5 Most Dreaded Words of 2004
I had thoughts about what to do for the last calendar day of the year 2004. First, I can't itemize too much that occurred in the beginning of the year, before I started this blog. What happened in January? I'm sure some important things occurred. But trying to figure out exactly what they were would be quite a chore. I've had four people die this year who were close to me, but I cannot remember Fredley's last name other than it starts with B, and a search on Sun-Sentinel.com yielded little to help me. I'll save my tribute for another date. Then the Roomie, who is reading The Celestine Prophecy, came in and posed an interesting question, “Have you ever seen the word ‘moot’ used in any context besides along with the word ‘point’?” I don't like the word “moot”, and think that people that use it are trying to sound grandiloquent. As it turns out, however, the origin of “moot' is somewhat different than people thought. Since this blog is principally about writing, above everything else, I thought I'd make the year-end post about writing as well. So, without further ado, here are my five most improperly used and annoying words from 2004: 5. moot Although this word has come to be defined as “of no practical importance; irrelevant,” the original meaning of the word was debatable. From Bartleby.com:
The adjective moot is originally a legal term going back to the mid-16th century. It derives from the noun moot, in its sense of a hypothetical case argued as an exercise by law students. Consequently, a moot question is one that is arguable or open to debate. But in the mid-19th century people also began to look at the hypothetical side of moot as its essential meaning, and they started to use the word to mean “of no significance or relevance.” Thus, a moot point, however debatable, is one that has no practical value. A number of critics have objected to this use, but 59 percent of the Usage Panel accepts it in the sentence The nominee himself chastised the White House for failing to do more to support him, but his concerns became moot when a number of Republicans announced that they, too, would oppose the nomination. When using moot one should be sure that the context makes clear which sense is meant.Don't use moot,; especially in the cliché, “moot point”. Instead use irrelevant, inconsequential, unimportant, unnecessary. 4. Ft. Don't use an abbreviation when you only lose one or two character (the period makes three). The forefathers and early mapmakers didn't have computers and couldn't easily change font sizes. There were abbreviations for practically everything. But in modern day English, the only time it is proper to use the abbreviations, Ft., Mt., So., or No., with regard to a city name is when you are dealing with a clear space constraint. The post office abbreviates Fort Lauderdale as FORTLAUDER. They don't even shorten Fort. Fort is a perfectly good word to spell out. There's no reason you should ever abbreviate it. Not even if you do the prompts for WSVN Channel 7 news in Miami. Dumbass idiots. 3. amongst (also unbeknownst) Amongst bears the same literal meaning as among. It's a useless word. 2. notate In English we have the noun, note. From that noun comes the verb, note, which means, “to create a note.” From that verb comes the noun, notation, which has a slightly different connotation than the noun, note, but basically means the same thing. So why did we have to create a whole new verb meaning “to create a notation”? Don't use notate. It's ugly and obsequious, and sounds downright illiterate. Use note, instead. 1. irregardless Just because we hear the word over and over again, doesn't mean we have to add it to the dictionary. I thought people had dumped it from their vocabularies, but it just keeps cropping back up. I wouldn't have included it if I didn't just hear it the other day. I kept my mouth shut when I heard it. I had some respect for the person who said it. In retrospect, I don't know why. The word is regardless. Honest to goodness, use any of these words and most educated people will think you're an idiot. My list will probably be close to the same next year, but at one time Ft. was the number one word. It's dropped to number 4 this year, probably because I'm noticing it less often. Doesn't mean it's not being used as much. It's wrong...irregardless of how much I hear it.
Hearken back to 2002, when Michael was first arrested—while he was in jail awaiting bond, his 11-year-old dog BJ began to have serious problems. He would go in the house, and rapidly began to deteriorate, not wanting to eat, in pain, weak. I couldn't deal with it, having to work, Michael being in jail, trying to figure out how to keep house. The day after posted bond for Michael in October, we had to run BJ to the Animal Emergency Hospital. We lost him the next day. I've had a hard time forgiving myself for the neglect.
I felt myself falling into the same cycle with my cat, who's now 11-years old, and has been with me for over 10 years, even before Michael and I got together. Finally, my roommate pushed me enough to where I had to take him in, whether I had the money or not.
Now Joplin is not displaying any difficulty eating, and seems to be of a decent demeaner although somewhat frustrated at his inability to move without dragging his legs, but still this was developing into a rather serious problem. I brought him in and faced the Vet's, "You should have brought him in a lot sooner," with a self-effacing teary-eyed, "I know."
Alas, upon x-ray it seems things are not as bad. It doesn't appear to be cancer, like BJ seemed to have. Only a pinched nerve. Apparently, my poor cat cannot feel that he has a full bladder or full bowel until it just comes out. It explains everything—including the difficulty walking. He's got some bloodwork to be done, but we're certain to get him the right treatment as soon as we get the results.
