Game of Thrones Ends My Way
Since I don’t have cable I eagerly await the release on DVD of my guilty pleasure Game of Thrones. I just finished the Sixth Season. There is one season left.

(I should add, at this point, that I save all the articles on upcoming seasons to read after I have seen the season everyone else has seen.)

In one of the major articles I read the creators have decided to drag out the last season. Yes, it begins with 7 episodes to be shown during the summer of 2017, which is this year. However, they have decided to show the last episodes of the Seventh and Final Season of Game of Thrones in 2018 or maybe 2019! Seriously? No one wins until 2019? Plus, the DVD (maybe I’ll have a blu-ray by then) won’t come out until 2020.

Now, I’m already 71 which means several things not the least of which is that I may actually be deceased at that point. And, really (?), that far off? The kids will be married adults with children; the other actors will be, well, old-er. The people who created this show will be working on other shows, their careers will have moved on and they might just forget about the whole thing and never do the ending. (It’s happened before…and then, 10 years later, everyone suddenly remembers and they make a movie funded on Kickstarter, because no one cares anymore, and it will flop at the box office.)

The final major battle for the actual throne will be kicking the walkers out from under each other and everyone falling down yelling, “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” Apparently, no wins unless one person is able to crawl up to the throne, pull themselves up; get into a sitting position and, after a nap, whisper, “I won!”

Well, hopefully not, but it certainly looking this way to me.

However, coming back to semi-reality, as a fan I have my own idea as to how the series will end. Love it or leave it or fall on the floor laughing here is my ending:

Everyone left standing with a rightful claim to The Iron Throne is gathered in
The Throne room, minus one. There is a huge battle of weapons, fists
and magic trickery. Everyone dies. Bodies on the floor strewn all over the
place. At last, little vindictive, killer, battered, dirty-faced, and on the whole
confused, Arya Stark finally arrives and pushes open the doors. She stands
there eyeing the carnage, straightens her back, sticks out her chin, walks
across the bodies to The Iron Throne, sits down and states, to no one in
particular, “Girl is King of The Seven Kingdoms.” THE END

Yeah, people who know me are surprised that it is not my favorite from the beginning, Tyrion, but so this show goes… And if you really think about it who else, honestly (as if there has ever been any honesty in this entire series), deserves it more?

My New Bible Quote for the Year 2017
“And He must needs (of necessity) go (pass) through Samaria.” John 4:4
(The moment Jesus pushed beyond traditions, expectations and boundaries.)



In 2014, I was at the Dollar Store when a wall of Santa heads caught my eye. I guess that if they had been faces with red hats I wouldn’t have given them a second look but the hats were all different colors. There was one with a deep rich velveteen blue hat and I had to have it, blue being my favorite color. As I took it down, something odd caught my eye.
One of the Santas had a cap that was tartan!
A lovely woman, Catherine who was almost 90 and a war bride, was living down the hall. After all these years since World War II, she still had a pronounced Scottish accent. It made her all the more endearing. She had shared with me stories of her life in the United States and shown me many pictures. But she loved talking about her homeland of Scotland when she was swept off her feet by a handsome American soldier.
Oh, I thought, I have to get her that tartan head Santa! I’ll bet she never saw anything like it.
Catherine had made friends with Julie, who lived across the hall. They looked out for each other and took turns making dinner each night.
Well, if I get one for Catherine, I’ll have to get one for Julie. But I wasn’t sure what she would like and I still wanted it to still be different, so I got a green Santa head.
When I got home, I realized that it was difficult to get something for someone as, for some reason; it seems to mean we want something in return. It was the Dollar Store! A buck! So, late at night, I just hung the Santa heads on their door handles and never said a word. I never heard them say a word but, instead of taking them in and putting them on their trees, they left them on their doors.
That made me feel good and when I walked the hall every day, I smiled just seeing them there.

In 2015, I heard Catherine’s family in her apartment telling her they got her something really nice for her Christmas door that year. Later, I saw her son putting up a lovely green bough. I thought of the tartan head Santa and hoped that she still had it. But if not, it was only a buck, I mused.
The next day I noticed, nestled in the greenery, the tartan head Santa!
Early in December, my blue head Santa fell and broke. I never saw the green head Santa again. But I feel they live on in the tartan head Santa…

It is now 2016 and the greenery and the tartan head Santa are back on Catherine’s door for another Christmas. Talk about being a ‘Secret Santa!’

