February 27, 2015
9:48 p.m.

Tonight I'm taking a break from my fear musings. There's something more important on my mind.

Spock has been beamed up.

Leonard Nimoy passed away this morning, and I'm feeling pretty sad. I guess a part of me was really hoping that he, like Spock, might have inherited the longevity of his Vulcan father. But I guess that human gene has been in charge all along.

What a bummer.

My space-travel adventures actually started with "Lost in Space", not "Star Trek". I my defense, I was 5 and Billy Mumy was cute.

"Star Trek" actually started a year later, and I was already primed for more outer space stories. I totally loved Will Robinson, who was a kid smart enough to really contribute to the family's project. That was cool, because I would have loved to be a kid like that. And he had a robot for a friend. Too cool.

But that guy with the pointy ears--he was fascinating! Plus, these guys were not lost, they actually knew where they were and what they were doing. And there was a woman working with them, a woman who was not the mother, not cooking meals and doing laundry. She was a real member of the crew.

The problem was, my parents were on board with "Lost in Space", but not so keen about "Star Trek".
So I didn't really get to watch the program on a regular basis until it went into syndication.

I was the only kid I knew who watched the show in the early 70's. I was generally considered a bit of a weirdo anyway, so I took the teasing with a grain of salt. And by the time I was in High School, I had managed to get a couple of my friends into it.

There were a ton of paperback novels out, and I picked up quite a few over the years between Junior High and High School. I loved the added insight into Spock's history most of all. A three-year-long program really wasn't enough time to develop the characters and their back stories, so the stories were enjoyable.

That said, I never would have picked up a single "Star Trek" book if not for my fascination with Spock. The character was intriguing. Half human, half Vulcan and not really accepted by either...er...race? Entity? Being? Whatever.  It opened up, for me, my first real questions regarding interracial marriage, racial prejudice and intolerance.

Here was this ideal future, see? On board the Starship Enterprise there were men and women of various races--a black woman, a Japanese man, a Russian and a Scot, plus the Captain and the Doctor, who were, presumably, Americans. And they all got along and worked together and no one seemed at all prejudiced against each other.

But Spock was the odd man out. Was he human? Was he Vulcan? Why did it seem necessary for him to pick one or the other? And why was Bones such an ass about it?

The future suddenly didn't seem all that ideal.

So I was about sixteen, and I was thinking, why is it that even when mankind has moved so far into the future and overcome so much that they still have to choose someone to pick on? And why did it have to be Spock? Couldn't they understand how special he was?

I still ask that same question, because human nature still baffles me. No matter our advances, we, as humans, always seem to be looking for the differences between us instead of learning to focus on the many, many similarities.

If I learned anything at all from Spock, it was to search out the similarities and been more accepting. It was and always will be a lesson worth learning.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Nimoy. I thank you for all you taught me as Spock, and for your beautiful poetry. You will be missed.

Live Long and Prosper, my friends.

Good night.

February 25, 2015
6:16 p.m.

Fear, continued...

I will start by confessing that I did not got in search of the clown doll. It was late, it was dark...

Hey! I don't have to justify myself. I didn't look for it, okay? Okay.

But if I come across it again while searching for something else, I will get rid of it.

Maybe.

It was a gift...

So. Fear. Clearly I have some issues, but I'm not the only one. You're scared of something. We all are.

Today, I think I might have to address some more justifiable fears. We can deal with vampires--real vampires, not sparkly Edward vampires--some other time.

Once upon a time, I was afraid of being alone. Not the "I'm all alone in the house and I'm scared" alone, but the "nobody loves me and I'm gonna die alone" alone.

There was this voice, see, that told me that I wasn't good enough, pretty enough, thin enough, etc. That voice assured me that I would never have a boyfriend, never get married, never have children.

Well, I did all those things. But that voice continued to tell me that I wasn't good enough, pretty enough, thin enough, smart enough, blah, blah, blah. And I realized that the voice wasn't mine, it was my husband's. He never said those things out loud, but by his actions he declared it daily.

(No, I'm not going to list his actions, fear not. This isn't about him, it's about me.)

A new voice started up in my head, a voice that said I wasn't strong enough or smart enough to make it on my own. How would I house and feed my children? How would I find a decent job? What would people think? What will my parents think?

