Anny Cook's Blog, page 33

Finished!

Finished! While other folk picnicked or cooked on the grill, I watched movies and crocheted. And finally finished the never-ending project. For those who wanted proof...here it is.

Details: The project is crocheted in one piece with no seams. It's ten blocks wide and twenty blocks long with each block being twenty stitches wide and twelve rows high. That meant crocheting from twenty skeins every row. And every block is a different stitch. Dark blocks are Tunisian stitch. The light blocks are a mix of other stitches.


It's a heavy cuddly afghan that will keep me quite warm this coming winter. And though I don't remember ever keeping anything I've crocheted for myself, this one...is mine.

Sigh...

The Fatness Dilemna

If I walked around naked, I would look exactly like this little goddess statue--luxurious curves abounding. Despite the fact that a large majority of the world's population is starting to look like me, our idea of beauty continues to be based on emaciated females and over-muscled males.

Because our ideas about beauty are skewed, clothing for the rest of us is...limited. When's the last time (other than celebrity folks who can afford designer clothing) you saw an attractively dressed over-sized man or woman?

Aside from clothing issues, there are other things to consider. Our notions of intelligence, talent, competence, imagination, capability, wisdom are all based on size. When fat people demonstrate any of the above in a public way, people confess amazement and disbelief. A few are honest (or arrogant) enough to say exactly what they think, "That's amazing because he/she is fat! It's too bad he/she eats so much."

Hmph. First of all, not everyone who is obese (boy do I hate that word!) eats a lot. My daily caloric intake is between 1000-1200 calories.

Second of all, my IQ is not measured on a scale in my doctor's office. Sometimes I wish it was that easy!

Do I advocate obesity as a lifestyle? Of course not. I'm not stupid, just fat. But I submit that fatness is not a measure of who I am. When I'm moving around in my life, I don't 'feel' fat. I'm just me. Until I have to make some accommodation for my size (such as finding attractive clothing or climbing stairs), I don't spend my time thinking about being fat.

Actually, until I stand in front of a mirror, I don't think about it at all. And then, I'm not so much worried about my shape as I mourn the speed my age is catching up with me.

When I strive to 'lose' weight, that's because I would feel better. When I walk in the therapy pool or exercise, when I try to consciously spend my time on my feet and less on my butt, when I drink water and never have soda, all those are things I do to be healthier.

I've read all the articles about how obesity costs more money in healthcare and other national interests. There's no denying that. But I submit shaming and making fun of fat people isn't productive. If I were to say some of the things people have said to me to individuals who were disabled, a different color, a different ethnicity, a different religion, people would be appalled. Yet, evidently it's okay for people to say them to me because I'm fat.

I especially love when I see a new doctor and the first thing out of their mouth is, "You need to lose weight." Well, yeah, because I'm not smart enough to figure that out.

What would I tell you if I could?

1. Don't treat me like I'm stupid, deaf, blind.

2. Don't assume I do nothing but sit on the couch watching television. Actually, I'm not that interested in TV and my couch is incredibly uncomfortable.

3. Don't assume I eat all day. That's a big no-no for me. I have three meals a day (small ones) and one tiny piece of dark chocolate per day as a treat.

4. Don't assume I never exercise. I walk and go swimming. How about you?

5. Don't assume I was always fat. When I was nineteen, I weighed 97 lbs. Most of those skinny chicks on the beach will not remain that way because of hormones in our food supply.

6. Don't assume I'm jolly because I'm fat. I have moods like every other woman out there. Some days are good. Others aren't so hot.

Women Warriors

I was going to open this blog with the quote "History is written by the winners", but when I searched for the source, I discovered there is NO agreement on the source, though several important folks are cited. So. I think I'll use my own version.

"History is written by those in charge."

Just after midnight this morning, I watched a PBS program about the history of women warriors in the USA. I found it very thought provoking--especially the point made over and over that the vast proportion of women were never recognized for their contributions to our freedom. Most didn't qualify for benefits, medals, promotions, or even an historical footnote.

And why would that be?

Because men were in charge and women were second class citizens, even in the midst of war. That is a terrible commentary on the value our country places on women. And I'm not just talking about the men. From the earliest examples, the women warriors were vilified by the "good" women who stayed home.

There is still a feeling among the "good" women that any woman in the military is obviously no better than she should be.

The program opened with a powerful statement from a very elderly woman. She said, "When I served in the Navy, women weren't allowed to vote, yet." Read that again. Women couldn't vote, but the country was happy to ship them overseas to battlefields--because they were useful.

And that old fallacy about women in combat? Women have been wounded and died on battlefields from the beginning because the enemy is not worried about the noncombatant's purpose for being there. No, if that individual isn't 'us', then they automatically qualify as 'the enemy' and are fair game.

