Democracy Whiskey Sexy

March 2003- American troops were hovering over Baghdad, Iraq. It had been slightly more than two weeks of so called “smart bombs”, videotapes of Saddam body doubles on Iraqi television were viewed by the few who still had electricity, and embedded journalists revealed critical strategies to the world at large. Color me crazy, but I do think that if there indeed, were factories buzzing twenty-four and seven to produce weapons of mass destruction, that Saddam would have utilized them to keep us out of his bedroom long ago.

This business of embedded journalism is a bad idea. We don’t need to add more risk the lives of our service women and men by exposing their location on national television. What do we gain by embedding journalists among the fighting troops? We get to see fast track careers shaped before our eyes. Some of the things that go on in war should really not appear on television as it is happening. Most of the things that go on in a war should never have happened.

I don’t want the ratings to be the issue. I don’t care if the sensationalistic media is getting richer with every passing broadcast. I don’t want to watch the competition between stations. I want safety for our service women and men. I want their positions to be secret until after they are out of danger. I don’t need to see Jeraldo Riviera drawing a map in the sand of the locations of the troops and the plan of attack. I can only imagine Iraqi intelligence agents having laundry problems laughing at the inane Americans who televise the next step in the war. I vote that we keelhaul Jeraldo.

In the interest of getting the truth about how the average Iraqi felt about our presence, one of these embedded journalists asked one man on the street how he felt. The Iraqi grinned, raised a fist high into the air and shouted, “democracy, whiskey, sexy!”

Apparently that is what America means to the people of the Middle East. They anticipate liberation and a culture that is the diametric opposite of thousands of years of ingrained habit. I wonder what tools will be provided to help them adjust to “democracy whiskey sexy”. Just the whiskey part scares me. In our plan to rebuild what we destroy in the course of war, will we take into consideration the need for birth control, rape prevention and DUI lawyers? Give these people “democracy whiskey sexy” and you give them the inherent problems that we have yet to solve for ourselves.

What began as Bush’s “war against terrorism” has been renamed “war to liberate Iraq”.  I think it should be renamed again. I like the sound of war of “democracy whiskey sexy”.

I think tee shirts should be dropped in the Iraqi countryside along with the peanut butter and pamphlets. After all, tee shirts embody the American way of life. Democracy is getting to choose what your tee shirt says and where you buy it. Whiskey and other frosty cold alcoholic beverages are frequently the subject matter of tee shirts and likewise, form the uniform of choice for those who drink the stuff.

Sexy is definitely tee shirt material. Imagine Iraqi wet tee shirt contests. Tight tee shirts are for everyone. Replace the oppressive chador with a tee shirt and free the world from oppression. I remember seeing a photograph in Time magazine of a woman in chador, a small oval window of black crochet revealing her eyes only. All else of her covered like a small black ghost. The photograph showed her mangled hands. She had been beaten for having the temerity to wear nail polish. Incha Allah!

Now assume that Bush is successful, and Iraq gets “democracy whiskey sexy”, what shall we do about the other eighteen or so countries under siege by dictators? Shall we then start a war to “democracy whiskey sexy” each in alphabetical order? Perhaps we should assign points for various types of man’s inhumanity to man and then “democracy whiskey sexy” them starting with the worst regimes. No, maybe we should do that in reverse order and get the least oppressive regimes wiped out before they gain a taste for blood. It’s like a dog that gets in the hen house. Once a dog kills a chicken, it will never stop. It is too late for North Korea. That dog has the hen house key. Besides, they have nuclear weapons. We don’t want to risk trying to “democracy whiskey sexy” a country with nuclear capability.

I have participated in peace rallies to demonstrate my opposition to this war and all others. I don’t want war. I want peace. I don’t want any killing in my name. But I am torn by my resentment that the United States did not do something about Adolf Hitler sooner. If what is reported about the millions of Iraqis tortured and murdered, if there indeed is a holocaust going on, if indeed Saddam Hussain is the bully he is made out to be, and we can stop it, then we must.

Several years ago, I met with a friend in a little bar. We were on our way to attend a baby shower for a mutual friend.  I had shopped for the joint gift and put the baby things in a basket and I was showing her the basket when her eyes suddenly got very large. I heard a noise behind me.

“He just hit her!” Robin whispered to me.

Then this woman ran past our table and out the door followed by her boyfriend/lover in hot pursuit. I got up and followed.

“Call the police!” I yelled over my shoulder as I raced out the door.

The scene on the street was surreal. The man was straddled on top of the woman with his hands around her neck. He used the chokehold for leverage as he smashed her head on the curb again and again. The soft thud resonated through me with every strike. I wasn’t sure whether he would kill her by choking or smashing in her skull.

 “ I am a witness to this. I see what you are doing. Stop!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

That was a very stupid move on my part. I had no idea if he had a weapon but it was clear that he was the violent type. He was a really big guy, a really big violent guy with women issues. I am just an average sized woman in less than perfect physical shape. And guns are not at all picky.

When he heard what I shouted he dropped her head, stood up, and swaggered over to me. I was terrified but stood my ground. He was busy pulling off his leather biker jacket and said in a low growl as he approached me, “Bitch, you want some of this?”

To be sure, I have no idea where this came from. I looked him in the eyes and said,  “don’t make me hurt you!” in my most threatening voice.

I must have sounded sincere because he dropped to his knees merely a foot or two in front of me and began crying. He started sobbing that no one listened to him, that no one understood him. I assured him that I was listening to him.  I was listening real hard. He had my undivided attention. I was hanging on his every word. Then he reached into the pockets of his jacket and pulled out three knives. and handed them to me.

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt”, he said and handed the knives to me.

I think that they were just pocketknives of the average variety, but at that moment they became machetes. Or the kind of knife you might use to kill a grizzly bear. Time seemed to stand still. It was very quiet. I guess beating someone’s head on a curb is vigorous business because he was winded. All I heard was his heavy breathing. Maybe there were sounds coming from inside the bar but for me all was cast in silence. It was just he and I in this vignette. I was wondering when, or if the police would ever arrive.

“I don’t want anyone to get hurt either”, I said. Mostly I meant that I didn’t want to get hurt.

“What are you, some kind of counselor or something?”

“No, I am just a Home Depot computer geek, that’s all.” I tried to keep my voice soft and even, non-threatening.

Off to the side of my field of vision I saw that battered biker broad had picked herself up and stealthily picked her way through the shadows to stand by the side of their truck. He saw her too.

“Listen, go see if she’s okay please? Go talk to her. Her name is Rose.” He said.

“OK, you promise you will stay right here?” I asked.

“I promise. I don’t want no one getting hurt.” He said, shaking his greasy head slowly from side to side.