Plus, I would be alone.

Oh, it was scary.

But I left--finally--and I got a decent job, I housed and fed my children. I even got married again. But after a few years I realized that marrying again had more to do with my fear of being alone than anything else, and when it ended I wasn't afraid of being on my own again, because I knew by then that I was strong enough, and smart enough to do it alone.

So here I am, alone. Maybe it is because I'm not good enough or pretty enough or thin enough, but by God, whatever the reason, I am not afraid of it anymore. I am perfectly fine with it. The truth is, I have four wonderful children and eight beautiful grandchildren, parents, siblings, friends, and even if I don't have a husband or boyfriend, it's okay. I'm not gonna die alone. I am loved. And for that I am truly grateful.

Now, having said that, I feel qualified to say to those who struggle with the fear of being alone, either because they've never been part of a pair, or because they are part of a pair that would be better off not being a pair--it's okay. It's okay to be scared, it's normal to be scared. Just don't let the fear paralyze you. Don't let it make you believe you are not good enough. Don't let it make you afraid to get out if you really need to go. Don't make it keep you from reaching out if you really need to make a connection.

Don't let fear be the boss.

It's a tough old world, and being alone in it is scary, but it's even scarier to not be in it. We all have to leave the house, work, buy food, pay bills. We all have to get involved in something, be a part of something. Expand your world, expand your life. Along the way you may or may not find a special someone to share it with, but never think that you're not special enough to just enjoy it by yourself.

In the end, you are really the only one who can make you happy.

So, that's all I have to say about that. Fear of being alone--rational and reasonable. Also manageable.

Vampires? Maybe next time.

Good night!

February 23, 2015
6:38 p.m.

I find myself wanting to talk about fear. I don't know why, but it has been on my mind a lot lately, so I figured writing about it might put some things in perspective.

Fear is subjective. No matter who you are, you have a fear or two. I've never met anyone who wasn't afraid of something.

Lets take clowns, for example. If I ever walked into a McDonald's restaurant and Ronald McDonald was there, I would turn around and jog right out the door. I couldn't even stand to watch him on commercials. Clowns are seriously creepy.

I have a friend who loves clowns. She once presented me with a ceramic clown doll. It was all I could do not to drop it on the floor. It's still lurking around here somewhere, and every time I run across it--I hide it from myself, but sometimes it turns up when I'm searching for something else--I swear I'm going to get rid of it. But it was a present, so...

Perhaps I also have a fear of getting rid of presents?

Oh, ha ha. That is so not funny.

Anyway, considering how I feel about clowns, why is it that Stephen King's IT is one of my favorite books, and even more confusing, why do I like the t.v. adaptation of that book so much? Pennywise the dancing clown is one of the creepiest characters I've ever run across!

It's like I said, fear is subjective.

Clowns on a screen are creepy, but clowns in person are much worse. I will watch "It" anytime, but I am never going to be a fan of the circus. There is nothing funny about clowns in tiny cars, and if one comes close enough to offer me a balloon, I'm going to have an asthma attack.

I mean, what are they hiding behind all that makeup? Are they human, or aliens from beyond the stars? What's the reason for their career choice? Are they hiding from the law?

I'm sorry, all you clowns out there. I'm sorry, all you clown lovers. Clown dolls and toys are big sellers, so I know lovers of clowns exist. But my reaction to clowns--brrrr!

Okay, I've brought up clown dolls, but lets widen the scope and include dolls in general.

I will be the first to admit that I have seen some really cute dolls in my day. I have also seen some very beautiful dolls.

But...well, we've all seen the creepy dolls, right?

Look, I have two sisters, and one of them was quite the doll lover when we were growing up. Her "babies" went everywhere with her. And most of them were okay, cute even. But she had one that totally creeped me out. It had those blinking eyes with the long, thick eyelashes, and one or the other eye was always at half-mast. Open or close, dolly eyes! Open or close! Ew!

When we were really young, my parents were renters, and my sisters and I all shared a room. It was a terrible thing, lying awake in a darkened room and seeing that doll, on her side in my sister's arms, one eye closed and the other half opened and staring at me. It was worse when she lined several dolls up side by side on her bed and they were all staring at me from across the room.

Daytime dolls are okay. Dolls in a dark room--not so much.

