Dense Mammary Meditations

Only recently scientists have discovered that urban women have denser breasts than rural women and unfortunately this leads to urbanites having a higher risk of breast cancer. But my point in this discussion is not to make light of cancer, or its dire implications, but rather to discuss scientific assessments of the cause of greater breast density. This is the article that leads to today's discussion:

“CITY WOMEN AT GREATER RISK FOR BREAST CANCER
CTV.ca News Staff

Women who live in cities have denser breasts than those who live in suburban and rural areas, making them more likely to develop breast cancer…”

And so, out of this study has come the bigger question puzzling researchers – ‘Why is this so?’

And so, with all that academic pondering, within formula thinking, rather than common reason, they think it might be phenomena tied to higher levels of pollution, population, or greater stress, among a host of other wild guesses. And I’m left to wonder if there is any logical sense to these premises?

Meanwhile, the simple sparsely-educated mind thinks it might have to do with wearing bras. I live in the backwoods and because there are no solicitors knocking at my door, no neighbors chatting over the fence, and no one next to me peeking in my window, and no paper boys or mail man coming to my house, my tits hang loose and my bra is around here somewhere (maybe next to my teeth), but it isn’t around my chest.

And when I look in the mirror it seems to me, that when a 34B, is pointed straight at my knee, it lacks density.

Still I am as ashamed and embarrassed to be caught without my bra as I am to be caught without my teeth in my mouth, so it probably goes without saying, if I lived in the city, I’d probably have a bra on 24-7 and I’d know where my teeth are.

So I have to say, does it take a Scientist to realize that when soft pliable stretchy goods are conscientiously packed and supported, they are likely to be denser than when the same pliable goods are hanging loose, flopping around, without any support?

Just a thought…

"Affluenza" - Medical Notes

Have you heard all the hype about the latest disease so rampant in our nation? So aptly named ‘affluenza’? This is a disease that attacks individuals that believe that more money equals greater happiness.

To explain further, when the goal in life becomes a focused and fanatical effort to make more money, move to a bigger house, drive a newer car, get more stuff, that is an affluenza infection. And the ongoing symptoms are people work more hours, spend less time with families, and wake up each morning more disenchanted than the day before. And yes, the malady is aptly named and the symptoms easily understood. The outcome is dire. If left untreated, it results in failed relationships and a barren and meaningless existence without the comfort of awe and appreciation for nature and the beauty of living.

And so books are poring out of bookstores like porridge out of a magic pot to stem the tide of the disease. There are tapes, and books, and television shows, and ads for all the equipment needed to cure this newly defined ailment.

The cures come in the form of hints and helps for scaling back. Moving to a smaller house, riding a bike, cooking from scratch, and living with less. And I had to think, “this is good. It goes hand in hand with environmental protection efforts.” But at the same time, I’m having a bit of a problem with the disease experts and their lists of cures.

The infection comes with a misunderstanding that money brings happiness. But when the bottom line after all the scaling back is the remark that Hub and I heard after watching a show on Affluenza on television the other night, something is very wrong with the overall picture.

An individual, who had changed to the simple life by moving to a smaller place, and reducing his income, and finding recreational enjoyment in wandering marshes, rather than paying to see a movie or dinner out, concluded with a comment that erased all that he was trying to do.

You see the disease starts with a misappropriated understanding about wealth and happiness. And the cure is to simplify life and find a new understanding of happiness unrelated to wealth. So, in summing up his new lifestyle, I expected his reflections to be about a newly discovered delight in the beauty of flora and fauna in the marsh or the birds floating overhead. But, no. He said the grandest thing about the lifestyle changes he had made is that when he readies himself for bed and removes his wallet from his trousers, that the amount of money he had there when he woke up, remains the same.

This is where Hub and I looked at each other and said, “I think this guy missed the whole point.” The one about reverting to a non-monitory focus. The one about awe and enjoyment derived from a simple life.

And so now, I feel a misappropriated understanding of the disease continues with the concept, not so judiciously hidden, that in living miserly one can find such happiness in daily and miserly tabulation of how little money is spent and how much money is saved. That’s when I concluded that in the mix of it all there are many false prophets exploiting false cures.

It seems to me that the poor lost starved souls desperately seeking help are going to have a hard time evading the charlatans. Money is at the root of the disease so when tabulation of money is part of the cure, that cure is a nothing more than an ineffective placebo of no intrinsic remedial value. This is not a disease where immunity can be found through inoculation of the patient with the offending money-think microbes.

What has to be re-cultivated is awe and fervor in the beautiful simplicity of dew sparkling on a rose, a moss-covered rock, a forest blanket of leaves and ongoing reflection and appreciation. The cure is complete when the recovering patient finds all meaning and joy in the affection of friends and family and a spectacular sunset, rather then readying himself for bed by checking the stability of the contents of his wallet.

