Summer Memories

I didn't get much work done yesterday, not with the bloody nose and  the roofers making all kinds of noise. I did better this morning since I  slept in and they finished up their work and went their way without  waking me up. Tells me just how tired I was from yesterday's sturm und drang. Last night was a little better.

During  all the hullabaloo I talked to my Uncle Bob and to Beanie, who was busy  wrangling her fiance's kids going somewhere. Beanie got the beads I  sent for her Xmas ornament pattern I sent her weeks ago and Uncle Bob  wanted to tell me he got the letter I sent him in January about family  stories for a history of our family for my boys and their families. He  kept forgetting to mention it when he'd talked to me every other time he  called to let me know he got my letter.

Families are like that,  focused on their own families and letting the satellites of their  extended family get lost in the noise and busy-ness of everyday life.  It's all right. I'd forgotten I wrote everyone and he is the only one,  after 9 months, that has responded at all; and I wrote a lot of letters  asking for family anecdotes and histories. At least he called. That's a  point in his favor, but then Uncle Bob is -- and has always been -- my  favorite uncle. My next favorite uncle would've been Uncle Homer, who  was really a great uncle and Grandpa May's younger brother. That's a  story for another time.

I got a call from my cousin Ellen last night and we chatted. She finally finished reading Among Women,  which is a big thing because Ellen doesn't read much. She does read my  letters and has read almost everything I've had published, but not my  books . . . until now. She has a Kindle and really loves reading on  that, which is a good thing. Even better, she loved the book and asked  when the sequel is going to be published. I'm getting to it and will  have it done, along with 2 other books, soon. I don't have a specific  date since work and preparations for the holidays has taken a big bite  out of my free time.

Ellen had a surprise for me. Aunt Lois, her  mother and Uncle Bob's wife (it works out like that) gave Ellen a file  full of papers she had kept from Ellen's younger years. She went through  the bible school papers and old grade cards (oh, the horror!) and found  an old program from one of our beauty pageants. It was the year she was  Miss Iraq and wore the costume I designed and made for her.

Every  year, Hoity-Toity and I went to spend a month up at Uncle Bob's place  in the country and every year we put together a beauty pageant. It was  better than playing school with Cutty as teacher, believe me.  (The  nicknames were the way Uncle Bob, and Grandpa May, his father, thought  of us.) Cutty was just so bossy. Okay, it was Cutty's idea to have a  beauty pageant, and the year Hoggy's (that's Ellen) program indicated is  the first year we had the pageant in the 2-car garage Uncle Bob built.  We took it over, curtaining off areas for dressing rooms and a stage,  and did it right. It was a far cry from the cobbled together pageant we  had the first year when I was runner-up.

All during the month of  our sojourn in the country, we searched the nearby local dump for glass  bottles and jars (and the thickets for berries) to clean up and use as  prizes. It was a very big deal. Mom and Aunt Lois got into the spirit of  the thing and bought cocktail dresses and formals from Goodwill and  gave them to us for our pageant. I took one of the dresses, a bright  golden cocktail dress with yards of skirt, and made what I thought would  indicate an Iraqi national costume -- an I Dream of Jeannie kind  of harem costume. I was 9 or 10, so give me a break. Hoggy had long  honey gold blonde hair and I fixed her hair up into a high ponytail,  complete with a golden mini crown to hold her hair. Some of the dress  went to make a little bra and vest and the rest to make her sheer  bloused harem pants. Uncle Bob put his foot down when I was trying to  figure out a way to put a big jewel in Hoggy's navel. She won best  national costume that year, and I won Miss Universe.

Neighbor  girls, friends of my cousins, got into the act and some even had their  costumes and formals made for them while we cobbled together our own or  wore dresses from Goodwill. It was a very big deal that got bigger every  year until we stopped having the pageants. I suppose we stopped because  we were teenagers and didn't spend that month in the country any more.

Btw,  Hoggy is Ellen's nickname, which is short for Roadhog, and Cutty is one  of Laura's nicknames; the other is Gassy, for obvious reasons. Uncle  Bob nicknamed everyone. I was Pearl; Beanie was Dick Tracy or Dick; Mike  was Pickle; Aunt Lois was Hatchet Face; Bobbi Jean was Leaky or Black  (we called her the S. S. Leakybottom); Gayle was Shepherd; and I can't  remember if he gave Hoity-Toity and The Mushroom nicknames, but you can  see I've carried on the tradition.

Listening to Ellen read off  the names and events was a trip back to those times. Images of those  summers swam through my mind and reminded me how much fun we all had. We  had little spats and did the things cousins always did (like deviling  each other), but mostly they were golden days and star-filled nights  when we rarely watched television or sat still for more than a few  minutes unless we were making something for our pageants. To see us now,  you would never know we had been so close. I miss those days and that  feeling of family.

Uncle Bob asked me if I would eventually buy a  home up here and if I would ever move back to Ohio. I might buy a home,  but it will be here. I love the mountains. Even though I love my  family, some more than others, I doubt I could find a way to fit in with  them again, not like the way we were those summers as we busily put  together our pageants and scoured dumps and berry bushes. Some things  cannot be recreated. At least we have the memories, and there are a lot  of those, but I wonder what people would make of our homemade pageants  and the way we threw ourselves into the preparations. I guess it doesn't  matter, but I still wonder.

Bloody Roof Central

It only took 53 months to get it done but it is being done as I type this. My roof is finally being fixed. I can tell because there are men on the roof making noises with hammers and saws and I had to let them use the electricity in the house to run their power saws so they can cut out the bad parts of the roof. That means my last letter with the legalese and promise to contact state and local authorities worked. Or it could be that my promise to withhold rent and put it in escrow was the deciding factor. Either way, my roof is being rebuilt. Remember the power saws I mentioned. That means being rebuilt.

I've no doubt the landlord took the cheapest bid he could get but at least the work is being done and it is beginning to feel a bit warmer in here. Imagine that. Having a leaking roof does make a difference in how cold it gets in the winter. I might even be able to turn my office into a sitting room with a new HD flat screen TV after all and put in bookshelves and a big comfy chair and sit in here in the winter. I plan to put my office in the living room. Makes it easier to get the door when deliveries are made and someone knocks on the door so I will actually hear it. I can't hear knocking when I'm in the office in the drafty room with the holey roof.

