Count This As Monday

Since it's 15 minutes to 1AM here and my son is still in Wyoming where it is 15 minutes to midnight, I'm posting this blog entry from where my heart is.

I'm rethinking the whole mountain air theory today.  The drive to and from Gillette swallowed up four days of our lives while the visit with family gobbled a mere five in trade.  Hardly an even swap when one considers what happens to the stomach and fanny during all of that road travel.  And yet, those of us back at home base find ourselves missing the landscape and the characters dotting it.  Immensely.

What happened?  Usually, we go, have a mix of good times, exhaustion, tension, and are more than ready to get back to regular life by the prescribed return date.  And, we do appreciate our life in Tennessee.  Our lovely comfortable home; our tree-filled expanse of yard; our superb neighbors and wonderful church family; and who am I without my Earth Divas?!

But about all I yearned for in terms of daily normalcy was a healthier diet.  But I'm fairly certain brown rice and more vegetables aren't difficult to come by with just a bit of shelf-searching.  Sushi and pho might have been a stretch, though.

It must be that jutting tower of rock called "Devil's Tower."  We hiked around it, rapt in the wonderment of this state park, admiring its beauty, recalling how it was in the film, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind."  Who can forget Richard Dreyfuss and his papier mache fixation?  Maybe aliens now inhabit our brains and yearn to return to their rock.  

My only boy stayed  behind for another week.  Babysitting, enjoying the big-hearted generosity of our family members over there, asserting his independence, and generally not missing his bossy mom too much though she feels his absence keenly.  Perhaps he has caused this unrest -- for lack of a better word -- within.  But, his big sister doesn't miss him and SHE misses our people and the Wild West.

The source of these feelings is undoubtedly simpler than my round-the-barn search.  Though we love the southeastern allure of Middle Tennessee, we are Westerners at heart.  The mountains and vast hilly expanses arrest our vision and grab at our hearts.  The same goes for the people.  My husband grew up with most of these folks.  Our children grew up with most of their families.  At a time when our lives are in constant upheaval, as kids climb up and out of the nest and parents readjust their identities accordingly, the familiar seems the most like home.

We left our home.  But as I said to everyone, "This isn't goodbye.  It is only a see-you-later." 

Color In, Color Out

All right.  A few changes to my physical person came about during our family vacation to Wyoming.  Some of my readers who know me may be scratching their heads over the tattoo my right hip is now sporting, or the platinum blond wisps now covering my head.  Fear not.  My sanity is yet intact.  Or, at least in the same condition it was upon leaving on this trip.  No, it was not the mountain air or the Crown Royal and Coke I held aloft for Cousin Juanita during my first evening there.  For the entirety of the visit, I was in complete control of my faculties.  I had fun.  In fact, I had a blast most of the time.  But it was the little things, like the Scrabble game with my husband, Aunt Marie, and Cousin Laurie, which made the best impressions and etched the deepest memories.

Save for the matter of the etching in my skin and the bleaching on my scalp.  About those . . .

The reasons for both go back a bit.  Solid foundations.  For those not in the know, when I hit 30, I shaved my head to satisfy a curiosity I had held for over a year.  My long tresses disappeared during the course of a slightly dramatic evening, culminating in sighs of surrender from my mother and the whisper of scissors from my younger sister right before the buzzing of the dog clippers in the reluctant hands of my spouse.  Total baldness lasted roughly two weeks as I could not long endure the nails-on-chalkboard rasp the razor made on my tightly-knit hair follicles!  (I get the shivers just thinking about it.) 

So, when a couple of magazine pics of gals with white-blond and platinum blond ended up in my journal last October, I knew there was an itch in need of scratching.  By the time I took my long locks to medium in November and short in April, I'd decided now was the time to damage my hair in search of my inner blondie.  If things went terribly wrong, growing it all back wouldn't take much time, and my vanity has ebbed enough to withstand the possible ramifications.  Cousin Claudette nailed it: the services were free, and she educated my hair-illiterate self.  It was an adventure.  I did it.  Itch satisfied.  It won't last much longer than the bald thing.  Fast as my hair grows -- we have spotted tiny black roots against my pure white scalp already -- I can't afford to keep it this way.  And, truth be told, the shade does nothing for my coloring.  I look like a baby bird.  Every time I stroll past a mirror and catch sight of myself, I am shocked all over again.

