Glib Gibberish

She was not invited.

2008-10-01T16:58:00.000-07:00

Thought I'd post this little video for those of you who don't read the Princess Awesome blog and wonder what craziness I've been up to. Yep, I got another minute of fame courtesy of Ellen Degeneres:

And no, Sarah Palin was not at the wedding, nor do I endorse her as a candidate. Still, it's kinda funny since my dad hates Ellen for being a "queer" (not my words - I like her) and hates Palin for being, well, herself.

I'm really trying to get back into blogging but it's tough to know where to begin when your whole life has changed so dramatically and you're sure your blog fans won't appreciate hearing about the things I have to say these days...

Eight, nine oh-eight

2008-08-09T08:05:00.000-07:00

Darn. I missed my date to return to blogging by a day. It would've been cool to shoot for 080808. As usual, I'm lagging. I'm sure you're used to it by now - if you're even still out there.

It's been eight months so I guess its time. Maybe this week. Seriously.

All-right, already

2007-12-19T18:27:00.001-08:00

Gee you people are pesky.

First MB calls and wanks about my absence from blogging, then BH comments on my dear, sweet child's blog about my lack of posting, not to mention the numerous e-mails and back-handed complaints about the demise of Glib Gal I've gotten in the past two months.

Truth be told, I've been a bit busy since I became enslaved by an 11 pound screaming blob that depends on me for everything. Let me tell you, having a baby is nothing like having a kitten. They don't tell you a bunch of stuff about pregnancy and newborns. Or maybe I never paid attentnion. If they told women everything, I am certain the species would be extinct. Well, maybe if it weren't for the cuteness, smiles and sounds that little blob makes. It's her only saving grace, I tell you.

So there's really not much to post about these days. I've lost all the pregnancy weight, except in my boobs. Sadly, though they are huge and now have names (Laverne and Shirley - because they worked at the bottling factory while in the hospital), they are no fun at all. Sometimes they leak, sometimes the ducts get blocked, and most of the time a small being is attached to one of them. Such is my life these days: no sleep, things leaking, still no alcohol, and a sudden ability to leave the house in sweats and a t-shirt - something I wouldn't do before except for a workout.

I do, however, have something to blog about. It's this:
Yes, that is a pregnant woman outside the OBGYN's office in Bakersfield. Q snapped these shots while he waited in the car during one of my recent visits. Yes, he is the perfect husband - caring for our child and snapping shots for the blog! Who can doubt our love now?

So this lady is clearly pregnant, in the parking lot outside the birth center, having one last drag before going in for her prenatal care.
This, among other reasons, is why I did not want to have my baby in Bakersfield. Alas, Lentil Bean is cursed for life with filling out numerous forms wherein she must answer "Place of Birth: Bakersfield" and "Mother's Maiden Name: Klingon". Sorry Lentil Bean, just now that what embarrasses you makes you stronger. Trust me, it does.

Things to do before you die.

2007-10-24T14:18:00.000-07:00

I've bicycled through Europe with strangers, climbed mile-high mountains, eaten a snake and drank its blood in a bar in rural China, served my country, jumped out of an airplane, swam in several seas, even buzzed along a zipline through a rain forest. I've been to Ozzy Osbourne's house for a party, sipped water from a glacial stream, done a TV commercial in exchange for beer and jack cheese, gone to college, dropped out of college, and one time I drove a dogsled. I've bought and sold many a thing, driven fast cars, bottle fed baby zebra, had my heart stopped by the sound of a floor to ceiling organ in an 800 year old cathedral, operated a D-9, planted a farm, swam with mermaids in a natural spring, caught a fish and fried it up by the river that night, and changed my mind about a thousand things at least a thousand times. I've fired fully automatic weapons, bailed a sibling out, needed bailing out, been up, been down, been detained in a third world country, learned a foreign language, taken pilot lessons, sang karaoke, put myself through law school, run my own business, sold a tv show option, buried a friend, gone a round or two in the ring, fallen in love, eaten quiche on the Champs Elysees, and skinny dipped under a waterfall or two. Yes, some would say my life list was already quite complete - that I've been lucky to have taken every opportunity and lived so fully and I would've agreed until I learned what I learned at 6:21 pm on Tuesday, October 16. That being, of course, that the greatest adventure, the most overwhelming feeling you'll ever have, the biggest accomplishment in any life, has to be seeing your child for the first time and knowing that your life has just gotten bigger, fuller and way more meaningful.Yep, that's me and the Lentil Bean. Q was fortuitous enough to capture my expression when she (that's right, SHE!!!) was first shown to me after 18 hours of induced labor (about 10 of it very unpleasant) followed by the emergency cesarean section by which the extremely large (8 lbs, 3 ounces) Lentil Bean was wrenched from the womb and shown to me. How a person can look that happy after nearly 24 hours of nothing short of misery goes to show how powerful the moment is. Ionly wish I'd have captured his face as they first held her up to him - it was incrediblly happy as well.

Here she is at about 10 muinutes old.
Note the nice, round head and lack of old man wrinkles. That's because she's already so stubborn she refused to even attempt entry into the birth canal.

And here's another nice shot taken by Q as I carried my own urine into the operating room. Catheters sure are fun!
Lentil and I both ended up staying a little longer than expected. I spent six days trying to get my blood pressure stabilized. Of course, the cause of my high blood pressure was most likely the sad fact that they took a feverish Lentil from me on Thursday and put her in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU). It's not cool to take a baby from a mom and not tell her anything. Luckily, she only spent five days there and we were allowed to visit frequently. It was sad to see her all hooked up with needles, though:
Alas, all is well that ends well and Lentil came home yesterday and, as you can see, things have returned to normal in the McQ household (identity withheld lest child protective services reads this blog)...Oh yeah, we didn't name her Lentil Bean. Her official name is Sarah Addison McQ. By the way, Sarah means "princess" and Addison means "awesome". Princess Awesome. No, we didn't know that until I was released and we found the baby name book. How cool is that?

The Lentil Bean Cometh...

2007-10-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

Thought I'd let you know that tomorrow (October 15) might be the day Lentil Bean arrives.

Had some elevated and abnormal levels of things during my doctor's visit last week, they ran some tests, then called me Friday afternoon and told me to stay in bed, on my left side, all weekend and watch for a plethora of symptoms, which, upon experiencing, I am supposed to rush to the hospital immediately. If I make it through the weekend I'm supposed to go directly to the main lab at 6 am Monday for further testing, have breakfast and relax, then go to the doctor around 10 am to see what the results are. Oh, and since I live 45 minutes from the hospital it might be wise to bring my bag and car seat, "just in case".

I think the doctor had a wine tasting weekend planned and just didn't want to ruin it by having to induce me or do a c-section on a Friday night. The good news is that Lentil Bean is full term and if he or she does come out tomorrow there are no issues with development or being premature or anything like that. If Lentil doesn't come out tomorrow I'll probably be on bed rest until it's time. That would suck as I don't do well sitting still and lying on your left side isn't as wonderful as one might think.

So if you don't hear from me for a couple of weeks it may be because the Lentil Bean is out and Q and I are running around like chickens with our heads cut off trying to figure out what to do next. Or it may mean I'm just lying around ignoring you.

Something to scare you this Halloween....

2007-10-02T15:06:00.000-07:00

Woo hoo!!! October is here! That means Lentil Bean is coming soon. I'm officially "full term" so it could be anytime in the next few weeks. Let's hope for sooner rather than later because the last month or so of this ordeal is pretty much crappy.

Anyhow, since I'm not sure how much longer I'll have this orb attached to me so I thought I'd better immortalize it here and give you all a good scare with some photos sure to make you double wrap in the future. Sadly, this is what I see when I look down...
Perhaps even more sad, just six months into married life, this is what Q sees every morning:
I don't know, but I think I kind of resemble Demi Moore's Vanity Fair preggo layout...except maybe she had better lighting and no granny panties as an accessory:
Oh, and for your further amusement and enjoyment, some of you will be pleased to learn I have now topped the 170 lb mark on my latest weigh-in at the doctor. Good friend B said she's delivering the baby jogger next week so I can get back in shape right away. Thanks, B.

The Incredible Expanding Woman

2007-09-19T17:11:00.001-07:00

Spoke with MB the other day and he begged for a recent picture of my ever-expanding self. Ever one to please, I asked Q to take one last weekend. I handed him the camera and he took this one of me from behind. He's romantic like that.
You can hardly tell I'm pregnant, right? Some might even think, "Wow, nice arse." Then I turn to the side and people flee at the sight of The Great Pumpkin:
I don't know what's up with my hair, either. I got it cut - a phenomenon among preggos - we feel ugly so we go do something like lop off our locks so we can go home and cry about it to our bewildered spouses. Then we put our feet up and eat ice cream while lamenting the loss of hair. I believe it was BH who once asked what a cankle is. This, my friends, is a cankle:
I actually think it may be a thankle on some days. Note the crease in skin and severe ankle bulge. I can no longer wear anything but men's extra-wide flip flops, and those sometimes leave an indentation. In fact, if you push on my foot you leave a fingerprint. Still, I'd rather have the cankles than the hemorrhoids that most preggos get.

Finally, yes, that is Midge in the background. I'm having a hard time parting with her. Interested callers are treated rudely and not even allowed to come see her as I decide they are not worthy for some reason or other. As Q says, we can just disconnect the battery, cover her up in the barn, and run her once a month until we decide what to do. Sounds good to me.

Bye the way, Lentil is due in about a month!!!

Lentil Bean is Growing Up

2007-09-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

The kid's been bugging me about this for weeks. I figure with six weeks until Lentil emerges, he/she was ready for his/her own blog. Some of you may think it's too early, but we are progressive parents...

In other news, that's right - only six weeks until the arrival. I'm glad because this whole being preggo thing is getting old. I'm fat, tired, haven't seen certain body parts in months, and am just plain tired of sucking down Tums like I used to drink Murphy's. If you want to experience pregnancy for a day I suggest strapping a 30 pound medicine ball to your belly, eating something that brings on killer acid reflux, ingesting as much salt as possible so as to have cankles so huge you can leave a finger indentation in them (Q's favorite party trick), then trying to sleep that way. Be sure to have to wake up every two hours to pee or roll that lump over to the other side because your hips hurt. For added effect, turn off your AC or turn your heater up to 98 degrees - the temperature that it always feels like no matter where you are.

Not that I'm complaining...I'm actually very excited to meet Lentil and have a little discussion about the appropriateness of sticking one's feet in another person's ribs or punching them in the bladder.

Farewell to Midge

2007-08-23T18:21:00.001-07:00

Just spent the last hour placing ads to sell my beloved Midge - the 1976 Mercedes 450SL I bought myself when I passed the bar exam. This car, especially when topless and accompanied by a non-pregnant me in a matching Dodgers hat turned a few heads in the greater Ventura and Santa Barbara area in its day. I almost sold it when I moved, knowing the mountain roads and unpredictable weather would be the death of her, but couldn't bring myself to do it. Since the move I've driven it a few times and, surprisingly, didn't even need it to snare Q (although he secretly wants to keep her for "date night").

Now, with thoughts of car seats, small person bodily functions, and graham cracker crumbs crushed on leather seats, I've accepted that it's time for Midge to make someone else cool for a while. Besides, I can get a god chunk of change out of her (still less than 92,000 original miles) and know she'll be cared for while I tool around town in my cousin's old Honda Civic.

Yep, that's the replacement, family-friendly car I'm getting. It's practical (4 doors - I've never had one of those!), will run forever, gets good mileage, and, best of all, won't have a car payment. Q and I will reassess the vehicle issue in a few years once we figure out how this whole parenting thing works. And we made a deal that we each get a car, any car that we want, no questions or comments allowed by the other party, in 18 years when the Lentil Bean leaves for college or runs away or does whatever unimaginable teenage thing he or she will inevitably do as payback for my own misspent youth.

Still Smiling

2007-08-14T11:15:00.000-07:00

Lentil Bean, that is. Went to the doctor last week because as I had a couple of days in a row wherein I had the distinct pleasure of not only being unable to sleep, fat and cankled to the max, but also leaking fluid while walking around such places as Home Depot and Albertsons. It's lovely to wet yourself in public. This caused my first meltdown of the pregnancy, which I think is pretty good at seven months. And don't think Lentil won't pay for this down the road sometime.

Anyhow, the doctor did all her poking and prodding and everything is fine. The cool thing was that because I'm so old and the leaking of certain things is a bad thing, they sent me for another ultrasound.

The technician remembered me as half of "the fun couple with the smirking baby" and once she assured me all was well in utero she said she wanted to look at the baby's face again to see if it was still smiling because she never sees that in the womb. Mind you this meant switching over to the $400 per minute 4D imaging machine but she said she wouldn't bill us for it. Way cool to have a lab tech who not only remembers you but is willing to use the expensive equipment because she thinks your baby is cute. I told her I hope the kid isn't too cute because I want it to be nerdy and join band or Academic Decathlon or something. I guess not many folks in Bakersfield have such aspirations for their progeny. Go figure.

Anyhow, Lentil has grown considerably since the last look, and now he/she has some serious cupids bow-pouty lips:
Of course, Lentil was frowning a bit at first. The technician commented on it and said she didn't expect to see another smile as she'd never seen the same baby smile twice in the womb. Overachiever that Lentil is destined to become, he/she immediately smiled for us:
I just hope it's an indication of things to come for little Lentil.

Lentil's First Dodger Game/Fun Things to Do when you're preggo #4

2007-08-06T14:13:00.000-07:00

Headed down to Chavez Ravine to introduce Lentil to the sounds of America's game on Sunday and learned that it's not just fat men in Pittsburgh that can utilize their gargantuan bellies to show their team spirit, we preggos can do it too:
Nothing says "GO BLUE!!!" quite like a big white belly emblazoned with the letters LA. It also leads to many comments about what great parents we will be and how we are already raising our child right. A special thanks to Melon who finally got to put that art degree to work on the canvas that is my belly. I'm sure the Art Institute is proud and will be featuring this in their alumni update.

One thing I did learn at the game is that $6 Dodger Dogs are only palatable after drinking at least three $11 beers. If you just have one with a Coke, they are awful so I would recommend foregoing the infamous dog unless sufficiently inebriated with watered down beer.

Of course, seeing as how this was Lentil's first Dodger game, we had to get him/her a souvenir t-shirt. And seeing as how I'm twisted and feeling maternal but couldn't find my old Cabbage Patch Kid, I decided to have my dog, Riley, model it for you. Good thing she's a perfect size 6-9 months:

A baby shower, hasher style

2007-07-31T12:15:00.001-07:00

Headed down to Santa Barbara this weekend for my first baby shower as hosted by good friend SC. Here's a pic of SC and me.
She's happy because she finally has a flatter stomach than me and has had about 14 shots of tequila at this point. I'm happy because I knew she'd feel miserable in the morning.

The baby shower was great. We scored lots of great loot for Lentil Bean - from clothes to books to a playpen to toys. Awesome and thanks to all who attended. Those who attended also scored in the form of numerous of pomegranate martinis, high end margaritas and beers. They say you should get your child accustomed to the sounds it will hear in its first months out of the womb and it's safe to say Lentil will definitely be used to the sounds of drunken revelry. It should prepare Lentil for a future that involves uncles who feel comfortable cross-dressing. Yes, this man was at the shower and provided a lovely outfit (gender neutral) and some baby toiletries for young Lentil:Of course, he wasn't dressed like that at the shower. He was playing a part at the hash run we went to after the shower. No, I didn't run, I walked - as did most of the shower attendees. Well, they more likely stumbled but it was fun nonetheless.

Of course, with my cankles and gigantic feet I had to get some new shoes the day before the run. For those of you that don't know what happens when you wear new shoes to a hash event, it means you are ostracized and then forced to drink beer out of those new shoes. Seeing as how I couldn't drink beer and SC felt compelled to tell on me for wearing new shoes (thinking Q would have to drink for me but forgot shoes come in pairs), she and Q earned the privilege of each drinking from one of my shoes. Thanks guys!
Speaking of Q, here he is proudly pointing to his handy work. I look tired because I just lugged an extra 30 pounds up a hill with me in the heat and could only drink water at the top.
And per your many requests, here's a nice profile of me and Lentil at seven months of sharing the same body. Yep, it's quite obvious I'm pregnant these days.

Not sure where Lentil thinks he or she will be finding more real estate between now and October.

And yes, I'll post more pictures now that the real fun has begun in the form of weekly expansion. Other than being somewhat uncomfortable and bulky, I feel fine and Lentil is destined to be a cage fighter based on how often I am kicked and punched.

Fun things to do when you're pregnant #3

2007-07-19T17:02:00.001-07:00

Go to a beach in a bikini. This works particularly well if you are extremely pale, that way others can bask in the reflection off your belly once they regain their sight. One tip, though: have your significant other dig a hole in the mid-towel range so you can lie on your belly. You can roll over when unsuspecting people walk by and scare them. This is even more fun if there are preteen boys around to scar for life.

Fun things to do when you're pregnant #2

2007-07-11T09:20:00.001-07:00

I'm learning that now that I look pregnant people look at me differently. Lots of folks ask if it's a boy or girl, when due, etc., so at least now I look pregnant rather than just like I was putting on the pounds.

So yesterday Q called me at work and asked me to pick up some beer on the way home. I didn't think twice and waddled on into the local grocery store, grabbed a 12 pack of Sam Adams, then grabbed a pack of marked down 4th of July cupcakes and headed to the express check out. I didn't consider how this looked until the checker asked if I was planning a wild night while glaring at me and my belly. The only thing that would have made the moment more entertaining is if I'd have asked for a pack of Marlboro's to go with it. And yes, I was wearing flip flops and a tank top to add to the look.

Next time I'll have to get some hard liquor too.

Lentil's First Smirk

2007-07-10T13:45:00.001-07:00

I know, I know...It's been a while. What can I say? I've been busy getting to know my husband (who just returned from 9 weeks in Europe) and growing a baby. It's a difficult transition for a confirmed bachelorette. Think about it, not only am I married, I'm getting fat and I can't drink!!! That's like a triple dose of life. Note to readers: Only try this at home if you have a sense of humor and are willing to waddle on cankles for months.

We had our ultrasound last week. Technology is crazy. They now have 4 dimensional imaging that allows you to see everything - even the four chambers of the heart (which Lentil has despite certain transgressions by her mother in Berlin). Everything is fine and Lentil is either bigger than usual for six months or I'm a week ahead of the game. I'm hoping for the latter because I'm scared to death of popping out a baby.

Anyhow, here's a typical ultrasound shot of Lentil in profile:
My mom thinks he/she looks like Bob Hope with that big forehead (from my side of the family) and ski slope nose (from ??? side of the family).

And here's the money shot. We were looking at Lentil's little face (at 1.5 pounds total it couldn't be that big - that's how amazing the technology is) and her/his mouth was a straight line, then, like she knew we were watching, she smirked:

See the upturned corners of the mouth? I must say she's pretty cute and now I can't get that little face out of my head. I say she because I hope for a girl. Face it, they just have cuter stuff. But just so you all know - we are one of the 7% of couples who decided not to find out what the baby is (the ultrasound tech was astonished we looked away and didn't crack). We figure this whole thing has been a surprise so why not let Lentil shock us one more of what will no doubt be many times. Besides, this way Q gets to rush out of the delivery room and proudly announce, "It's a .....!!!"

Lentil's First Sex Show

2007-06-03T17:16:00.001-07:00

After a couple fo days in exciting Rheine I hopped on a train and headed down to Kaiserslautern to see my old friend A and her family. I've know A since the 11th grade and she joined the Air Force a year after I joined the Navy. She stayed in and has been stationed in Germany for about four years. I hadn't seen her in about three so it was pretty fun hanging out and seeing her and her four kids for a couple of days. I sure wish I'd visited before I got knocked up, though. Visiting a house with four kids ages 8 months to 14 years is the best birth control in the world!!!

After a couple of days hanging out in Kaiserslautern we ditched the kids and A and her husband and I drove up to Amsterdam to meet Q for Memorial Day weekend. If you've never been to Amsterdam, you should go. It's a great city to walk around, hang out with a beer or coffee at a sidewalk cafe, and just watch people. There is also a lot of culture there - the Van Gogh Museum and Rijksmuseum and all sorts of stuff to make you think if that's what you're into.

Of course, we weren't into thinking so we met up with Q (who was working on worsening his gout), grabbed dinner and headed for the famous Red Light District. Here's a picture of Lentil on her first trip to the district, isn't it cute?With daylight fading and all of my traveling companions sufficiently lubricated, we perused the streets of the red light district in search of a live sex show. You don't have to look far as there are salesmen outside every show trying to get you to come in to see the show. My favorite guy had an auctioneer-like quality about him when he rattled off the contents of his show in under 3 seconds: "F******, sucking, smoking, blowjobs, banana, 25 euros, 2 euro beers." Seriously, say it 10 times fast out loud in a nasaly voice with a Dutch accent and you'll get the picture. A found the guy less than charming so we moved on until Q recognized the glowing pink elephant that signifies the most popular live sex show in the red light district. Of course, there was a line outside and it was 15 Euros more than the auctioneer's place but we went in anyhow. After about a 20 minute wait we got in to the show. A wanted to sit in the very front row. If you know A, you know there's no point arguing with her when she's sober, let alone drunk. So I headed to the front row with my three drunk companions. The front row was so close that our knees were literally up against the stage.

There's a reason no one sits in the front row at a sex show: It's gross in the TMI, holy-cow-I-didn't-know-they-came-like-that kind of way. Everything is happening just a foot or two in front of you, right at eye level, and you can practically smell the latex. And let me tell you, the beautiful people of the world are for some reason not drawn to live sex performances as a career. Their parachute color is not red...

In case you don't know what goes on in a sex show, there are several "acts" wherein the performers do various things from smoking cigars to chopping bananas to shooting ping pong balls and making change with their body parts, in addition to more conventional heterosexual sex with men with enormous genitalia that will make all audience members seem inadequate, a smattering of oral sex, and an occassion lesbian encounter. Literally something for everyone. Each act lasts about the length of one song and involves some dancing or attempt at role play to give it some substance. After all, we all want our live sex to be meaningful, don't we?

We eventually gained entrance and walked in on the first act which was basically a stoic-looking woman playing with a light-up dildo. Nothing too special so I spent much of my time just watching the bed spin on stage and noting the shoddy appearance of things, contemplating what diseases I might be contracting but then deciding the cigarette smoke had no doubt asphexiated any living organism in the place. You have to remember that I was completely sober, it was late, and Lentil was present. Not exactly how you want to be when some one is playing with a glow stick a few feet in front of you.

After the first act Q and I were discussing moving back a row or two when, I'm not kidding here, the Batman theme song started playing. In case you don't remember, there has been a Batman theme in my life for sometime. Click here, here, here, and here for a refresher on past references to Batman on this blog.

So the Batman theme starts playing, the original TV one, and a large black man in a mask, cape, buttless chaps, and what appeared to be a faded Batman logo half-shirt came prancing across the stage in search of the woman who was presumably his catwoman for the night. Q and I looked at eachother and just laughed. What are the odds we would pick a sex show in Amsterdam featuring Dutch Black Porno Batman (DBPB)? I wish I could have taken my camera in. Even better was the fact that DBPB has his arse pointed directly at our friend B, who's face was approximately two feet away from said cheeks whilst DBPB received fellatio from a Catwoman that spent much of the act yawning and rolling her eyes waiting for her shift to end. I was quite impressed when Catwoman laid on the rotating bed giving DBPB a BJ while he sidestepped around with the bed. They must have worked on that one a while.

