Today I had to behave like an adult. It was difficult. It requires a different mindset, a somewhat alien one. In a manner of speaking I sort of liked it, but I don't plan on making a regular habit out of being an adult.
Until recently my life has been geared around taking care of others. Now I'm learning to focus on taking care of me. First I had to progress beyond the feeling that I was being selfish. Believe me, this wasn't easy after years of being told I'm of less importance.
I think what happened was, when I ran out of demanding people part of my brain shut down. Basically I went into shock and it took a while to find the reset button.
Chronologically I may be fifty-one yet I feel like I'm five and facing the world for the first time. There's so much to learn and see and do. It's bright and exciting and wondrous. And though everything is so new and fresh I have years of experience to fall back on as a guide for what to do, or not to do.
I'm learning it's okay to be ambitious and dream big.
I'm learning it's okay to say this is what I want, and I'm going to get it.
My daily mantra: "The day is what I make of it. Today is gonna be a great day."
Pour a cup of coffee and put on a smile. Most of all remember situations, events, and emotions ebb and flow like the tides. My plans for the day may not materialize but that doesn't mean failure or lack of progress.
Questions that do not apply to me: where do you see yourself in five years? What are your retirement goals? What are you going to do when you grow up? The latter assumes everyone must grow up to the questioner's standards.
I'm smart enough to know goals change. I'll get bored and move on to something else. Or a new opportunity will present itself. Maybe I just have an issue with labels and being pigeon-holed.
Today the interviewer asked what I'm into; I asked how much time she had. The world is my Disneyland. The hardest part is having to wait to take the next adventure. Translate "you must be this tall to go on this ride" into, "you must lay the groundwork, do research and gain experience". Even hobbies and games require learning.
So it won't kill me to every once in a while pretend to be an adult. While the course maybe "second star to the right and straight on till morning" there are plenty of opportunities to visit uncharted realms.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Blonding the World
Holly's motto is "everyone and everything looks better in blonde." She sheds. That statement alone barely encompasses the scope of how much she sheds 24/7/365. I use a grooming mitt on her, outside. On a typical day out here in NC the wind disperses tufts of blonde hair over several blocks, snagging in shrubs and piling in drifts against houses and car tires. Unsuspecting people walk or jog through airborne layers of blonde.
I figure it's only a matter of time before I'm linked to a major crime in Ottawa, or Singapore, or Perth because forensics found blonde dog hair. Interpol's version of Horatio Cane will be waiting on the back porch when I step out for a cigarette. Over his shoulder he'll explain how they followed the evidence. Or maybe it will be Down Under's Mac Taylor strongly suggesting I confess. With great delight I'll have to ask "you aren't from here, are you?"
Meanwhile Holly will be conducting an investigation of her own. Amused I'll watch my gorgeous blonde share her hair onto the officer. Hair that he will pass on to others via innocent causal contact.
Courtesy of the wind Holly's blonding the world. Years from now, long after this life, forensics will still be recovering strands of her blonde hair. At some point the scientists will get together to discuss the phenomena. How extraordinary this one dog has been everywhere, to the furthest corners of the planet. Birds on Galapagos are using blonde hair in construction of their nests. Holly hair will be found in core samples of ice from Antartica.
Right now someone in Mongola is trying to wipe a blonde hair from his or her eye. A diner at a Paris cafe is complaining to the waiter "there's hair in my food!"
And my beautiful Holly just gives me that look and says "everyone looks better in blonde."
I figure it's only a matter of time before I'm linked to a major crime in Ottawa, or Singapore, or Perth because forensics found blonde dog hair. Interpol's version of Horatio Cane will be waiting on the back porch when I step out for a cigarette. Over his shoulder he'll explain how they followed the evidence. Or maybe it will be Down Under's Mac Taylor strongly suggesting I confess. With great delight I'll have to ask "you aren't from here, are you?"
Meanwhile Holly will be conducting an investigation of her own. Amused I'll watch my gorgeous blonde share her hair onto the officer. Hair that he will pass on to others via innocent causal contact.
