Since perfection is an illusion, I will be content with Mr. Wonderful. Perhaps I have delayed too long. I didn’t want to get married until I finished my undergrad education. It took me five years to work my way through college. I expected to find a great guy and get hitched anytime after the age of 22. My first “love” Terry broke my heart and left for Europe to visit his old girlfriend. I worked at a horrible job for a year and decided to return to graduate school. Procured a master degree and planned to find a mate and jump the broom after the age of 25. Dated Mike, he proposed and I requested a bit more time. He dumped me and married someone else within a year. Didn’t hurt as much as breaking up with my first serious boyfriend (I was dealing with the miscarriage when Terry left town).
I dated a lot during my 20s, a bit during my 30s, and nada in my 40s. I have made plenty of relationship mistakes. I don’t know if “one got away” like a fish slipping a hook. I have hung out with several guys that I never kissed. Not sure why. More of an intellectual match than a physical spark. I do wonder about Keith. He and I got along very well during grad school. I finally decided that I wanted to kiss him but he disappeared and moved out west. A few years later he returned to Minnesota, got married, and had four kids. I wonder if I should have gone over to his house and grabbed him before he ran away. Not healthy to dwell on the “what if” scenario.
Intelligence is the number one trait. I am attracted to smart men. Not arrogantly intelligent. Smart enough to know that they aren’t smart enough to know everything. Honesty and integrity is the foundation of a good relationship. If we cant trust each other, what is the point of communicating? Humor is important. Not to be mean to others but to chuckle at the foibles of life. Open minded and accepting of diversity is imperative.
Physical traits aren’t all that important. Grooming is, like taking a shower, brushing teeth, and wearing clean clothes. The clothes don’t have to be fancy but at least not raggedy. I really like nice teeth; perhaps it is because I spent so much time with horses as a kid. My grandpa said that the teeth are an accurate indicator of health of an animal. Also, I feel rather self-conscious of my teeth because they are weak. I do not like aggressive men because any form of abuse is not acceptable. Period. End of Discussion.
Infidelity is not tolerated. It is fine to date other people but once a couple declares their “love” or commitment to each other, the sidebar relationships must end. The only exception is if the couple has an “open” relationship and both people can date other people. Full disclosure is better than cheating. However, if they have kids or get married the sidebars must stop because polygamy is reprehensible. Kids get neglected when their parents are diverted by other relationships.
I don’t feel very self-confident right now. My anxiety level is deplorably high due to extended unemployment. I need a nice person who loves me because of my myriad imperfections. I don't mind being single but committed coupling would be enjoyable. It would be absolutely fabulous to be accepted, appreciated, respected, and physically touched.
Wookin pa nub.
(Buckwheat Sings by Eddie Murphy)
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Monday, February 13, 2012
Sunday, February 12, 2012
END OF THE DOLE
Well, its official now, I no longer count because my Unemployment Benefits are exhausted as am I. 451 resumes, seventeen interviews, five phone interviews (does not include those which led to an in-person meeting), two tests, and eight online questionnaires have yielded no positive result. Frustratingly depressing especially since some human resources personnel are rude enough not to even send me a rejection email or letter after contact. I don’t expect communication when I mail a resume but I do when I spend the time with a questionnaire or attend an interview.
I blame the United States Congress for the horrible economy. They deregulated the banks, which caused too much financial risk. Greed sank the American economy to line the pockets of the uber wealthy aka 1%, but it extends to the top 10%* income bracket. The corporate guilty parties go unpunished and the wealthy don’t pay their fair share of taxes. Congress has not done enough to re-regulate banks or tax the rich. Big businesses control the United States, even though they are not people. Regular humans don’t matter anymore. That is why is it essential for every citizen to get involved in politics. We can take back the power aka Occupy Wall Street. Don’t elect corporate puppets. Work on behalf of candidates who actually support regular people. Donate time, money, and most importantly vote for moderate candidates who represent the bottom half of the economy aka regular people. www.nolabels.org is helpful.
I’m in the bottom tier of low-income. I have a Master degree and experience but can’t find a job. My journey began in June 2009 when my full time job was cut to part-time. Located a full-time position in April 2010 but got fired in July. Total unemployment since July 2010 is abysmal. I take responsibility for being imperfect but I did not deserve to be fired. I’m angry with myself for my flaws.
My days are consumed with job search. I continue to seek even though no longer counted by the government. I registered with temporary agencies to provide some income, will sell my stuff, not buy anything except absolute essentials, and hold my breath until I procure employment. My heart has begun to flutter and I’m sure it’s due to stress. I struggle to remain optimistic. Sorry to be bitter today but I need to be honest.
I hated being on the dole aka Unemployment. I’d much rather be working, paying taxes, and making donations to others. I haven’t been sitting on my arse waiting for someone to give me a hand out. I have been actively seeking employment. I feel angry when people assume otherwise.
*Note: There are some exceptionally generous wealthy people in America. They should be praised for their assistance to others and contributions to nonprofit organizations. However, they comprise a minority of the top 10-25% income earners.
Will work for money.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
I blame the United States Congress for the horrible economy. They deregulated the banks, which caused too much financial risk. Greed sank the American economy to line the pockets of the uber wealthy aka 1%, but it extends to the top 10%* income bracket. The corporate guilty parties go unpunished and the wealthy don’t pay their fair share of taxes. Congress has not done enough to re-regulate banks or tax the rich. Big businesses control the United States, even though they are not people. Regular humans don’t matter anymore. That is why is it essential for every citizen to get involved in politics. We can take back the power aka Occupy Wall Street. Don’t elect corporate puppets. Work on behalf of candidates who actually support regular people. Donate time, money, and most importantly vote for moderate candidates who represent the bottom half of the economy aka regular people. www.nolabels.org is helpful.
