~The Story Keeper~

Morning Bitch

2011-11-28T11:14:00.001-08:00

Muleman wakes up HAPPY! (this is not a bitch, it’s a good thing—for him, for me too.. sometimes)

I do not.

BUT he’s up and ready for action. Lots of get up and go!

I am not.

He was kind enough to let me “sleep,” this morning, but did his EXERCISES on the bed… you know, like sit-ups and push-ups and stuff that wiggles the not much larger than a single bed. All along he loudly does his “circular breathing” which sounds like he’s hyperventilating to me. AND, he left the overhead light on! Grrrrr.

I wake up slowly and am happy when no one invades my space for a while… say an hour, say a day. (Cept the dog, the dog doesn’t count.) I need to lie in bed transitioning into waking state, or get up and be quietly by myself for a while.

Didn’t happen that way this morning.

I buried my head under the cover to hide the light and plugged my ears with the pillow.. nice try.

The next thing Muleman did was get out his drill and start DRILLING whatever.

Oh the NOISE, NOISE, NOISE, NOISE!

And in case you didn’t know, WE ARE LIVING IN A SPACE THE SIZE OF A WALK-IN CLOSET!

Am I grumpy? Guess.

The Sky is Falling

2010-02-22T17:04:00.001-08:00

We had an unexpected visitor drop in the other night—late the other night.

I was sleeping nicely (for a change) and was awakened by a very loud crashing noise in the kitchen.

Lately, I’ve had more than my fair share of “transients” and strange people wandering around the house at night. My brother’s people, children’s people… mostly goofier-than-I-like people.

I often ask myself, why me? Law of Attraction? Weird attracts weird? What you resist persists? Trust me, I hate it. I thoroughly hate it. AND HERE IT IS! Grr..

So, I’m awakened by this really loud, not-good “noise.” The type of noise I knew I needed to go out to investigate.

The dogs were frenzied. I could hear Molly, the Coonhound, run lickity-split out the back door sounding off like crazy; and Elsa, the black dog, running back and forth through the house.

Some thing was definitely not right.

I slipped on my sweatpants, sweatshirt and slippers to brave the unknown on that chilly night and ventured onward.

Both dogs were now out in the back going wild.

It took a few seconds… but what was this?… all kinds of white cottony stuff and cardboard was on the floor by the stove? Kind of looked like snow… heck it was cold enough that night.

What the heck?? Did the dogs get in the trash?

Then I looked up.

“OH SHIT!”

There was a HUGE HOLE in the ceiling!

The sky is falling! The sky is falling!

The dogs were still outside going nuts… I called Molly in (she is quite loud—poor neighbors). Now both were running back and forth through the house vocalizing and terribly worried, their hair standing on end. The sky falling in and making a loud noise would terrify the bravest of any of us beasts.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out what happened. It had rained heavily several times over the past couple weeks. The roof must have leaked into the attic crawlspace. My suspicions were ultimately correct except for one little detail.

My loud expletive prompted daughter Roxzi to come out and see what happened. She found me sitting calmly on the computer chair trying to absorb the absurdity of what just happened.

She followed my eyes downward.

“What the… ?? What is that?”

Then I pointed to the black hole in the ceiling. “Oh my GOD! What happened?” she yelled.

“The sky is falling,” I said calmly. “Is your Uncle Luckey here?”

Uncle Luckey lives out in the garage.

She went screaming out to get him. Fists pounding on the door, f-words flying fiercely and fearlessly. She quickly got his attention. He came in brandishing a flashlight, and was very confused. “What the heck is she talking about?”

I let him have a second to take in the view. “Whoa!?!”

He knew what happened too.

I calmly started sweeping up the debris.

The dogs were still very nervous.

I said “I think Molly chased it out the back door.”

Luckey had different ideas and started searching under the furniture in the living room.

Yep, as we both suspected, a critter, a raccoon, which was residing in the attic, FELL through the ceiling drywall (or wetwall).

Just dropped in, so to speak. Poor critter.

I figured Molly chased it out the back door. No such luck.

Luckey found it trying its best to hide under the sofa. I looked from across the room at its red beady eyes glowing in the beam of the flashlight.

So now there’s hole in the ceiling and a frickin’ raccoon under the couch in the living room! Now what are we going to do?

But it was so cute!

First thing, put the dogs in other rooms and shut the door. Raccoons are, no matter how cute, not friendly and not critters you want to reckon with.

“Open the front door and shoo it out with the broom,” I suggested, as I opened a nearby umbrella for a shield.

Luckey fearlessly declined, as it hissed and shrieked making sounds like an alien from another planet .

We carefully barricaded the sides of the sofa so to lead it out the front door. (Mind you, the front door is now wide open and it was barely 40 degrees outside. Very cold for our parts.)

We banged on the wall.. hooted and hollered, but the little guy stayed put.

Finally, after sitting up for an hour waiting for the masked bandit to exit stage right, I announced I was going back to bed. “Just turn off the lights,” its only traveling option was out the door, “and it’ll find its way out.”

We both gave up and let it be.

It did. It found it’s way out by morning.

Molly, my good ol’ Coonhound (yeah right!) proved her big brave cowardliness. (The raccoon went one way… she went the other.)

Another night to remember. And laugh about.

And we learn, that when the sky falls in, it’s not the end of the world.

But, dear reader, please note, the sky doesn’t always fall down… sometimes it fall UP.

Another story.

Cheers, y’all… and remember, whenever your sky falls either in or up, just keep your eyes on the stars. It’s all there for you.

Who are Your Top Teachers?

2009-12-09T17:43:00.000-08:00

Question of the day… Who are your top teachers?

Of my 50-some-odd-years, the very first that always comes to mind are my high-school teachers, Mr. Yee (horticulture and so much more), and Mr. Johnson (art). I thank them both for seeing so much more in me that I did.

My mother and father, of course. They were wonderful parents. Thanks Mom and Dad!

My three children. My, my, my… and I never wanted kids. Thanks gang.

As of the last couple years, Rich German, Beath Davis, Judith and Jim.

And most recently, Neale Donald Walsch, “Conversations with God.”

All my wonderful friends and relations (ex-husband included)… they’ve all been blessings. Thank you!

Even my little brother. Thanks Bro.

Plants and animals… and oh, so much/many more, but it would all be the stuff of a memoire (which I’ve written).

And thank you, Vishen, of FinerMinds for the question, and all your wisdom and teaching too!

So, tell me... who are your top teachers (so far)?

Peace

Funny How those Fingers Work… or not.

2009-11-30T14:36:00.001-08:00

Well, it’s obvious I’m not gonna make the deadline for NaNoWriMo.

Sorry kiddies.

Nevertheless, I will continue to work on the book. I will say that I’m happy the challenge got me off to a great start.

Thank you very much.

Happy December, everyone!

Normal Isn’t Natural

2009-11-25T22:31:00.001-08:00

Gee, why am I suddenly hearing Ethel Merman singing this… ?

Get out of your mind
And back in your senses.
Normal isn’t natural at all.

Get out of your mind
And into your senses.
Natural is nature’s normal call!

Do what you want
Be who you are
Scratch your own itch
Scale your own wall….

Find your own find
Be your own kind
Send out your pitch
Grab your own niche…

Get out of your mind
And into your senses.
Natural is nature’s normal call!

I’m probably stealing the tune from someone (sounds so Cole Porter-ish to me… but it’s my own words… (I’m pretty sure)!

Gee, I sang that to my Flip Video… I looked so old and scary… but it sounded good! Gotta fix the lighting… and wear my hat. Yes siree. That was fun!

Tomorrow will be a good day for that. Yep.. with the hat! Jazz hands and a cane would work too! Maybe Ksaldria would like to join in?

I’m sitting up super straight again… maybe I’m meant to be a lyricist…
A bard by any other name
Can sing as sweet… ?

Uh-hm.
Okay, I’m a Quizmo… we just don’t have serious moments when we can help it. We let those “normal” folk around us do it (be serious) for us… it’s called delegating.

Hey! Ksald, you and I can do a whole song and dance! That would be fun!! What cha think?

I have the coolest hat! (To be revealed!)

May the Fastest Fingers Finish First!

2009-11-19T14:19:00.001-08:00

It’s officially been declared… WAR!

WORD WAR!

Ksaldria, (Travels Aboard the Blue Selkie) has declared a NaNoWriMo Word War with moi, Quixwrite Quizmo, in order for us both to WIN the 2009 National Novel Writing Month challenge.

Of course she did this on purpose to slow me down as it’s taken me hours of wasted writing time figuring out how to wedge in the widgets at the left, and officially except the battle.

So, dear Ksaldria, may the fastest fingers finish first!

Touché!

Aura Colors and Pam Oslie

2009-11-16T08:59:00.001-08:00

Just after my mother’s passing in January 2002, I discovered Pamala Oslie who reads auras and has a very cool on-line test to determine your colors, which I took, and I also purchased both of her books, Life Colors, and Make Your Dreams Come True. Super interesting reading and learning.

Back then I determined I had four main colors. Most people have two.

My colors back then, according to an old journal entry I found that started this whole thing back up again, were blue (love, sensitivity), violet (art, creativity), crystal (that reflects the aura of the person I’m with—therefore, no crowds… I can’t be everybody’s aura at once, don’t you know) and yellow (the free spirit—someone that doesn’t understand why they have to be serious, don’t tell a yellow what to do, good at procrastinating, money not important).

I took the test again the other day, and now there are SIX colors… no wonder I’m so screwed up! Add lavender and indigo. (But don’t those go with a blue/purple combo?)

So like the many “gift markings” in my palms… I’m also blessed with a many colored aura.

Lavender is the color of living in daydreams, in a fantasy world. What is the “real world?” No such thing, a “real” world. Isn’t the “real” world the world we make up?

Indigo is the old soul. I’m not so sure about that one for me, but heck… I sure feel like I’ve been around the block more than a few times, and I’m tired of hanging around with a bunch of bozos.

I was listening to past recordings of Pam Oslie’s radio show. (the archive list is on her website, so you can listen too… ALL very good listening!) She’s quite a sweetheart. Very cute. I was frustrated about all my colors, and took a gander at sending her a question about it… in her little ask a question box. I thought maybe she would answer it on an upcoming show. So, I asked my question… why so many colors? Got brave, and “just clicked send.”

The dear gal emailed me back within minutes. I had sent her the link to this blog, which is something I wouldn’t normally do, but I thought maybe, she read a little of the story, and give a little insight.

She did even better. Sending the link to the blog was a very good thing… not that she read any of the words (that I know of), but that my picture was there for her to read my colors from.

Sure enough… and she did help clear up my confusion, she says I’m a yellow/blue with violet, who’s added and the other colors. She says she and I have the same life colors… yellow, blue.. with violet. No wonder she’s so cute!

She went on to explain that sensitive yellows often score high in crystal. (Once again, you can take her little testy-pooh at her website, http://www.auracolors.com/ to find out your colors. She’s very good, and listen to her past radio broadcasts too!) And that a lot of people who have violet, score high in the indigo. Go figure. As for the lavender, she says I’m probably doing some soul-searching and “and maybe trying to figure yourself and life out.” Do ya think??

Pam is also a professional psychic. I didn’t know this till I listened in on the show. She communicates with persons on the other side. Very cool! So it’s not just about colors.. which is a wonderful gift.. it’s about life, past present and future.. where we’ve been and where it can take us.

The funny thing about this whole thing is that I want to know more about Pam… how she ticks and what makes her work, rather than more about me.

In truth, I know about me… all too well. But learning about me for over fifty years now. So then… why oh why do I keep searching?

Sigh… It’s cause it’s what I do.

Laterz Gazerz

A Graceful Upsidedowness Part 2~The Light

2009-11-12T15:16:00.001-08:00

The way that spiritual event described in the last entry was really not detailed enough. I’d like to tell it a little better… Yes, the bottom line is that it happened, and the ecstasy not only was, but still is there, it’s a matter of finding it again, and staying in that space of always being a part of that – space – albeit in our own physical world.

How come it takes the darkest hour, the blackest pit, to seek and remember always the bliss of the brightest and the whitest light?

I think it was summertime and I had just finished a three-day fast. I was living in a little house-behind-a-house. A tiny, two-roomed guesthouse that was originally built as a pool house. My home was behind the landlady’s full three-bedroom front house with her own backyard that anyone going to the back-house had to pass through.

My place was somewhat like the secret garden. It was fenced off by eight-foot high walls of purple and gold bougainvillea laced with orange lantana, blackberries and a myriad of wild flowers.

A large gate opened to my wonderland of another large yard complete with a full-sized swimming pool. Now mind you, the concrete pool no longer held water; the bottom had long been removed so it was full of weeds and more wildflowers. The old wooden diving board, however, was still intact and in place. All in all, it was a wonderland.

I loved that little house. I lived there for seven years with Bosco, my faithful Irish Setter, umpteen cats, and various other critters that came and went.

With the help of a clever (and very strong) friend, I was able to turn the bottom of the pool into a terraced vegetable and flower garden. Very cool.

Like I said, the house had only two rooms, I called them the “living room” and the “other room.” There was a Murphy bed in the wall of the “other room,” but I never used it. I slept on the floor in the living room on bedding that I rolled up and stuffed in the closet each day.

The place was funky. The living room was obviously a much later addition. It was paneled in rich golden pine, yet when I first moved in, the low ceiling was unfinished. The exposed insulation was an eyesore, so my first order of decorating was a trip to Cost Plus for three inexpensive East Indian type bedspreads that I stapled up to cover the pink and silver stuff. The sheets filled the spaces perfectly, the room was warm and cozy and I was a happy camper.

The “other” room was not as distinguished. It had only a small counter top with sink for a kitchen, to which I added an electric wok and a toaster oven. Nearby there was a cubby-hole in the wall for a small refrigerator, a tiny bathroom lurked around the corner, and the Murphy bed, which I covered over immediately with board and brick bookshelves and, needless to say, never used.

But it was a fairly large space. There was plenty of room for my drafting table and a large dining table that I mostly used for my art stuff.

I did love that little house-behind-a-house.

Anyway, I was at the end of a fast. I worked for a vitamin store at the time and was big into health foods and all that… still am, just not as fanatical. Earlier that evening I had been chatting with my landlady about her dance business. She was trying to think of a good name, and maybe I could come up with a logo.

I don’t recall being depressed at all at the time. I was happy, I had my dog and cats, I had a job I liked, and I had my own very private little space.

I was sitting on the floor in the living room propped up against the big stuffed gold chair – the only piece of furniture other than the bookshelves, a small TV and, the small ugly, old console stereo. (I thought nothing of driving all the way out to the valley to go pick it up from a friend of my mom’s who just wanted to get rid of it. But it worked, it was free, and I was in no position to afford a new one.)

So, there I was leaning against the chair using the seat as a table, happily doodling dancey designs. The Beatles’ song, I’m not sure of the title, but the line, “and we all shine on, like the moon and the sun and the stars…” repeated loudly and vividly through my head… then… suddenly, without trying, I slipped into a trancelike state and literally lifted right out of my body!

In no way was I trying to do this, but I didn’t fight it. I knew what was happening. It was scary, amazing, and wonderful all at the same time. From above, I watched myself sitting there frozen in mid drawing against my golden chair. Then I lifted right up and out of the building… over the houses, over my favorite beach, then back over the lights of the Los Angeles, soaring across the country, faster and faster but not too fast to know what was going on. Then, over the water again.

Meanwhile, back on the floor, my physical body sat in state of suspended animation yet fully aware of myself and my surroundings.

The flying me (as one often does in dreams), came to very high, very beautiful, very vertical white cliffs. I turned upwards and soared straight into the heavens.

The stars raced by me like a light show until it vortexed into a tunnel, a dark curved tunnel. I could see a glimpse of a very bright light ahead. As I curved towards the light, it got bigger and brighter. I didn’t think anything could be so bright, but it was.. and it got nearer, it became brighter still! It was almost scary, but there was no turning back…

WHAM, I was there, I was IN the light, but I wasn’t IN the light—

I WAS THE LIGHT, and the LIGHT WAS ME!

Omnipotent, omnipresent, omni-everything!

I remember thinking, perhaps my physical self even saying out loud over and over, “Oh, my God! It’s got me! Oh, my God!”

I don’t think I can even begin to explain how magnificent it felt! To be absorbed into this… energy. The ultimate orgasm is about as close as I can get.

Remember “Beam me up, Scottie,” from the old Star Trek days? And when Scottie lifts the lever they turn into little light energy fields and disappear only to be reassembled on the mother ship?

Well, that’s kind of what it’s like.. except you’re beamed in a bigger energy. There is no distinguishing any bit of you, of your energy of your being, from it… because you are IT. You are IT… God, the Universe, Spirit, Light, Love, call IT what you may, but IT is real… very, very real. And very, very wonderful.

I did not want to come back, no siree, but something somehow told me, I couldn’t stay, at least not there, like that at the time. Next thing I knew, I was reluctantly back in my body, but ecstatic over the journey.

For the next, at least month, I walked around in a state of absolute ecstasy. The journey was so remarkable.

