Good quote
"Sarcasm should not be like a saw, but a sword; it should cut, and not mangle."
----
Lord Francis Jeffrey
Labels: Quotes
Of Joy
----
Helen Rowland
If there is joy in sight, receive it.
If there is joy within, offer it.
If there is joy received by others, give in to it.
If there is joy around, bask in it.
If there is joy resting, excite it.
Labels: Feel Goods, My Writing, Poetry
Much / Not So Much
----
Wilfred Peterson
Looking just like you did when you graduated? Much.
You graduated 200 pounds overweight with Farrah hair and look just like you did when you graduated? Not so much.
Crawfish? Much.
Crawfish from New Orleans? Sorry, no offense, but not so much.
Getting home after a fantastic day? Much.
Getting home after a fantastic day and not knowing how long your skirt was in your panty hose? Not so much.
A peck on the lips good night after a first day? Much.
A peck on the lips after leaving the Onion and Garlic Festival? Not so much.
Hair like Star Jones? Much.
Face like Star Jones? Not so much.
(And let's just face it, people...) Body like Star Jones? Really not so much.
Labels: Humor, Much / Not So Much, My Writing
The Way We Are
----
Anonymous
So I went job hunting. In another town. Because the town I live in is too small!
I digress.
I visited a friend that I hadn’t seen in a while. She works as a bank customer service representative. She was working with a customer when my friend and I entered, so we waited in a lovely seating area. The bank was conservative; dark wood tones for the counter section, nice bulky desks, brochures. It was a swanky space. I took the leather chair and my girlfriend took the lovely, complementary loveseat.
We were quietly chatting when a tween-aged girl walks through the door. I’m slightly stunned at a first glance when I saw her not-so-skinny stomach poking out between her shorts and white t-shirt. She stepped to the counter in her bare feet with a dollar bill in her hand. I looked away when my brain said, “Whoa, Nelly! Would ya take a lookie back!!” Reflexively, I looked and the t-shirt was a series of wrapped bandages over her sun-burned torso and upper arms. I had enough home training, but otherwise I would have gasped.
I finally stopped gawking and continued with my conversation when a woman in her upper fifties opened the security door. I glanced up at her as she took a few steps from the door. She actually stood a foot away from this little girl, looked up and down at her for at least ten to fifteen seconds, walked back in, and closed the door.
Proof positive that if you want to rob a bank, come to a bank around here. Make sure you have an apt distraction and you should get a lot of money.
Labels: Humor, My Writing, Prose
Why I Want To Cry When I Realize I'm In a Small Town
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Fran Lebowitz
Somebody. Anybody. Kidnap me and take me to a city.
Okay, not really, but let me explain. I live in a small town. Not small enough to not have a Wally World, mind you. Yet, the Wal-Mart that we have is of years of yore, when there were no groceries more than bread and milk, which happens to be the only thing in the store that is refrigerated.
I live in a town where there is more than one main street. That’s a plus. The town shuts down at 8pm. That’s not a plus.
I digress.
I bought a head of cabbage the other day to steam. Since I’ve had a taste for egg rolls, and I’ve been giving too much of my $1.07’s to the Chinese restaurant, I figured I could make my own. How hard could it be? Steam the cabbage to a little under cooked phase, add some stuff, place the mixture into a wonton wrapper, and fry. Simple, right?
Oh, no. Not if you are in a small town. You have to find the wonton wrappers.
I went to the first grocery store, seeking an oriental section. I’m sure there was one, but it was not defined in the aisle banner. You know, that thing that hovers over the aisle to let you know what’s in it? Then I thought that it may be in a cold place. So, I walked the length of the store—produce, up the cold cuts, along the meats, over and around the dairy—without any sight of a wrapper.
To be continued…
Labels: Humor, My Writing, Prose
My Uncle Pleak
----
George Bernard Shaw
In doing some rearranging through my newly inherited house, I found a flag. It was an American flag that was folded in the manner of a flag that was once draped over a soldier’s casket.
I had to believe that it was my Uncle Pleak’s casket that was covered by this flag. He was a World War I veteran. I was too young to really appreciate his contribution to the war. I will honor this weekend to his memory.
