Remarkable Women Bloggers

I have the great honor and pleasure of reading the blogs of women who really inspire me with their life experience, their courage and their strength. I just wanted to give a shout-out to these true heroines because, too often, they go unsung. Their blogs are witty, interesting, and/or inspiring, but sometimes it's easy to forget the challenges they face on a daily basis because, well, they don't always write about them. Please pay these bloggers a visit. You'll be glad you did! And now, here, in alphabetical order, are my favorite Remarkable Women Bloggers:

Flapdoodle ~ My friend Deni has survived and overcome some trials in her life that would defeat most of us. Besides nearly two decades of extreme ill health, she has had to cope with the sudden, unexpected loss of her daughter and grandchild. Her blog is relatively new, but her story is an ancient one from which other women can learn courage and iron-willed tenacity in the face of the worse experience with which a mother can be hit.

Kay's Thinking Cap ~ Reading Kay's ongoing account of how she became the woman and person that she is inspires me no end. Having suffered a stroke at the young age of 31, she not only survived but overcome it through humor and sheer determination. Whenever I begin to feel sorry for myself, I re-read her other blog, How I Got to Be Me.

Life in Shades of F-Major ~ Lynette isn't making this list because she's my partner, she's here because of her years of work with her daughter, Lauren. Lauren was born with cerebral palsy and her doctors told Lynette that she would grown up learning-disabled and probably in a wheelchair. Lynette's reaction was, "Not my daughter!" and she set to work, taking on Lauren's physical therapy and life-training. When other mothers would have given in, Lynette buckled down, dedicating her own strength and vision to her daughter while successfully raising two younger children.

Dear World ~ This blog is out of alphabetical order because it belongs to Lauren, our miracle child. Not only did Lauren learn to work with her CP, she surmounted it. Learning disabled? Hah! She's an honors student at OU, with aspirations to be an interpretter with the United Nations. She just spent a year in France as a foreign exchange student sponsored by Rotary. And as for the wheelchair prognosis, as a child she learned to a bike, swim like a fish, play softball and do everything other kids do. Hell, she types faster and more accurately with one hand than I do with two! She may begin as an interpretter, but I predict she'll be president one day. And when she is, both she and her mother will deserve a standing ovation.

Mrs. Hall ~ Mrs. Hall is remarkable because she cares for folks that other people usually choose to overlook. She is a psychiatric nurse practicioner who spends a good amount of time going into inner city neighborhoods to care for her patients while raising a family, maintaining a sense of humor and spirit of compassion. Kudos, Mrs. Hall! The world needs more women like you!

The Daily Bitch ~ First, let me clear up a confusing matter. The word "bitch" in this title refers to the blog, not the blogger, as in "The Daily News". Aka_Monty (her online name) is anything but a bitch regardless of how much attests to be. I've met her and she's sweet, shy and humble. As a single mom, she's raising 14 year-old twins, one of whom is serverely disabled. If I were a millionaire the first thing I would do, once the money hit my bank, is set Monty up with in-home professional care and a Caribbean cruise for herself and the celebrity hunk of her dreams!

Saturday Story Time: The Day I Met a Princess

It seems that the press has always found me. I don't know why, nor have I ever really sought that kind of attention (other kinds, yes, but not the journalistic kind). Apologies to my detractors, but any attention that I've gotten in the media has come out-of-the-blue with no machinations on my part.

Growing up in Solvang, California was a surreal experience. The people who lived there in the 50s and early 60s were first and second generation Danes who had moved from the Midwest. Some of them were from Denmark, too, so I grew up speaking and understanding a little Danish and really loving the food, as well as the oom-pa music, polkas especially. These things weren't that far removed from my own Austrian culture anyway, so none of it felt out of the ordinary at the time. But growing up surrounded by dirndls, knee breeches and wooden shoes --and not even noticing them-- seems to me, now, to be kind of cool and different.

There weren't very many people there in those days who weren't Danish. There were a few Dutch, some Chumash on the reservation who were my only real friends, one Jewish family, and a family in our church who was an interracial couple whose kids were treated detestably by the Danish-American kids. It was a small town and most of the citizens had at least a little Danish in them, and if you didn't, your life was a living hell at school. I have the emotional scars to prove it. Thankfully, the physical ones healed.

Because of this odd mix of Fairytale and Fight Club, I've never had a very good opinion of the Danes. I've considered them to be at least 50% of the reason why I grew up with the issues that I did, and although I softened up on that as I came to understand that racial prejudice for any reason is wrong, I've always harbored a tiny seed of dislike in my heart. That's not right, and since I seem to be entering into a new phase in my life when I'm trying to right my wrongs, mend my fences and offer olive branches, I'm making a formal apology to the Danish people, especially those who never left Denmark to live in a bizarre little Disney-like village in California. You never did anything to harm me and from what I can tell you're a warm, congenial people who I hope to meet in your beautiful country one day, and learn a culture of which I've only experienced a watered-down impersonation.

Looking back, I think that the people who were nicest to me in Solvang were those who were actually born in Denmark. It didn't matter to them that I had red hair instead of blond and green eyes instead of blue. They gave me free samples in their chocolate shops, they let me pet the bunnies, and even gave me a free duckling for Easter one year. They welcomed me and my duck, which I walked on a leash, into their shops and they told me the stories of Hans Christian Andersen. Happy, happy memories, those. But the nicest Dane I ever met was then Princess Margrethe II of Denmark.

