THe Ninja Turtles never had such specialized sofa pillow shells Jordan and Dominick, archival edition circa 1993

Miaowy palm tree trunk detail.

Her baby's momma ain't the regular momma for this baby

On Sunday afternoon a friend phoned KD to relay some potentially exciting new news to me. She and another friend had apparently been discussing the bird picture I shot last week and he (the friend. Keep up with me here, willya?) was fairly sure that my mysterious unidentified oversized tweetering tot was, in fact, a cowbird fledgling much like the one pictured.


Check this out ... According to this article, cowbird mommas are nature's equivalent to a Las Vegas relationship. In, out. Bada-bing, bada-bang. She slips into another bird's nest to drop an egg into the bevvy of adorable pre-birds that the current nest dweller already has her haunches poised to fluff over with her warm belly feathers. Does it have to be a cowbird nest? HELL NO! Does she need much time? NO WAY!

Those critters are smart ... S--M--R--T. Letting someone else raise the babies, fill the flock, breeding bonanzas right and left. Meanwhile, there's a sparrow who could really use a ten week sabbatical or at the very least a Calgon soak, tired to the bone of feeding that supersized and oddly unfamiliar looking child of hers.

I've been scanning through web images of cowbirds, unable so far to make a positive ID on the coloring and pattern of the baby bird from my photo. But while I continue my searching, it sure seems a likely explanation that her baby's momma was a different momma with lots of babies and who knows how many daddies.

(And we think we need soap operas and docu-dramas to provide us our melodramadic fill?)

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature."

-- Helen Keller

fooled you!

McBeth.

you thought it was a pepper plant, didntcha? DINCHA?!

Well HAH!

Ohhhh... it is, it iiisssss.

But instead of that saliva-sucking heat that jalapenos usually produce, these will produce a lighter back-burner sort of heat, a mild simmering delightful addition to our burrito-ey summer fare.

Because as less than fond as I am of HOT-hotness, I am a sucker for growing a peppers with a clever name.

gardening stigmata

McBeth.

I do not like gardening with gloves.

With gloves on I can't feel the plants, I can't feel the dirt, I can't sift out the rocks. Gardening gloves make my hands sweaty and they make me feel slightly claustrophobic in that way that tight turtleneck sweaters make me feel like I can't breathe on the rare occasions I wear them.

Unfortunately, I am now bearing the physical results of no-glove heavy duty gardening.

I did learn one important first aid lesson from this experience that might be worth passing along. You can take my word on this, too: Unless you are in the mood for breath-sucking seeing-stars pain (and you might be because I know sometimes I am) -- When you have a largeish wound in an area with lots of nerve endings that is also a difficult area on which to keep a Band-Aid, do not spray it with that new spray-on bandage sealing stuff they sell at Walgreen's.

Hurts.
Like.
A.
Bitch.

feather flexing

McBeth.

While having my morning coffee and cigarette outside on the front step this morning I heard the chuttered squalling and feather ruffling of a baby bird waiting impatiently to be fed.

To my great surprise it was not a tiny sparrow being fed by the sparrow parent, but rather, a -- starling? Hmm, no it doesn't look at all like a starling but I'm honestly not sure just yet what kind of bird the mammoth-looking baby is (in comparison to the wee sparrow). It was a giganto baby, that's what it was. The rare Giganto bird, ahhhhyessss.

They stayed just long enough for me to grab the AA batteries that had been recharging overnight and get the camera set up for a couple of shots.

(If you can I.D. the baby let me know and I'll add it in here.)

Birds will flex adoptive muscles to care for another's young... who knew?!

a spade and a hoe

McBeth.

I accidentally picked a weed yesterday.

Or maybe my mind knows when I myself need a good weeding and it just sends me out to find one outstandingly tall misdirected and unwelcome plant ready for the picking.

When I weed, all else in inconsequential. I couldn't give a flying fig whose car is coming up the street or whose has just left; I don't hear the sirens and ambulances; the highway noise floats far far away. The background chatter volume is reduced by three clicks in my head. My fingers become outrageously sensitive, feeling for the best direction of tug to pull the entire plant, full roots and all, from the earth.


