Fall Flash 12

Marlene stared across the yard, watching Jimmy John scratch his backside attempting to impress the new girl.

“Why did my parents continue to procreate?”

This question ran through Marlene’s mind as she watched the grin spread across his face for the umpteenth time.

“What in the hell is wrong with that nitwit girl?”

Jimmy John hiked up his pants and leaned in to whisper some inane nothing; the girl actually blushed and giggled, giggled for the love of God.

Marlene watched Jimmy John shuffled back to the porch a smile plastered to his face, “Well, sister looks like I got me a fresh one for Friday night.”

“What the hell did you say to this one JJ?”

“The same thing your husband said to you the first time you said yes!”

Jimmy John guffawed and slapped his knee. Marlene thought, “I have to get out of this backward town”.

FlashinthePan

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Dear Oprah

redhatOprah I just need a minute of your time to talk about your magazine, which I do enjoy reading except for a couple of small problems. Just a couple really, you being the publisher and one of the richest most influential women in the world could fix this with a smile and a snap of your well-manicured fingers. I wish you would think about the message you send, I do. So let me tell you what is on my mind, what is bugging me this lovely Sunday morning as I sit with my coffee and your magazine. I would bet if you knew you would think this might be relevant. Of course, then again you might think to yourself, “Really, I am Oprah Winfrey and my magazine makes millions without the advice of some barely read blogger from Texas, pfftt”.

Here is the problem Oprah, you don’t mind I am so familiar do you?

Never mind, Tom Cruise jumps on your sofa so certainly you don’t mind if I call you Oprah as if we know each other; back to the problem. In the first hundred (100) pages of the October magazine, every advertisement but one, nothing but skinny bitches not one single woman looks like me, or for that matter like you. Sorry for that but you and I both know most American women have a bit of meat on their boney asses. I will bet you a mani-pedi your entire editorial staff knows most of us do not look like that. For that matter, those women in those pictures, hell they don’t look like that. Really though, Oprah I simply expect more and better from you, don’t you remember when tent dresses were the only style you wore and elastic was your best friend? You are still wearing clothing in the double digits, so why doesn’t your magazine reflect the real American woman?

Just sayin.

Not her heaviest, but not her lightest either

Not her heaviest, but not her lightest either

Now on to my other issue, I think this one is even more of a problem. I know you are wealthy and what you have done is fabulous. Your accomplishments in life, as well as, your philanthropy are to be lauded and emulated. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way; honestly though, I think your magazine has lost sight of your readership, the economy and how we live. What do I mean by this; let me show you by just picking at a couple of your articles this month.

Adam’s Style Sheet, Page 92 this month was Top Coats. Nice selection and pairing, unfortunately not a single thing would fit a woman over size 14, some likely don’t even go that high (Readership loss). Then we have some interesting additions to the feature such as; Coach and Zac Posen Bags, Jean-Michael Cazabat and Zac Posen Shoes. The list could go on, I will stop here the real issue being the Economy, how many of your readership has hundreds of dollars to spend do you think? Yet, your stylist creates these looks, which are impossible to emulate on the cheap. Well why not? Perhaps the point is to simply make others feel inadequate? If that isn’t the point then something should change, maybe how to create these styles with the incomes real women have at their disposal.

So let us flip back to page 150, Strut your Stuff. Wonderfully laid out by the way, I simply loved every single boot in this article; of course, since you only style for the skinny bitch audience, those wonderful $850 Tony Burch boots wouldn’t fit my larger calves but nonetheless still loved looking. Back to my point, there must be a small (5%) audience who will see these marvelous outfits and will not read beyond where to buy, won’t care the wallet busting prices. Remember though, Readership and the Economy, most will; in fact, ninety-five percent (95%) of your readership will weep when they see those prices. Let me give you just a few of my favorites;

Page 153 – absolutely love the green bootie! Total price for the outfit, $1,205, this includes only the items priced on the page not everything.

I might need these

I might need these

Page 154 – those boots, I might have to starve my dearly beloved for a week or two for those boots. Total price for this one, $1,433. Fortunately for me the only thing that would fit are the boots, $450.

