Christine McKellar's Open Salon Blog

What’s Love Got to Do With It?:In The Garden Of Fear & Guilt

Fri, 30 Sep 2011 19:09:08 -0400

The woman is in her mid-fifties. Educated but not employed. Married. Her life is a misery. No cable “R-rated” movies allowed in the house. Weekends are spent with religious music and hysterical prophets on the radio and television bombarding her ears; invading her privacy from speakers inside and outside of her upper middle class suburban home.

She is under constant haranguing from her spouse on her frailties and lack of devotion to God. Is this a scene from an Iranian compound? No. Is this woman living under Sharia law? No. This woman is an American citizen. She is also married to one of the most spiritually damaging men on earth; a proselytizing, Bible beating, born-again “Christian." One of the many who are currently, and hysterically, heralding the end of the world, 2012.

I’m a Christian by choice. By deeds, by the manner in which I live and have raised my child, by the way I treat others: By virtue of faith in my savior. However, under this man’s scrutiny, I am damned to hell along with his spouse. Why? Because the zealous, condemning, and hypocritical guidelines this self-proclaimed Christian has slapped upon the face of God for salvation have overshadowed our faith and our simple, heartfelt beliefs.

He denies his wife her simple pleasures so he can tithe his way to heaven by virtue of donations to “real Christians”: pastors and “universities” even more hysterical than he is. Can one truly bribe God? Give instead to the poor, the mentally ill, to the homeless. Do it in silence, without bragging or posturing. Give from the heart.

He condemns her, her friends, and her family personally. Not that they don’t believe in Christ but because they don’t believe enough. She/they don’t believe exactly like he does, nor to the damn near psychotic level that he’s (just recently—O ye hypocrite!) taken religion in view that “the end is coming." Can one truly deceive God?

Were I he, my prayer would be—in a major paraphrase and yes, a total mangling of a passage from Isaiah (Father, forgive me): Beat not down your brothers and sisters, your spouse and family in times of sorrow, despair and travail (or especially the end of the world!). Rather lift them as on the wings of an eagle, on wings of love, and bring them unto me.

I err. I’m human. But, I believe in love, kindness, charity and forbearance. It’s why I chose to be a Christian. I respect all religions based in love; Judaism, Buddhism. True Wiccans also love Creation.

This rabid harbinger is in for a major upset when the roll is truly sounded. When the shell of his hypocrisy is cracked. When his wife’s sore and wounded heart is bathed in Love. When his guilty, splintered soul is exposed. He gambles, drinks, smokes and has been known to view porn on the Internet.

Shakespeare was more than profound when he wrote, “Methinks thou (false prophet) doth protest too much.”

The Four Stumbling Stones: No One Said Divorce Was Easy

Sat, 19 Mar 2011 00:03:50 -0400

The American way of life certainly is easy. That is unless you’re going through or have recently gone through a divorce. Divorces come in so many packages—there really is no such thing as a Designer Divorce unless you have a Prenuptial. But even those legal promises can be broken. For brevity (and sanity’s) sake allow me to break divorce down into categories: a) divorce with children. b) Divorce sans children. c) Divorce with money d) divorce with money AND children.

a) Divorce with children: Regardless of who did what to whom there is only one guarantee in this scenario. Daddy or Mummy will make monthly child support payments until the offspring reach 18. The children involved will pay dearly for the rest of their lives and most likely will pass along at least some of their emotional forfeiture and debris to the generation(s) to follow. Don’t anyone even try to rationalize or jolly themselves out of this one.

b) Divorce sans children: Two adults have obviously made a mistake. Split the sheets and be mature about it, unless you fall into category C).

c) Divorce with MONEY: Here is where it begins to get interesting. Most wealthy married couples don’t step into matrimonial bliss solely for the money. Usually there is old family money involved or a pre-marital fortune has been amassed. Enter the classic Prenuptial Agreement. Granted there will always be gold-diggers (her), and gold-miners (him). The tabloids are rife with Anna Nicoles and Zsa Zsa’s ad nauseum. There are sly slick divorce attorneys out there ad nauseum, too. Ergo no prenuptial is truly ironclad, but a divorce with m-o-n-e-y makes for great fodder and Lifetime movies.

d) Divorce with money AND children: Ah, the wicked truly are sticky! Tis the rare moneyed couple-with-family-torn-asunder that settles peacefully and painlessly out of court. No, this is generally the arena where all semblance of decency is tossed to the lions along with the babies in their nappies. Lawyers drool, judges weep, children become pawns of lesser gods.