My Mother's Favorite Joke

In the 1950s, a long-haul trucker was driving down the road with a full load of brand new cars. He had told his wife he would be home that night. The journey was boring as it was autumn in the south and the harvest had left nothing but flat, stubbly fields as far as the eye could see and there was very little to no traffic.

As dusk approached, the trucker flipped on his lights. Nothing happened. He was disappointed, as he would have to sleep that night in a motel instead of his bed at home. He spotted a phone booth and pulled onto the shoulder of the road. As he spoke to his wife about not being with the family, he looked at the truck. Then he said, “Wait! I have an idea! Hang on!”

The driver noticed that the car on the top row was over the cab and angled slightly downward. He climbed up and reached into the car, turning on the lights. Sure enough, the lights hit the road in front of the cab. He ran back to the phone and told wife he would be home after all.

The two-lane blacktop didn’t seem as lonely as he drove home. About an hour later in full darkness, he spotted headlights coming from the other direction. Suddenly, the car veered off the road and out into the harvested field. The trucker pulled onto the shoulder of the road and ran across to the car.

“What happened? Are you all right?” asked the trucker.

The man looked up and said, in a slow drawl, “Ye-ah. It’s just that I figured, if you was half as wide as you was tall, I needed to get ALL the way off the road!”

Miss Josh Emmett
Published in the Senior Living – Oakland, August 2013

I have always had trouble with animals and/or donating. I'm not an up-close and personal type of person with animals. I don't even care for the zoo. However, donating is, as they say, a horse of a different color.
In the 80s, I signed up to donate monthly to the ASPCA. Without any notice, after a few months, they just started taking more out. I cancelled. In the new century, I signed up for another place, and they did the same. Then I signed up, with several others (like hungry, breast cancer, literacy), to click each day to donate. The others are still fine, but the animal one started filling my box with emails. Dozens and dozens. When I, finally, tried to unsubscribe from the other emails, they cancelled everything. So, no daily donation.
NOW, I was giving to Defenders of the Wildlife in a monthly donation. After 3 years, I decided to switch to a different charity and cancelled. I felt things were all right because of my debit card being hacked and getting a new one. Guess what? THEY SOME HOW GOT MY NEW DEBIT CARD NUMBER AND TOOK MONEY OUT! I called again and they said there would be no money out in August, but refused to return what they took out today! (Normally, they took it out on the 5th, but these people are real 'hunters' and managed to hack my debit card today, the 19th.)
So sad... Animal Rights Activists post pornographic pictures of tortured animals and steal money. I don't want to see animals abandoned or tortured in any form of the word 'see' but these people are the pits.
I am sticking with charities pertaining to the ‘people’ in my own country.

My New Bible Quote for the Year 2016
My New Bible Quote for the Year 2016

"Behold, the hour cometh, yea, is now come, that ye shall be scattered, every man to his own, and shall leave me alone; and yet I am not alone, because the Father is with me."

John 17:32

Adult Coloring: Not Pornographic
Adult Coloring: Not Pornographic

I started reading at 3, so I’m assuming I started coloring about that age as well. I most likely started with a pencil and whatever surface was available. Then I was introduced to a box of 6 crayons and a coloring book.

I did not try and define myself. I was not a colorist or a child colorer nor was I an artist (not for lack of trying…another blog). I was most likely shown how to draw a picture by my mother who had found another way to get me stop talking all the time. Also good for a funny story. As a child (and a senior), I hated being talked down to. I was plunked in front of the television set. It was the Detroit franchise of Romper Room with Miss Frances. We (Miss Frances, all the unseen children and I) had finished “Romper Bomper Stomper Booing” and Miss Frances had said “Hi!” to all the generic names (which never included me) and it was time to get on with the program. Miss Frances spoke in a sing-song you-are-all-stupid voice. In this particular edition she said, “Now, children, go and get your crayons and paper. Miss Frances will wait.” (Yes, she spoke of herself in the third person. This is me typing and not smiling, I’m still annoyed.) I did as I was told. Miss Frances continued, “Now, children, dooo yooou know what weee are goooing to do toooday?” Apparently, Miss Josh said in a testy little voice, “No. But I know what I’m going to do today. I’m going to color” and turned off the television with a determined click and proceeded to sit there and do just that! My mother told this story until she died.