Courtesy of the wind Holly's blonding the world. Years from now, long after this life, forensics will still be recovering strands of her blonde hair. At some point the scientists will get together to discuss the phenomena. How extraordinary this one dog has been everywhere, to the furthest corners of the planet. Birds on Galapagos are using blonde hair in construction of their nests. Holly hair will be found in core samples of ice from Antartica.
Right now someone in Mongola is trying to wipe a blonde hair from his or her eye. A diner at a Paris cafe is complaining to the waiter "there's hair in my food!"
And my beautiful Holly just gives me that look and says "everyone looks better in blonde."
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Kids. Shudder.
I am not, repeat NOT a kid person. The problem is, me being a female opens the door to the vast majority of the population who are convinced I don't know my own mind. My parents and male siblings used to volunteer me to babysit nieces and nephews. This was a duty thrust upon me. The joys of being the youngest. Now if we are to consider the fact my oldest niece and nephew are closer to my age than their father, my brother, was and take into account I was nine when it all began you can see where I had little say.
Despite how often I voiced my lack of desire to have anything to do with children my folks often contracted me out to their friends or coworkers. Capitalism be danged. I didn't care if I was getting paid. All I wanted was a way from those freaking kids.
Naturally as I entered into my late teens people began asking when I was going to settle down, get married and have kids. Various guys who were considered good providers were pointed out or introduced. The whole time I'd be going "hello, has anyone been listening to me?" What is so hard to understand about I don't want kids?
In my twenties I constantly butted head with neighbors who seemed to feel my maternal instincts would kick in if I babysat their brats. The word "NO" was alien to them. They didn't comprehend. Instead they sent their offspring over to my place, "go visit Aunt Debi". Once the kid was out of sight the parents would run for their car. Oh they thought they were being clever. They assumed I'd play nice. If the brat's parents managed making it out of the parking lot, well, then they were in for a rude surprise. I had no qualms calling the cops and/or Child Protective Services and reporting an abandoned kid.
Twice in my thirties I had the occasion to look at my boyfriend and ask "just how long have we known each other?" Jeff decided we needed to start looking at houses. He wasn't talking marriage, at first but I was cool with the idea of living with him. We discussed number of bedrooms, bathrooms and floor plans. All of a sudden Jeff mentioned school districts. A warning flag went up in my brain. Next came a comment about a pediatric clinic; he heard they're one of the best. I stared at him long and hard and asked "how long have we known each other?" Jeff stammered but came up with a figure pretty close to the correct answer. "When during that time have you heard me say I wanted kids?"
We did not move in together. About a year later Jeff got the great idea to try again. The scene: dining room of a 3 bed 2 bath on quiet street in Aloha, OR. We had walked around the house noting yards, patio and room either to park an RV or cultivate a veggie garden. We began the tour of the inside of the house making it as far as the dining room before Jeff got dumb. He said in a wistful tone, "can't you just see all of us sitting down for dinner?"
Me: "Who is us?"
Jeff, ignoring the question: "I like this room. It's inviting and cosy. I can see the kids doing homework or when the weather's bad all of us playing games like Yahtzee."
Me: "There's that all of us again. And what kids?"
Jeff: "Our kids; our family."
Me: "Who are you planning on having kids with?"
(the real estate agent's eyes got huge and her jaw dropped to the floor. she gave a little squeak.)
Jeff: "Why do you have to be like that?"
Me: "How long have you known me? When have I ever said I wanted kids?"
Jeff: "I've known you long enough to say it's time for you to settle down and quit bouncing all over the place." Then he stupidly referenced my biological clock and more than eluded to how I wasn't getting any younger.
(the real estate agent gasped and began looking about for a weapon to bludgeon him. she was getting more irked than me.)
Me: "I do not have issues with my biological clock. I do have issues with you."
Jeff: "Like you keep pointing out, we've known each other a long time. We've had our fun. It's time we settle down and raise a family."
Me: "I have no intention of having kids with you or anyone else. Why is that so hard to understand?"
