This nation will remain the land of the free only so long as it is the home of the brave. ~Elmer Davis

Heathcliff ... It's Me, Cathy

In the spring of 1986, I suppose, I developed a non-sexual crush on Kate Bush. She was beautiful, deep, poetic, and weird. Her music was intriguing and luring. Sickly sweet and irritating in turns, her voice was like none I had ever heard and I fell quickly into her charms. I listened to The Hounds of Love on a continuous loop for years. It lulled me into a dream-filled sleep and then slapped me awake over and over until I developed the erratic sleep pattern I still suffer today. I have literally hundreds of favorite songs by Kate Bush, including, of course, Wuthering Heights. I still have The Whole Story in regular rotation in my car and the haunting anthem is permanently stuck in my head.
But, strangely, I had never read the book.
I guess I thought I knew the story. I thought Heathcliff was a beautiful, dark, hero with an unmatched passion. A hero I would fall in love with on the wiley, windy moors of Wuthering Heights.
I most certainly did not!
Even when I imagined Heathcliff as absolutely beautiful and kept in mind his sorry beginnings in life, there was no denying: Heathcliff was a son-of-a-bitch in the cruelest sense of the word!
In fact, all of the characters were rather loathsome. Cathy was a self-centered egomaniac with a sharp tongue and rude demeanor and her husband a wimpy simpleton. There was so much deception, anger and abuse, I found myself wondering why anyone ever had the audacity to describe this book as a passionate love story.
However, setting all of that aside, there is no denying this is an amazingly written, haunting, intriguing, often humorous work of art. I found myself laughing out loud at Emily Bronte’s clever writing style and crisp dialog.
Wuthering Heights delves deeply into mental illness, physical and mental abuse and only very lightly on happiness and sanity. But, in the end, I feel the better person for having finally read it!
And I still have a crush on Kate Bush.

Springtime in My Neighborhood

Fort Washington, Maryland

Darling Jim by Christian Moerk

I chose Darling Jim because it reminded me of Lady and the Tramp. You know? Jim Dear and Darling. It captured my attention!
And let me tell you, it kept my attention.....
Darling Jim (the novel) is a gruesome fairy tale, a twisted love story, a creepy mystery. It’s the story of a young man reading the stories of two young women, through their diaries found posthumously, who were telling the story of a charming, evil storyteller and his telling his story.
It was well-written and compelling. It was chilling and amusing. Clever and cryptic.
I read a critical review of this book by one woman who couldn't relate to the way the females in these little Irish towns kept swooning over a character that she found rather irritating, a breathtakingly handsome stranger who tells horrific fairy tale-type stories of torture and revenge. While that woman found him a complete turnoff, it is not entirely unbelievable that one captivating character could take control of so many hearts and minds, it happens. Gary Gilmore, Charles Manson, Ted Bundy..... this is what makes it so frightening.
Beyond that, I found the characters to be quite real. They were flawed and imperfect, yet funny and authentic. I wasn’t honestly expecting Lady and the Tramp, you know, but I was pleasantly surprised by this new Darling Jim.

Close Your Eyes and Dream of ...........

Johnny on the Spot:
Because I usually have terrifying nightmares that leave me shaking and unable to sleep, it was an absolute pleasure this morning to wake up giggling after a full six hours of sleep because of this dream:

It was like I was watching a Candid Camera-style television show. A man with a deep voice and a British accent narrated the dream in a sweet storyteller manner like the dead woman on Desperate Housewives. There were a few modern portable restrooms on a busy city street near a construction site. I got the feeling it was around 5:00pm and people were just leaving their jobs and rushing home or to meet friends. Whenever someone would enter one of the porta-potties, a mechanical voice would tell them, “We are closing in 15 seconds. Exit now or be locked in until 8:00am.” A split second later, the patron would hear a buzz and an audible LOCK! Outside the porta-potties, passersby could hear - and this is what cracked me up - people yelling from inside, “NO!” or “Are you freaking kidding me?!” And, most ironically, “SHHHHHHHHHH******TTTTTTTTT!”
(It was really the “duh” look on the passersby that made me giggle!)