At the time I knew him, he was aging. I will say this: he was a military man. My uncle did not own clothes that were not his own army gear. I’ve never seen him out of the basic olive green uniform, army steel-toe boots, and, on occasion, his army cap. Next to my father, he was the epitome of man. He had shocking white hair atop his thin, cocoa-toned frame. His hair was always unforgettable. His nose was shaped like an eagle’s beak between huge, round eyes whose lids covered them. His soft-spoken voice passed through thin lips that also held his hand-made cigarettes. He had a smoky smell on him that was of cigar tobacco that tickled my nose whenever I was near him.
One of the things I loved about him was his hair. It was so wavy and so beautiful to me. I loved when it grew out; the curls began to show like a crown of miniature roses. But my uncle hated it. He would have his hair cut on a regular basis if he did nothing else.
My mama or my grandmother would cook for him every single day for lunch. I’m not even sure why or when this ritual started, but when that man backed out of his driveway in his black, white, and red pin-striped, 1980-ish model GMC truck, his food needed to be done. We would see his house from our kitchen window. Uncle Pleak would drive the half block down his street then turn left. He would turn into our carport that was about ten feet from the corner. Uncle Pleak would be parked and he would be in his chair at the end of the table at noon. We could set our clocks to his tapping at the door.
He was a sweet man who had no children. I felt like he was a grandfather to me. I will say one of my favorite things about him was the way he talked. About five miles out of town down the local highway was a “bar.” I’d never been inside, but it was a hole in the wall and a cave outside itself. My uncle’s vices were tobacco and alcohol. That man bled whiskey with a dash of blood. He needed his liquor as much as he needed his breakfast and lunch. Every time I think about having something to drink, I can hear him say, “I need a little thwig.” His swigs of hard liquor were his demise. He had a stroke, which stopped him from having independence, but didn’t stop him from knowing when his hair past army regulation length. We would know from when he rubbed his head. He would vigorously push his hand back and forth with an inaudible sound. We had to get his hair cut immediately.
My uncle passed away in his home. We did not know for about a day because nobody had seen him. Finally, ambulances came to the rescue that night. I remember running so fast to his house that my shoes quickly fell off. I ran into his house and found him in his long johns.
A picture of him on a makeshift portrait site of a ship he was on is on my wall in my living room.
His flag is prominently shown, folded, on a stand now as a remembrance of him.
Thank you, soldiers, who have lost their lives by defending the very thing other countries dream of, people stand for, die for, and we live for.
Thank you, soldiers, who are living their lives for our livelihood. God bless you.
Labels: My Writing, Prose, Thoughts
Speechless...
I find myself
beside myself.
Myself and I
become two.
It takes me to see
when I am angry
it affects all three:
Me, Myself, and I.
----
Lesia Nixon
Well, I'm speechless. Not really. I'll be back later and add to this. Maybe drop some of my poetry.
Labels: My Writing, Poetry
English Wasn't America's Language?
-----
Confucius
Well this may be one of only a handful of blogs that doesn't talk about that singing contest. You can thank me in comments.
Until May 18, 2006, English had not been established as the official national language. What’s the big freaking deal anyway?
Frankly, I’m thinking this was just a faux pas. Nobody thought to make English the language of choice. I did a smidgen of research and found that the purpose of doing this is not necessarily related to stopping people from
Oh, yeah. I know it sounds like a flaky excuse. That’s what I read though, and I’m going to go with it. I mean what else is there to do? English is supposed to be the language of most of us. A few American territories two states have more than one official language. I’ll give you a moment to figure out what they could possibly be.
In the 2000 census, Hispanics and Oriental people are the two largest minorities who have their own languages. These two minorities make up about 17%. On the other side of the coin, the
Making English the official national language is like putting a sign on a prostitute. She’s standing on the corner, dressed up in a provocative manner, cars are pulling up to talk to her for a few minutes, she gets in, in a few minutes later she gets back on the corner for the whole thing to happen again. The signs that she is a prostitute are clear. Putting a sign on her just adds the stamp of confirmation.
So, it’s no big deal. This gesture of the government will change nothing. Dare I say that we should be more open to learning and teaching other languages. We are the melting pot. We should be taught other cultures and other languages. No need to worry about
Those places that have bilingual official languages in the
Ooh! I felt dendrites grow. How about you? Don't you feel a little edumacated? I does!