Remember what I said, Readership and Economy? Not a single one of the eleven (11) outfits presented in this layout was within the range of your average reader. Not a single one of these was even feasible to emulate from the places most of us usually find ourselves shopping. Come on Oprah; remember most of us left size 0 behind us when we were twelve years old, if we were even that then. Most of us don’t shop Tony Burch or L.A.M.B. as much as we might wish just once we could. Most of us don’t have a spare $1,500 for a single outfit for lunch with our BFF or date night with our version of Stedman.

Oprah, could you please cut us a break here? I have nothing against skinny bitches, truly I don’t. Nevertheless, I surely would like to think at least you have nothing against the rest of us.

To all my thin and healthy friends and readers, no offense was meant by Kickm reference to ‘skinny bitches’ and you have my sincere apology if you were offended, truly. The truth is I wish I was one of you so I could wear all the fabulous clothing I salivate over in Oprah and Vogue. This was written somewhat tongue in cheek but also in part to address what is lacking in all media today, women who look like me and like the average American woman.

Fall Flash 13

It is past boarding time, the departure lounge was full of people waiting for the flight to be called. The attendants rested heads upon hands not even pretending interest.

Infants squall, hungry and hot their parents ignoring the angry glares of others. Children run wildly, tripping over luggage and legs sprawling across open spaces. The air grows fetid with each passing minute, sour milk, half-eaten lunches and unchanged babies filling the lounge with its own pungent mixture.

Glancing around Demi wonders why she agreed to this trip, zip lines through jungle canopies and Rum Punch by the pool doesn’t seem worth this hell.

Finally, the speaker sputters, “ladies and gentlemen, we are ready for boarding, do not get in line before your row is called, we are warning you.”

Demi sighed, “Row 45, travel isn’t what it used to be. It will be at least another hour.”

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Fall Flash 11

Tap, tap, tap; Sorcha wanted to scream the constancy plagued her. It wasn’t enough she was lonely in this new land, without friend, music or hope of love, this terrible sleeplessness kept her evil all day. Like clockwork, it started at 11pm and continued throughout the night; tonight she would put a stop to it.

Scorcha marched upstairs to 2B, through the door she could hear clearly the offensive rhythm. Before she knocked, the door was flung wide and she was staring at the most handsome of men. Every thought of dressing down flew out of her head; instead, she considered the alternative, undressing.

“Scorcha, I was wondering when you would finally call.”

“Oh my; how have you gotten here? You are Lugh!”

“Just so, Scorcha you must go home. This dreary city, ’tis no place for you.”

Scorcha sat straight up, resolved to return home; called by Lugh himself.

 FlashinthePan

References:

Celtic (Welsh, Irish) God, he is a druid, carpenter, poet and mason. His animals are Raven and Lynx. He symbolizes healing, reincarnation, prophecy and revenge. He is associated with the Sun God thus the Pagan Sabbath Lughnasadh. In Ireland, he was associated with ravens; in Wales, a white stag is his symbol. He had a magic spear and otherworldly hounds. He is also known as Lleu, Llew and Lugh.

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Civility Lost

‘My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor and some style’. Dr. Maya Angelo

Have you noticed our language seems to be getting uglier? Is this just me, am just getting more sensitive in my advanced age. It seems within all the mediums of communications we regularly use, our social interactions, especially where we enjoy anonymity our language and the way in which we speak to one another has a greater level of toxicity than ever before.

wizards6__span

Wizards, a lesson in toxic behavior

The greater  the anonymity the more toxic the language, right from the start. Where once we had at least the veneer of civility, now we are all in with the ugly; cannonballing into the pond, name-calling and nastiness, no regard for the human on the other side of the screen. It is damned near a contest to determine who can be the most offensive within a single exchange, who can pull the bully mantle across their shoulders and strut their obnoxious faster.