Again, today, both the internal and external weather look to be perfect for a long quiet uprooting time.

Two year old Charlie is becoming his own man, with definite preferences of habit and style that may well stay with him the rest of his life. Or the toothbrush passion may go away in another year. That's one of the thrills of childhood: so much can go any of a thousand different ways depending on another thousand variety of factors. My sister has learned that his shrill baby-pterodactyl shriek means "While I'm grateful for your offer of assistance, Mother, I'd really prefer to handle this task myself". Same with the military-style index finger wag into her face, accompanied with a sharp "NO MOMMA!". The rough translation is 'lay off, lady or I'll stick this finger up your nostril until it reaches your brain stem'.

One of Charlie's current fascinations is shoes. He loves shoes. If it was legal for a toddler to marry, and then for a toddler to marry an inanimate object, and then for a toddler to marry an inanimate object in the state of Iowa - he'd marry a shoe. Then he'd probably move to Utah where he'd marry multiple shoes and live happily ever after with hundreds of them. Charlie puts shoes onto his small wide feet hundreds of times each day. Daddy's shoes, Mommy's shoes, Charlie's shoes. The shoes down by the garage entrance, the shoes in Mommy and Daddy's closet; any shoe anywhere.

During this past weekend visit we were treated to a Charlie shoe fashion show in which he click-clacked out from Mommy and Daddys' room wearing (first) two black slip-on high-heel sandals belonging to my sister. After a traipse through the kitchen (and c'mon, the kitchen floor is OBVIOUSLY the best place for a shoe fashion show, what with the big tile floor. Carpeted bedroom floors simply won't produce that satisfying *clomp clip clomp* the same way a solid linoleum or wood or tile floor will). After he watched his feet parade through the living area in Momma's black heels he disappeared momentarily, returning shortly after wearing one strappy white dressy high heeled sandal on his left foot. For the number of times I calculated whose shoes were on his feet, I have to surmise that Mommy apparently wears the shoes with the best clackety-clack value. Or maybe it's the open-toed style he prefers because he can see what's going on down there at foot-level.

My sister happened upon these slippers at the Dollar Store recently and figured that they might fit the bill for the combination of Charlie's "I DO MYSELF!" and his shoe passion. Oh, and his aminal adoration. And his growing language capabilities. For a buck, that's quite a deal.

Beeeee. Suessssss.

That's what these are. Charlie's Beeee.Suessssss. And near as I can tell, this is how they work: Slip on. Slip off. Slip on. Watch your toes wiggle in there under the wings. Slip off. Check your toes to see if they have wings attached to them. Slip on. Run through the kitchen to the window to see how fast the Beeee.Suesssss. will carry you. Slip off. Line up a few trucks on the floor. Line up some trucks against your Beeee.Suessssss. Slip on. Move your feet away from the military straight line of trucks to evaluate the situation. Sit down on Aunt Beppie's lap for a picture of your Beeeee.Suesssss. Rinse. Repeat.

sleeping theo

McBeth.

Child rearing myth #1: Labor ends when the baby is born.
--Unknown

Some days it felt as though the forces of the universe were causing instability everywhere, even in her most basic routines.

One day, she felt a change coming.

"Every act of creation is first of all an act of destruction".

-Pablo Picasso

Little Fly

Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing,
of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear,
and not bothering.
- Pooh's Little Instruction Book, inspired by A. A. Milne

Along the Appalachian Trail

McBeth.

It's not like the far western finger of North Carolina is an ugly part of the U.S.: lush green mountains undulating, peaking high and valleying so low so you'd swear you are riding a colorful slow-motion rollercoaster without a lap belt.

The roadsides near Murphy and Andrews give a sweet little extra icing on the cake with batches of these wildflowers. In fact, throughout Florida, Kentucky, Tennessee, and North Carolina similar wildflower projects have been successfully established and are refreshing eye candy.

So this gecko walks into a bar...

