CHANGE...

Today I happened upon a magazine that I’d never seen before. It’s strange when you believe that nothing is random...everything happens for a purpose and that is exactly what I thought when I opened RealSimple and turned to the article, “10 Ways to Embrace Change.” I didn’t just read it, I devoured it.

The author of the article, Katherine Russell Rich, pictured, was forced into change when she lost her job. What she learned is that the unfamiliar is not something to fear but to embrace and find new strength. She offered up ten tricks to easing through a new transition.

 This I am taking from Katherine’s article directly…

 DON’T JUST DO SOMETHING; SIT THERE.

If you’re facing a massive rescaling of your life, your first impulse will be to go into a whirring spin of activity, which is exactly what I did right after I was fired. I later discovered there’s a lot of value to sitting quietly instead. In the realm of language learning, there’s a stage called the silent period: Adults may try to avoid going through it, but if you take a kid and plop her down in Paris for a spell, she’ll naturally clam up for a few months. When she opens her mouth, her French will have flowered. Making sense of a major change is a lot like that. You need to allow yourself a fallow period before you can blossom.

 MOTHER YOURSELF A LITTLE.

When familiar routines suddenly dissolve, it can seem as if all your supports are gone. For a while after I lost my job, I had the sense that I was in free fall. It’s crucial, while absorbing the shock of the new, to make yourself feel well taken care of. Prepare nutritious meals for the week ahead. If you can spare the cash, have someone come in and clean the house. Yes, you need to take some time for yourself, but don’t let the pizza boxes pile up.

IGNORE YOUR INNER REPTILE.

There’s a part of the human mind that is often referred to as the “lizard brain,” because it existed in even the earliest land animals. The lizard brain is concerned with survival; it likes the tried and true, so it’s likely to pipe up right now, flooding you with adrenaline warnings of “Danger!” as you veer off course. This was a handy function to have when deviating from the familiar path to the watering hole may have led to an encounter with a saber-toothed tiger. But in the modern world it’s like a misfiring car alarm: pointless and annoying.

SILENCE YOUR INNER KNOW-IT-ALL, TOO.

When I interviewed the eminent linguist Alton Becker, I asked what makes someone good at languages. It helps not to be too smart, he said, explaining, “Smart people don’t like having their minds changed, and to learn a language, you have to change your mind.” If you’re so smart that you can’t rethink your positions, all your IQ points won’t do you much good when your life is turned upside down. Becker’s advice applies across the board.

SEEK OUT NEW PERSPECTIVES.

Zen practitioners cultivate the “don’t know” mind; they work to assume they don’t know anything and in that way see the world fresh. This is a great way to approach change—as an opportunity to start anew, to consider all possibilities. Ask naïve, wide-eyed questions of anyone who is doing anything you might be interested in trying. Listen seriously to arguments you might once have dismissed.

TRY SOMETHING NEW AND SLIGHTLY SCARY.

Why? Because now is the time to explore what it is that you really like. Catch yourself off guard and see what happens. At a time when I was feeling most stuck, I spontaneously volunteered to get up onstage at an open-mic storytelling evening in New York City. The experience was elating and terrifying and showed me that I wanted to lead a more creative life.

BE SKEPTICAL OF COMMON WISDOM.

It’s dangerous to live in the aggregate, especially when you’re trying to figure out your next move. One year, everyone knows you need an M.B.A. to succeed at anything. The next, they’re saying that there are no jobs out there anyway, so don’t even try. In my case, everyone but I knew that you can’t learn a language at the age of 43. But since no one alerted me to that fact, that’s what I set my sights on.

LEARN TO LIVE WITH UNCERTAINTY.

When I began learning Hindi, my teacher encouraged me to get out and practice with native speakers in New York. I wound up asking a waiter for love (pyar) when I’d meant to request a cup (pyala). But in that way I inched into a new language. That anxious feeling does not signal that you’re doing something wrong, only that you’re trying something new.

SAY “REALLY?” A LOT.

When you start to turn this sudden shift in your life to your advantage, you might shake up a lot of people, especially the ones who aren’t happy with how they’re living. To them, your efforts to move forward may feel like a glaring searchlight that needs to be switched off and fast. To their descriptions of the terrible fates that will surely befall you if you dive headlong into a new life, respond with “Really?” Alternatively, “Oh, yeah?” works, too.

SHED YOUR OLD SKIN.

Discard physical clutter, tired ideas, old routines. Seeing things through another’s eyes can help. I had that chance when the Hindi school I enrolled in asked me to list my daily requirements. I could honestly have said, “For the past 62 days, I’ve eaten pineapple sandwiches for breakfast: toast, butter, canned l (sliced, not crushed). Bedtime: white-noise machine (surf, not rain), four pillows (two hard, two soft).” Instead I wrote, “None.” It’s only when you have cast off what has been weighing you down that you can finally move on.

 Yeah…is all I can say. I think my shoulders dropped to my nipples…or is that a couple age spots?

Perfection is Overrated

I once read a piece by William Zinsser in which he said, “The secret of good writing is to strip every sentence to its cleanest components. Every word that serves no function, every long word that could be a short word, every adverb that carries the same meaning that’s already in the verb, every passive construction that leaves the reader unsure of who is doing what -these are the thousand and one adulterants that weaken the strength of a sentence. And they usually occur in proportion to education and rank.”

Raymond Carver was the master of seemingly effortless, clutter-free prose.  In my view, one of the top pens of the short story.  He had a way of cutting to the chase, unveiling a plot laced in conflict in the first few lines. For example, the beginning of “Gazebo” --             

“That morning she pours Teacher’s over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.”

Or from “Vitamins.”

“I had a job and Patti didn’t.”

But my favorite is “Where I’m Calling From.” It is probably one of his best known short stories. Every time I read it I think how much fun it must be to toss my copy of “Elements of Style” to the wind, allowing only the character’s voice to immerge instead of the critic within. 

“J.P. and I are on the front porch at Frank Martin’s drying–out facility. Like the rest of us at Frank Martin’s, J.P. is first and foremost a drunk. But he’s also a chimney sweep. It’s his first time here, and he’s scared. I’ve been here once before. What’s to say? I’m back. J.P.’s real name is Joe Penny, but he says I should call him J.P. He’s about thiry years old. Younger than I am. Not much younger, but a little. He’s telling me how he decided to go into his line of work, and he wants to use his hands when he talks. But his hands tremble. I mean, they won’t keep still. “This has never happened to me before, “ he says. He means the trembling. I tell him I sympathize. I tell him the shakes will idle down. And they will. But it takes time.”

I still get excited when I see a blank piece of paper or white-faced word document. There is so much potential staring back at me. Now if I could only get rid of the middle man – the critic and perfectionist that has decided to set up shop inside me. It makes me recall an old adage that Ansel Adams lived by – “perfect is the enemy of the good.” He believed that if he waited for everything to be “just so” he would probably never take a photograph. The pursuit of perfection is a mighty crippler indeed!

I will close with a reminder from “Art & Fear – Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking” by Bayles and Orland. 

“To require perfection is to invite paralysis. The pattern is predictable: as you see error in what you have done, you steer your work toward what you imagine you can do perfectly. You cling ever more tightly to what you already know you can do – away from risk and exploration, and possibly further from the work of your heart. You find reasons to procrastinate, since to not work is to not make mistakes. Believing that artwork should be perfect, you gradually become convinced that you cannot make such work. (You are correct.) Sooner or later, since you cannot do what you are trying to do, you quit. And in one of those perverse little ironies of life, only the pattern itself achieves perfection – a perfect death spiral. But what you fail to see is that the seed for your next art work lies embedded in the imperfections of your current piece.”

So, with that, I wish all of you a great weekend…full of beautiful imperfections.

A Recipe Question...

Okay, I have a recipe question for any who would like to help me in my struggle to cook vegetarian. Tonight we are having a friend over for dinner who doesn't touch anything that clucks or moos, nor can it have a tail or fin. 

Being that I am already somewhat challenged in the kitchen, I was wondering if I can tell you what I have to work with and then you might be able to offer up a suggestion as to how to whip it together into something tasty. Does this sound like fun or do you want me to go away?

So, here goes. The ingredients that I have on hand are -

tortillas

black beans

refried beans

onions

tomatoes

red, yellow, and green peppers

brown rice

garlic

green chiles

green chile sauce and enchilada sauce

Any and all suggestions would be appreciated...

Raising the Roof off Poe's Casket

Today marks the 200^th anniversary of Edgar Allan Poe’s death, which may seem somewhat redundant to observe 73,000 days after his passing…that is unless the poor poet had received a decent burial to begin with. But alas, the rhymster got virtually squat in the way of a sendoff the first go-round. Just ten measly folk showed up for his hurried last hurray.

Because 200 years is a major migraine of time…and we should all be so lucky to have a parade of admirers fawn over our bleached bones (and more importantly, our prose two millenniums after we drop,) I am posting a little something to honor this great American writer, poet, editor and critic.

Edgar Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts on January 19, 1809 to two actors. It was written that he was named after a character in Shakespeare’s King Lear, a play that the couple performed together the year of his birth. His father abandoned the family shortly after the curtain closed and the mother went on a drinking binge, ending her life a year later of consumption. Young Edgar was taken in by John and Frances Allan, of Richmond, Virginia. His foster father was a successful Scottish merchant  who dealt in tobacco and slaves. The Allan clan served as a foster family to Poe although they never adopted him.

