Ronda's Wonderland

Holiday Howdy

2011-07-01T23:55:00.000-07:00

Well, friends, it's been exactly one year since my last post. I'm still around and hope to be back soon. Life's good!

Sizzle and Pop!

2010-07-01T14:12:00.000-07:00

I have been busy buzzing around Wonderland taking care of all the things I've ignored because of blogging. I'll be round to visit you soon.

I hope your weekend is full sizzle and pop!!

FREEEZE...MIAMI VICE!

2010-06-22T18:15:00.001-07:00

It's hard to believe that it's been long enough that the 80s are considered nostalgic. How can 30 years just "poof" out of existence? Seems like only a few months ago that we were Flashdancing like maniacs in leg warmers and head bands while singing Betty Davis Eyes.

This is 80s Ronda wearing her patented 'big hair'. This is 80s Ronda being glad she opted for the perm instead of a mullet. What 80s Ronda really wanted was a Pat Benatar haircut, but I think she's glad now that she didn't do that either.

80s Ronda was big into bowling. The paparazzi caught her immediately after she threw this shot. If you look closely at the end of the alley, you'll see there are no pins left on the deck. In this photo, she's trying to explain to Crockett and Tubbs that she did NOT steal that strike. She keggled it fair and square. That's right, keggled as in bowled. Not kegeled, as in pelvic floor exercise. Big difference...now and in the 80s.

You remember Crockett and Tubbs don't you?

Crockett and Tubbs, played by Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas, are two Miami vice detectives from the Metro-Dade Police Department who go undercover to stop drug trafficking. It was one of the first television shows in many years to look really different. It is considered by some to be one of the most influential television series of all time. Unlike the standard cop shows, the creators used 1980s New Wave music, culture and visual effects to tell a story. Former lead singer of The Eagles, Don Henley, was often featured on the show. 80s Ronda really liked Don Henley.

For several years, every Friday night, 80s Ronda and her rowdy little band of miscreants met at 9 p.m. to watch the show. 80s Ronda always posted a lookout by the door so she would never have to hear:

"FREEZE...MIAMI VICE!".

Since she lived in California, that would have been badder than bad.

If you have 80's memories you'd like to share, post 'em up. Thanks, Kat for getting this retro blog theme going.

For the Love of Heaven and Earth

2010-06-22T00:00:00.000-07:00

Skimming out of sight with the fading, fractional moon, my favorite day of the year, Summer Solstice, is gone. Done. Over. Fini.

I awoke, sitting straight up in bed, at 4:25 a.m. yesterday. A few minutes later, I felt the tumblers clunk into place as the planets aligned for solstice at 4:28. As always, I surfed the energy of the cosmos. I welcomed the additional boost, that galactic kick in the pants that comes from the shifting of time, into my work day.

The ancient Druids' celebrated solstice as the wedding of Heaven and Earth. What a hot, passionate union this couple ignite.

Happy summer, my friends! It's official now.

Daddy Sent My T-Bird Away!

2010-06-17T15:27:00.000-07:00

Here she is, our white, pearlescent bird. She wasn't always so lovely, oh, no. We adopted our '62 T-Bird in 1989. She was wearing old, weathered red paint and we parked her, unceremoniously, on the back lot. For a long time we just ignored her. Ever so often we would stop and gaze at her sleek lines, assuring her that her time of renewal would surely come.

Nearly a dozen years later, the Wonder Husband towed her into the shop and started working on her. Completely dismantling her interior and exterior. He sanded her three f***ing layers of old paint down to fresh metal...his words not mine. He would know. The hundreds of hours he gave to that woman should make me jealous but they didn't.

He gave her new life for me. He gave her new life because that is what he does. A career? A passion? An obsession? At times, the lines blur. He chose her paint and fabric colors carefully with me in mind. Thinking about how I would look driving her. Thinking about what colors looked good on both of us. He made her sturdy enough for any man and stylish enough for any woman.

She was difficult, leaning toward temperamental at times but he never, ever quit on her. Like he never, ever quit on me.

She and I became fast friends. We had lots of adventures and cried together when she had a breakdown. Such is the way with vintage ladies. For four years, we tooled around town looking cool and claiming lots of admirers. And then a couple from Seattle said they wanted her. They wanted to give her a new home in a cooler climate. They wanted to drive her beautiful body cross-country to their 50th anniversary celebration. It was hard letting her go but they can give her the kind of life we can't. We have more cars, that are in the same sad shape she was when we got her, that need tender attention.

We said our goodbyes and watched her tail lights as they rolled off into the sunset.

Fly, little birdie, fly away to your new home.

Massage Marathon

2010-06-17T15:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was another one of those really, really long days. Doing 12 to 14 hours of massage is definitely a marathon. Ask any therapist. During fall and winter, I pull those on a regular basis and get in the zone. But as spring and summer come, the warm weather invites outside activities. My clients are swimming, hiking, boating, vacationing, and taking care of kids so I get a little softer schedule. Then SLAM***ZAP***POW, out of no where, I get my gluteus maximus kicked.

The Force is strong right now with the Solstice wheeling into view. Over time, I've learned to manage my energy better, to not let it buck me off my path and slam me into the ground. I've learned to stay in the now and not moan and groan and fret about all the kinked up bodies that are lined up waiting to lay on my table and receive the undivided attention of my kneading hands.

People can feel it when we therapists are not centered. Even if they can't put their finger on why, they don't like it at all. It makes them feel unsettled. For me, meditation has come to be in every breath, ever second, and every heartbeat. Yesterday I uncapped a bottle of Lavender essential oil, took a big snort and let the the good vibes flow.

Yee Haw!

Stinky Stats

2010-06-14T00:00:00.000-07:00

The following is excerpted from an e-mail that is currently making the rounds:

Are you aware that the Saudis are boycotting American products? In addition, they are gouging us on oil prices. An appealing remedy might be to boycott their GAS. Every time you fill up your car you can avoid putting more money into the coffers of Saudi Arabia. Just purchase gas from companies that don't import their oil from the Saudis.

The following gas companies import Middle Eastern oil:

Shell..................................... 205,742,000 barrels
Chevron/Texaco....................... 144,332,000 barrels
Exxon /Mobil.......................... 130,082,000 barrels
Marathon/Speedway.................. 117,740,000 barrels
Amoco................................... 62,231,000 barrels

Here are some large companies that do not import Middle Eastern oil:

Sunoco............................0 barrels
Conoco............................0 barrels
0ASinclair........................0 barrels
BP / Phillips......................0 barrels
Hess..............................0 barrels
ARC0.............................0 barrels
Maverick.........................0 barrels
Flying J..........................0 barrels
Valero............................0 barrels
Murphy Oil USA*................0 barrels
*Sold at Wal-Mart

My sister, Bichy Mama (BM), smelled some stinky gas statistics in this e-mail. Being sleuthy, like her big sister, she had a clandestine meeting with Deep Throated Rock Star (DTRS) to get the real poop on this story. DTRS has long been a mole in the gas biz. He definitely knows the difference between his gas and a hole in the ground.

"Bichy Mama:

This information is about 25% accurate. Valero is the only 100% American company using the most domestic crude oil, but they buy crude on the open market from all sources. Exxon/Mobil is number 8 on the list of companies that own crude oil. Numbers 1-7 are not companies at all they are countries like Saudi Arabia, Venezuela, Russia etc... Wal-mart buys from all sources which, undoubtedly, includes imported oil."

My friends, be careful about getting too caught up in these viral letters written to stir up the pot. I would have re-printed the entire letter but it was quite long. It was written to evoke fear, anger and was also very pro Wal-Mart. This one belongs in the toilet, and I'm going to give it three flushes.

Thanks sleuthy BM and rockin' DTRS. You've done your part to make this world a saner place. Your secret decoder rings are in the mail.

Bad Boyz

2010-06-12T00:00:00.000-07:00

Photo: Google Images

In the cool of the evening
When everything is getting kind of groovy
I open the door
And ask you if you'd like to go with me and do some weeding
First you say no, you've got some plans for the night
And then you stop and say all right

Then the world gets kinda crazy when a big ol' cop has his gun out.

He keeps us guessing
We never seem to know what he's a-thinking
A bad guy's hidin' from him
And for sure his flack jacket buddies are helpin'
I get confused cause I don't know where I stand
But then you smile, and say "get back"

The world gets kinda crazy when a big ol' cop has his gun out

Someday cops and robbers will stop this game they're a-playing
Til then, leave the weedin' to when the copter's done straifing
Just like a ghost, that bad boy's haunting our street
And hopefully, he'll soon get beat

The world gets kinda crazy when your quiet 'hood's over run by a gansta
Friday night's kinda crazy when you're caught off guard by a crime war

*Just a little unexpected Friday night excitement in our quiet, little neighborhood. Just a couple hundred yards out my front door across the field a cop with pistol out, two flack jacketed buddies, a helicopter and narc car were scouring for the culprit. Willow would say, it's that Ol' Devil Moon kickin' up his heels.

News From the Weird

2010-06-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

Awards and memes, Blogtopia is rife with them both. I must admit I'm not much good at complying with their rules. Shame on me, but most of my aversion stems from the fact that rules call for including a few people while excluding many.

I'm a laid back kinda gal and feel more comfortable spinning parts of me out into cyberworld little by little rather than in big eBlasts. If you read my blog, you'll get to know me as I shed my skin, layer by layer, over time. But, as I read TechnoBabe's post the other day, she made the point that this is how we get to know each other in Blogtopia. Since she's honored me a couple of times on her righteous, little, hippie blog, I wanted her to know that I noticed and appreciated her kindness.

One award she gave me was the Blue Award. Blue reminds me of water, calmness and tranquility. It also reminds me of the throat chakra which is associated with the color blue, communication and speaking one's truth. And thus, is the perfect time to peel off another layer of my eclectic, esoteric self.

My work history is eclectic. I've been a fry cook in burger joints, a secretary, seamstress, upholsterer of both furniture and automotive, bartender, bowling center manager, semi-professional bowler, school cafeteria cook, medical back office manager, massage therapist, light worker, energy worker and ascension seeker.

I am also esoteric by nature. I've studied and worked with hypnosis since I was 12 years old. I have a transcript of every session I've ever done except a couple. And of course, they were the ones that most blew my mind. Past life regression and soul retreival are passionate interests of mine. Occasionally, a psychologist friend of mine calls me into her office to help her move a patient beyone a point where they've become stuck in their progress.

I am probably the most normal "different" person you will ever meet. Different is what people say when they try to sugar coat us oddballs. I used to try to hide it, but no more. Now, I embrace my lust for the unusual. As the card my neice gave me last year for my birthday read: Another year older, another year weirder. Who knew they had a card for such things?

I've given up worrying what others think of my esoteric practices. Hey, if I can figure out how to teleport myself from California to New York, as far as I'm concerned, so much the better. And when I do, I'll let you all ride along. Until then go check out TechnoBabe's groovy blog.

Scotty, beam me up. Wait...let me try doing it myself first!

The Beautiful Damsel and the Paralyzed Man

2010-06-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

Barbie and Ken got married on Saturday night. It wasn't hard to tell they meant everything to each other. She, a beautiful damsel. He, a paralyzed man. Not completely paralyzed. He'd done a lot of physical therapy and, now, it was mainly just his right side and, in particular, his leg.

He'd suffered a stroke following a chiropractic neck adjustment. Three times, he died on the chiropractor's table, finally being revived and hospitalized. A very small percentage of the time, a manipulation can split the inside walls of the vertebral arteries, causing the walls to balloon and block the blood supply to the lower part of the brain resulting in a basilar vertebral stroke.

But, this story isn't a treatise against chiropractic. Quite the contrary. Although I worked in the field and knew that a stroke was a possibiltiy, in over 12 years I never saw or heard of one case. I have two nephews and two neices who are chiros. In our family, we know, firsthand, how the techniques can aid healing. Besides that, even a simple thing like extending your neck back over the basin for hair washing at the beauty salon has been known to cause a stroke.

Rather, it is more about the good and bad that happens in life. The unexpected. Ken's neck adjustment was performed by his friend who was trying to do him a favor and make him feel better. His friend was a healer; this was the last thing he wanted to happen. In an instant, both of their lives were changed forever. Ken has yet to forgive his friend.

But because of his fateful injury, he met Barbie, a physician's assistant. The time came for their first dance as man and wife. With white satin, pearls and tule crushed against a black wedding tux, they swayed, not moving one inch on the floor, to a love song. It was the most beautiful dance I'd ever seen.

Do you Believe in Miracles?

2010-06-03T14:20:00.000-07:00

Do you believe in miracles? I don't just mean wanting or praying for something to happen, but really believing you have the power to effect change. More precisely, that the Divine can work through you to create miracles like we read about in the Bible. Stories where Jesus walked on water, healed the sick, and raised the dead. Stories about Moses parting the Red Sea and Elijah calling down fire from Heaven on Mt. Carmel.

We don't see those kinds of miracles now days. Why? Can they truly not occur or have we simply forgotten how to manifest our Creator's instructions. Usually, I find myself in the category of "hoping" a thing will change rather than "knowing without a shadow of a doubt" that I am an instrument of the Divine. But in a meditation the other night, that all changed. I had an epiphany. The veil dropped and I remembered what it felt like, 100%, to wield the sword for the Master.

The science of Quantum Physics supports the idea of miracles happening. In Quantum Physics, material is supported by subatomic particles, one of which is the quanta. Meaning, or intent, changes the function of that particle. The mind can literally overrule matter. And Bell's Theorem proves non-local communication at a distance between atoms, which makes psychic channeling scientifically possible. If subatomic particles can change function, and non-local communication is possible, then it's possible for intent, or prayer, to change subatomic particles non-locally at a distance. Which means that atoms, molecules and cells, that are composed of subatomic particles, can change.

Miracles aren't only possible, they're probable. Just as today's scientific miracles of computers, microwave ovens, televisions, and gaming platforms are possible because of Quantum Physics, so are walking on water, raising the dead, healing the sick, calling down fire and parting the Red Sea. I'm trying like crazy to not let that epiphany fade back into darkness.

Soldier Boy

2010-05-30T20:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Soldier Boy:

Thanks for coming to get a massage from me while you were here on leave from Iraq. It was so cool you you could be home on Memorial Day weekend and your mother's birthday.

I know we didn't talk much, a little casual conversation as we began, and then you got relaxed and quiet. But really, you didn't need to tell me your story, it was stored in your body and communicated without words.

No, son, put your wallet away. Your money is no good here today. Here's the deal...you take care of my body and I'll take care of yours.

Wishing you safe passage, with all my heart, until you return,

your massage therapist

The Times, They are a Changin'!

2010-05-29T14:54:00.000-07:00

The times, they are a changin'. Yes, indeed! This morning, the sun broke through like it had been held captive by the clouds for a hundred years. Unleashing a perfect spring day. The open-all-your-windows-and-let-the-breeze-clean-house kind of day.

Thursday, for the first time since 1927, astrologically speaking, Uranus moved into Aries bringing with it a huge shift. Have you noticed anything different in your life in the last few days? I did. The last couple of months, to me, the energy has been syrupy and gummy. Sticky. Stagnate. Eerily like the calm before the storm. Not moving to the normal rhythms. And then...POW...BANG! A big switcheroo. This is a time of good fortune, unexpected events and huge energetic shifts.

Yesterday, I was slammed with massages, working from 8 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. It was a long day but a good day and definitely a practice of being in the "NOW." I woke up feeling a bit worn but not too bad for all the wear. Then AWESOMENESS started lining up.

My sister sent me a heart warming e-mail with pictures of my great nephew. I love my sister.

I also had mail from blog pals Reya and Christina.

Next, Ellen, my Pilate's instructor and friend, called me in early for my session. Once upon a time, she lived in New York, danced with the New York City Ballet and has been known to pirouette with Baryshnikov. She worked me hard and got all my kinks out. As we were finishing, her sister, Maggie, came in to teach the Zumba class. She shared with us two dozen of the 20 dozen golden yellow roses a new suitor had given her. And exactly when she started passing them out, the song Send me an Angel started playing.

On the way home, I stopped by the park, which was popping with activity of walkers, runners, cyclists and Segwayers, to take some pictures of the river. The Sacramento River snakes through town and is so pervasive that I often take her for granted. But not today. As fate would have it, the first picture I was guided to take was of a couple letting their dogs cool their feet and get a drink at the edge of the water. Then, BAM, they turned toward me and they were friends I have known most of my life!

I'd received all this goodness and it wasn't even 11:00 yet. There's going to be lots more to come, I just know it! Old patterns are falling away and breaking down. Heck, when I got home, I even decided to vacuum in the reverse direction I usually follow through the house. Why not, eh?

Off to buy Margaritas, salsa and chips. There'll be no hot chocolate this weekend. The forecast is for sunny and warm. Bring it on, Uranus! Oh, yeah. OH, YEAH!

Bipolar Holiday Weekend

2010-05-27T16:02:00.000-07:00

Gosh, it's cold today! 54 degrees and raining with thunderstorms and hail expected this afternoon. A-n-d it's snowing around 4500 feet. I took pity on the dogs, wet from head to toe and making little, pitiful crying noises at the laundry porch door. The girls are 10 years old so I cave in a lot faster these days. Laid down a towel to catch their muddy paws and wiped them so they could come inside. Contentedly sleeping, right beside me, on their pillows, they are. Serenading me with light snoring. Wet dog smell rising as they dry. Maaco the Houdini Dog went to work with the Wonder Husband because I had to be gone for a bit and thunderstorms unstick his glue.

Some kick off to Memorial Day weekend, huh? It's usually hotter than a Chipotle chili by now. I think this is the first May on record that we've not had any 90 degree days. But the deluded beings who call themselves weather forecasters, say that within 48 hours, this bipolar weather pattern is going to turn itself around. We're going from the 50s today to the 80s or higher by Saturday.

So if you want to head up to our gorgeous north state, Lake Shasta is full and boat ready. I also heard, on last night's news, that there's going to be snow skiing at some of the resorts through Memorial Day. I didn't catch where though. Theoretically, there could be water skiing and snow skiing going on at the same time. That's what I call EXTREME skiing.

I'm an "on the fly" kinda girl. In a heartbeat, I can switch from hot chocolate and marshmallows to Margaritas with salsa and chips. And it looks like this weekend, I may get a bit of both.

Fight or Flight

2010-05-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

In my last post, I wrote about my experience with Canine Separation Anxiety. It is believed that when a dog perceives a threat, a part of the brain, the hypothalamus, signals the increase of hormones that prepare the dog for flight or fight. This is a good thing when there is a real threat, but most dogs living in domesticity today, rarely face dangers of life threatening proportions.

In fact, for dogs like Maaco with chronic anxiety, the anxiety itself is life threatening in several ways. It can cause problems like depression. The constant production of hormones can weaken the immune system and lead to heart disease. And the reason most dogs are surrendered to shelters, and eventually euthanized, is anxiety. I understand this, I really do. It's hard to live with the constant whining, pacing, incessant barking and destructive behavior.

The same thing that would have made them successful at surviving harsh environments a century or two ago, is the same thing that is killing them now. The same thing that is making them sick. As a society, we've changed how we live. The stressors are different now. Canines no longer, for the most part, have to provide for their own food and protection. They don't have to fight for their place in the pack. A dog who could have survived adverse conditions is now put down because it is no longer a desirable trait.

It's sad really. We've changed the rules. It's the passing of an age. These dogs are being bred out of existence as much as possible. I understand how and why they no longer fit. Maaco has been neutered. The world no longer needs creatures like him.

And what about humans who have the same type of anxiety and depression? Could the problem be as simple (and as difficult) as they are simply wired with a different set of fight or flight calibrations than the majority of us? We put these people on medications and behavioral regimes. We make them feel different and isolated. They may well have been the heroes and heroines; champions and warriors; kings and queens at another time in history.

Gaia, Mother Earth is always changing. It's not out of the realm of possibilites that the day may come again when those traits are needed and desired.

Pet Meds

2010-05-19T23:45:00.000-07:00

Pets are great!

So are pet meds.

Oh, I don't take them. Well...the Wonder Husband took horse tranquilizers once but that's another story. When you live with a dog that has Canine Separation Anxiety, pet meds are a must. Until 8 years ago, this disorder was one I with which I wasn't familiar. Now I live with it on a daily basis. If you've read or seen the story of Marley & Me, a memoir of family and their dog, there is an account of Marley shredding the upholstery off a sofa all the way down to the wooden frame.

Believe me, it can happen. My dog Maaco hasn't gone that far but he has ripped up blinds,

chewed through molding, bottoms of doors,

and devoured lampshades. He's put teeth holes in door knobs and flattened the sides so he can open them with his mouth.

