Lost in Time

Keeping the dark from the light...

2011-12-30T11:18:00.000-05:00

My husband just came in from outdoors and said, "It's cool in the shade, but it's warm in the sun. Any ideas how we can separate them?" "Separate the shade and the sun?," I ask, thinking I guess we could burn down all the trees. No. He had mentioned a while ago taking ONE of the dogs for a walk and this was a continuation of THAT conversation. Silly me--I forgot to put my mindreading cap on this morning.

S'long 2011!

2011-12-27T13:47:00.000-05:00

A Christmas Parody ('Twas the night before...)

2011-12-17T22:36:00.002-05:00

bob’s

many nights

before Christmas…

by Rocky Etier (translation by bob)

‘‘Twas a night in November, and to Mama’s alarm

Christmas music was playing all over the farm.

Long before Christmas the madness had started;

She once had the spirit but it had departed.

The dogs and the cats did not seem to mind it;

They knew that their dad was the one who’s behind it.

And though he could not leave the stereo alone,

They’d all get their treats, a toy or a bone.

Then from the kitchen there arose such a ruckus

The cats and the dogs thought that lightning had struck us.

Dad stuck in his head to see what mom had done

And discovered that Mama was just having fun.

Wearing her jeans and one of her hoodies,

She’d covered the table with all kinds of goodies.

Egg rolls and bagels and cream cheese so white

Shared space with the candies, and nothing was “lite.”

She blasted her music, a lot of it punk;

Dad started to think “the old lady is drunk.”

There was too much food on that holiday table,

But she kept serving more, who knew she was able?

Now cupcakes! now, cookies! now, latkes and pralines!

On, cheesecake! on, pastas! on mushrooms and ice creams!
She piled food high, to the top of the wall!
And yelled at the dogs, “Don’t dare touch it, y’all!”

As nestlings decide when it’s time to de-nest,

Mama decided “it’s time to get dressed.”

We were all kinda scared what she might put on,

What holidaywear, dear Mama would don.

But then, in a twinkling, we heard her come back;

And over her shoulder she carried a sack.
I got out of the way to let her pass by,
And noticed that Dad was rolling his eyes.

She was dressed all in pink, from her head to her toe,
And the tilt of her head said “she’s ready to roll.”
She put down her bag and began to unpack it,
Resulting, of course, in an unearthly racket.

Her eyes how they twinkled! Her dimples how merry--

As she pulled out a pie; I think it was berry!

I started to wonder if this was a dream

When out came some sprinkles and chocolate whip cream.

A cork from champagne she held tight in her teeth,
As she told us to join in the holiday feast.

She served lots of crackers and a bowl full of dip,

Salsa, cannolis, and even prune whip

She poured the champagne in a tall crystal flute

And asked everyone, “How ‘bout a toot?”

A wink of her eye, like a shot from a gun,

Warned the festivities had only begun.

She spoke not a word as she filled all our plates,

And brought out the beer and the figs and the dates.
And laying her finger aside of her nose,
And giving a nod, a toast she proposed!

She sprang from her chair, and started to shout,

(the wine had gone straight to her head, there’s no doubt)

But I heard her exclaim, ‘fore she dozed on the couch,

"One more holiday song and you’re getting’ thrown out!"

Happy Whatever!

2011-12-12T15:07:00.000-05:00

AllVoices: Citizen Journalism Gone Bad

2011-10-03T09:54:00.001-04:00

Note: I spent five months as a writer for AllVoices.com. Dedicating all my time to writing, I seldom checked what anyone else might be posting. Being lazy, I never checked the site out when I decided to join, but instead relied on information supplied by someone else. When I became aware of the plagiarism and pornography extant on AllVoices, I had to seriously reconsider my position. When I found an article that included a graphic description of sexual activities involving a child, I could neither read the entire article nor continue writing for AllVoices. Although AllVoices management will sometimes delete plagiarized or pornographic articles when brought to its attention, it's like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon. I was not affected by payment issues, particularly because there is a $100 minimum for payouts, and I had not quite reached that amount. The amount I earned, and could continue to earn, is insignificant to the damage being connected to the site would do to my reputation and psyche. Sadly, there are technical advantages writing for the platform which I enjoyed and regret that I couldn't continue.

There is something noble about citizen journalism, the concept of members of the public "playing an active role in the process of collecting, reporting, analyzing and disseminating news and information." It sounds so, I dunno, democratic. The type of citizen journalism practiced on the internet allows—anyone who has one—the opportunity to share an opinion as well as news.

Since simple explanations are often the most efficient, here is citizen journalism as defined by About.com – Journalism, “Put very simply, citizen journalism is when private individuals do essentially what professional reporters do - report information… it's basically all about communicating information of some kind.”

Technorati offers a platform for citizen journalists who must submit a sample of their work before being accepted as a writer, and that employs a cadre of editors to check the work before it’s published. Some other sites allow self-publishing with oversight, assign articles, or allow writers a narrow field about which to write. Some limit the types of content or news they accept, others will accept anything (or just about anything). Some of them pay, some of them don’t.

One of the things that some people don’t appear to understand about citizen journalism is that it is written by citizen journalists. As such, they are expected to have a decent command of spelling, grammar, and writing skills in the language of their audiences. It would make as much sense for a site to become identified with atrocious writing as it would for a news-oriented site to become identified with pornography.

Some people “sleep around,” I “write around.” I like to have a home base for which I do the majority of my writing and other sites for articles that don’t quite fit the environment of my home base, either because they are highly opinionated, controversial essays, personal or autobiographical, or they are on a subject that isn’t included in the home site’s coverage. In so doing, I’ve sampled a half-dozen or so sites, some that were an okay match, and I occasionally contribute to three or four of them.