Soon after DBPB we saw a woman smoke a cigar with her hoo ha while laying back on the spinning bed in the middle of the stage. She blew rings and everything but looked incredibly bored with the whole thing. I wondered what her OBGYN might think when he discovers she's got nicotine-related cancer cells in her cervix?

Q and I eventually moved back a ways. A and B sat gape-mouthed, apparantly enjoying the show. To me it was boring, mechanical, and not the least bit enjoyable. One act had two people having sex and changing positions to the beat of the music. It was like dancercize mixed with sex and if you listened you knew they at least had rhythm. Later some girl came out with a guy in a monkey suit but didn't even do the banana trick. What a rip off!

Q and I had seen enough and headed back to the hotel. It was about 2 am. A and B didn't get back until about 4 am and later reported enjoying the show very much. Different strokes...

Note to readers: Do not sit in the front row of a live sex show stone cold sober while pregnant. It might make you question your abilities as a parent.

The next couple of days we all slept in then Q and I hit the Van Gogh Museum (all the good stuff is out on loan to other museums!) and the Rijksmuseum (under construction with only 10% of exhibits open), and just walked around the city. If you go, be sure to hit the Leidesplein and Centraal Plaza where there are always street performers and vendors of things unique to Amsterdam. For example, this is a lady who sold us some "original" watercolors for Lentil's bedroom. She was kind enough to tell us what she was thinking when she sold us them, and even signed and dated them for free. We were quite happy with our original work of Amsterdam street art until we saw the same painting with another vendor the next day. Watch out for her, she is a sweet talker and hangs out at Leidesplein on weekends...

We also hit Centraal Plaza, saw some Dutch breakdancers who were quite good, watched a guy juggle fire while riding a unicycle, and then I noticed this:

Yep, that's a guy dressed as The Mask in the middle of the center of Amsterdam. No, I didn't ask why. I just thought it was strange.

Oh, and if you're looking for a great hotel with an awesome location in Amsterdam, try the NH Schiller on Rembrandplein. It's on a busy square right across from the famous statues of Rembrandt's The Night Watch. Any hotel on the square would probably be cool. In fact, here's our motley crew with The Night Watch one day:I'm the short one whose pants barely fit. You know why? Because I was in denial that I am pregnant until I woke up one morning in Amsterdam and my belly had finally "popped":Seriously, I felt my ligaments stretching all day while Q and I went museum-hopping and I woke up the next morning looking pregnant. No more denial for me now...

On that note, I flew home the next day and found not only was my belly huge, I had developed cankles. I blame Q, Lentil and Batman.

Lentil's First Nightclub

2007-06-01T15:31:00.001-07:00

You know me, I like to do it right. I expect nothing less of my unborn child, Lentil Bean. This includes enjoying the nightlife and experiencing life to the fullest - even if it starts at just 16 weeks after conception.

That said I took Lentil to her (I'm thinking it's a girl) first nightclub while we were in Berlin. She really had no choice in the matter and is probably deaf as a result. During our ever-romantic honeymoon we somehow ended up being invited to a worldwide battle of the bands called Emergenza in a smallish, dank club on a sidestreet in Berlin called SO36.

We met up with Q's co-worker, L, and his two young female friends at a bar near the club for a beer before heading in and learned that one of the girls' cousins was in a band that was competing. Our job was to boo at all the other bands and raise our hands for her cousin's band, Orange Distortion so that they might win and move on to the next round of Emergenza. Here is a link to Orange Distortion's MySpace site, complete with sample songs.

The club was extremely dark and smoky and filled up quickly with lots of young Berliners. We watched a few bands, two of which sucked really bad doing something like punk-rap, and one of which I really liked that did a modified cover version of Stray Cat Strut in German. I sort of speak German so it was really interesting to listen when the songs were not mere screaming into a microphone.

While at the club I decided to treat myself (and Lentil) to a schwarzbier (black beer). One beer turned into two and then maybe a third. In my own defense we were there for hours and it sucks to be pregnant in a smoke-filled punk bar listening to young Germans rap to the beat of Metallica. So, if Lentil ever has any physical or behavioral problems Q and I intend to blame it on Berlin. And really, if you can't blame the Germans, who can you blame? :) And at least the first time we catch Lentil drinking we can tell her she really got drunk for the first time in a night club in Berlin during a punk/rap/crap music competition. How cool will that be?

After our wild night in Berlin I was feeling a bit jetlagged and Q was suffering from a beer-induced episode of gout in his big toe so we decided to head back to Rheine and relax for a day. Seriously, you can get gout by drinking too much beer. It isn't pretty and is apparantly quite painful. But it's funny when you get it from too much dark beer...

Seeing as how I'd been traveling for four days straight and Q had the gout, I figured we'd stay in bed all day but Q was restless and made me go to Bad Bentheim (aka Badmitton) for even more sightseeing and schnitzel. Actually, it's a nice town with a castle and that quaint German feel to it. Although I wouldn't recommend the curry wurst. Yech.

Here's a picture of Badmitton castle:
Especially impressive were the gardens below the castle:
Perhaps even more cool than that was that we were in Badmitton just in time for the regional go kart races:Remember go karts? Think back to a time before personal injury lawyers...I remember strapping plywood and refrigerator boxes to a couple of three inch wide plastic skateboards (the kind with see-through wheels) and barreling down the streets of Fillmore as a kid. No helmet, no shoes, no sense...Those were the days. Of course you can see that the German kids have much better engineered go karts than us scrappy Americans...Typical.

Honeymoon in East Berlin, day one

2007-05-31T17:12:00.001-07:00

I don't know about you, but for me nothing says romance quite like a weekend in the former bastion of all things grey and communist. I think this piece of the Berlin Wall appropriately sums up the mere thought of spending one's honeymoon in Berlin:A few weeks after we got married, Q fled the homestead for a two-0month work assignment in Rheine, Germany. I went to visit a couple of weeks ago. We were going to go to Prague for a long weekend, but that would entail too many train rides so we opted for Berlin instead. Note to readers considering a romantic getaway: Berlin should not be on your list.

Q had booked us a room at the Wall Strasse Park Place centrally located in former East Berlin on Wall Strasse (Wall Street). I'm sure you've all heard of the famous East Berlin Stock Exchange? Yes, they are right up there with NASDAQ.

So the hotel took it's location quite seriously. When we checked in there was a huge mural of men in suits catching U.S. dollars as they fell from the sky. We laughed and wondered how such a place got a four star rating.

After checking in we followed the stock ticker carpet (I am not kidding - it was grey with stock market abbreviations and numbers all down the halls) to our room where we found a lovely money theme waiting in our honeymoon suite. Check out the huge dollar bill rug. Again, nothing says happy honeymoon like walking across George Washington's face to get to the bathroom:
But wait, it gets better. The interior decorator really embraced the theme of money and added the lovely touch of having a quote about money written in four languages above the bed:In case you can't read it, it says "Buy stocks and go to sleep for a long time." Now if that doesn't put you in the mood, I don't know what will...

Enough on the accomodations, on to Berlin. We spent our first day walking around the entire city. I wanted to see Checkpoint Charli e, maybe even get a picture of myself running through or past it, right? News flash: Checkpoint Charlie has been removed. There is now a museum for it on the corner of the intersection that replaced it where you can see pictures of the Checkpoint and read about it, but that's it. It was pretty disappointing to see that the biggest crossing area had been dismantled and replaced by none other than a Starbucks (on the former west side, of course). Here's Q taking a picture of some tourists in front of the checkpoint museum while I take a picture of him taking a picture and the Starbucks in the back:Seemed funny at the time. Next we headed up toward the famous Brandenburg Gate, the former formal entry point into the city of Berlin:

Look closely at the picture. See that guy in the white jacket with a hat? See what looks like ears behind him? That's a guy dressed in a bear suit getting paid to take pictures with tourists in front of the gate. I guess he's supposed to be the Berlin Bear, which are sold everywhere but really just seem to be teddy bears in Berlin t-shirts.

The chariot on top of the gate is called a quadriga, and Berlin's is very famous. I zoomed in for a closer shot and think the horses on top look a little crazed if you ask me...Check out those nostrils and eyes!!!
We walked a bit more, using the famous Victory Column, with Golden Lizzy on top, as a guidepost and kept ending up back at the same place, in the middle of an intersection. The sad thing about Berlin is that most of it's historic stuff was destroyed during the war. Then it was all separated by the wall and one side started to restore while the other built over. This results in reconstructed historic buildings next to modern, or not-so-modern, high rises and kind of destroys the feel that you want in a historical city. Where was I? Oh yeah, here's the column:
Golden Lizzy kind of reminds me of Moroni of Mormon cultural significance. I feel sorry for the poor guy who has to polish Lizzy. Someone must because she sure is shiny. I think she should hook up with Moroni sometime:
Speaking of religion, did you know that Scientology is banned as a religion in Germany? Here's a quote from the Scientology vs. Germany website about it:

The German Federal Government maintains that Scientology is an organization which has primarily economical interests. This idea has been reinforced by a ruling of the Federal Labour court (which is not connected to the government in any way). After having reviewed several Scientology books, the judges concluded that Scientology is not a religion, but a commercial enterprise.

Furthermore, the German government maintains that Scientology tries to distribute its ideas as widely as possible, ideally leading to a society where humans life together according to Scientology rules. A closer look at Hubbard's writings shows that this is not desirable since Scientology is structured in a totalitarian, anti-democratic fashion.

No, I didn't know about this until I spoke with a German friend. He was surprised to learn that I had snapped this shot of none other than a multi-lingual Dianetics display at a bookstore just down the street from the Hard Rock Cafe in Berlin itself:
Score one for the commercial enterprise that is organized religion.

Next up: Going to a German nightclub while pregant.

Three things I never thought I'd do that are guaranteed to shock you

2007-03-20T08:05:00.000-07:00

1. ATTEND A HASH EVENT SOBER

Yes, I attended the entire 2007 Betty Ford Rehab Hash without imbibing an ounce of alcohol. In case you've forgotten what Betty Ford is, it's that wonderous weekend each year wherein hordes of somewhat disturbed hashers converge upon the sleepy town of Palm Springs, California to run through the streets in lingerie. This was my fourth year making the pilgrimmage and the first time I spent the entire weekend sober. The good thing is that I had my faculties intact and was able to document the event with my digital camera.

Imagine watching these two swing at 1:00 am in an American Legion Hall while completely sober:

Yes, I had to do a double-take on that one too. For those of you ready to be scarred for life, here's the frontal view:I'm not sure which was more frightening either.

Of course, I took my new boyfriend, Q, to Betty Ford with me. I wasn't sure how Q would fare as we'd only been to two rather mellow hash runs together but all my fears were quelled the minute we stepped into Mervyn's in search of plus-size lingerie and he exclaimed that there were no good panties in 2X that I'd found a keeper. In fact, it took him longer to choose his lingerie than it did me. He was torn between the leopard print and a lovely floral with lace. He also noted that next year he'd start shopping earlier. In the end he even borrowed my red feather boa. I was quite proud and as a display of my devotion to him allowed him to borrow my sacred hash mug. Anyone who is a hasher knows this is very symbolic and a sign of complete trust. If you don't understand why, ask MM what happened at the campout when he lost his mug...

One great thing about the weekend was that Q got along well with all my friends. Here he is with BH of Santo Barbara. I'm not sure what they are doing either:
And here he is with BH of blogging fame:
Enough on that, Betty Ford sober was still fun and I certainly got a different perspective on all the excitement that goes on. So, on to the second thing I never thought I'd do:

2. SEE TWO LINES ON A PREGNANCY TEST.

Yes, that means what you think it means. Don't worry, it's not yours. It's Q's and we're pretty darned excited. Shocked beyond belief, but at the same time thrilled beyond comparison. I'm still processing the fact that we are going to be parents and that all these incredible things are going on inside of me. I hear payback is terrible so I'm expecting a wild and unruly child, most likely prone to cross-dressing and mouthing off. Hopefully Q's angelic past will counter some of my youthful indiscretions and the child, currently called Lentil Bean, because that's the size he or she was when we found out, will turn out healthy and well-balanced despite having us as parents. I'm still trying to find the right words to explain this to Lentil when he or she grows up:Any suggestions are greatly appreciated. And finally, thing number three I never thought I'd do is:

3. TIE THE KNOT.

We're getting married. This week. Sunday the 25th to be exact.

Yes, my father is polishing his shotgun. Of course, at our first dinner with my folks after finding out we are pregnant my father had his shotgun on the table the whole time. It was quite amusing.

When you think about it, this is the only way it could happen for a girl like me. Luckily, it happened with the best man I've ever been lucky enough to date and I thank the powers that be for stepping in before I could manage to mess things up.

Winter in the mountains

2007-03-03T15:33:00.000-08:00

I know, I know...It's been a while. In fact, MB called to harass me about it today. What can I say? It's been cold outside, I've been busy, and life is changing before my eyes.

Still, I had to get the Nardcore pictures off the top of the blog so now you've got one of my view from the kitchen last week. Hope you like it.

In the meantime, I'm preparing for the Orange County Hash House Harriers' annual Betty Ford Rehab Run that's in Palm Springs next weekend. For a refresher on what it is, click here for the 2006 recap, complete with those lovely photos of men in green lycra. Don't worry, I'm already charging my camera battery for this year's event...

French fries, pizza, and M(ac)oroni...

2007-02-06T14:12:00.000-08:00

Well I guess it's been about three weeks since I returned from my first ski excursion, which was also my first trip to Utah. It was also my first multi-day trip with the new beau. Lots of firsts for a gal like me. That means a long post for you. At least there are pictures...

So Q and I were to meet up with J, R, B, D, and E in Salt Lake City on a Saturday evening to occupy what would be our ski condo for the week. We flew while all the others drove in because Q had to leave for Iowa mid-trip and I abhor a long ride home. We also decided it would be fun to arrive early and meet my friend H, who lives in Salt Lake City and is a real, live Mormon, and hang out with her for the day while the others were stuck in a truck for 10 hours.

H picked us up at the airpoer and the three of us decided to tour Temple Square, the heart of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, aka Mormonism. H is active in the church but not in that ride-your-bike-around-and-convert-folks kind of way and was more than happy to take the guided tour with us and show us around her town. Thanks H!

Our tour of Temple Square was led by two very nice young ladies on their respective missions on assignment at the world LDS headquarters. One was from Arizona and the other from Australia and they were quite entertaining and fun. I would highly suggest that if you are in Salt Lake, you hit the square and take a tour as it is a) free, b) very informative, and c) not preachy in the least, except when you have to sit quietly as a statue of Jesus speaks to you. That was a bit uncomfortable, especially because he sounded a bit swishy.

For someone like me, who is about as non-religious as they come, it was quite amazing and gave me some insight into how the religion (or any religion for that matter) was established. Here is what I learned from the tour: A blonde and blue Native American angel named Moroni who was fleeing religious prosecution buried some gold plates with inscriptions on them in New York around the time of Jesus (or shortly thereafter). Then, in the early 1800's Moroni came back as an angel and visited Joseph Smith in his bedroom in Palmyra, New York (naturally) and told him to go dig up the gold tablets on The Hill Cumorah. Good old Joe did, then he somehow figured out how to translate them and that became The Book of Mormon. Smith then told his buddy he would not be allowed into the Kingdom of Heaven unless he paid to have the book published. Smith knew this because he was a latter day prophet who received revalations from god (including the one about polygamy). The friend paid for the publishing, found an extra wife or two, and LDS was formed. Some other stuff happened along the way and about 50 years later the Mormons ended up in Utah with Brigham Young (another prophet) as their leader.

When they got to Utah they built this modest temple, now known as Assembly Hall:
It took them three years to build it. Mind you, this was in 1877 so you know they were working pretty hard! That fountain has seagulls on top. The seagull is the state bird of Utah, which I find kind of amusing. You can go inside the church and it is quite nice. The benches are made of pine but the early Mormons handpainted the pine to look like oak because oak was more impressive.

After that temple was finished, Mr. Young decided they need a bigger one so they started building what is now know as the Salt Lake Temple:
Yes, it's quite impressive. It should be, it took them 40 years to complete it. It's more than 250,000 square feet and its walls are nine feet thick. Nope, you're not allowed in unless you are an active member of the LDS church. Even my friend H had not kept up her Mormon card and so would not be allowed in. Incidentally, that little gold man at the top to the left is the angel Moroni and he's on top of most, or maybe all, LDS temples.

Finally, on the LDS thing, that dome in the middle is the world famous Tabernacle where young boys sing. It is under renovation so we couldn't go inside.
After our tour of the Mormon center of the world, we headed to one of my favorite temples, Barnes and Noble, and drank coffee while pretending to read books that we had no intention of purchasing.

Everyone eventually arrived and we all ate, drank and were merry. We then played some card games, including a rousing game of spoons. Think musical chairs with drunk adults, spoons and cards. Basically, there is one fewer spoon than people and everyone is trying to get matching cards. The first person to get four of a kind grabs a spoon. This prompts everyone else to grasp a spoon and the person left empty-handed gets a letter. When you get enough letters to spell "SPOONS" you're out. If you've ever played spoons, you know it can get ugly if you're fighting over the last spoon.

So we were playing and I had a SPOO when I caught the short end of a spoon handle of which B had the actual spoon part. B is a fit firefighter and we were wrestling over the spoon. He was on his back and I was on top of him on my back with my left hand bent back trying to steal the spoon. Knowing I was outpowered, I created what is quite possibly the best spoon maneuver ever by taking my right hand, creeping it along B's thigh, finding his butt, and strategically placing my middle finger in a certain sensitive area. B reacted as if he'd been hit with a taser and bucked me off, spoon and all. All the witnesses agreed that there are no rules in spoons so the spoon was rightfully mine. In light of this, B soon moved to the other side of the spoon area and did not challenge me for a spoon again. Come to think of it, no one did...

The next morning was our first day skiing. Yes, I decided to try to ski because, first, Q is a skier and it would be more fun for the two of us, and second, the Outdoorspro, a ski patroller, recommended it. So off we went to Brighton Ski Resort.

We arrived at the resort and I was not feeling well at all. I had a fever, the shakes, and the general misery that is associated with the first days of the flu. Still, I went and attempted to learn to ski. Note to non-skiiers: Learning to ski while you have a fever and do not feel well sucks as there is a bit of coordination and patience involved.

Poor Q took me up the mountain and spent the next hour and a half watching me snowplow and fall down it. I was about as miserable as you can imagine. It was about 3 degrees out and all I wanted was to get to the bottom of the hill and sleep. Add to being sick the fact that schools of five and six-year old skiiers were passing me in perfect formation reciting the ski commands "pizza" and "french fries" as I lay my back wondering why my ski was above my head didn't help much either. We eventually made it down the mountain where I stayed in the lodge for several hours drinking cocoa and thinking how much skiing sucks and that I would not be back while Q (at my insistence) went off and had some fun. By later in the afternoon my fever had broken and I attempted two more runs that went a bit better but I was still shakey and not feeling well, although I did have more fun than on that first run.

The next day I was completely sick and decided to stay back at the condo to rest while everyone else went skiing. Poor Q wanted to stay back with me but I insisted he go have some fun as he is a good skiier and was leaving the next day. I slept all day. Yes, this is exciting, isn't it.

The next day was an off day so we did some ice skating because B is Canadian and wanted to show off and everyone else kind of relaxed around the house. Q left for Iowa that afternoon so I was left to watch the American Idol elimination show with the gang, once again reinforcing my belief that cable tv is worthless.

By the fifth day I was feeling better and headed back up the hill to Solitude Ski Resort. For my first run of the day R and J were kind enough to take me up the Eagle Express to the top of an "advanced" blue run. This included a long downhill with a lodge at the bottom of the big hill. There was no way down other than on those two things attached to my feet so with R prompting me with commands of "snow plow" (pizza) and "go straight" (french fries) I started down the mountain. I lost my skis a few times, ended up in the moguls once or twice, and learned that I had not yet mastered the skill of turning left. Of course, that was nice for my friends as they could watch me do this:

And this:All the way down. Note to future skiiers: Do not take a blue run if a) You cannot turn right and there are moguls to the right; b) There is an area at the bottom for people to congregate to laugh at you; and c) It is your first real attempt to ski. Then again, after that nothing was intimidating and by the afternoon I was up and skiing like a pro (or not...):
All in all it was a great trip and I learned that I can ski better when not running a fever, Q and I get along great, I have good friends who don't mind a little poke in the arse over a spoon on occassion, and that if you watch 24 and have to drink whenever someone says "Jack" it can be quite entertaining.

They all look alike anyhow...

2007-01-09T17:25:00.000-08:00

Went to Vegas last weekend. Nope, it wasn't quite as eventful as my last trip to Sin City. In fact, it was rather pleasant not to lose my sunglasses in a toilet while vomiting and then be tasked with retrieving tons of rib bones from the Golden Nugget hallway at 4 am. It may have been more tame because I was there with my new beau, we were there with other people not so enthusiastic about abusing their livers as MM and RMA, and we had to attend a wedding.

We stayed on the strip at New York, New York - a lovely establishment that really is a city unto itself. If you go to Vegas and are near the strip I highly recommend going on the Manhattan Express Roller Coaster at NY, NY. It is way cool, complete with corkscrew, loop, and huge drop. What I do not recommend is eating at the Chinese restaurant in NY, NY. Here's a picture of the restaurant:
It's not that the food is bad, it's that the translation is bad and I about died laughing when I saw the sign. The reason? "Chin chin", while a toast in Chinese, means penis in Japanese. If you don't believe me, check out this definition.

I love when that sort of thing happens. I wonder if the NY, NY folks know they have a penis restaurant in their casino. Good thing it's across the way from a hot dog stand...

Also of note on the trip was our late night cab ride home from the Orleans casino on Saturday. Q and I were fortunate enough to land the most racist cab driver in Vegas: Las Vegas Lou. Upon entering the cab, the shaking octagenarian told us "If I don't make you laugh, you pay half." He then proceeded to tell us approximately 14 jokes explaining the difference between various races/religions and African Americans (although he used a less PC word). Q and I were extremely shocked and didn't know what to do. Still, one of the jokes stayed in my mind because I really hadn't heard anyone tell a joke about Samoans before. I'll tell the joke using hashers as a less-than-desirable race:

What do you get when you cross a Samoan and a hasher?
Samoa hashers. (pronounced "Some more hashers").

Yes, it was bad. Note to travelers to Vegas: Do not eat at the penis restaurant and do not enter a cab with an old guy named Lou.

I said a hip hop, a hippity hop...

2007-01-04T11:39:00.000-08:00

I am not ashamed to admit there was a time when I would don my hot pink parachute pants with black zippers, braid my tail, lay out some cardboard in the living room, have my mulleted friend push play on the boom box, and attempt to breakdance. During this time I thought I was cool. I would "pop" and "break" and call people out on the dance floor for dance-offs the likes of which Dance Revolution could never fathom. Come on, you know you remember Breakin' and Breakin' 2 - Electric Boogaloo. Those were the days.