Let's skip the ugly part except to say I suggested he marry a brood mare. Obviously this was the end of my relationship with Jeff. But the question persists. Why is it so hard for people to understand I'm not a kid person?
Everyone has limitations. I acknowledge and accept mine. Thankfully I born in the latter half of the twentieth century in a country where I have a say in the matter. Personally I think if my situation had been different I'd end up in a padded room, eyes roving independantly and a thin line of drool oozing from the left corner of my mouth.
Despite how often I voiced my lack of desire to have anything to do with children my folks often contracted me out to their friends or coworkers. Capitalism be danged. I didn't care if I was getting paid. All I wanted was a way from those freaking kids.
Naturally as I entered into my late teens people began asking when I was going to settle down, get married and have kids. Various guys who were considered good providers were pointed out or introduced. The whole time I'd be going "hello, has anyone been listening to me?" What is so hard to understand about I don't want kids?
In my twenties I constantly butted head with neighbors who seemed to feel my maternal instincts would kick in if I babysat their brats. The word "NO" was alien to them. They didn't comprehend. Instead they sent their offspring over to my place, "go visit Aunt Debi". Once the kid was out of sight the parents would run for their car. Oh they thought they were being clever. They assumed I'd play nice. If the brat's parents managed making it out of the parking lot, well, then they were in for a rude surprise. I had no qualms calling the cops and/or Child Protective Services and reporting an abandoned kid.
Twice in my thirties I had the occasion to look at my boyfriend and ask "just how long have we known each other?" Jeff decided we needed to start looking at houses. He wasn't talking marriage, at first but I was cool with the idea of living with him. We discussed number of bedrooms, bathrooms and floor plans. All of a sudden Jeff mentioned school districts. A warning flag went up in my brain. Next came a comment about a pediatric clinic; he heard they're one of the best. I stared at him long and hard and asked "how long have we known each other?" Jeff stammered but came up with a figure pretty close to the correct answer. "When during that time have you heard me say I wanted kids?"
We did not move in together. About a year later Jeff got the great idea to try again. The scene: dining room of a 3 bed 2 bath on quiet street in Aloha, OR. We had walked around the house noting yards, patio and room either to park an RV or cultivate a veggie garden. We began the tour of the inside of the house making it as far as the dining room before Jeff got dumb. He said in a wistful tone, "can't you just see all of us sitting down for dinner?"
Me: "Who is us?"
Jeff, ignoring the question: "I like this room. It's inviting and cosy. I can see the kids doing homework or when the weather's bad all of us playing games like Yahtzee."
Me: "There's that all of us again. And what kids?"
Jeff: "Our kids; our family."
Me: "Who are you planning on having kids with?"
(the real estate agent's eyes got huge and her jaw dropped to the floor. she gave a little squeak.)
Jeff: "Why do you have to be like that?"
Me: "How long have you known me? When have I ever said I wanted kids?"
Jeff: "I've known you long enough to say it's time for you to settle down and quit bouncing all over the place." Then he stupidly referenced my biological clock and more than eluded to how I wasn't getting any younger.
(the real estate agent gasped and began looking about for a weapon to bludgeon him. she was getting more irked than me.)
Me: "I do not have issues with my biological clock. I do have issues with you."
Jeff: "Like you keep pointing out, we've known each other a long time. We've had our fun. It's time we settle down and raise a family."
Me: "I have no intention of having kids with you or anyone else. Why is that so hard to understand?"
Let's skip the ugly part except to say I suggested he marry a brood mare. Obviously this was the end of my relationship with Jeff. But the question persists. Why is it so hard for people to understand I'm not a kid person?
Everyone has limitations. I acknowledge and accept mine. Thankfully I born in the latter half of the twentieth century in a country where I have a say in the matter. Personally I think if my situation had been different I'd end up in a padded room, eyes roving independantly and a thin line of drool oozing from the left corner of my mouth.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Cats first, and then dogs
Tommy is having an identity crisis. Anyday now I'll catch him on the bathroom counter assessing his reflection in the mirror. He's already staring at himself in windows and television screens (when the power is off). I can see the wheels turning in his little head.
