Our Girls

Well, the time goes so quickly
It goes lickety splitly
And now Aidenne and Joss
Are in school

Life is full of clichés now
Of which many are true
And Aidenne and Joss
Well, they rule

They love everything going
Their smarts they are showing
And now Aidenne and Joss
Are no fools

In the show that’s unfolding
I’ve become quite unscolding
That Aidenne and Joss
Make me drool

I want to be near them
So I can see/hear them
Our Aidenne and Joss
Are so cool

Song For Someone Else

Not Missing Loving You

Couldn’t be any harder
Couldn’t be what it was
What it was couldn’t be
Any harder to lose

I won't count the tears
I've faced my fears
And shed the pain of your deceit
It doesn't hurt much anymore
Except sometimes when we meet

Not thinking about you any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what I’m going to do
Not missing loving you

Got nobody to kiss goodnight
Or worry about me
My phone won’t ring and you won’t say
“I’m on my way; let’s eat.”

Not thinking about you any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what I’m going to do
Not missing loving you

I’m not sweating every evening
If you’re coming home or not
Or whether you’ll be driving
After drinking all you’ve got

Not walking around on eggshells
Wondering what will set you off
No more freezes, no more fights
That do not get resolved.

Not thinking about us any more
Not thinking about her
Not wondering what you’re doing now
Not missing loving you

©2010 Queen Greetings

PTSD: Worse Than Death

But Does It Have To Be?

This is in response to a blog that is emailed to me. I will email it to you upon request.

Yes, it is nothing short of tragic the mental and emotional horrors that can consume one after experiencing war. The additional tragedy is that men, mostly, turn to alcohol or drugs to cope with their inability to speak about what happened, thus beginning the personal slide into a life that likely leads to crime of some kind or another, affecting so many others, whether they become criminals or not.

At its best, their lives are spent trying to live every day with the experiences locked inside them, cutting them off emotionally from their families and friends, possibly for fear of what will happen if they let it out. Families cope with the dramatic changes in their son, husband, father by seeking to help, only to be castigated by the one whom they seek to help. "You don't understand" and "You don't want to know" is the refrain. When families suggest seeking counseling, they are told to mind their own business. Men shut down more and more as time passes.

At its worst, resentment builds at home with terrible consequences. Violence against loved ones occurs repeatedly, emotionally, physically, as men are unable to cope with normal living. Seeing their family's hurt faces is a reminder that they aren't doing what they should, but they are at the point of feeling only anger then. Families split with deep, long-lasting societal consequences.

It is a sad commentary on our society when most men feel it useless or humiliating, even unmanly, to seek help for emotional and mental crises. They get instant relief by becoming drunk or high, but it's only a short-lived fix as evidenced by the increased need for more of their escape of choice. While they are getting this fix, family and friends are first filled with concern, worry and sometimes fear.

Society does send mixed messages, as does the military. There are trained people in all walks of life who can help with post traumatic stress disorder, but there is still a stigma attached somehow—or the perception of—and the fear of losing their jobs or respect of their peers if it's found out they are seeing a psychiatrist.

The military and civilian worlds need to help reduce this stigma. TV shows like "Army Wives" (Lifetime) and "The Unit" (CBS) are helpful but I'm not sure men make up much of their audiences. Even with the best-laid marketing plans, it's going to take a long time, with a lot more casualties piling up at home.

Why is it so hard to ask for help?

White. American. Cheese: Sliced Thin, But Not Too Thin

My daughter told me that her friends always offered cookies or chips for a snack when she was at their house. I said I offered cheese when I was living at home.

She thought that was funny, and probably thought it typical.

Not that my friends were in the house, because they weren’t. My parents both commuted to work every day so were gone from about 6:30 a.m. to 6 p.m. and we were not allowed to have friends in the house when no parents were home.

That didn’t stop me from being hungry, even when we were outside. And my friends in the neighborhood all wanted some when I offered, so I’d go inside and get the cheese (always white American cheese) and peel off slices and hand them out. D2 thinks it hilarious that I

(1) would offer cheese; and

(2) that my friends would want some.

What she doesn’t know is that we could be completely on the other side of the neighborhood or up at The Big Tree (really on the other side) and if I wanted cheese, we would all go to my house and hang out in the driveway, eating cheese.

My mother actually was thankful that I only asked for more cheese when she went grocery shopping, having known in my soul that cookies, cakes, soda, sugary snackage of any kind, just wouldn’t ever make it onto the list.

I used to sneak sugar in my water sometimes, just to drink something that wasn’t plain water. Guess we didn’t have Kool-Aid either, because when I got married, I always had Kool-Aid and potato chips and dip in the house, until we learned about the horrors of too much sugar and FD&C Red No. 3.

Then there’s the other cheese story. I’m amused that I have at least two cheese stories.

Don’t ask how this started because I don’t remember, but as a young teen I used to like to have a cup of hot tea, with milk and sugar, and then rip off pieces from a couple of slices of (white American) cheese and hold them in the hot tea, just until they melted enough but didn’t rip off and fall into the cup. I liked melty cheese. I’ve done this as long as I can remember.

So my other daughter, D1, told me she had some friends over one time—this was at D1’s place—and they were drinking tea and she got out some cheese and started dunking it and her friends started freaking out. D1 had no idea that the whole world didn’t do this! It was one of those “aha!” moments. I think she was a little embarrassed—I don’t really remember—I do remember she called me about it!

That Hotel Was Haunted

Earlier this year I was happily earning free Southwest Airline coupons by deferring my flight home. I wanted to do that for more than a decade, and finally had the opportunity and made a new friend as well (another story, another day.)

