Hit and crawl

I'd run but I don't have the energy.

An email to a colleague with the usual news and views resulted in a message from a literary agency anxious to put my work up for auction, specifically a book about a tangled web of deceit, intrigue, death and money. I hadn't expected it, but it definitely will make a difference in my life. I've worked with these people for five years without once considering the other side of their business (actually oblivious to it), but I dare not say too much lest I jinx the deal. When the rest of the news is out, I'll share it. Until then...

One more thing. A Cup of Comfort for Cat Lovers came out July 1st with my story Phantom of the Closet. I also received the galleys for the next Chicken Soup book (Empty Nesters) and have to sign off on the galleys and fax them this morning. Then there's work and trying to find a breath of fresh air somewhere in this 90-degree heat since the elements won't oblige me and drop the rain on this side of town, preferring rather to flood the east side of town.

Okay, I'm done crowing and whining for now. Have a wonderful day and I hope you find a shady and cool spot somewhere.

That is all. Disperse.

Exhibition for voyeurs

I'm behind. Too much work and not enough time, but I did catch up a bit yesterday. After all, that is what weekends are for. This morning, however, I stumbled across this and picked up on some forums where people are ranting and raving about their privacy and concerns about Big Brother. Where were these people when so many other privacies were invaded?

I do see their point, but they fail to see the benefit in such a system. Sit down and close your mouths. I haven't lost my mind or gone over to the dark side and there is no pod in my basement. I don't have a basement. Copyrights have been on my mind a lot over the past two weeks while I have delved into a very tangled and ugly situation and it suddenly hit me as I was reading the article that these printer dots, purportedly used by the federal government to track counterfeiters, offer a benefit for writers in proving when their work was published, but only if it was printed out on a laser printer. The only problem with this particular method is the same problem the Feds are going to have when they track a counterfeiter, that of determining who owned the printer during the time of the counterfeiter.

Electronics increasingly have the shelf life of a May fly, either being traded or sold because something newer and better with more bells and whistles came out or broke down and needed to be replaced so that some enterprising and handy mechanical genius could find it or buy it and fix it, thus rendering the search for said counterfeiter a tortuous trail laid by a madman and putting all later owners in the position of a visit from the Feds to confiscate their their lives until the truth is known. But isn't that the way things usually happen?

This information has always been available. We have all been harboring tattletales in our midst without knowing it and once again the federal government has invaded our privacy without our knowledge. Do you really think it is the first time or that it will ever stop as long as government seeks to control every aspect of our lives? Not as long as there are electronic strips in paper money, phone companies that keep track of all calls coming and going from every phone in the country, credit cards, driver's licenses and identification cards with magnetic strips that keep track of every use and so on and so on. The technology is already in place to monitor every household through cable TV, telephone and electronic equipment that uses such technology to connect to the virtual highway. We think we are safe behind our firewalls and passwords, but safety is an illusion. Security is an illusion and none of us are safe as long as we think the government is prying into our affairs and keeping track of our every move.

We have become a nation of peeping Toms: Nanny cams, baby monitors, YouTube, celebrity gossip, blogs, etc. Why do we think the government, made up of people like that, would be any less susceptible. We put it out there and then gasp in astonished horror when we find out people are watching when really we are exhibitionists begging for voyeurs. That doesn't mean I am not an exhibitionist, too; I have several blogs and put some of the details of my life and a lot of my thoughts out there, too, but I'm not surprised when people take me up on my tacit offer to peer into my life and think they know me from the crumbs I scatter. I do, however, keep the shades full and completely down on some aspects of my life.

How fascinating it must be to be able to peer through the windows into someone's life and decide from those watchful moments that you really know someone or what they are like. Personally, I think it's delusional to think you can really know anyone you don't spend a considerable amount of time actually getting to know by conversation, debate and sharing those intimate details that don't make it to the virtual world. There is a world of difference between what we see and what we actually get and so few people pony up with the truth or honest details of anything, always protecting some private corner of their lives and sharing it with a few intimates. Few people have the guts to put their real selves on the line unless they cover or edit out warts and all. Don't mistake their heart felt declarations that they, too, have a dark side or that they suffer from depression or angst or brood over lost loves and roads not taken; we all have been there. That's not news. It's the difference between someone looking at a closet full of clothes and saying they have nothing to wear and someone who has no closet and a paper lunch sack containing their earthly possessions.

Am I worried about dots on the pages of my laser printed manuscript pages or that Big Brother is watching? No. I never doubted he was there and would use all the tools at his disposal to keep track of me -- when he got around to it. After all, what's an exhibitionist without voyeurs?

That is all. Disperse.

Your choice

During a discussion about bringing out the truth, one person said, "Least said is easiest mended," and it put me in mind of how that philosophy guides so many people and the damage it has done. Thoughts of Auschwitz and Treblinka, Japanese relocation camps in America, Hezbollah, Al Qaeda and so many other things came to mind. How could any of those have existed if people had spoken up in the beginning? And it applies to relationships as well.

How many times has a girlfriend or boyfriend or spouse or companion held their tongue and believed that if they didn't say anything, or said little, that everything would turn out right? How many times did nothing change and get much worse? How many people have suffered in silence because they believed that saying little or nothing would be easier to mend until there was nothing left to mend? Where would we all be if men like Ben Franklin, Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson and so many other men less famous said little thinking that good King George would see things their way and that Pharaoh would let the Israelites go?

Freedom is a right and a privilege in this country and one we take for granted, expecting someone else will speak on our behalf so we can stand by silent or speaking little and believing that our words don't matter and would take less effort to mend whatever goes wrong? Freedom is like a muscle that atrophies if not used and exercised on a regular basis until before long it is gone.

How many of us would be willing to stand and speak Patrick Henry's words loudly and proclaim, "Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!" Can we afford to stand by silent and watch, saying little in hopes that what little we say is easily mended and just as easily cast aside and forgotten?

Earlier in his speech, Patrick Henry also said, "Mr. President, it is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who, having eyes, see not, and, having ears, hear not, the things which so nearly concern their temporal salvation? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst, and to provide for it.

I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past."

Oh, if such words had fired the hearts and minds of the people who stood quietly by, saying little, who watched as men, women and children were herded like cattle into railroad cars and transported to the gas chambers and to the living death of the concentration camps and to the isolated and lonely camps surrounded by barbed wire while Americans were relocated. The reasons do not matter because freedoms can be subverted and ignored if people speak the right words that end in the interment of those who are different or unwilling to speak up. There are plenty of people not shy about saying what's on their mind, especially when what's on their mind is the destruction of liberty and the eradication of freedom.

I am not ashamed to say I believe in the Constitution and the Bill of Rights and I exercise my freedoms vigorously and often. It doesn't make me popular but it does make me less willing to say little in hopes that whatever I say can be mended. I don't want my views to be mended and if I step on a few toes, so be it. The owners of those toes have just as much right to speak out and have their say as I do, resulting in discussions and debates that may well change things -- and may change them for the better.

To anyone who believes that staying silent and saying little ever did any good, I say, "Look around you, take stock and tell me if what you see is what you really want," and then decide if you want to remain silent and let the vast and very vocal minority map the course of your life and choose your path for you or if you'd rather have a say in how things are run and what happens. It's not easy to speak up and speak out, and change does not always come quickly, but when you speak up and speak out it is guaranteed that your words and your voice will reach others who feel the same way and maybe, just maybe get them to speak up and speak out and join their voices to yours until things change. Let's face it. The silent majority is just that -- silent.

It's the old parable: Breaking a stick is child's play, but breaking a bundle of sticks is not. It's your choice.

