Here is the link to my July Weight Watch Page.
Starting the month about 14 pounds lower than I began April. Hoping to end the month 20 pounds lighter.
EDITED: July 18th - Updated weight figures for July 12-18
EDITED: July 11th - Updated weight figures for July 5-11
(a difficult week)
EDITED: July 4th - Updated weight figures for July 1-4
Friday, July 31, 2009
Lessons Learned the Hard Way
Back in the 1960s political correctness had yet to arrive. That alone made the decade worthwhile in my opinion. Other than that it was a nasty time. There were racial tensions all over the place. There was a war nobody understood or liked. Poverty was a big deal. People were being overwhelmed by technology.
It's a good that things have changed so much in the past forty years, isn't it?
But back then it was totally appropriate for children to play with toy guns. It was encouraged. There were entire aisles in the toy sections of bigger stores devoted to hand guns, rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, etc. And where I grew up it wasn't just the boys who played gunfighter and war. The girls were just as prone to violence as the boys.
The cool thing about playing guns was that you only missed when you wanted to miss, and you were only shot when you wanted to be - or everyone else insisted you were. And if you were the socially dominant one that meant never. I was never the socially dominant one. Got shot lots of times.
It was frustrating, though, to be told I had been shot when I knew for a fact that my "enemy" hadn't even managed to point their weapon at me. You see this on the old western shows all the time. There's a gunfight, and the hero fires his weapon at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. The bad guy puts his hand over his heart and falls dead. Heart attack, I guess. It's a good reason not to be a bad guy. Apparently it causes heart problems.
Chris's dad owned a cabinet shop, and as a treat he made wooden guns which fired rubber bands. Chris was thrilled. Now he would have positive proof of his prowess with weapons. The rubber bands would not lie.
He and his brother and cousin all had them, giving them what the rest of us considered an unfair advantage. We were horribly jealous. Chris and Dale had pistols, and all three had rifles. The only difference between the pistols and the rifles was that the pistols weren't rifles and the rifles weren't pistols. No difference in accuracy or distance.
The pistols were quickly abandoned after Chris and Dale shot themselves in the foot several times. The rifles worked fine - if they could get closer than ten feet to their target - and it wasn't windy.
I was lucky enough to get my own version of a projectile firing weapon. It was an oversized pistol which had one redeeming value: it fired bullets.
The bullets were plastic, of course. But they had the added benefit of being loadable. One just took off the back, filled the tube with baby powder, replaced the back, put the bullets in the gun and went off to shoot something. The rounded point was open so that the bullet would leave a powder mark as proof of accuracy. The other kids hated this weapon. Why? I was good with it.
You see, Daddy had taught me to use guns when I was five. I learned to respect them like I would a butcher's knife. Real guns would really kill. And they didn't care who they killed. Even when I played with toy guns I was not allowed to treat the weapons indiscriminately. I was allowed to point my weapons at people on one condition: I intended to shoot them. That went for play time as well as real time.
That taught me to be careful on my fast draw. I could outdraw anyone. And with the projecting bullets I had proof of my accuracy. Of course, it was hard to miss when one was only six feet away from the enemy. Plastic bullets had a similar problem with distance as rubber bands.
The biggest problem I had was that holsters were generally made to be worn on the right side. I wore my gun on the left. This required a bit of fanangling, and the result was my gun refused to remain holstered when I wanted it to be. This meant many accidental drops to the ground and eventually a broken gun. So much for the fastest gun alive.
I've always liked shooting guns. Just not at living things. Never been much for hunting. Went a few times without killing anything. Then, the last time I went, I did. I remember hesitating before firing my weapon. I didn't want to do it. Then logic worked in my brain. What the h*ll was I doing out there if I wasn't going to complete the mission? Others were depending on me to do this. So I fired.
I felt sick, and distant from myself. Almost numb. I didn't like the feeling of remorse. This was not play time. I had killed something. On purpose. Just so I could eat it. I made a promise that I would not hunt again, and I haven't.
Son has some toy guns. Spouse got them for him. It never occurred to me to buy them. I have placed the same rule upon him that Daddy did to me: do not point the gun at anything you do not intend to shoot. And that includes the cat.
I knew some kids in school who had taught their dog to fall over and play dead when they pretended to shoot it. Don't waste your time trying that with a cat. Cats just like at you like you're nuts. I think they're right.
For myself, my shooting days are over.
It's a good that things have changed so much in the past forty years, isn't it?
But back then it was totally appropriate for children to play with toy guns. It was encouraged. There were entire aisles in the toy sections of bigger stores devoted to hand guns, rifles, machine guns, grenade launchers, etc. And where I grew up it wasn't just the boys who played gunfighter and war. The girls were just as prone to violence as the boys.
The cool thing about playing guns was that you only missed when you wanted to miss, and you were only shot when you wanted to be - or everyone else insisted you were. And if you were the socially dominant one that meant never. I was never the socially dominant one. Got shot lots of times.
It was frustrating, though, to be told I had been shot when I knew for a fact that my "enemy" hadn't even managed to point their weapon at me. You see this on the old western shows all the time. There's a gunfight, and the hero fires his weapon at a forty-five degree angle to the ground. The bad guy puts his hand over his heart and falls dead. Heart attack, I guess. It's a good reason not to be a bad guy. Apparently it causes heart problems.
Chris's dad owned a cabinet shop, and as a treat he made wooden guns which fired rubber bands. Chris was thrilled. Now he would have positive proof of his prowess with weapons. The rubber bands would not lie.
He and his brother and cousin all had them, giving them what the rest of us considered an unfair advantage. We were horribly jealous. Chris and Dale had pistols, and all three had rifles. The only difference between the pistols and the rifles was that the pistols weren't rifles and the rifles weren't pistols. No difference in accuracy or distance.
The pistols were quickly abandoned after Chris and Dale shot themselves in the foot several times. The rifles worked fine - if they could get closer than ten feet to their target - and it wasn't windy.
I was lucky enough to get my own version of a projectile firing weapon. It was an oversized pistol which had one redeeming value: it fired bullets.
