Just sainted, perhaps tainted

Don't get me wrong, I can be as religious as the next person, if the next person is a Liberal Reformed Jew.  There is a strong culture of Evangelical Christianity in my workplace.  It has taken the shape of prayer circles during work hours, which I find annoying.  Granted we are a diverse workplace, but the religious culture is very prevalent.  If these folks are supportive of a Jewish State, and Jews in general, it is only insofar as it will bring the rebuilding of the temple in Israel as prelude to the Rapture and the end times.  I am deliberately Jewish to make sure people are aware of the diverse workplace.  But I also know there are a number of agnostic and atheistic people in the workplace and their voice is drowned out by these prayer circles.  If they want to have a prayer circle before work in a neutral location that is okay by me. Live and let live my motto be.  I believe in the Dalai Lama's quote "Compassion is the radicalism of our time".  These Evangelicals are anything but compassionate to those that don't follow their religious orientation.  And this culture is pervasive, including management.  I have heard of one Evangelical denigrate Arabs to a person of Arab descent.  Not very compassionate.  If she were a born again pagan with a worshipful small shrub in her cube they would have a shit fit.  They should learn to practice the compassion they think they possess.  I know a number of these Evangelicals and they are basically nice people, but they only seem to accept me as Jewish as a link to the Rapture.   Do I pray?  That is my business and I don't parade it in front of my co-workers.  Although, I put in Hanukkah decorations.  My purpose in doing so is to remind people of the diversity we should all embrace: Protestant, Catholic, Jew, Buddhist, Hindu, Muslim,  I could go on and on

So in conclusion: Be Radical...Be Compassionate.

Sainted Schmuckhood Pt. II

So I have been reading this book Emotional Blackmail by Susan Forward.  Her contention is we become enmeshed in a FOG (Fear Obligation Guilt) and I must admit I find her argument compelling.  I am only a few pages into the book and already I can see myself as having allowed myself to be emotionally blackmailed by Patricia.  I do feel guilt regarding her plight, what ever it may be at a given moment. So I went and got her popsicles yesterday when I would have preferred to laze about the house.  And when I returned with the popsicles I found there were plenty in her freezer.  I made her dinner...DINNER, mind you, and while she slept on my sofa I continued to read the book and I doubt if she made any connection.  I don't fear her, but I so feel a sense of obligation and guilt.  I take care of people, even when I don't want to.  I really need to read the book.  I am just dreading the possibility that she might clog my toilet up with a variety of substance.  She has my key, I have her key.  That really was a safety valve in case either one of us locked ourselves out of our condos.  I never intended her to let herself in and use my bathroom and do God knows what.  And if she needed popsicles so bad, why didn't she hop in her car and get them herself.  And why am I such a schmuck?  And I guess to some extend I do fear her.  Fear her emotional swings.  I do believe she is a borderline personality.  I hate you...don't go away.  Kind of an emotional push me pull you.

Well, I think this week I will, in small steps, be more assertive and less giving.  I need to protect myself.  I need more time with my music.  Music is my religion.  And I really don't want to go down Wednesday to watch a repeat of Jeopardy.  That is my guilt speaking if I do go down.

Oh, well, tis a mystery...

Sainted Schmuckhood

Patricia....Patricia, dear, over-medicated Patricia.  Came up last night to use the toilet and to check her key out and how it would disturb the cats if she entered.  They could care less.  Then she  sat on my couch, nodding off and almost falling on the floor.  I made her dinner and she took it to go.  While she was here and dinner was cooking, I was reading a book on emotional blackmail, which she failed to notice in her somnambulant state.  I am hoping the plumber can come out today and she won't need the services of my bathroom.  Part of her problem with her toilet is she flushes non-flushable cat litter down it, so, sure it clogs.  Like a cement plug.  She wonders why her plumbing is shot to shit, so to speak, when she abuses it thus.  She can't use her dishwasher or disposal and has a fit if the upstairs neighbor's use theirs.  But for goodness sake she is a menace to building plumbing.

After she left I ate and relaxed some more.  Turned the air on for the boys and me.  Practice some on the mandolin and watched a late ball game.  Looks like today is an all day AC day for the house,  with my lesson tonight I think it is wise to keep the house cool.  May go to the Lugnuts ball game on Friday and see the fireworks.  Patricia wants me to come down Wednesday to play Jeopardy, which is in summer repeats so I think I will pass and come up with sundry excuses and not be blackmailed into going down.  See, Hyphen, the book is helping.

I am tired and headachy today.  May break down and take some aspirin and hope Ursula Ulcer doesn't complain.  I am into pre-lesson dread.  I did more guitar than mandolin this week,  I think what I may need to do is 'play with myself', and by this I mean  tape myself playing and play along with the tape. I don't have  The Urinal to play with anymore.  Must make do.

And so, as Billy Pilgrim might utter, it go...so it goes.

Schmuck

I am one.  Patricia calls at 7:25 this morning asking if I would call another friend to unclog her toilet. And I lied through my teeth and told her he was at his cottage all week and was unavailable.   Then I gave her the name of my real plumber.  She said she would wait until Monday and BTW, if  she needed to shit could she use my toilet.  TMI, as it were.  What am I gonna say?  Then three hours later she calls and asks if I could stop tomorrow and get her some of her Popsicles. Gonif needed some turkey so I said I would do it today and went out to La Kroger to get a few items.  Meanwhile, I was thinking to myself that a frittata sounded nice for dinner as I had gone to the farmers market and got some tomatoes, herbs, and fingerling potatoes.  Well, I shopped, walked home and put Patricia's Popsicles away, of which she had plenty, and said I had my own frozen stuff to put away and stupidly mentioned what I had planned for dinner.  Schmuck.  She blatantly asked for one for her dinner, too.  I said it might be too warm to cook but if I did I would make enough for two.  Schmuck.  Schmuck.  Fuxing Schmuck.  I go a week without seeing her and blam! I get overwhelmed in a day of sainted schmuckhood.

My cats are still melting,  may be time to turn on the air.  Schmuck.

Is it universal?

All three of my cats do this when they are blissed out, usually from a nice brushing or kneading my plush tummy, so I am wondering if this is a universal reaction. My cats drool.  There, I have said it.  Gonif was just brushed, which he doesn't need but loves, and drooled like a trooper.  I once had a dog, when I was still drinking, and Gastric came over and was having a Bailey's Irish Cream and the dog, Duffy, drooled uncontrollably at the scent of the Bailey's.  Of course Gastric let Duffy lick the glass and that stopped the drooling.  He also loved a good beer, a Pilsner, but not a stout.  He has since departed this world, but maybe his spirit has followed me, as all my cats drool.  Blissing out is their favorite method, but Yankel likes to knead, or make bread as Gastric says, and that is when he drools.  Prior to Gonif I don't recall having a cat slobber over me,  but these three...

Going out to a friend's house for dinner tonight and then an evening of stargazing.  I made two fabulous salads, as it is rather warm today, but not for me I must say, and I thought salads at room temperature would be nice.  A lovely orzo salad with fresh herbs and grape tomatoes and a cucumber salad with dill.  She is grilling chicken breasts using a Himalayan salt slab I got for her for some occasion.  Looks like rain soon but the backs of the leaves haven't turned over yet so it is a ways off.  Just cloudy.  Her porch is covered so we should still be able to grill tonight.  Gastric made a seasonal berry tart and another friend is bringing an appetizer and I know he is a great cook.  Sounds like a great evening.  Wish you could join us.

I'm melting, I'm melting

Finally a decent Friday.  Weather has finally turned warm and instead of a cold and wet day, like the last two Fridays we have nice weather.  But not warm enough to turn the air on.  That will happen when it hits the mid 80s in here.  Hence, a melting cat.

Taught two good lessons today.  Took up most of the afternoon.  Good thing the Cubs are playing a late afternoon game.   Oh, things are good today.

Patricia called and said she expected me to call her on Wednesday.  She waited and waiter.  She was a little miffed but is also running a fever and asked for some aspirin.  So the only day I have committed to going down is the 5th of July.

Received some nice toys today, including a new fire extinguisher as my old one was over eighteen years old.  I got lots of new books which is always a pleasantry.

So here is a photo of Simcha Cat melting.  They are not really too warm.  It is very comfortable as there is no humidity.

I think I'll phone Gastric.

Belly Whore

Yes, I have one at my house.  Simcha, who is the youngest of my three cats, is, simply put, a belly whore.  You know what I mean.  You are walking through the house and all of a sudden a white belly appears, begging to be rubbed.  He'll lay for hours in that position, eyes small slits, in anticipation of the rubbies to come.  He loves to have his tummy rubbed and it is a pretty tummy, all pure white, clean and sleek.  I could wax poetic about said belly but will move on to my morning.