In 1960, the town was in an uproar because she was going to be paying a call. I wasn't much interested in princesses (think of Idgy in Fried Green Tomatoes and you'll understand the kind of kid I was, except that I wasn't a "fight back" type), but it was a good enough reason to kick around town instead of going straight home after school, and it was a bit of excitement. A bunch of the kids joined the crowd, but I held back -- these kids were no friends of mine and I wasn't about to get in their way when they wanted to meet their princess.

Her final stop was Atterdag College, which had been turned into Solvang Lutheran Home for the elderly Danish emigrants, where she was to meet her expatriated subjects vis-à-vis. I hadn't seen much of her all afternoon because she was surrounded by what to me looked like a sea of human bodies. I was a kid, and a petite one at that, and all I really could see was a bunch of butts and elbows, both dangerous in their way when you're less than four feet tall.

As she greeted the elderly patients in the recreation room I grew tired and sat on a planter in the shade to rest before making the mile-long walk home. I don't know how long it was, but before long a pretty woman came and sat beside me and began asking me my name and age, if I was Danish, how long I'd lived there, etc. It didn't take me long to realize that this 20 year-old girl was the princess herself, having stolen a moment from her duties and the crowd. We spoke only a few minutes before the officials, the press, and fans found her, and she stood and held my hand in her gloved one and said goodbye with a beatific smile on her face, looking me square in the eye.

She was so, so nice -- the nicest Dane that I'd ever met. I still wasn't impressed that she was a princess; I had no way of knowing that she would be the Queen of Denmark in seven short years. In fact, I'd even forgotten about it, really, until I was an adult.

I've often thought of writing to her to thank her for her kindness that afternoon, for her place in my memory as one truly nice person who came into my life, albeit briefly, when other people were so abusive.

Thoughtful Links

From Going Like Sixty:
"The phones are recycled and the money is used to buy phone cards for troops. It’s a helluva a project started by a couple teenagers! The vast majority of phones in the United States are temporarily stashed in junk drawers and storage closets before ultimately being discarded – contributing a staggering 13,750 tons of unused cell phones to landfills every year. A mobile phone contains toxic heavy metals such as lead, mercury, cadmium, and beryllium, and hazardous chemicals, such as brominated flame retardants (BFR) which can cause birth defects. Not only will recycling help the environment, it will help the troops."

From Alan Little's Weblog:
"German-speakers plan their speeches more carefully than we do. Before you launch into one of those long sentences with the verb at the end you have to know where you’re going! This doesn’t mean you have to have every word planned out in detail before you launch into a German sentence, but you do have to be confident that you can somehow or other make your way back around to that trailing verb. Something like Sonata Form in music, where eventually, whatever you do in between, you have to make your way back to a recapitulation of the original theme. And Sonata Form is a quintessentially German art. Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven. So: Sonata Form mirrors the grammatical structure of a German sentence? Why not? People talk about Janacek’s music as mirroring the spoken rhythms of the Czech language.”

From Authorblog:
"An Austrian man ended up in hospital after he faked an armed robbery because he was too scared to tell his wife he had lost thousands of dollars in a casino. The man, 26, broke his nose, jaw and arm as he beat himself with an iron bar to make the fake robbery seem authentic. But he eventually confessed in hospital."

Getting Up Close

A couple of years ago I did this and people seemed to enjoy it. Below are six photographs that were taken with an electron microscope. They are all rather ordinary things and none are bacteria, microbes, etc., although two are part of something living. Click to embiggify.

Hint: Made by a living creature that is
feared by most.

Hint: Most of us use this combination
every day.

Hint: We use less of this than we used
to, but there's still a lot of it around.

Hint: A blast from the past.

Hint: Flitting lazily on a summer day.

Hint: This one's the hardest, so I'll tell
you that it's something that appears
on everyone. No need to get the
particular body part correct.

Phases

Yeah, I'm moody. I admit it. But I've learned how to keep things in check for the most part, unless I get hurt, or if someone is being unfair or unreasonable, or hardheaded for the sake of their ego.

What most people don't know about me is that although I'm strong, I'm not tough. I bleed easily, although only those who are closest to me know that. It's not something I particularly like people to know, because there have been so many who have exploited it in the past. In fact, my iron strength is what I've had to develop in order to keep people from getting to my soft center.

Over the years I've learned to recognize a certain order of phases that I go through when someone hurts me:

1. My first response is pain. It hurts. Badly. I try to figure out how someone can be so heartless as to want to cause pain to another human being, especially me.
   
   
2. When that fails I turn to self-doubt. I figure the other person is right about me, that I'm the worst person ever to walk the earth and that I deserve to be reviled and shunned by all humankind. I begin to think that I don't deserve to live and that if the person took me out, they would be justified.
   
   
3. I then turn indignant. I pick up a fook that attitude and get really pissed off. That's when I'm liable to say some pretty unkind things, either about or to them.
   
   
4. The next step is resolution. I don't like being angry because it makes me physically ill, due to the Hashimoto's Disease. I'm a Libra, after all, and I'm all about fixing problems and balancing situations to bring about peaceful resolutions. I'll try to reason with the person, I'll explain my point of view and ask for theirs; I want to reach a compromise, or at least an understanding; my goal is resolution, not winning.
   
   
5. When that doesn't work, I disappear for a while. I go inside and wait for them to come to a place where they too want resolution.
   