 I backed slowly away from him with the grizzly killers heavy in my hand.  I backed all the way to the side of the truck never letting him out of sight. Still no one came out of the bar to see if I was alive or not. Or else I didn’t realize that they were watching this whole thing unfold from the safety of the bar. But then again I was the crazy one. I was the one who put my life on the line for these two bad actors who probably deserved each other.

“Listen, Rose?”

She nodded. Her eyes had that empty look. She was easily six inches taller than me and had me by at least 60 pounds. She was a big girl.

“I don’t know about you, but I have never been so scared in my life. You know you don’t have to live like this. There are places where women like you can go and be safe.” I said to her through chattering teeth. Really. I thought that chattering teeth was a cliché’ until it happened to me.

She just looked at me, never said a word. Her teeth were chattering too.

Finally, the police cruiser arrived, pulled into the spot next to the truck. One officer spoke to Rose while another asked for my account. Biker boy was there, back on his feet, denying everything and demanding his knives back. He needed them “for work”.

 I gave them the grizzly killers. They handed them back to Biker Boy. I told them my version of the events. They patiently explained to me that unless Rose was willing to press charges that there was nothing they could do. And Rose was not interested in pressing charges. I was disgusted.

Several months later I happened to see her coming out of a Laundromat. I know that she saw me. I saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes. She got into a different truck with a different man and as he backed out of the parking lot her eyes were locked on mine.

I had witnessed a bully and a crime and managed to stop it by calling it what it was. Maybe if that is what it takes on a larger scale to make the world’s bullies cease endless murder and torture, then it is worth the risk even if those who you are trying to protect don’t press charges.

My ambiguous feelings about Iraq and our presence there made me think about my friend Stanislaw, who is a holocaust survivor.  If anyone could clear up my confusion about the war in Iraq it would be Stanislaw.

His story of survival through that horror was a gripping tale. He and his wife met when they were attending the same medical school. They both graduated and married as the war began. They were Jews who survived by pretending to be something else. They denied their heritage for survival sake because someone must live to tell the tale. “I only am escaped alone to tell thee,” say the four messengers in Job 1:15.

When we met, Stanislaw was approaching his ninety-first birthday. He was a wizened old man with a crop of fine white hair and pale watery eyes. He was none too steady on his feet any longer. It was decided that we would go together to visit the Holocaust museum one more time before he and Barbara moved back to Pennsylvania to be close to their eldest daughter.

The daughter, whose name I no longer recall, was a bit suspicious about my motives. After all, what would a middle-aged woman want with her father? Was I looking to capitalize on his immanent estate? Why would I befriend him? I spoke with her on the telephone and assured her that I only wanted to hear what he had to say while the opportunity presented itself. I made arrangements to pick him up and go to the Holocaust museum together.

Almost immediately after we arrived it became apparent that he was rapidly running out of steam. We walked around a bit of the first floor until we came upon a bench where he could rest.

Then I returned to the boxcar in the center of the room where it sat on the original tracks from the Treblinka death camp. This silent witness to the horror of the holocaust is what was used to transport many to their final destination, though many died before the train arrived. As I stood beside that thirty foot by eight- foot death trap, I could hear the ghost voices of the thousands. It was a terrible cacophony of terrified cries and screams in a quiet room. I could hear them, the 100 to 120 voices trapped in the stark brown wood.

It seemed so nondescript when viewed in a photograph. Only when faced with the hopelessness of the iron locks on the doors as they slid across the tracks in person can one really envision the depth of the despair that it symbolized.

It is traditional to put small stones on Jewish graves. Here, on every horizontal surface of the boxcar there are small round stones as a memorial to the Jews who did not survive.

Stanislaw watched from a short distance away as I reached into my pocket and pulled out two small stones, one for each of us. I cried along with the ghosts and prayed with them as well. I placed the stones on the steel steps leading to nowhere. It was a somber moment.

There was little else to do but join him on the bench where he rested. It had become clear to me that I would have to return again to see the museum in its’ entirety. My friend was just too tired. We both blinked at the boxcar, deep in our own thoughts.

I asked him what should be done about Iraq.

“We must do what must be done”, he said. “History is to be learned from”.  That part he said in Latin. Then he translated to English for me.

“Do you speak Latin?”  He asked me again.

“No, Stanislaw, I never studied Latin”, with total respect and the utmost in patience I reminded him. He could have asked me fifty times and I would have answered the same way, with patience and respect.

“All they know of Latin these days is BID and that is enough to be a doctor? In my day you could not be a doctor if you didn’t know Latin” He said.

“The Germans hated us with such an enormity that was incomprehensible. The hatred and the horror so incomprehensible, so senseless and brutal….” His voice wavered off and his eyes got even more watery. Sixty years had passed since the holocaust but his life was forever changed.

“How did you manage to survive?” I asked.

“ I walked from place to place and people took me in. I treated them when I could. Did I tell you about that time when I was walking down the street, Barbara and I had been apart for two years by then. We had to separate or they would have found us out. I was walking with this man and he said “how is Barbara?”

I didn’t understand.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Don’t you see? He knew her name. He knew who we were from school. There was no one you could trust.”

We were silent again for some time.

“Have you seen the movie The Pianist? It gave comprehension to that which is incomprehensible to the human mind. Barbara and I have taken six friends to see it at the theater six separate times.” He said.

“No I haven’t yet, Stanislaw. But I will soon.” I think to myself that I would like to buy a copy of the DVD for him when it became available.

I wonder if Iraqis will someday feel that amount of hatred for Americans. I wonder if there will be a Pianist for them. I wonder if there will ever be enough restitution for the people of Iraq. For, like Stanislaw, I agree that there can never be enough restitution for the holocaust. History is to be learned from.

These Ten Things Happened Today

1. I had a conversation with Colin, my dog. It went like this:

C: Look! A CAT! Do you believe it! Why, it’s walking on the street like it owns it or something!

Me: Colin, stop that barking. Just because the kitty is different than you doesn’t give you the right to tell it how to live.

C: But you should open the door so I can chase it out of the street! It is for its’ own good. The cat shouldn’t be outside, even if it thinks it should.

Me: No Colin, everyone gets to make up their own mind about how they want to live and die in this country. Oh wait, what am I thinking!

2. I broke a small brandy snifter than Henry gave me. I feel very badly about it. We enjoyed a small nip of Grand Marnier in those matching glasses for the last who knows how long, six months or so. Now there is only one glass.


3. I received an email from a published author and it was fabulous. http://www.encyclopediaofanordinaryl ife.com" title="http://www.encyclopediaofanordinaryl ife.com" target="_blank"http://www.encyclopediaofanor...  This makes about four emails from her. I am jazzed that I remain in her address book.


4. I went to the library and had a fine time. By that I do not mean that I had to pay a fine, no. I had a really good time. I took out “Georgia Under Water” by Heather Sellers (another of my favorites who has emailed me!) and Margaret Atwood’s Dancing Girls.