Empathy and the Perfect Gift

I like to think I’m the Queen of Empathy. I like to think I’m so good at it that I can intuitively know what people are thinking without language. With only a blush, a flush, a frown, or a wave.

And I personify everything, whether animate or inanimate.

In my house conversation is endless from morning to night. I converse with my pets, my plants, even my clothing, bedding, and hardware. I worry about the comfort and care of everything.

I am annoyed with Hub when he drives Car without kind consideration. I make sure Dishwasher is happy and that there is lots of hot water before I do dishes. When I polish a table, I am happy because Table is happy. I talk kindly to my plants and plead with Computer. I have assigned personalities to everything and I keep those distinctive personalities in mind. So that everyone, and everything, will be happy.

And likewise I link my feelings to the feelings of others. When I see human discomfort, I weep. When I see neglect, I’m heartbroken. When I see injustice, I’m truly dismayed.

So am I not the Queen of Empathy? I think I am. In fact I’m quite certain I am. That is, until Christmas comes….

And so you would think the Queen of Empathy could crawl into everybody’s head. And with all that empathetic knowing, so perfectly aligned with the motives, situations, emotional sensitivities, and physical needs of others, I would be able to easily decide on the perfect gift to buy for each and every one. But not so.

Every gift is a problem. A big, big problem. I guess I could ask friends what they want but that so ruins the surprise.

So I get discouraged at Christmas time. I can’t help feeling quite crushed. My inability to choose appropriate gifts is frustrating, but more so is my insecurity about how genuinely I care about others. Maybe I don’t even understand Empathy. Maybe what I feel is nothing more than a game I play that I don’t fully understand.

How can I be sure?

Exfoliation Fallacies

First an intimate confession. Since the first feeble stirrings of hormones as an adolescent, I have been attracted to masculine ruggedness in the form of strong arms and bushy chests.

Now don’t be pulling that sad face with me just cause you happen to be a man that only was able to grow two chest hairs. That’s okay. You don’t have to don a tie. Just button up your shirt all the way and go read somebody else’s blog.
_____

And so, the rest of us continue….

Now the other day I saw a menopause male with an exfoliated chest. Well, yeh, maybe it wasn’t exfoliated, but knowing his nature of preening and primping, and how well his head hair is doing, I’m pretty sure it was. It was so horrid. I wanted to weep.

So what if fellows lose their head hair. There’s nothing in that, that detracts from masculinity. (‘Member Yul Brynner.) And even when men end up with deeply engraved mid-life character lines that come from looking seriously into the faults of a truck engine or staying abreast of a woman’s needs, such engravings in no radical way damage the attractive burliness and brawn of younger years.

But when they fall for that silly routine of chest-hair exfoliation and then walk about with shirt agape at the neck and all you see is an unnatural sheen that gleams and highlights papery skin and wizened tendons that have no relationship to masculinity, that is gawd-awful.

A thatch of chest hair, whether black, brown, grey, or white, arouses eternal appeal.

I hate male chest-hair exfoliation. It’s as bad, no even worse, then grandmothers sporting tattoos. And grandmothers sporting tattoos of their younger years is akin to dressing up in modern artfully tailored fashion while distressing the whole look with a 1977 Souvenir T-shirt. And if accessories make the look why would one want to accessorize with an obsolete generational icon or insignia? (That’s why no one should get a tattoo until they become a grandmother and by then they will know better.) But I digress.

Returning to our current discussion, you know, as women, how we are encouraged to strive for eternal beauty with cosmetic surgery. To the extent that now even men are being seduced into similar procedures. So if I may assume that men yen to do for the sake of women what women yen to do for the sake of men (i.e. maintain a level of sexual attractiveness) then men should NOT be exfoliating any part of their bodies. If they must have a beauty routine, if they must have a cosmetic fix, then the first procedure they should lend themselves to when that reparative season comes, is transplanted chest hair, rather than head hair.

I’ve yet to see a really attractive man’s wig or hair-transplant. Most of them are as obvious as the nose on my face. And though carefully positioned physically, still always somehow out of position visually.

As for me, I’d be a whole lot happier if men (in particular, men of my age) sought to maintain masculinity though faux chest hairs or downy chest transplants. I’m thinking of a few older newsmen and talk-show hosts that could really resurrect their masculine appeal if they were to show up tomorrow on television minus a bad wig but with shirts agape and a furry-mat at the neck.

Man, I never thought the day would ever come when I would find myself encouraging cosmetic fixes for women, and least of all men, but I guess somehow in the flood of it all, I got swept along.

The Simple View

Today, a non-CNN moment of instruction and provocative thought from the minority class of Young Children that are never granted air time.

Boy Twin wants the practical things of life to make better sense. And so from him comes this observation:

“Why do we say ‘Febuary’ and ‘Wensday’ and then spell them as ‘feb-roo-airy” and “wed-nez-day’? It’s just not right!”