I learned, first and foremost, that death is not at all a bad thing. Pain and suffering.. not a great thing… but in the end, death is wonderful, it is a rebirth in a much better place. And, I’ll bet you anything, you’ll forget all about physical cause you’re just not physical anymore, you are so much BETTER! You get to go to that extraordinary place! There is absolutely no need to fear dying.

But the biggest question I’ve faced ever since is, why? Why me?

I know I am not alone in being blessed with this glimpse, many have gone to that heaven and come back to our earthly plane only to tell of the wonders. I’ve read many near-death encounters that tell of the lifting of the spirit, the gazing down at the body, the tunnel, the white light… then the zap back.

In my case, this was not a near death situation. Not at all. I know it now and I knew it then. At all times my body was right there sitting on the floor… in a way “with” me.

It was a gift. An amazing magnificent gift… a gift of knowing there is so much more than most mortals care to believe, or can conceive. Thank you, God! Thank you, Universe!

I still wonder. I feel so… privileged. I like to know the reasons for things, but this one is still puzzling. Why me? Why the gift? What makes me so special?

Don’t get me wrong, I certainly do not feel superior or better than those who don’t know this
I do appreciate the gift, the gift of absolute knowing that there is another realm. And that we are of that oneness, of that energy and bliss.

And all I can suppose, is that the reason is… I’m supposed to tell about it. To help reassure others, that there is life, or another realm, after death. It’s taken me over twenty-five years to finally get the courage to blurt it out… but more possible still is that NOW is the time. NOW is when the people are ready to listen… to hear… to strive to feel the bliss.

At the time, I told only my brother and sister of the experience. I was afraid to tell anyone else because I figured they’d just think I was nuts or making it up. Spiritual awaking wasn’t something many people talked about those days, or at least any body I knew. It was kind of like, if you weren’t of a formal “religion” you were bad, a witch, evil, “hiss, get the crucifix!”

I told my mother about it years later. She, almost upset, asked me why I didn’t tell her back then. Don’t know? My mom was pretty in tune with it all, it took me a long time to figure that out too. I knew at an early age she was psychic, but I didn’t know how any of this all linked together. I knew too, that we are all one. That God is everywhere and everything, we are only physical forms inhabiting this body, this earth. It just made sense to me.

I am honored to be shown the proof. To be part of the proof... as are we all.

Blessings
~ * * * ~

NaNoWriMo

2009-11-09T13:09:00.000-08:00

Well, it's November again and time for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month).

I wasn't sure if I was going to participate or not, but on Oct. 31st, I found an old journal and was inspired by the entries to just go for it.

At some point in the book, I encapsulated in a thought bubble the words.. "a graceful upsidedowness."

"Hey, that can be the title!" I thought, and the rest is now emerging.

As you may know, the goal of NaNoWriMo is to write a 50,000 word novel within the month of November. Since that’s about 250 pages of type, the idea is to just write the dang thing! Forget the editing and fixing. In December you can go back and edit all you want.

So, dear friends, you’ll probably find more than a few major or minor errors. Please forgive me. I’ll keep editing to a minimum at this point.
Cranking out so many words in one month is a monumental task… but I wanted to share some of the goings on this year. And I’ve been wanting to post… so here we go…

A Graceful Upsidedowness

I found an old journal I had been looking for the past few months. Funny, it was right where it was supposed to be, but I couldn’t find it. I looked in the same place several times, but it just wasn’t visible till yesterday. It was there all along, but I suppose I wasn’t really ready to find it.

You know it’s hard work being depressed, but I’ve had a lot of practice, I’m getting quite good at it. The journal, with entries ranging in date from November 2001, to what I wrote as 6-6-6. Interesting that I would even write a date like that? Nevertheless, the first two years of postings, mostly in poetic form, confirm my practice. I was in a very low place, almost as low as I am now. It was just a good practice round.

As I read through the pages, the pain and pleasure was all too obvious, at least to me. I wrote very clandestinely. Clever, many of the words, the drawings too… Wow, did I draw that? Did I write that? Who was that talented person, depressed as she may be, and where the heck is she now, when you need her?

The entries swing from depression and repression, through the total ecstasy of love, then back down again which is clearly noted on the sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year. The final entry as follows:

Don’t try to be me. You’ll be sorry.

Too many trails traveled – too many times having to return—but each time a piece was left behind. There I am, in parts of woods and forests that most likely are no longer there. My little heaven’s now someone else’s business, skyscraper or backyard. I miss me. I miss my adventures. My hiding places.
There I am on sandy beaches, on rocky shores… ignoring all responsibility until the sun begins to set too deep and finding my way back would be a treacherous treat.

Lost and found all in one instant. Found in the movement, lost in the retreat.

No, do not try to be me – admire a small part if you must, but there is nothing left but long gone beaches, woods, creeks, forests and suburbs that never cared.

My mother cared that my shoes were wet when I came home—a tell-tale sign I had strayed way too far.

Please don’t be me. You will be sad.

That was the last “dated” entry in the book… yet there is one more writing. A final plea for that special place, that voice, the genius inside to find its way to the surface once more. It’s a recount of an event that actually happened to me when I was in my mid twenties.

The printing in the book is big, blue and bold, a not-so-neat version of my standard uppercase printing.

The most extraordinary experience with God I had was joining him/her. It was wonderful—ecstasy!
I came upon a white light so enormous—so huge. I was engulfed and I became a part of it – NO – I became “IT”—IT was me, I was “IT’—GOD! It was wonderful. I was a gazillion particles of the most brilliant white light. I was THERE. The whole time my physical body was totally aware of my surroundings. I kept repeating, “Oh, my God! It’s got me! Oh, my God!”I crossed over—however briefly, to see the first bit of heaven. I did not want to come back! It felt so good! An orgasm beyond description!

I wrote that story apparently to get God’s attention. The next paragraph is the plea…

Now, God, I guess I’m asking for inspiration. My poet seems to have disappeared. Writing – if I have to – so what’s the inspiration? Music felt good tonight. [I must have been playing the banjo.] I can study all their methods, but I still do it my way. My fingers have a mind of their own. It’s simple, just like my taste buds.

So again, I called for my talents in a six-six-six backwards way. The rest of the pages, not too many, are blank (kind of like me now).

Grand Canyon (Part Finally!)

2009-08-28T17:13:00.000-07:00

Okay friends, true confession. I haven’t written cause I feel guilty about the Mr. Man bashing. He takes great offense to being made fun of, and someday he may even read this blog and get his feelings hurt (which is so easy to do). So, I will cease and desist with poking fun at his antics (even though he makes for good subject matter).

Okay, I’m stopping now.

So.. the rest of the trip was uneventful (not really, it was much of the same and had some really funny moments, but I promised, no more Mr. Man bashing).

How ‘bout some pictures… ?

Finally, I’ve arrived—the Grand Canyon! YAY!

I really liked that tree!

Mr. Man takes better photos than I do.

The only thing I didn’t like about the Grand Canyon was that we were only there for about an hour. I really wanted to hike down, too. Maybe next time.

The next day we went to the little town of Oatman on the original Route 66 in Arizona. Very cool!

First we had lunch at the Oatman Hotel.

(Lots of money’s gone into that place!)

Meanwhile, a gunfight ensued outside.

Then we perused the shops. Mr. Man just LOVES to shop.

Shop till ya drop??

Of course, the best part about Oatman is the wild (yeah, right) burros that also peruse the shops.

You’re not going to hear it here, but “someone” (I’m not mentioning any names) got way too happy and I had to drag that “someone” out of there before we finished looking in all the shops. (And trust me, it’s not a very big place.)

I drove us back to Laughlin where “someone” spent the rest of the day once again looking for his cup.

We had a fairly pleasant ride home the next day… except for the fact it was the day Michael Jackson died. Please, just let that man go to heaven and us rest in peace!

Anyway, I’d like to write about our last trip to Mexico, but alas, I promised and cannot.

“But there’s such good material,” she whines. “Oh well.”

Grand Canyon (Part Two)

2009-07-07T16:01:00.001-07:00

Our first evening in Laughlin, NV., and here we are in our hotel room at the Golden Nugget. Mr. Man was way too happy. He repeated his rave about the wonderful shower after his hot tub session several times in the course of a few minutes until I finally hustled him out of the room to get dinner at one of the hotel restaurants downstairs.

By the time we made it to Joe’s Crab Shack, he was pretty toasted. I’d never seen him so drunk. We were seated at a table outside where it was nice and warm (it was FREEZING inside), right over the river. I ordered an entree salad with blackened shrimp. I thought he would go for the beef, but he only ordered the calamari appetizer for himself after repeatedly asking me if I wanted calamari as an appetizer (which I always want, silly boy).

Well, for the most part, the dinner conversation consisted of how high the water level in the river was. It was obviously not at a lack for water and as high as it seemed it could be in fair weather. And, Mr. Man pointed out that there can’t possibly be a water shortage, the government is scamming us, and that most of the water goes to Mexico. Yes, he pointed it out over-and-over again. No water shortage… water to Mexico… government scam—okay, got it.

The food came quickly and my salad was excellent, as was his calamari of which he choose to eat with his “chopsticks.”

Now his “chop sticks” were, in fact, the flimsy plastic drinking straws that came with our iced teas. Hello?? “Um, Honey, those are NOT chopsticks.” I tried, oh so gently to point out, but he didn’t care and forged ahead using his chopstick straws dipping as deeply into the cocktail sauce as he could weighing down his catch till the camel’s back finally broke and I had to hand him his fork. I also shared a good portion of my salad with him, which he drowned in the Cesar dressing I ordered on the side. A spoon would be in order for slurping up that mess. Or, he could have used the straws, but they were done deals.

We made through dinner then back to the room where I hoped he would pass out, but nooooo, he wanted to go back down to the Jacuzzi, AND this time, he wanted me to go in with him. Just to keep the peace, I agreed.

Back on went the swimwear, then down to the pool. It was dusk and very pleasant, though still hot. I like that kind of heat.

Now, along with air-conditioning, I’m not a big fan of hot tubs. One extreme to another. But in this case, from hot to… um… hot? But, okay, I got in.

He insisted (over and over) I try the ultra-hard jet that he loved. I (over and over) flatly refused. I was fine with the gentlest one on my lower back. I was in the hot tub and he should be happy with that, for heaven’s sake. But he was not. I watched as the ultra-hard jet plummeted him like a machine gun… no way, Jose—not for me. And I stood my ground. Or rather “sat my ground” in quiet jet comfort.

He also repeatedly got out to look for his “drink” which he did not bring down with him, and no matter how many times I told him, he looked anyway. I finally got out, sat next to the river in the in hopes it would be prettier (no luck), dried off, then retreated back to the room, leaving Mr. Man to his machine-gun hot tub and drink hunting vigil.

I knew he didn’t have a room key with him, and I really wanted to take a rinse off shower, but waited for him to return cause, go figure, he would as I was in the shower. I waited and waited then started getting worried as he was quite a bit over the limit. I went back down to fetch him and found him, once again, wandering around looking for his drink. I reiterate, I have never seen him so inebriated. I managed to get him back to the room, “Look, Honey, I found your cup!”

“Oh, there it is!”

Geeze.

To be continued…

Grand Canyon or Bust! (Part One)

2009-06-26T16:19:00.001-07:00

Well, we did it… Mr. Man and I finally went to the Grand Canyon! Yay! Albeit we only stayed there for an hour and a half. Now call me impractical, but it seems to me if one drives 500+ miles to see a magnificent hole in the ground, one may want to take in as much of it as one can, don’t you think? But, it was getting late (?) and it would be well past dark by the time we got back to base camp, which was at the Golden Nugget in Laughlin, NV.

Well, I’m getting ahead of myself, let me start at the beginning…

The principle plan was to visit the Grand Canyon. The bottom line in my book, but Mr. Man also wanted to take me to Oatman, AZ, a little Route 66 tourist town that boasts of wild donkeys roaming its one street. Laughlin was a midpoint (?) on the Colorado River with exceptionally low hotel room rates Mr. Man could not pass up. So, we booked three nights in Laughlin, one day to get there, one day for the Grand Canyon, one day in Oatman, and the last day… well, the travel home. It all sounded good to me, what did I know, I’d never been to any of those places—let’s go!

So, we got all packed up and left around 9:30 Tuesday morning (to avoid LA’s horrid traffic as well as possible—which we did). Mr. Man had his van, a white Nissan Quest, all tuned up and washed and this time we were good to go! (As you may recall from a past post, we tried to do the same adventure last April, but his van started doing not nice things the very night before exodus and we had to cancel at the last minute. I even shaved my legs in anticipation for that journey… this time, as not to jinx the expedition, I did not. So there you are, ladies, the secret to adventure.)

Mr. Man surged us expertly out of Dodge avoiding LA traffic nicely. After a couple hours stopped at an AM/PM Minimarket to top off the gas tank near Barstow at which time I took a potty break and bought a cup of coffee for myself. We did not have breakfast, and it was close to noon. I (shamefully) thought (silly me) that we would stop somewhere along the way for lunch, you know, like at a restaurant… a Denny’s or what have you. Mr. Man looked at my coffee and asked, “Is that all you’re having?” to which I cleverly replied, “Well, yeah,” with a bit of question in my answer. He then dashed back into the market and returned a couple minutes later with two hotdogs loaded down with every condiment in the book! (I wondered if he could even taste the hotdog itself—gross!)

Did I mention, this was our first longer than day trip together?

Now, Mr. Man lives to eat. I, on the other hand, eat to live. He constantly thinks about food and what to eat next (consequently, he worries quite a bit about his weight—hellooo?) He’s sure it’s the “carbs” that do him in… and that he can eat as much of everything else (like FAT) that he wants, but he is older now, that metabolism is slowing down, and watching the intake of cholesterol-rich, fatty foods he consumes in horrid artery-clogging, gut-building combinations is down-right scary. And, then watch him wash it down with a Diet Coke, oh please. At least he stays away from sweets.

Needless to say at this point, I missed lunch, but that was okay.

And it was my turn to drive, which I enjoy doing very much (just not on the ugly LA freeways). It was a good thing cause I could keep my eyes on the road and not have to wince at watching him eat that… crap.

Oh, by the way, the night before we left, he bought a bunch of beef jerky, teriyaki flavored beef jerky, that he munched (I passed) before bed. I tell you, that teriyaki flavoring reeked through that man’s pores throughout the night! It was a dreadful smell… I didn’t notice till I had to get up and use the potty. When I came back in the room, the smell hit me like a ton of bricks! Yowsers! I’d climb back into bed secure in the knowledge that he would shower in the morning and it would be over soon.

Guess what, the man of a-thousand-showers-a-day, did not shower that morning. Then the hot dogs loaded with more stinky skin stuff… Oh lord, this was going to be a long trip. A long “learning” trip.

You know the saying “opposites attract?” Well that we are in so many ways. I suppose that’s why we are sooooo attracted to each other, we are practically polar opposites.

He loves his air-conditioning. I hate it. Oh, it does have its advantages, of course, however too much, too cold, is too much for me. I’d rather roast and let the windows be my vents. He was good about it though, and kept the temp (and blow) mostly on his side, thank you very much. I was smart enough to be prepared, wore long pants, and packed lightweight long-sleeved shirts to protect my sensitive self from temperature extremes of which there proved many.

So I got to drive… it was a beautiful day! The whole time the weather was wonderful. Oh, it was hot all right, but that I didn’t mind. It was clear and clean and the mountains were scenic wonders as we made our way through them and the long desert stretches. There were wispy white clouds all the way to add to the scene and WOW, did you know the sky is really blue?! Very pretty with the white cloud contrast. Very, very pretty.

We made good time to Laughlin and our hotel, the Golden Nugget, arriving shortly after three o’clock. Mr. Man had started his party, after his hotdog brunch, with a stiff, very large (like in a 32-oz.-Pepsi-drink-cup size large) Bloody Mary, complete with celery. I really didn’t notice at first, but he was well on his way to “happy-land” by the time we got there. Please note: during the whole journey, I drank only non-alcoholic beverages… seltzer, tea, water and coffee, and therefore, the designated driver for the most part.

We checked in and found our room on the third floor with little effort. Now, I don’t know about you, but if I must stay in a hotel, I prefer at least a view. Mr. Man opened the curtain and nobly declared we had a “garden” view (yeah—of the tiered parking lot looming over us with a large shrub off to the side). Oh well. And there was no microwave or fridge (of which we both naturally assumed). Oh well again, we would have rough it. To the ice machine! Fortunately, we did have our small Playmate cooler, and an insulated Trader Joe’s bag to keep our perishables from perishing (or drinks getting hot).

As soon as we got settled in, Mr. Man wanted to go down to the pool. Okay, so we got on our suits, he fixed himself another drink, I armed myself with a crossword puzzle book, and away we went.

Now this was the first time I’d been to Laughlin and the Colorado River. I’ll admit, that the lobby/entryway to the hotel was beautiful. There was a gorgeous, tranquil, tropical atrium highly scented of plumeria and jasmine (that I worried may become overwhelming, but it didn’t). It was truly lovely.

