Wednesday, November 30, 2005



To start with, right now there is an Enquiry being conducted into the death of a Senior who was dipped in a boiling-hot bath at a nursing home and who died within a few days because of such severe burns. And I shake my head in disbelief when the Enquiry notes that this was due to inadequate training for the staff.

Training or not, who, amongst us, gets into a bath without a finger or toe test? Who, amongst us, puts a child, puppy, or even a head of lettuce, stick of celery, or a delicate sweater in a tub without first checking the water temp? This is not a training issue. This is a common sense issue. *giving head a shake, shake, shake*

And then there is the release of the long-awaited paper from the Vatican dealing with homosexuality in the priesthood. The key-phrase in this document is the suggestion that ‘those with deep-seated homosexuality tendencies’ are not suitable for the priesthood.

So then I have to ask, ‘Can sexual preference be identified when one is celibate?’

*shaking my head, shake, shake*.


And then there is the federal election thing. The talk shows recycle all the reasons a corrupt Liberal government is likely to continue – voter apathy, Eastern Canada voting monopoly, reasonably strong economy, the gay-marriage issue being resurrected, etc. etc.

But that is not what I see happening here. I blame the confusion caused by U.S. political influence and the world of Academia. Academia has cloned us, and we have freely allowed them to do so, into believing that they are in the know. But these so-called free-thinkers are themselves rutted in unbend-able thinking. They are rutted in a rigid belief that freedom of spirit and thought and toleration of social and moral differences will crash and burn if we do not vote for a free-thinking political party. That a booming economy, improved infra-structure, education, and the building of great nations are directly linked to tolerances that have no relationship whatsoever to a country’s overall wealth and health. But we sway to their persuasion.

And the U.S. influence has insidiously made us think that Republican philosophy equals Conservative philosophy and Democrat philosophy equals Liberal philosophy when they are as dissimilar as night and day. So many of us, rather than evaluating honestly the disappointing past performances of Martin (and Cretien’s) leadership, are basing our votes on drawing parallels where there are none. Through falsely equating Conservatism and Republicanism. Through a choking fear that has taken hold through observations of the mountainous pile of distrust building in the States toward their Republican Strongman.

So, sadly, in our gullibility, we are going to continue to have a Liberal government forever that will continue to lie and steal from us this time round, and the next time round, and the next.

*shaking head, shake, shake*

Friday, November 25, 2005


As researchers unravel the mystery of our brains, they have discovered the apex of a great number of bodily and emotional functions. They know where the brain’s hot-spots are that makes us shy, brave, secure, and content. They know where the command centers are for movement and sensory perception. And they know where memory lives. But despite all this, they have failed to zero in and investigate a complexity in that memory that is really quite phenomenal.

And because it is so phenomenal, I think it needs investigating. What I want to know is why I can’t remember what happened yesterday, where I put the peanut butter, or why I went downstairs. But I can remember every detail of something that is causing me stress or aggravation. In fact, try as I might, I can’t shelf it for even a minute.

Now this preamble is not stressful or aggravating. These thoughts are not observances that should make you anxious. That makes them slippery stuff to remember. But nevertheless, let’s try, if we can, to just hang on to these thoughts for a time while I ramble off on another tangent.

Now you’ve probably heard, as I so often have, of situations where amateur writers from out-of-the-way villages or farms have written profound and fascinating books. And with the revenue from that first book they pack up and leave the “homestead” to relocate in a sunny studio apartment in some bustling metropolis to crank out more of the same. But now they find there is nothing to stir them to write. In this new locale the magic is gone.

So what causes this ‘writer’s block’ to set in with the ferocity of a mid-winter storm? I think it is contentment. Nice apartment, enhanced social life, economic comfort, the smug satisfaction of success. These are all the catalysts that erase conviction and reflective intrigue. Contentment is what smashes and stomps on creativity.

