scorpion1116’s Neighborhood

57paradise

I know, I just thought this would be a cool place to decorate for the holiday!

Ballantines

Holidayfire

1 comment

Newglasses

Newtree

Oldtaylor

So say I. 

The first cover is A Cool Christmas Vol. 3, but I actually have Vol. 2. Then there's TSO, Brian Setzer, some Celtic stuff, classical stuff, last year's Harry Connick, Jr album, one with Bing and Frank which sounds kind of bad on here, more Frank, and maybe something else I left out. 

Shake Hands With Santa Claus

Louis Prima

Washing day at W. H. Corkhill's home Marengo, with Gertrude McKern and Maude Bate aust

When I had a Monday-Friday job, Saturday was naturally laundry day. Every week I would have to ask Mr FD to carry the laundry hamper downstairs for me, as it was often too heavy for my back. May I repeat, EVERY Saturday I had to ASK Mr FD to bring down the laundry hamper from our bathroom.

Now, I don't have a Monday to Friday routine, and I do laundry during the week, trying to leave the weekends free. You know, just in case the last threads of our sanity tear and we give in to spontaneity, heaven forbid!

NOW that I no longer do laundry on a Saturday, every Saturday without fail, WITHOUT A REQUEST, Mr FD brings down the laundry hamper and places it with pride in the middle of our small laundry. It sits there like a dog poop on your priceless heirloom rug. I say nothing, trying to ignore it, but oddly enough it makes me want to rip his throat out.

I do not do the laundry. It sits there until the day I do, in the meantime, our dirty clothes mount up on the floor of our bathroom. I prefer not to say anything as when I am back in the work force I will no doubt want him to bring that damn laundry hamper down each and every Saturday again.

I just want to know - does he know what he is doing? Is he playing games with me - stirring the lizard he calls it. Passive aggressive games of marriage...sigh. Or did he just finally get the message through his damn thick skull and is now probably wondering why I am not postulating myself at his feet in gratitude?

Is it him, or is it me? I know, it's him. It is always him. 

Do you remember the things you did when you first started using the Web and how it has changed your life?

Sponsored by Yahoo!

The things I first did on the web did change my life, mostly for the better. I only used it now and then from about 1993 to 1996, when we got our first home computer and a sponsored CompuServe account. That's when I became merbelle, a name I kept and used for all internet dealings until Yahoo literally screwed it up. But that's another story. 

I joined two forums at first, a poetry forum, and one that talked about old music. The music one, populated with radio djs and music collectors, taught me so much. First, it was encouraging that the people I spoke with online were just people; I never had any of that fear people developed about how the web was full of evil or whatever. And the people of that forum, mostly men, were kind and generous with their time and knowledge. I owe a great deal of my current music interest and rediscovery of good old music to them. I hope that they enjoyed speaking with me as well, though I did not have as much to contribute. 

The poetry forum, I owe so much to that! I still talk with a couple of those people now and then, and peer into the forum they started elsewhere when CompuServe began to change. 

The man joined it first. And at the time I thought he was more literary than me, and talented in a way that I was not, so I was afraid to join in. (There were other reasons, but not relevant to this post.) I wanted to share a poem I'd written, though, with people who might tell me whether it was interesting and worth continuing effort in the medium. 

This is that poem. Okay, it's not actually a poem, and I knew it then, but I also knew it had poetic devices, and wanted to learn more about that kind of writing. 

if you teach a man to fish, 

when will arthritis prevent him from reeling in a catch?

you never cut your hands slicing potatoes, but the slices are thick and uneven 

and some of them fry up brown and crisp while others still seem cold in the middle.

you’re so thin i could rock you as easily as i rock my own children, 

but you’d never admit you need my touch just as you’d never let me buy you some fish as long as you can 

still cast your rusty hook into the water.

you don’t think i know that you eat those potatoes with nothing but store-brand cola to wash them down 

because it’s cheaper than coffee and you have no bait for that rusty hook of yours.

you proudly display that laminated name badge pocket protector wherever you go. 

but it’s yellow with age, and your once stiff canvas shirt is soft and rumpled; worn through at the elbows.

your myopic eyes, large and faded through those thick goggle-like spectacles, 

sort out the change for the generic antacid that food stamps won’t provide for.

i imagine you carefully wiping your dish dry after your meal, 

and i think of calling my dad.

