tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57681242175357045752024-03-14T03:33:06.656-07:00Madly NormalThe normal musings from one who teeters on many edges.Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-73998988473623320302014-11-30T16:59:00.000-08:002014-11-30T16:59:24.610-08:00MOTHERLESS & GODLESS<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is an increasing level of hate that appears to be
infecting an increasing number of civilized societies. Or what seems to be known as civilized societies by
definition. It is a hate that is pouring
out like molten lava from an angry, very angry volcano. It is killing men. It is killing women. And it is killing children. It is killing all forms of life without even
the merest display of remorse. And as
bodies fall lifeless, I wonder where the sanctimonious are. I wonder where the religious leaders
are. I wonder where religion is. And then I realize that it is religion all
over again at the core of this hate even as it preaches love, morality and
ethics in its sanctified halls. Those
sanctified halls built with the money of believers tithing as if every
contribution will forgive all their transgressions throughout the past week. Walk into these halls and you'll be
transfixed by crucified Christs, entombed Talmuds, crosses, stars, crescents
and all manner of religious symbols and accoutrement meant to captivate your
reverence to an unseen god. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZw3EJOZyc_rlvUxShSiuXt4UTHg-eYcF14_0uo_-8CAfhurwXd0XHeCxHGck3Yr-c5QaeBrxFn6ZZqNvu-Nz_znfC04K6i9JzcTaZU431vvBQkdy9niRUvcJNvHCxSna5SmYQpFqNIYE/s1600/Motherless+&+Godless+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZw3EJOZyc_rlvUxShSiuXt4UTHg-eYcF14_0uo_-8CAfhurwXd0XHeCxHGck3Yr-c5QaeBrxFn6ZZqNvu-Nz_znfC04K6i9JzcTaZU431vvBQkdy9niRUvcJNvHCxSna5SmYQpFqNIYE/s1600/Motherless+&+Godless+(3).jpg" height="229" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Where is
this god who never appears but in paintings and in marble and whose voice is never heard? Why does not this god break his silence and
tell humanity to stop in that deep, resounding, bellowing, intense manner we
expect? Instead, the believers get an apathetic god’s silence. I can’t help thinking of the resemblance of
this god to the silent parents of today’s undisciplined and destructive kids acting
out in the most negative ways their entry into adulthood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was born a Jew. I
was raised as a Jew, though loosely enough not to infringe on my ability to
think. I believed then there was a
loving and forgiving god who listened to my prayers and, if I was good, would
grant me my wishes. Sometimes. I rarely went to our temple and only on High
Holy Days, if then, with my mother, grandmother and aunt. The men chose other activities less religious
like playing gin around a pool reflecting the Miami Beach sun on to their
already too tan, sweaty skin. I was touched by
the meanings of the prayers and bought into the rising voices and spirit of the
congregation. I wanted to believe. Until, I could not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I knew what God sounded like. He sounded like John Huston. What did he look like, I wondered until the
night I no longer wondered. I remember
as a child of 10 or so, I </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">stayed over at my best friend’s brownstone
on West 103</span><sup style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">rd</sup><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Street in New York City. Neither
of us ever fell asleep quickly and often not until her mother angrily called
out an order to shut up. We tried as the
silence fell around us. My mind usually
did flip flops at this time, a habit which still plagues my ability to fall
asleep. And this night was not any
different as I shot up in bed with a revelation. A fearsome revelation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Carol, I know what God looks like.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“You’re nuts. My
mom’s going to kill us. Go to sleep,”
Carol whispered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“God looks like an embryo,” I persisted, announcing with a controlled
fear of having knowledge I'd be better without.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The second after the last word was uttered, a fear overcame
me. I was sure that I had just unearthed
a secret of such proportion that my life would have to be ended by some
mysterious force sent down from above and now on its way to fulfill its mission.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“How did you figure out something so stupid?” Carol
whispered.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Okay, it’s said that we are created in God’s image, right?”
I answered, knowing my life was about to end.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Right,” Carol parroted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Well, then? There it
is. When we’re first created we’re an
embryo. There! You have it.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Both of us lay awake all night, fearing the dread of
retribution from not an embryo, but The Embryo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every creak and every noise that old
brownstone emitted was a sign our lives were about to end. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jcuUrogVf9b9mk9eJ0t8Yx4LVNXfN9mZwr9VR2-PUMzVClZ7DNFolQJ2TRKskchSpiVAq-6eFB59zFQFrbgNgnzkMwOMePXbo-NtovD5DDQzlZ25RqabkE0x3JgfibmDyvm_dffdtoQ/s1600/Motherless+&+Godless.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7jcuUrogVf9b9mk9eJ0t8Yx4LVNXfN9mZwr9VR2-PUMzVClZ7DNFolQJ2TRKskchSpiVAq-6eFB59zFQFrbgNgnzkMwOMePXbo-NtovD5DDQzlZ25RqabkE0x3JgfibmDyvm_dffdtoQ/s1600/Motherless+&+Godless.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I had figured out what God looked like. How could I believe in a god that looked like
an embryo or a shmoo. For those of you who are not
aquainted with shmoos, they were popular cartoon characters created by the
amazing political cartoonist Al Capp and provided great joy for both children
and adults.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But I continued to believe anyway. My beloved grandmother believed. My beloved mother believed. My idolized aunt believed. But as my grandmother and, many years later,
my mother passed so did my beliefs. When
my grandmother died, it was the first time I had lost a human being that I
loved dearly and the first time my heart broke into pieces, leaving it
permanently scarred. When my mother died
at 69 years of age after suffering the cruel and torturous effects of cancer
and the cold and inhumane medical treatment given her, I remember the feeling of
numbness and aloneness and desperation to escape. I remember finding a wall into which I wanted
to melt and disappear. Instead, I found
a corner which I attempted to wedge my way into in an effort to become that
corner if I could. I found myself slipping down on weak legs into a huddle of
flesh. It was that day God died for
me. It was that day that God evaporated
and disappeared like I wanted to do. It
was that day that I was reborn Motherless & Godless.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They say that once you heal from a devastating event, in
this case the death of my mother, your anger at God is rationalized away and your
belief returns and is often more intense than before. Not in my case. As time passed and the healing progressed, my
belief in that god never returned. It
was like an epiphany, but not of the spiritual kind. It was a release and a new sense of awareness
and freedom that seemed to envelop me. Though
I must admit there were times that I feared being confronted by that god’s
anger upon announcing to friends, who persisted in talking about their
reverence, that I was an atheist. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I still think of that god I abandoned long ago. I still ask why during this world’s upheaval
hasn’t the Judeo-Christian God shown himself.
To which I get from believers the same Pavlovian response they always
give to similar questions: “Haven’t you
ever believed in anything you can’t see?
God works in mysterious ways. He
doesn’t have to show himself.” Well, far
from convincing me of the presence of their god, that response just pisses me
off as just another religious gimmick of avoidance. Have I believed in something I could not see
since my conversion to atheism?
Yes! I believe my mother is
present and that she hears me talk to her.
And that she delights in my lighting a candle
for her on the anniversary of her death, not forgetting to put a red rose
nearby. My mother loved red roses. And she loved unicorns and for her, I also
believe in them. I haven’t seen one
lately, but my hope is I will. I also
believe in the possibility of superior alien life somewhere in the vast
universe and beyond and yet I have never seen any. I hope I do for in seeing one, I will be
assured that the species I had no choice in being part of and have so
little respect for is not as superior as is thought. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Every day, I am flooded with the news that envelops the
internet. Between Yahoo, The New York Times,
Twitter, CNN, and our inconceivably inane local news, I feel like I am being
buried alive. Each grain of dirt joining
other grains of dirt falling on my chest stopping me from breathing and only
allowing gasps of my despair and perhaps a muddy tear falling down my cheek. I see stories of such depths of depravity and
evil, I can only think where is that unseen god so many have so much belief in? Why is he allowing so many to suffer, to die,
to wander homeless and afraid? Is his keeping
his unyielding mysterious ways so important to him? Is it more important than alleviating his
creations’ suffering? Does he condone the seeking his
imagined love and his protection in flagrantly expensive houses of worship? Is he pleased by the annual dues paid in order to show him reverence? Does he not want to shout his anger? For surely he would not condone this. Is this not a protection racket kept enriched
by bribery? If you give, you will be
saved. If you give, you will be
forgiven. If you give, you will get good
seats for the High Holy Day services and maybe that new car. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What is so bewildering is the denial by so many of the hypocrisy of religion. There is in almost every religion divisiveness by race, class, wealth, politics, and all manner of separation
within the same denomination. These are
not only acceptable but often promoted by the clergy and parishioners. Then there are the 7 Deadly Sins of lust,
gluttony, greed, laziness, wrath, envy, and pride. And though they are sermonized against, they
are kept alive and nourished by a human propensity for self-indulgence and more
hypocrisy. Did I forget to mention gossip...and
adultery? With all of this delinquent
behavior, one would think that this god would be much pissed, pissed enough to
come out of hiding and announce in that announcer voice: “Enough! Give me your cell phones and go to your
rooms.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I do think of when I am aged and suffering infirmities and looking at
death in the face. I wonder if my steadfast disbelief in a god and in religion
will hold. Will the fear of the darkness
and unknown about to unfold consume me so that I will fall back on the early
rituals of so many years ago; the rituals that consisted of hoping that the god
I grew up believing in was there to lead me safely through the unknown and/or
perhaps answering my request for a painless death and/or giving me just a
little more time? I am hoping not. I am hoping that my rational thought that
brought me to my present belief will hold true and that the human courage we
all have that blooms during times of fear and uncertainty will be enough to see me through. I am hoping above all that my life was lived decently and with care and with a minimum of judgement on those whom I loved so that my passage is traveled well. And for that, I need only believe in the strength of my heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">By the way, my capitalizing or not capitalizing the "G" in the word god changed as did my belief.</span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-68752350560421783842013-07-18T16:53:00.001-07:002013-07-18T16:53:10.169-07:00HORSE BREATH & OTHER EQUINE SMELLS<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 6.0in; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">“Whaddya
want?” Stephen, then boyfriend, asked
anticipating my birthday.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">“I wanna spend the afternoon </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">horseback</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> riding and </span><span style="line-height: 18px;">picnicking</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> under a tree.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Two friends
and I drove up to a rundown house on a small spread just outside of Los Angeles. To the left, a rusty pickup sat on browning
grass; to the right, two bored horses stood in a corral. The pickup got my attention. Tied to the driver side mirror was a dark bay
mare shimmering in the sun like chocolate brown quartz, her mane and tail black
as onyx, her compact body that of an American Quarter. She was calm as I cupped her velvet chin in
my hands and brought her nose up to mine.