So that thought leads to my current problem. It is the winter of my content. I am in the midst of what I value most – quietness, contentment, my knitting, my crocheting. My Christmas presents are all bought. Selected from a catalogue so I wouldn’t have to make the dreaded trip to town to wander about indecisively in malls and crowds until I could scream. The gifts have arrived and I am well pleased with all of them. The cost – more reasonable that I expected. I am also smug because I found a shortbread recipe with only three ingredients that takes ten minutes to make. And it is made with margarine, rather than butter, but even the most discriminating gourmet will never know. Yard is clean. Fall work all done. Weather is beautiful. House is warm and cozy. Computer – virus-free, it would seem. Tree is wrapped and decorated. All I have to do is bring it upstairs, unwrap it, and plug it in. So what’s to write? There’s nothing to write.

You see, in order for me to write there has to be something eating at me. A discontentment or uneasiness. Something that is provocative enough that I can remember it long enough to get it fleshed out on paper. Now in the end, what I write will not reveal any provocation. And that is deliberate on my part because I’d rather make your day then break your day.

But nevertheless, in the construction of each post, when I’m on the second paragraph, and already I have forgotten the first, and when the formula for plot has totally dissipated, I can still get back to my work because the initial provocation that prompted me to write is still there – not forgotten for one second. My forgetfulness might lead me to twist and twine it in a different direction but that doesn’t alter the fact that I am able to recall what initially prompted me to write.

So now, returning to my original thought – my original provocation. If researchers can unravel so many mysteries of the mind, why can’t they unravel the reasons memories of a provocation are as sticky as gum in one’s hair? And, at the same time, unravel the reasons why memories of incidents in the midst of contentment are as cling-free as under-the-bed-beasties dipped in Static-Guard?

Wednesday, November 23, 2005


My mother used to tell us “righteous lies” when we were kids to get us to accept our lot in life without unnecessary fussing. So knowing how much I envied those kids with curly hair, she used to tell me that if I ate all my bread crusts my hair would be curly too. And knowing how much I longed for black hair she used to tell me that if I ate scorched toast or burnt cookies, my hair would turn black. These are what she later called “righteous lies”. After all there was such a shortage of food it was important not to waste any.

Now I think these “righteous lies” were a quick and efficient way for her to get us to modify our behavior. And I am convinced that if she had told us the truth that we didn’t have much food and that it was important that we ate what we had, we would have just been anxious, worried, and probably too upset to eat food that wasn’t scorched or hard and dry like our bread crusts so often were.

Now, let’s leave that thought and go to another that has more to do with the things we wear. I think it matters what we wear. And I think it must be true that one’s body does conform to what one wears. When I was a kid, a neighbor of ours never wore shoes and her feet were the broadest and flattest feet I have ever seen. My great aunt on the other hand, who joined the WRENS during WWII, wore solid sturdily built leather oxfords her whole life and she had the tiniest, narrowest, delicate-and-lovely-to-look-at feet, even in her old age. She used to say with her Scottish lilt to my children, “For Hae’s sake, you kids. Get them runners off your feet and get some decent shoes on before your feet spread all over Hell’s Half Acre!”

And in looking at the starlets at the Geminis or Junos, I see none that really have a physical build like the stars of so long ago – Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. Well truth is, back then young girls wore everything belted. Skirts, dresses, slacks. Always there was a tight ring securing their waists. And bras. Bras of bone and stiffener and plastic that were so uplifting they almost pointed at the ceiling. So did the clothes over time assist in the molding of those hourglass figures or were they born that way? It would seem to me that, at least to a small extent, our bodies over time conform to what we wear. I’m quite certain at my age that the only reason I still have a reasonably defined waist is because I have always worn snug waist-bands or belts.

And, speaking of how our bodies conform, on the other hand, I have seen pictures of bra-less and bare-footed women in third-world countries with breasts that hung down past their waists and feet as wide and flat as flippers. Is that caused from not wearing a bra? Or from not wearing shoes?

Now, agreed, what we wear is hardly a subject worth discussing but I am compelled to think about this when I see the younger generation with nothing securing their waists and nothing supporting their bottoms except a string of floss.

