A Meme by Any Other Name Would Smell as Sweet

Colleen asked me to do a meme the other day, and I normally don't respond to these types of things (most memes seem a bit on the lame side), but since this meme dealt with writing, I decided to participate. Musing Woman actually started the meme, and I will have to admit, it seems a bit clever.

Oh, and part of the reason I like this is that it deals with strengths. The other day, I saw a bunch of videos concerning "Favorite People", and most of the videos had people saying, "Nope, I am nobody's favorite." That seemed sad, and I did not explain why in the blog entry. Sure, kids are getting patted on the back for doing substandard stuff, but most of us don't focus on our strengths.

Anyway, the meme concerns listing five strengths in our writing:

1. I observe the world. I really like observing others, asking what makes them tick. Or wondering what makes people tick. I enjoy telling other people's stories.

2. I understand grammar and break the rules on purpose. Doesn't sound like a big deal, but I understand about nouns, verbs, pronouns, capitalizations, comma faults, dangling participles and the like. Now I don't always follow the rules, but I know most of them and follow them often. Sometimes following the rules interrupts thoughts and ideas. Then I break the rules. The first speeding ticket I ever got I had no idea I was speeding. Sort of sucked. I mean, I want to know when I am breaking the rules – and speeding without the joy of knowing I was a bad-ass, was less thrilling for me. Same goes with writing.

3. I love analogies. I think in terms of making connections. And when I explain something, I often use analogies to explain myself. That way, I can use fewer words, or more vivid images, to convey my point. Hopefully, this strategy also gives the reader a way of remembering when he or she has read in the future.

4. I have been told I have a good voice as a writer. Some people enjoy reading my stuff because it seems familiar, like long conversations at the end of a party when you are cleaning up. My writing style is not terribly structured and formal, and people can follow what I am trying to say. Well, most of the time.

5. I love adjectives, but I don't let them get in the way of a good paragraph. Have you ever read something that was hindered by the use of excessive adjectives? The blatant and obfuscatory misuse of adjectives tends to elongate and complicate rather simple sentences and ideas. I have a thesaurus, but I don't really think my readers appreciate having to figure out long and complicated sentences or go to a dictionary twice in the same paragraph.

Okay, this was a fairly straightforward post. There were a lot of strengths that I did not mention, partly because it would have turned this meme into a humorous piece. I could have said the following:

1. I write a lot about lesbians, and lesbians are so "in" right now. I hope this does not offend, really. I guess I really think a lot about lesbianism. And it shows in my writing.

2. I went through a slutty period, and let's face it, sex sells. If I look at my blog entries, people like when I talk about more sexual issues. Who would have thought? But if you are not Marquis de Sade or D. H. Lawrence, people who write about sex are normally not good writers.

3. I masterfully use Google. You can be an expert on anything if you know how to use Google. I mean, take it from me, Google is making "know-it-alls" out of a lot of people who would normally be of average intelligence. And those who know SQL are "gods". Well, that was a little bit over the top.

4. I don't like saying the "P-word" and guys think that's cute. I also don't curse all that often, and it gives my writing a bit of freshness. I just don't want to be accused of having potty mouth.

5. I don't plagiarize because I can't remember anything I read. Actually, there are some really successful people who plagiarize. Well, they are less successful once they get caught.

6. I know when to stop writing. Crap, this post is too long.

They Call Me Mrs Tibbs

The Mrs.
Last week, my husband referred to me as "The Mrs." This is the first time he ever referred to me in this way. As soon as he did it, however, he knew it was a mistake. His buddy, on seeing my stare, simply said, "If looks could kill." Yeah, I was a bit pissed.

I sort of thought I was in a 1950's Black and White Situation Comedy. San apron.

Miss
After my freshman year in college, I came back to work a summer job. With all summer jobs, I seemed to have a lot of free time. I went to a movie with some friends, and while I cannot remember the movie, I can remember purchasing the tickets. You see, the girl who sold me the ticket called me "Miss." That was the first time someone called me that. I was 19 and felt 29. Er, not really what I wanted to feel at the time.

Lady
Another summer-time memory.

I was finished with school, working an "entry level job." It was the summer, and I was laying out at a public pool.

The sun was hot, I had my shades on and tanning lotion. Not sun screen (which now is all that I wear). I was laying out, my book under the reclined patio furniture, and I was just half-thinking and half-listening to my surroundings.

In such a state, it is amazing what you can hear. You can eavesdrop on conversations from across the pool at times is there are not too many people in the pool playing loud games, that is. And sometimes, when there is chatter, it is actually easier to listen to conversations.

Well, there were two teenage boys sitting and talking about the girls and women they were watching. One would ask about one by describing her suit and or location, and the other would rate the woman. Sort of a beauty pageant without the talent competition and sashes with locations written on them.

I don't remember my rating (okay, an 8, but there were several 9s near me), but I do remember one saying something about "that lady." I am in my mid-twenties and have already been labeled a lady. Woman sounds so much younger than lady, though that categorization no longer bothers me.

Mrs.
When I was in school, I thought I would have never wanted to be called Mrs. So-and so. For the title of this blog entry, I chose to use Mrs. Tibbs (I have never seen In the Heat of the Night, but I have always liked Sidney Poitier).

But you know, I felt a bit like a grown-up when called Mrs. Tibbs. I felt like I was not a kid anymore, but I did not feel old. You can be married and be sexy. You can be married and be young. Words have a certain aura about them, and I have never really been bothered by Mrs. Miss and lady, when I first heard them, were a shock. And I would have never guessed that.

I Got Nuthin'

Okay, this is sort of a lame post (well, I am still working on it, making it, hopefully, less lame). I started writing this post earlier this month, and for some reason, I never finished it. But you see, I had a wonderful long weekend, and I have almost nothing today. And, yes, I do see the irony in the post today.

I was reading the Peanut Queen's blog the other day, and she said something about not having anything to say – you know, when you're all blocked up.

When I have writer's block, I sort of make my best posts. You see, even with writer's block, I have plenty to say. I just take off my "this has to be good stuff" filter, and just write. The writing could be really bad. Or it could be about a cum stain I saw on my floral bedspread this morning. But you know, before you realize it, there are words appearing on the word processor, my fingers are typing away, and I am writing.

Now, gentle readers, I am a bit concerned with you. I mean, it may not be interesting talking about the smell of pee after eating certain vegetables. But you know, as I type, the words flow, the counter registers another word, and the writer's block is no more.

One of my favorite movies is Finding Forrester – to see Jamal Wallace's struggle to find his voice, polish his writing, as Prof. Robert Crawford¹ tries to place obstacles in his path.

William Forrester, the fictional author in the movie, says to Jamil, "No thinking - that comes later. You must write your first draft with your heart. You rewrite with your head. The first key to writing is ... to write, not to think!"

