Friday, October 03, 2014


The American human race is being studied up one side and down the other.

We have influences that shape our understanding of ourselves. We are scrutinized by science and psychology and studies from every institution on every issue. Who is mentally ill. Who gets to own guns.

Are these studies digging into the roots of our behavior or is the searching shaping our growth, behavior and other things that make us "work"?

Are some of these studies which seek to know the human psyche aimed at a more effective way to manipulate our thoughts, feelings and behavior.

The media, not surprisingly, shapes our thoughts and feelings about everything. We are a vast network of communication. How can we escape it anyway even if it is a mass deception to put people under microscopes, so to speak, and down right control every aspects of our lives?

Advertising is a huge industry in itself regardless of the products and services it promotes.

Without a doubt it influences the way we see ourselves. I mean, the way we physically look. Our appearances. It's not a conspiracy to set up "norms" of appearance but it is certainly a vast influence.

Just look at the way our view of human beauty has changed over the years. Women and men in the early days of  the movie industry presented us with people the way they were. Bogie wasn't handsome. Liz Taylor wasn't slender. They were people who looked like they were--people with a lot of talent. And movie fans loved them. (Shouldn't acting be about acting?)

Consider how the movies and television images have set a "norm" of beauty such as perfect hair, perfect and overly white teeth, thin beyond health concerns. Notice how everyone in network TV are "pretty" and "handsome" now. (I once worked at a PD detective bureau and I can't recall a single detective male or female who looked like some of the unrealistic and plastic characters we see on TV crime shows.)

I say, yes, these things have manipulated and shaped our norms and promoted an unrealistic image to want to imitate.

My point is: one of the most destructive things to our society may be the mirror.

We can see and focus on how we look, so we'd better look BETTER. Sure, hair, skin, teeth, size etc. ought to be healthy and mirrors are a great tool for measuring the state of our well-being. But should it determine who we really are?

All this goes beyond wanting to sell people pretty clothes and shampoo. I'm pretty sure.

I, for one, WAS pretty when I was young so I had nothing to worry about. Except it was a strain to keep that going. I didn't dare go out without a socially acceptable wardrobe and hair style.

Striving to look amazing made me self-conscious and uncomfortable around other people. For instance I'd go to a party and first thing I did when I walked through the door was look around at everyone. If I wasn't the prettiest girl in the room my self-esteem took a nosedive.

Sometimes appearance helps. I got a couple or three jobs because I was attractive. I didn't learn to type until I was in my 30's.

When my dazzling, sexy, & grand looks started to go I was dismayed to see I would have to get some skills and a personality. What a SHOCK.

Now I FEEL attractive and young, slim and graceful, well-groomed and well-dressed. Also, HAPPY. That is if I stay out of the range of a mirror.

With a mirror, I am often shocked to see an older woman with a mature figure, wrinkled and white striped hair. That can't be me. It's my mom or dad peeking out from behind the mirror. Someday it will be my grandma looking back at me.

Mirrors are our worst nightmare. They are way more influential and destructive that images on a screen or in a magazine (Internet too).

For some reason beyond our comprehension MIRRORS are liars. They tell us we don't look good, we don't look the way we are supposed to, they don't make us look the way we are.

I wish they'd never been invented.

It's what we know and how we feel -- not how we look-- that gets us from place to place in life. Keep that in mind when you're invited to a party or looking for a job or any other activity that is designed to make you happy.

Looks aren't everything regardless of the old axiom. Get over that.

Use mirrors as a tool and not as a tool to shape your SELF.

You're real. Don't settle for being an image.

Monday, July 07, 2014


I'm an introvert so why do I talk so much?  I have to have alone time to recharge my batteries but that doesn't imply quiet. I have living beings to talk to (dogs and plants) and I've been known to talk too toasters and spilled coffee, etc.

I'm more gregarious now & over that painful shyness of childhood.

Maybe I have too much education? And a love for trivia? I am excited about things and my talking can be very intense.

Is it too intense. Do I talk "so much" or "too much"? Or is it the right amount for me? Even if I rather annoy people? My real friends get a glazed look on their faces. Rose told me she just stops listening (I think she might have learned this technique married to a talkative husband). But they keep the relationship going regardless of chit-chat and I appreciate that. 

It doesn't mean I don't listen either. In fact, I can listen to something or someone and talk at the same time. In the past it was useful at cocktail parties where I could carry on two or more conversations at the same time. I can't do that anymore--go to cocktail parties or listen to multiple conversations. At my age my ears are tired.

I have other people say that they can listen while talking. Multi-conversations were possible with her and I'm sure others.

The type of conversation I like is the "ping-pong" variety. We toss the words around not randomly but wrapped around thoughts and ideas. We see the ping coming and can pong back in a rapidity that defies reality. Interrupting is a major factor in this type of talking and it's understood and perfectly acceptable.

I've tried that type of conversation with people who are not conversationalist like I. They pause and think before they speak. They say things like "Let me finish." And when I try to interrupt and ping-pong at them, they stop and put their attention on me to hear what I have to say. Not in a good way. Having focus on my remarks makes them seem too important like I should have had a 6 point outline and brought along a synopsis.

I made a list of 50 (and now more) reasons I talk or might talk. I read the lists of listening skills on line. Then I told my therapist that though it was my goal to stop talking so much, my list to keep talking was longer than the motivation to keep my mouth shut. I might have to rethink my goal. Learning to do something is easier than learning to not do something.

One thing I've been practicing is asking people sincere questions about their opinions and how they feel about things specific or in general. I don't bounce back with a comment (related to the topic or not) without hearing them out and taking an interest in them.