What spurred that 80's movement of bad acrobatics, head spins, and spastic gyrations was a little ditty called The Rapper's Delight by the Sugarhill Gang - three guys from New York who sang of the hippity hop, Lincoln Continentals, freaking you here and there, scooby doo, Imp the Dimp (the ladies pimp), Superman's tights, keepin' on rockin' to the beat, Perry Mason, and, my personal favorite, the need for late night Kaopectate. How could they not go platinum with lyrics like those and a following of little white children dressed like Michael Jackson spinning on cardboard to their cassette tapes?

Flash forward 23 years to karaoke night at Domingo's Mexican Restaurant in Tehachapi wherein your friend and previous breakdancing fool, Glib Gal, decided it would be a good idea to sing Rapper's Delight to a crowd of Kern County cowboys after a margarita-induced flashback to her 80's days as an aspiring professional breakdancer. For those of you who might have forgotten the original rap song, or it's great length and lack of a refrain, imagine a 34-year old woman of Irish descent attempting to sing these words at warp speed:

(Wonder Mike)
I said a hip, a hop, the hippie, the hippie
To the hip hip hop, a you dont stop
The rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie
To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat
Now what you hear is not a test - I'm rappin to the beat
And me, the groove, and my friends are gonna try to move your feet
Ya see: I am Wonder Mike and I like to say hello
To the black, to the white, the red, and the brown, the purple and yellow
But first I gotta bang bang the boogie to the boogie
Say up jump the boogie to the bang bang boogie
Let's rock, you don't stop
Rock the rhythm that will make your body rock
Well, so far you've heard my voice but I brought two friends along
And next on the mike is my man Hank:
Come on, Hank, sing that song

(Performed by Big Bank Hank but written by Grandmaster Caz)
Check it out, I'm the C-A-S, an' the O-V-A
And the rest is F-L-Y
Ya see: I go by the code of the doctor of the mix
And these reasons I'll tell ya why
Ya see: I'm six foot one and I'm tons of fun
And I dress to a T
Ya see: I got more clothes than Muhammad Ali and I dress so viciously
I got bodyguards, I got two big cars
That definitely ain't the wack
I got a Lincoln Continental and a sunroof Cadillac
So after school, I take a dip in the pool
Which is really on the wall
I got a color TV, so I can see
The Knicks play basketball
Hear me talkin bout checkbooks, credit cards
More money than a sucker could ever spend
But I wouldn't give a sucker or a bum from the rucker
Not a dime til I made it again
Ya go: Hotel, Motel, whatcha gonna do today? (say what?)
Ya say: I'm gonna get a fly girl, gonna get some spankin,
Drive off in a def O.J.
Everybody go: Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn
Say: If your girl starts acting up, then you take her friend
Master Gee, am I mellow?
It's on you so what you gonna do?

(Master Gee)
Well it's on n on n on on n on
The beat don't stop until the break of dawn
I said M-A-S, T-E-R, a G with a double E
I said I go by the unforgettable name
Of the man they call the Master Gee
Well, my name is known all over the world
By all the foxy ladies and the pretty girls
I'm goin down in history
As the baddest rapper there ever could be
Now I'm feelin the highs and ya feelin the lows
The beat starts gettin into your toes
Ya start poppin ya fingers and stompin your feet
And movin' your body while you're sittin in your seat
And then: Damn! Ya start doin the freak
I said: Damn! Right outta your seat
Then ya throw your hands high in the air
Ya rockin to the rhythm, shake your derriere
Ya rockin to the beat without a care
With the sureshot MC:s for the affair
Now, I'm not as tall as the rest of the gang
But I rap to the beat just the same
I got a little face and a pair of brown eyes
All I'm here to do ladies is hypnotize
Singin on n n on n on n on
The beat don't stop until the break of dawn
Singin on n n on n on on n on
Like a hot buttered a pop da pop da pop dibbie dibbie
Pop da pop pop ya don't dare stop,
Come alive y'all - gimme what ya got
I guess by now you can take a hunch
And find that i am the baby of the bunch
But that's okay - I still keep in stride
Cause all I'm here to do is just wiggle your behind
Singin on n n on n on n on
The beat don't stop until the break of dawn
Singin on n n on n on on n on
Rock rock y'all, throw it on the floor
I'm gonna freak ya here, I'm gonna freak ya there
I'm gonna move you outta this atmosphere
Cause I'm one of a kind and I'll shock your mind
I'll put tic-tic-tickets in your behind
I said 1-2-3-4, come on girls get on the floor
A-come alive y'all, a-gimme what ya got
Cause I'm guaranteed to make you rock
I said 1-2-3-4 tell me Wonder Mike what are you waitin for?

(Wonder Mike)
I said a hip hop, the hippie to the hippie
The hip hip hop, a you dont stop
The rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie
To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat
Skidelee beebop a we rock a scooby doo
And guess what America: we love you!
Cause ya rock and ya roll with so much soul,
You could rock till you're a hundred and one years old
I don't mean to brag, I don't mean to boast
But we like hot butter on our breakfast toast
Rock it up, baby bubbah
Baby bubbah to the boogie da bang bang da boogie
To the beat beat, it's so unique
Come on everybody and dance to the beat
I said a hip hop the hippie the hippie
To the hip hip hop, a you dont stop
Rock it out baby bubbah to the boogie da bang bang
The boogie to the boogie da beat
I said I can't wait til the end of the week
When I'm rappin to the rhythm of a groovy beat
And attempt to raise your body heat
Just blow your mind so that you can't speak
And do a thing but a rock and shuffle your feet
And let it change up to a dance called the freak
And when ya finally do come in to your rhythmic beat
Rest a little while so ya dont get weak
I know a man named Hank
He has more rhymes than a serious bank
So come on Hank, sing that song
To the rhythm of the boogie da bang bang da bong

(Performed by Big Bank Hank but Written by Grandmaster Caz)
Well, I'm Imp the Dimp, the ladies pimp
The women fight for my delight
But I'm the grandmaster with the three MC:s
That shock the house for the young ladies
And when you come inside, into the front
You do the freak, spank, and do the bump
And when the sucker MC:s try to prove a point
We're a treacherous trio, we're the serious joint
From sun to sun and from day to day
I sit down and write a brand new rhyme
Because they say that miracles never cease
I've created a devastating masterpiece
I'm gonna rock the mike til you can't resist
Everybody! I say it goes like this:
Well I was comin home late one dark afternoon
Reporter stopped me for a interview
She said she's heard stories and she's heard fables
That I'm vicious on the mike and the turntables
This young reporter I did adore
So I rocked a vicious rhyme like i never did before
She said "Damn, fly guy! I'm in love with you!
The Casanova legend must have been true!"
I said "By the way baby, what's your name?"
She said "I go by the name of Lois Lane,
And you could be my boyfiend, you surely can
Just let me quit my boyfriend called Superman"
I said "He's a fairy, I do suppose -
Flyin through the air in pantyhose
He may be very sexy or even cute
But he looks like a sucker in a blue and red suit!"
I said "You need a man who's got finesse
And his whole name across his chest
He may be able to fly all through the night
But can he rock a party til the early light?
He can't satisfy you with his little worm
But I can bust you out with my super sperm"
I go: Do it! I go: Do it! I go: Do it, do it, do it!
And I'm here, and I'm there, I'm Big Bank Hank, I'm everywhere
Just throw your hands up in the air
And party hardy like you just don't care
Let's do it, don't stop y'all, a-tick-a-tock y'all, you don't stop
I go: Hotel, Motel, whatcha gonna do today? (Say what?)
I'm gonna get a fly girl, gonna get some spank, drive off in a def O.J.
Everybody go: Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn
You say: If your girl starts actin up, then you take her friend
I say skip, dive, what can I say?
I can't fit em all inside my O.J.
So I just take half and bust them out
I give the rest to Master Gee, so he could shock the house

(Master Gee)
It was twelve o'clock one Friday night
I was rockin to the beat, and feelin all right
Everybody was dancin on the floor
Doin' all the things they never did before
And then this fly fly girl with a sexy lean
She came into the bar, she came into the scene
As she traveled deeper inside the room
All the fellas checked out her white sassoon
She came up to the table, looked into my eyes
Then she turned around and shook her behind
So I said to myself, "It's time for me to release
My vicious rhyme, I call my masterpiece"
And now people in the house, this is just for you
A little rap to make you boogaloo
Now the group ya hear is called Phase Two
And let me tell ya somethin: we're a helluva crew
Once a week we're on the street
Just a-cuttin' the jams and making it free
For you to party ya got to have the moves
So we'll get right down and give you the groove
For you to dance you gotta be hype
So we'll get right down and make you rock
Now the system's on and the girls are there
Ya definitely have a rockin affair
But let me tell ya somethin there's still one fact:
That to have a party, ya got to have a rap
So when the party's over, you're makin it home
And tryin' to sleep before the break of dawn
And while ya sleepin' ya start to dream
And thinkin' how ya danced on the disco scene
My name appears in your mind
Yeah, a name you know that was right on time
It was Phase Two just a doin a do
Rockin' ya down cause ya know we could
To the rhythm of the beat that makes ya freak
Come alive girls, get on your feet
To the rhythm of the beat to the beat the beat
To the double beat beat that it makes ya freak
To the rhythm of the beat that says ya go on
On n on into the break of dawn
Now I got a man comin on right now
He's guaranteed to throw down
He goes by the name of Wonder Mike
Come on Wonder Mike, do what ya like

(Wonder Mike)
I say: A can of beer that's sweeter than honey,
Like a millionaire that has no money,
Like a rainy day that is not wet,
Like a gambling fiend that does not bet,
Like Dracula without his fangs,
Like the boogie to the boogie without the boogie bang,
Like collard greens that don't taste good,
Like a tree that's not made out of wood,
Like goin up and not comin down,
Is just like the beat without the sound no sound
To the beat beat, ya do the freak
Everybody just rock and dance to the beat
Have you ever went over a friend's house to eat
And the food just ain't no good?
I mean the macaroni's soggy, the peas are mushed
And the chicken tastes like wood
So you try to play it off like you think you can
By sayin' that you're full
And then your friend says: "Momma, he's just being polite
He ain't finished - uh uh, that's bull!"
So your heart starts pumpin and you think of a lie
And you say that you already ate
And your friend says: "Man - there's plenty of food!"
So you pile some more on your plate
While the stinky foods steamin, your mind starts to dreamin
Of the moment that it's time to leave
And then you look at your plate and your chicken's slowly rottin
Into something that looks like cheese
So you say: "That's it - I got to leave this place
I don't care what these people think
I'm just sittin here makin myself nauseous
With this ugly food that stinks"
So you bust out the door while it's still closed
Still sick from the food you ate
And then you run to the store for quick relief
From a bottle of Kaopectate
And then you call your friend two weeks later
To see how he has been
And he says: "I understand about the food,
Baby bubbah, but we're still friends"
With a hip hop the hippie to the hippie
The hip hip a hop a you don't stop the rockin
To the bang bang boogie
Say up jump the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie the beat
I said: Hank? Can ya rock?
Can ya rock to the rhythm that just dont stop?
Can ya hip me to the shoobie doo?
I said: Come on make the make the people move

(Performed by Big Bank Hank but Written by Grandmaster Caz)
I go to the halls and then ring the bell
Because I am the man with the clientele
And if ya ask me why I rock so well
A big bank, I got clientele
And from the time I was only six years old
I never forgot what I was told
It was the best advice that I ever had,
It came from my wise dear old dad
He said: "Sit down punk, I wanna talk to you
And don't say a word until I'm through
Now there's a time to laugh, a time to cry
A time to live and a time to die
A time to break and a time to chill
To act civilized or act real ill
But whatever ya do in your lifetime
Ya never let a MC steal your rhyme"
So from sixty six til this very day
I'll always remember what he had to say
So when the sucker MC:s try to chump my style
I let them know that I'm versatile
I got style, finesse and a little black book
That's filled with rhymes and I know you wanna look
But there's a thing that separates you from me
And that's called originality
Because my rhymes are on from what you heard
I didn't even bite and not a god damn word
And I say a little more later on tonight
So the sucker MC:s can bite all night
A-tick-a-tock y'all, a beat beat y'all
A lets rock y'all, ya don't stop
Ya go: Hotel, Motel, whatcha gonna do today? (Say what?)
Ya say: I'm gonna get a fly girl, gonna get some spankin, drive off in a def OJ
Everybody go: Hotel Motel, Holiday Inn
Ya say: If your girl starts acting up, then you take her friends
A like that y'all to the beat y'all
Beat beat y'all ya don't stop
A Master Gee? Am I mellow?
It's on you so whatcha gonna do

(Master Gee)
Well like Johnny Carson on the late show
A like Frankie Croker in stereo
Well like The Barkays singing "Holy Ghost"
The sounds to throw down, they're played the most
It's like my man Captain Sky
Whose name he earned with his super sperm
We rock and we don't stop
Get off y'all, I'm here to give you whatcha got
To the beat that it makes you freak
And come alive girl get on your feet
A like a Perry Mason without a case
Like Farrah Fawcett without her face
Like The Barkays on the mike
Like gettin right down for you tonight
Like movin your body so ya don't know how
Right to the rhythm and throw down
Like comin alive to the Master Gee
The brother who rocks so viciously
I said the age of one my life begun
At the age of two I was doin the do
At the age of three it was you and me
Rockin' to the sounds of the Master Gee
At the age of four I was on the floor
Givin' all the freaks what they bargained for
At the age of five I didn't take no jive
With the Master Gee it's all the way live
At the age of six I was a pickin up sticks
Rappin to the beat my stick was fixed
At the age of seven I was rockin in heaven dontcha know I went off
I got right on down to the beat you see
Gettin' right on down makin all the girls
Just take off their clothes to the beat the beat
To the double beat beat that makes you freak
At the age of eight I was really great
Cause every night you see I had a date
At the age of nine I was right on time
Cause every night I had a party rhyme
Goin' on n n on n on on n on
The beat don't stop until the break of dawn
A sayin' on n n on n on on n on
Like a hot buttered de pop de pop de pop
A saying on n n on n on on n on
A rock rock y'all, gimme whatcha got
Cause I'm a helluva man when I'm on the mike
I am the definite feast delight
I'm a helluva man when I'm on the mike
I am the definate feast delight
Come and meet the Master Gee you see
The brother who rocks so viciously
I'm gonna freak you here, I'm gonna do you there
I'm gonna move you out of this atmosphere
Cos I'm on, all time, and I'll shock your mind ..... (inaudible)
Master Gee, gettin it on
Takin' all the girls
(fade out)

Yes, it's a long one with a particularly nice message for small town conservatives. And I can't even describe the continued horror the crowd felt when Q and I sang Barry Manilow's Copa Cabana later in the evening...

Note to self: Stick to Richard Marx when singing karaoke.

A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

2006-12-27T10:42:00.000-08:00

If ever you are so lucky as to find yourself in Tehachapi and on your way to Casa de Glib, you will be advised to look for this big, plastic clydesdale statue as a landmark of where to turn off the main road:Yes, it's quite impressive and tempting to the child in us all that wants to climb things because, well, it's a big plastic horse and who wouldn't want to climb a big, plastic horse? Can you see where this is going?

It just so happens that my cousin, A, was visiting last night and we decided the Tuesday after Christmas would be a fine time to visit Tehachapi's finest saloon: The Red Caboose. You may remember the Cabooty, as it is affectionately known, from a previous blog involving mojitos, a camel and bad sangria. Whenever A and I get together something that will eventually prevent me from becoming a judge is bound to happen.

A and I went to dinner then met up with my friend D and we all played pool and drank beer until they kicked us out of the Cobooty a little after midnight. As we were driving home, A spotted that big, plastic horse and felt a sudden urge to mount it. This is a common family trait and thankfully I had the foresight to suggest we drive home and get the camera before attempting such a feat. Of course, first I drunk dialed Q because I knew he had nothing better to do at 1 am than listen to two inebriated women plot the mounting of a plastic statue in the rain. We actually drove home (2.5 miles), got the camera, and drove back to the work of art. In the rain. After midnight.

So we got back to the intersection, parked and ran across the street. A flood light was on and pointing at the horse but we went through the fence anyhow, later noting we were lucky it wasn't electric, and came upon the great synthetic beast.

Problem was that it was gargantuan. A attempted to climb up on it a few times but couldn't reach that high and the horse was slippery because it was wet. Here's A looking diabolical in her Red Caboose t-shirt and plotting how to get on the horse:Somehow we came up with the bright idea that I should get on my hands and knees in the mud and she should use me as a stool. It was only after I got a bootprint on my back that I remembered the clodhopper, hard-soled boots she was wearing:Yeah, that wasn't too pleasant. And, after a couple of attempts we were both in the mud laughing because she kept falling.

Of course, quitting is not an option for us so we persisted and, after she basically climbed me to get onto the horse, success was achieved:It's a good thing we only see eachother about once a year.

On mountain rescues, beer and the media

2006-12-15T11:18:00.000-08:00

The Outdoorspro, a highly trained Oregon ski patroller, has been doing some excellent coverage on the three missing mountaineers at Mt. hood this past week and it, of course, reminded me of the time my own brother required rescue from a mountain while snowboarding.

I was sitting home in Oak View about six years ago when one of my brother's buddies showed up at my door looking quite concerned. He didn't have my phone number but knew where I lived and didn't know how to get ahold of anyone on behalf of my brother. You see, my brother had gone snowboarding with some of his buddies. One of said buddies tweaked his leg or something early in the day and decided to go down the mountain and wait for my brother and his other friend at a bar. Well, said bar-going buddy soon found himself quite drunk and went to the truck to pass out. He awoke hours later to find my brother and his friend had not yet returned and it was after dark. So he went to the bar to find them. Of course, these guys didn't have cell phones so said injured friend, upon not finding the boys at the bar, decided to sit and drink some more while waiting for them, thinking they must be elsewhere. A few drinks later he found some clarity and realized that they should've met up by then, or at least put their gear in the truck, and decided to alert authorities to the fact that the two guys were missing.

So this drunk friend tells the police he's had about nine beers while waiting for his friends who never returned from the mountain. The police write it down as the two snowboarders each had nine beers then went boarding.

In the meantime, my brother and his friend, new to the ski area, were caught in a white out at the top of a run. They met another guy who held a season pass and told them to follow him because he knew the area - right down the back of the mountain into no man's land in a white out. The three of them were lost and disoriented and it got dark so they built a snowcave under a tree, smoked some of the good stuff, and shivered the night away as they were dressed only for a day's outing. A big storm hit that night so it was pretty fun for them. The following morning they found a clearing in the woods and stayed in the open hoping someone would spot them. Eventually a rescue helicopter came and they were picked up.

Of course, this all made the local news and I have a strange last name so many people questioned me about my drunk snowboarding brother. In fact, here's the only snippet I could find about the incident on Google today:

Three Drunk Snowboards Lost at Mountain High
Three drunk snowboarders. Three drunk snowboarders. See how they flounder. See how they flounder. They all went riding at Mountain High, after 9 beers they took off to fly, out of bounds they did nearly die. Three drunk snowboarders. Roy Paul Brown, 38; John Catlan, 31; and Glib Gal's Brother, 30, were found 12 hours after they went snowboarding in an out-of-bounds area at Mountain High West.

Yeah, looks like libel to me too. If only my brother and his friends had a reputation to damage...

This is an example of how the media can distort things and make a sensationalized story out of a reasonable mishap, kind of like the Bill O'Reilly clip you can find at Outdoorspro.

As for my brother, it was later discovered that the boys had not had any beers prior to snowboarding and that the resort had failed to maintain its fencing in the area they went out of bounds at and the guy with the season pass was, in fact, stupid.

It's that time again...

2006-12-11T14:47:00.000-08:00

...Yes, it's time to have my annual shot of Jager and solicit my faithful readers and the public at large to donate to the great cause that is the Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship. Yes, the only scholarship that rewards the lowest ranking person in a respective graduating class with cold, hard cash. I told you I was glib...

Hard to believe it's been four years since my good friend Sarah passed away. Also difficult to fathom how one good person leaving your life for good can still make you think about stuff four years later.

Don't worry, the scholarship is 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

I know, I know...Everyone's asking for money this time of year. So if you don't want to give to this worthy cause, pick another one that is dear to your heart or just do something nice (as much as it hurts, this includes you, MB). Oh, and order a shot of Jager or whatever your poison is and raise a toast to good friends, fond memories, and low GPAs.

Yet another reason to hole up and become the next Unabomber

2006-12-07T23:35:00.000-08:00

Things not to do on a first date:

1. Bring flowers. It's presumptuous and premature and we really just want to decide whether we like you before we have a reminder sitting around on our dining room table. Unless you're a horticulturist or expert botanist. But if it has a pricetag on it, do not bring it.
2. Pat her on the ass. Really, this is inappropriate unless she is wearing a football jersey.
3. Tell her you're a genius. If you have to tell someone, you might be a bit shy of the necessary intelligence quotient.
4. Discuss her breasts as you stare at them. Not cool, dude, not cool. Unless she's a Hooters girl and you are visiting her at work. Then, by all means, have at it.
5. Elaborate on your connections to the Sicilian mafia in the greater Tehachapi area, or any other area for that matter. Girls really aren't into mobs and mafias.
6. Tell her how good you are in bed. If you have to tell someone, you probably aren't.
7. Begin any conversation with a sentece that contains the words "conspiracy theory". It just does not bode well and makes you seem a bit whacky rather than the pseudo-intellectual you're shooting for.
8. Perhaps most importantly, do not, under any circumstances, extoll the merits of your foreskin. We don't want to hear anything about your penis while we're trying to eat a baked potato. Really.

You may be surprised to learn that I came up with all those tips after spending just one hour with a man in Tehachapi Wednesday night.

I know what you're thinking, after last week's foray into the engineering world I would have the good sense to cancel a pending date with yet another local, and engineer to boot. Then again, if you've been reading this blog very long you know I must secretly like to suffer.

TJ is a local I'd met in town on several occassions. He had given me his number a few times, then conveniently started loitering in the vicinity of my office around lunchtime. He seemed a bit quirky but harmless so when he invited me to dinner I had no valid reason for refusing and fell back on my old rule of always giving someone a chance. I also thought I made it abundantly clear that it was just a friends thing. This is a problem we women have - we assume men get the subtle hints when really, we need to just tell them the human race would become extinct if they were the last man on earth and the fate of the world depended on our fornicating with them.

So, against my better judgment (Let's face it, if I had good judgment there wouldn't be a blog...), I accepted TJ's dinner invite on the condition that it be on a weeknight and casual. I was thinking tacos and a beer. I'm still not sure what he was thinking.

I was already regretting my decision to accept the invite when TJ showed up at my office after work with flowers and announced we'd be going to a local steakhouse (one of our allegedly finer dining establishments). I should have just said no at that point but I didn't.

We then walked to the restaurant, a few blocks from my office, and during the walk he attempted to hold my hand (another no-no when someone is not feeling your vibe). I declined that offer firmly only to be met with a pat on the arse just as we entered the restaurant. Yes, the guy actually patted me on the butt. I didn't believe it had happened because, really, who pats anyone on the butt anymore? When I realized what had happened I advised that if his hand strayed again I would clock him. Again, I should have just stopped things there and left, but there was a steak dinner involved and my refrigerator is on the fritz. I know, it seems shallow but somehow I figured there was justice in it.

