Trailer Park Sommelier

Got back from Idaho yesterday. Seems like I was away forever. I guess hanging around sick, old, tired, selfish, and stupid people takes its toll. Add to that two hysterical sisters at odds (mom and aunt), a convicted rapist (uncle) being the only person able to help bathe my grandfather, and a couple of Idaho's finest illegitimates running around making more noise than I knew was humanly possible and you get a pretty crazy environment.

Things were pretty stressful so I decided to pick up a bottle of wine while I was in town one day. I returned to my grandparents' house to learn they didn't own a corkscrew because they believed all wine came in boxes or with screw caps. Resourceful gal that I am, I enlisted the help of my cousin's son and taught him how trailer trash opens corked wine:He's a quick learner despite the inbreeding and was quite proud when he got the cork out. I let him keep it as a souvenir of the good life. A boy's first use of a power tool in conjunction with booze is always a special day in the trailer park.
Once I was sufficiently buzzed, my aunt gave me my Christmas present. It was just what I'd been hoping for, a solar garden fairy: I too was suprised to learn that my family knows me so well. My aunt determined that because my cousin (whose illegitimate son is shown with the drill and wine) likes cheap fairy paraphenalia it stands to reason that I would too because, you know, we're all so much alike. I always wondered who bought these things and it does kind of make sense that someone who lives in a trailer park would want to decorate with eco-groovy fairy lights. I still maintain that I was switched at birth.

Oh Ye of Little Faith

Went out for holiday beers with S & M last night. (Somehow that doesn't sound right...) After teasing S about his disappearance from society due to a case of being extremely whipped to the extent that he has begun to sneak beers into his home when she's working late (because she prefers wine), been seen painting the same bathroom four times in the past month to get the color just right for his precious, and has taken to waxing his eyebrows and wearing hourachi sandals in public, the subject turned to my recent infatuation.

S and M seem to think they know me fairly well and had plenty of advice and hypotheses. While they are both happy to see me interested in someone other than JP, they seem to think the Cowboy is just a passing fancy, especially considering the Cowboy has a daughter that lives with him, is looking for someone solid and traditional, and well, I'm me and we know how traditional and solid I am.

S and M began speculating how long the relationship would last. S thinks it will self-destruct by the week after Valentine's. MM thinks I can hang in there until late March, after the Betty Ford Rehab Run in Palm Springs where he is convinced I will surely fall prey to the magnetism of JP. Their faith in me was so reassuring I figured I'd create a pool of sorts to see how long those of you who know me so well give the Cowboy. Here's the spreadsheet with remaining available dates: I know it's a poor copy but I'm not saavy about these computer things. Anyone with advice on how to clean it up in .jpg format gets a free square. Oh wait, you all get free squares...

So here are the rules of the pool: Cost is one pint of beer per square (S and M - you each get another square if you'd like). If you win I'll buy you as many pints of beer as squares you reserved. If I make it past April everyone involved owes me as many pints of beer as squares they individually reserved (Yep, it's a bit one-sided but it is my love life we're talking about here). Let's set the maximum at two squares per non-believer for now. Oh, and it's in week-long increments because I'm too lazy to keep track by day. Besides, that would be a bit anal retentive, don't you think?

Oh, and it only goes through the end of April because I am supposed to move in April and we know if I make it past 90 days with someone we're usually looking at the standard two year stint. Besides, true rebounds never last too long. It doesn't start until after New Year's because we have a tentative New Year's Eve date and I am not planning on consuming Ouzo between now and then.

Comment or e-mail me to lock in your square today! I'll update it as regularly as I remember.

Get your salt shaker out

Alrighty folks, I understand that many of you live for this blog. You idolize me and my adventures and take everything written here as the gospel and without the grain of salt it needs. I get it and I love you too. Unfortunately, this blog is not my life - it's a series of small, sometimes embellished (okay, often embellished) snippets I sneak in between billing various clients extraordinary amounts of money for my opinion. I do it for fun because I like to write and it provides a nice venue for venting about life.

That said, I understand that some of you have sent e-mails to MB telling him off for allegedly pissing me off. I appreciate your concern and protectiveness. It even makes me feel kinda special. And if ever I'm in a dark alley and a man pops out of the shadows I want you there to save me. But, let's face it, it's MB and he's my homey. Just look at this picture of him in his very own Oak View hat:Yeah, it's blurry - just like my vision was the morning I took it. To make things clear to those concerned, MB and I are great friends as we shall remain until we get married, determine it was a horrific mistake, go through a bitter divorce where he takes me for all my trailers, blows the money in the stock market, and is later found roaming the streets of Tehachapi muttering "Glib Gal..." while clutching a bottle of half-frozen Ouzo and wondering how he ended up with a colostomy bag and stupid Oak View hat. In the meantime I'll have finally been picked for Survivor, won the million dollars and be travelling around the world collecting a man in every port until I fall in love with a surly Columbian drug lord and am later arrested while flying a load of coke that I innocently believe to be coffee beans to Miami. I'll end up in prison in Bakersfield and MB will be the only person to visit. So you see folks, embellished or not, MB and I are destined to remain friends.

Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to blogging about more important things, like my infatuation with a certain cowboy...

Speaking of innocence...

As I was getting ready to leave for work this morning I glanced out the kitchen window and saw a truck in the yard. Assuming it was the infamous pool man I retreated to the back of the house to avoid a chance encounter. He seemed to be there an awfully long time so I peeked through the windows to see what was taking so long.

Imagine my surprise when I saw what appeared to be a homeless man walking toward the back of my house. I looked more closely and realized it was none other than my brother. He had apparantly driven down at about 2:30 am and slept in his truck in my front yard thinking his court appearance was today. (It's actually tomorrow afternoon.)

I let him in and we talked for a minute. He looked better than he has in about a year - had some color, looked like he'd put on weight (tweekers are pretty pale and gaunt), his eyes were clear, and he sounded more coherent than he had the past few times I've spoken with him. He had his dog with him but not the bitch (crank skank girlfriend). I informed him that his court appearance is actually tomorrow and told him he could have the couch for the night if he wanted to stay in town. He complained about how the court was keeping his bail money and it wasn't earning interest (I didn't remind him that it was once my $10k doing the same thing and it didn't seem to bother him then...) He said he might stick around and even offered to do some yardwork while I'm at work today. Although a mowed lawn would be nice, I'm just hoping he doesn't call any of his old friends and get into trouble in the next 18 hours.

Now I'm wondering if offering to take him to get some slacks and a nice shirt before his trial would be too much. Or if I should call my mom and tell her he's okay or let her just come down for the hearing tomorrow (as she has planned) because I know she needs to see him and see that he's doing a bit better before the holidays. I guess I'll wait until I get home and see what hell the meth hath wrought before I make the next move...And I've still got half a bottle of Ouzo in case it's bad...

A better way to deter crime?

Brace yourselves, it's a long one. I'll understand if you don't read it all.

One reason for the lack of posts last week was that I had jury duty on Tuesday, and Wednesday. Until last week my experiences with jury service had always consisted of calling in to find out I was not needed or having to sit all day in the jury pool area at the courthouse reading a book and averting advances of exterminators and the like. Seriously, one time a guy I had never spoken to brought me some ice cream while I was outside reading a book waiting for the day to end. Turns out he was a married exterminator looking for a way out of his miserable life. Appealing as that prospect was, I declined the ice cream and moved back inside. I later saw him sucking the melted ice cream out of the cup before tossing it.

So Tuesday morning I showed up at the courthouse, book in hand, ready to relax on one of the benches outside the big jury room where the 250 or so of us prospective jurors would be confined all day. I looked forward to a day of light reading and being able to have lunch with B, who works at the courthouse. At about 11:00 all the jurors were called back into the big room. A case was actually going to trial and they needed a jury panel. I was sitting reading when I was surprised to hear my name called. About 50 names were called and we were told to go up to a courtroom on the second floor where we soon learned we were the lucky prospective jurors for a two-week rape, domestic violence and false imprisonment trial. I was relieved because I knew I'd be dismissed seeing as how I'm a lawyer (no one wants a lawyer on their jury), my brother has domestic violence and false imprisonment charges pending in the same courthouse (set for trial this week), and I know others who have and have personally been a victim of a similar crime. Oh, and I know lots of criminals. That's four giant red flags. Problem was that, even though I knew all of this, I couldn't tell the judge or counsel about it until I was called up into the jury box. So there I sat, all afternoon on Tuesday, listening to the hystrionics of my fellow community members, in awe of their stupidity and lame excuses for being biased.

First they called up 12 potential jurors and began questioning them one at a time. One of the questions had to do with the ability to be fair and unbiased. I was shocked at how many people did not believe they could be impartial to the defendant solely based on the nature of the charges. People claimed they had friends, or relatives, or friends of friends of friends who had third cousins who had been the victims of similar crimes and just couldn't be fair. People seemed to forget that crimes are crimes because no one approves of them and that our justice system is supposed to operate on the premise that you are innocent until proven guilty. You can't hate the defendant just based on the charges and that some people are, on rare occassions, actually innocent.

