tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82331464869258858952024-02-19T22:45:40.255-08:00IrenePeterson.comIrenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.comBlogger347125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-55714293393678298212023-12-14T16:05:00.000-08:002023-12-14T16:05:36.709-08:00'Tis the season<p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, here it is, Christmas.</span> </p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ten days away. I have done nothing but order some candy from Vermont Country Store and watch Monarch on tv. Putting Doctor Who off for later. Can only take so much excitement.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Monday I go for mammogram and bone density tests. Fun fun fun. Then next day Karyn has some stuff at yet another doctor. Nothing for me until after January when I see the oncologist then primary. Of course I will worry.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>I do that so well, I ought to be in the Olympics.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Baking to do, decorating to do...I thought the house would be Hallmark style. Might get there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The outside of the house is bedecked with penguins. Herb has had his way with the front. Last year he even put lights up in the back.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The little fake tree is up from the cellar, but without decorations. Got to have stuff on it...after all, it is Christmas!</span> </p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Wait. I sent out all the Christmas cards.</i></b> That ought to count</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl3M-HuWVLstZQvaZMaZe1l0uYGiMUyAx_YvN8FxvK1ouv1V2PsW9LP-lA36nmu_0Im6YHUkaKmilKam8lqnbZJLZ7I5ElOhWbtbC_L71U4cAKxMyzMZeIolD5XAxVouhc46qlfaLyKBGENCeY-Cyw71BYUfT8LYXmWD-8uK1O-n0puOwdjxbC5sycrg1f/s4128/20211221_172127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4128" data-original-width="3096" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl3M-HuWVLstZQvaZMaZe1l0uYGiMUyAx_YvN8FxvK1ouv1V2PsW9LP-lA36nmu_0Im6YHUkaKmilKam8lqnbZJLZ7I5ElOhWbtbC_L71U4cAKxMyzMZeIolD5XAxVouhc46qlfaLyKBGENCeY-Cyw71BYUfT8LYXmWD-8uK1O-n0puOwdjxbC5sycrg1f/s320/20211221_172127.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> for something accomplished!</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Merry Christmas, everyone!</span> </p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-25784844772543489862023-11-29T06:29:00.000-08:002023-11-29T06:29:59.711-08:00Sweets for the skinny<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Admit it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You've seen her...the slim, tall model, upswept hair, nondescript bland outfit...enjoying her family Christmas gathering.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">As she sits there, she picks up a ball of candy and after unwrapping the shiny foil, slowly nibbles at a luscious chocolate ball of candy. Nibbles. She carefully doesn't <b><i>bite</i></b> it. A smile spreads over her lips and she almost inhales delight.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Right.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>You've seen her.</i></b> I've seen her...she's modeling and nibbling all over the Hallmark Channel.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>You sorta dislike her.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, you may do more than <b><i>sorta</i></b> dislike her, if you are someone like me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Bite the damn truffle, bitch! Eat it as if it won't put ten pounds on your thighs! Maybe you won't fit into that pencil skirt if you actually swallow the sweet confection! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Be human!</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You see, magnificent model person, there are women watching you nibble, women who like chocolate. Who look forward to actually tasting that deliciousness. Women who hesitate because they worry about those ten pounds added to their thighs or butts or ankles or chin. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe more women than you even know because they aren't models for anything but diabetes drugs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We, the pudgy! We the women who do not nibble! We the women who like chocolate and potatoes and spaghetti and cake!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sorry. You and I cannot be friends.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ever.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Nibble away, bitch! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">AAARGH!</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-82847128401976346432023-10-29T12:34:00.000-07:002023-10-29T12:34:16.945-07:00The Purple Cape<p> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>I've written about the fabulous purple cape previously. In case you don't remember, let me refresh your memories.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The purple cape came to our family in the mid-1950s. Beloved Uncle Gene gave it to us after his stint in a circus. I know nothing more about this but he came away with four silly costumes and the desire to build a Ferris wheel in a vacant lot in Middlesex, NJ. There were lots of empty spaces back then, not so now.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, the costumes were pure circus. Some kind of flapper dress with black tassels, a green two flapped piece of material that I imagine was part of a harem girl's costume and something else I can't remember, but along with these gaudy bits, was the Purple Cape.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let me describe it to you. It was deep purple, royal purple, about four feet in length, made of flannel. I only now realize it was flannel and not satin because I was just a kid and it was absolutely gorgeous to me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Around the neckline was the only decoration. A band of pure gold, emerald and ruby lay around the neck. Absolutely gem quality. Beautiful. Magnificent.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Everybody</b> wanted to wear the purple cape, even if we were just playing cowboys. Every kid on our street wanted that honor. After all, it was deep purple and encrusted with precious gems around the neck.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But at Halloween, it was most in demand. Cowboys, bums, girly girls, you name it, that purple cape went with every costume.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Chilly Halloween nights, it served as warmth and status.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Years went by. The cape was always there. <b>Then, it disappeared.</b> I don't know whether my younger brother every enjoyed wearing it, but by the time I was taking him out trick or treating, it was no longer used.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, the delights of that regal bit of material!