The airline put us in a lovely airport hotel for the night, separate rooms, of course, having diverted us there to get us home the next day. I like nice hotels and usually feel like I'm on vacation when I'm in one. This one was lovely, two king beds, and the bathroom had a freestanding sink on a beautiful piece of furniture with a granite top. Quite lovely, with a bay of mirrors, and I could see all sides of my face while washing up.

There was also a door that had a full-length mirror on the outside. The door opened into the bathroom and when opened, the mirror was opposite the three lovely mirrors behind the sink.

I didn't know it was a trap.

Next morning I got up and headed straight to the shower, which had one of those newer bowed rods so the curtain didn't blow back in. I left the door open so the bathroom wouldn't get fogged up. After my shower I was toweling off in front of the sink, when I saw my bum in the mirror behind me, FULL ON, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN ABOUT 20 YEARS. I tried to scream. My mouth was open and my jaw was moving, but no sound came out. I tried to breathe, but no air was getting in.

That bum of mine was whiter than white, flat, wide, doughy, dimply and about two feet lower than the last time I saw it.

It was horrible! (And still is ...)

There was no getting around it, gravity caught me unaware.

After a moment, shock turned to laughter and bouts of hysteria overtook me off and on during the next several days. I promised myself never to scare me like that again.

I recommend, if you're the least bit squeamish, never put yourself in that position. You might not be able to look back on anything ever again.

Word Up

(Queen Gran's note: I wrote this as a response to a blog I receive by email.)

As a former newspaper editor, I can attest firsthand that investigative journalism is as good as dead and buried. Local newspapers cater to their biggest advertisers, and the big city boys are politically motivated.

You cannot get a factual newscast on television any more. News anchors don’t report the news. They decide how you should feel about it. “Their” opinions are rampant throughout what should have stayed a report of the complete facts.

Journalists are heavily censored in every newsroom in this country. The only fun newspapers are your weekly community papers: that’s how you find out about a town. They are not considered “important” by the powers, apparently, and are usually left alone. Read its weekly or biweekly newspaper a few times and you will find the community’s heart.

They have little budget and their journalists might also be selling its advertising and their editors doubling as classifieds cold callers; but with those multi-hats comes an investment from the heart. Nobody there is getting paid much of anything, but they all are invested in its success. Personal pride is big in those tiny newsrooms, and it’s what is sorely lacking elsewhere.

As an editor, I also know what I, and fellow editors, do to other people’s words. And while editing newspapers is a lot different from editing books, journals, magazines, etc., editors change things. I like to think I don’t mess with a writer’s tone or style, and I get writers to answer questions raised in their stories that I want an answer to when I read it; but I know other editors who prefer to put their stamp on a story.

I imagine it’s the same with translators. Nothing can be translated word for word. I mean nothing. And for one person, or even a group of people (nothing like a committee!), to decide what was meant by a word, phrase or sentence, means original intent has likely been skewed. Writings have been translated over and over, and having the language “updated” can impact the original document in countless ways , with some never even close to resembling the original. 

Americans have let themselves be talked down to, believing things that are said on TV and that are printed in newspapers.

“Why, they wouldn’t print it if it weren’t true, would they?”

Jeesh. “Sheep” is right. We have been lazy and let ourselves be led astray.

Beam it into my house, Scotty!

I have been spending a lot of time trying to connect one of the best Christmas gifts ever, my Sirius radio. I have the Plug and Play Boombox and a subscription that includes the Best of XM, assuring me all the Major League Baseball games I can stand, along with great music and talk stations. And don’t forget the comedy!

So far, the boombox plays on my porch, in a certain spot. It’s lovely – sounds like what I think a Bose radio would sound like. I’m even mastering the remote.

My problem is I can’t get the radio to play inside the house. I would love to have it work inside and I have done all the things I’ve been asked to do to get it to work: put it by a north facing window (due to my zone location), put the antenna outside, put a full-length mirror on the porch to “bounce” the signal inside to the radio. Nothing works.

I live in a doublewide trailer, what the residents and the office workers prefer to call manufactured housing, on my own lot on a golf course. And I gotta say, being surrounded by metal, aluminum or whatever, seems to be OK for other electronics, just not my Sirius boombox.

It works great about a foot outside the overhang. There is no overhang on the back but the radio still doesn’t work in the back bedrooms, despite sitting on the sill of a bay window with no outside overhang. I don’t know why.

The curious thing, to me, is how my other electronics work inside. How does my cell phone work so well? (By the way, when I am driving and get to a “dead” spot, where I cannot place or receive phone calls, how come I can send and receive text messages?)

How does my WiFi work so well inside and out? I can sit outside and be connected to the Internet with no problem. Doesn’t seem to be any metal interference.

And certain things on the boombox work, such as the part of the Sirius radio that shows me the exact time. How does that show up, including whatever station number I happen to be tuned to, but the actual station signal doesn’t get through?

If it were up to me to know how these things work, these wondrous things would never have been invented. My good friend and neighbor and I are still marveling over how transistor radios work. And black and white TV versus color. We are still astounded by our “outmoded” electronics.

I have now purchased a 50-foot extension antenna to connect to the boombox and run outside. I’m trying to figure out how to actually do it but so far haven’t been able to figure out how and where. I do know why: I’d like it to work indoors! But that’s about all I know. Did I tell you the radio works fine in the car? Thanks to my daughter’s namesake, we got the parts properly installed in the car and I have been enjoying it there ever since.

One more puzzle: Picture the radio, sitting in view on the porch, with me sitting inside in my recliner, holding the Sirius remote. I am able to adjust the volume of the radio on the porch with no problem. But when the beep-beep comes, letting me know a favorite artist or song is playing on another station, the button I push to switch over to that song doesn’t work at all. I don’t get it.

OK, one more: I can be in the back room, use the remote key to my car and lock the doors and set the alarm. The car is out front. I'm not complaining. I just want to understand why it works.