Monday, April 21, 2014

injaynesworld it's "Party Time..."


Birthdays were always a big deal in my family.  Party hats for all, including the dogs.  I can’t remember a year when I haven’t been excited about an approaching birthday, except for my 30th.  Of the generation whose mantra was “Never trust anyone over 30,” when my time arrived to cross that threshold, I took to my bed with a bottle of tequila. 

I look back at that silly girl now and want to tear off the covers, tell her to get her ass up and seize the day because they truly are numbered.  I’d assure her that, while the 30s will continue to be a struggle to find herself, the 40s will totally rock.  The 50s will bring some difficult lessons, but she will become like quicksilver in her ability to adapt, and nothing will be able to hold her down for long.  Sixty will come in like a lion and, long before Katy Perry ever thought of it, she will hear herself roar. 

She would probably respond, “Who are you, old lady?”  And “Get the hell out of my bedroom.”  But I will have at least tried. 

I don’t understand those who say they hate birthdays.   It was long my custom to announce on April 1st that there were only 20 more shopping days until mine.   What’s better than being surrounded by friends with booze, gifts and cake?   Sure, there is that getting older thing.  Body parts begin migrating to places heretofore unoccupied.   Crone hands make an appearance.  And a “lube job” takes on a whole new meaning.   But if those are the worst things happening, all the more reason to celebrate.

There are several milestone birthdays:  16, the driver’s license birthday; 18, the right-to-vote birthday; 21, the right-to-get-legally shitfaced birthday.  Then that long road until 62, the-Social-Security Birthday.  This year I celebrate the Medicare birthday.  The last one with tangible perks.
Woo-hoo!  

Whenever I’m tempted to bitch about getting older, I think of those whose lives are cut short – who never get to realize their full potential – and I shut my mouth.  I suspect that with age, we aren’t lamenting the loss of our youth, but rather the loss of our future.  It’s hard to watch the years fall away with seemingly ever-increasing speed.  Yes.  What’s up with that Neil deGrasse Tyson?  

I like it here.  I want to stay.  Another 30 years or as long as I can still sit a horse would be good.  I’m enjoying the most creative period of my life with lots still left to learn and accomplish.  This is not a time to rest on laurels.  The Universe will think you’re done.   Seventy.   Eighty.   Bring ‘em on.  And ninety?  That’s going to be awesome.

I’m booking the restaurant now.   

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

injaynesworld "See No Evil..."


I would sit on the floor in my pajamas, my nose only inches from the TV screen.  My mother said I would ruin my eyes, but it was the sound that drew me close. “I love Lucy” was my favorite.  The continuous laughter at the Ricardos’ antics held me in its comforting embrace.  I didn’t know that the audience was not real.  That what I was hearing was “canned” laughter.  I only knew that it drowned out the angry voices of my parents, the crash of furniture when one of them would stumble and fall, or the shattering of a glass thrown by one at the other. 

My mother needn’t have worried about my eyes.  They were always closed.

This post is in response to the prompt “canned laughter,” at Studio-30 Plus.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

injaynesworld it's "Forbidden Love..."


When I was but a mere child, my mother tried to instill in me what she believed to be the correct usage of the words like and love.  It would go something like this:

“A baby tears doll!  I love it!”

“We like toys, Jayne.  We love people.”

Or maybe this:

“I love chocolate cake, Mommy.”

“You like chocolate cake.  You love your family.”

On occasion, I could stump her:

“I love my puppy.”  

Once I entered adulthood and saw how casually the word “love” was tossed about, I understood her desire to teach me its value. To this day, I will check myself when tempted to use the word “love” in relation to an object, and I have to say I really do appreciate the difference. 

Imagine then my sense of self-recrimination when I recently found myself head-over-heels, madly-in-love with… a handbag.  Wrong.  So very, very wrong.  And yet I knew we were meant to be together from the moment I saw her. 

Lest you think me shallow, I assure you it wasn’t just a physical attraction.  Yes, her supple peach/rose, Italian leather thrills me at the touch.   The way she drapes herself across my shoulder, snuggling softly at my bosom causes my breath to quicken.  And her pedigree – well, let’s just say the lady is from a very good family.

However, it’s what she is on the inside that counts most and has captured my heart so completely.   Compartments.


I weep with joy just thinking about them:  One on each side and a zipper pocket in the middle.  And inside those?   More compartments.   To never again know the torment and frustration of having to dig for a ringing phone, a lipstick, checkbook, or keys.  You know what I mean, ladies.  

She has brought order and peace to my life:  On one side, a small writing tablet and pen, business cards, telephone, with room for a book should I wish to carry one.  On the other:  Cosmetics, comb, mirror and tissues.  And in the middle:  Wallet, checks, bank deposit books and keys.  Exactly as God intended.  Such generosity.  How can one not fall in love?

