tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-285552882024-03-27T02:35:32.814-04:00(Parenthetically Speaking...)Miss Begotten is one of my pet names for myself, for Southern Gothic reasons best kept to myself. Miss Begotten tries to speak plainly, but sometimes she tends to babble -- parenthetically, of course. It's never my intention to offend (and usually that's true - except on those [maybe not so] rare occasions when I mean it very friggin' much) but it sometimes happens, so if you're unusually easily offended...Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.comBlogger1836125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-27785745766036145182024-01-06T20:44:00.000-05:002024-01-06T20:44:32.040-05:00Gloom, Interrupted<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58QwXaobUC_Zz7nSf5KE1aGdpW95F5itK7kGaGHG27IR-NJHnbwIE0wKOs6Q3zZfa_rKoJxjrCv3ZCwEZbw6aH6PY4XFGm2DGtmZrfV0pI5o5E0LD6PUdZpNbFOXr59l2kpB7QIeWVBPH18ZNT1b-a3McgndwebT66FdpOdTmsZP_8UcKAV4A/s1280/fairy%20godmother.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj58QwXaobUC_Zz7nSf5KE1aGdpW95F5itK7kGaGHG27IR-NJHnbwIE0wKOs6Q3zZfa_rKoJxjrCv3ZCwEZbw6aH6PY4XFGm2DGtmZrfV0pI5o5E0LD6PUdZpNbFOXr59l2kpB7QIeWVBPH18ZNT1b-a3McgndwebT66FdpOdTmsZP_8UcKAV4A/s320/fairy%20godmother.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I feel
a tap on my shoulder, look up, and there stands my fairy godmother.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Geez<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">!”
I shriek. “Don't you ever knock?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Where
would be the fun in that? So, how're you doing?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Ugh,”
I say.</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Unhappy,
are you?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Neither
unhappy nor particularly happy.”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Sad?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">No.”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Depressed?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">No.”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Sick?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">No.
Just … blah. Why are you bothering me today, anyway?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Hey,
I'm no bother, chica. It's my job to check in on you every now and then.”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Well...”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">So,
what's the problem?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">No
problem. I'm just … bored, I think. With everybody and everything.”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">So,
what do you want to do about that?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I
don't know.”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">What
do you want?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I
don't know.”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">What
do you need?”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">I
don't know. <b>That's</b> my
problem. I feel like I need or want something that I'm missing, but I
don't know what it is.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">“<span face="Verdana, sans-serif">Well,
you're no fun. Why don't you give it a thought and I'll check back in
on you sometime this decade.”</span></span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Whereupon
she whops me upside the head with her wand and disappears in a poof
of glitter.</span></p>
<p style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">She'll
be back, and I'll still be bored. But I </span><b>will</b><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">
give it some thought and see if I can think of what it is I want.</span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">And that's all she wrote.</span></span></p><p style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif"><br /></span></span></p><br /><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-3222755946697128152024-01-05T19:53:00.000-05:002024-01-05T19:53:04.909-05:00Drama Club<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijQUDeZGQIzYtPoczE6O_lzcOprAxIaeTAaWOJNYL9ndsL6f4Srtjpj8Y79GZpcL64v9gXJOwedtLat49cmv7zyHwJReCtruHZ-F2vr6tEoCmZLubp2eQeg_hIKT5cNyMLKha1m4GqyBebS-_T7nsXURSwsJ8QXbGPFo69U9PNLOM6ByaffOif/s150/chicken.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="150" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijQUDeZGQIzYtPoczE6O_lzcOprAxIaeTAaWOJNYL9ndsL6f4Srtjpj8Y79GZpcL64v9gXJOwedtLat49cmv7zyHwJReCtruHZ-F2vr6tEoCmZLubp2eQeg_hIKT5cNyMLKha1m4GqyBebS-_T7nsXURSwsJ8QXbGPFo69U9PNLOM6ByaffOif/s1600/chicken.gif" width="150" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;">Remember the old Doors song? Damn, they are, aren't they? Strange, that is. People. </span><br style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;" /><br style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;" /><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;">I'm not opposed to peeking in on a little drama in a voyeuristic kind of way every now and then. If I'm to be honest, I must admit that it can be amusing to observe and poke fun at certain people, places, and things occasionally. Of course, if I'm the subject of the drama, I'm not going to take it lying down. I'll throw some mud back and I guarandamntee you the other guy will come out more bloodied and bruised than I.</span><br style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;" /><br style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;" /><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;">And then it's time to be done with it.</span><br style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;" /><br style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;" /><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;">I don't get it when people just keep on and on with it, practically </span><em style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;">ad infinitum</em><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;">. Maybe that's something unique to those of low to no class. I don't know. All I know is that broken records irritate the crap out of me. I thought I was done with drama club when I escaped high school.</span><br style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;" /><br style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;" /><span style="background-color: #ffffe5; color: #333333; font-size: 14.49px;">I thought one little bit of drama somewhere or another had been resolved, but noooooooo. What a dummy am I. Are people really that oblivious? Screw it, I'm getting a friggin' chicken. Bwaaaak.</span></span></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-77569936071884699172024-01-04T21:29:00.000-05:002024-01-04T21:29:33.337-05:00Plan B<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcD0sxH2K43uPQkgOgMXEXoSXF64yyyrjD6WhquvAwavWe8IRrdNVwyO05e6or-PgrSMegIABBMCREYTgn09banSWysy8knUyssEHf_xNRzZS5V6TKitggiIZdgIfrluFLST8PlQtMTxORG92RLkD5Es-P-nOPmc9noAfz79-vrmDbulpyICEF/s1280/zombie-156055_1280.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="734" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcD0sxH2K43uPQkgOgMXEXoSXF64yyyrjD6WhquvAwavWe8IRrdNVwyO05e6or-PgrSMegIABBMCREYTgn09banSWysy8knUyssEHf_xNRzZS5V6TKitggiIZdgIfrluFLST8PlQtMTxORG92RLkD5Es-P-nOPmc9noAfz79-vrmDbulpyICEF/s320/zombie-156055_1280.png" width="184" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am
setting aside my Voodoo lessons for now. I've been advised that I'm going
to need bigger guns than that for what I have in mind. And that I
can't afford all the dolls I'd need. So, on to plan B. Hmmm. Let's see. Someone told me
that education is the ticket. I don't think so. I mean, we're talking
about grownass adults who've already been through the education
system. It clearly didn't faze them. A scroll through social media can
attest to that. Somebody else told me to take up arms. I <b>really</b>
don't think so! I'd probably shoot my own foot off. Mass hypnosis
could work, but who would perform it? Besides, I think that's already
been done. And therein lies the problem.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">So
– no Voodoo, not my own militia, not my own cult, not my own
university. I'm stumped. But it'll come to me. I know – maybe
zombies. They took out plenty of asshats on </span><i>The
Walking Dead</i><span face="Verdana, sans-serif">.
I'm going to give that some thought, see if there's an instruction
manual.</span> I know where to get some, where there are whole big herds of them, in fact. I wonder if they'll come if I whistle? I know noise attracts them. Or maybe I could just yell some nonsense at them and they'll come running. Or shuffling, at any rate. We shall see what we shall see.</span></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-41655735187358633342024-01-03T13:45:00.000-05:002024-01-03T13:45:20.435-05:00Voodoo Part Deux<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs_tExw8qSP1GZkAJo42XTaPtn4BzIwiIYaTgU_7CjXE9Kssc05UnerV78Zf3fSfuRUZFRKaYQ0_f4BHmQ7YBu0eKk-eN3Zj6tFfN6onfs9-CbW-ZePmgcbCMu5ivXvbcNHcO7Ne4VXe2luSJ6z1E_1XSACE2VFcv5LtczlnLFzJJEUsSjqVs-/s4533/chickens.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3400" data-original-width="4533" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs_tExw8qSP1GZkAJo42XTaPtn4BzIwiIYaTgU_7CjXE9Kssc05UnerV78Zf3fSfuRUZFRKaYQ0_f4BHmQ7YBu0eKk-eN3Zj6tFfN6onfs9-CbW-ZePmgcbCMu5ivXvbcNHcO7Ne4VXe2luSJ6z1E_1XSACE2VFcv5LtczlnLFzJJEUsSjqVs-/s320/chickens.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Day 2
of my emergency Voodoo education: somebody told me I'm going to need
some chickens. What?! Dear God, do they have to be live chickens? Or
can I use, like, rubber chickens? What on Earth do you do with them?