Fetal floating

It feels like late spring even though we're halfway through summer. Last night the breeze through the bedroom window and along my body was actually cold, a bite of arctic air that felt wonderful on my wet skin. I usually take a cold shower before bed and let what errant breezes find their way through my bedroom window dry me. I feel a little cooler for a few minutes before tossing and turning in sweat-sticky sheets that smother me even when they're only touching a small patch of skin. I am not made for the heat and it took me a while to remember why I enjoyed summer so much as a child. It was the pool. Unfortunately, I can't swim and float in the shower, but I wish I could find a way to turn my bed into a pool and sleep in the water all night long, afloat like a fetus in an amniotic pool that cushions and cradles and lulls me to sleep on islands of clouds. Then again, my sweat glands hadn't matured yet and I spent most of my time either in the pool or letting the winds lick the moisture from my body, leaving cool skin behind. So much we lose when we mature, not the least of which is memory.

That is all. Disperse.

Travesty of justice

After reading Scott Edelman's post about Andre Norton a couple of days ago, I have been in outraged shock. If you want the story, check out The Tennessean and their article about the current status.

What it boils down to is money and Dr. Horadam is not satisfied with his share of the pie, but what is truly dangerous with far reaching repercussions is the claim that his "greater appreciation" of Andre Norton's work gives him a greater claim to control of the copyrights of more than 300 works created during Andre's life.

To break it down to the nitty gritty, that means that should this judgment stand lawyers and fans with "greater appreciation" of an author's works could be entitled to wrest control of an author's life's work from the heirs. As far as I am concerned, I would rather have control of my work than a fan with greater appreciation. It's not about appreciation because if that was the case there would be a Donnybrook over which fan has greater appreciation. How do you measure appreciation? Do you measure appreciation by the quantity of letters exchanged over a period of time (there are more letters documented by many of Andre's co-authors and friends and fans than Dr. Horadam's) or how many visits to an author's home or how long one stayed in an author's home or some other means? Or do you take the letter and spirit of the author's wishes and last will and testament as sufficient proof of who they wanted to hand their life's work?

Sue Stewart, named in the article as Andre's caregiver, was more than a caregiver. Sue was a friend who rescued Andre from the abusive control of a woman who was disappointed that Andre would not give her the fame and literary boost she craved. Sue made Andre's last years and days the most pleasant in many decades. Sue also gave Andre back control of her life and for that Sue should be commended and not vilified and forced to give up what Andre bequeathed her for the base and fortune-hunting concerns of the likes of Dr. Horadam.

Think about it, authors. How long will you stand by and believe that your last will and testament is the last word when precedents like the one enacted in this case in defiance of the facts and the law are allowed to stand?

Crowding the spotlight

Every day I get an email from Google Alerts about something I've written and posted or something I've written that someone else has borrowed without permission, like this morning. I was notified that a web site was using one of my recent posts to advertise their site and services. I contacted the site and told them they were using copyrighted material and to either remove my work or contact me to discuss payment. I don't mind my work being reprinted elsewhere but I also expect to be paid and that they ask for my permission first.

Being a writer is a double-edged sword. As a writer's work is more available and more people read it, there is the tendency to feel like the spotlight is on you. In that way, it's like a having guilty conscience: everything is aimed at you. All those looks, people thinking you've done something wrong, people knowing what's on your mind and in your heart, and it can be exhausting. The writer is center stage in the spotlight and a lot of people want to crowd in there, too. It's especially true about some of the things I write because, as much as they like to think they're unique, people are very similar. That is why writing about situations and relationships has such a far reaching effect; people are basically the same. The problem is that sometimes people see themselves in what I write and they just aren't there. It's hard to convince some people that what I write is generic and often a combination of several people and situations, but that's the trouble with the spotlight. Some people love to be in the center and want everyone to look at them, often because they feel they've been the butt of a joke or the subject of a particularly bad situation.

A few years ago I wrote about meeting someone when I was out running errands and described the person as Uriah Heep. If you haven't read David Copperfield by Charles Dickens you would miss the analogy. Uriah Heep was a slimy worm of a person, always working his way into a position of power while he wrung his hands and talked about how he wasn't worthy to be noticed because he was a humble person and beneath notice. Someone I knew emailed and asked if the post was about them even though they didn't live nearby and I couldn't have met them while running errands. You have to wonder about someone who reads something like that and sees himself portrayed. Obviously, something struck a nerve. But it wasn't about him.

I write for many reasons: to illustrate a point, to share scraps of my life and what I experience, to connect with others and just to write. I seldom know where the muse will take me when I begin to type. I almost always have a point but seldom have a single person in mind, unless I'm writing a review or about the important people in my life. So, unless I mention someone specifically, the focus is a composite of many people and situations I know. And yet, there are always those people who are convinced what I write is all about them. They're crowding the spotlight, often to make themselves seem more important than they are or to play the victim. Just like the person who saw himself in the hand wringing, slimy worm always apologizing for putting himself forward and working his way closer and closer with evil intentions in his heart, there will always be those who feel the need to crowd the spotlight. After all, why wouldn't it be about them since they are the most important and relevant person in the world? It's just like a narcissist to believe the sun rises and sets to shine on him.

It's gratifying that people read what I write because it's part of the reason I write -- to reach people and make them think. It's also scary because there are people who believe it's all about them and that can have some disastrous and sad results. That's how stalkers begin. They hide in the shadows, watching and waiting, holding on to perceived insults like a festering boil, just waiting for the moment to spit out venom. The characters and subjects on which they focus says so much about them, especially when the stalker blames the writer. It's like a guilty conscience.

I am glad when what a write touches a nerve or reminds someone they're not alone. It's part of the reason I write. I smile when someone lets me know that my writing helped them to see past their blind spot. I worry when anyone decides without clear and undeniable proof that they have been maligned or that I'm telling all their secrets and laying them open to ridicule. Those people have serious issues and need serious help.

Like one of my friends who stood in the spotlight recently for her fifteen minutes of fame when Barack Obama walked up onto her porch to shake her hand, everyone gets a turn in the spotlight. Be wary of anyone who keeps taking center stage and crowds the spotlight, especially when they play the victim and point to all the reasons they are special. Those people are dangerous and their guilty conscience is showing. It's like a vindictive woman dredging up the past to punish someone for something that happened years ago; they just won't let go. They like being the victim. They like playing the wronged woman. They just can't keep from crowding the spotlight. And they're dangerous. At such times, it's best to move quickly and quietly to the exits in an orderly fashion. Save yourself. You cannot save them.

Today they're obsessing about someone else. Tomorrow they might obsess about you. They can't help themselves. They're not happy unless they're in the spotlight and crowding everyone else out.

One more day in the life

When I get up in the morning, after the usual round of answering Nature's call and waking up and getting something to eat, I sit down at my laptop and go through my email, deleting most of what's there (spam), but my favorite thing, after playing my morning word game, is answering email from friends, family and friends-to-be. It's the first highlight of my day. Yesterday, I received an invitation to move to Sri Lanka and I can't say I wasn't tempted. I'm still tempted. I'd be that much closer to India and have a chance to live and get to know the customs and society of a whole different world, one that I know only from news stories, movies and books. Who knows? I may one day decide to retire in Sri Lanka.

It's not my first invitation to move to India or nearby, but it is certainly the latest. The last invitation came from a publishing company that wanted me to write books to be translated into Sanskrit and Sinhala. I'd be famous. My stories would be made into movies and I could live a life of ease and comfort and wealth, but I'm not a big fan of the heat and I would miss the change of seasons that I love so much here. Still, maybe one day...

