Michael Bolton is still alive and well, but Laura Branigan--one of the great pop voices of the 80's--is no longer with us. He gets to sing "How Am I Supposed to Live Without You", but she doesn't. This is grossly unfair. RD agrees, that's how much we hate him.
Just the other day I walked by what used to be an old luncheonette (there's a word you don't hear anymore) where I used to play Ms. Pac Man. For some reason, the Flashdance soundtrack popped into my head. Strangely enough, it was Branigan's "Imagination" that was my favorite stage sequence. You know it, too--the segment with the flashing tv in the little club. And what was played during the skating sequence? "Gloria", of course. That skater was Amy Kravette, a former Canadian competitor.
1983 was me getting used to not being in Bensonhurst anymore. It was a totally new world, and quite an adjustment from living in a house to an apartment. I didn't like it, and I found myself slipping into escapes such as music and dance. That was a great time to be a kid radio-wise, and I remember vividly how Flashdance changed the face of Hollywood soundtracks. They marketed that album, and most of the artists--including Branigan--as bonafide stars, not up and comers. This was THE stuff you HAD TO be listening to. They crammed the airwaves, the singles flew off the shelves, and after a week, you knew every word. Every jazz class I took had us standing there taking the needle off that record. Finally, someone brought in a cassette so it wouldn't skip while we jumped around. The beginning of the "concept" movie. Irene & Laura--two voices you couldn't forget if you tried.
Shame what the record companies have come out with lately. Teen pop crap or violent hip hop. I like old school rap, kiddies. Gimme some Whodini or Run DMC and I'm fine. None of these kids would even know who Laura Branigan is, sadly. I'm listening to the radio right now, and they still haven't played one of her songs yet. They probably won't, either. The idiots at ClearChannel probably have guns to DJ's heads. This is a sorry state we're in, and it's one of the reasons why people don't listen to the radio anymore.
But Michael Bolton is still alive to poison us with his scratchy warbling. Someone PLEASE PLEASE explain that to me.
Miss you, Laura.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Saturday, August 28, 2004
rhythmik gymnasts are reely cats
hello this is dexter.
i was watcheen the Olympiks with my two-legger, and this thing called rhythmik gymnastiks came on. i jumped at the screen, i couldnot help it.
my theeory is these girls are two-legger cats. they are just hideen it.
why you say --oh i wish i could use that shift key--i will tell yoo why.
1- they run aroond and chase a hoop, a ball, theese things called 'clubs', and my favoritt--the ribben! wow i just shifted with my tayl. i think i will do that aggain.
2- they twerl, roll, and generully go nuts--like on catnip nutz--for objekts that have notheen to do with reel life. for pointz, too, so they can win metal things with anuther ribben attached. i like things with ribben attached.
3-ive noticed they are bubbley and cute and stretch very far. i am jellus knoween that i am not the only one that can stick my leg over my hed. i cant do a back walkoveer eyther, and that annoyz me.
4- i dont think they keer how sillee they look. like us, it's all about chaysing the objekt and then lyeen flat on the floor while lookeen eggsotic and pretty.
5-when they gett a lowe skore, they sit and sulk. its very emportant that propper attenshun is given to cat-like creetures at all times or wee are insulted. no one is more beootifull than a cat, so big up to us! hsss hssss hssss i kill me, i sware.
well, kitties (my two legger uses that phrase), i haff to go. there is a berd across the way and i am distracted.
thank you for letteen me voyce my opinion.
meow for now,
dexter
i was watcheen the Olympiks with my two-legger, and this thing called rhythmik gymnastiks came on. i jumped at the screen, i couldnot help it.
my theeory is these girls are two-legger cats. they are just hideen it.
why you say --oh i wish i could use that shift key--i will tell yoo why.
1- they run aroond and chase a hoop, a ball, theese things called 'clubs', and my favoritt--the ribben! wow i just shifted with my tayl. i think i will do that aggain.
2- they twerl, roll, and generully go nuts--like on catnip nutz--for objekts that have notheen to do with reel life. for pointz, too, so they can win metal things with anuther ribben attached. i like things with ribben attached.
3-ive noticed they are bubbley and cute and stretch very far. i am jellus knoween that i am not the only one that can stick my leg over my hed. i cant do a back walkoveer eyther, and that annoyz me.
4- i dont think they keer how sillee they look. like us, it's all about chaysing the objekt and then lyeen flat on the floor while lookeen eggsotic and pretty.
5-when they gett a lowe skore, they sit and sulk. its very emportant that propper attenshun is given to cat-like creetures at all times or wee are insulted. no one is more beootifull than a cat, so big up to us! hsss hssss hssss i kill me, i sware.
well, kitties (my two legger uses that phrase), i haff to go. there is a berd across the way and i am distracted.
thank you for letteen me voyce my opinion.
meow for now,
dexter
Thursday, August 26, 2004
The Economy is Doing Well?
Well, if it's on CNN, it ain't a lie.
I thought we were doing so well...
Oh, wait a minute! They were poor to begin with. And not white. So that's ok, I guess. Sorry, wrong meeting. The middle class doesn't count. Neither do I. Never mind...
I thought we were doing so well...
Oh, wait a minute! They were poor to begin with. And not white. So that's ok, I guess. Sorry, wrong meeting. The middle class doesn't count. Neither do I. Never mind...
Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Democracy? Not in their backyard...
Voice opinion, get canned!
Wow. Reincarnation does exist. Stalin is alive and well, living in the monkey retard.
Maybe I should delete this entry. Those Patriotic Act creatures might be perusing this. I don't want to get deported. And I was born here, too!
I'm such a criminal! Somebody hold me, I'm feeling shaky...
Wow. Reincarnation does exist. Stalin is alive and well, living in the monkey retard.
Maybe I should delete this entry. Those Patriotic Act creatures might be perusing this. I don't want to get deported. And I was born here, too!
I'm such a criminal! Somebody hold me, I'm feeling shaky...
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
All that you are seeking is seeking you
Well, what a lovely evening! Doing the work that comes so naturally. Good to see you again, Ann & Andy! Dexter ripped open the bag of 'nip the moment I put my purse down. Do they have twelve step programs for felines? I wonder...
And Cammy: don't sweat it. Here's a little Romany magick that works like a charm!
