Auntie-Dot-Com

Went to Walmart at six this morning to avoid crowds. wanted to buy Mark a new game but they were out of stock. Came home with q-tips, canned beans, bananas, yogurt, celery, tomatoes, bread, 2 chocolate cake donuts for me, 2 apple fritters for Mark, new drawers for me – my old ones having become baggy after weight loss, bottled water and a bouquet of flowers.

Threw out baggy drawers on return home, felt a little weird about tossing perfectly good stuff, but reinforced need to do so by weighing self. Down fifteen pounds since January. Pondered whether depression caused weight loss, remembered maniacal calorie counting and patted self on back.

Messed around with the beginning of new book a while, then played mindless games on facebook while listening to Susan Mallery audiobook (Accidentally Yours). Considered current obsession of listening to everything an author writes or reading it via Kindle. Worried a little about how much money I spend on reading material, dismissed it as necessary to life.

Made potato salad and put it in fridge to cool, then went for a three hour nap. Ate hamburgers, baked beans, potato salad for dinner about five. Went back to facebook for more mindless games while listening to end of book.

Decided to force self to take steps promised in the middle of the night and opened up editor. Here I am.

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I’ve been depressed, really depressed, since we learned David was dying, a little less than six months ago. I haven’t been able to write a word, don’t want to leave the house, or communicate much with anyone – by phone or email.

Add to that Mark’s recent heart drama, and I have to say I’ve been an emotional mess. The last week or so it’s been better. Even so, it’s obvious I’ve WAY overextended my pity party deadline.

I need to get back to business, and it occurs to me the only way I’m going to do that is to write. Yesterday I remember one of the first blogs ever- “The Loser Living Upstairs.” ( http://losernet.tripod.com/loser.html )

Writing about the nothingness of one’s day is compelling. I’ve decided the best way to get back to real life is to chronicle my current half-life for a little while. Bear with me for the next ten days as I see if it’s possible to do that.

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I think I’ve mentioned before that I have an unfortunate predilection for tremulous dreams – some are terrifying, some are merely disturbing, and others are do damned strange they hang about in my mind for a long time.

Last night I was having a perfectly ordinary weird dream about building furniture from puzzle pieces when the phone (my dream phone) rang and a deep voice bellowed “Marilyn Burns.”

The voice was so compelling, I woke from a dead sleep and immediately logged on to Google to see if there was a clue to be found.

There is a Marilyn Burns famous for writing math instruction books for children, and another who is an actress of minor note. That one dabbles in community theater somewhere in Texas.

Since I am currently residing part of the year in Texas, I have to wonder if this is the Marilyn from my dream. Except I know it isn’t.

Very strange.

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I witnessed an act of petty  tyranny at the Steak n’ Shake yesterday and I am still angry about it.

It was just after the lunch rush was over, and there were five servers plus the manager working the floor. Our waitress seemed overly willing to please, asking us way too many times if everything was okay before we even had a chance to eat.

Curious, I began watching her, wondering if she was new.  She was young, and probably didn’t weigh more than 85 pounds soaking wet.

The moment I began my super stealthy detective watching, I catalogued the players in the mini drama about to unfold. The supervisor, about forty, stood on the other side of the “wall” fiddling with the coffee machine, waving a cleaning towel. The manager, male, ran between the register and the kitchen area.

The two new servers, ours and a young man, ran from table to table, fetching napkins and ketchup, etc. A third server seemed to be on milkshake duty.

We came in at the same time as a family with three boys, who sat on the other side of the restaurant. Our server took our order and theirs. The young man worked a row of window seats, two couples and a group of three women. To our left, two woman with two small children were preparing to leave.

A middle aged man alone entered, along with a young couple. The supervisor, who I will call Rebecca, slid past the young man, who I will call Bob, and led the single man to a table. Bob took the couple. A second young couple came in just as the two women packed up diaper bags and dropped a tip on the table.

Rebecca grabbed a tray, stuffed the tip in her pocket and shuffled PART of the refuse onto the tray. Our server, who I will call Lisa, gave a look to her retreating back that took me by surprise. Fury, and then no expression at all.

I was really getting interested at that point. The manager nodded to the table and Lisa cleared the rest of the table. The look on his face was unhappy, too.

