Seinblog

iQuit

2011-11-10T22:30:00.000-08:00

The world has officially passed me by.

It seems I’ve been spending more and more time just attempting to keep up with it. And really, I’m not even keeping up, I’m just attempting to fall behind-er as slowly as possible. I’ve gotten tired of the losing battle. I’ve given up.

I can’t keep up with technology. I don’t want five remotes to figure out, 500 channels to cruise or the ability to watch three shows at the same time while recording two more. I just want to see a damned episode of HOUSE, find out what the weather is going to do tomorrow, and shut the thing the hell off. It would be nice to be able to pop in a DVD, but the menu of 17 parameters I must choose from in order to play it sucks the fun out of it. Just PLAY it, for god’s sake.

I don’t want a car commanded by computers and co-dependent on electronic components. I’d like to be able to manually open my windows in case said computers go belly up and refuse to let me out of my electronically-sealed vehicle. I’d like to not have to study hieroglyphics to understand the cryptic symbols that randomly light up on the dashboard next to the dials and meters that measure stuff I don’t understand. I need to know how fast I’m going and how much gas I’ve got. A radio would be nice. And build the damned thing so that it doesn’t take a genius with a PhD to change the oil.

I don’t want a smart phone. I don’t own one and hope I never will. Using a freakin’ phone shouldn’t be so much work – and it sure shouldn’t cost so much. I don’t want to surf the net, check emails, look up the answers to trivia questions while at dinner with friends or take photos and videos. I don’t have time to learn all that garbage and I don’t want to. It’s a PHONE, for crap’s sake. I just want it to make calls, get calls, and indulge in the occasional text message. I want to push a button and know that I’m going to be connected with the person I’m calling – not accidentally be taking a video of the inside of my ear.

I don’t have time for all the social media stuff. I have no desire to post my every move to Facebook or Twitter or TwitSpace. And I don’t want to have to wade through posts about your kid’s runny nose, or hear your religious or political rants just to be able locate some actual conversation I was having. It’s too damned tedious and steals minutes of my life I can’t get back.

I can’t keep up with computer and software upgrades. It would be a full time job just to keep abreast of all the advancements and changes in the software I use every day. My computer is now too outdated (at just a few years old) to upgrade the operating system and graphic design software further. I’d have to buy a new computer and all new software and spend about $5000. WTF!? I have a perfectly good computer and perfectly fine software. Why must you keep changing and upgrading and making it more complicated and expensive? Is it REALLY necessary to change the entire interface and all the toolbars EVERY SINGLE UPGRADE? There’s no way I can keep up financially or intellectually. I got a life going on here, I can’t devote the hours it would take just to wrap my brain around the latest thing, especially when I know what I learn is going to be outdated in a few months when the NEXT thing comes out.

I believe we have officially reached the point of diminishing returns with technology. Technology is supposed to make life easier and save us time. It’s gotten to the point where it instead sucks away our time and makes us RUN to keep up. We are slaves to technology, instead of the other way around.

So put down the gadgets once in awhile. There’s a whole real world out there. You oughta take a look at it sometime.

Lookin' out my back door

2011-09-21T11:32:00.000-07:00

One of my very favorite things to do is sit outside on my deck – that is, in fact, where I am as I am writing this. Though I’m in the middle of a neighborhood, the backyard is so densely foliated that I’m essentially invisible. Acacia, Eucalyptus, Willow, Pine and other trees keep me shielded from view. One of these trees, a large Acacia, leans over the deck at a precarious angle. It sheds annoying seed pods most of the summer, but also provides lovely afternoon shade. Alas, it’s scheduled to be cut down, as the angle of the lean is reaching the edge of what the laws of physics will support. Afternoon shade will become the responsibility of the smaller trees behind it. The shade won’t be as rich, and will come later in the day, but at least it won’t be raining seed pods.

The deck itself extends the complete length of my garage studio. It’s populated by pots full of jewel toned petunias that grow and bloom with abandon but that don’t play well with others – they’ve all but choked the poor pansies, marigolds and lavender out of the pots. But they take the heat, the rain, the fog, the cold – they just TAKE it, and claim their space and hold their ground and bloom brilliantly where they are planted. If only we all had that sort of resilience.

The morning glories I grew from seedlings are starting to flower. Anybody who knows my sleeping habits knows how useless it is for me to have a plant that blooms in the morning and whose flowers have faded by afternoon. In retrospect, I’d be better suited to moonflowers, as I miss most of the glory. But when I get up to pee at 6am, I peek out the window and am greeting by brilliant red and blue blooms among emerald green leafy vines.

The rightmost railing of my deck is home to a big, prolifically flowering star jasmine vine. Densely populated with tiny white star-shaped blooms, it is a magnet for hummingbirds and honeybees. At night, the sweet heavy scent of the blossoms wafts through the open window and fills my sleeping area with its perfume.

The yard, a rambling, eclectic collection of grasses, wildflowers and fruit trees, grows as nature intends it. The underground stream keeps the water table high, and the entire yard is self-maintaining. The plum tree becomes laden with plump purple fruit at the end of July. Two kinds of apple trees and a pear tree bear fruit most of the summer. The walnut tree has seen better days, but it graces me by dropping a few nuts each fall. The persimmons turn flaming orange in the late fall, and remain on the tree long after the leaves have fallen. Nature’s Christmas ornaments.

Surrounding one side of the property is a blackberry thicket about 30 feet deep. Blackberry thickets are nature’s ultimate home security system. Nothing larger than a small fox can creep through that thorny mass without having its flesh stripped off the bone. You'd have to wear chainmail to get past unscathed - it’s more effective protection than a moat filled with piranha. The downside of the blackberry’s protective nature is that it thinks it owns the place. Left unattended, the bushes would take over the yard and consume the house inside of a year. In consolation, the bushes offer up succulent, sweet, delicious berries in abundance. As with all things, it’s give and take.

People, birds, and miscellaneous four-legged critters enjoy the fruit. The deer love to munch the fallen plums and apples. Birds adore the blackberries (although I don’t enjoy washing the resulting purple bird poop off the deck.). The raccoons will strip the persimmon tree bare if I don’t get to it first. I don’t know what the little grey fox eats. But it loves to come out in the late mornings and sun itself at the edge of the blackberry thicket.

At night, a symphony of crickets and tree frogs provide background music. During the daytime, the soundtrack is a combination of natural and manmade. Birds. Rustling trees, and the neighbor’s collection of wind chimes – the tiny, tinkling ones when the breeze is light and heavy, deep-toned ones when it’s gusty. If the wind is blowing the right way, the voices of children on the nearby school playground can be heard. Sometimes the evening breeze will bring me a muffled high school football game, complete with marching band. The neighbors to my west play music outside some afternoons. They listen to classic rock, which is my favorite. Not all the sounds are soothing; today’s playlist includes the chainsaw and woodchipper symphony in F major .

One of my neighbors has chickens. I can’t see them, but I can hear them. It makes me smile; I have an affinity for chickens. I do not have an affinity for roosters, so I’m happy their menagerie doesn’t include them.

I have a little side yard too that’s kind of a mini-version of the back yard. It’s got its own star jasmine bush and blackberry sentries. Lovely, climbing red rose vines bloom all summer long. My additions include more petunias and morning glories, and snap dragons. There are all manner of leafy vining plants covering the fence – if the fence is even under there any more.

There are big garden spiders that build enormous, intricate round webs suspended by threads strung from one side of the yard to the other (a 20 foot span) and from the ground to a tree limb (8-10 feet). I have no idea how they get these supporting girders strung. But they do it with no building permits, no committee meetings, no unions, no blueprints, and no assistance, using only materials that they shoot out of their butts. If the web gets knocked down, it’s completely remade in 24 hours. The spiders only come out at night. Sometimes I come out after dark with a flashlight and watch them work. If humans could be that single-minded and focused and resourceful, imagine what they could accomplish. I hate spiders, and these spiders are among the creepiest, ugliest varieties I’ve seen. But I have so much respect and admiration for their ingenuity and work ethic that I leave them alone.

I love my place. When I’m away from it, I can’t wait to come back. When I take a ‘vacation’, this is where I want to be. But since I live here, that kinda makes every day its own vacation. There is beautiful, peaceful energy here that is sacred to me and essential to my well-being. I’m protective of this beautiful space and selective about whom I invite in to it. Though I’m only a renter, we’re all nothing more than renters on the planet in the grand scheme of things. I don’t own the property, nor does it own me. We’re all here solely because we want to be. And that’s really the only reason to ever be anywhere.

UnRomanced

2011-02-09T12:14:00.000-08:00

Lately, I’ve lamented the demise of romance in general and romance stories in particular. So-called “romance” novels are nowadays filled with explicit sex, graphic violence and cocky, arrogant men with bad, bad manners. Sex has replaced love and romance (um…they’re not the same thing. Not even close.). Gone is the deliciousness of sexual tension. Instead, stories are filled with explicit sexual encounters that are contrived, add nothing to the story, and often commit the cardinal sin of jarring the reader out of the story. Additionally, “romance” novels now often include graphically violent plots told in far too much grisly detail.

Is this really what people want to read?? The prevalence of such novels on bookshelves suggests that it is. Must we continually up the ‘shock value’ to reach an audience? Yes, apparently.

It’s a sad, sad commentary on society. What in the world has happened to good old fashioned romantic love stories, told with metaphor and innuendo that leave the specifics to the reader’s own glorious imagination? That is sexy. Spelling it out in porno-graphic detail is a complete, eye-rolling, close-the-book-and-don’t-bother-reading-further, turnoff.

The most disturbing trend in the “romance” genre is the “paranormal” romance story – in which the protagonist or his/her love interest is some sort of sub- or non-human creature-zoid. People are having rampant sex with vampires, demons, werewolves, and a host of other un-dead or non-living entities as though it’s business-as-usual at the neighborhood hookup bar. Okay, I readily admit that pickins’ in the human realm can be pretty slim sometimes. It’s bad enough having to weed through the smarmy drunks with beer bellies and receding hairlines and their cliché come-ons…now I also have to worry about whether they are actually human? That adds a whole new layer of complexity to dating.

I have a rather extensive ‘laundry list’ of qualities I seek in a man. I am willing to negotiate on some of them. But if it’s too much to ask that the guy in question at least be human, I’m screwed.

Until the world comes to its senses, I suppose I’m going to have to amend my list of dating criteria to account for the possibility that a suitor may not be entirely…well, human.

I am a lady and expect to be treated as such. No uninvited groping, kissing, biting, or showing of fangs. Now, maybe you and your Therapist attribute these tendencies to the evil influence of your psycho-undead-creator-mentor, but from where I stand, behavior like that means your mama just didn’t raise you right. I’ll have none of it.
Please don’t be part of a Special Ops team who has pissed off some underground demon faction. It’s a real downer when our waiter at the restaurant shape-shifts into a banshee and comes at us with the salad tongs.
Eat normal food. If you order a glass of O-negative or a side of brains (thereby forcing me to add this restaurant to my “list of places I can’t go back to”), you are NOT getting a second date.
Practice full disclosure. I don’t wanna find out you’ve got a forked tongue, fangs, scales, or any extra body parts after I’ve invited you home for a nightcap.
If you can’t go out in the daylight without spontaneously combusting, walk beneath the full moon without morphing in to something wolfen, or walk past a church without convulsing, our dating options are severely limited. You’d better at least be able to cook because we’ll be staying home a lot.
Maybe money isn’t necessary on YOUR alternate paranormal plane, but it comes in pretty handy down here, bub. You’d better have your own ATM card; I’m NOT paying for everything.
You WILL learn to drive, hail a cab, and navigate public transit. I am not FLYING anywhere with you.
The fact that your parents are dead doesn’t bother me. The fact that you still want me to meet them does. I politely decline.
Please don’t be offended if I don’t pet your doggie. It’s not that I don’t like dogs. I’ve just never seen one that has three heads and breathes fire. As for YOU; please stop looking at my hamster like it’s some tasty exotic appetizer.
I don’t care how many cool supernatural powers you have. If you can’t fix a leaky faucet or unclog a toilet, you’re of no use to me.

Too restrictive? I suppose I could loosen a few items if you’re particularly charming and good-looking. Having a sense of humor (especially after having the life sucked out of you and being condemned to an existence of half-living) will also get you huge bonus points.

Mostly, I’m just looking for the same thing everybody else is looking for; the chance to live happily every after with somebody who won’t run at the first sign of conflict – whether it’s arguing about the position of the toilet seat, who folds the laundry, or who walks the three-headed hellhound.

Is that too much to ask?

All I want for Christmas....

2010-12-04T10:59:00.000-08:00

The characters:

Nervous little overweight bank teller.

Redhead, with a gun and an attitude, on a mission.

The scene:

A petite redhead in long black coat, wearing dark glasses, walks in to a Wells Fargo bank. She approaches the only available teller; a short, bespectacled, slightly overweight middle-aged man in round glasses who is wearing a tie with a commemorative Wells Fargo ‘ten years of service’ tie clasp.

Teller: How many I help you?

Redhead: (producing a bag and a small gun which she discreetly levels at the tellers’s tie clasp) Do exactly what I say, Mr. ‘ten years service’, and nobody has to get hurt.

Teller: oh my. (reaches for cash drawer)

Redhead: Don’t do that!

Teller: Don’t do what?

Redhead: Get your hand out of the cash drawer! Now!

Teller: What?

Redhead: You heard me.

Teller: You don’t want money?

Redhead: No. Keep your stinking money.

Teller: You want a cashier’s check?

Redhead: Don’t get cocky.

Teller: Well, what do you want then? We’re running out of choices.

Redhead: I want a Pony.

Teller: What?

Redhead: Do you have a hearing problem? I want a pony. Put the pony in the bag.

Teller: I can’t give you a pony

Redhead: I’m sorry, WHAT did you say?

Teller: Ponies are for customers who open new accounts only. I can’t just give them away. Do you want to open a new account?

Redhead: NO, I don’t want to open an account. I have THREE accounts here and I’ve been a customer for fifteen years. I deserve a damned pony.

Teller: (Leaning in closely so nobody hears him) Look, the ponies are limited issue. I’m not allowed to give them away.

Redhead: I. Have. A. Gun.

Teller: You don’t understand. If one’s missing, my boss will have somebody’s head. I can’t give you a pony

Redhead: You’re not giving me a pony! I’m stealing a pony! It’s not the same thing.

Teller: Oh. Well, you have a point there. But….no, I can’t. I’d get fired. I’m just a few years from retirement. I can’t risk it.

Redhead: I’m losing patience. Put the pony in the bag. Tell your boss I had a gun. He’ll understand. I’m probably on your security camera footage. You’ll have proof. You won’t get into trouble.

Teller: I’ll give you a hundred bucks.

Redhead: What?

Teller (digging into his pants pocket) A hundred bucks. Of my own money.

Redhead: I don’t want your money!

Teller: Okay, two hundred. That’s all I’ve got on me at the moment. I can write you a check if you want more. You can go buy any stuffed pony in town!

Redhead: I don’t want any stuffed pony. I want THAT stuffed pony.

Teller: You don’t understand. The last teller that gave away an unauthorized pony disappeared. We have no idea what happened to him.

Redhead: Look around you. There are ponies everywhere. You really think they’re going to notice ONE is missing?

Teller: The ponies are numbered. They’re counted and locked in the safe every night. I think they might even be microchipped.

Redhead: I’m not leaving until I get a pony.

Teller: (tapping on computer keys) Do you know you don’t have a money market account with us?

Redhead: That’s because I don’t have any money. Hence, I’m standing in the bank with a gun. See a pattern?

Teller: You don’t have to have money to open the account. You’ve got up to 90 days to make a deposit before the account goes inactive.

Redhead: Look, little man. I don’t want a money market account. I want a pony.

