Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

“Stubborness does have its helpful features. You always know what you are going to be thinking tomorrow.” ~ Glen Beaman



Hi there!

 

Thanks for stopping by Patricia’s Opinion Dot Com.  Due to time constraints and other considerations, there have been a few necessary changes around here. Beginning August 1, 2011, I’ll no longer be posting at this site. But if you’d like, you can find my articles, essays, podcast interviews and “Expert in Failed Relationships Advice Column at:


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Arts Critic Jan Wahl from KRON 4 News with Patricia V. Davis at "Diva Doctrine" Launch

 

When I Was Eight

When I was eight, in the summertime my mother had to call me in from playing outdoors at least twice before I even acknowledged I’d heard her voice. Then I’d beg her to let me stay outside for a while longer, until she issued dire threats if I didn’t “come in right this minute.” It was only at that point that I would petulantly stomp back into the house.

Once inside, she’d grab onto me and try to hold me still as she “pre-cleaned” me before setting up my bath. She knew if she didn’t, my bathwater would turn muddy within minutes of my being placed in it. That was because when I was eight, I played in dirt ─  sat right down in it, made mud with it, dug up some very fine rocks and wiggling earthworms hiding beneath it. And so, my mother would put my hands and arms in the bathroom sink and attempt to shake off some of that dirt which had caked onto my arms, into the crevices and lines on the palms of my hands, around my cuticles and under my fingernails. After that, she’d lean down and attack the skin on my knees with a washcloth. My knees were literally black with grime, sweat, and tan. In fact, my skin was so dark from my playing out in the sun so long that she could never tell when she’d rubbed hard enough to get down past the dirt and just onto bare flesh, so I’d end up with raw skin from her efforts. I’d never even heard the word “sunscreen” back then, and when I was eight, I wouldn’t have cared if I had.

When I was eight, I wore my hair to my shoulders the same as I do now, except back then I was too busy being a kid to keep it neat. It stuck out and up in the way only coarse, thick hair can, and I was forever pushing my dirty hands through it to keep it out of my eyes. That’s why my mother also had the nightly task of pulling bits of branches out of my hair that I’d picked up from climbing trees or crawling through the woods in the “forts” we made. My hair was so wiry and tangled that once, a brush my mother was trying to force through it snapped right in half at the handle. In frustration, she had my hair cut pixie short. It did not look trendy, but it was convenient, and instead of being traumatized, I loved how my shadow now looked on the cement patio when I moved my head back and forth and wiggled my arms out to my sides ─ sort of like one of the dancing skeletons in my favorite cartoons. I looked like a shadow skeleton somewhat, because even though I ate three healthy meals a day and all the sugary candy I could buy with 25 cents a week, (which was a lot) I was downright skinny from moving so much, using my body so much for the things it was meant to do.

When I was eight, boys were just more people with whom to climb trees and have racing contests or rock-throwing contests. They were sometimes annoying because they were stronger and could beat me more often than not, and of course, I wanted to win. Some of them seemed to like bugs more than I did, too, and most certainly they often smelled bad. So, why would I care if creatures like that thought I was pretty or not? Why, with so much fun to be had, like running and climbing and sticking my hands in dirt, finding baby birds that had fallen out of trees and nursing them back to health, would I care myself, if I were pretty or not?

When I was eight and if for some reason we couldn’t play outside, my sister, cousins, and I made up games like “Spy” or sang songs out loud in the basement so we wouldn’t bother our parents who were upstairs, smoking, drinking coffee, and talking about stupid, boring stuff we had no interest in knowing about whatsoever. We held plays, and sometimes we could get our parents away from their stupid, boring stuff to come downstairs to watch them. My cousins, sister and I were all bossy, and we all argued about who was going to play what part. Our mothers would tell us to behave. We didn’t listen.

We didn’t meekly submit. Not to our mothers, not to our friends, not to anybody else’s idea of what we were worth. In that world it would have been unfathomable to know of another eight-year-old  girl who would hold in her tears while her mother put needles filled with poison in her face, just so she could “be beautiful.” In that world it would be unfathomable to want “boob jobs and nose jobs”, because we felt we were perfect the way we were.

We were real. Life was real.


What’s So Great About Being A Kid?

You know those emails that start with “Remember When…?” I don’t like those emails at all. Not only are they B-movie, nostalgia-in-a-can ─ “Milk delivered right to your door by the milkman!”, “Coca-cola in a glass bottle!” ─ they’re out and out dishonest, albeit in a ingratiatingly syrupy way.  They mean to have us remember a reality that didn’t exist, that US life in the 50’s and 60’s was much better than it is today. From my perspective, that’s just not true. Yeah, the air was cleaner then, portions were smaller then and people were leaner then. Blah blah blah.

But am I the only one who remembers this:


Or, this:


Besides the racist and sexist actualities which permeated the 60’s and 70’s, my own reality was that it was just not as much fun to be a kid as it’s cracked up to be. Looking back I see that most people my parents’ age were more naïve than they should have been about many things. The world wasn’t any safer, our parents just perceived it to be.  Regardless of their level of education, they were also a lot more provincial than even the least educated American today. And as a whole, that generation certainly seemed to be a lot less educated on how to parent. Below is my list of all the stuff I hated about being a kid, and I know I couldn’t have been the only one who had experiences like these:


1. Being forced to eat ALL that was served to me of my mother’s soggy macaroni and broccoli (a dish that had no cheese, no seasoning at all, was over-boiled and dripping with corn oil) while under threat of the wooden spoon she kept next to her plate.



2. Having to go to bed earlier than all my friends, who got to watch all the fun shows. They’d talk about them the next day at school, and all I could do was listen and seethe.


3. Getting punished on the weekend and not being allowed to see my one favorite show that was on before my bedtime, which was ─ yippee ─ a whole hour later than on weeknights.


4. Having to watch younger sibs. Having them hate me for that. Having to referee their arguments. Having them report to our parents what a lousy job of referring I did. Getting punished for doing a lousy job. (Wooden spoon again and, just for good measure, see number three.)