….

Then Twin Girl leaves a big envelope addressed to Hub stuck in our door. Inside is a carefully drawn chart on a large piece of red construction paper. This is what it says:

CHORE CHART

I was nice to my neighbors.
I was nice to my dogs.
I called my neighbors to come for a walk.
I didn’t bother my neighbors.

[And at the bottom] TOTAL CHECKS: ______ (for each day)

Hub and I laugh. What a delightful task list?

______
As adults we are quite unaware of the nonsense things that frustrate children to an extent equal to that of adults. Things like the spelling outcry above that leaves Boy Twin wondering, ‘What is this world coming to?’

…but yet, on a lighter note, without academia, Girl Twin has the instructional wisdom to know how to make a dreary day so much better.

As for me, I’d like to stay and chat, but Hub and I have chores to do.

Warming Up To Poetry

[All those poetry anthologies that are so bloody depressing]

They slither through moss and dissect broken hearts
Reality and dreams in a death camp apart.
Judgments so somber in rhyme and in verse
Ethereal visions that make me feel worse.

Minstrels and lyrics, alone on the sweeps
Duplicity enough to make court jesters weep
Warnings that in life, nothing will keep
Except the cold bed of eternal sleep.

“Poets, Come stir me but don’t leave me cold
Or I’ll kindle a fire in me word-burning stove.”
I’ll toss in the poetry. I will be that bold.
I’m had quite enough of the ‘moss and the mold’.


And in the warmth of the fire, content and demure
Here will I find a most poetic allure
Oh yes, burning poems into something obscure
Is an exhilarating tonic of indulgence and cure.
I dance to the crackle, pop-flicking, and whrrrr…
Of blackened pentameter and dactylics that purr.

More About Invalid Care

And so, after the last two posts, about me ailing and about Hub’s less than adequate care for an invalid, I have two options.

1) I can either give my list from the previous post to the lady living here who instructs First Aid and other Certification classes, (though that isn’t too promising – with the itinerary being rigidly fixed by some overseer), OR…

2) When Hub gets a minor flu, I will provide him proven elixirs of relief by preparing him “Sick Room Cookery” from my trusty cook book published in 1899…

Let’s see. It might be well for him to have “Chicken Milk”, “Eel Broth”, “Calve’s Feet Broth”, “Vinegar Whey”, or “Meat Juice”.

The “Meat Juice” sounds perfect. The recipe includes this little commentary:

“Its appearance is against it… Children generally take it without difficulty; but adults, unless they are too weak to have an opinion…, have often an insurmountable objection to it. Nothing can then be done but to hide it in a colored or covered cup, or add a little Liebig’s Extract to conceal the color.”

Of course, I shouldn’t discard the “Oatmeal Drink (Recipe by the late Dr. Parkes).”

Not only does the title for this recipe refer to the “late Dr. Parkes”, the recipe sounds like a potion that hovers somewhere between kill, or cure.

Here again, the recipe includes an interesting commentary:

“If you cannot boil it you can take a little oatmeal mixed with cold water and sugar, but this is not so good; always boil it if you can….
Those who tried this recipe last year, found that they could get through more work than when using beer, and were stronger and healthier at the end of the harvest.”

[Source: “The Dominion Cook Book containing valuable recipes in all the departments including SICKROOM COOKERY” by Anne Clarke].

And here’s where my imagination kicks in. Can’t you just see pub-goers who buy into a healthier lifestyle sitting at a table watching a hockey game on the big screen and yelling for another draught of oatmeal?

Yeh. I think I’ll keep my cookbook at the ready, but I won’t seek revenge. I’ll just seek to improve Hub’s health, strength, and work motivation at the end of the harvest.

Duped and Distressed

I told Hub the other day when we were invited to a social gathering, it was not a good idea. When you tend to be as reclusive as we are, (and hate the dreaded trip to town as much as we do), we have little, if any, immunity. And so, I was right. Sure enough I picked up a bug.

But so what? I was in expert hands with Hub with his whack of certificates that make him an expert in First-Aid, Resuscitation, Tourniquets, Heimlich maneuvers, shock recognition and prompt medical treatment.

Now I, on the other hand, have never been to any of these classes. So I don’t know what is involved. But I do know what isn’t involved. And the gaps have certainly swayed my confidence in the value of certified caregivers.

These are the things Hub does not know and how could this happen with him going to another intensive 3-day seminar every time I turn around?

1. He doesn’t know how comforting it is to have one’s pillows fluffed and flipped.

2. He doesn’t know that sick people need to be provided with food and encouraged to eat something—anything. Small, bland, yet attractive meals. At the least, tea and soda crackers, or maybe delicately cut bites of soft toast with a bit of broth.

3. He doesn’t know that sick people should have a bedside jug of ice water replaced at least twice a day.

4. He doesn’t know how comforting it is to the patient to have a warm sponge bath – arms and face if nothing else. Or a bit of hair brushing.