Bob’s couple by the window stands to leave and here comes Rebecca again, with a tray, as Bob was leaning toward another table to answer a question. This time, she clears the table entirely, stuffs the tip in her pocket, wipes the table and leaves.

Bob turns, exchanges a meaningful look with Lisa and she nods. He shrugs, helpless.

In the meantime, I lean forward to tell my husband what’s going on. He’s pissed. I’m pissed, and Rebecca is standing at the order terminal just as a full tray hits the window to be delivered. Rebecca points to the tray and tells Lisa, “That’s for my table 2, take it.”

Lisa takes it, does all the more napkins, etc. for table 2, and Rebecca comes out to service the single man. Meanwhile, Lisa is delivering something to the big family with 3 boys, wipes up a spill, and comes back to us to ask if everything is okay.

We say yes, and Bob darts to the order window. Rebecca, ever vigilant, darts to Bob’s other couple as they are departing, partially clears the table, and stuffs the tip in her pocket.

He’s still helpless. Table 2 has Lisa busy, and we’ve almost finished. Big family makes departing moves. Rebecca hits their table with her little round tray, searches the table for a tip as she slides a few plates onto the tray. No tip, and she leaves.

We stand. My husband crosses to Lisa, slips a five dollar bill  in her hand, folded so it can’t be seen, and we hit the register. Rebecca slides behind us, searching our table for a tip.

Big family mom is at the register, paying by debit card, remarking to manager how great their waitress is, and adds a twenty percent tip to ticket.

We smile at each other, and spend the trip home talking about all those jobs we had when we were young and the petty tyrants who make life miserable for others.

I’ve never seen anything like what happened at the Steak n’ Shake. I hope I never do again, but I’ll be watching.

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Some bozo said yesterday that 36,000 newly unemployed was good news. I’m betting he has never experienced the hidden poverty of American’s middle class.

I grew up in two worlds until I was nine – the one controlled by my millionaire grandfather – who provided a nanny and maid, overpriced clothing, expensive toys, and meals at a plethora of high end restaurants.

Then he divorced my grandmother, she moved in with us, and the largesse ended as they staged a battle royal over their divorce settlements.

When I was in the sixth grade, we moved from our comfortable home in a good neighborhood to a 900 square foot cinder block house in Port Tampa with help from my other grandmother.

The house cost $5800, had an oil heater in the hallway outside the single bathroom, a gravel roof, and ugly gray linoleum floors. When it rained, and it rains a lot in Florida, water would seep in under the foundation and flood the bedrooms.

Mother supported the four of us on a salary of $65 a week. There were no free or reduced lunches back then. She walked ten blocks to catch a bus to work until she could scrape together enough money to buy a 1957 Ford – a former police car with God only knows how many miles on it

We ate MacDonald’s on payday – five hamburgers at 25 cents each, one package of french fries, and a coke shared between us.

There were no piano, dance, or tennis lessons. My sister and I wore our hair long until our annual haircut before school started – performed by one of Mother’s friends in the kitchen.

We went to the movies at the under twelve rate on Saturday mornings every few months, and afterward, we went to Dipper Dan for ice cream. Mother never bought one for herself, she “tasted” ours.

She had a friend who gifted her with hand me downs she could wear to work, and others my sister and I shared.

There was no welfare for working people. We had what we had and gratefully looked forward to the church Thanksgiving and Christmas baskets – which didn’t always come, because divorced women weren’t at the top of the church lists.

Dental insurance did not exist, and the health insurance offered by my mother’s job was too expensive. When my brother broke his arm, my mother cried all night over the $20 x-ray bill.

There was never any question of our engaging in school activities that cost money. Band meant uniforms, chorus meant collars for robes, clubs required transportation during working hours.

We went to the library every week for books, and Mother took up selling World Book Encyclopedias in order to fund a set for us.

The year I began junior high school, my brother was in the ninth grade and was desperate for a Gant shirt. All the other boys had them, along with Bass penny loafers and Burlington Gold Cup socks.

We had a family meeting – my brother got his wishes, and I went to school wearing a pair of the ugliest orange canvas sandals a dollar could buy.

The other girls wore saddle oxfords with red soles, not to be confused with the white-soled ones, which were cheap.

My sister and I shared three pairs of nylon socks, my little brother had three pair of cotton ones, and the two pair of Burlington socks my older brother wore cost more than all the others combined.