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think I'm a princess just remembering it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Many years later, as an adult, I was in our old garage, looking for fishing rods or something when I spied a crumpled bit of purple stashed in a corner. No! It couldn't be!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Alas, I recognized the bejeweled collar. Gold, emerald and ruby, still shining, while the cape had faded a dull grey.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The purple cape. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I pulled it out of the corner, passed my hand lovingly against the stiff flannel and sighed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Gone was the glory.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I should have cut the jewels away and kept them, but I didn't. I buried it in the garbage can and cried.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">However, I do hold the glory of the Purple Cape in my heart and every year about this time, I remember it fondly, lovingly, and long for the days when it was magnificent to come back, if just for a second, to cheer my heart.</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-41939107372829844022023-09-16T09:37:00.001-07:002023-09-16T09:37:15.154-07:00Something is wrong<p> <span style="font-size: large;">I don't feel good. I can't seem to wake up enough. There is no energy. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I'm rather worried.</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-14202433087015953582023-09-03T13:07:00.001-07:002023-09-03T13:07:33.607-07:00Spider in the can<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Beside the throne on the wainscoting is a little bitty spider. Tiny, about maybe 2 centimeters, maybe eighth of an inch. Little black body with red legs. So thin, they can barely be seen,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I did not freak.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I remained calm and said directly to it, "You'd better leave here. I'll let you off this time, but if you are still there when I get back, you're dead."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Nothing against spiders, not really, but they are rather disconcerting about 7 inches away from one's face in this very private moment.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Hours later, upon returning to the powder room, the bloody spider did not listen to me, did not take my warning threat. It is still there, some 7 inches from my face.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I had warned it. I had done my best, in my calmest quiet tone, to let it know its future if it remained where it was. Wiggling it's little red arms at me...sneering...batting its little multiple eyes at me as I heaved a heavy sigh, grabbed a couple sheets of TP and swiftly eradicated the disgusting spider from the wall.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The TP wad got tossed into the bowl. I didn't look down, somewhat ashamed of myself for killing nature. Flushed away. Threat carried out: I am a woman of my word.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A bit later, I returned to the scene and needed to do what I had to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It hit me then that I had not truly seen the itty bitty spider's demise. What if it hadn't died? What if it had survived and somehow with its spidery red legs, it had crawled out of the bowl and was right now about to leap onto my humanity?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, Lord, I can't go potty in there!!!</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-57585349647554895032023-08-04T10:31:00.003-07:002023-08-04T10:31:54.561-07:00Short names<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Why aren't people named Dusty any more?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Or Rusty or Gabby or Fitz or Snuffy or Biff or Lolly or Needlenose or Gizmo or Stinky?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You get my point.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Full names, sometimes including middle names, anything to draw out the amount of breath one needs to call someone. You know, not like Spanky or Johnny or Paulie or Joe. Good Ole Joe. No, the names have to sound like they're going to grow up to be college presidents. Charles Everett Gladstone. Livingston Merritt Longford.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I thought it would be refreshing to write a short story where my characters had somewhat silly, unpopular, regular old nicknames. A name is a name, right? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe it would work. Maybe it would sound like I was writing an Our Gang Comedy. Now, those were nicknames! Stymie and Alfalfa. Butch. Froggy. Yeah.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't know what I'd call any female characters. Females don't have nicknames. Hell, even Joan of Arc was just Joan. Darla was just Darla. Helen Keller was...Helen.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have to think about this more.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If anyone has any suggestions, please reply. This will be on FB.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2aIYPDbmrXHSN2ju7vBSh_X8tVP16sl0nCLDKlXcMaEkRJ3D7UAhh_TGgS-YZbDdI_p5MQ6l32PgHy8Y0Kb-FSM3ioQt2pnU6aqcmhYx2s6uKBASXekub0Drh-AsROVqNCpDA9IrFINvBmfnbIDbmcqShv_HevDLxpUizhZMtyy0UnotTlfcRHdKZciH4/s4128/20210716_115213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3096" data-original-width="4128" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2aIYPDbmrXHSN2ju7vBSh_X8tVP16sl0nCLDKlXcMaEkRJ3D7UAhh_TGgS-YZbDdI_p5MQ6l32PgHy8Y0Kb-FSM3ioQt2pnU6aqcmhYx2s6uKBASXekub0Drh-AsROVqNCpDA9IrFINvBmfnbIDbmcqShv_HevDLxpUizhZMtyy0UnotTlfcRHdKZciH4/s320/20210716_115213.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-81639135483305720172023-04-13T11:40:00.001-07:002023-04-13T11:40:32.584-07:00Magic Camera<p> <span style="font-size: large;"><b>While trying remember a name last night, my brain went back to something that happened a long time ago.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Took me till this morning to remember the last name of the people who lived in a house down the street, but out of the blue, early this morning, it just popped into my head. I won't write it here as some of these folks might be alive and it is rude to mention full names without permission. But...</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The older daughter who lived there was a few years older than I was. Somehow, I got invited to her birthday party. I think all the girls who lived on the street did. It was a party dress and patent leather shoes party. Cool. I had a party dress!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, the party was forgettable except for one thing. The girl's father joined us with something special...so special, I can never forget it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">He took the object out of the leather case, I think it was...hey, I was about 5 and this makes it nearly 70 years ago. It was brown. He unfolded the object and proceeded to take our pictures with it. Now, this happened frequently at birthday parties, so it wasn't so special, but this time...oh, this time!