Year of the Bat


I’m avoiding working on my writing writing, and cleaning up the beer can Manchild left on my kitchen table, along with the soup he made, and the 500 pots and pans he used to accomplish this one, singular task. (He eventually did, by means of running them quickly under cold water before placing them on the draining rack with all my clean dishes.) Right now he’s snoring on my couch because the mattress he dragged with him was in the bed of his truck, and got a wee bit damp when he drove through a blizzard in the mountain pass at 3 a.m..

Thank god he kept the open bottles of rum and his shotguns in the cab with him though. It would have been an absolute tragedy if those got cold, and slightly damp. (For the record, he wasn’t drinking the rum, he just didn’t want to leave it behind now that he’s jobless and can’t afford to buy more.)

Priorities. Not much of a thing around here.

I have the sneaking suspicion I may lose my temper a few times before we move. Thankfully I’m headed to Utah next week to help the Motherling find a house for her and mi padre. She’ll be staying with one of my brothers while I stay at my sister Nana’s house. I’m not entirely sure Nana remembers I’m coming though, so I probably ought to call and remind her…. hhhhmmm. Anything could happen with that one.


My entire mission with this house finding thing is to covertly guide my mother towards something that has some sort of divisible space, like a basement with its own entrance, and a place for a stove and fridge. Preferably bedrooms that don’t share a wall; I already suffered that trauma as a teenager, and I’m quite sure my own children don’t need to be similarly traumatized. ::sigh:: I love my parents, and believe they are nice people, I just don’t know how to coexist in the same space without bumping heads. (Or headboards, for that matter. – I know. Unreservedly Eeeeeewwww.)

Today I’m doing everything before I go; laundry, spaying the dog, buying a corset for the Daughterling for prom (Damn those strapless dresses!), teaching my daughter how to tape a dress to her boobs so she doesn’t cause the Space Needle to stop spinning. The usual stuff.

I had to get up early to drop the dog off at the humane society for a cheap-o spay. A girl named Kristi (the last vowel with a huge smiley face where the dot should be) checked her in and noted I had marked “yes” where the forms asked if we had other dogs. I then discovered she made every sentence sound like a question.

No, I didn’t slap her and offer a lesson on cadence.  I’m not mean, just educated.

Krist😊: “Oh, do you have any males?”
Moi: “Most assuredly.”
Krist😊: “Cause we fix those too.”
Moi:Really, do you now?”
Krist😊: “Oh yeah! What kind do you have?”
Moi: “Canis Erectus Heteromessiness. He’s about 180 -190, depending on how generous I’m feeling when it comes to feeding him.”
Krist😊: “Oh. Haven’t heard of that one.. ::pauses; almost catches on:: That’s really big … I’m not sure if we can fix a dog that big.”
Moi: “So it has to be a dog then? Too bad, because he’s definitely broke.”
Krist😊: “Oh. What?”
Moi: “Aahh, wee lamb” ::said in my best Merida:: “Don’t worry about it, he’s too big for me to fix too; it was his mothers job anyway.”


The lady behind me snickered. She had three cats coming in to get fixed, so clearly she could appreciate the wise maven humor. About twenty years from now Kristi will be over the whole innocent being-nice-when-somebody-says-something-confusing-and-you-don’t-want-to-look-like-an-idiot-so-you-don’t-question-it phase. She may even have started to pay attention to what people are actually saying….😜

She’ll be sitting at her divorce lawyers, and my words will suddenly make sense. Then she’ll start laughing for no reason and give everyone cause to believe she’s a loony old bat.

Thats how it happens people.

It’s my hope that some day the crap that comes out of my mouth will make sense to more people than crazy old cat ladies. (We all need to have dreams.)

Now I need to slap some make-up on this old barn and haul the daughter off to the local brazier shop. I also need to buy more food now that the Manchild has depleted our supplies. Between ripping the reproductive organs out of a small dog, finding a sling for the daughters girls, and shoring up the vittles reserves, it’s going to be a full day.

Time to hop on my broomstick and make a little magic.