A friend recommended AllVoices.com, a citizen journalism news site that welcomes all writers, allows self-publishing, and does not employ editors. I like the immediacy of self-publishing—seeing what I’ve written available to my thousands of fans (ahem…) as soon as I’m satisfied with the article. I believe I can communicate well enough, I have a decent grasp of spelling and grammar, and I have honed my writing skills in various positions over the course of decades. I have no delusions of being a great writer, but I think I’m okay.

AllVoices allows anyone from anywhere to write, and the site has thousands upon thousands of writers worldwide. It concentrates on stories that are of interest to North America (not necessarily about North America, but that’s apparently the area it and its advertisers/sponsors want to reach. There are many languages spoken in North America—English, French, and Spanish being among the most common. AllVoices provides them with important news stories, such as…

In an article headlined “Anwar Al-Awlaki Killed in Yemen Airstrike,” the author (identified as “latestnewsupdate”) writes, “…tribal sources told AFP that Awlaki was killed leadership an temperament strike which enjoin two vehicles guidance Marib province, an al Qaeda stronghold in eastern Yemen leading Friday. The 40-year-old, who was born in extra Mexico, was linked to the 2009 Christmas eternity “underwear bomber” design — a narrowly foiled stab to disaster up a passenger jet approaching Detroit.He was also linked to the failed Times make good drab attempt guidance May last year and the November 2009 bulwark Hood shooting, impact which 13 people were killed by a gunman at the U.S. legion base.Al-Awlaki, born grease New Mexico, has been linked to al Qaeda…” Need I add [sic]?

An article titled “Blue Water Wallpapers” would seem to herald a lifestyle article about a style or brand of wallpaper that is available, or perhaps a line of desktop wallpapers. Written by the same author as the Anwar Al-Awlaki article, who claims to be from NYC, NY, it is comprised of the following information, “water wallpaper, water scenes wallpapers, free water wallpaper, wallpapers, computer wallpaper free, under water wallpapers, blue wallpaper, under water wallpaper, free computer wallpapers, blue water wallpaper, water wallpapers for desktop, computer wallpapers, pc wallpaper free, water drops wallpapers, water desktop wallpaper, water fall wallpapers Tags: blue wallpaper blue water wallpaper computer wallpaper freecomputer wallpapers free computer wallpapers free water wallpaper pc wallpaper freeunder water wallpaper under water wallpapers wallpapers water desktop wallpaperwater drops wallpapers water fall wallpapers water scenes wallpapers water wallpaperwater wallpapers for desktop.”

In writing about the always-newsworthy Kim Kardashian, this prolific journalist reported, “Kim Kardashian’s N-u-d-e Play-boy Photoshoot For Magazine, No one can axe her she is the bloom of nature , gorgeous female spell the world so hot and sexy Kim. Kim Kardashian doesn’t stay out of news for violently long. Soon proximate news of her leaked sex tape with ex-boyfriend Ray J, Kim Kardashian is once again in the news again for her virtually nude images shot thanks to Playboy magazine.”

The important thing to remember is that writers get paid (a nominal amount) for writing for AllVoices.com (“Local to Global News”). However, many of the sites’ best writers are stampeding away from it because of payment issues, rampant plagiarism and pornography, and lack of oversight. (My departure was due to the pornography issue—I didn’t want to be associated with a site that allows graphic pornography, especially one including descriptions of children engaged in sexual acts.)

Lest you think that there is only one prolifically bad writer at AllVoices, here is a paragraph from an article published today by Vicky247 who is based in Lahore, Punjab, Pakistan: “For decades, the current vernacular cultural helped consolidate the idea. Film and literature devoted to the supreme skill character to succeed in an environment that respected the moral effort, or at least the promise of prosperity and wealth.” The title? “The End of the American dream?” And perhaps it does describe the death of the American dream of success, as well as the dream of competent citizen journalism.

Parts excerpted from: AllVoices: Citizen Journalism Gone Bad - Technorati Business

KidVid: Bump Up the Spooky Season Spirit with Goosebumps - Technorati Family

2011-09-30T22:58:00.000-04:00

KidVid: Bump Up the Spooky Season Spirit with Goosebumps - Technorati Family

Looking for appropriate entertainment for a Halloween tween sleepover? Scholastic recently released two Goosebumps DVD’s for kids, with episodes from the 1990’s Fox series. Goosebumps - Attack of the Mutant and Goosebumps - Ghost Beach are the latest titles in the DVD series; each contains three episodes...

Read more: http://technorati.com/lifestyle/family/article/kidvid-bump-up-the-spooky-season/#ixzz1ZUklyD2v

Anwar Al-Awlaki Killed in Yemen Airstrike

2011-09-30T21:42:00.000-04:00

Anwar Al-Awlaki Killed in Yemen Airstrike

I read it on AllVoices.com...

"Awlaki was killed not tell dissimilar particular suspected al Qaeda operatives, the Yemeni defense ministry oral. The balance did not elaborate on the event of Awlaki’s death.However, tribal sources told AFP that Awlaki was killed leadership an temperament strike which enjoin two vehicles guidance Marib province, an al Qaeda stronghold in eastern Yemen leading Friday.

"The 40-year-old, who was born in extra Mexico, was linked to the 2009 Christmas eternity “underwear bomber” design — a narrowly foiled stab to disaster up a passenger jet approaching Detroit.

