Curiosity Killed the Cat- But not me

I am horrified by the number of people that tell me unashamedly, they NEVER read.
I am equally disgusted by the number that are surprised that I read all of the time. I visit my bookstore on a bi-weekly basis. I have a “budget” for books. My bookseller knows me by name, and I usually give the books I buy away to others as gifts or keep the classics as a lending library to friends. I don’t go out much,other than Ferndale and occasionally the Whiskey. I rarely buy clothes, but I do buy books. Most of them are paperbacks.The hardcovers I usually buy from the reduced section ($2.99 to $9.99). I am giddy with anticipation when I buy a new book. It’s like having a date with someone new and interesting.
I like funny. Christopher Moore is a favorite. I wish I were a gay man, just so I could seduce David Sedaris, I love him so!
I am also reading the classics: 1984, Middlemarch, On the Road (I hated it!), In Cold Blood. I am looking for a copy of Siddhartha, because Evan Genest recommended I try reading it again because I loathed it in high school. It was life changing for him. What the hey? Maybe I'll like it now?
I am also in pursuit of music from the 30’s. That will be much harder to come by I’m sure. I like the Billie Holiday- variety genre. They were pretty free-wheeling with music during that period. I admire it.
I simply can’t imagine what life would be without books, art and music.
I was raised by a working class Mom. She made tanks for the government. My Grandma was a meat cutter for A&P. They both read all of the time as well. My Mom went to every Solo and Ensemble I sang in, she and my family attended the plays I was in. Mom took me to OU for my vocal lessons at 16. My Aunt Kaye took all of us cousins, 8 at a time to Greenfield Village, which I still adore today. I’ve been there so much; I could practically give a tour.
An appreciation for the arts, history, music, and theater were part of my life. It had nothing to do with class, status, educational level. I had a natural talent for music, and my family encouraged me to pursue it.
Society has become ignorant is its drive to educate. It’s all about academics. There’s no art left in it.Imagine “Yes Mrs. Sedaris, David is a talented writer, but since he sucks at math and science, he’ll never be an engineer so we’re holding him back”
Reading, playing and listening to music, performing in plays, building sets, dressing in period costume and giving tours are admirable pastimes. I am studying for the medical profession, but many of the people I know in that field are also musicians. Academia is an art form too. Literature, science, and math have artistic components to it.
But when you disallow creativity you kill the soul
My own kids are okay academically, but they SHINE when following their interests. My daughter is an artist, photographer, plays guitar, and sings beautifully. She loves to cook, and will attend either culinary school, or major in Stagecraft. My son skateboards, plays, guitar, drums and can sing too. His band is on My Space.
They’re nice, well rounded kids. Do I give a rats ass that they’ll probably never build a bridge? Not me. My job was to help them to grow into productive, decent human beings.
I’m nearly done with that job now. Abi graduates in 2008, Evan in 2011. They’ll begin their own lives. I have boxes of books set aside, that were my kid’s, for the grandchildren of the future. You can never start too soon.

Dating Dilemma

I have been divorced for nearly 6 years now. I have been celibate for nearly 7.
I have come to the conclusion that I am tired of celibacy and not dating. Yet, I have no clue on this process.
My closest friends are:
1) Married
2) Gay
3) Serial daters
4) Adulterers
I want to get an idea of what the hell to do. I have tried the online stuff, but I am poor and those things cost some pretty steep bucks, I just don't have. I often wonder if it's the vibe I give off, " I'm old fat and gross, so who wants me?"
But when I feel really good about myself, I still leave the party alone.
WTF? So I'm posting this as a request for help. Give me ideas. For those that know me personally; am I giving off a "bad vibe" that repels men? Or am I coming off as a man-hating lesbian or what? I'm tired of never having a date. I'm tired of NEVER having sex.
I am somewhat picky. I don't like assholes ( who does?), I would really like someone with a functioning brain that can read. A good interest in music, fun, hopping on me, all are excellent qualities as well.
HELP