5. I got back to my work. I have come to the brilliant yet inevitable conclusion that Heather Sellers is right. It is easy to write when things are going well. The true test is to continue to write when things are not going so great. I wrote today. It felt good too.


6. I closed out a safety deposit box and saved $75.00 a year. This bank, Bank of America will never have to be concerned that I will cast a shadow upon their doors ever again. There was a time when I did, frequently. It was a huge mistake.


7. I have found a volunteer thing that I would like to do. It is to join the Pinellas Marine Litter Patrol www.keeppinellasbeautiful.org . I have a kayak. I can help keep trash out of the waterway. I can’t wait for Claudia to come back from St. Vincent so we can go kayaking and clean up trash.


8. I am going to go Saturday to PINAWOR www.pinawor.org to meet with other writers.


9. I planted several plants, including one of the Ti plants that Henry gave me. My garden is becoming more attractive every day. I do a little at a time. I buy plants frequently from PTEC http://www.ptec.pinellas.k12.fl.us/default.htm" title="http://www.ptec.pinellas.k12.fl.us/default.htm" target="_blank"http://www.ptec.pinellas.k12.... . The gallon size is $4.00 and the smaller ones are $2.00. The best part is that the plants are not of the ubiquitous varieties.


10. My dear friend Lisa AKA Dr. Schlockmanovicz is on her way over to spend some quality viewing time in front of the HDTV. Lisa and I worked together for many years. Lisa was there for me – a lot, when my husband died. Lisa stood by me through the medical malpractice trial. In fact, Lisa testified in that trial and did a very great job.

Greetings to my fellow writers and friends,

A quick story and then I will get on with it. You remember that I have a trio of dogs, right? You remember that my standard poodle boy is Colin, right? Well, recently Colin hopped up on the bed to tell me it was a glorious day and scratched my cornea with his deadly sharp puppy claw. I went immediately to the ophthalmologist. My eye got better very fast. But in the subsequent checkups I was left in the waiting room to find the most serendipitous thing. It was a copy of Curves magazine and in it was an article about this most amazing woman by the name of Amy Krause Rosenthal who had written a most amazing book called Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. =http://www.encyclopediaofanor... href="http://www.encyclopediaofanordinaryl ife.com/"

 I had to get a copy. I did and devoured it. This is one of those books that I will add to my list of the ten I will take to that deserted island. Then, I went to the website and there is even more fun stuff. So I would strongly encourage you to follow my lead and read this extraordinary book just as soon as you can get your paws on it.

My uncle did not acknowledge my husband’s death. My uncle, who lives in the same city as I do did not take the time, go to the trouble, to attend the funeral of his niece’s husband. How selfish is that?

This is the same uncle that some thirty years ago was so very selfish about how much he hurt when my brother killed himself. It was, predictably all about his loss.  I had the horrible responsibility of sharing the news that my twenty-year old brother had taken a shotgun, placed it to his belly and pulled the trigger. My brother. I got to tell my uncle that news. I was sixteen and a brand new mother. I had given birth to my baby girl only six weeks earlier. I also got to tell a lot of other people, as I was the first to hear it myself. I got the telephone call from the hospital. I got the responsibility and the pain of telling my mother, my sister and my uncle.

My uncle is a very selfish and immature person. I cannot begin to express how much it hurt me that at the exact moment that I needed my family’s support more than any other time, he was more concerned with hisown needs. My uncle let me down. Imagine if you can, that the single member of my family present at the funeral of my husband was my daughter. The crime I had committed that he used to justify his absence remains a mystery to me. He cannot unring the bell. At that point in time, my uncle crossed the Rubicon.  It is so easy to say the words “I love you” when it is little more than a demand letter. My uncle told me all the time how he loved me. But when the time came to act like he gave a damn about me, he pretended not to know. While I have since spoken to him, and in fact, had dinner with him, I will never go back to a time when I believe in him. He can’t fix it. 

And when he dies, I will not bother to honor his memory with attendance at his funeral. After all, he could not be bothered to be there for me. No wait, I will too go. I will go because it is the right thing to do. His children will need me there so that they know that they are supported. After all, isn’t that what families do? Support each other?

It has been quite some time since I moved my blog from over from another blog site. That site crashed and burned regularly. There was a mass exodus. Most of us came here. It took some getting used to. Now that I have had a chance to hike most of the terrain I would like to offer Rocky and the others in the cast of characters a suggestion: Can you make it so that I can put blogs that do not interest me into some sort of file so that they don't show up on the list of new posts? I realize that everyone is entitled to their opinions. However, I don't want to trip over some guy's blog that has as its banner a woman in gold lame' strapped down in some sort of kinkyness. I really don't care what that guy has to say. I am not interested in listening. This would also help get rid of the buy xanex! Buy clonapin! advertising blogs. Also, I could compartmentalize the Arizona/Las Vegas family lawyer "talk to a lawyer" blogs. They would fit in nicely with the "free interior designer" blogs.

Can you do it Rocky? Can you give me a place to put out the trash?

 I have been having an exchange with a fellow blogger in the comments on his blog. I presume that he is male because his blog is titled Stephen something or other. His stance regarding the Schiavo case is diametrically opposed to mine. Following is a response to his comment to me quoted in part and my response to him. All of this in the event that you don't get a chance to catch up on his blog. I thought I would bring it home to the house of Pudlin.

 You wrote: “I will agree that there is an emotional aspect to my support, but there are also many questions and unresolved problems with the rulings by judge Greer. “

For questions of legal opinions, I generally find that it is best to turn to the authorities on the issue. In this case, that would be other Judges and Courts who have held that Judge Greer acted appropriately. In fact, each and every time that this has been brought before all other Courts, up to and including the Florida Supreme Court, they have held that Judge Greer has acted appropriately. The evidence presented met the standards for evidence as described in the Florida Rules for Civil Procedure. Now, you and the Schindlers may not like that fact, but it stands. The evidence, the laws, the procedures and the outcome were all legal and appropriate. You may second guess Terri’s statements to those who testified until the cows come home. It was not hearsay. She made those statements to those who testified. Their assertion that she made those statements has the ring of truth to it. Now you don’t like that she said it, and I concur that it would have been better for everyone if she had put it in writing but she didn’t. Who thinks that this could happen to them when they are so young? Of course, a person could argue that a person with bulimia is not the most mentally healthy individual on the face of the planet. However that didn’t enter into the equation and you are either ignoring that fact that brought her to this place or maybe you are not aware of it. I maintain my opinion that Mr. and Mrs. Schindler are desirous of a Mulligan. They want to do it over and over until they get an opinion that aligns with their beliefs. It is clear that you agree with them and I respect that you are entitled to your opinion. However, I find your statements about Judge Greer to be very troubling. Judge Greer is an honorable man. I happen to have had the privilege of knowing him in my professional capacity.