   
6. Of course, some people just want to win. The situation isn't even about the issue anymore and all they want is, at best, to be right or, at worst, to get revenge. Again, I go through the phases a second time, da capo, but this time the anger phase is worse. I get defensive and I sometimes attack verbally. Like an animal caught in a trap, all I want is to be free of whatever is causing the pain. If there was actually a spell to turn them into a frog I'd use it, only to regret it later.
   
   
7. Finally, I just get tired of the torture and I make the person and the issue disappear. "Poof! Be gone!" is something I've been heard to say on a number of occasions. I simply write that person and their crap out of my life and it doesn't matter if they get in my face--I don't see them. They have ceased to be. In fact, this ability to make people vanish is so thorough that, in my mind, they never existed in the first place and I get upset when other people bring them or the issue up in conversation. That's why I don't like talking about my exes, whether friends or lovers. Don't mention their name to me or else you'll get an impatient look from me, but that's because, regardless of what phase I'm in, there's still pain in there and I don't want to feel it.
   

As a survivor/overcomer of abuse as both a child and an adult, I've had to create these defenses for myself in order to keep from shattering as I did when I was eight and eighteen. Nope, can't--won't--go there again, for anyone or anything.

Where I'd Be Today

Sod the fact that I can't actually go there -- this is where I'd be today, if I could: a cottage in Donnegal, Ireland. What would I be doing? Nettl and I would be drinking pots of tea and stuffing ourselves on scones and Irish soda bread. Later, we'd take ourselves outside to sit by the stream, where we'd read, write and talk.

In the late afternoon we'd walk to the neighborhood pub, where I'd drink a couple of pints and she'd have a cider or two, and we'd order a dinner of pub grub. Then we'd walk back to the cottage and sit by the fire as the evening shadows grew long.

She'd fall asleep before me and I'd pull out my laptop and write, remembering all of the tales my Irish mother told me about the Sidhe and the wee folk.

Yeah, that's where I'd be today.

If It's a Small World After All So Why Can't I See It?

Do you ever wonder about living another place you've never visited? Sometimes I'll be watching the Travel Channel and I'll think, "I wonder, if I'd visited that place when I was younger and loved it, would I have been happier living there?" I mean, what if I went to, say, Helsinki and realized that it was the place I should have been living all these years?

It's not really wanderlust, it's more like, well, I don't know what it's called, but it hits me every now and again. I kind of envy people who have the financial ability, as well as the freedom, to see this planet we live on. I've always wanted to be a world traveler, not in the tourist sense, or even in a jet-setting sense. I always wanted to just go places, immerse myself in them for a while, then move on. A summer in Dublin, a winter in Barbados, a year in Florence. What if I've missed out on the one place that I'd really love?

There are a few places I've been where I know I'd be happy, but for some reason I ended up here, in a place I'd never ever considered, and with good reason. Now it looks like I'll be here until I die, and although I like it here, I resent not being able to be where I really want to be, or even being able to "shop around".

Or maybe most people don't even think like this. Maybe they live their lives in one place and are content. There's something in me that keeps telling me that living a normal life in the Bible Belt is not where I'm supposed to be, but what can one do about it? Nothing.

I don't mean to piss and moan; I'm just thinking too much again and being only an armchair traveler is depressing.

Misheard Lyrics

I think we all mishear song lyrics from time-to-time. Here are a few that I found at various sites online:

By the Police - Message In A Bottle:
Actual: "A year has passed since I wrote my note"
Misheard: "A year has passed since I broke my nose"

By the Beatles - Michelle:
Actual: "Michelle ma belle, sont des mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble"
Misheard: "Michelle ma belle, some say monkeys play piano well, play piano well"

By the Beatles - Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds:
Actual: "The girl with kaleidoscope eyes"
Misheard: "The girl with colitis goes by"

The Bee Gees – Stayin' Alive:
Actual: "It's alright, it's okay, you may look the other way"
Misheard: "It's alright, it's okay, you make love the other way"

Queen – Bohemian Rhapsody:
Actual: "Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?"
Misheard: "Scallaboosh, Scallaboosh, will you do the banned tango?"

David Bowie – Changes:
Actual: "Strange fascination fascinating me"
Misheard: "Strange vaccinations are killing me"

Manfred Mann - Blinded By The Light:
Actual: "Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night"
Misheard: "Wrapped up like a douchbag in the middle of the night"

Creedence Clearwater Revival - Bad Moon On The Rise:
Actual: "There's a bad moon on the rise"
Misheard: "There's a bathroom on the right"

Paul Young - Every Time You Go Away:
Actual: "Every time you go away you take a piece of me with you"
Misheard: "Every time you go away you take a piece of meat with you"

Herman's Hermits - Must To Avoid:
Actual: "She's a must to avoid"
Misheard: "She's a muscular boy"

Kim Carnes - Bette Davis Eyes:
Actual: "She knows how to make a pro blush"
Misheard: "She knows how to make pub lunch"

Neil Diamond - Forever In Blue Jeans:
Actual: "Forever in blue jeans"
Misheard: "For Reverend Blue Jeans"

Bonnie Tyler - Heartache:
Actual: "It's a heartache, nothing but a heartache"
Misheard: "It's hard egg, nothing but a hard egg"

Paul Simon - Graceland:
Actual: "As if Id never noticed, the way she brushed her hair from her forehead"
Misheard: "As if I'd never noticed, the way she brushed her hair, and farted"

And probably the most famous misheard lyric of all time:
Jimi Hendrix - Purple Haze:
Actual: "S'cuse me while I kiss the sky"
Misheard: "S'cuse me while I kiss this guy"

Here are my own:

Sam Cooke - Twisting The Night Away
Actual: "He's dancing with the chick in slacks"
Misheard: "He's dancing with the chicken slats"

Jimmy Buffet - Margaritaville:
Actual: "Wastin' away again in Margaritaville, searching for my lost shaker of salt"
Misheard: "Wasted away again in Margaritaville, searching for my outlaw shaker of salt"

What are some of your misheard lyrics?