He immediately ordered an expensive bottle of wine - to the tune of $70. Let me just tell you that in Tehachapi you can drink for three weeks on $70 so it was a bold move on his part. He then began discussing his mob connections, Sicilians, the fact that he can have medical marijuana, a conspiracy theory or two involving the local city council, and various other obscure stream-of-consciousness topics. I could barely keep up with the nonsense and, for the first time in my life, seriously contemplated walking out on a date. I even asked if he was on something and his conversation was rather confrontational and just plain nutty.

Then, just as I was starting to eat, he began discussing my breasts. Yes, right there at the table, with no prompting, he inquired about their cup size then elaborated on his love of breasts and went on to his own sexual prowess. I was a bit dumbfounded and nearly choked on my filet.

As usual, it gets better. Before I could interject, he explained that he was "as god made him". I didn't ask for any elaboration but he felt compelled to tell me he was uncut, and I don't mean in the censorship way. What possesses a man to describe his foreskin to a woman attempting to eat a baked potato is beyond me. It's not that I'm against foreskin, I just don't want to hear about it over our first meal together.

That was it for me. I called an end to things and told him I was about to walk out of the restaurant. He then had the gall to ask if I planned to help with the bill. I let him know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had no intention of paying for a meal I didn't ask for with a man I could barely tolerate. I made it quite clear his behavior was unacceptable.

Fortunately, in this instance, I had the good sense never to give him my real phone number. Of course, I went in to my office today to find a phone message from him saying what a wonderful time he had and asking when we could do it again.

No, I haven't called him back but I may call the pirouetting, sad sapling engineer as he's starting to look pretty good...

An engineer, a sapling and the Macarena ballet-style

2006-12-06T10:08:00.000-08:00

So I did it. I went out with <the engineer who was lurking on my MySpace page.

Really, you should feel special because I did it for the good of the blog. You know what my last date with an engineer was like. And no one could forget the original Catholic engineer. This time, though, I think I've outdone myself and that this guy was the final nail in the coffin for all engineers.

On to our story...The date was actually a double blind date with CW (the engineer), his co-worker M who I was originally to be set up with, and V, a woman from my writer's group. We were all to meet up last Tuesday night for sushi.

So after our writer's meeting, V and I headed over to the sushi bar. It was a bit awkward and, yep, you guessed it, CW, being an engineer, is not much of a conversationalist. I got the distinct feeling he had not been out in the company of a woman in a while. He spent a while discussing his job, then his recumbant bicycle, then his job, then just smiling kind of strangely across the table. There were some awkward silences (I know, it's hard to imagine that around me...), and in the end we all parted ways amicably with a standard "we'll talk again".

Flash forward a couple of days to when I opened my MySpace page to find the following e-mail from CW:

I thought you'd be interested to see what an oak sapling looks like after it has been grazed. I put a picture in my myspace profile of an oak sapling in my yard that has been severely grazed/ravaged. This happened to my tree twice in the last 2 years, both times late in the summer. It was pretty upsetting for me and I didn't buy this tree or expect to get any income from it. Both times I was surprised how severly the tree was damaged. Several branches were shortened by 2 or 3 feet and the remaining branches were also chewed on. I think my tree was set back by at least a year. I plan to enclose my tree in chicken wire before next spring. I hope this doesn't happen to your trees!

CW

Here's the picture of his sapling he put on his page just for me:That was it. No "Nice meeting you", or "I had a great time", or "Let's do it again". Not for an engineer, nope. Just an e-mail about his faltering sapling that had been overgrazed. Not sure if it was a metaphor for something else...

Note to gentlemen: If you find a girl's MySpace page and decide to lurk there until you find someone who knows her, then you are fortunate enough to get a date with her wherein she tolerates your social dysfunction, do not, under any circumstances, send her an e-mail with a picture of your dead tree.

But wait, it gets better. After our double blind date I sent a message to M letting him know I thought we had more in common and that I had no interest in CW. This led to M and I talking on the phone and eventually hanging out. M and CW's Christmas party was this past weekend and last night M showed me this video taken of none other than CW dancing the Macarena at the party. Being the evil person that I am, I decided it was so special and such a good sample of the over-40 single engineer in action that I just had to share it with you:

Apparantly CW, in addition to being a sapling connoisseur, is an accomplished former ballerina. Seriously, he used to be a ballet dancer. Note the pirouet at the beginning - a nice touch by a man dancing alone at a holiday party. No, he was not drunk. I'll give him credit for having fun and cutting loose, though.

Yes, it is hard to believe this one hasn't been caught yet.

MySpace and the over-30 non-predator

2006-11-24T11:37:00.000-08:00

A couple of months ago my good friend SC decided Santa Barbara wasn't exciting enough for her and came to the megalopolis of Tehachapi for a wild night out. Yes, she has issues but that's another story...

We did the usual...Girl talk over the best margaritas in town (Domingo's), followed by a jaywalk/run across Hwy 202, a scramble down a wall, and across the parking lot to McGuire's Pub for some pool and drinks.

As always happens when SC and I go out, we met some boys. They were cute and young (26 and 27 I think). We all got to conversing and playing doubles and somehow the topic of MySpace came up. I was shocked that SC would have a MySpace page, especially at her age (41). Both the boys we were playing pool with had them too. I, Glib Gal, not-so-famous blogger, was the only person without a MySpace page. They all had a good time making fun of me for it. I honestly thought it was only for teens and sexual predators posing as teens in hope of landing a spot on Dateline. SC claimed it was a good way to keep up with her kids (two teenagers) and find old friends from high school. Intrigued, I looked it up.

I checked around and learned that several of my friends have these pages. Never one to be left behind or mocked for not having a teeny-bopperesque website, I created a page. Don't worry, you won't find it unless you know my true identity. Yes, kind of like Batman...

Don't worry, this story is going somewhere. Really, it is.

So last week I get this e-mail from a friend from the local writer's group:

Hi someone saw your myspace page and wants to meet you. He works with K (writer's group) here is his name and number CW 8**-****, I told her to tell him your a bit busy but he'd really like to hear from you.

Mind you, I have no idea who this CW is, or how he found my MySpace page, or why he didn't e-mail me through the MySpace message service.

Of course, I called K to get the scoop. She said she was at work and was talking to another co-worker, M, about me - trying to set us up or something (no, I did not know she was pimping me out). As she was talking about me this other guy she works with, CW, popped his head up from his cubicle and joined in the conversation. He then rattled off some stuff about me as if he knew me, admitted to knowing about my MySpace page, and decided that if anyone in the office was going to be set up with me, it should be him. In true pimp-like fashion, K took his number and gave it to someone to e-mail to me.

At first I was pretty shocked and found it quite odd that someone had been lurking on my MySpace page. Then I wondered why he wouldn't just e-mail me through the service. Then K said she thought it was kismit or some cosmic thing that his number would find his way to me through her trying to set my up with someone else.

So now I don't know what to think...I looked him up on MySpace and he has a very blank page. He's 44 and an engineer. K says he's attractive and fit (rides his bike to work during summer) but shy and keeps to himself. I don't know whether to call him or not. Can't decide if it's weird or just how things work these days? And it's a holiday weekend and I'm bored. And we all know where boredom leads me - straight into blogworthy material!

Any thoughts? Oh, and if you know my real name and have a page, shoot me a message and let's be friends.

Oh, and I hope your turkey day was nice or at least better than the most bizarre Thanksgiving ever.

You know it's going to be a good weekend when...

2006-11-21T10:13:00.000-08:00

...You are off to a late start on your road trip because you can't find your handcuff keys and riding crop.

Headed up to the 69th run of the San Luis Obispo Hash House Harriers on Saturday to see some old friends and just have some fun.

Made arrangements to room with MM and RMA on Saturday night as I was certain I would be in no condition to drive home after an S&M themed run. Dug through my closet and found my favorite old pleather dress, handcuffs, fishnets, and combat boots, and was off to SLO.

Now, I'm not saying life in Tehachapi is boring, but I will say it's been a while since I've gone to visit friends and found them in the cheapest hotel room in town dressed like this:Yep, that's RMA and MM in their version of S&M attire. Not sure where they get their information but they seemed quite happy with the 'Day After Tomorrow' meets Buzz Lightyear with clothespins approach. Note the knee pads and toilet plunger with condom. This is what happens when you buy your costume at a Dollar Tree. For the record, this is what a proper male S&M outfit looks like:Kudos to MB for letting it all hang out.

So I changed and we arrived at the run start and for some mingling and a few beers. Here I am with other similarly clad and leashed friends:We headed out and basically did a pub crawl through SLO, enjoyed the looks of innocent passers-by, returned to the bar we started at, had more beer and some tacos, then changed into more acceptable clothes for the night.

I pretty much stuck with the group all night, mostly with MM. We had lost track of RMA but that's nothing new or even unwanted so we just went about our business of partying with the group. At about 11:00 pm we returned to our hotel to find RMA had brought a guest home with him.

Let me just preface this next part by saying that one of the conditions I had to rooming with MM and RMA was that they not bring any women back to the room for extracurricular activities. Each of them has been known to locate a less-than-desirable woman for such activities at these events. And that's not to say that these women are anything but lovely, sophisticated ladies who exercise poor decision-making skills in the company of drunken hashers but let's face it, when your arse ends up in a picture with two men wrestling in a cheap hotel room where no one knows your name, something has gone wrong.No, I'm not sure what was going on either. I do know that MM's eye was almost gauged out during the match and it almost got ugly. Well, uglier than it already was...

Here's another disturbing image of RMA with his own jockstrap on his head:I guess the moral of this story is, do not room with RMA unless you want to listen to drunken attempts at fornication in a cheap hotel bathroom then have him wrestle with you while your face comes dangerously close to large amounts of unidentified flesh.

Disorder in the Court!

2006-11-17T12:54:00.000-08:00

Wednesday night found me in the jury box of the Mojave courthouse playing jurist for the local high school mock trial competition.

Mock trial is basically where the slightly nerdy-yet-theatrical kids in a high school spend a semester playing lawyer and/or witness. One school is the plaintiff, the other the defense. They each know their case and practice their side then go to a courthouse and have a pretend trial against another school. Real lawyers and judges observe and score them with a point system then determine who wins based on points. Fun stuff and something I was, of course, too preoccupied to do in my own high school years.

Being involved in this made me realize I'm now an adult. I mean a grown up that kids might listen to at times. It was an odd realization because I really don't feel like an adult. I think when you don't have kids and are only really accountable to yourself, you don't realize you're supposed to grow up. After all the only real difference between kids and adults is responsibility, right?

Then you get called "Ma'am" by a 17-year-old and it all comes crashing down on you that you are twice the age of the person talking to you and they have thrown you in the adult/parent category and are looking to you for an answer or advice as if you might actually know more than them. You catch your bearings, change the tone of your voice, and start speaking with perfect grammar and calculated precision as soon as you realize what's going on and before you know it you've grown up.

While I was sitting in the jury box contemplating my own adulthood, maturity and wisdom beyond my increasing years, I noticed one of the boys from the prosecutor's side kept looking at me. I realized he was trying to make eye contact, and possibly even attempting to flirt with me. I had heard that older women were in for the younger set these days, but it embarassed and confused me. Then I laughed at myself, noted his Batman belt buckle, and realized he must be part of my inexplainable link to all things Batman, as has been discussed previously here, here, and, perhaps everyone's favorite, here.

Note to self: Line up Batman movies in Netflix queue before Round 2.

An aging Fanilow

2006-11-08T11:07:00.000-08:00

Yep, I hit the big three-four today.

Somehow the past 33 birthdays haven't made me think twice about anything. Then again, by now you can probably tell I haven't spent much time thinking twice about a lot of things.

This one's different, though. Could be that I'm growing up and made all these big changes this past year: moving, starting a new business, ending a long romance. Could be that all my new friends here are more settled than me - with kids and husbands and a totally different lifestyle. Could just be that there's a full moon. All I know is that it feels different. More introspective or something. I'll let you know when I figure it out.

No plans for the big day. Come on, I'm single in Tehachapi and it's a Wednesday night. Oh, and I'm not saying it's a special tribute or anything, but I just don't think it's merely a coincidence that Barry Manilow decided to open his Vegas show on this sacred day. Thanks Barry, I certainly can't smile without you either.

Speaking of Barry, I found an interesting article on how he's doing to helping fight crime in New Zealand. Here's a description of the "Manilow Method" of dealing with hooligans:

Boy racers and rowdy teenagers involved in disorderly behaviour in Nelson may soon be confronted with a cutting edge crime tool: American crooner Barry Manilow.

Nelson police and the city council are thinking about using the "Manilow method" to disperse the unsocial groups from the inner-city Buxton Square carpark, The Nelson Mail reported today.

The method involves playing Manilow and other easy-listening tunes through speakers in central city public spaces to discourage young people from loitering.

The approach has been employed by police in England and Australia, and could soon be in Whangarei and Nelson.

I see a Nobel Peace Prize in his future...

Hi Mom!

2006-10-19T12:45:00.000-07:00

I know, I know...I've been lagging on blogging lately. I'm not sure if the reason is that my life has become extremely boring or that my mother is reading the blog.

Yep, you read that right: Momma Glib has obtained the blog address and reads it.

I knew she had it a while back - when my brother was off being an idiot and I was blogging about my family frustrations. I knew then because she made a somewhat defensive comment on the blog that I deleted because, well, it's my blog and I don't like having my mom say bad things about me on it. I immediately chastised her for reading the blog as it's kind of my public diary. She promised not to read it anymore. I believed her.

Flash forward a year or so to our road trip to Texas to pick up the zebras. As happens when traveling for long periods, we got to talking, mostly about my constant state of singlehood, indomitable independence, and her subsequent lack of grandchildren. Then, out of the blue she asks, "Have you heard from JP?"

Let me just say that in the real world, JP is not JP's real name, merely two letters which comprise his initials. I have never referred to JP as JP anywhere other than on the blog, and my mother knows JP's real name and has used it before. The only other JP I know is my good friend PD's brother who I used to give kisses in exchange for rolling the Star Free Press for my paper route after school during junior high. I didn't think she was referring to that JP and deduced that she was referring to my JP of recent years and that she had, in fact, been reading this very blog to keep up on my life. Oh the horror!

I must admit it angered me a bit to think my mother had been reading my blog, not only because she said she wouldn't, but also because she's kind of conservative and already has one heathen child to worry about without having to think about me running around in Catwoman outfits or on dates with men with poo bags.

Then I got to thinking about it and thought how ridiculous it is for me, a grown woman, to worry about offending my mother via a website that may at times be occassionally embellished, and that she has been expressly forbidden to visit but that every other soul on the planet is free to peruse and comment on. After all, if I were a mother and knew my daughter wrote of her exploits for all the world to see, I would most certainly be reading the site on a regular basis.

So I guess I get it: She wants to read this stuff. She's an adult. I'm an adult. Sometimes she'll be mad about some stuff, sometimes she'll be happy that I turned out somewhat decent, other times I'll refer her to far worse blogs to make myself look better.

That said, I'd like to welcome her to the blog, ask that she identify herself and only say nice things about me in the comments section, and congratulate her on finally becoming a grandmother.

Oh yeah, my brother's crank skank girlfriend (yeah, the one who sent him to jail and broke his car windows) apparantly gave birth to a surprisingly healthy looking baby boy a month ago making me the now twice-estranged Auntie Glib (sister has a baby too - yes, I have a sister).

Lone Pine Trip: Part 3 - Alabama Hills Arch

2006-10-11T18:56:00.000-07:00

So you know how sometimes someone invites you on a trip and you say yes and then they offer to drive and you say yes and then they decide to stay an extra day and you can't say no? Well, that's what happened to me Sunday. We were supposed to be home by dark but it turned out Monday was a holiday of some sort and little A had the day off so R, J, A, and I got to spend another day camping and would presumably be home by noon Monday.

So Monday morning came and R and J had "gone fishing" and left me to cook outmeal and entertain a 6 year old. We grabbed my new hiking guide to the Sierras and took the opportunity to search for the elusive, yet oft-photographed Alabama Hills Arch - a window to Whitney.

Here's the arch as you see it from the trail:After a scramble up some rocks we found the arch and I was able to get a decent shot of my favorite mountain through the arch:Note to photographers: If you go in search of the arch, take some climbing gear and/or a ladder because it's up high and rather precarious to get to the back side of to take the famous shot. Oh, and don't take a gutsy 6 year old as it's unnerving to watch them scramble along large boulders as you contemplate how you'd explain the fall to the parents.

Finally, here's my favorite shot of the arch, taken of my trooper of a hiking partner, Ariel, who made me promise to summit Whitney when she's 10 and her lungs are ready:Gotta love that stuff.

Lone Pine Trip: Part 2 - Devil's Postpile NM

2006-10-11T18:10:00.000-07:00

Turns out my friends R and J are really outdoorsy and have made it a hobby since marrying to attempt to fill their joint National Parks Passport with cancellation stamps. I didn't know what a National Parks Passport ws either but it's basically a little book you pay $7.95 for and take with you to all the National Parks, Historical sites and Monuments you visit. At each park there is a "cancellation station" with a stamp that says the name of the park and the day you visited. You collect these in the book just like a regular passport. I think they'd make a cool gift, especially for families and kids as it gives them something to do together. You can order them online here.

Because they are into the passbooks they wanted to head up to Devil's Postpile National Monument just outside of Mammoth Lakes so I hitched a ride and bought a passbook upon entry into the park.

Here's a shot of the famous formation:It is a pretty cool thing to behold - basically 60 foot tall hexagonal columns of shiny lava that look like Superman's secret hideaway in the North Pole.

And here's what the park service has to say about Devil's Postpile and the geologic phenomenon it depicts:

Approximately 100,000 years ago, a lava flow erupted two miles upstream from the location of today's Monument. As it flowed down the Valley, it eventually ran into an obstruction which served as a dam to the lava's path. Pooling up to as deep as 400 feet behind the natural dam, the lava cooled. Conditions were such that the lava--that was incredibly uniform in its mineral composition--cooled at a very slow rate. As it cooled, it contracted and cracked, forming hexagonal columns. 80,000 years later, a glacier flowed through the same valley, overriding the formation and eventually revealing the sides and tops of the columns. Glacial polish can still be seen today at the top of the formation.

What is perhaps more cool is the view from the top:Those are the tops of the columns and are about a foot and a half across. It's like walking on fancy yet primitive tile and if you're at all into geology it's well worth the trip.

Also at the park is famous 101-foot Rainbow Falls, the tallest waterfall on the San Joaquin River:It's called Rainbow Falls because the splash from the waterfall usually creates a big rainbow at the bottom when the sun is shining. We arrived a bit late in the day and this was the best rainbow I could capture in the fading light:The 2.5 mile hike to and from the falls would have been a leisurely stroll through a sequoia forest just 14 years ago. Unfortunately, a pesky fire that burned 7,000 acres ravaged the place in the 1992 Rainbow Fire and this is how the trail looks today. Incidentally, that's the back of a Mammoth area ski resort up on the left top of the picture.

Also in the park are a bunch of wild mules. We saw them in a meadow:Accomplished animal expert that I am, I have never dealt with a mule, a cross between a male donkey and a female horse, and did not realize that the female mules, called mollies, can't breed because they only have 63 chromosomes and you need an even number of chromosomes to divide. Perhaps we could start a national plan to remove one chromosome from every stupid person so they can no longer breed? In the meantime I'll just try to stay away from asses.

Lone Pine Trip: Part 1

2006-10-11T11:01:00.000-07:00

Headed up to Lone Pine for the Lone Pine Film Festival with my friend J and her daughter A on Friday morning. We were to meet a couple of other folks for some camping, quad riding, and general hanging out. J has spent considerable time in this lovely mountain hamlet on the edge of the Alabama Hills and the Sierra Nevada mountains as her sister lives there. Being somewhat of a local she somehow procured a BLM permit for us to camp in the actual Alabama Hills, a rare treat. Here's our campsite:We were soon joined by the rest of our crew for the weekend, J's hubby R, couple JD and L, and father-son duo R and C. Among the participants we had three quads, a kid-sized dune buggy, two motorcycles, and two days' worth of s'mores.

I'm not really a motorized-vehicle kind of gal so I chose to go for a rock scramble/hike while everyone suited up and headed out on their various modes of transport. This is a view I got of them as I turned during my hike:Because the film festival was going on the local film history museum had put up plaques at various locations in the hills pointing out where famous western movies and tv series were filmed. I took a quad and visited the exact places where the likes of Tonto, the Lone Ranger and Captain Kirk rounded boulders, shot bad guys, and discovered new life forms. Here's what Wikpedia has to say about it:

The Alabama Hills are a popular location for television and movie productions (especially Westerns) set in an archetypical "rugged" environment. Since the early 1920s 150 movies and about a dozen television shows have been filmed here including Tom Mix, Hopalong Cassidy, Gene Autry, and the Lone Ranger. Classics such as Gunga Din, Springfield Rifle, and How the West Was Won, as well as more recent productions such as Tremors and Joshua Tree were filmed at sites known as Movie Flats and Movie Flat Road. In Gladiator, actor Russell Crowe rides a horse front of the Alabamas, Mount Whitney in the background, for a scene presumably set in Spain.

Pretty nifty stuff.

Day two started with several motor enthusiasts going for another ride and me finding a sunny perch on a rock to read on. After everyone returned we decided to head north to Rock Creek to check out the fall colors on the aspens and do some trout fishing. On the way we were lucky enough to see some Tule Elk grazing:We cruised up into the mountains and arrived just in time to catch some of the leaves turning along the creek:We stopped for a while and the kids caught some nice rainbow trout but, seeing as how I was the only one who eats fish and I do not like to clean them, we released them back to be nabbed by some other 6 year old's Mickey Mouse rod and reel.

While the kids were fishing, I caught a gaggle of photographers diligently staring at the same hillside, undoubtedly in search of the perfect shot:In the end think I got the best shot of the afternoon.

Across the River and Into the Trees

2006-10-11T09:15:00.000-07:00

Blogger ate my previous post on this subject but certain people (MM) have requested that I recount the events of Saturday, September 20, 2006 so they are forever floating around the blogosphere to remind us all why mojitos, sangria and seedy bars are a dubious combination.

So some friends had been threatening to visit the safari for a while and we decided that the weekend during which I was babysitting would be best. At first it was just BH and AG, along with Bailey the dog, that were to visit. This somehow turned into MM, RMA, BS, and two strangers, J and K, also coming by for a campout in my living room on a Saturday afternoon.

The thing with having so much help with the bottle feeding was that I had my hands free and was able to have a beer or two while my friends played with the kids. Here's RMA with Max, the camel:Beer somehow evolved into mojitos, Ernest Hemingway's second favorite drink - a cuban concoction involving rum, mint, lime juice, more rum, and some other stuff. We all decided to grill up some shish kebabs and all was going well until someone decided to do something with the grill. It somehow toppled and all our kebabs either fell on the grass or remained stuck to the grill. This did not deter us as the five second rule applied and, well, we were drunk. Here are MM and K proudly showing off their dirty kebabs:

After the kebab debacle we started a campfire and were just settling in when someone had the brilliant idea of driving into town to partake in the local social scene. I assessed my group, donned my "I Heart Rick Springfield" shirt, seen below, and took them to Tehachapi's most illustrious drinking establishment, The Red Caboose, for some small town tweaker karaoke.That was at about 10 pm.

