The Search Continues

So the house fell through. Well, not the house itself, duh! (Forgive my weirdness today. I'm kind of out there with this intestinal ailment and my mind isn't working. I think I may have Swine Flu...)

Anyway, we may be looking at an older house (built in 1976) that is really pretty damned perfect, regardless of the 70s funk that has never been removed. If we get it, it will probably be on a lease-to-own basis, which means we'll be able to make all of the improvements in lieu of a deposit. Plus, the lease payments are cheap. Here are some of the "perfections":

1. The upstairs has two bedrooms, one of which is ideal for Micah's studio, complete with built-in computer station and perfect dimensions.
2. The house is in a cul-de-sac on a seldom-used street.
3. The house backs onto a wooded area--not another house or yard.
4. It's in the neighborhood I've wanted to live in since we moved here, less than a mile from where we are now.
5. The upstairs also has a second living room and a full bath, which means that the upstairs would basically be the guys' apartment. They could do whatever they want with their living room.
6. The main living room is huge, with an area that would be perfect for our piano, musical instruments, and music scores.
7. There is also a raised area in the living room that is meant for a dining table. It would make the perfect dance floor for the parties we like to have. Plus, there's a built-in that would make the perfect bar.
8. There's already a built-in pet door. No more litter box!
9. The back yard has mature trees, is not too large to take care of, and has a hot tub.
10. Yes, I said a hot tub.
11. The house also has a master bedroom suite, a 4th bedroom (downstairs), a nice-sized kitchen and dining area, and a big fireplace.
12. Square footage-wise, it's about the same size as our current house.
    

We'll see. If we get it, it's going to mean a lot of wallpaper-stripping, painting, light fixture replacements, etc., but we'll be saving a lot of money every month -- no more living check-to-check! I'm not getting my hopes up though. As we're learning, a lot can happen to kill a deal.

Back to bed.

Oh, Bugger...

Life goes on.

There's No Place Like Home

Unless something completely untoward and blatantly shitty happens, we have a new house! No, it's not the one in the picture, but it's not vastly different, either. We're going to look at it tomorrow. Of course, We've taken the online virtual tour a dozen times, picked out paint chips, and have already mentally placed and replaced the furniture. Bless Nettl's heart and business savvy for landing us this property!

I'll tell you more tomorrow afternoon.

Monday Morning Madness

My weekend of doing nothing wore me out. I don't know if it was the gale force winds that have been blowing for a week, the gray, dull weather, the lack of sleep, the anxiety attacks, being broke, the upcoming move, my watery eyes, or just that I'm a case lately and life isn't much fun. I did find out that my increasing anxiety and insomnia are side effects of the Levoxyl I've been taking for three years. So I have the choice of being an anxious, sleep-deprived, jumpy creature of the night, or a fatigued, overweight, hairless walking zombie during the day who has to wear sweaters in 90° weather. Some choice, no?

The house we wanted has been leased, so we're back to looking for a four-bedroom house in a three-bedroom town. I really, really wish that, a) the landlord would lower the rent and we could sign another lease, or b) we were solvent enough to buy a home. I know, however, that both are fairy tales. Trouble is, I think our house has already been taken by the couple who currently live next door. He's a coach at OSU, so he can afford the exorbitant rent. Meantime, I'm worrying not only about food and basic necessities, I'm also worrying about finding a home between now and July.

We looked at one, but it was a crap hole. I refuse to move our family into something like that. We deserve better, damn it. Nettl and I have an uncanny talent for making any place we live warm, welcoming, and classy, but there's not much we could do with a house with 8x8 bedrooms, ragged carpets, and walls with holes punched in them by roudy, partying college boys. It's too bad, too, because I really liked the actual living area of that house, and the back yard was wonderful. The set-up is perfect for our needs, too. We told the property management company that if the owners would pay for the repairs and paint, we'd be more than happy to do the work, but he said they didn't have much money, which means that we'd have to live in a basic tennement-level house until we could pay for the supplies. For a rental? And for that much rent? I think not. I might consider it if they dropped the rent by $200, but it still wouldn't solve the problem with the size of the master bedroom. We have a queen sleigh bed that would take up most of the room. The other problem is that the current tennents have to be out on August 1st, the same day we have to be out of here. That would give us no time to clean and paint and make repairs.

Damn. I hate moving. This will be move number 39 for me. I'm looking sixty in the face--I want to land somewhere!

Another thing that's been eating at me is that I realize now that I'll never get to live in Vienna. That dream is dead. It seems that lately all I've been doing is burying dreams that never came true, despite my hard work and positive thoughts. Bugger the Secret and the rest of all that weebie-wobie crap. I'm stuck in Oklahoma and that's the reality of things.