Tragic Irony

I posted my previous entry not knowing that I was about to spend the time from 3 am to 4:30 am in the emergency room. My son, Joel, is receiving IV fluids and antibiotics for a severe kidney infection. If his fever comes down in an hour or two, they'll call and I can go get him. If not, he'll have to be admitted.

Poor guy. He thought he had the flu, and then we all thought it was a bladder infection. I'd planned to take him to the doctor tomorrow morning--well, this morning--but around 2:30 I heard him throwing up and I made the decision to take him to the ER. So here I sit, drinking coffee to stay awake, worrying, and waiting for the phone to ring.

I don't know when I'll get to bed because I have to take Nettl to work and Heather to school, then, if Joel can come home, I'll need to get groceries with special stuff for him. If he's not home, then I'll be at the hospital all day. Whatever happens, I'll keep you posted. Good and positive thoughts for Joel are much appreciated!
________________

UPDATE - 7:15 am:
Joel's home! I'm going to take Nettl and Heather to their "ports o' call" and then I'm coming home and going to bed.

Thanks everyone!

Start The Week Laughing

In hope of starting your week out with a laugh, here are some true stories from medical doctors:

A man comes into the ER and yells, "My wife's going to have her baby in the cab!" I grabbed my stuff, rushed out to the cab, lifted the lady's dress, and began to take off her underwear. Suddenly I noticed that there were several cabs, and I was in the wrong one.
Dr. Mark MacDonald, San Antonio, TX

____________________

At the beginning of my shift I placed a stethoscope on an elderly and slightly deaf female patient's anterior chest wall. "Big breaths," I instructed. "Yes, they used to be," remorsefully replied the patient.
Dr. Richard Byrnes, Seattle, WA

____________________

One day I had to be the bearer of bad news when I told a wife that her husband had died of a massive myocardial infarct. Not more than five minutes later, I heard her reporting to the rest of the family that he had died of a "massive internal fart".
Dr. Susan Steinberg, Manitoba, Canada

____________________

During a patient's two week follow-up appointment with his cardiologist, he informed me, his doctor, that he was having trouble with one of his medications. "Which one?" I asked. "The patch. The nurse told me to put on a new one every six hours and now I'm running out of places to put it!" I had him quickly undress and discovered what I hoped I wouldn't see. Yes, the man had over fifty patches on his body! Now the instructions include removal of the old patch before applying a new one.
Dr. Rebecca St. Clair, Norfolk, VA

____________________

While acquainting myself with a new elderly patient, I asked, "How long have you been bed-ridden?" After a look of complete confusion she answered, "Why, not for about twenty years, when my husband was alive."
Dr. Steven Swanson, Corvallis, OR

____________________

I was caring for a woman from Kentucky and asked, "So, how's your breakfast this morning?" "It's very good, except for the Kentucky Jelly. I can't seem to get used to the taste," the patient replied. I then asked to see the jelly and the woman produced a foil packet labeled KY Jelly.
Dr. Leonard Kransdorf, Detroit, MI

____________________

A new, young MD doing his residency in OB was quite embarrassed performing female pelvic exams. To cover his embarrassment he had unconsciously formed a habit of whistling softly. The middle-aged lady upon whom he was performing this exam suddenly burst out laughing and further embarrassed him. He looked up from his work and sheepishly said, "I'm sorry. Was I tickling you?" She replied, "No doctor, but the song you were whistling was 'I wish I was an Oscar Meyer Wiener."
Won't admit his name

Hat Tip to Fun Meme.

Saturday Story Time: The Folkie Never Dies

Greenwich Village c. 1960.

When I was about 10 I discovered I absolutely loved folk music, and the song that triggered that was "Walk Right In" by the Rooftop Singers. Suddenly, I was consumed with an overwhelming desire to learn guitar, and watching "Hootenanny" on TV became a weekly tradition in our home. Born into a family of professional musicians, my obsession was of course indulged.

My 14 year-old foster sister, Ginger, had a friend who visited her from Texarkana for a weekend. Her name was Millie. She'd brought her guitar with her, and she let me play around with it, teaching me the song, "Abilene". G-D-C-G-A-D-G-C-G. She also taught me "Green Green" by The New Christy Minstrels and my life was forever changed.

Me, back in the day.

