Yes, indeed, I have been strangely silent of late, still in shock from the hacked election. I can't believe what has transpire in the last six weeks. Yes, just six weeks. And as I was reading my trivia calendar for the day the question was: According to one study, what professional position has the most psychopaths working in it? The answer is CEOs. That's Agent Orange. Is it any wonder we are in a shit storm right now.
Yes, the Russians hacked our elections and we have a puppet of Putin (that has a lovely ring, don't you think?) as supreme leader. I have been reminded this week of the Dunning Kruger phenomena, wherein the dumber one person is the more they overestimate their intelligence. Yes, you can look that up. Explains a great deal about this Trumpian nightmare we are in the midst of. Generals to the right of me, fools to the left, stuck in the middle.
The Alt-Right, alright, let's just call them what they are: White Nationalists. And the Men's Rights Movement thrown in for good measure. What they call being political correct, which is anathema to them, I call being civil. What I see as trending to greater equality, they see as a loss of their inherent rights as white males. And let's not forget the 53% of white women who voted for Agent Orange or Carrot Top, or what you will. But really everyone who voted for him, save for the 1% he has installed in cabinet level positions, voted against their own best interests. The workers who saw in him a savior who would "drain the swamp" has to see that he is not the savior. The deal with Carrier and all the tweets about the United Steel Workers Union not serving the workers well is the stuff of true hubris.
Vanity Fair had a great article about the Trump Grill(e) in the Trump Tower in NYC. They slammed it as being "...worse restaurant in America", calling it a poor man's vision of being rich. I can't help but to think of Jay Gatsby when I see the gilded Trump Tower Penthouse, him lusting after Daisy and the Old Money while he is a Vulgarian of the nouveau riche. Agent Orange, in his most diligent manner, starting Tweeting about Vanity Fair. Very mature. Graydon Carter of Vanity Fair has called Trump a "short fingered vulgarian" to which Agent Orange began sending Carter photos of himself with his fingers circled and the tag "see, not so short". So another shot of Twitter and we are off on a Tweet Storm.
Still I can't believe people actually voted for the short fingered vulgarian, or The Vulgarian. This all has a vague existential feel to it, a bit of the surreal. I have no idea if the Russian hijacking our election will play out after Obama leaves office. Will there be a Benghazi like commission investigating this or will this all be part of the national nightmare we call The Vulgarian? There needs to be a bipartisan investigation with full transparency. And the Democrats, who are so far in the woods they have the look of the Donner Party, need to grow a pair and obstruct The Vulgarian the way the Republicans obstructed Obama. Where is the outrage over the rigged election? The Vulgarian is calling it sour grapes but if the whine be sour then it should be ingested.
Everyday I see more and more the pendulum swing to the right, the hard right. KellyAnne Conway recently said that to call out Trump's pussy grabbing is sexist, and that is a rationalization that no one in their right mind could make. I almost believe the whole of the Trump Organization is psychopathetic. My new word. The whole of Trump's family, like a royal court, holds forth from Trump Tower. His son, Donnie Jr. picked the Secretary of the Interior for daddy because they went hunting together. Nothing like taking pot shots at the environment for the Secretary of the Interior. Big Donnie takes his daughter to work day and she will have the FLOTUS office in the East Wing of the White House, as the real FLOTUS stays in NYC so Barron, the next in line for the throne, can have as little disruption to his sheltered life as possible. Poor boy.
So all of this constitutes a rant of the first order. I need to awaken from this apoplectic reality. I am re-reading Thoreau's Civil Disobedience, which rings very true today. We must stand our ground where it comes to Him Who Shan't Be Named. Grow a pair, come in from the woods. Stand up to this bully of a short fingered vulgarian with an equally short fuse. I truly hope Trump Googles himself daily and finds this rant and starts a Tweet-Shit-Storm over me. The barbarians are at the gate and we must resist.
Friday, December 16, 2016
Sunday, November 27, 2016
My parents
Are most likely rotating in their collective graves as I have been joining various left of center organizations they warned me never to affiliate myself. They came of age during the years of the Holocaust when it was ever so dangerous to be a Jew in any country and also during the McCarthy Era in the 1950s when it was just dangerous to be anyone with an opinion. They warned me not to let my politics be known. Too late, parental units, I have been busy being politically proactive to save my sanity. I think my parents were constantly worried that the Holocaust would never end so if they wanted to go to a "restricted" restaurant in say, St. Clair Shores, they made a reservation in a gentile sounding name, like Lee. To me if I am not wanted I am not going to give that business my money. My folks just wanted to belong and be Americans, not tied to the Old Country of their parents. I think that pendulum has swung back the other way with me as I very much identify as Jewish and have joined a synagogue and participate.
But my politics have always been at odds with my parents who were Goldwater Republicans. I have been more liberal in my world views. So in addition to joining the ACLU, the Anti-Defamation League, read the NY Times and Mother Jones. If the McCarthy Era ever becomes fashionable again I want to be with my conscience and not my fears. Fear is what has given us our current environment. Fear of becoming a minority in a nation of immigrants. Fear of being the wrong religion at the wrong time. Southern Poverty Law Center, B'nai Brith. Oh, they will come for me, those Agents of Orange. Planned Parenthood, Emily's List...and so on. Get the point? Basically my year end bonus has gone to financing my beliefs and the felt need of opposition to Agent Orange and his Minions. And they are not the cute one eyed yellow Minions. No, these are dangerous ones; the one like Steve Bannon who doesn't want his kids going to school with whiny Jews. Those like Betsy De Vos who believes in school vouchers and schools of choice, which would basically kill public schools and create ghettos of them. I am surprised, well, so far, that he hasn't made Ms. Palin head of the EPA only to have her disband the agency and let ecological havoc reign supreme. Jefferson Sessions as Attorney General...might as well write off any proactive voter of civil rights adjudications.
The fact that Agent Orange has told his supporters to treat people with respect, he has opened a Pandora's box brimming with hatred for people of color, people of non-christian beliefs, of people believing that political correctness has no place in civil discourse. He really can't unring that bell. Hence I want to be really upfront with my politics.
I was scared. I still am to some extent but the joinings have strengthened me to the point that I can read a newspaper, read news magazines (and thanks to whoever sent me a subscription to The Week...nice!) and watch the news again. And I am heartened by the fact that the restaurant in Washington, D.C. that did not know what event it was hosting (It was the NPI holding a whites only rally) donated the proceeds of that evening to the ADL. Kudos to Maggiano's Little Italy for doing this.
It is time to remember the words of Pastor Martin Niemoller.
"First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out because I was not a Trade Unionist
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak for me."
It is time to speak out and speak loudly.
But my politics have always been at odds with my parents who were Goldwater Republicans. I have been more liberal in my world views. So in addition to joining the ACLU, the Anti-Defamation League, read the NY Times and Mother Jones. If the McCarthy Era ever becomes fashionable again I want to be with my conscience and not my fears. Fear is what has given us our current environment. Fear of becoming a minority in a nation of immigrants. Fear of being the wrong religion at the wrong time. Southern Poverty Law Center, B'nai Brith. Oh, they will come for me, those Agents of Orange. Planned Parenthood, Emily's List...and so on. Get the point? Basically my year end bonus has gone to financing my beliefs and the felt need of opposition to Agent Orange and his Minions. And they are not the cute one eyed yellow Minions. No, these are dangerous ones; the one like Steve Bannon who doesn't want his kids going to school with whiny Jews. Those like Betsy De Vos who believes in school vouchers and schools of choice, which would basically kill public schools and create ghettos of them. I am surprised, well, so far, that he hasn't made Ms. Palin head of the EPA only to have her disband the agency and let ecological havoc reign supreme. Jefferson Sessions as Attorney General...might as well write off any proactive voter of civil rights adjudications.
The fact that Agent Orange has told his supporters to treat people with respect, he has opened a Pandora's box brimming with hatred for people of color, people of non-christian beliefs, of people believing that political correctness has no place in civil discourse. He really can't unring that bell. Hence I want to be really upfront with my politics.
I was scared. I still am to some extent but the joinings have strengthened me to the point that I can read a newspaper, read news magazines (and thanks to whoever sent me a subscription to The Week...nice!) and watch the news again. And I am heartened by the fact that the restaurant in Washington, D.C. that did not know what event it was hosting (It was the NPI holding a whites only rally) donated the proceeds of that evening to the ADL. Kudos to Maggiano's Little Italy for doing this.
It is time to remember the words of Pastor Martin Niemoller.
"First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out because I was not a Trade Unionist
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak for me."
It is time to speak out and speak loudly.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Finding a voice
Made a decision to subscribe to the New York Times (Sunday only) and joined the Southern Poverty Law Center. Every step I take I am taking to empower myself to withstand the onslaught of Trumpiness and make sure that the singular voice I do have is heard. Education, read and support with be my first act of Civil Disobedience. I re-read Thoreau's classic essay on the subject and rather than continue to feel stuck and sullen over the turn of events I am choosing to radicalize myself and support the kind of organizations my parents warned me about. I understand there will be a march on the Michigan's state capitol on the 21st of January from 1-3 to coincide with the Million Woman March on Washington.
All this said I am encouraging all of you to take steps to "radicalize" yourselves. Sure, wear a safety pin, but more to the point educate yourself. Read Thoreau. Read. Just read. Read a newspaper, read several. Talk among yourselves. Join organizations Your Parents warned You about. Read, Radicalize and Resist. I encourage you to take up books and papers. Read. Read histories. As George Santayana (among others) has said "Those you forget the past are condemned to repeat it". So very true. I cannot recall an election that has had me this disillusioned about the course America is to take. Certainly I was disappointed with Nixon, Reagan, the Bushes. But none of them put me in fear of the sanctity that has been the American Dream, co-opted now by the Alt-Right and this demonic vision of a resurgent white dominated culture.
My three Rs are not reduce, reuse and recycle. No, they are Read, Radicalize and Resist. Read a paper, read a book. The Trumpians are not. They will not know what has hit them when they run into an educated class in this country who refuse to repeat the mistakes of the past.
And that, my friends, is the lesson of the day.
All this said I am encouraging all of you to take steps to "radicalize" yourselves. Sure, wear a safety pin, but more to the point educate yourself. Read Thoreau. Read. Just read. Read a newspaper, read several. Talk among yourselves. Join organizations Your Parents warned You about. Read, Radicalize and Resist. I encourage you to take up books and papers. Read. Read histories. As George Santayana (among others) has said "Those you forget the past are condemned to repeat it". So very true. I cannot recall an election that has had me this disillusioned about the course America is to take. Certainly I was disappointed with Nixon, Reagan, the Bushes. But none of them put me in fear of the sanctity that has been the American Dream, co-opted now by the Alt-Right and this demonic vision of a resurgent white dominated culture.
My three Rs are not reduce, reuse and recycle. No, they are Read, Radicalize and Resist. Read a paper, read a book. The Trumpians are not. They will not know what has hit them when they run into an educated class in this country who refuse to repeat the mistakes of the past.
And that, my friends, is the lesson of the day.
Sunday, November 20, 2016
I lost my voice
Yes, I have lost my voice as this country has lost its collective mind. Agent Orange, aka the Orange Ogre, has taken over. And I am scared. And I am not doing too well in accepting this new reality. What I have done is join the ACLU. I sent money to Planned Parenthood in honor of that great egalitarian Mike Pence. I have retained my membership in the local Democratic Party. Save for these actions I have been in a stupor. I still can't believe how stupid this country is to elect someone who hasn't taken a basic civics course and doesn't know the meaning of the word nepotism. But he probably knows depotism.
And most of all I am scared of that anti-Semite Steve Bannon, who the Orange Ogre has made his senior adviser. I am scared for all the Jews, Muslims, Latinos, African Americans, LGBT community...basically all Americans who comprise the diversity this truly is this country and not the hatred of the banal citizenry who have spoken. Fully 50% of Americans didn't vote in this election. Fully more of them voted for Hillary but she lost the electoral college. The electoral college was designed by the framers of the constitution to prevent this type of demagogue from attaining power.
We must remain vigilant in the face of this incipient fascism that is lurking in the shadows. And what, pray tell, happens when the promises of the The Wall and Jobs do not materialize? I suspect the followers will follow others and move more to the right. I am scared.
This country is not a business. It cannot be run on the model of a business.
And just when I think things can't get worse they do. With each new appointment I shudder. Sessions, a racist of the first order, is Attorney General. That's what made me join the ACLU. I don't think the Democrats will grow a pair and oppose the new regime with the full force of the constitution. It is up to organizations like the ACLU, the Southern Poverty Law Center and the media to watchdog and safeguard us. We must use critical thinking and call out the racists, the homophobe, the Islamaphobe, the anti-Semite. But truly we are all targets of a regime that has the impetus towards fascism.
The media, which gave rise to Agent Orange, must make him accountable for his actions and make sure he abides the laws of this country. We must be vigilant and not vigilantes. I am sick unto death. I am scared.
And most of all I am scared of that anti-Semite Steve Bannon, who the Orange Ogre has made his senior adviser. I am scared for all the Jews, Muslims, Latinos, African Americans, LGBT community...basically all Americans who comprise the diversity this truly is this country and not the hatred of the banal citizenry who have spoken. Fully 50% of Americans didn't vote in this election. Fully more of them voted for Hillary but she lost the electoral college. The electoral college was designed by the framers of the constitution to prevent this type of demagogue from attaining power.
We must remain vigilant in the face of this incipient fascism that is lurking in the shadows. And what, pray tell, happens when the promises of the The Wall and Jobs do not materialize? I suspect the followers will follow others and move more to the right. I am scared.
This country is not a business. It cannot be run on the model of a business.
And just when I think things can't get worse they do. With each new appointment I shudder. Sessions, a racist of the first order, is Attorney General. That's what made me join the ACLU. I don't think the Democrats will grow a pair and oppose the new regime with the full force of the constitution. It is up to organizations like the ACLU, the Southern Poverty Law Center and the media to watchdog and safeguard us. We must use critical thinking and call out the racists, the homophobe, the Islamaphobe, the anti-Semite. But truly we are all targets of a regime that has the impetus towards fascism.
The media, which gave rise to Agent Orange, must make him accountable for his actions and make sure he abides the laws of this country. We must be vigilant and not vigilantes. I am sick unto death. I am scared.
Friday, November 11, 2016
I have been strangely silent
Blame it on sitting shiva for our country as Agent Orange (Thanks Green Tuna) has somehow been elected. In spite, or maybe because of, his racist, homophobic, xenophobic, misogyny and other less than "politically correct" attributes, he managed to get elected by people who wanted an outsider with no political expertise, no restraint (yes, they have re-opened his Twitter account) and a VP who is slightly to the right of, well, everyone. It is no wonder that some have taken to the streets to protest this foolish election. I have been clinically depressed since Tuesday night. In spite of running a positive campaign, winning all the debates, and not grabbing any pussy, Hillary managed to lose to a egotist who really only wanted to prove he could win and now doesn't have a clue as to what to do, other than to make American great again while Pence handles the political agenda. It seems to matter not that Wiki-Leaks and Russian intelligent has tainted our election, with Putin already reaching out to U.S. to establish friendlier ties.
So that said, I cannot bear to watch my beloved MSNBC, Bill Maher and SNL this week. I have on sack cloth and ashes, my mirrors covered. How, I wonder, can so many vote against their own self-interest and elect such a moron? Here is someone who won't raise the minimum wage, will use the old gem of trickle down economics (which is what put us in a recession in the first place, in addition to stupid trickle-down wars) to bolster the wealthy while the middle class continues to get squeezed. Yes, this was a knee jerk reaction to having an African American President. They want to take their country back (all the way to the 1950s it seems), before feminism, before civil rights, before the voting rights act, before marriage equality, before Roe v. Wade. Here we have the genial Mike Pence with his Religious Restoration Act which basically guarantees the right to discriminate based on one's religious bent.
I fear for out nation. It just doesn't make sense to me. How can I make sense of all of this? The Pandora's Box of racism, antisemitism, homophobia and xenophobia has been opened and will not get closed any time soon. I am waiting for the mass deportations, the Muslim ban, THE WALL. Will this shit actually happen? God only knows. And God only knows what the hell will happen in the next four years. This is like the Brexit Vote, where people didn't understand really what they voted for. All they wanted was "change". Wait until the ACA is repealed and the uninsured want their medical insurance back. The damn insurance companies who dropped out of the program because, guess what, profits were down and basically killed the program. No one should make a profit on health care. We need a single payer system, like Medicare, only that ain't gonna happen, but people are going to be clamoring for help. Who will champion the underclass? The Millennials who voted or didn't vote will suffer with more student debt. The great unwashed won a Pyrrhic victory that will be short lived.