The bullets were plastic, of course. But they had the added benefit of being loadable. One just took off the back, filled the tube with baby powder, replaced the back, put the bullets in the gun and went off to shoot something. The rounded point was open so that the bullet would leave a powder mark as proof of accuracy. The other kids hated this weapon. Why? I was good with it.
You see, Daddy had taught me to use guns when I was five. I learned to respect them like I would a butcher's knife. Real guns would really kill. And they didn't care who they killed. Even when I played with toy guns I was not allowed to treat the weapons indiscriminately. I was allowed to point my weapons at people on one condition: I intended to shoot them. That went for play time as well as real time.
That taught me to be careful on my fast draw. I could outdraw anyone. And with the projecting bullets I had proof of my accuracy. Of course, it was hard to miss when one was only six feet away from the enemy. Plastic bullets had a similar problem with distance as rubber bands.
The biggest problem I had was that holsters were generally made to be worn on the right side. I wore my gun on the left. This required a bit of fanangling, and the result was my gun refused to remain holstered when I wanted it to be. This meant many accidental drops to the ground and eventually a broken gun. So much for the fastest gun alive.
I've always liked shooting guns. Just not at living things. Never been much for hunting. Went a few times without killing anything. Then, the last time I went, I did. I remember hesitating before firing my weapon. I didn't want to do it. Then logic worked in my brain. What the h*ll was I doing out there if I wasn't going to complete the mission? Others were depending on me to do this. So I fired.
I felt sick, and distant from myself. Almost numb. I didn't like the feeling of remorse. This was not play time. I had killed something. On purpose. Just so I could eat it. I made a promise that I would not hunt again, and I haven't.
Son has some toy guns. Spouse got them for him. It never occurred to me to buy them. I have placed the same rule upon him that Daddy did to me: do not point the gun at anything you do not intend to shoot. And that includes the cat.
I knew some kids in school who had taught their dog to fall over and play dead when they pretended to shoot it. Don't waste your time trying that with a cat. Cats just like at you like you're nuts. I think they're right.
For myself, my shooting days are over.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Casting Call - Bevie Stay Home
Many are the days I have wondered how different my life would be had I only dared involve myself more wholly into theatre - as I desired. There were various reasons why I remained an outsider, even after I joined theatre in high school.
Theatre can be very cliquey, and I don't do well in cliques. I don't like excluding others. Thought this was a more recent development in my life, but as I remember back even to my grade school years I was conscious of those who were being left out and often tried to bring them in - sometimes to the anger of the rest of the group.
The sense of isolation increased in college, especially after I took exception to a particular play we were doing and dropped out. I was subsequently kicked out of the theatre program entirely. Since that time I have only taken part in one play. It was a community theatre project. Neil Simon's, "Fools". I played the villain. Was originally cast in a small role as the mail carrier, but when the original lead quit to take the lead in a bigger production the original villain became the lead and I was given the villain part. Got a standing ovation on the Friday performance. That may have been my "ten minutes of fame", I fear.
But I recall how others described my play-acting when we were just playing around the house and/or yard. Mickey, my brother, would tell others how I was great in pretend shoot-up games. "When you shot someone else, they would carefully go to the ground. Not Bevie. If Bevie was running and got shot, Bevie would crash like it was real. Completely heedless of harm."
When others would look at me with amazement and ask me why I told them: "I was dead. Being hurt wasn't a consideration."
I suppose that made me more of a physical actor than a mood one. There were certain things I did not do well at all, and that I see so few professional actors do them well either makes me feel better about my own failures. For instance, I don't do drunk well at all. My point of reference is simply watching others. Never been drunk myself. But drunks don't "act drunk". Not until they are so close to passing out they can't really do or say much at all. Up to that point they just tend to get a little louder, and a more passionate about whatever it is they are talking about. But I can't do drunk because I really don't know what it is they are feeling. That's always been key to my play-acting. I try to be whoever. Feel what they feel. How can I do that if I don't know what it is?
Don't know that I could do a love scene either. Of course, after a quick glance in the mirror, I need not fear being put in that situation should I even find myself on stage or before a camera. Those days are long past. (If, indeed, they ever existed.)
Crying scenes are hard. Not because I can't feel the emotional pain, but because my Scandinavian heritage has trained me to keep my displays at a minimum. I cry. But I don't sob. Once, when something quite horrible had happened and I felt like I should explode, I tried to make myself cry and weep with animation. I couldn't do it. Not even when it was real. How odd.
But I like acting. I like being somebody else. Anybody else, if it's for fun. Used to do that in school all the time. I would see some comic or comic actor on television and them emulate the routine in school. Lots of trouble. Lots. Teachers back then had no sense of humor whatsoever. I wasn't exactly politically correct even back then.
Although I know I would never have been a Mel Gibson, Johnny Depp, Paul Newman, or Clark Gable, I might have been a decent character actor. One of those characters you need to help give the leading characters purpose.
You know, I guess it wasn't my calling, by I still feel bad that I missed it.
Theatre can be very cliquey, and I don't do well in cliques. I don't like excluding others. Thought this was a more recent development in my life, but as I remember back even to my grade school years I was conscious of those who were being left out and often tried to bring them in - sometimes to the anger of the rest of the group.
The sense of isolation increased in college, especially after I took exception to a particular play we were doing and dropped out. I was subsequently kicked out of the theatre program entirely. Since that time I have only taken part in one play. It was a community theatre project. Neil Simon's, "Fools". I played the villain. Was originally cast in a small role as the mail carrier, but when the original lead quit to take the lead in a bigger production the original villain became the lead and I was given the villain part. Got a standing ovation on the Friday performance. That may have been my "ten minutes of fame", I fear.
But I recall how others described my play-acting when we were just playing around the house and/or yard. Mickey, my brother, would tell others how I was great in pretend shoot-up games. "When you shot someone else, they would carefully go to the ground. Not Bevie. If Bevie was running and got shot, Bevie would crash like it was real. Completely heedless of harm."
When others would look at me with amazement and ask me why I told them: "I was dead. Being hurt wasn't a consideration."