He's torn boards off of the fence. We've put three different kinds of latches on the gate because two are not enough. He can figure out most of them.

He can't be alone for more than an hour or two before becoming panicked and anxious. If he's inside he is frantic to get out. If he's outside, he's tearing screens off to get inside the house. Or trying to stuff his 10 inch wide body under a three inch gap under the furniture. And, lord almighty, if there is thunder, lightening, high winds or fire works, he'd better not be alone or I'll find this when I get home.

And I'll find a dog that is round-eyed-wild, quivering, whining and salivating. I tried crating him when I left, but no matter how I secured the crate, he'd always find a way to escape. For a while, he was called Houdini Dog. Finally, I set the video camera up to find out what was happening. It is one of the most heart wrenching videos you'll ever see. He shrieked, in half-human tones, and bent the wires of the crate until his gums and mouth bled, for over an hour until the tape ran out. I was gone three.

I've worked with a canine behaviorist and the vet to give this dog as good of life as possible. She's helped me work on retraining and desensitizing him. It is a slow process with lots of backward steps. The very kindly vet is understanding and has helped with a medication regime.

Maaco's not currently on meds but in the past, we've used Clomicalm, an anti-depressant medication; and Acepromazine, a tranquilizer. I'm not one to drug animals, but there are instances where it is necessary. The vet only wants me to use enough to take the edge off but not sedate him. I have to admit, sometimes it would be nice to knock him out when I leave so neither of us have to worry about how long I'm gone or what I'll find when I get home.

Maaco is the smartest dog and the worst dog--all rolled into one--that I've ever owned. In fact, smart dogs are often prone to the disorder. He is not easy. The behaviorist said that even a dedicated dog owner would have surrendered him long ago. It may happen yet. Since he's nearly 8, I'm hoping to keep him safe and wear him down into old age so he can leave this world and me, finally, in peace.

I know people who've gone to the vets and lied to get pet meds so they can take them themselves. My case is just the opposite. I've thought about telling my doctor I can't sleep so he'll give me sleeping pills I can give to my dog. There are times a passed out doggy is a happy doggy. And happy is what life is all about.

Marriage Vows

2010-05-18T00:00:00.000-07:00

The Wonder Husband and I just celebrated our 34th anniversary. To pay homage to our marriage vows, we drove up to Shasta Lake which is just a few miles from our home.

We've had so much rain this year that the lake's 365 miles of shoreline is completely accessible. The steep, sloping hillsides, flush and green, send up eau de pine and manzanita.

The Tail O' the Whale Restaurant, at the Bridge Bay Resort, offered us its sumptuous lakeside view as well as tasty cuisine.

We headed upstairs to the Pelican's Perch. Sitting outside on the deck, we had boat drinks, hand holding and sweet, sweet kisses in the light of the setting sun.

Today, I'm contemplating how lucky I am to have made marriage vows with a man like the Wonder Husband instead of one like King Henry VIII. Taking vows with the wrong person can be a sharp and cutting experience. I like my head where its, right on top of my shoulders, thank you very much.

Mystery at Bear Mountain

2010-05-12T23:18:00.001-07:00

I’d worked late last night…into the wee hours of this morning. Rolling over in hopes of catching a few more zzz’s, I pulled my pillow, tight, over my head to escape the husband’s morning routine. Television blaring the morning news. Shower, all too merrily, spraying away sleeps lingering shadow. Coffee maker rumbling to a finish. Dogs bouncing around, slapping tails on the floor and whining to go out.

“Hey, honey! Isn’t that Babette’s real name?,” he shouts over the blow dryer.

“What the hell is he rambling on about?,” I think. Lifting my bed head out of hiding, I hear the newscaster continue:

“Early this morning, the body of Elizabeth Leann Evans, 54, of Redding was found by firefighters inside the wreckage of her burning double wide mobile.”

“For crissake, it is her!” I growl back as my stomach tightens with fear and anxiety. She’d been my best friend through high school. We’d been tighter than pegged jeans at one point in our lives but had slowly drifted apart. She’d headed down a haphazard and random path. And I? Well…let’s just say mine was orderly and calculated.

Our friends always seemed to think of us as the polar opposites of each other. The good and the bad. The light and the dark. The beautiful and the cute. The skinny and the fat. The sure thing and the not a chance in hell. Despite our differences, we were fast friends.

Babette had a thing for drugs. Hell, for a long time, we both did. After all, it was the 60s. Nearly everyone was trying everything they could get their hands on. In my case, it was always about having fun, experimentation and the thrill of getting away with anything I tried. In Babette’s case, obsession, compulsion, fascination and a deep, undying love of getting high motivated her every move.

Drugs shaped her entire existence. She followed the stem and seed laden trail of excess from pre-pubescent sex to alcohol to pot to psychedelics to snorting coke to freebasing to meth and beyond. Babette slung dope and rolled lids into joints for spending money. She gained notoriety as the best female grower in the area.

She went into nursing to be close to the drugs. It was no mistake that she was the best in her class at giving injections. She and the needle had become friends long ago. Not so much for herself, but she was good at hitting veins so her friends always asked her to tie them off and fire them up.

Over the years, she got thinner and thinner. She always had some lame excuse when asked about it. She was too poor to buy food. She was so busy and working hard at her new job. She was selling these fantastic new vitamins that just melted the fat away. And did I want to buy some because I could stand to shed 20 or 30 pounds. Why do people with addictions always think everyone falls for their transparent excuses?

Eventually, she became the lover of one largest pot growers in the area. Chief belonged to one of the Indian tribes that grew in the canyons between here and Humboldt. He was a good and handsome man and I truly believe that he loved Babette. But in the end, she went deeper into the murky forest of dealing than he wanted to go. And that is saying a lot.

After they split up, she kept company with some really scary and unsavory people. The few times I tried to visit her at her home, I was met by armed men and had to have her, personally, come to the gate to grant me access to her property.

A string of arrests followed. Babette pleaded no contest, in November 1996, to transportation or selling of a controlled substance. She also pleaded no contest, in February 1997, to possession of a controlled substance and illegal possession of ammunition. Deputies were called to her home, at Bear Mountain, numerous times on drug related issues. Her neighbors kept reporting her for running a meth lab and drug operations.

But, as of this morning, all that was left of Babette for the corner to identify her charred body by, was her fingertips.

Snapping out of my reminisce, I hear the newscaster continuing:

“A fast moving blaze gutted Ms. Evans mobile home, parts of an outbuilding, seared branches on overhanging trees and blackened two pickups parked in the driveway.

The investigators won’t say how she was murdered, but they say it’s obvious she died prior to the fire. About 35 crime scene investigators spent the morning sifting through the ashes and searching for evidence at the rural home, the surrounding 60 acres of property and the nearby road.

Furthermore, they say her case is eerily similar to two other cases in the area where people were murdered and then burned in their homes. But they don't believe there's a serial murderer -- one with a penchant for burning bodies -- on the loose.”

SUCKERS! I think to myself as I hop out of bed and head to the bathroom to tend my burned and blistered fingers.

Dog-net

2010-05-11T00:00:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, I was out working in the yard on one of those half and half days. Partly rainy and partly dry. Partly clear and partly cloudy. Cool, pushy breeze tempered by a warm blush of sun. The air, scrubbed clean by a morning shower, was infused, by mid-day, with a warm, rose sachet. The adulation of last night's thunderstorm, a distant, clapping memory.

Tweety birds trilled. Lady Bugs flew. My fluffy, furry trio of dogs, muddy and happy, romped. One buried her snout in the tiny, lavender, lantern-shaped flowers of the newly emerging Comfrey plant. Then engaged, eye to eye, in a Humming bird stare down. The oldest one taught the youngest to flip rocks over with his nose, flushing out sun bathing lizards.

Shadows and scents...chased on the ground.

Ears pricked and cocked and rotating...collected sounds I could not hear. Noses, wet and working, raised in the air, collected smells I could not detect. Eyes, bright and fixed, scanned images I could not see. Picking up bits of code from the ethers I could not imagine.

Shadows and scents...caught out of the air.

Long before the Internet, there was Dog-Net.

I am completely in awe of the animal kingdom.

Sea of Validation

2010-05-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

Since last year, when both of my hard drives failed in my old computer, I've been suspended in binary aggravation. The new PC, I was so excited to shell out money for, was to be the answer to all of my computing troubles.

NO SUCH LUCK!

My astrologer friend, Kristin, of Star Diviner, warned me not to purchase it when I did because of Mercury retrograde. There are often lots of problems with communication, technology and machines during retrogarde. Since I didn't have a choice, she cautioned me to prepare for the possibility of a rocky future and, by all means, get a service contract. For the first time in my life, I did. I am grateful to her for her advice.

From day one, there was a steady stream of problems with the new computer. Too many to bore you with, really. Suffice it to say that I've spent countless hours on the phone with tech support from several companies and made many trips to the Big Box Store where I purchased the machine. I have a folder the size of a small book documenting my travails.

I can geek speak with the best of 'em now and I've got their check-in procedure down. I know the scans to start, the correct paperwork to pull, which lines to print on and which to sign. I know the routine better than some of their newest staff. In fact, I heard a rumor that I'm getting my own Geek Girl name tag and my invite to the company picnic is in the mail.

Every time I had it serviced, they said they couldn't reproduce the problems and that it passed its diagnostic tests.
In time, I came to feel like they thought I was exagerating the severity.
Sometimes they tweaked a little something and told me it should work now.
Each time I prayed they were right, but they were wrong.
At all times, I was locked into this cycle of sordid techno-masturbation.

Until today, that is, when Uber Geek, Steve, called to tell me that the diagnostics showed the hard drive and processor were failing. On one foot, I feel validated that a problem was finally found. The tower will be sent out to Big Box Repair Station for replacement parts. It will take 2-3 weeks. On the other, that is a long time to have to share the lap top with the Wonder Husband. Swimming in the Sea of Validation isn't always what it's cracked up to be.

I can do this...right? If I can share a bathroom with the man, surely I can make this work. Oh, it will have to be carefully negotiated, of course. And scheduling will be tight. I will be hobbled and limping around ether-space for a while but, hopefully, it will all be worth it when the repaired PC finally, FINALLY performs as it should.

But, I'm not fully convinced that's going to happen either. I've been sucked in way too many times for blind faith. I may yet end up being the crazy lady in the parking lot of Big Box Store, picketing with a huge sign that reads:

"LEMON"

and serving complimentary lemonade to passersby. If you see me, you'll wave and give a friendly nod won't you?

Bob Marley & Me

2010-05-04T00:00:00.000-07:00

The day after she was laid to rest, we went to clean out grandma's house. That was when I found the treasure. Not buried. Not hidden behind a painting or under the mattress, but unnoticed, like an unpolished diamond, in full sight. Even though it was encased in glass, it was one of those things that was easily over looked and undervalued.

Surveying it from all sides and angles, I was moved. Peering through the green slime and wrinkling my nose against the algae smell, I marveled. How had it survived, not only grandma's two year absence in the convalescent hospital, but the countless years before? Trying to be fair, I offered it to all the other family members first. I didn't want to be accused of being one of "those" relatives who fought over the possessions of the dead. No one was the least bit interested.

"You take it," they all said.

At the end of the day, I carefully packed up my inheritance. Once at home, I found just the right location for the display case. Gingerly removing the contents, I washed, cleaned, filled it with water and put everything back in place except the star of the show. With extra care, I polished the glass until it gleemed like a crystal ball.

Taking the final item, gently cocooned in a little mesh net, I set it inside the tank. I held my breath until it started to move. With a splish and a splash and a flip and a flash of tail, it was off. Jamming over the trees and under the castle. Jumping out of the water. Nestling into the sand. This was no ordinary gold fish. This was Bob Marley.

Oh, how I loved Bob Marley...as much as any dog I'd ever owned. He grew to be a symbol of grandmother's love for her family. He also grew quite large in size. To keep him from being lonely, I bought a couple more gold fish, Iggy and Ziggy, for company. Bob tolerated them for a while, but, one by one, he knocked them off. He liked being the only big fish in a small tank.

When he was about 10 years old, he started getting white spots on his gold, scaly skin. I thought he was sick with Ick, a fish disease. I gave him medicine but instead of clearing up, it spread all over his body. Turned out he wasn't ill, he was just so old his color changed from gold to a silvery white.

How old was Bob? I don't really know, but he was at least 12 years old when he swam off through the ethers to the other side. That's a long time on Earth for a fish. Bob Marley and grandma are together again, floating through the cosmos to a great reggae beat. Sometimes, late at night when the world is still and quiet, I can faintly hear them singing:

"Yeah, we're jamming, jamming
I wanna jam it with you
We're jamming, jamming
I'm jammed, I hope you're jamming too." --Bob Marley

The story of Bob Marley and Me is true. Visit here for other Magpie Tales.

HAPPY, HAPPY FIRST OF MAY!

2010-05-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

Happy, Happy First of May
Outdoor F***ing Starts Today

Today is May Day, Beltane, the first of May...whatever fits your fancy. Here in the northern hemisphere, the Earth is ripe and exploding with rejuvenation. The plant kingdom is sprouting...pushing its green succulence out of the warming ground. Leaves reaching up...drinking, greedily, the rain. Absorbing, selfishly, the sunlight. Bees and birds are doin' it. We'll, I think the bees are, they're more private with their loving ways. But the birds...ah, I know they are in full flush.

My massage room is in the second floor dormer that juts out into the trees. To me, it feels like a luxurious, cushy tree house. I can hear the pigeons on the roof right outside my windows while I work. All day long, I listen to their throatier-than-usual "Coo, coo, coo." Followed by little, scratchy, birdie footsteps across the shingles. Lots of boisterous wing flapping followed by more cooing.

I watch as a female slowly, but pointedly, strolls past a male. Stopping, just long enough and close enough, for him to catch the scent of her female juiciness. Then she nonchalantly turns, tail feathers in his face, and walks away from him, over the peak of the roof line, out of sight. For a moment he blinks, blinks, blinks. Bewildered. Then, purposely, he struts after her. Obviously catching her, they give air to a velvety, rich, duet of inner and afterglow coos. Pigeon purrs.

I feel voyeuristic, almost a little embarrassed, to be in such close proximity to their love fest. Like I'm the one held captive in my lofty, glass-windowed cage watching life as it goes on beyond my confines.

Happy, happy first of May, my friends.

May we all be so lucky in love today.

Sunshine of Your Love

2010-04-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

I've been waitin' so long
To be where I'm going
In the sunshine of your love.
--Cream

It's all about the sunshine right now, in both hemispheres. Here in the north we are gaining the light that the south is losing. Heck, let's face it, for us Earthlings, it is always about the Sun. If our planet were five degrees closer to that molten, hot orb, we would incinerate. Five degrees further away, and we would be an ice planet.

Today, I'm passing out free rays of sunshine. Stick some in your pocket to brighten your day in a time of darkness or when you need a little boost. Take as much as you want, there's no limit. Jai at Jai Joshi's Tulsi Tree sent some my way and I'm paying the favor forward, outward and upward. Wishing good times and sunny skies to all who enter here. Feel free to copy the above image and spread the light around to your blog visitors.

And now, for your musical pleasure, a little vintage Clapton.

You are all the best. Simply the best.

I feel the Sunshine of Your Love!

Cream: Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce circa 1968

Spring Flu

2010-04-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

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Today is just a plain ol' rainy day. We are in this cycle of heavy, swollen rains at the beginning of the week that give birth to a gorgeous, golden-blond weekend. When I woke up, I have to admit, I was a little depressed because I was ready to spring into a day of gardening, yard work and outdoor errands. Maybe head to the arboretum or walk the Sundial Bridge. Mother Nature had a different idea. Instead, I have a dog, terrified of loud rain, thunder, winds and, well, weather of any kind except calm and clear, Velcroed to my side.

I had to jack my attitude around. I decided to enjoy these last few days of cool comfort before we head into the hot hell our summers deliver. To enjoy the luxury of a movie, a good book or time spent writing inside without feeling guilty because I should be doing outside activities.

The rain is a good thing...really. Shasta Lake is only a few feet from the top for the first time in years, which means tourism will be up this summer. The Mallards haven't been on the ponds the last couple of days because the water levels evaporated in the weekend heat. But now that they are full again, I just spotted a pair of ducks soaring side-by-side, wings spread wide, overhead getting ready to land.

It is a lazy day full of the smell of moss and rain and wet grass and chicken rice soup. I have this sense of being able to nuzzle my head in the bosom of winter and hide from all the work outside that cries, like a bawling babe, to be done in the light of spring and summer. The same kind of feeling I used to get when I played hooky from school.

Today I am having fun making a fort with blankets and chairs and stringing a Cheerio necklace . Tomorrow I'll worry about forging my mother's signature on the absence slip.

To Whom It May Concern:

Please excuse Ronda from all that weeding, pruning and planting that needs to be done outside. She had the Pretending it Doesn't Exist Flu.

Signed,
Her mother.
People have been known to reach from the grave to pen such things, haven't they?

Ducks on the Pond

2010-04-24T14:00:00.000-07:00

Our weather has been full of stormy tantrums, rainy tears and sunny skies. The weeks start out blustery, wet and wild. Then end up breezy, warm and calm. I love this balance of cloudy and bright. Wet and dry. Brisk and the kind of day you just want to soak up the sun as you read a book, ride a bike or sit on the edge of a bank dangling a worm in the water.

Looks like our drought is over. The abundance of rain has filled the low spots in the terrain. Like a mini-Minnesota, there are thousands of little lakes everywhere. These ducks are inhabiting the ponds at the back of our property. There are about four Mallard couples hanging out having a great time floating, eating and doing who knows what else--all day long. The other night, they were on the ponds after 10. I had no idea they played in the dark.

Life is popping out every where as spring deepens toward summer. Doin' a little dance. Makin' a little love. Gettin' down tonight. If I were a female Mallard, I'd go for that gorgeous, green headed guy too!

Get out there and tap into some of that burgeoning, sensual spring energy.

Happy weekend, my friends!

Mayberry R.F.D. Interrupted

2010-04-22T00:00:00.000-07:00

December 1, 1969

****CBS News Special Report****

****CBS News Special Report****

****CBS News Special Report****

"Because of the CBS News Report that follows, Mayberry R.F.D. will not be seen tonight but will return next week at its regularly scheduled time. The Draft Lottery: a live report of the picking of the birthdays for the draft, will be aired instead. This is Roger Mudd at the Selective Services Headquarters in Washington. 29 years ago, the first, and most famous, lottery number, 158, was drawn as the U.S. entered World War II. Now, 27 years after that lottery ended, the U.S., has again, started a draft lottery, under a bill signed by President Nixon, for the Viet Nam War.

The famous first number tonight, September 14th, is the first birthday--now designated 001. Which means that, 19 to 26 year olds born on September 14th, beginning in January, will be inducted into the Army by their local draft boards. Tonight, 366 dates, one for each day of the year plus leap year, will be drawn out of big glass bowl and matched with numbers 1 through 366."

This ceremony, although designed for television, is much less elaborate than those of the 1940's. Then Secretary of War, Henry Stimson, was blindfolded with a swatch of upholstery fabric which had been clipped from one of the chairs used at the signing of the Declaration of Independence."

*********************************************************************************

I was a junior in high school. I sat in front of the television that night, like families through out the country, with a list of the birthdays of loved ones and friends. My heart, alternately, aching and breathing a sigh of relief as the dates were drawn. The scanned document at the top of the page is the Wonder Husband's draft letter. Many of those letters were, like draft cards, burned. The lottery only served to fuel resentment of the war and the draft. After 40 years, it is hard to read, but under where I've blocked out his name and address on the top left portion of the letter, you can faintly see three digits: 3-1-4. His draft number was high and pretty much assured that he would not be inducted.

Mayberry has become synonymous with idyllic small town life and for simple rural existence. Both the television program and life as we knew it in America, was interrupted that night. It has not yet returned to normal.

Kool April Nites

2010-04-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

In our little corner of California, part of the spring ritual is a tribute to Americana. A tipping of the Fedora to Detroit iron. A curtsy to an era when automobiles were the main mode of transportation. We celebrate by spending a few days waxing our vintage cars to a high gloss shine and remembering the 1950's...a simpler time.

Always held in mid-April, the weather is determined by a spin of the wheel and a roll of the dice on the game board of spring. Some years, like this one, after a week of slammin' storms and thunderous clamor, the clouds acquiesce and the glory of brother sun shines on this golden winner of a weekend.

Others, we lose and the sentinel clouds do not allow brother sun to pass. Even so, the party slogs on, a little damp and less attended, as the heartiest road knights cruise back in time.