Classic Egyptian chiseled face - check. Green eyes - check. Whiskers - check. Plume tail - check.
Then Tommy practises his voice running up and down the yowl scale. He chirps and mews; acks and chatters. Low purr mode is tested: barely audible - check; rumbling - check. High purr mode is tested: loud enough to be heard over the phone - check; loud and vibrating - check. The latter always results in more rubs from humans.
Final diagnostics: leaping in single bound to back of recliner - check; intwinning around humans legs - check; hardwood floor stealth mode - check.
Tommy is having an identity crisis. Multiple times a day he evaluates Holly. Tall and blonde - check. Pants and drools - check. Barks and whines - check. Cannot walk quietly on hardwood floor - check. Summation: Holly is a dog.
"You Human. Yeah, you, the one the Blonde usually answers to. We need to talk. That tall tail-less blonde is a DOG. I, short, black and handsome, am a CAT. I know Holly normally gets a fish-based kibble due to her allergy to chicken. But Human - you've gone too far and I'm extremely irked. Let me explain to you the natural order of things. I am a cat. Humans are on the earth to serve cats, not dogs. How dare you fix a dog special meals when I, the cat, get only the usual kibble? Has it occured to you to share a morsal or two with me? I will make you pay for your insulance. I will make the dog pay for reaping superior treatment. I am the CAT!"
Holly's been sick.
"Yeah, yeah; she got bit by a spider. Her face went all lopsided and goofy looking."
She had to go to the doctor. It may take a year or more for the toxins from the bite and steriods (medicine) to clear her system. Holly hasn't been feeling much like eating, which is causing more problems. So, to help her get better I'm fixing her meals.
Tommy got right up in my face. His green eyes stared unwavering into mine. "Human; you're missing the point. I am the cat. No dog is to ever, ever eat better than me. I GET THE TUNA!"
(ok, I heard the sudden inhale and before you exclaim "you're feeding your dog tuna?" allow me to explain. Holly is getting rice cooked down to mush flavored with albacore, water packed, tuna at a ratio roughly 1 cup mush to 1 teaspoon tuna. Think of this as a bland diet. As her appetite picks back up I'll begin adding kibble to the mix gradually taking her off the mush.)
Classic Egyptian chiseled face - check. Green eyes - check. Whiskers - check. Plume tail - check.
Then Tommy practises his voice running up and down the yowl scale. He chirps and mews; acks and chatters. Low purr mode is tested: barely audible - check; rumbling - check. High purr mode is tested: loud enough to be heard over the phone - check; loud and vibrating - check. The latter always results in more rubs from humans.
Final diagnostics: leaping in single bound to back of recliner - check; intwinning around humans legs - check; hardwood floor stealth mode - check.
Tommy is having an identity crisis. Multiple times a day he evaluates Holly. Tall and blonde - check. Pants and drools - check. Barks and whines - check. Cannot walk quietly on hardwood floor - check. Summation: Holly is a dog.
"You Human. Yeah, you, the one the Blonde usually answers to. We need to talk. That tall tail-less blonde is a DOG. I, short, black and handsome, am a CAT. I know Holly normally gets a fish-based kibble due to her allergy to chicken. But Human - you've gone too far and I'm extremely irked. Let me explain to you the natural order of things. I am a cat. Humans are on the earth to serve cats, not dogs. How dare you fix a dog special meals when I, the cat, get only the usual kibble? Has it occured to you to share a morsal or two with me? I will make you pay for your insulance. I will make the dog pay for reaping superior treatment. I am the CAT!"
Holly's been sick.
"Yeah, yeah; she got bit by a spider. Her face went all lopsided and goofy looking."
She had to go to the doctor. It may take a year or more for the toxins from the bite and steriods (medicine) to clear her system. Holly hasn't been feeling much like eating, which is causing more problems. So, to help her get better I'm fixing her meals.
