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Dec. 1st, 2005 12:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shalannaAt Thanksgiving, my mother and my aunt had one of their famous discussions.
In short, my aunt tries to make her husband and her son stand up whenever "a lady" enters a room. She gets on their cases if they don't, although it often mystifies whoever's coming in.
My mother tried to straighten her out. "People don't do that any more!"
"Well, I do!"
"Haven't you heard of equal rights? I'd much rather have equal rights than have a man open the door for me and stand up when I enter the room. Forget that, because in the old days, he could say, 'Take her shoes so she can't go to town!'"
My aunt still didn't take the point. She missed the 1960s entirely, living in that small town. It's now a moderately larger town, but she's still stuck on the pink cloud.
Aunt Jean (the one in the hospital) called Mama on her cell phone at 2AM last night. She told my mother she'd been visiting a friend down the hall and got bored. Mama told her to go rest. Then she told ME this morning that my aunt must have had a stroke. I called, and my aunt told me that she'd thought it was 2PM, not 2AM, because the lights never go off in the surgical ICU ("the place where there is no darkness"), and it seemed bright outside as well (she doesn't have a window to the outside, but anyhow, she got the impression. . . .)
Good thing she has a male nurse, so she can flirt.
My cousin's wife didn't get to go home yet--she got another unit of blood last night instead. And she says she IS NOT taking chemo, no matter what. (sigh) I think she's just venting, but we may have to bring some pressure to bear later on. She has children to think of. Hair or seeing children grow up? Hmm, thinking . . . thinking.
There is never a lack of excitement here in the Nekkid City.
* * *
Pat Browning writes on the DorothyL mystery fanciers list:
"There is no history, only fictions of varying degrees of plausibility." -- Voltaire
In short, my aunt tries to make her husband and her son stand up whenever "a lady" enters a room. She gets on their cases if they don't, although it often mystifies whoever's coming in.
My mother tried to straighten her out. "People don't do that any more!"
"Well, I do!"
"Haven't you heard of equal rights? I'd much rather have equal rights than have a man open the door for me and stand up when I enter the room. Forget that, because in the old days, he could say, 'Take her shoes so she can't go to town!'"
My aunt still didn't take the point. She missed the 1960s entirely, living in that small town. It's now a moderately larger town, but she's still stuck on the pink cloud.
Aunt Jean (the one in the hospital) called Mama on her cell phone at 2AM last night. She told my mother she'd been visiting a friend down the hall and got bored. Mama told her to go rest. Then she told ME this morning that my aunt must have had a stroke. I called, and my aunt told me that she'd thought it was 2PM, not 2AM, because the lights never go off in the surgical ICU ("the place where there is no darkness"), and it seemed bright outside as well (she doesn't have a window to the outside, but anyhow, she got the impression. . . .)
Good thing she has a male nurse, so she can flirt.
My cousin's wife didn't get to go home yet--she got another unit of blood last night instead. And she says she IS NOT taking chemo, no matter what. (sigh) I think she's just venting, but we may have to bring some pressure to bear later on. She has children to think of. Hair or seeing children grow up? Hmm, thinking . . . thinking.
There is never a lack of excitement here in the Nekkid City.
Pat Browning writes on the DorothyL mystery fanciers list:
Fiction is real only in the world the writer creates.
Recently I mentioned research to someone who reads a lot of novels (big Stuart Woods fan), and she said, "Why are you doing research if you're writing fiction?"
Jann Briesacher writes that in your book's simulacra-world, you can do things you can't do in the real world. When your character lives in the French Quarter in fantasy (which all fiction is), mold doesn't grow on your shoes, you don't have cockroaches the size of cellphones in your kitchen, no one ever barfs on your doorstep in the middle of the night, and you can always find a parking place. The right character could bring all these true-to-life characteristics into a story, but another character would NEVER mention any of them.
"There is no history, only fictions of varying degrees of plausibility." -- Voltaire