This morning has been eventful for several reasons, not the least of which is a serious nose bleed, which is beginning to at last come under control. Time to up the intake on foods that contain vitamin K again. Of course, if I hadn't scratched my nose so badly when I blew it this morning I probably wouldn't have had the problem. It's so dry here that the usual post nasal drip turns to crusty dams of dried mucous that, when blown out, scrape the mucosal lining of my nose and hence the bleeding. It happens. I'm used to it happening, and it hasn't happened for years up to this point. The dry air just makes it all worse. Time to do the saline nasal spraying again.

That's the thing with life. Just when it seems boring and beyond banal, someone comes and climbs up on the roof, bringing helpers and friends, and begins tearing up the old roof and putting on a new one, and the shock creates a nose bleed, although truthfully, the nose bleed happened before the roofers arrived. It took a while to control.

In the meantime, anyone interested in a big old couch, glass end and coffee tables, and a whole lot of books?

That's all from bloody roof central. Disperse.

Review: The Age of Desire by Jennie Fields

When I began reading The Age of Desire I was immediately pulled into the narrative and into Edith Wharton's life, or at least the few years that are chronicled in Edith's words and Jennie Fields' prose. I was not prepared for such a journey, but it is a journey I am very glad I took.

I read several reviews and comments on the book, but was surprised by the vitriol hurled at Fields because she chose to write about Edith Wharton's affair with journalist, William Morton Fullerton, a man much younger than herself and a libertine, while she was married to Teddy Wharton. Their shock and anger were directed at Edith Wharton's infidelity and her treatment of her husband while he was ill. I admit, I was surprised that she could be so cold to her husband, but there are always two sides to every story, a fact that was not lost on Fields.

The Age of Desire is an accurate and very human portrait of a group of people -- Edith and Teddy Wharton, Fullerton, Henry James, and Anna Bahlmann, Edith's personal secretary, governess, and close friend. Fields uses Edith's letters and diary entries to good effect in creating a poignant and romantic interlude in Wharton's life, showing Edith's sexual and emotional awakening in her middle 40s and the seductive lure of a young man well versed in the art of love and the long con. Edith's first assessment of Fullerton was right on the money when she viewed him as a roue. She had no idea how deep Fullerton's perfidy ran and I doubt it would have saved Edith from falling in love with Fullerton or from becoming obsessed with him. Fullerton was, after all, a master of seduction.

Fields treads a fine line between accusation and pity in dealing with Teddy Wharton's depression and illness, both of which were made worse by Teddy's drunkenness and obvious lack of sexual experience. Teddy was an immature man who was kind and mostly harmless, but as his drinking got worse, his depression grew, and his actions in the face of his wife's infidelity became more pronounced, and nearly violent.

Fields' sparkling prose makes The Age of Desire the kind of book that transports the reader to the turn of the 20th century and evokes the time and place with subtlety and veracity. It is hard watching a literary icon like Edith Wharton show her feet of clay and yet Fields treats the revelations with a gentle touch and a poet's gift for illumination. Jennie Fields transcends the mundane by penning a sublime novel with wit and charm and not a little generosity in dealing with the foibles inherent in human nature.

I was captivated by the prose and enlightened by a glimpse into Edith Wharton's life and loves. Most of all, I was charmed by the enduring friendship between Edith Wharton and Anna Bahlmann. In essence, The Age of Desire, is about true friendship and the awakening of desire in both women.

Ice Cold Revenge

I have to say that Revenge is addictive. Who hasn't imagined or secretly planned a way to bring enemies down and make sure they stay down? In my younger days, I plotted and executed my share of revenge, but I certainly didn't have the resources of Amanda Clarke/Emily Thorne. I found out about the series yesterday when I finished watching season 1 of Once Upon A Time.

As for my own revenge, I remember one specific event. Since I had been married -- and divorced -- and had a different name from my family's, Dad thought it would be a good idea to get me a job at the company where he worked. He worked in accounts and I got a job, on my own merit, in data processing. We seldom saw each other and didn't take lunches together, but we did ride to work together. If anyone asked, we car pooled. That was enough of a story. But there was a girl I worked with that got fired after I started working in DP because I was doing all the work and she, for all her years of service, wasn't pulling her fair share. The fact that I also put together a procedure manual and streamlined their operations had nothing to do with her being fired and everything with me sucking up to the boss (can I just say, "YUCK!") and getting her fired. She was determined to see me fall.

She got lucky.

She happened to see my family and I at the Westland Mall and heard me call my father Dad. What else would I call him but Dad? She hightailed it to my boss and to the owner of the company saying that Dad and I were related (well, duh) and that I should be fired. That's not what happened. My father was fired because the company deemed me the more valuable asset. Dad didn't have a problem finding a job, but I had a problem with the woman that caused all the trouble. Revenge begets revenge.

My revenge took the form of setting her up for a big fall . . . right on her plastic enhanced backside. And I got pictures. This was many years before computers.

My friend bumped into her and bought her a drink, then dinner, then they started dating. It didn't take long for Miss Torpedo to drag him into the bedroom or to get out of her clothes -- in the dark. My friend got laid and she went to sleep, at which point he photographed her under garments, which included a plastic and foam butt enhancer. Had I been her, I'd have enhanced my boobs not my butt. He broke it off and the picture of her in her butt enhancer (he had a small pen camera, too) without anything else on (see what she missed by not enhancing her boobs?) were plastered all over the company billboards and at the neighborhood grocery store and her church.

I took maternity leave a few months later and after my maternity leave and vacation ran out, I tendered my resignation and went to work full time for my part time job. She was not rehired and I heard she moved to a different town to escape her shame, taking her butt enhancer with her.

I would have accepted being fired for being related to my father, but for Dad to get fired because of her vendetta with me was unacceptable. I'm not sure I'd do the same thing again, preferring as I do to confront people directly, but I would have protected my father, as I did when I offered to quit if they would keep my father on. That's how I found out the company considered me a more valuable asset. In street speak, they got more out of me than they were paying me. All of this came about because of her firing and my big raise -- 25 cents an hour. After I saved the company so much money when they fired the other 4 employees, you think they could've come up with a bigger raise. They were cheap for all their profits and property all over town, but the rich can be so cheap when you get right down to it.

