617: If you don’t know me by now


That song by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes is running through my head like a funeral dirge. In a way, it is a funeral dirge. The song says to the other lover, “You have grossly and fundamentally misunderstood me yet again, after all this time, and all my examples to the contrary.”

That song is a funeral dirge – a sad song sung at the death of something valued. The thing that died is trust and understanding.

I feel sad, because it is quite normal to feel sad when something that was valued dies. It is even more tragic when it died because it was murdered, with a deliberate choice to believe something of me……that is not me, by inclination or by example.


After this happens, I have to choose. I have to choose between forgiving/understanding/explaining one more time, and resurrecting what died (and it feels like an un-dead zombie for quite a while after it is resurrected), or accepting that your judgment of me really is the way you think of me fundamentally down deep inside yourself, and let it remain dead, have the funeral, sing the song, and MOVE ON.

Yes, the hardest choice you will ever make is whether to stick with it and give it one MORE try, or whether to finally accept that this thing is dead, was so flawed at the foundation to start with that it cannot be reanimated into an awkward un-dead, but still mostly dead, rotting, worm and decay infested zombie, slowly and painfully warming up to resemble real life.

So, do  I turn the page and keep reading this stinker of a novel, or close the book, and decide whether to choose another, different book, or just swear off reading forever? I have been known to continue reading a stinker to the bitter end, and I have also closed a stinker and found another book. Not sure which choice was the better one Рand I am darn sure that I am not looking forward to having to make either choice yet again.


Time to choose, because not choosing is still a choice.


598: Failure


Nobody likes to fail.

Nobody likes ADMITTING that they failed, much less the painful process of actually FAILING.

The constant mental re-plays…if only I had done THAT instead, it would have changed the outcome……why didn’t THAT occur to me at the time, so I could have done something differently……why did I not recognize that as a RED FLAG? Heck no, at the TIME, that red flag was a glowing, rosy PINK flag……..sheesh. Gotta get rid of these glasses.

And then comes the sneaking, stealthy, sly subconscious. The DREAMS about failing. Not necessarily the specific thing I failed at, oh, no! These are horrible, inventive fantasies; dark, macabre imaginings of all the OTHER ways I could possibly fail at something.


Such as – dreaming of being a waitress (yes, I, too, did this in college) at a pizza-cum-sandwich shop – and getting ALL the orders wrong, having to apologize profusely to all the incensed customers, take all the blame, and give them their food for free – which I know is going to come out of my miniscule paycheck, of course. FABULOUS dream. Can’t WAIT to have it again. The groveling, you know, that’s what excites me the most.


Then there’s the nightmare about the trip – I get to the airport, after having meticulously packed (and pre-weighed) my bag for this international flight, and discover my purse (with the passport, of course), is missing. Instant panic. WHERE did I leave it on my journey to the airport? On the train? In the taxi? OMG! The flight departs in an hour! Or, (alternate variation on this theme), the bag I carefully packed and weighed to comply with all the myriad regulations for flying (which I looked up online prior to getting started packing, just to be sure), ISN’T in compliance, after all. And now I must choose, standing at the inspection table surrounded by harried passengers, which items to discard so they will actually let me get on the flight using the ticket I have paid for. Should I ditch the shampoo? The tampons? The evening gown? The sandals? The sunscreen? AAUUGGHHHhhhhhh…………! Meanwhile, the clock is ticking down to the time they will close the boarding gate, and I will be…..LEFT BEHIND. With no refund of monies paid.


Or the teacher dream: supervising a field trip and having something go wrong when I am responsible for twenty something (or more) students and chaperones. I am scrambling to fix whatever thing has gone awry, and doing a perfectly miserable job of it, because, of course, this is a FAILURE dream, and nothing I do in one of those dreams works out to my advantage. Ever. And usually, it involves a copious amount of my favorite thing – groveling to all and sundry as I meekly confess my culpability.


Or my personal favorite – I am fleeing a menacing, pursuing presence through all the halls and rooms of an infinite decaying, crumbling mansion….for hours and hours, all the while knowing that the terrible pursuing menace is going to corner and catch and murder horrifically. Yup. Personal favorite. I usually wake up trying to scream from that one, panting like I’ve just run the Boston Marathon.