I'm not going to lose another animal to my inability to deal with things. If I have to borrow the money, I'll get whatever needs to be done, done.
This time is also favorable for most business activity, for your actions are blessed with insight that helps you succeed in business where others might fail. For the same reason, this is a good time for making decisions. You have a very clear sense of yourself and your needs, so that you can make decisions according to your best interests, in the largest and most enlightened sense of the phrase. If you must take chances or do something that you can't foresee the outcome of, this is as good a time as any. Your optimism now creates a positive energy that will attract favorable results from your gamble. Besides, you have the sense at this time to avoid any real risky ventures.
This is based on Mars Trine Jupiter, not my sun sign. Yesterday, strangly enough, the Sun was conjunction Sun, something that is supposed to happen on your birthday. 
I think it has something to do with the fact that this was a leap year.
Yes, today was my birthday...and a nice birthday it was. Nobody made a big deal, I had a nice date for dinner with someone I met online. We ate at 
”The Christmas Shoes”
It was almost Christmas time, there I stood in another line
Tryin' to buy that last gift or two, not really in the Christmas mood
Standing right in front of me was a little boy waiting anxiously
Pacing 'round like little boys do
And in his hands he held a pair of shoes
His clothes were worn and old, he was dirty from head to toe
And when it came his time to pay
I couldn't believe what I heard him say
Chorus:
Sir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please
It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there's not much time
You see she's been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes would make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight
He counted pennies for what seemed like years
Then the cashier said, "Son, there's not enough here"
He searched his pockets frantically
Then he turned and he looked at me
He said Mama made Christmas good at our house
Though most years she just did without
Tell me Sir, what am I going to do,
Somehow I've got to buy her these Christmas shoes
So I laid the money down, I just had to help him out
I'll never forget the look on his face when he said
Mama's gonna look so great
Sir, I want to buy these shoes for my Mama, please
It's Christmas Eve and these shoes are just her size
Could you hurry, sir, Daddy says there's not much time
You see she's been sick for quite a while
And I know these shoes would make her smile
And I want her to look beautiful if Mama meets Jesus tonight
Bridge:
I knew I'd caught a glimpse of heaven's love
As he thanked me and ran out
I knew that God had sent that little boy
To remind me just what Christmas is all about
Bizarre, isn’t it?
As far as the book is concerned, I thoroughly enjoyed it. Flewelling’s characters remain well-rounded and sympathetic, even the “bad guys” remaining not quite completely bad. Tobin/Tamir continues to grow as he has discovered that he is a she; yet Flewelling persists in allowing us to think of him as a “he” the same as those around Tobin perceive him.
Hidden Warrior should be a welcome addition to any fantasy library.
Buy it here: 
I live in a neighborhood wherein a large proportion of the residents attend a local megachurch called 
During "Not One Damn Dime Day" please don't spend money. Not one damn dime for gasoline. Not one damn dime for necessities or for impulse purchases. Not one damn dime for anything for 24 hours.
On "Not One Damn Dime Day," please boycott Wal-Mart, K-Mart and Target. Please don't go to the mall or the local convenience store. Please don't buy any fast food (or any groceries at all for that matter).
For 24 hours, please do what you can to shut the retail economy down. The object is simple. Remind the people in power that the war in Iraq is immoral and illegal; that they are responsible for starting it and that it is their responsibility to stop it.
"Not One Damn Dime Day" is to remind them, too, that they work for the people of the United States of America, not for the international corporations and K Street lobbyists who represent the corporations and funnel cash into American politics. Not One Damn Dime Day" is about supporting the troops. The politicians put the troops in harm's way. Now 1,200 brave young Americans and (some estimate) 100,000 Iraqis have died. The politicians owe our troops a plan -- a way to come home.
There's no rally to attend. No marching to do. No left or right wing agenda to rant about. On "Not One Damn Dime Day" you take action by doing nothing. You open your mouth by keeping your wallet closed. For 24 hours, nothing gets spent, not one damn dime, to remind our religious leaders and our politicians of their moral responsibility to end the war in Iraq and give America back to the people.
My cousin, Craig died this morning. He would have been 45 years old on New Year’s Day.
He’s a hard one to talk about, because we were never close, like I am with my other cousins. He drank, regularly and heavily, for most of his life. He died in his sleep, after suffering from cancer that spread from his liver and further out.
The family found out a few weeks ago he didn’t have long to live, so we kind of expected it. Still, I’m feeling a bit numb about it.
The Craig I remember was an older cousin, when we were kids—the loud instigator at Thanksgiving dinners, the butt and teller of jokes all at the same time. I never wanted to be around him, because I always felt like I was going to be on the receiving end of his jibes.