Unfortunately, in the preponderance of cases, be it Daddy brought the money to the marriage or acquired it in the course thereof, Mommy may find herself trying to claw her way out of a cesspool of innuendo: adulterous slut, alcoholic, drug addict, vicious catamount in general.

Mommy may find her credit cards and bank accounts frozen indefinitely while the lawyers gleefully cash in their hefty checks. The children may find themselves abandoned while mommy and daddy duke it out in depositions and in court. Acrimony becomes fair trade for alimony and child support.

Divorce isn’t pretty. A vow before God or Deity has been broken. A love is shattered. It could be worse: There are countries where the definition of divorcée is a broken woman who lies stoned to death or maimed for life. With roughly half of American marriages ending in divorce, herein there’s a whopping need for clarity, sanity and therapy—if not for the adults then, please God, for the children.

MsMatched.Com: What Lies Beneath

Tue, 4 Jan 2011 18:01:14 -0500

Electronic dating has been around for years. Huge numbers of men and women create Personal Ads on the Internet in search of, well, just about anything. There are ads for dominatrices as well as your basic “couples seeking couples” liberally sprinkled among the homo/hetero/ bi-sexual seekers. It’s fun to cruise the Personals. It can actually become hysterically funny if you’re not taking it too seriously and not desperately seeking a mate.

A friend, Brittany, coerced me into posting a Personal Ad on Love@AOL when it was a hot topic—and free. The two of us ended up going out on twenty-three dates within eleven months. Britt tagged along as my chaperone. If a man wouldn’t agree to meet the two of us, the deal, I mean, the date was off.

Let me state that no one got hurt during our little Personal Ad rampage. While there may have been a bent nose or two along the way; it was usually the guy’s overblown ego or expectations that caused it. Take William, whom I dubbed as “Will-Tongue”.

Will-Tongue was a really nice guy from Texas. He even got the dubious distinction of being the first man I met in person sans chaperone. Britt had something else come up that same evening. I decided to tough it out and meet Will-Tongue at one of my favorite restaurants. He had good intentions right from the start.

When we were shown to our table there were a dozen beautiful white roses awaiting me. Nice touch! The man was so earnest in his endeavors to impress me that it was almost endearing. However, he had an annoying habit of jumping up every time the waiter came near. He would rush over to my side of the table and try to stick his tongue in my mouth. The key word here is “try”.

For some forgotten reason, I decided to invite him over to my house the next night for a barbeque. Chaperoned, of course. This move, unfortunately, turned out to be his undoing. Britt swears it was the ensemble; the bright pink-checkered shirt, the blood-red leather belt, the rose-tinted pants and… the shoes. Personally, I never made it as far as the shoes, but Britt insists they matched his outfit.

Fashion felony aside, I knew well before end of the evening it was time to put poor Will-Tongue out of my misery. I knew he was a good ole country boy. I innocently asked him if he would like me to play his favorite song on the karaoke. Being such a nice guy, he insisted I play one of my favorites first. So I did. "Living Dead Girl" by Rob Zombie. That was it for Will-Tongue. He politely made his excuses and left.

He emailed me broken-heartedly the next day. He had seriously thought we were in “love”. He’d come out West with every intent to carry me and all that I am off into the sunset. He just couldn’t compete with the Zombie, I guess.

What amazed me is the amount of not self-perception, but self-deception running rampant in Personal Ads. While trolling the ads, I would end up rolling on the floor. “Tall, handsome prince” would turn out to be short, dumpy troglodyte. Take the guy who only wants “onisty” in a relationship, he loves dinning out at fine restaurants and he loves to wright. He also wants someone with a college or graduate school degree…hmmm.

