Auld Lang WHAT? On Friendship

/0 Comments/by

4AUGNI6AUT

Auld Lang WHAT?

Zine? Sign? After a bit ‘o Googly magic I found that the song that has perplexed me for nigh on forty years is an ancient Scottish ditty and, roughly translated, the phrase “Auld Lang Syne” means “times gone by.”

Boy do I hear that.  Where has the time gone?  Monica and I have known each other for 31 years.  We met on a blustery day (I’m assuming it was blustery because Cheyenne always seemed blustery) in the 4th grade on a gravel-strewn school yard.  I was a gangly girl with a Dorothy Hamill haircut and dark green velour pants while Monica was tall (and made taller by her clogs), dainty and feminine at 10 years old sporting frilly dresses and lacy shirts.  Despite our different fashion senses (okay, actually I didn’t have a fashion sense) we became fast friends.  The Universe tore us asunder in the six grade as my mom packed up my Holly Hobbie room and Monica and I clung to each other sobbing and covered with collective snot before I too was pried away and loaded up in the U-Haul. Read more

Books & Baby Ducks: Patrick Rothfuss, “The Ultimate World Builder”

/0 Comments/by

9C15012B5B

Books and baby ducks, yep, yep.  I discovered this chock-full-of-amazing combination last year while “virtually” stalking one of my favorite writer’s blog.  (Okay, “stalking” is a strong word, I just happen to visit his blog once or twice a day to ensure that I don’t miss one single word that might have fallen from his mind to his keyboard in the six or so hours since I last visited his blog, that’s all.)  When I came upon this delightful combination I felt as if I were the first person to drop a chocolate chip cookie into a glass of ice-cold milk; I had to share it with the world.  The veritable made-of-awesome-builder-of-amazing-fiction-worlds Patrick Rothfuss himself, was running his annual Worldbuilders fundraiser through Heifer International and my toes curled with joy: Books and Baby Ducks. Read more

Amazon.com Promotes Guide To Pedophilia… Say What?

/0 Comments/by

205H

I’m scared shitless.  I’m about to go First Amendment on you.

For years I’ve been writing about ice cream trucks, trips to the salon to regain my Mojo, and my super-pup So-kr8z, but I’ve never tackled something controversial or political. Even writing about the intimate details of my endometriosis just feels personal and safe to me. My dabbles into “politics” consist of refraining from using the “F-bomb” during conference calls and voting from home in my electric blue, polar bear jammies in September. Suffice it to say the level of my discomfort in writing this post is palpable, but screw it, here goes.

Last night, as I lay in bed in the aforementioned pajamas, chawing on snacks, listening to the CMA awards (and remembering, when a song came on about cancer, why I don’t listen to country music anymore), I wiped the tears off my iPad in order to peruse Twitter and found the most appalling thing I had ever seen. Read more

Hair… Not the Musical

/0 Comments/by

121H

I wore my hair down the other day; it had been about 8 months since I’d done so.  My classmates at CSU said things like, “Whoa, your hair is really pretty, I didn’t know it was so long.”  Or, “you should wear your hair down more often.”  These were awesome things to hear, and I might admit to having done a casual hair flip, but inside I was ready to claw my face off. The wind was blowing, as per usual, in the vortex of the quad and the pale pink Mac lip gloss I had applied earlier that day was acting as a magnet to my hair.  Every strand was stuck to my lips until I looked like a blond crazed version of Cousin Itt.  Loose flyaways reached up and tickled my face so that by the end of the day I ended up with a trail of fingernail ruts across my nose from the scratching.

Why do I have long hair then, you might ask?  Dorothy Hamill, trauma, and a 4th grade promise, that’s why. Read more

“Living” with Endometriosis – Part Deux

/2 Comments/by

photo-1434077471918-4ea96e6e45d5

A more fervent “What. The. F-ck?” has never been uttered.

I’ve long held the belief that our physical illnesses are correlated somehow with our mental processes. For years I’ve maintained that Louise L. Hay is right on the money and is a healer way ahead of her time. While I will admit that I do struggle with her affirmations at times, I do pull out her trusty book when I have an ailment and meditate on what might be going on within me. 99% of the time I can see it as clear as a crisp autumn day.

Yet despite my knowledge of my dis-ease, despite three surgeries, despite a post already written about “Living with Endometriosis” I’m back, yet again, wondering what lesson it is that I haven’t learned; what it is I haven’t grasped. Read more

Beauty 1001: Satin Finish or The Real Me?