Posted in Housekeeping, Left Field, Motherhood, The Daily Grind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Ask Me How I Really Feel


I still haven’t told the older lady I clean for that I’m moving. Today she baked me a muffin, and told me yet again how wonderful it was that I clean for them. Then she said Jesus must have been smiling the day I walked in their door.

So obviously I feel like a real asshat … but I ate the muffin anyway.


As per the usual, much has been unfolding here at the Hobbit Cave. Manchild has quit his most recent job (hey, it lasted a full 3 months this time!) and is driving through Idaho as I type so he can mooch off me like a parasite until I die of under-appreciation and overused maternal response syndrome park his legal adult backside on my couch…. and steal my rum. … I’m going to have to hide that again.
::le sigh::

I’m still coughing and hacking like a scurvied out wench on the good ship SS Influenza. If nothing else I’ll have very well-developed neck muscles. Maybe my stomach will get in on the drama and tone up as well. That would be totally awesome … but I’m not holding my breath. (I can’t. I’m too busy involuntarily sucking flem into my lungs. It’s a diseased wench thing.)


In other news; the husband is in the dog house. Daughterling is having some serious adverse reactions to the HPV shot the doctors bullied us into, and El Hubbo is all in my business about it. The man who is literally never here had the balls to chew me out for not calling him (while he was out of state for work no less) during my daughter’s doctor visit to ASK his permission for the HPV vaccine.

Exsquish Me? There was no “honor, obey and ask for permission” in those marital vows. I never acquiesced to being incapable of making a decision on my own anymore than I promised to wax your man bits every Thursday, or sing Ave Maria in the nude while pouring you a beer and making your dinner.
In fact, I vaguely recall trying to talk you out of getting married, so I could finish school and secure a career of my own… Thus, don’t be chewing my ear over not asking for your permission over something you’ve always been too busy to be bothered with in the first place Mr. Man-a-tude!  Besides, it’s not like I haven’t beaten myself up over it every day for the last few months.


That future is not looking good. The next few months could prove to be very eventful.

Back to the Daughterling. I’ve got her an appointment with a Naturopathic clinic, and I’m hoping it’ll help. The general practitioners who pushed the vaccines on us are insisting that her problems couldn’t possibly be related to the vaccine. Yeah, and Michael Jackson is the heterosexual father of three white children.

From everything I’ve been researching, it was the vaccines. You can’t take a healthy 17-year-old girl who’s fit, happy, smart, and outgoing, and turn her into an invalid overnight with no reason for it. She now has chest pains, a sluggish heartbeat, severe nausea, migraines, vertigo, almost passes out just standing up or walking from class to class, is irrationally weepy, can’t sleep, can’t concentrate, and is spending her life in bed. She even looks sick. Her eyes swell at night, she’s pale, shaky, and looks like hell.

For anyone that reads this; DO NOT give your child (male or female) the HPV shot! Do your research into the ill effects it’s causing. I’m all for vaccinating your children, but this is NOT a necessary or effective vaccine, and it has NOT been proven. It HAS, however, caused a lot of harm to this generation of girls, and I’ll bet my last dime we haven’t even seen the worst of what it will bring yet. The doctors that are pushing it are criminal! The drug companies, and the people who peddle their toxic products, should be forced to swallow their own medicine, and then live with the results without benefit of medical help when the side effects kick in and render them sterile, bald, vomiting up a kidney every five minutes, and riddled with cancer.

They all deserve to be eaten alive by ants and shoveled into the nearest dung heap to rot for eternity. I wouldn’t cross the street to spit on their grave if it was on fire.  Not even if they paid me.

And that’s where all that is. I’m trying not to dwell on it and lose myself to the hopelessness of it all… so forgive me if I don’t stick to the subject.

During all the melodrama around here I’m trying to work on my writing. I’ve set a goal of writing every day for 100 days. There are no word limits or rules, I just have to write something every day for 100 days, and at the end a magic genie will pop out of my ear and grant me three wishes.  Or the world may screech to a halt and start revolving around me.  The vote is still out on that one.


Yes, I realize that last bit sounds a little delusional, but it’s what I call a motivational reward. Go with it; don’t be a killjoy.

Speaking of writing; time to quit dallying and get to it.


