19 September 2024
I am not referring to the huge divide between Teamsters rank-and-file and management. I wish to speak of the always necessary, always vital divi-ing up of tasks in any marriage that expects to be efficient and happy.
Dear Husband, who is also Dear Webmaster, and, for Jolene, Dear Master, has to put up with a lot of guff from Dear Writer. He tries his best not to squash those creative impulses of mine, and, at times, it is like walking, uh, maneuvering through a minefield.
I don’t always state what it is that I need for him to do, not that I expect for him to be a mind-reader because, quite honestly, it’s hard enough for me to read my own mind!
Consequently, there are times when I’ve asked him why he’s done a certain thing that I didn’t want done, and he states that I didn’t inform him of my wishes.
That’s because if I told you what I need for you to do for me, you’ll do it right away, and it will impede my progress on whatever it is I need to do for myself.
Or, as Dear Husband has concluded: “You’re 80% right intuitively, but then you consistently get that 20% wrong because you’re applying logic to the illogical. Yet you’re not willing to spend the time to try to correct that last 20%.”
My reasoning is that if I take the time, and effort, and brainpower to focus on correcting that 20% of deductive reasoning, then it will lessen the 80% effectiveness with my intuition/instinct.
I observed the same cerebral process underway with Dear Daughter when she was in the First Grade, in the Suburban Government School, just prior to our decision to home-school.
The teacher was a marching-in-lock-step activist married to a fonctionnaire of the NEA. She was quite peeved about Dear Daughter. Yes, she was put out over the failure of my child to memorize, of the 26 letters of the alphabet, the California-mandated percentage, which was more than half. (I just had to ask Dear Husband how many letters there ARE in the modern English alphabet!)
The resolute efforts of my little girl just weren’t up to Golden-State snuff.
I, as Mother, was getting a lot of guff about the inadequacy of a 6-year-old child to meet the preposterous California State School Standards. The alphabet was only the beginning of squashing the budding confidence of six-year-olds. The kooky curriculum also mandated expertise in geometry. During that epoch of the Holiday from History, the mid-1990s, only California had the highest educational standards in the nation — and the lowest test scores. These unreal edicts, logically, led to unionized teachers covertly falsifying test results in backrooms, or even bathrooms!
It was my duty as a taxpaying parent to work with my child on pressuring her to memorize more letters, just so this snotty union shill could crow about her success! And get some more gimmes from The Guvmint.
I informed this supercilious wench that my daughter is able to retain — in her young, growing brain — only X amount of letters. If she learns 3 more, she’ll drop 3 already learned, and end up with the same # of letters committed to memory.
This E-school graduate, and her obsessive fixation on ####s and quantity of forced-fed info, almost made me sick to my stomach. She scoffed at me. My hypothesis, however, two weeks later, became a proven fact, a lived experience. I’m fairly certain that this Government Teacher thought I was in on it with my daughter, plotting and conspiring to make her look stupid.
The modes and mechanisms of my brain have been that way since infancy. I was born that way. And my willful stance toward protecting the way that I “think” did not sit, or stand, or go well with most of the instructors that came my way. I can recall only a handful, six at most, of the teachers who comprehended my thought processes.
As one university philosophy professor summed it up: “You analyze and synthesize at an amazing rate.”
In other words, I take things apart and put them back together very quickly. For certain types of oppressors, that rate is alarming! I do not always know why I’ve arrived at a certain conclusion, lickety-split, but once I’ve gotten there, I go with the flow of it.
The few occasions when I haven’t trusted my own perception were the unfortunate downfalls when I failed to get myself out of horrendous situations or dangerous circumstances. I remember each dismal outcome that was the result of my rational mind over-riding my instinctive situational awareness. Those reminders are the sad souvenirs of when I did not follow my gut instinct — and I jammed my own circuitry.
Following the gut instinct requires that, first of all, you possess the guts to come up with that instinct. As an American, I make optimal use of the liberties within this nation, that were endowed to me by my Creator — to live life, to live my life. Whenever I’ve encountered a wussy weak person, filled with hostility and emptied of decency; and that ornery pompous cuss has threatened those liberties, the God-given rights that I deem essential to my existence, my response to that Existential Threat to my life has been marked, very marked.
Dear Husband has therefore taken on the division of labor that keeps me out of jail, although he reassures me that he’d write to me, every day.
While we were in the hurried, hassled, and humongous process of building our Dream House in 2020, and nearing the ending of construction, the General Contractor was extremely curious as he asked me:
“Why is it that you’ve had no dealings with the Bridge Troll?”
The Bridge Troll was the aging crabapple Hippie who lived down the way. She has since moved away, to a newer rip-off act, since I rather civilly and effectively put the kibosh on her rip-off act of The Neighborhood, as well as on her crude, manipulative, fascist attempts to stop, stall, and obstruct construction of my house:
“Because there will be jail time, and not for her.”
During the spring of 2016, I was resolutely avoiding any mention of a national election process, entirely due to the lack, for decades, of a fair election process in California. I was rather miffed that a private citizen would have to sacrifice what I’d believed, way back then, was merely his life-style, his sumptuous residence, his business empire — because he saw that America was in trouble. During the winter of 2014, I’d even written such statements to a friend in Northamptonshire, England who’d initially informed me, with a high degree of accuracy, about the political races in my nation.
Sometime during the spring of 2016, Dear Husband told me that DT stated that he had to “wrap things up.” I expressed this command decision:
“I’m gonna buy the tee-shirt, but I don’t want to hear anything unless it’s big news.”
I heard about Hillary fainting at the 9/11 ceremony. I didn’t consider that act of gravity to be big news. How many other times had the shrill shrew fallen, and couldn’t get up — but the truth got covered up by the Media.
Last week, I asked Dear Husband to do a Morning Briefing for me, since he’s up at 5:55 a.m., and my hour of arising is anywhere between 8 and 10 a.m. The 2nd attempt to kill President Trump took place, and Dear Husband stated, as he had for the 1st Assassination Attempt:
“There have been some shots fired.”
It’s getting to the point where the Morning Briefing no longer concerns whether His Fraudulency has washed out to sea from that smelly beach in Delaware, but whether or not America has committed suicide. The black cat in me says America is not a nation divided against itself. America is a nation divided between the Patriots and the Traitors.
That division of labor is an ongoing project, a developing work of art that’s in the hands of God, and in the hands of We the People.
MAGA will not die with the death of Donald Trump. I think even the Deep State is starting to get that clue. Not from instinct, cause those power-mad, greedy traitors don’t have guts. Their apocalyptic vision is coming straight from that non-fickle finger of God.