Happy Halloween - Blessings on Samhain

My good friend Donna (a wonderful artist) made this Witch Mitzi doll.

My front door decoration.

National Novel Writing Month

Okay, Mary Ellen:
I'm in.
I'm doing it.
Let's see how long I'll keep it up (which is an appropriate term since I'm working on a "romantica" (romantic erotica) to be submitted to Ellora's Cave).
I'll work on The Dragon Lord since it's the novella and I can (hopefully) finish the first draft in a month.
Damn you, ME - able to twist my arm from Norristown.

Actually - I had already decided to do it (also with encouragement from my seeeeester, Pattie). I have to keep my mind off other stuff (see previous blogs: Missing Mark, Missing England, Sanctuary).

I may be blogging less - but hey - all my fans (all three of them) will understand - especially when they can order The Dragon Lord from Ellora's Cave one fine day.

Missing Mark

Yeah - even after a year.
There must be something wrong with me if I still love this man. He was being silly in this picture - one of his many nice traits.

How we're paying for the war

The New York Times this morning reports:
The two houses of Congress are expected to approve the changes in the next two weeks as part of competing bills to slow the growth of federal spending. Negotiators from the two chambers would then try to work out the differences.

The House bill would take all of its savings from Medicaid, the program for low-income people, while leaving Medicare, the program for those 65 and older and the disabled, untouched, as the Bush administration wants. By contrast, the Senate bill would squeeze savings from both programs.


A wise man once said that the soul of a country is judged by how it cares for it's poor and it's elderly. Does this nation "under God" even have a soul?

My Saturday Afternoon Spot

I was sitting on the sofa, reading, when I suddenly realized that I was surrounded.
I had to take a picture for proof.

Missing England

I've been thinking about England lately - actually missing England. It's almost a homesickness that comes over me sometimes. In ten years I've been to England four times. The first time I traveled alone - it was one of those, "If I wait for someone to go with me, I'll never go" trips. When the plane landed at Heathrow I felt a sense of homecoming - that never left.

I am drawn to two places - Glastonbury in Somerset and Cornwall. I've been to glastonbury twice - the first time I spent one week in the town. I visited the Tor (the picture is a view of the Glastonbury area from atop the Tor) and the Chalice Well Gardens many times. I walked Magdalene and High Streets as if I was more than a visitor - and maybe I was. I saw Geoffrey Ashe in the Glastonbury Tea Room and was too scared to talk to him - afraid to talk to one of the most famous Arthurian scholars.

I've been thinking about England lately - missing England. Missing home?

Sanctuary!

I feel like hunching over and running around the neighborhood yelling, "Sanctuary!"

Actually it's more like "Stability!"
"Give me Stability!"

Geesh - I'm freakin' 58 years old - I should NOT have to think about starting over.

And I have to admit that I'm scared - just a little. Everyone (who are in fairly stable situations) say "You have nothing to worry about. You'll be fine. You're a nurse. You'll find another job. You can do it. You've done it before."

Ah, yeah - I have. So why do I have to go through it all over again? Especially now -especially when I need a sense of the familiar around me as I age.

Wish I had that soft place to fall that I wrote about last year.
Wish I had someone to say, "Don't worry about anything. I'll take care of you for as long as you need."

But that's not my reality.
I have a good support system of family and friends but I know there's only one person that I can really depend upon for all the necessities - only one person. . . .
The old wrinkled crone who stares at me in the mirror every morning.
Only I can give her sanctuary.

"Scooter" Indicted for Lying about . . .

. . .oh, yeah - that's right - about outing a CIA agent for political reasons.
And Clinton was impeached for . . . . . .oh, yeah, that's right . . .lying about an affair.

So, in our moral society - which is the most damning?

We are in a war that was waged because of lies. We have administration of incompetents. And yet it continues . . .

Huusker

And since I've published pictures of Murray and Miss Kitty. Here's Huusker, just hanging around.