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Papers spewed out of the camera. After a few minutes, we could actually see the photos!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Mr. G had the very first Polaroid Land Camera I'd ever seen!!!!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So very, very cool. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We saw ourselves in black and white minutes after we'd posed for the photos! </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ahh, science. When I think of the first time I saw something...like the first time I saw a small microwave oven in 1969...it was history! I lived through history just as I did seeing Alan Shepard go into space and John Glenn circle the Earth three times!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My grandmother went from living in a mud covered house in Ukraine to having an automobile to a color television to using a microwave to heat her coffee. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">You might not appreciate these achievements, but, stop and think about what you have witnessed in your lifetime. Cool, huh?</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-43158886572159527442023-02-20T08:39:00.001-08:002023-02-20T08:39:27.687-08:00The Value of Cake<p> <span style="font-size: large;">A long time ago, in a galaxy far away (Georgia) a weird wonderful thing happened. Hang in there, this is a strange story.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">While doing my time with the WACS, all 150 of us were sent on TDY to Fort Benning, GA, for some military reason. I had been there once before to see my brother Jack when he was in OCS. (That's Temporary Duty, TDY and OCS, Officer Candidate School.)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">No matter. We females were more or less mid-summer entertainment for the male officers to be. Which was okay...I had no intention of joining up at that time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">We toured a helicopter. We saw a loud fake raid on a Vietcong held village, all bullets and smoke and screaming. Very realistic and scary. I thought of my brother being in the middle of that and cringed.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Anyway, they (the military) th</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">rew a dance for us, so we could mingle with these guys who faced officership and eventual shipping off to Vietnam. Which, as most of us felt at the time (1970) was a <b>death</b> <b>warrant</b>. Yes. Everybody was afraid to get drafted and sent to where so many people were being killed. It was "don't flunk out of college and get sent to Nam to die". Really. The attitude was funereal.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, here I am in the middle of nowhere Georgia on an army base, trying to enjoy being with so many young good-looking single guys who might die in six months.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I danced. I really danced with anybody who asked me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, while dancing, I think I laughed at something my partner said, and replied, "Oh, that's cake."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">A common response in my neck of the woods, meaning--that's cool or good or easy. <b>Yeah, that's cake</b>. Like, a piece of cake, which as we all agree, is quite good.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This other guy follows me from the dance floor and politely asks me where I'm from. I tell him New Jersey. He laughs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm from Jersey, too."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Where did you go to school?"</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Rutgers."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">"Hey, my brother graduated from there three years ago. He was here in Benning couple of years ago."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Guy shakes his head. "Small world."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I ask him where he lived. He says "Manasquan."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Startled, I say that Odette, </span><span style="font-size: x-large;">my big sister in the sorority was from there and name her. He doesn't know her, but he's smiling. Kept saying "Jersey girl."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I then remember my little sister in the sorority, Jenny, is also from Manasquan.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The guy lets out a whoop! <b>"She lives next door to me!"</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Wow. We spent the next few hours together, just enjoying one another's company. He was a sweet guy. I knew so much about him by the end of the dance. Sigh. But the dance was over and we females had to beat it to the bus or get in major bullshit trouble.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't remember his name. I think at the time I just wanted to be his friend and fellow Jerseyan and had that link to Rutgers and my brother. I didn't want to know his name, I guess, because I didn't want to know he never made it back to Jersey.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But...it was a good thing. It was a sweet, innocent, happy acquaintance because of one simple word. I cannot ever forget the way I felt, the understanding, the instant connection, even if I cannot remember his name. I do hope, however, that he remembers that evening fondly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>All for the value of cake.</b></span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-44552946569111170402022-12-27T09:09:00.000-08:002022-12-27T09:09:32.654-08:00Ay, carumba!<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Jackie Kennedy's stepfather told her when things were not going according to her plan, to stick out her chest and yell <i>ay <b>carumba</b> to get it off her mind.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am not sure if that should be Hay or Ay, because I never actually read it but I know how to say it. Three years of Spanish didn't exactly cover that. It could be a curse, or simply something like OH SHIT. Dunno. But I've had this feeling regarding my blog.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The desktop quit cooperating for me. I dug through all sorts of notes to find how to get back into Wordpress, finally found it so I could blog all of the things I wanted to blog about over the holiday. I did indeed find the password and username, but when after two weeks, I finally turned the desktop back on, I got in here perfectly.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was afraid I had not paid for something and lost my good name.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Evidently, that was okay, because here I am. Unfortunately, I don't remember anything I was intending to blog about. The topics were <i><b>pure genius</b></i> gems, I can remember that. But, alas, they are gone with the brainfarts.