And it's humiliating to have the kids buy the groceries and pay the utilities. I don't know why I have a problem with this, we don't charge them rent, and whenever I lived with my parents I did my part. I'm just a mess.
__________

UPDATE:
We're looking at another house in the same neighborhood as the one we really wanted.

Saturday Story Time: Tweeter & the Monkey Man

The two or three of you who read the other blog will have already read this story, but because my brain is mush (and I really want to make an entry today), you, my good and faithful readers of this blog are getting a warmed up dish today. Let me tell you about the Monkey Man. He's really a sub-sub-minor blip on the radar of my life, but it's a good story for a Saturday.

Back in 1992, when I was still hot and Ville was married to that stoner dude, the three of us decided to go up to Cold Spring Tavern, which is an old stage stop in the Refugio mountains between Santa Barbara and the Santa Ynez Valley. Ville and her stoner dude rode on his motorcycle and I rode with one of his friends, who had a Jeep. The tavern is a well-known hangout for local bikers on Sundays; they open up a separate building with a bar in it, and they have blues bands come in, and people drink pitchers of beer and dance like the drunken bikers they are. It's great fun. Here's a picture. Click the link. Really. Click it now. You'll wish you could go there, too.

We found a table near the stage and as the brew began to ferment our brain cells, Ville and I got up to dance with each other. Hey, in California, chicks can dance together without being called lesbians by bikers. They like that shit. There was a guy there who had on a monkey mask and he was hamming it up on the dance floor. After having dumped a few beers in me, I surmised that he was having a lot of fun, and being a hambone myself, I joined him in a dance or two. That was all there was to it. I swear. The dance floor was packed, so I thought nothing of it, and neither did anyone else. Except the Monkey Man, apparently.

Later, when we went outside to get some fresh air (this was back when people could smoke in biker bars), the Monkey Man followed us, which was okay, until he took off the mask. Gads! He looked better with it on. We didn't say anything, although it was clear that he was trying to pick me up. We were ready to leave anyway, so I got on the back of Ville's stoner dude's bike, anticipating a lovely ride along the California coastline. Ville rode in the Jeep; I suspect she slept most of the way home. It wasn't until we got to her apartment in Oxnard that we saw the Monkey Man drive up. He'd followed us (me) for over 40 miles! We decided to go to my place, about 10 miles away, in hope of losing him. We told him that he really shouldn't have followed us, that we had other plans.

He was not to be deterred, however, and all the way, the stoner dude and I tried to lose the him. It was to no avail; he stayed on our tail. When we got to my house, we all kind of felt bad for the guy because it was so cold, so we invited him in for a bit before he had to leave. It wasn't so bad, really, and we sat in my living room eating stew, drinking beer and listening to Dylan, Clapton, and Jethro Tull.

That night, with everyone (including the monkey man) crapped out around my living room and I and my Yorkie, Fritz, went to bed. It was sometime later that I was wakened by Fritz growling and yapping, and someone getting into my bed. It was the Monkey Man!

I jumped out of bed shouting, "This does not happen! Get the hell out of my house!"

He apologized sincerely and explained that he didn't have enough gas money to get back to Santa Barbara, so I gave him a few bucks and he left, never to be seen again. And that is my story about the Monkey Man.

Rise and be Dull

Man, I overslept! Of course, I didn't get to sleep until six a.m., and even then it took a Benadryl and half a Xanax. Although I'm a night owl, I really don't like sleeping in. My deepest wish is to get as little sleep as is reasonably possible, because sleeping takes too much damned time out of a person's life.

I know, I know. I hear what you're thinking.

When I woke up and looked at the clock I went right into a huge panic, as if I were late for something. Why do I do that? What's scary is that Micah was already up and the coffee was made. I don't think I've ever slept later than him. Now I have to figure out where the heck my wallet is, but not before I chase the brain bunnies away with this coffee.

Quick "Whatever" Post

This would be the perfect week to spend all afternoon outside in the hammock. The temperature is 86 (my ideal temp) and there's just enough breeze to keep things light. Alas. Now, both of my eyes are acting up and I can't even open the windows for fear of them washing off of my face in the waterfall of tears that an allergy to something has created. I suspect it's grasses. We have hundreds of varieties out here on the prairie.

Today, there is one last showing of the house. The woman who looked at it and fell in love with it on Tuesday wants to show it to her husband. It's hard for me to accept that one of the university coaches will be living here. Where, for five years, the living room has been a haven of classical music and candlelit conversations over wine (with the odd party thrown in), there will be a wide screen TV blaring out sports. We filmed several scenes from a documentary in that living room. In fact, it was filmed all over this house. This house is actually the first home we had as a family, too. Our other house, over on Virginia Ave., was where the kids came to visit us, but this is where they lived. This is where Micah joined us.

