Two bad dogs
December 26, 2009 · Leave a Comment
We have this horrid little terrier. Actually we have two and they are both pretty bad but for completely different reasons. So it’s safe to say we have a horrid little terrier and you could put either under that same umbrella.
Artie is timid–no wait, that’s Artie in a good moment. He’s afraid, terrified, petrified of people and has an insane fear of men. The two men he fears the most are my husband and older son. All living under the same roof. Either he is scurrying away to hide or barking madly. It’s maddening to live with.
The second dog, Honey is an adorable little scottie who loves people but hates any dog other than Artie. I mean go-for-the-throat hates, instant snarling and attack-mode hate. She’s tiny so it’s surprising that the bigger and more menacing the dog, the more fervent her loathing and attempts at attack are.
So there it is: a dog that can’t be around people and a dog that can’t be around other dogs. No happy medium here, the extremes of the terrier heart.
26 December 2009
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Two bad dogs
December 26, 2009 · Leave a Comment
We have this horrid little terrier. Actually we have two and they are both pretty bad but for completely different reasons. So it’s safe to say we have a horrid little terrier and you could put either under that same umbrella.
Artie is timid–no wait, that’s Artie in a good moment. He’s afraid, terrified, petrified of people and has an insane fear of men. The two men he fears the most are my husband and older son. All living under the same roof. Either he is scurrying away to hide or barking madly. It’s maddening to live with.
The second dog, Honey is an adorable little scottie who loves people but hates any dog other than Artie. I mean go-for-the-throat hates, instant snarling and attack-mode hate. She’s tiny so it’s surprising that the bigger and more menacing the dog, the more fervent her loathing and attempts at attack are.
So there it is: a dog that can’t be around people and a dog that can’t be around other dogs. No happy medium here, the extremes of the terrier heart.
December 26, 2009 · Leave a Comment
We have this horrid little terrier. Actually we have two and they are both pretty bad but for completely different reasons. So it’s safe to say we have a horrid little terrier and you could put either under that same umbrella.
Artie is timid–no wait, that’s Artie in a good moment. He’s afraid, terrified, petrified of people and has an insane fear of men. The two men he fears the most are my husband and older son. All living under the same roof. Either he is scurrying away to hide or barking madly. It’s maddening to live with.
The second dog, Honey is an adorable little scottie who loves people but hates any dog other than Artie. I mean go-for-the-throat hates, instant snarling and attack-mode hate. She’s tiny so it’s surprising that the bigger and more menacing the dog, the more fervent her loathing and attempts at attack are.
So there it is: a dog that can’t be around people and a dog that can’t be around other dogs. No happy medium here, the extremes of the terrier heart.
21 December 2009
Another Writer's Beginning
I have been writing for my entire life, probably longer than I’ve been reading because my mother saved pieces of paper with my scribbling on it that’s dated around the time I was two. I’ve always loved putting pen to paper to make a story.
Writing became serious for me when I was in junior high school: my teacher read a story I wrote to the class. She thought I had potential and encouraged me to keep writing. She was also a tough grader and often tore apart my work because of poor grammar, wrong word usage, hack phrases and unoriginal ideas. Most of the class hated her because she was so hard to please but I worshipped her; a good grade from Mrs. Joseline was like getting published in The New Yorker Magazine. I have had good English teachers since but none that drove or inspired me as much as my 6th grade teacher and I’ve wondered what I would have become if I could have stayed with her longer or at least stayed in touch. Unfortunately we moved before my 6th grade year ended and I never met anyone who demanded good writing from me.
I continued to write and believed I had talent. Unfortunately I lost the best voice of reason and guide for my writing when I was twelve. Mrs. Joseline helped lay a firm foundation but I left way to soon for me to continue a straight path as a serious writer. I dreamed that someday I’d write a book and be a famous author. That is most likely where the train derailed. The desire to be a famous author is probably one of the worst reasons to write. The second worse reason is the desire to “share” your story when your story is unfinished, uninteresting and you are still an unformed writer.