Labels: My Opinion, My Writing, Prose
What I Got In My Mailbox
-----
Pearl S. Buck
So, I was mulling around doing not much of anything when I decided to check my mail. I received an envelope with a ‘do not bend’ sticker on it. I’m not that special, so when I looked at the return address from my—ahem—alma mater, I got tickled. The last piece of the puzzle was in my hands.
I took my mail with me and decided to flip the envelope and bend up the metal butterfly clasp that held down the flap. I took a peek as if my mail should be a secret to me. Yet, it was a present; a present that I never thought I would receive. I was surprised when I saw a piece of plain white paper. Along with an additional envelope, the piece of paper was slick with a piece of lamination.
I went into the house, took a seat, and slid the paper from the envelope. Under the laminated slice of plastic and the piece of paper, I found my diploma. Would you believe that I have not gotten used to knowing that I got this? That I accomplished this goal? The one thing I never thought I could ever accomplish? I took it in my hands and looked at it. I examined the size of it, the fine writing, my name, the number of people who signed it, the honors sticker, the emblem… I really looked at it.
It may settle in my head eventually. I've got an Associate's of Arts degree in Liberal Arts. I’m just not sure when.
I can tell you that a part of me deep down inside is doing the Snoopy dance.
Labels: My Writing, Thoughts
The Way You See It
From Thoughts.com
The environment YOU fashion out of
...your THOUGHTS...your BELIEFS
...your IDEALS... your PHILOSOPHY
...is the only climate you will ever live in.
-----
Alfred A. Montapert
Here is the truth: I didn't do it. I wasn't even there for the most part. I have to thank (and I must be careful with my verbiage--I'll explain in a moment) someone that has been a rubber band that I've had around my wrist for the last five or so years. SunKingpoet has been the little brother in my life. He's the annoying, obnoxious, little runt that kept picking on me that, when not around, you kind of miss. Besides the link of his blog, he also has a forum for writers called First Light Forums.
I have to say that Bub (I have to call him that because if I get to calling what a great person he is, his head won't be able to get through a door--and this is the only time you may see this in print--and he deserves every accolade) has made Evolution of gina as you see it. I am ever grateful for giving the look that it. I am equally grateful for his input over the years. It is because of him that started writing again. I have to thank another person whose writing that he shared with me and later on written to me that sparked me into writing.
I’m getting ahead of myself. I'll have to tell you about I AM H. I. M., Mr. Dredlox himself, another day.
So, besides my words, I wanted to let you know a couple of things about the way you see things here. There are some special characteristics that I had no idea I'd be able to show to so many people until Bub made them so.
First the background. I was driving home from another town one day (I have another blog which may elaborate my surroundings) when I decided to pull over and take this picture. It is unretouched and I used the camera to make the clouds appear as they do.
Secondly, the pictures behind the name. The first one is the only pic that I have of my mother and my father together. Not sure why that is, but aren't they a number? The second picture is of a rose that I took a picture of. The third is a pic of me that I took earlier this year (2006--for posterity purposes) with one of my better hair days.
Again, thank you, Bub, for making the baby (the site, as you can see, I just started blogging a couple of days ago) as beautiful as it is now. I appreciate it from the bottom of my heart.
Labels: Blog Sites to See
Much/Not So Much
From Thoughts.com
Man is made or unmade by himself.
For man to conquer himself is the first and noblest victory.
Man conrols his own passions,and emotions.
Without self-control the good life is impossible.
-----
Alfred A. Montapert
Here’s my first installment of what I call “Much/Not So Much.”
Much will be things that are good or things we like for whatever reason. Not so much are things that people ask if we like them or not and we say, “Not so much.”
Chocolate ice cream? Much.
Chocolate ice cream with ketchup? Not so much.
Ugly midgets in love? Much.
An ugly midget in love with you? Not so much.
A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Much
A pot of beans in front of your farting friend? Not so much.
Looking forward to January, 2008? Much.
Looking forward to Bush being president until January, 2008? Not so much.
Having drinks with a friend after work? Much.