I then think it is time to build a new volume of ‘righteous lies’ (that might or might not be true) ‘cause you know and I know there is no logical way to explain to them that you don’t like the things they are wearing. So perhaps we should tell them that if they don’t pull in their midrifts with something, they will grow up with a big roll of protruding flab hanging from their waists. And if they don’t wear something with support on their bottoms, their buns will end up sagging down to their mid-thighs before they are thirty.

Now I know this all sounds like absolute nonsense but weirder things have turned out to be true. Just last week on the news, researchers have finally discovered and finally admitted, the older generation was right. That one can get a cold from a chill as well as from a virus!

Now go eat your bread crusts and your burnt toast. But if you perfer straight hair, don't be eating any raw carrot curls. And if you remember any 'righteous lies' you were told as a kid, I’d be interested to know what they were. Or if you're creative enough to think of any new ones, I'd like to hear them as well.

Saturday, November 19, 2005


I’ve often thought of telling you my fear but always I hesitate. I begin to think –‘best not’. Some things are better left alone. And if this fear is so rational to me it might be rational to others. That could create needless fear for others and I don’t want to create fear.

But still I long to discuss fear because it is never discussed—at least not by regular people. Granted ‘fear’ is discussed by politicians in order to win elections. You may have noticed that this is their favored approach. But in normal conversations, fear is seldom discussed. And perhaps that is because it takes a brave soul to talk about what they most fear. But today I am going to talk about my big fear.

Now first off, I am not superstitious. At least I don’t think I am. I don’t fear the dark, spirit creatures, black cats, or walking under ladders. But still I have fear. But if you are superstitious, if you live in fear and the fear of discussing your fear, please go and read another blog. This one is not for you.


So now that my two loyal readers have left, I want to get on with discussion of my fear.

My fear, the fear that has been resident in my mind since I was a very young child is something that I refer to as ‘the evil eye’. I honestly don’t know who introduced me to this fear or if perhaps I was born with it. I have no idea where it stems from or how it came to be named ‘the evil eye’. But nevertheless it has been there in my mind for as far back as I can remember.

Maybe the ‘evil eye’ is a primordial concept that has existed in all human species since the beginning of time. Maybe it is part of our original DNA. After all it was common in every ancient culture, although the concept of its work and presence may have been widely diverse. And its nomenclature may have also been different. Instead of ‘evil eye’ maybe a sun god, or moon god, or white-eyed fish. Who knows? But the Egyptians feared it, the Aztecs feared it, the Incas feared it, African tribes fear it. It is a common fear. But in the same way that species have evolved through time this primitive fear has evolved. But despite its evolutionary changes, I harbor that same fear, though granted, it is within a different context then that of early civilizations.

But prior to any knowledge of ancient cultures and their fear, within my own mind, the ‘evil eye’ has existed. And my perception has always been that it is an unseen force that starts hanging out and closing in when life is too good. When the stars and planets are all lined up. When I get the raise, the promotion, the accolades, the applause, and a sense of total comfort and security. When life is as good as life can get. That’s when I sense the ‘evil eye’ is headed my way. And when it strikes, it will shake my wonderful world and turn it upside-down. Shred my dreams and rip my heart to shreds.

But at the same time, with life being so unfair, what should I fear? After all, life is not flat, it is multi-layered. And when things in one area are the best, there is always some other thing bubbling in one of those layers that causes misery or painful anxiety. So, more often than not, the ‘evil eye’ belief brings comfort rather than fear. Because although things in one area of life couldn’t be better, I am grateful that in the midst of this gay roller-coaster ride I still have those moments when I feel lonely, discouraged, and unappreciated. A sad bit of business, but it has its advantages. The advantage is I can sail through another day, another week, another year, with an unshakable confidence that the ‘evil eye’ is distant and impotent. With no reason to hang out. With no work, or nothing to attend to in my environment.

So being unlucky is not so bad. Not winning the lottery is good. No one reading my blog – that’s okay too. Comforting in a weird way. And it is also good that I’ve finally told you the thing I fear. That’s comforting as well.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005


If the problem is how you are going to get from A to B, then it is quite easy to provide progress reports on how you are doing. But if you’re not too sure if you want to go from A to B, C, or D – that becomes a lot more difficult. That seems to be the pickle that President Bush is in at the moment.

