tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71604594378850220872024-03-05T19:44:00.801-08:00Rhonda Talbot WorldWriter. Film Person. HumorRhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.comBlogger161125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-42686786886228189812023-05-17T21:44:00.003-07:002023-11-06T13:13:02.131-08:00I'm Back To The Future So Just Kill Me<p>Before I launch into my “Hey, cop, take my life, please” story, here is why I disappeared. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFm2-hAfGXMovMBDoQzYuYx_l7lXAuDNS0B7H9B4LphXqLWNO1S0bgEeSKpmWMFTFRG0h7CcJ4tA6i5s4q39iAw1ws5Lpna3KASEwhtt4XOheQ6GWmY_5tB9zTf-Ap0zjQ6wNhHASBwz7Qi8XTjItKJxnnxvH91IY31JUtntWiaXwBEQZQD6X6UT9xyQ/s1706/72AD0C21-2FCC-4565-B7BC-D9DB53EA3DFB.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1706" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFm2-hAfGXMovMBDoQzYuYx_l7lXAuDNS0B7H9B4LphXqLWNO1S0bgEeSKpmWMFTFRG0h7CcJ4tA6i5s4q39iAw1ws5Lpna3KASEwhtt4XOheQ6GWmY_5tB9zTf-Ap0zjQ6wNhHASBwz7Qi8XTjItKJxnnxvH91IY31JUtntWiaXwBEQZQD6X6UT9xyQ/s320/72AD0C21-2FCC-4565-B7BC-D9DB53EA3DFB.JPG" width="180" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I stepped away from Trifecta to focus on a book I vowed to write/finish as soon as my two daughters entered the airport security line and off to college. I dropped into the cesspool, swam up two years later, and now have a very long first draft. The point is that I fulfilled a promise to myself. Moving forward, scythe in hand.</p><p><br /></p><p>///</p><p> </p><p>A few days ago, at Starbucks, fueling up on my oat milk latte, two Los Angeles sheriffs entered, weighed down by 35 lbs. of equipment, and I often wonder how they can run. Walking looks arduous. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFDeA5rDOK5IU9QiHAjkQK6UtsPhkKmjFcPdXZyIWa5yE7x83gYWWSxXD9_ka-K4nN467B0Bdfi16b-ArgIw33R0Sbh3_Y4V1BGzMJWXm41_Q4EKem7q9lXPx0oRn2JEB3dn2X87CKQJ2xGybxTvWNlEQU4h2E4nu1v1d4U3Xeu3wrO6tqiUrzXKDMEA" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="336" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiFDeA5rDOK5IU9QiHAjkQK6UtsPhkKmjFcPdXZyIWa5yE7x83gYWWSxXD9_ka-K4nN467B0Bdfi16b-ArgIw33R0Sbh3_Y4V1BGzMJWXm41_Q4EKem7q9lXPx0oRn2JEB3dn2X87CKQJ2xGybxTvWNlEQU4h2E4nu1v1d4U3Xeu3wrO6tqiUrzXKDMEA" width="192" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>They stagger, really, with hands rested on the rugged duty belt attached to protective body armor holstering their Glock firearm, ammunition band, baton, handcuffs, flashlight, OC spray, shotgun cartridge case, key ring, binoculars, two or three cameras, hobble restraints, and radios. </p><p>They also make noise, all the jingles, and jangles, chaffing and clomping. These two had perfect posture. I wondered how often they visited chiropractors.</p><p>We exchanged glances and smiled in that perfunctory way. As they waited for their latte orders, </p><p>I was drinking mine and blurted, “Could one of you shoot me if I ask nicely? Like If I requested in a calm, polite manner. Just shoot me dead. In the head. Maybe a bullet a piece. I can’t think of a better and more effective suicide attempt.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“You heard me. I’m just so tired of everything. Too tired to figure out a quick and better way to accomplish this task.”<br /></p><p>They exchanged looks and sized me up. And I must admit, I looked pretty good. I had no actual destination when I left the house that morning, so I had given thought to my outfit rather than wearing my usual pajamas and slip-on shoes. One never knows whom one might run into. I’d recently purchased a V-neck pullover and layered it over a crisp black halter, paired with crème slouchy pants for that LA casual chic look.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMWGhhjNSvNWcp-SM8gVB5n4GBhWxltHHo5kncK9qtqdCfOO2qZ3uGJqZiUSGPP_DbXbD6xn68ebbp1weUPbKGU75deEL5LT-iBmdvcDTBSZeXD9_N-dx3NNdfgpBTw725vZJTciZN7bCL1DYrPXEaD8MMdnDSeE96QgxX-cl9fFiEHuA20P8bSyMRGQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="236" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMWGhhjNSvNWcp-SM8gVB5n4GBhWxltHHo5kncK9qtqdCfOO2qZ3uGJqZiUSGPP_DbXbD6xn68ebbp1weUPbKGU75deEL5LT-iBmdvcDTBSZeXD9_N-dx3NNdfgpBTw725vZJTciZN7bCL1DYrPXEaD8MMdnDSeE96QgxX-cl9fFiEHuA20P8bSyMRGQ" width="177" /></a></div><p></p><p>Someone must have taken my pic just before I walked in. ^ ^ ^ Why not?</p><p>“So, what’s the verdict? Can we do this?”</p><p>“Ma, am. No. Is there someone we can call? Do you have a family? Should you need a hospital?”</p><p>“Oh, God, no. Not the hospital. They’ll put me in restraints, drug me, and I’ll probably get an infection, like sepsis. No one will care, and I’ll die a slow, horrible death. This is exactly what I want to avoid. I’ve never been in that situation, but I watch plenty of movies, and sepsis is on the rise, especially in hospitals. So, no thanks on that.”</p><p>“We need to know you’re going to be okay. It’s our duty.”</p><p>“Plus, you’re on duty.” I laughed. No one else did. “Come on. That was funny.”</p><p> </p><p>These two needed a sense of humor and were bereft of how to proceed. Their lattes sat on the counter, fizzing and foaming, but I guess it would be weird to grab their drinks while talking to a well-dressed, possibly crazy lady with a death wish.</p><p> </p><p>“Guys, look. I’m just having a bad day. I’ve seen the suicide by cop thing and then wondered if I could not do anything criminal because I’d hate for that to get back to my kids and just have you shoot me. I know it sounds ridiculous. But why not ask? Also, I don’t really want to die. I’m just tired. Also, angry. Tangry. I’m fine. Anyway, have a great day.”</p><p> </p><p>I left and checked to ensure they wouldn’t follow me out and jot down my license plate. They didn’t.</p><p><br /></p><p>I might as well be in hell on days when my mood dips below the self-help level. My brain is on fire, and my flesh melts. But I soldier on and get out of bed. After the morning coffee, and a quick meditation aimed to cover my beloved children in good health, safety, light, and love, I’m ready to face whatever awaits.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgshuPV2XGI_9c8UJT2WzJFR7GMP2mKkE2ketJmwbhetKvhX9ueskH8Gj58fe6GLOWJSew72i9xKNZnhPil0NqYbZ11eUX-_60BVnkVqyOThq18uhAf-rEfBsmSn0mYRbkJbsM4J_Lz17b1TBqqV2L08urxNAIV1I35S_xt4SthrulojeI2qqSIwn75tQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="212" data-original-width="320" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgshuPV2XGI_9c8UJT2WzJFR7GMP2mKkE2ketJmwbhetKvhX9ueskH8Gj58fe6GLOWJSew72i9xKNZnhPil0NqYbZ11eUX-_60BVnkVqyOThq18uhAf-rEfBsmSn0mYRbkJbsM4J_Lz17b1TBqqV2L08urxNAIV1I35S_xt4SthrulojeI2qqSIwn75tQ" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Yet, moods are tricky beasts, and I’ve learned to manage them well over the years. But some days, all my best tricks don’t work—for example, the go-to gratitude list. Phoning a friend who will remind me that blessings surround me, but honestly, this holds no water when you’re in the below-the-hell line low.</p><p> </p><p>Then like a bull suffering from a protracted death, weakened and tormented by spiked lances, I read the newspaper, and here the matador enters to administer the swift, clean kill by driving his sword into the neck to sever the spinal cord. To great applause, I might add.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8nVoYBWR0kbW1YRy6Fl2hNAXkc61_YO7BWLnGCPjj983vYcufJq0ZmgJWNOrU6RyIRIgF_qHf4K91PSbVJSbGHVH5UjBHlZ5IWn_JakZ_10Axwz3TzJ0dEx9vsXEbIL87vxuAG-hNOCgR6LLU44SN4Pp9qnUKfJv63y5aw1NnlAPG8dnz6HNcAd6d2Q" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi8nVoYBWR0kbW1YRy6Fl2hNAXkc61_YO7BWLnGCPjj983vYcufJq0ZmgJWNOrU6RyIRIgF_qHf4K91PSbVJSbGHVH5UjBHlZ5IWn_JakZ_10Axwz3TzJ0dEx9vsXEbIL87vxuAG-hNOCgR6LLU44SN4Pp9qnUKfJv63y5aw1NnlAPG8dnz6HNcAd6d2Q" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>But most matadors miss and stab repeatedly until the bull falls. A despicable social pass time, but the comparison is accurate. Destabilized, staggering, then the final blow sent me out the door and onto Starbucks.</p><p> </p><p>We can all agree that the daily news can send anyone into a deep depression, but the report that sent me hurling into the fire tornado was not even news. It was an 81-year-old ex-con gracing the cover of Swimsuit Illustrated. “My motto has always been when you’re through changing, you're through… blah blah…I hope this cover inspires you to challenge yourself and try new things, regardless of your life stage.” Then something about how the whole “aging” thing is so boring.” </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-J-CgLjbPg-tvmqiCvDTfhnbD-VMOBbwShYNXW7af6-CeW9z_nkp4nj_40ZEUikVNREqmOl8CzZfmTeKh3F7krl5R6B19b7aYGOsCYeSjkynCFcjCxWD5Ul6A-sSLU2cE4HXZ-SaVMrY1fZMltJVUuRyGlkWVuw6lb8sesfgfrYXw0a1OnK1mZLCbXQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh-J-CgLjbPg-tvmqiCvDTfhnbD-VMOBbwShYNXW7af6-CeW9z_nkp4nj_40ZEUikVNREqmOl8CzZfmTeKh3F7krl5R6B19b7aYGOsCYeSjkynCFcjCxWD5Ul6A-sSLU2cE4HXZ-SaVMrY1fZMltJVUuRyGlkWVuw6lb8sesfgfrYXw0a1OnK1mZLCbXQ" width="192" /></a></div><p></p><p> </p><p>Okay. In no world does her kittenish, cleavage-releasing, come hither, look at me pose inspire me. What is her message? If you make it to 81, you can be foxy? Is this sexy? Foxy? Is it AI? But also, huh? For heaven's sake, Martha! You can’t be serious! </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhv71hFnP016qlYQJKhgYCFs-bsj1zHjllsWzgZ-f9gcS4FWH2TM03gcHJptZuHIjawVw2BmMS9sTG9YH6FEa7rmH820rRMIOt2gOoMw3BgNcyrSX1b_UD7Ezo8Yh91U_3pxNcwBbyk9vYa0uZUJC28RMw4ZdK8y5RV9Dm3GN9wnNYIk8ZU57l873Z2ug" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1680" data-original-width="1120" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhv71hFnP016qlYQJKhgYCFs-bsj1zHjllsWzgZ-f9gcS4FWH2TM03gcHJptZuHIjawVw2BmMS9sTG9YH6FEa7rmH820rRMIOt2gOoMw3BgNcyrSX1b_UD7Ezo8Yh91U_3pxNcwBbyk9vYa0uZUJC28RMw4ZdK8y5RV9Dm3GN9wnNYIk8ZU57l873Z2ug" width="160" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Unreasonable beauty standards, youth, and hyper-sexualized ideals are hammered onto women before they are old enough to pay for their swimsuits. I thought we were making some headway. What the hell is the meaning of this? Why are you promoting equating a woman's worth with her physical beauty and degrading her for aging? 50 was never the new 30, and 80 is not the new, well, what, 78? </p><p><br /></p><p>If you get to be 100 years old, this resets the entire situation, and you're the new 20 all over again.</p><p>BUT WHY?!</p><p>How about: “You’re lucky to be alive!” Also, who wants to go back there?</p><p>When I was a freshman in college, I had a very high opinion of myself, all 130 lbs., but as I looked around campus at tight-bodied, athletic, energetic Amazons playing volleyball, racquetball, tennis, and steering tall ships, I immediately stopped eating. Well, for a week. I like food. Maybe I don’t care. I was not raised with this constant emphasis on physical beauty—quite the opposite. My mother drilled into me one idea, the only exercise that will ever serve me well must be one that will tune my brain. So that is all I cared about.</p><p>Of course, good eating habits plus McDonald's, plus jazzercise. But I’d examine these girls because they were another species to me. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnRjj9_sKqF0bnRVBD3uWUVvpv0dmOgvcqbhNaMmuPulnjZLs_jDnf37ObIGws_WWP_Ac53FgkwRzS0oZ0zzWR4ZcFOyA963qdQmiZmIoNzf0-5GNqZvFxJ91g_9dA9qJQ5hA5JNXsZNkLnJs0imMKpEpqUS1LQ3UggQxp_CNSyybfxZK57ReBUnqlOg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="398" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhnRjj9_sKqF0bnRVBD3uWUVvpv0dmOgvcqbhNaMmuPulnjZLs_jDnf37ObIGws_WWP_Ac53FgkwRzS0oZ0zzWR4ZcFOyA963qdQmiZmIoNzf0-5GNqZvFxJ91g_9dA9qJQ5hA5JNXsZNkLnJs0imMKpEpqUS1LQ3UggQxp_CNSyybfxZK57ReBUnqlOg" width="192" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I’d never look like them. Nonetheless, that damaging message crept into my head, “no man will ever want a woman he can’t carry with one arm.” I might have made that up, but you get the idea. So, I’d sit in school, surpass my peers in every class, always be the first to hand in my exam, then daydream the same dream. </p><p><span style="background-color: #fcff01;">I’m over 60, and this perfect body nonsense is finally behind me. I’m lounging on my veranda, eating a box of donuts, and admiring the endless horizon, nary a concern. </span></p><p>Well, here we are. I don’t eat donuts. I don’t lounge on my veranda because I don’t have one or a horizon to admire. I continue to exercise and eat healthy, but to stay alive.</p><p>With all of this on my mind, I get behind the wheel of my car. Depressed, sad, and anxious for my daughters (who don’t care about any of this). But daughters in the global sense.</p><p>By the time I reach Starbucks, I’m muttering, “Why doesn’t Martha invest in solving poverty, healthcare, or global warming? Why doesn’t she put on that silky swimsuit and collect trash in Santa Monica? She’d not only be “reinventing herself” she could still sell those ugly bathing suits. Why isn’t Martha putting her $400M to better use? A higher purpose.</p><p>But then I remembered who she was. A one-time model who sold Tareyton cigarettes on TV while majoring in art history. (Okay, I had to look that up. Beyond the folding napkins and wedding magazines, I had no idea who she was. I also have nothing against models. Maybe Martha was a disgruntled model with an ax to grind. Her career was short-lived; the competition was stiff. Twiggy, Jean Shrimpton, Cybill Shephard, Patti “Layla” Boyd.) </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmbHwrE5DncL-e30-ATOYt5kFQqLiD72Lq-U7IAmdr7EJg9DwBNjnmx9kn2vCzbZg-YoIZxAW6JSrl2YuTbmp64TbnRZH7Pgsum9RKzUEKJbXstaBDCxxako5ilMmkMYg50ByBdIdYZaxcpYySAn_XgCsVY2hfH6Qh2FzvYp8qBvB4LJeDhFbr6hwRCg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjmbHwrE5DncL-e30-ATOYt5kFQqLiD72Lq-U7IAmdr7EJg9DwBNjnmx9kn2vCzbZg-YoIZxAW6JSrl2YuTbmp64TbnRZH7Pgsum9RKzUEKJbXstaBDCxxako5ilMmkMYg50ByBdIdYZaxcpYySAn_XgCsVY2hfH6Qh2FzvYp8qBvB4LJeDhFbr6hwRCg" width="160" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>She always enjoyed the farm life. Good for her. ^ ^ ^ Again, the competition had to be rough. Not to mention a grueling business and not for everyone.</p><p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhozFvqVdiq5eucETl5G0xV_ac8jWbaBQu6fVBbDfWl8oi1L9UwjcuPdLofUT28_cWW_7FCTeagHi-bufHMKNRJYh92dVLxX7Qa1aVY6OCaRyd3TGWSHBNGU4ga_Vt_6jBrotvYtZBNo7Gw5FZtka8mFywnfrk27bV8WZZc49_zR5b9HA4S4oyZjGQwGg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="451" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhozFvqVdiq5eucETl5G0xV_ac8jWbaBQu6fVBbDfWl8oi1L9UwjcuPdLofUT28_cWW_7FCTeagHi-bufHMKNRJYh92dVLxX7Qa1aVY6OCaRyd3TGWSHBNGU4ga_Vt_6jBrotvYtZBNo7Gw5FZtka8mFywnfrk27bV8WZZc49_zR5b9HA4S4oyZjGQwGg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p>After these shenanigans, she announced she needed to put her art history degree to work and became a stockbroker at her husband's firm, restored an old farmhouse to what would become her TV show, sold books, more books, then divorced that guy so she can become the “definitive woman of our time,” whatever the hell that means. Her actions suggest decorating, cooking, hosting cocktail parties, and basically being a housewife. Then sell, sell, sell. </p><p>Then securities fraud and obstructing justice. Martha is an ex-con who defrauded the government and sold housewares. <span style="background-color: #fcff01;">And this has come full circle.</span> She’s a model again and now sells bathing suits. Yet, how can you not admire her? I only glanced at her resume, but this lady has accomplished a lot and became a billionaire with an art history degree!! Who cares that she cheated the government? Men do it every day and don’t go to prison. I guess I have no opinion about her as a human. It’s all the other stuff—obscene wealth used in the most meaningless ways.</p><p> </p><p>Apparently, back in the day, everyone put themselves through college, modeling on the side. Like that is so easy. I needed money, too. Modeling didn’t even occur to me, so I dealt five-stud poker at seedy card clubs, learned to play, and <a href="https://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2013/09/my-semester-with-robert-deniro-er-sam.html">made a lot more money.</a> Older gambling men do not expect a teenage girl to bluff and rake in their dough. Some nights I made three/four grand. I had a house on the beach—a British sports car. But I moved because beach life seemed beneath me. I was a serious student. So, I got a house near campus and was a TA—kept the roadster.</p><p>I was muttering all this, shaking my head, and adding, “Just kill me already. I don’t belong on this planet. Ugh. Yeah, Yeah. Suicide is not an option as a parent. But thinking about it privately at Starbucks is fine.” Well, it seems my thinking has become noisy lately, with words tumbling out of my mouth like rockfall. I walked into Starbucks, now furious at Martha—then, oh, hello, policeman. </p><p>After my interaction with the cops, I felt 20 pounds lighter. I time traveled and rescued my college self, who had become a regular at Jenny Craigs, despite weighing 90 lbs. (They should have been sued) and promised we’d get that prairie vista, with the veranda, maybe a swing, and some willow trees, but only after the girls graduate. No one majors in art history, so anyone’s chances of hitting the 1% remain low. But I’m fairly certain we’ll be able to afford the occasional Starbucks.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhy3Bltm9UAETvpX7lLFv9k5V55h_OuYgd3AWz9dQqrIc_lalV8_u34X8I75_cfREgndMm2SuTVGB6g3bfitaZL7vUIWVF1or-PHnWfXiHDHngWow3ZXwln7iG0hlS0QTdaGeFLeYN1Xts0K6vTGroL0h-In_hN1Uuvkzmd1EgAEHXXp4t6gK4u5zOzQ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhhy3Bltm9UAETvpX7lLFv9k5V55h_OuYgd3AWz9dQqrIc_lalV8_u34X8I75_cfREgndMm2SuTVGB6g3bfitaZL7vUIWVF1or-PHnWfXiHDHngWow3ZXwln7iG0hlS0QTdaGeFLeYN1Xts0K6vTGroL0h-In_hN1Uuvkzmd1EgAEHXXp4t6gK4u5zOzQ" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p> Capitalism and the patriarchy define beauty for cultural consumption--a multi-billion dollar business.</p><p>Rhonda Talbot weighing in on college, daughters, body image, depression, anxiety, running with the bulls, Martha Stewart, beauty standards, sexual idealization, capitalism, patriarchy, ageism, self-worth, Swim Suit Illustrated, Starbucks, McDonald's, L.A. Sheriffs, humor, nature is healing.</p><p> </p><div><br /></div>Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-73072938472281294032021-07-16T13:50:00.004-07:002023-05-18T14:00:00.582-07:00I Meet The Best Strangers<p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiic_ZRNwVdQs-KFBYFTPJ8dcfRB9C7woma02xmbbyYkOPbI3ozbUwm8vLRPbhUtbPzS4VEXmdK7nu-5hjdhAr_7n47xIetyvXCT3E_Q4xVYkp4gOM6OicCzKa2QDJTHrVgb53JSq9lzmlu/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="530" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiic_ZRNwVdQs-KFBYFTPJ8dcfRB9C7woma02xmbbyYkOPbI3ozbUwm8vLRPbhUtbPzS4VEXmdK7nu-5hjdhAr_7n47xIetyvXCT3E_Q4xVYkp4gOM6OicCzKa2QDJTHrVgb53JSq9lzmlu/" width="182" /></a></div><br />I must have been an incompetent and possibly maniacal school bus driver in a past life because it's staggering the number of times I get hit by out-of-control cars. Not me, my car. While parked!<p></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZC5Gb8MJ5Bp-xjWWtsbhy6UvQT-SDOAWzhkImnCQ6jAHhLsHrowSHMIqpDDteQ3mJeAvdNymY7y-qfyWsIe6k3yW_6BKTJi8y-N0GT7992ZPMljtgNsuD9MRVufGnMOW_Jc7zMgjoIhB/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="476" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZC5Gb8MJ5Bp-xjWWtsbhy6UvQT-SDOAWzhkImnCQ6jAHhLsHrowSHMIqpDDteQ3mJeAvdNymY7y-qfyWsIe6k3yW_6BKTJi8y-N0GT7992ZPMljtgNsuD9MRVufGnMOW_Jc7zMgjoIhB/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Every single car I've owned or leased over the past 30 years has taken a brutal sucker punch. At least once. Usually, three times. </p><p>Wonkers Collision, my go-to auto repair place, is practically a 2nd home. I know them on a first-name basis, I know their children, their histories, their favorite Subway sandwiches, their bad romances. The last time I was there I was picking up a different car that had been pummeled by a drunk truck driver; exactly one week before the Covid shutdown, so it only makes sense that as soon as things start opening up, I'm back at Wonkers. In fact, when I called, Vera, the manager and more a less a relation, was not at all surprised. </p><p>"Rhonda! It's about time."</p><p>For the sake of brevity, this particular parked car scenario encompasses all the drama in one post. Story here. <a href="https://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2013/07/gisele-bundchen-lady-gaga-lauren-conrad.html">here</a></p><p>Years, ten leases, and fifteen crash mishaps later:</p><p>This time, I had just parked on a side street off La Jolla and 3rd, preparing for a social distance outdoor lunch. Like many, I was quite looking forward to patio dining with a friend, maskless. </p><p>Collecting my bag, keys, and phone and feeling a sense of joy and calm, there is a very loud BANG. At first, I thought it was an earthquake, but then I looked in my rearview and saw a shiny white Mercedes moving alongside my car. It wasn't enough this person rammed into my bumper; they were intent on tearing apart the passenger side of my car. </p><p>"What the fuck! HEY! Stop already!"</p><p>Now doing a fishtail all over the road, the Mercedes finally hits the brakes. My side mirror hits the ground with an infuriating thud.</p><p>I'm reluctant to get out of my car because I have no idea what I'm dealing with. The Mercedes windows are blacked out, and this person is revving the engine. Suddenly I'm in a cheap TV horror movie where the car is the bad guy. </p><p>I reach under my car seat, where I keep a heavy flashlight or smash light. After watching my mother deal with years of road rage, and then experiencing years of my own, a girl, needs protection. I'm getting my Angie Dickenson on. Something my mother taught me as a child. Story <a href="https://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2012/04/from-guns-to-archery-sets.html">here. </a></p><p>Just one of the many self-defense techniques my mother taught me. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhG0Z_to8J7Dw4ufxGIvgCu6BBNbc44dr2vHZc3NYK-S8C6KIKizhSOpitYTaCrNVUjzgcoxxpPRYXzYgpAuC2Fma9LLip0x_Y55R4ZKYOjkzBEY9t_u4M6VozNr6ZGqzEdh091zkiGQmp/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="368" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhG0Z_to8J7Dw4ufxGIvgCu6BBNbc44dr2vHZc3NYK-S8C6KIKizhSOpitYTaCrNVUjzgcoxxpPRYXzYgpAuC2Fma9LLip0x_Y55R4ZKYOjkzBEY9t_u4M6VozNr6ZGqzEdh091zkiGQmp/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>This one also comes in handy ^ ^ ^ </p><p>Anyhoo, just as I grip the smash light, I see this frail, elderly woman start walking toward me, apologizing, wringing her hands, shaking. </p><p>I get out of my car to help her. </p><p>"I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. Maybe I blacked out. It's probably a scratch. Let me give you some money. I have the tremors."</p><p>This poor woman had to be in her late 70s. Frail but lively, and truly sorry. She kept apologizing. I felt bad. </p><p>"Let's just exchange information and go from there." I was taking pictures and doing my due diligence. At this point in my life, I could be an insurance adjuster. My car had a few bad scrapes and looked like your basic cosmetic fix.</p><p>She was pulling hundred-dollar bills out of her purse.</p><p>"This should do it. I don't want my husband to know. Take as much as you need. Also, he's legally blind."</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHe1ZR2XEwmqz1ABYQ5cTp9vNXjiYHWjuouQTlwLK4EijMfBvs0IKt1hwsLrUU72dZyiC1fNojnKezJszvx9BpsLlewliEXLwRmB71x9s1lxkWGOY8Ws_SMeJrVWjkHOmmm9LWOIQLlbj/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHe1ZR2XEwmqz1ABYQ5cTp9vNXjiYHWjuouQTlwLK4EijMfBvs0IKt1hwsLrUU72dZyiC1fNojnKezJszvx9BpsLlewliEXLwRmB71x9s1lxkWGOY8Ws_SMeJrVWjkHOmmm9LWOIQLlbj/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>Her hands shake so much that hundreds are flapping around, falling onto the ground. I know she wanted to get rid of me, but I felt an obligation to her, to her health, her well-being. </p><p>Had it been some young dude, I would've cut a deal, but not before calling my attorney. In exchange for not reporting, I will take many millions and an overall open-ended deal that matches Steven Speilberg's. Alas, those types never hit my car.</p><p>"I don't want money. Are you okay? Can I get you some water?"</p><p>"I'm fine. It's the tremors. I've got the tremors."</p><p>She had a thick New York accent, so it was "I've got the tremas." And she kept repeating this.</p><p>I didn't want to be rude, but who should be driving with hand tremors or any tremors. I knew enough that this was neurological, possibly Parkinson's, unless she was on heavy medication. In both instances, probably not a good idea to operate heavy machinery. But I get it; I mean, with the blind husband, and stacks of medical bills, I'm guessing they don't have a chauffeur. </p><p>She keeps pulling wads of cash out of her huge leather bag, dropping all sorts of items onto the street. I pick up lipstick tubes, pill bottles, piles of receipts, and dental floss.</p><p>"That's not necessary. We can have insurance handle it. Can I give you a ride home?"</p><p>I assess the damage to her front bumper, which is hanging on by a wire.</p><p>"Also I'm pretty sure your husband is going to notice. Blind or not, he'll hear the bumper dragging if you take him on a drive. Then... "How's his hearing?"</p><p>"Not so good."</p><p>My friend is texting me, "Where are you?"</p><p>I text back: "My car was hit. I'm fine, but I feel so bad for the elderly woman. Should I bring her to lunch? She's shaking."</p><p>Then:</p><p>"Are you sure I can't get you a cab? An Uber" I'll drive you home. Do you need a meal?"</p><p>"Thank you for being so nice. Most people would be screaming. I'm from the Bronx, I know. Anyway, I hit your car and just felt awful, but I was avoiding that huge garbage truck coming toward me. It could've been much worse."<br /></p><p>Yeah, okay, my elderly friend not only has the tremas, but she's delusional. First, there was no truck. Second, had I gotten out of the car, she would've dragged my ass to Melrose.</p><p>But I felt so bad, so we left it alone, and off she drove, dragging her bumper.</p><p>At first glance, it did look like a scratch on my car, which I had now owned for a full week as my lease had just expired. The car had 50 miles on it. I digress...</p><p>I met my friend for our lunch, and clearly, she's been isolated too long. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mZ7aO1qiR-cwrTJbtVDnDnoeNZ4CrPTryEcBZNpr8QUu9ghluYxHcE7-WWFGXYXWod9zhpARvA6gwi8eoc55jQJmKfGSlWTsHX6KRw8r0xeIkSR1aCWvAVBVtHRBeJDEo5zLI7EtdOzK/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="240" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5mZ7aO1qiR-cwrTJbtVDnDnoeNZ4CrPTryEcBZNpr8QUu9ghluYxHcE7-WWFGXYXWod9zhpARvA6gwi8eoc55jQJmKfGSlWTsHX6KRw8r0xeIkSR1aCWvAVBVtHRBeJDEo5zLI7EtdOzK/" width="230" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>After a fun lunch and our "the world has gone mad" shared experiences, I head back to my new car. I push the ignition button.</p><p>Every single bell, light, and whistle went off. It was undrivable. Locked down. This new car and all that spiffy technology won't let you drive if it senses there is danger. Which kind of pisses me off. Shouldn't that be up to me?</p><p>Back in the shop... Vera from Wonkers explains this frail woman who was avoiding an invisible truck rammed my car so hard that she cracked the axle, among many other hidden mysteries that lie beneath a car's underbelly. It would cost at least seven grand to fix. </p><p>***THIS is why you don't take money from people who hit you. Just sayin.</p><p>Nonetheless, it was like a reunion, not just with Vera and the gang but with my new friends from the Bronx.</p><p>The friendly Rubins came to the shop. Myra, with her tremors, and Irv, the blind husband. They wanted to be sure I was okay. The Rubins drove up in the Mercedes, the bumper taped together. Irv wore thick glasses, the kind you might kill bugs with under a hot sun. In any case, he seemed fit and alert. He was so grateful I had been kind to his wife. This apparently was not her first rodeo, and she'd been a victim of road rage many times. </p><p>"These people out there, yelling at my wife. I'm certain this is what gave her the tremas." He, too, was for the Bronx. </p><p>In the end, I would become friends with this couple. I heard all about their grandkids, their cruises to Alaska, their initial marriages, their divorces, six between them, and how they had met on Facebook after realizing they went to the same high school. What are the chances? Anyway, now they are basically newlyweds at 75. They invited me over for dinner.</p><p>Irv: You must come. Myra makes the pot roast of all pot roasts. My kids don't like her roast, but hers do. We all live in the same neighborhood. Come. Bring your family. Take my private number.</p><p>I take the number but with no intention of ever eating pot roast. Myra grips my arm.</p><p>Myra: Are you related to the Talbot Clothing Empire? </p><p>She so wanted me to say yes, that I am a descendant of the great Nancy Orr.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxc9bBPcw1jfeUB-abVyZm5-otqcbzBnHPBNM-IjWEtnMFe65AH2y8MVe-1G9MGPZvKaInrbdgtEf6NnNvNJ7uLlhgMC-KHVVL1FgOv-HDoM2DCrzGZCYuQ4lvXgtUclfY0yNMmfsV55l/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="600" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioxc9bBPcw1jfeUB-abVyZm5-otqcbzBnHPBNM-IjWEtnMFe65AH2y8MVe-1G9MGPZvKaInrbdgtEf6NnNvNJ7uLlhgMC-KHVVL1FgOv-HDoM2DCrzGZCYuQ4lvXgtUclfY0yNMmfsV55l/" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I had forgotten about this, the Talbot clothing line question. First, the clothes are hideous, and second, I have been asked this question many times throughout my life; after a while, I would slip into complete fabrications for my own entertainment. But I had not been asked in the last ten years. Usually, I would just say no, not that Talbot. But sometimes, I would say yes. I'm the heir to a great fortune. Nancy Orr Talbot was my grandmother. As kids, we'd go to their summer home in Charlevoix. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglg7q-B-3z8sTrWk_e7_twVs1-D-Ncs7yTqAtIi9Ia-xZwiGv9lRrSfmSJ0MiGoMWQPudpm8luY1kmbw4zkHJ7jSEe5nHCtMuQ3UUOiYOHQIe3oLMHSgh1GoZoAYiqhWip-VorEIhUuixd/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglg7q-B-3z8sTrWk_e7_twVs1-D-Ncs7yTqAtIi9Ia-xZwiGv9lRrSfmSJ0MiGoMWQPudpm8luY1kmbw4zkHJ7jSEe5nHCtMuQ3UUOiYOHQIe3oLMHSgh1GoZoAYiqhWip-VorEIhUuixd/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>We'd swim, fish, boat, and bake. Nancy was an incredible fashion icon, a business maverick, and an amazing cook. Grandad Rudolph, not so much. Without Nancy's forward-thinking, Rudolph probably would have stayed in the UK's shining shoes. </p><p>Certain people that knew the Talbot history would always ask, "Is it true about the red doors?"</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigp8ccmosXw1h9UqS7MbXZKSE_3858aocxpoL7PJp5DGCt4V-_9mWyMMTKLOZUJceppaNYjtvMcsirfBHeyvjXJA1oIt_AhEsQCBh-2EUbXl4NW53bpsQgq7Z8rjrHm8lU2pzLWh2shC0U/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="272" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigp8ccmosXw1h9UqS7MbXZKSE_3858aocxpoL7PJp5DGCt4V-_9mWyMMTKLOZUJceppaNYjtvMcsirfBHeyvjXJA1oIt_AhEsQCBh-2EUbXl4NW53bpsQgq7Z8rjrHm8lU2pzLWh2shC0U/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Me: Absolutely. The red front door is a long-standing tradition in our family, including my own. I live in the Trousdale Estates, and we had one of the original red doors flown in from Europe, then used it at the front gate, just before you drive a mile to reach the main house. I'd whip out a picture. </p><p>Me: It's difficult to see, but the door is on the other side of the estate. Which leads to a barn next to the helicopter pad.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRC-BkNcF6Q7u5iOUq-3UhGqDYxaPEFovWeafnDtoBxzzoTZubJ_Gvn4xbsO-v2BUu6bP7IJIQvKC1qA-gQ4ABlmvLrudxvdjipRk5IdoTkq3GAHTv9V3zdrMBqeB8iJ-tzAO1P6gnSUc6/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="1136" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRC-BkNcF6Q7u5iOUq-3UhGqDYxaPEFovWeafnDtoBxzzoTZubJ_Gvn4xbsO-v2BUu6bP7IJIQvKC1qA-gQ4ABlmvLrudxvdjipRk5IdoTkq3GAHTv9V3zdrMBqeB8iJ-tzAO1P6gnSUc6/" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>But I saved my fables for a certain kind of superficial person that wants to know your <strike>status (</strike>worth) in life. The more detail I provided, the more ingratiated they would become. This avaricious moron inevitably would then say: "Oh, we must get together. Let's exchange numbers. I'll have you over for tea."</p><p>Why do these certain people think "tea" sounds more upper crust than "coffee or water?"</p><p>Meanwhile, I've known them for ten minutes. My reply is always the same.</p><p>Me: It's against family policy to invite strangers into our world. We put great emphasis on our privacy. (I pronounce this priv-a-see.)</p><p>The greedy interloper would always respond: "I know what you mean. But take my number. I'm discreet."</p><p>I mean EEWW.</p><p>But the Rubins were lovely people, so I told her Talbot was a common name. </p><p>Irv: "But there is nothing common about you."Then he winked. </p><p>I mean, how can you not love this couple?</p><p>Irv took my hands into his and teared up. "Thank you again for being nice to my bride. She has not had an easy life."</p><p>With that, the ordeal was over. </p><p>I sometimes wonder about them, hopefully not driving anymore, and hopefully now with an Uber account.</p><p>I also wonder who designs Talbot clothing. For the record, I may or may not be related, I will never give anyone a straight answer, but I will admit I have nothing to do with the clothing designs. </p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtEJY_XJ_skU9HLIfUNEVILD_Q2LMGSxY79WO-te9vfu871kJGgMIrePGINSQfjJUmmTZBi69QkQyVT58zJjndUAZzh8l73ucyE3wlvmSmNFIWAuP_UtbPayq4Hm4BBs9vqRhZRykMsXd/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="580" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRtEJY_XJ_skU9HLIfUNEVILD_Q2LMGSxY79WO-te9vfu871kJGgMIrePGINSQfjJUmmTZBi69QkQyVT58zJjndUAZzh8l73ucyE3wlvmSmNFIWAuP_UtbPayq4Hm4BBs9vqRhZRykMsXd/" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p>The moral of this entire story is don't park on La Jolla and 3rd. </p><p><br /></p><p>Rhonda Talbot weighing in on car crashes, hit-and-runs, kindness, families, grandparents, pausing, road rage, Talbots Clothing, strangers, authenticity, superficiality, Nancy Orr, business maverick, red doors, fashion, Charlevoix, and ugly sweaters.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-25559487594310713842020-03-31T13:51:00.057-07:002023-11-06T13:24:10.231-08:00My Childhood Breaking & Entering Spree Helped Craft My Expert Stalking Skills<br />