Disruptive people who upset the harmony of your home/space can be tamed quite simply. Put a small hand mirror facing back where they came. These reflect in the opposite direction as if to say "Return to Sender." If no anger is attached to your actions, the offenders will respond accordingly. Only you will know why.
(Whatever it takes, kiddies, whatever it takes.)
And Cammy: don't sweat it. Here's a little Romany magick that works like a charm!
Disruptive people who upset the harmony of your home/space can be tamed quite simply. Put a small hand mirror facing back where they came. These reflect in the opposite direction as if to say "Return to Sender." If no anger is attached to your actions, the offenders will respond accordingly. Only you will know why.
(Whatever it takes, kiddies, whatever it takes.)
Monday, August 23, 2004
This is why I stopped dating Italians
Mama's Boy Syndrome happens here, too, not just Rome!
That fat bastard who decided I "wasn't good enough" back in 1998 will now be 37 come December! He's managed to lose job after job, too, from what I've heard. Mama still irons his socks, too. She also knows all the details of my personal life, including what kind of soap I use. I called that whole situation a boundary violation, and he scoffed by telling me that I had no right to "deserve better treatment than his family." Verbatim, kiddies! I should have known, even my father told me he was worthless. "He's a funny guy, but where's he gonna be in 50 years?" Pop, you were so smart.
When I posed the question to Mr. Boy, "What will happen when your mother dies? Won't you have to grow up?" all hell broke loose. Apparently, reality is too much for people who are catered to day and night. I got the last laugh though, he called two more times, saying he "missed me." Those phone calls went unreturned in both 1999 and 2000. Silence is an incredible weapon.
The question remains: is it culture or is it stupidity? People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.
Or pasta.
That fat bastard who decided I "wasn't good enough" back in 1998 will now be 37 come December! He's managed to lose job after job, too, from what I've heard. Mama still irons his socks, too. She also knows all the details of my personal life, including what kind of soap I use. I called that whole situation a boundary violation, and he scoffed by telling me that I had no right to "deserve better treatment than his family." Verbatim, kiddies! I should have known, even my father told me he was worthless. "He's a funny guy, but where's he gonna be in 50 years?" Pop, you were so smart.
When I posed the question to Mr. Boy, "What will happen when your mother dies? Won't you have to grow up?" all hell broke loose. Apparently, reality is too much for people who are catered to day and night. I got the last laugh though, he called two more times, saying he "missed me." Those phone calls went unreturned in both 1999 and 2000. Silence is an incredible weapon.
The question remains: is it culture or is it stupidity? People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.
Or pasta.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Window Part Deux
Well, I tell ya, kiddies. These goddamn windows in my apartment continue to mock me.
Last night, I went to open the window and heard a pop. You know what that means? Yup, the sliding mechanism cracked. That means the window will slide back down by itself if you try to keep it open, like it should be.
I think the other brand new window's pissed off that its twin didn't get fixed. So, it had a mood swing and decided to mock me. If I had been smart, I would have taken the time to WD-40 the top of this thing and perhaps it wouldn't have cracked. But, using that logic, I'd have to WD-40 my ceiling, too, since that's cracking. My sanity cracked, too, now that I think of it, so does that mean....never mind. I'm too pissed off to think straight right now.
And this asshole who calls himself a financial advisor won't return my calls....I've got news for him, he's about to get dropped!
It must be nice to live off someone else, I'm sitting here and thinking of all the princes/princesses who've got someone else to take care of things. Fuck all of you, I hope you're reading this.
Last night, I went to open the window and heard a pop. You know what that means? Yup, the sliding mechanism cracked. That means the window will slide back down by itself if you try to keep it open, like it should be.
I think the other brand new window's pissed off that its twin didn't get fixed. So, it had a mood swing and decided to mock me. If I had been smart, I would have taken the time to WD-40 the top of this thing and perhaps it wouldn't have cracked. But, using that logic, I'd have to WD-40 my ceiling, too, since that's cracking. My sanity cracked, too, now that I think of it, so does that mean....never mind. I'm too pissed off to think straight right now.
And this asshole who calls himself a financial advisor won't return my calls....I've got news for him, he's about to get dropped!
It must be nice to live off someone else, I'm sitting here and thinking of all the princes/princesses who've got someone else to take care of things. Fuck all of you, I hope you're reading this.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Pazuzu's Revenge?
Gee, I guess I really shouldn't curse out demons. Why so?
Talk about freaky, kiddies... I came home to find my favorite 80's framed poster smashed in pieces. It looked like something pushed it off the wall. More flakes of paint also fell off my ceiling. I grabbed what was left of the frame and backed into the wall. I really thought someone had broken into my apartment. Glass everywhere, and now the matted poster (yes, the Toasty one, RD) has scratches all over it.
There was also a weird message on my answering machine. It sounded like a garbled voice and then a busy signal. All night long my cats kept staring at the spot where the picture was. I quickly replaced the poster with an $11 purchase on eBay, but it hung securely for two years with no problems.
My listing of an out-of-print video that I've sold twice was taken down, too. I clicked on to see how the bids were doing, and that one was missing. I've never had that happen before, and the damn thing was up to $20.49 with 5 days to go. What gives? Ebay is bootleg heaven. I don't get it.
Amazing thing is, I was discussing Pazuzu yesterday in light of the latest Exorcist film (I'm being nice, Paz, don't zing me again). He was a Mesapotamian god with the power to exact revenge and destroy all things. Uttering his name, it was feared, could summon tragedy. He was worshipped and ultimately honored as a symbol of unwielding power. Not unlike the Hindu goddess Shiva, there were festivals and holy days honoring this unsettling power. Replicas of him pop up in windows in Middle Eastern stores, and his name figures prominently in the study of demonology, I learned. Weird things happened on the set of the latest film during the cave scenes. His statue is shown numerous times in this one, perhaps he's pissed off for being in such a crappy film.
Friedkin's original filming in Iran during the hot fall of 1972 included clerics and holy men. They took the excavation scenes very seriously. As you know, there are only about 7 minutes of footage used before we are introduced to the two priests, but Paz's figure looms over them in the hot sun.
All hell broke loose when they got back to Georgetown to film the bedroom scenes. Just eerie, eerie stuff. The background on this demon is very interesting, maybe even more so than the spinning head and pea soup.
