Life Lessons and Other Cerebral Gas

Sid Sirloin

2009-04-10T08:11:00.003-05:00

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&ssPageName=STRK:MEWNX:IT&item=290280002664

Here's where you can buy Mark Christiansens new book, Sid Sirloin. It is reminiscent of the Hanna Barbera cartoons I grew up with. Atom Ant to Yogi Bear, they all brought a smile to my face. More of a glaze over honestly. I would fade away into the 2D world, a voyeur to the nutty lives of my favorite house pets, Tom & Jerry, or cheering on Spa-ce----- Ghost. Of course I make a connection to Under Dog as well. Personal reasons.
A refreshing retro feel, and a clean story line introducing a stable of new characters to the fantastical 2D world, kid friendly story filled with archtypes, life lessons, and friendship.

2009-03-30T17:36:00.003-05:00

One of the happiest people in the world.

That's my sister.

A superb teacher, a wonderful sister, an awesome daughter and a fantastic parent and wife. It's no wonder she has been awarded honors.

So let's hear it for Mrs. Stockton of Glendale Unified School District!

R U STOOpid?

2008-02-24T16:48:00.003-06:00

Two and a half feet tall, just as old and mostly diaper, he fingered the two parts and pinched his face up. In his tiny jeans, and mini work boots, he was quite the little man, so when he tilted his Scooby hat back, and wrinkled his brow, it was hard not to laugh. He squinted in Papas direction, contemplating the potential exchange of words, then he moved towards him with conviction. Handing the segments over, he asked, "Fiss it?"
The denim and plaid beard replied, "Thank you, is this for me?"
"Fiss it....peace?"
"Well thanks, but you keep it...okay?"
The embryonic farmer before him, shifted in frustration, squirming out the words again.
"Papa...fiss it!...peace!"
The old fool smiled over at me oblivious to the quandary. "Why is he giving it to me? What's e want?"
Before the obvious escaped my lips,Haven took another step closer, leaning into his target threw his hands up to hips all crossed up and asked Papa point blank, "R U Stoopid?"

He hasn't changed much since then, 'cept bein' a little taller mebe.

word count 176

OMG! It's J Lo!

2008-01-07T11:58:00.000-06:00

Hominis est errare, insipientis perseverare
[It is for man to err, for a fool to persist]

3-11-18-28-53-(37)
7-23-33-47-51-(14)
4-21-36-46-52-(6)

According to the Missouri Lottery website, these are just some of the numbers they call cold numbers. That means they don't hit much, or lately, or, lets just say, they aren't very lucky.

Saturdays winnings numbers were:
4-11-16-33-40-(9) with a power play of (4)

Explain that.
Three of the numbers were off the computer generated Cold list.
So what does this mean? I have no idea. If you too are searching for the answer, maybe you should be watching the TV series Numbers instead of reading blogs. Or better yet, become a Numerologist so you can dazzle your friends, apply mathematical equations to everything like breathing.

YOU: HI (breath, equating mentally whether this person you just met is a waste of flesh)
NEW PERSON: Lo
YOU: (another breath. chances of this person being a smart ass are 85%, chances of this person being Chinese 15%. Still computing for worthiness).
NEW PERSON: What are you staring at?
YOU:Nothing
NEW PERSON: So you think I'm nothing, a void, inconsequential? You think you're better than me?
YOU: (Oh great, I forgot to breath, now I've stepped in it! Deep breath)I'm Jack, with a J, I'm an idiot.(breathing, equating, the percentages say that this person is most likely an insecure smart ass with no job and nice cleavage).
NEW PERSON:J.
YOU: (breath, computing, 45% chance her IQ is around 100, 55% chance she's a parrot. Worthiness points bottomed out. Odds of her name actually being J Lo.....Oh My God....it's J LO! Screw the math!)

Does mathematically dissecting the world around work for the average idiot? I'm guessing... no. It would be like building on sand. Does it work for picking the winning lottery numbers? Well, I don't know. How many mathematicians have won the lottery?
word count 290
1/7/2008 11:28 AM

The Cat's not Bored, Or Dodgeing Golf Balls

2007-11-15T13:20:00.000-06:00

You know you spend too much time alone when every thought, no matter how inane, finds it's way past your lips regardless of company, or lack thereof.
I'm rethinking the amount of alone time I designate to self, plus cat.
When I rattle off at the mouth over every little provocation I am entertaining to a feline shut-in, but am looked at askance by other humans (under 60).
When I was a kid, my best friends mom had been through a lot. It showed in that she began mumbling, and humming to herself a great deal. Every fleeting thought, and memory, leaked from her perfectly lined lips. She was a retired beauty queen.
I thought the quirk very odd.
I loved her though.
I also, hoped, that if I ever were to get that way, the end would mercilessly come quick.
I see how my Persian's fascination is peeked, following me around like a golf fan. She, shuffling along within ear shot, no matter where I go, watching my lips, and tilting her head in question, not sure if she should be listening, or ignoring my sounds.
It makes me think.
I'm losing it.
At least the cat's not bored, or having to duck golf balls.
The behavioral oddity of excessive verbalization is not all that uncommon. Most people have found the cell phone craze a simple camouflage for that type nutty behavior.
Hold a phone to your face, and all of a sudden
...WAH-LAH...
you look sane.
It gave me an idea.
Wear the phone around my neck with the nifty cord that came with it.
Whenever someone starts looking at me like my cat does, flip it open,
and say,
"Sorry, had to take it off speaker phone, can I call you back later?"
Instantaneously, you are reprieved from your momentary lapse.
You see, when I first started noticing my nut bag was over flowing, I decided to reintroduce myself to a more social structure. I opened a brick and mortar store. There were no longer days, or weeks of nobody to talk to but myself and the hair ball. John saved all his talking for his friends and family and just sort of used me for venting. He would come in at the end of the day, do his play-by-play of his aggravatingly ME day, while I was expected to stop the world and give him my undivided attention while he dumped, then without being allowed a word in the one sided conversation, he would exit to his room, and I could breathe freely once again, like he was never there.
I was getting way too into my alone time. languishing in the productivity and sheer freedom of it.
I did my thing, got back out into the social order, shook things up a bit, and now am prepared to dig in for a long period of me plus cat. I need to focus on my creative projects, which I do best in isolation.
I figured out that I wasn't kicking divets as much as I thought, and that now I had a fix-it for the ones that slipped. I can look as important as a four year old texting her BFF, or sane as any gossip (there's a contradiction to laugh at)...by talking to the phone...even if there's nobody on the other end.
Shhhh, I won't tell anybody, if you don't.
word count 547
11/15/2007 12:51 PM

We Are Borg!

2007-11-11T15:01:00.000-06:00

Blessed Are The Record Keepers, For They Connect The Dots
~ Cerebral Gas

With the coming of the digital age, obscure information has become obscenely easy to come by. People are running out of excuses for their blank pedigree charts. Genealogical maps are no longer only for the monetarily blessed. Anyone can research their family tree, and post the findings for all to see. It can work for you, or against you, as proven in a recent article my sister emailed me linking some royalty to treasonous figures of history.

I personally have used the web to find long lost best friends, an ex-husband that ran years ago, I have stumbled across relatives, researched anything from Avian Flu to zymurgy, posted my twisted thoughts for all to read, downloaded literary classics, and posted personal pictures of redneck farm life. Anything you want, anywhere you want to go, it's all in your PC. No passport, no vaccines, no airport security nightmares to deal with. Just push the power button and google away. Awesome!

Once a person discovers the World-Wide-Web (the Borgian collective unconscious to Trekkies), it's hard to resist the pull. You find yourself assimilated into the research Mecca, seemingly without a desire to do otherwise. Only you don't get any cool mechanical appendages fashioned from obsolete digital hardware parts. I take that back, I've seen more than one ass-bag trade in their Lazy-Boy for a top-of-line Wal-Mart desk chair fresh out of the box and smelling curiously like the plastic bag it was packed in, not able to let go of their fancy new wireless mouse that connects them with....everything. Me , for one. Television has lost it's long time standing as number one home entertainment.

I'm really glad to see so many trade in their non-productive hypnotic trance for the interactive learning tool we have now at our fingertips. It's turning the world into a more united working force, mostly for the good.Let me hear a , "WE ARE BORG!"

You Are Assimilated

2007-02-21T14:21:00.000-06:00

Today, is the first day of the rest of your life.

I don't remember who said that, only, and most importantly, that someone did. I'm sure it was some sort of intellectual with a monetary investment in the rights.

If you are into cliches and borrowed thoughts, I've got one for you;
Today, yesterday is officially over, and tomorrow is only a day away.

Woops, I think I just stole the last half of that from Little Orphan Annie, or her song writer. I can't be sure who. It is so easy to fall into the opacity of the plaegerism trap.

Have you ever had such an epiphany, that you were able to be faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildiings in a single bound, in order to grapple for a pen and paper to record your profound word play invention, only to find upon sharing, that someone else had beaten you to it, which left you wallowing in the aphasia of a dim bulb?

It leaves one to wonder whether, we, the people, are capable of a single original thought. Which leads me to the possibility of the collective unconcious. If you are a Trekky, think Bhorg. Some believe that we are born assimilated, pulling all ideas out of the energy field that is all living things. All that information, just floating all around and through us, free for the taking, unless of course, if someone else plucked it out first and filed a copyright or patent. That brings us back to the plaegerism laws and other tidy little clauses in the legalities of mankind. There are some hefty fines for reusing phrases and technologies that have had the mark of another legally embedded, which are not yet in the public domain.

Being the artistic type, and money poor, I fret about such things. It takes all the fun out of creating when you have to google every other sentence of your copy to make sure you're not going to get sued by some obscure individual with delusions of grandeur once you sell your presumed uniqueness for some lunch money.

Creativity is a gift meant to be shared, and I don't see anything wrong with earning a few dollars doing it. Everybody has got to eat. I've given away more of myself, as in objects d'arte, than some artistes produce in a life time, so having this oppportunity to cash in on a little piece of my brightly colored, heavily populated world of insanity, in the form of a made for television cartoon, is kind of an, it's-about-time thing. I'm ecstatic and scared. I don't fear success, I fear failing to make people laugh. Twisted, shallow, and deep, all at the same time.
2/21/2007 2:6 PM
word count 458

Giving the Doodle-bug Carte Blanche

2007-01-23T22:20:00.000-06:00

To toon, or not to toon, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler to sit on my dead ass behind a cash register for the rest of my life, ever wondering, what could have been, what would have been, had I run with that box of crayolas that started me on the toonage path, or, to just blaze a trail to cartooning heaven? VT4, on a trilobyte, or troglodyte, or a something-like-that-hard-drive, with RAM in gigabytes, and all the Pixar effects I can dream up, all at my fingertips! Gee, let me think...
It appears, that I will be going to Nashville. You know, following my dreams, and all that.
Ever since I was old enough to appreciate all the activity in an animated short, I've dreamed of being the creator. Not like in God per say, more like Walt Disney, Hanna-Barbara, or the physicist that created Beavis and Butthead. I dig the idea of being able to imagine it, slather it down on paper (anything will do in a pinch), and watch it come out of my daughters humongous screened TV. My very own life-size, techni-color world where everything is possible and insanity is probable.

I do love my store, don't get me wrong, It's just that I never remember dreaming of being a merchant someday. It's something that just evolved out of need. The need to be doing something monetarily satisfying. I have been going through all the motions, slowly building something out of nothing. Yet still, I sneak time in for my cartoons and writing about dribble, because that's what I was born to do. Unfortunately, it hasn't made me any denaros to speak of, therefore it has been a hobby and not a livelihood. All that is about to change.

Most people walk around dreaming of being a reincarnate of some famous person, or becoming well known for their own deeds in this incarnation,something with fifteen plus minutes of fame attached to it. I don't know who I might of been, or if I ever was prior to now. What I do know is that my one thing I do great is to totally make fun of....everything. It didn't win me any Brownie points, especially in the less creative fields I was required to do time in during college, yet it keeps leaking out of me. It's where I come from, who I am, and where I'm going. All that matters, is that I create; Anything that will coax a smile, an untimely blush, or cause the urinary tract to malfunction. Once that happens, I know I have done my job right. You can have the spotlight. I am perfectly content to change the world, one smile at a time.
1/23/2007 9:51 PM
word count 452

Bon Jovi-licious

2006-10-18T12:46:00.001-05:00

At what age does optimism become absurdity? Is there a point of no return?

Life has taught me that the little boxes representing age categories are much more than squares on a page. For instance, the 40-45 check box marks the transition from liking to shop in the junior’s section, to having to shop in the large frumpy womens section, because there isn't a stylish selection available for anyone larger than a small 9. So, by default you're forced into ugly clothes, because we all know that most fashion designers for major department stores are incapable of believing that any woman that can learn to live with mid-life cellulite has a right to look good doing it, especially if she is of the moderate to low income bracket.

By the time a woman reaches the next life change, the following little cube attached to numbers, she's had enough of the categorical niche she's been stuffed into and begins venting in Towanda rants. The clothes outlook is still dismal, the available man market is even worse, and while her ex is hot-rodding around town with a fresh new tart in the sports car she should have gotten, she's finally finding herself.

While wholeness is a pleasant state to contemplate, if given a choice, most would trade that for a brief liaison with a Jon Bon Jovi-licious house painter in a minute. Too bad the chances of that are so slim, unlike our profiles.

With each new check box, comes a new list of collateral losses to come to terms with, until in the final stages when the butterfly turns into the caterpillar with a bust line where her waste used to be, and an ass greatly resembling that continent Down Under.

Back to my question. Is a positive outlook at my age a sign of unwavering faith or is it a latent side effect of all those aluminum incased TV dinners I ate as a kid?

Numerology; I may as well be naked in a room full of people

2006-10-10T15:12:00.002-05:00

Normally, I don't plug advert's, but this one left me wondering, Do the numbers add up, or did they just read all my meanderings? I'm guessing they just did the math. It would be a tad less tedious. They included the formulas for figuring out these numbers, but they didn't cut-n-paste well, so being me, I deleted them. You coud visit this site for the full lesson with yourself as the guinea pig. Find out what you already know, like I did. What's the point? Well, it's not all about you. It's about the math. Being human, we love to find out what others perceive of us, and like one of my favorite country icons sings, "...occasionally, I want to talk about me..."(it's a human defect).
Divination, in general is a fascinating thing. I put num erology into that divining ball of wax, because, after all, it can tell you as much about your future, as your past.I'm exposing my soft under belly by posting this. Good thing I'm not one of those people that are overly concerned with such a small sacrifice in the name of science. If you know me, you'll be nodding through the whole thing like the little doggie in the back window of my old Fairlane.
Free Numerology Mini-Reading for Susan
Birth name:Susan Irene Zuelke Date of birth: July 1, 1959
Hi there Susan,Thank you for visiting my website at www.123numerology.com, and for requesting this free mini-reading and ongoing numerology tutorial.Over the coming weeks, I'll be giving you a wealth of information about numerology (all completely free of charge!). I look forward to taking the journey with you - numerology is a true passion of mine, and it is my hope that you find numerology to be just as fascinating as I do.Let's jump right in by starting to analyze your numerology chart ...
The best place to start is with one of the most basic calculations ... your "life path" -- based on your birth date of July 1, 1959 -- is 5.
Susan, your Life Path of 5 ...You are about freedom, independence and the right to follow where your heart and gut-instincts lead you in life. You are an inquisitive soul with many questions that can only be answered through travel, exploration and experiencing a variety of life situations. For this reason you are likely to relocate to various cities or countries during your life and also entertain a number of life partners as opposed to just one soul mate.You are best suited to freelance work or being your own boss as stuffy offices and rigid routines are deadly to your imagination and soul. You are a great lover of human nature as well as one of it's greatest observers, which is why you would make a good archaeologist, historian, writer, journalist, reporter or artist. You are great at dealing with people and also do well in any "front line" occupation. For instance many crisis workers, emergency care workers and leaders of self- groups are fives. You need a job that allows you to meet a lot of people as well as brings you a variety of interesting experiences. You also have quite a spiritual bent to your personality that may send you on many personal vision quests. Most 5's are multitalented but they never stay in one place long enough for one of their projects to grow and blossom. Seeing things through to completion is the best way to make sure that you don't suffer poverty or bitterness in your later years. One of your greatest talents is the ability to communicate, either verbally or through the written word. Your expansive observations of life plus your ability to see all points of view makes you an excellent teacher. Most 5's end up teaching at one point in their life so others can benefit from the rich tapestry of their life experience. You are also a daring spirit that has a love of adventure. You are usually very physically fit and enjoy good health for your entire life if you stay away from overindulging in drink and food.
Your Expression - which describes your potential natural talents and abilities - works out to be a 7.
Susan, your Expression of 7 ... Your Potential Natural Talents and AbilitiesYou are a secret rebel and a loner preferring the company of your brilliant thoughts and fantastic daydreams to the company of other people. You are incredibly spiritually sophisticated and this creates an odd air of detachment to your personality. You tend to express yourself in a very blunt manner to others simply because you are not a big believer in wasting time with niceties. You tend to not express yourself well through your facial expressions or body language although you can be quite eloquent with words. You do not say much but when you do say something it is usually acutely observant or very enlightening. To you the ultimate expression of your higher self lies within the mysteries of science, nature and the occult. Most number 7s tend to be interested in all three topics. Many are mathematicians, naturalists, anthropologists, historians or priests. The virtues of solitude appeal to you most as it allows you the peace and acres of time that you need to investigate your favorite subjects. Even if you have never gone to school you probably have the equivalent of a Ph.D in some kind of esoteric or scientific subject. An important part of your self-expression is the ability to be able to pass this knowledge onto a willing enthusiast or student one day. You are also likely to choose a romantic partner that shares your intellectual passions. As you are so quirky it takes a very special person indeed to understand your complex body language and need for a lot of personal space. Usually when you do find a partner that understands you, you are so grateful, that you become loyal for life. You have a child like need to be inquisitive and live in a fantasy world. You are very logical and in terms of your personal tastes, believe that beauty is a matter of form following function. You are also a perfectionist so much of what you own will probably be the very best or state of the art. You should be well able to afford this as your deeply analytical and logical mind also often lends you a talent for investing money. Although you like owning the best on the market you are not the type to show off. You tend to hide your wealth from others as well as you hide your other secrets. This is partly an attempt on your part to see if an individual likes you for you. Your reverence for the mysteries of the universe makes you an adamant seeker of truth. Now, Let's Examine Your Soul Urge(also known as your "Heart's Desire")In your case Susan, this totals 9.
Susan, your Soul Urge of 9 ...What You Desire To Be, To Have, and To Do In Your LifeThe highest expression of your soul's urge is to connect in a mystical way with others. Although your aspirations are lofty, you are also a humanitarian who is often gifted with a sharp intuition and keen analytical skills. Often you give up opportunities that should be yours, simply to help another. This is because your faith in yourself, god and the future is so strong that you live by your conviction that the universe is always unfolding as it should. Others simply do not possess your spiritual sophistication and may be amused or repelled by what they see as your irrational talk or beliefs. You may be accused of being stupid or foolish simply because you won't take the bait (of a job or money) at the expense of your ethics. As you are driven more by compassion than common sense, you are the first to fall on your sword for a worthy cause. You may often be broke because you see money only as a tool of change. You would much rather spend money on art, charity or a trip. In fact, ostentatious displays of wealth anger and disgust you because your ideal is a world where all humans are equal. You might appear very eccentric to others who don't quite understand your fascination with the spiritual world or your insistence on being a seeker of truth. Furthermore nines tend to get carried away when it comes to trying to heal or connect to others. As you are so talented psychically, you often become a liability in business simply because people in authority resent your ability to perceive their secrets. You rarely rise very high on the corporate ladder simply because others see you as a threat to their cloak of political intrigue. You have a soul that must be continually assured and fed with new sources of spiritual information. To stay healthy, your psyche may require that you make special trips to holy or mystical places. You may have to seek out special teaching to help you understand and cultivate your talents so that you are in control, as opposed to terrorized by them. Being able to foresee the future or see through other people is often painful, so some therapy might be required in your life to help you detach from your own sensitivity. Many nines often find themselves subject to a lesson in becoming humble by the cosmos simply because they were too boastful of their talents. Making money off of your psychic talents may also cause you some problems, as part of your path is to heal without the expectation of reward. If you are working professionally as a psychic and are a nine, then remember to tithe at least one tenth of your earnings towards a worthy cause. However the highest calling of your soul urge is to share your intuitive talents for free.I hope you are enjoying this brief glimpse into the world of numerology -- the science of numbers, which governs much - if not most - of what happens in your life, your relationships, your health, and your economic future.Please also realize this:What I Have Given You HereHas Barely Scratched the Surface!Susan, what I've shown you so far is just an extremely small fraction of what is possible through numerology ... I've basically shown you three of the nine-hundred-plus calculations I do in a typical reading.I've just given you a very general overview. With a full analysis, you can explore your life and personality like a microscope, revealing more about you that you ever dreamed possible.Your personal life, your career, your relationships, your finances, your future ... you'l learn about it all. You'll not only experience the peace of knowing the path you are best to travel in this life ... you'll learn how to capitalize on specific opportunities that might otherwise pass you by, and what pitfalls may befall you if you're not ready for them.I kid you not ... people have both laughed out loud and cried tears of joy when they identify with characteristics they have never shared with a single soul ... when they realize the reason for the struggles they have been going through ... when they learn about the gifts they have in this life that just needed to be pointed out to them.As a valued subscriber, I'd like to make you a very special offer on a full length numerology reading that fully explores virtually all areas of your life (including your career, relationships, specific events and opportunities in your future), leaving no stone unturned!You'll find full details here:http://www.123numerology.com/specialThanks for joining me; I hope you enjoy this fascinating journey of discovery ...Peace and light ,Blair Gorman123 Numerologyhttp://www.123numerology.com/

Horse Scents

2006-10-04T16:24:00.000-05:00

There was cracking, and a great groan; the tractor came up onto it’s rear tires as the front swayed, the engine pulling, then it came down hard as the beams gave way. I covered my ears from the sound of 100 year old, seasoned hardwood splintering. The loft heaved forward and dropped to floor level. The roof smiled big, it’s toothless defiance held true.

“I don’t believe it! It’s all twigs, holes, and a few old shingles. I thought it would implode for sure. Dam! Well, you up for some disassembling?”, I squinted and brushed off the dust. Yanking down the bandana covering my nose and mouth, I walked round for a better look at the whole structure.

“What are you laughin’ at? You look like a BALD raccoon. Least my version is more natural.” I huffed, and kicked at the much shorter side of my barn.

He shut up and climbed down from the drivers seat, joining me on the ground. “Unbelievable. I could just burn it right here?”

"I think not. That barn’s going in the house. Save the good pieces before you light it.”

That was the end of an era for me. My horses were gone. Gone were my chickens, ducks, and that crazy Toby The Wonder Pig. I hated to see it go. But then again, I figured it a safe wager nobody’d be dumping thier cats here anymore. I was staying broke because of city discards. Some days, dozens of new faces would appear in my barn at feeding time. I couldn’t do it anymore. If I had to sell my horses, then those cats were hitting the high road.

I’d been ill, medically bankrupt. Those days are behind me now. I miss that old barn, being out there, instead of in here. I miss the animals; Mostly my horses. Heck, I even sold my truck before I sold them. Things are better now, and I’m thinking it sure would be nice to get back in the saddle. I’ve had this big notch carved out of me since they left, and I want it back. I need to feel whole again.
I was rummaging for VHS tapes this morning, and A Field Of Dreams fell out onto the floor, and it got me wondering, I’ve got dreams, I’ve got fields, so, if I build it, will they come? The horses I mean.

Faux Pas Anyone?

2006-09-27T17:45:00.002-05:00

If I had a nickel for every time I did something stupid, the lottery would seem like a total waste of money, with such a bottomless supply of moronic behavior at hand. There are nicer ways of saying, mistake, like, faux pas. Almost sounds sexy. I know I’m having a bad day if I use that phrase three or more times. It sounds a heap better than, I’m an idiot. The unmistakable connotations leave nothing to the imagination. Leaves me wide open for ridicule too. Whereas, if I say faux pas, they forget all about what I just did, and start asking what it means, how you spell it, and where the heck I heard of such a thing.

Me: That’ll be $4,590.00….woah, for two Snickers? We’re gonna have to drop the price on those candy bars if we want to move them before the next ice age, eh?
Customer: How much is jus’ the coke?
Me: That puppy’s only 50 cents. You don’t need the extra ass-baggage anyways… Oh wait, I’m an idiot, says here the Snickers are only 69 cents each. What ya say we jus’ do it over?…how d’ya spell void?
Customer: (starts contemplating the two foot tall pile of goldie locks on my head) That hair all yours? You mus’ got a mess o’ roots all tangled up in yer head missy.

Never was much of a salesman.

Never did figure out why the cash register did that. Every once in a while, it has seizures, and makes stuff up. Then it straightens itself out and starts ringing up the real prices, right as rain. Speakin’ of, that’s what I was just wondering. Is it going to rain today? It’s dark, chilly, there’s an owl out there bellowing, and the place is quiet. Almost like I’m not supposed to be here. Weird.

Moo-Baby!

2006-09-23T22:55:00.002-05:00

It's a Beautiful day in the neighborhood....won't you be....my neighbor?

