Okay, I Am a Retard

It's almost midnight and my brain finally feels sorta clear. I realize now that my post was very confusing because, who are all those people?

I have three children. We are of mainly a scandinavian background.

#1 Son is Jake, soon to be 26. He is recently married. He is pictured with his new wife whose name is Mrs. Peterson. :) I really do know her name, but she loves this one so much. Jake is the father of BrynLeigh, the Maori princess who loves her bunny. Her mother (Jake's ex-girlfriend) is my Tiny, whom I adore. Tiny's mother's ancestors are from New Zealand. All of these previously mentioned people live in Northern Utah.

#2 Son is Brady, age 19. He is the father of Lexi. Lexi's mother is Laura, whose mother is of the Aztec heritage. (I just made that part up. Or at least I think I did.) He is a nanny, taking care of two boys who are a real handful, lemme tell ya! They live about an hour northeast of San Diego, but I am hoping he and his family will be moving up here soon!

#1 Daughter is betwixt the Sons. They are the stars and she is the moon. Erin is 22 years old living and loving and working in the Los Angeles area at, oh gosh so many jobs I can't name them... cocktail waitress, nanny, bookkeeper, the list goes on. These are current jobs. She is extremely diligent in her work ethic. There was a time when she had no car and had to walk to find a job and walk to work and walk everywhere she went. She had blood in her shoes. (Yes, she had to wear real shoes once she started that lifestyle.) She has no children so I can't very well state where they come from, whether real or imagined.

The end. (Or the beginning, depending on how you look at it!)

I'm Not a Retard

So today I have a migraine. This is the me that people see when they walk into my office. (I think I'll keep the sunglasses on all day long.)

Thought I'd post a little post about the littlies. (The word "littlies" comes to us by way of Rebecca. Hi Rebecca!)

The oldest of my littlies got married on June 19. He called and said, "Mom, I'm getting married!" I said, "Okay, honey." And so he did.

People might think it's foolish. I'm no big fan of marriage, as you all know. But sometimes it just makes sense. She is happy to be his wife and he is happy to be her husband. I stopped thinking in terms of forever a long, long time ago. (Forever ago, in fact!) So here is the darling couple.



And then, this is the princess (with her Bunny). She really is a princess. She is from the Maori tribe called Ngai Tahu. Her mommy is my beautiful Tiny.

And then there's Littlie Lexi and family.

I don't have a picture of the middle of my littlies. Well yeah, I probably do. It's a few years old and she's kinda hammered after driving all night from Southern Cali to Utah, but it's cute. (She ain't really into wearing real shoes. Even in the snow!)


All typos are to be forgiven. I have a headache. And I'm not a retard.

Why Bother?

Seriously.

I could spend all night typing my little fingers to the bone,
but if this Brilliant Woman says it all better than I can,
why bother?

Smooches, Embar! You're my hero... uh... ine... heroine!

Okay fine!
A couple of swimsuit pics, too!

What a babe!

Ain't no sunshine when she's gone!

There has been some questioning over who this hot babe is. Why, she's my granddaughter, Alexa Jade!

And this here is Little Lexi's Mommy!
Someday, when I grow up, I wanna be not-a-retard so I can post a few pictures without going through seven kinds of hoops!

Quick Post Script on the subject of "texting" ~ I do not have textual conversations with very many people. Yes, I'm fairly good at being speedy, but that's just cause I'm speedy that way! I was great, actually, at using the predictive text and then I got this new phone that flips sideways and has a keyboard. Well that's just fine and dandy, except that my fingers are the ones who know where the keys are, and guess what? My fingers don't fit on that fuckin' keyboard! Anyway, texting is mostly just fun for sending a quick (or down and dirty) message to someone. It is something that is hard to get used to. I taught a friend of mine how to do it, and after about ten minutes of watching her work hard at it, she turned to me and said, "Well I sent you a message. I was trying to say hi, but I think I wound up saying G4!" Ah well, at least she tried! :)

Oh Say Can You Say?

Bro’s Before Ho’s
Sistah’s Before Mistah’s
Pals Before Hals
Chicks Before Dicks
It’s not who you know, it’s who you blow!
Wait… that’s not the subject.

So I was thinking. (Oh no! Not again!)
... after having visited sistah susie’s blog and hearing her complain about SOMEONE not answering her text messages. I’ve heard this complaint a lot from women. And you know what the weird thing is? When I send a text message to these SAME women, they don’t fuckin answer me back! (This is not directed at sistah susie, because I ain’t never had a texting relationship with her.)