The pool and Jacuzzi area overlooked the river. The river. Water. People in boats and racing on jet skies on the water. That was about it. Nothing pretty about it. No trees, just a few shrubs here and there. It wasn’t cooling or refreshing. It was just there. The mountains in the background were very pretty, but it was brown everywhere else and, in my opinion, not much to look at. Maybe it looked better from the other side with the resort hotels lining the banks? Maybe in the spring? Dunno. All I can say is, it was okay but not a place I will really want to go to again. I don’t care to gamble, and though I love water, it just didn’t do anything for me, at least not there. I’m I making my point clear? If it’s any condolence, I don’t like Las Vegas either. Oh well, live and learn. Perhaps if our room had a view of the river and the mountains I would have enjoyed the venue more. I did think about how awesome the sunrise would be, and tried to program myself to slip out early and check it out, but that didn’t happen either.

I settled into my crossword on a chaise, and Mr. Man opted for the Jacuzzi. It seemed like no time before he was back and wanted to leave. It was hot, and there was still sun, and I was enjoying myself. “Huh? We just got here. What’s the rush?” He got the hint, kind of, went back in the hot tub, then came out shortly wanting to leave again. He said he was worried about me not having anything to eat.

“What do you feel like eating?” he asked. I was content with the sun, and wasn’t concerned about, nor had anything to eat in mind, but he kept pestering me… it was his trip, he was footing the bill, so okay, “I’d like shrimp, or salad, or fish… something light.”

We went back to the room where he finally showered. Whew. And, in hindsight, this was the first clue, he came out boasting of what a wonderful, refreshing shower it was, and don’t I want to take one? No, thank you, I didn’t. I was fine. He, on the other hand, was way too happy.

To be continued…

I Cried

2009-05-30T17:08:00.000-07:00

Susan Boyle... please, let her be an inspiration to us all!

Do you think I even bothered to watch the winners?

The Runner-up is the WINNER in my book (blog)!

May all our dreams come true!

Never Judge a Book by Its Movie

2009-05-22T18:38:00.001-07:00

I saw the film version of Kate DiCamillo’s, The Tale of Despereaux last night.

Quite frankly, it stinks.

Parents, please, please, please READ this wonderful tale to your children before they watch the movie. The book is soooo much richer. The stories of the three wayward heroes entwine in such an intriguing way, it leaves the reader breathless and wanting more.

I read Despereaux in 2003, when it was first published. I absolutely loved it! I was not surprised when it won the Newberry Medal later that same year. It is extremely clever and cute. A good read-aloud for all ages. A good read-alone too (for us loners).

So, I reiterate, never judge a book by its movie.

I urge you all to let your mind’s eye splurge in the fantasy and enjoy what the author truly wanted to offer.

Enough said.

Live Like a Dog

2009-05-19T12:06:00.000-07:00

I recently saw a cute movie, Made of Honor, where the lead fellow (the maid of honor for his best friend’s wedding) would always stop and talk to dogs to tell them, even though he’d never seen them before, he loved them, but he couldn’t tell the love of his life (his best friend who is getting married, and not to him) that he loved her.

I’ve often wondered, considered, and observed myself with my animals (and most animals). I am always happy to see them (unless of course, they did something naughty), and greet them with joy and enthusiasm. “Molly! How’s my pretty Molly today?” “Pearl! Hi Pearl! Where’ve you been? I’ve missed you.” And always give them a pat, a smile and a loving hug.

I am genuinely happy to see them.

On the other hand, with my people, it’s not the same. I’m quiet and reserved. They are lucky if they get a hello and a smile, especially my own family. What's with that? Gotta try to work on that.

Just think, to be that enthusiastic with all people. My mom was somewhat like that—and everybody loved her! Gee, would you think? Mr. Man’s somewhat like that too. I like that.

So this morning, I open a forwarded email with the following message… I had seen this before, and found it poignantly true, but wasn’t considering it when I was writing yesterday.
So to reinforce the message…

Being a veterinarian, I had been called to examine a ten-year-old Irish
Wolfhound named Belker. The dog's owners, Ron, his wife Lisa, and their little boy Shane, were all very attached to Belker, and they were hoping for a miracle.

I examined Belker and found he was dying of cancer. I told the family we couldn't do anything for Belker, and offered to perform the euthanasia procedure for the old dog in their home.

As we made arrangements, Ron and Lisa told me they thought it would be good for six-year-old Shane to observe the procedure. They felt as though Shane might learn something from the experience.

The next day, I felt the familiar catch in my throat as Belker 's family surrounded him. Shane seemed so calm, petting the old dog for the last time, that I wondered if
he understood what was going on. Within a few minutes, Belker slipped peacefully away.

The little boy seemed to accept Belker's transition without any difficulty or confusion. We sat together for a while after Belker's Death, wondering aloud about the sad fact that animal lives are shorter than human lives. Shane, who had been listening quietly, piped up, “I know why."

Startled, we all turned to him. What came out of his mouth next stunned me. I'd never heard a more comforting explanation.

He said, “People are born so that they can learn how to live a good Life -- like loving
everybody all the time and being nice, right?” The Six-year-old continued, “Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long.”

Then the email went on with these wonderful words of dog wisdom…

So live like a dog:

Live simply.

Love generously.

Care deeply.

Speak kindly.

Remember, if a dog were the teacher you would learn things like:

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.

Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joyride.

Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.

Take naps.

Stretch before rising.

Run, romp, and play daily.

Thrive on attention and let people touch you.

Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.

On warm days, stop to lie on your back on the grass.

On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.

When you're happy, dance around and wag your entire body.

Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.

Be loyal.

Never pretend to be something/one you're not.

If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it. (Not sure about this one?

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by, and nuzzle them gently.

ENJOY EVERY MOMENT OF EVERY DAY…

I challenge us all to START NOW!
Hooray for today!

A Reoccurring Theme (This is "Weird")

2009-05-12T09:42:00.000-07:00

In a notebook/journal found today (in a drawer in my daughter’s room, hmm?)—this entry from January 2003, caught my attention:

How do they find me? It’s like I have a neon sign flashing overhead…
Weirdoes Welcome!

Not that weirdoes aren’t wonderful. For the most part – they are the best! I guess we just attract like-kinds.

Without a different sort of mindset one cannot be weird… what the heck is normal, anyway? Normal sees as normal does. What is weird?

The wonderful thing about weirdoes
is weirdoes are wonderful things.
They talk in circles and riddles, about living and loving they sing.

The wonder, wander,
sashay, squander,
fooling in the their fun.

But the most
wonderful thing about weirdoes
Is I’m the weirdest one!
* * *

Olay!

I'm not sure to whom I am referring, but I have a pretty good idea. :-/

I think the best part about finding old journals is seeing all the cool drawings and doodles that I did.

Touché!

Can You Tattoo?

2009-05-01T21:08:00.000-07:00

What to write? What to write?

I can write about Max’s new tattoo! Yeah, I guess, the world needs to see my son, Max’s new tattoo, and read all my wonderful words of wisdom that go with it. Oh, and maybe, just maybe I can take a picture of the drawing I did several years ago of the very same tattoo subject and show it too!

Okay, World, "Can you tattoo?"

I think tattoos are only good for identifying your pet. I’m not in the school of thought that we should use our bodies… our skins, as canvases (unless of course you can wash it off). My parents or grandparents didn’t have tattoos. My children’s parents are tattoo-free. Why oh why, do my kids insist on graffiting themselves? They’ve asked since their tweens if they could get one. My stock answer was, “NO!”

Then I always followed with, “When you are old enough to move out, you do anything you like, but not while you’re living with me.”

Like my kids listen. Uh-huh. Sigh.

I tried to find photos of what happens to tattoos as you get older. How they get distorted, and how skin stretches, sags, and thins in the later years, but alas, nothing good enough in tired tattoo department. But I found some pretty ugly pictures that I’m choosing NOT to post here. I’ll let you Google them for yourselves.

Those of us who are a bit older, know what happens to aging bodies. "Come on," I try to tell the kids, "imagine grandma (whose at one time svelte, beautifully tattooed body glistened with artistic sexuality) on a hot day (did she really need that tattoo?). So now she’s 80-something in her sleeveless tent, house dress. Her great sagging underarms wobbling in the afternoon sun, The etched words, “Blonde Bombshell” seemingly melt down to her elbow while she serves you up another helping of the most fattening food ever. 'Eat!,' she demands, 'You’re too thin! Your tattoo needs to plump up! See what happens when you let yourself go?' and she holds up her arm Popeye style, except the flesh is hanging down to here!” I say pointing at my knee.

No… please, don’t imagine it. Forget I even mentioned it. Sorry.

But my kids didn't get the vision and did it anyway behind my back. (Yeah, like I wouldn’t notice.)

First Max got a tattoo on his forearm, a simple but noticeable black star with a red border about the size of a 50-cent piece. Pretty ugly. Then, God only knows what he was thinking, he had the number 13 penned on his elbow. Okay.

Then about six months ago, Roxzi got a fancy one across the bottom of her back that says, “Let the Good Times Roll” in large, swirly script lettering. I kept asking her about it, and she’d tell me, “It’s just temporary, Mom. Don’t worry about it.” But after a while, and I know the kid bathes regularly, I figured it out. (I’m smart like that.) [choke]

Thankfully, Max finally opened his eyes and saw how tacky his homespun tattoos looked (though he does have difficulty seeing the one on his elbow).

He decided to have the star covered up and this is what he got…

That’s Angels Gate Lighthouse at the entrance to the Los Angeles Harbor.

Actually, as a work of art, it’s pretty dang good. Max said the guy did it freehand while looking at a photo. And you can’t even see the star in there that’s hidden in the base and the rocks.

I do give Max credit for picking the subject matter too… it could have been a lot worse.

So… upon seeing that, I was motivated to dig out a pen and ink sketch I did from a photo I took (while on a whale watching field trip with one of the kids) of that very same lighthouse. (Can you tell?)

So, I’m looking at his tattoo, I’m looking at my drawing… and I’m wondering if maybe… maybe… maaaybeee… I should broaden my horizons and add tattoo artist to my resume? They make pretty good money. I could display my artistic talents on walking billboards. And, just think of all the colorful characters I’d meet! Um..

Eww.

Nooooooooah!

I’ll stick to keeping my ink on paper, thank you very much, and hang my art on the wall, not on someone’s epidermis.

Thank you, Nikki, for being the "good kid!"

Tah-tah too for now!

Move Over, Chester

2009-04-25T16:05:00.000-07:00

Well, I was feeling guilty about the last entry, and got to wondering if maybe my definition of “nerdy” was off kilter so I looked it up in my handy-dandy American Heritage College Dictionary, 3rd Ed. (The real volume – an actual book with paper pages and little black indented tabs with gold letters, mind you. Not the on-line kind.) However, it is over 10-years-old now, so perhaps the meaning has changed, but for some reason I don’t think so…

(Blockquote)
nerd also nurd (nûrd) n. Slang. A person regarded as stupid, socially inept, or unattractive. [Perh. after Nerd , a character in If I Ran the Zoo, by Theodor Seuss Geisel.] – nerd’y adj.
Word History: The word nerd first appears in 1950 in Dr. Seuss’s If I Ran the Zoo: “And then, just to show them, I’ll sail back to Ka-Troo And Bring Back an It-Kutch a Preep and a Proo a Nerkle a Nerd and a Seersucker, too!” (The nerd itself is a small humanoid creature looking comically angry, like a thin, cross Chester A. Arthur.) Nerd next appears, with a gloss, in the February 10, 1957, issue of the Glasgow, Scotland, Sunday Mail in a column entitled “ABC for SQUARES”: “Nerd – a square, any explanation needed?” Authorities disagree whether Dr. Seuss’s nerd and the Glaswegian nerd are the same word. Some claim there is no semantic connection and the identity of the words is fortuitous. Others maintain that Dr. Seuss is the true originator of nerd and that the word was picked up by five- and six-year-olds of 1950 and passed on to their older siblings, who by 1957, as teenagers, had applied nerd to the most comically obnoxious creature of their own class, a “square.”
(End blockquote)

Just as I thought. (But, I didn’t know about the Dr. Seuss part, which I find fascinating! Wow.)

So now I’m starting to wonder, do they think I look like our 21st President, Chester A. Arthur??

Hey! And what ever happened to me being “The Cool Mom?” Guess I don’t don enough piercings and tattoos. (Oh, the shame – the shame!) In this case, I’d rather be classified a nerd. Thanks Dr. Seuss!

Nerds Need Not Apply

2009-04-24T18:47:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure how to start this.. I certainly don’t want to offend anyone, but I really need to call it like it is, you know—a spade is a spade.

(And it's too funny not to share.)

A person can come in many different forms, smart, good-looking, level-headed, but why-oh-why do I seem to attract all the goofballs? (It takes one to know one? Birds of a feather… ?) Now don’t get me wrong, I like oddballs, but I like intelligent oddballs, the one’s that don’t fit the mold but have some knowledge and something to say, they are much more interesting.

Lately though, I’m surrounded by, sorry family (not talking about you) but you’ve got to admit, a whole bunch of mindless not-normal people I’d rather not have to deal with.

I am proud to say that all my kids and I easily find humor in the silly things we do or say… the big mistakes, or the little faux paus. In other words, we take great pleasure in making fun of each other and ourselves but never in a mean or spiteful way.

But.. I'm not so sure others see it that way. So, let me start by saying, my son Max’s girlfriend is currently living here (against my better wishes). You may remember her mousecapades from earlier entries. (January '09 entries… “Riddle Me This Batman” and “Mousetrap Mania.") (Hey, does anyone know how to do the “target” thing on this Blog site?)

She is, through no fault of her own, bi-polar and consequently on disability. And, how can I say this tactfully… oh well... a ditz. I can claim that title too, but she has a few other issues going on, like not playing with a full deck—like missing all the face cards—in the intelligence department.

Oh, she’s pretty enough.. and sweet, but so was Elsa the cow, who did her best for Jersymaid. Moo.

Anyway, her disability case is to be reviewed by a judge early next week.

Max came in the studio yesterday to ask me a small favor. “Can ‘Girlfriend’ borrow something to wear for court?”

I was just fixing to start in with a client call, but I seriously had to turn my chair around and raise my eyebrow at him. I mean, this gal is five-feet-nothing, and a bit on the plump side… her bust is much bigger than mine (well, everybody’s bust is much bigger that mine!). I’m tall and skinny, she’s… not.

“Maybe," he asked coyly, "one of your… um… Mickey Mouse shirts?”

“WHAT!? To wear to court??” (None of my shirts would fit her anyway.) “She shouldn’t wear something like that to court! Even I wouldn’t wear a tee-shirt, Mickey Mouse or otherwise, to court!"

“Well, her Dr. told he she needs to look kind of… um… nerdy.”

“Nerdy?”

"Nerdy??"

I shook my head in disbelief and started to giggle. “So you want her to wear MY clothes so she’ll look ‘nerdy?’ Are you insinuating I’m a... nerd?” I said grinning at him. “And what makes you think Mickey Mouse is... um... nerdy?”

“Well, the Dr.,” he argued, “said that one of his patients lost the claim because the gal went in all fancy with her hair and nails all done up stylish-like.” (But with our girl, it’s a bit obvious that our tax dollars are being well spent not only on make-up, nails and hair dye, but also on lovely tattoos and facial piercings. What part won’t the judge notice?)

Okay, folks, now when it comes to me, it’s true, I’m super low maintenance in the beauty and fashion department. Jeans and tee-shirts for me… call me a hick or a hippie maybe, I like to think of myself as smart, and maybe a bit eccentric, but a NERD? (Don’t I wish!)

“You want her to look ‘nerdy’ and you come to me??” I said still in disbelief, practically choking.

In the meantime, here comes Girlfriend who tries valiantly to explain the dilemma.

Too late. Now I’m laughing. “Excuse me, do you even know what the word “nerdy” means?” I seriously doubted it at this point.

Enter my goofy brother, Luckey (who's able to take and deliver a good ribbing). “Hey Luckey," I call, "Girlfriend here needs to look ‘nerdy’ for her hearing, and they came to meeee for something for her to wear!” (I really wanted to say “whacko” instead of "nerdy" but bit my tongue.)

Of course, it takes him absolutely no time to start laughing, “No, no, no… " he says pointing at me, "she’s the one you want to ask for clothes if you want to look homeless.” That really put me in hysterics.

Poor embarrassed Girlfriend, turning red-faced because Max didn’t present the case right, and probably ‘cause we're making fun, stomps off in frustration.

I announced that I really have to get to work and everyone cleared the room. Nevertheless, I was still giggling so hard as I called my client and wasn’t exactly able to contain myself for the first few minutes of our session. Thank goodness, he understood.

Anyway, I’m still shaking my head and still laughing. Please, what are these young people thinking?

Oh, and did I say she was blonde? Yeah, bleached blonde.

And, even as ditzy blond as I can be, she’s really giving our delicate recessive genes a bad rep!

My advice to her in court: “Just be yourself, Girlfriend, just open your mouth and be yourself! You’ll do fine.”

(Heaven help us! Let us pray!)

I See Stars

2009-04-23T13:05:00.000-07:00

Mr. Man is always sooooo cold at night, so for his birthday I decided to crochet an Americana blanket for him.