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This has been quite a year. Not too good of one, either. My beloved got and was treated for cancer. We don't really know if it is cured because it isn't found out except for blood tests, and that only says if his body is juicing properly so the white cells or something are working.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>We had a shit vacation again this year.</b></i> I will not go into that. We did have fun taking the girls to various sales, one in DC and one in Baltimore. So, we got around by ourselves while the girls sold Karyn's artwork. Unfortunately, K didn't have too many sales to go to because of the plague and other things.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Elyse and Mike did rather well, though they had car trouble which cost too much. They can't seem to save money without having to spend it on other things...like food and transportation.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Karyn is looking forward to having her student loan paid in full. I cannot divulge details, but thanks to the generosity of family, she's doing better in that regard. She also got the gumption to clean out her room so she can work better with more space. All in all, her down days are fewer and that's great.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Me? I am living in isolation, dependent on learning about my friends through texts and FB. I do not get around much at all, but that way, I am safe from germs and other bad things.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Elyse and Mike did get Covid.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">On the brightest note, the little grand nieces are thriving and one got a baby brother and the other one has a baby sister on the way. They are cute little buggers, to be sure. I wish them all the best the world has to offer. They do make me smile, just thinking about them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now that I can get back into my blog, I will probably remember some of the things I thought of writing about.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Let's hope the world heals and all our sicknesses disappear and those I love continue to thrive. God bless us, every one!</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-63327177316267409002022-11-06T10:04:00.000-08:002022-11-06T10:04:09.409-08:00Blast from the past<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Who remembers the ads on the very back pages of magazines?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I no longer get lots of magazines...only Better Homes and Gardens which I never really read. It's all photos and recipes and the advertisements are all national brand stuff like Perdue and various medicines that might be of interest to old folks.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But way back when...I can't tell for sure, maybe a reader of this can help, there used to be ads stuck way in the back. Small ads, maybe an inch or so, usually with some photo, that went national in the smallest way.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">For example: Learn to be a secretary from <b>Katherine Gibbs </b>schools. There were several of them. One was in Montclair. Two of my off campus roommates went there after having two years of a junior college somewhere. This was basically finishing school for them to be secretaries and marry some guy who worked at a great job in an office.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ahh. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Next, let's mention <b>Baypath Junior college</b>. Now, this was also regarded as a finishing school, somewhere in New England. Its purpose was to really finish you off, with the distinct advantage of being in New England where all the big male dominated universities were and still are located. I do not know if Baypath (possibly Bay Path) still exists. It existed, still may, but somehow I doubt it. It may or may not have provided a good well rounded two year education. Think Mona Lisa Smile. I'm not putting it down, I just knew that if it had to advertise in the back of monthly magazines, there was a little something fishy about it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Oh, boy, next...let's remember <b>Staunton Military Academy</b>. This apparently was one of those all boy schools that parents sent their unruly sons to so they'd get military discipline. The famous wrestling promotor, Vince McMahon went there. There were lots of military schools for parents to send their sons to just to get them out of their hair or prevent them from landing in juvie. It no longer exists. We have seen the imposing building high on the hill looming over the lovely town of Staunton...its windows are boarded up, there is no life there. Now, things may have changed in a couple of years, but as far as I know, it is defunct.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, I and other young girls suffered from being overweight. Yeah, fat shamed until sophomore year. But there had been an answer back of the magazines. Send your daughter to <b>Camp Stanley</b>! She'll swim and play tennis and ride horses while being instructed in a fun way about proper nutrition. Yeah. Lose those pounds the fun way in the woods somewhere! Promises you'll be more acceptable to your slim peers...or maybe not. It cost money, to be sure. Not for Irene.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But one ad was for me. <b>Can You Draw Me?</b> Simply draw this pirate or woman with earring, send it to us and we'll evaluate your ability so you can sign up for our art course. <i>I must confess, I did it</i>. Before I was accepted at Montclair State, in a moment of despair, I drew the pirate and sent it to them. Of course, I showed great talent and was suitable for their art courses that would guarantee me entry to something where I could apply my newly developed talent. Sigh. I wrote back when I was accepted at college that I was not interested in their art courses, but thank you very much for considering me. For months after rejecting their offer, I continued getting mail from them. I guess they thought I'd flunk out and run to them as a consolation.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">These ads just might still exist. I don't know. But something made me think of them and remember, fondly, how inspiring they might have been to people who needed a direction and were seduced by these inch high advertisements in the back of magazines.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Even I tried to find direction back there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If there no longer are these helpful ads, what is there?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Ahh. The Internet!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUdxghAk-FdCtFMsmafJY9moPIcCW4hT6Jg79vtS5d6GK_vHbi0A9UIcab7T2f53GcAjFWNL8qzVQa1DhWzvPI-Gh8pjLLw5c8pugX1NIJhn06h05BHQC1yOYNy31H6PD5X7ksVhDWpLPolgNE08YPEhHZIS4H-3n18bahzy5BSv6EkXPJVZBnpdZ0w/s4128/20200411_131052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4128" data-original-width="3096" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUdxghAk-FdCtFMsmafJY9moPIcCW4hT6Jg79vtS5d6GK_vHbi0A9UIcab7T2f53GcAjFWNL8qzVQa1DhWzvPI-Gh8pjLLw5c8pugX1NIJhn06h05BHQC1yOYNy31H6PD5X7ksVhDWpLPolgNE08YPEhHZIS4H-3n18bahzy5BSv6EkXPJVZBnpdZ0w/s320/20200411_131052.