We've found a great house—even better than this one—and the monthly lease is much lower. It has more amenities, and Nettl and I won't have to share the master bathroom with everyone anymore. I won't know what to do with A Bathroom of One's Own... It has a fenced back yard as well, and pets are allowed. But best, it's in a real neighborhood. No more AC turbines, generators, or the church using our street as a parking lot on Sundays and Wednesday nights. And we'll have garbage pickup. What a relief! No more trips to the dumpster that's nearly a block away. No more disco ball fireplace... the new house has two wood-burning fireplaces. There's a beautiful pond in the neighborhood, so I can still take walks in a nice area. I'm looking forward to the move now!

Top 10 Favorite Movie Characters

Willow posted this meme and I thought I'd have a go at it. Following her lead, these are just the first ones that popped into my head, and because I enjoy torturing myself, they're in alphabetical order. Judging from these characters, I prefer unlikely heroes, villains, and misunderstood fuck ups. The rules are: post a photo of the character, their name, and one signature quote each. Not even the title of the film.

Two memes in one week. I must be experiencing blog block, or something.

Agent Smith

"It's the smell."

Arthur Bach
"You're a hooker? Jesus, I forgot!
Just when I thought I was doing great with you!"

Babe
"But I'm a sheep pig."

Cardinal Louis de Rohan
"I expect you to pray deeply, and
with conviction..."

C.C. Drood
"I just got hit in the nuts with a fucking rubber chicken!"

Dr. Daniel Jackson
"I'm never gonna get paid."

George Sand
"We shall all be in our graves soon enough,
but Chopin is eternal."

Captain Jack Sparrow
"Me? I'm dishonest, and a dishonest man
you can always trust to be dishonest.
Honestly. It's the honest ones you want
to watch out for, because you can
never predict when they're going to
do something incredibly stupid."

Katharine Hepburn
"What kind of crap?"

Peter Gibbons
"We don't have a lot of time on this earth!
We weren't meant to spend it this way.
Human beings were not meant to sit in little
cubicles staring at computer screens all day,
filling out useless forms and listening
to eight different bosses drone on
about mission statements."

Now it's My Turn

Do you remember three years ago when I got eye allergies so bad, the doctor gave me a steroid shot and I had to spend $98 on a 1/8 ounce bottle of eye drops?

I have them again, and again it's my right eye. I started suspecting something over the weekend when it started watering, but I thought it just meant we were going be getting our famous OK winds. By the time I went to bed last night there was no doubt though. Well, I can't afford to go to the doctor or to get more drops, so I'll just have to deal with it. I found a bottle of Visine and it seems to be helping a little. I also took a Benydryl--been living on that recently. I never had allergies until I moved here.

I had planned to spend the day at Ville's, but I had to beg off--I feel like doo-doo--but I did accidentally discover that we now get the cable music stations on our telly. I hit the wrong button on the remote and ta-da! there was a symphony by Stamitz! So far, this staion plays only music from the 18th century. What could be more perfect?

Sorry Ville! I really wanted to do the weirds with you today. Damn!

Popeye!

But first, a disclaimer: This is not my Betta. It's just an example.

My Betta, Josef, has suddenly come down with a case of "popeye", a bacterial malady that has made his left eye bulge and cover over with a blister-like protective weirdness. He acts just fine, his eating habits haven't changed, and he still blows bubbles, but today I changed his tank and treated it with a medication made for the illness. It's not a disease, thankfully, but it sure does look weird!

I'm always nervous when treating Bettas. Hell, just changing his tank makes me sweat, especially if I have to use tap water and treatment (if I have it, I use distilled water). He's a tough little guy though; we've had him for nearly four years. That's getting up there, so I suppose I should expect an illness once in a while. This is the first time he's been ill. Not bad!

High School Meme

I found this on Byzantium's Shores a while back and saved it for a no-energy, lackluster state of mind as I'm experiencing this morning. I went to two high schools, which sucked. I went three years at Santa Ynez Valley high school (left) and I went to Camarillo high school during my senior year.

1. Did you date someone from your school senior year?
No. I was too busy being cool.

2. Did you marry someone from your high school(s)?
No.

3. Did you car pool to school?
Santa Ynez: I rode with my dad, who dropped me off on his way to work.
Camarillo: I rode the bus with Deni.

4. What kind of car did you drive?
Didn't have one.

5. What kind of car do you have now?
Don't have one. LOL!

6. It's Friday night... where were you (in high school)?
Santa Ynez: at the Dolphin Club, listening to the bands and dancing.
Camarillo: I was either at Deni's house or she was at mine. We liked playing our guitars together.

