%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| November 28th Prompt: Write about something intangible: faith, magic, energy, power, or creativity. Just choose one topic and write about it. I have never claimed to be in cahoots with a muse. Nothing so intangible has whispered in my ear, nudged me, poked or prodded me, kicked me, swatted me over the head, or cajoled me. No angels have chosen to perch upon my shoulders vying for my undivided attention either. Creativity, my creativity is an idea, an idea that pops into my consciousness often unbidden. Sometimes, it's a flash, a spark of inspiration. It may be initiated by memories, or the cadence of words, or snippets of conversation, or observations, or the challenge of a random prompt. I like to attempt to capture a moment and preserve it. Of course with writing there are many variations , themes, and approaches. Playing with word combos is fun. Once in a while the evolving stories niggle at me and refuse to be ignored. I do not always heed them and choose to engage in more practical, necessary pursuits such as sleeping. Why do I believe I can escape the chain of descriptions, dialogue, and settings tumbling in my brain? They persist. They clamour. "Do we have an idea, or two for you. Is this a good time? Listen. We are just brimming." I toss. I turn. To shush them I stumble from my bed in search of a pen and a notebook. As I scribble I exorcise the insistent bits of rambling. With a sigh, I flick off the lamp, punch my pillow and will myself to relax. Too often, those impish ideas are not finished torturing me. The construct of time ceases to impress when I am immersed and bobbing along. Putting pen to paper does not necessarily mean writing. I enjoy doodling and sketching, too. The challenge is to merge lines into something, anything. Creativity is flexible and portable. It follows wherever I go.Now if it would just leave me in peace to sleep. |
| PROMPT November 27th Things have progressed well in your town/city with the Pandemic. So well that you've been allowed to return to the office instead of working from home. Your co-worker Karly, is sneezing and coughing and refuses to wear a mask. Who do you call, or do you let it slide. Tell us why you would act that way. First of all, I wish to know why Karly is at the office when she is clearly ill. Is she indispensable? Could she not contribute via e-mail, messaging, Zooming, a simple phone conference? Does our company not pay for sick days? Perhaps poor Karly is a mother with ill offspring at home and the only place she can be sick herself in peace without constant demands is at the distinctly kid-free office. If she's going to be miserable, why not be miserable in a setting of her choosing? It could be one less headache for her. I'm not panicking and presuming Karly has Covid. There are a plethora of germs and viruses floating around ready and willing to pounce. She may well be suffering with a cold. It is still a common illness especially in workplace settings. So, she is sneezing and coughing? I'd be willing to bet she is congested, too. Her head probably feels like it is so full it'll explode. Her nose is an annoying non-stop dripping faucet. Yep, she should be at home, quarantined with her own incubating symptoms, but... The reality remains that Karly is present in the office. Sharing her germs. Probably contagious. Startling the rest of us with her explosive sneezes and raspy hacking. We wince. We cringe. We worry. When will I catch this? How productive could any of us possibly be in this atmosphere? I commiserate with the whole wearing-a-mask 'thing.' I do. I for one would not like to detonate a mucous bomb inside a mask. Ew! When I last endured a cold breathing proved difficult. My blocked nasal passages could not inhale enough oxygen and so, I resorted to mouth breathing / gasping. I can't imagine this would be ideal confined, inhibited by a mask. I'd be barricaded behind my mask and my stalwart desk armed with a bottle of hand sanitizer. I'd shoo Karly away. I'd send paper airplane messages soaring to her desk with encouraging words. Karly, save yourself and us. Go home! Take your illness de jour with you. It's not you, it's your germs we dislike. We care about you. Do you not care for us? P.S. Take the tissues. They're contaminated now. We have more in the supply cabinet. Wait, I have a boss and as such is he/she not mandated to be a problem solver, a leader, a decision maker? I suppose I would initiate a formal complaint requesting Karly be ordered to go home. It's not personal. It is a work safety issue. |