I suppose that made me more of a physical actor than a mood one. There were certain things I did not do well at all, and that I see so few professional actors do them well either makes me feel better about my own failures. For instance, I don't do drunk well at all. My point of reference is simply watching others. Never been drunk myself. But drunks don't "act drunk". Not until they are so close to passing out they can't really do or say much at all. Up to that point they just tend to get a little louder, and a more passionate about whatever it is they are talking about. But I can't do drunk because I really don't know what it is they are feeling. That's always been key to my play-acting. I try to be whoever. Feel what they feel. How can I do that if I don't know what it is?
Don't know that I could do a love scene either. Of course, after a quick glance in the mirror, I need not fear being put in that situation should I even find myself on stage or before a camera. Those days are long past. (If, indeed, they ever existed.)
Crying scenes are hard. Not because I can't feel the emotional pain, but because my Scandinavian heritage has trained me to keep my displays at a minimum. I cry. But I don't sob. Once, when something quite horrible had happened and I felt like I should explode, I tried to make myself cry and weep with animation. I couldn't do it. Not even when it was real. How odd.
But I like acting. I like being somebody else. Anybody else, if it's for fun. Used to do that in school all the time. I would see some comic or comic actor on television and them emulate the routine in school. Lots of trouble. Lots. Teachers back then had no sense of humor whatsoever. I wasn't exactly politically correct even back then.
Although I know I would never have been a Mel Gibson, Johnny Depp, Paul Newman, or Clark Gable, I might have been a decent character actor. One of those characters you need to help give the leading characters purpose.
You know, I guess it wasn't my calling, by I still feel bad that I missed it.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
I Guess I'm Just a Shameless Flirt
I have posted before (I think - d*mn it's a nuisance being older) about how Spouse used to be quite jealous of me and my time. Not for a long time now. One look in the mirror is enough to tell me why. Which is why I don't keep a lot of mirrors in this house. That the seals on the windows are broken is a blessing because the glass is all fogged up and I can't even see my reflection there. Sigh. There was a time when I was actually beautiful. Or so I was told.
But I never thought I gave good reason for anyone to be jealous over me. Still, I am fairly simply and silly about such things. Apparently, what I consider to be simple fun is, by others, considered advanced flirting. And the reverse is true, too. More than once (in the past) I would get chided by Spouse for tolerating the blatant come on behavior of some woman as she talked with me. I didn't have a clue to what she was talking about. (Remember who it was who was brilliant and came up with a way to actually play tennis instead of finding something else to do when three guys and three girls got together?)
My problem, I suppose, is that I really like talking with women. Girls, when I was young, but women now. I feel I can discuss a wider range of topics, although there are a few which I find embarrassing. That's something else about women I've noticed: they don't get embarrassed so easily. And when it comes to potty mouth, women are either in first or last place. No middle ground.
I think Death must be a woman. Why? Because I have found myself flirting with Death on more than one occasion. And, just as in any other relationship I have had with a woman, I failed to recognize the ramifications of certain things. This is especially amazing to me when I realize I have an exceptionally high I.Q. and so, supposedly, intelligent. But consider:
I've never been a good swimmer. In fact, I didn't learn to swim until I was nineteen. So what did I do at the age of five or six at the lake up by Grandma's house? I watched the teenagers run down the dock and dive into the water. They were having some sort of contest about who could get out there the furthest. When they finished I decided to have a go. Being intelligent I walked in the water along the dock to the end, just to make sure I could stand up and breathe after landing in the water. I gauged the likely distance I was to get from the dock and walked there. No problem. So, I went back to shore, got onto the dock, and began running as fast as my little legs would move me. When I reached the end my foot pushed off the end in a mighty leap and I went way out there. Far beyond my estimated distance. Right into the drop-off and weed bed.
When I realized I wasn't going to touch bottom, I fought to get back to the surface. I saw the dock, off in the distance, beyond my reach. Maybe I could thrash my way to it? But the weeds wanted to play. They took hold of my legs and kept pulling me down. Twice I made it to the surface, and twice I screamed for help, and twice I was pulled back down beneath the surface. Nobody came to help, despite forty or more people being just thirty yards away. I guess they didn't hear me.
I went down after the second scream and thought in my head, "Please, God, help me." And when I came up the third time my head almost hit the dock. I grabbed hold and held on for a good long time while I got my breath back. When I went to shore and told what had happened - SLAP! Why was I such an idiot?
When I cracked my own head open with a shovel (don't ask) I got yelled at for being stupid, too. And when I fell out of the tree. Why did I climb so high when I knew the branches couldn't hold me? Well, I hadn't known. Not until I put my full weight on the one. Then it was a long drop down. Fortunately, my descent was slowed by other branches in the way.
So when I tried testing Cedar Creek in the spring, when the water was about six feet deeper than normal, and I nearly got swept away, I didn't tell anyone. You see, I was learning. And when Chris, Mark and I were bicycling in January and I got hit by the car, I kept quiet.
That was an experience.
It was night. We were biking home from Cedar, the small town just to the north. Why we thought it was a good idea to bicycle on icy roads I don't know, but that's what we were doing. When the light from the car's head lamps beamed upon us I decided to switch to the other side of the road. I wasn't keen on having a car pass close to me while I was biking on ice. About halfway across I realized the vehicle was moving a lot faster than I had determined. I tried to get back, but I had to go slow. The road was icy.
I heard the car as it slid across the ice, the driver no doubt desperate to bring his vehicle to a stop. I actually thought I was going to make it when - WHUMP! My bicycle went out from under me and I went down like a sack of potatoes. (You ever see a sack of potatoes go down? It isn't pretty.) Still holding onto the bicycle's handle bars I felt my butt slide across the road. My back slid down the side of the car until it reached the rear wheel. Once I felt that I arched my back and tried to keep myself from sliding under. The car appeared to be moving faster than I was.
It seemed like a long time, but I doubt it was. We came to a stop and I got up. Chris said the driver was hunched over his wheel. Finally, he got out to investigate. By then I was on my feet and laughing. Chris and Mark were staring. The guy (who was the local banker) was relieved I was up and walking about. He asked me if I was all right and I asssured him I was. He drove away.
