Election Infection

Ah, election time.  Don't you just love it!  I'm having a very difficult time deciding on whom to vote.

First of all, I don't want to vote for a politician.  They are out-of-touch, conniving liars.  I don't trust any of them.  I like to think that some of them start out with good intentions, but within twelve minutes of starting a campaign, they have become totally lost.  Unfortunately, they are the only ones who run for office.  I certainly wouldn't vote for an incumbent.  The definition of insanity is making the same mistake over and over and expecting better results. 

My Mama told me a long time ago that if you can't say something nice about someone you should keep your mouth shut.  Evidently, politicians never heard Mama.  Why on Earth would I want to elect someone who says only meaningless dribble about what he'll do for  me ("I'll fund everything good and cut taxes!) and delights in slinging fertilizer at his opponent?  Seriously, why would I want someone like that "representing" me?   Evidently anyone can say anything about anyone else in a campaign and it's ok.  I don't believe any of them.  Not one.

And why is it that we can't fund schools or mental health care but politicians can raise and spend 18 gazzillion dollars slinging shit? I would be so impressed with someone who would raise money and then improve some schools in her district with it.  That's someone I might be able to trust. 

Perhaps we should just cut out all this campaigning and let people buy their offices outright.  At least we would be spared the commercials.  Or better yet, why don't we decide what the minimum requirements for office are - perhaps certain results on psychological testing, drug screens and an ability to balance a checkbook - throw the names of everyone who meets those requirements in a barrel (or perhaps a quart jar) and pull out names until all the offices are full.

I can guarandangtee you the results wouldn't be any worse than what we've got now.

In My Life Love

The third in a three-part series on love.



John Lennon said it very well.


     There are places I'll remember
     All my life, though some have changed
     Some forever, not for better
     Some have gone and some remain
     All these places had their moments
     With lovers and friends, I still can recall
     Some are dead and some are living
     In my life, I've loved them all

     But of all these friends and lovers
     There is no one compares with you
     And these memories lose their meaning
     When I think of love as something new
     Though I know I'll never lose affection
     For people and things that went before
     I know I'll often stop and think about them
     In my life, I'll love you more


I dunno why or how. Maybe it’s chemical, maybe it’s timing, maybe it’s age.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Groucho Love

Second in a shamelessly honest series on Love.


So what is worse than being told “I don’t love you and I never will?” Perhaps knowing you should say it to someone else.

A zillion years ago I sat on a couch looking out a window onto a perfect, crystal clear lake below with sincere tears on my cheeks. The tears were misinterpreted as oh-I-love-you-so-much tears. Actually, they were, dang-this-ain’t-it tears. I mean, I loved him enough to cry about not loving him enough. I think of this as Groucho love.

I’ve had conversations long into the night about when a person knows she’s truly in love or when a person realizes he isn’t in love anymore. I’ve had many of them, actually, and I still don’t really have a clue what makes it so other than timing.

Carl Rogers would probably say you just have to create the right conditions and put yourself out there and it will happen. Glasser would say you simply choose to love someone. Freud would say. . . well, he’d probably mumble something about cigars, I’m not sure. My point is, knowing what the famous shrinks say about love doesn’t actually help all that much.

However, that great philosopher, Groucho Marx put it succinctly when he said, “I’d never want to belong to an organization that would have me as a member.” Anyone who would love me is unlovable. Strange belief, isn’t it? Yet it’s a pretty common one.

Sometimes we just get love confused with the chase. Once a person is caught, the chase is over. It’s confusing love with infatuation, I think. Don’t get me wrong, Children, infatuation is mmm, mmm, good and the chase is exercise. Maybe it’s the sort of exercise that’s training for the real thing.

Or maybe it’s just a way for me feel so good and noble and important through pure fertilizer. “Oh, it just killed me to have to break his heart, blah, blah, sniff, sniff.”

If there is such a thing as a real thing, it surely isn’t Groucho love. It’s a journey, not a destination.

Chicken Pox Love

First in a shamelessly honest series on love.

A very long time ago someone said to me “I don’t love you and I never will.” Obviously he had a problem. Probably some chemical imbalance or something. Whatever his problem was it wasn’t with telling the truth. “I don’t love you and I never will.” I think of it as the pox quote.

Who could not love me? I’m smart, I’m nice, small children almost never run screaming from the room when I walk in., I usually smell nice. All in all I’m quite tolerable. I’m really easy to get along with. I would venture to say that if they are willing to do it my way, almost anyone can get along with me.

It’s not that I’m indiscriminate. I don’t like everyone. I just want everyone to like me. And they shouldn’t just like me a little bit, either. They should like me a whole lot. I should be one of everyone’s top 10 people. Maybe top 6. People should be required to love me. It should be automatic for everyone to lo-oo-ove me. Especially people who are inclined not to.