So now we are all grown up, and my sister is still a doll connoisseur. So is my mother. They have their little collections. And when I visit my mother, there is a doll who lives on the bed in the guest room who has to go visit another room while I'm there, because NO WAY am I going to wake up in the middle of the night and find her nearby.

Here's the thing about that doll. My sister D bought her for her own collection, but when she opened the package she came in, it scared her to death. Her first impression, because the doll is very life-like in size and features, was that she'd just discovered a dead baby. She was going to return the doll, but my mother's first impression was: "Oh, how cute! She looks just like a real live baby!" So my sister gave my mother the doll.

My other sister, M, loves the doll, as well. When she visits my parents and stays in the guest room, she sleeps with that doll. Neither my mother or my sister M can understand the reactions my sister D and I had upon seeing that doll, but you can be sure that neither of us are ever going to sleep in the same room with it. I have tried to like that doll--I've held it, and it really is the size and weight of a real baby. But it's dead weight, (sorry) and I can't stand it.

There's a phenomenon called the "uncanny valley", often used in cases of animation artwork and robotics. It suggests that when something not alive very closely resembles a living being, it causes feelings of unease in many people. I've decided that some dolls dwell in the uncanny valley, and that doll in particular is a prime example.

I guess I have now ascertained that I've got a couple of arguably unreasonable fears. Clowns and dolls, clown dolls--sheesh! What a baby I am!

Maybe tomorrow we can look at some fears that are a little more realistic.

Right now, I'm going to see if I can find that clown doll...

Good night.

February 23, 2015
12:07 a.m.

I am hopelessly addicted to reading, and I make no apologies for that. Reading is such a big part of my life that I want to share it with everyone. I can't remember a time in my life when I didn't have a book in my hand, or close at hand.

I thank my mother. She began reading to me before I could even talk. I was reading to her long before I started school. I read to my siblings and my toy dog, Bandit. I had to learn to read by myself early, because otherwise my poor mom would never have gotten anything done, and she had plenty to do, because I had three younger siblings before I was six.

Although my family was never rich, I don't remember a time when there were no books in the house. There was no shortage of things to read, and I soaked it all up. My mother never denied me access to any books she had on hand.

When I was in first grade I discovered the public library and was pretty sure I'd found heaven. By the time I was in third grade my mother and the librarian agreed that I could check out books from the adult section, as long as it wasn't too racy. In other words, I wasn't allowed to check out Peyton Place. It was pretty popular at the time, but I don't think I missed much.

(It couldn't have been much racier than "Dark Shadows", could it? Oddly enough, I was allowed to watch that every afternoon. It fueled my love of a good scare and also led to a two year habit of sleeping with my neck well-covered and a crucifix on my blankets--you know, just in case.)

I developed a great love for all things spooky and weird, all things futuristic and fantastic, all things mysterious and suspenseful. During my teens and early twenties, I enjoyed romances, particularly the historical type. (Except Gone With the Wind. Sorry. I didn't get the popularity of the book, nor did I care for the movie. I tried. Sue me.) I can still deal with a romance, as long as something else is also going on--like a murder to solve, or a ghost to hunt. Otherwise, I guess I outgrew that genre.

I could never begin to make a list of all my favorite books, but recently I've discovered that I can now track down and purchase some old childhood favorites. That makes me pretty happy, because I lost so many books when my house burned in 1993, and many were those I had wanted to share with my children and grandchildren.

I mentioned mysteries as one of my loves, and while I did read The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew, they didn't make the impression on me that Trixie Beldon Mysteries did. I don't know what it was about those books, which I first discovered while visiting my grandmother's house one summer, but Trixie, her brothers and her friends made me one happy little camper. The books were published in the 1940's and 50's and belonged to my aunt. My parents were able to track a few down and gave them to me as Christmas and birthday presents, but I never had a complete set. They were mostly out of print. And, as I said, those I had were lost in a fire.

So now, thanks to Amazon, I am tracking them down and starting to collect them. I always wanted the complete set. I hope I will be able to find them all. Can't do it all at once, of course, but one must have a goal, yes? And luckily, they are affordable.

Okay, I know you're thinking: "Aren't you a little old for that?" Sure, I am. But, so what? I just read the first two books again for the first time in decades, and you know what? I loved it. Yes, they're old fashioned and written for  twelve-year-olds, but it's kind of refreshing to relive old memories and marvel at all that's been lost in the last seventy years; things like polite teenagers and respect for parents and teachers. Amazing stuff.