Yes, revenge is seductive, especially when someone bad takes a big fall. Amanda/Emily's father asked her to forgive the people that destroyed him and set him up to take the fall for their misdeeds; Emily chose to get revenge. It's easy to forgive someone who hurts you, as it would've been had I been hurt, but much harder when the target ends up being family.

What have you done for revenge?

OMG!!

It has finally happened.

I broke the top 100 on Amazon's best seller list yesterday after Among Women was available for free.

 
 
When I went to bed I was at #8 on the contemporary fiction list and #97 on the fiction list. I just took a look and what did I find:

Product Details

• File Size: 478 KB
• Print Length: 234 pages
• Page Numbers Source ISBN: 1461031346
• Publisher: Creative Ink, LLC; 1st edition (March 7, 2011)
• Sold by: Amazon Digital Services, Inc.
• Language: English
• ASIN: B004R9Q7K2
• Text-to-Speech: Enabled
• X-Ray: Not Enabled
• Lending: Enabled
• Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #17 Free in Kindle Store (See Top 100 Free in Kindle Store)
  • #1 in Kindle Store > Kindle eBooks > Fiction > Contemporary Fiction

I added the whole bit so you didn't think I was faking it. Since Among Women is free for Kindle until Saturday, I have strong hopes of hitting the #1 spot and maybe staying there a while. Even the UK is getting into it now because 88 copies have been downloaded for free, and that hasn't happened ever. I'm nearing 10,000 copies given away, but that means 10,000 more people might actually read and like (and comment) on the book and they might tell a friend or two.

That's the whole point of a giveaway, to get your book in front of people. I decided on a 5-day giveaway so that I'd have the best chance of hitting a much wider audience. If you haven't read Among Women yet or know someone who hasn't, tell them to get it free now. This is the last chance they will have this year -- and maybe forever -- to read the book. That is, before I publish Among Men the sequel, the next book in the Among series.

Get the book while you still can. Unlimited free copies available (it's digital) until midnight Saturday, 09/29/12.

That is all. Disperse -- AND READ.

Down the Dark Path

I've been a bit lax with regard to my letter writing lately, haven't felt much like putting pen to paper or words through the pen. I get into these dark moods and bury myself in books and other endeavors that don't require words. Silence is a big part of that

This morning I had to write to my landlord about the roof, including a printout of the laws regarding said roof and indicating a deadline for replacing the roof and the consequences of ignoring the deadline, which would be me putting my rent in escrow with the El Paso county clerk of courts until said roof is replaced. I'm giving him plenty of lead time, certainly sufficient time as outlined in the printout of the laws. I'm tired of being nice and expecting the landlord to do the right thing. Now is the time for serious action and serious consequences. Of course, that means I will have to find the county clerk of courts office and put my rent into escrow with them, but that shouldn't be too difficult. I've more than a month to get everything in order, and I will have everything in order just in case. I don't like surprises when it comes to such issues. Now all I need to do is decide whether or not to send the letter now or wait and include my rent check. I think now is a better choice.

I printed out the letter and envelope and got a surprise I liked -- for a change. The return address printed exactly where it should instead of being cut off as it was with the old printer. At least that is better than before, although I do miss the longer life of the ink cartridges with the old printer and the easier feed for faxing and such. I'll just have to learn how to fax with the new machine. It has an interface with my computer, both of which are HPs, and will require some manual labor on my part, but it's a small price to pay . . . I hope. Good thing I don't have to fax very often.

I do seem to be focused on minutiae more these days and letting the big things go. I haven't written much at all recently but that is about to change. I am bursting with words and stories and think it is probably time to let them go before I explode. Or not. I'm still undecided. I do enjoy cross stitching because there is a solid end in sight and it does come fairly quickly without too much fuss and very little editing, except when I get off a stitch or miscount. Those instances are happening less and less as I get back to near the level of proficiency I once enjoyed twenty years ago.  It has taken some time, but the effort is well worth it and stitching every day closes the gap between efficiency and inefficiency very quickly. I wonder if it would help my writing. I guess I'll find out soon enough.

Writing a letter to a friend was the first step on the road back to getting some books finished. There are end points in sight but the path between first and last words has been dark and full of dangers. Good thing I'm not the shrinking violet type (for long) and eventually I get back up on my feet and stark hiking, no matter how much it hurts at first. I'll hit my stride and the pain of disuse will disappear -- to be replaced by the pain of use. At least there will be accomplishment. That's something.

Now, where did I leave the Epsom salts?

That is all. Disperse.

I want . . . something?

When I think of wanting something, it's a vague sort of feeling. I wanted a piece of lemon meringue pie when my Aunt Anne told me she was having one for her bedtime snack. I didn't want the coffee she would have with it. Water will do just fine. I want a house of my own, but not with that burning, all consuming desire that I would give up everything just to have a house.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if there has ever been anything I've wanted with all the fervor and passion of my soul, something I wanted so much I would give up everything to possess, something that consumed my every waking moment, something I planned for and dreamed about and couldn't live without. Surprisingly, the answer is . . . not really. I am a product of Gram's teaching. She told me my wants wouldn't hurt me, and they haven't, not so much that it consumed me.

I think that's sad in a way, not to want something with every fiber of my being. I've had plenty of what I don't want over the decades of my life (far too much for my liking), but like knowledge and jobs (mostly) and being able to survive through quite a few difficult, and sometimes life or death, situations, I have led a charmed life.

Don't get me wrong. I've been down and out -- as down and out as you can get without dying. I've been homeless. I've had lots of money and no money. I've been stepped on, lied to, stabbed in the heart (more times than I can count), and treated like dirt (and not just by my family), but I've still managed to come out of whatever pile of poo I've been tossed into intact. What do I know from desire that leaves me panting with rage or excitement or even hunger that gnaws at the soul until there's nothing left but a burned out husk and ashes? Nothing. I feel a bit like the Jews. There's always tomorrow. I'll get through or I won't. Pfft!

There have been moments when I thought I wanted something so much I'd die if I didn't get it. I was 5 and 12 and 15 and 22. There are lots of those dramatic moments when you're young and full of passions and unrequited desires. I got over them. I didn't die, although there were times I was so low I had decided to cut off this mortal coil and move on to the next incarnation, but I'm still here. Something always kept me going, messed up my carefully laid plans, and left me stranded on this rocky shore.