After a short stint at the University of Virginia and a brief military career, he began publishing modestly until he switched his focus to prose, where he became known for his own style of literary criticism. Later he is credited for being the first well-known American writer to “make a living” writing, also for publishing mystery, detective-fiction genre and science fiction.

In 1835, he married his 13-year old cousin, Virginia Clemm, (a little unsolicited commentary from this writer/editor-and-chief… “That ain’t right…I don’t care what was going on 200 years ago, you leave your little cousin alone. Don’t tell me she was the only one for miles around…I ain’t buying it.”)

The same year, something definitely inspired Edgar because he wrote “The Raven” to gushing reviews. It launched his career, but on October 7, 1849, at age 40, Poe died in Baltimore. One hundred sixty years ago today, the impoverished and brow-beaten Poe was found, delirious and in need of medical assistance, outside a tavern. He was never coherent again to explain the last 7 days of his life from Richmond to Baltimore. Four days later, he died in a hospital. Although the exact cause of death is still unknown, many feel it could be attributed to alcohol, brain congestion, cholera, drugs, heart disease, rabies, suicide, tuberculosis, and other agents. (Man, what else is there? Cyberia, Psoriasis, Hoof-in-mouth?)

 Obviously the party will be in full swing in Baltimore this weekend. It’s shaping up nicely. If you are anywhere close, I anticipate Poe worth the wait. Advanced tickets are sold out, although I have heard that there will be tickets at the door. Fans are traveling as far as Vietnam for the tribute. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. 

Oh, and to add further weirdness and mystery…

An unknown visitor who is referred to as the “Poe Toaster” has paid homage to Poe’s grave every year since 1949.  For more than 50 years, one or more individuals have left a gift; however, the offering is always the same. Every early morning on January 19, the person makes a toast with fine cognac on Poe's original grave marker and then leaves three roses. (I must admit I'm hoping for something with a little more pizzaz...like champagne... possibly a few strawberries, oh and whipped cream...lots and lots...but after Poe's humble farewell, who the heck knows? Spam with a hint of hollandaise could be my swan song.  

A Challenge...

A week ago today we pulled into L.A. and unloaded the huge mounds of furniture and boxes from inside the 16-ft. Penske truck, making Hermosa Beach our new home. My fiancé had already moved in the week before and then flew up to Seattle to help me. Daily during his move he sent photos so I could see the progress of his unpacking. With only 750 square feet we knew we were going to have to be creative with space. I watched all of his boxes diminish on film until it was my turn to fill it up again. The only problem being that after 1000 miles of travel in a bouncing truck with my dog in my lap, I learned that every closet and drawer was already full to capacity. I must admit, I began spiraling into a major meltdown. “Don’t lose it on me, baby” he said, “It’s all gonna go.”

For the next few days we rifled through boxes and became masters of space and disguise. Now, one short week later, it is nearly done. There are flowers in window boxes, art on the walls, an IKEA writing desk and chair built for me, and a recording studio constructed for him. Five years we have waited for this day…wondering what it would be like to share a life, a closet, even a frickin' gas bill. I envisioned the whole thing over and over...making all those months of different zip codes make sense. Well worth the wait. Only it didn't play out that way because there is one very large problem. The move happened 9 months too early. I had every intention of waiting until my youngest left for college but money ran out.

I sold real estate for 14 years, with one break about a year ago to help a friend write his memoir. I was paid for my part of the book, but not enough to keep the lifestyle afloat. In hindsight, it wasn’t a smart move on my part, but I also knew that my attitude was in the tank. I lost my drive. I was hoping that if I had a moment to do what I love…namely, write, that maybe my outlook would improve. After the book was complete I dove back into the housing market. Naively, I thought I could dust off my Open House signs, cold call a few loyal customers and be back in business. What I hadn’t anticipated was how seriously the real estate market was in the toilet and how far my clients had roamed. Even the best agents were struggling to make a buck.

I gave it six months. Hit the ground running like a rabid dog. But to no avail. By the end of the summer I was financially sucking eggs and had to make some hard choices. I spoke with my 17-year old daughter about the need for a change. She had no interest in moving to California, which I understand as it is hard to leave your senior year of high school. But she also didn’t want to move out of our rental to something a little more affordable. In her mind, she has watched me downsize before and she’s tired of moving in the wrong direction. I heard that she feels I have not worked for years. She wonders why I can’t hold down a job like other people. Knowing that the dreaded change had to take place, she decided that she didn’t care if her dad or I stayed with her as long as she could remain in the house and finish high school. I took her at her word and began making plans to move to California, where I could share the financial load with my fiancé.

The day before the move we took her to dinner. She seemed so matter-of-fact about it…saying things like, “it’s all for the best.” Then, with a sheepish little grin she asked if she could stay home from school and have a mental health day. It was an old trick she used to play when she had a lot of homework and hadn’t had a chance to finish it. I told her that if this wasn’t grounds for a mental health day I don’t know what was. Her plan was to sleep in, clean her room, and pick up her dad at the airport. Even though I woke her early in the morning to say goodbye I think the realization hit her when she eventually woke to a quiet house and picked up her dad at the airport, carrying a huge suitcase.

Since then I have tried to speak with her but she doesn’t seem to want to talk with me on the phone. I get a text every few days telling me how busy she is. I think she feels that I abandoned her, which we all know is something mothers just shouldn't do. After raising kids for the past 26 years I will now be known for this one “selfish, self-serving” act. It seems that from this day forward everything else that I have done for my kids is just another thing to poke holes in.  

I cannot tell you how sad I feel. I am hoping that in time we will find some common ground again but in the meantime, I can’t seem to find a good place for my thoughts. The guilt is overwhelming. I also feel sorry for my fiancé. He knew this would be difficult and wanted the move to happen after she was out of school, but it just didn’t work out that way.

I don’t know why I wrote this. Maybe because I need to put words to this terrible feeling. All I can do is try to be there for all of my kids as much as possible. Visit as often as I can. But I am still left with the pain of not being there for my youngest until the final cap and gown. My whole life has felt like I would do anything for them, even at my own expense sometimes. The first time I try to do something that might work for me too, it feels awful. I’m wondering if parenting truly is the role of sacrificial lamb. All I know is I ache inside and I want to make it right for everyone. 

What Would You Pack?

This is certainly an interesting time in my life. I am leaving Seattle and heading south to LA in 6 weeks. We just secured a tiny house in Hermosa Beach. Optimal word in that last sentence is tiny. Yes sirree Bob, this little cutie is 700 square feet. Two small bedrooms with a bath in between and a longish living/dining room. Wait...before it sounds like I’m whining, let me explain. There were a few bigger places in our price range…just not near the beach. So, this is a choice we made so we can have the beach experience. I have wanted to live as close as I could for as long as I can remember. But now that it is here, I am wondering what I shall carry along for this blessed adventure.

Now, for those of you who happen to have your share of accumulated belongings, I want you to look at them and prioritize. What would you take with you? I will have a place to hang my clothes that is about the size of an entry way coat closet. One lone closet for everything. Surprisingly, this does not bother me as much as some of my furniture and books that I will have to leave behind. So, I have looked around at my things and made a small list of my favorites. With a photo of each…

This is my grandfather's WWI outfit that my parents were going to get rid of so I put it in a large glass case and I've been dragging it around with me ever since. His dog tags and stick matches were in one of the pockets so they are in the case too. Grandpa Sophus was a bugler in the war...and a saint to put up with my grandmother all those years after. For many sentimental reasons and a reminder about patience, I cannot part with it.

A few of my books...there are many many more, but I think I can get by with these.

Okay, I know this is pretty oddball but I have this kamikaze helmet that I was given a long time ago. The binoculars were from the same era along with an ancient catcher's mask. Don't ask me why...but I love them. Actually, I think I will be cremated in my kamikaze helmet. It seems fitting somehow. The Andy Warhol painting goes too. My daughter is letting me care for it while she is out of the country. 

What would Thanksgiving be without my pilgrim outfit? I don't think there will be room for the mash potato pot, but the outfit has to fit in that miniature closet somewhere. 

Rupert...with a security deposit.

That's all I can take for now. My two oldest kids are on their own and living a wonderful life and the last one has opted to stay in Seattle with her dad to finish up her senior year of high school. After looking at this "must have" list, I don't blame her! I desperately wish she was coming but I will be back and forth often to see her. Also, the biggest factor of this move. The boyfriend. He is the component that makes all of this change and adjustment a true joy. He keeps me laughing and that is what this adventure will need!

Now, besides family, what would you pack for the love shack?

War...what is it good for?

Today in our local Seattle Times there is an article describing a woman, much the same age as myself, overcome with emotion as she came across the name of a soldier on the Memorial Vietnam Wall.  Mark L. Stephensen, of Salt Lake City, who she wore his MIA bracelet until she was 15 years old when having her tonsils removed a nurse removed the bracelet and lost it. The Dignity Memorial Vietnam Wall, a 240-foot long, 8 -foot-high replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. is now on display at the Acacia Memorial Park in the Seattle area. The last time it traveled this direction it attracted more than 90,000 visitors and now Kathi Loreen is able to see the name of the man who she wore on her wrist until it was lost.

My boyfriend is going through a rough patch. Having lost his father and two of his three uncles this past year there is only one uncle left and then that generation dismantles. His own father died of multiple cancers ranging from brain to prostate, one brother died of dementia-slash-cancer, and the third had many illnesses coupled with a severe lack of sleep, so tragically he took his own life.

