Lawn Poop


Good Gawd!!! There is so MUCH that annoys me at this moment. I’d like to cry in frustration and rage that The Donald is the very best the GOP can do. “They” must have the lowest possible opinion of all of us out here. You know who we are, we’re the working slobs. We’re happy to have the infrequent vacation, delighted to rent a limo for our kids to go to the prom in, EUPHORIC to pay our bills on time, in full. Yup, we’re all good little citizens doing our part to make America GREAT.

Here in the hinterland I’ve been told that Hillary wants to annihilate the Second Amendment so we’d better arm ourselves and if The Donald is elected we’ll be shooting people in the streets. I think that’s happening now, actually. Our electrician friend told us that. Could I just tell you the gun sellers are loving every misguided minute of it, counting cash as fast as it can be printed. You know how I am…I had a debate with one of them and tried to explain that it would be a slooooow, arduous, process to annihilate the Second Amendment. He didn’t like to hear that, told me how much he loved the flag.

Let me be very clear about a couple of things. My husband likes to have an expensive, new toy on occasion. Those toys remind him of his long gone youth. Last year, or maybe the year before-it’s happened twice, a deer was hit by the car in front of him and he had to shoot the poor thing to put it out of its misery. It broke his heart to see the deer looking up at him. He swears the deer knew it was going to die. Personally, I think the deer was in shock. My husband isn’t going to do anything with a new weapon. He thinks he will use it, on the big bear that has been terrorizing the neighborhood, during bear season. He’d like to have a drone too so he can spot the bear without having to leave the back deck. The overpriced weapon has a long range, whereby he could shoot the bear without having to look it in the eye. This is the same man who is angry that it is legal for hunters to bait bears with doughnuts.

We all need to come together in this epiphany- if society continues to deteriorate and weapons become an ill advised necessity, we’ll all be living in Thunderdome. We will be dirty, hungry, and without the comforts we’ve become accustomed to; a nice warm bed and the peace and quiet, which promote a restful night’s sleep. I do not want to be dirty, ever. My advance directive states that I do not want to live if it becomes apparent that I can no longer bathe myself and wipe my own butt. I am a strong proponent of personal cleanliness. When I go to bed at night I like to tuck right in for a restorative, peaceful, sound, sleep. Gunfire would be an impediment to resting.

In addition to the chaotic national/global situation, I’m forced to deal with a potential customer whom I do not like one teensy bit. I wouldn’t give this person a drop of blood if life depended on it. Quote me. I like the woman, who stopped in our driveway last weekend to let her dog crap in my yard, better than I like this potential customer. Although, if I am ever in Virginia again I think I’ll go to her house and poop on her lawn. The potential customer has no money. Typically, that doesn’t trouble me at all. If you can’t afford to pay but you are in desperate need, I get it, been there myself and I’ll help you as much as I can. If you’re going to ask me to help you, you need to treat me with basic human dignity. I am not your servant and the man you insist on calling “The Owner”, like maybe he has some authority over me, is not the boss of me. Let me enlighten you, Genius, “The Owner” is my husband. He doesn’t like you any better than I do. We’ll help you because you’re so unpleasant and nasty that nobody else is going to.

So there you have it. I’m disgusted through and through. I’ve had enough. I read a few things about ALEC, another topic that delivers dismay. Beyond that, we’re again working for the 1%. They don’t look at laborers, even their dogs don’t look at laborers. I think they must miss a lot that way.

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Wrong Answer

My husband told me that we have luna moths that fly in dipping, circular patterns all night. Luna moths are magical, like fire flies. When I got up to pee, I looked out the window, and sure enough, they were there flying and dipping in circular patterns.

My husband makes me crazy. We are so different. One of the kids’ friends calls us Yin and Yang. I have never loved anyone as much as I love him. I yell at him because he can’t hear what I’m saying. I forget his hearing is gone. I miss it. He wants a gun, like in the North Hollywood shoot out. That happened in 1997. I don’t recall. He’s going to buy a big weapon that makes a sloooow machine gun sound. That’s not the death I’m dreaming of.

Climate change and global water depletion, I can’t stand to think of it. I’m overwhelmed. I want to smoke cigarettes again. I don’t want to hurt another living thing. The Singaporeans are on the forefront of desalination. I love where we live, in the middle of a beautiful, isolated, blueberry patch beside Route 1. Nothing is forever. I ordered 7 new bras. I don’t have a choice, no stores. Oprah is a LIAR. The bras don’t fit.

Counting Crows- “We can take it nice and slow. Are you happy where you’re sleeping? All your life is such a shame, shame, shame. All your love is just a dream dream.” This is different. When we first met I promised him we’d always have the breeze, the soft breeze that blows sheer white curtains in the window. Now he wants that deadly weapon. We can’t see. He can’t hear. I don’t know. WTF? My husband prays for work. His prayers are answered. He prays for it for all of us. The phone rings. As I recently mentioned to my blogging friend, PMAO, the perception and expression of love varies.