So, while my mother would surely never approve, I will say it now for the whole world to know.  If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.  




This was written for this week’s Studio30+ prompt.




Thursday, March 27, 2014

injaynesworld "Boys Will Be Boys..."


They gathered at the same time and place every Friday, sitting side-by-side on the old, wooden park bench like a flock of birds upon a wire, eagerly anticipating the show to come.

Bundled against the cold morning air, these five men – old now, but friends since they had played stick ball in this same park as youths – sipped from thermoses of hot coffee and munched on fresh-from-the-oven bagels from Happerstein’s Bakery just across the street.

In unison, their attention turned to the path on their left from which the women would soon appear.  It mattered not that heavy sweat suits had replaced the revealing shorts and tank tops of summer.   It was their smiles – sometimes a wink, often a little wave – as they jogged past that the men most looked forward to.

From the Five Sentence Fiction prompt, “Companion.”




Monday, March 24, 2014

injaynesworld it’s “The Four-Letter Word We Won’t Use…”


Colorful language is my thing.  Some people suspect I have Tourettes, such is my propensity for the naughty word, but no.  It’s all quite intentional. 

This week saw the passing of self-proclaimed “Minister” Fred Phelps, spreader of the gospel of fear, ignorance and hatred primarily directed at gays.  My uneducated guess is that the amount of self-loathing he felt far surpassed the loathing he directed at anyone else. We project onto others that which we most fear about ourselves. 

Source

Still, how a soul born into the natural state of love, as we all are, can be turned so dark is beyond my understanding.  Even the use of the word “hate” produces shadows that chill me.  As a child, I was reprimanded if I said it.  “Fuck?”  No problem.  “Hate?”  A gateway to hell.  

To this day, I don’t use that word.  Okay, I may say that I hate it when some asshole is going 25 in a 45-mph zone, but what I really mean is that I’m righteously annoyed.  And even then, I don’t hate the asshole.  I hate what the asshole is doing. 

I wouldn’t have ever wished Phelps dead.  Really bad juju.  But now that he is dead, I will say I’m glad he’s gone.  It would be nice if this meant the end to his so-called church, too, but I’m sure another captain of ignorance will rise to lead his pack of puke.  

That sounded kind of hateful, didn’t it?   Oh, well.   Fuck it.



Friday, March 21, 2014

injaynesworld "I Won't Cry For You, Crimea..."


Is there a country on Earth that the U.S. has not fucked with at some time or another?  I don’t think so.  That our government has the cojones to call out Putin as imperialistic is truly the stuff of a late-night comedy writer’s wet dream.

No one expected Putin to just stand down after the Ukrainian people rose up to toss out his personally-picked pool boy, Viktor Ynukovych, least of all, I suspect, the Ukrainians.  He needed to save face and Crimea became his “pound of flesh.”  If world leaders will check their testosterone levels at the door for a moment (Yes, I mean you, too, Angela Merkel), everyone may be able to save face. 

Putin has nothing to gain by going into a full-fledged conflict with the west just to acquire the debt-ridden Ukraine.  Russia’s own economy is in the toilet.   But he just may do it anyway if we continue to challenge his penis size.

Two words describe Putin:  Vanity and pride.  The Ukrainians know this and have already backed off:  “Okay. You win, man.  Crimea is yours, you big, strong, peck-enhanced titan, you.”  The people of Crimea themselves (mostly older, conservative Russians with strong ties to 'the motherland') have now voted to align themselves with Russia.  That should be “game over” for us, but oh no. 

Ever notice how we’re always pushing for democratically-elected governments around the world, then cry “foul” when the vote doesn’t go our way?   After the great Florida debacle of 2000, we don’t exactly have the high ground when it comes to ballot box issues. 

Meanwhile, the Republicans, their pockets filled with defense industry cash, urge that we “Go to war!  Go to war!”  And their poster gal, Sarah “why-the-hell-is-she-even-still-around” Palin spouts:  “The only thing that stops a bad guy with a nuke is with a good guy with a nuke.”   Could someone please nuke her? 

Okay, I know the Democrats’ pockets are just as tinged, but I don’t see anyone on the blue side advocating a missile-driven pissing match with Putin.

Putin has now signed the law officially absorbing Crimea into Russia.  That horse has left the barn.   We should focus our efforts on supporting and strengthening the new Ukraine/EU political and economic agreement, while continuing to expand our non-military options.  

Let Putin enjoy his small victory in Crimea.  Unlike the explosion of a bomb, economic sanctions take time to show results.  Finesse and patience are not signs of weakness.   They are signs of intelligence. 

"Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall."


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