Upon arrival MM honed in on a lovely lady at the bar with a zebra tattoo. He approached her with the ever-popular pick-up line, "Nice tattoo, I just fed a baby zebra today." He may have asked if she wanted to smell him too, I'm not sure. Anyhow, the line didn't work on this discerning Tehachapi native and he was summarily dismissed.

I don't remember much from the bar but vaguely recall singing karaoke, our group having stolen the dance floor and karaoke playlist, and dancing with a local with a large moustache and striped leotard shirt. I believe I asked if he was one of the Village People. We closed down the bar and headed back up the hill.

For some strange reason RMA and I were wired and got the brilliant idea to drive up to the mountain estate at 3:00 in the morning. He grabbed a bucket of sangria and we hopped in my truck and drove up the dirt road to the trailer. It was cold up there so we returned rather quickly and on our way down the hill RMA asked to drive. Note to self: Do not allow drunk friends to drive unfamiliar, winding dirt roads in truck at 3:30 am. RMA promptly had us in a couple of 360 degree spin outs and one grand spin out that led to our ending up taking out a couple of fenceposts and some barbed wire. During the spinouts all of the possessions in the back of my truck, including a 40 lb bag of dog food and AG's napsack, were ejected from the vehicle. By some miracle, the sangria bucket remained in the vehicle:The next morning we fed the leftover, saturated fruit to Hogitha and the camel and went on a reconnaisance mission to find the ejected items and found only a trail of cheap red wine, soaked fruit chunks, and wavy tire tracks. The dog food and napsack were never recovered but I'm sure I'll hear about it at our next board meeting for property owners up there.

Oh, and since MB couldn't make it up for the safari, I snapped this shot I knew he'd appreciate seeing as how it has both Monolith and animal arse in it:

Adventures in Babysitting

2006-09-25T15:29:00.000-07:00

My charges for the week arrived a day early. Yep, my parents, who so far as I know have never left town for more than three days at a time together, are going on vacation. Good for them. Since I now live a convenient 18 miles away from the ranch it means I'll be ranchsitting and, perhaps more exciting, babysitting all the kids still on bottles. So now I get to look out my living room window and see this:This guy is out the kitchen window:Max (the camel) is comfortably sharing a fenceline with Hogitha since she's been reduced to lockdown unless I'm in the yard. In a gesture of tolerance we should all embrace, she appears to have no problem having a middle eastern dromedary next door:Should be an interesting week, especially when it's time for their daily leash training that entails walking around the neighborhood. Maybe I'll lose that "pig lady" nickname sometime soon...

Food chain, schmood chain...

2006-09-22T11:12:00.000-07:00

You asked for it, you got it: and update on the once cute and small puppies. As you can see, they've grown a bit and are starting to look more like guard dogs:Believe it or not, they once fit through the cat door. Now that they can no longer fit through, there's new favorite pasttime among the cats: It's called "taunting the next rung up on the food chain."

What they do is hang out by the cat door in the kitchen like so:They wait for a puppy's head to emerge:Then they pop the poor puppy on the nose. This results in that particular puppy retreating.

Then the cats relax, claiming victory...Until the other puppy sticks its head through the door and licks an unsuspecting cat:This game continues for a good 30 minutes with everyone taking turns, but in the end, they all get along fine.Who needs satellite tv when you've got this kind of entertainment?

Zebra update

2006-09-21T19:38:00.000-07:00

Someone asked for an update on the zebra. Thanks for asking, and, yes, they are doing quite well. In fact, here's a shot of me getting some love from the critters.Oh, and for those interested in a road trip, I will be babysitting four zebra and one camel from next Tuesday through October 5 so if you want to help bottle feed and get cool pictures of you or your kids with baby zebra, give me a call or drop me a note and by all means, come on up and learn what it's like to nurse striped donkeys and a dromedary.

Oh, and here's something funny. A lady called about purchasing a baby zebra (list price: $10,000 if you're interested). She came to see the babies yesterday and offered to trade her unruly 6 month old (blue book value $4500) for a newer, nicer model. She was serious!!! It was hilarious and the offer was declined. After all, who wants an uncontrollable zebra (they are tough to tame once let go and can be quite nasty)? It's kind of like asking to trade a Pinto in on a Mercedes.

More zebra pics next week when I've got them all to myself.

Pillow humper update

2006-09-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

Remember CL? The pillow humper?

Well he called earlier this week to announce that he is engaged. Yep, congrats to him for finding a more lifelike object of affection. Of course, I pity the woman and hope she knows the huge undertaking she is about to embark on, because, after all, CL is a 38 year old man who humps pillows and watches Playboy channel when she's not looking. This will not go over well in a household with a semi-religious wife and two young step-daughters...

In all fairness, CL and I have been pretty good friends ever since our relationship ended two days after a great trip to Zihuatenejo about four years ago. We were on the last legs of trying to force romance into a brother-sisterish friendship and decided to go to Mexico for my 30th birthday. We went, lied our way into the honeymoon suite at the Catalina Beach Resort, and spent a nice week under palapas, sipping margaritas, eating fish tacos, and frolicking on the beach. I do vaguely remember someone yelling "Mira!!!" from the hill as I fished for my swimsuit top in the bay after my second shot of mescal (sp?). Ah...The memories... We split up a few days after our return and have remained good friends ever since.

CL liked the place so much that he has taken a different woman to the Catalina Beach Resort every year around my birthday for the past three years. It doesn't bother me and I just laugh when he tells me he's taking another trip to Mexico because I know where he's headed, where he'll stay, and what he'll eat at what restaurant. He even took his now-fiancee last year.

So guess what? CL, after telling me he's getting married, asked me to be his best man of sorts in Zihuatenejo during my birthday week this year.

Now, I've met CL's girlfriend and she has told me in that non-confrontational-but-I'll-tear-you-a-new-one-if-you-touch-my-ex-con-pillow-humper way that she's a wee bit jealous of me and CL. He's also admitted she's asked him about our relationship on several occassions.

So my reaction to the invite to be part of the wedding party was, of course, a firm, "No senor." I had to explain to CL that the rules of love dictate that you can neither invite your ex-girlfriend to be in nor anywhere near your wedding, especially if your fiancee is already barely tolerant of her presence in your life and your constant need to "Run things by Glib Gal".

I went on to explain that getting married on a beach and staying in a hotel that you've taken three other women to in the past three years is probably not a brilliant idea because there will come a time, 10 years from now, when you least expect it, that it will be used as ammunition in a fight that started because you didn't rinse a pot before putting it in the dishwasher, and that means you don't love her anymore because you don't care if spaghetti sticks to the pot, and you probably never did love her anyway since you took her where you take all your women instead of someplace special when you got married.

It's tough explaining these things to the challenged but I felt it would save him some heartache down the line, before he made such propositions to her and was met with a slap in the face.

I guess he should continue to run things by me until she can take the reigns in his upbringing.

Are those your zebra in the parking lot?

2006-08-27T17:58:00.000-07:00

Left for Mount Pleasant, Texas to pick up one baby camel and possibly one baby zebra on Tuesday night. No, not for me, for my parent's ranch. Imagine spending four days in a van with your mom and some baby animals. If that isn't a test of love, I don't know what is.

The drive there took about 25 hours, non-stop. We tried to detour through Roswell, New Mexico, thinking it'd be a fun place to stop and take a picture or two in front of a flying saucer or something. Guess what? Roswell, the mecca for intergalactic activity, didn't have anything noticable from the main road that would indicate alien presence. It was gravely disappointing.

Got to the exotic animal ranch in Texas on Thursday for our pick up. My mom wanted the baby camel and a baby zebra. The ranch had four baby zebras. Turns out you can buy a baby zebra in Texas for about $5000 each. Sounds like a lot. Unless you're from California, where they sell for $10,000 each. Entrepreneur that I am, I bought the three remaining baby zebra to bring back to California and double my money by the end of the year. So now I'm a zebra trader/truffle farmer/lawyer. Why Survivor hasn't picked me yet is beyond me.

So we stuffed the camel and four baby zebra into the back of the cargo van (sounds crowded, but there was actually room to spare) and we were off. This is what the back of the van looked like: And the camel fit right in:Texas is a huge state and by the time we got to Tucumcari, New Mexico it was 2:30 am and we were both nodding off so we stopped at a motel. We fed the kids (all on bottles) and figured they'd be down for the night in the back of the van.

At 3:00 am, right after our heads had hit the pillows, the motel phone rang. I picked up and heard a timid voice on the other end say, "Sorry to bother you ma'am, but are those your zebra in the parking lot?"

Turns out one of the zebra was a bit skittish and decided escape was in order. First she tried to get out the front window with a head butt:She apparantly realized the back window was easier and actually broke the window and jumped out the back of the van to find herself in a parking lot in Tucumcari, New Mexico - frightening for any species. By some strange twist of fate, two cowboys with an empty horse trailer just happened to be cruising that particular parking lot in the middle of that particular morning and were more excited than the zebra to help wrangle it back in. Seemed a bit suspcious to me but my mind wasn't in CSI mode at that point.

Of course, we couldn't go back in the hotel room and leave the critters in the van with an escape route so we covered the broken window and hit the road again. It was a long drive home, especially when the animals started getting carsick in Arizona. Carsick in the form of the runs and bad gas. Trust me, no amount of cedar chips in the world can cover the smell of zebra diarrhea.

We eventually made it home, and the crazed zebra has shown no signs of distress but I think that'll be the first one we sell...

Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be...

2006-08-21T13:38:00.000-07:00

Here's a sentence I never thought I'd utter:

"I worked the ticket booth at the local rodeo this weekend."

Yep, a couple of the girls from the old softball team are fully ensconced in the world of small town rodeo and, seeing as how I'm single and work for myself, figured I would have nothing better to do with my Saturday afternoon than sit in a booth selling tickets to Wrangler-clad persons in large hats. So I rode my little Chinese scooter down to the rodeo grounds, was teased about bull riding or something, and spent a few hours taking hard earned dollars from folks who wanted to pay to watch people wrestle animals.

Now, I had never been to a rodeo before but I had ridden a mechanical bull or two after a few shots of whatever the guy with the booze bandolier was toting at the time. A mechanical bull surrounded by padding is one thing, a bull that's been hauled to some po-dunk town to have a man strapped to him for 8 seconds and then be taunted by a clown while two-legged Coors Light soaked creatures cheering him on to maul the poor bastard is another.

I was secretly rooting for the animals and, much to my enjoyment, the beasts beat the men almost every time. In fact, I am told it was a lesser rodeo and that the cowboys weren't of the highest caliber because the prize purse was too low or some other excuse like that. Regardless, I watched and was amused at how many people actually came out to this sort of event.

I would've taken pictures of the bull riding but I had my digital camera and, I kid you not, the cowboys couldn't maintain for more than a second out of the gate. So all I got were a couple of shots of the only ladies' event: barrel racing. That's where a woman on a big horse sprints out of a gate and around three barrels then back across a finish line. It lasts about 17 - 19 seconds and a lot of dust is kicked up while the women hold on for dear life. Yep, another sport that makes complete sense. Anyhow, I think this was the winner on her way back to the finish:No, it doesn't look comfortable to me either.

The other big thing at the rodeo was the crowning of the illustrious "Rodeo Queen". Only problem was that this year there was only one contestant. No one even cheered as she was crowned. Maybe I'll enter next year. It appears all you have to do is wear a silly costume with glitter and ride around an arena with a flag then spend all year telling people you are the Tehachapi Rodeo Queen so you get invited to things like grand openings and Kiwanis events.

Finally, as the daughter of ranchers I was reminded how truly strange some women can be with their horses. I'll be the first to admit a nice ride can be quite pleasurable with the right saddle and gait, but I'm referring to the horsewomen who take it a step further...You know the ones I'm talking about - the ones that seem to be having affairs with their horses. They start to look all horsey and equine, even carry the feint scent of a stall around with them, and have this bizarre sexuality connected only to a gelded quarterhorse. Yeah, those girls. Rodeos are full of them. And men in Wranglers. Wrangler butts do nothing for me. And those stupid belt buckles drive me nuts. Add to that the inexplicable use of plaid on everything and it's just plain bad.

Enough on that, here's a picture of my favorite barrel racer - I think she did the whole thing with her eyes shut! (Click to enlarge)I'm off to Texas to pick up a white camel with my mom this week. If that doesn't provide some blog fodder I'm giving up.

I see another bad date...

2006-08-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've been meaning to cover this one for a couple of weeks.

Remember when I mentioned I may have a new boyfriend? Yeah, well, a mention here is the equivalent of a hex on any potential suitor and so it was with the well-digger.

Remember him from my trifecta dating spree a while back? In case you don't, here's a quote about him:

I wasn't going to go out with him again as the first two dates were fun but he is very shy and I had decided he might not be able to handle a gal like me without serious therapy down the road.

Unfortunately, I did not listen to my gut, which was telling me he was a bit boring for my tastes. After all, I'm 33 and he was cute and nice and why couldn't I just settle for someone stable for once?

So I tried. And tried. And tried. For a couple of months I listened to him talk about Texas and the Army way too much. I went golfing in 102 degree heat. I saw Superman Returns. I cooked him dinner. He cooked me dinner. Normal date stuff, going through the motions, waiting for the big spark to happen. Alas, not even a flicker and my ardor was fading.

Then we had one of those dates. You know the dates where you're already on the fence about someone and then they go and do everything that could possibly annoy you all within the same hour? It's not that each individual thing they do would normally annoy you, it's just that it annoys you more because you know you'd rather be home washing your cat than feigning interest on another so-so date. So it was with the well-digger.

He called me on a Friday afternoon to invite me to dinner in his town. I accepted and drove to his place around 7:00. We had some casual conversation, played with his dogs, and had a beer while hanging out before heading to dinner. Don't worry, it gets better...

At the restaurant he ordered a margarita and I followed suit, except I asked for a top shelf margarita. Once the waiter left my date chided me for ordering a top shelf margarita, stating I wouldn't know the difference between regular and top shelf. I explained that I'm a puker and rottgut tequila does not help the situation and offered to pay for it myself. He continued to ask about the state of my "top shelf" margarita throughout dinner. That was annoyance factor #1.

The next annoyance factor came into play during dinner when our conversation somehow turned to the topic of Haley Joel Osment, that the kid who saw dead people in some movie, recently got in a car wreck in a 1995 Saturn. Teh well-digger was extremely critical and juvenile about the fact that a rich 18 year old movie actor drove an old Saturn. I don't know about the kid, the accident, or why anyone would care what an 18 year old he didn't know drove. But my date dwelled on this topic for ages and was quite upset about the situation. I just listened in disbelief happy that I hadn't paid for satellite tv if this was what it was reporting as news.

After dead people and dead conversation, the bill came. He let it sit there looking from it to me and back. Finally, he picked it up and asked me for $20. You read that right.

Notwithstanding the fact that he invited me to dinner and I drove 30 minutes to get to where dinner was, I knew my margarita didn't cost that much and all I'd eaten was an appetizer flauta, for a total of about $14. I asked if he was serious and he said yes so I gave him a $20 bill and seethed quietly. I'm good at seething.

Oh, but it gets better. Rather than pocket my $20, he put the $20 bill on the pay tray along with his credit card and asked the waitress to put the difference on his card. I know people do this when out to lunch in groups, or they are short on cash, but this was a date!

Still, it gets better.

Because he hadn't dated much I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured maybe he didn't know that when you invite someone to dinner, unless otherwise stated, the invitor pays for dinner. Especially when they drive 1/2 an hour to see you. It's not about the money, it's about courtesy. I decided to tell him "the rules" politely after we left the restaurant. He suggested we grab a beer at the local bar and I figured that would be a great venue for a polite summary of the rules of dating.

So we get to the bar and order two beers and he says, "Why don't you get this round since I got the first round at my house."

That's right folks, he was counting the beer I had at his house as credit toward a round at the bar. And he was, again, serious.

I don't know about you, but I have an extra refrigerator dedicated to beer and wine just for when my friends come over to hang out. I don't consider them having a beer as part of some great scorekeeping scheme, I just consider it hospitality and common courtesy. I also buy rounds for people with no expectation of reciprocation. So to have a date keep tabs on things really irks me.

Oh, no, it's not over. The date was, but the saga isn't.

After the beer I said I had to get home. Of course, as I drove home and replayed the date in my mind I grew more and more irritated with myself for attempting to date someone I knew was not my type and vowed to dump him at the next reasonable opportunity. I tried to fathom how he'd lived 29 years as an attractive male and not known better. I couldn't find and answer.

That was on a Friday night.

He called twice on Saturday and, thanks to the miracle of caller ID, I didn't pick up.

Then he called Sunday and I did the same thing.

Then he called Monday and left a message saying he was going to be passing through my town around lunch and for me to call if I wanted to go to lunch with him. I didn't call back.

Around 12:30 on Monday I heard the growl of a diesel engine on the street. Seeing as how there is only one house on my street I knew it was coming for me. I peeked out and sure enough it was a well-drilling rig. Note to readers: If someone doesn't return six of your phone calls in three days, do not just show up at their house.

Let me preface this next part by saying that I absolutely hate it when people drop by my house unannounced. It is presumptuous and since the advent of telephones there is no excuse for not calling to confirm a visit is acceptable. I had told the well-digger that it is one of my pet peeves so he knew better.

Alas, I couldn't pretend I wasn't home so I answered the door. He was all smiles and wanting a Gatorade and some lunch. I gave him a Gatorade (keeping score, of course) and promptly gave him the old "you're a nice guy but we just don't have any chemistry" speech which is almost as good as the "it isn't you, it's me" speech, both of which usually mean one of three things: 1. You're boring, 2. You're bad in bed, or 3. I've met someone else who I like better but thanks for being a placeholder.

Fever pitch

2006-07-20T09:43:00.000-07:00

Ah, small town softball.

A couple of months ago I joined the local women's slowpitch softball league to meet friends and have some fun. I meant to blog about the drama that is women's adult sports back then but you know how lazy I've gotten in my retirement.

Anyhow, back when I joined I signed up on the free agent list at the rec center. A nice lady, S, called me and invited me to be on her team. I went to one or two practices wherein S, who takes her softball quite seriously, had us doing yoga and hitting flat soccer balls off of toilet plungers and doing strange drills and stuff. Having never played softball before I figured this might be the norm and just went along with it.

At the second practice the issue of ordering jerseys came up. Somehow it had been decided that our colors would be hot pink and green and we would have sleeves on our shirts so S wouldn't have to shave her armpits. These things are a concern up here in the mountains. And I'm no artiste but I have seen a color wheel and know that something is not right with hot pink and olive green together. Still, I was the new girl and didn't want to cause a ruckus so I kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, the other players did not and the captain was overruled on team colors but stood her ground on pit hair.

That practice ended with a few folks feeling disgruntled so the captain called a meeting at the local Mexican restaurant to improve team morale. This was right after my Vegas trip and I had won some money so I ordered a round for the girls and toasted our new team.

No sooner had I put my glass down than one of the other girls proclaimed there would be an insurrection and that S could either stay on the team as just a player or split off and form her own new team because she was too bossy and hairy. Other reasons cited for the coup were that there were too many players on the team, one girl felt threatened that other, better players from the dreaded town of Mojave (aka 'Hell on Earth') would take her position, another had issues with doing yoga before practice, and the whole body hair issue was revisited.

I watched in awe that people took their slow pitch so seriously and noted that if my life ever reached the point that I felt threatened by someone over a slow pitch position I should immediately check myself in to the local mental health facility. The meeting ended with a team split and me undecided as to which team to play with. On the one hand, S was nice but a bit demanding and serious about things, particularly religion and homeschooling. On the other hand I didn't like the way the insurgents had handled the split (it was like junior high school and S left in tears) but they were a drinking team with better colors and a few clean-shaven players I liked. So I let my alcoholic tendencies decide and went with the heathen traitors.

Now it's midseason and we have a great team. When we lose, we go down in flames and the mercy rule is used more innings than not (that's when the team at bat scores 7 runs in one inning - they just call the inning whether there are three outs or not). When we win, we're ecstatic but sportsmanlike. We bring coolers full of libations and every Wednesday a group of us head to karaoke after the game and imbibe and sing country songs and just have fun. We even have nice shirts with nicknames on the back. Here's what mine usually looks like:Here's what it looked like last night:Don't ask...Just know that we all had Tweedle names and there was a lot of cheesy tweedle humor going on.

Monday night we were short players and everyone was having to play positions they weren't used to. I play anything but pitcher and really don't care where they put me as long as I can make snide remarks. Other folks are a bit more insecure and even though no one on the team is from Mojave, somehow feel threatened if they are placed somewhere they don't want to be. One such person is C. Now C is the one person on the team I try to avoid contact with. She has a flare for drama and crude comments. Those would be comments even I find inappropriate so it's bad. She never shuts up. And she talks a lot trash. The uneducated kind. She is always injured in some grave manner that looks like she's auditioning for the role of softball victim on Grey's Anatomy. She definitely always needs to be the center of attention. Oh, and she's in her 40's so it's even more pathetic.

So Monday night C was in the outfield and I guess the first baseman told her to move over a bit. For some reason C, who has never had a problem telling me where to move when I'm in the outfield, proceeded to start yelling and throwing the F-bomb at the first baseman. This riled up our first baseman, who has some gumption of her own, and a verbal catfight ensued. Mind you, this is in the middle of an inning and the game is going on. I was over at third base so I didn't really catch all the action, but I did see C throw her glove down, scream something, and walk off the field and right out of the ballpark. In the middle of the game. When we were already short players. This resulted in us having to take an automatic out the next time she was up to bat (which was no different than her batting seeing as how she usually gets out anyhow), and having to move the second baseman into the outfield to cover centerfield. Still, we lost miserably but had fun in the process as usual.

Last night was our first post-C desertion game. We had 10 players and a few coolers of booze and C didn't show and hadn't spoken to anyone since Monday. So there we were, playing the game, when C shows up mid-game. I didn't see it but I guess the first baseman told her that she was welcome to stay and sit on the bench but that she wasn't going to pull players seeing as how C abandoned the team the previous week. Seemed fair enough to me. You walk out during a game, you sit out a game. No big deal. Well, C didn't like the deal and left the dugout claiming she'd find a new team.

You would think she'd have left the ballpark but she hung around, rooting for the other team and undoubtedly talking trash about each of our tweedleteammates.

After the game, fellow teammate T and I were walking to our cars and C's husband accosts us to start a tirade against the whole team for not having called C to apologize. He was pretty upset and felt that everyone should have called to beg C to stay and come to the game. I told him that if anything C should be apologizing to the team for her immature behavior seeing as how the other 9 players hadn't done anything to her but she'd left us short handed. He was not seeing the logic there and was upset that C was benched for acting like a three year old. T and I escaped the tirade as C's husband shifted his ire toward the first baseman who was also attempting to get to her car. He yelled at her and actually called her a whore. No, I'm not sure what that has to do with softball either.

