BUT I COULDA MET TOM SELLECK would that have changed what I had done?

 

Commissioner of NYPD   aka Tom Selleck

I shall attempt to make a very long story short. I will also make all conflicts in the middle east disappear.


    Once upon a time, in a galaxy, far, far, away, I started a graduate school program. On the first night I met a woman and we instantly bonded. We were the best, and closest friends for 15 or 16  years.

    At that time I was about to go through a divorce. My new friend was there for me and she helped me through a rough time.

    Although I had parents, I was a kind of adult orphan. Although I had a half sibling, 18 years older than I and some aunts and cousins, none of them lived in the New York area. Nor were they inclined to include me in their life events. Except weddings and funerals. I'm sure you know that drill.

    I've been fortunate throughout my life and have had a few really good friends who would take me into their families for holidays and well, their lives.  Just because.  There are a lot of good people out there and I thank them all from the bottom of my heart. (*a digression  of the lower case kind since it was a little one.)

    For those 16 years I was involved in the life of her family. That included her parents, husband, children, sister and their children. And later, when her kids were grown,with their spouses as well.

    My friend and I had a lot in common. Same profession. A love of collectible vintage housewares, furniture and all kinds of good "stuff".  We loved the arts, and music and films and theater. We loved each other. Even our families of origin were similar, although the outer dysfunctions were not so readily seen.

   Of course, we had some differences as well.  One was tough for her, but I was needy so she did the best she could.  During the beginning of our friendship I would sometimes find it hard to hear about her kids wonderful accomplishments. It wasn't the accomplishments.   It was because I had not so long before found out that I was unable to have children and then came the divorce.  As time went on and my wounds healed,  I was able to not only listen, but to be as proud as she was of their successes. And they were very successful.  As I am doing my best to keep this anonymous, I will only discuss the one son that is central to my tale.

   All her children were brilliant. The certainly had some genetic help, but still, they worked really hard, as did their parents in raising them.

   One son was very creative. His education, talent and experience resulted in his going into the film and TV  industry, working in several areas of creativity and production.

    His career was just beginning when his mom and I had a falling-out. Of the nuclear kind. It may have been inevitable as I have had time to reflect back on the things that lead up to the break up.  In any case, I fucked up, badly. I of course had my reasons, which valid or not, hurt her. And for that I am eternally sorry.

  We made an attempt to patch things up, but it was like a tire that had been blown out one time too many and the patches would no longer hold.  If recollection serves, we met twice and wrote a couple of letters. Things were said. Hurtful on both sides. And that was it.

   As I often did, I shut down my feelings so I wouldn't miss her.  Not long after this loss, I met the man who is now my husband. He never met her, but knows all about her and what happened.  There are many women with the same, pretty, but common name, so now, with my husband, she is referred to as ex-**************.  It's funny because that would almost be how one would refer to an ex spouse.  Unfortunately,  that is where it still stands. No communication at all.


  That was what is known as the Backstory. (at least I think that would be what it's called.)  Still, I wanted to  follow her son's career. Any time I would see his name in the credits I would be ecstatic. I could also follow him online, since that had been invented later, it was easy for me to see how he was doing.  Sort of.

   An now to the title of the tale.  My husband loves Blue Bloods. I like it too and we watch it together. *Another digression. I used to watch Magnum P.I. faithfully because I was a Tom Selleck groupie. Well, would have been a groupie if I were the club joining kind. Also, groupie sounds so much better than had the hots for. him which is more accurate.  We all know I was not alone. So don't you be looking at me like that.

   One of the reasons I enjoy the show, is watching Tom, (I'm not sure I'm spelling his last name correctly, so I'm on a first name basis now).   Even though he has gotten older, (I of course have not) he is looking so distinguished, still handsome, and whatever he had, he still has it. Not that I feel the same way any more. It's more like he's easy on the eyes kind of thing.  What? you think I'm not like the rest of mankind? My eyes may be old, but what they prefer to look at is someone younger. If I were single, I'd be a cougar. Who has lost a few teeth. *AD

   A couple of seasons into the show, we watched the credits, which normally we fast forward through, well, because usually we can. Although, on Blue, they run them slowly while the show is actually on, so you kind of have to see some of them, if you want bother reading.  The first time I screamed for apparently no reason and my husband got scared.  I saw my friend's son's name somewhere in that long line crawling across the bottom of the screen.  I had him rewind so I could check to see if I were hallucinating. I wasn't. Of course not. I don't do drugs. Anymore.

   The following week, he started to fast forward and we had a fight. It happened again the next week. I am now in charge of the clicker when we watch it. First, he couldn't remember, why I wanted to see the beginning credits, nor could he understand why I was so happy to see this name. He and I haven't been in touch in maybe 18 or 19 years. Still, I was always very fond of him. Don't tell his sibs, he was my favorite. He was so easy going and down to earth, and I bet he still is.

    Anyway, his name is  now, always there.  One day it hit me. If not for that fight, and his mom and I were still friends, I probably could have gone to the set and met Tom Selleck. Really, at this point in my life, all I want is to stand next to him and see if I actually feel as tiny as I imagined I would. A handshake would have been nice too.  But, 19 years ago I blew it.