I've learned a conversation is not about sharing profound ideas for the most part, or teaching and preaching.  Not everything is a step forward in the quest to discover the meaning of life and the nature of the universe.  It's to have a relationship with people you like. 

Part of my talking skill, LOL, is that I'm a writer. As you can see I am a bit wordy. Let's face it, I'm a storyteller and entertainer. With that in mind, I'm going to leave it at that.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013


I'm finally sharing with everyone something I haven't even admitted to myself.

It's sort of shameful and I really didn't want to tell anyone. But it's become so obvious to ME that I'm sure people have taken notice. Even though they haven't said anything about it.

OK. Here goes.


I suppose it's okay to be deformed. We have a tolerant society. It's politically incorrect to laugh at people with handicaps.

It's really okay to have one boob too small. It's not like I use them for anything anymore. I breast fed four babies and entertained a number of husbands & boyfriends and made less endowed women jealous. Alas, those days are over.

I only wear bras to keep my boobs from jiggling when I walk and from getting stuck in the waistband of my pants. (Even though I think bras were invented by sadistic misogynists to sell them to women who never knew they needed them. Or to squeeze the breath out of us so lack of oxygen will befuddle our brains and make us more docile.)

I was wondering how I ought to go about fixing my smaller boob. I'm disinclined to get a boob job like the young hot girls. (It's really hard to let go of my big boobed hot years of long ago. << Sigh >>)

It's doubtful I could find a plastic surgeon who'd be willing to shorten the other one to match.

I'm not sure if I should look around for a bra that's padded on only one side. I could look around the house for an old shoulder pad that used to come with blouses and dress jackets. I bet most of you all are too young to remember them. I'd worry that A shoulder pad would fall out at an inopportune time and splash into my soup. Oh yeah. That's another reason I wear bras. Some soup is steaming hot!

Should I just forget about fixing it? If someone actually notices I should be glad that they still think it's worth looking in the direction of my breasts?

I don't know.  

I'm glad I got that confession off my chest. So to speak.

I'm not ready to talk about my other deformities. The real reason I wear pants with elastic waists. My stomach is too big; it sticks out too much. On the other hand, keeping up the interest in my different sized boobs does detract from interest in my potbelly.

Me at age 14 in the olden days when both my boobs were big enough.

Monday, August 05, 2013

I sprained every muscle in my body Saturday night. Listen to this (without laughing).

I keep forgetting my nighttime medications make me off balance. I went into the bathroom without my cane to use the "facilities" when I'd already been dozing off. I felt kinda like I was walking drunk (tho I forget what that was like because I quit drinking after my wild 20's.)

So before I knew it, I lost my balance and tipped over backwards, I grabbed at the handicapped bar beside the toilet. I missed!

I then kept tipping over so I grabbed at the smaller handicapped bar beside the tub.

I sat down on the side of the tub, relieved. Next thing I knew I was still tipping over backwards. I slid into the tub still holding to the bar. It was a slow motion fall. I wasn't hurt in the fall. I just sort of slipped in.

Eventually (i.e., not suddenly) I found myself in the tub, with my head leaning forward, on the far side of the tub and my legs sticking up over the side into the room. I was sideways in the tub, not lengthwise. 

I still had my shoes on.

I wasn't hurt in the fall. I just sort of slipped in.  

I have yanked myself out of the tub when I take a real bath, so no problem, right?
I realized I had to pull myself up with my arms by holding the handicap bar but I couldn't do it with only one hand. I had to go straight up because my legs were pretty much higher than my head, if you can imagine. 
However, I had the shower chair in the tub and it was pulled up closer to the faucet so I was wedged into the space between both faucet and chair. No wiggle-room.

My first thought was, "I hope there's no spiders in here." Then I noticed my butt was getting wet from the tub floor. I reminded myself I had other pajamas. Then remembered I didn't and what was I going to wear to bed? Dismissed that idea. I'd find something.

I knew I had to get out. I would have been too embarrassed if someone found me in this un-ladylike position. Especially dead--no telling how long it would have taken to find me. Besides I didn't want my dogs chewing on my toes. 

I contemplated my dilemma. I had to turn and get all the way into the tub before I could get out. So I swiveled around in the small space available. Oof. Groan.
Now my knees were bent up in front of me. Nearly touching my chin. At least I was facing the right way.

My left knee hurt when I tried to bend it enough to get my feet under me or push myself up to standing, so I couldn't do it. Ouch. 

I then had a hold of both handicap bars, one on each side of the tub. So I tried to pull myself up with my arms. Ugh, what a job that was.

I finally lifted myself up, moaning and straining and finally sat on the edge of the shower chair. It was a tough maneuver. But I did it!

I couldn't help but think:  I wish I hadn't gained 20 lbs. the last couple years. I thought next that if I were really really old (instead of just moderately old) I never could have done it. No time to worry about the future at this point.

So, I'm glad I wasn't hurt myself in the fall. I just sprained every muscle in my body getting up. Probably serves me right. If I ever fall again I hope it's in-love not bathroom fixtures.

So. The next day was Sunday and  "day of rest" has taken on a new meaning.


Saturday, July 20, 2013


The people in my dreams are having more fun than I am! 


I had a dream this morning (I sleep late) about my teen-aged years boyfriend Bill Reilly whom I dated when we were sixteen. He was so amazingly handsome -- dark curly hair and beautiful blue eyes. And he was the most amazing kisser.

In this dream he was living with a wife in a house with tenants that wanted to rent my childhood home. After we recognized each other, Bill came to see me. 

We had, in this dream, the most wonderful making-love-session. Make that sessions.