7. It is Friday night... where are you (now)?
At home.

8. What kind of job did you have in high school?
Santa Ynez: None.
Camarillo: I worked at a music store.

9. What kind of job do you do now?
I own my own web design company.

10. Were you a party animal?
I could have been, but I was a good kid. I partied with friends, but nothing like kids do these days. Sneaking into Cher's dad's scotch to make a scotch and Pepsi was about as far as it went for me in those days. I smoked a little pot in my junior year, but nothing earth shattering.

11. Were you considered a flirt?
Not at all. I was all about music and friends.

12. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir?
Santa Ynez: I was in band (clarinet) and choir (alto).
Camarillo: Nada.

13. Were you a nerd?
Maybe to some people. I was a Folkie. In my senior year, some kids thought I was a narc because I was so quiet and shy, and always wore sunglasses.

14. Did you get suspended or expelled?
Never did. I made detention one time; can't remember why. See? A good kid.

15. Can you sing the fight song?
I have no idea what they were. I wasn't into that crap. I hated the games and compulsory pep rallies.

16. Who was/were your favorite teacher(s)?
Freshman year: Mrs. Ware (Literature)
Sophomore year: Mr. Kline (Band & Choir)
Junior year: Mr. Black (Drama)
Senior year: Miss Senior (U.S. History)

17. Where did you sit during lunch?
Different places through the 4 years, but always with friends...
Freshman year: the backstage steps in the theater department
Junior year: front lawn
Senior year: a lawn area near the cafeteria

18. What was your school's full name?
Santa Ynez Valley Union High School
Adolfo Camarillo High School

19. When did you graduate?
1969.

20. What was your school mascot?
Santa Ynez: A pirate
Camarillo: A scorpion

21. If you could go back and do it again, would you?
No way in hell! Those were miserable years for the most part.

22. Did you have fun at Prom?
I only went to the Junior Prom, and it was too formal and staid to have any real fun. I would have rather been at the Dolphin Club dancing to Ernie & the Emperors or the Sharkais!

23. Do you still talk to your prom date?
No. I saw him once in 1971 or 72 and he was every bit as boring as he was in 1967. I only went with him because he pursued me rentlentlessly for two full years and was my best friend's cousin. Poor guy had no clue.

24. Who was your best friend?
I had several throughout high school.
Santa Ynez: Cathie, Cher, Vickii, Pat
Camarillo: Deni

25. What did you want to be when you grew up?
The 5th Beatle. What else?

26. Any regrets?
I wish I'd had half the self-confidence that I have now. I would have better handled of all those bully soshes that made life so difficult for me. (How do you spell "sosh"?)

27. Biggest fashion mistake?
Coppertone QT. 'Nuff said.

28. Favorite fashion trend?
I loved the whole Mod Sixties/Mary Quant/Twiggy thing. When that phased out for the hippie look, I liked the paisley/bellbottom/East Indian thing.

29. Are you going to your next reunion?
I've never gone. Probably never will.

30. Who did you have a secret crush on?
Pat Demory. She was a Puckish, cute Gemini, and we sang a lot of Bob Dylan together with our guitars.

31. Did you go on spring break?
We didn't have it back then. Not like now. I spent my spring breaks sleeping in and playing with my various garage bands.

Friendship, Old and New

I don't usually post on Sundays anymore, but this weekend was go great that I just wanted to share it a little.

A friend of Nettl's, whom she hasn't seen in 20 years, came to stay with us and it has been the best weekend we've had in a long, long time. Her friend, Debi, and I hit it off like gang busters and were up talking until nearly 3:30 a.m. last night. I'm really sorry to see her go this afternoon, but I have a feeling we'll all be seeing each again soon.

The Pimping of Euterpe

You see, I was born with this beautiful Muse watching over me, singing to me, planting melodies and lyric words in my mind. She was pure and natural, unadulterated and unspoiled. She nurtured me from childhood, loving and comforting me when Life was painful, and always lending me her grace and serenity when I was weary. She never judged me or the music I wrote. It was all good because it was all given by her and interpreted by me. She paid no attention to my frequent whining about how hard being a musician can be. Through the years she gave me over 300 pieces of music of many genres and styles. She loved me unconditionally and was happy to stand in the background as I received applause and standing ovations.

I loved her, too, but the applause kind of went to my head. There were many years of it and I began to expect it. Soon, applause wasn't enough. I wanted fame. I wanted fortune. I wanted to be a star. No, I wanted to be a supernova! I demanded my Muse's gifts and if she didn't respond, I sulked and became temperamental with her. I made her put on makeup, I made her bleach and tease her hair. I prostituted her like a common pimp. When I left the popular music of the 80s and ventured into classical music, I demanded she come with me. I put her in a more expensive outfit and tried to class her up, but I really only changed her venue from the street corner to a high-class bar. I was still pimping her.