I can tell you right now I'm not fond of live chickens. An aunt had
chickens when I was a kid and those fat little bastards chased my
siblings and me and pecked at our feet. No way am I subjecting myself
to that again. I guess I'd better be finding out if there's
chickenless Voodoo. The only place I want to see a chicken is on my
plate, nicely roasted.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">I love
Godsmack's “Voodoo” and I could definitely play that the whole
time I'm doing whatever it is I'll be doing. Just please, God, don't
let it be chicken rituals. Drums, check. Bonfire, check. Dancing,
check, as long as nobody calls me spastic. And no damn live chickens.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">My
education continues.</span></p><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43o4G55C2bXiNVW3hhmyqV7A-sLIpcnN7b4rRYEGVH5BwWbpZpxvw787-Zsdh4zWyGBG-XTjc7SvxIJDUVMUVggspD8sxc0I7En-ntZ9ljCMVkm2D_qv359hMCRnox3gLdJcTC4BUQBO68Vc8eFD064swtWj2rN095riWJ6CVq_sJ5V_lzZnS/s6016/bonfire.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6016" data-original-width="4016" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh43o4G55C2bXiNVW3hhmyqV7A-sLIpcnN7b4rRYEGVH5BwWbpZpxvw787-Zsdh4zWyGBG-XTjc7SvxIJDUVMUVggspD8sxc0I7En-ntZ9ljCMVkm2D_qv359hMCRnox3gLdJcTC4BUQBO68Vc8eFD064swtWj2rN095riWJ6CVq_sJ5V_lzZnS/s320/bonfire.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br />Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-18303928382085775842024-01-02T12:03:00.000-05:002024-01-02T12:03:06.575-05:00Voodoo 101<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCEMhY8j7lRp9KjBLXjqYWu3WUe3Epp4uxhp4tthyphenhyphenScNAU6hwj65pDG8V8x_FXEB8a2gTh-iXOCK0S6q9K8IJRnPd-wdmhsRE0q2TwCwh2Ct62AfFmkm3mRyBQnCiOocvnoPJ0F6L5x85KnisQK-0iAdBEp6tl_DxP5IaIH4d8kiXbmr2A9iXI/s480/voodoo%20doll.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCEMhY8j7lRp9KjBLXjqYWu3WUe3Epp4uxhp4tthyphenhyphenScNAU6hwj65pDG8V8x_FXEB8a2gTh-iXOCK0S6q9K8IJRnPd-wdmhsRE0q2TwCwh2Ct62AfFmkm3mRyBQnCiOocvnoPJ0F6L5x85KnisQK-0iAdBEp6tl_DxP5IaIH4d8kiXbmr2A9iXI/s320/voodoo%20doll.gif" width="320" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">I'm
thinking about taking up Voodoo, and I need a primer. First things
first, I guess. Like, where do you get the dolls? Is there a supply
house somewhere in the country, while we still have a country? And
how about those pins? Do they have to be sterling silver or can you
use plain old stainless steel? Do you stick it in gently, or do you jab
that sucker like it has a name and you mean business?</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">Are
you supposed to say anything when you stick the doll? What are the
words? Is there a book for that? Would Google know? Maybe there's a
Voodoo for Dummies book at Amazon. I'll have to look.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span face="Verdana, sans-serif" style="font-family: verdana;">I need
to get started on this project fairly soon. I believe it's rather
time-critical. I just hope I don't screw up and turn myself into a
jackass or something and start cavorting around spouting gibberish.
That would suck.</span></p><br /><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-69557495187077154632024-01-01T17:51:00.000-05:002024-01-01T17:51:35.914-05:00<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDUMQ2eBl_k0HHRjkWQDQ4obDvjlHXerlV6AF8bZazo6XX3qInRcjciyK4xQAo10e9nkF3Yx6niOIlihtlSSnxUcInYC-n0009zdFrtKNVIscBGSYnA5VD1dC_j-Bfk6HFpS2SC2dxwi5gm74RbSmkSWToBtogdDgjcn_rHl5qS2uAira_O8Z/s1280/2024.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="916" data-original-width="1280" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGDUMQ2eBl_k0HHRjkWQDQ4obDvjlHXerlV6AF8bZazo6XX3qInRcjciyK4xQAo10e9nkF3Yx6niOIlihtlSSnxUcInYC-n0009zdFrtKNVIscBGSYnA5VD1dC_j-Bfk6HFpS2SC2dxwi5gm74RbSmkSWToBtogdDgjcn_rHl5qS2uAira_O8Z/s320/2024.png" width="320" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And so
it begins. 2024. What will this new year bring? Who can predict? Not
I. All I can predict is that it'll be <i>interesting</i> – and that I'd
better be ready for anything. Could be a great year, could be
difficult in any number of ways. Time will tell. Hope for the best
but prepare for the worst. And that's about all I've got on that. I
could make a few predictions of my own, but geez, where is Nostradamus
when you need him?</span></p><br /><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-74025964729349988082023-12-08T19:39:00.001-05:002023-12-08T19:39:58.145-05:00Hustle and Bustle<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTl9wdBCQZZWZI4YK099Y25QLL10mkggqZQ8773tVd3jFifZxsv3kTdlHoulJQENgo-OZA6Ums-qH0kXJnATghtlxebpmv3-OnHFvf14oh1XslOWbtGPDcicnCCS6bIgerUNCGSdr-zxNQcFUXk-V0tybD9TKTmeNV_nfteaDuITkL1cQRLLM/s539/present.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="460" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTl9wdBCQZZWZI4YK099Y25QLL10mkggqZQ8773tVd3jFifZxsv3kTdlHoulJQENgo-OZA6Ums-qH0kXJnATghtlxebpmv3-OnHFvf14oh1XslOWbtGPDcicnCCS6bIgerUNCGSdr-zxNQcFUXk-V0tybD9TKTmeNV_nfteaDuITkL1cQRLLM/s320/present.png" width="273" /></a></div><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Here in Virginia, we keep flipping back
and forth from fall to winter. One recent day it was 81 degrees. 2
days later it was 40. That's a shock to the system. And the time
flipped back from DST. I hate that. It takes a while for my inner
clock to adjust, and it's not there yet.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We're expecting some sort of possibly
severe storm this weekend. That could get dicey. I learned my lesson
when the power went out for nearly 2 days last Christmas. I'm always
prepared now. And I won't freeze, as temps are in the 50s and 60s.