This morning I received a message from a Capricorn, a sort of Jack and the Beanstalk kind of guy who tools around the countryside in Missouri in his company truck. The combination of astrologer, world traveler with military experience and a teaching degree who once taught English is fascinating, a little like catnip in a way. He's one of my recent pen pals, and one who was certain I was looking for pen pals only in foreign countries. I didn't tell him it was too soon for him to judge my intentions, but I'm sure he will figure it out.

After a very long wait, I finally received my new knives yesterday, lovely, sharp, beautiful knives to go along with the cutting boards I had to replace. They weren't expensive, but they are necessary as my one paring knife is insufficient to the tasks it has been forced to perform the past two months.

Two months. I have been here two months and will pay the rent for my third month here today. The time has flown by, but everything is coming together quite nicely. I will have to finish getting everything in place since I have a birthday party to host at the end of the month for Nel. I still have to figure out what to serve that will suit everyone coming and how to fix a dessert that isn't too sweet for Nel and still satisfying for everyone else who will expect a sweet dessert of some sort. At least I have some time to figure it out and get the invitations ready.

In a couple of days I will also send up my very last issue of the ham club newsletter. No one so far has stepped up to take the job and I am afraid that the newsletter will end up consisting only of a president's message and the minutes of the board and club meetings. At least it will be very inexpensive to publish and will probably end up only on the web. But I can see what is happening. The members and board have decided that if no one steps up to the plate I will have to stay on until someone is found. I can't say I haven't thought about sticking around, but I'm not going to do it. I may not do it. Yeah, I'm considering it, but not seriously. I need a break. Maybe that's what I'll do, take a break for a few months and then pick it back up again. Then again...maybe not. I don't want to spend the rest of my natural life doing this newsletter.

The city workers started early this morning but the one workman who sings either isn't here today or even he doesn't feel like singing. They've moved a little farther down the alley so the noise and vibrations that nearly shook the cottage off its foundation yesterday are lessened but the dust they're kicking up sifts through the screens and coats everything with a fine gritty layer. At this rate, they may finish soon and will be out of sight and sound and mind. I certainly hope so. As much as I dislike typing operative reports for doctors unwilling to learn to speak English properly or without things in their mouth or even at a rate that is clearly and understandable to an ear other than a canine's, at least it keeps the cottage roof over my head and allows me to be inside almost protected from the dust and heat and cacophony of sewer repair, and that's something.

That is all. Disperse.

Behind the curtain

Can't a person have an opinion without spewing rage and anger? I'm beginning to wonder about that when LJ posts and conversations are heavily peppered with anger. I don't think the conversation is creating the anger, but rather the anger and rage are always there right beneath the surface and they bubble up like tar on a brass sky, blazing hot day. You'd think that people with so much good in their lives, if the reports are to be believed, would be calmer and less angry all the time and that it wouldn't blast out on such innocuous subjects.

Case in point: The fellow with whom I debated altruism and the meaning of life was so angry throughout the exchange, blasting me time and again with what he perceived as my cynicism and selfishness while he was a tireless and constant force for good and charity, while I remained calm, cool and logical. I just don't get it. This is someone who claims to be happy about volunteering his time to help others, indeed working his whole adult life as a fireman dedicated to saving lives and property, and he was angry at my suggestion that there are other personal motives hidden beneath the altruism. I must have hit a nerve.

Every time I read someone's journal who writes endlessly about how happy they are or meet someone who claims to have it all, I am a little surprised that such happiness barely hides so much anger and rage. How can such negative emotions flourish in such contented soil unless the contentment and happiness are all a facade?

I've been through some rough times, rougher than many people know, but one thing I've held onto is the sense that no matter how bad things get there is always something positive to take away from the experience, even if it's only the knowledge that I have survived. I don't mean that I don't get angry -- I do -- or that there aren't moments that I want to throttle some idiot for hurting someone I love, but mostly . . . I don't. My anger is momentary because I realize that people are always going to do bone-headed things and hurt other people by design or out of ignorance and I know I can't change that, so it's a waste of energy to be angry. Like my neighbor, Ms. Stilettos, and dumping my trash on my deck because she didn't want to share the trash bin. She seldom even uses the trash bin, except to throw away Starbuck's grande coffee cups and the occasional fast food bag, at least as far as I can see when I dump my bag of trash every week just before the garbage trucks come, so why the rage and me using the bin? I'd have to say it's control. She didn't control the trash bin any more and she couldn't control me.

As far as I can see, rage and anger boil down to control, even when the control is not being able to control how people see you. Once the smiling mask has been lifted or the man behind the curtain exposed as just a flunky or a man, rage takes over. Sometimes rage takes over as a defense to make sure that no one sees behind the mask or the curtain because it keeps the focus on the rage and people occupied defending themselves against the rage. Such insecurity in the face of discovery must be difficult to live with no matter how good things are. Even the great and terrible Wizard of Oz was nothing more than a carnival mind reader and balloonist who happened to fall into the right place at the right time to make his fortune and to wield great power over the people in Emerald City when what he really wanted to do was run away and hide, so he retreated into his palace, set guards at the entrance and created a powerful mask of rage to hide behind so people would be too frightened to ask or even approach. Such power and such loneliness in the midst of so much of what most people would see as riches and happiness must be horrible to live with day after day. Makes you wonder what else they're hiding behind all the rage and anger.

No, my life isn't perfect and there are things I'd like to have and don't, but everything comes in time. It took time to get what I've lost and time to realize I didn't need everything I've lost, and it will take time to rebuild, but at least I am not starting from scratch and there are always good things that come alongside the bad, like penicillin to cure infection from moldy bread. I don't mind the momentary anger at injustice or hurting those I love and care about because eventually I'll figure out what good comes out of the situation when the anger no longer hides the truth and I am calm enough to see the anger is about me. Good thing my vision is getting clearer and better all the time, but I wonder how people so full of rage and anger see.

In the Cut

I finally got to see In the Cut with Meg Ryan yesterday. It's dark and gritty and a huge departure for Meg. The big selling point when it was in the theaters was seeing Meg Ryan naked. As a woman who doesn't go for tongue and groove outside of flooring and furniture, I wasn't impressed. As an artist who has painted and drawn many nudes over the decades, I wasn't impressed, except when she was prone and the light was dim; then she looked like a Grecian sculpture. Full frontal, not impressed and not her best side, speaking from a strictly aesthetic standpoint, but she is otherwise quite beautiful and her figure is mature for her age. As a woman who has given birth to children, she is very well preserved. But what stands out about this movie isn't Meg's nudity, but her acting.

Frannie is a schoolteacher, but she is like no schoolteacher I ever had. She is just this side of hippy hip with undertones of the Beat Generation yet still maintains a certain coy innocence that is liberally tinged with avid sexuality and curiosity that is quite alluring. Her character is confused and tentative with people and yet comes alive when faced with words that move her and stimulate her mentally and emotionally.

Meg is still a beautiful woman, but this movie was made before the disastrous My Mom's New Boyfriend and before she gave her beautiful face to the knife and ended up with trout lips. Too much collagen in the lips and not enough brains in the head for her to have messed with such a classic, although of late too thin, beauty. Once again, Meg Ryan prone sunning herself by the pool was a gorgeous sight to behold, before she stood and went full frontal -- face, I mean -- and showed her caricature of a mouth, the ruined curved of those sensuous, uptilted cornered lips defaced by too much collagen or a too big lip implant. Not everyone needs to be Angelina Jolie.