One day, about fifteen years ago, I woke up to find her gone. She left no note, no idea of where she went, or if she would ever come back. I became a hollow person. Sure, I wrote blog entries and articles, but the music was gone. The poetry was gone. The expression of the heart was gone. My love of life was gone, too.

During the past few years my health caused me to believe she was gone for good. I even resigned myself to a life without making music and began to be okay with that. Then, this week happened. I heard her song as from a distant land and I had to follow it. She was not so far away as I'd thought, just standing in the shadows, waiting for me to come to a place in my understanding that I could hear her and see her. We are experiencing a reunion that is so beautiful, I cannot even begin to put it into words for you.

I have learned a valuable lesson, quite possibly the main lesson of my life. I've learned that the minute we begin to believe that art owes us something--a career, money, fame--it ceases to be what it is supposed to be in our lives. Art owes us nothing. It being what it is is enough. Supplying us with fame and fortune is not its purpose. If we acquire those things, fine, but if we do not, we abuse it if we start making demands. I don't mean that we shouldn't try to build careers in the arts, I'm talking about a lack of gratitude, of not being grateful of having been blessed with the talent to express ourselves. I'm not sure that I'm articulating myself well--I haven't been to bed yet--but it has something to so with placing expectations on art that reduce its purpose in our lives.

Many years ago, Maestro Salazar told me that he loved the Latin word, amateur.

"It means, 'love of the doing'. So when I call someone an amateur musician, it's the highest compliment that I can pay them."

After all these years of scratching and clawing to be a professional musician, I've come full circle. I want to be an amateur.

Fanning the Spark

After Easter dinner, we were all sitting around the living room and, as often happens, the talk between Micah and I turned to music. Micah has a recording studio, where he creates his albums, which astonish me. I've been thinking for some time (I might have even written about it here--I'm not sure) of writing some music for an album. A sort of last gasp from the musician I used to be kind of thing. You know what I mean? Anyway, he said that he'd be very happy to produce one for me, and even play some of the instruments on it. Imagine! Both of us on an album together! We would be continuing a tradition my dad and I started when he backed me up on drums on a recording I made for Paul McCartney in 1980.

The music won't be classical, although it will probably have some classical elements such as background orchestration and structure, but I'd also like to do some songs by people who have influenced me through the years. Which do I want? An album of new material or a tribute album? I have to sort this through, because I don't think I want to combine these concepts. Maybe I could, I don't know. I'm just in the thinking phase of this, trying to oh, so gently coax my muse back into my life.

Another decision I have to make is, what kind of 12-string do I want? I've always played a 12-string -- it's my signature instrument -- but my last one got auctioned in The Big Dump of 2001, along with all of my other instruments and all of my music. Maybe my muse was auctioned that day as well...

I can't afford to buy a new guitar, of course, but I can dream. Hey, a person has to start somewhere, and who knows? One might fall into my lap somehow. The only thing I do know is that I can't record an album without one. So which do I put out into the universe as the 12-string guitar I simply cannot live without? (The links below take you to brief examples of each guitar's sound.)

The Takamine 12-string. I had one of these for years and I adored it. I was heartsick when someone broke into my house and stole it. I grieved for months over that guitar; it was like having a child kidnapped.

The Takamine (pronounced tock-a-MEE-nee) has a full, resonant tone that is really perfect for chords, especially when I tune it to an open tuning. It has a visceral effect on me, the same resonating effect on my body that a pipe organ has, only not in my butt. Let me explain. Have you ever sat listening to a pipe organ, and the organist steps on those bass pedals and you can feel it rumbling through the floor and the seat right into your butt? That's what the Takamine does, only through my body.

But then, I might want, instead...



...an Ovation 12-string. I've never owned an Ovation, but I've played plenty of them and I love the crisp, bell-like tone that's created by the rounded metal back. If you've ever heard We Just Disagree by Dave Mason, that singing, angelic rhythm guitar is an Ovation. It's really good for picking patterns and solo riffs.

Ideally, I would have both guitars, but life doesn't seem to go that way. I'll probably get neither, but thinking about them reconnects me to a me who got lost somewhere 'way back when, a me who is desperately trying to find its way home, like a dog that travels miles and miles to find its family.

So while I'm dreaming these fragile dreams, I'd appreciate it if Life didn't piss on my parade and put out the little spark I'm trying to fan.

Onto other things...

I woke up this morning after one of those all too rare great nights of sleep. The weather is beautiful today, so I'm going to be dragging all of the plants out onto the patio to feed and water.

Have a good one!

Life in a Fish Bowl

The landlord has scheduled a showing of our house today at 2:00 in the afternoon. I hope that the first looky-loos take it, which is doubtful, so that means that we'll be living in a fish bowl for who knows how long. Of course, we'll be looking at houses, too, so I guess I can't complain. We're hoping to look at a house we drove by over the weekend. If we like the inside, we're taking it immediately, although we can't move in until August first.