   So, the question, if not theory, is if I had known that this could have been in my future, would I not have done what I did? Happily, the answer is I wouldn't have changed it.
   I screwed up, and if I would have changed it, it would have been to right a wrong, not to meet someone who used to be an idol.

   The theory in back of this is really about what sometimes motivates us. My husband asked if I would try to repair things now, so I could perhaps, not miss out on this opportunity. Hell no. That would be horrible. I don't like to be used, nor do I use people. At least if I'm not in denial about it.  Again. I'll do a piece on denial. Eventually.


    So I ask now, what was my motive in betraying a trust way back when?  I was angry. I knew it, but didn't realize the depth of it. We talked about some of my issues in what was going on, but we couldn't do much about it. You know the saying, it is what is it is? Well, it was what it was.
        I didn't see what I did as a betrayal in the way she did. Perceptions are always key. Looking back,  I think I needed to distance myself from her for reasons that aren't important here.
     
        I didn't know that my actions would result in this awful loss. Of course, if I had lied to her, she wouldn't have known what I said. So, in telling the truth, I lost my best friend.   

       Somehow, in my perception, the truth was supposed to help. Obviously, I was wrong.

   So, Tom, I really woulda liked to meetcha. Of course, now that I live in Florida I would have had to come up to New York for a visit. We all know I would have done that in a heart beat.

From the plane coming into LaGuardia

Escargot poste Doesn't sound as clever as snail mail but it's the same thing.

 

1938, Aunt Edie reading a book. I found this and other great photos my mom left.

        When I was a little girl, our mailman's name was Sam. Damn.  Now I am having to think about where our mail went.  I know we didn't have a mailbox. We were city dwellers.  We must have had a slit on the door where the mail was pushed through. There were a pair our outside doors that led into the vestibule, which was really a tiny space.  The downstairs door was on the right, the apartment for upstairs was on the left. I know, this is yet  *Another Digression, but it's been so very long and I would hate to not remember.

   Grandma often sat on the front porch and Sam would walk up the steps and give us our mail.  My older sister had a pen pal in England and when I was old enough,  I must have written letters too and received replies, because I was always so excited to get the mail.

   As I mentioned, in a previous blog, I moved out at age 23, so the mail then,  was of course, mostly bills. Still, I was always excited to get mail because there was always the element of surprise.

   I was, and I doubt this will surprise you, a letter writer. And so, there was always the hope that mixed in with the bills, would be a friend's response,  or maybe an invitation to a party or a package from a company I had complained to. this leads to Another Digression which I think is usually a good thing. Stories are what this blog is really about, and I have plenty to tell. And so.........

   I  wrote a letter to the tootsie roll pop company complaining that the chocolate tootsie inside had shrunk over the years and it was distressing to me. I am an admitted chocoholic, and I don't believe there is a 12 step program for it. And that is a good thing because I wouldn't go because I don't want to quit.  No willingness there for me.

  I received a response and a package of tootsie pops. I just looked them up and there is  a Tootsie Industries. I thought they were a subsidiary of a larger candy maker. Wow. They survived.  They were very proud to be the oldest candy maker online. Huh? Online? 

      Anyway.  Their response was really funny . They pointed out that when I was a child I was little and that maybe the center hadn't gotten smaller; I had gotten bigger and it was my growth that changed my recollection.  Still, they replied and sent me actual product. A half dozen Tootsie Pops. I still believe the centers shrank.

  This may seem like a digression, but it isn't. It's a verbal  picture of the subtle changes that brought us to the present day. 

    I'm not sure where I got the penchant for complaining to corporations, possibly my Aunt Mildred. Since it's her advice I remember and still use. Always complain to the CEO. Start with the top and you'll get results. And she was right until the past 6 or 7 years. And oh, the other complaining, also known as kvetching is cultural.

   Some years later I complained to another manufacturer about their product. Whatever it was doesn't matter because what I got was coupons. That really ticked me off because I didn't want to use their product any more and they sent me freaking coupons.

    Thanks. I needed the ice in the snow storm.

     There were of course different types of complaints and different circumstances for writing them.  For this discourse, it doesn't matter. Since this is one ginormous digression.

   Sometimes I just wanted an acknowledgement for what I was complaining about. Sometimes an apology. Over the years, I wrote less because I was busy with life and mellowed so, something had to really piss me off to get me to write.  Which brings me to the new way of corresponding. It could be snail mail or email.

   The next level I call being ignored.  The companies must have drafted a new policy to not reply and hope the person would go away. I'm sure that worked often. It takes a lot of energy to follow through on something. Perhaps for some, just getting it out was enough.

    For me, it fueled my righteous indignation and the second letter was possibly a bit hostile. Now, I was not only angry about whatever your company was up to, but to not be acknowledged? That  generally got a response and usually some concession about my complaint. No one likes to be called out for being impolite.