"He was also linked to the failed Times make good drab attempt guidance May last year and the November 2009 bulwark Hood shooting, impact which 13 people were killed by a gunman at the U.S. legion base.Al-Awlaki, born grease New Mexico, has been linked to al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula’s (AQAP) attempted bombing of a U.S. passenger jet due to Detroit on Christmas day, 2009, and was thought to be a leader of the group.

"A U.S. qualification real confirms to CBS News major desire correspondent David Martin that al-Awlaki was killed. Yemen’s Defense envoy was first to tell CBS News of the strike, but apt previous reports which turned out to serve as erroneous, the relatively rapid U.S. confirmation is crucial, further bolsters witness accounts that it was a U.S. drone investigate that killed the al Qaeda figure.

"The Associated press reported that an incog outset said the U.S. believes al-Awlaki was killed importance a query by U.S. jets and drones on his convoy.The US-born extreme Islamist cleric and suspected al-Qaeda master Anwar al-Awlaki has been killed influence Yemen, the country’s defence delegation reported. US administration officials confirmed the reports, according to US media.
Awlaki, of Yemeni descent, has been on the voyage in Yemen being December 2007. The US had named him a “specially individual prevalent terrorist” over his alleged role in a number of attacks and US pacesetter Barack Obama is said to have personally ordered his killing."

Marijuana Movie Night

2011-08-16T12:59:00.001-04:00

Whoa! Get off your high horse; I’m not trying to persuade you to light up a joint, put on a film, and groove. On the other hand, I wouldn’t try to dissuade you, either.

There are three documentaries on DVD with summer 2011 release dates: Hempsters Plant the Seed (June 28), High Times Presents Nico Escondido’s Grow Like a Pro (July 26), and A NORML Life: The American Marijuana Revolution (August 16). We haven’t seen a good film about pot since Reefer Madness, so it’s time to indulge (in marijuana-related films, not marijuana; although I am still going for daily glaucoma screenings…just in case).

Hempsters starts with Woody Harrelson’s challenge to Kentucky state law. He planted four feral hemp seeds (1996) and was subsequently arrested. Brought to trial and acquitted, Harrelson became a leading activist in the fight to legalize hemp. Also participating in Hempsters are Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, Ralph Nader, Julia “Butterfly” Hill, Donna Cockrel, the Kentucky Hemp Growers Co-op, Alex White Plume and the Lakota Indians, and Gatewood Galbraith, an independent who is currently running for Governor of Kentucky.

Hempsters is not about fighting for your right to party—it is about sustainability and “going green.” Director Michael Henning provides a mini-curriculum on the history of hemp in the United States; its prospective uses; health, legal, cultural, scientific, industrial, and ecological considerations. Viewers will discover that “any product that can be made from petroleum oils can also be produced by hemp,” and that “Hemp is a durable fiber that can be used for paper, textiles, biodegradable plastics, construction, health food, and fuel."

Visitors to the High Times website are rewarded with everything they’ve always wanted to know about grass but didn’t know whom to ask. Where else can one purchase a pot leaf cookie cutter or “Veterans of the Marijuana War” membership kit? (Never mind; forget I asked.) It only makes sense that a video be produced for those interested in the agricultural side of the subject.

Designed for both the beginner and the advanced grower, High Times Presents Nico Escondido’s Grow Like a Pro features tips on “everything from indoor growing, to greenhouse techniques, to outdoor cultivation.” With two hours of “comprehensive cultivation coverage,” the documentary is a short course in marijuana propagation. In addition to the bonus material offered, this “unparalleled film contains never-before-seen footage of America’s top medical grow facilities.”

Arriving at retailers next week, A NORML Life: The American Marijuana Revolution is a chronicle of the “state of medical marijuana in America through interviews with patients, caregivers, activists and doctors.” NORML is the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws, and has advocated the decriminalization of cannabis for over forty years.

Featured in A NORML Life: The American Marijuana Revolution are interviews with NORML conference attendees, as well as participants in Seattle’s Hempfest 2010. Directed by Rod Pitman, who was also involved in Hempsters, A NORML Life: The American Marijuana Revolution reveals research and data about marijuana and its use. With an emphasis on medical and political (tax money) issues, it is an interesting look at an issue that affects millions.

Originally published: http://technorati.com/entertainment/film/article/marijuana-movie-night/#ixzz1VDB492rk

Oh! Those Cynical Women!

2011-08-16T12:37:00.000-04:00

Oh! Those Cynical Women!

2011-08-09T14:30:00.000-04:00

Oh! Those Cynical Women!

2011-08-05T18:28:00.001-04:00

Hilarious Voiceovers On Animal Documentaries | PBH2, Video Before It's Viral

2011-07-08T11:53:00.001-04:00

Hilarious Voiceovers On Animal Documentaries | PBH2, Video Before It's Viral

Take that, Kim K

2011-07-07T15:52:00.000-04:00

Who Should Play Casey Anthony in the Movie About the Trial? - Entertainment & Stars

2011-07-06T20:17:00.002-04:00

Click below to see entire article:
Who Should Play Casey Anthony in the Movie About the Trial? - Entertainment & Stars

We Cast The Inevitable Casey Anthony Movie | Screen Junkies

2011-07-06T20:15:00.002-04:00

Click below to see entire article:
We Cast The Inevitable Casey Anthony Movie | Screen Junkies

You, Too, Can Score $$$ Off a Baby’s Murder

2011-07-06T20:14:00.000-04:00

According to law, Casey Anthony is guilty of nothing but lying. Okay, we have to accept that until she does something else newsworthy. She is also guilty of bad taste and poor judgment, but there’s not too much we can do about that. Now the rumor is going around that a movie based on the Anthony case is being considered. Hello! Wake up! That movie (or more aptly, those movies) has been under consideration for a long time, just waiting on the outcome of the trial.

