Oh, Brother

Blogging from the Sweigard residence here in hot but dry Atwater, California.  Feeling a bit revved from my iced grande soy caffe latte. 

You know, it's a beautiful thing.  And, probably one of those strange 'Gloria things' that my friends and relatives attribute to my particular personality and nature.  Just being present in the same state as my younger brothers touches me.  I don't leave until tomorrow to see Gary at the state hospital in Napa; John is working.  But I feel so close to them.  Because, compared to my regular placement in Middle Tennessee, I AM close to them.  Breathing the same smog-tinged California air.  Milling about under the same expanse of sky.  Seeing the same angle of sun, star, and moon.  Oh, and let's not forget sleeping and waking in the same time zone -- which means when Gary calls me at 6:30AM his time, it's no longer 8:30AM my time.  Which further means that when I rise for a quick bladder void at 6:25AM and decide to snuggle under the cozy comforter on my couch bed for an extended sleep, it ain't gonna happen. 

(Having aired that incredibly minor grievance, I'm going on record as having thoroughly enjoyed my conference call with Brother Gary and daughter, Sarah.  They are QUITE the pair.

My handsome sibling of the perpetually-demanding, beyond-full-time, loving-the-challenge, still-somewhat-new job as Merced Irrigation District (MID) manager had to dash out the door this morning, ready for his quick stop at ye local Starbuck's, but invited me to lunch with him after we had our mornings behind us.  While I was fully prepared to await for my allotted precious time with him, I was most pleased when his water pump-a-majig gave out, and he had to come home to see what was up.  Thank you, corroded connection!  I have the pictures to prove it.  Somehow, in the face of a repair call and the necessity to leave work at an inopportune moment, I don't think he felt the same thrill.  Oh, well!  Just as long as ONE of us was happy.  Is that too terribly selfish of me? 

Our late lunch date was relaxed.  We dined at a local Italian place.  My beef ravioli with homemade marinara was filling and tasty -- the sauce was exactly what a marinara should be.  A rounded tomato flavor on the tongue, enhanced by quality extra-virgin olive oil, slow cooked to perfection with an even subtly chunky texture.  Yeah buddy!  We each held ourselves to a solo slice of the thick and slightly chewy white bread (not really Italian bread).  Mine was excellent for sopping.  I'm reliably known to leave behind the cleanest of plates post-meal but pre-dishwashing.  John opted for a shrimp and asparagus over penne selection which had a nice portion of roasted red peppers to boot.  Our talk allowed us a bit of condensed but reflective-subject-matter catching up.  We don't see eye-to-eye on a great many topics, but there's no urging on either side to convince the other of our viewpoint.  At least not now.  Too much water under the rickety old bridge.  It is simply discussed, with pointed questions tossed into the mix, and we move on. 

I miss my brother so terribly much.  He's a good egg.  Cracked a bit, like me, but a very solid fellow at his core.  I've always wished we could have lived closer, that our kids could have been raised together.  That just wasn't to be.  So every visit, however hectic, however brief, however broken up into time chunks, I value with an intensity some may find exaggerated.  Except that I don't exaggerate.  When I say that driving along the roads and freeway which I know John takes to and from work and play and the myriad family jaunts with the wife and kids (all of whom I also love dearly) evoked feeling within me strong enough to choke a horse . . . I MEAN it.  Temporarily, I'm sharing his space and seeing him in his day to day.  I take whatever I can get: and if that means cruising where he cruises, that's good stuff.  

Tomorrow, I'm off to the famous Napa Valley area.  There resides another of my cherished male siblings.  Doubtless, he will be the subject of tomorrow's blog.  I'll just have to find an eatery or hangout where wi-fi is free after our visit.  Somehow, I don't believe the guest dorms at the state hospital will have that available.  Until then, I've got a date with a knife and some fresh baby bok choy.  I'm jazzing up the Thai leftovers from last night for whoever might be interested.

Until next you read, dear readers.  Maybe you might want to give your brother a call or hug or e-mail.  Or, just trace his work commute with your own tires.   

It's In The Numbers

18 days.  The length of time I'll spend in California beginning this Tuesday.

That's 54 meals I don't be sharing or preparing with my family -- including 14 breakfasts and 11 box lunches lovingly made for my husband before each of the 14 kisses which won't accompany him to work.  Averaging the daily hugs from 3 kids, that's a deficit of 162 familiar embraces.  I'm still configuring the infinite number of indignant responses to chore requests, NO's, and what's for dinner.  Oh, not to mention the absence of 18 WFD from my husband by phone, text, e-mail, or Facebook! 

My husband and kids will have to rough it without mom for 432 hours, give or take.  Approximately 15 loads of laundry will be washed and dried without my help.  (They already sort and fold.)  Ashley will fill the small watering can to keep my ferns going 72 times before I return.  The cardinals I catch sight of 4 to 5 times a day shall receive their sustenance 9 times by Sarah's hands.  Zachary had better check the oil and gas in our new lawn mower before each go-round 6 times . . . or else!  My husband will give instructions, make inspections, settle arguments, and a variety of other mom-handle-its in at least 180 different moments just with Zachary alone, while I drive my rental between Napa, Merced, Modesto, Sacramento, and possibly a few other small towns and locations.    

I, on the other hand, will sleep roughly 112 hours with my head on unfamiliar pillows.  Via airplane, 4,000+ would be added to my Southwest miles account if I had one.  My mid-size car will log over 1,000 miles when it's all said and done.  I'll miss 5 hours of fellowship at Church at Cross Point.  If I am able to visit with Brother Gary at least 6 days out of my 16 days of actual visiting time, we will have shared a minimum of 31 hours together!  There's the promise of 30 hugs or more from my nieces and nephews; a solid 3 to 5 embraces from my Grandma Opal; hopefully, a careful and tender 1 or 2 hugs for my Aunt Edyne.  And, I've not even factored in those from sister-in-law, Dixie, and Brother John (who is a great hugger) . . . not to mention the various relatives I'm sure to run into as I make my presence known in the San Joaquin Valley area.  Why, the numbers are to confounding to relay!

In other numerical circles, I feel certain 18 will continue to be the count for blog entries.  There is a hope brewing within me concerning the number 5,000 -- which I'm pulling out of the proverbial hat -- and the words I'd like to add to my book project.  I'm open to much more.  Perhaps with the aid of 1 atmospheric coffee shop and 2 or 3 handcrafted house beverages, I can build on that count.  Oh, and utilizing that simple 1 yet one more time, how about 1 tour of a winery/vineyard in the renowned Napa Valley?

18 days.  27,823 minutes.  1,134 push-ups.  Something less than the standard 3 miles a day but more than nothing, but including an undetermined number of laps in the Sweigard pool every chance I get.  Knowing me, 180+ Facebook status posts.  And, the never ending bowl of allowable phone calls to and from my little family back in Middle Tennessee.

And, then I promise I will full-circle my way back to 2709 . . . the digits on my home sweet home!  Be ready to bump up my hug numbers, family! 