It turned out Bill was as wonderful at this dream sex as he'd been at kissing back in 1960. 

He arranged the rental and the people in his house moved into my parents' house. Of course, it was in my old hometown Cheverly. 

His wife became suspicious and then jealous. We met at at a seminar someplace and she was very angry at me.

I found out later that Bill was having sex with a whole bunch of women and was, as a matter of fact, a sex addict. And he didn't go to Sex-Addicts-Anonymous. My gain. 

After the tenants moved into Mom and Dad's house and Bill went someplace unknown  leaving me AND his wife, I realized I was driving around Cheverly all alone. None of my old friends were there anymore. I had no place to go to discuss my broken-heart! Not even a relative.

I drove past my old house and saw the new family having dinner in the front yard. No place for me there. I drove up Dewey Street hill but saw no one I knew.

I went to a crowded restaurant on a second floor in some building that never existed. It had low ceilings and was filled with round tables. The place was full. No one knew me. They sat me behind a column facing a wall. No one came to take my order so I picked up my cell phone and left, indignant.
When I woke up after this dream, I loved and full of joy. I regretted that I'd never had this wonderful a time when Bill and I were teenagers. My loss. Believe it or not, I wanted to, but he didn't. It had something to do with religion.

Last time I saw Cheverly it was still eerily unchanged. The houses and well-kept yards are all the same and full of different people. The older generation have all passed away. And the young people who passed into adulthood are old and someplace else. 

Bill was swept away in the VietNam war.

I still miss him. 

Monday, July 15, 2013


I'm one of those writers that wants to write. I write and write all the time. I'm very wordy and I know I overdo it. 

Many people have a zillion ideas but can't write.

I can write but I have no ideas. 

I'm stuck. 

I'll get back to you later.

Monday, May 13, 2013


Bolt out of the blue?
The main difference between Lessons and Learning experiences is obvious: "Lessons" imply you were screwed by the universe.  And "Learning Experience" implies you screwed yourself using your own stupidity. 
You know the difference between dumb and stupid, right? Dumb is when you don't know anything. Stupid is when everything you know is wrong.

I really don't think some higher power running the universe is on the lookout for me just waiting to get me (if so, where is he when people are shooting at each other?) If I'm supposed to have a lesson, would the lesson be "Some people are out to get you" ?

A learning experience is equally ridiculous. I'm 68. I have, thank you, learned things my entire life. I've learned enough wisdom to write a book. 

I suppose the basic lesson to learn is "Be careful"

Just how careful can a person be? What's the difference between a little careful and a lot careful? And how do you know when it's enough careful? I can't see a differentiation. Why would anyone be non-careful? Even the people who are recklessly uncareful think they are careful.

I've been hearing "be careful" since the day I stood up and took my first step. (Gee, thanks for that lesson, Ma.) Frankly, I don't see much of a difference between "being careful" and being afraid." Neither of which will get you very far in life.
I want to see our society stop this awful fad of "blaming the victim." 

Sometimes the situation is that bad and sad things happen regardless of you being careful. Things are not always the result of something you did or didn't do. Not even a result of what you believe, think or feel, or intended. These things aren't "unfortunate" or "lessons" or learning experiences.  They're just unfair, undeservedly tragic or horrid occurrences.

For example I had a friend who got cancer when she was 26. She did everything she could to get better--medical, mental, emotional and spiritual. And she died a year later. It wasn't something that she did or didn't do.  It was something that happened to her. Not a lesson, not  something she caused, and not something it was in her power to undo. It was just a fucking horrible thing to happen to her and her family and friends.

What's the learning experience of fatal diseases? That fate randomly stabs people in the back for no good reason now and then? 

Another example: I called a plumber and gave him a deposit to fix a leak. He didn't show for the appointment to repair it, nor did he call and explain it, nor did he attempt to reschedule. He wanted $5000 to dig a humongous hole under my house.)

When I saw he wasn't going to do the job, I cancelled right away in a written fax to his email and verbally in a phone call.  

And I asked for a refund of my deposit. I have yet to see a dime of my money. He, in fact, has neglected answer his phone, call me or even return my calls.  That's seems a bit odd for a "company" that say on their business card "24/7."

I didn't create this; I wasn't "not careful'; I didn't deserve this, nor was I acting stupid. And, dammit, I didn't need a lesson or a learning experience. I just needed my plumbing fixed and expected to hire someone and get it done!

I don't believe that I'm just a broke little old lady that gripes about everything and get screwed over because she harbors a "victim mentality."  If there was any learning experience to be had it's that this "plumber" conned me, lied, hustled & evaded me and stole from me because he's a cold-hearted conman, a liar, a hustler, and a thief. Just how, I ask, is that supposed to teach me anything?

Now that I've gotten over dealing with the major hurt and anger, you can bet I'm out to get this guy!

I want my money back and I want this guy's business license investigated. I want to press charges for fraud. Or sue him (though I now understand that a couple others have sued him in civil court and he never paid them the judgments.

I WAS careful to verify his company before I "hired" him. The company came up clean. It wasn't until I ran up his personal name, I found out what a "bad" person he is. Unless he's using the name of another plumber or another company of that name. In that case, he'd be an identity theft imposter as well as being a thief.

If I can't get even with this guy, I want him to go to Hell. Literally.

Tuesday, May 08, 2012


A Lesson in Flowers

More 20 years ago I attended a workshop with John Bradshaw in the cafeteria of Las Vegas High School. John was wearing a white dress shirt with no tie and stood right down on the level where we were sitting. This was before he started thinking he was a famous speaker.