I marveled at the fragrance of her breath, grassy and warm. Then I saw the birthday card hanging from her
halter. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Nothing is
remembered about the card but the recognizable handwriting inside. “She’s yours.” I
looked at the landowner, searching his weathered cowboy face. He nodded a yep-she’s–yours nod. I looked at my friends who smiled a yep-she’s-yours
smile.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“She’s mine?”
I whispered not wanting to spook the possibility. “Really, I can ride her anytime, really?”</span></span><br />
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was reined in by Vicki’s impatience.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Really! Let’s ride!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">We rode all
day. Coco was quirky as it turned out. Letting her out on a straight path and oblivious
to an oncoming sharp left, she spontaneously took it in full gallop. That I wasn't </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">riding air that first day was a
sign of real cowgirl status, in my opinion.
Attempting to stroke her between her ears, she’d jerk her head back, the
first time catching me in the teeth. A result
of macho cowboy discipline, I imagined. She
once galloped from one end of a wire fenced run to the other where I breathlessly
stood hoping she would stop short. She
ran right into the fence catching her leg through an opening. She panicked trying to extricate herself. Heart racing, I lamely assisted in guiding
her weighty leg out. She suffered a gash
necessitating vet visits and all-consuming TLC.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">An actress, I
often avoided or arrived at auditions smelling horsey. It must’ve been my contagious elation for
work came. When there was none, I was
applying medication, changing wraps and massaging Coco’s leg. I was currying, brushing, combing, toweling,
picking the debris out of her hoofs and walking her as she healed.</span> <span style="line-height: 115%;">I was cleaning tack and inhaling leather and leather oil.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was on a
continual sensory high. My agents loved
me, Stephen spoiled me, my cat adored me and Coco was finally ready to ride. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was
bright and cool – perfect weather. Led
from her stall, I backed Coco into the grooming and saddling area where two
posts were provided to cross tie her. She
was groomed till she looked show worthy.
With a beard and hair growing out of her ears? Hardly!
I got my clipper. Beard gone. Improvement.
I grabbed a stool. Ears were
next. I aimed the clipper. Cross ties allowing, she jerked her head back. I massaged the clipper up her neck which she
liked and again aimed for her ear. She jerked
her head back again, moving her body away from my hand used for balance. I fell off the stool and under her. Was it a kick? Was it the fall? I don’t know, but the result was
catastrophic.</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Escaping
from under a horse’s hooves is like trying to escape from under a weed whacker. When I finally crawled half way out, I saw three
men approach. They pulled me free. I told them my leg might be hurt. Two created a cross armed seat and the third
placed me in it. Secure, I looked down as
my right knee gave way with an audible snap making the same left angle that
Coco made that first day I rode her.</span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Put me down!”
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They carefully
lowered me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I put my
good left leg under my mangled right leg for support. The memory of pain is indelible even now as
is the emergency room of Burbank’s Saint Joseph Medical Center.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">It
took three surgeries, endless physical therapy, a knee that is cosmetically
unacceptable and a reversal in the trajectory of a promising career.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I never rode
Coco again. I never blamed Coco
ever. The fault was mine, the Brooklyn
girl with dreams of being a cowgirl.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">A friend
took over selling Coco to a family he said would care for her. I never believed him. I have nightmares to this day mingled with
the memories of her smells: a bouquet of sweet breath, sweat, the leather of her
saddles and the hay and oats and horse manure. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCnze3U2uoKqaiLmHKFZHE1WXfVf7S3SCXtzCpt3Dno74LRegBJiWuVcL-2So0wPOBqr-JqXr4o6b9lBzoV-Ihsa497r_f_UEVe0nETgPOmCu1cFLnpB4vDVlygb1moSetvpP01gcEBs/s1600/Coco+Dances+filter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOCnze3U2uoKqaiLmHKFZHE1WXfVf7S3SCXtzCpt3Dno74LRegBJiWuVcL-2So0wPOBqr-JqXr4o6b9lBzoV-Ihsa497r_f_UEVe0nETgPOmCu1cFLnpB4vDVlygb1moSetvpP01gcEBs/s320/Coco+Dances+filter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">And I have a picture of her in the height of the California sun dancing
like a wild spirit.</span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-6665221739021519642013-04-11T18:41:00.001-07:002013-04-11T21:21:24.562-07:00ANOTHER DAY - A stab at poetry<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The grey blue color of winter skies,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And woolen clothes hiding flaccid thighs;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of stop and
go and pump and grind ‘em,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Of shallow
youth and callous mayhem;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of guns like
coins in pockets hidden,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In yards of
schools where once forbidden;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jackhammers
drilling and corporate shilling,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The waters
flowing with toxins killing;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of shedding
off the skin of daylight,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And stresses making heart and lips tight;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPGc0qEHYFq51OauegDBq3pzdG5DMb5zTNlpYNlCInbFgMiRvphxTdTBgYUZJ7EwURz1l-haLX4RwoDjqaw97jbpFsndIS9yS9IulpdFCb4W8Tbzs4q_EtGBF4ODA2Y7su1KVTx54_pU/s1600/NYC+night+street+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPGc0qEHYFq51OauegDBq3pzdG5DMb5zTNlpYNlCInbFgMiRvphxTdTBgYUZJ7EwURz1l-haLX4RwoDjqaw97jbpFsndIS9yS9IulpdFCb4W8Tbzs4q_EtGBF4ODA2Y7su1KVTx54_pU/s1600/NYC+night+street+3.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of flipped on
switches birthing squares yellow,</span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The lives
beyond seeking moments mellow;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of calls from
strangers with garbage to sell,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In hours of
respite where persons dwell;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Of times
despairing and sound bites swearing,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That life is
ending and no one’s caring,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While night time
shadows in bedrooms massing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Yet one more
day in a life that’s passing.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-23644486645330739272013-02-19T17:57:00.001-08:002013-04-11T21:19:26.412-07:00DO YOU HAVE CHILDREN?<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“Do you have children?” I’m always asked by new
acquaintances as if having them was the prerequisite for a future friendship.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“No!” I always answer with an exclamation point and then
offer up the response to what I sense is a sympathetic look.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“It was by choice not by a physical precondition,” I add which </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">usually rests the subject. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It was in a conversation with my friend, Mimi, who is also childless, that I was reminded of another response that those of us who are voluntarily without receive: "You were smart." For some reason, this response astounds me and I return it with a smile and, finally, a change of subject.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Smart had nothing to do with it. I just never wanted any.
Not that I don’t like children. I
do. I really do. And I wonder at those who don’t. On the other hand, I have pushed the limits
of anger management when parents let their kids act like unrestricted, entitled, head-banging
brats. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was never the desire to procreate. To show the world I live in that I could be
the ultimate woman by getting pregnant and delivering to society the perfect
little me or combination little me and impregnator was never a goal. And there was never that clock ticking that I
hear so many women talk about or read about.
The only clock that determines what I do is the digital clock on my bed
side table or cell phone. And as there
is no amusing game app called Babies with Friends, I remain thankfully childless. Well, no app could make me pregnant at this
time in my life anyway.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There was also the approximate nine months of incubation
before the little angel was born that never attracted me. There were times when I envied the illusion
of beauty that a pregnant woman engendered in loved ones. Though I assume it is just that, an
illusion. I just imagine the nine months
of feeling like I’ve gluttonously eaten more than my healthy share and wanting
to give out a good belch to relieve myself.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then there’s the water breaking and the pushing and the pain
and the screaming and the prize being delivered. Then there are the relieved smiles on loved
ones’ faces that the prize has all the acceptable fingers and toes and is not
suffering from some syndrome or something.
