Obnoxiousness Not Limited to Religious Fundamentalists

The only thing as obnoxious as a judgmental religious fundamentalist is an obnoxious, judgmental atheist.

I'm not talking about those with sincerely held beliefs who make a personal choice to live a certain way.  I'm talking about people who think their way is the only way and that those who are different are evil. Crusades to change everyone else run the continuum from Bible-thumping Christian to evangelical vegan. If you don't conform, you are wrong.

While we're at it, let's include self-righteous vegetarians in this list.

Not all atheists and vegans are obnoxious, of course. And some of my best friends are vegetarian. But they accept the fact that I eat meat and I respect their right not to.

I, in fact, am strongly Christian, but I do everything I can to not be confused with the self-righteous evangelical fundamentalists which so dominate the media these days. I just hate it when the "Christian perspective" is represented by individuals who's values contrast so sharply with mine.

Case in point: the media coverage of Caitlyn Jenner, which has been overwhelmingly positive and supportive of her gender transition, often goes to "Christians" for the alternative point of view. Naturally, twits like Mike Huckabee are quoted with their idiotic references to Jenner's sinful motives (as if one would become a trans woman just to see naked girls in the shower) and so on, with the underlying assumption that all other Christians share that point of view.

I couldn't disagree more. In my mind, and in the faith communities with whom I associate, the only acceptable Christian response to gender transition is compassion and acceptance. If the Christian gospels were set in the 21st century, I'm quite sure that Jesus would be hanging out with transgendered individuals as well as others who are estranged from the current religious establishment.

My vegan, atheist, and spiritual  friends and I share common values of justice, tolerance, and global awareness. We share a belief in science and the scientific method. There are more similarities than differences between us.

Phone Number Roots Go Deep

When I gave up my land line, I moved the number to my cell phone so I could keep it.

I've had the same phone number for over 25 years.

It's a good phone number, a constant in my life no matter how many times I've changed homes (and jobs and boyfriends and cars ...).

The fact that my number starts with area code 303 is a particular point of pride. It means I've lived in Denver longer than someone with a 720 area code. 720 was introduced a few years back when they ran out of 303 phone numbers.

So I'm not a newbie to the area, as illustrated by my vintage area code. This is important to me. I don't know why.

I think it has something to do with needing to belong someplace.

In Virginia, where I had an 804 area code in the 1980s, you had to have roots multiple generations deep to be considered a Virginian. Coming from Nebraska (erroneously referred in the Old Dominion as a "yankee" state), I never stood a chance. If I'd stayed there the rest of my life, I'd still die an outsider, no matter what my phone number was.

When I lived in New York City, also in the 1980s, my phone number started with 212, the traditional area code of Manhattan. While I didn't reside in a trendy Village apartment or a fabulous penthouse overlooking Central Park (indeed, I lived way up town in a  dormitory room with only a bed, a desk, and a rented push button touch-tone phone), anyone who called me knew I was in the most important borough and that reflected on my own importance.

It used to be that a phone number went with a place. You called a number, and you got the home or office where that phone resided, no matter who was there. Now, phones are as portable as their users. Our house doesn't have a phone. Both of us living there have our own phone which goes where we go.

These days, you can't always tell where someone lives by their area code. More and more people keep their phone numbers even when moving to another state. You could be travelling anywhere in the world and still answer your phone, so the phone number is no indication of where you are currently located.

I don't judge other people by their phone numbers. Actually, I don't know anyone's number except mine. Most everyone I call is programmed into my iPhone. I don't even need to punch a button. I can simply say, "Siri, call so and so,." With blue tooth,, I can even do this while driving. Actually, I haven't yet figured out how to use blue tooth, but I know it can be done.

I really should learn someone else's number.  I imagine myself in the emergency room, bleeding profusely. Someone asks who they should call. I give them Clyde's name and they ask for his number. Alas, though I know many details about Clyde including his middle name, I don't know his phone number. I only know mine.

I hope the hospital personnel are impressed by my area code.

Flu Forces Extended Stay at Home

Forced by the B strain of this year's influenza virus to stay home for several days and do nothing, I'm here to tell you that missing work and watching TV all day is not all it's cracked up to be. For one thing, I was miserable most of that time, sporting a fever that averaged 101, coughing so much I thought I broke a rib, and shivering with chills so severe that every blanket in the house couldn't keep me warm.

I know you're wondering, and yes, I did get a flu shot back in October. Lot of good that did.

My boss wants to know why I keep telling people it was the B strain. I don't know, but that's what my doctor told me. It seems more official than when people get a stomachache and say they have "the flu."

During those moments when I felt slightly better, say, having just mastered sucking on an ice cube, or when my temp dipped to 99 and my head didn't pound as much, I perused Facebook and posted what I thought through my feverish stupor were clever little gems of wisdom. When I look at them now through the clarity of 98.6, I see that among other things, I ranted at an ice cream truck's endless looping music,  and complained that my actual hair hurt. I generally don't put intimate and personal information on Facebook, but I did keep the entire webosphere appraised of my temperature. Fortunately I did not report on the ongoing consistency of my nose mucus.