Then you write: “One of the most unsettling problems for me is the total lack of contemporary evidence of Ms Schiavo's condition. The very fact that judge Greer will allow NO testing of any kind makes me wonder why. As you know, medical advances happen every day. What would be the harm of allowing a full series of tests to confirm that Ms. Schiavo is indeed PVS? Why not settle this question once and for all?”

The question has been resolved for all who are willing to accept the results. You and the Schindlers wish to keep bringing in a parade of doctors who are willing to diagnose Terri the way you hoped it would be. The truth is that Michael Schiavo sought many sources of therapy and help for Terri. None of it worked. Terri’s brain has been too damaged. There is no coming back. While it is tragic, it is the truth.

Then you wrote: “Of secondary concern is the many violations of Florida state law by judge Greer. I will post on this tomorrow.”

Are you licensed to practice law? Are you an attorney, paralegal, maybe a judge? Do you have access to the Florida Rules for Civil Procedure available to you?

May G-d richly bless you as well.

Mulligans

At least in golf, you can get one. It is my understanding (not that I play golf. I took one lesson and decided that it was not my bag, no pun intended) Seems that if you are playing with friends, and your ball ends up in a bunker (whatever that is) that you can ask for and receive a “do over” where you toss another ball down and go from there.

It would be nice if we could do that with family and friends in the real world when we screw up. But Mulligans are for golf only.  Not so much in life. But apparently the legislature wants to be on a golf course with the U.S. legal system in the case of Theresa Marie Schiavo.  I don’t think the founding fathers intended for the powers of Congress to include playing doctor. Yet that is exactly what Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist and Tom DeLay are doing.  They want a “do over”. They want to drag it through the Courts again and again until they get a decision that they like. The worst part is that it isn’t so much that they give a fat rat’s ass about Mrs. Schiavo. No. The truth, as revealed in a secret memo intended for Republican Senators ONLY, the memo uncovered by ABC News clearly shows the Republican’s agenda:  "The pro-life base will be excited...this is a great political issue...this is a tough issue for Democrats." This story also takes the heat off Tom DeLay, who is facing a number of serious ethics charges and legal scandals.

The pro-life base….. hmmm, there is another interesting twist. Now if these fine folks are so sure of the promise of heaven and everlasting life, then why are they so insistent that Mrs. Schiavo continue to languish in this corporeal form? Aren’t they excited at the prospect of her having fun again? Playing a harp and getting to watch over her loved ones from on high?

Also, regarding Judge George Greer, (who, by the way I admire and respect and who has a fabulous sense of humor – yes, I have spoken with him on a number of occasions) why is it that these fine Clearwater Baptist Church people would prefer that he worship elsewhere? 

I smell a rat,  a hypocritical one.

Here in the house of Pudlin things are percolating along as predictably as Florida rain, which is to say, you never know what might happen next. What is Scheduled to happen next is this: A bon voyage party for Claudia. Claudia is leaving Sunday to fly to St. Vincent to appear as an extra in the sequel to Pirates of the Caribbean - with JOHNNY DEPP!

I have been giving a lot of thought to my parties lately. The next to the last one, for Henry's birthday, was a huge success. I was relaxed, enjoyed my guests, and totally had a great time.

The one for Tyler's birthday, where we put on the play about chocolate and draglings was a huge success. I was relaxed, enjoyed my guests and totally had a great time.

I am hoping this is a recurring theme. I don't remember my parents, specifically my mother, ever having a party so I turned to my other mother for advice. Martha Stewart. And I began throwing parties back in the early nineties for my co-workers and friends. I toss a mean baby shower, I tell ya.

So I will again get out the party trays and fill them with olives and canape's and get out all the artificial flowers and baskets and weave it all into some arrangement that would make Martha proud. Me too.

And the next party will be a "come as you were" costume party. Guests will figure out who they were in a previous life and dress like that person. Sounds fun to me! Cheers!

1. I have committed the mortal sin of self censoring. When I began this blog I was open, honest, felt what I said and said what I felt. Subsequently, I have sold out. That has to come to a screeching halt. Starting now.


2.  Fo' schizzle the most tremendously damaging act is for a parent or sibling to swear to another to secrecy. Shame is a cancer.


3. My validation is not contingent upon the opinion of some unseen entity who finds my email address troublesome. I existed long before and will continue long after any interpretation of same.


4. I would happily pay for my neighbors to have that scrub oak that is making me sick chopped down. My nose is red. My cough is constant. I am tired of this. I don't like to complain and to complain about such minor ailments as allergies is generally an anathema to me. But I grow weary with the constant assault.


5. I have it really good. I am not in Abu Ghraib. I have plenty of really good stuff to eat. I don't have to have chemo tomorrow or anytime soon. My lights are likely to stay on. I have a cool place to live and three dogs who love me. If they get sick I can take them to get help.


6. I am of a nature to consider and deduce "why me?' into "why NOT me?" I am not so special that I get preferential treatment from the Creator. We are all given many gifts. We are each given a birth and a death. What is important is what comes in between. The dash. Yes, I have loved and lost. But many go through entire lives not knowing a fraction of the delight and pleasure that I have had. In order to feel that amount of love, one must be willing to feel that amount of loss. I am better for having had both.


7. It is reasonable to think that I can get up in the morning and make the day what I choose to make of it. I can get bogged down in worrying about things over which I have no control or input. Or, I can alternatively, use the talents and available resources to make it a great day.


8. I am smart enough to realize that just like a pencil, erasers are there to eradicate mistakes. And just like erasers, you make too many you lose your ass.


9. I am really good at practicing.


10. Those who practice, who refuse to be lumped into the group of "also rans" are the ones who get published, time and again.

 The illustrious BadAunt has come up with another challenge and I have taken the bait. Here goes nothing.

Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?

Rhett Butler. I wanted to strangle Scarlett for treating him so badly.
 
The last book you bought is: The Way the Crow Flies by Ann-Marie MacDonald. I was so enthralled with Fall On Your Knees http://www.readinggroupguides.com/guides3/fall_on_knees 3.asp" title="http://www.readinggroupguides.com/guides3/fall_on_knees 3.asp" target="_blank"http://www.readinggroupguides...

The last book you read: Do you mean the last book that I finished? I generally have 4 or five in progress at any time. The last one that I finished is Page After Page by Heather Sellers. www.heathersellers.com

Five books you would take to a deserted island:

1.    & nbsp; Some survival skills/practical book ala’ BadAunt’s idea.

2.    & nbsp; Michener’s The Source

3.    & nbsp; Ann Marie MacDonald’s the way the crow flies

4.    & nbsp; Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale

5.    & nbsp; Henry Miller’s Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch

Ghost Women is a brilliant tour de force that pulls the reader into the lives of women from other times. We readers get the delicious opportunity to see what life was like for the ones not famous, not exceedingly well bred, not the amazingly talented. We instead get to see the lives of women who were just trying to make it through life, women who loved and gave birth and died. These are their stories, told in a richly woven tapestry that immerses the reader in another time and place. These are the stories that build the history of this nondescript family from Massachusetts and explain the actions of the women from whence they came. These are the women whose character influences the choices that transgress timelines. These stories are what formed the backbone of this family and brought this country forward from the first settlers of Plymouth to the twentieth century.