At any rate, In the Cut is a movie that is part thriller, part trip into the psyche of a macho, on-the-make cop who likes to color way outside the edges, and part character study that almost works. The flow is choppy and confusing at times with a raw, almost uncut feel to it, as though made as a second year film student's project, but it did draw me in. Kevin Bacon plays a small part and he's another one who should stay away from the knife, although what has been done works very well for this not-out-of-the-closet, would-be stalker who is so clingy and needy he made me want to run and hide. Yikes! Mark Ruffalo as the homicide detective Frannie keeps trying not to and eventually does fall for is dark and edgy and just barely this side of sleazy. Sharrieff Pugh as the intense English student from Frannie's class who defends John Wayne Gacy is intense and young and very hunky, but that relationship wasn't quite developed enough and seemed erratic at best, but should have had more screen time to develop.

In some ways, In the Cut feels thrown together as though the director chopped up the whole movie in a fit of pique and decided to put it back together without a clear arc or time line. It would be a better movie with a little judicious editing, but otherwise the discordant and jumpy feeling does go well with the jump and erratic Frannie's emotions and life. It's not quite there though. Needs more time to cook before it's done and I hope this is one film that gets a director's cut when the director isn't on or coming off of some very good drugs.

That is all. Disperse.

Pen pals and sewers

When it rains, it pours. Of course, it hasn't been raining much here, or pouring, on the outside; inside is another story altogether. I had a new friend from Iowa come to visit this past week (coaches convention) and I not only misplaced his phone number in the stack of books I had to get through but completely forgot to call him because I was so busy with work and writing reviews. Unlike the rain, which kept rumbling and grumbling but never falling for more than a few minutes, I was deluged with work and responsibilities. It's been that way for weeks. I even sent out a call for pan pals when I had some time to spend getting to know a little about people in other cultures and they responded en masse. Like I said, when it rains, it pours. Weatherwise? No. Personal life? Yes.

People from Ghana have learned how to use web crawlers (not Spiderman) to scope out potential targets, like pen pal and singles sites, to further their need for infusions of cash, most with an introductory letter that seems personal (mostly misspelled with lots of netspeak and no punctuation or capitalizations), that explain they know most people are racists in America but they want to learn more about the people. Uh, no you don't. What you want is to tweak the American nipple to see if it will payoff like a loose slot machine in a Vegas bus station. Not going to happen. After thanking the first person (wearing a tailored Armani suit that costs about $2000) for his response and answering his questions, I was immediately inundated with ten more young men from Ghana, all who believe Americans hate black people. Uh, no, I don't. I have a black ancestor in my family tree and I'm quite proud of him (runaway slave adopted by Cherokee). I figured out the scam pretty quickly and and now I just delete anyone from Ghana. This may seem like I'm prejudiced or not willing to check each and every one out, but I don't have the time or inclination to ferret out the few sincere writers from the scam artists. I wanted a couple of pen pals, not to be mother to Ghana's poor, tired and hungry masses yearning to live for free in America.

I have, however, picked up a few pan pals: from Sri Lanka, India, Israel, Iowa and Pennsylvania and they are turning out to be very interesting and colorful. I wish I could visit them all or at least get them all together for dinner or a weekend and not have to worry about time or work or anything but getting to know one another. However, I have to live in the real world -- at least for now.

The weather hasn't cooperated with my plans, but at least it has been cooler over the past couple of days, despite the noise and heat and stench of diesel fuel from the city workers tearing up the alley three feet behind my office window. With all the jackhammers and backhoes and shouting and clashing metal, it has been difficult to sleep in the morning or get much work done while they're out there. One small pleasant note (actually, a few pleasant notes) come from one of the worker who has a habit of singing first thing in the morning when he gets on the job. He has a pleasant voice and it soothes my jangled nerves as I am throttled awake by the roar and belching clouds of diesel fuel when the backhoes and heavy machinery are started up first thing in the morning. It's the reverse of what I'm used to, the slap in the face and then the pat on the back. In this case, the pat on the back is literally music to my ears.

I like to work with the window open so the breeze can circulate through the house, but since the workers are digging up the alley to put in a new sewer system, leaving the window open is not an option. It's not as if the window keeps out much of the noise when the pavement is being battered and pulverized, but it does keep out most of the stench and the dust. It also makes the room warmer and stuffier, but that is to be expected in the summertime. They won't be out there forever, but if last year is any indication, they will be here for at least a month or so, or until the weather gets cold and the snow starts falling, which I pray may be very soon indeed.

As I unpack more books and boxes of things, the cardboard pile is getting higher and I am determined to finish breaking all the boxes down and taking them to the recycling bin, along with all the magazines I've read and no longer need and the waste paper and plastic from all the air-filled pillows needed to protect a book or magazine from being jolted too much.

Suddenly, it occurs to me that if there was a shortage of air, those bags might come in handy -- for a while. There's a story there. I can feel it.

At any rate, I have laundry to do (yippee for washer and dryer), a load of dishes to wash (yippee for dishwasher) and a piece of homemade oatmeal cake from my Gram's recipe to eat before I shower, dress and chain myself to my chair to get some operative reports done before the jackhammering and backhoeing starting again tomorrow. I also have a book to finish reading so I can review it and move onto the next box of books. And life continues here at the cottage while the sun shines in a brilliant blue sky and cool breezes drift through the open windows.

That is all. Disperse.

Limbo, martyrs, and blank slates

I am not only the devil incarnate but I am a cynical, heartless person, or so says Sid of the current debate.

Because I said, several times, that the meaning of life is pleasure/satisfaction and experience, I am evil because people do things all the time out of the goodness of their hearts and get nothing for it. Horse hockey. I guess he doesn't get a warm glow when a homeless mother and her children get nourishing food at the local soup kitchen where he works and he gets no sense of satisfaction from saving someone or their pet from a burning building. He does everything in a state of martyred limbo where emotions and thoughts never occur. Horse hockey. He refuses to see that it is all right to be happy or feel a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction for charitable works or giving back to the community or that those warm and fuzzy feelings are all right when contemplating giving your life for friends and family and that it does not diminish the act or the person.

I used the example of early Xians going to the arena where hungry wolves, lions and bears would tear them apart; the people went to their deaths holding hangs and singing and continued singing while they were ripped apart. I'd say they felt something and it wasn't the blank slate of martyrdom and giving back to the community either. They were happy, even ecstatic, to be released from their perceived physical bondage and they were -- and are -- heroes to a multitude of believers. Do their display of personal emotions in any way lessen their experience or their heroism? Did they get satisfaction from their circumstances? They were afraid, but they believed they were going to heaven and they were happy about that despite the horrific circumstances in which they found themselves. In those last moments, along with the fear, they felt a sense of pleasure and happiness in being together here and believing they would be together in heaven after they died.

I agree it is an extreme example, but the idea that altruism and charity are blank slates and you must be in an emotional state of limbo, or that to believe anyone can feel pleasure or satisfaction when giving freely of time and resources to the community is ludicrous. Cynical? I'd say the pot is calling the mirror black. To deny the pleasure and satisfaction of any act, even an altruistic act, is to deny the truth of life. We do what makes us happy, gives us pleasure and satisfaction, or we don't continue to do it. Even someone trapped in a horrible job or rotten relationship gets some satisfaction, even if it's the fleeting sense of purpose that loved ones are being cared for and nurtured or seeing and working with people you like, or just going home at the end of the week knowing there are two full days of relief from the pressures and torments of the job.