Nothing like last year's 1 degree and 50 mph winds!</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's a busy time of year even with
nothing else going on. There's still shopping to do, items to
procure, stuff to mail, stuff to decorate. And, of course, the
mundane waits for no one; still has to be done. Christmas is coming
up fast. I have <b>got</b> to get
my cards done and out. No houseguests are expected this year, so at least
I don't have to go through the ritual of deep cleaning. There's a lot
to be said for that.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And …
my neighbors continue to amuse and bemuse.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Whichever
holidays you celebrate, I wish you happy ones!</p><p>
</p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-22997429709257343892023-10-20T19:18:00.000-04:002023-10-20T19:18:20.093-04:00Under the Big Top<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlloqKyXat1ZDnPiXIC4cPk4s4zB0i4TIfOtyq8of-WP5693OImXrBpCMv-G_Rm10dylP6sR6sCI8WR52c1W3qa6WcL-RhqXYo2lLheTUqU4AcY2iE2Fxp9fuakGmmh_4DHsB2D-tPQ7OEFbMdujBNJ8cG8zrWcNuQWatpszHacmbXO5R2XQ/s1920/clown.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlloqKyXat1ZDnPiXIC4cPk4s4zB0i4TIfOtyq8of-WP5693OImXrBpCMv-G_Rm10dylP6sR6sCI8WR52c1W3qa6WcL-RhqXYo2lLheTUqU4AcY2iE2Fxp9fuakGmmh_4DHsB2D-tPQ7OEFbMdujBNJ8cG8zrWcNuQWatpszHacmbXO5R2XQ/s320/clown.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;">“Circus” nowadays doesn't mean what
it used to mean. Rather, it now connotes chaos. We're living under
the Big Top and the clowns have usurped the Ringmaster. I don't like
clowns, or their puppets. Remember Pennywise, the biggest, baddest
clown of them all? I've loathed the creatures ever since. I don't
like trolls or rabid hyenas, either. And I really don't like flying
howler monkeys, the clowns' enforcers. They throw frickin' crap and
watch to see what sticks, and zombies in the bleachers cheer.</span><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">With the circus run amok, there is a
disquieting undercurrent rippling through society. Suddenly, public
insults, bullying, mocking, gaslighting, crassness, conspiracy
theories, and general vulgarity are acceptable behavior. Is a base
nature really what lurks beneath the human veneer? Maybe we've only
pretended to be civilized all these years.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Look around. This IS our circus. These
ARE our clowns. Those ARE our monkeys. We have to deal with it. Alas,
the circus has grown too big and widespread to run it out of town.
Somebody had better put on their hip waders, gather up some villagers
with torches and pitchforks, and figure out a way before we all end
up as sideshow attractions. Otherwise, Pennywise might well drag us
all down to float in the sewer. </span></p><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-23036144384315740102023-09-28T22:42:00.000-04:002023-09-28T22:42:37.580-04:00It Doesn't Take A Crystall Ball<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQlX8IlXTKzH72Bm8XN3eqd2C-r1fqBnZN-5VPXisarUvuIqtQ4OxW9v9Z1Wdgu61ReOmmY0yHpmFKEDaZ3rhnTpdZKvGZRqsI3vIRoga-EOzmjf0AAtsPsBY55UQMC3V8bd13QHY3aW-Xb28qGGsSme4foqFl9Iy0JLFE5uLlTaoEm3m1s0O/s5184/crystal%20ball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQlX8IlXTKzH72Bm8XN3eqd2C-r1fqBnZN-5VPXisarUvuIqtQ4OxW9v9Z1Wdgu61ReOmmY0yHpmFKEDaZ3rhnTpdZKvGZRqsI3vIRoga-EOzmjf0AAtsPsBY55UQMC3V8bd13QHY3aW-Xb28qGGsSme4foqFl9Iy0JLFE5uLlTaoEm3m1s0O/s320/crystal%20ball.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I saw a meme recently that really
resonated with me. It said</span></p><p></p><p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>Intuition</b></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>When you don't know how
you know,</b></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>But you know you know,</b></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>And you know you knew,</b></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>And that's all you need to
know.</b></span></p><p align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I rely a lot on my intuition. Always
have, from an early age. I trust it and I am firmly convinced that
intuition, that primal gut instinct, has played a large part in
keeping me alive all this time. When you have it, you <b>feel</b>
it. It's always on duty, and it kind of has a megaphone. As long as
intuition is working, nobody has to tell you there's danger or
aberration or <b>wrongness</b>
around. You'll know it instinctively. I've always paid attention
when intuition told me there was something wrong with a person, or
that I should avoid certain situations, or that it would be the
height of stupidity go to certain places, or when friends weren't
really friends. And it's always served me well. Time proved that
indeed there <b>was</b> something
wrong with those persons, places, and things.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I've sometimes coveted the gifts of
clairvoyance and precognition, but that's okay, I don't need them. As
long as I have good old fashioned intuition and heed it, I should
make it through the rest of this journey of life just fine.</span></p><p><br /></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-9322812647848599242023-08-30T21:48:00.001-04:002023-08-30T21:48:31.343-04:00Fall...<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ybir0UF0le1c3w1bPPm7rTnUxMb7hqa5wJSWdeSpi9A-DLKsTCpUMRvCXrPpHXHaVDtrYXKL4dAijApFFv7616g0Xvar832qhpXh8aPqc2tS51a0eq8XtDvCxiVZLaYkQBamuaXmF3Lt3IkL-dEXAsKTUN4PIjC4ZNCc-0hJuaxlPXA4-T7s/s5184/Fall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ybir0UF0le1c3w1bPPm7rTnUxMb7hqa5wJSWdeSpi9A-DLKsTCpUMRvCXrPpHXHaVDtrYXKL4dAijApFFv7616g0Xvar832qhpXh8aPqc2tS51a0eq8XtDvCxiVZLaYkQBamuaXmF3Lt3IkL-dEXAsKTUN4PIjC4ZNCc-0hJuaxlPXA4-T7s/s320/Fall.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">...is just around the corner. Thank
goodness! It's been a long, hot summer. And a crazy one. We've had
superstorms, wildfires, extreme heat, tornadoes, drought. You name
it. We've really run the gauntlet. Oh, and COVID is still around.
Darn thing just keeps mutating all over the place. People in my
neighborhood are sick with it, even hospitalized. About all we're
missing to round out the year are plagues of locusts and frogs. And a
sense of humor. That's sure missing.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I swear, so many people these days have
no sense of humor whatsoever. You really have to watch what you say.
You can't joke about the old stand-bys like politics and public
figures and stupid things people do. People are so <i>sensitive</i>.