This amazing first novel is the conception of the author who has managed to capture the texture of the lives of women from her past. This is a story of struggle and grief and death, but also about love and the small glints of happiness in lives punctuated with hardship. This is a book about difficult choices made and the impact on the lives around them Her grandmother’s story of desperation and struggle with issues of morality that indeed, were life and death serves to remind us that choices made are not always made of free will. The author weaves into the tapestry the story of the ostracized, yet innocent Hilma, who spends years as an inmate in a reform school in Massachusetts. Hilma’s story illustrates that choice in husband is sometimes more strongly motivated by availability than suitability. The choice to stay on land or live as a petticoat sailor on a floating prison of a whaling ship is made by another. None of the choices are undertaken easily and all the Ghost Women suffer the outcomes. We the readers are therefore readily transported across the barriers of time and space into the lives of ghosts.

It is a constant battle around here to keep track of my writing. It has always been thus. I have spent the morning trying to find a part of a piece that I wrote recently that contained a reference to Maybelline mascara. I'll be damned if I can locate it. I wanted to add a phrase about crossing the Rubicon and the following catchy phrase: She loaded her weapons into cyclone stitched cups. Torpedo tits full steam ahead, camouflaged under a too tight innocently fluffy cardigan.

Mondays are marketing days. I look around for contests and literary magazines that may print my stuff. I write query letters and letters to authors whose books I like. I read the Writers Digest and work on getting stuff out. So in the process of letting my poor overworked inner secretary sort through the piles of files this day I found an article and query letter I wrote and submitted to Parent's Magazine in 1980. And I nearly wet myself laughing. The query letter is rife with grammatical errors along with a goodly sum of typographical errors. Bear in mind that I wrote it on an electric typewriter. Really. This was before the days of access to word processors.  But you know, the story is cute. I have that piece after all these years. It is tangible evidence that this is not a passing fancy. I have been writing since I was a child. My first recognition was as a third grade student. I have never stopped writing. I have only put it on a back burner by accident.

There was a photograph on the menu of what appeared to be a steak salad. Surprisingly, it was Henry who pointed it out. Dear sweet predictable Henry who generally orders shrimp or fish. We were at the Green Iguana and the pretense was a cheeseburger. If I don’t have a cheeseburger pretty regularly, I can get downright cranky.

The server was young, pretty, pleasant enough, and it was Superbowl Sunday. It was also Henry’s weekend off. We had spent Saturday mostly apart due to my involvement in the Florida Suncoast Writers Conference. I came home exhausted. We went to a birthday party downtown. We came back here and we got reacquainted, so to speak.

But this is about the steak salad. The salad was quite attractive, a bed of romaine lettuce, blue cheese chunks, chopped vegetables and London broil slices on top. Oh, and a couple of really big sort of crouton thingys with cheese on them. They were very crunchy. It looked so good, in fact, that the woman at the next table, put down her cigarette (first time that she had, being a chain smoker) and made a comment about it. I thought her rather brazen but I think my opinion was already formed when she walked in with a lit cigarette in her hand. I harken back to the days when ladies were admonished not to walk around with cigarettes in hand. A gentleman would demonstrate chivalry by taking her cigarette until they got to the table or what have you. What does this say? That women are incapable of walking and carrying a burning object without causing mayhem? It was a stupid rule for a stupider habit. I am relieved that I got rid of it when I did.

So my point remains, that I was looking at this salad in front of me and I was really hungry. I had been telling Henry all about the talk that Margaret Atwood had given about the “don’t write about sex because nobody does that well” and Henry smiled. Seems he thinks the other Henry, Henry Miller did a pretty good job of writing a sex scene. He will dig it up for me to read.

You know how when your dancing and you feel the music and you can stay with the rhythm and everything is fine until you notice someone watching you dance? And then you lose a half a beat and then another and before you realize that you are totally out of control there it is. You look like that geeky Andrew Whitebrook with his high waters and constantly running nose trying to look like anything other than what he is, a geek.

That moment, when you are without the feeling of being watched is the only time that you can find love. Once you are out of that groove, once the needy light sets off the alarms it is over. You may as well have not come to the dance. Needy smells to high heavens. Needy is that color that is so bright that you turn away. Needy doesn’t get good love.

I have a friend-acquaintance I’ll call Linda with an "I" instead of a "Y". She has a massive needy problem. For starters, she has an incurable disease that is sexually transmittable. So going into any relationship is immediately stressful. Which, coincidentally, is when the disease flares up. When she is under a lot of stress. Then there is the tallness factor. She is very tall. She is totally uninterested in any man shorter than 6 foot. OK, that is fine. But a perfectly wonderful 5’10" inch guy doesn’t stand a chance? Nope. He is totally inadequate.

I have to tell you that I have watched Linda dance like Andy Whitebrook at so many social occasions that I am embarrassed for her. I hear her ask in a stage whisper at a wine tasting of one of the servers, "so are you gay?" Apparently that, in her mind would be the only logical reason he could have for not being interested in her. But how about the smell she emits, the smell of needy. She stands with that look in her eye of a hunter on the prowl. Her head rotates slowly as if she was a barn owl and a hapless mouse is crossing its line of vision.

If any of us are in the middle of a sentence and a candidate walks by, you may as well announce to her that you have just set your head on fire. We women are only window dressing for her. We are dispensable. We are props. And Linda is dancing the Andy Whitebrook dance again. Which is why when she calls to ask who is going to join her at such and such event I am consistently busy. Because I don’t feel compelled to watch her dance anymore.

A portion of a short story I am currently working on......

Summer vacation found Jimmy and Julie together most every day. By the end of that first summer Julie had sort of a crush on Jimmy. Jim and his mother lived two doors down. Jim’s father was someone not discussed.

Jim let Julie help him build a canoe. He showed her how to soak the thin splints of wood with the hose so that they could be bent and nailed into place. They went crabbing by the old Milne O’Berry packing plant across from the veteran’s hospital. Jim pulled up the traps at low tide and she waded alongside with the bucket in which he placed them. The crabs would be sparring with her from the bucket, claws raised in defiant final battles that they had already lost. There was blue crab for dinner. Jimmy’s mother would be pleased to steam them and they would all sit out on the picnic table with newspapers and mallets to smash the shells. There would be drawn butter and Kool-Aid. Julie would be extra careful to not get a Kool-Aid moustache so that Jimmy would think she was mature. She would put on a clean pair of cutoffs and tie her tee shirt up in a knot above the waist. And put on Lipsmacker in watermelon.