I am saddened by all this and can't deal with the truth...that we have elected Agent Orange and he will be just a deadly for the country as the chemical bearing its name. So, those of you who voted your conscience, be careful of what you wish for...you just might get it.
So that said, I cannot bear to watch my beloved MSNBC, Bill Maher and SNL this week. I have on sack cloth and ashes, my mirrors covered. How, I wonder, can so many vote against their own self-interest and elect such a moron? Here is someone who won't raise the minimum wage, will use the old gem of trickle down economics (which is what put us in a recession in the first place, in addition to stupid trickle-down wars) to bolster the wealthy while the middle class continues to get squeezed. Yes, this was a knee jerk reaction to having an African American President. They want to take their country back (all the way to the 1950s it seems), before feminism, before civil rights, before the voting rights act, before marriage equality, before Roe v. Wade. Here we have the genial Mike Pence with his Religious Restoration Act which basically guarantees the right to discriminate based on one's religious bent.
I fear for out nation. It just doesn't make sense to me. How can I make sense of all of this? The Pandora's Box of racism, antisemitism, homophobia and xenophobia has been opened and will not get closed any time soon. I am waiting for the mass deportations, the Muslim ban, THE WALL. Will this shit actually happen? God only knows. And God only knows what the hell will happen in the next four years. This is like the Brexit Vote, where people didn't understand really what they voted for. All they wanted was "change". Wait until the ACA is repealed and the uninsured want their medical insurance back. The damn insurance companies who dropped out of the program because, guess what, profits were down and basically killed the program. No one should make a profit on health care. We need a single payer system, like Medicare, only that ain't gonna happen, but people are going to be clamoring for help. Who will champion the underclass? The Millennials who voted or didn't vote will suffer with more student debt. The great unwashed won a Pyrrhic victory that will be short lived.
I am saddened by all this and can't deal with the truth...that we have elected Agent Orange and he will be just a deadly for the country as the chemical bearing its name. So, those of you who voted your conscience, be careful of what you wish for...you just might get it.
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Bored, bored, bored
I am sported out and politicked out. Bored. Nothing is really on, SNL is a repeat and the cats have taken to sleep. I am kinda off my feed, satisfying myself on popcorn and Cokes all day. Just that nothing sounded good for dinner and I am sure Sophie will take me to task for my poor appetite.
I just had to give up my symphony tickets again as I realized I had a commitment to my synagogue to do an acoustic service. We are rehearsing this week, the cantorial student, the Old Duffer and me. Old Duffer wants me to play louder , essentially to drown him out so he can appear to be playing but have me cover for him. I am hoping the cantorial student will get Old Duffer to slow down on some of the songs of the service. He just rushes through things and has no sense of time or melody as even I can read music better than he. And then there is the issue of him not being able to hear well enough to turn his guitar, even with a Snark Tuning gizmo. I committed to this service so no symphony for me.
Simcha Cat is doing very well. His last set of blood work and urinalysis came back normal and since he has been off medication he has been perkier. And even brother Yankel is treating him better. We are all digging in for winter. Lawn furniture and hoses are in the garage. The last of the flowers has bloomed and withered.
As for me I continue my healing process. I can walk pretty well without the cane but when I am out in public I need to use it to keep me stable. I am walking more and more. And after two weeks am getting a little bored with work. See, aside from the fact that I was in pain, I did come to like being off of work,without an alarm clock to rouse me in the morning. I could see being retired. And especially after I was more mobile and could go out for breakfasts or lunches with friends I really enjoyed being off. Of course I had no money coming in but at least I preserved my vacation time. Oh, well.
Tomorrow I am going with a friend to my first Spartan Spectacular Halloween is Monday. I have an appointment with the hand doctor on Monday to get injections for my various and sundry trigger fingers. Seems I have a doctor for every body part. The injections I have been giving myself for the osteoporosis aren't as bad as I anticipated them being. In fact they are downright easy to administer. And I think I have multiple conflicting doctor appointments on the 18th of November.
November!!! Geez, another year come and going. Another year of fractures, and another summer spent indisposed. Simcha was my unofficial doctor when I returned from the hospital the first time this summer, never leaving my side for the first week I was home. Now as we prepare for winter they are all sleeping in the big bed with me. Cheek by jowl all snuggled together.
Okay I really have a bone to pick with a barely a cousin person. Seems she is the Michigan co-chair for Trump and I am embarrassed. A closer cousin sent me the article from the Jewish News and I quickly read it, rolled it into a ball which the cats then sent to the confines of the litter box. The article, which she wrote, trivialized the process of "coming out"... as a Republican. If she listened to Trump and all the dog whistle terms he uses to defame Jews she might not be so supportive. But you know, you gotta beware of the great Jewish Communist International Bankers who are destroying the world through their media. I have heard it and seen it before and it is just antisemitism in wolf's clothing. She should be ashamed, but she did the courageous act of coming out as a Republican and that was so hard for a woman of her wealth and standing in the community. Money attracts Republicans and Republicans attract money. Yep, that must have been hard to come out as a Republican. What I can't figure out is how the people that support Trump who are working class, somehow consider him to be their champion, once again voting against their own best interests. I just don't understand. Even the Soul Sucker has been making overtures to some Democratic friends that what we need is change. I tried to warn these Dems that she would do this but she was talking a good game. I wonder how deep a rift this will cause amongst them and their little bowling league. Maybe Jack will even come out of hiding and rear her ugly head.
Anyway, I digress, as I often do. Maybe I can find something wholesome to eat in the kitchen other than sucking on another Coke. It could happen...and Bob's your uncle.
I just had to give up my symphony tickets again as I realized I had a commitment to my synagogue to do an acoustic service. We are rehearsing this week, the cantorial student, the Old Duffer and me. Old Duffer wants me to play louder , essentially to drown him out so he can appear to be playing but have me cover for him. I am hoping the cantorial student will get Old Duffer to slow down on some of the songs of the service. He just rushes through things and has no sense of time or melody as even I can read music better than he. And then there is the issue of him not being able to hear well enough to turn his guitar, even with a Snark Tuning gizmo. I committed to this service so no symphony for me.
Simcha Cat is doing very well. His last set of blood work and urinalysis came back normal and since he has been off medication he has been perkier. And even brother Yankel is treating him better. We are all digging in for winter. Lawn furniture and hoses are in the garage. The last of the flowers has bloomed and withered.
As for me I continue my healing process. I can walk pretty well without the cane but when I am out in public I need to use it to keep me stable. I am walking more and more. And after two weeks am getting a little bored with work. See, aside from the fact that I was in pain, I did come to like being off of work,without an alarm clock to rouse me in the morning. I could see being retired. And especially after I was more mobile and could go out for breakfasts or lunches with friends I really enjoyed being off. Of course I had no money coming in but at least I preserved my vacation time. Oh, well.
Tomorrow I am going with a friend to my first Spartan Spectacular Halloween is Monday. I have an appointment with the hand doctor on Monday to get injections for my various and sundry trigger fingers. Seems I have a doctor for every body part. The injections I have been giving myself for the osteoporosis aren't as bad as I anticipated them being. In fact they are downright easy to administer. And I think I have multiple conflicting doctor appointments on the 18th of November.
November!!! Geez, another year come and going. Another year of fractures, and another summer spent indisposed. Simcha was my unofficial doctor when I returned from the hospital the first time this summer, never leaving my side for the first week I was home. Now as we prepare for winter they are all sleeping in the big bed with me. Cheek by jowl all snuggled together.
Okay I really have a bone to pick with a barely a cousin person. Seems she is the Michigan co-chair for Trump and I am embarrassed. A closer cousin sent me the article from the Jewish News and I quickly read it, rolled it into a ball which the cats then sent to the confines of the litter box. The article, which she wrote, trivialized the process of "coming out"... as a Republican. If she listened to Trump and all the dog whistle terms he uses to defame Jews she might not be so supportive. But you know, you gotta beware of the great Jewish Communist International Bankers who are destroying the world through their media. I have heard it and seen it before and it is just antisemitism in wolf's clothing. She should be ashamed, but she did the courageous act of coming out as a Republican and that was so hard for a woman of her wealth and standing in the community. Money attracts Republicans and Republicans attract money. Yep, that must have been hard to come out as a Republican. What I can't figure out is how the people that support Trump who are working class, somehow consider him to be their champion, once again voting against their own best interests. I just don't understand. Even the Soul Sucker has been making overtures to some Democratic friends that what we need is change. I tried to warn these Dems that she would do this but she was talking a good game. I wonder how deep a rift this will cause amongst them and their little bowling league. Maybe Jack will even come out of hiding and rear her ugly head.
Anyway, I digress, as I often do. Maybe I can find something wholesome to eat in the kitchen other than sucking on another Coke. It could happen...and Bob's your uncle.
Friday, October 21, 2016
I'm back............
I have finally returned to work this past Monday to the hoots and hollers of the throng. And I have successfully made it to the end of the week. This weekend is the open mic night I organized at KI, my little synagogue on the prairie, or more to the point Forest Road. Starts at 7 and anyone can come and be part of the festivities. Come and hear me play and sing nontraditional songs of heartache and moving on. Starts at 7 and if you are interested contact me and I will hand out directions. Dessert to follow so it should be a great evening. My co-organizer, Karen, had major back surgery in April and we are like the Gimp Sisters with our canes. She is turning 70 and I had a strange thought, i.e., why is this grown up woman even conversing with me, much less playing music together? And then I realized I am only eight years out and even though I rarely feel grown up I am about as close to that as I can get. Anyway, the Old Duffer and I are playing three songs which I would like to winnow down to two as he goes on quite a bit. Ending the evening will be an ensemble performing Ashokan Farewell, with me on my Martin guitar making sweet music. Before dessert I will perform my classic hit "I got some place to go" and that will segue into dessert. And, my goodness, the desserts are always phenomenal so that alone is worth the price of admission, which is free. And, truly, yes, friends and families are most welcome. KI Synagogue (Kehillat Israel) is the most welcoming of venues. Aunt Marilyn is always so grateful that I affiliated. I occasionally go to services, especially when I am playing when it is kinda mandatory. Next Friday service I am playing for is in two weeks.
This Saturday's performance will open with the Havdalah and I am playing on this as part of the ensemble. We have a young widow who has two kids and is studying to be a cantor singing lead on the Havdalah. It is a beautiful way to end the Sabbath. And then on to the music and jokes of the evening. Mrs. Post will kick us off with her telling of jokes, which is expected to be a hoot as she is older than God with a bawdy sense of humor. Some of those old Yiddish jokes get pretty racy. I remember growing up (yes I in fact do remember that) in Detroit with the aunts and uncles telling jokes in English and, because the punchline were so filthy, they would revert to Yiddish so us kids never knew, until years later, what bawdiness we were missing.
So that is what awaits the weekend. Tonight, Master Simcha goes in to the vet clinic urine test for which he has spent the better part of the night studying. Seems they found some E. coli in his initial urinalysis and they want to be sure he doesn't have a UTI. I need to order more of his special food. He loves the canned food, even cold from the fridge. And he is so easy to pill. Just shove it down his throat and he is ready for a treat. Meanwhile the in-fighting continues, with much hissing and fur flying. No, it wasn't just the debate that put them in a foul mood. The mood continues. And speaking of debate, did you happen to catch the Donald at the Alfred Smith Dinner being booed for his "humorous" remarks. Booed I tell you. Never before has that happened that a speaker had been booed. Hillary was a little stiff but she was sincere and did her best to tell a joke. No boos for her. My gosh it was like watching a car accident in slow motion with the Trumpster. Awkward.
So, here's the deal. Monday was a very hard first day. I went home and slept for four hours, got up and ate and then when to bed. Tuesday was better. I had to finish working on the program for the open mic night and was able to finish it up on the cloud. Gotta love that cloud. Wednesday and Thursday I have spent practicing and rehearsing with others for Saturday. Today is the great cat adventure. No rest for the weary until Sunday, when I hope to have some help with straightening up the music room. Maybe laundry. Do some home automation with my Amazon Echo and Dots and hook up the sound bar. Monday it all starts again, work that is.
All I can say is I can't wait until retirement. It will be nice to have unlimited time off, money coming in and the wherewithal to move and socialize without too much pain. Let's see if I can do another three years.
This Saturday's performance will open with the Havdalah and I am playing on this as part of the ensemble. We have a young widow who has two kids and is studying to be a cantor singing lead on the Havdalah. It is a beautiful way to end the Sabbath. And then on to the music and jokes of the evening. Mrs. Post will kick us off with her telling of jokes, which is expected to be a hoot as she is older than God with a bawdy sense of humor. Some of those old Yiddish jokes get pretty racy. I remember growing up (yes I in fact do remember that) in Detroit with the aunts and uncles telling jokes in English and, because the punchline were so filthy, they would revert to Yiddish so us kids never knew, until years later, what bawdiness we were missing.
So that is what awaits the weekend. Tonight, Master Simcha goes in to the vet clinic urine test for which he has spent the better part of the night studying. Seems they found some E. coli in his initial urinalysis and they want to be sure he doesn't have a UTI. I need to order more of his special food. He loves the canned food, even cold from the fridge. And he is so easy to pill. Just shove it down his throat and he is ready for a treat. Meanwhile the in-fighting continues, with much hissing and fur flying. No, it wasn't just the debate that put them in a foul mood. The mood continues. And speaking of debate, did you happen to catch the Donald at the Alfred Smith Dinner being booed for his "humorous" remarks. Booed I tell you. Never before has that happened that a speaker had been booed. Hillary was a little stiff but she was sincere and did her best to tell a joke. No boos for her. My gosh it was like watching a car accident in slow motion with the Trumpster. Awkward.
So, here's the deal. Monday was a very hard first day. I went home and slept for four hours, got up and ate and then when to bed. Tuesday was better. I had to finish working on the program for the open mic night and was able to finish it up on the cloud. Gotta love that cloud. Wednesday and Thursday I have spent practicing and rehearsing with others for Saturday. Today is the great cat adventure. No rest for the weary until Sunday, when I hope to have some help with straightening up the music room. Maybe laundry. Do some home automation with my Amazon Echo and Dots and hook up the sound bar. Monday it all starts again, work that is.
All I can say is I can't wait until retirement. It will be nice to have unlimited time off, money coming in and the wherewithal to move and socialize without too much pain. Let's see if I can do another three years.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Greetings and salutations
Hello, Maude, it's me. It is also Yom Kippur and I have hours ago returned from Kol Nidre services and the start of the fast. Once again I am unable to sleep. Gonif is roaming the house with me while the Bickersons, a.k.a Yankel and Simcha, are sleeping contently on the sofa. When Mr.Simcha returned from MSU vet clinic Yankel was a hissing, growling mess of cat. A friend suggested I rub Simcha with an article of clothing I had recently worn and lo and behold the hissing stopped and they are merely antagonistic towards one another, sleeping on the couch not two feet from one another. Simcha is doing quite well since his ordeal. Poor guy had his front paws shaved to put in IVs and his butt shaved to facilitate the insertion of a catheter, which I imagine was akin to threading a very small needle. Simcha had a urinary tract blockage and many millions of dollars later returned home as the prodigal son, shaved butt and all. I was very worried about him as he was hospitalized from Thursday to the following Monday. He was so glad to be home he wouldn't leave my side for two days. I myself tried to sleep in the bed but failed miserably. So another night up all night.
I was given my return to work paperwork today. Monday I return to the Library. I suspect I will be up all night Sunday, as is my habit the nigh before I return to school, er, work. The good doctor with the barely pronounceable name gave me another prescription for pain meds. It hurts to stand and it hurts to walk. I just hurt. And maybe that is part of the sleep issue.
Back to Simcha. He is awake and it is time to pill him. He is super easy to pill, which has been a pleasant surprise. As long as the pill is followed by a treat he is good with that. I don't think anyone has had the new prescription food, other than a few scarf and barfs. They are all getting wet food which pleases them to no end.
I am hooked on MSNBC and have populated my Face Book page with liberal politics, and because they are public I have been flak catching from the Trump people; people who are convinced that Trump will win or there will be a civil war with the blood of liberals running in the street. Sophie's stupid grandson, T.R.has found my page and spews the most hateful garbage. I don't block people, let them rant. I am certain the Soul Sucker will vote for Trump, if she actually takes the time to vote. She would not vote for Obama the first time as she "knew" he would be assasinated. She didn't vote for him the second time as the line was too long. One hopes the Trumpians will turn away from the polls because of long lines.