5. He doesn’t know how healing a lavender-scented back-rub can be.

6. He doesn’t know how the sick one will hide under a blanket and grin with sheer delight when the caregiver shows dedication by turning off the Lone Star Channel and checking the condition of the patient frequently (clumsily, on tip toe) to see if anything more can be done.

7. Or even how reparative it is to the patient to hear Hub telling the puppies they must be quiet cause Mom isn’t feeling well.

8. He doesn’t know that it wouldn’t hurt to feel my forehead, even if his callused hands aren’t sensitive enough to pick up a fever.

9. He doesn’t know how important it is to query if the patient wants more blankets or less blankets. Or how glorious it is to have one’s toes tucked in.

He doesn’t know how all these things guarantee a speedy recovery. On second thought, maybe not. Maybe if he knew all these things I’d still be sick – very sick!

But the big question in my mind is how can anyone attend so many seminars given by professionals with such intensity and earnestness and write all those exams and still miss so much of the really important stuff?

The New Authority

Though bookstore shelves are heavy laden with manuals on aging and retirement, there is an important aspect of the reality of aging that is never mentioned. A reality that I don’t think any one is ever prepared for.

What always comes as the biggest shock to retirees, is waking up one morning to find that mental preferences no longer rule the body. That the line of command has shifted.

When they say, as they’ve always said, through childhood, youth, and middle age, “Run, body, run” or “Jump, body, jump”, the body suddenly and unexpectedly refuses to do their bidding. Like a spoiled child, all they get from Body is stubborn dormancy and “Nah, don’t want to.”

It is the wildest irony that when the mirror reveals a failing physical form, that is when the power and long-time rule of Mental Preferences will be suddenly usurped by the authority of a feeble, mindless, stooped, and willowy-thin bit of hair and bone.

So here is a brief tutorial of what to expect when the Body becomes the new ruling authority and mental choices become obsolete.


BOOK 1: Rules for the Day (under the new authority)

1) Wake up.

2) Do not move. Do not attempt to rise. You will need to work out and warm up first. Start by gingerly stretching to unclasp padlocked limbs and loosen knots in the calves of your legs. It will take more than a few cautious stretches in order to abort impending macramé of every tendon.

(Remember in your party days how you used to press a foot again the wall to keep the room from spinning. You are going to have to do that again.) Lift one leg high and press your foot against the wall in order to ward off an impending cramp in the arch of the foot. Hold that posture until the spasm has passed.

3) Sit up and swivel body until legs drape over the side of the bed. No, maybe not. Not if there is a back spasm threatening. Maybe just roll over on stomach and push, crawl, fall over edge of bed. Now secure a good hold on the bed frame and stagger to your feet.

Support the upper body with arms braced and ease the torso gently onto the legs. If legs fold, repeat.

4) Don’t look at the clock. It is of no matter what time it is. Life is no longer a process marked by time. Your body, though frail, is now CEO of this relationship. And as the newly-installed CEO, Body will determine when you should rise, stand, sit, or lie down, and will needle you with cramps and pain if you disobey.
There will be no insubordination no matter what the clock-time or how physically and mentally exhausted you are.

Under the new authority, you may be obliged to stand and walk about at 4:30 a.m. and to lie down and sleep at 10:30 a.m. But still, within this new re-organization, you are obliged to do what your Boss-Body demands when your B.B. demands it.

5) After pre-testing of legs and eventually independent stance, put one foot in front of the other and head to the bathroom. Have the Nil-Odor within reach.

You will feel an urge to relieve yourself and you may, but at the same time you will for certain expel surprising and unexpected volumes of noxious gas. [NOTE: Nil-Odor has warnings not to inhale the fumes but the other can’t be safe either. So take your pick.]

6) Re-install your teeth. Mindless body will not prompt you to rinse them first. So maybe make a note of that because dental-soak is as strong as the acid used for marble etching.

7) Assemble bath materials – soap, towels, dry-skin lotion, non-skid bath mat, shampoo, etc. Remove night clothes. You may tell your body to “scale the tub” but Body will likely say, “Shut up, I’m the boss here and I don’t want to.” So there is nothing for it but to work up a soapy lather on a soft cloth and wash pertinent areas starting with UPPER portion of body and working down! [Another routine that it might be well to write down in appropriate order.]
Rinse and dry.

8) Crawl back into night-clothes because mindless-body forgot to bring day-wear to bathroom. Trudge back to bedroom to extract clothes from closets in order to dress. Lay wardrobe on bed. Go to kitchen. Boil water for tea. Make tea, make toast, take pills. Return to bedroom to get dressed. Return to kitchen to remember why you went to bedroom. Return to bedroom to remember why you went to kitchen.