I ordered the materials about three weeks before his birthday (March 10) but I was very bummed that I didn’t receive the goods till the day before his special day. I did have some of the red yarn to get started, but one stripe didn’t help much.

So… the project is finally finished and delivered. Yay! And now I can show you a picture...

Or two.

It actually took me only about a week (in between Mr. Man’s visits) to make the blanket—stripes and blue star field, and even making the stars went fairly quickly. BUT attaching them was the tough part. I can crochet, but sewing is whole a different story.

Those pesky stars. It took me approximately two hours to sew on one star! Making them was a breeze (I thought that would be the hard part), but sewing them on, geeze. You’d think it would be simple to just whipstitch ‘em on, right? Nooooo… I wanted them to be straight and PERFECT, and when it didn’t happening to my liking, I’d undo it, repin and try again. Grrrr.

Only three of stars are sewed in this shot (the bottom left corner), the fourth is pinned. (If you look closely you can see the little orange and yellow heads on the pins. I actually had to go out and buy a box of straight pins for this project! Only for you, Mr. Man, only for you!)

I thought they were so cute the way their little arms curled. They reminded me of Dr. Seuss’s “Sneeches with stars upon thars.”

Well, I finally had to face it, they were not going to be perfect. Who’s gonna notice anyway? The thing’s supposed to be draped over a lap, not hanging on a wall (which several people have said that if it were theirs, that’s what they’d want to do with it).

Of course, Mr. Man loves it and says it was worth the wait.

Hmmm… the original pattern called for 32 stars. Can you imagine?! I might have had it ready by his next birthday if I went that route. Yikes!

Okay, stay tuned for my next trick… :-)

Cheers for now, people!

All the Buzzz

2009-04-17T12:57:00.000-07:00

I’m reading The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, again. It’s absolutely as enchanting as the first time I read it several years ago.

I recently watched the film version which caused me to seriously scratch my head and wonder what was wrong with this picture? (No pun intended... okay, just a little.) However, so much seemed wrong with the film, that I wanted to renew my faith and read the book again. Perhaps the book wasn’t as great as I remembered? My vision of it was so different.

Having read a borrowed version of Bees way back when, I looked into acquiring a used addition from Amazon, then remembered Mr. Man has a client who’s a used-book seller that I thought would maybe give me/him little better deal (and make a buck for his client); after all, I just wanted to check my memory.

Mr. Man did one better and just went ahead and bought me the book. Yay! Thanks, Honey.

Well, just as I hoped and remembered, the extraordinary insight and imagery incorporated in Kidd’s wonderful writing doesn’t even come near the surface in the film. Granted, the movie does follow the story line fairly well, but it lacks so much of the meaning intended.

Nothing like a two-hour movie to ruin a good 300-page novel.

All in all, I sincerely recommend reading the book first… then don’t watch the movie (which I guess is probably “okay” if you don’t know any better).

Here's what I hate, when they plaster the pictures of the movie characters on the cover of the book. I prefer my own images, thank you.

So now, Marley & Me is available for my viewing pleasure, but I haven’t read the book by Josh Grogan, which is what I would really prefer rather than acquire the taint of movie-murdering before I read. I suppose in this case, it really doesn’t matter, I’m gonna sob at one point or another. Any movie, or book, involving animals (animated or otherwise) almost always jacks up Kleenex brand’s profits on my behalf.

I just finished, Dewey, the Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World, by Vicki Myron. Dang if I didn’t cry my eyes to puffiness at the end of the story. (And the middle when another beloved pet was put down.)

The cat lived 19 wondrous years!

The reader knows from the start what happens at the end, nothing tragic, but it doesn’t matter. I still wept, even though Mr. Man, who was napping beside me as I finished the memoir, would most likely note my eyes, suddenly with lack of make-up and horribly puffy, and I would look totally different when he woke up. Hey, love is blind, right?

Say, “right.”

Thank you.

Dewey is a charming, quick read. Probably not one I’ll want to read again (unless they botch the movie version). But if you like cats and libraries, and I suppose it helps if you’re from the Midwest, it’s worth the effort (and tears).

Still, Bees is much better. And, thankfully, I don’t recall crying at the death of any insects.

Oh wait… Charlotte, dear Charlotte!

Oh geeze, don’t get me started. That's a whole different story.

Much Love!

"Who's Walking Down the Streets of the City... ?

2009-04-16T14:52:00.000-07:00

... Everyone knows it's Windy."

I just heard it. Mr. Man pronounces my name, which is Wendi (WHEN-dee... you know, like in Peter Pan), “Windy” (WIN-dee... as in gusts of air).

Why does this bother me? I'm not sure.

Perhaps it bothers me that I hadn’t noticed before? (And we’ve known each other for how long… nine years?)

Perhaps because he thinks wind is the only thing blowing around in my head making the name more appropriate? Could be true at times.

I’ve certainly been called “Windy” many times before by people who don’t matter, but by my own sweetheart, all the time? And when I finally caught it and corrected him, he shrugged it off like it doesn’t matter. :-/

Maybe I should retaliate and call Mr. Man (Tony), Tuney… or better yet, Teeny!

I guess I should be happy he at least spells my name, Wendi (with an "i"), correctly (but not always). Grrrr.

Men.

(Teeny... that's a good one, [tee-hee] but not true ! It wouldn't reform him anyway.)

Oh well. I guess I better just blow this one off.

Beware: Genius at Work

2009-04-13T12:58:00.000-07:00

The day before Easter, I was at the supermarket, only because I had to go get dinner stuff for that evening. Shopping, especially when the throngs are out shopping too, and/or cooking are not my favorite things to do.

Anyway, there I was with my five items in the “express” line of about a million people. When it was my turn, I noticed a hand-written notice at the register saying, “Cash only. No debit or credit. Sowy.”

Sowy??

I read the sign slowly aloud to myself…

“Cash only. No debit or credit. Sowy.”

Oh! It’s supposed to be sorry!

Well, being the English language aficionado that I am, I very politely asked the young, Hispanic male checker if he knew that the word “sorry” on the sign was spelled incorrectly.

“Oh,” he said laughing with nary a Hispanic (or Oriental) accent, “I wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be with a ‘y’ or an ‘ie’.”

>.<

Gee, I wonder if his high school English teachers were sowy to see the genius go?

(Is it wrong for me to assume Vons requires a high school diplomma to work there?)

Trip Canceled

2009-03-31T13:25:00.000-07:00

I’m bummed. I even shaved my legs, for heaven’s sake!

Everyone knows you have to shave your legs to go to the Grand Canyon. Right? (Fellas not included.. unless of course… well, nevermind.)

Alright, alright, I shave my legs once, maybe twice a year. Once at the beginning of sunning (bikini) season, and maybe once more in August… maybe. The plumber loves it when I do.

I even plucked a few nose-hairs and spiffed up the ol’ eyebrows.

Anyway, I was all packed and ready to go. All I had to do this morning was grab up the laptop and my morning stuff and we’d be off for a three-day road trip to places I’ve never been: Laughlin, NV (this is not exactly a place on my wanna-go-to list as I’m not a gambler, but you never know), Oatman, AZ (on old Route 66 that looks very cool—and don’t forget the carrots for the mules!), and then, (ta-dah!) The Grand Canyon! I’ve wanted to go there from forever, and this morning, I was to be on my way!

Mr. Man, who has been to all places several times, made all the arrangements and I was so excited (in my low-keyed way). But, as fate would have it, yesterday, Mr. Man’s van started doing funny things. Not “good” funny things, like shaking violently on the freeway going any faster than 50 mph. Oops.

Then he suggested we take his new (used) truck, but I had to put my foot down to that one. It has a bench seat that sits super low and is pulled forward cause Mr. Man’s legs are much shorter than mine. It’s very uncomfortable, in my long-leggedness, for my 50-something-year-old frame to sit for any length of time with my knees pressed up next to my ears. And three days worth of driving, oh pleeease.

The sweetheart did look into getting a rental car, but it was a bit more expensive than he planned for his budget. Of course, I understand. As it is, he lost his deposit on the hotel, dang it.

I’m guessing there must be a bigger reason we’re not able to go at this time. Our Angels are watching out for us. Perhaps something else is supposed to happen? (Please let it be something wonderful!)

Oh well, me and my clean-shaven, Levi covered legs will just have to wander around the neighborhood with Miss Molly while my Mr. Man gets his van fixed. The plan is to maybe try again next week. He’s a sweetheart, that Mr. Man is.

Oh, and did I mention... I even painted my toenails!

Puppies - Post Partum

2009-03-28T08:03:00.000-07:00

I feel somewhat better today about the puppies moving to Anthony’s. Not wonderful, just not tearful or sad anymore. (Although, I’m really hating the puffy eyes. No amount of make-up is gonna work here. Could take days to recover... grr.) It all really is for the best.

It’s funny, I’m still on “puppy alert.” I keep thinking I “hear” their cute little puppy squeals. Sigh.

So, let’s focus on my bestest, best friends.

This is Pearl. She’s in my lap helping me write (yeah, right). Okay, at best she’s comforting me and keeping me warm.

There is nothing nicer than a kitty curled (sprawled) on one’s lap, purring away. (Well maybe a big, strong, handsome man sleeping with his arms wrapped tightly around one’s waist. :-))

It’s hard for one to type in either of those scenarios. But in this case I’m managing with my

Pearl, who is now totally belly-up, her hind end butted up against the keyboard making me have to work around her hind legs! (Like she cares.)

Pearl is either three or four-years-old now.

We got her when she was three-months-old mostly because “God” said so. (Isn’t that right, Ksaldria?) God does know best.

She came to us as a precious gem, and has remained so ever since. Besides, I always wanted to be called Mother of Pearl. Ex-hubby wouldn’t go for that name for either of my daughters. And he was allergic to cats.

Did I mention he’s an “ex?”

Everybody loves Pearl. And Pearl loves everybody!

And then there’s Miss Molly.

She’s waiting for her outing… on my half-made bed, and off her red blankie (which is much easier to wash than that big comforter I need to take to the laundry mat).

For those who are new to us, Molly is a 98-pound Coonhound. A very big dog, with very long legs..

See? Gee... she's getting a little chunky. Guess we better go on more outtings. Hmmm.

That's one "cool" Coonhound! (Okay, you're right... that's one lazy dog!) At least she's smiling.. somewhat.

Momma dog, Elsa (below), seldom changes expression. This bugs me. She always looks like she’s done something wrong, but she is actually a very good and sweet dog. I have tried to get her to smile, but she just doesn’t seem to have it in her. The only time I see her smile is when Roxzi comes home, and then only briefly.

And she will not look me in the eye. That also bugs me. Oh well.

Molly, on the other hand, is an alpha-female who not only smiles, but will look you full-on in the face! I love that dog.

Molly and I have a great bond. We read each other’s minds. I just think about a w-a-l-k, she’s up and wagging. The more imminent the departure, the more she starts nagging—very loudly! So, I try to not think the “w” word, quietly stuff a plastic grocery bag in my pocket, grab the leash and surprise her at the front door. This helps keep my nerves and eardrums intact. The ploy works about 20% of the time. And don’t even think about going, then delay. She’s one big dog who demands her outing with one big voice until you obey. Ouch!

Okay, got my friends here with me and I'm feeling MUCH better now. Thank you, gang!

Bye for now, you beautiful bloggers.

Puppy Blues..

2009-03-26T18:20:00.000-07:00

I am so sad!

Roxzi and her fella, Anthony, came and took all the puppies, and Elsa, to his mother's house today.

I never wanted to have Elsa, the sweet black puppy, (a gift to Rox from Anthony for her birthday) in the first place. I told them up front, I would not be responsible, i.e. pay for shots… spaying.. food.. etc. They were the parents.

But I have such a soft spot in that respect. I said “no” but they (Roxzi) knew, I could not follow through.

They said they would have her fixed… yeah, right.

Anthony (20) lives with his mother, and now Roxzi lives there too. Nevertheless, I got the dog. She’s a good dog, and a sweetheart, but I refused to be too responsible.

Okay, I didn’t let her go hungry, or get flea-full. I loved her, as I do all pets and animals. But I stood my ground, and kept a step back.

Elsa, obviously, did not get fixed. She endured her first “heat” with no incident. The kids, Roxzi and Anthony, claiming to take care of “it” all along.

But with the second “heat” Chewie, an Akita-Inu, Anthony’s dog, got to her. Oh boy, it was love, love, love, and now we have nine fat babies to show for it.

Elsa lived here with me, Roxzi at Anthony’s. Of course the puppies were delivered here last Sunday, as previously posted.

Well, today, shortly after 4 p.m., Roxzi, Anthony and his brother, Vince, came to visit.

But visit they didn’t.

They just gathered the pups up in a prearranged box, leashed Elsa, and took them all away to Anthony’s!

I have been in tears ever since!

I know that’s where they should be, and that all is fine and dandy, but I’m a basket case!
Animals are my Achilles heel.

Have I mentioned that there are ALWAYS animals in my dreams? Always. Usually puppies and kittens, but sometimes exotic animals, like snakes, lions and bugs, that are all my friends.

So with that, I will miss my puppies. I suppose it’s best that they all go at once. I can’t imagine having to give them away one-at-a-time! Just let me get these puffy eyes over with now.

Sigh.

How can love be so entwined? No matter how detatched I "thought" I was.. I'm a goner.

I'll be okay. Sniff.

Puppies.. Day Three

2009-03-25T10:54:00.000-07:00

All nine of the no-so-little critters are doing well. Proud Elsa is feeling much better.

I think this sweetheart is the fourth.. the female I revived. Will ya look at those drumsticks!

One BIG happy family!

That mondo brown pup in the middle is the "screamer." He's twice as big as the rest! He's already one tough dude.

You've Got to Pick a Puppy or Two

2009-03-23T15:14:00.000-07:00

WE HAVE PUPPIES!

2:52pm –Just arrived, number eight.... Eight puppies!

Yikes – poor Elsa (she looks soooo tired). But she’s being such a good momma. She started her little maternity ward around 11:15 this morning.

All puppies are fat and healthy, though there have been a few close calls.

My Darling, Tony, stepped up to bat to help the first (or second) one out of it’s sac. I went in earlier to check and saw the sac, and decided to leave Elsa alone a bit and “let nature take its course.” However, I was uneasy—almost overwhelmed. Tony, who would have preferred to entertain Sunday with stay-in-bed-all-day shenanigans, quickly caught my worry, figured I’d be occupied, and readied himself to leave. In the meantime, I went back in to check on our girl. She was cleaning one puppy, but another (seemingly the same I saw 15 minutes earlier) was still in the sac and screaming VERY loudly to be released!

I guess I could have handled it by myself, but I knew Tony had experience in such matters, so I employed him to please help. He did. The puppy is fine. But, no matter how much I pleaded he stay, he insisted I take charge.. which I did. He did coach me through the next birth and helping the puppy out of the sac, which was much easier than I thought, before he left. He’s a good man.

The other brave men, son, Max (waving in the background), and goofy brother, Luckey, high-tailed it at the first signs and sounds of puppydom.

Roxzi, her beau, Anthony, and his mom, Sabrina, came while number four was struggling for life. This one was not at all feisty like the one screaming “I am here! I am here!”in its cocoon earlier. It wasn’t moving, and Elsa was slow to help. I broke its sac, and rubbed its belly and finally, with the help of Elsa kisses, we got it going. It was a blonde with black female. (Possibly the one in the center of the pack in the photo.)

Anthony stepped in and calmly took over for the rest of the deliveries, that young man is not squeamish, thank God.

The rest of the pups came at intervals of about 25 minutes.

Roxzi sat by pale and quiet. (And this girl wants to be a nurse?) She finally got in and helped shuffle the pups to the feeding ground, and petted and praised her “Elsa Doobie.”

All is calm.

Wait…

Good grief, the news just in…

NINE!

Script Frenzy

2009-03-19T10:37:00.000-07:00

Recently I got an email from the NaNoWriMo people. (National Novel Writing Month—remember, I did that last November?) Now they are instigating Script Frenzy, the writing of a screenplay (100 pages) during the month of April.

The letter really emphasised that writting a script is a great way to hone your novel writing skills. Sooooo… I signed up. This doesn’t mean I’m committed to it.. we’ll see. But, it did get me into doing further study on how to write a script and I find it quite fascinating.

The Script Frenzy site gives good examples, tips and strategies, and even links to hundreds of movie screenplays anyone can access.

The formatting on these things alone is very strict and tricky. But Script Frenzy clues you in that department too.

Last summer, my dear Tony, gave me the book, How to Enter Screenplay Contests and Win! by Eric Joseph. I found what it absolutely mesmerizing. Though I knew nothing about screenplay writing, this book really piqued my interest; so-much-so, I purchased three other popular screenwriting how-tos: 101 Habits of Highly Successful Screenwriters, by Karl Iglesias – wonderful writing tips for any writer; There's No Business Like Soul Business, by Derek Rydall, (who I heard interviewed via Internet – he approaches screenwriting from a spiritual stand point), and Save the Cat, by Blake Snyder (lots of great tools and tips). All are very well written and fun to read.