I’d like a cigarette. I remembered the other day, once I  knew a boy whom I loved. He told me that there were things in his life that were none of my business. Wrong answer.


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Individually Independent

You don’t want to hear this again, I know you don’t. That won’t stop me. For a while I forgot who I was/am. I need new bras and a shower curtain. I spend more time devising ways to keep people out than welcoming them in. Sometimes I want to scream, so I yell instead. I go through long stretches where I do not want to get out of bed at the crack of dawn and do it all again. I contemplate the tactile sensation of steel against pallet. I consider the absorption properties of the Sealy Posturpedic mattress. I don’t have anything to say that will add to the conversation. I am marking time until I die. I have forgotten the meaning of me.

I keep chugging right along like the little engine that could. I   will   not   make   one   disparaging   remark    about those ungrateful, immature, pretentious kids. I will not point out that there is a reason I chose not to procreate. I will say my heart breaks with every disappointment my husband suffers.

I wanted to crawl inside his skin. He magnified my existence. I married him because I wanted him all to myself for the rest of my life, for the rest of his life, forever. I did the right thing. I did not keep him from his children.

I couldn’t love a man who walked away from his kids the way my father forgot us. I couldn’t respect myself for perpetuating confusion and loneliness in a child’s life. If I hadn’t consented to this we wouldn’t have done it. In fact, if I hadn’t orchestrated it, it wouldn’t have happened.

I know who I am. I will remember who I am as an independent individual. It took me five days to cut my hair. My office upstairs is fabulous. I’m going to see Taj Mahal on the 30th. I’ve got it going on.

Photo on 2016-07-01 at 21.52


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Love’s Force

My husband and I are in diametric opposition to quite a lot. Sometimes we surprise each other and ourselves. *Spoiler alert- do not buy Marvin push out windows if you live in an area of high wind velocity.

Those windows were the only thing I begged for in this building. I didn’t care for cabinetry, cut corners at every opportunity, pared it down to the quick. The windows make the apartment endurable, oh yeah the heat pump is the BOMB, but the windows make the habitat habitable.

You never know how love will manifest. You can’t call it. Last week after we scared Laila the boxer dawg (not ours, one of the “boys'”), who sometimes is very warm in the summer heat and becomes a hotdawg, she was so disturbed by the yelling that she hid under my husband’s chair in my office, cringing thinking confused, upset dawg thoughts, “Why are they yelling at each other? Whose side should I be on? He gets me ice cream and burgers but she is so delightfully difficult…I love when she wraps her arms around me in the morning and tells me ‘Laila, I love you!’ Jesus why do they yell? None of this shit is important.” We were sitting in my office late Friday evening just talking about work; the wind picked up, like it always does now that the Apocalypse is looming (or so a Pentacostal woman told me with anticipatory lust). We heard a big crash. I was afraid something had exploded- the generator, the heat pump, the washing machine perhaps? We heard another crash. It was shocking and scary. My husband tore off up the stairs to our apartment.

I could hear him yelling up here. It scared me. I did not run exactly but I did move pretty fast for an old girl. I was afraid the windows had been ripped off their hinges by the wind and it was more than my husband could reconcile. The wind blew with such force that it popped the screens open, which knocked the plants on the windowsills on to the floor, smashing heavy, glazed clay, plant pots to smithereens.

My husband was enraged. He wanted to smash every motherfuckingwindowoutathisgoddamn building. I said, “Don’t worry, Honey. It’s okay. I’ll clean it up and we’ll get some new pots and different plants.” He left to close the 1st floor windows, still disgruntled.

After we had supper, he told me, “It just made me so fucking mad. I thought, ‘She never asks for anything, are plants on the fucking windowsill too much to ask?'”

I told him a few days later in an entirely different context, “I couldn’t bear to wake up to a world without you in it.”

Wildflowers over the leech field in the back yard.
IMG_1309 IMG_1316

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Why America Needs a Presidential Aptitude Test

By Ned Hickson Today’s political environment is changing. How can ensure our survival? If I’m being honest, I have about as much enthusiasm for our choices in presidential candidates as…

Source: Why America Needs a Presidential Aptitude Test

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Okay… now I am ready to rant about Orlando… *(bad words may appear in this post)*

Arthur makes many valid points in one post, while he curses. He’s usually so polite and mild mannered… .

Pouring My Art Out

Yesterday, I published a post called: Rest in pieces…

It contained no words, just this image…

a 1

It is two AR-15’s, the kind of gun used in Orlando, in the form of a cross. The title was a pun, of sorts, because a ‘piece’ is American slang for a gun.