It was years before I understood why my mother favored my older brother. It was a matter of terror – she was afraid he would fall in with a bad crowd if she didn’t find a way to at least make it possible for him to avoid it by his mode of dress.

Poverty has far-reaching effects. It puts children on the outside looking in at school, but it can also affect families.

My older brother has resented me since we were children – for all the times I managed to convince my mother to spend money on me when he wanted it for something else.

By the time we were adults, sibling rivalry turned ugly evolved into enmity, and no matter how many times I’ve tried to reach out, it’s much too late. We haven’t spoken in six years.

Somewhere out there, a family is turning off the cable and internet they can no longer afford. The children in that family will soon begin the process of displacement from their peers.

When their home goes into foreclosure, and their car is repossessed, they’ll move in with a parent if they’re lucky, and the inevitable bickering caused by too many people in one house will probably end with divorce.

No amount of free lunches or food stamps will compensate a family for a lost life, for the reality of living in government subsidized housing with all the attendant horrors.

Ten years from now, half of the children displaced by unemployment will find themselves unemployable – and if they find jobs, they will likely have little in common with co workers who sneer at teeth that never saw braces, and childhoods devoid of all those things so many people take for granted.

No piano, tennis, swimming, or art lessons. No soccer team, no Little League or Pee Wee Football to reminisce over at break time.

Community college on a shoestring if they’re lucky, living at home with Mom to help out with the bills. Bag lunches instead of Applebee’s.

So I say to you, Bozo in Washington – Would it be good news if you lost YOUR job?

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My number is on the national do not call list. I pay extra money to have it unlisted. I am trying to write a book, and everyone who KNOWS me is aware that I despise the phone ringing before nightfall.

For months now, I have been receiving phone calls from various telemarketers who want to let me know I’ve won some damned thing or the other. Today it was a home security system.

The robo dialer gave me no option to remove my number, which is illegal. I spoke to the operator, who told me the company name was ELivate.

A little searching came up with the fact that Elivate LLC is owned by one Elliot Bagley of Orem, Utah.

Dear Elliot of the relentless phone calls actually lives in Provo, Utah, and he is married to a lovely young woman I won’t name here.

I did read her blog, however. Elliot does very well for himself, as they spend quite a bit of time on the road, staying in very nice hotels from the look of their photo albums.

Isn’t it nice to see someone living so well from money earned with questionable – at best – telemarketing?

Don’t you love it when these people call you? Aren’t you anxious to kick them in the ass. Well, you can’t even call Elliot, who has the good sense to have HIS phone number unlisted.

Visit his website, www.elivate.net – you’ll get a good idea of his business model.

Asshole.

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For most of the years before my marriage, I was a Methodist – mostly. I was also an Episcopalian – a gift from my maternal grandmother.

Church was a big part of my life. We attended Sunday School, church after, and on Sunday evenings, the pot-luck dinner and evening services. When I was old enough to join the youth fellowship, I attended Bible Study every Tuesday evening.

For those of you who were not “brought-up” in a church, let me say that the environment is probably not much different than whatever your childhood environment might have been – except that the church environment has written rules. Not just those in the Bible – and those are interpreted by whatever the specific religion might be – but rules of the church body.

Methodists aren’t supposed to dance, play cards, or drink alcoholic beverages. Communion wine for us was grape juice. I remember how much we envied the Catholics across the street for their youth dances. We also envied the Baptists downtown for their skating rink.

I wasn’t aware of much in the way of church politics until I was in my teens. That was when I heard a rumor about our pastor having an affair with one of the divorcees in the congregation – and more important – that was when I was cynical enough to believe it.

Church “families” are more volatile than most people realize. Something so small as who does the altar flowers, or who is chosen to sing a solo on an important holiday can cause a rift that will split a congregation. Churches, however much they might pretend to be egalitarian – are not.

There are hierarchies that come into play, not so surprising when you consider human nature. Social rank matters. Net worth matters. What you wear matters. The Methodists aren’t much given to Biblical arguments, nor are most Protestant religions attached to “name” faiths. Religious tenets are handed down through a general conference by the Methodists, the convention by the Southern Baptists, the Episopals, being Anglican, have the polity, etc.

