All Good Flings Come to an End

Yes, it’s true. Fling has been flung. I try to confine a fling to 6 months max, so no one feels I ruined their life by leading them on for years — Mr Grove!!!

But, I admit, I really liked Fling and, because we’d spent so much time apart, I was of a mind to wait till we’d spent 6 months together — as in, in the same place together — before I ended it (if either of us was of a mind to end it).

So, what happened? Fling came back a changed man — as a result of his recent health scare. He felt he had “clarity” about his life.  . . . uh, ok . . . . He wanted to get more serious . . . uh, not ok.

I’ve seen this scenario before. A person faces a life-or-death crisis and come out different — sometimes forever different, sometimes for a couple years different, sometimes for a few weeks different.

I don’t know if this Fling is forever changed or just temporarily changed. I know he thinks he has clarity. Maybe he does. But I don’t. I’m thoroughly confused.

This new Fling is not the Fling I remember. He’s more serious now, more level-headed. It’s not balanced by the old Fling’s verve and spontaneity.

Maybe we’ll meet in the future. Maybe he’ll be the man I remembered again.

But I worry that in the interval, he’ll do something ruinous to his own life and others. What if this “new” Fling wakes up 5 years from now and discovers he’s made a whole life based on the man he’s not?

I should hate for that to happen to him. But, I’m not going to allow myself to become a decision he comes to regret. And so,  for both our sakes, Good Me has to end it .

Ah, Love . . . . <sigh>.

Hævnen, it can be Hell

I had the opportunity to see the 2011 Academy Award winning Best Foreign Film the other day. Wow! The cinematography is beautiful, the acting is amazing, and the plot is powerful.

Fair warning though, this is a Danish film. There is quite a bit of English spoken in the film, but you’ll be reading subtitles a lot.

Also, keep in mind the English title is a not an exact translation.  You probably think Hævnen means Heaven. Certainly the “In a Better World” title used abroad leads English speakers to believe that. Heaven is a better world after all.

But don’t be fooled. Hævnen is Danish for revenge. And that’s what this film is about.

To me the plot was about bullying, its ramifications for society and its often unforeseen consequences as told through two 10-year-old boys and their families. It’s a film everyone over age 12 should see.  William Jøhnk Nielsen and Markus Rygaard, who played the main characters — two boys above — were incredible.

One of the reasons for the bullying is probably a bit obscure, though the film subtitles do a good job of trying to help the audience understand. One boy is the son of Swedes who live in Denmark. One boy is Danish. So there’s the whole foreigner thing going on — which seems weird to Americans because they’re both White Europeans, but . . . . among Scandinavians (which the Danish and Swedish peoples are), a Danish stereotype of Swedes is that they are stupid. (By the way, a Scandinavian stereotype of Danish people is that they’re too blunt!)

The film had many other layers, intertwined stories of love, loss, redemption, forgiveness, but they were all bound together by the overriding theme of revenge (great and small) and the consequences that stem from taking (or not taking) revenge.

I think that most Americans will find the film too long (2.5 hours because of many long. beautiful scenery shots)  and be shocked, if not horrified, by its ending. However, I liked the cinematic flare of the film with its color saturated shots and long moments of reflective acting.  I liked the ending too. It was uplifting, redemptive. But it was definitely not for everyone.

Foreign films give you an opportunity to learn about another culture, another way of handling life’s events, another way of living in community. So, if the ending of the film truly shows how Danes would hand out “justice,” which is a type of “revenge” in this scenario (ie, the film truly hows such a case would be handled in Denmark), then I admire the Danes tremendously!

Spoiler Alert — Read No Further if you plan to watch the film!

In America, no cop would deem two 10-year-old boys destroying someone’s car with a massive pipe bomb a case of “serious vandalism,” return them to their parents, and assume they’d just go back to their same public school after summer break.

Of course in America, the instigating boy would have been thrown into prison after his first criminal act (assault on another student while on school property) and things would never have reached the level of destroying someone’s empty car with a bomb!

