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Bedtime Story

Counting SheepOne of my regular blog readers, Vye, recently left a note in my “What do you want me to write about?” box. She even signed her name (Gutsy, aren’t you, Vye? Just kidding.)
Vye said that although she enjoys reading my “two cents worth” blogs, I write too many serious posts (Was she alluding to the last one that I wrote about transgenders?). “Lighten-up,” she said. “I know from reading you in the past, that you have a great sense of humor. I’d like to see you write more entertaining, personal posts, and less newsy material. There are already too many blogs being written about contemporary trends and doom and gloom issues.”

Well, excuse me! I was tempted to tell her, “Girlfriend, I am serious by nature. If you want humor watch Donald Trump — on any platform.”
But I didn’t go there. To appease her – since she is one of my many loyal blog followers — Is it up to three now or four? — I decided to lighten the mood, this time, by writing something less opinionated and more personal. Like this.

Several months ago, I bought a new bedroom suite to replace an aging, 20-year-old mahogany set. The timeworn and crammed dresser drawers would not slide in and out smoothly and the armoire, with a slightly unhinged door, had become a nuisance. I held on to that furniture for as long as I did because I dreaded the thought of transferring all of my stuff from one storage place to another. But it was worth the change.
My current, beautiful bedroom suite has a cherry finish and plenty of storage space. The chest and mirrored dresser has lots of drawers with shiny knobs. But my favorite piece is the queen-sized platform bed. Ahh, the bed. It is my dream bed with a bookcase headboard and ten spacious drawers around the frame. I love a platform bed. The one that I have now is the second one that I’ve owned. Box springs begone!
The best thing about a platform bed is that it eliminates the irritating squeaky noises and groans commonly made by an old mattress and box spring set. If you’ve ever had that kind of bed or have one now, then you know what I am talking about. You climb into bed; it squeaks. You roll over during the night, squeak! If there is more action than rolling over it is squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak. And there is additional squeaky, creaky noise when you are getting out of bed. Take it from someone who habitually tosses and turns in her sleep most nights, my platform bed with its memory foam pillow top mattress is as quiet as a monk in monastic silence.
Unlike when I was a child who delighted in jumping up and down on my mattress and box spring twin bed, my neighbor’s four-year-old grandson could jump on my current bed and not create a single bounce. Although he’d better not try it. There is only one downside to my platform bed. It is unlike the first one I owned which was low, down near the floor. I could sit on the side of that old bed, stretch out my legs on the floor and lay back on the mattress without bending my knees. My current bed gives new meaning to the term “climb into bed.” It is high. Waaay high. I am a five foot six woman. I consider myself in excellent health and flexible, but I almost need a springboard or step ladder to climb on that high a** bed. And Lord help me if I roll over while sleeping and fall on the floor. Regardless of the carpeting beneath it, from the top of my bed to the floor is a 32-inch drop. If I don’t break every bone in my body, I’d probably be hospitalized and in traction for months.
There, Vye. I have let you and the rest of the Internet community peek inside my bedroom. It won’t get much more personal than that. Can I now get back to expressing my two cents about the rest of the world?
[To buy my book, Legacy, at Amazon.com. Click on the “Buy My Book” tab above.]

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Putting an Old Spin on the New Norm

Banana 2Contemplating the state of  things boggles my mind. I can’t speak to other countries, but in America, the land of the free, the home of the crazed, er, I mean brave, in the land of opportunity, you can be anything you want to be. If you are male, you can transform to female or vice versa. Just ask Caitlyn or Chaz. If you are white, you can go black without transforming anything, except your skin tone and hair texture. Ask Rachael. And if the King of Pop were alive, you could ask him about making an ethnic transformation from black to white. Plainly stated, with courage and enough money, you can have it your way. And I’m not talking about a burger.

Rational dictates that just because you consider yourself to be something doesn’t make it so. Perhaps in Fantasyland. But in the real world no matter how you try to color it, reconstruct it, snip it, implant it, legislate it or rename it – it is what it is. Remove the thorns, trim the stem, and pick the petals off, a rose will still be a rose. Calling a dog a cat doesn’t make it a feline any more than calling a tomato stuffed into a cucumber stuffed inside a banana skin makes it a new fruit. Or does it?

Political Correctness or fear of reprisal prevents numerous people from publicly expressing their feelings about controversial issues, especially if their opinion goes against the grain of what some call “the new norm.” But there are some brave hearts who are not afraid to speak out.

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Intermission

Big Bucket Of Popcorn. Isolated On A WhiteThe joy of having a blog is the freedom to write about whatever you want to write. And if your life doesn’t interfere with the process, forcing you to direct your time and energy elsewhere, you can write as often as you like. Unless, occasionally, there is an intermission.

Regular readers of this site will notice that I haven’t posted anything in a few months. (Thank you for missing me.) Rest assured that I am still here and still working. I’m just temporarily sidetracked by other things.

