever caught my eye and got good at the drawing. I remember before the end of school when I was in the fourth grade, we were all told that we would spend the last day of school drawing. I did not want to be shown up and so I went through all my piano practice books and copied everything I could find. I finally settled on Minnie and Mickey Mouse and decided that is what I would draw the last day of school. my

I graduated and went into the fifth grade where I got interested in Ronny Meadows, one of the boys in our class who sang like Elvis Presley. He had presence and he had a good voice. I do not think I remember much more than that until I was punished for scratching my name on the girls' bathroom stall wall. I was punished for defacing school property. I had been punished for scratching my name on the footboard of one of the bunk beds. Mom punished me for that. I was angry and decided that the only way to mark MY stuff was to scratch my name on it since Mom gave my younger sister all the duplicate gifts whether or not I wanted to give them to her. I did not want to reward Carol on my birthday with my gifts. Carol got to keep all of her duplicate gifts and I was going to make sure she did not get my gifts simply because Mom decided it was fair for me to give her my duplicate gifts. I did not get any of Carol's duplicate gifts, which is why I was scratching my name into the footboard of my bunk bed. Carol was not going to get my bed, too. That is why I got punished. I was not supposed to scratch my name into the footboard even if it was mine. Mom was not going to give Carol my bed even if I claimed my bed with my name scratched into it. I had my bed and Carol had hers. There was no issue of equality with beds, just with birthday presents that were duplicates of someone else's gift.

Oh, well. We got through that and Carol did not have to give up my duplicate gifts. End of story. I think that was the beginning of the enmity that flared up between my sister and I and was never resolved. Mom's idea of fairness was not equal between us because Mom decided what was and was not equal. For instance, Mom paid Carol and Jimmy for their grades. She did not pay me for mine because, as she said to me, Mom and Dad would go broke paying me for my superior grades. Carol and Jimmy got Cs and Ds and I always got As and Bs. The only way to make things fair when it came to grades was to pay Jimmy and Carol for their grades and stiff me for mine. I was supposed to understand because I was the smarter one. Mom's kind of equality was never equal for me. I always got stiffed while Carol and Jimmy got paid.

Fair is fair when someone else is doing the choosing. I was never chosen, although it could be said that Mom was leveling the playing field by calling me out. It was the same for homework. Carol and Jimmy had trouble with their homework. Mom decided I would do Jimmy's homework since I was done with my homework already. I refused. I would help Jimmy do his homework, but I refused to do his homework for him. He would not learn if I did it for him. It would be easier for me to do it, but I was not going to let him off so easily and I was not going to cheat and do it for him.

Fairness is as Mom decided what fairness was. Basically, the playing field was level when I did Carol and Jimmy's homework, but no one did my homework for me. Mom and Dad did not understand what I was doing and so I was left to do it on my own.

Water over the dam or under the bridge. It is all in the past, but the memory lingers on.

I cannot point to Carol or Jimmy now because they have their own lives and I have mine. I have my own college classes to get through and I would never ask either of them to do my homework for me. I will do it myself. Mom and Dad are dead and I have come late to the college lessons, but I will do my own work. I will not rely on anyone by myself, which is good since only by doing my own work can I learn, evolve, and progress. So back to work I will go and I will finish my lessons on my own.

I do not need anyone to level the playing field. I will get through the lessons by myself and earn my own grades as I have always done. When I get an A at the end of the semester, I will have earned it and I will not have to worry about which of us will get paid. In the end, I will get paid because I have studied and done my own homework. I will come out of college with a degree and I will have earned every grade I receive. I will also have earned a Bachelor's Degree in Criminal Justice with Human Services. Basically, I will be an attorney, an advocate for the people, the very same people who will be part of the army and air force fighting the technologically advanced aggressor that set off an EM pulse (electromagnetic pulse) that takes out our technology. Maybe this time I can actually pull it all together and write the science fiction book that will earn me a publishing contract to go with the book and will culminate in earning my college degree.

I may have been adopted, but I am not, nor have I ever been, only an underdog. I will level my own playing field and I will be a success.

That is all. Disperse.