Introducing Evan

It’s a daunting task, introducing your old high school friend to your new friends.
Would they like him? Would he like them?
I have made it a personal goal to only spend my time with people that are worthwhile.
I had spent many years in a loveless marriage. I had to endure “his” friends who were in my estimation, unworthy to lick my shoes. These were people whose entire life was spent using others to their own benefit, or dismissing anyone they deemed useless because they weren't cool or rich enough.
I look at my life here as a learning experience. I want to enrich the lives of others; I want to feel loved, respected, and return the same sentiment.
My fears were unsubstantiated. Evan was the same person that I remembered from 23 years ago. Fun, adventuresome, chatty. My friends are as well, so the mix was right. Our time was rather limited so it was a very short visit. Everyone was still recovering from their Christmas get togethers.
Off to The Whiskey in the Jar, a self proclaimed “dive bar”. Very small, great jukebox, pool table, and cheap drinks. You can still talk in this bar, and be heard. There is no bouncer collecting a cover charge, making sure you’re “dressed appropriately”. The fact that you’re dressed is good enough. (It says on the My Space site “crotch must be covered most of the time”)
Perfect environment for a reunion of sorts. Since my friends are smart- asses of the highest order, the obnoxiousness began immediately. Much mocking of music, the couple next to us dry-humping on the bar stools was a tremendous source of amusement, nipple itching. (Inside Joke).
On the large screen TV was Beerfest featuring boobs and beer. The jukebox blaring
Birdhouse in Your Soul and Istanbul Not Constantinople, by They Might Be Giants.
Gin and tonic, beer, cigarettes, talking, dancing.
Alas it was all over too soon.
Everyone has to work tomorrow and Christmas had been draining.
A subtle sadness washes over me. Evan is a great friend, although we don’t see one another often. He remembers me when I had my shit together so much more than I do now, and before I was The Mom. Just me, Denise; The Person. I probably won’t see him for another year possibly longer.
Also, a realization that I have been something to someone else, my entire adult life. I was not my own person. I was someone’s wife, and basically an accessory and I was Mom. That is the struggle I have now. I am a 41 year old woman becoming, for the first time, my own entity. It is a painful process. I feel that I am socially stunted. I haven't done anything daring since I was 19. I have been so inexperienced in dating and sex that I feel retarded or virginal. Wanting love but still feeling unworthy. The old wounds, still unhealed.
I have great friends that support me and keep me feeling valuable and worthwhile. I have to be reminded often that I am a decent person worthy of love and time. (Unheard of in my marriage).
I feel as though I am finally up to the challenge.

Resolutions No- Lifestyle Change- YES!

FROM THIS






TO THIS





I am not one to make those stupid New Year's Resolutions. I have resolved what my intentions were for the year back in October. The weight loss in an ongoing, uphill battle. I can eat right, but stress causes me to resume horrible habits. Stress is being reduced somewhat this year, because the ex is fulfilling his promise to pay all of his child support this winter.
I find that if I lay my plans down in writing, I am more likely to keep them up.
Here Goes:

1) Continue to work on the weight loss
2) Get the YMCA membership.
3) Take water aerobics
4) Get a Pilate's plan either through my friend or video
5) Weight train to increase muscle strength for my bad back and find some abs
6) Date- thus far the scariest thing I'm planning
7) Dress nicer
8) Re-decorate my sad assed married home into a cool single chick paradise.
9) Get ready for Abi's graduation by actually fixing up my yard.
10) College for the degree- double Associate of Applied Science- Respitory Therapy/ Medical Assistant.

Just a little work huh? It'll have to happen in small incriments or I'll lose my mind.
College looms darkly in the fall. I like college, I'm an excellent student. It just adds that extra bit of baggage that freaks me out.Plus, all of my academics have expired since I attended college in 1984. So I have to take all of it over again.
( English, Math (ugh),Philosophy ( drat). On the plus side, I am going to take vocal music classes again. My first intended degree was Vocal Music Performance, which I dropped to get married. It'll be nice singing again. I guess........ My voice is not up to my standards anymore.
So here's raising a toast to the New Year, The New ME!

Knowledge

I have acquired a great deal of knowledge in 41 years. I have learned how to care for a home, kids, and how to work since the divorce. In college, I learned how to give injections,do lab procedures, take blood pressure readings, read and write prescriptions, draw blood and spell medical words.
I have also learned some things I wish I hadn't needed to learn.
1)I learned that love is fickle, and ends abruptly.
2)I have learned how to " work the system" for welfare- all the forms and how much info to give or not to give.
3) I have learned how to smuggle toilet paper out of work when the money just isn't there.
4) I have learned that the dollar store is often the only place I can afford to buy necessities.
5) I have learned that sometimes, in order to eat and have utilities, you have to not pay car insurance or credit cards.
6) I have learned that some people do care and send you secret gifts so you can buy groceries.
It's all bittersweet knowledge. Suffice to say; I have learned to survive.