Yes, people act out of duty and a sense of sacrifice, but even in the midst of the worst situation there is a flutter of pleasure, a sense of satisfaction at accomplishing a difficult task and the hope that some day things will be different (there's always retirement) or they would not do it. There has to be a payoff. Knowing that doesn't make me cynical, just realistic, and believing that and seeing it every day doesn't extinguish hope but keeps it burning brightly, else why not end it all and move on?

That is all. Disperse.

Dirty word

I've been really busy catching up work and staying cool (temperature-wise) and haven't really had the energy to post. I'm back.

This has been a difficult week with Paul's funeral, my beautiful flat panel monitor dying and work, work, and more work, but I did have time to earn the title of evil incarnate, as I have been dubbed in the past. This time the evil comes in the form of a discussion about the meaning of life. Everyone knows the answer and it's different for everyone, at least on the outside. At the heart of the matter is one simple and basic truth: Life is pleasure and experience. Everything, no matter how different people are and what they choose to do with their lives, boils down to pleasure and experience, and that's where the evil part comes in.

Sid prefers to take the high road and believes that for some people the meaning of life is selfless service to others and to the community. I maintain that even those altruistic individuals do it for the experience and for personal pleasure. Sid sees pleasure as a hedonistic abandonment of moral values. I see pleasure as simply satisfaction. And so the debate continues.

Last night Sid offered the story of a young soldier who threw himself on a grenade tossed into his vehicle. He died but he saved the lives of his buddies. Sid sees this as proof that life is not about pleasure but about selfless service to others. I beg to differ. Even though the soldier died and had a split second to act, he had probably thought about that particular scenario many times during his training and military life and decided that it was his duty and even his privilege to give his life for his buddies. There should be no doubt in anyone's mind that the soldier experienced a flush of satisfaction and even pleasure that he could save his friends so that when the time came he didn't think but acted and did what he had envisioned doing so many times -- saving his buddies' lives by giving his own. He may even have thought briefly about how proud his parents would be and how the story would be told that he so loved his buddies, and his country, he gave his life for them. That momentary satisfaction, all the hours and days he thought of giving up his life for others, was pleasurable.

We do nothing for very long in this life that doesn't afford some pleasure. Even people who prefer pain get pleasure out of the pain. People who gripe and complain, criticize and denigrate their fellow men get satisfaction from their misanthropy and satisfaction is a form of pleasure. People who work in soup kitchens, donate time and experience and money to various charities, become public servants, and perform a billion other tasks and follow a trillion other hobbies do so because it gives them pleasure. They may work at mind numbing jobs that suck the life out of them but they get something for being drones: money, benefits, something to gripe about. The sum of all these things is pleasure, satisfaction for doing something for themselves or for others, and satisfaction is pleasure.

Experience speaks for itself.

You may disagree, as Sid continues to do when he offers his altruistic bromides, but the fact remains that life is pleasurable, sometimes for a lifetime and often for fleeting moments, but it is still pleasurable. Consider pleasure hedonistic, but you lie to deny the pleasures and satisfactions derived from living, however brief.

I don't know when pleasure became a bad word, something consigned to the evils of abandoned morals and wanton behavior, but pleasure is not synonymous with evil. When we enjoy the aroma and sight of a beautiful flower, the sound of children playing, birds singing, a warm cat purring in a lap, a gift, a sunny day, a thunderstorm with lightning crackling and flashing, a television program, a child's first tentative steps and then the child's wedding day or first love it is pleasure. It is those moments, those precious memories and sensations that remind us we are living. Disasters come and go and some disasters remain in nightmares and haunt moments of weakness, but even those give way to a fond memory or something that brings laughter and smiles.

Life is pleasure and experience and pleasure is not a dirty word.

In the lows

The sky has been filled with pewter clouds and the rain drizzling all day, which is good for the plants and makes sure the ground is saturated and the rain doesn't just race off down the storm sewers to flood the drains. I went out early this morning to get something for breakfast and returned with strawberries, kiwis, mangoes, pineapple and blueberries that went very well with the warm croissants and began to dig into work. I stopped for a quick Greek salad for lunch and returned to my desk to find my monitor wasn't on. I turned it off, turned it on and it faded after a second over and over until I got the message. There is either a short in the monitor or it was doing a Camille. I had just downloaded five jobs and had to call the office after checking every connection and run through my check list to make sure the monitor was DOA. It was. The day ended abruptly and is going to cost me tomorrow when I pick up another flat panel monitor, just when I had funds earmarked to replace some of my cooking utensils and buy enough food to stock the cabinets and freezer. Oh, well, I didn't really want to eat this week. I can wait until I get paid for the next few reviews at the end of the week and at least I was able to dig into the next review book and take a nap with a glorious rain-laden breeze blowing through the windows.

I had a hard time sleeping last night since someone or something tied weights to my sinuses, a sure sign that a big storm was coming. Breathless and having trouble breathing, in addition to getting up all night to go to the bathroom and get more water to drink, in a foggy haze of semi-consciousness was no fun. The nap this afternoon helped, but I must get back to Gary Braunbeck's latest so I can finish in time to add this review to the others for this week. I've had worse days and at least this day was brightened by a brand new cookbook arriving in the mail and time to read without watching the clock or worrying about staying up too late since I have to work in the morning, and the weights have been lifted from my face and sinuses now that the low pressure has finally broken and the rains descended for the next two or three days. I can live very happily with that since it revives the honeysuckle that perfumes the moist winds and helps to clear my foggy brain.

That is all. Disperse.

A different view

As I sit here writing a letter of condolence to Erin, I am struck by a longing for a pen pal. I communicate with lots of people by email, but it lacks the tactile sensation of ink, or pencil, on paper and the sense that the fragile paper package has traversed oceans and continents or even just rivers and states to reach me and bring a glimpse of another time and another way of seeing the world. Many years ago I adopted a child from Nicaragua. I carefully dragged my rusty Spanish onto the page and sent cards for holidays and celebrations and letters to which she responded with pictures and drawings and her own halting English words as she struggled to learn my language. She has long since graduated from high school and moved out into the world. We lost track of each other but I wonder at times how she is doing and whether or not she married and had children of her own. What I miss most are the letters, the peek into her world that grew more detailed and richer as she grew up and experienced more of the world.

I have a basket of letters, a fairly large woven basket with a lid, that once was a very small box in which I have kept all my letters, some of which are going into a book. I received many more letters when I didn't have a computer, obviously, and I miss that, which probably makes me a dinosaur of sorts, a hedonist drunk on the scent of the perfumes of paper and ink, stamps and the fading brush of hand to page as each word was written.

This morning I googled pen pals and came up with a site that offers free connections to people from all over the world. I'm not looking for a date or a mate, I have those covered, but I am looking for that momentary glimpse of the world through another's eyes. What I did find interesting was the disclaimer about putting a physical address out on the net and legally covering the site owners' behinds by asking those using their service to be aware that some people will send nasty and obscene letters and might even show up on the door step and to absolve them of having a hand in anything of that kind. It seems so strange to think that it wasn't so long ago that the only way people could communicate is by letter and rarely by phone (it cost too much for long distance) and giving out your phone number and address was not so dangerous or fraught with peril. When did that change?

Let's face it. If you know how to use the Internet, you can find anyone's street address and phone number. Caller ID protects you from incoming calls but even a nonpublished number will not protect you from people who really want to find you, and that goes for your address, too. I know how to stop reading an obscene or nasty letter and throw it away. I know how to say no to someone who wants more than friendship and correspondence. I've done that many times, too. I also know how to call 911 if someone I don't know shows up on my doorstep without an invitation and refuses to leave. I know how to take care of myself because I've had to take care of myself for a very long time. I put my home address on the ad. I can't get a letter if it's not out there.