If you joke about rain gods or, God forbid, Voodoo dolls or any old
thing that nobody in their right mind used to take seriously, people look at you like you
ought to be burned at the stake. And that may come. Nothing is off
the table in these times. And they <i>are</i>
burning books and banning the weirdest things. These are strange
days.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Winter
is coming. We know this because Halloween, Thanksgiving, and
Christmas stuff is already out in the stores. I guess retail still has a sense of humor. Who knows what Winter
will bring this year. More storms for sure. Blizzards maybe. Perhaps
glaciers. Or, in these times, Winter hurricanes and heat waves. Times
are crazy enough for anything to happen. And ... <b>Winter</b> is coming. Buckle up.</span></p><br /><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-14840774243046081142023-08-04T19:39:00.000-04:002023-08-04T19:39:14.793-04:00Of Bad Antics & Semantics<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbz-x3MYMGB_RwbFJkufFZvqGXGTA0Kuyx467jycCrenPmDwKLynUqqq32iray3p-WobQiwO5Sk1o-NuvnGqEpgemUHJEJxh_shoG7iTwyCFX05Akt3TANf2yeyrG6Fu4YGuHAdsaLBPtQmtZrR6npePcndYaHrYYby2bMAISD9gx9A519oOQj/s4000/maze.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2672" data-original-width="4000" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbz-x3MYMGB_RwbFJkufFZvqGXGTA0Kuyx467jycCrenPmDwKLynUqqq32iray3p-WobQiwO5Sk1o-NuvnGqEpgemUHJEJxh_shoG7iTwyCFX05Akt3TANf2yeyrG6Fu4YGuHAdsaLBPtQmtZrR6npePcndYaHrYYby2bMAISD9gx9A519oOQj/s320/maze.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I really wish the word “hater,” in
its current connotation, would disappear from the vernacular. Sounds
like one of those Newspeak words to me. I can disagree with your
opinion and not hate you. You have every right to disagree with my
opinion, but you don't hate me. Not even best friends agree on every
single thing. They're not going to hate each other over it. And yet I
see the word “hater” a dozen times a day just because someone
doesn't like or agree with someone else's point of view. What a
ridiculous concept! Believe me, if I hate you, you'll know it. And
it'll take a hell of a lot more than not agreeing with me to make me
hate you. Shoot, you used to be able to sit at a dinner table with
people of different political/religious/cultural persuasions and talk
about such things as who you might vote for or current events, and nobody cussed, spit, or shot at anyone else.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Everything is contentious these days,
it seems; a total maze of confusion. People with different political affiliations revile each
other. People who don't look or dress or speak the same as everyone
else are mocked and ridiculed. People of different faiths can't
tolerate each other. People from different countries, cities, and
neighborhoods are viewed with suspicion. One almost can't take a
middle-of-the-road position on any issue any more. You have to be
either for or against, liberal or conservative, Republican or
Democrat. You're looked askance at if you can see both sides of an
issue or if you lean one way on one thing and the other way on
another. You're pressured to stand either for or against, no in
between.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There are some elements in our society
that should not be condoned, venerated, or celebrated, just because a
normal civilized society wouldn't. I could name them, but I'd risk
being labeled uncool, old fashioned, narrow minded. A <i>hater.</i> Rational thoughts about such things fall into the category of plain
old common sense. Which, alas, seems to have gone the way of the
dodo. Everything has to be complicated and convoluted and argued to
death, no common sense permitted. If you look at something stupid and
call it stupid, somebody's going to call you a hater. Any absurd thing, why, give it a new name, hype it and call it normal and it's
suddenly socially acceptable. Welcome to <strike><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">1984</span></span></strike>
2023.</p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-47713445467285205972023-07-29T19:05:00.000-04:002023-07-29T19:05:59.761-04:00The Heat Is On<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMNNi2kNpoCyQhcZQt_-9eGAhunNc8e9Sa2uO3PUy_rrAtP1iWciYFcvbx8p1OP7w-9HgJsOJ83nwdeZcpx0mriVCqCepsOz6ja4pMVIfBhpCN0XqIj32kAV86w3E7xgR_zhhEJXTeSRzxnT7MIuJZv5K3cHTWEAgq58oIwwxum_0i22kIVGe/s5184/hot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="5184" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXMNNi2kNpoCyQhcZQt_-9eGAhunNc8e9Sa2uO3PUy_rrAtP1iWciYFcvbx8p1OP7w-9HgJsOJ83nwdeZcpx0mriVCqCepsOz6ja4pMVIfBhpCN0XqIj32kAV86w3E7xgR_zhhEJXTeSRzxnT7MIuJZv5K3cHTWEAgq58oIwwxum_0i22kIVGe/s320/hot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Dang, it's hot! It's been 90 or above
for the last 2 weeks where I live, and creeping close to triple
digits the last 2 days. I hate extreme heat. I don't like extreme
cold, either, but when it's cold you can at least add more clothes or
blankets. There's not much you can do when it's too hot. All I can
say is, thank God for air conditioning. It's hot all over the country
and I hate to even think of people trying to survive without AC,
especially in those places where it's 118 degrees in the daytime and
in the 90s at night. If anybody is reading, and that's a big “if”
because I'm starting to wonder if blogging has become obsolete and
nobody is reading... Maybe so, but I never, not even on a double-dog dare, put anything personal on Facebook. It's too full of trolls and hackers. Still, if anyone <b>is</b> reading, I'd like to hear how hot it is where you are.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Some of my neighbors are making me hot
under the collar, too. I swear, an inordinate number of them are in
bitch mode lately. Duplicity, back-stabbing, gossip, and hypochondria
are running rampant. Geez, whatever ailment someone has, another one
has to up the ante and claim hers is worse. I think some of them are
just talking themselves into early graves, but hey, not my problem.
It's getting hard to resist the impulse to reach out and slap some
moron to make him/her shut up with his/her idiotic blather. Yeah, I'm
in bitch mode, too. It's the heat!</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I'll tell you what else has become a
problem. Some of the more surly old crones around here seem to think
I'm antisocial because I don't give out my personal information.
There's a woman here who thinks it's her holy mission to type up and
hand out “directories” containing information on all the tenants.
By that, I mean full name, nickname, address, phone number, and date
of birth, everything but SSN and firstborn's name. There are people
coming and going here all day long. Some residents have cleaning
people, some have home health aides, some have unsavory looking
friends and relatives, there are an untold number of delivery people,
yada yada. In my opinion, the information contained in that directory
is an open invitation to identity theft should it fall into the wrong
hands. If they're gullible enough to hand over their details, that's
on them. I'm not giving my info up, and if they want to stick horns
and a pitchfork on me, so be it. I'll laugh all the way to the bank
when their accounts get hacked and mine don't.</p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-9770052155055227362023-07-14T18:45:00.000-04:002023-07-14T18:45:38.704-04:00No Easy Fix<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKGYUtWi2o4Ww4qK6TEP6M-TzMpMr2deLo_PofdUC5T1UdFXlB5UmFP1EGySt3SrwtDP-s1DsGr56vJVB8mX9Wsv4IKwTtqBsc9unkWUG_g8R_EaFtebfnWeekpj6yQFB5u3xAse6Uzi3mkCvgJHh_VUZgSqQ-TY0iUn-RD1yf0EBGlFVqHea/s3680/stupid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2449" data-original-width="3680" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKGYUtWi2o4Ww4qK6TEP6M-TzMpMr2deLo_PofdUC5T1UdFXlB5UmFP1EGySt3SrwtDP-s1DsGr56vJVB8mX9Wsv4IKwTtqBsc9unkWUG_g8R_EaFtebfnWeekpj6yQFB5u3xAse6Uzi3mkCvgJHh_VUZgSqQ-TY0iUn-RD1yf0EBGlFVqHea/s320/stupid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I have only one thing to say today:
You can't fix stupid.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">You can try to rationalize a stupid
thing or idea or trend or law, etc., etc. You can make excuses for it. And God
knows there will be a multitude of people who are going to try to
normalize and excuse every stupid thing to come down the pike. You
can philosophize over it til the cows come home, which may be any
time now. You can debate its merits, or lack thereof. You can slap a
warning label on it. You can whine all over social media that
something stupid is simply misunderstood. You can get down in the
dirt and brawl about it. But chances are pretty good that you're not going to fix it.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If some backwater politician gets up on a
soapbox and tells people they're going to have to sacrifice their
firstborn, an elderly goat, and 2 frisky chickens while salsa dancing
under a full moon in order to ensure a good crop, how many are going
to do it? Who knows? But if a few of the more influential start
dancing around a bonfire, the rest of the herd will probably follow
instead of arresting the guy for a fool. Nothing is going to change
the fact: stupid is stupid.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And, more's the pity, you just cannot fix stupid.</span></p><br /><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-75328657979231878052023-06-23T18:11:00.000-04:002023-06-23T18:11:11.349-04:00When You See Red...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieU_q9AVPRXX1W8cq0f_QRA1QKVZDXBe56SuHwin_7wlNSYGB5BikLbV3RRHR2865B4fxKAhL0f2ZGMk4KYHETzxpagF7myX2bkdtFfJue8Req_njrGXG0BYRbGkYaYEjabkagvDNwx4PBZhyA9nYAzSJ0Pl1Ef7aShwXi-f8Bi5lwyLdAJmfI/s2400/red%20flag.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="2244" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieU_q9AVPRXX1W8cq0f_QRA1QKVZDXBe56SuHwin_7wlNSYGB5BikLbV3RRHR2865B4fxKAhL0f2ZGMk4KYHETzxpagF7myX2bkdtFfJue8Req_njrGXG0BYRbGkYaYEjabkagvDNwx4PBZhyA9nYAzSJ0Pl1Ef7aShwXi-f8Bi5lwyLdAJmfI/s320/red%20flag.png" width="299" /></a></div><br /><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">When some people see red flags, they
think “Oh boy, a carnival!” Others run. I'm one of the others,
because my brain functions somewhat normally. Life is already a
funhouse. Why exacerbate it?</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Sometimes I wonder if some of the folks
who ignore red flags are secret masochists. They must know better.