I know that no body is loved by everyone. But come on. . . . we’re talking about me here. I know I don’t deserve it, but I need it. Do you hear me? I ne-ee-ed it. And I will do cartwheels on a tin roof in the rain if I think it has a chance of making someone who isn’t inclined to do so, love me.  I have the scars to prove it.

That’s it. Air, water, food, the love of everyone I meet.

And that’s tough because pissing people off is intrinsic to my job. And I’m not really, nice. I just said that to make you like me. Truth be told, when I’ve been out gardening all afternoon, I don’t even smell nice, so there.

But remember when you had chicken pox and your whole body itched at once and you’d do just about anything to get rid of it, but scratching didn’t work? That’s sort of what it’s like when I remember the pox quote.

Microfiction Monday

Eunice was right, there was a faint aroma in the air reminiscent of Eau d’Guano. Skip had to reconsider Rex’s offer to smell his finger.

This is part of Microfiction Monday, where a picture paints 140 or fewer characters. Check it out here.

http://www.stonyriver.ie/

Letter to God

Dear God,

I'm contacting You because even now, at the ripe old nearly perfect age of 55, I still have more than a few questions for You.

First of all, let me say that I've figured out that You aren't some white-haired old man who has nothing better to do than keep scores for everyone.  I don't have you confused with Santa Claus and I do not live to collect a grand reward or avoid a horrible punishment.  I know You well enough to know that my mind, wondrous though it is, can't get around You.  I know I am part of You. I must be since You, the Universe, is all there is.

And I want to say while I've got Your attention, that You have done a great job on making the Earth and the sky.  There are so many things that I never would have thought of.  And I keep discovering new bits that make life so worth living.  Thanks for all that.  Seriously.  Thank You.

I don't know if You have a grand plan or what.  I reckon it doesn't much matter if I understand it all.  I'll leave it to You.  And far be it from me to suggest anything to One who brought us the hummingbird, sunsets that take my breath away, geodes and orgasms.  But I've got to say, I've got more than a few questions.

What's up with religions?  Sure they start out with good intentions, but sheesh!  You'd think that people would give up when they started noticing they are hurting, killing and destroying in the name of religion. 

And what's the deal with bigotry, greed and hatred?  Do I just happen to be here while we're in the midst of evolving out of those useless behaviors?  Does every generation have the same questions or are we really screwing the whole gig up now?

And God, I don't know what to think about time and space.  Cool concepts, I've got to say.  I suspect all those genius scientists who explain them are just guessing.. 
I do hope that when that thing happens we call death, I'll somehow get to hear the answers to these and the 8 gazillion other questions I have.  Maybe death will be just blank nothingness as some of my friends think.  Personally, I think there's about as much chance of that as there is a town with streets paved with gold where only "good" people go, as some of my other friends think.   I guess I'll try not to worry about it one way or the other.  Another thing I'll leave to You.

I'm not sure, God, who or what You are.  But I think that's sort of the nature of You.  If I could describe you in neat words, then I'd probably start a religion and we all know where that would lead.  So for now, let's just leave it this way.  The bit I know is way beyond me, that I am part of and is part of me, is You.  Let me know if that's not OK with You.

And as I said before, Thanks.

Yours Truly,
Fay

Uncommon Cold

My sinuses are full of compressed cotton balls that have been soaked in melted Crisco.  My lungs are full of steel wool that scuffed my throat on the way down.  A large, rusty, stinky garbage truck is parked on my lower body.

Thank you, Jesus, for red wine and Nyquil capsules.

Microfiction Monday

Welcome to Microfiction Monday, where a picture paints 140 characters, or even fewer.

I’m gonna eat all that bread and drink that whole jug of wine by myself . I’ll watch Hope Floats and have a good long cry.  And nobody is going to interrupt me this weekend!
http://www.stonyriver.ie/2010/10/microfiction-monday-53.html

Casting Pearls Before Beavers

June Cleaver, mother of the Beav, died yesterday at the age of 94.  Mrs. Cleaver collapsed suddenly while feather dusting windowsills wearing  a royal blue and white dress with gathered waist, fitted bodice and three quarter sleeves.  Her white patent leather pumps matched her half inch belt.  Her always-appropriate pearls and perfectly coiffed hair did not hit the immaculate carpet before she was instantly transformed into the Queen of the Light Beings.

Pope Hoss Cartwright of the Church of  Channel 7, has reportedly begun canonization procedures and will name June Cleaver Patron Saint of Psychoanalysts in the Rite of Guilt and Windex later this month.

"She taught the free world a thing or two about class," stated an obviously distraught Eddie Haskell.  "She was never too hard on the Beaver unless he had it comin'."