I didn't tell my folks. Both Daddy and Mother were home that night. By some odd coincidence they were invited to Chris's house that night to share an evening with his parents. I had gone home to change clothes (the seat of my jeans was gone) and then went to Chris's house, too. I wasn't there long when I was called down to the kitchen. What was this, my folks asked, about me being hit by a car? Fortunately, we were at a neighbor's house. No beatings allowed at neighbor's houses. Besides, this wasn't something Daddy hit for. Mother, yes. Daddy no. He just looked me in the eyes and asked me if I had learned anything. I said I had. Fortunately, he didn't ask me what I had learned.
What had I learned? There's no such thing as a secret.
I have flirted with Death more times than I can recount. My doctors say that's kind of what I'm doing now. Maybe so. But I thought flirting was supposed to be fun. Flirting with Death is kind of frightening. You know?
But I never thought I gave good reason for anyone to be jealous over me. Still, I am fairly simply and silly about such things. Apparently, what I consider to be simple fun is, by others, considered advanced flirting. And the reverse is true, too. More than once (in the past) I would get chided by Spouse for tolerating the blatant come on behavior of some woman as she talked with me. I didn't have a clue to what she was talking about. (Remember who it was who was brilliant and came up with a way to actually play tennis instead of finding something else to do when three guys and three girls got together?)
My problem, I suppose, is that I really like talking with women. Girls, when I was young, but women now. I feel I can discuss a wider range of topics, although there are a few which I find embarrassing. That's something else about women I've noticed: they don't get embarrassed so easily. And when it comes to potty mouth, women are either in first or last place. No middle ground.
I think Death must be a woman. Why? Because I have found myself flirting with Death on more than one occasion. And, just as in any other relationship I have had with a woman, I failed to recognize the ramifications of certain things. This is especially amazing to me when I realize I have an exceptionally high I.Q. and so, supposedly, intelligent. But consider:
I've never been a good swimmer. In fact, I didn't learn to swim until I was nineteen. So what did I do at the age of five or six at the lake up by Grandma's house? I watched the teenagers run down the dock and dive into the water. They were having some sort of contest about who could get out there the furthest. When they finished I decided to have a go. Being intelligent I walked in the water along the dock to the end, just to make sure I could stand up and breathe after landing in the water. I gauged the likely distance I was to get from the dock and walked there. No problem. So, I went back to shore, got onto the dock, and began running as fast as my little legs would move me. When I reached the end my foot pushed off the end in a mighty leap and I went way out there. Far beyond my estimated distance. Right into the drop-off and weed bed.
When I realized I wasn't going to touch bottom, I fought to get back to the surface. I saw the dock, off in the distance, beyond my reach. Maybe I could thrash my way to it? But the weeds wanted to play. They took hold of my legs and kept pulling me down. Twice I made it to the surface, and twice I screamed for help, and twice I was pulled back down beneath the surface. Nobody came to help, despite forty or more people being just thirty yards away. I guess they didn't hear me.
I went down after the second scream and thought in my head, "Please, God, help me." And when I came up the third time my head almost hit the dock. I grabbed hold and held on for a good long time while I got my breath back. When I went to shore and told what had happened - SLAP! Why was I such an idiot?
When I cracked my own head open with a shovel (don't ask) I got yelled at for being stupid, too. And when I fell out of the tree. Why did I climb so high when I knew the branches couldn't hold me? Well, I hadn't known. Not until I put my full weight on the one. Then it was a long drop down. Fortunately, my descent was slowed by other branches in the way.
So when I tried testing Cedar Creek in the spring, when the water was about six feet deeper than normal, and I nearly got swept away, I didn't tell anyone. You see, I was learning. And when Chris, Mark and I were bicycling in January and I got hit by the car, I kept quiet.
That was an experience.
It was night. We were biking home from Cedar, the small town just to the north. Why we thought it was a good idea to bicycle on icy roads I don't know, but that's what we were doing. When the light from the car's head lamps beamed upon us I decided to switch to the other side of the road. I wasn't keen on having a car pass close to me while I was biking on ice. About halfway across I realized the vehicle was moving a lot faster than I had determined. I tried to get back, but I had to go slow. The road was icy.
I heard the car as it slid across the ice, the driver no doubt desperate to bring his vehicle to a stop. I actually thought I was going to make it when - WHUMP! My bicycle went out from under me and I went down like a sack of potatoes. (You ever see a sack of potatoes go down? It isn't pretty.) Still holding onto the bicycle's handle bars I felt my butt slide across the road. My back slid down the side of the car until it reached the rear wheel. Once I felt that I arched my back and tried to keep myself from sliding under. The car appeared to be moving faster than I was.
It seemed like a long time, but I doubt it was. We came to a stop and I got up. Chris said the driver was hunched over his wheel. Finally, he got out to investigate. By then I was on my feet and laughing. Chris and Mark were staring. The guy (who was the local banker) was relieved I was up and walking about. He asked me if I was all right and I asssured him I was. He drove away.
I didn't tell my folks. Both Daddy and Mother were home that night. By some odd coincidence they were invited to Chris's house that night to share an evening with his parents. I had gone home to change clothes (the seat of my jeans was gone) and then went to Chris's house, too. I wasn't there long when I was called down to the kitchen. What was this, my folks asked, about me being hit by a car? Fortunately, we were at a neighbor's house. No beatings allowed at neighbor's houses. Besides, this wasn't something Daddy hit for. Mother, yes. Daddy no. He just looked me in the eyes and asked me if I had learned anything. I said I had. Fortunately, he didn't ask me what I had learned.
What had I learned? There's no such thing as a secret.
I have flirted with Death more times than I can recount. My doctors say that's kind of what I'm doing now. Maybe so. But I thought flirting was supposed to be fun. Flirting with Death is kind of frightening. You know?
Monday, July 27, 2009
When Good Friends are Kept Apart
Yesterday, after I wrote a post for this blog, I came up with an idea for another post. Since I had already posted I decided to wait until today to post it. But now I'm going to write about something completely different: sleep.