But what the hell is that? I mean I have sat with women just sobbing… I mean sobbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbing……… Because so and so “hasn’t answered my special text that was just for him!” I will say something like, “Well maybe he’s busy, or maybe he doesn’t like texting!” And she will invariably say, “How hard can it be to just say ‘ok’ or just let me know he got the message??!!”

Uh, yeah bitch! How hard CAN it be??
I don’t like being ignored any more than you do!

So guess what? While I am typing this, my coolest girlfriend ever is texting me pictures of shoes, so that I can choose which ones she should buy me. She’s in Hawaii. She really is the best kind of girlfriend. And she never ignores me! Ever! But then again, we’ve known each other since we were 13, which was… wow… almost 35 years ago.

The point is, share the text-love! Make it a communicable disease!

And the other point is. Be kind to everyone you meet. You don’t have the market cornered on bad days.

Post Script: Texting really is a pain in the ass, as many of you have pointed out. Unless you know a lot of young people, which I do. Also, my boss is often more readily available via text because he's in the middle of many things. I don't blame people for not wanting to use the text portion of their phones. It costs extra. You can't do it (very well) while driving! And is it not enough that we have to answer phones and emails?? But, if I text you, you'd better fuckin' respond! :) Or what? Well ... or I'll be mad, that's what! So there!

Island Mentality

There's something about islands. Makes us move slowly. Enjoy the moment. Look up and smile at strangers as you pass them by.

I overheard a man at lunch today, complaining about the 25 mph speed limit we have all over the island. He said, "They should have ONE street that moves 45, so you can get across these little five miles in a reasonable amount of time!"

I thought, "Hmmm... like an island expressway! That might be cool!" And then I thought, "No. It wouldn't fit in with the island mentality."

There really is no reason to have such a low speed limit on some of these wide streets. But it seems to really slow people down. To make them resist the urge to hurry. It affects the entire community. I like it.

So I've already fallen in love with my little island.

I come home from lunch and pick up watching "In Her Shoes." I love the movie. But I was watching Cameron Diaz. She is someone I admire. She is just so... HER. I once read a quote where she said, in effect, that a woman shouldn't worry about whether or not she weighs too much or too little. She should just be strong. That is what makes a woman beautiful.

Now I know that she's acting in this movie. But you can't pull that off without having something. And at the end of the movie, as I watched Cameron dance away in the final scene, I realized, she is slow and sure and strong and free. Just like my little island.

What we women need to do, instead of worrying about what we don't have, is just love what we do have. ~ Cameron Diaz

The Wild Woman Archetype

I found this in an old post, while looking for something else. It is from Clarissa Pinkola Estes' book, Women Who Run With The Wolves. To explain the Wild Woman:

The archetype of Wild Woman resides in the guts, not in the head. She can track and run and summon and repel. She can sense, camouflage, and love deeply. She is intuitive, typical, and normative. She is utterly essential to women's mental and soul health.
She is the female soul. Yet she is more; she is the source of the feminine. She is all that is of instinct, of the worlds both seen and hidden -she is the basis.
She is intuition, she is far-seer, she is deep listener, she is loyal heart. She encourages humans to remain multilingual; fluent in the languages of dreams, passion, and poetry.
She is the voice that says, "This way, this way."
She is the one who thunders after injustice. She is the one we leave home to look for. She is the one we come home to. She is the things that keep us going when we think that we're done for.

To adjoin the instinctual nature does not mean to come undone, change everything from left to right, from black to white, to move the east to west, to act crazy or out of control. It does not mean to lose one's primary socializations, or to become less human. It means quite the opposite. The wild nature has a vast integrity to it.
It means to establish territory, to find one's pack, to be in one's body with certainty and pride regardless of the body's gifts and limitations, to speak and act in one's behalf, to be aware, alert, to draw on the innate feminine powers of intuition and sensing, to come into one's cycles, to find what one belongs to, to rise with dignity, to retain as much consciousness as we can.

Blog Ratings

Hmm... wonder what my blog is rated? Is this a great mystery? Purrty Jami has a rating of NC-17. When I sent my father to read my Father's Day Message, he said, "I had to cross off three fucks!" ~ Hee hee.

So without further adieu! My blog rating!

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:

fucking (5x) sex (3x) hell (2x) fuck (1x)

(As if we didn't know.)