5. Having to come in the house in the summertime before it got dark.


6. Being forced to sit out in the backyard in the summertime for “a nice outdoor meal”, while caterpillars from the overhanging oak tree branches dropped onto the table, sometimes into my plate, and crawled under the bench where we sat, onto the backs of my thighs. And I was wearing shorts.


7. Not getting to pick out my own clothes. (See “wearing shorts.”)


8. Having someone else brush my hair. (Ouch!)



Now let’s move on to the teen years:


9. Being too fat to get picked for sports.  (I guess fat is what happens when you’re forced to eat a half a pound of limp macaroni that’s been floating in oil.)


10. Being too fat to get invited to the prom, which was maybe for the best, because…


11. Not being allowed to go to the prom. Or to babysit. Or to attend sleepovers. Or go on school trips.


12. Having to wear those big ol’ round coke bottle glasses they made back in the day, until I was eighteen and old enough to buy a pair of contact lenses on my own.



And finally at Lucky 13─


13.    Meeting my first husband at age 19, and getting married looong before I should.


Need I go on?


So when people my age talk about how much better things were when they were young, I think, “Seriously?”  That just wasn’t my experience.


Sure, there are plenty of things I miss about being a little girl, but now that I’m old enough to eat what I want to eat, watch what I want to watch, and go to bed when I say I’m tired, now that the only things I have to live with are the decisions I make for myself, I, for one, am enjoying my life much more today than I did then.

That’s why for me these days are “the good old days.” Because I’m old, but I’m feelin’ good.

What about you?

Breaking Up is Hard to Do — Especially if You’re a Schmuck

As the TV ad says, "These things always tell the truth"

Those who read my blog regularly know that when it comes to love and Valentine’s Day, I can usually be pretty sappy. Like in this post here. But this Valentine’s Day, I decided to play devil’s advocate and ask people to please contribute  the worst break up or parting line they’ve ever had to hear from a lover. Those of you who read my first book already know what mine was. (“Have you got time to do one more load of laundry before you leave?”)  But the ones below top even that. If you’re feeling blue or lonely today, these lines will remind that there are far worse things than being alone on Valentine’s Day. Read ‘em, weep, and feel free to add your own:

___________________________________

Sharon: After becoming a platinum blonde in the 70′s….”Wow ─  you look gorgeous…I told you you’d look good as a blonde.  I want a divorce.”

Jessica: “I was thinking maybe you could be the stepmom.” (I’ll let you guess the situation that led him to say that!)

Jeanne: It was Valentine’s Day, and I drove out to Cornell to surprise my boyfriend. I got the surprise. I saw him walking down the street holding another girl’s hand. He saw me, said something to her, and she kept walking. He then crossed the street to me. When I asked him what was going on, he said, “Life’s a bitch” and walked away.

Eat My Heart Out

Mark: “Don’t worry about your money…I’ve already emptied all the accounts.”


Brenda: ‎”I could never marry YOU … do you know how big your daughter would be??” (Ha! Joke’s on him … had no daughters and my only son is 6’7″!)


Mike: I have two. “It’s not you, it’s me.” (Which it was.)  And,  “I’ll give you a call soon.”


Tiana:  ‎“I’ve been bad. I’ve been seeing Peggy.” (Oh, and he eventually married her, too. …On Valentine’s Day.)

Take another little piece, now, BAY-BEE

Karen: Not the final line, but the one that lead to the inevitable ending: when asked why he was being so mean to me after my mom had just died, my charmer’s response was,“She didn’t *just* die. It’s been nine days.”


Leigh Anne: He worked at a local ski shop. Picks me up on his motorcycle to spend the day riding up Independence Pass. Without hardly a hello plunges ahead with, “I just helped Stevie Nicks buy her ski boots. I think I’m in love…” Proceeds to rave on about her for the next 2 hours… Gahh! I was trapped. When we FINally got back to my place, it was all I could do not to dive off the bike and run screaming for the house! (Ok, so a bit more than a one liner.)


Alexander: All I can remember really is that two or three times they ended with, “But I was hoping we can still be friends”. I hate that line. Seriously, you tear out my heart and expect me to like you for it? If that line ended with “friends with benefits”, I would be very torn. I think I would have an aneurysm after five minutes of standing there thinking very, very hard.

I Have Your Heart. (Feel the pressure on your chest yet?)

Persia: Unfortunately I heard this same line twice ─ “She isn’t half the woman you are, but I love her.”


Dora:  ‎“You don’t deserve me, you deserve better.”


Christos: Okay, here goes— (And this beats George Costanza’s ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ line):

She: I met someone else. You guys are so alike. He has 95% of the great qualities that you have!”
Me:
But I have 100% of the great qualities that I have!!!
She:
Yeah, but…ummm…well, whatever. See ya!


Jerry:

She: I’m pregnant!
Me: OMG! Really!?!
She: It’s not yours…



You've really caught me in your love trap

Carina: “I’m in love with two women at the same time…” (Gag)

Teresa: ‎”Sorry I didn’t call, but I met up with my ex-girlfriend and we had an erotic experience.”  (True story.)


George: …Break up line?   ;-)



And you…?

Yes, Things are Changing—Deal with It! (Or, What I Learned in New York City)

This weekend, I had the pleasure of being in New York City, which despite the January onslaught of snow and wind, is always a wonderful place to visit. I was speaking at The Writer’s Digest Conference, and when I tell you it was an honor to be doing so, I don’t say that just so the organizers will read this and think I’m gracious. (But I hope they do.) I say it because the speakers were amazing, and I feel I learned more than I taught. But the two paramount things I learned, the two most fantastic things, were not taken away from any one particular talk or speaker. Here they are:  20-somethings and 30-somethings are marvelous, and the salvation of the human race will come from our advances in technology.

