I don’t give a rat’s ass if Facebook accesses everything there is to know about me, and there are shitty things to know about me. But, I don’t care if they see who I call, when I call, what I say, what I watch on TV, what I buy, what political party I favor, who I like, who I hate, how old I am, where I live, what I eat when I’m depressed, what I eat when I’m happy, how much alcohol I drink, what my shoe size is, what my bra size is, how much I weigh, who my doctor is, what medications I take, etc etc etc. I don’t care. Cambridge Analytica, go ahead, I dare you. Toss me news about Michelle Obama being a man in disguise, the Pope presiding over child sacrifices at the Vatican, Vladimir Putin sending a drone to my house but not making it because Donald Trump zapped it with a BB gun. Bring it on. I’m going to read your stuff with my brain engaged. I’m going to go to Reuters, API, New York Times and search the facts. I’m not going to buy something I don’t want no matter how much your promise me that it will make me look 20 and feel 18. I’m not going to vote for someone based on what you say. I am a responsible adult who thinks critically and isn’t swayed by your idiot stories. I may buy something really dumb but I’m aware that it’s dumb. I may want it anyway. Like when that gadget company sold me a mosquito killing drone for $8. I knew it probably wouldn’t work but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I’ll return it if it doesn’t work. Or I’ll keep it on my desk as a reminder that if you think something is not going to work then it probably won’t and you shouldn’t buy it. Just don’t call my cell phone with a deal to buy Bitcoin. That’s all I ask. That’s not much, is it? Otherwise, I’m going to like away, look at your advertisements that have even an infinitesimal application to me, take funny tests (but not allow the test company to access my friends list or post on FB for me). Yeah, I’m going to live on the wild side. I’ve survived bigger adventures than you, Facebook. You too Google. And you too Cambridge Analytica. Oh, an hi there, Rebecca Mercer. I’m not your girl. And I may tweet that to you.
I pulled everything off my bookshelves to dust and found a CD called “Radical Self-Acceptance” by Tara Brach, a Buddhist writer and, apparently, speaker.
I remember getting the CD when I was in the pit of clinical depression (not the first time I’ve visited that pit). I listened to it while sitting on my patio in the sun. I think it was okay but it didn’t lift me out of the message that depression send, i.e. you are worthless. I guess I should listen to it again since I’m above ground these days. But, I feel self-accepting in a way that is truly radical. Or maybe it’s just being 60 and not so radical. It seems radical because I can remember clearly being 14, 24, 34 and even 44 and those were decades of doubt, insecurity and self-flagellation. Far from acceptance. Am I at 100% self-acceptance now? No. But it’s a lifelong pursuit, methinks. And I’ve definitely tipped over the 60% line, maybe more. This is good. This is freedom.
I wear my athletic socks into the shower after working out and then exercise a little more by sliding around my room to clean the floors.
I wrote a blog post about how I send myself gift messages when I order things online.
It wasn’t a very good post but I hit ‘publish’ anyway because I’m not selling anything so what do I care? Right?
But, it didn’t appear in “Posts” on my dashboard and I couldn’t find it anywhere. Why? Because AI said, “This is a waste of space.” And, you know what, AI, you’re right. It was dumb.
Besides, I’m going to sneak it in here.
If you order from a website that offers a free gift card, take it! Send yourself a positive, supportive message in that card. Say “You are going to look great in this,” or “You sooooo deserve this, Girlfriend.” You’ll probably be surprised to open your package and find a note. The note will make you feel good. You’ll forget that you are the one who composed the note. You’ll smile.
The world is a tough place. People won’t often shout compliments at you. So, take the chance to get a compliment. Write it, read it, believe it.
Be fond of yourself. And be happy.
My name is Marci (yeah, Nonjudgmental Group, I said “Marci” ending in a cute little ‘i’ that, if possible in Word, would have a tiny bubble heart over it instead of a plain, old dot, not Marcianne) and I’m an addict.
On Friday I bought a pack of cigarettes and two 24 oz. $1 cups of hazelnut coffee at WaWa. I took a lot of fake Equal packets home for free. I smoked a lot of the cigarettes because I was a) drinking coffee b) writing long, wordy emails to friends who probably don’t even read to the end c) posting interesting articles, with a not-so-subtle plug for stocks I own and/or a dig at people who fired me and d) writing and re-writing my To Do list for the day even though I was getting none of those things done because I was busy editing the list.