Now, tattoos are another thing.  In all of my 40 years, I have never EVER expressed a curiosity in such body art.  My youngest brother is 3/4 of the way covered: a good percentage self-writ.  Several cousins and their spouses are engaged in ongoing additions to their original works.  Every one of my children wants to go under the gun as soon as possible; my eldest boasts two at this time.

What I do have is a loyalty to my good friends.  In turn, they have a pull on me.  One shining gal of the full-lipped smile and gregarious giggle has been in my life since my high school freshman year.  Due to my childhood lifestyle, long term friends of that nature are a rarity.  So, when this particular pal of mine, Laurie G., observed the "friend tattoos" of a young relative and her best friend, she turned to me with those wide laughing eyes and asked why WE didn't have such an ode to our connection.  Suddenly, it seemed like the most logical action in the world to take while enjoying our stay under her gracious roof.

We settled upon nicknames, tossing out 'Laur' and 'Glor' in favor of the 'GL' (for Gloria) and 'LG' (her initials, which soon became 'Algae') we used when signing off on our numerous letters back in the day.  The pen nub on mine denotes a love of writing.  The entire process was over within half an hour!  This next week, LG will decide upon her personalization logo, and get her ink while the getting is good.  Our artist at "Pain For Sale" clocked out early and Laur missed her window while I was there.  I'm trusting her to go through with it now that I've sullied my reputation.  GRIN!

There you have it.  The whole sordid story of my transmogrification.  Turning into a bad girl in the Badlands.  Be warned!

Rushed and Rocked

Blog Entry: June 5, 2010 - Saturday @ 3:40PM from Kansas City, Missouri on East 70

Coming at ya from the highway, headed back East from a fantastic adventure in the wild wild West. I’ve got the tattoo, platinum blond hair, Bavarian landjager sausage, and extra flesh about the hips to testify to that! I’m fresh from a fitful road nap which always involves a comic dance of open mouth, minute traces of trickling saliva, and a jerking neck. Aside from his iTune jams, my sleep antics provide a rare but welcome form of entertainment for my husband. Previous travels have yielded the annoying pictures to prove it. Un-n-fortunately, they are not on my person at present. A thousand highly insincere apologies to my dear readers!

The ONLY disappointment of this entire trip is the forgotten rocks I was to glean from Aunt Marie’s and Laurie’s back yards. Gorgeous stones of color and content not to be had in the ancient gray layers of Tennessee. I was lured to Wyoming by promises of free rein in the selection process! Still kicking myself for that. I’m actually dumbfounded to realize the distraction of ink and bleach kept me from my nature-loving ways. A very rare occurrence. Huh. ‘Firsts’ all around.

During our quick hike skirting the base of Mt. Rushmore, it was a toss-up as to who salivated more over the sparkling specimens dazzling our covetous eyes: me or Aunt Marie. I had visions of backing up our Yukon and laying a base of National Park quartz, mica schist, and granite beneath our bevy of bags and sacks of snacks. That was immediately followed-up with the vision of a posse of park rangers looking down the sights of their government-issue citations and banning me from the natural wonders of America for life. In that light, those chunks of mountain appear more attractive in their natural setting. I’ll just return for a legal visit.

(Full disclosure: a diminutive sliver, smaller than my palm, with the threatening potential to cause harm to a non-attentive path walker, managed to find its way into the cavernous storage area of our oversize SUV. Yes, I am a rule-breaker and deserve to be punished. But please, go easy on me. Somewhere, the fragile ankle or sore lower back of a weary tourist has been saved for another day of gawking, photo snapping, and overpriced ice cream cones . . . all in an effort to preserve the history and economy of our visually wondrous country. In THAT light, yours truly is somewhat of an American hero. Immortalize me in dark chocolate, please.)

The Iceberg Effect

Sometime after midnight in Gillette, Wyoming at the active Mandarich house -- home to the most generous of host couples -- after the hubbub had died down, and the Burnese Mountain pup of ten months and 100 pounds had commandeered the lion's share of attention from Cousin Jody, and a part-time sullen teenage boy was hilariously manipulated into thinking he was fed from the maternal fountain of nourishment until age 6 (you had to be there), I attempted to lull myself into sleep.  No mean feat at times.