| PROMPT November 26th Today is Thanksgiving here in the United States. I know this is the prompt for tomorrow, but I'm going to give you something to be thankful for. The prompt for tonight is to be yourself. Write whatever is on your mind. Provide your own prompt, so-to-speak. I look forward to reading your posts! Someone, somewhere not too distant has been singing, "let it snow." I hope they're happy, ecstatic, delirious with their fresh, white powder. I picture that deluded individual rolling in the snow and heaving armfuls into the air as the flakes cascade onto their upturned face. Their cheeks are flushed and rosy. A grin of delight is frozen upon their visage. They flutter lashes sparkling and wet. I suspect they've already created a snowman and named it. A few innocents have probably been pummeled by icy snowballs. Most likely they were warmly attired, specifically choosing to pull on mittens. Yep, the first significant accumulation has blown into town. It's not as if winter hadn't planned to arrive. It blasts its way into my life every year about this time. It is nothing if not predictable. I'd prepared for this imminent arrival. My trusty vehicle is outfitted with snow tires, its oil changed, and a few snow brushes / ice scrapers are tucked into the hatch. A pair of boots have been tripping me near the front door. I mended a winter-weight jacket with an annoying tear of the liner in a sleeve and laundered another one. All this and I forgot something, an important something. Today, I lumbered down the nineteen steps that lead to street level balancing a bulging laundry hamper on one hip. Before my descent, I'd pulled on those waiting boots and shrugged into the repaired jacket. Of course, I'd been aware of the swirling whiteout clearly visible from an upstairs window. I anticipated digging out my car and defrosting it. I knew from experience that this requires time and muscle. I yanked open a door reluctant to do so due to a heavy layer of ice. I wrestled a snow brush out from the hatch and began sweeping a blanket of snow from my vehicle. I had to return to the hatch for a brush with an ice scraper. I succeeded in transferring most of the snow from my car to my coat. I did all of this without mittens. Yep, I'd forgotten to swath my poor bare hands in a protective, warm barrier. Stubborn, not relishing a climb back up the stairs and thinking I was already committed, I carried on. I may well have come close to frostbite. As a direct result of my carelessness, I've remembered in vivid, painful detail the incredible pain snow inflicts upon exposed skin. This is a repressed memory from my childhood. I replicated that unfortunate sensation today. My red, raw , frozen fingers turned numb until I attempted to warm them in the car. Oh, there is nothing like that stabbing, throbbing, pins-and-needles which signals a return of circulation. Lesson learned? Do not venture forth without hand wear. Tomorrow I will stash several pairs of mitts in my chariot. Maybe I should throw in a scarf and a chapeau, too. |
| November 25th Prompt: Tell us what you are most grateful for. Oh, that's easy. I am most grateful for my family. While it is said that no one can pick their relatives I wouldn't want that burden. Never could I have chosen this diverse bunch of nuts. They are everything I did not know I needed. Nothing replaces the love and acceptance of kin. In good times and bad they give of themselves. Our love is expressed in mutual support and respect. We weather trials and tribulations banding together. Nothing is better than shared laughter except exuberant hugs. Today I lunched and shopped with my two eldest grandgiggles. I enjoyed the nattering and bantering as we strolled through the mall. I listened in stereo as they both pointed to different Christmas displays , or pulled me to something they believed would make a great gift. We indulged in some decadent chocolates and this prompted memories of sampling other treats. One of them scrolled through the photos saved to my cell phone and giggled at not only the poses, but the sheer size of my library. I am grateful for days like today. |
| PROMPT November 24th In a previous prompt, I asked you to write about your best, or favorite teacher. Tonight write about your darkest teacher. I wrote about my 'darkest' teacher in a past blog and this is that post. March 20, 2020 at 2:41pm 642 Mr. Sensitive PROMPT March 20th Share a time when your mouth hung open in shock/awe/surprise/wonder etc. What was it that made you feel that way? It was my second year of university. I'd already made the mistake of queuing in the wrong line for registration. Apparently a marriage and a surname change meant I should've been in the line for the 'm's'. All the classes I'd requested were available and that made me happy. One course I'd enrolled in would feature creative writing and this excited me. The rest of my classes concentrated on scholarly English. Being free to create would be fun. Ya, right... For the first session of Creative Writing the professor seemed a bit distant, but hey, we were strangers. He spoke with the other students and avoided approaching me with a greeting. He stared at me a great deal and I just shrugged it off. I didn't know him, so I didn't feel as if we should've been familiar. For the second session, this professor took offense or disliked something I said. Perhaps I sensed he was treating the class as an English-as-a-second-language course and I asked about this. When I'd registered this had not been my understanding. Let me say I have always respected educators, I loved learning, and I earned top grades. He blew up! To say I was flabbergasted is an understatement. I had not been rude. We were adults and I anticipated civil , respectful behaviour. This did not end here. As if I was a misbehaving child in elementary school and summoned to the principal's office, I was requested to attend the office of the dean of English. Puzzled, I did as asked. Without preamble, the male official explained that