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Lately, I've been listening to many young women (this is called sponsoring in Alanon) as they go on and on about one heartbreak or another. I've been in 12-step programs since I was 18, so I have a good understanding, patience, and time, particularly now, given our present worldly circumstances.<br />
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These young women are primarily struggling to be heard. None of them want actual advice or practical guidance. But I don't mind. There was a time when I did exactly the same thing.<br />
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Like me, most come from broken homes, dysfunctional family dynamics, etc., and the prevalent condition they share, or something they all have in common, is fear of abandonment. I know all about that because I was abandoned emotionally, then physically, then altogether. A special breed of orphan with living parents, but neither seemed to think they had to take care of their children. As a child, I had no real expectations of either my mom or dad, mainly because they told me, "Don't ever get your hopes up about anything," so I didn't, but that didn't stop me from being envious of kids that had parents who had cottages at the lake, bought their kids bright red Mary Jane shoes, or took them to the Dairy Queen for chocolate swirly cones.<br />
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<br />
I did experience a sense of family to a small degree during my toddler years, but once my young mother had her sixth child, all pretense of family life flew out the window.<br />
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But one learns coping skills, and as a kid, wandering into strangers' houses was quite high on my list. At age five, I started venturing down our tree-lined suburban block, hugging my stuffed bear, a security blanket trailing behind. I'd look at all the houses and was curious about who lived there, were they like us, a family of eight with a strict father who kept a false sense of control with his incessant schedules, chores, charts, and colored graphs. Every day was the same. We were rotation children, all lined up by height wearing our Catholic uniforms, marching off to school, then home for some vacuuming, sweeping, scrubbing, folding laundry, and saying endless Hail Marys. My mother, God bless her, wanted nothing of this lifestyle and stayed lodged in the basement oil painting, writing purple poetry, smoking Virginia Slims, and listening to rock music my father forbade.<br />
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In any case, back to my criminal behavior, I'd simply walk in the front door. Front doors were always open back then. I liked one particular home, a two-story brick affair belonging to a young, shiny couple with salon hair and wearing colorful outfits I'd only seen in magazines. So glamorous. They were never home, no doubt visiting people like the Kennedys, and their house smelled clean and lemony. I'd plop down on a fluffy chair and pretend for a while I was an only child, home alone, while my parents worked interesting jobs that required fine minds somewhere off in the big city. They didn't believe in traditional education and allowed me to eat whatever I wanted. Which I did. I ate their Oreos and would often make a ham sandwich.<br />
<br />
This would continue until my parents divorced, and my mother, having zero interest in our neighborhood, dragged us off on her journey, one filled with music, laughter, hippies, and Patchouli incense sticks. So would begin our five-year odyssey of adults-only apartment hopping until my mother decided to move to California (where she was from), and as much as she loved her kids, it was just not feasible to take them along.<br />
<br />
When she decided to drive across the country and make a proper break from Michigan, I was now 14. There was no way in hell I wasn't going to California, so I told her I'd drive half the way, ensure we ate properly, and be an asset in Marin County because I could work. But I digress.<br />
<br />
During the apartment hopping, breaking into people's homes became a regular thing. It was much easier since I could just walk down the hallway. But now, it was out of necessity. Since my mother was never home (work, school, dating, protest marches, sit-ins), I had to feed her younger kids. These apartment folks were never home, so I'd jimmy the door, get inside, and help myself to their food, mainly bagged rice, canned soup, and peanut butter. Basic survival stuff.<br />
<br />
We had no money. Instead, I'd leave thank-you notes in their refrigerators. Looking back, I'm certain these folks knew it was me because sometimes they would save me the trouble and leave prepared meals outside our door.<br />
<br />
A few years later, when my mother managed to score an actual house, my sisters were by now heavy into their drug exploration and hanging out with various hoodlum types, the heroin addicts, the hungry musicians, and the street fighters. These guys broke into places for a living. Like it was their actual job. They would "pull a B&E" and then fence whatever they found.<br />
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I only accompanied them once because a member from the J Giles band was going, and I thought he was cute. He never noticed me; no one did, actually. My sisters were older, taller, prettier, and tougher. They could shoot heroin, chug a six-pack, and shave their legs all before leaving for school.<br />
<br />
The targeted home was a few blocks away. In fact, I knew the house because I sometimes babysat the kids who lived there. By now, I was twelve and earning money on my own. I always ensured my little sisters ate dinner between babysitting and doing various students' homework.<br />
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In any case, the B&E gang knew the family was on vacation, so while loading up stereo equipment, jewelry, and televisions, I was throwing Hamburger Helper and loaves of bread into my bag.<br />
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Okay, so you get the idea.<br />
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I stopped all this business in high school because I was making plenty of money in Marin County, as I said I would, working two jobs while attending school. I was making some great bank between pumping gas and selling area rugs.<br />
<br />
My mother had her own adventure, redoing the adolescence she never had. Somehow, she became a high-end interior decorator, dating all kinds of fancy men: architects, lawyers, and psychiatrists. Her shenanigans were really bothering me, though, drinking Pouilly-Fuisse all day at the yacht club and then dancing to Fiddler on the Roof on 40-foot sailboats into the night.<br />
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She was just embarrassing as hell, so I got my own place a few miles away. I just loved having my own apartment. You give yourself extra restrictions when you come from a home without rules or supervision. I worked hard, made good grades, and was in college by 17.<br />
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Jumping WAY ahead, I only broke into another house once I was in my early 20s. And here is where the Alanon girls come in. They tell me how they cyber stalk their exes and obsess over what their exes "like," see who they "follow," and where they "comment." They read into emojis like tea leaves, looking for any explanation for why they were dumped.<br />
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<br />
I totally get it. When my ex dumped me, I simply could not believe it. I'd never been dumped before, mainly because he was my first boyfriend.<br />
<br />
Well, I was not having it. I was furious. I needed clues. Why the hell did he dump me? I was the perfect girlfriend. Independent yet attentive, sexually conservative yet nonplussed over his porno addition. And so on.<br />
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First, I just started following him in my car. Where in damnation was he going anyway? What could possibly be more important than spending time with me? I was way above his pay grade, to begin with, completely out of his league. I only agreed to date him so he would stop pestering me, and okay because he was rather handsome. When it came to men, I knew nothing. I worked with many of them, and we got along fine. If they took an interest in me, I rebuffed them gently. I had no interest in a relationship and figured after I had accomplished all the heady things I wanted to do, I could play house with a man and give that a test run.<br />
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But this guy had abruptly entered my life. Because he seemed genuinely sincere about his affection toward me, I opened up to him, basically handed over my deepest secrets, and he shared his hidden bits with me. I'd never done that before. He knew my past and did not judge me. And I knew his. I did not lie to him. In that sense, it was quite his duty to never leave me. He had seen my inside world.<br />
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But alas, I guess it wasn't as interesting as I thought.<br />
<br />I grew bored after a few stakeouts and watching him walk in and out of various restaurants and theaters. I didn't know what he was actually up to. So when he left town, I cracked open his bedroom window, pretending to the neighbors I had lost my key. Once inside, I went to work. I read every one of his 500 journals, went through every drawer, and collected various lipstick tubes (a brand one of his girlfriends had developed, a hideous red that caused severe chapping of the lips). I read all of his mail and listened to his voicemails. It took a good five hours but was not satisfying because I didn't learn much.<br />
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Out of all those journals, the only new information I gleaned was about some girl he was dating and had decided to not sleep with her because he sensed she might have a bear trap in her "love tunnel." This made total sense, given what I knew about his fear of commitment.<br />
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I was NOT that girl, the fool. I gave him so much space he probably thought I didn't care about him. Oh, you're going to Two Bunch Palms alone? Have fun...fuckhead.<br />
<br />
Then I would sit home and visualize him having mud orgies.<br />
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This went on for two years. That is how long my stalking continued. I'd call my best friend, and we'd exchange stalking stories. Annie was more into the "hide behind his palm tree and peak in the window" type of stalking. We'd exchange stories at night and dissect our adventures.<br />
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I remember the exact moment I was done. I decided to do an "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by, and I happened to get us yogurts." Then, I would provide specifics about what I was doing in that part of town I hated and would never be in. But, as it turns out, my new boyfriend JACK lived just around the corner in the newly refurbished Craftsman, the one with the Harley parked in front of the koi pond.<br />
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After I did all the exhausting explaining, he sheepishly told me he had "company." For fuck sake, the lipstick lady was cooking chicken in his kitchen. He smiled and gently closed the door in my face. I stood there holding two yogurt cups. I lifted his yogurt cup and hurled it against his window. I watched it splat and dribble down the cheap glass. The lipstick lady stared at me, startled, maybe panicked. There was no way to explain my behavior, so I just left.<br />
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I was mildly horrified driving home. He must think I'm psychotic. No wonder he dumped me... and somewhere between Highland Avenue and the 405, as I was mentally beating the shit out of myself, I just stopped. My mind went calm. The months and years I spent stalking, I realized, had nothing to do with him. It was just an easy way to quell my anxiety; the 24/7 stalking merely shifted my mental focus. If I had put half that effort into something productive, I'd have won the Pulitzer in a category that had never existed. I was that special! I swung from facedown in the fishtank scum self-esteem, so you're such a genius we can't even figure out this level of superiority! Over the years, I'd find my middle ground.<br />
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That was the last time I broke into someone's home and the first and last time I obsessed over another human.<br />
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So, when relaying some of my stories to these young women who cyberstalk, I tell them what amateurs they are. If they really want to stalk someone, get off the computer, go to their home, break a fucking window, and do a thorough investigation. Go to their parent's house if need be. Buy some top-of-the-line surveillance equipment. Soon, you'll discover this person has no exciting secrets and is just a regular person with typical, if not pedestrian, imperfections.<br />
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But you! Look how resourceful you are! All these dormant skills! Look at all this time on your hands that could be exploring parts of yourself that actually <b>are</b> exciting. Then I tell them to put their sleuthing abilities to better use. Dig up your inner self. Start journaling. Soon, you'll have 5000 entries, dozens of unique stories, an entire book, and a masterpiece.<br />
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I've recently offered my services to one of these young girls for a modest fee. "Do you want me to find out why he dumped you? Do you want me to discover who he is sleeping with? Who he really loves? Because I'm better than any detective you'll hire. Just be prepared for what I might find because it's a mathematical certainty that 99 % of what I discover has nothing to do with you. That's the good news and the bad news."<br />
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I hear a heavy sigh.<br />
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And my darlings set forth on their journaling adventure.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighs in on adventurous childhoods, survival, breaking and entering, growing up, boyfriends, heartache, stalking, mental anguish, and becoming whole.<br />
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<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-50403994425199905462019-03-17T13:10:00.003-07:002023-05-18T14:06:53.419-07:00How Julianne Moore Saved Me From Carpooling, Forever!<br />
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After a long grinding week of work, juggling schedules, family activity and what seems to be nonstop carpooling, I took myself to a matinee to see the film Gloria Bell. After pulling into the dark, underground lot, I parked beside a dark car with darkened windows and noticed they had forgotten to turn off their headlights. I felt bad knowing they may return to a dead battery, but who hasn't?<br />
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I and five other people in the theater enjoyed the film; there was applause. And, per usual, I wept tiny tears. Dark, empty movie theaters seem to be the place where I like to cry because it happens all the time. I'm guessing because 1) I'm alone, 2) No one can see me 3) I see movies with characters resembling actual people, their problems, and struggles. Also, Julianne Moore.<br />
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<br />
For example, I've seen Still Alice at least five times. Weep every time. I cried in The Kids Are Alright, The English Teacher, The Hours. I cried in Crazy Stupid Love! I see everything Julianne Moore is in, and every time I cry. I even wept in Hannibal.<br />
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As a side note, I have a story about that movie, as I played a big role in changing the ending. There was NO way Julianne was going to run off into the sunset with Anthony "cannibal" Hopkins. Here is that-- <a href="https://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2012/11/did-i-silence-ending-of-hannibal.html">No to Hannibal.</a><br />
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In any case, I returned to my car and noticed this poor person's headlights were still on. Maybe they were seeing two films. I felt so bad. The right thing to do was to see if the car was open so I could turn the lights off.<br />
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I peered into the back window and noticed a purse and a sweater. My eyes were fixed on this purse, with all the possibilities running through my mind. Did this person just take her money but leave the purse? What woman does that? No one I know. Had she reached the theater and realized she had no purse, but the movie was about to start, so her companion paid? I assumed she wasn't alone because I noticed two coffee cups in the console holder.<br />
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Then I thought, jeez, someone could steal this purse, sitting there so vulnerable. I should take it and give it to security, they could find the rightful owner, and all would be well.<br />
<br />
Just as I noticed the car was idling, the front passenger window cracked open. An angry man was staring at me, aghast.<br />
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"What the hell are you doing staring into my car? What do you want? Step away!"<br />
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I was completely startled. "No. No... let me explain When I arrived, your lights were on, and I noticed they still were, and then I saw the purse.... but then realized..."<br />
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"What? That someone was in the car. Get the fuck out of here."<br />
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At this point, even I realized how crazy I sounded, and any further do-gooder explanation was simply making me seem worse. He rolled up his window, and I got into my car.<br />
<br />
As I was about to press the ignition button, I noticed a phone charging cord hanging from the dashboard and various Scientology pamphlets on the passenger seat and realized this wasn't even my car. Not even close. I drive an SUV, and this was a Honda sedan. I was so flustered I just jumped in without looking. Weirdly the door was unlocked.<br />
<br />
The man is still looking at me. I sheepishly slink out of the car and head down toward mine.<br />
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He cracked his window again.<br />
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"What the actual fuck, lady!"<br />
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Okay, it wasn't Henry Cavill, but this was his EXACT facial expression.<br />
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I picked up my pace, then sort of jogged toward my actual car in sandals, so I tripped in a kind of kick-the-cement action, smashing my big toe. But no matter. Was I even on the right floor?<br />
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Finally, there it was, my car, a good block down the corridor!<br />
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Prius man, rightly so, must have thought I came to parking lots and just rifled through cars all day. He was probably calling the police!<br />
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In my defense, it was dark, I was wearing sunglasses, and I had just come out of a dark film filled with dark scenes in disco bars, with people wearing dark clothing dancing under mind-altering lights. I was disoriented.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGiFDtniFgpgNEYg467XMyRdJGMf-EpEpBpoLnqZ8avSrS4xTGWJfkuy9lNKHJnDJLYzXdziYm04G9h06VLHuPFL8NnkFcCZnDHtAqcmj3y_BTitTBz5ATWdc7F6FV_x3sw7fOHRfu-sX/s1600/giphy.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="396" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggGiFDtniFgpgNEYg467XMyRdJGMf-EpEpBpoLnqZ8avSrS4xTGWJfkuy9lNKHJnDJLYzXdziYm04G9h06VLHuPFL8NnkFcCZnDHtAqcmj3y_BTitTBz5ATWdc7F6FV_x3sw7fOHRfu-sX/s320/giphy.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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I quite liked the film and loved Julianne Moore, but was all in my head about the plot. Why did she like John Turturro? Was she that desperate? Where was her daughter-in-law? Was her ex still in love with her? Who got married? I still don't know.<br />
<br />
I was wandering around the parking lot in a film synopsis daze. A Julianne Moore dancing daze. The song Gloria was still blasting in my head.<br />
<br />
But still, how could I have mistaken this idling car, a Prius, with two people sitting in the front seat, for the car that really was next to mine: an enormous, empty Flex?! Nonetheless, these things happen.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsINr5rO3Em75LCr6z3Wx6upr2IB0MJ8VnVmiU5up63JrHHc_lolXXB7lHxRalUnGaE5iK8JlO2Z1k7WdRKMLiHI_uydjR8SyvjIUlf3jFn3efAakvXu79iEOXl317PeebF4MvJ6Rpm9m_/s1600/influences-all-the-presidents-men-2-1523007232.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="600" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsINr5rO3Em75LCr6z3Wx6upr2IB0MJ8VnVmiU5up63JrHHc_lolXXB7lHxRalUnGaE5iK8JlO2Z1k7WdRKMLiHI_uydjR8SyvjIUlf3jFn3efAakvXu79iEOXl317PeebF4MvJ6Rpm9m_/s320/influences-all-the-presidents-men-2-1523007232.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Dark, right? ^ ^ ^ ^<br />
<br />Fortunately, I had a podiatrist appointment to deal with various issues I had developed with my toes due to being a long-distance runner while in college. In any case, the timing was good, so I stopped thinking about Mr. Prius Man.<br />
<br />
During my podiatrist session, my doctor addressed the stubbed toe, which was fine, but he seemed gravely concerned with something else.<br />
<br />
"Your left foot is so swollen."<br />
"Oh?" And it was.<br />
<br />
He went on about how he'd seen this before and sent his patient to the ER, and by golly, he was right. The ER intervention prevented her from dying due to a blood clot. He told me it could happen to me.<br />
<br />
"That is ridiculous. I don't have a foot clot. I'll go to my doctor if it's still swollen on Monday."<br />
"I wouldn't wait. You'll worry all weekend. I'd go to the ER now."<br />
<br />
But I wouldn't worry. I wouldn't even think about it. Then he said:<br />
<br />
"Better safe than dead. You're not 35 anymore."<br />
"I'm not?"<br />
"This kind of thing you must take seriously once you're over a certain age."<br />
"Okay, thanks, doc."<br />
<br />
He handed me a slip of paper to give to the ER.<br />
<br />
I had no intention of going to the ER or even to my own doctor, but "better safe than dead" kept going through my head... to the beat of GLORIA.<br />
<br />
Sure, I was over a certain age, whatever that age is, according to my podiatrist. But I'm also incredibly healthy. I hike on average 20 miles a week and make healthy green shakes every morning (with my <a href="https://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2018/07/ninja-your-way-into-gratitude.html">Ninja,</a> which I still love, in case anyone was wondering).<br />
<br />
Anyway... after relaying this story to the father of my teen children, who repeated the "better safe than dead" narrative, he eventually convinced me to go.<br />
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I don't like the ER and haven't been to Cedars since I had my daughters 16 years ago. Anyway, it wasn't bad, very few people... was in and out with a lot of laughs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUTB-ugF2NVW44jngZAo2rQUPzsdtwAQVjZc3S0P2zCQQK642wBawzQlXEJThX-n-26FQz7pDfCGKMSHL9RxrxExliqomvdkSgF-mgvnSGCpngQsVYEN_9dnTjA3zPVFDbX3ZxDXTdc-S/s1600/IMG_0315_Facetune_16-03-2019-19-33-55.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1132" data-original-width="1141" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUTB-ugF2NVW44jngZAo2rQUPzsdtwAQVjZc3S0P2zCQQK642wBawzQlXEJThX-n-26FQz7pDfCGKMSHL9RxrxExliqomvdkSgF-mgvnSGCpngQsVYEN_9dnTjA3zPVFDbX3ZxDXTdc-S/s320/IMG_0315_Facetune_16-03-2019-19-33-55.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Usual questions:<br />
Have you been on an airplane for over eight hours? No.<br />
A car? Oh, YES! Carpool.<br />
When?<br />
Yesterday.<br />
Hmmmm.<br />
<br />
I told the doctor just to amputate the fucking thing because now I'm missing my Saturday night routine. Which, btw, is none of anyone's business.<br />
<br />
After some tests, no blood cot, no nothing.<br />
<br />
Doctor: Well, it has been hot.<br />
Me: Exactly!<br />
Doctor: I suggest you cut down on carpool driving. Sitting in a car for hours, especially in the heat, can become a potential clot situation.<br />
Me: Can you write a doctor's note because I would love nothing more than to get out of the carpool!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GdO8GNip1EC2I6zgtBH9T63kdLNtysQslmGf4WlrQUB2YHnPXQxKT47CNjVaf6OUezIaTrWMqjbZZqZtXb_FTvg0Bss8d1ARFh9Rekt371SCg8vErkIozhV2DisZlm65le9PrVJDapEo/s1600/IMG_0326.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="937" data-original-width="1600" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-GdO8GNip1EC2I6zgtBH9T63kdLNtysQslmGf4WlrQUB2YHnPXQxKT47CNjVaf6OUezIaTrWMqjbZZqZtXb_FTvg0Bss8d1ARFh9Rekt371SCg8vErkIozhV2DisZlm65le9PrVJDapEo/s320/IMG_0326.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
So, all in all, everything went well. I saw a lovely film, spent time with one of my favorite actresses, had my feet fixed up to receive a proper pedicure just in time for beach season, and had some laughs in the ER. Most importantly, now I have a rock-solid reason to get out of my dreaded carpool.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSYzjM5tiQya5CICOTW2o1o0hNNAFsx2EmiE-j6B5HkASOfz0zxcEdwDUi5rQssljt5C08L2P4Kds9vIkNMEOr_kgkuSCZp50c_BIEcq1Ovx1wGDwXIxP62zugxuEheR2Kqs0Mgcadpuc/s1600/woman_beauty_feet_treatment.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZSYzjM5tiQya5CICOTW2o1o0hNNAFsx2EmiE-j6B5HkASOfz0zxcEdwDUi5rQssljt5C08L2P4Kds9vIkNMEOr_kgkuSCZp50c_BIEcq1Ovx1wGDwXIxP62zugxuEheR2Kqs0Mgcadpuc/s320/woman_beauty_feet_treatment.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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WIN-WIN-WIN-WIN<br />
<br />
Rhonda Talbot weighing in on Gloria Bell, Julianne Moore, blood clots, emergency rooms, podiatrists, potential car theft, carpools, and sunshine.<br />
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<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-26722058498915785432018-07-19T16:02:00.001-07:002023-03-25T18:36:55.460-07:00Ninja Your Way Into Gratitude<br />
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Given that life has turned into a surreal world even David Lynch couldn't conceive, I really have no business being so damn excited about my new blender purchase. What I mean by that is I sometimes feel guilty when I'm happy. Because:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_ac8Ytvqs7X6anh-nh5Jc9d4w6Vpfxj_Qhyphenhyphen2JZdePubpPBy0IapVUROAEdI5HNfb6MQkYg8aCplbz4QIuFOMUAhLLa3xMsGnx8jJRoDngxNVfZGEbPt_-XqV_7enUdQyrdEeVrHZbCke/s1600/IMG_1773.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy_ac8Ytvqs7X6anh-nh5Jc9d4w6Vpfxj_Qhyphenhyphen2JZdePubpPBy0IapVUROAEdI5HNfb6MQkYg8aCplbz4QIuFOMUAhLLa3xMsGnx8jJRoDngxNVfZGEbPt_-XqV_7enUdQyrdEeVrHZbCke/s320/IMG_1773.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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My old Ninja finally died sometime in the middle of last night. Therefore I could not make my frothy breakfast. I resorted to putting my potions in a cup and shook really hard. Not the same. But it gave me the energy I needed to go to one of my all-time favorite stores, Bed Bath and Beyond.<br />
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I hadn't been there in a while; actually, the last time I attempted to go, everything went south because some crazy lady going 80 mph decided not to stop at a red light just as I was turning left. It's such a crazy story. You can read it here under <a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/search/label/Halle%20Berry">Halle Berry.</a> This is why we all have insurance because of assholes.<br />
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Speaking of assholes that blow through red lights, I took a video last week while out for a stroll.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dygHrnfCKjA2eDJ5u2a6GhmcN6UWfl_3WA7Yw-rbakJ4Xkvdw2CX4UsnUCDV_czbXIdJWU0TLtQJbIW8Md4rQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Yeah, this guy had his entire family, including a baby, in his car, and maybe he was thinking, fuck that red light, the soccer game is on, then he smashed into this lovely old lady. I hope she is okay. We carefully pulled her out of the passenger side. She seemed fine, but off to the hospital because weird ongoings happen to your body the day after a car accident. Out of earshot of the police, I said to the driver, channeling my mother: "Shame on you, risking your entire family! A small child, no less! You could've killed them all and this poor elderly woman. For shame!! Slow the fuck down, moron. Red means STOP!"<br />
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What passes for "normal people" lately:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4AEfahNlDJ8NrVXeYfl-MTic4EWO-E5ElD3AsldFHLOqhCNYqMm_L2g-SU5_BmD2cBVzzI0kP1fSOGNRdDg_J8NLPC-AJhCVdKsQb1Hx2mgRg-nZvUEJlC03bec4LAT9wAK-rATeBte1/s1600/main.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="798" data-original-width="843" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn4AEfahNlDJ8NrVXeYfl-MTic4EWO-E5ElD3AsldFHLOqhCNYqMm_L2g-SU5_BmD2cBVzzI0kP1fSOGNRdDg_J8NLPC-AJhCVdKsQb1Hx2mgRg-nZvUEJlC03bec4LAT9wAK-rATeBte1/s320/main.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'm certain my admonishing him will have ZERO impact on his future driving skills, but it made me feel good. Since there were so many witnesses, maybe he would lose his license. I know they don't do this in the US, but it ought to be a law-- channeling my father. If you run a red in Germany, for example, you lose your license for life! But they get the autobahn! Fair trade.<br />
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Back to the blender. Here's the thing. I use this baby for everything. Not just my incredible shakes and smoothies --<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GhCTPjRWBS4S5Ns3Hg9XROiEtOLlXftTNh1WMwgAqBzt0zAqb7JwjHa7BgQ6hPfSOOe_DuiYz9w-TrbKh1XGw5N5ncvdQrNFj-sy-FI9fLu669-kipZwJGpda8Xy214HR8EA_ySbRCHt/s1600/IMG_20160321_180028.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GhCTPjRWBS4S5Ns3Hg9XROiEtOLlXftTNh1WMwgAqBzt0zAqb7JwjHa7BgQ6hPfSOOe_DuiYz9w-TrbKh1XGw5N5ncvdQrNFj-sy-FI9fLu669-kipZwJGpda8Xy214HR8EA_ySbRCHt/s320/IMG_20160321_180028.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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(How awesome am I that I made that? ^ ^ ^ )<br />
<br />
--which I began making after this interloper crashed one of my BBQs. But Cesario changed my life. And apparently, many others read here -- <a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2018/02/my-downward-insulin-spiral-to-near-death.html">nutrition. </a><br />
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I use it to make everything free-banana bread, sugarless cookies, Gochuchang sauces, Pomme purees, lentil nut butter, coral worm dips, giraffe weevil floats, and metallic eyeshadows. It's endless. I hate cooking, so if all that is required is dumping the ingredients into this sucker, a pinch of witchery, then watching it whirl, my entire family is seriously indebted to me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKh_mjWBpRzssKIyIzl0JqL3lR4f5hYWHhU4n-GEvWpCJlOsx7dXGAqgyxLV0cTn4jWIHyblcRda8E0ZfYoF935xS-jYYcDJg2XCFu05H1asZJhd-O7N4TKKLqw1m0qjGcTSRbKldgUKeP/s1600/minnie_1449039386.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="379" data-original-width="500" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKh_mjWBpRzssKIyIzl0JqL3lR4f5hYWHhU4n-GEvWpCJlOsx7dXGAqgyxLV0cTn4jWIHyblcRda8E0ZfYoF935xS-jYYcDJg2XCFu05H1asZJhd-O7N4TKKLqw1m0qjGcTSRbKldgUKeP/s320/minnie_1449039386.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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Given they all have different food plans... lactose intolerant, gluten intolerant, meat intolerant, and just generally intolerant of my cooking, it's opened up a magic door. They will eat what I make as long as I use this blender. My daughters believe since I use the Ninja to create food, I had no involvement; therefore, eat they shall! Better still, they make their own damn food. Because it requires so little effort, not one Snapchat story or Tana Mongeau video will go unmissed.</div>
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Look, the world has gone mad, mad! It's been so severely tilted I lost all my bearings, and food is one of the few constants I find comforting. Until I see this happen to the madman---<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3U3zfDAvy2hOROGFfd4i-zJpzFA7aoH4Cy4EUmNqYnQ5Q4O8HW27Qv4bS8v4-v4YHlkOyR8_bKcVey7AW_ohGhy0mrZRK_ujKRPNfvKkqre1O5eoXGDiFfClsIouetE3S8sH8MbnxTvH/s1600/tumblr_p0x65ocVz01qaeizvo1_500.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="281" data-original-width="500" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3U3zfDAvy2hOROGFfd4i-zJpzFA7aoH4Cy4EUmNqYnQ5Q4O8HW27Qv4bS8v4-v4YHlkOyR8_bKcVey7AW_ohGhy0mrZRK_ujKRPNfvKkqre1O5eoXGDiFfClsIouetE3S8sH8MbnxTvH/s320/tumblr_p0x65ocVz01qaeizvo1_500.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
--I really need my blender. The level of gratitude I have for Ninja, which then leads to a mental compilation of many things I am grateful for, is immeasurable. I take it when I travel, even if just the valley, because what if I get stuck there?<br />
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Other tricks of the Ninja ----and unbeknownst to anyone, I can also toss about, say, Chia seeds, Flax, Maca, Tumeric, and Smart Paste. They never know and never will because they will never read anything I write. So it's a win-win.<br />
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I used to laugh at parents that "snuck" spinach in their kid's pasta sauce. First of all, gross. But you can easily drop a tablespoon of green powder into an apple shake.<br />