Didn't help. Oh well, it's of little matter. No doubt, by now the new CEO or Body Authority will decide that that is enough body-movements and physical commissions for now. And so Body, at this point, will bullishly insist on a lie-down. And so, submissively, that’s what you will do.

____________

If we were consulting clocks, which we are not doing, this process would have started at 9:00 a.m. and reached completion by lunch-time.

And so now…I’m wondering if there is a real need for this kind of handbook. I’m wondering if after this mandatory nap, if I should attempt to work on Book Two. I expect the new boss will say “Nay” to that as well.

Lessons in Review

I’ve learned a few things in the past few weeks that are quite astounding that have actually stuck in my forgetful mind.

I learned from another blogger’s summary of her life-mediator’s advice that one can improve their self-esteem by crossing their “T’s higher. And that journals, in order to effect positive change, should only contain positive thoughts. So much for my “Rage” journal – the one I keep to serve as a therapeutic outlet for the impetuous thoughts that I dare not speak (or post)...

I learned from the Dalai Lama that society needs to shed the conflict created by an enduring ‘them’ and ‘us’ attitude and realize that with today’s technology we are all linked and become only ‘we’. And in realizing that we will readily understand that any act of aggression against other nations is an act that equally cuts into our own flesh.

I learned that garden dirt has something in it called ‘a happy bug’. Something that releases pleasurable endorphins that insulate our bodies from various ailments. We used to get an adequate amount from garden veggies but that is no longer so. The happy bugs are all being washed and rinsed away. Scientists say this happy bug is/was a source of immunity for children against allergies, bronchial problems, even asthma.

I’m inclined to think that such wee critters do exist. There has to be some plausible explanation for why Hub and the grandchildren become so giggly, garrulous, and gay after devouring garden carrots pulled from the soil and rubbed haphazardly on their jeans.

And then, from a science show on Intelligent Television, I learned the most surprising thing of all. That there is a relationship between the sex of the brain and the length of one’s fingers. With men, particularly, the gap between a longer ring finger and a shorter index finger, translates into the amount of male hormones present in the womb during the pre-birth of that individual.

The greater the gap the more competitive (risk takers) men are likely to be. The greater the gap, the more adept they are at science, math, and spatial-visual assessments, but at the same time they are likely to be deplete in empathy and emotional telepathy with others.

It was found that even as infants, male babies are more interested in looking at devices, while infant girls seek to look at faces.

I examined Hub’s hands and can readily see why he drives like a maniac and is so nonchalant about my emotional ups and downs. From this, I finally understand why when I cut or color my hair, Hub never notices. I now understand why I am invisible and why when my face plainly shows that my world is crumbling, Hub continues to dismantle electronic devices without distraction.

Male participants in the study admitted they have little intuition and if women expect to be understood, they need to explain in minute detail how and why they are feeling upset.

So, that’s it for this week’s lessons. These are my new convictions. I’ll cling to them for a while until they are debunked by something totally contrary which shouldn’t take long.

And so, in the meantime, if you want to see the crossbar on the “t” in “Roberta”, look up, way up – aloft, skyward.

Woman

Woman is the everlasting encumbrance
Of time, a garden, and a coiled serpent.

Insatiable in her want of warm rocks
Long conversations while listening more
Of exuberance versus stillness of thought
And seemliness of the soul

But still within her longings
Linger memories of serpentine-thoughts
Manipulation of destiny
That link to a garden and a tree.

Fangs hidden by sensuous moist lips
Crush fresh fruits from the garden
And draw sweetness where they can
It is a needful thing
And only then is she sated.

And so,
With the setting of the sun…

Eve falls.

Halloween Crimes

I wanted to give him rice cakes, but he wanted candy...

What could I do?

Halloween Panic

Maybe I should start to panic sometime soon. The kids will be coming to the door in a few hours and I haven’t even got my candy bags filled yet. I’m going to have 4 less bags than I had tricksters last year – hope that will be enough. Oh well, I guess the stragglers can have some loose candy, some peanuts, and a couple slices of bologna.

I didn’t buy a pumpkin to welcome them at the door either but I have a sewing manikin, a gorilla mask, rubber gloves that blow up nicely and a hoodie -- we'll have to see what Hub can come up with for the front step.

If all else fails, Doughee-Dog can welcome them with his wrap-around sunglasses and an old floppy hat. I laugh because the dogs always greet the kids and the younger kids especially often get so involved with playing with the dogs that they don’t want to continue their treat trek.

Bags aren’t going to fill themselves so I gotta run. Halloween is happening!

And I'll be short a whole lot more bags if I don't get them filled before Hub gets up from his nap.

"I'm Here!"

If you live on an acreage and you have hounds, you can’t have happy hounds if you don’t have a fox. And we have a fox. Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned about that but after two foxes were killed on the road last week, I worried that the remaining fox (although there could be more), would be so sad. He was in my thoughts a lot.