Which reminds me of another dream I had, years ago, that ended similarly.

Tombstone:
Shortly after arriving at Torrejon Air Base in Spain, nearly everyone would get what my dad used to call The Green Apple Quick Step..... or, you know, (whisper) diarrhea. It was inevitable which is what made it funny to most of us. One night I was dreaming a strange little dream that looked like an old western film. I was the cameraman. The scene was an old west mining town, eerily silent. There was an energy in the dead air like it was about 20 minutes before the shoot out at the OK Corral and a tumbleweed blew across the street from one abandoned saloon to its sister on the other side. The camera began to pan back. Something like black curtains appeared on either side of the screen. As I panned back even further, I realized it was actually the legs of a gunslinger in full stance, ready for action. His back was to me. He was wearing road weary black pants and dusty black boots and two very shiny black guns on either hip. His hands were resting on each of the pistols and as I dared pan back just a little more, he made a quick 180 degree turn to face me, crouched, ready to shoot and said, “You better wake up before you sh*t the bed!”

Happiness is Rolling on Your Back with a Friend!

The Story Sisters by Alice Hoffman

My grandparents had a beautiful set of green leather bound books. There were 25 books in the collection. I know because they are on my bookshelves and I just counted them. I have not read all of them. I was supposed to wait until I was Lori’s age. Lori lived next door to my grandparents and since she was older than me, unfortunately, I was never able to reach “Lori’s age”. The books are gorgeous and I still really want to read them ... all of them: Dante, Cervantes, Tennyson to Whitman, Emerson, Dana ... Collins to Fitzgerald, Chaucer to Gray ... the list goes on and on....
Frankly, I am afraid to touch them. They are so beautiful. Like a collection of precious dolls meant to be admired and enjoyed simply because they share my space.
My grandmother read to me from Aesop, Grimm and Andersen when I was seven years old. I loved the dark, frightening stories and learned my life lessons the hard way, just as those children did.
I have nightmares.
But I still love a good fairy tale. I love a good fantasy. I love a dark narration.
I thought I would love The Story Sisters. Alice Hoffman wrote this book in with a matter-of-fact prose that seemed nearly vague most of the time. However, I enjoyed the fact that she slipped in and out of a mythical, magical world and the real one. It was dark and tragic and, I suppose, somewhat romantic. But more than anything else, I found it to be excruciatingly sad. Minus the extremes, I could relate to many of the characters, which is what kept me reading into the wee hours of the night, but I cried through the whole thing.
And I am tired of weeping.