It was a warm-fuzzy day today; I almost felt like sidling into an old cardigan and singing kiddie-show tunes. Last night about this time, I was stressing over the last two weeks being so slow I could've danced naked outside the store and nobody would have noticed. Okay, maybe a few truckers would have lifted an eyebrow. Today made it all better. Several of my favorite patrons decided to stop by and visit. We shared a lot of laughs, and some war stories. Talked about our dreams, totems, favorite pets, and I put a little coinage in the till. All-in-all, a good day. I even acquired a nice set of throwing knives from the local Paint Ball field owner and his taller half. The look on his face was priceless, yet brief, when I spewed, in my excitement, "Oh yeay....I can't wait to throw them at somebody!". Yes, even he, had to think for a second before realizing I was kidding.

It got us on the subject of survival training, not that I personally need any. Like I say, if I can survive one major mistake that left the residue of his last name intact, raising two kids, going to college, outliving a second mistake, working anywhere and everywhere that wouldn't fire me for having a family emergency (usually involving children, being ill, or doing something tragically wrong like trying to cook and accidentally catching the house a fire whilest I'm at work),...well, everything else is small potatoes. Yes, if you were to leave me out on the top of a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, it would be reduced to a mole-hill by morning, I being no less for wear, then I'd gingerly step off the tippy-top of the highest peak as it sank into the valley below asking for directions to the nearest Waffle Haus.

So, getting back to what I was saying a million words ago, this friend, is thinking about starting another side gig teaching survival training. He'd probably be good at it.

Around here, you have to have more than one iron in the fire, if you don't, you're liable to end up with bread or butter, but most likely not both. Makes a good meal hard to come by. I guess I should count myself lucky, I don't run one of those bait-n-tackle-beauty salon-pizza parlors. I love what I do, all of it. I especially like that I don't have to have curtains on my windows for fear of voyeurs, like in the city. That's my favorite part. The cattle don't care much what I look like, with or without clothes. And after closing, it's me, the cats, and those nosey cows. Moo-baby.

9/23/2006 10:32 PM
word count 448

Good Trade

2006-08-26T16:57:00.000-05:00

The gravel sounded crunchy under the Fairlanes tires. Beads of sweet were gathering along my forehead, making my bangs stick to my eyes. The two men waved, and pulled away. I smiled weakly, then turned to admire the new truck parked in its stead. I was happy, and sad. I knew it was time to let go. It was still difficult. That old car had been mine for a few years. I can’t count how many times I half-heartedly decided to sell, then changed my mind. This time I followed through, and it was good. He got the car he’d been looking for, and I got the truck I needed. Good trade.

Tim Burton Nightmares

2006-08-19T22:02:00.001-05:00

Nothing like a bad strawberry to put that cows bung-whole look on your face. Things like that keep the tears from my eyes at the seasons end. Not that I need all that juicy goodness going to my butt year round anyways.

My garden has already run it's course. Everything is pretty much the same color this time of year...crispy, heirlooms and weeds alike. As usual they say it's supposed to rain...again, and I doubt it...again. It seems to split off North or South before reaching our corner. It's been hot. I melt like gum on a hot sidewalk, or Ben Stiller in an Indian restaurant. Unfortunately, the second I enter the air conditioning, I plump back up with instantaneous water retention. The only part of me not complaining is my bust-line, the rest is screaming for a huge sale in the Big-Beautiful-Women's department to alleviate the building pressure. Brings to mind the image of Violet, the giant Blueberry, being rolled away by Oompa-loompas. Great, now I'll have Tim Burton nightmares all night. I should know better than to eat fruit before bed anyways.

8/19/2006 9:50 PM
word count 187

Sam I Am, I do Not Like Green Eggs and Ham!

2006-07-12T16:49:00.001-05:00

Sam I am, Sam I am, I do not like Green Eggs and Ham!

Colors are another thing that passes in cycles. When you were two, your favorite color was red, at five it was orange, at thirteen, black was the color of choice. Preferences say loads about a person.

For instance, the woman that just left my fine establishment was critical (anal, if you prefer), aloof, ignorant, self-righteous, ill-informed, angry, and very over-weight. She was wearing dark blue slacks in an unattractive Walmart cut and a light blue tent top. Had short dark hair in a non-descript chop-shop-do and toted an adolescent like a pet pooch.

She hadn’t taken two steps in the door before I knew I wouldn’t enjoy idle chit-chat with her. So I busied myself with my daily shipping routine and tried desperately to keep myself out of range. Usually, I jump right into conversation if the colors, clothes, and demeanor are correct. You see, the over-use of blue indicated all of the aforementioned personality quirks. The unattractive cut of hair and trousseau screamed a critical and confused Christian, possibly Baptist. The sadly slouching preteen looked like a whipped pup. No doubt detested and scorned by the mother for being moderately attractive and desiring a typical teen wardrobe, of which she could have carried off quite well…if it weren’t hammered into her as being a sin. So she hung her head in disgrace and hid behind a mass of unkempt hair, ashamed of puberty and no doubt, worried about the spam a jealous mother fed her about the sins of the flesh ( spam; a jellified mass of by-products forced to conform to the can it is crammed into for marketing purposes) . I bet you’re wondering what she was wearing. Maybe, another time.

Being observant is commonly confused with psychism [i.e. “Psych”; a new detective show]; But, if you combine psychic ability with keen observation, pour it into a D cup and top it off with a pair of big beautiful cerulean eyes and long flowing cascades of sunlight, then you’ve got one scary woman. Ask any man. It can be hell on a womans love-life. At least until she finds the man that can appreciate and handle her well-rounded gifts gracefully.

I was going somewhere with all this. Oh yes, it was that green chick with the bouffant. An exhausting individual. That’ll have to wait for another time, more big blue Baptists just walked in.
Oy! I’ll have to conjure my cloak of many colors for the third time today. I deserve an ice cream cone.

For Petes' Sake Why New Mexico?

2006-04-23T01:04:00.000-05:00

For Pete's sake can someone please tell me what is in New Mexico?

If you know me, you know that I am fond of divining. So much so, that I am opening a shop right here in Missouri.Tarot, Pendulum, Dice, I Ching, Tea Leaves, Runes...there is an endless sea of fortune telling methods available, and I like to explore them.

I look for signs in everything, because, as I was taught by a wise woman (my Mum), that everything happens for a reason, and that it's always for the best...sometimes, eventually. In other words, a delayed reaction to an action.That can be hard on the instant gratification generation. Patience is not a common virtue amongst them. I personally, can hardly control my excitement and wonder at what tomorrow will bring. Upon any pivotal moment, my mind is racing for a solution to the great mystery before me. Like when it's time for opening the piniata at a party. Most want to bash away, and pounce voraciously on the contents before it hits the ground, in many cases trampling what they coveted. I would be patiently waiting my turn while analyzing it for weak spots, and trying to calculate how to approach the job. I wanted to release the candy, sure, but I also didn't want to destroy the work of art it was concealed in. I wanted to gently knock off one leg and let it stream out naturally, thus prolonging the moment. While the rest were racing for their treats, I was asking if I could have the paper animals pieces so I could glue it back together and cherish it. I would always find something wonderful hiding inside. Something that was to be mine. I didn't have to fight my way in to snatch and grab before the next kid. I knew, that anything in that piniata, that was truly meant to be mine, would find it's way to me, no matter what happened.

So here's my question, why New Mexico? All the signs point in that direction. But why? my last writing assignment was a biography of a centenarian born in New Mexico Territory, brochures find their way to me, movies based in the state, books, articles, even things I find, like state quarters, worry dolls, pocket alters, etc, made-in-New-Mexico. My oracles all speak of travels, successes, invitations I must accept, phenomenal luck,love. This is MY year. So how does New Mexico fit in?Is it just my love for those flashy hot pink crepe flowers of the trinity, rock hounding, desert mornings or my curiosity about the Bohemian art community I have heard so much about? Of one thing I can be sure, Nobody's going to take my cartooning about seriously enough to warrant any serious interest. So a gallery opening is definitely out.

4/23/2006 0:40 AM
word count 434

"...if you're ever in Missouri..."

2006-03-27T00:49:00.001-06:00

Have you ever had a fairly uneventful day that ended with a chance meeting that left you smoldering? I mean that in a good way. You find yourself so intensely attracted to a person that you walk away?

I did that once. It was the most moronic response I have ever had to an attractive man. I'm not a shy person. So what was with the "Nice meeting you...if you're ever in Missouri..."?

That was back in '97, and for some reason, that whole evening keeps playing out in my head. Every little thing about him, including the fake German accent. It was good, that I'll give him. I also understood why he needed it at the time. In fact, I kept waiting for it to dissolve; which it didn't. I guess that's why I said good night and returned to my packing. I was preparing for the move to Missouri. I hated Utah and was desperate to be anywhere else.

I've met a lot of men in my life. There has been chemistry on many an occasion. While a biochemical based liaison can be momentarily gratifying, it's not what dreams are made of, nor is an STD , for that matter.

So why did I write this? I don't know. I guess I'm venting. I never told anyone about him. This is not a kiss-and-tell moral dilemma, it was just what it was ...well...if he wanted anyone to know he was there he would have ix-nayed the disguise-ay...and brought a camera crew.

So, if you happen across this, my off-season Valentine, discretion dear heart. You never saw this, and I never wrote it.
3/27/2006 0:34 AM
word count 289

Yo Momma Wears Combat Boots!

2005-12-31T22:38:00.001-06:00

My daughter Destiny is a soldier. The U. S. Army owns her. Maybe I should say she owns it. A wife, and mother of two, she sparkles like a zesty crisp green Vlasic in combat boots. That’s right, when the kids at school become of heckling age, her boys won’t argue or feel humiliated when the other kids say, “Yea…you’re momma wears combat boots!”
Instead, they’ll proudly agree and then counter with a , “..and she can
kick your dads ass too.”

You wouldn’t know it to look at her. Her baby doll features and innocent wide eyed sensuality can turn a room on it’s side. She’s 5’2’with a porcelain complexion, enormous glassy green pools kissed with long feathery lashes. Her aggressive nature reflects itself in her hairs refusal to hold coloring. She got that from me. We’ll be blonde to the end. It’s not our personal preference.
Armed with Army issue fire arms, she’s a formidable opponent.

When she was a kid I thought she’d grow up to be a knock-down gorgeous woman. I hadn’t anticipated she’d be a literal automated killing machine, a capable marksman.

So, when ever you think about insulting the intelligence of the next Bratz shoe-in that catches your eye, remember this, she could be the soldier covering your back in times of war and you know how hormonal women can be

.12/31/2005 10:31 PM
word count 226

Finding Neverland

2005-12-18T01:35:00.000-06:00

"....actually, you're a dog"

I love Johnny Dep. He's a fascinating creature. Will the man never age? He's come a long way since 21 Jump Street. I am always assured of a good laugh or cry when he appears on the big screen. Even on the little screen. So naturally, I was excited when yet another opportunity arose for me to take a magical journey with the inimitable hair gel hottie. I quickly signed up for my 2 week free trial with Netflix and pushed him to the top of my Que. I figured I'd been thinking about trying them out for a long time now, so why not now, since there are so many movies out there that I haven't seen, and will most likely not see if I don't opt in for home delivery. This time of year is too iffy to run the risk of late fee's. So I rarely rent. It's a 40+ mile round trip to the local Movie Gallery. That's why I would no doubt end up buying those rentals due to imminent winter time weather conditions.

I was really excited when Finding Neverland arrived in that bright red envelope. I waited until the old bald man left for work, made myself a superb pile of nachos and cracked open that Coca Cola I so rarely indulge in. I gently removed the DVD and sat it in the tray and exercised my remote finger. The drawer slid in and nothing happened. And more of nothing. So I ejected it to see what was the matter.

Oh, is that all.

It had a crack clean through. I was a bit let down, but I had My Big Fat Greek Wedding
waiting in the wings.

I reported it damaged and sent it on it's way. A couple days later I received the replacement copy. I danced around doing my best Mary Martin imitation and batted at the fairy dust drifting down from the ceiling fans. Then I lined out my evenings work on the living room floor in front of the tellie, tossed my taco supremes onto a TV tray and flopped down, my trigger finger itching.

Please work...awesome! Peta-Peta-Peta

I channeled Bette Davis, then composed myself long enough to plow into the sour cream that was oozing from my taco. The excitement was short lived. The picture froze, it moved, then it froze for good. I never made it past the "...you're a dog" scene.

So I'm thinkin', I'm just not meant to watch this flick...not now anyways. I got my gift wrapping done for two birthdays and Christmas while half heartedly engrossing myself in Batman Begins. I had a hard time getting past the cape crusaders lisp.

My doubly bad luck with this movie tells me that it must be a very popular one for it to of been released for such a short time and to already have two worn out discs in a row find their way to my mail box. Will I never find Neverland? I only hope that my luck is better when The Pirates of the Carribean 2 is released. As for Netflix? Thou shalt not judge, lest ye be judged.

12/18/2005 1:25 AM
word count 513

Claddagh Poison Ring; A Fashion Oxymoron

2005-12-11T00:04:00.001-06:00

WILL WORK FOR FOOD

That's my sign. The one I would be flashing at people if I were standing on a corner. Rare, I know. We're a dying breed, the ones that don't flinch at the prospect of earning our way. Heck, I'm just so tickled someone would actually pay me in exchange for my fulfilling a need of theirs.In case you've been wondering, that's where I've been.Working. Now I know what you may be thinkin', " How can she go off and forget about us loyal readers?"The answer is...money.

It being the most expensive holiday of the year, I've been beating the bushes for green backs. I haven't gotten my quota yet, although I may have had a couple of shrubs try to hit me back if they weren't dormant.I've been my resourceful self, selling anything that hasn't grown roots.

I've moved a lot of Oracles lately. And no, those have nothing to do with dental floss. Tarot, pendulum, Gypsy Fortune Telling Cards, stuff like that.My second biggest seller has been silver jewelry, charms and talismans. Anything from any religion is good mojo. I'm not Jewish, but I love my Hamsa. I Believe all religions are THE religion. The stories are similar, a lot of the practices have similarities too. It all boils down to The Father, The Holy Mother, and The Son. Their lives read like the ultimate Soap Opera. It has been transformed into Blockbuster hits and has remained on the Best Sellers list since the dawn of publication. Tragic, mysterious, awe inspiring page turners. So, a person can't go wrong catering to the spiritual masses. Besides, I may inadvertently win a brownie point with the divine omniscience.I was listing some great stuff today that I wouldn't mind owning myself if I could afford it when a shiny silver heart caught my eye. It glowed beneath a crown and between two slender hands. It was a Claddagh ring. I stopped a minute and admired i,t then gently tucked it into a tiny Ziploc and began writing the copy for the advertisement.

CLADDAGH POISON RING...

Right there I busted out laughing. You see, that's what I call a fashion oxymoron. A Claddagh is given as a gift of love and friendship. It's an Irish thing. However, I'm thinking it may not have been an Irishman that decided to create a poison ring out of the time honored gift. Yesser, you read that right. You can discretely stash a little dash of anything inside this ring. And honestly, if you want it to be discrete, you obviously have ill intentions. Am I right?

12/10/2005 11:50 PM
word count 435

The Anti-Socialite of Hogwaller

2005-11-30T16:51:00.001-06:00

My Prince hath come!

Eyeball deep in people, I thought I would bemoan another. I'm not much for crowds...unless they're my crowd. And well, I haven't had many crowds of my very own since I moved to Missouri. Call me an anti-socialite. That's a retired socialite in hiding. Can you think of a better place to disappear than in the country...in A Country with all the pretentious entrapments imaginable being beamed into your very own satellite dish? Only in America. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I understand why, as a soul awaiting birth, I might have chosen this particular life. Television, the internet...and best of all...household appliances. Even They can be beamed in if you have a cap-less Visa.

We've come a long way since the indispensable P-32 was invented.

Yesser folks,
It slices,
it dices,
it can even remove a gall bladder in a pinch!
The A-mazing, Army issue, one each, P-32!

I carried one for years, then I discovered fire and the P-32 retired to the kitchen junk drawer to live out it's remaining days waiting for Godot.

We, the higher echelon of the hog farming community, were crouched amid playing cards, and stifling curses in the middle of the living room floor, when a vehicle pulled into the drive. The distinct pitch of gravel on gravel announced the arrival. Before I could feign an unfortunate play, leaving my cards to Valhalla, the back door creaked it's introduction. The sound of small feet doing double-time measured a 2.5 on the Richter Scale as they made their way through the tiny farm house.

Grandma!Awe...you're a princess. He stroked my face and leaned in for a long overdue meeting in Xanadu.

And you're my prince!

You're so beautiful. He let the words escape in a seductive exhale as he scaled my bean stalks and melted around my neck like a sable wrap.

The love of my life had been gone so long. His mother has a tendency to up and move without notice, and she did, a few months back. No phone call, nothing. I'm forced into the waiting game and it's never easy. What is easy, is loving the little charmers she gave birth to.

Since my pre-technology days when a can opener the size of a Lima Bean was thought impressive, Troglodytes were The Cool People, and raw fish was considered a delicacy, I have evolved into this big gooshy Grandma thing. More complicated than solid state circuitry, more intense than a microwave burst, more powerful than a plutonium Visa card, and more pliable than silly putty in the hands of a five year old, than anything the copious convocation of the Sci-fi community could collectively conceive. That's what love can do.

Gee, just think, if my daughter could have kept her feet on the floor I may never have met my Prince, fallen in love, or ceased consumption of uncooked sea life.

11/30/2005 4:27 PM
word count 478

Jonesing For Shelving Units

2005-11-23T00:17:00.001-06:00

I was pretty amped up and didn't really need the coffee that was brewing. I threw myself together and double checked my list of to-do's while putting on the layers of winter attire. I plucked the blank check from Johns desk along with the list from the paper, tucking them into my top zippered pocket of my coveralls.

I hadn't been to an auction all year, but I couldn't pass this one up. Stores don't close down everyday, and I needed store shelving and a lot of other stuff. The floral shop had been in Nevada for years, I found out just how many, a few hours later.

It was cold, it being November, so there were fewer folks there than would've been in warmer weather. It was a common white house on an unimpressive corner, a few blocks off the main drag. Behind the house, the tattered remnants of a large green house that had seen a better time, was filled with open boxes. People wandered through, rummaging the contents for long lost treasures. Attached to the far end was the floral shop. There was a small trailer parked up by the front door where some elderly patrons were gathered in a friendly huddle. The white Styrofoam cups bobbed up and down, leaving wisps of steam in their wake. I sipped on my stainless coffee cup, wishing I was feeling social today. I felt more like a ghost, content to remain unnoticed and uninteresting, as I drifted through the maze silently at intervals throughout the day. There seemed no end to the haphazard additions that had marked periods of momentary prosperity. And just as it had grown, so it also shrank back from the decay of decades, until the only part being maintained was the store front.

I did my best not to dote on the trinkets. I was there for counters and shelving, and maybe a cash register, but I didn't see one. I had to keep telling myself not to bid. There were so many things I could have used for my store. Whenever the auctioneer would try to coax a $2 bid, John's face would drift into focus, chastising me for entertaining the idea of non-essentials. Even when he's not there, his nagging reaches out across space and chokes the life out of the best of days. He's such an old woman. So I would refrain, kicking myself the whole time. I knew what kind of bargains I could have gotten. Why did they keep veering off the path to the shelving? I really needed to see what they were going to run me before I dared indulge even one bidding war fantasy.

Eventually, they auctioned the shelving units. I bought every one of them. I also bought some flats filled with vases and other stuff. Boxes of fish bowls, some miscellaneous and mostly...vases.

I didn't get all the vases I wanted. There happened to be one antique dealer with a very deep pocket who won everything he put his mind to. I kicked at the dust and ground my teeth whenever he'd call my raise. I knew I couldn't win against him. I had a budget that had no room for such flamboyance.I did end up with most of the vases in the back room. I got many good pieces. Most I will sell., seein's how that's my business..you know,selling stuff I wish I could keep.

All in all, the day was alright. It warmed up, I got what I came for at a price I liked. I made a new friend, she's an artist from Huntington Beach, with many of the same interests as I. I even got some resale items, a few vases I could actually keep if I stick them up on the shelf when John ain't lookin', a huge floral cart (one of the I-could-really-use-if-I-find-one items) and a great walnut buffet, and all for half what he said I could spend, and still he tells me...in front of witnesses...that he'll never give me a blank check again. He always does that.He gives me money, tells me what to buy, I buy it, come back, give him the change, and he bitches until I pay him to shut up. Which mysteriously comes to exactly what I just spent.

So, he gets to come off like this big generous guy to everybody, and I look like the woman that takes advantage, because he doesn't do anything nice without the whole world hearing all about it and being given ample time to pay homage to his thoughtfulness, and he knows I don't tell anyone how it really went after he's through playing me. Hmm... I have a daughter like that too.

Well, I must not mind as much as I think I do, because after all, I'm still here.

11/23/2005 0:0 AM
word count 802

Mosquitos Bite! Especially if they carry Malaria!!

2005-10-20T19:52:00.002-05:00

Banning DDT kills millions. Yes, you read that right. In Uganda, Malaria is a debilitating disease that afflicts about 12 million of the country's 27 million people.

Environmentalists are opposed to the spraying of DDT. They prefer to be on the safe side, by continuing the ban on the pesticide after the 1970's release of Silent Spring by Rachel Carlson. It became the symbol of chemically based insect control overuse in agriculture.

While pesticides are viewed as hazardous in general, sometimes, the pro's out weigh the cons, as in this instance where nearly half the citizens suffer because of the ban.

The fact that DDT is responsible for eradicating Malaria in the U.S., Europe and much of Asia, is being ignored, and Ugandans suffer. The complacency of those that now reside in the safe zones, sickens me. I find environmentalists, armed with their facts, have completely lost sight of the impact a full out ban is having on Africa. If it is used to end the devastation on the human populace, the food exports will all become suspect, limiting their export.

Here are my questions.
How catastrophic to the environment would be the use of DDT if handled properly?
What good are the exports if they have the potential of transporting the affected mosquitos back to the countries that smugly refuse to aide a crippled nation?
What good are the proceeds from their exports going to do them if they're dead?

Unless you've got a better idea, why not knock out the rest of the Malaria carrying insects, then shelf it? How selfish and self-righteous we must appear to those we could help,yet refuse, by not finishing the annihilation of the disease-spreading mosquitos?

You know what they say, be careful what you do and say, because it'll come back around to bite you in the @$$. In this case, it could be a deadly mistake forall of us.
10/20/2005 7:20 PM
word count 284

Doug 36

2005-10-19T00:54:00.001-05:00

I've fallen way behind in my blog posting. So consider this a blog-a-thon. Tonight I'll upload some of my back-log.After a little updating and past tense tweeking, I'll be good to go,and you'll get a snicker or two out of my uncitified existence.

Boy, what I'll do for a buck is really sad sometimes.

There's a lot of down time involved in a rural store. By that I mean, you have a lot of time to contemplate things like, the meaning of life, day time TV and where on earth that awful smell is coming from.
After kicking back at the desk in every way possible, experimenting with radio stations, and rummaging the entire catalog of creative wall papering ideas, I went to a stack of papering catalog's near the front door. While crouched down and yanking the hefty volumes from the precarious row balanced against a carton of discontinued and terribly boring rolls, I took in a quick, deep breath as my knee screamed in pain. I quit breathing instantaneously when I got a lung full that left a bad taste in my mouth on it's way through.The stench of death infused my two hour old chewing gum with a sickening sweetness of the fairly recently deceased. I clamped my mouth shut and straightened out, which shot more unpleasantness up my body. I'm too out of shape to be moving so fast. I realized instantly that I had been crouched directly over a very dead mouse. For such a small creature it sure carried a mighty big smell.
I had finally found a purpose for my day; Rid the store of that aud de corpse. Whisking away the critter with a wad of toilet tissue did not suffice. The aroma stayed.I tried the usual Glade air freshener and got a potpourri of the two. Slightly masking, and maybe even enhancing it's subtle undertow. This morning I didn't think I'd find anything as chokingly infused as the warehouse air after running that old propane fork lift. I was so wrong. I dipped into the whole pile of deoderizer's claiming to be the best.
So here I sit in a room smelling of cinnamon sticks, citrus bouquet,lavender and spray starch, and undoubtedly, Jerry...the mouse, may he rest in peace, in the outside dumpster.

I start feeling a little old when other family members, namely my daughter, offers to do my dry wall. What happened to the days when I would have done it myself?
I walked out of the house this morning, eyeing the milk can filled with walking sticks of various shapes, sizes, and vintage. I contemplated giving in to the weakness in my limbs and bringing one along, just in case.
I decided I'd rather look cool when I fall down. The clatter of a free falling cane always draws all attention within ear shot to the idiot that can't even remain upright with walking aide in hand.
I've had to do a lot of kneeling today. Thank goodness my intuition told me to wear green-jeans. Those are my lime green ugly pants. While the color does not offend anyone with a lime fetish, they are comfortable, durable, and expendable. I think I did a fine job of disguising the bad taste of a retro color in an unattractive cut, even in an 80's state of mind (narrow ankles). I tend to forget that the fashion machine doesn't turn here. Anything is pretty much game, unless we're talking bold ethnic. I'm probably the only person in the Mid West that would dare, but then, I went out in public in my ugly pants, so what do I know?