I’m not published because I’ve submitted what I believed I should “share” instead of working, learning and refining the craft of writing. My submissions had been rejected, some kindly, others not so kindly and still others sent back with no comment whatsoever. I’ve saved my rejections but looked at them very little because of the discomfort I have with Rejection.
Recently (well about a year ago actually) I looked at the rejections and reread my submissions. I saw my writing in a completely new light and it was pretty bad. It wasn’t just the grammar, it was also the wrong word usage, hack phrases and unoriginal ideas. I needed Mrs. Joseline! It was difficult, no impossible to be objective about my own work when I’m head-over-heels in love with it. In giving the romance time to cool off, I saw that my submissions, while potentially promising, were really so much of all of what my beloved teacher would have nearly driven her red pen through the paper writing “RE-DO!”.
Writing continues to be a daily endeavor. I feel edgy and cross if I don’t write. As I get older (good grief, what a hack phrase!) I see my writing mature. I still fall in love with my stories but I can be more objective. There are several reasons for that: reading good writing, research, studying style and grammar are instrumental to elevating my level of writing. Unfortunately none of the those are as compelling as my old teacher, but they have added dimension and depth.
I also believe that age and maturity give a deeper perspective on content as well as insight. The writing of my twenties is so different from what I write now: I was kind of whiny and superior at the same time–really insufferable. That’s an unfortunate trait I’ve come across in reading other young writers and authors who spew forth haughty rants and cop lofty attitudes without having done enough living to back up any of the grandiose airs. It reads as shallow, hollow and fake.
My next step is to find another teacher or a real writing group that critiques and challenges me. I have so many projects and ideas that are undone. I know I’m a good starter but a lousy finisher. So frustrating. What will become of all I’ve done is not as pressing to me as finishing well what’s been started.
Writing became serious for me when I was in junior high school: my teacher read a story I wrote to the class. She thought I had potential and encouraged me to keep writing. She was also a tough grader and often tore apart my work because of poor grammar, wrong word usage, hack phrases and unoriginal ideas. Most of the class hated her because she was so hard to please but I worshipped her; a good grade from Mrs. Joseline was like getting published in The New Yorker Magazine. I have had good English teachers since but none that drove or inspired me as much as my 6th grade teacher and I’ve wondered what I would have become if I could have stayed with her longer or at least stayed in touch. Unfortunately we moved before my 6th grade year ended and I never met anyone who demanded good writing from me.
I continued to write and believed I had talent. Unfortunately I lost the best voice of reason and guide for my writing when I was twelve. Mrs. Joseline helped lay a firm foundation but I left way to soon for me to continue a straight path as a serious writer. I dreamed that someday I’d write a book and be a famous author. That is most likely where the train derailed. The desire to be a famous author is probably one of the worst reasons to write. The second worse reason is the desire to “share” your story when your story is unfinished, uninteresting and you are still an unformed writer.
I’m not published because I’ve submitted what I believed I should “share” instead of working, learning and refining the craft of writing. My submissions had been rejected, some kindly, others not so kindly and still others sent back with no comment whatsoever. I’ve saved my rejections but looked at them very little because of the discomfort I have with Rejection.
Recently (well about a year ago actually) I looked at the rejections and reread my submissions. I saw my writing in a completely new light and it was pretty bad. It wasn’t just the grammar, it was also the wrong word usage, hack phrases and unoriginal ideas. I needed Mrs. Joseline! It was difficult, no impossible to be objective about my own work when I’m head-over-heels in love with it. In giving the romance time to cool off, I saw that my submissions, while potentially promising, were really so much of all of what my beloved teacher would have nearly driven her red pen through the paper writing “RE-DO!”.
Writing continues to be a daily endeavor. I feel edgy and cross if I don’t write. As I get older (good grief, what a hack phrase!) I see my writing mature. I still fall in love with my stories but I can be more objective. There are several reasons for that: reading good writing, research, studying style and grammar are instrumental to elevating my level of writing. Unfortunately none of the those are as compelling as my old teacher, but they have added dimension and depth.