The Epic Weekend

I woke up about 6:45 on Thursday to put out an old A/C unit for collection. I thought I heard fire engines. I looked around but didn’t see anything. Later in the day, I looked out and saw fire headed down the hillside for my area.

Weirdly though, I thought about the beauty of the smoke clouds and how the animals would fare both during an after the blaze. I knew I could run away. Or, I though I could, till the shut down all the streets and told us if we hadn’t left to shelter in place.

Into the night we watched the flames leap a hundred feet into the air. And the helicopters continued to drop water. We have the best fireman in our county. I mean, the best. We also have the toughest brush control laws in the state. Odds stack in our favor.

Twice the fire came down the hill and my friends evacuated. I watched, and then went back to cleaning up the ant attacks in the kitchen. After all, I couldn’t do anything about the fire except pray for the firefighters and the animals. Into the night, the choppers whirred overhead as if it were a war zone — which it was.

Things seemed better Friday, except for another ant attack. Then my grandmother had a blood pressure spike — whose wouldn’t. So I had to go take care of her at her house — even nearer to the fire. She’s an “I’ll never leave, except they carry me out” type. I’m a “if it all goes, it’s a chance to start fresh” type.

Things became progressively worse. The fire came back again. Ash began to fall like snow, like a scene from that movie Volcano. I put on a mask and goggles, went out to the yard and watered everything down. When I came back in, there was an automated phone message on her answering machine — yeah, she has one.

It was from her insurance company. They were telling my elderly grandmother she should make her home safe by removing brush and leaves. Wow, the compassion. She elderly and you’re telling her to save her house and not herself because she insured her house with you? You couldn’t even have her (an) agent call to check on her? Good Neighbor, my eyes.

All the while I was in the backyard, water, in the smoke and ash, as the flames rose, I prayed. And ok, this time I appealed to Our Lady of Good Counsel. You probably don’t know her, and wouldn’t think of her in a brushfire, unless your  Australian or have Benedictine associations. Strangely, the Benedictine community of New Norcia doesn’t even mention her on their website now.

The fire turned away, again. We sat in the  house watching the news, with the A/C on because it was blazing and   the drapes drawn to prevent smoke coming in. Eventually, I went to bed, around 11PM, but the helicopters flying by kept me up till 3AM. They fly quite low.

By Sat morning, things seemed a lot better — at least for residents (not so good for wildlife). The air still smells of smoke and we can’t open any doors and widows though. The fire is still being fought, but it’s cooler . It may rain. Things will be ok — and I’ll be putting out extra food and water everyday to help the wildlife even if that means I end up with deer, bears, mountain lions or even more gophers.

Really I’m just writing this post to thank all the fire depts that sent crews, the prisoners who came and worked the frontlines, the neighborhood, the police, and EMTs. And too, to say thanks to God for sparing us all (we really don’t deserve it), and thanks to Our Lady of Good Counsel, who will certainly be mentioned by me!

I think I’ll be sleeping all the rest of this week. Hopefully our fire fighters will be able to do the same soon.

Seven Years and Two Transplants Later . . . .

The duchess with her cousin, Queen Victoria.

Some of my friends believe I have a low-level sanity problem. They are probably right.   Truth to tell, it’s probably worse than they imagine.

Seven years ago, I was given five Duchesse de Nemours peonies as a Christmas gift. I  kept them in pots on a patio. They greened up, but didn’t bloom.

The second year, I moved them all to semi-shaded spot in the back garden. But one died of pot to garden transplanting.  The third year all four sprouted. But as mine is not a peony friendly climate; two died off of heat prostration and the other two greened but never flowered.

The fourth year, the two came up again. But again they did not flower. The fifth year only one came up. I tented it, to keep it from the extreme heat, I watered religiously, and though it survived got a bit bushy, it didn’t bloom.