Alas all the tweedle losers made it to karaoke and lifted our spirits with margaritas and bad renditions of Gretchen Wilson songs.

The point of this story? None. I just needed to blog and this is what has become of my life. Oh, I do have a new beau and I need to blog about him but I'm on the fence about it so you'll just have to wait until the relationship implodes so I can blog about it.

July 4 Recap

2006-07-14T15:06:00.000-07:00

Two tanks of gas to get to northern California: $88.00
Munchies for road trip: $14.76
Bubba Keg: $14.99
Event fees: $79.00
Watching your friend lay naked on a bed of ice while drinking beer from another man's butt crack: Priceless.

Two weeks late but still worth telling.

Headed up to El Dorado National Forest with MM for the holiday weekend. He arrived with a road trip gift for me:It looks harmless enough but in reality I believe it is the liver's equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction.

The Bubba Keg, found in your local Target store, holds 52 ounces of your favorite beverage (that's more than four bottles of beer for those of you unable to convert liquid without a Pee Chee folder), is insulated, and has been known to cause irratic behavior, stumbling, slurring, vomiting, public urination, random make-out sessions, spontaneous nudity, butt chugs, and bad karaoke. A special thanks to MM for thinking of me.

After a long drive up highway 99, we eventually arrived at our destination, Stumpy Meadows Lake, and saw this picturesque view that made the drive worth while:Upon arrival MM and I set up my tent and the mosquito-free lounge. MM opted not to set up his tent, rather to hit the beer truck with his Bubba Keg. That was his first mistake of the weekend. Note to beer-guzzling campers: set up your tent and air mattress BEFORE imbibing.

I had a beer, socialized a bit, and we were off on a trail that took us around the lake, complete with a swim-out-to-it boat full of beer and some naked guy who didn't want to get his shoes wet. Note to naked guy: You only have to remove your shoes to keep them from getting wet, other articles of clothing can stay on. Anyhow, the swim was almost as refreshing as the beer and I learned it is difficult to swim or tread water while drinking beer. I don't remember seeing MM after the run but do know he was sighted at the beer truck with his Bubba Keg on more than one occassion. I, of course, also hit the beer truck with my own Bubba Keg on several occassions throughout the first day and night which led to one of the side effects of a Bubba Keg: the random make-out.

I somehow wrangled a fellow drunken reveler into the cab of the beer truck and found myself playing tonsil hockey with him. Unfortunately, we just weren't in synch and I can't stand a bad kiss so I put a stop to things rather quickly, stating something to the effect of, "We don't kiss well." or "It just isn't working." My victim then stated something to the effect of, "Oh, but I get better." or "It'll get better." To which I replied, "No, it won't", and stumbled back to my tent. In my experience folks who aren't doing well with their tongues don't do well with other things.

So there I was, passed out in my tent, in the wee hours of the morning when I hear someone unzipping it. I flash my light at the person and see MM, covered in leaves and dirt, crawling in exclaiming that he had been sleeping outside in the dirt and didn't know how he'd gotten there. I had two words for him: Bubba Keg. Of course, that reminded him that he had misplaced his treasured vessel.

Now, anyone who has been to a hash event knows that one of the worst things you can do at such an event is lose your drinking vessel. Depending on who finds it, and where, you will have to take great measures to get it back, and when you get it back you will certainly want to disinfect it as there will inevitably have been various body parts placed in it for photo opportunities.

So after the next day's run MM was called up in front of the group (about 100 of us). Normally, people are called up for doing something wrong, or right, and given a "down down". A down down is a cup of beer that you must drinking while others sing to you. At bigger events, like a campout, people will have to sit bare-arsed on a block of ice while doing their respective down downs. Seeing as how there were about 100 people at the event, there were about six or seven blocks of ice conveniently placed on a picnic table for the ceremony. After several people were on the ice for various offenses such as sex on trail, losing the canoe, using mortal names and the like, they got everyone off the ice and made a bed of ice. Then they called MM up and brought out his Bubba Keg. They had him strip down and lay naked on the bed of ice while chastising him for LEAVING HIS BUBBA KEG IN AN OUTHOUSE - the worst offense possible. As if that weren't enough, the largest, hairiest man present then straddled MM, squatted, dropped his pants, and had another person pour beer from the Bubba Keg, down his butt crack, onto MM's face. This is called a butt chug. No, I did not have my camera but the image is forever etched in the darkest recesses of my mind.

Now, I've seen some things in my time, but this was the most disgusting, can't-stop-watching, oh-god-are-they-really-going-to-do-that, oh-god-they-just-did-it moment I've seen since that donkey show that sealed my virginity for an extra couple of years back in my Navy days.

Yet, even after this terrible ritual, MM managed to lose his Bubba Keg less than four hours later. Of course, that could have been a result of his having slept outside in the bushes somewhere again that very night. Some folks just never learn.

We eventually found our way back home. The drive back is always so much longer than the drive there. MM was still too drunk or hungover to drive so he crashed on the sofa. This is what was left of MM after a weekend with a Bubba Keg and unrestricted access to the beer truck:

Two words...

2006-06-26T09:45:00.000-07:00

That's right folks, I have two words for you that will sum up my date on Saturday afternoon: Catholic Engineer.

I know, it's not my style. Too much structure is a bad thing. And I tend to drive those types insane because I live without many lines guiding me. In fact, my previous internet ad specifically stated, "No Catholic engineers, please, you guys are too anal retentive for a gal like me." Or something to that effect.

But, it is Tehachapi and it's slim pickin's so I decided to go ahead and meet J, a 27 year old mechanical engineer from Lancaster. His hobbies include robotics, wearing khaki anything, and talking about the purchasing chain at an aerospace company.

I was hesitant from the get go because he's a bit young and he is an engineer, but, again, it is Tehachapi...And I didn't find out he was Catholic - like went to Catholic school and lived at home until he was 26 kind of Catholic - until about 2 pm Saturday. Still, I trudged on and decided it would be entertaining fodder for you, my true friends, if nothing else. So we decided to meet up and go to the local motorcycle rally fundraiser for a beer.

The first sign of impending date disaster occurred when he stepped out of his truck with this:I believe it's a geranium? I must admit I have never been given a geranium in my life, let alone by a man on a first date. In fact, I've never heard of such a thing. I think these are the types of plants you bring to your ailing grandmother at the nursing home and even she'd rather not have it but she's too old and tired to protest. Let's face it, it's a botanical abomination with those big, waxy leaves and little odorless excuses for flowers. The kind of thing that you only find in grocery stores around greeting card holidays. And this confirms it:See the Safeway pricetag? (Actually, I just noticed it when I took the picture as I was trying to figure out what sort of plant it was. Not a geranium?) Still, I smiled and thanked him graciously while simultaneously placing it center stage on my kitchen table. After all, it is the thought that counts, right?

Note to men: Spend your $15.99 at Safeway on a 12-pack of Bass Ale or a bottle of wine. Even your grandmother would prefer it.

Those first few moments of a blind date are always a bit awkward so I offered him a beer and gave him a tour of the ranch, complete with puppies underfoot. After a beer and discussion of truffle prospects in the greater Tehachapi Valley, windmill mechanics, and solar technology, we headed to town to the poker run.

So we get to the rally and there's an admission fee (it is a fundraiser) of $10 per person. So I pull out a $20, intending to pay for myself as I believe first dates should be dutch treat, and J just says "Oh, thanks", gets his wristband, and walks in. No attempt to pay for himself or offer to pay for both. Just the presumption that I was paying for both. Of course, I didn't say anything because I'm a girl and we'd just met and it was only $10. Then again, I obviously haven't forgotten about it so make of it what you will.

Now, you know me, and you know I like a rough and tumble crowd. So a motorcycle rally at the VFW is right up my alley. Mind you, I do not look the part and was possibly the only person there in pink, but I can swill beer and comment on big pipes with the best of them. Poor J, however, seemed quite out of place and a bit intimidated. The music was loud coverband style rock and roll and the crowd was mellow in their black Harley attire in the 96 degree heat (record high here!). So we sat on a hay stack eating tri tip sandwiches, drinking lukewarm beer, him talking about something I could barely hear and did not care about: his job. Now, if you have an interesting job or something crazy happened at work, I can see talking about it. But if you're on a first date, trying to impress a girl at a biker rally, do not talk about late parts and having to make multiple phone calls to chase them. As he continued babbling about some parts for a special missile, naming each individual he works with, my eyes began to glaze over and I was just staring, smiling, as those with ovaries are genetically inclined to do. After about 10 minutes I just couldn't take it any longer so I said, "Okay, J, this is the most boring story I've ever heard, how about we talk about something else?"

Surprisingly, he agreed and said he has a tendency to babble when he's nervous. Then he admitted to not having lived away from home ever until this past year then went on and on about his grandmother and family. I then realized this guy hadn't done much living, and while I may be interesting to him, I need someone who is interesting to me. So I said I needed to get home to feed animals. He took me home and just stood in my front yard for a while, awkwardly, until I said, "Well, okay, this concludes our date." Then I scampered into the house to avoid any attempts at physical contact. I wasn't unpleasant about it, I just wanted to escape.

So this morning I got a long e-mail from J about how great a time he had. One glaring problem with the e-mail is that he wrote "Hi xxxxie!". My name is a long one, three syllables, and I use it in it's full form. I know it's difficult for some, and others are allowed to shorten it after knowing me a while. But I cannot stand when someone shortens my name and adds an -ie or -y on the end. I'm sure most folks feel the same, like going from Joe to Joey or Mike to Mikey or Jen to Jenny. We omit those childish -ies and ys once we are of legal drinking age, right?

Anyhow, back to the e-mail, it was very complimentary and I won't quote the whole thing but I have to give you this line as I think it shows he at least gets that I am a crazy pig lady:

Plus you have that kind of crazy, a little strange, sort of weird, most people are afraid of her, does what she wants, not going to find another one like her, kind of thing going on that I really dig...:)

Maybe I'll use that line in my next ad.

Tempting...

2006-06-20T13:48:00.000-07:00

So my general policy with online dating is to reply in some form or another to everyone who takes the time to contact me. Fortunately, the service has standard replies that you can send easily, like "Thanks, but I've met someone else." or "Thanks but I don't think we're a good match. Take care." and some others of varying let-downability. I generally use the one that I've met someone else when I'm not interested. Seems the nicest way to say no thanks.

The service also has automatic, short introductory statements you can send to people you might be interested in. Examples include the original "Hi!", "I like your profile. Tell me more." and my favorite, "Kid tested and single-mother approved." I think that one is specific to Bakerfield...

Anyhow, my profile clearly states that if you don't take the time to write me an actual note, in lieu of a standard, computer-generated hello, I won't respond. This is because some guys basically SPAM women with "Hi!"s hoping to get a response. You also don't have to be a paying member to send a computer-generated message. Besides, I took the time to write a profile so you should at least drop me a note showing you read it. Yes, I do have high expectations.

So the other day I got a computer-generated "I like your profile. Tell me more." from this guy:Per my profile's stated policy, I did not respond.

Three days later he sent me this note:

Hi [Glib Gal], saw your profile and yes I am interested. Me? I have a son who will be 15, 6 cats, 9 kittens, 1 dog and 1 guinea pig. I am sure you can use a couple of cats? I enjoy the outdoors and have lived here for 13 years. I have been to Tehachapi many times, nice area. I should have bought land there years ago. I have several degrees and taking a break from being a CEO for a while. I guess iI am more comfortable in jeans than three piece suits. Drop me a line if you would like. Favorite hangout is RJ's in Bakersfield.

I know what you're thinking, "But he loves cats too Glib Gal..." Let me tell you: Crazy cat lady + Crazy cat dude = recipe for disaster. And three piece suits? Do they still make those? I guess you can find them at a Men's Warehouse in Bakersfield...

Even with that common ground, and the nice stock photo, he's 51 years old and I have a stated age range in my profile where the limit is far below 51. So, because he took the time to tell me about his 15 cats, multiple degrees and CEO status, I took the time to send him this computer-generated courtesy reply:

"Sorry, but our age difference is too great."

I've sent this one to several other people closer to my mom's age than my own with no further communication.

Not so with our cat-loving friend. Here's the message I had waiting for me today:

Hi, disagree, what you will find is men here do not grow up and are not faithful until they get over 40. I will give you my cell, which i normally do not do, xxx-xxx-xxxx. I am honest with integrity, which you will not find in this area. Call me if you want.

I don't know about you, but I like it when someone disagrees with me about something quite obviously my personal preference. I also like it when someone I've never met takes the time to tell me they disagree with me about what I like. I especially like it when they disagree with me, put down a large class of persons, infer that they are grown up, then give me their phone number so I can call and have them change my mind.

I know, I know...I'm too picky and I'm not getting any younger. And no, MB, I did not call him, even though I could use a few cats - I'm down to three. Damned coyotes.

Don't hate the player...

2006-06-19T07:50:00.000-07:00

So a mechanic, a salesman and a well digger all walk into a bar. What do they have in common? They each had a date with me this weekend.

Date #1 was Thursday night (it's all a weekend to me now) with the salesman. We'll call him P as he's a former punk rocker. Nice guy, our second date. We went to the local farmer's market (which took all of 10 minutes) then to a Mexican restaurant for some cervezas and chips and salsa. Conversation was good and fun times were had. Our senses of humor work well together. We then walked over to a local dive bar I had been wanting to check out - The Red Caboose. Yes, folks, it's as good as it sounds. Leave it to me to find the spot where the parolees and tweakers congregate. Still, they had Sierra Nevada on tap, an ex-con was convinced I was his public defender (although no mention of my being a lawyer was made) and the bartender was from Humboldt County. We hung out a while, having fun, chatting with the other patrons, and just blabbing in general. When it was time to go P walked me back to my truck. We loitered for that awkward moment where you're contemplating a first kiss but can't seem to get to it so you keep standing there making small talk looking stupid because you both know what needs to happen. So we had a small kiss, appropriate for a second date, but not the ravishing kind you save for the night you're going to close the deal.

Pleasant enough, right? This is where you're supposed to part ways and go home and ponder things about the other person, act all stupid, and let things develop. Oh, but you forget, P is a man and a man always knows just the right thing to say to a girl once he's made a reasonably good impression: "So are you going to invite me back to your place?"

It threw me for a moment as I hadn't sent out the 'I want you now' vibe so I replied with a firm "Uh, no." and tried to make light of the request. Then he dug the hole deeper and said something to the effect of, "But I'm sure you have a nice bed with nice sheets". He pressed the issue for a couple more minutes until he gave up with an "I'll call you." Note to men: The best way to turn a girl off is to presume she wants to take you home and actually say it out loud. You can think it all you want, but don't say it. It's a moment killer. We'll let you know.

With that I hopped in my truck and headed home. Of course, this led to me overthinking the whole situation, as any creature with ovaries is prone to do. I realize men are from some planet and women are from another, and dating is confusing and generally sucks, and that communication is a fragile thing when in the first stages of getting to know someone. Still, it bugged me that he made the presumption that I'd take him home that night and that he'd be willing to just go home with someone he hasn't met but knows has an arsenal of crow-beaning weapons just waiting on the coffee table. So I wrote him off. Just like that. No three strikes, no warnings, just a simple muttered-to-myself "thanks for playing". He called to possibly go out again and I haven't returned the call. I should because we had a good time and I didn't tell him where it took a turn and I should, so he knows in the future. Or maybe not, as it seems to have worked for him before. And I decided this time around to listen to that little voice that I always ignore. In this case, that little voice tells me P's a Tehachapi-rated player and, believe it or not, I'm kind of hoping to get out of the game for a while.

The next date was Friday with R, a mechanic I met at a local property owners association meeting. Again, a nice guy. We met for a late lunch under the guise of him wanting help with some copyright matters handled for his fledgling music production company. Two hours later we knew eachother's life histories and I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was smitten. He's nice and polite and most certainly would never presume to be invited to my house, but he's a stoner and I'm just no good with stoners. I love 'em, have fun with 'em, but if you're 37 years old and still toking on a daily basis, I doubt we have similar goals. He too left a message about going out again. Again, I'm taking note of that little voice, my general lack of attraction, and his puppy dog look. I'll call him back but keep things casual.

Finally, it was date #3 with a well driller, who we'll call Ken Doll (that's what he looks like). A younger man, 29, jawline like Buzz Lightyear, polite, intelligent, a bit of a recluse, former Army officer, now in the family business with his dad. I wasn't going to go out with him again as the first two dates were fun but he is very shy and I had decided he might not be able to handle a gal like me without serious therapy down the road. And I don't want my truffle profits going to my future ex-husband's therapist. But for some reason I didn't call to cancel and we headed to a local karaoke bar to watch large women belt out Bonnie Raitt songs all night. Conversation was strained at first but got easier once he told me he let his dog sleep with him after I had chided him for being an evil pet owner. We talked water rights, Desert Storm I vs. II, heavy equipment operation, and about the state of dating in Kern County - which is nill. He was impressed with my crow-hunting techniques and laughed at the story of P. He told me he only signed up for the internet dating thing to send me a message because every other single woman in the County is either unemployed, uneducated, a single mother, has serious baggage, or all of the above. We ended with a slightly awkward moment and a hug outside my truck. I'm still a little confused as to his intentions with me - just friends or ??? but it's fun trying to figure it out.

And on the seventh day I rested. And had a dream featuring a cameo by my crush. Go figure.

Nevermore

2006-06-17T08:06:00.000-07:00

I've got a crow problem. Not just a problem, I'm talking about an infestation. Seriously, lately I've felt like Tippi Hedren whenever I have to make a dash for my truck as the birds divebomb and attack me. Every morning I awaken to the less-than-melodious cawing of a murder of crows (It's not a flock, it's a murder). Add to that the fact that they constantly swarm the ducks and steal their eggs and it's a nuisance.

We all know I'm an animal lover, but every lover has her limit and mine was reached last week when I awoke to about 20 crows loitering in my front yard, just daring me to attempt to dash to the barn to do my morning feeding run. Enough was enough so I grabbed my .38 and fired a warning shot (this is safe as I can't see any neighbors). Not surprisingly, the crows fled like the little varmints they are. Yes, I'll admit I felt a little insane as the shot rang out and I saw myself standing in the yard ina robe with a pistol as crows fled. As I've said before, things have changed...

As tempting as it was, I realized it wasn't feasible to sit on my porch with a .38 shooting away at crows all day. I would need earplugs if I were to do that. Besides, if I actually hit one it would explode leaving me a mess.

Not wanting to be the crazy pig/cat/duck/handgun-toting lady of the mountain, I went online and googled "How to get rid of crows". I didn't find much other than suggestions to destroy the nest and possibly put poison out. With all my beasts poison was out of the question. And with all the trees here I figured they'd just nest somewhere else. Then I found Crow Busters, a website dedicated to crow hunting and gourmet crow cuisine such as pan fried crow, crow casserol, creole crow, and my favorite, The "So good you'll want to slap your mother-in-law" Recipe. Although running around in camoflauge with a shotgun shooting scavenger birds sounded tempting, I decided I don't want to go killing anything, rather just give them a flesh wound and scare them off to a neighbor's house. And I didn't want to be unfair about it or go trying to massacre a bunch of birds with scattered shots, so I opted to head to the Big K add a couple of smaller items to my crazy anti-crow lady arsenal:
Yesterday I used the slingshot and realized it takes a bit of skill and a lot of small, rounded rocks, which I've begun collected in a cup that I keep near the slingshot by the door. Note that this is good practice for when I get picked for Survivor.

This morning I got up and used the pellet gun. The problem with a pellet gun is that once you've fired a bigger caliber weapon, it just isn't that satisfying. It's like going from batteries to manual after a long stint of celibacy. It did, however, work to chase the crows off. It's been a couple of hours and they aren't back yet. I even hear some smaller songbirds in the yard, which the crows had been attacking and eating. Yes, life is good.

Aloha, Oi vei! And another Mastercard moment.

2006-06-07T10:27:00.000-07:00

New fencing for pig: $486.31
RT airfare to Maui: $567.91
Tow truck to Lot C at 4 am: $60.00
Snorkel gear: $18.27
Watching your friend swim away from his own poo while snorkeling: Priceless.

Threw the houdini-like pig (escaped twice in one day!) in jail and headed to Maui for a long weekend. Here's a picture of Hogitha while incarcerated, doesn't she look happy?Yes, you read that right, Maui. Retirement sure is nice. Of course, my life isn't that easy as my flight left LAX at 6:00 am, which meant I left my place at 2:30 am. So there I was, driving through the high desert at around 3:30 am when my battery light went on. The alternator decided 3:30 am while I'm on my way to the airport would be a good time to need some attention. So I pressed on, lights dimming, hoping to make my flight. I rolled off the 405 onto Century Blvd right as the truck died. I was barely able to coast into a gas station, had them call a tow truck (now about 4:30 am) and waited. I was hoping the tow truck was affiliated with a repair shop but that would make too much sense so I ended up having the guy tow my dead truck to LAX Lot C, drop it in a spot, and take me to the departures area in the tow truck. I missed my flight but was able to catch one an hour later and decided to deal with the truck upon my return.

Ditching the truck was worth it because Maui sure is nice:My good friend PD, who I've known since 7th grade, lives there. Here he is with G, who flew in from the SF bay area for the week:Yes, it's a bad picture and they'll hate me for it. But it was too funny not to post. Ah, the power of having the camera when all is said in done. Seriously, a big, fat Mahalo to PD for being a great host and allowing us to crash at his place and drag him around the island in a Mai Tai-induced haze. Oh, and for providing some great blog material.

So we decided to take an ocean raft out to Lanai one day for some snorkeling. The day was perfect: clear, warm, and the current just right for hitting some secluded reef spots. You can do that when you're on the smaller trips. This one had only eight people and the captain looked just like Jon Voight but talked like Mr. Rodgers which made his commentary especially interesting. Here's a shot of what I saw for much of the trip:[Insert whale joke here] That was mean. Bad Glib Gal, bad.

So the raft was pretty small and did not have facilities. It was a four hour trip and most folks discreetly relieved themselves in the ocean. Of course, we had to get up early to make it to the dock on time and good old PD had missed his morning constitutional. Let me tell you, he is a man on a schedule and that schedule is not to be interrupted.

So there we were, at our second or third snorkel spot, enjoying the views, G and I sitting on the raft, eating pineapple, resting in the warm sun, when all of a sudden PD dons his gear like a Marine in Baghdad during a CBR attack, dives in and swims like Mark Spitz toward a rock-walled cove. G and I commented on how we'd never seen PD swim that fast and no sooner had we made the comment then out swam PD at an even faster pace. He returned promptly to the boat and did not re-enter the water at that spot. Later that evening, we confronted PD on his behavior. Turns out he was prairie dogging (that was for you MM) and he swam over to the cove, dropped his boardshorts, and let loose in the water while swimming away, hence the record pace and eagerness to get out of the water. Of course, this led to us naming him "Dipshit" for having taken a dip and then dropping the kids off at the beach, literally. We later learned that many men do this on the island. Needless to say, it made me especially suspicious of floating debris for the rest of the trip and gave us a joke to wear out, which we did.