 

Of Condiments and Crumbling Walls

While listening to an audio book during my walk this past week, I heard lines worthy of a quote.  They pertained to the ageing mind, particularly those plagued by the various ghost-like forms of senile dementia -- Alzheimer's being chief among them.

The book is 'The Bonesetter's Daughter' by Amy Tan.  What follows is a segmented quote:

" . . . thoughts that were like crumbling walls . . . stones without mortars. "

Three times I backtracked this portion of the recording to hear it and to copy it down on paper.  Poetic, appropriate, relaying the decay of the brain with a sad directness.  I can see those loose stones, coming loose from their moorings, falling in pieces and then chunks, coming to an abrupt rest as an unrecognizable pile of useless, disjointed words and thoughts, connected to nothing, no hope of reconstruction.

My father-in-law's mother fell into an often angry shadow of her former self courtesy of her failing brain.  By then, my little family had moved back to Colorado from Omaha, so we were not there to personally witness the pulling apart at the seams.  But we heard the stories, in full, in bits and segments, and they resembled not the sweet little lady who offered my children ice cream from her small humming refrigerator.  It was a painful life chapter for my husband's dad.  No one should have to suffer such a thing on either side of the equation, but many do.

It triggered something in my yet healthy (though often stressed into memory loss) and functioning gray matter.  An odd news story brought to my attention by a friend and reader of my blog.  It was to be my source material, in a completely different presentation than I now write, for this particular entry.  Until I heard those aforementioned lines.

A 74 year-old woman in Boise, Idaho was arrested in connection with a spree of condiment-related crimes.  (Click here.)   The action which resulted in her apprehension involved the pouring of mayonnaise into a library book drop.  Vandalism, pure and simple.  Previous recorded incidents being attributed to her antics involve corn syrup and ketchup.  Used separately, of course.  Though one is often found in the ingredient list of the other!  On the surface, it all sounds a bit humorous, not to mention preposterous and stupid.  But, I got to wondering if her mind was a bit addled.  If she doesn't harbor ill will toward the library -- an investigation is still pending -- then her motives lie elsewhere.

Most of these stories make for great headlines.  Underneath those eye-catching lines, however, the plot is usually more complex than one would first surmise.  My awareness concerning this was magnified after my family was involved in a terrible, thus newsworthy, family tragedy.  So, even when I hear what sounds like a hilarious hijinx kind of story, even when I chuckle a bit or roll my eyes, I remind myself these things are hardly ever what they seem.  Nothing ever is.

Says the platinum blonde on her soapbox as she most likely preaches to the choir.

Sleepless in Murfreesboro

I tried to be a good girl.  Really I did.  I was all the way under my sheet and light blanket, extra down pillow lodged beneath my aching right hip, halfway mesmerized by the steady even breathing of my husband beside me. 

And fully awake.  The circling birds of my mind, those perpetual thoughts which have plagued me since my childhood, worried over the remains of the day, still searching for scraps to pick bare long past the point when pickin's were good.  So, up I rose to pace back and forth on the Internet, in my journal, and on the sidewalk in front of our suburban home.

Scribbling a few pages in my personal notebook was refreshing.  Between maintaining a regular schedule with the blog, contemplating the next steps in my book process, and just living life on all its myriad planes, I find keeping track of my private thoughts, chronicling both the mundane and the momentous, and doing a bit of writing strictly for me, tends to get swallowed up in the busy whirlwind.

But journaling is a surefire way to slow things down.  Even momentarily.  This gal is terrible at slowing down.  I'm desperate to figure out how.  But until then, I'll value any small stopping point along the hectic way.  We'd all do well to go a round or two with a journal.  Burn it later if you must, but the cathartic and therapeutic benefits which stem from penning one's issues and the like on paper, and reading it, expunging it from the surface of the soul, is worth the time.

While I'm in the business of recommending leisurely but introspective activities (it was brought to my attention that I tend to be very introspective in my writing, even with this -- my 'lighter' blog; I realize I'm incapable of being anything else but . . . so if that's not your style . . . leave, run, take to the hills, never to return to this blog site), perhaps you'd care to try the night sky.  It is particularly peaceful and lovely by the light of an almost full moon.  Even with the lights of the city softly glowing along the perimeter, the light of a thousand stars is still visible.  I imagine I can hear them twinkle.  Then, I realize it is the low hum of dozens of air conditioning units working in the wee hours of morning here in our development.  It's almost comforting.  There may even be an impromptu concert awaiting you.  Maybe a night-day memory challenged mockingbird belting out its song just down the block, oblivious to human sleepers, and fully engaged with the waxing orb tracking across the heavens.

Admire the trees you planted five years ago.  Marvel at the trailing tendrils of weeping willow which kiss the earth though your spouse, son, and sister-in-law find it sloppy and firmly 'suggest' you trim it to hover a full foot or two above your mixed-greens front lawn.  Find pleasure in the arching habit of the Eastern redbud which is beginning to extend over the curve in the walk leading to the front door.  Check the crape myrtle for opening buds as most around town are dressed in full regalia.  Note with an almost parental pride that the bookend river birches are handsome in their textured suits of brown, tan, and orange.  As you return to the front door, take in the new bloom on the magenta chrysanthemum.  Brush the emerging tips of the two Boston ferns before turning the deadbolt into its locked position.

And then, when all of that is accomplished, done, finished . . .

. . . GET . . . TO . . . BED!!!

This Is The Operator -- I Have A Call From . . .

I've left the portable 'girl in the bubble' security of my pink breast-cancer-awareness Dell laptop for the vast spread of screen which is our iMac home computer.  The latest update for my iPhone led me here, but the comfort of the large screen keeps me here.  I feel more aware of my environment from this technological perch.  Though, to be totally aboveboard, a few hours back I was mildly irritated with the thing for not being more transparent per deleting apps once my iTunes had synced with 'Girlfriend.'  A simple Internet search regarding the RIGHT CLICK function on iMacs cleared the road.  Everything is in sync now.

It's a strange turn of events when I consider that on the other side of November 2009, I was the horse led to water who would not drink.  Who didn't care to drink.  Heck, this equine didn't even know she was thirsty and needed to slake that thirst!  Yet, here I am, head buried in the trough most of the time.  Well, perhaps that is a slight exaggeration of the facts.  A significant portion of my day -- meaning minutes and sometimes hours which are of value to me -- passes in rectangular chunks of touch-screen and widescreen.  Keyboards and key words, searches and status, MSN and mouse, Blogger and Bing.

It's all so accessible.  And now I know it.  My awareness has grown to include this knowledge.  So much so that the absence of my portable window to the world often stirs a sense of bereft akin to nakedness.  It has usurped my pocket dictionary, my purse notebook, my home computer search projects.  I carry a phonebook, direction finder, mini-office, right at my fingertips.  Literally.  Still, what I manage to utilize with great appreciation and abandon is but a drop in the bucket to many more savvy than I.  So, who are these people and how can I reach them the next time I have a difference of opinion with my phone and my home computer?  