One of the things the Script Frenzy site suggests for newbies is to READ screenplays. Okay. (It takes about as long to read one as it does to watch the movie.) They suggest first to read the screenplay of a movie you really know and love. I picked Return to Me, written by Bonnie Hunt (who also, you may remember, plays a major role in the film). Surprise!—it is just like the movie—practically word for word! I laughed and cried, just like I do every time I see the DVD. I love that movie—the Return to Me sound track too!

Okay, so now I’m gonna try their suggestion to read a screenplay to a movie I haven’t seen… then watch the movie and see how well the writer made me “see” it in my head. I picked the movie Disturbia only because I know I have that available. (Most new-new movies don’t have their screenplays in the public domain yet.) I could have picked Letters from Iwo Jima, or Munich, and a few others I know I have access to, but I’m not so sure I want to see. Not that Disturbia will be much better, but at least it’s fiction. I’ll let you know how it goes.

So, dear reader, if you should decide to get your creative juices flowing and join me in the madness. Be sure to look up Quizmo, and do the "buddy" thing. I found it great help to “race” my friends (while cheering all the way) to the 50,000 word count needed to “win” the NaNoWriMo challenge.

Laterz Gatorz! [she says while putting on her frenzy-thinking cap!]

No Blarney Spoken Here

2009-03-17T07:38:00.000-07:00

The following poem is a recant of a true story of a St. Patrick's day debacle that happened several years ago. To this day, not one of my three (now grown up) children have fessed up to the deed; therefore, what other explanation can there be? Pesky leprechauns!

Emerald Tricks
By Quizmo LaGrande

Tis a story well true, by gosh, and by gore,
A trick of the leprechaun isn’t just lore.
They saw fit to choose what they found quite enjoying,
A mighty slick feat I found quite annoying!

Corned beef and cabbage, traditional spread,
With carrots, potatoes, and wee soda bread
I planned for the making, I planned for the guests
Of fifteen stout Irishmen, and their ladies best.

Scrub, wash, and slave the castle walls clean
For a party the likes of St. Paddy’s not seen.
Corned beef is a beast, the cooking not toiling.
(It’s just that it takes several hours of boiling.)

The evening before St. Patrick’s big day,
I boiled the beastie the right proper way;
Plenty o’ garlic, pepper corns, spices, dill
And a pint of one hardy dark ale, if you will.

In a pot big as Ireland, meat simmered and stewed,
Heavenly smells wafted through as it brewed
And bubbled and cooked, till tender throughout,
Then let off the fire, delicious, no doubt.

Into the fridge to meld for the night,
The beef with the juice concocted just right,
Saved for carrots, spuds, cabbages lot,
Cooked the last minute, and served piping hot.

Green the décor, the shamrocks on high,
I pull out the beast as the guests did arrive.
The plan was to wrap it up snugly to heat
In the oven while vegetables boiled to a treat.

“All Saints preserve us!” My family heard cry
As I lifted the lid for the corned beef pot’s prize,
The color of shamrocks, of Erin, indeed,
The juice and the beast turned to emerald GREEN!

“How could this be? What happened?”
I cried,"Green as a lush Gaelic preened countryside!"
The smell was still sweet as the evening before
No mold or equivalents were beginning to grow,

Twas bright green as grass, as Christmas, as leaves,
Where once was pink, I was starting to grieve.
My grand dish for thirty, now fit for none!
What prankster turned goodness to mossy green scum?

I queried my family, no one had a clue.
An expression genuine on each face did ensue
Of shock at the sight of their dinner turned green,
Not delight at the mischief that caused such a scene.

I pondered and thought, “How could it be so?”
It didn’t smell sour, a wee taste proved it so.
But hardly a dish I could serve to my kin
Must be the leprechauns delivered such sin.

Now it was my turn to think up a trick,
Think up a dinner, and think it up quick.
“A darlin’ corned beef doesn’t cook in a wink.”
I thought as I poured me guests one hardy green drink.

As I watched my guests laugh and merrily swig
"Would they wonder," I thought as I danced a wee jig,
"If I cleverly planned festive meal in green clad,
That I’d blame on the wee folk, if truth be it had?"

So I boiled the veggies in green corned beef soup,
I heated the beast, baked the bread for the group.
On a lovely white platter displayed the green feast.
(Though potatoes seemed blue, and the carrots deceased.)

On a table set proud for a leprechaun king
My guests, eyebrows high, raised their glasses to sing
A toast to their hostess. A prayer to St. Pat.
And toast to the leprechauns (as I cursed the brats).

Then dig in, indeed, my guests did with great zeal.
(Though my family looked on with reluctant appeal.)
Green beer and banquet, such grand combination.
Good cheer and good hale--leprechaun liberation!
© Copyright 2003 Quizmo LaGrande (UN: quizmo at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

(Don't forget to be wearing o' the green!)

Pride of the Pack

2009-03-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

As long as I can remember, I’ve been a loner and a wanderer.

Since my dad was a career Air Force officer, I got to explore many places across the country.

And what was very cool, as my dad was an artist, the environment in which we lived was always important. It was kind of hard when we lived on base, he didn’t really have a choice, but we did live in the officers housing, which was (supposed to be) nicer.

I was born in Omaha, NE. Dad was stationed at Offutt Air Force Base next to Omaha where he met my mom. My earliest wandering recollections were of at my grandparents’ apartment complex there in Omaha. They had a little black Dachshund named Mr. Chips. Dang, I loved that little fellow who accompanied me on the first of my long treks. I remember, when he was on the leash he was great, but off.. he was on his own and very hard for a four-year-old to catch.

My grandparents, Nanny and Grampa, lived next a small apple orchard that was owned by a crotchety old fellow that would chase us kids out, but we still went back and climbed those trees when he wasn’t looking. I don’t recall the apples being very good.

The orchard and the property my grandparents lived on butted up against the back of Omaha’s famous Boy’s Town. There was a huge, huge field between the chain link boundary and the facility one could barely see off in the distance. I knew it was a home for orphaned boys, and no matter how often I looked or how long, I never once saw a boy or anybody for that matter. I was somehow under the impression that it was a very bad place. I’m thinking it was speculative scary talk by the other kids around. (Reminds me of To Kill a Mockingbird. Oh so scary in a kid’s eye.)

After Mom and Dad (okay, he’s a stepdad, but my “real” dad all at the same time) got married, we lived on base at #7 Fairchild Circle for a year or so (how in the world do I remember that address??).

My mother loved to tell the story of when I started kindergarten there at Offutt. I was so independent, I refused to walk with her the first day (or any day there after). I waltzed way on ahead in an either the pre-prepubescent embarrassment of having my mother with me, or I can do it myself, thank you (which is most likely the case).

I remember only a few things about kindergarten, one was that I had a young, pretty teacher with dark hair. Another was the time I got in trouble for scraping all the mud off my boots in the coat room making a big mess that I had to clean up. I was devastated and embarrassed. I don’t know why that event has stuck with me? I guess I didn’t like being the star of that show.

The other was being line-leader, or rather, not being line-leader. All the children’s names were colorfully printed on separate cards stacked in special boxes. At the end of the day, the reigning line-leaders (a boy and girl) would randomly pick their successors from the respective box for the next day.

I never got picked. I waited so anxiously day-after-day. I never got picked.

My mother keep telling me to be patient. Be patient.

Nobody liked me, I figured. I was the tall, clumsy, cross-eyed girl with the thick glasses that made a fool of herself with the mud in the coat room.

Spring came, and the class was scheduled to go on a field trip to the zoo! (Even way-back-when, Omaha had a zoo, a nice one, too.)

I was convinced there was no way I would get the prestigious position of line-leader for that day. One of the popular girls would get it. I was already putting myself down.

Well, I be danged if I didn’t get picked! ME, in the prominent position of line-leader for the whole day! And for the big adventure at the ZOO! Wow!. How special was that for my very first leadership role?

I don’t remember the zoo part, just the pride of being head of the pack (for once).

But I did learn the lesson that good things do come to those who wait, even to funny looking 5-year-olds.

More to come…

Happy Pi Day!

The Pee-Wee Posts (Continued-Part Three)

2009-03-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

After about four months, daughter Nikki, whom we lovingly referred to as Pee-Wee, is doing fabulously after her cleft palate surgery at 15-months of age. But life as I saw it, in 1986, begins to dim. Printed not-so-neatly by hand in green felt-tip pen.

~February 19th, 1986~

Nikki is 19-months now and talking away. At about 18-months she really started talking—finally she said “Daddy” which comes out “Ah-yee,” and Bosco [my wonderful Irish Setter] is “Occo.”

I was so surprised and proud of her last Monday when we went to the grocery store. The nice lady in the bakery there gave her a cookie and she actually said “thank you” without me prompting her first! She’s getting smarter and smarter – cuter and cuter.

Well, here’s the sad news – I’m losing my eyesight.

I’ve been to the eye doctor several times but he can’t find the problem. I do have cataracts but they’re not bad enough to impair my vision so badly. They don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve been to the retina specialist, but he couldn’t find anything wrong.I’m legally blind in my left eye now and it’s totally uncorrectable.
There’s been a rapid deterioration of vision since last March in the left eye, and now I can tell the same is happening in the right eye. I can’t even see what I’m writing; memory is serving me now. At this rate, by me 31st birthday, I’ll be s**t out of luck in the eye department.
On March 5th, I go to see a neurologist. Maybe he can figure me out. I certainly hope so.

I don’t want to be blind!

This was the beginning of a very scary time in my life… I was so worried I’d never be able to see my “Pee-Wee” grow up! To be continued…
* * *

A Pee-Wee Posting

2009-02-28T06:05:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday, while doing a bit of rearranging in the studio, I found a journal I started in 1986… It started as an exercise in calligraphy, with an account of my oldest daughter Nikki’s cleft pallet surgery, and ended with the birth of my son, Max Sept. 18, 1988. Not a lot of entries, but I think Nikki, whom we fondly referred to as Pee-Wee way back when, will get a kick out of this.

Wed. October 22, 1986—Cabrillo Marina

A fresh beginning and a fresh hand. A new book, and a new style of writing. (Except this pen is seemingly against the idea.)

There – re-inked, now let’s try again. [I was using a nib tipped calligraphy pen dipped in India ink.]

Anyway, I’m learning calligraphy – the proper letter forms. It’s very difficult to switch from my own style to formal, but I will and the only way is to practice, practice, practice – and we can tell, I have a long way to go. Anyway, back to our story…

Nikki, my daughter, is 15-months-old now. She had her cleft palate surgery last Oct. 2nd—It was awful! That poor little pumpkin so worried when we got to the hospital that morning. She cried and cried. She couldn’t eat anything since midnight the night before and they didn’t even take her into surgery till almost 10:30! It was so hard to keep from crying myself. [But I maintained a chipper and cheerful front.] We arrived at the hospital at 7:30.

They had us waiting in a cozy little room with a TV so we could be alone together and try to keep our poor baby calm, she wasn’t.

When they finally took her away, I didn’t cry [but I wanted too!].

Alex [her dad] and I sat quietly in our little room for a few more minutes then went for breakfast in the coffee shop. We had a long wait ahead of us.

Well breakfast and coffee went down fast, and well—with a few [more]hours to wait, finding things to do to occupy us was difficult.

I seemed to be more anxious than Alex – we went quickly through the gift shop then back to the waiting room. Alex was able to sit still, but I could not—I paced the “short stay” surgery there at Long Beach Memorial at great length. [Oh, a pun!]

Finally at 1:45, Dr. Hickman, the plastic surgeon, came in, “Nikki is doing fine, but her surgery was much more difficult than expected.”

They had to draw so much skin (tissue) that he had to leave a tiny hole, which, he said, “May grow over. If not, and we won’t know till then, it could be repaired at the age of four.” He told us we would be able to see her in recovery in about 30 minutes.

“Okay, just as long as she’s okay,” [was my reply].

Now this was a really anxious time – and after watching every god-dammed soap opera between the pacing, we still sat there for another hour and a half. Finally we heard, “Will the parents of Nikki Palumbo please come to the main desk.”

We were sent to recovery – pediatric recovery was way in the back – there must have been 200 or more people in there “recovering” in a warehouse-like room. [It was enormous!]

We finally made it back to Miss P. She looked awful—such a shock [to see her]—she was on her tummy, pale as pale can be, blood running from her nose, and a black string hung from her mouth that was sewn to her tongue to keep it from flopping back. She looked drugged [duh].

The nurses seemed caring, calm and confident she was doing well. It was difficult to keep composed but we stroked her hair and reassured her mommy and daddy were there. The nurse gave her some Demerol to knock her out and we wheeled her upstairs to her room.

That kid’s a fighter. As the drugs wore off, she became worse and worse, she screamed and cried constantly, although who could blame her? So she was kept drugged most of the time.

I felt so sorry for her. She had to wear arm splints [to keep her hands away from her mouth], which didn’t help her disposition one bit. Her mouth hurt, and she was mad.
She lay there in a prone position (she had to lay on her tummy those first couple days so any blood or oozing wouldn’t choke her) staring at us with a look like, “I’ll get you for this. I’m remembering all your faces.” She was scary. [I had forgotten about this.. she really was scary; a classic case of "if looks could kill!"

Alex and I were wrecks. We felt helpless. We couldn’t pick her up to cuddle or reassure her (she was not the cuddle and reassuring kind anyway). We just sat close by her, talked to her and held her little hand.

The next day, Friday, we got some apple juice in her (she had to take a lot of clear fluids so we could take the I.V. out. She took a little about once an hour, but not enough to sustain her. Poor kid must have been starving – she wasn’t sick, there was nothing wrong with her tummy other than it was empty! Alex and I took turns eating where she couldn’t see. [It was miserable.]

Saturday she was beginning to get her strength back; she kept getting out of the arm splints and managed to pull out the I.V. The nurses left it out, thank God.

Nikki hated the nurses; she’d throw a fit if one so much as looked at her—just taking her temp under her little arm was a fight.

On Sunday, all she wanted to do was leave. She kept crying and pointing toward the door. Well she got her way this time—she got to go home! She also got to have formula from a cup; she liked that [much better] instead of that nasty syringe we used to squirt the juice in to her mouth with. The formula helped fill her tummy.
[End of entry.]

Nikki obviously survived that traumatic event, and did have subsequent surgery to repair the hole when she was 10. She is happy and healthy but still worries a lot.

Hmm.. I wonder if she still holds the grudges against those poor nurses?

Bakersfield (Part Two), the Back Way

2009-02-20T17:10:00.000-08:00

The second time we went to Bakersfield to visit Uncle Cooky was later that summer of '07.

This time, we did the smart thing and went the back way. It was so much prettier, and much more pleasant than that ugly old Grapevine. And we made it there in record time—what should be three-and-a-half – four hour drive only took eight hours!

This time, via my wonderful fella friend’s recommendation, we went up the coast to Ventura and turned inland to follow the 33 up, around and over the mountains and into the central valley.

Like always, just getting to the 10, the Santa Monica Freeway, from San Pedro took well over an hour… the San Diego Freeway is always so backed up, no matter how many thousands of lanes it has. But once we got to the 10, we were finally on our way.

Daughter Nikki had never driven up the coast through Malibu and Pacific Palisades; she loved it. Roxzi and I always went the coast the full way up to see Brother Max in Santa Cruz. We love it. Screw the Grapevine!

It was so pretty that morning. When reached Ventura/Oxnard, I was sooo tempted just to turn around so we could do the coast again.. but, sigh, we needed to head inland. Uncle Cooky awaits.

At this point, everyone had to go potty, but the stop Rox and I used before in the freeway transitions, was shutdown. “Can we all wait another 10 miles till we get to Ojai?” I shouted over the engine noise and the ska music CD we were bee-bopping to.

“Yes,” we all agreed, crossing our legs.

I had never been through, or even to, the town of Ojai. It was beautiful! And it was lunch time! Well, we found a cute little place on the outskirts of the other side of town. The first thing we all did was run in and use the facilities, then found a table outside in my beloved sun.

The menu was a little too gourmet for the girls’ taste; nothing looked good to either of them. Oh well, it looked great to me, so we got up and putted off.

The countryside was beautiful! Green, lush and well kept ranches and spreads. We weaved our way up mountains looking for the 33 turnoff, that I was getting suspicious wasn’t going to happen if we kept on our present course.

We stopped a wonderful lookout that oversaw the Ojai Valley. Awesome. At the stop, I popped open a refreshing beverage. Heck, it was after noon.

As we wound around the top of the shaded highway, we passed a take-out hamburger place called The Summit. I might not have even noticed it if not for the half dozen giant American flags planted out in front.

“We’re eating THERE!” I shouted as I wheeled the van around. There were several “big pimpin’s,” Roxzi jargon for big manly-man pickup trucks, and lots of Harleys in the parking area. I couldn’t be that bad.

Well, it wasn’t exactly fast fast-food, we had to wait a long time, and it was greasy-spoon kind of food that I don’t normally eat so I declined getting anything, saying I’d just have a bite of theirs, if they didn’t mind.