Mister Financial Guy, or the simply the Wolf, is coming over for a breakfast meeting,  just to talk and stay in touch.  We were going out but I need to be near home to get some packages.  Mickey D's is the order of the day.  After he leaves I have two lessons to prepare for and maybe make a pasta salad for a dinner party tomorrow.  And not just any pasta salad: orzo, yellow and red tomatoes, garbanzos and a wine vinegar dressing.  I love to cook.  I'll make something exotic for dinner tonight.  Sounds like a veggie night.  Maybe make a cucumber salad as it is supposed to be warm and muggy the next few days.  Something cool sounds nice and I will do this all before noon.  Whew.  Glad I have the day off.  Some day off...busy,  busy busy.

Okay, the belly whore is calling.  More later.

An impromptu gathering of sputtering turtles

Knowing full well that some of my "good" family (not the Rat Bastard) read this blog I have to be a little more gentle than I might normally be, a little more tasteful.  Thus fux is a homonymic substitute for the real thing.  Gastric and I have taken to using it in a more universal fashion.  We were told by the Soul Sucker that we are less than good examples to the students of MSU.  Not so, we say.  We are just who we are.  Honest hardworking women with a toilet for a mouth.  But then we learned it from the students.  My dad used to say he disliked women who said fux, but he used it all the time.  Hypocrisy.  Once, when we were in France together at Monet's home I used it in a sentence and that stopped him from using it the rest of the trip.  That was at least an honest response to the situation.

I was going to tell you about the two spiders who live in my body, Naomi and Phoebe.  But there is no decent way to tell you where they live.  Suffice it to say that I have had a relationship drought of more than twenty years and you then might guess their residence.  Gastric has a Viking pair, Gretchen and Helga, whom she assumed were in the process of emigrating to Ireland and emigrated to her body.  Aaron the Drunk named my pair.  The names and location took.  When you have a relational dry spell such as I have had these things tend to happen.  I was also told by a co-worker that after a certain period of time you regain your virginity.  I'd rather have spiders; at least they are good company and I can talk to them.

And at least I made you smile...I hope.  Sorry Aunt West Coast.  Good taste is not timeless and I am just an orphan of the storm.

Boundaries and the ticking clock

I seem to be giving some people, like me, the impression I go through people like Kleenex.  Well I think I have fathomed why.  I am a wuss.  Once I set some boundaries, which I needed to set early and neglected to do, I seem to lose my wussness and maybe alienate people.  Take the Urinal, for example.  Once I said to stop messing with my songs and once the "band" wanted to play two of my songs out of the five we were going to do I think he was upset on both counts.  Once I stood up to Polar Vortex and set boundaries, boom, no more wuss and we parted ways.  With the Soul Sucker that is more of a conundrum.  I think when I was so angry that I didn't want to talk to her for fear of lashing out, but eventually did when I returned an ill-timed Hanukkah present with a rather curt note (boundaries) it hastened the demise of the relationship.  With both Polar and Soul notes hastened the end of the relationships, but the notes were of the boundary setting type.  So I fear setting more boundaries with Patricia, someone who really needs to acknowledge that my boundaries are not for a little while but forever and are not meant to be hurtful.  She lives in my building.  I want to retain some degree of civility.  But when it comes to ending relationships I seem to hasten things along with a note that truly sets boundaries and really expresses my true feelings which I suppressed for too long.

What do you think, thems of youse who is still talking to me?

Foreshadowing

An art and literary term mostly.  I was pondering this as I envisioned myself crossing a street with two way traffic and saw myself being struck by a car.  Could be an over active imagination or the depressed bipolar talking, but it made me wonder.  What if we all have a foreshadowing of our actual demise?  I mean, what if on the 20th of December 1985, Dorothy awoke to the thought "this is my last day, better wear clean underwear".   Just wondering out loud.  What if we knew, actually knew, as some do, this is it.  What would you do?  Would you still go about your day as if you had more time, or somehow make amends for real or imagined wrongdoings.

We are all on a clock.  We only have so many ticks.  Knowing that, why don't we act more justly, more patiently, less quick to anger or  insult?  In other words, live a good life.  Whether we believe in some sort of higher power, karma, or just living a decent human life why aren't we more mindful of our actions.  The clock is ticking.  We are back to Donne, I fear, asking not for whom the bell toll, blah, blah,,blah.

So, if you are crossing a street with two way traffic, what would you do?

Query for the morning (Warning: possible naughty words follow)

And I am not the originator of this line but it bears repeating to a wide audience.

Why do straight people keep having gay babies?

Just wondering.  If a heterosexual couple has a gay child that means they have not been hateful enough? Maybe they believe in science, evolution and climate change?  Or they don't vote Republican. Not watching Fox News can also cause homosexual children. Or maybe watching Fox just fux you up in general.  There...I have learned a new way to spell Hyphen's therapeutic word.  Fux.

That is the basis of Hyphen Therapy.  You get mad at appropriate anger issues.  Them fuxers are just fuxed up.  Am I being offensive in the name of liberalism?  You betcha!  So, when I am in session, like I am on Mondays, and the Rat Bastard Cousin comes up, he becomes a noun, i.e., Fuxer, he just fuxed me up. And he did.  And know that Karma is a bitch Rat Bastard.

And in general I am going to keep you wondering what brought this up. 

You can make your best guess in a comment or on Face Book.

Always keep 'em laughing...

The Urinal

Honestly, the names have been changed to protect the not so innocence.  Additionally, my sanity at work depends on this.

It must appear that I go through people much like most people go through Kleenex. 

There is a chap I work with who never makes eye contact with people, especially women.  I used to make a habit of saying "good morning" and not get a response.  No holding doors for people, this fellow, no eye contact.  We used to be musical acquaintances, but the mishandling of some songs I wrote, by trying to put his own imprimatur upon them, by which I am implying his own turn on my compositions.  I may not be the most prolific or fabulous of songwriters, but, damn it, they are mine, my thoughts, my feelings.  Just because you fancy yourself a better writer doesn't mean you get to rewrite my stuff...I mean Confederacy of Dunces is a great book (in my opinion).  Doesn't mean I get to improve on it by rewriting parts of it to satisfy my own creative impulses. Of course he might, as he is so full of himself. 

In any event this chap I affectionately refer to as The Urinal.  This was due to an unfortunate turn of phrase, or happenstance, when one morning he was coming in and was preceded by a maintenance person carting a urinal.  I said, without seeing this chap, "Oh, good, just what I need...a urinal" and he brought up the rear.  Hence, we call him The Urinal.  Just happenstance; I don't really mean too much by it.  I mean a woman without a man is like a fish without a Urinal, or something like that.

I still write music, but have not been inspired of late to write words.  I need to play guitar a bit more, as well as the mandolin.  I really need to explore more of my sensibilities of late.  Patricia has been an impedance to this.  I am down to not seeing her this week, but I am really busy this week, working ten hours on Tuesday, hence the multiple posts.  Tonight will be a music night.  I promise.  I need to get ready to teach guitar on Friday.  I have two lessons to give, one with Gastric's granddaughter.  I want to be on top of my game for her.  Don't know which guitar I will use...probably the Martin as it has been underutilized of late.  The Ovation has been getting knocked around more.  Anyway, tonight I will play the Martin and let my fingers fly and let loose.  Maybe keep a recorder going in case I am swept away by flights of fancy.  This is a "ME" night.  I need it.  Bring the guitar into the living room.  And leave the case open in the bedroom for Gonif to take refuge.  Simcha is more fond of the mandolin case and lays in it during mandolin lessons.  Yankel is too big to consider taking refuge in a case. 

Once again, I digress.  Cats in cases.  Not good.  Focus.  Music is my solace and refuge.  I need more.  I constantly listen at work and pay attention to the music.  Not so much lyrics as my hearing makes it difficult for me to understand some of the lyrics I hear (hence, the girl with colitis walks by).  I try to understand more of the music, classical, pop, bluegrass, jazz, all of it.  Hear it really being played.  But tonight the guitar comes into the living room, TV on mute, ballgame on (Tigers have won five in a row), and just play.  Let the music flow into my fingers.  I couldn't play for almost nine months due to torn cartilage in my left hand.  Just started playing again in March.  I have much time to make up for.  Surgery gave me back my hand.  And I must exercise it more.

And now we return to our regularly scheduled Urinal.

Trying to reclaim my academic musical chops

Alright, for a more classical approach to my day thus far you'll have to click the link.  All I will tell you is:

Maria Callas

Probably the most moving rendition I have heard.  Her voice is so pure and even years after her death still resonates with me.

Speaking of years after death, here at MSU in the Plant Biology Conservatory we have a Corpse Flower in bloom, a flower whose fragrance is reminiscent of decomposing flesh.  Hence, its apt popular name.  Locals are probably sick of hearing about it, but there is an hour and half wait to see and smell the flower.  Of course we are in the midst of an annual event, Grandparents University, and that might explain some of the wait.  Here is a photo of the flower in bloom for those of you unable to come to MSU to see and smell it in person.  Life goes on, even if it stinks of death.