When I have writer's block, I just take off the old filter, and then I don't have writer's block. Then I have the crappy post problem. What to do with that, I have no idea. Except don't listen to the comments.

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¹Played by F. Murray Abraham; I love that this actor is the nemesis for both Jamal's character and Mozart's in Amadeus.

Urban Dictionary

For the truly clueless (that's me, folks), someone has a new (or old) Urban Dictionary.

Actually, when I started blogging, I remember using the Urban Dictionary (September 2005) because there was a blogger who I read who made reference to all sorts of things. Her screen name was Lorali Gilmore, yeah, not incredibly interesting, but neither is my screen name. I would use the Urban Dictionary about once every four or so posts with her, the first of which was "rusty trombone." Now that I think about it, perhaps she was looking up words in here and simply fitting her posts to fit the dictionary.

I don't use the Urban Dictionary much, actually, but I think the idea is cool. Very Web 2.0, where everybody puts in their definitions.

Anyway, someone was talking about dingleberries the other day, and I thought to myself, "This does not sound like a discussion of the Vaccinium erythrocarpum, otherwise known as the southern mountain cranberry. I looked it up in the Urban Dictionary, and after disinfecting my fingers, I gagged again.

Did I mention that the Urban Dictionary has a lot of fecal references? It does.

Think "rusty trombone." Think (all of these are new to me, thank god) "dirty sanchez". Think "alabama hot pocket". Think "detroit stir fry". Think "cleveland steamer".

Thanks, Urban Dictionary, for really ruining my appetite. This leads me to a side-note: what is the big deal with having sex and feces so intertwined? I really don't get this. Perhaps due to my OCD.

Getting back to the non-fecal part of this post, I have noticed a lot of letters thrown together to mean things. Perhaps this has to do with typing with one's thumbs while wheedling a sidekick. Oh, and I did not know what a sidekick was until watching The Resident recently.

Even BFF is after my time. In the 80s, there were few things "in code" so our parents did not understand us. Now, I don't know about all of these letters. But thanks to the Urban Dictionary, I can figure some of this out. All I have to do is ensure I am avoiding feces.

Phrases I Hate

There are certain words or phrases that really bug me.

"I wrote this to tell you I am alive."
When you start a letter or a blog and state that the reason is to tell you that you are alive, you are sort of stating the obvious. When I see a blog entry or letter from someone, I assume they are alive at the time of the letter. Makes sense?

Please, if you are dead and writing me, tell me that you are dead. That is so much more impressive. And it needs to be stated because it is generally assumed that one is alive when writing.

"Do you know how fast you were going?"
When a policeman says this, well, I learned from my defensive driving class, you don't say a think. The police officer wants you to admit to speeding. Me, before this class, thought it was some sort of contest.

Leesa: Sir, I was going 82.4 miles per hour. How close was I?

Wrong approach.

"I have nothing to say."
I have read many bloggers that blog about not being able to write. And I have done it as well. In fact, I am probably going to do it soon (hint). But you know, I think the reason people do it is that they feel compelled to write on some interval, and then they can't do it. I don't like the phrase, but I can understand the need for it. It is sort of like a long "hmmm" with many more words and punctuation.

"Did you watch _____ last night."
I don't hate this because I think television is evil. I like to be included in conversations, and when people are talking about television, unless they are talking "Wonder Years", "Happy Days" or "MASH", I am in over my head, completely left out because I don't watch television. I just feel inferior because I don't know who was kicked off American Idol last week, who is dancing with the stars, and who got laid or shot by one of the Desperate Housewives. And I don't like feeling inferior.

"Ooops. The condom broke."
Just joking. Never happened to me, but that would really suck.

That's Not What I Said

People misunderstand things all of the time.

John Lennon of The Beatles: "We're more popular than Jesus now."
Well, John Lennon did say this, but I am not sure that was the point of the statement. Actually, later, John Lennon did say, with regards to his statement, "I should have said television was more popular than Jesus, then I might have got away with it...." His statement had as much to do with Christianity not being as popular as it once was than anything else. The whole line was, "Christianity will go. It will vanish and shrink. I needn't argue with that; I'm right and I will be proved right. We're more popular than Jesus now; I don't know which will go first - rock 'n' roll or Christianity. Jesus was all right but his disciples were thick and ordinary. It's them twisting it that ruins it for me"

Casablanca line: "Play it again, Sam."
"Play it again, Sam" was a line never spoken by Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca to Dooley Wilson (playing Sam, the nightclub pianist). Oh, and the song to be played again: As Time Goes By. What Bogart actually said: "You played it for her, you can play it for me...If she can stand it, I can. Play it!" Ingrid Bergman said, "Play it once, Sam."

Murphy's Law: "Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong."
Edward Murphy gave his name to Murphy's Law. Murphy's Law is really a design principle: if something can be done in more than one way, somebody will eventually do it. It is about designing things defensively, knowing that people will use these inventions in unanticipated ways. That's sort of the trick with beta testing a product – users hit keys they should not hit, they add peripherals they should not add, they should do lots of things they should not do.

Personally, I think Murphy's Law was named to take credit for the much older Sod's Law: "Toast will always land butter side down." Americans (myself included) cannot afford to give the British credit for anything.

Sometimes when I talk, I am exact. But even being exact, I am misunderstood. Some people would call this a "you problem", but, personal communication is two-way. Both parties are in partnership in order to ensure the message is received and understood as it is intended.

John Lennon wanted to talk about religion, and his bold statement affected what was heard (shock jocks, beware). With the Casablanca quote, I think the line was cleaned up (and the Marx Brothers' parody A Night in Casablanca did not help matters). And for Murphy's Law, we just apply one phrase, and change it to meet our needs. Sort of like Christians and the Bible.

You say ghoughphtheightteeau; I say potato

I was reading a blog entry from Tai "Victoria, CA". When I saw the "CA" I immediately thought "California", but since the blog entry had to do with English, I figured she was British. And sure enough, she is from Canada. I think Canada is a province of Ireland. Something like that. I wrote notes to cute guys when I took World History (I was 15; give me a break, I never thought I would have to use these facts). I have not asked her about this, but my gut tells me that as long as I don't confuse her with the Scots, I am okay.

Anyway, her blog entry was really good, and since I really don't want to compete with the British Bitch¹, I will summarize what she said:

Ghoti is the new fish.

Ghoti = fish

laugh = f
women = i
fiction = sh

How is ANYONE supposed to figure this stuff out!?!