Those of us who are convinced it will be made sooner than later, argue that the sooner Casey sells the rights to her story, the more she’ll make on it. Once the case gets stale, and all the based-on-a-true-story movies (with names changed to protect the litigants) are made, Casey’s story will lose its value. It would be easy to be outraged that Casey Anthony would make a dime off her child’s murder, whether she was guilty or not. But who should make money off of this?

What commercial enterprise should benefit from the murder of a child? The idea is pretty abhorrent, don’t you think? And yet, within hours of the verdict, merchandise—particularly t-shirts—flooded the internet market. There are t-shirts with a picture of Casey and the word “murderer,” there are t-shirts that describe angels crying in heaven when the verdict was delivered, there are t-shirts showing Casey vomiting into a toilet, saying “Caylee, are you in there?” (Anthony-related merchandise had been available long before the trial ended.) Yes, there’s lots of money to be made off Caylee’s murder, and those who have the facilities to produce and profit rapidly are already raking it in.

One of the longstanding “problems” with freedom of any type, but particularly freedom of speech, is that there are times when you may have it, but it would be wiser or more sensitive not to invoke it. For those who want to protest the justice system, voice their opinions about murderous moms, or simply mourn the death of a child, there are better ways to do it than putting cash in someone else’s pocket. If one has to have a t-shirt, take an old one and paint your feelings on it. If you are mourning for the child and all the children who are abused and murdered, print out her picture, hang it up and say a prayer or light a candle in memory. If it’s important to make your opinion known, write a letter to the editor or a status update on Facebook.

If people simply must spend money to vent their frustration, why not make a donation in memory of Caylee to an organization that helps abused children, or St. Jude’s, or any of the others who help children? We can put our money where it will do some good for the children, not so much for the guy who is printing the t-shirts. (Okay, you’re used to my off-center ideas. How about if charitable organizations give donors the t-shirts of their choice for donations of, say, $100 or more? That way we don’t hurt the t-shirt guys, but we do help the kids.)

Note to readers: I am in no way suggesting that Freedom of Speech be curbed or curtailed. However, I am in favor of discretion.

Originally published:http://technorati.com/lifestyle/article/you-too-can-score-off-a/#ixzz1RN9FevGY

Check out these links:

We Cast The Inevitable Casey Anthony Movie

Who Should Play Casey A*nthony in the Movie About the Trial?

I (wish I didn’t) Remember Mama: Fireworks

2011-07-02T10:29:00.001-04:00

According to Fleas, everything I did was either bad, wrong, or a waste of time. That’s probably why I don’t remember what set her off whenever she exploded. We had a strict code of conduct, and I don’t think I ever provoked her on purpose, expressed an opinion on anything important, or otherwise set off the fireworks. If she knew some of the things the teenaged me did when she wasn’t around, I’d probably not be around to tell the tale.

It’s been only the last few years that I’ve come to appreciate how dramatic Fleas actually was. When you’re a kid and you live with the drama, it’s not drama—it’s a lifestyle. Another thing I learned about Fleas is that she made every meal seem like it took hours upon hours of preparation and was physically exhausting. Maybe that’s why she didn’t share her recipes…she didn’t want anyone else to suffer as she had. Oh, the humanitarian!

One typical Sunday, Fleas spent an inordinate time making lasagna, salad, bread, and whatever other goodies would accompany such a meal. And she did make a killer lasagna. She set the table in the small-but-formal, sunny dining room with a beautiful tablecloth, her fine china, and real silver (which I have in a suitcase in my basement; but, what, no crystal?). It was the kind of setting that Norman Rockwell captured so well. Sunday dinner, the exception to the weekly grind, was served at 2:00.

I don’t know what crime I had committed, but Fleas used her displeasure to stage a spectacular show. She called us to the table, set out the steaming dishes of delightful Italian food, served everyone including herself, then announced, “I can’t eat if I have to look at her,” threw her napkin down, and ran off to her bedroom. Wow! My transgression (I was the only other “her” in the room) must have been a doozy! After all that labor, she couldn’t even enjoy her dinner.

I never considered that she may have had that planned for hours or days. I was probably fifteen years old and I thought her performance was spontaneous. As a cynical old hag, I look back and think that she was probably munching all afternoon while cooking (can anyone resist mozzarella?), and/or had a box of Russell Stover chocolates in her room. Or both. I can picture her on the edge of her bed, chocolate box on her lap, watching Ted Mack’s Original Amateur Hour and feeling that she deserved an Oscar (it was a small role but filled with passion) and that she had successfully ruined our dinner.

I know she ruined dinner for at least one person that afternoon, but all ate like they were unaffected; we were used to dinner theater. I’m not really my mother’s daughter—I could never have pulled off that performance. For one thing, who am I to turn my back on a nice salad and fabulous lasagna? If I’d spent hours making it, I wouldn’t have stormed off. Wouldn’t it make more sense to send the offending kid to her room, with or without a plate? Another reason? When I do feign melodrama, I usually get the giggles.

Just Call Me Sylvia S. Sifuentes

2011-06-27T18:21:00.001-04:00

Sometimes we've just got to write things that prove what everybody already thinks about us...

Hey, wait, still looks like the
old bob etier to me...

Although most of you know me as Bob Etier of Western North Carolina, I have a new identity, complete with phone number, e-mail address @ “teleworm.com” (awaiting my activation), Master Card account number, social security number, and blood type (B+). I am 18 years old, 5’9” tall, 128 pounds, and I live at 4768 Finwood Road, Montclair, NJ 07042.