Ok, Paz. You win. I'm reframing my picture, though. I promise to be nice.
Talk about freaky, kiddies... I came home to find my favorite 80's framed poster smashed in pieces. It looked like something pushed it off the wall. More flakes of paint also fell off my ceiling. I grabbed what was left of the frame and backed into the wall. I really thought someone had broken into my apartment. Glass everywhere, and now the matted poster (yes, the Toasty one, RD) has scratches all over it.
There was also a weird message on my answering machine. It sounded like a garbled voice and then a busy signal. All night long my cats kept staring at the spot where the picture was. I quickly replaced the poster with an $11 purchase on eBay, but it hung securely for two years with no problems.
My listing of an out-of-print video that I've sold twice was taken down, too. I clicked on to see how the bids were doing, and that one was missing. I've never had that happen before, and the damn thing was up to $20.49 with 5 days to go. What gives? Ebay is bootleg heaven. I don't get it.
Amazing thing is, I was discussing Pazuzu yesterday in light of the latest Exorcist film (I'm being nice, Paz, don't zing me again). He was a Mesapotamian god with the power to exact revenge and destroy all things. Uttering his name, it was feared, could summon tragedy. He was worshipped and ultimately honored as a symbol of unwielding power. Not unlike the Hindu goddess Shiva, there were festivals and holy days honoring this unsettling power. Replicas of him pop up in windows in Middle Eastern stores, and his name figures prominently in the study of demonology, I learned. Weird things happened on the set of the latest film during the cave scenes. His statue is shown numerous times in this one, perhaps he's pissed off for being in such a crappy film.
Friedkin's original filming in Iran during the hot fall of 1972 included clerics and holy men. They took the excavation scenes very seriously. As you know, there are only about 7 minutes of footage used before we are introduced to the two priests, but Paz's figure looms over them in the hot sun.
All hell broke loose when they got back to Georgetown to film the bedroom scenes. Just eerie, eerie stuff. The background on this demon is very interesting, maybe even more so than the spinning head and pea soup.
Ok, Paz. You win. I'm reframing my picture, though. I promise to be nice.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Billy Friedkin is laughing his ass off...
Friedkin, for those of you who don't know horror, was the original director of The Exorcist. He subsequently walked away from any mention of ever doing another one. Smart guy! Here's something you already know...
Renny Harlin Sucks, ask any one
How in hell can you outdo Linda Blair, von Sydow, Burstyn and Miller? Just leave it alone, will ya? I was at the Astor Plaza theater (Rest In Peace 8/2/04) when the re-release happened in 2000. The place was like a FOOTBALL stadium after a touchdown when our cuddly Regan did that shockeroo crab-walk down the front steps. People actually jumped up and down, hi-fived, and screamed! The place was sold out for two weeks straight, it was THAT GOOD. They made the original better from the director's cut, you can't make another "original". It's not possible.
These industry assholes actually fired Paul Schrader, whose cut I would have preferred to see. Pazuzu's a freaky little bastard, and Schrader is a serious director. Renny Harlin can't direct traffic: look up his credits on iMDB and see the mindless drivel with his name on it. Schrader's version will come out on DVD sometime next year, and that's worth a look. This piece of howling garbage won't see my $10 even if you put a gun to my head. A rental? I don't think that would kill me too much.
And a big hello to Andrew and Ann: I'm bringing catnip for Carmine, so cue up the Grateful Dead records! My fuzzers chill out to a lava lamp and Pink Floyd when they get zooted on 'nip. "Just Say No" is for humans, not cats, thank goddess!
LMAO!!!
Renny Harlin Sucks, ask any one
How in hell can you outdo Linda Blair, von Sydow, Burstyn and Miller? Just leave it alone, will ya? I was at the Astor Plaza theater (Rest In Peace 8/2/04) when the re-release happened in 2000. The place was like a FOOTBALL stadium after a touchdown when our cuddly Regan did that shockeroo crab-walk down the front steps. People actually jumped up and down, hi-fived, and screamed! The place was sold out for two weeks straight, it was THAT GOOD. They made the original better from the director's cut, you can't make another "original". It's not possible.
These industry assholes actually fired Paul Schrader, whose cut I would have preferred to see. Pazuzu's a freaky little bastard, and Schrader is a serious director. Renny Harlin can't direct traffic: look up his credits on iMDB and see the mindless drivel with his name on it. Schrader's version will come out on DVD sometime next year, and that's worth a look. This piece of howling garbage won't see my $10 even if you put a gun to my head. A rental? I don't think that would kill me too much.
And a big hello to Andrew and Ann: I'm bringing catnip for Carmine, so cue up the Grateful Dead records! My fuzzers chill out to a lava lamp and Pink Floyd when they get zooted on 'nip. "Just Say No" is for humans, not cats, thank goddess!
LMAO!!!
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Feeling flogged, no time to blog
Well, kiddies, the entertainment factor here is still way up there! We still do not have proper filing cabinets (and we're on week 3 of the official move), there are no interns to help us, my back hurts, I'm in after a sick day of puking and exhaustion, and this hot chocolate I'm sipping really ain't cuttin' it.
Oh, and may I express my dismay at the media's painting of Michael Phelps as a 'failure' since he didn't break Mark Spitz's records of seven gold medals in swimming? Um, could ya lay off? He's only 19, he said himself that he only wanted one gold medal, the rest is just fun. That's the right attitude. So is the Men's gymnastic team--last medal of any kind was 1984. That was my happy summer when I stayed up and screamed when Mitch Gaylord flew over that high bar like it was nothing. Half the moves no one tries anymore came from this guy and you never hear anyone mention his name. Yurchenko vaults are old, no one throws a tripid anymore. Oh well.
We're both silver in Athens, both men and women. Mohini Bhardwaj is my new hero, and thank goodness for Pam Anderson or she wouldn't be there! Didja see her vault last night? There were two twists! Shame I gave up gymnastics in 1982. Or maybe it's good because my back would probably hurt even more than it does now.
Ugh, I want a nap.
Now for rhythmic gymnastics next week--these girls look like psychotic cats with their twists and leaps. That's my kinda sport, kiddies.