I waited in the van popping open another refreshing beverage. After about a half hour, the girls had their food and we were back on our way again, It sure did smell good, and the bite from each sandwich was delicious, but super greasy… not my preference. They loved them! Fries were good too, I had a few.

We wound our way to the friendly town of Santa Paula, where we got gas and I went into the station to ask where the turn off to the 33 was. The attendant didn’t speak much English, but I got my point across.. he basically said, we have to follow the yellow brick road back the way we came to Ojai and try again.

Grrrr.. at least it was a beautiful drive and the girls loved the Summit (it did have a great atmosphere). So just a couple hours lost while we gained an excellent scenic tour. Really, it was well worth it.

As we moseyed back into Ojai, we passed a ranger station. “That would be a good place to ask directions,” I commented looking over my shoulder as we toodled past.

Roxzi turned into the mom, shoved a piece of gum in my mouth and demanded we turn around, go back and ask. We were all giggling as I did as I was told.

We explained our dilemma and where we were trying to go and where we’d been. The stone-faced but extremely nice, never-a-care-in-the-world ranger, slowly drawled, “Oh, the back way to Bakersfield, eh?”

“Yep, that’s pretty much the size of it.”

“Welp, the turnoff’s way at the beginning of town,” he said pointing in that direction. “You’ll see a big Von’s shopping center then go right at a three-way intersection. The sign for the turn is kind of blocked by the bushes coming the other way, but you can’t miss it coming from this way.” He smiled (I think), and wished us luck.

On the road again..

Just as he said, we found the turn easily and quickly realized we were now approaching the middle of a new nowhere, climbing up the enormous mountains I knew Huck would safely transport us over. It was pretty, but unlike the lushness of the mountain road on the other side of Ojai, it was barren. We were basically alone on the two-lane highway.

Both girls fell asleep as I happily drove along not having to contend with too many other, faster cars. I don’t think we passed (or were passed up by) more than five cars the whole way. We went up and over. It was a little scary at times as there were terrific vistas, tremendous drops, and often, no guardrails.

As we came down the other side of the mountains, I could see the long straight flat roads in the valley ahead, breathed a sigh of relief, and knew Bakersfield would be ours soon. But gee, I sure had to pee.

This side of the mountain, the southern portion of the central valley was velvet painted in glorious shades of gold, yellow and brown. It was fire season, so even the sky glowed yellow in the late afternoon sun.

The girls had long woken up and also needed to empty their bladders too. There really was nowhere to stop, so I pushed ahead on the long, flat, straight highway.

It wasn’t too long until we drove into the hole-in-wall town of Maricopa. We pulled into a crumby little convenience store parking lot. The girls ran in first. I waited with Huck (the population looked a little, well, not great). When it was my turn, I asked Nikki to pour me a nice cold refreshing beverage in my special cup. We were almost there, and all roads were straight ahead and flat and from this point, I knew the way.

Well, Roxzi took on the chore but while she was doing the deed in the back of the van with the side door wide open, a cop pulls up. Nikki, standing guard, warns Roxzi who, panic stricken, tries to cover up her action and the silver can.

He gets out of his car, walks straight over to the van and strikes up a conversation with Roxzi, a minor, who was sitting practically red-handed with an open container and sweating bullets. (I wonder… couldn’t he smell the fresh hops??)

Geeze! When I came out of the store (and it took a few minutes cause I had to wait in line), both girls, perspiration dripping from their whitened faces, fired at me what happened—

“Mom! A cop came right up to the van as I was pouring your cold one! I’ve never been so scared in my life!”

“Let’s just get out of here!” Nikki pleaded repetedly looking around warily.

I hustled them in the van and tried to quiet them down. It was obviously okay, there were no cops now.

“Mom! I was sitting there pouring YOU a BEER, and the dumb-ass cop comes right up and asks me, ‘Is this a REAL Volkswagen van?’”

Well, I did see the very young officer she was talking about cajoling with a group of teeny-bopper girls who were hanging out when I came out of the store He was perfectly harmless, a nice guy… the kind who wants to be a policeman to do good and help people. A peace keeper.

I reassured my girls of that fact, as we high-tailed it out of there. I secretly hoped that they weren’t waiting for me down the road apiece. They were not.

Mercy in Maricopa—thank you, my Angels!

We made it in short order to our motel in beautiful downtown Bakersfield without any further incidents. Once again we choose the Quality Inn.

This time we had a second floor room with a view of the pool, but alas, no grasshopper greetings. Shucks.

And once again, the best part of the whole trip was getting there.

So, I want to leave you all with the idea, that the goal is great, but the journey is the most exciting part.

Love to all!

Not Niceties ~or~ The Valentine’s Day Massacre

2009-02-17T16:36:00.002-08:00

This past Valentine’s Day afternoon, my handsom son, Max, came in the studio to ask me if he could borrow the van, Huck, to run a quick errand.

“Okay, just be careful.”

Moments later, he was back.

“Um, Mom?”

Yes, I’m your mom! Why do they always have to ask?

“Someone spray painted all over the side of the van.”

“WHAT?”

“Yup, in pink, bright pink.”

I jumped up and ran outside to assess the damage, wondering if the insurance company would paint the whole thing because of a little bit of pink paint?

“OH, MY GOD!”

A “little” pink paint was a-whole-lotta pink paint all across the driver’s side. Very large fluorescent letters filled the purple space from top-to-bottom and extended the entire length of the vehicle. (Nice lettering, I might add—this person has practiced.)

But the message was very disturbing. It was not your typical Valentine’s Day love note. No sweet little hearts lovingly painted on either side of the text. No flowers left wedged in the wipers. Not even a cool hippie peace sign.

Then I get this story from Max…
Late the night before, Max’s girlfriend, the mouseketeer, went out on the porch to smoke a cigarette. She thought she saw, or heard, someone in the driveway, went in and told Max and his buddy, Keaton, who immediately ran outside. The interloper, a large dude who was hidden on the other side of the van, must have heard them coming and was already walking away when they got out there. Max shouted at him, but the guy ran down the block meeting up with four or five of his cronies.. and they were gone.

The smell of spray paint hung in the air, but they did not put two-and-two together till the evidence presented itself the next afternoon.

I wonder what else the creep might have done had he not been interrupted?

I immediately called the police. Officer Perez was very kind, and took the report over the phone. I guess this did not warrant public police appearance, which I would have preferred cause I don't want anyone to think I'm a weenie. Perhaps they'd have come if it had just happened?

I was told that to call back in 24 hours to get a case number to give to the insurance people.

He also suggested I try taking the writing off with a little paint thinner, and he said, sometimes cooking oil will work too. Worth a try.

I phoned my brother, Luckey, the painter. No he didn’t have any thinner (what’s with that?), but he’d see what he could do.

Gosh, I couldn't help but worry, How in the heck am I going to be able to drive Huck to the insurance people and/or to the auto body shop with that horrible, very noticeable and legible branding on the side?

Welp, to make this long story short. The van sat overnight again letting all that pretty paint set in, but first thing Sunday morning, brother Luckey got out a little TSP and scrubbed the pink paint off. Max put in his share of elbow grease by using rubbing compound to smooth out the abrasion, then did a great wax job.

When I went out to look, I couldn’t believe it, I couldn’t even tell there was ever any damage done! WOW, good job, fellas! Huck is once again a clean canvas!

(Shhh… don’t say that!)

Naturally, I didn’t get any pictures. I figured that paint wasn’t going anywhere too fast. But it did and now, there’s no proof other than a bit of pink on the outlet cap. Not that I’d show you any pictures anyway (because it wasn’t nice, nor true). I can’t imagine who those words were aimed at or why?

Gee, I wonder if I would have been happier if it said, “Will You Marry Me?” or “Be My Valentine,” or some other such nonsense…. Naw.

So that was my Friday the 13th/Valentine’s Day debacle.

All’s well now. Thank you.

Maybe it really didn’t happen?

Hmmm.. ?

Bakersfield (Part One)

2009-02-14T16:25:00.000-08:00

The first time we went to Bakersfield…

Excuse me? Why would we want go to Bakersfield?

Well doesn’t everyone want to visit Bakersfield?

No??

Well, we wanted to go to see my dear friend, Cooky, who is the kids’ unofficial godfather.

Uncle Cooky used to come out and see us a couple-three times a year, but developed a medical condition that made it difficult for him to drive long distances; so, we went to him. And heck, we were sure in need of an adventure.

Well, the first time we journeyed to Bakersfield, it was a very hot spring day. I went the way you’re supposed to go from LA to Bakersfield, through the grapevine.

I hadn’t been over it in several years, and as we proceeded along with all the big-bad trucks buffeting us as they pushed past, and head winds flinging us from side to side, I realized that I had never personally driven over the dang thing.. and, I had forgotten how long the distance was. Sheesh! By the time we got to the little place at the top there, Gorman, I was a nervous wreck and I swore, I’d never go that way again.. if at all possible. It was scarier than heck!

Before we got to Gorman, the potty place and where I let the girls some lunch, I noticed a big-rig Target truck was pretty well mirroring us off the passenger side. I’d slow, it’d slow, I’d try to get ahead of it, it’d speed up. Though it was very windy, it was also very hot, and VW vans of Huck’s vintage, do not have air conditioners other than roll-down windows. (The kind you have to crank yourself, remember those?).

Roxzi had taken her black tank-top off in order to stay cool, and was wearing her cute little black with green polk-a-dot bikini bathing suit top with her shorts. After a few minutes of jockeying for position with this bozo in the Target truck, it dawned on me, he was ogling Roxzi who was riding shotgun.

“Roxzi, is that guy looking at you?” I asked nodding off to her right.

“Ewwww!” she yelled trying to rub off her heebie-jeebies. She immediately put her shirt back on and yelled out the window, “Pervert!”

She threatened to flip him off, but I subdued her. Nikki, who is a fair bit heavier, suggested they switch places to really scare him. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings… but the difference would be startling.

I settled the score (I thought) by slowing drastically. (How much slower can a VW go on an uphill climb? I think I can… I think I can… I think I can…) Downshifting, I got behind the creep. He apparently figured out my maneuver and sped on ahead.

Soooo, I don’t know, about ten minutes later, lo-and-behold, we pass the Target truck pulled off to the side of the freeway, and the driver out of the truck seemingly checking his tires.
We toodled on by waving and wishing him good riddance as we passed (and made sure he didn’t see our jestures).

Oops, it wasn’t long before the truck with a big red target symbol on the sides and back, was behind us again. I got in the slow lane and stayed there so he’d have no further view at the passenger seat. I think he got that we were on to him, and he sped off never to be seen by us again.

The rest of the trip was rather uneventful. We stayed at the Quality Inn, which was okay except for the 400-pound grasshopper that blocked our way out the sliding glass patio door that led the way to the pool for the first hour or so.

I finally got up enough nerve and shooed it away with a length of rolled up newspaper.

(Here I come to save the day, Mighty Mom is on the waaaay… )

The pool and Jacuzzi were well welcomed and utilized by the girls.

Nikki finally talked me into getting in the pool by saying, “Come on, Mom, you know you’re hot.” It was hot, but dry; I liked it. “And if you don’t think so," she added, "just ask Jim.”

Gotta love that kid!

Uncle Cooky was great and gave us the “Best of Bakersfield” tour… ummm, which was a bit unexciting; but all-in-all, we had a great time just visiting with him, as always.

Life's a journey... the fun is getting there!

Don't miss our second trip... "Bakersfield the Back Way!"

Bravo!

A Twitch in Time ~or~ The Nose[hair] Knows

2009-02-08T14:51:00.000-08:00

Ladies (okay, it happens to men too), let’s face it, growing old in many respects isn’t really so bad, but there are some grim realities we must face! As years gather, so do wrinkles (I prefer “character lines”), unwanted whiskers (I’ve been known to say, you know you’re getting old when you start plucking more hairs out of your upper lip than your eyebrows), age spots, graying/thinning hair…

But practically nothing is more unpleasant than having to pluck those unsightly nose hairs.

Using a magnifying mirror only multiplies the discomfort by over emphasizing the other aging symptoms, such as the sagging, and doubling areas of the face due to drooping (especially if you are looking down at the image). Ugh! Is that what my lover looks at… ewwww!

AND to add extra insult to this blown-up reality shock, suddenly you get a glimpse of an arsenal of flapping upper and under arm flesh. Eww..gross! That’s not me, is it? And I thought I was in good shape?

[She drops and does 20—whew!]

(Aren’t we all glad I don’t have a digital camera to demonstrate proof of this point?)

So, in order to avoid as much of these nauseating vistas as possible, I suggest picking the mirror up, or having it mounted on the wall at eyelevel.

Then yet another drawback to plucking under high-power is the number of flaying follicles forming a moustache from boogerville is now highly visible and also need to go.

Now you may cringe and twitch at the mere mention of plugging those unwanted bad guys, and comment that most people, when nose hair becomes a problem, trim rather than torture. Granted, just using that mirror is torture enough, but plucking? Ouch!

Yep, it hurts like heck, your eyes water and sneezes will abound. But, trimming I find only leaves the blunt ends of the cut hairs itchy for days… way too uncomfortable for too long.

Of course, after you’ve plucked the same hair two or three times, it doesn’t hurt that much anymore… kinda like plucking eyebrows, remember when you first did that?

And the nose lashes take much longer to grow back (I think).

But, it’s almost inevitable that under high-power, you’ll get one or two virgin pluckees and wind up doing the "pluckee chicken" dance.

Just don’t look in the mirror while all your fabulous flab is bouncing up-and-down!

C’est la vie!

Super Bowl XLIII

2009-02-02T17:51:00.000-08:00

I actually watched the Super Bowl yesterday. Well, half of it. I turned it on just in time to see the pass interception and the 100-yard return touchdown. I even watched Bruce Springsteen during halftime (I’m not a fan). But the rest of the game was exciting. I really hadn’t planned on watching, but I’m glad I did. I wasn’t cheering for either team, but I found myself wanting the Cardinals to win—hey, I just happened to be wearing red (I don’t look good in yellow).

And HEY! What happened to St. Louis? Since when did the Cardinals migrate south? And when they play in Arizona, what city is the stadium? Do they flit around, Tucson one game, Phoenix the next? How ‘bout Sedona? Now that would be interesting!

I liked the Clydesdale Budweiser commercial. Can’t remember any others ads right off hand. :-/

When I was in junior high school (just a few years ago), and up through the first few years of being a mom (a day or so ago), I was a tremendous football fan. I totally knew every team and player. All the plays and rules. I watched, bet, talked and loved it! (Same with basketball… GO Lakers!—and baseball… Dodger Blue, all the way!) But, motherhood sidetracked me, and I lost interest in sports, plus it was getting out of hand commercially.

And, I miss the Rams.

Nennyway… These past few years I do look on at the “big” games—World Series, Basketball Championships, Super Bowl. I almost always surprised at myself for knowing how much I know about how these games work.

So, congratulations Steelers.. good game!

Oh, and by the way, when I was 10-years-old, my mom and dad went to the first Super Bowl game at the LA Coliseum between the Kansas City Chiefs and the Green Bay Packers. Yep, 42 years ago. (It’s okay, do the math… )

My brother and I got pennants and a baby sitter.

Thanks for reading!

Laterz Gaterz

Slapping the Ego

2009-02-01T09:53:00.000-08:00

I want to write something for this Blog… but alas, I know not what. It seems that suddenly being in the blogging “spotlight” puts a damper on my creativity.

So okay… don’t look. (But please do! And leave a comment so I know you did—cause I really want the recognition!).

I have a mere 250 (the limit) poems and writings on my writing.com space that are extremely intimate in a revealing yet non-revealing kind of way. But I feel less spotlighted there even though most of my work is well received.

I prefer not to disclose the intimate on this Blog… only the amusing and amazing. I do want to be noticed… yet it’s much more comfortable hiding in the woodwork.

I need to dismiss the ego and be noticed.

Bring it on people. (Did I not just disclose my worst fear.. being noticed??)

Look at me. (No, don't!)

If I confess to my fear, will it help?

Hopefully so. Rightfully so.

Thank you.

Mousetrap Mania (Part Two of Riddle me this... )

2009-01-27T13:09:00.000-08:00

What do mousetraps, blondes and toilets have in common?

Very little unless you happen to live here.

Now, I confess, I am a blonde, and I do live here, but this was none of my doing, and I can pull some really stupid blonde related stunts, but not this time.

I guess my son (blond recessive) gravitates to those of us who do dumb stuff (and trust me, he’s pretty capable too). He’s used to it. He grew up with it. It gives us something to laugh at. (Like the time… or the time… Oh yeah! Good stuff to blog about later!)

I am thankful that this girlfriend had the wherewithal to not only admit to the deed, but to actually purchase a replacement toilet. Whew… they are not cheap!

I still don’t get why the trap had to go down the toilet, but it did. One of life’s great mysteries.

That toilet, by the way, is now located outside on the north side of the house… no-man’s land.

I queried son Max as to why he would put it out there where it would soon to be entwined and covered in morning glories and lost forever, and not put it out for trash?

“Well, it’s a perfectly good toilet, as long as you can get the mousetrap out.”