So this morning, instead of writing about the adoption book that was so difficult for me to read and still need to be reviewed or the little domestic details that are a part of my everyday life, I decided to reach out and ask for what I want, a regular pen pal. I still have work to do, trash to take out for tomorrow's pickup, roots to dye and clothes to put away but for this moment all I'm thinking about is the thrill and feel of a letter that has crossed oceans and continents or rivers, lakes and states waiting to be read that offers me a different view of the world we share.

Passing out

It's hard to know what to say when you receive news that someone you know, someone you have worked and laughed with, is gone. I received such a notice this morning. Paul Moraine, a fellow ham (NØPWM) and Volunteer Examiner for the Mountain Amateur Radio Club (MARC) died yesterday of a massive heart attack while out shopping. He was near my age and someone I liked and respected. My heart goes out to his family and his wife, Erin, and to the community he served so faithfully and well. He will be missed.

Beware the hair

Not the hair on your head but what a man I once knew (he was Iranian) called cubic hair. It took a while for me to explain that while hair could be measured in cubic yards, especially on some men's backs, it was in fact pubic hair when referring to the patch of curly hairs at the arrow that points to the hot and steamy section of a woman's anatomy (there is no such arrow to point to the pits, which is probably a good thing because it would definitely be overshadowed by breasts). So why is hair on my mind? Because I just saw Sex and the City and Miranda's ginger curls were peeking out of the legs of her designer bathing suit and reminded me of a similar situation many years ago.

Turn back while you still can.

As a young and vulnerable child of ten one summer while living in Hampton, Virginia and slumming it on the beach while my friends played in the water (I had just had surgery on my left arm to revise an ugly scar from 18 months before), I watched my mother stand up and was stunned by the view. She wore a tasteful sailor style bathing suite in navy blue with a pleated white skirt fluttering in the breeze off the water of the Chesapeake Bay and I caught a glimpse of what looked like two dark beards plastered between her skinny thighs and headed toward her bony knees and nearly getting there. She seemed oblivious to them and I could not take my eyes from the horrifying sight. I thought -- I didn't know what to think. At ten, I wasn't aware of body hair, other than the soft down that sparsely covered my arms and legs, but I was smart enough to know not to ask my mother about it. She was so fussy about her appearance and wouldn't appreciate me pointing out a flaw in her otherwise flawless beach ensemble.

I pushed the horrid picture out of my mind and it has lain quiet and quiescent until I caught sight of Miranda's wandering bush today and came screaming back into my mind with frightening force. Now I know why some women wax and shave their bikini lines even when they're not wearing a bikini. It also reminds me of a book I once reviewed about the aesthetics of a coiffed and wax and razor maintained pubic area. I've never had the problem, but I have the strong Cherokee genes that suppress exuberant displays of body hair and thus when I trim or otherwise manicure the nether hairs it is because I can, something I don't often do because the lack of hairy cushioning, such that it is, makes me, in the words of Carrie Bradshaw when she was mugged down there in Los Angeles, walking sex. I'm all too aware of the area when I should be focusing on other things like work, paying bills, doing laundry and writing. It throws my focus off.

Now if my mother had been of a creative bent or a stay at home mother who was focused on cooking, cleaning and raising a family, I could see the need to remove the Hassidic display between her thighs, but such was not the case. She was more interested in shoes, purses and clothes (not hats because she had a bad experience with head lice she said she got from a hat when she was a teenager) and in covering up as much of her anatomy as often as possible. Personally, I think she should have opted for the turn of the century bathing costume instead of a modern bathing suit with an inadequate flounce of pleated white fabric to cover her bearded thighs, but that's just me.

Just the thought of the display, or lack of display of hair, reminds me of a famous errant curl of nether hair that featured in the news for quite some time on a can of Coke that Anita Hill swears she got from Clarence Thomas (the can of Coke and the nether hair). It seems those hairs keep turning up in the oddest places, as floss, or so Samantha would have it when one play fellow complained she needed to visit Helga the hot waxer because she was getting a bit wild down there. I believe the braiding of back hair came up in the conversation as well. Samantha shaved the man's nether hairs to his delight that it actually made his package bigger, but I have to say that a man without a cushion of curlies looks too much like a joke appendage for my taste no matter how big it looks, sort of like a bird without its feathers, just plain vulnerable and odd. A bald-headed bird looks so much better in a nest, less vulnerable and sad, than it does lying on the bare ground. I wonder if that's why some people call it a pecker.

So, lightning bolts and landing strips aside, I don't particularly mind the curly nether mat but I would prefer it not be crawling down the insides of someone's thighs like a giant woolly worm. It's enough to scar someone for life. And don't get me started on Chore Girls hiding in the pants of red-haired gentlemen. I'll never be able to go out in public at a red-headed convention again.

It's hard to say

I received my first fan letter for a story in Chicken Soup for the Adopted Soul on Monday and I'm still not sure what to write since a simple thank you doesn't seem like enough. It's like deciding what to write to someone who buys a book at one of the signings. Writing my name is easy enough but the sentiment still feels a little forced -- until I came up with, "You're not alone," for Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers, which is the theme of the book. Single mothers aren't alone if you count all the single mothers (50) who contributed to the anthology and all the women out there who are or have been single mothers. Beth Andrews, another Colorado writer doing the book signings with me, is a single mother though she's my age; she got a late start. Her daughter is thirteen and quite the drama queen.

As I read Beth's story about bed time and juggling work I was reminded of all the times the boys had to have one more drink of water, go to the bathroom one more time, needed their blankie or favorite stuffed toy or just wanted to delay going to bed like Beth's daughter. Those days are long gone, but I still remember them with a lot less frustration now.

For the Adopted Soul I wrote, "A child is a gift," but I don't know what to write to the mother of an adopted child who was moved by my story and who now begins to see what the mother of her adopted daughter went through before giving her up. It was so much easier with my friends when they told me how much the story touched them and that it made them cry. With family, well, they know the story (sort of) and many had forgotten about it. I can simply thank them and not have to worry. I'll figure it out; I always do, but it brings home to me how powerful words are and how they can touch another's life.

Here's the story:

Love is Enough

My favorite story was one I didn’t completely understand and one that made me feel special. “We chose you out of all the babies in the world,” my mother told me from as far back as I could remember. It wasn’t until I was ten years old that I finally understood what she meant; I was adopted. I was nearly thirty years old when I understood how my biological mother felt because I faced the same choice.

I wasn’t supposed to see the baby after he was born, but somehow the nursery slipped up and brought him to me. The moment they put him in my arms I was lost. The attorney said he’d break the news to the prospective parents’ attorney. “No, it’s my choice. I’ll tell him,” I said. The prospective parents' attorney was angry. There’s no doubt the parents were hurt, but they sent me flowers; so did the attorney they hired for me. He thought I had done the right thing, so did my doctor.

I changed my mind when Jaime was born because I believed love was enough. The attorney the adoptive parents hired to protect my rights and the doctor who delivered my son and kept me alive in spite of the dangers talked me into keeping him. It wasn’t a hard sell; I wanted to keep him, but wasn’t sure how I could since I was barely making it without a child. Jaime and I went home.

Jaime Bohdan was a laughing child with strawberry blond curls, sapphire blue eyes, and an inquisitive nature. He refused to sleep in a crib past the age of ten months; he kept looking for ways to climb out and crying, beating the bars with anything within reach, until I relented and either put him in bed with me or put him on the hide-a-bed with chairs ringing him in. He didn’t mind the bars of the chair; he just didn’t like the bars on the crib, so I took it down.