he'd like me to drop this class. My mouth probably fell open. What? Did I not have the right to choose my classes? Had I not paid good money for those classes? And more importantly, why? The professor had complained immediately to this dean. He felt emotionally unprepared to see me and teach me everyday. My presence caused him undue stress. He was kidding, right? How could I have affected him, burrowed under his sensitive skin in just two brief sessions? The dean asked me to be reasonable. He pointed out that I was young. I should be flexible. Again, I felt confused. It was like pulling teeth, but finally he got to the so-called reason I irked his professor. Unbelievably, the prof claimed I resembled his recently ex-wife, and it had not been an amicable separation. And this was supposed to be my problem? Anyway, I thought this over and I realized that professor had some serious issues he was projecting onto me. Did I need that grief? Because the term had already begun, registration in alternate classes proved to be of slim pickings. I had to stitch together two part-time classes to replace the full credit one I'd been asked to leave. I also resented the fact that these two part-time classes were only offered in the evenings, and it would mean I'd have to return to the campus then after day classes. Ridiculous, no? Back to the current prompt re a 'dark' teacher...I've only ever experienced the unpleasantness of two teachers, the professor I write about above, and a male high school English teacher. Hmmm, what are the odds that both of my worst educators are male and taught the subject English? The majority of my teachers have been inspirational, male and female. I suppose two bad ones are not a resounding number. I cannot recall the high school teacher's name, nor do I care to remember it. I managed to put him and his bullying ways behind me. It never seemed to occur to him to act civilly. He liked to toss essays and tests at students instead of handing them over. He'd strut up and down the aisles created by the placing of the desks and fling the papers toward each student. Some ducked. Some cowered. Some threw up their arms in defense. His voice bellowed, or as I came to view it, blustered. He liked to be confrontational. Sarcasm spewed from him. Not surprisingly, no one dared to offer opinions, or venture to answer his questions. Being involved in a class conversation was a rare occasion and it felt more like being embroiled. I dare say no one believed him to be their favourite. |
| PROMPT November 23rd In your blog today, tell us your favorite joke. It can be long, short, it does not matter. What makes this particular joke your favorite one? C'mon, show us your sense of humor! Just as I am a Mom of three and one single child is not my favourite I can not profess to have one favourite joke. I laugh at all kinds of jokes. Puns are special. Dad jokes are often corny groaners, but I like them. When I was a youngster Pollock jokes making fun of the Polish were all the rage. (Maybe because my step-grandfather could be rather stern and he was Polish.) ( That could be a play on words right there, Polish, or is it polish?) Some knock-knock jokes are good for a laugh. Blonde jokes poke fun at the hopelessly blonde and presumed short of brain cells, yet they too are amusing. As I may have stated, I have three children and they happen to be blonde. Whenever I hear, or read a blonde joke not only do I giggle, but I remember my eldest. Carrie collected blonde jokes for a time and delighted in sharing them. What made this hilarious was her penchant for forgetting the punch lines. A blonde delivering a blonde joke and botching the delivery. Ha. In honour of Carrie, her siblings, my siblings, and the other blondes of the world here are some choice blonde jokes. A young man takes his blonde girlfriend to her first football game. They have great seats right behind their team's bench. After the game, he asks her how she liked the experience. "Oh, I really liked it," she replied, "especially the tight pants and all the big muscles, but I just couldn't understand why they were killing each other over 25 cents." Dumbfounded, her date asked, "What do you mean?" "Well, they flipped a coin, one team got it and then for the rest of the game all they kept screaming was 'get the quarterback, get the quarterback.' I'm like hello. it's only 25 cents!" Why do blondes tiptoe past the medicine cabinet? They do not want to wake the sleeping pills. Blonde: What does IDK mean? Brunette: I don't know. Blonde: Oh my god, nobody does!For variety's sake here are a few dad jokes. I'm starting a new dating service in Prague. It's called Czech-Mate. Why is grass dangerous? It's full of blades. How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh? Ten tickles. Did you hear the rumour about butter? Well, I'm not going to spread it. Yes, yes, all groaners... The best laughs are those that erupt spontaneously and unintentionally. Years ago, my son and I attempted to describe organ donation to his daughters, fourteen and ten. They bombarded us with comments. "Oh, so you're dead?" "Like what do they do with it?" "You mean the heart and stuff?" The youngest decided she'd like a brain transplant. She thought a new one would be better. Maybe she could have her big sister's brain? Returning home from a road trip one morning hubby and I were flagged down by a provincial police officer. Dutifully, hubby rolled down the car window with a "good morning officer." The officer smiled and replied. We both heard, "Looking for rookies." The two of us laughed and answered, "We're past that now." We were some kind of special. This policeman was conducting a roadside sobriety test and he'd actually said, "Looking for drinkers." Ahhh... |
