Life After Facebook

Yesterday I dropped out of Facebook, Twitter, and I'm close to leaving Instagram. In addition, I'm limiting my time watching cable news. America's politics are killing me.

I'm trying to figure out what to do instead. I'm retired so I have a lot of time on my hands. I have some neurological issues that keep me housebound. It's hard to avoid all political items no matter the platform, so I do crossword puzzles, cruise Pinterest, shop on Amazon, work on simple craft projects, try new recipes, watch non-political TV, and binge-watch videos on streaming services. But, I miss snarking on Facebook and Twitter. I have honed sarcasm to a good (or bad?) level. I know this is a first-world problem, but here I am.

Before becoming neurologically challenged I gave dinner parties, made earrings and bracelets, cultivated my garden. My specialty was setting unique tablescapes. I don't have the energy, wherewithal, or will to do those things anymore.

I miss some of my Facebook friends. Former coworkers, international people I followed, and the cats. Yes, I'm a crazy cat lady. I am trying to follow them on Instagram, which is why I haven't quit that, too. I can still see photos of my children and grandchildren who I'm not able to visit very often. Trains and Uber are my friends. No planes though. Can't do that anymore.

I'm hoping that blogging will help with this transition. Anyone else experiencing this issue as well? I'd love to hear from you. 

I'll (hopefully) write more tomorrow.

Changing Things

I'm changing the focus of my blog, which I haven't posted in for months. Today I quit Facebook. First, because of the data breach issue. Second, it was making me unhappy. However, I miss snarking about politics with my FB friends. I thought I would try that here. Not sure exactly how, but I'll stumble through it somehow.

My Little Black Book

I once had a little black book. I started it when I was working in a particularly nasty, thankless job. It was a job, ironically, that I was good at; a fact that locked me into it for 13 long, stress filled years. My little black book was not the kind with lovers’ phone numbers or anything, but a record of who I considered black-hearted people. People in the book had intentionally hurt or disappointed me or were rude or difficult. They were people who held power over me, people I couldn’t directly combat. The book was a way to handle my anger and feelings of helplessness. Since I tend to hold a grudge, the book helped me to reset and move on.

A few friends who were aware of my book warned me to stop recording stuff like that because the very essence of the book would hurt me in the long run. But, at the time, it was a means for me to put the actions of these black-hearted people away, so I could stop thinking about what they did. It moved the hurt from my heart and mind and onto the pages of the book for the Universe to deal with in time. Among my friends, it became a joke to say, “Uh-oh, that will go in Connie’s book,” or “Oh, don’t do that! You will end up in Connie’s book!”

I didn’t review the book unless I was making a new entry. There were no consequences to those who were recorded in the book. I didn’t stick pins in them or do any other voodoo type rituals to hurt them. However, if they repeated themselves, they would get a check mark next to their name. Some people ended up with a page all to themselves because they were repeat offenders. And, there were people who actually qualified to be in my black book who never got in it because I wasn’t done with them yet. I wasn’t ready to let go of the hurt. I was still angry with them and didn’t see a way of ever getting over their transgressions against me.

Eventually, when I was finally moved out of the nasty job, I got rid of the book. I looked through it one last time, giving thanks that for the most part, I would never have to deal with those people again. I tore each page into tiny pieces and flushed them down the toilet. I tossed the cover of the book into a dumpster.

To this day, there is only one person who was in the book, who if they cross my mind, I feel a wave of rage against. Same for one person who never made the book, against whom I still hold a grudge. Two people who devalued me and over-powered me. Two people still causing damage to my psyche because I was helpless to fight them. 

Anglophilia, I has it…

I don’t care; I love every minute of the royal wedding hoopla. Although I won’t be getting up at 3:30 a.m. on April 29 to watch The Wedding, I do have the DVR set to record it. In fact, I have several shows about the wedding set to record because I don’t want to miss any of them.

However, I draw the line at watching the made for TV movie about William and Kate’s life. They are just too young to have a movie about them just yet. Now, a movie about Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip would be interesting, since at least 50 years or more have lapsed since they were married and the props and costumes and cars would be of a long ago period. I loved the series about the Tudors, partly because of the wonderful costumes and sets.

I believe that Americans love the English monarchy because England is our "mother." Despite that little dust up back in the 1770s, we do still love our mother and we like to keep up with her goings on. I remember in grade school learning about the English pilgrims who settled at Plymouth Rock. At that young age, I subconsciously learned it was better to have English ancestry than any other. So, that is when my fascination with anything English started. That, and the Disney movie in 1953, “When Knighthood was in Flower,” which was the first movie of that genre I had ever seen.

Children are brought up on nursery rhymes and fairy tales about the beautiful princess and the dashing prince falling in love and living happily ever after. Women spend their youth and sometimes their whole lives waiting for a knight in shining armor to swoop them off to the beautiful castle high on the hill. Those stories make us want to watch the Royals and for a moment pretend to be that prince or princess.