I’m in the bottom tier of low-income. I have a Master degree and experience but can’t find a job. My journey began in June 2009 when my full time job was cut to part-time. Located a full-time position in April 2010 but got fired in July. Total unemployment since July 2010 is abysmal. I take responsibility for being imperfect but I did not deserve to be fired. I’m angry with myself for my flaws.
My days are consumed with job search. I continue to seek even though no longer counted by the government. I registered with temporary agencies to provide some income, will sell my stuff, not buy anything except absolute essentials, and hold my breath until I procure employment. My heart has begun to flutter and I’m sure it’s due to stress. I struggle to remain optimistic. Sorry to be bitter today but I need to be honest.
I hated being on the dole aka Unemployment. I’d much rather be working, paying taxes, and making donations to others. I haven’t been sitting on my arse waiting for someone to give me a hand out. I have been actively seeking employment. I feel angry when people assume otherwise.
*Note: There are some exceptionally generous wealthy people in America. They should be praised for their assistance to others and contributions to nonprofit organizations. However, they comprise a minority of the top 10-25% income earners.
Will work for money.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
WHITEOUT
No depth perception and bitter cold. White obliterated the outside world. The snow was blowing so intensely that you could not see more than a foot in front of your face. Perilous situation. Life on the prairie has its hazards and whiteout blizzard conditions is one of them.
My grandparents had huge metal eyehooks located on the corner of each building about four feet from the ground. Every fall they would string long ropes from one hook to another. It was annoying to have to duck under the rope. However, the rope was a lifeline. A sudden squall from the prairie would powerfully scatter loose snow so that you would not be able to determine where you were in the yard. If you could find a rope, you could locate safety inside a building. Most country dwellers left one door unlocked during the winter to make certain that you could get out of the wind. Too many people die of hypothermia a few feet from safety or just outside a locked door.
Sometimes a storm would blow up while we were at school. It was too treacherous to let the country kids travel home. The bus may drop them off but they could get lost walking down the driveway. Lana and her sisters or other country kids would stay with us during blizzards. I would call home to get permission and we would be let out of class when there was a break in the wind. We would dash home and my mom would call the school and their parents to verify that we had made it safely.
Wind is unpredictable. One blustery day Lana and her younger sister Lisa came home with me. We trudged over four foot tall drifts for two blocks without a problem but then the wind gusted and landmarks disappeared. We linked ourselves together using our coat belts and I led the way slowly. We found my neighbor’s house that always left their garage side door unlocked. The neighbor wasn’t home but I went in to call my mom and left a note apologizing for the snow in the garage. After about ten minutes the wind decreased enough for us to keep walking. The three-block journey took an hour and we were exhausted. Mom called the school and Lana’s parents. The storm howled for three days before Lana’s folks were able to safely journey into town.
Blizzards cause the Minnesota State Highway Patrol and Minnesota Department of Transportation to shut down the roads. Anyone traveling is taken off the thoroughfare and brought into town. The hotels quickly fill and then the trekkers would be sent into private homes. My parents would accept strangers into our home on the weekend and if we didn’t have country kids during the week. We had a lumpy fold out couch to hold two people and a couple cots. Not the Ritz but better than freezing in a ditch.
I was in grade school and my siblings were in high school when four college students arrived on a wintry Saturday. Males. They were nice but flirted with my sisters. Dangerous. My dad was so paranoid that he pulled out a sleeping blanket and stayed in the hallway that night to make certain that no hanky-panky occurred. The four young studs departed after lunch when the roads were deemed safe. One of them even sent a thank you note and twenty dollars. Another time a couple stole from us so they were the final visitors allowed. A few years ago the city switched to setting up a Red Cross shelter instead of placing strangers into private residences.
I always have a disaster kit in the trunk of the car and another in the house. Usually there isn’t much danger living in the Twin Cities. I’ve been stuck in at home for two or three days due to a snowstorm. I don’t travel out of the Cities during the winter very often due to several near accidents. I call my parents instead of visiting. Prepare yourself, family, friends, and pets for disaster. Make an emergency kit with instructions from www.ready.gov and take classes from the Red Cross.
Dairy Farm Tails, Part IV more posted January 26th, January 30th, and February 6th.
Be Prepared.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
My grandparents had huge metal eyehooks located on the corner of each building about four feet from the ground. Every fall they would string long ropes from one hook to another. It was annoying to have to duck under the rope. However, the rope was a lifeline. A sudden squall from the prairie would powerfully scatter loose snow so that you would not be able to determine where you were in the yard. If you could find a rope, you could locate safety inside a building. Most country dwellers left one door unlocked during the winter to make certain that you could get out of the wind. Too many people die of hypothermia a few feet from safety or just outside a locked door.
Sometimes a storm would blow up while we were at school. It was too treacherous to let the country kids travel home. The bus may drop them off but they could get lost walking down the driveway. Lana and her sisters or other country kids would stay with us during blizzards. I would call home to get permission and we would be let out of class when there was a break in the wind. We would dash home and my mom would call the school and their parents to verify that we had made it safely.
Wind is unpredictable. One blustery day Lana and her younger sister Lisa came home with me. We trudged over four foot tall drifts for two blocks without a problem but then the wind gusted and landmarks disappeared. We linked ourselves together using our coat belts and I led the way slowly. We found my neighbor’s house that always left their garage side door unlocked. The neighbor wasn’t home but I went in to call my mom and left a note apologizing for the snow in the garage. After about ten minutes the wind decreased enough for us to keep walking. The three-block journey took an hour and we were exhausted. Mom called the school and Lana’s parents. The storm howled for three days before Lana’s folks were able to safely journey into town.