Well, Simcha is being needy. He is clinging to me making it difficult to write so I have offered up treats. Noms as it were. So needy Simcha, Puking Gonif and hissing Yankel are all partaking in treats. Probably the most solid food they have eaten in a few days. Me, I shan't be eating any time soon, easy fast being Yom Kippur.
I am very proud of myself for figuring out the various tools I have added to automate the house. I can voice activate my lights. Next will be the TV and sound system. But most proud was the removing an old email from my list so that I could transfer it to this machine. God, I am going to be insufferable.
So back to work on the 17th. I am hoping I can get some therapy in soon. Don't know if I would be able to walk to a session but maybe a phone session. Or not at all. I have weathered this storm very well and am feeling psychically strong. I am bringing in treats on Monday...so as to herald my return. I will be returning within the twelve week period of my FMLA and my job is secure, although I will be doing some nonsense work that bores me terrifically. No more than an hour a day, I posit.
I am rambling on my new toy. My smaller laptop has been used in my business and is sold so I opted to get a bigger machine, which came today and was paid for by the proceeds from Capitol City Informatics. Money in out. My first profit. I am feeling confident and not in the least tired. Off to watch more MSNBC and maybe try CNN. Fox, I think not. I wonder, aloud, if Trump has such respect for women why is has Roger the Pig Ailes on his team, the Ailes who left Fox in a cloud of sexual harassment suits. Just the thing to bolster your brand with solid block of women behind you.
Well, the boys are all asleep. May be time to join them, or at least try. See you all Monday.
I was given my return to work paperwork today. Monday I return to the Library. I suspect I will be up all night Sunday, as is my habit the nigh before I return to school, er, work. The good doctor with the barely pronounceable name gave me another prescription for pain meds. It hurts to stand and it hurts to walk. I just hurt. And maybe that is part of the sleep issue.
Back to Simcha. He is awake and it is time to pill him. He is super easy to pill, which has been a pleasant surprise. As long as the pill is followed by a treat he is good with that. I don't think anyone has had the new prescription food, other than a few scarf and barfs. They are all getting wet food which pleases them to no end.
I am hooked on MSNBC and have populated my Face Book page with liberal politics, and because they are public I have been flak catching from the Trump people; people who are convinced that Trump will win or there will be a civil war with the blood of liberals running in the street. Sophie's stupid grandson, T.R.has found my page and spews the most hateful garbage. I don't block people, let them rant. I am certain the Soul Sucker will vote for Trump, if she actually takes the time to vote. She would not vote for Obama the first time as she "knew" he would be assasinated. She didn't vote for him the second time as the line was too long. One hopes the Trumpians will turn away from the polls because of long lines.
Well, Simcha is being needy. He is clinging to me making it difficult to write so I have offered up treats. Noms as it were. So needy Simcha, Puking Gonif and hissing Yankel are all partaking in treats. Probably the most solid food they have eaten in a few days. Me, I shan't be eating any time soon, easy fast being Yom Kippur.
I am very proud of myself for figuring out the various tools I have added to automate the house. I can voice activate my lights. Next will be the TV and sound system. But most proud was the removing an old email from my list so that I could transfer it to this machine. God, I am going to be insufferable.
So back to work on the 17th. I am hoping I can get some therapy in soon. Don't know if I would be able to walk to a session but maybe a phone session. Or not at all. I have weathered this storm very well and am feeling psychically strong. I am bringing in treats on Monday...so as to herald my return. I will be returning within the twelve week period of my FMLA and my job is secure, although I will be doing some nonsense work that bores me terrifically. No more than an hour a day, I posit.
I am rambling on my new toy. My smaller laptop has been used in my business and is sold so I opted to get a bigger machine, which came today and was paid for by the proceeds from Capitol City Informatics. Money in out. My first profit. I am feeling confident and not in the least tired. Off to watch more MSNBC and maybe try CNN. Fox, I think not. I wonder, aloud, if Trump has such respect for women why is has Roger the Pig Ailes on his team, the Ailes who left Fox in a cloud of sexual harassment suits. Just the thing to bolster your brand with solid block of women behind you.
Well, the boys are all asleep. May be time to join them, or at least try. See you all Monday.
Sunday, October 2, 2016
Been gone too long
Well, darlings, for those of you watching this space for activity, tonight you shall not be disappointed. My bionic self is back, albeit with her celestial cane and a pronounced limp (how does one limp with both legs?) (Badly) I am like a Weeble: I wobble but I don't fall down. Yes, I am two weeks into physical therapy, which has gone from using a walker, to a cane, to some walking around the house without the cane. Today I took to the streets and walked a walk in the neighborhood. My aim is to return to work the 17th of the month *that being October* and after the High Holy Days (Shanah Tovah). I see the doctor on the 11th and should be cleared to return to work the following week, well within the twelve week limit of FMLA guarantee of my old job back. As of yet I have not heard hide nor hare from management regards my position. My supervisor, and I being her only supervisee, has yet to respond to my many emails. So I have no clue as to what will await me when I return. It better not be to a position that does not befit my stature of a long time employee in good standing (according to my evaluations anyway). I even went as far as to contact the union to see if they could elicit a response from the ever reclusive supervisor. Nothing, nada, zilch. So a magical mystery tour awaits me I am certain.
So, I have been doing very little other than watching MSNBC all day and getting political overload and am in a constant dread of Drumpf. Whilst I watch the TandV I do my stretches and exercises and motate about the house. As I mentioned I walked the neighborhood today in hopes of seeing how far I fair with me and the cane. See, my desk is the farthest removed from the ladies room and I don't want to return to work without knowing I can make it that far and back in a reasonable amount of time. That is goal one. Every day I will walk and every day I will walk farther. Not the five miles plus a day I was walking prior to the multiple fractures, but a peace. I have resumed cooking my own meals after members of the synagogue, KI, were bringing me meals on a regular basis. That and the pizzas kept me going. I have resumed playing the guitar with the Old Duffer and will be ready for open mike night at the synagogue on October 22nd (y'all come!). Additionally I have finally resumed sleeping in bed as opposed to the sofa. Yankel Cat had thoroughly deposited copious amounts of gray fur on the bed so I had to get well enough to change the bed so I could sleep in it without coughing up fur balls. Success!!!
So, for all the kindness that has been shown to me by all my good friends, and you are indeed good to me, thank you. Thanks for the cards and emails. And thanks for all the good visits. A special thanks to Sophie, Phyllis and Percy, as well as trusty JB who takes me to PT thrice a week.
So, I have been doing very little other than watching MSNBC all day and getting political overload and am in a constant dread of Drumpf. Whilst I watch the TandV I do my stretches and exercises and motate about the house. As I mentioned I walked the neighborhood today in hopes of seeing how far I fair with me and the cane. See, my desk is the farthest removed from the ladies room and I don't want to return to work without knowing I can make it that far and back in a reasonable amount of time. That is goal one. Every day I will walk and every day I will walk farther. Not the five miles plus a day I was walking prior to the multiple fractures, but a peace. I have resumed cooking my own meals after members of the synagogue, KI, were bringing me meals on a regular basis. That and the pizzas kept me going. I have resumed playing the guitar with the Old Duffer and will be ready for open mike night at the synagogue on October 22nd (y'all come!). Additionally I have finally resumed sleeping in bed as opposed to the sofa. Yankel Cat had thoroughly deposited copious amounts of gray fur on the bed so I had to get well enough to change the bed so I could sleep in it without coughing up fur balls. Success!!!
So, for all the kindness that has been shown to me by all my good friends, and you are indeed good to me, thank you. Thanks for the cards and emails. And thanks for all the good visits. A special thanks to Sophie, Phyllis and Percy, as well as trusty JB who takes me to PT thrice a week.
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Long time gone
Well, dearests, I have been gone too long. Seems I have in the course of a month broken both my femurs, both of which required surgical repairs one on the 6th of August the other on the 31st of the month. So now I is bionic. I have a metal rod in each leg from the hip to the knee. But, dearests, I have progressed significantly and have started physical therapy which is teaching me how to walk without the aid of a walker. I am basically unable to sit in a chair for more than a few minutes so I write to you on my trusty iPad. So pardon my typos and the occasional superfluous commas.
I have been confined to the house basically since the first week of August. I was certain. I had a stress fracture as early as the 1st of that month, something that would only show on an MRI, which neither the ER at one local hospital would perform and another doctor refused to order. So on the 4th I was on the phone to Sophie as I laid on the couch, only to,utter those famous words. "Oh, my God, the fucker just broke' to which Sophie replied "call 911". Which I did. The paramedics were unable to get the stretcher in the house so they carried me out in a sling to a waiting ambulance. Off to the hospital was I. I was admitted and doped up for a day and a half until that Saturday when they performed surgery. I was hallucinating wildly, as one is wont to do when one is doped up. Something about Hillary breathing for me while the Donald offered me free air. And just as they were about to put me under I uttered my catchphrase "I think I am Hallucinating". And that elicited collected laughs from all assemble. In fact my remark was so memorable the doctor repeated it to me the next day when he checked in on me.
So surgery Saturday and home on Monday with visiting nurses and in home physical therapy. The cats were glad to see me and Simcha would not leave my side for days. Back to the hospital for another surgery, this time admitted on the 31st of August and released the next day. I have since had my stitches out and have started more intense physical therapy. Four weeks worth. I am going without pay as I don't wish to deplete my vacation time and even if I did I would still be out of time. My original FMLA paperwork said I could return to work 21st of December but right now I am thinking it may be more like the 17th of October.
My supervisor, and you know who you are, has not had the decency to respond to any of my emails or voicemails. And to be honest that is very hurtful. At this juncture I know I will go back to work but I don't know in what capacity. And if I can't return to authorities and my supervisor continues to be distant and aloof I may be forced into early retirement. Hell, the head of Tech Services sent me a get well card but I have heard naught from the good doctor. Yes, very hurtful, and very angst producing.
Okay, so tomorrow I have PT for an hour then meet with my financial guy to see what my financial options are to get through this financially troubled time. I'd feel better if my supervisor would deign to answer one of my emails, the one in which I asked how work was going. Like I say I have no idea of what is going on in terms of my job but I am anxious. And even if I return I dint think I will have any type of relationship with her but merely polite.
Yes, angst is a good term for how I am feeling. Also achy and easy for bed. It has been a long day of nothing but exercises, Law and Order reruns and HSN. PT manana and maybe I can coax JB into taking me shopping Thursday. That would be the highlight of he last two months.
But really should I complain? Not a day has gone by hat some friend hasn't dropped by or called, brought me meals and done my laundry. I am truly blessed with great friends. Angst notwithstanding I am in good spirits and healing nicely. October 17th is my goal to return to the land of a paycheck...excelsior!!!
I have been confined to the house basically since the first week of August. I was certain. I had a stress fracture as early as the 1st of that month, something that would only show on an MRI, which neither the ER at one local hospital would perform and another doctor refused to order. So on the 4th I was on the phone to Sophie as I laid on the couch, only to,utter those famous words. "Oh, my God, the fucker just broke' to which Sophie replied "call 911". Which I did. The paramedics were unable to get the stretcher in the house so they carried me out in a sling to a waiting ambulance. Off to the hospital was I. I was admitted and doped up for a day and a half until that Saturday when they performed surgery. I was hallucinating wildly, as one is wont to do when one is doped up. Something about Hillary breathing for me while the Donald offered me free air. And just as they were about to put me under I uttered my catchphrase "I think I am Hallucinating". And that elicited collected laughs from all assemble. In fact my remark was so memorable the doctor repeated it to me the next day when he checked in on me.
So surgery Saturday and home on Monday with visiting nurses and in home physical therapy. The cats were glad to see me and Simcha would not leave my side for days. Back to the hospital for another surgery, this time admitted on the 31st of August and released the next day. I have since had my stitches out and have started more intense physical therapy. Four weeks worth. I am going without pay as I don't wish to deplete my vacation time and even if I did I would still be out of time. My original FMLA paperwork said I could return to work 21st of December but right now I am thinking it may be more like the 17th of October.
My supervisor, and you know who you are, has not had the decency to respond to any of my emails or voicemails. And to be honest that is very hurtful. At this juncture I know I will go back to work but I don't know in what capacity. And if I can't return to authorities and my supervisor continues to be distant and aloof I may be forced into early retirement. Hell, the head of Tech Services sent me a get well card but I have heard naught from the good doctor. Yes, very hurtful, and very angst producing.
Okay, so tomorrow I have PT for an hour then meet with my financial guy to see what my financial options are to get through this financially troubled time. I'd feel better if my supervisor would deign to answer one of my emails, the one in which I asked how work was going. Like I say I have no idea of what is going on in terms of my job but I am anxious. And even if I return I dint think I will have any type of relationship with her but merely polite.
Yes, angst is a good term for how I am feeling. Also achy and easy for bed. It has been a long day of nothing but exercises, Law and Order reruns and HSN. PT manana and maybe I can coax JB into taking me shopping Thursday. That would be the highlight of he last two months.
But really should I complain? Not a day has gone by hat some friend hasn't dropped by or called, brought me meals and done my laundry. I am truly blessed with great friends. Angst notwithstanding I am in good spirits and healing nicely. October 17th is my goal to return to the land of a paycheck...excelsior!!!
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
My confinement continued
The pulled muscle turned into a fractured femur, for which I had surgery on Saturday and went home to rehab on Monday. So excuse the typos as I is injured.
I was on the phone to Sophie last Thursday when I uttered the fateful words 'the f***** just broke' to which Sophie advised me to call 911. Which I did. They couldn't get the stretcher in the house so they put me in a sling and then to a stretcher/chair. Off to the hospital. And drugs. I was floating for two days before the surgery. And hallucinations, boy, I had them. As they were wheeling me to surgery I believed I was in a fight between Hillary and Donald for air and that people on each side were breathing for me. Of course as I was in surgery I proudily announced to all 'wow am I aphallucinating' to which the surgeon replied I was in my right mind. Once back in my room some of the hallucinations continued as I came out of anesthesia. I had a private nurse and special care which only confirmed my hallucinating state of mind. By Sunday I was up and walking with a walker. Monday it was deemed acceptable that I go home with a visiting nurse and rehab.
So that's where I have been. I have great friends who were watching the house and cats wihile I was gone. And that great care continues as people bring me food and keep me company and help me with my exercises. Feel free to stop by and help with the leg lift.
I was on the phone to Sophie last Thursday when I uttered the fateful words 'the f***** just broke' to which Sophie advised me to call 911. Which I did. They couldn't get the stretcher in the house so they put me in a sling and then to a stretcher/chair. Off to the hospital. And drugs. I was floating for two days before the surgery. And hallucinations, boy, I had them. As they were wheeling me to surgery I believed I was in a fight between Hillary and Donald for air and that people on each side were breathing for me. Of course as I was in surgery I proudily announced to all 'wow am I aphallucinating' to which the surgeon replied I was in my right mind. Once back in my room some of the hallucinations continued as I came out of anesthesia. I had a private nurse and special care which only confirmed my hallucinating state of mind. By Sunday I was up and walking with a walker. Monday it was deemed acceptable that I go home with a visiting nurse and rehab.
So that's where I have been. I have great friends who were watching the house and cats wihile I was gone. And that great care continues as people bring me food and keep me company and help me with my exercises. Feel free to stop by and help with the leg lift.
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
My confinement and it take a worried man
Well, friends, once again I am sidelined by a leg injury. I apparently pulled to the nth degree my thigh muscles, all three of them. Hobbled and hurting I tried to get in to see my orthopod but his office said I needed a new referral for a new injury. So right now I sit and wait, hurting muchly. I went to the ER and they gave me some Tylenol 3 and bid me adieu. I am now walking with a cane and watching MSNBC (the place for politics). And that is what frightens me.
Seems that Mister Trump is saying if he loses the election then somehow it must be a rigged election based on his totally awesome primary victories. I think that sets the stage for a possible revolt when the election doesn't go his way. Which it won't. I can see that a Trump loss will be perceived as less than legitimate and they will take to the streets like a bunch of drunken college students and burning couches. And that any Democratic victory will not be recognized. You know it could just go that way if a Trump loses. So I am worried about this. This is just stoking the flames of the fire Trump has created. They are just so removed from the mainstream and feeling that they are victims of political correctness and no one but Trump understands them. Revolt and revolting.