McBeth.

Been on vacation and through a whole batch of the United States in the past 15 days.

We had a wonderful time. Went to the Calliope music festival in South Florida, took an absolute touristy boat ride (Never thought I'd know what Rosie O'D.'s backyard looks like) - tried my first sushi and lobster, swam in the ocean, drove and drove and drove, laughed and talked and wondered and slept and ate and learned about one another and the unfamiliar world around us.

Road trips are good for the soul.

Cristin holds her boys Theo and big brother Charlie (2), while cousin Audrey (4) hams from the side. Charlie doesn't seem to quite understand what this new "bay-bee" business is about just yet. Audrey does but she doesn't much care, so long as she has a captive audience to direct.

My new nephew (Theodore Christian - Theo, for short), snuggled in with his Momma

The infinite variety of mothering

Mother's Day is a curious holiday that one can't fully appreciate until one is a mother. At least this was the case for me.

I mean, as a child I did consider it a bit of an Agatha Christie clue collection process to trying to impress my mom with something that would make her love me more: homemade craft projects or playing an excerpt of a piece the school orchestra had been eee-awwwing through on my cello, and sometimes my sibs and I would shovel together a messy breakfast for her on Her Special Day. But without a clear understanding of the rules it seemed more like the continual mystery than the solving.

My mother's Ultimate Gift Request, no matter when or how often she was asked what she'd like, no matter whether it was a birthday or Christmas or any other gift-giving occasion, was simply "I only want well-behaved children". Oh, sure, easy. I'll just steal some other kids and wash 'em up for you. Apparently she never birthed the well-mannered children she so wanted - which made me wonder how much more she needed from me to hit that invisible good enough mark. When I began raising my own child I realized what a ridiculous and slightly mean request she had made of my siblings and me. It's one thing to say 'hey you know what? I love you and I think you're perfect and I don't need anything else. Just spend some time with me today and it'll be the best gift ever' and quite another to say something that leaves a kid with the impression that they're not good enough, never good enough no matter how valiant her herculean childlike efforts.

We kids celebrated Mom anyhow. Every year we'd manage to scoop together babysitting money to buy her a cheesy present or we'd collect and vase some flowers we'd picked from her garden. She always seemed pleased; cried frequently at our efforts. I'm still confused by her tears and cannot shake off the feeling that they were present because we weren't good enough kids; that she didn't get the thing she really really wanted.

It was when I became a mother that I finally felt free enough in the relaxed atmosphere I'd created in my own home that I luxuriated in the pleasure of making it a no-fuss holiday. Yeah, so I'm the momma, woo hoo, whatever. Let's make something yummy together and call it a day. I realize now that my son may have a skewed view (and in the opposite direction of what I learned as a kid) of what such holidays are supposed to look like, according to the way I purposely, loosely, halfway celebrate them in our home. If anything, he'll need to step it up some day if/when he has a significant other and I hope for her that she's clear about her expectations and patient while he learns to live up to them.

On the far back right side of our refrigerator still hangs the crayon drawing that J. drew many years back, when my first long-term -and living together- relationship, with L., was at its peak of homeyness. Two women, raising a small boy ... He drew some flowers and wrote 'I love you both! Happy Mothers Day.'

Whatever my mother did or did not do, she did raise five respectful caring and deeply loving children. Yesterday J., KD and I took my mother out for brunch at a favorite diner. J. also burned a CD for me of music he likes to listen to that he thought I would like. I'd asked if he would make me the CD a couple of weeks ago and had not expected to see results for at least a couple more months, and the gift was a lovely surprise.

J. is already well-behaved; I don't expect I'll ever consider asking that from him. What I hope to have is a kid who loves his life, who loves me including most of my wrinkles and faults and who can blamelessly point out when I'm being a dodo, who is gentle with animals and small children, and who knows when to step up without being asked to do it. He's well on his way.

It's fun! It's easy! It's THE SOCK GAME

Here's how the Charlie Sock Game (tm) goes:

1. (very important) Have your aunt underdress you the very chilly day you wait 2.5 hours for Gramma and your cousin Audrey to show up at the zoo.