My brother was a drummer and played in a California that who, if you heard their one hit from that era Kay guitar from Sears that he never played, so I asked if I could borrow it. My father bought me some picks and a chord chart, and I taught myself to play along with my brother's Ricky Nelson albums, as well as my own by Joe & Eddie, Odetta and Leadbelly. This was before the Beatles, and I started to write my own songs, immature as they were, coming from a pre-adolescent. I wrote songs about summertime fields, rain on windshields, and the green rolling hills of the Santa Ynez valley, where I lived. Having bought a book on the subject from our local lirbrary's book sale, I also tiptoed through British folk ballads from the 16th through the 19th centuries. I had no idea what the melodies were, so I invented my own.
you'd know who I'm talking about. Unfortunately, I can remember neither the song's title nor the band's name right now. Anyway, I begged him to borrow one of the members' guitars so that I could learn how to play it. Well, that didn't happen, but there was a kid in our church who had an old

"Hey, nonny-nonny, down by the greenwood-o..."

And all that.

On my 12th birthday my father walked in the house carrying a large triangle-shaped box, and I immediately knew what it was. It was a guitar! It cost him only $14, but it was a treasure to me. I never put that guitar down, except to go to school, or take a shower. I slept with it, I took it to the dinner table, I took it to the bathroom with me and I took it in the car whenever we went anywhere. I played until my fingers bled, and my grandmother taught me to soak them in vinegar to toughen up the callouses that were developing.

Later, in 1964 or '65, after I'd encountered the Beatles and gravitated toward British rock, I came upon Donovan and Dylan and the other folk artists of that time, and my love for the genre was rekindled. I began researching the folk movement of the 1950s and '60s and was dismayed to discover that I'd completely missed the Greenwich Village folk scene. I can't tell you what that felt like. I felt out of step and out of rhyme. I was too young. When Dylan was singing for his supper at Cafe Wha?, I was only in the 5th grade. When Donovan was kicking around the British Isles with Gypsy Dave, I was only 12. Now, here I was surrounded by friends who screamed at pop idols while I longed for smoke-filled coffeehouses and cold water flats full of other songwriters who sang about global change and literature.

I didn't fit.

Performing at one concert or another.

When I met Deni everything changed again. I'd met a fellow folkie who helped me to nurture that side of my creativity. We went to concerts together that featured the original folk artists in our area. We went to a Donovan concert at the Santa Barbara Bowl. We spent hours playing songs for each other. And my songs changed. Now I was writing about art museums and wooden stiles by the windswept Highway 1 that curved and climbed along the northern California coastline.

I guess I'm feeling nostalgic this week. I wish I could have been part of The Village folk scene. I miss that being part of my personal history, but I have memories of other experiences on the west coast, and I'm grateful for that.

There is no end to this story. I'm working on some song ideas in my head, and writing them down. Folk music is something I could still perform publicly, and I just might decide to do so. After all, folk artists aren't required to stay young and sexy.

I'm Yearbooked!

Okay, so I found this cool little thing at Look At This, and then I saw it on Going Like 60, and I decided that I had to get in on the act.

Me in the 1960s

Me in the 1970s

Me in the 1980s

I SO didn't look like any of these...

Go Yearbook Yourself!

Let It Breathe

Over the past week the subject of friendship has come up over and over again. Not believing in coincidences, I've taken this as something I'm supposed to look into and examine.

Last night as I sat listening to the music of Simon and Garfunkel, Gordon Lightfoot, Peter, Paul and Mary, and other folk artists of the 60s, I enjoyed watching my memories of those years pass across my mind. That's when it occurred to me that this month marks the 40th anniversary of my and Deni's friendship. Forty years. Incredible. How does a friendship that started when we were only sixteen last that long? I think of everything we've been through, both individually and together, and it blows my mind. I think, as I commented on someone's blog the other day, that it comes down to letting it breathe. Many years ago Donovan recited the following poem:

When two lovers touch hands,
They touch the two of them touching hands,
They touch the one of them in the space between
As each the other's hands doth touch.

When two lovers kiss lips,
They kiss the two of them kissing lips,
They kiss the one of them in the space between
As each the other's lip doth kiss.

When two lovers hold each other,
They hold the two of them holding each other,
They hold the one of them in the space between
As each the other holds.

I've never been casual about friendship. In fact, I've always loved my friends more fiercely than I've befriended my lovers. Ville says, "I don't make friends, I fall in love" and that's true for me, too. (Our friendship is 21 years old now--old enough to drink!) Friendship is love, just as romance is love, except that friendship doesn't have all of the legal, social, and moral expectations and obligations attached to it. In some ways it's freer, with fewer strings attached. I'm not saying that one is better or higher than the other, I'm just saying that they're different, yet they're the same in that they go through very similar phases.

When I meet a new friend, I want to spend as much time as possible with them. We become inseparable. There's the "honeymoon" phase during which everything about them is delightful, funny, meaningful, and our conversations are punctuated with, "Me too!" and "I never thought anyone else felt that way!" Then a little time passes and you start to notice things that bug you. Reality steps in and you find ways that you are different. Sometimes there are disagreements and sometimes a falling-out can happen. And when you call it quits it's as painful as ending a romance. When one of my oldest friends and I broke up years ago, I dubbed it "Let it Be" because it was every bit as painful and bitter as what the Beatles went through (also, we were Beatle Peatles together since the age of twelve). It was a divorce and, because we'd been roommates for a few years, there was even community property. We never worked out our differences and over the years we grew so far apart in our interests and beliefs that there was no bridging the gap when she tried to woo me back a couple of years ago. We had nothing in common anymore.