Yes, watching MSNBC and anxious. They are saying the election is going Hillary's way. Some young man, and I mean young, called Hillary a bitch. Obama is saying that Trump is unfit and I can hear the Trumpians saying something about the inappropriateness of Obama's remarks.
I think Trump may be imploding. He is turning on some outstanding and decent Republicans. like John McCain and Paul Ryan, refusing to support them in the primarries. The Olympics are going to overshadow our election. But Trump is losing it, adding fuel to the fire of his critics. He jumps from one controversies to another. But the worry is a new civil war and rioting if and when Trump loses.
So that is where I sit, in discomfort emotionally and physically. Maybe it is time for cartoons.
Seems that Mister Trump is saying if he loses the election then somehow it must be a rigged election based on his totally awesome primary victories. I think that sets the stage for a possible revolt when the election doesn't go his way. Which it won't. I can see that a Trump loss will be perceived as less than legitimate and they will take to the streets like a bunch of drunken college students and burning couches. And that any Democratic victory will not be recognized. You know it could just go that way if a Trump loses. So I am worried about this. This is just stoking the flames of the fire Trump has created. They are just so removed from the mainstream and feeling that they are victims of political correctness and no one but Trump understands them. Revolt and revolting.
Yes, watching MSNBC and anxious. They are saying the election is going Hillary's way. Some young man, and I mean young, called Hillary a bitch. Obama is saying that Trump is unfit and I can hear the Trumpians saying something about the inappropriateness of Obama's remarks.
I think Trump may be imploding. He is turning on some outstanding and decent Republicans. like John McCain and Paul Ryan, refusing to support them in the primarries. The Olympics are going to overshadow our election. But Trump is losing it, adding fuel to the fire of his critics. He jumps from one controversies to another. But the worry is a new civil war and rioting if and when Trump loses.
So that is where I sit, in discomfort emotionally and physically. Maybe it is time for cartoons.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
I'm with her
No surprise there. But watching the DNC is like a breath of fresh air after the dystopian world of the RNC. How refreshing to see not a sea of predominately white visages of the RNC but a beautiful palette of colors of the DNC. Instead of hype we had hope. Instead of angry voices shouting "lock her up" we had "I'm with her" and I am. To quote GB Shaw "You see things; you say 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say 'Why not?'" That is the difference between the two parties right now. The Republicans paint a gloomy picture of the last eight years and in spite of "facts" which are real, they rely on a feeling that tells them "something is wrong". Not that anything is, mind you, they just "feel that way". There was a wonderful interview with Newt Gingrich denying the use of facts and saying it is more important that we see what people feel...YIKES. Reality check, Newt, things are really kinda good right now and that doesn't bode well for your guy.
The economy is so much better than it was eight years ago. Better than when Republicans ran up the national debt from a Clinton surplus over an ill-advised war. Crime, in spite of "feelings" is down across the board and while there are pockets of crime in some of our cities violent crime is down across the board. These are facts.
I keep going back to Trump as the candidate of the Angry White Man. A person who has seen white people become the minority in this country. They abused their "privilege" and now must face a Cassandra chorus. Instead of acting as if he were not responsible for the problems, Trump sees himself as a solution. Yes, there are problems in this country, not the least of which is the systemic racism we still deal with on a daily basis. But not the outright dystopic vision of the RNC.
Two different worlds, we live in two different worlds.
The economy is so much better than it was eight years ago. Better than when Republicans ran up the national debt from a Clinton surplus over an ill-advised war. Crime, in spite of "feelings" is down across the board and while there are pockets of crime in some of our cities violent crime is down across the board. These are facts.
I keep going back to Trump as the candidate of the Angry White Man. A person who has seen white people become the minority in this country. They abused their "privilege" and now must face a Cassandra chorus. Instead of acting as if he were not responsible for the problems, Trump sees himself as a solution. Yes, there are problems in this country, not the least of which is the systemic racism we still deal with on a daily basis. But not the outright dystopic vision of the RNC.
Two different worlds, we live in two different worlds.
Friday, July 22, 2016
The Trump Card or #OMGWTFGOP
I watched the RNC last night and was amazed to find out what bad shape our country is in, due primarily to political correctness, and the death of racism in this country (as we might have known it). Make no mistake, Trump is a dangerous man and the fact that he is an outsider not only makes him unqualified for even dog catcher but his business acumen and his frequent use of the bankruptcy laws make him a less than stellar pillar of the business community. And this is their choice to lead them? If the main plank of your platform is to demonize and dehumanize your opponent then your campaign is lacking clear policy direction.
It all sounded like a pep rally, a dangerous pep rally. I have said it had all the charm of a Bund rally. It harkens back to a simpler time, a violent time, that of 1968...the silent majority and a law and order platform. Peter Thiel, a gay billionaire who spoke last night, totally ignored the plank in the party's campaign platform calling for the accepted use of conversion therapy for gays when the parent deems it appropriate (this is in the guise of parental rights). He also ignored the fact that Pence's Indiana has a Religious Freedom Restoration Act which permits business to discriminate against any individual if it offends any of their religious beliefs. Talk about voting against your interests. All this is to say that "whitey" is losing power and is digging his/her collective heels in and won't give up without an ugly fight. And again I say how is racism dead when the penultimate image of the kitchen is Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima. How is that still a thing?
I hear men with rifles and shotguns dipping their bullets in pig's blood so when they shoot a Muslim that Muslim will go straight to Hell. How is that even an idea? We demonize all Muslims. How is that not racist or discriminatory? This is not the America I want any part of.
I had a discussion with my financial guy who said he opposed Black Lives Matter when they blocked his entrance to Macy's. Sorry it inconvenienced you but maybe that was the point. I won't cross a picket line and by the same token any line that is political in nature and is exercising free speech. They are not saying "Kill whitey"; that would be an abuse of free speech. They are saying, however, African Americans are living under a dual system of justice and are "inconvenienced" as such and we just want to make you a little less comfortable. You characterized African American males in the Watertower as threatening to you and felt the police were justified in well, basically, harassing them by following them. That isn't right. Defending Black Lives Matter isn't the definition of political correctness. That is the definition of political justice. If black males scare you, you might do some soul searching to figure out why.
I see so much hate now from the Right as whites lose their white privileges. This is a diverse country, a melting pot as it were, accepting immigrants from all shores to ours. How can we turn our backs on our history? And our history, our Founding Fathers, were Deists, not Theists as some might see them. Just look at Thomas Jefferson, owner of slaves, writer of the Declaration of Independence, conflicted at every turn, but writing that "All men are created equal", not 3/5 a person, as slaves were counted. Southerners demanded that Blacks be counted with whites. The compromise clearly reflected the strength of the pro-slavery forces at the Constitutional Convention. The “Three-fifths Compromise” allowed a state to count three fifths of each Black person in determining political representation in the House. How is that equal? Jefferson the Deist believed in the existence of a supreme being, specifically of a creator who does not intervene in the universe. The term is used chiefly of an intellectual movement of the 17th and 18th centuries that accepted the existence of a creator on the basis of reason but rejected belief in a supernatural deity who interacts with humankind. That is the truth of the matter. This is a Judeo-Christian Nation now, more Christian than Judeo, but not what the founders envisioned. Our ideas have become twisted by hatred of outsiders, of those who are different.
I keep going back to the Religious Freedom Restoration acts flooding the country. You need a law to discriminate and call it religious freedom? WWJD? This is just what some misguided folks see as an attack on christian fundamentalism when we are made to not discriminate. They call out attacks on Christmas, but the last I knew Christmas is a big holiday and there is no war on Christmas. Just a passage to more diversity. An acknowledgment that there is more that one religion. As a Jewish woman I feel the vestiges of antisemitism around me. I am not being paranoid. I am made to not work on Christmas. I am made to labor on the Sabbath because my Sabbath is not your Sabbath. How is this a war on Christians who dominate the conversation and declare that there is reverse racism and that is more odious by far that actual racism or lazy antisemitic behaviors.
I am wandering again and not clearly making my point. I see hate all around me in the guise of America First. And White, Christian America First. Build a wall, protect the police from accusations of over-reaching. Law and Order and the Silent Majority are alive an well.
It all sounded like a pep rally, a dangerous pep rally. I have said it had all the charm of a Bund rally. It harkens back to a simpler time, a violent time, that of 1968...the silent majority and a law and order platform. Peter Thiel, a gay billionaire who spoke last night, totally ignored the plank in the party's campaign platform calling for the accepted use of conversion therapy for gays when the parent deems it appropriate (this is in the guise of parental rights). He also ignored the fact that Pence's Indiana has a Religious Freedom Restoration Act which permits business to discriminate against any individual if it offends any of their religious beliefs. Talk about voting against your interests. All this is to say that "whitey" is losing power and is digging his/her collective heels in and won't give up without an ugly fight. And again I say how is racism dead when the penultimate image of the kitchen is Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima. How is that still a thing?
I hear men with rifles and shotguns dipping their bullets in pig's blood so when they shoot a Muslim that Muslim will go straight to Hell. How is that even an idea? We demonize all Muslims. How is that not racist or discriminatory? This is not the America I want any part of.
I had a discussion with my financial guy who said he opposed Black Lives Matter when they blocked his entrance to Macy's. Sorry it inconvenienced you but maybe that was the point. I won't cross a picket line and by the same token any line that is political in nature and is exercising free speech. They are not saying "Kill whitey"; that would be an abuse of free speech. They are saying, however, African Americans are living under a dual system of justice and are "inconvenienced" as such and we just want to make you a little less comfortable. You characterized African American males in the Watertower as threatening to you and felt the police were justified in well, basically, harassing them by following them. That isn't right. Defending Black Lives Matter isn't the definition of political correctness. That is the definition of political justice. If black males scare you, you might do some soul searching to figure out why.
I see so much hate now from the Right as whites lose their white privileges. This is a diverse country, a melting pot as it were, accepting immigrants from all shores to ours. How can we turn our backs on our history? And our history, our Founding Fathers, were Deists, not Theists as some might see them. Just look at Thomas Jefferson, owner of slaves, writer of the Declaration of Independence, conflicted at every turn, but writing that "All men are created equal", not 3/5 a person, as slaves were counted. Southerners demanded that Blacks be counted with whites. The compromise clearly reflected the strength of the pro-slavery forces at the Constitutional Convention. The “Three-fifths Compromise” allowed a state to count three fifths of each Black person in determining political representation in the House. How is that equal? Jefferson the Deist believed in the existence of a supreme being, specifically of a creator who does not intervene in the universe. The term is used chiefly of an intellectual movement of the 17th and 18th centuries that accepted the existence of a creator on the basis of reason but rejected belief in a supernatural deity who interacts with humankind. That is the truth of the matter. This is a Judeo-Christian Nation now, more Christian than Judeo, but not what the founders envisioned. Our ideas have become twisted by hatred of outsiders, of those who are different.
I keep going back to the Religious Freedom Restoration acts flooding the country. You need a law to discriminate and call it religious freedom? WWJD? This is just what some misguided folks see as an attack on christian fundamentalism when we are made to not discriminate. They call out attacks on Christmas, but the last I knew Christmas is a big holiday and there is no war on Christmas. Just a passage to more diversity. An acknowledgment that there is more that one religion. As a Jewish woman I feel the vestiges of antisemitism around me. I am not being paranoid. I am made to not work on Christmas. I am made to labor on the Sabbath because my Sabbath is not your Sabbath. How is this a war on Christians who dominate the conversation and declare that there is reverse racism and that is more odious by far that actual racism or lazy antisemitic behaviors.
I am wandering again and not clearly making my point. I see hate all around me in the guise of America First. And White, Christian America First. Build a wall, protect the police from accusations of over-reaching. Law and Order and the Silent Majority are alive an well.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Dang
Well, another summer, another stress fracture, this time in my left femur, in about the area where a cyst had developed and weakened the bone. I don't know what they can do for me. I am still walking and Motrin is alleviating most of the discomfort. I also found out, as the result of last week's bone scan, that I have spondylolsis in my lower back. That sounds dreadful, and it is slightly painful but I have been dealing with it for a while. What that big word refers to is the wear and tear of the spine as one gets older. Poor Sophie has the same affliction, but not knowing exactly what it is she was certain it was something much worse. No treatment, thus no cure. That can be bad in itself but the diagnosis isn't particularly dire. I go see the orthopedist on Tuesday, Dr. Uitvlught. And if you can accurately pronounce his name there is no co-pay. I suspect he will want to remove the cyst and the screws in the femur from a prior fracture. Well, not so fast. Having been on crutches most of last summer ad early fall I don't plan on the same scenario this summer. I trust Dr, Uitvlught will be willing to wait until late October. I can deal with the pain. This has been going on for some time and I have a high pain tolerance. So Motrin and slowing down in my best option until November.
I am just angry about this. Yet another stress fracture. What next: fallen arches? As they say 'getting older isn't for sissies' and I add 'it beats the options. I have been a little depressed about this latest injury but still I went for my walk this morning with only a little discomfort. After I see Dr. U on Tuesday I have a therapy appointment to deal with the fallout.
Still with a small stress fracture in my femur I still managed to do laundry, going up and down the stairs any number of times. I went for a five mile walk this morning once the Motrin kicked it. Went to Kroger's to do some shopping. As I was walking home with two small bags of groceries and my weekly selection of flowers, some guy in a pickup truck tried to, well, pick me up. Offered me a ride to which I said calmly no thank you and changed my direction home lest he follow me. I can only imagine some poor young thing taking advantage of his offer of a ride and God knows what the outcome would be.
It's coming on 12:30 and after my night meds I am still unable to rest. I have since cleaned out the freezer side of the refrigerator and tidied up the fridge section. And now I am reduced to blogging about my day.
But a Hyphen moment. After finishing up here I will write to Hyphen to see how she is doing and see what response I get. So, excelsior. I am off.
I am just angry about this. Yet another stress fracture. What next: fallen arches? As they say 'getting older isn't for sissies' and I add 'it beats the options. I have been a little depressed about this latest injury but still I went for my walk this morning with only a little discomfort. After I see Dr. U on Tuesday I have a therapy appointment to deal with the fallout.
Still with a small stress fracture in my femur I still managed to do laundry, going up and down the stairs any number of times. I went for a five mile walk this morning once the Motrin kicked it. Went to Kroger's to do some shopping. As I was walking home with two small bags of groceries and my weekly selection of flowers, some guy in a pickup truck tried to, well, pick me up. Offered me a ride to which I said calmly no thank you and changed my direction home lest he follow me. I can only imagine some poor young thing taking advantage of his offer of a ride and God knows what the outcome would be.
It's coming on 12:30 and after my night meds I am still unable to rest. I have since cleaned out the freezer side of the refrigerator and tidied up the fridge section. And now I am reduced to blogging about my day.
But a Hyphen moment. After finishing up here I will write to Hyphen to see how she is doing and see what response I get. So, excelsior. I am off.
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Mercy, Mercy Me part II or what I have learned in the last news cycle.
This is what I have learned in the last twenty four hours. African Americans do not have Second Amendment rights and they also have no right to police protection when someone opens fire at a Black Lives Matter protest.
Philando Castle had a carry permit and told the officer he had a weapon, Apparently that wasn't good enough as when he reached for ID he was shot. The NRA has been strangely silent about this shooting since the victim had a carry permit. They are the first to say people have the right to carry weapons but apparently this is only true for white people. Then in the aftermath of this most recent shooting the Lieutenant Governor of Texas said the BLM protesters where hypocrites. "All those protesters last night, they ran the other way [away from the gun fire] expecting the men and women in blue to turn around and protect them" said Dan Patrick. He also blamed the protesters for creating the environment that led to the shooting "Too many in the general public who aren't criminals but have a big mouth are creating situations like we saw last night". So cross off another Amendment, that is the First for free speech is only for those who don't have a big mouth. The NRA has also been strangely silent about the shooting in Texas. There was a gentleman at the BLM matter rally with a AR-15 strapped to his chest. Mark Hughes attended the rally as a open carry advocate. He is African American and was initially identified as a person of interest in the shootings, He had no connect to the shooter, Micah Johnson, This was an ambush as carefully planned as any of the recent spate of mass shootings in the country. So both the "good guys" had weapons and the bad guy was armed with a semi automatic rifle, among other weapons. The "good guys" having weapons did not deter the shooter. So where is the NRA on this? Where?