Jimmy showed her how to hold the edge of a cast net in her teeth. The smell and taste of that edge between her teeth was not totally unpleasant because she got to look at Jimmy’s tanned smooth chest while she did it. Then she would gather up the huge monofilament circle and toss it spinning like a giant pizza into the blazing Florida sun. Then it would drop onto the steel colored water with a sharp snick. If you got it right, then how to pull the rope up hand over hand quickly to gather the edges up around the shiny silvery flapping mullet. That net weighted with fish could take a lot of strength to haul up the side of a seawall. Her bare midriff would scrape along the concrete with the effort. If she did it right, Jimmy would be proud that she was such a good sport. She tried real hard to get the net to open perfectly. She got good at it. They smiled at each other in triumph with every successful toss, with every additional two or three fish in the big yellow bucket. The breeze ruffled his hair. Life was good.

They were planning to cast off the abandoned railroad tracks near the Milne O’Berry packing plant one June day. The tracks used to run parallel to the bridge that went from the old Lighthouse liquor store to the veteran’s hospital. Those rails were torn down years later as was the lighthouse in the parking lot of the liquor store.

“There aren’t any fish here. Let’s go over to the other side.” Jimmy said after a few failed attempts. He knew where the fish were as well as where they weren’t. They weren’t on this side today. 

“OK.” She gathered up their things and he picked up the net. They walked the rails back down to the Milne O’Berry plant carefully because of the spacing between the planks. Looked down between the rails and the wooden supports to the water below and then to the edge of the bridge. Waited for the cars to go by, get a break in the traffic. It was a relatively busy street. Cross first one side, check for oncoming traffic the other way, wait and gaze at Jimmy’s hair in the breeze. Run for it.

Once across they caught their breath and then Jimmy gave the net a toss into the brackish water of the intercoastal waterway. The school of mullet had shimmered for a second just before the toss. With cast netting, timing is everything. He pulled up the net and extracted the couple of mullet to place in the bucket.

“Look!” He said, pointing to the other side of the water. Julie saw what he was pointing to, a white thing.

“It’s a boat. An abandoned boat”, he said. “Let’s go get it.”

“We can’t reach it from here. How?”

“We’ll swim. Here, let’s tie this rope around our waists to keep us together.” With that he tied the end of a rope around her waist. She was blushing as his fingers touched her bare skin. Then he wrapped the other end around his own waist and tied a double bowline. They entered the water. It was probably about a quarter mile across. They didn’t think about the current until they were better than halfway. It was strong. The tide was coming in. Julie struggled to swim strong strokes to keep up with Jimmy. They could see the white end of the boat closer now. A little more swimming strong strokes and they would be there.

“Let’s rest, dogpaddle for a minute.” Jimmy said. They hung in the water almost vertically, side by side, tethered.

“Hey Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s no boat. That is a refrigerator.”

They swam back across the strong current dejected. Only later did Julie come to realize what a stupid stunt it was to swim in shark infested waters tethered to another person. G-d looks out for fools and children. They had been both.

So in my head I am having dinner tonight (don’t worry, it’s catered) in my spotlessly clean and totally organized Shabby Chic bungalow with Margaret Atwood. Margaret, as she insists I address her, has asked if she might mentor me what with me being such an amazingly wonderful writer.

Of course I was thrilled when I got that telephone call from her publicist asking if there might be a chance we could get together and chat. Arrangements were made and I am totally enchanted with the idea.

I have made a list of questions that I would like to ask her. They are:

1. Do you think that you must write about that which has been in your compost pile for at least seven years or can you get more recent without letting it break into the good stuff? Can what you saw at the grocery store today fit into a character?


2. Do you fill out those character forms that some suggest? You know, the ones who say what is your characters astrological sign. Actually I found that just that information made it into one of my stories so the answer for me is to fill in as much as I want to until my head takes the information provided and turns it into “she is the kind of person who would always look to others for approval after it was too late to make an educated decision, or she is exactly the kind of person who would alphabetize her spice racks but not her CD’s. Is that how you would answer that, Margaret? More asparagus? How is your wine, here have more.


3. When you received notice that your first piece was published who was the person that you most wanted to shove it in their face? Who did you want to say “see- I TOLD you I was a writer! Here is proof.” Who is that person for you, Margaret? Who is the one who tried to look like they supported you but were secretly envious?


4. Do you have any regrets about writing stuff about the living? Do you have to disguise them so thoroughly that there is no way that they could possibly see themselves or can you rely on them not seeing themselves clearly so much that they would not ever in a million years believe you were referring to them?


5. Do you think that your stuff is brilliant and then look at it later and wonder who the hell put their stuff in your files? Do you ever forget that you wrote stuff and find yourself surprised that it has surfaced again in another incarnation in another story and the bare bones facts are that it is such an issue for you that you find the theme trotting across every page that you write?


6. Do you ever write from the other gender’s point of view? Are you able to carry it off?


7. How do you know when you are finished?


8. How do you make sure that the reader is able to follow the flow from present to past and then back again? Do I need to use more action to get them moving or is it better to rely on dialogue?


9. Do you want more dessert with that lovely wine?


10. Will you come again? Please say you will. You are one of my very favorite people and I do think you have the most profoundly funny way of talking about things that make even the most mundane interesting.

Ten Things that I have Done that You Probably Haven’t

1. I have been on the red carpet with Mike Peters of Mother Goose and Grimm fame when our dog won the Grimmy Look-alike contest.


2. I have stayed with a friend through the last weeks of succumbing to AIDS. I was there when he died. I held his hand and rubbed his feet and prayed for relief. It was a privilege and an honor.


3. I have driven from Florida to Massachusetts by myself.


4. I have climbed to the top of a mountain and scattered the ashes of my beloved husband along with the ashes of our pets Benny, Jasmine, Candy and Radar.


5. I have written a book of short stories and a children’s play.


6. I have trained several dogs to the degree that they qualified for obedience titles. I have shown in two different rings, obedience and conformation.


7. I have shown a colt that having a human sit on his back was a good thing and that jumping over things was fun.


8. I have made a whole bunch of quilts. A bunch.


9. I have found love twice in one lifetime.


10. I have kayaked alongside a shark. And around an island and in rivers.

I got this idea from a fellow blogger referred of course by BadAunt. Feel free to do your own list. I would be interested to read the results.

    1 .  I am working on the Chimera test that BadAunt provided. So far, so good.

2. It goes without saying that I am writing. I have a whole lot of paper in paper clipped chapters. I write every morning three pages in longhand before my eyes have opened. Then I write until I can’t write any longer and then the rest of the day is spent in preparation for more writing.

3. Yesterday I was among the crowd of ten thousand for the big reveal of the Extreme Makeover house for the Dolan family. Jamie Dolan was blinded in that Radio Shack robbery last November that killed a beautiful young woman and a customer. The gunman then turned the gun on himself. More evidence for my premise, that we are all a compilation of good and evil. Sometimes I think we are all in some big play, but we don’t have a script that is complete until curtain call. We don’t know how big our part is or how it all ends.