I am a personal appearance worker whose mother’s maiden name is Rickard and you can visit my website, PatentPanel.com. All of this is by using what could be the coolest website ever: Fake Name Generator. I don’t particularly want to be 18 again, I don’t recall that as a particularly good year, but I wouldn’t mind being four pounds thinner and four inches taller. Man! As Sylvia S. Sifuentes, I am a freaking knock-out! Cool name, great body…but wait…

What if I want to be a French Woman living in Finland? Well, then I’d be Merci Larivière living at Keskustie 45, 72810 Jylhänkylä and a 49-year-old chemist, although I would be a bit overweight. Okay, I’m not so good at chemistry…what if I was an Arabic male living in Australia?

G’day, folks, meet Zafar Abdul-Haqq Wasem of 9 Davenport Street, Quidong, NSW 2632. I’m a geropsychologist (which is what I probably need, if checking out this site is any indication) who is 150.9 pounds and 5’11” (that’s more like it!). AND I’m a freakin’ genius—I’m only 18 years old. I wonder how much an 18-year-old geropsychologist makes…well, apparently enough to have a Visa card (I hope it’s not prepaid).

Because this site is so easy to access, I suspect that the information cannot actually be used for anything more nefarious than setting up a fake Facebook account for your gorgeous (or otherwise), new self. And it’s just fun to play with. On the other hand…if you’re a fiction writer stumped for an identity for a new character, have at it!

By the way, if I’m a Chinese man living in Victoria, BC, my mother’s maiden name is exactly the same as my real-life daughter’s first name: Jen. Good to know, right?

Are Dogs Smarter than People? Exhibit A

2011-06-27T12:35:00.001-04:00

Once the weather gets milder (above 40 degrees or so) we leave our back door open so that our cats and dogs can go in and out through the pet door. This spring I noticed that whenever I was ready to give my dogs breakfast (a ritual that begins with "Are you hungry? Do you want to eat?" and furious tail-wagging), they would immediately go outside. “Why?,” I wondered.

I finally realized that all through the winter, before I would feed the dogs I would make them go outside. Some people might call this “conditioning,” but I know what my dogs are thinking—if we want to eat, we better take care of business.”

Are dogs smarter than people? Yes. Consider how long it takes to “condition” your children to wash their hands before meals. Some of them are well into adulthood and still can’t remember…

I (wish I didn’t) Remember Mama: Everything I Know about Sex I Learned in All the Wrong Places

2011-06-26T17:17:00.003-04:00

WARNING: Looking at the images accompanying this article will result in eternal damnation…i.e., hell forever…and ever.

When I was eleven-years-old, Fleas felt obliged to give me “the talk.” You know the one…about S-E-X. So she invited me into her bedroom, sat on her bed (I guess I sat on a chair—I know I was opposite her), and brought out a booklet put out by the Catholic Church, ironically titled “Now You Are Ten.” It was the kind of literature that tells you all you need to know about sex: if you do it, you’ll go to hell.

My mother read the book out loud, cover to cover, a feat that even a stupid kid like me could have accomplished on her own. I will always remember one phrase in the book, “marital embrace.” For those who don’t know, by engaging in the “marital embrace” you make babies. Well, I knew an embrace was a hug, so I was convinced that one could be impregnated by hugging or being hugged. That was the sum of my sex education at home. That might also be why I felt mortified every time I saw a pregnant woman—I knew she had been embracing!

This is dancing, NOT
a "marital embrace"

When I was nine and attending Catholic School (is it any wonder I’m a Methodist?), we had a combination hygiene/sex ed moment when Sister Julia Michael told us not to wash under our arms because it could lead to “impure thoughts.” At that time, nine-year-olds were incapable of having “impure thoughts,” and would probably have gone into catatonic shock if they knew what those thoughts entailed.

That sums up my sex education until I was fifteen. A group of us hormonally-charged kids were put in a classroom with a teacher and a projector. We were to watch a film about (shhhhh….) venereal disease. I don’t know if my mother’s church would approve of such pornography, but I was untainted by it. When the boy walked up to the girl’s house to pick her up for a date, they shook hands and I passed out.

Preparation for a "Marital Embrace"

Why did they shake hands? I don’t know; maybe it was a blind date. Why did I faint? It sounds like an extreme case of sexual repression, but the truth is that I was wearing a new outfit: camel-colored wool-skirt, a turtleneck, and a camel mohair sweater. It was unseasonably warm for September, and I was standing at the back of the room with my back to the blackboard. There was no air conditioning, of course (it was the sixties—kids didn’t need a/c back then). All I remember is that the couple shook hands, my head went thump-thump-thump as I apparently slid down the blackboard and wall, and when I woke up there were a whole bunch of kids looking at me rather than learning how to avoid getting VD by shaking hands.

I’m pretty sure that was the end of my formal sex education. Being scientifically inclined (I failed both Science and Biology), I eventually resorted to a scientific method—experimentation.

I'm not positive, but
I'm pretty sure this is
related to marital embracing.

Sex was definitely an unspoken word in our house, and—at least as far as my parents were concerned—it was a rare practice. One day Aunt M. told me that she and Fleas should exchange husbands, because Fleas hated sex and Uncle G. was unable due to illness. That was really a whole lot more info than I could handle, but it did leave me with the impression that 1) sex wasn’t entirely revolting, and 2) I knew at least two people who enjoyed it—Aunt M. and my father—although I sincerely doubt they enjoyed it mutually (if you know what I mean, and I know you do).