Blizzards cause the Minnesota State Highway Patrol and Minnesota Department of Transportation to shut down the roads. Anyone traveling is taken off the thoroughfare and brought into town. The hotels quickly fill and then the trekkers would be sent into private homes. My parents would accept strangers into our home on the weekend and if we didn’t have country kids during the week. We had a lumpy fold out couch to hold two people and a couple cots. Not the Ritz but better than freezing in a ditch.
I was in grade school and my siblings were in high school when four college students arrived on a wintry Saturday. Males. They were nice but flirted with my sisters. Dangerous. My dad was so paranoid that he pulled out a sleeping blanket and stayed in the hallway that night to make certain that no hanky-panky occurred. The four young studs departed after lunch when the roads were deemed safe. One of them even sent a thank you note and twenty dollars. Another time a couple stole from us so they were the final visitors allowed. A few years ago the city switched to setting up a Red Cross shelter instead of placing strangers into private residences.
I always have a disaster kit in the trunk of the car and another in the house. Usually there isn’t much danger living in the Twin Cities. I’ve been stuck in at home for two or three days due to a snowstorm. I don’t travel out of the Cities during the winter very often due to several near accidents. I call my parents instead of visiting. Prepare yourself, family, friends, and pets for disaster. Make an emergency kit with instructions from www.ready.gov and take classes from the Red Cross.
Dairy Farm Tails, Part IV more posted January 26th, January 30th, and February 6th.
Be Prepared.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Monday, February 6, 2012
NO BULL
It was a beautiful summer day on the farm, a few weeks before school started. Lana’s parents had converted a small chicken coop into a dual-purpose shed. It served as a kid’s summertime playhouse. During the school year, the shed was hauled out to the end of the half-mile long driveway to provide shelter while waiting for the bus. Lana D and I were best friends. She would occasionally stay overnight at my house in town but had to sleep on the couch due to lack of space. Two bedrooms with adults and four kids…
Lana, her younger sister, Lisa, and I were playing “house” in the shed. I looked out the window when a black and white cow sauntered by. Odd. A thirteen hundred pound Holstein bovine munching on the grass. Mmm. Perhaps it was being used to mow the lawn. Perplexed, I asked, “Do you ever let the cows out to eat your lawn?” Lisa and Lana both laughingly replied, “No.” A curious cow poked its head in the window and mooed. Perfect timing.
It appeared that one cow either tripped or leaned against the wood fence and fell onto the lawn. The D’s had a big pasture but many of the bovines liked to graze near the house. It must have been one of the leader cows because once it broke free the entire herd decided to follow and eat the nice lawn on the other side. We temporarily closed the broken fence with a big stick. We began shooing the cattle into the pasture through a gate near the barn. Sixty head of cattle, no problem for three small girls. Holsteins aren’t very intelligent but are docile when relaxed.
All was going well until I heard an unpleasant sound. It was a low grunt. I looked over my shoulder to see the bull walking toward me. My great uncle had a stud farm and I learned at an early age not to mess with male cattle. They weigh about 2,500 pounds and will kill any perceived threat to their herd. Lana’s bull did not recognize me and began to advance. The bull blocked the path to the house. I walked away slowly and sought a place to hide. It began to trot so I started to run as fast as my short legs would go. No equipment was out to leap upon and I felt panic. The barn was closed up to the west, fence to the south, corncrib to the east, and bull to the north. No time to open a door and the fence by the barn was barbed wire and impossible to surmount. I was trapped and terrified.
My only option was the corncrib. The crib walls are built for ventilation and supported by wooden slats quarter of an inch thick with inch wide openings for air circulation. Not much to hold onto. It was nearly full and internally lined with chicken wire. I crawled up as high as I could upon the ten-foot crib. The tin roof was pitched with no handholds. The bull followed and put its front hooves on the crib and began hitting my feet with its head. The horns had been sheered off to stubs. Nothing to lose so I began to scream. I knew that if I fell I would be stomped upon and probably killed. Lana’s dad heard my cry from inside the barn. He came charging out, grabbed something from inside the barn, and began to whack the bull’s butt. The bull leaped down and let Mr. D lead it to a pen. He saved my life and risked his own. The bull could have easily attacked him or Lana and Lisa.
My fingers were bleeding and I was hyperventilating. I would not climb down until the bull was secured into a pen. My friends had been occupied with the female cows that they had not noticed my plight. I was shaking so badly that I could barely walk. I threw up on the lawn. Mr. D gently guided me to the house. Mrs. D called my parents and let them know what happened. I could have gone back to town. The phone was handed to me and I told my mom that I wanted to stay on the farm. Mrs. D took back the phone and chatted in low tones. She received permission from my folks to administer a shot of blackberry brandy, the country cure-all. I still shook so I received shots number two and three. After that I was buzzed and giddy. I no longer cared that I had dodged death, again.
Read the first parts of this remembrance posted January 26th, and January 30th. This posting is Dairy Farm Tails, Part III.
Don’t mess with bulls.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Lana, her younger sister, Lisa, and I were playing “house” in the shed. I looked out the window when a black and white cow sauntered by. Odd. A thirteen hundred pound Holstein bovine munching on the grass. Mmm. Perhaps it was being used to mow the lawn. Perplexed, I asked, “Do you ever let the cows out to eat your lawn?” Lisa and Lana both laughingly replied, “No.” A curious cow poked its head in the window and mooed. Perfect timing.
It appeared that one cow either tripped or leaned against the wood fence and fell onto the lawn. The D’s had a big pasture but many of the bovines liked to graze near the house. It must have been one of the leader cows because once it broke free the entire herd decided to follow and eat the nice lawn on the other side. We temporarily closed the broken fence with a big stick. We began shooing the cattle into the pasture through a gate near the barn. Sixty head of cattle, no problem for three small girls. Holsteins aren’t very intelligent but are docile when relaxed.