So, I guess we wait for the wood to rot, then anyone can use the facilities out there on the dark side of the house?

Of course, it’s always good to have a spare toilet. Somewhat akin to having extra batteries and candles; no one should ever be without.

Then I got, “You can use it as a planter?”

Hmm. Where it is, it’ll do that on its own.

Sigh.

So Bloggers and Bloggetters, till next time, may all your toilets flush true, and your mousetraps be way less complicated.

Peace

Riddle me this, Batman...

2009-01-25T20:54:00.000-08:00

Son, Max, came in shortly before noon this morning. He stood by my desk rubbing his chin in an I-don’t-know-how-to-tell-you-this sort of way.

“Well, we have a bit of a dilemma.”

Generally he’s asking for money at this point.

“Yes?”

“Um, well, Girlfriend (name withheld to protect the innocent—wait, she’s not innocent - okay, just name withheld) for some reason," he says waving his arms, rolling his eyes, and shrugging, "flushed a mousetrap down the toilet.”

“WHAT?? Oh, S * * T!!” (Excuse the pun.)

“But,” he was quick to explain, “the good news is that the trap stuck in the toilet itself, not the plumbing (whew!) and that my friend, Keaton, and I already have the old toilet out, and she’s going to buy a replacement. The problem is, it won’t fit in Keaton’s car. Can we use the van to get the new one?”

"Gladly!" I've had enough expensive plumbing problems lately.

Well, thank you, God (or Girlfriend). She did pay for everything, and the toilet has been replaced neatly and properly, all is well in that department and no real harm done.

BUT, the question remains… why did she flush a mousetrap down the toilet?

Why did she even have a mousetrap?

I did inquire if there was a mouse in the trap, thinking maybe she thought to flush it was a sanitary thing to do… kind of like a goldfish?

No.

Perhaps she’s an animal rights activist and was trying to make a statement?

No.

Because she’s a true blonde (or at least blonde recessive)?

Ummm… ??

Any other clever solutions to this riddle will be greatly appreciated.

Wait!

Oh crap (pun intended). What did they do with the old toilet?

Sheese.

Perhaps this post should have been titled, "How to Build a Better Mousetrap."

To be continued... (hopefully not!)

How Do YOU Spell Malibu?

2009-01-15T13:21:00.000-08:00

It was such a beautiful day last Tuesday that Tony and I decided to venture out to visit the Malibu pier.

Alas, the excitement and spontaneity of the decision was a bit hampered as he diddled around all morning and then had to eat breakfast which turned out to be a lunch of Subway sandwiches (his favorite, not mine) that we munched at nearby Averill park. Why we couldn’t have saved time and eaten them at the pier—or picked up something different at the venue, I don’t know? But it was a lovely day and the park was nice (and I still had half a sandwich for the next day :-)).

After lunch, Tony needed to get gas for his van. Not just any gas, the cheapest gas in town, which was several miles away in a whole different town on PCH (Pacific Coast Hwy). Being as it was lunchtime, the traffic was heavy so the going on the surface streets was rather slow.

The good news at the gas station was that Tony washed the windshield. It needed to be done twice, but I didn’t complain that it only happened once, at least I could see out. Next time I’ll wash it myself.

Finally, we were on the freeway, and fortunately Tony was driving his van so we could go much faster than if we took my van, Huckleberry. The traffic was relatively free-flowing so it didn’t take too long to get to the 10, otherwise known as the Santa Monica freeway.

Now the thing I hate most about going ANYWHERE out of our little coastal paradise is driving on those horribly ugly freeways. If they just were tree lined they’d be okay, or without the retaining walls so you can see the surroundings. Nooo.. there is nothing but lanes and lanes of vehicles and asphalt.. very ugly. I don’t mind driving on freeways, in fact I love highway driving, just not in Los Angeles—yuck.

Anyway, upon approach to the 10 off-ramp, Tony asks in his best, we’re-gonna-do-it-anyway, whether-you-like-it-or-not voice, if it would be okay to visit the Santa Monica Pier instead of Malibu because it was getting kind of late, he wanted to avoid coming home traffic.

I didn’t protest, it was getting late and I hadn’t been to the Santa Monica Pier since I was a kid, so it was okay. But I was a bit disappointed because the best part of the journey to Malibu.. the part I was really looking forward to, was the drive along the coast on PCH after you get off the 10. Oh well, next time.

It was such a splendid day, weather wise… and being that it was a Tuesday in the middle of January, the pier was relatively empty. The pier itself was very cool… it’s 100 years old this year! The old planking and huge nails that pegged it together.. very cool. The vendors and such were nothing too much to speak of. Another tourist place with all the same stuff, just Santa Monica printed all over it. We walked to the end and back and enjoyed the day. I did get some post cards to send to Nikki.

And so it was… Malibu was spelled S-A-N-T-A M-O-N-I-C-A at least for that day.

Next time, I’ll be sure to plan ahead and get us out of the house earlier so we can spell things properly.

At least I can check the Santa Monica Pier off my “bucket list.” (Wait… was Santa Monica Pier on my “bucket list?” Hey it’s the beginning—no the end—of Route 66 which is definitely on the list!)

Ta for now, Blogger Buddies!

Miss Molly

2008-12-31T15:39:00.000-08:00

Happy last day of 2008!

This year has gone by so quickly—wow!

Happy anniversary to Molly! I brought her home two years ago today.

“It’s been a great two years, hasn’t it, Molly?”

Well, she’s busy sleeping.

She knew she was our dog and we were her people the moment she laid eyes on us (Roxzi and I).

The brief version of the story goes like this…

I was ready for another dog. Our dearest Dustie had departed in early 2006 at the ripe old age 15. Sheba, Rhett’s angel Husky went to her heaven that September at age 14. Our darling Rosie was getting old and nearing her time too. I was ready.

I was searching on the Internet through the shelters looking for the next perfect companion.
Three days before Christmas… there she was at the Seal Beach Animal Rescue—an absolutely gorgeous, 4-year-old, 80-pound Treewalker Coonhound!

I called immediately.. would have gone down there but my lovely little brother borrowed my car for 20 minutes (which turned into several hours) so no ride.

Roxzi and I were there the next day promptly as the shelter opened. We were paraded past and introduced to so many worthy pups.. but we were there to see Molly (whose name was Moxie at the time). Since Molly is such a big girl, she was all the way in the back of the facility in the big dog runs.

Roxzi arrived first. Molly in all her gracefulness and strength, rose on her back legs to nearly her full height staring Rox right in the eye. Then she looked at me. Our guide was amazed and said she hadn’t ever seen Molly do that to anyone before.

Roxzi knew right away. Molly knew. I knew.

Unfortunately, the shelter didn’t know. I went in to adopt. Filed out more paperwork then I did to buy my house. Waited a long while then the gal in charge informed me that another family was also interested in Molly.

She asked if I could come back the next day with other dog, Rosie, and son Max to make sure we were a good match.

You better believe Rosie, Max and I were there just minutes after the compound opened. It was Christmas Eve.

While we sat on a bench waiting for Molly in the warm December sun, an attendant with Molly in tow, marched right past us and presented her to the “other” family. Molly did stop to greet us, though.

The other family consisted of a mom and dad, three children under 10, a grandma and a nanny. Of course they were all very excited and ooooed and awwwed.

A few minutes later the attendant came over, sat next to me and gently told me Molly would be going with the “other” family. It was a better fit, and this would be their first dog.

I immediately teared up and could not speak. She teared too, and gave me a hug. She offered other dogs, but I would have none of them.. at least not then.

Heartbroken, Max, Rosie and I clamored back in Ella, my ’73 VW orange bug. As I was pulling out, Molly amidst her happy new family looked me full in the eye and perked her ears as she followed our departure. “Hey! Where are you going?” I could see the question on her face so well.

We bravely drove home, and being the mom, I kept comforting both Max and myself by repeating during the 30 minute drive home, “It just wasn’t meant to be. There’s another dog out there for us. It’s okay, we’ll keep looking.”

One week later, on New Year’s Eve, the shelter called. The gal told me that Molly was back and asked if I was still interested?

Oh my gosh! Absolutely!

Now both Roxzi and Max were out of town so I was home alone. I was worried about introducing her to the kitties and Rosie on my own so I asked my favorite fella, Tony, if he would help me out and go with me to collect. He didn’t hesitate to say “yes” and we were at the shelter within an hour. I can’t tell you how excited I was!

The shelter lady ran down all the rules of introducing new pets.. but I’ve been there, done that so many times… I knew there would not be a problem.

She was especially concerned about Molly and the cats being that Molly is an alpha female, and the nature of a hound is to retrieve small animals.

Tony was a darling and endured the lectures and was right there for me and Molly. I renamed her Molly on the way home which she took to right away.

We must have been a sight to see.. this huge dog’s head sticking out of one side of the bug, and her tail out the other.

She drooled terribly all the way home. I was worried about that, but I’ve since learned that she was just extremely nervous. She doesn’t do that anymore.

When we got home, both cats greeted us in the driveway. Molly proved no threat. She got on with Rosie just fine, and it was apparent that she was instantly part of the family.

Molly knew where she belonged.. she picked us.

Dustie and Rosie did too.. but those are other dog tales.

Thank you, Molly! Happy Anniversary!

Bye for now, all you beautiful Bloggers!
Happy New Year!

Thanks for the Memories!

2008-12-19T07:31:00.000-08:00

I had a great talk with Rich German yesterday… no, make that Wednesday. He’s a personal spiritual and guidance coach. I’ve listened to several of his meditation calls and enjoyed them very much. Well it turns out to as a marketing ploy, he offered to have a free, one-on-one, personal coaching call with the first five people to sign up through his website. He had a whopping 250 people vie for the spots! On a whim, the sweetheart decided to extend his offer to everyone that applied!

So, he called me Wednesday morning precisely at 10am as we had arranged. He’s a super nice guy and we immediately hit it off fabulously. One of the first questions I asked him was about all the free calls; I told him my thought of, “is this guy nuts?” He laughed and replied that he was so overwhelmed by the response, he just decided to go for it, and thus far, it’s proved quite lucrative for him—he’s getting a lot of new clients.

He was very helpful and just plain fun to talk to (but of course, that’s his job—and he’s good at it cause he got me motivated).

He loved the idea of the Story Keeper!

So, here I am, folks.. keeping family stories and memories alive forever!

More to come.. but if you can't wait to get started, feel free to contact me today!

WINNER!

2008-11-30T14:14:00.000-08:00

YAY! I'm over the 50,000 word goal... I did it!

Not an easy feat... I'm lost my tan. My kids and friends think I'm nuts (but they thought that before, so it's okay). My waistline has inflated, and my butt hurts!

But it was worth it!

Will I do again next year? Ask me next year.

I'm taking Molly for a nice LONG walk...

Cheers!

Middle-aged Adolescent Masterpiece

2008-11-21T09:35:00.000-08:00

Lately, with the help of hand analysis, I’m beginning to see my true calling, but the closer I get the more confusing it becomes. I feel I’m on the brink of a breakthrough, but I just don’t know.

I had a call with Baeth Davis, the Hand Analysist. She was discussing the Persephone Line in our palms. Apparently, not many people have them.. I happen to be one of the lucky ones. I’m so friggin’ confused. The Persephone Line denotes shamanistic qualities, holistic and spiritual understanding, deep emotions… danger zone, depression (it can happen, but I tend to recognize it coming and can pull out quickly—because depression does not serve me.)

So, not only do I have the gift marking of the Persephone Line, I also have: the Apollo Star – Artist in the spotlight (and that’s my dominant one); moon stars – profound intuition and intuitive flashes; a Mars star (that I just noticed yesterday, but I don’t think I’m a weenie) – exceptional courage—no fear to be the underdog, flip side – anger/ rage (nope); Neptune stars – more mastering of deep emotions, deep understanding, the water-baby stuff; the Medical Stigmata – gifted healer, healer to healers, flip side to that is intimacy breakdown, I think I’m okay there (although, how many boyfriends have I had?).

And then I also have the girdle of Venus (doubled in places!) which is an indicator of hypersensitivity, in my case physical… yep, yep, yep.. that’s me!

So, I’m profoundly and intuitively able to feel deep emotion and see into the depths of people.. plants, animals and children in particular, and I imagine the reason to that is because they’re not closed up, they haven’t learned to block what comes so perfectly natural.

I guess I already knew all this stuff about me (gee, how could I not—I’m a deep thinker and already thought this stuff up—says so right in my hands ;-)) Now, I just have to figure out how to get it to serve me.

Baeth suggested I’d better get my artist butt out there in the spotlight, and write for the public eye! Okay world, so here it comes, my middle-aged adolescent masterpiece… the masterpiece of me.

Coming to a bookstore near you soon!

A "Flushing" Issue

2008-11-16T20:30:00.000-08:00

Everybody, everyone in the whole wide toilet seat bearing world, should put down both the seat and the lid!

I’m so sick of hearing women complain about men leaving the seat up. Yes, there is not much worse that getting up in the middle of the night to go potty, not turning on the light (cause heck we really are trying not to wake up), seriously waking up by plopping into a cold bowl of potty water!

Listen ladies, fellas—you too! Men have to pick up the seat, why shouldn’t we do the same with the lid? And everybody, why can’t we all just PUT IT ALL BACK DOWN--AFTER EVERY USE??!!

Who in thier right mind really wants to look in the gaping hole of a toilet! Toilets are ugly enough as it is. Beautify your bathroom… just put the lid down. Men, you are stronger, and can pick up and lower both a lid and a seat in one action.. ladies, really it’s not that hard to equalize the action of just raising and lowering the lid. The lid’s there to close that ugly thing up in the first place.

Okay, enough on the topic of toilets.

Over 25,000 words with NaNoWriMo challange... half way there! It's all down hill from here (yeah... right :-/)

NaNoWriMo

2008-11-09T12:21:00.000-08:00

Sorry to get behind here. I do have some qualifying things to say about the last entry, but I’ll get into more detail with that at a later date. I talked to Baeth (no typo – she changed the spelling of her name) again. She lessened my line of clairvoyance to a Mercury line. Mercury lines are more intuitive. But, she did point out a large Moon star, so back we go to the clairvoyant thing. What she said this time made more sense and pegged me better. I off the hook as a “Crisis of Meaning Consultant.” Still a spiritual healer, just in a different way more suited to me. Anyway, more on that later.

Besides enormous plumbing problems that has haunted me this past week (the house’s, not mine ;-)), I’ve taken on the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge to write a novel (except mine’s more of a memoir) of 50,000 words or more—about 175 pages. I’m over a quarter of the way into it at almost 14,000 words and not too far off schedule.

The idea is to just write.. don’t edit, don’t fret… just write! It’s not that easy, as I like to go back and reread – fix; reread, add a little – fix; but I’m being good, I’m just getting my thoughts out. It’s a good exercise in diligence.

The good news is… the plumbing is repaired (I hope).

Nano Nanu!

Spiritual Healer?

2008-10-28T17:16:00.000-07:00

Well, I listened to the recording of Hand Analyst, Beth Davis going over some of my gift markings with me again.

I did know about the Apollo star and that she was going to tell me that I was to have “fame and fortune in the arts,” and that I knew I wasn’t going to like hearing it… though I know that’s part of what I’m supposed to do.

But she also said, (and I guess that first part blew me away so much, I could hardly comprehend the rest of the call) regarding my “line of clairvoyance” and the fact that I have the “gifted healer” lines too, that my life purpose is… now get this… and I quote, “a Successful, Well-Paid, Spiritual Healer in the Spotlight.”

She also clarified I might want to call the position as a “Crisis of Meaning Consultant,” whereas I can help those who are finally beginning to see the light of spirituality, but need help and support crossing that bridge, or coming out of the “spiritual closet,” so to speak.

So, would that be, “Spiritual Crisis of Meaning Consultant,” or Crisis of Spiritual Meaning Consultant?” I don’t think I like the word “crisis.” But people are having trouble dealing with trying to understand and alter their beliefs.

I don’t have a problem with spirituality, so how can I help?

By supporting and pointing out the obvious to those ready to listen to their own inner wisdom.

The line of clairvoyance shows I am in tune to a “higher spirit radio,” as Beth puts it. (Reminds me of the old Bluegrass song.. “Turn Your Radio On.”) I know I’m in tune.. guess I just never knew how much. She said, according to my hands, I am a “Master of Universal Law.” Pretty cool, huh? Actually, I’m quite stunned cause hands don’t lie. Do I get a certificate or something?

I know that I get it, and I know that most people don’t and won’t until they are ready. And I do know that the collective consciousness is shifting (which is a relief). And now, somehow I’m here to help those starting to understand that there’s much more to life than what we were taught by our parents, tradition and society.

I think, it’s time to tell my tale. Kinda like my buddy, Tom Justin, an ultra-successful business coach, did. Just recently he came out of his proverbial "spiritual closet" and told the world of his remarkable experiences beginning when he was a young man. He, like me, never told cause people would think he was crazy. (And yeah, back then, they would have.)

So, as I sort this out further, I’ll draw a few pictures, restring my guitar, and begin pecking out my remarkable story for the world to know.