I've wept heart sick over broken love affairs. I've raged against my family's inhumanity and casual disregard for me. I've been limp with exhaustion from storms of tears and barely able to drag myself through another pointless day, and yet I still don't think I've ever been utterly consumed so that I'd do anything, say anything, give anything to have my heart's desire, and I wonder if I'm blessed or if I've missed the emotional desire streetcar because I've been unsullied by life.

That is not to say I don't have my scars and my heartaches, but I survived, so how deep could they be? Nothing has killed me yet, although sometimes I wonder if my desire, my need to want something has been irreparably damaged. I want things, but nothing so much that I'm not willing to wait and work and save to get whatever it is I want.

I want a home of my own, some little cabin in the mountains where all I see is trees, the shimmer of sunlight or moonlight on the lake down the path, and land as far as I can see. I won't kill to get it. I'll save and look and plan and it will come. Whatever I want, no matter how long it takes, I manage to get it -- if I don't lose the desire for it along the way or the desire is replaced with something else I'd rather have. That's what I mean about not wanting anything enough.

Maybe I'm looking at this from the wrong angle. Maybe I have been that passionately desirous of things but age and time have worn down the sharp edges and taught me that if it's possible I'll have whatever I want with hard work and giving up the little wants. My desires are quiet things without ardent fervor and the sense of immediacy I felt as a child and a youth. I have been tempered by my experiences and taught that time can be friend as well as enemy. My sharp edges have been smoothed by the waters of life so that I no longer gash anyone who comes near. I guess it comes with age, that slow burning fire of desire and want, so that want is a gnawing hunger inside that will be soothed eventually, secure in the knowledge that the hunger will be assuaged and the want fulfilled -- eventually. I can wait. I've waited for so much and received what I wanted. This, too, will be added in the fullness of time.

Or it won't.

Life's a gamble, but the trail through the dangerous hinterlands is always interesting.

Bounced checks

When a writer begins a story, play, teleplay, book, or series, the writer writes a check, a promissory note, that will be paid in full during the course of the work. I remember hearing that if a lead pipe (or other prop) appeared in Act 1 Scene 1, it had better be used by Act 3. The same is true for books and stories. If a writer introduces a character or a other plot point, the writer had better make it good, sooner rather than later.

I finally finished A Dance with Dragons by George R. R. Martin a couple weeks ago. I really like George's writing and enjoyed the journey but felt, as many other readers have, that there was no forward movement. I even discussed this with one of my like-minded best friends the other night, and she said that George had written more checks than he had cashed throughout the series. Now I hear that George is writing a sidebar about the first Targaryeans to hit the shores of the Seven Kingdoms. While all that is well and good, where is the end to the currently 5-book and counting series of The Song of Ice and Fire?

One of the biggest checks George wrote was the white walkers. Although there have been glimpses of them and talk about them, how many of you have read anything about the white walkers -- or the coming of winter, outside of the numerous references to the cold? The white walkers are supposed to be dangerous, to be the reason the Wall was built and manned, and the whole point of the Starks' words of "Winter is coming." There have been references to long winters in the past and the current crop of children and some adults are referred to as the children of summer, but where are the white walkers and why has George gone through five very large and wordy tomes without showing them?

The wildlings are running scared from them, scared enough to assault the wall in an attempt to get on the other side of it. They're not after plunder. They are running terrified. The dead walk but no white walkers have been seen clear and in focus or in force and there is no hint of when or where they will be appearing. That's a major bounced check.

And there are others, the biggest of which is why is Danaerys still fooling around in playing mother to slaves when she should have marched north and taken sail for the Seven Kingdoms, her rightful domain? She was all hot for it when she was married to Kal Drogo and pregnant with the Stallion that Mounts the World, but now she's wandering in the desert and there is no talk of heading north. I had thought by book 5 there would be some movement toward the ports to buy ships and head north with her slaves and dragons, but . . . nothing. Another bounced check.

I can understand why so many fans have been outraged and giving Dance poor marks. It's not the writing because that is as good as George gets. It's the lack of forward movement. It is what the negative comments have made issue over: "Nothing happens." That's not quite true. A lot happens, but none of it advances the story or hints at a light at the end of this really long and action packed tunnel. No forward movement is what they really mean and it is another bounced check.

As an editor, I'd have to say that A Dance with Dragons needed to be pruned and a whole lot of wasted space thrown out. We don't need to know about every time someone went to the bathroom or what they wore. We need to know when the white walkers are more than a myth or scary fairy tale to make children hunker down under the furs and when this battle will be enjoined between dragons and the coming of the winter with no end where the white walkers will walk in truth instead of in hearsay.

For all I know, Dany is waiting for a ride. But, wait, she already got one. It burned her clothes and skin and all her hair off, but she has a ride. She needs to stop playing waiting woman and be action woman with dragon and get the hell out of harpy territory with her forces intact and move north to the Seven Kingdoms, which are currently being torn apart by Lannister & Company.

For all of George's brilliant scenes and good writing, there needs to be some money in the bank to pay off all those bounced checks. I don't think readers will wait impatiently for another ponderous tome with no forward movement and no sign of pay off. I stopped a little past midpoint in Dance because I was a bit disgusted with the endless minutiae. Even the best written story has to have a point and I think George has lost sight of his point -- or points. A sidebar about the first Targaryeans could wait until after we have achieved the goal promised in the first book, A Game of Thrones. How about it, George? Is there an end in sight or should we write off those bounced checks?

Cassandra Speaks

THE TEMPTATIONS
"Smiling Faces Sometimes" 

 

 

Smiling faces sometimes pretend to be your friend
Smiling faces show no traces of the evil that lurks within
Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes
They don't tell the truth uh
Smiling faces, smiling faces
Tell lies and I got proof
The truth is in the eyes
Cause the eyes don't lie, amen

Remember a smile is just
A frown turned upside down
My friend let me tell you
Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes
They don't tell the truth, uh
Smiling faces, smiling faces
Tell lies and I got proof

Beware, beware of the handshake
That hides the snake
I'm telling you beware
Beware of the pat on the back
It just might hold you back
Jealousy (jealousy)
Misery (misery)
Envy I tell you, you can't see behind smiling faces
Smiling faces sometimes they don't tell the truth
Smiling faces, smiling faces
Tell lies and I got proof
Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes
They don't tell the truth
Smiling faces, smiling faces
Tell lies and I got proof
(Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes)
(Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes)

I'm telling you beware, beware of the handshake
That hides the snake
Listen to me now, beware
Beware of that pat on the back
It just might hold you back
Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes
They don't tell the truth
Smiling faces, smiling faces
Tell lies and I got proof
Your enemy won't do you no harm
Cause you'll know where he's coming from
Don't let the handshake and the smile fool ya
Take my advice I'm only try' to school ya

I'm almost hesitant to write anything political right now, and not because I'm afraid of repercussions. I feel like Cassandra who had the gift of sight but was doomed to be ignored, which in turn doomed Troy to be doomed.

