As you have probably heard by now, I tend to have my little ups and downs. Maybe it would be more accurate to say I have huge ups and downs. At this point in my life, I know the hugest part of this is my personal physical and neurological condition although I hasten to interject that, in general, that condition is at least exacerbated — if in fact not brought on — by my futile attempts to put up with intolerable conditions, using the most feeble of rationalizations and excuses.
Nevertheless, the circumstances of my misbegotten marriage have provided one very important feature to my existence. Husbands are handy things to have around when one is in the mood to hate. I am in such a mood. I am able, while this need persists, to focus with laser sharp accuracy, all my seething negative energy on that crumpled sweetener packet on the counter or that fucking bicycle he snuck out and bought when I was out of town which he will never ride and which I have to move every time I want to get to my beloved yellow garden wagon, which, I noticed today, he has filled with vintage scuba tanks, ace sportsman that he is. It is fortunate that these laser blasts have no effect on his stony implacable sense of perfection which he wears not as a disguise but as his personal estimation of himself. More fucking power to him. My hate will subside and I will focus on impatiens or barberry or Delaney and my tedious life will continue as before.
Don’t misunderstand me. It is not even that I hate him personally, mind you. He has his uses. It is more that he provides easily accessible targets for me when needed. Personally? As I often say, knowing for sure through my personal and extensive life experience, it could be worse.
I love that birdcage on my blog design. I adore it.
Illustration attribution: www.titaniumbros.com
For some strange reason, it is almost impossible to locate an illustration or photo of an angry redhead. How ironic.
I am quite old. Almost as old as I would ever want to be. I like finite goals. Sometimes.
I went on a trip. It was a long weekend. It was an out of this world experience. It was a place I imagined, but the reality trumped my imaginings. I didn’t worry about how I would look in all these new places. I didn’t look to see how old that guy was riding that Harley. I didn’t even bother to notice if he was fat. I worried about my shoes and which socks were the most comfortable with which shoes and I worried about whether I would be hot or cold. I do not remember at this point if I was ever hot or cold during the vacation. I must admit to all of you who are so quick to hold me accountable for my every word that I do remember gently harping at my semi-saintly daughter about the settings on the car heater thing.
But one day I looked in the mirror and instead of peering closely to see if the new deep wrinkle minimizer or the new skin tightening cream were working, I said to myself, “Yup. Still red. Looks good.”
Lately there are a lot of blogs and websites and Pinterest sites, not just postings, about redheads. I was asked to participate in a documentary about redheads, but I haven’t sent in the tape yet. I may or may not do that. The word ‘ginger’ is thrown around a lot. I do not know if it is an insult. Look at Prince Harry for God’s sake. I wanted it to be my nickname when I was six cuz I was named Virginia and a redhead, but that didn’t take. Thank God. I think it started when someone said redheads would be extinct in 150 years. From the look of my subdivision that is not likely. Someone commented that people were deciding it should be an insult and not let others get away with calling them that, pushing the Politically Correct agenda and commenting on the combination of letters in the word, emphasizing that the attention being drawn to redheads was deliberate and hinting that certain ethnicities were deliberately promoting the agenda which is ridiculous because I think just about every ethnicity, except maybe Asian, has redheads. Anyway, it is fun to participate, especially when they go after the dye jobs. Not that I could blame someone for that. But I did have a point to this ramble when I started out.
One of the questions on the interview for the documentary was about whether you felt that redheads were distinctive in any way, or felt distinctive. I don’t know how old I was when I realized I was a redhead. I don’t think I ever realized it. I think I just was. I think I am a redhead before I am a caucasian or even a human. I don’t know if I am a redhead before I am a female. I think maybe that distinction is equal. I also think it is synergistic. I am sure it has defined me and I am glad that I am now old enough to not even want to check out the guy on the Harley, now that the white part of my hair is growing to a larger percentage. I am pretty sure that if I was in the mood to check out any guy or had any interest of that sort, I would probably resort to dye, or as my wholly-sainted grandmother said, “tinting”. When she got sick her hair grew out white as snow. She stayed a redhead til her last conscious moment.
I searched for an illustration for this post with the term “scribe”. There were hundreds. One was a female. She has red hair. Honestly, I feel that it is something someone who is not a redhead can never understand.