And the photos and the congratulations and the sleepless nights and the
dirty diapers and the sitters and the planning for their education before they
form their first word. And then there
are the sacrifices to be made – or should be made – to raise that child to meet
their potential. Ah, the
sacrifices. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYzp0AAbGqEH5NrLg4qiUlz93M3tFidUc2DxJaknZsPXcQ_NQm1Rp-MoEbozMmdoD0hK0TE4462KbvbZVVzyhKfwWSLzZ0W2P9tVRLTcFnVN73eREMmJdzivvxoO0Zz139_9pfTfeNBsU/s1600/Muz's+Earl+Carroll+Photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYzp0AAbGqEH5NrLg4qiUlz93M3tFidUc2DxJaknZsPXcQ_NQm1Rp-MoEbozMmdoD0hK0TE4462KbvbZVVzyhKfwWSLzZ0W2P9tVRLTcFnVN73eREMmJdzivvxoO0Zz139_9pfTfeNBsU/s320/Muz's+Earl+Carroll+Photo.jpg" width="247" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sacrifices! I never
felt I could undertake those; make the commitment to give up that which seemed more vital to my happiness. And
yet I had a champion role model to learn how – my mother. That she went to the edge of sacrificing her
true potential to help me meet mine was my undoing as a potential mother and
her potential as a fulfilled woman. There
wasn’t a chance that I would want to give up what she gave up for me. There wasn’t a chance that I could be or want
to be so selfless or full of love for her child as she was. There wasn’t a chance that I’d give up my
dreams as she did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At this point, you’re thinking: Madly is a cold hearted woman without a
vagina and accompanying accoutrement.
And thusly I was also born without the ability to nurture. And I’m thinking: You’d be wrong. And I have a witness list – available on
request - to prove you’re wrong. I declare that I have the ability to nurture. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I love animals. I am
able to love them more than I can love humans.
They elicit a nurturing impulse in me which is felt towards humans less
often. Is it because animals are voiceless? Defenseless against human transgression? Made dependent because of human need or greed? Is it because it’s not a societal expectation
to love animals as we love ourselves? Is
it because humans have disappointed me so often in friendship and in love and
in trust? Is it because animals never
have?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That said I now make the case for my nurturing
abilities. It was many years ago when my
home had an open door for anything resembling a feline. There were always two, or three or more cats
decorating my home with their silence and grace. And there was also the random foster or
rescue that needed all the TLC a human could offer to send it on its way to a
permanent home. This brings to mind
Peter, a Siamese mix male kitten who was rescued with his siblings and mom from
under a Thai restaurant. The mom was
ferociously feral and so fixed and released and the kits were adopted but for
one – Peter. This blue eyed, angel
faced, seal pointed boy suffered a raging case of Ringworm and a neurological
problem affecting his balance. He was
nursed and loved until he found his forever mom who loved him as she would’ve
had he been a human child. By the way,
Peter presented challenges upon his release - as it turned out prematurely - by
the vet on assurances that his Ringworm was cured. Soon after arriving at my home, Peter
innocently spread it to two out of three of my cats and, with a few scares, to
myself. This turned out to be a chapter
in sacrifice as my life turned into an extended medical drama with my bathroom
as my ICU.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Let me not forget to mention the rescue of a cat with end
stage liver disease. This little tortie,
who was found roaming in obvious great discomfort in front of a friend’s duplex
one block over was not going to go it alone.
She wasn’t easy to impress and fought like hell to avoid me. But I was in my Super Hero “I can’t be hurt”
mode and she was mine. Again, my
bathroom became an ICU. She passed with
care and love as all creatures deserve.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And the healthy fosters who became well socialized lovers
who found carefully examined families.
And my own kits – a word oddly resembling the word kids – who could not
have gotten better care and more love.
And how that love often broke my heart as they left me because they
could no longer live their lives without suffering. And how I look at their carefully taken
photos as evidence that nurturing is a cross species ability. And I remember what my adored granny used to
say to me which was repeated by my very much missed and loved mom: “When I come back, I want to come back as
your kit.” And, you know what? They did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY9_viQ44xF7M6JOzzFimAl86IFyCBAlKE4tpaqjd_56kTXlB9UVnwf_kxMUHm6a3A2IKxYiYXjwEmO2l3QHZ5HMnDVhC690x9cUyRYnnGQWzc0DbrpGdZUvZU3MLKwZdEFPrGm4TqyIQ/s1600/Dolly+04-05+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY9_viQ44xF7M6JOzzFimAl86IFyCBAlKE4tpaqjd_56kTXlB9UVnwf_kxMUHm6a3A2IKxYiYXjwEmO2l3QHZ5HMnDVhC690x9cUyRYnnGQWzc0DbrpGdZUvZU3MLKwZdEFPrGm4TqyIQ/s200/Dolly+04-05+004.jpg" width="142" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is one more thought before I finish. I don't suggest that I don't honor those women who brought children into this world and provided a future for it. I do. I sometimes even envy those who bore children and sacrificed and loved them and raised them to be beautiful and productive, rational and sensitive adults. I look at some and think what it might've taken from me to do the same. But at day's end, there is the confidence that I made the right decision and my 17 year old cat, Dolly, nods in agreement.</span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-45566645523073266312013-01-27T14:35:00.001-08:002013-01-27T16:13:26.479-08:00TACO DAY<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Have you
noticed there’s been a proliferation of semi if not totally unimportant days
that we now put on our calendars to celebrate with beer and pretzels, chicken
wings and bean salad? How about bagels
and lox? Or, tacos?</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We grow up
looking forward to days like Thanksgiving and Christmas because school is out,
the cooking scents of turkey and pie fill our nostrils and life seems full of
rewards of carefully wrapped packages if we’re good. But there are holidays when all is needed is a
trip to the card shop and a salute to Hallmark, which, by the way, I think
has a war room filled with holiday starved, underpaid, lonely and really nice
people whose job it is just to create holidays worth a Hallmark card. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And if you're even partially as obsessed with this subject as I've become, click: </span><a href="http://www.theultimateholidaysite.com/holidays/2013-1/"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">h</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">ttp://www.theultimateholidaysite.com/holidays/2013-1/ </span></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now, consider
the following holidays, all which exist, that must have been on a Hallmark
meeting schedule:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Note: </b></span>
Please be advised to check on the accuracy of the dates as “holidays can land on a specific day of the year, be tied to a certain day of the week in a certain month or follow other calendar systems like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lunar_Calendar">Lunar Calendar</a>”</span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> as per Wikipedia. I'll be using Lunar
Year 2013 as my guide. This ain’t easy,
folks, and I'll not be held responsible for any cards you buy in error. </span></i><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif; font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">JANUARY:</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>January 4th,
National Trivia Day.</b> Talk about trivial.
I always said we take things too seriously.
Actually, I take things too seriously.
And it’s time I celebrated taking trivial things not so seriously. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>January 12<sup>th</sup>,
National Pharmacists Day.</b> Well, I’m not
going to get into this one as my husband’s father used to be a pharmacist. But, if we’re to be fair, shouldn’t we give
medical marijuana distributors equal honors?
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfLfeKFLSew27WeZi8l75l1vM7KCQqwdhzX-RG7y2mA-e7fgfdMLt7GHzkL6Q3fuUbhjxiHiSVNhaDtj9pKL8NBN0Lt-bk172f1iBq7vMrMh3VqVxKjRZBg8YVGZoA1WZweUcSQLKk9s/s1600/Taco+Day+Bibi+&+Barak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEfLfeKFLSew27WeZi8l75l1vM7KCQqwdhzX-RG7y2mA-e7fgfdMLt7GHzkL6Q3fuUbhjxiHiSVNhaDtj9pKL8NBN0Lt-bk172f1iBq7vMrMh3VqVxKjRZBg8YVGZoA1WZweUcSQLKk9s/s320/Taco+Day+Bibi+&+Barak.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>January 24<sup>th</sup>,
Belly Laugh Day. </b> Seriously! It’s right there on the Internet. Of all the unnecessary
holidays, this is the one I find most worth celebrating. Think for a moment. Think of the greeting
card: Israel’s Prime Minister Netanyahu and President Barak Obama bent over in
uncontrolled hysterical laughter, a glass of tea in their hands and streams of
tea running out of their nose uncontrollably.