I often talk politics with one of the drivers that delivers my groceries from King Soopers. He is an intelligent young man and we seem to be on the same centrist page most of the time. When I saw him Sunday he had just finished Dreams from my Father by Obama and he said that we have a president that is making his father's dreams come true. I couldn't agree more even though it seems like he is doing a good job, he is slowly crumbling the solid bedrock upon which this country stands.

I know. You're going to say that I'm racist and prejudiced and that I am a Republican, but all three would be wrong. Obama and Michelle Obama are racist and have proven it in what they write, she in her Master's dissertation and Obama in his actions. He courts the "people" but he is full of rage towards the United States, just like his father before him, an African tribesman who believed the U.S. had too much importance, too much money, and too much arrogance and needed to be brought to its knees to be just like any other country, preferably any other third world country.

Have you ever wondered why Obama has been on his near constant apology tour? Didn't it cross your mind to question why, during the talks with North Korea, Obama came away with nothing more than an agreement that the U.S. and Russia would get rid of 20% of their nuclear weapons (Russia has been selling theirs to the highest bidder since their communist government failed)? Didn't it occur to ask why Obama has no real foreign policy and why he is happy to let Iran have nukes?

I know that everyone reaches for the Nazis and Hitler whenever a discussion goes on too long, but the parallels are there, just in reverse. France and Britain stood by and pooh-poohed Germany's aggressive takeover of other country's territories, saying that Germany was just taking back what was once theirs. The blitzkriegs were swift and not a shot was fired so no one was hurt and Britain and France were content not to stir the angry ant hill. We are in the same situation.

Where is the outrage for Obama's apology when the American embassy in Egypt was attacked? We were attacked and the President of the United States apologized. What's up with that?  Where is the shock and dismay as Obama continues to apologize for the U.S. abroad when there is nothing to apologize for? Why has Obama given false dates for withdrawal from Iran and Afghanistan and continued aggression? Some say his actions in Afghanistan with the push are what we should have done in Vietnam.

There is this false bonhomie that Obama puts on but he chills my blood. It's one of those rare instances when I took an instant dislike to him as if some part of my brain recognized danger and my inner Robby the robot was waving his arms and screaming, "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" What I've seen since then scares me even more. The last time I got the Robby the robot warning was with smiling with all his teeth Carter and I was right about him, too, as has been proved by his actions in the Middle East and his red-faced rhetoric. What I continue to learn about Obama has turned my hair silver. Okay, that was already happening, but you get the picture.

Read Dinesh D'Souza's The Roots of Obama's Rage and read Obama's own words in Dreams from my Father. It will all become clear.

Call me Chicken Little. Call me racist. Call me anything you like, but take the time to read some of what I've read. Obama is out to destroy the United States and pluck her from her pre-eminent position. It infuriated his father and infuriates Obama that the U.S. produces about 2-3% of the world's oil and uses 23% of the natural resource. He considers that evil. What better way to take down this evil nation with too much of everything than to destroy us economically, financially, and personally. Even though the multi-trillion dollar bump in the deficit was due to Obama's stimulus package, because it was still part of Bush's fiscal year, Bush got the blame and the numbers. That is why it was so important to push that package of over larded pork through as quickly as possible so that Bush would get the blame. It's like Clinton's phantom surplus and balanced budget, all smoke and mirrors. Look at Obama with fresh eyes and see him for what he is. Forget about his young family and smiles, ignore his fancy speech making and take a good hard look at him when there is no prepared speech or teleprompter available. Stop making excuses for his mistakes and see them in a bright, hard light. This man needs to go before he can do the rest of the damage he has prepared, and he needs to go at the end of this election. Thwart his nefarious plans and put him out of the White House before we are a third world country and the world's economy is trashed by our fall or worse, that the world is in chaos as our enemies scramble to fill the vacuum that the United States' fall will create.

I sound like Cassandra, but be wiser than the leaders of Troy. Listen, read, pay attention, and do something about it or we will follow Troy. Remember, the book is called Dreams from my Father and not Dreams of my Father. Obama is making his father's dreams come true. Find out what they are and check your reality.

Friendly links and videos

Found this on fitfool's LiveJournal and it's a hoot. Check out her video links post, but start with this one.

Pachelbel, one hit wonder, is everywhere. It's like Harper Lee, why write more when your first hit lasts forever.

Review: Harry Lipkin, Private Eye by Barry Fantoni

To think that I could be taken in by an 87-year-old Jewish private investigator from page 1 is possible, but hasn't happened before. It might happen again if Barry Fantoni writes more of Harry Lipkin's adventures, and I sure hope he does.

Harry Lipkin, Private Eye is a gumshoe novel (and Harry wears real gumshoes; it's necessary. He doesn't want to break a hip) in a class by itself. Harry doesn't keep working, and not for $50 a day plus expenses in this economy, for the money and he doesn't work because he has to since he has no wife and no children. Harry keeps working because he can. He's an old fire horse still racing to the fire, although much slower these days, even though he was put out to pasture a long time ago.

Harry takes the cases the police never see. People don't run to the police for piddling thefts or any of the piddling issues that plague every-day life. People turn to investigators like Harry, which is what Mrs. Norma Weinberger does when a few of her small private possessions come up missing. She employs five people: a chauffeur, maid, cook, butler, and gardener. One of those five must be the culprit and Harry is the man to find out which one did it. The decapitated thug on Harry's front lawn he will thrown in for free.

Barry Fantoni has created a likeable character in Harry Lipkin. Harry still drives his own car, even though it is 60 years old, and still gets around like he always did, albeit a bit slower. Harry has reflux, can't sleep most nights, and shuffles when he walks, but he gets the job done and provides a bit of history and a few memories to keep things interesting.