Posted in Motherhood, The Daily Grind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Bringing Sexy Back


woodpeckerThe first day of spring break has arrived with a wet, clammy breath down my back, and the damned local woodpecker drilling into the chimney pipe again, hell-bent to set my teeth on edge.  And he’s not even the pretty kind, just some ugly jerk from Alabama looking to score with the local ladies.

After setting a handful of wet leaves and cedar chips ablaze I hollered out a few choice words for my feathered nemesis up the flue, then set out to make myself a cup of tea to chase off the chill. I’ve had to resort to tea now that my old lady innards are reacting to java like vinegar on baking soda. I’ve also come down with a mighty attractive case of eczema on my neck …. and left butt cheek, so I’m doing the dance of the herbal tea witch to try to chase it off, since the only prescription the doctor could give me was “Try to reduce the stress in your life”.  It’s a thing with her; seemingly stress is the cause of everything in my life, and the only cure is to magically reduce it.


As in, “No Shit. Why didn’t I think of that? Let me get right on it.”

Thus, I am reduced to an infusion of expensive herbal tea to clear up both ass and attitude; I’m bringing sexy back with a vengeance. I’ll let you know if it works.

Despite my rashy ass, and tea that tastes like a copper penny, life is slowly turning into something less horrific. And this despite the fact we just got the Jeep fixed, only to have the Dodge die yesterday at a most inopportune time.
(WTF Mr. Jesus? Seriously dude, your timing blatantly sucks moth balls and kerosene.  Flaming stink buddy.  FLAMING STINK!)

Back to the whole broken car thing; The Daughterling and I were on our way to her school where she was to give her Senior Seminar Presentation. …. which I can only define as numerous essays (I lost count after 15), science fair sized “activities”, community service hours (she did 34), applications, fees, signatures, verifications, tests, assessments, monkey with an organ grinder – jump through the hoops and dance like a bitch for our small town entertainment – bullshit – rub your morning eyeballs with glass frit then break your pinky toe on a rusty axe before falling into a vat of human excrement and vomit Project of all PROJECTS. All of which are mandatory or the child will be denied a high school diploma. This town is the only town in the county that does this. All the other schools recognized the Senior Seminar Project for the steaming pile of rabid baboon dung that it is.


Anyobtuse. After an entire year of working on this monstrosity it all comes down to twenty minutes. One second more they deduct points. One second less, she fails, and they have a huge Flavor Flav-like clock they place on the desk just as the poor kid starts, slamming a palm across the top of it to start the time once the first word crosses their lips.


(Perhaps my description of how the timing goes down was a touch extreme, but that’s how it was similarly defined in a snarky email I received after I dared question the validity of such a divinely inspired seminar.  I did add the Flavor Flav bit.  .. maybe.)

Anyjudgement; 20 MINUTES, by god! Or hellfire and damnation will be thrust upon us, and our loins laid barren unto the third generation! … or something like that. And forget being late, because if you’re not early you fail. Blink and you fail. If the wind changes direction and Jupiter aligns with Pluto YOU FAIL!

This town is big on FAIL.

What. Ever.

So back to the car thing: the Durango refused to start, thus now we’re running “seminar late”, because I have to switch the insurance over from the Dodge to the Jeep, and the lady on the phone at Progressive is playing at being related to a mentally impaired chimpanzee – yet, we still manage to get there on time; ten whole minutes before her “start or you die!” time.


Then we discover the teacher she was assigned to (Read: bound by a soul oath with Lucifer, and sealed in the blood of a fuzzy, baby seal – IT SHALL NOT BE CHANGED!) … has indeed, been changed. So we run across the campus in our finery, looking like frantic gazelles fleeing from the jaws of impending death
… okay, maybe looking more like lurching gibbons in fancy hats and nude colored pantyhose – but we make it to the new “unchangeable” teacher’s room on time. Thankfully it happened to be her ASL teacher, whom my daughter is not only familiar with, but can also speak-a her language with.

Daughterling was composed, and knew her business. She sailed through without a hitch, sounding and communicating like some kind of adult who knew what she was about. She was grace and intelligence combined, interacting with her teacher beautifully, and answering questions eloquently, leaving no room for bullshit. .. this child actually knew what she was talking about!