How did I get all this from a writers’ conference? I’m so glad you ask. There are those of you reading who would be well within your rights to assume that we writers are a stuffy, insular, snobbish and introverted lot. Well, okay…maybe some of us are. But those farty literati types seemed in short supply at this particular conference. At this conference, what I noticed was that the majority of the attendees were upbeat, democratic, and brimming with passion for their craft. Though the older people were no slouches in exhibiting these characteristics, naturally it was the younger set who displayed them most. But it wasn’t because of their naive optimism. Quite the contrary — their confidence in what the future holds for them in regards to the success of their writing careers, stems from something they have on their side to help them succeed that those of us who started on the writing and publishing track in the 1970’s did not ─ the internet and the technological leaps and bounds springing from that forthwith.


Last weekend, I listened as speakers talked about e-book sales, (Amazon sold more Kindle books this past year than paperback), making books into phone apps, publishing on Scribd and Smashwords and more.  It was a cross-generational meeting of the minds as the younger writers instructed the older writers on how all this stuff works (and work it does!) and older writers became excited at the realm of new possibilities to share their art. I saw one 70-year old get up and ask a 40-year-old speaker who’d written his book as a phone application how she could do that with her newspaper column.


But what I also loved was how the younger writers still crowded into rooms to hear older writers speak about what we knew, too, solely from our years and experience. Yeah, that’s right ─ the young’uns weren’t a bunch of little ‘know-it-alls’ — uninterested or unimpressed with what we older lot had to say. I heard from them many references to works by writers long dead, and you know, you can’t get any older than dead. There was respect there, coming from the young for the old; but equally important, from the old for the young. They wanted to speak to each other and learn from each other, in fact, were eager to do so.


I admit I was more than flattered to see some of the younger people ‘tweeting’ my remarks from my lecture room out into the world in real time. How ‘bout that? Hmmm... So, if there were fifty people in each room where that conference was held, how many more still who weren’t there physically still got to ‘hear’ what each speaker had to say?


So this is what I’m envisioning from all of this ─ a world where, if you can’t be at the place where the Dalai Lama is speaking, (or he’s been banned from your country) you can still just pick up your phone and get his words from your Twitter feed as he speaks them.  And if a politician spews out lies during a speech, you can fact check what he says on your iPad right there and then, and fire right back at him with a rebuttal via his email address or website. (It’ll be keeping high school teachers on their toes, for sure, when their students do this during their classes.)And when they tell us that we should be bombing this country or that, none of us anywhere in the world will buy into it, because one of our online poker buddies will be from said country, and we know what a good guy he is. We know his wife, his kids, and his worries, and guess what?─ Even though he’s wearing a rather odd-looking hat, we know he’s still just one of us. Is it any wonder the Chinese are trying to suppress Google?


The part I like best is what this means for any writer, in fact, anyone who has something to say – you can still say it with flowers, or you can try saying it in e-books, online websites, and blogs. You can get your word out without it being censored or spin-doctored by the mainstream media; you can gatecrash the publishing world without one nod of condescending consent from any literary agent or traditional house. You can browse the internet for hours looking for just the right book, because it will be out there and available to you immediately in some format. Same goes for films, art, and music. There will be no reason to try to put Julian Assange in jail, because Wikileaks will be obsolete. We will become a world of no secrets and therefore, no fear of the unknown or of each other. It will be just as ordinary via Skype to have a conversation face-to-face with a beloved friend in South Africa or Toowoomba as it is to have one with your next door neighbor.


We, the little people, will finally be able to have our say without dozens of blockades put up for our ‘protection’. There will be one god for everyone, and that will be the god of kindness, respect, and caring for all, because we will all know each other, and we will all learn from each other, whether a different nationality or a different generation.


On the day of the 25th anniversary of the space shuttle Challenger fall, oh, how I hope what I write here comes true. We mustn’t be leery of technology and scientific advance; we mustn’t hold it back, because despite any perceived and real risks involved in its development, it can save humankind.


Do I know what’s going to replace hardback books, or even if they will be replaced? No. But if they are replaced, will whatever replaces them be the “same”? Probably not. Just as printed books are not the same as scrolls, and when they updated Coca-Cola it no longer had cocaine in it. I’ll bet both those facts disappoint many. But I’m not one who looks in the rear view mirror while I’m trying to drive forward.


Did I tell you I’m learning to ‘tweet’?

How to Get Your Grown Children to Visit at the Holidays (A Satire)

You’ve dug out the ceramic platter you bought 40 years ago─ the one with the smiling turkey painted on it. You’ve polished the brass menorah, or fluffed the plastic branches of your pre-lighted Christmas tree. But, where are the kids? Once again, your grown children have nothing but excuses to give you for the holidays. Not to worry ─ the instructions below will get your babies back to the bosom of their origins for the annual festivities. All you have to do is modify the steps according to the number of children you have:

1. Stake Your Claim: Loudly inform every child, grandchild, in-law, and sibling at this year’s gathering, “It’s my turn next year.” Have everyone at the table sign an affidavit that they’ve heard and acknowledged this. Then when next year comes, if they renege, that signed paper should hold up in court.

2. Invite Your Single Son First: He’s an easy mark. A bachelor son is always willing to partake of  a meal he didn’t have to cook for himself, even if for him, Thanksgiving won’t actually be ‘Thanksgiving’, but his 25h Annual, ‘How-Come-You-Never-Got-Married-Are-You-Sure-You’re-Not-Gay’ Day.

3. Strike the Youngest Second: By ‘strike’ I mean, ‘wheedle’ ‘cajole’ and ‘plead’. One of these attempts will get a weary “yes” out the youngest, because they’re the most likely to still be suffering from unresolved mother issues. So, go ahead ─ tug on the remnants of that umbilical cord. Just be sure to give the youngest cash for his or her holiday gift. Therapy is expensive.