Okay,all it took was one little delivery to end that I'm-so-old stuff, and give me hot-damn-flashes. His name is Doug 36. He's not an airborne virus, he's Fed-Ex Ground, and more of an intoxication. The 36 is because that's his number on a scale of 1-10. I should slap myself for being so silly, but I'm way over due for a stupidity attack. That's what hit me today. I was in a stupor. Rare for a person like me. I've always got something to say. I didn't counter with any Cerebral Gas wisdom like, "So, you ever been married? No? Do you like girls? Yeah? I thought you did. No doubt that's your problem. You oughtta set your sights a little higher up the food chain." Then I slip a sly wink in there and saunter. Not today.
While acting on impulse is a great fantasy all grandmothers cling to, we've been around long enough to know better. There are people that count on me in all my mid-life sanity. I'm not saying that getting older makes you more responsible, just wiser.
A woman is made the rock, the stability required to hold a family together. The role is born out of the need of others, not the desire of the aforementioned matriarch.
Ten years ago I would have hopped in his truck. Today, I sign the bill, shake his hand and return to the desk almost feeling like I should be having an after sex cigarette, because, that's as close to it as I'll get.
Besides, in my ugly clothes, I can't imagine anyone being impressed likewise.

You're Too Big To Be Afraid Of A Little Rain, Bubba!

2005-09-21T23:41:00.001-05:00

It sounded like an explosion. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would’ve thought it was just that. The night went off like a flash bulb. I could see for a quarter mile through the deluge. The smell of sulfur was thick and unyielding.

Poor Merlin; He leapt from his bed and frantically crashed into the front door. I held him close and told him it was just noise and that he shouldn’t be frightened. I tried to appear convincing, which isn’t easy when your dealing with a dog that owns exceptional skills in cross-species communications.

It was one of those storms straight out of a murder mystery. The kind I always scoffed at and swore spoiled the story because it wasn’t realistic. Way too dramatic. This was real alright. Wet shuddering electricity streamed downward with conviction and made contact with something in the distance. The sound about knocked me off my feet. My façade was faltering, so I sat on the stoop and put my arm around the quivering canine in hopes of reassuring both of us.

You’re too big to be scared of a little rain, Bubba.

His eyes were wide and questioning. With a thoughtful hunch, his head cocked slightly, he stared at me from the corner of his eye. He was giving me that look. The one he gets when he’s absorbing information and either trying to make sense of it, or letting me know he thinks I‘m full of shit.

What?…okay, it’s loud and bright and a little scary.

I hate it when he coaxes the truth out of me. Not the part where the dog appears smarter than me, it’s that he starts licking and stuff like he’s all proud of me for getting it. Then I have to go in and wash the dog off me, and heaven forbid I don’t come back out with the cookie he just won in the stare down.

Arthur, Morgan and Freya casually emerged from under the lawn chairs and joined us on the stoop. Merlin’s not what you’d call a cat lover, he’s more of a cat co-existent. He likes them fine if they stay out of his food and don’t try to cuddle on a hot day. Right then he gave them all a lick, then attempted to scrape the fur-balls off the top of his mouth nonchalantly, so as not to offend. They blinked acknowledgement of his gesture and continued watching the sky. He smiled and quivered and nosed Arthur, who leaned into it with the passion of a cross-eyed Siamese, almost missing the mark.

After the storm leveled out, I messed up everybody’s fur a little, stretched Merlin’s face out and told them not to wake me up for anything, but an act of God over 90 miles an hour.

When I got up in the morning, I went to cleaning out the garden lean-to. I got it all nice and clean and organized for fearful animals, in case I’m not home next time to hold their paws. I’d given up on it a while back because of the nightly visits by a destructive possum. That stinky critter didn’t come back after that last storm. Either Merlin finally got sick of it licking his bowl, or it was that thing stinking on B highway.

The weather has been all off kilter this year. It poured where it should have been dry, it baked where it should’ve rained, shorelines were altered, and we’re on our second enormous hurricane off the Gulf Coast in the same month. All the news coverage has given it a Hollywood feel to those of us not in the midst of the damage. I guess that’s how everyone else felt a couple years ago when we were pummeled by a record breaking rash of tornados. I have a dreadful feeling in my belly and am a bit concerned to what kind of winter we will have here in the Midwest. Most of all, I hope I never have to experience the terror of that force ever again. We were lucky, most of our neighbors were not. My prayers are with those presently dealing with Mother Natures wrath and you count me in on the collective will to calm her down.

Hopefully, the intensity of Hollywood’s, The Day After Tomorrow will never come.
9/21/2005 11:11 PM
word count 714

Buttlessman, Insano & Wonderdog

2005-09-02T02:21:00.002-05:00

Merlin, the keeper of the field and guardian of the screw gun, let out a holler that could suck his wagger clear up his tail pipe and outta his noise whole. Keeping with my routine, I bolted out the back door, flashlight in hand and scoured the south field for activity. A large shadow moved across the north window of my divine little shop that is now nestled in the corner of our clover field. I moved a little closer and held the light beam high as I peeked through the sun flowered wall of my garden. An eye glinted in the light as it turned to stare back at me. Merlin nosed my thigh and smiled up at me in his Do-I-get-a-Scooby-snack-now-? grin.

Two large ears twitched and swivelled, then the lanky intruder meandered out of sight. Deer are inquisitive creatures. They say curiosity killed the cat. It's killed more deer than anything else. A large doe was peeking in my store window and was non-plused by the dogs yellow-alert tirade. She was much more interested in checking out the shiny new obstruction in her path.

Either you need glasses or you need more lessons on what not to bark at. No cookie this time stink-butt. I'm goin' back in.

We've been working real hard around here lately. not that it isn't the norm. It's just different. You see, that little shop I mentioned previously, is now nearly complete on the outside. It's only missing the rails and the tin on the roof of the front porch....and a little barn wood front wall. The doors are now locked tight. There's nothing in there to steal yet, but I like exercising my right to lock out miscreants. Too bad I couldn't have done that day before yesterday. Actually, I could have, I just didn't. Thing is, it only had two walls, so the whole locking thing would've been a ludicrous futility. In fact, I teased John the day before when we went up to the house to eat.

John: Think anybody'll run off with the generator?
Me: Na, lock the doors.

I received the appropriate hesitation and then squint thing he does when he's contemplating my sanity. I rather enjoy pushing that button. Keeping the straight face as he sizes up the situation is the hard part.

John has been working very hard with a rag-tag team of volunteers to bring my store into existence. So being robbed is so unjust. He's worked so hard he's become concave where a butt should be. Gross visual huh? Well, it's true! It's a bird....it's a plane...no...it's Butt-less Man! Able to leap tall corn stalks in a single bound, able to bend corrugated steel siding with his bare hands...

Did I say robbed? ...yeah, we were robbed. Our sweaty little work force broke for lunch and high-tailed it to Sheldon to eat dinner. We were gone an hour. When we returned, no tools. They cleaned us out. All but the screw gun, and they had every intention of taking it. They had stretched out the extension cord and half untied the electricians knot before dropping it in the dust. Apparently they were interrupted in mid-thieving. Near as I could guess, the dog woke from his nap on the house porch in time to stop them from getting the last, oldest and most inexpensive tool.

Good dog.

9/2/2005 2:2 AM
word count 556

2005-08-18T02:01:00.000-05:00

A Castellation of Pine and Sky

2005-08-18T01:38:00.002-05:00

From the kitchen window it looked like a couple cows out nosing around my new erector set in the south field.

Hey...that look like cows to you?

What?

I pinched up my face in frustration. Good thing I had my back to the man. I silently wished he'd learn how to structure a sentence, a few more words at least. My inner martinet threatened catharsis.

He looked out over my shoulder and chuckled, That's yer lumber.

I know that, I just was asking if you thought it looked like cows from here.

The lumber lay silently in two tidy heaps jutting above the clover in the field. That was my store...rather...it was gonna be my store when it got done. The weather had turned on me from the start. As soon as we had the lumber delivered, the dry spell ended.

That was a couple weeks back. Today I looked out the same window, and saw a castellation of pine and sky. Even in the face of piggy-backing storms, my dream was taking shape. Mass (materials) times velocity ( hell-bent volunteers on a pressing schedule), equaled the skeletal beginnings of A Divine Little Curiosity Shop, to call my own. Since I can't eat on what I make as a writer, I've sunk everything into this venture. My online sales have been faltering at a bad time. That's been funding my building. Now I'm just concerned that I won't have enough to close it all in before the onset of winter. At times like these, it makes my need for a vehicle with air-conditioning seem small and inconsequential.

It all comes down to faith. I have enough of it to know that if I work hard, my needs will be met. So I will keep hammering away. I'll also keep my whimsical observations to a minimum if I don't want the single-syllable wonder to start commenting on his perception of my mental state, a naturally occurring exultation he savors at the mention.
Men!
8/18/2005 1:21 AM
word count 327

An Agressive and Horribly Stinky Scourge

2005-08-17T01:41:00.002-05:00

After the Tsunami and other weather irregularities, I'm guessing that John was not the only person to run out and buy the movie, The Day After Tomorrow. He was so intent on seeing the film that when the sales girl informed him that they only carried it in DVD format, he purchased a DVD player on the spot. I about had a stroke. I thought he'd never give in to the DVD phenomenon. Those little goodies were just too upscale for the likes of him. Curiosity got the best of him. He wanted to see what kind of atmosphere altering anomalies Hollywood was predicting. I didn't have to point out to him that the world-wide weather in general has altered a great deal during our life times.
John never liked reading, he avoids it at all costs...unless money is involved. He tends to dote on his green-backs. I figure if he'd of had a TV growing up, that he would have been one of those kids that would see writing a book report based on a made for TV movie as a logical alternative to the otherwise unavoidable literary confrontation.
This last week, we've had an abnormal cooling trend. Instead of the usual August pressure cooker, we've had rain, and lots of it. It's so weird to be able to go for a walk in mid-afternoon this time of year without becoming partially cooked. I haven't been the only critter taking advantage of the late spring/ early fall weather.
My garden has become overgrown and out of control. A very appealing homestead to a wandering badger. The fence didn't deter him. He had no problem nosing open the gate and finding a large rock to burrow under in the sage patch. He didn't get to enjoy it for long. John put about nine rounds into his head and stuffed him in a hefty bag.
My sage is now all trampled and uprooted. John did more damage than the foul creature that indiscriminately defecated on my holy ground. I had no problem forgiving the old coot that, as a man can't be too careful when confronting an aggressive and horribly stinky scourge. The badger, I'm sure, viewed him much in the same manner.
Now I'm feeling guilty about telling Merlin to be quiet the last couple of nights. I thought he was just being stupid, barking at shadows. I should have been commending him for his bravery and shoving Scooby-snacks into his face. Dogs are so forgiving.
I haven't had much time to write lately, with my planning my store and all. I have finally decided on a name. I shall call it A Divine Little Curiosity Shop. Flea Market is much too generic, The Corner Store is too boring, and I decided that The Hedge Apple sounded much too much like a horse turd, and face it, The Hedge Witch could restrict my patronage considerably, because, after all, not everyone has a sense of humor, especially those bible thumping old fart's that drive 15 miles per hour down the center line of the highway.
I'm going to enjoy the interior and exterior design work and even more fun will be the purchasing of interesting oddities and seeing how many I can cram into it without violating any building codes.
8/17/2005 1:24 AM
word count 547

Shoot 'Em Real Hard, Okay Papa?

2005-08-10T23:53:00.002-05:00

I'm a grandmother, like it or not. I love the kids, really I do, it's just the being called grandma part that is hard to swallow. However, I find it much more appealing than the locally accepted alternative form, Nanna, as the name carries heavy connotations if you're from Iceland. Granted, I am not sure of the pronunciation, but Nana is the name of the Armenian pre-Christian Mother goddess, and being blessed with the title of that omniscient one is an honor. However, the latter spelling, Nanna, can refer to the Mesopotamian moon god or the Nordic vegetation goddess. According to some legends the goddess of green died of a broken heart after her consort, Balder, was slain. A real downer of a story.

Since my companion is bald, and maybe even bald-er than most, I make the connection on a conscious level and fear carrying the title since it could mean his demise and a messy end for myself. So it's no wonder he doesn't mind being called papa. It has no weighty karmas attached to it that I know of, unless of course, if you consider the Spanish word for french fry (papa) might land you in some hot oil. Grandkids are great. My favorite thing about them has to be the things they say. My grandson, Haven, spent the better part of a week with us recently and the buz word this go 'round was fight.

You wanna play fight?

Let's fight!

I fight bad guys like Spiderman only I got no web...see. He said this as he flicked his wrist back in the classic Spidy manner.

I had to ask him why he was exploring this particular word so thoroughly. Only I worded it in 4 year old hip-hop slang, Why you be trippin' on fight homy?

Somebody got's ta git mean peoples...I'll do it...like this! He did his little Jackie Chan dance of death, complete with sound effects.

Child, there's other ways to deal with problem people you know.

Like shoots 'em? Pappa you got guns?

Yep ( A man of few words).

Then you can shoots 'em okay papa? An' I'll do this, as he chopped the air and kicked an invisible foe in the knee caps.

Grandpa grumbled, not knowing what to say and trying to stymie a laugh.

You shoot 'em real hard okay Papa?...an' grandma can git me some web shooter an' I'll tie 'em up all sticky.

So, if a 3 foot tall spider-chan-man hauls off and clobbers you in the lower extremities out of nowhere, you best reflect on what you were doing. It could be My Hero to the rescue!
8/10/2005 11:26 PM
word count 389

It runs in the family

2005-08-01T18:53:00.001-05:00

A Flicking, Yanking, Switching, Jerking Test of Wills

2005-08-01T18:17:00.002-05:00

I know I'm always commenting on farmers...John in particular. I can't help it. They're so darn entertaining. I feel like I was born on another planet. In a way, I was. We had indoor plumbing, cartoons and Disneyland. John, and so many others had chores, much the equivalent to that of a chain-gang doing hard labor. Television was for lazy people with more money than sense and the word Disneyland left a bitter taste in the mouths of those that were raised to accept that the Magic Kingdom may as well of been in a galaxy far-far away, since they'd never set foot in the grand brick entry paved in loving memory of family vacationers from around the world, excluding poor farm children.

Now honestly, there has to be folks around here that grew up much in the same fashion as I, I just haven't met them yet. I was working for a particle board furniture factory in Utah, which I hated. While I was there I discovered that the main office was in a place called Lamar, Missouri. A name I'd only heard about in an exhausting Kevin Costner saga about Wyatt Earp. The people that had all the key positions were from that place. They seemed nice enough, and they sure missed home. It got me to thinking about how I cringed every morning when the alarm would go off. I hated to be single, living in an area speckled with polygamous communities and run by the second largest cult in the US. Those Mormons left me uncomfortable. They were nothing like the Mormons back home, they were normal in California (that comment being relative to your geography). I even frequented the churches myself and had many friends in the ranks. They were just plain scary in Utah.

The people in Missouri are a hard working, brave lot that work their lives away, six days a week in a sweaty, dirty, plant where their only fringe benefit is a yearly picnic that bored me into non-existence. I admire their tenacity and humble demeanors and I get a kick out of the unique brand of humor that emerges. Blue Collar TV is a classic example.

I have never regretted the move here. No, let's be honest...hell yes I've regretted it! Every time I bash into a piece of furniture while groping for the ceiling fan pull chain in the dark, on account of Mr. Weber refusing to allow me to use the wall switches. When we first moved into this house everything was fine...until we installed ceiling fans everywhere. It put him at peace, reverting back to the familiar danglies. I, on the other hand grew up flicking switches and can't learn to blindly nail that cord no matter how well I know this house.

I'll never forget the day John came home all grumpy and stinky (the norm) and yanked the chain, nothing happened (not normal). He flipped out. He started a ranting about circuits shorting out and kept pointing his finger at me and began the barrage of ridiculous accusations about my office equipment and attempted some Nazi interrogation techniques. I just stood there, mouth shut, Windex and paper towels slipping through my fingers. When he stopped for a breath, in my annoyance I let the cleaning supplies fall and walked over to the switch and flicked it on and walked out. I took a long hike through the woods that day. It was the first of many.

I don't let him bother me anymore. If he were to do that now, it would start a war. A flicking, yanking, switching, jerking test of wills. Neither one of us have that kind of energy to spare so he'd just turn the switch and let the moody old hound lay these days. The powers that be have instilled a will in me that can leave cobwebs gather, the dust thicken, and the the laundry untouched if I am so affronted. I become instantly much too busy for domestic servitude.
I still try to placate the man suffering from chronic fear of change by leaving the switches alone... unless I'm cleaning the lights and blades like that day, and he doesn't get excited anymore...about anything. We'll explore the flip-side to that coin another day.
7/30/2005 1:51 AM
word count 737

Proud-to-be-an-American-farmer-even-if-I-did-grow-up-without-indoor-plumbing

2005-07-29T03:19:00.002-05:00

The male animal's genetic code has been ingrained with oddities such as the peacock syndrome, muscle flexing, and the ridiculous theory of two heads being better than one. Just because they were born with the duality, does not make it a logical assumption. Like I heard one woman put it, "With one of these, I can get as many of those as I want!"

I think that geography is a large contributor to the general consensus on virility. In California, men tend to compare the contents of their yuppie garages; In locker rooms, they are exceedingly consumed with physical attributes; in Missouri, it's the I'm a bigger hillbilly than you competition. Never before have I witnessed such absurdities as I have here among the ranks of the proud-to-be-an-American-farmer-even-if-I-did-grow-up-without-indoor-plumbing folk.

These farmers get together and they start spitting and picking and urinating in a no-holds-barred fashion. For instance, my John is not a spitter, but if you put him next to a man that does, the mucus begins to fly.
The concrete pad for my new store was poured the other day by a typically farm-reared pair of men. The young one was quiet and unassuming, the straight man in the unlikely duo. The older one, a genuine corn-pone and damn proud of it. He was a real character right out of Lil' Abner. I wouldn't classify him as being lacking in intelligence, quite the contrary. He had a lot to say about pert near everything. A real well-spring of acquired knowledge. How he acquired it remains a mystery, one I feared tackling for fear of it costing me a few more hours wages, as he's given to gab.

"We had ground hog fer dinner la's-nigh and we didn't even have to watch for buckshot! Man was 'at good! The woman used the right fire arm that time." He patted his belly to punctuate, which I thought was right nice. Given the flow of the conversation I was expecting a gastrointestinal-symphony to drive home the importance of a woman knowing her duties since I had already voiced my displeasure in the stereotypical and all the baggage that goes with it.

A collector of antiquities, he was fascinated with my massive collections of bound redundancies. His cursory regard a red herring that led to a homily on the per pound rate for paper at the local recycling plant ( a guy with a scale, a school bus and two storage sheds).

When his toothpick swung round to the 'tother side `o his mouth I could sense the shift in conversation coming with the next heave of his chest. He asked if I had any shoe buttoners.

"Ya know what a mean don't cha?"
"Of course", I ventured,"I found lots of old shoe leathers from those button top shoes when we cleaned out the barn, but no buttoners. "
"I c'lect `em, the buttonin' wands. I got 'em ferm all over...Missouri, Tennessee, Oklahoma. Never found one ferm Arkansas. Ya know why? They din't wear many shoes in Arkansas. Couldn't 'o, er I would a found least ways one. Mebe, i's got sumpin' ta do with their feets..."

In Missouri, people are merciless with the jokes about Arkansasrins. Apparently, at the southern border of our fair state, there is an invisible line that divides the hominids from the direct descendent's of Neanderthal Man. At least, the way they tell it.

When he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his over-all's, the toothpick swung back around.

"Ya know this boy here, don't know his mathematician. Yep, I've a taught 'im what a could. He din't even know... hey, ya know what half `o 12 is?"

I knew there had to be a catch, so far he had carefully led us in one direction and then bushwhacked from the rear on every subject.

"Why don't you tell me. Better yet, show me."
"Gots a pen n paper?" He drew out the number 12 in Roman numerals (xii), then asked me what that was. Then he drew a line through it ( xii ). "Nahow, wha's that?".

What a character.
7/29/2005 3:0 AM
word count 719

SUBMIT-EXPRESS.COM

2005-07-16T21:09:00.000-05:00

Search Engine Optimization and Free Submission

Squeezing Water Out Of A Turnip Truck

2005-07-16T19:45:00.002-05:00

One mournful sigh left me like air escapes a bellows, only not as constructively. Would I ever get to sleep? Why couldn’t I control my lack-of-sleep habits? I had a bottle of pills for that, only at the late hour, if I were to take one I would sleep clear up until supper the next day, so the only real choice I had was to stretch my cramping fingers in a frantic caressing of my QuikPAD, pumping out words in strangely affectionate strokes.

I spend way too many nights just like last night. All the quiet is so deafening I have to put it somewhere, so I feed it to my word processor, then follow it around with a baggie and pooper-scooper for the next three days waiting for the payoff. Kind of like that time I caught a brief glint of gold flash as my ring careened down the throat of my daughters puppy. Messy business. I’d much rather try to squeeze water out of a turnip truck.

I blame my love affair with inanimates on a fear of commitment. That’s right, I have hang-ups just like the next person.

I’ve heard women moan about how their husband is more in love with his car or TV remote, more so than with she, his wife, or how a woman kicked her boyfriend out over a water ring on her beloved Chippendale. If a man is so into his car that he can’t remember his spouses name then let him sleep with it…in the garage. If he’s the kind to stop at nothing to maintain controlling interest in the remote for the sake of dictatorship, toss it to him and tell him to hop on top of it next time he feels frisky.

If your guy gets the boot for leaving his mark on your Chippendale, I’ve got one question for you, “If you’ve got a drop-dead gorgeous male stripper lounging in your living room in nothing but a black bow-tie what are you doing letting the inferior specimen in?“ What are you….nuts? Dump the bum and keep the stripper. You won’t even care where he puts his glass as long as he’s wearing those rip away pants.

Ah…wait a minute, if the stud-muffin just lays there while another man sets his beer on him you lose either way, if you know what I mean…girlfriend.

Let’s get back to my main topic; I’m not the only one that prefers the company of things I own outright over that of the opposite sex. Somehow, that didn’t come out right. What I meant to say was, if a man does not please me, I can’t sell him for a profit, unlike his battery operated competitor. No, that sounded really-really wrong. How about, the only words that come out of my technological companions are the ones I put into them? Now I’m making my techno-toys sound like a bad date. This is where I would usually bow my head back to my work at hand and mumble something barely audible, so that my hard of hearing companion thinks I am actually paying attention to him, so I can continue to ignore him in peace. He hates to admit he can’t hear what I say, for fear of hearing about his lack of hearing and how he should get it fixed, so he just follows my lead and retreats while making an effort to disguise random verbalizations as an answer to the question that he thinks he didn‘t hear.

With men, it all boils down to power. Tim the-tool-man Taylor summed it up in 20 minutes weekly, with common male misinterpretations , splitting hairs like a blow-drier. It just goes to show that high levels of testosterone cannot coexist within the same body mass as philosophical prowess. If anyone can point out a man that possesses both, I’ll trade in my Ken doll in a heart-beat.

My only other quiet-time diversion would be reading, which I did for a couple of hours before stuffing thoughts into my flash card. I made the mistake of choosing an intriguing trade publications to wile away the time and that’s why , at 5 am, I was still awake. I read an article on editing by a successful agent with an amazing track record and I couldn’t wait to pull out my in-progress works and start assaulting adverbs and morphing adjectives.

When the miracle of darkness began to fade, I eventually got to sleep. I was up by noon and eating at my favorite restaurant by 2pm, then wandered the grocers aimlessly, chucking things into my basket at carefully plotted intervals, so it would look like I knew what I was doing. I was freed from the yearly bonding ritual much to my relief, when John hustled off to a local truck and tractor pull with a pal this time. Not that I don’t enjoy his company, it’s just too hot out there at 90, with 80 percent humidity, and besides… I really need to polish my keyboard tonight.
7/16/2005 7:13 PM
word count 846

To Indulge My Wonton Doodling Desires

2005-07-14T02:23:00.001-05:00

I was so happy when I won the bid for a new Summa Sketch. It’s been a year or two since I blew up the last one. The best part is, this one is factory sealed, never used. The first one was a used model that was advertised as new-in-box. I was a disappointed Ebayer when it arrived and I found it to be in less than new condition. You could say I was ready for a repeat performance of that purchase. Sometimes it’s great to be wrong, isn’t it? I love my office equipment. Maybe too much so. I come by it honestly…actually…genetically. My Dad loved his techno-toys. I never thought I would inherit that. I never thought I’d inherit a lot of things, like varicose veins, facial hair or organizational skills. I realize the latter is something most would call a learned skill and not genetically coded. I disagree.

Like my daughter, Destiny, I fought the urge to create a file system for such nonsensicals as used batteries with yet a breath or two of life left in them, enough to jump start a thread-bare Barney in a pinch. I’m constantly re-systematizing, unscrambling the organized jumble of my entire catalog of used and discarded genius. Like myself, she rebelled against the swelling yen of domesticity only to fold under the pressure of obsessive compulsion.

My purchase now sits before me all shiny and new whispering sweet nothings, pleading me to pick up the stylus and create, in remonstration of the clickety-clunking of my fingers in their intimate dance with it’s adversary, the keyboard.

