Ten Jobs I Do Not Want

10 Jobs I Do Not Want!

I was surprised at how seriously I took this tag, thank you Natalie. I had wholly intended to do a totally tongue in cheek blog, but instead, whoa, intense…beginning with those dreaded…

1) Snakes – I do not want to be a snake handler, snake hunter, snake milker, snake charmer. Anyone who knows me totally understands this. When I was growing up on Tanfield Drive, Mr. Turner had these massive tortoises in his back yard. What did this have to do with snakes? He was, yes was, a snake hunter. He hunted rattlers for their venom. When I was a kid I remember hearing he’d been bitten three times. I know that is how he left this earth too. This also saves me from federal and state politicians, door-to-door salesmen, and lawyers.

2) President of the United States. I just don’t think I can dumb down for this job as it seems Americans want.

3) Prayer listening Angel. There are what? 7 billion human beings on earth, potentially half of them pray to “a” god. I believe there is only one God, who goes by many names. So anyway, can you imagine listening to the Shrub’s prayers? Those of BB8’s Amber or Jameka? To Osama Bin Laden’s? I’ll pass.

4) Athletic shoemaker. No, I’m not talking about Phil Knight, the Bazillionaire who employees said shoemakers, I’m talking about the little guy, girl, grandmother, baby in some Micronesia sweatshop who makes .50 cents a day working 10 to 12 hours a day, six to seven days a week, so snot nosed American brats can beg mommy and daddy to spend top dollar for the latest fad.

5) Ad representative who sold their soul to sell those blood money sneakers.

6) Saint Peter. I’m not sure I could turn enough cheeks (and I’ve got a lot of cheek) to let in a repentant Michael Vick, Adolph Hitler, Jim Jones, Wayne Gacey, or George Custer into Heaven. And turning a cheek is just what the job requires to let in the “repentant.” And no I don’t think I’m good enough for Heaven. But it sounds awesome.

7) Money counter at a casino. Enough said.

8) Gynecologist or Proctologist – would you?

9) Phlebotomist – Needles are the snakes of all inanimate objects.

10) Refund agent for anyone – especially post Christmas.

Hmmm, who to tag???? CV Rick, Pomp, Jazzy, Karin, and Jake.

CV Rick's Saturday MeMe

CV Rick’s http://www.cvrick.com/ Saturday MeMe was provoking to say the least. It inspired Wry to artistically run amok with a great post over at http://wrycatcher.wordpress.com/. So here is the scoop…


♦ Go to Google images
♦ Type in your name (or in the case of Wry spend all Saturday evening being obsessive for our benefit)
♦ Post interesting image (with link) discovered during this search I love stuff like this, but the sad thing with my name is that I always come up with two things (or plurals of the same two things.)



Then I came up with books by my friends and those I have worked on




My station’s FM Logo


The Administration on Aging just loves me

Then I decide to Google my online name - Celebrindal






I came up with my online name because my wise daughter told me I should chose a name that is meaningful to me. I love Tolkien. Love Tolkien. I'm not rabid, not OCD (well at least about Tolkien.) I poured through my books and finally from the Simarrillion chose Celebrindal, which over time has been shortened to Cele.

And my girl friend’s Dog Zeus…or is this Venus is happy dancing, not for me, but because River Park went to the Dogs.

Usually when I google my name I get listings for naked celebrity photos. Happy dancing dogs are soooo much better. Happy Sunday.
Sith,
Cele

Keyboard Dining

I eat at my keyboards, yes at both work and home. A Lot. So while it was frustrating to have dropped a good size lump of steamed rice and garlic from my dry sautéed green beans this afternoon, I wasn’t surprised. Better the keyboard than my white crepe blazer.

I know, I know you’re thinking, “WTF, is she doing eating anything Chinese, Italian, or Tex Mex in a white crepe blazer?” It boggles the logical mind. I on the other hand, and if you polled my boss too, find nothing unusual in that for me. Because to remove the blazer would require two things on my part; first, forethought, secondly…I forgot what the second part was, besides dropping food on my keyboard is a daily process for me.

I eat breakfast ninety-five percent of the time at my keyboard. What does this say? I need to vacation more often, vacations were designed for eating breakfast out. I eat ninety two percent of my lunches at my keyboard. I work through lunch most days. Friday nights generally find a goodly dose of ice cream drips falling along the right hand number keys towards the end of the bowl on my keyboard during chat. Happy note, Otterpops don’t tend to drip on my keyboard.

Back to the dry sautéed green beans and my dilemma as to how I might possibly get the rice out from between the keys. Of course I could shake them out, but then – wow – I lose all that rice. Can we say gluttony? And the keys will still need cleaning. And no, I’m not going to try to suck the rice off of the keyboard, because DUDE! Have you ever tried turning the keyboard upside down and shaking it out? Nasty crap Dude, highly nasty. So I took my fork and picked up as much as I possibly could using the tines, then cursed loudly at the four grains that are now stuck amid a sea of soy sauce between F5%, F6, my 7, 8 and U keys. Tiny corners of post it notes, business cards (I’ll get through that box yet), even my letter opener. Nada, they are now in bits and falling further into the plastic face.

Inserting my faithful letter opener between 7 & 8 I pop it off. And OHMIGAWD! That’s where lint is born and apparently where an ant has died, a while back. Offending rice bits removed, key wiped clean, and popped back into place. Have you ever tried to remove an F key? F4 was not a problem, except no rice had gone down there. F5 & F6 – It ain’t happin’ honey. So I ever so gently try a small corner of paper toweling in between the keys with an upward motion to get what I can. We all know that when you’re working down, and upward sweep begins with a downward poke. So pray to the rice gods for good harvest.

I Am Soooo Confused!

I was reading one of my daily blogs, Murder She Writes, and today Allison Brennan is talking about internet time wasters. And what a sweetie, she offered links to each one on Blog Things.

Am I a waster or what? I took each one. So don’t you hate when you take a quiz and the answers provided does not include the answer you need? I hate that, because I know these are highly scientific quizzes, and I want my results to reflect the true me. So here we go.

The Super Hero Quiz – I am Superman – this pissed me off, I really wanted to be Wonder Woman. But shit you have to score an 18 to get Wonder Woman, what idiot came up with that?

What Color Crayon Are You Quiz – I am blue. Go figure. I thought I was pretty happy and wanted to be green. Who in the hell thinks bouffant is a fun word to say? I think licorice is a fun word to say, or Ayatolla Ruholla Kohmiene. Hey you roll that off your tongue for fun, and then follow it up with Francios Miterran. I love saying those names.

What personality disorder are you? WTF, I’m dependent, where the hell did that come from?

What is your thinking style quiz? - I am visioning. I wanted to be visionary, but I’m dependent.

And finally, the Are you left brained or right brained Quiz - I’m just pasting the results in down below

You Are 55% Left Brained, 45% Right Brained

The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning. Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others. If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic. Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet. The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility. Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way. If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art. Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Are You Right or Left Brained?

I didn’t take the… are you fat quiz, because I know the answer already.

Sith,
Cele

The seductive power of Six

I have been seduced. I love a good MeMe, the best are analytical and this is among the best. But I am going to take it a step further, I’d like to say better, but that would be a point of view that might not be shared by others. Six words about myself, and then I’m going to write six words about six of my favorite bloggers which is going to be difficult, because I have more than six favorite bloggers.

Wordy – I always give people more information than they asked for. I think this is because I want people to understand, I want to share, I want to be liked. I want give and take. Damn, I want a lot.