It's on my mind right now because my body and brain are telling me I need some. Unfortunately, I have to be away within the hour, so I'm not going to be getting any sleep until a few more hours have passed.
It seems my good friend Sleep and I don't get much alone time. That's a real shame, too. Sleep is a good friend of mine. Often, Sleep gives me wonderfully vivid dreams. Occasionally, we quarrel, and I've awakened with screams. That doesn't happen real often, but it does. Other times I have just woke in tears. But most of the time, Sleep and I get along just fine. If we would only be left alone.
All my life my time with Sleep has been shortened by this or that. Mother used to tell of how Helvie was always such a cheery baby. "We would wake her up to greet guests and she would be smiling and happy. Bevie, on the other hand, always woke up grumpy."
Well, just what in the h*ll did you expect? Me and Sleep were enjoying a good time together and you come along and send Sleep away. And why? So a bunch of dorky relatives can fuss all over me. Had I been able to say it then, I would have told them: "Get the h*ll out of here and let me go find Sleep!"
Growing up in rural Minnesota one might suspect that it was quiet and serene at all times. Generally, it was. Just not when I was trying to invite Sleep to stay the night with me. Until you've been there, you just cannot imagine how far the sound of dogs barking in the night can travel. I can. It was a quarter mile to the one farm, and a half mile to the other. It didn't happen every night, but many were the nights when I lay in my bed, weeping at the absence of my friend, Sleep, all due to the incessant barking of dogs too far away for me to silence. I tell you truly - had they been within rifle range I would have silenced them.
I loved visiting up north, at Grand Rapids. That was where Alfred lived with his family. Alfred was Mother's cousin, but he and Daddy were best of friends. As soon as we arrived they sat and began talking - and drinking. Then, at night, the entire house shook with their snoring. For the life of me I cannot understand how anyone else in the house slept. On the worst nights they didn't. But I never did.
Snoring and barking. Barking and snoring. Sleep and I have lived a difficult relationship. Why does everyone seem to hate my friend, Sleep? Or at least hate it that Sleep and I are so close?
Last evening Spouse, Son, and I stayed up until ten watching M*A*S*H reruns. I knew it was a risky thing to do, as I prefer to go to bed around eight. But Spouse and Son like to stay up and the only television we have left which really works is in the master bedroom. Some nights I am able to fall asleep despite the noise, but even then I'm up later than I want. But last night was deliberate. I stayed awake until ten, knowing I had to be up by seven in order to drive forty-some miles to my digestive doctor.
Fortunately, after we shut off the lights Sleep came to visit me fairly quickly. It was a nice visit, with vivid dreams no doubt affected by the marathon of Korean War sitcom viewing. Then, shortly after eleven, Sleep left. You see, as much as I dislike snoring, Sleep just will not remain if there is any hint of snoring in the room. Sleep has left when I was snoring. That usually happens when I am exhausted, or in winter, when my throat fills with phlegm. (What causes that, anyway?)
Anyway, I wasn't the one snoring, but Sleep didn't care. Sleep just cannot abide snoring. After an hour of hoping the snoring would cease and Sleep return, I finally got up, took my pillows and blankies, and went to the play room, wherein there is a spare mattress laying on the floor. For three hours I begged Sleep to return, but there was enough of the faint sound of snoring to keep Sleep away. Finally, I just said, "To h*ll with it." I got up and played a computer game, taking my frustrations out on imaginary gremlins, tree monsters, and flying reptiles. Been doing that for about three hours or so.
And guess what? Sleep has sent me a message asking if I would like to get together. Yes, I would. Except I have to be leaving within about twenty minutes, so it seems like there's no point. Hopefully, when I get home from the doctor in a few hours, Sleep and I can have a nice long visit.
It's on my mind right now because my body and brain are telling me I need some. Unfortunately, I have to be away within the hour, so I'm not going to be getting any sleep until a few more hours have passed.
It seems my good friend Sleep and I don't get much alone time. That's a real shame, too. Sleep is a good friend of mine. Often, Sleep gives me wonderfully vivid dreams. Occasionally, we quarrel, and I've awakened with screams. That doesn't happen real often, but it does. Other times I have just woke in tears. But most of the time, Sleep and I get along just fine. If we would only be left alone.
All my life my time with Sleep has been shortened by this or that. Mother used to tell of how Helvie was always such a cheery baby. "We would wake her up to greet guests and she would be smiling and happy. Bevie, on the other hand, always woke up grumpy."
Well, just what in the h*ll did you expect? Me and Sleep were enjoying a good time together and you come along and send Sleep away. And why? So a bunch of dorky relatives can fuss all over me. Had I been able to say it then, I would have told them: "Get the h*ll out of here and let me go find Sleep!"
Growing up in rural Minnesota one might suspect that it was quiet and serene at all times. Generally, it was. Just not when I was trying to invite Sleep to stay the night with me. Until you've been there, you just cannot imagine how far the sound of dogs barking in the night can travel. I can. It was a quarter mile to the one farm, and a half mile to the other. It didn't happen every night, but many were the nights when I lay in my bed, weeping at the absence of my friend, Sleep, all due to the incessant barking of dogs too far away for me to silence. I tell you truly - had they been within rifle range I would have silenced them.
I loved visiting up north, at Grand Rapids. That was where Alfred lived with his family. Alfred was Mother's cousin, but he and Daddy were best of friends. As soon as we arrived they sat and began talking - and drinking. Then, at night, the entire house shook with their snoring. For the life of me I cannot understand how anyone else in the house slept. On the worst nights they didn't. But I never did.
Snoring and barking. Barking and snoring. Sleep and I have lived a difficult relationship. Why does everyone seem to hate my friend, Sleep? Or at least hate it that Sleep and I are so close?
Last evening Spouse, Son, and I stayed up until ten watching M*A*S*H reruns. I knew it was a risky thing to do, as I prefer to go to bed around eight. But Spouse and Son like to stay up and the only television we have left which really works is in the master bedroom. Some nights I am able to fall asleep despite the noise, but even then I'm up later than I want. But last night was deliberate. I stayed awake until ten, knowing I had to be up by seven in order to drive forty-some miles to my digestive doctor.