Teller: If you open a money market account, I can give you a pony.

Redhead: What?

Teller: You don’t even have to use the account. Just let it expire. You get a pony, I keep my job. Everybody wins. (Pause) I’ll put a hundred bucks in it for you. (digs out a Ben Franklin and lays it on the counter.) Here.

Redhead: Um….what do I have to do?

Teller: Do you have your ATM card with you?

Redhead: Sure.

Teller: Just swipe it in the little machine, there.

Redhead: Er….okay. Hold this. (Hands gun to teller).

Teller: Um. Oh my. Okay.

Redhead: (swipes card) Okay.

Teller: Type in your PIN please.

Redhead: Okay.

Teller: (hands gun back to redhead). Thank you. (types a few entries on his keyboard.) There. That’s it. Your account is set up. You’ve got a hundred bucks in it. And I added the customer appreciation bonus of $5.

Redhead: Do I get a pony now?

Teller: Yes. Do you want a receipt?

Redhead: NO, I just want the pony.

Teller: (hands redhead a pony). Here you go. Oh, and here’s another hundred bucks cash because you had to wait so long.

Redhead: Gee. Thanks.

Teller: Lightning.

Redhead: What? That better not be a code word to call security! I’ve still got a gun!

Teller: It’s the pony’s name. Lightning.

Redhead: How do you know the pony’s name?

Teller: All the Wells Fargo plush ponies are modeled after real horses that used to pull the old Wells Fargo wagons.

Redhead: Really?

Teller: Yes. You can look up the history of all the ponies on our website.

Redhead: Wow. Thanks.

Teller: You’re welcome. I hope you’ve had an outstanding experience at Wells Fargo.

Redhead: I’ll put in a good word for you with your boss.

Teller: Can you not mention the gun thing, please?

Redhead: Oh. Sure.

Walk This Way

2010-07-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

I am a lifelong rocker chick. A die-hard, classic-rock loving, unapologetic product of the 1970s and 80s – a time when music was actually music, not the repetitive, mind-numbing, noise-with-a-beat hip hop rap crap that passes for “music” these days.

When I discovered one my all-time favorite legendary rock-god bands was coming to a venue near me, I was in rock and roll heaven. Aerosmith! Steven Tyler: he of the big lips, wild hair and outrageous outfits. Joe F***ing Perry: guitar god extraordinaire. (I actually didn’t know his middle name was F***ing, but Steven Tyler repeated it so many times during the show that it must be true.) Sammy Hagar, The Red Rocker (whose followers are called Redheads), formerly of Van Halen, was opening. Yes! A night of fabulous music I wasn’t about to miss.

The Oracle Arena in Oakland is a huge venue, but my friend Carolyn, longtime Aerosmith fan club member, scored excellent seats. We were on the side, not far from the stage, elevated enough that we wouldn’t have our view blocked by anybody’s heads.

An early departure ensured that Friday rush hour traffic didn’t make us late. We got there with time to spare and sat outside the venue in the late afternoon sunshine, awaiting the opening of the doors. Excitement buzzed all around us.

But there was also something else.

It sounded like…yelling.

It was The Jesus Freaks.

No, they’re not a band. They're people that picket outside the venue, wearing tee shirts and carrying signs with slogans such as “Repent or Perish,” “Hell and Damnation” and “Sinners.”

And they were yelling. Screaming, really.

At us.

The artist side of me was tempted to go over and give them pointers on how improve their signs and tee shirts. They way overused boldfaced type, didn’t leave enough white space and had clashing font styles. But my benevolent intentions faded when they started screaming that we were all “sinners and fornicators” because we were here to see a rock and roll band.

Excuse me?

You do not even KNOW me. How do you presume to have any idea what kind of person I am, or am not?

I am the world’s most conservative rocker chick; always the most immaculately attired, ladylike, classy person in the bunch. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs, and I wasn’t there to fornicate (though I was somewhat negotiable on that last point). I was there to enjoy a night of kickass music and I didn’t appreciate being yelled at for it.

What is wrong with these people? We, the sinners, were all standing there quietly while they, the holy, were screaming “Sinners! Fornicators! You’re all going to hell! This doesn’t please God!”

And what YOU are doing DOES please god? What happened to the Golden Rule? You know, that whole ‘do unto others’ thing? Would YOU want to be yelled at and called names? Do you think YOUR behavior is pleasing to God? We’re the ones standing peacefully in line while you are waving your signs and screaming…and FILMING it, for craps’ sake. What, do you have some Christian Youtube site that features sinners and fornicators? The Aerosmith crowd was far more respectful than YOU were. I hope you don’t show up for the Disney on Ice performance next week. You’ll scare the bejesus out of the kiddies, telling them they’re going to hell and all. Not to mention the uncomfortable conversations you'll prompt when said kiddies ask "mommy, what's a fornicator?"

I’ll tell you who should go to hell – the concessions vendors inside the venue that charge $6.00 for a bottle of water. My friend and I bought two drinks, a pretzel and French fries and it cost $22. Now THAT is a sin.

The concert ROCKED. The crowd ranged from ten-year olds to senior citizens; there was every manner of person and attire imaginable. They were happy and well-behaved, and danced and sang along. I got ten bucks that says if Jesus could sing like Steven Tyler or play guitar like Joe Perry, he’d have had a rock band. That whole Son of God thing would have been a great draw; he could have belted out a rock ballad and healed people in the handicapped seats at the same time.

The Jesus Freaks were gone by the time the show was over; I’m glad they didn’t stay and pummel us with stones on our way out.

I’ve got no problem with any belief system that any individual cares to adopt. But I do have a problem with their passing judgment on people who do not share those beliefs. Different strokes. It takes every kind of people, as they say, to make the world go ‘round. So lighten up and be a little more tolerant and open-minded. Before you knock me, walk a day in my shoes. Who knows? You might like to Walk This Way.

Hope Floats

2010-07-12T13:09:00.000-07:00

On July 4, 1998, a week or so following my breast cancer surgery, I got the news from my doctor that, according to the pathology report and multiple scan results, my body showed no further sign of disease. Thereafter I’ve considered July 4 my personal Independence from Cancer Day.

Each year on this date I stop and reflect. I feel grateful. I feel relieved. I feel lucky.

But I also feel something else.

I feel ripped off.

With all the technological hoo haa my body has been put through, I should damned well have developed some super powers by now.

Peter Parker gets bit by ONE teensy radioactive spider and turns in to freakin’ spiderman.

Meanwhile, I’ve been injected with chemicals that light my internal organs up like Christmas trees, shoved inside gazillion-dollar pieces of machinery, and bombarded with every type radio, light and ultrasound wave known to science.

I have had so many radioactive isotopes injected into my body that my pee glows in the dark. I can rent myself out as a combination reading lamp/patio heater/bug zapper.

But do I have heightened senses? Incredible strength? Can I climb the side of my garage or shoot a web out of my butt? Do my spidey-senses so much as tingle?

No.

All those waves, all those isotopes, all those chemical dye injections, and I got buttkiss.

I’m not asking to become IronWoman or SuperRedhead or SpiderGirl.

I don’t need the dexterity to scale a skyscraper. Getting something off the top shelf of my closet without falling off the stepstool would be fine.

I don’t need xray vision. At this point I’d settle for being able to read a menu in a restaurant without my cheaters. Or to be able to find my cheaters in the first place.

I don’t need to be able to run faster than a speeding bullet or have catlike agility. It would make me happy to get to and from the mailbox in a reasonable amount of time and not bang my shin on the side of the bed every morning.

I don’t need the ability to bend steel with my bare hands. I’d consider it a major coup to break into a bag of potato chips. And would it be too freakin’ much to ask to be able to open a CD case or “twist off top” bottle without assistance?

I’m not looking for genius-level mental ability. Remembering where I put my car keys on any given day would be a good start. Not having to go back into the house three times after I’ve already locked the door because I’ve forgotten sunglasses, cell phone and purse would be nice. Balancing my checkbook – just once – would be enough.

I don’t have to have six-pack abs or look good in a neon superhero getup. Not needing an iron foundation garment to keep from spilling out over the top of my jeans will suffice. I suppose the ability to blind people with my lily-white legs in summertime is something, but unless I can distinguish between blinding the Good and blinding the Evil, it’s of limited value.

I'm not giving up; there is still hope that I will one day morph in to some semblance of a super heroine.

Until then, I do admit that I haven’t gotten COMPLETELY shortchanged by cancer. It has had its benefits.

I can fearlessly whip off my shirt and allow anyone who shows me a medical credential to cop a feel without embarrassment. I’ll proudly show my scars to anybody.

I’ve got full color images (some of them in 3-D) of all my internal organs. It beats ‘what I did on my vacation’ photo albums every time and makes quite the coffee table book to bring out at parties.

My man-made side (which I call the Bionic Boob) is permanently perky and sag-proof. It stands proudly against the ravages of time and gravity. While it’s not resilient enough to, say, deflect a bullet, it will serve as a floatation device should the airplane I’m on have to ditch in the ocean. I’m sure that my innate radioactivity can also be used as a locator beacon to guide rescue craft to my location.

I can't be counted upon to save you if the bus we're riding ends up teetering helplessly on the edge of a cliff or if the elevator we're in suffers a malfunction and plummets 50 stories. But if we ever end up traveling on the same trans-atlantic flight, you might wanna forego sitting beside the emergency exit and just take the seat next to me.

Charity Begins at Home

2010-06-21T16:39:00.000-07:00

Charities exist for every conceivable purpose: to bring food to the hungry, shelter to the homeless, clothing to the threadbare, medicine to the infirm, sanctuary to the displaced and help to the helpless.

Charity is good. I encourage people to enthusiastically champion a cause. But you needn’t wait for a disaster or look to a third-world country to do your part. I’m a firm believer that charity begins at home.

In keeping with that philosophy, I’d like to introduce you to my favorite cause.

It’s called Charity: Me.

By donating generously to Charity: Me you can sponsor your own Starving Artist.

The Starving Artist is an endangered breed. They can be found living in garages, crawl spaces, garden sheds, Volvos and other seemingly uninhabitable places. They hoard expensive art supplies that they afford by shopping in thrift stores, begging leftovers from friends’ refrigerators and busting up vending machines for spare change. You’ll often catch glimpses of them scurrying through the darkness on the way from Starbucks back to their hovel. They are rarely seen in the daytime. They care not where they live or what they have to do to survive, so long as they are free to indulge their creative spirit.

Starving Artists aren’t like other people. An inborn compulsion to immerse themselves in creative work renders them completely unable to function in normal society. They are not capable of holding a ‘real job.’ They are unable to show up on time, work in cubicles, play well with others, tolerate incompetence, feign affection for co-workers, or stomach office politics. They are prone to doodling in the margins of company reports, making copies of body parts on the Xerox machine and drawing unflattering caricatures of their bosses during staff meetings. They cannot be domesticated enough to be saddled with routine or a regular schedule. A Starving Artist is therefore largely unemployable, leaving them to survive solely on their god-given talents.

You, and Charity: Me can help.

Your monetary contribution can sponsor a Starving Artist, providing them with food, clothing, shelter, horse expenses and their daily infusion at the Starbucks Medical Center.

Many levels of participation are available.

$100 per month will ensure your Starving Artist a daily ration of medicinal beverage from Starbucks. This is critical to the creative process! The vast majority of bad art is the direct result of an improperly caffeinated Artist.

$175 per month will provide the basics of water, electricity, ultra-high-speed internet access and premium cell phone service with text messaging and multi-media capability for your Starving Artist. An additional $30 for cable TV will afford them dozens of channels filled with mind-numbing reality shows (which are the only respite an Artist gets from the incessant demands of the creative muse).

Starving Artists have a congenital defect that makes operating kitchen appliances impossible and, very often, dangerous. $350 per month will provide your Starving Artist delicious, nutritious food from the prepared foods section at Whole Foods while keeping them safely out of the kitchen.

$500 per month will pay your Starving Artist’s over-inflated insurance premiums, ensuring that they can afford prescription drugs to combat their multiple neuroses, the occasional Pap smear and, for more ‘mature’ Artists, the inevitable colonoscopy and menopause supplements.

Horses are a necessary form of therapy for the aforementioned neuroses, critical to the Starving Artist’s well being, and are not covered by the aforementioned medical plan. $750 per month will ensure that your Starving Artist’s horse has shelter, food, veterinary and farrier care and an endless supply of carrots and beer (don’t ask).

$900 per month will pay for a nice converted garage-studio in a suitably funky neighborhood and will keep your Starving Artist from wandering the streets, sleeping in public parks and showering at Wal-Mart. For an additional $120 you can put gas in their car, eliminating their need to push their vehicle into a no-parking zone, hide inside it, and wait for it to get towed to get from place to place.

In return for your generous contribution, your Starving Artist will provide you with photos, weekly email and Facebook updates, and most likely requests for more cash, since Artists rarely have any concept of numbers or spending. You’ll be kept apprised of your Starving Artist’s progress and given additional opportunities to fund their projects which will come to you in the form of pleading, begging, requests, demands and, eventually, threats and notarized legal documents.

You can be assured that 100% of every dollar you give goes directly to your Starving Artist. All operating costs for Charity: Me are covered by….well, there ARE no operating costs. Nevermind.

Remember, your Starving Artist’s rent is due on the first! Respond with your email address, credit card and bank account numbers and start contributing to Charity: Me today.

Twittering Through Time

2010-06-07T14:36:00.000-07:00

Like most of the internet-enabled world, I’ve been swept up by the whole online communication craze. Take Facebook, for example. Facebook has put me back in touch with friends I’d lost track of and feared I’d never find again. I can passively peek at their lives to check in (and up) on them, and can choose to interact often, seldom or never. It’s kind of a friendlier version of “Big Brother.” I get it.

The whole Twitter thing, though…that I don’t get. Oh, I suppose it’s useful for instant dissemination of critical information to the masses…such as a meteor hurtling toward Earth or a George Clooney sighting at Starbucks. But beyond that, people’s fascination with what others are doing, eating, thinking or feeling at any given time creeps me out. I don’t want to be ‘followed’ on Twitter any more than I want to be ‘followed’ in real life (unless it’s by the aforementioned handsome movie star). Nor do I think that my daily comings and goings would be of any interest to the rest of the world.

But it set me to thinking…what if instant, worldwide communication via Twitter had been available since…say, the beginning of time? If we looked back at the Twitter Archives, what historical events would we discover had been unknowingly foreshadowed?

To that end, I offer the following, which I’ve titled:

Famous Last Tweets:

“I am so exhausted! Those stupid Greeks can’t build worth shit – the wheels on that wooden horse are crap! We’re all spent from hauling it through the gates. Man, am I gonna sleep good 2nite. Will deal with it in the morning." – sent by TroyBoy at 10:43pm 4/23/1184

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“Show sucks but can’t sneak out. Tired of weirdo across the theatre that keeps staring at me. Think I’ll flip him off…” – sent by HonestAbe at 5:20pm 4/14/1865

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“Damn! Stuck on crow’s nest duty while there’s a party below deck! Nothing 2 look at up here and it’s FREEZING! Guess I’ll play some Farmville on FB...” – sent by TitanicDude at 11:32pm 4/14/12

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“OMG, I am like soooooo stoked about kicking some ass at Little Bighorn in the morning!” – sent by GeneralC01 at 9:00pm 6/24/1876

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“Arrgghhhh! I finally get a chance 2 take an afternoon nap and that stupid rumbling wakes me up! The weather 4casters suck, they said nothing about thunderstorms…Going to put in earplugs and go back 2 sleep!” – sent by PompeiiPaul at 1:10pm 8/24/0079AD

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“Thanks 2 my buddy 4 the suggestion to vacation on Oahu, soooo much nicer than the ‘big island’! Man, it’s a beautiful morning on the Harbor! The sky is so clear. Wow, I can see airplanes waaaaay out over the ocean….” – sent by HonoluluHal at 7:44am 12/7/41

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@Moses2U: “Look, you’re really starting to piss me off. If I let YOUR people go, I have to let EVERYBODY’s people go…give me ONE good reason why you think you’re so special...” – sent by MePharoahUnothing at 2:15pm 6/12/1890BC

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@Adam01: “Seriously, are all men so helpless? I don’t care what you pick, just bring me back something from the garden that I can make in to a pie already!” – sent by EdenEve 3:45pm 00/00/00

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“Weird weather day, must be big storms someplace nearby! Guess I’d better hop on the old broom and get a ride in befor” – transmission interrupted, sent by WitchOTheEast 12:14pm

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“Airships suck! No smoking rule all the way across the Atlantic is bullshit! We’re finally about 2 land, but I can’t stand it any more – I’m sneaking out 2 lite up! Shhh!” – sent by BlimpRider – 7:24pm 5/6/1937

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“WTF??? Idiot neighbor is still out building on his stupid boat even though it’s pouring down rain! What a maroon…” – sent by Matt24:39 2:15pm 1/14/2300BC

Horse Show Trainer's Diary

2010-05-24T13:20:00.000-07:00

This blog is dedicated to the few, the proud...the horse trainers.