| PROMPT November 22nd You have found that you can do something no one else can do. What is this special talent you have? Would it be considered a 'Super Power'? If you could have chosen this special ability, what would it be? Me attempting to initiate a conversation with a teenager: "So, how was school today?" The teenaged master of brevity : "Fine." Moi still game to converse: "Oh did anything happen? Teenager clearly unable to both draw breath and speak: "Maybe." Me trying a different tack:" Did you see your friends?" The reluctant teenager: "Sure." Moi furthering our torture: "Would you describe your day today as good, or bad?" The short answer pro: "Dunno." Moi determined to connect: "Do you have any exciting plans for the weekend?" Delivered with a nonchalant shrug: "Meh." Stubborn me praying to strike articulate gold: "Have you any meaningful insights re current events?" The teenager rallies for a brief shake of the head: "Nah." My pathetic use of sarcasm / shock therapy: "Your parents have decided to relocate to a monastery where they will pledge to follow a strict code of silence. Your presence will be mandatory. Questions of any kind will not be tolerated. Everyone must sacrifice their worldly goods. You leave tomorrow." The tuned-out oblivious teenager: "Cool." As most brave souls who have struggled to communicate with a teenager know it's best described as pulling teeth with a teaspoon while balancing on a heaving ship's deck. It is a feat of derring-do not for the faint of heart. Beating one's head against a brick wall would be less painful. Irritating repetition of past toddler patter and non-stop questions of 'why' resurface now as fond, blissful, cherished memories. What has happened? Bewilderment and frustration reign. Where did the garrulous child go? The special, one of a kind super power I choose for myself is the ability to translate teenage eye rolls, slouching, shrugs, pointed stares, and mono-syllables. No more guessing. No more one-sided charades. No more sullen silences. No more stomping. No more moans, groans, or sighs. No more dramatic threats and waterworks. ( I did mention frustration, right?) In short, I shall de-mystify the teenage persona. That dismissive 'sure', or 'fine' will not confound, or annoy me. With my newfound capability the entire, broad, infinite, profound world of the teenager will be exposed. My eyes will be opened. I will understand. I will appreciate that less is more when it applies to words. Words are precious and not to be flung willy-nilly. Knowledge is power. Cool. |
| PROMPT November 21st Tonight/today, listen to this beautiful song. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFeLhsZjMRU Where does your mind go when listening to this? What emotions surface as you experience the music? If you've seen the movie (Return To Me), tell us how this affected you. Has it changed you at all? I remember viewing this movie years ago and thinking of it as a tug-at-the-heartstrings type of fare. I cannot fathom falling in love with the very someone who is still alive because my deceased wife donated her heart as an organ donor. It's a dramatic twist.Is there a residual attraction? How could two people fall in love without wondering/fretting about this? Does one re-experience the loss of a partner anew? Does the organ recipient feel compelled to be grateful? Could the specter of the dead wife shadow a new relationship? Will the woman given a new lease on life be able to maintain her individuality? I've never viewed this video featuring Tony Bennett and Vicente Fernandez before. Both of their voices are amazing. They sing with such tender emotion."My darling if I hurt you, sorry, please forgive me and say you are mine." How does this make me feel? Optimistic, hopeful, a believer in true love. The good goes hand in hand with the bad. Sorrow and elation co-exist. Certainty and doubt are close relatives. People are complicated. Worthwhile partnerships require effort and commitment. Has this movie, or video changed me? Nope, I do not think they have. I enjoyed them as a bit of entertainment, but they are not so impactful they altered my life. My beliefs did not undergo a drastic restructuring. I did not attempt to base my life upon this romance. I've been happy in a forty-two year marriage and that experience is mine, very real, and unlike any other. |