Like the color-coding fanatic that I am, I have stuck to my horse-feathers and poppycock list of prerequisite to-do’s that rated a scratch or two higher than playing with my new toy. Hopefully, tomorrow I will free up enough guilt-free time to indulge my wonton doodling desires. In the mean time I’ll post my ramblings and hustle off to bed in my dutifully meandering manner, before drifting into la-la land. Most importantly, I’ll be sure and not blow up this one. There’s no way I can possibly cross up any wires this time; I spray painted the Summa Sketch cords red from plug to jack!
7/14/2005 2:10 AM
word count 396

My Rosy Revlon Pie Whole

2005-07-03T19:30:00.002-05:00

Have you ever been in such a good mood that everything that comes out of your mouth is silly? I'm having one of those days...or, I was. My whole world has been a natural high lately. I started to feel like Superman, I could do no wrong. The euphoria lowered my defenses, which turned this cancerian into a soft shell crab. I get goofy when I'm happy. Unfortunately, exuberance comes at a cost.

I have a bad habit of verbally jousting everybody. I'm just funnin' with people and those who know me are aware of that and participate in the ritualistic game of clever conversational exchanges, but the occasional individual is taken off guard when the witty rejoinders begin to flow freely from my rosy Revlon pie whole. I begin the lively exchange and get stonewalled. That can bring me down quicker than an explosive toting terrorist. That was my experience today. Someone called today that hasn't seen me in years, asking for a phone number. While I was fumbling for the information I tried to break the ice with one of my moronic responses I'm so famous for when giddy. I then realized he was in no mood for humor and I was met curtly then disengaged. Ouch.

While it laid me out for a moment or two, I quickly recuperated and went about my nonsense toying with my chair adjustments and spinning in circles. I don't like to dwell in the cesspool of negative emotions. I'm sorry someone out there finds my humor hostile, but I know me, I won't give up hope that the next time we speak I won't have to pretend I'm a dry, unresponsive curmudgeon for fear of retribution. Fear is another one of those emotions I give little time to.

Who knows, maybe he'll have a good day and feel silly, and enjoy the repartee.
7/3/2005 7:4 PM
word count 331

Ontogeny Recapitulating Philogeny, Susie Style

2005-07-03T12:12:00.002-05:00

A husband who is a real diplomat
always remembers her birthday,
but forgets what her age is.

It crept up on me like a blind turtle. The year moved slower than usual, plodding in a confused weaving pattern, bashing into deadlines and bonking into resistances of all kinds. I retreated further into my shell after each collision. We cancerians are like that. No matter who you are or what your sign is, some years are just harder to get through. By that I don't mean unpleasant, just hard. There were so many large projects to tie up, huge decisions to make on short notice, and critical mistakes to repair. There were trips to far away exotic places like L.A., and visitors from the cheese state. Then there's the rash thing. Every once in a while I am plagued with allergic reactions consecutively, this was one of those years. I’m still fighting the itch.

Even though being the birthday girl has many perks, I suppose I wasn't in any hurry to leap into another age group. I will now fall into the 46-50 box. If I apply the cup is half full attitude, I could say I look young for a 46-50 year old; employing the half empty mindset, I'm worried that those numbers will turn into my measurements, or worse yet, my pant size. I knew July was coming. Duh. There were fireworks stands springing forth in every parking lot. Everywhere I went I was assaulted with the red, white and blue machinations of the merchandising monsters. I think what I was wishing for was to be able to get through the year without anyone asking how old I was, especially the month of July.

I've been getting cards and gifts all week which made me feel special. I even felt pretty when the long stem roses arrived, even if I was in my ugly clothes with my hair pulled up in the most unattractive bun that just screamed Nazi Germany . I'd been fricassee frantic all day Thursday, and cleaning like an indentured servant , so I wouldn't have to on my birthday. Cooking on my special day would be like…ironing on my honey moon! I don't think so! I'll never do that again.
If you're wondering to which I am referring, the answer is...both.

If a person slaves for a week so that one day could be bondage-free, does that make them an optimist, masochist, or just stupid? How about a stupid masochistic optimist? My week long servitude was exhausting; It left me battered (I'm a klutz ), beaten ( I just couldn't get ahead), and bruised (More clumsiness ) and most importantly, too worn to enjoy much. Good thing it was a safe bet I wouldn't be dancing on my day because my feet hurt! Don't get me wrong, I love to dance...er...I did...when I could. If I could have today, I couldn't have, on account of my self-inflicted enslavement leaving my legs in the state of Jello, so good thing I couldn't anyways.

The last two days were worth it all in th end . I don't remember ever having such an eventful, me centered week in my life. It was great. I will always remember it as being a strangely comforting euphemism. Hopefully, I'll live long enough to savor the memories throughout my golden years, thus completing the metaphorical circle of life-- ontogeny recapitulating phylogeny, Susie Style.
7/3/2005 11:47 AM
word count 572

It's Not Everyday People Are Willing To Blow Shit Up For Me

2005-07-02T02:26:00.002-05:00

It was my birthday an hour and fifty-six minutes ago and it was all good, except for me being that much closer to...old. Even though it's officially over, it doesn't really end until the last fireworks fizzle out over our west field tonight at my official birthday shindig, complete with fireworks, which is to me, since I haven't gone to bed yet, actually...tomorrow.

It's cool having a surprise party! It would have been RE-ALL-Y cool if it could have stayed a surprise since I haven't had one in a coons....no wait...make that two coons ages. John just knows me too well though. Since he's going to be replacing a floor for a neighboring farm in the morning/afternoon he just knew I'd get bored and disappear while he was gone. That's true, I would have...maybe. It has been pretty hot around these here parts as of late and that makes for a torturous day in a 1964 Ford Fairlane with no factory installed air conditioning unit. Did they even have those in '64? Apparently not in the linear world of it's previous owner. Sucks to be me on a hot day, and it's been pretty darn hot. It was so hot today that a black cat laid sprawled across an old rusty harness, limbs a danglin', all day long.

Today I was able to go to dinner with friends, watch my niece on the silver screen at the local multiplex and the topper...I finally got a new desk chair. I know I've had other chairs and each one was better than the last, but they were all broken in one way or t'other and this is my first really new one, fresh out of the box. The leather still smells like plastic wrap. When I was told I was going to be picking out a new desk chair see'in's how I live at my desk, I jumped for joy, which isn't easy while leaning on a walking stick.

I sucked in a lot of air in my exclamation, "Thank you!...and my butt thanks you! If I can ever do anything for you, ...or your butt, think it over before asking, okay?"
Then I plopped into the cushy cradle and began playing with the hydraulic seat adjustments like the easily entertained idiot that I am.

Normally I'd remain hard at work through all the witching hours and on into the wow-your-up-early hours thinking up reasons not to go to bed for fear of missing out on something cool, but I won't tonight. I'd hate to take a nose dive into my big fat birthday cake on account of exhaustion. No sir-ee, I'm gonna be jacked up on adrenalin and mocha-chino-foo-foo-java so I don't miss an ooh or awe opportunity. After all, it's not everyday that people are willing to blow shit up for me.
7/2/2005 1:56 AM
word count 481

Trail Of Tears

2005-06-28T14:20:00.002-05:00

I was lost. How could I not know where I was? I grew up there. I walked the entire territory so many times I lost track of how many. Yet there I was at the stop sign wondering which way I should turn, the impatient line of SUV's on my tail began to nudge me forward as I let three openings slip on by, so I took the fourth, and hoped that I wasn't embarrassing myself. There were apartments and condo's piled high on both sides with an eclectic North County feel. A eucalyptus here, an orange tree there. That whole hill was a dark green dream thickly dotted bright orange when last I was there. The selective few that remained in the tiny landscapes were the only clues I had to where I was heading. I thought to myself, they should rename this place, it's not the hidden valley anymore. Everybody knows about it and built condo's here.

The road signs declared my memory all lies. I didn't like that place. I drove along heading North-East. Hopefully there would be a fruit stand left somewhere in the valley. Where was all the fruit? The picture I painted for John was filled with orchards, fruit stands and speckled with livestock. All we were seeing was stucco walls grasping at the sky with greedy fingers, asphalt and pavement covered every inch of the soil and clay that used to stain my shoes, and my home place was neglected and over grown. A posh slum.

I commented on how many silly status seekers were driving SUV's in a place where four-wheel-drive would never be engaged. I was hysterical inside and the veneer was cracking.
I burst out laughing at myself and my companion, already confused, asked, What's so funny?

None of this. All of this. I don't know...yes I do. I was thinking about how ridiculous it was for me to rent an SUV to come here, and how absurd these people that own them are. There's no off-road left!

I sensed the pang of sympathy emanating from him. There was concern as well. He probably thought I was losing my mind. I felt like I was, and decided there was no point in pretending I knew where I was.

I don't believe it, but truth is...I'm lost. I couldn't quit laughing. I mean, where the hell am I anyways? I should know, but I don't. All this is new...everything!

Next day we headed up the mountain. I didn't think there would be any congestion up there. It was all Reservation and U.S. Forestry land. We hit Valley Center and turned towards Bates Brothers Nut Farm. A few curves and I was flabbergasted.
A casino? Since when?

That clenched it. Everything I ever knew only lived inside the faded memories I kept in a cigar box.

When I die, Escondido and all of North County dies with me.

I was talking to myself.

Not this stuff, but the real one. I feel so obsolete.

We spent the afternoon at a casino my college friend frequented. We had an exquisite meal and lost some money while we waited for her addiction to release her. We were so glad when we finally got out of there. I raced back to the nut farm. The one place that hadn't cheated me. We bought some fried peas and jalapeno jelly and I got to reminisce for a second or two, remembering my little girls posing in front of the straw bales and petting zoo. After that we completed the day by winding our way up Palomar Mountain where I slipped out of the drivers seat and up the mountain side in search of some old off-season dried up mistletoe. Hoping I'd find something to bring back with me, anything really. I fought the urge to just keep hiking up the slope and never go back. The thin air cleared my head. I wanted to run away from the present. That would have meant leaving John behind though, so I decided to release the past and be thankful for what I have and that I didn't stay here to see the city encroach and devour the land.

That vacation became my own personal trail of tears, but I wasn't gonna let it show.
I returned to my friends with a smile, mumbling,

New beginnings, there are always new beginnings.
6/28/2005 1:35 PM
word count 743

Laconic Psychiatric Masturbation

2005-06-26T03:00:00.002-05:00

When the sight of a kind act reduces me to tears, I think firstly, what a terrible world this must be. Secondly, I ask myself, Did I take my Premarin today? Some people like to blame the mascara melt down on hormones every time. I think they just like the way hormones, if said properly, can insinuate a tawdry tryst. It feels good rolling around in their mouth in a laconic psychiatric masturbation.

Being a woman, I know that the Revlon rupture can sometimes be entirely linked to an irregular glandular secretion; one of Mother Natures random acts of violence. Keeps men on their toes. Those that dare run the gauntlet and succeed in calming a woman on a premenstrual Jones without using the H word will bring home the gold in the sexual scrimmage for verbal dexterity. The rewards endless.

I find the overuse of the word red flags a sub-normality that is positively bovine. Anyone deriving too much pleasure from the hormonal lampoon has libidinous tunnel vision.I really don’t see why some find it so socially unacceptable for a man to show emotion. I like to categorize my pedantic little world and I have assigned three categories to the male stand on sentiment , the automaton, that’s the guy that has no emotions (love and remorse included), and there’s the social climber, he has them, only he doesn’t want anyone to find out (insecure waste of time) and my Adonis, the I am man (he simply is, moment to moment reacting naturally without fear).

Granted, that women and men of leftist sexual orientation are more likely to be unconcerned with others witnessing their enraptured compassion, but there are still those intensely hot I am men out there too.

When I was a child I believed that people cried for one of four reasons; pain, fright, loss and manipulation. Things got a little more complicated as I got older. The theoretical root stayed the same, only I began to figure in contributing factors, demographics, religion, geography, political party and anything else to cloud the results and confuse the shit out of myself. It only took my four year old grandson fifteen seconds to clear the fog.

I smashed my finger in the door and bit back the verbalizations I usually employ in such a situation. My teeth clenched and my eyes reached saturation point as I squeezed the distraught digit. He asked me if I was going to cry. Then he asked me if I was pretending , lost my finger, hurt it, or if I was scared. I told him it hurt, I was scared for a minute but I didn’t lose it so I’ll be okay.

Then he said, Good ‘cause if yer pertendin’ momma won’t fink it’s funny!

Do you believe in coincidences? I don’t. My mother has told me that things happen for a reason. We don’t always find out why they happen. If you’re lucky the reason will be revealed before you completely forget about it. So I guess I smashed my finger so that the logical simplicity of life could be returned to me before I got so engrossed in dissecting answers that I would forget the question.

That question being…Did I take my Premarin today?

6/26/2005 2:41 AM

Word count 564

USS Oriskany; Another Brush With Death

2005-06-22T02:26:00.002-05:00

Although my father has been gone now 9 years, this Fathers Day was a very special one. Dad was a Navy man. He served on the USS Oriskany. I remember he was on the ship when it came limping in after a fire on the hanger deck had claimed 45 lives and a chunk of the hull. That was Viet Nam. It took out the organ he used to pass away free time playing. I especially remember that because of my mothers state at the time. When she found out he was okay the world was lifted from where it squatted on her head. I was small then and didn't understand a lot but words like fire, death and war, were all part of my single syllable vocabulary.

After all these years, the Oriskany has been surfacing everywhere. Which is ironic seein's how it was scheduled to be sunk to serve as an artificial reef. The sinking has been postponed thankfully. I'm just not ready to see the ship go down.

I noticed it in an old movie, Mom found Oriskany postcards, my sister had lunch with a man that served on it in the 50's, I watched a special on the naval ghost ship yards and I ran across a few of dads old Navy things in my treasure drawer , formerly known as the junk drawer. I think everyone should rethink the whole junk drawer phenomenon. If the stuff you put in that drawer was just junk it would have landed in the kitchen can instead. Therefore those items are of greater value to the individual that was compelled to stash them in that aggravatingly unorganized safe haven for uncategorized treasures. Face it, hell hath no fury like the pack-rat that feels he's been violated.

I've been feeling an overwhelming urge to dig up what I can. I was going to say it all started when my mother emailed me a picture of me and little brother meeting Dad at the docks, but it didn't. It started before then. I've been rummaging for a while now. Looking for things, browsing histories and doing a lot of Sherlock Holmes-ing. That's nothing like Jone's-ing. I managed to find some long lost people, made some connections. I found out that there is a book out there about the fire in the hanger during the Viet Nam War and a video of the tragedy. I know my dad was on the ship, so my sister is anxious to purchase them and see if she can find a small glimpse of a man we both miss a great deal, still living and breathing, even if it's only on tape or in the memory of the writer. There are several websites and one dedicated to the Oriskany museum and the ships alumni. So if you or a family member served on the ship during any of the actions, please visit www.ussoriskany.com and make some connections of your own, after all, the ship won't be afloat forever. In fact they'll tell you when they plan on sinking her next. And they say cats have nine lives!
6/22/2005 2:21 AM
word count 538

2005-06-22T02:01:00.003-05:00

My brother and I with Dad in front of the USS Oriskany

Look Toto, We're Not In Kansas Anymore!

2005-06-19T01:01:00.002-05:00

People come and people go
in the never ending ebb and flow
of life.

Tomorrow is Johns annual family reunion here in Nevada. It used to be held at his sweet mothers in Lamar, but she's been gone a few years now. So the siblings are taking turns at hosting the modest shin-dig. Even that generation is thinning.

What happens when all the older folks pass on? The younger generations are so full of Me-me's and tomorrows that never come, so who's going to care enough to keep the family together? I don't have the answer. My family all, are an independent lot, that spread their wings and let the wind carry them to destinations unknown. The lure of discovery proves too tempting to us seekers. Like Power Ball, you lay down your dollar and take your chances although that multi-million dollar pot is what initially caught your attention, you just hope that you'll at least break even, . My Power Ball jack pot, the treasure I was seeking in my wanderings, wasn't full of dollar signs; it was the green-green grass of a home I hoped to find; somewhere that water rationing and wild fires don't exist; where flowers grow wild and my brown thumb would turn to green; where there are four seasons in equal proportion and where a person of any working class can still buy a home or start a business without a Faustian deal.

That's Missouri in 60 words or less.

I found my Eden, albeit has it's flaws. Like those little nuisances called tornados, twisters, funnel clouds, or since we're just East of the Kansas line I like to call them Look-Toto-we're-not-in-Kansas-anymore ! I know it's a little windy but all the other good names were already taken.
Micro-bursts are another neat little thing I've learnt about since moving here. In fact, I'd never heard of them before...like EVER, until a couple tractor barns got flattened and then sucked up into the clouds and then slammed back down, spitting distance from our newly purchased farm. They don't tear through the countryside ripping grass up by the roots, displacing fish ponds and parking school buses in tree tops, as if gored by a gentleman cow. They just drop down and then shoot back up. Done.Committing a nuisance on the unsuspecting. I had a hard time grasping the whole theory as presented by our meteorologists until I had pulled the winning ticket in a who-does-the-micro-burst-get-to-mess-with-next raffle. I'm just glad that raffle was free 'cause the winner is the loser.

We had a volatile storm season that year. There were hundreds of tornados, we even got nicked by a look-Toto---------, narrowly escaping total destruction. I did however manage to be center stage when a Micro-burst slammed down, flattening my new green house and then ripping it upward scattering my potted plants over the entire north lawn. There I was scarmblin' round on my knees stuffing handful's of mud and uprooted green children into whatever I could find. The rain was so heavy I felt like I might as well be trying to catch fish at the very bottom of Niagra Falls; hopeless and suicidal. I just couldn't turn my back on those emergent, violated plants weeping and laid bare.

I guess that people that grow up in a place like this are much more aware of their mortality. The impending doom that could drop out of the sky without warning, that could take everything and everyone from them like an atomic bomb, is ever present. Even the kiss of an afternoon breeze, soft and caressing, whispers warnings to those who'll listen. Perhaps that's why they place such great importance on the annual Chicken Annies buffet. For those of us that have managed to stay out of mother natures way during her...cycle, the reality of our transience doesn't carry the same impact. We know we won't live forever, but are convinced that we will only go when we are good and ready, thinking we'll have a lifetime to play catch up if we let a few people slip by the wayside.

I've been to enough funerals in the last eight years to question my own life expectancy and I have tried to make more of the time I have at hand rather than planning it for a later date. So basically I'm saying that I'm thankful for the trip we took last month that brought me a little closer to my family for a few days and I plan to plan more plans that won't get lost in the planning for plannings sake and need years to fully cycle. My plans are of action these days because, after all...we don't live forever..
6/19/2005 0:45 AM
word count 791

Rust Water on Canvas

2005-06-17T00:49:00.002-05:00

Today was one of those days. You know the type; the odds could totally be in your favor, everything you do, you do right, and yet, fate finds a way to drop tootsie rolls in your path. I’m not talking about the chewy center of a tootsie pop, I’m talkin’ about the kind that can clear a public pool in nano-seconds when found bobbing along suspiciously amongst children of all ages. That’s how today went for me. It was full of chewy chocolate looking rolls with a not so sweet smell. Poopy cakes. I stepped in two before breakfast.

After brunch the Takamine guitar of my dreams, the F400S that I had purchased after years of searching came UPS today. I was so happy I could have died right then, even though my two favorite pairs of slippers were smeared with animal excrement and tossed in the can. When I opened it up my heart did a flip-flop. Somehow during shipping they managed to skewer the hard wood case and the work of art inside in three places. Completely destroying my coveted masterpiece.

Then there was the nifty rusty harness pieces a friend had found for me. She knew I’d been looking for some and found me a nice pair. In my excitement I picked them up spraying my new white canvas shoes and jogging wear with rust water that drained freely from the other end. My frugal mind thought I’d be doing my thoughtful friend a favor by emptying the rest of the brown fluid into her strawberry bed. Why waste water? So I dumped…until I realized it was just spraying the whole bed with a rancid burnt sienna wash.

Moving on to my daughter’s house I quickly came down with a reaction not unlike an intestinal flu. Not a good day to stay for dinner.

I made a hasty exit and half way home realized I’d left my glasses behind. I went to use my cell phone to call her so she could make sure and keep her children from getting a hold of them. I was roaming…among other problems. I’ll spare you the entire entourage of misfortunes.
So you see, after 24 hours like that, I am ready to turn out the light and pretend that none of it ever happened. Unfortunately I won’t be getting much sleep on account of a horribly itchy rash developing in my cleavage and crawling up my chest.
6/17/2005 0:13 AM
word count 430

Remember The Turtle

2005-06-14T23:25:00.002-05:00

I've been sticking my neck out for a long time on and off, looking for people that have been long lost to me. I'm much like a turtle encased in it's own naturally occuring fall-out shelter that it carries around on it's back, such is the life of a person born under the sign of the crab. If you ask me, it should've been a turtle. I make slow steady progress in my fearful manner as I blunder through. I tend to withdraw from intimacy by baracading myself within...and I eat a lot of lettuce.

I suppose in my thinking, it's because people that have passed on to the next level of consciousness have found a way to stay in contact with me in my earthly existence, so how hard can it be to find people on the same plain? REAL hard I'll tell ya!

Folks like myself tend to move around. At least I did move around, like a blind turtle. I've finally retired from the road. Once I found my Eden, I sank my roots as far as they could reach through the rich soil and watery pockets below. This place will remain untouched by shopping malls and time shares, and will remain lush and green as long as heaven weeps for mankind, It's what I had been searching for in my helter skelter wanderings.

The draw back to being a traveler is that you tend to be hard to keep up with. Most other people make the occasional move so if I didn't stay on top of my correspondences they slipped through my grasp and boy did a few really good ones slip away. That's why I have been more adamant about keeping my contacts and sifting through the rubble of my wanderlust for clues. Little tidbits of information that lead me back to the cherished friends of days gone past.
For some reason, I feel like I should at least send a postcard saying,
"Hey, you were a good friend I'll never forget. Thank you."
Nothing committal or worth committing me over.

I believe that everyone needs to hear now and then that their life made a difference, that someone is thankful that they are alive, and all was not for not. So I drop the occasional insane card to someone that is now a complete stranger just to make them feel valuable. Lord knows more oft than not the people closest to us neglect that need; not intentionally, it's just that we all take it for granted that those we love are aware that we love them.

So don't wait until you have to get tickets to the John Edwards Show to say "Hey, how ya doin? I miss you."

You may find out that someone values you as well.
You don't have to get mushy or anything.
6/14/2005 11:10 PM
word count 396

Digital Finger Food

2005-06-07T00:24:00.002-05:00

I love my gardens, cats and dog so much it breaks my heart to even think about a trip. I over compensate by bringing as many creature comforts as possible with me. The things I carry everywhere are what I call finger foods. Popcorn Chicken and Doritos do not fall into this category like you might expect. I reserve this category for things that my hands specifically crave. Things that keep them preoccupied and out of trouble. That’s where my fanny pack filled with miniature miracles of our modern age comes in. I have the gizmos!

Such essentials as QuickPAD, digital recorder, palm sized video camera, camera, cells and any other pocket sized devices I can squeeze into my budget wise digital fanny-pack. Since I am unable to go anywhere lightly, I cram as much as possible into the suitcases. These days the limits are much more strict and fifty pounds is it. I was 4 pounds over this last trip. So it was either leave our belongings behind or buy the airlines overpriced bag. We bought the bag. After the realization that I was going to have to move a sum of the whole, braziers and panties included, into another bag in front of …people, I decided to rush the operation and did the grab and stuff.

The hastily chosen items freely tussled inside the flimsy, oversized sports bag. So when we got to our destination, I had a plethora of semi-permanent wrinkles in my entire wardrobe of wrinkle-free travel attire. I suppose being covered in a haphazard pattern of unflattering lines isn’t the end of the world or the end of the trip, just the end of the primping machine. No amount of fussing can detract from the obvious signs of poor packing technique. I got over it. I had to.
Now that I’m home again, every day I come up with several new reasons why I shouldn’t take any more trips . Just being gone a couple weeks left two months of work that couldn't wait for my recuperation. I’ve been at it hard and still don’t feel like I’ve made any headway.

The perpetual cycle of hurriedness my life has been in is tiresome. It didn’t start out that way, it evolved. For instance, yesterday started out rushed, I guess it would be more realistic to say that it continued to be rushed. Continued as in for years now. Each week, month or year has it’s unique list of excuses attached to the drudgery that eclipses the sunniest of afternoons. Am I addicted to tension? Gosh, I hope not. I’ve been operating under the premise that I hate it. My anti-anxiety arsenal goes everywhere with me. You already read the list.

You may be thinking that there's a pill for that, and you'd be right, but taking the pill wouldn't be nearly as much fun...although it would be loads lighter.
6/7/2005 0:10 AM
word count 505

Pre-flight Bitchfest

2005-06-05T01:50:00.001-05:00

Before brushing his lips across my cheek, he whispered, " Six am, that's when the tornado will be here. Good night."
I answered with a sigh, never taking my eyes off my mending. I knew what that meant; he wanted me to go straighten up the basement before I headed off to the billowing surrealism beneath my patchwork quilt. The rest of my sewing would have to wait, so would my fatigue.
I had paid two bits for a 1908 copy of Cicero at a spontaneous farm sale stop before our trip and it patiently awaited my return. A poem I had found discretely tucked between the pages, plodded along at an even gate just as it had all day. They say that if a fairy whispers a tune into your ear while you're sleeping, you'll be stuck with it all day as it runs it's endless cycle. Mischievous little mothers helpers! That must've been what happened to me last night.
This particular copy was an old text book that someone had grown very fond of, so much so that he had chosen not to return it. There were little notes stuffed here and there, poetry by Longfellow and all sorts of other scratch. It had even changed hands once, to a young lady whom admired he or his cherished contraband. My favorite selection of the long dead scientific and literary investigators, the one lingering in my mind as I pushed the needle repetitively all evening, was the following:

The heights by great men reached and kept,
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they,
While their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.