Bad enough to fail in real life, when I am conscious. Failing in my dreams is infinitely worse – the dream failures seem every bit as real as the real-life failures, and I can have more than one of them per night. Subconscious self-torture. Whoopity doo.

406: The Good About Islam…sort of

I am compelled to speak up on behalf of all of the Muslims I know, following the post I just made describing the scriptures of the Koran. I don’t know any radical Muslims. Every single one I have met (hundreds upon untold hundreds), so far as I know and have experienced, is a kind, decent, family-oriented person who has basic respect for other humans, regardless of their differing faiths. These are the majority of Muslims world-wide.

I want to share some American history with you. In the mid-to-late 1700’s the vast majority of Americans were content living under the rule of the British king. A small minority of radical terrorists (freedom fighters??) are responsible for the American Revolution that established the United States of America. That is FACT. Therefore, taking that and other examples from history, it is entirely irrelevant that the majority of Muslims are peace-loving, when they will not, themselves, muzzle the rabid dogs amongst themselves, and declare once and for all that Mohammad’s teachings that call for the death of all non-Muslims are outdated and are hereby, once and for all, abolished.

What boggles my own mind is how can someone peaceful belong to a religion whose scriptures so clearly call for war (violent, killing jihad) with the rest of the entire world? Not to CONVERT the world by persuading others that Islam is the superior religion, but by brutal, outright murder. I could respect conversion. That is an individual’s choice. That is NOT how Islam is going to take over the world, by persuasion. That is not how they are doing it this very minute in countless countries they already rule. There, they are systematically exterminating all who are not Muslim, in much the same way that Jews, gypsies, Catholics, homosexuals, and those considered “mentally deficient” were exterminated in the mid 1940’s.

WWII was supposed to be “never again.” What is the truth is that it “never ended.”

193: Living It

I remember enjoying life. It’s a fairly dim memory, but I can just recall life being fun and enjoyable. When did that stop?

I tried today. I dressed in a costume that makes me look like a third-grader on growth hormone. Everyone who saw me today smiled involuntarily, and most chuckled, too. I got several “thumbs-up” signs. I don’t view this as laughing AT me, especially since I dressed for that precise reaction. Seriously, if I was concerned with what everyone else thinks of me, I would dress totally in black all the time, so as to be thought “elegant.” Nevertheless, it’s the conundrum of the clown who is not happy.

I like Morocco. It’s a spectacularly beautiful country. Its bureaucracy, based on the former French-controlled system, is legendary, but that is just one more thing that makes it not the country I came from. Most of the time, it’s charming and downright silly, not frustrating and annoying as hell, which it admittedly is sometimes.

My problem with the country is my significant other. Morocco is a country where women view a married man as fair game, because here in this predominately Islamic country, it is legal for a well-to-do man to have as many as four wives. This possibility has intrigued my male partner quite a bit, and has started tiny little rat wheels turning in his head. The little rat is running furiously on these wheels, trying to figure out how to get HIS significant other to agree to being wife number one.

The thing is, in this culture, to have more than one wife, you first have to be Muslim. That is a deal-breaker right there. Second, in this culture where four wives are permitted a well-to-do man, there is absolutely no mention, not the first peep, about wife number two being financed and paid for by wife number ONE (that would be me).

To me, it would be like getting pregnant to see if we might want to continue to be parents. This is not a “try it on and see if it fits” sort of deal, here, any more than adopting a child or having a baby is on a trial basis. In addition, even if I was even partially, remotely amenable to this suggestion, there is the fact that Muslim women are culturally raised all their lives to consider being a multiple wife as something that is normal. They might even have some idea about how to actually go about doing it without killing each other. To me, killing each other would be a natural, and predictable, result. Where I come from, generations of people understand completely that when husband (or wife) finds married partner with another person, murder is going to occur. This is a no-brainer.

Anyway, I turned in my resignation at this job last week when I realized that I could not continue to live and work in Morocco and actually keep the man I am married to……alive. And, I also realized that, even though this is not at all a bad job, that I do not like the job here enough to even consider for a moment staying here in this country as a single woman, without my spouse (alive or dead). So, with, or without my spouse, Morocco is going to be history as soon as I complete this contract.

It’s like the old cliche: it’s a great place to visit, but you don’t want to live there!