And I had my phone to play with. I think I exchanged some foggy texts with my sister and brother but I'm not sure. I must have alarmed my sister because she checked in every couple hours for a couple days. It kept me from climbing the walls.

I learned that Alfalfa's in Boulder has great chicken soup. Clyde brought it to me.

I also learned that taking Clyde to urgent care after being cooped up for so long was like going on a vacation. He also got the bug, but having gone on tamaflu the day I was diagnosed, his encounter with the virus wasn't quite as bad as mine.

Like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window, I kept a close eye on my neighbors. I didn't have the strength to rage at them through the window like I usually do, but I managed to quietly judge their actions, particularly during those walks of shame that occur just before dawn. It was also fun judging the man who wore VERY comfortable shorts on his deck while talking on the phone all day long. Kind of made me miss licra shorts guy who lived there before.

A building down the block was getting a new roof. I watched the workers up there for half a day before I realized I wasn't hallucinating them. No wonder they never started flying.

Now recovered, I'm still a little weak and I'm coughing a lot. I have to go back to work. I wish I could just stay home a few more days and really enjoy some TV.

Car Finally Fits in the Garage (and other ways I'm finally making peace with my house)

The new car is a 2015 Nissan Versa with all the extras. As Rafael, the auto salesperson, tried to impress me with facts about the engine which I didn't understand, I marveled at the satellite radio and obsessed about the color. And I wondered what it would be like to give up my Altima for a smaller car.

The Altima was bigger and had a smoother ride. But it was scratched and dented because I kept scraping the sides as I drove into my ancient, narrow garage.

I also drove it pretty hard, back and forth to Highlands Ranch every day, so after 120,000 miles, it was time to let go.

As I emptied the old car of personal items for the final time, I thought about getting all teary and sentimental. We had some good times, that car and I. I'll never forget the big road trip to Kentucky, Indiana, and other points east (see blogs of same) in the summer of 2010. There were lots of trips to Nebraska and Wyoming, and scenic drives to state parks all over Colorado.

Lots of good memories.

But as I moved the tire pressure checker thing from the old car to the new, and the can of stuff you spray into a flat tire in an emergency, and the plastic dust pan I use as a shovel when stuck in the snow, I decided that cars are only machines. They don't have souls. They aren't living things.

Unlike my house. which is very much alive and evil and out to get me.

Ok, just to be accurate, I live in one of a bunch of old 1950s multi-unit ranch style condominiums. Mine has a nice patio and garden, but don't let that fool you. It came from Hell to torture me.

I had trouble the minute I moved in (see blogs from the summer of 2013). The furnace kicked on for no reason in the middle of summer. I was inundated with ants. I found out there were people living in the basement that the previous owner failed to disclose. Every time I turned the bedroom light and the TV on at the same time, the power went off. When I removed the window air conditioner unit, swarms of wasps living inside it filled the room.

And speaking of insect life, I sure have learned more than I ever wanted to know about bedbugs.

There was a long, long list of problems that first year. In addition, though I was in the luxurious new position of having an actual garage, it was too narrow for my car. To add insult to injury, there was a bump in the concrete floor which scrapped loudly against the bottom of the vehicle as I drove in and out.

Things with the house have gradually improved. I have a new portable air conditioner. I've adjusted to the odd circumstance of not having any drawers in the kitchen. The furnace now limits itself to winter only, though we regularly have to open the windows while it's snowing because it gets so hot in the living room. And we are bedbug free for over a year.

Best of all, Clyde moved in, making it feel so much more like home. He likes it there. He doesn't think the house is evil.

He also discovered and removed  a huge colony of ants in a planter outside the front door which was the source of the infestation that first summer.

I've made my peace with most of the problems and I'm gradually fixing things up so I can resell my house someday. Some of the little flaws actually add a touch of character. So the front door sticks sometimes and actually makes me worried we'll be trapped in a fire some day. HA HA! Character.

At least now, I can park my car in the garage. It's lighter too, so I don't scrape the bottom any more (unless Clyde is in the passenger seat - he has to get out before I pull in).

I actually almost think I like living in my old house now. Our house, I mean.

Darn it, I think I left all my reusable grocery bags in the old car.

Huffington Post Adds Years

I realized things were changing recently when reading the Huffington Post. Instead of automatically clicking the Gay Voices section like I've always done, I started with the Huff/Post 50 section - you know, the one directed at old people.

This is nothing less than a seismic shift in my interests. I now relate much more to contemplating retirement than millennial celebrities getting drag queen style makeovers. Also, I'm really not interested in the different ways gay men are using dating apps. What's a dating app anyway? Is this that "Grindr" I've heard about?  In my day, you walked up to a guy in a bar and asked him to dance. What ever happened to that?

Reading about why women should date men in their 50s is much more interesting to me than James Franco's constant toying with us about his sexual orientation. Is he or isn't he? I don't care, James! Just take your shirt off and shut up.

Aging is inevitable, and it turns out, I'm kind of enjoying it.

