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Number of posts: 11
Email address: email
Posts by Anoni Muss:
Anyone who attempts to raise funds for a good cause soon learns that you reach the same goal if many supporters give a little, as if a few people give a lot. Although it may be tempting to fundraisers, it’s a mistake to shoot for many giving a lot. And people don’t respond kindly to shame.
Every time I’m asked to support my local radio station, I respond. It’s an excellent public service broadcaster with interesting programs and good speakers; it’s informative, entertaining and of good quality. I really value our radio. How could I not support them? I send my check for twenty dollars several times a year in this good cause, knowing that others do too, for the benefit of all.
a new study:
I had a laugh this morning. I was reading a newspaper on my iPad when the headline caught my eye: “Marriage can cause depression, study finds.” You think? It was a genuine belly laugh. The image of a study being funded, explored and written up on a subject I could have told about for nothing was absurd. The depression they identified in the process accounted for years of my life. Fortunately I am decades beyond tears following chuckles. It no longer hurts enough to cry.
living in the now
This morning, I sat at my kitchen table, enjoying a poached egg on toast, regretting that it took so few bites to eat, while savoring every one. I saved a good bit of the yolk until the last bite, intending to prolong the pleasure. As I lifted the small square of toast supporting it, the yolk fell to the floor. I was dismayed… so much for saving the best till last. This set me thinking of similar laments.
was i dreaming?
Whether I was subject to the zeitgeist of debt ceiling brinkmanship or pickles for supper, I had a bad night. I dreamed that Ted Cruz was running for president with Sarah Palin for VP. There are doubtless worse combinations, like Russ Limbaugh and the Donald (what a power struggle that would be, which would be Vice?). My nightmare made me sit up and tremble.
Having seen cultural changes from moon-in-June to hip hop heavy rotation slam rap…
space lawyers consider
As every mother of adult children knows: bigger kids, bigger problems. This morning I found myself sending up a prayer of thanks that I am not Korean Kim’s Mom. “He was always a little monster,” I imagine his Mom confiding. Now he’s all grown up, probably wearing built-up shoes with his funky haircut, and there’s no end to the mischief he could get up to.
My son, who knows I enjoy writing, sent me a video interview from CBS Sunday Morning with a 76 year old Texas woman, pen name Desirée Holt, who writes erotic novels. Since 2007 she has written 140 books.
“Maybe you should turn your writing abilities to this, and make a million a year,” wrote my son. “I’m sure you could improve on the cowboy themes mentioned in the story. Think Mr. Darcy!”
I came near to having an argument with my son last night. I made a comment about one of our family members who is less than empathetic with others, especially me, and he snapped at me, accusing me of being self-centered. We were both right and we were both wrong.
I went home feeling sad and irritated, which slipped into depressed. I watched two films in a row on TV. I couldn’t go to bed until 1 a.m. because I knew I’d lie awake, hurting. I love my son and it is beyond endurance to have a spat.
I finally plucked up courage to consult my G.P. about the pain in my butt. For months I put up with it (it’s a fissure) but I’d reached the stage of taking pain killers three days out of five (an indulgence I would not grant to my arthritis). I promise that’s the limit of too much information.
The doctor prescribed a low fiber diet. The day before I had routinely filled my fridge with healthy items: lettuce, leeks, celery, spring onions, cucumber and whole-meal bread. “Cut out all green vegetables and fruit,” he said, sweepingly.
Who wants to live forever?
My Mother always maintained that she was not afraid of death. When I was young I wondered if she said this to reassure me but later I knew she meant it. Perhaps that’s why I’m not afraid of death either.
That’s not to say I don’t fear the absence of my nearest and dearest, or fail to realize how permanent death is. But I am not afraid of the process personally. I don’t think it will hurt. One’s condition leading up to it might be painful, but death I think is not.
Some More Than Others
A comment on my article in Like the Dew, “Here’s What I Wish I’d Said“, read: ‘We are all equal, are we not?’ When it comes to equality between the sexes and between rich and poor, here’s how I see it.
As a backlash to the aspiration of equality, some see an opportunity to express their chagrin by lack of courtesy. Opening a door or giving up a seat on public transport is not a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of consideration for our fellow human beings. A man seeing it as an opportunity to put down a ‘Women’s Libber’ says more about him than it does about the woman.
The Last Word
Being old is so liberating. While one might live another quarter century, one might equally drop dead any day without surprise. No one says “75? How sad, that’s so young.” They say “She had a good innings.” So I feel it’s time I had the last word.
I was ten years old when my friend Tina in class suddenly turned on me, adopted another BF and started putting me down. She made snide comments audible to all, was rude to my face and unkind to a degree that took my breath away yet nobody tried to stop her, including me.
Worthy of Comment
Also on the Dew
Responding to criticism that its soft drinks contribute to epidemic obesity in America, and that it hooks kids on the sugary sodas like Bill Cosby giving away Quaalude Jell-O shots to kindergarteners, and that it has funded research to confuse Americans about how horrible soft drinks are for human health, the Atlanta-based Coca-Cola Co. said it is thinking doing something – but probably not. “Sure, we could recall all 600 billion soft drinks Americans drink on an average day, and you could make the case that these sugar-packed sodas contribute to the nation’s appalling weight gain, in the same way you could Read on →
Grandpa was a quiet and gentle man. Grandma did most of the talking. He was over six feet tall and she was a little over five feet, feisty and independent. They obviously had agreed that he would make the big decisions and she would make all the small ones. All of the decisions were small. I was four years old when my brother and I were sent to live with Grandma and Grandpa, whom I called Papa, during World War II. My father was away, not at war because he had failed the medical, working on the railroad tracks and bridges. Read on →
Grandpa was not a storyteller. It was only later, when Grandma wasn’t around, that he told me a few stories about his life and parents. He never talked about the hard times during the Great Depression, but he said enough to encourage me in later life to research his family history. When he died all of Grandma’s and Grandpa’s personal things, letters and photographs were given to my older cousin because she was the only granddaughter. By the time I became interested in our family history everything had been thrown away except some old photographs. I started the long and frust Read on →
I was reading an amusing description the other day of John Betjeman, a man who became poet laureate of England in 1972. He must have been a fun guy to have been around judging from how a journalist once described him as a man who looked “like a highly intelligent muffin--a small, plump, rumpled man with luminous soft eyes, a chubby face topped with wisps of white hair and imparting a distinct air of absentmindedness.” Although I am not chubby or overly rumpled, I would be delighted for anyone to portray me in such an endearing way. The description made me pon Read on →