Thank you for sitting through that commercial break, now back to Adult Coloring. Unfortunately, I had a father who was an amateur artist (with friends who were real artists) and a portrait photographer. Therefore, at a very tender age, I was yelled at. “You colored outside the lines! Where is the shading? Where is the sun coming from? Ducks are yellow or white!”

A couple of tips here. If you want to stay in the lines, outline the area you want to color in the chosen shade. For some reason, the eye connects to the brain which connects to the hand and wah-la! you stay in the line whilst coloring. Use a pencil to draw a little arrow for reference: right top corner pointing to left bottom corner, left top corner pointeing to right bottom corner, top middle pointing to bottom middle. This will remind you where the sun is located for proper shading and can be erased later. When you are 3 or 4 you need reminding.

Does Bugs Bunny need proper shading? Does Donald Duck need trousers? (Okay, legally in some countries that one is “yes.”) Welcome to the wonderful world of being told how to color.

Then, I met Nancy. She lived up the street and was younger than me but there were very few kids in my neighborhood. We both liked music, American Bandstand, and the hunky guys on ABC nighttime programming. When we colored, we would ‘sign’ the photos with initials and then try to guess who we colored as! *sigh* One day Nancy’s father, who was a milkman (who drove a truck and delivered milk to houses and stores and would occasionally take us on a ‘run’ and we would get free comic books with the covers removed from the store owners and at the end he would give us a dime each for helping) brought home a huge roll of paper on a stand with a cutter. He got it from a butcher shop. We tore off a piece of paper each and colored. When I finished, I went to get another piece but Nancy’s father yelled at me that “paper isn’t cheap!” and I didn’t color on that paper again, I stuck with books. Even that didn’t help. I had an Aladdin book and colored three dancing girls with blond, brown and red hair. Nancy yelled at me that Arabians all had black hair!

Needless to say, I stopped coloring until 1974. I was in the checkout line at Waldon’s Book Store and glanced at the ‘crafts’ shelves. I got out of line to check out what I thought I saw (been nearsighted since age 7) and, sure enough, it was an Adair Adult Coloring Book! I pulled it off the shelf and flipped through it. What was this? Just squares and stuff? I bought it! And my father couldn’t complain that I was coloring out of the lines (too confusing) and using the wrong color. There is no wrong color.

Well, there never was a wrong color. If a kid wants to color the sky green and the grass blue…shut up!

I still have all my books from the 70s and 80s and Dover free pages I had printed out in this century but then I saw a Facebook ad for adult coloring and joined. I may be up to over 20 pages at I’m writing this. And I was doing fine! I went to and bought some really cool books. I printed out free pages online (with credit to the artists). I got new pens and crayons and pencils. I was one happy camper. I’m never a happy camper for long…

Now, I have been told that despite numerous articles in magazines, like O Magazine, and newspapers, like The Detroit Free Press, and even late night ads for relaxing coloring books, that they were all wrong! Dang them!

I go to a Facebook page and find cartoon people in a sex act and am told that this is adult coloring! It always has been. And we are stupid to think otherwise. People jumped right in with, “I’ve always just called myself a colorist.” “I tell people I like to color and leave it at that.” “I always wondered why people looked at me funny when I mentioned Adult Coloring!”

I, for one, have never been looked at funny over Adult Coloring. No one has backed away from me. No one has covered their children’s ears. Men have not sniggered, “she said Adult Coloring…snort snort.”

If people want to color nudes and call themselves Peter Paul Rubens (or Peter Paul and Mary), that is fine with me. But when you see an ad or an article about Adult Coloring, or when you hear someone talking about Adult Coloring books, calm yourselves down! No book burning here! No tying people to the stake and starting a bonfire. No hangings in my town square! Adult Coloring is not witchcraft or voodoo or pornography! It is just coloring! And if I go outside the lines, put your gun down! If I color a tree purple, keep your thoughts to yourself. Could I, just once before I die, be allowed to just color? Is that asking too much? I don’t think so…unless you live in a country where Donald Duck is banned for not wearing trousers. I live in The United States where Donald Duck originated just as he is!

Now, I will type this with pride:


Bugger off, thank you very much.