Happy Halloweeeeeeen

Miss Shitty in her witchy hat. Not a happy kitty, but a cute one.
Note: I received NO scratches. She looooooves her mommie.

Living with Cats

One morning this week I decided to rearrange my home office - just a little. I can only rearrange it a little because I have this big hulking desk U-shaped desk that was a great idea in Staples but a bitch now.

My main objective was to move my LexMark printer/scanner (a great big old boxy thing) off one side of my desk and put it on a small table on the other side of my monitor. The printer has spent its entire life on a part of the desk right under the office's only window. The printer has spent its entire life being the stepping block for cats who wanted to get into the window. I was tired of blank paper coming out of the printer - the result of unplanned . . . uh . . .well . . . I guess you could call them cat scans. Yuck - yuck.

Anyway, I used a whole morning rearranging printer and computer (becasue I wanted everything to be on one side). I cleaned off my desk (well, most of it), vacuumed and dusted.

I was quite proud of myself until the protesting began. Oh, there were the soft mews and the reproachful looks - nothing drastic - just the very very subtle signs that I had disturbed THEIR world.

My older momma cat, Miss Kitty (nicknamed Miss Shitty for her personality - loving to me and only me), could not manage the stretch from desk to window sill. She's 16 and feels it in her little cat joints. So I made some accomodations that would make the ADA proud.

This is Murray - on the crate (with comfy pillow) that replaced the printer. The blanket next to him is for Miss Kitty to take her naps.

I'm a sick woooo-man.

I Feel Better Now

I just bought a new pair of shoes - nothing fancy - navy dress shoes for work since I wear a lot of navy clothes.

I love buying shoes.

Love Zappos.

I was browsing all the different styles. Very sexy shoes. (See previous post on erotica).

I just may get myself a nice pair of heels - high heels. To wear on my next date. They'll be fine if I'm in a wheelchair.

Erotica

Got your attention?

That's one of the genres I'm working on (in?) these days. There's a huge market for erotic stories by women for women. Finally! So, I thought, "What the hell? Give it a shot?"

And then it hit me. I'm fifty-eight, chubby (cute but still chubby), live alone with three cats and I'm writing erotica. Sort of belies the old writerly chestnut of "Write what you know." It's not that I don't KNOW anything about . . .well . . .sex or erotica (actually two different subjects). It's just lately I'm not a practioner. If you get my drift.

I have a t-shirt from the Valley Forge Romance Writers Chapter of Romance Writers of Amercia. The t-shirt says: Romance Writers DO It and Write about It. Hmmm. False advertising if I wore it now.

So how do I explain my self-imposed celebacy (Oh, get over it! Most women not having sex are having self-imposed celebacy) and the fact that I am writing about sex - writing about love - writing about romance? How do I DO that?

Damn fine memory!

www.ellorascave.com
www.heatwaveromance.com
www.plrw.org
www.vfrw.com
www.rwanational.org

A Measure of Comfort. . .

. . . mashed potatoes.

Now isn’t that sad – a fifty-eight year old woman eating mashed potatoes for her lunch because she thinks she aced a job interview.

Nuts, I am.
Talking like Yoda, I am.
Sitting with cats, I am.
Back to the “Nuts, I am.”

“Aced job interview.” What part of that leads me to mashed potatoes (damned good ones, too) for lunch? With REAL freakin’ butter, too, I want you to know.

I would love the job. I would be good at the job. I loved the people in the agency. It’s right up my alley.

I would hate leaving my present job. Oh, I wouldn’t hate leaving a lot of the crap behind me. I would hate leaving the people.

And it would be “just like starting over.” Ya just knew I would get a Lennon lyric in there somewhere. Benefits were fairly good – very good if you were someone who didn’t have 17 years in at one company. There are some good things about longevity.

And then there’s the salary – a cut in pay. I need to save for retirement. I need Social Security to be basing my subsistence income of my dotage on the highest amount made not a slide backwards. Yeah, yeah – I know. What Social Security?