With the ear-mounted reading light gifted to me by my husband one Christmas in the forever search for the perfect nightime accompaniament to a good book, each page of "Cooked" -- a story about an ex-con drug dealer who found his callling as a Las Vegas chef upon release . . . research for my non-fiction work-in- progress -- revealed itself to my tired eyes.  Said Burnese Mountain pup paced restlessly from the top floor to the front door landing, unable to situate himself properly into repose, until he finally decided upon THE spot.  I heard him drop.  Soon, sounds begin to emanate from his barrel of a chest, akin to the gentle exhalations of the blanket-covered figure next to me on the foldout couch bed with the trick leg.

Compared to the already sultry nights and days of Middle Tennessee in these late days of Spring, the temperatures here in the mountains are much cooler.  Duh.  I knew that coming in but still arrived not as prepared as was prudent.  Never has a borrowed oversized Denver Broncos hooded sweatshirt been a more welcome wardrobe component. It would fit just so in the lightly packed top corner of my otherwise densely filled suitcase . . . oh, Da-a-ve?!

My belly is comfortably swollen with Aunt Virginia's homemade spicy tamales, hand-rolled tortillas laden with locally canned peach preserves, hot-from-the-oven chicken enchiladas smothered in red chili (using yesterday's leftover home-fried chicken served at the graduation party), a cup of coffee lightly laced with Bailey's Irish Creme, a coupla few glasses of sparkling Brut rose wine, a small piece of cherry cheesecake split with Jimmy, AND a micro-mini S'mores treat with a few extra toasted marshmallows.  Yes, I did say comfortably.  Which would cause one to wonder what, pray tell, did I consume the previous day to cause my belly to feel UNCOMFORTABLY swollen?  Try to put that out of your mind.  I have.

Two days and three night have passed by with startling speed as do all good things.  Day by day, pieces of the family iceberg break off and float away.  As with all good-byes, which I acknowledge only as "See you laters!" it's imperative to witness the people-packed vehicle drive off into the horizon.  These gatherings are fewer and far between as the years separating the 'good old days' and the 'present daze' seemingly multiply like oversized rabbits.  My hide has toughened so that any outbursts or verbally-realized but mentally-undersized opinions generally roll off the psyche and collect as humorous memories at my feet. 

We are all quirky with individuality.  For some, that means a few drinks will lead to rear-slapping, sloppy kisses, and fascinating in-depth armchair debates over the new Broncos line-up.  For others, its intense conversations in hushed tones about problems close to home and those playing out in the lives of others.  If you're a kid, you are either of the age to finagle toys from Wal-Mart's vast selection via Aunt Olivia and Jimmy, or you travel in small packs along the edges of the festivities, observing the elders and promising you'll never be anything like them though you'd love to see Cousin Jody down another bottle of vino tonight!  Meal preparation is a favorite topic of discussion, arguement, and activity, usually starting within 15 minutes of the last meal.  (Have I mentioned my stomach?)   Though the concern seems to be that someone will go hungry and there will not be enough food for all, I've never ever EVER-R-R witnessed a single relative languish in hunger, and leftovers are continually being reconfigured, packaged and sent with the ice floe families, or consumed in frenzied post-midnight feedings by the hangers-on.

Very soon, I will nod off.  Morning will come earlier than normal as I awaken before 5AM to the sounds of our host ensuring that yet another family is up and ready to splinter off.  He'll receive an affectionate high five as he heads out the door for his return to the grind after this long Memorial Day weekend.  The sounds of a mom, dad, son, and drowsy daughter prepping for the road will seep into my semi-conscious state.  Bittersweet.  Of course, I'll spring from bed for another round of hugs, the camera will emerge much to the chagrin of the teenager,  the stairs will almost trip me up as I race to grab a last-minute cup of coffee for my cousin, and the waving shall commence as I track their rental SUV until it disappers around the corner.  

A perfect time to break out the Dell as sleep will not revisit my morning.  Breakfast can't be far behind.  Did I mention that some of us are fabulous cooks?

 

Something Done Crawled Up Inside You and Died, or Indoor Road Kill in South Dakota

(From the road on Saturday, May 29, 2010)

Coming at you from I-90W in the wide open state of South Dakota. Home of more than a few independently run burger joints specializing in buffalo. Haven’t seen any Thai places. But more appropriately, host to the Badlands – a vast stretch of rugged natural Western beauty . . . the kind of deceptive beauty responsible for the slow dry deaths of more than a few cowboys, pioneers, hapless Native Americans, and any number of handsome and totally serviceable horses back in the day. Of that I’m 100% certain. Don’t need a textbook or Google site to confirm what appears very much obvious. But that’s all right. Even the buzzards and four-legged predators need variety in their diets to stave off the boredom of the everyday.

