A Progress report soon?
Than to have Hillary Clinton stories, but honestly. You know, she is still on that endless book tour promoting, “What Happened.” Simple answer: you lost, girl. However, she’s been in the UK and the Brits of the press are not giving her the syrupy, sloppy easy time the American MSM is, but they have been holding her feet to the fire, especially with regard to the way she treated Bill’s victims of sexual assault, etc.
So, she has cancelled some interviews because she…broke her toe. And she’s wearing an ortho boot. For a broken toe. And, she claims that she broke said toe, “running downstairs wearing high heels and fell over backwards.” Pray tell me, how do you fall backwards and break a toe? On stairs. I hate to admit the times I’ve broken toes in my life. Big toe, little toe, second toe. Believe me, I was always going forward when it happened. This woman is making a complete spectacle of herself with this book, the tour, the constant barrage of she would handle things differently than Trump.
What if an Oscar nominated actor lost to another actor and kept jawing for nearly a year about why he should have won, what he did better than the other actor, and just didn’t let it go? In my eyes, she is now like a joke, actually, she never was that much above it before, and its laughable, really laughable. As Mimi used to say, she has no prize.
…just BROKE the retchometer. Watch all of it!
Thank heaven, outside after a few rumbles of thunder, there is a wide waterfall of silver rain falling. It is supposed to be 57 degrees tomorrow with a high of 72. Cool all week. Can it be so? Open window season? Ah, listen to that rain fall.
It’s Sunday, and I have cooked and am cooking for the week. Made spinach pumpkin curry my way, i.e., with chicken, carrots, turnips and cream added with a smattering of green onions. At the moment, chicken breasts resting on layers of onion, turnips, apples and carrots are slowly roasting. Autumn veggies.
Abita, a local brewery, usually very fine, for years always marked the fall by frewing Fall Fest, a red sort of beer that was delicious. This was followed by their Christmas Ale, another reddish sort of brew also delicious, then followed by the Mardi Gras brew, the wonderful Abita Bock. Millenials must have taken over because they don’t do this anymore. We get, blueberry ale, Pecan ale, crap ale. Yesterday, I asked the beer guys at Joe W’s–these youngsters are very knowledgeable if they knew of a beer comparable to Fall Fest. This adorable young man with black hair, black eyes, black brows and black bear thought a minute, and said, Yes, “St. Arnold’s.” He showed me this and told me it was a microbrewery in Texas. Fall and football and beer go together, so I bought a six pack. Can or bottle he asked me, always bottles, said I. Well, dear one, this brew is the reincarnation of Fall Fest, even to the beautiful color and incredible head. Actually, I think it’s better, so delicious and refreshing in an iced glass.
Yesterday, there was a tap on the storm door and it was the mail lady delivering something for me. A an adorable pair of gray combat boots, arriving just in time for the cool weather.
Reading , “The Seance,” but still under the spell of, “The Winter Ghosts.”
I have to say that if the Cubs and Yankees go the World Series this year, I thought it might pose a problem for me, but after judging what was in my heart, you know I’m going to root for the Cubbettes.
But I’m afraid I’m in one of those I Am Dreadful Funny Wicked Moods this evening. I’m just laughing as I did the dishes thinking it’s going to be a bit of a stretch to see someone who was someone who died for the rights of man previously, putting the same fervor and worry over a seam that isn’t straight. Forgive me…I laughed.
I finished, “Winter Ghosts” in one sitting. I liked it and got a bit of a turn because it took place in the Pyrenees between the border of France and Spain, the Occitan, and touch upon the Albeginsians and the Cathars. It was a good ghost story, the kind I like, but it wasn’t really scary, but a good tale. The book was prefaced with a poem written in what was described, “the old Occitan,” and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out the dialect because it seemed like Latin, then Spanish, and then French just to get me confused. So, after finishing the book, I checked on the old Occitan to learn that region had been part of the Roman Empire, there in the Pyrenees where Latin was spoken, then vulgar Latin as time wore on, then Catalonian, and being so close to France, how could that not influence it. In other words, part of the Iberian peninsula. You might like this little gem, the tale of an upper British middle class young man traumatized by loss, healed by…well, won’t tell you the end.
Felt utterly compelled to do a reading for you this afternoon asking how serious you were about leave work for good. Cards said it isn’t your work you want to leave for good, it’s something else, and you’re sublimating. Not going to help.