Tonight, I approached the epitome of personal tech multi-tasking.  My younger brother, who is presently receiving therapy in a California state psychiatric hospital, recently moved to another ward, leaving his new found friends, including a young lady, behind.  Though he can place calls from his ward to that ward, they cost 50 cents apiece.  His funds are limited.  So, until a new job presents itself whereby he can beef up his account, I volunteered the merge-call function of my iPhone for his chats.  He calls.  We talk.  I call her, add her to his call, put the phone on MUTE and lower the volume, and let them have their conversation as needed.  

During this evening's operator duties, I minimized their screen.  Wandered over to the library.  Checked in. Checked out a book ready for pick-up which I was notified about by e-mail.  Also accessed by phone.  Then, I proceeded to download the book to an app.  It struck me then.  While Gary and friend enjoyed their discourse on whatever myriad subjects they cover, I was visiting the library and checking out books.  To think these actions were foreign to me less than a year ago.

And now, I can't stop drinking!

Dark Roasted Perfection

My husband used to tell me that if I drank coffee, I'd be the PERFECT woman.  The standard reply from the direction of the almost perfect woman?  "Well, if that's all it takes, then you don't have anything to complain about.  You're pretty well off!"  Granted, that was a few years back in our 21 years of history.  He may have added a few points to that list.  But I'm not asking.  Not today, anyway.

So, if we use that criterion for perfection, as of this past month I have arrived!  Break out the heralding horns, sound the alarms, and throw Jimmy a ticker tape parade.  His wife has transcended ho-hum in a 360 degree life radius.  Evidently this blonde IS having more fun because besides sporting my first tattoo, making the startling haircolor decision, and planning a solo trip to California, this previously non-java fan is now a weekend coffee drinker.  My handcrafted 12 ounce beverage of choice?  Caffe latte with soy -- very versatile, available as it is in both hot and iced.  Brilliant!  Oh, and if the bewitching hour of 3PM flies by on its broomstick, there is yet another wave of the menu wand to consider: decaf!

What precipitated this decision, I cannot say.  Though for the sake of vacation I would imbibe with a morning cup during some of our momentous trips together -- New York, Jamaica, New Orleans, Wyoming -- tipping the cuppa joe with regularity was not even under consideration.  It was almost a point of pride that I managed to avoid what I saw as a vice.  (Suffice it to say, the same can not be said for sugar and food in general . . . and I harbor an alarming dependence upon lip gloss and chapstick.)  Not to mention the shakes, nausea, and sweat attacks which generally follow most caffeinated bold- or mild-roasts that find their way into my system.

While the following confession runs the risk of lumping me in with the societal lemmings of the coffee world, I must reveal that it was, indeed, the popular Starbucks chain which influenced my decision.  Now, my baby brother insists he deserves a share of the responsibility for my side-switching move as he notes that he planted subconscious messages within my brain, chipping away at my pseudo resolve, for years upon years.  Okay.  Fine.  The two of them may share top honors space in this landmark decision.

My husband and I began meeting at SB's once a week, Saturday mornings, to spend time as a couple in a casual chatty atmosphere away from the house.  Then, we integrated varying combinations of kids into the mix, sometimes moving into a Wednesday evening.  Always, always, I ordered herbal tea, or hot water for my own tea bag, or splurged on occasion with a chai tea latte.  Then, the Earth Divas informally designated another locally run coffee house, JoZoara's, as our main hangout.  It was steaming mate tea and mahjongg all around.  But the rich scent of fair-trade coffee hung in the air and teased the olfactory senses.

After some experimentation, again, totally unplanned but not forgotten once executed, I found out that eating before experiencing coffee reduced the effects of the brewed beverage on my body.  And, as long as I did not go over one shot of espresso in my drinks, the hyperactive jitters were easily managed.  Aside from the negative influences I mentioned, coffee makes me feel good.  Coffee incites my brain to meander into inspired thought.

We already were major contributors to Starbuck's bottom line (though JoZoara's iced latte with soy milk is head and shoulders above SB's).  Now, I feel it's only fair I be presented with stock options by company heads.  The sooner the better.

Though my new life choice is barely out of diapers, it has captured my heart . . . and evidently my mind.  Just the other day, while out running errands and taking care of kids' stuff, after the morning 3 miles and garden watering, I eagerly anticipated the free 12 ounce handcrafted beverage of my choice that was coming my way once I bought the 1 pound bag of coffee beans for my spouse.  But I don't think you understand: I THOUGHT about it.  I could TASTE it on my tongue.  I even practiced the name so as not to err at ordering.  I was pumped and ready and assigned it a top priority spot.  You can imagine the deep disappointment I felt when the friendly guy behind the counter (my neighbor's son, no less) insisted that my 12 ounce drink was simply plain coffee.  I reluctantly accepted his decree and walked off to the car with my house brew.

Only to discover per my iPhone -- with its wonderful e-mail capacity -- that my interpretation of the e-mail was dead-on.  I was right.  I was indignant.  And, I made sure to return to the store two days later, with the e-mail message ON the screen, receipt in hand, to claim my free and true reward.

THAT'S how I know I'm a coffee convert.  That and the fact that this entire leggy blog entry has focused on said miracle beverage.  So, you tell me.  Have I gone too far and compromised my personal integrity and good health . . . or am I just having fun?

About Fathers

In order of importance, right after Mother's Day comes Father's Day.  Who am I to argue?  I don't make the determination; the calendar says so.  The facts.  I only report the facts.  Unless, of course, I'm writing opinion.  But, as I was saying, a day dedicated to recognizing fathers is almost upon us.  Mere hours away.

While we're there, an exploration of what this day means is in order. Really, what it means to be a father.  These days the definition seems a bit fluid.  While being the sperm donor can run concurrently with actual fatherhood, that is not always the case.  Fatherless children are nothing new under the glaring sun, but it seems to me that the number of children being 'unfathered' though the daddy is present is increasing.  Often, it's young men hanging with the momma but not really exercising their options in the rearing of the baby(ies), many times unemployed, clueless, and downright directionless.  I believe that is what we hear referred to as the 'baby daddy' in modern slang. 

Since my dad was not really all that paternal with his biological children (as a pediatrician specializing in special needs children, he was considered brilliant and highly compassionate) when they were around AND was often not interested in getting to know us, I can't lay claim to much of an example from my childhood.  My relationship with him at present is a void area.  What I did have were caring and hardworking uncles who helped out a great deal.  But they also moved within their own lives and wives and storylines much of the time.  They were outstanding men and exemplary uncles.  And still are.

In a recent conversation with my younger brother, our discussion centered around marriage and family.  How two people committed to working on a changing relationship over a long period of years can produce a significant quantity of frustrations and points of contention as a matter of cause.  But that didn't necessarily translate into one or the other's ability to parent effectively and for the duration.

We went on to break down the elements of fatherhood in particular.  Daily life, the grind of work, returning home tired to a household awaiting his interaction after he has interacted all day with adult children and grownup problems with people not really interested in his well-being, hoping for a bit of peace, quiet, dinner, and downtime.  Only to find REAL children in need of interaction, more grownup problems, including a wife who has had an equally pressing day, people who RELY on his well-being, a decided lack of peace and quiet, often a fast food or cold dinner, and no time to lie down.