Harry is a mensch, the kind of friend you'd look forward to eating a little something with in a deli or sipping lemon tea with on a hot day. Harry isn't much on repairs since climbing up the Matterhorn of his roof to replace some heavy gray slate tiles on the highly peaked roof above his one story home is a bit beyond his capabilities these days, but he's nearing a century of life and experience, and something has to give.

Fantoni isn't a stylistic writer and he won't win any literary awards, but for sheer story telling power and creating memorable characters, Fantoni is the writer you want to spend an evening or a weekend getting to know. I hope Harry Lipkin, Private Eye is the beginning of a beautiful new friendship and that we will be seeing each other a lot more.

Pictures from Texas

I received an envelope of pictures of my granddaughters I thought I'd share. No note, just pictures.

Sierra & Alanna with Belle at Disney World 2012

With Cinderella at Disney World 2012

Sierra 05/19/12

Alanna 05/19/12

Last, but not least, Alanna's 1st dance recital July 2012

Sometimes, a picture is worth a thousand words. I have a feeling all I'll get from Texas will be pictures. I can handle that.

That is all.  Disperse.

Gruesome v. Nice

Jumping through hoops this morning with the post office (nothing new there, and, no, they didn't reroute my mail again), trying to get a little sustenance after a broken night's sleep, and it's Monday again. Why is it Monday? Oh, right, because I worked Saturday and it feels like I had no weekend at all.

At least I discovered Barry Fantoni's Harry Lipkin, Private Eye, and that was fun, so much fun I read when I woke up at 2:30 a.m. I'll write about Harry later, but suffice it to say I want to be like him, without the arthritis, reflux, and shuffling. I also read The Age of Desire about Edith Wharton's affair with a journalist when she was in her middle years and married, and her enduring friendship with Anna. Hot sex, literary lights, and Wharton. Jennie Fields can write. (She's the author.)

There was another discovery as I went through the cross stitch magazines I got Saturday and had some time to peruse since sleep was playing a very effective round of hide and seek. Overdyed/hand dyed floss with it's variations of shades need to be stitch one full cross at a time. I didn't know that. It changes everything, especially with a project I've been busily stitching with Weeks Dye Works floss. It's a Halloween sampler and I do love the colors, but changing how I stitch with them changed everything. I'm not going to tear out the almost two-thirds of what I've already done, but it does make a difference in how it ends. So much to learn and absorb and use.

There were also pictures of my granddaughter Sierra in the mail, along with her half-sister Alanna, at Disney World. They were posed with Cinderella and Belle (not the cartoons, the reasonable facsimiles thereof) dressed as princesses. I think my idea for Halloween costumes (the corpse bride and glittery witch) may end up going by the wayside. I would prefer something more Halloweeny, but Karla, Sierra and Alanna's other grandmother, may have more Disney ideas about costumes. I briefly flirted with Tinkerbell, but wanted something more in a Halloween vein, like Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas, which I've also looked at and cannot find in a toddler size 4 or 5.  I want grisly and Karla probably wants magical and girly. I think grisly should be the order of the day and she can have girly for the girls' ballet recital in December. We'll have to duke it out for the choices. At least there I'll have the edge. I'm taller, bigger, and don't drink too much alcohol when the clock strikes 5. I can't remember when I last had an alcoholic drink. Must be a couple, or even three, years ago.

We do have to work these things out, these little in-law issues. I really have never gotten the kinds of in-laws I deserve. Well, there was that once when my husband's mother was dead. That was good. No in-law issues. I adored his father, just not my husband. I even liked his gay brother Larry more than I did my husband, but at least Mom liked him. Did I ever mention how much my mother's taste and mine differed? There's a good example. She thought because Nick was good looking that he was the perfect mate. Just because she got lucky (Dad didn't) meant that I would, except we were night and day. For once, I was sunny and bright day and she was the hour of the wolf on a dark and stormy night. I have a feeling Karla and Mom have more in common than I'd like. Dawn's gonna come early this time and shine like a thousand suns into her cold, dark, and stormy hour of the wolf if she thinks she can mess with me and get away with it. I don't get to see my granddaughter that often, so I win. If not, I'll knock her scrawny ass down and sit on her while holding a pitcher of martinis just out of reach and see if we can come to a more I win kind of agreement. Sometimes it pays to be fat. This is one of those times.

So, with a truncated weekend and a long climb to payday at the beginning of another fun-filled, busy week of wage slavery, I bid you good morning. At least I saw it from the half side of 9 instead of at the hour of the wolf when I finally managed to get back to sleep.

Oh, and happy birthday to Dr. Jeff. He's a newlywed married to the woman of his dreams and having the time of his life. I just know he'll blow out all the candles (potential fire hazard though they will be) and all his wishes will come true.

That is all. Disperse.

Time for a change

What is it about bald women that makes some men go wild and some men cringe in fear? Sigourney, Demi, Sinead, and Natalie all went bald, or as close as one can get without shaving, and they looked beautiful and hot. I guess when a woman is already beautiful and hot, going bald doesn't change anything, which says a lot for the Sun King, Louis XIV, finding his wife, Maria Theresa, who was bald from alopecia (loss of hair) ugly and disgusting. He probably found her to be ugly and disgusting when she had hair. Arranged marriages are like that, especially among royalty, which is why so many of them had mistresses.

This morning while looking at myself in the mirror, I decided I needed a change, so I cut my hair. No, I didn't shave it, just cut it a bit below the ears. No, my ears are not that long. You're thinking about my breasts, and they're not that long either, especially not with all the fat on them. Don't tell me you didn't know that breasts are mostly fat. Men are enamored, besotted, intrigued, and desirous of breasts, fatty tissue that also produces milk. I don't know why some men find fat anywhere else so disgusting and wilting when the one feature on a woman they crave and lust for are all about the fat. I guess it all comes down to perspective. Doesn't it always?

So, I decided to cut my hair. It was getting long and I thought it would help slow down the natural hair loss that comes with age and the weight of long hair. When I was done I had more than a pound of hair. That's a lot of hair.

As I suspected, it was mostly brown with streaks of silver, which proved (to me at least) that my hair is actually going back to brown instead of marching onward toward full silver. I'm a little unhappy about it since I was happy with the progress towards total silver, but nature will have Her way and my feelings be damned. I'll get there eventually.