All was going well until I heard an unpleasant sound. It was a low grunt. I looked over my shoulder to see the bull walking toward me. My great uncle had a stud farm and I learned at an early age not to mess with male cattle. They weigh about 2,500 pounds and will kill any perceived threat to their herd. Lana’s bull did not recognize me and began to advance. The bull blocked the path to the house. I walked away slowly and sought a place to hide. It began to trot so I started to run as fast as my short legs would go. No equipment was out to leap upon and I felt panic. The barn was closed up to the west, fence to the south, corncrib to the east, and bull to the north. No time to open a door and the fence by the barn was barbed wire and impossible to surmount. I was trapped and terrified.
My only option was the corncrib. The crib walls are built for ventilation and supported by wooden slats quarter of an inch thick with inch wide openings for air circulation. Not much to hold onto. It was nearly full and internally lined with chicken wire. I crawled up as high as I could upon the ten-foot crib. The tin roof was pitched with no handholds. The bull followed and put its front hooves on the crib and began hitting my feet with its head. The horns had been sheered off to stubs. Nothing to lose so I began to scream. I knew that if I fell I would be stomped upon and probably killed. Lana’s dad heard my cry from inside the barn. He came charging out, grabbed something from inside the barn, and began to whack the bull’s butt. The bull leaped down and let Mr. D lead it to a pen. He saved my life and risked his own. The bull could have easily attacked him or Lana and Lisa.
My fingers were bleeding and I was hyperventilating. I would not climb down until the bull was secured into a pen. My friends had been occupied with the female cows that they had not noticed my plight. I was shaking so badly that I could barely walk. I threw up on the lawn. Mr. D gently guided me to the house. Mrs. D called my parents and let them know what happened. I could have gone back to town. The phone was handed to me and I told my mom that I wanted to stay on the farm. Mrs. D took back the phone and chatted in low tones. She received permission from my folks to administer a shot of blackberry brandy, the country cure-all. I still shook so I received shots number two and three. After that I was buzzed and giddy. I no longer cared that I had dodged death, again.
Read the first parts of this remembrance posted January 26th, and January 30th. This posting is Dairy Farm Tails, Part III.
Don’t mess with bulls.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Sunday, February 5, 2012
B IS FOR BLOG
Sometimes I dream of words. During the past two years I have become reacquainted with the joy of writing. I’ve always created perfunctory documents at work but had little interest in leisurely writing at home. One of the few positive aspects of sustained unemployment is the time and energy to write. I’m a non-fiction journal maker, a memoirist with arts, social, and political commentary. I post my thoughts, opinions, and feel honored that you are reading these words.
Despite my dislike of spelling, I wanted to be a journalist when I graduated from high school. After one year at the University of Minnesota’s School of Journalism I switched majors. I was disillusioned because of the sexism in the 1980s media. I studied Studio Arts but it is profoundly difficult to make a living as a full-time artist. I ended up graduating with a degree in Speech-Communications and working in the non-profit 501(c)3 field.
My heart is in helping the community but the pay is generally poor and funding unstable. I usually remain at a job for about two years before switching due to boredom. I ask too many questions. A combination of my forthright personality and insecure supervisors has lead to conflict and being fired. I have no desire to start my own business. I have ideas but it would be absolute agony to deal with the technical aspects of sales and accounting.
Language is powerful and precious. I couldn’t figure out how to read until I was in third grade due to mild dyslexia. Writing has always been a challenge. The words form in my mind but spelling is atrocious. Playing Scrabble is akin to torture. Thank goodness for spell-check. Whoever invented it should be rewarded with lots of good karma.
I really enjoy sharing my stories with the world. I am curious what draws you to this blog. Please leave a comment and join the other Followers, connect on Facebook and Twitter, too. If you write a blog, let me know the address and I’ll become your Follower. Thanks! This is my 150th posting.
Keep On Reading!
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Despite my dislike of spelling, I wanted to be a journalist when I graduated from high school. After one year at the University of Minnesota’s School of Journalism I switched majors. I was disillusioned because of the sexism in the 1980s media. I studied Studio Arts but it is profoundly difficult to make a living as a full-time artist. I ended up graduating with a degree in Speech-Communications and working in the non-profit 501(c)3 field.
My heart is in helping the community but the pay is generally poor and funding unstable. I usually remain at a job for about two years before switching due to boredom. I ask too many questions. A combination of my forthright personality and insecure supervisors has lead to conflict and being fired. I have no desire to start my own business. I have ideas but it would be absolute agony to deal with the technical aspects of sales and accounting.
Language is powerful and precious. I couldn’t figure out how to read until I was in third grade due to mild dyslexia. Writing has always been a challenge. The words form in my mind but spelling is atrocious. Playing Scrabble is akin to torture. Thank goodness for spell-check. Whoever invented it should be rewarded with lots of good karma.
I really enjoy sharing my stories with the world. I am curious what draws you to this blog. Please leave a comment and join the other Followers, connect on Facebook and Twitter, too. If you write a blog, let me know the address and I’ll become your Follower. Thanks! This is my 150th posting.
Keep On Reading!
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Thursday, February 2, 2012
BOOKWORM REVIEW, VOLUME II, ISSUE FOUR
Most recent review was posted January 2nd.
Anshu by Juliet S. Kono Four and a half worms
Sorrowful tale of wartime woes capturing the horrible impact on Japanese civilians. Haunting examination of the main character’s development. Brilliantly written prose about the struggle to survive. The final chapters could have been expanded a bit. I hope there will be a continuation of the story.
Driftless by David Rhodes Four worms
Bewitching language. Reminded me of home. Aptly describes many people I knew who reside in tiny towns or where the town is only a collection of memories. Beautiful descriptions but the book was a bit too crowded. It might have been a bit better to divide into two parts and flesh out some of the chapters. Stunning work.