I hate moving, but Nettl and are really looking forward to simplifying by downsizing by about 600 square feet. We're really warming up to a more cottage life, with a big back yard full of trees, and putting in flower beds and a vegetable garden together. Sure, I'd rather be moving to Vienna like we wanted, or California, but we have to be realistic here. Maybe one of those will come later. Meantime, we'll make the best of things. We have a great family, so anywhere we live will be warm and homey.

A Tale of Two Fridges

This is the fridge I had from the time I got my first apartment in 1970 until I moved to Stillwater in 2000. My parents bought it in 1959. I grew up with that fridge. When I last saw it, it was still running great. Sure, it had to be defrosted from time to time, but it ran and ran, and ran and ran. I loved that old fridge. It was dependable and fairly quiet, considering it was over 40 years old.

This is the fridge that came with this house when we moved in in 2004. It was only one year old then, which makes it not quite six now. Within the first year, the icemaker quit working, then, almost immediately, the water thing in the door slowed down to a painful drip-drip. Since then, we've been buying bagged ice to put in the bin, although the ice dispenser also quit working.

On Saturday, the day before Easter dinner, to which we'd invited a friend, it quit altogether. Sure, it's still running, but the fan is just blowing recycled air, which is getting warmer by the hour. We've gone through four bags of ice, brought in the Coleman cooler, and our food is spoiling. Until I get a check from my client (which could a week or more), we can't go get groceries, so the entire situation is driving me nuckin' futz. We've called the landlord twice, who says the repair guy won't be here until afternoon. Meanwhile, I seethe, worry, and grow wearier and wearier of never getting a farking break.

This morning I spent two hours --TWO HOURS-- taking all of our little German vocabulary and "LOL Cats" magnets off of the fridge doors. What a pain! Those will not be going up on the new fridge doors, because I'll just have to take them down in July before we move.

On a positive note, yesterday was WONDERFUL! We had such a great time, probably the best holiday dinner ever. Thanks to everyone who made it so enjoyable.

Easter Schmeaster - Pass the Lamb

It was an exciting day, Easter Sunday, when I was a kid. New white patent-leather shoes with a matching purse, a new frilly dotted-swiss dress, a little hat and white gloves. Truthfully? I was like Idgie Threadgoode in Fried Green Tomatoes. I didn't want to wear that crap, but my grandmother worked as County Clerk at City Hall and spent a lot of money on my new Easter outfit every year. As I posed with my mom and brother in front of the willow tree, my dad opened up his Polaroid Land Camera and took a picture of us and then it was off to church. Afterward, we'd come home and I'd hunt for Easter eggs in the yard. Of course, I'd woken up earlier to find an Easter basket full of candy and that clingy green plastic grass.

We weren't a devout family until Mom "found Jesus" in Solvang, and that's when the Easter fun was over. Then it was about her trying to save my Dad's soul and me trying to wiggle out of spending two hours listening to a sermon about slaughtering lambs and singing songs about being washed in their blood ("Are you washed in the blood, In the soul-cleansing blood of the Lamb? Are your garments spotless, are they white as snow? Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?") That was --and is-- just grizzly to me, and I couldn't figure out how my new Easter garments could be white as snow if someone had spilled a bucket of lamb's blood all over me.

This was all forgotten though when Mom put the Easter ham dinner on the table. I remember asking her once why people eat ham at Easter. Her answer was, "Because we can. We're not Jews. Jesus changed the law when he rose from the dead." When I was a teenager, I saw this as a kind of slap in the face the Jewish people, sort of a "Neener-neener", and it pissed me off. It still kinda does.

Nowadays, our family celebrates both Easter and Christmas more like my family did before the evangelical bug bit us in our collective ass (we had a large, close family until my mom became a born-again and alienated us from everyone). They're cultural holidays for this new family, time to be together enjoying a lovingly-prepared meal amid much laughter and smiling faces, as we count our blessings.

Today in Stillwater, there will be no Easter eggs hidden in lush spring grass, because it's raining, and our refrigerator broke down yesterday, so Nettl is buying bags of ice to keep things cold until I can call the landlord tomorrow. But our friend Allen is coming over we'll all be together.

May you have a wonderful day today, however you celebrate it, or not.

Easter Today

Nettl: "Why don't you come over for Easter dinner?"

Allen: "Sure! I'd love to join the family in eating a little Lamb of God!"

True story.

We love Allen.

What the Hell is Wrong With Me!?