But in a recent issue of “Time”, cartoonist Mike Luckovich has come up with a solution. His picture is of a judge pronouncing sentence on a horrified, dismayed, shocked Suddam Hussein.

The punishment pronounced by the somber Judge, while shaking an index finger at Suddam is —

“For your crimes, you get Iraq back…”

(that’s why Suddam’s expression is so horrified that he seems to be thinking, 'Please, please, shoot me, kill me, but don’t give me Iraq back.'

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

# 76 ROMANTIC NOTIONS - Chapter 5


So now, since that educational enlightenment near the highschool last week, I have a new concern about how we (as caretakers of the younger generation) are going to help them avoid the pitfalls of too many sad, and bad, heartbreaking romances. The promising love-matches that so often turn out to be nothing more than physical exploitation without any deep-seated respect or affection.

So I have deliberately put out some feelers in conversation with young people to try to hone in on their romantic perceptions. And that is another thing I almost wish I hadn’t done, because initially, I was under the gross misconception that I could lead into the conversation with a brief introduction on ‘modesty’. But, of course, in this culture, that is quite impossible. That word, thanks to idiots like Brittany Spears and other teen idols is a word as foreign to young people today as ‘ihjdlla’ is to each one of us.

How do you discuss modesty with a generation that lacks any understanding of propriety? That makes forthright sexual conversation into polite conversation. That promotes nakedness as beauty. And a society with fashions that rather than applauding fine-tailored color, fabric and fit, applaud scarcity: bare bellies, g-strings, and narrow belts worn as skirts. So how does one explain to today’s youth that relationships need to be approached cautiously? That modesty demands respect. And in particular, how does one create the notion that it is important for them to take time to know a person, really know a person, before they put their heart on their sleeve.

If your teenager comes home and announces they have a new love, don’t ask how well they ‘know’ this new beau. They will simply stare at you with mouth agape, wondering what planet you fell off of. No comprehension whatsoever what that statement means. On the other hand, if you ask how ‘intimately they know’ him or her, their eyes light up with a flash of comprehension and they are likely to respond with a flush and a giggle – "Oh, very intimately." But at the same time they can’t tell you his last name, how long he has been in town, where he works, where he lives, if he drinks, take drugs, etc. etc.

And speaking of knowing someone intimately, I have to wonder why government inquiries and courts continue to ask defendants and witnesses if they know each other intimately. Because when the courts or judges ask those on the fringes of a crime or scandal if they are intimately acquainted with the perpetrator, none are, even though they lunch with them twice a week, golf with them on Sundays, jointly finance their business ventures, and hang out with them at the local watering hole every Friday. From this, I can only surmise that old cronies in public service positions don’t understand the question either. Like teenages, they also think they are not intimately acquainted with anyone unless they have played ‘Kissy-Face’ with them.

So how well young people know each other cannot be a valid point of discussion in our attempts to guide them into careful judgment of their choices. But still a solution must be found and I have only one thing in sync with modern thinking that might work. And believe it or not, it is a solution from my own self-confessed love affairs (in the previous post). How I got to ‘know’ and became intimately acquainted with my many author-loves without physical contact. And how without physical complications and the resulting hormonal rage (ha-ha), in fact with nothing more than an assessment of words and voice, I was able to explore in my own head whether I truly loved them and if they were worthy of that love.

So in light of my own experiences, it may be that annoying non-stop cell-phone contact and e-mail interaction among young people should be more acceptable in my mind than it has been up till now. Rather than engaging in passive conversation, modest flirtation, and a decent length of time to know an individual prior to a physical relationship as generations of the past did, there is only one way in today’s world to enforce a delay. The delay needed for young people to ‘know’ each other before they ‘intimately know’ each other. The delay needed to allow young people to assess whether or not they are ready for a serious romantic connection.

The solution might be to enforce a physical separation after the initial viewing (and by that I mean their initial meeting) until a period of three or four months of daily, hourly, cell phone and e-mail interaction is completed. That might work. And, of course, if we could just find a way to keep those discussions on a ‘getting to know you’ verbally platonic level without too much vulgarity or intimate talk, we’d be laughing.

