Reproachable

Well. . . they did it again.  They blocked my post on cafeselavy.com.  I think.  If you want to see the post, I think you have to be desperate.  There is a whole lotta clicking that has to go on.  Again. . . I think.  My experience does not necessarily mirror yours.  I'm baffled by it, but what the hell?  They sent me an email that says I am welcome to take them to court over it all, but they know I'm not going to do that.  I'll just keep writing with the minuscule audience who wants to read and see my posts.  I mean. . . who wouldn't want to see today's photo?  

Oh. 

But we must get on with "things."  I was rather desolate yesterday for reasons unknown, so I took a painful walk just before noon when I got up from my morning nap, got rained on, took a shower, and decided to get the makings for "mimosa juice" as someone I once knew used to call it.  I thought to read the day away, make some dinner, and crash early.  

I didn't read.  I sat with my mimosa and then another.  

I thought I'd try to be normal and do what other people do, so I found a station on my non-cable television that was carrying the olympics.  It was awful.  I don't know how people do it. . . but they do. . . by the billions.  Maybe t.v. coverage in other countries is not as bad, but here it is like watching "the news."  First three commentators come on to discuss the upcoming event, then they opine--rather, give their "expert" analysis--and make some predictions.  This takes quite awhile.  Then they go to commercial break for a very long time.  When they come back, they might talk about some of the things surrounding the event like the color chosen for the uniform or who designed it or what the thread count is--all breathlessly--. . . then another commercial break.  When they come back, the contestants are milling about and the commentators fill in with more commentary.  Then the event takes place, and oh, my, somebody wins and the commentators become narrators as they replay the event in parts.  Then there is a really long commercial break.  

I couldn't stand it.  Two mimosa juices in, I lay back on the couch, closed my eyes, and took the second nap of the day. 

When I woke, it was almost time to go to mother's.  I did a little bit of clean up around the house, put in a load of laundry, and listened to some music.  

When I got to mom's, she was siting out with two of her neighbors.  I joined the gals.  

"Well if this isn't a party.  What are you all doing?"

"We're just telling each other our problems."

The two ladies had their little dogs there and they were begging for my attention.  The dogs, I mean.  I imagined they were saying, "Help us. . . help!"  I gave them adequate attention and got the gals laughing.  Oh. . . I am a party favorite, I am.  

One neighbor reluctantly went back home to fix a pizza for her husband and his buddies.  They were playing pool. And after awhile, the other neighbor put her little dog in her basket and got on her tricycle to peddle home--two houses away.  

I sat and talked to my mother a bit longer, and after a bit, I, too, left.

It was good to be home.  The cat was waiting, so I fed her, made a Campari, lit a cheroot. . . blah blah blah. . . and the neighbor's cat came down off my roof to visit.  We three partied for a bit until a neighbor walked by with his dog who is never leashed and who does not obey his owner's voice commands.  The two cats ran into hiding.  I like dogs and I don't expect them to be leashed, but I do expect this motherfucker to keep his dog from chasing the cats off my porch, and I often think to tell him I will do something awful to him or his dog if. . . but I don't.  The dog isn't going to catch the cats and it is a bit of an old fashioned game from the wayback, but still. . . the guy is a little too smug.  One day, maybe.  

When I went inside, I put on some music, a mix of songs I have "favorited" on Apple Music, and began preparing dinner.  Spaghetti noodles boiling, Brussels sprouts steaming, and cut up chicken meat frying in a pan soon to be covered in vodka sauce.  Plated, I sat down but did not turn on the television.  The music was too good and television is a bad, bad habit.  I will quit it altogether soon.  

Some texts, boys and girls, and some replies.  I cooked up some old photos I have never worked on.  Then it was time for bed.  

I wonder what will break the "community standards" in this post.  Maybe just talking about Blogger.  I don't know.  I've never been very good with community standards.  I'm what they call in certain circles a "rebel."  

I have a decadent breakfast cake this morning and a pot of good coffee.  I live in the hurricane state, though, and we are under orders to "prepare."  I am not very good at preparing.  I guess I should make an effort.  Sooner or later, we will get hit by something that will blow off roofs and knock down trees and we will be without electricity and maybe potable water.  Batteries and bottled water I guess.  Maybe a flashlight.  I don't know.  A tankful of gasoline.  

"A six pack of beer and a pack of cigarettes"?

I watched my garage apartment get completely destroyed by Hurricane Floyd years ago, and I'm still traumatized.  I've been traumatized by many things this century.  

When I was with the girls at the redneck river a few days ago, I said something about women who went to therapy.  One of the women is a Ph.D. in psychology and a feminist, so she stopped me.  

"Just women?"

"You tell me--who goes to therapy more, men or women?"

"I'd guess women."

Yea, me too, so when I got home, I looked it up.  Over twice as many women go to therapy.  There are more than twice as many female therapist as male (if I may be so binary).  

On the river--"So what do you do, just push it down and suppress it?"

"Yea. . . I guess."

I looked that up, too.  That's what men do.  That and use alcohol and drugs.  

"Today, women are three times more likely than men to experience common mental health problems. . . .  Three times as many men die by suicide compared to women. . . .  Men are more likely to act out their feelings through disruptive or anti-social behaviour and will often turn to alcohol and drug use. . . ."

Not Vince Vaughen, though.  

Well, he did have an alcohol and drug problem, but, you know. . . . 

I read this in the New York Times today:

"A friendship educator and women’s coach, [Danielle Bayard] Jackson looks at the complexities of relationships between women to understand their fragility and help women to form and maintain more healthy friendships."

According to Jackson, it is much more difficult for women to make and keep friendships than it is for men, but it is more important to them.  Women, she says, tend toward one on one friendships whereas men tend to gather in groups.  

So my takeaway?  I need to quit drinking.  

Yea, yea. . . I'm reproachable.  But the psychology Ph.D. didn't really think much of therapies, either.  

"Still. . . it's nice to talk to someone."

O.K.  I DO think this post should be put behind a warning label, so. . . I won't protest and most of you won't go through the labyrinth of getting here anyway.  

I have a pocketful of good music to post here, but what I originally intend before I write doesn't seem to fit what I have written.  Here's a new one by Gillian Welch and David Rawlings.  I'm glad they are good again.