I wanted to cry. Maybe roll on the floor a bit and drool in awe.

I didn’t. But I wanted to. I’m not sure if I was just relieved to finally have this massive hurdle over, and I can now regain a HUGE chunk of my life and time, or if the realization that my last child is no longer a child, has just sunk in.

We have moved one step closer to Utah. To Daughterling’s independence. To leaving this town.

Life is weird.

And that has been my week to date. So right now my biggest hurdle is getting this house in order to move, and finding a way to defeat the damn woodpecker. So far I’ve tried burning every noxious, unfriendly thing I can get my hands on. All I can say is these little woodpeckers have physical constitutions like freaking titanium. I am now working on a mixture of cinnamon oil, rosemary, tabasco, and wet pine cone bombs I can lite up. I’m also hoping this incontinent dog of mine will prove useful. Having a plethora of towels I go through every day on her behalf, I have reserved a particularly ratty one I’m letting her get nice and piss soaked; coated in all manner of dog filth and stink. I’ll be tearing it up and using those bits as fuses for the afore-mentioned pine cones.


If all the above fail to bring about desirable results I may resort to BBQ. I am a chef, after all, and I will resort to butchery when pressed to my limits. …. though after all the WMDs I’ve marinated the little pecker in, I might not want to actually consume it.

But I just might, out of spite, because I’m no good … and I’m thinking of embracing that part of me.


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The Song of the Gypsy


The echoes of frustration run around the dustier corners of my mind. At this point in life I had wanted to be … more. Just more; a creature of substance with worth and purpose.

There are corners of this earth; hidden alleys and vast, open grounds my feet itched to run. Explore. Know. This soul of mine wears the colors and dust of the gypsies, with a mind like a ragged mustang; It’s not in me to stand still. To remain stagnant and alone. I desperately need to run, with wild abandon, and with other creatures too wild at heart to live between the solid, ugly lines society dreams up.

I mourn an elusive career that would have allowed me to unleash the creativity inside, expanding my horizon and opening the pasture gates onto new, even more fantastic peaks and hills of this life.

The faces of people in distant places that had stories to tell me, and marvelous food for my heart to experience; I’ll never know so many of them …..

But I sold myself into domestic apathy and bound myself on the short leash of motherhood. … are there regrets? Yes. Some so overwhelming it makes me sick at heart to remember I chose them. …. but I don’t regret those little lives I’ve always known somewhere inside me …. Manchild and Daughterling. My biggest ache is that I feel I’ve failed them in the failing of myself.

Now I stand facing a gate I vowed never to reenter. That place called Utah. A geographical location that literally sucks the joy from my bones and leaves me to mummify in lonely, gritty abandonment.  Caged in and surrounded by emotional zombies.

I’m fighting desperately to change the way I think about it. … Facebook doesn’t help. So many of the people I knew remain there; stuck in a time warp of shallow pettiness and strict devotion to kissing ass and selling out. …. At one time I could walk among them fairly unmolested and ignored, but I have never been able to play the game. It’s not in me. I don’t want it in me; the person I am now has no room inside for any of it.

But family is there, and Daughterling is feeling the need to know these people as more than just names. She’s been as lonely as I. The great irony of it all is here, where my heart is at peace … covered in moss and rain (ironically), she has found it to be her Utah…. the rejection. The torment. The closed doors and fenced in rules that are suffocating her hope … killing the gypsy that joyfully sings and dances in her own heart.

I’ve already given over my soul so hers can fly free …. I don’t resent her, I only regret that’s how it all worked out. … I just hope she’s prepared for what she’s asking for.

The only way I can see to get through this is to fully unleash my inner gypsy. Slap that mustang on the backside and let them both run through the mental china shop that is Utah.

I will have to search out the wild places and sing to the stars. Though Utah is a desert (in fairly every sense one could possibly imagine), there still remain oases. Places so wild and untamed that even the unbending minds of the locals had to fence themselves in around them, or face certain enlightenment and change.

So many don’t travel outside the lines.  They don’t feel the earth move and turn beneath them; time grinding the rough edges into a sweet caress.  Something wild inside is missing. … at least I still have mine.