Tommy got right up in my face. His green eyes stared unwavering into mine. "Human; you're missing the point. I am the cat. No dog is to ever, ever eat better than me. I GET THE TUNA!"
(ok, I heard the sudden inhale and before you exclaim "you're feeding your dog tuna?" allow me to explain. Holly is getting rice cooked down to mush flavored with albacore, water packed, tuna at a ratio roughly 1 cup mush to 1 teaspoon tuna. Think of this as a bland diet. As her appetite picks back up I'll begin adding kibble to the mix gradually taking her off the mush.)
Monday, November 21, 2011
Hold the Botox
According to ad writers we women are supposed to grow old gracefully. In other words, buy into the hype that we need all these products to lessen wrinkles and replenish collagen to make us look younger than our years. Today I got three emails from spas announcing botox parties. Why does all this make me think of Michael J. Fox's remarks to his aunt in "Secret to My Success"?
Personally I like my wrinkles and scars. Thing is, I prefer getting credit for years lived over having to explain to people I know what I'm talking about, I lived through it.
I do have thoughts about aging. First, I plan on living a minimum of 116 years, 1 week and 1 day. Calender-wise the date will be July 5, 2076; the day after the Tricentennial of the United States. It's all about the fireworks baby. I'm fairly sure I can make it provided I can manage to stay away from doctors. Lately I've been rather worried about America making it.
When I was in high school I got a part time job in a nursing home. To this day I'm undecided on which is the worse fate: body giving out and mind staying sharp or body reasonably healthy and mind gone. I talk to myself, animals and inanimate objects enough as it is, I doubt anyone will notice when my mind goes. Yet the experience of watching those in the latter stages of life made an impact. If I have a say in this I know exactly how I'll behave.
The plan when I left Oregon was for me to spend six months dinging around the east coast before settling down in Clark County, Nevada. The Good Twin is to join me. Despite the time schedule going out the window this is still the plan. Say a prayer for Clark County, the cities of Las Vegas and Henderson.
I announced to my twin yesterday I plan on buying a scooter, brilliant lime green or neon orange, with a cart to pull behind it for dog and groceries. I shall let my hair grow into a silver braid down my back. Then when I'm spotted putt-putting down Las Vegas Blvd. South locals will comment "Debi must have plans. She's wearing shorts and tanktop instead of a housecoat." Other times I might be sporting raccoon head slippers and a little black dress. Tomorrow might be an earthmother caftan or flashback to Cyndi Lauper in the 80's. Regardless of age, girls just want to have fun. It's not having fun that ages us.
We all have to grow old, or so I'm told. Personally I find this to be a lie right up there with all the crap the cosmetic and pharmacuetical companies want us to believe so we'll buy their products. There is nothing that you can ingest or inject or slather on your skin that will make you a beautiful person. Assuredly there are plenty of things that will make you appear old like a crotchedy attitude or persistant whining. Stop for a minute and think of how many people you know who are younger than you that seem old. What has aged them?
I want people to remember me favorably for how I treated them. At the end of the day did anyone really notice if I waxed my moustache or plucked chin hairs? The dog doesn't care that I'm wearing a nightshirt and pair of shorts when I take her out to potty. Funny how the neighbors comment on my tan and dismiss whether or not I've shaved my legs. I like that people are comfortable enough to strike up a conversation with me. The writer in me is thrilled with all the juicy tidbits gleaned from impromptu meetings.
Sorry cosmetic companies; the best anti-aging formula is kindness, courtesy and a non-judgmental attitude.
Personally I like my wrinkles and scars. Thing is, I prefer getting credit for years lived over having to explain to people I know what I'm talking about, I lived through it.
I do have thoughts about aging. First, I plan on living a minimum of 116 years, 1 week and 1 day. Calender-wise the date will be July 5, 2076; the day after the Tricentennial of the United States. It's all about the fireworks baby. I'm fairly sure I can make it provided I can manage to stay away from doctors. Lately I've been rather worried about America making it.