My inner pop princess

Well, my iPod's done it to me again.  Sara Bareilles singing Brave...

I know, it's pure pop but the words really get to me, especially on days when I ponder Serotonin Syndrome and the potential impacts of that issue.  Heard it a few weeks ago live for the first time and wow...dead on connection.  Maybe I am a simplistic pop fairy godmother.  Here is a little more intimate version.  Perhaps you can listen to this while knitting a cat.

BRAVE

Maybe a little something uplifting for the day.  Thank God for You Tube.

I want to see me be brave...I was a trifle so yesterday.  No Patricia visits this week.  Nothing until July 5th unless I cave  before then.  I had to listen to a full blown rant before I got to my brave speech about being busy all week.  But I got it out without acrimony from her.  Whew!  Now I have to stick to my hypothetical resolve.  Right, Hyphen?

Polar Vortex

Whatever you do, if you are in a mentoring relationship and you are either, don't take it to the next level, i.e., one of close friendship.  I wanted to be mentored by someone with vast computer skills and they paired me with the Polar Vortex.  She was a lonely married lady who spent more time with friends than with hubby.  And now she is a lonely single lady.  But I digress.  The mentoring relationship went well and she began to join my crew, Gastric and The Pre-Soul Sucker, for lunches.  Then we began going to dinners and the occasional shows.  Then she was available to take me to doctor appointments, of which there were many.  That's where the problem reared it's ugly head.  I gave unto her medical power of attorney.  Well, she had blossomed into a friend...

She began to take over more and more aspects of my life.  And I let it happen.  It came to pass that I needed hiatal hernia surgery and she was there for me.  The surgery was supposed to be done laparoscopically but when I awoke I had an incision from breast bone to navel and I was attached to a drain.  She had, as medical power of attorney, ok'd more aggressive surgery, after the surgeon was too inept to do it any other way.  But doctors, authority figures and she respected them above all.  I was out of work an unexpected six weeks.  Without pay, I might add, as I had little sick time.  Oh, but she was there to do my laundry and shop and visit,  and be there for me.

Fast forward a year and the hiatal hernia returned and at some point require more surgery.  Polar continued to break and eat with us.  And I was feeling suffocated by the relationship.  The death stroke was an endoscopy I had, where the doctor spoke only to her and never to me, either before or after the procedure. I mean, why not...she was almost a doctor.  I was very upset and proceeded to write a long letter to her about how I couldn't deal with her usurpation of my life.  We parted ways. She, like the later Soul Sucker, treated Gastric like a pariah.  Trailer trash she was to Polar.

Well, that relationship ended and as has the relationship with The Soul Sucker.  And when last seen, those two parted as best friends, united in their contempt of Gastric and me.

Now, given two busted relationships at work and Patricia (also Mr. Librarian....another one) one might surmise I attract this sort of relationship because I have no backbone.  And extricating myself from these relationships is never pretty.  I still have the copy of the letter I sent to Polar.  I have the angry words I parted ways with Mr. Librarian.  I think unless I set better boundaries with Patricia things may be headed in that direction.

I should hasten to add that when I had recent surgery and Soul Sucker was there I told her not to let them do additional surgery without my okay.  She took this to mean I didn't trust her.  Quite the contrary.  I wanted to maintain control and didn't trust the doctors.  That was another nail in the coffin of our relationship and became a bone of contention in that awful meeting we three had.  I had to sign paperwork releasing her from some obligations.  None of which was binding and was just mean spirited on her part.  I have since shifted medical power of attorney to a cousin who is an attorney.  There!

This is not to say I have no friends left. There is Gastric. The Evil Nutella, Brody's Mom, and a slew of others I can't mention by name without talking to them first.

Thus ends the story of Polar.

Knit a Cat Kit available

My big cat, Yankel, is getting mandatorily brushed twice a day.  Thus, I have enough fur to be spun that you can...now wait for it...Knit your own cat.  Color option...gray on grey...not unlike,my mood.  I will throw the fur balls in if desired.  Perfectly carded for spinning purposes.

Contact me if interested,  I am sure the Polar/Solar Vortex might give me the once over.  After she butchered my body I desire some compensation.  More on the butchering later.

Right now..

Red sky in mourning

Yes, the sun is on the rise.  I look forward to a busy week.  Much ado. On Friday I have a meeting at 7:30 in the morning, lessons in the afternoon.  I need a nap just anticipating the coming week.  Lesson for me tonight and I feel ill-prepared. Oh, well, he is used to that from me.  The new strings, however, are delightful and sound much better, even if I don't.

Still in a funk of sorts.  I just feel overwhelmed with life.  What will we do at Hyphen's today? And will it storm during session?   I like having her sliding door open.  And who the hell mows grass on a Monday afternoon?  Doesn't that neighbor know I have angst to deal with?  Hyphen's office is in her abode, in a little room with textured paint on the walls that I just noticed in a bipolar moment a few months ago and I have been seeing her for quite some time, but less than five years.  I don't want you to think I am nuts.  Just disturbed.

More later.

Addendum: as of 12:54 p.m. it is raining.  Mayhap no lawn mowerage today.

Might have a few words to speak about the Polar Vortex soon.  It makes me knit my brows just thinking about it.

How do you?

Get comfortable in one's own skin?  I mean each of us shapes our outward persona.  Some people can look and act like grown ups.  I feel like I have never grown up.  I don't feels like I actually have shaped myself.   What has shaped me?  Family and psyche.  What makes me separate?  My friend Bob, aka Honest Bob, and his wife seem and act grown up. I feel no different than I did fifty years ago.  I am shy and insecure at root.  I don't have markers that point the way to grown up-ness.

I comb my hair, wash my face.  What is my face?  I used to mug for mirrors,.  Now I don't recognize the face in the mirror as mine.

I am pondering my being.   What a chore for a post solstice awakening.

Pizza is calling my name.

This is not it

I don't know quite what it is, but this isn't it.  Lots of upsetting images in my head.  Last night at the jazz concert I thought I saw some one who had passed away a number of years ago.  Now I can only imagine decomposing bodies laying in graves.  Not pleasant.  I have my late friend Jerry under my end table in a box in a bag.  He can't decay and I can't bring myself to scatter the ashes.  This isn't it.

Today...not so much.  Baseball was the order of the day.  Not death and  destruction.  Avoiding Patricia, who wants to have Chinese food tonight.  Again, not so much.

Went to a ball game downtown with friends from my past and present.  Sunny day, face got some sun...thank goodness I had the benefit of sunscreen provided by the old boyfriend's wife.  And we won the game, and the Tigers won so I should fixate on mor pleasant stuff.

Hyphen Therapy tomorrow.  This coming week is busy.  I have to do blood work Wednesday for the new arthritis medication I am taking.  I worry about my health and how long I have.  Patricia wants to spent time writing her obituary, so she will be remembered by her deeds not actio .  But in a month or a year what will it really matter.

Sunday, bummer Sunday.

I think I know what it is.  Solstice has come and gone and now the days start getting shorter.  I much prefer the winter solstice as the days begin to subtly lengthen.  Now they subtly shorten...so by the time Brody's mom has her birthday the days are starting to get shorter and soon the students will be back, all depressing thoughts.

And the cycle continues, with or without my complicity.

Post-Solstice

Went to lunch with Gastric and her evil sister, Nutella.  She had a rather extensive whine list but we all had a nice time in spite of that.  Did anorther Red Lobster run as Gastric felt like lobster bisque and I was feeling rather kindly toward a plate of mussels, which I loaded up with fresh lemon and shared a taste with Nutella, who expressed her approval.  I bought my new collapsible shopping bag with me as a Kroger run was in order.  Gonif needed some turkey.  He, of the hyperthyroid issues, eats sliced turkey for meals, as otherwise we do scarf and barf with the dry food.  Just gobbles it up...so to speak.  I cut up thick slices of turkey and he eats it slowly and deliberately...no scarfing.  But, I digress.  This new shopping bag holds an immense amount of goods.  And not thinking, belly full of mussels, I filled that bag and had to carry home a heavy bag.  I managed, but just so.  By the time I got home it was 2:00.  I took a little nap and off at 3:30 to walk downtown to the jazz festival.  Was a lovely afternoon, a nice day for a walk.  Saw Sunny Wilkinson and thoroughly enjoyed her performance.  We, at MSU, have an exceptional College of Music with a phenomenal jazz department. Ms. Wilkinson is on the faculty, as is Diego Rivera, who is a magnificent jazz saxophone musician.  He and his quartet were the next act up.   I finally walked home and picked up some wild catnip on the way home for Simcha, who rather enjoyed it.  Home for the night I grazed some and finally made a sandwich for dinner.  I called my aunt in California and spoke with her for about a half hour.  Caught up with the family news. Asked her if she knew of a Levy family in a small town east of East Lansing.  She did not.  That Levy family, apparently no relation, made a donation,in my name to an endowment I have at the veterinary college. I sent them a thank you note and thanked them and asked who the heck they were, other than the fact that we share the same last name.  Maybe they will send me some more details.