So now I am ready to wrap up these discussions. But, of course, I can’t do so without one brief addendum.

For those wondering – I did confess my adulterous loves to Hub. And amazingly, although he cares deeply, he has forgiven me as best he can, but at the same time, he is adamant that maybe I should return to my crocheting and knitting and forget about reading if it is going to lead to such emotional entanglements.

What do you think?

Saturday, November 12, 2005

# 75 ROMANTIC NOTIONS - Chapter 4


The other day I passed a group of highschool students clumped together on a bit of grass adjacent to the sidewalk by the school. And as I walked past, I heard a discussion that I almost wished I hadn’t heard.

The text of that discussion went like this:
Ist VOICE: I can’t believe John is going out with Sharon, but he is. He always said he never would. He always said he didn’t like her. Even now he still says he doesn’t like her. That he wants to break up but she won’t leave him alone. That’s what he told me.

2nd VOICE: I know. I know. But it’s not his fault. John was tricked and I know exactly how it happened. You know when we all went to that all-night party at Kelly’s place. Kelly made John and Sharon sleep in the same bed and so when they woke up the next morning, they assumed they were a number. That’s why they’re going together.

By now I was close to 20 feet past the group of kids and wanting very much to do a Michael Jackson maneuver so that I could back up while appearing to retreat to hear the rest of this phenomenal discussion. I did throw down my purse to allow myself a momentary stall without being too obvious. And, No, to my utter disbelief, no one asked how Kelly ‘made’ them do that, no one asked how that line of thinking came to be, no one retorted that was total nonsense. All I could think was that all were satisfied with that explanation.

And now you’ll be wondering why I don’t flesh out my thoughts on the matter. I would if I could, but I can’t. The whole silly scenario is just too far beyond my comprehension to comment. But, nevertheless, this situation started me thinking about the future of our young people and that is the discussion I’ve reserved for my next post.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

# 74 ROMANTIC NOTIONS - Chapter 3


Now if loving a man to the extent that he fully occupies your thoughts, your dreams, your fantasies, your consciousness, makes that man your “lover”, than I have had too many lovers. And most of them have endeared themselves to me in the last few years, when at my age, you would assume I would know better.

The adulterous business started after I retired. My first errant affair is still crisp in my mind. Despite a loving husband, I fell head over heels in love with another man.

This lover of mine galloped into my life in a totally unexpected way. But yet like so many lovers he broke in on my psyche like the fabled knight in shining armor on a white steed. Oh, yes, it is true. The pen is mightier than the sword. He had no sword or scabbard. But with nothing more than a pen, he stroked me in a more provocative way than the delicate warmth of a finger caressing my lips, or a gentle hand fondling the smoothness of skin.

This man reached into my very heart and soul and molded my sensitivities to match his. He made me see a special sweetness in him that could not be denied. A sweetness that I pleasured in, in a way that I have never known before. An uncommon delight that made every cell of my spirit mind and body tingle. And, if I can assume that his adoration equaled mine, an adoration that surpassed all that I had ever dared to long or hope for. And so, at night, without his shirt to wrap myself in or his boots to put under my bed, I stashed his book under my pillow and inhaled the comforting essence of that which he created.

Now one extramarital affair should have been enough, but I continued down that same careless road. Since then I have been seduced by so many others. There was my January love, and my February love, and my March love and on and on it goes. Two weeks ago I was seduced by a man who could paint every detail, every nuance, every sight and smell of his environment into virtual reality with nothing more than words. And although he spoke to me in the third person, I could feel that which warmed his heart and that which pained his soul. I loved him for his passion and understanding. For his wit and sensibility. I loved him because of the uncanny way his interpretation of romance and heartbreak matched my own.

The truth is, it is authors that so magically and easily seduce me. Whether their stories are tragedies, romances, classics, or whatever, it is not the hero or villain of the story that I fall in love with. It is not even the stormy emotional ups and downs of the book’s plot. My hopeless promiscuity stems from the way I read a book.