She went on to say something about grammar, and I sort of skimmed over that part. I of course responded by saying something like, "hey guys, come over to my site and look at my titties." Yeah, I was looking for blog traffic. Kidding. I mentioned another oft-repeated example:

Ghoughphtheightteeau = potato

Hiccough = gh has the p sound
Dough = ough had the o sound
Phthisis = phth has the t sound
Neighbour = eigh has the a sound
Gazette = tte has the t sound
Plateau = eau has the o sound

I think the ghoti word has been attributed George Bernard Shaw as a way of him bedding smart, full-bosomed women. This, of course is false, not because smart women can't have big boobs², but because someone else probably had this idea first.

What gets me, however, is the word "moot". Not the spelling, but the meaning. From one source, here are the definitions: (1) of little or no practical value, meaning, or consequence. (2) subject to discussion or argument. (3) doubtful, theoretical, or hypothetical. (4) in law, an issue previously clarified by earlier cases or decisions of the court.

Most of us use the word for definition 1, like when we say, "Prata, don't you know, that is a moot point." So we are basically telling Prata that his point has little or no practical value (not that I would ever do that in real life). But the second definition is just about the opposite, because it is subject to discussion or argument (meaning it is not an insignificant thing). Most of us don't know why there are two definitions so different, but here is what one site said:

Let's begin at the beginning. "Moot" comes from the Old English word "mot," meaning "meeting," also found in "witenagemot" ("meeting of wise men"), the name of the Anglo-Saxon parliament. Since meetings of any kind are no fun without a good argument, "moot" as an adjective came to mean "open to debate" or "undecided" by the 16th century. This is the original sense of the word, and was applied to actions at law as well -- a case in court was known as a "moot."

What happened then was that law students began to practice their skills by re-arguing real cases in practice courts -- what are today still called "moot courts" in law schools. Since the cases the students argued were, for the most part, already decided in the real world, such sessions and the results therein were "moot" -- for the sake of argument only, having no real significance. This "no real significance" sense of moot has gradually overtaken the original sense, and today "moot" is generally used as a synonym for "settled" or "irrelevant."

For those who were thinking of breasts instead of reading what I placed in italics, basically it said we should blame lawyers. And I can live with that.

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¹I only cursed because it was darned fine alliteration. I adore ample alliteration.
²Shakira is supposed to be a genius. I am not sure if she has big boobs, but if she does, this would support my point.

Media Thoughts

Superbowl HD TV
I watched the Superbowl on Sunday. First game I have watched in years. Well, I have watched the game for years, but mostly to see the half time show or the commercials. This year, I actually watched some of the game, and this is what struck me: the game was broadcast in HD TV, and half the shots seemed to be obscured and blurred by rain. Now, I would hate to have a 56 inch television, all of the HD connections to have a crisp picture, and then get an obscured picture because the camera guys at CBS were not cleaning their lenses. Or maybe they did clean them, and the blurriness was from them cleaning them. It just made me laugh.

TV Dumb
I am TV dumb. I heard an advertisement for a new television. I could tell it was a good one, but there were three several letter acronyms that were foreign to me. In short, the add fell short because I didn't know what they were selling. I have a normal television – no cable, no satellite, just good ol' rabbit ears. When I am at a friend's house with his/her entertainment center, I don't know how to turn it on. I don't know how to pause television. At first, I did not know it was possible to pause television. So I am officially too dumb to watch television anymore. A sad state for me.

Pirates of the Caribbean
In the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, Captain Jack was turned into an undead (or whatever it is called) after he stole a piece of Aztec gold. The question I always had was, "Why didn't Elizabeth suffer the same fate?" She stole the gold. Makes no sense to me.

Dr. Doolittle
Dr. Doolittle, the original movie, not the Eddie Murphy remake which I did not see. In it, there is a scene with a fox. I can't remember what happened in the scene, but it looks like the fox was actually a real fox which was stuffed. It always disturbed me that one of the props may have been a stuffed fox, yet the movie was about a guy who loved animals. There were inconsistencies in moral viewpoints, if nothing else.

Star Wars
When I watched Star Wars, I thought that was the name of the movie. Now it is "A New Hope." Or some people call it Star Wars IV. I am not sure there was a roman numeral when it first came out. As I recall, there was a movie that came out, must have been ten years ago – something like "The Maddening of King Richard III." Okay, it may not have been Richard III; it could have been Henry III. Anyway, they changed the name of the movie before releasing it, because, in part, they were worried people would think it was a sequel and not see it because they did not see the first two parts.

Back to Star Wars. I can't show inconsistencies in Star Wars, not because they don't exist, but because I can't see any. But I have seen a list somewhere. And there were loads of them. I am sure the same can be said of the Harry Potter series. If you have rabid fans, you get people who look frame-by-frame. Remember the word "sex" in the clouds for The Lion King (I don't remember what scene and never saw it, but plenty of people did). Same thing.

Poe Tricks
Hidden meanings have been around for centuries. In two of Edgar Allen Poe's later poems, "A Valentine" and "An Enigma", you can find hidden names by reading the first letter of line 1, second letter of line 2, and so on (you cannot do this with what is on the web, as the spacing for the lines has changed). "A Valentine" spells the name of Frances Sargent Osgood, while "An Enigma" spells Sarah Anna Lewis, both poets whose work Poe reviewed. "A Valentine" contains the line: "Search well the measure- The words- the syllables!" And "An Enigma" ends with "Of the dear names that lie concealed within."

Top Yahoo Searches
I know Google beats Yahoo, not only for their willingness to repress the Chinese, but also because the search features are way cooler. But here is Yahoo's top ten "celebrity searches":

1. Britney Spears
2. WWE
3. Shakira
4. Jessica Simpson
5. Paris Hilton
6. American Idol
7. Beyonce Knowles
8. Chris Brown
9. Pamela Anderson
10. Lindsay Lohan

I did not know what WWE was – I thought it was a person. It is wrestling. And I did not know Chris Brown – there are a lot of Chris Browns, actually. I am guessing this is the R&B star, but perhaps he was helped by the cornerback (that is a type of football player).

Respecting Authors

Want-to-be Author on YouTube
As you know, I am sort of addicted to YouTube. The other day, I saw a video by crossmack. I think he is a fairly popular YouTube vlogger. But the other day, he said he wanted to "publish a book". And he was looking for someone to go through his videos and write down his thoughts and put them in a book. I wonder if he is really looking for a ghost writer for his thoughts.

I do not subscribe to the guy, but he is sort of funny. Not funny in a good way, though. I saw another one of his videos where he said that text was 1% of communication, and if he really believes this, why want to publish a book. I am so confused.

What pisses me off, I guess, is that crossmack does not respect authorship. Respect people who write. I like listening to the videos on YouTube, but I would never want to produce a video. I have had to put some stuff together for work once, and it was a pain in the butt for two minutes of music and video. And you know, it sort of looked crappy as well. But writing; I love reading, and most readers want to write as well. Some do, I guess. I should not say most.