2. When you're very tired and your aunt has relegated you to sitting in the stroller for a few minutes of "let's sit down for a bit" time, kick off your shoes.

3. Yank off a sock.
3b. Fling the sock.

4. Yank off the other sock, but hold onto this one.

5. Flap the sock around while your aunt scrambles around to find your shoes. Get a good giggle going at this point.

6. Put the sock you are still holding onto next to your mouth. Make a funny noise into it.

7. Laugh as though this is the most hilarious thing ever done. This will, in turn, get the grownups laughing and they may join in with you on the game.

8. Repeat steps 5-7 for 20 minutes or until nobody can breathe.

I do not make this up.

I'd volunteered to supply the food goodies for this past weekend's neighborhood clean-up. Knowing we'd be having at least 10 UW-Madison football players helping us I thought it best to buy discount and buy the discount food in bulk. After all, happy tummies make happy workers.

My final decision on the soda pop matter: discount groceries choose peculiar names for their beverages.

They submerge so quickly

J. is an amazing person. He is fifteen now, a sophomore in high school. He's usually fairly quiet, which puts people at ease and makes them think he's shy (ha!) -- and then, and then -- he delivers a most delicious whammy when he pops off a ridiculously funny joke or makes a riotiously observant comment. I love that moment. It always comes; I wait for it.

J's current interests rest primarily in music, the internet and cars. Especially the cars. MmmmMMMMmm, cars. He's thinking he'd like to go to a tech institute after high school to learn the fine art of car repair. Lord knows the vehicles need repair and that we need people who can aptly repair them. He's hit a few bumps along the road though. This year the thought occurred to him that he could possibly break something in the process of fixing something else. The idea rattled him to the point that he rethought auto repair as a career choice. But he slowly found his way back to tinkering and seems happiest when hanging out upside down under the hood or beneath the body of a car.

Since the earliest days of his life I've believed that Jordan was (and is) his own person, even (especially) during those times when I'm not sure how to find the connection between his self-ness and mine. In part as a result as the parenting that was done to me, I've made a point of telling myself - aloud, when necessary - that what J does is entirely up to him and I'll be content as long as I know he is happy. I mean, there are limits. Had he shown proclivites for ax murdering, I would have had some issues with his hobbies. But what he decides to train for as a livelihood and the music he chooses to listen to and the clothing he's most comfortable wearing? Small potatoes, baby; such small potatoes.

I figure my job as his mom is to train him to do the stuff he'll need to know how to do when he's away from me, living by himself or setting up a home with someone(s) else: Turning the stove off after he's done cooking to prevent kitchen fires. Keeping baking soda on hand in the event he forgets to turn the stove off. Reading the tags on his clothing to understand the difference between 'gentle wash' and 'don't mix with darks'. Figuring out who to talk to and how to do it when the bill that arrives in the mail is incorrect. Making beds, making jokes, making a home.

My approach has been one of constant awareness and constant thought but I'm generally hands-off. I ask him to help with a few household chores but I don't book his afternoons and evenings with activities. He's a kid, for chrissake. He'll have too many years packed with responsibilities; I don't mind leaving these last few years of his flickering childhood open to the possibilities of what he might want to do with them. Anyway.


Earlier this week I met with J's high school guidance counselor. Because J. is quiet and polite, because he isn't a trouble-maker, because he's not a powerhouse and because he does just fine -- he slips under all the radars. I wanted to meet with Charles, in part, to meet with a real live person; in part, to introduce one of the grown-ups who affects my child's education to MY CHILD. Charles flipped and blipped through several computer screens to review J's previous and current classes. He commented, "Well, the good news is that J. is doing pretty well. His grades aren't bad".

No doy-uh. I knew that.

"Well, yes. That's not a question, he IS doing well. But J. doesn't draw attention to himself - either positive or negative - and I'm concerned that an overworked school system might accidentally let his fall through the cracks. I don't want that to happen."