Peyton Place

Having read Augusten Burroughs "Running with Scissors" recently, I was surprised to find an article about the real "Finch" family in Vanity Fair. I really liked the book and having grown up in a somewhat troubled family situation, (although nothing like his)I could relate to the feeling of " Why can't these adults get their shit together?"
The real family are the Turcotte family. They're very angry about their portrayal which included sexual and other odd behaviors that supposedly occurred in their home. While I can see the possibility that Burroughs may have exaggerated for the sake of good storytelling,however, therein may lay a kernel of truth.
During my childhood I knew some pretty dysfunctional families. There was one family that routinely had sex with one another. Brothers with sisters, Dads with daughters. Hey everybody in the pool ( Gene pool apparently) There was a family down the street where the oldest child ( 14) took care of his other 3 siblings including shopping, laundry, housework and homework, because his parents were such drunks,they couldn't. I remember threatening anyone that teased this kid because he had confided in me his home situation. There were Bloomfield Hills families that to all outward appearances, were upper middle class suburbanites, but the Mom was hopelessly addicted to prescription medication and in a perpetual stupor.
I'm sure if you asked these folks today, many of them would deny the family history. They instead prefer to dwell in the land of make believe.There is a protective nature that allows some to remain in the fantasy because the truth is too hard to deal with. They want to be normal.
I have always been one to call a spade, a spade. I don't sugar coat, and often aggravate others for this very reason. Ahhhhhh..... but there is my family dysfunction. I told the truth when others pretended not to see it. The old
"what elephant?" syndrome.
I do believe Burroughs took license with his characters, but I also believe that they were at least 75% as crazy as they were portrayed.

Oh, to Be A Farmer's Wife?

I am still plodding through " Middlemarch" by George Eliot. Not a quick read, that's for sure. 19th century English is harder than the slang ridden language we have now.
It's very discriptive, but it's essentially a soap opera and was published as a
serial in it's day. I love the pastoral, agrigarian way of life. I don't have personal experience other than Grandma's garden and the weeding I did every summer. I often think that an imprint of our family traditions is set on us almost in a genetic fashion.
My family were farmers until Grandpa left to work in a gravel pit. His grandparents had a dairy farm. The generations from his mothers side of the family, the Tibbits, came here from England in the late 17th century. They lived in New York for a while than moved over with all of the other settlers. The ancestors left the Colonies during the Revolution, because they were loyalists. Then we went to Canada. Our family settled in Quebec. There is a historical building called the Tibbit's Hill School . Their land was donated to found the school for the English speaking kids in the community.



Tibbits Hill School, Brohme County, Quebec, Canada

They returned to the US in the 19th century, and settled in St. Clair County, Michigan. They had huge families including my GG Grandparents, Abbie and Bert Tibbits, who were second cousins. They had 13 children. One being my Great Grandma Alice, my Grandpa's mom. It was all about the farming. One of their kids married one of the Schoenherr's sons. One of the roads in Macomb County bears their name.
I, although raised by one, am not a career gal. It was thrust upon me by my divorce. The happiest I ever was, was when I was baking bread, canning, raising babies, and keeping the home. A stroke at 29 altered all of that. I can still do things, but I get tired easily. Don't have the focus I once had.
I long for the days of simplicity. I do love technology, but I would still rather be at home than at my job, so I wax poetic about the farming days of yore. I don't know if I have what it takes to cut it as a farmers wife. I'm kind of a sissy, and much too "cityfied" I'm afraid. But I still have a great kitchen going. I still make meals nearly everyday. I can bake up a storm when time allows. I haven't made jam in a few years, nor baked bread in several.
But it's still in the blood........

My recently sent e-mail forward

Never been a big fan of " Santa". My kids knew it was a myth. We were respectful of others beliefs, but my kids knew Santa, Easter Bunny and all of that was crap. Figured, if I lie about this, they'll think I was lying about Christ.

This is a really touching story, and brings to mind a recently discovered quote in Middlemarch:
" One must be poor to know the luxury of giving" That one's a keeper.