Lunch with an author or two
I have met a few authors. One was a one-time author, and I read her book. She did a great start of the book, but about one-third of the way through it, it was as if she lost some steam. Her words were not as crisp; her language not as descriptive. That would be me.

And I have met one famous author. He was so incredibly smart. Incredibly smart, and gracious. I had lunch with him, and it was such a treat (friend of a friend knew him before he was famous).

Come to think of it; I had lunch with both authors. I wonder if published authors "do lunch" a lot. If that is the case, perhaps I don't want to be a published author. I don't like eating with people I don't know well because I have to mind my manners and I eat far less than I normally want to eat with strangers. I guess with that, I could do lots of lunches, because I would always be hungry.

Want-to-be Author Leesa
Every couple of months, I wonder if I will start my first book. I have done a little bit of research, and most novels are at least 80,000 words. Let's say one of my entries is about 500 words (just a guess). I do about 200 posts per year, and if I carry the – whatever – it comes to about 100,000 words. Well, all of these are estimates, but if this is the case, it would take me about one year to write a book. Charles Dickens wrote "A Christmas Carol" in about 45 days (but lets face it, he is brilliant), and most authors seem to take two to four months to go from start to finish on a product. Holy crap, that's how fast I would like to write a novel. But you know, my attention-span is like 2 minutes, and I have read my tripe, and anything more than 2 minutes and I can't sustain it.

As I am writing this, I am listening to a vlogger, and he makes the same point I just made. Now that tells me that I am not very original. And who wants to buy a book that contains thoughts that any ol' vlogger can think of? Surely not me!

Book Bins
Sometimes I go to bookstores and look through the bargain book bins. And I don't do it to save money; that is an added bonus. I do it because I like to think about these authors. Their works did not, for the most part, find a wide audience, and I wonder what they are doing. How they are feeling. Is this book that is marked down to 99 cents (and I hate when it looks like 0.99¢ because technically, that is less than one penny) the result of years of work, tiring editing, blood-sweat-tears. Will these books be ground up, forgotten in the annals of time? Often, for that dollar or so, I will purchase the book, place it on my shelf, and in the deep hours of the night, read the book. Many times, the books should be in the bargain bins. The plot sucks, or the editing does not reflect said blood-sweat-tears. I don't want to be the author of such a book, and part of me knows that if I write something without forethought, that's the type of book I will write. That scares me.

Crap, I have revealed too much. Back to work, you guys. Nothing to see here.

Randomness Friday

What a Load of Crap

Okay, people, repeat after me, "What a load of crap." I think people need to get comfortable with that saying. Again, "What a load of crap."

I really wish people would say that phrase more often. Case in point:

The other day, I was on YouTube, and there was this boyfriend-girlfriend LVOG. And the guy was so annoying. He was saying things like, "I am not annoying you. You are choosing to be annoyed."

Okay, girlfriend, repeat after me, "What a load of crap." And if you want to vary the saying up a bit, you can try, "What a load of psycho-bullcrap."

I remember when I was seven years old, traveling with my family across several states. My sister would invade "my side of the car" and place her arm on my arm. She did this to piss me off, and well, it pissed me off. Mission-freaking-accomplished. And in today's age, a psychologist would say, "Leesa, you are allowing your sister to upset you." And all I can think, and could have thought at the time is that my sister is a pain in my ass. And when I was seven, I had a very tiny ass – and like the princess and the pea, even a little annoyance was felt by my little ass.

Now, I don't hate my sister. Well, not for what she did when she was five, but the point is that when people are saying, "I am not annoying. You are choosing your reaction to my stimulus." Please. Sometimes you are just annoying. And when someone is just excusing their own actions, not taking any credit for them, and blaming the person who is the target of said annoyance. Psycho-babble.

Grammar
When I was in school, we talked about words that sounded alike that are spelled differently. Remember, (1) to, (2) too, and (3) two? I remember learning about the differences for years. Years! But there are two words that are one letter different: fiancé and fiancée. And I think the words sound alike as well, but the words are critically different. One of these words includes a penis that seems to always be on the go, and I have a clever way of telling the two words apart. The word that includes the penis is a tad longer. And we all notice penises that are a tad longer. Maybe that's why we never learned this in school. The memory technique is dirty.
Additional Note:I had actually checked out some site to make sure I was right, and I read the definitions wrong. I googled fiancée, and it said, "The first is male, the second female." I thought it meant that fiancée was male and fiancé was female (sort of the opposite of what I thought, but I was not sure). Since I googled it, I assumed the first was the term I googled and it wasn't. So this argument holds no water. I am keeping it simply because it deals with penises.

Pandora
Okay, I am usually the last person in Georgia to hear about anything new, but do you know about Pandora? It is this music site where you basically create your own radio station by telling the website what songs/artists you like.

Okay, it is too much work for me to really spend time on, but I wonder why would you buy music after some sites are giving music out for free. My guess is that you hear it on here, and you buy it. But why buy the cow when you get the milk for free?

Then there is this Yahoo Video, where you can watch free videos. By the way, I like Stacie Orrico, and I do not know who the heck she really is. Okay, I just figured out that Yahoo is charging $6.00/month. Even before this, I am moving from Yahoo to Google. Did I say that out loud? But I was able to see Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" video. I love that song. Shakira is smart, I love the way she sings, she is pretty. A girl crush. Damn. Well, this is the "extra post" for Friday. For those of you who don't care for YouTube.

Please notice the other post below (two for Friday this time).

Creativity and Bald Cats

I have no thoughts today – really. You know, I am so glad that breathing does not involve the cognitive functions of the brain, for if it did, I would have passed out two minutes ago.

I read a comment this morning which I absolutely love. Mal wrote:

we did not have fetal pigs...we had bald cats...or as one wag put it "shaved pussys"

I have done a great deal of technical writing over the years. My work is concise, clear, broadly understandable and boring as hell. It is not creative and it has actually stifled my attempts at creative fiction. I am so good at it that I think I understand what "muscle bound" really means and feels like.

Okay, the bald pussies were not where I was going. I wanted to talk about being muscle-bound. Now, I don't have many muscles – or at least reasonably developed muscles. I heard this week that woman weight lifters have an extremely hard time becoming pregnant and carrying a baby to term because of strong abdominal (or if you are a postal carrier reading this, "tummy") muscles. I am not against a good workout, but too much structure has side effects.

The same may be true in other areas. I talked a little bit about creativity yesterday. Some probably thought it was a veiled attempt at contacting my muse. Perhaps. But I really appreciate creativity. I see books or blogs and love when I find creative ideas. A different way of looking at things, or the turn of a phrase.

I have not been reading other people's blogs much lately. Sort of burned last week, you know, but I always enjoy finding a wonderful phrase. One of my favorite bloggers of all time – Ddot. He always has a gem nestled in his entries.

One of the lines that I saw him use recently, is actually the tag line for Post Expression: "Death ends a life, not a relationship."