Fortunately, after we shut off the lights Sleep came to visit me fairly quickly. It was a nice visit, with vivid dreams no doubt affected by the marathon of Korean War sitcom viewing. Then, shortly after eleven, Sleep left. You see, as much as I dislike snoring, Sleep just will not remain if there is any hint of snoring in the room. Sleep has left when I was snoring. That usually happens when I am exhausted, or in winter, when my throat fills with phlegm. (What causes that, anyway?)
Anyway, I wasn't the one snoring, but Sleep didn't care. Sleep just cannot abide snoring. After an hour of hoping the snoring would cease and Sleep return, I finally got up, took my pillows and blankies, and went to the play room, wherein there is a spare mattress laying on the floor. For three hours I begged Sleep to return, but there was enough of the faint sound of snoring to keep Sleep away. Finally, I just said, "To h*ll with it." I got up and played a computer game, taking my frustrations out on imaginary gremlins, tree monsters, and flying reptiles. Been doing that for about three hours or so.
And guess what? Sleep has sent me a message asking if I would like to get together. Yes, I would. Except I have to be leaving within about twenty minutes, so it seems like there's no point. Hopefully, when I get home from the doctor in a few hours, Sleep and I can have a nice long visit.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
A Form of Charity - But Without the Power Thereof
My sister and mother were by to visit on Saturday. Judayl needed to bring home her things which failed to sell at the garage sale back in June. They stayed for three or four hours and we had cookout on the grill with a Jello-Cool Whip dessert.
As is usual with my family our conversation spanned a variety of topics, from politics to family history to driving. During our varied talks Mother mentioned Daddy's attitude toward saving lots of money: he saw no point in it. Probably because he had grown up poor and mistreated during the Great Depression. He saw how little a person could have. Of course, that doesn't make things easy. But I guess he used to say, "What's the point of saving all that money? If disaster occurs, you've never saved enough, and no one will help you until it is all gone anyway."
I think he was right about that. Mother related how she and Daddy had watched a fairly well-off family lose their farm when their little girl took very sick. No help came forth until they were completely broke. But being broke doesn't always mean one gets help - even from those government agencies created to help people who really do need help.
One of Mother's friends, an elderly woman in her late 80s, has developed MS. She's bruised all over from falling down all the time. Once she lay on the floor for two hours until someone chanced by and heard her calling for help. She has no family nearby so she applied at the state for assisted living. She was turned down. Told she wasn't sick enough.
A friend of my sisters has a baby daughter, less than two years old. She has a rare condition of elephantitus in which only half of her body is swelling. This includes internal organs. Her throat is damaged from acid reflux because her esophagus is not uniform. The family has spent thousands upon thousands of dollars of their own money (after insurance) to keep her alive. They also went to the state seeking some kind of assistance. They were turned down. Turns out baby just isn't sick enough.
Spouse and I have gone through something similar, although not so dire. Having seen our family income drop 80%, we often find it difficult to make ends meet. (Hence, the foreclosure on the house.) Spouse has applied - more than once - to state and county agencies for help regarding health insurance, utility bills, and refinancing the house. Every time we applied the response was the same: You make too much money for us to help you.
That's fine. Except I don't think it's the truth. Why do I think it's a lie? Because the specific thing we are told is exactly the same every time Spouse has applied. "You make $500 a month too much."
Well and good. Except how can we be making $500 a month too much when that was how much too much we made the last time we applied and our income has gone down? Regarding health insurance, it got so bad with the county that we could not qualify for assistance with health insurance unless we made less than $6,000 in a year. That's insane! Three people living on $6,000 in a year? I don't think so. But the truth is, we don't earn that much more anyway.
It seems clear to me that we were turned down for some other reason and that "you make too much money" is the standard rejection. Probably the same is true for health things, which is why the senior woman and the baby were said to "not be sick enough".
And it's not like nobody is getting any help. There are people who earn more than we do who are getting state and/or county assisted health insurance. Why? How? When we asked them we got uncomfortable looks and incoherent mumbling. We are left to guess, and my guess is that perhaps they have not been entirely truthful in their paperwork. Not that I blame them. Our entire society is geared to encourage lies. Lies are rewarded - even when everyone knows it is a lie. The more we tell the truth the more we are punished for it.
Americans do not like the truth. When the truth is bad, we surround it with disinformation, as it is called. Putting it plainly, we lie. That's what Washington is all about. Lies. Half-lies. Three-quarter lies. It's amazing that people survive being there. But it filters down into all aspects of our society.
For myself, I don't really mind being turned down by the agencies my past tax money went to create. What bugs me is being told something so completely ridiculous as an excuse. I would much rather just be told the truth: You're too old; You're fat; You're ugly; You're black; You're white; You're a Democrat; You're a Republican; You're Independent. Just tell me the frikkin' truth. I can't afford a lawyer, so I'm certainly not going to sue. I didn't sue the idiot who told me to my face I was too old to send to a job interview. (Why bother?)
It's like the guy from the bank talking with Spouse last fall. "Well, we'll be happy to help you renegotiate your monthly payment - as soon as you make more money than you spend." Spouse responded with, "If we made more money than we spend we wouldn't need help."
But that is also the American way: Help those who need it least. Not that I necessarily mind anyone getting help. Just stop giving me a*sinine reasons why I don't qualify.
As is usual with my family our conversation spanned a variety of topics, from politics to family history to driving. During our varied talks Mother mentioned Daddy's attitude toward saving lots of money: he saw no point in it. Probably because he had grown up poor and mistreated during the Great Depression. He saw how little a person could have. Of course, that doesn't make things easy. But I guess he used to say, "What's the point of saving all that money? If disaster occurs, you've never saved enough, and no one will help you until it is all gone anyway."
I think he was right about that. Mother related how she and Daddy had watched a fairly well-off family lose their farm when their little girl took very sick. No help came forth until they were completely broke. But being broke doesn't always mean one gets help - even from those government agencies created to help people who really do need help.