Get up at dawn of crack. Fumble in dark, pull on mismatched outfit and head for horse show. Finally appreciate that Starbucks opens at 4am.

Arrive at showgrounds, get exhibitor numbers from office, try to organize riders and schedule for the day.

Have advil and coffee for breakfast.

Where are my riders?

Find riders for warm-up hunter class. School riders. Holler same three instructions fifteen times. Each.

Realize this is day one of five-day show. Enthusiasm wanes.

Get to in gate. 27 people ahead of you. Go to kiddy ring to school riders for crossbar class. Chew off what’s left of your fingernails praying nobody gets killed.

Go back to hunter ring. 29 people ahead of you now. Don’t ask how this happened.

Pop more advil and one of those little white pills that you hoard. Say silent prayer of thanks that they only drug test horses, not trainers.

Pass porta potty for the 18th time. Make mental note to stop next time.

Have 22nd cup of coffee. Look at watch. It’s 9am. Resolve to stop looking at watch.

School equitation riders. Realize your feet are starting to hurt.

While watching rider in equitation ring, hear announcement that hunter ring is holding gate for you and your rider. Run like hell to ring. Make rider jump two fences in warm-up area and send her in for her round.

Rider goes off course.

Bang head against railing. Spook pony next to you. Apologize. Pony rider’s trainer gives you understanding, sympathetic smile.

Great, now your head hurts too. Pop more advil.

Did I pee yet?

Bad news: Wind speed measured at 45 mph. Good news: nature’s facelift.

Run to horse show office to put rider in class she forgot to enter. Pain from aching feet beginning to eclipse headache.

Frantically attempt to be in three places at once. Fail miserably.

Stop at beer tent. Who cares if it’s 10am?

Run back to barn to organize riders for medal class. In a spastic fit of poor judgment, tell 15-year old rider she can braid her own horse. Feet are now killing you.

Make mad dash for pony arena.

Say… that’s a nice bike.

Ride bike to ring to school pony riders. Discover your pony rider has painted her pony’s hooves with purple glitter.

Attempt to find solvent capable of removing purple glitter.

Kid who braided her own horse shows up at in-gate.

Attempt to find braider to re-braid horse.

Finally get to use porta potty. Pop more advil and check to make sure your breath doesn’t smell like alcohol.

Ignore loudspeaker announcement re: missing bicycle

Head back to hunter ring to watch rider in adult amateur class. Try to maintain composure while Run Dobbin, Run! plays out in front of you.

Attempt to explain to pasty-faced amateur who hasn’t two brain cells to rub together why it was NOT a good idea to leave a stride out of the outside line.

Covet thy neighbor’s beer.

Make panicked attempt to locate rider called back for medal class workoff. Find her in photographer’s tent watching video of World Cup Finals.

Run to jumper ring to school rider for jumper class.

She wins!

Thank your mother, your teachers, the Academy, and God. Reaffirm your confidence as a horse trainer.

Run to hunter ring to school kid for children’s hunter class.

Explain for the fifteenth time why purple and pink saddle pads are NOT a good idea for hunter classes.

Watch rider chip all 8 fences.

Make mental list of occupations you could still go to school for.

Get to exhibitor barbeque late. They inform you they are out of barbeque.

Must. Control. Fist. Of. Death.

Go back to beer tent and drink dinner.

Return “borrowed” bicycle.

Go back to barn, make sure horses get legs wrapped and are fed and blanketed for the night.

Look at watch and are horrified at time. Make mistake of mentally calculating how many hours sleep you will get. Make bigger mistake of mentally calculating how much you actually make per hour.

Resolve to check out your options next time Starbucks has a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window.

Spend half an hour looking for car keys in barn office.

Find car keys in coat pocket.

Get home after midnight.

Repeat above scenario for 4 more days.

Realize that this is only the first horse show out of 8 this summer.

Take more pills, drink more beer, yank alarm clock out of wall, threaten husband and children with bodily harm if they wake you, and go to bed.

Resolve to look into witness protection program on Monday.

When you care enough to send...

2010-05-10T14:42:00.000-07:00

Like anyone with an entrepreneurial spirit, I’m always looking for the ‘next big thing.’ You know, like pet rocks or mood rings or some equally useless item that, regardless of the fact that it serves no purpose, everybody simply has to have. All it takes to be a gazillionaire is one good original idea. You sell a few hundred million of whatever-it-is then take the money and run. Hello, retirement on a private tropical island! What could be easier?

Okay, there are a few flies in my get-rich-quick-scheme ointment. I’ve had no shortage of good ideas, but I’ve got zero investment capital and little marketing savvy. Executing my grand notions has always proved logistically or financially infeasible. I needed a product that was simple, inexpensive, and – since I’m keen on keeping business in the USA – home grown.

It took much consternation and gnashing of teeth before I realized, one day while I was at the barn, that the answer was right in front of me. It’s uncomplicated. It’s abundant. And it is home-grown. Literally.

It’s the Manure-o-Gram.

There endless ways to Say It With Manure. “My new job stinks.” “Sorry you got dumped.” “Just dropping in to say hi.” “The muck stops here.” “Heard you feel like crap.” “So…it finally hit the fan?” Or the ever-popular, all-purpose “Shit Happens.”

Manure is amazingly versatile. Individual nuggets occur naturally in a variety of sizes, shapes, colors and textures, depending on the size of the horse and the particulars of its diet. Manure sculptures can be crafted for any occasion. Manure makes an ideal football (great for Superbowl parties), a terrific scale replica of Mt. Eyjafjallajökull for science projects (add water for optional lava flow effect!), and, for all those Star Wars theme parties, an eerily realistic likeness of Jabba the Hut.

Want to make a truly unforgettable impression? Consider the Flaming Manure-o-Gram. Manure is in itself an incendiary device and easily combusts into a variety of fragrant, flickering colors. Firm manure also makes a fabulous receptacle for birthday candles, making the Birthday Manure-o-Gram a great alternative to those boring store-bought cakes. Individual nuggets also fit perfectly into standard cupcake wrappers.

Manure completely retains its character when flattened and compressed, so you can even slip it in to birthday cards and standard envelopes. Try it with your favorite-shaped cookie cutters! Never mind those pesky postal regulations that prohibit mailing of organic matter…what the post office doesn’t know won’t hurt it.

The applications are infinite, limited only by one’s imagination and/or tolerance for horse crap. While they may be received with varying degrees of enthusiasm, one thing is certain: no matter what the occasion, a Manure-o-Gram will be one gift that’s never forgotten.

Manure-o-Grams are completely green, organic and natural. And since horses are strictly herbivores, Manure-o-Grams are 100% suitable for your most pretentious vegan friends. Horses roam freely and aren’t fed hormones or other unnatural substances, making Manure-o-Grams perfect gifts for animal rights activists. Environmentalists will love that Manure-o-Grams are completely biodegradable – just toss them in the yard when you’re finished with them. Or, put them in your flowerbed and you’ll have the best looking pansies in town. A Manure-o-Gram is literally a gift that keeps on giving.

Best of all, production of Manure-o-grams requires little overhead and zero cash output. You don’t even have to own your own horse to be a distributor. All you have to do is find the nearest equine and follow it around for five minutes. Voila! You've got your quota for the day. There’s not a horse owner alive that cares if somebody else carts off a wheelbarrow full of manure; we don’t care what you do with it as long as we don’t have to pick it up ourselves. You've essentially got an endless supply of free raw materials.

Next time the doorbell rings on your birthday, anniversary or mother’s day, you may be lucky enough to receive your very own Manure-o-gram.

Give someone crap today. Just call us at 1-800-GET-POOP.

Manure-o-Grams: When you care enough to give a shit.

Skirting the Issue

2010-05-03T14:05:00.000-07:00

Women are endowed with innate weaponry. Weapons we can choose to conceal or reveal, but that we don’t need a license to carry. Weapons that must be used responsibly and judiciously, and that must be wielded with care. Because, like guns, women are always loaded.

Every once in a great while, I bring out this natural arsenal. Like the time I volunteered to build new bridle and saddle racks for the tack room at the barn. I had an impressive collection of tools and an equally impressive ability to use them. But there’s one thing I didn’t have: a vehicle big enough to carry uncut lumber. None of the hardware stores cut lumber for the customers anymore; it didn’t matter how much you begged or pleaded. At the time I didn’t have an available friend with a pickup truck.

But I had something better.

Cue the ZZ Top song She’s got Legs.

I arrived at Orchard Supply Hardware wearing my little short skirt and spike heels, calling upon years of theatrical training to convey complete helplessness. This was the kind of place where people (mostly men) shopped in jeans, sneakers and overalls. The moment I stepped through the door, I looked like a fish out of water.

Eggggggggggggsellent.

I tippy-toed about the store in my stilettos. They clicked on the concrete floor, echoing across the aisles. The ears of every male within a 200-foot radius immediately perked the way my horse’s ears did when he heard the sound of a snapping carrot.

Click click click click. Pause at a tool display and stare at it like it’s an alien life form.

Click click click click. Pause in front of paint display and look at all the pretty colors.

Click click click click. Pause in front of lumber display and adopt expression that is both vacuous and pensive (try this, it’s not easy, I had to practice in front of the mirror). Reach out and gently stroke lumber.

Five young men sporting OSH uniforms appear out of nowhere and surround me like they are Pit Bulls and I am a pork chop.

All five say in unison: “May I help you?” while vying for the coveted me, me, pick me! position.

Me: Big sigh followed by big, more vacuous, doe-eyed stare. “Well…..I need four pieces of lumber, but I know you don’t cut lumber here…” (employing my best I just lost my puppy tone) “…and it’ll never fit in my little car.”

They run into and over each other grabbing lumber for me. Boards fall over domino-style. Two of them grab the same piece and I fear a fistfight will break out over who gets to carry it for me. It looks like a Three Stooges movie.

“We’re not supposed to cut it,” one of them winks, “But we can do it.”

“I’ll get the hacksaw,” another one says, lighting up like a Christmas tree.

“I’ll get it,” the third one says.

“No, I’ll get it,” the fourth one says.

The fifth one was ahead of them all and had already split to claim the sole hack saw they kept hidden in the back room.

Click click click click. I followed the lumber, which was being borne with all the pomp and circumstance of an emperor in a rickshaw, to the workbench area, where I stood and watched in vacuous fascination as they meticulously measured and drew lines and cut. The hacksaw was a tiny, old thing and took a lot of manpower to chew through the two by fours. There were four boards and five employees; one of them didn’t get to cut anything. He seemed wholly disappointed. He did, however, get to carry the lumber to the register and to my car for me.

Click click click click. The other four stood vying for position at the door with goofy smiles on their faces as I left. It didn’t matter that I was old enough to be some of their mothers. Their eyes never ventured any further north than the hem of my skirt. Not a one of ‘em could have told you what color eyes I had.

I drove off, waving at them.

The second I got home I doffed the stilettos and skirt and put on jeans, a tee shirt and my work boots. Then I hauled out my own tools and started building. Before you could say Dude Looks Like A Lady, I’d built and painted three bridle racks and two saddle racks.

The skirt and the stilettos are still in my closet, patiently waiting, like magical talismans, for their next assignment. Someday, I’ll need to build something again. And I know that if I need to build it (and if I wear the skirt and shoes), they will come.

The Asphalt Jungle

2010-04-19T15:57:00.000-07:00

It was the first spring after I’d moved into the little garage studio in older, rural West Petaluma. The neighborhood gardens were ablaze with color in the form of wisteria, lilac, daffodils, tulips, roses and innumerable wildflower species. Some of them had been purposefully planted and lovingly nurtured. Others just grew with abandon at nature’s whim. They adorned the yards of the beautiful Victorian houses like living jewelry and infused the air with a symphony of scents.

I had just taken a stroll through the neighborhood, gathering a bouquet of wildflowers (okay, and some not-so-wild flowers, but the neighbors had plenty and wouldn’t miss them). As I walked home down my old asphalt driveway, something caught my eye. In several places along the retaining wall that separated my driveway from the neighboring property the asphalt was starting to crack and buckle upward. Continental drift? Tectonic plate movement? I hardly thought so.

I stepped on a few of the cracks and tamped them back down with my foot. I promptly forgot about it, until a few days later when I noticed the asphalt was once again cracking and buckling…and that something had emerged…no, something was growing…from beneath it.

I looked more closely. I wasn’t hallucinating…a plant was growing up through the asphalt. THROUGH the asphalt. I found a dozen breaches where spiky little spears were pushing their way through the driveway.

WTF? What kind of weird-ass alien plant life form can grow through three inches of asphalt?

It looked just like the plants on the other side of the retaining wall – a stand of bamboo trees the neighbors had planted along the property line.

That’s what it was. Bamboo. Their bamboo was growing through my driveway.

Bamboo doesn’t propagate like most plants. Instead of dropping seeds, it sends out underground shoots. Said shoots eventually burst forth to form new plants. They grow at an amazing rate of speed. Turns out the spiky little bamboo shoots can grow through just about anything. Rocky soil. Clay. Asphalt.

Flesh.

I’m not kidding. The ancient Chinese used bamboo as a form of torture. Victims were suspended over or tied to a bed of bamboo shoots. The rapidly growing spikes tunneled right through their flesh, muscle and internal organs.

I saw an episode of the show “Mythbusters” that addressed this phenomenon. They had a human torso made of ballistics gel (a substance that approximated the density of human tissue) that they placed over a bamboo bed. Sure enough, in a matter of a few days the shoots had grown right through poor old Buster.

You may at first think this gruesome. But if bamboo can grow through flesh and asphalt, imagine the useful applications. Like planting a bed of bamboo underneath the furniture cushions in your living room. That oughta get your couch-potato boyfriend’s lazy ass off the sofa. Similar tactics might also encourage your neighbor to move that eyesore junker Oldsmobile off your side of the street. Use it to encourage the guest that won’t leave to get the hell out of your favorite recliner. Slip the stuff under a mattress and it’s pretty much guaranteed to get even the most un-motivated teenager out of bed before noon.

Bamboo cannot be conquered via normal plant warfare. You can’t just pull the shoots up like weeds, they are far too firmly rooted – hell, they’re still connected to the mothership. And they’re tough. I couldn’t break them with my best Tae Kwon Do side kick (I could hear the voice of my Tae Kwon Do instructor, Grandmaster Kang, in the back of my head, chiding me “You let bamboo beat you? Weakling! Go run fifty laps and then try again!”). Pruning shears? Bamboo will destroy them. And bamboo is unaffected by my very best ‘wither and die’ look, which normally kills all plant life within a 10-foot radius. The only way to rid my driveway of bamboolings was to employ weapons of mass destruction.