Tom is the last brother, the youngest of the lot and a Vietnam vet. The whole brood grew up in many places but spent a good piece of time in Greeley, Colorado. There was lots of farm work to do and mischief to be had, and through the stability of work and pleasure they managed to live a peaceful, wonderful childhood. Then the war broke out and Tom's number came up. Having lost his older brother in a tragic car accident a few years before, he left for the war still grieving. He served his country but unfortunately ended up in a troop where he is the only remaining member of the squadron that is still alive today. He has been in and out of treatment for alcoholism for the past 40 years. The poor man was not equipped to experience the painful loss of his brother and then all of his comrades, only to return to "life-as-normal" to a less-than-fanfare reception for veterans. Few people understand this kind of pressure. What place your brain has to escape to each day in order to be a productive individual again. The anger, remorse, and resentment is so deep in some of these veterans. They are trying their hardest to fit into society again, but honestly, we have turned a blind eye to them. Tom has been in and out of VA hospitals and they give him a week or so of therapy and let him loose. A week of opening up all that pain and then sending him out into the materialistic world again? What is a man like that supposed to do? Where is he supposed to place those newly opened wounds? So, to curb the pain, he drinks. He doesn't just drink. He drowns, hoping that he will never wake again.

I pray that war will end so that we will never have to deal with this sort of pain again. Sometimes I wonder if I could kill another human being and after much reflection I know that I could not. Maybe this is wrong, but I could not pull the trigger. I would rather take the bullet myself than kill someone. I'm sure this is not rational but it is how I feel. I once said this to a high ranking officer in the army and he said, "tell me that when you're in the trenches." It reminded me how my minister once told my father when he questioned God's presence, "Ask me that again at check-out time." But I know I would not change my opinion. If you believe that no one has more right than another to live, than I couldn't take another life. 

Tom says the war destroyed him. All of his friends died all around him. The VA hospital is not equipped for this kind of mental pain. What will happen to our new batch of brave, young soldiers who will have to deal with the same anguish? 

Point Counterpoint

I received an anonymous message about an article I wrote dealing with the feminist movement. I was definitely in rant mode. No doubt a few readers might have found my words a slight bit bruising to the ego, and yet, it’s my opinion.

So, this anonymous guy (and one could only assume it was a guy) chose to respond, as the victim he feels he has become in the cold, cruel world of dating. Don’t get me wrong. I love good banter and appreciate those who take the time to comment but what is it about men and their confusion with the female race? Has dating and the dance changed so much that it’s unrecognizable?

First, he punched a pretty hefty ‘tude centered around the premise that women have an agenda from the moment they set eyes on a guy. Oh, and supposedly all we have to do is toss a little cleavage here and twirl a short skirt there and suddenly a man becomes putty in our hands. Don’t mind saying that gets my temptress tail feathers flapping. I truly don’t believe that when a woman meets a man her brain immediately fast-forwards to the bridal registry, two beautiful offspring, a house in the burbs and a foreign nanny. I hate to break it to this guy but women aren’t that calculating…or at least I would venture to say less scheming than a man trying to get into a woman’s pants. 

One comment that I’m still picking out of my plumage is, “Meanwhile women have planned well in advance, knowing that the bed is just the vehicle that once in gear and moving forward will propel the situation towards some form of security that they don’t dare try to provide for themselves.” Wow. That we don’t dare try to provide for ourselves? Damn, that’s a three-organ plunge into my skin-tight boob bouncing shirt with a dagger. Six inches south into the delta region and I’d be trying to save more than my uterus in question.

Hey, I’m not saying women are saints. There are those who pick men by the size of their wallets and others who fall in love from the waist down, and of course, no one would fight that there are a multitude of games being played out there. But, where has this guy been? This shit has been going on since the dawn of time and the reason a large number of folks remain single.

At the end of his dissertation on the cruel ways of women, he mentions his perfect mate who is ‘somewhere out there.’ A woman with enough self-assurance that she knows who she is and what she’s got. “Someone who is that perfect blend of intellectual, emotional, spiritual, and physical herbs and spices that is really the foundation of a partnership between two people. She doesn’t have to show her cleavage because the guy she wants to impress knows that isn’t where the brainstem lies.” Alright, this is all beautiful and touching, but I’m having a hard time believing this guy can’t find his mate because “we” are trying too hard to perfect our sultry seducing outfit and take him off the scent. But, here is another question I want to ask. If women are dressing for success…and men are basically offended by the game, then who forks over all that dough for paid porn? Who buys Sports Illustrated Swimsuit addition and finds the articles in Playboy “engaging?” I’m sorry but I can’t tell you the last time a group of women got together and said, “Hey, it’s Friday night. Let’s head down to Hooters for Happy Hour and a Caesar Salad.”

Men have always been the hunters and gathers. And that has meant learning to function to a degree void of a lot of emotion. Their job throughout history has been to bring home the bison and protect. And women have been the caregivers and nurturers. While females tended the fire and kids in those god-forsaken musty caves…men, continuously fought battles. They plunged us into war while women evolved into a race of bandage-applying-nurses and knitters of scratchy socks. The feminist movement was supposed to change that…move the parallel races into a place of equality, which in turn would balance the roles. To a large degree I think this has happened, although the inequality remains, particularly in the work force. The good ol’ boys clubs are still on the loose. And unfortunately I don’t see a major shift away from the casualties of war. As long as we are engaged in bloodshed as our right to protect, we’re promoting that hunter and gather thing. Maybe I’m smoking something but historically a battlefield has never been an opportune time to tap into your feminine side. In an odd way it reminds me of a conversation I had with a man not long ago who told me (quite seriously) that if men could just be hooked up to a milking machine each morning there would be less aggression in the world. Wars would end. But what about all those calculating women who’ve snagged one of those udder-draining males? And where is love in all of this jockeying for positions and equality…war and temptation?

Erica Jong wrote, “Love is everything it’s cracked up to be. That’s why people are so cynical about it…It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.” So, that is my counter to this very articulate man but if he comes back with some argument about Eve and the whole Tree of Knowledge snafu, I’m going to have to toss my temptress tassels to the wind and pull out the heavy artillery.

Why isn't Cosmo Considered Porn?

As a parent we are responsible for what our kids read and watch. It can be a tedious task to monitor, particularly when it seems like there are very few directions one can turn nowadays without having some sexual indulgence thrown in our face. All venues seem to point to our kids as the up-and-coming (no pun) sexual beings who must know all the tricks before they come of age. 

I’m no prude but there is just something so wrong about Cosmopolitan magazine. How have they managed to escape the stigma of porn? What angers me the most is that this is a magazine that young girls read…underage girls, which means that this hideous rag have a responsibility. To prove my point, I am going to give you an example of what the September issue is offering.

The cover features stories like:

“The “Dirty Sex” Rule Happy Couples Swear By.”

I turned to the article and read, “Most of us know that it’s essential to mix up the mattress moves regularly. But variety shouldn’t be the only goal. To keep things really sexy, you need to push the envelope by playing dirty. Dirty sex means going against the idea of ‘proper’ sex,” says sexologist Yvonne Fulbright, author of Touch Me There! It’s inching into a taboo zone…and whatever feels taboo to you qualifies. Try pretending someone is watching you get it on or sharing fantasies midact. Consider buying bedroom gear like blindfolds or a bullet vibrator. Or slowly touch yourself…” Okay, you get the idea.

Or this great read...“When Your Hoo-ha’s Burning: Don’t Use This Common Cure!”  Turning to this article helped me to understand that if I have a burning sensation in my “Hoo-ha” (Oh, for the love of God!) then drinking cranberry juice is the wrong move because a UTI has already set up shop in my “thingy.”

This was a delight to read - “I Wax Guys’ Privates”

This article discusses famous dudes’ pubes. There is a list of do’s and don’t to get your guy to go in for waxing.

“If going to a salon for a wax is too much for your guy to handle, you can cleverly persuade him to trim himself. But it can be a sensitive subject, so be careful not to go overboard.

JUST RIGHT: “I want to pay attention to even more of your body when I’m down there.”

TOO MUCH:  “and I’d rather not cough up a hair ball afterwards.”

JUST RIGHT:  “It would turn me on so much to see every single inch of you.”

TOO MUCH:   “and honestly, you need every inch you can get.”

This article was topped off by a “wax artist” who said, “When I told the gross guy to hold his junk to the side so I could wax him, he looked me in the eye and said, “You know, baby, it would be easier if you just pulled on it.”

 I’ve saved my personal favorite for last. “50 Sexy Ways to Touch Him There.”

It begins, “when you’re handling his package, he’s so damn grateful, he’d never complain even if your skills were a little lacking. To really pamper his privates, add these caresses to your repertoire.” God knows I’m not going to quote all 50 but I will give you a “head’s up” on a few.  

1.  Place your lubed palms on either side of his shaft, and rub them back and forth, as if you’re trying to start a fire.”

2.  As you’re kissing, gently cradle his testicles in the palm of your hand. Instant arousal!

3.  Play with very light pinching on his scrotal skin in the area where the base of the shaft meets the testicles. Warning: just the skin-not the jewels!

4.  Take one or both of his testicles into your mouth (watch your teeth!) Hold there, and swirl your tongue around or suck gently.

5.  Trace the seam that runs down the middle of his testicles with your tongue.

6.  With your tongue wide and relaxed, lap his penis from his testicles to the tip, as you would a yummy melting ice cream cone.

7.  Vocalize your enthusiasm with aahs and oohs while you have him in your mouth. For every ten licks, take your mouth all the way up and off his package. Pause for a few agonizing beats to tease him with a smile before going back down.