One of Mother's friends, an elderly woman in her late 80s, has developed MS. She's bruised all over from falling down all the time. Once she lay on the floor for two hours until someone chanced by and heard her calling for help. She has no family nearby so she applied at the state for assisted living. She was turned down. Told she wasn't sick enough.
A friend of my sisters has a baby daughter, less than two years old. She has a rare condition of elephantitus in which only half of her body is swelling. This includes internal organs. Her throat is damaged from acid reflux because her esophagus is not uniform. The family has spent thousands upon thousands of dollars of their own money (after insurance) to keep her alive. They also went to the state seeking some kind of assistance. They were turned down. Turns out baby just isn't sick enough.
Spouse and I have gone through something similar, although not so dire. Having seen our family income drop 80%, we often find it difficult to make ends meet. (Hence, the foreclosure on the house.) Spouse has applied - more than once - to state and county agencies for help regarding health insurance, utility bills, and refinancing the house. Every time we applied the response was the same: You make too much money for us to help you.
That's fine. Except I don't think it's the truth. Why do I think it's a lie? Because the specific thing we are told is exactly the same every time Spouse has applied. "You make $500 a month too much."
Well and good. Except how can we be making $500 a month too much when that was how much too much we made the last time we applied and our income has gone down? Regarding health insurance, it got so bad with the county that we could not qualify for assistance with health insurance unless we made less than $6,000 in a year. That's insane! Three people living on $6,000 in a year? I don't think so. But the truth is, we don't earn that much more anyway.
It seems clear to me that we were turned down for some other reason and that "you make too much money" is the standard rejection. Probably the same is true for health things, which is why the senior woman and the baby were said to "not be sick enough".
And it's not like nobody is getting any help. There are people who earn more than we do who are getting state and/or county assisted health insurance. Why? How? When we asked them we got uncomfortable looks and incoherent mumbling. We are left to guess, and my guess is that perhaps they have not been entirely truthful in their paperwork. Not that I blame them. Our entire society is geared to encourage lies. Lies are rewarded - even when everyone knows it is a lie. The more we tell the truth the more we are punished for it.
Americans do not like the truth. When the truth is bad, we surround it with disinformation, as it is called. Putting it plainly, we lie. That's what Washington is all about. Lies. Half-lies. Three-quarter lies. It's amazing that people survive being there. But it filters down into all aspects of our society.
For myself, I don't really mind being turned down by the agencies my past tax money went to create. What bugs me is being told something so completely ridiculous as an excuse. I would much rather just be told the truth: You're too old; You're fat; You're ugly; You're black; You're white; You're a Democrat; You're a Republican; You're Independent. Just tell me the frikkin' truth. I can't afford a lawyer, so I'm certainly not going to sue. I didn't sue the idiot who told me to my face I was too old to send to a job interview. (Why bother?)
It's like the guy from the bank talking with Spouse last fall. "Well, we'll be happy to help you renegotiate your monthly payment - as soon as you make more money than you spend." Spouse responded with, "If we made more money than we spend we wouldn't need help."
But that is also the American way: Help those who need it least. Not that I necessarily mind anyone getting help. Just stop giving me a*sinine reasons why I don't qualify.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Violence Without Consequence
It's been a rough week. For one thing I've been ill. Mostly light-headedness and nausea. That affected my eating habits and I have actually gained weight the past two days. Not falling to the floor anymore, but am still utilizing restroom facilities at increased frequency.
Have had to deal with poor sleeping, too. My beautiful days of getting to sleep before nine and waking again before four are but faint memories in my head. The sun is high in the sky when I get up now, and the household wakes soon after I do. No more blocks of four hours alone time.
We've had enough rain this week I have not bicycled much. And when it hasn't been raining I have needed to remain close to the restroom, so I have avoided going then, too. Not a week for exercise.
Still found plenty of time to laugh, though. Son and I have been watching Star Trek: Next Generation episodes and use the many opportunities to fill in our own sarcastic dialogue. Sometimes we get to laughing so hard we can't talk and our eyes water. It's amazing how many straight lines there are in a single episode. And some characters are much better at delivering them than others. One of our favorite characters to dislike is Wesley Crusher. What a twit. His mother, the doctor, isn't much better. But they provide some the best opportunities for spontaneous dialogue. Other favorites (to make fun of) are Counselor Troi and Captain Picard (even though the captain is one of our favorites).
The Bible tells us "a merry heart doith good like a medicine". Maybe that's why I'm feeling a bit better now than before.
Anyway, the week is slowly winding down. Not everything has gone as I would have liked, but there have been some good moments. Wrote a new story which went over pretty good. Had fun playing mindless games on the computer. There's nothing like mindlessness to calm a troubled mind.
Saw a guy who is important with Best Buy's Geek Squad on a forum the other day. He talked about how the Geeks grew up and invented computer games so the jocks would have someone else to pulverize. Yeah, that's kind of true, isn't. Violence without consequence. How many wizards, genies, haflings, gargoyles, and titans have I sent to their deaths in the past few days? And how many archers, gorgons, skeletons, centaurs, wraiths, and such have I killed? And I've committed no crimes.
It's amazing how much havoc one can create when one is ill. A different way of venting.
Have had to deal with poor sleeping, too. My beautiful days of getting to sleep before nine and waking again before four are but faint memories in my head. The sun is high in the sky when I get up now, and the household wakes soon after I do. No more blocks of four hours alone time.
We've had enough rain this week I have not bicycled much. And when it hasn't been raining I have needed to remain close to the restroom, so I have avoided going then, too. Not a week for exercise.
Still found plenty of time to laugh, though. Son and I have been watching Star Trek: Next Generation episodes and use the many opportunities to fill in our own sarcastic dialogue. Sometimes we get to laughing so hard we can't talk and our eyes water. It's amazing how many straight lines there are in a single episode. And some characters are much better at delivering them than others. One of our favorite characters to dislike is Wesley Crusher. What a twit. His mother, the doctor, isn't much better. But they provide some the best opportunities for spontaneous dialogue. Other favorites (to make fun of) are Counselor Troi and Captain Picard (even though the captain is one of our favorites).