Cops turn a blind eye to all but the most flagrant instances of chirping tires, breaking traction and the deep, hot rumble of illegal mufflers.

We listen to unchained melodies recorded by The Righteous Brothers, The Big Bopper, The Diamonds, The Five Satins and The Platters.

Songs spun into the air by the infamous disc jockey, Wolfman Jack. The gravelly voiced broadcaster, who worked for the station with the strongest radio signal in the country, kept drivers company as they traveled from LA to New York.

Cruisn' is a family tradition passed down from generation to generation, year after year.

See ya later, alligator.

Kook April Nites 2010

Miss B

2010-04-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

This is a very special story, about a very special lady, who is a very special friend, who is having a very special birthday. These are some of the very special things about her:

She was born on tax day, April 15th.

What day could be more appropriate for the birth of a new, little tax deduction?

Her favorite number is 13.

If you ask her why, you'd better have a long time to listen because the reasons are many.

She doesn't look like a practical joker.

Looks are deceiving because in this photo, she looks nice. I used to be quite a sucker. Innocent. Trusting. No more. She's trained me to prank with the best of 'em. If a little, old, Italian lady every calls you wanting you to do weird stuff, look out.

Her maiden name is the same as her married name.

I'm going to let you think about that one for a while. When she told me, it took a couple of weeks to get up the nerve to ask how it was possible. I mean, she didn't look like she was inbred but, I wasn't going to ask.

She has been my boss. I have been her boss.

There have been days when we've looked at each other and said, "I just want to be the Indian, not the Chief." The other would respond, "Sorry. It's not your turn."

She's made me cry.

While sitting on the pot in the bowling alley bathroom, fully clothed, she told me she was quitting and taking another job. We were in there for a little privacy.

I've made her cry.

While stirring a huge pot of spaghetti sauce in the school kitchen, fully clothed, I told her I was quitting and taking another job. In that kitchen, there was very little privacy.

Her whole life, she'd wanted to find her real father.

For one of her birthdays, I bought her a book I'd heard about on Oprah. It described how to go about finding anyone you wanted. She was so delighted. I was delighted. Her family wasn't. Seems that our innocent, little, sleuthing endeavor was about to bring down a well kept family secret. An incredible secret that, with her permission, I'll one day tell you about.

But until then,

Happy 50-Something, Miss B!

Shotgun!

2010-04-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

"I call Shotgun!"

Maaco is riding Shotgun. He's a classic car buff and this, '67 Buick Skylark GS, is one of his faves. But, he's a fickle pooch and is loyal only to the hottest set of wheels around. He's been spotted cruising in some of the finest American muscle in town. El Caminos. T-Birds. Chevelles. Novas.

He claimed the front passenger seat, the most coveted of all positions, by calling 'Shotgun,' as we walked out to the car. Luckily, I was the driver and didn't get stuck sitting in the rear seat. Everyone knows that there are only two cool positions in a car: Driver and Shotgun. Or do they?

Do other countries invoke the Calling of Shotgun? The term came from the covered wagon days when the driver was too busy holding the reins and driving the horses to watch out for thieves and malcontents. Maaco takes his job very seriously. Of course, to him, a malcontent is most likely a kitty but, he is very alert and always on the look out for trouble.

Here in the Wonderland, we are kicking off Kool April Nites week. Thousands of people are rolling into town to show off their wicked fast, classic and vintage automobiles. Shiny wheels spin memories, thick as golden oldie butter, of the 1950's back into solid form. Spreading the week with gobs of car shows, drag races, sock hops and crooners makes for a really good time.

This is a big week for the Wonder Hubby, too. He is in all his glory when he's looking at, working on and talking about classic cars. In fact, there are times I think he must have been a Chevy in a past life. He channels cars like I channel spirits. And by spirits, I mean ghosties. Not liquor. Although, I have been known, on occasion, to channel that too. But, that's our little secret.

Oops! Gotta go. Maaco wants to chase a foxy, blond, retriever, bitch he just spotted. She's sporting a curly, puppy dog tail, wearing a Poodle skirt and riding shotgun in a Mustang convertible. Apparently, it's 'woof' at first sight. If he was looking for trouble, I think he just found it!
See ya on the cruise!

Other Examples of Shotgun:

Baby's Got Back...Tax Forms

2010-04-10T21:00:00.000-07:00

Friday I stopped by the Internal Revenue Service office to pickup some forms. I've been a regular customer there for many years. In fact, I keep expecting them to send me my Rewards card. No luck yet. My visit is something I do annually just like getting my pap smear and mammogram. Not nearly as pleasant, but for some reason, I look forward to it just the same.

For a moment, I stood outside, with my hand on the door of Suite 300, preparing myself to savor the freshly printed ink on paper smell that I love. Getting ready to fully immerse myself in the experience of Tax Year 2009 in 2010. Each year is unique and, if not special, well...then not special. Wondering what new forms I would find this year. There's always some kind of surprise. A new addition. A deletion. Earned Income Credits for which I never qualify. An unexpected change on Line 42. I know. Don't hate me because I live such an exciting life. The glitz. The glam. You couldn't handle the pace.

It never fails that the forms I need are gone. The IRS agent at the desk by the door has a stock answer when asked if he has any more:

"I think we have some in the back."

Picking up his keys, he waddles to the door, unlocks it, and reappears with the needed forms. He must do this a 100 times a day. Can't figure out why they don't just put the darned things out front. I mean, why would you want a Form 4562-Amortization and Depreciation for the fun it all. But, hey, from what I saw, that was the best part of his job. Who am I to be killjoy.

Then, there were the two agents in the two, semi-unprivate cubicles helping people one-on-one. I only had to go in there once. A long time ago, when we started our first business, we didn't have the money to pay the taxes. We didn't know that, when you're self-employed, you have to pay estimated taxes because you don't have an employer to make your withholdings. Which means, that you have to guess how much money you're going to make and pay them before it is actual income.

If you don't guess high enough, they get to penalize you. If you pay too much, you don't get to penalize them. That's how they roll. It's a little more complicated than that, but that is the general idea. That was when I found out that you can request to get on the IRS payment plan. Hot diggity! A payment plan? Who knew? I like payment plans. They're much better than not filing. The penalties for not filing are a lot higher. A LOT!

But this year, there was something new. I didn't notice it right away. Over in the corner, sitting on a stool, was a security officer. Never, in my nearly 35 years of visiting this office, has there been extra security. I overheard the door agent saying it was a protection the government implemented after the guy flew his plane into an IRS office a few months back. Uh, hello, security might help if someone walks in with a AK-47. But, I don't think this overweight guy is gonna stop someone from flying a kamikaze mission into the building. For crying out loud, he's inside and could never see the plane death spiraling down from the sky.

He was checking people out, though. He even checked me out. At first, it kind of made me wonder if I was, some how, suspicious looking. But then I thought, oh, he's just zoomin' my boo-tay. Girl, all those Pilates classes are paying off, I think to myself. Damn, I love going to the IRS office! Until next year, Mr. Security Man. (wink)

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy

2010-04-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

There are days when I am happy. There are days when I am sad. I try not to dwell in Sad Land, though. It is not my nature and, well, quite frankly, it's too diddly darn depressing. Just as it is not my nature to be sad, I can see how, for others, the opposite is true. It is probably as hard for them to skip along, sunny side up, as it is for me to get stuck in that sucky, syrupy, dark side bog.

My sister calls me the Energizer Bunny because I just keep hoppin' along. That is how I approach life...one bunny hop at a time. I get all wound up and bounce around hiding little happiness eggs for everyone to find.

If I could have my soul's desire, I'd load my eggs with whatever the finder believes would fulfill their dreams. For some, it would be a magic egg crammed with gobs and gobs of money. For others, the magic egg would stop affliction and addiction. Still others would find the gift of great accomplishment. For the world leaders, I'd stash eggs chock full of peace, food and medical care in the four corners of their countries. At the same time, if I found unhappiness eggs filled with weapons of destruction, mass and otherwise, I'd steal and destroy them.

But, most of all, I want to hand out great big LOVE eggs. It seems to me that if we get all filled up on that stuff, we'll be ridin' so high, we won't need all those other eggs. What is it they say? Don't treat the symptoms, treat the problem. We are all running around crazy. Doing crazy stuff. Wanting crazy stuff. Buying crazy stuff. Waring for crazy stuff. Why, why why?.

Not enough love, is what I think. Call me simplistic. Call me a Pollyanna. Call me deluded...I don't care because, right now, I'm sucking all the rainbow colored jelly love-beans out of my eggs, putting on my rose colored, John Lennon glasses and hopping down the bunny trail to the Love Shack.

Deanna Schrayer at The Other Side of Deanna presented me with this Happy Award. I was supposed to list ten things that make me happy but the truth is, it's just the way I'm built. Instead of choosing five recipients for the award, I will invite any one who wishes to write a blog on happiness to link back to me. I would love to read your post. Yes, I think that would make me very happy.

Ta-ta, I must hop along now. Would you like one of my extra special, super-duper, happiness eggs before I go?

Sometimes

2010-04-06T00:00:00.000-07:00

Somtimes, things don't go like you plan.

At the last minute, my nephew and his wife invited us over for Easter brunch on Sunday. Their son, Aiden, is a year and a half old. Last year, he just wasn't quite old enough to catch the drift. But this year, he celebrated in grand style. He got on to the baskets and hidden eggs. The Peeps and the jelly beans. The talking trucks and sunglasses. He had plenty of people to snatch him up and hold him and squeeze him.

Somtimes, you just have to go with the flow.

And so it was with my Easter smoker. I could have been attached to my vision of how the day should have gone but, I let go and followed the path of least resistance. And you know? Things worked out perfectly...just as the universe intended. A huge storm settled in and kicked up her wicked heels in a wild Fandango. Side ways, sleeting rain, thick and fat, hurtled down from the heavens like Weight Watcher devotees sliding off the wagon. Winds, 30-40 miles per hour, bobbed the trees and bushes aft and fore, pushing the cold along with its blasts. Not the perfect barbecue day that I had planned.

Sometimes, I would've gone ahead and tried to circumvent Mother Nature.

I would have pulled the Weber grill under the eaves of the house, fired up the charcoal, put on my slicker and asserted my will over the fates. But not that day. That day I practiced a surrender that is not among my natural instincts.

Sometimes, my friends have a faith in me that I don't have in myself.

Miss B sent me this e-mail on my last post, Call Her Macaroni:

"Wonderful Easter story. And I know it will carry on with another
paragraph
about...how her lovely daughter continued the barbecue tradition,
even with
horrid rain and wind with temps in the 50's. For, she is the girl who
plants
her flowers, weeds her garden and barbecues in the rain.

Sometimes even I have to wait to do what I want.

To plant my flowers, weed my garden and barbecue, rain or shine, often I have to exercise patience. But I will wait only one day. After that, I will take matters into my own hands. Yesterday I fired up that charcoal kettle. Even if I'd had to put on my hip waders, the Easter barbecue tradition was going to happen.

Sometimes, my friends and family are just the best.

No...make that always!

Call Her Macaroni

2010-04-03T22:00:00.000-07:00

My mother left me with an indelible legacy. During the last, semi-rational, years of her life, she abandoned all desire for her traditional Easter dinner celebration. I don't know why. Maybe her Alzheimer's, plaque-filled brain could no longer remember or prepare her original menus. Instead, she opted to commemorate Jesus's day with a smoker.

You all know that His resurrection is best commemorated by having the first barbecue of the year, don't you? No? Maybe it was just our family. She would call at least a month in advance to make sure we would all be there for the ritual. She made sure we new that this was a heap big deal. As her kids, we rolled our eyes and humored her child-like excitement.

But know, when Easter rolls around, like Pavlov's dog, my mouth starts watering for a grillin'. I'm getting all of my Peeps in a row for Sunday. The grill is washed and wire brushed. A big, brand new bag of briquettes stands at ready. No gas barbecue for this girl. I've got all of my Ingredient Soldiers gathered on the Field of Preparation.

I can hardly wait for Macaroni's tender little elbows to make their first appearance of the year. Potato, naked, awaits being dressed. Sweet Pickle is drawn, quartered and ready to be tossed into those two salads. Olive has found the most worthy child's fingers to adorn.

I can smell the dark, thick molasses and taste the sweet, brown sugared memories of my mother's dalliance with Baked Beans. Lettuce's leaves snap out a crisp fan dance as she entices Burger to lay down on her ruffled bed. Plump and rosy Tomato yearns for a menage-a-trois with Burger and Lettuce. Bun exposes her white, sesame seed, dimpled bottom to the sun. Egg's devilish behavior encourages Wiener to misbehave. You know how his, plumps-when-you-cook-'em, body begs to be slathered in mustard.

Soon, my spring time friends, we'll be reunited again! It's been a long, cold winter and I've missed you so. And mom, I finally get your excitement.

Happy birthday, mom. This Bun's for you...and Jesus.

Happy Easter, all and blessed be.

Christina's Long and Winding Road

2010-04-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

This graphic was created by Christina. She's very talented.

Cancer.

A word none of us ever want to hear in connection with our name or those we love. Everyone I know thinks that the nebulous "they" should have found a cure for it by now. But who are they and how is that cure going to come about? Many of us, including myself, just spout letters and words and shake our clenched fists in frustration. But, there are an elite few who actually try to grab those grubby, aberrant cells and wrestle them into submission.

One of those people is blogger Christina Bruning. You may recognize her from her blog, Christina's Outlet and, more recently, Christina's Ride to Conquer Cancer. She's committed herself to riding from Vancouver to Seattle, Washington, a two-day cycling event, as part of a fund raiser for the BC Cancer Foundation.

She was prepared for the Herculean task of training for the event. She was prepared for the grueling journey through Canada's Pacific region. What she wasn't prepared for was that, unless she raises at least $2500, she won't be allowed to ride with the other cyclists. Oh, the foundation will accept her funds, but not her wheelin'. I guess they have their reasons but, I don't understand why you would want to alienate enthusastic volunteers.

And this girl wants to ride. "It will be a challenge in a number of ways, but with my bike, my helmet, and your generosity, a real impact will be made!," says Christina. So, if you can donate even $1, it will get her just that much closer to her goal. The ride is in early June so she still has time to make her goal.

What difference will $1 make, you ask?

Well, many years ago, I managed a bowling center. I worked many, many hours. I worked very, very hard. No matter how hard I worked, I never seemed to be able to meet everyone's expectations. Or so I thought.

On the last minute of my last night, New Year's Eve, 1992, in front of a packed house of party bowlers, I was presented a coffee can stuffed full of money. ONE THOUSAND ONE DOLLAR BILLS collected $1 at a time from my employees, friends and customers. They wanted me to know how much they appreciated what I did for them. They wanted me to know that they noticed. They wanted me to take a well deserved vacation, which I did. I will never forget those people. EVER!

Times are tough.
I know.
Money is tight.
I know.
The economy is bad.
I know.

$1 CAN make a difference.
I know.

Help Christina realize her dream by recognizing her hard work with a donation, a side bar or blog post or sending out e-mails. If she succeeds, we all succeed.

Donate Now!

(Click "Donate Now" link above to contribute to Christina)

Pretty please?

Real Relationships

2010-03-30T00:00:00.000-07:00

In response to my last post, Girl Talk, in which I asked how you feel about trying to change your mate, my good friend, NB, responded:

"God and "L" (her husband) told me it's my job. He never gets anything done unless I put on the _itch attitude. But I have retired from that job. Somehow it takes my joy away from the day."

I understand what she meant. Part of our job, in a relationship, is to be a helpmate. I guess the question then arises, how do we bring about the best in each other and not the worst?

On the surface, it seems such a simple question. Since all we are doing is trying to bring out our partner's best attributes, they should be grateful, right? What if our well intentioned attempts backfire? What if our joy is diminished at always having to take on the role the fire starter? Do you feel frustrated by always having to be the enforcer? Or the wage earner. Or the bill payer. Or the laundry picker-upper.

And if you are the partner that is always expected to change, how do you feel? Do you feel that your partner is bringing out the best in you? Do you like the constant reminders or do you resent them?

When we focus so much on changing what is wrong with the other person, is it our way of avoiding working on our selves? I don't have the answers here, folks. This is the Wonderland. I only wonder about the answers to more questions. That's why I'm asking for your opinions.

Since NB has officially retired from husband directing, I wonder, if and, how he gets to those things that need to be done left on his own? For myself, I know it is easier to see the Wonder Husband's faults than my own.

I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm perfect and don't need to change a thing. Maybe I should ask him. But, I'm not sure I want to hear the answer.

Girl Talk

2010-03-27T00:00:00.000-07:00

Overheard at the salon:

Pete's 35 and he's never been married. Wonder what's up with him?

Just because he's not married, doesn't make him gay. My husband was 36 when we married.

Isn't it hard when they're older when they get married? I mean...don't they have habits that they don't want to give up?

Yes, it's harder. But shouldn't you want to love the person just the way they are and not try to change them?

(Group Chorus)

OH, GOD, NO! That just doesn't even make sense!

**********************************************

I admit I've tried to change the Wonder Husband. My success rate is not high. If it were, he would never again wear white crew socks with Birkenstock sandals. Or wear his baseball cap 24/7. Or leave the Boraxo hand cleaner on the counter by the sink every time he works on his cars. Or think that the floor is where you leave your dirty clothes. Or continue on with other habits I want to fix . It's not that I don't' try to change him, it's more like I can't.

He tells me that if he were too perfect, other women would just want to steal him away from me. But, I disagree. If what I overheard at the salon is correct, no matter how perfect the man, there's extensive remodeling to be done. I think men decide what they will and will not allow their mate to change. Which is probably one of the biggest rubs in a relationship.

How do you feel about loving the other person just the way they are and not trying to make them change?

Assisted Living

2010-03-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

Ya know? Some days...assisted living sounds pretty ding-dang good.

"Mrs. L, your breakfast is ready."

"Why, thank you, Trudy."

"Mrs. L, now that you've had breakfast, would you like to go outside and sit in the warm sunshine on the patio with the other guests?"

"Don't mind if I do, Anne."

"Mrs. L, I have a bit of free time before I fix your lunch, would you like me to wash your hair?"

"Ohhhh...that would be lovely, little one."

"Hey, Mrs. L, we've got a bus load of us going out to the Indian casino on Wednesday. Wanna come?"

"George, sign me up! It's senior double points day isn't it? I think they're giving away a Viper this month. I'd look good in a blue one with a big, fat racing stripe down the center of the hood. I'd let you have it and you could drive me to my doctors visits, okay?"

"Mrs. L, come into the living room when you're done with your nap. There's a bunch of young people here from the church to play music and sing for us."

"Be right there, Carol."

Dai-sy, Dai-sy,
Give me your answer do!
I'm half crazy,
All for the love of you!
It won't be a stylish marriage,
I can't afford a carriage,
But you'll look sweet on the seat
Of a bicycle built for two!

Been that kind of a week, folks!
Happy Friday, Eve!

Animal House

2010-03-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

Miss B.B. La La

Whenever I pickup up a book or watch a movie about animals, I know there will usually be some kind of tragedy that unfolds. Bambi and Old Yeller taught me what it felt like to have my heart disintegrate into a dusty powder when the finger of death pointed my way. More recently, Marley & Me and The Art of Racing in the Rain gave me a refresher course.

You know. The sad tales that force the tears from your eyes to run, in salty rivulets, to the basin of your mouth. The ones that make your breath heave and shudder and your chest ache, but not so much that you won't go on to the finish. Tales that find the perfect ratio of sadness to joy.

That's how I feel whenever I accept a dog into my family. I know that the pleasure of our journey far out weighs the grief over their loss. Every time one dies, I say never again but, a few months later...here we go again. One of my dogs, Miss B.B. La La, turned 10 years old. She is strong and healthy and full of snarky playfulness. This decade of human years equals some kind of fuzzy canine time that's supposed to make her about 70. Her life span is dwindling.

This 10 year mark is one that I notice, not her. I notice how her already white fur is turning just a shade whiter. How she turns her back to me, puts her ears down and pretends she can't hear me when I call her to go outside. How she'd rather watch the other dogs play than join in as much as she once did. Her breathy whisper, "woof woof," as she gently wakes us in the middle of the night to go out, no longer able to hold her stuffin' until morning.

But, I also notice how she still puts on her 9:30, nightly Butt-Scratch and Sniff show. The funniest show on Earth. As regular as clockwork, she gets up off her pillow, eyes glinting with mischief, scratches her butt on the floor and shoots straight up, more than a foot, while turning and sniffing her butt in mid-air.