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQPCT2qTooWzzo4dqwOoW7427oc_dPG3DoNxAg-vUsUJ9sLVUjuHXT9swMKK_wbHJVPVVJzP9NRu5KtappDcQd6Yl_4FRDqZ0aqt0LRnYFjHwRK8z6Wwl1TP-dGqUnKjHwc3LjYJv12mMhWIk8wbKDj2t41dWphzo6_QnFXFEBjJsS-0nKajYup5m4g/s2576/20200506_163756.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="1932" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigQPCT2qTooWzzo4dqwOoW7427oc_dPG3DoNxAg-vUsUJ9sLVUjuHXT9swMKK_wbHJVPVVJzP9NRu5KtappDcQd6Yl_4FRDqZ0aqt0LRnYFjHwRK8z6Wwl1TP-dGqUnKjHwc3LjYJv12mMhWIk8wbKDj2t41dWphzo6_QnFXFEBjJsS-0nKajYup5m4g/s320/20200506_163756.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></span><p></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-15224607825386183802022-11-02T07:39:00.001-07:002022-11-02T07:39:27.071-07:00Aging out<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Well, it is official.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I regard myself as old.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Pity, that.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">After accumulating so many years on Earth, it suddenly hit me that I've lived quite a long time and accomplished very little.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I was thinking of all the things I have tried and finished up without obtaining great success.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Once, I thought I could be a star...have fans who worshipped me...in a dream I had once a long time ago, I was up on some pedestal with people standing below, crying out my name and adoring me. Wow! What a dream. I don't remember much else of that dream, but I know I liked what was happening and that, for once, I was very, very cool in the minds of others.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, that never happened. It would have been something spectacular, for sure. And I probably would have loved it. For awhile.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Even <b><i>Midas</i></b> got tired of that turning things to gold business when he couldn't eat or drink. And he turned his beloved kid or wife into an Academy Award trophy....</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I have tried lots of things. Nothing suited me other than mother, which I fought for, and being published, which took 10 years. But the <b>other side hustles </b>were mere experiences, none of which made me happy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Was I a failure?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps. Perhaps not.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">All I know is that I fought long and hard. You could put that on my gravestone, except "<b>She was right</b>" is already there.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgde46dWnc8020WzHVUM4G8fJjlxN8drpmZyMn05_ThieENfbGdvTvYmcPQvteb_E9lc7uqox9l3e9Awc60-zOliFa7lWwrfGotfem7mBdv6yLnXpluiBftFXtuQb1MDG7V3BWmbyoVWA0K4CEQZG49yYGkMLltyOQF8eV18lW1L8MkHZ-GAxCFZO0hBQ/s4032/20211107_165846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgde46dWnc8020WzHVUM4G8fJjlxN8drpmZyMn05_ThieENfbGdvTvYmcPQvteb_E9lc7uqox9l3e9Awc60-zOliFa7lWwrfGotfem7mBdv6yLnXpluiBftFXtuQb1MDG7V3BWmbyoVWA0K4CEQZG49yYGkMLltyOQF8eV18lW1L8MkHZ-GAxCFZO0hBQ/s320/20211107_165846.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-85918357445687177002022-10-25T11:28:00.003-07:002022-10-25T11:28:21.758-07:00Disgruntlement<p> I just wasted an hour filling out a medical form for my eye doctor.</p><p><br /></p><p>I am pissed beyond belief.</p><p><br /></p><p>Even my desktop; sucks.</p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-77321160009084608112022-09-04T09:07:00.000-07:002022-09-04T09:07:00.663-07:00Desktop hates me<p> <span style="font-size: large;">It has been a very long time since I've ventured to my blog.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The computer has objected to my use of it. I don't know what I have ever done to make it hate me so. The keys stick. It takes forever to warm up. I can't change the size of font. Thus all my brilliance has faded away with my dreams.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">WE were gifted with a new grand nephew.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Elyse got covid.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Karyn cleaned her room.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Herb is getting counseling. Karyn found some counseling.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've had too many terrible backaches but got my A1c down from 7.9 to 7.1 so I can get my gizzard taken out.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's about it. All my brilliance is gone.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-87885550555499608312022-06-26T11:09:00.000-07:002022-06-26T11:09:03.085-07:00Thanks to Madalyn O'Hair<p><span style="font-size: large;">In the middle of fourth grade, the teacher no longer read something from the King James bible to the class after the Pledge of Allegiance.</span> </p><p>Why was that?</p><p>Because of the self-proclaimed atheist, Madalyn Murray. She did not want God interfering with her son's disbelief and argued in court for the separation of church and state. She won. No longer did the teachers have to pick something out of the Old Testament to read to the kids. It was OT because there might be Jews in the class. Never mind Hindus or Buddhists</p><p>So the Bible was off limits</p><p>Being a Catholic kid, I still had two years of Catechism to go through. Even if the King James version wasn't the Catholic version, it was still what my Protestant classmates heard in their church. I felt a little Catholic guilt hearing those words, even if they were OT.</p><p><br /></p><p>In fifth grade, a Jewish kid came to our school, just so you know. That was the first thing we knew about him.</p><p><br /></p><p>I find it particularly funny that Madalyn got her way and now, she seems to have lost again.</p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-70316616583199041322022-06-01T09:35:00.002-07:002022-06-01T09:44:29.682-07:00Hearing is the last sense to go<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8sxJ0fZxLa9ZOhkm2d7XgOghK1weH7adBLiJTszwGuJvs_Dp-QmQLSnRjAvfYmz97nftT8dl8qQVHCUBBMD_DGoKlzZUmG5kI3Nl9MfYgvpLKzT5g8iCyXUjtL_R444ysn-JpVUw3LA15hlpByVanjWbl714DMGIDUEDHqevukfRyZUltxlxoYj4cQ/s160/deadfish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="60" data-original-width="160" height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid8sxJ0fZxLa9ZOhkm2d7XgOghK1weH7adBLiJTszwGuJvs_Dp-QmQLSnRjAvfYmz97nftT8dl8qQVHCUBBMD_DGoKlzZUmG5kI3Nl9MfYgvpLKzT5g8iCyXUjtL_R444ysn-JpVUw3LA15hlpByVanjWbl714DMGIDUEDHqevukfRyZUltxlxoYj4cQ/s1600/deadfish.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: large;">When husband's great aunt lay dying in hospital, one of the nurses told us to speak to her. She was on her way out and the staff kept calling her "Elizabeth". We corrected them by saying she went by <b>Lee</b>. Perhaps that was why she didn't hear them.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The nurse said, "Hearing is the last to go."