Nowadays, however, the majority of churches, at least in the south, seem to be independent and mostly Pentecostal. The Bible is interpreted by a single “preacher” and perhaps a handful of deacons or lay ministers. Most of these are men, and many of them are nothing more than little emperors.

Consider a minister who declares wives should be submissive to their husbands, that all females must wear dresses, but thinks it okay for these same women to wear a helluva lot of make-up and dye their hair blonde. I know of at least three such men in three different states.

Consider the hundreds of ministers who told their congregations that reading Harry Potter was akin to heresy – although I doubt more than one tenth of one percent of them bothered to read the book themselves before making their declarations.

So many of these churches I have encountered since reaching adulthood practice what I call the “NO” brand of Christianity. Everything they do any say is focused on what their members must NOT do – and more than a little energy expended in blasting those who don’t agree with the limitations set by controlling and judgemental church elders.

Troubled and unhappy people searching for hope come into these churches and find themselves welcomed – so long as they follow the NO train without question.

Where is the joy? God is supposed to equal love – or so the Trinity promises. Does any deep thinking Christian really believe that the God who gave us sex for procreation and comfort doesn’t want us to laugh? Psalm 100 entreats us to “Make a Joyful Noise Unto the Lord.” What is more joyful than laughter?

The Bible tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves – yet there are hundreds of thousands of faithful church goers who despise gay Christian to such an extent that they are not welcomed into their churches unless they will proclaim themselves unworthy by virtue of a physiological accident.

The thing that troubles me the most…

…are those people for whom acceptance by their church is more important than what their hearts and minds know is right. Parents who send their teenaged children into the street because they have “sinned.” People who withhold friendship from people whom they might like because they aren’t church members. Church members who ignore spouse and child abuse because the person committing it is an important member.

More than that, I am troubled by the numbers of emotionally ill adults who have come from these environments. I have personally known four adult women who were sexually abused by fathers or stepfathers who were church ministers and deacons. I know “of” a dozen more, but not personally, unless you count the internet.

How many people do YOU know personally who admit to childhood sexual abuse? Not many, I bet. The mathematical probabilities of my knowing four are mind-boggling, and in a word, frightening.

How many women do you know who have been physically abused by their husbands? I know more than fifty, and of those, thirty-nine are devout church goers. The other eleven are married to drunks, but that’s another rant.

A secluded society smacks of  a cult in my opinion

People who live within a church environment and read this will be irritated by my generalizations. That’s because they don’t know that the society in which they spend the majority of their time is not the norm. Secular society has abuse, too.

The thing is – I don’t think it’s as common outside church environments. Women outside church environments are rarely encouraged to be submissive to their husbands, for example. They are rarely told wearing pants is tantamount to throwing themselves straight into hell.

There are, I submit, hundreds of thousands of Christians – people who believe in God and the Resurrection of Jesus living outside church environments – who read Harry Potter, wear pants, and tell their husbands to shut the hell up – who are NOT going to hell.

When my children were little, I tried to do the “right” thing and take them to Sunday School. Never having been attached to any one faith, we tried out dozens of different churches until the year I allowed them to go with a friend to see a “Christian” movie. They both had nightmares for years after seeing a graphic – complete with special effect beheadings – rendition of one man’s vision of the Apocolypse.

After that, we did our “churching” at home. Do I think my children are going to hell? No, I do not. Nor do I think I or my husband are going to hell for spending our Sundays sleeping late.

What I do think is that a generation of emotionally scarred children are being taught to narrow their minds based on the teachings of men with an agenda that has little to do with God or the Bible and I think that’s sad. By the time those men reach their own judgement days and feel the flames licking at their feet, it will be too late for those they damaged on their paths to hell.

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I met a boy who loved to laugh.  He was eighteen and I was just barely sixteen.  We met in  church, I think. His friend, Steve, had parents who were rarely home, making his house an ideal place for parties.

My memories are fuzzy after all these years, but we began dating in a casual way and became the best of friends. I was crazy about him. He, I learned recently, was also enamored of me. We were very young – he more so than I – regardless of the age difference.

His family life sucked, as did mine – with a big difference. His parents may have been totally dysfunctional in an emotional sense, but they did quite well financially. He lived a comfortable existence in a way I doubt he appreciates even today.