Kind of like this road trip. This two-day, 22+ hour odyssey necessary to properly break-in this here gas-guzzling, wonderfully capacious (fully-stocked oversized cooler, multiple full-sized suitcases, two lamps and shades headed for Aunt Marie’s, laptops, book bags, a selection of dry snacks, CD’s and DVD’s, camera, iPhones, purses, blankets, pillows, 3 bottles of sparkling Rose, not to mention the four grown bodies and accompanying egos with all their requirements manning the thing!) 1995 gently-used GMC Yukon. A journey necessary to convey us from point A, Murfreesboro, Tennessee, to point B, Gillette, Wyoming. Most likely one of the final family road trips – already short one kid though she checks in via text – for this maturing Valdez Bunch. So, necessary in that regard, too.

Staring down the last 4 hours of this trek, it is fair to say that boredom may indeed stir in the breasts of my two fruit-of-the-womb (yeah, I’ve used that a time or two, but it’s a splendid phrase which screams to be exercised with some frequency) sprawled in the back seat of aforementioned cottage-on-wheels. But, I guarantee it is NOT of the everyday ordinary variety. Can they create a dot-to-dot with windshield bug splats at home? I think NOT! And, punctuations of glee, impromptu wrestling, assorted candies and salties, Facebook status postings, and semi-truck honk solicitations, have filled the in-betweens quite nicely.

I also guarantee that our olfactory senses have been mightily challenged by the negative workings of travel food on the digestive system of one in our midst within the enclosed space. (No names, but it ISN’T me!) There’s no escape. No way to flee, gasping, arms flapping wildly as the offender is cursed back to his grandmama. (Is there a clue here?) Holding one’s breath has limited effectiveness. Especially with rapid and multiple silent incidents. Ah, add that to the modes of modern deaths on the Badlands. Who knows what corrosive effect the gaseous substance might have on the transmission? Another steed down. It has been the subject of mild outrage – oxymoron? nope! not if one has three teen-types – for some in our ranks. No pun intended. It’s got me to wondering if high school debate has ever entertained this as a topic. From my experience, kids take to the subject like a fly to doggie doo. (Another stinkiness constantly cropping – I did say ‘crop’ – up in my existence.) The sensory enhancement of odor only adds to the overall enjoyment of the two-sided discussion.

My mother will be so proud of my wasted paragraph-ode to human gas. Sorry, ma. But they say ‘write what you know’ and in this gastrointestinally-challenged family, for better or worse . . . well you know! (Oh, brother, now another half paragraph.)

I do believe I’ve killed (a theme in this entry) another hour in the writing. You’ve maybe knocked off a few brain cells reading this. And, my bladder is dying a slow death to the lack of gas stations in the immediate area. My concentration, if that is indeed what this poly-syllabic string of words can be considered, is shot.

Besides, the Badlands Trading Post has a soft-serve ice cream logo on their door. Mama needs some for her tum-tum.

Check Out These Talented Dreamers

(Before I begin tonight's entry, let me make an addendum to last night's entry: for the record, there is another entire sub-section under the blog heading outside of personal and news: many use blogs to promote their business, cause, or passion.  I did say I was under the influence of something other than my own clear head!)

Note: Highlighted words in blog are actual links.
__________________________________________

I joined my first writing group a few months back -- a writers workshop.  A friend of mine has floated various scribe-oriented activities to my inbox over the past year or so, encouraging me to kindly get off my duff and git' to gittin,' for Pete's sake!  Talking about writing a book, or ten or twenty, is not the same as writing the book(s).  Simple enough concept.  My habit has been to peruse the e-mails she lobs my way with something akin to one part interest, three parts dread, and delete the sucker as quickly as my hot little fingers can do so.

For whatever reason, this one last-minute message about a woman known to my friend through educational circles who was hosting a workshop out of her home struck me.  For two days, I read and re-read the forwarded invitation.  And, then, I picked up the phone and called this congenial person who delightedly welcomed me to the fold.  From the very first meeting, I was hooked.  How had I denied myself the good solid company of other earnest and passionate writers for the entirety of my life?!