I was equally unprepared for how many men wanted women who can “conversate.” I’m still trying to figure that one out. Sated with converse? Being adept at putting things in reverse order? Whatever it means it certainly has an oral ring to it.

A guy that I dated once or twice (amazingly I did not meet him online) ran an ad with a profile so doctored I would never have recognized him. According to what he wrote he had grown at least two inches, quit smoking, and taken up scaling the Himalayas.

A local artist I know wouldn’t be living in Vegas if she hadn’t fallen in love with a man on the Internet. After over one hundred emails, she came from back east to the wild, Wild West to meet the man she was convinced was her soul mate. She was greeted by a man, not ten, not twenty, but thirty years older than he had led her to believe. She stayed. He went.

This brings us to the obvious: What are people thinking when they sign themselves up for online dating? On the upper end of dating services you have Great Expectations. They charge a princely fee but are thorough in their evaluation/compatibility process. Then, you have the match.coms, where you are charged a nominal fee to sample the clientele. It is here at the lower end where you run into the self-deceivers, the game players and even some stalkers. You get what you pay for.

I spent two months surfing personals on the Internet as research. Just for the heck of it, I jumped back into the Internet dating game. I made it clear that I wasn’t looking for a mate. I stated plainly that I wanted a nice, intelligent male companion to go out with a couple of times a month. I posted a new picture with my profile and waited to see what kind of response I would get. All modesty aside, the response was immediate and overwhelming. But, the men? Oh, the men!

There were two I decided were worth meeting in person. One of the two had the bright idea that after one date I should be thrilled at the prospect of driving clear across town on a Saturday morning to bring him his Starbucks, then “play around some.” Sure, dude, let me provide you all services and for free, no strings attached.

There were scores of married men who live out of state but who were looking for “a good time” while in Las Vegas. When confronted, most of them were honest about being married, but there were plenty who thought I was the screwball for objecting to their marital status. I guess they can’t spell. D-a-t-e does not spell f-r-e-e e-s-c-o-r-t s-e-r-v-i-c-e.

Soul mate or playmate-seeking aside, my impression of most of the males I encountered online is this: A lot of these guys are surfing the Personal Ads because they are sorely lacking in dating skills and that lack of skill can be easily hidden behind the computer screen. These guys aren’t out there mingling with women because they don’t know how to mingle with women.

These are the guys who proclaim in their profiles that they are sensuous and deeply into massage. They love to cuddle in bed or in front of a fireplace. They enjoy long walks on the beach at sunset, and barbequing. Yeah, right. What I read into these ads is the guy is horny and wants to give you a full-on body massage with a happy ending. And on top of that, he’s too cheap or inept to take you out to dinner or a show.

The Internet provides an excellent masking device for men and women. Anyone can be a smooth operator in print. In print you can pump yourself up or even leave out a few minor details; like the second guy I met for a drink. He doesn’t drive and he doesn’t own a car. A minor detail, that. (Call me a cab?) That may work in the Big Apple but not here in Las Vegas.

Other men give way too much information in their ads. Not only about themselves but about what they are expecting from the women. Most of them are looking for a wife or full-time companion. I want a wife after reading about some of these guys’ criteria.

There are nice people out there on the match-dot-coms of the world. I mean, I was out there. It is a private and comfortable way to go cruising for a date, or a mate. Britt, who started me on internet dating, met a guy through a personal ad. They are now married and have a darling little boy.

Precautionary measures are always a must when dealing with strangers, whether you’re at a bar, in a chat room or making a date via your computer. If you’re interested in cruising the personals on the Internet, use prudence and good ole common sense. Don’t be like one woman I know who wired $40,000 to an Internet “lover” in Nigeria whom she had never met. There are so many equally as gullible (and pitifully lonely) women like her out there, the FBI can’t even keep up with the scams.

Always meet a prospective date in a public place (or take a friend with you). Never give out your home address or phone number. NEVER EVER NEVER tell a stranger about your children or where they go to school.