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Adventure With Grandma

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous, cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten- dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of BobbyDecker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs.Pollock's grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that BobbyDeckerdidn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy BobbyDeckera coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes," I replied shyly. "It's .... for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it -- Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to BobbyDecker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in BobbyDecker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95.

===============================

He who has no Christmas in his heart will never find Christmas under a tree.

Here's what I wrote in my MySpace Blog a week ago:

Gonna Put It In A Want Ad


FOR SALE OR LEASE:
40'ish Female. Only 2 previous owners!
Attractive, fair complexion, green eyes, large busted.
Body is slightly dented and used. Sags and stretch marks.
Loving, kindhearted and loyal.
Excellent personal skills, including, cooking, sexual favors, childcare, wage earner,
laundry, good driving record.
High intelligence, Phi Theta Kappa Member, 3.6 GPA



Here's what I heard on my drive home on NPR. I nearly coughed up a lung, I laughed so hard! I especially like the Mother dead one, and the low sperm count guy.


Ads placed by men:

Bald, fat, short, and ugly male, 53, seeks short-sighted woman with tremendous sexual appetite.

Mature gentleman, 62, aged well, noble grey looks, fit and active, sound mind and unfazed by the fickle demands of modern society … Damn it, I have to pee again.

Unashamed triumphalist male for the past 46 years. Will I bore you? Probably. Do I care? Probably not.

Bastard. Complete and utter. Whatever you do, don't reply -- you'll only regret it.

I like my women the way I like my kebab. Found by surprise after a drunken night out, and covered in too much tahini. Before long I'll have discarded you on the pavement of life, but until then you're the perfect complement to a perfect evening. Man, 32. Rarely produces winning metaphors.

Romance is dead. So is my mother. Man, 42, inherited wealth.

Save it. Anything you've got to say can be said to my lawyer. But if you're not my ex-wife, why not write to box no. 5377? I enjoy vodka, canasta, evenings in, and cold, cold revenge.

To some, I am a world of temptation. To others, I'm just another cross-dressing pharmacist. Male, 41.

This ad may not be the best lonely heart in the world, nor its author the best-smelling. That's all I have to say. Man, 37.

My finger on the pulse of culture, my ear to the ground of philosophy, my hip in the medical waste bin of Glasgow Royal Infirmary. 14% plastic and counting -- geriatric brainiac and compulsive NHS malingering fool (M, 81), looking for richer, older sex-starved woman on the brink of death to exploit and ruin every replacement operation I've had since 1974. Box no. 7648 (quickly, the clock's ticking, and so is this pacemaker).

7 million is good for me. Most days though I plateau at around 3 million. Any advances? Man with low sperm count (35 -- that's my age) seeks woman in no hurry to see the zygotes divide.

Sinister-looking man with a face that only a mother would love: think of an ageing Portillo with a beard and you have my better-looking twin. Sweetie at heart, though. Nice conversation, great for dimly-lit romantic meals. Better in those Welsh villages where the electricity supply can't be guaranteed. Charitable women to 50 appreciated. Box no. 0364.

My other car is a bike. Eco-friendly bio-diverse M (29). Smells a bit like soil and eats too much soup, but otherwise friendly (you're not seriously going to put that burger in your mouth, are you?).

You're a brunette, 6', long legs, 25-30, intelligent, articulate and drop-dead gorgeous. I, on the other hand, am 4'10", have the looks of Herve Villechaize and carry an odour of wheat. No returns and no refunds at box no. 3321.

Ads Placed by Women:

Blah blah, whatever. Indifferent woman. Go ahead and write. Box no. 3253. Like I care.

Your stars for today: A pretty Cancerian, 35, will cook you a lovely meal, caress your hair softly, then squeeze every damn penny from your adulterous bank account before slashing the tyres of your Beamer. Let that serve as a warning. Now then, risotto?

Attention male London Review of Books readers: 'Greetings, earthling -- I have come to infest your puny body with legions of my spawn' is no way to begin a reply. Female, 36 -- suspicious of any men declaring themselves to be in possession of a 'great sense of humor.'

I'm just a girl who can't say 'no' (or 'anaesthetist'). Lisping Rodgers and Hammerstein fan, female lecturer in politics (37) WLTM man to 40 for thome enthanted eveningth.

Love is strange -- wait 'til you see my feet. F, 34, wide-fitting Scholl's.