I always have a small segment of my mind embedded in the story, but the rest of my passions are developing the qualities of the man who wrote this stuff. Right now, I am reading John Steinbeck’s “East of Eden”, and whether I am just too bloody casual or a hopeless nymphomaniac, I can’t be too sure. All I know is that I have barely started reading and already I am falling madly and hopelessly in love with him. Allowing him to possess my thoughts night and day and longing for him to possess mine.

But now, for just a brief moment, I want to turn your attention to something else seemingly unrelated. It has to do with adultery in another form.

Now most of us engage in Internet Relationships in some form or other. And those with greater discernment than I believe that when these electronic interchanges become too intimate they can topple over the edge. And by that I mean that despite the lack of physical contact, they slip insidiously into the category of adultery. As for me, I fail to understand this. I have been programmed to think that adultery cannot happen without physical contact.

But, because of these perceptions, although I haven’t done the research, I expect that right now there are cases before the courts of married couples demanding separations based on adultery that had no more form or substance than an electronic text interchange. Maybe a photo or two. So if that is the case, where does that leave me with all my author-lovers? I guess one of the most adulterous women that ever walked the face of the earth.

Hub was right about the ‘opportunity’ thing. So do you think now I should do the ‘right thing’ and let Hub know? It seems like I’m the one at fault here. I’m the one that ultimately broke my side of our agreement. The agreement not to allow myself to be in a place of opportunity where mistakes could happen.

Next post, a surprising insight into how young people of today see and interpret relationships.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

# 73 ROMANTIC NOTIONS - Chapter 2


When it comes to the success or failure of romantic relationships, Hub has always said, “Unconditional trust is the result of one never allowing themselves to be in a situation of opportunity.”

Now as archaic and square as that might sound, it is good advice. There would be no relationships destroyed by adultery, if people observed this rule. And none of the failed relationships based only on suspicions, minus any facts, would ever happen to couples who observe this rule. And there would be no sad and desperate efforts to rebuild what once was, and no longer is, if people observed this rule. When the situation is suspicious, even if there is no fault, suspicion happens, and once it happens it cannot be erased, no matter how long the matter is debated or argued.

So in support of this silly notion, I have to say that if it were a rule taken seriously, life would be very different. Right now, rather than the heartsick millions that are sadly pining after the fact, over their stupidity; there would be none in that predicament. There would, of course, still be break-ups over irreconcilable differences like shared housework, money matters, habitual drinking, gambling, etc. But there would be no man or woman longing for the unconditional love they once had, before they wandered into a danger zone and in doing so destroyed a relationship beyond repair.

And sadly, after trust is broken, as much as one may want to, there is no going back. Occasionally two people do reunite and attempt to work it out. And all I can say is if they can come to that level of forgiveness - "bully for them." But, at the same time, if such mistakes are too easily forgiven, one might assume that both are guilty, or else one might assume that neither cares more for the other than themselves. So that is not good either. But either way, for those who really care, the incident is like a permanent scratch on a CD, or a self-perpetuating computer virus. Despite all efforts, the infection remains. And always, when least expected, least desired, it will rear its ugly head.

So now, knowing that, next post I will tell you, despite my resolve to stay away from situations that could lead to adulterous mistakes, how easily such resolve can melt away.

Monday, November 07, 2005

# 72 ROMANTIC NOTIONS - Chapter 1

We all have Romantic Notions whether we are six or sixty, and of course with time, they change. But in the midst of our own currency, our own perceptions of perfect romance, whether it be candlelit dinners, soft music, or wild physical abandonment, we all have our own keyhole view that leaves us quite unable to view the Lovescape of others that are older or much younger. So like the added depth of a movie vista when viewed through 3-D glasses, I offer you interpretations of Romance, varied by distance and time, that you will not find in Harlequins, music videos, movies, or in your own sphere of current interpretation.


To begin with, when I was in highschool, I read the earliest essays of an author and never have I felt more comfortably wrapped in another’s company than I did in his. Uncannily, we shared the same surname, and what surprised me more was when I started reading what he had written, I immediately knew intuitively where the next line would lead; what the next thought would be.