For example, there are opportunities to save money. It hasn't happened very often yet, but occasionally a store clerk or ticket taker asks Clyde and me if we'd like to take advantage of the senior discount. Rather than standing there insulted, I calculate the savings and ask what age qualifies us. I'm usually not quite old enough (I won't speak for Clyde), but I'm looking forward to the day when I can save a dollar on museum admission.

And there is retirement to look forward to. Thanks to a couple of good investments here and there, it looks like I'll be able to do it.

The next decade and a half will probably fly by so some plans need to be made now. Like, if I want the mortgage paid off before I retire, I'd better plan ahead. How many new cars will I buy between now and age 65?

When the time comes and our fuzzy loved ones are no longer with us, should we adopt a new kitten who might tie us down 15-20 years from now when we want to travel? Ok, on that  topic, I have been informed in no uncertain terms, that yes, we will always have cats, no matter what.

In some ways, we're already plenty old. I'm a card carrying member of AARP. And Clyde and I are regular early bird diners. We like to get to Black Eyed Pea about 4:30, before it gets crowded.

Still Recovering from Old Yeller

I don't care for violence on TV or in the movies. Just ask Clyde - it doesn't matter how many Oscars it's won, I refuse to watch if there's any blood or killing.  If, for example, we see a gruesome death while  watching the X Files, something that we do occasionally thanks to Netflix,  I'll close my eyes until it's over. On the medical shows, I'll close my eyes when surgery is portrayed. If the bleeding character is a human adult, I don't like it.

But I absolutely come unglued if a fictional child or animal is threatened or harmed in any way.

I know it's all just make believe.  As you might explain to a child, no one is really hurt in the TV show, it's just actors pretending.

I take them at their word when they say no animals were harmed during production. I know no actual actor of any species or any age is hurt when something pretend happens on the screen.

Yet, I just can't stand to think of even a fictional child or animal getting hurt. I teared up just researching web sites for movies where the dog dies.

I trace my sensitivity back to Old Yeller, a Disney movie from 1957. Featuring a boy and his dog on the frontier of Texas, Yeller is the boy's best friend and protector of the family. As a very young child, I watched enraptured by the whole movie, identifying with the boy (I too had a dog best friend), following the ups and downs of their lives.

Until the part where the boy has to shoot Old Yeller.

I was so shocked and upset that I never really got over it.

In all fairness, Yeller had rabies and in the context of the story, shooting him was the right thing to do. But I never got over it. I wouldn't have cared, in fact I would have cheered, if the overly strict father had been shot instead.

It seems like every Disney movie from that era involved animals that died. One need not look beyond the classic Bambi, to know what I'm talking about. Everyone who's seen it remembers vividly the moment when Bambi's mother is shot by a hunter. It was enough to put me off Disney, which severely limited the movies I was able to watch as a child.

If I had children, I wouldn't let them watch Old Yeller until they were well into adulthood. Even then, not without warning them.

Marley and Me? Forget it. Never saw it.

The only exception I'll make is The Lion King. Even though Mufasa dies, it's such a great story that I'll overlook it this one time.

Language Snobbery Ensures Superiority

I try to keep things upbeat and positive in Billsweek. The hope is that my naturally cheerful disposition will bring some pleasure into your otherwise humdrum day.

But there are times when I am pushed to the limit and can take it no longer. My sunny outlook is transformed into teeth-grinding frustration.

At the moment, I hate it when those who set an example for the rest of us  (journalists, teachers, writers, and just people who should know better) misuse the English language.

I am especially annoyed by use of the word, "Nother."

As in, "If you think I'm going to say that, you have a whole nother thing coming."

In fact, "nother" is not a word. What the speaker means to say is, "You have another whole thing coming."

I'm sure that if you listen to me speak in ordinary conversation, you'll hear a number of grammatical errors. I'm not perfect.

When someone asks me how I'm doing, for example, I usually reply, "Good!" I should say I'm doing "well." So I obviously don't practice what I preach. At least not always. But that doesn't excuse other people.

Another one that bugs me is when someone says, "... whether or not ..."

It is not necessary to say, "or not" after whether. "Or not" is implied.

Whether you agree with me, I think we can all get behind the idea that no one should ever say, "Irregardless," which, like nother, is not a real word. Usually, "Regardless" will suffice, as in, "I refuse to speak incorrectly, regardless of the ignorance of those around me. "

It drives me crazy when individuals take it upon themselves to be the language police, correcting everything that is said to the point where friends don't feel comfortable speaking at all. But it's just so hard to not be that person!

There's a reason why we speak with certain rules: so we can understand each other. If you use a lot of slang in your speech, for example, you may not be understood by someone from another country or region, or someone for whom English is a second language.

In class-conscious societies, and ours is, the level of adherence to standard language identifies an individual's socio-economic status. In other words, speaking well makes you look more sophisticated and less ignorant. As demonstrated in the play, Pygmalion, by George Bernard Shaw, and in its later incarnation as the musical, My Fair Lady, one might overcome one's low class background by bumping their language usage up a notch.

In other words, you can probably get more opportunities in life if you "talk good."

Next time I feel like being the language police, I'll write about the proper way to use commas. That's not controversial at all ...