8.  Using a soft, clean makeup brush, lightly dust over his testicles, penis, inner thighs, and abdomen in sweeping circular motions. Repeated circles on the scrotum will feel especially good. 

There is more…much more…splattered between the ads for what is the right way to pop a zit to gauging if a kiss is too wet. I even scanned an article that asked me to clutch one of my mates butt cheeks firmly for a few seconds and supposedly all he’ll be able to think about is ripping off my clothes. Or, if that doesn’t give the desired effect, I should quickly stroke his ass when I’m with a group of friends or heading to our seats at a baseball game. The reason? “He likes that flirty, light touch when he has other things going on.” But they saved the best for last. A hard spank. That’s right. I learned that a swift slap lets him know that I want to be in control.

I don’t mean to sound like I’m giving one of Jerry Springer’s closing statements but the way I see it, we’ve given up all our control with this crap.  Women’s lib?  It seems to me we have dropped the apron and the power suits and picked up a penis ring and a burning Hoo-ha. 

Curb Stomping the Spirituality Right Out of Me

There is a part of me that knows the best is gone and yet, there is another part that understands there is more to come. I know there are some of you who are already cringing at my opening line but you have to understand...this is how I feel. 

When I arrived at my 40^th year I became frightfully aware that I was missing a huge component in my life. Of course, I had many life experiences that would make a grand obituary but there was something lacking. I went in search of higher meaning. It was during that time that I studied all forms of religion. I can honestly say I devoted a piece of time to this endeavor…

I rummaged after enlightenment

chanted and meditated

Performed yoga moves I never thought I’d recover from

Broke down illusions

Laughed with synchronicity

Stepped into the Aquarian Age

And awakened in Zero Point,

I studied the mind, the spirit, and the path of purification

I performed rituals, awakened intuition,

Considered myths and dreams, languages and symbols, quantum physics and odd science

muscle-tested, healed with light, acupuncture, and moved stagnant energy,

I lived a relatively karmic-free life and found compassion for all

Free time I listened to endless hours of tapes by Wayne Dyer, David Hawkins, Gary Zukav, Dalai Lama, Joseph Campbell, Caroline Myss, Thich Nhat Hanh, Marianne Williamson, Esther and Jerry Hicks, Anthony Robbins,  and even SETH, to name a small few... 

Delved into palmistry, tarot, and astrology, and charted the Mayan calendar

Listened to Black Elk and Animals Speak

Studied A Course in Miracles and the Bible

the Tao of Chaos and the Power of Now. 

Here I am…soon turning 53 and I feel more confused than ever. I used to be one of those people who beamed…a light so bright that it was hard to escape. What happened? Why did all the challenges of life let the flame vanish? I know that being positive, staying present is the only way to survive in this fast changing world, but something curb stomped it out of me. I want to find it again. I think it’s important.

Feeling More Than His Oats

While browsing through the paper I read an article about a man who had sex with a horse. This is the second time he’s been caught with the bangtail….which only goes to show that Mr. Ed’s theme song is false…A horse is NOT a horse of course of course. There obviously are preferences…

The first time RODELL VEREEN (yes, any man who boinks a bronco deserves capitalization) was caught with his pants down he was sentenced to probation and placed on South Carolina’s sex offender list. Now I guess he’s revisited his hoof habits at the Lazy B Stables and this time the owner of the horse installed a surveillance camera and caught the whole sordid affair on tape.

A friend called to rant about it. “That’s one sick prick,” he said. “There were chickens and sheep, and he picks a horse.”

I guess the guys at his office were talking about it too. A fairly low-key place with some obvious down time. My friend wondered what it would take to make a horse excited. “Do they hook him up to something or let him watch National Velvet? Maybe lock him in his stall with Winner Circle photos?”

“Who cares what gets a pinto pumped,” I said, “I’m trying to figure out ‘why’ and you’re struggling with logistics. Maybe you should give some thought to a couch and therapy.”

“I’d rather think about a remote and a margarita.” He said.

Our conversation triggered something from the recesses of my mind...my own bout with therapy. Her name was Judith or Faith or something that sounded clinically correct.  She came equipped with some high-strung, overbred degree and a practice in one of those newer commercial buildings where the furnishings are usually carefully staged in non-hostile hues. Like airport security or lockdown, the place carried not even a hint of a sharp object or irritating angle. Decorated like a theme park for those creatively challenged individuals with short attention spans, who struggle to buy a can of Spagettios and make it home without curling up in a storm drain.

Judith-slash-whatever’s office was different –lots of shit going on there. Wicker chairs and recliners, a glass table with a few years worth of magazines and enough tissue to make an origami Statue of Liberty. There were paintings of little girls carrying buckets full of sea treasures, a country home with a big wrap around porch surrounded in wild flowers…and an abstract…some sort of ink blot that appeared to be Russians wearing Ushankas dancing in a field or maybe the beginnings of a crop circle with field mice running for cover.

Each week we talked about something new. The last time I reclined on her couch she wanted to discuss my appearance. She thought I should spend more time grooming. Get my hair cut in a bob, stop chewing my nails, and make a conscious effort to dress in the light. I promised to have my eyebrows separated and give it a whirl.

“You seem a little combative today,” she said.

“I’m not trying to be,” I said, “I’m just not in the mood to talk makeovers.”

“Alright, what would you like to talk about?” She said, making notes in a pad.

“I don’t know. This is your expertise. I’m just thinking that my grooming habits can’t be the crux of the problem, but this whole thing is a mystery to me. I mean, the way I remember it, I was happy one day and miserable the next.”

“Marriages don’t just fall apart,” she said. “There are certain things that happen…a sequence.” She stared out the window at her view of the monorail and Space Needle with a smug confidence that only a Master’s degree and a large client base can muster.

“It sometimes starts with a fight,” she continued, “followed by long periods of silence. Sex becomes stale, and gradually non-existent. Then you may find a hotel receipt in his brief case, a pair of crotchless undies under the car seat. Dishes are thrown, then the underwear is staple-gunned to the new girlfriend’s house…you see what I mean? A progression of events.”

$140 an hour for that tidbit…the way I see it the horse was raped with more dignity.

A Bitch In Heat

I realize I don’t do well in hot weather. I’m actually a bitch in heat. The only good part of these sweltering temps is that I’ve had a lot of time to think about my current unemployment status. For weeks I’ve been trying to come up with a survival plan, but to no avail. Today something broke loose. Hard to believe, I hear ya,but an actual idea squeezed out of my frontal lobe. Call it a miracle…call it fate…call it heat stroke….but whatever the reason, I think I might be onto something!

I am proud to say that as of tonight, my new career is in motion. This should raise my financial doldrums and leave me throwing down the bills on our upcoming Vegas trip. So, without further adieu…(Drum roll, please!) I have decided to do a reunion tour. That’s right…I’ll be going on the “Bitch Tour” promoting my latest album, “Born to Bitch,” (the sequel to Baby’s Got Bitch.) If my calculations are correct I’ll be on the road 120 days, hitting 100 cities. Not really cities, but we certainly will see our fair share of small town America. Yes, of course it is going to be a lot of work. No doubt I should have formed a band of Bitches in Heat long ago…maybe a few who have toured before, but those are just details.

It’s Wednesday night and although the plan just broke free from my belfry, I’m anxious to keep the dream alive. I have made all the necessary calls so I assume the screen tests and photo shoots, interviews, celeb golf tournaments and autograph signing will take place tomorrow. Needless to say, I’m sitting by my heat retardant receiver waiting for a few key calls. There is still a lot to do. Costumes to design, tour buses to buy (and paint bitchy shades,)…oh, and I’ve got to find me one heck of a PR person with vision.

You better believe I've got big plans for this band. Another CD for sure…maybe a Beatle Tribute album. We could cover the classics like All My Bitchin’, Eight Days A Bitch, Let It Bitch, You’ve Got to Lose That Bitch…the possibilities are endless! Plus, there’s the whole techie market to explore. Educational software to make the big dough. How about Bitching For Dummies, Hooked on Bitching.’ And articles to write…."Going Pro: A Bitch at the Top" and for those who like a murder mystery…."Bitch Better Take Them Heels Off and Run." We could even branch out into cosmetics and give Mary Kay something to perspire about….Bitch Blush, Barely Bitch Foundation and Bitch Scent.

Suddenly the world is my oyster!

A Quick Question

It is not only the outdoor temperatures that are rising…it is my inner barometer as well.

I am going to be brutally honest right now because once again I find myself challenged by the hidden agendas on PNN. I don’t know why it is so difficult for some to use their site and comment space for something constructive and civil, but it appears to be a real challenge for a few. 

It is not my place to reprimand or to call people to the carpet for what I think is a low blow. After all, I am as guilty as anyone with a hasty click-and-send that I realize after the fact could be taken the wrong way. When it has happened to me I have instantly regretted my words. Hopefully I have not offended anyone too deeply, and if I have, I wish to apologize, as it is never my intent to be hurtful to any of you. I just ask that we think about what we are saying to each other and in reference to each other.

I have had a few friends visit PNN to check out the site and read some of the articles. Although they found the author’s articulate and interesting, the comment string turned them off. I find that sad particularly because the authors deserve more. In my opinion they don’t need to be pulled down by a remark or opinion. Maybe some of you feel that if a reader can’t handle a few combative words they should probably go somewhere else. Fair enough…but I’m just asking all of us to think about this for a minute. Look at your writing and analyze where you want it to go. Do you feel that your words help to showcase your own talents as well as the multitude of diverse opinions and great writing that can be found on PNN? Or is this strictly a social site where we can honor our freedom of speech and say whatever we damn well please? I’m fine either way, but I just would like to know how others view PNN.  