Inside, the words: “Agreement reached on Israeli settlements but liquids
will no longer be served at meetings.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>FEBRUARY:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br />February 2nd, Groundhog Day. </b> The scientific community has debunked the reasons for this holiday as hogwash and, as a non scientist, I agree. Also, as an animal lover I must align myself with the animal rights community and protest the exploitation and humiliation that's visited on the chosen groundhog (known as Punxsutawney Phil, Seer of Seers, Sage of Sages, Prognosticator of Prognosticators, and Weather Prophet Extraordinary aka Phil) annually for no reason but to bring business into Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. It seems that’s a good enough reason in a capitalistic society.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>February 8<sup>th</sup>,
Boy Scout Day.</b> Okay, I’ve got a beef
with this one for moral reasons. It's
now generally known that they bar atheists and gays. </span> <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I'm one who has found atheism more to my liking and have friended and loved gays, I'm taking the privilege of throwing this day out of consideration for a Hallmark card. Are you listening, Hallmark?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>February 9th, Bagel and Lox Day. </b> Had I known about this holiday sooner, I would've observed it religiously. From now on, it'll be celebrated by a nice holiday brunch with a side of cream cheese, onions, and sour pickles. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>MARCH:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>March 12<sup>th</sup>,
Girl Scouts Day. </b> Well, they do sell
cookies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>March 30<sup>th</sup>,
Doctor’s Day.</b> Okay, what I want to know
is when they’re not in the office because they’re in surgery, or going to
conferences in Hawaii, are they out celebrating Doctor’s Day?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>APRIL:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>April 1<sup>st</sup>,
April Fool’s Day.</b> If anyone buys a card
for this day, this day then clearly speaks for itself. Actually, though it’s not a national holiday,
I do think it should be…and a working one. The holiday should last throughout our Congress’s scheduled
sessions. You know, when they’re not out
on a real national holiday or taking a break from their tedious and laborious
work. And just so that this post isn't
all fun and games, I just went to Wikipedia and found some April Fool’s Day
trivia and I quote: <i>“The earliest recorded association between April 1 and
foolishness can be found in <o:p></o:p>Chaucer's Canterbury Tales (1392).” </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>April 9<sup>th</sup>, Name Yourself
Day.</b> Is Tammin Sursok taken? </span><span style="font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif";"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>MAY:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><sup><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">May 9th, Lost Sock
Memorial Day.</span></sup></b><sup><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> I hate
this day as it brings up very sad memories.</span></sup></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>JUNE:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>June 19<sup>th</sup>,
Juneteenth Day. </b> And I’m not even
kidding. I certainly want to be in on
this Hallmark creative meeting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>JULY:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>July 1<sup>st</sup>,
Canada Day.</b> I suggest to David
Letterman’s writers, if they haven’t already, to do a 10 Reasons To Celebrate
Canada Day because I can’t think of a one other than they are better neighbors
than some of mine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>July 14<sup>th</sup>,
Bastille Day.</b> I, for one, am against
celebrating Bastille Day - which as an American, I’m not obligated to do -
because this was the beginning of the end for Queen Marie Antoinette, to whom I
owe my longing for living in excess.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4O1vtOY_k3QGMRmFmImZv6x3ALEE7iCiXGBfmrPc8kxz2J3xN9CWWQ3MMz2cs1H2rfS_iRO5yBPWpIZl_pTdhfVfnrA4YOdLtUlnxvsYrFCrLBx3obBz-2Ph6PTi9Wgqg4csHLVb2ALY/s1600/Taco+Day+Marie+Antoinette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4O1vtOY_k3QGMRmFmImZv6x3ALEE7iCiXGBfmrPc8kxz2J3xN9CWWQ3MMz2cs1H2rfS_iRO5yBPWpIZl_pTdhfVfnrA4YOdLtUlnxvsYrFCrLBx3obBz-2Ph6PTi9Wgqg4csHLVb2ALY/s320/Taco+Day+Marie+Antoinette.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>This is what I'm talking about.</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">AUGUST:</b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"></span></div>
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<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">August 1<sup>st</sup>, Girlfriends
Day.</b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The ability for one to practice friendship is
truly a tribute to </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">human interaction considering all the interactive
dysfunction there is out there. This is a</span> <span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">worthy card buying day.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>August 4th, Sisters Day. </b> And Sister’s Day is certainly worth a card. I don’t have any</span> <span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">siblings and have had times
when I yearned for one or several. In
this, the value of friendship comes to mind as an alternative to the lack of
parental production. As for the brothers
out there, your day is August 9</span><sup style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>August 19<sup>th</sup>,
National Aviation Day. </b> As I hate to
travel, comments on this day will be short.
When they lower the excessive air travel ticket prices and start serving peanuts
and pretzels again, I might change my mind.
Enough said. No card!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>SEPTEMBER:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">September
16<sup>th</sup>, Stepfamily Day. </b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> And as a suggestion to same gender families,
if there isn’t one already, I say get on grabbing a day for Same Gender Family
Day. 365 may seem like a big number, but
in contrast to the national deficit, it’s nothing.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>September 27th, Native American Day. </b> It was impossible to validate the date as this day isn't even celebrated in all states and the ones which do celebrate it celebrate it on different days. I find this troubling in light of our country’s actions. And in deference to our fellow citizens, this is a day for which I personally would like to make a card. Off subject, let me say that many of my relatives and friends know I don’t often buy cards. I started making them myself when I decided that shopping for a relevant card to celebrate an occasion was driving me mad with frustration and awe at the amount of unremarkable sentiment and humor that was available. Now, back on subject, consider what the white invaders, Columbus - it is rumored - among them, did to the indigenous people they found upon stepping onto this new territory and up until this day when the first Native American Indian opened their first gambling casino. I think, in the least, they deserve a real national day. And a card created by me. Perhaps it would feature a tribe of really white, blond and braided, blue-eyed folks in leather, feathers and beads on a shore watching the landing of a really red skinned, black haired, brown-eyed guy in a heavy, blousy, belted tunic, tights and a Flying Nun hat followed by his crewmen. Inside the words as spoken by the red-skinned fellow in the Flying Nun hat and not with the permission of Hal David who wrote them: </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />Promises, promises<br /> I'm all through with promises, promises now<br /> I don't know how I got the nerve to walk out<br /> If I shout, remember I feel free<br /> Now I can look at myself and be proud<br /> I'm laughing out loud</span><br />
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<b style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">OCTOBER:</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>October 7<sup>th</sup>,
Madly’s Birth Day. </b> Give me a little room
here. I think it’s only right that after
conceiving and then writing this nonsense, that I be given a day. And I wish at this time to thank my mother
for conceiving me. I try to live my life
well, have no prison record, vote in every election and love animals to
distraction. Of course, I'd have to
share this day with June Allyson, Simon Cowell, Yo-Yo Ma, Joy Behar, Vladimir
Putin, Desmond Tutu and many more which I'd do joyfully. I hereby claim rights to October 7<sup>th </sup>and
will accept any and all commercial greeting cards for which I thank you in
advance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>October 9<sup>th</sup>,
Leif Erickson Day. </b> No comment but to
say that there’s already a Christopher Columbus Day and I don’t wish to rock
the boats on which they came. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoylEAmvOgYfKNHf3pSU6ZOd5wksb_3reYMAdYw9w01MwttLvvCNTBnjEW-KLurhWCsKrjrX74vNN2k6VmRkCF7G6QsKnJT90SKvAG6QC274GIl-8oXO90OmHpPkjAOVxCASmEwOeMRk/s1600/Taco+Day+Columbus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoylEAmvOgYfKNHf3pSU6ZOd5wksb_3reYMAdYw9w01MwttLvvCNTBnjEW-KLurhWCsKrjrX74vNN2k6VmRkCF7G6QsKnJT90SKvAG6QC274GIl-8oXO90OmHpPkjAOVxCASmEwOeMRk/s200/Taco+Day+Columbus.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>October
14<sup>th</sup>, Columbus Day. </b> Stay with
me here. Maybe we can recycle the
American Indian Day card for this holiday.
Now this is an idea that could very possibly get me an executive job at
Hallmark, which, by the way, is a family owned company. I’m sure they would be delighted with the creative
cost savings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>October
16<sup>th</sup>, Boss’s Day. </b> I've a
faint recollection that there may actually be a Hallmark Boss’s Day card
already published. I imagine,
however, during our recent catastrophic recession, the card was pulled from the
shelves to be used at a time when personal finances would allow for such an important
expenditure. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>October
19<sup>th</sup>, Sweetest Day. </b> No
comment as I’ve been advised to stay away from sweets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>NOVEMBER:</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3chUyiN1c3siU20RVBwvtbmVqNN1JNM5doDYlxuqk4wEL8TgD2YESF6Gqt31T2TxMZvoIutolfKruMsHwkK4zFmq0qc6NBEE2DVWrh_XbxED8w8_bwEPVGeEg5cGJvZ0x5jxjVXaa6lU/s1600/Taco+Day+Sadie+Hawkins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3chUyiN1c3siU20RVBwvtbmVqNN1JNM5doDYlxuqk4wEL8TgD2YESF6Gqt31T2TxMZvoIutolfKruMsHwkK4zFmq0qc6NBEE2DVWrh_XbxED8w8_bwEPVGeEg5cGJvZ0x5jxjVXaa6lU/s1600/Taco+Day+Sadie+Hawkins.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>November
15<sup>th</sup>, Sadie Hawkins Day. </b>
Women should march to make this a national holiday and at the same time
honor Al Capp, cartoonist and political satirist. It's of no importance that Sadie didn’t
exist but in the tales about Li’l Abner and Dogpath, USA. What’s important is she preceded the Woman’s
Liberation Movement in throwing off the manacles of passivity in a quest for
marital commitment. This girl deserves a
Hallmark card.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>DECEMBER:</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Very
little to be said about this month as all the days that are holidays do not deserve to be toyed with by me. Except for:</span><br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><b>December
26<sup>th</sup>, Federal day off for Christmas. </b> I thought Federal employees had been off all year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In
conclusion, there seems to be an effort to celebrate not only that which is merited
but that which is not. We seem to be a
country of folks who like to celebrate even the most inane activities and
achievements with little or no regard for reason. I, myself, like to eat and in that regard, I
like days celebrating food. I was
delirious about finding out there was a Bagels and Lox Day. And in my research, I found that there are
several food holidays. Even a National
Taco Day celebrated October 4<sup>th</sup>. And at this time, I’d like to make a
suggestion: Move Taco Day to be
celebrated the following day after the worthy holiday of Cinco de Mayo. Imagine two days of tacos and boilermakers. Are you listening, Hallmark? </span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-72047178927747792882013-01-13T15:52:00.001-08:002013-01-13T16:28:50.567-08:00FULL WONDER<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Don’t you wonder at the arrogance of humanity
and the way they swagger over this planet with self-importance? Don’t you wonder at the ignorant blindness of
many who claim to be humans with the ability to formulate and navigate? Don’t you just wonder? I do.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEoDpA_rZks-ZaAzIzw4SASsG-Z4FsIWT0AgB1xG_nlRLJ0ja_sU2Xb_tezAoGQK9PbcuT8YLDuinQQQCEH3gkJ_IAMK7O2KV2BSQCj6cMoscI2LWmoo26KPFLA7fWkXkGXZnmMmH30nc/s1600/brain+in+bubble.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEoDpA_rZks-ZaAzIzw4SASsG-Z4FsIWT0AgB1xG_nlRLJ0ja_sU2Xb_tezAoGQK9PbcuT8YLDuinQQQCEH3gkJ_IAMK7O2KV2BSQCj6cMoscI2LWmoo26KPFLA7fWkXkGXZnmMmH30nc/s200/brain+in+bubble.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I am astounded by the blinders many of us
wear in an attempt to make our lives more personally livable. We close our eyes against our lies and denials
all the while building up barriers so that we don’t have to face the obvious. And we buy self-help books to rearrange what
took many of our parents the vital first years of our lives to derange. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We fill
our lives with things - </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">those material things that are bought with our sweat and debt</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> to feel more worthy yet in the end they prove to be
worthless. We
go shoulder to shoulder, grabbing and pushing for that sale item that will make
us feel better than we do as we try to keep up with those who already have it
and still feel like crap.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">“</span></i><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/p/piazadora355111.html" title="view quote"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">You know, it was important for me to do something
like that (Butterfly?), because nobody ever really thought I could do anything
except look sexy on a poster and go shopping.</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">”
- </span></i><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/p/pia_zadora.html" title="view author"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">Pia Zadora</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">, actor, singer
and humorist? </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"></span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We
lust after famous labels to advertise our value and yet we do so
without compensation therefore belittling our value. Oddly, we fail to see that the only ones
getting compensated are the famous names on the labels whose value becomes
enriched. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We seek protective warmth in the pelts of the
cruelly killed when there are humane and fashionable alternatives of equal
protection. It’s in the end really a
shallow pursuit of fashion and elitist insensitivity to the suffering of
countless animals whose lives end in agony.