When I was three and my brother was teaching me the letters he learned at school, I knew I was smart and clever and me. Once, exactly once, and this I recall distinctly, I hollered at my mom for giving someone more attention than I got. It was when her fifteen year old god daughter got pregnant, and she couldn’t stop talking about darling Peggy and what trouble she was in and how could that happen, etc. I said that it was really weird that someone had to do the thing she thought was the most horrible of all, getting knocked up outside of marriage, in order to get her attention. She never said another word about Peggy. Every time I had a friend that was red-headed, there was this distinctive camaraderie but also this unstated but painfully obvious sense of competition. I had a fight with Judy Schilf who was a redhead when I was about eight and she drew blood. It was historical. I hung around with another redhead, Marie Daugherty, and that sense of competition was very obviously not there. Probably cuz my ten year old brother was in love with her so there was nothing to compete over.
I never wanted to be anyone but me. I had a friend who wished she was a boy. (I think I covered this subject elsewhere.) I never even wanted to be or wished I was a movie star, Shirley Temple or Lucille Ball, for example, that is how fucking old I am, unless the movie star could be me, Ditty, The Movie Star. Yeah. I could’ve handled that.
“You fucking redheads. You blink on and off like a fucking Christmas tree.”
I don’t believe you only go around once. I think you get lots of chances to get it right. God is a good Christian and He firmly believes in recycling. But I think I must have earned good karma in my past life in order to live with this distinction I so cherish. This time around, I don’t know. Maybe I lived up to the Plan, or maybe I will come back as a house sparrow. Or something else rather drab and colorless, but really kind of cute in its own way.
I was so concerned that I haven’t blogged in so long. But thanks to the very loyal plumbers in New Zealand, my wonderful numbers have held up very well in my absence. Big, big, sincere Thank You, guys. Even if you are not a plumber in New Zealand. Or a redhead.
Photo Attribution: www.camlann.org
We are going on a little vacation for mother’s day and I am trying to not get too anxious about that. I am greatly looking forward to it. Perhaps inordinately so.
I was just browsing through Linked In, some group I belong to, and one person’s remarks about Rape Culture, just blew me away. I feel totally on edge. My mind so needs to be deeply exploring something and I will not let it. He talked about how your attitudes are predetermined by your peer prejudice and your culture’s attitudes. And I got to thinking, how can your attitude toward something be based on pure reason? And I don’t think it can. I can’t find anybody around here to talk to about that, so I write sarcastic little books about it and throw them before the public. It helps a little.
I happened on a feminazi blog once that was arguing about rape culture with a male novelist whose forte is speculative fiction. He had made some remarks that the blog admins took umbrage at and he rose to his defense as did many others. Of course, I went in with my etymological resources and my glaring generality remarks and the conversation came to an abrupt halt. It had been going on for days and I would have loved a little feedback, or at least to have felt included. But no. Once again I slammed the door shut in my own face. Yet, I do not abandon my search for intellectual stimulation.
I hardly ever watch television. We have Starz, and I tried to watch Spartacus, but I can’t pay attention, and if you turn it on and they are gazing at Spartacus’s dead body, you kind of don’t feel like there is any point in trying to catch up. Besides, I, yes, even I, consider some of the sexual footage gratuitous. So I have been catching up with Walking Dead by utilizing Netflix on my cell phone and my ear pieces, one side of which is dead. But one or two episodes of Walking Dead per day is quite enough. I have also been watching that Netflix Production of that Kevin Spacey political thing. It is interesting how he successfully employs that aside to the camera thing and Robin Wright is fascinating to watch. She is amazing. What the heck did she ever have to talk to that douchebag Sean Penn about? But that was also on the cell phone. And sometimes I would fall asleep in the middle of it, which is, for me, a good thing, except for when the cell phone falls on my face. And I feel like I am not making good use of the enormous amount of money I give to Comcast. (It really is ridiculous.)
money I give to Comcast. (It really is ridiculous.)
So I was looking at On Demand and noticed Starz On Demand had some good recent offerings. I kind of want to watch Brave again. It was amazing and wonderful, especially the little triplet mimicking the dad at the supper table, and I also want to watch the new Bourne thing with Jeremy Renner. But, finally, I selected Men in Black Three, and I was absolutely riveted for the length of the entire movie. I did pause it once to go and get a popsicle, but I was so thrilled to be able to concentrate on it and be interested and follow the plot. I enjoyed it, all the little father-son subtleties and inside jokes.
I think it says something about the state of my mind and I don’t think I want to know what that is.
Photo Attribution: tiffanysally.blogspot.com -
And she turned to go into the bathroom. Her breasts barely move when she walks. They fit her so perfectly. That is just amazing. Everyone else’s breasts are way too big. That is exactly how they are supposed to be. How come I never noticed that before? No. I noticed it. I was just afraid to think about it. Those other breasts were the only ones available. I am really glad I finally got to see the right ones. The perfect ones. She let me touch them. She let me make love to her. We had sex. She made love to me.