I thought the post was powerful, subtle, and rather deep. It didn’t get many responses. Maybe it was too subtle. The thing is… and this is a real thing with me… but I am sometimes afraid to let those crazy crack squirrels that live in my head start getting too worked up… because I never know what they are going to make me type. Sometimes, if I give them a day or two to calm down, it works out better for all of us… but they are up there… in my head… chanting the word ‘Orlando’ over and over. I have…

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Veterans’ Views

In the past little while, a month maybe six weeks, time escapes me (it flees), we’ve worked with a couple of veterans. They’re veterans of wars that never were, Iran and Afghanistan. Congress has not made a declaration of war since 1942. That’s quite something. Wars are not wars anymore, they’re conflicts and military operations with trendy names like Enduring Freedom. It’s enough to gag a maggot.

I don’t know what about these young men. I don’t. I like people so I’m good on the phone. People get it because I get them. The first vet mentioned an appointment at the VA and he mentioned school. We talked several times. As you may recall, I enjoy a conversation. I have no recollection of what he’s studying or if he told me. I know the guy needs an objective hug. We talked about his heart thumping anxiety over finals. I told him not to worry, “Do your best and give it up.” He did a great job, disappointed because his overachieving self got a flat A rather than A+ on one of the exams, ended up with a respectable GPA. He’s an older non-traditional student. I can understand that two tours in an unconfirmed war zone might make a person something of a non-conformist. I like him. He takes his wife out for lunch and they enjoy the day because they’re happy to be alive together.

The second vet is so damn earnest, trying so hard, that I could just cry. He has a wife too, loves her with all his heart. He will do the right thing if it means giving up all that he’s managed to salvage of himself. He told me that he was uncomfortable in the civilian world after he got out. I get that, regimentation gone, camaraderie gone, purpose gone, adrenaline gone-nothing to replace that intensity, not love, money, booze, or rock-n-roll. It can’t be replicated. Bless his pea-pickin’ heart, he lateraled over to the Coast Guard, not the same at all, by any stretch of the imagination. He couldn’t afford to pay the price for our services. I knew it would be a challenge. He’s so earnest. I let him pay some for dignity maintenance. He needs an objective hug.

I have a nephew-in-law. He makes my niece happy. He spent 10 years as a Marine, most of that time engaged in operations that felt like war. He’s been out for a while and he’d like to get back in as a reservist. He has to return to boot camp. WTF?! Boot camp, really? He’s been to Iraq and Afghanistan, more than once, boot camp? It doesn’t square. We come from different political and policy spheres. There are things I don’t like because I don’t understand. I understand this- he loves my niece, he’s funny, and he’s a great dad. We civilians appear somewhat frivolous to him. The intensity is not there in the selfies. He doesn’t understand how civilian life became superficial while he was gone. It confuses him; why was he dodging bullets while America was at the mall?

They share a common trait. They can’t look at us for very long. They look away. Their view is elsewhere, mostly on their feet.

A little something from veterans thinking about what veterans are thinking. It isn’t enough to be against policy, you have to decide what to support.

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Trash Floats

A long time ago I loved the idea of someone who grew up to be a PhD (piled high and deep). Sometimes I make an electronic fly by to see how he’s doing. He has a 2nd wife, also a PhD, with her own business and accomplishments (no kids, a brief previous marriage). That makes me happy, they match.

From what I gather, they’ve retired. Yup happy, like to see people getting what they’ve worked for. They bought a sailboat, not the teensiest bit envious- older, decrepit, two back surgeries, tired.

If Gawd were real, we’d get some help. They see plastic trash, floating or semi-submerged, every 3-4 minutes. I don’t like it one bit.





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Anyone Anytime

Joan Baez is on PBS tonight, Diamonds and Rust, 75 years old, can that be right? Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Tangled Up in Blue, which brings us to the Bob Dylan Republican. There’s a soft spot in my heart for the BDR. Some people don’t appreciate him, jealousy perhaps, low self-esteem, no sense of humor, I’m not sure. I like the BDR. He’s funny and smart. He read A Gulag Archipelago when he was 22 or 23 still in Maine Maritime, amassing demerits. He explained it to me. I won’t embarrass either of us by telling you how old I was. People would argue the point, I loved the BDR’s intellect, his gift of unguarded confidence.

I congratulated him when he made Chief Engineer, his nitwit wife didn’t appreciate the accomplishment, only the dollars. He had a BMW way before it was commonplace cool. We had a little quiz to see if I knew what BMW represented; I didn’t fail, who the hell knows how I passed that!  His achievements were remarkable. I think he was celebrated in his family for the goals he met. He exceeded all expectations, smart and funny, handsome too.