I'll tell you...no where to be seen. And while Donald had a suprisingly civilized Face Book post on the matter his followers couldn't wait to post likes and then to add calls for the coming race war...One person, Jeff Minder said "I am calling on all my brother's [sic] in arms to begin the process of gathering together in your local communities, take inventory of your skills and abilities, freshen up on small unit tactics, and prepare to face the enemy". Tiffiney John Stebbins responded "We're prepared down south...only we can fix where our country is headed." And Max Wolfe responded "STARTING Race Wars is only PART of what brings this nation to "MARTIAL law and "THE MOMENT Martial Law is enacted Obama EXTENDS his presidential role. WAKE UP - He's NOT a savior or friend to Americans of ANY color". Similar posts follow calling for the election of a strong leader, like Trump, to deal with "these people". And Trump is as strangely quiet about these posts calling for a race war as is the NRA calling for gun control.
So, class, what have we learned today? A race war is needed and a strong leader to step forward to save us. African Americans have no essential First or Second Amendment rights. Their only right is to be targets. The NRA has no balls when current gun laws turn and bite them in the ass and Trump is a coward stoking flames of hatred in his egocentric bid to become president of yet another failed company.
Please support Black Lives Matter, because they do. Please support an open and a sane dialogue on guns. And support an open and rational dialogue on race.
Philando Castle had a carry permit and told the officer he had a weapon, Apparently that wasn't good enough as when he reached for ID he was shot. The NRA has been strangely silent about this shooting since the victim had a carry permit. They are the first to say people have the right to carry weapons but apparently this is only true for white people. Then in the aftermath of this most recent shooting the Lieutenant Governor of Texas said the BLM protesters where hypocrites. "All those protesters last night, they ran the other way [away from the gun fire] expecting the men and women in blue to turn around and protect them" said Dan Patrick. He also blamed the protesters for creating the environment that led to the shooting "Too many in the general public who aren't criminals but have a big mouth are creating situations like we saw last night". So cross off another Amendment, that is the First for free speech is only for those who don't have a big mouth. The NRA has also been strangely silent about the shooting in Texas. There was a gentleman at the BLM matter rally with a AR-15 strapped to his chest. Mark Hughes attended the rally as a open carry advocate. He is African American and was initially identified as a person of interest in the shootings, He had no connect to the shooter, Micah Johnson, This was an ambush as carefully planned as any of the recent spate of mass shootings in the country. So both the "good guys" had weapons and the bad guy was armed with a semi automatic rifle, among other weapons. The "good guys" having weapons did not deter the shooter. So where is the NRA on this? Where?
I'll tell you...no where to be seen. And while Donald had a suprisingly civilized Face Book post on the matter his followers couldn't wait to post likes and then to add calls for the coming race war...One person, Jeff Minder said "I am calling on all my brother's [sic] in arms to begin the process of gathering together in your local communities, take inventory of your skills and abilities, freshen up on small unit tactics, and prepare to face the enemy". Tiffiney John Stebbins responded "We're prepared down south...only we can fix where our country is headed." And Max Wolfe responded "STARTING Race Wars is only PART of what brings this nation to "MARTIAL law and "THE MOMENT Martial Law is enacted Obama EXTENDS his presidential role. WAKE UP - He's NOT a savior or friend to Americans of ANY color". Similar posts follow calling for the election of a strong leader, like Trump, to deal with "these people". And Trump is as strangely quiet about these posts calling for a race war as is the NRA calling for gun control.
So, class, what have we learned today? A race war is needed and a strong leader to step forward to save us. African Americans have no essential First or Second Amendment rights. Their only right is to be targets. The NRA has no balls when current gun laws turn and bite them in the ass and Trump is a coward stoking flames of hatred in his egocentric bid to become president of yet another failed company.
Please support Black Lives Matter, because they do. Please support an open and a sane dialogue on guns. And support an open and rational dialogue on race.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Mercy, Mercy Me
I am deeply troubled and saddened by the police shootings of two African American men this week. I am also troubled and saddened by the protest in Dallas by Black Lives Matter that turned deadly for the police. This was nothing short of a riot and a indication of the level of tensions in this nation. I know there are many who think that since we have an African American President that our collective history of slavery and Jim Crow laws are a thing of the past. Not so. And how is this still a thing if there isn't some elemental vestiges of racism. I give you Uncle Ben Rice and the ever popular Aunt Jemima. Indeed.
I hear that the pundits on Fox and the Republicans have pronounced racism dead. In fact, they say, there is reverse racism. The white privileges they have enjoyed are merely slipping away as the playing field is leveled. And this is somehow reversed racism.
The police shootings in Louisiana and Minnesota are the latest example of the problem of race in this country. The fact that one of the victims had a police record, which they discovered after the shooting, in no way justifies or excuses the police action.
We are forty-nine years removed from the riot in Detroit. Detroit was predominately white city with an inner city of housing projects and marginalized African Americans. A police raid on a blind pig set in motion the decline of a great city as whites began fleeing to the comfort of Southfield, Birmingham and West Bloomfield Hills. We still continued to live in Detroit. I went to a predominately African American high school (Mumford). I was one of six white kids in the school. I can say I know what it is like to be in the minority but I still have the color of my skin which grants me access to places some of my Black Brothers and Sisters cannot go. I do not know what it is like to be a African American mother of a son and be constantly worried that the police will stop him because he is DWB in a white neighborhood.
After Dr. King was shot in 1968 the mayor requested that the National Guard be sent to Detroit in case another riot should take place. It didn't and the city was calm and in a state of shock. The man who implored us to judge not by the color of one's skin but the content of their character was gone.
I quite understand the rage that led to the shooting of the police officers in Dallas. I don't excuse it. A peaceful protest by Black Lives Matter turned ugly. Very Ugly. But I understand the rage. Too many young Black men are perishing at the hands of authorities. However the sniper attack is cowardly and will only serve to set the cause back as the racist emerge from the closet and say things like "See, this is what we mean. 'Those People" have no respect for the police and they are just lawless They get what they deserve". And there will be those what will say just that.
I think the Black Lives Matter cause is a righteous one and needed, much as I then thought that the Black Panthers were a viable social and political engine of change. We need a dialogue in this country about race. We need to stop glossing over our history of slavery. It happened. Deal with it. I have friends who say to me that the Confederate flag is just a symbol and free speech. I say so is the Nazi Swastika but it doesn't make it less repugnant. These are strong and evocative symbols that really have no place on the national stage.
The Republican party having become the party of the Trump is revealing what a great divide there is in the country. It has brought more into the open the overt racism and the covert racism of the few. Trump won't disavow the white supremacist who supports him. Won't acknowledge the anti-Semitic nature of some of his tweets and attacks on the Clintons. All of this makes me heartsick that these feelings are rising to the surface in this country and some folks say this is a good thing. We need to "take back the country and put an outsider in office" Yep, someone who is merely fanning the flames of hatred and prejudice. I can't wait to hear what sick take the Trump will put on Dallas and he will. Trust me he will.
I am saddened by all these events. I am heartsick that a man like Trump, who has more opinions than he has common decency, might actually get elected. That so many of his supporters will say he is one of us, when he is no such thing. He is an opportunist, a huckster and a rich man. Rich beyond their dreams of winning the lottery. Why these Americans are willing to vote against their self-interests is beyond me.
I am running out of steam but I want to be clear. Our society still bears the taint of racism. Our society has let the few, whether it be the rich or the most vocal (read: The NRA) have their way while the majority either is silent or votes against their self-interests. Yes we need to take this country back from the demagogues who posit that there is no more racism because we have a Black President. Just as they will say misogyny is dead when we have a woman President. And I have to believe that common sense will prevail and we will have a woman president.
I hear that the pundits on Fox and the Republicans have pronounced racism dead. In fact, they say, there is reverse racism. The white privileges they have enjoyed are merely slipping away as the playing field is leveled. And this is somehow reversed racism.
The police shootings in Louisiana and Minnesota are the latest example of the problem of race in this country. The fact that one of the victims had a police record, which they discovered after the shooting, in no way justifies or excuses the police action.
We are forty-nine years removed from the riot in Detroit. Detroit was predominately white city with an inner city of housing projects and marginalized African Americans. A police raid on a blind pig set in motion the decline of a great city as whites began fleeing to the comfort of Southfield, Birmingham and West Bloomfield Hills. We still continued to live in Detroit. I went to a predominately African American high school (Mumford). I was one of six white kids in the school. I can say I know what it is like to be in the minority but I still have the color of my skin which grants me access to places some of my Black Brothers and Sisters cannot go. I do not know what it is like to be a African American mother of a son and be constantly worried that the police will stop him because he is DWB in a white neighborhood.
After Dr. King was shot in 1968 the mayor requested that the National Guard be sent to Detroit in case another riot should take place. It didn't and the city was calm and in a state of shock. The man who implored us to judge not by the color of one's skin but the content of their character was gone.
I quite understand the rage that led to the shooting of the police officers in Dallas. I don't excuse it. A peaceful protest by Black Lives Matter turned ugly. Very Ugly. But I understand the rage. Too many young Black men are perishing at the hands of authorities. However the sniper attack is cowardly and will only serve to set the cause back as the racist emerge from the closet and say things like "See, this is what we mean. 'Those People" have no respect for the police and they are just lawless They get what they deserve". And there will be those what will say just that.
I think the Black Lives Matter cause is a righteous one and needed, much as I then thought that the Black Panthers were a viable social and political engine of change. We need a dialogue in this country about race. We need to stop glossing over our history of slavery. It happened. Deal with it. I have friends who say to me that the Confederate flag is just a symbol and free speech. I say so is the Nazi Swastika but it doesn't make it less repugnant. These are strong and evocative symbols that really have no place on the national stage.
The Republican party having become the party of the Trump is revealing what a great divide there is in the country. It has brought more into the open the overt racism and the covert racism of the few. Trump won't disavow the white supremacist who supports him. Won't acknowledge the anti-Semitic nature of some of his tweets and attacks on the Clintons. All of this makes me heartsick that these feelings are rising to the surface in this country and some folks say this is a good thing. We need to "take back the country and put an outsider in office" Yep, someone who is merely fanning the flames of hatred and prejudice. I can't wait to hear what sick take the Trump will put on Dallas and he will. Trust me he will.
I am saddened by all these events. I am heartsick that a man like Trump, who has more opinions than he has common decency, might actually get elected. That so many of his supporters will say he is one of us, when he is no such thing. He is an opportunist, a huckster and a rich man. Rich beyond their dreams of winning the lottery. Why these Americans are willing to vote against their self-interests is beyond me.
I am running out of steam but I want to be clear. Our society still bears the taint of racism. Our society has let the few, whether it be the rich or the most vocal (read: The NRA) have their way while the majority either is silent or votes against their self-interests. Yes we need to take this country back from the demagogues who posit that there is no more racism because we have a Black President. Just as they will say misogyny is dead when we have a woman President. And I have to believe that common sense will prevail and we will have a woman president.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Eyebrows
My mother, drunk that she was, hated my eyebrows. She compared them to labor leader John L. Lewis. Well, they are not that bushy but they are, shall we say, intense. She spent a lifetime trying to make a "LADY" out of me and failed miserably. I had to constantly pluck my eyebrows to shape them and them put a finger under each brow and push up to make the eyebrows more arched. When she died I immediately stopped plucking. My eyebrows are now au natural. One of my co-worker, who has since passed, loved my eyebrows and made me feel good about myself.
The eyebrow issue was part of her drunken idealization of the feminine. She was, at one point, a beautiful woman who modeled clothing at a local dress shop. But the drinking took its toll on her beauty. So she tried to make me more like her and the more she pushed the more I rebelled. She used to take me clothes shopping and let me pick out what I wanted and when we got home she would pronounce "I don't know why you got that. It looks horrible on you". So I grew up very confused about my feminine wiles.
When she died at 59 in 1994 I did stop paying attention to the inner critical voice she mastered over me. The eyebrows went first. Shoes became a central facet of my life. She was always on me for my choice of shoes and when I was freed from her voice I bought shoes up the wazoo. I have since slowed down. But she has her revenge from the grave as I constantly get blisters on my feet now. I am working on the premise that she has her claws on my feet. I have this recurring dream that when I die and there might be an afterlife and I will see her again and she will say "So, why haven't you called?" Therapy is dealing with that.
Because of my mother I like to think I am the epitome of androgyny. I get most of my clothing from LL Bean and shoes from Amazon. Undergarments direct from Hanes, including new special socks that wick away moisture and I am hoping it helps with the blister issue.
I am certain there is a psychological component to the blister issue. My feet not only take me on a journey they have their own journey. This is the first time in over a week that I haven't had at least one Bandaid on my tootsies. Those new socks are marvelous and I change them at least once a day. Hopefully I can keep them blister free for a while as the callouses from the blisters are forming and maybe that will make me stronger. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger, so to speak.
My self image is getting better. That is not to say I don't beat myself up on the issue of body image. I weigh in once a week and if it is up a pound or two I panic, I restrict my lifestyle until the weight is back in control and control is the name of the game. I have two Fit Bits.. I compete relentlessly with my financial guy. I worried when I went back to work after a week off that I wouldn't be able to beat his pace, as I had when I was staycationing.
So this is my problem. Self image. And eyebrows. That inner voice of my mother haunts me. My dad not so much. He was more of a let it slide type of person. You are what you is. He never said a word to me about wardrobe choices other than to support my mother and when she died that went out the window. Must..think...more...like. him!
You know, it's strange. I worry about my self image but I am perfectly fine as I am. On my walking route there is a chalk graffito that says "You are more than enough and then some". That strikes me as a phrase to live by. Or as Sophie is wont to say "It is what it is". And it is. I am more than enough, more than enough...lather, rinse, repeat.
And now we resume a less self centered idealization.
The eyebrow issue was part of her drunken idealization of the feminine. She was, at one point, a beautiful woman who modeled clothing at a local dress shop. But the drinking took its toll on her beauty. So she tried to make me more like her and the more she pushed the more I rebelled. She used to take me clothes shopping and let me pick out what I wanted and when we got home she would pronounce "I don't know why you got that. It looks horrible on you". So I grew up very confused about my feminine wiles.
When she died at 59 in 1994 I did stop paying attention to the inner critical voice she mastered over me. The eyebrows went first. Shoes became a central facet of my life. She was always on me for my choice of shoes and when I was freed from her voice I bought shoes up the wazoo. I have since slowed down. But she has her revenge from the grave as I constantly get blisters on my feet now. I am working on the premise that she has her claws on my feet. I have this recurring dream that when I die and there might be an afterlife and I will see her again and she will say "So, why haven't you called?" Therapy is dealing with that.
Because of my mother I like to think I am the epitome of androgyny. I get most of my clothing from LL Bean and shoes from Amazon. Undergarments direct from Hanes, including new special socks that wick away moisture and I am hoping it helps with the blister issue.
I am certain there is a psychological component to the blister issue. My feet not only take me on a journey they have their own journey. This is the first time in over a week that I haven't had at least one Bandaid on my tootsies. Those new socks are marvelous and I change them at least once a day. Hopefully I can keep them blister free for a while as the callouses from the blisters are forming and maybe that will make me stronger. What doesn't kill me makes me stronger, so to speak.
My self image is getting better. That is not to say I don't beat myself up on the issue of body image. I weigh in once a week and if it is up a pound or two I panic, I restrict my lifestyle until the weight is back in control and control is the name of the game. I have two Fit Bits.. I compete relentlessly with my financial guy. I worried when I went back to work after a week off that I wouldn't be able to beat his pace, as I had when I was staycationing.
So this is my problem. Self image. And eyebrows. That inner voice of my mother haunts me. My dad not so much. He was more of a let it slide type of person. You are what you is. He never said a word to me about wardrobe choices other than to support my mother and when she died that went out the window. Must..think...more...like. him!
You know, it's strange. I worry about my self image but I am perfectly fine as I am. On my walking route there is a chalk graffito that says "You are more than enough and then some". That strikes me as a phrase to live by. Or as Sophie is wont to say "It is what it is". And it is. I am more than enough, more than enough...lather, rinse, repeat.
And now we resume a less self centered idealization.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Seems to me...
I have talked at length about my mother's side of the family (Taylor (Siskinovich) to Levy) but not so much about my dad and his side of the family (Marx to Levy (Levine) to Levy). That is in part due to the strength of the Taylors and the fact that we lived with my mom's mother, Dorothy (I had a grandmother Dora who was actually my great grandmother living with us and Dorothy's given name was Dora as well (the other Dora being her mother-in-law) so I merely called her Dorothy with no further appellation).