He wasn’t really mischievous, just curious. As he got older he climbed bookcases and furniture and cabinets to look inside and drag out whatever he found.

One morning before six, he woke me up. Through sleep-blurred eyes, Jaime looked odd. Blinking and rubbing away the sand and grit, I looked again. He smiled a lopsided smile, his teeth white in a mask of smeared makeup. His chubby hands pulled at my arm. “Look, Mommy.” Little hand prints in mingled shades of green and blue and violet and pink covered my arms. I got out of bed and followed him into the bathroom, every surface a smeared Jackson Pollack in every shade of eye shadow, blush, and lipstick I owned. Variegated body parts decorated the inside of the claw foot porcelain tub and Jaime looked up at me, his eyes bright with excitement, and giggled. I couldn’t help myself. In spite of how much work it would take to set everything right, I laughed, swung him up into my arms, and kissed his painted cheek.

“Look funny, Mommy,” he said.

I kissed him again. “You look funny, too.”

Each day was a struggle, working two full time jobs and seeing my son before work and on alternate weekends when I had a day off. I felt like I was cheating him, and myself, but I was trapped. I couldn’t quit one of my jobs because I couldn’t afford the babysitter and a place to live. We had nowhere else to go and no one to help. So when Jaime was nearly two years old, just two weeks before Christmas, I made a decision.

Sitting in the judge’s chambers the morning I met with him and Jaime’s new parents, I swallowed back the tears around the lump in my throat as I answered the judge’s questions.

“Yes, I understand what I’m doing. Yes, I am giving up my son of my own free will. No, the parents have not paid me or given me any money. No one is coercing me. No one is threatening me. No one has made me any promises of financial gain or any kind. Yes, I want to give up my son.”

No, I didn’t want to give up my son. I still don’t want to give him up even though I haven’t seen him since he was nearly two years old two weeks before Christmas. No, I don’t want to surrender the memory of his laughter the morning he woke me covered in eye shadow, blush, and lipstick or the way he looked when he led me to the bathroom and showed me he was a rare and special artist.

No one forced me to give up my son. But the voice inside me said love was not enough and I had to choose between working eighteen hours a day for enough food and clothing (and makeup) and seeing the mischief and laughter in my son’s eyes every morning.

Jaime has a different name now and he is twenty-five years old. I don’t know where he is or what he does, if he went to college or got married and has children of his own. I have no idea how to find him or if he would welcome me if I did. He belongs to someone else now. All I kept are the memories of a little boy who didn’t want to sleep in a crib and woke up laughing every morning.

It has taken me a long time to understand the meaning behind the words I loved to hear as a child. “We chose you out of all the babies in the world.” My parents told me I was adopted when I was ten years old; I was their daughter two days after I was born. I met my biological mother when I was eleven years old. She was a nice woman who seemed a little sad. When she talked to me, she wouldn’t look me in the eyes. She talked about my biological father and showed me a small picture from a high school yearbook. He played basketball and he wasn’t very tall, neither was she. I wanted to know where I came from, why I’m so much taller than my parents. Why was my hair brown when she had strawberry blonde curls and my father’s hair was blond? Why wasn’t I thin? Where did my grey eyes come from?

“Why did you give me up?” I asked.

“I didn’t finish high school and I didn’t have a good job. I couldn’t give you what you needed or what you deserved.”

“Didn’t you love me?” Afraid of the answer, I still needed to know.

She finally looked me in the eyes. Her eyes were sapphire blue. “Yes, I love you. Your parents could give you everything I couldn’t.”

“Even love?”

“No one loves you more than I do. Love isn't always enough.”

I can still hear the words, but I didn’t believe them then. How could someone love their child and give her up to strangers? Isn't love all anyone needs? I was a child. I didn’t understand. Love is not always enough, not if you have to see your child hungry or forced to live in a shelter or small apartment in a bad part of town because it’s all you can afford.

Working two jobs was not enough. Love was not enough. Love was all I had to hold onto the day I answered the judge’s questions and signed the papers that made another woman Jaime’s mommy. I signed the papers for my son. Now, love and memories of Jaime Bohdan are all I have.

I know now how my mother felt, but she was wrong. Love is enough.

###

Weekend surprises

I did it. I got to the hamfest and did my turn as VE today. The pain was bearable as long as I didn't move too quickly or the wrong way. We had 23 people in the exam session, which is ten fewer than last year, but still a good number. A few didn't pass, including one older woman, about mid 60s, who cried. She couldn't understand how she could ace the exam online and fail it today. We talked and I gave her a local ham's name to help her study for the General exam. I also talked to her a little while and gave her my name and number so she could call if she needed to talk or study. The more we talked the closer we came to an answer for why. She had memorized the answers on the test online and not the information. Okay, that gave me the info I needed. I gave her a website that mixes up the questions and pinpoints problem areas. She'll make it next time; she almost made it this time. And she felt much better when she left.

We don't get a lot of women in the exam sessions, but the number is increasing, and today I got a surprise. One of the people testing was nervous, so nervous her hands were shaking. I told her she'd do fine and she did; she only missed four (you're allowed seven). She got her General license. When I gave her the good news she said, "Blessed Be," and I was stunned for a moment. I always wear my pentacle with the amethyst in the center; I never take it off. The last thing I expected in a ham radio exam session was a fellow pagan. We shook hands and shared greetings and goodbyes and we both made a new acquaintance, a very nice surprise.

Some of the people taking exams I've seen before and we have developed a bantering acquaintance. And there are the VEs I see several times a year who are determined to end the day with the most zingers. They fail miserably. It's not quite like dueling with unarmed men, but it's close, and it's fun. Since I'm the club's VE contact person, and it's even listed on the ARRL web site, I have gotten to know quite a few people. Being the only female on the local VE team makes for interesting dynamics and a lot of teasing, one of my favorite sports. I even got to see an old friend from up at Woodland Park I haven't seen since last year and that was fun. I invited them all to the book signing tomorrow. Some of them will come out of sheer curiosity and the rest will just spread the word. Hams are worse than old women when it comes to gossiping. In fact, Dean, from Woodland Park, told me he heard about the books through some Yahoo group, but I haven't mentioned it on any Yahoo ham group. We narrowed it down to where and it looks like I have a PR person (ham gossip) out there spreading the word about me. Not a big surprise -- gossips, old women sharing gossip over the back fence. Nothing stays secret for long in the ham community.

I came home, had some lunch, watched a couple episodes of X-Files from the sixth season, started another review book and then took a little nap. When I woke up, my shoulder blade popped back into place and the constant nagging pain lessened considerably. Even my neck is less stiff and my hip is less painful. The shoulder blade has popped out before but not in a long time. As long as I stop riding the couch during naps and stick to the bed, it shouldn't be a problem and I won't need to resort to thinking about popping pills or drinking (as one person on my F-list mentioned) Hemlock.

It's fairly cool outside and the sky is my favorite shade of Colorado blue. I missed the farmer's market today because of the hamfest but there's always next week. There's a nice cool breeze making the blinds dance while it brings the sweet scent of honeysuckle inside and all is peaceful and calm on this beautiful and breezy Saturday afternoon. The only thing marring my otherwise idyllic weekend is the imprint of the Funny Times newspaper that has mysteriously tattooed my chaise and the book signing tomorrow. I'm not a big fan of sitting and watching people walk by me while my pen is poised for signing. I am a lot more familiar with reading my writing aloud to no one in particular; it's how I edit. I'll do the laundry tomorrow morning, the whole load, and finish reading a couple of review books and maybe even put in a few hours of typing operative reports, just a typical weekend. There will be dinner with friends and I'm looking forward to that, but otherwise I'm looking forward to enjoying the usual round of the week and this beautiful weather with the lawnmowers buzzing and thrumming and sending waves of fresh grass scent all through the neighborhood. It's my favorite part of summer.