It is just a question and one that I have been thinking about all day as I sit in my 100 degree home with three fans aimed at my drenched armpits.

Tracking Packy continued...

So, I’ve been thinking about “Tracking Packy.” Writing is so subjective. Sometimes all you are doing is opening the window and vomiting a character that is rumbling around in your head. What I tend to do is honor the voice for whatever brief inspirational moment and then wipe my hands clean of it and move on. Not exactly the best mode if you want to finish something and be in print! So I started to think about the characters and what plot could move forward if allowed a little elbow room. I’m not wed to this, but it’s what I came up with IF Tracking Packy coughed and sputtered a few inches further on the page.

The thunderous pounding of the earth on Grandpa’s resting place seemed to jar Mama into thought. For a brief moment she stared at me, her eyes vacuous, like she was watching some other child of God whose bony knees shook in wet tights.

“Emmy, off to the car with you.” She grabbed my shoulder blades and pinched hard.

I knew better than to press Mama when she was feeling low, so I walked through the damp grass and stormy skies down to the gravel road where the limousine was idling. Sitting in the back, a cigarette lit between her frail fingers was Grandma Iris.

“Lordy me. What the hells gotten into that mother of yours? Letting you stand out there like you don’t have no good sense.” Grandma took a drag of her cigarette and blew the pale gray cloud toward the window. The smoke bounced off the glass and then curled around her face.

“Mama thought it’d be nice if I said my goodbyes.” 

“Emmy, let me tell you something.” Grandma Iris moved in closer and put her hand on my leg. “Your Grandpa Packy, God rest his weary soul, ain’t in that body anymore. It’s like he’s moved and left no forwarding address.”

“Where is he then?” I asked, wiping the steamy window with the heel of my hands so as not to lose sight of Mama.

“Well, now that’s a good question. If you ask Reverend Perry, he’ll probably tell you one thing, but since you’re asking your old Granny, I’ll tell you what I think. Right about now, your Grandpa is sitting in a lobby, like the fancy kind you see in theaters with bright red carpets and oriental fixtures, and hanging from the ceiling, those little gold angels about to explode from blowing trumpets.”

“I’ve never heard about a lobby.”

“I said they don’t talk about it much.”

“How long does he stay there?” I asked.

“Until St. Peter calls his number. Then there’s the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost he’s got to have a meeting with.”

“Why do they need a Ghost?”

I watched the pleats around Grandma’s mouth break into a smile. “Nobody knows for sure but I figure if you got God and Jesus trying to straighten out all the problems of the world, they are bound to disagree. So they bring in the ghost. To break the tie.”

“I’m scared of ghosts,” I said.

“It’s one of them Holy Ghosts, Emmy. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Do you think Grandpa Packy’s got a good chance of getting into heaven?” I asked.

“Course he does. He’s just got a fair amount of explaining to do is all.” Grandma Iris took another drag from her cigarette. She inhaled deep and instantly coughed as if it were coming straight from her toes. She covered her face in the fox stoll, muffling the sound.

“Why do people have to die, Grandma?”

“Plain and simple. Got to make room for the next batch.” She looked around for an ashtray, gave up the search and flicked the ash to the floor. Grandma punched the front seat with her fist. “Hey, driver, are we keeping you up?”

The young man lifted the hat off his face and smiled. “Just resting. No crime in that.”

“Hell, that’s for sure. No crime at all. What’s your name, son?”

“Jeremy.”

“Jeremy, huh. Jeremy what?”

“Jeremy Hines. But folks call me Digger since I started working the funeral route.”

“Are you married, Digger?”

“No ma’am. I’m not.”

“Well, that’s good. That’s real good. You’re one smart boy. Take your sweet time. That’s what I always say. There’s nothing like marriage to poison someone’s hopes and dreams.” Grandma rolled down the window and threw her cigarette butt onto the lawn.

In the distance, I watched the crowd scurry toward the parking lot. Mama came walking, one of the last, so grief-stricken and hollow looking that it was all I could do not to start crying myself. The door opened and I moved closer to Grandma to make room for Mama and her swollen eyes mapped in veins. She stared down at the water dripping off her wool coat, forming a small puddle on the carpet below.

Digger peered through the rear view mirror. “Where are you folks off to now?” He asked.

“The Dog House. I need a drink,” Grandma Iris said.

“You don’t need a drink. Besides, people will be stopping by. We’re going home.” Mama glared a red eye at Grandma.

“Mary Jo, why don’t you just lighten up? It’s my husband they just planted like a seed.” Grandma Iris leaned forward and tapped Digger on the shoulder. “I assume you know the way?”

If Digger had never been a visitor of the Dog House, he could have fooled anyone. He shifted the car in gear and headed down the gravel path through the big iron gates of the cemetery.

“Mama, how long we gonna be in the Dog House?” I asked, feeling tired and hungry.

“Hush, Emmy,” Mama said.

As we drove from the cemetery, a midwinter moon hung low over the white-tipped Cascade range and red leaves flew wild and soundless along the dark windy sky. Digger took an exit off State Route 532 and drove past a row of fast food restaurants, the Federal Courthouse, and a road kill before cutting down an alley and finally pulling to a stop in front of a broken-down building. A large sign with a long-eared bloodhound howling at a quarter moon was propped up on the roof. Smoke came billowing out a chimney and red-winged blackbirds hopped along the weathered shingles like riled prison guards. Two teenage girls straddling Schwinn bikes turned and waved at Digger from across the street at the Pizza Palace.

“Gonna join us, Digger?” Grandma Iris asked.

“Nah, I better wait here. It’s against the rules.” His eyes fixed on the girls’ spindly limbs extended like kick stands.

Grandma entered the Dog House first and looked around. A group of men sat at the bar drinking longnecks and some shooting pool. Two young men were leaning over the jukebox, making a selection. One rocked on his heels, sending him falling forward, his face pressed against the music box. When he righted himself, there was a spit smudge on the glass.

We walked to the counter where a balding man with a birthmark on his forehead the size of biscuit tended bar.

“Kid's gonna have to leave.” He pointed to the sign on the wall. “No minors allowed.”

“You remember me, don’t ya?” Grandma leaned forward to give him a better look.

“No, can’t say I do.”

“Then where’s Jimmy D?”

“Retired.”

“Retired? Well, I’ll be damned.” Grandma put one finger to her lips like she was contemplating something. “I better have me a drink to celebrate old Jimmy D’s good fortune.”

“Not with that kid, you ain’t.”

“Listen, we just come from burying my husband of fifty-three years. There’s nothing left in me ‘cept thirst.” Grandma looked as if the world had come to a screeching halt. She stared up at the spot on his forehead, a sadness spilling from her eyes. Even I was feeling sorry for her, wearing that smelly fox with her hair plastered to her head from the rain bonnet.

“I got me a liquor license and I don’t plan on losing it. Have the kid wait outside.”

“It’s cold outside.”

“Yeah, well, it’ll be damn cold inside if I lose my license.” From somewhere at the end of the bar someone muttered “no shit” and a ripple of laughter passed through the place.

“Mother, let’s go.”

Grandma gave Mama a stare that could sever a DNA strand and then turned toward me. Without warning, she wrapped her bony arm around my shoulder and cupped my chin in her hand, pushing it toward the light.

“Take a long look at this little darling. Pale and puny as a wet Chihuahua. Poor little thing contacted some rare disease that ain’t even found in medical books. Doctors tell us not to let her out of our sight. One seizure and,” Grandma snapped her fingers, “that could be it.” The bartender eyed me.

My mama’s mouth was working, just nothing was coming out.

“Lady, I’m real sorry about your husband and the girl being sick, but I just can’t have a minor in my place.”

“One drink. One measly belt. That’s all.” Grandma pleaded.

“Nope. Can’t help ya.”

“A shot. A quick nip. That’ll do it.”

“I think you need to test that hearing aid. I said, I can’t pour you nothing.”

“A little snort. A wee dram. Just one stinkin’ toast to Emmy’s health. For Godsakes.”

Grandma Iris stood beside me the same way I’d once seen a faith healer over a cripple. Her ranting seemed to draw the men like ringside seats at a fight. Moving closer and taking up a considerable amount of space was an over-sized man wearing striped suspenders holding up what appeared to be everything below the neckline.

“Come on, Bob, give her a drink.” He yelled, raising his beer in the air.

“What are you saving it for?” “Yeah man, pour the old woman something.” The voices around the room grew louder. Bob scratched his jaw.

Before I knew it, the men were hollering like kids on a playground, pounding on tabletops and beating on glassware with whatever they could get their hands on. Then Grandma let loose with an Indian war cry that brought the house down. I swear, even if I live to be a hundred and five, I may never witness anything like those men joining forces and unionizing in my Grandma’s time of need.

“ALL RIGHT, already,” the bartender snapped. “One drink and that’s it!”

Grandma turned to the men who were coming dangerously close to breaking things and put her two fingers in her mouth and drew a whistle. They turned toward the sound.

“Thank you, boys. Your award is in heaven. I’m sure I’ll be there to pass them out! In the meantime, I believe the nectar of the Gods is about to be served.” The men cheered before returning to their glass.

“You’re a good man,” Grandma smiled sweetly at the bartender.

“Yeah, I’m a real jewel. So what’ll it be?” Bob asked.

“Two Double Jacks and a Shirley Temple with a big red cherry for little Emmy here.”