What's a guy to do?  He can't possibly bat a thousand in every area.  Someone at some point is going to find him lacking in some way.  If he was to be rated for his performance on the home front, a wife might cite him for inattention to her needs, or how long the TO-DO list has become, or his need to eat better and exercise for his health.  The kids might wish he would play catch more often and longer (who cares about that trick knee?), or allow them to drive at an earlier age, or float them a $20 with higher casual frequency.  Surprise.  Dad is unable to be all things to all people all of the time.  Dad is frequently tired, leaning toward unhealthy as the years and responsibilities tack on more demands.  And, let's face it, not feeling particularly manly in the face of all that.

But all you present and performing fathers out there, LISTEN UP!  You who remain in the picture for the long-haul.  You who choose to be actively in your child(rens) lives whether or not your marital situation made the grade.  You who find and maintain employment, often sacrificing your dreams and hopes to do the right thing.  You who tried to show up at the one game out of ten you are able to attend just in time to catch your kid leave the field or court.  You who rise before the sun and collapse into bed long after its setting.  You who are not their best friend but have their best interests and safety at heart in your decisions.  You who surrendered your once 6-pack abs and jean-worthy rears to long hours at the desk or double-shifts in the trenches, bedecked in overalls, collared shirts and ties, uniforms, and all manner of other uncomfortable and often unflattering attire.  You who adore a good steak and potatoes meal but graciously accept takeout or a microwaved plate.  You who want to be more than many think you are but you keep on keeping on . . .

YOU . . . ARE . . . MANLY!!!  You are men above men.  We see you.  We know you are working hard to make the grade.  You deserve your day.  You deserve every day to be recognized in ways both large and small.  Your presence, far more than presents, is what kids want.  Whether they show it today or reflect it later, what you do with character, humility, charm, and often humor, is making an impression.  Your kids are feeling the impact even when they seem unaware and perhaps a tad ungrateful.  Consider this your virtual favorite comfort meal and back rub and 'DAD, YOU'RE THE GREATEST' plaque, all rolled into one.  It is NOT a large screen television or season football tickets, a hunting trip or $10,000 bonus, or even notice that your kids' college education is being covered by Extreme Home Makeover.

But, you know, moms don't get everything they want on Mother's Day, either.

This goes out to my husband of 21 years, father for 20 of them.  He took in all manner of odd jobs back in the day as he worked his way up the ladder of success.  Never have I been so well cared for, and my children are beyond blessed by his solid example.  My brother, John, whose attention to responsibility would be a fine primer for our dad.  He took on college, work, and parenthood all at once.  Brother Gary, who yearned to know his own father and grieved for a time to realize he may never have the chance to be one himself: he admires and appreciates what Jimmy has done for Ashley, Sarah, and Zachary.  My father-in-law, who showed his son how to be present each day.  Uncle Zan and Uncle Dan -- they cut their 'daddy teeth' on us before beginning the job of raising their own brood.

My stepfather, Leslie Oneal -- Vietnam robbed his own children of an outstanding father, and on his good days with us he tried with more honesty than many to be a present parent.

Honorable mentions to Fred Beck, Mark 'Mister Mom' Schmidt, Duane Martin, Chuck 'The Dukes' Aguirre, Dave Mandarich, Matt Hampton, Darrell Reagan, Jeremy Geiser, Little Jerry, Phil Valdez, Uncle George, Uncle Jerry, Uncle Ben, Michael Lynch, Cousin Ed, Grandpa Mel, Ken Allgood, Scott Lockyear, Kenny Bruce, Rodney Edwards, John Meyer, Chuck Clark, Clark Brandon, Pastor Ron, Brian Seay, and all of the new daddies who have seen the arrival of their firstborn in the past year or so.  [I apologize for any glaring absences.]

You all bring it.  Each and every day.  Collectively and singularly, your fathering has touched me, impressed me, encouraged me where the future of our children are concerned.  There is no perfect father, any more than there is a perfect mother.  None of us are error free.  But all rolled together, a sprinkling of salt and pepper over the top, an amalgam of qualities and characteristics, you form my collective 'dream' father.  The Lord done good in your making.  You give me hope.

No.  No.  You give the WORLD hope. 

Happy Father's Day to ALL. 



   

Itinerary Dreams

Round-trip plane ticket.  Check.  Priceline-bid car rental.  Check.  My younger brothers notified of my plans.  Check, check.  Still need to e-mail my 90 year-old grandma and figure out if I'll be able to visit my uncle and aunt.  Well, I'm able . . . but are they up for company.  It's been a rough month for them.  Yet another door that cancer has decided to knock upon.  But I have a strong feeling that my aunt can kick the door right back and knock it on it's rear.  I wouldn't mind being on the other side of that kicked-in door for a friendlier visit.  And, if you've not ever had them, auntie grows a mean white pomegranate.  They are my friends.  Outstanding!

Merced, California is a familiar enough area to me.  I know what to expect with the weather, the annual 4th of July parade, my nieces and nephew and sister-in-law.  Oh, and I just now remembered that donut place we visited last year with Gary.  Usually, my brother, John, is a straightforward read, but with his new position and the boatloads of responsibility and clean-up work it entails, catching a whiff of his cologne as he sails out the door may be easier than actually catching sight of him.  What are the laws on kidnapping one's own sibling out of love and a desire to spend a couple of days with him?  Hmmm?  Oh, FINE then.  I'll take whatever I can get of his precious time.  If I could locate a wonder twin and form of, say, A CANAL . . . maybe then Mister Merced-Irrigation-District Manager would single me out for some focused attention?!  (Do I sound as desperate as I think I do?  It IS 1AM, in my defense.)

Brother Gary is checked in to the Napa State Hospital Bed and Breakfast for an extended stay.  Home of the square eggs and 3x's a day med calls followed by light snacks.  A charming place where your hosts try to discourage head-banging and screaming at the other guests.  Where shy self-conscious pyromaniacs room next to HIV-carrying racist black men (an interesting spin on a theme) who attack 35 year-old white ex-convicts covered in tattoos, sporting a bald head, and diagnosed with unspecified personality disorder.  An environment where broken men and damaged women create their own framework for relationships within a rarefied society not often contemplated by outsiders.

Prisons, jails, court rooms, and, yes, even a state hospital, to visit loved ones.  My brother.  My sister.  No matter how much I prepared myself, I was often fearful that my time with them would be snatched away.  That some new rule would have been set in place in the time it took me to fly in and drive to the facility.  But I'm a big girl now.  I've seen too much.  Prayed too hard.  Accepted a great deal.  No more fear of such things.  Having said that, this hospital is a whole new ball game.  California runs a far different kind of ship than does Colorado.  Right now, I'm weighing the pros and cons of staying in starkly basic dorms on the hospital grounds with perfect strangers, and alone, or checking in to a reasonable hotel where I can curl up with my laptop at the end of the day and possibly pound out that query letter and book outline on my down time.

And, it IS the Napa Valley, after all.  Home of vineyards and rolling countryside.  I love a good drive and an even better sparkling wine or red zinfandel.  Me.  On my own.  Rambling from town to town, relative to relative.  Perhaps reacquainting myself with myself.  As opposed to excitement, what I sense within is more of an anticipation of peace and settling.  Sigh.