/0 Comments/by

YN674EJH83

I’ve just scrubbed my face with a mini loofah and slathered copious layers of lotion on my skin.  I feel dried out, despite the forty ounces of cream I’ve applied at $100 a pop.  I mean dry; as in my skin feels like it’s been lying dormant in a crypt since the beginning of the pharaoh age.  I look in the mirror and I see bloodshot eyes with slate colored circles underneath, little webs of red lacy blood veins cover the apples of my cheeks, and tiny new wrinkles have been etched around my eyes with a mini chisel by efficient little Age Elves while I slept.

And of course, I need to leave the house, like ten minutes ago.  I need to take my pup for a walk.  “Toot Sweets”, as I affectionately call him, has been cooped up all day, and earlier, when I bent over to clean the bathroom floor, he actually tried to shove his squeaky toy… (never mind, different post.) The question is, do I really want to waste a half hour of my precious time putting on make-up for a 45 minute walk in a park where I will carry a lavender scented purple poop bag and likely see no one, unless I don’t wear makeup? Read more

Is Honesty the Best Policy in New Relationships?

/0 Comments/by

997RJR08WO

If you’ve ever been in a relationship that has ended you’ve probably heard the infamous words, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Most folks think this phrase is bullshit.  I wholeheartedly disagree. In fact, I would say that 95% of the time truer words have never been uttered.

Perhaps the reason most folks have such a hard time believing that it’s not about them is because they can’t imagine that there is anything in this world that is not about them. They think it must surely be that they suck, that they’re not lovable, that they’re not interesting, that they’re not attractive enough, that they’re not good enough, that they’re not… blah, blah, blah.  That’s all ego.

I am here to shed some light, speak my truth, and set the record straight.  When I say, “it’s not you, it’s me” I mean it from the depths of my ever-lasting soul. Read more

The Initiation of a Kennel Mom – Part Deux

/0 Comments/by

So-kr8z 0001

I wondered briefly, before settling in to write this, if folks are tired of hearing about my pup; bored with seeing pictures, of hearing tales about steer pizzle, or of listening to my worries and I decided that I really don’t care. For the past twenty some years I’ve been a cheerleader for all of my friend’s little human children, I’ve been a sounding board for their fears in regards to said children, my photo albums are filled with their pictures with missing front teeth, my fridge bears witness to their accomplishments with crayon. I’ve been happy to be there, thrilled to be witness, excited to watch these tiny folks grow and learn, but today is my day.

If you recall I wrote a piece a while back that dealt with the fears and needs of a newbie kennel mom. I am no longer a new parent. I’ve been around the block, (literally about four thousand times), and I’ve learned a thing or two. Read more

The Means to Flush

/0 Comments/by

green-flush

Who travels to Europe and spends as much time perusing the water closets as they do roaming through the Duomo of Milano? Well, I do. Perhaps it goes back to my nomadic youth traveling across the Western states. It wasn’t that I really couldn’t hold it for another half an hour before visiting the next toilet, and it certainly wasn’t a bladder control problem. Looking back I think it was my way of combating boredom. Breaking up the monotony of staring at the back of the same red leather seat in my folks’ Chrysler, of seeing herd after herd of antelope, of counting license plates from different states, and of fighting ferociously with my older, larger sister for my rightful half of the back seat. Bathrooms were the focal points of my journeys, especially on our twelve hour trips to Utah twice each year. My step-father boasted, often with disdain, that I knew every single bathroom on that twelve hour trek. It was true. There was a certain comfort, and a mile marker all my own, when we would arrive in Evanston, Wyoming and pull up to that dingy Shell station because I knew that inside of that greying building there was housed the only cushy, padded toilet seat of its kind. Or at least it had been my vast toilette knowledge to know. Read more

LeBron James: On Following Dreams

/0 Comments/by

PF48OHZFI4

I would not call myself a sports enthusiast. My limited participation involves cold Sunday afternoons when I turn on a football game so that I can take a nap. It’s a comfort thing. There’s usually roast beast simmering in a fruity Pinot Noir in the oven, flakes of snow tumbling down outside the window, and me curled up on the couch. I turn the volume down low and doze to the sounds of whistles and that same cadence of the commentator’s voice that I’ve been hearing for the past thirty-some years (with the exception of Howard Cosell, of course).

“The Decision”

However, Thursday night I consciously tuned into ESPN (with the volume up) to watch (and hear) LeBron James make “The Decision.” You see, I’m from Cleveland, which is a city that has been on more Forbes.com “Worst Cities” lists than you can fathom: America’s Fastest-Dying City, America’s Most Miserable City, America’s Worst Winter Weather City… While I may not watch LeBron break records or win games each time he plays, I do have a vested interest in what he means to our city. Well, apparently… what he meant to our city. Read more