The Books You Need to Read This Book
The Books You Need to Read This Book
Faithfull: An Autobiography by Marianne Faithfull with David Dalton
miss josh emmett
copyright 2015

Although she repeatedly denies it, Marianne Faithfull is, indeed, a product of convent schooling plus her own extra reading. It is wonderful that she knows really big obscure words and speaks several languages. However, most people are not as lucky. Therefore, I would suggest that before you begin this book (I’m writing about the hardback version that is copyrighted in 1994), you gather these books to go with it:
1. An unabridged dictionary
2. Italian/French/Latin-to-English translators
3. Mythology 101: From Gods and Goddesses to Monsters and Mortals, Your Guide to ancient Mythology
4. The Zodiac Bible: The Definitive Guide to the Zodiac
5. Devils, Demons and Witchcraft

6. A coffee table book of the paintings of the greatest artists of all time
7. A compendium of poets and their works

For most of the book, one wonders if this is an autobiography of Marianne Faithfull or a biography of Mick Jagger. Once she sees him, although she is not interested at first, she becomes obsessed. He is never far from her thoughts. She believes every song was written about her or by her and, as his muse, she is responsible for the fame The Rolling Stones have enjoyed for over 50 years. Thank goodness she came into Mick’s life! Of course, she, also, gives full credit to Keith Richards, the man she truly loved and should have married (or was it Anita Pallenberg she truly loved and should have married?) and it becomes a bit confusing.

Her memory is full of contradictions. She loves clothes shopping, she “was never really into clothes”, she loves clothes shopping. She loves sex, “I hate sex”, she loves sex. (As a side note, in 2014, Marianne said in an interview that Mick was her only love but she hated having sex so much she had to let him go. She does write in the book that they had little sex after a certain point and just spent the time together in bed reading newspapers and books, it is just that bed is the most comfortable place to be. She didn’t mind Mick getting sex from others (male and female)…oh, wait! Yes she did!) (Brian Jones told Mike Douglas that “all the boys like Mick” (look it up on YouTube), so she might have been influenced by that as well.)

She devotes two sentences, one each in different parts of the book, to the loss of her and Mick’s child. How she really felt is left unknown but the act of miscarriage is a good excuse for why she needs to be left alone and do drugs.

Yes, we are left to feel sorry for Nicholas Dunbar, her son, and Brian Jones (whom she should have just lost custody of along with Nicholas).

Marianne often writes in various languages to explain her motivations and feelings. She doesn’t bother to translate any of these. They are not the ones we all know, like Miss Piggy’s infamous moi. They are not commonly known phrases like hoi polloi (us commoners…). And they are liberally sprinkled throughout her writings, and passim is used in the index. Maybe you are familiar with this term but I was not. It means here and there or another translation would be: “Mick Jagger is on most of the pages in my book!” She skips around, timeline-wise, as she remembers things, but does let you know when she actually remembers a date. Thank you.

But let’s get to the drugs. They are Marianne’s life and always will be, even when she clean and sober on occasion. Miss Faithfull truly believes that we will buy the fact that she remembers conversations she had, in their entirety, in the 60s. The woman says that the Small Faces were over often, yet she calls the bassist, in the text and the index, Ronnie Land. It is Ronnie Lane. Although I’m sure she did live on a wall for a period of her life, I get the feeling that much of what she writes is what she wanted to happen to her and she has wished for these things so hard that, at a certain point, she began to believe they truly happened. At this point in her life, fact and fiction are one and the same. Just a ‘for instance,’ there are photos of Mick and Marianne in India with The Beatles and their wives/girlfriends, but she says she and Mick went alone. One does tend to believe that every man wants to have sex with her because, in my opinion, she is ‘available.’ She constantly writes about how bold she is and how she states her ‘made up’ opinions quite boldly, even thought she admits that she made up stuff to go with her belief that we all are incarnations of gods and goddesses, so why not talk about it. She, also, admits that Mick never wanted her to be interviewed alone! No surprise there. Then she says she is so painfully shy, that she spent days sitting in a corner on the floor just adoring Bob Dylan, never saying anything. (They did, finally, have a conversation…or…by the end she had made up in her drug-induced mind that a conversation had taken place. And that, years later, he made a point of finding her because he thought about her all the time.) She tries to tell us (or is that herself?) that the drugs did not affect what she said but then blames them when she said things that genuinely hurt others (“Oh, so sorry. I was on drugs and didn’t know what I was saying. And besides, it was ages ago, so they shouldn’t be quoting me now anyway.” Her explanation of everything she told A. E. Hotchner for his biography of Mick Jagger). Should she have married Gene Pitney? Or Roy Orbison? Or any of the other men she said she had sex with? I think not. And, besides, she only married men she hated, like Ben Brierly who, by the time she married him, she loathed. And she does pass out tips, like, the best place to find men is in rehabs and institutions even they end up committing suicide over you; picking up men and taking them back to your country when they don’t speak the language are easier to dump if you give them 10 pounds and a note in English for the taxi driver; and a chicken recipe (which I have on good authority is quite delicious). (Alright, spoiler alert, Pitney ran away from the bed because it was too cold.)