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I should mention I bought a super cheap one, on sale, this thing of beauty. Why on sale? Because a newer version is out. They do exactly the same thing. Plus, I can't stand all those buttons, dials, and instructions. Jesus.<br />
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This young cute boy was helping me, and I saw one for $17.00. A Kitchenaid.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUXWc_dwqgIHwPcqce4ZRl4Qr95-mau-TbMU_O_DpyqLekjE5yIoNIRmgk2_jc3FNTM3BsWtK5zq80-5GYbSqSP4ADy6jO8WS8sNkSme8XrM_Q0PjS9ff8SIEk3f28sl2wb54kxWj4DyU/s1600/Kitchenaid-blender.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUXWc_dwqgIHwPcqce4ZRl4Qr95-mau-TbMU_O_DpyqLekjE5yIoNIRmgk2_jc3FNTM3BsWtK5zq80-5GYbSqSP4ADy6jO8WS8sNkSme8XrM_Q0PjS9ff8SIEk3f28sl2wb54kxWj4DyU/s320/Kitchenaid-blender.jpg" width="176" /></a></div>
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Me: OMG! Look! It's so retro. I had that in college. How cute is that!!<br />
Boy: Oh, that doesn't work very well. I wouldn't get that.<br />
Me: It's vintage! I'm having all these incredible college memories. I can't believe you still sell it.<br />
Boy: No one buys those. It's really cheap and bad.<br />
Me: Stop putting it down! I want a new salesperson.<br />
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I'll leave you with this. I'm not full-on Paleo, but this <a href="https://paleogrubs.com/smoothie-recipes">website</a> is great for ideas on mixing and matching all things smoothie.<br />
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Since my gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free banana bread is gone in two days, I've upped my game. Onto Zucchini, shredded cauliflower, chocolate chip, cranberry, any berry, guess the berry bread.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyDJDZwhMwUsKud175H2g8d2B1AmfvywU4GcbMBZxq_41DsmeiATXfNxXBiTChyphenhyphenJC4tzc_A2q6GotmnXJrwUA1tRCXYmaxFZxpPuWb4jTemsuUwA2WjMJHOR0H6WnwX5PHXAZXF7VUlrC/s1600/IMG_1612.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1023" data-original-width="718" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyDJDZwhMwUsKud175H2g8d2B1AmfvywU4GcbMBZxq_41DsmeiATXfNxXBiTChyphenhyphenJC4tzc_A2q6GotmnXJrwUA1tRCXYmaxFZxpPuWb4jTemsuUwA2WjMJHOR0H6WnwX5PHXAZXF7VUlrC/s320/IMG_1612.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
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Until I have my beach house and the horse is out of the hospital (thank you, comic genius John Mulaney) this definitely helps get me through, and as a bonus, the family is getting healthy without their permission.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot on life, family, children, politics, food, comfort, health, smoothies, blenders, John Mulaney, and gratitude.<br />
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<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-64133904686849973862018-05-03T16:45:00.005-07:002023-05-18T13:54:34.517-07:00How House Cats Get Super Glued<br />
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Every morning I wake up in a state of shock. I'm still here? The world has still gone mad? And also, I feel kind of crazy. Wait... this shit is still going on? Is that lunatic still in office? And this is still my life? I'm still raising kids? It's been 28 years? Does it ever end? NO!<br />
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How do I know? Because some teenage girl is asking me to do something. At 7:30 a.m.! After a few seconds, I realized, oh, yes, that's my daughter, Audrey; this is my bed; I have to get up and start life.<br />
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Audrey: Mom, wake up. I've covered in bug bites. Or fleas.<br />
Me: What? Who? Do I have to get up?<br />
Audrey: It's pretty bad. I have bites everywhere. Maybe you should look at them.<br />
Me: No, that's okay. Just try not to sweat today.<br />
Audrey: Oh, and I used all the Calamine lotion, so can you get some more?<br />
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My head was back under the pillow. How is this a thing? She's an indoor cat. I hate fleas. Fuck fleas.<br />
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Before I even attempt life, I have to have coffee. Stumbling down the hall zombie mom fashion, suddenly feeling all itchy, I'm sure I was grumbling under my breath, "If one person says good morning, I will stab them."<br />
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I was pissed off and on a mission. All I wanted to do was put that flea repeller on the cat. It must be done immediately. I boil water for the coffee, then open the junk drawer. This particular drawer is actually very organized. A few handy tools like a peen hammer and the cat crap exist.<br />
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I yank the cap of the tube, scoop up Socks, and slather it all over the back of her neck. One crisis solved. I will have to wash/boil all the bedding, but coffee, paper, and a pathetic attempt at meditating, and then maybe.<br />
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I notice the cat is squealing, but I figure that's normal. But then Socks gives me this death glare.<br />
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I notice my fingers have a sticky substance on them. Gross. I try to wash off the cat back poison, and it won't come off. Weird. For a second, I thought it might make a good facial mask.<br />
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The cat is still howling. My daughter is now getting upset. The cat is going berserk.<br />
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Audrey: What is wrong with Socks? She's jumping all over. Why is her fur so hard?<br />
Me: I put that flee stuff on her back. That's a normal reaction.<br />
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This daughter never trusts anything I say, so she checked the organized junk drawer.<br />
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Audrey: Mom, it's super glue. OMG! She's going to die!<br />
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Just then, her twin (Evelyn) rambles out of her bedroom. This girl is usually long gone by now, off in her carpool. I rarely see her in the morning because she's gone before I wake up.<br />
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Ev: Mom, I overslept and missed the carpool.<br />
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Me: WHY DID YOU DO THAT?<br />
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Ev: It happens. Can you drive me? Also, fill my lunch card.<br />
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Me: No! I'm having my coffee and need to calm down. Everyone leave me alone.<br />
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Meanwhile, Audrey has been Googling, <span style="background-color: blue;">"<span style="color: yellow;">what happens when a cat gets superglued</span></span>?" Apparently, there are tons of websites and examples. This must happen a lot.<br />
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Audrey: Mom, Socks could die! It's toxic. Dad!! Mom may be killed, Socks!<br />
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Normally their father is already gone, but for some reason, he overslept! I didn't even notice him.<br />
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Dad enters. "Why is Evelyn here?"<br />
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Me: Okay, okay, I superglued the cat, and Evelyn missed the carpool. Can you quickly drive her to school and drop the cat off at the vet.<br />
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Dad is calm and knows I'm the worst kind of morning person, so he treads lightly like this is no big deal. Maybe he once glued a cat. He checked the packaging.<br />
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Dad: Yep. Super glue. I can't believe this doesn't happen more often. They look exactly the same.<br />
Me: See! The tubes look exactly the same!<br />
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Audrey: No, they don't! You are just both blind. Put your glasses on. Oh my god!<br />
Me: Well, they should make the print bigger!<br />
Dad: I can barely make it out with my glasses on.<br />
Me: See! Also, that's the flea-repellent drawer, not the glue drawer.<br />
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Ev: The fleas are probably dead in that one hard spot.<br />
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I'm still in denial about even needing glasses. I wear reading glasses. But I don't put them on when I wake up. I take them off after I'm done reading for the night, then collect them around 8:00 the next morning after everyone is gone and I can read the paper. Who puts their glasses on first thing?<br />
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Nobody! And that's how cats get glued.<br />
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Anyway, I'm sure Socks is fine, getting a lovely bath and shave. Meanwhile, I'm getting the hell out of here before the kids get home.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighing in on parenting, cats, sleep deprivation, sight deprivation, teenage girls, superglue, mornings, and life.<br />
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PostScript - Socks is home, fine, washed, happy... and has a little bald spot. Plus, bonus, she was incredibly happy to see me. I thought she'd be mad, but she's a good sport.Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-68219390061108560302018-03-08T11:10:00.003-08:002023-05-18T13:52:08.687-07:00What Does Raising Teenage Girls Have To Do With Dylan O'Brien?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Apparently Everything. He is Everything. But who knew? First, I had to figure out who he was. There was a popular TV show Teen Wolf, then other stuff, then a movie franchise concerning running through complex mazes, which I thought was a form of parkour. But I see this and get it. Every teen girl's poster dream boy.<br />
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Or at least twin E and her group. I guess Dylan would be the equivalent crush I had on Neil Young when I was 14.<br />
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Okay, now that the girls are rapidly approaching 15, I need to figure a few things out.<br />
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So I thought I'd read a quick "How to Raise Teen Girls" post to ensure I'm still on top of things. After Googling, I settle on the first one on the search bar.<br />
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The thing is, parents never know if they are doing a good job. If they boast of having a strong handle on parenting skills, they are lying. But love to them. Perfect parenting does not exist. Imperfect parenting is the best we can hope for.<br />
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This post is about girls because that is what I'm raising at the moment. I'm sure these strategies can be applied to boys, I think.<br />
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I already raised a boy and sort of forgot how I did this, so I recently asked him. He really deserves his own post, but for time management, he's a tech engineer computer science type working up in Seattle. He has many other interests, from playing drums to competing in Mario Smash Bro contests and everything in between. He was super fun to raise, but also I was super young. I even enjoyed Disneyland back then. Not so much now.<br />
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Me: On a scale of 1-10, how did I do in raising you, or subtext "How do you rate me as a mom?"<br />
H: Eleven.<br />
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See, he knows if he had said, say, eight, I would have kept him on the phone. "Why? What did I do so wrong? Did I forget something? I never lost you in the park! ... ad nauseum." He knows how to stay ahead of the people crazy curve; so there's that. He'll sometimes tag me on one of these.<br />
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Big ups.<br />
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Anyway, back to the teenage girl twins. Might I just say I'm delighted they are healthy and they are doing just fine? By that, I mean my own personal philosophy regarding children is to keep them safe, alive and try to create a world where they can have a better life than you. Or, as Diane Ladd and others said so eloquently: <br />
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Let them stand on your shoulders so they can see further than you did.<br />
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Pretty simple. Yet this requires extraordinary sacrifice because you are no longer the priority. Your kids are. And I believe if you're incapable of lifting your kids up to your own possible detriment in every possible manner, then reconsider having them. For the love of god, don't have kids because you think they will keep you young. <a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2009/09/children-do-not-keep-you-young.html">Addressed here. </a><br />
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Back to the article:<br />
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It would be irresponsible of me to move forward until we address the obvious; they are the first generation of kids growing up where "gun drills" have replaced the more innocuous "fire" drills.<br />
<br />We, parents, can't actually comprehend this, but when talking to kids, YES, they are highly anxious. In case anyone is wondering.<br />
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But this is only one small part of their forever-increasing anxiety. Forget the normal teen angst, social issues, hormonal insanity, and educational pressure, this added layer also has to wedge itself into their developing brains, and somehow they have to be okay with it.<br />
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In any case, let's see how I'm doing.<br />
<br />
Here are the suggestions to best raise teenage girls.<br />
<u><br /></u> <u>REMAIN CALM</u> -- The idea being when they freak out over something or say something "crazy," they don't react. In fact, the article suggests counting to five. -- Okay, will do. As in, this has never happened.<br />
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First, I could not think of one time my kid said something so whacky I blew a gasket, started foaming at the mouth, and then set my hair on fire. Plus, for me, I'm already super chill. I wish sometimes I could get more amped about anything, but no. I must like being calm. Even when I'm upset. Okay, I'm basically water.<br />
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Like all kids, they occasionally complain, and with good reason, the insane piles of homework or a difficult teacher or some jackass at school that interrupts class all the time. If they didn't, I'd be concerned. Also, I happen to agree with the girls. I hate homework. I really do. All that busy nonsense when they could be working on their own interests or cleaning my house. Plus, I have no love for the apathetic teacher or the class clown with fire ants in his/her/they pants. So vent away.<br />
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Nothing these two girls say I would interpret as "crazy," an overused word that's lost all meaning.<br />
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I was raised in real crazy. We were not concerned with homework; we were concerned with when the eviction notice was about to arrive or what sister would overdose on heroin that day. Yet my mother did not react. She was always calm. When my 16-year-old sister said she was moving to Florida with her Hells Angel boyfriend, my mother yelled: "Wear a helmet!" When my other sister suggested she wanted to work at a bank to steal money, my mother said: "What a great idea. Why didn't I think of that!"<br />
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To date, the most outrageous statement my girls recently uttered was probably: "I've never seen a cloud shaped exactly like an elephant. I'm calling bullshit."<br />
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Whatever the goings on, I retreat to my sanctuary; my beloved bedroom filled with soft pillows, clean lines, and perfection. This is my personal space, and everyone knows it, so they only enter when they consider their situation a true emergency. Like, "I'm starving!"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3sbj1iHbMtnSxXdSCWyD3RaL1DVXObtJpITHI-y5utlCviyPgs3EIcs6lHbGeOw7csDLP2bCzb12z292M8KmWli3OIaJ3cF2pcCerAZTprt1hYy4GaE8S7BSIXqBAWaFgrmg6R8MBvuD/s1600/e36a60c9c673db9e0d871f779b79090a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="791" data-original-width="530" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR3sbj1iHbMtnSxXdSCWyD3RaL1DVXObtJpITHI-y5utlCviyPgs3EIcs6lHbGeOw7csDLP2bCzb12z292M8KmWli3OIaJ3cF2pcCerAZTprt1hYy4GaE8S7BSIXqBAWaFgrmg6R8MBvuD/s320/e36a60c9c673db9e0d871f779b79090a.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfedvSX_HZv9-kLrk8_LU1yrMEYkl3qznlWXGSnJraocYTZtvhK5HYUK9HoB6m3ekw3vwG9h_2Elc-FYy9i7OtdrQz0Qt3F9ITeKcJw64A2GRLnDEV6axda-ik9zm2MNp2pw0n-Ylcyuf/s1600/b9c1ee19487e18e258a321ae26a6bfcd.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><u>LET HER SOLVE HER OWN PROBLEM</u>: Yeah, no pushback on that one. For example, go make your own dinner. As if I don't have enough of my own problems to solve!<br />
<br />
These two rarely ask for my advice. They might ask for some help, such as in, "Could you collate these 11,500 pages for me?" or "Can you spell check this 450-page poem and don't change one word? Thanks." I'm basically their assistant that does busy work we all hate to do, including me. But I love them, so I do their busy work.<br />
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The last time I offered advice, one of the girls was upset about a friend who was ''beefing" her. (what?) Of course, I want to make her feel better, so I go on about how girls are so immature. Clearly, she's giving you the cold shoulder because she's jealous or something along those lines.<br />
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E: "No, she's pissed because I stole her phone and threw it in the trash at school as a joke, but now it's gone. Also, she's British! This is beyond anything you can help with!" This daughter has a predilection for British folks but also loves all peoples; mixed peoples with various combinations of Asian, African-American, and Santorini Greeks but with a British accent.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4TjsRuAeqH0ZSoT6t0lUfjWuS74lTC5IU5W5i6b-PiRhHYY2XTFzj2efh0jII6VM0StdYRj-InFvf5MJ5rOgFxjVScWt_g9dDdpdMLQHI0UONnPc1aU8QX9jnMUXmXBm9hgIg4YIOgFLs/s1600/92d175252371f91c0bac5c0e90106977.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="650" data-original-width="434" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4TjsRuAeqH0ZSoT6t0lUfjWuS74lTC5IU5W5i6b-PiRhHYY2XTFzj2efh0jII6VM0StdYRj-InFvf5MJ5rOgFxjVScWt_g9dDdpdMLQHI0UONnPc1aU8QX9jnMUXmXBm9hgIg4YIOgFLs/s320/92d175252371f91c0bac5c0e90106977.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Her "dream" guy, whom she'll consider dating when she's in college, is a racial collage, a pinboard of sorts. Equal parts Asian, African-American, a bit Italian, and this splash of ancient Greek. And, of course, the British accent.<br />
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I thought these fellows looked interesting, but a funny thing happened when I put all of that info into Google. I came up with this guy, Laurence Coke. I mean, come on! How cute is he?<br />
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In carpool today, I was telling the girls I was in search of a mixed-race teen boy for my blog, and I came across this guy. They were "shook." (Again, what?) Then screamed and laughed.<br />
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"Mom, how did you find him?! He's so-and-so's cousin! You met him at their BBQ! He came up on Google? OMG!"<br />
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What a bizarre coincidence. In any case, my daughter was rightfully mortified, as she is by everything I do. But her friend liked that I was writing this article. She is the sweetest.<br />
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When it comes to boys, again, they will solve their own problems. We aren't there yet.<br />
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I retreat to my room.<br />
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<u><br /></u> <u>COMPLIMENT REGULARLY:</u> -- As opposed to what? Criticizing them? Passive aggressive needling? Also, it's a mistake to compliment your kids all the time. They grow up thinking that shit is real.<br />
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If I told my daughters how pretty there were, how smart they were, how amazing they performed at everything, they would go into the world so ill-prepared that the first critical remark might send them into a clinical depression.<br />
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Instead, what I do is evaluate their progress and praise that or not. I also compliment a certain way they handled a situation or how they carried a difficult school project all the way through. When I do complement their appearance, it's with extreme caution. This is an area, particularly for girls, filled with subterfuge.<br />
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I once suggested, "Maybe you should stop brushing your hair so much. I love the curls; you flatten them." Well, what she hears is -- You think I don't know how to care for myself? Do you think I'm not taking pride in what I do? Do you think my hair is ugly? THEN: "Well, I hate curls. Plus, it's my hair, and I'll do what I want. Don't comment on my hair. Ever."<br />
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I retreat to my room.<br />
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<u><br /></u> <u>TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY</u>: That is, when they have an issue, don't just say, "Oh, it's high school, it will pass, it won't mean a thing in a few years. The most popular girl, also the main cheerleader and homecoming queen, now pole dances at a strip club."<br />
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Okay, I would never say that and have never heard other mothers say it. Just no. It's a weird parenting throwback go-to. Who wrote this thing? Plus, who would say this to their daughters?!<br />
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If there is a super popular girl at school who also runs the Latin club, is the drama club star, and excels at everything, good for her! Good for her if she's enjoying this and not doing it to please some helicopter parent.<br />
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Of course, I take my daughters seriously. Do I care if those pants at Buffalo Exchange are no longer available? Hell no. But the girls do. They also both know this is not of import to tell me. Or anyone else not their age. But I do have a car. This is where I come in handy. We'll find those damn repurposed pants if it takes all day.<br />
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Believe it or not, every pair is different ^ ^ ^. How do I know this? Because she tried them all on while I deleted 5000 emails on my phone. Five hours later, she "accepted" one, albeit not her first choice, then later slashed them with a razor blade. When I was 14, I had exactly two pairs of jeans. They had holes, not by design. Hanging around in vintage warehouses all day with my daughter is love. That is love!<br />
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By the way, there was nothing in this article about trick questions. Which is what I get, more than actual conversation. Just yesterday, my daughter asked, in a long, drawn-out whistful way,<br />
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"Mom, didn't you just love being a teenager?"<br />
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Okay, this is fraught with all of it, trip wires, hidden explosives, poison darts, and flat-out trickery. If I say, oh sure, I loved it; she will think there is something wrong with her because she was probably hating her life at the moment, which is why she lobbed that at me. If I say, it sucked, she will no longer trust anything I ever have to say.<br />
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So, I answer like this: "I must admit, I've loved all my years. Teens, 20's, 30's, 40's, and after that, I stopped rating."<br />
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Then I retreat to my room.<br />
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<u>LISTEN MORE</u>: Okay, now I'm just getting pissed off. All I do is listen. Not because I'm so incredible and patient but because they never stop talking when they are in a chatty mood. They invade my private space and talk and talk and talk. Until they figure out what the hell they are going to do. If I go to my office and shut the door, they come in and talk.<br />
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If I put up a sign that says I'm working, they come in and talk. If I teach them boundaries about that, that's ignored because it's considered urgent talk.<br />
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I don't listen to validate or affirm her feelings, I listen because I'm trapped. But by the very nature of listening, I am validating their feelings. But I must admit, I do enjoy their trips into chatty-ville. There is no better way to learn about your daughter than to be on the receiving end of a long-winded rant. Or an epic observation about, well, anything.<br />
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Unless... Unless... their conversation-at-me takes a deep dive into uncomfortable waters, like,<br />
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"I'm not as smart as my friends in MATH."<br />
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Well, then, I break all the above rules.<br />
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I fly off the handle, say crazy shit, throw dishes, and try to solve the problem by figuring out which horrible girl said this to my beloved daughter, or was it one of the evil nun teachers?<br />
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In which case, I email that pest and ask ---<br />
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"What's up? Do you want my daughter to go into the world and think she's stupid at math? Where is your female empowerment!"-- Then I resort to complimenting the daughter. ---"You're a goddamn genius. A goddamn genius! The rest of the world is stupid. Give me the math problem, and I will figure it out myself. Then I will get that kid expelled, and the teacher fired. This math is insane! Who can do this?"<br />
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After my red rage rant-a-thon, having not listened to the girls, they lead me to my room, telling me it's no big deal and none of my business. "Take it easy, Mom, calm down; we'll work it out. Why don't you watch one of those Sandra Bullock comedies you like. Where she's super mean but then becomes super nice." Which is pretty much all of her romantic comedies, but I do love them.<br />
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After I'm calm, but kids. ^ ^ ^<br />
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I retreat to my room.<br />
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Here is the thing. When in doubt.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighing in on teenagers, girls, motherhood, parenting, emotions, love wins, Happy Birthday.Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-35145424841126460952018-02-03T19:10:00.001-08:002023-05-18T13:41:46.926-07:00My Downward Insulin Spiral to Near Death!<br />
Not too long ago, I had a BBQ gathering, stuffing my face and making jokes while getting into the spirit of the upcoming outdoor Karaoke contest. Then seemingly out of nowhere, a lovely fellow whom I had never met must have overheard me say, "Ugh, I feel so bloated," as I chomped into another burger.<br />
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Here is what I heard:<br />
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"Well, that's because you're on a downward insulin spiral! You're about to become a major diabetic. Chances are you'll have to have your gallbladder removed! Then develop liver cancer! Say hello to the Grim Reaper. He's standing beside you!"<br />
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This lovely man, Cesario Tio, probably did not say anything like that, but that's what I heard. First, why is this stranger talking about my gallbladder? Also, do I really need a gallbladder?<br />
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To save you trouble, readers, yes, you need it. You want to keep this thing happy. If you care, you can see more here -- <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gallbladder">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gallbladder</a><br />
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Nonetheless, who was he to tell me anything about my life? He was about to get an earful.</div>
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Most likely, he said, 'Maybe you feel bloated because of all the refined sugars you consume.'</div>
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I looked at Cesario, who is incredibly fit, runs marathons, and is devoted to clean eating/living, otherwise known as Paleo. In addition, he's very kind, helpful, incredibly educated on all matters of food, and entrepreneurial. He wants people to understand that what they eat is very important. More on Cesario <a href="http://paleobreakfast.me/">here</a>. </div>
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But I knew nothing of this person so I thought he was judging me, and insulting me and I was furious. </div>
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"Well, Mr. Paleo guy, I happen to eat very wisely. This little BBQ is a one-off. So I had a burger. And pie. And cookies. But I don't drink, I exercise, and I eat healthily."</div>
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"What do you eat for breakfast?"</div>
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Who was this guy? Now my girlfriends are leaning in, seeing how I'll handle this nutrition-freak interloper.</div>
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"I'll have you know I eat a trough of plain yogurt covered with oatmeal, sunflower butter, and a pile of fresh fruit. And some almonds. And coffee." </div>
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I was waiting to be congratulated on my excellent food choices but:</div>
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"Then what do you do? For activity after breakfast?"</div>
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"Activity after breakfast? All the action happened before breakfast, kids, carpool, and possibly stopping for gas. After I eat, I write. For hours." </div>
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Technically that's true, but often there is more sitting and staring than actual writing. Still, how was this Cesario's business?!</div>
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"So after consuming over 150 grams of sugar and probably 2000 calories, you sit down for hours?"</div>
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A <i>trick question</i>, this menace of a man.</div>
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I went into some red rage and stalked off into my kitchen. One of my gal pals, Sydney, followed.</div>
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Me: "What the actual fuck? Who invited that guy? Fuck Paleo!"</div>
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Sydney: "He has some serious issues. Why is he attacking your breakfast? It sounds great by the way and super healthy."</div>
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Me: "Right? And I didn't even mention that I drink five glasses of whole milk a day. Not to mention bread. Loads of bread. Am I getting a gut?"</div>
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I was pulling on my excess stomach material.</div>
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Sydney: "Oh for god's sake, no. That's just baby fat leftover from the twins."</div>
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Me: "They're 14. I can't keep using that excuse."</div>
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We dissected this poor guy, conjuring up some imaginary life he had with other Paleoites as they ate root vegetables, then ran uphill for 500 miles. Pathetic!</div>
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Sydney and I went back and forth, putting down the entire Paleo concept, and community and decided Cesario was simply stuck in a cult.</div>
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The night was really fun, with lots of bad singing, dancing, and more pie.</div>
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The next morning I was still angry. Out of sheer spite, I made a "green" protein shake, something I found on a Paleo website. It was delicious. Then for lunch, no bread, just chicken. For dinner, fish, yams, and spinach.</div>
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I did this day after day until I forgot why. Suddenly I was off dairy, white bread, most bread, and sugar, save a few gummy bears. And I felt amazing. My pants started to fall off, my stomach shrank, and everything shrank. I had more energy than I had in years. </div>
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Like this but not me: And I don't have an earring in my belly.</div>
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I learned a lot about myself that night. 1) I can be overly sensitive to anything. 2) I can create scenarios about people to suit my perceptions of who I need them to be. 3) I can be a dismissive bitch. </div>
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Okay, so none of this is new. I've been working on improving myself since birth. It's a slow process.</div>
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But like so much in life, we only see what we want to see, and that's not a great thing at least for me. Deep down, I knew my food plan was lacking, but I just didn't want to hear it. So thank you, Cesario, for having the 'gall' to call me out. It changed my life. This one small BBQ inspired me to learn about food, find new ways to consume food and live healthier. Because I'm now practicing better eating habits, so are my kids. It's a win for everyone. </div>