Though seven is the actual number of our core group, it has dwindled down to a regular gathering of four women most Thursday nights from 5:30PM to 7:30PM.  Of the three least seen, one is a dedicated single mother to a teenage son who wrote a rough draft book for kids in a month through an online writing challenge called "NaNoWriMo" a.k.a. National Novel Writing Month.  Another joined Toastmasters and was there to discover if she had what it took to write as she harbored a head full of family tales itching to come out and play with the page.  The third, an 8th grade student for a few more days, pens her stories in multiple notebooks in a steady stream of words, words, and more words; she'll be published sooner than later, I'm betting!

The rest of us are as varied as the first bunch.  Our fearless leader is a professional editor, a published writer, a musician, and a teacher . . . and a wellspring of support, inspiration, and encouragement.  Currently, she is working on two books -- a work of fiction and a biographical account of her father's life.
The second in our Brain Trust joined up to prove to her friend that she was NOT a writer.  Ahem!  Don't it chafe something fierce when friends turn out to be right?  And, you've got to hear her orate; she's a Toastmaster member, too -- practiced, amusing in her delivery, and superbly natural for the role.  There's me, of course.  Finally pushed to choose a project and START my engines!  I've chosen to capture the essence of my relationship with my youngest brother, Gary.  He's endured 17+ years of incarcerated living before finally being diagnosed with mental illness.  His hard work has just begun in a California state hospital.

Our last, but definitely not least, member is a novelist with completed works under her belt -- Stephanie Cardel.  Not only is she a writer, but her college-age daughter doth also possess and exercise the gift!  Presently, Stephanie (I'm allowed to call her Steph but I'm not sure you can, yet) seeks representation for her finished young adult fiction novels.  One is part of a trilogy under the genre of "magical realism."  Of the seven of us, she is pursuing the elusive dream of publication that we all dare to entertain in our confident moments on the writing trail.  Generously, she shares what she has experienced through this sometimes grueling process.  I've learned a great deal from her.  I plan on bringing a host of friends to her first book-signing.  In her 'spare time,' she and her daughter run an oustanding and informative website which reviews children's books, ages 7 and up, called "Check Out These Books" (link).  Any of you with kids, who yearn to encourage their love of reading, this is THE site for you.  Please check it out.  They are voracious readers.  They KNOW their stuff, inside and out.  Also, she can be found on Facebook at Check Out These Books Fan Page.  Become and fan and tell her Gloria sent you!

Oh, and buy her books once she becomes a bestseller.  Now that I mention it, look for ALL of us on the bookshelves and audio collections in the years to come.  I'll pass along the authors' names.

That's B-L-O-G

What IS a blog?  Really.  Until hearing about the origin of "Julie and Julia" (or is it vice-versa?), my interest in blogs was limited.  Severely.  Turning 40, and the host of interesting developments in my life around that year, led me to start my own blog to kickstart my dormant writing genes.

I have a friend who surfs the net for myriad blogs of interest.  She suffers from an artistic leaning, so the sites she discovers are often quirky AND beautiful.  I admire her knack for finding some real gems.  Surely there are a great many others who do much the same.  But why?  What is the draw?  Where is the payoff?  How do they pull us into their web of personality, personal, and persona?

If we throw out the blogs which stem from a media source, and thus regurgitate news o' the day for the most part, what is left is an amalgam of entries documenting an individual and their satellite people and the weather patterns of their days and nights.  It seems self-centered.  This idea stuck in my craw and had me wondering if I am selfish or seeking attention or some such self-serving concept. 

Now, I don't mind being on the receiving end of attention, but I have no desire to steal anyone else's thunder or keep the sun shining solely on my spot of earth.  As far as selfish, not to any high degree, though I refused to share more than a sample bite of my pomegranate ice cream bar with my son tonight.  (He WAS scarfing down an Oreo Klondike ice cream sandwich whilst begging for some of my frozen confection.)  And, yes, I yearn to spread the seeds of my word in the minds of readers everywhere, but to their benefit, too . . . not just mine own.  The blogs I choose to subscribe to are all varied but they share one significant commonality: they reveal a piece of someone.  I like revelation.  It's useful.  It's necessary.  It's GOOD for you.

I'm thinking -- as best I can given the state of my brain in this Claritin-D induced haze of awareness -- a blog is what the creator makes of it.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  This one scintillating.  That one introspective.  All a bit of escapism which may or may not benefit the gazer on the other side of the screen.  Most will never warrant the transition from computer screen to big screen, though I have seen at least one which bears further scrutiny in that department.  I know I'd watch a movie about a Chinese man who leaves his family each weekend to rescue potential suicide victims from one of China's biggest bridges.

Why do YOU read blogs?