Surely, a lifetime of school, church, and life experience might have
taught them something, like how to recognize red flags. Beats me how
they not only can't see them but oftentimes flock to embrace them. I
just hope I never become blind enough and deaf enough and brain-dead
enough to no longer see and pay attention to huge red flags waving
right in front of me.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">In these times, to ignore blatant red
flags could very well mean the difference between life and death –
on a huge scale. As long as I remain in possession of my faculties,
I'll be running the other way. Who wants to live in a carnival, with
clowns and hucksters and shady carnies? Not I.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumzWFRoiRHJhfl10jZBmAGjWPZSPzTBf2gBEm_qCGGVtiKcBx7qaL0IOCFYB2GuCgwUA1ZO3ShrGV4q1lmt_S4YLgAYzv8JsFElmB_qnALpGq0y0tuXsawyJ8xHlnuBMYPKggSPRYZ1SyIxJyUW7Fd7nOzJelMdUbn7X5HJPlU0KZe5jk_QNK/s307/confused.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="292" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumzWFRoiRHJhfl10jZBmAGjWPZSPzTBf2gBEm_qCGGVtiKcBx7qaL0IOCFYB2GuCgwUA1ZO3ShrGV4q1lmt_S4YLgAYzv8JsFElmB_qnALpGq0y0tuXsawyJ8xHlnuBMYPKggSPRYZ1SyIxJyUW7Fd7nOzJelMdUbn7X5HJPlU0KZe5jk_QNK/s1600/confused.gif" width="292" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-89172232925801329422023-06-14T19:38:00.000-04:002023-06-14T19:38:08.749-04:00Us v. The Universe<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrA5J-M0hp94YXzuPksl8g1b4lSKgHtM4e6uhZB2VtoIDQhf-4AjdE3ec8ooeMHmOS88vUBpQ-MBFRRAP2nlKD9e1jmNQ96BkWiDu4hRX0nLYr-px7JEHt-ZpPFjqR-bvMFDpPRwfhZrkc1W4AfGtRxnkNhTVVijviygaagpl7MmXXWPKI6Q/s1280/universe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="1280" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrA5J-M0hp94YXzuPksl8g1b4lSKgHtM4e6uhZB2VtoIDQhf-4AjdE3ec8ooeMHmOS88vUBpQ-MBFRRAP2nlKD9e1jmNQ96BkWiDu4hRX0nLYr-px7JEHt-ZpPFjqR-bvMFDpPRwfhZrkc1W4AfGtRxnkNhTVVijviygaagpl7MmXXWPKI6Q/w477-h151/universe.jpg" width="477" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Some days I find myself saying I give
up, I concede, let the Universe do what it will with me. Other days I
say heck no, I'm not giving in to any old Cosmos. I have a backbone
and a brain that works reasonably well. Well, most of the time.
Sometimes. In any event, whatever problem I'm having, I know I'll
figure it out and come out on top of it. I'm an optimist. But I'm
also a pragmatist. To me, everything goes either up or down, forward
or backward, onward or sideways, right or wrong. Gray areas don't
always count for much. Either do it, or don't. But if you do it, do it right.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Some day, there may come a problem that
none of us can circumvent. I don't know what we'll do then, other
than face it, tackle it, and see what happens. The human spirit is strong, but is it a match for the Universe? We'll just have to see.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">C'est la vie.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-27381255635909352892023-06-05T18:09:00.000-04:002023-06-05T18:09:11.589-04:00DIY Therapy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-nuVQUhtMgZ2QrwDTRBi1tFcfBr3o0tUU-1CZcENr_dSAET4pvPr9ZCZE11YLUm4_lPkj8KUsSFqmbXH3X_vURL5CA-ibQM9RxXcEZVCtmZF4O3VJsS71WJM4fyShesMxHeycppQun_Fqeru4kKk_bzjM0YBIoPYI-3Bc4_SJBSOWddF9Q/s1280/writing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-nuVQUhtMgZ2QrwDTRBi1tFcfBr3o0tUU-1CZcENr_dSAET4pvPr9ZCZE11YLUm4_lPkj8KUsSFqmbXH3X_vURL5CA-ibQM9RxXcEZVCtmZF4O3VJsS71WJM4fyShesMxHeycppQun_Fqeru4kKk_bzjM0YBIoPYI-3Bc4_SJBSOWddF9Q/s320/writing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Why am I blogging again after such a
long hiatus? I've always found writing to be somewhat cathartic
and/or therapeutic. Things occur to me. All the time, often at the
most inopportune times. So what's the thing to do? Write it down.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Of course, I'm just talking to myself. I
know that. Still, better to put things down on a page than to have
them rolling around in my head and keeping me awake at night. Who
knows, perhaps something I have to say will strike a chord with
someone else, cause them to smile, or cuss, or say “Oh, yeah.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">So, what am I talking to myself about
today? Not a lot. Mundane stuff, like stop procrastinating and make
the appointment for your overdue eye exam. Stop fantasizing about
choking the neighbor man every time he says something idiotic. Go to
bed earlier; nothing good happens in the wee hours. Stop dwelling on
poor decisions you made 40 years ago. Whatever happened to the guy I
dated when I was 25? Like that.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">But I just might have something more
interesting to talk to myself about some other day.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>And now I bid a</i></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>fond adieu until I speak</i></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><i>with me tomorrow.</i></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-10171817095304260572023-06-04T21:35:00.000-04:002023-06-04T21:35:44.282-04:00Birthdays, Dog Days<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaA_xHnI28QZdnXJqW77R0OV91bz_uCGcQZupPRowfOGY8IF5e82q46yOtDEOrbH8zzXL_KxYyg7rNFZnOxQANwOGajTR0wF22PiI3jeNIb1dSQMlcKHwymzRqhosUgiduEBXh6UH99GE8VDNkRaEiIIB13Xh0AfyEcokS8Z7K9p4PCbZ8hw/s1280/birthday%20dogs.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="853" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaA_xHnI28QZdnXJqW77R0OV91bz_uCGcQZupPRowfOGY8IF5e82q46yOtDEOrbH8zzXL_KxYyg7rNFZnOxQANwOGajTR0wF22PiI3jeNIb1dSQMlcKHwymzRqhosUgiduEBXh6UH99GE8VDNkRaEiIIB13Xh0AfyEcokS8Z7K9p4PCbZ8hw/s320/birthday%20dogs.png" width="213" /></a></div><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I had a birthday recently. No big deal,
just a day like any other. I became a year older, but still no big
deal. We all have to do it, like it or not. The alternative isn't
very appealing. Not all of my friends wished me a happy birthday.
That's okay. You can't dictate other peoples' actions. Or manners. No
big deal. Except it kind of is.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Were my feelings hurt? Yes. A little.
Did it kill me? No. Nobody ever died for lack of a greeting. If I
were going to die of hurt feelings, I'd have been dead years ago.