Besides, America’s royalty seems to be our sleazy celebrities like Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan, people who are famous for being famous—or rather, infamous. I think celebrity-behaving-badly worship is far worse than that of English royalty. The Royals have their foibles, but that’s what makes it so much fun to follow them. We may love them, but we want those uppity folks to be brought down a notch or two every so often.

So, even though I can be rabidly patriotic about America, I am a confessed Anglophile, openly, enthusiastically, and forever.

Who'da Thunk? I'm Patriotic!

I heard it the other day. Someone said, “Move to Canada. American is dying!” Now that riles up my patriotism like nothing else could. I believe in our country and think that statement is as offensive as saying “God is dead.” If a long bloody civil war 150 years ago didn’t kill our nation, I do not believe anything can. America has lived through and prevailed over many bad times. The Great Depression, two world wars, several lesser wars, and good and bad politicians have not come close to bringing us to our knees. The hard economic time we are going through now is a part of the normal ups and downs of a capitalistic democracy. That good old Yankee ingenuity will kick in and we will solve this glitch in the road, too. We have to hang in there and support this country and never concede that it is dead. Never concede to any weaknesses. No offense to Canada, but America is the best country on this planet and will remain so for generations to come.

The Martin Boys

Yesterday, I received an email from my cousin telling me the last of my mother’s surviving brothers are gravely ill. My uncle Joe, Charlie, and Cliff are three of seven brothers in my mom’s family. She was the eldest, then came Earl, who we called Abe, Howard, called Fat, Herbert, called Hub, Robert, called Rob, Charles, called Charlie, Clifford, called Cliff, and Joseph, called Joe. Following all those brothers was my mother’s only sister, Matilda, called Til or Tillie. They never went by their given names, not even my mother. Her name was Hildegard, but understandably, she was always called Hilda. Only my grandmother used their real names. When she started to call for one of them because he was in trouble, she would always go through all seven names before she hit on the one she wanted. Of course, the guilty boy would not own up until she said his name.

When the Martin boys got together they all talked at the top of their voices and all at the same time. They loved eating, drinking, and having fun. They particularly liked my mom’s fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits. They all proclaimed she was the best cook in the county, stuffing down biscuits until they nearly popped. They cussed and told dirty jokes, smoked like chimneys, brawled and landed in jail more often than I should reveal here.

All but one of them served in the army during WWII. Fortunately, they all came home and none was wounded, at least not physically. All but one got married during the late ‘40s. I recall their wedding photos were all similar, consisting of the brothers; the only difference being the bride, and which brother was the groom.

They all lived in Ohio within 25 miles of each other. They worked at the Gulf Refinery, for the county, or farmed for a living. When the first one died, my mother said, “The circle (of her siblings) has been broken.” Slowly, they began to pass away of cancer caused by cigarette smoking or asbestos exposure at the refinery or other hazards of living. Now, the last three are all battling cancer as well, with only weeks to live.

It is hard to think of them all eventually being gone, leaving behind their baby sister who is nearing eighty. They were good old boys in the best meaning of the phrase. I wasn’t around them much after I grew up. I left Ohio when I was twenty, but I hope they knew how much I loved them.

Dabby's Rose Bush

Several years ago, my hairdresser moved to a house that had a gazillion old, well established rose bushes. When she inexplicably decided to get rid of most of them, she invited all her friends and clientele to come and dig up anything they wanted. I was there in a heartbeat. I dug up four rose bushes before I exhausted myself, one of which turned out to be the rose bush that enveloped and smothered Turlock.

Other than climbing, I don’t know what variety it is, but it has white blooms similar to the one in the photo. I planted it along the side of our house where it climbs onto the inner courtyard fence. The rose bush currently stretches across about 20 feet of the fence. If we did not have it trimmed every week, it would literally grow up over the roof of the house, across to the neighbors, down the street, eventually growing out to the highway where motorists would need James Bond type machetes on their cars to clear a path around town. Unfortunately, the trimming inhibits blooming, but the bush has become a very effective shield from the street on that side of the house.

It is a great refuge for small birds, so I put a feeder in it to encourage them to visit. The window that looks out onto the bush is my kitty‘s favorite place to watch them. Every morning, not even letting me get a cup of coffee, Teddy yells and carries on until I follow him into the room and open the blinds so he can begin his vigil. He gets up on the windowsill and yeows at the top of his lungs. I tell him to use his indoor meow, so he doesn’t scare the birds away. He won’t listen to me though; he has to tell those birds a thing or two. The rose bush has little openings where the birds can peer through at Teddy, thumbing their beaks at him because they know he is strictly an indoor cat. They do tweet a little different tune when the weather is warm enough to open the windows. Then they are a little more polite when he appears, not quite trusting the screens to hold back that ferocious tabby.

I am very proud of my town-devouring rose bush. Being from Ohio, where growing roses requires way too much effort, it is amazing to me that roses flourish like weeds here. I have roses all around my house, something I never imagined I could have. All they need is water and lots of sun and they bloom right through to Christmas. I will always marvel at that.

If you ever drive through the Central Valley of California, down Highway 99, be sure to bring your machete.