I'm grieving leaving this house as if I'd lived in it my entire life. I can't get a grip on this and I don't know why. Hell, in 1990 my parents left a house they'd lived in for 22 years, in an area they'd lived in for 46 years. They were excited to leave their three-bedroom suburban ranch-style tract house in California to move into a two-bedroom apartment in a crowded Denver suburb, at the ages of 65 and 72, and they did it with all the verve and expectations of a newly-wed couple in their twenties. They made new friends, found new restaurants, and were really happy that they'd made the change. Repeat: They were 65 and 72!!!

What the hell is wrong with me!?
All I'm faced with is moving to another house in the same town, maybe stepping down a notch, but not having to say good-bye to friends and family. I'm an effin' wuss and I seriously have to get a grip here. We've been in this house for a piddling five years. Yeah, there are memories, but big whoop! Not as many as my parents' house had.

When did I get so afraid of change--old hippie "All Things Must Pass" me? True, I've moved 38 times in 57 years, but still, when did I lose my love for new experiences?

In my defense, I must say that I'm a Libra and my home isn't just a box that I sleep and sit it. It's my ongoing work of art, the canvas of my personal expression. It's the physical manifestation of who I am and I put my very soul into every facet of my home--the decor, art, furniture placement, even my chotchkies and collectibles. That's why I'm picky about shoes left in the living room and towels half-thrown on the racks. Those things destroy the esthetics that are so intrinsic to my happiness.

But those are things that have always gone with me, regardless of where I've lived. It's just that this house is the nicest that I've ever had the pleasure to inhabit, and leaving it is very hard for me.

I think I need to keep my focus on my parents and garner inspiration from their courage. I don't like looking in the mirror and seeing a wuss.

Too Close For Comfort

Yesterday afternoon Nettl and I went out to take a look at the property on Yost Road, which is nly about two miles from here. It was wonderful! Ten acres, a large pond with a pier, trees, no housing developments. Everything a family would want... except that the house was a small dual-wide. And not even one of those nice dual-wides with a bay window and a deck. It was awful. Pity.

What impressed me was the line of charred prairie grass we saw, evidence that Thursday's wildfires had jumped the road. Before we saw the house I said to Nettl, "Maybe it's like in 'Garp': the chances of that happening here again are infintessimal!" Too bad the house was such a disappointment. Goodbye picnics, goodbye fishing, goodbye porch swing, goodbye screen door. Oh well. There are other houses, but the image of the charred land will stay with me forever.

The Search Begins

As much as I dread moving (this house has really become home to me and the thought of leaving makes me want to bawl my eyes out), I'm enjoying envisioning our family in different houses and environments.

This evening Nettl and I are going to look at a house that's about two miles from here that has really captured my attention and imagination. It's on a country road, with 10 acres of land and a private pond that has its own little pier. The house itself is only 9 years old and has all the room we need, plus we can have pets.

Romantic that I am, I envision a picnic table surrounded by family and friends, the distinctive slam of a back porch screen door, pitchers of lemonade, my hammock strung up between two old trees, and moonlit walks. I imagine singing John Denver songs and playing my guitar while sitting in a porch swing. I imagine putting in a vegetable garden and planting "grandma" flowers like Hollyhocks and Sunflowers. Hey, I grew up in just such a place, so this bucolic stuff is pretty attractive to me.

I try to imagine no college kids next door, no generators, no AC turbines, no fancy heat and air system, and no "boom-boom" car stereos. I try to imagine having money left over from the rent to actually buy food. Our last day here is the last day of July and I really, really don't want to move, but when the rent takes up an entire month's paycheck, something has to be done.

Of course, if money and family obligations were no object, I'd be moving to Vienna or Ventura, but for now, a house in the country sounds just fine to me.

To change the subject, our friend Alan (Dr. Scott, professor of Music History) is coming over for Easter dinner. That'll be fun. He's always entertaining. Man, I have to make Easter Eggs this weekend!

On yet another subject, I received a tea cozy yesterday that Deni knitted for me. It's so wonderful! I'll post a picture of it over the weekend. Thank you Deni, we LOVE it!!!

Bugger the Stalemate

I know that I shouldn't, but I pay a lot of attention to what bloggers write about other blogs, what they like and don't like, and what they read and don't read. Sometimes these critiques stay with me and sometimes I shrug them off.

I want mine to be a blog that entertains, informs, amuses, and gives people something to take with them through the day. Yeah, I know that's pretty idealistic, but is it wrong to aim high? Reading bloggers who criticise other blogs puts me in a mental stalemate. Should I change my blog's tone every time I read another one of these, trying to please everyone? Of course not.

Sometimes, this blog is silly (thanks to my 12 year-old sense of humor). Sometimes it's philosophical, and sometimes it's just plain boring. My blog represents me as a person, I guess -- a microcosm/macrocosm thing. I'm not naturally snarky, but I can be cynical. I'm not obsessed with writing about family, but there are times when they tickle the crap of me. I'm not at all political, but sometimes things piss me off or inspire me.