So I’ve started a bucket list for the Daughterling and I. (Manchild refuses to do anything with us …. except when he needs something. Sad to say… I’ll work on that.) Sometimes we’ll have to drag the husband along, but he’s city and suburbia through and through. Being cold or sleeping on the ground are not … well, he doesn’t do it. .. Unless maybe war has broken out or he’s trapped in an elevator. – The concept appeals to him, but the reality is never quite five star.

Daughterling wants to see the Grand Canyon. Yellowstone. The backcountry red rock and Indian ruins. Run a few rivers. Hunt for geodes. Swim in Lake Powell. Learn to snowboard. Walk the trail her ancestors, the Mormon Pioneers, walked. Hike Bryce Canyon and the East Rim of Zion’s National Park. Explore lava tubes and more of Goblin Valley. See Mesa Verde and the four corners. Explore the hidden canyons some of her less talked about Navajo and Paiute ancestors lived in, and search out their petroglyphs; some (from various tribes) over seven thousand years old. Watch the sun set over the Grand Tetons. Smell the rain move across a valley of sagebrush in the middle of summer, and … most important of all, start college someplace new.  Unfurl her own wings.

When I look at this impending move like that; when I remember the feel of soft, red sand under my feet in the high mountain desert, and the scent of rain as it changes the olfactory landscape ….. then I can calm my heart. … My husband has actual gypsy lines, but mine are all Native American; there are no lines drawn – the heart of a gypsy follows no labels, and Natives draw no lines to force themselves to stay between…..

For now I am absorbing as much of my Olympic Peninsula as I can. We’ll visit the Hoh Rainforest, hike Lake Lena, visit Rialto Beach and Salt Creek. There is still much to do here before we leave. I need to saturate every pore with my moss and salty beaches before I can leave them.


When one knows what will be taken from them, they are a fool if they fail to appreciate what they have before it’s gone, and all trace is washed from their sight.

…There is one other thing. The Husband and I are attempting to move forward with the whole long-haul trucking. – Anyone that has ever met me has the same reaction, “You can’t drive a truck! You’re too small!”.  ….. I’ll tell you what; I’ve driven big trucks across this country numerous times, and never once did my lack of height cause an issue. Aside from seeing what’s on top of the fridge, being short, or small, or chihuahuaesque, has never proven to be much of a hurdle. My brain doesn’t know I’m this short, and I’ve no intentions of telling her. – I’ll be fine. Aside from wondering if I actually will smother my husband in his sleep for driving me insane, I’m looking forward to the movement. To seeing and experiencing something more than motherhood and this small town.  Maybe it’s time to let the moss stop growing.

I have no idea what I’m in for, but I’ll tell you what; this wild heart is up for the task.

Even in the simple act of writing this I feel the old stirrings of those remote corners calling to me. The red rock pulses through these veins; sometimes the call is so strong I would give years of my life to feel the red earth beneath my bare feet at that moment. It has been a long time since the siren song of the high desert sang in these old bones…. but I’m hearing it, just a whisper; maybe that is enough.

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Note: These pictures aren’t mine. I found them on Google; state pages, and advertisements for tourism.



Posted in Life is a Beach, Mental Walkabout, Motherhood, Social Climate, The Daily Grind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

March Madness


It’s been a long darkness; rain and shadow settling to the marrow. And, I actually have written for this blog, but some shadows and verbal vents aren’t fit for spreading into this already troubled world.

I’ve always been honest on this blog; anonymity lending my voice a mask to hide behind, emboldening an already uncensored personality. However, this past month or so has been more of an unleashing of all the frustrations that have plagued my life the last ten years. Y’all’ve heard it before, so trust me when I say nobody needs to hear it again, and to the level in which it came spewing forth.

I’ll give you the abbreviated version.

My husband blew out a knee and landed in my space for a good month. Then my Jeep blew a clutch, which my now lame husband had to fix.

Anydither. The husband. Home. Time vampire.  (My) Space Madness.