Be as frank and honest as possible when you fill out the profile section of your ad. It will save you from getting a lot of needless responses. Also, you just might learn something about yourself. After all, the truth is in there…

The Las Vegas Vampire Chronicles

Thu, 14 Oct 2010 21:10:54 -0400

The Las Vegas Vampire Chronicles

Christine L. McKellar

-Chapter One-

The Gift That Keeps On Giving

I became one of the undead a week ago. It happened at a nightclub on the Las Vegas Strip where I really had no business being— not at my age, anyway. And the prickster who did it (forgive the pun, but I am damn near hysterical these days) was a well-sculpted gorgeous young man whom I had no business flirting with in the first place. Until Greg came along, I was one of the millions of rational people who don’t believe in vampires or any undead ghouls, ghosties, or goblins.

I am, I mean I was, sick to death of seeing vampire literature swamping the major bookstores. Technically speaking, I’m still sick of vampire anything but sick “to un-death” is more the reality for me these days. Me being a writer of genuine fiction, not TREND fiction, it galls me because I know scores of decent writers are being overlooked while agents and publishers go gaga and line their pockets while they ride a wave that has no real or lasting substance.

No one could touch the vampire genre like Anne Rice did twenty years ago. I can see now that she had cleverly written the true history of vampires and sold it to the public in a so-called fictional novel format. However, the vampire/undead media mania of the past two years has burst all bounds of decency and morality. I mean, there are vampire soap operas on the cable channels for Pete’s sake! And the teenage vampire books and movies? Blockbusters all the way around, for a crowd that’s too young to stay up after curfew much less after midnight.

For centuries vampires were viewed as soulless, cold-blooded, corpse-like, blood-sucking mythical monsters. Now that I’ve become one and now that I’m thinking about it, with no threat of death and eternal damnation hanging over their—oops—our heads, why should vampires ever have any qualms about drinking and draining the very life’s blood out of mere helpless mortal men, women and children? Armed with supernatural strength, unholy beauty and the ability to move faster than a speeding bullet, it’s only natural that the undead have developed into a highly secretive, ego-driven sect.

The major down side, of course, is the inherent, and deadly, allergy to sunlight.What my careless little carnivore did to me the other night has caused unmitigated problems beyond belief and wreaked utter chaos in my un-life. I wasn’t quite sure where he was going when, after insisting he walk me to my car, Greg quite gently, actually, pushed me up against the driver’s side window. I didn’t mind flirting with him in the noisy, crowded nightclub, but in the gloomy near-emptiness of the parking garage, I was actually regaining my numbed senses.

“I have a gift for you,” he purred into my ear. A gift? I don’t know why but the old joke about herpes being the gift that keeps on giving flashed immediately to mind. “Oh, that’s not necessary,” I pushed back. “We had fun, but I’ve gotta go. Deadlines tomorrow, you know.”

He insisted. I resisted. To the casual observer we must have looked like we were doing a weird form of tug-o-war. I still wasn’t sure what Greg had in mind, so I made one last attempt to untangle myself, albeit verbally, from his embrace. “Greg, I really didn’t mean to lead you on in the nightclub. I thought we were just having fun. I’m practically old enough to be your mother, you know? I’m not a cougar, I swear to you.”

“I know that,” he whispered. (Oh, hindsight! Little did I know I had already lost the battle when I let him get his mouth that close to my neck.) “But, I love your books. Those sexy, sailing ones. I want you to keep writing and writing forever.” Yes, Greg was one of the rare few I meet out in public who have actually read some of my work. We’d discussed the book series merits over my third and last-ever martini. Greg doesn’t drink alcohol. Duh.

Au contraire to what Hollywood and the New York publishers are pushing down the throats (sigh) of the general population—a vampire bite HURTS LIKE HELL. It hurts so much you are speechless. You literally go rigid with pain and shock. And when the evildoer begins to suck the very liquid life out of your body—oh I shudder to even think about that feeling! It’s not vertigo and it’s not like being dizzy. Those sensations would seem as pleasant as an orgasm compared to that horrible feeling of being drained. Of being…emptied. Then, the heart goes badda badda BING over and over in your chest as it tries to compensate— Oh, that’s enough! I don’t want to think about it because now I have to nourish myself in a similar way to survive.