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An interesting anecdote -- <span style="background-color: transparent;">In the Chinese language, gallbladder </span>膽 -- is associated with courage, boldness, bravery, and heroism, and apparently is where you make your best decisions. Where you chart your life's actual path! Who knew?</div>
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Still on course to that big white beach house that awaits me.</div>
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Rhonda Talbot weighing in on health, diet, Paleo, BBQ, random men, inspiration, gallbladders, beach houses, and the kitchen sink.</div>
Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-70592554794253432042017-10-30T18:08:00.001-07:002023-05-18T13:38:33.328-07:00It's Raining Daddies in New York or STOP With the Middle-age Male Fantasy Films!<br />
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I can't believe I am addressing this again. Films where predatory, old, white saggy ass men lust after teenage girls. I was so outraged a couple years ago regarding the film <a href="https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/the-last-of-robin-hood-2014">The Last of Robin Hood</a>, which focused on Errol Flynn's (50) sexual relationship with Beverly Aadland (15), I had to make some noise. Here is the post under <a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2014/04/kevin-kline-and-dakota-fanning-under.html">GROSS</a>. They tried to gloss this ridiculous movie over by suggesting that that was how things were back then. WELL, here we were in 2017; so much for that rationale.<br />
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And in a bizarre coincidence, one of the two films, <a href="https://www.avclub.com/you-have-2-guesses-as-to-what-the-new-woody-allen-movie-1819809398">Woody Allen's A Rainy Day in New York</a>, casts the lovely Elle Fanning as the supposed 15-year-old girl. Her sister Dakota Fanning played the 15-year-old Beverly Aadland. I have no idea what this means, but I love the Fanning sisters and all their 248 movies.<br />
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But, NO, just NO. You don't have to play these roles. Walk away. Run! Everyone in Hollywood wants to cast the Fanning sisters. So why say yes to this trash?<br />
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I'm not interested in bringing up the entire Allen history because this entry is not about that.<br />
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How is it possible there is not one but <u>TWO</u> of these films soon to be released?<br />
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The other one is Louis CK's <a href="http://www.indiewire.com/2017/09/i-love-you-daddy-review-louis-ck-chloe-grace-moretz-tiff-1201874611/">I Love You Daddy</a>. His 17-year-old daughter (Chloe Grace Moretz) is essentially stalked by a 68-year-old creepy film "god" John Malkovich. EEEWWWW. There is an unofficial tagline: "Everybody is a Pervert." Newsflash: Only perverts believe this.<br />
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Woody Allen is not about to defend his next venture into Lolita-land, but he did defend Harvey Weinstein, calling him a "sad, sick man." Good lord. Well, okay then. That explains it.<br />
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<br />However, Louis CK is defending his movie, a very familiar defense. "I grew up with that. <i>Manhattan</i> is a movie I saw as a kid, and I was like, "Okay, that's what people do." Really? It is? People do this? What people? Do you mean people like you and Woody Allen? <i>Manhattan</i> was made nearly 30 years ago. Has Louis not changed his mind since he was a teenager? When will adolescent middle-aged men grow up? Oh. Never. Of course. Men like him and Woody and HW and on and on and on.<br />
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It's as though men over 45 read or reread Lolita and think: "Wow. I want to make that film! I want to undress a gorgeous teenager and pretend to have sex with her, or at least watch!"<br />
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Also, who are these movies for? Certainly not women. I'm sure Louis CK hopes his huge fan base will come along for the ride. I got an email to that effect. Those casual emails he sends to his fans like we're best friends. "Hey Rhonda, I've been SOOOO busy. I made this flick. I really want you to come to see it. In fact, YOU can get a ticket early, like today, even though it opens in November. But you can claim your lucky seat now." AS IF and ----<br />
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<span class="s1">(I wanted to make you feel like you are “going to the movies.” I think you will really enjoy going to this movie) How the hell does he know what I will like? </span></div>
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This was the longest email I had ever received from Louis. TWO pages. Me and millions of others, basically begging us to see this film. Weird.<br />
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Woody Allen did not send me an email.<br />
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I don't plan on seeing either film. As much as I love the cast in both.<br />
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But for two incredibly privileged filmmakers that can do whatever they want, stop with the old man having sex with girls trope because it's not a real trope! But it is a real fantasy that nobody but the filmmakers and "people like them" wants to indulge in.<br />
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This is why I wish I was a billionaire. In addition to doing good works everywhere, I could own a studio and produce films ---- -written, directed, and acted in by women about matters that are interesting, reflect our actual lives, and are relevant to our culture. Films that have an impact. Films that are enjoyable. Films that could even make a difference. MEN, you've had your chance. FOREVER. Step down. Pass the baton. You're going in circles. You're making me sick.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighs on in misogyny, films, predators, male fantasies, Woody Allen, Louis CK, and all that crap.<br />
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<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-83078264146536040022017-10-11T21:44:00.002-07:002023-05-18T13:35:13.397-07:00Women Have More Power Than They Know<div data-block="true" data-editor="47hbd" data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3iIjF9WKl7MG2aVFIOOcrN3dyfBMlPAJ7qW1KdWIhyphenhyphenKBuyvz47tFZTSo2xzF3olvZAhnyjcl1n_ClvQe8qf-WNwjARzVS35BO05_GiqwXfOEczPy3VucPDFwrOKrQVWVjhFaWxZ9e6CV/s1600/download.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ3iIjF9WKl7MG2aVFIOOcrN3dyfBMlPAJ7qW1KdWIhyphenhyphenKBuyvz47tFZTSo2xzF3olvZAhnyjcl1n_ClvQe8qf-WNwjARzVS35BO05_GiqwXfOEczPy3VucPDFwrOKrQVWVjhFaWxZ9e6CV/s1600/download.jpg" /></a><span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><u><a href="https://womeninfilm.org/">Women in Film</a> </u>put out a statement today on the Weinstein catastrophe. As I was writing this, I checked to see what the victim count was. Thus far, over 25. From Rose McGowan to Asia Argento to <a href="http://mashable.com/2017/10/11/harvey-weinstein-accusers-list/#NbpM0jgjE5qt">Rosanna Arquette.</a> << link My little rant here is on this statement. Lots of good ideas, but how to implement them?</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">While it's a very fine statement, how do we get men, male colleagues, to become our allies and speak out when they witness any discrimination? This is certainly a wake-up call for many, but the town is run by men, and until women make an incredibly bold move, not much will change. The men run the boardrooms, hold the keys, and have all the money and power.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">But there are a lot of extremely powerful women with deep pockets that could create companies that promote strong female leadership. Women would sit on the board. Women would finance the movies and hold similar keys. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOab4204UrqfKyDAi_vqhvpD5xlcn_UDc6nG8UIrFozff3kz6iBq_5MN8XcGLGBaCtZnaY2tVC9N_Pnuaawb_Pvj9pQMwvRv0CnYRdjorNheIu4DJvkg9Yz2oKQPsYVAzjD1oxwwZCznYV/s1600/image.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="500" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOab4204UrqfKyDAi_vqhvpD5xlcn_UDc6nG8UIrFozff3kz6iBq_5MN8XcGLGBaCtZnaY2tVC9N_Pnuaawb_Pvj9pQMwvRv0CnYRdjorNheIu4DJvkg9Yz2oKQPsYVAzjD1oxwwZCznYV/s320/image.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">In a patriarchal world that goes back to the beginning of time, time then is what it will take to keep pushing the boulder up the mountain. Except that's the wrong metaphor and needs to be changed. Sisyphus was never meant to succeed. Women are not under some ancient curse. They can pull that rock and foist it over the top; they can do it together, and the men/allies that help will only benefit. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Am I, are we, reaching for the stars? Sometimes it seems that way. Speaking of stars:</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">What if female A-listers stopped starring in or producing tentpole movies, money that lines the pockets of various unsavory characters?</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">What if powerful female executives and financiers stepped back until there was some visible change?</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Women have more power than they know. More than half the movie's audience is female. Take women out of movies, and good luck with half an audience, a movie audience that is already rapidly shrinking.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="frjm1-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">According to Hollywood Reporter, these are the most <a href="http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/lists/thr-100-hollywood-reporters-powerful-people-entertainment-1013405/item/thr-100-2017-jon-berg-diane-nelson-geoff-johns-1013906">powerful people in 2017</a>. A handful of women. But a good handful. So MEN on this list, are any ready to make changes? To be stand-up guys? Think about the 52% of women that go to see your films? </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="726q5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">The only thing this industry, like many industries, understands is money. </span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="726q5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Mess with it, take it away, threaten the bottom line, and men will suddenly pay attention. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe then men will start speaking out, stepping up, and stopping any assaults they see, witness, or hear about. Industry leaders may follow through on the mentioned excellent mandates.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="76hrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">I also don't believe these male colleagues have to have sisters or daughters to be motivated to step up. Men don't need a daughter, sister, cousin, or aunt to know what sexual assault is.</span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="76hrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Harassment is never acceptable. Women have the right to a safe work environment. Let's hope this did begin to turn the tide. But certainly, HE is not the only one. He may be the most vile. But it's the entire entertainment environment and sordid history of abuse that he has given a very public face to. A despicable human, I can only compare to one other, the one the leads the nation.</span><br />
<span data-offset-key="76hrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Also, why can't there be a YELP/Rate My-- for bosses and companies. There are in other industries. At the very least, people would know some of what others carry around as secrets. Currency. This town uses secrets and gossip is bargaining power. Put that business on a public forum rather than on hidden boards inside Hollywood. People might think twice before taking certain actions, knowing they may be outed. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVELC-dt7ou-LdHLHSA1-Xwd7a9JH9WiOVDuiSd4EqZXZKzO_PxDOXUEIGaGMmIRGuMQb905OhftPmkUB5YByzpeyyVQiml8sYAlcVkzR7doD1VPkgLjNuAd37oLjzRj6juqlY6YfY7sSZ/s1600/ratemyboss.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="979" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVELC-dt7ou-LdHLHSA1-Xwd7a9JH9WiOVDuiSd4EqZXZKzO_PxDOXUEIGaGMmIRGuMQb905OhftPmkUB5YByzpeyyVQiml8sYAlcVkzR7doD1VPkgLjNuAd37oLjzRj6juqlY6YfY7sSZ/s320/ratemyboss.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span data-offset-key="76hrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">**makes decent films. A bully. A predator. Stay away. Not worth it.</span><br />
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WIF statement:</div>
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<span data-offset-key="76hrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1">Women In Film encourages women to continue speaking up about sexual harassment, which is an all-too-common form of discrimination. That so many people, particularly other men in power, knew about Harvey Weinstein’s behavior and didn’t say anything is an indication of how deeply entrenched discrimination is in the film & TV business — and in culture overall.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="76hrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1">We are hearing more and more shocking accounts from women affected by Harvey Weinstein’s behavior; women are emboldened to finally speak up because others have before them. We will likely hear about other men in the entertainment industry who have harassed women because the problem is far more widespread than people have been willing to discuss publicly.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="76hrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1">In order to do something to end sexual harassment, we must require industry leaders to (1) mandate gender-inclusive boards and decision-making groups and (2) mandate inclusive hiring practices from the top down, from executives to support staff. Ensuring that there are more women in positions of power will change the culture and result in decreased sexual harassment and discrimination overall (3) mandate that lasting legal penalties be applied without compromise, bias, or settlement, and these penalties be enforced for those found guilty and complicit in these crimes of discrimination. The bottom line is that no one should be held to different standards, regardless of their power, money, or fame.</span></span></div>
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<span data-offset-key="76hrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="s1">Women need allies. We need our male colleagues – who have mothers, sisters, daughters, and friends – to step up and speak out now and whenever they witness discrimination of any kind.</span></span></div>
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Rhonda Talbot weighing in on Harvey Weinstein, Miramax, Hollywood, sexual assault, the entertainment business, misogyny, discrimination, power, and women. </div>
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Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-12145546530912898432017-06-30T18:28:00.001-07:002023-05-18T13:31:46.863-07:00Thing One and Thing Two - What She Knew<br />
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Look how innocent back in the day. ^ ^ ^<br />
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Not that anyone asked, but when I had twin girls 14 years ago, while in the hospital, the incredibly kind night nurse that I wanted to take home with me forever also made a prediction about the girls.<br />
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She had an uncanny ability to accurately read a newborn's face. This woman had superpowers. The way she swaddled those screaming babies into a sleep, how she carried one in each arm, roaming up and down the hallway with such crazy confidence, I never once asked where she was taking them.<br />
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In any case, she said this.<br />
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Nurse: Good news and not-so-good news. Baby A will be a very easy child. Even a delight. Baby B, well, she's got some attitude. She's got plenty of that attitude!<br />
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What the hell did that mean? Was this secret maternity ward fun? 6th-floor shenanigans? Twin-time lunch break games? Then: Bye-bye and good luck with that.<br />
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<u>How could she have known that when they were twenty-four hours old?</u><br />
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I'm not going to summarize 14 years, so:<br />
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Today --Baby A, out of school but fretting over homework due in 2 months, spends her time reading, writing, and making short films. I'm posting this one because it clearly identifies her life situation and what's wrong with public schools. Oh, wait. Did I write that? --She works her ass off, does everyone else's job to ensure her perfect 4.0 life status, and doesn't mind. So she's building a youtube site to vent. (Apple doesn't fall etc.)<br />
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This here clue in <a href="https://youtu.be/69XBg6Xztb0">Rome Alone</a><br />
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Baby B. She's outside on the hammock doing that teen business on her phone, chatting with the "squad" in a language I can't decipher because it's not language. It's words without vowels. She basically lives in her own fancy, butterfly-filled fantasy. (Apple doesn't fall far from the tree etc.)<br />
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While A studies science exploration, action figures, and hiking with like-minded friends, B is Sephora, you tuber girls, Buffalo Exchange, styling outfits, going to all-boys "summer school" to study "Algebra." None of her T-shirts, for example, have a bottom half. What is that? Anyway... she's super sweet. She's either saying, SHUT UP or STOP TALKING...not sure.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzF9NpwIzn8qHUvveEjE-rK3x9hM_YThrf142N8xgOp7JZwtwoNm8xdQp8k6ov9fbMIe7qdxXIighCf_vhPTw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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This is an example of her art, which I fished from the trash.<br />
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Someone told me I ought to try and market some of their pieces for, say, coffee mugs or something... right.. that's me. Oh, hey you --getting your $15 dollar cold brew, you market person hipster guy/girl, put this on a T-shirt for me.<br />
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So, there you go. Little slices of A and B.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot reports on twins, children, parenting, haha haha, teenagers, art, public school, and private school.Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-15957884432142854162017-06-29T09:29:00.003-07:002023-05-18T13:29:25.012-07:00Fire and Ice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Living in this little paradise could be an option. ^ ^ ^ ^<br />
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I've sadly neglected my blog for over a year, though it does not seem like a year. Mainly because years pass by like days. I've decided to see what's what.<br />
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I have a morning routine where I write in a journal, sometimes dozens of pages, most of it meaningless to anyone but me, but somehow combined with writing for money that never arrives, I've left poor Trifecta in the dust.<br />
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Speaking of dust, I loathe the weather in SoCal. I woke up with grit in my throat. Embers from wildfires are flaring up all around the city - five in total. The reason there are so many has to do with a deadly combination of California's wettest winter in over a decade and the intense summer heat burning up what grew during the rain.<br />
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This is not too far away, Burbank. I walked out at 6am to get the Times; the sky was thick with yellow smoke. I've seen this many times and had to evacuate my home a few times, but somehow this year seems the worst. There is a correlation between the extreme heat rising in SoCal with my extreme dislike for living here. I'm not alone. My friends and I constantly discuss how we are all leaving together to find some piece of land, preferably near the water, maybe outside the US, but not too far from shopping outlets (heh...Jamie). A commune. With big trees and some deer. With a dozen or so English cottages, a community garden full of exotic lettuce, carrots, cucumbers, okay, a mixed salad, right in the center. Maybe a goat to milk and some chickens.<br />
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Just behind this lovely setting is the ocean, clean and breezy. Dolphins pass by; we all have wind chimes. Maybe that dog.<br />
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Until we all get there, I dream of ice caves.<br />
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This is Northern MI, not too far from where I grew up. Couldn't wait to get out. To come to California. At age 14, that seemed like a great plan. I now see this journey as two polar opposites: fire and ice.<br />
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Meanwhile, I'm running with what I got and fixing it along the way.<br />
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UPDATE: OMG, so I found out this mind fantasy is a real place called pocket <a href="http://rosschapin.com/projects/pocket-neighborhoods/">neighborhoods</a>. This particular place is in WA, not too far from Puget Sound, where my mother is from and lived and died, and I've probably seen, so this now makes sense. Crazy. Click on the neighborhood link above. Now it's very real. It's on, baby.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighing back in. On Fire, Heat, Ice, Paradise, Life, Ross Chapin<br />
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<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-51794347411319577872016-11-25T14:37:00.003-08:002023-05-18T13:19:19.007-07:00Broken LA Times Repost 2012<br />
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<div class="mod-latarticlesarticleheader mod-articleheader mod-articleheader-with-kicker" id="mod-article-header" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">
<h1 class="multi-line-title-1" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 25px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 25px; margin: 25px 0px 0px; padding: 0px;">
The signs of a broken relationship were there from the start</h1>
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We had come together out of a desperate need. Though things didn't work out, the journey was very worthwhile for one reason: our son.</h2>
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<span class="pubdate" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a href="http://articles.latimes.com/2012/sep/08" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;">September 08, 2012</a></span><span class="separator" style="border: 0px; color: #666666; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px 5px;">|</span><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">By Rhonda Talbot, Special to the Los Angeles Times</span></div>
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(Johanna Goodman, For the…)</div>
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<div class="mod-latarticlesarticletext mod-articletext" id="mod-a-body-first-para" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px 10px 0px 0px;">
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
From the moment we met, everything about our relationship was broken. I was bicycling at Gold's Gym in Hollywood, listening to Bob Dylan. I barely noticed the guy to my left. I'll call him Jay — tall, lumbering, utterly confused. He fiddled with the controls of his bike, trying not to look embarrassed.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"It's broken," I shouted, not bothering to remove my headphones. He sheepishly climbed off that bike and onto another. More fiddling with the controls. I sighed, pulled off my headphones, and pressed his start button.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"Thanks," he said. "I just quit smoking. I also quit drugs, drinking, sugar, and white flour."</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
He was handsome in that helpless-boy way. I could tell he was an actor by the way he insisted on making eye contact. He kept talking — something about a motel in Del Mar, Miles Davis, Nietzsche, and a pig farm in Utah.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
He asked for my number. I could have slipped him a fake one. But I didn't.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
How I later found myself in his decaying station wagon — shredded floorboards, untrustworthy brakes, the scent of dead fish — remains something of a mystery. We would drive for hours into the desert to sit on sacred land, pick strawberries in Oxnard, or listen to an obscure jazz band in Thousand Oaks.</div>
<div class="mod-latarticlesarticletextwithadcpc mod-latarticlesarticletext mod-articletext" id="mod-a-body-after-first-para" style="border: 0px; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px 10px 0px 0px;">
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
Jay was decent and thoughtful. He bought me unconventional gifts: a framed print of Ganesh and a book about the Chumash Indians.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
I would report to my girlfriends about this peculiar guy whose hidden potential came with tie-dyed shirts, pajama pants, and puka shells.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
After one night of constellation gazing in the high desert, we returned to his apartment. He tinkered with the broken lock, then laughed when the doorknob fell into his hand. "Oops."</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
By now, I expected things not to work, but I was still startled by the sheer quantity of broken items: televisions, toilets, and the refrigerator. Even his roommate, who appeared out of nowhere, walked with a limp.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
We drank some warm Cokes, then entered his bedroom. I lay on the futon and noticed Maharishi's face beaming down on me, his left eye askew because of a fracture in the glass frame.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
Just as Jay lay down, bam. The futon collapsed. We crashed onto the hardwood floor. I was horrified. Jay chuckled.</div>
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"Normally, I'm much better at this," he offered. "I mean sexually. Do you want to meditate?"</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"Thanks," I said, "but I better get going."</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
I left thinking I should just erase this entire episode of my life. Why did I even have feelings for this guy?</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
Back in L.A., I pulled onto my street in the Fairfax district and saw a commotion — fire trucks, ambulances, dozens of pajama-clad onlookers. Then I noticed the fire hoses were directed right into my second-story window.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"What happened?" I said. "That's my apartment!"</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"Well, maybe you can tell us what happened," a firefighter said. My place was destroyed, he said, but no one was hurt.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
I looked at the crowd of mostly older residents, and my face turned red with shame. Had I forgotten to blow out the aromatherapy candle Jay gave me, which I stupidly left on the wicker table?</div>
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"Miss, do you have someone to call?" the firefighter asked.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"Yes, I have a friend," I said.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
It was 3 a.m. Many people won't understand why I did what I did. I'm not even sure I do. But heading back to Jay's seemed like the only solution.</div>
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<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
He answered the door like nothing was unusual. Homes burn down every day.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
I slept on his lumpy sofa, and Jay made me coffee the next morning. We read The Times and carried on. Just an ordinary day.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"Of course, you can stay as long as you like," he said.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"That's nice of you."</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
"By the way," he said, "you slurp your coffee." He winked.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
In two days, we learned that we had much in common. Broken homes, broken dreams. My heart cracked open.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
I knew we had come together out of a kind of desperate need — two halves making a whole. I told him that my family had disowned me when I moved to Hollywood. He said we should live together.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
Within a month of combining our households and mismatched belongings, he started bringing in all sorts of broken things. First, there was the stray cat missing a leg, then a wild green parrot that had lost its ability to fly. Soon he moved on to humans — runaways and pregnant heroin addicts.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
I eventually missed my old life. Clean. Organized. Predictable. But just as I was about to make my exit, we encountered a broken condom.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
Jay was adamant about wanting to make our little family work, so I went along to the Self-Realization Center, to the Buddhist retreats, to the couple's therapist who lived in a tepee — all efforts to fix us. None worked.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px;">
By the end of our journey, there was the admission of defeat. But there also was one magnificent prize: a perfectly unbroken son. And for the first time, I understood what love was.</div>
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<em style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">L.A. Affairs chronicles romance and relationships. Past columns are archived at latimes.com/laaffairs. If you have comments to share or a story to tell, write us at <a href="mailto:home@latimes.com" style="border: 0px; color: #2262cc; font-family: inherit; line-height: 20px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;">home@latimes.com</a>.</em></div>
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Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-85787993645376378422016-02-04T14:14:00.002-08:002023-05-18T13:25:56.781-07:00Chanel Bags for Getting an A?! STOP<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xa9vHO3-3cOflZUVzdvT4RygetSLLvKjpYktVO52LyQiqp-EaurV5r-VNrDuFVlDEna_-J0kFMALAKwPD0n-26pKyMUtQpAIj58O4TEDwwJI5MaRHfYz5kw7Vj8k11jx0E3MX97fbE9l/s1600/BX6ZWWOCYAA6O-z.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xa9vHO3-3cOflZUVzdvT4RygetSLLvKjpYktVO52LyQiqp-EaurV5r-VNrDuFVlDEna_-J0kFMALAKwPD0n-26pKyMUtQpAIj58O4TEDwwJI5MaRHfYz5kw7Vj8k11jx0E3MX97fbE9l/s320/BX6ZWWOCYAA6O-z.png" width="211" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Open Letter to Parents ... Okay, Rant:<br />
<br />
I'm struggling here, pleading; this bribing your kids with fancy stuff to get them to do their school work is making problems in my home. I'm sure you're wonderful people, but this system does not seem conducive to raising healthy children who then go on to become responsible adults.<br />
<br />
Though I've already parented one child through the LA haze/maze of the private school network, there were pitfalls, rabbit holes, and plenty of snubs because we were not on a first-name basis with Steven Spielberg, but the entire ordeal worked out fine. But the world has changed since the last time I stepped into the hallways of a Middle School.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
One could say nothing has changed; things have just amplified. But nostalgia, my constant, dreamy companion, will always illustrate otherwise.<br />
<br />
Back to my point. I raised a boy. It's different than raising girls, at least for me. Most of them, well, mine that is didn't care about clothes, fashion, cool cars, or cliques, instead he focused on what he liked, academics, science, video games, hanging with his local friends, and staying clear of the Westside where he attended posh school. There were problems, but nothing compared to what I saw coming.<br />
<br />
Now I have 13-year-old girls. Just getting them this far took Herculean effort. I should be dead.<br />
<br />
The girls have so many interests, dance, music, art, cooking, design, sewing, fashion, Legos, Marvel anything, collections of stuff... anyway suffice it to say every day is school, activity, homework, friend drama, problems/complaints with my dinner menu; then everyone goes to their own private pod to engage in some pastime. I go to my bedroom, a tiny slice of heaven, to read, write, scribble notes, talk to myself, and channel flip.<br />
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Now the girls are getting into more complicated issues. Stuff outside my wheelhouse. Like fashion, boys, make-up, designer shit, and girl drama. Well, one twin, anyway. Her sister doesn't care about any of this.<br />
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But E is the idealistic, sparkly artist, loves elegance and plush, knows designers, and studies Youtube tutorials on fashion, hair, and make-up. Her creativity has no bounds. She never stops. My house is an art gallery. The flourish of her paintbrush is also used on my face; I'm her subject. Everybody is her subject.<br />
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All of this is fine and dandy. She's also a good student and seems well-adjusted. And my make-up never looked better.<br />
