As God is my witness, I’ll keep this resolution. Granted, it will require self control and hours of hard work, but I thrive on challenge.
In my youth I was into playing with fashion dolls Barbie and Ken, along with their friends Midge and Alan. My collection of the dolls never extended past that core group. Alan was lost early on and all of Ken’s fuzzy hair rubbed off, so he was essentially bald for as long as I can remember. Maybe that’s why I find Studly Doright so darned attractive.
Unlike most of my friends I didn’t go in for dressing my Barbie dolls in ball gowns and high heels. The latter never stayed on for more than ten seconds anyway. No, my dolls were meant for greater things than parading about in too tight skirts and sweaters that showed off their alarmingly enhanced charms.
I had two favorite scenarios:
1) “Space Barbie” in which Barbie and Midge are the first women in space. They travel to a distant planet where they rescue Ken who had been marooned for months. Together, the trio fight off strange life forms and build the foundation of a dynamic colony. There might have been some mild romance. I wasn’t very old, and had no idea where babies came from.
2) “Cave Barbie” in which Barbie and Midge are foraging for food in prehistoric times and wander too far from their home village. They take shelter from a violent storm in a cave and discover Ken who’d been exiled by another tribe. Together, the trio fight off strange beasts and build the foundation for a dynamic new clan.
Anyone see a pattern forming? There were other scenarios–“Pirate Barbie,” “Ranch Barbie,” and “Archeological Barbie,” to name a few. In each scenario Barbie and Midge had to pull Ken’s butt out of a life threatening predicament. Keep in mind, this was well before the popularity of career minded Barbie. I was either way ahead of my time or suffering from delusions of grandeur.
Two of my granddaughters play with Barbies. I tried to tell the oldest one about my dolls’ adventures. She wasn’t impressed.
“Did you have a Barbie house?” she asked.
“Well, no, I piled up blankets and created little caves in the folds. That’s where they lived.”
“Did your dolls have lots of pretty dresses?”
“No, but my mom found some fake fur scraps and I draped them around my Barbies to keep them warm in their caves. Cool, huh?”
“I think I like my way better,” she said.
“Fine. Be that way,” I retorted. “But just know that Ken’s blood is on your hands.”
I’m not allowed to babysit anymore.
From the brilliant Jan Wilberg.
Everyone’s writing about their New Year’s resolutions so I think I should join in. My resolution is to continue what has been a pretty successful two-week effort to control my own moods.
I am a sitting duck for episodes of depression and anxiety, times that I describe as ‘sinking like a stone’ or ‘beating it back with a stick.’ These are usually consequent to nothing, feelings that rise up to choke me while I’m stirring a pot on the stove or wiping the snow from my car. It is a feeling of not having done enough or having done too much, regretting the past or dreading the future. A poisonous little menu, don’t you think?
Sometimes, the moods are dark but fleeting. Sometimes, they move in and stay, fat, sloppy clouds that sit on my lap and drip on my papers for weeks, sometimes months.
I am mindful of the…
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Crazy is as crazy does, the will to live is stronger
Pour out the tea, pour up the rum, the nights are getting longer
Early darkness crowds around, the hour’s barely five
And we throw stones to prove for once that we’re all still alive.
I was made of sterner stuff when once I lived a southern life
But these winter days, cold north wind haze, cut me like a jagged knife.
Build up the fire for pity’s sake, and turn on all the lights
My sanity is near an end and I’m all out of fight.
I am concerned about the future…not the fact that we are watching the first pieces put into place for the next world war, the 3rd and possibly the last one, but other little things concern me too.
Healthcare and Medicare, (which Paul Ryan is itching to dismantle), and threats to Social Security concern me. Pardon me for pointing thisout, but that social security is MY money and I will want it back if I can ever retire. I have been paying into it since I was sixteen years old. Regardless of what some politicians say, social security is fully funded until 2034, and after that it is about three-quarters financed. It should be there when I retire, but it may not be if smoke and mirrors tiny sticky fingers Trump goes anywhere near it.
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Balloons did the trick, one attached to each arm, two more tied on to my swollen ankles,
and thanks to a stout wind I was on my way up. I tried to wave to the crowd below,
but the motion caused a disruption in the airflow and briefly I found myself wobbling
precariously. Acknowledging the accolades would have to wait until I mastered control.
On Tuesday, December 27, Carrie Fisher died. I so wanted to be her character in Star Wars: Brave and beautiful, smart and sassy.
Prince, David Bowie, Muhammad Ali
Alan Rickman, Doris Roberts, Alan Thicke
Garry Marshall, Bobby Vee, Gene Wilder
Patty Duke, Morley Safer, Glenn Frey
Florence Henderson, Robert Vaughn,
Gwen Ifill, Arnold Palmer, Pat Nixon
Garry Shandling, Merle Haggard.
Amendment: Leonard Cohen, George Michael