     I'd gone from Tootsie Rolls to being disgruntled about having to pay almost a thousand dollars for anesthesia, because they didn't accept my insurance. Or any insurance as it seems to be these days. Don't get me started about the practice of anesthesiologists. Yes, they may be the most important person in the operating room, but that shouldn't give them license to all become independent contractors and not work for hospitals where they have to work.  Enough. I'm talking a deep breath.

     As usual,  that's not  even the topic that I'm writing about. I'm writing about a cultural loss. This is the Christmas season, and so far I have gotten two Christmas cards from friends,  and five from charities I have donated to. Along with requests for more money. 

     Real  Snail mail has become nearly extinct and it saddens me. 

     I have always been the person who sends you a birthday card, a thank you card, a Christmas card and God forbid, a sympathy card. Sometimes a Get Well or Just thinking of you. I'm not a phone person so it helps me stay in touch. Or it used to.

     This month, I missed three events and I'm not sure what's going on with me. Well, really it's not me.   (denial and rationalization)

     I live in a house that has a curbside mailbox. It's really cool and unlike Great Neck, where I lived right before moving here. I don't have to search for a post  office box to send my mail. I just put it in my mail box and put up a flag. It's so easy. I've gotten spoiled although it's almost unnecessary. How many things do we really send these days? Not many.  But ..............

    Our mailbox is usually full. Sometimes  after bringing the load in, I let it sit on the kitchen counter for two days or OMG, more, before going through it. What's the point? I do still get a couple of paper bills, however I don't change over the paperless out of spite because I want them to spend unnecessary money mailing them to me. I pay them on line and don't need them since I keep track of what I owe.

    Sometimes I need to read the new tax notice or your rates are changing notifications, but generally, I get political mail, charities asking for donations, post cards from realtors, local news papers that are really advertisements for local businesses, chances to win lotteries, invitations to retirement planning dinners and Medicare plan advice. I may have left something out. Oh my God. How could I forget my shopping catalogs? 

    Generally when I read the mail, I do it standing next to the paper recycling box we have in the kitchen and only open a charity letter if I think it is a confirmation of a donation I will need for my taxes. Usually it's not. And so, nine tenths of what we received is immediately put in the trash. This is why we need to recycle?

     When I lived in Great Neck, I usually got home from work,  around the time Billy our mail man was filling the locked letter boxes. It was great. We would talk about what was going on in the building and shoot the breeze. He was a really nice guy. Once, I asked him which season was the worst, assuming it would be Christmas. I was wrong. It was the  November elections. What does that tell us about how our money is being spent? I will not Digress.

      So, My question is; is it time to give up the ghost of Christmas past? Why do I pay for an account with an online greeting card company so I can send  cool animated cards to those whose email addresses I have? I can send very nice cards. For gifts, I can send them a credit card from a store they like, although I did find out that Louis Vuitton will not do that online. You must come into the store.  Walmart's on the other hand probably doesn't care if you use a stolen credit card. I just slapped myself in the face for being bad.

     So, why do we still even have a post office? My stomach cringed when I wrote that. The last thing I want to do is put people out of work. I really like our mailwoman and I know the people at our local post office too. Of course, they still deliver packages from Amazon and the other online stores I buy from. That's not the issue.

     I am aging and  watching the world change in ways I thought impossible twenty or thirty years ago. I have to change along with it or I won't survive.  That doesn't mean I like all of the new ways. It seems that whatever your age, you are nostalgic for the years that have gone by. Every generation will be nostalgic about something. This is one of mine.

    My email box is as bad as my regular mail box. At least there I can click on spam if I don't want to receive the advertisements, or unsubscribe to what I don't want to get. And it doesn't waste paper or kill trees. It probably uses energy that somehow goes back to oil which in my mind is worse.

   I do like to get notices of sales from some stores, so I don't want to spam them so some days I have 40 messages.  At least when I throw them in the trash, I don't have to pick up a carton and move it to the garage.

   Still. The excitement is gone. Both from snail and email. When I first met my husband, 17 years ago, the movie you've got mail was playing. He took me to see It and it was charming. You only got mail that you expected. There wasn't quite so much junk back then. Now, my single friends get pictures of a guys junk as a way of introduction. No thank you.

    Now, it's Christmas/Chanukah/Kwanza  season and I miss getting  the cards. I miss reading the newsletter inserted in some, even if I thought it was kind of weird to put in a card. I don't exactly miss writing and mailing them, which I did. And I almost always wrote something personal in the card because if you're my friend, I don't want you to just be a person on a list that I don't distinguish  as I put your name in the card. If memory serves me, I used to send out over 60 cards.

  I suppose it may be being thought of, which I miss. The email and texts have such and impersonal feel. No matter how many emoticons you use. 

   My brand of person is becoming extinct. There is not DNA for letter writing. It's only a tradition from long ago. It is a choice that I shall have to make.

   The e -world may be faster and easier and I know there's no going back.  But I feel sorry for the generation who won't find an old photograph of someone they haven't seen, or a hidden box of love letters tied in a ribbon or a note from a long deceased, beloved grandma.