4. Hit the Married Daughter Next: Your married daughter wants to spend the holidays with her overbearing mother-in-law even less than she wants to spend them with you. Veiled criticisms of her weight gain and her mothering style which she has to swallow along with her green bean casserole don’t upset her stomach quite as much if they come from a more time-honored source. So, if she’s got school age children and a full time job, there’s a good chance you can lure her in with, “Come on─ with all the extra work you have to do for the holidays, do you really want to cook?”

5. Now You’re Ready to Attack the Married Son: The married son is the toughest ‘catch’ because that woman he married insists on spending the holiday with ‘her side’. You need to tell your son exactly this when you phone. Don’t think of this conversation as an invitation, but more as a demand for an audience.  Remind him of precisely how many times he’s gone to his wife’s family instead of his own; that all his siblings will be at your house except for him ─ again ─ and that the last time you had holiday dinner with him was when you were still coloring your hair. It’s unlikely he’ll agree to come, but he will tell his wife, and at least then she’ll know exactly how you feel.

6. Bask in the Spoils of War: This is an achievement of which you can be proud ─ most, if not all of your offspring are sitting around your holiday table, doing their yearly penance over dried out turkey, store-bought gravy, and canned cranberry sauce.

And after all, isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

Note: Dear Friends —This blog site is under construction. We are planning a blog roll and a number of other things to be added to it. One of the reasons I haven’t updated in a long while. Happy Holidays to all!

Oops, I Have a Conspiracy Theory (A Political Satire)

The Bush Administration has a Secret Weapon against free thought of the masses and towards eventual world domination. It’s Britney Spears.

Think I’m a madwoman? Let’s just look at the facts, shall we?

In 1998, a group called Project for the New American Century (http://www.newamericancentury.org ) sent a letter to President Clinton which I’ve excerpted here:

Dear Mr. President:

We are writing you because we are convinced that current American policy toward Iraq is not succeeding, and that we may soon face a threat in the Middle East more serious than any since the end of the Cold War. We urge you to seize that opportunity, and to enunciate a new strategy that would secure the interests of the U.S. and our friends and allies around the world. That strategy should aim, above all, at the removal of Saddam Hussein’s regime from power.

…if Saddam does acquire the capability to deliver weapons of mass destruction…the safety of American troops in the region, of our friends and allies like Israel and the moderate Arab states, and a significant portion of the world’s supply of oil will all be put at hazard.

The only acceptable strategy is one that eliminates the possibility that Iraq will be able to use or threaten to use weapons of mass destruction. In the near term, this means a willingness to undertake military action…In the long term, it means removing Saddam Hussein and his regime from power. That now needs to become the aim of American foreign policy. Although we are fully aware of the difficulties in implementing this policy, we believe the dangers of failing to do so are far greater. We believe the U.S. has the authority under existing UN resolutions to take the necessary steps, including military steps, to protect our vital interests in the Gulf. In any case, American policy cannot continue to be crippled by a misguided insistence on unanimity in the UN Security Council.

If you act now to end the threat of weapons of mass destruction against the U.S. or its allies, you will be acting in the most fundamental national security interests of the country.

And this letter was signed by the members of the group, some names of whom are easily recognisable:

Elliott Abrams   Richard L. Armitage   William J. Bennett
John Bolton Dick Cheney Paula Dobriansky
Francis Fukuyama   Zalmay Khalilzad Richard Perle
Donald Rumsfeld William Schneider, Jr.   Vin Weber
Paul Wolfowitz R. James Woolsey

So, three years before the World Trade Centre was attacked, with Clinton still president, this group already held the position to wage war on Iraq.

Why didn’t the people of the United States know about this? Simple – the same year, 1998,  Britney Spears hit the pop scene. At barely legal age, Britney became an instant international success because the music video accompanying her hit song, ”Baby One More Time,”  featured a Lolita-like Spears wearing a girl’s Catholic school uniform, that made grown men drool and grown women speculate whether they could duplicate the look without appearing pathetic.  Britney-mania was launched.


How could we think about foreign policy when we all so enthralled by Britney? She performed and we debated, “Is she really a virgin?” “Has she had her breasts ‘done’?” We remained focused on Britney for two solid years. We opened a newspaper;  there she was- Britney, Britney, Britney. Is it any wonder we had no clue that an invasion on Iraq was already in the making?

But there was a blip in our national concentration on Britney Spears in the year 2000, when Al Gore protested the results of his presidential run against George W. Bush. There were some strange goings on, weren’t there? Ballots marked incorrectly and unaccounted for, Democrats in Florida, where Jeb Bush, George’s brother was governor, prevented going to the voting polls by state police, dead still on the registries ‘materialising’ to vote Republican, all added up to a suspiciously close margin.

But then, Britney’s new single, “Oops, I Did It Again,” debuted, breaking the record for highest sales in its first week by any solo artist. And while some protested the inauguration of George Bush by holding up placards that read, “Hail to the Thief,” this became a tempest in a teapot when Britney, at the MTV Music Video Awards, ripped off a black suit, revealing a provocative flesh-coloured, crystal outfit. Well, who could pay attention to what George and Al were up to after that? With “Oops, I Did It Again,” Britney ensnared our attention…again. The new administration was off the hook.

However, not even Britney could distract us when the towers fell in September of 2001. We were as transfixed by that as we’d been transfixed by our young diva. We even asked questions, though not enough of the important ones. It looked like the Bush Administration might need more spin control than distraction to mollify the nation. An ingenious propaganda campaign was launched and we were on our way to the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq.
Was it a coincidence that Britney announced she was taking a six-month career break that same year? No more than this little gal is an unwitting pawn in the Bush Administration’s agenda.