Always Looking Up by Michael J. Fox

None of us knows exactly what life will hand us. So, it becomes not so much a matter of what happens to us as much as it matters how we handle it. And, some people don't even have a whole lot of control over that. If your brain is producing chemicals that make you depressed or angry, you may only have a certain amount of control over that, as well.
But, most of us do have choices in life. Personally, I like to surround myself with people who choose to be happy! I suffer bouts of sadness, of course, but I believe I choose to be a happy person and I am thankful that I actually have that choice.
I like doing things that make me happy! For me, it has always been music, books, friends, travel and the world around me ..... these are choices that I have and that I make. I have always loved movies, as well. I will go to movies alone, and actually enjoy doing so. I don't particularly enjoy joining a theatre packed with crazed teenagers, but beyond that, I will partake in the whole movie experience - including a Hefty bag full of popcorn and a keg of soda pop - and will laugh and cry and cheer openly! I have absolutely no qualms about any of that. I will, however, choose films and show times that allow me to avoid the aforementioned wild teenagers .... and lovers. I do try to avoid lovers.
I was stationed in Spain in the mid-eighties and there certainly was plenty for a nineteen year old girl to do there! If I left the base, that is. On Torrejon Air Base, you could listen to music, drink, bowl, watch one television channel sans secular commercials or you could see the one and only film they happened to show. Usually, we knew very little about the films unless, of course, they had music videos associated with them. For example, we knew everything about Top Gun prior to ever seeing the movie because there were so many hit songs and accompanying music videos.
One day, I decided to see the movie du jour about which I knew absolutely nothing. The theatre was packed! I was finding myself becoming increasingly irritated because I have crowd issues and was thankful to find a seat on the aisle, only having to sit next to one stranger.
The movie was Back to the Future and I knew NOTHING about it going in. But I happily went on an amazing, hysterical journey through time with the little spitfire, Michael J. Fox! And I became a lifelong fan!
Always Looking Up, beyond the obvious short joke, is a brilliant book describing the last decade of Michael J. Fox's life so far. Life after a successful film and television career and into a role he most certainly didn't choose. The self-described incurable optimist is an amazing, clever writer and an extremely humble, gracious,respectful man. While he most certainly didn't wake up one day and think, "Perhaps Parkinson's Disease is the one thing missing in my extremely full life", he did understand that his role as a PD patient and well-loved celebrity put him in a position to do something positive about it!
Inspired by friends and peers such as Lance Armstrong, Christopher Reeve and Muhammad Ali, Michael J. Fox created the Michael J. Fox Foundation which has used it's money to take control of Parkinson's research like few other foundations have ever done.
Michael J. Fox writes with humor and compassion and explains not only his disease, but the channels he is taking to cure it. Yes, CURE IT!
This book is broken into four aspects of his life: Work, Politics, Faith and Family. His is a real life. His family is much like our own. His outlook, questions, humility ... all weave together beautifully to make him even more of a hero, in my opinion, than ever before. He's fighting a real fight!
Having lost a sister to ALS, conducting my own little armchair research into stem cell treatments and understanding the human condition has become a daily pastime for me. Michael J. Fox takes it to a much higher level, of course. He is small in stature, but he is an amazingly big person, a big dreamer, a big doer, an incredible optimist and .... beyond everything else, he teaches us the most important lesson of all: It's okay to hope!

Wordless Wednesday

This idea was given to me by my dear friend, Bev. I was so taken with the concept that I asked if I could play too! And she insisted!! Although I am tempted to post all photos of my dog, Wednesday, the actual purpose is to find or take a picture (I think I will only use my own photographs) that inspires you, leaves you speechless, in awe of the beauty of nature, any thing that makes you think. I would love to see what you don't have to say every Wednesday! And let me know what you think of my Wordless Wednesdays, too! And don't be shocked if my dog, Wednesday, shows up eventually!

Mount Vernon Estate

Bitsy's Bait & BBQ by Pamela Morsi

When they turn this little super market checkout paperback into a made-for-tv movie, go ahead and watch it on a rainy summer afternoon ... it's kind of cute.

Happy Birthday, Wednesday!

Nine years ago, my little Schnauzer, Zeile, passed away. My adorable mixed breed, Borderline, and I were both so depressed, it was ridiculous! Bordie was just so lonesome without her friend and my sadness wasn't helping her at all! So, we decided she needed a puppy. Wednesday was Borderline's dog! And Bordie loved her! Wednesday was her little shadow and adored her big sister with all her heart. It has been a sad couple of weeks since we lost Borderline, but Wednesday is a funny, charming, mischievous little thing and she's bouncing back a little every day.....
Happy Birthday, Miss Wednesday! Here's to many, many more happy years together! We love you!!