When I was in high school I got a part time job in a nursing home. To this day I'm undecided on which is the worse fate: body giving out and mind staying sharp or body reasonably healthy and mind gone. I talk to myself, animals and inanimate objects enough as it is, I doubt anyone will notice when my mind goes. Yet the experience of watching those in the latter stages of life made an impact. If I have a say in this I know exactly how I'll behave.
The plan when I left Oregon was for me to spend six months dinging around the east coast before settling down in Clark County, Nevada. The Good Twin is to join me. Despite the time schedule going out the window this is still the plan. Say a prayer for Clark County, the cities of Las Vegas and Henderson.
I announced to my twin yesterday I plan on buying a scooter, brilliant lime green or neon orange, with a cart to pull behind it for dog and groceries. I shall let my hair grow into a silver braid down my back. Then when I'm spotted putt-putting down Las Vegas Blvd. South locals will comment "Debi must have plans. She's wearing shorts and tanktop instead of a housecoat." Other times I might be sporting raccoon head slippers and a little black dress. Tomorrow might be an earthmother caftan or flashback to Cyndi Lauper in the 80's. Regardless of age, girls just want to have fun. It's not having fun that ages us.
We all have to grow old, or so I'm told. Personally I find this to be a lie right up there with all the crap the cosmetic and pharmacuetical companies want us to believe so we'll buy their products. There is nothing that you can ingest or inject or slather on your skin that will make you a beautiful person. Assuredly there are plenty of things that will make you appear old like a crotchedy attitude or persistant whining. Stop for a minute and think of how many people you know who are younger than you that seem old. What has aged them?
I want people to remember me favorably for how I treated them. At the end of the day did anyone really notice if I waxed my moustache or plucked chin hairs? The dog doesn't care that I'm wearing a nightshirt and pair of shorts when I take her out to potty. Funny how the neighbors comment on my tan and dismiss whether or not I've shaved my legs. I like that people are comfortable enough to strike up a conversation with me. The writer in me is thrilled with all the juicy tidbits gleaned from impromptu meetings.
Sorry cosmetic companies; the best anti-aging formula is kindness, courtesy and a non-judgmental attitude.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Logging the Family Tree
Dear Calvin,
We've known each other all our lives. We've shared secrets, tragedies and countless moments of awe. There were silly times like the night we stayed up surfing a foot fetish web site laughing until we were hoarse at the descriptions and photos of feet. Or how about the day you were bitching about all the spam in your inbox and we compared emails. You were getting breast enhancement whereas I was inundated with penis ads. The image of you, shaved head, stocky build, sporting triple H knockers had me rolling on the floor.
Remember the discussions we had about Billy Joel's song "We Didn't Start the Fire"? Can you recall the list of family members we swore we'd never be like? We didn't start the fire, but we don't need to perpetuate it. We'd be smarter. We'd learn from their mistakes and foolish acts.
So tell me Calvin, what the hell just happened? Things I've been hearing are leaving me absolutely speechless, not to mention nauseated.
Dude, you just leaped into the fire. I have to ask what makes you think it's going to work out any better for you than it did for all our dumb ass relatives? You were supposed to learn from history - not repeat it! Apparently the lesson was lost on you. In an odd way I find it rather funny, as in humorous and pathetic at the same time.
I've given the situation due consideration and have arrived at a conclusion. In the words of my favorite 80's t-shirt, You - out of the gene pool. If the only way to end this selfish madness is to terminate the family tree, then so be it. You are about to get logged.
One thing life has taught me about self-centered people is that I can inform them of precisely how I will deal with them. It always amazes me how shocked people are when their time comes like they really didn't believe actions have consequences. Since you've lost your listening skills I'm putting it in writing so there will be no misunderstanding.
Calvin, you will be terminated with prejudice on a day and at an hour of my choosing. I appreciate how easy you are making this for me in that you've managed pissing off a number of vocal people. When someone finally reports you as missing the cops will look to those people first. Due to the nature of our relationship it's highly doubtful I'll even be considered suspect . I wonder how many sympathy cards I'll get?