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">We talked to her, calling her Aunt Lee. She did sort of rouse, but she had no freakin' idea who we were as we hadn't seen her in a few years. But, we went because it was our duty and our desire to see her while she still breathed, thinking she might recognize him at least. Me, I doubted, but I was there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I remember she didn't like garlic and she was a spectacular baker.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now...where is this going?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps, nowhere, but the other morning, our first spring morning with the bedroom windows open, I heard a familiar, yet unfamiliar sound. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I distinctly heard the sound of an <b><i>old fashioned wooden screen door closing.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>That distinctive rickety old sound that I hadn't heard in so many years. Not since aluminum screen doors came along. </i></b></span><i><b style="font-size: x-large;">All the people on our </b><span style="font-size: large;"><b>street</b></span><b style="font-size: x-large;"> </b></i><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>converted to aluminum doors. Our front door had a C in some metal work for our last name.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Classy for late 1957.</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, where did this sound come from? Last time I think I heard a wooden screen shut was down the shore at one of the places we stayed at. I'm thinking Jack was a sophomore in high school. The summer he grew so tall. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That was a very long time ago. Yet, that sound came back to me a few days ago. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> Is hearing the last thing to go</span><span style="font-size: x-large;">?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Is this a portent?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-57821592796652574362022-05-08T12:04:00.003-07:002022-05-08T12:11:51.903-07:00<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPf4X6SA7A-XxBzeS6jTahIAptZW1CpDIP09KQWIH3TOSycqeSZgVOTWDbKdj335OBLrkqV0rM0Zqo66BF-06CTOguiihMOUoEqLbQ1Pjb_7luHEJgaw0DUYHPeoYQmn6Y8UN1QYxF_MlRGxEz-w70b1AGuGAkSx-UvkDYyqvYqlosr1vl9ltTFGX_Q/s1200/housedresses.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1200" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPf4X6SA7A-XxBzeS6jTahIAptZW1CpDIP09KQWIH3TOSycqeSZgVOTWDbKdj335OBLrkqV0rM0Zqo66BF-06CTOguiihMOUoEqLbQ1Pjb_7luHEJgaw0DUYHPeoYQmn6Y8UN1QYxF_MlRGxEz-w70b1AGuGAkSx-UvkDYyqvYqlosr1vl9ltTFGX_Q/s320/housedresses.webp" width="320" /></a></div><b> For</b><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><b>For </b><b>mom</b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Back in the stone age, when women did not wear slacks or jeans or sweat pants...women who worked at home wore housedresses. While I could not find a picture of the housedress I remember., cotton, light printed plaid or wild florals, this came close enough. Probably from the 30s or 40s, but you get the idea.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>They were for working. You wore an apron to cover it and the dress probably was to stay clean a couple of days. Even if you sweated or slopped dirty water on it while washing the floor or using your wringer washing machine.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My one grandmother, who never once wore slacks, wore housedresses. Only around the house or in her garden.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>My other grandmother was a bit more savvy and did wear slacks. She was more trendy. More American, even if she never once read a book in her life. The other, less trendy grandma, read romances by the stack!</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Now, my mother didn't wear housedresses that I remember, but she did wear skirts and blouses and a girdle. Far from trendy, she did dress up nicely for very special occasions. Her make up consisted of powder and lipstick. Perfume, sometimes.. She said it made her feel like a French whore, which she pronounced <i>hoor.</i></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rMviKpRVTzrY5oqj_7IPd3vlFHjckmsds--N1ixjLItmr1limmC7dkKjdLpF2_gdLkjRmvop1QF5DQAPQ6JchN9ix2Z7BdnDpSbt4isX9xfeXesvfMJGmPbRDjZe7RdWDO_npbkCMG027II9QKgc8XR6Pzq_95FXJ91-wxy09VauX-v3YoQdR7sH0w/s603/dadmom.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="603" data-original-width="444" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1rMviKpRVTzrY5oqj_7IPd3vlFHjckmsds--N1ixjLItmr1limmC7dkKjdLpF2_gdLkjRmvop1QF5DQAPQ6JchN9ix2Z7BdnDpSbt4isX9xfeXesvfMJGmPbRDjZe7RdWDO_npbkCMG027II9QKgc8XR6Pzq_95FXJ91-wxy09VauX-v3YoQdR7sH0w/s320/dadmom.jpg" width="236" /></a></i></b></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Well, that's it for dowdy housedresses. </b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Did your mother wear them?</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-4239656316150059922022-05-06T14:16:00.005-07:002022-05-06T14:16:49.529-07:00So many things happening, not all of them good<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Let's see.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Still no word about the prostate cancer.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Still no counselors for either family members who need them.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes I think I should be the one who needs a shrink, but then, I have all of you to listen to my shit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It is raining. We have nothing new planted in the gardens yet. Some of the perennials have poked through and look hearty, or hardy, but there are huge gaps in the garden.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Daughter #1 and her husband are coming up to make me dinner for mother's day. Daughter #2 is in upstate NY watching CATS for the second time.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My mother in law turned 100 and is still in pretty good shape!!!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">My gallbladder needs to come out. My A1c is too high at 7.9.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yeah, I know.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMckcQlEcc5MPvuuNp428ZKE1jLygzde7zEd8NQj8tUOu4DGtGmOKQMMuyJwpDoBTvPdY0ocH1mQsbTMUoMT2NKIGZL7T7YL4wK_uxowiL4LsSrZeIkm37_ZuzfFaMmFjy-Dn_y4nAee7fbBe35x9Q_ERjgVryPpE3n-WcJIdGudEq8XGpKdEyZ5BgA/s280/DickandJaneimages.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="180" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwMckcQlEcc5MPvuuNp428ZKE1jLygzde7zEd8NQj8tUOu4DGtGmOKQMMuyJwpDoBTvPdY0ocH1mQsbTMUoMT2NKIGZL7T7YL4wK_uxowiL4LsSrZeIkm37_ZuzfFaMmFjy-Dn_y4nAee7fbBe35x9Q_ERjgVryPpE3n-WcJIdGudEq8XGpKdEyZ5BgA/s1600/DickandJaneimages.jpg" width="180" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This is Dick. From my early reading days. He hasn't changed one bit.