So I listened to the people cite their biases and prejudices. One lady even personified the victim by stating she 'felt sorry for Karen and sided with her' and 'could tell he was guilty' even though she had admittedly heard no evidence of such and that she 'didn't like him or his lawyer'. I thought, Who the heck is Karen? I am sure we had been told her name but I certainly hadn't remembered it and was disturbed that someone could so quickly identify with a stranger and choose sides.

Next to shock me was another lady we'll call Ms. X. As soon as one of the attorneys addressed her as Ms. X she quickly corrected him noting that she was Doctor X - a psychologist who worked with women and children who were the victims of abuse of all sorts. She went on and on about her self-importance and then stated that she was unsure whether she could be unbiased. Excuse me, but isn't a psychologist supposed to remain unbiased for purposes of treatment? This woman was the poster child for supporting the theory that people who are insane go into psychology. (You know it's true - think of all those psych majors from college) Still, they kept her through to Wednesday when she brought a note to the judge and was subsequently dismissed from service. A note!!! From a psychologist!!! Ridiculous. Her license should be revoked and she should be examined.

And then there were two men who may have required the services of said doctor. The first said he would have no part in putting another human being behind bars because he doesn't judge or punish people. He was adamant, said he would not judge another, and subsequently dismissed. Next was a young guy with Cheetoh stains on his fingers who explained through his sobs that his high school friend had been raped and the subject matter was too painful for him. He was bawling. It was pitiful and I was actually embarassed for him since nothing had happened to him directly and he was more than a few years out of high school.

Hours more excuses, tales of woe, complaints of back pain from sitting too long, whining about the infringement on holiday activities, the fact that rape was not palatable to them (who is it palatable to?), proclivities, maladies, sensitivities, psychoses, and idiosynchrasies that impaired judgment. It all made me feel quite sane in comparison.

By Wednesday afternoon the lawyers and judge had picked through about 25 people and I knew they had few available challenges left (each side gets 10 shots at excluding a juror without reason) when they called me to the jury box. I stated my name, how long I'd lived in the community, my profession, and answered the seven questions they hoped a juror would say no to. I said no to all but three.

The first 'yes' had to do with knowing people involved in the justice system. Of course I know a few lawyers, a judge or two, detectives, interpreters, court reporters, cops. The list was too long to explain but didn't include anyone on this case that I knew of. Strike One - for friends in high places, which is bad for defendant.

The second 'yes' had to do with knowing victims of crimes. I explained that, again, I knew far too many but the two big incidents that may be of concern to the court involved my mother (Pappy tried to kill her when I was 8) and me (assaulted in a parking lot many years ago, with an unfortunate end to things for everyone involved). Strike Two - for victim sympathy.

The third 'yes' was about knowing people arrested and/or convicted. Again, too many to list but the two pertinent ones: Pappy for the incident so many years ago and brother with similar charges pending to date. Strike Three - for friends in low places and defendant sympathy.

The courtroom was silent as I explained things. I was grilled on bias - I honestly do not think I am biased either way. My belief is that life deals you some cards you don't want and you have to play with what you're given: You don't get to put them in your pocket and carry them around forever then start crying about it because someone else might have been dealt the same hand. I explained that I'd be living in a cave somewhere if I did that. Again, the court was silent.

Much to my surprise, neither attorney got rid of me after the questioning. They interrogated a few other jurors, dismissing two. I knew only one side had one challenge left and could not believe anyone would leave me on the jury. It went against all reason. Finally, the defense attorney used his last wild card and dismissed me.

Overall it was an enlightening experience and made me worry for the fate of my brother this week during his trial. Apparantly, he is to be judged by a group of his peers that should first be screened for mental capacity and sanity. Forget about taking youth offenders to prison to see where they'll end up: they should take them to witness jury selection in criminal cases so they can see who will be deciding their fate if they get busted.

Damned Ouzo...Again

Just so you know, I wasn't planning on blogging about my Saturday night, but MB already linked to this post before I wrote it so I felt compelled to justify my actions...

My weekend started off with some bad news. First, I found out the people buying my house are backing out because they can't sell their house. Of course, now that the market has softened a bit and, just this morning I heard the Fed is raising interest rates again, that means I'll probably have a tougher time finding another buyer. And I decided I will have to go through with buying the other house either way because it's a great deal and I love the house. Still, the prospect of having two mortgage payments come springtime is not that appealing to me. So much for finally catching a break.

So Saturday morning, after speaking with my realtor I was in a bit of a bad mood. Naturally, when you're in a bad mood something has to happen to make it worse. For me that involved getting in the shower, turning the hot water handle and having it break off in my hand. This caused water to spurt directly out from where the handle was, leaving me standing in the shower being scalded with hot water while holding the handle. I think I actually yelled out a general curse to the world before I ran outside to shut off the water main. So now I was stuck with an unsold house that was falling apart. Miraculously, it only took one trip to the hardware store and $4.79 to fix the problem.

Just after the handle broke this guy: called and informed me that he was going to ride his motorcycle down from San Luis Obispo so we could go out that night. I wasn't feeling in the mood to go out but who could say no to him so close to Christmas?

MB arrived around 3:00 and we headed out for a pizza and some beer and an early start on what we planned would be a long and wild evening. We then headed over to Oak View's finest (and only) watering hole, The Hill Top, only to find they were out of Jagermeister. We each had a beer and a shot of Ouzo then decided to go to the liquor store next door to buy a bottle of Jagermeister. The plan was to keep the Jager in the truck and go outside to do shots in between games of pool. Yes, we are both in our 30's. My memory of the events of the evening goes fuzzy sometime between my second shot of Jager and sticking my tongue down the shocked MB's throat right as the bar owner who has a crush on me, T, walked in. I've always heard there are at least 8 kinds of crazy. For me, Ouzo seems to bring out a 9th kind - the super-fun-completely-wild drunk kind.

Alas, my kind of crazy only lasts a couple of hours and then it's time to crash and burn. I did so in a manner I haven't experienced since my 20's - the ever-popular trash-bucket-next-to-the-bed-I'm-never-going-to-drink-again-if-you-make-it-stop-right-now manner. MB was even kind enough to tease me in the morning and snap a photo of me dry heaving into the kitchen sink at the mention of breakfast. This led to me spending Sunday in bed recovering and reaffirming the truth that I am not the rock star I never was.

On a brighter note, after I heard about my house falling out of escrow I called that cowboy realtor that I have a crush on and we're going horseback riding sometime in the near future.

Jager, Pound Puppies and Fundraising

Three years ago this morning I was sitting in my cave-like office, studying for my final law school exam that was to take place that very night, when I learned my very close friend and law school classmate Sarah Moody had passed away. Yep, that's Sarah in the picture with her faithful dog Watson. It was a tough time and I still think of Sarah, who was a very special person, almost every day, today moreso than other days.

After Sarah passed away I wanted to do something in her honor so I got together with her incredibly gracious family and we started the Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship. It's a unique scholarship that goes to the person with the lowest GPA entering their final year of law school at the Ventura College of Law (our alma mater). This is because Sarah faithfully brought up the rear in our class and would've seen the humor in rewarding the person who, in reality, probably struggled the most to make it to that last exam day. And, of course, it bucks the system which is always a good thing and something Sarah and I both revel in doing.

So every year on this date I ask people to donate to the scholarship fund. Since you folks read my gibberish free of charge all year long, it wouldn't kill you to contribute and it would mean a lot to me. Since I'm the fund coordinator I see who donates and I know those of you who said you'll donate and haven't. How's that for a guilt trip?

Don't worry, it's completely legitimate and you will get an official tax write-off for donating any amount above $25. This is the website for the VCCF. To donate, mail a check, payable to the "Sarah Moody Scholarship Fund" or "VCCF" (be sure to note that it's for the Sarah Moody Fund) to the address below:

Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship
Ventura County Community Foundation
1317 Del Norte Road, Suite 150
Camarillo, CA 93010

If you think the scholarship's a bad idea, or just think anyone who can afford law school doesn't need extra cash, donate some money to your local Humane Society or the SPCA in Sarah's name because she was an animal lover and, sadly, good old Watson lost his battle with cancer this past year.

If you're a stingy bastard and don't want to donate anything at all, go to your local pub today and order a shot of Jagermeister (her favortie) and make a silent toast to Sarah, good friends, and never forgetting the people who change your life.

Black Friday

Rather than go shopping on Friday, I chose to drive to San Luis Obispo, change into some lingerie, and run around town with about 250 other scantily clad drunks at the 2005 North/South Intercourse.