And yet the wearer is still cold in appearance and in defiance to the
crime.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">“The earth we abuse and the
living things we kill will, in the end, take their revenge; for in exploiting
their presence we are diminishing our future.” - Marya Mannes, More in
Anger, 1958</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><br /></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We seek food to fill our stomachs from the
bodies of farm animals that are treated like insentient product without a life
but for what we have provided. And what
we have provided is an assembly line of living creatures exterminated after
lives lived in tight cages, crates, and cement floors. We stretch the necks of geese to daily force
feed them for just one highly valued organ that is eaten by only a minority of
shallow, self-proclaimed foodies who spread it on bread before reminding
themselves of their diets or high cholesterol and sending the rest back. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We love the landscape of our country and hoot
and holler about the superiority of its beauty to any other country, yet we
frack into it and cement onto it. We
allow the erection of billboards on every corner and graffiti public
transportation with even more advertising.
We deface our mountains and sacrifice our wildlife with the building of
communities lived in by those who wished for or insisted on a “view.” It becomes the untenable conflict of wildlife
and their natural means of survival versus the human wild life who deny their own
destructive and predatory status.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="QuoteChar"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><i>“The sun, the moon and the stars would have
disappeared long ago...had they happened to be within the reach of predatory
human hands.”</i> <i>- Havelock Ellis,The Dance of Life, 1923</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We join churches and change religions as if they
were social clubs and so might be. We
are pulled in by the beauty of stained glass windows strategically allowing in
the spiritual light and are entranced by the religious icons meant to welcome
us like committees. We join to belong to
a group and are met by standards that are meant to be kept whether we agree or
not so as not to be ostracized. And we
tithe for being allowed to belong and for the very thing that should be free –
belief.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“</span><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Lighthouses
are more helpful then churches.” — Benjamin Franklin, author, printer, </span></i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_political_philosophers" title="List of political philosophers"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">political theorist</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">, </span></i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Politics_of_the_United_States" title="Politics of the United States"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">politician</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">, </span></i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Postal_Service" title="United States Postal Service"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">postmaster</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">, scientist,
musician, inventor,</span></i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satire" title="Satire"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">satirist</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">, civic activist, statesman,
and </span></i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_United_States_diplomatic_history" title="Timeline of United States diplomatic history"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">diplomat</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">.
<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">We social network like Prairie Dogs, counting
hundreds/thousands as our friends. Facebook
and Twitter providing us a sense of knowing and being known. And yet, no one calls and Saturday nights and
New Years are spent glued to a computer screen social networking making more friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">“</span></i><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/a/anthonywei415084.html" title="view quote"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For the past few years I have engaged in several
inappropriate conversations conducted over Twitter, Facebook, e-mail and
occasionally on the phone with women I have met online.</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">” - </span></i><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/a/anthony_weiner.html" title="view author"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Anthony Weiner</span></i></a><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">, former U.S.
Representative who served New York's 9th congressional district from January
1999 until June 2011.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">For those who claim to live the life of
enlightenment; to whom none of the references made above apply, I say get an
agent and write a book. I probably won’t
read it because I despise self-help books by authors I’ve no reason to think
are any more enlightened than I am. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">“I do believe in self-help.” –
Clint Eastwood, actor, director and man who talks to a chair.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: #e5e5dd; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-32032433478649716202012-12-30T15:56:00.003-08:002012-12-30T16:25:56.888-08:00AULD LANG SYNE (lyrics & sing along video included)<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Bemoaning this past year would be an insult to those whose lives are lived in war torn cities, live out of cardboard boxes, eat out of restaurant trash bins, have no medical care for lack of insurance, and spend holidays at feeding halls out of the suspect generosity of a self-conscious society. And yet I still feel like I need to bemoan.</span><div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span><div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I look at the oncoming New Year like a woman who has been told by her plastic surgeon that she can’t just have her neck done. It’s the whole bag, old bag, or nothing. That just because the clock ticks down from
2012 to 2013, the reality is nothing will change but the last two numbers of
the year. And that if change is what is
wanted, the inebriated voice in one’s head should be singing “the whole bag,
old bag, or nothing, dear, in days of auld lang syne.” Just changing the year is not going to make
even a tad of difference. If you ache
for change, the New Year is just an interruption, a line in the sand, a change
of an appointment calendar, or the annoyance of remembering to put 2013 on your
checks instead of 2012. That if change
is what you expect, it will take more than a few verses of Auld Land Syne sung
off note into a glass of bubbly. It will
take moving on, leaving a comfort level of sameness. Then there is the denial that while hankering for change, the fantasy of the way things are will alter by hanging in.</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Whatever you decide for your New Year of 2013, change or maintenance of the same, I offer you wishes of as much happiness as you desire and as much change as you’re brave enough to dare. And for those who can’t remember the lyrics to Auld Lang Syne, I invite you to print out the ones below as exactly lifted from The Huffington Post. For those who have a tin ear, I've included a video from <i>It's a Wonderful Life</i> which should get you singing along.</span><br />
<h1 id="watch-headline-title" style="border: 0px; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 19px; margin: 0px; overflow: hidden; padding: 0px; text-overflow: ellipsis; white-space: nowrap; word-wrap: normal;">
<br /></h1>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Z3sXVxqDbFk?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 13.5pt;"><b>Auld Lang Syne</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 13.5pt;">by Robert Burns </span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Should old acquaintance be forgot,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and never brought to mind?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Should old acquaintance be forgot, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and old lang syne?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
CHORUS</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
For auld lang syne, my dear, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
for auld lang syne,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
we'll take a cup of kindness yet, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
for auld lang syne. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And surely you'll buy your pint cup! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and surely I'll buy mine! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
for auld lang syne. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
CHORUS</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We two have run about the slopes, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and picked the daisies fine; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But we've wandered many a weary foot, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
since auld lang syne. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
CHORUS</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We two have paddled in the stream, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
from morning sun till dine; </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But seas between us broad have roared </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
since auld lang syne. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
CHORUS</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And there's a hand my trusty friend! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And give us a hand o' thine! </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And we'll take a right good-will draught, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
for auld lang syne. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
CHORUS</div>
</div>
</div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-62304975245227700362012-12-17T18:23:00.003-08:002013-01-13T16:22:20.440-08:00HOLIDAY TIME OUT<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Let me wish you all a very happy holiday season. And for those who take umbrage at those of us who maintain the right not to list each holiday individually, let me say that if you care to do it, then by all means, do it. I like lumping and will continue to do so. BTW, what happened to Kwanza?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkp6nStJcWltZYftkucHXA9_FZqjeFU73rs9bqhotAS_nHpdYbW0d7uPn45uQ9EqHW42UUcXbQ-koYXyK6V4hD7WXggkBj522_WG9VWNzvJSaVJqwbfCobiilaEO9g-Zg5TP-0TRafvxw/s1600/Sleeping+Santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkp6nStJcWltZYftkucHXA9_FZqjeFU73rs9bqhotAS_nHpdYbW0d7uPn45uQ9EqHW42UUcXbQ-koYXyK6V4hD7WXggkBj522_WG9VWNzvJSaVJqwbfCobiilaEO9g-Zg5TP-0TRafvxw/s1600/Sleeping+Santa.jpg" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I will be taking a holiday break from insisting you be interested in my thoughts and opinions. I'll see you after the New Year if I don't see you before in my dreams.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With high hopes for us all in 2013,</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Madly</span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-45780410080626199592012-12-10T12:05:00.002-08:002012-12-10T13:12:50.695-08:00SEEING Pi<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It’s the time of year when movie
screenings become part of one’s scheduled daily life. You’re either going to one or RSVPing for
one. Last night (12/05/12) it was the </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Life of Pi</i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">, an extraordinary film that
works your heart, brain and spirituality.