I was in a craving mashed potatoes funk because I gave a good interview? Well, that was just one thing.

I’m in the middle of my vacation. I haven’t written The Great American Novel – yet. I haven’t finished the two short stories I started on Monday. I haven’t gone to the library to do research on Easton’s Haunted History (an idea that’s been niggling at me the past week or two or three). And I aced a job interview for a position I can’t accept.

That led me to mashed potatoes for lunch – with real butter.

On vacation

”You are on vacation, right?” A friend asked me that question when she reminded me of something I had forgotten to do.

Yes. I am on vacation. Today is my second day of vacation. Yesterday I wrote 2500 words – that’s ten pages in two different stories. I read. I shopped for my sister’s birthday present and I met said sister for a movie. Today I intend to write more. I want to rearrange my office a bit. I want to read more. Tomorrow I will be at the library researching a possible nonfiction book. I will read. I will write more. Thursday and Friday will be like Wednesday. Yes, I am on vacation but I am working at another job – I’m setting a schedule for myself. I want to discipline myself for the time when writing is my fulltime job.

I’ve spent the last eight weeks on the road for work, staying overnight in hotels at least three days out of five. All those evenings that “regular” people have after work to get home-related duties and chores done – all those evenings are wiped out for me. So when I DO have some time at home, I have to cram all the things I HAVE to do and all the things I WANT to do into a shorter space of time.

“You are on vacation, right?” Well, sort of.
I’m really working and I have a lot of projects that I’m trying to cram into a short space of time – week-wise, year-wise, life-wise.
So forgive me if I forget something.

When I'm Fifty-eight . . .

How did I get to be 58? Fifty-eight years old today. I can’t be that old.
I’m still the little girl who pounded out stories on the Royal portable typewriter, a Christmas present from a father who hoped it would inspire the girl to be a secretary – wrong, Pop.
I’m still the teenager who dressed in her best black suit and heels to see the Beatles at the Baltimore Civil Center.
I’m still the young mother dressing her daughter in homemade Halloween costumes.
I’m still the woman struggling with raising that daughter alone while maintaining a career.
I’m still the woman who cried over lost loves –men who left her through death or their own devices.
I’m still the woman who cared for her mother and was with her father when he died.
I’m still the woman who battled cancer twice and won.
I’m still that girl, that teenager, that young mother – that woman.
I guess that’s how I got to be 58.

Will you still need me? Will you still feed me when I’m sixty-four? Lennon/McCartney

The Men in My Life

Because I said I was going to do this: This is about Dave and Jeff and Jay.
Now Dave and Jeff googled “PennMed” – the name of our company - and found this blog. Not a big stretch since I’ve used my real name and have written about work.
And if Dave and Jeff know something – so does Jay – so I’m including him in all of this.

And is it sad that the men in my life are at least 15 years younger and are my coworkers?

Not at all.

I have lovely conversations with these guys without any of the “messy” things that go with having “a man in my life.”

So to Dave and Jeff . . . and Jay: In the words of Mae West, "Hello, boys."

Just because I said I would.

Which Book?

I have a dilemma - which book do I start to work on?
I've given myself a goal - get one done before March and grab and agent appointment at the PLRW/VFRW Workshop in Reading. I’m writing two novels: "The Change" and "Elizabeth Peacock and the Body on Abbey Road."

The Change: A mainstream novel about three women from different backgrounds who discover that, as they reach menopause, are developing supernatural powers. Each has experienced events that have led them to women’s center where they met, learn each other’s story and decide to take revenge on the men who betrayed.

Elizabeth Peacock: A first person novel – Jessica Fletcher meets Kolchak the NightStalker (the original). A widow who needs to find a job but dreams of being a reporter and keeps getting caught up in paranormal experiences that are also being investigated by almost-retired Police Detective Dan Reno.