I, honestly, believe that Marianne Faithfull does not want to be clean and sober. She worships drugs. They bring her fantastical worlds to live in and leave her with no responsibility for what she says or does. She is a woman who has found a place for herself in this world and should be left to live in it. Yes, about page 200 you can become a bit depressed reading the rest of book…or…you can jump into her world of “Mick Jagger, Mick Jagger, Mick Jagger but I love Keith Richards” and just go on a trip with her. The reading is interesting if you realize that the book should be filed under Science Fiction/Fantasy instead of Autobiographies.

And, no, I didn’t bother to look up tatterdemalion, you’ll have to do that yourself.

Comment on Maria Meltzer from ELLE Magazine
Comment posting on


Thank you for including Tuck Everlasting. I will say that I am olde...a leftover hippie aka top edge of the Baby many of the books came out after I was no longer a child. Well, who am I kidding? I NEVER grew up and YA books appeal to me much more the gratuitous sex and violence that make up the books today with a thin story thrown in around it.
My mother thought reading was only for learning. When she discovered I could read at the age of 3 she said, "Here. Don't ever ask me to read The Princess and the Pea again!" (She did know there was something wrong with my reading and made flash cards for: the, and, or, if, as, a...etc. and made me memorize them. Later it would be determined I had dyslexia, but I was in my 40s.)
Nothing could stop me from reading. She wouldn't let father read anything but the newspaper and the Bible. However, I fit in his chair when I was still 12 and he read books to me. Our favorite was The Secret Garden. One day she got sick of hearing the nonsense and put a stop to it.
She and my 14 years older sister could NOT put a stop to my reading! If I bought a book, she would rummage through my bedroom and throw it out. Hello, library!
In the 70s, with mother long gone, I read the Judy Blume, Bruce and Carole Hart and SE Hinton books. In my teens I did gobble up the Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys Mysteries (which I had to buy and hide really well because the librarian said they were too stupid to be in the library).
Finally, as a senior, everyone in the family is dead but me and, boy, do I have books!
Thanks for the article, I'll read the ones I haven't and reread the ones I have from your list. And, yes, I loved the Harry Potter and Maximillian Ride series among others!

The Life and Death of the Blue Balloon
The Life and Death of the Blue Balloon
miss josh emmett
Copyright 2015

The Blue Balloon started his life as a decoration for Sue’s surprise 50th birthday party.  (Pictured here with Sue (as herself), Dan (as her father), Josh (as the owner) and himself (on the top).

sue and door 054

The Blue Balloon traveled home to Josh’s apartment in a car and settled into a nice cozy ceiling with many little friends to play with.  The Blue Balloon was happy.

sue and door 057

Two weeks later, the Blue Balloon discovered he was not feeling well.  He dropped from his cozy ceiling and started drifting across the room looking for help.  It was late at night when he found himself a neat little hole and started lowering himself into it in despair.

balloon 001

Josh found him there and thought, perhaps, the light of day would help.  But the Blue Balloon felt none the better and tried to get back to his dark hole.  Alas, he could not lift himself high enough to get over the night stand blocking way.

balloon 002

The Blue Balloon could see no other way to end his sorrow and pain; so, to paraphrase Shakespeare in his play Romeo and Juliet:  “Alas, safety pin has been his untimely death, I see!”

balloon 004

We will all miss the Blue Balloon, but while his life was that a brief candle, he lit our lives with his bright colour and bouncy lightheartedness.  God bless you Blue Balloon!


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