It seems to me we (women) are our own worst enemy. We talk a good game about a united front against male tyranny, but when it gets down to it, somewhere in our gut, we buckle under. Partially, that might be conditioning. But mostly, I suspect it's because we are willing to let the men make the decisions.

If we were truly united in demanding recognition for women in all walks of life, men would not be in charge. We would have a balance of men and women in business, politics, education, medicine, military and technology.

The truth is this. A woman can carry a gun just as easily as a man. A woman can demonstrate courage as much as any man. Brave women have moved into all fields of endeavor. But when they do, they do it alone. Because their sisters are standing back, frowning with disapproval because they're not at home, keeping house and having babies.

For info about the program, click on the photo!    

Christian Label

In the beginning, back in the years after Christ's life, his followers were called Christians. The first Christians were generally small groups who met in each others homes to pray and share the letters they received from believers such as Peter, Paul, and Timothy. Paul in particular was a prolific writer, I suspect, because he spent a lot of time in jail.

Time passed and the term 'Christian' evolved. Churches expanded and anyone who attended the non-pagan, non-Jewish, non-anything else churches were called Christians. As happens when a group is more than about ten people, bureaucracy develops. Soon you have committees and bishops and folks who just generally believe they should be in charge. The entire bureaucracy is ritualized and bamm! You have something that is far, far removed from its origins.

Of course, the further from the origins, the more things changed. Soon little splinter groups broke from the main group because they had different notions about what people should believe and how they should act. But, they all still called themselves Christians because their base line belief was the same--Jesus died on the cross--though the actual overall implications might be viewed differently.

That's pretty much how things went up until today. Most folk had a relatively clear idea of what a 'Christian' was. Christians went to church on Sunday (and maybe Wednesday evening) and sang hymns and listened to preachers warn them about Hell. Outwardly, they were a quiet, well-behaved bunch.

Then the activist Christian emerged and the truth was revealed.

Now, I will point out that I, as a Baptist preacher's kid, grew up in a Christian home and church. I played the piano for church services, taught Sunday School classes, and even served for a while as a Sunday School superintendent. So I believe I can have an opinion.

When I was a child, it never occurred to me to question what I believed. That was just the way things were. But as an adult, I took another look at the beliefs espoused by the church as opposed to the way my fellow Christians behaved. Something was not right. Surely, modern Christianity was not what Christ taught during his lifetime.

The Bible--the book Christians wave as their authority--is available in just about every possible language. Therefore, I must assume most Christians don't read it. In John 13:34-35, Jesus himself lays out the definition of a Christian. "A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so must you love on another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another."

Hmmmm.

So, I don't see anything there about activism or telling other people how to live their lives. There's nothing there about getting involved in politics or protesting on the street corners. Nothing about bullying the less fortunate or making fun of the poor. Nope. There's nothing about attending church or feeling superior because one church is better than the other. There's certainly nothing about killing folks in the name of Jesus Christ.

Love one another.

Unfortunately, the term Christian has nothing to do with that. Folks bandy the term around like it's some shield against having to obey the law. Some think it gives them the right to tell other folks how to live. Others think it means they're better than their neighbors who have different colored skin. I don't blame those who sneer at Christians because of their blatant greed or power grabbing in the name of their religion.

I'm just disgusted. If that's what Christianity is all about, I sure don't want anyone to mistake me for one of them. Have I lost my faith?

No.

Do I still believe in God and Jesus?

Absolutely.

But I've decided if someone asks me what I am, I'm going to tell them I'm a Lover. I'm a person who advocates care and compassion. No preaching. No politicking. Just love for one another, especially the poor and hungry and sick.

With a Purpose

In the past, when I wanted an area to work on a project, I've piled stuff out of the way, promising myself I'll do something with it later. And generally 'later' is several years in the future because life happens and I never get back to the dump.

About five years ago...maybe four...I dismantled my drafting table and put away my calligraphy stuff when my family circumstances changed. Now, there's really no place for the table and I'm determined NOT to create another dump in the quest to figure out a place.

And so? Well, the alternative is to actually CLEAN and SORT and THROW OUT stuff purposefully. To that end, each day I go through a box or basket or stack of papers and toss out. It's a slow process. Some things need to be shredded. Some can simply go in the round file. Others need to be filed or placed in notebooks or set aside to pass on via Goodwill.

I'll confess something. I absolutely hate this kind of cleaning. There are people who LOVE organizing and making things tidy and all that other crap. That's not me. I can organize specific things like art supplies or craft supplies or notes for a book. But that other stuff? Nope. Really not my thing.

I don't care if the piles of this or that totally take over the universe. The only thing that compels me to clean is peer pressure. You know. SOMEBODY might come in the apartment and goodness knows we wouldn't want them to think we live like pigs.

Nope.