I wish I could catch it on video. In that moment, she's as agile as any gymnast. She contorts as well as any pretzel bending contortionist during her, thrice repeated, high flying aerial act. Then she comes over to me, nuzzles my head and schnarfles up the jasmine scent from my hair into her nostrils. For her finale, she hides her head under the sofa cushion with a curtsy as she waits for applause.

We're still enjoying the laughter together. The tears, gathering like a thunder storm along the periphery of my emotions, are still a ways off. Even though I know tragedy will surely unfold, this is a story I'm glad I didn't put down.

Miss B.B. La La getting a birthday kiss from Maaco the Thunder Dog

Howdy, Vern! Welcome, Autumn!

2010-03-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

Give Vern, the Vernal equinox, a great big "HOWDY." The day we've been waiting for, since the Groundhog promised only six more weeks of winter, is finally here. A day of equal light and dark.The first day of spring.

At Equinox, I always feel like those of us on the top of the Earth and our friends at the bottom, are poised on the balance point of a teeter toter. For one day, we float in space, kicking our legs and squealing, as we wait for our weight to carry us to one side of center or the other.

As we welcome spring, Autumn, the Autumnal equinox, is making her grand entrance into the lower half of the world. I wonder if the down-under-lings are looking forward to a darker shade of cool as much as we are a lighter shade of warm.

Where ever you live, stop for a moment. Take a big whiff of the newly seasoned air. Notice what your environment looks like right now. Feel the powerful change a comin'. Grab the reigns, make a big wish and hold tight as you ride this magnificent bucking and kicking rock to the next power zone of the year.

YEE HAW!

My Lucky Day!

2010-03-17T08:00:00.000-07:00

Photo: "Double Rainbow in a Storm Over Mt. Lassen" by Jim Tomsich

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I'm as happy as a leprechaun with a new box of Lucky Charms. I received notification from Jim Wisneski, Editor of Soft Whispers Magazine, that my story, Moira of St. Brennan's Land, was accepted for publication. It will be included in his Un-luck of the Irish anthology which is available today. To read my submission, and those written by other outstanding authors, pop on over to Soft Whispers Magazine. Scroll down the side bar and click the link for UnLuck of the Irish Anthology. Let's give Jim a great big shout out and a pitcher of green beer for publishing my story.

Wishing you four-leaf clovers.
Wishing you a full pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
Wishing, you all, the luckiest day of your life.

Drinks are on me.

Bartender...a round for the house!

[The camera pans back to show the wildly crowded pub patrons cheering and hoisting mugs of beer]

[Fade to black]

Sorry

2010-03-16T18:04:00.001-07:00

The post, My Lucky Day, will be up tomorrow. Just had premature e-publication. Oops.

Hand-y Work

2010-03-15T20:00:00.000-07:00

Carpals.
Metacarpals.
Phalanges.

Hands.

Sensitive information gatherers of my world. The world of fascia, muscles and soft tissue. As a body worker and healer, along with my heart, they are my most precious tools. Objects of wonder.

My hands have eyes and ears and a mouth. Oh, they're not visible to others. That would be quite scary. But, I know they are there. They see and listen to what the body I'm working on needs. They tell me what to do.

Soft tissue speaks. Perhaps "communicates" is a better word. It makes its injuries and wishes known to those who can become still enough to hear. As I work, I don't need to see with my physical eyes. For me it is better to shut out any external stimulus that could confuse my senses and intuition. Shutting my eyes, I disengage my brain and let my hands wander the hills and dales of muscles, tendons and bones.

I feel the tissue become warm and malleable as the blood comes into an area. I find trigger points, round, hyper-irritable spots, in the muscles. I sense pulses, softer than a whisper. Pulses different than those of the heart and the breath. Pulses that traumatized tissues send as invitations to my hands causing them to linger until the pain and throbbing ceases. Spasmed muscles melt under my hands as I coax them into submission. I can feel a headache through my fingertips. My hands know the instant the body relaxes, lets go of the outside world and moves into the calm "eye of the storm" that is always within us.

People thank me when I am done. I take no credit. I am only the open vessel through which the Creator sends this flow of healing energy. The conduit. The channel.

I am humbled by my gift.
I give thanks every day.

I am in awe of my hands.

Breathing Deeply

2010-03-13T11:23:00.000-08:00

I have been locked in Techno Hell for a year now. Old computer died. New computer had Internet connectivity issues and operating system issues. Bought new laptop so could take new computer in for repairs. Got new computer back. Works good. Put laptop on wireless router. Works good but for some reason can't receive e-mails. Upgraded to Windows 7 on new computer and now it's locking up again. Have to take it back to Dr. Geek to undo what I did but, need to get laptop to receive incoming e-mails first. My BlackBerry gets e-mails but, for some reason, not all of them.

I'm a nerd but, I wish I was a techno geek. I pray every morning to roll over in bed and find the husband in a Geek Squad uniform instead of his birthday suit. In my next life I will be a geek, I will be a geek (clicking heels together) I will be a geek. Until then, I'm just trying to breathe deeply and work through the problems one at a time. But, not too deeply...have you seen all the trees in bloom. Achoo!

Have a great weekend.

Aurum: Shining Dawn

2010-03-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

Photo: Wikipedia

I'm still fussin' with the universe. Can't get my mind off of the utter magnificence of this planet we were born to ride. This big piece of rock that glitters like gold. Literally. Our planet is covered with gold. The only problem is that most of the pieces amount to the size of grain of sand in the Gobi Dessert. They are very tiny but numerous. The large veins that bristly prospectors dreamed of, and killed and fevered for, are located in only a handful of locations.

Millions of years ago, a super nova exploded. The heat of the discharge mingled with star matter and fused into gold. The explosion jettisoned particles of the metal far out into the universe. Some found their way to the newly forming Earth and became a part of its composition. This cool, tasteless metal is like no other. No wonder ancient alchemists failed to turn other metals into this lustrous, prized substance. They were no match for the power of an exploding star

Au is the symbol for the chemical element gold. It comes from aurum which means "shining dawn" in Latin. An appropriate name for something that was formed during the dawn of Earth. This icon of wealth and prestige has lured mankind to seek it for millenniums. Since gold never wears out and is always recycled, it's possible that some of the gold jewelry you wear was once a part of King Tut's mask or Roman coinage. It's has its place in our past, present and future. This metal is but one of many priceless treasures we've received from the universe. Its enduring nature is synonymous with humanity.

Alien's Jam Satellites

2010-03-09T00:00:00.001-08:00

Zooming into a small fraction of the UKIDSS UDS field, the deepest infrared image ever obtained over such a large area. The zoom shows a relatively nearby spiral galaxy. Many of the faint red objects in the background are massive galaxies at distances of over 10 billion light years. Photo: Scientific Blogging-Science 2.0

I admit it. I am completely enamored with the universe. I never tire of reading about the cosmos. Or looking up into the vast ocean of space. And don't even get me started on the out of this world images sent back from the Hubble telescope. Their spectacular colors and exotic shapes are like a fine wine, intoxicating. I don't know why it just dawned on me that when we look further out into space, we are looking back in time. Looking 10 billion light years away is the same as looking 10 billion years back in time. I am in awe of the fact that nearly everything that has been in our universe since its beginning, is still there. Really!

One of my friends is an amateur cosmologist. A cosmologist is an astronomer who studies the evolution of time-space relationships. Last fall, he attended an astrophysics conference at his Alma mater. The scientists spoke about how they were having trouble getting a good look back because there is so much interference caused by the large number of satellites in orbit. One astronomer at the conference was able to arrange for all of the US satellites to be shut off for 24 hours. Another knew someone who had enough clout to get the Russian's to agree to shut theirs down for the same amount of time. They couldn't tell military what they were doing because, well, you know, they're all about the drama. They'd have gone nuts.

They discovered a couple of large galaxies which disputed existing theories that larger galaxies were formed by aggregate. In looking at the moons of Saturn, they found one with water. Water equals life. They only needed another half hour to see what happend at the Big Bang when the 24 hours was up. The satellites were activated again ending the episode. Scientists pretty much agree that the universe is 13.7 billion years old. And now they can tell what was happening up to 10^(-43) seconds (1/10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000) of its formation.

Of course, one bloodhound reporter for a rag mag, like the Enquirer, sniffed out the part of the story where the satellites had been shut down. His take on the event? Alien's Jam Satellites. Since they found water on one of Saturn's moons, that may one day be true. But not that day.

How do Editors & Agents Decide?

2010-03-06T00:00:00.000-08:00

Okay, I just signed up for Rachelle Gardner's First-Ever Webinar. Rachelle is an agent with WordServe Literary Group. Representing both fiction and nonfiction, she has been in publishing for fifteen years. Why? I'm really not sure. I haven't written, nor am I in the process of writing, a book. I do have a couple of ideas doing gymnastics across neuro-synaptic clefts...mere sparks of barely recognizable story lines, but that's all.

This live webinar, How do Editors & Agents Decide?, is hosted by Writer's Digest. The cost is $79 and will be held next Thursday, March 11 at 1:00 pm Eastern time. It will last 90 minutes. There will be a live Q&A chat with the speakers so you can have your questions addressed. The cool thing is, that once you register, you will be able to access the archived information for one year.

I think, like many of you, I am intrigued with writing. I read your blogs. Many of you have written books. Some have published, others not. Some self-published their work. Others were accepted by agent's who helped them sell their work to a publishing company. Many of you write short stories. Some published, others not. Some only aspire to write blog posts. But the common thread I see as I read is, that each person wants to improve in their own way.

Ms. Gardner's webinar will discuss, in detail, the three-tiered approach that all publishers look at in evaluating potential books: the idea, the writing, and the platform. For more information, go visit the links I've provided. Whether you want to write short or long pieces, for fun or for profit, it looks like this class will provide a smorgasbord of ideas on which the gray matter of your brain can feast. Right now, I write for fun, but the for profit part wouldn't hurt my feelings one little bit. Since, mama ain't gettin' any younger and she hasn't hit the lotto yet, she's goin' to class. CYA there?

Soul Train

2010-03-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

Good Goddess! So many people are leaving the planet. I look around and see all these spirit souls rising, like wisps of mist on a pond. Their rain like scent spritzing the air as they pop out of our awareness to the Other Side. The exodus has been clipping right along since last summer when Michael Jackson swung the gates of Neverland wide open. I personally know many beings who've chosen to go just in the last two weeks. Then there were the hundreds of thousands who exited from Haiti. And recently, more left from Chile.

My spiritual teacher spoke of this last year. She said that everything is accelerating on Earth. This is the beginning of a Great Shift. New energies are being generated on this planet and in the universe. People who are frail, sensitive or compromised won't be strong enough to handle these changes. Some may simply choose not to go so fast.

Billions of us are currently living on the planet. Even though we've lost hundreds of thousands of beings, it is nearly impossible to see the hole left by their exit. I'm sure that if I went to Haiti, I would witness, firsthand, the space vacuumed of human existence. But from here, it almost seems unreal.

It makes me wonder why all these deaths are occurring. Random chance, as some suggest? A changing of the guard? Are those of us who remain really the lucky ones? Or is there something else going on that we don't know about? Like, a collosal party and we're the nerds who aren't cool enough to get an invite.

I see Michael wearing his gold lame military jacket, sweeping a stray, sticky Jheri curl off his forehead as he stands on the platform of the terminal. He waves passengers on board the train with his white, sequin gloved hand. His other hand holds his crotch while he shouts, "HEE HEE. All aboard the Soul Train, home of the swankest party in the Milky Way. Next stop Neverland. I told you my last tour would be a thriller."

Family Traditions

2010-03-02T00:00:00.000-08:00

The days have tipped and spilled over into March. Falling like cards in a never ending game of 52 Pick Up. You know, the card game where someone, like your brother, asks you if you want to play 52 Pick Up? You say YES and he throws all the cards to the ground. Then he tells you to pick them up. I wanted to kill my brother! Okay, maybe kill is too harsh a word, but I definitely considered some form of bodily injury as he leered and laughed at my indignant card gathering. Of course, that didn't stop me from finding an unsuspecting victim of my own as soon as possible.

Did get you get tricked into that game when you were a kid? It's one of those things you only fall for once. Unlike Snipe hunting. I think we fell for that one a couple of times before we figured out that my aunt and uncle were sucking down High Balls and having a great laugh at our expense. Who needs to spend money on entertainment when you have a few gullible, Gumby-brained kids you can send out on fools errands.

(A typical family scene at Our House)

Auntie Dot, we're bored. What can we do?

Hmm...clean your room? Wash the dishes? No? Okay...hows about going Snipe hunting?

What are Snipes, Auntie Dot?

Oh, they're these really rare albino worms that are worth a lot of money. You find yourself one of those and you can buy $5 worth of candy. Yeah, the good stuff like those Tootsie Rolls and Pixie Stix that you like.

Really?

Sure, kid! Here. You guys take these brown paper bags. Sneak, real quite like, over there to that tall grass by the swing set. Lie on your belly about 10 feet away and Army crawl closer. Open your bag and lay it on its side. Then you wait. Take these nails with you too. Lay them in front of the bags. The Snipes are attracted to them because they use them to build their house. That'll keep you busy for a while...I mean, it takes a long time to catch 'em so you have to be r-e-a-l patient. Every once in a while, you have to call them like this:

" Here, Snipe-Snipe. Here, Snipe-Snipe."

Hey, can you bring me and Uncle Red that bag of chips before you go hunting? No, not those... the B-B-Q ones. Thanks. Run a long now and don't come back till you catch one.

We could hear thier laughter as we tip toed out to the grass. They were so happy for us.

*************************************************************************************

Well, of course, we never caught a Snipe because it was a goose hunt, an impossible imaginary task. And what does this have to do with March? Not much, really. Except that at this point in my life, it feels as if the days fall endlessly to the ground. I am forever trying to pick them all up but I can't because they just keep falling. The spring that once seemed impossibly far away is almost here. And spring is the best time of year for Snipe hunting.

Oh, you don't know about Snipes? How about Pie Stretchers? Well, it's too early for pie stretching, that's best done in summer. Let me show you how to catch a Snipe.

(Not So) Secret Photos of the Colorado Olympic Complex

2010-02-27T00:00:00.000-08:00

Bowling National Coaches Conference May 6-10

In my last post, I wrote about my Olympic aspirations and attempt to get my sport of bowling into the games. These are some of the photos I snapped during my stay at the Olympic Complex in Colorado Springs, Colorado for the Team USA National Bowling Conference. That was nearly 20 years ago, but I'm sure they are still fairly representative of the facility. The Olympic Complex, former home of ENT Air Force Base and the headquarters of the North American Defense Command, officially became USOC administrative headquarters in July 1978.

A set of sheets and a blanket for the bed, a sink and mirror, a couple of electrical outlets and a shared closet. Yep, that's about it!

I don't really know what I expected to find upon my arrival, but I'm not sure I was quite prepared for the stark housing quarters. The athletes don't live in cushy digs while they train. As it was previously a military command, it is functional and utilitarian at best. We shared sparsely non-appointed rooms and occupancy was co-ed. Females roomed and showered with females (even if their spouse was there) and it was the same for males.

This high powered conference was attended by many of the sports royalty. It was fun seeing professional people, usually seen in magazines and on television, first thing in the morning doing the Fluffy Slipper Shuffle down the pheromone soaked hallway. A bathrobe parade of half awake...one eye going this way...one eye going that way...hair going everywhere...people. For a cheery morning person like myself, they were like sitting ducks on a pond, easily going down with a straifing barrage of chirpy "GOOD MORNINGs!"

Countdown Clock

This clock is always counting down to the next Olympics. At that time, the count down was marking off the minutes until the 1994 winter games at Lillehammer, Norway.

The amazing Olympic chow hall where forks and knives waged titanic battles on the field of a porcelain plate.

The food service staff got kudos from me for the Herculean task of keeping all the athletes in attendance fueled and ready to go. All the food was donated by large American food corporations like Beatrice. This self-serve restuarant, with skyscraper stacks of nutritionally labeled food, opened three times a day to appease the hungry hoards.

The fairy like gymnasts gravitated to the low fat foods. The cyclists, constantly embattled to consume more calories than they burn in training (a feeling I would like to know for just one day), ate Mt. Vesuvius piles of food. Not yet full, the spinners were tempted by a huge, wanton tray of marshamallowy, vanilla goodness waving her scent bomb in their face. They comandeered the tray of crispy treats, took them to their table and it was a menage-a-trois to remember.

Some of the best amateur bowlers in the world at the time.

Life here was good. It was grand...full of dreams, high ideals and the pursuit of perfection. What would it be like if these high vibrations of hope and excellence were the yardstick by which the rest of the world measured itself?

Olympic Aspirations

2010-02-25T00:00:00.001-08:00

Me in my 90s, one-piece jumpsuit. Anyone remember those? Wish I didn't.

Okay, lately I've been helping a lot of souls leave this world and move on to the next. It is worthy work but can be tiring. Since the action seems to have slowed down a bit, I need a little change of pace. The Olympic games have given me that "grounded in the body" quality that I need to feel right now.

There was a time in my life when I aspired to become an Olympian. I wish I could say that I know what the quest for Olympic greatness feels like but, I can't. Before I could pursue my medal, I had to first help my sport become accepted into the games.

Way back in the mid-1980s and early 90s, there was a big push to get bowling accepted as a medal sport. We never got any nearer than being granted Exhibition Sport status. Exhibition sports are allowed to perform, for entertainment purposes only, in the games just prior the United States Olympic Committee, USOC, voting, for or against, acceptance on medal status eligibility in the games four years down the road. It is all very political and each sport needs people in high places on their side.

Bowling was voted down. Even though I don't bowl anymore, I still think it is a great game. To me, the best thing about it is that it can be played by most anyone. To the Saturday night beer and pizza crowd, it is a game. To the elite player, it is a game of physics and perfection. But in the end, I think that is exactly what led to the demise of the pursuit.

Although almost every country in the world bowls, it was hard for the powers that be to see it as a world class sport. But if you've ever competed in the upper echelons, you know that it is an extremely difficult and complicated game. One nano-error can cost you your 200 average and send you on a long, lonely ride home without a paycheck. Unlike many sports, in bowling, amateurs can make money without becoming a professional. If you be not perfect, you be penniless in your pursuit.

In the early 1990s, I had an opportunity to spend a week at the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs, Colorado. A chance of a lifetime I did not let pass. It was training for a tiered coaching program that was developed in preparation for Team USA Bowling. We attended conferences with Olympic sports psychologists, biomechanists, nutritionists, exercise physiologists and professional bowlers and coaches. Good friends were made. Good times were had.

My friend, "T"

Even though we couldn't get bowling into the games, I am still proud to have been a part of that time in history. Just trying to get a sport accepted into the Olympics is an Olympic feat unto itself.

Exit, Stage Left

2010-02-23T00:00:00.000-08:00

SWISH. That's how I feel right now. Like a basketball shot clean through the center of the hoop. Its after-wind whistling through the net...rippling those nylon diamonds as it drops and rolls across the court to uncharted destinations.

Yikes! The saga of G.G. continues. In my last post, I wrote: G.G. left behind a husband who doesn't even know she's gone. Doesn't know his own name. Doesn't even remember that she existed. They told him she had passed. He doesn't know the difference between G.G.'s death and stuffed eggplant.

I was so wrong. Me. The one who's spent countless hours studying recollections people have of what transpired around them when they were unconscious, sedated or in Near Death Experience. I've read enough case studies from medical journals to know that there is a high incidence of recorded cases where people could quote, verbatim, what was said or done. Enough to know that, despite being in the last stages of Alzheimer's in a coma and on hospice, G.G.'s husband, T.G., could comprehend the that she was gone.

When my brother told T.G. that she had passed, he also told him that if she was the reason he was holding on to life, he could let go now. And after G.G.'s memorial service, he went back to tell T.G. that we had held a memorial for her and had honored his life at the same time. All of their mutual friends and family were there, as was his hospice worker, and it just seemed fitting. Less than 8 hours later, T.G. left his body.

Since he and G.G. met, he had always bobbed along behind in her determined wake. It was like she made one last grand exit, spun on her heels, and with a haughty SWISH of her cape, wrapped it around him and...ZOOM...they were gone. Both in less than a week. Leaving together in death as in life.

I'm the one left standing here with eggplant all over my face. Thanks, T.G., for the wake up call. Bon Voyage...but I have a feeling I'll hear from you again.

Trading Places

2010-02-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

A random universe? I think not. Would a random universe send me to a baby shower and a funeral on the same day? Back to back?

LeeLee glitters and brightens all around her. Even if you don't see auras, you can see this...her golden glow. Folding her hands across her unborn babe, lying solid and low in her belly, an intimate smile, in Mona Lisa fashion, softens her face.