   Theory. With progress comes loss.

 

My grandma's signing my 8th grade graduation book.

Ancesters What we hope to learn about ourselves from learning about them.

  


What do I hope to learn?

      My first immediate response, is nothing.  That may well be my theory after I write this, but who knows? I don't usually bother to think before I write, so your guess may even be better than mine.

      I have joined, and unjoined and rejoined the ancestors site now, for the third time. They keep enticing me with emails.  "you have 33 possible clues to your family tree". They let you see them, but not to actually view the content. Tease you so they can get you to grease their palms. Well, if the internet had palms. I like figures of speech. I hate mathematical figures. Go figure.
 
     Previously, I only spent money on the US searches. That didn't get me very far. If you remember (LOL) my post about the roadshow, I mentioned that my families came from Russia and Poland and so the hopes of finding that much in the US were limited.

     This time, the special for 6 months of world wide information was, too much to pass by. I haven't started to look yet. I'm still finished with setting up Christmas. Also, the post before last will explain about the nice (or not so nice) Jewish woman doing Christmas.

      I am also a little worried about looking around the world. Hard as it may seem to you, I don't know Russian or Polish. I can't speak them and I surely can't read them. In my secret thought, that I just realized I have at this very moment, is that I am hoping they have some sort of translation program or I am screwed.

     I can read Hebrew, but not Yiddish. For those of you who don't know the difference I'll see if I do.

    I believe the alphabet is the same. I surely hope so. Even though I can "read" I'm not sure my skills are better than a third grader. The problem is that they are two different languages. Yiddish is actually more a combination of German and some Hebrew and who knows what else thrown into the mix. Ironic if you think about it. Heil, you know who.

   I can liken it to reading English and Spanish. Yes, I can read the words. And in Spanish I may even understand some of them.  However, I do not know the meaning of all the words. And in Yiddish, they don't have vowels so even if I try, I probably won't even be able to sound them out.

   The real question though, is why are we so curious about where we came from.  I've watched some of the episodes on TV where famous people are flown around the world, given translations and get to find out amazing stories. ( *AD) Yeah, like being famous isn't enough of a perk. You don't have to track it down yourself, pay for a translator and find out you come from a family of Russian peasants who, if you are lucky, were a healthy lot. Translate that into fat with curly, frizzy hair.

    Do most of us secretly believe we came from better than we are now which make us better now?  I know I don't. (*AD)  It does remind me of the search for past lives. I guess I haven't mentioned it yet.  My specialty before I stopped working, was doing past life regression therapy. It's really only psychotic people who believe they were (or still are) Cleopatra or Napoleon).

    During the regressions, most people were regular people like they are now. They usually want to understand why a relationship is so fraught with conflict or why they can't find their soul mate.
      In any case, I never met anyone who was famous in a previous life. Or this one for that matter.  (end of this digression about regression)

      Curiosity. Pocket Oxford Dictionary, 1927 edition defines curious as: Eager to learn, inquisitive, prying, puzzling, inviting, and the desire to know the details of something.  I definitely like details. Unfortunately I now have trouble remembering them.

      A curious child is every teachers dream. Generally, we are only curious about some things. Usually not geography, history, foreign languages or math. Unless of course it pertains to our favorite subject. Ourselves.  (or sex which you hope will pertain to yourself).

      The topic most people are most interested is, as was just stated,  you got it, ourselves.  I'll admit that caring about oneself is essential to survival. I do believe that our culture has taken it to an art form and not all art forms are pretty.

      I too, am a product of the culture I grew up in. I am interested in me. Fortunately I am also interested in other people and  society and even things that go bump in the night. Get your minds out of the gutter.

      It's as if, if I know my roots I'll find something to explain who I am. Why I am. I don't know why just being isn't enough. It never has been for me. Granted, I am curious about many things, which you will note as you read on, because my topics are, at least seem to me, to be smatterings of many topics. I try to tie them together with a theory, and unfortunately for you, my favorite theory that works for everything is in our DNA.

      I will do my  ancester searching and if I'm lucky I'll find out something I don't already know. Something that might help me on my road to self discovery although many people would ask me why I am bothering at this stage of my life.

      Kick back and relax. Chill.  Do the things you couldn't when you were working. Those appear to be difficult to my nature. Not that I don't kick back. The relaxing part is where I seem to go wrong. I'm always in a hurry. I ask myself, why the rush?  I always feel like there is something I have to finish. Or start. I tell myself that all I'm doing is rushing to my own funeral. It should slow me down  but  I can't keep it in mind long enough.

      I was just out, running errands and having lunch with a friend. I left so I could come home and do the things I left undone.

           I had to stop for gas and was lost in thought. I pulled in at a pump and realized it was the wrong side of the car.  For the last 9 years  the driver side was the side I needed. For the last 8 months it changed. I thought I was okay remembering where to go and haven't made that mistake in ages.  So, I swung the car around so I'd be on the side where the gas cap is, and hit the front end of my bumper on the rubber guard around the pump.
   I gassed up and figured I should look and see if I did any damage. It didn't sound so bad.