**KIDS, be sure and bring your parents when reading my blog!**

A Father Is As A Father Does

Quick note to all the single parents who have to be both mother and father. It’s a big and dirty job, and thank God you are doing it! Don’t faint. You know that your labor is of the noblest kind.

I have the father of all fathers. He never lets me down. Never. There have been many men in my life (and I mean MANY) who have professed their undying affection. Who went to great lengths to let me know that they want to know me deeply. They want to be my heart and soul and comfort and protection. Their great cry is, “I want to do things for you. You are so amazing and wonderful and beautiful and you’ve sacrificed so much for your family and friends. I want nothing more than to give you all the things you deserve that no one has ever given you!” Oh, and if I say something like, “Yeah right. I’ve heard THAT before!” They get all puffed up and say, “No, really! With me it’s true! I am not like the other men!”

I’m not fucking shittin’ you. As soon as I get sick or something, I get, “Oh, I don’t really feel like going out and getting you some medicine. There’s all that traffic and I just got off work and I’m tired and … blah blah blah blah fucking blah!” In the name of all that is holy, why oh why did you say you’d be my one and only? These are the men who, like my ex husband, said, “No one will ever love you like I do!” To which I say, “God, I hope not! That almost killed me!”

ANYWAY, my father has always been there for me. After the loser won’t go to the store to get my medicine, my father will. After the fucking asshole is too busy to pick me up when my car breaks down, my father will. (And so will my mother and sisters and friends.)

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’ve known many good men. (In fact I’m dating one!) But they are not the ones who make these great oh-me-is-so-wonderful announcements. They are just humble men who say, “Here’s me… I’ll be there when I can… after all, I’m only human.”

So there’s my dad. He’s done all the things a man can do to be a man. And I know that I don’t tell him I love him anywhere near enough. One father’s day, I sent him Dan Fogelberg’s song, Leader of the Band. These are the words that say it so well:

A quiet man of music
Denied a simpler fate
He tried to be a soldier once
But his music wouldn’t wait
He earned his love
Through discipline
A thundering, velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls
Took me years to understand.

The leader of the band is tired
And his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through
My instrument,
And his song is in my soul --
My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man.
I’m just a living legacy
To the leader of the band.

I thank you for the music
And your stories of the road.
I thank you for the freedom
When it came my time to go.
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And, papa, I don’t think I’ve said
I love you near enough –

I love you Daddy.

From Your Sweetheart #3

My Meagre Life

Now there's a word. It means "deficient in quality or quantity." My life is not deficient in either. But then again, some might think so. I am not wealthy, yet I am very rich. I have very little, yet I would be hard pressed to list the abundance. I grew up in a modest home, full of my mother's paintings. To me, that's just one small example of how rich I am.

So, here's the thing. I live in a two-bedroom place. There is not a bit of furniture in any room, except the bedroom. I already had a mattress set (queen-sized of course) but I was looking for a wrought iron frame for it. You'd think that I would spend the extra money I have this payday on at least buying a little furniture for... say... the living room. Or you'd think I'd save my money for the sake of emergency. But nooooooooooooo... I am of a mind that when you get home every day (even if you were gone only ten minutes) you should walk into your bedroom and say to yourself, "God, I love my bed!"

So today, I went shopping at the estate sale showroom mentioned in a previous post. I found a beautiful antique iron frame for my bed. It was a steal at six hundred and forty bucks. (Now remember, six hundred bucks in my world is a LOT of money!) It was delivered around 1 p.m. I made the bed and then went out for a bit. When I came home just now and walked into my room I thought to myself, "God, I love my bed!"

That's exactly what I was after. Remember, folks. The BED is the most important piece of furniture in your home! Here's a picture of mine. (Yes, the walls are all bare and the bedding leaves much to be desired, but that will come too, in time. And I am only going to have original art in my little dwelling. Hung from picture rails! I have fucking picture rails!)

Movie Quote

People should not be afraid of their governments.
Governments should be afraid of their people.

What Do Men Look At?

I don't really care. I don't dress for men. I dress for me. If I like how I feel wearing something, then I wear it. I suppose some women dress for men, but I've not heard of that as being generally true. What I hear is that women dress for other women. They know that men are fucking clueless about fashion, and a man is certainly happy just to know that you are naked under your clothes! Well I'm no fashion plate, so I don't dress for women either.