We weaved our way through tables of men, the biggest guys you ever saw, smelling of smoke and sweat and flavors of imbibe. Grandma finally came to a halt at an empty table toward the back. She took off her coat and shook it before laying it on the chair beside her. I sat beside Mama as the bartender slammed the glasses down on the table, sending the liquid flying. A bowl of peanuts fell between us.

“Now that’s more like it,” Grandma Iris said, holding the glass to her nostrils and inhaling slowly.

“Why did you lie to that nice man about Emmy having a disease?” Mama watched the bartender clearing empties on his way back to the bar.

“We got a drink, didn’t we?” Grandma smiled a devilish grin and took a sip.

A tall man with a cowboy hat and boots entered the Dog House, a cigarette in one hand and a redhead in the other. A mournful song came on the jukebox and the man took the woman in his arms. She threw her head back, her long curling strands flowing down the back of her floral print dress. He held her tight, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. The redhead playfully pushed him away, and just at that moment, I recognized him. I was only five when he left, but I could identify him anywhere. There was one thing about my Daddy, he knew how to occupy space. He had something that made you inhale and forget to let it out, a smile that melted your heart and dimples the size of sink holes.

Grandma must have seen my face, because she craned her neck to take a look herself. Before I could stand and run to him, she grabbed my arm and gave me a look that kept me in my seat.

“Glory be to God, I thought we’d had ourselves enough sadness for one day, but it appears the good Lord feels we can handle more.” She watched him, her eyelids lowering, her jaw tight.

“What are you talking about?” Mama asked, her back to the dancing pair.

“Well now, Mary Jo, honey, I don’t mean to upset you…”

“Mother, tell me.”

“Sweety…it’s Cal. He’s done found his way home with a little help.”

“Cal?” The color drained out of Mama’s face in a steady, descending line.  “Where?” She sifted in her seat just in time to see my daddy plant a kiss on the redhead’s neck. One of the woman’s long flexed legs wrapped around his thigh, stroking the inseam of his pants with enough friction to ignite a stick match.

“I’m gonna kill that man.” Mama said, angry as a bee in a jam jar.

P.S. Sorry this is so long. I must have regurgitated even my stomach lining with this one. 

Five Years Later...

Five years ago I met Mark. It is truly a wonderful story if I haven’t mentioned it before.

You see, my parents and I weren’t getting along. I had shifted gears politically and every holiday we seemed to butt heads and go to battle. The last time we were together sharing turkey and over stuffing, my dad screamed at me from across the table, “WHO GOT TO YOU?” I had not a clue. It was just an accumulation of events that changed my awareness and left us political strangers and challenged as to how to agree.

So, since my family is very musical, (emphasis on the “very”) my mom and I tried to come up with something that would bring us together as a family in a neutral non-partisan mode. We picked a nice music venue called Jazz Alley, and a band that would meet all age criteria…Bobby Caldwell. If you don’t know who he is…he croons like Sinatra (my dad’s favorite) but his biggest hit was probably back in the 70’s called “What You Won’t Do For Love.” ( back then I was quite certain what I wouldn't do for love, but I think I’ve done it all…with little or no success, until recently…but I regress.)

The day we were to meet for the show my parents called and asked if I would be bringing a date, as the reservation called for four. I told them that I would be going solo. “Solo? There must be someone you could bring!” My mom said, followed by a heavy sigh. No, I repeated, there was no one, having not a glimpse of a prospect in sight. So we sat at a four-top (the lingo never leaves), with me every once in awhile smiling and carrying on a conversation with my imaginary date to my left. As the alcohol flowed, all of us got quite a kick out of my dating dialogue, but more importantly, politics never graced our lips. We reached a new plateau. Then the band arrived and the lights dimmed.

About three songs into the set my mom turned to me (and I suppose to my imaginary date) and said, “You know, that keyboard player is really good, and he’s smiling at you.” The first time she said it I grinned slightly and made some comment about our failing eyesight and how for the last couple years I'd had a hard time seeing stop signs. But through the course of the evening she mentioned it a few times, and then after the show she said, “Do you think we should stay for a minute and see if he comes by the table?” I was totally mortified. I said, “Mom, I love you. You are terrific. Particularly since you think some guy is coming onto me, but I really don’t need the embarrassment.” I had no intention of ruining an evening that was going so well, but that’s the beauty of my mom, she is intuitive enough to know when I am not up for playing the odds but yet, in her own way she was letting me know that they might be available to gamble. Stubbornly, I stood and they followed to the exit.

When I returned home that night, I got a call from a friend of mine. She had been married to a famous musician and had just gone through a divorce. Let’s put it this way, she has hobnobbed with Mick, yucked it up with Bo Didley, kissed plenty, and is still a beautiful legend today…and at the time, she was my friend. I think, my role during those days might have been to help her survive her divorce. So, when she called that night and asked where I’d been, I told her that I’d gone to a jazz club. Without hesitation (God bless her!) she said she wanted to see the show. Three nights later, we met at the club and grabbed a table to the side of the stage.

During dinner we talked about our dreams and ambitions, our taste in men, particularly how hard it is to meet them, and at the exact moment when she was expounding on her perfect mate, she points to a man walking down the stairs of the club and said, “There… that guy right there!”  Which, happened to be the sax player, who I warned her would make her profess undying things if she ever saw the show.

As the band set up, the sax player went on stage to do whatever they do, and because we were sitting within earshot, my friend asked him all sorts of technical questions that only someone in the business would know. I certainly hadn’t a clue what she was referring to but it definitely perked his interest. Actually, if I had to reflect on that time of our life and the effect she had on men I can honestly say few guys walked away, and if they did stroll free and far, they regretted the distance.

No doubt…that sax guy and my friend had something that lit more than a sparkler…so I sat in silence, watching the flirtation, somewhat bowing down in respect to that power that brings people together so effortlessly. Here I was, hoping to ease her divorce doldrums and this man was changing the landscape by the moment.

The show started, the lights illuminated the stage, and all during the performance his eyes rarely left her. And what of Mark, you might ask? Well, he was on the other side of the stage from where we were seated with a few band members blocking his sight so he didn’t know I was there. It came time for the sax player to do his thing and in the middle of it, our nice server set our bill on the table and my friend picked it up and began doing the math. Realizing that she wasn’t listening, the man making love to her via sax quit performing. Literally quit. The silence made me look up , but she was still fiddling with the bill. Nervously, I tapped on her shoe under the table and whispered, “Look Up!” which she did at the exact time that he said, “I'm playing for you."

This happened to be the moment that Mark stood up from behind the keyboard to see what was going on and saw me. What a beautiful smile! After the sax solo, the band walked off the stage before their encore, and Mark leaned down toward our table and said, “Please…don’t leave this time!” My friend looked at me in total confusion. “Was that guy talking to you?” 

After the show, Mark came up to our table and sat down. He had prior obligations to meet relatives but unbeknownst to me, he asked them if he could excuse himself so that he could meet me. The four of us, the sax player, my friend, Mark and I, went to Palace Kitchen, a great place right up the street from the club. As the other two flirted, Mark and I talked about everyday issues…kids, puberty, you name it. God, it sounds boring as hell but all I can say is there was no subject off limits or awkward.  We could talk about anything and everything. He was so friendly and warm and without pretense.

After the restaurant, I asked if he needed a ride home. He accepted, but what was so funny is the hotel he was staying at was literally right around the corner...less than a block. I could have coasted to a stop, and yet, he said he accepted the ride because he didn’t want the night to end. So we sat in the car, looking up at the Space Needle and for whatever reason he said, "Do you think that thing is still open?" And I said, "It's frickin' two in the morning. My God, people have to stop twirling around sometime. But if I had my way, I'd spin around in that thing with you for the next thirty years.” OK cheesy, but he looked over at me and smiled, and said, “That’s what I want.”

For the next few weeks we sent generic emails back and forth. No one knew what to say or what could possibly happen long distance. We had both just gotten out of relationships and neither one of us wanted to disrespect the years we had spent somewhere else, and yet, there was something undeniable that would not dissolve with distance. Unlike my friend, whose love took off from the first sighting and eventually fizzled, ours spent time basking in friendship, followed by lust and love. 

When Mark called the first time after a few weeks of emails I tried to explain my feelings to him. I said, “I hope this doesn’t sound awful, but I’ve gone through a lot in life, as has everyone I suppose, but I think I’ve come close to my limit…so I prayed to God and asked if He could throw me a bone.” There was silence, and then Mark said, “So let me get this straight, I’m your bone?” And then he laughed, but a serious moment followed,  “I’m here. Never doubt that. Lean on me….nothing is too heavy. Give me all you got.”   

To bring this all to a close I will say…my friend corresponded with the sax player for awhile…the emails could bring smoke to a motherboard, and all the while she let me read her steamy correspondence and I kept wondering why my letters with Mark seemed placid and somewhat distant. My friend didn't hesitate to tell me, wise as she was, that she recognized something deeper between Mark and I, but it would take time. She admitted her attraction was pure physical…animal instinct from the moment they set eyes on each other. A few weeks later she found out he was married and they both moved on, but Mark and I have been together ever since.

Five years later…he has never once disappointed me. He is my joy.  The man who makes me laugh…and smile, love and dream. He has been the most inspirational person who has stepped into my life. When I want to flee because of fear, he pulls me in. It would take a lot of patience to be with me, and I thank God every day that he is here…even if it is 1000 miles away in L.A. for now.  And I thank my parents, for asking for that reconciliation, that moment that truly tested “What You Won’t Do For Love.”