I am very excited, however, to bring Gary food.  He can have home-cooked meals, perhaps even Starbucks coffee, and I want to lovingly force a bit of varied sushi on him.  I'll bring along any well wishes from his friends scattered across the continent and across the Internet.

But first.  I must have sleep.

Girls Gone Wild

The clip of the video event -- short and sweet but not encompassing the entire episode -- shows a white police officer cocking his fist and punching a 17 year-old girl in the face.  A black girl.  The viewer sees only these few seconds in the teaser leading up to the news story.  That was this morning.

My first reaction was instinctive.  Natural.  Reactive without the facts.  How brutal and unnecessary.  Excessive force.  He surely could have subdued her without such an action.  There must be training for these kind of moments.  What was he THINKING?

But, I try to take the time to step back and clear my head.  Hear the facts.  If there is video involved, wait for the fuller story.  Television is very sensationalistic.  They intentionally GO for the gut reaction.  Ratings are won and lost based on our very visceral responses to what we initially experience with our five senses BEFORE our intellect and common sense are engaged in the process.  That's circumspection.  We are losing that as a society but I digress.

About the officer on the video.  He was attempting to cite another girl for jaywalking as I recall.  This girl starts pushing him around and resisting his efforts to execute his job.  A crowd is gathering.  Someone starts capturing the excitement on their phone or camera.  Just off camera, another girl (our lady of the right hook), the cousin of the jaywalker, is being held back as she pinwheels her arms in wide circles, itching to jump Mister Policeman.  She breaks away and joins in the assault: an ILLEGAL assault, mind you.  So, two crazy girls are pushing on, yelling at, and resisting the attentions of a representative of our law.  He has no partner.  People are all around.  There is a loaded gun in his holster.  To this point, he has held out on using physical strength.  His voice and posture have been calm.  But, I imagine he is thinking that this is a situation with the potential to go very wrong, very fast.  Instinctively, he makes a split decision. 

One hit.  While she is stunned, the officer quickly takes control.  No further punches or screaming or inappropriate displays of anger on his part.  Though he is being watched, he maintains his decorum.  He does his job. 

I don't condone violence for violence sake.  I'm not down with power trips.  But remember, this was all over jaywalking.  These young but strong-enough girls were not respecting the officer or what he stood for.  The moment they pushed and shoved him, they broke yet another law.  By choosing to treat the situation as they did, they chose the outcome.  There are instances where the race flag has to fly, but I don't think this is one of them.  I realize there are bad apples in law enforcement.  BELIEVE me, I do.  But from what the longer video reveals, this man is not one of them.  At least not in this incident. 

I'd like to see one of the experts who come on shows like "Today" and "Good Morning, America" shed a little bit of light on the behavior of these young ladies.  If there needs to be an activist agenda here, then these young women did NOT represent the 'cause' well.  Highly uncouth.

Agendas aside -- which is how I like to operate -- adults in any segment of the society should be concerned with the attitudes of our youth.  Regardless of skin color, the actions of these girls were uncalled for.  Disruptive.  Lacking self-control.  Rude.  And, really, dangerous in this public setting.  They need to think before they act. 

I've heard that a time or two.

(*see video link below)

Policeman Punches Teenage Girl

Policeman Punches Teenage Girl

Idyllic for Gayla

The artful house of windows and steel snuggled amidst the countless trees


Stands atop a steep hill, surveying the spreading domain of the ‘Boro.

Its gay mistress resides with good humor and sweet concern

over all its many denizens, men left behind long after young ladies departed.

Wild cats, drawn to the crunch of food in set out bowls, who

Sometimes do not return from hunting forays, roles reversing with natural susurration.

Man’s best friend, gangly, rusty, youthfully obedient, and full of sloppy puppy love,

Taking his place in the dog history of this hale and hearty home.

Warm bowls of broth, abounding in flavor and nourishment,

Await a belly-up to the kitchen to build useful ‘table muscle.’

Fresh ground grains mix with liquid, yeast, salt, and yield to mechanized kneading

Producing the staff of life, sliced and warmly inhaled before consuming.

This is a place awash in the rich spirit of firm life, rounded and examined

Through skeins of yarn, pieces of pottery, sheaves of paper bespeaking aid to foreign places.

Two pairs of well-shaped and sturdy hands, clad in wedded bands,

Have built in time and space a settlement worthy of affection, gathering gentle age.

To crest the peak of this minor summit is to discover a pleasing oasis hidden from casual view.

Departing invokes thoughts of a speedy return before too many moons wax and wane.

The earth holds on happily to this tiny jewel of a kingdom with joyful willingness.

Crossing Guard Duty

I’m easily distracted by livestock. Today, goats. Nannies and their babies, to be exact. They must have been pygmy goats. Awash in a sea of waving green grass that reached to their short shoulders. It was idyllic. One minute, Sarah and I are engrossed in a conversation about my desire to earn my own money through writing. To have the satisfaction of buying a road bicycle, or a hybrid. All on my own. So as not to take away from the family pot. And then I wander off the beaten track.

It went something like this. “I thought you were buying a bike with that extra money?” says the girl to her mom “No. Those dollars need to be divided between you kids in your car funds,” sighs mom as she has an internal chuckle over the concept of ‘extra’ money, “Driving you back and forth, from one end of town to the other, is getting . . . oh! oh! Baby goats! Baby goats! Look how lovely they are!” Mom claps her hands in delight, attempting to count the perfectly formed wee ones, “When will I ever have my own goats? And my chickens!” Said daughter laughs at said mother, “You are so weird mom. Only you would do that.”

‘tis true. She’s house sitting, Sarah is, out in a rural area. To get to home, we pass a place where roosters crow, chase their chickens around the yard, and run one another down in competition for head ruler of the roost. Each time the turn arrives, I crane my head for a good look, coming and going. Yesterday, I had to actually stop so Mr. Gorgeous Rooster of the bright red comb and silky plumage could parade across the street with his woman. Yes, the chicken DID cross the road. With his own makeshift crosswalk. With me as an impromptu crossing guard. My excitement was such that I had to call my daughter, and my brother, to relay the humorous incident.

Now you all know. All five or so of my dear readers. SMILE. (I love you all. When my chickens start laying eggs, after I come into them, of course, I’ll share with you. Or, make biscotti with the eggs and ship you a package. Oh, and all of the homemade goat’s milk cheese that I’ll be crafting . . . stock up on huckleberry and chokecherry jam now!) So be forewarned: if ever you are engaged in a verbal repast with me, don’t take offense when I suddenly drop off mid-sentence to admire the udder on a Jersey cow or ooh and ahh over the hammy legs of a particularly handsome boar.

I really can’t help myself.

Not So Much

This will be short and sweet.  The number of times I've promised myself I'd be in bed before midnight could wrap around my fair city at least three times.  But it all comes back to the blog or to writing.