Loner (homebody) – I use to be a joiner. In my work a day world my best friend is my husband. On the internet, (where I live more and more) I had a bestest friend, but well that didn’t work out, and after seven years she said Buh-bye. C’est La Vie, it still rankles me. Now I have a BFF and she is awesome, talented, loving, and giving, but I guess I still wait until the moment she decides I’m not her cup of tea. Having friends is hard.

Listener – Everyone has a story to tell; their own, the one they want as theirs, and someone else’s. I will listen. What you find out by listening is what is deep down in the teller. It gives you insights into the human condition, into them. I have a good memory. Good listeners are never judgmental. They just listen and give of themselves.

Fixer – If it is broken I will try to fix it. This works best with situations, because I’m not overly mechanical. Note mechanical is not on my list of six. Fixer is. Being a fixer can backfire in your face. So you must be prepared to lose your friends, to be unpopular, to be stuck in the outer darkness.

Mediator – I love my friends, I hate when they are unhappy and worse when they are unhappy at each other, I try to fix them. Sometimes this doesn’t work out well (see above.)

The power of Six in order of compulsion and length of time read

Natalie – http://www.nataliercollins.com/weblog/ Trapped Behind the Zion Curtain
♦Compelling – her personal blog Trapped Behind the Zion Curtain always makes me think
♦Talented – an incredible writer, with four books being released in 2007 alone (or is it five?)
♦Harried – she is always working behind two or three deadlines. Sheesh she has three publishing houses. At least four blogs she owns, co-owns, or contributes to. Does several websites. Is on several writing list. And is always driving somewhere for dance camp, dance competition, or a radio interview.
♦Sane – this is hard to be in the competitive world of Dance Moms and publishing.
♦Mom – she is incredibly supportive of her children and their activities and accomplishments
♦Loyal – she is need I say more?

Sideon - http://sideon.blogspot.com/ Sideon’s Sanctuary (I’ve only been reading this one for just over a year but it’s one of my favs)
♦Compelling – (you will see this a lot because the best bloggers are compelling)
♦Generous – Sid is open and giving
♦Friendly – I’m not sure I have ever, and I mean ever, had someone offer me friendship so darn fast. Sid is delightful, a confidant,
♦Popular – Men stand in envy of his bevy of female admirers
♦Sexy – Why is it gay men are so sexy? I don’t know, but Sid definitely is.
♦Talented – Sid thinks he isn’t, but oh mi GAWD! Read his writing he is marvelous; his poetry is captivating and compelling; his Seasons of Truth, riveting; his blog delightful and insightful.

Joshily Jackson – http://www.joshilynjackson.com/mt/ Faster Than Kudzu
♦Insane – this woman’s blog is as crazy as her writing, but it all connects. I can’t go a day without reading Faster Than Kudzu
♦Facinating – Joss’ mind doesn’t work on the same linear path.
♦Open – what you see is what you get
♦Beloved – The only person I know who gets more comments on her blog is Mir
♦Honored – Her books – gods In Alabama & Between, Georgia keeping winning awards
♦Witty – Very, you have to be there to understand


Mir – Woulda, Shoulda, Coulda http://www.wouldashoulda.com/
♦Open – No sugar coating with this woman, just an extra healthy dose of Bacon Salt
♦Humerous – a fabulous sense of humor shades her view of her world as she shares her daily life with her readers
♦Witty – fabulously witty
♦Self-deprecating – She cuts her self no slack and she does it with wit and wisdom
♦Thrifty – If it can be had for cheaper, she’s the woman to find it for you
♦Married – Mir took her readers along for the journey of her single parenthood, into the confusion and sadness of Flee-Harmony dot com, through the worry of rediscovering the love of her life, and her recent marriage.

Sister Mary Lisa - http://sistermarylisa.blogspot.com/ Thoughts By Sister Mary Lisa
♦Humorous – If you’ve read her you understand
♦Talented – This woman has no idea how well she writes
♦Friendly – You can see it in her blog, she opens herself up to her readers and invites them in.
♦Traveled – Who in blogdom hasn’t she traveled to meet? Oh, me, but that is coming.
♦Popular – 90 percent of the people I know read her blog, have met her, or are going to meet her.
♦Parent – their family nights sound awesome

CV Rick - http://www.cvrick.com/ Ninja Writer
♦Talented – I’m not sure he even realizes how well he writes – did you read Alma or his Bank Robber series. Enough said.
♦Compelling – The best blogs always are, they make you want to comment, to think outside the box – late into the day
♦Scientific – he says it’s just the way he thinks
♦Insightful – he gives you a different view to chew on and makes you reconsider
♦Friendly – try his blog you will see for yourself.
♦Father – he can tell he is a proud papa

I hope I didn’t embarrass anyone. And for those who find something new to them here, I hope you enjoy these blogs, because I believe they are well worth your reading time. Did I mention I am wordy?
Sith,
Cele

Regrets of the age challenged or things I will never do again

Yesterday Duck and I had a two hour drive to and from Sweet Home, Oregon for the annual Oregon Jamboree. Three days of country music in the Cascades. Ducky is a little bit country and I’m a lot a bit head banging rock n’ roll. I gave Ducky tickets to Saturday’s music because he’s a big Lori Morgan fan. Because she had canceled twice before on the Oregon Jamboree she was stuck in the two o’clock time slot just after Hal Ketchum and right before (this will show you how pissed they were at her) Bucky Covington of American Idol fame. Bucky and his brother Rocky sucked. We left before Aaron Tippen and Trisha Yearwood. But I am way off track.

During our long drives we tend to have those deep conversations that couples tend to have when there is nothing better to do. It’s either that or talk sex. Which we did. But that came later. So our discussion turned to midlife crisis, which led to things we will – okay I will – never do again. Both topic appropriate at our ages, Ducky is the speed limit, and I’m 51. I don’t think either one of us has really faced a mid life crisis (I always tell him I am his midlife crisis) but I have begun having those thoughts.

Okay, I’ve had them for a while, but the thoughts have become deeper and more prolific in recent memory. I don’t regret getting older, as I am wont to say, “I’ve worked hard for every one of those years.” But I’ve begun to realize of late some of the things I loved to do in the past that I will never do again.

I will never surf again. I will never experience the thrill of trying to shoot a curl and survive up right, heart racing in joy, the power of a wave gliding and thrusting me and my board up and forward. Nor feel the wind drying my body, right before I am slam-dunked back into the ocean. I will never wear a bikini again (the world is thankful for that last part – shoot if I keep growing I’ll never wear a bathing suit again.)

I will never again experience Girl Scout camp. For nine years my parents sent me, for two weeks, to Skyland Ranch in the San Jacinto Mountains of Southern California. Heaven. I loved Girl Scout Camp – hated the snakes – loved the camp. The girls, the singing, the hiking, swimming, and the oatmeal (it’s the only place I’ve liked oatmeal that didn’t come out of a bag with dried apple bits mixed in.) It is where I got my name – Tanglefoot (I use this moniker when I blog at Jenny T Partridge.)

I will never again knock out my opponent with a well timed hipcheck, the flip side to that is I will never have to feel the wind knocked out of me when I’ve been sent into the rail – cry when my finger has been run over (and yes it fucking hurts), or feel the power build as I skate the oval. Damn I had great thighs when I was younger.

I will never own a horse again. I’m pretty certain of this one. The last time I rode a horse (two years ago) I had to have a boost to get on the poor thing. My thighs just aren’t what they use to be, of course they are hefting a 100 pounds more than they use to. Now if I went back to the gym I’d be able to squat two hundred within two months. But get my fat butt back on a horse, hmmm. Poor horsey. Of course ex number one says I am invited to ride anytime I want – he’s been teaching our grandson to ride this summer, I am envious.