Charles tried his best to reassure me that J. is in a big transitional time, that J. is feeling his way through his interests and that they may stick or they may change, that J. is doing fine. I tried my best to explain to Charles that even IF J's mechanical interests do not waver, I want both J. and I to fully understand all the classes and opportunities he has available for the 'JUST IN CASE' scenario. For that small iota of a chance that he changes his mind about a career in auto mechanic work, I want him to have the option of attending a four-year college or university without being absolutely overloaded his senior year of high school because c'mon, how suckful would that be to play catch-up?!

Charles, a kind and patient-seeming man, admitted that with his current case load of 350 students he hadn't yet met J.

Three hundred. and fifty.

Charles offered to meet with J. this week, to talk about J's interests, his classes, to give him some face time. It was one of the few things I took away from our meeting that I felt grateful for.

Because in a big system where the finances are being strapped down tighter and tigher, where the nasties seem to take up more time that used to be spread more evenly across their disheveled heads, our children can vanish right before our eyes while we're busy making what we assume will be the rest of their lives materialize.

Whatcha readin'?

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.
5. Don't search around and look for the coolest book you can find. Do what's actually next to you.

============
Then my computer tells me it is performing a virus scan, though it has never, to my knowledge, actually found a virus, so this message is pretty much like the 120 on the speedometer dial of a Ford Escort.


from p.124 of The Hypochondriac's Guide to Life. And Death. by Gene Weingarten. Page 123 did not contain five full sentences.
============
(Thanks to Allison for the idea)

Primal response

McBeth.

Some days it didn't quite feel worth the effort to her to do much but stare back at the shapeless masses on the other side of the glass.

Today's advice:

McBeth.

Always begin with dessert.

If you still have room after the good stuff is in, then try the veggies.

My reject crayon

You are

What Rejected Crayon Are You?

I had the horrifying realization this morning that I have no photographs of my son with his great-grandmother from her 90th birthday party this past weekend.

Grandma has been a life-long reader. She used to read daily devotions every day (EVERY day) at the breakfast table with Grandpa. As a child I was mystified how she must have trained my grumbly Irish grandfather to listen to religious dictates according to the Lutheran church; eventually I settled on the idea that breakfast was probably a good time to get him to set still and he'd probably listen to anything so long as he had a strong cup of coffee, toast, and some thick stick-to-his-ribs oatmeal; if it didn't hold his attention it would at least hold him to his chair. When we would visit them in their yellow house next to the woods we would also sit through the daily devotions, followed by hand holding and a prayer at the end. The process made me want to giggle when I was little; it touches me now.

Sunday I flagged J. down in the dayroom to come kneel next to me, next to Grandma. I (re)introduced Grandma to her first great-grandchild, reminding her of his name and age. I told her about how he's such a good fella and how well he's doing in school. His cheeks pinked up and he laughed nervously as she looked him up and down and back up again wordlessly.

Her eyes settled back down on the shirt he was wearing. "Slacker", she said.

I glanced over at J. and laughed. He was wearing one of my favorite t-shirts which reads "How to be a slacker:" with three squares of stick images across the chest.

1. Don't get a job.
2. Borrow $ from your parents.
3. Join a garage band.

"Yep, that's what it says ... slacker", I chuckled, "do you know what a slacker is?"

"Well", she said and then paused. "I think I do, but I might be wrong about that".

I explained that a slacker is another term for a lazy person, then reassured her that the t-shirt is especially funny to me because J. really isn't one.

"Slacker", she repeated, "It says slacker".

Later that day I was driving J. to his friend's house. We were talking about his great-grandmother and he made noises about having been dressed inappropriately for her party. I couldn't imagine a 15-year old kid thinking a t-shirt and khakis being 'inappropriate' so asked for clarification. He didn't understand her dementia and her in/outness and he'd misunderstood her focus on his t-shirt as though she really did think HE was a slacker. He felt bad about it in that way that he couldn't say it exactly, but I totally understood as soon as I recognized his noises.