Although I danced with many a satin-skinned lad that night, this guy was my favorite, because if you're going to do something, you should do it right:I love a man who can coordinate his pinks and still look like the outfit was no effort.

The pack of us were chasing the guy on the right in this photo. It's amazing that no one caught him in those shoes. Then again, maybe no one wanted to...

Some folks took the run more seriously, donning headlamps and proper running gear:You've got to respect a man who can seriously run in that outfit.

The run ended at a venue with beer, food and a DJ that inspired these two fellows to get down. Notice the garter belt on the guy on the right.

That was Friday night. Yes, I was in lingerie: black bustier top with red satin trim and black panties for all those interested. I left my red feather boa in the hotel because it was drizzling outside and I didn't want to be running around in wet feathers all night. Only one person noticed it was the same ensemble I had worn to another lingerie run seven months prior. Either I had left an impression on him or he hadn't had enough beer.

I think it was on Friday night that I was asked by MM to provide a cock block for him. He was pursuing a lovely lady and making some progress when another man moved in on his prey. MM asked me to come in and divert the other man so I used my feminine wiles to have him escort me to the beer truck while MM fled with the girl. No sooner had I successfully blocked the other man's chances than I turned to see the same girl's fiance! Incredibly enough, MM did get some sort of play from her behind the dance hall - and the same girl offered oral services to MB the very next evening. Ain't love grand?

Incredibly enough, that same evening my belief that chivalry is not dead was restored when I found a man with pigtails and lingerie lecturing JP on what a great girl I am and how he had better marry me or the pigtailed man would kill him. I later recall seeing the same chivalrous man sitting on a bench, legs wide open, his little sausage and franks hanging from his lingerie. According to news sources, I walked up to him and stuffed his package back into the lace panties then casually walked away. Damned ouzo.

At some point I recall stumbling back to my hotel room, alone, in lingerie and a sweatshirt. It was about four blocks away from the party but I still managed to get lost. Damned ouzo.

Saturday morning I slept in and then decided, rather ambitiously, to do the "Ball Buster" run. It was supposed to be somewhere between 8-12 miles long. Thankfully, the hares (guys we were chasing) messed up the trail thereby providing a shortcut. Of course, the shortcut led us through the wastewater canals of downtown San Luis Obispo, including a very dark and treacherous tunnel with no flashlights and lots of stagnant and smelly pools of water. That was fun until we came out of the tunnel to face arctic wind blasts for the last mile back to the hotel.

Saturday night was a blur of barley wine and dancing. I do recall holding the shirt of a man so he could butt chug off his girlfriend. For those who have never butt chugged, it's where one person drops trow and squats over the face of the other. A third person then pours beer down the butt crack of the squatter so it runs into the mouth of the squattee. I have never participated as I prefer mine from a mug. Still, it was fascinating to watch two late 30-somethings conduct themselves in such a manner. Note to boys: the best view is from the rear - unless the squatter is a man.

Sunday was bisquits and gravy at Bon Temps Creole Cafe (go there if you're ever in SLO) and then Sunday holiday weekend traffic home.

Damned ouzo.

The most bizarre Thanksgiving ever

Three things I never thought I'd do on Thanksgiving:

1. Avoid turkey altogether.
2. Hang out at dive tweeker bar.
3. Play put-put golf with tweeker bar owner and his daughter in exchange for Ouzo.

Yep, I did all three. No, I'm not proud of it. That's the short version for you skimmers. Here's the rest for those of you not busy cybershopping:

I woke up early and spent Thursday morning preparing the grand no-turkey-for-you-Thanksgiving-seafood-feast of 2005. People arrived, food was consumed, wine imbibed, and my aunt complained about the lack of Thanksgiving fare while gorging herself on Alaskan king crab legs and stuffed snapper. She even called my grandparents to tell on me for not making a turkey or stuffing. My grandfather said he thought turkey was overrated too and declared that he would fly down for the seafood feast next year. Take that bland turkey eaters of the world. I was left with the dishes and a mission to procure a bottle of Ouzo before sundown.

You see, a couple of months ago I discovered Ouzo at a party in San Luis Obispo. Or it discovered me and made me do things that were caught on camera and quite embarassing. Naturally, I had to find some Ouzo to take with me on my next trip north so I could act like an idiot again. My next trip happened to be Friday for a big Hash House Harriers Event that is held every other year on Thanksgiving weekend. That post will follow shortly.

Turns out my local bar, The Hill Top, sells Ouzo and one of the owners (T) has a crush on me so I figured I could score a bottle from him. He offered to trade a bottle of Ouzo for some leftover crab cakes and a date. Don't act so surprised.

So after our seafood extravaganza I filled a plate with a few crab cakes and sauce and took it up to the bar where T was stuck working. There were only two other people in the bar when I arrived so I decided to have a beer and play some pool with the boys for an hour or so. Well, an hour turned into two and before I knew it I was fully engrossed in the extraordinary people watching that is associated with a dive bar on a major holiday. The Hill Top is tweeker central and all the meth freaks were out in full force by 4 pm. It was both sad and funny at the same time: These people are so far gone from what I view as 'normal' society yet they are a community of sorts and were enjoying the holiday together, trading tales of the one day they pretend to be sober for friends and family before scampering off to the bar to score a fix. Eventually, T was off and wanting to take me to dinner before handing over the Ouzo. Having nothing but a sink full of dirty dishes to go home to, I agreed. He then said he needed to pick up his daughter first and that the three of us would go to town together. This sounded good to me because I knew T wouldn't try to make a move on me with his daughter present.

So T and I took his truck up to my parents' old neighborhood (now a hoity toity part of town) where his daughter was having a meal with friends. We, of course, arrived right in the middle of their Thanksgiving dinner. It was mind-boggling to go from a bar full of cranked out drinkers to a nice, down-home Thanksgiving. Turns out the family recognized me and the tension was eased through mutual tales of my crazy parents and their menagerie of critters that had once roamed the neighborhood. Note to self: Alpaca speak is a great ice breaker when crashing someone else's holiday party. After about 15 painfully awkward minutes of small talk and Jello mold avoidance tactics, we fled.

T's daughter is 14 years old and at that gawky braces-and-pimples stage of life. She wanted to go ice skating. I wanted to go home. She begged me to go ice skating with them. We know I'm a sucker. So there I was, stuffed into the cab of a Dodge Ram pick-up with a strange man and his pleasant-but-a-bit-off teenaged daughter, heading to an ice skating rink on Thanksgiving night. Ice skating was closed and I thought I was saved until we passed the local miniature golf course and just had to go play. I should have gone home. The daughter, starved for attention, again groveled so I played and attempted to make the best of an extremely abnormal situation. After 18 holes, she wanted to go again. Again, I wanted to go home. Somehow I found myself on the course for another 18 holes, in a daze, needing some of that Ouzo.

Finally, the golf course closed and we were kicked out. The two of them wanted to continue 'hanging out'. Thankfully, Carrow's (their favorite hangout) was closed and there was nowhere to go but home. At least I got the Ouzo...

Turkey Sucks

There, I've said it.

Yes I'm bitter because the annual Thanksgiving standoff has resulted in my need-to-please-the-family-to-compensate-for-my-loser-brother-whose-trial-is-in-two-weeks taking over my sense of reason and making me volunteer to cook tomorrow. Damn my aunt who can't cook all to hell for not stepping up again.

So last night as I was considering what to cook for just six people (we know my bro and the crank skank wouldn't dare show up), I decided turkey is out because, well, in my humble opinion, turkey just isn't that great. The only thing it has going for it is that it's big, dumb and slow and the pilgrims were able to catch it easily. I'm surprised grouse isn't the annual feast bird out west. It's not especially flavorful. Nine times out of ten it's dry. It's a bitch to carve. My dog is allergic to it. And, worst of all, it results in mandatory turkey-based meals involving stale rolls and can-molded cranberries for the first two weeks of December each year. If turkey were as great as we pretend it is for that one day a year, it would be more common in restaurants and frozen meals - wouldn't it?

I thought about cooking cornish game hens to try to keep with some semblance of tradition. Then I realized I don't want to cook game hens, stuffing, mashed potatoes, yams, and all that other stuff you only eat once a year because I'll be stuck with the leftovers. So I decided on an alternate menu that includes some of the family's favorites and will all be consumed in one sitting:

Oysters Rockefeller (dad's fav)
Prosciutto wrapped asparagus (mom's fav)
Crab cakes with secret homemade remoulade sauce (everyone's fav)
Filet of sole stuffed with cajun rock shrimp and crab meat (it's good)
Steamed veggies (for health reasons)
Rice pilaf (for my aunt who will complain if there's no rice or potatoes)
Boston Cream Pie (my fav)

The good thing about this menu , other than that it's all tasty, is that I doubt there will be a rush on any of the items at the grocery store since everyone else will be scrambling for Mrs. Cubbison's dressing mix, cheap turkeys, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie.