I will never ride a dirt bike again. My first, true boyfriend Ronnie, (of the black lashes and bluest eyes) use to take me riding all the time. When we first started dating I don’t think he realized I rode. We had a Suzuki 125 (small, but just right for me) Ronnie and I went to this great dirt park, somewhere between La Mirada and La Habra, that had fabulous hills, dips, and jumps. Other times we’d go with his step dad and brothers to Imperial Lake bed and ride. I loved splashing through the arroyos and speeding a long the hardpan.

I will never get to walk the pier eating donut holes with my grandfather again. God, I miss him. As a child and into my teens, I would spend the occasional weekend with my grandparents. They were extremely special moments for me. My grandparents lived in Balboa, so it was the beach during the day, dinner at Dilman’s at night, and these incredible morning walks with my grandfather, Chappy. He was awesome, my best friend, my hero. When I got older it was the memories he gave me that made me want to be the best grandparent I could possibly be, to want to give Ben these incredible memories that will last him his lifetime. While I may not get to walk with my grandfather, eating donut holes, on the Balboa pier, I do get to build those memories and moments with Ben. When ever I smell a warm, rich pipe tobacco I know my grandfather is with me, and I talk to him frequently.

I will never feel a baby kick inside of me again. Shit, for as uninterested as my girls seem, I will never hold another grandchild n my arms again. Psam gave me Ben, you would think Miseray and Grace would give me one each. I’m a thinking it ain’t gonna happen.

Never will I regret getting old. Who wants to go back and relive sixteen, eighteen, (shit twenty four was a good year) again? Not I. But there are things that my muscles still remember, experiences that will never happen again, first that have long since past. I look forward to the future, I don’t live in my glory days. But just sometimes, on those long drives during deep conversations, my mind remembers joys of younger days when my muscles memories twitch at what was back then…and then ache.

Ducky on the other hand thinks about people he will never do again.

Sith
Tanglefoot

Tums Junkie

Once my dad scolded me because he thought I’d been eating Rolaides like they were candy. They were Rolos, he just hadn’t fully heard what I’d said.

Now I eat Tums like they are candy. Especially the Berry flavored ones. Not Rolaides, not Maloxx, not Gaviscon, not Tums Smooth - Nope, Tums Ex 750. And don’t be fooled by the EX there is nothing that stops my problems. EX works no better than regular Tums, I just love the Berry flavor.

You’re thinking a Tums junkie, what gives? Well it’s not just Tums. I take Prilosec, when that run is done, I switch Pepcid, then back to Prilocsec, then on to Pepcid AC. Two weeks and what had been working, with a healthy dose of
Tums, quits working by the end of the box. Hence the Tums addiction.

Ducky’s dad died of esophageal cancer. One of my very closest friends has related how her mother can barely talk because of the damage done by Acid Reflux. I don’t want to go there. And because I have a massive sweet tooth (hence big butt syndrome) the Tums regime continues - for life I assume.

I have bottles of Tums, large bottles – the Costco size bottles – stashed everywhere. Truck, desk, purse (smaller size of course,) computer bag, cupboard, and medicine cabinet. I am an equal opportunity Tums enabler, if you need Tums, I’ve got a Tums…or three with your name on it. I even keep an old bottle next to my bed for those middle of the night moments where you suffer through burning indecision, mentally weighing getting up and disrupting sleep more than already fated, or just living through the burning acid in your throat and the damage to be done.

So last night, after 8 Otterpops while reading through my blog list and deciding if I want to blog SYTYCD, I put three Tums on top of the old beside bottle just in case. Why not inside the bottle? Because, if I do get that burning feeling at two am opening the bottle for relief will wake Ducky, who needs to be up at four am. So on top of the bottle works well.

I should have put this in my weird list last week. I CAN NOT, not make my bed. It’s just not going to happen, I am massively OC about this. Have been since childhood. So after brushing on twenty coats of mascara, I get up and make my bed. And put three more Tums next to my bed. Today is no different than any other. But my night table looks just not right. I move the pictures around, the scarf and love box that Psam and Ben made me. Still not quite right. It’s going to be one of those picky days. I go blog.

Light blog day, laundry started, lawn watered, flower baskets watered, broke fast with a pot off coffee, two slices of toast, and three Tums for good measure and I am ready to get dressed for work. Walking back into the bedroom to dress, yes I set the water in my robe and wet head – don’t you? I find my bed in total disarray, as if someone had happy danced with my Goobie (naughty mind, it’s a fluffy Platypus that lays on my bed) and flung pillows and stuffed ducky astray.

WTF?

The realization hits me that what has been missing from my bed side is my old Tums bottle. Plus the three Tums I’d put there just an hour and a half earlier. And damn now that I think of that, the three Tums from last night are gone too, because I’d never taken them.

And if you think this might have been the first time I questioned if I’d put Tums next to the bed, it’s not. I had just thought that I’d been confused, didn’t remember taking them at O dark hundred, or maybe I’d knocked them off the bedstand and they were had become the mid night feast for the unmentionables with eight legs that live behind there. It’s not like the 10 second rule stands with Tums behind the bedstand.

No, it’s Arlo, who happy danced all over my bed flinging Goobie, Ducky, and I’m sure effervesant berry pink slobber everywhere at the joy of three small Tums left by the Tums God.

Is there a twelve step plan for Tums addicted dogs?

10 Weird Things About She Who Is Know As Cele – or When in doubt refer to number seven

How on God’s Green earth do you blog 10 weird things about yourself? I mean isn’t my weird just someone else’s normal? Like my “unreasonable” fear of snakes? There are, like ten people out there who really like snakes. Now that is weird. In fact it’s just unreasonable.

So your weirdness is my normal frame of thought…er you don’t like snakes do you?

JulieAnn, JulieAnn, JulieAnn, no that’s not my weirdness, it is JulieAnn’s fault I’m in this quandary. I’m really stuck on what is weird.

1) I don’t like talking on the phone. End of story. Well not really. Ducky is a phone addict. He talks to everyone on the phone, all the time. There are two things about Ducky that are a given, when he walks in the door, gets up or mows the lawn the TV is on. And two, if I am gone for more than ten minutes he will call people.

2) I hate reruns. I remember the plot, the dialogue, and what I can’t remember I will guess. Whereas, I despise watching TV shows over and over, I can watch a movie multiple times (as long as there is enough space in between viewings), and books? I’ve read Lord Of The Ring at least seven times. But not TV shows, and I can’t abide stupid demeaning humor – so that lets out 7 out of 10 shows.

3) I am now in my fifth decade and I still don’t feel like a grown up. When does that happen? I am a mother, a grandmother, and married three times, when does growing up happen?
(And no, that doesn’t explain two divorces.)

4) Hobbies burn hot for me and then I burn out, never to go back. I once crocheted twenty five afghans for presents in two years time. That was 14 years ago, I’ve not done one since. I did stained glass at the beginning of marriage number two. Anyone want to buy a grinder, foiler, an assortment of glass cutters, lead came, and soldering irons? How about a box of skeins in various levels of depletion.

5) I love social climate Reality TV. Survivor (except for those friggin’snakes,) Big Brother, even The Surreal Life. It’s watching psychological warfare and strategy. The worst at the games, is the student of the games. Suckas

6) My mother named me Tanglefoot because I can’t walk straight, or remain up right. I fall, trip, slid, you name it I can tangle my feet around it. And I once dreamt of a career as a dancer…a roller derby queen(yes, despite being a tanglefoot I was very adept at skating, and my hipchecks were da bomb - literally, have you seen these hips?)….a marine biologist (no fancy footwork required but 8 years of zoology - I don't think so)… and a cosmetologist (that was a $4100 nightmare. Did you know you can get hair splinters, and the friggin' hurt?)