I go through this hair cutting ritual about once every year or so and it had been a while since I last chopped it off. This is the shortest I've gone for a while, but it will grow on me, I'm sure. A few months and I won't be able to tell I cut it. It will make showering nicer since I won't be pulling great long strands of hair out of folds and off my body, and it won't be hanging down the back of my tops like the wispy end of a mullet. I'll hav eless hair to clean up and get rid of, too. That has to be a plus.

I probably should have done this hair cutting routine at the beginning of spring so my neck won't be cold most of the winter, but that's the thing about impulses and a sharp pair of Gingher shears. Something's going to get cut. This time it was my hair.  Next time?

Who knows?

That is all disperse.

Time, time, wasting time

One of the biggest problems with writing -- or any creative endeavor -- is wasting time. I'm a procrastinator by nature unless I'm really into what I'm doing. Cross-stitch has been my focus lately and I've completed quite a few projects.

I began the year with the goal of making 6 Xmas stockings for my grandchildren. I have 5 of them done and the 6th about halfway done. I stopped to make a baby afghan for a friend starting over with nothing and a 6-month-old baby girl, McKenna and a wedding afghan for a cousin's daughter. Then I got caught up with other projects, little things like bookmarks, samplers, and things to gift at Xmas. I have to admit it, I've been so fascinated and excited about cross stitch I've written very little: a few book reviews, a post here and there, a bit of political commentary. I've even stopped writing so much in my paper journals. My favorite bedroom fountain pen (I have fountain pens and journals for every room where I write, but not the bathroom -- no table or desk) had to be taken apart and given the hot water and baking soda treatment because the ink was clogging and wouldn't flow. That's so frustrating when I really do want to write.

In short, I've been wasting time. Not that I haven't accomplished a lot in other areas, but not in writing. I've lost that excited, joyous feeling I used to get when I wrote. Every time I think about writing I decide to do something else, figuring the writing will still be there when I get around to it. I'm not so sure that is the case. I gave up painting and drawing because of my family's and children's needs and it's not there any more. I can still draw and do it well, but I'm nowhere near where I should be had I kept up with it over the past 40 years. I used to be really good.

I found the same thing with cross stitching. I have a piece I stitched over 20 years ago and it is beautiful without a single flaw or missed stitch. It is gorgeous, if I do say so myself, but that was more than 20 years ago. When I began cross stitching again, I missed stitches, had to tear out sections and do them over because I missed a row or miscounted. My technique was rusty but it is coming back, the result of stitching every single day. Even the grandkids' Xmas stockings show the difference, especially with the one pattern I stitched twice, daughters of two sons so they won't feel like they've been cheated. They'll never see the other's stocking and won't be able to compare. Besides, one granddaughter is 3. I don't think it matters to her yet.

The practice has made a difference in my stitching, but what has the wasted time done to my writing? I don't know.

The words are still there circling the synapses of my mind. Whole scenes, dialogue, and plots are all there, but they don't make it from the thoughts to the page and I know from past experience that what ends up on the page is seldom the same way it sounded or was in my head. I may be losing the freshness and excitement that was my writing and all for what?

This has been a difficult year with deaths in the immediate family that have affected me deeply, but tough times have spawned writing in the past, and now they spawn the need to escape from writing, from taking it from inside myself and putting it on the page. I need to get that back. Writing here and now is a part of that and I hope you'd tell me if the writing seems cramped or constipated or lacking in some way that it didn't before.

Writing, like anything else, is use it or lose it. It's that way with everything in life. Use it or lose it. Some dregs may remain but they won't be the full fleshed bounty that once existed. I need to keep that in mind as I force myself to write and stitch and get out into the world away from my cramped existence and back to hands cramped from writing -- or typing -- so that I can wake up excited about what lies ahead, about what creativity I still have and use to the fullest.

Back to the salt mines where my hands are stained with ink, sore from pounding the keys, and the glow of satisfaction and accomplishment that comes with achieving a dream. Or dreams, in my case.

Review: Klonopin Lunch by Jessica Dorfman Jones

The midlife crisis hits at age 30 in this have-it-all, do-it-all, got-it-covered, but not, Generation X memoir.

Jessica has it all: handsome husband, wealth, good job at the top of her field, and youth. It is not enough, and her job will probably end soon. She is bored with her life and her marriage and Andrew, her husband, has settled into a respectable and well-furnished rut. She wants more. She needs more.

She thinks she needs more.

 Enter guitar teacher, Gideon, bad boy rocker by night, guitar teacher by day, and sex all the time. He is just what Jessica needs to help shake up her life and drive away boredom with tequila shots and chaos. Casting aside everything for a walk on the wild side where sex, drugs, and rock and roll are the order of every day, Jessica takes the plunge.

 What? Another sex, drugs, and rock and roll drug fest chased with alcohol and regret? Do we really need yet another thirty-something remembrances of things past with attitude and arrogance? Yes. We need Klonopin Lunch and Jessica Dorfman Jones’s humor and pathos to remind us what we have to lose—and to gain—in a world where everything grows old in time, even the desire for excess and eccentricity.

 Normally, I avoid drugged out memories fueled by sex and alcohol to the beat, beat, beat of rock and roll, but this memoir is something very different. There is a touch of arrogance and privilege in Jones’s tour through depravity and boredom that is overlaid with killer wit, laugh out loud moments, the bitter dregs of the morning after, and an excellent sense of timing and well written prose that makes Klonopin Lunch is more than just a memoir of yet another generation X-er with too much money and too much time on her hands. I thoroughly enjoyed Jones’s self-deprecating wit and razor sharp delivery. Jessica Dorfman Jones has the goods and she pays off with style and a flair for the wickedly funny.

Heart-Shaped Fear

Though Heart-Shaped Box was published 3 years ago and I won a copy from some book giveaway website, I had not read the book. I sold my copy of the book to help pay for rent. I know. I'm bad.

I did finally buy a copy for my Kindle (I love my Kindle) and began reading the book -- and stopped. I couldn't go on. I got that feeling I used to get whenever the movie about Nostradamus came on cable and I, against my better judgment, decided to watch. It was that squirrely feeling deep inside that kept swirling and rising and expanding until I felt panicked and like zombies were breaking down the door and coming through the windows and I was trapped in the bathroom in the tub behind the shower curtain waiting for the end. I was terrified.