On that subject, I'm none too pleased with what I'm cranking out as of late.  June is only half expired and already this gal is melting.  My muse is voiceless.  The days are harried before I fully rise.  The nights bring down a heavy curtain of exhaustion and dense brain fog.  I put my fingers to the keyboard and force them to m-a-r-c-h across the array of letters beneath them.  I apologize to my readers for being less than witty, something other than interesting, often appearing a bit ditsy or unthinking. 

Morning breaks over me with all of the precision of a hastily cracked chicken's egg.  From dog to husband to kitchen to yard to exercise before the heat fries me, to all the rest, minutes sizzle and pop, solidifying into a congealed collection of hours, sticking one to the other, unable to separate and allow a solid piece of time for wandering over words.  Thus, as is the case now, when the family slumbers, I settle into my laptop, often on the worn brown leather of our couch, and exact the daily discipline of this blog.  I once cared too much that every word be placed just so, gems situated perfectly in their settings, but I'm living so hard and fast during the day that I realize I must do as I can -- for now -- before my heavy eyes shut out the night.

Don't misinterpret this.  My life is well-rounded, if a bit too busy.  Many can say that.  I'm full of goodwill where my friends and family are concerned.  Being able to hold full conversations with my previously incarcerated baby brother at any time of day is a luxury every time it unfolds.  I'm grateful.  I'm living.  Just a bit frazzled and frustrated with my inability to delete a few mundane activities in order to make room for my passion.  Summer is upon me, upon us, and it is demanding. 

I'm loving life.  Just not loving my writing. 

The Broncos and HGTV?!!

When I married into my husband's family, I got the sports package deal.  Let's call it a 'signing bonus.' 

Being based in Colorado, they love, love, love anything Colorado.  This means the CU Buffaloes, the Rockies, the Nuggets, and last, but certainly never least, THE DENVER BRONCOS.  This non sports fan was not familiar with the time constraints placed on everyday life by the beginning and end of football season.  How was I to know that Sunday was a holy day of another kind for legions of ardent followers?!  And that the sting of manic Monday was lessened by a ritualistic evening of commentated mayhem?!  Who knew?  Not this non-competitive nature girl given to books, walks, and Grape Nuts.

One of the ironies of my life as the 'one amongst the many' is the subconscious brainwashing effects of the Bronco blue and orange motif.  So ingrained in my mind was it upon our move to Tennessee, that when I first began to notice the orange and blue of a Tennessee team's merchandise line, I thought folks here held affection for our Mile High pro team back home.  (My pleased husband quickly schooled me to prevent any possible nasty altercations which could arise from misunderstandings.)

I've attempted to watch entire games with my husband, and later with our kids, so as to be of one mind, in one room, engaged in one unified fall/winter indoor activity.  Nerve-wracking is all I can say on this.  Ugh.  The moment I commit myself to a team when viewing a sporting event, I become so involved in the struggle for victory over the opposition that the acids set to churning in my gut and the tension takes a tight hold on my shoulders.  It's sickening!  I realize somebody's gotta win and somebody's gotta lose.  And, every now and again, I would find myself rooting for the opposing team!  Now, how's that gonna fly with dyed-in-the-wool fans of the home state.  John Elway himself might have put a contract on my head had he known.  After 21 years of this, I've come to the conclusion that it is perfectly acceptable to simply BE in the same room, the same house, even merely the same city, without taking in the game with the family.  I can bond just as well over wings n' things.

Now, I've said all this to make an entirely NON Bronco-related point, though family and competition still figure in to the equation.  Tonight I watched the season opener of "Design Star" on HGTV.  No, I'm not a regular viewer.  But, I am a loyal family member.  And, one of the featured designers is my cousin, Trent Hultgren.  We are not close though I recall him fondly and with humor when I think back on the treasured summer and holiday visits I had with him and all my cousins during my nomadic childhood.  He was stylish and handsomely quirky even back then, a dreamer of a boy stuck in the country with big city dreams.  My then hero was his best bud, our cousin, Katie.  I can still hear them giggling and picture them strolling, running, jumping, and spitting, all the way down the long tree-lined driveway of the Hultgren Ranch on Palm Avenue.  Being a long-distance relative, I had enough mystique per my rumored habits to cause Trent to one day ask, quite sincerely, if it was true that I had read the ENTIRE dictionary.  To this I replied that I most certainly had, and the Q's were my favorite section.

Taking in his image on billboards, ads, online, and in PEOPLE magazine, tucked in with the other contestants vying for their own TV show, his trademark cap making him instantly recognizable, it's hard for me to not picture the young man that he was so many years ago.  But he's been to college, traveled the world, worked as a missionary, rubbed elbows with more than a few famous individuals, and is running his own successful design business in Southern California.  Trent has seen a few struggles, tackled personal obstacles, and is now his own man, on his own terms.  And bully for him, making it onto a popular television program, claiming his spot over hundreds of others, through talent and a growing portfolio of quality transformations.  I understand and appreciate the lure of the lifelong dream.  Who among us does not?  How could I not want to watch him and urge him along from the sidelines.  Just . . . like . . . a . . . sports . . . um . . . fan . .

And therein lies the problem.  As the last fifteen minutes of the program ticked away tonight, I felt the familiar sensations in my gut and across my shoulders.  "I don't think I DO like having a relative on TV after all," I told my mother-in-law, while I simultaneously keyed in my ten votes for Trent on the HGTV website and scrunched my eyes against the possible termination drama being played out onscreen.  He was in the bottom six.  The judges had pulled apart his white room design.  When the bottom two turned out to be the blond woman with no plan and the type-A Asian gal, I couldn't have expressed more enthusiasm for their misfortune. I had to placate my empathetic nature by reminding all in the room that just being on the show was an honor and afforded each participant more publicity than they would normally see in an entire YEAR.

I guess I'll have to tough it out.  Take one for the team.  There's at LEAST another week to go in this game series.  Beneath those steel blue eyes, one can sense his thought process.  The wheels are turning.  He's going to take what he learned and turn it into a profitable performance.  That I've got to see.

If the judges asked me to critique, the one thing everyone in the Valdez living room agreed upon was LOSE THE CAP.  (I'm not holding back because I saw how that went for the one designer who tried to be nice to the gal he was paired with.  They designed rooms for one another, hoping to capture the personality of the other.  He held his tongue out of misdirected kindness when asked if he would change anything; she, on the other hand, speared him.  She made the top six; he descended to the bottom six.) 

We want to see Trent's face, and the lighting casts shadows on those lovely aforementioned eyes.  He's a casual chic, sometimes dapper, kind of a guy, and caps and brimmed hats are a handy way to conceal the male-patterned baldness that runs in the bloodline.  But if you've read any of my previous blog entries, you know how I feel about bald men.  Whether shaved or just tightly trimmed, a man with a rugged or handsome, or even just interesting, face and a nice head needs not bother with hair.  Do you hear me, cousin?  I'm right on this one.  Promise.

Click here to visit HGTV and vote your 10-a-day for Trent!