7) My sister says that she can chart her life by which name I was going by at the time and what new name I gave her.

a. Debbie – no offense, but there were six Debbie’s in my kindergarten class. Who in the heck wants to be part of a six-pack?
b. Debi
c. Debby
d. Deby
Everyone wants a six-pack, but of a different ilk.
e. Then I moved to my middle name – at age 16, ah much better.
f. And Cele, is shortened version of
g. Celebrindal, from Tolkien’s Simarillion. So are you now lost?

8) I can’t hold a grudge. Can’t do it. Life is too long to be unhappy, and far too short to not be happy.

9) I frequently know when the phone is going to ring and often who’s on the other end. I either see their face or I think their name. I can often hear the Jeopardy – double jeopardy jingle before it plays.

10) I have many acquaintances, but very few true friends. When I make a friend, it is for life, whether they are talking to me or not. This causes me to get screwed over on occasion, but you can only be hurt if you give your heart. So to me…
Heart / Heartless
The choice is a no brainer to me.

Now I’m supposed to tag ten people. I don’t know ten people who’ve not already been tagged. But if Miss JulieAnn comes back and tags me my list will be as follows. Hehehe

1) Sideon
2) Sister Mary Lisa
3) Jazzy
4) Dart
5) Sacred Sister
6) CV Rick
7) Bishop Rick
8) Like baseball – A Player To Be Named Laer
9) Marion because, Natalie can’t play because she’s buried by deadlines
10) Karin

Sith,
Cele

It’s Not Global Warming. It’s 12 Million (with an M) Self-Heating Baby Boomers

Years ago I was diagnosed with PMS. I put myself on a diet, read up symptoms and causes, and took my syndrome in hand.

PMS fast facts:
♀ There are women who get physical symptoms
♂ There are families who suffer the mental symptoms
♀♂ And there are those of US who get both

♀ 95 percent of the women in the world suffer PMS
♀ 10 percent of those women are either homicidal or suicidal

I was lucky, I only went crazy – I mean screaming insane – once a year – around hunting season (which began in May and ended in late December.) My daughter forgave me; my marriage didn’t survive.

That was 20 years ago, I’m beyond PMS. But now I suffer with an affliction that hits ALL women, to some degree, who live to middle age. MENOPAUSE. I quit smoking at age 42 – I gained 25 pounds the first month. “I can’t find anything to wear” depression set in – I gained a few more pounds, then some more. I tried working out, Nada. I tried dieting (shit, just thinking the word diet added girth to my blossoming butt.)

And then..THE.HOT.FLASHES.BEGAN.

To battle the ravages of menopause I began an herbal regiment of remedies so many and varied I can’t remember most of their names. Oh, shit is that a sign of senility? Nothing worked.

Note:
To all who’ve yet to get here…
To those who are partnered with some one who is/has been/will get here

WE TURN IN TO BITCHES! It is called LACK OF SLEEP.

Nothing worked. My Nurse Practitioner suggested a glass of wine nightly. So I tired a glass of wine, but two nights later (because it didn’t’ work the second night) I tried two glasses. After two nights of frustration I switched to Kalhua and Crème. Then margaritas.

Problem. I get paged in the middle of the night. Often. I can’t be inebriated. So two margaritas a night, as tempting as they are, causes not only an urge for loud, screaming nightly sex (if I can stay awake) but drinking-sleeping-driving syndrome. I’m pretty certain menopause is not a green light to drink and drive to deserted mountain tops in rural Oregon at 3am dressed in my jammies. Although I’m certain I could tempt the judge with loud, screaming sex (if I can stay awake.)

So I became addicted to over the counter sleep aides instead. A much better choice don’t cha think?

Now I had my first night sweat at age 30 (interesting year – night sweats – PMS – and first gray hair in one year.) Weight gain began at 42. Hot flashes started at 43. I read that hot flashes usually last from two to four years. So I figured I’d be affected for six years. But my math (and yes, I am a product of the new math debacle of the early 70s) must be faulty, because that was eight years ago.

The hot flashes kick about five minutes after getting in to bed and don’t stop until 4:15am (15 minutes after Ducky gets out of bed to go to work.) Where as I use to sleep in sexy gray sweats and bulky sweat socks every night snuggled up to Ducky under a down comforter, I am sleeping in cool, slinky silk with one sheet and two fans to cool me off. If I could stay awake (those pills work damn well) Ducky might get lucky. But no, before I can get into the bed and luxuriate in cool sheets for a minute, he has rolled over to sleep on my side of the bed snuggling to his chest my pillow, which are all now as hot as I am.

So much for the urge – maybe I should go back to the margaritas with Tylenol PM chaser so I could forget the heat and enjoy some panting.

When my yard grows up it wants to look like Sacred Sister's

Shit maybe it just wants her to move in and me out so it can have a better steward.

I have yard envy. I want Sideon’s morning glories (I drool for those morning glories so splendid on their matching trellises. Sun kissed petals of deep
blue and violet purple.) And I want Sacred’s hollyhocks.

They don’t have to be black, but they must be singles, gorgeous pinks would be wonderful. What do I have? Rust bitten, spindly doubles in white. Well once there was a pink and another time a burgundy. But while everyone else’s hollyhocks are blooming splendiferous – and each and every year - mine are waiting there on the stocks like plump berrys with no cool whip.

I have owned my house for twenty-six and a half years. I bought it February 19th of 1981 in partnership with my now ex-second husband. Who, believe it or not, just quick deeded the whole thing to me when he left. Now is that a guilt buy out or what? I should have seen it coming. His idea of landscaping was green painted cement. No flowers, no ornamental trees, no up keep.

When he left I really wanted a yard. So I tried and failed miserable and hubby #-3-2-B, took pity on me , married me, and gave me a yard. This is a guy has to mow every weekend or life as we know it comes to a screeching halt. His summer is not complete without a sunny box of petunias growing outside our dining room window. For years it was a running joke between my mother and Ducky that she would give him “real flowers” each year for his birthday. His favorite flowers are petunias, tulips and Asian lilies. Thank goodness I don’t kill any of those.

Before we built the new room and deck I would grow this awesome petunia patch. Lush and colourful, and so full it could take me up to a full hour to deadhead them each weekend. Now a room and deck stand where petunias once flourished.

Every year Ducky and I have chosen a portion of the yard or house to finish. First he dug up the old stumps in the back yard and we planted lawn. Then we built a fence. We re-roofed. Put in a flagstone patio – in the front yard where grass refused to grow.

We built a new room and added a covered deck. I have one section of yard we’ve never worked on. Ducky began building a short fence in between our dead lawn and the forest to the south. It’s a three-year process, because he sidetracks very easily. As in, “look power tools to the left.”

I’ve have decided that in front of Ducky’s short fence will be a lily garden, planted with a varied and profuse arrangement of lilies to the back, maybe some daylilies and lavender in the midst, Russell lupine, gay feathers, columbine to the forward, and petunias to the front in summer and fall, tulips in spring.
I am keeping the grass (I can’t call it lawn yet) next to the flagstone and dividing the two areas with a walk…that is taking me four weeks and a year to build. I cut it out last autumn before the rains came with full intent of finishing it.

Then somebody yelled, “Snake.” And that was all she wrote.

So my path way is now half way done. I should have it complete in a week or so.