I’m sure my neighbors wondered what I was doing in my asbestos chainmail overalls brandishing a machete, flamethrower and spray-tanker of Roundup. It was the only way to knock the things down and keep them down. But I knew my efforts were temporary; only buying me time, only postponing the inevitable return of my spiky nemesis. Even as I was dispatching them to oblivion and tamping the asphalt down around their remains like a concrete casket I could hear them, in their best Austrian accent, as though reciting a line from a plant-version of an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie (The Germinator?) promising me “I’ll be back…”

Yeah? Well, I’ll be back too. I’m ready for you. When you burst through the asphalt next spring, I’ll be waiting.

So go ahead. Make my day.

Ineptitude

2010-04-12T15:15:00.000-07:00

As a part-time employee in a tack store, I’m among the first to see the latest, greatest products for horse and rider. Some are practical – good-looking, great fitting riding breeches for under $100? Yay! Some are truly beneficial – i.e. saddle pads with changeable shims that fit a saddle comfortably to your horse’s unique conformation. Others are stupidly extravagant – such as the $600 riding helmet, subject of a previous blog. This week I discovered a product so absolutely ridiculous, in both price and function, that I felt compelled to tout its absurdity.

It’s a newfangled stirrup ‘system’ called “On-Tyte.” The stirrup contains a magnet. Your riding boot houses a reciprocal magnet. The magnetic attraction keeps the stirrup on your foot. It’s revolutionary! It’s a must-have! It’s three hundred dollars!

You have got to be f*cking kidding me.

Keeping your feet in the damned stirrups is Riding Lesson #1. Before you even learn to steer, you learn to keep your heels down and keep the stirrup on your foot. Your leg position is what keeps you anchored. It’s what keeps you balanced. It’s what keeps you on the damned horse. Any kid who’s had three lessons on a fat pony at summer camp can keep the stirrups on their feet. Have riders gotten so lazy that they require technology to do their most fundamental job for them?

This is not the riding industry’s first attempt to revolutionize stirrups to eliminate the annoyance of learning to ride properly. They’ve developed inventive inserts for the stirrup bed to better grip the bottom of your boot. They’ve angled the stirrup bed, and the stirrup itself, to ensure proper foot and leg position (nevermind all those pesky exercises your instructors put you through that are intended to accomplish the same thing). They’ve constructed the stirrup of lighter materials so that if your feet slip out the irons don’t bounce and pummel your horse’s sides – a cue most often interpreted by the horse as meaning “run, Dobbin, run!!” I can only hope you practiced the pulley rein exercise (to stop a runaway horse) more than you practiced keeping your feet in your stirrups. Or are you waiting for the riding industry to invent a way to stop your horse for you? Perhaps giant impact-absorbing sandbag blockades in every corner of the arena would do the trick.

I admit I’m keen on some of the stirrup improvements. My stirrups have joints that flex to absorb impact. When you’ve got enough years of wear and tear on your knee joints that just the thought of riding hurts, these stirrups are a godsend. I’m all for eliminating pain. But eliminating the effort of learning to ride properly? Um,…..no.

Don’t ever show up in one of my riding lessons with On-Tyte stirrups. I’ll make you go change them. If I’m feeling particularly evil, I’ll just take them off your saddle and make you ride without them. That permanently eliminates the problem of losing the stirrup and it doesn’t cost three hundred bucks.

If we’re going to make stirrups that make it unnecessary to ride well enough to keep your feet where they belong, let’s just rid ourselves of the need to do other things correctly. Let’s make Velcro reins and gloves, so your hands never slip out of place. We’ll call it Grip-Tyte. Let’s put magnets in the saddle and in your underwear so your sorry arse can sit the trot. We’ll call it Sit-Tyte. And let’s make feminine hygiene products that don’t shift while you ride. We’ll call them Up-Tyte.

I had ONE student that I would ever consider allowing using magnetic stirrups. She has a genetic condition that has affected the tendons in her lower legs. Even after many surgeries and much hard work, it is difficult for her to make one of her ankles flex to the point where she can reliably keep the stirrup on her foot.

Before she had the surgery that allowed her to maintain a traditional leg position, she rode without stirrups. Didn’t even put them on the saddle. She could walk, trot, canter and jump. All you non-impaired riders out there could learn a big fat lesson in determination and hard work from her.

But if I offered her the option of the On-Tyte stirrups, I know exactly what she’d say. She’d look down her nose at me and scoff “I can do it myself.” And she can. And if she can, you can.

So instead of spending $300 on magnetic stirrups, you might want to consider investing it in some more riding lessons. In the meantime, I’m going to hope the riding industry realizes they are not helping anyone and unceremoniously dumps this product.

I’m also going to hope my gynecologist doesn’t get ahold of it.

It's About Time

2010-04-05T12:53:00.000-07:00

I say I haven’t traveled much, but that’s not entirely true. Some twenty-odd years ago, I did quite a bit of traveling. But it wasn’t the traditional plane-train-automobile sort of thing.

I time-traveled.

Of course, nobody knew this, because the beauty of time traveling is that you can be gone as long as you like and still get back before you left. With no scheduling issues to consider, it’s easy to, say, take a quick trip to the 1800s as a little break in the middle of a hectic work week.

My foray into time travel was completely happenstance. I thought I was walking in to a phone booth to make a call. It looked like a phone booth – one of the old “police box” style ones – from the outside, anyway. As soon as I’d walked through the doors into what appeared to be another dimension (and was, in fact), I realized that my phone card was not going to work here. It was too late; I happened to venture in just as the time machine was departing for parts (and times) unknown. My Partner in Time, an ageless fellow whom I knew only as The Doctor, was kind enough to invite me to tag along with him.

I figured, what the hell.

It was unfortunate that this particular time machine had a GPS that was slightly cattywampus. Sometimes you knew where you were going to end up….but you rarely knew when you were going to end up. As a result, even the best-laid plans tended to go dreadfully awry. Oh, the vacation in ancient Italy sounded like a good idea. Until the whole volcano thing. There was nothing in the Pompeii Travel brochure about that. And I’d checked the weather forecast; it said ‘partly cloudy with a chance of precipitation’ not ‘partly cloudy with a chance of being buried by volcanic ash.’

Speaking of travel brochures, there was a reason why hotel rooms were so cheap in Hawaii in December. In 1941.

I could have skipped that whole Roman Empire escapade. That Caligula fellow was just not right any way you looked at it. And if I’d known he had a thing for redheads (“a thing” meaning he thought they made the best sacrifices to the gods of fertility), I would have gone back to blonde.

I wish I had countermanded the decision to take Genghis Khan for “a little ride around the 1200s.” Likewise the wearing of the Joan of Arc Halloween costume on that trip to the 1430s (saying I looked “hot” in it, by the way, my good Doctor, was not funny).

We weren’t supposed to influence events, of course, just blend in and observe. That was the biggest challenge. It was difficult not to interfere when someone was about to do some colossally dumbass thing that you knew was going to end up in the history book chapter titled “Biggest Disasters of the Past 1,000 Years.”

We learned about the not interfering part the hard way, when we decided to take the Wright Brothers on a little jaunt into the future to show them how their aeroplane thing turned out. Thanks to the cattywampus GPS we ended up in the middle of World War II. When Orville and Wilbur saw their flying machines being used as weapons of destruction, they promptly washed their hands of the whole project. We had to do major damage control (including showing them man walking on the moon and scaring the bejesus out of Neil Armstrong) to set them back on course. Talk about almost totally f’ing up history.

We did end up helping things along sometimes. I dutifully sat for hours in an itchy getup and dark wig while DaVinci painted my portrait. And it was difficult to keep a straight face when my time travel partner was standing behind the artist making faces at me. I really never could completely wipe the smile off my face.

Don’t engage me in a discussion of historical events, because I know things you don’t. Cleopatra was blonde. Napoleon wore women’s underwear. Edgar Allan Poe was afraid of spiders. Colonel Sanders was a vegetarian. And I know why the Mona Lisa is smiling. That whole conspiracy theory that the trip to the moon was faked? Bullshit. It happened. We spent a LOT of time erasing the hopscotch grid we’d drawn in the moondust.

The opportunity to travel through time (albeit randomly) was priceless, and I remember my time-travel days fondly. I had to give them up when my (other) doctor told me it was bad for my blood pressure. I told him I didn’t think it was so much the time travel event as it was ending up in Pompeii in 79 AD or on the Titanic on April 14. Whatever the cause, my blood pressure is much lower now. My Accidental Death by Historic Disaster insurance premium is also much lower, and I don’t have to spend nearly as much money constantly updating my wardrobe. I really didn’t have thing to wear for the Crusades.

You probably don’t believe any of this, and I daresay I can’t prove it. I don’t know where (or when) the Doctor is right now. Internet connectivity is spotty at best between time rifts, and he’s often out of touch. But once in awhile he gets a connection at an intergalactic Starbucks and I get a t-mail from him (kind of a time travel version of e-mail). Perhaps he’ll be able to read this blog and comment. Otherwise, it’s just my word against yours.

Proof or no proof, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Devil With the Green Dress On

2010-03-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

It’s almost April. In a few more days I can breathe easier, stop looking behind me and jumping at my own shadow, stop having to appeal to the universe to give me the strength to get through what is always the most difficult time of year.

It’s not Lent. It’s not Fiscal Year End. It’s not the impending Tax Time.

No. It’s something far more formidable than life, death or taxes.

It’s Girl Scout Cookie Time.

Yes. That time of year when, as surely as the first flowers of spring, little sprites in the form of innocent-looking, uniformed girls emerge from their underworld lairs to tempt us to the dark side with bewitching boxes of tantalizing treats.

Don’t let the cherubic smiles and “fund raising” explanations fool you. Girl Scouts are evil. They lure us into their sinister sugar-traps with irresistible indulgences available only once-per-freaking-year. Then, once we are completely hooked and live for the day the damned green-frocked prepubescent devils knock on our door, they hit us with steady price increases knowing we are now addicts and will sell our souls for some Tagalongs or Samoas.

You can run, but you cannot hide. If they don’t doom you at your door, they’ll snag you at the supermarket. You’ll feel the pull when you approach the table, set up in front of the local Safeway, populated by adorable looking, identically dressed minions with whirling pinwheel eyes and robotic smiles. Resistance is futile. You’ll take one look at those boxes of Do-Si-Dos and money will fly out of your wallet of its own accord. Next thing you know you’ll be sitting on your living room floor surrounded by empty orange boxes and not even a dim memory as to what transpired.

I surrendered my soul to the Green Demons many years ago. They are both friend and foe now; beings I look forward to seeing as the only source of satisfaction for my cookie cravings and fear because of the power they wield over me. I’m so deeply ensconced in their damned cookie cult that I now have my own personal Girl Scout Gremlin. She doesn’t even bother with the formality of coming to my door, she just phones me.

“I’ve got your Thin Mints,” she says in a voice reminiscent of Linda Blair in The Exorcist. “How many boxes do you want?” I’m certain that while she is saying this her head is turning all the way around. It doesn’t matter how many boxes I tell her I want. She brings twice that many and I shoot out dollar bills like a Pez dispenser.

You may be smirking. Or laughing. But you’re not immune. Don’t even waste time thinking you can avoid the Green Demons. If they don’t know where you live right now, don’t think they don’t have ways to get people to divulge your whereabouts. I don’t care if you’re in the witness protection program – I’ll sell you out in a heartbeat if it means getting discounted Daisy-Go-Rounds.

If you visit my house you’ll see the evidence of my addiction. Empty green boxes in the trash, partially consumed ones in the refrigerator and more in the freezer. You’ll wonder how I eat all those cookies and manage to stay so slim. And you’ll covet my cookies. But you won’t get any. I don’t care who you are. I don’t care if you’ve pulled me from a burning building. The cookies are mine.

Get your own.

The Six Million Dollar Hat

2010-03-22T15:35:00.000-07:00

As children, my friends and I galloped our ponies, Man-From-Snowy-River style, bareback and hatless, without a thought to our safety, and somehow managed to survive. Nowadays I’m a bit more cognizant of my mortality. So despite the fact that they are annoying and totally mess up my hair, I wear a helmet every time I ride.

I’ve had my current hard hat for several years. While still perfectly functional, it’s kinda faded and beat up and…well….smelly. I should probably get a new one. But there’s something stopping me. It’s not an issue of time, or opportunity, or sentimental attachment. The issue is that the cost of a “good” riding helmet has broken the $600 mark.

$600.

Six.

Hundred.

DOLLARS.

For a HAT.

Like the plastic wind-up rice bowl with wheels, the concept of a $600 riding helmet begs the question, …..What The F*ck????

Okay – keeping your brains from exiting your skull is worth some sort of investment. I’ll give you that much. But ALL ‘approved’ riding helmets are constructed to the same safety/impact regulations to be certified as ‘approved.’ There is no argument you can make to convince me that a $600 ‘approved’ hat is going to keep my brains off the fencepost ANY more effectively than a $150 ‘approved’ hat.

The $600 hats boast ‘cutting-edge technology’ construction and materials. They have ‘advanced features’ such as extra padding for comfort and ventilation to keep your head cool (not to be confused with keeping a cool head; no hat can guarantee that). Some brands even offer customized colors so that you can behat yourself in, say, navy and cerulean (um, for an even bigger price).

I’m sorry. You’ll have to do better than that.

If I’m going to pay $600 for a helmet, it better come equipped with gadgetry to rival anything James Bond ever had. It better come complete with satellite radio, HBO and text messaging features. I want built-in audio reception and a channel directly to my trainer so, like Obi Wan Kenobi, he can be that voice in the back of my subconscious saying ‘use the Force, Luke,’ or, in my case, ‘slow down, Dumbass.’ Barring that, I’ll take a built-in On Course GPS, with programmable features and a little soothing voice that offers helpful information such as “Oxer in six strides. Apply leg now,” and “Pace has exceeded escape velocity. Triple Combination not advised.”

Instead of some advanced composite plastic alloy, I’d like the hat made of something that is both microwaveable and dishwasher safe. I’d like a brim of sharpened, surgical grade steel so I can take the hat off, fling it and use it as a weapon, ala James Bond’s nemesis, Oddjob. Instead of spending all that money and technology making something that can absorb greater impact, how about eliminating the impact danger all together? Put airbags in the damned thing. And for that price, those vents in the top of the hat better be good for something more than airflow. I should be able to turn the hat upside down and, say, drain pasta or pan for gold.

For all the amazing ‘advanced technology’ and design, these hats are still woefully deficient very basic areas. Why is the interior padding of EVERY hat not removable, washable and replaceable? That cushiony inner padding that they charge $200 extra for? After you wear the hat for a few weeks, it compresses. The result? Your $600 helmet no longer fits you. So you have to shore it up with something to MAKE it fit. Something that has its own adhesive that you can take off and toss after it gets sweaty and smelly. DON’T sell me a $600 hat and then tell me I also have to buy a box of ultra-thin maxi-pads to stick in it to keep it to keep the damned thing on my head.

As if the price isn’t painful enough, the Bad Hatters add insult to injury by making the things butt-ugly. Whatever happened to the elegant black-velvet look? Modern hard hats look more like the exoskeletons of alien insects. Okay, some of them are kind of cool looking. But the majority of them are just a facemask attachment away from being something Darth Vader would wear. In what alternate universe is THAT a good look?

Seriously. If you’re going to have the balls to charge $600 and upwards for your ugly hats, you’d better get your act together and chock them full of features we can actually use. It better be something that would do Steve Austin (TV’s Six Million Dollar Man) proud. Until then, you won’t see me wearing one.