So I pick up and stash things in odd, out of the way spots so the main impression is neatness. And heaven help me if I ever need to find something specific.

Now, if I want to get back to my calligraphy, I must clean with purpose. Blech. Determination is everything, right?

Onward...

Lowest Common Denominator

After two or three days of spotty Internet service, it took me a while to scroll through posts on Facebook, Yahoo, and a few of the other sites I check out. When you take a writing sabbatical, you have time for other stuff. Lot's of stuff. So maybe, I read more than I would otherwise.

Mostly, it ended with a bad taste on my tongue.

In the last twenty years or so, we've slowly but surely oozed into the dumpster of the lowest common denominator. It is possible that is one of the reasons I'm not very motivated to write. Why write when there's no challenge?

I read poorly written posts with multiple spelling errors--posts that mostly posed banal questions, loosely related to writing. Over the past year, the subjects have slithered from mildly interesting to not even close. Perhaps...I've just reached the point of saturation.

Or possibly, I'll searching for some meat in my rock soup. In the rush for popularity and sales, we've all jumped on the wagon of mediocrity. Publishers were the initial wave, imposing their 'thou shalt nots', but even though we have the freedom of self-pubbing, we're still adhering to the same rules.

Has anyone stopped to consider why? One author posted a short piece about HEAs and the absolute rules for romances. Does that rule matter if you're self-pubbing? Or is that supposed to be part of the definition of romance? At one time, forced seduction was the norm. Yet, we've mostly moved past that, seeking other story forms. Who says we have to have an HEA?

Actually, the most respected and beloved books over the past hundred years are those written by authors who dared to be different--dared to write stories that posed questions without answers.

Perhaps we should aim for the top instead of grubbing down in the mud pit. What if we used vocabulary above third grade level? Suppose we didn't tie everything up in neat little packages, but left something for the reader to consider and decide. What if we challenged our readers to think? What if?

The Dark Valley

The Windflower by Laura London (Tom and Sharon Curtis) was recently re-released after a twenty year hiatus. The Curtis duo retired way back when, at the top of their game after winning a Rita. Since The Windflower was originally released, I've owned eight copies. Every time I loaned it out, it never returned. Finally, I refused to loan it anymore.

As I re-read The Windflower on my Kindle, I pondered the consequences of the authors' retirement. If they had continued to write, turning out another twenty books would their fans have been as excited when The Windflower was re-released? Or would we stifle a yawn and move on?

The current conventional wisdom is write, write, write. Otherwise, your readers will lose interest and move on. Harper Lee, Margaret Mitchell, and a host of other authors produced one or two books and yet, we haven't forgotten them. So wouldn't it make more sense to write fewer books with more impact? Instead of churning them out at an impossible pace, shouldn't we be writing something of worth and interest?

For the last year, I've written nothing of consequence. Oh, I keep my hand in by producing a blog, but my novels are moldering under the metaphorical bed, gathering dust. At first, I told myself it was because I had writer's block. Or I was dealing with too much stress due to poor health. Or... Then, this last week I finally faced the truth.

I'm not terribly interested in writing at the moment.

Will that change in the future? I have no idea. Simply put, I have nothing to say. I used to wonder how the Laura London duo could simply walk away. What about all those other wonderful stories they could write? Now, I begin to understand, maybe. There might not have been anymore stories to write.

Is 'more' really more?

Again, I don't know. But I've decided I'm not going to feel guilty anymore because I'm not writing. Until I can feel excited again about writing, I'm going to set it aside and enjoy other parts of my life. When or if I have a story that grabs my soul and clamors to be written, then I'll sit down and write. If I don't like the stories I work on, why should anyone else? In the meantime, I'm going to return to my first love--reading.

Anyone have something special to recommend?

'59 Pontiac and the Prom

I saw a story on Facebook today about a woman who left the top down on her convertible while she went grocery shopping...and then it rained. In the weird way these things happen, the story rang a distant bell of memory for me.

Back, back, back in the past when I was teenager and graduating senior, all my classmates were yapping about the prom. The PROM!!! I wasn't because my parents didn't approve of dances, low-cut formals, or all night dates. Mostly, the whole idea of going to the prom gave me a queasy, roiling tempest in the gut.

I had no social skills. No 'girly-girly' skills. No yearning to wear revealing clothing as I was not even remotely endowed. And had not the faintest clue what to do with make-up. I weighed 97 lbs. straight out of the tub before I dried off. So I was okay with not going to the prom. Oh, yeah. We had ZERO money to invest in dress, shoes, etc., blah, blah...

I'd only been dating the hunk for a few weeks when he mentioned taking me to the prom. After some discussion, he reluctantly agreed that an evening out at a fancy restaurant instead would be okay.

The day arrived. Most of my female classmates cut their afternoon classes so they'd have time to get all gussied up for the prom. I didn't have that excuse so I went home at my normal time.