Stuff happens. And you move on.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I thought about getting myself another
dog for my birthday. It's been a year and half since I lost my last
precious little dog. And a home without a dog in it feels empty. A dog's
joy at simply living is infectious and just makes you feel good. But so far I haven't been able to bring myself to get another one. The pain of losing her is
still so raw. I have 2 urns here now, and I just don't think I could
stand going through that heartbreak again.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I don't know which is worse, not
having a dog or enduring the pain of losing one. Maybe someday. I
never say never. But I think ... not now.</span></p><br /><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-70964309483001249142023-06-03T14:09:00.000-04:002023-06-03T14:09:25.931-04:00The Hieroglyphics of IT<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFv1BYyn4Y1KZtPmuX6_5q6bavSWtpkC-pdWVCLlbyPXdE-f--ytjTI2WWTuPSF3oEQDcNl9GOIXdhZTZLLFokpqqQUXKAWknMLr7s1MYALYTpuNlAV0yXIA5gFEATohYeuyVQPkIWvVF2BCVrP_grDThit9PxHU_dNtaA7CxQzqdVDJ5CoA/s1280/hieroglyphics.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFv1BYyn4Y1KZtPmuX6_5q6bavSWtpkC-pdWVCLlbyPXdE-f--ytjTI2WWTuPSF3oEQDcNl9GOIXdhZTZLLFokpqqQUXKAWknMLr7s1MYALYTpuNlAV0yXIA5gFEATohYeuyVQPkIWvVF2BCVrP_grDThit9PxHU_dNtaA7CxQzqdVDJ5CoA/s320/hieroglyphics.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">My apartment complex is geared toward
people of retirement age. There are a few Gen Xers and millenials,
but they're a story for another time. The majority of residents are
in their 60s, 70s, and 80s, and when it comes to technology, some of them may as well be living in the Dark Ages. They don't get it,
and don't want to. Trying to explain, much less teach, technology to some of them is like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. These are “old” people, and by that I mean
just a few years older than me. There's "old" and there is <b>old</b>. Geez! If you ask some of them about
social media, you're just going to get a blank stare like you're
speaking Swahili. They don't know what a blog is, or how to use
email. They probably think I'm practicing Voodoo when I pay my rent or order groceries online. If you mention scanning to them, they're going to run away
from you. Many of them have smartphones, but they're strictly to
make calls on. And even that can get problematic.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Ruby, Opal, Jade, Sapphire, and Pearl
get together every afternoon for a gossip session. And let me tell
you, these ladies can judge a person and rip them to shreds in a hot minute. They're in everybody's business and have an opinion on everything and everyone. And you'd better believe they believe their opinion is the only one that counts. I think that if they heard someone passing gas too loudly in his own apartment, they'd bang on the door and demand to know what on earth he's been eating. They're like their own little religious order, trying and
judging, pronouncing sentence, and excommunicating and shunning
anyone who doesn't agree with them. Some people refer to them as the
Big Sisters of Little Mercy. But today, they're ripping technology.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Opal: I had to text a code to the box
office this morning to get a discount on my play tickets.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Ruby: I didn't know you knew how to
text. Is it hard?</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Opal: Not at all. I went and got that
young girl, Kate, to send it for me. (Kate is 63)</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Jade: Don't feel bad, I can't text,
either. I tried it once and found out it went to the mayor's office.
And the teensy keyboard isn't anything like high school typing class. If
your fingers are bigger than Thumbelina's, you just can't do it.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Pearl: Yeah, I don't know how they
expect us to figure out where to send it. How the heck do you get the
message to the right person? Do they think you're telepathic or
something? Or maybe the phone is?</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Opal: Shoot, that's what I have Kate
for. She was pretty huffy this morning, though. Said she'd already
showed me how to do it 5 or 6 times. And she did, but it's just way
beyond me. Welp, if she doesn't want to send my messages, I can
always get one of the other kids to do it.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Sapphire: True, but you probably ought
to learn how to do it yourself. Me, too. I feel kind of silly having
to ask other people all the time how to use my own phone. It's all
Greek to me. I swear, these smartphones are the devil's work, if you
ask me.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Ruby, Jade, and Pearl: Amen!</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Sapphire: Tell it, sister. Hallelujah! There shouldn't be all this computer stuff all over the place. It's evil, I
tell you. All these computers and genius phones and tablets and the
like. We don't know what's inside those things!</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Opal: Amen, sister! And now the manager
wants us to start emailing instead of calling her all the time. And
did y'all get the memo about scanning documents instead of bringing
them to the office? Lord have mercy!</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Jade: Amen. That woman needs an exorcist. And you know that snooty
Marsha up on the 5<sup>th</sup> floor? She drinks, you know. I see a wine bottle when she takes her trash out every week. Anyway, she just got one of those
gadgets that you tell it what to do and it answers you and does what you told it to.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Ruby: No! Why, that thing could murder
her in her sleep one of these nights. We ought to get up a petition
for the manager to ban all this evil stuff from the premises before
we all end up going to h-e-double hockey sticks. Let's join hands,
ladies. We've got some thinking, praying, and planning to do. </span></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-38496561411767952532023-05-24T10:00:00.000-04:002023-05-24T10:00:02.619-04:00Tick-Tock<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUEVxPe1UM5mst1A8ztyg0DDy3nbd0L5RjeWyxYpw_QeiewTE_CNgw_k6ohWRGwFtGGpCujZfO9A4BVSAty8BSu3IumZV2fiJldIFKXmjBvASmuQ8-IVE0u1TwCYC3FpjAcaZe9nhFB8cLXi_KIcseVou5z-kCBVQcpTChB2G5elY8NHuWA/s1280/clock.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="588" data-original-width="1280" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUEVxPe1UM5mst1A8ztyg0DDy3nbd0L5RjeWyxYpw_QeiewTE_CNgw_k6ohWRGwFtGGpCujZfO9A4BVSAty8BSu3IumZV2fiJldIFKXmjBvASmuQ8-IVE0u1TwCYC3FpjAcaZe9nhFB8cLXi_KIcseVou5z-kCBVQcpTChB2G5elY8NHuWA/w380-h227/clock.jpg" width="380" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>My go-to books are generally in the mystery/suspense, police procedural, and hard-boiled detective genres. But I also read a lot of dystopian fiction. Especially lately. <b>Is</b> it fiction, or is it a glimpse into the future? I kind of look at dystopian literature as tips and primers for when TSHTF. And it will, maybe this week or next, maybe in a year or two, maybe in a hundred years. Sure, it's fiction, but surviving is surviving, and the characters in these books figure out how to survive. Or die trying. Could be an asteroid, a nuclear event, a solar flare. Could be plagues, pestilence. Might be natural disasters or wars. There's no predicting. But it'll be a mess. We can predict that. People might band together since there's some semblance of safety in numbers. Until there isn't. They might go tribal. I know my tribe; that's good. And I know other tribes; maybe not so good. Will we all survive? Some of us? There's just no predicting.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I read a good bit of non-fiction as well, chiefly biographies of well known but deeply flawed public figures in an attempt to figure out what in the name of all that is holy makes them tick. It's fairly obvious to rational, reasonable people. Others tend to flock to them and venerate them as idols, martyrs, saviors... Sorry, I'm nowhere near desperate enough to prostrate myself at the feet of some puffed up movie star or politician or billionaire. I believe I'll continue thinking for myself and doing what I know is right for myself and those around me. I don't need to be told what to think by tarnished tin gods and demagogues. I know right when I see it, and I know what's wrong. I didn't start life as a fluffy little lamb so I already know.