Ciao for now!

Artist in the Spotlight.. YIKES!

2008-10-16T16:49:00.000-07:00

Last night, Beth Davis, my hand analyst, nailed me to the wall during her Life Vision Purpose tele-class about “gift markers in your hand.”

I was in the hot-seat and with my hand prints in front of her. First she said I have a line of clairvoyance, (a curved line running up from the wrist to the pinkie) meaning my intuition is highly developed and I need listen to my gut.

Then she got to what I was afraid of most… the huge Apollo star on my left hand.

An asterisk like star under the ring finger means “artist in the spotlight.” Artist part I get; in the spotlight is the terrifying. And the funny thing is… I knew she was going to blast me.

She did! And after the call was over, I couldn’t stop crying.

It was hard talking to her, being open and honest… an emotional authenticity thing… but I did. Beth congratulated me on stepping up to the plate, and said she could hear so much emotion in my voice. And that I need to get paid for what I do best, what comes naturally (well heck, it’s a GIFT), and what I love.

I haven’t done much drawing in several years (pen & ink), but it’s time to start up again. Oh, I know it could also mean guitar playing, or writing (writing.. the least of my fears), but all I could think of was drawing… I need to draw.

In tears, I called my fabulous fella after the class. I told him what she said. He concurred, and said he’s been telling me that for years. That I do wonderful work, and people will pay.

We were at the Getty Center a week or so ago, and came across and exhibit with pen and inks. He told me, “You can do that!” I could only stare at the works and say, “I know.”

I know.

Beth asked, what frightened me the most?

Fear of exposing my soul, because that’s what it is, my soul coming out, naked for all the world to see. I’d almost rather walk around naked.

Also, the fear of rejection. Yes, what if they don’t like it? Well some people won’t, but Beth said succinctly, and I know this too, I’m not doing it for them, I’m doing it for me. Only for me, and for fulfilling my life’s purpose.

And you know what? It feels good when I do. When I draw, when I play guitar, when I write creatively.

It feels good. It feels right.

Emotional Authenticity

2008-10-12T19:51:00.000-07:00

Emotional Authenticity...

What the heck does that mean? According to my fingerprints, I am in both the “schools” of Love and Wisdom.

Being in the school of love (seven or more loop prints—I have eight), I am here to learn to love myself and others. To stay present with myself and my emotions and convey my feelings, in other words, don’t hold back.

And I do hold back. I keep it all tucked in tight. I think I’m better now with age, but I still don’t want to face certain scenarios. Avoidance is so much easier, sigh. And though, I do face up to my responsibilities, I tend to wait to the last minute (procrastination—a school of wisdom thing).

So, emotional authenticity means being true to oneself; saying “yes” to oneself; exposing oneself by saying what you feel?

Loving oneself and others… I feel love for others all the time. Especially animals and plants (they don’t often talk back). Oh, I love my kids and family, my friends (close ones of which are few), but I do tend to keep to myself. A hermit in magician’s clothes.

Watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat.

Which leads to the school of Wisdom (two or more tented arched fingerprints). Utilize what you know. Quit being an observer, (I’m so good at that, I love being an observer) and tell others because you do KNOW so much.

It’s all about learning, and that’s what I love to do… learn, But the school of wisdom says, I need to let the knowledge out. Speak up. Voice a knowledgeable opinion. There’s so much stuff I do know about, and sometimes, I’m amazed at myself… but at the same time, so little I know. I humble down.

The school of wisdom is not about acquiring wisdom, it’s about releasing it.
I’m a Virgo, and a healer (typical Virgo) with many vertical lines beneath my pinky finger. A healer to healers.

I don’t know much about how a car functions, that’s what I pay the nice man for, but I do know how people function.

I’m very interested in what’s ailing you. I want to fix it. I KNOW I can.
So the school of Wisdom places me in the lion’s den of knowing, but not voicing.
Talk to me.

It’s time for me to voice.

I Killed the Cake

2008-09-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my son, Max’s 20th birthday.

He wanted a "killer cake," so I agreed to the deed.

Boy, did I ever kill the cake. But it still tasted good. And, he didn’t seem to mind too much.

Well, any cake pans I had disappeared long ago.. so I geared up and bought two new, beautiful non-stick ones (instead of the flimsy, throw-away aluminum ones).

I found and cleaned up the old hand-mixer (Wow, it still worked!) and actually found two mixer-beater-thingies that matched.

But, I realized as I started the process, I forgot to buy the chocolate pudding mix to throw in the batter.

“That’s okay,” Max smiled smugly, “just add extra stick of butter. That’s what Hunni would have done.”

So I did.

It smelled wonderful, but the concoction rose only about a quarter inch. “Oh well, so it’ll look funny, it’ll be all right,” I thought.

I took the pans out of the oven and let the beasties cool.

When it came time to do the building, Max standing ready to assist, flipped one pan over neatly on a plate; the cake dropped right out.

With my pan, I cleanly lifted the flattened cake out with my fingers. It was firm and flat. I made a flipping gesture with it at Max.

Chocolate cakes do not for good Frisbees make.

The cake, just a little too heavy for such a maneuver, broke into pieces and hit the floor.

The clean-up crew was there in a flash, but I held them back and quickly picked up the chunks to salvage what I could.

Of course, both Roxzi and Max EWWWWed and shouted, they weren’t gonna eat that!

Don’t blame ‘em, really.

I let the dogs vacuum up the rest.

Max quickly frosted the remaining disc and decorated it with the traditional chopped up Peanut Butter M&Ms. He was just a little anxious.

Then, to top things off, the fact that between daughter Roxzi and I, we could not for the life of us find a single birthday candle.. or anything of a waxy nature to suffice.

Good ole Max (my genius son) came through with a... wooden match.

Needless to say, we sang very quickly.

Yes, my mother was the cake maker of the family (along with being the story keeper, and since her passing, I’ve feebly attempted to follow her lead, but my passion for cooking is not as great as hers. I always have to look up a poem I wrote shortly after her crossing, To Kill a Cake, to try to remember how to make her famous delicacy, what she dubbed, “Killer Cake.”

The poem pretty much tells the tale… (thank goodness I like to write, or there’d be nothing!)

To Kill a Cake
Quizmo LaGrande

My dear mother, Hunni, passed away
To other realms, in heaven’s stay.
And with the Love, she took her best
Cake recipe; would you have guessed?

The grandchildren loved to assist
Her mix and stir, they knew the list.
"Secret" ingredients to make a treat
The likes of which all cared to eat.

Thus “Killer Cake” came of fame,
"To die for!" was my Mother’s claim.
Every birthday, fall or spring,
For “Killer Cake” the kids would sing.

Alas, dear Hunni’s gone away,
And with her, “Killer Cake,” I say.
No one could match the way she’d make
That luscious mound, for heaven’s sake!

Of oldest daughter, I did inquire,
For her birthday, what she’d desire?
She looked at me with saddened eyes,
“Killer Cake,” her small reply.

I shook my head, “Uh-uh, not I!
“I can bake a cookie, or a pie
“But cakes were Hunni’s, understand?
"Your wish is not of my command.”

She thought a moment, then she said,
“You can do it!” and bobbed her head.
“Yes, we will help, make no mistake,
"We know how she would make the cake!”

I bought the strange ingredients
And took them home obedient.
“She never followed the directions!”
The kids regaled in recollection.

“An extra egg? A tub of… THAT?”
“Yep! Taste to see it’s thick and fat,”
Turn the oven to five hundred!”
How will this ever work? I wondered.

“Don’t set the timer, just won’t do,
We wait until the thing smells through.
“Mix the frosting while we wait,
with pudding, cream cheese, ain’t it great!”

I figured burning cake and house
Would bring cute firemen to douse
The flames of home and cooking passion
And dreams of birthdays, Hunni fashion.

But soon a smell came wafting through
A chocolate glow, so rich and true;
“The knife will never come out clean!"
A secret to her cake cuisine.

“It’s time, it’s done!” the children yell.
I shook my head, “How can you tell?”
“It’s her way,” they dance and croon
“Believe us! Can we lick the spoon?”

In all, approval took a stand,
“You did it, Mom! It turned out grand!
"We thought you’d kill it, make it dead…
"A treat To die for! you baked instead!”

The moral: cooperation bakes the cake,
With death there's no reason to forsake
Matriarchal cooking passion,
And dreams of birthdays, Hunni fashion.

© Copyright 2002 Quizmo LaGrande. All rights reserved.

Happy Birthday, Max!

~ * ~

Contemplation

2008-09-18T06:51:00.000-07:00

Contemplating one’s navel is what first comes to mind.

Contemplating one’s goals and future achievements is another.

Lately, I’ve been contemplating the lines in my palms.

Yes, that’s right, the lines in my palms and my fingerprints. Fascinating stuff, really.

Did you know that your fingerprints are formed when you are a mere 14-weeks in the fetal stage, and that they NEVER change for your whole entire lifetime? Quite true.

The lines in your palms, on the other hand (is there a pun there?), can, will, and do change. For instance, a very good girlfriend of mine thirty years ago, a brilliant artist, had a very prominent Apollo star under her ring finger (known as the Apollo finger) on her right hand. Now, always being interested in all forms of metaphysics, astrology, tarot, etc., I knew that this asterisk formation mean successful artist, or success in the arts. Considering myself an artist at the time (and I still do), I certainly checked my hands for such an esteemed gift; alas, there was none.

But now, probably appearing in the last few years (without my noticing), is a huge Apollo star on my left hand, the family hand (as I am right handed). The right (or dominant) hand is the business hand.

According to this “gift” marking, I need to be a “star in the spotlight.” Scary. Very, very scary for me.

My other gift markers are “healer” (a series of four or more vertical lines directly under the pinky) and “lines of genius” (three or more vertical lines on the upper section of the pinky), Moon stars—intuition (asterisks on the Lunar mound, the fleshy part on the side of the hand under the pinky), and Neptune stars on the bottom center of the palm, near the wrist (I don’t know much about yet, but I’ll find out more later today).

Our hands, the lines, the mounds, the prints the color and shape, are all a roadmap of our lives. It maps where we need to go; what we are destined to do. It’s quite remarkable.

This is NOT what many think of as traditional palmistry. It’s not predictive… “You will have umpteen children and die at the age of 92.“ Nope, it’s not like that at all. But the methods of “hand analysis” are scientifically proven. Your fingerprints tell the basics for your life, the lines give the details of what’s happening now.

My teacher is Beth Davis. I saw speak at the first Bridging Heart and Marketing Conference last February. I was obviously impressed. You can visit her website through my affiliate link, Beth Davis the Hand Analyst. There are some terrific articles and interviews.

Richard Unger, http://www.lifeprints.com/, is also very impressive. Lots of good info about reading your fingerprints.

I’ll try to keep you abreast of my learning as I go along.

I’ve studied palmistry before, and now I find that I have to do quite a bit of unlearning. For instance, the “life” line, is not an indicator of how long your life will be, the length, in this case, is insignificant. It shows how well you live your life.

So, till next time, I’ll just sit here contemplating my fingertips and try to figure out what makes them flow, and lingering over the lines while lusting to figure out what makes me go!

If your happy and you know it, clap your hands...

Cheers!

Inspiration

2008-09-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

Where does it come from? Where does it go?

I had an inspiration this morning.

Early this morning.

An inspiration to write about the wonder of me. I didn’t get out of bed and do it, and now wish I did because that wonderment, that moment of being “in spirit” has gone.

I will admit, I’m still me, I’m just curious what splendid thing I was thinking about at the time was so great?

Perhaps this new moment of “in spirit” inspiration is even better.

I went to a conference this past weekend (Friday, Saturday and Sunday) called Bridging Heart and Marketing hosted by my friends and favorites, Judith and Jim.

Drs. Judith and Jim are relationship experts that have broadened their scope from personal one-on-one relationships, dating, marital and alike, to marketing the magnificence of oneself, which they call “Soft Sell Marketing.”

It was a marvelous event! The venue, the Ayres Hotel in Manhattan Beach, CA, was superb—quaint in a large-enough way to support the 100-plus guests and attendees. It’s right off the 405 freeway, so very easy to get to, and from.

I regret, in a way, that I missed Saturday. But I really wanted to see my brilliant, lovely daughter and her handsome, equally brilliant, new husband before they launched themselves into a new adventure and a new life in a new land, Tacoma, Washington Land, Fort Lewis Land. They are excited, and so ready to venture forth. I admire them to the utmost! (Another post.)

I loved every moment of the conference (when I was able to be there). So many beautiful, high-minded people! Each one unique and entertaining in themselves. All entrepreneurs venturing out into giving the world what they “love” to do, and what they know best.

Thank you so much, Judith and Jim for such a great get-together! You are truly inspirational.

You can check them out at Judith&Jim.com.

Inspiration comes in so many forms, from so many places. It's our job to recognize it and follow through with action.

Now, what was it I wanted to write about this morning?

Oh well. Next time.

Peace.

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

2008-08-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I was going through an old day-planner of mine looking for a list on “How to Be a Successful Dreamer,” that I remember jotting down in a doctor’s office from the October, 1987 edition of Life magazine.

Well I found the list all right, and I found short, medium and long term goals lists I had written for myself back in the day… WOW! Almost everything was check off! I have my dream house, banjos, piano.. I even baked the fruit cakes! I just have to get all the traveling done.

"Learn to sew" was one of them… I don’t have a clue what I was thinking with that one? Oh well.

I believe the article was called, “Avoid the Vanilla Syndrome.” And here’s the list I copied down…

“How to be a Successful Dreamer”

1. Avoid the vanilla syndrome. (Try something new, explore, live a little, live a LOT!)
2. Start young. (Do what comes naturally.)
3. Choose your parents. (This one’s a little tough.. I think I did a pretty good job with this one, my parents were wonderful. I have a note next to this one saying, "let your children be free.")
4. READ. (No problem.)
5. Have an awkward adolescence. (Gee that one took me to age 40.)
6. Be male. (Be aggressive, in a positive way, of course.)
7. Choose a nurturing spouse. (Well.. I’m working on it.)
8. Live in a place you love. (I think this is VERY important!)
9. Know what makes you happy. (Oh yeah, baby!)
10. Don’t give up. (We really don’t have much choice.)
11. Don’t grow up. (Big thumbs up on that one too!)

I also found a few rough drafts of some stories I wrote about the kids when they were little. I have to get them spiffed up and posted. The kids (the youngest 17) loved reading them. It was fun to find!

I can honestly say, I am very content with my life, and there’s very little I need or want. Travel and write, write and travel.

A couple years ago, a gentleman friend asked me on our second date, do I always get what I want? I had to think about it a moment, and honestly replied, yes, I mostly do, sometimes it just takes a while. He said he did too. And for both of us, we didn’t mean it in a greedy way, but in a very good way.

Several months later I saw The Secret and BING. I all ready knew it. The lights went on! That’s what my friend was talking about.. manifesting! He already had it pegged, but just had a different language for it.

The Secret talked about many techniques and principles I already knew and practiced and believed from forever, but never really talked to anyone about because they’d think I was nuts or they would just plain not listen.

Now, well, I’m still nuts. And sometimes people listen (because it’s more acceptable now), but many still won’t hear. All in good time, my pretties, all in good time.

So I’ll work on a new long-term list.. wow, ten years from now just think of what a wonderful life I’ll have!

Dream big, people! And know well.

~The Story Keeper~

Morning Bitch

The Sky is Falling

Who are Your Top Teachers?

Funny How those Fingers Work… or not.

Normal Isn’t Natural

May the Fastest Fingers Finish First!

Aura Colors and Pam Oslie

A Graceful Upsidedowness Part 2~The Light

NaNoWriMo

Grand Canyon (Part Finally!)

Grand Canyon (Part Two)

Grand Canyon or Bust! (Part One)

To be continued…

I Cried

Never Judge a Book by Its Movie

Live Like a Dog

A Reoccurring Theme (This is "Weird")

Can You Tattoo?

Move Over, Chester

Nerds Need Not Apply

I See Stars

All the Buzzz

"Who's Walking Down the Streets of the City... ?

Beware: Genius at Work

Trip Canceled

Puppies - Post Partum

Puppy Blues..

Puppies.. Day Three

You've Got to Pick a Puppy or Two

Script Frenzy

No Blarney Spoken Here

Pride of the Pack

The Pee-Wee Posts (Continued-Part Three)

More Pee-Wee Posts

A Pee-Wee Posting

Bakersfield (Part Two), the Back Way

Not Niceties ~or~ The Valentine’s Day Massacre

Bakersfield (Part One)

A Twitch in Time ~or~ The Nose[hair] Knows

Super Bowl XLIII

Slapping the Ego

Mousetrap Mania (Part Two of Riddle me this... )

Riddle me this, Batman...

How Do YOU Spell Malibu?

Miss Molly

Thanks for the Memories!

WINNER!

Middle-aged Adolescent Masterpiece

A "Flushing" Issue

NaNoWriMo

Spiritual Healer?

Artist in the Spotlight.. YIKES!

Emotional Authenticity

I Killed the Cake

Contemplation

Inspiration

A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes