In the Days of Old Long Since...

I love literal translations. This is the translation of the song title "Auld Lang Syne," written in part by Robert Burns in 1789, and to a lesser known poet, Sir Robert Ayton. The Scottish folksong collector and editor, George Thomson set the poem to a Lowland melody, "I Fee'd a Lad at Michaelmas" around 1796. (You did what to a lad at a party?) There is a very fine recording of Frank C. Stanley's 1910 robust performance on Wikipedia. Mr. Stanley's rolling Scottish brogue does great justice to this song, now two hundred fourteen years old. Tune in and be inspired to sing it better next year, you clamoring mokes.

Seeing as it's January 1st, I'm cleaning up and clearing out, per usual. I made two resolutions, believing for once I could handle a limited number with complete success. They are: 1) to use my treadmill everyday and 2) to stop using chocolate as a meal substitute. I have failed already even though it's only a little past noon. I do still have time to walk, but I'm not going to. Why kid myself? In defragging my computer and deleting a shitload of unused program files, useless documents, cookies, etc., I regained more than ten percent hard drive space. I know, I was surprised, too.

I've also off-loaded several people from my Facebook friends list. I will admit the allure of having 267 friends or some other insane number is quite appealing. It would make me look pretty darned popular, wouldn't it? As it stands, I am very comfortable at less than twenty friends, and I'll talk to all of them on a regular basis.

Now, this may come as a complete surprise to you, but I've never been the girl who wanted to win the popularity contest. Hey, now don't act like that! I'm sorry to rip your time space continuum all to hell. I know what you're thinking. It's like I've grabbed you by the hand to wantonly and willy-nilly hokey-pokey around the blackhole that is your reality. But, yes, I've pretty much always marched to the beat of my own drummer. There I've said it. Just deal!!

I was never in the geek squad in school. I floated amongst the advanced placement, college-bound pains in the ass, the music-focused, drama club type kids, and the business school, accounting class pencil pushers. I fit in pretty much everywhere except with the smoking area kids. I was a singer, so I didn't smoke; mezzo soprano in case you're taking notes.

Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach said, "We are so vain that we even care for the opinions of those we don't care for." Ms. von Ebner-Eschenbach was one of the most important German-language writers of the latter 19th century, and is credited with the aphorism, "Even a stopped clock is right twice a day." (Her picture on Wikipedia is grim and she looks like a monster, so don't look it up or you'll have the wooly-booger nightmares. It's something to do with her lips...)

Anyhow, those were my "vain thoughts," Marie, when I "friended" this guy on Facebook that we all used to call "Sammy Smellsmore." That is the barest alteration of his actual name, mind you. He sent me a friend request, but I feared he hadn't changed much for the better since high school, knowing full well I hadn't for sure. Before friending him, I checked to see who his other friends were. Seeing that some of the more popular kids from high school had friended him, I "accepted." It wasn't long before he proved himself to be the same perverted, repulsive, intrusive, disgusting, leering, icky guy he was twenty-eight years ago. I spat him back into the Internet-ethers never to be friended again, at least not by me.

I mean how far had I sunk to friend this guy I knew in my gut was going to be a pervert? Just to add another "friend" to my list? All to gather "friends" on Facebook? Looking back over this perv's list of friends, all these nice, decent people who never spoke to this guy in high school, who don't speak to him now but just want another body to add to their list.

Let's face it, I'm not the "Facebook type." My one reason for being on there is to network with family and a few used-to-be-close friends from high school and work life. It's not about how popular I think I am or desire to be. It's a vehicle for revealing the tenor of my life thus far; what I love and who I love. I share so we can all reminisce on "days of old long since."

...a Big Difference Between Kneeling Down and Bending Over."

The original quote by Frank Zappa reads, "Remember, there's a big difference between kneeling down and bending over." Naughty, suggestive, outright crude: those things always appeal to me and that's why this quote caught my eye. The gift here is that after you smirk and chuckle at the inference, every fiber of your being agrees with the greater meaning.

I've come to accept a few key things about myself since leaving a job I thought I would retire from in twenty years. Well, "knock a sick whore off a piss pot!" my father would say. (He was a poet: it's the same meaning as "what light through yonder window breaks?" Just let that sink in....Okay, how about this: it's the "A'Hah Moment" Oprah talks about all the time. She just can't say "whore" and "piss pot" on national television, that's all, alright?) Looking back, it seems impossible I could ever have felt that way. I am thankful that the Universe forced me into a level of awareness and clarity that loosened my tongue sufficiently to seriously hasten my departure. The fact is, I deserved a better life. All my angels in Heaven wanted this for me. They were up there with their pom-poms and air horns shouting, "J-O-N-I!!! Kick 'em low! Kick 'em high! Don't give in! Don't you cry!! We'll make sure you prosper! WHY? Beeeeee Cuz We Love You!! HEY!!!" See Frank? I finally stopped bending over.

I accept the fact that I'm not going find a regular job any time soon. In chatting with Solana yesterday on Facebook, I learned that a pal of hers, a paralegal, has been unemployed for more than a year in a large metropolitan setting. Both she and her attorney were laid off at the same time and neither has found work. That's grim. Living here in a small coastal tourist town, having less than five ads in the help wanted section of the local paper is not uncommon as winter creeps in. We accept that here.

The exuberant Pearl Bailey, "sultry and statuesque, a muse in high heels," is quoted as saying, "You never find yourself until you face the truth." My revelations also include the fact that I no longer find my Self able to feel or really, pretend to be subordinate to any one ever again. This may well be the admission of a lifetime: I've never felt subordinate to anyone. Defined as: "under the control or authority of another; submissive to authority; to make subservient; of lesser order or importance; subdue," in it's various forms and usages. I could bray just reading the definition, me and my not-so-inner jackass. I don't even see this as arrogance, but self-awareness; as facing the truth about my Self. I need to work for me.

I owe this unfortunate calling to a hearty strain of kick-ass entrepreneurial genetics. Mom said Dad came home one day from his regular paying job and told her he'd quit. (They only had FIVE kids at home then.) After he picked himself up from the floor and pried the frying pan out of his skull, he explained to her that he wanted to try antique dealing and believed he could make a go of it. In fact, he knew it. Over time, both Dad and Mom became antique dealers and they were very successful, running Pigeon Hill Antiques for many years. They were self-taught and savvy as hell. I wouldn't say Dad was a liar, but he could talk the hind leg off a mule. Mark Twain said "Never tell a lie except for practice." So, let's just say, he was well-rehearsed. I guess once you took into consideration the wife and the now seven kids at home who depended upon him, it was easy to cut him some slack for his lack of veracity.

I'd like to think that my Dad sees all this, and reads my blogs from somewhere between Heaven and Hell. I'd also like to think he has access to both; one for climate and the other for society. I know he'd be proud of me because I'm proud of me.

"My Father, now in Heaven is a keeper of the birds. And his eye is on his sparrow." Don Williams, Jr.