And whoever complains first about the lack of Thanksgiving fare (taht's you aunt P, oh, wait, you don't read...) gets to cook next year.

Enjoy your turkeys.

Yes, I know this post sucks but I haven't been out with any overweight militants in at least three days.

I just never learn, do I?

Okay, I was trying to keep this a secret but it's giving me so much material I feel that my temporary embarassment is worth the sheer entertainment value of the thing: I put an ad online a couple of months ago to meet people where I'm moving.

Don't worry, I've hidden the profile now so you stalkers can't find it. And yes, there were pictures on it. Lots of them. One involving a spiked dog collar and leather...

So here's the deal with internet dating: women who post pictures and appear to have at least six teeth, weigh less than 200 lbs, and have two or more limbs, get responses. Lots of them. Strange ones. Short ones. Long ones. I-love-you-will-you-marry-me ones. Didn't-know-you-could-live-past-12-with-that-disorder ones. I-paid-for-a-glam-shot-just-for-this ones. And occassionally, seemingly normal ones. It's kind of like shopping at Ross - you have a lot of seconds, overstocks, and irregulars with an occassional good find that seems like it won't fall apart at the seams until you've tossed in the spin cycle a few times.

I posted my ad a couple of months ago and have been contacted by a number of candidates. Actually, more likely every single man in Kern County that can search the internet. Being a nice girl (sometimes) and realizing people are putting themselves out there to respond, it's my policy to attempt to reply to anyone who takes the time to actually write me a note. The problem is that so few men get responses, when you do respond to their note, they immediately fall in love and start building their world around you. God forbid you have a few e-mails and then allow for a phone call before choosing chocolate or vanilla for the wedding cake. And if you don't respond they'll send you a nasty e-mail breaking up with you and telling you what a b**** you are. Seriously, I can't believe how many times I've been broken up with by men I've never met.

So a couple of weeks ago I exchanged phone numbers with G, a private pilot with a house on the local runway that has a hangar instead of a garage. He has traveled the world as a bush pilot, cargo pilot, and probably less-than-legal-stuff pilot. Now he's settled in the high desert to be closer to his son. We spoke on the phone and had a great conversation - about the military (having both been in), places in Mexico we've been to, earth-moving equipment (men are fascinated by my equipment operator past), and life in general. He sounded active, adventurous, and fun. It was a nice conversation and I looked forward to meeting him.

We had another phone conversation at some point and discussed my crazy family and their zoo. He mentioned that his son loves animals and he'd love to take him out there if possible, date or no date. So I told him the next time I was in town I would take him and his son out to see the animals. The next time was set to be Saturday and he just happened to have his son that weekend. Perfect, it was set up.

It was after this second phone call when the first sign of crazy appeared. Last Monday to be exact. I came home to one message from G on my home phone, then four hang ups on the machine. My cell phone, which I rarely turn on, had 6 missed calls from him! This was all in a span of about two hours. No messages but the one, and a bunch of hang ups. No sooner had I cleared the messages on both phones than my home phone rang. I did not pick up. Another hang up, presumably from G. Then the cell phone rang. Again, I did not pick up. In fact, I switched both phones off, made a mental note of G's propensity for phone stalking, and called it a night. The call log on Tuesday showed four more calls to the cell. Remember, we hadn't met yet.

The next evening G called my cell and I picked up. One has to deal with these things eventually, right? I answered the phone, "Is this my stalker?" He fumbled with words and excuses: the gist of it was that he had been 45 minutes from Ventura attending his court-ordered anger management class and thought we could meet in the middle somewhere that night for dinner and that's why he kept calling. Impressed as I was by the excuse, I told him I didn't think we should meet. Then he played the son card. Yep, the old, "But you promised you would take him and it's all he's talking about and we'll just go see the animals and that will be it."

So Saturday came and I called G from the road. What can I say? I'm a sucker for kids and it's not the poor son's fault his dad is crazy. The plan was to meet in the middle between my parents' place and his, then have them follow me out to the ranch. We ended up meeting at McDonald's in town. Keep in mind that the guy had a picture on the internet and he looked average.

I arrive at McDonald's and what do I see? An old black Jeep CJ-5 with camouflage seat covers, airplane insignia and a Semper Fi bumper sticker that I just know is his. Something inside my head tells me to put my truck in reverse and skip the meeting - 3 year olds get over stuff, right?

Still, I've been to war, felt poo bags, and seen worse in the form of Batmobiles so I go inside. I scan the room for someone who looks like a familiar stranger and see no one who even remotely resembles the guy in the picture online. In fact, the only single guy I see with a young kid is fat and extremely unattractive. Wouldn't you know it? He recognizes me and attempts to unwedge himself from the plastic booth while balancing his extra large milkshake in one hand and shoving a fistful of fries into his mouth. And there he is, in all his Hoo-Rah glory, wearing the largest pair of camo pants ever made (could they have been converted from an old field tent?), a black turtleneck (not to be worn by men with the physique of Boss Hogg), and a camo hunting cap.

I realize I am sometimes prone to exaggeration, purely for effect, but in this case, I need not lie. The man had to weigh over 300 lbs. And to be dressed in fatigues and driving that Jeep - it was comical. I did my best to hide the shock and focused on his son - a cute kid whose father had no clue. The son was eating a Happy Meal so I sat down to wait for him to finish. And then, in case you couldn't possibly imagine things getting worse, they did.

G started quizzing his son about military aircraft. He would ask him what kind of plane flew 6537 mph, which one had specific rotors, etc., and then sternly correct the 3 year old who cared more about pickles on his cheeseburger than Osprey landing gear. G also told me more than I ever care to know about aircraft. Finally, we headed to the ranch where the fiasco continued.

My father, a Marine drill instructor, did not like the guy one bit. He commented that no Marine would ever let himself got to hell like G had. My mother thought he needed to get a life and we pondered what aircraft cockpit was weight rated for such a behemoth. It was unpleasant and, thankfully, my folks feigned a need for my services once the boy had seen an touched all the animals and gotten his Christmas card shot with the reindeer. I breathed a sigh of relief as G took off down the dirt road and looked forward to never communicating with him again.

Later that afternoon, as I was on my way up to the mountain estate, G called my cell phone. He sheepishly inquired, "You're not interested are you?"

What could I say? I was hungover, had just met a man in camouflage with anger issues at McDonald's to be lectured on military aircraft capabilites, and, oh, he compeletely misrepresented himself in his personal ad?

So I asked him if he would ever date someone who lied about themselves and was 150 lbs overweight? He said no. I replied, then what makes you think I would?

Note to men: 1. Don't lie about your looks - if you ever meet she'll find out. Better yet, lie about stuff she won't figure out for a few dates - like anger management classes; 2. No matter how much you are into planes, trains, or cars, she isn't - just like you aren't into the Hollywood gossip scene - so don't discuss it if she's not asking; 3. Never meet a date a McDonald's; 4. Camouflage is only appropriate as a costume or uniform.

Crushed

So our local chapter of the Hash House Harriers actually had a run in my neighborhood yesterday. Miracles never cease. The run was nice - over the mountains, through the bushes (complete with stickers and pricks), across the river (several times), through the paintball war zone, past a farmer with a gun who did not think having beer-toting adults run through his property was in the least bit amusing, and finally to the keg at the end. After the run I came out of retirement as general manager and led the group through the religious ceremony also known as 'down-downs' wherein we drink beer, sing silly songs, and give someone a toilet plunger to carry around on the next run. Yeah, guess who got it? After that and a few trips to the keg, a group of us headed to the local BBQ establishment for dinner.

So there I am, chortling with friends, thinking how nice it is to be in my 'hood with this motley crew, wearing wet, muddy lycra and a hideous goldenrod shirt when who should I see snarfling some BBQ in my hometown? My crush!

Our eyes locked for a moment before my friend nearly knocked me over with her buckled-over laughter at the situation. I murmurred some semblance of a hello and scurried off to the restroom to assess the situation.

Yep, even through my happily buzzed haze, I could see it was bad. Goldenrod is hideous in strawberry blondes. And the lycra! Good grief, who wears wet lycra to dinner? And my hair - imagine Cousin Itt without leave-in conditioner. I headed back inside to get in line, deliberately avoiding eye contact and feigning small talk with my fellow drunken revellers - one of whom was over talking to my crush giving him a massage as he sat across the table from his wife and child. The nerve! Touching my crush!

After dinner, when our raucous crew was leaving, peer pressure forced me go back into the BBQ place under the guise of introducing two fellow runner-drinker-lawyers to the crush to harass the hapless crush a bit. It was awkward but not as awkward as it could have been if I'd had my toilet plunger in hand.