My blog isn't for everyone, although it's about as faceted as I am and may sometimes seem just schitzo enough to appeal to lots of people. So my take is that if someone doesn't like what they read here, they're under no obligation to come here. And I've neither expected nor sought a dedicated readership. The only thing a reader has to know about my blog is that my posts will continue to fluctuate between my innermost thoughts and my toilet humor. That's just me.

Nothing or no one inspired this post. I'm just in a weird place lately. There again, is another facet.

I Mean, Seriously!

In my years of combing the internet, I've seen a lot of weird stuff. But what is that!?

Is it you, Ruby Isabella? Have you learned to walk upright?

That weirds me right out!


Here it is, enlarged. I tell you, it's a walking dog!

Another Day at Ville's

I can't promise a witty, insightful, or interesting entry today. For one thing, it's too damned early. For another, I've only had one cup of coffee, but here I am at Ville's. That's Ville in her kitchen. I like when she's home, because she bakes things. For brecky I had a big slice of Banana nut bread slathered with sweet cream butter. She's up earlier than usual, and we're already talking about stupid shit.

The Monday Mutts

I enjoyed a thoroughly lazy weekend. I did nothing and went nowhere. It was perfect. But now it's time to go back to the real world (such as mine is) and get back to work. I've decided not to write entries on either Saturday or Sunday. As most of you know, writing every day can get old, and one runs the risk of writing entries from a sense of "blogligation", which always results in pointless, boring posts. Activity on the web slows down anyway, because most of us have lives, so unless something comes to me that I just have to share, I'll be blogging only on weekdays from now on.

With the inevitability of a move coming up at the end of July, we have to find a place that allows pets. We only have the one cat, but I want to get a dog. Don't get me wrong, I love cats, but I'm really more of a dog person. I've narrowed my search down to either a Miniature Schnauzer, or a Yorkshire Terrier. I've had a Yorkie before, and Nettl's had a couple of Schnauzers, so we're aware of the needs of each breed. Their personalities aren't all that different, really, so it's a hard choice. The thing that makes me shy away from a Yorkie is the upkeep--more hair, more care--especially in the nether regions. Yorkies can get Crusty Butt pretty quickly, and that's a pain. My Fritz needed to go to the groomer every six weeks, and that can get expensive.

So here's a question for Monday. Should I get:

1. A Miniature Schnauzer
2. A Yorkie
3. Both!

Have a great day!

No Energy Today

I woke up exhausted today; I'm even too tired to go down and make the coffee. I think I'll just not fight it and keep my ass firmly planted in this bed today. What I'm really craving is a bottle of San Pellegrino, but we don't have any. I think I'll survive that.

Plan for the day: Lots of editing, punctuated by an occasional nap.

Why I Go

The best moments that we spend with friends--those moments that we remember forever--are not those that we have planned, designed, catered, or engineered. Think about it. When did you ever attend a friend's wedding and then remembered it years later as the best time you spent together? Those times are always stilted and unnatural, and we're glad when they're over.

A week or so ago I was going through a kind of nostalgic phase during which I spent a lot of time lamenting that I hadn't fully appreciated the times I'd spent with friends in the past. "If only I'd known that was the last time..." became the key phrase that I repeated in my mind. Well, that's okay, because I learned from it. I learned that those moments are never planned. They just happen and often they happen when we're not in the mood for them and we opt to sit at home instead of enjoying the spontaneity from which happy memories spring.

I learned a valuable lesson through all that. That's why I've spent some days at Ville's house when my lazy Inner Bum told me I'd rather sit at home. I realized, however, that Ville will be home only for six weeks or so and then she'll be back at work and these days will be over. That's why, although I have to get up at the butt-crack of dawn after only an hour or two of sleep, I will go to her house when she needs or wants me. I'm preparing for that day about twenty years from now when, if I didn't go, I'd kick myself for not seizing the moment.

May you seize all those moments that you might pass by if you're not aware of the brevity of Life.

Now I Know Why I Don't "Get" Twitter

As much as I've tried, I still don't get it. Now I know why.

Getting Back

Seems like Ville and I have been gone a for a long time. And we have. It's been at least eight years since I felt like my old Libra self. And I know it's been nearly that long since she felt her old Gemini oats. Yesterday we realized that we're getting back to the duo we were long ago--now that we're healthy again--and we wanted to share our re-emerging dynamics with the world.

To that end, we're starting a co-authored blog, 2 Stus Review, and we'd like to invite you to visit. It's nothing yet, but give us time. We'll be working on it together tomorrow when I go back over to spend the day with her.

May the Lord help you all.