Though we had plenty of evidence to support the fact that the US invasion on Iraq was a personal vendetta and money-making strategy for them, none of us wanted to believe our eyes and ears. We saw that there were no weapons of mass destruction to be found, despite the claims. We heard Bush when he said about Saddam, “Don’t forget, this is the man who once tried to kill my Daddy.” We read in every newspaper that Halliburton, the Texas company which was awarded the Pentagon’s post-war construction contracts at outrageously high bids, was still making annual payments to its former CEO, the vice-president Dick Cheney. (The payments appeared on Cheney’s 2001 financial disclosure statement in the form of “deferred compensation” of up to $1m yearly.) Then there were the horrific photographs that came out of Abu Gharib and the soldiers’ testimony that the Secretary of Defense, Donald Rumsfeld,  knew and approved of the illegal tortures there.  But we still couldn’t accept that a presidential administration would resort to Machiavellian schemes to get us to invade a country that was really no threat to us. Then.


Instead, we chose to listen to Britney, our ‘nymphette,’ when in 2003, she told us, “Honestly, I think we should…trust our president in every decision he makes… just support that, you know…be faithful…” The same year, she exchanged a steamy kiss with Madonna (self-proclaimed “spokesperson for Judaism,” for which every practicing Jew is thankful, I’m sure) and mesmerised us…“once more time.” The war in Iraq raged, we now had “Homeland Security and colour-coded terror alerts, but we were back to being captivated by Britney.

Still not convinced that Britney is working undercover? There’s more.

By 2004, the death toll in Iraq was equivalent to Vietnam in 1966.Our soldiers faced combat zones every bit as deadly as the ones their fathers had faced in Southeast Asia. But Iraq wasn’t like Vietnam, we rationalised. These soldiers wanted to be there, so we shouldn’t worry about whether we’d sent them to die or be maimed for no good reason. Instead, we worried about why Britney would marry a back-up dancer who was only after money and fame, clearly. “And what was she thinking with no pre-nup?” We fretted over her marriage far more than we ever thought about the marriages of our soldiers coming home in the boxes we weren’t permitted to see on nightly newscasts. But Britney married her dancer and that’s what we remember of 2004.


In August 2005, came Hurricane Katrina. Once again, the Bush Administration was under fire. In an attempt to correct the half-assed job of disaster readiness and rescue by FEMA, the government spent over three million in tax dollars per citizen of New Orleans. Nobody knows who got that money, but one thing is certain – it didn’t go to the citizens of New Orleans. Two years later, New Orleans is still a bloody mess and even the most ardent Bush supporter was embarrassed. For a while, New Orleans supplanted Britney in the news.  It was entertaining to see every government official pointing fingers. But not as entertaining as Britney becoming a mother. By giving birth through scheduled caesarean section, she came to the administration’s rescue again. . Was there a medical reason that the c-section of a first child was scheduled only one month after the hurricane hit? Hardly. This was just another way to divert the American public’s attention. And it worked. New Orleans hasn’t been in the news since.

Now, we’re back to “all Britney, all the time” reports. Britney dumping her loser husband, Britney running wild with Paris Hilton (another cunning, bottle-blonde agent for this regime,) Britney without her knickers, Britney without her hair, Britney without her children. On any server’s home page, on any television news station, Britney is inescapable.

She got her divorce less than one month after George Bush signed the Military Commissions Act, an act so reprehensible that it’s being protested by every civil rights group. But he got away with it, because most Americans don’t even know what it is, how it will effect them and thousands of other innocent people throughout world. Nor do they know it was developed in order to legalise other unlawful acts for which the Bush administration was already being legally challenged. We couldn’t know, because we’ve been hypnotised by Britney Spears.

And when the Blackwater atrocities came to light recently, people didn’t know about that either, because we weren’t thinking “Blackwater,” we were thinking “black bikini.” Britney’s black bikini, worn during her “comeback performance.” (The term, “comeback” a misnomer, for the reason that, unfortunately, she’s never been gone.) The whole nation, most loudly Simon Cowell, (a former spy for Tony Blair’s Administration) gave their opinion on whether or not she should be wearing it.  The slaughter of civilians in Iraq by a firm of private mercenaries paid by the United States government, went unnoticed by most. (These same mercenaries, by the way, were first on the scene in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.

But what finally convinced me of my “conspiracy theory” was last month’s YouTube video. You have to know the one I mean, because I never look for this stuff, but it finds me, anyway, since the CIA planted it everywhere and we all had to see it. In it, a young man, Chris Crock-of-sh**,  cries into the camera to all of us, “Leave Britney alone!”

I have to digress here to say that if this young man were my son, NOT because he’s gay and NOT because his eye liner‘s overdone, but because he has such a pathetic self-image that he CRAVES this kind of attention from strangers, I’d find the nearest surgeon and say:

“Cut out my eyes and give them to a blind child. Take every one of my vital organs and distribute them to people who deserve them more than I.”

And the surgeon would say, “Legally, we can’t take your organs until you’re dead.”

Then I’d say, “But I’m the mother of the boy in the Britney YouTube video.”


Then the surgeon would say, “I’ll go get my scalpel. Do you want anaesthesia or can I do it without?”


Nonetheless, this vid has received over 2 million hits. The perpetrator was eventually offered his own television show. And when did he post this video? You guessed it- September 11, 2007. Six years to the day after the towers fell, when the number of American casualties in the Gulf, as confirmed by DoDs, is nearing 4000 and 29,000 wounded, the number of Iraqis killed over one million and US. tax dollars spent nearing 460 billion.

Simultaneously, Britney’s “comeback single” is number one on the charts. She calls it …“Gimme More.”


So, is ‘Spears Craze’ the result of a media that’s now heavily censored, a nation tragically obsessed with fame and youth, or is she a “Mata Hari archtype” engineered by some zealously nationalistic ‘techie’ with a laboratory hidden in the bowels of the Pentagon? What do you think?

Though the country’s fascination with Britney clearly hasn’t waned, The Bush Administration has another secret weapon standing by,  in order to insure the American public’s support. Believe it or not, it’s another bleached blonde – Hillary Clinton.
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How to Flirt with Your Wife

Last week, we flirted with our husbands. With luck, they’ll return the favour this week. I don’t know if I’m speaking for every woman with the ideas I list here, but I did gather them from a hefty sample of females in long-term relationships. I welcome comments or suggestions and mention that I’ve already heard two important ones:

Bob Godley said, “I wouldn’t want to be in love with a woman who wasn’t in love with me.”