Space Madness

Men eat a lot, and take long showers, even when they don’t have long hair to wash, or any shaving / “yard work”, or issue addressing to do to their bodies. …. whatever do they do in there? Wash each hair follicle separately? Secretly relish intense loofah-ing?

And the whole not flushing the toilet thing; has this man simply forgotten how without my daily demonstrations? He claims it makes the water pressure too low when he gets in the shower.  (Clearly one must always shower after a wizz. … ? whaaa?) Or, sometimes it’s that it makes the water a few degrees colder…. which frankly, has got to be a lie…. because every time he’s flushed it while I’m in, it gets distinctly hotter. I’ve taken to waiting until he’s just gotten comfy in the afore mentioned shower, then I go around and flush every toilet in the house, start laundry, and do some of those dishes he seems to pile up in spades.

::One cup, one day:: – just stating it’s possible.

… and why does it take a man an hour – literally A FULL HOUR, to have a bowel movement? I’ve suggested he try pushing, and even offered some breathing techniques I learned while having babies; he didn’t think I was being helpful.

Jezaus, Mary & Juan, it’s like he’s been living in a hotel for the last 3 years …..

But the worst has been the snoring, and the rather unmanly whining about that stupid knee. For the record; the injury was a direct result of a lack of proper exercise and diet. The muscles didn’t ever stretch some ligament / tendon enough so it started to stiffen up. The cure was physical therapy. That was it. The limping and whining were optional.

Here’s the thing about my heart; she’s solid as hell, provided she’s not wiping the nose of some six year old boy in a forty year old body. She believes in Cowboy-ing Up. As it is she’s breaking right now, because the move to Utah has been definitively decided.

She’s not happy with that decision.  Or the whining.

And she’s oh so freaking tired …. I did mention the snoring.

Stop Snoring!

Every. Damn. Fool. Night! I’m so tired I would sell my grandmother’s soul for even one solid hour of uninterrupted sleep. – It’s a well understood fact that I am not a morning person; I barely qualify for a noon person. The devil himself steers clear when the look of Medusa is upon me; eyes glaring and red, mouth curled into the vilest of sneers framed by venomous fangs dripping in the blood of innocent by-passers. Thus, this whole unsleeping, whiney, dirty dishing, non-toilet-flushing, hour-long waiting for gravity to pull the excreta out, “Month of Man” has left me wrung the hell out. I’ve also been dragging the daughterling to her physical therapy for her broken arm (which she’s never whined about),

The Armdealing with Obamacare (is this a joke?  Seriously.), and trying to get her caught up with all the random bullshit projects this small town thought would put them on the map for making their high school seniors do – that she has to complete in order to graduate – grades and broken arms be damned.

I want to run into the wilderness and just scream until I burst a vessel… though I will settle for punching someone in the face. …. a deserving someone. Not just innocent someones. …. I do still have ethics people.

I am becoming unhinged. – When the husband finally left to go back on the road at 5 a.m. my parting words to him were (..and this after yet another night of literally zero sleep)
“I can’t live like this anymore! Get out of my house before I have to kill you while you GET to sleep! And I’ll do it ::starting to cackle::, oh yes, I WILL DO IT! Just try me you snoring, unable to poop like a normal person man!”

hermit At this point there may have been spittle. There was wild and unruly hair, because one other ungodly thing that occurred this month was that I made the mistake of getting my hair cut – in town. Horribly. The fix has been hair almost as short as my husbands in places, which makes the rest of it kind of just stick out all over.
Then I promptly threw myself back into a prone position on the bed and slammed a pillow over my head to make the voices inside it chanting “Beat him! Beat him! Beat him!” sound just a wee less tempting.

What can I say, March in the northwest is a schizophrenic, bi-polar fiesta at best, so my behavior is nothing more than a reflection of the weather. Biblical rain, hail, wind storms that uproot, and sunshine all in one afternoon. I’ve had to find a happy place just to survive.(Now all I need is the $300k to buy it)  And I would show you a picture of it, except iPhoto crashed again, and needs to be rebuilt .. again. (Apple, you’re starting to show your “suck”.) – All that said, I did pick up a new little fish and then named him Franklin.  He’s pretty, but kind of stupid.