Oh, and may I express my dismay at the media's painting of Michael Phelps as a 'failure' since he didn't break Mark Spitz's records of seven gold medals in swimming? Um, could ya lay off? He's only 19, he said himself that he only wanted one gold medal, the rest is just fun. That's the right attitude. So is the Men's gymnastic team--last medal of any kind was 1984. That was my happy summer when I stayed up and screamed when Mitch Gaylord flew over that high bar like it was nothing. Half the moves no one tries anymore came from this guy and you never hear anyone mention his name. Yurchenko vaults are old, no one throws a tripid anymore. Oh well.
We're both silver in Athens, both men and women. Mohini Bhardwaj is my new hero, and thank goodness for Pam Anderson or she wouldn't be there! Didja see her vault last night? There were two twists! Shame I gave up gymnastics in 1982. Or maybe it's good because my back would probably hurt even more than it does now.
Ugh, I want a nap.
Now for rhythmic gymnastics next week--these girls look like psychotic cats with their twists and leaps. That's my kinda sport, kiddies.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
After
And now, it all makes sense. I'm not the only one and the general consensus is found in Stevie's words. I remember discussing these lyrics at a Halloween party long ago. We agreed that this was him.
He's a man
With a plan
Got a counterfeit dollar in his hand
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Playin' hard
Talkin' fast
Makin' sure that he won't be the last
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Makes a deal
With a smile
Knowin' all the time that his lie's a mile
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Must be seen
There's no doubt
He's the coolest one with the biggest mouth
He's Misstra Know-It-All
If you tell him he's livin' fast
He will say what do you know
If you had my kind of cash
You'd have more than one place to go
Any place
He will play
His only concern is how much you'll pay
He's Misstra Know-It-All
If he shakes
On a bet
He's the kind of dude that won't pay his debt
He's Misstra Know-It-All
When you say that he's livin wrong
He'll tell you he knows he's livin' right
And you'd be a stronger man
If you took Misstra Know-lt-All's advice oh oh
He's the man
With a plan
Got a counterfeit dollar in his hand
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Take my work
Please beware
Of a man that just don't give a care no
He's Misstra Know-It-All (Look out he's coming)
Say
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Can this line
Take his hand
Take your hat off to the man who's got the plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Every boy take your hand
To the man that's got the plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Give a hand to the man
That you know he's got the plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Give a hand to the man
Don't you know darn well he's got the super plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Give a hand to the man
You know damn well he's got the super plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
If we had less of him
Don't you know we'd have a better land
He's Misstra Know-It-All
So give a hand to the man
Although you've given out as much as you can
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Check his sound out
He'll tell it all
Hey
You talk too much you worry me to death
He's Misstra Know-It-All
©1973 Jobete Music Co., Inc. & Black Bull Music, Inc. (ASCAP) Stevie Wonder Innervisions
Oh, the treachery that resides in August. A month filled with things I will always despise.
He's a man
With a plan
Got a counterfeit dollar in his hand
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Playin' hard
Talkin' fast
Makin' sure that he won't be the last
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Makes a deal
With a smile
Knowin' all the time that his lie's a mile
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Must be seen
There's no doubt
He's the coolest one with the biggest mouth
He's Misstra Know-It-All
If you tell him he's livin' fast
He will say what do you know
If you had my kind of cash
You'd have more than one place to go
Any place
He will play
His only concern is how much you'll pay
He's Misstra Know-It-All
If he shakes
On a bet
He's the kind of dude that won't pay his debt
He's Misstra Know-It-All
When you say that he's livin wrong
He'll tell you he knows he's livin' right
And you'd be a stronger man
If you took Misstra Know-lt-All's advice oh oh
He's the man
With a plan
Got a counterfeit dollar in his hand
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Take my work
Please beware
Of a man that just don't give a care no
He's Misstra Know-It-All (Look out he's coming)
Say
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Can this line
Take his hand
Take your hat off to the man who's got the plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Every boy take your hand
To the man that's got the plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Give a hand to the man
That you know he's got the plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Give a hand to the man
Don't you know darn well he's got the super plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Give a hand to the man
You know damn well he's got the super plan
He's Misstra Know-It-All
If we had less of him
Don't you know we'd have a better land
He's Misstra Know-It-All
So give a hand to the man
Although you've given out as much as you can
He's Misstra Know-It-All
Check his sound out
He'll tell it all
Hey
You talk too much you worry me to death
He's Misstra Know-It-All
©1973 Jobete Music Co., Inc. & Black Bull Music, Inc. (ASCAP) Stevie Wonder Innervisions
Oh, the treachery that resides in August. A month filled with things I will always despise.
Saturday, August 14, 2004
During
And to think this was playing constantly leading up to the day. Premonition or Warning?
I, too, can hear it calling me the way it used to do, Jimmy....
Babe, baby, baby, I'm Gonna Leave You.
I said baby, you know I'm gonna leave you.
I'll leave you when the summertime,
Leave you when the summer comes a-rollin'
Leave you when the summer comes along.
Baby, baby, I don't wanna leave you,
I ain't jokin' woman, I got to ramble.
Oh, yeah, baby, baby, I believin',
We really got to ramble.
I can hear it callin' me the way it used to do,
I can hear it callin' me back home!
Babe...I'm gonna leave you
Oh, baby, you know, I've really got to leave you
Oh I can hear it callin 'me
I said don't you hear it callin' me the way it used to do?
I know I never never never gonna leave your babe
But I got to go away from this place,
I've got to quit you, yeah
Baby, ooh don't you hear it callin' me?
Woman, woman, I know, I know
It feels good to have you back again
And I know that one day baby, it's really gonna grow, yes it is.
We gonna go walkin' through the park every day.
Come what may, every day
It was really, really good.
You made me happy every single day.
But now... I've got to go away!
Baby, baby, baby, baby
That's when it's callin' me
I said that's when it's callin' me back home...
© 1969 Led Zeppelin (Anne Bredon/Jimmy Page & Robert Plant: Songs of PolyGram International Inc. BMI Superhype Publishing, Inc.)
256 Bay 22nd street and the crack in the pavement. Can't get either out of my head.
I, too, can hear it calling me the way it used to do, Jimmy....
Babe, baby, baby, I'm Gonna Leave You.
