I was going to put in very recent pictures of me, but wimped out. Here’s the ensuing conversation

I: Don’t you feel stupid?

Me: Yes

I: We have eyes, where are they?

Me: You didn’t want to wear any make-up. Go for the natural look you said. Just lip gloss. And a fake tan from towelletes which are kind of cool.

When did makeup become a chore and not a pleasure. Sometimes getting ready was the fun part of the night?

I: You never listen to me. Why did you let us pose?

Me: You took over. You refused to let me philosophize on how putting on makeup helped make us a deep thinker. We spent so much time doing it. And we discovered that beige in the crease, brown in the lid makes deep set eyes look larger.

I: I’m in total need of a break, needed you to be strong. For once you behaved. You always have to have the last word. Now you do nothing.

Me: Hey, I thought of buying a power strip for Savannah two the laptop, the Ipod, the new Bose headphones, the camera, the clarasonic skin brush which can double as a nail brush, the cell and the toothbrush. Now we need a manicure and pedicure.

I: You’re so shallow. You need to do laundry, clean and pack.

Me: Why me? Don’t you do anything?

I: I put the music in the Ipod.

Me: You’re predictable. Even eat breakfast for breakfast. We have the frigging Subdudes, Warren Zevon, John Hiatt, Roseanne Cash, Motown, the CD of great 60′s death songs,Annie Lennox, Ben Harper…

I: Welcome to the cruel world, shut up, and I won’t let you listen to “You must be an angel, tonight,” on the Bose. Remember the first time we heard it on the Walkman? Heaven, we found heaven on earth at Jones Beach.

Me: We deserve a vacation. We better see some real music. And I want us to walk on the beach for endless hours each day.

I: If we spend two hours a day blogging. And another two hours writing. We can break it up. Maybe.

Me: You are so rigid. A vacation’s supposed to be about giving into fun.

I: That’s life. You should begin thinking about giving into middle age. And fun is what it is.

Me: Never. When we’re eligible for Medicare, we can entertain the thought. Where are all the books we’re going to bring?

I: We can read Ian Rankin, Peter Robinson, Jeff Abbot, Marcia Muller, though we can’t bring hardcovers….we’re not giving up mysteries, but first we have to be productive.

Me: Isn’t that the family crest? Productivity reigns. We have to do fun things.

I: Funny. First we have to do the laundry, and clean this apartment, so that we can once again feel superior to the organizing shows on HGTV

Me: You’re hard. Why the hell didn’t we wait for the frigging pictures?
Rafe was supposed to do them. He used to be a photographer for NASA and could have done our hair in different fun styles, and he wouldn’t have let us forget to do our make up.

I:You were. Didn’t forget. Didn’t want to, remember?

Me: That was dumb. When did we go from being pale and Irish or Slavic looking to Native American? And when did our hair go from being uncontrollable to what you used to call “rich girl hair?” Though it goes back to frizzy

I: Can we cut this conversation and do something productive?

Me: Productive. That’s all you ever think about, being productive. We should have been like Marie Dana.

I: You want to be like somebody who had a beer belly at 25? Her idea of a good time, besides hounding old men, was playing quarters in a teen-age boys apartment. And we would never live with an old man to get his estate.

Me: You wouldn’t. I loved listening to “The Wall” over and over again. Marie was fun. She always had a rich man supporting her. You think that women should be completely self-sufficent. Cold bitch. She didn’t hound them. They adored her, beer belly and all because there was something sexy about her.

And you wouldn’t let us go to Lips last night to see a drag show and eat.

I: We’re not on good terms with food right now.

Me: No, you didn’t want to be out late and to drink or have fun with old friends. They had a great time.

I: We needed our strength.

Me: For what? Doing stupid get ready for trip things. We didn’t even do half the things we meant to.

I: You began to play with the camera and explore the vast world that lives in it. It was your idea. The bad ones always are.

We decide to finish this conversation in private where we can really show how shallow we can be. But first we are really really happy that Sar won best political blog in the blogs of summer.

From now on when I feel the need to blog about an issue, I will put it in a page.
While I left comments open, I hope that they aren’t misused.

click on the pictures to enlarge them if you dare

Anything can happen on a full moon night. Anything. Last full moon my fridge and almost every other household appliance died. Last full moon I was filled with want. Last full moon was a Cancer full moon, and the moon rules Cancer.

I am a Cancer. Full moons have always ruled my life. Last full moon I wished that I was a Vampire. Last full moon my wish and my want might have been a reality.

Who knows what happens after midnight in a full moon in Cancer in Manhattan?

Somehow after the sun comes out I find myself at the river looking at New Jersey. We think Vampires have been banned from the new New Jersey skyline. However, some people wonder what the mark is on their neck. How can I be out in the sun? Did I say that I’m a Vampire? Maybe, maybe not. Or maybe a new breed has embarked upon the Hudson.