Quiet in the house. Simcha is in bed in the music room and the other two boys are in the living/bedroom with me.  Watching the Dodgers play San Diego and listening to my rave fave, Vin Scully.  For him I will stay up late and watch the game.   Detroit was leading in the nineth but blew that and now it is tied In the tenth.  Superstitious as I am I took my Tigers' banner off my door and since then they have started a small winning streak.  Tigers just took the lead again.  Let's see what they can do it it.  If they lose the Tigers' doormat goes and the Spartans Doormat comes into play.  Don't know what I can do for the team beyond that to help my Tigers,

Sunday brings us to a Lugnuts game.  I think I will go out to breakfast and skip the farmers' market.  Or not, skip the market that is,  I can be home well before my friend Nita will arrives from Toledo.  Will be good to see her again.  She just retired and is a bit at loose ends shall we say.  I can't say I need much at the farmers' market but the walk would do me good.  Luggies have been doing pretty good.  Last game we went to they had a walk off run by virtue of an intentional walk gone awry.

That is the weekend thus far.  Tomorrow promises to be a nice day, with only a hint of rain in the forecast.  Right now breakfast out and a newspaper and coffee sounds like a plan.

Cubs win, Cubs...er, I mean Tigers pull another one out of their collective ass.  Three game in a row.  The Tigers doormat stays put, but the banner stays down.

Solstice

Unlike yesterday, which was the second cool, cloudy and rainy Friday in a row, in addition to a day to be restrung, today is glorious, thus far.  Sun is out, the sky be blue and all is right with my world.  Today some errands and the jazz festival, tomorrow a Lugnuts game with the library staff and some of their dogs (Bark in the Park).  I also have three out of town friends coming up for the game.  Yes, an old college boyfriend whose heart I assumed I broke, and his wife, whose heart I don't think I broke.  I reconnected with the boyfriend after my father died and I had to sell the family manse in Detroit.  And guess who was my realtor?  A blast from the past. Still as sweet as he ever was and so very good to be, both then and now.  It will be good to spend an afternoon with them, as well as my friend from Toledo.

I went down to Patricia last night and she was alright.  Still to smoking,  still so self absorbed that she is hard to make contact with.  And as soon as I got back to my place, one floor up, she called to ask a favor, which I was unable to comply with, much to her disappointment,  I have plans today and so does she and she can have her friend do the errand for her, not me.  It was actually putting on a necklace for her, but again, she can have her friend who,is taking her to Battle Creek do it for her.  Gastric, sister of Gastric and I at going out for lunch and then shopping.  I have plans.  I plan to be at the jazz festival by 4:00 so there will be no nap for baby today.

I have decided the next extra will be entitled Outrageous Fortune.  Let's see how that plays out.

Well...for the second time

In as many Fridays I may be taking the good old mandolin to be restrung, and then get restrung myself.  I had cheaper strings put on last week and thought I could made do until the German made strings arrived.  They did and I can't deal with the unnamed strings.  I hope Big Dave at Marshall Music is working today.  Off then to get a much needed haircut (my head feels heavy) and then run the mandolin in.  I have a few guitar lessons to teach today and then maybe hit the jazz festival tonight if the weather holds.  If not, visit with Patricia and call it good.  If Big Dave is working I should be able to pick up my mandolin by 5:00.

Speaking of music, last night we saw Gordon Lightfoot.  75 years old and somewhat the worse for wear.  Voice had lost a lot of strength but still good to hear the songs of  my youth.  When I attended the University of Detroit, during the end of the great folk revival coming on the heels of the folk rock movement, we saw a lot of the folk singers at a local club in Detroit I believe was called the Raven.  Saw Josh White, Jr. there.  Masonic Temple downtown, Joni Mitchell, Pine Knob, James Taylor.  Oh, thems was the days.  Especially when I was sober enough to enjoy it.  I smoked enough marijuana and drank enough whiskey to float a ship.  And still graduate from college in three years.  Thems was the days.  Couldn't handle that in grad school.  Got my MA but burned and crashed during the first year of the PhD program.  I know now that it was the early signs of bipolar and I was self-medicating.  Age makes us all a little wiser.  Knowing now what I know I would have pursued a different path, gone to a different graduate school and ended up where I am.  But the steps I took made this the inevitable route of my life and even knowing things might have been different, I am happy.  MSU is my family and I am ecstatic that I ended in this place, in this time, in this skin, with these experiences.  How could it have been otherwise?

Music is the centerpiece of my life, my solace.  Aaron, then Patricia, both tried and try to impinge on this.  I stuck to my guns with Aaron with a predictable outcome.  Headed that way with Patricia.  I must tell her I can only come at most twice a week.  It is hard, living in the same building as we do, to avoid her.  The persistent phone calls.  She is basically a shut in and basically dependent on others for contact with the outside world.  I feel for her, but she is brusque and hard to deal with at times.  When she is in a good mood, which isn't that often, she is good to be around.  Otherwise, not so much.  I worry about her.  Right now I just need to spend more time with my music and writing.  And getting a better handle on the mandolin.  I play in the morning.   I could really  use more time at night  playing and that is when she wants me to come down for Jeopardy, which I must say I am a whiz at having geared my education to that trivial show.

I haven't spoken about Hyphen Therapy.  It is important in my life right now.  It is important in that one must utilize it to free the self.  The basic mantra is: Go Gentle and Breathe.  Beyond that there is a liberal sprinkling of the F Bomb.  So I might say to Gastric out of the blue,  F**king A.  Perhaps you might get the gist of the therapeutic usage of the word.  It really works.  I mean why piddle around calling the Rat Bastard Cousin that when you can tell him, therapeutically of course, F**k  you?

Gonif the Cat, so named because he stole my heart, as he will yours, has come over for some much needed attention.  You can only ignore the boys for so long.  I must go as I need to practice some more and whip out the guitar to prepare for teaching today.  You must excuse me.

Soul Sucker redux--Self serve Hyphen Therapy without "F" bombs

I have been thinking a little about the Soul Sucker and the relationship that once existed between she, Gastric Friend and myself.  I think there was an element of jealousy involved when the relationship started to deteriorate, months prior to the actual "break-up"  Seems to me she might have been a little jealous of the relationship Gastric and I enjoyed and continue to enjoy.  Many the times when Gastric might not have been here Soul Sucker would try, and many time succeed, in turning me against Gastric.  Additionally she kept track of Gastric's time off, on the pretext of worrying about all the time she might be taking off.  Soul Sucker would rant on how Gastric was working without pay and would never be able to retire on time, when, now, I realize she should have minded her own business.  After the break-up I found out she would do the same thing to Gastric when I was out for the day; feigning concern over my intake of prescribed medication and how I was literally falling apart.  Some of her distress was over the fact that unlike earlier therapy with Pat, I never discussed Hyphen and my therapy sessions with her.  And she thought I was telling Gastric, which I wasn't.  She disapproved of our use of Hyphen Therapy and the "F" bomb usage, which is a requisite of the therapeutic process.  This in spite of the fact that her son and husband use that word with regularity variously as a noun, verb and adjective.

After the actual break-up and before she retired I wrote a note to her which I never had the chance to give to her.  It reads as followed:

Given the constraints you have placed on your relationship with (Gastric) and me, that is not breaking or having lunch with us because we embarrass not only you but the Library as a whole, an argument I find quite disingenuous, I think for the sake of work we remain acquaintances and only have contact insofar as it relates to work. Having a friendship with you is no longer an option for me.  I have endured your biases and anger for far too long to be comfortable with any other type of relationship.  I am as much to blame for this as I have put up with your angry words and stereotypical remarks regarding racial and ethnic minorities for too long and was never comfortable with this.  Nor am I comfortable with your continued negative remarks about the library, its staff and your co-workers, whom on one hand you disparage and on the other sidle up to in the most hypocritical of fashion.

That was the letter that was never sent.  Now I feel better for sharing it with you.  

My Friday

During the summer months I have the luxury of working a four day week and taking Fridays off.  I save my vacation and personal time all year for this.  I have loads planned for those Fridays: shopping, errands, teaching guitar, long naps with the cats, wonderful leisurely home cooked meals.  Just nice to have three day weekends.  And when I can arrange it I will trot down to Clarkston and visit with cousins.