I said baby, you know I'm gonna leave you.
I'll leave you when the summertime,
Leave you when the summer comes a-rollin'
Leave you when the summer comes along.
Baby, baby, I don't wanna leave you,
I ain't jokin' woman, I got to ramble.
Oh, yeah, baby, baby, I believin',
We really got to ramble.
I can hear it callin' me the way it used to do,
I can hear it callin' me back home!
Babe...I'm gonna leave you
Oh, baby, you know, I've really got to leave you
Oh I can hear it callin 'me
I said don't you hear it callin' me the way it used to do?
I know I never never never gonna leave your babe
But I got to go away from this place,
I've got to quit you, yeah
Baby, ooh don't you hear it callin' me?
Woman, woman, I know, I know
It feels good to have you back again
And I know that one day baby, it's really gonna grow, yes it is.
We gonna go walkin' through the park every day.
Come what may, every day
It was really, really good.
You made me happy every single day.
But now... I've got to go away!
Baby, baby, baby, baby
That's when it's callin' me
I said that's when it's callin' me back home...
© 1969 Led Zeppelin (Anne Bredon/Jimmy Page & Robert Plant: Songs of PolyGram International Inc. BMI Superhype Publishing, Inc.)
256 Bay 22nd street and the crack in the pavement. Can't get either out of my head.
Friday, August 13, 2004
Before...
Well, it's almost tomorrow. That memory I can’t let go of. McGreevey’s resignation yesterday proved something I’ve always known: you can’t hide what you are, but you also can’t hide who you love.
It’s another anniversary for me, the only one that counts, really. 17 long years gone by. There was only one person in my life that mattered, and I turned away. Big mistake. But this is how I feel. I used to think this song was for my Casanova, but really, it was for my football player. He lives in Florida, married to a clone of me.
Joni sings it right…
Just before our love got lost you said,
“I am constant as a northern star,”
And I said, “Constantly in the darkness
Where’s that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar.”
On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
With your face sketched on it twice
Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I would still be on my feet
Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I’m frightened by the devil
And I’m drawn to those ones that ain’t afraid
I remember that time you told me, you said,
“Love is touching souls”
Surely you touched mine
‘Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time
Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
Still, I’d be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said,
“Go to him, stay with him if you can,
But be prepared to bleed”
Oh, but you are in my blood
You’re my holy wine
You’re so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
Still, I’d be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
© 1971 Joni Mitchell Publishing Corp (BMI)
Warner Bros. Records Inc.
It’s another anniversary for me, the only one that counts, really. 17 long years gone by. There was only one person in my life that mattered, and I turned away. Big mistake. But this is how I feel. I used to think this song was for my Casanova, but really, it was for my football player. He lives in Florida, married to a clone of me.
Joni sings it right…
Just before our love got lost you said,
“I am constant as a northern star,”
And I said, “Constantly in the darkness
Where’s that at? If you want me I’ll be in the bar.”
On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue TV screen light
I drew a map of Canada
Oh Canada
With your face sketched on it twice
Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I would still be on my feet
Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I’m frightened by the devil
And I’m drawn to those ones that ain’t afraid
I remember that time you told me, you said,
“Love is touching souls”
Surely you touched mine
‘Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time
Oh, you’re in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
Still, I’d be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said,
“Go to him, stay with him if you can,
But be prepared to bleed”
Oh, but you are in my blood
You’re my holy wine
You’re so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you, darling
Still, I’d be on my feet
I would still be on my feet
© 1971 Joni Mitchell Publishing Corp (BMI)
Warner Bros. Records Inc.
Thursday, August 12, 2004
Well, Zikki, I hope you're ok
The most amazing things happen sometimes...
This past Sunday I go to Rakka Café on St. Marks after a thorough Pilates class for some babaganouj. Something told me to look to my right as I walked out. I did, and there sat my friend Z, who I haven't seen since 2001. She's back in NY, and that's wonderful!
It was good I was there, too, since she was feeling faint. Long story short: we end up going to the hospital for what I hope wasn't more than dehydration. I didn't mind one bit, though. I've got no problem being there for someone kind, generous and sweet. This was an incredible contrast to the Baby Shower crapfest last Friday night: two people (soon to be three) who are full of themselves as opposed to one person that I can talk to and laugh with. We pick up where we leave off, and
that's such a freedom. I have it with Andrew too.
Their generosity is not forgotten by me: Andy for looking over my hellish knee surgery in '97 and Z for sending me in a taxi, and bringing my fave moisturiser from London long ago when I worked in that viper's nest school.
I can't say I question the messenger anymore, it's the message I listen to. And that's a very specific thing if you give it your full attention. All these little events lead up to the framework of your days. This year, so far, has been filled with contrasts for me: who to listen to/ignore; what to do/what to scrap; inspiration vs. negativity. RD, Johnny, KDM, Jeremy, Z, V., even Nancy have
shown me the way. Don't block the blessings, like Patti says.
But also share the love. If you've got it, send it out. Just remember to pick the right people.
This past Sunday I go to Rakka Café on St. Marks after a thorough Pilates class for some babaganouj. Something told me to look to my right as I walked out. I did, and there sat my friend Z, who I haven't seen since 2001. She's back in NY, and that's wonderful!
It was good I was there, too, since she was feeling faint. Long story short: we end up going to the hospital for what I hope wasn't more than dehydration. I didn't mind one bit, though. I've got no problem being there for someone kind, generous and sweet. This was an incredible contrast to the Baby Shower crapfest last Friday night: two people (soon to be three) who are full of themselves as opposed to one person that I can talk to and laugh with. We pick up where we leave off, and
that's such a freedom. I have it with Andrew too.
Their generosity is not forgotten by me: Andy for looking over my hellish knee surgery in '97 and Z for sending me in a taxi, and bringing my fave moisturiser from London long ago when I worked in that viper's nest school.
I can't say I question the messenger anymore, it's the message I listen to. And that's a very specific thing if you give it your full attention. All these little events lead up to the framework of your days. This year, so far, has been filled with contrasts for me: who to listen to/ignore; what to do/what to scrap; inspiration vs. negativity. RD, Johnny, KDM, Jeremy, Z, V., even Nancy have
shown me the way. Don't block the blessings, like Patti says.
