brain dump

My father had an accident that resulted in a concussion. The resulting palsy is expected to last for three weeks, during which he must try not to submit to a work-related physical examination. It was not a work-related accident (nor was it related to traffic or heavy equipment,) and his previous physical is technically still current, having been less than two years ago, so he should be fine in that regard. Even so, it is contributing to a stressful situation for my family that nobody can do anything about at the present time.

All I can do about it is stress and feel helpless or think about something else.

Meanwhile, my sister is being harassed by my neighbors. If you recall, she is house sitting for me. She blames me for the behavior of neighbors who cut through the property, get into her car, knock on the door and behave unpleasantly, and break and enter the house!

This is apparently what happens when a person (such as my sister in her present condition) is devoid of all social status. I deplore the whole idea of social status, but I'm forced to observe it at times, by way of protecting myself. For example, I feel the need to make it clear that I own the house. This imbues me with status, which is an important tool for getting idiots to respect me. (One never wants idiots to disrespect him or her!!!) By contrast, home ownership does not affect my own self-image, because it's only a superficial matter of material wealth, which can never make someone any more or less of a person. Case in point: John the Baptist. Another: Jesus Christ. In fact, I would go so far as to say that material wealth by itself doesn't reflect on an individual in any way. Only vice, virtue and personality -- words, thoughts and deeds, reflect on the individual.


About an hour ago I got an annoying phone call from a friend. He wanted to talk and not listen. Every time I tried to respond constructively to his suggestions he cut me off!


I need to remember to get some Holy Basil (herbal stress remedy.) Maybe then I won't be so uptight.


Today I've been working on (editing) John's manuscript. (Yes, I have part time work! God be thanked!) My excuse for doing this on the sabbath is that my sister is in need and that, rather than allowing John to pay me for today's work, I will ask instead that he send the money to her. The manuscript itself is stimulating material; some of the ideas that he addresses merit their own post. This is a guy who lacks the historic perspective of someone who has been in the United States for a very long time. He doesn't know our language very well, nor our vernacular. He hasn't witnessed the evolution of American English Vernacular. He goes on for a very long time expressing what in our language should be a very brief passage. I told him that one of the particular virtues of English is its tendency to evolve and embrace new concepts, something that had seemed to annoy him.


My aunt also had an accident that resulted in a concussion. Get well soon, everyone! And me? I've just got to get past the stress.


P.S. Friends, if I have your url, I have added your blog to my blog list at the bottom of the page. This will help me to keep abreast of everyone's blogs. If you don't see yours, please send the url. Thanks.

sex and the real me

I admit it. Lately I've been thinking about sex, probably because I'm ovulating. At least I think I'm ovulating, as evidenced by pesky thoughts of sex. I'm a virgin. Some people think it's because I've been brainwashed or because I've accepted other peoples' values and appropriated them for myself. Well, these people don't give me much credit, do they? My chastity, beliefs and opinions about sexuality are part of my core; I would not be myself without them.

To have sex out of wedlock would be unacceptable to me, since sex is by nature a total giving of oneself. How can a person give himself or herself *totally* to someone who is not his/her spouse? It would either be a lie or a holding back of part of the implicit gift.

Some people wonder why I didn't marry, or why I don't plan on it. All I can say is, it's no easy thing for two people to love one another so deeply and completely as to merit marriage. What if, among the billions, a person finds someone that he loves. Now, how likely is that person to love the first person back? It's not just a matter of deciding what you want and penciling it into your life as though life were a 2-D schematic on a drawing board.

I think people need to loosen up and let me be myself.

De Day Start Okey-Day II (continued from last post)

Ah,yes, back to my time with Kyle and the hours that followed. I met Kyle at a job interview on Tuesday, gave him his first guitar lesson on Wednesday; and this is the account of today, Thursday. By now (8:17 PM) I'm pretty tired, and the only thing keeping me alert is the task at hand, writing.