Flash and Bones by Kathy Reichs Three and a half worms
Well written with humor in addition to the macabre scene at NASCAR. Romance was not nauseating as most female writers overdo this aspect of their novels. More details needed for the murderer. Odd that all the characters were assumed to be Caucasian unless indicated otherwise. Q and A at the end of the book was interesting; I hadn’t realized that this was the inspiration for a television series Bones. The tv character barely resembles the book, they should have given her a different name.
Robopocalypse by Daniel H. Wilson Three and a half worms
Isaac Asimov’s Three Laws for Robotics are ignored by a frighteningly possible scenario. What do humans sacrifice by intensive reliance upon computers and machines? Author disregarded the entire Southern Hemisphere and there is always a rear facing guard. If the story had been structured a bit differently, it would have been more readable. Don’t give away the ending in the first chapter.
The Good Muslim by Tahmima Anam Two and a half worms
War is horrible and its terrible legacy continues to haunt the survivors. The final chapters were brilliant. Would have been better as a linear chronology instead of jumping in-between two time periods. Some chapters were unclear with the identity of the narrator, which made it very confusing.
Song of the Silk Road by Mingmai Yip Two and a half worms
Schmaltzy romance novel with bit of erotica. Main character could have used more development. Gaps were obvious. Why are the central characters always beautiful?
Libraries are awesome.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Anshu by Juliet S. Kono Four and a half worms
Sorrowful tale of wartime woes capturing the horrible impact on Japanese civilians. Haunting examination of the main character’s development. Brilliantly written prose about the struggle to survive. The final chapters could have been expanded a bit. I hope there will be a continuation of the story.
Driftless by David Rhodes Four worms
Bewitching language. Reminded me of home. Aptly describes many people I knew who reside in tiny towns or where the town is only a collection of memories. Beautiful descriptions but the book was a bit too crowded. It might have been a bit better to divide into two parts and flesh out some of the chapters. Stunning work.
Flash and Bones by Kathy Reichs Three and a half worms
Well written with humor in addition to the macabre scene at NASCAR. Romance was not nauseating as most female writers overdo this aspect of their novels. More details needed for the murderer. Odd that all the characters were assumed to be Caucasian unless indicated otherwise. Q and A at the end of the book was interesting; I hadn’t realized that this was the inspiration for a television series Bones. The tv character barely resembles the book, they should have given her a different name.
Robopocalypse by Daniel H. Wilson Three and a half worms
Isaac Asimov’s Three Laws for Robotics are ignored by a frighteningly possible scenario. What do humans sacrifice by intensive reliance upon computers and machines? Author disregarded the entire Southern Hemisphere and there is always a rear facing guard. If the story had been structured a bit differently, it would have been more readable. Don’t give away the ending in the first chapter.
The Good Muslim by Tahmima Anam Two and a half worms
War is horrible and its terrible legacy continues to haunt the survivors. The final chapters were brilliant. Would have been better as a linear chronology instead of jumping in-between two time periods. Some chapters were unclear with the identity of the narrator, which made it very confusing.
Song of the Silk Road by Mingmai Yip Two and a half worms
Schmaltzy romance novel with bit of erotica. Main character could have used more development. Gaps were obvious. Why are the central characters always beautiful?
Libraries are awesome.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
ARTIST ILLUMINATION: DIANE SIMON
Creating a positive emotional space is the goal of Diane Simon. She specializes in interior design, large canvases, and decorated furniture. Her environments are bright, bold, and brassy. No room for sorrow.
Primary and neon tones dominate Diane’s installations. She delights in crafting single rooms or an entire residence. If you seek an energizing place, you’ll find it with Diane’s work. She decorated the entirety of her bright airy home from floor to ceiling. I was impressed by the energy that the paintings, furniture, and kitchen backsplash imbibed.
As a child she drew all the time. She grew up in Wisconsin, went to school in Duluth, lived in Florida and New York City. She worked for five years as an Intensive Care Unit nurse but the stress was overwhelming. Ms. Simon moved onto a career in retail sales and was not fulfilled or challenged. Art made her feel alive and she found praxis by painting large 50 x 75 inch canvases.
She has a bright smile and cheerful chuckle. The canvases evoke movement and complications that belie her quiet demeanor. Many of the pieces have splashes of black and white paint layered on top. Her more traditional abstract paintings deal with social and political themes. Golden Paints is her exclusive source of hue. www.goldenpaints.com
Art Wrx By Dyne Gallery is open by appointment and during St. Paul Art Crawls in the Northwestern Building located at 275 East 4th Street, Suite 480, Saint Paul, MN 55101. Call 651-235-4200 for information. Ms. Simon won the “Ima Best in Show” award for her display at the 2011 Fall St. Paul Art Crawl. Read the review posted on October 24th, 2011.
Toot your horn!
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Monday, January 30, 2012
TOSSING HAY
It was a cold winter day, around –10 below zero. I was visiting my friend Lana D on her dairy farm. After breakfast we pulled on our snowsuits and returned to the barn. We crawled up to the upper hayloft since they had an extra tall barn to throw down bales for the cattle to consume. I had assisted with this endeavor many times and wasn’t worried. My friend knew of my fear of altitude and would let me pitch from near the wall and not the edge. The precipice was a sixty-foot drop to the barn floor.
We tossed bales into the shoot leading to the milking parlor. Her dad closed the hatch when we had sent down enough. The hay were needed for the next couple days and we commenced to climb down. Bales are staked to each other. The stakes are long pieces of rebar that anchor one layer of bale to another. You stake each bale on the edge of the stack to improve stability. Otherwise the weight causes the stack to bow out and fall down. Unfortunately, I stepped on a corner bale that wasn’t secured. Of course, it began to twist. I wore heavy gloves and could not catch hold of another bale’s twine. I could feel the corner bale letting loose. Lana reached but could not catch me. She and her older sister grew smaller as they yelled louder. I propelled backwards forty feet and thumped onto the loft, bounced and fell another twenty feet to the floor. I fell onto my back with a wallop and everything went black.