But also share the love. If you've got it, send it out. Just remember to pick the right people.
Saturday, August 7, 2004
Some random quotes & thoughts
"If you lead a corporation, you have a responsibility to serve your shareholders to be honest with your employees. You have a responsibility to obey the law and to tell the truth." - President George W. Bush 3/7/02
"The Halliburton Company secretly changed its accounting practices when Vice President Dick Cheney was its chief executive, the Securities and Exchange Commission said yesterday as it fined the company $ 7.5 million." - The New York Times , August 4, 2004
Ah, honesty. What a beautiful thing. Too bad it's such a lonely word, as Billy Joel sang. Hate Billy Joel, kiddies? Piss off, I love him.
And another piece of honesty was mailed out last night-emailed, really--to a former college friend who I don't see often enough (four times in the last eight years since Brooklyn College ended) resulting in his downgrade to "acquaintance." After the ridiculous audacity to practically demand (although he'd call it a "strong suggestion") that I go to his wife's co-ed ---THAT'S RIGHT I WROTE CO-ED--baby shower.
Um, I hate to tell you Mr. Baby Shower, but those things are traditionally the exclusive domain of women and should stay that way. It's also at Grand Prospect Hall. Pretentious, anyone? These things are supposed to be hosted by the sister of the mommy-to-be or other close friend. Sending an invite and having men and women clap over the fact that you've procreated is the height of absurdity. Renting a hall that big is also the height of tackiness and stupidity. Oh, wait! I'm sorry, I forgot. It's two Saggitarians we're talking about, and they dwell on the surface. They regularly expect people to jump up and down at their good fortune since they don't notice you're choking. You tend to choke when someone crams something you don't care about down your throat.
I haven't gotten so much as a Christmas card, a birthday card or a random phone call from these two. Back in the days when I still cared to call them every now and then, I never got a return phone call. I remember my 23rd birthday and this guy made a big deal about taking me out for a birthday dinner. He made the big deal, not me. I hate my birthday and always will. Guess when he got around to remembering? June 1996. I had turned 24. I'll never turn down a festive meal, so I went. What was truly hilarious is how serious he took the whole thing. I took it, and his actions by that point, with a grain of salt. Sincerity only counts if it's 1) on time; 2) meaningful; and 3)consistent. Mr. Shower has never been any of these things. He's routinely been guilty over the years of spreading himself out too thin since he feels the need to slay dragons, save the world, and be an incredible hero. I say the Emperor wears No Clothes. The important things have gone under the radar with this guy and his wife and the stupid little ridiculous things get front page headlines. I honestly could care less.
And so, I answered him honestly. In an email.
I told him I would not be there. There would be no guest. I also told him how my PCOS diagnosis has rendered me childless. Totally. My ovaries don't work and never will without the help of a wonder drug called Clomid. Clomid is the successor to a drug called Pergonal. Pergonal was the magic pill that woman in Iowa took 7 years ago. She gave birth to 7 children. I believe her name was McCoehey? She had the same problem as me, and miscarried numerous times. I'm not taking any chances with being the old woman in the shoe, kiddies. I'm not out to break medical records or make history. My sarcasm has immortalized me in the hearts and minds of my friends. That's enough. Clomid also causes an estrogen surge that can cause cancer. Um, thanks, but no babies for me. No miscarriages, either. I've had enough surgeries with my knees, ankles, and wisdom teeth. I don't feel like being a hydrocodone junkie with all that pain. It's also why I don't go to baby showers.
The real kicker is that he sent me the link to Grand Prospect Hall, where this thing is being held. I told this guy on 3 different occasions how my father saw Billie Holiday there in 1957, two years before she died. It was the only concert she gave there, for one night only. My father reveled in telling this story, and my mother had gone to many weddings there. The last wedding I went to there was in 1991. This guy heard the Billie Holiday story 3 times---once alone, and then with two groups of people. The topic was jazz. Oh, I forgot. He doesn't listen. Unless it pertains to him. What a joke.
I also told him how thankful I am to have a job, since more downsizing is the trend at the new AP. I found out just yesterday that one of my former (acidic) coworkers mouthed off one last time to the wrong person and got canned. She was also in her 50's, so her high salary factored into that sacking decision, too, I'm certain. I, as well as the rest of the admins on my floor, will be taking over her work. I will soon be working from 9 am to 6:30 at night just to keep up. Whatever raise I get will be eaten by my raising rent, and healthcare costs. Essentially, there is no money for a shower gift. I don't have enough money for myself and he wants a gift? The people in hell want icewater, what should I do for them?
But the whole point of this is honesty--why the fuck do I have to care for a couple I've heard from on 4 occasions for the last 8 years? I'm invisible, apparently, unless a gift is involved. Since most of my expensive gifts now go to myself, my mother, V. or RD, they are NOT on the list.
And I told him so.
If he never speaks to me again? Not much of a difference. He'll be up to his ears in bottles, diapers, and alarm clocks to get out of bed when he can't sleep anymore. He won't have time to call. Just like I don't have the interest anymore.
Whatever. At least I was honest. Billy would be proud of me for following the tenet of his famous tune, huh?
"The Halliburton Company secretly changed its accounting practices when Vice President Dick Cheney was its chief executive, the Securities and Exchange Commission said yesterday as it fined the company $ 7.5 million." - The New York Times , August 4, 2004
Ah, honesty. What a beautiful thing. Too bad it's such a lonely word, as Billy Joel sang. Hate Billy Joel, kiddies? Piss off, I love him.
And another piece of honesty was mailed out last night-emailed, really--to a former college friend who I don't see often enough (four times in the last eight years since Brooklyn College ended) resulting in his downgrade to "acquaintance." After the ridiculous audacity to practically demand (although he'd call it a "strong suggestion") that I go to his wife's co-ed ---THAT'S RIGHT I WROTE CO-ED--baby shower.
Um, I hate to tell you Mr. Baby Shower, but those things are traditionally the exclusive domain of women and should stay that way. It's also at Grand Prospect Hall. Pretentious, anyone? These things are supposed to be hosted by the sister of the mommy-to-be or other close friend. Sending an invite and having men and women clap over the fact that you've procreated is the height of absurdity. Renting a hall that big is also the height of tackiness and stupidity. Oh, wait! I'm sorry, I forgot. It's two Saggitarians we're talking about, and they dwell on the surface. They regularly expect people to jump up and down at their good fortune since they don't notice you're choking. You tend to choke when someone crams something you don't care about down your throat.