     WRONG!  It's a bloody mess. Okay. I can make myself feel better. My father was my first and only ancestor to drive a car. And I'm betting that no one in the family, on either side had enough money for a mule or horse or anything else that was driven.  So, considering that I come from a long line of non-drivers, I'm doing really ,really well.

      Did I already write a piece about denial? Or rationalization?   Those are good topics too.

I have an old photo of my mother's mother's family. It's on Pinterest and I can't find it on the computer. I'm sure I did it before my hard drive crashed and I can't figure out how to convert it.

The cherry on the top of my cake for today.  Oh well. I like cake. Or Brioche as the French say.
  

Mom's Dad

Dad, pantless and his parents

My mom and dad and my Grandma.

    

MEA CULPA

 


     Okay. Since no one read me my Miranda rights, I think I'm safe in saying I'm guilty.
The question, is, of what?

   Today's I'll choose from one of the many things I am guilty of. This crime is passing on misinformation on Facebook and in emails. I'm really glad it's not a capital crime. Our court system is already backlogged as it is. Now I'm wondering if there is some kind of law about this. This is my brain, not on drugs.

    I do not recall what email I forwarded the first time I was admonished for not checking my facts. I was mortified. I was sent to Snopes for that one, and yes, I was wrong.
    Upstanding citizen that I am, I sent a second email correcting the first one. *AD  If you still pass those emails claiming that you will get money for passing emails, you need more help than I do.

    Since that time, I try to do my due diligence when reading a post or getting an email. As is often the case, the facts are spurious or sometimes, partially correct.

    I was reminded of this recently with regards to the Goodwill Industries post on FB. I don't know why, but I chose to believe it. I was horrified. Because.........

    We donate there a lot , mostly because it's so close to our house that it makes it soooooo easy. And like everyone else, we're too lazy to go out of our way. (I'm hanging my head in shame but you can't see it)
      The place I started to donate recently,  even before hearing this is Safespace, for abused women. Still, it's a schlep to  get there, so unless I'm headed that way I'm now have a dilemma. 

     ACTION      This morning I looked Goodwill up on Wiki. Wiki's site is also controversial since some of the people's contributions are made by me (well twice) and other individuals who may not know the facts.

     However, the majority of their information is fact checked by authorities so I still like to see what they have to say. The beginning of the selection seemed to contradict the post. The structure of the org. was described, as was the number of people employed, money generated etc. They appear to do a lot of good but are both a profit and nonprofit organization. A hybrid. Hmmm.  I wonder how that works.

    As I read on, I saw in the index, (remember my short term memory issues) a section I'll call, complaints or controversies.

    There were the accusations that appeared on FB.  For instance, one of the CEO's was making let's say, $794,000 a year. After this came out, that person agreed to take a 25% pay cut which brings them down to $774,150. I don't know who that person will survive.  I know. I did the math twice. It certainly sounds like a lot, but if you think about it, if you have a dollar and you spend a quarter, you still have 75 cents. (AD Do they have a cents symbol on the computer?  I can't seem to find it.)

    Paying the disabled less than minimum wage is legal and their argument for doing it is that if the law didn't exist, many disabled people would not be able to get jobs. Sure, but is it illegal to pay them minimum wage ? Because don't you think that's  the right thing to do?  Especially when the company heads are raking in really big bucks.

   One point is, that after the person posted it, she  then commented  that the information was incorrect. I was rather confused. Which you may notice is not so difficult to do if you have the knack. However, the post remained, until just before when I tried to find it and it was gone.  Of course, now I have to look the information up, and, well, it's not so completely wrong. They are doing  all the things that the post said they were. Only now I can't fact check the post because it's missing.

    Here again is my upside down world. Just because it's legal to pay certain people a lower wage, doesn't' mean you have to. Does it?  And just because you work really, really hard to help people doesn't mean you are entitled to a huge salary. Does it? Also, if you work hard or not, or you help people or you don't, you're not entitled to a huge salary when your employees can't pay the mortgage.  Just saying. Okay, I'm not sure the word entitled is the one I should use since it seems everyone in this country seems to feel entitled to something.   Thusly?

     I'm sure Goodwill provides a lot of work for people without skills. That helps some of the population. Although here in Florida, minimum wage usually means you  are entitled to work two jobs if you hope to make ends meet.  The profit part of the organization must be doing well, since they can afford to pay themselves huge salaries.

     I want to clarify that I too, may have some of my facts wrong.  I forgot to take notes  while reading the article, so the salaries and who made the compromise may be mixed up.  I now seem to recall that the head CEO had a salary that made him a 0ne Percenter. I'm reasonably certain that would be more than $794,000.  Maybe he took the 25% solution. 

     Anyhow. I'm supposed to be theorizing. Not just standing on my soap box so I'll look taller. (I'm 5'3" and feel short) *AD (digression).  Apparently greed is a strong part of human nature. Hoarding probably helped us survive when we were cave men. All it does now is make us want more, even when we don't need it.