Having drinks with Anna Nicole Smith after any awards show? Depends on who you ask.
Labels: Humor, Much / Not So Much, My Writing
Directions Southern Style
Asking for directions in a southern town is—well, what is the word for it—interesting.
Case in point: I needed some extra material for a quilt. No big deal, right? Think again. I went to the local gas station where I decided to ask the attendant for directions. I walked in to prepay when I discovered two older gentlemen. Though the men were unrelated-one was an overweight, fair-skinned redhead and the other was a lanky, tanned brunette—they both had on Dickies’ coveralls with dingy, threadbare t-shirts, which was the dress code of the south. This was a warm day, but if it had been cold, the shirts would have been long-sleeved flannel shirts or long john shirts.
I stepped to the register and submitted my cost of gas to Red. “Excuse me, could you help me, please?”
Red's skin around his eyes wrinkled as his jovial voice boomed throughout the store. “Wyy shore! Wut kin Ah do fer ya?”
“Could you tell me if there is a fabric shop in town?”
Red’s eyebrows furrowed, creating new wrinkles on his forehead. “Hmmm. Uh faa-brick shahp?”
“Yes, please.”
“Whudder ya tryin tah buy?”
As usual, when asking directions in a southern town, the person giving them wants to be sure you are going to the right place. Well, not actually. They are just being inquisitive—an apt euphemism for being nosey. “Well, I’d like to buy some fabric.”
Unlike in a city—where one would give directions from where they are standing—Red gave directions starting from the middle. “Dyo yyou knoa whare duh ohld wharehaws iss?”
“No, I didn’t know there was a warehouse around here.”
Red’s face scrunched inward—eyebrows, lips, and cheeks. After a moment, they blossomed happily like a flower receiving the sunlight. “Dyo yyou knoa whare Mistah Braown’s cleanuhs is?” He said that in hopes that I would be able to connect with him; to meet him half way.
Unfortunately, I had to disappoint him. My eyebrows raised along with my hands in self-deprecation. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are talking about. Who is Mr. Brown?”
Red gasped then his eyes bulged. His voice nearly yelped as if someone poked him in the ribs. “Yyou dohnno Mistah Braown?” He would have been floored by my statement, but he was already sitting.
I felt as if I had taken a blow. My body turned inward, my face flushed as I looked down. I lowered my voice in shame. “No.”
Red was unconvinced. His voice dropped in tone, but remained loud. Red repeated the question, somewhat in denial for my ignorance. “Yyou don knoa Mistah Braown? Bawby Lee Braown?”
I wanted to know Bobby Lee Brown just because Red wanted me to know him. I mean Bobby Lee must be an upstanding kind of guy if Red knows him! Yet, I only hid my shame for not being in-the-know. I barely heard my imperceptible whisper. “I really don’t. Honest.”
I saw it in Red’s face. His eyes became narrow, scrutinizing. Here it comes. He was about to ask about me. I could feel it. I thought to myself, Oh, just go ahead and ask, for crying out loud.
Red did not disappoint me. “Haw lohn yyou bin livin’ raoun heah?”
That question always feels like I’m about to be accused of something. I get the third degree. I always amaze people with my answer, just like I amazed Red. “I’ve been living around here a couple of years.”
“Whare yyou frum?”
Another question that I often get due to my mid-western accent. The second surprise dropped just like the other shoe. “I graduated here, actually.”
I saw the wheels smoking behind Red's squinting eyes. He didn't believe me. He shouldn't. I lived in
“No, I’m not familiar with that name.” That’s it. I was going to have to leave. I figured that I had to drive up and down each street until I found a fabric store.
Yet, my feet failed me as I stood stock still like I had stepped into some Gorilla Glue. Red gawked with incredulity. “We-ell, he gawt fo chillrin. Wunna dem’s ‘bout yoh age.” He turned to the lanky guy. “Skeeder, whuh dat gurl naym iss?”
Oh boy, Red brought in his partner to round out the act. I’ve nearly been dismissed by family ties. This could go on for hours. Skeeter's voice was scratchy and deep. I could almost see the layers of tar and nicotine on his vocal chords. “Hoo, Jesseh?”