I’ve tried to upload a clip of my 1 Second A Day for the months of February and March to show you a little of my fantastic month; live, and in person – using both YouTube and Vimeo, but neither work; the sound is off or it just won’t share.  So thanks for nothing YouTube and Vimeo, and WordPress for making video un-doable…. more and more I’m yearning for Blogger.  For sleep.  For anything in this obtuse life to just WORK.

I’m having some orange juice, watching something incredibly mind-numbing, then going to bed.



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Red Pill or Blue Pill?


Just when we think we’ve decided on one thing, life throws in the inevitable monkey wrench. No sooner had I firmly, irreversibly decided that no way was I moving back to Utah for anything short of a lobotomy, or 500 million dollars, then the universe chuckles at my insignificant flailings, and Poof! All sorts of crap comes shooting down the cosmic slide.

My parents are offering to let the Daughterling and I live with them until Husband can get something in the order of a real job started. Which in code speak means the Husband and I are looking at starting a trucking business.  Let’s be honest, at this point in life we have no other options, and starting in the trucking business means living below the poverty level…. longer, and even more so. Basically, if we’re not working for ourselves we’re laying our necks out for big business, which doesn’t give a goat full of poo as to whether we can afford medical care, a roof over our heads, or trivial things like food. This country is sliding so fast down the highway to Hell that I’m beginning to suspect people are too traumatized to realize they’re headed to slaughter, like a bunch of complacent sheep roofied out in the back of the Disneyland pedophile van of death.


I have two ways I can look at this. Either I can feel like life just kicked me in the teeth again, or I can seek out the adventurous route, and try to see this as a 2-3 year adventure to get me back on my feet. Visit family. Hike the red rock. Give all those gossipy church gals someone new to be horrified and scandalized by…. I’ve never been received well by that society…. this could all go so horribly wrong.  ::grOan::  … and I did mention that part about living with my parents, right?


It’s not that I’m some atheist, anti-religion fiend. I’ve deep spiritual beliefs of my own, they just don’t include organized religion. Why? Because I have been judged, condemned, and run out of town by so many of them and their self-righteous posses of snottery that I’ve lost count. I’ve found more acceptance and unconditional love in people with no religious agendas. Live and let live.  Normal people seem to appreciate who I am, and some even enjoy my company. CRAZY … I know.  One should also take into account that I’m talking Utah.  Unless you’ve lived there; been born into the “flock”, so to speak, you truly have no concept of how warped and Fkd-up closed a society it is. — When I ran away left at eighteen, it was remarkably similar to The Matrix.  And once you take that Red Pill you realize how many Blue Pills you’ve had forced down your throat.  … and yes; I see the irony of the Blue Pill allowing you to join the free people in Zion.  Life is full of irony.

Red or Blue Pill

So yeah, Utah is back on the table, and I’m at that point in life where my mouth gets me into a lot of trouble. I have the unfortunate habit of saying whats is on my mind. … You’ve read this blog.  You know what I’m talking about.  OY … Utah is not the place for independent thinkers with liberated mouths and big boobs. I think that particular combination is actually illegal in certain cities.

Good grief. What am I doing?-!


This could be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Even worse than eating that fajita in Tijuana.

I’m going to go drown myself in music and paint now. messy


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Vibrantly Messy, with a chance of Crabass


I’m going to attempt to blog with more frequency, if for no other reason than to get my write on. Bear with me; it’s no secret the grey matter inhabiting this vast space inside my cranium can be a might bit, well … weird. Off. Vibrantly messy, with a chance of meatballs.


You poor folks have no idea what you’re in for. …. Once, way back in high school I wrote a love poem; from some seriously slutty mud, to a hippopotamus. It wasn’t what I had in mind initially, it’s what came out when I put pen to paper. I think I was still delirious from a Sunday night Mormon bender of root beer and green jello. (Yes; that is actually a thing in Utah.) Thankfully my creative writing teacher .. who looked feature for fact like Elmer Fudd, didn’t kick me straight to the principals office. He found it amusing enough to place in a national competition … along with a few other things. It got a nod, along with a horrible poem involving Santa, BBQed reindeer, and some power lines. ….. let’s just say he read way more into that one than I did, though I did appreciate the wad of cash it won, so I forgave him.