My OMG-LOL-BFF (she'll get a kick outta that) bought these shoes for me. We have matching pairs, but we don't wear them at the same time. (Of course it helps that we each live on different coasts!) Recently, we had occasion to spend a little time at a reception at the Capitol Building. You know THE Capitol Building. I was wearing some other shoes that my OMG-LOL-BFF had purchased for me to wear for that event. Very nice shoes. Quite comfortable. But also five-inch heels. After five hours on my feet, I was near fainting. I asked another attendee (a darling English woman) for directions to the ladies bathroom. She said, "Go down these stairs and... blah blah blah blah blah." I didn't hear the rest. All I heard was STAIRS. I said, "Oh, I won't make it if I have to take that many steps in these shoes." She said, "Well take them off." So I did. Before I walked away she added, "And next time, wear sensible, flat shoes. Men don't even see your shoes. They look at your eyes and your boobs!"

Too cute.

Skeleton Woman Defined

The story expresses the way that a man might find a “good catch” and get all caught up in thinking how this one will change his life! He’s now found the good thing he’s been waiting for. But it doesn’t take long to discover that what he thought was beautiful and promised great benefits for him might be ugly and scary deep down. A man always stumbles onto a woman’s deep darknesses at some point. And it usually scares the shit out of him! He will likely run. But really, when he runs to what he thinks is safety, he is still confronted with the problem that, in order to have the sweet things in life with a companion, he must see the tangled mess in a softer light. His tender untangling will find a great reward.

This is what I learned from a wonderful story-teller in her book. Her explanation is much better said and encompasses much more. I find this book to be an essential bible for the spiritual health and growth of the wild woman. Anyone who does not have a copy, let me know and I will PROMPTLY be sure you get one!

"A person who has untangled Skeleton Woman knows patience, knows better how to wait. He is not shocked or afraid of spareness. He is not overwhelmed by fruition. His needs to attain, to 'have right now,' are transformed into a finer craft of finding all facets of relationship, observing how cycles of relationship work together. He is not afraid to relate to the beauty of fierceness, the beauty of the unknown, the beauty of the not-beautiful. And in learning and working at all these, he becomes the quintessential wild-lover." (pp.158-159) ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes ~ Women Who Run with the Wolves

Skeleton Woman

There is a story told in folklore, set in Alaska. It is of a man who went fishing one day. He chose to fish in a secluded little cove which didn’t seem to be too often visited by other local fishermen. In fact, they never visited it. For they all knew the story. The story of a girl who fell in love with a boy from a tribe other than her own… many, many, many moons ago. And not just another tribe, but one at odds with hers. Her father forbade them to marry, but she snuck off in secret to do that very thing. Her father apprehended her in the midst of her escape and he took her and threw her off the cliff into that secluded little cove, to her death. The people had passed this story down through the generations, and no fisherman was to ever draw life from that water, as it was thought to be full of the evil of that terrible event. This poor fisherman knew it not. He didn’t have his line in the water long when he felt a great tug. Oh my! This had to be a big one! As he fought with the creature to bring it to the surface, his mind wandered to all the great riches this great catch would bring him. He had struggled for so many long and weary years. It would be great to have some relief. But as the creature came into view, he realized it was not a fish at all… it was a mass of bones and hair… and a skull! And it seemed the eyes of that skull were looking right at him! He panicked. He set his pole down in the boat and immediately rowed to shore, looking back to be sure that the monster was gone. But it wasn’t, as it was still attached to his pole! But, as it is with panic, he didn’t realize this. He just frantically rowed to shore, seeing behind him the dreaded thing bouncing on the water, appearing to chase him. Once on shore, he grabbed his pole and ran for home… again, looking over his shoulder to find that he was still being chased! He dove into the darkness of the little cave he called home and sat there panting, hoping the ordeal was over. He lit a candle and in the dim light, saw that the thing he had hooked was amassed in a pile in the corner. The soft light softened his fears and he approached and began to untangle the mess. He realized these were the bones of a woman and, after untangling her, he wrapped her in a warm fur and went to lie down on his bed to sleep. During his sleep, a tear escaped from his eye. She approached him and drank up the tear, drawing some life from it. She then put her hand on his chest and began singing a song to the beat of his heart. As she sang, all of her sinews and flesh and skin began to recover her body. And when she and the song were complete, she crawled under the covers and she and the man warmed one another. They warmed one another heart and body and soul for the rest of their lives.

(Anyone care to try to interpret that one?)

The Origin of Love

A musical. I saw the movie a good three years ago and have listened to the soundtrack a good thousand times. And I oft quote the lyrics here.