It’s a film that feeds as much as it extracts feelings both latent and
surface. And it almost sears your eyes
with all of its beauty.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We arrived early at the ArcLight in
Hollywood. My husband and I were meeting
our dear friends, two sisters we’ve known for over 35 years. These were the two pains in the asses who led
me into this bog of blogging with their insistence. We’d been actresses together and friends off
and on until recently when “on” became the only accepted norm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHldtJPAEgTmC6fWu8g42xCiscL0s7-WlugPx6yxFa4O15LHn3qxfW-fgWKwKg9VQY58DeeTQ4ryWC6IapEpPWmjhecgy8mGvvNGwhdHk0YoySxj3JDP7KTq8AMLS4CTuIdENHngS39HU/s1600/Noodle+&+Mim.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHldtJPAEgTmC6fWu8g42xCiscL0s7-WlugPx6yxFa4O15LHn3qxfW-fgWKwKg9VQY58DeeTQ4ryWC6IapEpPWmjhecgy8mGvvNGwhdHk0YoySxj3JDP7KTq8AMLS4CTuIdENHngS39HU/s320/Noodle+&+Mim.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was the first time I’d being seeing Noodle, the affectionate name for Nancy, since she’d undergone a series of
intensive surgeries meant to clear her of an invasive form of skin cancer. On her face.
The agonizing process took days.
The iPhone updates from Mimi, her devoted sister, were dramatic and
graphic. I didn’t have to be there
because I was. The endless waiting while
someone you love is undergoing cutting, scraping, and suturing must have been
another kind of agony. It’s the agony of
empathy which is often heightened by imaginings and fears for a loved one. I wondered at the courage of everyone – the
terrified patient and the terrified waiters.
But I didn’t wonder at what Noodle might look like afterwards. Mimi’s calls were detailed and in her details, a picture materialized in my head. My
horror at the image was calmed by the confidence I have in plastic surgery, the
panacea to overcoming the reality of age for most of my aging friends…and me. And then there are the miracles they perform
for those who have met with various and tragic facial and bodily injuries.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Mady, she has no nose,” Mimi said,
bracing her emotions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Listen,” I said, “there are
magicians and there are plastic surgeons and I know one who’s both.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It was with those and other running thoughts
in mind that I waited for the arrival of Mimi and Noodle while keeping our
places in line. How would I react if
indeed I was about to see The Phantom of the Opera without her mask? Could I look her in the eyes when clearly my
eyes wanted to wander to the wound? If I
hugged her, would I hurt her? Would I
say the right thing? Would I….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“There they are,” my husband said,
looking in the direction of the parking structure at the far end of the ArcLight
Plaza.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They approached. I gulped in anticipation. Mimi was the first to arrive to hugs. Right behind with some (I thought)
trepidation, Noodle walked up to us with a beautiful smile and a face that
showed little or no evidence of the impact it had just recently gone
through.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Noodle, you look amazing,” I cried
out in relief.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“It’s make-up. Lots of make-up,” Noodle replied with humor
and a smile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I looked at Mimi behind me and she
gave me that Mimi face of <i>trust her, it’s
make-up</i>. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We chatted for a while until the
line moved into the theater. As per
Mimi’s prior warnings (as she was seeing it for the second time), I knew then that
the <i>Life of Pi</i> was going to evoke all
the emotions out of me that I’d expected Noodle’s face would. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Drained and awed, we exited the theater and planned to meet at a restaurant near Larchmont and Melrose. We sat at a corner table and talked till the table tops were cleared but for the newly placed chairs signalling to us to get our asses gone. And as I looked at Noodle, her makeup mostly absorbed by the passing hours, I still saw beauty but with more visible signs of having been victorious over seemingly insurmountable odds. And winning. I saw the human spirit which often finds itself searching for courage to survive through seemingly insurmountable odds and winning in ways that are often not normally by choice.</span>Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-88196173511117596002012-12-03T13:19:00.000-08:002012-12-10T12:09:05.581-08:00ADEQUATE ADDICT<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">"Addiction is a condition that results when a person ingests a substance (alcohol, cocaine, nicotine) or engages in an activity (gambling) that can be pleasurable but the continued use of which becomes compulsive and interferes with ordinary life responsibilities, such as work or relationships, even health." </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>Psychology Today</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's my consensus that the world is populated by
addicts. There's reason to think that
each one of us is addicted to something.
And when one considers that there's much on this planet with which to
become addicted, then it seems so. Let’s
begin with the A’s:</span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Alcohol</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Aerosol Sniffing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Action/Adrenalin</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Applause/Attention/Fame</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Art</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Arson </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Authority</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And that’s just the A’s.
Want a B?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Body Building</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">How about some C’s:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Colas</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Codependency</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Caffeine</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Collecting</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Crime</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not to mention:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Drugs – legal and illegal</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Exercising</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Eating disorders</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Gambling</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Internet</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Over achieving</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Pornography</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">People pleasing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Perfectionism</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Religion</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sadism/Masochism</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Smoking</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Television</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Therapy</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sexual deviation</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The above is not a complete list. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQX5otpH5DiKqH-zsHNBrfEqz6MVDQEeSmvNGnlsAsdC_etYJhEU8z2YPol2dIlFiV5yhsoPePvYJCIF98OA_dxUvhKUd1J6ONNrhkklb1FKtkhxyX53aBDnk_w0ziUYma9R4FGfhaWPI/s1600/Addiction+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQX5otpH5DiKqH-zsHNBrfEqz6MVDQEeSmvNGnlsAsdC_etYJhEU8z2YPol2dIlFiV5yhsoPePvYJCIF98OA_dxUvhKUd1J6ONNrhkklb1FKtkhxyX53aBDnk_w0ziUYma9R4FGfhaWPI/s1600/Addiction+2.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’m sure if I were to ask you if you knew anyone who was addicted
to some substance or activity, my response would be in the affirmative. Personally, I know at this moment at least a
dozen or more friends/relatives who can be considered addicts with addictions that are either in denial, full out </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">mode or are in different stages
of recovery.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Right now, I have an adult
family member who since the age of 14 years old has been addicted to
prescription drugs and is just now in rehab for the longest she has allowed
herself to be.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The family holds hope
that success will be hers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some time ago, I was in a conversation with a friend who
is an alcoholic. Somehow, during this
conversation, I made one of the more brainless comments I’ve ever made. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Seems like everyone is addicted to something,” I said
and continued with award winning arrogance.
“I’m not addicted to anything.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ain’t that a pile of denial. And I’ll spare you the Egypt joke. I will say one thing in defense of myself, I
really believed what I said when I said it until days later. It was then that smug statement hit me
hard. WTF! Did I say that? Did I really?
Jesus, how could I have said something so stupid.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so in the light of truth and new awareness, this is my
personal list of adequate addictions in alphabetical order:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Applause/Attention - an inherited trait.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Cleanliness – promoted and enabled by my mother. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Internet – promoted and enabled by Microsoft.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Order – also promoted and enabled by my mother.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Perfectionism – also promoted and enabled by my mother. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Picking - identified by my always well-manicured, 91 year
old Aunt Yvette.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Television – promoted and enabled by myself.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Truth – promoted and enabled by the general lack of it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Though I am thankful that I don’t have a substance
addiction, the ones I suffer are debilitating to me. I've even created a new disorder (or so I
think) called Compulsive Order Disorder - aka COD - for not being able to cope with
things not being in a place I put them and insensitively moved by others. Perfectionism is the mother of all my fears. I believe that everything I do must be perfect
and I fear some lurking authority, real or imagined, judging me if it isn't. And so in the process of writing this post, I
go over it over and over again until fear is relegated to a room somewhere in
my brain. Then fear escapes and muddles
me again so I again find myself editing.
And you know what…I always find something I didn’t find the last
time. It’s exhausting and I never feel
like I’m finished. </span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-81931336610267601372012-11-24T16:21:00.000-08:002012-12-10T12:10:13.245-08:00JUST MY DECISION<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Throughout life I would play the game of asking myself questions that
demanded a decision. They were often
questions of highly debatable seriousness or consequence. Often they were just questions that seemed to
test my ability to decide anything.