G.G.'s absence is marked by old photographs, the bookmarks of one's life. Her still body, dulled and grayed in death's pallor, has been high-fired into bone-chipped powder. No more smiles for G.G. Or frowns either.

One life arriving.

One life leaving.

One mirroring hope and happiness.

The other, loss and sadness.

Gifts and Games.

Tissues and tears.

I can only imagine the Big Gal Upstairs coordinating these events:

Little soul...you go on into the body of Baby Isabelle. Old soul...you come on out of that used up, tumor ridden body and rest for a spell. Put your feet up, or what used to be your feet, while we talk about how you'll next come back to work on your karma.

Cosmic orchestration is intense. Wedding Planners and Air Traffic Controllers have it easy in comparison.

Everyone is happy to welcome the new baby...a new life...a blank slate open for great accomplishments and outcomes.

G.G.? Well, sad to say she made a lot of people miserable during her long life. I know it's not right to speak ill of the dead but, she didn't treat people well, especially family. It is what it is. She was who she was. To say it was not so would be lying. Which is worse?

She was Le Grand Bitch. Oh, not my words but those of her children and close family members who were with her through her last sucked breath. I know what they were talking about though. I witnessed G.G.'s reign of terror on many occasions. But even so, there were tears shed at her passing and the transition was hard. A memorial, that she didn't want, was held, anyway, with meat, cheese and veggie trays and salads and carrot cake.

There were a few people she'd made happy during her reign. I overheard them telling the family so. The family, gracious to the last, nodded, comforted and thanked them for their stories and memories.

G.G. left behind a husband who doesn't even know she's gone. Doesn't know his own name. Doesn't even remember that she existed. They told him she had passed. He doesn't know the difference between G.G.'s death and stuffed eggplant.

Still, the day a person takes their first breath and begins pumping blood is marked, as is their last. Two souls trading places in a universe less random than we think.

Would you care for some potato salad or a piece of carrot cake while you make the switch? Not going to be food like this, for either of you, for a long time.

Faux Spring Day

2010-02-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

Bagging their droplets, the rain clouds

have swished on to shower other states.

Some drier.

Some whiter.

Gray and wet skies have

lost their hand to the

blue and the sunny.

We welcome the break with

open windows and doors

letting in 70 degree temperatures...

letting the breath of warm breeziness

stir the curtains.

People smile...

Inwardly and outwardly.

Shorts and flip-flops,

ball caps and muscle-man T's

bare flashes of white, pale skin...

blinding affirmations of the coming warm.

Animals soak up the warmth of El Sol.

I swear they are smiling too.

Especially those happy California cows.

The steady drone of mowers

and weed eaters from across the way

accompany my walk to the mailbox.

And clean it smells...and green.

Fresh soaked earth--steaming.

And one family member

chooses to leave her body

during this brief respite.

She saw the Light...

too bright to ignore.

Goodbye, G.G., I'll miss you.

But you were wise to

make your move now.

This won't last,

It never does.

It is just a faux spring day.

De Good Life

2010-02-16T00:00:00.000-08:00

Willow, of the blog Willow Manor, has created a new blog called Magpie Tales. Willow says, "This blog is dedicated to the enjoyment of writers, for the purpose of honing their craft, sharing it with like minded bloggers, and keeping their muses alive and well." On Friday of each week, she will post a photograph which is a prompt to inspire you to write a short piece of fiction or a poem. Today is the blog's debut. Go on over to Magpie Tales to check out the rules and other contributors work.

De Good Life

"Granpop, I found this while I was cleaning out Gramma Lu's closet. What is it? It sure is pretty."

"Bring it on over here, Calvin," said the old man. "Mah ol' eyes don' work since I got de diabetes." Slowly, he rubbed his hands over the cool piece of metal. Frail, ragged fingers trace its wide mouth and trail down the handle to the tapered base. A solitary tear squeezes out the corner of his eye as a smile rises on his lips like a rainbow in the rain. "Son, oder dan your Gramma Lu, God res' her soul, dis was de best part o' mah life.

Dis was de first trophy ah won on de golf tour. De white men wouldn't let us neaga people play wit dem so we had ta start our own. Had a hard time gettin' sponsors, we did. We couldn' play fuh much money. Hell, we had ta hustle Joe's in every town we wen' to jus' ta make 'nough money ta stay out der. De day ah won dis, ah was flat broke. Ah didn' have a penny ta mark mah ball an' if someone hadn' brought apples ta de tourney, ah wouldn' have been able ta eat. Ah don' think I even tol' your Gramma Lu how busted ah was. An' when ah won dis, ah didn' hafta. She smiled like ah'd given her de world when ah gave her dis.

Son, when ah got up ol' 'nough, ah'd go ta de club an' caddy. Ah was 'bout 12 year ol' when ah started carryin'. Good way ta make some good money...fuh mah family. In dem days, oh, back 'roun 1925, mah daddy only brought home $10 a week fuh some hard ol' work. Why, ah could make $6 fuh carryin' clubs fuh 18 holes. Dat was a lotta money. Mah mama grabbed me by de ear an' pinched it real hard all de while asking me what ah was doin' ta make dat much. Den I'd give mah mama all de money 'cepn a quarter an' ah'd buy me a cegar. Yep, made me feel like a real man.

Mostly taught mahself ta play by watchin' the better players from de caddy shack. Wha, ah even remember lil' Arnie taggin' 'long behin' us buggin' us ta play. Arnold Palmer. He always said de caddies was de best players. He loved a good game. Das' de truf, son. Yo go as' him yo'self. Turned into a mighty fine golfer hisself 'long de way.

Ah walkt 'round wit dat bag on mah shoulder...no shoes. No shoes. Never knew what golf shoes was. Dos spiky, lil' burrs used ta eat mah feet alive. When ah got home, ah'd have ta take a needle an' pick 'em all outta mahfeet. Didn' have no clubs. Jus' took a tobacco stick or a Dogwood strip an' trim it down...made dat ting fit. Know what ah mean? Got some epoxy or somethin' an' put dat thing on de bottom...took it out an' hit it de next day. Man, ah had mahself a golf club...shit. No grip or nuthin'. Jus' took it out an' hit it. Never thought 'bout it. Had one ball as brown as mah daddy's face. Didn' matter how far it went. Wasn' no gripin' and carryin' on like dos boys do today.

Calvin, what yo found der is a man's hopes an' dreams for a better life. You take it now, son. Ah had mine an' Grama Lu don' need it no mo'. Yo go on out der an' get yours. Dat right, son...dat right."

Rain, Man!

2010-02-13T00:00:00.000-08:00

View Full Album

While the right coast has become a giant sno-cone,

The left coast has turned on the water faucet.

Who the heck is that taking pictures while she's driving?

I would NEVER do that, would I?

Gazed and Confused

2010-02-11T00:00:00.000-08:00

Dazed and Confused,
words of the day
back when Led Zeppelin
ruled, my world
was seen through a
Purple Haze.

I'd gaze in the mirror
to check my eyes
for telltale signs:
too much red against
white and blue.

A mirror and Visine,
my secret weapons, saved
my glutes from being
busted by the fuzz.

*Disclaimer: Now, folks, I don't smoke the wacky tabacky any more. It has been many, many years since I sat toking with Bill Clinton, me inhaling--him not (?). But, when you have a history you have a history...no ifs, ands or roaches. Now-a-days, I just use my memories for background and color.
What I've written qualifies my post for Theme Thursday AND Flash Fiction Friday 55. Go check out the other entries, that's right...go on. Thanks for visiting the Wonderland and have a great weekend.

Friday Flash Fiction 55: tell a story in EXACTLY 55 words. Go see g-man on Friday to give it a try or read more.

Theme Thursday: Mirror-create a post that includes "mirror" in any way.

Technology Anonymous

2010-02-09T00:00:00.000-08:00

Obsession.

Madness.

What separates the two?

Lately I feel like one of the famous Flying Wallenda's walking a high wire tightrope between those destinations. Here I sit at my PC, two windows of the new Internet Explorer, IE, (64-bit) open, one of the IE (32-bit) open because not everything is compatible with the new version, like Farmville on occasion. I'm toggling between Farmville, Facebook, Blogger posts and the post edit windows, my bank accounts, various research articles, Word documents and YouTube.

I have my BlackBerry sitting on the desk beside me. Its constant plink, plink, plink and shrill, shrill, shrill alert me to check my incoming e-mails, Facebook comments, eBay updates and voice mail messages.

Which moment gave me pause for reflection? The one in which I caught myself keyboarding with my right hand while simultaneously phone texting with my left. When did I cross that line? I didn't notice the blustering winds of madness or the drizzling rains of obsession until it was too late.

Thank goodness I'm not like my sister, T, jonseing for Craig's List. She's the one with the addiction problem not me. I can quit anytime I want. Really!

A Meditation on Simple Things

2010-02-07T16:15:00.000-08:00

I'm simply delighted to help Chris at Enchanted Oaks with her Haitian relief fund. Her family has pledged a $2 donation for each person who participates, with a list, a poem, a prose piece or a comment on her blog about the joy of simple things, to Heartline Ministries for their medical clinic and other programs in Haiti. 100% of all earthquake related funds received will be spent in Haiti on recovery and rebuilding. All state side expenses will be performed by various individuals free of charge. That is hard to beat! You can make your post up until midnight, Sunday, February 7.

So, today, Super Bowl Sunday in the United States, I'm thinking about the simple enjoyment an entire country gets out of this game played by a bunch of sweaty guys tossing and kicking a football, jumping on and smashing each other into the ground until their pants are stained with a green grass juice that is nearly impossible to get out. Is it wrong that I'm more concerned with all that dirty laundry than I am with yards gained and lost?

People are gathering together for celebrations and parties that rival Thanksgiving and Christmas. Come on people, have you been to the stores in the last couple of days? The parking lots are packed. I couldn't even get near Costco yesterday. Carts are stuffed and overflowing with chips and cases of soda and beer. In fact, the total weight gain from Super Bowl Sunday will surpass that of Thanksgiving and Christmas combined. According to Media Life Magazine, while watching last year's Super Bowl Americans consumed 14,500 tons of chips and 8 million pounds of guacamole. Not to mention a 20 percent increase in antacid sales.

In stark contrast, millions of Haitians are gathered together in their fight for survival. I wonder how many televisions are on and broadcasting in Haiti? What if all those cases of pop and beer were water? How far would all those tons of food go in sustaining a starving population?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to make you feel guilty. Quite the contrary. I think that the Super Bowl serves as a reminder that it is good take the time to truly enjoy the simple things in life while we can. We never know, thankfully, when disaster is drawing our number out of the hat. I also see the New Orleans Saints, being in a position to win the championship, as harbingers of good fortune. Having risen out of the devastation inflicted by hurricane Katrina in 2005, nearly five years later, the team is a symbol of hope and pride, not only to their city but, to the rest of the world.

Now, I have to admit I am not a football fan and probably won't even watch the game, but I am a fan of the indomitable human spirit. Win or lose, the Saints have traveled back up that long, lonely road of adversity.

Go Saints.

*****UPDATE*****

11 p.m. Pacific Time: I just read Chris's statement that there were more than a hundred posts/comments about Simple Things which means the goal of a $200 donation was met. Even more exciting, an anonymous donor matched that amount! Way to go bloggers!

Mirror Images (Flash Fiction-55)

2010-02-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

Photo: The lovely and talented, Miss Jessie

I'm looking

in the mirror
for a difference.

Looking for

more than
crow's feet.
More than
nasolabial folds--
those smile lines
on my sagging face--
that I already have.

Kind of like

when I looked
at myself
in the mirror
after losing my
virginity--

Thinking I

SHOULD
look different.

But my

birthday doesn't

show yet .

Friday Flash Fiction 55: tell a story in EXACTLY 55 words. Go see g-man on Friday to give it a try or read more.

Author Interview: Dorraine Darden-Part 2

2010-02-02T00:00:00.000-08:00

Jack Rabbit Moon: A Garner Park Story
By Dorraine Darden
ISBN-13: 978-1-58385-139-5
Publisher: Cold Tree Press

Website: http://www.dorrainedarden.com/

Welcome back to our little chat about writing. Today we have part two of an interview with Dorraine Darden, author of Jack Rabbit Moon, and her little dog, Lucky. We'll begin in just a few minutes. The Red Queen was so pleased with the excellent turnout we had for our premier, she most graciously sent over her personal barista and pastry chef. When the Wonderland wait staff comes around, please let them know your culinary desires and they'll get your order while you get comfy. For those of you who missed it, here is Part 1.

Well, Dorraine, is your mug warm and full? Are you ready to get the show on the road? Good, we've got a lot to cover today so, here goes...

Jack Rabbit Moon seems to have a lot of fact blended with fiction. How do you balance the two?

Historical fiction does this frequently. Although this novel is not in that genre, historical details and facts still had to be mined carefully. I not only did research on my own, but had help from several of the locals. Of course having correct and up to date information regarding the park was essential, since it is a real place and is used as a setting in the novel. I was required to receive permission to use the park in a work of fiction. The characters, businesses and events were all fiction. Combined it all seemed to flow like the Frio River.

The intricacies of family life, the good, the bad and the ugly are thoroughly explored in this novel. Do you see any metaphors for life in the families you've presented?

Real life is bejeweled with metaphors and symbols. And so it is with this fictional novel. Here’s a few : Dreams and reality knocking heads, a nice place that’s fixin’ to have the heat cranked up, and the beginning of the end. All are from page one. From the get go we know the main character, Marnie Evans, has had a rough ride and it’s going to get rougher.

Metaphors are also expressed through objects and images, which create new experiences. Marnie’s Daddy, Charlie, was fascinated by jack rabbits. He knew the intricacies of their peculiar behavior. He gave his daughter a gold, jack rabbit pendant, which she ultimately buried in the ground. The pendant represented trust. Now you know something dark and foreboding is going to happen, which will involve jack rabbits. Don’t you?

You have such an easy style of writing that feels almost like southern hospitality to me. Does it come naturally to you? How long have you been writing and do any of your family members posses the same skill with storytelling?

Why, thank you, Ronda. It is natural to my southern personality. Would you like some pie, darlin’? Seriously though, a writer’s style or voice is what E.B. White described as that which is “distinguished and distinguishing.” It could be why we relish some books and not others, just as we are more drawn to certain types of people.

I hear many questions among writers regarding how to discover their writing style. Write and the style will find you. It is you, essentially. Your ideas and the way you view the world and convey it.

As far as writing, I didn’t begin putting words on paper professionally until nine years ago, but started long before that with journal writing.

Regarding other writers in my family, yes, all three of our daughters. Our oldest has had a screenplay she wrote at age eighteen picked up by the Alley Theatre and set to stage, through a teen play-writing competition. She will graduate from college soon with an English degree. Our middle child is a singer/musician who writes her own music and lyrics. We’re not sure about our youngest yet, although she is also proficient with words, especially in the sass department. I'd like to add, I'm very proud of those darn kids. They are also very caring individuals.

It would take a long time for me to write a novel. How long did it take you and did you encounter any surprises in researching and writing?

It took two years to complete Jack Rabbit Moon. I wrote the manuscript then tucked it away on a back burner for a month. When I peeked with fresh eyes, I had a clearer picture of what needed added, deleted and tweaked. A manuscript needs to simmer. No stirring. We get too chummy with our work otherwise and can’t taste extra salt or pepper. Does that sound about right? Well, it is, but here is something else I learned. Read work out-loud. Before the manuscript was published, I was asked to speak and do a timed reading at an event, which really opened my cloudy eyes. On reading, I was shocked to discover I still had some serious junk in the roux, so to speak. ONCE MORE, I went through the entire manuscript and eliminated pesky words which cluttered up the creation.

As far as surprises in writing and researching, yes, there are always those. For me, it was the sheer amount of effort, time and determination required to finish. Carving out time to write when life is hollering, that’s it. But I personally don’t feel we have to neglect family and friends to accomplish this. The key is balance. We still need to get out in the world to keep our experiences fresh and wild. Has anyone seen The Shining? I rest my case.

It might be best that we don’t always know what challenges await us when beginning a novel. Each writer floats a different river. Think of jumping in a cold creek and warming up as we swim. That’s fun, yes? Doing something with passion and conviction is all that’s needed. The rest will come.

I've read in Janet Reid, Literary Agent's blog that to get good writing advice you need to hire an editor or locate and participate in good critique groups or attend conferences and workshops. How did you develop your work?

Janet is one wise agent. If you have never written a novel it can be daunting to begin. Writers need the support, direction and connections these opportunities provide. Novel writing is high art and even though one might have an ability to tell magical stories, there is craft at work, too, which takes knowledge, skill and practice to harness.

For that reason, I initially took a novel writing course offered through Writer’s Digest. My kids were young then and I could do my assignments from home. I learned how to write a fifty page outline, which broke me right in. The course covered all aspects of novel writing, and though intense, I learned well. I would highly recommend it.

Regarding critique groups- I’ve been in those as well but found what worked best for me were individual readers. If we are lucky enough to find two or three friends who can also be objective about our work, then we’ve struck gold. But that’s not to say a great critique group can’t work wonders. The key is honesty. We writers really do need constructive criticism to bring out the shine in our stories.

Hiring an editor- If we are serious about our work, we need one. Mine has not only been a godsend in the advice and corrections department but has been a great mentor as well.

Further development of my writing came through Writers’ League of Texas workshops. I have also attended writing conferences in Austin, Texas. My most recent summer adventure was a six day Hawaii Writer’s Retreat, where I worked with gifted author and instructor, Anne LeClaire. This retreat, which wasn’t at all relaxing, didn’t disappoint. I worked hard but my writing has benefited immensely from the new techniques and careful manuscript editing I received.

If we are serious about our writing, we must take writing seriously. Nobody else will, until we go first.

Dorraine, it has been such a pleasure to get to know you and to learn about writing from your perspective. I located a couple of reviews on Jack Rabbit Moon and they were quite favorable. Folks, if you'd like to read them, visit Stacy at A Writer's Point of View: One You May Have Missed and Deanna at Deanna's Blog, The Life of a Working Writer Mommy: Jack Rabbit Moon, by Dorraine Darden: a review

Remember, you can visit Dorraine any time at her blog, Free Ice Cream. Dorraine and Lucky, on behalf of myself and the Red Queen, we'd like to thank you for visiting the Wonderland. Come back any time. Until then, did someone mention pie and ice cream? Let's go, Dorraine!

5th Annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam

2010-02-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

It's happening right NOW! The big cyberevent for February, the 5th Annual Cyberspace Poetry Slam. Brigid, also known as Imbloc or Candlemas, is a celebration of Brigid, a Celtic Goddess. She is the goddess of inspiration and fire. This second big power zone of the year lies halfway between the Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox . It is a time of coming light, healing, creativity, poetry, and the nine muses and graces. Between now and midnight on Brigid's feast day, select a poem you like - by a favorite poet or one of your own - and post it over the next few days.

Let's fill the air with poetry, make a wish and spin that wheel of life...next stop spring!!

Candlemas Poem

Night of lit white candles
darkness turned to light
"everything she touches
changes"
feast of waxing flame
fire of heart and hearth
fire of the mind
flickering of spark
quickening of air
warming into inspiration
thawing in her innocence
snow into desire

"she shines for all of us
she burns within us all"
spiral heat of life
"she shines for all of us
within us all she burns"
the fires to create
"she shines in all of us
she burns us all within"
awakening arising is her need
"she shines for all of us
she burns within us all"
her candle is our only source.

Kay Gardner
Avalon: Solo Flute Meditations

Author Interview: Dorraine Darden-Part I

2010-01-28T00:00:00.000-08:00

Jack Rabbit Moon: A Garner Park Story
By Dorraine Darden
ISBN-13: 978-1-58385-139-5
Publisher: Cold Tree Press

Website: http://www.dorrainedarden.com/

Dorraine Darden is the author of Jack Rabbit Moon: A Garner Park Story. I ran across her blog, Free Ice Cream, on Blogger a while back and have been a constant reader ever since.

I discovered her book, Jack Rabbit Moon, on her side bar. It is a magical story set in the beautiful, mystical terrain of Garner State Park in Texas. Her story is about eleven-year-old Marnie Evans's search for her place in the world. Like all of us, Marnie yearns for the comfort and stability of a loving family.

Dorraine graciously allowed me to interview her about her experiences with writing. I know that many of you are aspiring writers and those of you who are not, are avid readers. Which ever category you fall into, I believe you'll find Dorraine to be a tasty dip for your literary chip.