I touched his leg, reassuring him that he looked great and that his great-grandma has the same very curious sense of humor that most of the folks in our family have. I promised him that she wasn't the least bit offended and that she loved seeing him - seeing all of us - even if she doesn't remember it for more than a few minutes.

I think I will squirrel his t-shirt away once he's outgrown it so it doesn't accidentally get freecycled or tossed. I love that shirt. And the kid. And I could just kick myself for not having the presence of mind to have snapped a shot of J. and his great-grandmother this weekend.

A bottle of red

McBeth.

I never understood a single word he said but I helped him drink his wine... and he always had some mighty fine wine.

-3 Dog Night

Tiny fall

McBeth.

Digital bleariness suggests pre-dawn
In another room the cat scratches her neck,
distant jingling of tags

No sirens out the window,
no street talk at this hour,
Only her breathing now,
suspended in a sighing loop

from where my left hand snakes
from her soft breast
to the goosebumped flesh of her thigh

How did I get this permission?
Where are my qualifications?
Am I authorized?

She allows me in easily
Unencumbered.
Breathless, delicious, wet,
like a deep green forest
She welcomes me home.

She holds tightly to me,
trusting me with her tenderest pieces
while I guide us to the edge
for early morning freefall.

Grandma's fingers

McBeth.

One of Grandma's things now is to tuck food and small items into neatly-folded tissues, tuck the folded tissues inside her waistband, and surprise the staff later with all sorts of goodies when it's time to put pjs on. Currently an earpiece is missing for one of her hearing aids which likely went the way of the waistband or is tucked away somewhere for safekeeping, hidden so well no one will see it again.

There was a certain amount of controlled yelling one had to do to communicate well to be heard, but on a very intimate level I reminded Grandma today at her 90th birthday party celebration that I always loved the shape of her fingernails and how, as a child, I always hoped I'd have pretty fingernails like hers. And that I hated my next-younger sister for some time because SHE got those lovely fingernail genes and I was, instead, given stumpy sausage fingers with tiny nailbeds.

Grandma laughed.

It helped wash away a small portion of the guilt I've been carrying for a long time, when it became too hard to visit her regularly. When she didn't just confuse my dad's name for my deceased grandfather's name, but when she really just didn't recognize anyone anymore.

The staff at The Carrington will have to hustle to keep up with her tonight: with visitors brings confusion, and that means the door alarms will be shocking them all awake, looking for which way Dorothy went this time. There's a part of her mind that I believe is absolutely clear; a smooth undemented piece of tranquility within her that knows she was married for 60 years, she did own a home with Les and raised four children together. She did drive a car, dammit, and she does deserve to take a long walk out in the fresh air whenever she pleases.

Sufi Wisdom

McBeth.

Tie two birds together.

They will not be able to fly, even though they now have four wings.

this is your brain on sunlight.

You've been warned.

Locus of change (or: Da crane, da crane)

McBeth.

This morning I sat outside on the front steps of my house, trying to carefully yank the crusted muck from the inside corners of my eyes while navigating some complicated early-morning emotions which followed an earlier-morning phone call from one of my sisters.

After my 227th game of PDA Solitaire I slowly contemplated moving indoors... maybe to the bathtub, maybe to a dusty window with a towel and a bottle of Windex, maybe back to the coffee pot for a refill, maybe to a long slow stare down with the broom and dustpan (no, two against one. They'd most definitely win). Maybe I should grab a pen and a notebook to extrapolate the wordless frustration, or find something to physically break -ruin- to help shake loose my tension.

It was while trying to unravel this 'which way do I go?' conundrum when I heard a soft chuffling sound indirectly above me. Not cooing exactly; not squawking, but more of a high baritone or perhaps a very low tenor's throat clearing.

Grus canadensis

Sand Hill Cranes

Likely immature, given the brown color of their bodies (though I have read that even the mature birds, which are blue-gray can also be a brownish-red color due to the waters which they hang out in). The two distinct 'V' formations flew over my head, one containing four birds and the other, six. Marvelous huge creatures these birds are, putting the local geese and ducks to weight (at roughly ten pounds) and height (at five foot stature) shame.