Addendum: Since writing this blog, I am happy to report that I am the proud owner of a brand new, state-of-the-art riding helmet. It's safety approved, kinda cool looking, and has a removable, washable and adjustable interior lining. It's comfortable. It's functional. It's goodlooking. And it cost me $75.

Basket Case

2010-03-15T19:10:00.000-07:00

I’m not much of a holiday person. I don’t decorate, don’t plan parties, don’t send cards, generally don’t observe. I’m happy to just have a day off and get to pillage the holiday sales at the mall. The rest of the whole holiday hoo-ha I can do without.

But there are a few holidays I find fun.

I like Halloween. I like dressing up like some hungry, undead child-eating creature and scaring the bejesus out of the neighborhood kids. I like lying in wait for them to come home from trick or treating so I can jump out from behind a bush and grab their candy bags. Those screaming little voices and the patter of horrified feet running away down the pavement just warm my heart. Yes, Halloween is a great holiday.

The other holiday I like is Easter.

It’s not the sentiment behind the day. It’s not the vacation time from work. It’s not Easter egg hunts or picnics. It’s not getting together with family – crap, that’s the last thing I want to do on a holiday.

Nope.

It’s the chocolate.

Notice I didn’t say ‘candy.’

Chocolate.

You can keep your peeps and your jellybeans and your marshmallow rabbits. Just give me the chocolate.

Any chocolate. I don’t care if it’s shaped like a bunny, a chick, or an International Harvester. Don’t put a lot of time into selecting just the right work of chocolate art. The artistry of chocolate sculpture is lost on me; I am not going to stop to appreciate it before I rip Mr. Bunny’s ears off.

And it better not be hollow. Don’t even TRY to slip one of those hollow chocolate travesties into my basket. There’s more chocolate than that in the center of a tootsie pop.

Hollow chocolate is a cop out; it’s for people who don’t really care enough to spend money on the good stuff, or for people who need a place to stash their contraband. I want solid chocolate. Solid dark chocolate. And make sure there’s no nuts in it – they just take up space where more chocolate could go. Yes, fill my basket with solid dark no-nut chocolate.

Then you’d better put said basket in plain view where I will see it immediately upon waking Easter morning. Hiding a person’s basket of solid dark no-nut chocolate is just plain mean. Trust me, you do not want tell me first thing in the morning that I must look for chocolate that you’ve hidden from me. I’m not going to look for it. I’m going to put you into a chokehold until you tell me where the hell it is.

Don’t bother cooking some extravagant Easter meal. I’ve got chocolate. I’m not going to waste perfectly good stomach capacity on ham or green bean casserole when I can fill it with solid dark no-nut chocolate. I’ll eat your meal when the chocolate is gone.

Finally, don’t even think about asking me to share any of my solid dark no-nut candy. There are two things I refuse to share: Men, and chocolate. The reasons for this should be evident. If you have to ask why, you are probably the kind of person who also thinks hollow chocolate with nuts in it is a good idea.

I might sound demanding, but really, I’m not high maintenance. It’s not that difficult to keep me happy. Don’t get hollow chocolate, don’t get nuts in it and don’t hide it. Do this and nobody gets hurt. It’s that damn simple.

Happy Easter.

Barn Cars

2010-03-07T22:07:00.000-08:00

I drive a species of vehicle known as a Barn Car.

A Barn Car can be any make, model or year. It can be any color – color, in fact, doesn’t matter, since all Barn Cars are eventually the color of dirt. Barn Cars can be old and beat up, or new and suped up.

My Barn Car is quite nice. It gets great gas mileage and has cruise control. Drives great in all kinds of conditions. It has a lot of trunk space, enough to transport an entire body without the need for messy, time consuming dismemberment. It has room for four people, two hound dogs and three bags of feed. Other Barn Cars may have more trunk space or less, seat fewer or more humans and canines, have less or greater feed capacity. There are no firm criteria.

But there is one characteristic that all Barn Cars have in common.

A Barn Car is never clean.

I mean, never.

As in, not ever.

Even when it’s just been washed it’s not clean. And as soon as I drive it to the barn one time, well…I may as well have not “cleaned” it at all.

At any given time you are likely to find hay, mud, shavings, grain, horsehair, dirt and other stuff in any part of it. I can only assume that all of the above entities get into the car by hitching a ride on me. Once you’ve been in the car, you are likely to get home and find any or all such items have also hitched a ride on YOU. Which is fine with me, because the more crap that leaves attached to you, the less mess in my car.

Paint is missing from various parts of my car. I don’t know where it went. It’s possible that some animal ate it when I wasn’t looking. I’ve scraped up all the hubcaps on fence posts and had multiple flat tires from running over barn implements and mis-navigating potholes. The trunk is filled with dirty boots, sweaty saddle pads, smelly blankets and a Hazmat suit.

If I drive through the Eucalyptus grove where the giant white Herons nest, my car emerges looking like somebody napalmed it with white paint. I have to make haste to wash it off before it eats its way through the roof like that gelatinous thing from The Blob. The hard water at the barn is just as likely to eat its way through the paint as the bird doody is. The doody usually comes clean. The bug splatter on the front of the car, I’m afraid, is permanent.

If you want me to give you a ride someplace, I hope you’re not in a hurry.

I wish it were as simple as opening the door to let you in.

It’s not. Not with a Barn Car.

Opening the door is the final step in a long, arduous process. First, I have to create room in the back seat. This requires removing objects and stuffing them into a trunk that is already filled to burstin’ with the aforementioned barn necessities.

Only after I have done this can I begin the process of transferring the stuff from the front passenger seat into the precious small space I’ve cleared in the back. This may or may not result in items being stacked so high that visibility from the rear window is wholly or partially blocked. It may also result in objects flying at you from the backseat should I need to slam the brakes on suddenly. I’ve probably got a hard hat in the car; I suggest you wear it.

Then I’ve got to brush hay, grain, rice hulls, dirt and horsehair off the passenger seat, and make room for your feet on the floor. You might have to sit with your knees hiked up under your chin or shove your legs into the small space between the bags of horse cookies and the center console.

As for the smell…..well, you’re stuck with that. If you don’t enjoy the aroma of leather, grain and horse, I hope you don’t mind riding with your head out the window like a big ‘ol hound dog.

Oh, speaking of dogs….if I’m dog sitting, you’re going to have to share the seat with the Dog of the Day. Some of them drool more and have worse smelling breath than others. Hopefully the day you ask for a ride will be Lapdog Day, not Rottweiler Week.

Finally, you’ll have to deal with the embarrassment of being seen getting out of a Barn Car, trailing hay and rice hulls and horse hair.

I’d like to be apologetic, but I can’t – it’s a Barn Car, and that’s just the way a Barn Car is. I’ve gone so far as to put a “Barn Car” bumper sticker on the back. Consider it fair warning. Next time you need a ride, think real hard before asking me. You might want to call a cab.

Meals on Wheels

2010-02-27T12:00:00.000-08:00

Not long ago I visited the sector of San Francisco known as Chinatown. There, I discovered the most useless of all useless items I have ever seen.

It was a tiny, plastic wind-up rice bowl.

Yeah, I said rice bowl.

A plastic wind-up rice bowl.

At least, I think it was rice. I suppose it could have been couscous or tabouli or risotto…It’s somewhat of an art to distinguish between varietals of plastic grain.

The colorful plastic bowl had tiny little plastic wheels on the bottom. Wind it up, set it down, and you were rewarded by getting to see it scurry across the table. If the wheels were on straight, the bowl wobbled away in a somewhat straight line. If not, it careened in drunken circles. It made a little panicky buzzing sound like a fly with one wing. It stopped when the winding mechanism wound down, or when it scurried off the edge of the table. This was usually the end of the plastic rice bowl, as the Plastic Rice Bowl Quality Assurance department had obviously overlooked the all-important impact test.

There were four exciting versions of wind-up rice bowls to choose from - I guess for people who like variety in their plastic diets. Or, I suppose one could purchase all four and have Rice Bowl Races.

The concept of the plastic wind-up rice bowl begs the question: What the fu*k?

How many natural resources were exhausted and how many man (or child) hours were spent creating and marketing such an item? How much time was spent brainstorming, designing, building prototypes and conducting QA testing? How many meetings were held to discuss what color the bowl should be? What kind of rice should be in it? Three wheels or four? What shape should we make the windy-uppy thingy?

The plastic wind-up rice bowls (which were about two and half inches in diameter) were five bucks each. Five bucks. I can get a real bowl with real rice in it for less than that, and it won't run away from me when I try to eat it.

Although, I must admit, if more people had to chase bowls of food it would probably solve much of the country's obesity issues. Perhaps if our cheeseburgers and onion rings and chicken fried steaks came in bowls with wheels and we had to chase them around the kitchen we’d all be in better shape. And if they scurried off the edge of the table before we caught them, well…….better luck next meal.

Now that I think about it, I didn’t see any overweight people in Chinatown. Hmmm, maybe they’re on to something.

Addendum: I have just stumbled upon the wind-up rice bowl's sister product.

The wind-up walking Sushi set.

I swear, I'm not making this stuff up.

Drive

2010-01-08T02:16:00.000-08:00

I admit it. My life is a mess. Literally. My studio is always cluttered, my car is always dirty. I don’t eat right or exercise regularly or sleep normal hours. I eat way too much chocolate. I’m always late, for everything, no matter how hard I try. There are always things left undone, loose ends never tied up, bills that should have been paid last week, errands overdue.

I’ve quit making New Year’s resolutions to try to mend my ways. They’re simply my ways, and that’s all there is to it. Who’s to say there’s anything wrong with them? Let someone else live in a spotless house, drive a pristine vehicle and tick everything off their organized little checklist every day. I’ve got more important things to do.

I’m one of those weird creative freaks of nature. It’s who I am, it’s what I am. I didn’t choose it; it chose me. When I’m overtaken by the creative muse, I am 110% consumed by the force. I pursue my creative endeavor to the exclusion of everyone and everything else. Food is uneaten, living space is uncleaned, obligations are unkept.

It’s not my fault.

Blame my muse. Yes, I’ve got one. Every creative soul has one. Anybody who thinks creativity doesn’t flow from a greater source than one’s self suffers from extreme narcissism. I am at the muse’s mercy. I am the conduit and when the energy flows it has its own life, it’s not mine to direct or inhibit. When I attack a creative project I’m not doing it because I need to do it, or because I want to do it, but because I must do it. I don’t have a choice.

It’s an impossible concept to explain to anyone who hasn’t sat awake for 24 hours with a paintbrush, pen or instrument in hand, never noticing the passage of time, nor being touched by fatigue or hunger. The creative force provides everything necessary to sustain its servant, until finally cutting them loose into an exhausted and famished but sublimely satisfied vestige of themselves; a husk, a shell, physically depleted but spiritually fulfilled. We often step back from the work of art, or written words, or musical composition that has manifested itself on the once-blank page, and think, ‘okay…how the hell did I do that?’ And we never have a really good explanation; at least not one that would stand up to logic.

Nobody else ‘gets’ it. Well, nobody except a kindred spirit, another soul equally stricken with the irrepressible drive to create. To them, no explanation is necessary. They understand instinctively, because they are spun from and connected to the same source. When we find each other, it’s a communion of souls. An automatic, instant connection on a level far below the threshold of ordinary awareness.

We know how to reach into those hidden depths. We know highs and lows and nuances and shades that mere mortals can’t fathom. It’s our blessing and our curse to experience greater joy and more profound sorrow, for to surrender to the muse is to reach for and lay open the deepest parts of one’s self.

The rewards are great, but the muse is a harsh master. So when my refrigerator is empty, my house is cluttered, my car is dirty and I totally forget that I promised to meet you for lunch, kindly remember that it's not my fault. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

I don't like spam

2009-12-15T22:32:00.000-08:00

I don't like spam.

I'm not talking about the mystery meat-in-a-can that you fry up with eggs and bacon.

I mean the stuff that gets served to my email inbox every morning, afternoon and night.

I try to stop it, but it's like trying to keep ants out of my house. Every time I block off one place that they're coming from, they find another way in. I must get a hundred junk emails every day.

I do not need penile enlargement (although I have to admit that I know several people who do.) I do not want to buy prescription drugs from "reliable" overseas pharmacists who have no vowels in their names and whose license numbers are suspiciously similar to the format used by San Quentin for prisoner IDs. I do not believe for a moment that there is a sick child in Spain who has been collecting emails for fourteen years as his "dying wish." Nor can you convince me that I've won three million dollars in Nigerian Lottery, that Mr. Nivranskinashak Minrovernia of Flakelovakia has left me his estate and only needs my bank account number to deliver my funds or that I will receive a free computer simply by forwarding an email to two hundred people. I do not need to be warned about going to a party, getting drunk and waking up in a tub of ice water missing my kidneys. I am not falling for your claim that someone in Peru tried to use my Visa card, my Paypal account has been locked or that my Facebook password needs updating so that I can sign on to your un-secure server and supply you enough personal information to arm you for identity theft. And no, I do NOT want to 'meet my soul mate in seven days', 'hook up with hot studs in my area' or 'see what Bambi is doing on her webcam.'

Offers and spam. Warnings and spam. Spam, prizes, porn and spam. Spam spam spam spam spam.

I don't like SPAM!

Songs of the Season

2009-12-11T12:46:00.000-08:00

I didn't write the music, but I am The Master when it comes to bastardizing lyrics. I'd like to apologize to the composers and original performers of the following songs. I'd LIKE to.....but if the shoe fits......

To the Tune of “Winter Wonderland”

Where's my truck

I can't find it

What the fuck's

All this white shit?

You can't see the grass

It's a pain in the ass

Riding in a winter wonderland!

Gone away is the pasture

Haven't seen it since last year

There's horses out there

They're buried somewhere

Out there in that winter wonderland

We'll just have to hibernate all winter

Cancel all your outdoor plans til May

Make some extra money in the meantime

And rent your horses out to pull a sleigh

Forecast said shouldn't worry

Just a chance of a flurry

"Partly cloudy", alas is now up to my ass

Riding in a winter wonderland

-----------------

To the tune of “Love me or Leave me”

This damned stuff is killing me

I can’t stand this cold you see

Tell me now, ‘cause I’ve got to know

Whether this weather will stay or go

Turn up the heater and fetch me a sweater

It’s the west coast, WTF’s with this weather?

If I wanted winter I’d move to the freakin’ North Pole

You might think December’s the right time for white time

But I’m not the Christmas-y cold snowy night kind

I’d rather be bitchin’ than hitchin’ my horse in the cold

There’ll be no fun unless unless there’s some sun and sooooooooooooon

I’m just waiting and hibernating ‘til Juuuuuuuuuuuune

If temperatures keep heading in this direction

You weathermen better get witness protection

For I hate the mud and the rain and the snow

and the ice and sleet and the cold winds that blow

My pain is your pain there’s no fun for nobody else

Twilight Zone

2009-12-10T01:55:00.000-08:00

Imagine, if you will, a door.

No, strike that. That sounds way too Rod Serling-like.

Imagine a room. A modest but respectable room just big enough to contain those things important in life. These things are meticulously organized; stacked and categorized, everything in its place. It’s simple, uncomplicated. Mundane, for sure, but drama free. It’s…..nice and you’re….content. You’ve worked diligently for a long time to ensure that everything is exactly where it should be and that nothing that could possibly rock your world (for good or for bad) may enter.

Now imagine the door to this room is flung wide open and hurricane force winds blast through. Everything in the room is uprooted, displaced, hurled and spun out of any semblance of order. You try to collect things and put them back where they were, but the wind keeps coming and nothing will stick. It’s pandelirium.

That’s pretty much my life lately.

For some reason, the great almighty universe, in its infinite wisdom, decided that my world needed some badass shakin’ up.