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">On the topic of post-apocalyptic novels, I highly recommend <i>Swan Song</i>, by Robert McCammon (1987). In my opinion, it's the best of its genre ever written, similar to Stephen King's <i>The Stand</i>, but perhaps better, and the "event" is nuclear rather than plague. I've worn out several hard copies over the years and now I have it on Kindle. I'll be re-reading again this Sumer and, as always, it'll be epic. <i>Lucifer's Hammer</i> by Jerry Pournelle & Larry Niven (1977) is another timeless TEOTWAWKI pick. The "Hammer" is a ... comet. Always good for a re-read.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNZT-79KUAnfUgf9yb6k39YQ-BtzroLIPYp5e6KY5-Zx8bD88xwcxQiLmts7R5C_MbFJ6L2WeY-eNTXwgHbl_i0zzbJtcSMqViWKiR3fP_QzLGU_Q4298GyNjn22lSMhEcE97Kcgaly6STbUhplPfMvJb66bY90gK1DzrTKvZQy4MbPZCbiA/s1920/end%20times.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1305" data-original-width="1920" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNZT-79KUAnfUgf9yb6k39YQ-BtzroLIPYp5e6KY5-Zx8bD88xwcxQiLmts7R5C_MbFJ6L2WeY-eNTXwgHbl_i0zzbJtcSMqViWKiR3fP_QzLGU_Q4298GyNjn22lSMhEcE97Kcgaly6STbUhplPfMvJb66bY90gK1DzrTKvZQy4MbPZCbiA/w408-h256/end%20times.jpg" width="408" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-22509103080805140512023-05-23T13:13:00.001-04:002023-05-23T13:15:16.514-04:00The Birthday Party<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Zyt9yP9epCEKtsqyFVhAf972tT_VjApBo75gXwXrMGWqQG7GeLQBKDnf-kOp4S-XNFPgSFwXtKZNhLHSMR1fcNY4oy6PPvIz94-W7P9O54mGORXK7LJOxQN8QeQ8hy3GHBzWKSyLE01i11M4a7MdfHUpWyoPFN669zVAawsgA0xGyi-Wsg/s6000/keep%20out.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Zyt9yP9epCEKtsqyFVhAf972tT_VjApBo75gXwXrMGWqQG7GeLQBKDnf-kOp4S-XNFPgSFwXtKZNhLHSMR1fcNY4oy6PPvIz94-W7P9O54mGORXK7LJOxQN8QeQ8hy3GHBzWKSyLE01i11M4a7MdfHUpWyoPFN669zVAawsgA0xGyi-Wsg/s320/keep%20out.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Neighbor Jessica recently had a
birthday. To celebrate, her kids threw her a catered party. Where? In
the complex's clubhouse. Who was invited? “Some” of her
neighbors; namely, 25 out of 40 in the building. Why? Well, when some
of the uninvited found out about the event and some asked questions,
Jessica's unapologetic response was that she was limited to 25
guests. All righty, then. That makes sense. It was her party and her
prerogative.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">What doesn't make sense is why on earth
she wouldn't choose a different venue for her party when the
clubhouse was in full view of everyone in the building. And she knew
she was only inviting the “in crowd,” i.e., those who subscribe
to certain views, opinions, and judgments. That is to say, hers. She had to know there were
going to be hurt feelings.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tacky, Jessica. Very not classy. And
weird. Which only goes to demonstrate why the building is nicknamed
Weirder Things.</p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-82406121365440125232023-05-10T16:13:00.000-04:002023-05-10T16:13:56.904-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Tc36ouyHGfCOtZ_muq3_euSIknIFeUhNEpJO9XWe23orXJwcEM3kLs2cecS2ND735uIo-o7wsvY469JdagU7MBHFTOjPJk45-5tLH2BbqZCtpFCWY_p9xJBUhWAaRVL6MVnfvxe5mtTI6xwve_0palHDYuloKDlQvpilXA8jn4SxuRhC6g/s1280/millenial.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="774" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Tc36ouyHGfCOtZ_muq3_euSIknIFeUhNEpJO9XWe23orXJwcEM3kLs2cecS2ND735uIo-o7wsvY469JdagU7MBHFTOjPJk45-5tLH2BbqZCtpFCWY_p9xJBUhWAaRVL6MVnfvxe5mtTI6xwve_0palHDYuloKDlQvpilXA8jn4SxuRhC6g/w160-h320/millenial.png" width="160" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Why do a lot of 20- and 30-somethings tend to treat older adults like children? Or puppy dogs? It's so disconcerting to go to the hairdresser or doctor's office or a store and have some young Pop-Tart call you sweetie or honey or dear. I'm not in my dotage. I'm not incapacitated, mentally or physically. I'm not in in need of any type of assistance. I can walk and talk at the same time. I have offered no hint whatsoever that I am impaired in any way.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">So, why do they persist in speaking in such a condescending manner to people a few decades older than they? Talking down to people is patronizing and, frankly, insulting. I am not their child, or their pet. It's too bad they're not <b>my</b> child. I'd yank out their earbuds, smack their hands, and send them to time out.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I will grant you that <i>some</i> older people can try one's patience. We all know them. They're the ones who are judgmental about the way anyone 50 years younger than them looks. The ones who'll ask impertinent questions of total strangers. The ones who'll tell you in a New York minute that your hair is too long or your skirt is too short. The ones who lament frequently that this, that, or the other simply "was not done in <b>my</b> day." It's annoying. Still, they're our elders. They know stuff. They've already experienced what we have yet to experience. Respect them. Call them by their surname with the appropriate Ms., Mrs., or Mr., or their first name if given permission to do so. Not ... honey, sweetie, or dear.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-60123903066057159262023-05-01T09:42:00.000-04:002023-05-01T09:42:00.962-04:00Civil Civics?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iJYu60FEuxI2rqGsyoii01mhpkSyJCZhiJIJyx_TKNAxvvp8QWpLbeVI8ktzZIX1FmX9FPjn25ftW_oF64DSYRcDvB-gNvNGLebCgeLmwm0qqd6t-KhkHTKmErJ-ieDGJ90QO6AyIev3jWhfcrxd589CyadGatoBzfh006sqVC-8x91tlQ/s1280/podium.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="703" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iJYu60FEuxI2rqGsyoii01mhpkSyJCZhiJIJyx_TKNAxvvp8QWpLbeVI8ktzZIX1FmX9FPjn25ftW_oF64DSYRcDvB-gNvNGLebCgeLmwm0qqd6t-KhkHTKmErJ-ieDGJ90QO6AyIev3jWhfcrxd589CyadGatoBzfh006sqVC-8x91tlQ/s320/podium.png" width="176" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Politics are on my mind these days. A lot. I would think they're on most thinking peoples' minds. In these times of divisiveness, civil unrest, and alternate reality, it had darn well better be.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">I know it's a <em><span><span><span style="font-style: normal;">naïve thought and will never happen in my lifetime, but shouldn't the 2-party political system be done away with? Seriously. Get rid of PACs and lobbyists and special interests and big money, candidates trashing each other, candidates creating public spectacles, yada yada. Parties can be fraught with special interests, personal agendas, self-importance, in-fighting, self-aggrandizing, and so on and so on. Pit two sides, each with a collective agenda, against each other and there is going to be fighting. Duh. It's Playground 101. That does the people and the country no good.</span></span></span></em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><em><span><span><span style="font-style: normal;">Why don't we just run <b>people</b>? Completely independent candidates who are considered the cream of the crop in their home districts -- calm, rational, reasonable, intelligent people of integrity and good character. Dilettantes, degenerates, too young, too old, thugs, narcissists in it for the power and glory, slaves to party power, charlatans, sleazeballs, zealots, criminals, whack jobs, and zombies need not apply. Just elect the best <b>people</b> for the job, party be damned.</span></span></span></em></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><em><span><span><span style="font-style: normal;">Of course, it's a pipe dream. But maybe, one of these days...</span></span></span></em></span></p><p><em><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></em></p><p><em><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></span></em></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-90964777071819394332023-04-29T19:36:00.000-04:002023-04-29T19:36:55.070-04:00"May" Be Almost Summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwS9vU0sSR8BiJVK2fjo4LCaw6Y6sxvo0QtWPK8wSIqfLOg9xWs13rrIvXrs2WDurLKlEtKWnTA6JYktgqywn18s25C1xYdPqCPxlUCPUQ9U5gR2A-nuSu7-X7eyl7yGu3PfmLBE2Q-VpfoFOnxXG11DSkxD_RZTK3lly0JsaU2JXayCYuw/s1280/May.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwS9vU0sSR8BiJVK2fjo4LCaw6Y6sxvo0QtWPK8wSIqfLOg9xWs13rrIvXrs2WDurLKlEtKWnTA6JYktgqywn18s25C1xYdPqCPxlUCPUQ9U5gR2A-nuSu7-X7eyl7yGu3PfmLBE2Q-VpfoFOnxXG11DSkxD_RZTK3lly0JsaU2JXayCYuw/s320/May.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">It's almost May,
which usually feels like the beginning of Summer. This year, who
knows? The weather, everywhere, is just ... wonky. Here in my neck of
the woods lately, it can be 90 degrees one day and 50 or 60 the next.