My mother was an only child, as am I, but my dad had one brother, which means I have only one uncle and aunt but slews of great aunts and uncles (or had). My mother loathed her sister-in-law (who, since the passing of my mother, has truly adopted me and my parents would be doing a collective grave spin if they knew that). Anyway, mom loathe my aunt, partially because she and my uncle were professionally successful (he an automotive engineer who designed exhaust systems (catalytic converters) and she a teacher and principal at the local Jewish day school). My dad was a salesman, she a high school graduate, living with her mother all her life. Oh, once they looked for homes but the reality was my mother couldn't have cared for a house, much less a child, without considerable help. My dad's father was a lawyer, the youngest graduate from the Detroit College of Law who had to wait until he was 21 to take the bar. His wife, Celia, was a house frau but she had a special talent. She was a no so much gifted but an enthusiastic student of the piano and, as befitting her Polish heritage, loved Chopin and could bang it out with the best of them. They used to live on Collingwood in Detroit, right by the fire station which I remember clear as day us visiting and playing in the fire trucks while grandma looked on. They then downsized the house (the old house had a peach tree and made lousy fruit) and moved to Northlawn, a stone's throw from my other grandmother's home. Every Sunday we would go over for an hour or so. Irvine rarely said a word. His son, my uncle, rarely speaks. My dad was pretty quiet, too, but could also be an absolute charmer when need be.
My aunt grows orchids. She has most of her adult life. She breeds them as well, if that is the right term. My mother wanted her to give her an orchid and always resented the fact that none was forthcoming. After she passed and I mentioned this to my aunt she said all my mother would have had to do was to ask and she would have given her as many orchids as she desired. But that was my mom. You had to anticipate her needs and fulfill them in advance of any stated desires. I spent the better part of my young life trying to placate her in advance of her disappointments. Petite fours from Ranier's Bakery, carnations from the florist, all things I gave to her once a week or so, as my allowance would permit. By the time I was ten I was able to go up to Livernois, the Avenue of Fashion, and go to the various stores, mostly to pick up cigarettes for my mother but some times to buy her gifts to make her happy which she never was regardless of my gifts.
Once both my parents died what was left of both families told me (after the fact) how sorry they were that I had such a shitty childhood and how they wished they could have done more for me given the sobriety issues of my mother. My aunt adopted me of sorts and treats me like one of her own. That means I get weekly calls and updates. And what is nice is she treats me like an adult, something my own parents didn't see fit to do or feel comfortable doing. She even named an orchid after me...immortality at last.
My uncle is still quiet (the Silent Bob of the family)...my aunt still grows orchids. They are in their eighties. She calls once or twice a week. I rarely see my cousins, two of whom have moved to the West Coast. But my long winded aunt calls and pontificate about any number of things, mostly politics, which I enjoy discussing with her and something I could never do with my parents. That's another reason my mother disliked, nay hated her: she knows everything. And she does. I can talk classical music and opera with her...not my parents. I can talk history and culture...not my parents. Ah, well, my parents did encourage my love of music, but denied me the pleasure of learning the violin at a young age and only reluctantly agreed to guitar lessons as I was a jack of all trades and master of none and had a habit of trying things and moving on. But, hell, that's what childhood is for. I would play my guitar nightly to the critical ear of my mother. "Sing with schmaltz" she would implore. But, alas, I had no schmaltz to give her. But my grandmother Celia would encourage me musically and tell me to bring the "git-fiddle" over on Sundays.
My mother never visited my grandma Celia. She was always home Sundays doing laundry (read hung over). A special treat was when my uncle and two of the three cousins would come and I had someone to play with instead of being the object of such scrutiny by my grandmother. And a super duper treat was when my grandmother Celia would invite both sides of the family over to her duplex for a rare Sunday supper. All the cousins, all the in-laws...twelve people around her massive dining room table. And mother would do nothing but complain about having to go, about being there and the lousy food Celia prepared (I liked it...it was always brisket and roasted veggies, a salad with her famous red dressing (ketchup, oil and vinegar...silly me I liked)). No more visits to the fire house but occasional visits by my the cousins and I felt whole then, like the Fridays and later Sundays with the Taylor side of the family.
I do believe I get psychiatric problems from both sides of the family. Celia was a very depressed person in her later years (She, too, hated my aunt, believing her son married beneath him like my grandfather married her (a German Jew marrying a Polish Jew...How crass and low brow)). My mother, I think, was also bipolar and self medicating with alcohol. I think some of that was brought on by the untimely death of her father, who died two days before my birth and for whom I was named. I think she looked at me at times and saw her late father and got depressed and drank herself sick. Celia used to bang her head against the wall (in front of me...something I have done myself to the point of concussion) when very depressed.
So here I sit with some bad genes, a Russian, Polish and Prussian mutt of a girl, cerebral and moody.
But on my good days I remember playing on the fire trucks on Collingwood.
My mother was an only child, as am I, but my dad had one brother, which means I have only one uncle and aunt but slews of great aunts and uncles (or had). My mother loathed her sister-in-law (who, since the passing of my mother, has truly adopted me and my parents would be doing a collective grave spin if they knew that). Anyway, mom loathe my aunt, partially because she and my uncle were professionally successful (he an automotive engineer who designed exhaust systems (catalytic converters) and she a teacher and principal at the local Jewish day school). My dad was a salesman, she a high school graduate, living with her mother all her life. Oh, once they looked for homes but the reality was my mother couldn't have cared for a house, much less a child, without considerable help. My dad's father was a lawyer, the youngest graduate from the Detroit College of Law who had to wait until he was 21 to take the bar. His wife, Celia, was a house frau but she had a special talent. She was a no so much gifted but an enthusiastic student of the piano and, as befitting her Polish heritage, loved Chopin and could bang it out with the best of them. They used to live on Collingwood in Detroit, right by the fire station which I remember clear as day us visiting and playing in the fire trucks while grandma looked on. They then downsized the house (the old house had a peach tree and made lousy fruit) and moved to Northlawn, a stone's throw from my other grandmother's home. Every Sunday we would go over for an hour or so. Irvine rarely said a word. His son, my uncle, rarely speaks. My dad was pretty quiet, too, but could also be an absolute charmer when need be.
My aunt grows orchids. She has most of her adult life. She breeds them as well, if that is the right term. My mother wanted her to give her an orchid and always resented the fact that none was forthcoming. After she passed and I mentioned this to my aunt she said all my mother would have had to do was to ask and she would have given her as many orchids as she desired. But that was my mom. You had to anticipate her needs and fulfill them in advance of any stated desires. I spent the better part of my young life trying to placate her in advance of her disappointments. Petite fours from Ranier's Bakery, carnations from the florist, all things I gave to her once a week or so, as my allowance would permit. By the time I was ten I was able to go up to Livernois, the Avenue of Fashion, and go to the various stores, mostly to pick up cigarettes for my mother but some times to buy her gifts to make her happy which she never was regardless of my gifts.
Once both my parents died what was left of both families told me (after the fact) how sorry they were that I had such a shitty childhood and how they wished they could have done more for me given the sobriety issues of my mother. My aunt adopted me of sorts and treats me like one of her own. That means I get weekly calls and updates. And what is nice is she treats me like an adult, something my own parents didn't see fit to do or feel comfortable doing. She even named an orchid after me...immortality at last.
My uncle is still quiet (the Silent Bob of the family)...my aunt still grows orchids. They are in their eighties. She calls once or twice a week. I rarely see my cousins, two of whom have moved to the West Coast. But my long winded aunt calls and pontificate about any number of things, mostly politics, which I enjoy discussing with her and something I could never do with my parents. That's another reason my mother disliked, nay hated her: she knows everything. And she does. I can talk classical music and opera with her...not my parents. I can talk history and culture...not my parents. Ah, well, my parents did encourage my love of music, but denied me the pleasure of learning the violin at a young age and only reluctantly agreed to guitar lessons as I was a jack of all trades and master of none and had a habit of trying things and moving on. But, hell, that's what childhood is for. I would play my guitar nightly to the critical ear of my mother. "Sing with schmaltz" she would implore. But, alas, I had no schmaltz to give her. But my grandmother Celia would encourage me musically and tell me to bring the "git-fiddle" over on Sundays.
My mother never visited my grandma Celia. She was always home Sundays doing laundry (read hung over). A special treat was when my uncle and two of the three cousins would come and I had someone to play with instead of being the object of such scrutiny by my grandmother. And a super duper treat was when my grandmother Celia would invite both sides of the family over to her duplex for a rare Sunday supper. All the cousins, all the in-laws...twelve people around her massive dining room table. And mother would do nothing but complain about having to go, about being there and the lousy food Celia prepared (I liked it...it was always brisket and roasted veggies, a salad with her famous red dressing (ketchup, oil and vinegar...silly me I liked)). No more visits to the fire house but occasional visits by my the cousins and I felt whole then, like the Fridays and later Sundays with the Taylor side of the family.
I do believe I get psychiatric problems from both sides of the family. Celia was a very depressed person in her later years (She, too, hated my aunt, believing her son married beneath him like my grandfather married her (a German Jew marrying a Polish Jew...How crass and low brow)). My mother, I think, was also bipolar and self medicating with alcohol. I think some of that was brought on by the untimely death of her father, who died two days before my birth and for whom I was named. I think she looked at me at times and saw her late father and got depressed and drank herself sick. Celia used to bang her head against the wall (in front of me...something I have done myself to the point of concussion) when very depressed.
So here I sit with some bad genes, a Russian, Polish and Prussian mutt of a girl, cerebral and moody.
But on my good days I remember playing on the fire trucks on Collingwood.
Monday, July 4, 2016
Post script
It is now 11:15 and the assholes have entered the twilight state. Bottle rockets and firecrackers going off left and right. I have already yelled at them once this evening and I just got back from a second visit. Another neighbor was following me doing the same thing. I have had two sleepers and I am agitated and the cats are looking at me with fear in their eyes as they collectively huddle in the bathroom making it neigh on impossible to walk in without stepping on a cat. 11:30 and M80s are going off all around me. The kids next door I can deal with. But idiots who favor M80s and emergency rooms are another story. It is supposed to stop by midnight. If not I can call the police, as if they don't have anything better to do than to write citations for firework violations.
So, I am watching the Dodgers play the Orioles. Slow game but that gives me a chance to listen to Vin Scully and hope he can lull me to sleep. There is no grandma's bedroom to sneak off to and listen to the radio. I have never yelled at the kid before but he is a real space cadet and probably won't remember me tomorrow. as well as James who also gave him a piece of his mind. This is not the time to take a third sleeper. Now is the time to lay down and rest and hope that five hours of sleep will serve me well enough tomorrow to get by. Breathe, relax and go to the bathroom to pet a cat. I don't remember it being this bad last year but then the neighbor didn't have that kid living there last summer. And surprisingly their dog didn't seem to be bothered by the noise. Oh, well, what can you expect from a German shepherd name of Quasi.
Breathe
So, I am watching the Dodgers play the Orioles. Slow game but that gives me a chance to listen to Vin Scully and hope he can lull me to sleep. There is no grandma's bedroom to sneak off to and listen to the radio. I have never yelled at the kid before but he is a real space cadet and probably won't remember me tomorrow. as well as James who also gave him a piece of his mind. This is not the time to take a third sleeper. Now is the time to lay down and rest and hope that five hours of sleep will serve me well enough tomorrow to get by. Breathe, relax and go to the bathroom to pet a cat. I don't remember it being this bad last year but then the neighbor didn't have that kid living there last summer. And surprisingly their dog didn't seem to be bothered by the noise. Oh, well, what can you expect from a German shepherd name of Quasi.
Breathe
Moody fireworks
The cats are skulking about due to the fireworks being set off on the street. The asses assume because it is the 4th of July they can willy nilly set off firecrackers without repercussion. The are wrong. The cats are frightened and I feel compelled to constantly apologize to them for the noise. They don't understand and are frightened. And I am scared as well. I have to return to work after a week off. See, you didn't even miss me. I had my first extended time off over ten years. Since the last trip to Europe in 2006. And I will tell you, if this past week is a prologue I am indeed ready to retire. I enjoyed a week of lunches out. dinner with friends, and long walks in the morning and late afternoon. A five mile path of purposeful walking. I was getting out first thing in the morning and the sky was always azure and clear. Walk around the hidden lake. Stop at Biggby's for a mango smoothie. Walk some more. Yup. I love the summer and I love the time off. It will be difficult to return to work. I am anticipating a haggard night's sleep. A sleeper is in order. It will be like all thouse Sunday nights agonizing about going to school the next morning. Sneaking into my grandmother's room for solace and the late night radio. Mike Whorf and Night Flight. Radio all night long and the comfort of knowing my grandmother was in the next bed sleeping or listening to the radio as I was. But those days are way gone. I rely on the cats for succor and they are scared shitless. No grandmother to comfort them only me to apologize constantly for the noise. And it isn't even dark yet. Fireworks set to go off at the end of the baseball game downtown. And more apologies.
Skulking cats. Quivering cats. And me not wanting to go to work tomorrow. Not that I am competitive but with all the walking in I am leading my Fit Bit group. Eat my dust. Now, will I be able to get in almost ten miles a day while I work? Probably not. But I have been in the lead for two weeks and am up 40,000 steps as of this evening. Not that I am competitive. Yah, eat my dust.
I
Skulking cats. Quivering cats. And me not wanting to go to work tomorrow. Not that I am competitive but with all the walking in I am leading my Fit Bit group. Eat my dust. Now, will I be able to get in almost ten miles a day while I work? Probably not. But I have been in the lead for two weeks and am up 40,000 steps as of this evening. Not that I am competitive. Yah, eat my dust.
I
Saturday, July 2, 2016
Shabbat Shalom
The last two weeks I have been involved in Friday night Sabbath services, one at the synagogue and one at the home of the Old Duffer. I had to literally play for my supper. Old Duffer wanted everyone to sing after dinner but nobody, including me, wanted to. Still he managed to squeeze out a Shalom Aleichim and another song before people began to leave, perhaps hastened along by the musicale. I mention this as it brought to mind Fridays nights at home in Detroit. My great aunts and uncles would come over, all unmarried, and my grandmother would prepare a feast of brisket, tsimmes and noodle kugel. We would get to eat in the dining room around the table big enough to seat the whole of the family. After dinner we would adjourn to the living room where the women played canasta and the men slept off dinner. Speaking of sleeping off dinner, my aunt Sally used to be assigned the task of putting me to bed and then she would fall fast asleep while I remained wide awake but snuggled up close to her. Mom was in her room sleeping off not dinner but her daily ration of bourbon.
Segue to a few years later. The Friday dinners became Sunday dinner at another sister of my grandmother, this one married. She would have her house boy, John, whip up extravagant meals but before meals we would gather around the piano, me with my guitar, and crank out the old sings and everyone would ring around us and sing along.
Segue to 1976 and, as my mother would have it, I ran away from home. This time to the bosom of East Lansing and the sanctuary of graduate school. And I stayed. No more Friday and/or Sunday dinners. The last Seder I attended was so outrageous that I never went home again for any holiday. The Seder started late and people were thoroughly snockered by the time it commenced. The gentleman who was leading the Seder, when asked to speed it up, uttered the famous Jewish prayer "suck it up your ass". No more family gatherings would I attend. Well, no more other than funerals.
When I first started this blog I mentioned that I still had great aunt Martha's obit in my inbox. I still do. She was the last of my extended family to go. The last of the Taylors. Aunt Martha left instructions in her will that the nieces and nephews, including me, get a small inheritance. Nice to be remember and I donated the money to MSU. Still, my last memory of Detroit and the family was Cousin Douche Bag, who had drawn up the will/trust finagling the lion's share of her estate for themselves. And this was definitely a case of the rich getting richer. Cousin Douche Bag, or DB for short, inherited an oil distribution company from his father. A company my grandparents helped finance. The company has done extremely well and DB's two daughters (and the thought of him having daughters seems poetic as he was a little abusive with me) are now running the company and it is even more successful. And they wanted more. And they got it. They even denied to the daughters of an heir, since deceased. his share of the estate, which would have amounted to $10,000. Nope, DB's got it and made no apologies.
This is my final memory of Detroit. Not the family sing-a-longs, not the Seders and Sabbath dinners. Not aunt Sally falling asleep. Not aunt Martha, a teacher, insisting that I had a brain and was smart; encouragement that was not forthcoming from my parents. Not the last of the Taylors being laid to rest, roses on her coffin on dreary late fall afternoon, with no one inviting me to join then for a meal. No it is the Douche Bag and his dysfunctional family making a puppet out of aunt Martha and bending her to their will. Yes, DB was the chosen nephew. Harvard, UofM Law School, married well. Sole heir to a sizeable estate. Manipulating Martha. I didn't want the money and didn't need it, hence my donation. But the daughters of the deceased cousin getting squat and the haughty attitude taken by the DB's daughters angered. It was at this point the I broke the last tie I had to the Taylors, with one exception. I never go to Detroit anymore. All the graves I have responsibility for have perpetual care so they are tended.