The humidity was a killer that evening. I had a very nice cool white crepe dress and white heels. A friend loaned me a gauzy purple shawl and tiny handbag so I was all set. When my 'date' arrived in his suit, I felt very grown up.

He had a 1959 Pontiac convertible--baby blue. That thing was a tank. He had a glasspack muffler so let's just say you could hear him coming and going. He had the top down when he arrived, which was just fine because I had enough hair spray on my hair to make it qualify as a football helmet. And away we went!

He chose a very nice restaurant--The Black Angus. We left the top down since it was such a warm night. Inside was cool, chilly enough I was glad I had the shawl, and really dim with little candles on the table. My experience with restaurants was very limited, but looking back, this was a pretty formal place. There were heavy white tablecloths and napkins and flowers.

It was a lovely meal. We even had dessert! And while polishing that off, we decided to go bowling. Once the check was paid, we pushed the heavy outer doors open and stared in dismay at the rain pouring down. Yep. Pouring.

The storm moved on quickly, but the damage was done. We crossed the wide boulevard and surveyed his car. After a moment, he walked around and opened the doors so the water on the floor could roll out. Then he opened the trunk, took out an old ragged towel and a blanket. After wiping the doors, dash, and steering wheel, he spread the blanket over the seats and sort of smiled. "Ready?"

Heh. It was a foretaste of the many disasters we faced together over the next forty-plus years. Disaster happens. We clean up. And we go on.

We went bowling. We stopped at an ice cream joint and had a sundae. And at eleven PM sharp (my curfew), he parked in front of our apartment. I had a great time.

I'm so glad that Facebook posting reminded me of my long-ago 'prom' night.   

Mom Wisdom

It's Mother's Day in the USA. This is the day the card companies, florists, candy makers, and restaurants count on to boost their income for the spring.

I'm in the minority. So far, I received a small hen 'n' chicks plant from the hunk. I'm not complaining, you understand. I believe it's more important to honor our mothers throughout the year. Call. Write. If you're close enough, go visit. Know your mom.

I can hear your snort of derision. So let's take a little test. Can you answer the five questions below?

What's your mom's favorite color?

What's her favorite leisure activity?

Does she have a favorite author--and if so, who?

Who is her best friend?

Name one important event from her childhood.

Hmmmm. Harder than you thought, isn't it? Our tendency is to sort of take her for granted because she's always been there for most of us. My mother died when I was ten...and I learned the most difficult of truths. Our parents aren't ALWAYS going to be there. My father re-married, and I received a precious gift--a second mom.

Mother's Day shouldn't be the ONLY day we appreciate moms. It should be a gentle reminder to honor them everyday. In the hustle and bustle of life, it's easy to bypass the opportunity to speak to our moms. But a phone call takes so little time out of our day. A letter or card takes a few moments to write and mail. Flowers sent for no reason at all are a marvelous surprise.

Lost opportunities to show our moms how much we care can never be regained. Love 'em while you can.

This and That on Monday

I haven't figured out why Monday is such a drag for me. Usually, I have no obligations or appointments because I don't schedule anything on Monday. Retirement means I don't have to deal with a job. Nothing going on.

Maybe it's the sixty-plus years of facing work and school. I just don't know.

However, sometimes we don't have control over life. Today we're up bright and early waiting for the maintenance guys to arrive. They'll be fixing our bathroom floor. The tiles are old and have started to come up. A couple broke. We're not sure exactly what they're going to do...but it will mean using our 'other' bathroom (toilet and sink crammed in a tiny closet) until they're done.

Thank goodness we have another bathroom.

Sometimes we forget to be grateful for the small stuff. My usual practice when I get up is to check the weather, the news and my e-mail. The first thing I saw this morning was a piece about folks fighting a wildfire in Oklahoma. One person has already died.

Last week a lot of folks died or were injured or lost everything they owned due to tornadoes. Others out in California lost their homes. There's nothing left...not even a bathroom.

I confess I'm cranky in the morning when I face dealing with finger pokes and belly pokes before my first cup of coffee. But I never forget to be grateful for those teeny needles and the pen technology so I don't have to deal with syringes and long needles. I'm blessed I have an insurance plan that pays for them.

Though my family is scattered all over the country, I'm blessed that we all get along and keep in touch. Not all people are so blessed. My brother, who is sixty, is going to take my mom--eighty-five--to the mother-son banquet at church this week. I'm so happy he lives close to my parents.

It's easy to be grumpy when our cozy little world is disturbed, but most of us have shelter, food, clothing and security. Most of us have reasonably good health and family or good friends around us.

Monday. A day to be grateful for all I have. Sun is shining. A hot cup of coffee. And the hunk makes a wonderful breakfast. The rest of life? Bring it on...