By the time Kyle dropped me off at today's (Thursday's, as opposed to Tuesday's) job interview I was pretty uncomfortable, dirty and grimy from the dust at Goodwill. I washed my face in the lavatory. The interview was nothing to write home about. (Let me take this opportunity to remind myself to start the followup email to this interview with, "Thank you for your time this afternoon.") When I left I felt deflated and anxious. This company, a placement agency, wasn't offering all that I had thought. Bad news about the economy (including the content of this morning's radio program) saddened and frightened me. I decided not to go directly home. An ice cream cone at the dock might cheer me up.

As I approached the dock, I met a man with a guitar and asked if he could give me good advice for fifty cents. He seemed amenable but I didn't have change after all so I gave him a dollar. For this he told me all about busking in the dock area -- good, valuable information -- so I gave him another dollar. Homeless, Ken was a self-confessed alcoholic and toker. And what of it? He still needed to make a living, and this was valuable information, so I felt justified in the matter of the two bucks. He himself made $50 - $100 per night busking the dock; and he indicated that I could expect to do much better. I played him a song and offered to buy him ice cream. He asked for fries instead, which I fetched back to him from a restaurant across the street. While waiting at said restaurant I chatted briefly with a stranger and gave him my card. (Yes, I chatted with friendly strangers today. Take *that,* Mindy's Mom! -- see "In a Little Cafe," a recent post.)

After delivering the fries and taking my leave of Ken, I found myself chatting with a stranger who was about to embark on a kyaking adventure, a prelude to a much headier trip to ... uh... was it St. John's Bay? I can't remember exactly, but maybe he will write in and remind me, as I did give him my card. His backpack looked to be heavier than the man himself. I told him about two guys who failed to return to their rendez-vous after setting off in a tiny plane with two heavy backpacks like that. (They should have seen that coming. I sure could!)

People on the bus were affable and chatty, and I was feeling much better. Between bus rides I practiced the vocal aspect of my music under cover of the din of traffic. Upon finding the ice cream parlor open, I decided to end practice and indulge in the ice cream. One can hardly sing after eating ice cream. Six ounces (a modest scoop) of coffe ice cream is a diet-friendly portion of very effective comfort food. Then it was back on the bus and on to the library, where I wrote the previous post.

De Day Start Okey-Day

Shades of a certain day in 1972 when my writing jones kept me from going out to play. It's a beautiful day at the lake, but my impressions of the day's adventures begged to be written about first.

At 9 AM my friend called me. I dozed twice, then recieved him and offered him a home-cooked breakfast. As I expected, as we'd planned, he offered me brunch "out" instead. I offered to pay but, as I expected, he insisted on taking the tab. We both knew I couldn't afford much of anything, but that would not have kept me from paying for brunch today. Because today I was resolved to have a serious talk with my friend -- we'll call him Kyle, and I didn't expect him to like what I had to say. Then again, I didn't expect him to prevail against what I had to say, which is what ended up happening, for better or for worse.

Last night I suffered a good deal of anxiety over the whole idea of this divorced man taking such a liking to me. I'm a Christian and a Catholic. If I understand this matter correctly then, in the divine reckoning, Kyle's ex-wife is in fact his wife, and for him to regard me the way he does won't do. It makes me feel guilty. At the same time, I'm all keyed up and full of myself because somebody likes me. Last night I discussed it with Russ, who agreed that I should stop keeping company with Kyle. I said to Russ that I generally don't mind taking the role of muse; but the fact that Kyle was divorced made the difference. But Russ wasn't giving me that much credit. "I'm a good muse!" I protested, "I'm good to the people who like me." He said that, yes, I was, but that this kind of situation was a temptation to me because I was prone to enjoy it too much. I'll allow that, I guess.

So I got in Kyle's van and he started driving east. Now, the job interview to which he was driving me was south of my apartment, as was the restaurant (Baranoff) which would have been a natural choice for brunch. When I asked where he was going he replied to my dismay, "McDonalds." When I wouldn't have that, his next try was Jack-In-The-Box. Now, I had offered him healthful food at home, so I was well within my rights to nix both of the above. We turned southward, the bad news on the radio dampenening my mood (more about that later, perhaps.)