Excerpted from They Call Me Naughty Lola by David Rose. Copyright c 2006 by the London Review of Books. Reprinted by permission from Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

God Bless The Child That's Got His Own

I had a customer today that used to be a member of my former church, so we're both "formers".I asked how his brother was, as he'd been in an accident that was nearly fatal. That led to his telling me that his brother had left the church too.
I guess I was just one of the first in a long line of "leavers"
This church wasn't evil. It had been started by a dozen families. It was oriented towards a personal touch, loving others in Christ's name. Amidst the growing many of us became disillusioned by our church. No longer was there a sense of belonging, knowing someone had your back. What was left was a sense that your tithe envelope better be full, and just what were you doing to help out. I was a big helper until my divorce. I was working full time for the first time ever at 36. I had a 11 yr old and a 8 yr old at the time. I had begun college. 3 yrs later I was finishing college, working full time, doing a 12 hour a week externship , and relying heavily on financial assistance from my church. I began to get the feeling that they were sick of helping me and felt I wasn't "worthy" of such help. Every time I asked for help, I was met with an enquiry, not unlike you get from social services as in " just why do you think we should help you?" I had been led to believe that Christ helps his followers through His church. I, being well below the poverty line, needed help not unlike the poor widows in the parables. But I could never escape the feeling that I was annoying them.
I didn't have deep pockets to donate. I wasn't glamorous, rich, successful, so I no longer fit their image. Plus, I wasn't a "sheep" in the sense of a blind follower either.
I had to drive 26 miles to go to this church. ONE WAY! I decided that the time had come to leave. I had felt God had wanted me to leave nearly a year before, but I held on out of fear because they were helping me. Just as God can use what Satan intends for harm, to change and be for the good, the opposite can also be true. Satan can use Christ's own church to do harm. Only if they let him.
I was only there because I didn't know if I could survive without the help. But I didn't recognise where this church was going anymore, and the drive was killing me. We left and I have taken a sabbatical from church. I still believe in Christ, but His "church" on Earth here, leaves a bit to be desired.
I have found comfort in a group of people that give all outward appearances of the Fruits of the Spirit-patience, kindness, love, joy, peace, goodness, faithfulness, self-control and gentleness. Not one of them is a Christian. In fact, they describe themselves as Atheists.I have never felt as loved and accepted by the "flock of Christ" as I do these friends. They love me and encourage me. They open their arms to me and don't judge me.
I find I need to Worship. I am a child of God. I want to worship. But, it's hard trusting again. I prefer to attend but not join churches now. I can observe, but I don't have to put myself out there to be let down. Kind of why I find dating to be so odorous. Rather not try than be rejected. But, that's no way to live life at all. So try again I shall. Both in love and in church.

My Boring Day

It was dark when I left for work. Cold too, around 26 degrees. Drank a large coffee on the way; 3 cream, no sugar. Smoked 2 cigarettes on the way too.
I hate working at the mall. Those brain dead aimless folks intent on spending their way to happiness, really bug the hell out of me.
My car is filled with garbage from eating on the way and home from work. Always running in several directions and multi-tasking. Plugged the cell phone into the lighter to charge.
Got to work at 7:30. Counted the money,turned on the lights, straightened up, checked the computer, did the paperwork, and then at 8:00, opened the door. No customers until 10:30. Soooooooo boring. I listened to NPR on my cell phone through the ear plug. That helped.
It hit me: I HATE THIS JOB!
I do like helping people. I am a helper type. I feel best when helping others, but my job isn't about that anymore. It's about numbers, percentages, quotas, pleasing corporate fucks that make 3 million a year for giving bad advertising advice and getting us busted by the FDA for fraudulent claims about products.
I went to college for 3 years. I am a certified medical assistant. I had top grades, and was Phi Theta Kappa. 3.6 GPA, but it's to no avail, because I live in Michigan, the one state in recession right now, and because I can only find part time. No benefits. I need medical insurance for my kids. yes, I know there's medicaid, but if you've ever been on it, you know it sucks. My daughter has asthma, I have blood pressure issues, and my doctor doesn't take medicaid.
I feel so stuck right now, and so in need of a change. I find myself drawn to church again. For so long it was my only solice. One certainty in a life filled with anything but.
So many things about my life are so good right now. Just hope the job thing gets up to speed.