But I think that if we allow the friendship to grow and evolve as if it were a separate entity--a child, if you like--then we will never lose that friendship. It has to breathe, and sometimes when it inhales, it pushes the two people apart. But then it exhales and we're brought back together. If we let it grow and venture outward, it will only be stronger when it returns to us. Of course, all I'm saying is that we need to allow our friends to be who and what they are. No strings, no conditions. Some friendships can be saved and some can't, though.

Kahlil Gibran said that we should have spaces in our togetherness. What breathes in there is the one "in the space between".

Happy 40th Deni. I cannot imagine my life without you in it and I can't imagine what I would have been had we never met.

You may read the story of our friendship here.

Famous Places No. 3

As if I haven't given you enough puzzler pain this week, here is another place for you to identify. You can Rot-13 your guesses, but it isn't necessary.

Hint #1: Looks like stone, but made of pine.

Gotta Squawk

I have to tell you that I accidentally came across Pandora Radio last week and I'm hooked. I've always listened to Live365, and although I could select stations that played music I like, I was still subject to their pre-set playlists. Pandora is different. You sign in, type in a name of a band or artist, and they play music that corresponds to that genre.

For instance, I typed in "John Denver" and began hearing songs by Simon & Garfunkel, Gordon Lightfoot, Peter, Paul & Mary, James Taylor, Don McLean, and others. You build your own playlist by giving each song either a thumbs up or a thumbs down. If down, you never hear that song again; if yes, you not only hear it, you're also presented with more songs in that genre, or by that artist. It's like someone has sent me all of my LPs that got lost in the Big Dump of 2002! I'm hearing songs I haven't heard since 1968 and some new songs as well.

And the best part? It's absolutely FREE.. and ad-free!

I guess this is as close as I'll ever get to making an endorsement, and I'm happy and proud to do so.

That's all!

Action Verbs & Incessant Noise

The only thing worse than action verbs before I've had my first cup of coffee in the morning is action. I don't know why, but I woke up this morning knowing something was wrong. Maybe it was because I didn't get to sleep until after 5:00 am. Maybe it was Heather waking me up about an hour later by talking to her mom on the landing outside our bedroom door. Maybe it was the steady drone of the AC turbine out side -- the one that never turns off, regardless of the temperature. See? I try to sleep one night without ear plugs and this is what happens. I finally just got up and went downstairs to make the coffee.

Ah! Someone else had already made it! I was so grateful! I got a cup, measured sugar into it and began to pour. Hm. Why is it barely dribbling? The pot is full. I felt it. It was cold. It had turned off mid-cycle. I messed with it a while, jiggled the cord, reset the outlet on the wall and still, nothing.

I knew what this meant and I wasn't happy. I only bought this coffeepot on August 5th. I have bad coffee karma, I guess. I went upstairs and looked in the bathroom mirror and realized that I couldn't go out to exchange the coffeepot until I showered and washed my hair, so, grumbling all the way, I did my thing, then left. The exchange was easy. I was smart this time. Knowing my luck with coffeepots and coffeemakers, I'd stowed the receipt in the box and put it in the garage. The lady gave me an even exchange and I brought the new one home.

Everyone in the house was intimately concerned, even the non-coffee addicts. Nettl called me as I was driving home, wanting to know what happened because Lauren had called her after I left. Joel came downstairs looking all guilty because he'd been the one to so kindly make the coffee. I assured him it wasn't anything he did and that I suspected it was the cord/connection on the pot. Micah, who never talks before his second cup, came out and joined in. I really appreciate everyone's concern and I really apologize for snapping at you. It's the action verbs you know, and having to be sociable and putting out fires before I'm awake. Well, and yet another broken coffeemaker within two weeks.

And now for the other thing. The AC turbines. Yeah, I know you're probably tired of hearing about this, but I have to give you a clear idea of the noise levels here now.

This is the old AC, considerately tucked behind a fence and set to turn off when the temperatures drop below 75. I don't like it coming on every summer, but I've gotten used to it.

This is the new AC. No fence, never turns off, and making my life a living hell. Now that it's gotten cooler I'd like to turn our AC off and open some windows. No can do, unless I want to feel like I'm living on the tarmac of an airport terminal.

This puts it all into perspective.

Surely there are noise ordinances or something. I know they're not going to take the new one out, but can't someone make them enclose it or just reset the thermostat? The quality of life has suddenly deteriorated around here and I have a constant, never-ending headache due to the noise.

That's all, I guess.

What a Dog

From my earliest memories there was always a dog in our family. My mother was a great animal lover and she passed that quality on down to me, a quality that wasn't particularly shared by the males in the family. That surprised me, too. My dad was the gentlest, warmest, most affectionate and lovable man I've ever known, but he didn't like animals -- something I've always had trouble figuring out. How can you not love animals? Here are the dogs I've known and loved.

I don't remember life before "Lady". In fact, I hardly even remember her. I don't know where she came from, or why my mom wanted a Dalmation, but I do remember playing with her in the back yard when I was about four years. One day she bit me and that was it. My dad found her a new home.









My uncle Wes (not really my uncle) was a beautiful, black-haired, blue-eyed dancer in Hollywood films in the 40s and 50s. Let's just say he was a bit flamboyant, which was no big deal with my show biz family. He was a member of our family, having even moved from Kansas to California with the family in 1948. I loved my uncle Wes. He was a lot of fun (probably only 22 or so at the time) and he babysat me in the afternoons when my mom had to work. He had a thing for little dogs and gave us a black American Cocker Spaniel when I was about five. He named her "Skibow". Don't ask because I don't know. She was a great dog, though not too smart, and she peed whenever she got excited. My dad called her "Knot Head". She eventually went deaf and died in her sleep when I was 16.