In the end, I smiled all the way home as I relived the hilarity of it all. You see, the really fun thing about a crush when you're an adult is that it renders a normally gregarious and witty person (that would be me) completely speechless, dumbfounded, and questioning why you hadn't gone home to change and primp before going to the restaurant lest the elusive crush show up at your local BBQ establishment on a Sunday night out for dinner with his family. Not much can do that to an adult after living a bit and you've got to savor the silly little moments when you can. After all, anything that can defeat steadfast ration for a fleeting second is worth some contemplation.

And don't worry, it's not that I'll ever act on my crush. It's just that it's so darned fun having one. The element of surprise is one of the best parts of the crush: you don't wait to see the crush, you don't even ever anticipate it, but when it happens it leaves you in a schoolgirl-waiting-to-be-asked-to-the-prom-by-Johnny-the-football-captain-oh-my-god-he-just-looked-at-me-I-may-puke kind of way. You know you're never going to the prom with Johnny (because he's with that cheerleader you don't like), but you still like to think about it.

So here's to crushes, wet lycra, and being rendered speechless at The Oak Pit.

Value

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The Berserker Defense

This is why the Vikings are my favorite football team.

Some players allegedly rented a boat on a lake in Minnesota, took some booze and women with them, then, somewhat surprisingly, experienced drunkennesss and sexual activity. The crew of the boat was so upset they weren't getting any that they turned back two hours early and notified authorities.

Here's what was reported to the authorities:

"The crew members told Hennepin County sheriff's deputies they had to step over and around players and naked women engaged in sex acts...There was lap dancing with a fair amount of cash floating around the floor with the dancers, leading quickly into sexual acts in a nature so explicit imagination wasn't necessary," Doyle said.

And here are some of the responses from the satisfied players:

"They're killing my name," Smoot said as he walked to his car in the parking lot.

Dude, your name is Smoot.

"That's crazy. Sex? Come on," said Moore, the team's leading rusher with 187 yards.

Yeah, sex is pretty crazy man. Who the heck does that anyhow?

Maybe they aren't Vikings after all, but Berserkers. The two are often confused by the uneducated. If they are indeed berserkers, there is a reason for this crazy behavior:

Theories to explain berserker behavior

One explanation behind beserker rage, suggested by botanists, is that in Scandinavia, one of the main spices in alcoholic beverages was the plant bog myrtle (Myrica gale syn: Gale palustris). The drawback is that it increases the hangover headache afterwards. Drinking alcoholic beverages spiced with bog myrtle the night before going to battle, might have resulted in unusually aggressive behavior.

Those who believe in the existence of spirit possession favor a theory that the berserk rage was brought on by possession by an animal spirit of either a bear or a wolf. According to this theory, berserkers were those who had cultivated an ability to allow the spirit of a bear or wolf to take over their body during a fight. This is seen as a somewhat peculiar application of animal totemism.

Proponents of the drug theory favor ergotism or the use of the fly agaric mushroom. Drunken rage would do as well. It is also possible that berserkers worked themselves into their frenzy through purely psychological processes, i.e., frenzied rituals and dances. According to Saxo Grammaticus they also drank bear or wolf blood.

A UK television programme in 2004 tested the possible use of fly agaric and alcohol by training a healthy volunteer in the use of Viking weapons, then evaluating his performance under the influence of fly agaric or alcohol compared to no influence. It was obvious that use of fly agaric or alcohol severely reduced his fighting ability, and the tentative conclusion drawn was that berserk state was achieved psychologically; otherwise berserkers would have been too easy to kill. On the other hand, the Zulu impi are said to have made use of snuff containing cannabis and/or mushroom-derived psychoactives to enhance their performance in battle.

You've gotta love British scientific methods.

Going berserk – berserksgangr or berserkergang – could also happen in a middle of daily work. It began with shivering, chattering of the teeth, and a chill in the body. The face swelled and changed its color. Next came great rage, howling, and indiscriminate brawling. When the rage quelled, the berserker was exhausted and dull of mind for up to several days. According to sagas, many enemies of berserkers exploited this stage to get rid of them.

I have experienced this.

U.S. professor Jesse L. Byock claims (in Scientific American, 1995) that berserker rage could have been a symptom of Paget's disease. Uncontrolled skull bone growth could have caused painful pressure in the head. He mentions the unattractive and large head of Egill Skallagrímsson in Egilssaga. Other possibilities are mild epilepsy, rabies, and hysteria.

Hmmm...Thick skulls and insanity?

Today the word "berserker" applies to anyone who fights with reckless abandon and disregard to even his own life, i.e., "goes berserk".

Yes, I am that geeky.

DUI Basics

No, not driving under the influence - it's for dialing under the influence.

Friday night I witnessed the greatest DUI extravaganza since my second year in college when my neurotic roommate spent an evening with a bottle of cheap wine and her old phone book calling every man she'd ever dated and asking why they didn't love her and what exactly was wrong with her. Yes, it was one train wreck I couldn't turn away from.

So Friday night I headed up to Santa Barbara for a much-needed "Girl's night out". Cringe if you must but it is something we single 30-somethings do every now and then to remind ourselves that we are way better off than most of our friends.

I met D early for some sushi and gossip. The plan was to have a few (read: seven) rolls, some saki, and head downtown to meet four other friends around 9:00. We arrived at 9:15 and quickly found S and P sipping water in a dark corner. S and P didn't want to shell out the $9 a drink at the hoity toity bar they'd chosen. You know these types of girls - they want to appear as though they have money and not a care in the world so they can attract a wealthy and confident man when in reality they can't loosen up enough to spend $9 on a cocktail rather than a new tube of lip gloss. It irritated me a bit because I'd rather go somewhere casual and get a $5 drink and relax. Of course, men don't go to these bars to meet women because men don't want to be stuck spending $9 on a drink for a girl they are not guaranteed to get laid by. In the end, the girls end up irritated albeit well-hydrated and the men go to a seedy establishment with $5 drinks and the more likely prospect of a roll in the hay with a less attractive but less demanding woman. And so goes Friday night in Santa Barbara.

At the hoity toity place, D and I ordered a drink each. In the meantime, S, D and P began telling me about T, who I had never met but would be joining us shortly. Turns out, no one had anything good to say about T. When I posed the question of why they had invited her they all looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I am - I just don't see the point in sitting around a bar, drinking water, waiting for someone I have nothing good to say about. Turns out T, who seemed quite nice to me, was stuck outside waiting in line while we were inside talking trash about her and how she was so inconsiderate being late and all. Girls are funny that way.

After D and I finished our drinks we wanted to head to a karaoke bar uptown. The rest of the girls, now numbering four (T had brought a friend), scoffed at actually being seen in a karaoke bar and insisted on heading over to Joe's for "another drink". Off we hobbled in our expensive-but-unnoticed shoes.

Joe's was packed. I mean wall-to-wall people. It was loud, hot, and crowded. We headed for the bar and were completely unable to attract the attention of anyone who cared to bring our respective round of waters. It was then that I had one of those moments where you see how ridiculous your situation is - standing in a sea of drunken college students with several miserable 10-years-past-college friends trying to get the attention of an overworked bartender so he can overcharge you for a watered down vodka-cranberry. After that epiphany I grabbed D and told her we needed to head out - girl's night was over.

We escaped Joe's to find a row of taxicabs out front. The lead cab was a minivan with fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. D did not want to take the minivan because she thought it was embarassing. Really folks, how does the cab you take embarass you? We hopped into the 1987 minivan - you know, the box-on-wheels kind, to find the inside was totally pimped out. It looked like a limo inside. We praised our cab driver, Edgar, on the plush interior, questioned him about how many people had fornicated en route, and eventually arrived at our destination in good spirits. Of course, D started screeching when Edgar pulled over because she did not want to be seen exiting a cab in front of a karaoke bar. Again, makes no sense to me. Rather, it shows we are responsible, right? So there we were on the curb, exiting our pimped our Astrovan, complete with....WTF? Spinners!!! Yes, our cab driver had put spinners on his taxi. I don't understand spinners and I especially don't understand them on an old minivan taxi. D was shocked and embarassed as I laughed at the absurdity of spinners on a cab. Come to think of it, that green velvet sofa in the back of my truck would have been a nice tip for good old Edgar.

We hung out at the karaoke bar for a couple of hours, mingling and laughing at the crooners. I attempted to flirt with a younger guy but he was spending way too much time fondling a cue ball and I determined he was either tripping on acid or autistic. Too bad because he was pretty hot. Anyhow, at some point in that time span, unbeknownst to me, D crossed the line from healthy buzz to ridiculous drunk. I found her outside smoking a cigarette with the gay bartender discussing, and displaying, her boob job. Thank god a cab was in the neighborhood and we were able to escape.

So we made it back to D's car and I was fine to drive so I asked for her keys. She went in her purse, got them out, stuck them in her mouth, then kept searching for the keys. I pointed out that they were in her mouth and she suddenly sucked on them seductively then handed them to me. It was disturbing. Then she pointed to the left and said "We need to go to Jack In The Box for onion rings". Jack was actually to the right, but that's splitting hairs when you're dealing with a key sucker now, isn't it?