4. While everyone was thrilled for the Dolan family, my thoughts and prayers were also for the Cruz family and the man who was the innocent customer. And I also feel terribly sorry for the family of the gunman. Immediately my heart went out to his mother. How horrific a feeling to learn that not only is your child dead at his/her own hand, but to be told that in the process he murdered two and nearly a third who indeed, will be blind for life? How do you wrap your mind around that horror? Can you imagine the hate mail?

5. I have been thinking about my grandmother with her crazy rat like eyes.  My grandmother spent her life being depressed and miserable. She was quite adept at punishing an entire room. My grandmother was constantly “sick” with something or other.  Most of the time it was with stuff that if she had made better choices would not have happened. I remember when I was very young, say six or so, she was diagnosed with “shingles”. For months she laid on the couch moaning and crying. I was so sad about it, felt so helpless that I came to the point where I wished she would die. Then I felt horrible for thinking such thoughts. When I got older, she revealed to me that she never really had shingles. What really was the truth was that she had taken a whole lot of some over the counter medication called “Compoz” for her “nerves” and didn’t tell the doctor because she didn’t want to “get in trouble”. At that point I became angry with her and I am not sure that the anger ever left me. She controlled our entire family with guilt and her theatrics of attempted suicides for so many years that I was rather relieved when she died.

6. I have been happy now for almost a year. I finally figured out a way to get out of the habit that depression had become. I pulled myself out of the black hole. The newness of happy versus the safety of the habit is at times frightening, other times exhilarating. But it sure as hell has been liberating. And I refuse to go back. I am responsible for my recovery and I take that responsibility and accomplishment very seriously and very proudly upon my shoulders.

7. I have figured out that in many things, it is not the completion that makes me happy, it is the process. Nothing is ever perfect and nothing is ever “done” around here. I am a work in progress. So is my environment. That is reality. The house is never going to be totally clean all over at the same time. The dogs are never going to all be freshly groomed and perfectly behaved. Someone will have a flea or two.

8. I don’t have to “connect” with those whom I am “just not that into”. I don’t have to allow Crazymakers to have any of my time or energy. Just because someone is someone that my dear friend Claudia likes to spend time with does not preclude that I will as well. She has several of those. I sometimes accept invitations, sometimes I don’t. It is my call.

9. Henry is a truly wonderful gift that I have had the privilege to begin to know. Every day some new insight is revealed to me. Every day some profound learning experience is handed to me. Not to mention that behind that quiet dignity lies the heart of a clown. He makes me laugh.

10. I have to tell you, I really want to see a whole field of sunflowers and run through them barefoot. The real big tall ones. I need a whole field of them. In my front yard.

The Legend of Teague and the Atwater Inn

Narrator : Long ago and far away there was a minstrel named Teague, who

wandered the byways of Ohm. He was gifted in telling stories and singing.

 Teague (Justin) – (sing)  “Oh let me tell you a story about a man named

 Jed, poor mountaineer barely kept his family fed, then one day he was shootin’

up some food and out from the ground came a bubbling crude.”

 Narrator: One day he was walking through the beautiful forests and meadows

filled with flowers and decided he would stay the night at the Atwater Inn.

 Teague goes to the Atwater Inn sign where Kenet (Tyler) and Elishia

(Morgan) wait.

 Narrator: The Inn used to be very busy. There were always many guests.

 But towns all around had grown. Business was very bad for the Atwater Inn.

 Teague: I wonder what I could do to help my friends get more business at the

Atwater Inn. AHA! I know!

 Narrator: And with that, he kept walking and walking through the forest.

Meanwhile at the Inn the friends were bored.

  Kenet and Elishia look very bored. Elishia is stirring in a pot on

the stove.

 Kenet: Boy Elishia, I am bored to tears. Want to play some checkers?

 Elishia: I wish our friends would come to see us! I don’t want to play

checkers anymore. That is all you ever want to do!

Narrator: Teague knocks on the door.

Teague knocks on the door. He opens the door and steps inside.

 Narrator: There is a fire on the grate.

 Teague: Hi there Elishia! What’s the Frequency Kenet?  Boy that food

you’re cooking sure smells good Elishia!

 Elishia and Kenet put dinner on the table. Everyone sits down and

begins to eat.

 Elishia: So what’s new, Teague? How ya been?

 Teague: Well I am sure you have heard the news.

Kenet: What news? The Michael Jackson trial?

 Teague: About chocolate, that’s what! Everybody is talking about it!

It’s a new discovery!

 Elishia: What is chocolate?

Kenet: Yeah, what she said! What is chocolate!

 Teague: It has a wonderful sweet taste and you can eat it raw or use

it in baking.

 Elishia: Where did it come from?

 Teague gets real close and mysterious

 Teague: Tis said that The Draglings found it in the other world

beyond the mirror.

 Kenet and Elishia (in unison with hands on cheeks) “ The Draglings!

Beyond the mirror!”

 Teague: But here is the amazing part. If you try to hoard it, it disappears.

But if you share it, you get more. Here let me show you. I have some here

in my pouch.

 Kenet and Elishia watch as he pulls his pouch from his waist and

pulls (SLOWLY) chocolate chips on the plate.

 Teague: OH NO!

 Kenet: What’s wrong?

 Teague: It was all in one piece when I left on my journey.

 Elishia: That’s all right good friend. You meant well. May I try one?

 Teague: Sure!

 Kenet and Elishia each try a chip.

 Narrator: You must understand that The Draglings are harmless creatures

about the size of a poodle. They like to live in breadboxes. Sometimes they

can be mischievous, but they are very cute.

Elishia: YUMMY! Boy oh boy is that ever good! WOW! I sure do

like that!

 Kenet: ME too!

 Elishia: I wonder what would happen if I dumped the rest of the bits into

cookie dough.

 Teague and Kenet rub their tummies

 Teague and Kenet In unison: THAT makes my mouth water just thinking

about it!

 Elishia: Well now it is time for you to go to bed. Let’s see what happens.

 Narrator: They all went to bed and the next morning the inn was filled

 with the most wonderful smells. The next day, Teague was leaving.

 Teague: Well my dear friends, I must be going on my way. I can’t wait

to show all the villagers these wonderful cookies that you made Elishia.

 Narrator: Teague did eat only a few cookies but most of them he gave away. 

 Teague: Here my friend. Have a cookie! The only place you can get these

cookies is at the Atwater Inn.

 Narrator: Soon Elishia and Kenet’s business at the Inn was booming. They were afraid they would run out of chocolate for the cookies. But then that night, Kenet went to get a drink of water and saw-----------------

 Kenet  “ Draglings three of them! They were just so cute!