| PROMPT November 20th In your blog tonight/today, write about a story you've been told, or use a newscast story and CREATE a conspiracy theory. Tell us why you chose this subject, and of course, provide 'evidence' that your theory could be rooted in truth. Who hasn't heard the theory attributed to the book of Genesis that states "ashes to ashes, dust to dust." Conspiracy theory afficionados would have us believe that dust can be eradicated. They tout all manner of miracle cleaning products that they claim repel and prevent the build-up of dust. They preach their propoganda via commercials showcasing smiling women wielding wonder cloths banishing dust forever. According to them dust can be removed never to reappear.Huh, as if... I refute this ridiculous claim. No amount of polishing and cleaning has ever frightened the dust in my home. It is impervious to any efforts I once made to make it feel unwelcome. It swirls. It accumulates. It clings. The dust in my home has metamorphosed into great, shaggy, grey bunnies. Like most mammals, these creatures shed hair and leave a trail in their wake. If the sun beams and creates wide swaths of warmth, my wispy housemates stretch out and lounge in it. When the temperature drops, they huddle together under the couch. Now the dust bunnies do not actually hiss when I spray cleanser on my furniture. They separate and regroup within seconds.My furnishings exist as their stomping grounds and they never fail to deposit their DNA all over it. They thrive. They multiply. They linger. I submit that the denial of dust is perpetrated by clean freaks intent upon subjugating us to their OCD ways.Some people do not like to get their hands dirty. Dust cannot be swept under the rug. Are OCDers denying their heritage? "All go to the same place, all come from dust, and all return to dust." Dust is family. |
| PROMPT November 19th We've all had one or several epiphanies in our lives. Tonight, write about a moment in your life that changed the way you view the world. A few months after I was married, I had an epiphany. An incident opened my eyes to an ugly world I'd not been privy to before that time. My innocence, my naivety disappeared. The shroud, the veil, whatever it was had been torn from my eyes and I could no longer view someone as I once had. One evening while hubby and I were out our home was burgled. We returned to find a kitchen window forced open and a drawer rifled. In that drawer I'd placed a large sum of cash the previous night. A family member had repaid a loan during a supper party. I remember feeling angry. That sum had been earmarked for my tuition and now it was gone. How could I replace it? Of course we notified the local police force and filed a report. When the investigating officer asked if we suspected anyone I said no while my spouse named a culprit, my only brother. I glared at him for daring to suggest such a horrid thought, but I could not argue with his logic. Mark had been present when I'd been handed the cash. That had been the one and only time he'd visited us and thus knew our whereabouts. Nothing else had been taken, or ransacked during the robbery. The clincher? What thief took the time to carefully move and reposition the ceramic knick-knacks on the kitchen window sill? Wouldn't a theft entail more smash and grab? Didn't thefts require a certain amount of haste? In and out? Who else knew of our plans? I could not confront my brother, he vanished. Eventually, he turned up in custody, jailed for other thefts. Some small comfort I was not his sole victim. I felt betrayed and cut him from my life. I did not care to know where he lived, or what he did. My epiphany? I was related to a common thief who cared only for himself. He never pitched in and helped anyone, nor did he ask for help. He just took. Decades later we'd re-located to a new village and now had our own family of three children. My husband ran his own business, a garage, and I worked in home health care. One day out of the blue, Mark appeared with no apologies, nothing. He charmed his way back into our lives and my son especially took a shine to this mystery uncle. My long lost brother found a job and claimed to be ready to settle down. I'm the big sister and grudgingly gave him the benefit of the doubt. He could have changed, right? Like everything with my brother this turned out to be a lie. Within a couple of months he once again stole from us and slithered away without a word of farewell. This time, he took a thousand dollars cash I had been given by my fellow Guide leaders from cookie sales. I would run the proceeds to the bank every other day as it dribbled in. Mark also emptied our freezer. To add insult to injury he decided he wanted the case consisting of twelve boxes of Guide cookies I'd purchased for our family. So, once again I was left to cover money he took and replace hundreds of dollars worth of food. In the days to follow, we noticed other items missing such as extension cords, jackets, clothing and more. Mark did not give a damn about me, or my family. He took what he wanted...again. Over time, stories about him surfaced. He'd spent years in and out of jail, yes, but his excuse for the robberies was a drug habit. Rumours claimed he'd also cultivated and sold marijuana to support his dependency on harder pharmaceuticals. Huh, a fancy word for the hard drugs, the debilitating kind. Blood is not thicker than water. My brother has no use for his siblings. Apparently, he searches me out when he wants something more than a close relationship. My epiphany: we are related in name only. Just because we share the same set of parents does not mean we are close. It's so true that we cannot choose our family. Any trust there may have been is long gone. |
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