Nothing is as it once was. I am enjoying things I’ve never before had a taste for. I have become….social. ME, the non-social wonder. I’m going out dancing and to parties and I’m riding mechanical bulls. I’m taking chances. I’m making lists of things I have never done before but am suddenly compelled to learn and master.

It’s like another person is inhabiting my body. Gosh, I hope they can cook and don’t want to get up early. I hope they like shopping. I hope they have more money than I do to GO shopping. I hope they don’t like rap. I hope they have a lot of single, good-looking, wealthy, generous, kind, funny, smart, sexy straight male friends.

But it’s not all good. My normally photographic memory is out of calibration. I am staying up working on creative projects (good) instead of sleeping (bad). I’m freaked out by the number of paranormal, inexplicable things that are suddenly commonplace in my world. Have I always been attuned to this sort of thing and just never paid attention, or have I acquired some macabre new talent? It’s as though some sort of door has opened and new, fascinating and frightening things are rushing in faster than I can process them.

And NO….it’s NOT “hormones.” For god’s sake, if you’re going to flip me off, come up with a better excuse than THAT.

Something far bigger than me is dealing the cards at the moment, and I’m getting stuck with playing the hand. I don’t like gambling. Why? Well, because it’s….gambling. I like to tie things up with neat, tidy explanations, and I like all those things to fit neatly within my personal paradigm box.

But for whatever reason, the universe has decided that my previously mundane, boring, hermit-like existence is over. It’s a riptide of change and I can only hope to stay atop the wave and see where it takes me.

I only wish I’d taken those swimming lessons in third grade.

Chickens on the Balcony: A metaphor for life

2009-09-25T22:29:00.000-07:00

The scene: a hotel room in an undisclosed location, occupied by the author and a gentleman friend who shall remain nameless.

Oh alright, let’s call him Fred.

It’s morning. I think. I know it’s light, because even with my eyes wide shut I can sense sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains that cover the balcony doors. I have no idea what time it is, but I’m pretty sure it’s waaaaay too soon to think about getting up. It was a late night. I’m happy to just lay (lie?) there next to another warm body.

Said warm body had had the kindness to not snore the preceding night. To what that blessing can be attributed, I know not. I had learned long ago, in dealing with this particular man, to accept small miracles with gratitude and grace. Truth be told, I often times didn’t mind his snoring. It was rhythmical and downright musical at times. Sometimes it made me laugh, because it sounded like he was composing tunes via his nasal passages. Which beat the hell out of other ways his body could be making music while I was essentially trapped under the covers with it.

Through my I-may-rise-but-I-refuse-to-shine haze, I hear Fred’s voice. Deeper than usual, as it always is immediately upon waking. A voice I loved, no matter what it said.

It said, “I hear a chicken.”

I don’t have a memory like a steel trap, but I was fairly certain he’d never uttered this particular phrase in bed before.

This, of course, made absolutely no sense. Any random phrase from Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody would have made more sense. I assumed he was talking in his sleep and ignored it.

A few steady breaths later, he said, “there it is again.” His tone was more staccato; he definitely was not sleep-talking.

He got out of bed like a man on a mission, and pulled on an ugly white hotel-issued robe – a wise move since he was headed out the doors to the balcony.

From outside, he said, more resolutely, “There’s a bloody chicken out here.”

Now, I didn’t know what he thought he was seeing, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a chicken. We were five floors up. And while the hotel wasn’t in the midst of a metropolis, I hadn’t noticed any neighboring chicken farms.

I laughed out loud; it was my polite laugh, the one I used when I thought somebody was completely wrong but I didn’t want to be so rude as to say so.

He knew me well enough to know it was my I-think-you’re-looneytunes laugh. He’d always read me eerily well. I couldn’t get much past him, and certainly not my polite laugh, not even this soon after waking.

A moment later he was dragging me by the hand, throwing the other ugly white hotel-issued bathrobe at me and towing me out the doors to the balcony. He stopped me at the precise mark and turned my body to the precise viewing angle.

There was a freakin’ chicken on the railing of the balcony of the suite next door. It was either a chicken or some other kind of bird that looked like a chicken, talked like a chicken and walked like a chicken. Brown and red and feathered and clucking.

I looked up. There was one more floor above us and then the roof. I looked down. There was a café next to the hotel with annoyingly chipper looking people having breakfast. I saw no way a chicken could have gotten up here. But there it was.

I turned around and looked at Fred. He was standing with both hands on his hips, head cocked slightly and the most glorious, sleep-tousled wavy masses of hair cascading all to one side. He had hair that people would have killed for. One brow was raised defiantly as he regarded me with his very best “I told you so” look.

I was about to comment when his gaze shifted back to the chicken and he exclaimed, “It’s going to jump!”

I whirled back ‘round in time to see the chicken leap. It plummeted five floors in a flutter of feathers and squawking, bounced off the edge of a café patio umbrella and landed smack dab in the middle of somebody’s breakfast. People screamed and scattered, dishes flew, and the chicken high-tailed it off the table and scurried away.

Faces turned upward, and we realized to our horror that those people thought we had dropped a chicken bomb on them. We ran inside and recoiled from the balcony before the angry villagers could return fire. Thank goodness we had at least been wearing the bathrobes. I could imagine the headline: Naked Couple Fowls Breakfast of Unsuspecting Diners.

Later, we were having a leisurely lunch in a restaurant in the same hotel.

A waiter walked by and served the people at the next table a delicious looking, lavishly garnished meal of poultry and pasta.

A few moments passed with no sound other than the delicate, civilized clinking of silverware.

Then, without looking up, and with totally deadpan delivery, Fred said, “Do you suppose that’s him?”

He raised his eyes to meet mine, smiled a mischievous smile and we laughed the way two people do when they are the only two people in the world who know what the joke is. It was a silly, irreverent moment that remains as vivid in my mind now, years after, as when it happened.

I realized much later that the chicken on the balcony was a metaphor for many things in life; things that defy explanation, things that make no sense, things that simply shouldn’t be but that irrefutably just ARE.

The unexplained doesn't fit comfortably into my personal paradigm box. I prefer to wrap everything up with a tidy, logical explanation. But life isn’t like that. Things that shouldn’t, can’t possibly, happen, do. Sometimes you just have to call a chicken a chicken, and let it go.

You never know when you will discover the chickens on the balconies of your life. The most you can hope for is that when you do, you'll have had the presence of mind to pull on that ugly white hotel-issued bathrobe first.

Ready. Fire. Aim.

2009-09-10T22:53:00.000-07:00

How do you know when a gun is loaded?

Knowing the one (and only) correct answer to this question was the first and most important prerequisite to receiving my firearms safety certificate.

I took the firearms safety course when I was in high school, prior to joining the Rifle Club. Our school (and, in fact, most high schools in Western New York State) had a rifle club and team.

Yes. We had guns. In the school. All the time.

If a person was a member of the Rifle Club, they could, during their free periods, sign out a gun, be handed a box of ammunition (with the same have-a-nice-day casualness that a cashier would hand over a box of Tictacs), and shoot on the indoor rifle range in the school basement. Here’s your gun. Here are your shells. Have fun.

And, we did.

I can see your mouths hanging open in amazement, but I promise, I shit you not.

Nobody thought anything of it. Like football, basketball and wrestling, riflery was a bonafide high school sport. I got my varsity letter participating on the Rifle Team. The team was undefeated in the State during my high school years. I received my National Rifle Association Expert Rating – the highest marksmanship designation – when I was a junior. To receive this rating, I had to achieve an average score of 98 or above (on a scale of 1 to 100) shooting at a bullseye the size of a pea from fifty feet. When you consider the fact that I can’t even back my car into a parking space without hitting something, that accomplishment seems even more amazing.

Rifle clubs in high schools are, unfortunately, a thing of the past. It’s too bad. There’s a lot to be said for teaching respect for firearms and how to handle them properly. I remember the first time I shot a rifle – the noise, the recoil. I thought, ‘Holy shit, I could KILL somebody!’ Granted, it was only a .22 calibre rifle, which was probably less likely to kill than just really tick somebody off. Still, it made the concept real to me. You point at somebody, you shoot...there are severe consequences.

I’ve fired all kinds of weapons, from shotguns at woodchucks and clay pigeons to semi-automatic weapons at the pistol range. Oh, and ask me about going bat-shooting sometime. It’s never occurred to me to point a weapon at a person. Well….okay, it’s occurred to me (a few past boyfriends pop to mind), but I never acted on it. It’s not that there weren’t opportunities. Kids in Phys Ed classes used to run laps in the high school basement, not far from the rifle target bays. I could have taken any one of ‘em out neat as you please. It seemed unsporting, though. After all, if I could hit a hurtling clay pigeon or a mark the size of a pea, busting a cap in some slow, fat kid in a pair of bullseye-red shorts was hardly a challenge.

The demise of riflery as a school sport saddened me. But it’s a different world today. The last thing that comes to people’s minds when they think of guns in school is team sports.

I’m not opposed to people owning guns, but I’d like to see thorough background checks, psychiatric evaluations, competency tests and renewed-yearly licensing required.

There should also be some sort of test to determine whether a gun owner has the stones to actually follow through. I have had a number of people tell me “oh, I’d have a gun for protection, but I’d never use it. “

Excuse me?

Guns are for shooting – plain and simple, at targets, food to put on the table – or attackers. They have no other purpose. Guns are not magical talismans that you keep in your bedside table drawer and wave around to ward off evil. If you do not believe you could pick it up, and point it at someone, and shoot, you have no business owning it. If you can’t use it, I guarantee your aggressor will be more than willing to take it away from you and use it against you. Gun ownership is a solemn responsibility. Never, EVER take it lightly.

I do not currently own a gun, but if circumstances dictated, I would. I’ve still got my NRA “Expert” medals in a little display box on one of my shelves. I look back on them fondly. And, every now and then, I think to myself, a few of you former boyfriends really don’t know how lucky you are.

Oh, and the correct answer to the question at the beginning of this blog?

A gun is always loaded.

Crackbook

2009-09-07T14:05:00.000-07:00

I recently joined Facebook.

I swore I never would. Really, swore. Out loud. MANY times.

But then I found an old high school friend I really wanted to get in touch with. The only way to get his contact info was to succumb and join. Reluctantly, I put up a profile. I figured if I was looking for people, maybe people were looking for me. I’d put up one profile. One picture. Have one or two friends. Three, tops. That’s all I needed. No more. Really.

It all started out innocently enough.

Now I know why a friend of mine calls it Crackbook. It sucks you in and gets you addicted. It makes you write on people’s walls. It makes you comment on their photos. It makes you send out useless ‘status reports’ that are nothing more than telling somebody some stupid ass thing that you’re thinking or doing at a given moment. Who the hell cares?

Apparently, everybody.

Seriously. EVERYBODY.

EVERYBODY is on Crackbook. The number of people I have found that I haven’t heard from or about in 30 years is astounding. Men are easier to find than women. Women change their names. Other than when it’s required by the witness protection program, men don’t. Even then, I bet there’s some witness protection program version of Facebook. Maybe it’s called FaceLessBook.

Facebook makes you forget things like the fact that if you haven’t had contact with someone for 30 years, maybe there’s a reason for that. But suddenly you simply HAVE to put them on your friends list and look at their photos and read their personal information. Why? Why now?

Because it’s Crackbook.

It IS like a bad acid trip sometimes. The interface is horribly done and entirely user-unfriendly. Whoever designed it should be shot, run over with a steamroller and left for the buzzards. It’s a visual cacophony of photos, links, comments, status updates and other crap (my fingers slipped when I was logging in the other day and instead of Facebook I typed Fecebook. I laughed out loud at the appropriateness of my error).

A friend of mine (a real friend, not a Crackbook friend) described Facebook as a way to be connected without having to be TOO connected. That’s true. It sort of gives you an omniscient look into everyone’s lives, like you’re some all-knowing being looking in on your children.

Of course, that street runs both ways. Friends can look in on YOU. People you hoped to never see or hear from again can find you. Girls that wouldn’t give you the time of day in high school suddenly WANT to be your friend (fortunately, Facebook has the IGNORE button). You’ll get bombarded with crap like ‘who’s your celebrity friend of the day’ announcements and ‘how well do you know’ somebody quizzes. Like any addiction, you must take the downers along with the uppers.

Still….I have to admit…..verrrrrrry reluctantly…..that it IS sorta fun. In a sick, twisted, time-wasting sort of way. I might just been a teesny-weensy bit hooked on Crackbook.

But I can quit any time I want to.

Really.

note: before you send me, or anyone, a friend request on Facebook, you should take a listen to this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7MuwPlOiNQ

Ants in My Pantry

2009-09-04T13:17:00.001-07:00

I started seeing them earlier this week.

Scout ants – the lone soldiers that precede the invasion. Their job: to gather intelligence and map the location of unguarded foodstuffs then return to the nest and issue the order to invade.

They’re patient. They’re waiting for me to make a mistake. They’re waiting for me to leave toast crumbs on the counter, a Starbucks cup on the desk or a dish with a little bit of food on it in the sink. They’re waiting for me to forget to put the blackberries back in the refrigerator.

They’re thorough. I see them in different places every day.

They’re careful. There aren’t enough of them to constitute a trail that I can follow to find out where they’re coming from. Yet.

It’s a game we play several times per year.

I don’t so much mind a few ants. I admire ants, actually. They’re clever. They’re industrious. They’re organized. This is more than I can say for myself most days. No, I don’t mind a few ants.

I mind when a few ants invite their four thousand buddies to join them. It’s like telling your kids they can have a few friends over and discovering the entire junior high school population in your swimming pool when you come home.

So, much as I hate to do it, I kill the scout ants, because I know if they find a morsel of food they’ll sound the alarm and my kitchen will be ant-central-station. If I thought they’d just carry off a few bread crumbs to their pals and be done with me, I’d let them go. Of course, if I permitted that, I could be opening up a whole ‘nother can of worms. If I let them take a few bread crumbs, what next? Would I put my sandwich down to answer the phone only to come back and find it gone? Would I catch them trying to sneak a beer out of the refrigerator? I know it would only be a matter of time before I came home from the movies one night, looked around my studio and thought “Waaaaaaiiit a minute……where’s my TV?” No, ants are a little TOO industrious. It’s best to nip their aspirations in the bud.

Ants get in to EVERYthing. They get into places where you didn’t even know you had places. High places. Low places. Odd places. Like your iron. I discovered this when I was ironing and steam-flattened ants appeared in burgeoning patterns across my favorite blouse. You could tell some of them had been trying to run. It was obvious that most of them never saw it coming and were plastered with WTF expressions permanently steam-seared onto their faces.

Ants get into light sockets. Did you know they make little popping sounds when they reach a certain temperature?

Ants get into plants. A blow dryer on the lowest heat setting will get them off the plants, but will also fling ants and dirt all over the room. I found this out exactly the way you might imagine.

I don’t like waging chemical warfare. So I’ve tried other methods of ant control. I’ve tried cloves. I’ve tried cucumbers. I’ve tried ant bait. I’ve tried hairspray (not spraying it on them, just bashing them with the can). I even used a lint brush once. Okay, twice.

But the best solution, by far: the vacuum.

No crushing little ant bodies, no scraping up and disposing little ant remains. No little CSI ant investigations. The ants are sucked away leaving no clue as to the cause of their demise. It’s quick and I imagine it’s painless. They never know what hit them.

Or, maybe they do. Perhaps some enterprising little ant with a little ant digital camera caught the incident on video. Somewhere on some tiny ant computer screen logged in to AntTube.com, perhaps I am starring in a shaky video titled The Redhead Vacuum Massacre.

If I am, I can only hope the video wasn’t taken one of those times I was vacuuming in my underwear.