</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-27210699379193955392022-04-14T06:38:00.000-07:002022-04-14T06:38:29.982-07:00Easter<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Spring today!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Supposed to be in the 80s. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The house across the street has a garden full of hyacinths. The maple trees sport red leaf buds. Birds wake me up with their songs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Today is actually Maundy Thursday.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What is the definition of Maundy?</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyw-L2bWt5ElS5KrjkjVIrCgbRKnxRu6tC9Qm8NZC5S2O2DLW-xCpbMK1iqqg5nr4cfNQUee62C9Y5d_G2Vto3JoSTdAHGwPFzCfslijqh1EjC-8lAxuo0zzEldTfnH4NPMPwRUroK2l2tmVrff1mDkNlfOXrJfRdI2yViuclXzxIbhPHa75y_7h3wXQ/s235/dragoneggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="235" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyw-L2bWt5ElS5KrjkjVIrCgbRKnxRu6tC9Qm8NZC5S2O2DLW-xCpbMK1iqqg5nr4cfNQUee62C9Y5d_G2Vto3JoSTdAHGwPFzCfslijqh1EjC-8lAxuo0zzEldTfnH4NPMPwRUroK2l2tmVrff1mDkNlfOXrJfRdI2yViuclXzxIbhPHa75y_7h3wXQ/s1600/dragoneggs.jpg" width="235" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-56809145837472664432022-02-10T13:05:00.000-08:002022-02-10T13:05:58.325-08:00Thinking long and hard<p> <span style="font-size: large;">For days I have thought about writing here. Anything to relieve the ennui. Anything to keep my brain from working.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">So, here I am without my brilliant thoughts.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They're all gone.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">They went away with the wind. Or sleep. Or atrophy. Something. All the three great topics I wanted to write about. Vanished.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I think one was going to be about the end of life. Mine. Like how I realize that I am not going to last much longer...you know. Bones creaking. Getting forgetful. Aches and pains. Troubles in the world where I am not sure I want to see to the finish. Those kind of things.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I worry about dying. I worry about not waking up one morning and everything being black because I am not in my head or body any more. I wonder if I will look at my body and wonder what was going on, or especially where I was going.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yeah. That makes me think.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Where am I going?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I don't particularly like dirt.</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-44535069954681697942022-01-01T13:09:00.000-08:002022-01-01T13:09:08.354-08:00The Case of the Unsilent Schnozz<p> <span style="font-size: large;">Trouble falling asleep. Trouble staying asleep. Trouble worrying day after day, night after night.</span></p><p><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Well, last night, I was kept awake by a whistle in my right nostril. Szzz, whistle, whistle, sznozz. In and out, whistling.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I tried blowing my nose. I tried inhaling. I tried pinching one nostril. I tried digging around to no avail.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Whistle, whistle, whistle.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Nose knows something is wrong, but nothing I can do fixes it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">If I blow too hard, I'm liable to blow out my brains. (This has happened before, don't you know?) </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I get up. Go to bathroom. Sit for awhile, contemplating the sound coming through my head, in and out.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Dunno what happened, with me sitting there, tooting my honker. Maybe it was the sitting. Maybe it was shoving some decongestant up there. Maybe it was a supernatural being finally hearing my plea.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The whistling stopped. I went back to bed, wondering what happened and why I'd had the incessant noise for half the night. <b><i>What did I do wrong?</i></b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But, I could breathe and not have to listen to that wheezeflutter booger making that godawful noise.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Happy New Year, everyone. Stay tuned. There's more idiocy to come.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJCkY6Xz7zMib2iw_ZWhLYfumWDl3GZ8XKJQaw99_Purq4Tst49-g1CUWzrMHFvcN6lRqMDdtXlrPf3ujX7AhR1mUW-QGtI3Qn9HfFxCuEoYkRzfU8OWvBAtMGIQTHlxhkj_uwNNgx6Mv1XTCdB6LgHjwCJ4qw96izcRzJkarabxUrTVYxSDbeT-gjAQ=s2576" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="1932" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjJCkY6Xz7zMib2iw_ZWhLYfumWDl3GZ8XKJQaw99_Purq4Tst49-g1CUWzrMHFvcN6lRqMDdtXlrPf3ujX7AhR1mUW-QGtI3Qn9HfFxCuEoYkRzfU8OWvBAtMGIQTHlxhkj_uwNNgx6Mv1XTCdB6LgHjwCJ4qw96izcRzJkarabxUrTVYxSDbeT-gjAQ=s320" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-78512172750428654562021-12-19T10:52:00.001-08:002021-12-19T10:52:06.599-08:00Cancer: The thing we all hate<p> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Husband definitely has prostate cancer. He has had all the biopsies and tests and it is real.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">He has so far had markers placed into the prostate that will direct the radiation where to go to wipe out this awful thing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Is he scared?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">He doesn't say.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">Am I scared enough for him?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">You bet.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">This is a shitty time of year. 13 years ago just about now, I was told I had my second cancer. I had radiation for the first cancer but this one was more. I had to have chemotherapy. Chemo does horrible things to cancer as well as other parts of your body.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;">I pray and pray.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-58747824911982261692021-12-05T05:29:00.000-08:002021-12-05T05:29:54.565-08:00The Silver Swan<p> <span style="font-size: large;">One of the most often used music for try-outs in choral music in high school is The Silver Swan.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This morning it is all I can think about.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Lyrics-wise, it goes something like this:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span> </span>The silver swan, who living had no note,</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span> </span>When death approached unlocked its silent throat.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span> </span>Leaning her breath upon the reedy shore,</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><span> </span>Thus sang her first, and last, and sang no more.