I love both concepts and all the characters. But unfortunately there is also the novella: The Dragon’s Vow. This is a paranormal romantica that I’m writing in hopes of Ellora’s Cave publishing it. A hereditary witch must keep her identity a secret or suffer the fate of her mother – being burned at the stake. However, there is another secret that she doesn’t know – she must remain a virgin because she’s been betrothed to the Laird, a shapeshifting dragon. If she loses her virginity, there will be no marriage and the Laird has vowed to destroy the village, as the dragon, and lay waste the surrounding land to revenge the curse the old witch placed on him.

Decisions – decisions – decisions.

I guess I’ll just have to work on them all.

Another Fantasy

Now I want an RV - self-contained small RV - the kind that's a bit bigger than a large van.

I want to have a laptop with wireless connection.
I want my CDs.
I want my books.
I want my cats (all three of them).
I want to travel with all of the above in my little RV.

I want to write about the people and places I see.
I want to blog as I go.
I want to visit historic sites and cemetaries.
I want to go to National Parks and sit under huge trees and by calm lakes.
I want to take pictures.
I want to take names and make friends.

And in my RV everynight I can go to sleep surrounded by the things that give me comfort: my books, my music, my cats - and, with my wireless-ready laptop, my family and friends.

Talk about having it all!

A Different View

To paraphrase the great Jimmy Buffet: "Change in attitude; change in altitude."

I'm not a beach bunny; I'm a mountain momma. So I need altitude instead of latitude.

Traveling across Pennsylvania this week along the turnpike, I saw the fall changes coloring the mountains. Splashes of red, yellow and orange intermixed with the still green trees.

I remember one year, long ago, when I visited Mom and Dad in West Virginia, I looked up at the mountain near their apartment and for a moment thought it was on fire - the colors were so bright, reflecting the light of the slanted autumn sun.

Driving from Easton to Pittsburgh along the turnpike or I80 reminds me of the ride to West Virginia - a trip I would make frequently each year. But October was my favorite time in the mountains - especially when Mom and Dad still lived in the old, clapboard house in the "haller" in Purgittsville. One hundred and ten acres of mountain and trees. A cleared light line that brought their electricity was the only cleared area outside of the flat land surrounding the house.

I remember the smell of the woods, clear and clean. The skittering of little animals under the leaves. The call of geese overhead as they head south. The crackle of the fire in the kitchen cookstove - burning wood scent filling the small house.

My parents were fortunate enough to retire early - sell their house in Maryland and move to my father's family homestead. The land had been in his family for more than one hundred years. The house had been built right after the Civil War and had been empty for years. Mom and Dad cleaned it up, put in electric, running water and eventually an indoor bathroom. I have fond memories of Dad's prefab outhouse that he built in Maryland and carted to West Virginia.

My daughter spent several summers in the mountains with her grandparents. There was only one television channel so my eight year old read and learned how to crochet, fish and embroider - when she wasn't watching "Beekeeping for Beginners."

When my father was on his good behavior, visits to the mountain retreat were glorious.
When Pop was in rare form, the mountains were a respite.

The mountains call to me this time of year - whether they're West Virginia mountains or Pennsylvania mountains.

Traveling to Pittsburgh for work sometimes feels like going home.

Another day - another lesson

Sometimes I really wonder why I do what I do – career, job-wise.
When I’m doing a mock survey – or even at other times when I’m in facilities – I have to stand and walk for long periods. Some nights it feels as if my spine is going to accordion onto itself. Other nights, like two weeks ago, back and leg pain can be almost debilitating. And then there’s the fact that many weeks I’m staying in hotel rooms far from home.

It’s not easy being the “maven” of all long term care regulations. It’s not easy reading months worth of documentation from four or five different disciplines and try to make some sense of it all. It’s not easy telling people, who are working very hard at a difficult job, that they’re doing some things wrong. It’s not easy being the one those people think has all the answers on how to fix things.

And it’s certainly not easy being a nurse and wanting to do everything for everyone and at the same time being a fiscally-responsible corporate person. I know what staff in nursing homes are worth – we just can’t pay them that much (it all hinges on what the government – Medical Assistance and Medicare – pays us).