I told him about my resolution, which was difficult because at first he didn't understand. He thought it was about the way he treated me. But at length I managed to convey that, in the context of his marriage, it was the disposition of his heart that really counted. He agreed to keep his heart true to his wife, but asked that I not refrain from keeping him company since she had left him all alone and he needed a friend to talk to. It wasn't what I had planned, but I decided to keep our friendship.

Please, dear reader, don't get me wrong. As far as I'm concerned, people can love me or be attracted to me all they want -- unless they already have a wife; then it's no good.

By now we were pretty far south, near the port of Seattle. We finally settled on brunch at Denny's. I should not have been surprised when he suggested splitting a Grand Slam breakfast. "I eat small," he explained. Not a bad idea, I must confess! I didn't miss the luxury of a big breakfast.

At brunch, the conversation went from food to diet, and I had to admit that eschewing junk food may or may not have enhanced or protected my health. Kyle allowed he'd eat anything under the sun. Has he had the expected circulatory problems? Yes. Have I had the [in my case unexpected] circulatory problems? God be thanked; I have not. Does this mean that I'm right, he's wrong and I have gloating rights? No, you really can't tell for sure. But I'm sticking to my guns on the one hand, and remembering gratitude toward my maker on the other. I imagine there are people who do all the right things and sink; while others do all the wrong things and swim.

Kyle took me (we joked that he Shang Hai'd me) to his familiar haunts. He spent an hour picking through a Goodwill store, purchasing things for both of us. I think he appreciated the humor when I said, "You have to be really bored to hang out at a place like this." I don't know what he's going to do with all the stuff he got for himself. At one point he showed me what looked like candle holders and asked what they were for, to which I replied, "They're for dusting. When you dust your apartment, you dust those too." He put them back. I'm sure he appreciated the humor there too.

One thing I appreciated about Goodwill that morning is that they played 70's music on the public address system -- the music of the heyday of America -- while peddling the old junk of America. It was archaeology with ambiance. Bye-bye, America. I hope Barack Obama can save us.

[to be continued next post]

The Way I Remember Arabee

Regardless of what James Joyce actually wrote, this is how I remember "Arabee" from the high school English class: The girl gets stood up. The girl gets stood up because the boy figures out that she's not going to put out.

I felt like that was happening to me right and left. I felt like people didn't really like me for myself; they were just interested in what they could get from me. When I got stood up today I fumed a little, thinking it was more of the same. But just now I got a phone call saying that my friend had fallen asleep and that he would come over just as soon as he could get here, in a few minutes.

I still think that "Arabee" is a stupid story and that a lot of the people I took for friends were more selfish than I had supposed. But it's nice to know that company is coming after all.

In a Little Cafe

I'll call it Mindy's, though that's not the actual name of it. I never quite fit in at Mindy's the way I did at the other cafes. Mindy herself was more than a little stand-offish, although her employee Rachel was warm and kind. Over time, I gently reached out to Mindy until there was some rapport, but it only went so far.

It soon came to pass that Mindy could no longer afford to employ anyone and her cafe was manned solely by herself and her family. Often I would patronize the concern only to find myself in a tight space dominated by a family picnic that made no effort to embrace me, as though I had paid $6.00 for tea, cake and a slender gratuity and not for the customary friendly ambiance of a Seattle cafe. It was hard to take, and it encouraged me to make my best effort to reach out one last time today. It wasn't pointed, and I didn't get the feeling that it had anything to do with me when, after a time, the family vacated the building and sat down at a picnic table outside. In fact, a little girl invited me to come out and sit with them, but when I did her grandmother intoned at me, "Generally an official invitation comes from an adult, not from a seven-year-old!" I went back in to find Mindy at her table working at a computer. I said, "I'll give you guys an extra tip to smooth things over." She said, "OK." I put the dollar in the cup. I said, "I think I really annoyed your mother," and quickly related the tale. "I don't feel like I can come back, at least not while she's around," I concluded. Mindy encouraged me to ignore her mother's behavior, which was a kind enough gesture to make me wonder if I might return after all, if only for a token coffee to go.