    Now, if everyone had enough, it wouldn't be a big deal. It certainly wouldn't bother me. Maybe. Probably.   But I doubt that that has ever been the case on this planet earth.  

    There will always be people getting the short straws. Sometimes they are responsible for it. There are people who want to be taken care of and do not want to work or help themselves. My heart does not go out to you if you purposely fuck up your life.   
      
        Unfortunately I'm going out on a limb and guess that it is a hell of a lot more than just 1 % of the population.  It's a sorry state of affairs for which I have no answer.   Notwithstanding that, there are many, many people who have bad things happen to them and given the chance, would be able to dig themselves out of the hole they were pushed in. That's where organizations like Goodwill should come in.

     Right now you may think I'm sounding a little bit too much like a communist or socialist. God forbid. I'm neither. No. I'm just saying that the trickle down  money isn't trickling. I think someone should call in a plumber because it seems that maybe the hole where it trickles from, got stopped up and since the back flow is so slow, the people who should allow the trickle haven't noticed they have more than they are supposed to.

      So, what am I guilty of?  Believing that if it's written, it's true. I'm guilty of trusting others when I should know better. I'm guilty of donating to many charities that I haven't looked up.

     I don't do New Years Resolutions. I do, however,make plans to do things differently, like: organize things better and improve myself, even though I am perfect as I am. LMAO
     After I finish doing all the things on my list, i.e. : decorating for Christmas, cleaning up the detritus from redoing my room and Christmas, organizing my new file cabinet and other stuff I don't remember, I'll be sure to look up my charities. That will be easy since I write the check at my desk with the computer is right in front of me. No excuses. Easy Peasy.

    That's it for this topic. At least for today. Have a Happy.

keep scrolling down. For some reason, the comments are not close to the end of the writing of the blog. And I know you want to write comments and can't. You who have access to me, have told me.  I sent a comment to the survey people about answering my question,( which it didn't,) so I still don't know what's wrong.  And I'm reasonably certain they won't answer me either.

But keep scrolling. You never know what you may find.





I wanted to put a picture of the FB post, so I looked for it. It's not there anymore. I have a need to put a picture up, because, like a three year old, I like to have pictures in my magazine. Or blog.   So here is a totally unrelated photo..

Last year our friends and My husband and I went to Miami to the outdoor antique fair. As you can see, it rained. So I bought a French bowler hat from an English woman. This has nothing to do with today's theory. I  just like  visuals.
keep scrolling.

MY FIRST CHRISMAS TREE

      

           I was 23 years old when I finally moved out of my mom's apartment. If I ever tell you my life story you'll know that this was hard to do, leaving my mom alone, but it was time to leave the nest so I flew.
       My friend Iris and I had rented a downstairs apartment, in a Brownstone in Park Slope,  Brooklyn.  This was before everyone renovated to make condos out of these wonderful one family buildings. 
      What our family had done was block off the staircase that led to the upstairs and made a closet to separate the house from the tenants.  (I just noticed how possessive I am. Our family, not the family who owned the Brownstone).
      
          We moved in during the summer and it was our first Christmas. I love Christmas. I still do.  Ever since I was a little girl I used to love going around to stores to ogle  all the beautiful decorations. Our dysfunctional nuclear family would take a night to drive all around Brooklyn to go  what we called "Christmas tree spotting". We didn't have a tree of our own. First, I suppose it was partly because we never celebrated anything except for Thanksgiving, and secondly we were Jewish.
     
      My Dad did once bring home a little round tree from work. Now that I think about it, it was probably a gift from one of his girlfriends, but that too is another story.
      I was maybe 10 or 11 thought it was so pretty that I put it in our front window when I came home from school. It was lit up with it's blinking colored lights and felt wonderful. The tree may have only been a foot tall,  but it was there, shining for all the world to see.  That, as it turned out, was a problem.

  My mother came home from work couldn't have missed it. She marched into the house and  proceeded to have a conniption fit.  "What is wrong with you"?  "What will the neighbors think?" "Take that thing out of the window NOW!!!"  That was mom. If it was behind closed doors, who cared, but if the outside world knew, OMG. 

    So I was forced to remove it and we never had a tree in the house again. As an aside, we never had a menorah. As far as I could tell, it was Christmas 1, Chanukah 0.

  Now, I was on my own and damned if I weren't going to celebrate my favorite holiday. Iris was also Jewish, but she liked the idea as well. We trudged out in the cold to some usually empty lot in the neighborhood where they were now occupied to sell live trees.  And live it was we wanted  We wanted a full, tall, live tree.  And that's what we got. 

  You can see from the photo that we found one. It just about hit the ceiling.  Imagine the two of us lugging this tree through the streets. I suppose describing "us" would help.  I was a little heavier then than I am now, but I was still thin and 5'3".  Iris was taller, maybe 5'5", but she weighed over 300 pounds. A bit like a female Laurel and Hardy.  Picture these two young women in their early twenties, bundled up with hats and scarves and boots, wending out way through the lightly snow covered streets.  Carrying a tied up, heavy tree. These days, we could have used a phone to take a picture. Those days, we were lucky to have a phone in the apartment, although I must have had a camera since I have a picture of the tree.