This weekend I will teach two lessons, get a haircut, and go to the East Lansing Jazz Festival on Saturday.  Looking forward to The Diego Rivera Quartet and also local chanteuse Sunny Wilkinson.  Then I should be home in time to watch the Tigers lose another ballgame and call it a day.  Weather is supposed to be nice all weekend, which is a good thing.  The Libraries' annual outing to a Lugnuts baseball game is set for Sunday.  'Tis Bark in the Park Day and some folks are bringing their pooches, most notably Mr. Brody, a rather rambunctious year old Schnoodle.  Some of my friends from the Detroit and Toledo areas are joining us for this event, without their dogs.  It will be good to see them again and have some time with them for a pleasant afternoon.  Nice way to frame the weekend.  And NO PATRICIA.  She actually has plans that don't involved my presence.

Last night, after raining so much of the day, the humidity dropped and it actually got a little cool in the condo.  Like so many times before, I got cold in the night and was too lazy to get up and get my quilt so I covered up with another pillow.  Then I just didn't want to get motating in the morning, which for me starts at 4:00 a.m. or so.  I sleep on my couch, having turned the bedroom into a music room.  In the summer I rarely sleep with a sheet or blanket.  But some early mornings, like today, I get a tad cold and know I am getting up in less than an hour so I cover up with a pillow.  Doesn't make sense.  As Gastric says I should just keep the quilt on the back of the couch.  But then I would have to disturb Simcha to grab the quilt and that just won't do.  Or even take that much time to plan ahead and then what happens if I don't get cold?  I have to disturb the cat anyway and put the quilt away.   When your bedroom is your living room and the night light is a television these things take a great deal of planning.  And you know what I hate most about spring and summer and having the TV on all night?  The damn emergency broadcast system testing at 3:00 a.m.  Scares the shit out of the boys and me.  Goes off and just jolts me awake.  And some days testing it once just isn't enough.  That do it three of four times before 4:00 a.m. and I am not just awake but ALERT!!!

I love Sundays.  I get my morning paper, head out to breakfast and read, drink coffee and have a pleasant meal.  Stop and shop on the way home and think of profound things to write on the blog.  And they rarely test the emergency broadcast system on the weekends.

Off to open the mail room.  Nothing significant this morning.  Will sit with Gastric Friend on the loading dock, greeting people as they come to work and watching out for turtles. 

I am thinking, out loud as it were, that I might go into some significant detail on what Hyphen Therapy actually is.  Trust me: it's R Rated.  There might be a few "F" bombs; but that is the nature of actual Hyphen Therapy.  And, surprisingly, it works.

Aunt Martha redux

You are my sunshine

Here's to Aunt Martha, two weeks removed from what would have been her 105th birthday on the 70th anniversary of D-Day.  We sung this at her funeral and there was not a dry eye in the house.  Not surprisingly it came up on my iPod in the shuffle mode today.  Almost as if she was wishing me well from the great beyond.  Roses to you, Martha, and all my sweet Aunties.  You'll never know how much I love you. 

Hard times come again no more

A brilliant rendition.

Thomas Hampson and Jay Ungar

And I know it isn't a whale perched on the shore anymore, but I am pretty sure it is the girl with colitis walking by.  It could me John and Paul were referring to.

Turtles ho!

On the other hand, this is just pleasant.  Jimmie Rodgers tune sung by Diana Krall.

Prairie Lullaby

Hopefully I am able to start playing with more assurance, the mandolin, that is.  Certainly not insurance as I was just denied life insurance by a company that shan't be named.  One of the misadventures of recent times.

Once again, turtles, ho!!!

2:34 p.m.

That is the exact time of my actual birth.  So, while I ponder the last few hours in the hypothetical womb, what are my thoughts on turning the age of 60.

Whew!  I didn't think I'd make it.  I should locate a baby picture but I really can't seem to find any.  Much of the first year of life my dad was stationed in Yokohama, Japan.  But apparently , according to my distraught mother, my first words were "dada"' which she may have mistaken for "father" but I knew I was referring to Marcel Duchamp, an early favorite of mine.  The first time I met my father I wailed in horror at the stranger he was.  Fast forward ten years to a trip to the 1964 World's Fair in New York with Dorothy. When I returned to Detroit I cried upon seeing dad and embraced him, much to the chagrin of my mother, who must have felt slighted. But I must say that was the most excellent trip with my grandma Dorothy.  We stayed in the city with her friends, one of whom was Judy Collins' dentist and the other was a soprano in the Met chorus.  We ate at all the must go to spots, saw Oliver on Broadway and the World's Fair.  The best part was the train trip to and from New York.  My first taste of curry.   Yowzer

No one,it seemed, took photos of my first year until dad returned home with a camera, which I still have somewhere in my mess I call a closet, along with my parents' wedding album and Dorothy's good silver flatware.  Sentimental stuff but not of much actual value.  After dad got home some photo sessions commenced.  The big deal was around the time I was four or five dad got a 8mm movie camera.  I have those films.  A birthday with grandma Dora, a car trip to Florida in August when I was seven, including the visit to the Parrot Jungle and Cypress Gardens.  It was the summer I learned to swim.

But no one took too many pictures when I was growing up.  I don't have any school pictures, other than my high school graduation photo, which is God knows where.  So my memories are mostly in my head and subject to the special lens of  nostalgia.

So, here I am, at 60, somewhat the worse for wear, but still kicking.  And like my 16th birthday, another one of those milestone ages, it is thundering and lightening.  I recall this as the storm in Detroit was severe enough to make me seek shelter in Dorothy's bedroom, in one of the double beds.  My sanctuary was her bedroom.  Right now it is lightening like all get out and the only reason Yankel isn't yowling is he can't hear the thunder over the central air.

Dorothy's bedroom...my haven where I would sneak in on those nights I couldn't sleep and stay up all night listening to her radio on WJR and Night Flight (was that early Mike Whorf?).  I think that is where the insomnia developed, a lifelong affliction.

Okay, the cats are cowering and Kim will soon be here.  Happy birthday to you, Sir Paul McCartney, and happy anniversary of the start of the War of 1812.   That may be why it storms so much on the 18th of June.  The sound of cannons of war, as opposed to the canons of peace.

I am off.

Der FlederSchildkröte

Other things I have misheard beyond the turtle du jour:

The Beatles: Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds---the girl with colitis walks by

Stephen Foster: Hard Times Come Again No More---tis a whale that is perched upon the shore

These are just two I can recall offhand.  I do hear some interesting things. I am sure there is much I don't hear.

Ms. Gastric and I are thinking of writing a waltz entitled the Der FlederSchildkröte.  Of course we will misappropriate from Strauss, Johann that is.  I should be able to come up with lyrics that might involve certain species of turtles.  Again that is for another time.

Perhaps we will discuss the Polar Vortex, renamed for the summer months as the Solar Vortex.  A friend of the Soul Sucker.  Both suck the very life out of any decent relationship and leave it frozen in time and gasping for air.  They create a relational vacuum, with them at the vortex.  Get a new car or approve additional surgery and they are there for you.  Take away their power and, voila, you get your life back.

I am going to have to deal with Patricia tonight.  A helluva way to spend the last few hours of being 59.  And to my many readers who might be wondering "how does she do it?"  The answer is psychotropic drugs.  And, yes, this is my natural hair color.  When I was a young one, my dad's mother, who had been a flapper and cut her long hair, took that hank of hair out of a tissue paper and matched it exactly to my hair.  So maybe I am my daddy's baby.  Who knows?  Tis a whale that is perched upon the shore. 

Walking turtles

Yes, dear reader(s), today we discuss walking turtles.  First some background.  I have some rather severe nerve deafness in my left ear which dates to when I was a baby and was very ill with a high fever.  My parents bathed me in alcohol to bring the fever down.  I did end up in the hospital.  It is thought that between the fever and the alcohol baths I lost that hearing.  Consequently, when I have trouble hearing what has just been said, I pause, just to process what I just heard and come up with what I think was said.  A friend who we shall call Gastric said she was having some issues with gas and said she had the walking tootles.  I, of course, heard walking turtles.  So that has become the universal euphemism  for the passing of gas or flatus, as it were.  This Gastric Friend is on medication that facilitates walking turtles.

More background.  I have had colitis for over forty years and have a pet ulcer named Ursula, who is, sadly, leaving me.  Between the two conditions I have my share of walking turtles.  Further background.  I have a very base sense of humor concerning walking turtles and I do tend to giggle at the sound of a hearty belch and don't get me started on farts.  Well, come on: if you have your share of gastric ailments, you either cower in shame or greet it with a sense of humor.  I opt for humor.  And I am not alone, as my friend and I share the turtles frequently after lunch and I end up laughing my proverbial ass off.  Which brings us to the Soul Sucker.

Thems that has no sense of humor concerning walking turtles need not read any farther.