Fleas’ attitude about sex, unexpressed as it was, pretty much sealed my fate. To this day I am uncomfortable discussing the subject with anyone and avoid it. When my children were old enough to be told what was happening to their bodies and what sex was all about, I bought two books, What's Happening to Me? and Where Did I Come From? (BTW, if you can get your hands on these, I highly recommend them. Very highly.) I did not repeat the famous bedroom scene my mother staged. Instead, I gave each one the appropriate book, told them to read them, and then we’d discuss them. That worked. And that’s how I found out that an orgasm is just like a sneeze.

I would offer more resources on sex, but the book Your Child and Sex: A Guide for Catholic Parents, although listed on Amazon, has no photo image available nor description of its contents. See? Sex must be a sin!

Being Christian: Another Perspective on Same-Sex Marriage

2011-06-26T15:42:00.005-04:00

It’s not always easy being a Christian, ever-increasingly under attack from people who think they understand what you believe, know that what you believe is a load of crap, categorize all Christians as believing and behaving the same way, and belittle you for believing in the “paranormal,” “spiritual,” or “mystical.” Of course, The Guy who started this gig never promised it would be easy. He did command us to love one another, which puts us at a disadvantage—we can’t really defend ourselves with like ammunition when attacked because we believe in respecting (loving) our detractors. So I wade into the waters of Christian writing fully aware that I will be attacked by sharks.

As an observant Christian, my first thought upon hearing that same-sex marriage was sanctioned in the State of New York was “Hooray!” A later thought was “What a Christian thing to do!” Unfortunately, according to media reports, I am in an underwhelming minority; fellow Christians are horrified at the thought of same sex marriage—and, yes, some of them are.

One of the arguments some Christians make against same-sex marriage (SSM) is that it undermines the concept of family or, worse yet, is a volley in the attempt to destroy it. In reality, it expands the concept of family. While the family unit may or may not be the basis of our society, we—as a society—are guilty of limiting the definition of “family,” trying to make it a private club for which only some people qualify.

It does take a man and a woman to “make” a baby…or more aptly, an egg and a sperm (although science is conquering that, too). However, making a baby does not automatically make a man and a woman “parents.”

Not everyone wants to do the work or make the commitment, so their kids end up as statistics, many withering away in children’s homes, foster care, or on the street, except for the ones that don’t make it that far because a parent or parent’s associate murders them.

Since adopting parents are no longer required to be heterosexuals (or married), the pool of potential families increased exponentially. This is a good thing—people who want children can provide loving homes to children who are not wanted.

We already have statistics that children who are raised in two-parent homes have advantages over those in single-parent homes; the advent of same-sex marriage increases the number of two-parent homes. Certainly some will quibble that research supports the advantage going to children who have a male father and a female mother, but isn’t the example of two parents who love, support, and respect each other the greatest advantage?

According to an article by Tom Shelton, published by Blogcritics on June 25, 2011, “One of the primary functions of a family unit is that of procreation. Biology requires a male and a female for procreation. A same-sex couple can not produce children on their own. This threatens the very existence of a society or nation. As the number of same-sex couples increases the number of couples available for procreation decreases and if it decreases enough then the total population will begin to decline as the birth rates do not meet or exceed the death rates.” SSM does not increase the number of same-sex couples nor decreases the number of couples available for procreation. Marriage “legitimizes” the relationship between two people, regardless of sex, and on an emotional level it formalizes their commitment to each other.

People aren’t going to become homosexual because SSM is now legal; the number of same-sex couples does not increase, only the number of same-sex married couples. Most of us know that the egg and the sperm don’t have to come from people wed to each other to produce a child—with SSM there are more families available to give children homes because they have the advantage of being two-income households. If Zero (or negative) Population Growth were to be a result of SSM, we would all benefit, but results of efforts in that direction over the past half century have been disappointing.

There are so many arguments, made by Christians, against SSM that simply are not valid. There is not a dividing line between Christians and homosexuals; the opportunity to be a Christian is not limited to heterosexuals. Therefore, SSM families can share and propagate their religious beliefs (no matter what they may be) just as efficiently as “traditional” families (many of which fail at the task).

Will having homosexual parents influence a child to be homosexual? No, sexual orientation is not a matter of choice and children witness a large variety of lifestyles. Unless homosexual couples insist (to the point of indoctrinating) that heterosexuality is a sin and unnatural (thereby creating heterophobes), children will be what they will be. Ask any republican parent who has a democrat child, or vice versa.

The Christian role in the SSM debate should be what the Christian role has historically been—understanding, tolerance, respect, love. Sadly, not all Christians feel this role applies to them, and some manage to generate tons of publicity for their various hateful causes, apparently missing the whole message of “Judge not, that ye be not judged…”

Originally published: http://technorati.com/lifestyle/article/being-christian-another-perspective-on-same/

I (wish I didn’t) Remember Mama: Survivor’s Guilt & a Plateful of Grateful

2011-06-25T18:11:00.000-04:00

There are so many types of abuse and so many degrees. I grew up in an abusive household experiencing things that no child should, however many abuse survivors might easily say, “Ha! You call that abuse?” Unless I am conducting a rare intellectual investigation of my life, I don’t often think of myself as abused or neglected. The bad things happened to another person—the little girl I once was. I don’t feel sorry for myself; I do feel sorry for her.

Kelsey Briggs was a beautiful little girl who was repeatedly, brutally abused by her stepfather. Abused to death. It wasn’t my own experience but the story of Kelsey Briggs that compelled me to become a GAL (Guardian ad Litem). My thinking went something like, “I’m too old to be a cop, and my aim isn’t good enough to be a vigilante…I’ve got to do something for these kids.” Kids like Kelsey Briggs remind me of how easy my life has been—dare I say I was abused?