We who worship the Cancer full moon in Manhattan just might know the answer.

Then we find ourselves at a magical building off Fifth Avenue in the 60′s where I lived in a previous life.
We don’t talk about what goes on there, all day all night for over a century. It’s enchanted, sacred and only Cancers who witnessed the full moon from the building I live in now are allowed to partake in the ceremony.

What ceremony? Someday if you don’t find yourself in Jersey, somebody might tell you about the secret door that leads into another part of the building. Maybe.

But only if you know what the magic balls mean. Few, few people do.

Happy Friday. I will probably post again sometime next week, from a world far from here. Please understand if I don’t make it to your blog. Have to prepare for another moon. It’s really not easy being a Full Moon Goddess or Vampire or whatever I am.
Then again I might post tomorrow.

Wow, Stephanie has paved the way for bloggers. Think that’s amazing. She also paved the way for taking a respite from Manhattan, something that I totally understandl

Okay. I lived. I think. This is a really great New York story from The Times Many paragraphs below. It’s strange, for me, to read about a person who denied his own identity. Not because I’m an adoptee–a bit–but because I would never want to deny my own family history as I know it.
Also I will tell almost anything about me if asked or, uh, sometimes not. Though I wasn’t explicit about my recent foray into total physical descent–35 hours of hell. Hope it really is over, because there were times I did want to die. If I’m not at blogs much this week, need today to recover though I really don’t have the time. Managed to totally mess up my apartment. If something fell–and everything did, just stayed there. Couldn’t bend.

Have never felt aged or infirm before. Will do everything in my power to stay healthy. And would like to thank Lucia, the world’s biggest expert on trapped gas–her ex was a cameraman for CNN during Somalia. Brought home a rare bug. Lucia got it in the trapped gas form–never seen before by tropical disease doctors. But Lucia can turn most diseases into trapped gas. Fortunately she was here. Her daughter, the wonderful Little Luce, also rescued me. Unfortunately she has a genetic predisposition to it. Trapped gas, not rescuing me. Told me this was partial payment for all the times….Love, love, love, love that girl. Sometimes if we’re really lucky our best friend will have a great kid so that we don’t have to have one but can share in the glory, the sicknesses, and everything else, almost. Lucia is a great mom Gawd, if everybody we used to know could see her now!
I’m now an official Jiminez–the trapped gas thing–sorry haven’t eaten since Sunday–was feeling weird Monday. This is disjointed and I need to eat. But hesitate.

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The comments weren’t personalized. Just absurd. This is why there will be no more issues on my blog. Rule subject to change at my whim and my whim only.

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I’m a Times Select member. Will probably always be one no matter where I live–that Times love/hate thing so many New Yorkers know. Enjoy the story. It’s by Dan Barry. He and Frank Rich are my two favorite Times columnists. Would love to add a woman to that list. Maureen Dowd–great on politics, confuses status for achievement when it comes to women. If I harp on that and I do, it’s because I can’t understand why such a brilliant woman, who though her father was the chief cop for the Senate, really came from a non-elite background thinks like that. But obviously that alone gave her contacts. As did her older brothers.

I know how hard it is for women of Maureen and my generation who didn’t have contacts, money, go to elite schools or were Oprah. Oh let me stop, should be resting.

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Once again this was written by Dan Barry, not me, though I would love to take the credit.

SOME 40 years ago, a young man who called himself by the distinctive name of William M. V. Kingsland appeared on the Upper East Side scene. Intelligent and engaging, with a fondness for sly puns, he became a regular among a subset of rarefied New York.

He possessed a thorough knowledge of art and books, but his particular expertise centered on the stories of the buildings around him — stories of the privileged and rich as well as of the brick and mortar. Blessed with an astonishing memory, he knew pedigrees better than the pedigreed.

Fond of leading friends on informal tours through the streets of the East Side, he would point out a building’s new metal railing — a clear landmark violation! — then share with glee the generations-old melodrama that once played out behind the re-pointed brick. “Who had run off with the nanny, who had shot his mother-in-law — all their foibles,” Elizabeth Ashby, co-chairwoman of the Defenders of the Historic Upper East Side, said. “If you walked around with him, there was always something that sprang to his mind.”

Looking back, his friends now smile at the thought: William seemed to know everyone’s past — but no one knew his. It was as though he had simply appeared one day, fully formed, with that moustache.

The spare details he shared painted an intriguing background. East Side, it seemed. Groton and Harvard, it seemed. Of rich parents who had lived in Switzerland and died in Florida. Divorced long ago from a French woman of royalty. Wealthy enough to work when the mood struck him, mostly by dealing in and writing about art.