Post Expression is a website that sends messages from you to others after you die. Sounds a bit creepy to me, but I love the tag line. Those of us who loose loved ones continue a relationship after death; I can see that.

Back to creativity – I think we should revel in creativity, but not randomness. There is a difference, one of those things that is hard to explain, but you know when you see it. Creativity is not just good, original writing. I have seen creative furniture, creative car design, and creative iPod accessories.

Tomorrow, I may write about creative voting practices. Now that is an interesting idea! I am sure you would rather me talk about that than bald pussies!

Public verses Private

Several things have occurred to me recently, and many of them are about our public verses our private lives. Let me explain some of the reasons for pondering this.

Ian said this on my comments yesterday: "And, even though Rob and Laura slept on twin beds, Rob once asked Laura, mid-afternoon, if she'd like to go and "rest." Subtle, but to the point. So, we know Rob and Laura had sex."

Okay, people, I was not thinking of having sex with Dick Van Dyke. I find it interesting that his name is not fodder for jokes, but as I just typed it, well, lets move on. I was thinking that even on sit-coms, there were "private moments." Not everything was out-in-the-public. Sure, for media outlets, it makes financial sense for there to be avenues that are no-holds-bar. Is that the phrase?

At work yesterday, a co-worker announced to the group (men and woman, different ages, backgrounds, etc.) that "I had the best sex last night." Er, we really did not want to know about it. And I am not just talking about sex.

I really don't care to hear about medical operations or unusual discharges. And I don't know what the big deal about the color of a baby's poop really is. Such a lovely shade of green, I was told once. Now, I will admit, without the personal knowledge of having children, perhaps something goes off in your brain, and when an infant "performs" in the pooping sense, perhaps that is a victory of sorts. I can understand pooping in the potty, or peeing in the potty, especially for the spraying little male cherubs, but for the color of an infant's poop. It is not like the infant thought, "I have an idea. I think I will poop green today."

Four, maybe five people I keep up with blogging have changed the URLs to their sites recently. Some of it is them wanting to do something different, but part of it is that "someone has found my site." That also reminded me of privacy.

If anyone ever found out who I am, I think I would disappear. So I use an older photo and blur it. Luckily most people who know me either can't read or don't read blogs.

There are some positives about having things more public. I think things like abuse are now more in the light; people can find each other and heal. And I have, on occasions, shared deeply personal things with friends because I thought that offering would help them heal from something they were going through at the time.

Past generations were a bit more discrete. I can remember finding out really BIG things when I was in college – Great Granny So-and-So killed herself? Why did someone not tell me about this before? Aunt So-and-So had breast cancer? Hey, I am family too! Why did you not tell me earlier? I am not really saying putting things out in the public are good or bad – guess part of it is a matter of taste. Just don't tell me about your gall bladder operation or that discharge that is puzzling you. Because not only is it not really my business, but I don't want to know.

PS: If you have slept with anyone famous, I will say I don't want to know, but I want the blow-by-blow (so to speak) details. Honest!

Does Beta mean "Warning" in Latin?

I saw something the other day: "Sign into Blogger in Beta." I don't like beta at all. Beta to me means, "please spend your time being an unpaid guinea pig so we don't have to pay skilled people to work the kinks out." Now I know that hundreds of really stupid people (me) clicking on what I am not supposed to click on, using the software in unintended ways is hard to pay someone to do. I have been told that hundreds of people throughout the United States show up to ER's throughout the nation with light bulbs up their asses. Who would have thought of putting fragile glass in one's orifices? I mean, in America we do stupid creatively.

So anyway, I see this beta button on Blogger and it scares the crap out of me. It really does. I can see pressing a button that completely erases my blog. One day. No blog. Of course I have been absent lately so maybe I can reclaim some time.

Beta seems to be a bad word. When I was younger, I remember the Betamax and VCR debate (Beta vs VCR, really). Okay, I was a child and there is no way we could have afforded a Beta machine – but I do remember that Beta tapes were more expensive and there were fewer titles available. Again – Beta may have had the better technology, but all being said, it was second fiddle. It was bad.

Then we had the fish – Betas. All I remember is that every once in a while, someone would add one to a fish tank, and the betas would be so aggressive, they would kill all of the other fish in the tank. Take that, Neon Tetra! Take that, Algae Eater! It never happened to me, but I suspect it happened to the same people who years later could not sit down in an ER waiting room because they had a 100-watt bulb up their butt.

Now I know some techies love beta! They get to look at programs before most of us. Perhaps they have good stories about how they caught some major bug – or perhaps they had to reformat their hard drive because the program did something to some dll – I am using my small knowledge of computers to dazzle those who can't tell the difference from their butt from a light socket. The rest of you will just curl your hair around your pointer finger (women and Mike) or scoff (Prata) or do whatever men do – scratch your crotch, visit a sports website or whatever.

Me, I am not into beta. Or into sticking foreign objects in my butt. But that's just me.

Age is just a . . .

You know, I am going to talk about a phrase that bugs me, and I am a little hesitant, because (1) this seems like such an insignificant thing to blog about, and (2) I have read a couple of comments on my blog with the same phrase. I really can't remember who said it, but it was someone I like.

Anyway, I have heard a lot of people say, "Age is just a number."

Imagine if you will, some 18-year-old dancing at a club, Rum-and-Coke in her hand, having a good time. Policeman comes up to her and asks for her ID. When he notices that she is not old enough to legally drink in the club, she flippantly remarks, "Age is just a number."

Or how about learning that your brother, age 33, is nailing one of his eighth grade students. When he confers with his lawyer – the lawyer he had to get because he is charged with statutory rape, he says, "Age is just a number."

Or how about the cute 6-year-old girl who wants to go to the Madonna concert – in a different city, late at night. When you say that she cannot go because she is too young, she says, "Age is just a number."

This is one of those phrases that sounds good but I can see several examples where age falls short. Okay, admittedly, the shortcomings occur in extreme examples, and people are too young, not too old. This is the light, easy to destroy, part of the argument. Now for my real thoughts.

We are only on this earth for such a short time. And from what I know, we are all going to die. Age tends to be positively correlated to death – the older you become, the more likely you are to die. Age seems to matter.

We should be cherishing each day of our lives, but the older we get, the faster life seems to become. We are careening into old age.

I remember the lazy summers when I was in middle and high school. The summer seemed to last forever. Well, the last week of summer flew by, but other than that, things crawled. You know, you got up late, had a nice breakfast, showered and whatever, laid out at the pool from late morning to late afternoon (perhaps having lunch near the pool), went home and showered, looking to see how your tan is coming in the shower, got ready for your parents to come home, talked on the phone, whatever. And it lasted forever.