For years I've had to cope with people making fun of my OCD. Interesting thing about OCD, combined with my love of research it's made me very organized and efficient. I have no doubts that I'll be able to terminate you, neatly and dispose of your body.
Dude, you're in Oregon. We both own 4-wheel drives. On the maps those wide open spaces are labeled forests. Locals know they're dumping grounds. And bodies are seldom discovered. Maybe I'll give you a choice of Siskiyou or Umpqua. Maybe I'll dump you in one and leave your truck parked next to a favorite fishing hole in the other. Would you like that? I can be accommodating, after all, it's your funeral so to speak.
Love ya. Tell the folks I said Hi. I'll be seeing you soon.
We've known each other all our lives. We've shared secrets, tragedies and countless moments of awe. There were silly times like the night we stayed up surfing a foot fetish web site laughing until we were hoarse at the descriptions and photos of feet. Or how about the day you were bitching about all the spam in your inbox and we compared emails. You were getting breast enhancement whereas I was inundated with penis ads. The image of you, shaved head, stocky build, sporting triple H knockers had me rolling on the floor.
Remember the discussions we had about Billy Joel's song "We Didn't Start the Fire"? Can you recall the list of family members we swore we'd never be like? We didn't start the fire, but we don't need to perpetuate it. We'd be smarter. We'd learn from their mistakes and foolish acts.
So tell me Calvin, what the hell just happened? Things I've been hearing are leaving me absolutely speechless, not to mention nauseated.
Dude, you just leaped into the fire. I have to ask what makes you think it's going to work out any better for you than it did for all our dumb ass relatives? You were supposed to learn from history - not repeat it! Apparently the lesson was lost on you. In an odd way I find it rather funny, as in humorous and pathetic at the same time.
I've given the situation due consideration and have arrived at a conclusion. In the words of my favorite 80's t-shirt, You - out of the gene pool. If the only way to end this selfish madness is to terminate the family tree, then so be it. You are about to get logged.
One thing life has taught me about self-centered people is that I can inform them of precisely how I will deal with them. It always amazes me how shocked people are when their time comes like they really didn't believe actions have consequences. Since you've lost your listening skills I'm putting it in writing so there will be no misunderstanding.
Calvin, you will be terminated with prejudice on a day and at an hour of my choosing. I appreciate how easy you are making this for me in that you've managed pissing off a number of vocal people. When someone finally reports you as missing the cops will look to those people first. Due to the nature of our relationship it's highly doubtful I'll even be considered suspect . I wonder how many sympathy cards I'll get?
For years I've had to cope with people making fun of my OCD. Interesting thing about OCD, combined with my love of research it's made me very organized and efficient. I have no doubts that I'll be able to terminate you, neatly and dispose of your body.
Dude, you're in Oregon. We both own 4-wheel drives. On the maps those wide open spaces are labeled forests. Locals know they're dumping grounds. And bodies are seldom discovered. Maybe I'll give you a choice of Siskiyou or Umpqua. Maybe I'll dump you in one and leave your truck parked next to a favorite fishing hole in the other. Would you like that? I can be accommodating, after all, it's your funeral so to speak.
Love ya. Tell the folks I said Hi. I'll be seeing you soon.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Juicy Little Aliens
It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon here in Fayetteville, North Carolina. The temperature is mild. The breeze is light. The neighbors have seized upon this gorgeous day to torture their lawns one last time before winter.
I get that people want nice looking lawns. Lord knows in this neighborhood they shell out big bucks nearly all year around to keep their property spiffy. The average lawn care company charges fifty dollars just to mow. Personally I find this amusing. Why, you ask? Because it's flat land and there's no blackberries.
My last front yard in Oregon was big enough to hold a regulation [dog] Agility course with plenty of room leftover. Because we lived on the side of a mountain, standard to the PacNW, part of said lawn also had a thirty plus degree slope. On a riding lawnmower, without catcher bags and the blades set on the first notch, it took an average of two hours to mow the yard, in third gear. Obstacles included: tree roots, big trees; blackberry brambles and deer.