They were too far away (and the two flocks located too close together) to designate who was calling out which way, but I could clearly make out both their 'unison call'', which they vocalize as male/female pairs to reinforce their bond and to threaten other cranes or predators (and which, incidentally, sounds very much to me like nature's own little wind chimes) and their 'guard call', which they vocalize to either warn cranes of danger or to warn away other cranes. Such beautiful noise, those guttural ku-rluuuu-uuing.

This time of year reveals the return of life to the seemingly lifeless rolling hills of end-of-winter Wisconsin. I am no closer to understanding how to settle my heart around a satisfactory solution WRT family issues that aren't mine to solve, but the ka-ro-o-oooing of the migrating cranes placed me slightly closer to center. That helps. It opens me to gratitude. It reminds me that I am in control of very little, that I could consider making more of a concerted effort in letting the world flow over and past me, because the world does that anyway, regardless.

Tantrum

McBeth.

They watched her storm out, trailing her swirling vortex behind her.

seedy, and slightly hollow in the middle

McBeth.

I used to think I had ambition ... but now I'm not so sure. It may have been only discontent. They're easily confused.

-Rachel Field

Tenderly Fierce

McBeth.

Roller derby girls are quite something to watch (and jeer, and cheer, and and and).

There are five season tickets that exist. When the season began KD and I stopped in to buy the just-available season tickets from the roller rink. After some confusion with the owner who said there were no season tickets to buy, KD spoke with Crackerjack (a sexy and sassy MadRollinDoll), who got us the five season tickets we were seeking.

We're still not sure why no other season tickets were sold after ours but we cling to ours like the manna from heaven they are. And we do so love the Dolls.

Chocolicious

I am Chocolate Flavoured. I am sweet and a little bit naughty. I am one of the few clinically proven aphrodisiacs. Sometimes I can seem a little hard, but show warmth and I soon melt. What Flavour Are You?

(thanks to Snowball for the quizlink)

God must've spent a little extra time on you

McBeth.

Photo Friday Challenge: Obsession

McBeth.

BURP.

Which are you?

made by Jen



Thanks, Snowball. I've been feeling quizzically quizless ~ refreshed now, and back to your regular programming.

Okay. One more question. Is this some kind of Rorschach test image or am I really looking at a pair of cross-country skis? That's not really a picture of sushi (is it?). They're snowshoes awaiting a long cold trek somewhere too brightly lit and so cold the piss will free mid-flow. Yeah... thought so. Alrighty then.

Overheard

McBeth.

Surrounding water droplets found her oilier than thou attitude slightly off-putting.

I AM: a meme in 22 parts

McBeth.

I AM: easily distracted, easily distractible
I WANT: the most expensive thing, even if I don't see the price tag first
I HAVE: such a lovely life, despite gripes and groans
I WISH: my mother would say 'I'm sorry', and that I'd have an open forgiving heart to hear it
I HATE: extremism
I MISS: the magic of early childhood, when I really could be a doctor, or a princess, or both
I FEAR: people's expectations of me
I HEAR: my kid's chuckling rising up from somewhere downstairs
I SEARCH: for meaning in snippets. And for the meeting minutes I lost a month ago.
I WONDER: if the day will come when I no longer concern myself over matching socks with outfits
I REGRET: not making peace with Mark before he killed himself
I LOVE: catching the perfect snapshot
I ACHE: to be loved the way I most need it and to give love the way she most needs it, and to clearly understand/respect the differences
I AM NOT: patient with people who tell me what to do
I DANCE: when the spirit moves me
I SING: Christmas songs and commercial jingles in elevators, then leave, knowing others will be humming them shortly
I CRY: at commercials and nearly anything else when I'm *ahem* hormonal
I AM NOT ALWAYS: on time
I WRITE: to keep my synapses firing and my fingers busy
I CONFUSE: people's names. It's likely I confuse people as well
I TASTE: delicious
I NEED: a lot more sleep than I ever imagined. And ungodly amounts of time to myself

Thanks to 'ShutupDude' for the meme idea.