Age should be a reminder. Not necessarily that we need to update our wills (not a bad idea, especially if you have children) – but age should be a reminder that the clock is ticking. We need to be doing what is important to us – whether that be ensuring that we have good relationships with our family, or that we want to work our minds and our bodies, that we want to spiritually grow. Personal values. Perhaps just discerning what is important in your heart is enough right now. The world is so loud and confusing – sometimes it drowns out the voices we have in our heads.

Age is a number, yes, but it is not only a number.

I started saying, "My checking account balance is just a number." You know, that doesn't sound as profound, and, well, if you take the saying to heart, you tend to bounce a lot of checks.

I have a young heart, young eyes. But I can't deceive myself. I will die, whether I think about it or not, and I have a lot I need to do while on this Earth. I need to be a good steward of my time.

Dr. Phil, Love and Apathy

I had a dream the other night that was both sad and funny. Even though I spend a little time writing my dreck, I spend much more time thinking about some of my readers. Well, it looks like some of this has crept into my dreams.

The other night, I found myself on the set of the Dr. Phil Show. This is sort of weird because I know little about Dr. Phil. Yeah, I have seen his show once or twice while visiting family, but that's all. Anyway, one of my blogger friends was on Dr. Phil – let me call her Muse. As in, she is sometimes my muse. Okay, we all want a piece of this delightful heart.

Anyway, Dr. Phil is talking about it taking longer for men and women to marry, mostly because the women have to save up to do extensive background checks. You know, see if there are any paternity suits out there, do a bit of psychological testing, whatever. Totally bizarre, but in a sad sense, believable.

Anyway, I don't know what this has to do with Muse. Muse is waiting to get on the show, to share her perspective. And that's all of the dream I remember. No lesbian sex, no sexual innuendos, no Ninja Turtles, and no flying through the air. Not sure of what it means.

Guess it means I have been thinking about Muse, partly because I care about her, partly because she and I seem so alike sometimes. I get bits and pieces of her life – and I don't want to display them here. She does that herself in a more real and raw way than I could ever duplicate.

One thing that struck me was a phrase that I heard recently, "placing the blame appropriately." Okay, I probably heard it on some political show on Sunday mornings, but it means more to me personally. I really think many people do not place blame appropriately, and that is the source of much pain.

When I was going through my toughest struggles, I placed nearly 100% of the blame squarely on my shoulders. Well, I was fucking random guys and being unfaithful. That sort of made sense to me. But the dynamic started a long time before being unfaithful physically. Our marriage became stale – that is the polite way of putting it. I did not hunger for hubbie, and he had little interest in me, physically (which was very evident at the time), emotionally, spiritually or any other way. I really don't know exactly what caused this, and I have tried thinking about it for hours. I took the blame for this, also, and I now realize that we probably shared blame for drifting apart.

Many people think love and hate are opposites. And I did as well, when I was young and inexperienced with the nature of love. The more I live, the more I love, I think love and hate are entangled, like the positive and negative poles of a magnet. Positive needs negative to exist. They are right next to each other, and exist because the other exists.

Loves antonym may be hate in Roget's Thesaurus, but in real life – where people get married, live on and love on – I think love and apathy seem to be more true anonyms.

When hubbie and I started living our own lives, we had more apathy for one another. We made nice at home, divided chores, ate dinner together, and what not. We were housemates who occasionally had sex. Please stress the word "occasionally." And it seemed so comfortable for us. We just did our own thing, and to the outside world, I am sure we looked like a happy couple. No arguing, no fights. How can you fight with someone for whom you have little feeling? And that's where we were.

Then things happened – well, things did not really happen, we did things. Notice how we use passive language when we don't want to acknowledge what we have done? I did not fuck random guys. Things just happened. What a freakin' copout.

Anyway, my Muse and I had similar experience, I think. We have not often talked about it, but we seem to find comfort in each others' stories. But there are differences for Musey. She has children; she moved out. And I did not know if I ever would have moved out unless we were splitting up.

I mean, if my hubbie continued to be apathetic, what would I have done. Moving out would have added some urgency to the situation – apathy and urgency are not bedfellows, and even though hubbie and I were not either (at the time), perhaps it would have helped us heal faster. Perhaps it would not have.

You see, when we were around one another during the early part after the discovery of the affairs (again, wimpy passive), we fought horribly. We tore at each other – and we started to hate again. After a while, when the wounds were not so fresh, we started to love again. Hate and love. Who would have thought? But if we had kids at home, I am not sure the hate would have been good for them to experience. I have forgot about much of what happened, but every once in a while, I remember the hate. Not sure if love is related to the mythological phoenix, who has to be burned to be born. Once love has been damaged, do we have to hate to love again?

This is a messy post, as I rarely finished a thought. I am not as pithy as our dear Dr. Phil. And maybe what I have written is pure garbage, amateurish psycho-babble. For that, I apologize. All I know is that hubbie and I love again; we are no longer comfortable roommates. We love, we hate, we grow together. At times, I don't know where he ends and I begin. He would probably point to his twenty-first digit and proudly say, "This, sweets, is where I end and you begin." And if I argued with him, perhaps I would end up loving him just a little bit more.

A Drunk Night and Education

Pardon for the last two posts – I had been really in a rut, and Ddot suggested I write a little fiction to break the cycle. Not sure it worked, but I feel refreshed. Well, now, perhaps it did work.

I saw a wonderful post last week from Nikki. In the post, I understood quite clearly, her frustration, her opinion, and her observations on some racial issues. I will always remember something I heard Oprah say on the subject, something about black people thinking about racial issues each day, while some others think about this subject less often. Another viewpoint that actually may be a common viewpoint.

When I was in high school, I had a very good friend who was black. He was handsome, athletic and a very good student, so it came as no surprise to anyone that he was offered several scholarships in two sports. He chose baseball over football, in part because it was a lot easier on the body. I think he may have been a better football player than a baseball player, but he just wanted college paid for – and actually it worked out nicely for him.

He was actually drafted but chose to enter the engineering world – his choice that he has always been happy with. We were very good friends in high school, and we saw each other occasionally in college (went to different schools, but saw him on the breaks). I must have been a good friend, because I was invited to the wedding, held in a different state. My parents actually gave me some money so I could go to the wedding – financially, I was not doing well, and I needed to stay in a hotel overnight.

For many of us that went to the wedding, he invited us out to dinner before the wedding. I was not in the wedding, but because I traveled, I also was invited. I remember, after dinner, the party drifted into the hotel bar, and we stayed up chatting. By two in the morning, only he and I were still at the bar, and he was buying me drinks.