It can be sunny and pleasant in the morning and heavy rain and high
winds by dusk. It's crazy to have the AC on one day and heat the
next. At least we've been spared tornados, wildfires, superstorms, and blizzards.
We had no snow at all this past Winter. Also unusual. But I did almost miss Christmas. The day before Christmas Eve, the temperature dropped to 1 degree and the wind was howling at 60 mph. The power went out around 9:00 AM and stayed out for 27 hours. The temperature in my apartment steadily dropped throughout the day and into the night. I think that may have been the most miserable night I've ever spent in my life. I had plenty of battery powered lights and candles, but it was so COLD. Christmas Eve morning, I was preparing to head out to a hotel, assuming I could find one with both power and a vacancy, when the power came back around noon. I never want to do that again!</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Flowers are up now, the
trees are green, and birds are singing and chit-chatting and gossiping
all day long. I love to hear the songbirds, but the crows... They
sound like they're mad at the world and revving up to do something
about it. Squirrels are chattering and all kinds of little creatures
are out running around, but I don't think they're plotting anything.
Big creatures are out, too, like bears and coyotes. I myself haven't
seen a coyote but I hear about sightings all the time. The bears are
always making guerilla raids on peoples' trash but, likewise, I
haven't seen one. I'd probably need some dry pants if I did.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">May is my birth
month, and that of a number of my friends, relatives, and neighbors.
Lots of Geminis running around. If you know us, you either embrace us
and our many moods or you run the other way. Memorial Day at the end
of May used to signal the first beach trip of the Summer, though I
don't do that much any more. It's the beginning of barbecue and
outdoor activities season. This year, it could snow in July. Nothing
would surprise me, not any more. Any time I think I've seen it all,
I'm just kidding myself. I'm pretty sure there's much more weirdness to come.</span></p><br /><p></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-61021923483438216922023-04-25T11:44:00.000-04:002023-04-25T11:44:16.769-04:00Apartment House Telephone Game<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpKsYHEvRz0snLoqrm2x_fB7Y5d1jn0vX0x5t9awVMiI4QATKrQ6xpWUm0wVTiYe1k1Co9kILmgssePWokqoscGAwhPyjW99PO30OjA-gPPSLaYMUvWZhVPfRVBBbpMuprZ2cLcRhbQk38T9Qi9_pcpUoc5DZpSQjE1cSXycKqTqTLw1AIRw/s1920/Phone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpKsYHEvRz0snLoqrm2x_fB7Y5d1jn0vX0x5t9awVMiI4QATKrQ6xpWUm0wVTiYe1k1Co9kILmgssePWokqoscGAwhPyjW99PO30OjA-gPPSLaYMUvWZhVPfRVBBbpMuprZ2cLcRhbQk38T9Qi9_pcpUoc5DZpSQjE1cSXycKqTqTLw1AIRw/s320/Phone.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;">Do you remember the old "telephone" game? They play that a lot in my apartment building. Here's how a typical round might play out.</span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Loretta to Prudence: Going to the doctor tomorrow to get this cyst on the back of my neck removed, but don't tell anybody. I don't want people worrying about me and making a big to-do about it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Prudence to Nora: Don't tell anybody but Loretta's got a lump on her neck!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Nora to Crystal: My Lord, did you hear about Loretta? She's got a tumor on the back of her head.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Crystal to Minnie Sue: We need to get a prayer chain going for Loretta. She's having brain surgery today and they say she might not make it!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Minnie Sue to Margot: Honey, call your preacher and get him over here to pray over Loretta. She has a brain tumor. But tell him not to bring the snakes. Remember how everybody ran screaming over that little ol' green snake on the sidewalk last summer? Like to have given everybody a stroke!</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Margot to Otto: Loretta done had a stroke when a snake bit her and now she's got the brain cancer.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Otto to Darwin: Good God, this place is a death trap. Now poor old Loretta's dying. I hear she's got cancer and now she's had a stroke or an aneurysm or something. It don't look good.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Darwin to Lana: Have you heard about Loretta? She's eaten up with cancer and now it's in her brain. And if that wasn't bad enough, she had a heart attack. Or maybe it was a stroke. Either way, looks like she doesn't have much time left.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Lana to Larry: Better say your goodbyes to Loretta, she's probably dying. Who knows if she'll even make it back home today.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Larry, the Village Idiot of the Complex: Loretta is dead! Oh, my God! Oh, this is awful! But don't worry, I'll get to the bottom of it. I knew somebody was after her and I've been investigating. I'm on the case and I'll find out who killed her! Oh, and I get her big screen TV.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">About that time, Loretta walks through the door with a Band-Aid on the back of her neck and cannot comprehend the sudden gasps and shrieks, some folks rushing forward to hug her, others backing away in horror from Loretta the walking dead.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28555288.post-16524297576826674612023-04-24T12:35:00.000-04:002023-04-24T12:35:17.308-04:00Ribbit!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcuk4Sk_Qg4_hZOvN0yUjbxIYqvknli-6iIqyePYMfnCK9fhXp2h5uOJX05eAPGVW-qtOx_XMByl6t_mPof4sv9dz6wOk2nJm6QB6T8sAxG3QcdN1NA5pSpYVyUGAeToIPhITgSIv3HsLR4xoDQ1-VkgB2gnqrwNqsfsR3YYui5kFfOcEBg/s1280/frog.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="913" data-original-width="1280" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcuk4Sk_Qg4_hZOvN0yUjbxIYqvknli-6iIqyePYMfnCK9fhXp2h5uOJX05eAPGVW-qtOx_XMByl6t_mPof4sv9dz6wOk2nJm6QB6T8sAxG3QcdN1NA5pSpYVyUGAeToIPhITgSIv3HsLR4xoDQ1-VkgB2gnqrwNqsfsR3YYui5kFfOcEBg/s320/frog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span>I like frogs. I used to collect them. Not live ones, of course. Now my collection is down to 2, one crystal and one green glass. I love to hear the little things yacking away in their little froggie language. Some people find the noise annoying, but I like it.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">They're strange little creatures, aren't they? Vaguely prehistoric looking. But so cute. They come in all manner of sizes and colors. I'm partial to the small green ones, anything but toads.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><span>Frogs do NOT turn into princes, trust me. If that were true, we'd all be out kissing frogs all day long. Although, I can't prove that. I've never kissed one. I'll talk to them, but kissing is off the table. Besides, who needs a prince? History regales us with tales of the misdeeds and mayhem of princes. Princes and presidents, kings and emperors, dictators and </span>ayatollahs, pontiffs and pretenders have led nations to ruin. The U.S. has never had a monarch, not for lack of trying by various and sundry power hungry wannabes. We've never coronated any of them. Yet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: medium;">If we're ever going to crown a king or queen, I nominate a nice plump green frog. They're way less trouble. And cheap to maintain. Give a frog a pond, a lily pad, and all the bugs he can eat and he's perfectly content. Leave a frog alone and he'll leave you alone. How many leaders can you say that about? It'll be a Ribbit Rebellion.</span></p>Serenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00798532682456165053noreply@blogger.com0