For years at the end of our sidewalk the city, contractors, and err, um, the people who live in our house have piled their crap. What a friggin’ eye sore. I was going to clean it up one day, until one of the new neighbors made a comment. Seriously, that day! But the guy and his wife walked by, commented on the beautiful job we were doing, “And we need to get rid of that eye sore there.”


I let it sit for two years more, because I’m bitchy and self-defeating like that.

But this was the year. I went out and bought extra




compost and rich potting soil. A four pack of lobelia, two six packs of petunias, and a six-pack of nasturtiums and planted to my hearts content. I hope the city doesn’t want back their cement boxes.

A Literary MeMe

CV Rick’s Ninja Writer Blog’s Saturday Morning Challenge goes as follows…

The rules are:
♥ Grab the nearest book.
♥ Open the book to page 123.
♥ Find the fifth sentence.
♥ Post the text of the next 4 sentences on your blog along with these instructions.

♥ Don’t you dare dig for that “cool” or “intellectual” book on your shelf. Don't go to the other room to find that old textbook. I know you were thinking about it. Just pick up whatever is closest.

I wanted to share a book that I truly enjoyed, by a writer that I know, that hopefully you guys hadn’t read before. So I am sharing Between, Georgia by Joshilyn Jackson of Faster Than Kudzu. This is Joss’ second book, her first gods of Alabama was fabulous, I couldn’t put it down read. Her next is called the Girl Who Stopped Swimming scheduled for a March 2008 release from Warner Books.

I CAN NOT WAIT.

I devour all that is Joss, her blog is hysterical.

Page 123 of Between, Georgia

Henry laughed. He had a great laugh, throaty and low. He’d gotten it from his mama, along with the faint edges of his Cajun slur. “Got your key?”

I nodded, and we went up the stairs. A sign on the front door said WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE AND BUTTERFLY MUSEUM.

So as per Rick’s demonstration I will not tag anyone, but I hope you play along.

Beware, Rants Ahead

This isn’t what I was going to blog on today, I have pictures of water fights present and past but that will wait because of what I just heard.

Beware sustainable rants ahead…

I stand behind the concept of a greener earth. I believe hot house gases are changing our atmosphere (but I also believe in weather cycles.) I believe we have a responsibility to be better stewards of our planet. I recycle more each and everyday. I have recycled for years; I don’t know anyone in Oregon who doesn’t. I’m sure there are, but the western part of the state appears pretty green despite one or three glaring exceptions.

My truck gets mileage a bit on the higher edge than I’d like, but I only live a mile from work, from my grocery store, three miles to the post office, and my favorite nursery is….er…hptf!…a mile or so beyond the bridge (er 5 miles away - near my parents.) Ducky on the other hand has a 180 mile daily commute. His car, a 1997 Aspire, gets pretty great gas mileage, 32 to 35mph highway, and as soon as my truck is paid off he will be getting the
Mini Cooper of his dreams. He’s thinking forest green with black top, standard features, nothing too fancy. We feel that we’re doing pretty good. Of course that is relative. We’re not as good as my friend Sparks who drives a bio diesel rabbit one day and his electric vehicle the next, his house and hot tub both run on solar energy. As most would say Sparks walks the talk.

My energy consumption is relatively low; my PUD bill last month was 48 dollars. I use fans and a coastal air conditioner (one a door or window at the north end of the house, and an opposing one on the south end) with winds at a constant 25mph or higher it is a pretty efficient way at cooling a house off. I work hard to not use more than I feel is my fair share or what I need to reasonably survive.

So this morning I was a little bit ire-ed to hear that South California Edison (a company I am quite acquainted with despite living in Oregon) and Ford have teamed up to make available an Plug in Electric hybrid vehicle. Now I’m not against the concept on a whole. Electric cars are very possibly the wave of the future. What does bother me is the though that Southern California already has power issues. I’m not against hybrids or electric cars in the least, but I’ve already been asked, more than once, to show restraint in my electric use so that California will have more power during the hot summer months. Oregon has experienced brown outs to send more power to California. Now they want people to buy as many electric hybrids as possible, thereby increasing California’s power thirst.

It would be much better if at the same time they were creating a campaign to get solar panels on each and every house. Both are spendy, I noted the CNN article quoted no projected price, and well solar panels are generally out of reach of the average household. So maybe they should just start building new homes with solar panels.

Now so you don’t thing I feel my gorgeous state isn’t above creating more power drains and hot house gases, consider Marathon Motor Coaches. Based in Coburg, Marathon arms retired men and women with a home on wheels, guzzling petrol by the barrels each day. What, 5 or 6 miles to the gallon? These belching leviathans poison the atmosphere, hog the roadways, and cause havoc everywhere they go.

To drive a public bus, dump truck, or street sweeper you have to have a special license. When you’re retired and can afford to buy one of these environmental threats all you need is an everyday license…er and enough money to fill ‘er up. Disgusting.

I will continue to rant and rave over gluttonous, polluting motor homes, and abusive taxation. I will continue lust after solar panels (it would be much easier if I could talk Ducky into it.) But Americans will continue to suck up and demand more gas. Plug in more appliances expecting the power company to acquiesce to their demands, and they will. It’s kind of like expecting too much from the government but not realizing it takes effort from you too.

Am I unreasonable? I guess if you live in Southern California you might think so. My cousin, who lives in Elsinor, (in so many words) told me to suck it up because she’s not giving up her air conditioning. This conversation was a year or two ago, but I’m fairly certain it’s not changed.

So am I unreasonable? What’s your energy pet peeve?

The Trade Offs of Our Marriage ☺♥☻

A pot of coffee, Oreos, and 21 blogs – the breakfast of champions – no wonder I wear size relaxed elastic waist. I’m an addict. Addictive personalities run in my family, but could I become addicted to something my husband could appreciate or participate in?

Ohhhh, no!

♂ My husband is a TV “reruns don’t bother me” junkie
♀ I’m hooked on the Internet.

♂ He can’ get enough of baseball
♀ I can’t get enough of my favorite blogs.

♂ He turns the TV on the moment he…Wakes up…Walks in the house…When he breathes
♀ I check my emails and blog during breakfast…during work…at lunch…when I get home….after dinner….before I go to bed…(and no, I have not woken up in the middle of the night or stopped sex to check my email, so there maybe be hope for me.) Hey! I can quit anytime I want to.
♂ On the other hand I’m glad we don’t have a TV in the bedroom.

♂ He has to watch sports on TV
♀ I can listen to any sport on radio.

♂ He’ll rant at the Yankees/Duck (depending on the season.)
♀ I will listen to him and do a Sudoko puzzle or three (that I printed off the internet) to spend time with him.

♂ He and sports are kind of like a train wreck, you can’t help but watch, but when he starts cussing out Mariano Rivera….again…
♀ I’ll go check my email and blogs to tune him out.

Despite being ♂ visual / ♀ audio challenged couple we really are quite compatible and have many pastimes that we share. We both love gardening, home improvement, and baseball, college football “Go Ducks!” just not necessarily in that order. And we both adore our grandson.

There are several TV shows we watch together. Not everything has to be reruns. He loves Dancing with the Stars – no shit, he really does. Natalie got me into watching So You Think You Can Dance, Ducky wasn’t so impressed…"It's not Dancing with the Stars," until the actual competition started, now he is totally a Hok fan. He’s really into Ice Road Truckers, Ghost Hunters (despite having a health fear of ghosts), NCIS and we’ll at least begin both, Survivor and Big Brother before the personalities make us quit.

In all fairness I have to say, Ducky did try out the Internet, but it requires reading and anything outside of the newspaper is a no go for him. He doesn’t mind my Internet habit. He knows who my internet friends are (and keeps them straight,) he finds them interesting, and ask what they are up to. He serves me ice cream on Friday nights during chat, and he gladly agreed to DSL to make my surfing experience faster. He even reads my blogs and on occasion will comment.