The Weisenheimers

They say that alcohol is a depressant. Then why do people act crazy and vibrant when they drink? I’ll tell you why. Because each of us has a little guy in the front of our head who is supposed to tell us that a lot of the ideas we come up with are stupid. His job is to make us think before we speak, think before we act, think before we become crazy people! And alcohol hits that guy harder and faster than anyone else in your head!
The problem for me is that the little guy in the front of MY head has narcolepsy! He doesn’t even need alcohol to pass out and leave me in the wicked hands of the other wise asses in the back of my head. The guys responsible for a multitude of fashion disasters, bad decisions and dumb relationships over the years.
And that’s what happened yesterday.
Front Guy goes down like one of those wiener dogs in the old psychology films and The Weisenheimers instantly start weaving their little web of destruction.....
“Girrrrrrrrllllllllllll ... you look good! You should throw on some Daisy Dukes and a tube top and go outside to get some sun!”
“But I don’t have any Daisy Dukes nor a tube top”, words I instantly regretted! Fearing a trip to the nearest Forever 21, I conceded to tucking some old gym shorts up into my big girls and pulling down the straps of my tank top.
“Girrrrrrllllllllll (that’s how The Weisenheimers talk to me!) ... you need to get tan faster!” So they forced me to mix up a little cocktail of baby oil and bug spray and plopped me down on the deck.
The sun did feel good! I have been sick and depressed for the last couple of weeks and the sun wrapped around me like a soft sheet fresh out of the drier.... mmmmmmmmm ......
Just as my eyes grew very heavy and the Front Guy was still sawing logs, The Weisenheimers whisper in my ear, “you know who else would be good at this little soiree?”
Who?
"Captain Morgan, that’s who!"
Well, I did have to agree, nothing goes better with the smell of baby oil and burning flesh than a little spiced rum!
And so my day went on .... it didn’t get better from there, either! Even though my Front Guy doesn’t need alcohol to pass out, The Weisenheimers are opportunists and they give him alcohol to ensure he doesn’t wake up in the middle of their malicious attacks on my good senses!
They are the ones who convince me to dress up like a fool, slather baby oil all over my body, make me drink hard alcohol, suggest I rearrange the rocks on the water fall between the koi ponds, ohhhhhhh - and perhaps a concert would be fun .... !!!

So, this morning Front Guy woke up and he was pissed!!! He has been kicking the wall (aka, my skull) for a couple of hours now and that feels just great as a complement to my glowing sunburn!
I just hope he stays awake today!

firefly lane by Kristin Hannah

Sadly, just a few chapters into this rather fat book, my beloved companion of fourteen years, Borderline, passed away. So virtually, the bulk of this 479 page book served as little more than a distraction for me. Something to keep me from crying on the train or during my lunch hour.
If I had read this book under different circumstances, would I have liked it more? Would I have been able to connect with at least one of the characters? Would I still have been so irritated by the fact that the words "best friend" appeared on nearly every page? Would I have found it so trite?
Believe me, no one would like to know the answers to those questions more than I would.


And, believe me again, I do know how bitter I sound .... I simply cannot help it...........

Rest in Peace, My Sweet Angel

Our dearest friend ~ Easter 1995 - May 8th, 2009
She will be deeply missed.

Dog Bait

My middle dog, Wednesday, has been such a sweet helper with her aging older sister, Borderline, that I decided to treat her with a walk this afternoon. Wednesday is a charming little creature with Flying Nun ears and legs as long as you please that measure only about an inch in circumference. She’s rather funny-looking with a personality to match! She’s very curious and loves people and other animals.
The only problem is that Miss Wednesday has lived a rather privileged life, always having a fenced yard and/or acres of woods in which to run. She’s never had to spend much time on a chain or leash. Therefore, she was a bit awkward on our walk.
Because of this, I decided to veer off the main road onto a less-traveled path unfamiliar to both of us. Once on the new path, I let the retractable leash loose so she could spread her wings a little bit.
We were more than halfway past one house when a beautiful, angry, aggressive Doberman Pinscher lunged out of the yard toward us! I yelped and reeled in Wednesday (who wet her pants, by the way) while Doberman’s counterpart, Huge Rottweiler, barreled out behind him! The fact that the Rottweiler was wearing a large green cone around it’s tree trunk of a neck was little consolation when I saw the broadness of his chest!!
Wednesday and I were terrified, to say the least!
In retrospect, I should have taken Wednesday back the way we came. But we were already more than halfway past their house and all I wanted to do was get away .... walking back by them didn’t seem a viable option at that point.
Until I came to a dead end!
With Doberman and Rottweiler yelling at us in the background and their mammoth bodies lunging toward the path, Wednesday and I sat down on a log to collect ourselves.
I’m sure we could have wandered deeper into the woods and eventually found our way home, but I wasn’t exactly sure where we were and in which direction we would need to travel. Our only real option was to walk back past the Hell Dogs.
I was almost certain they had an invisible fence, since they didn’t actually follow us or leave their own yard ... but I’ve seen a dog go through an electronic invisible fence before and I wasn’t sure the temptation of cute little Wednesday wouldn’t be just enough to make them bound right through, in spite of the shock they would have received.
So, I took my little goofy dog and skulked through the backyards of the houses on the other side of the path, ducking under their trees and walking under their windows. I don’t know these people and was quickly concocting the story I would tell them when they came after us with a shotgun!!
Luckily that didn’t happen and we both made it safely home to tell the tale ....
We’re probably just going to play in our own yard from now on!