I haven't gotten so much as a Christmas card, a birthday card or a random phone call from these two. Back in the days when I still cared to call them every now and then, I never got a return phone call. I remember my 23rd birthday and this guy made a big deal about taking me out for a birthday dinner. He made the big deal, not me. I hate my birthday and always will. Guess when he got around to remembering? June 1996. I had turned 24. I'll never turn down a festive meal, so I went. What was truly hilarious is how serious he took the whole thing. I took it, and his actions by that point, with a grain of salt. Sincerity only counts if it's 1) on time; 2) meaningful; and 3)consistent. Mr. Shower has never been any of these things. He's routinely been guilty over the years of spreading himself out too thin since he feels the need to slay dragons, save the world, and be an incredible hero. I say the Emperor wears No Clothes. The important things have gone under the radar with this guy and his wife and the stupid little ridiculous things get front page headlines. I honestly could care less.
And so, I answered him honestly. In an email.
I told him I would not be there. There would be no guest. I also told him how my PCOS diagnosis has rendered me childless. Totally. My ovaries don't work and never will without the help of a wonder drug called Clomid. Clomid is the successor to a drug called Pergonal. Pergonal was the magic pill that woman in Iowa took 7 years ago. She gave birth to 7 children. I believe her name was McCoehey? She had the same problem as me, and miscarried numerous times. I'm not taking any chances with being the old woman in the shoe, kiddies. I'm not out to break medical records or make history. My sarcasm has immortalized me in the hearts and minds of my friends. That's enough. Clomid also causes an estrogen surge that can cause cancer. Um, thanks, but no babies for me. No miscarriages, either. I've had enough surgeries with my knees, ankles, and wisdom teeth. I don't feel like being a hydrocodone junkie with all that pain. It's also why I don't go to baby showers.
The real kicker is that he sent me the link to Grand Prospect Hall, where this thing is being held. I told this guy on 3 different occasions how my father saw Billie Holiday there in 1957, two years before she died. It was the only concert she gave there, for one night only. My father reveled in telling this story, and my mother had gone to many weddings there. The last wedding I went to there was in 1991. This guy heard the Billie Holiday story 3 times---once alone, and then with two groups of people. The topic was jazz. Oh, I forgot. He doesn't listen. Unless it pertains to him. What a joke.
I also told him how thankful I am to have a job, since more downsizing is the trend at the new AP. I found out just yesterday that one of my former (acidic) coworkers mouthed off one last time to the wrong person and got canned. She was also in her 50's, so her high salary factored into that sacking decision, too, I'm certain. I, as well as the rest of the admins on my floor, will be taking over her work. I will soon be working from 9 am to 6:30 at night just to keep up. Whatever raise I get will be eaten by my raising rent, and healthcare costs. Essentially, there is no money for a shower gift. I don't have enough money for myself and he wants a gift? The people in hell want icewater, what should I do for them?
But the whole point of this is honesty--why the fuck do I have to care for a couple I've heard from on 4 occasions for the last 8 years? I'm invisible, apparently, unless a gift is involved. Since most of my expensive gifts now go to myself, my mother, V. or RD, they are NOT on the list.
And I told him so.
If he never speaks to me again? Not much of a difference. He'll be up to his ears in bottles, diapers, and alarm clocks to get out of bed when he can't sleep anymore. He won't have time to call. Just like I don't have the interest anymore.
Whatever. At least I was honest. Billy would be proud of me for following the tenet of his famous tune, huh?
Friday, August 6, 2004
Busy Week here at the New Place...
but not that busy that I'd let this get by.
Click to see a moronic tidbit from that chimp retard known as "Mr. President."
Exsqueeze me? A Baking Powder?
Read it a few times and you'll get what he was TRYING to say. It must be wonderful to have all that power and no brains.
Jesus H. Christ, I can't wait to vote!
Click to see a moronic tidbit from that chimp retard known as "Mr. President."
Exsqueeze me? A Baking Powder?
Read it a few times and you'll get what he was TRYING to say. It must be wonderful to have all that power and no brains.
Jesus H. Christ, I can't wait to vote!
Sunday, August 1, 2004
And this just in...
From AP, not the NY Post, so you know it's the truth.
"The federal deficit will hit a record $445 billion, the White House said yesterday, provoking immediate election-year finger-pointing at President Bush's handling of the economy.
The administration's summer budget update forecast shortfalls falling to $331 billion next year, fading to $229 billion by 2009 with smaller shortfalls each year than officials envisioned in the winter.
The announcement came the same day the Commerce Department said economic growth slowed this spring to an annual rate of 3%, well below the 3.8% many economists expected.
Administration officials said the budget figures were a solid improvement over predictions, while Democrats pointed to surpluses before Bush took office."
And if one more person makes a crack about me seeing Mike Moore's movie, they're going to get bitch-slapped.
"The federal deficit will hit a record $445 billion, the White House said yesterday, provoking immediate election-year finger-pointing at President Bush's handling of the economy.
The administration's summer budget update forecast shortfalls falling to $331 billion next year, fading to $229 billion by 2009 with smaller shortfalls each year than officials envisioned in the winter.
The announcement came the same day the Commerce Department said economic growth slowed this spring to an annual rate of 3%, well below the 3.8% many economists expected.
Administration officials said the budget figures were a solid improvement over predictions, while Democrats pointed to surpluses before Bush took office."
And if one more person makes a crack about me seeing Mike Moore's movie, they're going to get bitch-slapped.
We will not move backward...
And this lovely tidbit from Reuters....
Time Warp for Women?
That makes me think of the greatest summer of my life, which was about to get stranger. The year, as many of you know, was 1987.
In the middle of an amazing time of great music, psychotically bad hairstyles, and the Iran Contra hearings, I decided to go to war with my mother over the difference between blue and pink.
It had been late June and I was getting sick and tired of staring at pink walls in my room. I hated pink because of her hyperfemininity and all my crappy ballet classes. I can't tell you the heat I took for having black ballet slippers through the early 80's.