Meeting Writergrrl

I have to say...I had the most enjoyable day visiting with one of our favorite PNN ladies...Writergrrl! She happens to be close by, staying with her mom for a few days in a city about three hours outside of Seattle. Early this morning we both got in our cars...I, speeding south, and she punching the pedal to the north. An hour and a half later, we were sitting in a Starbucks in Chehalis, WA., sipping iced coffee (yes, it's over 90 degrees today,) laughing and telling stories. What a treat!  

She may kill me for saying this but you know how you can kind of tell that she's a knockout but the hat covers a portion of her face and leaves a little to the imagination? Well, damn a nation, the girl is a knockout and charming as can be. I so enjoyed meeting her and I hope all of us get a chance to do something like this in the future. Thanks Writergrrl, for offering up your day. You were one of the first people I read when I came to PNN and it is truly a pleasure to put a voice and a face to that beautiful smile and hat. Let's hope we can do it again! I'm thinking Australia, but Vegas works too!  

Favorite Quotes...

I subscribe to Katherine Center's newsletter and today she sent a list of her favorite quotes from her book, Everyone is Beautiful. If you haven’t read the book, check out some of these passages as they are “on the money” rich lines.  WHICH, got me thinking about all of us writing on PNN. Do you have a favorite line that you have written? Something that makes you smile?  Or something profound? God, that's a lot of pressure so forget that....but just something that you like. Remember they are yours…no one is going to use them but you, it’s just that I would love to see what makes you happy to pick up a pen.

I’ll get the ball rolling...

I’ve a tendency to dress like a teenager experimenting with alcohol, mixing the wrong taste and proportion until the effect makes you sick.

I’ve always had a thing about Egyptian embalming. If you were rich they pulled your brain through your nostril. Where did they pull it from if you were poor?

This woman asked me if I was interested in her husband. I said, “Damn, I didn’t even want mine, why would I want yours?

I shouldn’t make jokes about health care, but considering that I’ve paid premiums for 24 years, the least they can do is cram a tube up my ass and call it even.

My brain is floating in an embryonic sac of chardonnay. Floating small and tender, swaying gently in that bulbous bilge of unoriginal thought.

Why is it that women on porn sites look like outfielders catching cum?

I used to date this Russian guy. Tall with a Gorbachev-size mole on his Ukraine.

What is it about old people? Seventy years of good toiletry and then they start crapping on themselves like a bird.

One night the ex said to me, “Roll over, maybe the shoulder blades are bigger.”

I’ve heard you meet the same people on the way up as down and I’ll be down here waiting for you.”

Have you ever noticed how a remote holds more fingerprints than a breast?

Rumi said, “Walk out the door like a shepherd” but that requires a wardrobe change…something soft and flowing. No can do.

Whose next??????

Arrowhead Beach

I had one of those days when I woke up and instinctively knew that something was going to happen. The realization settled behind my eyelids, in that place where you know the origins of bloodshot and red veins find maturity, where dreams rest before attaching themselves to waking reality.

I don’t know what pulled me out of bed and into the car so quickly, but soon I was grasping a mug of steaming coffee and away I went. It is supposedly 65.5 miles to our beach cabin on Camano Island. Funny how that calculation is in my head after all these years. I can still hear my dad say, “Won’t be long now kids…it’s exactly one hour door-to-door.” As I grew older and was able to test his theory myself, I found that 65.5 miles put me in a neighborhood that I wasn’t familiar with and certainly not at anyone’s door that I wanted to visit. Had the earth shifted or had my father been playing tricks on us all of those years?

I have been told there are two seasons in Seattle…one for road construction and one without. It appears we have entered the former as I am detoured away from my destination along strawberry fields where I once found employment, and tired farmlands that my ancestors toiled before they eventually abandoned the land and died. They were strong, hardy Norwegians, leaving their homes perched high above the fjords and catching a boat for America. Few could speak English and some never learned, but they stuck close together, keeping their tendency to be difficult amongst themselves.

The dead end road leading down to Arrowhead Beach is narrow and makes sharp unexpected turns. Toward the end of the road the pavement seems to drop off from underneath us and the trees vanish, giving way to a small glimpse of the sea below. I remember how my brother would ask my dad to turn off the motor and we would coast down the hill with increasing acceleration until we reached the bottom, and then he would quickly turn the car back on and slam on the brakes to make the hairpin turn toward the row of little cabins. I never did find that quite as fun as the male population of our family.

As we pulled into the driveway my parents remained in the car, surveying the damage of our place after another brutal winter and the exposure to salt air. They would first make mention how the grass needed mowing and then how the house could use a fresh coat of paint. Rarely did I participate in the evaluation of flaws as I was usually already heading for the seawall.

The house would need airing. There would be a musty smell and odor of decaying animals that had found their way into a trap. All doors would be opened and the heavy woolen drapes pulled to the side to expose the salt-streaked windows. It was then that we could assess our heirlooms…the wooden boat on the mantel that my grandfather carved, the totem pole that we found floating and restored, the ancient collection of movie magazines and the fishing poles hanging from the box beam ceiling. My mother would take a wet sponge to the refrigerator and wipe the dead bees and flies from the windowsill. My dad would turn on the water main and unlatch the storage locker that held all of our possessions…our bikes, the old fashion washer machine that leaped across the floor with each spin cycle, the croquet set and tackle boxes. Within a few hours we were up and running for the summer.

After all these years Arrowhead Beach never surprises me. It is like returning to a comfortable lover. The familiar sight of old fisherman dragging their wooden boats to shore with the day’s catch icing on the floorboard. There are always a few buoys trapped on the shore waiting for the current to change and carry them out to sea so they can once again dance with the whitecaps. The tide flats seemed to stretch forever, like a borderless nation. Hovering offshore, a small sea lion watches, his shiny black head bobbing along the surface while the gulls gather. We watch them circle and caw, as if to question the magnitude of the disruption that we will bring to their coastline. The clouds, billowing overhead like warm taffy cream shift ever so often, allowing us a view of the snow-capped marvel of Mt. Baker. In the afternoon, a few beachcombers collect their towels and baskets of toys and scurry home along the seawall leading to their brightly colored cottages. The scene seems surreal, like a Norman Rockwell painting of Indian summer.

The smell of salt water fills my lungs as the memories of childhood finds me again. My older brother and I running along the ledge, letting the afternoon swells spray our bodies. Our tender feet, still virgin to the pointy rocks and sharp-edged shells needing the toughening that only summer walks combing the shore for treasures could bring. We flinched with each step until we reached the wet sand of the flats that squished through our toes bringing cool relief to our throbbing feet. My father would maneuver the rusty push mower out of the shed. The sound of the blades clipping across the cement driveway made the sparrows leave their nests in the rafters, swooping toward our heads like enemy fighter jets. Although my father has a gentle nature, he can be skittish under attack. He would curse the sparrows and with a quick swipe of the broom, he would knock their nests down where it would explode onto the pavement below. The hose in place and the water turned on, my father would let us spray away the remains of egg yolks, feathers and tangled twigs. It saddens me to think of that today, but we did what we were told and soon forgot as the mess washed clean and the cracked asphalt warmed and dried in the sun.

It would take a moment to assemble the many children that came back to the island each year, like molting birds. The kids seemed to scatter from behind all the cracks and crevasses and appear at our front door. This would begin our pirating and endless hours of renegade. And on those warm days and nights we learned to believe in life and love one another. We debated our favorite Beatle, we smoked driftwood as if Cuban cigars, caught fish and drank concoctions made from my parent’s liquor cabinet. 

We knew all the folks on the beach and the gossip that followed them. As kids we weren’t particularly interested because we liked them all, except for the old woman who lived at the end of the road…Ms. Emelia Tucker. She crept along the beach on crooked legs as if a sea urchin herself.  We were specifically told to leave her alone because she had a short fuse.

It has been twenty years since those childhood memories formed. And yet, sparrows still circle me upon my arrival, and the house smells musty. There are bees on the windowsills and the refrigerator needs wiping down, but I ignore it all and walk outside.

The morning hours always brings small children to the beach. Mothers carrying large faded straw baskets full of plastic utensils, snacks and juice in anticipation of a tantrum. They apply their loved ones with exuberant amounts of sunscreen and fasten life saving devices over their slippery bodies. As the northerly wind kicks up, the sunbathers scurry home to shower off the day’s allotment of sand and assess the sun damage. Soon after the beach empties, an old woman appears down the whitewashed path leading from the row of Cape Cod houses. I didn’t recognize her at first. She was not as scary as I remember. Ms. Emelia Tucker, a little shorter version perhaps, inched her way toward me. Of course I had no intention of staring at her so I made my eyes watch an aluminum fishing boat with an old Evenrude engine that skipped a beat like a malfunctioning pacemaker.

“I remember you. Aren’t you the Boreson girl?” Ms. Tucker said.

“Yes, that’s me,” I said.

The words floated in the air with nowhere to attach themselves. We turned our attention to the tide flats where a young boy was stabbing a jellyfish with a sharp stick. The gulls circled, complaining profusely.

“Wonderful birds, the gulls. They stay close to the shore where they sense the mystery and magic,” She said.

“That’s an interesting perspective but that's giving them a lot of credit. As far as I'm concerned they're just scavengers.” I said.

“Well, there’s more to everything than meets the eye. You just have to be aware. Stop trusting others opinions and create your own awareness,” She said.  “Remember how you were scared of me as a child? I couldn’t get a peep out of you.” She said.