I had to smirk at my sardonic view of the timeless poetry in my present state of self pity.
Mumbling to my invisible friend,
"Yeah right,
The heights attained by schmuck's and kept,
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But their companions,
while they slept
Were toiling upward in the night,
And it ain't right I tell ya
It ain't right!"

Why can't I have a maid like all those foo-foo people with the camera-phone implants you see sipping Starbucks with Armani men?
My little friend, the invisible thingumbob that gets blamed for everything, well, she piped in, "...because you take the good with the bad. It's called balance. It's the grand design, yin and yang..."
Oh shut up! When I made that mess down there I wasn't thinking about surprise visits by any Warner Brothers cartoon characters or their namesakes. Why can't we just postpone tornado season a few more days so I can get caught up around here, go to bed NOW and sleep in, just once? ...Tomorrow would be nice.

Now I know that John wouldn't show any concern one way or the other had I decided to ignore his hint. And I know that we could've slipped down the stairs in the night without tripping over anything had we needed to. I just have this bad habit of wanting to please him no matter how bitchy it makes me.
6/5/2005 1:40 AM
word count 512

Some Times, Saving Ain't Saving

2005-06-02T02:24:00.001-05:00

There's a lot of preparatory work involved in vacationing. There is also a lot of work in being on vacation. Living out of a suit case is never fun. That part you just live with.
If you didn't bring it, it falls into one of two categories; you either don't really need it and had best put it out of your mind, or you do, and it's only as far away as the nearest Walmart Super Center. So you try to pack light. For people like me, that don't travel much, packing is enough to bring on a nervous break down, so you pack the Xanax. After that, anything forgotten is a minor faux pas. After two Xanax, it's erased completely from the conscious and semi-conscious mind for the next 4 to 6 hours.

The last time I flew nail clippers were not considered a dangerous weapon, that is, not until the return flight. My last leisure trip scheduled for takeoff soon after those chemically unbalanced sheet heads declared war on the USA. I became a little concerned over everyone else not wanting me to cancel my flights.

Aside from being cornered into the purchase opportunity on account of our suitcase being 4 pounds over weight, of an extra large sport bag of the cheesy mail order variety offered by our airline at the low-low price of $25 , I guess we did okay. I should say, I did okay, John had to haul them all over three states.

We did the usual gift buying and stayed one step ahead of a ruptured disc by mailing our purchases home. That did however eat four hours out of our trip. It wasn't easy finding the proper packaging for an old 1960's Hummingbird guitar I bought back from my brother-in-law. Even my favorite, Rich Hunts, was no longer there. I guess he got tired of running a store and a music career. We could've saved time if we hadn't sat waiting for the local replacement music store owner to leisurely open his doors only to find he had no boxes. It wasn't a complete loss though, he told us where to find the new music mega center out by the electronics super center. I was so lost. I grew up there, but nothing was the same. Last I checked that area was covered in a large chicken ranch.

We found the place. They tried to sell me a hard shell case for twice what I recently paid at MusiciansFriend.com and I told him so. We rummaged the dumpster for guitar boxes and boy were there boxes! My old Hummer came home in style in a top-of-the-line Taylor cardboard box, inside a Takamine sarcophagus(My personal favorite axe maker). It arrived unscathed. No NEW scathing that is, I scathed the shit out of it years earlier at a beach party in Del Mar and various other volleyball BBQ's I attended before public consumption of alcoholic beverages was banned by the healthy people, which I might add did manage to make it illegal to be a smoker in public places as well since I left. Wouldn't want that to compete with all the other grayish-orangy colored stuff floating in the air now would we?

We still came home with more than we left with. I can blame my unbreakably annoying habit of value shopping. I ran out of shampoo and could not pay $1 for a wee little vial when I could get 4 pounds of it for the same. I made that kind of purchase more than once. And now we have this stupid sports bag we'll never use again, but the best part is, I've got all my unnecessary essentials surrounding me, right where I like them.
6/2/2005 2:11 AM
word count 647

Breasts-O-Plenty

2005-05-29T01:57:00.001-05:00

Once we conquer the milestone of sixteen, our sights move on to grander, more mature dreams. For some it's college, for most it's Las Vegas. Awe, the bright lights, free drinks, topless chorus lines, and what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. The town that never sleeps. It's like a perpetual Spring break. It'll go on as long as you so desire or until you're broke.
It's one of the top relocation choices of retiree's from all walks. My mother retired there. It wasn't her first choice. In fact, it may not have entered into her mind until the difficult sale of her Utah home forced her to stay nearby just in case it fell through which was, that's right, Vegas.

During that time she became intimate with the other Vegas. The one filled with Star Trek conventions, book signing's, gallery openings and little known outlying areas filled with rich inconsequential histories, and let us pay homage to the endless parade of buffets with 2 for 1 coupons that city is so famous for.

Our first stop on our trip was The San Remo Hotel and Casino conveniently located a spitting distance from the International Airport and The Strip. We arrived on Mothers Day. It was great. My uncle was also visiting from a galaxy far far away, called Ipswich. Yeah, that's a real name. It's in Sussex. Did I lose you again? Does England sound familiar? We'll go with that.
We did all the Mothers Day things that bring a smile to the face and a few other things. The best part was seeing my Mom. Then there were the other perks, my brother Steve, Uncle Doug and my sister Alice. She flew in from Burbank a few days earlier and was scheduled to stay at our hotel as well.

The hotel was nice enough, reasonable and close. However, it's internet site failed to mention it's dirty little secret. One that could spell controversy for a primary school teacher. I literally walked right into it. A big fat advertisement sporting breasts as big as my head at eye level inside the front door. Knockers. Or was it Hooter's? Anyway, the place is scheduled to make the change over to a hotel built on mammary glands. Oh dear. How was I going to tell Alice that I booked her a room in the future home of....
breasts-o-plenty? As it was, I wouldn't have to worry about it for long, she was ten paces behind me. She smiled and tried to hide the panic. She did a good job too until I insisted on picking up a paper in the lobby and the front page headline was something about a teachers second job at a casino being grounds for investigation and probably dismissal. Ouch. It read like the Spanish Inquisition. I just HAD to buy a paper, didn't I? Smooth.

Angry Public: Let's tie her to a boulder and throw her in Lake Mead!
Holier Than Thou'st's: Stone her to death!
School Board: How dare she supplement her meager income!
Judge:I only have one question before I pass sentence, do you do private parties?

We've removed some really anal dress codes and prayer from our schools since my day, so who cares if the third grade teacher wears pasties in her free time? Who's it hurting? Do you really think one of her students might catch her act? It's got to pay a whole lot more than the school district. I have a new found respect for the systems new scape goat. Think about it, she can't make more than $30,000 a year (if she's at the high end of the pay scale, which I doubt), and this woman chooses to swing nipple tassels in her spare time between planning curriculum and wiping our snot nosed kids faces just so she can afford the privilege of raising our intensely screwed up generation of me-me's and this is how we repay her, with a front page spread, just in case any of those 10 year old's didn't catch her show, they can bring in the article for current events or show-and-tell.

My sister braved the 3 day stay at the future Busts-R-Us. Our stay went unnoticed. we had a great time with everybody, had a tour of Wynn Towers, where Steve is working, checked in on our lion cubs at the MGM, took the Shark Reef tour and rode the new tram to the Sahara where John drove the Nascar simulator. He broke free of his usual old lady driving habits after a couple laps, not one car passed him, and he only died once or twice. All in all it would've been an okay race...had he been going in the right direction.
5/29/2005 1:44 AM
word count 804

A Priceless Character

2005-05-28T01:06:00.001-05:00

Yeee-ha...I'm home! I just returned from an adventure filled vacation that took us to Vegas to see my Mother, to L.A. to see my sisters family and then to San Diego to visit one of my closest friends.

John is prone to motion sickness so Dramamine was the main staple in our emergency medical kit. In fact, it was the only one.

He wasn't looking forward to the movement filled trip I had planned. He dreaded it. He dreamt of turbulent planes, sinking ships being tossed about on a rough sea, theme park rides laced with regurgitations and worst of all, my driving in California traffic in an SUV with 4-wheel-drive with him in the passengers seat clutching the dash and hammering his foot to the floor in a pathetic attempt to avert disaster. Only one thing could've been worse, he said, that would be HIM driving in California traffic, the likes of which previously he could only imagine.

So far the only citified excitement in his life has been watching shows like Cops on late night television. It didn't prepare him for what I had in store. I think he expected car chases and shoot-outs, instead he got The Wonderful World of Disney, Lucy style. We even visited the I Love Lucy Museum in Universal Studios. As we moved through the exhibit I noticed the light come on in his eyes. All the things I had told him about my sister all these years finally jelled. Brightly colored images jiggled in his brain. All the stories of the zany things she does floated suspended like fruit cocktail, but even fruitier. I was so proud, he'd actually made the connection; not an easy thing to do for a farm boy of the old school that believes thinking outside the box will only land you behind bars of some sort, take your pick. He cultivated a lot of things in his life, but never his imagination.

Alice stood there smiling her bigger-than-life smile, oblivious to his revelation. So sweet, so innocent, so redheaded and so... damn... perky. I whispered to him "L-u-c-y...I'm h-o-me!". On a monitor behind her Lucy was dowsing a burning rubber nose into a coffee cup. Alice smiled and asked "What?", behind her permanently curled lips while Tinker Bell danced across her visor. All I could do was reach for my sport bottle while thinking how dry my mouth would be if I was that bubbly. I had to let a renegade giggle break free and told her what was lurking in the unsaid. We all shared a laugh.

I swive as well as others do:
I'm young, not yet deforme'd
My tender heart, sincere, and true,
Deserves not to be scorned.
(The Mock Song, by John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester, ca. 1676-77)

My sister is one-of-a-kind. I know I likened her to Lucy, she is like Lucy, only different. You see, Lucy was a real glamour doll with a giant sense of humor. My big sis is Lucy at 10, only she's fifty. She is so G-rated that her idea of sin, is sneaking a Hershey bar AND a Moo-latte.
Lucy was a Vogue cover girl, Alice makes it onto the school board bulletin board for inventive teaching.

Lucy wore the most stylish clothing; 3/4 sleeves were in.
Alice likes 3/4 sleeves because she's up to her elbows in finger paints daily. They are so not in right now but what does she care?

Lucy's hair was so beautifully done up in waves and curls and all things Barbie.
Alice grudgingly tends her unruly waves simply because other people mind when her wild flaming locks begin making a break for it. Style doesn't matter. She just wants everybody to shut up about it.

I've never been in any of Lucy's homes but I'd wager none of them were bursting with Disney figurines, snow globes and picture frames. Even the cats name is Disney. A site better than her husbands inventive use of species as actual names. A bird named Bird, cat named Cat. He's grown an imagination since then. Late bloomer.

Well, I have so much to tell you. I couldn't possibly get it all written down in one little entry so I'm sure you'll be hearing about our odyssey for quite some time. I tend to have sporadic recollections. Comes with age.
5/28/2005 0:27 AM
word count 728

Poopy Cake Offering of the Gods

2005-04-30T02:15:00.001-05:00

I spent the day before yesterday at my favorite daughters house . She's my favorite on account o' her life is boring compared to her sister of diminished capacity. We did all those girly things like, eat weird food, watch movies and kara-croake until even the kids began to weep. I think they wept because there was no place safe from the resounding echo. Even the lathe and plaster was no match for our pitchiness. Good thing I brought spackle.

We had a good time. The weather was fair and the dog was decent, for the most part, up until he dug up Destiny's flowers, and the kids were...kids, in fact, they dug up the flowers first. Apparently Merlin thought it looked like great fun. There's something about bare dirt that is irresistible to rug rats and ankle biters.

Cats are also drawn to the recently turned earth, yet for an entirely different reason. It's obvious why the feline megalomaniacle are the preferred pets to the Me-me generation. They're furry little reflections of the American Urbanite. The typical pygmy lion is born absolutely convinced that the sole reason for any creature to till the earth is for them to have a convenient place to store their cherished excrement. The way the ailurophile rushes in upon impact, swooping down, pooper-scooper in one hand and ziploc baggy in the other, they must think we like it...a lot. My cats are of the common barn variety, yet they don't hesitate a moment when they see me on my knees turning the earth for their lordships. The automated autocratic stealth imperiously attempts to slither up beneath me and into the pre-fluffed sod for the excreta offa donum ille de dei (poopy cake offering of the gods).

You'd think they'd eventually take a hint. Eight generations of feline deities have domiciled on this humble farm, and every one of them has gotten the same treatment, a dirt clod up side o' the head for attempting to activate any bodily functions within the walls of my sequestered garth of sensory delight, let alone within whiffing distance.

Dogs, on the other hand, no matter how chummy they are with the children of Bastet, still have to hover and patiently await the anally retentive felines to grant them an audience with their poo-poo. Cats are okay with us lowly creatures bowing down on our knees and praising their gifts while whisking them away discretely, but dog, the lowly, is more of an eat-n-run diner. No ritualistic servitude, just a big slobbering mouth rummaging for viscera cakes.

All-of-a-sudden, I know why cats stick their butts in our faces!
word count 453
4/30/2005 1:48 AM

Discombooberated

2005-04-27T01:58:00.001-05:00

I was going to go to town today and buy those Work Tunes ear protector/radio things John wanted for Fathers Day. They were on sale at the farm store in Nevada. It was too cold to go anywhere though, so I stayed home and did more house work. I forgot to spend $13 so my drive was at a low. I have to either be angry or happy to have the kind of energy it takes to keep up around here. Spring brings a lot of happiness when the weather is accommodating. When it's not...it may as well be February as for the funk I fall into. I was feeling funky today for sure. I puttered and A.D.D.'d quite a bit, leaving things half done and discombooberated in my wake. Such is life in Hog Waller when I'm going through gardening withdrawals.

Merlin did some excessive whining too. It's not really his nature, he's more the silent type. Not like the yappers you find in town. I think he was looking forward to wearing his new shades and going for a cruise in the pimp-mobile. I promised him one before I sell it. He also missed the hunt...the mushroom hunt. We had to give that up early this year. The grass got way too tall, and the ticks got way too cheeky. So we will leave the rest of the 'shroom crop to the Driads.

Tomorrow we'll take that ride. He'll get decked out in his Doggles and flashy bandana and we'll rubber neck some used cars, get a wienie at Sonic and then go visit Destiny and the boys. Merlin may even go for a swim in her river. If he does that, he had BETTER bring me a fish, at least a two pounder!
word count 314
4/27/2005 0:55 AM

The Pimp-mobile & Merlin the Magnificent

2005-04-27T01:39:00.001-05:00

'64 Fairlane and Merlin running interference with the farm felines.

Merlin's Doggles; Ain't he cool?

2005-04-27T01:30:00.001-05:00

Ph-LLLLT!

Bladder Busters and Chore Choppers

2005-04-26T03:06:00.001-05:00

I woke with a jolt, the phone was ringing and I heard truck doors slamming shut out in the drive. I would have loved to just roll over and forget about it. It was gloomy and wet out. The Noah radio said it wouldn't be passing anytime soon either. I try to listen to it each night before I retire so I'll know if I should bother staying up after my first daylight trip to the john, and that's what it said last night. What's the point of getting up if all I can do is house work? Like they say, it'll still be there later. The domestic bondage of womanhood is a horrendous injustice if you ask me. I figure if I ignore it long enough, like my ex-husband, it will disappear, never to be heard from again.

I'm not a jumpy person, but my bladder is a little high strung and has taken carte blanche over other wonton bodily desires. The underhanded organ filched the power long ago. I believe the doctor said it had something to do with my caffeine dip stick reading a quart high.

It was mostly curiosity that drove me from my bed...that and I had to pee. Two truck doors slammed and then the engine turned over while at the same time the phone was answered and then someone came in the back door. Hmmm....a bit too industrious even for John. It wreaked of multiple personages and here I was flopped across my bed twisted up in my bedspread with my door wide open and my jammies hoisted up around...a part of me they shouldn't be hoisted up around.

Grumpily I surrendered to fate. Lucky for whomever it was making all the sounds of the living, they were gone, except for John. He's immune to my morningness anyways. He keeps me placated with an offering of a fresh pot every morning. I'm just not any fun to be around, let alone coherent without my Java.

If I'd of cracked my eyes a little wider I would have noticed the plastic runner in the hall, someone had kicked a corner up and those little rubber spikes were begging to make contact with my tender tootsies. It felt like I was walking on choya.

I screamed, "Who left the frickin' cactus in the hall?"

No reply.
John was a little out of ear shot and hard of hearing. Must be why we get along so well.

The mailman pulled away as I was filling my mug so I moseyed out to fetch whatever it was he was stuffing in the box. Merlin's new shades had arrived. He looked so cool in his Doggles. He's a dog, so he likes to stick his head out the window. He is unlike most in the respect that he doesn't like the way the wind makes his eyes water. He also seemed a bit envious of my Foster Grants so I thought, Why not?

That goofy little thing put me in such a mood that next thing I knew I had cleaned the majority of the basement, rearranged a couple rooms and did a bunch of laundry, dishes and did some ordering for a friend and made all the calls on my list. I wish every $12 I spent did that for me.
So I'm sitting here thinking that if the weather robot says it's still gonna be raining in the morning, maybe I'll spend $13 dollars tonight and see what kind of productivity that provokes. I figure eventually I will find the perfect expenditure to formulate the right reflexive response resulting in the completion of pending drudgery that awaits me at the onset of each day. I can't wait to see what gets done when I buy a new car!
word count 627
4/26/2005 0:44 AM

Beating Other Hamsters To The End Of The Wheel

2005-04-19T02:30:00.001-05:00

Sponge Bob set sail today for a file box in the basement labeled Bikini Bottom. The Pineapple mobile has been stripped of all relations to the sea, except the Bob floor mats. No more surfing Bob seat cover, no more Patrick or Gary in the back window and Squidward will never again say "I HAVE a-rrived" when I hit the brakes. It was fun, but like all good things...

I'll live. The first time I don't have to do yoga before getting behind the wheel, or slather on SPF 2000, or tape a battery operated personal fanning device to the rear view mirror on a warm day, I'll find solace, freeing me of my guilt ridden decision to sell. I miss the modern conveniences that come hand in hand with such money sucking holes as computer brains, automatic everything, air conditioning and really bad gas mileage. The more auto-whatever's you have, the more there is to break... and brake it will!

I'm letting my Ziggy show, aren't I? Well, as long as I don't start looking like a poorly dressed ping-pong ball, I guess I can live with the personality similarities.

I am right about it though; the more complicated the technology, the better the chances of catastrophe. A person can pay dearly for the opportunity to get screwed. I was browsing vehicles yesterday. How else will I figure out what a good deal is if I don't investigate my options prior to the actual cash-in-hand shopping trip? It was a constant reminder why I bought a classic car in the first place. Low maintenance, insurance, gas mileage and a lot less junk under the hood. When I open the hood to the Fairlane, I can identify everything I see and see everything. I could hop in there with the engine it's so bare-bones, that nostalgic pre-technics inundation of the engine ossuary. I'm gonna miss that...and the do-it-yourself repair option available with older model cars. Besides, when I go anywhere, all heads turn, I get more attention than a Hummer, or a Jaguar or any other vogue yuppy status symbol. The best part is, as cars go, it was cheap, even when it was new. When someone driving a $100,000 frivolity rubber-necks my modest little old lady car that they wouldn't have been caught dead in a few years ago as a post adolescent, I give myself kudos for robbing all the Joneses of their high-priced investment in social standing.

It's time the yuppy machine ground to a halt. Such flagrant disregard for long-term security for the sake of impressing people they probably don't like to begin with. It's a bit self-destructive, yet socially acceptable to any short-sighted me-me cliquee's bent on beating the other hamsters... to the other end of the wheel.
In case you're interested in making a wise investment of my wistfully charming set of wheels, here's the info (yuppies welcome):

1964 FORD FAIRLANE
blue/green, three-on-the-tree,
6 cylinder 170, NOT suped up,
67,900 ACTUAL miles,
Very nice eye-catcher, runs great,
looks great. But, alas, I am disabled
and am finding it difficult to drive
sometimes, so am searching for
newer vehicle with automatic everything
(especially power steering).
Maybe an SUV I can take grand-kids and my dog in
(which isn't an option with my present car. I love it too much to do that to it. I like Riviera's too.)
$6,000, will consider trade
hogwaller@interlinc.net

SOLD!!!!!!!!!!

straight across trade for a 1999 Ford F150 Sport

Neener-neener-neener hopefuls
word count 574
4/19/2005 1:19 AM

Bon Voyage Sponge Bob

2005-04-17T01:28:00.001-05:00

Dragging my sagging, but not withering (withering could be a good thing at my weight) carcass in with barley enough energy to drop my rags in the machine and take a long overdue shower, my mind raced. It was the only part of me up for the task. The water felt wonderful. I'm just a big fish... a big fat fish. I closed my eyes and prayed to the water god that I didn't pick up any ticks while out hunting.

Mentally checking off my to-do list and physically scrubbing a layer of flesh off kept me too occupied to answer the ringing telephone. It was just somebody calling on the Manure Spreader John had put an ad in the paper for. It sold to the first guy that was smart enough to realize he lived too far away to make it here before it would be sold. He called a friend 8 miles from us and had him run over and buy it. That's how fast things move around here once they hit the paper. Which takes me back to why I am so darn tired and stinky.

I spent the last two days detailing my car, preparing it for the inevitable sale. Finally coming to the realization that procrastination has allowed me to keep my precious `64 Fairlane a while longer, but it has also prohibited me from buying a car with the creature comforts I morn. And if I want to not die of heat prostration (no air conditioning) and second degree burns (no tinting on the windows) again...this August, I'd better get a move on. So I began the arduous task of peeling away all my Sponge Bob's from the vehicle and began restoring it to it's pristine, yet boring state, a four door with vinyl/fabric seats and rubber flooring. Neat and tidy, a blast from the past complete with plaid trunk liner and the smiley face ping-pong ball with purple troll hair topping off the manually adjustable antennae. I just couldn't do the big fuzzy dice thing. Too caliche'.

Today I waxed, and waxed, and waxed, until a neon orange flash was caught in my peripheral. It was Merlin's hunting collar, he was impatient. Usually by this time of the afternoon, we're down by the creek poking around after mushrooms, not in the garage. He began verbalizing. A low whiney rumble emanated from his doggy chest. He did his little run-to-whatever-he-wants-my-attention-on thing, in this case, the direction of the creek. I hit the remotes and closed up, grabbed my snake stick and a bucket and we moseyed. This time Freya joined us. She's been a little tied up with her recent litter of hair balls with eyes lately and has had to stay behind, sending her eldest two daughters with us in her stead.

The 'squiter's were thick and annoying, but so was my 'squiter repellant. We found no 'shrooms, but we did come back with a yellow golf ball and a couple beer cans. This time I couldn't even drag my legs of lead down to the May Apples like usual.

So, like most weekends, on Johns only day off work, I will be totally spent. My arms feel like jello and my legs are heavy and unresponsive, but my car is shiny, the dog is happy, and the cat got away from the kids for a few invigorating minutes. It's all good...unless I got a tick.
word count 575
4/17/2005 0:0 AM

Looks Like Heaven's Out!

2005-04-16T00:19:00.001-05:00

Have you ever had a dream about being dead? I had that experience last night. It was when the dream became lucid that my fascination with my predicament yanked me back into the present and out of the dream state. I was a bit disappointed. Part of me felt I should check to make sure I was still alive and that my reality was in fact not an illusion, making the dream the true reality. The Matrix flashed in my brain. My first thought was, I love that movie but what a stupid thing to be thinking about? I sat up and looked around my darkened chamber, the night light from the bathroom filtered in like it always does. I needed to test something. I slipped into my pink fuzzy slippers and headed for the living room. I pilfered the remote control from Johns chair (that should have clued me in) and flicked on the tube. Standing there grinning to my silly self, waiting for the 1970's console TV to warm up, I fought the urge to start babbling to myself. I lost.
"Okay, if I'm dead, I'm either up there, which would be okay except for I'm not really dressed for the ball, or down there, which would totally suck without my survival gear and there'd be nothing but horror flicks and soap operas on the boob-tube."

I squinted my eyes and focused on....a really bad commercial for hemorrhoid cream. I needed to investigate further. I started the chaotic surfing I'd seen John do every Sunday. There was nothing on I hadn't already seen in 1972. That told me nothing about whether I was still living or in the death denial syndrome. The question of time travel however entered from somewhere in the right-brain.

I needed to try something else. The Matrix kicked me in the frontal lobe one more time. Off went the TV and on went the computer. I dialed up. Nothing out of the ordinary there. No lightening speed, no top-of-the-line peripherals I don't have in my earthly existence (that would mean I'm in heaven). No pop-ups and no influx of spam, no flashing Anti-virus program screaming corruption (that would be my equivalent to burning in hell).

I found nothing out of the ordinary anywhere.

I had a brain-storm.

