Guardian Angels

I have a fantasy about Freya and Jesus who I have assigned the role of guardian angels in my life. I lost my Christian religion a long time ago. My mother, who didn’t go to church but was re­ligious, beat all the Bible rules into me about how a girl/woman should be. Too late, I realized my mother was wrong and so was the Bible. I made a lot of wrong decisions based on what each preached I should do. I believed the wrong things and was sorely disappointed when I found they were bogus. I still believed in doing good, being kind, honest, and helpful, but going to church and organized Christianity was over for me.

However, the superstitious need for a magical being to protect me was still deeply lodged in my psyche, so I be­gan studying pagan goddesses. The altars and rituals of paganism attracted me. I was especially drawn to Freya, a goddess of my Norse/Germanic ancestors. Freya is the goddess of love, fertility, beauty, gold, magic, war, and death. She owned Fólkvangr, the field prepared for warriors killed in battle. She is traditionally depicted as a blue-eyed blonde riding a golden chariot pulled by two giant cats, wearing a cloak of falcon feathers. She sometimes rode a boar called Hildisvíni (a nod to my mother, Hilda) to lead the Valkyries into battles. They would take half of the warriors killed in a battle to the Fólkvangr field. The others were given to Odin. Freya would cry tears of gold for the fallen warriors. I see no need to give the background of Jesus, since most people know his story. I am clinging to him as a guardian because he is em­bedded and he is insistent that he be part of my life.

I picture Freya and Jesus tirelessly following me around, mostly wringing their hands because they don’t know what to do with me, arguing with each other because their ideas are strictly divided by female and male perspectives. Finally, they will step up and try to talk sense into me.

Freya is dressed as a kick-ass Viking Shield Maiden, her cats close by, most of the time losing patience with me. You see, she’s been there, done that, and can’t stand to see me doing something when it’s clearly not good for me.

Jesus plays the good cop to Freya’s bad cop, stepping in to offer advice, encouragement, or admonition in a tactful way. He is a hippy-looking guy with hazel eyes, long brown hair, and a nicely trimmed beard. He wears sandals, a Sons of Anarchy tee shirt (picture Charlie Hunnam), and baggy shorts. You see, he has com­pletely adapted to the California lifestyle, but I won’t let him sag his pants too low. Despite being diplomatic and tactful, he is kind of a kick-ass. I imagine him and Freya fighting off my demons and running their nasty butts outta town.

I call for Freya, and she appears near me, her falcon cloak whooshing out wide. Jesus is loitering nearby, checking his cell phone. He tweets on Twitter, “I gotta go. Connie is in distress.” Freya yells, “Get over here, Hay Zeus! What are we going to do with her now? She’s in a complete funk because she ate half of the cherry pie I told her not to bring home.” Jesus, “Why doesn’t she ever share with us? I love cherry pie, and I cannot lie.” Freya, “Stop with the George Washington references. He fuckin’ lied all the time.” Jesus, “He did not!” Freya, “Did, too!” Me, ”Jesus Christ and Mary’s Replacement, can you two focus? This is about me, you know!” They shrug at my tantrum, then Freya tells me to go right now and toss out the rest of that pie, so I don’t do more damage to myself. Jesus tells me that would be a total waste, but go ahead, he sees the wisdom in it. Later, I noticed just a little something, red something in his mustache.

Golden Tears by Anne-Marie Zilberman

This painting is often attributed to Klimt, but was not painted by him. 'Golden Tears', also known as Freya's Tears', was painted by French artist Anne-Marie Zilberman in the style of Klimt. Influenced by his work, Zilberman applied gold leaf to make the tears.

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.