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But when it comes to schoolwork, my parenting style is hands-off. They're on their own. They always have been. They know this. They like this. And it works for us.<br />
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THEN Yesterday:<br />
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E: Suzie Q gets a new designer handbag every time she gets an A in anything. She just got a Chanel for English.<br />
Me: I can't listen to this. Who does this? Why not just work for the A, get it, and feel good you earned it? Why a reward? She's 12, for cripes sake!<br />
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I'm sure my rant was much worse before launching into: 'My dad gave me a buck for every A at the end of a semester..." but she was already organizing her point.<br />
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E: Can I get a Chanel bag at the end of the year when I make the honor roll?<br />
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This leads us to a conversation that you'll get some kind of reward for getting good grades. Which I don't have a problem with. For example, I took the girls to Waffles last year when they got on the Dean's list. It's more of a small celebration of their hard work.<br />
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But they're upping the stakes. I'm not buying a 13- year old a Chanel bag! Ever! I don't care if one of them cures cancer. She can buy her own Chanel bag! Get me one while you're at it.<br />
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To me, this is bribery, suggesting that education is merely a way to get "stuff," and if they work the system, <u>which they can,</u> they will get great "stuff." Alas, life does not work that way. The kid is being set up for disappointment and disaster. No employer will buy you a Chanel bag because you did your flipping job.<br />
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But I need support. As in, PARENTS stop it! Read some articles or books on how this will backfire. As I've written so often before, they will fall apart in college. They will not be prepared.<br />
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I am not talking about the kid who works hard and will do well no matter the circumstances. I'm talking about most kids who don't like school but will tolerate it if given material things.<br />
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Many studies conclude that paying kids to learn decreases their intrinsic motivation to perform those activities, weakens their internal drive to learn, and removes their love, if any, for learning. Here is a good, short, <a href="http://www.education.com/magazine/article/pay-grades/">impactful article.</a><br />
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Instead of Gucci bags, Prada flats, BMW's or fifty dollar bills;<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPQPLiWa550MVii-jd5vNS6bqW_Jh0ndbGdGJ3HFZjNmem9HqsbC2JlXwwzVuwlV1Nz1qVP4_hkLE6qVg-H6areQ1x52Dgj77UW9GtMphwXy0bfll0WwjK9uL0ephPkEhRC9Rn3Abrp7Cm/s1600/tumblr_ny7motcAOQ1ulqd0po1_500.gif"><img border="0" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPQPLiWa550MVii-jd5vNS6bqW_Jh0ndbGdGJ3HFZjNmem9HqsbC2JlXwwzVuwlV1Nz1qVP4_hkLE6qVg-H6areQ1x52Dgj77UW9GtMphwXy0bfll0WwjK9uL0ephPkEhRC9Rn3Abrp7Cm/s320/tumblr_ny7motcAOQ1ulqd0po1_500.gif" width="320" /></a><br />
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You might say, <span style="background-color: yellow;">'I have complete confidence in your abilities to achieve this task.'</span><br />
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I don't even say that, frankly. Maybe I'm fortunate; my kids like school and like to learn. Sure, sometimes it's hard. Sure, they'd rather play Minecraft or watch Bethany Mota bubble on about her DIY "hauls."<br />
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But you know what they hate more than anything? Getting a C or, god forbid, a D! When that happens, they get upset with themselves, then figure it out. Sometimes I get involved, but mostly not. What happens after that? They start getting B's, then A's. Along with the great satisfaction, it was all their own doing.<br />
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In this world, most of the kids I encounter have everything. IPhones, IPads, IAnything. Many get allowances (mine don't.) Many get shopping sprees. They want for little. So, in addition, they get HIGHER end stuff if they get an A?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9kniTx122hGocPCzvp-y2tyoKmBuGk_Gcu0DwbEvXqxApl5XfD3oLIEmaqr3x4gxuNxm4WBLCtBQNR_HRO4Vw7E-4jMTLxPSg69eb92Ptcu0BC0-sPenNSc6PYJtqEgX5PbLmJDBlFvo/s1600/White-girls-basic-starbucks-coffee-iphone.jpg"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI9kniTx122hGocPCzvp-y2tyoKmBuGk_Gcu0DwbEvXqxApl5XfD3oLIEmaqr3x4gxuNxm4WBLCtBQNR_HRO4Vw7E-4jMTLxPSg69eb92Ptcu0BC0-sPenNSc6PYJtqEgX5PbLmJDBlFvo/s320/White-girls-basic-starbucks-coffee-iphone.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
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Bewildered. And I get a sense this is just going to escalate. Hello High School. How can I bend you to my will to get into an Ivy? Lots and lots of money!!!<br />
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Just after posting, I was sent this great article, including a saying: "Punished by Rewards," an excellent read. Perfect timing. <a href="http://www.inc.com/jt-odonnell/3-reasons-millennials-are-getting-fired.html">Read here.</a><br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighs in on spoiled kids, overindulgence, Middle School, High School, Rewards for Nothing, Parenting, Bribery, and Help.<br />
<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-46122618956584566432015-11-10T11:16:00.003-08:002023-05-18T14:09:16.345-07:00Helicopter Parenting Destroying Entire Generations!<br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: yellow; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><u>Newsflash</u></span><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">: Doing your kids homework will never get them into a good school. If you buy their way in, they will fail anyway. </span><u style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><span style="background-color: yellow;">Side note</span>:</u><span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"> Because these kids come in lacking in any self sufficiently, yet are pressured to do well by their parents, more than 30% load up on the Adderal. Just letting you know. Many of them become extremely depressed because they know they had every advantage and are still failing. "Lurking beneath of whatever thing needs to be handled is the student's inability to differentiate the self from the parent." These kids can't problem solve, cope with minor setbacks, don't know what makes them happy and rarely know who they are.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">I understand some parents do this to "protect" their kids and some others do this as an ego-extension of themselves. The bragging! And now social bragging. Endless. How much can we as a society tolerate? I don't care that your daughter won the gymnastic nationals, or she's doing print modeling in between piano recitals, or that your son has a 4.9 but working toward a perfect 5! I still don't respect you as a parent because your kid is miserable. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">I've written about this before, but this is a great article by an ex-Stanford dean who witnessed firsthand the overprotected kids that enter college only to fall apart. Read </span></span><a href="http://here./" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">here.</a><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;"> I see it all around me, and we see this in the media, flooded with pictures of celebrities and their over-indulged kids who will never understand what it feels like to actually earn something. Then these same parents are surprised when the kids flail at school, away from mom, dad, tutors, assistants, etc.</span></span></span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">Clearly, I am against any of this hyper-parenting. I know where it comes from ("I wasn't really parented by my hippy-dippy mom, and I will give Chuckles everything I never got") and also has seen where it goes ("Mom, tell me again how to work a subway because the cabs are ignoring me. I feel so rejected. Can you fly out here?")</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">I've been parenting for a while, and I suppose I'm what you call a "let them break an arm" parent. I told my daughters as much when they were age three:</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">"Girls, you need to understand I will not be a typical mother. In fact, consider me an aunt. You'll have to figure things out on your own." Guess what? They did. They're independent but also compassionate. They have weird hobbies like reptile collecting. They find outlets for all of their various interests. My house is messy, but there you have it.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">They have zero interest, in my opinion, on most matters. They trust their own. They wouldn't dream of me ever helping them with homework.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">"Honey, do you need help with that math that makes zero sense to me? I can switch you back to old school in no time."</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">"How about never!"</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">They laugh. They run circles around me. They steal my phone and make movies. They think I'm lame. And I happen to think that's healthy. But we also all adore each other, we bake, shop, go on adventurous hikes, look for wild animals in hiding, snare stray cats, surf (well they do), and Apples to Apples somehow never get old.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">Why on earth would parents NOT want their kids to learn from their mistakes, get disappointed, cry, bawl their eyes out, and learn to get over it, stumble, fall, and be okay? To experience life? It's called balance, and the kids will be fine. Let them get a damn D! Take the training wheels off before they are 12. How old is this kid?</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">In this in-between place, I never have to worry whether or not my kids are spoiled, over-pampered, lacking in confidence, or incapable of taking care of themselves. What I get in return is a life. Everybody wins.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;" />
<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">It will be curious to see what happens to this next crop of extremely over-indulged kids. This is the generation following the ones already out there.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">In my opinion, one of the most loving things you can do for your children is </span><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="background-color: yellow; color: #444444; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">let them grow up.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span face=""arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif" style="color: #444444;"><span style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;">Rhonda Talbot on helicopter parenting insanity, parenthood, millennials, raising kids, college, independence.</span></span></span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.2px;" />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-81834771128460596882015-04-14T17:35:00.006-07:002023-05-18T14:13:53.721-07:00On The California Drought Crisis, Flashback, Marin County, Jerry Brown, Sam Shepard and Me<br />
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"The California I knew is gone, doesn't exist... little pockets, farm country....fresh produce stands with avocados and date palms. An artichoke for a buck. All wiped out now."<br />
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This post is not in any way to make light of our California <a href="http://www.thedailysheeple.com/california-water-authorities-using-smart-meter-data-as-evidence-to-impose-fines_042015">drought situation</a>. But it's impossible for me to not do the deja vu stumble. I'm a product of the 1977 Marin County "Emergency" drought, where drastic measures had to be taken or the state would simply burn to the ground.<br />
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Jerry Brown was a younger, hipper Governor then. I was living with my mother in Tiburon, she was somehow an interior decorator and I was a kid plotting my move to anywhere else but Marin. For example, every morning, because my mother didn't believe in curtains I was forced to wake by sunlight at approximately 6:00am. <br />
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As a pre-teen, I thought this was bullshit. I needed that extra hour before school. Get curtains!<br />
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Mom: We are not shutting out the majestic glory we get to momentarily be part of.<br />
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She was already drinking coffee and drawing blueprints for some boutique. She never attended design or architectural colleges, so her money-earning ambitions remained a mystery.<br />
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Mom: Honey, get up. The sun is out. Splendor awaits. Take a one-minute shower, dash out, leave it running and I'll pop in.<br />
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During this time, the new water rules were: basically, you couldn't use water. This meant, you were not supposed to flush the toilet until five uses, one quick shower a week, there was the same 25% cut in the water supply... or,<br />
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"<b>The Family That Showers Together, Doesn't Go To Jail!</b>"<br />
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The slogan might have been, "The Family That Showers Together Stays Together." That is so perverse; even by the low moral standards of the Mariners, the locals quickly changed it.<br />
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Jerry Brown, 77, mandating the 25% ^ ^ ^ among other restrictions. ^ ^ ^ If you abused your water usage, not only were you fined, but you were potentially looking at 30 days in the slammer. My mother took this all very seriously and sometimes threw a nerf ball at my head if I showered too long. She also had a thing for Brown and a probable hook-up. Back then, he was like Ryan Gosling. But in the power seat.<br />
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His water ration for the week. <br />
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People were concerned about the water, but not that much. Many would wash up in a San Rafael city fountain and then go listen to Bonnie Raitt at Sweetwater in Mill Valley. The older folks just went to bed.<br />
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The street signs kept going up; some were rather inappropriate, using images from the book <u>The Joy of Sex</u>. Some trying to be clever.<br />
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I don't think Jerry Brown sanctioned these signs, but people posted them everywhere, all over Main Street and into other cities.<br />
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It appears he's using a similar handbook for our current crisis. This is not horrible; everyone needs to conserve and shut their fountains down. Over 80% of CA water goes to <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/govbeat/wp/2015/04/03/agriculture-is-80-percent-of-water-use-in-california-why-arent-farmers-being-forced-to-cut-back/">agriculture,</a> but I suppose every drop helps. Other efforts, however, are mandatory. There needs to be a better long-term solution than short-term regulations. Listen up, engineers. Be a hero. Everyone gets involved. There needs to be more talk about <u>desalination</u>. Go <a href="http://ca.gov/drought/">here. </a><br />
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Okay, back to 1977, Main Street sort of looked the same, ^ ^ ^ minus the fancy stores. Incidentally, Mom created the interiors of nearly all those shops. Again, a mystery. She went on to become an unlicensed therapist with a decent book of clients.<br />
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Mom: It's amazing what people will tell their designers. Now I'm in a position to help them properly and get paid.<br />
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Of course, no one would shower with their family or not flush their toilets. But to do their part, everyone did carry around flasks of whiskey and sat in hot tubs. We all wanted a hot tub.<br />
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The restaurants did not put water on the table unless you were Sam Shepard because he's god. And was also a regular at Sam's, the local watering hole. He was a great guy, and I talked to him often because my mom would drag me there so she didn't have to drink alone.<br />
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Sam often saw me in a corner doing homework while he was writing Pulitzer-winning plays. I didn't know who he was, just another sweet guy at Sam's. I was working on my college essay, yes, early, but I was anxious to move on.<br />
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Sam told me I was off to a good start. He told me to figure out what I find curious, then mention in my letter both the subject of curiosity and the professor who would be teaching this to the Freshman. I would eventually do that, and not on a napkin.<br />
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I would later find out that a very young Sam had a romance with <a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2014/06/patti-smith-opened-my-world.html">Patti Smith</a> (connection one), and he also has a musician son, Walker, whose band, The Down Hill Strugglers, play "down home folk." There is a great scene in The Notebook with Sam Shepard; everyone is dancing to banjo/fiddle music (connection two.) These connections are the majestic fabric of my life.<br />
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As a "teeny-bopper," I was curious why there was a water shortage at all, given we were surrounded by so much.<br />
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My walkway to the bus every morning. ^ ^ ^<br />
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My mother explained the difference between salt and tap. She preferred wine, so she wasn't part of the problem anyway. All of our ferns had long died from neglect. We were winning.<br />
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Years later, here I am, all grown up, explaining to my kids why we are installing drought-resistant grass, but the kids seem to be armed with knowledge because I get yelled at the most.<br />
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"Turn off the faucet, Mom!"<br />
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When I tell my kids why there are no decent oranges or lemons, I sound exactly like my mother back in Tiburon. There have been subsequent droughts, but I didn't have kids then. Somehow the impact isn't felt as much. Because, well, pasta, laundry, long-haired twin girls.<br />
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If it gets to that point of "The Family That Showers Together Doesn't Go to Jail!" just get yourself a hot tub like these fellas.<br />
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Maybe stick to coconut water.Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-35575145441489294182015-01-16T08:46:00.002-08:002023-05-18T14:22:30.045-07:00The Mystery of Einstein <div style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 23.8px;">
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When I was eight years old, my mother handed me a slip of paper with an Einstein quote: “He who joyfully marches to music in rank and file has already earned my contempt. He has been given a large brain by mistake since for him the spinal cord would surely suffice.”</div>
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Why she gave this to me and not her other five children remains unclear. Perhaps she saw my disillusionment with the rat-a-tat, airless echo of school, the Catholic Church, the Sunday roast dinners, and our predictable life. I had been punished a number of times for staring out the school window and daydreaming about who knows what, maybe stink bugs. Then came the thwack of the ruler, held by a tight-fisted, chalky nun who sent me off to kneel on the concrete hallway floor for two hours. I would later go home and draw pictures of kidnapped nuns, held in dark closets, starved, and begging for mercy. I hid the stories under my bed, accompanying the other stacks concerning some level of inequality.</div>
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During this time, music and freedom called my mother to another place, a more hopeful existence where she wouldn’t be a “wife.” She was a hippy to my father’s buttoned-up businessman. My mother did not have many heroes, as they were fleeting and then dead: Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., and the Kennedys. But there was something about Einstein that settled into her very core, then mine.</div>
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<strong>A new life began, and I took Albert along as a companion</strong></h3>
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In the early '70s, she had had enough. She confided in me: “We are leaving. Tell no one; your sisters won’t understand. Your father will return to an empty house to complement his empty existence.”</div>
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Then: “Imagination is more important than knowledge. Don’t forget that. Ever.”</div>
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Thus began my own obsession with Einstein. I tucked these quotes into my grandmother’s jewelry box, which she gave me just before her death.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 23.8px;">Legions of people remain enamored by this brilliant man, not just for what he discovered, accomplished, and how he radically changed the world, but because of his childlike innocence, his unlimited curiosity, great humility, a legacy of words that continue to endure. When you ask a complete stranger who defines genius, they might reply, “Oh, Einstein.”</span></div>
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And he was a rascal, with wild eyes, a mop of hair, his crumpled clothes. This made him real for the rest of us. I began to collect quotes and read about him in libraries. His humor brought me great comfort. He wasn’t some impervious man one couldn’t access. He didn’t believe in separating himself from others and loved sharing his ideas while helping others expand on their own. He was approachable, both alive and dead.</div>
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Born with eternal intelligence, his curiosity about everything began to emerge at age four. While examining his father’s pocket compass, Einstein was baffled. What was causing the needle to move? The empty space made no sense to him. He began to build models and mechanical devices for fun. He wanted answers. At age 10, he met Max Talmey, a poor Jewish medical student from Poland, who introduced him to science, math, philosophy, Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason, and Euclid’s Elements, which Einstein dubbed “the holy little geometry book.”</div>
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<strong>He was brilliant in his own way</strong></h3>
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As a boy, his father knew little Albert was gifted, and perhaps because the elder Einstein (an engineer) had failed at so many businesses, he insisted his son stay in school. He enrolled him in a school in Munich to pursue engineering, but Albert was frustrated with the educational system. He repeatedly clashed with the authorities, resented their teaching style, and wrote about how schools were essentially killing its students' creative spirit and curiosity. He was 15.</div>
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“The only thing that interferes with my learning is my education.” When I read this in junior high school, I could finally relax. The simple statement brought along a universe of vindication because I simply could not understand the entire educational process of rote learning. It was too boxed in, too impersonal. I realized I would have to find my own way intellectually alongside the traditional through books and lectures by Rollo May, Erich Fromm, B.F. Skinner, Timothy Leary, and Marshall McLuhan.</div>
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I was no genius. Simply curious and bored with school. Given how often my gypsy mother moved us, staying on track in class made me weary. Another school, another teacher, another set of young people I would have to navigate somehow.</div>
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Why has Einstein resonated so deeply with me and so many others? Among the world’s most brilliant minds, he continues to inspire. What of da Vinci, Tesla, Newton, Hawking, Aristotle, Edison, Cervantes? The list goes on. They, too, share powerful minds and an endless pursuit through curiosity and instinct. They knew knowledge was important and had to be learned, but could only get them so far. The rest is a mystery.</div>
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Einstein embodies the mystery. So many of his ideas, beyond his incredible discoveries in the world itself, which ultimately turned the world on its head, contain room, empty space, and air to breathe. His equation, E = mc2, maybe the most famous equation in physics, eventually setting the stage for the development of the atomic bomb and nuclear power plants. But had he known where this was going, he said, he should have become a watchmaker.</div>
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To this day, his theories inspire advances in science, astronomy, and physics, as well as from philosophers. I keep a tip sheet of quotes near my computer and read one daily. It really doesn’t matter which one, as they all carry great meaning. With each read, I come away with yet another interpretation.</div>
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Einstein would go on to fail countless exams when applying to higher learning institutions. Yet, he continued exploring, reading, and taking great interest in others’ concepts and ideas. He did eventually get accepted into the Polytechnic in Zurich. He wanted more knowledge and continued developing his own theories and expanding others.</div>
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<strong>His instincts propelled him yet further</strong></div>
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He never lost his ability to stay curious, intuitive, and humorous. Despite his apparent genius, upon graduation, he could not get a job and landed at the patent office, only to be overlooked for a promotion because he had not grasped machine technology. But it was there that the 26-year-old developed further radical notions in his spare time by analyzing various patents. And he never stopped writing about his findings.</div>
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Finally, with some recognition, he left the patent office and, by 1908, was considered one of the world’s leading scientists. He became a professor in Prague and Berlin and became famous a few years later when his theory of relativity finally made a permanent impression on the world. Ten years later, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics.</div>
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For many years after, he traveled the globe, lecturing. “Of all the people I have met, I like the Japanese the most, as they are modest, intelligent, considerate, and have a feel for art,” he wrote to one of his sons. This is the statement that captures the man himself. He maintained his own humility until the day he died. He was a genius but also a gentleman, a humorist, an altruist, an artist, and a great believer in love. “How on earth are you ever going to explain in terms of chemistry and physics so important a biological phenomenon as first love?”</div>
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The entire universe was Einstein’s canvas, and he made this world relatable to all of us. He said so many things and has <a href="https://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2014/01/the-definition-of-insanity-i-first.html">also been attributed to many.</a></div>
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<strong>Meanwhile, back in New Jersey</strong></h3>
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Of all the great brains, his would be the one cut into 240 pieces, kept in jars, cardboard boxes, often hidden, studied under microscopes. Bits of his grey matter still remain at Princeton University. All those years of cutting, probing, and analyzing amounted to little new knowledge of the human mind.</div>
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The contradiction rattles the very jars into a pulpy mess, if only because it contradicts what Einstein tried to impress. Stay curious and questioning; love the mystery. Conventional knowledge, though essential, is finite. Imagination is not. This is what Einstein embraced. Perhaps the lore of his brain in a jar helps prolong the iconic myth. In his words: “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.”</div>
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Recently, while driving my own ten-year-old girls to school, I said, “Remember, imagination is more important than knowledge.”</div>
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Through the rearview mirror, I watched them both roll their eyes in that “Please, mom, just drive” kind of way as they said in unison, “OK, Einstein.”</div>
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This article appears in the <a href="http://www.positive365.com/Positive-Magazine/Spring-2013/" style="color: #c75b0e; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">Spring 2013</a> issue of Positive Magazine</div>
Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-37474053779779145932014-10-26T12:21:00.001-07:002017-09-12T14:44:49.207-07:00On Birdman, Illusions, Hope and I'm NOT 65!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QKM-A8WSx5eJuVXKt-RNeBZ34Cjd61fV-s8wMrzmBiEcWZvX0LaWQSoVPObFCwjauQocy8ozdxKzOd1tuLJ-2oXvtzPSndTmjq0WHMsUMed8LIRkHjbUNetHxQ-E4xBYQP3rLYt1Q2-U/s1600/birdman-679x350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9QKM-A8WSx5eJuVXKt-RNeBZ34Cjd61fV-s8wMrzmBiEcWZvX0LaWQSoVPObFCwjauQocy8ozdxKzOd1tuLJ-2oXvtzPSndTmjq0WHMsUMed8LIRkHjbUNetHxQ-E4xBYQP3rLYt1Q2-U/s1600/birdman-679x350.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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There is always hope...<br />
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I’ve written more than once my reluctance to engage with
convenience store cashiers, particularly at Rite-Aid. I don’t know if part of
their job requirement is to <a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/search/label/fake%20disabilities"><u>engage but I don't like it</u>. </a> This particular encounter was about MY need to engage. With a kid. Tides are changing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Last night I was feeling friendly, open, had just seen Birdman
with a close friend and we were all over the map in multiple conversations
about life, ourselves, movies, kids, work, the world, the meaning of life, technology, kosher gummy bears, the
dangers of pork fat, preservatives and toxic friends. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwD-1VaEscgQa0mqQd2faW1flK47OQ8Y6_-q6TYcbv4Fcf4Jo_4cicIO5J0gajXfUMd-AHVRebAL93H1PWZRaK3oLOD801op62uy8c5orsGq2ANgAFehVapFq6Hr-sUL_hXPvHU0yYzCSS/s1600/girls-talking-behind-someone-back-300x240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwD-1VaEscgQa0mqQd2faW1flK47OQ8Y6_-q6TYcbv4Fcf4Jo_4cicIO5J0gajXfUMd-AHVRebAL93H1PWZRaK3oLOD801op62uy8c5orsGq2ANgAFehVapFq6Hr-sUL_hXPvHU0yYzCSS/s1600/girls-talking-behind-someone-back-300x240.jpg" /></a></div>
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This is how we talk, lots of subjects
overlapping but after 20 years we have rhythms and circles and understand exactly the
other. If we hit on a particular subject of interest, we’ll stay there for a
while, exhaust it, then move on. We were stuck on the kosher gummy thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNEqsw_R4igvMswuIFbR9aDq5UMNaUoj6YuD2Q6AuE_Z1KtA0I1y9L0Nd0mjfrRjcFdg2qxIjOaYqmLtfyDuCK2yfb-wBFRu1-6Mpmbw5YQ21-RQhWp92ixfO5IM5ONNlsCUfCqFPKyIJ/s1600/picture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNEqsw_R4igvMswuIFbR9aDq5UMNaUoj6YuD2Q6AuE_Z1KtA0I1y9L0Nd0mjfrRjcFdg2qxIjOaYqmLtfyDuCK2yfb-wBFRu1-6Mpmbw5YQ21-RQhWp92ixfO5IM5ONNlsCUfCqFPKyIJ/s1600/picture.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
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KOSHER ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ </div>
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Riley is my only friend I have this relationship with, that
is, we both think so fast and are somehow on the same wave, our entire universe
can be jammed into 30 minutes at Rite Aid.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, here I was at the checkout by myself with a young
girl, perhaps 17. Riley had run off to grab another item, which I had
predicted. The “I’m only running in for one thing!” girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Oh, she always forgets something. But she has a mind
like a steel trap. So smart, always thinking ahead. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such a smart girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The checkout girl was grappling with the 20 pages of coupons
Riley gave her. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSJtq-l2OSnZiovUxpNz_etqExxK0M4QYCmuYw69q7YBK7aa4jRpVyu55Hl_znNr2p2n8IS87xnTnkKUTlckNUqIzFf0wnGiVDVVZDC1gd8qdTqxQ8uWonzo3HhCNvWBUUjOOmEj3gW3R/s1600/binder2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJSJtq-l2OSnZiovUxpNz_etqExxK0M4QYCmuYw69q7YBK7aa4jRpVyu55Hl_znNr2p2n8IS87xnTnkKUTlckNUqIzFf0wnGiVDVVZDC1gd8qdTqxQ8uWonzo3HhCNvWBUUjOOmEj3gW3R/s1600/binder2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Can you believe this? I don’t know how she does it.