I got her in the car and that's when it started...the drunk dialing extravaganza of 2005. She called at least five people, leaving long, hiccuping, belly-laughing messages. One message even made the web over at MB's blog. Yes, I am the voice of reason in that message. The blathering woman is D.

The drunk dialing continued through the night - lasting until about 2 am, or whenever the onion rings were gone. Each of the calls was pretty much the same "Heeeeeey so-and-so, this is D and I'm drunk. I just sucked my keys and don't know why. What are you doing? Okay, talk to you later, Bye." The thing is, in between about every third syllable you need to insert a guffaw or a hiccup, or both. The best part was when she got ahold of another drunk and they had a conversation for an hour. I just watched an laughed - because we know we've all been there.

As for me, I crashed on D's sofa for a few hours and headed home. On the way home I pondered the evolution of the drunk dial with the advent of cell phones. I am certain drunk dialing is on the rise. In fact, the cell phone companies ought to make new peak hours from 1:30 am to 3:30 am to capitalize on all the drunk dialers out there. Better yet, someone ought to make a website for messages left by drunk dialers. Now that would be a good blog.

Chile Verde

About a month ago I called in one of those big friendship defining favors: I asked MM to pick me up at the Los Angeles airport after my trip to Toronto. My original ride home had flaked and I either needed a shuttle or a ride so I called MM and he said he'd pick me up. Excellent.

As happens with these types of friend favors, they are locked away and stored until the friend needs an equally burdensome favor. MM called in his favor this weekend: he needed me and my truck to pick up a sofa his cousing was gettting rid of and bring it to his storage unit. The sofa was in San Fernando, about an hour's drive from my house, 40 mile from MM's. I thought to myself, "it had better be a pretty damned good sofa to drive 80 miles just to store it".

So we met Saturday afternoon and headed to the barrio of San Fernando. When driving down his cousin's street we even saw one of those cholos who wears knee-high socks with thigh-length plaid shorts and a low sitting Raiders cap. It was the land of Monte Carlos, mariachi and, yep, you guessed it, velour furniture.

We arrived at his cousins to find the sofa outside, a little wet, and covered in debris. To top it off, it was a dark green, velvety/veloury beast of a sofa. It probably came with a free velvet Madonna wall hanging and matching rosary when originally purchased. Still, we were there and we were taking it to storage for MM. I dubbed it the giant chile verde, it was loaded, and we headed out.

After a stop for some BBQ we made it to the storage unit. While I worried about how many dead bosies were hidden in the facility, MM pulled out an old scrap of paper with some numbers on it and I punched the code into the security gate of the storage facility. It didn't work. We tried every variation of the code to no avail. MM considered jumping the gate, only to notice the security code was needed to exit as well. MM called his sister, who shares the unit, to try to get the code. Of course, she didn't answer. Eventually, we left and decided I would leave the sofa in my truck until he got the code. So I've had this giant, green, velour monstrosity in the back of my truck all weekend. In fact, it's sitting in front of my office as I type this. As you can see, it looks like what you'd imagine your lawyer to be driving around in on a Tuesday morning:

We're taking it to the storage unit after work tonight. If the code doesn't work I'm just going to go park in the local barrio and let someone steal it.

At least I know where my next airport pick up is coming from.

S.O.L.

I have been accused of a lot of things in my life but a lack of character has never been one of them. I attribute my character to an unusual childhood.

You see, back when I was a kid I was diagnosed with a then-rare disorder called celiac that basically meant eating anything with gluten (wheat, oats, barley, rye) in it would destroy my immune system. I know, I know, as my old senior chief in the Navy would've said, "My heart pumps piss for ya babe, now get on with it..."

Of course, back in the '70's nothing was labeled and almost everything you eat has gluten in it so I was always sick and malnourished. This led to me being a scrawny little runt with a big, bloated Ethiopian-poster-child style belly. Add to that my abnormally long and protruding belly button, the flatulence that comes along with bloating due to malnutrition, and being the kid who could only eat carrot sticks and all beef hot dogs and you can imagine the daily razzing I endured. In fact, it was a sport in the nieghborhood - here's a photo of a photo of me being laughed at by all the kids in the trailer park circa 1976:

I'm the small one with the head hung in shame. See the belly? Protruding navel? Scrawny, pale arms? My siblings are the barefooted kids in highwaters laughing hardest. Note that all the kids are looking at me and laughing. That's because they just made fun of me. Even more disturbing? Some adult condoned this and took a picture. Today this would be child abuse. Back then it was character building and entertainment.

Fortunately I outgrew the problem at age 12, my giant belly deflated, and I was able to resume normal eating habits. I even had my belly button cosmetically enhanced during surgery already scheduled for that year. Oh yeah, the doctors decided I would make a nice lab rat back then and twice performed unnecessary exploratory surgeries on me to see what was going on in there. My innards are even in the New England Journal of Medicine. No, I didn't retain any rights. I always knew how bad a procedure was going to be by the size of the stuffed animal I got the morning of the hospital visit. The worst? The barium enema and large instestine scan at age 8. I knew it was going to be bad when I got one of those stuffed dogs that takes batteries and walks and barks. Then I saw that big tube with a camera on the end and knew it could only go a couple of places - none of them appealing.

All that excitement as a kid left me terrified of all things medical and ever since I've had extreme anxiety around any sort of doctor. I pass out in doctors' offices all the time. Two years ago I even passed out at the optometrist's office. No kidding. Needless to say, I don't visit the doctor unless I know there's something wrong and feel I am be on the brink of death (drove myself to doctor with burst appendix a few years ago - was sure it was food poisoning and would go away on its own - my final words to the anesthesiologist were "is this really necessary?").

So the past few months I've been having some health problems and consciously overlooking them. The human body is incredibly resilient and most ailments will subside on their own. But, even I know when something's not getting better and the symptoms I've been having seemed only to be getting worse lately. The kicker was during my Alaska trip when I ate a couple of handfuls of barley from the bin at the brewery...The next day I was doubled over in pain in Seattle airport, nearly passed out, barely able to make my connection. That's when it dawned on me that my symptoms were similar to the good old days of my childhood.

I immediately went online to research my old disease. Sure enough, they've done tons of reasearch in the last 20 years and there were lots of websites full of information. One thing I discovered was that the disease is actually a genetic autoimmune disorder that never goes away - it just goes into remission and then comes back when you're in your 30's or 40's. Here I thought I'd banked all that illness credit as a kid and would sail through my adulthood living longer than I wanted with no major problems.

After gathering a wealth of information, speaking with someone who organizes a support group for folks with the problem (sounds fun...), and learning about how to test for it, I made an appointment, had some blood drawn (passing out as usual), and had my doctor order the battery of tests associated with it last week.

So my doctor called Tuesday with preliminary results and informed me I have serious vitamin deficiencies that have thrown my red blood cell count all out of whack and that I should not be up and about and that I will be the lucky recipient of my own daily course of vitamin injections that I will have to administer myself. Figuring I knew more than her, I challenged her prescription only to be told that my system has just plain stopped absorbing certain nutrients on its own and the only way to get them is by shooting up every day.

Needless to say, I am not too pleased about the shots. I have since avoided picking up the prescription and going in for instruction on needle use and disposal and now the doctor has been calling every day. I'm pretty sure she'll be getting a court order for me soon.

In addition to the daily poke, I will likely be ordered to start the terrible gluten-free diet as soon as the other lab work is back in a couple of weeks. Tragically, this means NO MORE BEER. So now I get to give myself a shot a day, not drink beer, and eat carrot sticks and rice cakes for the rest of my life.

Alas, there is hope because there are others out there like me. I even found this link to a dating service specifically for folks like me. I did a search and there was one man in San Antonio, Texas in my age group. Imagine all the poo bags this dating pool will have. Actually, I had to laugh at the irony that would occur if I had to get a poo bag. You have to admit it would be funny. I asked about it and my doctor advised poo bags don't work for the small intestine so I guess I'm s*** outta luck on that one.

Really, it's not all that bad and I just wanted to show you all that nice picture of everyone making fun of me as a kid. I'm done wanking and I promise not to turn into this girl who has decided her life is over because of the disorder.

The Great Alaskan Glacier Experience - Part 2

As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted by the inadequacies of a free blog photo service...