But the truth is, it's not just about some cantankerous old lady; the whole ambiance of the place is cliquish and cold. Eating there is like trying to sit with the mean girls in high school. I don't want to blame Mindy because (a) I kind of like Mindy and (b) as her mother's daughter she must have made some effort to learn to be more open, gregarious and -- let's face it -- better mannered than the tree that dropped the apple. But I don't relish subjecting myself to that atmousphere when, for a mile's walk, I can enjoy a welcoming atmousphere at her competitors' shoppes.

When it comes to cliquish behavior, there are two camps. My camp tells children, "Never play games where someone else is left out." I'm getting a certain impression about the other camp, the one that cranks out people like Mindy's mom. I think that they are seldom heard from in the context of this kind of conversation (a) because they're caught up in their own cliques, relatively unconcerned with strangers and their ongoing global conversations and (b) because by nature they're fragmented into little cliques, disinclined to present a united front on any issue. Instead, it's my camp who portrays the other, in movies like the aforementioned "Mean Girls" and "Revenge of the Nerds."

If you want to hear from a cliquish person you have to be friends with one. And I actually do have a friend like that, so I can get his insight on it. (The insight is basically that he doesn't want the responsibility of admitting everyone into his sphere of relevance.) But when he ignores someone I don't go along with it.

The divisive nature of this issue is so pronounced as to produce a curious situation in my old neighborhood in Pennsylvania. It seems that there is one YMCA where people go to stick with their own posse, and another where people say it's not like that and they can go there to socialize. It's like one culture rules one space and another domitates the other.

Twilight and Nicola

I think those are called stratus clouds. The twilight is particularly lovely tonight. If I had some warm, honeyed green tea right now I could nurse the illusion of drinking in the western sky.

The family is in a better position now, which isn't to say they're out of the woods. They're hard pressed but not hopeless. God be thanked! Perhaps He will send more help. Maybe eventually I can help too. But in the meantime I can turn my attention back to myself somewhat. Introspection is a lot of what blogs are supposed to be. If not, why not just read the newspaper?

Speaking of the newspaper, I clicked right out of it tonight because there was a big to-do about bad news -- huge levels of personal debt prevalent among Americans. Maybe someday I will have the guts and fortitude to read it, but not now, in this beautiful twilight, while I have the apartment to myself all quiet and nice.

-------------------


I know a man whose charm I only understand with my heart. Intellectually, I can't quite figure it out. He's very smart, cute, funny and adventurous. But these things can be said of many people. Why did my heart cathect to this man and not the others?

Ah, Nicola. Two years ago I already knew that we weren't in a relationship per se. Yes, we'd hit it off and all that, made eyes, spent an enchanting three days together, but no romance resulted. Two years ago I thought the deal was that Nicola found the idea of having a relationship with me to be impractical. In that regard I was right. But I also thought that in spite of the impracticalities he still liked me and that there was hope for the distant future. And then he told me I was wrong about that. "I had a crush on you in school, and I certainly had a crush on you on your [recent January] birthday, but I don't anymore."

Before I heard this I was a glowing, strong and healthy girl. My senses were heightened. Food tasted better. The countryscape near my house was fragrant, musical and visually delicious. I lost a little weight. Life was nice. I looked forward to getting to know this person, this muse, even though I knew I couldn't really have him. In March I visited him in his native Washington, D.C. and was treated to kissing privileges and the opportunity to give him a seated massage in a crowded coffeehouse. Before I kissed him I asked if kissing might be off the table because we had [already] decided not to become involved with one another. He smiled (a beautiful smile) and said, "You're looking for rules where there are none." (Don't you love him too?)

I don't know when he stopped having a crush on me, or why. I'm just glad he told me that part in September instead of May. Had he pulled the plug in the spring, my enchanted summer would have instead been a time of grief and sorrow. September is more like a really good time to begin the grieving process. To a very large extent, over the following months, I got over Nicola. Not completely -- I don't think that's going to happen. But I ceased to be utterly besotted by him. That's when it seems like my metabolism "turned like a leaf," as I like to put it. It sucks to get over someone.