The BDR has been on the periphery for 40 years. When I lived in NOLA and he shipped out 3 on 3 off, he called me, coincidentally while I was listening to Bob Dylan, hoping I could make it to see him at the Sunshine Bridge. I was in love with someone, who broke my heart just as the BDR predicted he would, so I didn’t go.

The BDR has been influential in my life. I like him. I’m happy for his successes, his sorrows reverberate. His kids are funny and charming. As is often the case, the second batch made out better financially than the first. Merchant mariners are not renowned for marital longevity.

His youngest son was ridiculously handsome and ebullient, an auspicious blend of parental DNA. He was younger than my eldest stepson by 6 or 7 years. They both played basketball, they met at a tournament. It was sweet, the younger awestruck by a “big kid”, the elder gracious and humble. His mom and I laughed.

The BDR suffered a loss I don’t have the experience to imagine. His youngest son, alive with hope and promise one minute was dead from an opioid OD the minute following. I had to think for a long time, weeks, before I wrote a condolence note. The BDR is 63, his son was 23; younger than the BDR was when he first took a spot in the periphery. There is no solace for his loss. I’m so surprised that life has brought us to this place, where the people we love are dying needless, pointless deaths for pharmaceutical profit. Kids People 23 years old do not have the real life experience necessary to comprehend that dead is final and overdose deaths can happen to anyone at any time.

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Lingering Loiterers

Just to let you know (I preface questionable news with that same statement for my husband) Hippy Hall is sometimes more like Hippy Hell. My husband is a workaholic and a fucking entrepeneur extraordinaire. Oh, and by the way I’m an idiot, bonafide and certified.

I love my husband, you know, more than air. I didn’t sign on for all of this. By chance, we found something that could make us a tremendous amount of money. Let me tell you about a couple of the other things that could have made us a tremendous amount of money but tragically did not. Really, just shoot me. The first endeavor we put countless hours in was rope grown, cultured mussels. It was a great idea, cutting edge. We trusted an academic, affiliated with Sea Grant, who really put it to us, then we met a lawyer who didn’t stick it to us quite as hard, although he did put sand in the Vaseline. There were several seafood related endeavors following,  in between we invested in (someone should have shot me to abate the misery) the .com bubble. I think we broke even, if we lost anything it wasn’t much.

Here we are once again. Who do you think does all the grunt work for these tremendous money-making ventures; don’t be coy, you know who, POOR ME. (My husband is smart and engaging otherwise I wouldn’t have stayed this long.) I’m working on a trademark, incorporating myself and creating entities for the other family “partners” so we’ll all be protected from the greedy, evil, narcissistic stepdaughter-in-law. You couldn’t make it up… . Let’s tally; day job running into the night, new endeavors, family management, dog care, ad nauseam.

I miss  sexual desire. That’s departed. We’re on a plateau. I don’t like it here. I don’t know why no one thought to tell me this would happen. When you love someone with all your heart, it causes immeasurable sadness to lose that part of your connection. From what I’ve been told, I’m not unique in the female hormone deficiency. Both of us feel lost. We spend a lot of time discussing getting old and what course of action will be appropriate.

A couple of weeks ago, he tricked me. I was alone, cleaning house on a Saturday morning, thinking about how much Mum would have loved it here, how Gram would have claimed I inherited her taste, and how Joe would have taken every opportunity to hang out in the warehouse laughing, swearing, drinking endless cups of coffee, and encouraging my husband to loftier heights of achievement.  I cried. All of the people who would have enjoyed this the most are dead. My husband is a good egg. I told him what I’d been thinking and how it made me cry. You’d never know I’m 54 from all this carrying on. Later that evening we sat on the deck. We talked about the planet, kids and their lives, our “retirement” plans. He presented the best plan.

We’ll cash out in some way, buy ourselves a Bertram, and follow the ICW (intercoastal waterway) from here to NOLA. That’s right dawlin, Nawlins, Louisiana. If we’re still healthy, we’ll repeat the trip until we begin to fail, then we’ll stock up on booze and opioids and check out. It is such a good idea. I’m all for leaving on my own terms. To that end, I discovered that our iPhones have an app that allows for medical directions/directives in case of an unfortunate incident. I completed mine, referenced the advance directive, mentioned the guest list for my ICU visitors, covered all the bases.

My husband is a big, fat, LIAR. He told me that we won’t be able to afford the Bertram-ICW-Goodbye Voyage. He said he told me to cheer me up- really?! I envision a time in the not so distant future when people in our age group will be making elaborate plans for grand exits. We are an independent generation, we will be the deciders. I’m taking the ICW in a Bertram, especially if my husband is ill. We’re going out having fun. We won’t linger or loiter.

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