At first I heard voices. Some loose straw on the hard cement floor had cushioned my fall but knocked me breathless. Lana and Laura had crawled down and were afraid that I was dead. Their screams stirred their father from inside the barn. He had been tending to the chilled animals. I opened my eyes and he was standing over me. He tentatively asked if I was in pain but I didn’t know because I was in shock. I felt woozy. As a fourth grader I must have weighed 80 pounds but he gently lifted me, trudged through the snow and took me inside. Laura had run ahead to alert her mother and Lana kept talking to me. I was laid upon the kitchen table. Mrs. D had been a LPN before she got married and knew how to triage a patient. She carefully poked and prodded me. No broken bones were found and I didn’t have symptoms of internal bleeding. However, I was rather confused so it was concluded that I had a concussion.
A long distance call was made to my parents. A blinding blizzard had drifted six-foot mounds over the roads during the night. It would have been profoundly difficult to get me into a town with a hospital. Nonetheless, the local ambulance was put on alert. If I showed any signs of trauma a plow would be used to break the road open for the ambulance and I would be ferried two miles to the plow on the back of a snowmobile. This was the 1970s so they opted to keep me awake. Their entire family focused on making certain that I did not slumber. We played board games, ate, drank a lot of tea and coffee, watched the two television channels that came in, talked, and drove each other a little batty. Someone was always with me as they took turns sleeping.
The next morning I was declared safe and as soon as the plows went by I was hurried into town. I was exhausted and deeply saddened. I wanted to stay a couple more days on the farm. It was one of the happiest places of my childhood. Lana had a kind and loving family who laughed a lot, polar opposite of my repressed and angry family. Their family wasn’t perfect but they faced their problems with love instead of fear. My fear of heights has never faded.
Read the first part of this remembrance “D is for Dairy” posted on January 26th.
Milkaholic = liquid lactose lover.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
We tossed bales into the shoot leading to the milking parlor. Her dad closed the hatch when we had sent down enough. The hay were needed for the next couple days and we commenced to climb down. Bales are staked to each other. The stakes are long pieces of rebar that anchor one layer of bale to another. You stake each bale on the edge of the stack to improve stability. Otherwise the weight causes the stack to bow out and fall down. Unfortunately, I stepped on a corner bale that wasn’t secured. Of course, it began to twist. I wore heavy gloves and could not catch hold of another bale’s twine. I could feel the corner bale letting loose. Lana reached but could not catch me. She and her older sister grew smaller as they yelled louder. I propelled backwards forty feet and thumped onto the loft, bounced and fell another twenty feet to the floor. I fell onto my back with a wallop and everything went black.
At first I heard voices. Some loose straw on the hard cement floor had cushioned my fall but knocked me breathless. Lana and Laura had crawled down and were afraid that I was dead. Their screams stirred their father from inside the barn. He had been tending to the chilled animals. I opened my eyes and he was standing over me. He tentatively asked if I was in pain but I didn’t know because I was in shock. I felt woozy. As a fourth grader I must have weighed 80 pounds but he gently lifted me, trudged through the snow and took me inside. Laura had run ahead to alert her mother and Lana kept talking to me. I was laid upon the kitchen table. Mrs. D had been a LPN before she got married and knew how to triage a patient. She carefully poked and prodded me. No broken bones were found and I didn’t have symptoms of internal bleeding. However, I was rather confused so it was concluded that I had a concussion.
A long distance call was made to my parents. A blinding blizzard had drifted six-foot mounds over the roads during the night. It would have been profoundly difficult to get me into a town with a hospital. Nonetheless, the local ambulance was put on alert. If I showed any signs of trauma a plow would be used to break the road open for the ambulance and I would be ferried two miles to the plow on the back of a snowmobile. This was the 1970s so they opted to keep me awake. Their entire family focused on making certain that I did not slumber. We played board games, ate, drank a lot of tea and coffee, watched the two television channels that came in, talked, and drove each other a little batty. Someone was always with me as they took turns sleeping.
The next morning I was declared safe and as soon as the plows went by I was hurried into town. I was exhausted and deeply saddened. I wanted to stay a couple more days on the farm. It was one of the happiest places of my childhood. Lana had a kind and loving family who laughed a lot, polar opposite of my repressed and angry family. Their family wasn’t perfect but they faced their problems with love instead of fear. My fear of heights has never faded.
Read the first part of this remembrance “D is for Dairy” posted on January 26th.
Milkaholic = liquid lactose lover.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Thursday, January 26, 2012
D IS FOR DAIRY
Lana D. was my best friend during elementary school. We were in the same first grade classroom and became buddies. Born on the cusp of Generation X. My older siblings qualified as Baby Boomers and she had one older and two younger siblings. She epitomized her Scandinavian and Germanic ancestors with dusty blonde hair, sparkly blue eyes and pale skin. Lana was affable and had a terrific laugh. She had average intelligence but above-average instincts regarding social interactions. She was the first person to accept me. Even when we weren’t in the same primary classroom we sat next to each other during lunch and hung out on the playground.
Her family farmed. Sixty Holstein milk cows with pasture and crops. They resided far enough from town that it was long distance to call her house. During the summer we would meet when her mom came in to get groceries, 4-H meetings, and at community events. Dairy farmers are married to their herds as much as to their families. The cows must be milked at the same time twice per day. Variation in the schedule causes stress. Stress will make an animal sick, produce less milk, and sick animals die. Dead animals don’t pay the bills. They ran a nearly organic dairy since they rarely used drugs to treat the animals for illness.