I can’t make any promises as to what might come out of this head of mine. It may be poetic, or messy; possibly cringe-worthy or flat-line boring. All bets are on.

Thus, for today’s ….. hang on……………………



Well that was fun. As I sat here tickling the keyboard I heard a sudden screeching and knocking from just outside the slider door. A Stellers jay had managed to find the bamboo wind chimes I got in Key West years ago with my brother Jase. He had flown down with another brother, Ben, and we had all headed south to get a little snorkeling in along the Keys. At some point margaritas and Corona had gotten involved, and we came home with several sets of coconut/ bamboo wind chimes. This particular one had the coconut end of the combo carved into a crab. Seems le crabe is offensive to El gran pájaro, so the blue punk decided to kick a little crabby ass. (I have to admit, I just now sat here and wondered how one might go about doing that, literally. Where, exactly, is a crabs ass?)

Yes. I Googled it.

Did you know there is such a thing as an ass crab?

Asscrab n.) Generally used for a person or thing who, apart from being a complete asshole, is also very obviously crabby.

crabby christian

It was on Google, so it must be real.

Then there is the hermit crab; not to be confused with an asscrab. They actually live with lots of other little crabs, so the concept of ornery, lone curmudgeon crabs living in shacks in Montana would be inaccurate. Anybutt, on these guys the “ass” happens to be called a “telson”. Apparently they poop in the shell then use their stubby-leggy-thingies (pereiopods) to shove the crap out. But, if you’re thinking more along the lines of something you might want to dip in butter, it’s basically the same plumbing, they just look different. The telson on something like a Dungeness is located at the tip of that flappie-thingy on the abdomen (triangular abdominal flap). BTW; their poop looks like dirt, kind of like most kinds of poop on earth … at least that I’m familiar with, not including that weird green poop that babies sometimes shoot out of themselves though. Your guess as is good as mine on that mystery.

crab anatomy

I told you this could go anywhere. At least now you have something to tuck away for that day your child asks, “How do crabs poop?” (And at least fifteen other people that are either high, or drunk, are going to google how crabs poop, and come across this post. To them I say, “You’re welcome.”)

Back to the bird. He had managed to tangle a leg in the string that holds the whole thing together, so I got out some work gloves and freed the damn thing. Now he’s sitting in the tree in the middle of the yard yelling at the crab … maybe at me, I’m not entirely sure. I have to say though, this is a first for me. Apart from one or two small feathers the jay is fine, and my wind chime is none the worse for wear.

This is turning out to be a really weird day, so I’m going to end the post here. After that fiasco and crabby sidetrack I’m ready to get back to cleaning the house. My brother Ben, his friend Trouble, and my son are all flying up from Utah to celebrate ManChild’s 21st birthday. (So far no sign of the girlfriend – Woot! ) The husband has set up a Seattle pub crawl for all of us. Not the advertised cushy ones that citified beatniks and rockabillys do … oh no. Those wussies only do 3 hours / 4 pubs / 1 mile. So far ours is up to All Day / 8 pubs / 2 miles.


The last time Ben and Trouble were here we did Several Hours / 4 pubs / Innumerable miles. I was the DD, so I had to babysit the bunch of boobs as they prowled the streets of Seattle until the last ferry out, around 2 a.m.. Then, when we got back to the peninsula where we had parked, the car wouldn’t start. I ended up going home in a tow truck while the boys wandered around Bainbridge Island until 4 a.m.. When I finally got back to the island to pick them up they were nowhere to be found … so I followed the racket around town. I could hear hollering off in the distance; I knew that much like finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, I would find my motley hooligans where the ear found the source of the clamor.

I was right. And, because I could elaborate for another hour or two, I am ending things here for today. I’ve gotten sidetracked enough for the time being and need to get back to life.  And I’m starting to feel morally trashy. …. really, I don’t spend all my free time pickling my liver.

So, uuhhh, yeah. Vibrantly messy, with a chance of crab butts, hooliganism, psychotic birds, and the Florida Keys. Thats what my day looked like today.


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