So, sometimes it ain’t easy being Mitzi.

Except when I meet ladies like Linda and Anna.

In my environmental tours of the buildings, I walk into many rooms (after knocking and asking permission, even if the resident is unresponsive) and I chat with many residents (not “patients” because we’re working in their “home”). My first lovely lady was named Linda who quickly told me that her roommate would not talk to me. I could see that immediately but, thinking, “Ah-ha. Maybe this resident is lonely. Super QA Nurse to the rescue!” I walked over to Linda and touch her hand (Note to self: subject for another blog entry- how we distance ourselves from the human touch and what it could mean in the future). Very sympathetic-empathically, I asked, “Would you like a roommate you could talk to.” Linda, apparently still suffering from a long-ago stroke, gave me a crooked smile and said emphatically, “No.” I gotcha, lady. Quiet and almost a private room. I left chuckling to myself – after I checked the floor, ceiling, walls and bathroom, of course.

And then there was Anna. I didn’t know her name, but I kept seeing this woman sitting in the hallway – in a wheelchair, of course. (“Little old lady with white hair and glasses sitting in a wheelchair” is not a good description). I couldn’t see the lady’s face because she had it hidden – inside the neck of her bright pink sweatshirt. I stopped by her several times during the day, patted her hand and asked her questions – with no sensible replies.
One my last walk-about, I stopped by her wheelchair, gently pulled her hands down (she was holding the neck of the shirt around her face) and said, “What’s your name?” She looked up at me and smiled, “Anna,” she said. “That’s my sister’s name,” I answered. For a moment, a very brief moment, I could see a spark of reality in her eyes. But it was quickly gone and the sweatshirt pulled up over her face again. On impulse I leaned over and kissed the top of her head. (Note to self: Really MUST write that entry about human touch).

I sometimes wonder “who” I will be if I’m lucky to live long enough to get to a nursing home – excuse me: skilled nursing facility. Linda or Anna.

I went back to my little room in the busy hallway. Went back to read mountains of documentation and physician orders. Went back, but thought about Linda and Anna.
As I tried to finish up the day’s work, I heard a plaintive voice come from outside the lounge where I worked. “I cry everyday. I cry everyday. I cry everyday.”

It was almost five so I packed up my briefcase, promising that I would not be the one who says, “I cry everyday . . . .”

So I do this job – why?
Good salary.
Good people.
Good lessons.

Hurley for President

For those of you living in a vacuum (or who say, "I only watch PBS" - ahem), Hurley is the overweight, lottery-winning young man who's the heart and soul of the ABC phenom "Lost".

Now, I'm a Lost fan - not to the point of trying to figure out ALL the plot points, twists and turns - but to the point of recognizing great writing, plot, and characters.

And my favorite character (even more than . . .yes, I'll say it . . .even more than Sawyer) is Hurley.

I "heart" Hurley because he makes the very best choices that are based on what is best for all of the castaways.

Last night Hurley decided not to blow up a found cache of food - real food, candy bars and potato chips real. But he also did not want to be the "keeper of the food." (What a great character arc - giving the obese Hurley control of the food - good job, writers!). He had first hand knowledge of what it would like to have control over a lot of what other people want (Hurley's backstory is as a lottery-winner - a big lottery). So Hurley, in the Hurley-wisdom we Lostnicks have come to love, decides to give all the food out to all the survivors at once - a grand feast - a celebration of each other's perseverance. A celebration of life on their little planet-island.

So - what is the lesson in this? (Note to self: There's a book in all this - The Wisdom of Hurley)
In abundance, it is better to share it with all, than to parcel it out bit by slow bit.

Jimmy Carter (Remember him? The most intelligent President until a Rhodes scholar named Bill) had a similar idea. Use our national wealth to give every poor family $10K a year (a large figure in the 1970s) to use as they needed. Of course it was never made a law - we Americans must pull ourselves up by our bootstraps - even if we have no bootstraps.