Where he lived was even vague. He said that he lived on Fifth Avenue, but stored his artwork in a one-bedroom apartment on East 72nd Street that very few remember entering. As for M. V., it stood for Milliken Vanderbilt, he confided, but let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we?

Sure, he rarely answered his telephone, had no answering machine, and preferred to be contacted by mail; but then you would bump into him in the park, and hours would pass in conversation. Sure, his shabby-prep style of dress announced his frugality; but then birthday presents for your child would arrive in the mail, courtesy of William M. V. Kingsland.

He was a passionate preservationist, whose frequent notes to the Landmarks Preservation Commission — “metal railing installed above 4th floor level”; “stone ornament (previously unpainted) painted white” — earned him distinction as a one-man violations bureau. He was a gifted genealogist who volunteered his services to, among others, the New York Marble Cemetery. Prickly, evasive, witty, kind: a New York character, a friend.

MR. KINGSLAND died, suddenly and alone, in his East 72nd Street apartment in early spring; he was either 58 or 62. All around him were stacks of books and pieces of art, including two of particular interest: a bust that appears to be by Alberto Giacometti, and a small painting by Giorgio Morandi. It could be that his estate is worth as much as $2 million, but no will has been found. His death prompted a frantic search for relatives and for other assets, but the exercise has been like chasing shadows. No Kingsland knew of William M. V. Kingsland. No Fifth Avenue apartment could be found.

“Here he was, an expert on other people’s families, and we know nothing about his,” Anne Brown, the president of the New York Marble Cemetery, said. “Many of us are convinced he’s up there, holding his sides, laughing at us.”

If he is laughing, or even just smiling, it might be because William Milliken Vanderbilt Kingsland was born Melvyn Kohn. In March 1960, when he was either 12 or 16, his name was changed to one that evoked Old New York — although his parents, Robert and Loretta, remained the Kohns.

The reasons why a boy would take such Gatsbyesque steps are unknown. It could be that he simply chose to avail himself of that familiar gift of vast New York: the opportunity for redefinition.

Some friends say they suspected it all along, but add that his embellishments were harmless. “There were things that didn’t add up,” said Spencer Compton, a close friend. “But the man was so intelligent and charming and full of goodness that one enjoyed him far too much to worry about the accuracy of his pedigree.”

And many say it doesn’t matter. “We were fond of William the person, not William the name,” Ms. Ashby said.

Friends arranged for a funeral in mid-April. William M. V. Kingsland was buried at the New York Marble Cemetery; heirs of Melvyn Kohn have been contacted.

I have closed comments to force them elsewhere, or because I didn’t want any for some reason, never in the middle before. But if people can’t respect others points of views, can try to be respectful

Have reopened them on the post below. I went through six oral surgeries and blogged. This pain is intense. Am now sitting on my balance stool–do feel better.

This is a pty party post. Shouldn’t be allowed near blogs today, but I wrote the post below in good faith and allowed it to be pinged and used for debate in the spirit of blogger solidarity. Don’t like to be used.

I am giving up issues because of how absurd comments can get. I can’t moderate them now. When I was asked to keep the comments for a debate, I thought it would be civil and make sense. My comment didn’t because I was having stomach spasms. Never live on tomatoes, yellow red and orange pepper salads with sides of pineapple, and other fruit. That’s my only life advice.

I have a knack for pissing people off. But I hate to fight

All I ever wanted to do on Courting was tell stories about my self-absorbed shallow life. Thought that this debate would be fun. Going back to my totally superficially life. Know people on all sides of the “fights” think that.

Yes the world is in bad shape. Doesn’t mean we have to give up doing what makes us personally happy. I haven’t been a happy blogger and I have a right to personal, life and blogging happiness.

There are many times that I feel like apologizing for Courting’s success. Why should I? I work every day of the year. I worked on other blogs. I write my book–I have admin things with that. I have to earn a living also. Do it on the Internet. And many other responsibilities. I’m not a slacker though many people would like to think of me as a slacker who somehow has a highly ranked blog. Easier to think that I’m shallow or vengeful or a bazillion other things.

I’m a woman with a blog and a life. One that I would like to begin living again.

My life is too computer centric. My real life friends were ready to give up on me. Love my friends. We’re family in the truest sensel

My oldest blogging friends have been angry that I spend too much time blogging. I can’t blame them. My real blogging friends, and there are many, are wonderful. You all know who you are.

Seem to invite comments that tell me how to live or denigrate my morals. The comments on the post below aren’t an example of that.