When I was about 10 a friend of my mom's was given a Miniature Poodle puppy as a housewarming gift. Great friend, huh? She didn't like dogs, so she kept him in the garage at night and on a rope in the back yard during the day. Whenever we went to her house I beat a track to visit "Pierre" (whose AKC name was "Joyful Jacques"). He was as smart as they come and always loved seeing me. Recognizing the mutual affection we held for each other, my mom's friend gave him to me. He and Skibow got along well, but Pierre and I were soul mates. He always amazed people with his intelligence. In the late 60s he got a kidney disease and had to be put down. It was very difficult for me.



Sometime after Pierre died, my dad brought home a forlorn little Cockapoo named "Shadow". She'd lost both of her elderly owners and needed a home. It took her a little while to get used to life without them, but once she made the transition she was a jewel of a dog. This was Joel's first dog, and they loved each other. She wasn't very bright, but she was sweet-natured and even won over my dad. Except when she peed on his new avocado green carpet. That's when he installed a pet door. Shadow grew deaf as she aged and her barks turned into hilarious siren-like yelps. And she got so ancient that she smelled. We called her the "Stink Pooch" or the "Choop Knits" (choop ka-nits) behind her back. She died one summer afternoon while napping in her favorite spot in our back yard: under the apple tree in the soft, green grass.


Somewhere in there Joel, Micah and I lived in a house on the east end of Ventura and I got the brilliant idea of getting an Old English Sheepdog. I count this as one of my life's dumbest ideas. A single mom of two little boys (2 and 6) has no business owning such a high-maintenance dog. We had him for about a year and then I gave him to a good family with little kids. His name was "Sebastian". The family called me frequently to tell me how happy he was with them and how much their kids loved him. That's a happy ending.






Then came "Cleo", or "The Lug" as we called her, because she was just a big old lug. I don't think there's a sweeter-natured, more patient dog than the black Labrador Retriever. In her mind the boys were her puppies and she happily let them maul her and roll all over her. She was never more in her glory than when she had kids all over her. Everyone loved The Lug, and she died after as long and happy a life as a Labby can hope for.






Last, but definitely not least, there was Fritz, a Yorkshire Terrier. I worked for a groomer one summer and fell in love with the little tea cup Yorkies that came in there. Later, when I told a girlfriend that I wanted to get a Yorkie, she bought me one that was 9 months old. But he wasn't the tea cup variety, he was larger. At first, I had trouble liking him. Don't ever buy a dog for someone! That's as stupid as an arranged marriage! In a little time, however, Fritz really grew on me. Soon, we were absolutely inseparable. Finally, he became my dearest friend and counsel while I was my dad's primary caretaker during the last year of his life. Fritz saw me through a lot of sadness and grief. And talk about smart! If dogs reincarnate, then he had to have been Pierre; he was even smarter though. Everyone who knew Fritz swore there was a little man living in him. When I moved here to Stillwater I left him in Denver with my mom, who adored him, and then when she had her stroke he stayed with my brother and sister-in-law who loved him, too. I lost track of Fritz, but I suppose he's gone now. I miss him every day of my life and I wish things would have turned out differently. And this is exactly what he looked like. He never suffered the indignity of little bows and barrettes. He wouldn't have it. The only groomer's accessory he liked was a bandanna tied around his neck. Hey, it was Denver and in his mind he was a man.

I haven't had a dog since 1999, and it's hard for me. When we can get a dog, Nettl and I have decided on a Miniature Schnauzer, but I'd also like to get another Yorkie. If I had a large property I could easily have several dogs and be perfectly happy. I love cats, but I really love dogs.

Monday Miscellanea

The house is suddenly quiet (except for the damned AC turbine), and it's going to get quieter. Today is Heather's first day of college. Last night she informed us that she would no longer be showering at home, because she and her friend will be working out at the campus gym every morning before class and so use the showers there. There are suddenly 57 or so fewer bottles of product on the shower shelf. Lauren will be moving into her first apartment near the OU campus on Friday morning. That means about 43 more bottles of product will be gone! Suddenly, the gridlock that was the space between our bedroom door and the master bathroom has disappeared. When I wake up on weekend mornings, I will no longer have to wait up to 1.5 hours just to take a morning pee (for my newer readers, there is only one common shower in this huge house. It's in our bedroom and we sometimes have five people who have to use it. Everyone's off to college... unbelievable.

• Here's a funny little video of a goat that sounds like a man.

• It seems that I might have a shot at working for Microsoft. Judging by one of their interview questions, that is. I got it right off the bat; not all that hard! I'll give you the answer if you want it, but it's not one of my quizzes or anything.
  
  "Imagine an analog clock set to 12 o’clock. Note that the hour and minute hands overlap. How many times each day do both the hour and minute hands overlap? How would you determine the exact times of the day that this occurs?"
  
• I was a total geek all weekend. Nettl and I have web portal pages and I'd gotten tired of the old ones. Here are the new ones I made (click to embiggiate):

Mine

Lynette's

I also made one for Lauren.