Of course, other fun stuff happened on the trip but it's the "You had to be there" kind of stuff that MB likes to blog about so I won't bore you with it. We spent a lot of time taking pictures for our respective alternative lifestyles MySpace pages that are not suitable for this blog (hard to believe) and, fortunately, on my camera. Here is a mild example of one of those shots:Look at the magazine cover ('Who's gay in country?') and note that PD lives an alternative lifestyle. This will surely go on his yahoo personal.

Finally, here was the sunset on my last night there as taken from the gazebo at the Westin in Lahaina:Oh yeah, I got JP to pick me up, bring a battery and make an appointment for me to have the alternator replaced in LA upon my return so the truck thing worked out in the end. Except for the ticket. I never park in the LAX-owned lots because they ticket your car while you're off on vacation. Everyone loves to come back from vacation to a parking ticket. I knew I'd get one since my front license plate was stolen, ironically, from LAX public parking. And I did. It's no wonder LAPD is so popular.

Gone fishing

2006-05-30T06:21:00.000-07:00

Headed to Vegas for the weekend.

Friday night was pretty much your typical old town Vegas debacle: money lost, money won, a really bad impressionist show (Larry G Jones - do not pay money to see the guy), and talking with showgirls and circus freaks at 3 am on Fremont Street.

Turns out they weren't showgirls and circus freaks - they were burlesque dancers in town for the Miss Exotic World 2006 Competition. Through the blur of things MM and I managed to remember meeting them and where the show was on Saturday so we went. Here's a picture of MM with a couple of the girls:MM and I were the only two in our group to go. The boys do not know what they missed: talented women (you should've seen what they did with a hula hoop!) dancing and doing provocative old school burleque performances, tassles twirling, innuendoes flying, and an enthralled crowd having an absolute blast. Each performer did about a 3 minute performance and they were judged on something or other. We stayed for about four hours (it went on for eight) and it felt like we'd only been there an hour. Oh, and the hosts, Margaret Cho, who is hilarious, and El Vez were great. I was so impressed, I think I signed up to compete in 2007. At the very least I will definitely attend next year.

Now here's the funny part of the story. I am a little embarrassed but it's too good not to share:

I made the fatal mistake of deciding to drink vodka and cranberry juice at the show. I don't know why I did this because everyone knows I'm a puker when it comes to hard liquor. But I didn't want beer and I couldn't be sober in Vegas for more than 12 hours, right? Add to that the fact that I've pretty much been on the wagon since I moved and it's a recipe for disaster.

So about five vodka cranberries in I felt the wave of nausea come over me. I made a dash to the bathroom, found a stall, and hurled. Problem was, MB wasn't there to hold my hair, so I had to hold it myself. In holding my hair back my sunglasses somehow fell off my head and right into the toilet. That's right, in the vomit. And they are the kind that float. In a moment of clarity which only vodka can induce I decided to just flush them with the vomit. They didn't go down the drain, they just swirled and floated. About then I realized I needed to pee too so I peed on my already vomited-upon sunglasses that were still floating and flushed again. They were still there, floating in the bowl. I don't usually litter but I couldn't bring myself to fish my puked and peed upon glasses out of a public toilet so I left them in there and walked out nonchalantly. About 30 seconds later a lady called out, "Miss, I think you left your glasses". I turned to see her outstretched hand grasping the dripping glasses and said, "Oh, those aren't mine" and walked out.

I don't know about you, but I would never put my hand in a toilet to fish out someone's sunglasses. I imagine some poor soul kept them and was wearing them at some pool on Sunday.

I felt much better after the purge, drank about a gallon of water, and stumbled around town for a few more hours with MM and the boys. Got back to our room at about 4 am and for some reason we ordered about three racks of BBQ ribs from room service. We ate them all. Then I knocked the room service cart over while trying to wheel it out and we realized that two people had just eat about three pigs' worth of ribs and the carnage was splayed about the hall of the Golden Nugget. For some unknown reason we found this hilarious and laughed in the hall for about 20 minutes, so this pic's for MM:Made the long drive home Sunday afternoon and once again vowed, "never again".

The prodigal pig returns

2006-05-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

What a great Mother's Day surprise: a phone call from a neighbor who found Hogitha eating purple ice cream in the middle of the road a mile from home last weekend. The neighbor loaded her into a Jeep and carted her off to a feed store. Someone at the feed store had always wanted a pig (don't we all?) and promptly took her home and named her Molly. So while I was out wondering the plains, losing sleep, thinking the worst, good old Hogitha was snug as a bug in a rug munching on fresh carrots and being fawned upon by grandchildren. Fortunately, the person who originally threw purple ice cream at her in the road saw my flyer and word travelled in this small town and Friday night I found the folks who had my beloved pig. They were ecstatic to get rid of her as she had already rototilled the new owners' immaculate garden and scared their horses. Here she is telling me all about her adventures:A special thanks to all the folks who took care of her during her week of rambling. I'm sure they are readers of this blog.

In keeping with the theme of Mother's Day and kids, here are some pictures of my other kids. They are so much cuter when they are sleeping.

And, of course, we can't forget the ducks, can we?
Hope you all have pleasant surprises and are able to reflect on the joys of parenting, in its various forms, today as well.

Incidentally, I am now officially the crazy pig lady of Tehachapi. Oh, and it looks like I may have a date in Tehachapi soon. Yep, the guy I hired to grade my driveway asked me to dinner at the local Chinese buffet. Not sure if it was the muscle shirt or old felt cowboy hat or the John Deere tractor, but I said "Sure, why not?"

Bringing home the bacon.

2006-05-08T19:32:00.000-07:00

Bad news on the homestead. Woke up Saturday morning and couldn't find my pig.

I figured she was out roto-tilling some portion of the yard, as usual. So I called her. Usually she comes when I call her. Alas, no snorting pig came running. I went out in the yard in the couple of acres she usually grubs in. No pig. JP happened to be around so I enlisted his help (yes, I know, you told me so, and I said this wasn't going to happen, and all that stuff, but that is a whole different blog). We spent a couple of hours canvassing about two square miles of brush. It was funny to see a Jamaican man in the brush in Tehachapi calling for a pig. We're lucky there wasn't a prison break that day. Yes, that was wrong, but kind of funny. Unfortunately, there was no sign of Hogitha.

So I went to neighbors' houses and asked if they'd seen a pig roaming around. The usual response was, "You have a pet pig?" Yes, and five cats, and some ducks, and I'm your new neighbor, expect to see a camel and some zebras every now and then too. And don't even try to bring a trailer in because I'm above that.

None of the neighbors had seen the pig. Then I made a little flier to put in the mailboxes:Of course, the mailboxes are 2.5 miles from my house and I can only see one neighbor from my house (other than the tin behemoth that still hasn't been towed), so odds are that poor old Hogitha roamed off into the brush and got lost or got taken by some wild creature. Or she met a nice boar who took her under a bush and now she's knocked up and embarassed to come home with half-boar piglets on the way. I'm hoping for the latter but fear something bad has happened.

So I'm a bit bummed about it because those of you that know me, know Hogitha and know she's been with me for a long time and was just about the best pig a gal could have.

Know what's cuter than kittens?

2006-05-02T15:33:00.000-07:00

Kittens discovering a baby goat as big as them for the first time:Spent the day working on lawyer stuff (the old boss still needs me...isn't that sweet?) and goat sitting for a baby delivered last night but rejected by his mother. He needs a bottle every two hours so my folks brought him over for me to goat sit while they went to the big city of Bakersfield. And here he is with his new buddy:

Pride and prejudice among trailer trash

2006-04-26T15:34:00.000-07:00

So I've been meaning to blog about this for the past couple of days:Yep, it's a mobile home. An old one at that - see how the siding and roof are metal? That means it's at least 30 years old. I like how the roof facing is curling up. With the winds out here I'm predicting portions of the
aluminum siding and roof will be strewn about my yard by Sunday afternoon. Yes, my yard. You know why? Because Mr. Murphy decided he wasn't done with me yet and had the people who own the little, scrawny, unbuildable lot next door to me haul that abominition in and plunk it right in my view this week.

I know what you're thinking...Glib, arent' you the epitome of trailer trash yourself? Isn't this your first home that didn't arrive behind a Mack truck? Indeed I have not forgotten my roots, er, axles, but I moved to the land of estates and stick homes. I moved up...or so I thought.

Of course, now that I've gone from trailer trash to landed gentry (as W so eloquently put it) I can't have a used mobile home being put in next door. It would ruin the neighborhood! Not to mention my view.

Just to remind you, this was my view (minus van and trailer) the day I moved in. Note that there is no building behind the windmill.

Here is a picture I took Monday:Yep, that's the unsealed monstrosity brought in by my new neighbors.

Seeing as how I'm now a land barroness, a member of the elite, and getting quite used to peace and quiet interrupted only by an errant mew of a kitten or two, I decided there is no room for such trailer trash in my neighborhood. So I went online and found the regulations for mobile homes in Kern County. Then I called my local planner to see if those rotten neighbors had gotten a permit for their behemoth. Turns out they hadn't. And they can't. Apparantly I'm in hoity toity "Estate" zoning and you can't bring in just any trailer. Nope, it has to be less than 10 years old with a snow load roof. The local building folks advised that I should report these unpermitted bringers-in of tin cans on wheels to the county code enforcement. So I did. And it felt good.

Still, they apparantly haven't gotten the notice to remove the nuisance yet because those poor buggers are out there today trying to figure out how to fit the two sides of their trailer together and get the jacks underneath level. They've even staked out a place for their septic tank --- just a few feet from my water well!!! (That's illegal too - for obvious reasons).

I know what you're thinking...How can you, Glib Gal, Queen of the Doublewide, purveyor of all things paneled, connoiseur of aluminum, and friend to faulty wiring, turn on your own kind?

Quite easily, it turns out. And you know what's even worse? Once they get their fine and notice to remove the thing, I plan to go in and make a lowball offer for their measly 2.4 acres thus completing my empire by gaining ownership on every lot on my side of the street. Yes, it is good to be queen, even if it is of the doublewide.

Flannel, livestock and Kenny

2006-04-06T10:53:00.000-07:00

I realize you don't come here for photos but not much else is going on in my life right now so here are some more photos I took yesterday in the snow:
Oh, wait! Some of you might appreciate this: I purchased an article of clothing at the grocery store yesterday. I know, you probably didn't know grocery stores carried clothing but you don't know Tehachapi. The article of clothing? Brace yourself, a plaid, woolly-lined flannel shirt. Even worse, I used my new Albertsons card and am sure it's now on record that I purchased a flannel shirt at a grocery store. I probably should've picked up some Wild Turkey and a Hungryman dinner to complete the picture.

And yes, I am wearing the flannel right now. And I'm listening to one of the valley's four country music stations. I think plaid enhances the quality of country music because I just found myself singing along with Kenny Rogers. Or maybe it's all the time I've been spending around the ranch.

The real reason for this post was to show you (especially BlowHo) this picture:
That's Squiggy, a pygmy nubian goat I helped deliver last week. I call him Squiggy because he's got a squiggly line down his back. Yes, he looks a little feminine to me too. Anyhow, he'll be moving to my place as soon as I put up a fence and find a boyfriend for him. Think the boyfriend will be Lenny...

For those of you disappointed in the boring posts lately, hang in there - I'm headed to hear a live country band at the local honky tonk tomorrow night. It will be my first social outing in the mountains and should provide some sort of entertainment.

White Out

2006-04-05T16:04:00.000-07:00

Well not really, but it is snowing here today and given my coastal upbringing it's pretty darned neat. Especially unique is the way it snows sideways. I kinda like the way it looks in the yard:
MB - I thought you said it didn't snow here?

Here's a picture of the rainbow I saw from the dining room window yesterday.Oh, and for all you folks concerned about my dating life...I've already gotten one phone number. Yep, a single father of four who lives in a travel trailer down the road. He's the son of the people I bought the house from. Hot prospects abound.

Back to work.

In

2006-04-04T15:40:00.000-07:00

I know, I owe you more but I've been living on a ranch feeding, birthing, burying, mending, and being attacked by creatures for a week. Good news is that I'm finally in my house (tonight's my first night). Bad news is that I'm on dial-up so this will be short (maybe that's good too...). Anyhow, here are some of the views from the house. This is the back yard, so to speak:Here's the view of the Tehachapi Valley and southern Sierra Nevadas looking north:And here's what you'll see out one of the bedroom windows if you are lucky enough to come visit.
Yes, it's nicer than I'd remembered. And it's supposed to snow tonight! More later.

"WTF?" 101

2006-03-24T14:29:00.000-08:00

I know, I know, I've been neglecting you lately. But I have a good excuse this time...I've been busy packing because, you know, I have to move. And not just move, but CHANGE MY WHOLE FRICKIN' LIFE next week.

Yeah, I say a big, fat Holy Cow to that one too. That's also about when I start thinking, "What the f*** am I doing?"

I think there are about three basic types of self-conscious "WTF?'s" we go through in life. (The others are all just third party "WTF?"s where we're wondering WTF someone else was thinking and those don't really count in this discussion.)

The first is the "WTF?" you feel when, say, you wake up on St. Patrick's Day in the cab of your truck wearing a Santa hat and gardening gloves and wonder "WTF did I do to end up here?" Then you laugh at yourself, curse for not getting some passer-by to take a digital photo of you looking so ridiculous, and make a note to tell your friends what they missed so they can make fun of you for a couple of years. This is the post-stupid-behavior "WTF?" that hopefully leads to reflection and self-awareness.

The second is the kind I think a few of my blogging buddies, Buzz, Melon, and Spotty, are facing these days. This type of "WTF?" is the overthought meaning of life WTF? and it seems to be the plight of every single, career-minded, rut-stuck, above-normal-intelligence-level individual I know. You see, once you've achieved a certain level of success, you are finally comfortable and living like an adult, you've got no boundaries, no rules, no constraints, yet you feel like you should be doing more, better, different...just doing something other than going to work, meeting friends for beers and sushi, and then heading home to watch TV with your cat on your lap or sitting next to the invisible significant other you no longer love while chatting on the phone long distance with your old friends who are now married and envying you for your independence and freedom. Then you go to bed, get up and do the very same thing the next day and in your quiet time you wonder "WTF?". But this "WTF?" is the one that asks why you're not moving at all. This is the "WTF?" I was feeling a few months ago when I decided to sell the house and get moving...literally.

The third is like the "WTF?" I felt when I found myself at age 17 marching around Orlando, Florida in the heat of July, being yelled at by a drill instructor named Drummond who had just told us our sissy arses would all be going to war in a desert in the Middle East, feeling like I'd just made the worst decision of my life. It's the pit-of-your-stomach-venturing-into-into-the-unknown kind of "WTF?" that makes you question why you are where you are and wonder how it will turn out because you're already in the middle of a wild ride and someone else seems to be at the wheel. You can't really change it because the ball is in motion, so you've got to deal with it. That's the "WTF?" I'm feeling this week, as I'm in the middle of leaving my home of eight years, moving away from all my friends, and quitting a decent job to move to a small town where I don't know anyone, have no plans for employment and am told the dating pool consists of 18 single men, three of which are in the closet and 14 of which are absolutely dysfunctional, and one of whom has a poo bag. I don't know where it'll lead, but I know it will be somewhere new.

I guess the point of this post is that life is one big "WTF?" and each of use has to decide which "WTF?" we're most comfortable living with. After all, the minute we cease having "WTF?" moments we're either happy, content, bored, or dead.

MB - I'll say it before you, WTF is up with this post?

Another one for the books...

2006-03-20T10:59:00.000-08:00

St. Patrick's Day 2006:

4:00 pm - Arrive at seedy drinking establishment, dressed in 'Everyone Loves an Irish Girl' t-shirt' and green sweatshirt. Have a beer (not green) with friends who have already been there for hours.

4:45 pm - I probably shouldn't, you know the cops are out in full force tonight. Okay, one more - I'll just stay longer.

5:00-7:30 pm - More beer and pizza is delivered. Strategically place "Wee bit o' Irish" sticker on S' pants.

8:16 pm - Woo Hoo!!! Who wants to kiss an Irish girl?!?!?!!!

9:02 pm - Switch to drinking water. Refuse multiple offers from the boys to stay at their houses. Note that several drive home drunk. Call one on his cell phone to tell him he shouldn't be driving. As a matter of fact, he really shouldn't be driving drunk while talking on the phone.

10:12 pm - Head to truck, decide I'm not quite okay to drive but don't want to stay in the bar, look for warm clothing behind the seat. Hunker down.

12:19 pm - Wake up in fetal position on the seat in the cab of truck wearing Santa Hat and gardening gloves, burrowed under corduroy shirt jacket and old sweater. Damn it's cold.

1:06 am - Arrive home.

Note to self: Keep warmer and more fashionable items in truck next year. Better yet, stay home as originally planned.

Betty Ford Rehab Run XX

2006-03-14T16:09:00.000-08:00

Got back into California late Thursday night, went home to exchange bags and grab some lingerie, then headed off to Palm Springs for the 20th Annual Betty Ford Rehab Weekend celebration sponsored by the Orange County Hash House Harriers.

Friday night was spent running around downtown Palm Springs in 47 degree weather with light rain while wearing nothing but a black bra, super-short miniskirt, garter belt, stockings, see-through black robe, and, of course, running shoes. No, I don't have any pictures, nor do I have much recollection of the events of the evening other than having seen way too many men packed into too-small garments. At least the cold weather helped them fit better...

Saturday was the opening ceremony of the event, and about 250 hung over hashers waited anxiously for the arrival of our special guests and the opening entertainment:Yes, we managed to once again take over an unsuspecting hotel and turn it into a hotbed of debauchery and cross-dressing.

Sure enough, we were soon graced with the presence of none other than a cocktail guzzling Betty Ford herself:Yes, she has put on a few pounds of late but the booze will do that to a girl. She was serenaded by Palm Springs' own Sonny and Cher:No, I don't know where they found that much bright orange yarn either, but I sure am impressed with whoever actually knit that thing.

After Sonny and Cher's serenade, something went terribly, terribly wrong during the Village People's performance:
Now let's do a double-take of that graceful dancer in green lycra:What did you expect? More scenes from Puerto Rico?

Part III - You never know what's around the next bend

2006-03-14T08:09:00.000-08:00

I know, I know...You're getting tired of looking at vacation pictures, but these taken in the Carribean National Forest (aka El Yunque) are pretty cool.

This is a typical tree with it's roots exposed due to erosion from the rain. And you know what? It really does rain in the rainforest!This is La Coca Falls, one of the two easily accessible big falls in the forest. In fact, all you have to do is pull your car over to see it:There was no swimming hole under La Coca Falls and you know no trip to any self-respecting waterfall is complete without swimming below it and risking life and limb to get behind it, so we headed down La Mina Trail in search of La Mina Falls. Here's a picture of the very well-maintained Forest Service trail to La Mina falls.I must admit this is the best maintained, least populous National Forest I've ever been to. Too bad when we got to the falls we discovered that everyone else visiting the park that day was already there. And even though that appeared to be less thean 40 people, it kind of makes it less fun. They do look happy, though, don't they?We decided to forego swimming with the masses at La Mina Falls and decided to hike up to the top of the falls to look down them. To do this we had to go off the trail, down a slope and up the creek a ways. It was well worth it because this is what we found:Yeah, it was pretty nice. The water was deep, clean and refreshingly cold. Best of all, no other human was in sight - it was just us and the coqui frogs. We hung out there by ourselves for about an hour before a family from New Jersey stumbled upon us and we did the get-your-clothes-back-on-quick-before-you-scare-the-tourists scramble. Note to self: Leave clothing on nearest bank in future.

By the way, if you're ever in Puerto Rico and want to visit El Yunque, note that the Visitor Center, while very nice and clean, is a waste of time and money ($3.50 a person) if all you are interested in is hiking. However, if you want to read about the rainforest and visit a clean bathroom, it is worth it. Otherwise, just keep traveling up the road into the forest until you see other cars, park, and find a trail - it will undoubtedly lead somewhere beautiful. There are also maps along the road and trails are well-marked with informational signs about vegetation and wildlife. Good stuff.

Puerto Rico Part II - A Clean Atlantic and a Dirty Mind

2006-03-13T20:14:00.000-08:00

After a few days soaking up laid back island life with the poofters, we headed over to San Juan on the main island of Puerto Rico so JP could tend to business.

San Juan is a pretty big city so we ended up staying at the Condado Beach Resort, which was a standard upscale hotel with excellent views on the beach side. This was the view from our balcony:And this is a picture of the big, clear, blue Atlantic Ocean taken from the balcony one morning:I've been swimming in the Atlantic in New England and trust me, it doesn't look like that.

We didn't have time for much other than a stroll around town and some dinner the first night in San Juan but I did notice a few interesting things while we were out walking around looking for a decent beer (Note: Puerto Rico has crappy beer).

While we were walking around admiring the architecture of Old San Juan, I noticed these cool head statues (busts?) someone had on their porch:Of course, just as I was marveling at the artistic nature of the pleasant little neighborhood we'd stumbled upon I noticed this bit of urban prose nearby and my faith in humanity and all things beautiful was restored:

One More picture from Vieques...

2006-03-13T20:06:00.000-08:00

I almost forgot about this one. It's taken from that private cove we found while exploring. That's the little island hidden under the clouds. I later found out it's called Blue Island and Blue Beach. We did our own scene from the Blue Lagoon...

Puerto Rico Part 1 - Poofter Palace and Vieques Island

2006-03-12T16:41:00.000-08:00

Took the red eye to San Juan last Thursday night. One cool thing about traveling with JP is that he's VIP all the way. Oh yeah, did I mention I went with JP? Come on, you're not that surprised, are you?

Anyhow, he had a conference in San Juan and it was his birthday so he invited me along. So on this trip we had two layovers - one in Miami and one in San Juan. I got to learn about the secret society of the Admiral's Club - one of those VIP rooms at airports that you see businessmen going in and out of all the time. Well, let me tell you, they are quite nice. They have an open bar, free munchies - or should I say hors d'ouvres? Like cheese and crackers and wine and stuff. And there is privacy and clean bathrooms with showers and towels and all the fixings. Makes for a nice way to spend your layover, complete with free beer.

After lounging in the Admiral's Club, we hopped on a puddle jumper over to Vieques Island, the place the Navy used to practice bombing at and that got all the hippies in an uproar a while back. The Navy stopped bombing and donated the land to the Fish & Wildlife so now half the island (21 miles by 4 miles in toto) is a pristine park and one of the last places you can fine unresorted-up white sand beaches in the Carribean.

JP had made all the arrangements and found us a place in Isabela - the largest town on the island. I was expecting some sort of hoity toity resort because that's the kind of guy he is. Instead, he thought of me for once and found a loft above a bar/coffee shop/inn in the heart of town. It's called Hotel Atlantico and is owned by a nice guy named David from Atlanta who met us at the door and carried our bags up the spiral staircase. I noticed a lot of nice looking men in the coffee shop and figured it must just be a hang out for well-groomed American men. We went up to our loft to find an awesome and well-decorated flat, complete with a huge balcony and views of the ocean from every angle. I looked over the front of the balcony and noticed the flags out front - U.S., Puerto Rico...and Rainbow.
I'm no expert at these things but I'm pretty sure the rainbow flag signifies tolerance of all lifestyles. Or that Rainbow Bright lives there.Click here for Wikpedia's definition and a history of the rainbow flag.