As the climax of the workshop, he offered us a creative meditation opportunity and suggested we go inside our minds and meet our inner child. He didn't say wounded inner child or maladjusted inner child, he just said  inner child with no embellishments.

It wasn't a "guided" meditation since his only voice-over was "Go meet your inner child" or words to that effect.
Lest we be wary of this experiment, he informed us there were psychology students from UNLV standing by in case we got upset.. Having them there bothered me. I think I resented the fact these were only psychology students as if we didn't rate real psychologists. How serious could this be? (It turned out nobody needed them. I bet they were disappointed and vowed never to volunteer for anything ever again.)

I had no worries at all except perhaps thinking the people on either side of me would distract me with crying or screaming.

Once he set us loose in our own minds to find our inner children, he was silent.

I was then, and still am now, good at reaching an alpha level and doing creative visualizations. I've 
received a good deal of inspiration from wandering around in my subconscious. (In fact, there're a good deal of people who would say I wander around in my subconscious a good deal of the time.)

So I went into a relaxed state immediately and "saw" myself walking into an elaborately decorated parlor with Victorian style furniture done in large flowered upholstery. There was, in this small feminine room, a little girl with curly hair, dressed in a white frilly dress, lace trimmed socks and shiny, white Mary Jane shoes. She appeared to be about four or five years old.

She grinned at me. Did she know who I was? Was she expecting me?

Suddenly she said, "Come on, let's jump on the sofa." And she hopped onto the sofa and commenced jumping up and down with wild abandon.

I gasped and said, "We can't do that."

She said, "Yes, we can. It's my sofa." I had no argument for that so I just watched her enjoying herself in horrified silence.

She then ran over to a fabulous black-enameled baby-grand piano. She situated herself on the bench with  her feet dangling above the floor. She began pounding on the keys making a loud, cacophonous sound, smiling as if it were the most beautiful sound she'd ever created.

I shouted over the din, "We can't do that."

She said, "Yes, we can. It's my piano." I silently gave her that and shut up and simply listened.

She then ran out French doors into a wonderful garden completely covered in bright, big, beautiful blossoms. She laughed with delight, wrapped her arms around the stems indiscriminately grabbed up a huge bouquet.

I cringed and said, "We can't do that." I was still worried we'd be scolded.

She said, "Yes we can. It's my garden."

At that point John brought the meditation to a close. I glanced around the room feeling guilty that my inner child trip was so joyful.

I realized then, my inner child was fine. It was my outer adult that was seriously fucked up.

Friday, April 13, 2012


I'm embarrassed to say I bought my shoes at Walmart. I have excuses. Walmart is the only store closer than 20 miles of me. I need some shoes I don't have to worry about. The don't have to last long, I can wear the hell out of them. They can get dirty. I can toss them in the washer. So throw away quality is the highest priority.

I also have a pair of Mary Janes for dress up. (I got them online for $80 plus shipping and handling and I have no idea where they were made not.) They're fairly attractive, fit good, have a non-slip tread, and will last a long time.

Before I got these mail order shoes, I gave away every last shoe I owned. Probably a thousand dollars worth. Including leather Spira's, Z-Coils, sandals, "tennis" shoes, boat shoes (though I  live a thousand miles from the ocean), assorted cute shoes and a pair of shoes with one sole built up.

I sometimes wish I'd saved some of them but I honestly thought I'd be wearing nothing but the built up shoe for the rest of my life. The darn things cost $400 (while Z-Coils are only in area of $200 to $400). I had to find a foot person to measure me for a built up shoe and then go to a specialty store to have the 'prescription' filled.

My right leg is 2 inches shorter than the left. It didn't used to be. After a long illness that resulted in spine surgery the leg was shorter. I don't blame the doctors. I'm glad I'm not dead. 

To make a long story short (no pun intended) I'd rather limp and walk with a cane than wear an elevated shoe. (I preferred a raised heel not a full sole raised but it was silly of me to think I could actually have what I want for a mere $400.)

I discovered the elevated shoe was heavy, clumsy and  didn't bend at the place a shoe is supposed to bend while actually walking.  And it made my back hurt. Ugh.

The shoe guy who measured me for a lift said it was customary to raise the shoe half as high as the actual discrepancy. Dolt. I limped worse in those expensive leather speciality shoes that were supposed to fix the problem. Again, who am I to judge? Shoe guys and fancy shoe stores have to make a buck. Whatever.

BTW, being out $400 sucked, too.

So anyway, as I said, I chose to limp and carry a cane & keep my balance. Who knows it may come in handy if I see a mugging and have to clobber someone.

So the point to this story is: I wear cheap shoes now.

I've had a horrid awakening that all Made in China plastics and vinyls are not the same.

Some stink like they are emitting poisonous gas. (I didn't care how funny I looked in Walmart sniffing all the potential shoe purchases. It's Walmart so who's to notice--even the employees ignore us. I didn't look any more conspicuous than the old, plump guy decked out in bright tie dye--shirt, shorts, and hat. He looked like a Mardi Gras parade. 

Check out this link!

Warning: Chinese plastics, being smelly, must be put outside until their smell fades away. I wonder though if this just gets rid of the smell and not the toxicity. And watch out what you put in handbags and such so whatever it is doesn't pick up the smell and toxicity.

I ask you to please smell (and taste) all plastic things before you put them on a baby, give him a toy to play with or wash him up in a Chinese plastic bathtub.

As far as tasting plastic, I had a tiny doll I wanted to pass on to a little girl I know since the doll looked like her. So out of curiosity I smelled it. Okay so far. And then touched it slightly with my tongue. IT WAS INSANELY HORRIBLE. The taste burned and lingered for an hour and nothing would make it go away. I felt I had been poisoned and waited to drop over onto the floor. Fortunately I didn't.