Jimmy and Hurley.
Good men with good ideas. Too bad our planet-island is not ready for them.

There are no coincidences

I found the following quote in a spiritual newsletter right after I wrote my last entry.

For one who is in the habit of constantly honoring and respecting the elders, four blessings increase—age, beauty, bliss, and strength.

-Dhammapada 109

A Big Difference

I drove across the state and did not spend a night in agony.

A difference two weeks makes or is it:
1. The 60 – 70 miles less of driving
2. Better weather
3. Better attitude
4. Going straight to the hotel and not the facility for “an hour tour”

I think it’s a combination of all of the above but specifically Number 3. I’ve decided that each day is precious, no matter what I’m doing and each person is precious, no matter whom I’m with.

Just a simple attitude adjustment. I recommend it hightly.

Making a Schedule of a "Fantasy"

Ah, that title sounds very suggestive – but it’s not – not at all.

Pattie and I were discussing writing fulltime as we traveled down I78 home this morning. I’ve decided if I ever have the chance to be a “stay at home” writer, I would work on a schedule. I would make my daily routine as if I were still in the “normal” workforce. I would write every morning, read in the afternoon and then use my evenings for other interests. I would probably write at least five days a week.

I know I would need a schedule. I know I would need a deadline. If I didn't have a schedule and/or deadlines, I would be too easily distracted. The shiny object lying in the middle of the lawn diverts my attention – it’s the crow in me. There are too many things that interest me. I want to research the historical until I know everything about Arthur, Gettysburg, the Burning Times. I wanted to read every new cozy mystery until I can find my own voice. I want to search all author websites for ideas and inspirations. And that’s not even acknowledging the call of the wild – the pull of nature and my need just to sit outside and absorb everything around me.

I think I’ll listen to Stephen King’s On Writing again – he’s always been an inspiration.

I want to stoke the fire in my belly, as Juilene would say. I want to make writing a daily part of my “normal” routine.

Back from the Writers Conference . . .

. . . and what did I learn?
The craft of writing, the business of writing, the profession of writing, the joy of being around other writers.

My battery has been recharged and I am planning to have at least one WIP completed by the VFRW/PLRW workshop in Reading, PA in March. I will ask for an agent appointment and I will send her either the partial or the whole damn thing - if she asks for the WDT.

If not now, when?

Reality Check

I remember "Panuuch" - that's what we called her. Kathy Panuccio, a cute, bright, bubbly young woman - a physical therapist that I worked with at Easton Hospital and then with the Visiting Nurse Association. I just read Kathy’s obituary in today’s paper – “died peacefully at home” is what it said. “Cancer,” I thought. And then I saw her age – 54 – I knew her when we were both much younger – more than twenty years ago – with new families and relatively new jobs. Younger than me but still my contemporary and now she’s gone. The picture of her in the obit was one of a refined woman. The one in my head is one of a whirling dervish, blonde hair flying, laughing as she talked with and treated her patients.

Panuuch died.
Kathy had not been a part of my professional circle for many years. But I remember her fondly.

Panuuch died.
At the age of 54. Reality check for me. I don’t know what the future may hold. The most important thing is to make the most of the present.

Off to a Writers Conference

Pattie and I are on our way to New Jersey Romance Writers Conference today - considered one of the top writers conferences in the country - no matter what genre you write.

A note about "romance" - it's not bodice-ripping and it's the largest part of commercial (meaning the authors get paid advances and royalties) fiction. So no snickering. I've learned more about ficiton writing since I joined Romance Writers of America, than I learned in any other organization. One of the top RWA member-authors is Jenny Crusie with a PhD - so there!

I love writing - as you can tell by the number of entries here.