The Bible tells us "a merry heart doith good like a medicine". Maybe that's why I'm feeling a bit better now than before.
Anyway, the week is slowly winding down. Not everything has gone as I would have liked, but there have been some good moments. Wrote a new story which went over pretty good. Had fun playing mindless games on the computer. There's nothing like mindlessness to calm a troubled mind.
Saw a guy who is important with Best Buy's Geek Squad on a forum the other day. He talked about how the Geeks grew up and invented computer games so the jocks would have someone else to pulverize. Yeah, that's kind of true, isn't. Violence without consequence. How many wizards, genies, haflings, gargoyles, and titans have I sent to their deaths in the past few days? And how many archers, gorgons, skeletons, centaurs, wraiths, and such have I killed? And I've committed no crimes.
It's amazing how much havoc one can create when one is ill. A different way of venting.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Does Harassing People Really Generate Money
I am not a telephone person. Never have been. There have been several times in my life when I lived without one. Never had one when I was single. Went a couple of years without one after I got married. Cost me a promotion once. Big deal. It was worth it.
The telephone is the one thing we have in our homes which we do not seem to have for our own convenience. Apparently, we have it for the convenience of other people. I have had the following conversation more than once in my life.
Bevie. Where were you last night?
Home.
No, you weren't.
Yes, I was.
But I called you! No one answered.
Oh, that was you? Yeah, I heard the phone ring.
Why didn't you answer it?
I was busy.
Doing what?
I don't know. Something. Can't remember now.
Yell, yell, yell. Snipe, snipe, snipe. Why do you even have a telephone if you won't answer it?
After at least one of those conversations I actually did cancel the telephone. In fact, the only reason I have a telephone now is because of Son. If ever I need to dial 911 for help I need to be able to do it. Actually did once. That was a scary time, but it turned out all right.
Last year I never answered the telephone. Nearly every call was from a bank representative, calling to tell us we were losers, equivalent to criminals, and that we'd better come up with money. Of course they were willing to help. "Pay us what you owe us and we'll leave you alone." Well, we were never able to do that, so they helped out in a different way: They foreclosed on us. No more telephone calls. Cool.
Since then I do answer the telephone - most of the time. Spouse's work kind of requires it. Unfortunately, our calls are seldom related to Spouse's work. Generally, our calls can be grouped as follows:
Last spring I got a call from the lawn service which used to do our yard. They did an excellent job, but we saw no reason to spend hundreds of dollars on a yard for house which we were being thrown out of. So I told them we had lost the house and were not interested. The guy told me how terribly sorry he was to hear that. Then he added, "But if you should need lawn care where you're going, do give us a call." Uh-huh.
Well, Monday of this week I get another call from the same lawn service company.
Hi. I was just wondering what your plans were for your yard for the remainder of the year.
Well, as I told you last March, we have been foreclosed on. We don't have any plans for the yard.
Oh, I'm sorry. But if you should change your mind do let us know.
Right. Well, yesterday I get yet another call from the lawn service company, wondering what my plans are for the yard this fall. I explained again the situation and added the following.
You know, I do wish you people would keep accurate and up-to-date records. I told you last March we had lost the house. I told you again yesterday. Now I'm telling you again. Do you understand this is really annoying?
It took a lot of effort, but I thought I was quite polite. Tomorrow when they call, I won't be.
The telephone is the one thing we have in our homes which we do not seem to have for our own convenience. Apparently, we have it for the convenience of other people. I have had the following conversation more than once in my life.
Bevie. Where were you last night?
Home.
No, you weren't.
Yes, I was.
But I called you! No one answered.
Oh, that was you? Yeah, I heard the phone ring.
Why didn't you answer it?
I was busy.
Doing what?
I don't know. Something. Can't remember now.
Yell, yell, yell. Snipe, snipe, snipe. Why do you even have a telephone if you won't answer it?
After at least one of those conversations I actually did cancel the telephone. In fact, the only reason I have a telephone now is because of Son. If ever I need to dial 911 for help I need to be able to do it. Actually did once. That was a scary time, but it turned out all right.
Last year I never answered the telephone. Nearly every call was from a bank representative, calling to tell us we were losers, equivalent to criminals, and that we'd better come up with money. Of course they were willing to help. "Pay us what you owe us and we'll leave you alone." Well, we were never able to do that, so they helped out in a different way: They foreclosed on us. No more telephone calls. Cool.
Since then I do answer the telephone - most of the time. Spouse's work kind of requires it. Unfortunately, our calls are seldom related to Spouse's work. Generally, our calls can be grouped as follows:
- Personal calls to myself - 0%
- Personal calls to Son - 0.5%
- Personal calls to Spouse - 10% (usually a sister)
- Work calls for Spouse - 10% (please, can you work for me)
- Calls for our gift business to buy inventory - 10%
- Calls for us to borrow money - 30%
- Calls for our gift business to borrow money - 39.5%
Last spring I got a call from the lawn service which used to do our yard. They did an excellent job, but we saw no reason to spend hundreds of dollars on a yard for house which we were being thrown out of. So I told them we had lost the house and were not interested. The guy told me how terribly sorry he was to hear that. Then he added, "But if you should need lawn care where you're going, do give us a call." Uh-huh.
Well, Monday of this week I get another call from the same lawn service company.
Hi. I was just wondering what your plans were for your yard for the remainder of the year.
Well, as I told you last March, we have been foreclosed on. We don't have any plans for the yard.
Oh, I'm sorry. But if you should change your mind do let us know.
Right. Well, yesterday I get yet another call from the lawn service company, wondering what my plans are for the yard this fall. I explained again the situation and added the following.
You know, I do wish you people would keep accurate and up-to-date records. I told you last March we had lost the house. I told you again yesterday. Now I'm telling you again. Do you understand this is really annoying?
It took a lot of effort, but I thought I was quite polite. Tomorrow when they call, I won't be.
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