Somehow finds, saves, then compartmentalizes coupons for the proper store on
items that are already inexpensive. Where does she find the time?? What, with a
huge job, runs her own company!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s
raising an amazing son, travels the world, helps others, oversees the
construction on her home, is kind, lovely and adorable and yet organizes
coupons. See, this is why she has money and I don’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I toss my sponges and a Hershey’s bar onto the counter. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Checkout girl: Wow, you really raised her well. You must be
so proud. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMX5VjC2lHySrnYyxav2OydsOJ5CELXZ9w23RjS4yrR4X-Oa1xm2QG7_CcETgAuMa8hY0G7fLsUdzQHw4eWwZHT9IU_DkdFnPQmvbFuEwMxci7fgjd4wJ6fd0r177fiBiipwjjtuxhQCTR/s1600/tumblr_n1ts48xcEw1s7o7bdo1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMX5VjC2lHySrnYyxav2OydsOJ5CELXZ9w23RjS4yrR4X-Oa1xm2QG7_CcETgAuMa8hY0G7fLsUdzQHw4eWwZHT9IU_DkdFnPQmvbFuEwMxci7fgjd4wJ6fd0r177fiBiipwjjtuxhQCTR/s1600/tumblr_n1ts48xcEw1s7o7bdo1_500.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Excuse me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Checkout girl: Your daughter. You raised her so well. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: You think I’m her mother?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She looked at me as though to confirm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Checkout girl: Well, yeah. My mom brags about me too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG89lUOE7KkFqDFyuE7xk-nPi6xVFVFxAaaDS8aOM6-LBXlSxBALpDsVtvWRVwgLZn2gcbinwPcioGUMI1B7I7d2h7txKGyms9VSFiOUW0vGQcpu_C70hOvBF9-bjQ2WR1d0rA1uLos_8y/s1600/Mamas-proud-enter-cece-drake.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG89lUOE7KkFqDFyuE7xk-nPi6xVFVFxAaaDS8aOM6-LBXlSxBALpDsVtvWRVwgLZn2gcbinwPcioGUMI1B7I7d2h7txKGyms9VSFiOUW0vGQcpu_C70hOvBF9-bjQ2WR1d0rA1uLos_8y/s1600/Mamas-proud-enter-cece-drake.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course I had to dig deeper because I love self-abuse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: How old do you think I am?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, we all know this is basically a trick question and you
get what you deserve, but I thought she might say 49… at the high end. She was
already delusional.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Checkout girl:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Um…
65?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>65? Are you
serious? I look 65? Do you keep a gun under the counter?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OTf9VViMmOdxkupFHORbQn3TxYvTxqaYMVWMEdjSWpBa3o41g17i_CyWKNFZSgVtkhSg6nPo3eV977KH5UBdnJEyk5VrGDfAt1jXpEIcrIh28dP5HXlARSxmeCxw8EwOKhJZaEhEtB2j/s1600/0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7OTf9VViMmOdxkupFHORbQn3TxYvTxqaYMVWMEdjSWpBa3o41g17i_CyWKNFZSgVtkhSg6nPo3eV977KH5UBdnJEyk5VrGDfAt1jXpEIcrIh28dP5HXlARSxmeCxw8EwOKhJZaEhEtB2j/s1600/0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Blank stare. This is what I think 65 looks like. ^^^^<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3P_4jJMtvrYFk1k8ghDI3jF8q6zWBwpMfHLXypVLcEuhxz67kK18V-d5_Ld_F0pkJVWZ0-LOafMfu0m_4AtUUsziilaYlAIjW6qb3coSY911xZTEeEhaMhfEkQcgAp5SgqCmvsYaeLISb/s1600/Susan+Sarandon-DGG-033962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3P_4jJMtvrYFk1k8ghDI3jF8q6zWBwpMfHLXypVLcEuhxz67kK18V-d5_Ld_F0pkJVWZ0-LOafMfu0m_4AtUUsziilaYlAIjW6qb3coSY911xZTEeEhaMhfEkQcgAp5SgqCmvsYaeLISb/s1600/Susan+Sarandon-DGG-033962.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<o:p>This is what 65 looks like being fabulous. Still, I feel I look at least 20 years younger than Susan. Seriously! This girl should get fired.</o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1HFGb2erD879xsNiWhMqORUoz9McELv84RZJRwAGJvxXTwY4ULMfYCPIsSXfTnVoHs4AbV-ERSQ_vq5gY3NlS7hgzpoTLA8DPzN-_HCscjzhaZiACBIp7kSk52FmshciF88iQxevjvv-/s1600/photo+copy+48.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV1HFGb2erD879xsNiWhMqORUoz9McELv84RZJRwAGJvxXTwY4ULMfYCPIsSXfTnVoHs4AbV-ERSQ_vq5gY3NlS7hgzpoTLA8DPzN-_HCscjzhaZiACBIp7kSk52FmshciF88iQxevjvv-/s1600/photo+copy+48.JPG" width="319" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>This is me on a sloppy day. I was in heels and pearls for cripes sake! I don't care that I'm aging, I mean who isn't? But hold up calling me a grandma until I am one!</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley comes rushing up, her long hair flowing all over the
place, gorgeous face, all legs, then shoving tons of items she “forget” onto the counter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7jW4YMhaDRWtSmbK0HEgopJCOTj5F6jEszY7sVCuaqGyqdf6ZZPajbUzQ8dx7OKLjLAi_4qyDku4Vx5sSHL9N-oVPpQ8NUUr-CojPuw_gE3b4r8sbcJki6VBl4lk-3oT9qFXV3ePO8i8/s1600/tumblr_mm7uxzGMw91rcy99do1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir7jW4YMhaDRWtSmbK0HEgopJCOTj5F6jEszY7sVCuaqGyqdf6ZZPajbUzQ8dx7OKLjLAi_4qyDku4Vx5sSHL9N-oVPpQ8NUUr-CojPuw_gE3b4r8sbcJki6VBl4lk-3oT9qFXV3ePO8i8/s1600/tumblr_mm7uxzGMw91rcy99do1_500.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She even looks like this girl ^^^ In fact it might be her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley: Sorry, I couldn't find the toxic free paper towels. We need to stop at Trader Joes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Okay, get this. The cashier thinks I’m your mother.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Because I raised you so well miss coupon collector.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’d think the check out girl would show a little
humiliation, maybe slight embarrassment, but no. Not even, “I’m not good with
ages.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwB7hhWMqoMFV1PuLLP_CFCg5Yhn2EsnHy18_nTnwJ2LVQ0HUKGaH7sl9Gol9eUNGUq5Q75li9cP-ZoYa7aNo4maN2BjCjsSDwNNJvS2V_B8IEVe6Ze9yhjdcbz5LzoJ8OvpA_6MWVBCen/s1600/bored-girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwB7hhWMqoMFV1PuLLP_CFCg5Yhn2EsnHy18_nTnwJ2LVQ0HUKGaH7sl9Gol9eUNGUq5Q75li9cP-ZoYa7aNo4maN2BjCjsSDwNNJvS2V_B8IEVe6Ze9yhjdcbz5LzoJ8OvpA_6MWVBCen/s1600/bored-girl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Like I give any shits.</i> ^^^</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grabbed my sponges and chocolate.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just get me home so I can scrub the house and shame eat. Can you help me to the car, honey.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were laughing too hard to strip it all down but Riley,
who truly does look 20, needed to try and shore me up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley: It’s the hair. She didn’t even see my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re the same age!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Who cares? She saw mine. 65? My mother doesn’t look 65
god rest her soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By now we are hysterical with laughter throwing perfume free
toilet paper into the car. I gasped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: What the hell is that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t realize our windows were open.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley: Oh Jesus.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_OX_yLE1Sj6KYUZxR-pFu6qSi2OOUZIDwX2kywYCt2AxntV6v0CTSMrO6Riz2X0TcDx7BXVlZzhekDGYxzYaHahCnnS3NrKe9l_0MDzLQAcHDtmXW5JHDQSMRWeU3k9-ORZWy_fZ32TA/s1600/SayCheese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP_OX_yLE1Sj6KYUZxR-pFu6qSi2OOUZIDwX2kywYCt2AxntV6v0CTSMrO6Riz2X0TcDx7BXVlZzhekDGYxzYaHahCnnS3NrKe9l_0MDzLQAcHDtmXW5JHDQSMRWeU3k9-ORZWy_fZ32TA/s1600/SayCheese.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Basically Sasquatch was pacing in front of the car, wearing
only tight underpants, his giant balls spilling out on either side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley: Is that a girl?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: No, Riley. It has a dick. I need to get a picture and
Instagram him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hurry!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m scrambling for my camera, then realized he was staring
at us, our windows were down. Was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really
just going to take a picture of a nearly naked mentally ill man? What was wrong
with me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had just seen Birdman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were about to become the very people the
film illuminates, forget reality, forget human emotion, but get the picture and make it go viral. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtn_lRMG2MyzKEALCJfR2T-QMWCu3nBGY6XMXHkdQkHpPcorbztFDjN7Y8iEBg6f8lW_b51xNcjrbfAouujwe30XVPHhq0Cg13rSbua4DQGOqoYUbw_PmMhlgLAUAy3mgUXAwSgzvB3ijV/s1600/michael-keaton-strips-to-his-underwear-for-birdman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtn_lRMG2MyzKEALCJfR2T-QMWCu3nBGY6XMXHkdQkHpPcorbztFDjN7Y8iEBg6f8lW_b51xNcjrbfAouujwe30XVPHhq0Cg13rSbua4DQGOqoYUbw_PmMhlgLAUAy3mgUXAwSgzvB3ijV/s1600/michael-keaton-strips-to-his-underwear-for-birdman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Me:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let’s go, this is
crazy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was staring at her phone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look at this,
he's still in line!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: It’s a big deal, great actually. People wait for hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had been keeping track of her son who was waiting for
the over-the-top scary Hayride in Griffith Park. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As parents our children are now little red dots on our smartphones,
we know where they are at all times. Soon we will be able to hear their conversations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAaV9p5dA0WN68HJbHya-IDCPN1hdE808-LNkvP06UIek9sXnWZdkQqF7lzwcl7dWnwr4ElJ5TjEijqwVifdh_GWIntJJaWt482kszcid2MqY1DqD3RyiR63MZ-T_cIkUoZyBr_fd7hLs/s1600/SmartPhone-Location-Tracking.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXAaV9p5dA0WN68HJbHya-IDCPN1hdE808-LNkvP06UIek9sXnWZdkQqF7lzwcl7dWnwr4ElJ5TjEijqwVifdh_GWIntJJaWt482kszcid2MqY1DqD3RyiR63MZ-T_cIkUoZyBr_fd7hLs/s1600/SmartPhone-Location-Tracking.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had stopped counting birthdays after I turned 40, so oddly
if you ask me my age; I just grab a number from the air.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Why 65? Why not say, 80!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley: You know kids, They think everyone is old.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: That is true. My girls (11) think my son (25) is an old
man. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder if she thought I looked
GOOD for 65.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Riley: You look amazing. Stop it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: We’re so much more than our faces. Yet, wouldn’t it be
great if there really was a fountain of youth? I’d be bathing in that business.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNCDdeToLMyGuGa9IXv0Y30Ca5CVKfUXsygNp7HXgZ7v5GrKcO9VLguCUlBC248NioPwFVb7Z8NszJvhmqRzJDkykd_tC2xcbMp8gzX_mGf_DqtngD_eMavf6488gQ90MLKtKnPhJOcv5/s1600/26Fountian-slide-PGD4-articleLarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNCDdeToLMyGuGa9IXv0Y30Ca5CVKfUXsygNp7HXgZ7v5GrKcO9VLguCUlBC248NioPwFVb7Z8NszJvhmqRzJDkykd_tC2xcbMp8gzX_mGf_DqtngD_eMavf6488gQ90MLKtKnPhJOcv5/s1600/26Fountian-slide-PGD4-articleLarge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Riley: There’s one in Rome. I found them all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: Unicorns. Ever notice how they are all water based? We
are water? Theoretically we could just take a bath. I’d rather get a blood transfusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I should drink more coconut water.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Riley: Do you think he died or flew?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: That’s the entire point of the movie, our interpretation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He already flew into the sun. One of
the recurring themes. He’s free. Finally. He says fuck you to the Birdman
monster then controls his own fate. To me he integrated and
ended it himself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Riley: I want to believe he flew away to maybe a tropical
island. I mean his daughter smiles and looks up.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Me: For me, they finally bonded; she was smiling because he
was at peace. Why look at a crumpled, bloody body when she knows his spirit is
soaring?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Riley: Yes but I want to believe he is off at some topical
island, free that way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCyr2UTl2GKhYxQItFg0Z-RQ630qGEgSW3-9lWHlooVCJVNNl69TKhd4CAk33EG6z-p-LYZQNIr2Dt1dIymhzFi-GJ7kFrhgNd3JmFI8NHWgjThBPbOTTlqorZPlTN9Fhqno8ctKfX4qhQ/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCyr2UTl2GKhYxQItFg0Z-RQ630qGEgSW3-9lWHlooVCJVNNl69TKhd4CAk33EG6z-p-LYZQNIr2Dt1dIymhzFi-GJ7kFrhgNd3JmFI8NHWgjThBPbOTTlqorZPlTN9Fhqno8ctKfX4qhQ/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
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Me: He'd drown himself. Anyway, this expands the point, that is if he flew away to
someplace real, we as a society are being taken over by a viral reality, so
soon there be no such thing as reality. May as well enjoy this one. </div>
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Of course we are now both checking our cell phones.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p> </div>
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Since age seven, I too have a Birdman voice that enjoys reminding me I’m a loser, no talent, worthless,
fat, ugly cow that has nothing to offer so really, why try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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But you do.</div>
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One of the things I love about Riley is her honesty, and how
she doesn’t give up. We are similar this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The self-doubt, the anxiety over our kids, and the impossibility of it
all, then we end up laughing. The conclusion is we are humans in an insane world looking for good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if someone tells me I look 65, and I see
a hairy fat man in his stained underpants smiling at me with a toothless grin, while
contemplating the 25 layers of brilliance that is Birdman, I will call that a good
day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I finally arrive home, and settle into my comfy bed, channel flipped until <i>Prisoners</i>, a
movie I love so much I can recite all the dialogue. I fall asleep eating my
chocolate bar, so I’m guessing today I probably look 67.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rhonda Talbot weighing in on brilliant Birdman, Michael Keaton, self-doubt, aging, life, humor, parenting, friendship, laughter, mirages and hope.</div>
Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-69789951225357983272014-08-06T20:11:00.000-07:002018-01-29T11:22:56.591-08:00How Are We Alive? (A short story written by my mother, rediscovered after her death.)<br />
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Hello my friends, have been busy with work, kids, the eternal quest for summer activities, sensible vacations, etc.<br />
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I came across something my mother wrote in 1976, which I vaguely remember. This was published in the Detroit News, then quickly forgotten. Mom must have pulled it back out, reworked, and published again in a Washington State Lit Journal just before she passed away. She was an artist of many avenues, writing being one. She died before finishing her 2nd dissertation and sadly I have very little of her work.<br />
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Here is an excerpt of <a href="http://www.snreview.org/0208Talbot.html">The Joy of Six,</a> the only time I said yes to a "guest" blogger.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Mom a few years after we hit the road.^^</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">____________________________________________________________________</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black;">Of the daily challenges presented to a single
mother of many children, none equal the energy expended in the perpetual search
for money. A woman can either work two or three jobs at minimum wage or try to
sell her body for a slightly higher scale of pay. With the relatively
sexless body of a nine-year old boy, I could not imagine anyone buying it.
Since I lacked promiscuity, education, a base of salient skills, and had six
children under ten, I began to realize I was nothing more than a target.
This particular target set out a few decades ago to find a job, become
educated, and raise those kids alone. </span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">In a strange set of circumstances, due I am
sure, to my physically overstressed, and deliriously stretched-out mentality I
began to recognize the presence of more than just my own brood. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">There
began to appear on a daily basis, metaphysical personifications with actual
personalities distinguishable by their behavior. In spite of my intensified
attention to their detailed intervention into my life, I found it strangely
satisfying to attribute their unusual activities to that of my children. As
such, I began to refer to them as "The Bodies"-- Nobody, Everybody,
Somebody, and Anybody. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">While learning their names and idiosyncratic
proclivities, I discovered my favorite among the strangely non-physical beings
temporarily inhabiting my home. <u>Nobody</u>. Nobody loved vegetables. Nobody completed assigned homework, and Nobody followed my
organizational chart. Nobody was polite and cheerful and Nobody washed dishes.
Nobody picked their clothes up from the floor and Nobody claimed ownership of
the jeans thrown there. Nobody did everything.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">In spite of my reasonable and pleasant nature, I was surprised by the specious presence of
Somebody who lost my cashmere sweater, misplaced my opal ring, removed the
covers and Down pillows from my bed, and in fact was a suspect in the loss of my
favorite champagne flute, an elegant piece of crystal stem-ware I especially
loved. </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIU7pxNfiREKW6Ncd0usE4UBDxNDVpv4LU5B9OxzgQy37nWMghyVKxp95L8uFTsLle3p8ZEc2bq0kDUQBqdRKxaiuf1V4CIlG8eCMsyvH5aJ9Lyy3ARF-Z0hFWs0h3kFRBL0hpx559UV8F/s1600/il_570xN.269952322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIU7pxNfiREKW6Ncd0usE4UBDxNDVpv4LU5B9OxzgQy37nWMghyVKxp95L8uFTsLle3p8ZEc2bq0kDUQBqdRKxaiuf1V4CIlG8eCMsyvH5aJ9Lyy3ARF-Z0hFWs0h3kFRBL0hpx559UV8F/s1600/il_570xN.269952322.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">I often envisioned a world in which I might own two of them, and
regularly hid money in a sacrificial sugar bowl, hoping to find a duplicate.
The bowl, the money, and the flute were simply missing. The rhetoric went
something like this: </span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">"Somebody broke my champagne flute,
ravished my sugar bowl, and absconded with $3.42!" True, I was
somewhat hysterical, and may have been screaming, however I demanded an
immediate resolution. My eldest countered with her inherited ideological
preference for non-biased accusations: </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">"Why blame Somebody when it could have been
Anybody?" Daughters two and three agreed, arguing for the defense,
insisting that Everybody had access to the cupboard, and Nobody may have
actually been the culprit. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">"Nobody?" I was stunned. "How
could it be Nobody?!" </span><br />
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<span style="background: white;">It was obvious to me that Somebody took these
things because they were in fact gone, and perhaps had broken my one and only
remnant of another, more promising life. For reasons beyond my control, the children blamed
Anybody and Everybody, an outrageous accusation, however, I could imagine such an act of agrestic
behavior by unscrupulous persons such as those referred to by my
children. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: black;">Since Everybody hung out at the mall, stayed out
past midnight, smoked cigarettes, talked incessantly on the telephone, and our home became a dance hall to all their friends, I could easily be swayed. There were, in fact,
dozens of their pilfering pals whose fingerprints were wiped away daily. </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;">The
miscreant might just be Anybody, a mysteriously vague personification, not
entirely trustworthy. At the end of the investigation, Nobody claimed
responsibility. </span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Since Nobody confessed and with the evidence
removed, we concluded that Nobody should be punished, however, when Nobody is
liable, nothing gets done. When I confronted them, my children assured me that
I was biased against Everybody, their favorite of the strangely iconoclastic
representational bodies residing in our home. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">"Since, as you say, Everybody always
behaves badly," daughter's two and three proclaimed, "and Anybody
could be guilty as charged, Somebody might consider your conclusions slightly
confusing". </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The clarity of my argument took a mercurial drop
as my children turned it against me and I seemed to have lost another battle.