So with a huge bag of dog food that my basset hounds totally disdain, I decided to feed the fox. Of course I worried that if I fed him too much or too frequently he might lose his ability to hunt and that would not be good. So I decided I would only feed him skimpy amounts of food every other day.

The first couple of times I put out the food, I simply cast a bit on the ground at the edge of the field. Always the next day the food was gone, but because the ground leaves were undisturbed I was suspicious about who was dining there. I began to think that a mouse or squirrel or perhaps even a raven was feeding there rather than the fox.

So the next time I put out food I put it in a small cottage cheese container placed inside a large plastic pail. Boy Twin was curious. “Why are you doing that?” he asked.

I explained to him that if a smaller animal like a squirrel or mouse were eating the food they would have to climb into the bigger pail to get it. And although they could get out, hopefully it would take them several rotations in the bigger pail before they would figure that out. And while figuring it out they might be there long enough to leave a few droppings that would tell me they were there. After all, my intention was to feed the fox, not squirrels or mice.

Now before I continue this story, I need to tell you that Hub has a funny little saying whenever I crowd him by the coffeepot, at the table, or on the chesterfield. He always laughs and says, “I’m here!” It sounds funny and cute so I say it as well when he rolls onto my side of the bed or leans over me at the stove to see what’s cooking. I laugh and say, “I’m here!”

So back to my story. The next time I went to check to see who was eating the dog food, the small dish was beside the big pail, rather than in it. Both dishes were upright and again the surrounding ground was undisturbed. But in the small dish was a bold message that read “I’m here!” As neat as you please, without any smears or misses, the fox deposited some poopies in the smaller dish. It was amazing to me how he did that.

Now one of my neighbors explained to me that foxes live in a rather small arena. And in our woods there is no water source, and it hasn’t rained for weeks. So the next time I took food for the fox, I put it on the ground and filled the pail with drinking water. Silly fox. Again he announced, “I’m here.” It was evident he had drank some of the water. But incredibly he had also managed to deposit poopies in that large pail without spilling the water or even tipping the pail. I can’t even imagine how he did that.

Since then I’m satisfied that with a skiff of snow on the ground, he no longer needs water, so now I only toss a few crumbles on the ground. That seems more sanitary. Also I do not want the woods scattered with plastic containers each with its rather disgusting message…“I’m here. Signed: The Fox”

It’s only been a few days since I started doing this but yesterday I walked alone without Hub or the kids and guess what I saw? The hounds were off in another area harassing a squirrel when I saw a bit of orange between the trees. That’s when I saw the little fox trotting parallel to the trail in pace with my own steps.

And then I heard a crashing sound in the woods and feet approaching like the sound of a wild mustang and the crescendo of hounds baying and he was off. The fox and the hounds engaged in that old game as old as time itself.

When the fox and the hounds play this game I smile and laugh. No one is at risk. The hounds haven’t got a hope of catching him. But this game is their rightful inheritance. It offers rediscovery of the meaning of a hound’s existence. And at the same time it is a fun game with grand cardio and aerobic exercise to keep them all in top-notch shape particularly when they’re all eating well.

These are sounds I love to hear and sights I love to see. So much more pleasant without humans with rifles on horseback that used to run interference and spoil the game for players who only wished to play for fun.

My basset hounds have a keen sense of smell that is amazing but at the same time the speed of the pursuit is handicapped by their short crooked legs. But still the hounds smile, the fox grins, and I laugh. Pleased by something that spurs my imagination into thinking that I am treading the woods and grounds of some notorious ancient estate.

The neighbors even laugh when they see the fox cross their yard, and fifteen minutes later my two hounds appear on the exact same route baying loudly with wild excitement and running as fast as their short crooked legs will carry them.

The Big Lie - Part II

A Mother-Load of Lies

So as I told you in my intro, Hub only knew me as this congenial, laughable, light-hearted, devoted girl. But that was for the first year or two. And I never thought for a minute that any of that which I presented was devious or a lie. But it was.

The truth came out later. The truth that at three o’clock in the afternoon, I like shuffling around looking the same as when I first rolled out of bed – in faded housecoat, with medusa hair, and mismatched socks. That I want my own way or I pout. That I even throw things (not any more, but I did for a time). That I can be hateful and mean and completely unreasonable.

And as for pressing jeans, ironing shirts, polishing shoes? I don’t think so. Won’t be happening around here. Not routinely, anyway.

So you see what I gave Hub to believe about me so long ago was an absolute lie! This marriage, that I was so smugly convinced was based on honesty, really started out with a mother-load of lies.

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Now you know and I know what they all say. “You can’t deal with a liar” and “you can’t build a relationship on a lie.” And that is true except in this case there was a bit of a twist.

While I was lying to him he was also lying to me. What he led me to believe about his exceptional patience and long-suffering demeanor was as much of a stretch as my stint at the ironing board, my good humor, and my fixation with flawless grooming.