I have a right to have a “fun” blog that I can enjoy. I’m just so tired of self-important hypocrites who think that their cause is the only important thing. I’m neither shallow nor self-absorbed and invite people who tell me that to look in a mirror. I also think that people should understand that politics or causes aren’t the only important thing in the world. Far far from itl

When I talk about bloggers burn out, I’m not joking. I will have Courting on vacation–if I go. Have to get my dentists approval to fly. Hope that this is only trapped gas. Feels like death.

Sorry if this is an explicit or depressing post. Yes I’m complaining. My blog, Sar and I were used, and that pisses me off.

Vote for Sar.

Sar was nominated for best political blog at blogs of summer. She needs ten nominations to make it into the finals. Doug seconded whoever, thank you, nominated her, and I did whatever seconding the seconder is called.

Monday update: Sar made it into the finals. She’s the only person with an Impeach Bush banner. You can vote here.

I don’t nominate people for political blogging awards nor campaign much more than this. Just putting Sar’s nomination out there because Belle of the Brawl is a unique mix. We did meet brawling and have become friends which is why I love the name of her blog so much. Sar provides a place for people to feel safe when discussing issues and that is rare. Love people who mix things up. Life’s about much more than politics and issues. Sometimes we need cruises and James Spader–and Boston Legal better be back on in the fall.

The other blogs include Michelle Malkin’s who shouldn’t really be nominated for something like this. It looks like Sar’s blog is the only “left” leaning blog.

Yes, I’m off politics and issues for the summer. So this post is a mosh pit of issues

Bush’s veto of stem cell research was beyond sick. This is why I love Frank Rich, and wll make this into a page.

It’s not a choice of IVF babies or research. There would be more than enough for both. As an adoptee I admit to a strong prejudice against people who are so ego-filled that they won’t consider adoption. Am strongly pro-choice. But that’s not even the point.

Bush purposely paraded kids who would have been born and clouded the issue. The snowflake babies.

This country cares more about the rights of the unborn than the rights of the already living.

William F Buckley equates stem cell research with moral guidelines that Hitler might use. No it’s the opposite. It’s to save lives, not kill them. That didn’t link properly. Found it in Yahoo news or wherever somebody I once had respect for might write.

Hope that none of the Bushes ever develop a condition that might be cured or controlled with something derived from stem cells.

If you have ever seen somebody you love develop a debilitating condition and be told by all doctors that it might possibly be cured with stem cells, it hurts and that hurt never goes away completely because so many other people have or will develop conditions….It doesn’t make sense.

Bush is pandering to people who have no respect for human life.

If they did they would want Michael J Fox and millions more who are suffering from Parkinson’s disease to possibly be cured. So many other conditions. I’m a baby boomer with a vested interest. As an adoptee I really don’t know what conditions I might develop. As a nursing home social worker, I saw the sickest of the sick.

People with advanced Parkinson’s, and so called Parkinson’s dementia would answer your question 20 beats later, because they weren’t really demented, just in another time space. To know that they are aware of this is horrible.

I couldn’t work with older people anymore. It wasn’t the dying that disturbed me. It was the quality of life. Sometimes when people hear that I could no longer work with the very sick elderly, they think I lack compassion and guts. Of course these are the same people who think “old people are cute,” and dementia is a second childhood. No, most people fight it for years, even after it’s advanced.

I make no apologizes for not being able to handle something so sad. At the same time my Mom was aging too rapidly from Macular Degeneration. You don’t know how many times we were told, “stem cell research.” My mother died a tragic death that haunted me for years. While it doesn’t anymore, it’s in her memory that I care so passionately about this. Also hope to live until I’m old–a full and wonderful life.

Lyn who is sponsoring the blogs of summer has a very different take on this. Read her at blogging out loud. Please respect her blog.

And boobs. I have them. Therefore I have joined a new blogroll called bloggers with boobies. Don’t have to have them, just like and/or support women who do. Breast cancer is a subject for another time.

Pandering to the radical right is wrong, and I’m scared that this will give many people license to think that they can troll. Don’t even come here. I delete; and somebody else has the password for those rare times I’m not in front of a computer;

Thanks for making my birthday so special. Must thank Doug once again for the incredible birthday post. Will answer comments tomorrow. Am going back to bed, so that I can continue my birthday month tonight. This study was aptly released yesterday. Can’t believe that I wasn’t interviewed. Probably would have never answered the phone. Too busy blogging.

The city where I live used to be empty in the summer. Steam could be pouring off the concrete, steam would be rising to the sky, steam would be all around me. Each spot where a dog, cat, human peed would have its own odor. The stink of one fishhead could be smelled three blocks down. But in the summer I felt free.

The city where I live is much prettier than it has ever been. There are times that I feel so guilty for wanting to leave. If I just try to take advantage of all that is here, if I make myself walk every street as I used to with so much joy. But the streets are too crowded, and it feels like a great place to visit.