Ladies, I don't know if you do this, but when I am out, I normally make "will I sleep with him" decisions before I get too far gone. It has actually saved me from disoriented mornings, where I am sure I would be hunting for my panties in a strange room. That night, I thought to myself, "Eh, I would go to bed with him if he makes the first move." I was a little ambivalent, thinking that it would be an honor to be his last lay before getting married. I was single at the time, so I figured everthing was okay. Sorry to disappoint, but he did not bed me that night, but we got into some deep discussions including talking about race.

When he was in college, he was dating a white woman, but he told me that night he could not marry her; mostly because a great many members of his family would have been hurt, disowned him, etc. I actually met her, and I thought she was sort of a bitch; looking back, I am not sure if I was a tad bit jealous. He had always been a good friend to me, and I thought I was must better suited for him than this woman.

Anyway, his wife is so sweet; he make a good choice. I would say he got lucky, but I think his faith, his accomplishments and his intelligence steered him in the right direction.

Anyway, we were getting fairly sloppy at the bar, and we started talking more openly about race than I had ever talked about it with anyone.

At one point, I said I was saddened when friends of mine made racist comments. His reaction was different than I expected, but he should have been a philosopher because it was so clear to him. He said, "I am sorry your friends think of you so badly."

Then he explained that by them making those remarks, the must assume that I either shared their viewpoint or that my character was so passive that I would not challenge them. Ever since that night, I started challenging people who made certain comments, whether it be about race or gossiping or whatever. And you know what, once you challenge, people look at you in a new light and cease making the remarks. Challenging someone is so uncomfortable that it works so well. The same can be said about being a slut – but I will talk about that some other time.

But my friend was so cogent that night, even though he (1) did not even flirt with me, and (2) was smashed.

Nikki's comments were very interesting, and I suggest you read them.

He also talked about playing games. You see, like Nikki, he was the token black in his company. Actually, he was probably the token black engineer. He said he probably got a better job than he would have otherwise because he was black, and there were relatively few black engineers in the workforce. But he said when he was in college, he focused on European literature and art in his electives, mostly because he knew that assimilating with mostly white men, they had this education. He said that African art and literature is extremely rich, but he learned about this away from the classroom. He knew that he had to fit in around the water cooler, and being an ex-college athlete helped. But he also had to talk about things that interested this white crowd. I am not saying this is right or wrong, but I know it is prudent and he has done extremely well. Funny thing is that I can here some "good ol' boys from Georgia" inserting the phrase "for a black man" at the end of the previous sentence. And that, to me, is the subtle racism that permeates the South.

I remember in middle school, a social studies teacher was talking about how poor students were doing, and he said, "I had four black men miss the following multiple choice throw-away question: who one the Civil War?" It is as if the Civil War should mean more to black students than white students. Another form of subtle racism.

One of the comments on Nikki's blog was "I sure would like to lick Leesa's snatch." No, that was not the comment.

It concerned how she was teaching her children, and she said things I did not know. Because of slavery, black people have to wash cars. Because of slavery, black people don't have air conditioning and must drive with their windows down, and white people, because they were not slaves, could afford air conditioning. The problem is that this woman probably thinks she is being kind, compassionate and helpful to her children. All I can do is shake my head, wondering why the bar to procreate is set so low. I honestly think some people have no idea how to make babies – they just end up bumping their nasty parts into one another and having kids.

I have actually seen poverty – in Georgia, in Mississippi. Both black people and white people. My first car did not have air conditioning and I bought it in Georgia. Must have clued me into the fact that I came from slaves. Actually, since my relatives have come from this area for a long time, I am sure there was a little bit of color mixed in with my Lily-white relatives.

Okay, I broke many different rules with this post – too darned long, talking about race (which ensures no comments), and it will fall on the Monday before a holiday, so I am sure there will be few readers.

Perhaps I will post it for Friday – I know Rob will be upset, but he got the ending to a story. But then again, some that find erotica distasteful would have something else to nibble on. Did you notice that I am letting my participles dangle? And I said the f-word several times. I must be letting my hair down.

Randomness Part 27

Okay, I just made that number up. Every once in a while I just put some random thoughts together to "clean house." This is not one of those times.

Visitor Statistics
I just passed 30,000 visitors earlier this week. What I find interesting is that the number of pages visited has increased to a little over 2 pages per visit. I get sitemeter's e-mail message weekly but really don't pay too much attention to it. Guess I am a little busy right now because I used to look at those weekly reports all of the time, and I have not really looked at them for . . . I can't remember when. I don't blog for eyeballs glued to my site. It is flattering when I am down, sort of like eating creamy ice cream – makes one feel better but does not solve any problems.

Speaking of stats, this is Kat's 100th post. Okay, I don't really know much about Kat, other than she has her tongue pierced. Okay, you know I love to give good head, but I am not going to pierce my tongue to enhance the experience.

Site note here: language is so interesting. Did you notice what I did? I inferred that Kat got her tongue pierced to give better blow jobs, but I did not explicitly say that's why she did it. Oh, how I love language. But she is probably a really nice person, has a nice life, and sooner or later, she will be popping Prozac. Just need more life experiences.

Bored, Bored, Bored
I noticed that Mike is taking a break. Just needs some time away from blogging. And I miss that "no picture" guy. I mean, his broken link to his picture bugs the crap out of me, but he visits my site early. And I visit his site.

I am bored with my site as well – that's why my entries have been sub-par. I mean, the writing is still okay, but the subject matter sort of sucks. Either that, or I am just sort of blah, and I can't see my blog for what it is worth. Not sure what I will blog about tomorrow. Was thinking of doing something a little different, but let's see.

Writing
You know, I started this because I like to write. I don't always have something to say, but I enjoy writing. Well, I came across the following (below) the other day, and I nearly peed myself laughing. Oh, how I love language. I have never had an orgasm because of words alone, but if it is physically possible, I may one day do this! I just love language that much.

---

Grammar Made Easy in Twenty-Three Steps or How to Rite Rite
(Author Unknown)

1.Don't abbrev.
2.Check to see if you any words out.
3.Be carefully to use adjectives and adverbs correct.
4.About sentence fragments.
5.When dangling, don't use participles.
6.Don't use no double negatives.
7.Each pronoun agrees with their antecedent.
8.Just between you and I, case is important.
9.Join clauses good, like a conjunction should.
10.Don't use commas, that aren't necessary.
11.Its important to use apostrophe's right.
12.It's better not to unnecessarily split an infinitive.
13.Never leave a transitive verb just lay there without an object.
14.Only Proper Nouns should be capitalized. also a sentence should begin with a capital and end with a period
15.Use hyphens in compound-words, not just in any two-word phrase.
16.In letters compositions reports and things like that we use commas to keep a string of items apart.
17.Watch out for irregular verbs which have creeped into our language.
18.Verbs has to agree with their subjects.
19.Avoid unnecessary redundancy.
20.A writer mustn't shift your point of view.
21.Don't write a run-on sentence you've got to punctuate it.
22.A preposition isn't a good thing to end a sentence with.
23.Avoid cliches like the plague.