Hi, Dorraine, welcome to the Wonderland. Oh, I see you brought your little dog, Lucky, with you! Happy to have the both of you. Take a seat and let's get comfy before we begin our visit. How was your flight from Texas? Great! Glad to hear that the first-class ticket I bought you was worth the extra money. Nothing is ever too good for Wonder Guests. Now, let's see...

Your novel takes place in Texas. What inspired your story, its characters and its location?

The inspiration for Jack Rabbit Moon came from our initial visit to Garner State Park. I’d heard many inspiring stories about the area, regarding history and the families who gather year after year in the park. Cypress trees, their low slung limbs caught with Spanish moss, lace the banks of the Frio River, which captivated the nature lover in me.

The characters seemed as natural to the story as the river itself. Some came right up and introduced themselves, while others were a little thorny and needed to be coaxed with promises of beer and Little Debbie’s.

It is clear that you've done a lot of legwork for this book including the duties of a park ranger and the terrain of Garner State Park. What were the highlights?

The highlights were working with a Park Ranger in Garner State Park, who is also an Interpretive Specialist and yodeling ranger. He was gracious enough to allow me to pattern a main character (Ranger Rick) after his duties as ranger. He answered my endless questions about park history and was one of my manuscript readers. I learned much from his experience about the intricacies of running a state park.

Another highlight was going every summer with friends and family. We got to know the locals, who were interesting and colorful. We also relished floating the river by day and by night sitting outside in a moonlit yard, lulled by a sky swirled with stars.

You've told the story from each of the three main characters points of view, which is hard to do. (Marnie, Rick and Claire). Did you hear each of their separate voices from the beginning? Were there people in your life after whom they were modeled?

Yes, I think every fiction writer hears voices. First person can be a tough choice, though. To get under three unique skins and do it right is tricky business.

The ranger's character was a stretch for me, though, possibly because I’m not a middle-aged guy. I had to think like a man. Talk like a man. Walk like a man. Marnie, the main character, however, came right up and thwacked me on the head, her eyes shiny and mouth sassy. Claire, another character, was like a favorite friend with her cinnamon drenched hospitality.

As far as modeling characters after those I know, I think authors do this naturally. We graft in a laugh here, a nose there, attitudes of liveliness or doom and before we know it, we have the sweet and sensitive, or bitter and broody Frankenstein’s.

More than anyone though, Marnie reminds me of my youngest daughter, Grace. They both climb up forbidden mountains, carrying spunk in their back pockets.

Fairies, religion, Jesus and even an angel wearing a white cowboy hat and sequined boots are woven through this book. Have you had any spiritual or paranormal experiences?

Regarding the spiritual: One powerful memory is the time I gave a checker in my local grocery store a rose. I do this occasionally because I enjoy it. This particular day I didn’t want to. I’d had terrible news myself and needed some good cheer. But the urge to get the rose was so overwhelming, I couldn’t resist. I found a flashy yellow blossom and got in the checkout line. I paid for the flower and handed it to the young cashier. "This is for you," I said.

She smelled the rose and sobbed. When I asked what was wrong, she said her life was a mess. On her way to work that morning, she’d prayed for a sign, anything to show someone loved and cared for her. I cried with her and my own problems melted away.

On the paranormal front: More than a few things here too, but one stand out were pictures I captured, at night, in an ancient family graveyard on a Louisiana plantation. I’m a clucky chicken, the last person you’d expect to find at a pitch black cemetery. But that night I was coaxed. What I caught on film made hair bristle on the back of my neck. Still does. The pictures are unexplainable and will be the cornerstone for an upcoming paranormal series. I’m sorry to leave you hanging but please stay tuned.

I don't see any mention of any other books you've written. Is this your first novel and are you working on any others?

Yes, Jack Rabbit Moon is my first published novel. I’m currently finishing a second work of fiction titled The Passion Diary. The tale is about a pastor, Danny Yates, who finds and reads a woman’s lost journal but doesn’t expect to ever meet her, let alone fall in love with her. Due to synchronistic events, he ends up in the same small town she lives in. This book is about secrets and the messiness of love and how sometimes we must lose everything to find the one true thing. The novel was inspired by my own lost diary and is set in southern Missouri.

Thanks, Dorraine. Let's take a little break, shall we? Can I buy you a cuppa coffee and a cinnamon roll? If any of you would like to join us for a little bean brew and casual talk, feel free. Otherwise, folks, we'll be back on Tuesday, February 2 with:

Author Interview: Dorraine Darden-Part II

Jack Kerouac...Call Me?

2010-01-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

Today is the blow out, extravaganza, Grand Opening of Kewl Beanz, the Internet Cyber Cafe that is more than just a meeting place for progressive thinkers. I need a date and Jack Kerouac, if you can hear me, please give me a call. If you can't call, just meet me there at any time today from 5 a.m. to midnight (CST). I love you. And when you write like this, I love you even more:

They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!"

You are one the greatest beat poets of the 1950s. I'll be the envy of all the other new millennium-beats at the party if you go with me. Of course, I know YOU disdain envy, but, hey, maybe you can get behind pity. If you don't take me, I get stuck with this poser and his impotent bongos. Jack Kerouac...call me?

************BELIEF & TECHNIQUE FOR MODERN PROSE******
List of Essentials
********************************************************************************************

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy

2. Submissive to everything, open, listening

3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house

4. Be in love with yr wife

5. Something that your feel will find its own form

6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind

7. Blow as deep as you want to blow

8. Write what you want bottomless from the bottom of the mind

9. The unspeakable visions of the individual

10. No time for poetry but exactly what is

11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest

12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you

13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition

14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time

15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog

16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye

17. Write in recollection and amazement of yourself

18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea

19. Accept loss forever

20. Believe in the hold contour of life

21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind

22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better

23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr monrning

24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge

25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it

26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form

27. In Praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness

28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazzier the better

29. You're a Genius all the time

30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

as ever,

Jack

[By Jack Kerouac, exerpted precisely as published [sic] from a letter to Don Allen 1958]

from Heaven & Other Poems, Grey Fox Press, San Francisco 1994

Tantrums

2010-01-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

El Nino,
the sleepy little boy,
is awaking from his
long nap.

His
wailing winds
blast high speeds across
Cal-i-for-ni-a.

His
tears rain
down soaking
parched land.

His
diaper, full from
floods and brown,
sludgy mudslides, reeks.

He
throws tantrum
after stormy tantrum
until finally spent,
he's, hopefully, put
our years of drought
behind us.

Friday Flash Fiction 55: tell a story in EXACTLY 55 words. Go see g-man on Friday to give it a try or read more.

I Have a Dream

2010-01-19T00:00:00.000-08:00

Martin Luther King, Jr.'s, I Have a Dream, speech is one of the most compelling pieces of writing I've ever read. His vision, strength and conviction drove our nation to change. Yesterday we celebrated the birth of Mr. King in the United States. Since then I have been thinking about dreams.

We all have them, right? Some are big. Some are small. I remember the Wonder Husband looking me straight in the eye a couple of years ago and telling me, "I have a dream. And that dream is to see you driving this car I am going to build just for you. A Grocery Getter. That's what I want to give you."

I almost laughed until I saw the passion in his eyes and heard the truth of his heart in his voice.

Now, you see, at the time I was driving my Mitsubishi 3000GT Twin Turbo Vr4. She's a racy, little, two-seater sports car. Mama likes to drive fast and slam gears. But the problem was that, even though I could lay her back seat down for cargo space, she wasn't really appropriate for a lot of the things I needed to do. Costco runs were a little tight because of the small area. And taking the dogs anywhere was touchy. Not to mention hauling bags of soil and plants home from the nursery.

So, he built me this sleeper of a Chevelle station wagon. No one would expect this old lady in a station wagon to beat them off the line. She has a big motor that satisfies my inner speed demon. Her Flowmaster mufflers growl like a big dog. She is also the perfect mate to the Wonder Husband's El Camino and Buick Skylark. And, I have to admit, that she wonderfully fills the bill for doing household errands. There is a part of me that knows that the Wonder Husband probably felt using the Mitsubishi for schlepping was an act of automotive desecration. Every thing unto heaven has a purpose, and that was not hers.

But the moment he told me his dream I thought, we are so different. My dream is for world peace and unity, food for the hungry, access to affordable health care, bringing love to humanity, the ability to travel at the speed of light and warp through dimensions of time and space. And he dreams of building cars for me.

Who am I to trample a man's dream. Life would be empty and uninspired without them. Build away, Wonder Hubby. Build away.

What are your dreams?

Four Tissues and a Wedding

2010-01-14T00:00:00.000-08:00

As a young woman,
I smiled at weddings.

I cheered BRAVO
as the new couple began
their dream life together.

As a mature woman,
I smile at weddings.

My heart, burning with the
knowledge of the lessons they'll
learn during their lifetime together,
be it long or short,
sends a wet tear down my cheek.

Flash 55: Tell a story in 55 words of less.

A Smokin' Good Time!

2010-01-12T00:00:00.001-08:00

I'm tired. Happy, but tired. We put on my nephew's wedding this weekend. My family is very talented and we can all pull together and work like a team of Clydesdale horses when it matters the most. In hosting the ceremony, we decorated, provided our own live and recorded music, hosted the bar, catered the food, and cleaned the hall.

The wedding was kind of East Meets West in style. The service was performed before a puja table by a western, non-denominational minister. Puja is a form of Hindu ceremonial worship that honors one or several gods. Other than the altar, the decor was western in theme and style. It truly reflected the couples beliefs and those of their guests which ranged from Evangelist to Hindu, carnivores to vegans, heterosexual to homosexual to lesbian, suburbanites to ashramites, northern hemisphere to southern hemisphere and those that dance to those that don't.

To respect the various diets in attendance, we served hummus and bruschetta with hearty, locally baked breads and crackers. Sweet fruits and salty cheeses spilled across cold, black marble slabs. Sliced strawberries and tangerine sections brightened a crisp, mixed green, winter salad, penne pasta dressed with pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and artichoke hearts, mouth watering, homemade spring rolls, and smoked chicken provided weight to the dinner.

Well, the chicken could have been more appropriately named Chicken Flambe after the Great Smoker Fire occurred. Oh, yeah! Up to that point, everything had been going so well and we were ahead of schedule. And then, during the champagne toast, we somehow lost a handle on the evening.

I was just about to announce that, after the final toast, we would begin serving dinner, when I was notified to stall another 30 minutes because of technical food difficulties. My other nephew and I kept asking if anyone wanted to speak and luck was with us. Most of the guests were chiropractors and chiropractic students who, after spending many hours in public speaking courses, turned out to be quite verbose. Becoming unsuspecting participants to our stall tactics, they embarked on a mission of one-upmanship that totally saved the evening. Instead of 30 minutes, it was nearly an hour and a half before we got the high sign to wrap it up.

How none of the guests noticed the large, raging smoker fire flaring against the night sky through the glass door, the fire extinguisher being nonchalantly carried out, the fortuitous removal of the propane tank from said smoker, and the steady, but curious, line of people carrying large, stainless steel pans of chicken through the building headed for the industrial ovens and further baking, is beyond me. When we tell you that you're gonna have a smokin' good time at our party, we can pretty much offer a guarantee.

Ten Years After

2010-01-07T00:00:00.000-08:00

The new millennium, Y2K, or the year 2000, was met with guardians at the gate. Warriors, ready to fight the hoards of people who failed to prepare for famine, failed governments, collpased energy grids and impotent businesses, gathered weapons, generators and supplies. The dark predicitons fizzled like a wet fire cracker when disaster failed to strike.

In contrast, it felt like we graciously opened the door to welcome in the second decade of this millennium. No one seemed sad to give 2009, and the first ten years, the boot. I understand why. On September 11, 2001, terrorist attacks destroyed the World Trade Center, damaged part of the Pentagon, and resulted in a plane crash in Pennsylvania. We are still pursuing Osama bin Laden and Al-Qaeda. For the first time, Americans began to experience life with terrorism as a constant near and present danger. We precariously teetered across the tight rope of global financial meltdown and national depression.

The energy of this new decade feels positive and light rather than ominous and heavy like its predecessor. But is this new decade in its honeymoon phase? You know, in 2012, just two years from now, another apocalyptic, end of the world prophesy is foretold in the Mayan Calendar. I've already seen long-term food storage and survival guides being advertised. 2012 is touted as being real and not a Henny-Penny, sky is falling, y2k, scenario. How long are we really going to be happy with this new decade?

For many years, I've heard the widely held end of the world theory of 2012. But there are other theories. One of those is that the Mayan Calendar marked the year 2012 as the date that we, as a society, embark on a enlightened period of humanity. And that, in the years leading up to that date, we would face near catastrophic events and conditions. That times would be hard and beings who are not strong enough or prepared for this new period may leave the planet. Which made me think of all the people who were checking out last summer like Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and Billy Mays. Wasn't it remarkable how many people left in one short time?

I'm going to take the position that we've gotten through the worst of those catastrophic times. And, although I know that the next few years won't be all strawberries and whipped cream, I think we are about done wading through the muck. I'm going to hold the thought that we are at the beginning of a new era, a wonderful era, and an era that will be recorded in history as the golden age on Earth.

And so it is!

Dr. Wicked this Way Comes!

2010-01-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

Most of us who blog, sooner or later, run smack dab into writer's block. That wall, white washed of its graffiti, is blank, dreamless and uninspired. Well, no more. Meet Dr. Wicked! I recently had the pleasure. Well, really it's more like having a rectal thermometer placed between your double-lobed, butt-cracked glutes than a pleasure. But, all the same, he's good for your writing health.

The esteemed doctor's practice is located at the cyber-streets of Write or Die. It is here that he puts the 'Prod' in your productivity. Dr. Wicked gets you flossing out the creative bits that get trapped between the teeth of your over thinking, procrastinating head.

You write in a text box which is not a word processor. There are no editing tools in the on-line version, which is free. This exercise is designed to separate the writing and the editing processes. The only way to save your work is to copy and paste it into your own text editing program.

These are the available functions:

Grace Period:
Forgiving
Strict
Evil

Consequences:
Gentle Mode
Normal Mode
Kamikaze Mode
Electric Shock Mode

First, select a specific time frame, or a word count, as your goal for the session. Next, start typing. In Kamikaze Mode, if you quit typing for too long, you lose all your words. I'm not sure what happens in Electric Shock Mode. I tried to select it but the function was not available. Maybe it comes with the down loadable, desktop version that has more capabilities, including editing and blog posting, for $10.

This web application is about instilling in the writer the fear of not writing by using the principles of Operant Conditioning and Negative Reinforcement. In Negative Reinforcement, a behavior becomes stronger because a negative condition is avoided or discontinued because of the behavior. So, as long as you continue writing, you will not be punished.

In my first attempt, I didn't even have a subject in mind. I just started typing a flow of consciousness. What ever words popped into my mind, I recorded. I produced nearly 700 words in 20 minutes and, yes, I can use much of it for at least one completed piece.

In my second attempt, I needed an ending to a story I am writing for contest submission. My story is done but the ending is weak. I could not get the conclusion to read with the impact of my internalized version. I set the timer for 10 minutes and, bingo, I had over 300 words and the meat of my new ending. As far as writing and creativity are concerned, it is the best 30 minutes I've ever spent.

Go see the doctor, he's got the prescription for what ails ya!

One Year at a Time

2009-12-31T00:00:00.000-08:00

Disclaimer: Those are not my hands. They belong to one of the nail techs at Claws.

I am a massage therapist. My fingernails are short, round and natural. No one appreciates

a therapist with nails like those. No matter how pretty they are, they are scratching weapons.

When you learn something new, the best place to start is the beginning. So it is with blogging. I gave birth to Ronda's Wonderland on New Year's Day, one year ago, for no other reason that I wanted to give it a go. My first few posts were read only by my best friends and sister, who I also count as one of my best friends. I'm really glad because they were awkward and tenuous.

Somehow, I don't mind my friends seeing me as I struggle to learn something new. I know that no matter what weird stuff I try, and believe me, I have a taste for the eclectic and esoteric, they are always there to put a bandage on my knee.

Reya, of According to the Cosmology of Reya, and Mrsupole, of Mrsupoles' Place, encouraged and supported me with my first teetering, baby blogging steps. They, and the rest of you, nudged me into toddling along on my own. Through the process, I eventually, began to find my "voice." And, to pay it forward, I've helped other new bloggers get started.

One of the things that really surprised me about blogging is that it is one of the final frontiers. Not like outer space or the brain, but in the sense there are no rules. Like the wild, wild west, we do what we want out here. The freedom of personal expression and access to an immediate audience that exists in Blog World is unlike any other. I've never understood the appeal of reality shows but, I think I just got the concept. Being a blog author is like being the star of your own reality show. And you know what? It feels great!

So, please help me commemorate my first year in Blog World. Stop by and have a glass of Champagne, a bite to eat and nice visit. For your sustenance, I offer a fresh, green salad with tangy, Italian dressing, a pasta salad with feta cheese and black olives, soft, warm homemade rolls and cheesecake for dessert. The Red Queen says, we'll leave the light on.

In the Mood

2009-12-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

I've been in the mood lately. A very domestic mood. But, don't tell the Wonder Husband. I really like him thinking that it's not my A-game. A woman is not as interesting as when she veils herself in a little mystery. Some women hide their shopping addictions, proclivities for ecstatic substances or sexual fantasies. Me? I hide my Martha Stewart moments.

I go in and out of domesticity like most people go in and out of bad moods. Don't get me wrong, after over 30 years of marriage, the Wonder Husband knows that I'm adept at making home and hearth. I just don't want him expecting it on a regular basis. Fix dinner? Not tonight, honey...I have a headache.

The truth is that there are times I really enjoy a good house cleaning rout or a day long, cooking extravaganza. But, just as often, I enjoy getting out in the world and knocking down some mega bucks. Or being the accountant and bookkeeper for both of our businesses. Or spending the day writing and living in a fantasy world of my making. Or maybe I need to get a massage, a pedicure, my hair done and an eye brow wax. I'm learning that a good brow shaping and the plucking of a few rebellious, downward growing, brow hairs can erase years. So it is with domesticity. After all, I am in my maintenance years and need to gain every advantage I can in every area I can.

I think it's good for a woman to keep herself from getting pigeon-holed into any particular role. I mean, I've been studying men for years and they are quixotic and hard to pin down. And now I know why. It can definitely be an advantage to the game of love. As a young wife, I was eager to be seen as a good home maker. I grew up in a generation that was infected with the tainted archetype of Donna Reed, the perfect wife. As a seasoned wife, I'm inoculating myself against that virus. No longer craving adulations for my culinary and domestic coups, I prefer to bask in anonymity.

So, that's why I'm sitting here seriously considering buying some take out containers and using them to present this beautiful meal I've prepared. Shh, mums the word. There'll be no tattling to the Wonder Husband about my tasty, little deception. Thankfully, he only sneaks over and reads my blog once in a while. Oh, yeah, and I can always tell he's been here by the little words he lets slip. He has his secrets, I have mine.

Ronda Has Horns Beneath Her Halo

2009-12-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

Just thought I'd sing you a little Christmas carol. Yes, the song is about me. To my friends, I've long been the object of admiration and adoration. See how they laud my many abilities and capabilities?

(sung to the tune 'Deck the Halls')

Ronda is a workaholic, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
She's always at Smith Chiropractic, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Patients come and patients go, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Still she's there with her hello, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

Most people think she has a halo, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,la, la
Big and bright and shining yellow, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
But she has horns that grow below it, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
And there're times when she will show it, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

She is turning 50 soon, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Her insurance rates will zoom, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
In the mail she'll find an AARP card, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Still, she'll plant in her back yard,Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

Yin and B.B. are her friends, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Randy pinches when she bends, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
She teaches her nephews bad things, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Such as lap and pole dances, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

She was great as Mrs. Claus, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
The kids thought that she was from Mars, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Give her just a bit of Schnapps, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
Just keep her away from cops, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

All in all, she's quite the woman, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
She massages boobs and tusches, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
For all kinds of weird patients, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la
But she does it with such graciousness, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la

Since I am closer to 60 than 50 now and I am long gone from Smith Chiropractic, this was written about 8 or 9 years ago. It was written and sung to me by my friends as they passed the Sacred Unicorn unto my keeping. You don't know the legend of the Sacred Unicorn? Ah, that is a story for another time.

Until then...Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la!

After Glow

2009-12-22T00:00:00.000-08:00

Bodies press together.
Feverish. Meeting. Mashing.
Falling away. Meeting again.
Twisted and tangled together.
A tingle...rising in an, as yet,
unfulfilled promise.
Tension building.
Holding back.
Surging forward.
Over and over again.
Giving. Taking. Receiving.
Fast, abandoned acceleration ignites
a juicy, exploding orgasm.