Ladder of Years by Anne Tyler

Have you ever noticed that it takes twice as long to read a bad book as it does to read a good one? The books you want to last and last, don’t. And the books you can’t wait to finish and forget, take weeks to get through. I feel like I just spent an entire month plodding through Ladder of Years by Anne Tyler. On the back cover it says this (which intrigued me):

BALTIMORE WOMAN DISAPPEARS DURING FAMILY VACATION, declares the headline. Forty-year-old Delia Grinstead was last seen strolling down the Delaware shore, wearing nothing more than a bathing suit and carrying a beach tote with five hundred dollars tucked inside. To her husband and three almost-grown children, she has vanished without trace or reason. For Delia, who has long felt like a tiny gnat buzzing around her family’s edges, “walking away from it all” was not a premeditated act but an impulse that will lead her into a new, exciting, and previously unimagined life.

Wrong!
That sounds like a wonderful story, full of possibilities, but the fact of the matter is, Delia Grinstead made an anticlimactic exit from one old-fashioned, dull life and created an even more boring one for herself! It made no sense. And, did I mention boring?
In fairness, the author took great care in creating believable characters, some of whom I became quite fond. The dialog was well-written and the plots were even mildly humorous at times (although more than a little cheesey). But the sum of the parts?
Ugh.

Her Last Death by Susanna Sonnenberg

When you are raised by (for argument’s sake) a story teller you do, as you age, begin to question things you once believed. You become embarrassed about the stories you have told others over the years because you believed the person who told them to you.
You begin to realize that your aunt (the one you never met) probably wasn’t an Olympic ice skater and your relatives (all the relatives you never met) were probably not the inventors of Dr. Pepper and the Wonder Bread packaging. They probably were not George Harrison nor dear friends of Lawrence Welk, Glenn Miller and Liberace. Your unmet uncles probably didn’t ride with Jesse James and their sisters probably didn’t sleep in cigar boxes. You begin to realize that much of what you once clung to as your “history” was probably just bits and pieces your mother once read in the Guinness Book of World Records and some romance novels. You feel like Forrest Gump.
And you then begin to question everything! Did you actually break your collar bone by carrying your own trike down the stairs? Did you really not speak a single word until you were 4? You question your living arrangements, your education, your past. You have no history of your own that you can carry around with any kind of conviction! You feel lost....
I completely understand the author’s feelings toward her mother and why she made the final decision she had to make....
but while Susanna Sonnenberg is a beautiful woman and brilliant writer, make no mistake, I can’t honestly say I enjoyed reading her memoir. Perhaps I was expecting something more amusing like The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls ... I really don’t know.
At one point I thought the book should have been renamed “Her Last F*ck”, but that too, just made me feel rather hollow.
I certainly admire that she wrote the book and I am sure doing so was an amazing and difficult experience for her. I could relate to a great deal of it, in fact, which may be where my feelings about it are stemming.
Sometimes I simply think I would be willing to take a difficult and tragic journey if I felt it was all worth it in the end, but I don’t know that I felt content with this author’s resolve. It is hers, though, after all, so who am I to say I am displeased?
I am not even pleased with my own review of it, truth be told, so...
let me just say that this book was well-written and deep. It was heartfelt and honest. It was sad.

Happy Birthday, Borderline!

My sweet little girl, Bordie, is fourteen .... it's hard to believe! She has been by my side through every moment of my adult life. We've laughed (seriously, if you knew this dog you would understand that she does reflect this emotion!), cried, hugged, mourned. She's an absolute angel. Her old bones must ache and she sleeps more than she used to, but she still wakes up every morning wagging her tail and ready to take on another day ... hoping to catch a frisbee ... a turtle ... a frog (like last weekend) or even a bug .... I hope all her dreams come true today! I wish her as much love and happiness as she has given me over all these years!