Sure enough, when we went downstairs for a beer that night it was indeed a hotbed of muscle shirts and loose swaggers. I got a good laugh out of this because JP is a raging homophobe. We dubbed the place the "Pink Poofter Palace" and had a blast with our new found friends who diplomatically told us they "cater to the dollar first". Definition of poofter.

The coolest thing about the hotel was definitely the dual-headed outdoor shower. There is nothing like taking a shower under the Carribean sun while looking out over the ocean. You should try it sometime.Anyhow, I highly recommend renting the loft at Hotel Atlantico if ever you are in Vieques and want an awesome place to stay that is both well decorated and friendly to all.

We had rented a Jeep (necessary on the island if you want to go anywhere) and headed to the south side to go see the bioluminescent bays. This consisted of riding in an old school bus down a dark dirt road to a little dock in the middle of the night, then taking an electric boat out on a bay and going swimming with about 40 other people. Bioluminescence is WAY COOL. It's like swimming on acid - without the acid. I mean, I imagine that's what it's like since we know I'd never do anything like that. Anyhow, I couldn't take pictures because you need special equipment to capture glow-in-the-dark.

The bioluminescense is caused by dinoflagellates - tiny fireflies of the ocean - that glow when you stir the water. There is no easy way to describe it so I would suggest going to see it - especially if you have kids who we all know love stuff that glows. And don't bother going if you're not going to swim - some folks on the boat didn't want to mess up their hair. Note to tourists: There will be hair spray long after the dinoflagellates are gone. Anyhow, Puerto Rico has three of the best bioluminescent bays in the world and I would say they'll be dimmed within a decade due to pollution so go soon.

The next day we took the Jeep over to Esperanza - the tourist side of the island - to do some snorkeling. We found a dirt road and followed it to the end where we found ourselves alone (but for the boat that left by afternoon) on this beach:The water was warm, there was a reef nearby, and clothing was not an option. Yes, that was a nice day.

Later we headed back to town for some food and found ourselves lounging on a dock, listening to a band, watching this sunset:All in all, Vieques was pretty cool. Between the bioluminescence, having a cove on the Carribean to ourselves, and staying at the Poofter Palace, it was a unique experience. So if you're ever in Puerto Rico, leave the tourist area and hop on a flight or ferry over to Vieques before it gets overrun with Spring Breakers and tourists.

Good grief

2006-02-14T09:02:00.000-08:00

It's Valentine's Day...again, and the world is overrun with helium, long stems and cheap champagne. Shoot, even I donned my Victoria's Secret Pink undergarb today. Why? Because it's the only time of year it seems appropriate.

Actually, I have a feeling I'll be home watching Charlie Brown's Valentine's Special tonight, hoping he finally gets the little red-headed girl. Maybe Lucy's 5 cent advice will finally pan out...or not.

Man I love to root for old CB but the darned ABCTV website has already ruined it for me:

In this special, Charlie Brown finally works up the courage to call the little red-haired girl to ask her to the Valentine's Day dance. But once again he ends up broken-hearted and empty-handed when he dials the wrong number and reaches Peppermint Patty instead.

They need to update this timeless tale because if old gourd-head had a cell phone there is no way he would misdial and be stuck with a lesbian on Valentine's Day.

In case you have plans, or intend to hunker down with some ice cream and Simon Cowell for the night, here is a great review of the cartoon. Some of my favorite quotes:

More than 50 years on, Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang are more miserable than ever.

In Valentine, as in Peanuts' classic Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Halloween outings, the kids approach the holiday with skepticism. Unrequited love abounds: Sally loves Linus, her "Sweet Baboo" who only has eyes for his security blanket; Lucy digs Schroeder, fervently devoted to his baby grand; Peppermint Patty and her four-eyed peon Marcie both pine for Charlie Brown , still head over heels for the Pretty Little Redhead.

Alone together, the masochistic crew is united by a shared inability to act on their desires. "I'd like to buy a box of candy for a girl who doesn't know I exist, please," Charlie Brown asks a store clerk (unseen, unintelligible, and uninvolved, like all Peanuts grownups). With the Valentine's Day Dance and card exchange looming, Charlie plummets into an existential crisis, and not even Lucy's five-cent "Psychiatric Help" can cure his "deep-down-black-bottom-of-the-well-no-hope-end-of-the-world-what's-the-use loneliness." When the girls ask Snoopy to ghostwrite love poems for their crushes, they reject his sarcastic verses ("Your eyes are like two supper dishes"). Nobody gets who they want when the dance rolls around, except for party crasher Snoopy, who effortlessly cuts a rug with the Pretty Little Redhead.

Funny how timeless the tale really is...

One more thing for someone special on this sacred commercial day:

Guitars, Cadillacs and Hillbilly Music you can't dance to...

2006-02-13T16:29:00.000-08:00

So way back when I was all crushed out on the Cowboy I thought it would be a good idea to plan something special for Valentine's Day weekend. Turns out Dwight Yoakam, a country singer, was to be in town February 10. Perfect, I thought, so I bought two VIP orchestra seating, dinner tickets. That was back in December and I had forgotten about it until last week when the theatre called to ask about dinner preferences. Nope, the tickets were not refundable so I asked my old friend T, who is a cattle-driving tomato farmer that likes country music.

We met for a pre-concert beer at Dargan's around 6:00. VIP dinner folks were already lined up outside the theatre as we were told to arrive at 6:30. We had a beer then went down to the theatre to find the same folks still standing in line so we went across the street to the Sans Souci for another beer. Half an hour later, the line still hadn't moved and we had a third beer. By the time we finished it was almost 8 pm and the line was finally moving. We got inside, were squished into the last possible VIP dinner seats on the edge of the orchestra area and then within five minutes the concert started. Yep, before dinner was served.

So there I was, at a table, facing a wall, unable to move my chair because the lady seated behind me was so close, waiting for dinner while a concert went on 20 feet in front of me. And this wasn't dinner music. It was actually kind of rude to be eating while a concert is going on. And probably not good for the digestive system either.

Dwight was great. It was an awesome concert. Good energy, fun songs, altogether a great performer. I highly recommend going to see him under different circumstances.

Too bad I couldn't see him or move.

Dinner arrived and was sheer crap. A chunk of tasteless chicken, two slices of tri tip that was clearly leftover from somebody's Superbowl party, and half an ear of previously frozen corn that was mushy and tasteless. No worries about the food, though because I was filled up on beer and Dwight was jamming.

A few songs later I was feeling the music and tired of sitting with my back to it so I crawled under the table to the other side (yes, I had to crawl under because we were all in so tight). I went near a wall, not blocking an aisle or anything, and did the standing-dance thing. I wasn't in anybody's way, wasn't flailing around wildly or anything, just minding my own business, standing and rocking a bit.

Suddenly a bouncer tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to take my seat. I thought he was joking. Everyone in the place was on their feet, except the VIPs who I just thought were waiting for their tables to be cleared (which they never did clear so the VIPs had to sit with disgusting food in front of them for three hours). I was soon informed that VIPs are not allowed to stand or dance and must remain seated or go to the balcony (cheap seats) to stand and dance.

Huh? I paid $50 extra for crappy food and to be confined to a plastic yard chair with my back to the performer for three hours? I think not.

I asked to speak to a manager. Again, I was asked to sit down and enjoy the show or go to the balcony. I said I'd go to the balcony as soon as they refunded my $50 difference between a balcony ticket and the illustrious VIP area. I was escorted to the front to talk to someone who said I could stand at my seat. I went back and stood at my seat. Again, the bouncer asked me to sit. This went on a couple more times: Me being asked to sit down, then politely going back to the lobby, returning. They couldn't kick me out because I wasn't really doing anything wrong. It was just frustrating. I even kind of did it the last time just to piss the bouncer off because he was clearly agitated that I was ruining his Gestapo gig. Yeah, I'm beligerent that way. Don't act so surprised.

Finally, I gave up and went to the cheap seats and had a blast dancing and hanging with a few other disgruntled VIPs (I like to think I led the revolt). Of course, it was first-come-first serve up there so we ended up with the worst position in the place and couldn't see the performance at all. Still, it's about the experience and you can't let poor management ruin your two step.

In the end, Dwight was great but the Ventura Theater sucked. I mean sucked hard. Like chrome off a trailer hitch hard. And don't think I won't be sending in for my refund. I may even send a letter to the editor of the local paper. I'll let you know how it turns out...

G Squared

2006-02-11T11:57:00.000-08:00

Just off the phone with my grandmother. We spent an hour remembering this guy, who passed away last week:That's my grandfather in about 1941, soon after he was commissioned as an officer in the Navy. He then married my grandmother, settled her in to a cottage in Florida, and headed off to war. Remember when people didn't question what was right? Me neither, but I wish I did.
That's him in pilot training, I think. He served as a fighter pilot on the U.S.S. Essex in the Pacific. Can you imagine the cajones it took to hop into a little plane and fly off the end of a hunk of metal into battle in 1942? To land a 1940's era airplane on an aircraft carrier? He was once shot down over the Pacific and MIA. He came out and went right back into battle. No counseling, no hazardous pay, no wanking, no suing the plane manufacturer. He never talked about the war, he just fought it.

These are some of the medals he earned in his years as a Navy pilot:
After the Navy he never flew a plane again. He went home to his sweetheart, made a good living, and raised three kids, then raised five grandchildren and two great grandchildren. He never caused a ruckus. Never lied, cheated or stole. Never complained. He had integrity and was an altogether great man.

He was the Little League coach who always let you play. The man who built a tree house in that big oak in the yard. Who made 12 pairs of stilts out of old lumber so all the grandkids could walk tall at once. Who helped get hundreds of fruit flies for an 8th grade science project. The man who never told a joke but was always tossing out dry one-liners that only the smart folks catch. Who imparted his love af nature and learning on me. Who called trash "rubbish" and talked with a funny New England accent.

Enough of the sentimental stuff. I just thought I should memorialize him and let a few people know that the world just lost another great one.

You asked for it...

2006-02-09T10:17:00.000-08:00

...You got it.

First, me in 1988 with my prom date, Spencer:
Ah, the 80's. Note the trendy slash cut skirt that was all the rage. I simply glowed under the disco ball. And look at my hair, and the Lee Press On nails that matched my dress. I later ripped the acrylic nails off in a bathroom stall at Denny's. I have no idea how women survive with long nails. Yes, I was a bit nerdy in high school - builds character folks.

As for my date, Spencer was a classmate in my advanced placement classes. Very smart. If I remember right, he drove a maroon Yugo and was a very soft spoken and caring guy. He asked me to the prom and I said yes. We went with a group in a limo. Incidentally, I do remember that Spencer wrote in my yearbook, "I know you will become an international lawyer someday if you want to." That was back when everyone knew I was heading off to join the Navy to become a truck driver. Yes, he was smart, and thoughtful.

Before you scroll down to the hilarity that was last night's fitting room session, keep in mind that I was 5'2" and weighed 88 lbs when I joined the Navy at 17 - I remember because you had to weigh at least 92 lbs to get in and I had to gain 4 lbs before I could ship out. I'm now a little over 5'5" and 120 lbs...so here I am, stuffed into my prom dress last night:I know it's blurry. That's because I was laughing so hard at myself it was difficult to take the picture.

And the front view:
Of course, you know I Googled good old Spencer and guess what? He too is a marine biologist scientist type (remember Mark Marks?). In fact, Spencer is currently a visiting professor at Harvard University and will be giving a lecture on squid-bacteria stuff next month. Apparently some of his research is into how squid bacteria can help cure human ailments. Congrats to Spencer on all his success.

Finally, here's something to think about: I went to three proms. One with Spencer (above), one with Lazaro (a guy from the local movie theatre that I had a huge crush on and invited to my senior prom), and one with Scott (a friend and neighbor from high school who now works at the University of Texas Marine Science Institute).

Both Spencer and Scott asked me to the prom and are now productive members of society. Yes, I am a great influence...

I asked Lazaro to the prom. He ended up ditching me at an after party to hang with a girl who would put out. I can't remember his last name to Google him, but I'm fairly certain he isn't contributing much to society.

That about sums up my judgment when it comes to men.

The Irifro and other oddities

2006-02-08T10:25:00.000-08:00

Last Wednesday I had one of those giant construction-sized dumpsters delivered to my house in anticipation of moving. The plan was to empty the garage, clean up the yard, and figure out exactly what was in all those boxes in my extra bedroom. Keep in mind that I've lived in my house almost eight years and had a total of six roommates along the way.

Going through your old crap can teach you a lot about yourself. Here are some of the artifacts of my life I found amidst the dirt, rubble and termite dust:

1. This old family picture of my mom, biodad, neighbor with her baby, and the four of the C kids circa 1976:Notice the man-perm/Irifro on biodad? He said it was great when he had it but didn't last long and took on a frayed look. Still, it is proof of my genetic disposition to an Irifro (Irish fro). To beauty on the left is my mom providing more proof of the Irifro gene through her massive mane. I'm the little one in front with the bad haircut, big belly, paisley bell bottoms, and box of Cracker Jacks.

2. The 1988 prom dress that my mom made for me. I think it speaks for itself, and fashion in 1988:Don't worry, it's much more scary on. I'll try to find the prom picture because it's got a tale of it's own to tell. Incidentally, why I still have this prom dress is beyond my imagination. If you are interested in it, it will be at a thrift store in Ventura soon.

3. My letterman's jacket: It's hard to believe I ever ran for anything other than beer. I'm not sure why I want to hang onto this, but I kind of do. After all, what exactly does one do with an old letterman's jacket? I'm thinking I'll start wearing it out on the town again.

4. My Seabee uniform and hardhat:Back when I was a Seabee, we still wore the old Army greens a la M*A*S*H*. Seabees get the bottom of the surplus barrel when it comes to supplies. And check out my old boot camp issue chukka boots. Those things weigh about 8 lbs each. Seriously, when I picked on up I thought there must be a giant dead rat it in because it was so heavy.

5. Speaking of giant, dead rats, this was my most bizarre find of all:It's my ponytail from when I went into the Navy. I had to cut my Irifro and for some strange reason decided to keep the ponytail. I do not recall bagging it or saving it but I obviously did. It actually frightened me when I came upon it - I thought it was some dead beast in a bag. Come to think of it, it still frightens me. It is kind of creepy to have 15 year old hair lying around in a plastic bag. Fortunately, I've found a good use for it. I'm going to send it off to Locks of Love so some kid (maybe two?) can have genuine Irifro wig.

Here's what I think archaeologists finding these items would say about me in 100 years: 1. She was either a basket case or leader of the free world due to extreme taunting as a child, 2. She never knew how to dress herself in a socially acceptable manner, 3. She likely spent too much time reliving the glory days of high school sports, 4. Although she would have been considered cool because she could drive a bulldozer, and 5. She was probably a serial killer who kept souvenirs, such as hair, from her victims.

In the end, there was a whole bunch more crap I found - 1980's neon ceramic earrings the size of a dinner plate, my old Cabbage Patch kids (all mysteriously naked), a lot of really hideous clothes, all my old journals, tons of pictures I have yet to peruse, and a whole heap of junk - about 640 cubic feet to be exact.

I'll post more pics if I get around to it. In the meantime I'll be cruising around Ventura in my letterman's jacket and chukka boots.

Speaking of lawyers and court...

2006-02-01T09:12:00.000-08:00

I went to a continuing education seminar at the courthouse on Saturday. It was an all-day affair wherein about 50 lawyers sat in the jury room listening to various lectures on ethics, bias, and other legal mumbo jumbo. We are required to do it or, gasp, do pro bono (free) work for poor people. And you know lawyers don't do anything for free.

Anyhow, I was in the lecture and noticed that the defense lawyer from my recent jury service experience was one of the lecturers. He recognized me immediately so I went up to say hello. In our brief conversation, he said, "I wish I'd have kept you as a juror. Especially after I read your blog".

Huh? What? He read my blog?!?!?! I was a bit shocked that he had read my blog and that it would encourage anyone to select me for anything other than immediate residenciy in an insane asylum. When I asked how he got my blog he said, "Oh, the judge gave it to me." I thought he meant the judge I did an internship with (aka my crush. He said, no, not him, rather Judge C - the judge for the case on which I was in the jury pool.

This shocked the heck out of me because I knew neither the judge nor the defense attorney. Then I remembered that a local lawyer who has a real lawyer blog had linked to my blog about jury service. Then I got a little paranoid and thought, 'Shiite, I wonder how many judges know about the blog, and that it's mine.' Then I thought about some of the stuff I've put on here that the more conservative set might find offensive or outrageous. Then I considered deleting the blog to erase all evidence. Then I thought I should get more serious on the blog and write lawyer stuff and contribute something to society to redeem myself for all the antics I've participated in. Then I thought, 'Hell no, I won't cowtow to conformity and self-censorship.' Finally I remembered that judges have seen and heard it all and we lawyers are here for their entertainment anyhow.

So read on Honorable Ones, read on.

Return to Amity

2006-01-06T13:01:00.000-08:00

Okay, I lied. I'm back from hiatus. What can I say? Wallowing in depression is boring. I don't know how some folks do it.

Met a tired MM for lunch today. He was exhausted because he was up until all hours of the night watching Shark Week on the Discovery Channel. It reminded me of the first time I watched Shark Week while similarly afflicted with insomnia a few years back. Turns out as I was watching I recognized one of those world-famous shark experts from college. Here's a picture of him at work:
You know a guy who grabs a great white by the snout has some cajones. And you know it takes cajones to hang with me.

I remember good old Mark Marks for a number of reasons. First, my roommate had a crush on him. Problem was, she was vegan, a wee bit uptight, ultraliberal, and had a list of requirements for her future mate. He was a short, meat-eating Army Ranger who taught a self-defense class, a card-carrying Republican, and didn't tolerate crap well. She invited him over for cous cous and brussel sprouts one night. As she was cooking I went in the kitchen to get something, she introduced us, and he and I struck up a conversation. He too was a Desert Storm veteran and into running. It was quite clear he and I had a lot more in common than my roommate and him. I left, they had dinner, and he wasn't there in the morning (not really a surprise). Two days later I literally ran into him on a trail behind the college. We ran together and talked. We ended up meeting for regular runs, becoming fast friends and eventually dating - much to the "I never liked him anyway" chagrin of my roommate. (I did ask her permission, not sure why since they had only had dinner the one time).

Mark was a cool guy and his apartment was full of strange shark stuff, including shark embryos floating in formaldihide, shark jaws, shark toys, shark everything. He even gave me an official 'Shark Protection and Preservation Society' t-shirt. I think only 25 were ever made. I still have it. And I had a shark tooth necklace he gave me until I gave it to a friend's son who was more into surfing than I was into sharks. I also remember he was a fireplug of a man, wore a floppy camouflage hat, and wanted to experiment with spanking. He was ambitious, passionate, energetic, and focused. And he had a moustache that made it look like he had a big, fat caterpillar stuck on his face.

I don't recall how long we hung out but I do remember it ended in December of whatever year it was. He had gotten a grant to study great whites in South Africa and needed to leave soon. He asked me to come along and be his research assistant. I considered but was mid-way through college and really wanted to finish. I wished him well, we exchanged a letter or two, and never spoke again. In fact, I hadn't really thought of him until I saw him that time on Shark Week and noted that he had married a nice-looking strawberry blonde who appeared to be his research assistant. I smiled when I saw him on tv and was happy for him.

So after MM and I spoke about sharks at lunch today, I came back to my office and Googled 'Mark Marks sharks'.

Remember the last time I googled an ex? I was hoping something better had become of Mark than had happened to old Bill.

Turns out Mark is okay himself but had some recent tragedy. Some of you may recall seeing news of a plane crash off the coast of Florida a few weeks ago. A charter plane heading to the Bahamas had inexplicably crashed at sea and all 20 people on board were killed. Sadly, when I Googled Mark, I learned that his wife was the pilot of that plane. Here's a link to the story. I feel pretty sorry for Mark because, based on the article, it sounds like they were a great pair.

Looks like he's starting a foundation in her name. I think I'll send a donation and some cous cous when it's up and running. I also think I'd better quit googling exes - it seems to guarantee trouble.

Isn't that just how life works?

2006-01-03T09:16:00.000-08:00

Woke up early yesterday morning to a call from my mother. The is-she-up-yet 6 am calls are always my favorites.

Seems my troubled brother walked up to their property at about 3:30 Monday morning. The thing is, my parents live in the middle of nowhere in the high desert. At least a mile from pavement or marked roads. He had run out of gas and began walking looking for their house. But he had only been to the property once - a few years back before there was anything more than a shed on it. He spent a few hours wandering the desert and then I guess he followed the smell of reindeer and camel dung to find their place.

Of course, when a strange man comes wandering onto your ranch in the middle of nowhere in the dark of night, you get nervous so my father met him on the porch with a shotgun. It took a few minutes for all the parties to calm down. Luckily, no one was shot. We are, after all, a trigger-happy bunch.

Turns out my brother is out of money. I know what you're thinking - 'Didn't he get $95k from selling his house a few months back?' Yes, he did. Apparantly he put $40k into a CD and blew the rest. Yes, that's $55k in five months. And yes, he has something to show for it - a 1970's Chevy Nova, a new Gibson guitar and a knocked up crack whore. I don't know about you, but I could probably do a bit more with $11,000 a month. He spent his last $18 on gas trying to get to my parents' house, ran out of gas a few miles down the road then just started walking. Oh, and he left his girlfriend and dog in the truck while he wandered around. She finds it difficult to walk long distances in her sensible stripper platform shoes.

My folks gathered them and a gas can together and everyone crashed at their place for the night. Not wanting them at their place (probably my father speaking), they took him up to my mountain getaway and told him he and the whore can stay there until he gets his act together. No, he hasn't called to ask me if it's okay. No, he doesn't plan to. Yes, my family seems to think that it's acceptable. I think its enabling since the two of them will probably go pawn the few possessions I have up there, use the money to score some drugs in Mojave and hole up in my trailer and either kill eachother or burn the place down.

So I guess the moral of the story is that if you ignore your family, lie to everyone who cares about you, go on a drug binge, blow more money than you make in a year in a few months, and bring along the convicted felon who is sending you to jail in a couple of weeks (trial next week), you get to live in peace on five beautiful acres in the mountains, rent free, with no responsibility, have your mother bring you food and supplies, and have $40k waiting for you in the bank to use if you get your act together.

Yes, that was the first rant of 2006. Don't worry, I'm going to take a vacation soon and we'll get back to our regularly scheduled programming and antics. Sans tequila shots, of course.

Trailer Park Sommelier

2005-12-31T13:23:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-23T08:58:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-21T09:36:00.000-08:00

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...

2005-12-13T15:00:00.000-08:00

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?

2005-12-12T12:33:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-12T10:05:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-09T09:46:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-29T11:15:00.001-08:00

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

2005-11-29T11:15:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-23T09:38:00.000-08:00

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?

2005-11-22T11:03:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-14T10:03:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-09T13:15:00.001-08:00

My blog is worth $6,774.48.
How much is your blog worth?

The Berserker Defense

2005-10-13T11:04:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-11T16:01:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-11T10:49:00.000-07:00

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.