"Who Am I?" No. 4

UPDATE: Monday Morning:
You guys got 'em! GOOD GOING! I know that one was kind of tough.
Here are the stats:

J.P. Deni: 6
B.E. Earl: 6
Blog Queen: 3
Ville: 1

So we have a tie... Go get your cookies!
Great game everyone.
________________________________
Original Post (with the answers):

Actually, this one should be titled, "Who Are We?" Have fun working these out over your Sunday morning coffee! I'll reveal the answers in 24 hours. And don't forget, the one who correctly guesses the largest number of these famous men will win the cookie!


1. Eminem (identified by B.E. Earl)
2. George Clooney (identified by J.P. Deni & Blog Queen)

3. Jean Van Damme (identified by J.P. Deni)
4. Keanu Reeves (identified by J.P. Deni)5. Kurt Cobain (identified by B.E. Earl)
6. Leonardo Di Capprio (identified by B.E. Earl)
7. Marilyn Manson (identified by B.E. Earl)
8. Patrick Swayze (identified by J.P. Deni & Blog Queen)
9. Ricky Martin (identified by J.P. Deni
10. Robert DiNero (identified by B.E. Earl)
11. Tom Cruise (identified by B.E. Earl)
12. Tom Hanks (identified by J.P. Deni & Blog Queen)

Making a Not-So-Joyful Noise

Sometimes I wonder what life must have been like before the Industrial Revolution. I'm not talking about the lack of modern conveniences, I'm talking about the noise these things generate every day on a continual basis, some of which we don't even consciously hear anymore but only notice when we're removed from it. Like when we lie on a beach, or spend a few days in the country.

Yeah, like I ever get to do that. I thought that's what my hammock was for. Silly me.

With the introduction of the second AC turbine to our neighborhood, silence has become a thing of the past, or at least for as long as summer lasts. These things are huge: they're tall enough that they have a ladder scaling up one side for maintenance issues and they must be 30 feet around. And there's one on either side of the corner we live on. The older, pre-existing one at least turns off when the temperature gets below 74° or so, but the new one never.turns.off. Ever. Day and night it whirs on and on incessantly regardless of the temp. I'll bet they're going to hate their electric bill next month.

But there are other machine noises that accost us every day. Blow dryers, refrigerators & ice makers, the AC/heat, dishwashers, washers and dryers -- hell, I don't even hear the noise from the computers anymore.

I sleep with ear plugs. I've had to do so for over eight years and I've kind of gotten used to them. In fact, I've kind of grown to like being in my own little world of silence as I'm fighting to fall asleep, but now, as soon as I'm up and at my computer, I have to stick ear buds into my ears and listen to my favorite net radio. Something's always in my ears and they're sore.

Sure, I'd love to be able to afford some Bose noise-canceling headphones and I'd love to sleep without the ear plugs for just one week. I'd really love to have just one day of absolute silence, but as the saying goes, that ain't gonna happen anytime soon. There's just too much noise and, as much as I love music, I'd still like to hear nothing sometimes. For one thing, I don't think the constant input is particular healthy on a subconscious level. That's why I've never slept with the TV on; the brain has to get a break from processing things once in a while in order to give us the rest we need. There's just no rest anymore around here.

And there's no enjoying the veranda anymore, either. Who can do that when crushed inside a wind tunnel? We were planning on buying this house, but that's no longer an option. I'm thinking about a little house on an acre out on Jardot Rd. north of town. I mean, if Vienna doesn't happen. Urban noise is a different thing. One expects it. Not so in a house on the outskirts of town where there's very little traffic.

I know that my ears are more sensitive than a lot of other people's and I try to remember that, but it's hard. I also don't really like the isolation that ear plugs and ear buds impose on me. I'm a social monkey, you see, and I rather like being an active participant.

Submitted For Your Approval

Is It Friday Already?

Seems like every week Friday comes a little sooner. I can't believe how time flies. And every year it flies a little faster. Cliché, but true.

A friend once told me that the rate at which time passes is relative to the heart rate. That time seems to pass more quickly as we age because our hearts slow down. This makes sense to me, and makes we wonder if it also means that an animal 's life--say, a cat's life--seems as long to them as ours does to us. It's all relative anyway.

Speaking of the time and flying, did you ever stop to consider that flying somewhere on a commercial jet is really nothing more than sitting in a long, silver waiting room? Ever since an old friend of mine told me that, it comes back to me when I fly, and then I start getting bored. Now I've passed it on to you. Thanks a lot, huh? Can you imagine being stuck in a Social Security Office the size of an aisle at Walmart, with screaming kids for 12 hours? God, don't you just hate me now?

Have a great Friday. Hope you're not flying anywhere for the weekend.

Except I'm Not Bald

I am Jean-Luc Picard
A lover of Shakespeare and other fine literature. You have a decisive mind and a firm hand in dealing with others.

Jean-Luc Picard - 65%
Uhura - 60%
Beverly Crusher - 55%
Deanna Troi - 55%
Will Riker - 50%
Geordi LaForge - 50%
Chekov - 45%
Mr. Scott - 45%
Dr. McCoy - 45%
James T. Kirk - 45%
Spock - 37%
Worf - 30%
An expendable character (Redshirt) - 30%
Data - 29%
Mr. Sulu - 15%

Click here to take the Star Trek Personality Test

Hat tip to T Town Tommy

Glimpses of the Garden

I'm calling it an early night, but before I crawl off to bed I'd like to share these with you. Good night all!

A friendly gnome

Summer peppers

Potting table

Behind the ivy