I went down the hall and swung Johns door open. It stuck and then creaked loudly. The back-draft created a momentary gust. I squared off and prepared myself for the worst yet still clinging to the hope that I'd find Mel Gibson sprawled out on the bed...naked...and giving me that come-hither smirk. The night light cast a soft glow over the foot of the bed.
"Are you asleep?" I ventured.

"Why the hell would I be sleeping...in bed...in the middle of the fricking night?"
I just cringed and pulled the door back shut.

"Looks like Heaven's out", I mumbled.

Right about then I decided it would be best if I did something constructive before I blurred the line on my mental stability any further. I went back to the computer screen and stared blankly at the screen saver which made it seem like I was shooting through the stars.

" I think that means Hell is out too. Oh goody."

I had to journal my bizzare dream. Clicking on Life Journal 2.0 I realized I couldn't remember anything about my dream except that it made me do some really stupid things...and that I was dead.

"So much for doing something constructive".
word count 590
4/15/2005 11:57 PM

A Day of Edenistic Perfection

2005-04-14T23:34:00.001-05:00

My daughters in-laws came to visit from the cheese state a few days ago. They were expecting nicer weather. Wouldn't you? What they got was cold and wet and windy, kind of like ice fishing. Wisconsin is so much more...northerly, so of course the temp's should be milder here and the sun a little warmer and the bugs a lot more active.

In places like that people think it is great fun to pass the cold months on the ice in various attempts at entertainment. What else is there in the winter? Ice, snow, and more icy-snow. They ice fish, play hockey, ice skate and my favorite....ice hopping. You may not of ever heard of that one since I just made it up.

This is how you play: When the ice begins to melt and break away from the shoreline it can leave a watery gap betwixt land and ice cap. So, what else do you call it when someone gets it into their head that they are going to drive a fully loaded vehicle fast enough towards the frozen lake that their car will become airborne long enough to get them over that widening wetness, landing safely and dryly atop the frozen expanse of whiteness?

SOME-body has been watching too many action flicks.

That's what my son-in-law did. You're wondering right now, "Did it work?", my answer, "Of course not!". To actually spawn such risque ideas out of pure fool-heartiness (or laziness) one should never go unpunished. You could say he was knee deep in it.

They eventually got the car out with a little help from some laughing hyenas with four-wheel-drive and a twelve pack. They even caught fish, a cold, and a good razzing.

Such are the stories we parents love to share after our spawn has grown ( his mother told me that one). Once they reach at least 60 inches tall, are terminally embarrassed by us anyway, and they begin asserting themselves in an attempt to be accepted as our equals. It's our little way of saying, "I know all your secrets kid, and if you want them to stay secret ...heal!" (So, I spend a lot of time with my dog, whatever).

The drizzly chill finally gave way to Edenistic perfection. We had a great day today telling tales, and hunting mushrooms and flowers gone a-wall. Then they went on to Prairie State Park in Liberal ( I bowed out to continue planting) to watch the Buffalo that languish within it's boundaries.

Last time I was there I got stuck behind a wooly old hunch-back, big fat cow of a road hog. I could tell she was a cow on account o' her teets and the nappy little mini-me at her side yanking dinner from her sagging nipples. I hope they get as lucky. The kids would love that. And me? I'm going to bed early for a switch. Nightie-night ya'all!
word count 482
4/14/2005 11:20 PM

Cataclysmic Melt-down of Biblical Proportions? No Thanks.

2005-04-14T21:59:00.001-05:00

It being Spring, my computer time is somewhat limited. So my entries can get a little sparse. Rural power lines and phone lines are the last ones to be upgraded, so potentially electric storms (pretty much all of them) cause outages and surges fairly frequently. If you like having a computer and don't have deep pockets (i.e. farmers), like myself you would prefer to be inconvenienced in a small way (techie down-time) instead of in the big way ( the snap-crackle-pop of lightening making it's way through your surge protectors, into the integrated circuitry, frying all your solid state components and shooting out your DVD drive, satellite box, stereo and Flat Screen High Def TV you got that second mortgage to buy. Using the telephone system to complete the circuit, causing a cataclysmic melt down of Biblical proportions and fusing the phone plastic to your furniture).

It has something to do with there being 50,000 critters and only 12 people in a square mile...and two dogs. I don't include dogs in the animal census since they walk that fine line between man and beast. Yeah, I know they aren't the missing link...well, maybe they are. The relationship man has with dog goes way back, linking modern man to his prehistoric predecessors, dog with his own.
Who was by mans side, cleaning up the after dinner bone yard, his ambrosia? Dog. Who was there to keep the slightly less hairy man-beast warm before he knew how to chip flint? Dog. Who helped the inferior hunter to provide for his human pack and was content with his role as sentry for his humanoid erectus bipedal god? That's right, dog. So you could say that although an ambiguous one, he is the link to our sordid evolutionary past.
Would the power companies move us up the priority ladder and replace our antiquated lines if we could get them to acknowledge dog as a valid part of human populace in po-dunk? Even if they did award our canine side-kicks social standing, I don't think two dogs would make a hill `o beans.

I miss getting on this machine daily and rattling off at the keyboard, it's a therapeutic compulsion, remotely productive and kind of feeds the need for human contact, in a detached sort of way.
At least it gives me a little time to play tag with the native dust bunny warren.
word count 410
4/11/2005 8:51 PM

Open Season On The Missouri Sea Sponge

2005-04-09T02:34:00.001-05:00

Morrel mushrooms grow 'round these here parts, which is cool. That means free, beefy shrooms for the table AND yet another Easter Egg type hunt and the adults can partake in it. We really look forward to these few days of shroom hunting every year. My grandson Haven, Merlin (the smartest dog in the world) and I are the hard-core hunters. Merlin has the nose, so he zeros in on them, I have the birds eye-view so I'm the spotter and Haven picks and totes since he's close to the ground and has thumbs.

You may be thinking that a four-year-old and a big mutt might not be the best folks to take into the delicate habitat of the Missouri Sea Sponge, but my boys are unique. They move slowly and deliberately, carefully eyeballing every inch of ground before committing sole to earth. That site alone is a rare treat. Picture it, boy, three-feet tall, Spiderman attire, bug print baseball cap (on account o' he likes bugs...a lot), meticulously picking his way on tiptoes in his Nike hikers with a Blue Bunny ice cream bucket and a sunflower walking stick (the old stalks make great pokey/walking sticks for squirts), while the ever-faithful Merlin (big yellow/brindle/whatever with a Science Diet physique, a city reject of questionable decent) mimics my gate fanatically, like the little pooch stepping over cracks in As Good As It Gets, with Jack Nicholson, like every obsessive compulsives canine should.

It being the first productive day and not getting out until dusk, I feel we did okay finding 16 Morrel, one tick and no snakes. Tomorrow I won't be able to get past dinner time without deep frying our finds and serving them up with a sloppy pile of ranch dressing. I've never seen anyone eat as many of those things as that scrawny kid can in one sitting, so it will just be a tease, a tasty one.
word count 332
4/9/2005 1:7 AM

Gaggle of Giggling Breasts

2005-04-07T00:15:00.001-05:00

Revelling in my freedom from the manuscript that has consumed the majority of my time, a future centenarians life story, I spent this evening checking little to-do's from my list while nonchalantly browsing Writers sites. I noticed earlier in the latest issue of Writers Digest that the 74th Annual Writers Competition is upon us, so I had to check out the rules page. On my way there my A.D.D. detoured me. I decided to see what The Assignment was at WD online. Starving Writers all know it's a way to acquire some of those Writers Digest publications for free. That is, if you can shine in 75 words or less.

Assignment #183 "The Most Likely To..." ( What would it say under your picture in your High School year book?).

The Most Likely To...

...Remain a lone Malibu Barbie
On the outside of our resident gaggle of giggling breasts,
Bouncing off each other like Pachinko balls, all shiny and dense to the death.

Don't `spect I'll win, but at least I gave myself a good giggle.
word count 189
4/6/2005 10:23 PM

Embryonic Socialite Super-hero's

2005-04-01T02:33:00.001-06:00

Little kids are cool. Their sleep habits can be molded, the faster the food, the more apt they are to eat it, they'll wear anything, and their favorite birthday present is the box, and best of all, they are extremely easy to impress. Can there be a more perfect companion? I had to mature some to learn to appreciate all that makes these embryonic socialites such supreme sidekicks to the matriarchal.

I can say in all honesty that my true appreciation for the diminutive came about soon after I was told a house cat was out of the question. Being a woman I like to cuddle, but only with something just as willing to cuddle back.

I was aloud to have a fish. While he is beautiful to look at, he is wet and cold and is content to breath the very water he defecates.

I love my dog Merlin, but I don't want to sleep with him. Although he adores me and wouldn't be happier if he could actually crawl inside my skin to be near me, he licks his butt, thinks cat doodle is an hors d'oeuvre, and his favorite cologne is Odeur de Road Kill. So I try to identify any strange odors before doggy/ human contact. Not something I want to have to do every time I feel like a hug, so I was really pressing the why-I-need-a-kitty argument.

You see, John is not very cuddly. In fact he is so not the cuddle-Meister that he likes his own bed...in his own room. It's not a totally bad thing given that he is a restless bed hog, snores, feels the need for an alarm clock that triggers my shock module to such an extreme that bladder malfunction is a given, and that he sleeps on a concrete mattress under so many blankets that it would crush a small child. I, on the other hand, enjoy few blankets and a pillow-top mattress so soft that a cat would sink, a timid clock that coerces me to consciousness with the melodious sounds of the rain forest and most importantly not waking up with a black eye.

After a few years I started getting very lonely. He still wouldn't give ground. In the meantime my children began the period of procreation attractive young people are known for and started producing little tiny people. Really cute ones. I soon lost interest in the furry friend thing and started borrowing babies for company. One of them in particular loves Grandmas big fluffy bed so much I'm having a hard time weaning him in the post toddler-hood state.
These days I have an endless supply of human lap-cats all standing in line clad in super-hero PJ's with their favorite story books tucked under their arms and I wouldn't trade them for anything.
I'd still vie for the puddy-tat on those off days. There's just something about the mutual contentment of the relationship that rounds out the household.
word count 490
4/1/2005 2:18 AM

Icky Four-footed Cane of Weirdness

2005-03-26T06:14:00.001-06:00

I actually fell asleep by 2:30 am and then Johns door shut and I did an Emeril. BAM! I'm awake. It's not that I have a low excitability threshold, point in fact I would go as far as to say titillation is not easily triggered. Somewhere along the time-line my adrenal gland developed an effusive predisposition to erraticism. It goes off unpredictably. Something ain't right.

I've been told that women carry the world around on their shoulders. All the tension accumulates in a concentrated area, yet still she smiles. All that energy has to go somewhere. It's one of those places on the human body that cannot be worked around without severing the head. Which is by no means a suggested cure for the covert fashioning of the future dowagers hump; the crone's purple heart, medal of honor and valor come together as one...one big ugly hunchy thing at the base of her once erotic swan-like pedestal to the supreme female power, her brain.

I've always been a bit removed from the cliquish. I never could see the worth of traveling in a collective of giggling breasts that accomplish little more than the encouragement of one another in the development of fantasian ideas regarding their importance in the grand scheme. I just couldn't get excited over their one-dimensional ideals. Not particularly impressed by anyone that felt the need to flock. Freakish? Maybe.

The tension started back then, only I was young enough to be comfortable in my personal design on denial. I figured if I didn't slouch or back down, I held myself straight and fearlessly, I wouldn't end up hunched over a four-footed orthopedic walking stick with an institutional flair. The theory sounded good.

I could be caught in the midst of a blinding blizzard, lost and confused, but I still wouldn't shed a tear. For one, there is no practicality of adding to the already accumulated wetness stinging my face. Second, I'm already blinded by the whiteness of my impending death, why compound the problem? The popular girls would have done the opposite, flagrant hormonal imbalances bouncing off each other like pachinko balls all shiny and dense to the death.
Let's say I survive, and am not exactly awed by my defeating the odds; I would simply dry off, warm up, and sit by a roaring fire for the remainder of the storm calling everyone a dumb-ass that thinks they need to trek the wasteland of stupidity by venturing out in such weather. All that pent up anger at my own moronic self for getting in such a predicament has to go somewhere, right?

I've found the next best thing to wadding up every peeve at the base of my neck is to verbalize... carefully. It would still take the remainder of the next four centuries to release the knotted mass shaping my post-motherhood physique in it's current condition.
I'm on my way to that icky four-footed cane of weirdness, and the hump, and have yet to discover the root of my involuntary adrenalin secretions. Oh well, I'm not going to get excited about it.
word count 525
3/26/2005 6:0 AM

Eruptions of a Reluctantly Receding Hibernal

2005-03-24T23:28:00.001-06:00

Do you have satellite TV? We do, but that's only because cable isn't available in sparsely populated areas. Cable is better, trust me. We haven't been too awfully impressed by the service. It's better than not having either. When we first moved onto this farm there was a large television antenna attached to the house near the big crumbling rock fireplace. That should have been a clue. The antenna got three local channels. Not actually three channels, let me clarify, it received two channels, only one came in on two different stations. It also had some chemistry with the local weather. Not a good thing. Whatever initial appreciation we had for the thing was short lived.

It was March when we moved. This particular month tends to herald the transition from Winter to Spring and it's usually a tad violent. The remonstration of a reluctantly receding hibernal erupts in thunder, lightening, rain, hail, cats, dogs, and the occasional trout. On a not-so-good year, tornados have been known to skip through on their wind down this side of Kansas, displacing everything along the way, from Toto to entire towns, grass and all. One year in the not-so-distant past, this state got ripped a new one. Somebody managed to hang onto a healthy sense of humor in the aftermath, in the form of a real estate ad in the local newspaper claiming a $210,000 markdown on account of the house and outbuildings being located somewhere between Sheldon and Stockton Missouri. The pond was still there, however they would not go as far as to say that the fish were. I laughed hysterically and shoved it in an envelope addressed to Jay Leno.

Satellite TV charges an extra fee here for local channel access so we used the pre-installed clothesline conversion kit hugging our gutters. That first season, the lightening was very intimate with us, several times. The satellite box was replaced twice, and the phones fried a little more often. Since all the electrical discharges tended to happen on the south side of the house, in the vicinity of our spiffy newly acquired television antenna, we decided, the darn thing must be attracting all the attention and had to go. It continued to happen. So, still grieving the loss of our local news, we agreed to give it another chance after ripping out the pile of rocks being passed off for a heating alternative.

Since then we have had fewer encounters with the natural energy source that had been dogging us. It seems those stones were not only bad fireplace rock, but they must've been coercing Mother Nature. So, we're okay with the antenna now, and the satellite service is alright also, when we have a clear view of the southern sky. In a weather saturated Mid-West that doesn't happen everyday.
word count 485
3/24/2005 11:16 PM

Dysfunctional Neurological Firing Sequences

2005-03-22T03:18:00.001-06:00

Planning a vacation is one of the most exhausting things to do. It'll just wear you out thinking about all the things that need to be synchronized. No wonder it is a thriving business. Well, at least it was a thriving business until third world terrorism became a clear and present danger to all Americans going about their daily lives.

I've been working hard on trying to create a trip that we can all live with. You see, John and I are making a trip to see my mother, which doesn't happen very often. We can't go see Mom without going to see my sister and her family which are only a $39 hop to Burbank. I rarely see them also. And since we're going to be on the West coast I couldn't possibly not drive down to San Diego to visit one of my best friends. A woman that was known to get into all sorts of mischief with me during college and has gone through 19 reconstructive surgeries in the last 4 years. That little video-cam I sent her is fine for the occasional online chat but a weak replacement for physical human contact.

I've been online quite a bit browsing travel specials and deals that are not so special. Boy, are there a lot of them. It's like shopping for a cheap kitchen appliance. Checking out the going rate first and then following up in a desultory fashion with some trips to places like Dent and Ding, hoping to unearth an overlooked treasure in the warehouse of dilapidated department store deviants.

In the meantime I've made several superfluous calls, emails and chatted everyone involved in our trip checking and rechecking to see if things will meld. While chatting up my sister tonight I got a good chuckle out of her bemoaning her husbands disdain over not finding whatever it was he was seeking on Ebay.

She started with reminding me "We don't have cable". And then going on about his bidding in a semi-reclined position across the couch, whining about not being able to find something in the house earlier. She huffed a bit and spat out "We've only lived in this house for 6 years, no wonder you still don't know where anything is!".

She's a teacher, so his dysfunctional neurological firing sequences after a 16 hour day are merely a small stretch for her after spending the entire day surrounded by much shorter people with the same outlook. She teaches 5-6 year olds.

The chat applets are a new experience for my sister. She is just starting to get the hang of it. We were gabbing away while I made reservations when she informed me that her family tends to hover whenever she gets on the computer, buzzing like flies. I told her what I do when John does that. I swat at him. Sometimes it's easier if I just dim the light at my desk so he'll go in search of a brighter light in another room. I got no reply to my suggestions. Go figure.
word count 509
3/22/2005 3:5 AM

Dave, Erma, Brett and Ziggy

2005-03-20T00:03:00.001-06:00

I love receiving comments from readers. Positive, negative, it's all good. I think too much stroking causes a persons development to stifle, and too much negativity ? Well, it's just mean man! I got one the other day from an anonymous reader that suggested I read Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man by Fannie Flagg. She said I sort of reminded her of Ms. Flagg. The great thing is, I already have a copy of that book. Of course there aren't many books I don't have a copy of. I haven't read it yet, but I did manage to fish it out of the library overflow and move it closer to the top of the read pile.

So far I've been compared to Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck, Brett Butler and Ziggy on account of my luck, and a few other cartoons. I loved Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. My favorite part was when they served up my ex-husband as a blue plate special. A fitting end for such a pig, don't you think? So I am honored by the suggested similarity to Fannie Flagg. I only hope I can live up to it. Her books are most excellent.

I recently finished a ghost writing job and decided not to take on anymore so I could focus on work I will get credit for in the future. I'm free! It feels so liberating. Like the halter top revolution.

When I get those emails or posted comments it tells me a lot. Right off it says the person read the whole thing even though they didn't have to on account of it being required reading. It also says that they were provoked into an action. Cool! I've never used the word provoke before in a positive manner. It felt kind of weird. So I smile and utter to myself and the collection of cartoon characters staring down at me from the top of my monitor, "It couldn't have been too awfully boring then."

I'm a bit creative in my use of the English language; I'm not quite Snoop Doggish though. I developed that little flaw in my literacy out of boredom. They say, write what you know and write how you talk, so I'm being true to myself, minus the doodles. To the English Lit Major my writing is probably more accurately described as being something along the line of fingernails on the chalkboard during finals. I never claimed to be a poet even though I do write a lot of poetry. It's one of my vent valves. I let off accumulated pressure by writing some Dr. Seussish love poems, also minus the doodles.

I suppose not getting to take those new high tech computer graphics labs pushed me in a direction I wouldn't have otherwise explored thoroughly, writing. I remember trying to stick it out year after year in the Art department waiting for them to get that lab. I really wanted to animate cartoons. I still do. I was never meant to attend that class. Fate decided the only way to keep me out was to make sure it never opened until after I left the campus to finish out my career as single mom. I never got to go back like I had hoped.

I just wanted to say thanks for making the world a nicer place one anonymous email at a time. Critique away, they shape us creative types in a positive way, unlike over-eating, divorce court or really rotten neighbors.
word count 596
3/19/2005 11:53 PM

Ya Want A Scooby Snack?

2005-03-19T00:14:00.000-06:00

Housework is one of those things I prefer to avoid. Not that anyone else will take care of the mess. I guess I shouldn't say mess, I'm not swine, I'm just a little friendly with the dust bunnies. They congregate along the baseboards where they're less likely to end up stuck to the bottom of somebody's shoe and I drop them offerings on occasion so they won't starve. You could say we have a mutual respect for one other.

Sunshine coupled with mild temperatures makes it virtually impossible to focus on indoor activity, no matter how important the rest of the world thinks the task may be. It just doesn't hold a candle to the dire urgency with which I attack leaf raking, mole stomping, and hole filling. The hole filling thing is a stroke of genius I credit to Merlin.

Being of the canine persuasion, my perfect partner in crime eventually gave in to the urge to dig. Apparently much more weight conscious than his human, he has religiously ritualized the act of burying each offering of affection before it is deemed edible. So if there is a beautiful day beckoning me, I simply crack the back door and hand Merlin a Scooby Snack and watch him trot off to one of his favorite stash sites, right next to Johns truck, obviously, so John will do the about face as he's leaving and say, "Honey, your dog dug another hole. You need to fix that before somebody falls in it". I then cross up my face and grudgingly abandon my swiffering and head to the garden shed. Works every time. I love that dog!

Today was a wonderful day. We did the dog cookie thing and then Merlin lounged in his big plaid doggy pillow on the front porch while I nit-picked the flower beds along the front of the house and then heaped the cedar mulch for that neat cedary look. Afterward we took a basket of plants I needed to thin out and hiked down to the creek where we plopped them along the stream bed that runs through my mushroom hunting heaven. While there we gathered some moss to plant between the path stones in the herb garden and watched the sunset while chucking clods of dirt at miscreant mousers attempting to make my mint stink. Today I discovered the pyramid shaped mounds that gave the mint section a striking resemblance to the Valley of the Kings. Merlin and I decided that we wouldn't be growing any mint or anything else there if we didn't do something about it. So we'll squirt them, shoo them, and knock them in the head with dirt clods until they find another soft piece of earth in an unimportant corner somewhere. It's not like we're lacking in land.

Tomorrow I'll do that housework I didn't have enough time for today... unless the sunshine comes back and asks us to come out and play, in which case I will be told to train my dog or fill in his handy work once again.
word count 507
3/19/2005 0:2 AM

The Hibernating Bear That Can't Tell Time

2005-03-16T08:18:00.000-06:00

Ah, Spring is in the air! I can tell. It's not just the sight of the returning travelers in their brightly colored plumage; It's not the lush green leaves that have poked through the mulch and the sweet smelling sunshine of the narcissus. Spring has truly arrived when my weary, late night TV, night owling can't stop my internal clock from going off at 5 a.m. every morning, frost or no.
I'm worse than a kid at Christmas. I'm the hibernating bear that can't tell time. March is not exactly the true Spring, not in Missouri; Maybe on a good year.

I've seen heavily laden branches bend under the weight of snow and ice this time other years. So, why do I start the R.E.M. confusion now? I would blame the teasingly perfect days that have unnaturally peppered our winters. Flukes, or carefully planned interruptions? They do help me maintain a semblance of sanity in the otherwise cold months. They are like that little rainbow laser beam set in motion by a random breeze on hopeful, dangling crystal prisms, putting the color back into a stark landscape for a blink. A small reminder that there is life at the end of the storm. More color than your flat plasma TV can offer with HDTV. More excitement than a Pentium 4 with broadband, more action than your Play Station, and it's free.

I have been awake for a few hours now, sitting at my desk, anxiously watching the frost fade on the waking buds and watching my cheeky guests empty the feeders I filled less than two days ago. If it were warm enough for us hard core gardeners to be out dallying, my resident pygmy lion pride would be stalking those flashes of yellow, red and blue. Instead, they flock safely outside my windows while the hunters curl up in the suspended wagons inside my garden shed that are conveniently lined with carpets and discarded bedspreads.

I've stumbled through Winter by holding onto the dream of Spring. We all have our own definition of the seasons. A lot of it has to do with your geography. For some it's the promise of earthy stains on our knees, but for Southern Californians like my sisters family, it's bikini waxes, pool parties, and 15 hour stints at Disneyland. Whatever your idea of heaven, the widening grin of the adolescent sun god will bring a youthful vigor to your step and joy to your heart.
word count 422
3/16/2005 8:0 AM

I Want To Be A Capitalist Pig

2005-03-15T00:40:00.000-06:00

School isn't for everybody, as my neighbor will attest too. Some of us get through school and then swear an oath to ourselves to not waste any more time on such self inflicted tortures. While others like myself are gluttonous masochists.

For years I operated under the assumption that becoming a mother at an early age constituted stupidity in the third degree. That left me wide open to ridicule, especially after my children and I found ourselves being replaced by newer models. That and the blonde thing. It's not easy rising above the stereotypical. Not at a time when it seems that every decision I had made thus far was a bad one. Divorce court will do that.

That was several lifetimes ago. I now feel that having fully grown children at a fairly young age is sort of a second chance since I am still relatively youthful. I never gave myself credit for the accomplishment potpourri I was stock piling. I no longer underestimate myself; I think.
Everyone has the capability within themselves to do great things. If you want to approach it from a more modest stance you could say, anyone can be a catalyst effecting positive change in the world. That works too. It's of equal importance.

Personally, I don't believe I've ever done anything truly great, but I have managed to stumble through without causing too much damage. I don't think all the classes I've taken make me smarter, in fact, if I was so smart I wouldn't have needed to take them in the first place. A college degree doesn't make a person better than anyone else, simply better qualified to hold certain positions in the business community. It can work for you or against you. There's the claim of under-qualification and over-qualification. It's illegal to just come out and say you're not giving a person the job because you don't like the way they smell.

Today I started another class, a business class. I always find the great diversity of motivations that bring a class together interesting. We all came with our own dreams in tow. Part of me thinks that on some subconscious level we take such classes that ask us to wear our deepest desires on our sleeves to acquire validation and reassurance that we aren't idiots. The other part of me just wants to take advantage of our farms location-location-location as the instructor put it, without breaking any laws. Most want more. That's a good thing. That's what drives our capitalist society. It has made our country what it is today; that, and those sneaky package deals pushed by lobbying corporate giants.