I want to be able to pass this amazing stuff down to my granddaughters. Believe it or not, these characters are not so different than I was in Junior High School, nor are they much different than my granddaughters are now. They want to have good friends, they want to be accepted, they worry about their homework, they wish they didn't have to do their chores. While many things have changed over the years, there are also many that stay the same. I'd like for the girls to know that.

And they are miles better than Twilight.

I'm not forgetting the boys. I suppose I'd better look at The Hardy Boys again for my grandsons, if I'm going to pass books along to them. Actually, I've got plenty of science fiction and horror and comic books and detective stories to keep them happy, I'm sure. Not to mention all the Harry Potter they can get their hands on.

Anyway, old-fashioned and teenage girly though they may be, these books take less than a day to read, and in between I'm still sifting through crime scenes and graveyards and haunted houses, still trying to find the missing and wishing the latest protagonist wasn't a killer clown. I'm in New Orleans and London, and even in Wyoming.

That's the gift of books: there's always another story--another mystery to solve, another ghost to chase, another phony psychic to laugh at, another robber to catch. There are cops with canine partners to worry about, and time travelers trying to save the future by changing the past. Or not. Sometimes, there's even a good bodice-ripper to giggle over. Hardback, paperback, Kindle or Nook edition, it matters little to me.

Just give me that story.
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On the home front, it has been snowing for two days, it is ten degrees outside, and my days and nights are so mixed up that I may just start sleeping days!

Nope. It's now 1:36 a.m. and I am going to make an attempt to be asleep before six, which means it is time for me to say good-night for now.

Bundle up!

February 15, 2015
7:24 p.m.

Judging by my last post, it seems I'm compelled to write only when it is snowing, or has just snowed. Since the last thirteen days have been mild, I guess I wasn't moved to express myself.

Just kidding. I have been working on my continuing education credits, and--well--life. I spent a day obsessing about the many parts of the shoulder and all the things that can go wrong with them. Coding for shoulder surgery is...um...interesting, very interesting. Haha.

It's funny how I can get so caught up in certain diagnosis scenarios based on my own experience. Well, maybe not so funny. I've had surgery on my left shoulder twice, and I have every reason to believe that at least one on my right shoulder is somewhere in my not-too-distant future. I also have internal dialogues while coding back surgeries, things like: "Hmm, I wonder if that's what he did to me?" and "If only I had opted for that," and "Dang, no wonder I lost over a half-inch in height!"

Oddly, though, while I find a lot of it uncomfortably familiar, I still find coding interesting and challenging, and that makes it a worthwhile pursuit for me. Therefore, study time.

Life, on the other hand...let us just say that studying is more interesting. For now.

See, it's the boot thing. I am so sick of the boot. My walking is improving daily, but if I want to leave the house, I have no choice but to "boot up." And I don't want to! I hobble around in my house and avoid going anywhere because boot. Phooey!

 It's ugly, it's uncomfortable, and I hate it. And it's not like it helps all that much. It makes my back and my hips hurt. I go to the store and ride the shopping cart/scooter and feel guilty because someone else might need it while I am wasting my time still healing from an injury that should be done healing by now, doggone it! (Never mind that I was told it could be over six months--I'm tough, man. Ha ha!)

This week I was pretty pleased with myself for being able to wear my sneakers in my house. Both sneakers. Yeah! Of course, I crab-walk (you know, sideways) because my ankle won't bend correctly when I point my foot forward, but what the heck. It's one of my exercises for my hip, crab walking. So it's a good thing.

Speaking of exercises, though, I still haven't returned to physical therapy since I got back from Oklahoma. My co-pay for specialist visits went up to $50. per, and I simply cannot afford it. They'd like to see me a couple times a week. Fat chance of that. So I am trying to rehab myself by myself. Wish me luck on that.
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On a more productive note, I did get out this week. On Wednesday I left my house, boarded a bus and rode it for over an hour to spend several more hours performing my civic duty as a juror.

It was so funny how this happened. Just as I was preparing to leave for Oklahoma I got a summons to appear in court while I was gone. So I contacted the court and told them that I would be happy to serve when I was actually in Colorado and gave them my tentative return day. Lo and behold, a new summons awaited me when I returned home.

