Day: 11/30/2012

Sisterhood is powerful! Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award!

I could not resist the opportunity to join the Sisterhood of World Bloggers. It’s not for the award, though awards are nice. It’s for the pleasure of sisterhood, something in which I believe with my whole heart. Throughout my life, my greatest supports and warmest relationships … and my most long-lasting relationships … have been with women.

Women have supported me, encouraged me, consoled me, and protected me. They have commiserated and rejoiced with me during the best and worst of times. I would be honored to be part of such a group. I am, not surprisingly, hoping to link up through my fine friend Sharla Shults at CatnipOfLife … a woman who deserves all the honors she gets and more.

There are rules for this award which are basically the same as for most any blog award received. The last part, deciding on recipients for this award, is exceptionally difficult. How does one choose from all those who have visited and provided support for catnipoflife? To me, you are all my ‘sisters’ (of course, there are ‘brothers’ too but their honor will need to come in a different form). For a sisterhood, why should some be selected while others are left out? Since there is no other criteria for selection other than choice and even though this is not exactly the intention of the rules, it is the decision of catnipoflife:

All of my ‘Sisters’ are Welcome to the
Sisterhood of the World Bloggers!

Acceptance is contingent upon the following:

  1. Leave a comment that you would like to be a member of the Sisterhood.
  2. Grab the badge for posting to your blog, thank whoever gave you this award and provide a link to her blogsite.
  3. Answer the following 10 questions in your blog posting.
  4. Nominate and provide the links to 10-12 blogs that you find a joy to read OR follow the same procedure as Catnip and I have used. [If you choose to bestow the award on special sisters, be sure to kindly let the recipients know they have been invited into the sisterhood.]
  5. Return here as soon as your posting is complete to provide a link to your blogsite. Those links will be added to this posting as comments of completion are received.

Here are the 10 Questions

  1. What is your favorite colour? Red
  2. What is your favorite animal? Dogs but I could as easily say horses, cats, tigers, lions, or ferrets … If it’s furry and four-footed, I love it!
  3. What is your favorite non-alcoholic drink? Coffee!!
  4. Facebook or Twitter? Neither. Can you email me at fivedawgz@gmail.com?
  5. What is your favorite pattern? Black Watch Tartan
  6. Do you prefer getting or giving presents? Giving unless it’s something really cool :-)
  7. What is your favorite number? 18, which in Hebrew means ” Chai” or life.
  8. What is your favorite day of the week? Wednesday because that’s the day the social security checks come in.
  9. What is your favorite flower? Lilacs
  10. What is your passion? Reading, writing, and photography … and learning. Because learning is living and when you stop learning, you stop really being alive. Thus I have always been.
DoingforOthers1

Weekly Photo Challenge: Reflections – Smooth Water Like a Mirror

No news isn’t good news. It’s just no news.

My husband was a newsman for his whole career, more than forty years. Through him I learned that a busy news day is generally a good thing if news is your business, though the news is rarely good for anything but higher ratings.

Now I find myself in a sort of newsy business and I realize the true meaning of a “slow news day.” I’m beginning to recognize that there is such a thing as a slow news week, maybe month. Not that nothing is going on. It’s  just that nothing is going on that anyone is going to find particularly interesting or entertaining.

I don’t cover, as Garry did, breaking news stories, but I like writing about current issues and events. Big events that impact everyone include me. The presidential election — such a vicious, contentious, nasty election — with so much at stake during my first few months of blogging let me grab a piece of the momentum of events. I had the opportunity to weigh in on  “hot topics” that put me on the blogging map faster than I really deserved. It was interesting and there was so much to write about. Controversy and big news improves readership.

And then … one day …

The election was over. It took a few weeks for the winners to stop gloating and the losers to stop pouting, but most of them seem to have gotten the message and have gone off to lick their wounds or celebrate in private. So newswise, it got really quiet in a big hurry. The weather is back to being the biggest part of the news … and of course, football. A bit of snow … ooh …. pictures to take, something to talk about. Trades in the baseball off-season … can the Sox pull themselves out of the septic tank into which they fell by the end of last season?

We had barely finished counting the votes before Thanksgiving was upon us. Now the rest of the holiday season is bearing down on us like a freight train with failing brakes. instead of solving the problems of the world, we are back to dealing with family politics, wrapping paper and sticky tape, celebrations and money, guest lists and travel plans. Instead of frothing at the mouth over national politics, we are banging our heads against our empty bank accounts.