So now, essentially, I am alone. Old Duffer and the Missus seem to have adopted me, their own children having turned their collective backs on them. Sabbath dinner is now back in my life with no aunt Sally to put me to bed. I put myself to bed now, accompanied by the cats. Memories I can cling to. The DB is losing his mind due to early onset dementia. Again poetic justice, or am I being too mean? Let his daughters prevail.
I truly miss my grandmother Dorothy and all her sisters and brothers. The new Sabbath rituals hark back to my childhood. Memories are all I have. I must learn forgive the DB? Not so much. He had made his bed and his daughters lay in it. Let the be good memories as well as new ones.
Shabbat Shalom.
Segue to a few years later. The Friday dinners became Sunday dinner at another sister of my grandmother, this one married. She would have her house boy, John, whip up extravagant meals but before meals we would gather around the piano, me with my guitar, and crank out the old sings and everyone would ring around us and sing along.
Segue to 1976 and, as my mother would have it, I ran away from home. This time to the bosom of East Lansing and the sanctuary of graduate school. And I stayed. No more Friday and/or Sunday dinners. The last Seder I attended was so outrageous that I never went home again for any holiday. The Seder started late and people were thoroughly snockered by the time it commenced. The gentleman who was leading the Seder, when asked to speed it up, uttered the famous Jewish prayer "suck it up your ass". No more family gatherings would I attend. Well, no more other than funerals.
When I first started this blog I mentioned that I still had great aunt Martha's obit in my inbox. I still do. She was the last of my extended family to go. The last of the Taylors. Aunt Martha left instructions in her will that the nieces and nephews, including me, get a small inheritance. Nice to be remember and I donated the money to MSU. Still, my last memory of Detroit and the family was Cousin Douche Bag, who had drawn up the will/trust finagling the lion's share of her estate for themselves. And this was definitely a case of the rich getting richer. Cousin Douche Bag, or DB for short, inherited an oil distribution company from his father. A company my grandparents helped finance. The company has done extremely well and DB's two daughters (and the thought of him having daughters seems poetic as he was a little abusive with me) are now running the company and it is even more successful. And they wanted more. And they got it. They even denied to the daughters of an heir, since deceased. his share of the estate, which would have amounted to $10,000. Nope, DB's got it and made no apologies.
This is my final memory of Detroit. Not the family sing-a-longs, not the Seders and Sabbath dinners. Not aunt Sally falling asleep. Not aunt Martha, a teacher, insisting that I had a brain and was smart; encouragement that was not forthcoming from my parents. Not the last of the Taylors being laid to rest, roses on her coffin on dreary late fall afternoon, with no one inviting me to join then for a meal. No it is the Douche Bag and his dysfunctional family making a puppet out of aunt Martha and bending her to their will. Yes, DB was the chosen nephew. Harvard, UofM Law School, married well. Sole heir to a sizeable estate. Manipulating Martha. I didn't want the money and didn't need it, hence my donation. But the daughters of the deceased cousin getting squat and the haughty attitude taken by the DB's daughters angered. It was at this point the I broke the last tie I had to the Taylors, with one exception. I never go to Detroit anymore. All the graves I have responsibility for have perpetual care so they are tended.
So now, essentially, I am alone. Old Duffer and the Missus seem to have adopted me, their own children having turned their collective backs on them. Sabbath dinner is now back in my life with no aunt Sally to put me to bed. I put myself to bed now, accompanied by the cats. Memories I can cling to. The DB is losing his mind due to early onset dementia. Again poetic justice, or am I being too mean? Let his daughters prevail.
I truly miss my grandmother Dorothy and all her sisters and brothers. The new Sabbath rituals hark back to my childhood. Memories are all I have. I must learn forgive the DB? Not so much. He had made his bed and his daughters lay in it. Let the be good memories as well as new ones.
Shabbat Shalom.
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
A stream runs through it...
My consciousness, that is. I was out walking this morning, pondering the universe as it my habit on such excursions. It is a lovely morning and I am on a staycation. My work of late has been so boring that the highlight of my day yesterday was taking the next six days off, which were preceded by four days off. The second highlight of the day was ordering brassieres online. I am so fuxing bored. The database has been sent out to be cleaned and it won't be back in action for a few weeks yet. That is compounded by a server migration this weekend and I just had to run away. So I have been spending my days at work taking online courses in Excel, which I now excel in, and updated suppressed records of records, CDs that is, and adding a note to an item record that...Eureka, I found it! or something like that. What I don't find I add to an Excel spreadsheet and let me tell you it was more excited ordering bras. Now once the database has been cleaned and pressed I will have work up the wazoo. But until then CDs.
What I have discovered in doing these CDs for our Rovi Colleciton (the largest media collection on the planet) is that there is some nice music out there. I can listen to some of the CDs and sample what is out there. The other thing I have discovered is that anyone who can carry a tune (or not in some cases) can put out a CD. Take that you amateur. There are literally hundreds of CDs in each Banker Box and a great deal of it is crap, IMNSHO. This goes back to my ruminations on the cult of the amateur. That everyone gets a trophy for just showing up. That anyone with a tune in their head can records a CD and, by extension, anyone with a thought in their heads can write a blog. Case in point...me. But you are still reading so on I go.
So I am out this a.m. doing a five mile loop around the neighborhood and then some. I walked past my past abode. The street is being torn up. I can't tell you how many time the water lines burst underground on that street and the subsequent repairs. But I digress. My point is the women who lived and still lives under the stairs. She who is a shut in by her own hand. Yes, she goes out to get her hair and nails done but anything else is a struggle with agoraphobia. I was her tech support as long as I was speaking to her. I mention this as when it came time to set a boundary I had to go back to therapy to learn how to "break-up" with her. She was so lonely that both Phyllis and I spent countless hours keeping her company. Phyllis in particular spent every Saturday night with her helping her send back packages to QVC or HSN. She ordered stuff compulsively and just as compulsively sent everything back. I think she had a misguided crush on Brandon the UPS Driver. Phyllis was the first to break off with her and I followed her lead about three months later. She was and is crazy and demanding and was one of the reasons I moved from the dorm the condo had turned into. This is one of my ponders this morning. She was quite ill, both mentally and physically, and her health was declining. I can't tell you how many times she would call crying hysterically over some misplaced item or emotion. I don't miss her just wonder what has become of her.
Getting ready for another walk. I have been getting in close to nine miles a day and have been topping Dan's pace. The next walk to to meet a buddy for lunch. Crunchy's, a good burger joint. I think I may be predisposed to stop at Biggby's and get a mango freeze which is not unlike a smoothie. I love mango and all this walking has made me thirsty. Or I may go after my lovely session of reflexology this afternoon.
I started getting weekly sessions with the reflexologist when I was panicking over the new house and had almost instant buyer's remorse as I looked at the interior of the house stripped bare of furnishings and in some cases the walls. I continue to get these sessions as, well, they feel so damn good. It has been helpful for me psychically and physically so I continue to get them.
So today is just a wonderful day. Five miles in before 9:00 a.m., fresh flowers on the table, lunch with a good friend, a mango freeze, reflexology and another post reflexology walk. Yes this is much better than appending "Rovi found" to item records. Still next Tuesday I will have to return to the salt mines and add those notes to the thousands of item records. Maybe when the boss returns from China we can begin processing those fifty-nine reports that we requested on the 8.3 million bibliographic record database we sent out for cleaning. Does the name Sisyphus ring a bell?
What I have discovered in doing these CDs for our Rovi Colleciton (the largest media collection on the planet) is that there is some nice music out there. I can listen to some of the CDs and sample what is out there. The other thing I have discovered is that anyone who can carry a tune (or not in some cases) can put out a CD. Take that you amateur. There are literally hundreds of CDs in each Banker Box and a great deal of it is crap, IMNSHO. This goes back to my ruminations on the cult of the amateur. That everyone gets a trophy for just showing up. That anyone with a tune in their head can records a CD and, by extension, anyone with a thought in their heads can write a blog. Case in point...me. But you are still reading so on I go.
So I am out this a.m. doing a five mile loop around the neighborhood and then some. I walked past my past abode. The street is being torn up. I can't tell you how many time the water lines burst underground on that street and the subsequent repairs. But I digress. My point is the women who lived and still lives under the stairs. She who is a shut in by her own hand. Yes, she goes out to get her hair and nails done but anything else is a struggle with agoraphobia. I was her tech support as long as I was speaking to her. I mention this as when it came time to set a boundary I had to go back to therapy to learn how to "break-up" with her. She was so lonely that both Phyllis and I spent countless hours keeping her company. Phyllis in particular spent every Saturday night with her helping her send back packages to QVC or HSN. She ordered stuff compulsively and just as compulsively sent everything back. I think she had a misguided crush on Brandon the UPS Driver. Phyllis was the first to break off with her and I followed her lead about three months later. She was and is crazy and demanding and was one of the reasons I moved from the dorm the condo had turned into. This is one of my ponders this morning. She was quite ill, both mentally and physically, and her health was declining. I can't tell you how many times she would call crying hysterically over some misplaced item or emotion. I don't miss her just wonder what has become of her.
Getting ready for another walk. I have been getting in close to nine miles a day and have been topping Dan's pace. The next walk to to meet a buddy for lunch. Crunchy's, a good burger joint. I think I may be predisposed to stop at Biggby's and get a mango freeze which is not unlike a smoothie. I love mango and all this walking has made me thirsty. Or I may go after my lovely session of reflexology this afternoon.
I started getting weekly sessions with the reflexologist when I was panicking over the new house and had almost instant buyer's remorse as I looked at the interior of the house stripped bare of furnishings and in some cases the walls. I continue to get these sessions as, well, they feel so damn good. It has been helpful for me psychically and physically so I continue to get them.
So today is just a wonderful day. Five miles in before 9:00 a.m., fresh flowers on the table, lunch with a good friend, a mango freeze, reflexology and another post reflexology walk. Yes this is much better than appending "Rovi found" to item records. Still next Tuesday I will have to return to the salt mines and add those notes to the thousands of item records. Maybe when the boss returns from China we can begin processing those fifty-nine reports that we requested on the 8.3 million bibliographic record database we sent out for cleaning. Does the name Sisyphus ring a bell?
Thursday, June 23, 2016
The hoarder and me
In one of my many guises I provide tech support for friends. As founder of Capitol City Informatics I am endeavoring to turn that guise into profit. So with that in mind, I confess to being afraid, being very afraid, of my next assignment. I have to set up a wireless connection on a laptop at an acquaintance's house and download Windows 10 and this person in a hoarder. There is nary a place to sit down in the townhouse, much less swing a dead cat. And I wouldn't be surprise that along with all the other clutter there was in fact a dead cat. If it were I and I lived among such clutter I would be embarrassed to have another soul see my clutter. But she is afraid to de-clutter and is constantly gaining more clutter (Damn you Dollar General, 5 Below and all those other similar stores). She even tries to clutter my life with the detritus of her life. And since I have helped her in the past she expects me on Monday to set her up.
I started Capitol City Informatics to provide gentle technical support for the technologically challenged, hoping to turn a avocation to a vocation in my golden years or retirement, whichever comes first. I have all manner of computers, tablets and smart phones, a regular Techno-Slut am I. I can work in any given operating system and provide hands-on guidance. I don't merely show people how to do something, I guide them through it until they feel confident doing it themselves. I like to say I provide information technology with a human touch; in fact that is the verso of my business card. I have bookmarks, magnetic calendars, pens and so on. Bumper stickers should be issued.
My challenge has always been to let people see what they are capable of and letting them do it. This hoarder is a huge challenge and I confess to being a little, alright more than a little, passive aggressive with her. That is also my challenge. Being bipolar I never know if my initial reactions are overreactions of the psyche. I am afraid of "going off" on someone because of misfiring neurons. So generally speaking I tolerate fools gladly, even when that is the last thing I wish to do. The Hoarder, as she is now such, also expects me to know all her passwords and calls me at odd hours to get on her tablet when she has lost her connection and doesn't know how to reconnect. I have gently guided her through this process time and again, even getting a specific tablet to help her. It's maddening.
But I have set myself up as a functional expert and when I lose it I lose it big. So just going to her townhouse is going to be very stressful. She'd like me to come right away but I have a gig at the synagogue tomorrow night and that is causing me some anxiety so I put her off until Monday which I have off but the last thing I want to do is set-up a computer in the midst of that chaos. I'd like to have a few days to myself to rest and not be around people, much less clutter. I have been on the go for the last two weeks. I require some downtime.
The same is true of the Old Duffer. Passive aggressive am I. I bought him a new guitar tuner in the hopes that he could actually tune his guitar and keep it in tune. I have such great expectations. I try to gently tell him things about music but he puts on his professorial demeanor and runs roughshod over me. So I end up sending messages to the rabbi that say things like "just kill me...he is just killing me". Of course the rabbi is concerned and really he is the last person you should ask to kill you because the Old Duffer is making me miserable again and I lack the testicularity to say NO. I can't say no to anyone.
I seem to have problems setting boundaries which I attribute to the bipolar and my fear of over-reacting. So I just don't say no to anyone. That is ultimately what drove me back to therapy in the first place; the inability to set clear and healthy boundaries. Such was the case when I lived in the condo and the whole complex seemed not unlike a dorm with people pulling on me in all directions. I did get out of that situation but the problem remains. Two Old Duffers, one Hoarder and all manner of people to help.
And so it goes.
I started Capitol City Informatics to provide gentle technical support for the technologically challenged, hoping to turn a avocation to a vocation in my golden years or retirement, whichever comes first. I have all manner of computers, tablets and smart phones, a regular Techno-Slut am I. I can work in any given operating system and provide hands-on guidance. I don't merely show people how to do something, I guide them through it until they feel confident doing it themselves. I like to say I provide information technology with a human touch; in fact that is the verso of my business card. I have bookmarks, magnetic calendars, pens and so on. Bumper stickers should be issued.
My challenge has always been to let people see what they are capable of and letting them do it. This hoarder is a huge challenge and I confess to being a little, alright more than a little, passive aggressive with her. That is also my challenge. Being bipolar I never know if my initial reactions are overreactions of the psyche. I am afraid of "going off" on someone because of misfiring neurons. So generally speaking I tolerate fools gladly, even when that is the last thing I wish to do. The Hoarder, as she is now such, also expects me to know all her passwords and calls me at odd hours to get on her tablet when she has lost her connection and doesn't know how to reconnect. I have gently guided her through this process time and again, even getting a specific tablet to help her. It's maddening.
But I have set myself up as a functional expert and when I lose it I lose it big. So just going to her townhouse is going to be very stressful. She'd like me to come right away but I have a gig at the synagogue tomorrow night and that is causing me some anxiety so I put her off until Monday which I have off but the last thing I want to do is set-up a computer in the midst of that chaos. I'd like to have a few days to myself to rest and not be around people, much less clutter. I have been on the go for the last two weeks. I require some downtime.
The same is true of the Old Duffer. Passive aggressive am I. I bought him a new guitar tuner in the hopes that he could actually tune his guitar and keep it in tune. I have such great expectations. I try to gently tell him things about music but he puts on his professorial demeanor and runs roughshod over me. So I end up sending messages to the rabbi that say things like "just kill me...he is just killing me". Of course the rabbi is concerned and really he is the last person you should ask to kill you because the Old Duffer is making me miserable again and I lack the testicularity to say NO. I can't say no to anyone.
I seem to have problems setting boundaries which I attribute to the bipolar and my fear of over-reacting. So I just don't say no to anyone. That is ultimately what drove me back to therapy in the first place; the inability to set clear and healthy boundaries. Such was the case when I lived in the condo and the whole complex seemed not unlike a dorm with people pulling on me in all directions. I did get out of that situation but the problem remains. Two Old Duffers, one Hoarder and all manner of people to help.
And so it goes.
Friday, June 17, 2016
Today being the eve
Of my 62nd birthday I thought I might be a tad less reflective than usual. Oh, who am I kidding? Time for some birthday angst.