About Marbles

McBeth.

If you ever feel as though you've lost your marbles, check your bedside table before you choose to get overexcited.

You might have forgotten that you put them in a jar last night to soak.

elephant ear

McBeth.

sometimes the beauty of a leaf shows up without the color distractions.

Photo Friday Challenge: Ghost

McBeth.

I haven't participated in a Photo Friday Challenge in a long while ... it's about time to jump in again.

http://www.photofriday.com

Protected Witness

McBeth.

Jane's daddy hurt her terribly
He was a nervous sneaky man,
drunken and smelling of sweaty Old Spice.
So she sometimes has to relieve the pressure of
her childhood sins
by slipping away from us
sneaking off to smash her head against hard things
like bloodied brick walls
or by sticking 64 safety pins underneath the skin of her pale forearms.
See, Daddy? I am worthy. I am.
Jesus still loves me.

Estella speaks little English,
her roommate knows only 'mi casa es su casa'.
But the silent language of tears
translates easily to me over our cans of Sprite and packets of crackers
when Estella's purse tips,
and Bethany's cray pas art therapy project is discovered,
the unexplained stardusting of delicate shreds
within,
Nesting materials for the rotting reeking remains of
dozens of snitched breakfast items.

David is unable to open up during group
His old girlfriend has just been admitted, he whispers.
And though he's been informed she is on the locked ward
He knows she will eventually be free to roam
on this side of the steel door.
He worries he might harm her
Again,
when he is absent.

Slightly-stooped Michael has established
his supremacy over the night.
Overrated unnecessary sleep, ha!
He paces the halls in great loops
remarking as he passes the very beautiful girl
sitting in the smoking room
that Joe DiMaggio did well to marry her.
Every other lap he winks twice, alternating eyes
one lid bowing cavalierly to Joe's gal, the other to me,
as he turns the corner,
resuming his judicious unraveling of string theory
shoelace by shoelace.

Esther's hands shake absurdly
Jell-O tumbles from the cheap white plastic spoon
cruel green globs dribble down her shirt
'This is no way to live', she keens to no one in particular.
From the nurse's station, I see dark eyes raise.
Reminders that her food tray will be reviewed
Rated
Assessed
Checked
Counted
Analyzed
Tabulated
Discussed,
along with her vocalizations,
and sleep patterns, and her appearance,
and her cooperation,
and the latest in expressed suicidal ideations,
Compiled into what she will eventually choose to label
'The test I could not pass',
Her final grade.

In the day room
Jesus just broke the D string
of his beloved battered vintage Gibson,
strumming with all his gusto.
I'd hoped to play a quiet hand of Solitaire
but could not find a full deck anywhere,
so I gave up the game,
Instead, settling in to watch the presentation.
His forehead furrows into uncharacteristic grooves -
'I ain't gonna study war no more', he wails.
His swaying groupies know about faith,
With their eyes closed,
They believe.

Early Thaw

McBeth.

The ripple of lake sounds, like intimacies breathed
twinkle by sparkling twinkle
in my ear this morning,
ebb twisting itself over flow .

You above me,
In front of me,
behind me rocking
looking at all of me, your early morning repast.
Hungry shore birds, flapping our fluttering anticipation.

You, veritable ice floe,
dripping dripping
drop
melting, streaming off
warm, flesh melts
awakens and eddies,
condenses to rejoin with me,
warm flesh, waiting all those frost-suspended months
downstream.

sweating, revealing
robustly starting,
sharing
claiming, continuing,
given to wanting
giving in to being wanted.


Lazily paddling your finger oar
in circles
through reedy lowlands
to the clearing,
deep and wide,
on the other side
of oh yes,

Lap longingly
bid me dive
unclothed and carefree
into the first fervid waters
of the new season.

any bad hair day can easily be covered with a hat. If you cannot find a hat, you might try a purple scarf.

guess who's working on natural lighting portraits not only in her digital photography but also the 35mm B&W courses?