   Such anticipation. Setting up our tree and presenting it for the world to see. Well, okay not maybe the world, but anyone who walked or drove down third street. Our apartment had an unusual set up for a brownstone. Most have the entrances that you go down some steps, and the door is under the staircase leading to the house. Out of sight.  Our door was next to the staircase and in full view of the street.  There was even  a window panel or either side of the glass door. Perfect. For people looking in. That too is another story.  As you see, I have lots and lots of them.

    We brought the tree in and untied her ropes and let her fir fly.  We put her in her stand and something wasn't right. No matter what we did, she wouldn't' stand up. Upon further review of the matter we discovered what was wrong. Our tree had a severe case of scoliosis. Her trunk was skewed so she couldn't balance herself.

    We did the only thing we could do. And trust me, we tried anything we could think of.  In the end our only option was to set her in the corner and lean her against the wall where it would hold her up. We were sorely disappointed that she wouldn't be a sight for the neighbors, but lying on the floor wasn't the type of sight we had in mind.

     We had to be very careful when we decorated her or went near her, as she had a tendency to list with the lightest touch. Still we loved our tree. I believe she was a Douglas Fir. Thick and with that beautiful scent that filled the air. Ah Tannenbaum.

      All was well until Iris got a phone call from her parents saying they wanted to visit her.  This was a very, very, big deal. She had lived on her own for over three years  and her folks had never been to visit her in any of her apartments. I take it they disapproved of her moving out. But, why now?  They were Orthodox Jews and were not going to be pleased that her daughter and room mate had a huge, flipping Christmas tree. No menorah in sight yet again. (Christmas 2, Chanukah 0). We couldn't hide the tree and taking her down and attempting to put her back up wasn't an option. So,we did what all children do at some point in their lives. We lied to her parents. (I am going to lie now too about my last name and use a fictitious one. I always hated my maiden name and still do).  So let's pretend is was Levy. Her parents thought that I was also Jewish so she would be busted big time.

    We thought about telling them that my name was O'levy and that I was  half Irish.  Somehow even our addled brains realized that would seem ridiculous. . My last name was on the door anyway, so we couldn't do that.  We finally opted for the easiest lie.  My dad was Jewish and my mom was Catholic. I was brought up with Catholic traditions so I had to have my tree.

    I was not around when her folks visited. I never met them.  It went well. Or that's what I seem to recall.  That part was her drama and not mine.  There are only so many tales one can keep track of.

     I do remember that those were some heady times. First apartment, first real jobs, new friends, living on our own. Figuring out who we were and who we might become.
     And I loved Iris. She was funny, compassionate and smart. We spent many nights just talking. And I remember, even back then that she was unusual. She also listened. So good night Iris. And thanks for the memories.

ps.  Our tree from three years ago. Artificial and not listing. And a few more decorations as well.

"land of the Brave and the Free" The only thing that is currently "free" is the opportunity to make an ass of yourself.

               

 

This morning I was paying the bills for December. I get checks at the end of the month. They get posted as "pending". That means if I were to transfer or "use" the money now, I'd be in trouble because they haven't given it to me yet.
So, I have to make sure that I put in the next date when I know the money will be mine.
        Why does this bother me?

1. They are government checks. Shouldn't they clear automatically?
2. They gave it to me, why won't you?
3. When I charge something on my credit card, which is also the same bank, the charges appear instantly. How come you don't have to wait?
4. If I see a 2 cent interest in the account I am delirious with joy.
5. How much interest do you make holding back everyone's money while it pends?
6. My "free" banking is limited to certain accounts. If I make more than 6 transfers online or on my cell, I get charged. If I don't want the charges I have to actually show up at the bank and do the transfers on their computer. Why????

      Another case of our upside down America. Did I get a say in who made these banking regulations?  I think not. I think we should all have a say in it since it's our fucking money.


remember. scroll down for comments etc.

'CUSE ME MAM, DO YOU HAVE A FREUDIAN SLIP IN A SIZE SMALL?

          Good Morning. I'm welcoming myself back from vacation which is why I have been silent for a week. We paid for the package for unlimited Wi-Fi, but the ship had internet problems the first day, and then we couldn't get our phones online etc. Bummer.
 I wanted to blog from the Caribbean, but the Universe shut me down.  * AD (digression)

  For those of you who have been reading these, you will have noticed that all sorts of things can come out of my mouth. Actually, it's from my brain channeled to my fingers onto the blog, but since I think of it as a conversation, to me, it's coming out of my mouth.

  For those of you who do actually know me, you, are already very aware of the things that I utter. ADHD can be cruel, as my censors, unlike those on radio or TV do not have a time delay. I therefore blurt out some things that I find myself having to explain (mostly to my husband, which now that I think about it ,is curious because most of the time he isn't listening, so why does he hear the things that I have to end up defending myself for?)

   Dr. Sigmund Freud, who I believe was a genius has been debunked, defrocked and derided over the past century. Both during, and  after his life time.