As I reflect on 62 summers gone past I must say that, aside from the broken leg of last summer (and even that had some positive moments as I finally let some people take care of me) I don't recall a period of time when I have been happier. Ah, the pleasant joy of owning a home. The puttering (did I neglect to mention I had two Xhose (those fabric lightweight hoses) burst on me Wednesday night necessitating a trip to the Ace Hardware wherein I purchased a heavy vinyl hose and lugged it home under my own limited powers only to have a neighbor offer up a hose (another Xhose) for keeps) in the yard. The vines of tomatoes offering themselves up to the sun and producing a mountain of marinara in return. My roses, my hydrangeas and all the other lovely plant life that makes the house a home. The cats seem to be thriving in the new abode. Simcha, the youngest, under whose ass you could set off a firecracker when he is sleeping and not get a rise out of him. Yankel, the behemoth and gentle giant, who is terrified of thunderstorms and takes shelter in the bathroom. And Gonif, the little guy who stole my heart, the beauty of an Ocicat, whose sensibilities are so tender that he is alert to my levels of distress, which, thankfully, are getting fewer and fewer. All these boys who sleep on the bed with me at night, at least when there is no thunderstorms.
And, as I teeter on the edge of 62 I have mortality issues. Looking back on wasted time and just being wasted. Looking back on sadness. My inability to let go of some past issues and move on. Why the hell was I so immobile that I could not move out of a home with a partner even after finding out how unfaithful they could be? Why I couldn't let go of mother issues long after she passed. Even now I hear her voice admonishing me for not calling more often (it's a collect call to wherever). My parents were so young when they had me. When I was 21 and about to graduate from college my dad was 44 and mom was 41. I recall now what a jerk I was at that age and finally cut them some emotional slack.
I recall a summer road trip to Florida (doesn't everybody go there in the summer?). We drove down in a Plymouth which my dad had outfitted with seat belts shortly before we left on the trip. I was 7. I had discovered the night before we left that I could "hear" myself think...As in "I think, therefore I am"...I spent much of the trip in my head enjoying the process of consciousness and an internal dialogue. I spent the rest of the trip wondering, as we weaved through mountain roads in Kentucky, that we were going to fall off the edge of the world. These thoughts I only shared with myself. Now, looking ahead, it is like that road in Kentucky: overlooking an abyss and hoping I don't fall off the edge of the world. At least not right now...another moment please. On that trip my dad bought me a live starfish which was in a plastic bag full of water. It disintegrated right before my eyes as we drove back. What else was it to do without food and more creature comforts. And my father full of whimsy, thinking what great sport it was to mess with my head when we were touring Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. Me, worried at 7 that the ceiling was going to come crashing down upon my head and dad's booming voice trying to make it so. Way to mess with a young one's mind...especially as she had discovered consciousness. Conscience would come later.
So now I have looked back and now I must look forward as that is the only way ahead. But they say the past is merely prologue. And that I believe to be true. I must process some ultimate truths in my head, like I do, like I do. Ii still am having that internal dialogue which I produce on these pages as if someone might be interested in what I have to say. What I really should do is forgive myself for the past and move on. For all those intolerable moments that come creeping up on me at night and haunt me so...just let them go. Maybe the lesson I have learned over time is that to be gentle with myself as well as others. Yes the past is prologue and it has gotten me to this point.
As Buzz would say "To infinity and beyond". And what a strange and beautiful trip it will be.
As I reflect on 62 summers gone past I must say that, aside from the broken leg of last summer (and even that had some positive moments as I finally let some people take care of me) I don't recall a period of time when I have been happier. Ah, the pleasant joy of owning a home. The puttering (did I neglect to mention I had two Xhose (those fabric lightweight hoses) burst on me Wednesday night necessitating a trip to the Ace Hardware wherein I purchased a heavy vinyl hose and lugged it home under my own limited powers only to have a neighbor offer up a hose (another Xhose) for keeps) in the yard. The vines of tomatoes offering themselves up to the sun and producing a mountain of marinara in return. My roses, my hydrangeas and all the other lovely plant life that makes the house a home. The cats seem to be thriving in the new abode. Simcha, the youngest, under whose ass you could set off a firecracker when he is sleeping and not get a rise out of him. Yankel, the behemoth and gentle giant, who is terrified of thunderstorms and takes shelter in the bathroom. And Gonif, the little guy who stole my heart, the beauty of an Ocicat, whose sensibilities are so tender that he is alert to my levels of distress, which, thankfully, are getting fewer and fewer. All these boys who sleep on the bed with me at night, at least when there is no thunderstorms.
And, as I teeter on the edge of 62 I have mortality issues. Looking back on wasted time and just being wasted. Looking back on sadness. My inability to let go of some past issues and move on. Why the hell was I so immobile that I could not move out of a home with a partner even after finding out how unfaithful they could be? Why I couldn't let go of mother issues long after she passed. Even now I hear her voice admonishing me for not calling more often (it's a collect call to wherever). My parents were so young when they had me. When I was 21 and about to graduate from college my dad was 44 and mom was 41. I recall now what a jerk I was at that age and finally cut them some emotional slack.
I recall a summer road trip to Florida (doesn't everybody go there in the summer?). We drove down in a Plymouth which my dad had outfitted with seat belts shortly before we left on the trip. I was 7. I had discovered the night before we left that I could "hear" myself think...As in "I think, therefore I am"...I spent much of the trip in my head enjoying the process of consciousness and an internal dialogue. I spent the rest of the trip wondering, as we weaved through mountain roads in Kentucky, that we were going to fall off the edge of the world. These thoughts I only shared with myself. Now, looking ahead, it is like that road in Kentucky: overlooking an abyss and hoping I don't fall off the edge of the world. At least not right now...another moment please. On that trip my dad bought me a live starfish which was in a plastic bag full of water. It disintegrated right before my eyes as we drove back. What else was it to do without food and more creature comforts. And my father full of whimsy, thinking what great sport it was to mess with my head when we were touring Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. Me, worried at 7 that the ceiling was going to come crashing down upon my head and dad's booming voice trying to make it so. Way to mess with a young one's mind...especially as she had discovered consciousness. Conscience would come later.
So now I have looked back and now I must look forward as that is the only way ahead. But they say the past is merely prologue. And that I believe to be true. I must process some ultimate truths in my head, like I do, like I do. Ii still am having that internal dialogue which I produce on these pages as if someone might be interested in what I have to say. What I really should do is forgive myself for the past and move on. For all those intolerable moments that come creeping up on me at night and haunt me so...just let them go. Maybe the lesson I have learned over time is that to be gentle with myself as well as others. Yes the past is prologue and it has gotten me to this point.
As Buzz would say "To infinity and beyond". And what a strange and beautiful trip it will be.
Wednesday, June 8, 2016
The thigh bone connected to the hip bone...
Twelve years ago my left hip managed to fracture itself after a prolonged period of time on Prednisone. Seems that stuff causes osteoporosis, which it did in my case causing the hip to shatter one Sunday night and my having to crawl to my couch from my kitchen, a journey of fifteen feet which took over two hours. The good doctor decided that at 50 I didn't require a hip replacement so he put four very looooooong screws in place. I was off of work for six weeks and rehabbing for another few weeks after that. Fast forward those twelve years and I now have a lovely cyst surrounding those screws and both will have to come out. Putz is what he was and who. The pain from the break was the worse pain I have ever experienced and the morphine drip did little to cut the pain levels.
Now with the cyst it hurts to walk; not like it did before but enough to make me gimpy. A CT scan has been ordered and the next step is up to the new orthopod, the good doctor with the impossible to pronounce last name. He did show me the x-rays and I thought I had a white spot on my hip but it proved to be the mouse pointer. I did however see the cyst surrounding the screws, those mighty screws, and right now he feels like it might be better to take the screws out and fill the holes with super bone gel and get rid of the cyst altogether. I am on board with that idea but wonder how long I will be sidelined. So as Roseanne Roseannadanna used to opine "it's always something".
Other than that I am having a lovely week. Bored at work without my traditional authority work to do, waiting for some records to be loaded, I fill my days with computer courses and unmulvering records that should have never been mulvered in the first place (sorry for the specific library jargon). It is mind numbing work and I live for the afternoons when I can take those online courses. And walks. But with the ache in my hip I have to push myself to walk. I did get a steroid injection in the offending hip yesterday but the groin ache is still present. But walk I will. I barely got in five miles yesterday but I did. Not the ten miles I was able to do Sunday but at least the five. And that on a gimpy leg. Call me Sore-us Gimp. No, call me Ishmael. I see a wail in my future.
Now with the cyst it hurts to walk; not like it did before but enough to make me gimpy. A CT scan has been ordered and the next step is up to the new orthopod, the good doctor with the impossible to pronounce last name. He did show me the x-rays and I thought I had a white spot on my hip but it proved to be the mouse pointer. I did however see the cyst surrounding the screws, those mighty screws, and right now he feels like it might be better to take the screws out and fill the holes with super bone gel and get rid of the cyst altogether. I am on board with that idea but wonder how long I will be sidelined. So as Roseanne Roseannadanna used to opine "it's always something".
Other than that I am having a lovely week. Bored at work without my traditional authority work to do, waiting for some records to be loaded, I fill my days with computer courses and unmulvering records that should have never been mulvered in the first place (sorry for the specific library jargon). It is mind numbing work and I live for the afternoons when I can take those online courses. And walks. But with the ache in my hip I have to push myself to walk. I did get a steroid injection in the offending hip yesterday but the groin ache is still present. But walk I will. I barely got in five miles yesterday but I did. Not the ten miles I was able to do Sunday but at least the five. And that on a gimpy leg. Call me Sore-us Gimp. No, call me Ishmael. I see a wail in my future.
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Today
And I was just thinking...Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday. Geez, I thought I came up with that gem but no, it was Dale Honest-to-God Carnegie. Next I suppose I will find out that my dad's gem "To be a king is not worth it" was spoke or spake by someone of the same ilk. I have Googled both and can only find the quote by Dale Honest-to-God Carnegie. So maybe my dad was an original thinker. But I do so enjoy Mel Brooks who once opined "it is good to be king" and I tend to follow that line of thinking more. My dad was not an uber achiever so I can well believe his catchphrase of not being king was his way of minimizing the hurt of not being more than a Willie Loman-type salesman and I his Biff.
I was playing guitar with the original Old Duffer 1.0 and as he was leaving he was telling me his children were estranged from he and his wife. I was on the other side of this fence as I was once estranged from my parents, or rather my mother, who had no gems of her own other than what she wore. Her line that "she gave me life and she could take it away..." scared the hell out of me but then I found out this was somehow against the law and she couldn't or wouldn't do that and by the time I was 16 I was really a psychotic mess. So when I left for graduate school in 1976 I rarely went home after that. My mother had a breakdown the first semester I was gone and was hospitalized. I came home to be with dad and my mother's mother only to find out mom had checked herself out of rehab AMA to be with me. She was an awful sloppy drunk and for years I never went home. I would on occasion sneak home to see my grandmother and her sisters but not the parental units. And my mother refused to come up to see me as the mountain should come to Mohammad on those occasions.
Mother died in 1994 at age 59. I was a mere child of 39. My dad and I had ten good years together after that. He would come up to visit this mountain at least four times a year. When I had surgery for cancer he delayed his own cancer surgery to nurse me back to health. He died of cancer that following year. But, as I said, we had ten good years together. That is not to say I wasn't a bit abrasive to him at times, a little bitchy as it were. And, yes, I regret that. But I digress.
Old Duffer 1.0 is estranged from his two children. Maybe that is why he feels a bond towards me. Someone to play with and commiserate with. Or, maybe, just maybe, he is in cahoots with the rabbi and it is a ploy to bring me more firmly into the fold of the congregation. Whatever. The Old Duffer 1.0 is saddened by his children so if I can help to explicate the estrangement from the child's point of view maybe that will ease his pain. Old Duffer and Mrs. Old Duffer are lovely people but I can see how the professorial Old Duffer might be an annoyance. It takes all my patience and good will to suck it up and play with him for two hours at a stretch. Now he wants me to join he and his wife at the community sings and play along with Mitch, or rather Sally. I doubt that will happen this month but maybe in the future.
Actually they want me to play and that is a compliment of sorts. But the mere thought of listening to others flail at the sing-along makes me quake. I think this month this orphan of the storm has too much going on to engage with these good folks. But the thought, just the thought, of doing this and giving up my childish things and joining the ranks of Duffers leaves me cold.
I do attract the Old Duffers of the world. Mrs. Shankland across the way, or street as it were, has bonded to me on a strange mother/daughter sort of way. She constantly comes over and checks out my garden and gives me extended visits where she talks non-stop about things that interest her, like Old Duffer 1.0 and I, like a good child, cajole and listen. And such is the nature of my relationships with the Old Duffers of the universe. To cajole and listen raptly.
I suppose this makes of me an Old Duffer aficionado. I do so loves me a good Old Duffer. My dad was a premature Old Duffer and really grew into the role when we spent a few weeks together in my tiny condo as he stayed with me post kidney surgery. That last six months when we both had cancer diagnoses was the closest we had been in a long time. Not since those summers when he beat me at tennis as he refused to chase the ball and insisted that I hit it back to him without reciprocity were good years. And I last time I saw him I think I had a foreshadowing of his passing, which he did a few weeks later. I knew when the neighbor called me that Monday night that he was gone, even before she found him laying dead in the family manse.
And now I have Old Duffer 1.0 once a week, grooming me for the community sings. Gotta love Old Duffers.
I was playing guitar with the original Old Duffer 1.0 and as he was leaving he was telling me his children were estranged from he and his wife. I was on the other side of this fence as I was once estranged from my parents, or rather my mother, who had no gems of her own other than what she wore. Her line that "she gave me life and she could take it away..." scared the hell out of me but then I found out this was somehow against the law and she couldn't or wouldn't do that and by the time I was 16 I was really a psychotic mess. So when I left for graduate school in 1976 I rarely went home after that. My mother had a breakdown the first semester I was gone and was hospitalized. I came home to be with dad and my mother's mother only to find out mom had checked herself out of rehab AMA to be with me. She was an awful sloppy drunk and for years I never went home. I would on occasion sneak home to see my grandmother and her sisters but not the parental units. And my mother refused to come up to see me as the mountain should come to Mohammad on those occasions.
Mother died in 1994 at age 59. I was a mere child of 39. My dad and I had ten good years together after that. He would come up to visit this mountain at least four times a year. When I had surgery for cancer he delayed his own cancer surgery to nurse me back to health. He died of cancer that following year. But, as I said, we had ten good years together. That is not to say I wasn't a bit abrasive to him at times, a little bitchy as it were. And, yes, I regret that. But I digress.
Old Duffer 1.0 is estranged from his two children. Maybe that is why he feels a bond towards me. Someone to play with and commiserate with. Or, maybe, just maybe, he is in cahoots with the rabbi and it is a ploy to bring me more firmly into the fold of the congregation. Whatever. The Old Duffer 1.0 is saddened by his children so if I can help to explicate the estrangement from the child's point of view maybe that will ease his pain. Old Duffer and Mrs. Old Duffer are lovely people but I can see how the professorial Old Duffer might be an annoyance. It takes all my patience and good will to suck it up and play with him for two hours at a stretch. Now he wants me to join he and his wife at the community sings and play along with Mitch, or rather Sally. I doubt that will happen this month but maybe in the future.
Actually they want me to play and that is a compliment of sorts. But the mere thought of listening to others flail at the sing-along makes me quake. I think this month this orphan of the storm has too much going on to engage with these good folks. But the thought, just the thought, of doing this and giving up my childish things and joining the ranks of Duffers leaves me cold.
I do attract the Old Duffers of the world. Mrs. Shankland across the way, or street as it were, has bonded to me on a strange mother/daughter sort of way. She constantly comes over and checks out my garden and gives me extended visits where she talks non-stop about things that interest her, like Old Duffer 1.0 and I, like a good child, cajole and listen. And such is the nature of my relationships with the Old Duffers of the universe. To cajole and listen raptly.
I suppose this makes of me an Old Duffer aficionado. I do so loves me a good Old Duffer. My dad was a premature Old Duffer and really grew into the role when we spent a few weeks together in my tiny condo as he stayed with me post kidney surgery. That last six months when we both had cancer diagnoses was the closest we had been in a long time. Not since those summers when he beat me at tennis as he refused to chase the ball and insisted that I hit it back to him without reciprocity were good years. And I last time I saw him I think I had a foreshadowing of his passing, which he did a few weeks later. I knew when the neighbor called me that Monday night that he was gone, even before she found him laying dead in the family manse.
And now I have Old Duffer 1.0 once a week, grooming me for the community sings. Gotta love Old Duffers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)