The sixth year, I discovered peonies did not like afternoon sun (thank you, P Allen Smith!), and as I was moving anyway, I dug up my last precious plant and took it with me.

(Anyone who tells you bloom where you’re planted is a complete moron. You bloom where conditions are right or you never do. So if conditions are not right, you must transplant yourself! Duh.)

This time I placed it in the morning sun, with perfect peony conditions. It survived the very late season transplanting, doubled in size, but eventually died back without flowering.

And now it is year seven. I have just discovered my duchess sprouting up again. And I am hopeful for a blossom this year, perhaps in May or June.

I know not many people would wait seven years (or more) for a single blossom. But that’s who I am. I don’t give up on things I love. Not ever. I have infinite faith, infinite patience, infinite endurance.

I suppose it does sound odd, especially coming from me. But if you’d ever seen the Duchesse or even caught a whiff of her scent in passing, you’d understand. Some things are worth all the bother . . . now that sounds like me!

Behind Closed Doors

In going though my pile of mail, I noticed a request to use my home as a film location.  The production company was looking for homes in a certain area, of a certain square footage, etc, etc, and they were willing to pay $2000 a day. Needless to say, I was on board. I hasten to add, even after I found the old newspaper with the front banner that read “Adult Film Shoot Has Some Outraged,” I was still ok with it.

But will it be ok with the neighbors? City ordinances state that 95% of the neighbors within 300 feet of the location have to be ok with the filming permit being issued. Objections are mostly to the noise and bother of having all the trucks and people around. But in this case, the type of film may be a factor.

I personally see this as a free speech / equal protection issue. Why should one film type be ok and another not? Why is it ok to tie up an entire city to pretend blow up a building and kill a thousand people, but not ok to quietly film a scene of a sexual nature inside the confines of a private home? I simply don’t understand. Just like I don’t understand the condom law.

The reason for the sudden influx of requests for film locations in my county is because the neighboring county, where all the porn is traditionally shot, passed an ordinance saying all porn actors had to wear condoms. So, rather than wear a condom, they are simply choosing to move their productions. Again, I find myself completely baffled.

Why is ok for people to have sex in PG and R rated movies and never mention a condom, never show anyone using one, but in an adult film, all those people have to use and be seen to use condoms? It’s ridiculous. And really, wouldn’t it be better to show people using condoms in the PG and R films, the kind of films the vast majority of people watch?

I have heard that other cities and counties, including my own, are considering a condom ordinance, but I do hope I can pimp my house out before that happens.

When you said you wanted a bed bunny . . . .

Always Go Dutch

The recent reopening of the Rijksmuseum, as well as signing up for a class on how to forge copy a Vermeer, has me thinking Dutch.

Barring my birthday or some other special event that’s all about celebrating me, I always go Dutch. I find going Dutch separates the men from the boys in short order.

As my grandmother always says, the man that can’t stand being equal to a woman should still be under the care of one —  his mother!

The Sink Fairy

Gorwing up, cleaning a sink to my Mum meant throwing a massive amount of Comet all over it and walking away indefinitely.

Later in the day, or maybe a few days on, after “bluing the sink,” she’d come out to the kitchen and find the sink gleaming and spotless.

She then would always smile at my Da, who would always smile back and say: “The Sink Fairy must have come.”

For many years, my mother believed that my father had scrubbed  the sink. And vice-versa.

Of course, neither of them had done it. It was me, always. But it made them both happy, which made my life better, so I didn’t mind.

Then I moved away and it happened. The unthinkable. The sink remained unscrubbed! And the penny finally dropped.

My Mum got angry — for weeks. My father was merely amused. Friction built up in the marriage, for about a month — till my father finally got scrubbing.

I still think about this when I visit them, and find myself alone with the bluing in the sink. . . . Should I or shouldn’t I?

And then I think about my mother’s anger toward my father.

And then I think . . . should my mother really have been surprised Da hadn’t lifted a finger all those years? After all, she’d married a man who believed in fairies!