But my curiosity taught me a few things....


This was actually true about some crayons I bought (they used to be wax when I was a kid and we were able to chew them). I think it's a harsh way to teach kids to avoid putting imported things in their mouths. You just don't know where they've been.

What's it going to take to stop America from relying on imports from China? After all, Mexico and Canada are close by and need the money.

I put the crayons outside a few weeks. I found out they don't melt either. I also suggested they wash their hands when they were done 'creating art' as they called it. 

To continue, I'm not going to taste my shoes. I dare say, no one else will taste my shoes either. If I see a drooly baby crawling my way, I'll move out of his range.

The Walmart shoes I bought smelled fine, too. So I'm wearing them for the first time today. They may not be gorgeous but at $10 per shoe they'll do.

Take a stand on Chinese plastics

Monday, February 27, 2012


I started recording my dreams. It's interesting to see the insights I get about my myself.

Remembering dreams is a matter of waking up with feelings and translating those to thoughts and receiving the 'message'.

Today I dreamt I changed into a boy. I went fishing in a boat with 'my father' who happened to be my second husband's father Jake. 

I had trouble becoming a boy and realized I had to behave like an adult. Be a man, so to speak. 

This dream has double meaning.

When I was a child (in real life) I decided that if I had to grow up to be a woman instead of a man, in this patriarchal and male-dominated world, I wouldn't grow up at all. I'd stay a little girl.


I think I've accomplished that 'goal'.

I believe this dream has less to do with gender and more about claiming my power as an adult.

The dream's more about why I stayed childish instead of childlike. I realize now that I'm more immature than I am a late-bloomer. 

In other words, the message of my dream today is: "GROWN UP" and "GET A LIFE".

Sometimes those old cliched axioms are still right-on.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Would that we were 40 again

Less than 25 years ago but oh so far away.

Sexiest man in the universe

I was so lucky. I finally had true love. And he was thrilled. He believed he had a trophy wife.

Monday, February 13, 2012


Today it's sunny cloudy sunny cloudy sunny.  The snow is blowing around, big flakes flying up, down, and sideways. And in spirals.

The weather is crazy lately. But after all it's 2012. What can you expect?

Today it's 34 degrees. Last year it was 34 below zero. Never, ever, never, ever that cold here.

 I wonder if what Zecharia Sitchin wrote is right? He wrote in his book The 12th Planet that a planet with an orbit around our sun taking 3600 years. When it's ready to cut through the orbits of the rest of us planets it causes gravity to go haywire and cause all sorts of cataclysmic events on known planets. Heck, probably on other planetary solar systems too. 

Maybe it's gravity will pick up Pluto and whisk it away and the debate over whether it's really a planet will cease. But then Marduk will be the 11th planet not the 12th Planet.
Yes, it's name is Marduk. I don't know if that's the real name of it or just what he calls it. There's a Marduk in human mythology, I'm sure.

Hey, something made Atlantis sink, and Machu Picchu to rise up from the coast to 14,000 feet elevation. An event that changed the Sahara and Egypt into deserts and made the sea wash over the Sphinx. (Don't you watch those cable channel 'documentaries'?)

Graham Hancock in Fingerprints of the Gods convinced me that the Sphinx is way older than archaeologists think it is (another story.  He also convinced me Atlantis didn't just sink. When the earth went through all those cataclysmic changes  most likely the tectonic plates moved around and moved the continent we jokingly call Atlantis to the bottom of the planet forming (you guessed it) Antarctica. 

As you recall Antarctica has land under the ice. Thought I don't believe the maps showing Antarctica are real. I suspect Atlantians spoke Atlantian not anything we call a language today.

Who knows what everybody will think tomorrow.

And as I can't remember what the point of this was so I'll end here lest your eyes get weary of listening.

Saturday, February 04, 2012

THE END IS NEAR? Thoughts on 2012

TS Eliot (1988-1965) Poet

The Hollow Men

....This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

Is the world going to end in 2012?

I do believe the end is in sight. It's might be in 2012, it might be in 2112 of 2121, but the world will definitely end sooner or later.

The "world" in this case means the same as it does in in A Course in Miracles. ACIM says the world's an illusion. It means basically that what we've created in real-time isn't really real.

I think "the world" in both of these scenarios means the world of things and activities that we've created--we've made--we've built.

The world is not The Earth. The Earth will be fine without mankind's world of events.

However it does end, of course a few humans will survive and start the world all over again.

I think the Mayans are talking end of the world, not the cessation of the earth, when they made their calendar end at 12/21/2012. (How do we know they meant the year 2012? Their calendar was different. Way different. It's only 2012 to us because we decided to appoint a year "#1" 2012 years ago. Let's not get into that. I hate math.

If it is the earth of physical matter that's to end, it could be instantly gone and us with it. We wouldn't even be aware of not being here. But I don't believe it will go that fast before we suffer a little at first. (Or with a whimper a la Eliot.)

After all, look at the Mayan civilization. It basically ended. They had an advanced culture and it's gone. Now they've made a good start at starting over; resurrecting their language, art and culture. And re-populating as Mayans.

We'd have to be mighty ignorant to assume that won't happen to other cultures and civilizations, including our own. It's happened too many times to many tribes and nations. Plus there are the ones that are so long gone we don't even know they existed.

It would a very simple and quick way for the world, as we know it, to end. Some scientists predict cataclysmic weather and even geological/geographical changes, possibly caused by sun spots. Some even go as far as to predict upheaval of the tectonic plates rearranging the land masses and bodies of water. (Which is proven to have happened in the earth's past more than once.) Maybe there were other civilizations before the dinosaurs and if big reptiles could think they'd wonder why people went extinct.