No matter what we are, we are statistics. There is a certain element of guilt attached to being “an abused child,” when you’ve never had a broken bone, bruises, burns, or internal injuries; though not all abuse survivors suffer guilt. The fact is that no one should be abused, but it’s easy to overlook the facts in the face of the degree of abuse or in a culture where abuse is the norm (or perceived to be the norm).

From the time I was eleven years old until I was in my mid-forties, a day didn’t go by that I didn’t wish I was dead. I hated my life, I hated myself, and I felt that I was less than a person—the darkest soul ever to inhabit human form. Oh, that’s so dramatic, but I didn’t look at it that way. I looked at each day as another day of getting screwed over, of not counting for anything (because I didn't count for anything), of being rejected. The thing that helped me recover from such feelings, to rise from the depths of depression (in fact, to rise from my bed each day), and to appreciate my gifts, talents, and worth is one of the many things for which I am grateful.

Not all abuse victims grow up to be depressed or suffer from other mental illnesses and dysfunctions, and many who do pull themselves out of it—when they do the hard work it takes to get past the past. It’s a wonderful feeling to be able to tick off the good things in life, instead of the reasons life sucks. So here, in no particular order, are the good things in my life, the things that make every day a cause to celebrate and every breath worth taking.

The knight in shining armor who rescued me from what was little more than a shadow of life (husband FCE).
My kids who know first-hand about the cycle of abuse, but who managed to be the stopping point.
My grandkids who know how to be their own people.
The people who felt I was worth getting to know, no matter how hard I made it on them.
Prozac—the first step in turning my life around and keeping it (mostly) balanced.
Hot showers and cold tea (preferably Diet Snapple Peach Tea)—not necessarily at the same time.
A sense of humor.
A spiritual journey.
Dogs & cats, especially when they’re not fighting like…well…you know.
The ability to accept that this is not a perfect world, and I can’t change people.
My personal philosophy.
Reliable transportation.
Prescription eyewear, especially when the puppy hasn't eaten them.
Silence.

Sometimes when I would pass grand mansions and estates, I would think “I wonder if they know what they’ve got.” I don’t know if the people living in those houses do, but I am grateful to be aware of how very rich and full my life is (although I certainly wouldn’t turn my back on a windfall!)—in other words, I am grateful for the opportunity to be grateful, even at my most cantankerous, self-absorbed worst moments.

Nope, I’ll never be perfect, but I’ll never be the intellectually and morally inferior person who deserved punishment—the person I was conditioned to be, the person I learned I never really was.

I (wish I didn’t) Remember Mama: Cooking Mama

2011-06-23T10:51:00.000-04:00

Until middle age, Fleas was a great cook. 100% Italian, she made sauces that were thick, fragrant, and flavorful. She even canned her own tomatoes. Dishes that were handed down from her mother were staples on our table. Every Thursday we had spaghetti; Sundays there was something more elaborate like lasagna or ravioli. On Friday, lentil soup was often the main course. The rest of the week featured American dishes—chops, steaks, burgers, chicken soup, and the like.

I don’t know enough about dialects to explain how Fleas and her family spoke. Their pronunciation of common Italian words was often different than other Italians (and certainly different than non-Italians). For example, cannoli was pronounced “gah-nool.” Lasagna was “lah-zyne.” Prosciutto, “prah-jhoot.” Mozzarella, “mootzarell.” This, in itself, is not a big deal. As a child, I believed these were the correct pronunciations, and as an adult found that most workers in Italian delis knew what I was ordering.

There are certain dishes that children of good cooks remember and crave. They replicate these dishes with the recipes their mothers gave them or by learning to cook at their mothers’ sides. Three Fleas made, that were to die for (as opposed to her later cooking which was to die from), were stuffed peppers (meatless, riceless), “beetza-gain,” and a concoction called something like “gock-yole,” which is sort of a bread (I’m stretching the definition of bread here ever-so) made with coarse corn meal, eggs, and milk (I think). “Gock-yole” is made in an olive-oil coated cast iron frying pan (be sure to have extras in case you have to break one over your kid’s head); the corn meal mixture is poured in and fills the pan, and a hole is poked in the middle to let the steam escape. It’s fried until it’s shiny and hard, and then turned (I have no idea how you would turn this with just a spatula), and cook until the other side is shiny and hard.

I would be better able to recite this recipe if Fleas had shared it, but Fleas didn’t share recipes. It’s been over 40 years since I’ve had “gock-yole” (best served with thick soups like lentil or pasta e fagioli [pronounced bast-ah vah-zhool]), and haven’t a clue what it’s really called or how to make it (although I seem to remember that the olive oil was flavored with garlic—but isn’t everything Italian?—and it took a while). Someone once suggested “Polenta,” but polenta and “gock-yole” have little in common. Besides, Fleas’ dialect would make polenta sound more like “bo-lent.”

“Beetza-gain,” I learned about 20 years ago, is actually “pizzagaina,” an Italian Easter pie, cake-like in stature, and filled with eggs, ricotta cheese (pronounced “rih-ghaut”), pepperoni, mozzarella, ham, and other delicious things. The filling varies from cook to cook, and I’ve only had an identical version once, in an Italian deli in Palisades Park, NJ. I am nearly ready to kill for this recipe.

As for the stuffed peppers…I’m totally at sea. The peppers were either roasted or boiled first, then stuffed with bread crumbs, seasonings (including basil and oregano), parmesan cheese, egg, and possibly anchovies (probably a very small amount or very finely chopped). They were then oven-baked. A lifetime ago, I found a recipe on a Progresso calendar for these stuffed peppers, but it was lost in a move.