On Saturday I bought a 24 oz. $1 hazelnut/decaf mixed coffee at WaWa and mindfully skipped the cigarette cashier. Thinking that decaf coffee might lead to less tobacco craving. Took a lot of fake Equal packets for free.
On Sunday I hid upstairs in the cat’s room to smoke out the open window (yeah, it was raining all over the floor next to the window) so my significant other didn’t see me smoking with my leftover WaWa coffee (hey, you’d get the max size cup too if it was only $1).
On Monday morning at 4:00 a.m. I was thrilled to find that my cigarette pack from Friday still had a smoke in it. And then I was thrilled to find that the cigarettes I’d ‘hidden’ upstairs and down were still there.
On Monday at 8:30 (after being up since 4:00 a.m. because I was coughing so hard it woke me up) I was despondent to find that there were not more secret cigarette stashes. “Why didn’t I put one in the egg carton?????,” I screamed inside my head. Was drinking my own, Mr. Coffee coffee fully caffeinated and full of free fake Equal.
On Monday at 8:40 I picked some good-looking, i.e. 1/8 unsmoked) cigarette butts out of the trash and chain-smoked them. Even the one that touched my SO’s used Kleenex.
By the way, Nonjudgemental Group, I started writing again. And I need a fuckin’ cigarette to write.
No, this isn’t a story of a torrid affair between two marketing geniuses with questionable decency and unquestionable swagger. Nor is it a story about of a man with no empathy, no compassion and no ethics and a Biblical hero of dignity, humility and grace.
This is about my theory: Donald J. Trump is the Madonna Louise Ciccone of politics.
I have said this to a few people who instantly understand my analogy but I’m going to elaborate on my thesis-supporting ‘facts’ and also point out a few differences between these two
Donald and Madonna are both immodest. Donny is boastful and shameless. Madge is subtler in her pompousness but she is definitely shameless. They are both pretentious. And, to hearken way, way back to my school playground days, they are both conceited.
Mr. Trump and Ms. Ciccone are both licentious. lewd, and lascivious.
They are both setting a bad example for their children.
They both love being outrageous and making waves. It’s part of their marketing strategy.
They both have some crazy hair.
But they differ in three important ways:
Madonna has sold-out shows and people are paying to be there
Madonna is qualified for her job
Madonna has bigger hands
I was working on a personalized snow globe for my veterinarian. I was using SuperGlue to attach some buttons that looked like different dog breeds to the base of my mini-sculpture of the vet, the tech and my two dogs (the patients). The SuperGlue was liquid and I made the mistake of touching it ever so slightly.
Bam. Two fingers Superglued to the base. I could still make the Vulcan peace sign but that was the only redeeming thing about this. It was my left hand and I’m right-handed so I managed to free myself wth some paint thinner. Paint thinner really smells bad but it doesn’t destroy human tissue. Thank God for small favors.
Once my left hand was free and mobile I used steel wool to scratch off the glue. I wasn’t 100% successful but it was good enough. I looked at my hand and wondered whether I could become a jewel thief because I had no discernible fingerprints. I dismissed the idea after about 5 minutes. I had laundry to do and becoming a jewel thief was too time consuming.
I had to go to the DMV today to renew my driver’s license because I turned 60 this year and the photo on my existing driver’s license is 10+ years old. Thanks a lot, DMV. I can see that 10 years has taken its toll on my face and I was somewhat unaware of that before today. Yeah, thanks DMV, you miserable bastards.
Actually, the people at the Westampton DMV office were great. They were efficient and things moved quickly. We even had some laughs, even though I couldn’t laugh in my photo. I was permitted a ‘small smile.’ I smirked. It’s not a good look but I did what I could with it. I was hoping I’d look kind of like Mona Lisa or a porn star. Didn’t happen. Instead I look like a 60 year old woman in need of a haircut. And a chin lift.
Give Jimmy and Pete a bath (puppy tears)
Mani/pedi 12:00 noon/Tina
Make detox soup
Buy AAPL ????
I reached into my little bowl of Bobby pins (who is Bobby, by the way?) to get something that would poof up the crown of my hair so I didn’t have ‘flat head,’ leading to ‘big nose.’ I found two tiny clips and positioned them at the back of head. They didn’t do much for the poof so I took them out. When I looked at them more closely I realized that they are either a) hair clips for a baby or b) the little clips that come with small Orchids to hold the stems up once the flowers bloom. Yes, I’ve had a lot of dead Orchids in my life and yes, I never throw anything away.