So, maybe I'll open my little corner stand, I might even sell lots of produce and what-not. The trick isn't in making lots of money, it's in finding something you love to do, manifesting it and not losing everything in the process, and most importantly, doing it legally. Why compound a business disaster with legalities? Take a class or two. It won't hurt....much.
word count 490
3/15/2005 0:24 AM

All-around Maintenance Guy

2005-03-11T22:35:00.000-06:00

All Around Maintenance Guy

Thousands of People and a Mess O' Hogs

2005-03-11T21:42:00.000-06:00

Do you believe in fate? Destiny? I do. Maybe that's why I named my first born Destiny.
Life is an intricately woven web, all our lives and actions intertwined. We've all got our stories. Sometimes the what-if's are answered, other times we wonder for the rest of our Earth-bound lives.
I was wondering this past week why we of all people found the little angel on the highway Sunday. This time the answer came quickly. I figure 5 days was a rapid turn around considering some things that happened to me in 1965 are still a mystery.

While we don't live in a big city where people are piled on top of one another in high rent cubicles, there are quite a few sprawled across the countryside. You see, around here local is considered to be within 50 miles of your home. That encompasses roughly... let's see...tiny towns speckled all over and a small town every ten miles, a larger small town spaced at every twenty, and a few towns that aren't so small, but aren't really humongous. Thousands upon thousands of people and in our area a mess o' hogs too.

So can someone tell me the odds of us picking up the nephew of the man we had hooked my daughter up with for farm maintenance work? Although I am still unclear as to the purpose of the whole action-reaction web in this instance, I am finding the connection. Destiny has rented a farm for her husbands latest stint in the third-world-war-zone, has two small boys of her own and needed someone to do some maintenance during his absence.

I hope these interlaced happenstances are a good thing. Only time will tell. From what I understand so far I'm thinking that maybe he will be in the position to protect my grandsons from harm sometime in the near future, like we did his nephew.

Affection for innocents is a binding emotional journey that I personally am always willing to undertake. Maybe he is too.
word count 346
3/11/2005 8:40 PM

Dysfunctional Reporting

2005-03-10T23:57:00.000-06:00

We get pretty starved for real news in this house. The kind you can only find in a real newspaper. Sure, we have newspapers here, but they're not real. They're some sort of small town mutation of journalism. You can read extensively about who visited who, who died, who was arrested and who won the girls sophomore basketball tournament in your county and when and where all the bored housewives clubs are to meet next . That's it. No world news. As far as the papers in this county are concerned the biggest natural disaster to hit this century was a string of tornados that tore through here a couple of years ago. There has never been a tsunami in Missouri, so the average person feels disconnected from the whole issue. It's too surreal.

I have to give them credit for the 9/11 disaster. They are still showing reruns. I caught it around 5 am, right after the in depth interview with the plastic surgeon that recently introduced Botox to the locally affluent.

I was fortunate enough to have a Las Vegas newspaper find its way into my hands this month. In it I found many interesting items.
Palestinians welcomed freed prisoners.
It told of the Lebanese protest of Syrian dominance.
Kitty clone Peaches and her DNA donor, Mango made the front page as well. Wow, if I chose to spend my retirement funds...all of them...I could have one of my flea factories duplicated. How fascinatingly Beverly Hills-ish.

I even discovered that one of my nieces friends is holding her own in a Las Vegas show at the T.I. and on a television show called American Idol. The show is not available here, but the redneck counter-part, The Nashville Star does get plenty of coverage(I'm not complaining, I like that show).

The item I found of the greatest interest, as I have been sick since November, was the article on the avian flu pandemic approaching. It seems that poultry in Asia have been dropping from an influenza with an ability to rapidly mutate. It's highly adaptable and will soon develop into a world-wide killer of the human species. At present the mortality rate is about 72 percent of identified patients (That was back in February).

I had chickens. I've had all sorts, in different States. In California I lived in a high desert valley where chickens were wiped out often, including mine. A chicken with sinusitis is a sad sight. Their little sinuses swell up so big it looks like their little faces are going to pop. I really don't want to see people in that state. Especially not myself. Oh wait, I AM in that state.
Leaves a person to wonder if it isn't already here. I have never been so sick, for so long before. I felt like my face was going to pop many times. Lucky for my housemate with the weak stomach, it hasn't yet.

While I feel informationally starved, I must appreciate at the same time, the simplicity of this life. I dreamt of it for years and through many miles of traffic jams, which is something I not so grudgingly gave up to make the transformation to midwest farm life. So bring on the bake sales and the small town papers! This is still heaven!
word count 569
3/10/2005 11:24 PM

Angel In a Yellow T

2005-03-09T00:30:00.001-06:00

Yesterday I had a very important call to make before going on a shopping binge with my daughter and her two small boys. I dialed the local police department and asked after my mysterious new friend, a two foot tall boy in a yellow t-shirt with a glowing smile. We found him wandering over the railroad tracks and down the highway Sunday night. A terrifying experience for me.

I was told something that bothered me even more than the original crisis, the boy is deaf. He smiled real big and never said a word; he looked as if he didn't understand anything we were saying and stared intently at my face when I was talking. It made me wonder. We had to bring him to the authorities as he didn't appear to know how to say anything. So he never would have heard a train coming, or a car crawling up the highway behind him. So, as if it couldn't be worse that someone let a baby disappear without noticing his absence, they let a known deaf baby disappear alone without noticing. Isn't there a law somewhere in the books that they were breaking by the irresponsibility that could have resulted in his death? Did the local yokel officer do anything about it besides just returning him to his parents?

My call answered a few questions and brought up a lot more. My daughters shopping spree never really gelled; we found no bargains. And I became a little more over protective of my grandsons; As if I wasn't a little excessive already.

I digressed comment on the phone and will again when I see his parents, which is inevitable. I can also honestly say that I will be keeping an extra close eye out for that boy for the rest of my life, so they best become more attentive. Our town is a small town, so I'm sure I'll cross paths with him many more times, only I hope he will always be in the company of responsible adults.
word count 346
3/9/2005 0:7 AM

Terror Comes in Small Packages

2005-03-07T00:07:00.000-06:00

There are three kinds of nightmares.
Type 1, is the typical visitation by monstrous creatures.
Type 2, things that have already happened and just won't go away, you continue reliving them over and over and over...
Type 3, stuff that you're afraid of, suppressed during daily life, only to haunt you in the dream state when the brave front comes down, peer pressure no longer an issue clouding our judgment.

Like I've talked about in the past, I don't sleep well. Not because of nocturnal visits by Frankenstein, Dracula or clowns. I don't experience the high anxiety episodes, like going to school naked, being lost, or getting turned away at the pearly gates. I do however have the occasional traumatic, where I've lost one of my children or grandchildren. My kids are always kids in my dream state and they never listen (not that different from the waking state). They never get any older than 10 even though one is pushing 30 in my reality. That part is a little wishful thinking. How perfect would the world be if my daughters never started the cycle, never got to first base, never needed me to do their taxes?

The biggest terror would be losing someone I cared about. Maybe that's why I don't drink milk. It brings to life my fear every time I see a picture of a lost child on the carton. I may even have to stop going to Walmart. The Missing Children's bulletin board sends me home with tears in my eyes. That, and the fact that I never get out of there for less than $50.

Tonight I fear, is going to be one of those lost infant nightmare nights. Today we went to town (we live in the country) to pick up a pizza to enjoy along with the free preview weekend premium channel programming. On the way home, we picked up a little something extra.
We were creeping along, like we do when John's driving (he's such an old woman), when he said in a startled tone "Is that a kid? Running down the street....there!".

I couldn't believe my eyes, he was so small. I wouldn't have seen him if he wasn't wearing a yellow t-shirt. I started to open the truck door while we were still moving. I was going to bolt for him. John crept up a little further and yelled at me "If you're going to get him, hurry up!"
I hopped out and he ran right up to me brightly smiling. He couldn't have been two years old. Wearing mucker's and jeans, with a little brunette tail dangling from the back of his haircut. He had just come over the railroad tracks and was running down the street right towards us. There was nobody around. I didn't see any frightened parents screaming frantically, no open gates or doorways within sight. Two more cars pulled up, one from each direction and asked if we were his parents and I asked them if he looked familiar at all. They were from the country too and couldn't identify him. We felt it best to take him to the police department since there was no clue as to where he came from and he certainly didn't seem to understand anything we asked. If he did, he wasn't talking, just smiling. So innocent and happy to see someone. He only fidgeted a second until I said, we would find his mommy. We then got into the cab and headed toward the local police department. We hadn't gone two blocks and John said he had just seen a policeman and we should take the boy to him. It's such a tiny town we both doubted someone would be in the office on a Sunday evening.

We got back to the quickie mart and the officer was gone, but we knew one lived over a block so we knocked on his door. His adolescent girls went directly to doting over the baby and took him in the house and we left our information with the gentleman. He looked as shocked and pained by the small boys predicament as we were and went straight to making his official calls.

I've been fighting back the tears all day so as not to appear the silly woman that I am. Someone was living my fear today. Worst than that, they recklessly and irresponsibly allowed this angel to wander across busy railroad tracks and down the highway alone. How long had he been out by himself? Did they even notice he was missing? Were they on drugs?

I keep thinking how he looked like my little boyfriend Haven when he was smaller. The way he was running along told me he must be 1 1/2 years old. They have a certain gate at that age due to the diaper. So my mind has been preoccupied with 'what if's?'. What if the train had come through? What if he was on the other side of the highway when the other car came over the railroad hump blindly? What if we weren't there? What if someone else didn't see him? What if he wasn't wearing a yellow t-shirt?
Tomorrow I will call and ask after the child. I'm glad he's safe. I'm furious that whoever was watching him was...well...not watching him.
word count 896
3/6/2005 11:43 PM

Does It Come With a Vibrating Mouse...Cord Less?

2005-02-25T00:10:00.000-06:00

Today was a special day for my daughter, Sergeant Mommy. She completed the order for her new computer. The only thing that would have made her happier would've been a vibrating mouse, cord less.

Not that there was anything wrong with the old computer except for it being ...gone. While they were preparing for the quick move, they had stored the already disassembled and boxed items in an empty home belonging to a friend. Destiny had renovated it for them, no charge. It kept her mind off of the separation anxiety that stalked her on cloven hooves.

When they went to gather the contents they found nothing externally amiss, the door locked tight. When they opened the door they were unpleasantly surprised. Someone had taken their computer, monitor, mouse and keyboard, speakers and CDRW with all the required cords, etc. They took their time; No doubt hoping that if everything looked as it was that perhaps the owners wouldn't notice the theft until it was too late to mess with authorities. It worked like a charm, almost. They still had a few days to go so they tied it all up in bureaucratic red tape, pretty as you please. The loss left them minus one very important marriage support device. The one with visual capabilities.

When you spend an extraordinary amount of your union on separate continents, communication is essential. The internet allows them a way to stay in contact. So on top of the electric company holding them at gun point and the theft, then having to make another unplanned purchase, they were down more than they would like, but they were plus their most trusted go-between, access to the world wide web and their happy place, Yahoo chat.

So I'm ashamed of the human beings that guiltlessly rob them and quite proud of the way they go to such great lengths to keep their marriage alive, family together and serve our country, without shooting anybody...in the USA anyways.
word count 331
2/24/2005 11:59 PM

How DID Your Testicles Get Inside Your Chest Cavity?

2005-02-23T23:22:00.000-06:00

In some parts of the country the sweet perfume of early bulbs mingling with the aroma of earthy new grass encourages dreams of Spring. I have been anxious for Spring since last July. A normal year here finds suffocating heat in August that leaches the life out of everything, so naturally, when I feel it looming just the other side of tomorrow, I begin morning the loss of today before it's even gone. Like Saturday evenings were cause for a deep funk because I only had one day before returning to my hell, the evening shift at a particle board furniture factory where we pumped out high quality American crap by the thousands.

I already have narcissus shining brightly on the tips of low lime green stalks. For some reason, only one lone crocus broke through the straw mulch. I'm thinking those moles have been burrowing under my garden again. I know moles don't actually eat the roots of my flowers, but I also know that if they can uproot it, chew through it, or create a sink hole underneath it, they will. Going around the obstruction is not an option. I guess with a brain the size of a dirt granule and no eyes, that would make sense. Other years they have done in other bulbous beauties such as dainty Dutch iris, hyacinth, freesia, and practically anything else with a bulb. Mostly, they just vanish. I've tried digging around looking for them. What I discovered was a massive underground network of tunnels. It is always changing and I have had no luck with any method of de-mole-ing my garden. It seems the only deterrent is the resident pygmy lion pride. They find particular fun in digging up the larcenist little culprits and playing rugby with their little heads after a good row in the catnip. I guess even cats need to vent.

I've been watching the early bloomers preparing for their debuts. I've already had several opportune days in the garden. This morning as I gazed out the kitchen window over a strong cup of coffee, the sunshine and the growing expanse of green enticed me. I chugged down the road tar and threw on some sweats for a little pre-bloom grooming of my cherished speck of land. I wasn't greeted at the back door by Merlin or his finicky friends as per usual. So I stopped and took a deep breath before stepping off the porch. I quickly expelled the icy numbing, and very visible breath right back out...quickly, and turned tail and run back inside.

John came parading through in his skivvies, "You're out early.Get any gardening done?"

Me: Yep... it's nice out.

I knew he would step outside in nothing but his briefs. If he could get away with it, the man would never wear clothes, ever. Women would be putting their own eyes out just to be spared the horror. I just wanted to see how he planned on fishing his receded testicles out of his chest cavity.
word count 521
2/23/2005 11:10 PM

Sargeant Mommy Gets Robbed

2005-02-22T20:40:00.000-06:00

I'm very proud of my daughter, she has been in the Army for 6 years. I call her Sergeant Mommy; a mother of two. Her husband is Air Force (14 years). She and her family made the move to Missouri so they could be near family while Lee is sent yet again, to Iraq for a year.

Naturally, this being a rural area, they rented a house for the temporary stay. For the first time since they were both stationed in Italy, they are living off base.

They arrived Friday, moved into their rental Saturday morning, started to reassemble their household Sunday, and took Daddy to the Airport Monday. Today, my daughter began the arduous task of handling all the utility what-nots.

She started out with the trash company. She flipped open the phone book and asked, "What would it be under? Trash?"

"I believe so", I answered.

She flipped to the T's and when she got down to the word 'trash', it said 'see rubbish or garbage'. So she turned to 'rubbish' and it said 'see garbage or trash'. We looked at each other, tossed the book and reached for the next phone book in the stack for the proper area. We found it, undeterred she made the call and realized she had no idea how to tell anyone to find the place for the trash pickup. It's a farm, and the roads are unmarked. So she struggled.

Destiny(Sergeant Mommy): You...uh...go...where are you...? Is from Nevada okay? That's pronounced Nuh-vAe-duh. No not Las Vegas, I'm in Mizz-oorie. Vernon County. Go West on 54, then South on 43 and then you take this dirt road....no, it's paved...a little...part of the way. It's in Moundville...yeah it's a town...tell them to keep their eyes on the right side of the road because if their looking left they'll miss it.

She had to stop about there and tell them to call the owners of the home because of the combination of farm roads and the fact that she feared even she may never find the house again.

Next she called the phone company and that went fairly smooth. She declined the added maintenance insurance since the phone line comes in through the window so having them come out to fix outlets was a mute point (the house is well over 100 years old).

Water was easy.

This is where it all hit rock bottom and left her wishing she'd stayed on a base. The electric company dropped the bomb, a devastating blow to the pocket book.

Destiny: $300 DEPOSIT!!!!!!!!!! Are you insane? Why?

She then relayed to me the reason, she hadn't paid an electric bill for a solid year anywhere. The Service handled the utilities. They have squeaky clean, excellent credit, have maintained phones all their adult lives, bought furniture, new cars, etc. but the electric company wants their last dregs of moving money for a $300 deposit.

Every family has had members that served in the Armed Forces. My Dad was Navy, my first husband Army, these two kids are both in the Services. Is this how we treat all the patriots these days? $300 deposits? Oh yeah, thanks for spending most of your life in the dust and being shot at and stuff for us, oh...and being separated all the time and moved at a moments notice, but we require a $300 deposit or you can forget plugging in your refrigerator for the baby's milk. Have a nice day.

Apparently the mistreatment didn't end with the Viet Nam Vets.
word count 572
2/22/2005 8:18 PM

Un-Farmy Thingys That Just Bite!

2005-02-17T01:12:00.000-06:00

UN-FARMY THINGYS THAT JUST BITE!

A typical day for me is filled with the mundane. It's not necessarily a bad thing, or a boring thing. If it was so boring I wouldn't be having to squeeze in a few minutes at 3 a.m. to do a little writing before bed. Farm life is far from idle. I should know, I watch Farmer John work his hiny off all day long. Boy, I wouldn't want to be him. He has absolutely no hiny left to work off. It's weird. Whereas, I have ample behind, enough for both of us. It doesn't mean I do nothing all day, it just means that there's no jogging involved and I have an overactive cortisol secretion.
Today wasn't consumed by farmy thingys, just full of time consuming boners.

I was printing away (I'm a writer) and I noticed the pages were inconsistent, I was running out of ink. Bummer. So I had to go down to my office supply center (the basement) and find the right refill kit. I have an old dresser I keep that sort of stuff in. It's overflowing with a wide variety of cartridges for all the major makes and some rarer models. I go through the printers. They last on an average of just under year(I keep two at a time). They should tell you right up front that you'll have to replace it right after the warranty runs out but we'll go there another time. Another thing they don't tell you is that the next printer you get will require an entirely different animal and that all those cartridges you have will be discontinued. Hence, the refill kits!
I've been running frantically (not jogging) trying to get ready for my daughters family's arrival from the potato state. They're moving out for a year while hubby is in Iraq...again.
With two small boys I have much to rearrange. My house is not exactly kid proof. It's more of a flea market motif.

In my hurried state I grabbed a black ink bottle (I thought) and came up and injected that puppy full and replaced it and resumed printing. Something was wrong, very wrong. It didn't look black....totally. It wasn't producing clean black print on the crisp white page, it was more of a bruising affect. I hit 'cancel' and took another look at that bottle. I got the 'HP' right, but it said b. l. u. e. Oops. There went another cartridge. Good thing I had one more but...drat! It was empty-ish. It needed filled. Okay, so I'll get some aerobics in after all. Down the stairs I went again only this time I put my glasses on and reread the label so many times I felt I was slipping into the Adrian Monk mode.

Me: B. L. A. C. K....black. That says b..l..a..c..k.. black, not blue. Okay....HP....good. Let's see models...hmmm, there it is...good. Got the right one. YES...black-black-black...not blue. Needle....nee-dle.........needle? WHERE'S THE NEEDLE!!! Crap....

Eventually, I got it together. All of it. Happy with myself and all the paraphernalia in my arms necessary to perform the dirty deed I returned to the land of light (upstairs) and to my desk with all the neat piles of pages waiting to be completed. I popped the little rubber stopper off of a partial bottle and peppered the entire work area and all those pages.

Usually, when I do something absolutely moronic I just walk away and compose myself. Today I was pressed for time, I had multiple deadlines AND relatives coming. So I now had a bluish-black cartridge (not enough to make me pop a cork) and three stacks of work for the shredder and black ink speckled across everything else. Not something you can afford to walk away from for any reason.

I got it all cleaned up and bagged the cartridge and marked it in big huge words 'CUSTOM MIX'. I just finished fixing everything else I messed up and wouldn't you know...it's after 1 am. I'm early! The last three months have had me up till 3:30 a.m.-ish most nights. Too bad you can't lose weight by going without sleep, I'd be back in those size 5's.
word count 681
2/17/2005 1:4 AM

There's Pigmy Lions in the Catnip!

2005-02-15T20:02:00.000-06:00

Today was another gorgeous day. I couldn't make myself stay focused on the have-to-do's, not until I had my fill of the warm sunshine and got my fix, the key to my sanity, being on my knees in the garden, yanking those early weeds and feeling the moist soil begin to cake between my fingers. Somehow, everything else melts away. Almost everything.

The cats got goofy over the catnip that had already put on leaves and a heady aroma and that is hard to ignore. All the farm felines were stoned, which I find hilarious given their otherwise somber transient natures. I chuckled right up until one of those red-eyed wonders rolled underneath me and reached up and swiped at a button on my blouse and got my belly instead. The party was over; I shoved the nuisance aside and it willingly toppled over into the catnip patch for another go round.

The resident god of frolic (my dog Merlin) cocked his head and moved in a little closer to try and figure out what was so fascinating about a bunch of leafy green stuff that to him wasn't even significant enough to coax a courtesy urination;Not even worth lifting the leg over. His head lay to rest on his paws as his eyes followed the movements of the languishing pigmy lion pride as I went back to work in the thyme patch. Everything was perfect as it always is inside the chicken wire walls of my sequestered garth of sensory delight.

I read that oftentimes we don't appreciate life until it is time for it to end. Much the same can be said of a beautiful day, or practically anything for that matter.

I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but I have an inkling that it might have been around the time my mortality caught up with me in the form of a disagreeable reflection one morning in the bathroom mirror that caused a double take. I didn't like that it wasn't my imagination. I was getting old. At least in my eyes. After the usual panicked attempts at recapturing what I'd lost, I decided it would be healthier and a mess more fun to just get comfortable with it. I decided to experience everything. Not just go about my daily life but to actually take notice, to memorize all my favorite things, and to see what kind of pleasures I may be able to create. Nothing grandiose, just good.

I make discoveries everyday that challenge everything I thought I knew. That is so cool! Getting older, and wiser is so much more fun than being young, insecure and incurably blonde!
Life is pure poetry.
word count 445
2/15/2005 7:46 PM

Dumbass-penny pinchin'-tight ass-goat ropin'-redneck-hick-inbreds!

2005-02-15T01:58:00.000-06:00

Some days the Tao eludes me. In the event that I am not making that connection, even remotely, which is typically the depth with which I understand the Taoist Quotes, I turn to one of many fun little books for my writing prompts. This one is from Life Lessons, by Robert C. Savage

Yesterday is gone;
Tomorrow is uncertain;
Today is here.
So use it!

Today was a beautiful day. Too Spring-like to remain indoors to perform those mundane, wearisome tasks of domestic bondage; cooking, cleaning, organizing, who needs them? I know where most of my stuff is and the stuff that I don't have a clue about? I've survived just fine not knowing where they were since I lost them, so why mess with a system that works? Let them remain in whatever dimension they've slipped into, at least for today.

A few weeks ago I dissected our abode into a workable grid for a systematic search. Some items mysteriously reappeared in places I had previously searched a dozen times, which leads me to believe I have house fairies. The remaining items on the stuff-I-think-I-still-own list that are yet unaccounted for will eventually be found accidentally, I'm sure, or will end up eulogized in one of my really bad poems.

Cleaning encompasses the whole put-things-where-they-should-be thing, which in turn means I have to find a proper place for the mischievous miscellany which is presently residing in the proper place for something else entirely different. My penchant for cataloging and categorizing, color coding and properly positioning in my pedantic microcosm is an endless shifting of nonessentials. It's my penance for those moments of haphazardly stuffing things out of site on those hurried or lackadaisical days.

As for cooking? I say "Let the dust bunnies fend for themselves!"

It's been a mild winter this year, but still cold enough to keep me in most of the time so Merlin (my dog), Freya (the feline matron of the farm) and I went for a stroll. To our dismay we happened upon a backhoe tearing down the old farm school to the North of our property. There is an upside though, to every coin. The mother of all copperheads, perhaps the biggest ever sighted by us anyways, lived in there. Maybe it'll get buried for good. I've seen pythons that size before, but never a snake of the Americana poisonous variety.

Seeing a backhoe ripping through the thick stone walls and plopping the rough hewn stones into the back of an old dump truck was a sad thing to witness. So reckless, with no respect for the toiling farmers that built it over a hundred years ago. It meant nothing to those two dirty men, it was merely salvage. Some fool thought he'd build a fireplace and thought the huge sandstone cubes would work nicely. I've got news for the jackass, it'll crumble. We tore out just such a beast from this structure years ago. It was a terrible disaster that the previous owners simply lived with. They stuffed rags in the widening cracks between the stones and the walls of the house. The heat, we were told, shouldn't have affected the outer, decorative stone. Wrong. There were many widening gaps even between the stones themselves.

Another person may have felt it was their duty to inform the men of the futility of the pending Titanic fireplace. Not me. I felt it was my duty to allow them to reap what they were sowing.The flagrant disrespect for our historical landmarks which were not yet immortalized as such by the proper collectives of chattering old women was shameful. Merlin whined to be allowed to show his disapproval in a canine tirade. Freya ducked into the thickets and peered out warily. I just turned and walked away, muttering words like, dumbass-penny-pinchin'-tight-ass-goat ropin'-redneck-hick-inbreds! Merlin gave me a psychoanalytical look and followed it up with a let-it-go grunt as he hunkered down for the walk home.