The Cat and the Canary

It's eleven at night here on the Valdez farm.  Ashley is cooing and calling, rounding up the family menagerie.  She's managed to grab the attention, and the collar, of our partially-deaf elderly dog.  The spoiled, rotten, perpetually famished Fabio, princely cat of his domain, is sitting by the baby gate which separates the kitchen from the dining room.  Why, one might ask, is he not attempting to jump the thing, which he can easily accomplish with all the feline grace one would attribute to his species?  Because out of all the people in this house, Ashley is the ONE person who will lift his royal hiney-ness over the gate!  And he knows it.  So, he sits and waits.  Expecting.  Knowing.  Only with her.  Animals are uncanny in their knack for knowing their owners.

There seems to be a hair uprising of sorts going on around here.  Me with the bleached blond.  Both my girls now dyed black from their natural dark brown.  It was quite a sight, what with Sarah perched atop the counter top, spraying Ashley's tresses while she bent herself backward toward the sink.  That's a new approach I've not witnessed before tonight.  I wonder what the men have under THEIR caps?  Reverse mohawks?  Dreadlocks?  Perhaps scalp tattoos?  Speaking of which, mine is entered the itching phase.  This phase has made me particularly grateful that I did not decided to lay ink on, say, an entire arm or thigh or buttock.  What madness would follow such a decision?!

With all the goings-on and goings-away, my promise to stand with the bride in a renewal-of-vows wedding ceremony for a nice woman at our church just about escaped my radar screen.  I can't imagine what part of baking under the bright late-July sun in Middle-Tennessee in a lined satin gown with full makeup would cause me to forget such a thing.  Though the ladies of the South tend to glow in the summer months, I flat out sweat.  Every bridesmaid dress I own has rings around the armpits.  What I want to know is why can't someone have a nice cool WINTER wedding?!  A ceremony which requires, say, a light sweater to be worn about the shoulders.  While trying on gowns tonight, pleasantly surprised though I was to be informed that a size 6 fit far superior to the size 8, I tried to imagine how much deeper the espresso shade would turn when I marched down the aisle, prepping the audience for the bride.  I certainly don't want to detract from her moment with murmurs about the trickling brook running in my wake, splashing about her train!

You think I'm joking but I leave you with this memory from one of my wedding party escapades.  I'm in a deep purple dress, wearing Spanx and a special bra with cutlets to help my meager form fill out the upper reaches of this satin wonder.  (For you men not in the know, these are in a woman's arsenal for fending off all manner of physical imperfections.)  For this occasion, I am also required to sing.  The bride is my very close girlfriend, my oldest friend, the LG to my GL, the reason I tattooed my hip.  For her, I'll wax as melodic as a canary despite my nerves.  I'm not a performer.  But this won't be a performance.  It will be an act of love.  However, I'm perspiring to beat the band.  Under my arms, at my hairline, behind my knees, and about my girded loins.  In a gallant effort to reduce my anxiety, my husband grabs a wad of paper towels from a small room off to the side from the altar and drags me in.  Imagine the surprised faces of all involved when the gowned priest, emcee of the ceremonies, enters his chamber to find my husband kneeling on the floor in front of me, my gown gathered about my hips as he tends to the job of sopping up my sweat.  Sorry, father!  How many Hail, Mary's will THIS take?

The canary did, indeed, sweetly sing.  To his credit, the padre kept a straight face the entire time.

Humility and Moonshine

Summer days.  That means watering the Boston ferns on the front and back porch.  Misting the hydrangeas to ward off their weary midday wilt.  Plucking horn worms off the tomato plants.  Fighting the flea beetles.  Breaking of leaves from lemon verbena, lemon balm, and lemon grass herbs just for the sheer pleasure of the release of tart scent.  (Has anyone caught on to this blogger's affection for citrus?)

Summer days.  It's the race to get the dog walked before the heat causes her to collapse in her furred and aged state.  Healthy as she is, the panting starts quickly in the midst of a Middle-Tennessee June weather pattern.  Shoot, healthy as I am, the panting starts almost as quickly as my canine companion.  Even better?  Evening strolls before dinner when the buggies come out to play and stick in the hair, on the face, down the shirt, clinging handily to the moisture which instantly beads up on the skin.  Then there's my teenage daughter, fresh off the treadmill after logging in a soggy 8+ miles, sweats and t-shirt soaked, attempting to embrace me, insisting that because she's my daughter I should eagerly accept her nasty sweaty hug.  Methinks not.  Muggy days are here again!  This is when I remind myself how fortunate I am to not live in Mississippi or Louisiana. 

Summer days.  Which don't start officially until the summer solstice yet two weeks away.  But who's it trying to fool anyway?  There's not a one of us still calling June 10th late Spring unless there's a gardener out there whose a stickler for season protocol.  The moment school lets out and the kids are home: it's summer.  The day weekend releases of movies are based more on action and superheroes than drama and intricate plot lines: it's summer.  The first time we crack open the rind of a seedless watermelon and munch into that sweet pink flesh: it's summer. 

Summer days.  The annual 4th of July bash put on by Phyllis and Larry down on their farm is not far off.  My husband will have another chance to claim a second trophy in the horseshoe competition; the first trophy still rests atop our fridge for all to see.  I still recall our first visit.  The scent of all-day cooked pork hung in the hot air.  Picnic tables stood ready to receive the crowd of family and friends once they ladled, spooned, sliced, and picked their way through the generous nobody-is-going-home-hungry spread of homemade sides, wide-and-frieds, and gooey yummy desserts.  Fish in the pond gorged on late afternoon insects buzzing the water's surface.  Kids played in the grass, on the gravel, near the goat pen.  If one listened carefully, donkey's braying and cow's lowing could be heard in the background.  Idyllic. 

And I saw my first pickled chicken's foot.  An entire platter of them right between the mac n' cheese and potato salad.  After a few daring nibbles, I decided the best thing to do with the thing was take it home, freeze it, and bring it out for my brother during his Christmas visit.  And, then there was the year that one of the country cousins, a very affable guy, offered us a long pull on his jar of moonshine.  It may have been peach.  Jimmy and I both obliged him.  It's Tennessee.  It's the 4th.  Solidarity.  Surely he wouldn't offer if any reason existed to support why he shouldn't.  (Looking back, I blame the 'humility' for this rash decision to swap cup spit with a perfect stranger.  Humility is my Cousin Tony's word for humidity.  Appropriate.)  This sharing of the communal distilled-beverage cup was followed by a short story whereby said cousin revealed that he had only been recently discharged from the hospital after a long stay spent recovering from a severe staph infection!  Ba-da-dump!  Thank you, thank you, we were there all night!  He did think to later mention that he was not released until the infection was totally cleared up.  Oh.  What a relief!

Summer days.  Summer daze.  Summer haze.  Get it while it's hot.  Douse yourself in sweet tea.  Catch the lightning bugs.  Tease the tiny curlicues that form at the base of your neck.

Because before you know it . . . football will come along and jerk us back into school, shorter days, colder nights, and no more watermelon.

An Homage To My Male Audience

In an intentional effort to beef up my male readership, the following blog content will include a healthy dose of testosterone.  So, find a spot on the couch, pop that top button and let your belly rush over the waist of your pants, put down that remote, burp up your meat n' taters dinner, and speed through my blog while you check the latest basketball scores.