Which brings me to some serious issues I have with being undead. Right off the bat (oh, dear!) is this item about not being able to go out into the sunlight. How does one explain that to family, friends and cohorts? Fortunately, I have an inherent excuse being a fiction writer, to wit: I’ve gone over the deep end and have become a nocturnal hermit. I’m claiming that, of late, my Muse only comes to me in the dead of night. I’m not sure how long that story will fly (shut up!), but higher powers are at work for me.

The current economy is my escape-goat. I plan on pleading poverty and a need to down-size. I’ve got to live and I’ve got to hunt to live and while I love my home, my family and my friends, I need to remove myself from my familiar environs. Far away. Seattle? Alaska? For the time being, thanks to the Internet I can continue with my profession and stay in touch with those close to me. As for my current tri-weekly tennis? Oh well. A “sports injury” should fix that.

- Chapter Two-

A Midnight Midlife Crisis

I’m a tad more than mildly claustrophobic. One of the first things that had me grabbing dear Greggors around the neck once I became conscious and the reality sunk in was the unthinkable prospect of having to sleep in a coffin every day for mucho millenniums. Talk about damnation! Talk about hell on earth! NO WAY! HUH UH. NOT. GONNA. HAPPEN. I must say the poor metrosexual bloodsucker had his hands full with me those first few hours. Once he assured me sleeping in coffins was truly a misbegotten myth (I could sleep anywhere I wanted as long as I was secure and had blackout drapes or the equivalent thereof), Greg had to endure a series of serious meltdowns on my part.

What Greg had failed to take into consideration is that he had created a MENOPAUSAL vampire. Talk about making a MONSTER! Let me give the poor sucker (groan) credit. I guess in the subdued lighting of the lounge I actually did look ten years younger than I am. Greg swears he had no idea that he would be condemning me to a very, very long life indeed of hot flashes and mood swings. Nor was there any way he could have been privy to the fact that I had scheduled a series of future enhancement surgeries: an eye lift, mini-face lift and some serious Botox. Now, all that is shelved unless I can find a vampire plastic surgeon that is willing to operate on me on a daily, no—make that a nightly— basis.

As if being cursed with eternal menopause isn’t bad enough, there are a few other inherit traits of mine that my menopausal-monster maker hadn’t bothered to investigate. I have food allergies. Yup. Particularly to peanuts or any peanut related products. Severe peanut allergy I might add. The throat closes and I damn near suffocate to death. Lovely, huh. Greg assures me that epinephrine should work just fine in my transmogrified system. I however, being of a more cautious nature and with no desire to suffer through the terrifying act of choking to death even if it won’t kill me, have scripted a small speech to present to my potential meals-on-wheels.

“Have you recently, say in the past twelve hours, eaten any peanuts, peanut products, or items that were manufactured in the same facility as peanuts?” I’m still practicing my delivery. Hey, I’ve only been a murderous stalker and drainer of blood for a mere week now.

It does amaze me how truly gullible humans are. To date, all I have approached have unhesitatingly given me the information I requested. My perpetual liquid diet isn’t damn near killing me, to state the obvious, but, it is boring. Anne Rice’s vampires got a vicarious thrill out of their victim’s blood: Tastes of the person’s life experiences coursed throughout them in a torrent of blood rushes as they drew the very life out of hapless souls. I must be picking the wrong persons. They all taste the same. They seem to share the same sins, vices, and lack of virtues. Maybe it’s the city I’m in? Could it be a syndrome? “What happens in Vegas simply stays?”

I’m actually having second thoughts about relocating. After all, Vegas is a 24-hour city filled with throngs of tourists in the summer who can easily go missing. Alaska would be good in the winter with its 24/7 midnight. Forgeddabout Seattle. Too damp. The other thing I’m having second thoughts about is being stuck in my mid-forties for-like-EV-er. At least in real life I could look forward to getting OVER hot flashes and mood swings with a little help from my gynecologist. And, with a little help from my plastic surgeon, I could have dropped ten grand and ten years without batting (yah, yah) an eye.