But NJRW has become a jinx to me: Last year I received requests from agents and editors for manuscripts. Back at home I called my BF to give him the good news. He seemed to be less than enthusiastic, almost as if he wanted to get me off the phone. I called him back and the rest is blog history - we broke up because he couldn't decide if he wanted to or not. That sent my "writing for submission" into a tailspin and I stalled out. I am trying to come back - writing wise. BF-wise: I've decided I don't need or want one of those enigmas.

So this year - I ain't talking to no editors or agents - no appointments. I'm enjoying the conference and being with writer-friends.

And enjoying some quality time with my sister - we certainly need it.

Deleting an Entry

Sometimes you just gotta practice what you preach.
Sometimes peace and harmony are more important than your sterling words of wisdom.
So in the interest of the afore-mentioned peace and harmony, I've deleted entries.

I'm not afraid of anyone - just weary of controversy or non-controversy.

I am moving on to what is really important in my life - my family (two-legged and four-legged), my friends, my beliefs, my writing and my profession - whether it was my chosen one or not.

And because I've been quoting Lennon and McCartney lately:
"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."

"Just like starting over . . ."

No one who knows me should be surprised at the Lennon lyrics. Least of all me. Beatle and Lennon tunes have been swirling around in my brain for more than 40 (awk!) years. But lately I seem to be able to relate the scenes of my life to each one of their songs.

As I drove home Friday evening, hitting I78 doing 80 mph, sunroof open and the Fab Four blaring, I could feel my spirits lift. Part of it was that I was moving east on I78 and not west. Part of it was the music. It was joyous, sad, harmonious and dissonate - all at once, representing the times of their lives and mine. From "Please Please Me" to "A Day in the Life."

There is always something in a culture that defines one's life. For me it's the music of John, Paul, George, and Ringo - collectively and (after the break-up) separately. There is a song for every mood in my life. There are songs that bring back the memories of "I was ___ when I first heard . . ." I will probably travel to the Summerland to the strains of "Ob-La-Di-Ob-La-Da."

But tonight it's John's love song to Yoko - about starting over - that drifts in and out of my thoughts. I wrote a Johnism in an earlier entry: "Today is the first day of the rest of your life."

We start over every day we wake up.

Back to work tomorrow. Back to a stack of paperwork, unanswered phone and email messages. Back to problems that have sat for a week while I traveled. I have decided that problems at and with work will not define my day, my week, my month. My work does not define who I really am.

It will feel like I'm starting over and I will start all over - again. And that's good.

Happy Birthday, Blog!

This month you have turned one year.

You have been my lifeline to my writing when the words for my books wouldn't come.

When I needed to write something - anything, you were there. When I needed to vent, you were there. When I wanted to cry or laugh about my life, you were there.

Happy Birthday. Blog. This month you are One.
Blow out the candles on your cake. Poke pudgy little fingers in the icing. Smile stickily for your picture. And remember: Momma loves you.

And so it continues . . .

The New York Times today (October 1, 2o05) reports that the Bush Administration's buying of news is considered propaganda and therefore a violation of a ban on such government activities.

All I can think about as I read this is: We impeached Clinton for lying about an affair. And we are letting this bunch continue to run our country. Where is the public outcry? Where are our "leaders"? Are people so afraid to be labeled unpatriotic, that they are not speaking out on the flagrant misuse of power that has been so evident since GW was elected?

We listen to the incoherent testimony of the former president of an Arabian show horse club and FEMA head to the radioed rascist remarks by a Bush the Father cabinet member and we are still silent.

We have become a country of wusses, allowing our rights, our dignity and out pocketbooks to be stripped because we are afraid to speak out against such outright malfeasance and stupidity. We are afraid because the crooks and incompetents are wrapping themselves in the flag and carrying a Christian cross (all other religions beware). And everything this administration has done, has been unpatriotic and very, very, very unChristian.

I will continue to blog my outrage and I will continue to vote for a competent and caring government.

I hope that wherever I am in 200 hundred years I will be able to read history's view of this administration. The Age of Incompetents. Or as I like to say: The Age of A--holes.