The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

I love short stories. I always have. I love the pace of a well-written short story. How the characters and story lines are developed and quickly lure you in, take you for a wild ride, and then throw you back. All in a few short pages. And this particular selection did not disappoint! Although not especially mysterious, these stories were all ironic and edgy. A good short story can leave you changed as much as a brilliant novel. I have flown all over this world and experienced some amazing adventures out there, but two of my favorites were a quick little tour in a helicopter over the Black Hills of South Dakota and a hot air balloon ride over the Missouri River. Never discount the little tidbits life throws at you.... the short stories..... they are just as exciting as their grander counterparts!

Late Sunday Afternoon

The lazy sun is warm on my face
the wine spicy on my tongue
the Moody Blues, so sweet in my ear...
Running water and whispering birds
My eyes grow heavy
and peace finds me a willing victim

Good-bye March ~ Hello Spring!

$$$

Okay, on the Today Show this morning (and on the radio and other news sources over the last week), I heard a report basically saying that, due to the poor economy, women are forced to enter career fields they never would have considered in a healthy economy.
Stripping, for example.
The reporter interviewed a couple of nice folks, including a woman who had been laid off her corporate job and found herself stripping in a gentleman's’ club. That’s certainly a leap!
The report went on to tell us her earnings and the average wages of other women in her tassels, I mean, shoes. Apparently, strippers make an average of $1500 a night in tips alone (not sure what their base pay is), and supposedly earn six figures a year for an average of 4 nights work per week.
Now, there are a lot of strippers out there! They are everywhere ... everywhere. So my question is, if we’ve got all these women out there “earning” more than a million dollars each..... And men out there who are more than willing to drop - collectively - $1500 per night per stripper.....
How much were they making/spending when we had a booming economy?!?! How do these men find that much money to spend on STRIPPERS if our economy is so bad?
Well, I’m certainly no math whiz ... I should probably ask a guy.

Standing Still

Is Stockholm Syndrome by Proxy a real thing? Because I think I got it while reading Standing Still by Kelly Simmons.
It is hard to believe this is a debut novel for this amazing writer. It was extremely gripping. From page one until the very end I was riveted and intrigued, yet somehow pacified and placated. It was packed with plot twists and secrets and surprises.... as well as those sentimental, touching moments that make life worth living.
Standing Still is a tender thriller about a troubled woman, Claire, suffering acute panic disorder who finds herself in the middle of her own worst nightmare. She is troubled and flawed and completely relatable. While she was often surprised by her own actions and choices, I still found her extremely sensitive and raw ... alternately weak and strong. I felt a strong sense of connection with Claire so it is no surprise that I also felt ... something ... for her captor.
My copy of Standing Still is now fat with dog-eared pages and a bent binding. It’s splattered with mayonnaise and potato chip grease and anything else that stained my hands while reading it because I, quite truthfully, couldn’t put it down.

Maggie

Maggie wears her faith like a favorite old tee shirt. Soft and comfy, nostalgic. Perhaps it's a reminder of better times when the world starts getting rough. Perhaps it’s warm and dry after getting caught in the rain. Perhaps it’s simply her signature look! It is stained with blood, sweat and tears.... spit-up from her babies, fur from her dog. It’s been hugged and tugged, washed and worn.... but it holds up oh-so-very-well because Maggie takes such amazing care of it. And of this I can be absolutely certain: it still looks damn good on her!

Drifting South by Charles Davis

This being the era of social networking, recently I have found myself in contact with people I haven’t known for over twenty years via the wonders of Facebook. I find myself attempting to sum up my life in a brief paragraph or two and it sounds, frankly, embarrassingly pathetic. What the hell have I been doing for the last twenty years?
So the timing was right for me to read Drifting South by Charles Davis. The main character finds himself back in the real world after 21 years of incarceration, where he self-educated his way into some sort of understanding of himself and his surroundings. I was fond of the way he seemed almost childish in his beliefs and interpretations of the world around him. Clinging to memories and half-truths, he returned to his old “home” in search of answers and, perhaps, even vengeance.
Mr. Davis is a new author and I felt his work was brilliant. He is an amazing storyteller. With twists and turns, mistakes and triumphs, I walked along with our storyteller until my own feet hurt and my own discoveries surfaced.
Our “hero” drifted between memories and dreams and revelations, bouts of grandeur and humility and simplicity. He rose and sank and ultimately found his place in this celestial body and I, for one, thoroughly enjoyed the ride!