Silly questions. To make it easy.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“If I were given a choice to have any car in this lot, which
one would I choose?” I would ask myself,
walking through a parking lot.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Or….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If I could choose any man to be with, who would I choose, I
would think as I sat in a restaurant with a first date that would never
escalate into a second.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Or….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If I could look like anyone, who would I choose, I would
fantasize as I watched “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” No decision was necessary as the answer was
right there on the screen.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Or….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If I could be wearing any outfit in the room, which would I
choose, I would think with envy as I mentally stripped the wearer bare.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As an adult I continue playing that game. But now I do it to avoid real decisions. Decisions to be made as part of real life with
real risks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I now find myself asking myself, “Self, if you had to decide
on losing one sense, which one would it be?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrT_lQ1J3lP5t9AXnL9ijNPIEg_zwc1V37F4tDJjRU8ROVZsJTnhcINMc0dDTScZ6id72i4hDphsN_zqrP8HRyc3IIWff1WSHt7lpwbYcfzoDGVBYFfJn9q51DVwBYnFNkN2t42rK00E/s1600/Senses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTrT_lQ1J3lP5t9AXnL9ijNPIEg_zwc1V37F4tDJjRU8ROVZsJTnhcINMc0dDTScZ6id72i4hDphsN_zqrP8HRyc3IIWff1WSHt7lpwbYcfzoDGVBYFfJn9q51DVwBYnFNkN2t42rK00E/s320/Senses.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We have five. I had
to look that up. And for those who need
to be reminded: Hearing, smelling,
tasting, feeling and sight. For some
reason I thought thinking was a sense.
Foolish me. But then as I look
around, I am reminded that had it been a sense, it was lost long ago by a whole
species.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think about losing the sense of hearing. Being a sufferer of a non-fatal but
enormously irritating and angst producing condition called Tinnitus, the
reality of my hearing being compromised is very real and has already taken
somewhat of a minimal toll. Its loss is the never
hearing one’s own breath and other sounds, both natural and manmade, that give
us a sense that we’re not alone. I think
of never being able to hear them and my breath doesn’t come.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think about losing the sense of smell. Well, allergies and accompanying congestion
have introduced me to that reality.
Then, oddly, I think of the cat litter box and when last I cleaned it. And I think of the fragrance of flowers and
the Night Blooming Cereus that blooms ever so infrequently on my side porch,
sending out a whispering scent that sweetens my world. I think of the smell of pizza crisping in the
oven and the smell of new books opened for the first time. I think of the smell I so adored of my horse breathing
softly into my face, a mix of cut grass and bundled hay. And I think of hygiene and all the showers
I’ve taken and all the products I’ve used to make sure I never fouled my
surroundings. And then I think of all
the odors the body emits and I put smell in its own category.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think about losing the sense of taste. It brings to mind a wonderful and talented
actor friend of mine, Phil Bruns. We did
the debut of an off-Broadway play together called <i>Spitting Image</i>. Oh, too many
years ago - 1960 something. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">During
rehearsals, we’d break for dinner and fall into a local Mexican restaurant,
ordering Margaritas upon hitting the chairs.
He’d order something stronger having drunk with the likes of Richard
Burton, Peter O’Toole, Richard Harris and who knows who else. He then ordered a side of red hot chili
peppers. He chose a big, shiny one and
delivered it to his mouth, chewed down on it with a grin and swallowed it. The three of us – Sam Waterston, Barbara
Cason and Walter McGinn – stared in disbelief.
“How did you do that,” I asked, open jawed. His answer: “I smoke too much; I drink too
much and I can’t taste a damn thing.” He
smiled and continued to drain his drink and eat his peppers. It didn’t seem like he missed taste at
all. I ordered my Chicken in Mole and
knew I’d miss the taste of that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think about losing the sense of feel and realize how
tactile I am. How I drew my hand across the
outer wall at the Petit Trianon to get historical vibes Marie Antoinette might
have left behind had they existed. And
how addicted I am to the feel of my
cat’s soft fur; and how I feel comforted by the feel of a hot shower raining on
my face and body on a chilly morning; and how I love the familiarity of flannel
on a cold night; and how I love the texture of sand under my feet; and the feel
of velvety petals of a rose gently touched; and the feel as the tips of my
fingers tap the keyboard and wonder how I would do without it and how
impossible it would be. And how I have
felt the slicing of my finger with a sharp knife and the searing heat that produces
a blister and realize there is reward and risk to feeling.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then I realize, in my avoidance, that I have left to last
the sense I would never want to lose.
I think about losing my sense of sight, a fear that once translated into
a nightmare. Fortunately, I don’t
remember nightmares, or dreams for that matter.
But I did remember this one. It
was the fear of not being able to escape darkness and feeling closed in, a
prisoner in my own head. Terrified, I
awoke into another darkness, this one the darkness of night. I remember wiping the moisture from the back
of my neck as I recognized the stream of moonlight coming in through my
window. I find myself even now having
trepidation as I write this in the glare of a November afternoon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sight! The window,
portal, gateway through which images, real or imagined, enter our brain. It seeds our cognitive
ability to recognize colors, hues and light and darkness. We see and make judgments about who to and
who not to love and what to and what not to include in our often carefully
created space. I think about those
who’ve never had sight and want to know their thoughts about how they’ve lived
without it. And then I remember trying
to explain the color red to an acquaintance who had been blind from birth. I couldn’t.
The memory startled me. To never know red. Or to go blind and forget red. I can feel the emotions well up as I type
this. To never again see the candlelit
faces of Carravagio or the brilliant thick swirls of Van Gogh blues and
yellows. To only feel the sun and not
see how it changes the world around us.
To never see a smile only hear a laugh.
To never know how I look to myself or others. To fricken not recognize a typo or where I am
on the page. To be lost and have to be
found - kind of like Hide and Seek but
now called Blind and be Sought. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then I realize that
this decision game of Sense Ditching is an activity of such nonsense that there
isn’t even an app for it.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And there’s an
app for everything.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And I realize that
as I’ve lived this long without making decisions, I can make it the rest of the
way. That's just my decision.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-62041146492878877182012-11-18T14:38:00.000-08:002012-12-10T12:10:47.451-08:00TAKING THE SNAKE<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I was staring at the Facebook screen and thinking why in
hell does anyone give a good damn what I think? It was
a startling thought as I’ve spent a great deal of my adult life as a donor of
thoughts. This need to contribute just
seems to be a normal function. Then it
occurred to me that it could be just a snake like function of shedding
skin. That my need to emerge from inner
emotional turmoil and mentally perplexing questions can only be done by airing what’s
going on in my head. Mind you, I’m really
good at being silent. For days or
longer. Just ask my husband. Not a good trait. And it doesn’t make me feel better. But it’s at times like those that writing
becomes a therapeutic cleansing. ..a shedding.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And while I’m on the subject, let me include you in an
animal related memory regarding snakes.
I do think it’s time for them to take a more positive place in the lobes
of our still primordial brains alongside those creatures which compel us to
love them. How easy it is for baby faced
kittens and puppies with their little pink, wet noses and big Keane eyes to
lure our hearts and minds into a nurturing and protective mode. And how warm and comforting it is to our egos
when they look up at us adoringly, perhaps in request for food or cuddle close
to us perhaps in a search for warmth.
How calming it is to stroke that soft fur and elicit a purr or a warm tongue
kiss. And now that we read that the
presence of a pet can add a reassuring few years to our lives, that is a
payback that humans find even more gratifying.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It was several years ago.
My husband made reservations to visit Shambala Preserve, a sanctuary for
abandoned exotic felines. It’s located
in Acton, California, north of Los Angeles.
Being animal lovers, this type of environment afforded us the closeness
to these most beautiful creatures that doesn’t depress as do city supported zoos,
mostly inhumane roadside tourist attractions and circuses which exploit and
harm the majesty of animals. It was here
that I saw my first snake up close and personal. I could feel the back of my neck tingle with
all my preconceived, ill-informed notions of this reptilian symbol of male
dominance and the equally ill-informed thought of its textural feel of slime.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS522S6INfY-UPgvdEetGa-Ng61sS5uTeJ3yIvlOoopMAFI41CZAJ8l4xIP3DSNvrBkIY_2xGTdje_ThnpS5kENAkbRzO4MGo2xSSvZwXVBBqXEQQDoMcpDRyP91mI3EFYHGQWQTiPpBE/s1600/snake+cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS522S6INfY-UPgvdEetGa-Ng61sS5uTeJ3yIvlOoopMAFI41CZAJ8l4xIP3DSNvrBkIY_2xGTdje_ThnpS5kENAkbRzO4MGo2xSSvZwXVBBqXEQQDoMcpDRyP91mI3EFYHGQWQTiPpBE/s1600/snake+cartoon.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The messenger, dressed in safari khaki, emerged from the
visiting crowd. Around his neck, a
draped, rather sizable snake rested calmly and comfortably. Those who noticed stepped back abruptly grabbing
those who didn’t in an unneeded rescue mission.
I watched from a safe distance. I
found it humorous as I watched while giving birth to a thought of how over
reactive human beings can be based on false perception. And then I thought of my own resistance to
fact. It was then I decided to do my own
rescue mission, saving myself from a lifetime of snake aversion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I’ll be right back.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The announcement startled my husband, but I was already on
my way toward the messenger and his companion.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Hi, can I touch your snake?” I asked as I reddened,
realizing my double entendre.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He smiled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Sure, go ahead.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thinking it was best not to think about how to proceed, I mindlessly
reached out and ran my hand down the body of the reptile. As I did, my face broke out into a smile so
broad it hurt my cheeks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The snake felt smooth like a fine, Italian leather jacket
and it was cool to the touch. It wasn’t
wet; it wasn’t slimy; it wasn’t scaly…and it wasn’t repulsive. I began to feel emboldened with this new
found awareness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Do you think I can hold him?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I did expect a kind of resistance resembling, “Well, I don’t
know. He is a snake after all.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But what I got was very different. Without a word, the messenger lifted off the
snake from around his neck and placed it around my shoulders. I almost fainted in awe of my heroism, the
elements of which I never considered I had.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The snake rested as calmly and as comfortably as he did on
the messenger. My thoughts raced, my
eyes teared and my heart pounded. Here I
was with a snake on my shoulders. This was a moment of a very rare and enormously valued enlightenment which is
underestimated by my lack of vocabulary.