That’s so true. Unrequited love is only ‘romantic’ in novels, not in real-life partnerships. If the person you’re married to, or in a long-term relationship with, doesn’t appreciate you and/or is with you for some self-seeking reason of his or her own, I’ll tell you from personal experience, this will only lead to heartache. The love you feel for your partner, will not make your partner love you back.

In addition, as another wise blogger, Ilias K., pointed out, “flirting techniques” are only joyfully effective, if the person you’re flirting with fancies you as much as you fancy him/her.

Bearing this in mind, here’s the list I’ve compiled:

 

1) The average male (in the western world) has the following grooming products: soap, water, shampoo, razor or beard trimmer, toothbrush and toothpaste and nail clippers. His “extra special” grooming preparations might include, mouth rinse, cologne, and running a comb through his wet hair, so it will dry in place. (I could be wrong, but I don’t think men use hair dryers anymore.)

The average female in the western world uses the following grooming products: tooth brush and tooth paste – the special kind that ‘whitens’ teeth, soap – the special kind with moisturizers in it, water, shampoo – the special kind for her hair type, which includes, curly hair, straight hair, frizzy hair, damaged hair, or hair that’s been coloured and/or ‘permed’ and hair conditioner for same ‘hair types.’ After shower, grooming products include skin moisturizer, special shave cream for sensitive skin and special razors or cream hair removers designed for women’s ‘tender’ skin. We might also use daily, something to darken and lengthen our eyelashes, something to redden our lips and cheeks. The more creative or vain among us (take your choice of adjective there) use something to even out the skin tone on our faces, something to enhance the arch of our eyebrows and make our eyes ‘stand out.’ We can’t just run a comb through our hair – we have to blow dry it, or curl it, or gel it, or mousse it, or clip it up, or pull it back, or ’tease’ it a bit. Our “extra-special” grooming preparations might include, getting our faces squeezed, pinched, steamed and scrubbed in something called a ‘facial.’ And having hot wax smeared on our private parts, then covered with linen, which is stuck to the wax (on purpose) and then pulled off, taking any ‘stray hairs’ with it, in something called a ‘bikini wax.’ Then, we might sit in one position, not moving our limbs for a half an hour or more, so our manicures and pedicures can dry without smearing.

This is a glamorising process (and I’ve only given you the abridged version of what we can and do do to ourselves) that can take anywhere from one-three hours out of our lives daily, depending on how thorough or speedy we want to be. But when it’s complete, we’re “nice and girly” – soft, smooth, polished, silky and ‘glowy.’

You like us that way. And you know it.

So my first suggestion on how to flirt with your wife/long-time lover is this: When she gets out of the bath, or the bedroom, or wherever she conducts this grooming process, handbag in hand, dressed and smiling, set for the evening, do not look at her distractedly, or worse, click your tongue impatiently and ask, “Are you ready to go?”

Instead, say, “Wow.” Or, “You look great.”

She did it for you, you dolt. She wants you to think she looks attractive. She wants to see that light in your eyes, the one you’d get when you’d first go out on dates together. And she was willing to spend one-three hours of her day to achieve this. An hour or three that she could have spent otherwise, doing perhaps what you were doing, while you were waiting for her to finish the tedious grooming process she conducts for you. Instead of pulling out hairs, or dabbing on zit cream, or separating clumps of mascara from out of her eyelashes, she could’ve have been reading the paper, catching up on the sports news, or playing computer games. She gave up all that fun so she could look pretty – for you. So indicate that you noticed this and that you appreciate it. Even if this ‘dolling up’ doesn’t matter to you, it matters to her.

Think of the different start, the different ambience there’ll be to the evening out, if you say, “Wow” (or whatever the equivalent is in your neck of the woods) to your wife, instead of, “Are you ready?”

Every time a woman’s efforts to be attractive to her man are ignored or go unobserved by him, a tiny bit of her femininity dies. She may not ever complain about it, or even act like she notices, but each time it happens, it chips away at her. Until the day comes she gives up caring to make you notice. Or worse, some other man notices what you had under your hands to touch, taste and enjoy all this time, which you took for granted.

 

2) You don’t like to talk about your deepest fears, worries or insecurities, but she can’t NOT talk about hers. Women’s whole operating system runs on different juice. Visualise the talking we do about our “feelings” as ‘hard drive de-fragmentation.’ When you are de-fragmenting the hard drive on your computer, there’s nothing you can do but sit there while it does its work. You don’t have to give it directions, it knows what it needs to do and it will get on with it. It just takes a while. We can ‘de-fragment’ on our own (or with a group of girlfriends over ‘peach bellinis’) but we want you. Girlfriends are great, but every once in a while when life gets really “shite” and we want to vent, we want our other half to listen. We trust you even more than we trust our girlfriends. You are the one we share our lives and bodies with, so we want to share our feelings with you, too. We don’t need advice, we’re not teenage girls, we’re strong women who just want – need – to talk to our man, so we can re-group and get on with what ever has to be done. All you have to do if you want to help us with this process is understand that we only need empathy. Not advice. If we want advice, we’ll actually ASK for it. If we just need to talk, that’s what we’ll do.

Your part is easier than you make it. Say, “Uh-huh, uh-huh – I see what you’re saying.” “She said, that, huh?” “What did you say?” “Boy, that’s too bad, hon. You must have felt terrible.”

If we cry, hold our hand. Give us a hug. Offer us tea or wine. (Or whatever works at your house.) Be prepared that you may need to do this more than once, until we resolve whatever it is. That’s all you need to do to be a prince in our eyes.