Cards also asked the huge cosmic question, when are you going to stop resisting that beautiful dark brown bowl of chocolate ice cream and stop starving yourself on little blue M&M’s? In an emotional sense, of course.
It is the middle of October and still hot enough to swim. I’m so tired of heat and mugginess; it’s been nearly six months of this crappola and the cool front we were supposed to get was sabotaged by Monsieur Nate. Thank you, Nate-Don. Last night was a miserable night for me; I slept fitfully, kept biting my tongue and inside cheek in my sleep, why I don’t know, bad dreams of arguments, finally just got up at 4 AM and slept like a log in the recliner. Had one of those half awake half sleep visions–half saw I was perched on a mountaintop with lofty pillars of old abbeys rising around me, all around like protection and the feeling was such peace, then I slipped into wakefulness to see the pillars were the angles of my living room, the corners, the molding. Every time I sleep in the recliner, it’s the most healing, blessed sleeps–but then again, the picture of the Sacred Heart guarding the hall with the Divine Mercy beneath it to my right, and then to my left, the Blessed Mother…who knows, and who can wonder.
But I awakened finally to the sunrise sluggish and tired as I had not been in a while. Something made me check my Tulane emails and there was a message from my old friend Darlene who has invited me to dinner on 11/4–and do you know, I was suddenly energized and began moving to get dressed to do errands. I think there’s a lot of positive energy with Darlene and that got translated to me. A blessing.
So, I showered, with Dr. Teal’s Epsom Salts and Ginger–it’s like bathing in incense, got dressed and ran errands. It was good to get out, but so miserably hot. And to be gross, in Zuppardo’s (followed by a trip to Joe W’s) I swear I never ran across the path of so many older men who needed to wash their hair. Ew, dirty stinking hair. For Pete’s sakes, how long does it take for a man to stick his head full of hairs no more than two inches long under a faucet, slather on shampoo, rinse and then just go? Noxious clouds.
When I pulled the last buggy at Zupp’s to shop there was a sign revealed on the wall that said: God gave me a special gift. What I do with it is my gift back to God. Well, that applies to the both of us now, especially now, doesn’t it?
Going to read, “Winter Ghosts.” Then, “The Seance.” Almost to the six week mark. Don’t do anything crazy once you’re healed. (Because I felt you wanting to slug the royal crap out of someone and I think you know who I mean.)
And this is Hillary. On the Weinstein scandal. What a morally bankrupt disgrace this woman is, and may I suggest, before you read the article, watch the video first.
As far as Harvey Weinstein goes, entering sexual rehab to get help, sorry, that piece of shi+ needs to be under the jail for rape and sexual assault, then get the rehab. And I do feel the vast Hollywood and film “elite” who knew about his behavior and just dismissed it as Harvey being Harvey are as complicit as he is in this guilt. And I marvel at their moral hypocrisy seemingly lording it over conservatives with their phony self-righteousness when the majority of them are nothing but pieces of trash who made it big with no moral compass whatsoever. And that brings me to that ape in a tuxedo, Jimmy Kimmel. First observation, I sincerely believe, looking at his eyes, is that he has a major drug abuse, if not downright addiction, problem. It’s either heroin or cocaine, but having worked in medicine for so long, including a psychiatric drug rehab hospital, I’ve seen people with problems with eyes like his much too often. He has said virtually nothing about Weinstein when he is constantly bashing President Trump and conservatives night after night. I saw his disgusting video when he was hosting the Man show, or something like that, interviewing women in the street, including an eighteen=year-old girl, about finding something in his pants, grope him, telling them to put their mouths around it. Another piece of walking, hypocritical crap. All the people who are now speaking out against Weinstein after years of knowing what he did are calling each other heroes for speaking out. That’s pure and utter bullshit. Really hilarious are the actresses who call themselves feminists, especially when it comes to defending their precious abortion rights, who never made a stand to protect other women against Weinstein. And that goes for the women who also sexually exploit other women in their own films they make. If you get my drift.
And as far as Hillary in this video, what a miserable liar. What she did to Clinton’s victims was a disgrace. At least Weinstein’s wife has the moral backbone to ditch this bastard. And no, sorry, dirty locker room and talk and bragging like President Trump did on the Access Hollywood tape is disgusting, but it does not have the moral equivalency of rape and sexual assault. And I think everyone who kept their mouths shut about Weinstein,who were not victims, because they were afraid for their careers are no better than prostitutes. And maybe that’s an insult to prostitutes to say that. And, spare me, Jane Fonda, you’ve always been a phony liar.