Nobody seemed interested in the issues, and with Nobody as an ally, Everybody
seemed to be satisfied. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKH2PMxJ1AdPnvs7him8fEr1eSxoLQFhVMKMyl3QMZvMRbMi1vvnkORddGy8zId6UPRWyZd1HUUmWQAetesZaDoN5en4JJzpZIEsmLhAUCi-cCSNILxov3bFbgiF7oklC8o6hKOT7AsTA5/s1600/01+Farrah+Fawcett.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKH2PMxJ1AdPnvs7him8fEr1eSxoLQFhVMKMyl3QMZvMRbMi1vvnkORddGy8zId6UPRWyZd1HUUmWQAetesZaDoN5en4JJzpZIEsmLhAUCi-cCSNILxov3bFbgiF7oklC8o6hKOT7AsTA5/s1600/01+Farrah+Fawcett.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">When our dog produced eight puppies, Nobody came
to my aid and Everybody hid behind Anybody with an alibi. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;">
<br />
<span style="background: white;">In a moment of unforeseen frustration, I ran
screaming through the house in an unprofessional, albeit succinct,
non-prejudicial rant.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">"I'm throwing all of these blue jeans into the
garbage!" I stated further that, "Persons owning these jeans
and those who knew the gender of that dog must be held liable for their
actions."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">Emboldened, I added, "People must ultimately be held
responsible for their actions." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Unbelievably, daughters, four and five engaged
in a strategy that included youth and innocence as a viable defense against
sexual knowledge.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">Everybody said, 'It's your fault since we didn't know this stuff."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">Everybody claimed a significant victory. As
for the jeans, Nobody claimed them and I laundered them in silence. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The dog, apparently a female, was named Gretchen as my children seemed to think she was a "Dutch Brady Terrier," a previously undiscovered breed, and bestowed upon her a fabricated pedigree. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVbnNBPLxinWZAdQX3CAkl_Mk6jTxGiRi0q1YfKvvSpZ1lGrWmV5zSaP6NsZefN6DKVRVhYqtXHBDMesYSjpYPqdd8hmdGII5Jx15BbbGNldKCtB3Quhr0HNxn5h9aGlfaoBLFAlPFNCl/s1600/Tim-Flach-Photography-dog-white-braided-hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVbnNBPLxinWZAdQX3CAkl_Mk6jTxGiRi0q1YfKvvSpZ1lGrWmV5zSaP6NsZefN6DKVRVhYqtXHBDMesYSjpYPqdd8hmdGII5Jx15BbbGNldKCtB3Quhr0HNxn5h9aGlfaoBLFAlPFNCl/s1600/Tim-Flach-Photography-dog-white-braided-hair.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">Gretchen, a dog with neurotic tendencies, was terrified by the presence of the
children and slowly but surely, and unbeknownst to me, deposited all eight of
her offspring under my bed. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Also unbeknownst to me was that I was
allergic to puppy dander. Everybody blamed my extreme bronchial distress to the
fact that I worked in a bar eight hours a night, and spent eight hours a day in
a "sick" office building. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">Somebody suggested I stay home, clean house
and make cookies, an excellent, but thoroughly impractical solution. After much
discussion, Everybody concluded we must remove the animals. Anybody could see
the logic of it and although Nobody objected, the eldest daughter was sent out on
her bicycle with a small lunch, a whicker basket, and eight "for-free"
dogs. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMZsIpNyhiqJH2_9UOpk1oysh6UQQ6lpMncEga8eAxGO6AfCNSyKR5FFjdF3Z8WzuC4Mp9vZGteQwqnQLP_RXBwopfQsJJoaxYmSJSk1l_l3C1baKu76xWe0nv5Qdv9FJ7i3tGkHrmNEw/s1600/Bike_Basket_Dog_friendly-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgMZsIpNyhiqJH2_9UOpk1oysh6UQQ6lpMncEga8eAxGO6AfCNSyKR5FFjdF3Z8WzuC4Mp9vZGteQwqnQLP_RXBwopfQsJJoaxYmSJSk1l_l3C1baKu76xWe0nv5Qdv9FJ7i3tGkHrmNEw/s1600/Bike_Basket_Dog_friendly-3.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">I was miraculously "cured," returned to work, and food
was on the table again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">When daughter number five began bizarre episodes
of limping, and doctors suggested to me that her behavior was a production of
symptoms associated with a psychoneurosis motivated by my neglect of her, I
wondered if this child was emulating her sister who had also lost her ability
to walk for a period of time. I pulled that one around in a red wagon because
she said, "I can't walk anymore." </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">That child was often found napping on the
sidewalk by neighbors, who actually believed her and considered me an unfit
parent. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqKwpmNIxxX_DpArUEDrQDqDAUfS2xjd3QOxrQk4Lon2xR1MFzH-MIbyG2vCzywV9-4O9mi4ye80w87vwyZjMxMPuGt4Sax0LjpI0hMW5jb_nEVbjQPnA6Dhxsm-6duxE_-6f_2pWwSR7a/s1600/Sleeping-on-the-grass1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqKwpmNIxxX_DpArUEDrQDqDAUfS2xjd3QOxrQk4Lon2xR1MFzH-MIbyG2vCzywV9-4O9mi4ye80w87vwyZjMxMPuGt4Sax0LjpI0hMW5jb_nEVbjQPnA6Dhxsm-6duxE_-6f_2pWwSR7a/s1600/Sleeping-on-the-grass1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">There was also a cat. When the cat ran into a speeding car, I was in a hospital attempting to manage the operation of daughter
number four, a child who required screws in her thigh. </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: black;">The apparent theory for
her slipping epiphysis was associated with a congenital factor however under
sedation this child admitted to stomping aluminum cans into a kind of
"shoe-heel," and stomped on them daily for fun. </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: black;">The doctor who
performed the operation lost his son on the eve of the procedure due to a
broken neck achieved while performing on a trampoline. I had no money to
pay the doctor and the doctor did not bill me. </span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Upon our arrival back home, we placed the
crutches for my daughter at the bottom of the stairs. The cat, with a broken
leg, and also wearing a cast, sat quietly next to the rather large barrier, a
sentinel perhaps. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">Visiting children came with their mothers and were amazed by
the size of the crutches Tutu was given. She was a rare
"Chocolate-Point" Siamese that no doubt was expensive in the past, but had
fallen on hard times, landing on our doorstep and scooped up for play by
daughter number five who dressed her in frilly doll's clothing and pushed her
around in a broken stroller banging recklessly into the furnishings. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj11TZK5BqTFDFkefLKQXQKtqAr5vP0naQfnH8b5M_-aBQHjUbqhg9CyHrja8OmFGW0AkuEBvJhNP5Z8-pJgnd1J1uKBmNedGb_A-nyaIwO2nHYuqJu8UdGYQgrl1h125BwZnnHJVIW0Gio/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj11TZK5BqTFDFkefLKQXQKtqAr5vP0naQfnH8b5M_-aBQHjUbqhg9CyHrja8OmFGW0AkuEBvJhNP5Z8-pJgnd1J1uKBmNedGb_A-nyaIwO2nHYuqJu8UdGYQgrl1h125BwZnnHJVIW0Gio/s1600/images-1.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /><br />
<span style="background: white;">Tutu disappeared the same day as Gretchen, her eight
puppies, and a few turtles the kids collected from various streams.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Daughter number five then introduced a Great Dane
to our family; a dog so large I thought it must be a horse. I
noticed it while painting the kitchen ceiling tomato soup red, a color that would
work quite nicely with the yellow shag rug I had partly destroyed when attempting to create kinetic sculpture, ending in an explosive experiment. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<span style="background: white;">I snipped the "shag" down with
manicure scissors believing that I might manufacture a kind of "short
shag," or "golf-link-like, grassy carpet.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">The tomato-soup ceiling was almost a success but
had a lumpy appearance, the result of the hardened acrylic thrown
by the blast. While drying, pieces of pasta flung previously slipped a bit and
created a bas-relief effect, creating an Art Deco over-all arrangement, an
interesting almost sunburst look, useful perhaps in Xanadu. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhgvatLKdtCJEBi5y38s5iG4o-JYpUhIO2h4A_B_xRAYegKVTdcwoeHNeRzZ4bocRvJfXm-YYIw7IQIZTKdBKIi0o6zsoqUdMW0dEtcXt7obcmwt1gnQd4S9PBnxqx2MGPd6dXgC5gRwX/s1600/tumblr_l0b9lwzAcC1qzy0ygo1_r3_1280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVhgvatLKdtCJEBi5y38s5iG4o-JYpUhIO2h4A_B_xRAYegKVTdcwoeHNeRzZ4bocRvJfXm-YYIw7IQIZTKdBKIi0o6zsoqUdMW0dEtcXt7obcmwt1gnQd4S9PBnxqx2MGPd6dXgC5gRwX/s1600/tumblr_l0b9lwzAcC1qzy0ygo1_r3_1280.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">One of my jobs involved the completion of
8"x10" detailed ink renderings with copy, of fashions shown in local
boutiques. I hung
the to-be-drawn clothing from the tomato-soup ceiling and often spent many
sleepless nights engaged in the project. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibygvAgU0CrSNmkeP7wDKZAJHKCV53CnFYh0Dsa5uj7hUG0VOUzZF_BpgozAaikuSm1xodxZadZHi_yk9qy8OHpb8soO1g8zBZNFDEFV4wiS5-qxBiPmgXWF-CG_m-izVRr5iU20AAsrNt/s1600/89d70a96944739c6c4d1424c2901a9a0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibygvAgU0CrSNmkeP7wDKZAJHKCV53CnFYh0Dsa5uj7hUG0VOUzZF_BpgozAaikuSm1xodxZadZHi_yk9qy8OHpb8soO1g8zBZNFDEFV4wiS5-qxBiPmgXWF-CG_m-izVRr5iU20AAsrNt/s1600/89d70a96944739c6c4d1424c2901a9a0.jpg" width="211" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">While working off-premises,
Somebody removed the expensive dresses leaving me with nothing to render and
nothing to return. I was sued of course, but with no tactile resources, Nobody
collected, reassuring me that of course Nobody would stand by me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">In the meantime my children were adamant the
Great Dane should live with us, an absurd notion given there was no
money for food. Happily, that animal left through the back door a few
days after he was dragged through the front. </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtOqnkzNWe2Y3aRBd3cJ0LdwCSi64hoVHZHvMz_IxFkVTNQc-Ro6wK-fXqIQcLOb2E72hyphenhyphen7VgLsbMpTdb-rMCsbkmU3dipynPY3UCbGoyT5waVS_Vp5gNBi5javyXzQB9CmvGL7jwsoQjo/s1600/qS6fh.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtOqnkzNWe2Y3aRBd3cJ0LdwCSi64hoVHZHvMz_IxFkVTNQc-Ro6wK-fXqIQcLOb2E72hyphenhyphen7VgLsbMpTdb-rMCsbkmU3dipynPY3UCbGoyT5waVS_Vp5gNBi5javyXzQB9CmvGL7jwsoQjo/s1600/qS6fh.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: black;">I began to look at these creatures as welcomed accidents, distractions to our otherwise impossible
living situation. I liked them and remained positive in spite of the negative </span><span style="background-color: white;">behavior I attributed to them. I also liked blaming them for unruly
behavior as this would buffer further rage toward my children's own unruly behavior. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white;">With the Great Dane gone and no further incoming pests, real issues could no longer be ignored. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">“Everybody uses drugs. If anyone tells you
different, they’re lying.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">This was an ongoing, circulator argument until
daughter number one removed herself from the pharmaceutical infatuation. Nobody told her to
quit and Nobody was amazed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Because my children were collectively against
anything I advocated, I used whatever measures were available to me to police
their behavior, including constant juvenile hall threats.</span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Everybody was angry, no one was speaking then Somebody threw a
basketball against a dining room canvas; strange behavior I found both
interesting and annoying. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">A commissioned painting requires a specific result,
unlike creative adventures, which allow for spontaneous reactions, say
serendipity. In the unlikely event of a sponsor spending money on a painting
created absent that sponsor's particular investment in the ideation, most
artists are unpaid. That Somebody could enhance my work with this basketball is
no more unrealistic than my own expectations. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The big sale of the painting provided an
unexpected opportunity to move three thousand miles from the strange and often
misunderstood neighborhood in which we lived. The patron, also the person
I promised to marry, offered us an opportunity. Since we were about to be
evicted, few decisions were made in less time. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Not only did I sell every piece of furniture not
nailed to the floor, I sold furnishings actually nailed to the floor, including
every appliance and all the bathroom fixtures. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">With an array of checks from an astounding number
of accommodating neighbors, I found an agent of Cadillac who was happy to pay
me to drive across the country in their slick, boat-like car, upon which I
balanced two beautiful bicycles. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">The experience will live forever in the minds of
my children and I doubt anyone could ever reproduce such an
event. I awakened my children at 3:00 am to see an extraordinary circumstance.
In Salt Lake City, the sky created an umbrella of falling stars
surrounding the available space with a spectacular show produced by the lack of
artificial lights. Pure magic, something my children would
never again witness. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmB2DHbg2O_70pH1IESoEdLsSvUaaKYuc-TxeJyebtM-U1MpqlWi_rgjY0mI56mp8yfEaAa36pNQxOfpFWFb05m-nyN0gaZMF8GVfBEZ4fG7J3XuMxDh9IusLumCTWeZLuYNWtD80rVMuK/s1600/tumblr_msgkblJCgF1sg7el2o1_400.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmB2DHbg2O_70pH1IESoEdLsSvUaaKYuc-TxeJyebtM-U1MpqlWi_rgjY0mI56mp8yfEaAa36pNQxOfpFWFb05m-nyN0gaZMF8GVfBEZ4fG7J3XuMxDh9IusLumCTWeZLuYNWtD80rVMuK/s1600/tumblr_msgkblJCgF1sg7el2o1_400.gif" width="211" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">The trip to California was a
bit of an illusion; something an intelligent person would refer to as a
fantasy, however, in 1976, all things seemed possible, including a home for my
children. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Nobody led the way and ended our traveling at the
northern-most corners of a place in Marin County. Somebody found a place to
stay and Everybody loved it. The really strange part of the process began the
following day. Nobody was able to cash the deposited checks, a rather positive
experience since all of the purchases including the rent were based on that transaction,
however, the checks could not be verified. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Since the bank was incapable of turning the
deposits into cash, the account was in effect frozen, an operational, and
strange effect of the deposited checks by persons who wrote them to me for the sale
of items that did not all belong to me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">It was becoming increasing clear that I was
about to become a criminal. Of what nature was unclear, but I suspected
Nobody would come to my aid and in the end I would require the assistance of
Somebody or in fact Anybody with a legal background. </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Further still, making the three
thousand mile trek seemed to cool the professed ardor of my intended, and he simply
disappeared leaving me free to wander for which I was grateful. </span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Finding a home for the clan proved to be a challenge. The home I chose to rent did not allow
children, so I lied and said I had none. We moved in, all seven of us, along
with our metaphysical recreations, three pillows and a coffee pot. The rent
would of course become an issue due to the freeze on the account, and I was
forced to sell the bicycles, my last hat trick. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">In the meantime I found a waitress position,
which allowed me to steal food and toilet paper. Nobody objected,
and I continued to become a felon, a career objective that Somebody considered
difficult to comprehend, and a course of action perceived by Anybody as unwise.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">While slicing turkey one day I recognized the
fact that Everybody was open to criminal behavior, and Nobody would protect
them from prosecution. With my first paycheck I reimbursed my employer and
begged to be forgiven. Nobody was, as usual, there for me and I was
fired. </span><br />
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="background: white; color: black;">My landlord, an unwilling participant in an ongoing lawsuit against him
for allowing children to live in that complex, caved under the pressure and
forced me to leave. By the time I returned home on Christmas Eve, the children
were all sitting outside on the grass, the eldest held the coffee pot and a
string of tree lights. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhyphenhyphen8lUQAjfdgJcdpTjtiFHzpGP1vRQ9N1-4aLkKhA6lUKqL6fYNToOvwd2KWmekSlmWjl4qSelXXYyMjmfEqduf0FCTcRh4TYpPMuJw7QMiK_z1Vd5wPkeWYrn06NMzzsmQx6Z4sUKRWW/s1600/double+digit+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNhyphenhyphen8lUQAjfdgJcdpTjtiFHzpGP1vRQ9N1-4aLkKhA6lUKqL6fYNToOvwd2KWmekSlmWjl4qSelXXYyMjmfEqduf0FCTcRh4TYpPMuJw7QMiK_z1Vd5wPkeWYrn06NMzzsmQx6Z4sUKRWW/s1600/double+digit+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">If Somebody had an idea Nobody was discussing it
and if Everybody thought we were beaten by this we looked to Anybody with a
solution.</span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">I decided to hide the children once again and
find a home, this time with no money at all, a delicate task, but not entirely
impossible. The kids and I were gathered at a gas station when it occurred to
me that the bank might finally have released the checks written for the stuff I
sold. And there it was, $3000.00.</span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">After renting a room at Howard Johnson for
showers, clean sheets, and television, we snuggled into a discussion of room
service. Somebody suggested that Everybody would benefit from a walk to the
nearest fast-food joint, an option Nobody found satisfactory. In the end, the
desire to eat actual food out-weighed all practical other-oriented
solutions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: black;">Whatever happiness may be derived while raising
children, the joy of feeding them trumps all others; the prospect of not
feeding them is in fact the most deleterious. </span><span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Sitting in the booth of a fancy restaurant with
a serious claim to the best seafood in the world, my darlings ordered
hamburgers with cheese. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">"We don't like fish," they proclaimed," especially fish with bones." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Somebody suggested lobster, a
fact Everybody agreed upon and Anybody could see that was the best choice.
Nobody, once again came to my aid. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">"Lobster it is," I declared, and
lobster it was for our re-entry into the world of normalcy. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tZCz9lHS1vjVb9qWVbLikQNtOlET_gUJ0ULKnIMtxrMXelS0ACnQtTTOD1MDoPcaKMiuLXV3d6XbSfA7sz8YjwnwXpaZ0K1iLtnPmS0TNJC4QvzcGpisDNZBVy5P-70Q6dM-Iy8x5PJ6/s1600/live-maine-lobster_1_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tZCz9lHS1vjVb9qWVbLikQNtOlET_gUJ0ULKnIMtxrMXelS0ACnQtTTOD1MDoPcaKMiuLXV3d6XbSfA7sz8YjwnwXpaZ0K1iLtnPmS0TNJC4QvzcGpisDNZBVy5P-70Q6dM-Iy8x5PJ6/s1600/live-maine-lobster_1_large.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">Albeit dinner blew a magnificent hole in our
funds it also produced a significant burst of energy and emotional well-being.
We found a very simple home; a small, fishy cottage, the kind some might
describe as "shack-like", available however to mothers with children. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgjO73RipCorUL3Y9WMW_IW4sHvV-hUgk2TABYruLgtta_19ZC87jN4_OHObm3VFRv9ytCn2iNqGMXB3QpIB5RjPw0mWYk9DthaR5NGVww6he_gcFOhI_3GXaKBO7IRUNDxCWu9Pn4m7A/s1600/nicks-cove-restaurant-cottages.585x0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtgjO73RipCorUL3Y9WMW_IW4sHvV-hUgk2TABYruLgtta_19ZC87jN4_OHObm3VFRv9ytCn2iNqGMXB3QpIB5RjPw0mWYk9DthaR5NGVww6he_gcFOhI_3GXaKBO7IRUNDxCWu9Pn4m7A/s1600/nicks-cove-restaurant-cottages.585x0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">By padding my resume with outrageous lies, I found a job, bought a car, and
joined other working moms dropping their kids off at the school bus stop.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white;">In the end, it was a simple project; a task
devoted to the ordinary notion of keeping many children alive; an idea developed
while skirting them through negotiations with an atypical parent and the evolution
of an association with unrealistic and entirely imaginative personalities, all
willing to support their creative endeavors, specific ideations, and loving
pursuits. Through a prism of four decades past, I cannot see how it was done,
but can only recall the joy of raising six children on my own.</span></span><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">_____________________________________________________________________</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: black; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="background: white;">Rhonda Talbot on a fictional version of how I was raised for a short time; told through the eyes of my mother. </span></span></div>
Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-63569236927813228442014-06-24T17:32:00.001-07:002023-11-06T13:25:53.394-08:00Patti Smith Expanded My World as a Kid<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLc2NvAU4fO9suM01NoDoxo-hkUoQMTypjQ293Y1ayJi-_eV6s54P9xwQ89UHnm0OCOCiqiG-PC59gygD6Clseh9evEF7uspZfnX2sY5Ydlk56CFjLxgDnQVBTiFwCnac-Wqjr2v2MVUC2/s1600/ifacartsgruenPattiSmith1976_l-1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLc2NvAU4fO9suM01NoDoxo-hkUoQMTypjQ293Y1ayJi-_eV6s54P9xwQ89UHnm0OCOCiqiG-PC59gygD6Clseh9evEF7uspZfnX2sY5Ydlk56CFjLxgDnQVBTiFwCnac-Wqjr2v2MVUC2/s1600/ifacartsgruenPattiSmith1976_l-1.jpeg" width="226" /></a></div>
<br />
I was there ^ ^ ^! Mom took off in the station wagon loaded up with kids and bagged popcorn. Central Park.<br />
<br />
<br />
When I was a child, my mom took her large brood to many concerts, indoors, outdoors, the only way she could hear live music. In Detroit, there was a lot. Occasionally we had to venture out pretty far, driving for hours.<br />
<br />
She'd endure constant complaints, backseat fistfights and often motion vomit.<br />
<br />
"Grab one of your shirts and sop that up. We're making good time here."<br />
<br />
I was too young to appreciate the concerts but would later find the same artists on my own.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMlr1oK6eUf2bBFwE7OO8jo62CN_LB7XWD0trOb_3XN0QvHyMY0mBezBIaqlFwtt21XaBveR4QbFztNynIbQ8M0q3yuxf0m1ucBgOjrxrDo2dTHjCJejoRtJEsBjsCybDugCBpM9X8AlH/s1600/tumblr_n5v0opaYHk1ssdfcyo1_500.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="108" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivMlr1oK6eUf2bBFwE7OO8jo62CN_LB7XWD0trOb_3XN0QvHyMY0mBezBIaqlFwtt21XaBveR4QbFztNynIbQ8M0q3yuxf0m1ucBgOjrxrDo2dTHjCJejoRtJEsBjsCybDugCBpM9X8AlH/s1600/tumblr_n5v0opaYHk1ssdfcyo1_500.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Many concerts I've written about, maybe it was Mom's connection to<a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2012/07/bob-segar-my-babysitter.html"> Bob Segar</a> that allowed us into so many places. I do remember quite a bit of scandal and controversy about my "spicy" mother and her "hippy" friends.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0LhCSICUtX26lM1QC9xiFjvA0vli9WxXtDR94vXVsvk54A2-SDrNu3IaI_jSBlPaXUUl3iX8JAenqnUJ3HNJFtgdTTW5bk5GdWG7y6StP1Tt61E41LAfoIsUaJIa6EC8pu1P8OOxDLq7q/s1600/tumblr_n0ft74CEmU1rc79ffo1_500.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0LhCSICUtX26lM1QC9xiFjvA0vli9WxXtDR94vXVsvk54A2-SDrNu3IaI_jSBlPaXUUl3iX8JAenqnUJ3HNJFtgdTTW5bk5GdWG7y6StP1Tt61E41LAfoIsUaJIa6EC8pu1P8OOxDLq7q/s1600/tumblr_n0ft74CEmU1rc79ffo1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
"Just keep your girls away from my children. I don't know what you think you're doing but the wives are thinking of voting you off the block."<br />
"Look Mrs. Kapinsky, you should chill out. And maybe not so much Lawrence Welk."<br />
<br />
<br />
And off we went with our ski muffs and pockets full of candy. We were never sure where we were going but glad to get out of Detroit.<br />
<br />
BUT there was something about Patti Smith that would stay with me forever. And over the years as I've heard dozens of great females rockers, almost always I can connect them back to Patti.<br />
<br />
She had lived many lives before marrying Fred "Sonic" Smith of the MC5, a band we were also very familiar with.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
They were an integral part of the music scene in Detroit, early 70's, or what I most remember is my sisters screaming "Kick Out the Jams Motherfu**ers!"<br />
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Back then, well, saying the F word was a pretty big deal, so young girls screaming profanity at school could get everyone suspended. MC5 often played with Iggy Pop, among others, at smaller revenues, which means everyone could get in for basically free. As children, though slightly aware, Mother made sure we didn't see the ensuing riots or aftermath.<br />
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As an adolescent I would see plenty, it was painful to watch our great city being torn apart. We soon moved... but I digress.<br />
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Meanwhile, how perfect are Patti and Fred as a couple?<br />
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Her record Dancing Barefoot has always resonated with me, still. It's magic. So I leave it here.<br />
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Patti has achieved and contributed so much in her life time it's hard to fathom. If you haven't read Just Kids, well, you're missing out.<br />
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I was listening to one of her records today so decided to jot this down. Sometimes I come across young people that don't know who she is. While I find this kind of astounding I also know, eh, I'm older. Her influence is already ingrained in all great music and art, so despite people's lack of understanding, they live under her influence.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot paying tribute to Patti Smith.<br />
<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-30771863198305432772014-04-23T17:21:00.002-07:002023-11-06T13:26:11.274-08:00Women Are Dying To Stay Sexy; Just Get a Poster of Brad Pitt!<br />
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Jake Gyllenhaal and "I don't need anyone" Ann Hathaway in Love and Other Drugs. I recently thought about this film because I was channel flipping. Let's consider how awesome he is. This ties together, I promise.<br />
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I knew nothing about Premarin until I saw this ad.<br />
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<a href="http://ispot.tv/a/7GLJ">http://ispot.tv/a/7GLJ</a><br />
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I sprang up in bed, HUH? There is no discernible difference between the before and after pictures of the women post Premarin. They remain miserable messes. So naturally I took to my computer to investigate.<br />
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AFTER SHE TOOK HER LIBIDO PILL ^ ^ ^ She looks terrifying.<br />
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Premarin is a huge business, marketed to women with pre-peri-partial-post menopause. So basically any women with a pulse. But now it's being marketed as the female Viagra, because the world has caught on that Premarin actually kills women. Anyhoo...<br />
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MAYBE she is thinking about:<br />
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<a href="http://www.medicinenet.com/estrogens_conjugated/page2.htm">Side effects: Common</a><u>:</u> Headaches, nausea, back pain, eye problems, breast and bone <u>cancer,</u> high blood pressure, gall stones, jaundice,<u> heart failure, blood clots, endometrial cancer</u>, heart attacks,<u> strokes, dementia</u>, <br />
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The un-common side effects? DEATH is pretty much the end of the line.<br />
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It's male cousin Viagra just keeps on ticking. The Pfizer execs figuring out what to do. "Let's just dump her, that's our business model anyway."<br />
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According to Pfizer, (who manufactures both drugs) these pathetic women are so upset they lost their libido suicide is really the only option. Hey, let's market Premarin as a LIBIDO DRUG! But what a marketing FAIL... since the company insists on showcasing these gals as angry, clinically depressed, and unapproachable.<br />
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The ads suggest without Premarin, you may as well just jump. A contemplator: ^ ^ ^<br />
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If you hang it there, you'll be a bitter, resentful harpy. ^ ^ ^ So take your Premarin dammit!<br />
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YES, I am late to the party again, but who knew Pfizer makes billions knocking up horses to get that wonder urine-- PRE MARE and no one is stopping them. Big Pharma just loves to kill people. AND animals. Apparently they have been preying on vulnerable women for years.<br />
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I forgot to pick up my Premarin. Just shoot me! ^ ^ ^<br />
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Sex and fear SELL. It only makes sense after the public caught on to their nefarious tactics, Pfizer resorted to marking Premarin as a sex drug, the female equivalent to Viagra. So, hurry! Boost your libido, put on your French maid outfit so you don't lose your man. Or woman. But they focus entirely on heterosexuals.<br />
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Seriously? Who wants him? And why is <i>she </i>holding the flowers? I bet she paid for the tropical vacation too. Yet she bought into the BS. "Who will ever love me, I've over 40 with no fashion sense!"<br />
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Then compare to how they market Viagra. Hot, sexy. Also if that guy needs Viagra he clearly needs professional help. What is he, 20? I'm aware many young men take it for sport like Jake Gyllenhaal in that movie. I actually didn't know there was such a thing as a Viagra party.<br />
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NOTE TO MEN: Women aren't into ten-hour sex marathons. I don't care what Sting says.<br />
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Too bad Clyde Barrow didn't have Viagra. Poor Faye Dunaway. It's possible if he did, these two would have never went on a killing spree.<br />
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Apparently Pfizer has changed their approach with this new, cowboy type man.<br />
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He's not angry, depressed, sad. In fact, he's camping, and getting his manhood on, stoking fires and stabbing fish.<br />
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This is the Viagra poster dude. I thought it was Chuck Norris. Maybe it is. I noticed all the ads now are rugged men working on Brokeback Mountain, or looking under the hood of Mustangs.<br />
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Gone are the days of white-haired old men strolling on the beach who have lost their ability to rub one out.<br />
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Oh, my bad. But COME ON! Is he human? Also a glance at Brad would work better than Premarin.<br />
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Here's the sad sack. He is so happy he has a dog.<br />
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<br />
<u>Side note</u>: Viagra has no side effects, unless you count extended erection or a mild cough. These boys don't worry about cancer or dementia. It's also created in a lab, not by torturing Rhinos.<br />
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Because the company is run by men, naturally their main concern is sex, and by golly they need to keep women interested even if it kills them. And the horses they rode in on.<br />
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"Honey, I'm pumped up, take your Premarin or I'll go hang with the guys."<br />
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Pfizer lost interest in Viagra as a solution to possible marital problems and now basically caters to men who just want to get hard. BUT if women want to come to the party, take the death pill.<br />
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By the way Pfizer, you should use Seth Rogan for the Viagra, and James Franco for the Premarin. Sales would soar!<br />
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Instead they use the most lame adverts I've seen since scented douche bags.<br />
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Oh, but none of this is truthful. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/06/11/erectile-dysfunction-young-men-age-40-younger_n_3405085.html">One in four men under t</a>he age of 40 can't get an erection. This increases as they age. Raise your hand if you've been with a young guy and he can't get it up? That's what I thought. But we don't hear about this! We only hear about horrible crones.<br />
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<br />
Then the poster boys:<br />
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And Jack Nicholson who will be bedding the ladies forever and well into the afterlife.<br />
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Pfizer even suggests your octogenarian milkman can offer more than just milk. Also who the hell has a milkman? Further, who would shag him? Oh, the Housewives of Beverly Hills. Of course.<br />
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To create this <strike>amazing</strike> deadly drug so women will stop <strike>having emotions</strike> being bitches and start spreading their legs, Pfizer cages mares, impregnates them; keeps the poor things cold, shackled, whipped, and often beats them with an electrical prods before they are<a href="http://www.peta.org/about-peta/faq/my-doctor-wants-me-to-take-premarin-but-i-understand-its-made-from-horse-urine-is-this-true/"> tortured and slaughtered. </a><br />
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Yet there is no law against this and Pfizer won't change their tactics because it would cost money.<br />
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Of course most women have no idea. They are being told this miracle pill/cream will give them youth, energy, vitality, an insanely high libido and they'll be attractive to men forever. Right.<br />
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<br />
Mrs. Kravitz learned the hard way. She died of a stroke while vacuuming just after her daily dose of Premarin.<br />
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MY BIG QUESTION is who the hell cares what men think?<br />
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I guess I have never in my life given one shit whether men want to have sex with me. Let's put this into perspective. If I want to have sex with you, I'll let you know. If I don't it doesn't mean I suffer from some mental illness and need to be fixed. Note to men: <u>You're not all that. Get over your damn self. </u><br />
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I also don't give one shit if a man threatens to have an affair if I don't want to have sex. Go. Don't forget your Viagra asshole.<br />
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After I saw the horse cruelty video I was just appalled. But not really. Because like everything in this patriarchal world, many men want what they want and will go to any length to get it. They will kill animals and risk women's lives to <strike>encourage</strike> force their wives to have sex, or take Viagra to have sex with anybody (Oh she was 18, OOOPS) and continue to remain unconscious as long as they are thinking with their sex organs.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighing in on Premarin, sex, Viagra, men, women, libido, Brad Pitt, Jake Gyllenhaal, Pfizer and Big Pharma equals well, small wiener.<br />
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<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-58805743358657536332014-04-16T21:53:00.002-07:002023-05-18T14:24:02.990-07:00On Why Thelma and Louise Will Live On Forever <br />
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So, it finally happened. My young daughters received their first wolf-whistle while we were walking to town. I was a good 20 feet behind them, but well, reacted as I'm wont to do.<br />
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"Hey asshole! Get back here you spineless pr***!<br />
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I threw my water bottle at his car but he didn't stop. Had he turned around I would have knocked him to the ground with my massive handbag then stomped on his genitals. Instead I just fantasized. Meanwhile my daughters were blissfully unaware of the entire ordeal.<br />
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Which leads me to Thelma and Louise.<br />
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Though I spent most of my professional career acquiring movies for large companies, be it through development, script, packaging, financing or an actual screening, nothing prepared me for or has since affected me as much as the film Thelma and Louise.<br />
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This was early days in my career, about to see a picture I knew nothing about. I worked with the principals of a few large companies, so how it worked was--- I was based in Los Angeles dealing with movie people to find films, and when the principal/owners came to town we made the "rounds," meeting with agents, producers, etc or attended film festivals.<br />
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One boss (will call him Q) and I were meeting with various people and decided to drop in on an old producer friend.<br />
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Producer, in typical huckster pitch style: "Hey, I've gotta bunch of films in the can. Wanna have a look?"<br />
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Q and I scanned his menu of movies, a number of them quite interesting, many looked like code, but I was stuck on one.<br />
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Thelma and Louise: "A road trip comedy about two gals that get in over their heads. Lots of fun and soaring action." (The producer made up his own loglines.) Directed by Ridley Scott, starring Susan Sarandon and Geena Davis. He showed us the trailer, looked amusing.<br />
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Me: I like this one.<br />
Q: Fine. I like Ridley.<br />
Producer: Great. I can't unload it. This sure aint gonna win any Oscars.<br />
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Q bought the film right there. The deal was closed in 40 seconds and we were ushered into a dark screening room.<br />
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The film begins. I knew instantly this was a not a "funny road trip comedy." I was riveted from the opening scene of wide expanse before barging into a small town diner. As the movie progresses, I watched Louise, forthright, intelligent and full of helpful advice, stuck in some claustrophobic cafeteria, and then the vulnerable Thelma trapped in an abusive, oppressive marriage, acting out some 50's housewife version of a woman. They are about to embark on freedom, but in a world that does not allow that for women.<br />
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I knew I was about to witness a revolutionary film.<br />
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"Women who are completely free from all the shackles that restrain them have no place in this world. The world is not big enough to support them. They will be brought down if they stay here," Callie Khouri.<br />
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I've loved everything she's ever written, including recent amazing Nashville. I also love T-Bone Burnett so it only makes sense the two would collaborate.<br />