"Nobody, I mean nobody could make a meat loaf like June Cleaver," stated Bud Anderson, a neighbor.  "My dad even says so, and he knows best."

The passing and ultimate transformation of June Cleaver into the Queen of Light Beings will leave a void in the lives of millions who, because of her most excellent role modelling, have spent decades blaming their own less than perfect mothers.  We will try to take consolation in the knowledge that the Land of Light Beings will be dust-free for eternity

Husband of 75 years, Ward, was heard to ask, "Who in the Hell is going to do the dishes tonight?"

The Winter of Her Life

If the size and abundance of acorns is an indicator of coming weather, we're in for a U.P.-sized winter in South Carolina. Blanche, my little dog, has taken to bringing exceptionally large acorns in and hiding them in all her most secret hiding places.  Unfortunately, her hiding places are usually in the middle of the hall where I'm likely to step on them barefooted.  She has a bit of a warped sense of humor.  I don't know where she gets it.

She's about to celebrate her birthday.  Actually, it will be her adoption day November 1.  The shelter lady told me she was probably around 7 when I brought her home.  Blanche's doctor says she's a bit older. Blanche and I agree that age is just a number and neither one of us is any good at math.  Especially with the dog-year conversion and all that. . . . who's to say how many candles we should put on her cake. 

Blanche is dieting lately.  She eats mostly dry health food. Before dinner she still likes an appetizer of soft food wrapped around her Prevacid, which keeps her tummy happy.  She also likes a bit of dessert, in the form of a T-R-E-A-T.   She's getting just a bit less of everything recently. 

Blanche is very concerned about her curves. It's not gone unnoticed by the male dog across the street, either.  He goes bananas whenever he sees Blanche.  She doesn't want to be known as a cougar flirt, and she really doesn't try to lead him on.   He's young and impetuous and just naturally intrigued with Blanche's outgoing personality, shiny coat and rhinestone collar.  And, of course, her joie de vivre shows in her hobbies - gardening and acorn collecting.

A year ago, Blanche was an old homeless girl on death row through no fault of her own.  Now she's a stylin' lady of a certain age with lots of bling. She doesn't follow trends, she sets them.  Her days are full of meaning and love.  Blanche always says, "What doesn't kill you outright, makes you stronger." So bring on the winter.  Blanche and I can handle it, whatever it holds. 

That Fool Lost His Bongos

We all have that little inner voice that we really should listen to.  But my voice of reason often mumbles. Perhaps a speech impediment. Lately I have trouble making out just what it's talking about.  "Speak up!" I say and it says, "Arrrummnnumlee. . .errr."

Lately I'm afraid that my inner child is developing Alzheimer's.  I know for sure that brat has arthritis.  She can barely get out of bed some mornings.  Lots of days she'd rather stay home than come to work with me.  She has been forgetting to play.  Maybe she's depressed.

And another thing - all my life I have marched to a different drummer.  But I think that fool lost his bongos.  He has been the sound of one hand clapping and it's tough to keep the beat. I feel like I'm tripping along. 

My boss saw me dancing - make that trying to dance - in the hall yesterday and nearly fell down laughing.  I looked like I attended the White Geriatric School of Dance for the Footless.  When did that happen? The wings on my feet have lost their feathers.

I have no trouble aging.  But all those other folk - that little voice, my inner child, my different drummer - those guys aren't handling it well.

One Lovely Blog Award

My blog friend, Barb awarded me a One Lovely  Blog Award.  So the deal is I have to talk about 10 things I like and then forward the award to ten people.  I think that's how it goes.  I'm really bad at instructions - especially after 5:00 p.m.

Things I like (in no particular order)

1) Long Lake outside Waupaca, WI.  It is possibly the perfect place

2) The ridge outside Twin Oaks, NC where I used to live.  It is no doubt the perfect place

3) Chip's creme brulee - especially maple.  It's probably the perfect food

4)  Juicy words.

5)  Grilled Swiss on whole wheat with dill pickles.

6)  Getting in bed with sheets that have dried on the line on a crisp autumn day with the windows open and 55 degrees outside.

7)  A hug from a happy cat.

8)  Dark nights with an impossible number of stars.

9) Schubert's Ave Maria done really, really well.

10) Being held by a strong tree.

Now for ten I'd like to award:
http://corticowhat.blogspot.com/  this man is simply incredible
http://thefirstbookoftesticles.blogspot.com/ this man will make you think, laugh, cry.  He's brilliant.
http://wardenfiles.blogspot.com/  I'm currently in withdrawal from his blogs.

I'm just too tired to go on with this.  It's not that there aren't more blogs I love.  It's just
that I'm too technologically challenged and tired to list more.