Jesse’s voice brimmed with anticipation. “Bawby Lee dawda. Wuts hur naym?” Skeeter had to know Bobby Lee's daughter! I was rooting for Skeeter. I hoped against hope that Skeeter would satisfy the pent up angst in Jesse’s voice. I felt guilty for what I put Jesse through. I wondered if I really need that fabric this much. Why didn't I check the phone book before I left?
“Cain remembah, Jesseh.” Oh no, Skeeter! You had to know! You just had to! I was beginning to feel like I was watching a soap opera. Will Skeeter know Bobby Lee’s daughter? Will Jesse be able to tell Skeeter? Will Jesse be able to live with himself if Skeeter can’t remember? Will I ever be told how to get to the nearest fabric store? These, and other questions, will be answered on the next episode of--
“Buh yyou knoa whoo Ah’m talkn ‘bout, riyaht?” Jesse leaned forward as his eyes widened and pierced. I thought he was surging the picture of the daughter into Skeeter’s head. I started looking for smoke from Jesse’s head in this long moment of silence.
Skeeter’s eyes nearly popped out and his face spread wide with confirmation. “Ah knoa, Jesseh! Kay-rin! Das hur naym!”
Jesse smiled. He stared at some unknown space in the ceiling. “Wundah whayre she iss nah.”
“Lanhtah, ain she?” By now, I could have gone to
“Gessso.” Jesse’s mind went back to the good old days. “She wus ah purdy lil thang, wuhdn she?”
“Yeh. Uh lil bean-pole doh.” Skeeter’s head moved slowly up and down as if he was swaying to a song in the back of his mind.
“Yeh, buh she hadah mouf on hur. Jus liyahk hur mommah.”
“Yeh. Shore dihd.” Jesse and Skeeter took a mental trip back to the days of yore.
I really hated to interrupt their voyage, but I don’t know Bobby Lee, I don’t know Karen, and I really would like to get the fabric within the next month. Today would be good.
I simulated a hypnotist who was trying to slowly bring out their stooges. Five… four… three… two…“Pardon me…”
They turned to my direction, refreshed from their session. “Oh yeh. Sawry baw dat. Uh faa-brick stoah, riyaht?”
I smiled. They came back to reality with all of their faculties. Great! “No need to apologize, but yes, please. The nearest fabric store?”
“You knoa haow tah git daown yonder to da skwahr?”
“Yes, I think so. Can’t I go down
“Yeh!” His ecstatic response was filled with approval. I did good! “Yah go liyahk yyou gowuhn tah da skwahr, cept cha mayk a riyaht daown at dah liyaht.”
I nodded a confirmation of understanding, albeit somewhat tentatively. “Okay. A right at the light before the square.” Jesse smiled gleamed with joy that said, “By Jove, I think she’s got it!” But, I wasn’t trying to remove my cockney accent. I was trying to get some fabric and I was almost there.
“Dehn yah mayka nudder riyaht two blahks daohn yahnda. Look ohn yah lef siyahd uhdah skreet. Yyou shul see id riyah oer dayehr.” The suspenseful climatic ending was over and now we all have to pick up the pieces of the dénouement.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it.” Down south, it’s not enough to thank a person. One must be humbly grateful for the assistance.
“Nah yawl cuhm bayahck nah, yah heah?”
Labels: Humor, My Writing, Prose
It's not about us
I said it’s not about us. Well, most of the time it won’t be about us. It may very well be about one of us. My name is not gina, but that’s the name I like when a man comes up to me and ask, “What’s your name?” So, call me gina.
Here’s a little about myself. My purpose for doing this is to strengthen my writing chops.I am not married and have no children. I’d like to call my age “twenty-twenty” instead of forty. I spent a great deal of my life roaming aimlessly. A life changing event that you will hear about another time changed me from being a hat rack to finding a focus; a purpose, if you will. So in the last year, I’ve gone back to school, completed an Associate’s degree, won some contests in poetry and drama, written some op-eds and a letter to the editor that I’m darn impressed with.
Frankly, I didn’t know I had this in me. You will see some random trains of thought along with my poetry and some formally written stories and opinions.
Well, here’s to my doing the dayang thang. Cheers!
Labels: My Opinion, My Writing