I had a friend, who we now call the Soul Sucker.  She used to have lunch with my Gastric and myself.  My gastric friend belched rather loudly after lunch and the Soul Sucker said "That wasn't necessary", when, in fact, it was.  And the situation was not made any better by my laughter.  Low common denominator of my humor. Since that exchange the groundwork was set for the Soul Sucker to suck the joy out of our lives.  She continued to lunch with us but also continued to distance herself.  Now, my gastric friend is rather bright, as opposed to the Soul Sucker.  The Soul Sucker often missed what was being said in jest by us.  We call us the Gastric Pair of Walking Turtles.  Wait, that is rather long.  Let's just say Gastric and me. 

More background.  Soul Sucker used to be a fairly dependable friend in terms of taking me to Detroit for family funerals, of which there have been too many of late.  She purchased a new car.  When I approached her about a ride, she said she wouldn't take me because of the new car.  She didn't want to take it to Detroit.  I was very upset, both by the death of my aunt and by the Soul Sucker's refusal.  I managed to get a ride from a gooder friend, who was rather sick at the time but still took time from work to take me to the funeral, which will be the subject of another post.  When I returned to work, I put up a sign letting co-workers know I was sitting Shiva for my aunt and to only approach me with work related issues.  I didn't break or lunch for a week.  Part of this was due to my anger at the Soul Sucker's response to my request for a ride to Detroit.  I didn't want to be outwardly angry and thought some time would give the anger a rest.  When I finally joined those friends for lunch, the Soul Sucker got up, pointed at my gastric friend's and my lunch, said she wasn't going to take it anymore, and ran off.  To this day I have no idea of what prompted that. 

This was in early December.  We had an rather severe ice storm later in the month and Gastric Friend had a houseful of family who had lost power.  I was still rather depressed about my aunt's passing.  But the Soul Sucker wanted to get together that week to discuss what had transpired the week of the lunch incident.  Neither Gastric or I had time at that point.  Finally in January it all came to a head.  She wanted to meet with me and Gastric separately, but we said as we had all been friends we wanted to do it together.  I proposed some ground rules, like we should sit in chairs in a circle.  She got to that meeting, sat at the table, asked me to sign paperwork relieving her of the medical power of attorney for me (something I had done months previous when I set up a trust).  I knew the meeting from that point would only get worse.  She left angry and tearful, Gastric and I left confused and dazed.  Less than a month later, with no warning the Soul Sucker came in on a weekend, cleared her cube out and retired.  To be honest, Gastric and I were relieved, and really not too surprised.

In any event, we now have the freedom to let the turtles walk where they may.  What I like best about my walking turtles is when I have my headphones on I believe I can let them turtles walk with impunity. 

Let the day begin.  Turtles, Ho!

Hyphen therapy

Was today and went alright.  Sometimes I think it is better with tears and there were none today.  No real catharsis.  Talked about Patricia and her intrusions in my life and reconnected it to my mother, both of whom isolated themselves for whatever reasons.  Below is the last photo I have of my parents together, drinking, of course.  I think my mother looks like hell here.  Ravages of  time and drink.  She died just two months shy of her 60th birthday.  Dad looks like dad, the yarmulke helps cover his bald head very nicely.  I suspect this was at a cousin's wedding or bar mitzvah that I didn't attend.  I avoided going home for functions and visits because they never went well.  I would start to hyperventilate around Novi and it got worse the closer we got.  When I first saw this photo I was embarrassed by the way mother looked.  Alright, students, compare and contrast the ravages of time and drink.  Only 59 in the second photo.  Hyphen, are you looking?


I think it is part of my therapy now to do illustrations like this.  This is cathartic.  Like Ozymandias by Shelley...look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair..  I despair because of the wreck of a life.  And I, too, was following that path, drinking myself out of graduate school.  Finally quit drinking in 1997.  I had an epiphany...if I kept drinking I was going to kill myself.  Literally.  Not to say I don't miss the occasional beer or glass of wine, but it would kill me to drink again.

And, trust me, I was sweating out my 59th year.  I had to make it to. 60.  Not go down in flames like mother.  You know what bothered my mother most about me?  I think it was my bushy eyebrows.  She constantly made me pluck and trim them.  That was the first thing I quit doing after she died.  She compared them to the labor leader John L. Lewis.  Samuel Gompers maybe but not Lewis.

This concludes the therapy session for,the day.  Almost time for the mandolin lesson and then a chat with Kathie and dinner about 9:00...how European , eh?

Look upon my works....

Birthday week

Yes at some point this week I turn a page in my book of  my life.  Shhh, it's a secret.  And I just learned something: Spellcheck says three 'H''s in Shhh.  Who knew?

  I am pulling a full hyphen today, both noun and verb.  I look fabulous.

The libraries' staff awards are today.  I am not expecting anything but I do like to go and see who gets the awards.  I suspect once the current director is retired the awards will cease or change format.  Who knows what the future holds.  Not I, that is for damn sure.

I have my mandolin lesson tonight and I am a little less frightened  by the prospect.  The lighter strings have helped somewhat but my playing is still sloppy. The nine months I had to take off due to a hand injury still is taking its toll.  Any little ache and I worry that I have injured the hand again.  I ice, I stretch, I worry.  Mostly worry, but that is my nature; my very essence as it were.  I fret about frets.  And at the same time  my musical muse has left the scene and I am not writing a much as I would like.  Music comes. But words fail me.  I am hoping this blog might incite some ideas.

So I will start the week in the hole as I was off Friday, as is my summer habit.  I have to run my reports, as well as a weekly report that was run Thursday night but I report out on Mondays in the summer.  And the two hours for the staff awards will put me farther behind.  Who cares, eh?  The move of Tech Services continues and not a lot of  cataloging is getting done so my work load varies from day to day.  And there's a hole In the wall, dear Suzy, dear Suzy.  Loud noises last week lead to four new office spaces for librarians.  I stay put.  After so many years I finally have a wonderful view of our beautiful campus.

I am just thinking about death...part of my work is to "dead" people, close there dates.  So Tom Clancy, recently DOA, had to close his dates.  Makes me all too aware of the frailties of life.  So when Hyphen (noun) says we don't have much time left, if really hits home.

I might at some point discuss walking turtles.  I have to wait for the precise moment to strike

Well, apparently I have  naught of importance to say today so off I go.  Sun is coming up and I think I will go outside and wait for my ride.

Second light

Had a delightful walk into town and totally forgot it was Fathers' Day.  Restaurant, which we shall call Beggars, was very busy, as opposed to the last time we were there.  Waited for a table for about five minutes and talked our gossipy heads off for almost forty five minutes before the food arrived.  Toasted each other's fathers with coffee and diet Coke and a flute of champagne, or actually Cava as it was Spanish in origin.  After another forty five minutes of eating and chatting three of us headed to the famers' market.  Still too early for much of the seasonal produce, but still I picked up some homemade pestos, hamburger patties from the Lonesome Pines Meat Company (they have terrific meats and decent prices and you know it is always fresh, even if it is frozen).  They we three headed our separate ways.  Me, kinda beating myself up.  Was I too talkative?  Was I a jerk?  I was feeling very insecure.  I wanted to reassure myself that I was not the insensitive moron that I felt I might have been.  Oh, dear Hyphen, where is the command to go gently and breathe?

Anyway, by the time I got home I was a little more settled.  Returned some phone calls and prepared for a bit of, you got it a nap.  This time Gonif laid with me and Simcha was looking out the window from his usual perch on the couch.  Yankel was in another window sleeping.  Thus all was right with the world.  As for dinner, I am anxious that Patricia, aka Crazy Neighbor, will call and want to order in.  I will not defer to her wishes. Tonight, I think, some pasta salad with black olive pesto sounds good.  I think I will head out and get some fresh bread to go with it.  A nice salad.  No meat.  My triglycerides were very high last week, and it have all the problems that could cause such a spike, e.g., thyroid issues, kidney issues, liver issues, etc.  So a little less red meat and more pasta and I think I will pick up some avocado oil to have on hand.

So, I am off (obligatory self deprecating remark inserted here).  Headed to the store.  No pictures, no grand allusions,  just a gentle good evening.

Off I go.

First light

Was a little over an hour ago and the sun is up.  I am hopeful for a good day.  Paper should be here and I am ready for the adventure of the day.  No sleep for Pookie last night. Oh well. If I were a cat I'd curl up like Simcha.  Let the games begin...