I don’t know when he began to fall by the wayside, I’m sure he started drinking young—but despite the fact that I went to high school in the area that my mother’s family lived, I didn’t hear too much about his trials and tribulations. There were things that just weren’t talked about in my family.
He was the first of my cousins to be married, and first to have a child. But he broke up with his wife early on, and his son was not very much a part of our family get-togethers in subsequent years, even when Craig endeavored to make an appearance.
His death can easily be an example of the demons of alcohol and drug abuse, easily because the liver problems he suffered and brain damage and ultimate cancer were directly due to his drinking problem. But it stinks that it happened all the same. At least I can take from it a stronger conviction that I never want to repeat the same self-abusive patterns that led to his death.
note inside as well as delicate flattened flowers. And this year I have to remember to send a Christmas card to him. Today.
But as with everything in life, there should be no surprise that opinions and points of view are many varied, even when it comes to prison life. Through 
With Roomies help, put the lights up. Roomie was once display designer at Marshall Fields in Chicago so many years ago. Good thing having a designer mind under my roof.
When Roomie moved in, he told me that Michael and I must have lived like lesbians. No sense of style, design, too many animals, it goes on and on. Perhaps he's right. I picked out the colors of the dining room and kitchen myself, but when Roomie moved in we painted over the offensive shades.
I have to say the kitchen looks much better now that the color is different. The dining room isn't anymore, because we moved all of the unused weight sets out of the unused Florida room and redid the Florida room, putting the dining room fishtank into the Florida room making it a divider between family area and my little office, where I sit right now. The dining room now contains the weight machine, a few fishtanks and full-length mirrors (for working out) as well as a cat box where three (of four) cats go to do their daily duty.
I'm only posting so you can see a picture of my beautiful front yard display. Now we dont look like the scrooges of the neighborhood. The Christians next door, thankfully, still havent gotten to decorations. I hate being last.
For those of you unfamiliar with Prison Pete, his link is just to the right of me. I really admire both Pete and Editor, who faithfully converts Pete’s correspondence into online form for the reading pleasure of the Internet. I first mentioned Pete way back in 
While I cannot abide anyone taking away a woman’s right to choose, I still believe abortion is wrong in every sense of the word. Nobody can come up with a conclusive answer as to when life begins, but by the time a mother knows she’s pregnant, she’s well beyond the two-cell splitting into four-stage. There’s a little person inside of that woman.
There is not a dearth of good parents out there for children, no matter what the child’s ethnicity. When the Florida gay adoption law gets shot down once and for all, people will find there’s an even greater number of available parents, here in the gay community. I also believe that anti-abortion groups will find support among gay men and lesbians, especially if there’s a trade-off: “You support stronger abortion laws and we’ll support overturning Florida’s gay adoption prohibition.”
As simple as this would be, it could never possibly happen because most right-to-lifers are also very Christian and very anti-anything-gay. That sort of Christian is not going to compromise his or her beliefs simply to get support.
Myself, I believe in stronger abortion laws, but only if children receive better sex education, and are allowed to learn about safe alternatives to abstinence, and if gay and lesbian parents are permitted to adopt.
Since some part of that is detestable to so many of the people involved on whatever side, it’s not an opinion I can share loudly, or often.
But this is my blog, and I’m safe to say what I want here. And, while I encourage differing opinions, I also have freedom of deletion if you get nasty or insulting.
I’m really bummed by the telephone call. First thing I hear is that his nineteen-year-old niece is five months pregnant. Apparently she fell in love with this guy and against everyone’s advice moved up to Savannah with him, then left one night and returned to Fort Lauderdale. Then found out she was pregnant only when she got home. I won’t be surprised if this kid gets her mother’s last name like Michael’s niece did, furthering the tradition of single mothers in his family.
I could send Michael a letter, and he might it on Friday—or I can wait until his telephone call on Sunday to tell him, either way, there’s no way for me to share with him this blessed news.
The main reason I called Michael’s Mom, however, was to let him know he’d be eligible for a furlough next April, and to see if she wanted to come down for a visit at that time. “We’ll see how my health is,” was her response. “Let me know when we get closer to the date.”
No excitement. No concern. She was even doubtful that Michael will actually change. I really began to feel protective of Michael at that point—this is his own mother—and she doesn’t really know this man. “He’s changed, I said. He’s tired of living that lie.” She’s prefers to wait and see. At least she said she sent him a Christmas card.
More reason to be grateful to my own family, who seems to be genuinely sincere when they say they’re looking forward to Michael’s release. Maybe for a few of them it’s for my benefit—I have been somewhat of a basket case at times while Michael’s been gone; but my family truly likes Michael and wishes him well.
Michael’s own sister lives in Fort Lauderdale and I never talk to her. She never talks to me. Her daughter is knocked up and doesn’t care if Michael, who helped raise these kids in their early years, knows it or not.