Nothing much had happened. A rock star bought a heart shaped box that arrived by courier and the story of the box had begun to unfold. There was nothing very scary about it, except I was afraid, and I love horror books. I've been a fan of the best and scariest writers of horrors for decades, and yet I could not go past the first few chapters of Heart-Shaped Box because I just knew in my cringing soul it was going to get worse.

It takes a subtle and talented writer to put me in that state and Joe Hill put me in that state almost from the first chapter. Once I get all the book reviews I have to finish done and catch up on the taxes for 2025, I will give it another try. I will get through it -- eventually -- but I want some assurances that I'll be able to read it in a crowded place with lots of light and people having fun.

An amusement park might be just the ticket. Or I could go to the Renaissance Faire just up the road a piece next June. I think a yard of ale (I hate ale almost as much as beer) would be helpful in numbing the rising fear. Anesthesia might also help. I could get someone to shoot me with that drug that still lets you feel but you don't care while I read. I want to get through it quickly, like diving into icy water on the first day of June, to get it over with as soon as possible. And it might not hurt to have someone hold my hand and be ready to whisper, "It's only a book. It's not real," over and over in my head while I read to keep me anchored in the here and now. Anything to help me get through the book.

From what I've read, Heart-Shaped Box is frighteningly good and I recommend it highly to non-fraidy cats.

Now, about those taxes for 2025.

Review: Going to the Bad by Nora McFarland

Going to the Bad by Nora McFarland is the third outing for KJAY news shooter, Lilly Hawkins, and I came to the party late. I did not, however, miss much, unless you include a smart mouthed, size 10 shoe wearing, salty shooter not afraid to get her hands wet -- or bloody -- when needed.

Lilly Hawkins isn't tall, beautiful, blonde, and perfect. She's far from perfect. She's a loose cannon with brains and guts that is the saltiest protagonist since V. I. Warshawski, without the expensive shoe addiction. Lilly is a take-no-prisoners kind of video journalist who is wary of the future, skittish about committing to her boyfriend and co-worker, Rod Strong, and dedicated to finding the truth in any story -- no matter where it leads.

In Going to the Bad Lilly is faced with her own past and the secrets that the people she loves are determined to keep from her. It all started with a shooting at her Oiltown home in Bakersfield, California on Christmas Eve and things kept getting more tangled and tougher to swallow as she faced the truth of her Uncle Bud's past that dropped the bottom out of her life. Lilly keeps going anyway.

What McFarland has done with Lilly is give us a dysfunctional female in a high pressure job she loves and a cast of screw-ups and average people caught in the chaos of life. Going to the Bad is dark and edgy with a ticking time bomb at its heart that never disappoints.

Review: The Windsor Secret by David Cullen

When I bought The Windsor Secret I was looking for answers, mistaking it for fact. Make no mistake about it, David Cullen has penned a book that he calls faction, and there is a lot of fact contained on the pages. Where the line lies between fact and fiction, hence faction, is less clear. What is clear is that this book is fast paced, dark, dangerous, and a very good read.

The Windsor Secret is a continuation of The Mesrine Conclusion 18 years on and someone is killing to find out the secret, a fact that is not in evidence when the police begin investigating three murders that seem to be linked. Do they have a serial killer or is it just coincidence?

The conclusion to the investigation will surprise you, as will some of the politics involved in the special division that handles all things foreign in the French government. Cullen writes as though he knows the world of foreign affairs in foreign governments and he knows Carlos the Jackal, aka Illich Ramírez Sánchez from Venezuela, one of the most ruthless assassins in the world.

The Jackal is another piece of this international puzzle and there are two women who are out to catch him and put him down. One of the women escorted him to France to be imprisoned for life in solitary confinement, a confinement that the Jackal never saw since he was switched with a look alike.

There are many pieces to this international puzzle and Cullen lines them up and knocks them down with ease and style. According to Cullen, the Secret is what got Lady Di killed and what killed the Duchess of Windsor in her bedroom as she slept and many others who have died under mysterious circumstances and the Jackal was the agent of death. There is nothing mysterious about The Windsor Secret. It is a straight forward international espionage thriller that gives enough fact to make the fiction plausible -- and very real. It is as if Cullen has given the reader an inside tour of the British royal family and the private lives of people in and out of the news. I highly recommend The Windsor Secret for its artful blend of fact and fiction. It is a ride you won't soon forget.

Paying the National Debt

This whole idea of pushing social security to a private system and letting recipients handle their own funds is like a 401K or money market retirement fund? I think there's more to this than meets the eye.

For many years, social security has been a political slush fund. Clinton used it to pretend he balanced the budget and had a surplus, but that wasn't true at all.

As long as social security stays where it is and is managed the way it is, every working man and woman paying into the system is at least guaranteed that social security will be there when they are ready to retire. It isn't much, but changing the system would be worse, especially if the government has its way. Has anyone noticed that what would actually happen is that people would be bilked out of their retirement and Congress would be able to gut your social security benefits the way robber barons like Ponzi and the other Wall Street wizards have gutted numerous other retirement funds when they took over companies and dispersed the assets.

Is Congress going to create yet another bureau in the government staffed with money managers to help everyone manage their own private social security benefits? Is Congress also going to make sure that everyone's money is safe and that the ups and downs of Wall Street do not affect the money invested in social security? Is Congress going to make sure that short falls do not happen in the stock market in this new private social security system and that no one will lose their retirement?

Do not let this happen. Social security needs to be managed the way it is so that Congress and greedy politicians, and Presidents, cannot tamper with it. They might use it for a slush fund to pretend to balance the budget, but they cannot gut the fund nor can they spend it the way they'd like. Fight the privatization of social security. The system is not broke and never will be as long as there are people working in this country and paying into the system. Politicians, Congress, Presidents, and presidential candidates want to take away your retirement and make the future unsafe for you. Look at what they have done to the housing market and jobs. Do you really want them able to get at Social Security?

Here's the real reason Congress, the President, and politicians want to privatize social security. They want to use our money, yours and mine, to pay down the national debt, to pay off the interest on the loans to China and others. Social security is the only money available for that purpose -- and it has a very large liquid balance. They have squandered our taxes and now they want to take away what will be most people's only retirement income.

Now what do you say about the current regime in power and the coming regime? Isn't it time for a change? Isn't it time for every taxpayer and voter to stop the wholesale rape of this country? I'm tired of bending over and taking it in the rear. Aren't you?