“You’re printing that on the internet?”

But, I have no delusions that he will suddenly pick up my laptop and start blogging along with me, joining me in chat, IMing me between innings or during pitching changes. He’s just not interested in the Internet. Well unless I begin cybering and then like every man I know, he’d want to watch.

I Hate Shopping

Neither God, nor genetics graced me with a $hopping gene – let alone a slew of them to last my lifetime. My sister on the other hand, bless her soul, has inherited not only her share of the $hopping genes, but slender legs, the Reynolds butt, and a gorgeous bubbly personality. She does not have to worry about bending over in low rise pants, whether her thighs will fit into her jeans from one weekend to the next, nor does she dread shopping. Lord, I went shopping with her once and she bought two purses – she had a BOGO coupon for Christ sakes. I didn’t even know what BOGO meant. And what woman needs more than two purses? And.oh.mi.gawd! One had fuckin’ Giraffes on it (no the Giraffes were not fucking on the purse) what in the world do you accessorize with Giraffes?

Why do I hate shopping? It is always my luck that I will need a pair of black slacks at the last moment and there won’t be a pair in town to be bought. This has led to years of frustration and a habit of online and catalogue clothes $hopping. Online or in a catalogue I can find the size I want, unless I’m shopping Spiegel’s, it will be in basic black (to match my ONE basic black purse.) I can mull over my decision for hours, days, weeks in the comfort of my own home, and if I want to order ten pairs (because basic black slacks match anything) no problem, I charge it.

Dee on the other hand is one of those gene enhanced people who can walk into TJ Max, Ross’, or Marshall’s and put together an classy ensemble for less than twenty bucks, in 15 minutes, that has you drooling in fashion lust. She is blessed I tell you, blessed. Umm, the purses were from Meyer and Franks – she is a shopping slut, thrifty, spendy, trendy stores are her friends.

I hate shopping. Whether it is shopping for clothes, shopping for cars, or shopping for groceries – I hate it. I hate the crowds, I hate the heat – because most women my age take their own heat sources along with us – I hate other shoppers. Inconsiderate, Rude, and oblivious – Americans live in their own little bubbles unaware of the world around them.

Like driving on an American roadway, shopping carts should stay to the right. Park at the curb (no double parking,) no jetting out into traffic, and do not jack knife your cart into the flow of traffic with your ass taking up the remaining room on the aisle as you count the marshmallows in the bags on the bottom shelf. Hey, it happens. Do not move your cart against the flow of traffic. Do not stop on a dime, back up, and then give the shopper behind you a look of blatant disgust for not reading your mind and KNOWING you were going to go baetso on the condiments aisle and back up with no beeper or notice. And do not stand idling in the middle of the aisle, every frickin’ aisle, talking to you next door neighbor as if you’d not seen each other since right after the earth cooled.

I hate shopping. Due to a phenomenon based on a forgotten tier of the Mayan calendar that is in accordance with the ratio genes use to calulate how much wider women will get, aisles have gotten narrower. All except the dairy and the freeze sections, those are the widest.

Today being the widest meant nothing. Women leave your husbands at home or send them alone, but do not block the entire egg case as he reads to you why he chose three, one dozen eggs cartons instead of a 36 egg crate that was on sale. TWICE. Because folks she was a bit slow, I’m sure from all the hormones in those eggs.

I hate shopping. It is a fact of me, regardless of which check out line I select shortest, longest, or in between something will happen. If you see me standing in a line, move on to the next – even if it is the longest in the store – you will get out and home far faster than me. Bookies could lay odds and clean up on the logical appearance factor alone. Because the shopping law of Cele demands that what can go wrong in a shopping line, will go wrong in the shopping line of Cele’s choice. The most reliable NCR will jam, cashiers will take breaks and the newbie of the day will ask for the code of each produce item on need to know basis. Thank Gawd I’m not a vegetarian…yet. Luckily I bag my own groceries.

The only place shopping where I feel in total harmony with the universe is in the nursery. It is like eating, my eyes are bigger than my weekend. I inevitably come out with more bedding plants than I can get into ground, planter, pot, or basket in a weekend’s time. I will spend hours feverishly digging, planting, feeding, and watering to come back the next weekend to deadhead, weed, and water in my own little nirvana. Let Ducky go to the store.

Bad Hair Day

The problem with being a DJ (besides the wages) is the fact everyone uses the same windsock so the microphones are breeding places for all sorts of creations gone wrong. I have no problem using copious amounts of Lysol before and after I take the mic, to keep me and others healthy, in fact I consider it my duty. A duty many do not appreciate…Bob. Yet, in 17.6 years at KCST I’ve never called in sick (called in sick being the operative words.) I’ve missed days because I started at work, broke a tooth and ended up with eight hours of staring up at my dentist ceiling while he probes with poinkie things that make me want to pummel the life out of him. But I have never called in – stayed at home – and suffered with microscopic creations gone wrong. Even when I missed that day last month for surgery, I scheduled it off (I emotionally still consider it my first day of work missed – despite scheduling it three weeks in advance.)

Why? Because I refuse to get sick, I also hate to not be able to breathe. So at the first sign of a bug, I begin dowsing myself with vitamin C and Airborne. I usually works. Usually. But there is now a part timer, who (if he wasn’t more cold infested on death’s doorstep than me would be in deep shit) made my microphone all squirmy with creations gone wrong and I can’t breathe.

This was made only worse by the fact that, as I was driving down the road today wanting to stuff a whole box of Kleenex up my left nostril to stop the flood (the small box not the large) I noted a long black hair growing out left side of my head somewhere between jowl and my chin. Now what do you think when you see a menopausal woman with a long whisker growing out of her 1) chin 2) upper lip 3) cheek?

You think, “Jesus Mother Mary of God, can’t she see that big hairy ass black rope growing out of her chin?”

Well let me answer you now, “No of course she can’t see the fucking big black hair growing out of her chin, because she is blind and needs reading glasses.” It’s true. I borrow my husband’s reading glasses to go tweeze (you learn in beauty college that “we don’t pluck, we tweeze.” Yeah, as if Queen Victoria ever tweezed.) So long ago I asked my boss (because we’re close friends like that) to let me know if EVER I had an ugly ass deformity growing out of my chin.

Needless to say he must need reading glasses too, because I spent an hour in a meeting with him today and he never mentioned it.

I use to keep tweezers in my truck for just an occasion as this. But I stepped on them. I mean who would have thought I’d need to replace them? Really who? There’s a pair next to my chair at home, two in my bathroom, one in my make up bag, one at my desk at work, so I should never run out. But argh, I have. So I guess really I could just stuff the box of Kleenex up my nose, and as long as I leave enough hanging out no one will notice the hair.

Sith,
Cele

The Rescue.....or Lord Take Me Now!

Elevators aren't common in Florence, Oregon, the water table is too high, and the buildings too low. In the entire community, I can count five, two are in hotels, two more are in retirement communities, and then there is the fifth. Well actually it is 13 miles up highway 101 at the Sea Lion Caves, a stinky shaft that drops seven hundred feet from the headland, through basaltic rock, to the foot of the Pacific Ocean.

Sea Lion Caves, home to hundreds of Golden Stellar Sea Lions year round. Stinky, loud, and lazy mammals that apparently are the objects of observation by millions of tourist who have traveled the spanse of the world to western Oregon just to take a peek. A place I have avoided for the 28 years since my last visit, when I slipped in Sea Gull droppings. (Note to the wise, wet grass and sea gull droppings do not mix.) This slick combination resulted in my tush sliding, as though it had been drop kicked, two hundred yards down a seven hundred foot cliff. Yes folks, the elevator was operational that day.