And another thought. I think we all readily assume that whoever authored the lyrics of that little chant… “Liar, liar. Pants on fire,” was simply writing a nonsense rhyme for juveniles. But perhaps that isn’t true. Turns out the phrase is a shrewd description (and discernment) of the dynamics of the lies that I told.

So now, with an expectation of doing better, I feel compelled to tell you how red-faced ashamed I am. I’m ashamed of all my lies and devious acts. And if I were to offer an excuse it would be this. ‘Lovers, through no fault of their own are inadvertently cast into a highly emotional state that cannot separate right from wrong.’ But that won’t do either because, for liars, there are NO excuses.

So I must live with my shame, confess my shame, apologize for my shame and promise never to do it again. I’m willing to do all that, but in the end there is an evil piece in my soul that I cannot purge. What is lurking there in a dark corner is a desperate marauder that longs for the good old days when Hub and I lived each new and glorious day with such wickedness and complete disregard for truth.

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So in conclusion, there you have it. And even though I’ve apologized and humbled myself to the level of a ground crawler, I still can’t find a way to feel the teeniest, tiniest bit of remorse.

The Big Lie - Part I

The Posture of Truth

I have always prided myself on being honest, so finding out so late in life what a liar I am is downright upsetting.

I certainly can’t blame my dishonesty on my upbringing. My Dad was so honest that it was sometimes to his detriment. I remember how his face beamed with relief, and release, the day he shook hands with his neighborhood financier because the loan for the house was finally paid off.

But upon reviewing the figures, he realized the mistake. And in a flash, those twinkling eyes clouded over. And so I watched him get into his truck and drive to the lender’s place to expose the error. The loan was not fully repaid as originally concluded. At the time I was only a child but I couldn’t help thinking what a stupid thing for my father to do.

But as I grew older, deeper in my soul, I had to admire such moral perfection. And I longed to be like that.

I determined to match that standard and ultimately thought I had. Didn’t I take the boss aside one day when my supervisor was harshly disciplined for a careless mistake? Didn’t I boldly inform him that I was equally responsible and should also be punished? That it was my mistake initially? That my supervisor was only guilty of signing off my error without noticing?

The boss listened to my ‘wholesome’ confession then just shook his head and said, “Roberta, I have never known an employee quite like you.”

I took it as a complement. And then he told me it was up to him, rather than me, to determine who should be disciplined and he wanted no more discussion about it. Of course, I now suspect that at the time I had an ulterior motive – mind expansion for a boss that consistently hid all his screw-ups in the hope that they would never be discovered.

But I am talking about my own determinations here and more specifically I am talking about the day I had to face the realization that without knowing it, or realizing it, or understanding it, I lied and lied and lied some more.

You see when I met Hub, I deceitfully hid the real me. I only allowed him to see that part of me that I felt he would find attractive. A girl, light at heart, flexible about plans, highly attentive to his needs. A girl that smiled through pain and laughed through disappointment. A girl always carefully groomed. In those days I even accepted criticism as a positive thing – a way for me to know how I could readjust to be more pleasing.

I creased Hub’s jeans and polished his shoes. I pressed his shirts with sweat dripping from my brow I slaved over the ironing board while thinking to myself…“What delight in doing this special thing for someone I love”.

And I suppose right now, my dear reader, you are beginning to feel skeptical. Well, don’t. These are the things I did!

(to be continued…) Part II – A Mother-Load of Lies.

Cranky and The Expert

(A bit of nothing for blog-media filler)

I was cranky yesterday but I’m not cranky anymore.

Last night I made a fresh banana crème pie. (No whipped cream – whipped cream not necessary). And before it was properly chilled Hub and I ate it all.

Hub said “It was perfect. The best crust, the best filling and I know ‘cause I’m a pie expert!”

“How could you be?” I said. “You've never baked a pie, rolled a crust, or even looked at a recipe?”

His response, “I know cause I EAT pies.”

Politics in Brief

(MOOD - cranky)

Intelligence Gathering

The media looks with sneering dismay at Putin, Russia’s Prime Minister, taking the time and effort to meet with Iran’s leader. What is surprising to me is that no one in North America would ever think this might be a new twist in the old game of Diplomacy.

It would seem to me one can get more accurate information about any situation through diplomatic infiltration (or befriending the enemy) than one can gain by hiding out in one’s Great White House and uttering war threats. Mr. Putin may be a whole lot smarter than we think.

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Environmental Judgements

And about “Planet in Peril”…

So there he is, Anderson Cooper, flying over an Amazon jungle and so dismayed at scattered patches of forest being cleared and burned. Isn’t it a shame? Yes, it is a shame.

But excuse me, the last time I flew over the American continent, although I saw far-reaching crops and cultivated fields, at the same time in this great huge far-reaching expanse I saw no “virgin” land. Yes, there are a few National Parks that pretend to be virgin forest. But they’re not really. Even here there are engineered modifications and clearings done in proprietary ways to make the parks more financially sustainable.