Michael’s brother, the few times I’ve spoken with him, holds onto an “I told you so,” attitude about Michael’s arrest, though I doubt he ever actually said anything. He doesn’t send his brother mail.
There’s a wonderful cousin in California who corresponds to Michael, although she writes as much about Jesus as she does about her own family. Someone’s got to save him, and she’s taken it on herself.
I love and care about Michael, and it was no difficult decision for me to stick around and see this through. Maybe it’s the way I was raised. But his family is more than content to allow me that responsibility. It makes me sick to think that if I weren’t here for him, he’d have nobody to take it on.
F.P. says when you have a resentment toward people to pray for them. Well I’ll do that.
God bless ‘em.
P.S. Michael loves getting cards. If anyone wants to send him one, email me and I'll send you the address.
Remember the post from several days ago, wherein I sent an email to the Annie Armin Live show, letting 'em know just how much wrong they could do? (My original post is here: 
The Roomie and I sat down for a nice evening of HBO Sunday night television. Unexpectedly, the 
While I commend you on your efforts to save children who have been improperly diagnosed or medicated, I am disturbed that your program only presents one side of the issue.
In 1976, at the age of 9, I was diagnosed by a child psychiatrist as "hyperactive." I don't know the status of prescribing Ritalin in those days, but either this physician didn't consider it appropriate or it wasn't in wide use.
My simple diagnosis of "hyperactive" didn't help me in later years. It led my parents to treat it as if it were something "I would grow out of," rather than a chronic and debilitating condition. I dealt with continuous lack of control that caused problems in school--I got into fights with other students, although my intelligence had been tested to be of a genius level, I nevertheless failed necessary courses because of my lack of enthusiasm. I nearly dropped out of school in the twelfth grade, but my mother decided to move us out of town to a smaller (and easier) school, one which I managed to graduate by the skin of my teeth, but in August, after Summer School.
Things didn't get better, however. I went into and left the Air Force in three weeks. I had a series of jobs that I couldn't keep, found the joys of alcohol, and moved around from place to place, always searching for relationships who could deal with me and take care of me. Because of my control problems, those relationships never lasted long. I compromised myself with sexual liaisons and developed HIV.
I discovered marijuana, cocaine, and crystal methamphetamine, which I fell in love with. Strangely enough, it was a drug that immediately made me feel more normal. Suddenly, I was funnier, and I could think more clearly. It was why I wanted to have more...and more...and more.
My abuse of meth grew to ridiculous proportions, well beyond the small beneficial effects, and it didn't substantially reduce my consumption of other drugs. It was during a time that I was seeing a therapist to try to figure out what was wrong with me (I was in denial about the drugs) that my mother read an article on ADD and called me up. "This is you!" she said. I discussed it with the therapist and was tested for ADD. I got on Ritalin soon thereafter and (by some miracle) realized that I had a drug problem.
While my life hasn't been perfect--the Ritalin tends to lose its effectiveness with me over time, and I've switched over to other drugs, such as Adderall and Strattera, I have never had any ill effects from any of these medications, and can only cite the positive influence that they've had.
I've stopped taking the "speedy" medications several times, and my self-control problems returned in spades.
If I had not found Ritalin or been diagnosed with ADD, I might never have discovered that I had a "normal" man inside of me. Between the drugs the HIV and my self-control problems, I'd be in a mental institution, in prison, or dead.
You need to acknowledge that Ritalin helps some people, children and adults both. How many people will die because you haven't told both sides?
I’ve been having strange dreams that I usually can’t remember, mainly because of my bird, Dickie, who insists on making annoying blue-jay calls while I’m still sleeping. When I figure out how to easily record the noises and transfer them to my PC, I’ll let you all listen to some of the sounds of my house, but I don’t have a proper recorder, and my dictation machine has no proper computer connectivity. After the last row of jay-calls this morning I started going under again and dreamed up the name “Britetta Tome,” the whimsical host of a cable access TV show on bird psychology. Look for her in one of my stories soon.
When Michael and I met, he had a dog, BJ (who died after I bailed Michael out of jail—Banjo, my boy, is the dog today), and a cockatiel and I had a Persian cat, Joplin. The cockatiel flew off when he was cleaning the cage. At some point, we decided we needed a child of our own, so we went out and bought a Siamese, Coco. Then we wanted cockatiels, so we got a mating pair of birds, who don’t really have names, but they have produced three clutches, from each of which we still have one chick: two females, Uno and Rosie, and Dickie, the aforementioned living alarm clock, who’s just about 2 years old.
Cockatiels are hard birds to teach to speak. Dickie’s already developed a repertoire of tunes; most of which he’s made up himself--but I was proud that he quickly picked first few notes to the refrain of Verde’s Spring. Lately he’s been making unintelligible bird-mumblings, signaling a possible beginning to talking according to