And in addition to this, he tended to let his imagination wonder the same way I do. But even in his wildest moments I was able to boldly track his imaginings. It was so uncanny that immediately I became highly suspicious that we not only shared the same surname, but the same DNA as well. But as much as I loved his writing that shared such commonality with my own, what I loved most of all was him.

Now it was not what he wrote that choked me with such emotion, it was the deeper intensity it stirred in my soul for the author. It was the author I fell in love with. Between the lines I could decipher a man with a manner of speaking common to my tribe, and with values and convictions common to my tribe. I was certain, from the onset, that this man was my great uncle, thrice removed, or my cousin, thrice removed, or a grandfather, thrice removed – whatever, but definitely someone from a branch of my own family tree. I even sniffed his books to see if they held hidden in between the pages, some remnant of an identifiable body smell or the delicacy of familiar tribal pheromones.

But as luck would have it, as this author’s writing became more popular, as his education progressed, and progressed it did, with him eventually rising to a Professorship in a prestigious university, the commonality began to wane. His later writings lost the flavor of his inner soul. They became a dull mix of university-educated arrogance and a rigidity of stylized thesis-building until no similarity between his thinking and mine remained. He moved from the simple magnetic prose of every-day stuff to the flat lifeless world of politics with lengthy lists of bibliographic references that roped in any imagination or original thought. And this new style forced everything he wrote into distant deviations well to one side or the other of the inner reflective voice that I had grown to know and love.

Despite this, I promised that when I had sufficient time to give proper thought to the matter, I would contact him and let him know my suspicions. But I procrastinated far too long and when I finally was hooked to the magic of the Internet and ready to contact him, within a few weeks of my determination, before it could be put into action, he passed away. And because he had no wife or family, that ended my quest.

And coming from a family of 13, I have never been on a quest for more relatives. In fact, it is with burning shame that I admit to you, how seldom I visit those relatives that are within a convenient driving distance from my own home.

But in this instance, I regret my postponement in the matter. Perhaps this author, of whom I speak, would have cared less if he were a shirt-tail relative of mine. Perhaps he would have preferred not to be bothered by me. And that would be okay. But knowing for a certainty that we shared the same DNA would have given me a confidence in writing that would have led me to write stuff that would be so much more inviting than what you are reading right now.

And unfortunately, compounding my regret is the loneliness I felt at his passing, convinced, as I was that our souls were intertwined because of the magic of DNA.
This post was about a Romantic Notion relevant to family matters. Perhaps not as ‘in keeping’ with my theme as you had hoped. But stay tuned. The next post has to do with Romantic Notions inherent in relationships between husbands and wives. And the ability, or lack of ability, of either party to remain monogamous for a lifetime.

Saturday, November 05, 2005


I’ve just finished a 5-Post Mini Series on Romance that I am so anxious to publish, but in the meantime I can’t just leave off this discussion of Climate Control without one more observation, trivial though it may seem.

Now, you know I hate the dreaded trip to town, but far worse than that is the dreaded trip to the city. I go infrequently, once or twice a year, but when I do go, I usually have a list of several purchases including clothes. And that’s where my beef really comes into play.

It happens every year. Around Christmas I decide it would be a good idea to get a new pair of dress slacks and a couple of tops. It’s winter so I dress with a snuggly knit top under my jacket. One never knows if the car might break down or I might be forced to walk a mile or two. And when I get to the city and get in them malls, God help me. I shed my coat, throw it in my push cart or lug it around over one arm but still I swelter from the heat. I can’t even breathe.

And I get in a dressing room and I feel like I am locked in a fiery furnace room. I look around me at the clerks. They are all dressed in sleeveless, neckless, silk hanky tops and skirts that cover no more of their bare legs than a bikini bottom. They are doing fine. Seem comfy.

It shouldn’t be allowed. It shouldn’t be. When it is winter, and customers with common sense, dress for winter, shopping malls and dress shops should have to take that into account for customer comfort rather than jacking up the heat to suit a bunch of half-naked clerks. It’s pretty disgusting to think that all those high-priced clothes are being tried on daily, hourly, by bodies wet with sweat.

