Dreams

• Became part of a singing group.  After publicity pictures, one of the group members (female) tells me she'll give me a ride home (or to the nursing home, not sure about which one).  We drive through cobblestone streets, and there are big holes at street intersections, and the holes are ringed with orange cones.  My driver goes through an intersection; the intersection is blocked by a cone but she drives on the sidewalk (also cobbled).
• Old people are walking on the sidewalks - they say nothing, they're walking single file.They don't react to each other or us.
• The car disappears and I'm with a small group of friends.  (2 guys, 3 girls if you include me).  We go enter a beat-up Victorian house.  The stairs morph into institutional crete-n-steel steps, and the landing/hallway we go into looks like a dorm room.  The smell is a cross between old wet basement and nursing home.
• We walk down another set of steps into the basement.  It looks like a swamp set from a 50's Z-grade monster movie.  The smell is overpowering.  Here and there you see laundry drying on wire clotheslines.
• We leave the basement and walk upstairs - we open the door to a very full, shabby, Victorian-style parlor.  The residents are sitting in rows.  The residents are not reacting to each other or to with anyone else.  The aides are pushing plastic carts around the outside of the square, just wheeling around and around the outside.  (The aides are women; they're dressed in pink scrubs.)
• The reception desk is behind a counter; the counter has a wire glass window.  The receptionist is dressed in a traditional nurse's uniform.  I ask her where my mother is, and before she can reply, a hallway appears to my right.  I walk quickly down the hall and I arrive at a parlor - nice furniture, nice walls (furniture is Victorian - white couch, red lamps with gold swag, two white chairs).  In one of the chairs an old man (not sure if he's dead or sleeping) sits wrapped in a green blanket.  The old man looks like my father, but it's hard to tell because he's covered in cobwebs.
• I run out of the room, and the receptionist behind the wire glass tells me that my mom is in that room I was just in.  I tell her no, there's an old man in there.  I've lost my group.  I stop one of the nurse's aides as she's wheeling around the square of old people, and I ask her where my mother is.  She asks me what my mother's name is, and I say, "Claire Doxtator."  The aide says, "Oh, hon, we don't have a resident by that name."

Sunday night was the night from hell, starting off with Paul hammering about how bad my housekeeping is.  I said I felt like blowing my brains out; Frieda freaked out, called Bernie, and Bernie talked to her, talked to me and talked to Paul.  She came over, herded us into the back bedroom, and declared, "This is bullshit!"  She insisted Paul and I were neglecting Frieda and she threatened to take Frieda away if something happened again.

From there, things got ugly, fast.  Paul told Bernie that she was no longer welcome at our house, and they got into a shouting match.  Louis came in from his cig and Bernie started yelling at Louis, and Louis started yelling a Bernie.

I called the sheriff at that point.  The sheriff and a deputy came 10 minutes later, and the shouting stopped.  Paul said I have a history of depression and I wanted to blow my brains out.  At that point I was taken into EPC (emergency protective custody) and sent to Mary Lanning in Hastings.

I came back yesterday.  I'm better now.

Nobody better attack my housekeeping.

Just because it's pink ...

...doesn 't mean it's feminist.

Pink ribbons.  Pink computers.  Pink Legos.  Pink Bics.  All aimed at women.

I'm not particularly rugged; don't like sports (except boxing, after I got married to a boxer.)  I don't wear my hair long - it looks stringy, frizzy and greasy when it's long.  (It makes me look OLD when I wear my hair long.)  My nails are short; they're prone to splitting and chipping from housework and work-work.  I don't like nail polish, I use very little makeup.  I'm not really a pink kind of woman.

Pink makes me think of little girls that grace the pages of bible stories, of good little girls who never argue with their families.  Pink reminds me of little girls - always sweet, nice and beloved by everyone.  Their pink looks clean - these little girls aren't dirt magnets.

Pink is the color of the ribbons worn by Young Goodman Brown's wife, Faith.  If you haven't read the story, Goodman Brown saw his perfect bride in a witch's sabbath.  Symbolism, baby.  Pink is weak.  Pink is evil and seductive.  Pink is for the woman who's perfect - until she falls from grace, until she shows she's not just the idol on the pedestal, she's also quite human and NOT perfect.

Pink for the Susan Komen ribbons, the money going towards anti-choice groups, instead of breast cancer research.  (And speaking of CANCER, while saving the boobs is nice and all, there are other cancers which are sneakier and more deadly, and lurk in places not as nice as boobs.)

I was the little girl who liked blue.  I was grubby and stringy-haired and socially inept.  I wasn't a brain (hated most school subjects, hated my teachers, hated my peers, until I got into high school).  I was undiagnosed as bipolar II until I was in my 30's - the symptoms showed up as wild mood swings, horrific explosions of temper, cutting myself, suicide attempts ... yeah.

So what does this have to do with pink?

Pink - all girls like pink, right?  Tell that to the women who like black, brown, white, red, purple, yellow, green and blue.

At this point I can handle pink, but it's still used to stick women into little pink boxes.

I'll figure out how to tie this together (in a rainbow ribbon, ha).

RIP, Jerry Tallmer.

THE HORRORS OF IT ALL: Peter, Peter

THE HORRORS OF IT ALL: Peter, Peter: Am I posting to much black and white stuff lately? When looking for something different to post this Halloween , (meaning: an appropriately ...

John Cale - If You Were Still Around (Official Video)

Electric Light Orchestra - The Whale (With Whale footage)

Jammin' The Blues

Dear Diary,

I married a dickhead.

Sincerely,

Me

******

Dear Me,

You settled.  Deal with it.

Sincerely,

Diary