I’d come from an extremely wealthy background – only to be tossed into abject poverty by divorce when I was eight. The nanny-maid left, my mother began dating and my rich grandparents – who had supported us after the divorce – split, too.

By the time I met laughing boy, I was living in a tiny cinder-block box near Port Tampa. He lived in Beach Park. Sort of like the difference between the Upper West Side and Queens.

I wanted him forever. Luckily for me, I had a firm grip on reality. I knew my best future was to marry young. I also knew he was destined for something far removed from who I was – or could pretend to be.

A few weeks ago, I heard from him and was delighted to hear he was happy and married to a woman he loves. There is nothing better than a happy marriage – I should know – I’ve been in one for thirty-seven years.

I never pined for him after he joined the Air Force to run from his family. I did, however, often remember those months of carefree fun and laughter. We talked to each other about all the things young persons rarely say aloud – we had no secrets from each other. It was one of the best friendships I ever had.

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A business call I almost didn’t answer resulted in something rather surprising. The man on the other end wanted to sell me convention space.

I explained to him that I’m not doing much meeting planning these days because I’ve taken up writing full time.

We talk about publishing and ghost writing a bit and he drops the story bomb on me. “I have a great story to tell, one I’ve wanted to write for more than thirty years, but I don’t have the talent for it…”

The story is compelling. It needs to be a movie. I think I might do it. I really do.

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This week’s politcal furor is all about the White House gearing up to take out Fox News.  The current administration has never held back on their negative opinion of the channel. I’m sure there’s plenty of fact to back up the claims by FN talking heads that Anita Dunn is just the tip of the iceberg.

The problem I have with this is that Obama is everybody’s president. His constituents are not JUST the Blue States, nor are they limited to specific ethnic flavors.

The problem is that there are no gray areas in this administration. If you aren’t for Obama’s programs – you’re a racist – and worse, although I can’t think of many things worse.

I’m beginning to think Obama and Pals are the ones who are bigots. They hate anyone who isn’t on their program, most specifically Republican white folks.

According to the US Census Bureau, White persons make up 79.8 percent of the American population.  Hispanics are 15.4 percent and Blacks 12.8 percent. Various Asians, American Indians, including Alaskans, Pacific Islanders, and some unclassified origins make up the rest.

So – here’s the thing – Obama didn’t get elected by ethnic minorities, it would be impossible. He was elected by a voting pool that was about eighty percent white.

Somebody on his staff ought to remind him about that. Many of those who voted for him. As of this morning, only 32 percent of the country strongly approves of Obama’s Presidential performance.

People are out of work everywhere. The numbers don’t reflect all of those people whose unemployment benefits have run out, and there are a lot more of those than anyone in government seems to realize.

One of the reasons the Florida population has begun to recede for the first time in who knows how many years is that people lost their jobs, and then their homes. They packed up the cars and U-Haul trailers with whatever was most important and went back north to move in with relatives.

You can’t send thirty thousand families north to situations where a passel of unemployed adults are sharing too small houses with not enough bathrooms and not have consequences.

Grandma and Uncle Bill and Cousin Jenny can’t be too thrilled to find themselves waiting in line for a chance to potty. Uncle Jimmy isn’t going to like it much when he opens the frig only to find his unemployed brother-in-law drank the last beer and the kids scarfed down the Tasty Cake he wanted to for his lunch tomorrow.

These are the scenarios being played out across the country – borrowed cars brought back with empty gas tanks, little Whozit peeing the best guest room mattress he shares with his two sisters, snarling arguments over a bag of chips, and the funk of despair permeating the new crayon marks on the wall somebody spent last summer painting.

Even those people who managed to keep their houses and jobs are feeling panicked on some level. When you realize the house you love is now worth less than half what you owe on it, and the boss says you have no hope of a pay raise in the foreseeable future, it’s no wonder half the country is depressed.

I predict a Great American Backlash when the next elections come around. I predict forty percent of the incumbents will find themselves pounding the pavement themselves. Who wants to re-elect someone who doesn’t care enough about their constituents to even read the damned legistlation before they sign it?

The career politicians understand the problem, which is why the smart ones, regardless of any pressure from the administration, are going to keep adding pork to any bill hitting Congress. Even if the bills don’t pass, they can go home during hiatus and point to them. “I tried to get us some government money, boys, it ain’t my fault the rest of them wouldn’t vote for it…”

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