    No one gets it correct all the time, but to throw out an entire life's work over some probably erroneous theories, well that's just dumb.
 
     I will stick (or make a brave attempt) to the theory on Freudian slips. Everyone uses the term and hopefully knows what it means.

      Freud believed that an unconscious thought or feeling could pop into ones conscious mind and slip through the filters  of our thoughts, therefore giving voice to an innermost feeling.
 
        I don't know how many of you can relate.  Saying something you didn't mean to say and then not being able to take it back. I'm not talking about saying things you know you want to say and letting them slip, but things you didn't know you were feeling that came out in what you said.     


       Scientists who are now able to map the brain and understand cognition in ways Freud couldn't, have pretty much said that slips are not what Freud thought. Instead, neural connections fail, cross one another or possibly just errors that occur that are of no significance. I'm sure that they are mostly correct and even Freud said, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar". Although I believe that he may have written that because he was in denial about how much phallic symbols were on his brain, and in his mouth.

      I have, however, over the course of my lifetime experienced those slips of the tongue that were definitely not crossed wires and, if I were someone who blushed, would have been bright red. Instead, I wanted to crawl into a hole or ended up defending what was said.
     Fortunately my errors often came out when speaking to a male, so he wasn't listening and didn't pick up on it.
  
     I suppose I remember this one because it was super embarrassing. I was in my twenties and had recently lost my job. A friend took me out and I met a guy at a bar on Hudson Street. We danced, and he took my number and actually called.

      We were on our first date and were asking the usual questions about what do you do, where did you go to school and other background information topics.

       He asked about my job, which as I mentioned, I had just lost. What came out of my mouth was a part of what I thought I was going to say.  "Oh, I just got laid".  Somehow the word "off" never made it out.

        So, were my neural connections crossed or was I thinking about sex?  I can't remember the rest of the conversation other than my  finishing the phrase and feeling like an overexposed photograph.  And yes, of course I was thinking about sex. It was a date. Duh???

        It's a wonderful human trait to be able to choose what you hear or see based on your believe system and change it depending upon situation and your feelings about it.

        People in the public eye have had to deal with this issue for ages.  Saying things taken out of context, photos when caught off guard.  All because of freedom of the press.  Which is essential to democracy.  It got worse once live broadcasts became possible, and there wasn't time to call the reporter and beg to  him or her to leave out a particular quote or photo.

        George W. said many things that I'm sure he wished he could take back. Were they Freudian slips?  Stupid remarks? Or failure of neural connections? This is America and you can decide for yourself depending upon how you feel about the man. I will say that he ones I can recall were probably not slips. 

         And what came into my mind when I wrote that?  You probably have to have a conscience to have an unconscious.  That was a nasty thought which is possibly why I didn't think they were slips. It wasn't what I was thinking when I wrote it, but it just popped up. That's the way my mind works.   ( I was leaning towards stupid, but also believe the possibility that he damaged his brain during his drinking years). No offense to people who like/love him. Just my opinion.

       Then, is it a Freudian slip if it makes no sense. Or at least not in a usual way?  Recently I was talking to someone about my overworked sense of responsibility and said " I feel obligated to start what I finished."  Something felt wrong.  I had reversed the usual statement of finishing what I start.

        On the bright side, I really liked this statement, so I wrote it down or I would forget it. You do recall that I have short term memory problems, right?  Just refer back to older blogs if you have memory problems too.

       The beauty of this "slip" is that you had to have started it because it's finished.  How ridiculous is that?
     Right now some of you are thinking at this moment. When is this going to be finished?
soon.

       The most recent occurrence which brought this ridiculous idea to mind was while on the cruise I said something that my husband got upset about. I wish I could say it was because I was drunk, which is a distinct possibility since it was a cruise, but it wasn't. Well, at least not drunk enough.  It also wasn't from my unconscious.

       It was more along the lines of daydreams and fantasy and imagination. I consider those areas to be private like the unconscious, but you are aware of them and in control of them.  Except when they accidentally spill out of your mouth in a conversation where your partner is actually listening.

      The content isn't important. It's the concept. Walking down the never ending hall to our room, I found myself defending my imagination.  I'm not Catholic. I don't expect to go to pre-purgatory for sins I think about, and have no intention of committing.
      Yet there I was, pleading my case so my husband would understand and not worry about my acting on a word. 

     True, if they are private or unconscious thoughts, we are supposed to keep them to ourselves. I get the principle.  My run away mouth does not. I can be at a get together with a group of friends and find myself calling out something I think is funny at an inappropriate moment. I don't apologize anymore because if you read my blog on apologies you'll understand.

     So, my theory is.............. Slips of the tongue happen. We often say things we don't want to say, but they slip out. Conscious or not, it doesn't matter. How it affects the someone who hears, it does. And us of course. My request in the title holds.  If I have to make a slip, please, let it be a little one.

keep scrolling to get to the comment section. pretty please with sugar on top.
Or I'll beat the crap out of you.   oops that was just a slip of the tongue. I meant to say tar. LOL