Sleepless in East Lansing

Well, this is one of those all too frequent nights of not being able to sleep.  In spite of all of my medications I can't seem to rest and relax enough to fall asleep and please don't blame it on the nap I took this afternoon.  That was a mere half hour nap.  So what do I do?  I took a nice long shower to relax, trying to read a book of mindful cognitive therapy and petting Mister Gonif.  If I am up, all my boys are up.  Almost 2:00 a.m.  My mind is going a mile a minute.  I was hoping learning about mindfulness would help.  I am going to get t-shirts printed with the phrase "Go gentle and breathe", which I shall attribute to Hyphen.  Royalties will be split,  I already have orders for ten.  Just think of it, in eight hours I will be leaving for downtown East Lansing for breakfast with more friends.  Newspaper should be here in four hours.  At this rate I will have enough time to read it before I leave at 10:00.  Yankel came out to sleep on the couch, Gonif is on the floor by me and it is too early for Simcha to be sleeping on my head.  There is crap on TV and the mindful book is not holding my attention .  Maybe get to the book on setting boundaries.

So my mind is running in overdrive.  Maybe I will bring one of the guitars out to the living room and play gently and breathe.  Or get out a book of T.S. Elliott poems and re-read Prufrock...dare I eat a peach?  Well, hell, I only have nectarines.  I remember Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner doing the 2,000 year old man routine and Brooks saying the secret to his longevity was nectarines.  But I believe they pre-date Elliott.  I wish I knew if there was someone up, like me, I could talk to.  I recall once I called the local suicide prevention center and was put on hold.  No, really, it happened to me.  I ended up going to the student health center for some harmless Benadryl to help me sleep, which it didn't.  When I first moved from Detroit to East Lansing I couldn't sleep because almost forty years ago East Lansing was less 'urban' then it is now.  There was no traffic noise at night.  It was dead quiet...too quiet.  I literally had insomnia for six weeks and ended up getting put on hold by the suicide prevention people, which made me laugh at the absurdity and righted my thought processes.  I needed sleep and a joke to get through.  And that with a prescription for Elavil and starting therapy got me through the next few months.  The. I turned to drinking copious amount of wine, beer and whiskey and drank myself out of the doctoral program.  Which was followed by almost four years of being totally aimless.  For a while I played in bars, a perfect place for a drunk, as Molly Malone.  I sang good old folk songs, some I had written.  I wish I could remember more of what I had written.  But there is a district alcohol haze clouding my recollection. After that ill fated adventure I pumped gas for three years, getting robbed a number of times and In general down on my luck.  Thank God for the Edwards' who knew of a job opening in the library on campus and the rest is her story.  By 1990 I became the Czarina.  And seven years later I became sober and saner and became a better Czarina.

So that is my story and I am sticking to it.

Church of Baseball

I love Vin Scully, broadcast voice for the Los Angeles Dodgers home games.  He has become my favorite announcer since the death of my beloved Ernie Harwell.  I now follow the Dodgers on cable somewhat religiously.  So I am up way past my usual bedtime, which is whenever I happen to fall asleep.  Lately not so much.  So I am up watching the Dodgers beat up on the Diamondbacks.  The neat thing about Scully is he is the sole and soul broadcaster for the games, doing both play by play and color commentary.  He is In his 80s  and has a wealth of knowledge about the game.  Right now he is talking about Don Newcombe, whose birthday was today, was the first player to win rookie of the year, MVP and the Cy Young all in the same year, a feat only duplicated by Tigers' Justin Verlander.  Newcombe was also the first African American player to pitch in a World Series.  Fascinating stuff for me to hear.

I have watched parts of more than seven ball games today, including sleeping through parts of two games.  Tigers won but the bull pen almost blew it again.  I am worried about my Tigers.  They have a great team on paper, but the pen has let them down quite a bit.  And then there was a time they couldn't hit for shit.  On paper doesn't go out and win the games.  I get too nervous to actually watch the games so I look for the other ten channels I can surf for baseball games.  I am bereft when the season ends.  Football just doesn't capture my imagination as does baseball.  And you can forget about basketball and hockey.  Nope, for me spring starts sometime in late February when the pitchers and catchers report for spring training.  That hope in February is what gets me through the rest of our unpredictable Michigan winters.

Alright. Tripping down memory lane.  I recall my dad listening to the Tigers on a small transistor radio he kept by his seat on the couch.  All season long he would listen to games while watching TV, the first recorded instance of multi-tasking.  And in 1968 that same transistor radio went to school with me  during the World Series between the Tigers and St. Louis Cardinal.  9th hour Spanish my first year of high school.  The principal let us listen to the games, which were played during the day, unlike the lengthy late night games of current World Series that don't start until almost 9:00 p.m.  As an aside, I think that first year of high school was when I first thought I might be manic depressive.  I would get all hyper during Spanish class, only to crash before the class ended.  In those days the freshmen started classes late in the morning, almost at the same time the seniors got out for the day.  I used to have to walk six blocks in the snow that was year round in them days, only to board a city bus the  mile to school.  And I have bus stories best saved for a future post.  So trudging through the snow those October mornings with my dad's transistor radio in my book bag, walking to the bus, five miles in snow drifts up to my tookus, I listened to the games of the World Series, having manic episodes during 9th hour Spanish.  Life was so good in those days.

More about moi

This is my father's high school graduation photo.  Some say I look like him.  I say I used to but now I don't look like either parent.  My father used to say "To be a king is not worth it".  He thought he was being clever but as we know from Mel Brooks "It's good to be king".  I think my father had rather low expectations of life, and he lived up to that, at times.  He was a salesman and had the temperament of one.  Funny and yet a quiet man most of the time.  His brother. My uncle Chuck, is far more quiet and his father was the quietest of them all.  I am a little quiet or rather on the shy side myself.  I had rather low expectations of myself as well but my aunt Martha pulled me kicking and screaming to the head of the class.  I received scholarships for college and went to graduate school.   Without trying to sound full of conceit I am sometimes embarrassed by intellect.  I am a smart ass and that I got from my dad.

Below is a photo of , from front to back, Dorothy, aunt Betty, aunt Martha, aunt Sally and my mother.  This is from the backyard of the home in Detroit.  My mother was, before the ravages of alcoholism, a beautiful woman.  The photo was taken by my grandfather Sol, who was buried two days before I was born.  I am guessing by the photo that the aunties had come over on a Friday night for Sabbath dinner, a practice that continued well into my teens.  I lived for those Fridays when the aunts and uncles would come over and we would eat in the formal dining room and talk and laugh long after the meal was over.  When I was very young my aunt Sally used to put me to bed on Fridays  and would consistently fall asleep before I did.  That much I recall.

Those Fridays were my sanctuary.  I didn't have to deal with my rather indifferent mother and her drinking and was content to be surrounded by the aunties and uncles.  Aunt Martha use to look at my school work for the past week and give me ever so much encouragement to do better.  And finally I did when I hit high school and suddenly it all mattered and made sense.  Honors courses, advance placement tests, National Honors Society, the whole nine yards.  All because of aunt Martha's prodding.  My mother's drinking put such a wedge between us that even today, twenty years after her early death, I feel no love lost.  I miss my dad.  I miss my Fridays with the family.  I miss having a real family now.  Holidays are the hardest, especially since my made up family fell apart with the death of my friend Jerry.  What are holidays but difficult reminders of a life gone by.  And in a hundred years will that even matter.

I shall continue use to document my life and maybe find some insights along the way.

Saturday brunch

Just got back from brunch with some of my 'older' comrades, whose ranks I will be joining soon.  We reminisced about work, as we all worked or work together, and recalled fond food memories.  So much of my past is linked to food memories.  My grandmother on my mother's side was a phenomenal cook.  She was born in Leeds, England, en route to the US from somewhere in what is now Russia.  My mom hated her mother's cooking as it was too pedestrian and too old world.  Me, I loved it.  Comfort food to the maximum.  Mom used to make weird things that no one liked but her, but grandma Dorothy would make us food that went down easy and comforted.  Mom liked stuffed veal breast, which was greasy beyond words, and calf liver with onion which no matter how much ketchup I used still tasted like crap.  Dorothy made food the rest of the family loved.  We lived with an extended family, first with my great grandmother Dora and after her death my Uncle Mack moved it.  So even being an only child I was surrounded by family.  I loved Dorothy with all my heart and whenever I wanted something special I would call her grandma, so she would know I wanted something.  But because her mother-in-law lived with us and I was told to call her grandma Dora, Dorothy became Dorothy, unless I wanted her to make me some fried matzo or a special lemon meringue pie., then she was addressed as grandma.  My mother insisted on not being referred to as Ma, as, again, too old world.  She had to be called mother.  But both grandmas could be referred to as such.