I have to ask, what got us to this point? How did we fall so far in our ability to communicate? Did we simply decided to shed our entire veneer of civility and pick up where we left off in grade school? Many of us shake our heads in dismay at the bullying in public schools across the nation; we are concerned our children are damaged by the name-calling and violence in the halls and playgrounds. We should be concerned, but let me ask you; just where in the hell do you think they learn this crappy behavior? Our children don’t pull this out of the air; they do not learn it from television, video games or on the radio! No, they learn it from you and I, they watch us acting like ill-mannered five-year-olds and think, what is good for my father / mother is good enough for me.

Off they go, to pull the hair, trip the nerd or otherwise make life miserable for someone weaker or different from them.

Let us take a quick look at some of the more polite terms we call each other in some of the political discussions I have been in recently, shall we?

  • Rightard
  • Righthug
  • Teatard or Teatarded
  • Repulicant
  • Racist
  • Libtard
  • Dumocrat
  • Environ-mentalist
  • Libturd
  • Libtroll
  • Femnazi
  • Baby killer
  • Race Baiter

Those are just a few after a quick glance through my own page. Nice right?

Don’t misunderstand, I am passionate about the things I believe in and even enjoy a good debate. I find many of the positions of the other side abhorrent, even morally reprehensible. I find many of the people who support them to be equally offensive, their words are a sometime deafening clamor to me.  Despite my personal feelings though, I find the name calling even more offensive than the positional differences. I would rather have a civil debate, one based on facts and even our personal historical context than simply this constant nastiness.

As an example, this is a part of a conversation I had some time back. The context of the conversation was whether the portrayal of the current president (Obama) as a Chimpanzee is the same as the portrayal of the previous president (Bush) as a Chimpanzee. My position was it is not the same because of the historical context of the portrayals. I have had this conversation previously with the person who started the conversation (my brother), on another thread. In this thread, another person jumped in, for context I have frequently bowed out of conversations with him because of the toxicity of his style. He is my nephew though I have never met him, he is in his twenties; both he and my brother are professed Conservatives with a very real hatred of the current President and all things “Liberal”. Despite my brother and my positional differences, we can usually carry on a civil discussion without name-calling. My nephew is not my brother’s son. These are my biological family members who I was not raised with, thus the reason I do not know all of them.

fb conversation

When I tell my nephew to get historical context I do not simply mean about me but also to learn the history of this nation. He is not educated. He is also, as noted, mean spirited and nasty in his communications. Feel free to tell me I was ugly as well, I may have been.

I find myself more often these days, simply bowing out. I no longer have the emotional wherewithal to support these conversations, to defend positions when I am attacked on a personal level. There was a time when I could see past the personal attacks, rhetoric and focus, now I simply say thank you and good-bye.

What is wrong with us?

I ask this of all of us, no matter what side of the fence we sit on what is wrong with us. What part of our compassion, empathy and civility did we drop off at the local Waste Station in the past ten years? I know there have always been issues that fired up our passions, now though it seems just the mention of what side of the very deep chasm you reside on is enough to get those guns roaring.  Nothing it seems can tap down this roar; nothing can extinguish the fires burning across this land setting families against each other in all out battles as if they didn’t share blood, friends in battles of witticism which in truth are nothing more than school yard taunts.

I tell you, I weep for us all. I weep for the lost art of communication, civility and even common courtesy. I weep for us all.

Fall Flash – 10

Shattered silence, broken dreams the alarm screams inharmoniously as an arm snakes out from under the covers to slam the snooze button, nothing happens the world does not return to quiet.

Grabbing the pillow, Bobbie Sue covers her head, wills herself back to sleep without success. Flickering neon lights her room in mad flashes from the flop across the road. The discordant sound of alarms breaking her sleep, nothing but police sirens.

How did she arrive here she wonders as she looks around the dismal space she calls home, stained bedding, rough towels and falling plaster. The flicker of the neon warns her, the sun will soon be down, it is time to get up. The street calls, her choices brought her to this corner of Hell; the transformation of Bobbie Sue to someone called Peaches.

Broken dreams, shattered innocence. Could she ever go home again?