"But pink is for girls, and blue is for boys, " said June Cleav...um, my mother.
"But I like blue better. It's very calming, " I retorted.
"Oh, please, it's always something with you."
Of course it's something. This is ME you're talking about.
So, the first week of July, I headed out to a tiny little paint shop (with my father's help, of course) to buy some primer and choose a shade of blue that suited my needs. My mother's needs were about to boil and explode over this "co-conspiracy." (For years after, I heard about how we ganged up on her. Oh, how I laugh.)
The first splash of paint hit the wall near my closet on July 3, 1987. She made a "point" of being "supportive" at that point, and decided to help me pick the shade of blue. After cementing my plans with Alyssa McCleod for the next day, I came home to find my mother in an apron and my walls a vile shade near NAVY BLUE. She knew damn well this wasn't the color I wanted. My father hit the roof--"What the fuck is THAT??" I told him to calm down, it wasn't that bad. "NOT bad? Oh, she's nuts." He borrowed $100 from a friend and later that afternoon, we bought three cans of ivory paint. Well, I gotta tell ya, that navy-ish color and this ivory paint made the greatest shade of blue I'll never see again. We mixed for about 2 hours from pan to pan to get the right consistency. This blue was calmer and brighter and cleaner than anything off any swatch.
On the morning of July 5 I got up, pushed all my furniture into the hallway, covered my bed in old sheets and plastic, and swirled away. Is this what Michelangelo felt like? LOL--I wonder, it's one of my favorite memories. The last section of the wall was finished the next day to the strains of Whitney's "Didn't We Almost Have it All", and although there were blue flecks in my hair and my clothes, the immense satisfaction was something I can't describe. My father began serenading both my mother and I with "blue" songs: "Am I Blue?", "Blue Moon", and "Busy Being Blue." For twelve more years, the pictures and the furniture changed, but the wall color did not. My satisfaction stayed, and my mother never mentioned it. This was another sleight to her authority and proof of my "defiance." And how have women today defied the Catholic church with our "demands", and "rights", and useless definitions of what "equality" is? I'll be defiant till the day I die, I guess. No motherhood for me, my body won't let me. No rosary beads, either. And dating is about as far as I can go without gritting my teeth when it comes to real assholes. Submit? NEVER. That's someone else's job, particularly the small-minded idiots who've laughed at me over the years. If I cared any less, I'd be in a COMA. Guess what kiddies? It doesn't change who you are in the end.
Time moves forward and people change. Isn't that a good thing? It's such a blessing to know we're not going to be burned at the stake for not following every little demand and order to the letter. But, like everything, some people will always stay behind and in the dark. That's just how it goes. The only thing you can do is smile, nod and agree in words not in deeds. You're on your own clock, your own time frame. Don't let petty bullshit stop you. Your life and happiness is your own responsibility, not what someone else "suggested" it should be. A life lived in fear is a life half-lived. Whether you spend it in a church or not.
Time Warp for Women?
That makes me think of the greatest summer of my life, which was about to get stranger. The year, as many of you know, was 1987.
In the middle of an amazing time of great music, psychotically bad hairstyles, and the Iran Contra hearings, I decided to go to war with my mother over the difference between blue and pink.
It had been late June and I was getting sick and tired of staring at pink walls in my room. I hated pink because of her hyperfemininity and all my crappy ballet classes. I can't tell you the heat I took for having black ballet slippers through the early 80's.
"But pink is for girls, and blue is for boys, " said June Cleav...um, my mother.
"But I like blue better. It's very calming, " I retorted.
"Oh, please, it's always something with you."
Of course it's something. This is ME you're talking about.
So, the first week of July, I headed out to a tiny little paint shop (with my father's help, of course) to buy some primer and choose a shade of blue that suited my needs. My mother's needs were about to boil and explode over this "co-conspiracy." (For years after, I heard about how we ganged up on her. Oh, how I laugh.)
The first splash of paint hit the wall near my closet on July 3, 1987. She made a "point" of being "supportive" at that point, and decided to help me pick the shade of blue. After cementing my plans with Alyssa McCleod for the next day, I came home to find my mother in an apron and my walls a vile shade near NAVY BLUE. She knew damn well this wasn't the color I wanted. My father hit the roof--"What the fuck is THAT??" I told him to calm down, it wasn't that bad. "NOT bad? Oh, she's nuts." He borrowed $100 from a friend and later that afternoon, we bought three cans of ivory paint. Well, I gotta tell ya, that navy-ish color and this ivory paint made the greatest shade of blue I'll never see again. We mixed for about 2 hours from pan to pan to get the right consistency. This blue was calmer and brighter and cleaner than anything off any swatch.
On the morning of July 5 I got up, pushed all my furniture into the hallway, covered my bed in old sheets and plastic, and swirled away. Is this what Michelangelo felt like? LOL--I wonder, it's one of my favorite memories. The last section of the wall was finished the next day to the strains of Whitney's "Didn't We Almost Have it All", and although there were blue flecks in my hair and my clothes, the immense satisfaction was something I can't describe. My father began serenading both my mother and I with "blue" songs: "Am I Blue?", "Blue Moon", and "Busy Being Blue." For twelve more years, the pictures and the furniture changed, but the wall color did not. My satisfaction stayed, and my mother never mentioned it. This was another sleight to her authority and proof of my "defiance." And how have women today defied the Catholic church with our "demands", and "rights", and useless definitions of what "equality" is? I'll be defiant till the day I die, I guess. No motherhood for me, my body won't let me. No rosary beads, either. And dating is about as far as I can go without gritting my teeth when it comes to real assholes. Submit? NEVER. That's someone else's job, particularly the small-minded idiots who've laughed at me over the years. If I cared any less, I'd be in a COMA. Guess what kiddies? It doesn't change who you are in the end.
Time moves forward and people change. Isn't that a good thing? It's such a blessing to know we're not going to be burned at the stake for not following every little demand and order to the letter. But, like everything, some people will always stay behind and in the dark. That's just how it goes. The only thing you can do is smile, nod and agree in words not in deeds. You're on your own clock, your own time frame. Don't let petty bullshit stop you. Your life and happiness is your own responsibility, not what someone else "suggested" it should be. A life lived in fear is a life half-lived. Whether you spend it in a church or not.
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