Currently, one of those things is a book I’m writing. It’s a memoir of sorts. If I am learning anything during this process, it is that no other piece of writing requires one to be so self-revealing as a memoir. It’s like exposing yourself naked to the world. That is if you are to be honest. Being honest doesn’t mean that you have to reveal everything. You can be honest and still hold back. If it is too embarrassing or too painful to air dirty laundry, you can either rewash it to remove the stains or throw it out. Choice is a wonderful thing.

Another lesson that I am learning from my latest undertaking is that writing a memoir dredges up long-suppressed thoughts and emotions, like when my husband and I divorced back in the early 1970s. I remained friendly with his parents who lived in another state although I rarely saw them. Sometime around 1975 my father-in-law phoned and asked me to bring the children for a visit since he had not seen them in a few years. I boarded the train with my two children and took the four-hour ride to Far Rockaway, New York, and we all spent an enjoyable weekend together. Three months later my father-in-law was dead of a heart attack. I was glad I had made the trip. I interjected that bit of information because it reveals one of the heartfelt memories resurrected while working on the book.

Although the book is a long-term project that is occupying much of my time, I don’t mind. The fact is that I love to write, and grasp every opportunity. I credit my experience writing  for a local newspaper, years ago, with keeping me eager to accept challenges and untroubled by negative criticism.  Lucky for me – and to the chagrin of some folks – my tendency to be opinionated and my sense of humor remain intact.

Some people live to travel and party, the nerd in me lives to read and write. I thank God everyday for my writing skills and count my blessings like a gambler counts chips. This blog is one of those blessings.

We’ll connect again when I put up my next post. Right now, I’ve got to get back to work. In the meantime, contemplate the eloquent words of novelist, Margaret Laurence, who wrote, “When I say work I only mean writing.  Everything else is just odd jobs.”

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Being the Executor:  A Lighthearted Look at a Serious Job

Folders with the label Estate and LawyerWhen a person dies leaving a will, the will frequently identifies the individual who is to be the executor of the estate. If the decedent died intestate (without leaving a will), then a close relative might assume the responsibilities of handling the estate or the court will appoint an administrator. As I am learning firsthand, being an executor of an estate with a will is not easy. I can imagine the frustration of the poor soul managing an estate without one.

In the District of Columbia where I live the executor (executrix, for a female) is called the personal representative. If you have never been an executor or a PR, you have probably heard the words, but don’t know exactly what they mean. If you already know it all, then read something else. But for the benefit of people like me, who had a clue, but didn’t really know what the job entailed, I will try to explain it to you, as one layperson to another. A heads up – so you won’t be confused – I will be using both titles, executor and PR, interchangeably.

The executor manages the deceased person’s property:  bank accounts, furniture and other valuables and delivers the assets to the heirs or other beneficiaries. He or she opens an estate account, transfers the decedent’s cash assets into that account, and uses the funds to pay the late person’s bills, creditors, and beneficiaries. The estate account requires an EIN (Estate Identification Number) obtained from the IRS, because the PR must file an individual income tax return for the decedent and pay the estate tax.

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Anonymous Speaks: The Tongue-Waggers

Anonymous vector signSometimes I blog about topics that have been nagging me for a while; on other occasions, I write about whatever subject comes to mind when I sit down at the computer. There is always something to write about. When ideas don’t come to me off the top of my head, I rely on the media. It offers a wealth of topics. But occasionally someone will leave a note on my blog on the “What do you want me to write about?” tab, and suggest that I write about a certain subject. Often the subject is something they want to get off of their chest.

You read it right. They want me to write it, so that they can vent – through me; as if I don’t already catch enough flack from expressing my own opinions. But admit it, that’s what opinionated people do. We opine. You do it. I do it. Everybody does it. And so – on behalf of those who may not have their own public platform, or perhaps have not been blessed with the gift of gab (in this case, relevant to writing), or are just reluctant to put themselves in the crossbow like one of Olivia Pope’s gladiators (certainly, you’ve heard the saying ‘Fools rush in…’) — for those cautious souls, I’ve started a series called Anonymous Speaks. The first entry follows.

 

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 Some people talk a good game. In fact, that’s all they do is talk, talk, talk. Rarely do they follow through with any action. They are the ultimate wolf ticket sellers, the tongue-waggers. They constantly boast about what they could or would do (while sometimes cunningly suggesting what someone else should do). Tongue-waggers lead others to believe that they are workhorses, but they seldom run anything except their mouth. The only track record they have is for spewing hot air.

Most of us know someone like them. (Raise your hand if you are one of them. Couldn’t trip you up, huh? But you know who you are.) Tongue-waggers are found anywhere and everywhere. There is always at least one in social clubs, in churches, and they are all over the workplace. They impress some people because they talk a good game, but if you study them you will notice that they rarely do anything; and volunteer for something? Ha! Does a snowman sunbathe?

Understandably, this ticks off self-starters, because their sharp eyes easily spot people who have a lot of mouth, but do nothing but flap their lips. Tongue-waggers seldom display any ability or willingness to assume responsibility. As my anonymous critic says about them, “People like that talk the talk, but when it comes time to walk – they are nowhere to be found.” They stand out like a black coffee stain on a white shirt, and should be awarded an Oscar bearing the proverbial inscription, “Every ass loves to hear himself bray.”

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