So, for dinner tonight I ate meatloaf.  It was HALF beef . . . I'll leave out the part where you learn the other half hailed from a gobbling bird.  While I was clipping coupons, I found some for 100% beef hot dogs -- Angus beef, in fact.  I cut them for my pile.  An ad for Papa John's pizza caught my eye (insert sausage, pepperoni, extra cheese, and heartburn here).  I added that to my collection, too.  My mother-in-law is planning a few classic homemade meals, including tortillas and green chili, chunks of pork floating throughout, not to mention homemade cinnamon rolls oozing buttery filling and sugary frosting.  Earlier today we discussed the merits of t-bone and ribeye steaks (ribeyes are my favorite cute, marbleized and caramelized).  We both agreed that nothing beats a tri-tip resting in its own juices after a spin on the grill.  Which brings back memories of those outstanding pork butts that my neighbor, Ken, and I smoked on the back porch for my husband's 40th birthday bash.  That meat was falling apart with porky smoky goodness, the juice and fat running down our fingers and requiring a good sopping.

I'm a blond now.  A platinum blond.  What my neighbor refers to as trailer-trash blond.  They say blonds have more fun.  That should hit just about any minute.  Maybe after I ingest a bit more red meat or barbecued pork.  Would smoked wings count?  I'm a huge fan of Slick Pigs smoked wings.  Mm, I'm thinking about that tangy blue cheese dressing, generous hunks of said pungent dairy product begging to be picked up in the poultry embrace!  But I digress.  We were discussing blonds.  Catch my latest profile picture.  I'll be one for another few days or so.  And, I also have a tattoo.  You know what they say about girls with tattoos, don't you?  Do you?  If you do, would you tell me?  Because I just think, "Hey, there's a girl with a tattoo," and move on.  I think leathers and a Harley, not to mention an expanded 'upper deck,' might be required to qualify for any type of bad girl status.  And, I'm still trying to have more fun in the next few days before returning to a bland brunette.  Does closet organization rate on the fun scale?  If so, I'm already there!  (I just mentioned Meagan Fox to my daughter's boyfriend, and he came as close to melting as a man can come while sitting at a kitchen table playing spades with country music blaring from the television behind him.  Did you know she's technically a brunette though her hair is black?  Though I'm guessing most men couldn't tell me the color of her hair.)

Um, I know there's a major professional basketball shootout going on.  The playoffs.  It's between two teams and will require seven games to determine the victor.  Last night may have been game three or maybe four.  My teenage daughter is rooting for one of the teams and has a strong dislike for the opposing team.  I'd love to say I remember the names of the hoopsters . . . is it Detroit and Los Angeles?  (Okay, I was close.  Sarah says it's the Lakers and the Celtics.  THAT would be Boston, Gloria!)  This all involves free throws and centers and Kobe Bryant.  And vast amounts of back-and-forth running followed by copious amounts of sweat being soaked up by long jerseys.  Celebrities are often in attendance and sprinkled throughout the audience.  Spike Lee and Jack Nicholson come to mind.  I like their work.  Perhaps I should watch basketball -- I might catch a glimpse of them.  That would be pretty cool.

But I've wandered yet again.

Let's try this again.  Football, golf, tennis, baseball, track and field, cross country, MMA fighting, wrestling, NASCAR, Siegel basketball -- inserted by my high schooler -- swimming, high diving, polo, soccer, cricket, lacrosse, bowling, cycling, ultimate frisbee, curling, gymnastics, figure skating, horseback riding, skateboarding, surfing, speed skating, badminton, four-square, kickball, dodgeball, horeshoes, darts, poker, beer pong, sky diving, Rocky Mountain climbing, bull riding, pool, mutton busting, cork, fishing (this includes lake, river, deep sea, and fly), scuba diving, competitive eating, speed boating, hiking, para sailing, hang gliding, motor biking, oh, and let's not forget BEACH VOLLEYBALL!

Well, I'm exhausted.  It's rough work trying to woo a masculine fan base.  My stomach hurts from all the talk of cholesterol products.  I need a mineral water.  My muscles are a bit stretched from all the sports action (though I do execute a very mean push-up and NOT on my knees, thank you very much).  We've got a tube of Icy-Hot around here somewhere.  I apologize for any of you sensitive males out there who are offended by my depiction of men and their likes.  If your feelings were hurt in ANY way . . .

. . . than YOU should be reading my blog on a regular basis!  I'm outta here.  There's a beer, micro-brew, with a name like Fat Tire, Amber Wheat, or Purple Haze, perhaps even R-O-O-T, with my name on it.  I'm not a fan of Budweiser or Coors.  And, I prefer bottle over can.  And, one as opposed to six.  Sorry!  But I can't have it until next week, because I ate like a big guy during my vacation.  Gotta go pop MY top button.
  

The Bald Truth

There's a small clarification issue which must be addressed today.  My mom brought it to my attention.  Though I drew a parallel between my decision to totally shave my head and sport the cue ball look for a time AND my choice to become a platinum blond after a lifetime spent as a brunette, the only real comparison is both actions were visually dramatic and involved my hair.

Though there was a huge chunk of curiosity involved with the bald adventure, another significant aspect was my ever-present need to physically empathize with a specific group of people possessing a trait which separates them from the average person.  In this case, women who suffered hair loss due to cancer treatments, alopecia, or something along those lines.  My hair at that point cascaded down to the center of my back in healthy wavy falls of dark brown.  It frustrated me to think of the beauty stereotype attached to a full head of long hair.  Let's forget about the laundry list of bodily attributes paraded throughout the pages of glossy magazines and ads.  What about the silky sultry tresses and the often tiring list of tools, products, and skills required to achieve them?!

Bald men are often accepted as sex symbols. Buffed shaved pates are considered attractive in both young and old, whether heading up the secret FBI task force in charge of Scully and Mulder, or manning the helm of the USS Enterprise through the remote regions of a futuristic star-filled space.  But aside from the random Celtic songstress or the G.I. antics of Demi Moore, ladies without hair are generally considered either ill -- out of all the strangers who approached me about my baldness, only one, count 'em 1, knew it was just a hair choice, and she was in her 60's, loved the look -- and not glamorous.  

So, the woman who as a little girl sought out ways to experience blindness, deafness, paralysis, and a few other physical difficulties, decided to take her feelings and put them to the acid test.  Perhaps if I had already begun the opinion column I would later write during that time of my life, words would have been my form of expression.  But, somehow I doubt it.  I'd have done it and THEN wrote the danged column.

May-y-be-e in the big out there is a flaxen-haired gal in need of empathy.  A Goldilocks wanting solidarity from a dark-haired counterpart.  A fair Rapunzel searching for a 'sister' willing to sacrifice her healthy locks to a triple-process experiment in creating straw from keratin.  Perhaps I was compassionately tapped into that need and responded in kind when I clipped the magazine pictures and taped them into the pages of my journal. 

Or, my curious eyes locked onto something shiny and couldn't look away until it was mine for a time!   Whatever helps you sleep better at night. . .