So I dove in and shared it. You had to do it in just the right way; there were sections for people with a lot of experience and knowledge about poetry, and others for chatter, and some for just sharing poetry you didn't want feedback on, and of course there were developing rules for giving and receiving praise, etc. 

It went over well, I mean, of course it isn't very good, but it does have a sense of balance to it, and it's kind of touching. A couple of the experts were kind, and told me what they thought was worthwhile about it. So that encouraged me to write more, and get to know the people, make some friends, watch so much romantic drama being played out onscreen, which sometimes fueled more writing, etc. There were three men there I'll never forget, all wonderfully talented, all British, though two of them lived in other parts of the world. They each taught me something about how to read and write poetry, and occasionally took a personal interest in my efforts. 

There was another man I met there with whom I had an ongoing online and occasional phone call friendship from that time nearly to this, though we haven't spoken now in over a year. I will always remember him with more fondness than most other people I've ever known. 

Most of the women seemed kind of like they were on the make. And there was less talent among them. I do not believe this is because women are less talented at poetry, merely that the ones in that area were probably less focused on it. So I didn't really connect with any of them. But I learned to take poetry seriously, and learned so much about myself and my talents, how to develop different styles of writing and communication, and how to engage people for conversation. 

I wrote a sonnet to share there, my first one, that I was just so proud of, and now it is lost somewhere in the ether of the web. I don't know why it's not saved in my poetry files with all the others. But wow, realizing that I could write one gave me a real sense of power that I've never forgotten, and that I do try to remember to apply to my ongoing efforts. 

I was 31 when I began using the web to learn about writing and other subjects, and to make friends. Thinking about it that way, it seems like a lifetime ago. These past 13 years have been filled with a great deal of extraordinary pain that is still not resolved. But I have an awful lot of fond memories mixed in with all that, and I can thank access to the web for many of them. 

'HOME SWEET HOME'

I have been sitting and thinking about my Dad today. Dad died in 2000 at the age of 76. He was the 13th child in a family of 18th children born to first generation German-Australian migrants. By the time he was born some of his elder siblings were young adults. It was the depression and his father, though they farmed was more interested in drinking and partying than feeding his family. Often my Dad went hungry. He told me tales of catching rabbits at the age of 9 or 10 just to have something to eat. Once he was sent to live with am older brother who would disappear for days on end and not leave any food in the house for my Dad, a small child, to eat.

Back at the family "home" many of the children actually slept out in the shed [barn] and used hessian sacks as blankets. The bathroom was the dam or the creek. Food, usually, what they could find. Dad often told me that he probably owes much of survivial during his childhood to the lady who lived on the neighbouring farm, who would give Dad food to eat. I wonder if that woman ever knew what a role she played in my Dad's life? Other people no doubt would have just thought him a waif from a hopeless family, and not cared, but she did. Her generosity shaped my Dad.

Thoughout his life, he was always concerned that no one left his table not full and content. If anyone hung back he would urge tidbits on them. Sharing his food and his table was a joy to him, and one of the ways he showed his care and concern.

As Christmas draws near, I think of Dad, and the love and pride he had for his family. No Christmas ever passes without one of his Grandchildren remembering how Grandpa would steal food from their plates and pretend that he was going to eat it, and when they played the games and complained would return the food, and usually some from his own plate as well. He hated to think that someone might go hungry, or miss out. We neve did of course, we would all have a very full tummy when we rose from the table. Dad would complement the food and say "isn't that wonderful"! He showed his appreciation to all.