I plan to actively find a plastic surgeon and make him mine. I know during my sleep I’ll always revert to exactly how I was when Greg-the-batman bit me. I just want my magic man for those special occasions; the upcoming Thanksgiving Harvest a Feast Gala, and especially the New Year’s Midnight ‘Til Dawn Smorgasbord which features hot and cold buffets. I’m not exactly sure what’s meant by cold buffets. Greg’s not talking. He wants to surprise me.

-Chapter Three-

It’s Lonely Out There

Since my original self died and I became a new and revised entity on October 1, no less, does this mean I am no longer an impulsive, optimistic, happy-go-lucky Aries, but instead I’m becoming more of a moderate, well-balanced and inanimate Libra? This could actually work to my advantage since I read on AOL Horoscope that Libra and Aries are opposite each other in the Zodiac. Not only do opposites attract, but they complement each other like two sides of the same coin. I could really learn to love myself! I can already feel a really huge ego developing. I’d better make finding my plastic surgeon a major priority.

Surprisingly, there really aren’t a whole lot of vampires in Las Vegas. Greg has introduced me to only a handful. It’s actually kind of lonely out there. The reason for the dearth of deathly deviants is, believe it or not, vampires have addictions, too. It’s true. You have your basic gambling addicted vampire, your basic porn and adult club addicted vampire. And, some vampires are addicted to cocaine, heroin and other illegal substances.

Vegas is an all-night city. A great many of those all-night revelers have enough cocaine in their systems to keep a vampire up all day. And the heroin crowd? They’re too much work. If and when you stumble upon one of them, their blood is so sluggish and their hearts beat so weakly, you’d be there until the crack of dawn just trying to get a decent meal. Disgusting.

Greg tells me that his Capo (for want of a better word), has a tight grip on who is and who isn’t allowed to nest (for a real lack of a better word) in Las Vegas. Candidates are carefully screened and even monitored to prevent the horrific possibility that a stoned or horny vampire might inadvertently expose him/herself/us to the world. Greg also keeps telling me how very special I am. That I was hand-picked because el Capo wanted an author in the mix and Greg simply adores my books. What’s—er, who’s—next? A token artist? Musician? (How about a plastic surgeon?)

Sadly, the pickings are slim as far as undead dating goes. I’d been happily divorced for ten years in my former life. I was actually toying with the idea of finding (post-surgery, and post hot flashes and mood swings) a cool kind of guy to hang out with on dates, in the bedroom, etc. Until My Most Deadly Fan came along. Vampires don’t have sex. They get what they want through some hemoglobin exchange versus swapping spit and other bodily fluids.

I have to chuckle to myself when I remember certain conversations I had with girlfriends back in the Day (and I do mean THE DAY). Nearly every female I spoke to who had read the books or seen the movies about the teenage vampire series that swept the country and world like cholera, had one thing in common to say. “It made me horny!” I had to point something out after I pondered this commonality for a bit.

What was making the ladies crazy was that they were actually reading/seeing good old fashioned foreplay. These jaded women were so used to movies and books that cut immediately and graphically to the act itself, that when faced with the teasing, tantalizing deliciousness of wending ones way toward a climax (whatever), their love meters shot off the chart.

My love meter was teetering on the brink of extinction when I got bitten, so no loss there. But, I wouldn’t mind some male companionship. Some testosterone around me to offset the now-eternal raging of my estrogen as it struggles to stay attached to my hormones. Greg owes me. Big time.

-Chapter Four-

Keeping Things Kosher

Ah, Greg, the handsome, sculpted young man who I flirted with so carelessly and most likely shamelessly in the first place (although truth be told, Greg is 125 years older than I am! Go figure) has pulled through and given me a gift worth keeping. I feel like singing! “Ooooo ooo oo last night (that would be yesterday), I couldn’t get to sleep at all…no! Noooo! Noooooooo!”

We went clubbing recently, which is really a euphemism for hunting, and Greg gave me the green light to hit on a tall, slightly silver-haired gentleman who could really bust a move on the dance floor. He was a wily one, I must say. It took some convincing to get him to come home with me. Oh, he was interested all right, but he wanted me to go to his room in the hotel. Tourists!