Un-Domestic Goddess

2009-08-02T12:42:00.000-07:00

For a woman, I am embarrassingly un-domestic. I don’t cook. I don’t sew. I don’t grow things. I don’t host parties. I wouldn’t be able to tell you which utensil to put on which side of the plate. I was simply born sans the domestic gene. And I am surrounded by people who serve as constant reminders of my own shortcomings.

I have a friend who hand-weaves her own scarves and blankets on a loom. She probably even built the loom from homegrown bamboo or something (she has hundreds of species of plants in her yard, all meticulously cataloged). I have no doubt that the only reason she doesn’t also produce her own wool is some pesky city ordinance that prohibits Alpaca herds in the neighborhood. I could no sooner hand-loom a shawl than win the Tour de France. If I can manage to sew a button on straight and not skewer myself in the process, it’s a major coup.

Said friend, who I’ll call Joan (because that’s her name) cooks and bakes the most amazing things from scratch. I gave her a grocery sack full of plums and overnight she magically transformed it into perfectly packaged jars of jam. (I didn’t ask her, but she probably collected sand from beaches around the world, melted it and blew the glass for the jars in her basement). I’d probably have to study the plums for a week just to figure out how to get them open. (Don’t laugh. You should have seen my first experience with an avocado).

Don’t ask me to cook, bake, or jar. Anything. If it involves more than one pan or two ingredients, I’m calling out for pizza.

I know people who take great pains finding the perfect wrapping paper and ribbons for gifts. They make their own paper. They make their own bows. They mold and bake ceramic adornments to go on top of the boxes. The packages look like works of art – the only fitting receptacles for hand-loomed scarves and homemade preserves in hand-blown jars. I can’t even cut the right amount of paper or get the tape to stop sticking to itself. The ribbon falls off when I try to tie it. And no, I don’t make hand-cut lacey snowflakes to use as nametags. I’m lucky if I remember to find my purple sharpie and write the recipient’s name some place on the wrapping before I forget whom the gift is for.

I was also born without the ability to accessorize. People with accessorization skills amaze me. They have a purse to match every outfit. Their earrings match their necklace, which complements their bracelet and rings. And their shoes always match their belt.

Judging by the way I dress, you would peg me as color blind. On a good day, my socks match. I mix patterns, wear lipstick that clashes with my shirt and wear white after Labor Day. Belts are purely utilitarian; they hold up my pants. Shoes? Forget it. Years of living in barn boots and sneakers have destroyed my ability to walk in anything remotely resembling fashionable footwear. Put me in a shoe with a heel and I walk like Bride of Frankenstein after a few too many shots of tequila. My medical records are full of scribbled entries like “fell off shoes again.”

I have friends who have amazing gardens. They grow their own vegetables, spices, fruit, lumber. I am the plant kingdom’s version of the Grim Reaper. If I so much as cast a glance at a flowerbed, it withers and dies. I have one houseplant that has ever lived; it must be some sort of genetic freak.

It’s too late in life for me to change, and I doubt I could do it if I tried. Instead I’ll embrace my position as the Lady with Unmatched Socks Who Lives in a Garage Surrounded by Dead Plants. And when I’m gone, you’ll have no problem finding where I’m buried. It’ll be the only plot in the cemetery where the grass won’t grow.

Stranger than Fiction

2009-07-28T23:31:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Some of you may have already read this on my Guest Blog entry at Karin Tabke’s site (www.karintabke.com, check her out!). Not that it isn’t worth reading twice – I’m just sayin’.

Lately I’ve become fascinated with the whole concept of writing queries. For the uninitiated, a “query” is what an unpublished writer sends to agents to try to sell a manuscript they have already written. In a nutshell, it’s their story condensed into a few succinct paragraphs. The query hits on key plot points, characters and conflicts and gives enough info to entice the reader to want know more, but doesn’t give away the surprises or ending – think of it as a movie trailer in written format.

I have had individual works published, but the Road to Publication for the humorous essay is quite different than for a full-blown novel. There’s a real talent to capturing the essence of a story in a quarter-page query. I wondered if it was something I could even do. But I didn’t want to have to write a whole novel to find out. That could take…..hours.

But life itself is a story, isn’t it? And often it’s stranger than fiction. So instead of inventing a story, I took a day in my life and captured it in query format. Here it is, for your reading entertainment:

Introverted, menopausal redhead Jody Werner has finally arranged her life exactly the way she likes it: simple and drama-free. She works at home doing the artwork she loves, has a cute little studio in a blissfully quiet neighborhood and gets to spend the glorious California summer afternoons at the barn with the horses. The cherry on top of the sundae that is her life: she has the freedom to nap anytime she wants. Ah, life is good.

She’s looking forward to another blessedly uneventful day in her “I-refuse-to-turn-on-the-tv-and-hear-any-bad-news” paradise….until the phone call from the mysterious entity known only as The Banker.

The Banker tells her that before her loan application can be accepted, she has to come up with two years back tax returns. Oh no! That means a journey into the black hole that is her filing system; the swirling, bottomless abyss into which paperwork disappears, never to resurface.

Aided by The Ladder (which creaks and wobbles the higher she climbs) and The Flashlight (which takes sick pleasure in randomly blinking in and out of usefulness) she embarks upon the treacherous journey into The Attic in search of The Box.

But finding The Box is not enough. Working against time, she must assemble two years of back tax returns in the proper order AND find a logical explanation for the decided dip in income for 2007. There is only one way to summon this kind of creativity on short notice: she must sacrifice herself at the altar of chocolate and caffeine.

With a solution (and chocolate-smeared tax returns) in hand she hurries out the door only to discover that her car has a flat tire! While waiting for the roadside assistance people, she gets a call from the barn. Her horse has lost a shoe! Now she has to get the flat fixed, deliver the tax returns to The Banker, locate her farrier and still find a way to get in her afternoon nap. Will she make it, or will the universe add insult to injury by extracting the ultimate price of unplanned expenditures AND sleep deprivation?

I am seeking validation for the non-fictional masterpiece that is my life. Jody’s Day is a complete waste of your time at 75,000 words. I’d be happy to submit the full manuscript for your consideration, provided you give me ample time to find it in The Box.

Is your life stranger than fiction? If so, express your sentiment with Stranger Than Fiction merchandise, available here, at the Misfit Designs online store: http://www.cafepress.com/jlwdesigns/6823909

Vaulting: It's Not Just for Kids

2009-07-15T11:24:00.000-07:00

Writer’s note: This is a slight revision of a piece that was published in Vaulting World Magazine in June of 2006, reprinted here by popular demand.

Not long ago, I watched an exhibition of vaulting. I don’t know what ‘vaulting’ means in your world, but in mine it refers to gymnastics on horseback. It’s lithe-bodied little (and not so little) girls and even some boys performing all manners of moves, poses, athletic feats and gravity-defying stunts on a moving horse.

I’ve ridden horses since I was ten years old, and the First Commandment has always been to stay on it. In the saddle. Facing forward. Even slight variations of this standard were met with disdain.

Riding backwards and standing up on the horse’s back and doing headstands? Our instructors always discouraged that sort of thing. Just like they’d get all pasty-faced and panicky if we tried to teach our ponies to rear so we could do our Lone Ranger “Hi-Ho Silver” routine. Any deviation from The Norm would have them running for Valium and liability release forms.

As for getting on a horse while it’s moving - my cronies and I do well to haul our sorry backsides onto a stationary horse with the help of a mounting block or a friend to give us an ungraceful “leg up.”

These little vaulting sprites stride up beside the horse (which moves in perfect cadence in a perfect circle) and hop right on it – at all gaits. Walk. Trot. Canter. No problem. Somehow they never end up hanging under the horse’s belly with their heads plowing up the earth as I imagine I would.

The littlest people who get to perform the most death-defying acts are known as the “flyers.” In my discipline, a “flyer”is what you do when your horse skids to an unscheduled stop and you keep going. While equally dramatic, our flyers are more verb than noun and less about form than distance.

Vaulters also have an impressive repertoire of ways to get off the moving horse. They may slide off, or flip over the side, or do a roll or even a back flip off the horse’s back or butt. On purpose.

In my style of riding, we have two kinds of dismounts – Get Off, and Fall Off. If you want to split hairs, Fall Off can be subdivided into Bail Before It Gets Worse and the more common Never Saw It Coming. If you ever see us exiting our horse when it is doing anything other than standing like a statue, it’s because something has gone horribly wrong.

I can also imagine my horse’s reaction if I ever tried to run up and throw my leg over his back when he was trotting along. Assuming he’d let me get close enough to spit on him, I’m sure he’d take my ungraceful floundering as permission to flee into the next county. Even if he were on a longe line, his most likely response would be to drag me through the peony bush. As for what he would do if I tried to stand up or do a headstand on his back...I might as well just hurl my body face-first into the ground and save him the trouble.

But I have to admit, I’ve actually tried it. Vaulting, I mean, not hurling my body face-first into the ground. I took vaulting lessons one winter, and I loved it. It was completely different from anything I’ve ever done on horseback. It was exhilarating. And there’s something about the oddness of looking up at the sky from your vantage point lying across a moving horse’s back that just appeals to my inner sense of weirdness. However, I draw the line at wearing the slinky little full-body leotards that the little girls do. I’m not leaving the house looking like a florescent super hero unless it’s Halloween and I’ve knocked back more than a few shots. I think at my age leggings and a baggy tee shirt are more appropriate.

I’m going to try vaulting again this summer, and I am preparing for it even now. I remember what parts of my body took a beating last time I tried it, so I am attempting to condition said parts to better withstand the demands of the sport. I’m doing pushups for my upper body. I’m jumping on and off of my little trampoline to strengthen and stabilize my ankles. Perhaps I’ll even practice a few moves on those big propane tanks out in back of the barn. I may give new meaning to the term “flyer” if any of that propane goes up.

I will approach it with a youthful exuberance and a can-do attitude. And perhaps a couple of pillows tied around my body, because the ground is a lot harder than it was when I was a kid. Assuming the emergency room has internet access, I’ll let you know how it goes.

Jody Werner is a writer, artist and semi-professional horseman who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. A successful hunter/equitation rider and competitor, she also enjoys an occasional foray into the world of vaulting. She has a Thoroughbred gelding who would never let her stand up on his back, and who quite frankly would prefer it if she’d stay off of him entirely.

A Tale of Two Bales

2009-07-07T22:13:00.000-07:00

We’ve got “hay reserves” in back of the barn that consist of a couple-three bales of hay tipped up on their ends and leaned neatly against the side of the building.

Last week I was walking my horse behind the barn. He decided to grab a mouthful of alfalfa off the bale. You could hardly expect him to pass it by, any more than you could expect a cop car not to stop for a guy on the corner holding out a fresh cup of Starbucks.

Unfortunately, my horse decided to grab his mouthful from the BOTTOM of the bale. This is like doing the old yanking the tablecloth out from under the dishes trick and not yanking fast enough. The alfalfa bale toppled.

It fell sideways into the bale of oat hay. Alfalfa is heavy. Oat hay is light. It was like the Budweiser Clydesdales falling into the Taco Bell Chihuahua. The oat bale crashed to the ground and the flakes splattered like a bag of ice cubes heaved off the back of a speeding truck onto the highway. Hay slid everywhere.

Picking up the alfalfa flakes was easy. Alfalfa flakes are pressed together harder than particleboard. You’d have better luck disemboweling yourself than getting alfalfa off the flake. Really, you could fire alfalfa flakes out of a cannon, take out a small town, and the flakes would still be perfectly formed when they landed on the other side. They’re nature’s perfect bricks. If the ancient Egyptians had used alfalfa brick instead of bedrock, the Sphinx would still have its nose.

It was easy to put them back into a neat stack – kinda fun, even. It brought back memories of playing with Lego and Lincoln Logs. I suppose I could have built a duck blind or my own version of Burning Man or something useful, but the daylight and my jocularity were fading rapidly.

Oat hay does not stack well once it has come un-flaked. It has no cohesive properties. Trying to stack oat hay is like trying to stack a pile of those colored plastic drinking straws. Try it some time. Take a big handful of soda straws and try to press them all together into a pile and make them stay put. That’s pretty much what it was like trying to pile the oat hay back up. I’d scoop up an armful, get half of it into the stack and half of it would slide back to the ground. What’s the name of that guy in the Greek myth? You know, the one who was condemned to forever push a boulder up a hill, only to have the rock slip and roll back down every time he neared the summit? It was like that.

After a lot of re-scooping and re-piling interspersed with creating new ways to combine cuss words, I had the oat hay arranged into something that looked almost exactly but not quite entirely unlike a stack. Although it yinged this way and yanged that way, it was arguably upright. But as I bent down to scoop the last bit of hay from the ground, the stack reached some sort of critical mass and collapsed in all directions. Oat hay slid willy nilly, the way skaters would scatter if you tossed a few well-timed bowling balls out at the Ice Capades. It was carnage. The Hindenburg would have been easier to clean up.

I never did get the hay back into a neat pile. Out of daylight and patience, there was nothing left to do but pull a tarp over the mess and flee the scene of the crime. Tomorrow, people would discover the destruction. They’d blame our Mexican groom Antonio. He’d never be able to summon up enough English to defend himself. I’d be safe. I’d just have to wear long sleeves for a week to hide all the scratches I’d gotten wrestling with the prickly hay.

And next time I took my horse walking behind the barn, I’d be sure to keep the hay bales out of his reach.

Arachnophobe

2009-06-30T13:04:00.000-07:00

My unreasonable, out-of-proportion-to-reality fear of spiders started when I moved into a little studio in a very woodsy area. I probably kill half a dozen spiders in my house on an average day. Big ones. Little ones. Fat ones. Skinny ones. Spindly ones. Squatty ones. I suppose it’s better than, say, a crocodile infestation, or a plague of locusts or burning hail. They’re small. Ish. I’m bigger than they are. I can squash them like the bugs they are.

Even though I know all of this I always have the same reaction when I see one.

I scream.

Not a little girly squeal, but a bloodcurdling shriek that would land me the lead role in any number of slasher movies. It’s a totally involuntary reaction and it’s embarrassing.

When the initial panic subsides, I search frantically for an implement of destruction. A shoe, a rolled up magazine. A priceless figurine. It doesn’t matter. The collateral damage is of no concern so long as it dispatches the 8-legged demon to spider purgatory. It’s not as simple as it sounds. Spiders are fast. Really fast. And they can keep running until they’re down to about two legs.

Spiders appear to get into my home via some Hell Mouth portal that opens directly into my bathroom – which is apparently some sort of arachnid day spa destination. They meet with friends for a drink in the bathtub and then like to cozy up for a little nappy-poo in my bath towels. I have learned to carefully shake out all the towels and the shower curtain and peep into the tub before I climb in. Invariably there are those I discover only after I am naked and defenseless.

I am probably the only person I know who keeps a baseball bat in the shower. If that dude from “psycho” ever sneaks up on ME he’s gonna get a very unpleasant surprise.

My phobia has progressed beyond fear of anything that IS a spider to fear of anything that MIGHT be a spider.

I over-react if I see the slightest hint of motion out of the corner of my eye. I’ve hurled my body out of my office chair and to the floor when a light on my modem blinked. I’ve thrown plates of food in the air when a piece of lettuce shifted. If I feel a stray hair brush my neck unexpectedly I start pummeling myself like a spastic. I can only imagine the catastrophe if I were to find a spider in the car with me while driving. I’d like to think I could keep my wits about me, but who am I kidding? They’d be pulling my car out of a ravine on the side of the road and I’d be running down the middle of the highway screaming.

Somewhere, in the spider afterlife, little critters are swapping stories of their demise.

“How’d they get YOU?"

“A shoe.”

“...and you?”

“Lawn dart.”

“What about you?”

“I dunno what happened, I was just crawling around in the car and suddenly, CRASH!”

Yeah, well I’m not your chauffeur. Next time just shoot a web out of your butt and let the wind take you where you want to go.