So. How could the world end?


Everything would come to an abrupt halt. Chaos would soon reign. Human existence would screech to a halt.

Let's face it, someday we are going to use more electricity at the same time than we can handle it. That will cause a tremendous blow-out. Civilization will suffer a power-meltdown. Since nearly everything in the world is based on using electricity, the world has no choice but to "end."  

There are just no batteries big enough to handle us. And nuclear energy has proven unreliable. (Or if we could use it, we could just go up in a puff of smoke or particles or whatever.)   

Without electricity we can't eat or heat, drive or thrive.

All our food production in "advanced" societies is dependent on electricity. It'd only be a matter of time before animals were killing us for food rather than the other way around.

We'll be burning things down to keep warm. We'd be stuck in massive traffic jams with no way to get anywhere, as if being somewhere would matter.

Even our communication is built on electricity, so read my blog while there is still time left.

Of course there will still be a few "modern" people left who will travel to where the primitive people (?) never used electricity. These "modern" people will teach these so-called primitive people what they know and start the whole ball rolling again.

But no matter whatever happens to us, I think Mother Earth will be fine. Even if She fell into the sun, she'd be glorious & bright.

In fact, She might even be better without us. 

Friday, January 20, 2012


"I'm still haunted by the things I did for a Klondike Bar"
Some funny things I remembered about my teen-aged years. I better write them down before I forget them.

This is based on a letter to my brother who is 2 years younger. It's about things that happened 50+ years ago, so spare me the righteous indignation.

Dear Bro,

Remember when I had one of my boyfriends over and you put on some music for us to listen to when you went to bed? A zillion years ago? He and I laughed when we heard it and you came back in a huff and took it back upstairs. It was John Phillip Sousa's marches. Not exactly the most romantic music I've ever heard. I hope you have reconsidered your taste in music for romantic occasions.

I seem to remember I mentioned something to you recently about "sexual abuse"? I don't think that was technically true. That was what Mom and Dad thought. I thought I was gonna marry the guy. I guess they thought I was too young. I must not have agreed with them (like when they hinted I should stop smoking) so instead of them taking me to a psychologist or a minister to advise me, they took me to a lawyer who yelled at me for 30 minutes about how hard it is to be married and make it in the world and to raise kids, etc. (I bet he never said all that to his wife!) It's one of my funnier memories. Mom and Dad were strange. Or they were just horrified to learn that girls like sex as much as boys.

One time, too, I took one of Mom and Dad's miniature whiskeys to a teen-aged party. I found out I was the only one there with a spiked drink. The party was really boring and the "band" was playing the same unknown song over and over. So I called Mom and said there was drinking at the party and would she come and get me. Bet she bragged to her friends for years about that. I wasn't even invited to the party, I crashed it.

I came home from a party one time drunk on sloe gin. (I heard from guys drinking boiler makers that they wouldn't touch sloe gin with a ten foot pole. It was a college-aged party. I was almost 18.) I came in the front door and discovered Mom had waited up for me. So I faked being sober and said good-night, went upstairs and fell onto my bed completely wiped-out. I prided myself on pretending to be sober at a moment's notice. (I haven't had a drink now for 37 years. It stopped being funny and became, well...just stupid.)

Do you have any funny secrets? Like the time you came home drunk and asked me for a goodnight kiss. You probably forgot that. I said: "Go to sleep, you jerk." That's before dirty words got more acceptable in the 60's. (I learned how to say shit in 1963 and took it from there.) So in the 21st Century I could've said, "Go to sleep, you asshole."

There are just not enough words to describe a younger brother, are there?

I'm in a silly mood but all this is totally true.

Love, Sis

Isn't  this the face of an angel?

PS: Oh yeah, I remember when we were little being mad at you for something so I hit myself on the shoulder and pointed out the red mark to Mom and told her you hit me. Ha ha. But I guess you got even with me the time you locked me out when I came home from school one day. You stood inside and made faces at me laughing that wicked laugh. I was so mad I put my fist through the glass. I got in big trouble for that. (BTW, why didn't you let me in? I had to pee real bad.)

Notice to readers: I might have been a drunken slut but my brother was a BRAT.

We're friends now, and we're both real nice.

My brother wrote me with some teenaged secrets of his own:

Dear Sis,

I remember one time I was walking home from a friend's house late at night because we'd been working on my car there. A local cop pulled up. I looked at him and said; "What?! am I walking too fast?". He said, "Oh it's you. Where's your car?. I told him and he said must be true "because you're wearin' coveralls and have grease on you. Hop in and I'll give ya a ride the rest of the way."

[Our town only had one cop. He had his own car painted to look like a cop car. Gotta love those small towns. ~S]

We used to walk all over too and ride my motorcycle. One night I went the wrong way on a one-way street near the church and the cop was comin' the other way. I stopped. And he stopped and looked at me, then put his hand in front of his face and said, "I didn't see a thing, get out of here." We were only going as far as the house on the corner where the guy lived who was on the back of my motorcycle with a 6 pack we'd just bought at 7-11.

Are these funny or scary? Kids is all nutz.

Sunday, January 08, 2012


I'm grateful that my butter doesn't spoil when I leave it out on the counter. On the other hand that means it's not soft either. Things are better than last year when it was colder in the kitchen than in the fridge. (This winter I got a heater so I'm grateful I could afford one.)

I'm grateful for Family Dollar store selling strawberry jam more cheaply than the grocery store. It means I can have more jelly bread for the same cost. (Or whatever. I don't do math in my head.) 