Fire & ice

Afternoon naps are taking a toll on my poor body. I can barely lift my left arm or turn my head to the left. Sleep was elusive last night because of the pain and discomfort and I forgot to get willow bark tea yesterday. I have to get ready to go to Monument for the hamfest and the ham exams this morning and all I can think about is how much I hurt and how much more I want to go back to bed and sleep this thing out of my muscles. It's like one big cramp down the left side of my body, but I can't give up and giving in isn't an option, not this morning. I have so few days like this that it is difficult for me to imagine it happening, but it has. I'm even contemplating stopping at the store and getting some Aleve, just to give you an idea of what it's like right now.

Not going to the hamfest is not an option. The VE team is counting on me to be there, as are several of the people testing. I also need to pin down the treasurer and get a check for the printer who hasn't been paid in four months. I keep reminding the treasurer and he says he'll get to it, but so far he hasn't gotten to it, so I need to get the check from him today and take it to the printer on Monday. I'm also supposed to help with admissions until 10 a.m. but I'm thinking about blowing that off just so I can have a couple more hours to stand in a hot shower and get some willow bark tea so it can work its magic on my aching body, but that's not really an option either since I have to deliver the seventy issues of the newsletter to the hamfest so everyone has a chance to pick one up and many of the people get there early and leave just as early. I really don't like having no options.

I haven't taken a sick day from work since I started there over three years ago and when I promise to be somewhere I'm there. Today is a different story. Today, I want to find drugs, muscle relaxers, analgesics and sleeping pills and drift on a drug-induced cloud pain- and worry-free while the knots and tangles in my muscles slowly unwind. It's not going to happen. I'm going to get up, take a shower, get dressed and get on the road to Monument.

I'm going to get up.

I'm going to get up.

I'm going ...

You can't blame the train

It happened so fast. You didn't see it coming. You missed the warning signs. They were obvious but you relied on trust and love and got burned. It's like that song. If you saw the train coming and you heard the whistle and didn't get off the tracks, you can't blame the train. It's that way in love and in friendship; you have to keep your eye on things and pay attention. It's the old story of whether or not you can trust a cheater not to cheat, and I'm not talking about diets.

If a friend talks about another friend as if they're dirt or lower than maggots in a dung hill, you need to watch your back. If the same friend trashes a friend over and over one week and then the friend is back in their life the next and everything is beer and skittles (lather, rinse, repeat and repeat and repeat), what makes you think they will treat you any better? You're delusional. This is who they are. Pay attention. Someone who has nothing good to say about their friends isn't going to say anything good about you when the time comes -- and the time will come, or rather the train is coming. Get off the tracks.

There's a big difference between someone who gets angry at a friend and says something nasty in the heat of anger but then apologizes to the friend and to you and doesn't do it again and someone who trashes the friend one moment, gets back with them the next, and trashes them again over and over, ad infinitum, ad nauseam. That is a seriously disturbed person and you cannot trust anything they say (unless it's self serving) because the behavior is a deeply ingrained pattern. It's who they are and always will be.

For instance: Someone I once knew had been best friends with another woman since before they went to kindergarten. When I met the woman and became friends with her, she regularly trashed her "best friend in the world" constantly. At first, it was subtle, little complaints about who brought more food to a joint picnic, whose gifts cost more, how much weight she had lost in comparison, niggling things I brushed off. As we got to know each other better, the complaints got bigger and were more frequent until I wondered why they were still best friends. The other person sounded like she was crazy and delusional and evil so when the woman told me she was spending a week's vacation with her best friend I wondered why. "She cornered me and I couldn't say no." Okay, I can see how a nice person would feel obligated to be nice to someone they've known since childhood. I rationalized.

The train was coming down the tracks.

It bothered me that the woman was nice to people's faces but brought out the claws the minute they were gone as she spilled dirty detail after dirty detail of how they had hurt her, lied about her and destroyed her life (even though she continued to live quite well). With one guy, she said he creeped her out but she continued to invite him over for dinner or out for drinks and dancing and went over to his house on occasion when he hosted dinner. The minute he left, she was on the phone telling me how he disgusted her.

The whistle's blowing and I'm still on the tracks.

She didn't have one good thing to say about anyone, so when I met one of her colleagues from work I was ready for the devil incarnate. He was a personable, intelligent man she greeted with squeals of delight and hugs, sitting down next to him and taking his hand. She batted her eyes at him and giggled at his jokes as though she were a school girl in the presence of a matinée movie idol. This could not be the man she claimed was Satan and always on the make. He seemed uncomfortable every time she sidled closer and touched his hand or his shoulder. He smiled, but it was an awkward, uncomfortable smile as he politely disengaged her hands and shifted his chair away. If the evening had been longer, he would have been shifted out the door of the restaurant.

When we left, the claws came out. "Did you see how he pawed me? I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes me uncomfortable. He knows I'm involved with someone else but he won't listen. He doesn't respect me." I suddenly felt like Linda Blair in the Exorcist when her head spun around.

The train was closer. The whistle was blowing. I was still on the tracks.

I bumped into her colleague when I was having lunch alone one afternoon. There wasn't another table available and he was waiting in line when he recognized me. I invited him to sit since there were three empty chairs at my table. He sat. We talked. We laughed. He walked me to my car and I drove back to work. I didn't know it but the woman saw us.

That night as we ran lines for a play we were both in, I mentioned I saw her colleague at lunch. She acted surprised. The train was gaining speed and I was looking the other way. I heard the whistle but ignored it. "I thought he was nice, very personable," I said.

"Watch out. He just wants another notch on his bedpost. But you should be safe. He prefers thin women with long, thick blonde hair."

The next thing I heard was that I was having an affair with the colleague and trying to force him to leave his wife of ten years and their 5-year-old twins. I hadn't seen him since we had lunch. I called the woman to see if she knew where the rumor started. I got her voice mail. I emailed. No answer. The engineer was hanging on the whistle as the train thundered closer.

I saw her during the tech rehearsal and asked her during a break if she'd heard anything. "I thought you were different. I didn't think you were a home wrecker." She walked away. The prop master pulled me aside. "I heard what she said. Look no further for the source. She's been telling everyone you went after him and have been seeing him at his cabin upstate on weekends." The train hit.

I blamed the train even though I had plenty of warning to get off the tracks. I just didn't think it would hit me. I was naive and trusting and stupid. I've been hit by that particular train a few times and it took me quite a while to figure out why. It's not the train's fault; it is mine. I ignored the signs. I wasn't paying attention. I thought I was safe, but no one is ever safe when they're standing on the tracks in the path of a speeding train. I'm more careful now. I get off the tracks when I heard the whistle blowing.

When someone trashes their friends, even when the venom is hidden in offhand remarks and so-called jokes, they will have no trouble putting you on the list of people to trash. It's what they do. It's the scorpion and the frog. It's the train blaring its whistle while you're still standing on the tracks. They will turn on you just as surely as they turn on everyone around them. If you don't think so, ignore the whistle and stay on the tracks, carry that scorpion across the river on your back and you will find out. I just hope it isn't fatal.

Someone who has little or nothing good to say about people they supposedly love and care about will have nothing good to say about you either if you get in their way. Count on it. Heed the whistle. Get off the tracks because the results won't be pretty and you might end up on the dung heap with the maggots. You can't blame the train.

That is all. Disperse.