Perched precariously on a narrow rock ledge, five hundred feet above the pounding ocean and hundreds of barking sea lions, I sat. Sea Gulls and Murlettes sailed the wind, crying out their disgusted at my grace. Bashed by the rocks during my descent, scraped palms and knees were weeping pinpricks of blood and plasma. Bird poop smeared my arms and clothing. And the wind was whipping knots in my long blonde hair, while tears coursed down my cheeks creating rivulets of eyeliner and mascara through the dirt on my face. Could it get any worse? Do bears...

Well of course it could? I was perched on a rock ledge and the only way out of my predicament was...Down? Up? Ouch! People had run to the edge of the cliff, screaming directions to me. Yeah, as if I needed to be told not to move. Someone threw a rope over the edge with a deluded notion that I could pull myself up the cliff. Others informed me that the rescue teams had been called and were on the way. Then it happened, off to the north could be heard a low rhythmic hush, hush, hush, as the big rotors of the United States Coast Guard Sikorski Helo beat the wind along the rocky coastline from Newport to rescue me. Oh, please Lord just take me now.

Appalled and embarrassed I watched as the orange dot grew on my horizon. Within moments the helo was hovering a mere fifty feet above me and slightly to my northwest. A young, fresh-faced guardsman scanned the ledge, his eyes coming to rest upon me, on my rocky perch. Then as the helo hovered, its rotors beating the wind upon my rocks, a cable lowered a carrier basket and crewman out from the chopper's side. Slowly it descended to me and my ledge. With knees drawn up towards my chest I buried my face in my jean-clad legs, trying to avoid Sea Gull slime and the stare of my rescuer. From above, the growing crowd on the cliff cheered, screaming direction and encouragement to the Coast Guard.

Then the basket stopped, just mere inches from me. And from inside a white flight helmet, blue eyes rimed with the blackest lashes looked out at me. Strong, white teeth grew out of his mustachioed smile. Climbing on to my ledge he looked at me and asked, "Come here often?"


© February 20, 2001 Calista Cates

Ice Cream Jazzy

In my eight years on the net I’ve cyberly met many. When I went to England in 2002; my mom, brother, and I traipsed into the Poetry Café on Drury Lane in London to have coffee and chat with Raven and with delightful wife Kathleen – a photo of the two hour coffee chat is in my gallery. One who I wanted madly to meet, will remain unmet, because we don’t talk. One who came to stay and comes back often. And a at least four who I am so wanting to met soon.

I got a rare treat on Tuesday; I got to meet an Internet friend for ice cream. Jazzy and her family were taking a whirl wind tour of the Oregon coast and came through my little burg for a bit of sand, sun, and fun before heading north.


Just after one o'clock she called me to say they’d finished lunch at Mo’s on Bay Street. I suggested BJ’s ice cream (because they are ice cream purveyor extraordinaire) and who doesn’t like ice cream. Jazzy’s family is delightful, including Peanut the dog. We met at BJ’s and I was immediately enveloped by family warmth. Her children are delightful, chatty, and completely excited about the Oregon Coast (my favorite type of people.) Jazzy is lovely, shy, and everything I expected. I hope you get to meet her too.

Now I have to say the picture does neither of us justice, but at my advanced age of menopause I finally saw what other see and I need to exercise and lose some of my granny fat. A few "Hail Mary's", maybe some prayers, and a candle or two to the cause would not go a miss.

Sith (means peace)

Happy Father's Dad, Late

My dad has always been my hero. A handsome hero, with whom I always butted heads, And yet today he is still one of my best friends. My father taught me that there is nothing I can not do if I can imagine it in my head. It is an ideal that has served me well through out my life.

Raised in the Blue Ridge Mountains of West Virginia to a mean, good for nothing, alcoholic farmer, from a good family, my dad probably shouldn’t have raised above his beginnings. I am so blessed he did. My dad has never forgotten those beginnings. Wears them like an albatross at times and hates the phrases “you might be a redneck” and “hillbilly.”

a really cute picture of my
dad at age 6 should go
here but it wouldn't load

The baby of eight children, my father was oft times raised by an older sister who also made well of herself despite the performance of her parents (she is my favorite aunt, an eclectic character of esoteric thought and beliefs.) My grandparents often left their children to fend for themselves. I kid you not, once when my father was about four they left the four youngest children (the other four we off to their own lives) alone at home for over a week with no food in the house, save a pot of soured beans. My dad once told me of a time, my drunken grandfather beat a mule to death with a chain. He was not a pleasant man, and my grandmother (for whom I am name) followed my grandfather wherever he went. My father, in turn, does not drink to excessive. I think his limit was about four beers a summer, never more than two at a time.



I remember my dad taking me to my first horse race. I’m not sure but I think it was at
Santa Anita. I remember him wearing a white shirt and a tie, his flat top hair cut, intently watching each race. I was about five and at one point so impressed with my surroundings and my father’s intentness at each race I jumped into the frenzy.

With the start of each race I would start shouting for my horse to go faster, screaming, “Go Joe, Go Joe.”

My father leaned over to me and asked which horse I was rooting for? I remember pointing out some mount from the field, and my dad saying, “Good choice, that’s my horse to.”

My father never graduated from high school, shit, high school ended at the tenth grade. This sits hard on my father, who suffers from anxieties over his belief he is unworthy, because he is unschooled. Rubbish. Regardless of the tremendous strides and accomplishments my father has made, he doesn’t feel he meets the mark.

Example, through out my childhood there was always a boat in the garage in some stage of construction. From the upside down frame of a hull to the itchy spider web of fiberglass, to the almost finished product that was moved to the front yard my dad was building. The Three D’s (Debbie, Dale, and Denise,) the Four D’s (& Darryl,) the Sea Horse (my dad loved racing.) My dad had a boat. A boat he built himself, on evenings and weekends. When the boat was finished we went fishing. Till he sold it and built another.

When I was a junior in high school my dad quit working for Southern California Edison, cashed out his stock and my parents bought a trailer park in Oregon. Always strapped for cash in those early days he cut firewood, picked moss, sold and serviced as a propane dealer until they modernized the park and it became a viable business.

Boats were a thing of the past, now it was planes. For years there was an ultralight in some phase of construction in the garage. The hull became a fuselage, sometimes made of wood framing another time made of foam, duly wrapped in fiberglass, sanded with love. Painted, polished, flown, and on at least two occasions....er counting the water landing I guess three...crashed.

Today my dad, my hero is in the advanced stages of emphysema. We have been blessed with extra years with him for which I am grateful.

He is now grounded, but I know he still longs to soar in the sky. And I know someday all to soon he will with his own wings. Until that day dad, I hope you know what a special angel you have been to me on this earth. Thank you for the laughter, the adventures, the debates, advice, conversations, friendship, tears, and love. Most of all thank you for not holding my idiocy against me and for allowing me to become me.

Once Upon A Time...

I was driving down Highway 101 Tuesday morning on my way to the post office and happen to notice a guy on a Sting Ray bike waiting for the light to change. Now that in itself this pretty strange, I mean, who in this day and age rides a Sting Ray bike? It begs a chain of variable questions. I mean really he had to be 25 years old if a day. He was wearing fake leather and had a 36 inch bar chainsaw perched on his shoulder.

Only in Oregon.