Other things are cheaper at Fam$ too. I just refuse to fight the crowds at Smiths to pay $2.50 for a can of soup. And I don't have to race for a parking space at Fam.$ or dodge people who try to run over cane walking old ladies.

I'm grateful I can still open a vacuum sealed jar of jam. However, I plan (when I'm really old) to have the clerks open my jars at the checkout counter before I take them home.

I'm grateful I'm in a happy mood even tho it's overcast and snowy outside. (As a matter of fact it's stopped snowing. Which doesn't mean anything. We could get two feet of it by tomorrow. Ah, the joys of living at 7200 ft. elevation.) I'm also grateful I got a couple studded snow tires a couple days ago. Maybe next year I'll get some for the back.

I don't know if I have S.A.D. but I sometimes I'm sad when it's dark and gloomy outside. Except at night. I like it dark at night. I'm a "night owl" & stay up really really late. Quite contented to watch movies and eat jelly bread.

What are YOU grateful for today?

Saturday, December 31, 2011

Leap Year the Movie item 2

I had a comment about Leap Year the Movie. She requested to see this post.

Friday, December 23, 2011


I had a serious handicap when I was young. I had foot-in-mouth disorder. I couldn't talk straight. People knew I was weird (rather than suspect it.) 

I never got any verbal criticism. I just got some puzzled looks. Facial expressions that expressed, "UH...what?"

I'm sure people did not appreciate what I had to say. They kept me around because they loved me. Or got stuck with me like college roommates.

I'm also sure they talked about me behind my back. I didn't care. I simply wished there was a hole under me I could fall into when I said something stupid.

The strange thing, well one of them, was that I could think perfectly good ideas and communications. There was just some twist between my brains and my mouth. I didn't speak gibberish. I was terribly inept at being a person. I presume.

What I said often sounded perfectly understandable to me. But others seemed not to get it. (It is a shame, too, that I blamed myself all these years when I could have decided that they were stupid conversationalists.)

An example would be my terror at calling people on the phone. Not only didn't I know what to say, I frequently couldn't say a word. Thank goodness there was no caller ID in those days. Actually I didn't hang up anonymously. I just never made phone calls until I was into my 40 and beyond. And then rarely.

Oh, teenage years don't count. I could talk to my friends and even boys on the phone back then. But teenaged girls are silly and I was cute so boys didn't care what I said. They called me. I wasn't allowed to call boys back in those days. (And we only had ONE phone per household. What could we have been thinking?)

I think part of the telephobia (is that a word?) stemmed from the first time I was forced to answer the phone. I can't remember how young I was but my parents thought it was high time I learned how to answer the phone. They told me, "Find out who it is and what they want."

Just then the phone rang and they said, "Now's your chance." They just as well could have been teaching me to fly in an airplane by pushing me out the door with no parachute.

I reluctantly crept over to the phone and said, "Hello. Who is this and what do you want?" Amen. I was a little girl for godsakes.

The caller hung up and a couple of seconds later the nextdoor neighbor came running over to tell us that our backyard was on fire.

It all went downhill from there. One of my worst other memories is when I called my cousin who was living at my grandma's. She said, "Hello." I said, "Is John there?" She said, "No. This is his grandmother, can I help you?" I said, "This is his cousin." There was a long pause and my Grandma said, "Sandy?"

That's bad enough but she told my mother and my mom told me my grandma got a weird call from me. I thought it was perfectly understandable. (It's my sense of humor, I guess. Stupid people still don't get my humor.)

I've gained enough self-confidence now to suppose that someone else might be to blame. 

So, partly I learned to take part in a conversation by observing people for about 40 years.

That and learning to write  I don't mean A B C D. I mean put my ideas, thoughts, feelings and poetry down on paper. I learned to converse with writing. Later I published a book for short short stories (humorous flash fiction) and a book of poetry.)

I turned to journals as my confidants and BFFs. I have 120 full journals and counting. (Someday I will sit outside with a nice bonfire, read each one and toss it into the flames..)

I turned to writing fiction too but didn't have as much luck as I had hoped.

I preferred writing because I could say important things on paper, and most importantly, I could cross out and correct what I'd written so I'd be pleased with what I'd said. And nobody would read it (besides me and I never did anyway. That's why I'll read them before I burn them. I'm curious.)

Oh, wait a minute. I did read the end of one journal one time. Ten years later I realized I was still ranting about the same things.

So I got a divorce.

I still write and do editing as I go along--cross out things and keep going. (And rewrite endlessly. Somebody stop me before I get hurt!)

But now I can talk.

Now I'm learning how to shut up.

And get over my phobia of listening.

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


"Pressure of speech is a tendency to speak rapidly and frenziedly, as if motivated by an urgency not apparent to the listener. The speech produced, sometimes called pressured speech, is difficult to interrupt and may be too fast or too tangential for the listener to understand; it is an example of cluttered speech. It can be unrelating, loud and without pauses." (Wikipedia)

Amen. I've got that. On occasion.

I'm sure there are thousands of people the world over who hate me for it. Especially when I try too hard to be witty.

I encounter conversationalists (?) now and then who can't stand being interrupted, or have to stop and think before they speak, or need to FINISH what they're saying. Oh, the ones who talk so ssssssss-lllllllllll-ooooooooooo-wwwwwwww. (Fred, you know who you are.) I find myself wanting to reach down their throats and pull the words out.

At least I hurry up and get to the damn point when I talk. (Don't I?) Plus I can carry on two or more conversations at the same time, listen and talk at the same time. Otherwise I confuse people and drive them nutz.