Spent.
Nothing left.

My shopping frenzy...
over for another year.

This is my first attempt at telling a story in 55 words or less. Friday Flash 55's ringleader is g-man. Go see him on Fridays to read more or give it a try. I know it's Tuesday and not Friday but I'm not much for coloring inside the lines. I'm a rebel without a clause.

Here Comes the Sun!

2009-12-17T00:00:00.000-08:00

Here we go again! I can't help but start to get a little excited as we draw near the winter solstice occurring this coming Monday. For us, in the northern hemisphere, it signals the end of fall and the beginning of winter. While our southern neighbors are enjoying the holidays at summer solstice. To some of them, like Baino and Lily, it's a great "time for an ice cold Horton's Semillon and a leg dangle in the pool . . ." From that day forward, it will start to get a little bit lighter each day for us and for them, darker.

It's always darkest before the dawn. That's how I feel at this time of year. My physical and emotional bodies just want to follow the ancient rhythms of life. To draw my energy inward just like the wise, old trees and hibernating animals. At the height of the holiday season, with all its activities and socialization, when all I want to do is hunker down and write or read a book or watch a movie, I have to fight to make myself get out in the world. It just seems to go against the order of life. Well, mine anyway. Am I the only one?

I sometimes think, after all my many years of celebrating the holidays during winter, how weird it would feel to experience them during summer. But, truly, it would probably better fit my energy pattern. Anyway, just a few more days until I start counting down to the coming light and energy packed, warm days. Time to make a wish and spin that wheel of life again in the power of the new born year.

So, if by chance, you happen to be at a party and you see a middle aged woman wrapped in a fluffy, white, spa robe wearing crocheted, patchwork, granny slippers, sipping out of a Crown Royal whiskey bottle while using its purple, velvet bag for a purse, say cheers. I'll wave back and offer you a knock off the 'ol bottle. Of course, I'll wipe the top off with my sleeve first. After all, my momma raised me to have manners!

Here comes the sun, (du-du-du-du)
Here comes the sun
And I say
It's alright

George Harrison
Here Comes the Sun

Sugar and Spice

2009-12-15T00:20:00.000-08:00

It doesn't take a lot to make kids happy. Well, maybe it doesn't take a lot to make people, in general, happy. A little thoughtfulness. A kind gesture. A few minutes of your time and attention can change the course of other's lives in immeasurable ways.

The meditation group I belong to is overseen by Humanity in Unity. We look into the heart of our community with special eyes to see where we can help. And, sadly, there is no lack of need for support. This holiday season, we adopted a family and provided what we could.

We also have a transitional program, Faith Works, that we've worked with for a couple of years. It has a very high success rate. Almost all of the funding goes to the people involved and not to administration. Families who've been blown apart have a chance to pick up the shards of broken lives and move on together. Parents, who've lost their children due to drug use or imprisonment, get to live with them as long as they comply with the rules of this two year program.

They get to reside in a decent apartment complex. There is a social worker on the premises and the rules are strict. Drug testing is enforced. They have mandatory educational classes on child care and life skills. They have to be in their apartments for the night by 10 p.m. They have to get jobs and pay a nominal rent. For those that survive the program, the rewards are great. They get to have their children and spouses back. The money they pay for housing is returned to them at the conclusion of the program. They'll be able to afford to start their new lives in a place of their own.

The other night we put on a party for the kids. One of our members, Susan, made these charming graham cracker houses. She had them all ready for the children to gussy up with all the candy we brought. It was a fast and furious hour and a half filled with flying, royal icing and sticky, happy fingers. The kids had a swell time! Each house was a thing of beauty and a joy forever. One little boy took the house he had so carefully crafted and gave it to his babysitter.

Even those having next to nothing can find a way to extend a charitable hand. He was proud, generous and filled with love. That is, until the instant he realized the party was over and he had no more time to make himself a candy house. The tears welled in his eyes. He boo-hooed like a five year old. Oh, wait! He was a five year old. We quickly found one last house. Smeared it with icing and "snowed" sprinkles over the top. His eye-clouds-and-rain cleared. A smile came out. Sprinkles can fix most anything, it seems.

Sven, the Snow God

2009-12-10T00:00:00.000-08:00

And, now, for our first look at the InaccuWeather forecast for Redding. Some places in the valley are already down to the 20s at this hour...if you can believe it! Chico is at 26 degrees right now and we've still got a long way to go before the night is over.

It is cold across the north state and it's going to stay that way for the next couple of days. Remember the snow I've been telling you we were going to get for the last couple of days? Well, it went to Sacramento, Stockton, Lodi...unusual places. It was cold enough for snow in the north state, the north part of the valley. But the moisture was just a little too far to the south, and it stayed to the south, so we didn't really get anything as far as snow is concerned. But the temperatures are really agreeable for a little snow tonight so we could have some by morning.

So, why, when the weather man promises snow in the a.m., do we always wake up to not a cloud in the sky? We have sneaky snow here in our little corner of California. It falls in when we aren't looking.

I met Sven, the Snow God, when I was a mere child praying for a snow day. He's quite the little trickster having a good laugh at our expense. Sven loves a good round of Peek-a-Boo I Got You or You've Been Pranked. Just like when someone points to a spot on your shirt with their index finger, you look down and then you get poked in the nose, I fall for his promise every time.

Okay, Sven, I have always been, and probably will always be, your sucker. I'm gonna look away now...k?

***The answer to last week's Theme Thursday question in the post Happy Birthday, Friend : The Birthday girl is third from the left.

Uranus Unleashed?

2009-12-08T00:00:00.000-08:00

How I came to arrive at this specific point in time was, seemingly, a series of random incidents. Now, in the ever darkening slip of day into night, I see that this alignment was no accident. A fissure in the dimensional ordering of the universe had opened. Energies were streaming through ruptured space with a feral ferocity that rendered the people nearest the opening at their mercy. Their will was no longer their own.

As he turned the corner, another driver plowed through the intersection hitting him. Their cars kissed with a smack. Pieces fell like amputated body parts from the two cars. The rocking wheel-well liner marked time like a metronome for the chrome bumper. Shimmering with the rainbow of the flashing signal lights, it skipped across the pavement like a stone off of water. The low speed impact left both drivers unharmed. Their vehicles clattered and steamed off the main road coming to rest on the side street.

Information was exchanged. Denials of fault were, hopefully, tendered. Each sought the sanctuary of spotlessness. They took my name as witness. Looming like a backdrop in a 50s, B movie, the silver diner flashed its neon 'WELCOME' sign. Like a sign of welcome at the gates of Hell, I find no solace here. I surrender all thoughts of control I once held about how this night would unfold. I wasn't going anywhere soon. In fact, I wasn't going anywhere for quite some time.

From across the street, I hear the dull "thunk" of bone covered flesh smashing fleshy gut. Shouting. Scuffling. Two shadow-men circle each other. Watching. Gauging. Punching. Kicking. I call the criss-crossed street sign of Market and Trinity streets into the holy service of protection. More shadow people surround them trying to break up the fight. Voices yelling, "Just take a walk, guys. Take a walk. The cops are coming." Like two animals posturing, neither wants to be the first to signal weakness. Finally one turns, sets a metal cigarette sign swinging with a ringing blow of his fist and is surrounded by his homies. The other lets fly a primitive shriek on the sky, "A-R-G-H-H!!!!" Frustration hangs on his shoulders as he walks down the street.

Her Botticelli body moving with amazing speed, a young woman chases him down. "Call me c**t!," she dares him. "Call me a c**t again! CALL ME A C**T," she screams. He wants to. Oh, he wants to real bad. Nose to nose, they stand. Her hand raised. His body rippling with the energy of restraint. If he lets one syllable of that cacophonous word loose, she'll rip into him with carnivorous delight and devour his slight frame. The red and blue flashing lights of the PD cruisers bring an end to the stand off. She vanishes like a magician.

Screaming like a wild animal, his battered body lumbers through the intersection. Unsteady hands fumble. Metallic clanging resonates upon the ground. The glint of oncoming headlights spark the foil on the asphalt like a star in the night. A knife? A piece of metal off one of the cars? Finding it first with his boot, he picks it up and hobbles down the sidewalk screaming "F**K" to the night.

Cruiser after cruiser roll by. Some stop for the accident. Some stop for the fight. Some light up and roll, with their siren's screeching, in hot pursuit. Ambulances arrive to carry any torn, shaken or injured bodies. EMTs offer assistance. In disbelief, from the cold, stone walkway under the nearly full, winter white moon, I watch this apocalyptic scene erupt. At any minute, I expect fires to flare and tidal waves to crash on this beach of destruction consuming the insanity. In contrast to the ugliness of the night, a cute, female, fair-haired officer, ponytail swaying, warns us to go inside and lock the doors. The hunt is on for a bad guy. Someone was knifed during the fight.

The next morning this vortex of energy is still wide open. As I approach that same corner, something seems odd. Shielding the sunlight from blinding my view, I can see a ball cap. A ball cap and a shoe lie in the middle of the road. An old man, pulled off to the side of the road, leans against the open door of his white, 1992 Chevrolet. Gray hair standing in the breeze, lined faced even more furrowed with bewilderment, he stares down the road. The scene is set. He's hit someone. But there is no body. No body at all. Vanished. Usually it is the hitter that runs not the victim. I wonder how much longer this area will be under attack as the search helicopters thump-a-thump-a through the air. Weird. Freaky weird.

Later, I learn from the pony tailed officer that the stabbing victim was the guy who had the knife. Some how he had stabbed himself becoming both the villain and the victim. And the missing body, well, he'd been running from the police who were searching his car for meth when he got hit. He kept running until they finally found him down by the river. Whether this flux comes from the "direct" energy of the planet Uranus or the full moon, I don't care. Enough is enough. I pray at the cross of Market and Trinity, "please close these portals quickly because the chaos that is reigning supreme is too strong for mere mortals. Way too strong. "

Happy Birthday, Friend!

2009-12-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

My, my, my...life comes with a synchronicity that knows no bounds. The topic of this week's Theme Thursday is "FRIEND." As today is one of my best friend's birthday, I'm sure the theme selection was made in her honor. She is one of the people in the above photo. Like Waldo, she likes you to try to find her. Go on...the lucky winner gets a prize. Y'all like Limburger cheese, don't cha?

I guess I should start out by telling you how old she is...well, maybe not. Let's just say she's older than her daughter and younger than Mick Jagger. She is a self confessed "word nerd." She'll spank your apple bottom to a rosy red at Scrabble and challenge you to a race through the telephone book to look up a number. Man, woman or child, you better know your alphabet, because this is one win you'll have to earn.

She's been spotted drinking a bottle, or three, of Coppola wine and then hitting the gift boutiques on grape-buzzed shopping sprees. Okay, it was me that spotted her, but someone had to help her with all that wine. And friends don't let friends shop alone.

She once went here and dropped her cell phone from the third story balcony of the hotel. It is unclear if wine was involved in the brutal slaying of cellular technology. In true Tiger Woods fashion, she denied 'rumors' but explained little. Well, until she had to, of course.

She recently became a MIL. Yes, I meant MIL, as in mother-in-law, and not MILF even though some may see her as such. If you don't know what MILF is, watch the movie American Pie 'cause I'm not gonna explain it here. This is a picture of her grandpuppers, Love and California.

She's had many, many songs written about her by the man who "rocks" her world. Not to mention the unforgettable, although I'm sure she's tried, Oh, God, How I Love My Cabernet written by yours truly. I tried to find a copy of it but couldn't. I'll keep looking because I'm sure she'd love to see it here. Wouldn't you?

She loves books, chocolate, Cabernet and her "kid."

Although she's a good wife, she kinda has a "thing" for Cal Ripken, Jr. and Bruce Springsteen. She acts younger than she does old and she's old enough to have fun. She's a member in good standing of the Birthday Club, a group of us dedicated to getting together to celebrate each members special day.

Happy Birthday, dear friend.
And call the fire marshall...there's about to be one towering inferno of a cake!

*Members of the Birthday Club, their family members (living or deceased), pets and Smart cars are ineligible for the Where's Friend Contest.

I'm a Soul, Man!

2009-12-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

Photo: God's Eye

By: Jim Tomsich (my brother-in-law)

This is the time of year when I start to look closely and introspectively at who and what comes into my life. Who is on the phone when it rings? Who do I encounter? Who contacts me through the various forms of communication? The last few weeks, I've observed that the people coming into my life are a part of my Soul Group.

From the very beginning, the universe developed with a variety of speeds and stages. At points during this evolution, different Star or Soul groups formed. As they grew into advanced civilizations and societies, their physical and spiritual sides came into balance. Guided by the Divine (I like to believe) or as a natural part of evolution, they brought a specific purpose to the universe.

Our Soul Group is comprised of beings who started out with us at the beginning of our creation. They are from the same star, universe or loca where our incarnations began. People from the same Soul Group have the same life, or rather, lifetimes purpose. Different groups have different missions. Some are concerned with art and creativity generation after generation. Some are concerned with peace or healing or teaching. Some have spiritual messages to bring out on Earth.

I've been recognizing members of my Soul Group for a while now. We have common goals and like mindedness. There is an ease of communication even though we are newly acquainted. But the last few weeks, those I've recognized are starting to recognize me. Now, it's not like they say, "Hey, Ronda! I'm from your Soul Group." It's more like, when I recognize them, I know it and send out an unspoken signal asking for a response. I usually think, " Gee, it's so good to see you again. I've missed you. When you remember who I am, give me a jingle." I hadn't gotten much response. But all of a sudden, bam! From across the country and across the globe, they have been contacting me.

I am as excited as an electron meeting a proton. I have received several phone calls, e-mails, and even some CDs from members of my group. I'm not sure what we all have in common yet except that we are highly creative, possess largess of vision, love of humanity, universal (and I mean that as in the Milky Way and beyond) philosophy and humor. In time, our mission will become clear. Until then, it is enough for me that we recognize each other.

So the next time someone you can't place looks familiar to you, there may be a reason other than forgetfulness. Stop for a moment. Think. Send out a vibe that says you recognize them as being a part of your Soul Group. Wait for a response. Although it can sometimes take a while, when the person responds with an answer that confirms your thought, it will be well worth the wait. Have you heard from anyone lately that makes you stop and think about your connection to each other?

Black Friday at Wal-Mart

2009-11-26T00:00:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving to Y'all! I'm busy with family, festivities, food, fun, and flippin'-thing-to-do-after-flippin'-thing-to-do. I'm sure you are as well. So, today at the Wonderland, we are servin' up a healthy portion of laughs smothered with a frothy topping of whipped, light heartedness. For today only, this is a "No intellectualizing" space.

I am hosting a Guest Post written by my sister, BichyMama. This is an exclusive, Wonderland premier of BichyMama's work. As far as I know, she's never posted, publicly, any of her thoughts and unique perspectives of life. Heck, I can barely get her to answer my e-mails.

If you think she's going to come across anything like me, you are wrong, horribly wrong, and totally and completely devoid of any concept of my baby sis. Today I am thankful, not only for my family, friends and all of you but, for my sister. She is the peanut butter in my chocolate, the dark in my light, the Yin in my Yang. Enjoy!

The following is BichyMama's response to my e-mail asking if she has to work on Thanksgiving:

BLACK FRIDAY AT WAL-MART

I do have Thanksgiving off. Although, I have to work the next day, Black Friday, from 3:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. It's kind of scary if you think of all those loony shoppers that make this day a free-for-all, family outing.

***************************

I can see it now. Mother and daughter, alike, with the same generation-after-generation body type and weight problems. Big (HUGE), SAGGY, NO-BRA-BEARING-BOOBS--flopping and slamming--to and fro--like four, over filled water balloons (but without any elasticity at all) under their new, over sized, Christmas T-Shirts that they got each other for Thanksgiving.

Mom and daughter both know they will keep warm while waiting out in the cold for the store to open. Their two-or-more-sizes-too-small sweat pants will be hugging them both very tightly in all the right places. Just like a bug in a rug! What they don’t realize is their warm, hugging sweat pants will be showing off all of their beautiful Butt-Dimples, Camel-Toes and a crotch that looks like a Woolly Mammoth-Pu**y Monster.

Mom and daughter's shoes are either bootie-type slippers or open-sandal-type-Birkenstock's. They wear the kind of shoes that are easily slipped on, with no bending over, because they get too dizzy while trying to tie their shoe laces. This must be due to Gut-Roll Constriction, GRC--otherwise known as LOO, Lack of Oxygen.

Oh, it's a sight! Watching mother and daughter running...well, fast walking...well, it's more like an animated, slow motion walk...with arms pumping up and down and back and forth. Their mouths are open and gasping for air. Their faces are a bright, cherry red. Their chests heave in and out like marathon runner's after a long distance race.

As they swish by, I hear mom complain to her daughter (still breathing hard and gasping between words), "That BITCH! I can't believe that old bitch beat me to the last electric scooter."

"But mom, cries the daughter, grandma is 90 years old and only has one leg!"

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks! That odor! That odor which took my breath away, made me cough and caused a couple of dry heaves. What was it?

Oh s**t! It's a combination of Woolly Mammoth-Pu**y Monster, smelly, sandal feet, sweaty B.O. and, y-u-c-k, BED HEAD!! Plus a few other smells I don’t even care to figure out.

*****************************

In the beginning, I thought it would be scary working Black Friday, but now, I am really EXCITED and can't wait! So here I am Wishing all of you…

"Happy Thanksgiving
Welcome To Wal-Mart
And Have A GOOD Day"

Disclaimer: Similarities put forth in this article to any animal, vegetable, mineral or entity on this planet or any other, in this or any other galaxy, or in any universe, known or unknown, is simply a mathematical statistic.--Blog Administrator

Quickie

2009-11-24T00:00:00.000-08:00

Gravel crunching under the tires of his '67 Buick Skylark GS, the Wonder Husband rolls up the driveway. With the sapphire metal flakes of the paint sparking in the low angled sun, he silences the rumble of his powerfully muscled motor. This is not his normal routine. He usually gets home from work two hours late instead of early.

His face is set with a sly grin. A come hither statement shines from his eyes. Taking my hand, he pulls me to him. A quick kiss. A whispered sentiment laid softly in my ear.

"We just have time for a quickie."

"Are you sure?"

"YES! Let's go."

Hand-in-hand, we gently let the door close behind us...

He heads for the tool shed and I head for the green waste container. He, swift and strong, goes ahead and lops the tree branches. I follow behind as clean up crew.

"Husband, do you know what today is?"

"The day after my brother's birthday?"

"Uh, no. This is two days after your brother's birthday. And you'd better call him tonight since you obviously haven't! No, it was one year ago today you were in the hospital having your heart attack. This is your one year anniversary and look how far you've come!"

I look away as a painful shudder passes over him and a remembrance, dark and deep, clouds his eyes.

"Oh. This is a much better place to be," he says quietly with a far away voice.

In no time at all, just as darkness threatened an end to our assault, we had our dropped tree limbs stuffed into two containers and wheeled out to the street for pick up. The Wonder Husband was right. We did just have time for a quickie. Now it's time to go inside for a warm and proper anniversary celebration.

It's Not Too Late

2009-11-19T00:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes people make incredible gestures that showcase goodness, humanity and creativity. I just love being a part of serendipitous surprises, as either a giver or receiver. This time, it was my pleasure to receive.

I spied the small, brown mailer packet lying yonder on the coffee table the minute I walked in the back door. With a sense as keen as any critter noting a new object in her territory, I stalked the target. Getting closer, in bold black letters, I read my name. Yippee! It's for me!

The Wonder Husband has an EBay biz, so it seems the booty is always for him. "Take that Wonder Husband!," thinks I. I can see by the way Wonder Husband set it clearly in full view of our thrones that he's curious...and a little yellow too. His is careful about not bringing my attention to the package. He cagily pretends to watch TV while glancing, with his primal, side-eyes, for my reaction. I give him nothin'. He must wait...even if it means I have to squelch my excitement for a bit.

"That's it girl, just keep the conversation casual, keep talking about stuff that makes men's eyes dull and their ears shrivel," whispers my inner siren. I relate my day, my feelings, up coming holiday plans, his honey-do list. Just to add to my amusement, I toss in an imaginary hot flash. With deadly precision, the instant I catch him doing the nod-off-head-bob and picking up the invisible Wife Remote Control, his finger poised on the volume-mute button, I have my way with him.

Swiftly and deftly, I slit the flap of the envelope and tip out its contents. Eureka! There's gold in that there brown mailer. Pirate's gold. A couple of CDs in crystal, plastic cases. Their white play lists are stamped with the logo of that infamous, black pirate, Hammer. From between the CDs, slips this folded letter:

Hello!