I learned quickly to not get involved with my victims. Once you hear about the kiddies and the dogs, the little woman or man at home, the future goals and aspirations, it kind of kills the appetite (snicker). Whether it’s the merging of my Aries and Libra selves or just my maturing nature as a vampire, I’m finding it easier and easier to turn a callous ear to the pleadings of certain of my targets.

This particular one, Adam, I’m keeping as a mate. He has no idea how lucky he is—yet. I’ve got some serious plans for the both of us. I’m lucky, too. My Adam just so happens to be a plastic surgeon. He didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in Hell once I learned what his profession is. Death is good again. And just in time for the Holidays. He is a bit of a complainer, though. I’ve been trying to break him in gently and with some compassion. Not an easy task with all the roadblocks he keeps throwing up.

I was explaining to him how things could be much worse. He could be me: Trapped for eternity in a forty-something female menopausal body. Endlessly stalking victims with the utmost caution because of my peanut allergy.

“You think you have problems?” The look on Adam’s face could only be described as fahklumpt. “Oy vay!”

There you have it in a (pea)nutshell. We’re a pair to draw to. I have to avoid peanut-eaters like the plague and Adam has to determine if his prospects keep a kosher kitchen. “Have you eaten any bacon or pork today?” is hardly an enticing pickup line. There are other issues relating to his orthodox upbringing. His Sabbath begins at sundown on Friday night and he fasts until Saturday night. Friday is generally feast night! All those crazy, stoned, drunken revelers are easy pickings.

But, hey, as a recovering Catholic, I have issues too! We’re a mixed pair of vampires that’s for sure. And the combined guilt? It’s going to take more than a millennium for us to get over it all. If we ever do. Still, I have hope for my Hebrew honey. He shares my concern about world affairs. I’ve begun to worry about the proliferation of nuclear nutcases in Asia and Russia. The consequences of a nuclear holocaust would be devastating. There goes the entire food chain.

Just think of what an army of soulless, cold-blooded, corpse-like, blood-sucking monsters armed with supernatural strength and the ability to move faster than a speeding bullet could do for world peace! There’s a worthy project to keep Adam occupied. Now, if I could just get him to get over his aversion to crucifixes…

The End

If Silence Was Golden--I’d Be Rich

Wed, 22 Sep 2010 13:09:17 -0400

It’s been awhile since I’ve written a post for OpenSalon. The last entry was in June. My post was a testament to my departed shepherd, Sultan. And I do mean “shepherd.” I had to bid adieu to ten years of all love the morning of June 24. On July 17, I broke a bone in my left foot: this unexpected accident proved to be a blessing and a curse.

The blessing was, still reeling from the loss of the best damn dog in the universe, I actually welcomed the ten days of mind and bone numbing prescription release. Nothing like all the Percodan you can tolerate to keep you level. Plus, having to ice and elevate the foot four times a day kept me out of my office. I read books that had been waiting on me, and watched too much TV out of the corner of my mind.

The curse was, I obviously couldn’t play tennis three times a week as has been my wont for more years than I care to count; I couldn’t dance, I couldn’t wear a regular shoe. I couldn’t continue the Zumba classes I had started two weeks before the accident. I couldn’t travel. But, I could think. And I thought a lot. Even drugged, I thought and thought. And cried and cried. But, that was all from a safe distance. I was medicated. (Farewell, Sultan, farewell.)

Along with the fractured bone that took five weeks to heal, I discovered I have nerve damage to two toes that may never heal without surgery. I’ll find out on September 29 what the prognosis is. In the meantime, still no fashionable shoes, no tennis, no Zumba. However, I can wear sandals instead of a boot, I can travel, and I got out my fifteen-year-old ten speed bicycle. I manage two miles through a nearby park at least four times a week. Things are looking up.

This was one summer I would gladly forget. That I would undo if I had the power. That kind of power, however, is not mine. I understand that very well. Being the eternally optimistic Aries that I am, I search for the meaning behind the torment of the past two months. I’m about to embark on a delayed venture that’s close to my heart. I see in hindsight that had I not been derailed by grief and injury, I would have made some serious errors in judgment that would have cost me dearly.

There’s one good reason for my summer of silence.