And why shouldn’t I be annoyed? This discomfort on top of the annoyance of a clerk who selected a top for me and told me I look positively stunning in orange (when even Hub tells me with wise discretion that I don’t have to wear orange if I don’t want to). Orange is a color that makes me look sicker than sick.

And then while my transactions are being completed there is my designated clerk conversing with another clerk about her new boyfriend rather than acknowledging my presence in any way, shape, or form. Or the clerk in the fabric shop yesterday, that informed me cotton is cotton, and there is no light or heavy weight cotton in this shop. Interpretation - I don’t feel like helping you look and it’s okay with me if you shop somewhere else. And then, when one is in a terrible hurry, not for another appointment, but just to escape the heat, there is that other problem that Middle Daughter pointed out to me that is definitely true.

Watch the clerks in fast food joints or in any retail business and you will notice something happening that is already well out of control. The new generation is in the midst of a biological evolution. We have a society that is rapidly morphing to the use of only one hand.

So get out there, if you can stand the heat. Be on the lookout and you will find this is very true. Maybe if and when I start to morph I can use that other hand, that has no other function, to fan my body.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005


I’m at Eldest Daughter’s for a couple of weeks minding the house and the dogs. I don’t have to get up until seven but here I am at five in the morning, wide awake and sweltering from the heat, while I think about my last post and the preservation of complexion and body that can only happen in the cold.

You see, ED, has a pre-programmed thermostat. To me, it’s just another gadget and did I tell you how I hate gadgets? This one I really hate. It is ruling my life since I’ve been here and daily I have been rooting around for the manual to reset it, but I still haven’t found it.

Meanwhile, it is set a 62 at night, which is good, but at the crack of dawn it zips up to 75. I guess the idea is one can leap out of bed, jump into a cool shower, and get dressed with nary a shiver. But part of the problem is since I have been here, there has been a time change due to Daylight Savings Time. So at five in the morning, rather than six, the furnace kicks in and roars away until the house is a balmy 75 degrees.

So with the house being too warm to sleep, I get up and roam around in my thinnest nightgown fanning my arms up and down to create a cooling breeze. Hot coffee doesn’t appeal to me in the least in this clime. I wake up looking for a tall frosted glass of Kool-Aid with plenty of ice.
And as I sit here at the kitchen table flopping my arms like a foolish bird, with pursed lips blowing cool air into my cleavage, and with nightgown hitched up to my thighs to catch a bit of air, a bothersome fly (who was bedded down for the winter, minding his own business, hidden in some window crevice, peacefully comatose) is now warm enough to multi-task all those things that flies do in the heat of the summer. Swim in my coffee, stomp on my face, buzz annoyingly in my ear, while swooping and diving and doing a simulated strife-bombing exercise over my toast and jam.

And so while I sit here, in the heat, I can’t help but think about nature’s intent for mankind’s climatic settings prior to furnaces, insulated homes, and thermostat-controlling gadgets. And instinctively I know this just isn’t right. Even if I lived in the Sahara or Gobi Desert, I know the temp would not be up to 75 at five o’clock in the morning.

Right now, how I long for that morning chill that I have complained about since I was little. That blast of cold air that regularly greets me when I throw back the blankets. That snaps mind and body out of the fog as quick as one reacts to a well-placed snap of a sturdy elastic band on the derriere. The cold-shock compels me to start each day with a brave constitution and a blistering speed of movement that causes blood to circulate at a maddening pace so that I can get washed and dressed before I succumb to the cold. A chill that invigorates the mind and body.

In this blistering heat, I’m not sure my mind will ever clear. I move with the sluggishness of a sloth. I never thought I’d ever say it – not after waking so many mornings in my childhood with my blankets frozen solidly to the wall – but I miss the shock of waking up cold. Anyone have any suggestions where ED might have stashed the manual for the thermostat gadget?

Yes, life is a bitch beach. At least that what it feels like here at five in the morning. But relief is coming. At nine o’clock that gadget will think this house is empty and the temp will plunge and bottom out at 60 for the rest of the day – but I’m still here – drinking hot coffee, searching for the manual, and cursing the cold.