“Ah, well, I was just a kid,” I said.

“Yes, that you were…and a conniving one at that! Don’t think I didn’t see you sneak into my yard and take the apples off my tree!” And then she laughed.

“So you weren’t mad?” I asked.

“Heavens, no. Why would I be mad about a silly thing like that?” She said.

“I don’t know…I guess we were told to leave you alone.” I said.

“It’s a small community and people talk. I’m sure I must seem like an odd duck to most but I assure you, I’m harmless. Besides, what is a hunchbacked woman in her 90’s going to do?” The old woman took a deep breath of sea air. She let it out slowly and stared at me. “You see my dear, most people don’t understand me. They find my life foolish because I’ve spent the last fifty years on a quest for the meaning of life. Someday I’ll tell you the story if you’d like to hear it.”

“I’d love to hear it,” I said.

“Truly?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, then meet me at my house in an hour…you know the one with the sweet tasting apples.” She smiled, and with that, she turned and leaning against her whittled cane, she headed for home. She was quite a vision --her skirt blowing in the breeze, her leg’s spread wide for balance and her knee-hi nylons creeping down her bony calves leaving red bands of skin exposed to the sunlight.

I was there in an hour, but I have to admit there was a part of me that was brainwashed by my childhood. It felt creepy to knock on her door. It took her awhile but she eventually opened it and let me in. She had combed her white hair and put on a sweater. In her hand was a faded piece of paper.

“Sit down dear. Anywhere you like.” I searched the room of worn furniture and picked a chair with matching hand crocheted dollies on the armrest. As I sat, she passed me the paper.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It is the beginning of my exploration. My grandmother gave it to me.” she said. “Read it and I think you will understand." She fell backwards into a recliner and her feet shot into the air. The free fall did not seem to surprise her so I assumed that this was her normal assault on a chair.

It was a letter dated January 15, 1959. It began,

“My dearest Emelia,

Believe me, this is not my first option for renewing our acquaintance. By the time you read this letter, the attorney will have completed his fiduciary duty and informed you of my assets, or lack of them as you have discovered. Except for my temperamental cat Helen, and my leather travel case full of journals, I have accumulated only knowledge. Although it may seem rather pathetic to be without worldly possessions, I assure you, I am rich among corpses. My only regret in life is that I have not had the good fortune of watching you grow up and help guide you in your life’s purpose. But, of course, after the unfortunate incident with your father, God rest his soul, my wish to be reacquainted with you seemed as insurmountable as the disease that dines on my flesh.

The last correspondence I had with your father was on my fiftieth birthday. On the evening of my party, a friend had fifty black balloons delivered to the house, sending the entire party into fits of laughter. Dreadful experience, really. I can still see the young boy nearly airlifted from the helium as he released them from the confines of the delivery truck. He made his way through the hordes of well-wishers who slapped him on the back in a congratulatory fashion as if the youngster had invented practical jokes. The boy tied the balloons to the back of the kitchen chair and exited through the screen door.

The party was in full swing, cocktail glasses sloshing about, ice cubes clinking merrily in empty glasses all too quickly refilled and the continuous shrieks of the alcoholics at play. The balloons, swaying with the rhythm of the party, seemed so symbolic of the choices one could make on that momentous occasion.

Without the slightest hesitation, I untied them from the chair and held the strings tight, maneuvering them out into the moonlit night and past the clothesline, quite a feat in itself, and then releasing them into the sky. I watched them pass by the silhouette of poplar trees and up into the atmosphere until they were no longer in sight. What a glorious moment that was. I felt like I could fly myself.

In a state of euphoric bliss, I returned to the festivities. Having spent many years with the same crowd, I was quite confident that no one would notice my sudden departure, having no real need for a guest of honor. I grabbed my purse and drove into the night never giving a thought to my level of sanity or the roaring follies that I left behind. It was the last time I was to see your father, my only son. And you, my sweet granddaughter, were just a young girl curled up at the top of the stairs in pretty peach pajamas watching. The years have passed and I can only imagine what my family has told you about my apparent reckless behavior. I am quite certain that you have been warned and instructed to erase any notion you may entertain of pursuing my whereabouts. So, as my body is laid to rest, it is now I who must come in search of you, dear Emelia.

As I lay in bed, I ask the kind nurse to write this letter. I want you to know that at this stage of my life there is nothing left to conquer. Every emotion has been savored, every conviction moves through me like a holy man. Few pleasures have I turned down. My heart has waltzed with passion, my mind remains lost in dreams of visionaries, my body has marveled at the creation of children and my eyes have wept at their passing. Although I am wiser, my weary soul cannot bear another spoonful of life’s truth.

Regardless of the unfortunate circumstance that manifested between your father and myself, I felt it a shame to be buried with my discoveries capsulated amidst the red velvet lining of my resting place. My search for the meaning  of life has filled me with great joy and priceless lessons. I've traveled around the globe picking up clues like I was on a well-organized scavenger hunt. It seemed as if someone or something was guiding me all the way. Every well placed intimation released an explosion of new awareness. I wrote it down...each clue to the puzzle is in my cherished journals.  

There is no replacement for the forty years that has escaped us but through my writings you will know me. And so, dear Emelia, my gift to you lies in my journals, tucked within the pages of my memoirs. At your leisure, please read them. Hopefully they will intrigue you enough to go on your own journey.

From my deathbed,

Camille

I dropped the letter into my lap and looked up at Mrs. Tucker.

To be continued….

Full Moon and a bunch of other stuff...

Tonight there is supposed to be a full moon. I guess a lot of crazy energy is being unleashed onto the planet right now that is tied to this event, but I can’t tell you what it means. Segueing, I also don’t quite understand how I’m supposed to respond to the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” I have heard that it is just one of three original threats. The other two being “May you come to the attention of those in authority” and “May you find what you are looking for.”

Now the Mayan’s are messing with me. Their calendar, which some say has been impeccably accurate since the beginning of their existence, is set to end on or about December 21, 2012.  Well, isn’t that great! The last of my kids will finally be leaving the nest and all three will be settling into their own debt and responsibility, when the Mayan’s put the skids on their day-timer. Damn…I know that is going to be the moment I decide to kick up my Sunday shoes and cut loose…footloose…Please Louise, Pull me offa my knees. (this is the stage in the song that I jump off a haystack and grab a well-placed swinging rope that launches me to the other corner of the barn, disrupting a few chickens.) Sorry…don’t know what came over me…maybe it’s the pressure of everything appearing so damn foreboding.

It reminds me of a road trip I took with my parents to California sometime in the 60’s. We were going to visit our cousins who lived in Arcadia and maybe spend a day in Disneyland, if my brother and I didn't kill each other first.  All the way down I-5 we listened to the radio…the same AM news channel hour after hour. I remember hearing the announcement that the world would be coming to an end within that exact 24-hour span. In hindsight, it is odd that my parents allowed us to hear that doomsday tidbit. Yet, there we were…riding along in our wood-paneled station wagon, my brother swatting at me if I crossed over the imaginary line he’d drawn on the seat, wondering if we were going to get to Disneyland or turn into briquettes on route. As we entered L.A. with the sky dripping grey with smog, it appeared to me that the end of civilization was inching closer. Fear gripped me and I found myself trying to memorize a few brief speeches, something that I could say to my family while still smoldering and gasping for air, and then another more elaborate Good Samaritan speech to God, if I got that far.

So, this is a roundabout way of saying I think we need to honor the positive things in our lives. If the Mayans say we are belly up in 1263 days, well, what do we want to do? I mean, I can’t tell you how many people I know who are stuck in professions they hate, situations that are intolerable, or just have dreams that they feel are unattainable or unfulfilled. We all have something we came here to do. Something that lives deep inside of us that is begging for space to enjoy these interesting times. We must push forward to create that person, especially with all the obstacles that stand in the way. No one is born knowing their true purpose. That is something we have to discover. If you are like me, still unsure, let’s help each other find our true potential so we can experience a sense of profound joy. Oh, and stay off the highway tonight…there is some major full moon road rage going on out there!

Bad News

The news is rather disturbing. A forty-four year old woman gave birth to a baby in Cambridge, Massachusetts and left it in a Porta Potty. What saved the baby from drowning was all the graw-doo in the crapper. Come on people…dropping a child into a Wizard of Ooze is just nasty. What is wrong with you? If you don’t want your child, then give it to someone who does and flush yourself. 

The other story that ruined my day concerned a two-year old girl who was strangled by the family pet…an 8.5 foot long albino Burmese python. Supposedly the snake broke free from its glass terrarium in the living room (classy décor!) and headed for the toddler’s room. The owner found the snake wrapped around the child, stabbed it and called 911. In the meantime, the snake slithered off to grow a new skin. I guess they have found the damn thing and are questioning what to do with it. I’ve got a pretty good suggestion but no one is asking me.

Okay, here's what I don't understand. Why do we have Burmese pythons in America? I mean, people buy these exotic pets when they are small and somewhat containable and when they hit their stride, say ten or twelve feet of fun, they can’t control the beast so they release them into the wild. I read another frightening fact…Supposedly a bevy of pythons escaped in 1992 when a few pet stores in Florida were hit by Hurricane Andrew. Since that time they have been reproducing in staggering numbers. It’s documented that one of them gave a gator a great big hug and then exploded while trying to eat it. I’m not going to lie. Florida is definitely off of my travel plans…and I don’t care how cheap the real estate, I wouldn’t plop down earnest money even if I had it. I swear I’m going to have nightmares.