Handicapped Riding Lessons

2009-06-24T16:48:00.000-07:00

I teach riding lessons. It’s fun and rewarding. Most of the time. But if I’m ill, like I am this week, it can be a challenge. I’m a little bit off my game. Therefore I’ve written this primer as a guide to help you get the most out of taking riding lessons with me when I’m not feeling well.

I’ll be sleeping in my car until it’s time to start the lesson. It’s your responsibility to wake me up. I’ll need at least ten minutes to remember where I am and what I’m doing and another five minutes to visit the porta-potty and load up on cold meds.

Instead of walking around the riding arena during the lesson, I’ll be planting myself in a chair in the nearest patch of shade. Do not expect me to get up for any reason.

Instructions may consist of things like ‘drop your stirrups and wake me up in ten minutes’ and ‘ride single file down to the drug store and bring back cough syrup while remaining in two point.’

I will try to remember your names.

If my voice gives out, hand signals will be used. Three fingers means canter. Two means trot. One means walk. A circular motion with the hand means reverse. A wide sweeping motion with one arm means speed up. A short quick motion means slow down. Flailing my arms wildly probably means I have a bee in my hair, but could also mean you’re about to do something that will result in bodily harm to yourself or others. Interpret as you see fit.

Both hands clutching my chest means I need CPR.

If I point at a fence it means I want you to jump it.

You’ll know by the expression on my face afterwards if it was any good or not.

A look of relief means it was good.
No change in expression means it was OK.
A raised eyebrow means it could have been worse.
Rolling my eyes means it WAS worse
Burying my face in my hands is a good indication that it’s time for you to give up and go home

I’ll have my cell phone with me. If you fall off, I’ll call your cell phone. If you answer it I’ll tell you what you did wrong. If you don’t answer I’ll know to dial 911.

Finally, I will expect someone to bring a car down to drive me back to the barn when the lesson is over. If you forget, and I have to walk back, you'd better be gone by the time I get there.

Happy riding.

Suicide Hotline

2009-06-20T21:34:00.001-07:00

SH: Hello, Suicide Hotline, how can I help you?

Caller: I’m going to kill myself.

SH: How?

Caller: How what?

SH: How are you going to kill yourself?

Caller: I – well – I don’t know!

SH: Well that’s kind of an important piece of information to have, don’t you think?

Caller: I hadn’t thought that much about it.

SH: Well maybe you’d better.

Caller: I don’t know – stick my head in the oven.

SH: Do you have a gas oven?

Caller: I don’t think so.

SH: Well then that’s not going to work out very well, is it?

Caller: Okay, I’ll shoot myself.

SH: Do you have a gun?

Caller: No.

SH: You haven’t really done your homework on this, have you?

Caller: I have a bottle of pills I can take.

SH: What kind?

Caller: Let me check. Doan’s Little Liver Pills

SH: Do those things work?

Caller: I don’t know, I’ve never taken one.

SH: Then why do you have them?

Caller: They were in the medicine cabinet when I moved into the apartment.

SH: When was that?

Caller: 1987. Is that important?

SH: What do you pay for rent?

Caller: Fifteen hundred bucks.

SH: Geez, no wonder you want to kill yourself.

Caller: You’re not helping.

SH: Okay, what floor do you live on?

Caller: Fifth.

SH: Why don’t you jump out the window?

Caller: You want me to jump out the window?

SH: Well, we’re running out of other options aren’t we?

Caller: I thought you were supposed to talk me out of it!

SH: Why would I want to do that?

Caller: Because you’re the Suicide Hotline!

SH: You must want the Suicide PREVENTION Hotline. This is the SUICIDE Hotline. We’re here to help you kill yourself.

Caller: Why would you want to help me kill myself?

SH: Clearly SOMEbody’s going to have to help you.

Caller: How much is this call costing me?

SH: Why do you care, you’re killing yourself.

Caller: You people are sick! (CLICK).

With Apologies to Dr Seuss

2009-06-12T23:44:00.000-07:00

I'm often asked where I get ideas for the things I write about. The simple answer is, everywhere. As evidenced by today's blog, even a trip to the hardware store can become an outlet for macabre creativity. I'd like to apologize to Dr. Seuss for my blatant ripoff of his writing style – although I think he might approve.

Hooks I needed

Hooks I sought

A simple thing, a hook,

I thought

Until I saw it

down the aisle

A wall of hooks

that spanned a mile!

Who would have guessed it

so confusing

All those hooks

All there for choosing!

Hooks that stick on

Hooks that screw on

Hooks that clip on

Hooks that glue on

Hooks for ceilings

Hooks for walls

Hooks for closets

Hooks for halls

Hooks for coats

Hooks for hats

Hooks for hooks

Imagine that!

Hooks in silver

Hooks in gold

Hooks for looks

And hooks that hold

Hooks of metal

Hooks of wood

Hooks of plastic

(cheap, but good)

Big hooks, little hooks

Fat and thin

Hooks that swivel

Hooks that spin

Long hooks, short hooks

Curved and straight

Hooks with crooks

(best used for bait)

My head felt faint

My stomach sick

I couldn't choose

I couldn't pick!

It wasn't fair

It wasn't right

Those laughing hooks

They mocked my plight!

I left bereft

Downhearted, stranded

Hookless, hopeless,

Empty handed

A painful blow

My quest to fail

Aw, screw the hooks

Who's got a nail?

I miss my tool

2009-06-10T13:26:00.000-07:00

I've noticed something the last few times I've traveled.

Airport personnel have absolutely no sense of humor.

I think this has less to do with the events of 9/11 and more to do with the fact that, like most Americans, these people hate their jobs. They hate getting up in the morning, they hate being on their feet all day and they hate co-mingling with airport riff raff in search of cigarette lighters, tweezers and other dangerous contraband. It’s just one rung above wearing a hairnet and saying ‘do you want fries with that?’ on the employment ladder.

I experienced this lack of humor when I took a trip to visit a friend last fall. I had two bags with me and was planning to check one. But it was early in the morning and I got in the wrong line. Instead of baggage check-in, I found that I was in the security check line. I'd just stood in the line for half an hour. I didn’t want to get out of line, check my bag, and have to stand in line again. So I did my best to cram my larger bag into the 'your bag must fit here to be a carry on' thingy. It mostly fit. The guy inspecting the bags said it was good enough for him.

So was thinking, I'm in like Flynn.

Then I had to go through the damned metal detector and x-ray machines.

I put all my bags on the conveyer belt and disrobed to nearly my underwear. I was wearing some rather spiffy looking western boots. (They were bastard-child western boots with pointed toes. I would be executed for wearing these boots in, say, Texas, but they were fine for California.) The security guy pointed to them and said, 'how 'bout those boots?' I held my foot out and smiled. "How about these boots? They're nice, aren't they? You like 'em?"

He just glared at me, which I interpreted of his way of telling me to stop being a smartass and take off the goddamned boots.

I obliged, and they went on the conveyer belt with all of my other possessions. I walked through the security gate with no problem. I waited for my bags.

Something beeped.

It was my bag.

Or rather, it was the machine that beeped because of something in my bag.

So I got to hold up the line while another man with no sense of humor examined the contents of my bag. This was the bag I had intended to check, by the way. My very expensive Leatherman tool was in there. I loved my Leatherman tool. I always carried it. You just never knew when you were going to be required to, say, open a wine bottle or defuse a bomb. I’m sure McGyver never left home without his Leatherman.

The Man With No Sense of Humor found my Leatherman tool, and promptly confiscated it. I guess he was afraid I’m going to try to tweeze the pilot or corkscrew one of the attendants.

This tool cost me fifty bucks. I wanted my tool back, or I wanted fifty bucks.

I told him this, pretty much in those words and in the tone you might imagine. I found out much later that they are SUPPOSED to give you the option of mailing your item back home if you want to. But he didn’t tell me this. He just told me he was taking the tool.

I told him again that he owed me fifty bucks.

He was not amused, nor did he look remotely like he was going to give me fifty bucks.

At this point anyone with me would have been cringing and/or pretending they didn’t know me, and/or summoning the nearest FBI agent to take me into custody.

I persisted up until what I perceived was the edge of this guy’s breaking point (even offering him a $10 discount if he paid cash), but in the end I lost the tool.

And as I walked away, he didn’t put it in the tray with the other confiscated contraband.

No.

He put MY Leatherman in HIS pocket.

I was tempted to leap back over the security gate in protest and demand that the man take the tool out of his pants. In retrospect, I can see where this request would have been grossly misinterpreted. Wisely, I just walked away, bemoaning the fact that I’d just bought The Man With No Sense of Humor a $50 tool.

By the way, this trip took place a few days before Halloween. Airline employees had decorated all the gates for the holiday. The United Airlines gate was elaborately decorated with skeletons, tombstones and a life-sized statue of the Grim Reaper standing right in front of the door you go through to board the plane. This is NOT what I want to see when I’m about to step onto a fifty-seven ton aircraft that defies all laws of physics and gravity in the first place. Still, it was funny in a sick, twisted sort of way. Anyway, I didn’t fly United, I flew Southwest. In keeping with their no-frills policy, Southwest’s decorations were more frugal and consisted mainly of giant cutouts of candy corn taped to the walls. They had real pieces of candy corn set out on the counters but the damned things were glued down. I tried to pry one up and some lady slapped my hand. I suppose that’s to be expected from an airline that just sends you on the plane in groups and makes you duke it out for seats and overhead storage. It’s a tough battle when you’re not allowed to carry any weapons. I could really have used the corkscrew attachment on my Leatherman tool.

Which was, of course, in the pocket of the pants of The Man With No Sense of Humor.

Match-dot-comedy

2009-06-07T12:23:00.001-07:00

I admit it. I spent six months on match-dot-com a few years ago. I've had a lot of people ask me a lot of questions about it. Mostly guys. Mostly guys who found me on match-dot-com. Mostly guys who found me on match-dot-com and got rejected. Mostly guys who found me on match-dot-com and got rejected and couldn't understand why.

As a public service, I've written the following primer. I hope it will help you understand where you went wrong and help you succeed in the future. Just don't try succeeding with ME, you're already off my list.

Instructions for match-dot-com suitors:

1. Pass the reading comprehension portion of the program. Don't 'wink'. I don't respond to 'winks.' This directive seems clear. Still, winks stacked up in my inbox like planes waiting to land at O'Hare. I can only assume you were winking just to irritate me. You'll be pleased to know that it worked.

More likely, you never even read as far as 'don't wink'. You saw a photo, thought it was cute, and that was enough to make you believe in our destiny. Although that makes a very compelling case, I beg to differ.

If you can't read the whole profile, at least read the summary and scan the "about my date" section. It can be difficult to know what a woman really means, so let me translate: "Seeking men 40 - 50" means that we are seeking men 40 to 50. "Do not want to have kids" means that we do not want to have kids. "Smoking: No Way" means Smoking: No Way. “No” means no. I think you get the idea.

If you don't meet any of my criteria, don’t act surprised and offended when I point out that we're not a good match. If I politely turn you down, there is no need to send an angry response. Should you feel compelled, perhaps anger management classes would be a better investment than a match-dot-com subscription.

2. Don’t recite your entire life story in your first email. A paragraph introducing yourself is more than sufficient. If you don’t have anything more interesting to say than “I think U R Hot, let’s meet”, don’t expect a response.

3. USE SPELL CHECK. I cannot stress this enough. If you don’t have a spell check program, get someone to proofread your profile. Everyone is granted a few typos, but a profile brimming with spelling and grammar errors that a third-grader could identify will be immediately 86'd. Learn the difference between a plural and a possessive. And for the love of Mike, don’t litter your text with little smiley faces or “LOL” or, worst of all, “hahaha’s”. By the way, saying that you grew up in Michigan or that you value hard work has nothing whatsoever to do with your "ethnicity." Use the dictionary and stop looking up everything on Wikipedia. Also, saying that you come from a "good Swedish back round" makes no sense whatsoever unless you happen to be a side of beef.

Your actual profile content:

1. Don't lie about your age because you "don't look it" or so you "won't be left out of people's searches." Girls do all kinds of crazy ass searches, just for sport. Trust me, we'll find you.

2. Don't post pictures that are 8 years old, 50 pounds lighter, have you hidden under a hat and sunglasses or that look suspiciously like stills of Tom Cruise in Risky Business. Some of you are laughing, but others KNOW who you are. Kindly deep-six those pictures of you with your shirt off, flexing your muscles or in the shower. Please use the phrase "athletic and toned" judiciously. Playing volleyball fifteen years ago or walking on the elliptical twice per week doesn't make you 'athletic and toned.'

3. If you are “currently separated” for less than a year – move along. You may think you are ready for a relationship, but you aren’t. Don’t play the ‘But I’ve been emotionally separated for years’ card. There should be a mandatory 12-month waiting period before you’re allowed back into even the shallow end of the dating pool.

Unfortunate experiences have made me careful about people I 'meet' online. If I don't answer personal questions, give out my phone number or agree to meet you after one email, don't push. Bullying or getting nasty isn’t going to win you any answers. If you try those tactics, don’t be surprised when I never write back.

If we do meet, and you decide we aren’t a match, please don’t pull the ‘disappear off the face of the earth’ act. Call, or email, and say ‘thanks for meeting with me but I don’t think we’re a good match.’ I don’t need 101 reasons – or ANY reasons - why. Just put on your big girl panties and wrap things up properly.

I hope the guidelines above help you in your quest to meet that perfect person online. I believe I'll just continue to patiently wait for Tom Selleck to get divorced.

Fashion Police

2009-06-05T20:39:00.000-07:00

I think there should be Fashion Police.

Not the perky, quirky TV personalities that tell you "what not to wear" – but a uniformed task force with the authority to hand out citations to people who exhibit no fashion sense. I'm not talking about people who aren't able to put together a chic ensemble. I'm talking about people who leave the house looking like the fashion equivalent of a train wreck.

Case in point: I remember seeing a very overweight woman out shopping. She was wearing a fire-engine red lycra top that looked several sizes too small, tighty-white spandex pants and underwear with blue flowers on them (clearly visible under the spandex). Okay, in what alternate universe does ANYone think that this sort of look is attractive? Hey lady, you know that big long thingy hanging on the back of your closet door? It's called a mirror. Howzabout you take a look in it before you leave the house wearing something that's going to permanently scar my retinas?

Which brings me to the First Law of Fashion:

Spandex: it's a privilege, not a right. 1% of the population looks good in spandex. Chances are, you're not in that percentile.

Second Law of Fashion:
Tight clothing does NOT make you look slimmer. It makes you look like you have no idea what size clothing you should wear or that you just made three trips to the all you can eat buffet. If you look like you'll need the Jaws of Life to extract you from your jeans, go back to your closet and pick something else.

Third Law of Fashion:
Muffin top doesn't look good on anyone. I don't care if you're fifteen or fifty. If you're wearing low slung jeans and you're spilling out over the top of them, it ain't pretty. Muffin top is nature's way of telling you that you either need a bigger size, or need to lay off the Cheetos.

Fourth Law of Fashion:
Just because it's "in style" doesn't mean you should wear it. Not all styles look good on all body types. I cannot stress this enough.

Fifth Law of Fashion:
Underwear should be just that. We don't wanna see your fine washables peeking out from under your shirts or pants. We don't wanna see your plumber's crack, either. For the love of Pete, wear clothing that keeps your private parts private.

And my final piece of advice: check out all the angles. YOU may not have to look at your backside, but other people do.

No matter what your size or shape, there is clothing that can flatter you. It's your civic duty (or should be) to find it and wear it. It doesn't have to have a hefty price tag or a designer's name on it. It can come from Wal Mart or Goodwill. It just has to look good on you.

Just consider it your little contribution toward making America more beautiful.