 

3) Approach sex the way you would building a house. One brick at a time until the whole thing is laid. (Hee hee)

For most women, foreplay starts with that, “You look great,” or sours with, “Are you finally ready?” If you spend a few moments during the day/evening when there is no possibility that you can have sex at that particular moment, looking at your woman as though there’s nothing else you want to do but look at her, she will feel desired, not devoured. When you are making love, talk to her. Not as in, “a funny thing happened to me today,” but as in, “I’ve always thought you have the most beautiful skin…” Yes, it’s strategy of a sorts, only it’s not a takeover you’re trying to stage, but a fulfilment… for both of you.

 

4) Do one thing that you really and truly do not want to do, but you know she would love. I’m not talking about disowning your irritating mother. (If in fact, you have an irritating mother. Your wife hasn’t said anything to me, I promise.) It should be something that won’t harm you, but just isn’t in your realm of desires. If you know she’d like you to cook for her and you’re a lousy cook and hate the idea, do it anyway. Just once. If it’s dancing, go. Make it clear that this is a gift, a one-off thing that will not be repeated just because you did it once. (Gosh- I hope you’re not married to someone like that, who’d turn a gesture of generosity into a point of argument, as in, “if you did it once, why can’t you do it again?”) If your spouse can be trusted to understand this thing that you are doing is like climbing a mountain for your love, think of one or two things that she’d love, but you’d ordinarily hate and do them. Just for her.

As I read over this list, I realise it’s really not about how to flirt, is it? It’s more about how to love. Have I covered everything? Probably not, but it’s good for a start, I hope.

 

 

 

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Seven Ways to Flirt With Your Husband

Seven Ways to Flirt With Your Husband

After the fires in Greece, lost young girls, devastating storms and several other tragedies that have taken place in the world in the last week, not the least of which seems to be, if we can judge by the tremendous newspaper coverage it’s been getting here in the States, the demise of Britney Spears pop career, I thought I should lighten things up a little with this week’s blog.

Hence I present to you, my neighbours and friends, “Seven Ways to Flirt with Your Husband.” This might be of interest only to female readers, but I hope men will review this, too. In case I’ve got any of it wrong, I welcome being set straight by the male population. Any insight into the masculine mind is helpful to those of my sex who value our associations with our men.

It’s been my experience that these work well if you’ve been in a romantic relationship with a man, married or not, for at least five years and it’s a reasonably happy one. For the purpose of this article, ‘happy’ means that when his key turns in the lock, you say to yourself (most of the time, at least) “Oh, good, he’s here,” and not “God help me, he’s here.” Even if the “oh, good,” just means you’re planning to send him out for milk, or waiting for him to take you to the cinema, you feel safe with him and within your partnership. In fact, you’re both so comfortable with each other by now, that blatant flirting seems ‘silly,’ maybe, or just too contrived. Still, you might be thinking…you know…it’d be nice to “add a little spark,” without making any drastic changes in your day-to-day interactions and without having to try out the sexual positions they outline in Cosmopolitan. (Those are daunting to all but the most lithe and nimble amongst us.)

The methods below, some tactile, some mental, are easy and subtle. They’ll make your man feel like a million dollars. Trust me, he‘ll return the favour.

1) Make eye contact. Okay, so he’s telling one of his stories you’ve heard at least a dozen times before. So what? For some reason, he likes to tell this story, whatever it is. Maybe it reminds of a time when he felt really good, or maybe, if he’s telling it while you’re with other people, he believes it makes him sound witty and fun. What do you gain by rolling your eyes or saying, “you’ve told this one before?” All that accomplishes is to make him feel small in your eyes. He’ll think, “she doesn’t really like me to talk to her” and so he won’t. Then you’ll feel slighted that he has nothing to say to you any more, like he “used to, when you first met.” If you’re out with people and your reaction is negative, it does more than just make him feel small. It embarrasses him. And it will make the others with you think you’re bored with each other, or worse, have no respect for one another. And doesn’t that describe the fun couple to spend an evening with? Also keep in mind that if he’s so inclined, he’ll be able to get back at you for this one in the long run. Hormone fluctuations caused by pregnancy and/or menopause, will have you not only repeating stories, but forgetting things you’ve already said and to whom, what you were doing and where you were going. Keep all of this in mind, as you look straight into his eyes when he tells that story…again. If it’s supposed to be a funny story, laugh. Again. If it’s a serious story, say, “wow.” He’s trying the best he knows how to impress you. So act like you’re impressed. It shouldn’t be hard, because you were impressed, weren’t you, the first time you heard this story from him? Relive that and he’ll notice your eyes on him. Before you know it, he’ll be staring right back at you, with pride and love that he‘s can still hold you riveted after all this time together.

2) Touch him. Not sexual touches, small, fleeting, unnecessary touches. These have their most impact when you’re not in bed, ready to do the deed. Stroke his shoulder briefly, as you pass him while he’s sitting in his chair, watching telly or reading. If he’s at the sink and his back is turned to you, pat his bottom as you go from one room to the next. As he’s just dressed for work, fresh out of the shower, lean into him, sniff and say, “Mmmm.” Out to dinner with those friends again? Very briefly, touch the back of his hand, absently, while you or someone else is speaking (Not while he’s speaking, though. He’ll probably think you’re trying to signal discreetly that you want him to shut up.)

Remember, if this man has not been cheating on you (and we hope he hasn’t,) the only romantic touch he’ll ever experience again on his body, forever, is yours. Show him it was worth making that commitment. Show him you like to touch him, you like being the lucky woman who’s able to touch him where no other woman can. He’ll think about you for hours.

3) Laugh at his jokes. His silly, corny jokes. It doesn’t matter how lame you really think they are, or if again, you’ve heard them before. The delight on his face should be worth it to you. If it’s not, you’re married to the wrong man. So be his best audience. On the other hand, if he’s making a ‘joke’ to be annoying, just ignore him. Laughing as though you’re amused when he means to be amusing, and ignoring him when he’s being obnoxious, is positive reinforcement. The same dismissive “tch” of irritation from you, whether he just wants to see you smile, or whether he’s deliberately trying to provoke you, sends the message to him that no matter what he does, he’s nothing more than a minor nuisance in your life. And who amongst us isn’t driven wild with lust when the object of our affections makes us feel like we’re no more significant than a mosquito?