I also believe that age and maturity give a deeper perspective on content as well as insight. The writing of my twenties is so different from what I write now: I was kind of whiny and superior at the same time–really insufferable. That’s an unfortunate trait I’ve come across in reading other young writers and authors who spew forth haughty rants and cop lofty attitudes without having done enough living to back up any of the grandiose airs. It reads as shallow, hollow and fake.
My next step is to find another teacher or a real writing group that critiques and challenges me. I have so many projects and ideas that are undone. I know I’m a good starter but a lousy finisher. So frustrating. What will become of all I’ve done is not as pressing to me as finishing well what’s been started.
16 December 2009
Getting over it is a life process.
I am divorced. Many, many years divorced and remarried far longer and much happier to no longer categorize me as a divorcee but as a twice-married. I qualify, if anyone was truly interested that I was very young when I married the first time. At this present time, that is it. My life is my marriage and my two sons, the oldest is the son of the first husband but has been beautifully raised by my current and beloved husband. We are well into our second decade of a wonderful life together and that first marriage is so distant and of little consequence to my life at present.
Ah, there are times when it rears its ugly little head, jabs me in the throat and makes a dogs breakfast of my entrails. Most of the nastiness has to do with dealing with Mr. Ex regarding our son. That is the one point of leverage still although so much time has passed and the pieces fell where they should with my belief that if I held to what was best for our son, things would eventually work out well. They have, bad behavior revealed itself and my darling son has been able to hash out the difficulties and live a reasonably harmonious life, balancing between two people who do not like each other one bit. What a challenge, I marvel at my son's resiliency when I think of it.
I was young when I married. Not too young to marry but I was certainly a young bride. I was far too young to be involved with my first husband when we began our relationship. It was inappropriate, for he crossed a perilous line and took an enormous chance that I'd go along his scheme. I was so smitten, overwhelmed by his attention and his conviction that I had a magical power that drew him, a power that he had no control to resist. He made it seem to me that I was the one who was manipulating him to be in the relationship, that he was the puppet while I controlled the strings.
It was compelling and convincing to me as a 14 year old (he was 22 at the time). The emotional binding and mental control took place for nearly a year before the relationship became physical. I believe, whether he actually planned this or not, that he had to be certain of absolute power before he took it to a physical level because he would be in jail or on parole if he crossed the line with me at the age of 15 and I didn't keep my mouth shut about it.
I did, he's a free man. It's too late to do anything about it. I married him when I was an appropriate age and to dwell upon it for me is useless and fruitless. I used to gnash my teeth, rend my garments, pull my hair. WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY? It was a deep, cold, black well for many years. Why did he do this to me? Why couldn't I see what it was and not let it happen? I did not ask for any of it or the abuse that followed. Why did my son have to have such a wretched father? If I could truly find those answers, I would still not find the peace I yearned for in seeking them.
The peace I found was in working myself out of a victim's role and image. My peace came when I was able to live independently in my own apartment, send my son to school and after-school so I could work to pay for all I had without him and his terrible presence: the crushing, overbearing, abusive being that he is. My peace continued to expand and free me to meet good friends, to not avoid people who might become close enough to me to figure out how truly awful my life was. My peace is nearly complete now, over twenty years later: married to a good man and living a genuine, fearless life. My joy has been seeing my oldest son grow and become who he is, not who he could have been while living with such a manipulative, aggressive parent.
There are huge pangs. I know my actions made scars on my son. I know I could have done better, felt I could have been stronger at times and fought harder for what was right, but those convictions are through the eyes of one who is well into midlife, not one who was the age that I married, coincidently that is the same age as my older son is now. I look at him and say, "He is still so young."
I promised there was a reason for my deep loathing of the "Twilight" series and it is all of the above. Stephanie Meyer, unintentionally I am certain, described the foundation of my miserable abused life with my first husband: a forbidden relationship with a much older man, isolation from parents and friends and complete, absolute power over this young woman who was supposed to be so powerful in her innocent ignorance. It was destiny. The manipulations of the older man stating he is powerless in her presence, that he does not want the attraction but can't help it because she's the one with the power that he is helpless to resist. It's an extremely seductive and skillful way to gain control easily, completely over a vulnerable young woman.