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Wow, that's pretty heavy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Four part harmony at least, sometimes contrapuntal in entry, this dirge drags on for only a short time, but it allowed each part to come in, testing the ability of the singer to read the music and entry as well as the tune. I guess this is what the judges were after. Could the alto come in before the tenors but certainly behind the beloved sopranos?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Was the tone sufficient? Not to block out anyone but rather blend to an almost madrigal POS music?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Gawd, how I hated that stupid, horrible song.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Here's why, sopranos be not offended.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It's about a poor beautiful bird, mute its entire life, that when dying, is allowed by nature or God or Richard Attenborough to sing one note. It honks out one bloody note, probably all it has ever wanted to sing its entire short lifespan, and dies.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">The sad, pitiful end.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now, I wonder why this came to me after four hours' sleep. Was there a message in that swan's song? For me?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>When death approached--</b></i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've been thinking about the deaths of so many people, of dear friends...so many victims of the plague and of unspeakable violence and my current fear of coming to the end of everything.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Do I have only one note to sing? One valuable word to write?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">And who, if anyone, would be there to hear it?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">(The Silver Swan can be found on YouTube, if you are interested, or if, perhaps, you remember trying out for All State or All County when you could still sing.)</span></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-81983516923983067782021-10-26T08:25:00.000-07:002021-10-26T08:25:14.817-07:00Worry<p> <span style="font-size: large;">My husband is getting a biopsy for prostate cancer.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Today.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">It is raining like crazy. Roads are flooded. He doesn't need to go far, but we may have to go through water. He will not be able to drive.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am scared.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There is an indication of cancer. A strong indication.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">OMG, please, NO!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0r4657PoNK8szBro60eVy771UipJX7QC12OwRvVuxa_npr-F5x4L2HhbrxKeADOHWIujAPPrU_vZhioHDjsikJUR65PUVT8_Y-ulEH_husfBIitz904KXooiOIKDF1jlLrziwLyzdusb9/s4128/20201026_092041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4128" data-original-width="3096" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0r4657PoNK8szBro60eVy771UipJX7QC12OwRvVuxa_npr-F5x4L2HhbrxKeADOHWIujAPPrU_vZhioHDjsikJUR65PUVT8_Y-ulEH_husfBIitz904KXooiOIKDF1jlLrziwLyzdusb9/s320/20201026_092041.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-7275464849771682562021-09-28T05:33:00.000-07:002021-09-28T05:33:44.204-07:00<p> <span style="font-size: large;">I promised myself I would not get political anymore.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">What I will write is about the rampant stupidity surrounding me and this entire country.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Freedom. Liberty. Equality. Common Sense.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yeah.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I am so discouraged. My voice crying out just bounces off the mountains of ignorance and back at me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Dispirited. Downhearted. Broken.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's me.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I would write more, but what's the use?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I alone cannot defeat stupidity. My friends who are shouting haven't done any educating much less converting. And all the flag waving and shouting goes on. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">There are so many problems in this country and this world. Wasting breath and words on that which cannot be changed is futile.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzcToGxXpqBOzRMKEPFkoYuzJDpIuamjXSkWaJ1MOXoiLci75ckYrrsLuVNWnOFI3G570T0V2-virED7d41kRtBulbYjN5mpl5t6QA24wClmaLe2DmcLZPQEfTWJWKIW5U49tw8dy1n8l/s417/200px-Cassandra1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="417" data-original-width="200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzcToGxXpqBOzRMKEPFkoYuzJDpIuamjXSkWaJ1MOXoiLci75ckYrrsLuVNWnOFI3G570T0V2-virED7d41kRtBulbYjN5mpl5t6QA24wClmaLe2DmcLZPQEfTWJWKIW5U49tw8dy1n8l/s320/200px-Cassandra1.jpg" width="153" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8233146486925885895.post-1031158703214316332021-08-28T18:02:00.002-07:002021-08-28T18:03:18.954-07:00<p><span style="font-size: large;">Today I lost my domain name.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Irenepeterson.com no longer existed. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I've had this domain name since 1996 and, suddenly, I didn't.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">This week, this summer, this year has been horrible for me and the rest of the world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"> <br />And then, I didn't exist.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, considering how crappy things have been.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">But I do exist and I do want to keep on existing and all the pain and sorrow I have felt, and the rest of the world has suffered, has been for nothing.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Well, perhaps some oppressed people have managed to leave their desert, but at the cost of US military and civilians who dared defy their enemies.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">That's just what the world has suffered.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Add the freaking virus killing more people who did not need to die!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, I'm feeling pretty awful, but there are others, after all, who feel much, much worse.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">God bless us, every one!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymJK39L3ReIGOCaWGCzMhbckeu_CVcShmzFfPY22GFyBvN0F9L4RkpLE8hmLRUuHUmSFDb6EVJW4NH7uM7J4MNBUsHvFwycUUtKlxI2EO2i6m4eYuVb0KQ7v0QTZ8dh_Z66Pmhtn-J-EO/s2576/20200506_163756.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="1932" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymJK39L3ReIGOCaWGCzMhbckeu_CVcShmzFfPY22GFyBvN0F9L4RkpLE8hmLRUuHUmSFDb6EVJW4NH7uM7J4MNBUsHvFwycUUtKlxI2EO2i6m4eYuVb0KQ7v0QTZ8dh_Z66Pmhtn-J-EO/s320/20200506_163756.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p> </p>Irenehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02684465134160083369noreply@blogger.com0