Why I Feel Like I Was Hit By A Greasy Bus!

Lately I have had some weird premonitions that have been coming true. Mostly I will simply have a nightmare or strange dream and then, weeks later, see it on the news (like a plane crash where people were standing in the water on the wings of the plane). This has been happening enough to be eerie, but I have not had the urge to make any official reports, or anything.
Last evening at work, I had an overwhelming feeling that my tire was flat. I park my car a good hour’s train ride from my work, so I don’t usually give it much thought unless I am in it! It certainly did strike me as odd that I would be consumed with the thought of a flat tire.
It was approximately 9:30pm when I arrived at the train station parking lot and, sure enough, my tire was flat! Not just flat, really, but kind of mutilated! Like someone had taken a gouge out of it! I am sure I just hit something on my way to work without realizing it until some vague memory worked it’s way to the surface in the evening.....
I was hoping to use a can of Fix-A-Flat, but the hole in the tire told me otherwise. Make no mistake, I have changed more than a tire or two in my lifetime. I am not afraid of getting my hands dirty, that’s for sure. But I had never changed a tire on my Celica, and it was really a pain in the neck!
Luckily, I was parked in a well-lit, albeit not terribly well-patrolled, parking garage, so I had light and plenty of room to work. The jack for my car leaves something to be desired, though. It took me the better part of 20 minutes to get the car jacked up ... additionally, the nuts and bolts were so strongly connected, it was like separating Siamese twins. I had to jump on the crowbar (whatever it is called, I don’t care, I AM a chick!) several times to get them to turn!
Sidebar: Righty Tighty - Lefty Loosey really will save your life someday!
While I was working on the business at hand, some poor young man approached tentatively. Only because his car was parked near mine. He had fear in his eyes and I could see him scanning the lot for an alternate route to his own vehicle. Our eyes met and he said, “You all set?” Like he was checking to see if I had all my feminine products in order, or something. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I said, letting him off the hook. It was with relief that he scurried into his own car and fled the scene!
Once I was safely alone in the parking garage surrounded by nuts and bolts and various tire-changing tools, I couldn’t get the damn tire off the car! I had to turn my back on little Connie Celica and give the tire several good back kicks until it finally budged.
Ugh.
I was covered in grease and dirt and frustration (and I was just a little freaked out - remember I did predict this!) and all I wanted to do was go to bed!
So, while changing a tire on my Explorer had almost been a pleasure, I am ready to give Miss Celica away to the first person who who happens by ... !
Just letting you know.

Milk

A few years ago, I spent the day at IKEA with my friend, Rick. It had been a nice day when we entered the store, but, at some point during the several hours spent there, it had started to rain.
As we pulled out of the parking garage, I said, “Oh! It’s pouring rain!” Rick replied, “As opposed to what, milk?”
Well, I saw Milk today. I know why Sean Penn won an Oscar and I know why the film has been so highly regarded. It really had a true, gritty feeling to it and, although much of the dialog and intimate moments were fiction based on the truth, it felt incredibly real to me.
I got mad! I felt elation! I cried ......
I will never know how one man (or woman) could look at another and believe that person has no basic civil rights! It infuriates me! And to have the audacity to do it in the name of God, well, that’s just deplorable!
When Harvey Milk became the first openly gay man ever elected to public office in California, he stood under an umbrella in the pouring rain and said, “Anita Bryant said that it was gay people who brought the drought to California. Well, it looks to me like it’s finally started raining!”
And it rained for me today. It was absolutely pouring Milk!
And it left behind the most amazing rainbow!

What a Difference a Day (or two) Makes

Borderline, Wednesday and Allie enjoy spring!