Okay, maybe in Washington State. But not in LA. I’m thinking a guy riding a Sting Ray bike wielding a chainsaw would get little attention in LA unless he was cutting down an old growth Sago Palm. It could possibly happen in Texas, but the leather would be real.
NYC? I hardly think, what he was going to chop down the tree in Rockefeller Center? Get real.

Now it must be asked, just where did he think he was going, riding west (within one mile of the ocean) on a prehistoric bike, with a chainsaw? That’s a wee bit of over kill for trimming firewood.

When most people (aka those living outside of the Pacific Northwest, Upper Midwest, or Northeastern portion of the country) imagine in their mind’s eye a logger, they imagine some lumbering oaf, in tattered red and black plaid (kind of Al Borlan with out the nice beard,) who tracks mud and pine needles all over their mommies’ floor (could you imagine Al Borlan tracking anything in on a clean floor?) Most people are expecting the hard working, hard playing lot that they are. Most would never expect to find a chainsaw artist.

The magnificence that can come out of a chainsaw is incredible. From a hulking piece of Sitka Spruce, the beginnings





Give a chainsaw artist a goal and watch the chips fly and the magic come alive

Give a chainsaw artist a goal and watch the chips fly and the magic come alive







This year the Oregon Divisional Chainsaw Championship theme was Once Upon A Time…


Give 50 people a theme and you get 45 different concepts

Since I began going to the Chainsaw Carving Championships I have been in love with the incredible works. But last year I fell in love with the moose.

All year long I’ve wanted a moose. I’ve been eyeing these moose for three years. Last year as we walked back to the truck talking about the works of chainsaw art we’d seen I decided I

wanted a moose. A moose is kind of like men (or snowflakes) each one is different, so choosing is…well for someone as undecided as I am…difficult

So I went with the one with the most ‘tude dude.

I’ve Been Wry-ghtly tagged

Ha, ha this is a great twist on the MeMe, kind of a SidSid instead of a MeMe. So, I tagged my beautiful friend Sideon earlier this week, as MeMe Karma would have it I know get to blog eight things about Sid – Too Fucking Easy.

1) After splitting tequila shots, Sideon gives table dances.

2) Sid LOVES cheesecake

3) He writes some of the best poetry around, in a style that challenges me to step out of my own poetic mold and write uncharted waters. Sid is inspiring.

4) Sid is supportive, positive influence on the net, as I imagine he is in his real world. **sniffle**sniffle** away from us.

5) Sideon is the envy of several men on the internet because he is so popular with the ladies. I lie not, so Sid do not even deny it. Girls can I see hands? See told ya so. He’s so cute when he blushes.

6) Sid and his hunky Scott live 8 hours, 51 minutes (three pee stops) and five hundred thirty seven and six-tenths of a mile directly south of me. J But I smell more ocean than they do.

7) Sid’s BFF SML sketched an awesome likeness of the ever fetching Sideon from a picture several years old and has it on her website. What a handsome manly bloke.

8) Sid has not written us a most recent episode of Season of Truth. Why? Damn friggin’ good question?

8) Sid thinks Paul Blakethorne is hot. I have to agree, have you seen Harry Dreslin’ ass in a pair of worn levis? It makes the heart and other pulsing places go piddy pat.

8) Sid loves bouncy perky breastestesses


I have no one to tag…Oh Wait, I tag Sideon, he must write an 8 point MeMe on his BFF Sister Mary Lisa of the recently well unveiled cleavage :)

Wry my dear, thank you for the tag.

I've Been Tagged

I’ve Been Tagged

By Sacred Sister. I know I feel the love.

Here it is - "I quickly write 8 random facts/habits about myself, and then tag 8 people. If I tag you, I hope you play.”

1) This is the biggest thing on my mind at the moment and I am kind of embarrassed about it. I had surgery yesterday and only told Natalie. Why? Because, I am stupid like that. No not for telling Natalie (because she is an awesome friend,) but for being embarrassed (I tend to keep a lot of stupid little secrets – but that means I’m pretty good at keeping the big secrets too.) Parents, please use sun block, make your children use sun block, especially your teenage girls. I had a little pencil eraser size basal cell carcinoma removed from my chest. It will be turtlenecks for the rest of the summer, which is really bad because I love showing skin and my still somewhat perky breastessess-ss.

2) I am boring. No really I am. I am horrible at small talk. I am the wallflower who sits and watches others, having no clue what to say, nothing important to say, and I hate talking about myself. Which people find unbelievable because I am also the idiot who will equate something you say to something in my life or about myself.

3) I’m a DJ, I know after number two you find that amazing. But I know a bit about yesterday’s music, American Idol, and will learn more, happily, about today’s music. I love music trivia. I love music. I hate DJ’s that blather on about absolutely nothing, especially blathering on about their favorite make out song from their incarceration in a Catholic Middle/High School. I find myself without anything to say. My friend Karin (who will get tagged in a moment) once asked if I was a funny DJ, so sad, I’m not.

4) I haven’t blogged about my Paris Hylton angst for fear of Paris Hylton Karma. Now I don’t know if that would mean I would get the full 45 days in jail to make up for her rich karma or if I would get new accessories that would show off my shapely ankle in a neutral tone of gunmetal gray or institutional beige to wear around my own house, but I’m not chancing it. Plus I have a nice relationship with the Florence PD, but this would not be a good way to meet the new police chief. The reality is, except her life has no consequence, who gives a rusty fuck about Paris Hylton?

5) Sacred was born on Christmas day, she’s a present to the world. I was born February 15th, I’m a left over sweetheart. Two ex-husbands can attest to that.

6) I hate the telephone. I hate talking on the phone. I hate calling people on the phone. But my boss says I give good phone. Apparently I am a natural flirt. I never thought so, but I have great phone relationships with media people in baseball, music, and attractions across the state.

7) I collect ostriches and dragons. Weird right. When I was in high school I was far from popular, with a last name like Furby – well you can imagine the nicknames. It is hard to turn them into a positive. But I got called ostrich because I am tall, had a bubble butt (cute bubble butts turn in to middle age fat butts,) and use to pop my neck constantly (something that is not so easy to do today.) I actually liked the nickname Ostrich, which was shortened to Ossie. Then my little brother bought me my first Ostrich. I love them. I have pictures, key chains, stuffed dolls, all sorts of Ostriches. Darryl gave me the cutest one (the very first) Dee gave me the kewlest stuffed ones.

8) I am terrified of snakes. I really am. When I was in the seventh grade we were at Standish Hickey State Park in Leggett, California. What a gorgeous snake infest place on the Russian River. My cousin Lenny lived with us that year. He was a snake fanatic and got bit by a snake in the water. Suddenly Dee (about age 8 at the time) started screaming (I was standing right next to her) snakes were squirming all over her feet and mine too. Zillions of snakes. (I can still see them when I close my eyes. They haunt my dreams. They scare the shit out of me. There is nothing ill-rational about my terror of snakes.) My dad ran in and grabbed her up, and carried her to safety (she’s was this little thing at the time.) I had to walk out myself. I don’t remember walking out, I understand why my dad had to take only her first. And I'm sure he would have come back for me, but I doubt I left him enought time to do so. I don’t hold a grudge, I just don’t remember anything after he picked her up and left. He doesn't remember the incident at all. My mom and Dee do.

A snake chased me Sunday in the front yard, I swear it did, Ducky said I moved really pretty damn fast from a full sitting position.

Now Sacred says I have to tag eight people. Most of those I know either don’t read my blog or are way to busy. So if you are tagged and can’t not a problem. If you do blog about your eight random facts leave the link in the comments.

I tag – Natalie, Sideon, Peggy, Jazzy, Lemon Blossom, Karin's Hubster, Jake, argh I’m short one.

Sith -
Cele