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So yeah.... It can be awkward sitting next to your big boss, in the quiet dark, choking on emotion. He knew I was crying and he also knew he had made the right choice. He loved the film.<br />
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Why are men allowed to act out their base impulses and never be held accountable? Why do they rape and not go to jail? Why do they glorify the "perfect" women, objectify them, without considering what this might mean? All of this strongly resonated with me, as it did with so many.<br />
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Q was much older, and was not only an amazing businessman, mentor, teacher and friend but also the first male figure in my life that honored women. He treated me with as an equal and respected my decisions.<br />
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In any case, I missed the 20th anniversary of this film due to the on-goings of my own life, working and raising twin girls. The reason I write this now is because over 20 years, <u>nothing has changed. </u>Women are still treated like sex objects, and maybe even worse due to the media's bombardment of all things that sexually exploit females. Everywhere I turn I'm staring into another American Apparel pornification ad.<br />
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Most women I know understand this:<br />
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<br />
It took me a while to comprehend that given this film was such a success, and unquestionably iconic, other films with strong female leads, laying out the truth of our world, have not been made. There was momentum, but then it stalled quickly. Since 1991, the women in Congress has dropped, women holding executive positions in Fortune 500 has dropped, and women in any kind of power <a href="http://www.womensmediacenter.com/press/entry/womens-media-center-report-finds-women-still-underrepresented-misrepresente">position in the media </a>is depressingly low.<br />
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Number one reason remains: <a href="http://womenintvfilm.sdsu.edu/files/2013_It's_a_Man's_World_Report.pdf">It's a man's world</a>. Sure, we all know this, but somehow a part of me thought by now the tides would have turned. But sadly no. Women who step out of line are still severely punished.<br />
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The brilliant political undertones of Thelma and Louise still hold, and when Thelma finally owns her sexuality in the scene with Brad Pitt, not only is she punished, but so is Louise. Now they have nowhere to turn. And here Thelma comes alive. Breaks free. Helps her best friend. Explodes with ideas. Unleashes a person that she had buried years before.<br />
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When the film ended with their deciding to drive into the Grand Canyon, I burst into tears. Q be damned. He put his arm around me.<br />
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Because I knew, and he knew, this was the only way the movie could end. They had both tasted freedom and could never return to their old lives. The world was never going to change. So metaphorically they triumph.<br />
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Callie says it best: "After all they went through, I didn't want anybody to touch them. They flew away, out of this world and into the mass unconscious."<br />
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Though we as writers try very hard to get movies made with strong female protagonists, it's a never ending game of defeat. "Can't she be nicer? Make her more sympathetic. What are you a man hater? It's a good script, but make the lead male. Maybe if it's a woman and a man. Put a wedding at the end and we can make a deal. But two women? And they don't care about marriage? Who is going to watch that? No. We can't get it financed." On and on.<br />
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But we don't give up. Because we can't.<br />
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This film resonates strongly because there is no other. No movies get made where women take control of their own lives and bodies; particularly when no men are involved. The female heroines now are out of comic books and there is always a love story. Sometimes they are pure sitcom. Better than nothing I suppose, but these films do not inform or leave a lasting impression.<br />
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Everyone always points to Bridesmaids. But the underlying theme is -without a man, women are nothing. Furthermore, they ought to be abandoned like contagion if they speak their mind. Kristen Wiig shines a light on the hypocrisy<br />
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but is well, ostracized for this. It's only when she plays by the "rules" she is once again accepted.<br />
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Go with a good cop and you'll be okay and hold back any further impulses to speak your mind. I mean, they gave her a cop? That what she gets for stepping outside the norm. Cage that crazy lady!<br />
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Many years, tons of books and lots of theories emerged concerning the feminism backlash. The internet shines a light to further entrench the notion that women with freedom are unhappy, careers give them cancer, they are neglecting their children, they become emotional wrecks, alcoholics and they certainly are not attractive to men.<br />
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The backlash whispers into women's ears that they secretly yearn for servitude not power. Those who say otherwise will be shutdown. This is why Thelma and Louise will never be made again.<br />
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And this is why we get movies like Bridesmaids, the deceptive <a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2013/10/why-gravity-is-105-million-dollar.html">Gravity</a> or name your "chickflick" whose soul purpose is the lead's finding the right man before she is "old" but bills itself as pro-female.<br />
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"Hang on Sandra, I'm coming to save you. Darn little women still think they can drive for god sakes," said Space ghost George Clooney.<br />
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Despite all the efforts women made in the 70's, and there were some very good movies, now it's all perfect skin, leggy blondes, picket fence veneers, sex and popcorn.<br />
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And the few good films made by women but rarely get a theatrical release.<br />
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Thank god Callie Khouri exists. That we at least have this in the cinema realm. I see no end in sight in our misogynistic world, despite the many good men that exist. We still need culture to catch up, to change; as Gloria Steinem said, "I wish we didn't have to be nude to be noticed."<br />
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Meanwhile, I will keep trying to get my movies made, my stories written and my books published. And direct my daughters to do what they love best; art, reptiles, roller skating, soccer, reading, sewing bohemian outfits and adding to their 30 plus and growing snake collection.<br />
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Their father is a great dad, protects them, guides them and provides tools so they can protect themselves. And there are many fathers like him. But not enough.<br />
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I rarely go to movies anymore. But when I'm low and can't take an other day of crassly sexist ethos that permeates Hollywood, the corporate world and politics, I pull out my Thelma and Louise DVD for relief. Even if momentary. After countless viewings, I still burst into tears.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighing in on Thelma and Louise, sexism, patriarchy, female objectification and the never ending hope this will one day change.<br />
<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-88824440302869050892014-04-09T17:42:00.000-07:002017-10-13T11:23:37.850-07:00Kevin Kline and Dakota Fanning Under the Sheets--NO NO NO!<br />
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The Last of Robin Hood, a biopic about Errol Flynn (50) and his sexual affair with aspiring actress Beverly Aadland (15) belongs on the Horror Network, not Lifetime.<br />
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The thought of the ethereal Dakota Fanning (23) lying in bed with who could be her great grandfather Kevin Kline (66) is just going too far. <br />
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Hasn't Dakota been through enough? What with child abduction and a dangerous father (Man on Fire,) being orphaned then terrorized by her insane father (Hide and Seek,) facing down an alien apocalypse with her Peter Pan father (War of the Worlds.) Nonetheless, her film choices are excellent and she is clearly so talented it borders on genius. But nothing in all of her 450 films can be worse than bedding with a man that is much older than her actual father.<br />
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As much as I'm an advocate for the Lifetime Network or any network that promotes stories written by or about women, this one eludes me. Somehow this feels very wrong. I know all networks need to chase ratings and a sale but at what cost?<br />
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Errol enjoyed Lolita just as much as the next guy. He gave the book to Beverly as a gift. ^^^<br />
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This is a biopic about Errol Flynn and his romance with a 15-year old starlet, one that is encourage by her fame hungry mother. The one sheet goes on to say though set in 1959, this surely mirrors today's society. Really? Apparently this romance was a paparazzi dream come true, a never ending tabloid fest, a real life Lolita.<br />
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I guess in today's world that might mirror, well nobody. I guess Johnny Depp and maybe sister Elle Fanning? But this would never happen, instead we might have James Woods (66) and Kristen Bauguess (26,) a sort of age match, an actor wanting to stay in the limelight... but frankly no one cares.<br />
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Lifetime says it prides itself on making films that empower women and I'm not seeing it here. I'm seeing something much more lurid and I find it disturbing. But that's just me. Given women have barely any outlet in which to make movies, the one TV network supposedly devoted to them makes a film about a creepy old pervert preying on a teenager while her mother encourages their union. We saw this film. It was called Lolita. It was a great novel. And a great film. But it was also about a lot of other concerns.<br />
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I find The Last of Robin Hood a rather pathetic excuse for entertainment. Lifetimes seems to have fallen down some scary rabbit hole.<br />
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In real life, Kevin Kline (66) is married to Phoebe Cates (50) but when they married, I remember thinking, wait, Kevin Kline, that great actor from The Big Chill, Sophie's Choice, A Fish Called Wanda, among so many others was marrying that teenager from The Fast Times at Ridgemont High? I loved her, then don't ever recall seeing any further acting. <br />
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Apparently she retired from acting to raise their two kids and they're perfectly happy.<br />
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I also love Kevin Kline, and really their age difference isn't anything abnormal in Hollywood. Except when they met on The Big Chill she was 20 to his 36. I actually remember being slightly horrified. Maybe because she looked 14. Or maybe because I felt it was predatory. I don't recall.<br />
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Of course the May/December romances are nothing new. And a number of them actually last, such as Annette Benning and Warren Beatty (21 years) Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart (22 years) Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones (25 years) well, verdict is out. <br />
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True love ^ ^ ^ ^<br />
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And now the tide is changing. For example a few new ones, Robin Wright and Ben Foster (14 years) Joan Collins and Percy Gibbons (32 years) Jennifer Lopez and Casper Whatever (18 years) Geena Davis and Rehza Jareahy (15 years).. on an on.<br />
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Sharon Stone with some hottie. ^ ^ ^<br />
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I like the swing of older women/young men, just for the sake of balance.<br />
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So why not make a film about a 66-year old female star and an upcoming young man? Say Goldie Hawn and Dane DeHaan? Or Diane Keaton and Ezra Miller? Wouldn't this be a better fit for Lifetime?<br />
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I'm available... ^ ^ ^ ^<br />
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Meanwhile, what woman is going to watch adorable Dakota getting her sexy on with Kevin Kline!? How about nobody. At least he has a heart attack and dies. She inherits nothing. Her mother is a boozy freak.<br />
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I understand because this is a biopic it will carry a certain cache, and it was also sold to Goldwyn so may face an actual theatrical release. The producers and executives involved keep saying over and over how it mirrors today, despite it being set in 1959, but this just isn't true. Yet they just keep saying this.<br />
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The only thing that is true is Hollywood will continue to support films with older, in this case geriatric men and younger leading women. <br />
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I understand that Lifetime is having a rough go, made evident by their recent Flowers in the Attic and Lizzie Bordon Took An Ax, exploitation films that portray women as murderers, crones, child abusers or innocent things that have no problem with incest. I don't watch much TV so I don't know when the whole "women in peril" was replaced with flat out psychotics.<br />
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Until women start truly gaining a foothold on what people see on their screens, any screens, I highly recommend not watching this dreck.<br />
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There are the occasional great films that get made, ones that empower females. But they are rare.<br />
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Until then, it's still a man's fantasy out there. Lolita. Light of my life. Fire of my loins. Lo-Li-Ta.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot weighing in on Errol Flynn, the perpetuation of perverts through the media and holding out hope that change is in the air.<br />
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<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-45990027644717047592014-03-29T17:00:00.004-07:002023-05-18T14:30:40.688-07:00Just Be Like Jennifer Lawrence!<br />
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"If you looked and acted like Jennifer Lawrence, that might work." On how my girls could be okay with my existence.<br />
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I rarely thought about my appearance until I realized I was fat. This epiphany occurred when I arrived in <a href="http://www.more.com/news/womens-issues/hard-bodies-part-1">San Diego for college. </a>After four exhausting years of starving myself, I never achieved self-validation concerning my looks. I did, however, receive a great education.<br />
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This is me, the afternoon my chosen field of study held an honorary lunch on my behalf ^ ^ ^ I graduated top of the class. I wore a turtleneck in 85-degree weather because I thought I was fat. It was all downhill from there.<br />
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Moving to Los Angeles to begin a career exasperated my weight issue, given I now weighed 90 lbs but felt like an elephant. Why was everyone so insanely thin, tan, tall, and blemish-free? Fortunately for me, I was somewhat articulate, so when all the girls were in hot tubs with various actors, I would be conversing with the people that kept them employed. I quickly drew a line in the sand between me and them. Those tall, lithe, beautiful girls where magic things happen when they take their shirts off, and me, where I had to work hard to make anything happen.<br />
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Those gals really go places. ^ ^ ^ Not that I haven't been to <a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2012/02/old-mangorgeous-modelticking-clock.html">St. Tropez,</a> but yeah, kind of different.<br />
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Anyway, I threw myself into my work and, by my mid 20's, had gotten past cheap exteriors and the abundant superficialities of life.<br />
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But this is ancient history, or so I thought. Years, careers, accomplishments, dreams, and marriages flew by.<br />
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Now I have girls. I had them later in life, or not in my 20s, and had already experienced motherhood, so my approach to raising them was not exactly helicopter style. I'm more "<a href="http://www.thedevilstrifecta.com/2012/12/angelina-jolie-meets-mayim-bialik.html">let them break an arm" </a>parent.<br />
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How else are they going to learn?<br />
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The girls (Twin A & E) are now 11. I understand the mother/daughter dynamic all too well and have written extensively about this. But somehow, I didn't think I would fall prey to the daily, harsh criticism from my own daughters. Just because I thought my mother was the most uncool, unattractive person ever certainly would not give the reason for my girls to think the same. I mean, I'm awesome. Right?<br />
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My mother horrifying me ^ ^ ^ ^ The man on the sailboat is Charles Manson's psychiatrist. They stayed together for ten years until one of his ex-wives dumped some placenta on their doorstep with a sign: EAT IT! Well, it was Marin County.<br />
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Now---it's my turn to navigate these tricky waters and very carefully, because if I suggest that saying unkind things is, well, unkind, E will run off in full hysteria mode.<br />
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E: OMG! I knew it! You think I'm mean and awful, and I am. I should just run away. What a horrible excuse for a human.<br />
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Her sister, A, a master diffuser, will assure her that <u>it's Mom, not her.</u> I am the culprit. Then they hug and are okay.<br />
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So I've learned to not react, engage, or respond, no matter how much I am tested, teased, or disparaged, no matter how cruel the insult, how deep the wound. I have an excellent poker face.<br />
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BUT, I was not expecting a throwback to my college days when I thought I was fat, ugly and retched.<br />
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I had already learned and worked through how having children can re-ignite all sorts of old wounds. Nonetheless, I'm human, and there is only so much a person can take.<br />
<br />None of this matters despite their dad's constant compliments, kindness, and lovely gestures. I need my daughter's approval, dammit. But I'm not going to get it. Ever.<br />
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But, I also am not exactly pure. I instigate a lot of this nonsense.<br />
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Me: So, who DO you find attractive?<br />
E: Why do you need to know? I thought those things didn't matter.<br />
They look at each other as if to prove I'm full of shit.<br />
E and A: Jennifer Lawrence. Too bad you don't look like her.<br />
Me: Well, I'm old enough to be her mom!<br />
E: So.<br />
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Later we go shopping. They take a picture of me in the dressing room as if to dissect my entire face.<br />
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Your typical sadistic fitting room mirror with fluorescent lighting. ^ ^ ^ E starts to make a list. I buy three T-shirts.<br />
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We go to lunch. Sometimes I throw E a curve ball. Why I do this is for another time and ensuing psychotherapy sessions.<br />
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Me: E, see that lady over there?<br />
E: Yeah.<br />
Me: Would you say I am smaller or larger than she is?<br />
E: Hmm. You're just a little bigger.<br />
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The woman in question. ^ ^ ^ only in Beverly Hills.<br />
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Me: Honey, she's huge.<br />
E: Mom, that's mean! What does it matter? And you asked. You're about the same size.<br />
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She examines my face for a reaction, and I give none. So she continues.<br />
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E: Your eyebrows are all fuzzy. Plus, why is your face blotchy? Plus, you should brush your hair. You look like a crazy person. Also, brown isn't your color. You can whiten your teeth, you know.<br />
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(This Hollywood veneers epidemic is really problematic. The girls actually believe teeth are supposed to be white-out white.)<br />
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SHE GOES ON! Pretty much covers the list.<br />
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We walk by a newsstand.<br />
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E: Oh, Mom, you look like her.<br />
She grabbed a magazine with Cate Blanchett on the cover.<br />
Me: I do? She's beautiful.<br />
E: Oh, you don't look like her.<br />
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I must have looked crestfallen. They both shook their heads in unison.<br />
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E: Mom! I'm a kid. Jesus. Why do you even listen to me?<br />
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Then A chimes in.<br />
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A: Mom, you're really pretty. PAUSE. Can you spot me ten bucks? <i>Spot? Is she going to Vegas? Who are these girls? Maybe I should have paid more attention to them growing up.</i><br />
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Later, I read the list.<br />
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<u>Negative Mom Stuff.</u><br />
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Scraggy hair.<br />
Bad jokes.<br />
"The rabbit hole!" <i>Why quotes? Is this subject of such constant discussion it's earned quotes? She's referring to my suprasternal notch, which is known for its love qualities, whatever that means.</i><br />
Spine showing.<br />
Blotchy skin<br />
Dirty bathrobe. <i>Okay, it's white and impossible to keep clean when you have kids. Just sayin</i>.<br />
Embarrassing laugh. <i>I actually relate; I used to hate my own mother's laugh.</i><br />
Very Wise. <i>Wow. How did that get in there? And Caps.</i><br />
Weird funny. <i>I will take it.</i><br />
Flappy P.J.s <i>Am I supposed to wear a latex body suit to bed?</i><br />
Bad food judgment (AKA PB on a bagel?) <i>I think that's delicious.</i><br />
Random spaz attacks. <i>This is my favorite because she's referring to when I start to laugh and can't stop.</i><br />
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After I read this, I gave her a huge hug. I happen to know she is kind to people, just not me. And she is extremely <strike>sensitive</strike> and dramatic. So, this is all a test, and I am determined to pass with flying colors. I will not react. I will not react.<br />
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My job is to continue helping them keep their heads above the insidious waters of unattainable perfection and beauty, an ideal that remains in our society, one of the failures of feminism, as <a href="http://leanin.org/news-inspiration/nyc-girls-project/">Cheryl Strayed</a> so elegantly pointed out. Of course, much has been written on the subject, yet every day we pass another American Apparel pornification ad. It's worth a look to read about <a href="http://www.nyc.gov/html/girls/html/home/home.shtml">NYC's Girl Project.</a><br />
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However, so far, so good. They put much more importance on the feeding and caring of their 30 reptiles, being the best at roller skating, Girls on the Run, soccer, art, cooking, sewing, etc., than they do on their looks. <br />
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But I know it's coming. Girls' self-esteem starts to take a big dip at age 12 and typically lasts until they are 20. So when E asked to have her hair cut like Ellen DeGeneres and pierced ears shaped like a dragon, I'm gearing up.<br />
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For today we are baking cookies, laughing at my bad jokes, and I'm still wearing my flappy P.J.'s and filthy bathrobe.<br />
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Rhonda Talbot on parenting girls, media influence, objectification, self-esteem, and bad jokes.<br />
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<br />Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7160459437885022087.post-54261055190120878852014-03-13T11:34:00.002-07:002019-03-24T09:35:02.053-07:00Installation Sex <br />
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My latest story published through the wonderful lit magazine <a href="http://www.literaryorphans.org/playdb/issue11-lost-prophet-lennon/">Literary Orphans.</a> Orphans is worth your checking out. <a href="http://www.literaryorphans.org/playdb/masthead-mike-joyce/">Mike Joyce</a> and <a href="http://www.literaryorphans.org/playdb/scott-waldyn/">Scott Waldyn</a> did a phenomenal job in creating something unique and beautiful, filled with provocative writing, stories, poetry, artwork and more.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><a href="http://www.literaryorphans.org/playdb/installation-sex-rhonda-talbot/">Installation Sex</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Had I known I’d be rigging electrical wires to Franklin Franklin’s scrotum studs I may have reconsidered San Francisco. Yet the trip would prove to be critical in my relationship continuum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Fixing men was something I was good at, a self-appointed job that gave me an additional sense of accomplishment and validation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">My first success culminated in a pregnancy followed by a Vegas shotgun wedding. Though the marriage was short-lived, the boy child was worth my efforts. I had decided the relationship didn’t work out because he was simply too old at 35. Not moldable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">My next efforts were set on a handsome college lad; the plan was to shape him into a presentable young man with enviable potential. Using my hard-won work contacts, he would become highly employable; after which we would marry, perhaps a destination wedding. He also seemed perfect material for a stepfather. Not only was he an enthusiastic collector of Pokémon cards but also skilled at table tennis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">After a few months, the boy left me. He apparently had his own ideas and though I thought nothing of our 12-year age difference, his mother took issue. She carried more weight in all matters regarding his future plans. I was stunned, hurt, and nearly lost my will to live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Somewhere in all of my cultivating endeavors, I had fallen in love with him. This took me by surprise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">My own accomplishments indeed meant nothing. I put no credence into my diligent efforts to make good through education and hard work, to break away, this hauling up of one’s bootstraps. Loves wounds would override any sense of actual achievement. I blamed all of my self-loathing on my looks, my mother, and her deep gene pool of hillbillies. If only I had been born entitled, beautiful, lithe, the Amazonian kind of girl that grace the pages of Victoria’s Secret. Men would never be an issue. I would be in high demand, have endless options, and therefore be free to pursue my goals without the added relationship angst and the time often involved within the angst matrix.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">It was in this state I met Franklin Franklin, a renowned artist, both of us wandering around a chic hotel lobby after a private film screening. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was wearing a sexy, turquoise Betsy Johnson number I slipped on whenever invited to fancy outings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We shared a standing table eating cold shrimp on toothpicks. I felt an unexpected surge of lust when I looked into his eyes, shattered emeralds, chaotic and in need of reorganization.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“I have to go to San Francisco tonight. What are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Despite all of my work obligations, this was my Holly Golightly moment. Adonis had invited me for the weekend without any prompting on my part, solid markings of a true prospect. This look we shared was not one-sided. He was the real deal. Maybe being overly cautious had been my problem all along. Finding a fixer-upper was not the answer. Here stood a peer, and this is how they acted. Maybe what I lacked in airbrushed beauty could be supplicated with exciting spontaneity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“Let's do it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“I’ll be at the Fairmont. Call me when you get there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I raced home, threw my most expensive lingerie into an overnight bag and flew up to San Francisco. Franklin was not in his room. I waited in an adjoining room until after midnight, and then he called.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We strolled the crooked streets of the city, his strong, tattooed arm clutching me with such possession I felt boneless. We spoke in bits and shreds. The cold, icy ground beneath us sounded like grinding teeth as we trudged up a hill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He had a passion for igloos and frozen oranges but nothing brown or gold.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I told him I liked the words bone saw and superfluous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He didn’t respond. I soon understood he liked quiet so I stopped talking altogether. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Then he pinned me to a concrete wall; my head went static. Time dissolved and all the things it’s meant to define.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Far away the fiery slit of dawn was poking through the fog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Let’s go. Perfect lighting.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">We were in his suite. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“So, take off all your clothes. I love the long lines of your body. This is ideal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I was excited, thrilled and cocky all at once. With great flair, I tossed my clothes onto the floor without considering my imperfect thighs or flapjack breasts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Franklin was lying naked on the bed, tanned, well toned and hairless. Then I saw his scrotum was festooned with silver studs. Dozens of thimble-sized studs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Like my jewelry?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I thought it was odd, even creepy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Sure. It’s that real silver?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The best I could do was offer up my metallic-shaded pedicure I thought was incredibly edgy. But I was not prepared for Franklin. I noticed a camera situated atop a tripod positioned in front of the bed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Wow. How many studs do you have? Don’t they hurt?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Nah. It does for a second when you do it. But I need you to do something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He handed me a bottle of olive oil that he pulled from his backpack. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Slather this all over your fist, then ram it up my rectum as far as it will go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He inserted ten electrical wires into each stud, and then fastened them to a nondescript black box that sat on an end table. Ten small hooks lined the exterior of the box. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Franklin attached the wires from his scrotum studs to the hook and eye ordeal on the black box, and then climbed on all fours facing away from the box, so the wires were beneath him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I noticed the camera has been recording the entire time we were in the room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“When I say go, ram your fist.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I was oiling my hand and arm up to the elbow, too scared to say no, still wearing my carefree-girl persona. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Ready, and go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He body lunged forward, the wires still attached to the box, but now completely taut, then an electrical charge caused the black lid to pop open, revealing a pink-cheeked ballerina twirling to the Smith’s song <i>Handsome Devil. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“And cut.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I was horrified but still smiling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“That was perfect. Seamless. We got it in one take. Thanks.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I realized there would be no further sex forthcoming; the foreplay was simply foreplay for whatever the hell Franklin wanted on film. But I needed to keep my fantasy going for fear I would simply fall apart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I told myself I did this exotic thing, perfect. He was a brilliant artist and me his muse, like Helga Testorf and Andrew Wyeth. No one needed fixing. My nerve and acceptance was his aphrodisiac. I was sure he had fallen for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I lay down next to him to cuddle. I needed to shower, but was afraid to disrupt our love nest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“That was intense. I’d love to see more of your work sometime.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He abruptly pulled away to get dressed. I needed him to know I was more than a prop. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“I work with a lot of film people. I bet we have friends in common. For example, I know Julian Schnabel.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Cool. Hey, it’s getting late. I have a show tomorrow. I’m not trying to be rude, but you should go.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He climbed on top of me and held my face in his strong hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Thanks again, babe. No way would this have gotten done. It’s part of a bigger installation and I’m on the chain here. Most girls would never do this.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He pressed his soft lips against mine, an empty kiss; a sucker punch into my heart. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“No worries, I’ll edit out your face.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Wrapping myself in the sheet, I did a kind of sway-walk toward the bathroom and then leaned against the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">What the fuck? I turned on the faucet, tears plopping into the marble sink. Seriously? His muse? Covering both arms in soapy water, I scrubbed them nearly raw. The familiar dread of self-loathing was rising up from my stomach like bile choking me, compromising any further hope of playing Ms. Golightly. Prostitutes had probably turned down this deed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">I thought about my options as though I had any. But I did. Stop crying. <i>You are not that needy, idealistic girl with romantic notions. You’re exhilarating, mysterious, blasé. You’re</i> <i>Holly!</i> I was not done with Franklin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Now dressed, I leaned on the edge of the bed watching Franklin put away his gear. It was slightly baffling to understand how he walked around with all that hardware on his testicles, particularly tight jeans.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“So, let’s get together when we get back to Los Angeles.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">“Of course.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">When he didn’t call, I called him. And called some more, until his wife answered. Yes, it was degrading and you would think this charade would end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But it didn’t. I would invite him over or sometimes he would show up at my house unannounced. My jeweled lover and I would play out this grim scene a few more times, ride it down until the rubber burned and the rims scraped the pavement. Then he was gone. And somewhere our actions live on display in various installations that culminate in some kind of gender-bending sex meets technology meaning. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">But the experience was a turning point. I was literally shocked into a state of self-discovery, a journey into finding my own self-worth and respect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">A few months later, I went to one of Franklin’s exhibits with some friends at a local museum and saw the entire scene unfold on film, climaxing with the sad rosy-cheeked ballerina. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">My girlfriends and I by now all had many degrading stories of sexual escapades with men and I told them what had happened. I was the pathetic ballerina spinning and spinning. At first they didn’t believe me; after all, I’m a professional, untarnished, an accomplished single mother. It hardly made sense, but then how was this any different than agreeing to partake in a little S&M or a threesome? We all had our stories. And we all seemed to grow up, right there, in the museum. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">My friends:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I mean I get it. He’s hot. I didn’t understand on any level the artwork though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">The ballerina?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">Dancing to the Smiths?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">I love Morrissey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">And that was that. We all knew we had to make our own art, own music and find our destinations that included reclaiming our confidence that somewhere in our lives we had lost or thrown away as though it were unwanted clutter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">We knew we didn’t need to be blithe, dark, bewitching or daring or even in a relationship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">My self-confidence grew with time and persistent inner-work and though society will fight against me, it’s unlikely the uncertain girl searching for validation will ever return.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />
Thanks for reading. And remember, even Holly Golightly didn't stoop this low.<br />
<br />
Rhonda Talbot weighing in on men, women, sex, love, confusion, growth and priceless art.Rhonda Talbothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01007089595774449645noreply@blogger.com0