4) When things are getting ‘stirred up,’ out of the blue, pick a body part of his and tell him it’s “sexy.” Not the usual ones. Eyes, lips, bums and privates are ‘old hat.’ Pick something you haven’t mentioned before, at least not too often. Tell him he has sexy eyebrows, or toes, or fingernails, or knees. Trace whatever it is with your index finger and smile. You’d best pick something you really do think is cute or sexy, because then you should give whatever it is a quick kiss or tongue flick. Say, “May I kiss you there?” And when he says “yes,” which of course, he will, do it. Think this is silly? Laughing now, because, after all this time, your husband/lover has knobbly knees, or everything else equally shop-worn? Really? How ‘bout your body parts? Still as perfect as they were when the two of you first met? Chubby, thin, saggy, hairy, bald – whatever – this man is yours. And you are his. Have fun with that. Nobody else but the two of you are watching.

5) Take an interest in his interests. Don’t belittle them to him by saying things like, “it’s just a game,” or “it’s just a hobby.” Think of your hobbies/interests – are they “justs” to you? Or are they passions? Mine are cooking, politics, books, languages, poetry, decorating, foreign films and music of all kinds and types, weight-lifting. Gosh, I have several and many of those, my husband is only mildly interested in. He has other interests, which include baseball, poker, math, stock market fluctuations and rice farming. Yet, he doesn’t demean my passions, nor I his. One of his friends recently told me that his former girlfriend used to call his ‘men’s league’ baseball uniform his “baseball costume.” How passive-aggressive. You don’t have to dive into your husband’s/lover’s interests, but you do have to respect them. Listen when he talks about them. Ask questions. Not desultory ones- specific ones. You might find the answers more intriguing than you’d supposed. At the very least, you’ll learn something new. In my association with my husband, I’ve discovered that baseballs pitched exactly the same way, by exactly the same pitcher, in different weather and climates will ‘behave’ differently, that the stock market goes up and down as much on people’s perceptions and emotions, as on economic tangibles, that there are more types of rice than I ever could have known and that the latest Superman movie had grievous errors in it, because in the film, Superman moves green kryptonite and Superman in the comics, absolutely cannot bear to be near green kryptonite. And that’s not all he‘s taught me. I’m happy that I know them, as I never would have if I hadn’t met him. From me, he’s learned how to swear in Greek, finally tasted genuine Italian food and has enjoyed living in the benefits of feng shui. There’s nothing sexier than seeing the person you love excited about something, watching their eyes light up when they tell you about the things they love. And there’s nothing more exciting then talking about the things you love, with the one person you love, more than anyone else. So, listen when he talks about that slider, that photo lens, that golf stance, that quarterback, Beckham, his poem, whatever.

6) Say something ‘silly-saucy’ when he least expects it and when it can’t lead to sex. This has the best effect if you say it when he isn’t too distracted by something really pressing. For example, my husband rang me up last week on his way home from a business trip, to tell me that his plane would arrive the next night at 7:30 p.m. Ordinarily I pick him up at the airport. This time, however, I told him, “Oh, seven-thirty tomorrow? I’m so sorry dear, you’ll have to get someone else to pick you up. I’ve already got a date arranged for then with Mr. Gonzalez. We’re having dinner and sex after.” (Mr. Gonzalez is our friend’s seventy-year old gardener.) After a short pause, my husband, replied, “Oh. Alright then, honey, ask Mrs. Gonzalez to come get me.”

7) This is the best one I have to offer. When something happens that he warned you about, or predicted would happen, tell him about it. Start by saying, “Well, you were right again.” Say it with pride, not annoyance. He’ll then, for sure, say, “About what?” You got his attention. Who doesn’t like to be told how brilliant they are?

You might think this article is a silly bit of fluff, but I beg to differ. What makes life worth living most, after all, besides loving another person? Tragedies invariably come along, as noted in the first paragraph. Happy relationships are an elixir to the spirit, a reaffirmation that it’s worth being human, worth getting out of bed in the morning, no matter what current devastation is happening in the world. These little ‘flirting tips’ will put a smile on your loved one’s face and yours, too.

As women like to be flirted with much differently than do men, now that I’ve got your attention, next week I’ll write, “Seven Ways to Flirt with Your Wife.”

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Some Things I Wish I Knew When I Was Eighteen



1. The football quarterback you sighed over all through high school English class, will usually be the first guy to go bald, get fat and have a bypass. You won’t recognize him at your tenth-year high school reunion.

2. Generally speaking, teachers, doctors, clergy and police officers are no smarter, no more compassionate, trustworthy nor dedicated to their work, than the rest of the population. Sometimes they’re even less so.

3. You should judge who your true friends are not only by the sympathy they express when something very bad happens to you, but by the genuine joy they express when something very good happens to you.

4. The Captain and Tenille were wrong. “Love” won’t keep you together. A mortgage you can’t pay on one salary, might do it for a while.

5. If you love a man because he’s strong, brave and has all the answers, you’re doing him and yourself an injustice. If he still makes your heart flip through the times he’s scared, aching or unsure, you’ve both got something good going on.

6. The sexy butterfly tattoo you get when you’re twenty, will just look like a misshapen bruise when you’re sixty.

7. The physical effects of cigarettes, alcohol, McDonald’s twice a week and lack of sunscreen, will all magically show themselves on your face precisely ONE day after your thirty-fifth birthday.

8. Every single politician on the planet, particularly the one you admire most, has his/her own agenda, that may or may not have anything to do with your welfare nor the welfare of his/her constituents.

9. Don’t do all the talking when you meet new people, listen to them and learn. Don’t assume you can figure out whether they’re basically good or bad, either. Time will tell.

10. All the good you do does come back to you, as does all the bad. This is especially true of sit-ups.

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