FlashinthePan

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Fall Flash 8

Delilah rocked, humming to herself a song she learned around the kitchen table as a child, the women sang it while cooking dinner on Sundays. The words had no egress but the tune lingered as she stared out the barred windows.

“This is my portion, lost in memory”, she thought as a single tear fell down her creased cheek.

“Mama, why do you cry?”

Two more tears fell. She couldn’t answer the sweet angel who asked.

“Mama, what is that song?

Delilah, hummed louder the song of her memory, the song of the women at the table certain she had sung this song around her own table. The song the women had sung in her family for generations while working together to place food before their families.

The angel, her daughter smiled and the room suddenly filled with her voice lifted in the song of her memory.

Delilah smiled.

FlashinthePan

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Fall Flash 9

Georgie took the hairpin turn at fifty miles per hour, one for every year he had been on earth and flew off the mountainside. Yesterday he would have taken the same turn at seventy-five. At his birthday, his Mother told him to grow up or she would cut him off.

He considered options, regress to his previous tight-ass ways or continue to have fun. He chose money over joy, look what it got him, damn.

FlashinthePan

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Fall Flash 7

Ruthie lay as if sleeping, peaceful like. She was beautiful in her Sunday-go-to-meeting dress, her white gloves and her hair all done up just the way she liked it.

Harold sat in the front, hands together and head bowed. Lovely Ruthie he thought, how I loved you.

“Don’t worry Harry; I’ll be just around the corner waiting for you.” Harry smiled quietly to himself as he heard her whispered words and the casket closed.

FlashinthePan

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Summer Sun

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAWhen all you have isn’t enough, then what?

When everything you are isn’t good enough, then what will be good enough?

When your entire history is poured on the ground and the only thing you can make is mud pies, should you plan to forever go hungry?

Someone once said to me, “You won’t live to thirty”. Yet here I am I lived past fifty.

Someone else once said to me, “I will kill you”. Yet, here I am alive. They didn’t succeed in killing me though they damned near broke my spirit.

Another person said to me, “You will never amount to anything, you are stupid”. I believed them for years and let their judgment dictate my direction and choices.

I approach my next birthday, sooner than I like to think and I consider the consequences of my choices. Pardon me while I wallow in a fair bit of self-pity, maybe not self-pity so much as ‘well shit, what next’. I stare down this slope of the unknown and consider options:

–          What is next for this last third of my life?

–          Why am I asking who I am at this late date?

–          Should I even care about definition or instead just get to living as best I can?

If you could, would you say despite not being enough, not being good enough, despite dust turning only to mud, I am still grateful. My heart is full of gratitude I have lived, I am alive and my eyes have beheld great beauty, my soul 013has burst with laughter and I have trod paths both new and ancient searching for nothing more than passages to joy. I have risked my heart more than once, because well because I am a romantic and despite I have had the ever-loving shit stomped out of me more than once I still believe in love. Despite a tough as nails exterior, despite scars, not just on the inside but some prominent ones on the outside, I am still somewhat mushy and sometimes all too forgiving of the failure of others to take care of the gifts I freely give.

I often accept hurtful words and judgments of ‘less than’ and ‘not enough’ as the truth. I often absorb these through my skin and into my heart. I allow these judgments, harshly rendered to send me into myself searching for different truths or forgiveness. I reach outward sometimes-begging forgiveness for harm unintended, other times for harm never done but easily identified as mine.

Hard to believe anything but early judgments even after all this time of fighting for new definitions. Yet still I will live my life with a grateful heart for all the gifts of light, laughter, joy and pathways to victorious survival against great odds. We might not always be warrior queens, perhaps it is enough sometimes we simply find a sunny spot and be thankful for the color yellow and the warmth at noon.

Am I crazy? Maybe just a little. Am I still a romantic, seeing the world through rose colored glasses? Yes, I suppose I am. The truth? I suppose the truth is, still after all this time I simply want to be loved just as I am, flawed, scarred by a life I didn’t ask to live but lived in the best way I could.

That is all, just loved; perhaps after all that was and is too much.