Oh,  I also try to set them straight regarding the truth or at least the facts. I challenge their opinions in a polite way for the most part, and assert myself in a way I just can't do in the rest of my life.

Another problem is the difference between the way women listen and men listen. A woman nods her head or in some cases shakes her head and makes little comments while listening. This means, "Go ahead, I'm listening."

Men consider that nodding indicates agreement, and comments are rude. Without some feedback you never know whether they're listening or not.

My brother is one example. He goes on and on about something (much like I do) and actually stops when I murmur and all the while he's getting angrier and angrier. It's like he can't talk when there are other people around.

His wife told me, in private, that our constant arguing was making her sick--literally--and I ought to wait til my brother was finished before saying anything.

Well,  here's an explanation:

1: I don't want to make people sick, but I think most people need to learn how to deal with things for themselves. .

2: I've reached the point in my life when I'm not going to allow myself to do things the way some MAN's behavior pressures me to. I'm not that codependent anymore. I'm old and single, what do I have to lose? I just can't understand why these mens' significant others put up with it.

3: AND my brother and I are NOT arguing. That's just the conversation style we used in our family. Genetic, so to speak. We talk a lot, talk fast, debate everything, and do all that LOUD.

I've adapted that to a form of "preaching"

I've told my friends that if they want to talk to me they're going to have to learn to interrupt and/or talk over me. I don't mind. It's just my conversation "style." They don't have to follow my example but it helps. They don't have to change their conversation style, just bear with it for awhile if they'd like to be part of my conversation. My talk isn't aggressive; theirs should be. (I don't see why this is different than the way my brother talks but it just is.)

I have so many thoughts and ideas that I just express them fast enough. (And evidently people don't consider trivia relevant to everyday life.) At least I do to add now, "I probably told you this already but..." and the more polite "Sorry to change the subject..." and plunge forward.

I wish I could write as fast as I talk. And as much. I'd have a 20-volume. memoir published by now.

This is my third blog entry today. About the same subject. Be warned: I also have bouts of hypergraphia.



 Can you be a writer if no one reads you?

Are you a writer if you're not published?

Is a blog considered writing? Is it considered published? Does anyone ever read it?

I just can't bring myself to keep a diary, journal or dream log in my various computer programs/files. For one thing the take up too much storage on my computer memory banks. And who cares? If no one reads them including me and  they aren't published just hidden away, What a waste of time. (Or someone can switch on my computer and see my private entries.)

At least when I write in actual journals like the 12-dollar plastic hardcovers from WalMart, it's serious & beneficial therapy. I could dump it and forget it. Like flushing the....well, you get it.

I like the new feature that tells you your stats: how many hits you're getting on your blogspot and individual blog entries. I don't know why I feel joyful that 17 people went to my blog today and saw one of the entries. (Alas, looking is not the same as reading.) Why do I thrill to see that 17 people found me in a sea of personal essays cconsidering there are about a gazillion people googling on the worldwide web this very minute. It's comparable to the array of radio-telescopes listening for a little noise in a vast universe. LOL

When you put something out here in cyberspace it's "published". It even has an implied copyright (so people who steal your stuff are supposed to give you credit even if in teeny-weeny letters at the bottom.)

So what's this got to do with anything?

I'll get to the point someday if I can figure out what it is and how to write it.

Thanks for stopping by.


I receive a wonderful flow of thoughts in the morning so today I'm going to attempt to capture them in writing for your viewing pleasure.

I often break into hypergraphia (writing lengthy treatises exceedingly fast and hodge-podge, seemingly forever.) I used to write on paper in journals. I have over 120 of them. They go on and on about my thoughts, my feelings, my gripes, my opinions, and godknowswhatelse. It doesn't matter much because no one is ever going to read my journals not even me.

Someday when I feel death coming on I'm going to take them out in the backyard and have one sonofabitch bonfire. It won't matter because there is absolutely no culture or history or current events in any of them. I suspect some of the essays are boring writing about a boring life. I'm afraid the rest reveal various levels of insanity. 

My handwriting is shot to hell at my age so I'm determined to capture my ideas on a computer. That doesn't serve me as well since handwriting was an autonomic behavior for me. Thoughts went directly from my brain to paper via fingers. Fingers aren't as reliable as they used to be.

I'm also hindered by my compulsion to tell the truth and be accurate. And an attempt to manipulate others into being that way too.

On a computer I actually have to think about what I'm writing. I can't whiz along making a mess of it. Typos and misspellings are automatic now instead of my thought-to-paper process. I was able to do things in writing that I just can't do on a computer. Like spell bad with disaster grammar and scribbling over words and continue to write long passages non-stop (much the way I think. And talk. (That's another story.)

Thanks to a career in clerical work/typist my editing and correcting is built into my writing. My fingers (besides hitting a lot of wrong keys) automatically hits the backup-delete button. I suspect, too, my career influenced me by not having to think about what I was typing. 

There's a vast difference between typing someone else's words and writing your own stuff creatively.

I also edit as I write but that's like throwing your car into reverse every yard or two.  You get there eventually but the journey is hell. By the time I get my typing corrected and edited I've lost my train of thought.

In fact, this wasn't what I wanted to write about at all.

O heck it's lunch time I better go eat breakfist. By.
PS: Writing in a journal is a waste of words, ideas, writing and time. You're not really a writer unless someone reads you. Except journaling for therapy--in that case it serves well. And cheaper than a $120 therapy session.) If no one ever reads it you might as well tear it up and toss it in the trash, right? Writing a blog you have a choice--click on the publish button or use the delete key. At least when you write a blog someone out of 2-billion people with computers might stumble on it and actually read it--maybe even like it.