Even farmland is becoming so compressed that within a few years I may have to grow and grind my own wheat. So who are we to get in this kind of self-righteous snit?

I live in the back country and even here the coyote, the wolf, the fox, and the deer are so squeezed they cannot find enough space for safety or food resources.

The End of the Chain

I can never forget the day I realized the chain was broken. The day I suddenly became, without warning, the link at the end of the chain.

My mom and dad passed away within a year of each other. And when that happened, I felt such an emotional instability when I realized I was no longer solidly connected to my parents on one side and my own offspring on the other. It was devastating to realize the chain of life was broken and I was now the last link at the end of the chain.

It was a raw feeling. It drew me back to the place of my birth but rather than finding comfort there I found my desolation magnified 30X. The old house, vacant for only a few years was burned down by an arsonist, and when I saw the charred remains, the full reallity hit me of broken chains and lives in ashes. As if they had never been.

As if the games had never been played, the songs had never been sung, and the laughter had never rang in that place. That’s the day I felt an overwhelming conviction to write.

Perhaps through writing, I could re-establish connection. Perhaps I could replace the missing link of my parents with another chain-link of sorts to avoid the isolation of disconnection and to make life meaningful. It wasn’t the best solution, but it was all I could hope to do to reconcile the heartbreak of broken chains and vanishing points.

That was many years ago and now I find myself at a similar aperture. But this time what isolates me, and retraces the pain I just told you about, is my moral and mental disconnect from the stream of the progressive thinking of modern life. Once my perceptions of life and philosophy comfortably tied with the mandate of the society I lived within. But no more. Once again I’ve become a disconnected link. Unity severed by my lack of understanding of what is happening around me.

The link on the left of me began to weaken with stupid stuff. The shocking business of rugged men dressed in pink polka-dotted shorts followed by girls in pant-garb that made plumber’s pants look like high-risers. And the mutation of romance stories from prose that misted the eyes and stirred the heart into nothing more than graphic descriptions of physical connections between individuals, that left the heart cold and stirred only the groin. The rapid transition of religion from that initial solid belief in God to a Godless reverence for nature, and ultimately to self-Gods or celebrity gods.

When truth, that thing that so many honored, and paid homage to, turned aside from forthrightness to blatant denial. Denial, with such fervor, that eventually falseness morphed into truth and suspicions were forgotten. When humility and contriteness were put to rest in a place of decay with empathy and diplomacy. When language became either so vulgar or so ornately scripted that any and all meaning could come out of its convoluted form.

Now I see the anarchy of Political Correctness marching across the land engaged in genocide of language terms. But its domination is nothing more than a mask – a façade to hide the evil in men’s breasts. It is really no more of a cure than a sugar pill.

But we had a cure as good as Bantam and Best before this. Evil was contained through an active conscience and a mandate given to every child in their formative years that one must treat others the way they hoped to be treated. But now, even the meaning of that old adage has been skewed by adopting a new educated, yet ignoble, way of handling bullies that too often boomerangs into greater violence and more confusion.

It’s all too much. You see how the link of my relevance to life on this planet is breaking. And without relevance how do I participate? How do I integrate? How do I postulate? Or even capitulate?

I swear it’s like a new strain of Attention Deficit Behavior that I wasn’t born with but was cast on me by modern strain to see how well I would fare. A super bug or a staph-infection passed on by society rather than a medical facility. My mind is anxious, my thoughts disruptive, and I am unable to focus.

Society had no right to do this to me. They are bullying acts. And how dare they, within the sweet tolerance of a politically correct society, continue to still refer to me in terms so demeaning? ‘Old and feeble’, ‘Mentally Unstable’, ‘Confused’ or ‘Obsolete and Antiquated’?

It’s lonely here. Being, once again, at the end of a chain, without any connectivity to unite my existence with others. But that’s okay. I will use my writing and my imagination to reconnect the chain. I will fashion a link of an uncommon alloy that will return my strength.

I’ve done it before. I can do it again.

The Immortal Writ

When I have no inspiration
And I can find no calibration
For stylus, writ and imagination

Still I write.

This is, for me, a forced conscription
It’s who I am. It’s my conviction
So

Still I write


So still I write, I’m writing still
Though prose is sick; and poetry ill,
Wit is ailing, plot is failing
Yet

Still I write.


Perhaps I should lay down me pen
And never take it up again.
Roll it in a winding-sheet;
Prepare a spot in the mossy peat.

Then with dignity, I can mourn my loss
By a gargoyle-stone sarcophagus.

Nah…

Wipe your tears, unbend your knees
I only wrote this poem to tease.
And you should perhaps take extra measure
To wipe away that look of pleasure…
Cause,

Still I’ll write!