After getting back from our glacier hike, we decided to settle in to the tent for the night, find some candles, crack a bottle of wine, and make what may very well be the best meal ever cooked on Mendenhall glacier:
A couple of hours, one bottle of wine, a bottle of champagne and a heated conversation about George Bush and Islamic folk invading the U.S. later, we passed out. (Note: Discussing world politics while sitting on a glacier drunk is fairly pointless and dangerous, especially if ice axes are present.) I fell asleep to the sound of a nearby waterfall interrupted by a passing storm, comforted by the fact that I was sleeping on a large ice cube. After a nice breakfast and some cocoa in the morning, we headed back out onto the glacier for some more exploring and ice climbing:

Yep, that's me. See boys, you finally get some pictures of infamous Glib Gal in all her harnessed glory. Actually, as this shot was taken I was advising the Outdoorspro that if he didn't hurry and take the picture I would surely soon fall to my death and drag him with me because he was on belay duty. He just laughed and told me to lick the ice so my tongue would freeze to it and I wouldn't fall. Well, not really, but that would've been a good thing to say.

What you can't see from this photo is that about an hour earlier, while traipsing around the glacier in our crampons, I decided to slide down a slope in an attempt to become one with the glacier. The problem with falling on a glacier is that there's nothing to grab onto because you're on ice and you just pick up speed as you descend. Thankfully, there was a ledge to stop me before heading into a deep crevass from which I surely would not have returned. Of course, I chose this moment to have my first ever panic attack and had to be coaxed across the glacier back to safer territory. I've never been scared like that in my life and suddenly I was realizing the heights, slopes and dangers that hadn't phased me until after the fall. I even had nightmares about being swallowed by the glacier for the next two nights. It's moments like those that remind me how little I am in the grander scheme of things.

We caught the last chopper out that night, went home and relaxed then spent the next day salmon fishing in inclement weather(to no avail - which I'm secretly happy about because I was not looking forward to cleaning fish...). When the weather got too powerful on the docks and even the Outdoorspro was tired of the weather, we headed to the Alaskan Brewing Company for their free tasting. Yes, you read that right, FREE BEER!!! And they were quite generous with it. I highly recommend their beer tasting tour if ever you are in Juneau - nice staff, warm tasting room, and FREE BEER!!! Some of it is even good.

Hit the bar scene that night and headed home on the earliest flight out Sunday morning. A big thanks to Outdoorspro for being such a great host, putting up with me, and hooking me up with free helicopter rides and some great adventures.

In the meantime...

While you're all waiting for the sordid details of my glacier experience, go check out my old roomate's new blog, From Cowpies to Sandflies. Not only can this ex-Navy corpsman actually write, he does it well and may very well be my new favorite blogger. It doesn't hurt that he was the best roommate ever and I introduced him to red wine - which really makes everyone seem better, doesn't it? Not sure why he's back to Coors Light, though. I guess you can take the man out of Michigan, but you can't take the pissy beer out of the Michigan man...

The Glacier Experience You've All Been Waiting For...

Wow! That's a tough title to live up to so I won't even try. At least it will get my readership up, though.

So Thursday the Outdoorspro and I packed up our cold weather gear and caught a helicopter ride up to the base on Mendenhall glacier. This is the camp where the guides hide when the weather gets bad on the glacier:
Upon arrival we decided to put the champagne on ice:
Once the booze was taken care of, we donned our gear and headed out to explore the glacier before sunset. Here's a pic I snapped of the Outdoorspro scouting for a path to the other side of the glacier, where some cool glacier peaks were waiting to be climbed:

On our way back from scouting we found a really awesome ice cave that had recently opened up and had a raging river underneath. According to the Outdoorspro, slipping down the cave would result in certain death. That's why I just went in a little bit to look down and get a pic: Notice how I color-coordinated my jacket to match the ice? I thought that was a nice touch too...

For some reason I am not being allowed to add more pictures to this post so I'm going to have to break off and start part 2 of the great Alaskan Glacier Adventure...

More from Alaska

Finally! It's Thursday and the boss is off to golf with his buddy for the afternoon so I can finally get down to blogging about the rest of my Alaskan adventure. You can read the Outdooorspro's impressions and see a photo of me in an icecave here.

Let me just say that Alaska is overwhelmingly beautiful. If you like nature or the outdoors, you must add it to your list of things to do before you die. If you don't have a list, make one with it on it just so you can cross it off someday. I know my list got shorter last week.

So when I last blogged I had just gotten off a day cruise up the Tracy Arm and seen some cool icebergs and scenery. I also saw a few humpbacks on that trip, here's one that came pretty close to our boat:
I got some nice tail shots too but had to use one of those old-fashioned film cameras for that. Digital cameras suck for whale tail shots because of the delay. If I ever take the film in for developing and bother to scan a picture, I'll post it. Don't hold your breath...

The day before the cruise I was on my own in town and decided to hike up Mount Roberts. Most people pay $30 and take a tram up. Not me. I prefer to hike 2,000 feet, have a beer at the top, and take the tram down for free, which is exactly what I did. Here's a shot of the beautiful trail to the top that no one but me seemed to use:
And this is a view from Alpine Loop Trail once you get to the tram station:

And because I was homesick for my own gay goats, this if the mountain goat I had a beer with at the bar at the top of the mountain:
I'm sure the other folks at the bar wondered why I took this picture but were afraid to ask, especially since everyone at the top was a bloated tourist from a cruise ship who couldn't believe I'd hiked to the top rather than paid $30 for a tram ride. I just wondered why someone would want to eat dinner under a goat head. Or stuff a goat head and put in on a wall. It's not like goats are extremely clever and/or evasive animals. So if you're a hunter and you kill a goat I don't think it rates as much as, say, a grizzly bear or moose. You wouldn't want to be the hunter with the goat head on his wall, would you? Still, I couldn't help but take the picture to bring home to my goats. Maybe this one will be their pin up?

This post has digressed. Any post that relates to gay goat pin-ups has hit a low. So I'm going to break off and post separately regarding the glacier experience...

On The Rocks

Spent all day yesterday aboard the Adventure Bound cruising up the Tracy Arm Fjord to the South Sawyer Glacier. Here's the dead end we hit at the end of the fjord:

It's pretty humbling to be on a 40 foot boat sitting in front of a glacier listening to nature in action as the glacier groans under its own pressure. If you sit there long enough you get to see it calve - or lose big chunks of itself into the water. I still don't know why it's called calving. Should be called chunking, or berging, but calving? Anyhow, these chunks then float out toward the channel as icebergs, like this cool one:


Spending 12 hours on a boat amidst this sort of beauty can make a girl think, which is rarely a good thing. You know what I thought about? How much it sucked being on that boat alone and without someone to turn to and point out the obvious. Instead, I spent the day as the token adventurous single gal on the boat with the great stories, who had been to every state of every passenger on board, spoke the languages of the foreigners, and took pictures of the couples as they stood side-by-side in front of a glacier or waterfall. Who wouldn't be reflective with sights like this?
After talking with the Outdoorspro last night, I realized that people have some wild idea of me and tend to build me into some glamorous and carefree ideal that will somehow save them from their own seemingly mudane existence. Let's face it, if I could do that, I'd be a zillionaire and wouldn't be blogging.

As for those of you awaiting the glacier report: you're better off going to your freezer, grabbing a couple of ice cubes, and finding a way to amuse yourself at the thought of what could be happening to a girl you've never met on a glacier you'll probably never visit, because I'm not talking...

Mush!

Arrived in Juneau at about 2:30 pm Sunday to be met by the Outdoorspro who had been waiting in the bar having a pint. We grabbed my bag and headed to a seedy local establishment with an ad for Jello wrestling Friday night on the door where I had my first Alaskan beer - a pint of Alaska IPA.

An hour later we were at TEMSCO Helicopters, where Mark works, putting on glacier boots and heading out onto the Mendenhall glacier for a dog sledding adventure. We flew in to find about 120 huskies waiting to pull us around a loop on the glacier as a place known as "dog camp":v
Dog camp is home to the dogs and a handful of eccentric mushers who spend their entire summer living in tents on the glacier, with a rare excursion into town. The mushers were nice but smelly. You'd be smelly too if you lived with 120 dogs. Apparantly, their smelliness doesn't dissuade the local girls who frequently and voluntarily travel to dog camp to entertain the mushers. I can only imagine their favorite position...Anyhow, my musher guide was Johnny and he has about 40 dogs of his own. This is Paco, one of his dogs that I caught sleeping on the job:
Cute. We eventually heading out for our sledding trip. Johnny led the team on a sled in front of me and pulled my sled. This was my view of Johnny and the team as we glided around the glacier:
Note that Johnny is wearing shorts. In Alaska. On a glacier. As you can see, it was a pretty nice day. I would highly recommend dog sledding if you go to Alaska. It's fun and a big part of the history and culture. But it's not cheap - the paying customers (our trip was comped by TEMSCO) said they paid $500 for the two hour extravaganza. No, it wasn't $500 of fun but I'm sure those folks went back to their cruise ships and now have something to talk about for a week or two.