Farming is a difficult and dangerous job. Mr. D refused to buy the huge tractors and fancy equipment, which became vogue in the 1970s. He preferred to fix machines until they were beyond repair. They didn’t take out loans and was careful with money. He inherited a portion of the farm and was gradually paying off his siblings for the rest. No mortgage needed, his sisters and brothers knew that they would be compensated. It took twenty years of toil but Mr. & Mrs. D paid for the farm in full. The conservative financial strategy saved their enterprise for another generation.
I visited the farm every six weeks or so during grade school. I often spent long weekends there or part of the break. That was back in the day when we had a two-week Christmas vacation so I’d hang out with them from the day after Christmas to the New Year. Occasionally, Lana would stay with me in town. I was embarrassed because our house was a mess. Chaotic, cluttered, and crowded with temperamental teenaged siblings. I was delighted to holiday at the farm, I felt safe and comfortable. Their house was less than ten years old since the old farmhouse was abandoned after his parents retired and moved into town.
We drank milk straight from the cow’s teat (after refrigeration). Utterly delicious creamy and dreamy. Nectar of the Gods. Whole milk seems sterile in comparison. Skim milk is colored water. Mr. D would bring in a jug of cream and we would use an old churn to break up the fat molecules. Drain off the whey (give it to the barn cats); add a little salt and the result was scrumptious butter. Note: Unpasteurized milk may contain microbes that will cause digestive problems if you aren’t accustomed to the product. Never give to children or people who are ill. It is best to be monitored by doctor. Pasteurization heats the milk to kill off the microbes.
I helped with the chores. We would get up at 5am to feed the animals while her dad milked. Polka music would blare in the milking parlor because the cows liked the music. They also enjoyed symphonic music but her dad didn’t. The cows would kick and maw when rock-n-roll was played. It would take about an hour. We’d stumble in, strip off our stinky clothes on the porch, put on a robe, and hop in the shower (they had three). By the time we were dressed her mom would have prepared a hearty breakfast that we would inhale and run out to play. Her dad would call us to help with chores again and it would be lunchtime. Sometimes a nap or more play and chores again. Evening milking, shower, dinner, and relaxation. Her dad would check on the cattle again and go to bed after the 10pm news. We needed to know the weather report. Her mom worked just as hard in the house and helped in the barn and fields, too. The rhythm was around the cattle. Their needs were priority because they were the literal butter of the business.
Contented cows grazed on pastureland during the warm months. The D’s grew field corn to feed the cattle during the winter. The leftover stalks were chopped into silage to supplement the corn gluten. It smelled horrible as it fermented in the silo and was explosive. Extra land grew oats or wheat depending upon what was most profitable to sell. After the grain was harvested, the hay was valuable to the cattle. I tried to help with baling hay but my allergies were relentless. I could sling the heavy bales but suffered greatly.
We would go to the Lutheran Church on the windswept prairie for Sunday services. Surrounded by fields and next to a cemetery. It would be packed full with folding chairs added to the back. I thought it was unusual to have specific materials to read since my parent’s church had none. Why vow to the Holy Catholic Church if you were Lutheran? Didn’t Martin Luther get excommunicated? It was all very peculiar to me. I was more interested in the cute guys who were parishioners but attended another school district.
Lana and I gravitated to different groups during junior and senior high school. We still remained friendly but weren’t friends anymore. I hope that she is doing well. I’d try to find her but she has changed her last name. It is demoralizing for women to give up their last name when getting married. We aren’t cattle. I’ll hyphen if he hyphens or else we can combine our last names together to create something new. Period. End of Discussion.
In retrospect, I should have tried to woo one of her younger brothers. The thought never entered my mind when I lived there. I would have loved to be on the farm. When I was 17 a swine farmer proposed and I said no. Great guy but I wanted to go to college. I knew that if I got married before finishing school that would be the end of my education. I didn’t realize that a person’s path might change through time. I would have been content to work part time in town and help coordinate the business aspect of farming. Who could predict that the Internet would reduce isolation? Too late to hold regrets. Heavy sigh.
Got Milk?
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Her family farmed. Sixty Holstein milk cows with pasture and crops. They resided far enough from town that it was long distance to call her house. During the summer we would meet when her mom came in to get groceries, 4-H meetings, and at community events. Dairy farmers are married to their herds as much as to their families. The cows must be milked at the same time twice per day. Variation in the schedule causes stress. Stress will make an animal sick, produce less milk, and sick animals die. Dead animals don’t pay the bills. They ran a nearly organic dairy since they rarely used drugs to treat the animals for illness.
Farming is a difficult and dangerous job. Mr. D refused to buy the huge tractors and fancy equipment, which became vogue in the 1970s. He preferred to fix machines until they were beyond repair. They didn’t take out loans and was careful with money. He inherited a portion of the farm and was gradually paying off his siblings for the rest. No mortgage needed, his sisters and brothers knew that they would be compensated. It took twenty years of toil but Mr. & Mrs. D paid for the farm in full. The conservative financial strategy saved their enterprise for another generation.
I visited the farm every six weeks or so during grade school. I often spent long weekends there or part of the break. That was back in the day when we had a two-week Christmas vacation so I’d hang out with them from the day after Christmas to the New Year. Occasionally, Lana would stay with me in town. I was embarrassed because our house was a mess. Chaotic, cluttered, and crowded with temperamental teenaged siblings. I was delighted to holiday at the farm, I felt safe and comfortable. Their house was less than ten years old since the old farmhouse was abandoned after his parents retired and moved into town.
We drank milk straight from the cow’s teat (after refrigeration). Utterly delicious creamy and dreamy. Nectar of the Gods. Whole milk seems sterile in comparison. Skim milk is colored water. Mr. D would bring in a jug of cream and we would use an old churn to break up the fat molecules. Drain off the whey (give it to the barn cats); add a little salt and the result was scrumptious butter. Note: Unpasteurized milk may contain microbes that will cause digestive problems if you aren’t accustomed to the product. Never give to children or people who are ill. It is best to be monitored by doctor. Pasteurization heats the milk to kill off the microbes.