Ms. Meyer's heroine "Bella Swan" is her muse for her fantasmagorical vampire love/lust ouvre and I'm thankful it was so laboriously long, just overrought with simpering and snivelly passages. BUT(and that's a pretty big but) it has the blueprint for how to be a real predator which obviously jangled a very raw nerve for me.
I read (while cringing, groaning and throwing the books across the room) the rest of the series to see if it continued to maintain the seductive notion that a young woman is truly fulfilled when she's helplessly, hopelessly in love with a dangerous and forbidden man. It did but it was unrealistic, immature and rang with a hollow, completely false tone. It imploded upon itself in the end and when the dust settles it appears it is just a badly written series about forbidden fantasy love. Most young girls adore this stuff at some point in their lives then move on unscathed, uncaught by a real-life predator.
Ah, there are times when it rears its ugly little head, jabs me in the throat and makes a dogs breakfast of my entrails. Most of the nastiness has to do with dealing with Mr. Ex regarding our son. That is the one point of leverage still although so much time has passed and the pieces fell where they should with my belief that if I held to what was best for our son, things would eventually work out well. They have, bad behavior revealed itself and my darling son has been able to hash out the difficulties and live a reasonably harmonious life, balancing between two people who do not like each other one bit. What a challenge, I marvel at my son's resiliency when I think of it.
I was young when I married. Not too young to marry but I was certainly a young bride. I was far too young to be involved with my first husband when we began our relationship. It was inappropriate, for he crossed a perilous line and took an enormous chance that I'd go along his scheme. I was so smitten, overwhelmed by his attention and his conviction that I had a magical power that drew him, a power that he had no control to resist. He made it seem to me that I was the one who was manipulating him to be in the relationship, that he was the puppet while I controlled the strings.
It was compelling and convincing to me as a 14 year old (he was 22 at the time). The emotional binding and mental control took place for nearly a year before the relationship became physical. I believe, whether he actually planned this or not, that he had to be certain of absolute power before he took it to a physical level because he would be in jail or on parole if he crossed the line with me at the age of 15 and I didn't keep my mouth shut about it.
I did, he's a free man. It's too late to do anything about it. I married him when I was an appropriate age and to dwell upon it for me is useless and fruitless. I used to gnash my teeth, rend my garments, pull my hair. WHY, WHY, WHY, WHY? It was a deep, cold, black well for many years. Why did he do this to me? Why couldn't I see what it was and not let it happen? I did not ask for any of it or the abuse that followed. Why did my son have to have such a wretched father? If I could truly find those answers, I would still not find the peace I yearned for in seeking them.
The peace I found was in working myself out of a victim's role and image. My peace came when I was able to live independently in my own apartment, send my son to school and after-school so I could work to pay for all I had without him and his terrible presence: the crushing, overbearing, abusive being that he is. My peace continued to expand and free me to meet good friends, to not avoid people who might become close enough to me to figure out how truly awful my life was. My peace is nearly complete now, over twenty years later: married to a good man and living a genuine, fearless life. My joy has been seeing my oldest son grow and become who he is, not who he could have been while living with such a manipulative, aggressive parent.
There are huge pangs. I know my actions made scars on my son. I know I could have done better, felt I could have been stronger at times and fought harder for what was right, but those convictions are through the eyes of one who is well into midlife, not one who was the age that I married, coincidently that is the same age as my older son is now. I look at him and say, "He is still so young."
I promised there was a reason for my deep loathing of the "Twilight" series and it is all of the above. Stephanie Meyer, unintentionally I am certain, described the foundation of my miserable abused life with my first husband: a forbidden relationship with a much older man, isolation from parents and friends and complete, absolute power over this young woman who was supposed to be so powerful in her innocent ignorance. It was destiny. The manipulations of the older man stating he is powerless in her presence, that he does not want the attraction but can't help it because she's the one with the power that he is helpless to resist. It's an extremely seductive and skillful way to gain control easily, completely over a vulnerable young woman.
Ms. Meyer's heroine "Bella Swan" is her muse for her fantasmagorical vampire love/lust ouvre and I'm thankful it was so laboriously long, just overrought with simpering and snivelly passages. BUT(and that's a pretty big but) it has the blueprint for how to be a real predator which obviously jangled a very raw nerve for me.