By the time Fleas was in her mid-fifties she began to lose her cooking talent. Her sauces had become runny, better than thin tomato soup, but not much, and since she cooked for herself and my father only she had stopped making more elaborate dishes. I’ve often wondered if this was an early symptom of Alzheimer’s.

A True Story: Chapter Two

2011-06-22T21:29:00.000-04:00

Introduction: Shortly after writing A True Story: Chapter One, the plot changed. I found another organization that exists only in your imagination and required my already-demonstrated talent for arranging unique combinations of 1s and 0s for your amusement. This organization is also at the mercy of electrical hiccups and bolts of lightning. The day after penning A True Story: Chapter One, October 1, 2010, I entered into a relationship with Organization-2 (while continuing my association with Organization-1).

With my hyperbole-detector in working order, I listened to the promises and enticements offered by Organization-2. I would be respected. I would be treated well. I would be entitled to little extras. After proving myself, I would be self-supervised. Did I think I would be disappointed? No; I don’t buy into hyperbole.

Organization-1’s recruiters assured me of their high standards; there aren’t any. Superior work is occasionally encouraged but not required. Inferior work is acceptable. Superior and inferior work are considered equal. If management finds a worker irritating, that worker disappears. Management reserves the right to disappear any employee at any time without cause or explanation. We are assured this is a universal business model.

Organization-1 began depriving workers of their only privilege. This was a threat often made, but seldom enforced. Things changed when Boss Daddy left.

Then workers started disappearing. Kool-Aid is the only beverage option in the cafeteria, and no one is permitted off-grounds for breaks or meals—it is Kool-Aid or nothing.

Boss Daddy’s replacement is an evil entity called FASMAB, not enough heart to be human, not enough brain to be machine. FASMAB is fueled by one thing, power. Not electricity. Not fossil fuels. Power over people.

FASMAB instituted a private club for Organization-1 workers. Workers are not to associate with the “disappeared.” Infractions of this mandate are punishable by “temporary disappearance” and expulsion from the club. Productive workers are demoralized. When my production dipped by 90% no one noticed. FASMAB, however, was keeping tabs on my less-than-private life.

I am not paranoid. This is a true story.

I (wish I didn’t) Remember Mama: Here’s to the Good Times

2011-06-22T12:14:00.001-04:00

Someone beat me and I thought he was wonderful. Yikes, a normal person might exclaim, get this chick some help. The problem was that the “someone” was my father and I was a child who didn’t know that all children don’t suffer corporal punishment. I am always surprised when a fellow baby-boomer tells me that he or she never got hit, and think the parents must have been “rare exceptions”—maybe they were beatniks (or anti-beat-niks). Isn’t this country built on legendary tales of “trips to the woodshed”?

In my mind, people who punished their children with spankings, “lickings,” or beatings in the fifties and sixties were “normal” parents, just as I believe parents who hit their kids in the new millennium are criminal abusers. Unfortunately for my children and much to my shame, the combination of my experience, ignorance, and entering parenthood in my teens resulted in the continuation of this family tradition. (In my twenties, I impulsively decided to go back to school, and in a child psychology class an Eskimo ended those practices for good. Our textbook included a quote from an Eskimo father who asked “Why would I hit my child?,” and went on to explain he didn’t hit other people who made him angry. That man ended corporal punishment in my home—if only he could have terminated mental disorders, as well.)

In many ways, I am like my father. Perhaps that’s because the only thing I remember about my mother is the many faces of her anger—an example I could not emulate since anger was not acceptable (it’s so much better to turn it inward and let it fester into depression). Good memories of my childhood are mostly about my father, my Uncle B., and my Aunt M. who sometimes treated me like the most wonderful child ever born (and other times refused to speak to me because I was her sister’s child). I idolized my father, and other relatives would say, “Your father is a saint.” I didn’t realize at the time that they—being on Fleas’ side of the family—were referring to his tolerance of Fleas’ behavior (if you missed the last installment, “Fleas” is/was my mother—the name chosen [by me] because of its similarity to her name. For whatever deep, dark psychological reason, it is easier for me to refer to her as “Fleas” than as “Mother” or “Mom”).

My father was a font of advice that I took to heart, most of which is still etched on my psyche: “If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well” (or how to brainwash your child into being a perfectionist who won’t try to do anything for fear it won’t be done exactly right) and “If you want a job done right, do it yourself” (or, “never ask for help”). Note to parents: to successfully neuroticize your children, such phrases must be repeated daily, beginning when they are toddlers; it’s especially effective to use them several times a day.

You never know where your keyboard is going to take you. I started this installment intending to recall good memories of life with my parents to dispel the notion that it was all Dickensian. I am trying to dredge up big, happy events like birthdays or holidays, but I fail (it must not be a job worth doing). Instead, good memories involve adult-less moments, times spent with adults who were not my parents, times with my parents and lots of witnesses, or the times I was with my father only.

My father was home on weekends, and I’d often hang out with him while he did construction projects or repairs, washed the car, went to the corner tavern, or ran (actually drove) to the store or dry cleaners on various errands (every year I got to cast numerous votes for my choice in the “Miss Rheingold” contest—casting a vote or two each time we stopped at the liquor store). I know he took me fishing once (I dutifully caught a sunny), and to a baseball game (which I always remembered as the Brooklyn Dodgers but was probably the Yankees). When I was in the lower grades, we went to the library together. Those were the good times.

There wasn’t much conversation; aside from telling us kids we were stupid when we made mistakes or “acted up,” my father didn’t speak much (in our house, it was a good philosophy—be quiet and [if possible] invisible). “Children should be seen and not heard,” was Fleas’ mantra, but even I knew she meant “Children should be seen but not had.”