But Nicola is a man of mystery, so he maintained a presence in my mind in the form of questions. I didn't find answers to the questions, but there emerged a picture of Nicola himself that I really admire and like. He's still in my heart, balmy and gentle. We write to one another, too. And for my birthday this year he called me on the phone.

Nicola opines that it's not healthy for me to think about him. But my roommate Russ, who knows me pretty well, thinks that it's good for me to think about Nicola. I tend to agree. Still, as a Christian I wonder, might God want me to put the picture of forbidden fruit out of my mind? In today's sermon, the priest pointed out that sometimes things are forbidden to us because they are bad for us. So maybe, for the same reason that being with Nicola might have been bad for me (or for him,) just thinking about him in the context of what didn't happen between us could also be bad or harmful? There might be something to that. So just in case, it might help for me to shift more of my focus away from the forbidden fruit aspect of my muse. There's so much else to enjoy, like the thought of the man himself with his charmed, intelligent eyes and genuine smile, or the memory of a magical time spent together. That much I did truly have, so I feel it is still mine to enjoy. I don't have to dwell on the part I can't have.

Please don't think that our "magical time" was about sex, because that's not the case. We didn't do it. I'm a virgin. When Nicola left my house after those three days he, too, was a virgin, and, for all I know, he still is. I don't believe in non-marital sex, and I could (and probably will) write a whole post about just that. This is not the occasion for that post, but I wanted to point out the situation lest you get the wrong idea. (Russ said, "You didn't #*@! him?? Is this guy still *talking* to you?" which I think is funny.)

Next time I blog about Nicola, I want to talk about the mysteries.

Family Saved by New Jobs

Suffice it to say, I think my family is going to squeak through the summer with less damage than we had feared. Now I can stick my head back up my butt where a writer's head belongs (only half kidding.)

Letter to Hotel Magnate

The following is a pared-down edit of a letter I sent this spring profiling a little pipe dream that needed to find its way into the right hands:




Dear [hotel magnate,]

[I have an idea for you.] … Before I tell you my idea, I beg you to view any difficulties that may be involved as challenges to put new solutions to old problems. Please don’t take the problems that tore down other peoples’ projects as an edict that no such thing will ever work. I believe strongly that there is a way if you will but find it.

OK, my idea is: Please build one of your wonderful hotels as a sanctuary for a community of refugees. What do refugees need? They need food, clothing, shelter and medical care; but they also need a way to get back on their feet in time to pursue their dreams and make their own contributions. One lady in a refugee camp said to the press, “All I can do is sit here and watch my youth rot.” I never forgot the quote, although I have long forgotten who said it and where. (Imagine how she would feel knowing that her remark helped inspire you to help someone in her situation.)

I think that you and your staff could conceivably work out a way to meet the needs of a sizeable community in a way that would actually pay back the monetary outlay and eventually sustain itself. Imagine helping a displaced population to construct their own communal or cooperative residence, replete with air-conditioned offices, home suites, classrooms, solar panels down the south side, space for crops, a wind farm atop a green roof with a swimming pool, a community cafeteria with the services of a staff nutritionist – and land title!

What would you bet that the buzz alone could defray the cost of the pilot effort? And when residents started launching their own enterprises they could eventually take over the operating expenses of the whole project, especially with the support of eager corporate sponsors and partners.

Now, I’m not suggesting that anyone approach a shell-shocked group of people and “make everyone work.” You always get a mixed bag. Some will take years to recover to the point of functionality, while others will be desperate for a way to apply their efforts to bettering their situation on the day that you first meet them.

If you do this project, I submit that you will teach society some important lessons to which it has only recently become receptive. That is why I believe that precisely which community and which individuals you decide to include in the pilot effort is maybe not as important as the idea that you start somewhere, on behalf of the world, so that we as a society can learn these timely lessons about how we can and should treat one another on this planet. Moreover, I’m certain that most displaced persons would agree…

[finis]

Starving Relatives

It was earier this month, around the 10th maybe, that I discovered that some of my people back east are having a hard time with this "recession" (euphemism.) Why fill in the blanks? Why say more? Part of me wants to discuss it and part of me doesn't. Suffice it to say that ... I can't go there! They're just having an awful hard time.