 Elishia: Let’s let them live with us at the Inn. They keep bringing us more chocolate!

 Kenet: And they are making us famous! The guests love them!

 Narrator: Several months went by before finally Teague could come

back for a visit. Teague knocked on the door.

 Teague knocked on the door.

Teague: Wow! Look at all these people! Wow, look at the Draglings!

My scheme worked! I am so happy for my friends!

 Kenet and Elishia: THANKS Teague! Thanks Draglings!

Here, everybody, have a cookie!

 Narrator: And as is usually the case, they all lived happily ever after.

 EVERYBODY: THE END

So tomorrow is the celebration for Tyler's birthday. If you have been following this at home then you might realize that when each of them have a birthday, I do a different kind of party. Tyler's theme is a doozie. I found a cookbook called Cooking for your Dragon. In the book are all sorts of fun lore about Draglings, small dragons who find chocolate. So I thought that might be fun to act out.

I used the premise of the book to write a one act play. With four children and three draglings (Lacy, Colin and Chuck). We will have a dress rehearsal tomorrow. Then the cast will prepare chocolate pizza. This will be followed by the opening night (at 1:30) Tickets are still available, but going fast.

Don't worry about me being a stage bubbe. I have printed out all of the dialogue and all of the stage direction in very big font and will be coaching from the pit. No one will get in trouble for missing a line or twelve. It is about having fun.

Now back to creating the costumes for the minstrel, the inn keeper and his lovely wife, the narrator fairy princess and the three draglings. Not to mention the props...... and the signage, and the lighting, and make the forest and well..... there is that village idiot costume for the dialogue coach.

Andaloo and BadAunt did it. Henry and I join in. Happy RND everyone!

We had the most wonderful time today. If this is Sunday in St. Petersburg then we are eating pho' at Mekong in booth number 11. With hot tea.

We went to the Medieval Festival in Tampa. Henry got chosen (who knows how they knew he was a natural born actor, I will never know....... errmmmm) to play the part of Harry in the mudd sho. There he assisted in the performance of the Muddy Wives of Windsor. Harry had 3 daughters. The first was, of course, Sally.... When Harry met Sally (groan). Anyway the story required Henry AKA Harry to stand by the mud pit and risk getting splashed. Sort of like Shamu at Sea World, only darker. He was a good sport and when they said "and Harry was very angry" he looked the part. We were all convinced that he should be nominated for an Oscar. AT the very least. I, on the other hand, was busy nearly wetting myself laughing.

In another corner, he was once again singled out (how did THAT happen!) by one of the Limey Birds and the young lady with the bosoms that nearly exploded out of her corset told the audience he was her lover and that he worked for the post office.

The song went something like this..... And all day long he licks stamps and when he gets home he licks----------------me oh my I am so happy So happy am I!!!!!! He was, of course, a very good sport about all of this too. I asked afterwards if he knew her...... otherwise how....

We returned to St. Petersburg, had dinner at the 4th Street Shrimp Store (grouper for me, thanks) and now have come home. It was a wonderful day from start to finish. Especially the licking stamps part.

As you may recall, I took the advice of Julia Cameron (The Artist’s Way) www.artistswayatwork.com/ and took a week long hiatus from reading and other such nonsense as watching the Apprentice. She warned that I might rearrange the furniture if I didn’t have the chatter going on in my head of other peoples’ words in books and the television.

She was right. I wrote a lot. Thousands of words, of which maybe a dozen or so are actually good. But the object of the exercise is to write first and shut up the critic. Then go back in 12 or so weeks and see about editing. I have named my internal critic Simon Cowell. My Simon is just as ruthless.

I painted several walls several colors. I thought about what I like, what I don’t like. A lot. I used “no” as a complete sentence. It felt good. I turned down invitations to participate in activities that didn’t fit what I wanted to do with my time. I said no to yoga. I said no, I will not be interrupted to a crazymaker. http://www.wayneandtamara.com...

I also said “I’m just not that into her”. It was funny. 

I changed my mind about my feelings for the color purple. The actual color not the book. I have not changed my mind about the book, or the movie. I still like them. I like the book http://www.library.csi.cuny.edu/dept/history/lavender /purple.html" title="http://www.library.csi.cuny.edu/dept/history/lavender /purple.html" target="_blank"http://www.library.csi.cuny.e... more than the movie.

On other fronts – Henry is just fine and dandy. He is one of the funniest guys I know. His latest in the series of stories from the pharmacy caused a laundry problem.

The dogs are fine, now. Chuck got a case of irritated belly from too many bones. I found out the hard way that those bones are just too expensive. Chuck found out that tap dancing beside the bed WILL wake mom up and get the required help with the back door lock. Opposable thumbs! I could do so much if I only had opposable thumbs!

Colin thinks that he should give Lacy puppies or at least practice making them.

Lacy the goat dog ate some other indigestible things. It is hard to retain your usual princess poodle composure at times like this morning. Picture it, if you will in your mind’s eye. Here is Lacy, with her St. Patrick’s Day green rosettes in her freshly groomed ears. Around her regal neck is a St. Patrick’s Day bandana. In short, she is decked out. She is also making a poop, which normally is the high spot of any dog’s day. Oh goodie! I made a poop! I will often hear them say. She is trying very hard to finish up, and finds herself in quite a predicament. Now Lacy is a smart girl, but apparently her canine brain cannot connect the cause and affect of eating things not in one’s bowl and that awful feeling of… how can I put this delicately. I can’t. The long and the short of it is stuck poop. Held to her with indigestible paper and/or fabric. This required mom intervention. Nothing can be more humiliating than to have to have someone help you poop unless it is being the poop helper. She would prefer I not write this, but I felt you had the right to know. And BadAunt told me to.

Twice in the past two days I have received emails threatening that IF I don't hurry and "update" the info on my PayPal account, I will lose my account.  This is a bogus threat designed to scare idiots into revealing information that would provide the con artists an opportunity to commit identity theft. All one need do is run one's mouse over the URL. Voila' instantly the real URL is exposed and you can see that you were about to tell some yokel at UncleJim's Worm farm your mother's maiden name.

One of these days I intend to take the time to actually answer their questions. MY mother's name is Squatengetit Goodenough. Then she married my dad, I.P. Daly. So then she was Squatengetit Daly.

The other pet peeve de jour is Adware. What right do these gapers have to bog down my computer with their self installing crap programs? Now, generally I oppose the death penalty. For these characters I will make an exception. In fact, slow it down like they do my computer. Death by leeches. Thousands of them. Add more hungry ones every day. It's perfect.

OK - my reading deprivation was TOUGH! Now I am copping a plea bargain. I went a work week. No novels..no magazines, no recipes. 

I am unable to not read any more! Maybe Julie Cameron is right, maybe I am more open.

All I know is I feel my stuff withheld. And I have missed all of you. But, while I have relinquished, I have not read.