So, in many ways, though he is not physically with us, Dad still shapes our Christmas. We plan the menu, we talk about the food we will make and share. We strive to bring pleasure to each other. And to ourselves. Dad also taught us to honor ourselves as well. We deserve good things too. The real pleasure though comes from sharing and giving to others. That nourishes our spirit and our family bonds, even more than the physical food. That is the finest lesson Dad taught us, that caring for others is the greatest gift that we can give ourselves. Caring for others can change lives and shape generations to come. Just like the woman who shared her food with my Dad, sharing what we have can have far reaching effects that no one can know or see, but they are there. Through her simple kindness, our family continues to grow and prosper and pass on the gift that she gave my Dad.

Care about those around you, do the little things and the world grows and the gift goes on and on.

Tuesday night:

FD rolls over in bed.

Mr FD : Be careful!

FD: What?

Mr FD : Be careful of the chicks!

FD: Chicks? We have chicks in our beds?

Mr FD : Penguin chicks.

FD: How many penguin chicks are in our bed?

Mr FD : Lots - 8 to 12 at least.

FD : We have 8 to12 chicks sleeping in our bed with us?

Mr FD : Yes, so be careful when you move.

FD: If they poop on the sheets I won't be happy

Mr FD : Oh they won't do that, they have diapers.

FD : Of course they would! How long are these chicks staying with us in our bed

Mr FD: I don't know, awhile. Until their parents come back for them.

FD: And where are their parents?

Mr FD; On holiday.

FD: You are making them breakfast. 

Wednesday night

Mr FD : I am going public

FD: Going public about what?

Mr FD : Tiger Woods and I.

FD : You've had an affair with Tiger too?

Mr FD: Yes. I feel so used now.

FD: Where did you meet him?

Mr FD : In the valley [night area].

FD: What were you wearing?

Mr FD : A tight little number. Blue, orange, a splash of red.

FD: Did you wear heels?

Mr FD: Oh course! And sequins. It was kind of a jumpsuit thing.

FD: Do you think you will recover?

Mr FD : I feel sooooo used...sigh 

Calm waters ahead

I am bringing my rampaging soul back into balance. Daughter1 had a meeting with Small Balls the Principal - she took HR and the union with her. I don't have details as yet, except what The Boy has passed on but the meeting went ok and Daughter1 is feeling 'empowered". Empowered is a good word in the Flamingo Dancer world. The union rep was so impressed on how she presented, and the information she wrote that he wants to offer her a job! That's my girl!

Daughter2 is feeling back in balance too, and Son has found out he is the last man standing for the next round of job interviews. I have asked if I can resubmit my assignment and I am waiting for a reply - if not I will live with it. I obviously made some errors and so I may have to suck it up and be a big girl.

Thank you for your support during my blood letting. Small Balls the Principal is still going to get his. Maybe Daughter1 should resign the first week  that school returns in 2010, then he can squirm and find a replacement when all the good teachers are taken! My quiver of sticks are in readiness... 

And it is raining so the heat has decreased. I am going to make a superb dinner tonight, inspired by Jamie Oliver, and maybe even crack a red and sing Christmas carols at the top of my rather off key voice. What I lack in talent I make up for with gusto and volume! 

Pecked to death by ducks

This week is one of those weeks when the whole Flamingo Dancer family feels that there is a bounty on their head and that we are slowly being pecked to death by ducks. Daughter2 was in tears last night due to workload stress and a work environment where no one provides the information that they are required to but fly to appropriate blame for their failure on others, Daughter1 is of course having ongoing issues but has her union with her now, Son is being put through the treadmill of third and fourth round interviews for job he could do blindfolded, Mr FD struggles to get his business onto firm footing (and some regular income!) and me...well, my family is under attack and so I have to protect them AND I got an unexpected bad mark on one of my last assignments and I am asking to resubmit - heavens I am human after all!  Daughter2 tried to cheer me up with the comment that other people my age (51) are slipping in dementia (!) but that I am out there learning new things and tackling a new life - but perfectionist that I am that doesn't soothe my wounds.

I think I need a back up stick - a quiver full of sticks. Open hunting season had been declared. Gird you loins ye foe and foul, Flamingo Dancer strides forth!

Flamingo Dancer is going to take out the duck peckers of this world!