Yesterday wasn't completely gone as long as those walls stood. The occasional old-timer would stop by to see what had become of these old places. The daffodils and Iris ever faithful to the school grounds would rise and bloom each Spring and the sweet smell would mingle with the honeysuckle, forest floor and stream out back. They'd stop and smile and breath deep. Even I would swear I heard children laughing on occasion when hunting mushrooms there. This year the area is ripped asunder, the flower bulbs ground under by the heavy wheels of the backhoe.
Somehow, I don't think the literal manifestation of "So use It" was what the author meant, but what can you expect from the type of man that thinks good manners means spitting into a cup instead of onto the ground.
word count 782
2/15/2005 1:38 AM

Valentine Gestalt

2005-02-13T00:28:00.000-06:00

Di-a-monds...That'll Shut 'Er up

It being the one year anniversary of this poem I felt it befitting for today's entry. That and the fact that I was too busy cleaning house to come up with something new. I do get lost in my projects.

As one could guess by reading this, last Valentines sucked. The day after was okey-dokey by me. After receiving this poem from me he bought me a new sparkely and some White Diamonds perfume to go with it.

We shall see what this Valentines brings. I hope it isn't another delayed reaction. Guilt presents are okay, but the best ones are the ones the guy gives you because he wants to make your day perfect, no strings, no guilt, just pure perfect love. Then again, the resale value is much higher on diamonds and gold.

Valentine Gestalt

Another year gone
And Valentines here,
My heart hits rock bottom
As I find in my chair,
The envelope plucked
From the 99 cent rack,
Filled with lottery scratch offs
I've learned not to like.

No long stem red roses,
Perfume, nightie's or pearls,
No diamonds to say
What you can't say in words,
No sweets for the sweet in a box
Shaped like a heart,
No jewelry inscribed
“’Till death us do part”.

I pinch out a smile
As I finger the card,
Hiding the pain
That I'm feeling inside,
I stammer and stutter
An audible “Thanks”,
I fight back the tears
That should take it's place.

No “Baby I love you,
Let's go out on a date.
Forget what I said,
I think you're first rate!”
No “Sweetheart I want
To make mad passionate love,
Let's shut out the world,
For your happiness I hold
Nothing else above.”

A loveless sentiment
Meant to be funny,
Delivered by you
Is to me far from sunny.
No “Honey, I love you more than words can describe.”
It's just signed “John”.
You bolt for your ride
And thank God that you're working
Another year slides on by
that you won't have to love me
Or care
... if I cry.
By Susan Bennett
Thursday, February 12, 2004
word count 316

Cialis Smile and the Goodyear G-Spot

2005-02-12T03:02:00.000-06:00

Everybody uses delivery services at one time or another. When you live in a rural area, it doesn't take long before you figure out that it's much more economical to just do much of your non-sensical shopping online. Things like techie goodies, musician supplies, heat seeking frisbees and other entertainments are abundant and much cheaper and can be on your door step in 2 clicks of the mouse. That World Wide Web, amply named, is a junk-aholic's utopia. Every purchase you make means that some delivery company will have to make a very long drive to deliver it. Sometimes I buy something and click on "Fed Ex" just so I can get a good laugh at their expense. They go to great lengths to try and not come out here.

Since moving out to the farm, I've become a bit of a delivery service connoisseur. Getting stuff in the mail is great fun. It can develop into an addiction like gambling or sadomasochism. I'm sure that someone will start a support group for internet shoppers sooner or later.

Shopper:"Hi, my name is Nimrod, and I'm an Ebayer."

Support Group: "Hi Nimrod."

Therapist: "Well Nimrod, tell us what brings you to our 12 step program.

"Shopper: "My girlfriend says I have a shopping problem just because I got a little second mortgage on my house to buy the authentic licensed limited edition collectors reproduction of the actual pencil that was chewed by Vin Diesel in XXX".

HSN and QVC are mutant strains of the same addictability chromosonal defect only affecting those missing the common sense gene. These individuals are also susceptible to the Soap Opera Syndrome which brings on acute attacks we'll call delusional benders. It's during these episodes that they lose all ability to differentiate between reality and daytime TV.

Sometimes I wonder if I don't buy stuff online just so's I'll get a little company. Being fused to the keyboard tends to put a crimp in my social life. That is, it would if I had one.

Out here I am only aware of four ways in which my purchases may arrive, they being the following:

1. The United States Postal Service (USPS); They have to come here everyday anyway so they are amiable and easy to work with. They offer services such as package pickup and all the accouterments. They'll even bring things right in the house for you, unless you have a black dog. Yellow dogs however are perfectly acceptable.

2. UPS , not to be confused with the latter. They all wear brown and drive brown trucks so we can tell them apart. You pay a higher price for the special services but dogs are not an issue and they'll even go the extra mile, like haul those really heavy items anywhere you want them, especially if you're not wearing a bra.

3. DHL; I have no idea what that stands for, I didn't even know they existed until I bought something from Overstock.com (a popular discount haunt). These people are magicians. I believe David Copperfield is their CEO. I ordered a guitar one morning and buy 2 pm it was being delivered to my front door. I don't know how they did it, I don't know why they did it, I certainly didn't pay for immediate delivery. The truck pulled into the drive and this guy with a Cialis smile hopped up to the door and handed me the box and was gone before my dog found his Goodyear G-spot.

4. Then there's Fed Ex,which is not who I'd call for expedited delivery. They spend a lot of advertising dollars to impress upon the delivery impaired public that they are "The" express delivery alternative. Maybe so, in the great metropolis, but in our neck of the woods they hold the record for delivery faux pas. They get very creative with the excuses. I had one item sent to me and returned twice before they sent it a third time and actually came out here. They used the whole barrage of reasons why it was undeliverable. All lies I tell you, lies! I think I would know where I am when I'm home all day waiting for them and calling from my phone, here, and I'm told by the person on the other end of the phone at Fed Ex headquarters that the driver was just here and I'm not home. If I wasn't really here when I thought I was here calling from my phone on my front porch surveying all the roads leading here, then where in fact was I really? Could it be that even though I have never watched a soap opera that I have fallen prey to the Soap Opera Syndrome in an evolved form? One triggered by delivery service debacles?

word count 7452/12/2005 2:36 AM

Fairly Dumb-Assed

2005-02-11T01:57:00.000-06:00

It never hurts to update your states revised No-Call-List. New glitches emerge from the proposition cesspool on occasion. We voters aren't usually aware of these little clauses that are discretely attached to an otherwise harmless looking check box on our ballot. Apparently, enough of us Missourians voted "yes" on...something. After my emphatic delivery of the good sense with which I backed my vote, I felt ...fairly dumb-assed. Yes, I had helped write in a clause to allow phone companies to call with sales pitches and survey calls(sales pitches incognito) and non-profit organizations can call at dinner time and just beg for food.

Since I re-upped our standing, I haven't gotten another of those calls (knock on oak-colored-laminate-particle-board-wood).

Another little thing, I got one of those emails from a friend, that sneakily doesn't really tell you what your in for, only that someone that supposedly loves you wants you to see it. I went to check it out, since it was someone I loved and discovered a really tiny clause under the "retrieve message" that said "By clicking here you agree to let us sell your personal information to every dick with a buck and receive an endless barrage of junk emails that are sure to fill your box every time you download, AND you agree to let us call you at dinner time and beg for food."
I bowed out of that site quickly, if not gracefully. So, I have no clue what that was, but I figure, I didn't know I needed it before I got the email so I guess I can continue to live without it now. I got dumb-assed twice in one day.

I believe that if we were given an outright concise option to vote on whether or not we, the people, want to give those telemarketing companies the freedom to bother us at home, I think the questionnaire would look something like this:

How do you feel about giving the tele-marketers and other money wholes the freedom to call you anytime they like at home or at work or even while youre doing the nasty?
[check the circle next to your choice].

O a. Sure! I'm lonely and will talk their ears off.
O b. No thanks, may they burn in hell.
c. Yeah okay, I wouldn't want to miss out on an opportunity to give my money away to complete high pressure salesman strangers.
(still looking for that circle? No check spot available on option c. because if you think you want to put your mark here you have an IQ of 12 and it's for your own protection).

word count 453
2/11/2005 1:46 AM

The Lemming and Saint Peter

2005-02-09T22:27:00.000-06:00

Tao Quote of the Day:

"Even the journey of a thousand miles, begins with a single step"

I did a little wandering today, a little backwards from my usual routine of write-first-visit-later. I decided to snub the old slave driver (Me) today and do it my way (alter ego Me) so I logged on and revisited some interesting blogs maintained by interesting people.
One gentle spirit addressed the "Why do people settle?" question.

My answer was easy, "Fear. They are afraid of failure, afraid of change and afraid that if left to their own, they won't like the company."~Cerebral Gas, Jan 15, 2005

Oh go ahead and tell me I'm wrong. I could have gone on and on with all the phobias, disorders, neurosis and all the reasons why it's their parents fault, but if you wanted to hear that you wouldn't be skimming blogs, you'd be in your therapists waiting room arguing with some obsessive-compulsive over how many times you should tap a door knob before turning it. I will offer to help you out a little so you'll feel as comfortable with me as you would with your HMO Psychologist, you can pay me...only if it will make you feel better. How does that make you feel?
I don't have those fear hang-ups. I am the type to walk first, think later ( Which can rack up quite a bill in divorce court fee's). Because, you see, if I take that first step, then out of habit I will follow thru with the subsequent steps, either until I reach my destination, get a cramp, or go careening off a cliff in a wild Lemming run into the ocean where I drop like a rock to the sandy bottom. No matter how you look at it, I will have gotten past that uncomfortable moment quickly, and before you know it I am no longer at the end of an era, rather the beginning of a new one. Either that or I get a cramp and say "screw it", or I've sunk like a rock to my watery grave and then I'm Saint Peters problem...in which case I'm back to the beginning a new adventure thing, only my dress size will no longer be an issue and my feet won't hurt.
So no matter how you look at it, I win...unless I get a cramp.

word count 390
2/9/2005 10:8 PM

Mata Hari and the Harper Valley PTA

2005-02-08T21:17:00.000-06:00

Tao Quote of the Day:

Intelligent people know others.
Enlightened people know themselves.
You can conquer others with power,
But it takes true strength to conquer yourself.

I used to be an obsessive-compulsive. I obsessed about some of the strangest things. For example, perfection. Perfect clothes, perfect shoes, perfectly ratted to its max 80's hair and the perfect body for the skin- tight gaudiness of the day. Perfectly clean and immaculately attired children that matched perfectly, even though there was 2 1/2 years difference. Lucky for my frail reality, my perfectly matched toe-heads, stayed nearly the same size; Which made finding those twinzy outfits easier. Trying to dress all three of us the same was harder to do. I would end up looking like a pimped lollipop, or my daughters would come out looking like child porn stars. So the notion was short lived. In fact, it never made it out of the house.

We learned to live with our differences. My girls were pretty in pink and French braids, while I turned heads at the Harper Valley PTA , a Mata Hari in stilettos.

I don't think any single moms actually start out looking so different from the K Mart Queens you find attending the bake sale booth at the school fair, except that they possess a keener sense of individualism. It's the imposed alienation that transforms. Somehow being the whispered about and pointed at, and being treated like you are in fact sleeping with every woman's husband which acts as the catalyst that brings out the volatile seductress.

Every snide remark or unfriendly glare results in tighter, shorter skirts, more cleavage. It's like washing an Angora sweater in very hot water. You get the same results, only the sweater has less to prove.

My nemesis was the entire married community and they detested the existence of me in all my Vanna Whiteness. All I had done to rate their disapproval was to live through the divorce. Apparently, discarded wives have no right to draw another breath once the divorce decree is final. It hurt, but most of all it made me angry.

One day I accidentally stumbled upon the realization that they were creating a monster. Once I got a grip on myself, and toned back down, yet still clinging fiercely to my desire for perfection, I turned to flaunting the freedom issue. I no longer felt the need to be bound by social conformity. they resented my affirmations of singularity, I resented their Katherine Smith wardrobe and their Martha Stuart obsessions. I dared push the lines of acceptability with my Nike-No-Fear attitude.

I eventually outgrew the need to retaliate against the pressures of my peers with belligerent good looks. I began finding great entertainment in dissecting each harbinger of sociopathic married ladies sodality. It's okay if they want to keep their distance. It forced me into exploring myself thoroughly. What I found surprised me.

I found
that I can tell more about a person in five minutes than most people want to you find out in five years.
I have developed an appreciation for all that makes me indelibly me, and I'm okay with all of it.
I have no desire to hold power over anyone for any reason.
above all else, I enjoy command performances of self-improvement.
word count 541
2/8/2005 9:1 PM

What Happens When Malibu Barbie Grows Up

2005-02-07T23:46:00.000-06:00

Tao Quote of the Day:

If you show people exciting things,
you will make them covetous and greedy.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN MALIBU BARBIE GROWS UP

I had a doctor appointment today and since I became semi-retired that's usually a reason to treat myself. Especially after I'm weighed in and receive all those praises from the resident nurses.

Nurse: "You don't LOOK like you weigh 200 pounds! You couldn't be bigger than a 14! Your very dense".

Me: "That was supposed to be a compliment ...right?"

Like being a 200 pound size 14 is a good thing. And that word, dense, that could be taken two ways but the blank gaze of admiration behind the remark makes me wonder if she was that stupid, or that smart. Either way I felt it would be in my best interest to digress. Pissing off the people that decide just how much of that regulated rat poison to prescribe could be very bad.
I went to my usual haunts and dropped loads of dough. The rest of the year my money slowly trickles from my grasp but in the winter...well, it's like I go through with drawls.

Me: "I haven't been in a store in two weeks! TWO WEEKS...take my money, PLEASE!"

Store Clerk: "Well, alright then. Two dozen Moon pies, green lipstick and a bag of rocks, that'll be...$2.345.09."

Me; "W-e-l-l, okay, but what cost nine cents?"

You see, in the Mid-West (I don't know why the need for the hyphen) this time of year, outings are greatly reduced if you're prone to chapping below the -145 degree mark. So when the weather is nice (the Twilight Zone theme song echoes in my brain at the suggestion), like today, I'm apt to dally all the way home. And since my doctors office sits on the infamous Battle of Carthage site and not here in Hog Waller behind the feed store like everybody else’s, I have many miles of possible detours I can take betwixt and between.

The irony of my "healer" doing business on a site of infamous carnage is quirky at best. I'm just glad that amputation is no longer considered a cure-all.

I then took myself out to eat at the Steak-O-Rama on the main drag and played table hockey with the medium-well puck I was served while I watched the buffet patrons artfully pile their plates with all the fatty-fried-carburetor foods some wiener named Atkins says will add fluff to your fluff.

It brought back memories of the college cafeteria where you were given custard cups for the food bar. We took it as a challenge, there were great pantheons of celery and egg slices, that held back an artfully piled bit of eye candy at the starving artist table. That was where you could find me, playing Jenga with my masterpiece of modern culinary cuisine (all the raw vegetables and pickles you could get into that custard cup). Eating it took as much ingenuity as building it did. Many times my Vesuvian mound would erupt and all would begin falling to the paper napkin I had opened up underneath it (just in case), the only thing holding some of it together was the volcanic flow of Catalina dressing.

The cruelty of offering an all-you-can-pile-in-a-custard-cup food bar at a college cafeteria most definitely made more than just I succumb to a covetous admiration of those architectural students and their erections.

Ah, those were the good old days. Now I remember why I was a size 5.

word count 575
2/7/2005 11:28 PM

Residual Mocha-chino Rush

2005-02-06T22:33:00.000-06:00

Tao Quote of the Day:

In ancient times there were great Taoist Sages. Their way of living was so deep, so subtle, it cannot be directly explained. Instead, here is how they looked:
Cautious, as if crossing the ford of a stream in winter.

I have no idea what that means, and I don't find any bits of wisdom tucked discreetly between the lines. It did however bring up the whole 'look of caution' thing. I haven't been able to shake that feeling of fear and frustration from having to argue with a deaf man over whether or not what I heard was a tornado or lightening. I finally got the last word after I refused to come up from the basement while he stood on the porch, yelling down to me "You gotta see this!"
I answered, "Don't tell me, could it be... a tornado? DUH!"
For some reason, 'duh' works neatly as a last word.

RESIDUAL MOCHA-CHINO RUSH

My sleep habits are somewhat erratic. By that I mean sleep is not something I am predisposed to. Most people grow out of the I-can't-sleep-because-I'm-afraid-that-I'll-miss-out-on-something syndrome. I didn't. Life is full of surprises, some good, others, not so good, yet they all carry with them a sort of addicting amped-up euphorian feel. Kind of like one of those $50 latte's from the foo-foo coffee counter.

In my present mid-life bulge, I attribute the rush not to the adrenaline fix life used to feed me, it's more of an involuntary secretion from the residual stock-pile of mocha-chino-espresso-lattes I carry around in my fatty tissues.

Last night I fell right off to sleep, but like all good things my R.E.M. was interrupted abruptly and was ended by a terror stricken me that just realized in my full color (yeah, I don't care what they say, I've never dreamed in black and white) dream that I had conjured a tornado and it was heading straight for me and I didn't have the forethought to allow myself to do that flying thing I do in other dreams. I think they call that lucite dreaming; When you are aware of your dream. Much better than formica. Sucked to be me I'll tell ya, standing there with my cane and legs of lead, like Barbie BEFORE she got the bendable legs. I was standing in the typical Mid-Western town with all the little shops all stuck together like town houses, only their rent is cheaper, and nowhere to hide.

Lucky for me, what I thought was that ever familiar freight train noise, was just the old geezer across the hall chug-chugging along in in blissful slumber. It did not emanate from Kansas. That state is always spittin' twisters!

I never did get back to sleep, so I figured, why not recharge my fatty tissues and run off at the keyboard like I do, oh so often? So I slipped out of bed and into my Tweetie Bird slippers and made myself some luscious French Vanilla l-o-v-e handles...extra sweet.

word count 495
2/6/2005 10:28 PM

Attack of the Pod People

2005-02-06T00:40:00.000-06:00

Tao Quote of the Day:

"Even a nine story terrace began as a single basket of earth."

When I was a lot younger, between career goals and dating an Architect in the making, I took a class with him to learn architectural rendering. Why I stuck with it as long as I did, I still don't know. I take that back; yes I do, he was cute and he thought I was a goddess.

As soon as I saw the rest of the class come filing in, lifeless, pasty complexions, dragging in like zombies, dressed in dark colors, predominantly black, I felt like I was amidst "The Pod People" and I knew I didn't belong, but hey, there were lots of colorful paints involved so I stayed around for the finger painting.

Those Pod people made me uneasy though. Hatched from giant gooey egg shaped things that attached to their intended replication model by an umbilical cord busy sucking the life out the doofus that was drawn to it out of moronic curiosity (without which, no B movie would have a plot). The thing would hatch, and ta-da...identical replicant! That's what they were, they had to be. Nobody looks like that REALLY.

I was thinking, maybe I shouldn't have watched that movie a second time. I whispered to my beau, "If the professor looks like Donald Sutherland, we bolt".

Do I have a point? Yes. Here goes...Even a D in architectural rendering begins with a single date with your brothers friend.

If I had a basket of earth for every bad choice I've made, I'd be filthy-dirty rich!
word count 265
2/6/2005 0:50 AM

Junk-aholic Juggernauts

2005-02-05T01:34:00.000-06:00

Tao Quote of the day:

"Hoarders are destined for a great loss."

The first thing that comes to mind in reference to this quote is...DUH. If you are a collector like myself, you are an incurable hoarder in some form. My form has taken on a somewhat fluffy shape since I peaked at 40-ish. However, the things I hoard vary greatly in form and value. Some things I collect have little monetary value, but I think they're cool. so that's good enough for me; Junk like shoe horns, can openers, rocks. If the great hoard eliminator (tornado) breezed through our place I would succumb quickly to the pummeling I'd get from my own mélange of junk way before the twister itself ever reached its efficacious climax, robbing me of a justifiable conniption fit.

Being the junk-aholic juggernaut that I am I would soon find myself in retrogression, quickly replacing all my irreplaceable treasures. I would rebuild the family edifice with the inclusion of a rostrum for the antiquities literati to come pay homage to my collection of reclaimed refuse of days gone by.

So, the way I look at it, hoarders may be destined for great losses, but if they keep those insured values high and those deductibles low they can also be in for great compensation as well.

Global Warming; Smaller Rats, Transexual Turtles

2005-02-03T19:05:00.000-06:00

Tao Quote of the Day;

"The world is a sacred vessel,It should not be meddled with.It should not be owned.If you try to meddle with it,You will ruin it.if you try to own it,You will lose it."

There's a lot of concern being expressed these days about global warming. Even I concern myself with what sort of world my grand kids will have in their future. I've been doing a little research. In fact, I read that the North American overall temperatures have increased by about 1 degree in the last century. That breaks down to an unfathomably small percent of a percent of a percent per day that I can't even comprehend the math involved. That doesn't mean it's not important. it just means I suck at math.

On one chart I saw that the State of Arizona increased by 3 degrees. So Phoenix could very well be the Hell of the future. Not that it's a picnic now.

"Sinners shall be cast down into the everlasting flames of Phoenix...blah-blah-blah"Do-to-her-an-me 30-06

People will be saying things like, "Burn in Phoenix!"

According to many scientists, by the end of the 21st Century we could be looking at an increase from 2.5 to 10.4 degrees because of the anthropogenic greenhouse gases(human emissions). Time to buy stock in Bean-O.

The way I figure it, if I hang in there for another 50,000 years at 1 degree per century, that stock in Coppertone could make me a very wealthy woman.. On the other hand, if the centenary data escalates at the projected maximum of a 10.4 x's that of each century that came before...in 200 years the temp could raise as much as 108.16 degrees? I'm thinkin' if we initiate a mandatory birth control enforcement we could cut the total collateral damage down dramatically. On the oft chance that nobody votes for that option, may I suggest government spending being more focused on replacing fossil fuels with environmentally friendly options like tapping into the limitless energy of the kangaroo rat for instance. Then again, Bermanns Rule of the evolution of body mass reduction according to escalating temperate climates in Kangaroo Rats and Zooplankton might make the Gerbil a more feasible replacement for the diminishing body mass of the diminutive Kangaroo Rat given it's shrinking into nonexistence.

There are other theories to consider as well, such as the one by that guy named after a cheese that says that global warming alters the behavioral patterns in the affected life forms such as Edith's Checker Spotted Butterfly's population which has begun migrating northward. How awful! Soon they will be seen in...I'm not even sure where they are supposed to be, let alone where they are moving to. That little tidbit was not mentioned in the study that I pilfered, but there would be checkered butterflies where ever that is.

Something else I found interesting was the way a given temperature at a certain point of gestation in turtles affects the sex of the embryo. Some person with a name something like Janis Ian (isn't that a pop star from the 70's?) or Jen-Zen figured that out. That's what I want my hard earned money going toward. I'm going to give half my income, that comes to about $2.43, to the study of X and Y chromosomes in turtles because turtles are cute and I'm a dufus. So, if say, the overall soil temperature reaches 223.16 ( that's around what I figure it'll be in 200 years at 10.4 multiplied), will that make the turtles hatch all males? Or all females? Somehow, I don't see how that would matter, because if the ground was that darn hot we'd all be eating poached turtle eggs either way and they probably taste the same.

So, you see, that on the plus side, we could be seeing milder temperatures in the future winter months here in the Mid-West(I refer to it as sweater-weather); on the down side, it won't last long before any sun exposure at all will result in the painful death by the "flash-frying-effect" due to no ozone. How positively apocalyptic!

Word Count 688

2/3/2005 7:25 PM

2005-02-03T00:43:00.000-06:00

This is Me

2005-02-03T00:24:00.000-06:00

My Boyfriend Haven (he says I'm his one true love).

Looks Like Bat poop Ta Me

2005-02-02T23:52:00.000-06:00

Tao Quote of the Day:
"Clay walls are moulded into a pot, but the usefulness of the pot lies in it's emptiness. ~ Lao Tzu"

My brother is an Ace Ventura fan. Whenever I get to missing him(he lives in Las Vegas, far-far-away from Hogwaller, Missouri) I dig the Ace Ventura movies out of the black hole (my linen closet/ movie cupboard). I usually call my boyfriend and ply him with the promise of hot-air popcorn, extra butter and all the pez and gummy bears he wants to come watch movies with me. That's what we did this last weekend.
We were having a great time. When Ace licked that guano bowl it got even better. Suddenly bat poop became the buzz words.

Half way through the movie I pulled out my present project, a clay sculpture of my niece, and started working.

Haven: Is that guano Grandma? It's all ober yer fingers. Ewe.

Me: No, it's clay.

Haven: Looks like bat poop ta me.

Me: Nope, but that popcorn bowl your lickin', now that's bat poop.

He smiled real big, like a dare and as soon as we broke eye contact he slid by and siddled up to the kitchen can and spit.

Me: is there something wrong with your popcorn?

Haven: Next time jus pour it straight inta my mout kay? I don't need a bowl grandma. Nope, tastes like guano.

Later on when it was time for a snack I pulled two bowls out of the cupboard and went fishing in the fridge for some fruit. As I let go of the grapes, the bowls were whisked away by a panic stricken munchkin. The grapes bounced and rolled. He darted across the kitchen scolding me.

Haven: NO GRANDMA! No bowls! You shouldn't eat outta those, you'll git poopy-breath.

Me: I have to put them in something

Haven: My mouth will be fine. Look (he says 'ah") it's open, jus drop'em in kay?

To a 4 year old that has watched Jim Carey lick a guano bowl, the usefulness of an empty bowl lies in it's staying empty and on the shelf where it can't give you bat poop breath.
.2/2/2005 1:47 AM
word count 349