I helped with the chores. We would get up at 5am to feed the animals while her dad milked. Polka music would blare in the milking parlor because the cows liked the music. They also enjoyed symphonic music but her dad didn’t. The cows would kick and maw when rock-n-roll was played. It would take about an hour. We’d stumble in, strip off our stinky clothes on the porch, put on a robe, and hop in the shower (they had three). By the time we were dressed her mom would have prepared a hearty breakfast that we would inhale and run out to play. Her dad would call us to help with chores again and it would be lunchtime. Sometimes a nap or more play and chores again. Evening milking, shower, dinner, and relaxation. Her dad would check on the cattle again and go to bed after the 10pm news. We needed to know the weather report. Her mom worked just as hard in the house and helped in the barn and fields, too. The rhythm was around the cattle. Their needs were priority because they were the literal butter of the business.
Contented cows grazed on pastureland during the warm months. The D’s grew field corn to feed the cattle during the winter. The leftover stalks were chopped into silage to supplement the corn gluten. It smelled horrible as it fermented in the silo and was explosive. Extra land grew oats or wheat depending upon what was most profitable to sell. After the grain was harvested, the hay was valuable to the cattle. I tried to help with baling hay but my allergies were relentless. I could sling the heavy bales but suffered greatly.
We would go to the Lutheran Church on the windswept prairie for Sunday services. Surrounded by fields and next to a cemetery. It would be packed full with folding chairs added to the back. I thought it was unusual to have specific materials to read since my parent’s church had none. Why vow to the Holy Catholic Church if you were Lutheran? Didn’t Martin Luther get excommunicated? It was all very peculiar to me. I was more interested in the cute guys who were parishioners but attended another school district.
Lana and I gravitated to different groups during junior and senior high school. We still remained friendly but weren’t friends anymore. I hope that she is doing well. I’d try to find her but she has changed her last name. It is demoralizing for women to give up their last name when getting married. We aren’t cattle. I’ll hyphen if he hyphens or else we can combine our last names together to create something new. Period. End of Discussion.
In retrospect, I should have tried to woo one of her younger brothers. The thought never entered my mind when I lived there. I would have loved to be on the farm. When I was 17 a swine farmer proposed and I said no. Great guy but I wanted to go to college. I knew that if I got married before finishing school that would be the end of my education. I didn’t realize that a person’s path might change through time. I would have been content to work part time in town and help coordinate the business aspect of farming. Who could predict that the Internet would reduce isolation? Too late to hold regrets. Heavy sigh.
Got Milk?
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
RELUCTANT ROUGE
Try, try again is the old adage. My hair turned shiny white about ten years ago. I don’t mind but I do feel irritated that people presume that I am 65 years old since I’m 40-something. Last month I tried to color my hair back to a light blonde but the result was negligible. There was a slight blonde sheen to my hair.
My neighbor, Sandy, is a professional cosmotologist. Actually, many members of her family are hair-follicle inclined since both her brother and brother-in-law own barber shops. She has been kind enough to cut my hair for $10 during my unemployment. I also let her park in my driveway during snow emergencies. When she learned of my attempt at color she offered to assist. She was afraid that I would miss a spot and have a white streak amid the new tone. Sandy instructed me to purchase a light golden brown kit.
I procured Clairol’s Nice’N Easy Natural Lightest Golden Brown ll4A. She came over and applied the hue. I made her a cup of tea and we chatted for a half an hour waiting for the dye to take hold. It didn’t smell too horrible but the cats avoided the kitchen. I rinsed out the goo and was surprised when I looked in the mirror. The result was a light red tone. Thankfully, it goes well with my pale coloring. My original honey blonde hair had natural red highlights. However, it is a rather flat dull hue. I’m not sure if I should let it be or make an attempt at a darker color. Sandy said that it should wash out to a strawberry blonde tone. My dad had red hair as a child and my grandniece has beautiful red-gold hair.
I will have to decide before interview #18 since I didn’t get a good vibe from #17. I’m only coloring my hair to get a job. I have no desire to keep up the ruse after I become employed. It’s just stupid that people make assumptions about white hair. Alas, I berated hair related discrimination in my last column about this topic on December 22nd, 2011.
The power of red.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
My neighbor, Sandy, is a professional cosmotologist. Actually, many members of her family are hair-follicle inclined since both her brother and brother-in-law own barber shops. She has been kind enough to cut my hair for $10 during my unemployment. I also let her park in my driveway during snow emergencies. When she learned of my attempt at color she offered to assist. She was afraid that I would miss a spot and have a white streak amid the new tone. Sandy instructed me to purchase a light golden brown kit.
I procured Clairol’s Nice’N Easy Natural Lightest Golden Brown ll4A. She came over and applied the hue. I made her a cup of tea and we chatted for a half an hour waiting for the dye to take hold. It didn’t smell too horrible but the cats avoided the kitchen. I rinsed out the goo and was surprised when I looked in the mirror. The result was a light red tone. Thankfully, it goes well with my pale coloring. My original honey blonde hair had natural red highlights. However, it is a rather flat dull hue. I’m not sure if I should let it be or make an attempt at a darker color. Sandy said that it should wash out to a strawberry blonde tone. My dad had red hair as a child and my grandniece has beautiful red-gold hair.
I will have to decide before interview #18 since I didn’t get a good vibe from #17. I’m only coloring my hair to get a job. I have no desire to keep up the ruse after I become employed. It’s just stupid that people make assumptions about white hair. Alas, I berated hair related discrimination in my last column about this topic on December 22nd, 2011.
The power of red.
© 2012 Ima B. Musing
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