Monday found Mark and I hiking up the Windfall Lake trail in the Tongass National Forest. It's a rainforest and pretty damn beautiful. This is a picture of the Herbert River with the Herbert glacier in the background:

Finally, this is a picture of a stand of trees in a marsh on the way to Windfall Lake that I thought was postcard worthy:

Glacier camping happens Thursday...

Going south

I've been trying not to post anything about the whole Katrina thing but all this news coverage has me remembering the time I spent as a young Seabee stationed in Gulfport, Mississippi, an area devastated by the hurricane. I don't have any contacts there anymore, but I do have one interesting memory that will never be washed away...

Let me preface by saying I can't think of many places worse than Gulfport to come of age. In 1990 it was a depressed coastal town without the casino boats it now has. Unfortunately for me, I was on the brink of 18, just out of boot camp, finally hitting puberty, and being influenced by a gaggle of tattooed and loose, tabacco chewing women. Add to that the fact that the ratio of men to women in Gulfport was about 20:1 and you have a recipe for youthful indiscretion.

Back then, all the lower-ranking women were berthed in one big quansent (sp?) hut on the east end of the base. The men, in turn, were housed a couple of miles away in their own row of huts. The rationale was that if they stuck the women out further, the men would be deterred from making the trek to visit. What they didn't count on was the old meet-in-the-middle game. So, the men would go to the store, pick up some booze, and meet the women in the woods that spanned the two miles between barracks. The MP's chose not to disturb this practice and sometimes joined the parties when off duty - or on...

Enter the then-innocent Glib Gal. I tagged along to the parties in the woods and quickly became enamoured with Bill Kinderknecht - a rough and tumble bad boy from Oregon with crystal blue eyes. I can't remember what I saw in him - he was short, smoked, and had fooled around with half the women on the base. I don't even think he was a very nice guy. Still, he was my first real makes-me-blush-crush and on my final night in Gulfport, before taking leave to go home and then be shipped overseas, I went to the party in the woods with a mission: I was going to make out with Bill that night. All the girls in the barracks were informed and a strategy was developed. I was given tons of advice from my hicky-marked bunkmates who were proud of me for going on such a noble mission.

We went to the party and I began drinking heavily, to build up the courage for my conquest. Of course, Bill had been informed that I was interested and as a result, had that cocksure confidence that allowed him to ignore me, but not enough for me to lose interest. Finally, as couples began to pair off, or singles stumbled home, Bill approached and invited me into the woods. Of course, I followed. He grabbed a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey, found a spot, laid his rain coat down, and pulled me to the ground. We made small talk, swilled more cheap bourbon, and finally kissed. I remember feeling quite dizzy and his hands everywhere. I started to panic, thinking I had gotten in over my head. Things were moving quickly and then I remembered what the girls had told me - if you don't want to do "it", just offer a blow job. They had even kindly given instruction on how to give a blow job. So I somehow informed Bill I was a virgin but would be more than happy to provide that service. His response was that of any red-blooded man - he dropped trou and presented.

Problem was that I had imbibed a bit too much and seen him urinate recently. All I could think was how disgusting it was and that he should at least wipe it off. I looked at it for a while, unsure what to do, then he complained, so, remembering my trusty shipmates' advice, I wiped the tip with my sleeve and reluctantly started bobbing. He had his hand on the back of my head and was guiding my movement. It hadn't been long but I was getting more and more nauseous and on the brink of vomiting. I tried to pull my head back but couldn't. Then, without warning, he came. The thing was that the girls had failed to tell me about ejcaulation and I was so naive I thought he was pissing in my mouth and promptly spat it out and vomited all over him. Needless to say, Bill was not happy. He was upset that I puked on him and his coat and uniform so he grabbed my raincoat and took off. Problem was that he was drunk, disoriented, and lost. I watched him stumble off in the wrong direction then I headed home. Upon arrival at the barracks I was grilled and then laughed at and we all decided it was quite funny and appropriate because he was a jerk. Thank god for down-to-earth women who can put things in perspective or I'd have been scarred for life and probably never attempted a blow job again. They informed me that this sort of thing is par for the course and, unfortunately, a rite of passage for young women.

As for Bill, he got lost in the woods and didn't make it home until daybreak - reportedly smelling of my puke and wearing a too-small raincoat. I left the next day and never heard from him, or got my raincoat back.

I Googled his name today and found this blurb from the August 6, 2005 court report of the Curry Coastal Pilot in Oregon:

William Daniel Kinderknecht, 35, of Portland, was found on Aug. 2 to be in violation of his probation. He was ordered to serve 28 days in jail.

Looks like he's still contributing to society...

The wheels on the bus...

Headed to Toronto early Thursday morning to attend the big InterAmericas Hash event. Most of the weekend is a blur of running, beer drinking, watching people make fools of themselves, and trying not to look like a fool myself. This picture of some folks at our ball says quite a bit:

Look again. Okay. Now remove your eyes from the mesmerizing bunnies and you'll notice a man peeking over the other man's shoulder for a look. Now look to the left of that and you'll see a man in a wedding dress and tiara. This picture was taken at the "Coming Out Ball" on Sunday night, at which many men voluntarily wore gowns and tiaras but only this woman had bunny pasties that I saw. Most women were just less modest and opted for traditional flashing.

Now imagine 1,000 of these types of people running through the streets of Toronto singing and blowing whistles. Multiply by four days and you see how I spent my holiday weekend.

Things started Thursday evening with about 250 early arrivals running through downtown Toronto. No costumes. Just whistles. And lots of underground tunnels with knee-high water containing lord-knows-what-that-smelled-like-you-know-what. Then food, song, and beer at a beautiful grotto right on the waterfront at Lake Ontario.

Friday was the official start to the festivities. As we boarded yellow school buses to the run start we were each given a red foam hat in the shape of a maple leaf. We were then taken to a park - about 1,000 of us in red maple leaf hats - and led around the city. Pedestrians out for Friday afternoon strolls love that sort of thing and always ask why we are running? Is it a marathon? Are you running to raise money? No people. We are running purely for the sake of running and finding beer at the end. Perhaps it would make more sense for each of us to donate $2 in exchange for a plastic yellow wristband? Nope, beer and making people laugh sounds more productive to me.

Anyhow, much of the weekend is a blur. I think I ran a total of about 30 miles and drank at least one beer per mile. I was bitten by mosquitoes, slid down hillsides, ran through rivers, and had a hefty bag ripped off me during a mock girlfight on stage in front of the crowd. I think the point of the skit was to see how many women they could get to don garbage bags and rip them off eachother to end up topless while fighting for a stale bagel that symbolized a hockey puck. Yes, I was one of the topless women fighting over a stale bagel. Yet another thing to tell the grandkids...

Perhaps the most memorable part of the weekend was the series of bus rides and the antics of the passengers. You see, hashers know many rather raunchy and offensive songs. With 50 people on each bus, and at least 40 of those 50 quite boisterous and drunk, the singing could get quite loud. Most of the bus drivers were quite amused, or easily quelled by a flashing woman, but there was one who was not happy with his assignment for the weekend: Glen. He was a man who had obviously miscalculated his needs for retirement funds and somehow found himself as a 68 year old, grumpy school bus driver chaufeurring around drunks. He would be the driver when you were a kid who would always stop the bus and head back down the aisle to admonish someone. A life of missed lessons in futility.

Problem was, Glen hadn't learned how futile it is to yell at a busload of people and he did the same thing with us except that we responded differently than an 8 year old would. The incident I remember most clearly was that a guy in the back of the bus had his elbow out the window. Old Glen was yelling at him to put his arm in the bus but the guy was singing so loudly he couldn't hear. All of a sudden, our singing stopped as we noticed the bus had pulled to the side of the highway and Glen was coming down the aisle. He was screaming about the arm out the window. All arms were promptly pulled in and windows locked up above elbow level. Then, as Glen headed back down the aisle, an unruly hasher started a song in Glen's honor. The song goes something like this:

He's the meanest
He sucks the horse's penis
He's the meanest
He's the horse's ass...

It goes on, but I think you get the point. Glen was not happy but faced a busload of drunken, out-of-tune adults and had no means of escape. He got us back to the hotel, told us we were worse than fourth graders, and was met with a serenade by a small group who chanted, "Glen, Glen, f*** him!" as they paraded off the bus. I almost felt sorry for Glen but he was so mean it was hard to sympathize. And you must admit that the songs were appropriate.

Another fun incident that was frequently repeated on the bus while traveling in downtown Toronto was that whenever we passed another bus, such as a nice double-decker tour bus or one of Toronto's famous Hippo buses (amphibious buses people pay $35 to ride on), everyone on our bus would start chanting "The other bus sucks! The other bus sucks!" Once we had their attention we would chant "Our bus sucks! Our bus sucks!" The looks from the tourists were priceless and varied from astonishment to laughter to giving of the finger to taking photos. Being hashers, we're used to that sort of thing.

Okay, go look at the bunnies again...