I have a theory regarding blackberry bushes. Blackberries are an alien life force. There is one mother plant plausibly hiding in the Tillamook Forest* that is methodically spreading it's tendrils across the countryside. Those of you who have engaged blackberries in battle know Napalm is not a deterrent. You think it's gone but in reality it's moved to the flowerbeds to wind up through rosebushes and hide in columbines.
Blackberry tendrils are strong. They lie in wait in the grass seeking to wrap around unsuspecting mower blades to prove their superiority by stalling man's machines. Heavy spiked runners grab at clothing and swat at faces or snag exposed arms and legs. Lawn care in the PacNW is often a bloodsport.
The only way we can win is for America to eat more blackberries. Holiday season approaches. Please join in the fight. Bake more blackberry pies, bread, scones and pastry. Drink blackberry juice or add the tasty clusters to your dishes, sweet or savory. Blackberries might not be to your house yet, but they're heading your way.
*allow me to put the Tillamook State Forest into perspective for city dwellers and flat landers - it's 364,000 acres, vertical terrain is roughly 432 times the size of NY's Central Park and spans four counties.
in March 2010 loggers found the wreckage of a WWII Navy plane sixty plus years after it crashed.
after the decimating fires known as The Tillamook Burn, when over 550 square miles burned, 72 million trees were replanted.
Don Berry in his novel To Build a Ship, said of the Tillamook Forest, it's a lesson in humility to stand in the midst of the forest, look up and not be able to see the sky for the trees. Figure at this time he was speaking of old growth forest, prior to burn. Present day trees tower better than 150 feet tall.
now if you were an alien life force, could you pick a better hiding place?
I get that people want nice looking lawns. Lord knows in this neighborhood they shell out big bucks nearly all year around to keep their property spiffy. The average lawn care company charges fifty dollars just to mow. Personally I find this amusing. Why, you ask? Because it's flat land and there's no blackberries.
My last front yard in Oregon was big enough to hold a regulation [dog] Agility course with plenty of room leftover. Because we lived on the side of a mountain, standard to the PacNW, part of said lawn also had a thirty plus degree slope. On a riding lawnmower, without catcher bags and the blades set on the first notch, it took an average of two hours to mow the yard, in third gear. Obstacles included: tree roots, big trees; blackberry brambles and deer.
I have a theory regarding blackberry bushes. Blackberries are an alien life force. There is one mother plant plausibly hiding in the Tillamook Forest* that is methodically spreading it's tendrils across the countryside. Those of you who have engaged blackberries in battle know Napalm is not a deterrent. You think it's gone but in reality it's moved to the flowerbeds to wind up through rosebushes and hide in columbines.
Blackberry tendrils are strong. They lie in wait in the grass seeking to wrap around unsuspecting mower blades to prove their superiority by stalling man's machines. Heavy spiked runners grab at clothing and swat at faces or snag exposed arms and legs. Lawn care in the PacNW is often a bloodsport.
The only way we can win is for America to eat more blackberries. Holiday season approaches. Please join in the fight. Bake more blackberry pies, bread, scones and pastry. Drink blackberry juice or add the tasty clusters to your dishes, sweet or savory. Blackberries might not be to your house yet, but they're heading your way.
*allow me to put the Tillamook State Forest into perspective for city dwellers and flat landers - it's 364,000 acres, vertical terrain is roughly 432 times the size of NY's Central Park and spans four counties.
in March 2010 loggers found the wreckage of a WWII Navy plane sixty plus years after it crashed.
after the decimating fires known as The Tillamook Burn, when over 550 square miles burned, 72 million trees were replanted.
Don Berry in his novel To Build a Ship, said of the Tillamook Forest, it's a lesson in humility to stand in the midst of the forest, look up and not be able to see the sky for the trees. Figure at this time he was speaking of old growth forest, prior to burn. Present day trees tower better than 150 feet tall.
now if you were an alien life force, could you pick a better hiding place?
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