Easter Sugar, Money, and HNTs

I am in a post-Easter sugar-induced state. I am not sure if I can think straight. See, when you don't have children and still have Easter, there is a heck of a lot of candy that you have to eat. I have never been good at eating candy after Easter – most of it is consumed during Easter.

And when I have this much sugar in me, my thinking is . . . oh, um . . . erratic. Spastic. And "Tiger Woods spastic," not trying to make fun of people with MS spastic. Tiger Woods said that he was a spaz during the Masters. Upset a lot of people in the UK; apparently they forgot that in the US, we have corrupted their language. At least that's what an English acquaintance told me once.

Twice over the last week, I have found dollars with the phrase, "Kathy and Alex" written on the side. The first time I saw the scribble, I thought, "how sweet, little love-birds." By the second time I saw the scribble, I began wondering about Kathy and Alex. I mean, they are just goo-goo in love or they are just want to deface currency. Or something in between.

At first, I assumed that the two lovebirds were male and female, but you know, Alex can be a girl's name too. So these little notes passed from person to person in exchange for goods and/or services that acknowledge their love may have done their job – because I hope these two crazy kids, Kathy and Alex, are doing well. And if I had a naughtier mind, I would wonder if these two young adults are either bumping donuts or reverse cowgirl, depending on their sexes.

Okay, last week I saw a blog that mentioned reverse cowgirl. I had no idea what that was, so I looked it up in Wikipedia, and you know, I am starting to find out that I am a sexual novice. I mean I have had lots of experience, but most of it has been in a relatively few sexual positions. Seems like I have been more in pursuit of the magical "O", and less in pursuit of imaginative sex. And so I am feeling a bit of a novice. Even the missionary position has 10 variations – who would have thought?

As you have probably guessed, I have nothing to write about today. But I am thinking more and more about what I don't know instead of what I do know. I mean, I don't know about Kathy and Alex, I don't know about reverse cowgirls.

I mean, it is not I am campaigning over banning HNTs. I mean, who would be crazy enough to do that.

Little Notebooks, Crap and Inspiration

Yesterday, I started my blog with a “crap follows” warning. Two people said, “This isn’t crap.” I was not being shy or modest. I had not thought of a thing to say – and my OCD sort of forced a post. But, at the last minute, something came together.

You see, when I blog, I really can’t figure out how people will react to my posts. I know how I will react, but not others. I remember the most important post I ever wrote – I wrote it one day to be posted the next. I told people, a few bloggers, the next post is good, real good. I mostly just doodle here – and that post, to me, was heartfelt, well-written, and had a message that was important. Real important. I got four comments.

I post about “slut radar” (an old post that struck a chord) or complain about another blogger with the same name (recent post), and I get comments, lots of comments. And I don’t understand why.

I read a blog yesterday that talked about a 100 post challenge – where the blogger gets 100 posts, and then challenges the next person (tags them, I think the phrase is), and then they get 100 posts. I couldn’t get 100 posts if I make a collage of Bored Housewife’s braless Tuesday pictures. A sort of a “tit for tat” post. But I digress.

And that got me to thinking about something else – inspiration. That well-written post that didn’t get many posts – I can’t remember if I was inspired or touched. I can’t remember, maybe touched more than inspired. But inspiration comes and goes so quickly. I have read that some really important people carry a notebook around and jot notes to themselves, before they lose inspiration. And those of you that saw Mike’s last post, I was not referring to him. But he does the same thing.

There are days where ideas flow through me. They are like minnows in a stream – if you don’t have your net ready, you miss them all. I am not a good writer yet, but I wonder if I carry a notebook around, could I remember those little inspirational moments that come and go. Now I can’t see asking hubbie to stop rocking my world while I write down some thoughts. It would kill the mood and he may find that his thingie is not the only thing I have on my mind at that exact moment.

Who knows, perhaps this will make for better blogging. And, I will tell you a secret. Pssss. Come closer. Whispering: I have started writing a book, a real book. I just hope I don’t quit on it if I don’t get inspiration.

Unconditional Love and Musicals

Prata raised a point yesterday that talks about unconditional love. I have heard the phrase, but I have not felt unconditional love. Okay, I have a disadvantage. I don’t have kids. You see, I have seen others love their kids, and in some circumstances, they may experience something close to unconditional love. I have seen mothers, after hearing their children have killed lots of people, still love their children deeply. “I feel sorry for the victims, but I will be holding Jimmy’s hand until he is executed by the state.” I don’t get it, but alas, I have no kids.

I also know a woman who gets beaten by her boy (he is 16 and stronger than she is). She is concerned for her boy, but her love seems constant, even though he has put her in the hospital more than once. Unconditional love? Beats me – but please don’t beat me. Sorry, bad joke. Again, a foreign concept to me.

When I was getting married, I went through an Engaged Encounter, and if you were married in the Catholic Church, you probably experience the same thing. For Catholics, it appears that marriage involves conditions. Two, in fact: (1) mutual support, and (2) open to children. Neither condition mentions love.

Okay, I am a sucker for good movies. And this reminds me of a song in “Fiddler on the Roof.” Tevye (the main character) explains that even though theirs was an arranged marriage, his parents said they would soon learn to love each other anyway. The song that accompanies the dialog is “Do You Love Me?”. The very touching song ends with the lines:
Tevye: So you love me?
Golde (his wife): I suppose I do.
Tevye: Then I suppose I love you too.
Together: It doesn't change a thing. But even so, after twenty-five years, it's nice to know.
I really think that doing loving things for someone helps in fostering loving feelings. And that is what the song is about.

I am not sure love is an essential ingredient of a successful marriage, or if it is important, it is the most important thing. That is, it does not predict if a marrage is to succeed.

Unconditional love? Not sure I know what it is. But a good marriage – I can feel that in my bones. And it is not because hubbie buys me flowers when I least expect them. When he does this, he is opening up to me. When I give him a back scratch even though I am as tired as he is, I am performing a loving task, and it opens me up to being closer to him.

One can argue that my church is antequated, past its prime. That’s fine. What is nice is that people can choose their religion themselves, based on the shared views of the religion. Catholisism is not meant to be all inclusive. Inclusiveness has a price tag – one sacrificies meaning and importance for inclusiveness. Okay, you don’t believe in transfiguration? No problem. Well, then that diminishes the role of transfiguration in the Church.

Getting back to “Fiddler on the Roof.” I have seen an arranged marriage. The one is not a happy marriage – but they all were not tragic dramas. Take a look at “Fiddler.” Except for the fact that the Czar is throwing them off of their land, there is a happy ending. Well, not so happy. Actually, it is sort of funny, now that I look back on it, that I am using a Jewish example for this. But Judaism is the mother of Catholisism.