Rather, it is my own reaction to their situation that I feel the need to discuss, so here goes. Part of my reaction at first was fear and anxiety. I also sent what little money I could to my sister and wished I could send much more. I asked a Church to help but she doesn't want to talk to the pastor. I put off a topic I'd wanted to explore in my blog (namely, the whole Nicola thing) because it paled in significance next to the immediate reality of my loved ones.

The sequence of events blurs, but it seems to me that the first ray of hope came when I hatched a plan to get some money -- busking (street performing) with my guitar. Then I had a good day and chalked it up to God's help or biorhythm or both. Then I practiced until I got up what seemed like a half hour's worth of material. Then I picked a lousy spot and got no donations except a guitar case and a box wherewith to collect monetary donations. To clarify, these items were donated to me as I walked the 2.5 miles from my apartment to the "lousy spot." There are good spots to be had in Seattle, but I'm told they require a permit. I actually had a good time performing and I didn't do a half bad job, but this isn't a story about my adventures in music; it's an exploration of my reaction to some particularly bad news about my family.

To resume, then, I learned that busking requires an expensive amount of patience, trial and error. It is not the quickest way to make a buck to send back home. Today I went back to looking for jobs and you can bet I'm looking at jobs I would not have considered when I first came to Seattle looking for stepping stones toward a career. (For those who haven't known me long, I've been working clerical jobs through a number of temporary employment agencies, but these dried up in the spring.)

Russ just stirred and turned the TV on loud, so I'll have to wrap this up soon. I guess I've said enough. Let me add; please don't expect me to be thoroughly forthcoming about just how poor I am. I may hint at it but I don't see any reason to be tortuously exhaustive about it. The good news in that regard is that I still own the tiny house on a wooded lot that I bought for the price of a car in better times in Pennsylvania. My sister occupies that right now, and, in her condition, that is very good news for her too.

I hope that later on I will get a chance to talk about my family's experience of the 1980 recession.

The Word of Yesterday was Gore

Sorry to have such a brief post; but I felt that this short, sweet item deserved its own post. Al Gore spoke for the many whose reaction to recent debate about the future of energy was that we can and must green up our act now, and quickly, by saying, in essence, "Absolutely. I've done the homework." I hope we go with Gore's plan. Don't look at me; I don't have a dime. But I'll do what I can as a voter, a blogger, and a small-time consumer to support a necessary and workable solution.

The Cambodian Wife

A friend was going on about a roommate she had had who was paying alimony to an ex-wife in Cambodia. "He's stupid!" she nearly spat with contempt, "To make a deal like that..." When I figured out what she was saying, I was the one who was scandalized. She was saying that the man should have known better than to marry such a poor woman! And I was soooo surprised at my friend because, if the love of my life turned out to be a poor Cambodian I would still jump at the chance to marry him. Love trumps every practical consideration.

Russ saw this coming

Sunday Russ and I were motoring down to Tacoma to see his mother. He said he thought the economy was going to get worse before it was going to get better. I asked about the surge in confidence we would get from Obama's ascendence; and he answered that it wasn't just about confidence, that what we really need is resources. Well! That being established, I set about trying to get at how bad Russ thought things were going to get. Mind you, Russ doesn't like to lay out his whole thought or answer all the questions directly. He's more like Isaac Newton in that he wants the audience to fill in the blanks. But I asked enough questions to glean that he thought that things weren't going to get unrecognizeably worse. Whew!

And then we find today that a major bank has failed and two others falter.

The Wichita Lineman

Was it biorythm or Divine intervention? Somehow despite all my circumstances I felt good this evening. I took a nap. I thought about Nicola. I got up a tad after sunset and thought about Glen Campbell's "The Wichita Lineman." More like, the song welled up in me. When I picked up my guitar I decided to humor myself with an easy piece (name unknown) before attempting Lineman. Man, I laughed out loud at how difficult these things are when you're rusty and old. But I did finally get thru the song -- not smoothly but I got thru.