First off, please read the final Throwing Hammers blog post if you haven't already. What this is and why you're receiving it will make a hell of a lot more sense that way.

Dang! Final post? I loved that blog. Totally original and thought provoking on every level. Although his blog has run for five years, I only found him 6 months ago. In his last post, among other things, he poses the question, "What does your blog sound like?"

These CDs are filled with songs that "were quoted, referenced, or embedded in this blog at some point." Feel free to pass the music forward if you like - as I said, there are no strings or expectations here. And if you do, and if someone asks you about where it came from, just tell them, "There was this guy who used to write this blog. It didn't always make sense but he seemed to have fun with it. One day he left, but on his way out the door, he made us a mixtape."

Thank you for not just accompanying me on the journey, but helping to shape it and give it direction. I won't say goodbye though. If you're reading this, then I'm pretty sure our paths will cross in the future.

And as I type this, I'm listening to his mix CDs and thinking, "Yep, that sounds like Hammer alright." And across time and space these words float in from the Hammerverse, "If you ask me, there aren't enough pleasant surprises in this world..."

It's not too late! It's not too late to dream up a way to brighten someones day. All it takes is a thought...a smile...an unexpected little somethin'...a song. No, it's not too late at all.

Lady of the Night

2009-11-17T00:00:00.000-08:00

I'm somewhat of a Lady of the Night. A true professional, but not THAT kind. As a massage therapist, I work a lot of late evenings because clients need to get in after their work day...which extends mine. I don't really mind. I made my choice. Work by "The Man's" hours and rules or work by mine. Being a "woman," I chose mine.

So, it's about 9 p.m. as I pull into the driveway. Dragging my duffel bag full of soiled linen to the washer, like a dead body, I stop a moment on the pathway and look up to the frosty, November sky. Crikey! It's getting cold in the evenings now! The sky always looks different to me in the colder part of the year than the warmer. Don't know why, to me, it just does. Clearer, maybe. Sharper.

Heck, right then and there, I plop my tired glutes down to sit on that soft, body of sheets. Shiver-upon-shiver ripple across my human landscape, but still, I sit, mesmerized by the belt of Orion. The damp coolness of the earth rising up around me. Knees bent. Elbows on knees. Arms crossed and folded across each other. Neck extended back. Eyes pointing to the black sky, sparkly stars pointing back to mine, I contemplate.

And it hits me. We are all occupying the surface of this massive rock that is traveling at enormous speeds through space. There are billions of other rocks, smaller and bigger, flying around just like we are. Just waiting to hit us. Or we hit them. Or whatever! Something WILL hit something...eventually! We ride around on the outside of our planet waiting, like a jouster about to be knocked off his horse by his opponent, for our turn. One big smack and we're all goners. Maybe it would be safer if we could somehow ride inside the Earth for some protection. But, NO! The Earth's core is a huge fire ball of raging, molten Hell.

Earthlings are carried around the sun, another massive fire ball, at nearly 67,000 mph. 670,000 miles per hour! At the same time, the Earth is spinning nearly 1000 mph at the equator. So fast it causes our planet to bulge. Our entire solar system, including Pluto which is no longer considered a planet like it was when I was in school, is buzzing around the center of our galaxy, the Milky Way, at nearly 560,000 mph. Our galaxy is moving in respect to other galaxies. And maybe, just maybe, the entire universe is moving too.

Did you know that, #3 on Top Ten Ways to Destroy the Earth is: The Earth is pulverized by impact with blunt instrument. Feasibility rating: 7/10.

Or, something hits us and Earth is Hurled into the Sun, the #1 way for Earth to be destroyed. Feasibility rating: 9/10.

And, maybe even scarier, there are folks who spend time making these feasibility ratings.

I think I've just discovered the source of my, albeit occasional, free-floating, can't-put-my-finger-on-it anxiety.

Maybe we spend too much time worrying about all the wrong stuff. Spend too much time in self-analysis, self-absorption and introspection. Too much time debasing ourselves and others for our lacks and losses. Too much time thinking we can't have this or do that. Maybe just staying on the ride without getting bucked off is good enough. Yep, probably plenty good enough for me. I wonder what the feasibility rating is that I won't have to have to fold all this laundry?

Phone Home, Clark Kent

2009-11-12T00:00:00.000-08:00

www.supermanhomepage.com

Superman, aka Kal-El, from the planet Krypton, was jettisoned to Earth by his father, Jor-El, just moments before its destruction. He was found by a childless, Kansas couple who adopted and raised him under the name of Clark Kent. They passed on to Clark the moral values of human kind. His superhuman abilities began to show at an early age. When he matured, he took on the role of protector of humanity.

A mild-mannered reporter for the Daily Planet and on again-off again, love interest of co-worker, Lois Lane, Kent became supportive of the underdog. Stepping into telephone booths to change from his work suit into his primary colored, super crime fighting costume, he protected the weak and the righteous. And, although, he could blurringly spin villainous predators into silly putty, being an alien endowed with the magnificent power of finality and all, he chose to uphold human moral and social codes.

And the day became as if it were night. A chill noir fell over the western world and spread, like fog, from California to Miami. Hades, Lord of the Underworld, lurked under the crusty skirt of Mother Earth. He sucked, like a gopher in a garden filled with tasty, tender greens, telephone booths from her surface. A grim realization settled in among mortal top dwellers. Super Power, absolute, was scurrilously being stolen by inhabitants of lower realms, the Netherworld.

www.supermanhomepage.com/other/other.php?topic=phonebooth

The last of the telephone booths rapidly disappeared from existence. The codexes of information they once held, known as telephone books, became even rarer. Superman was rendered impotent by the demise of his Bell tower of power. He was no longer able to shed his wool, wide-lapeled, Zoot suit jacket in favor of his flying cape, magic Speedo and jumping tights. His dabber downed, he joined the ranks of mortals.

In this world, man, forever changed, must now take responsibility for his own future. No more relying on immortal, super beings to right grievous wrongs. The great shift came, one subterranean-sucked telephone booth at a time. One mortal at a time, the era of the Power of Man began.

http://www.basketballwallpapers.com/ (from Photobucket.com)

Positive Infinity

2009-11-10T00:00:00.000-08:00

My dad (L) with his best friend Al (R) holding me~1953

Photographs...hung in the ethers.

Me~1955

Some are happy.

Some are sad.

Some are in between.

I see that, even at a young age, my attitude showed. "What obstacle?"~ Ronda and Mark~1957

Stepping stones

Yep, I pretty much act the same way today. Me~1957

along the timeline

Me and my sistah, Tami-1967 (she doesn't think we look like each other, what do you think?)

of life

Sophomore, fall of 1968 proudly wearing the dress I made that summer. Sheesh! Need to wax those brows, girlie (we tweezed in those days).

leading from one to the

Senior, 1971. Hmmm, eyebrows are a little better but it was about this time that shaving or tweezing legs, axillary (arm pits) or anything went out of fashion. That fad didn't last long for me.

next.

Once Upon a Time, There was Castle-mania

2009-11-05T00:00:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up, I loved being read to and loved reading. I loved stories about castles and the princesses who lived in them. I would get lost in stories for days and could easily forget my current incarnation as Ronda. When I read fairy tales like Rumpelstiltskin, The Princess and the Pea, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty, I WAS A PRINCESS AND I LIVED IN A CASTLE . I knew those stories by heart. I built castles out of sand and boxes and sheet covered chairs. As I fell asleep, my bed became my castle, the floor a moat.

Me and Mrs. Jones

I have had many careers in my life, but that was the first thing I ever remember truly wanting for my future. I longed to be a princess. To live a romantic life in a castle in which my every whim and desire was provided and attended to by everyone in residence. But, alas, being a daughter of hard working, responsible, practical, lower middle class, suburban parents, my royal reign never materialized. Instead, I was taught to be a hard working, self-sufficient, responsible individual. I found myself a hard working, self-sufficient, responsible husband. And although he can fix a mean toilet and put new windows and roof on our house, he doesn't have a gallant, white steed or a castle and he doesn't treat me like a princess. But now that I think about it, once upon a time, he did have a Mustang...a 1965, to be exact. Does that count? Anyhoo...

No one in my life ever gave me royal treatment except this man, "M."

Queen of Hearts

He was one of my best friends from high school and beyond. His step father was a well-to-do doctor and his mother was a connoisseur of haute couture. He was artistic, handsome and gay. Not something you wanted to be in Red Neck Country in the late 60s and early 70s. After a suicide attempt, and a court mandated stint in mental health, he got his stuff together and attended cosmetology school.

Partridge in a Pear Tree

For a few years after he got his license, he participated in hair show competitions. His specialty? The Fantasy Division. He picked me to be his model. Don't really know why. I'm not anywhere near the model type. I'm short, don't yearn for the spotlight and would be described as closer to cute than beautiful.

But he made me feel beautiful and spoiled me with a privileged existence. He took days and weeks trying my hair in different colors (pink, green, red, silver) and styles, had my gowns custom designed and sewn, spent hours picking exactly the right shade of lipstick and nail polish, arched my eyebrows, painted my nails and taught me how to walk a run way and behave with proper castle etiquette. In return, being the hard working, reliable one, I showed up to ALL of his numerous rehearsals, fitting appointments, make up appointments and the big events.

The Ice Princess
Yep, I'm wearing a candelabra on my head. It is large, silver, and wrought iron complete with crystals and lit candles.

The hair shows were nothing short of torture in many cases. Fun torture, but torture none the less. Those head pieces weighed a ton and I won't even tell you about how they were stapled to my head. Try wearing one all the while smiling and walking regally like a princess. But he won many trophies, gained notoriety, moved to San Francisco, about three hours to the south, and styled the hair of 70s celebs like The Pointer Sisters. He met his future husband, "B". Later they adopted two children, a boy with Autism and a daughter from an abusive situation. The kids are grown now and he no longer lives in Frisco but, he and "B" are still together and in love. "M" did get his fairy tale ending.

As for me? Thanks, "M," for letting me live "La Vita Princess." But being a princess can be hard work and I believe I'm happier with "La Vita Plain and Simple." Ta ta, royal subjects, ta ta!

By the Garden Gate

2009-11-03T00:00:00.000-08:00

By the Garden Gate by Preston "Bud" Morris
Ronda and Mark

Reya, from After the Gold Puppy, was on a walk down Nostalgia Avenue a week or so ago. She invited us to post old photos of our own journey down that street. The blast of emotion that hit me upon opening the first of my many, many boxes of photos (no, they are not organized as I would like) smacked my gluteus maximus down hard into the seat of The Way Back Machine. It spun me into the past like a Whirling Dervish. For the next few posts I'll display photos and memories of my origins.

My father was a photographer. Out of the earliest files in my brain, flew images of him and his camera. Inseparable. The cameras changed over the years but he always seemed to stay the same. Calm. Quiet. Tall. Dark. Creative. Strong. Consistent. Reliable. A teacher. Yep, great qualities for a dad. Any dad. My dad.

In addition to his private photography business, he worked as a photo finisher in the days before 1-hour photo kiosks and digital photography. Sometimes he would take my brother and I to work with him. We always were excited and thought he was giving us a special day. But, in retrospect, my mom probably had to do something and he got stuck with us. Early in the morning, we would go to the retail store where he worked and pick up bags of film people had dropped off. Then we went around to other businesses around town that had film drop-offs. He always took us inside with him and proudly introduced us as he picked up unprocessed film and deposited the previous days finished photos.

With a box full of canvas, zippered bags and us in tow, he would take us to a little hamburger stand for lunch. Then we headed several miles out of town to the lab where he would develop all of those pictures. As we watched, he would open those zippered bags, dump out the little, metal, cylindrical tins with rubber caps holding spools of film. Into the dark room, with its special light that wouldn't ruin the film, we would go. He would open the tins, look at the negatives that looked like they were from a Reverse Bizarro World where light is dark and dark is light, and begin his magic alchemy.

I don't really remember what he did with the negatives, but some how he embedded the images from the negative film onto paper. Then with his magic trays of clear potion, he moved the pieces of paper from tray to tray with tongs. In the last tray, the paper started changing from plain white to, at first, faint, ghostly underwater images to, at last, exact replicas of living people and solid matter. Taking the photos out of the solution, he hung them by clips, on a long wire stretched across the room, to dry. The chemical smell of photo developer still makes me happy and is forever linked with my father.

Unbeknownst to us, he, apparently, had been submitting pictures to different contests and magazines over the years. While he was alive, the only affirmation of his work came from his family and local clients. He died in 1977 of a massive coronary. About 20 plus years after his death, my mother received a royalty check from the American Greeting Card Company for $125 for the top photo. It is called By the Garden Gate and is of me and my brother, Mark, at my Aunt Dot's house in Stockton, California.

We tried to find out what they were going to use his picture for, but never received a reply to our query. But, within a year after the check was received, all those mugs, cards and items featuring a little girl and a little boy, dressed in cute clothes, started appearing for sale. We'll never know for sure but, we think it was dad's photograph they used for their promotion.

I got a visit from dad on All Hallows. It was a very soft and gentle meeting. He just sat on the edge of my bed and looked at me for a while. Then he held out his hand and my mother joined him. They haven't been together for over 30 years. No words were spoken but, I could feel their love, strong and truer than ever. Just because people are gone doesn't mean they're not with us. Immortality is often far different than we think.

Preston "Bud" Morris, high school graduation picture, age 18

Yppah Neewollah!

2009-10-29T00:00:00.000-07:00

Me and my brother, Mark, approximately 1958 or 1959

This coming Saturday is Halloween. Hallows, Hallowmas, Samhain or All Hallows Eve is the final jewel in the crown of the year. At this time, the power of the year is represented by the crone. Wise and strong, she is symbolic of honoring the aging process and individual work. With the death of the year, comes rebirth and renewal at Yule. This is a wonderful time to affirm what you want in your life for the coming year.

Vail, Colorado

The veils between worlds is thinnest on this night. The air is alive with the possibility of connecting with people, loved ones and pets that have passed on to the afterlife. In ancient texts, it is written that those who have been deceased for at least a year and one day may come back to visit. I always try to communicate with the dead on this night. So far, I don't recollect any visitations. I usually fall asleep and have a vague sense that there is something I should remember. Maybe, just maybe, this time I will retain the memory of who comes to call. I really, really want to know that we connected.

And now a story for the season. My sister's mother-in-law, R, shared this ghost story with me after she read my post, Ghostown.

"By the way, not too long after my sister, "M", passed away, before we moved up here, my daughter "T" had a visit from her one night. "T" told me the next morning that "M" was just standing in the doorway looking at her and smiling. "T" said she was not scared and pretty soon "M" faded away. "T" went back to sleep. I told "T" that her Aunt "M" probably just wanted to say goodbye to her one last time. "M" and "T" always had a close relationship while she was alive. I had a chance to say goodbye to "M" while she was at UCLA Medical Hospital but "T" wasn't with me."

Thanks for sharing this story with me, R. How about any one else? Have you, or someone you know, had an experience that falls outside the range of "normal"?

Vail, Colorado

Archangel Michael Swords of Light

2009-10-27T00:00:00.000-07:00

While in Vail, Colorado, we did lots of energy and healing work. In some of the work, we used Archangel Michael Swords of Light. The swords are composed of selenite. It is also called satin spar. Many people know it more commonly as alabaster. They are custom made. A picture of Archangel Michael along with a statement from him, affirming the importance of spiritual work, channeled through Edward Cayce, is embedded within the handle of each wand. They also contain mementos and energy from three different gurus. The swords are alive with vortexes of energy. The vortexes, similar to chakras, emanate energy and colorful light. They are Divine instruments for healers and beings wishing to work with Light for their own benefit.

Selenite is composed of calcium sulfate. Its crystal structure is tabular and it has striations running lengthwise. Originally, selenite crystals formed in clay beds or near hot springs. The selenite, of which these custom wands are created, comes from South Africa.

The swords quickly activate and open the third-eye, crown, and 8th through 14th chakras. The intensity of the energy, as it runs through the selenite, is stronger than almost any other crystal for working with the upper chakras. It can balance and automatically adjust the speed and rotation of the chakras. It is one of the keys to unlocking the etheric chakras and can clear blockages in the energy field. It is ideal for healers because it is perfect for energetic clearing and purification. The Swords of Light can direct high frequency energy into the body to promote physical, emotional and spiritual healing. It is said that when selenite opens the third eye, or inner eye, the spiritual world enters. When other stones and crystals are place on the wand, their strength is greatly magnified.

Having a healing session with one of these instruments is totally mind blowing. I held it over my heart center with both hands wrapped around the hilt. Four other healers stood around me as I lay on a massage table and directed the Creator's source energy through the sword and into my physical and energetic bodies. What I felt is hard to describe. Buzzing. Tingling. Travel back into the time of primordial creation. Timelessness. Peace. Swimming in the Milky Way and beyond. Buzz Lightyear's got nothin' on me. Neither does Major Tom. Back in the day, you would think I was smokin' wacky tabaccy or drinkin' Electric Kool-Aid. But, now days, just give me some selenite, crystals and a couple of powerful energy workers and I'm off. And...I really didn't want to come back. Truly, Planet Earth is a great place to explore but I'm finding there are many, many other places that are also fun to visit.

I don't own one of these fine tools, yet, as they start around $300 and go way up from there. Many of the healers that attended the conference bought them while there. Many others brought their swords with them for the express purpose of doing this work. There were Archangel Michael Swords of Light Healing Sessions going on all over the place for days. In fact, I was surprised that they are so easy to get through airport security. But they are sold with cardboard containers that have capped ends, similar to what you would carry a fishing pole in, except they are shorter. Still...I can only imagine what the airline workers think when the send them through the x-ray machines.

"Be still, my children! Bow thine heads, that the Lord of the Way make
known unto you that have been chosen for service in this period when there is
the need of that spirit being made manifest in the Earth, that the way may be
known to those that seek the Light! For the glory of the Father will be made
manifest through you that are faithful unto the calling where-in thou hast
been called. Ye that have named the name make known in thy daily walks
of life, in the little acts of the lessons that have been building in thine own
experience, through those associations of self in meditation and prayer, that
this way may be known among men: for He calls all--whosoever will may
come--and He stands at the door of thine own conscience, that ye may be
aware the scepter has not departed from Israel, nor have His ways been
in vain: for today, ye will harken, the way is open--I, Michael, call on
thee!"

Archangel Michael's statement channeled through Edgar Cayce on
September 4, 1932

Vail, Colorado: Portal to the Fifth Dimension

2009-10-22T00:00:00.000-07:00

We traveled to Vail, Colorado. The purpose? To spend a week tasting the living of life in the Fifth Dimension. Nearly 500 beings strong, we tugged off the veil of forgetfulness and wove ourselves into the warp and the woof of an energy grid several Masters spent nearly 30 years making.

The Fifth Dimension, like love, is a state of being. Once you try to describe it, you are lost in your mental body, your mind, and not your heart. The heart center, like Vail for that week, is also a portal to the Fifth Dimension. It is not a place you can get to with your physical body. You can travel in your Mercaba, a vehicle of light, if you have one. Or, you can simply slow your thoughts, open your heart, slip into its center and you are there.

Enter the Zero Point--the point of nothingness. In the Fifth Dimension, there is very little need for verbal communication--communication is telepathic. There is no complaining or yearning. There is a lightness of being...an ease that makes our Third Dimensional existence feel heavy and cumbersome, like living life in a clumsy space suit. A realm of all things and no things. Everything and nothing. All potentiality and no potentiality. Pure space. Shiva.

As a massage therapist, I spend most of my work day in a very relaxed, altered state. But, boy howdy, spending a week in such grace is splendidly blissful. The trick is to make it last. To not let the heaviness of this dimension weigh us down. We are truly multi-dimensional beings. There are so many dimensions beyond the Fifth to visit that the very thought makes my eyes bug and my neurons short circuit.

Well, enough blithering for one day. Time to enter my elevator and hit the "UP" button. Who knows what dimension I'll visit next?

Wonderland Wit

2009-10-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

This is my last post before I fly to Vail, Colorado on Saturday morning. I may try a little mobile blogging to see if I can figure it out. I still can not make comments on my blog, and a few others, from my mobile device. If anyone knows why, please let me know. I hope I will be able to post because it is beautiful in Vail.

Anyway, before I go, I'll give you peek at life in The Wonderland.

After sliding down the Rabbit Hole into the inner sanctum of Wonderland, I remark to the Wonder Husband, "Gosh, there's a little nip in the air tonight."

Wonder Husband: Why? Did you take your top off?

I wonder how funny Wonder Husband will look with his dinner rolling off his head?

I'm thinkin' VEWY, VEWY FUNNY!