I read (while cringing, groaning and throwing the books across the room) the rest of the series to see if it continued to maintain the seductive notion that a young woman is truly fulfilled when she's helplessly, hopelessly in love with a dangerous and forbidden man. It did but it was unrealistic, immature and rang with a hollow, completely false tone. It imploded upon itself in the end and when the dust settles it appears it is just a badly written series about forbidden fantasy love. Most young girls adore this stuff at some point in their lives then move on unscathed, uncaught by a real-life predator.
13 December 2009
"Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1"
12/13 Sweetman gave to:
Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Vol. 1)
by Julia Child
my rating: 5 stars
shelf: read
recommended to Sweetman by: Julia Child
recommended for: anyone who has their own kitchen
read in January, 1967 | owns a copy
Sweetman said: " A must-have for all who have their "own" kitchen. It's a monument, the sign of someone who knows how important it is to be able to present a beautifully roasted chicken, a perfect white sauce or asparagus done to the "nth" degree of tenderness.
Keep in mind I said someone who knows how important it is to cook this way. The actual execution of nearly ALL of my beloved Ms. Child's recipes require a professional kitchen, a legion of specific and expensive cooking tools and at least a week to pull it off--and of course nothing really comes out as good as it's supposed to.
This is Mastering the Art of French Cooking, a lifetime of experience in the perfect cookbook, written in the voice of my hero, Julia Child. She kept me company when I was sick on the couch, she enthralled me with her genuine love of cooking and knowledge of what she created. She was the first woman in my television memory who donned an apron and didn't mince around the table looking perfect (June Cleever) or bumble around the set like a clown (Lucille Ball). Julia Chile worked the set, the food, the props and it was even better when things went flying or fell or splattered all over the place because that was really cooking!
Even as a kid, I knew I'd never cook the way she did. The amounts of butter nauseated me (I ate a whole spoonful on a bet as a kid and the taste of plain butter still makes me sick), the ingredients--especially the minute "dabs", "sprinkles", "a touch" where things I'd never have just waiting to be added in my kitchen--I knew this as a child! But I loved and appreciated her passion and her desire to share what she loved with the rest of us. This cookbook, following me around from kitchen to kitchen with me leafing through the recipes and reading the introductory chapters is my testament to her.
Mastering the Art of French Cooking (Vol. 1)
by Julia Child
my rating: 5 stars
shelf: read
recommended to Sweetman by: Julia Child
recommended for: anyone who has their own kitchen
read in January, 1967 | owns a copy
Sweetman said: " A must-have for all who have their "own" kitchen. It's a monument, the sign of someone who knows how important it is to be able to present a beautifully roasted chicken, a perfect white sauce or asparagus done to the "nth" degree of tenderness.
Keep in mind I said someone who knows how important it is to cook this way. The actual execution of nearly ALL of my beloved Ms. Child's recipes require a professional kitchen, a legion of specific and expensive cooking tools and at least a week to pull it off--and of course nothing really comes out as good as it's supposed to.
This is Mastering the Art of French Cooking, a lifetime of experience in the perfect cookbook, written in the voice of my hero, Julia Child. She kept me company when I was sick on the couch, she enthralled me with her genuine love of cooking and knowledge of what she created. She was the first woman in my television memory who donned an apron and didn't mince around the table looking perfect (June Cleever) or bumble around the set like a clown (Lucille Ball). Julia Chile worked the set, the food, the props and it was even better when things went flying or fell or splattered all over the place because that was really cooking!
Even as a kid, I knew I'd never cook the way she did. The amounts of butter nauseated me (I ate a whole spoonful on a bet as a kid and the taste of plain butter still makes me sick), the ingredients--especially the minute "dabs", "sprinkles", "a touch" where things I'd never have just waiting to be added in my kitchen--I knew this as a child! But I loved and appreciated her passion and her desire to share what she loved with the rest of us. This cookbook, following me around from kitchen to kitchen with me leafing through the recipes and reading the introductory chapters is my testament to her.
10 December 2009
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