Russ just came in. He will want to turn on the TV soon. I'll catch you later.

Pickens is the word of the day

The Larry King Live forum concerning gas prices and profits left me with the impression that Robert Kennedy was 100% right; drilling is not the answer. I don't even think it's worth what we're paying for it. After all, new development is what we're paying for at the pump.

I figured the whole audience probably got the same idea. Now, a few days later, along comes T. Boone Pickens ( see http://www.ens-newswire.com/ens/jul2008/2008-07-08-091.asp) "Conflict of interest," they say? How about "confluence of interest?" To the extent that he can, the man has put his money where his mouth is.

Still, (and I say this in my ignorance, having no information to back it up) my opinion is that the Pickens plan is too slow and doesn't emphasize home systems that allow people to own their own power.

"Too slow" I say not because I have any understanding of the numbers involved, but because Israel has a 3 year plan to go off of oil and I think, if they can do it that fast why can't we? I think that was mentioned on Larry King Live.

Better still if people can own their own power. Government subsidies could help. Sean Lennon, are you listening? POWER TO THE PEOPLE!

Even so, hooray for Pickens because he's giving us the very best he has to offer. He's not the government. He's a capitalist from the early 20th century offering a classic capitalist solution. And if it's the best we can do I'm all for doing it.

'Nando, Daaahling ...

... I look maaahvelous! Thirteen pounds down, maybe ten more to go. Problem is, I'm unemployed, so who's gonna see these results? I took some camera phone pix and even with the annoying fish-eye effect thereof, pix (of me) look great. Hopefully someday soon I'll have a means of uploading / sharing them.

As always, I can't complain. Looking good (and skinny!) is a consolation even if there are no co-workers to see me. God be thanked. I see myself and am encouraged to continue my diet.

Weekend Update

I can't believe it's been a week since I have written to my blog!! And there's so much going on that I wanted to talk about.

Last Sunday one of my temporary agencies sent an executive and some clerks to a construction site to clean up after the crew, just trying to keep us busy. The chemical solvent had a strong smell. The "honey bucket" splashed back at me when I defecated. On the job, we talked about college and the economy. I thought we were working on a building for new office suites for tenants that would someday offer us jobs, but it turned out it was a big skyscraper full of condos. Well, maybe the residents will still offer us jobs. Or, maybe they'll edge us further out of the sweet spot by snapping up jobs. It's a beautiful building. Only time will tell.

Kitty is dying for email. Must...have...email. I think I'm going to have cards printed promoting my blog. (My alter-ego gets plenty of mail, but it seldom has anything to do with this blog. To respond to blog, send mail to kittylane167@gmail.com. Respond to my survey questions (see "You Might Prefer a Raisin in the Sun;") ask your own questions; respond, respond, respond. Thank you.)

I also need a strategy to keep abreast of my friends' blogs -- a home page full of links is what it will be.

Nicola (recent love interest; not his real name) wrote back, giving me the green light to blog about him. I wish that everyone were as level-headed and fair-minded as he was in that letter. As I unpack and air out my feelings, you can read them right here at "I Can't Complain."

Next up, I started taking pictures with my camera phone. For someone as poor as I am to own a camera phone is a real head-scratcher. My parents bought it cheap and mailed it to me. They don't have much money either; they just really wanted me to have a phone, and this one was on sale. As yet I have no way of uploading the pictures to the computer.

Finally, can anyone guess how much weight I've lost (since March?) Thirteen pounds, people. I'm down to 157 from 170. Fellas are noticing me; and the big girls' clothier is grasping at straws not to hire me at the size I am now despite my brilliant interview. Success. Still trying to lose a few more.

Oh, yeah. One more thing belongs in this weekend update. Independence Day was pretty nice even though I charred my vegetable dish and watched an historical documentary that gave some gory details about the Revolutionary War. Fireworks could be seen right outside my window.