The national economic calamity we were told to expect, that  dreaded “fiscal cliff”  vanished as a paralyzing wave of commonsense swept over congress. Our democratic process did it again: the people spoke, the defeated far right GOP agenda having been soundly rejected by the electorate created a wondrous atmosphere of coöperation and compromise. Barely a week ago our nation was about to fall off the mountaintop. Not only the U.S. economy, but the economy of the entire world was going to be swept  away and we would be reduced to a stone age barter economy, trading beads for chickens. Yet now, oddly enough, the cliff is not a cliff; disaster is not looming.

Go home Chicken Little. The sky is not, after all, falling.

Chicken Little (2005 film)

So there’s no news. No fresh disasters or huge controversies. A few sleazy scandals, but nothing anyone will remember a week from now. The donut hole in my Medicare prescription coverage is much the same as last year; I still don’t know how I’m going to both eat and get my meds, but I’m not surprised.  I’ve still got a mortgage that exceeds the value of the house and as I have done for years past and I guess will do forever, wonder how we are can survive on a fixed income while prices keep rising.

Ho hum. Same old, same old. I have no idea how we are going to manage but we will, somehow. Or not. Besides, 2012 has a month remaining. Maybe the Mayans were right and I don’t have anything to worry about because we aren’t going to be around to greet the New Year. Is the end of days New Year’s Eve?

No news. Just the everyday struggles of a tired population hoping things will get better and wondering what will become of us.

In a strange way it made my entry into blogging easier because we were in the middle of a violent acrimonious political upheaval, massive destructive storms, and all that distracting, fascinating stuff. It was such momentous, monstrous news that everyone got to forget for a while that for most of us, nothing changed.

We have the same problems we had before. We were unemployed before, we are still unemployed. Our health was poor and hasn’t improved. Our bills are bigger than our budgets and no one is giving us any money to pay them. And it’s Christmas, time to figure out how to make it festive but somehow cost-free.

A new year is going to start, Mayans aside. And we are back to the very unthrilling business of, to quote Tom Lehrer, “sliding down that razor blade of life.”

It’s that damned wormhole again …

2013 is the 50th anniversary of my high school graduation. That’s five zero. Half a century.

After so many years, one might suppose my memories would be fuzzy enough that I could delude myself into believing I had fun in those opening years of the 1960s.

This has come up because a few of the people with whom I apparently attended high school want to have a reunion. Not the entire graduating class of more than 1200 people. This is a smaller sub-group of people who claim to actually know me and want to see me again. They say they remember me and all the neat stuff we did together.

I think they are deranged. Whatever they think they remember, as far as I can tell, didn’t happen. I do not want to go to the party.  I said no when I was contacted by phone, but they keep sending me invitations by email … endless variations of the same thing. Lists of names I don’t recognize. I know I’m not young, but I’m not senile either. Who ARE these people?

I am considering the possibility I slipped through a wormhole and am in an alternate reality, which would explain how come they know me, but I don’t know them. Yeah, that’s probably it.

-

-

I was not a popular high school student. Even amongst the unpopular students, I was unpopular. Fortunately, by the time I had survived junior high, now known as “middle school” but back in those good old days, referred to simply as Hell, I had learned to be invisible. Attending a really huge school helped. It was so big and crowded, you could slither through all three years (10th, 11th and 12th grades) and if you kept your head down, no one would know your name. I only got attacked by junior thuglets once (not bad considering what an oddball I was) and participated in group activities only if dragged screaming and kicking, usually because someone needed an accompanist and I played the piano.

A klutzy young thing, I avoided the traditional humiliation of the athletically challenged by claiming I didn’t know how to swim. When I showed up, the swimming coach would say “You again? Just keep out-of-the-way,” and thus I got an hour a day of private swim time alone in the deep end of our Olympic-sized pool. I think I was on the swimming team, but I didn’t actually ever swim in an event. I was a bench sitter. And, apparently, the only girl in high school who didn’t care if my hair got wet.

So all I had to do was get decent grades, try not fail my math courses, and then I could go to college where I heard I might actually meet people who I’d like and might like me too. It turned out to be true, so surviving high school was probably worth it. But now, like a malevolent spirit,  fellow graduates of Jamaica High School want me to come to their party. They even think I should pay for the privilege.

If I could remember any of them, I might consider it. No, that’s a lie. You’d have to drug me then drag my unconscious carcass there before I regained consciousness.

High school wasn’t a fun time. Not for me. Fifty years later I can’t think of a single reason to revisit an experience I would as soon have skipped in the first place.

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