Anyway, we had a nice brunch and I received some nice birthday gifts from my pals.  Janet, Lil, and Kathie.  There used to be more friends but for some reason we had a few falling out.  So this are my three good buddies, who I would go to the ends of the earth for.  Tomorrow I will return to the scene of the crime and have brunch again with another group of work friends.  And then, because it will be Sunday, I will hit the farmers market.  And even though it is really too early for much fresh produce, it is my Sunday habit to go there.  I am hoping for some early cherry tomatoes and maybe some spring veggies like leeks.  Weather is supposed to be nice,  I am so obstinate about having the windows open  in the spring and summer that is got down to 64 degree in the condo.  Hasn't warmed up much but it is getting warmer.  I have removed the sweatshirt, but shorts are standard wear regardless of the temperature in just spring, when the world is mud luscious and puddle wonderful, according to e e cummings.  And the little lame balloon man whistles far and wee away.  I may be that balloon man.  And it may not be mud luscious right now but it is still just spring.

Baseball, which is my life and passion is soon coming on TV and that is nap time during the first game.  The later games I actually watch but the early game is designated nap time. A habit I picked up from my dad.  So much has passed and so many have as well.  Makes me sad to think about some friends I once had who no longer will acknowledge me for some bizarre reasons that I won't go into right now.  But the pre-game is coming on and in spite of having had three cups of coffee at lunch I am headed towards the couch for a nap with Yankel, who is my usual nap buddy during the day.  At night, especially if it is cold in the condo, I have a three cat night.

Well, Yankel is to my right on the arm of the chair so it it time to move one seat over.

Later,

Pookie, aka the Czarina.

The rest of the cast of Cats

Since Simcha greeted you all, I thought to include photos of the other two boys.  This is Yankel, my big guy, catching the last rays of the day.  He is a twenty two pound rescue kitty from Allegan, Michigan.  He used to like Simcha but now they are mortal enemies, unless food is being served and then peace reigns.  Below is the Gonif kitty, an Ocicat who was hogging  my chair.  He is the beauty of the bunch, a pure bred and gentle as the day is long.  He is my baby boy, but he is the oldest kitty at seven years of age.  Not much more to say, just introducing the rest of the family.  And proud of myself for figuring out Picasa.  All of this is such a great learning experience.  And I am glad to be sharing it with my friends and family.

The Czarina is signing off for the time being.

The Love Boat

Of course some of us are old enough and had a stupid roommate who absolutely loved the Love Boat. Here are the Aunties, from left to right Sally, Martha and Betty, on that ship.  Must have been in the late 1980s when the were all still up to traveling. They looks so young then.

And here are The Sisters and one of the four brothers back in the day.  My grandmother is to the right of uncle Hack.  I love and miss them all.

The one thing I thought odd about photos taken from the Auntiex apartment that my cousin sent to me there are many photos of my mother, loads of other nieces and nephews, but none of me.  I know at one point they had my high school graduation photo but that was missing.  Maybe since I ran away from home in 1976,  I was disowned as I disowned them.  What most of the other cousins don't know is that I use to sneak down to Southfield outside of Detroit to visit my grandmother and her sisters.  I don't know where I was in their lives but I think that they all thought I had deserted them all.  Which I guess I did in some respect.  But I did the best I could do and I had to run to save myself.  But no photo of me.  It's as if I didn't exist anymore  for them.  Makes me sad in a strange sort of way.  A sin of omission it seems.

Quote du jour

“Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

― John Donne

One of my friends from work recently lost her husband and I immediately thought of this quote.  And Dear Hyphen reminds me CONSTANTLY how short life is and how we are nearing the end of a journey.  This  reminds me that humans are the only animals that actual realize that they will die one day.  This should remind us how precious life is, yet at times I get so depressed I think about the ultimate way out.  What better way to have some control over the unforeseen.  And I think I am dealing with some depression right now.  The trivia of every day seems so, well, trivial.  So mundane.  Reminds me of a Robbie Fulks' song about his steel headed father, the last line of which I shall paraphrase:  in a couple of hundred years would it really matter?

Dear Brutus

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in the strings but in ourselves.

Was able to change strings today and  that didn't make as much difference as I had hoped.  Of course it is cold in the condo and I didn't warm up so mayhap my arthritic hands were cold as well.

Miserable day in East Lansing...the 13th of June and it is 57 degrees out.  Let me say that again...57 Cold and Windy Degrees.  And that is the high today.  Damn climate change making this a  cold day in  my little corner of  Hell.  Cats are all over me for body heat.

I have been avoiding her all week.  That crazy neighbor who shall remain nameless.  I will go down tonight and set the ground rules all over again.  I think she has Borderline Personality Disorder, AKA The I Hate You, Don't Leave Me Syndrome.  She is too much to handle much of the time.  I hope she is in relative good spirits tonight.  She was a little jealous of the fact that we saw Book of Mormon and didn't ask her to join us.  The last time we took her to the show she literally pushed me to the head of the ticket line to get to,our seats.  I said to me I wasn't going to go through that again with her.  One boundary I set and keep to.  I will go down about 7:30 and stay for Jeopardy, dazzling her with my quick responses.  Of course my whole education was geared towards playing and winning Trivial Pursuit and Jeopardy.  I literally have a garbage can for a mind.  These days, however, something new goes in while  something old leaves.

Okay, so I call my neighbor crazy, which is pot like behavior.  That is a bipolar roller calling the situational agoraphobic crazy.  But who better to know crazy but crazy?

Oh, mercy, the sun is almost out.  That will warm things up to all of 58 degrees.  It damn well better warm up tomorrow.  Of course I am too stubborn to close windows or put on something other than shorts and a sweatshirt.  It's summer, for God's sake.  And this is how we are treated?

Time for some music.

Stringing along

Alright, I thought the next step in the mandolin world was to switch to medium gauge strings.  I was wrong.  I am going back to light ASAP.  I am totally frustrated with my playing and the medium strings initially sounded great but that was because  they were new strings.  My surgically repaired left hand can't handle the needed pressure.  I just ordered some lovely German  made strings, just the thing for my little tender hands.  Ya, da strings is der problem, not me!  I just get so frustrated I can't seem to devote myself to enough practice time.  And I don't seem to have enough time to play either the mandolin or the guitar.  Crazy neighbor keeps me hopping and that has got to stop.

That brings me to boundaries.  No matter how many books I read  about setting them, I don't .  Keep them, that is.  And that is not a string issue, per se.  She keeps me stringing along and I keep getting played like a violin.  I feel sorry for her situational agoraphobia, if there really such a thing.  And I go down to visit and listen to vile, hateful things about the world, which I don't really need to hear.  I am tired of it.  Tonight I will go down and tell her, once again, that I can only come down twice weekly as I need to devote more time to music.  Music is my solace, when the strings are just so.

Speaking of solace, which I was, being bipolar (type II with major depressive episodes) I need my music.  I need my space.  I need my Hyphen.  What this has to do with being bipolar  I am unsure.  Do we define ourselves by our illnesses or rise above them to define them?   I try to define myself constantly.  How we fashion ourselves, our outer selves, our public face.  Constantly changing .  I worry I have no lips.  Does that define my smile, or lack thereof?

I want to speak about being bipolar.  Oh, if only I had been treated younger I might have avoided three psychiatric hospitalizations. My father might say at this point "don't tell them, it will follow you the rest of your life".  Thus we keep secrets that are best told with that public face that has no lips.  Thus we don't recognize problem in ourselves.  We deny ourselves, in my case thrice (to avoid the Jesus confusion).  My family secrets are all out.  I believe my mother was bipolar and self medicated her whole short life.  Secrets that the whole family knew.  Last point for day.  After my father passed away, the facade of secrets fell and people came out of the woodwork to say they were sorry they could not have been more supportive of me when I was in the bosom of my dysfunctional family.  And speaking of my father, the only people who actually sat shiva with me were the Aunties.  One evening at the old house in Detroit, before dark, they came and sat with me when no one else did.

I must return to my practicing.

Beethoven's Violin Concerto in D major, op. 61

Probably one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written.  I have been listening to it for over two hours, again and again.  I used to favor the Mendelssohn Concerto in E minor, op. 64.  Really, both are phenomenal pieces of music, but the Beethoven is my new fave.  So if you have an hour to savor it here is a link to Itzhak Perlman playing with the Berlin Philharmonic.
Beethoven's Violin Concerto

The first movement just takes my breath away.  Makes me believe that there is a higher power somewhere that inspires musical genius such as this.  Mendelssohn made me a believer.  This reinforces the power of music.


Okay, I have to be honest here.  I have my iPod on shuffle so it is truly fortunate that this piece came into "play" today.  The somewhat mystical power of the iPod gods sent this my way today and it has helped lift my spirits from a software malfunction to an elevated state of expectation of what the day holds in store.  Music is my solace, whether I hear it played or I play myself.  Mayhap I can find a few people to play with and practice.  Teaching lessons tomorrow so maybe I can bribe someone into playing a few songs along with me on the mandolin, ere know they are guitar lessons I'll be teaching.  Maybe Joshua or Dakota will amaze me with their progress and be up to playing along. 

Wishful thinking...magical thinking.