This was a moment that I cherish.
This was a moment that I gave up fear in exchange for facts. </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-33024841238109130842012-11-15T14:03:00.001-08:002012-12-10T12:11:02.776-08:00VOILA! VIOLENCE<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The conversation went something like this:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"There is an addiction to violence in this world. And it's spiraling out of control."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This was a comment made to an intellectually gifted friend whom I respect though find as annoying as she finds me. Her response:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"Actually, it's not. Statistics show violence is on the decline."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I personally disdain statistics as being from the minds of nerdy number heads whose emotions and eyes have shut off actual life, I vehemently disagreed. This allowed the annoyance level to rise, which in some way delighted me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Born number challenged, statistics have little sway with me. Consider that I still don't know my times tables, the blame for which I put on a sadistic teacher. And I can be observed, to my shame, counting on my fingers when doing subtraction. So, it can't be a surprise that I don't rely on that amazingly enduring system which dates back to Egypt around 3100 BC...and may date back even earlier. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbrpqY-ZVtycPG3Ctogi-bofcCeMjs2btw8Qs1qu5PlEmwJ5MROIU3kOIoEM0o_7NpUnZiOG4GvMdzE66JC3-BCtLIpZ07nxK1jmf0LL51NcWMzMETTsbsWSrrV-3Dkn6samyVuf5M1jY/s1600/Pie+Chart+cartoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbrpqY-ZVtycPG3Ctogi-bofcCeMjs2btw8Qs1qu5PlEmwJ5MROIU3kOIoEM0o_7NpUnZiOG4GvMdzE66JC3-BCtLIpZ07nxK1jmf0LL51NcWMzMETTsbsWSrrV-3Dkn6samyVuf5M1jY/s1600/Pie+Chart+cartoon.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So, for lack of understanding and trust for a system that assists putting life in a column, or a bar, or a pie, I use my combined senses to make judgements by allowing them to be attacked on a daily basis by waves of human behavior that can only be described as out of control violence on each other, on other species and on the very planet that sustains us. I </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">hear</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> it every day in angry discourse; I </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">see</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> it frequently in the increasing number of violent films; I </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">taste</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> it in the tasteless foods drained of benefits by corporate killers; I smell it</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> in the toxic air made foul by industry; I suffer the attacks on my sensitivity from the media. I ache with heart break at how little we care for the suffering of others and the animals we cruelly victimize. I wonder in despair at the garbage we throw at the earth and I contemplate its violent revenge. I think of Factory Farming and corporate resistance to GMO labeling and the fat cats fighting against our right to know about any of it. I see it in how passionately we seek access to guns and how easily hunters see killing as sport. I see it in our training of kids to be killing machines we send to war. I see it in the abuse of the young, the elderly and the disabled. In conclusion: I don't hear, see, taste, smell or feel that violence is on the decline. And so to my friend who believes what she reads, I say you are wrong. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Statistics are for me mostly senseless. They are created by those whose senses have long ago been relegated to the back of a dark closet to join other useless things. And then there is Nate Silver, a statistician whose statistics I owe my sanity to during the 2012 Presidential Elections. But for him, I would discount all statistics as another mind game to keep senseless people busy...and a safe distance from violence. </span></div>
Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-17367501783356748102012-11-14T15:00:00.000-08:002012-12-10T12:11:19.389-08:00HELLISH IS NOT PRIVATE<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I'm wondering if I'm to blog every day. And if I blog every day, will my blogging become bloated and boring and blah. Can't have that. I can't assume that every thought or experience that floats around in my brain and fills every moment of my day is worth sharing with strangers. Friends maybe. Friends have earned the right to be bored. Strangers have not. I don't want this to become hellish to those who venture here to read these ordered words. And I do try to avoid the hellish except for this day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My husband wakes me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">"</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's 8:00. Wanna wake up?"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">'I don't,' I think.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It's a diamond of a day and the light is pure and sharp as it pours in the window. It's a good light in which to start a day. Even for me whose love of waking late into the morning is lifelong. Then there's the cold. It's a Southern California cold but it's still cold for those of us just out of a long summer of hellish heat that lasted for too long. The thought of throwing off my quilted barrier to the chill becomes an act of courage.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My morning starts with preparing for the electrician. He will be shutting off the power for the day. We live in a duplex as a tenant shared by a couple, their two often screaming kids, and their two often barking octo-doxies. The wife is the niece of the owner of the duplex which once belonged to us. The niece wants central air in her residence presumably in a planned assault against Global Warming. The duplex is 1930's vintage requiring a major electrical upgrade to allow for this strategic defense. It's a hell we refused upon learning of the extent of breaking of walls here and creating dust, disorganization and general mayhem. Not to mention that this would affect me in several other negative ways, most of which would affect my well-being. Ms. Niece continued as planned. We suffered the power being off from 9:00 A.M. to 5:00 p.m., the thunderous sound of walls being torn down and power drills being powered into hard surfaces below. It was hellish. But it wasn't here and my home remained dustless and in order.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ah, yes, the duplex. It was once ours and sold years ago the result of a catastrophic series of bad decisions. And that's all I will write on that. I will say that it was hellish, an earthquake of sorts; the aftershocks from which I still suffer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Time of day is mostly unknown. Most of the clocks are powered by electric, not by battery or tiny, intricate wheels turning on seconds. It's hellish not knowing the time of day. I am aware and now envious of those who can tell time by the way the light lands. I can't. And I need the time of day as I have a doctor's appointment at 2:00. Let me add, I don't like most doctors. I will not go into why I need to see her on why I feel as I do, but trust me, it's hellish.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In between showering and seeing Dr. Who, I fit in giving my soon to be 17 year old Calico, Dolly, her subcutaneous fluids in hopes of staving off the deterioration of her kidneys as a result of Chronic Renal Failure. This is hellish for me and, dare I forget to say, hellish for her. But that she feels much improved after is our reward. But it's still hellish.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I have scheduled my return from the doctor appointment and various chores to see the electrician pull out of the driveway. I pull in to my garage, which now opens with my remote, and sense the return of electricity. I will revel in its ability to return light from darkness; it's ability to give me back the Internet and Word and will be reminded of how extremely addicted I am to convenience. It's hellish. </span>Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5768124217535704575.post-73985804083309965992012-11-11T15:22:00.000-08:002012-12-10T12:11:30.366-08:00A BLOG IS BORN<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I enter this blogging mire as a way to silence the complimentary, persuasive and concerned voices around me. They who are the recipients of many of my rantings, musings and opinions have agreed that I have a blog in me that needs to get out. I, on the other hand, am happy to remain in my own cocoon to emerge in the privacy of e-mails and the glare of Facebook. A contrast, I agree, but both do not require a commitment for which I am less and less able to make on a daily basis. And even now, I look above in the Compose window and see the options of Publish, Save, Preview and Close and see Close as the most attractive option. But I will persist against the easy way out for I have an over active mind that fights sleep, a voice that wishes to be heard and a passion for truth and the creative. And I have a need to speak about the sane potential of man...no matter how often I am disappointed.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_9gafQr_QM1kNiNv_VflmFIhVLrOBXdPyhM1uzZnmZgJO00x9GeQWlUz73pEpUp3M71YnJFcZrx1H2UlqgyckYWYlNhYSAuRjdhRsJvsAprdllWnrN84RBEfurOPfx5XZ5TUdgkOfKE/s1600/Baby+pog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK_9gafQr_QM1kNiNv_VflmFIhVLrOBXdPyhM1uzZnmZgJO00x9GeQWlUz73pEpUp3M71YnJFcZrx1H2UlqgyckYWYlNhYSAuRjdhRsJvsAprdllWnrN84RBEfurOPfx5XZ5TUdgkOfKE/s1600/Baby+pog.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Warm and safe for now. But what of its future?</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And so my first post will be </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">a direct emotional response to a picture I saw on Facebook today of a caged mother pig stretching her head out from under the bottom most bar of a small, hellish enclosure and stretching her flat nose toward her infant, as cute as any born to human, from which she is separated, her anguish palpable and painful. Never desiring to nurture a child of my own, I somehow empathize with this mother and think of the cruelty that has been visited on such an innocent creature. And I wonder why it is that this mother in her yearning to be near her child and her fear for her child's safety is any less important and considered than if she were human. And I wonder why we as a species can sit down to a breakfast plate of sizzling bacon and not wonder about its origins of human inflicted pain in our lust for self-indulgence. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">There will be more of this animal related anguish to come among a <i>pot pourri</i> of other topics. It seems to me that if we can not remove ourselves from ourselves and see beyond our selfish need to satisfy our lust for self-satisfaction without awareness of its toll on others - human or animal - we are pathetically doomed. By the way, to my amusement, the origin of the word <i>pot pourri </i>is<i> </i>French and means literally, rotten pot. I'm laughing my ass off.</span>Madly Madhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15790033941810103108noreply@blogger.com2