Archive for June, 2008

Moron update

Below is a link to a site someone set up in response to the whole Moronic Miguel miasma. I have no idea who wrote and posted this, but am pleased and thankful nonetheless that someone took the time to address this topic with informed opinion and reasonable thinking.

You may or may not want to click on the links to his trash, as he seems to get off on every hit and live under the illusion that they make him important or viable or a real man … or something.


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A year ago last April, Paradise Preoccupied was born. It came about as a spill over from all the stuff I wasn’t allowed to write about on adoption dot com, much considered “off topic” … some of which actually was … and the frustration I felt as being so stifled.

Life was so much different all those months and 199 posts ago, that I can only grasp the fringes of who I was then … that enthusiastic, secure, passionate, opinionated woman who felt her feet on firm ground and her hand never far from the tremendous support of a husband/best friend who would always be there for her.

Being the 200th post, though, means this has to have some future to it, and very fortunately I have a week coming up that has a bright side.

Tomorrow I’m scheduled to receive 300 copies of my book of short stories, “Papaya … and other seeds”, and begin working on marketing it for sale locally. The National Arts Council will be hosting a launch party for the book at which Sam and I will be signing copies. (Sam provided illustrations and is looking forward to autographing some, although I suspect he’ll tire of the endeavor before the demand slacks.)

A large banner will be going up on one of the main roads in town that just happens to be along Mark’s route to work that will tout the book with the cover and a photo of me along with some copy pitching sales, and I must admit to getting some enjoyment out of whatever annoyance factor this might cause his girlfriend, and him, too, actually.

I hope to have a site set up for Internet sales through PayPal soon for those not able to drop into a local bookshop in Victoria, but still interested in a copy.

I’m looking forward to July now, as the the 1st should see the public presentations, and the 4th will most likely be the date for the launch party. Although not a holiday here, Independence Day will hold some meaning for me if all this comes to pass as planned.

I am cautious in my excitement at this point, as things can always go awry, as I so well know, but I am very glad to have something positive to report for my 200th post.

Thanks to all who have been reading me since I started these writings from Paradise and welcome to anyone who happens to stumble across and decide to hang around a while.

I can’t tell you how much your support, advice and good wishes have helped me over the past months, and I look forward to another 200 posts where more good will be reported than bad and we can get back to laughing at foibles and taking down bad guys from time to time.

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No, I’m not talking about my husband’s middle age crisis and resulting fallout, even though one reader … someone called Chris something, and I’m guessing is male … sent me a snotty comment that said with all the compassion and eloquence one might expect from someone taking the time to post, “Gee Sandra. Whine much?” in response to my last post.

This is a different kettle of fish altogether.

A couple of Friday evenings ago, my phone rang. On the other end of the line was a British journalist/broadcaster/agent interested in my work, my story, my favorite flavor of ice cream … whatever … wanting to speak to me about the potential of working together to get something going professionally that would be to our mutual benefit.

Now, the last time I got a lit agent it took me over 100 query letters before I was signed, so having a call out of the blue seems a much less frustrating way to go about promoting my work off-island, and considering the price of postage from here, a screaming deal since he was paying for the call. His staff has been following my writing and he apparently feels there’s merit to my output. Goodie.

Now the “word gets around bit” that illustrates island life so well.

He’s in England, right? He knows I live in Seychelles and write on the Net, so Googles me and learns I used to work for Paradise FM radio, a division of SBC (Seychelles Broadcasting Company) … and, by the way, I may be going back there for a one-day-a-week show … so he phones SBC.

They know me, yes, but no one he finds has my phone number. One person, however, happens to know that the kids and I regularly eat out Friday evenings at local cafe. He calls there and speaks to the owner, who after some fairly intense questioning decides to pass along my home number.

Five minutes later, my phone is ringing and our conversation begins.

Can you imagine this happening in any other country? Yes, it is a small world, but this island is still special in so many ways.

By the way, he’s still phoning and we’re talking, so there may be more to this story developing over time. Fingers crossed, please, that this is light at the end of one tunnel, not the headlight of an approaching train.

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I must be beginning to heal … or, at least for today I’ve managed to work up a good head of indignation at the betrayal that has brought the end of my marriage.

One reason for breaking our family, out of the very few that my husband has managed to share with me, is that I was working too hard and not paying enough attention to him. 

Now, even though I could have some empathy for that as a reason to begin to distance oneself from a spouse, I can’t fathom that process happening without some discussion, but there was nary a word from Mark other than the occasional complaint that my dinner was getting cold as I was trying to post or that I wasn’t paid nearly enough for the number of hours I dedicated to my work.

If this work I poured so much of my soul into was without soul, if, perhaps, I was consumed by fluctuating money markets or with attending constantly to a process designed to grow more and more money for myself in an endless game of greed, I might also have some compassion for a mate who felt ignored by aggressive avarice.

The fact is, however, that through the adoption of our children I became a passionate advocate for international adoption. The millions of children without  families in the world are for the most part a voiceless lot, and given that there are no few people in the world very vocal about seeing to keeping these kids sentenced to a short life of misery under a banner misleading reading “Cultural Genocide” or something equally shortsighted or self indulgent, lending my efforts to remind that there are other sides to that coin with miraculous results seemed an effort worth pursuing and pursuing vigorously.

I personally know of a dozen kids who have wonderful families now whose shift from hopeless forever to chances and opportunities and love can be directly traced to my work.

I’m not trying to pull any “Saint” shirt on over my head with this, but it sure does piss me off that my husband, father to our two Cambodian-born children, has taken my work, my passion for the world’s orphans, my dedication, and turned it into an excuse for leaving our family for the Blow Job Queen of Trashland … fat face, big tits and all.

I think this just might mean I’m getting better.

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