If the wheels of justice turned this quickly in other areas of the justice system, things would probably go a lot better around here!

So I "booted up" and went to court.

I spent the better part of a day there, was sent to juror selection and promptly proved myself incapable of being impartial when faced with a drunk driving charge.

All I said was I was sure that if the police who arrested the man had done their job correctly, it would certainly not be a 49 vs 51 percent uncertainty vs certainty case, but if I was 51 percent certain of guilt, I was going to vote to convict. These were his numbers, not mine.

The defense attorney was like: "If it's that close, you'd convict?!" And I said, "It's unlikely that it would ever be that close, not if the police have correctly collected all the facts."

Then he said, "But wouldn't you rather be 100 percent sure of convicting a guilty person rather than 51 percent sure and possibly convicting an innocent person?" But instead of letting me answer, he directed the question to someone else.

Well, all I could think of was that the guy was speeding, going 74 in a 45 mile per hour zone, and admitted he had been drinking a few hours prior to being pulled over. The lawyer basically told us his whole case before the judge told him not to be giving away the circumstances while selecting his jury. And in just that amount of time, I pretty much decided the guy was guilty.

Am I judgmental? Probably. Would anyone have been able to persuade me that I was wrong about him? Probably not.

Needless to say, I was dismissed.

Do I care? Heck, no. If the trial lasted more than a day, I'd be spending another three hours on a bus (round trip) and hobbling a quarter mile uphill from the bus stop to the courthouse in my dang boot, then downhill (which should be easier, but isn't--not in a boot!) back to the bus stop.

In my defense, I hate drunk driving. I have been in pain every day since 1994 because someone thought it was okay to drive after having a couple of drinks. If I'm impartial, blame that.

Hopefully I won't end up on trial myself for sharing this story, but I was told I could talk about the case after the case was over, and it is. I have no idea whether he got off, but my part in the story is over.

Guilty.

Don't judge me.
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I enjoyed a nice visit from my daughter and grandchildren this weekend. It's fun watching 1980's movies with kids who have never seen them. "Innerspace." So delightfully silly.

Naturally, I have now consumed too much take-out food.

Yay, Burger King. Hurray, Pizza Hut. Oh, and yahoo, Wendy's. Also, let's not forget the doughnuts.

Hello, four pounds I just lost.

Boo.
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Anyway, it's snowing.

And snowing.

There's a lot of it. And more to come.

So I'm going to say that Mr. Groundhog was probably right.

If you have to go out, please be careful!

Good night.

February 2, 2015
9:11 p.m.

Today was lovely, sunny and mild. You'd almost never know that yesterday I woke up to a foot of snow! Much of it was melted away by this afternoon.

Naturally, all that sunshine means that Mr. Groundhog saw his shadow and retreated for six more weeks of snooze time. Winter isn't finished with us yet, presumably.

Whee!
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I'm still getting used to being back home, and still missing my Oklahoma family.

Oklahoma has its good points, one of them being a higher level of humidity than Colorado. Since I've been home, my skin has dried out to the point of flakiness. I'm going to need a lot more lotion!

As much as I love and miss my family, though, I really do prefer Colorado. It's so pretty here. I love the mountains, and all the many varieties of trees.

Also, I have no desire to live in fear of tornadoes. I don't know how people do it.

My first Saturday in Oklahoma City, at noon precisely, a very loud siren began to blare. I nearly jumped out of my skin. My grandchildren continued to go about their business as if nothing was happening.

"What's going on?" I asked. "Doesn't that mean something?"

"Sure," my granddaughter replied. "It means they're testing the sirens."

"Oh." Well, of course. I soon learned that this test takes place every Saturday at noon.

Oklahoma City better hope that their next tornado doesn't hit at noon on a Saturday, because no one will seek shelter. By my seventh Saturday, the siren barely made any impression on me, and I'm not a native.

Just something to think about...
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Speaking of sirens, I grew up in a small town in Wyoming, where on every Wednesday of my childhood there was a test of the air raid sirens. I wonder if they still do that? I don't remember hearing them the last time I was there...
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Nothing profound is going on in my brain tonight, folks, so I will bid you a fond good-night.