He was a young man by the name of Hansel. He lived in communist East Germany and had a childhood that could be called nothing short of “very troubled.” He was seduced by an American G.I., who persuaded him to have a sex change operation in order to become his wife and go to America with him. Hansel wanted so badly to escape to the other side of “that wall.” His mother convinced him that this was a very good idea and that in order to be free, one must give up a little part of oneself. (Little?) She gave him her passport and her name, Hedwig. Unfortunately, his sex change operation got botched, his guardian angel fell asleep on the watch! Now all he’s got is a Barbie doll crotch! He was left with a one inch mound of flesh. (Six inches forward, five inches back!) In short, he was left to function as neither a man or a woman. Yeah, this would piss anyone off. Made his inch kinda angry!

So he said bye bye to mommy and East Germany. Went to live in a trailer park with the lovely man he married, who lost no time in finding another playmate and left. Hedwig is left to sit and watch the tv, where the news is showing the Berlin wall coming down.

He looks back at his life and at the future he has before him. He ponders the woman he’s become and how the strangest things seem suddenly routine. He decides to delve fully into becoming the caricature version of a woman. Fine! You made me a woman, and I'll be a woman, God damn it! (Note: I choose to call Hedwig a “he” throughout the story, because I am under the impression that he never really felt he was a woman. I don’t believe he would have pursued a sex change operation. He would likely have been very happy as a gay man, but I don’t think he felt he was a woman, except in the sense that he was an amazing person who engendered both sexes beautifully. But I have to choose one! Our dear and purrty friend Jami, on the other hand, I refer to as a woman, since she is one. And likely, as Hedwig, an amazing person by any measure. She was interviewed and clarifies the transgender issue better than anyone I’ve ever read. And I’ve read a lot! I read her interview to my family when I was in Utah and they loved it.)

ANYWAY, embittered as he was, Hedwig moved on in the world of musical passion, maintaining a deep, albeit hidden, sensitivity. A truly gifted songwriter and performer, he obtained a cult following. As with many a slave who has become a tyrant themselves, Hedwig married a Russian woman who was desperate for help with her own citizenship, and used this to control her. He forced her to dress as a man, giving her the same bondage he found himself in. Victim begets victim.

Hedwig sings the song “Origin of Love” to express his belief that there is some half of him in the world that he has yet to find. It is an unbelievably moving song and is full of the philosophies/ideologies/theologies of several paths of thought. But the jumble makes sense. It’s based, for the most part, on the Platonic philosophy that we were once made of two. And God, or the gods, split us apart. This is the explanation for that desperate attempt we make in finding our other half.

Hedwig finds his other half in an agonizing young man who admires him and wants to absorb all he has to offer. This other half then takes the good stuff and runs. He takes the musical talent that Hedwig offered and makes a name for himself. A big name. And not only that, but a name that Hedwig, in his brilliance, gave him. Tommy Gnosis. Gnosis being the Greek word for knowledge.



In the climactic end of the movie, Hedwig must come to grips with the fact that he has become what he hates. He has twisted the beauty that lived in him into wretched bitterness. He realizes that it is important to be whole all alone. He lets the woman he has wrapped in masculinity free. He lets Tommy go. And then he is free.

Why do I love this movie? Is it not obvious? I am ever preaching freedom. I think that those who have been in chains have the greatest appreciation for freedom. I have come to appreciate the place where I am today. The freedom I have is not able to be taken away from me. You could tie me up, put me in a box wrapped in chains and send me to the bottom of the ocean, and I’d still be free.

And again, I refer you to Jami, from whom we have much to learn.

Sidenote: I adore John Cameron Mitchell, whose purrfection created Hedwig. I have mentioned him before, but I’m sure no one knew who he was, or even noticed. He’s a beautiful man, and makes a beautiful woman, too! (Sort of like Patrick Swayze, who is also a beautiful woman! Hee hee.) If you have not seen “Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” I would suggest you do. And see "To Wong Foo" while you're at it! :)

Here is my JCM singing a casual version of "The Origin of Love." He's just so darling! I wanna kiss him! AND, thanks to Purrty Jami, here he is in all his Hedwigian glory singing the DVD movie version.

Next Up

Hedwig. Tune in later for the rest of the story. It will be long, so the faint of heart and mind (or tired of reading and thinking) should belay that request. (I just saw Pirates twice, so I'm using words like "belay.")