Can You Guess The Equivalency?

1 "Cats are Cool" woven doormat = 5 _____________s.
1 3-pack of coffee-themed cotton kitchen towels = 3_______________s.
85% of the cost of 1 gallon of regular gas in the U.S. = 1____________.
4 insulated plastic drinking cups = 4________________s.
1 24" inflatable drink cooler (think cheap, tiny kiddie pool) = 5_______________s.
1 75g Gucci GUILTY men's deodorant stick = 9_________________s.
1 Michael Kors flowing graphic tee = 20____________________s.

Seven blanks, one answer. Yep, there's only one answer that works for this "puzzle".

For those of you familiar with the old Burma-Shave advertising signs--where they gave you the message a few words at a time--this is a continuing "riddle". I'll give you a new list every day for the next couple of days.

Again, no matter how many blanks we wind up with, there will only be the one magical answer for them all. And in a few days, I'll give you that magical, mystical answer!!

Lost in Translation

After spending the past several days preparing "book stuff" for publication, I had a little down time today and chose to spend it in the yard.

First I plucked the spent blooms from all the lilacs and rose bushes, weeding as I went along, then took my collection to the deck where I set up drying trays so that I might later make the castoff flower materials into potpourri.

With that accomplished, I looked over my to-dos and found two strange items on a grocery list:
*wh wh lauga
*maxim frista
Not knowing what those were supposed to be, I decided to give them definition. I mean, who wouldn't like to sit beneath the spinning palm leaf fans of the beachside "Wh Wh Lauga" and knock back a nice, cool "Frista"? ("Maxim" is the equivalent to grande in this scenario.)

Propelled by my curiosity and the desire to mine for more golden handwriting misunderstandings, I looked back over my son's notes from this past school year since I was using up the left over pages in his agenda for my notepad. Turns out there are some pretty interesting items in their curriculum. One entry seemed to suggest they had "Studied Idiots", something I think we have all done at one time or another. Near that scrawl was another missive: "Bead a boat and Otter June". I suppose they have a class pet in Art. And for some reason he felt the need to write the following: "Dorito, rent an ocean". (If this is a middle school euphemism I have no clue to what it refers.)

There was a holiday I had not heard of, "Owen's Day", and that same week he noted, "Animal Screeches". (Perhaps they no longer have that class pet.) Evidently they are teaching the kids some common sense skills--while getting free labor, if this odd mention holds up--"paint blinds". And in the event that someone begins solving equations too loudly, they seem to have implements called, "Math Mutes".

Sure, these are tricks the mind and eyes play when we cannot decipher another's handwriting, or remember the aim of our own, but exploring them is much more interesting than whatever was really written. (Though I won't know until I am in the middle of food preparation what those two mysterious grocery list items really are.)

But that's okay, next time I have an afternoon off, I'm heading straight for Wh Wh Lauga. Nobody mixes up a Maxim Frista like theirs!

LAUNCHING THE MYSTERY SERIES!!

I'm happy to announce to the Cockeyed World that Keri and I are launching the Maddie Pryce Mystery Series this weekend!! This is extremely exciting, and I'd be thrilled if you guys would check it out.

I'll give you all the info as soon as we go live: the books will be available across all the usual platforms, to include Amazon Kindle, Nook, Smashwords, as well as Apple-ready, PC, and smartphone apps. Look for direct links here this weekend.

To coincide with the launch, I will also include some sample materials chosen EXCLUSIVELY for my blog readers! And as we move forward, I'll share some behind-the-scenes info with you and I'll "interview" the characters in their own words for your reading and laughing pleasure.

So keep tuned, get excited, and pass the word along. This is a huge deal for us, and we are very excited the day is almost here. I think you're gonna like what you see!!

She Figured it Ouuut!

We have a brilliant puzzler amongst our cockeyed throng. My good pal from back East--hippiechik--has solved the musical riddle I gave you a couple of days ago.
Of course the italicized "prose" is composed of all song lyrics, but she--a fellow indy record shop junkie--spotted the fact that they were all given in alphabetical order, by artist. Very nice, hippiechik!

So I got the idea to do that particular puzzle from an unfortunate run-in with a nearby P.D. after I was pulled over for my first traffic ticket in decades for changing lanes while making a right turn after stopping for the red, at a traffic light. So why did I do this? Said cop--who was by the way on his check-ride with an older cop seated next to him (hmmmm)--was pulling out of a Wendy's drive-thru and into that lane. So as I turned into that lane, I quickly moved over to let him out. For that I get a ticket, and a court date, all this on my birthday. I decided to play nice and got the whole thing down to some lame charge like: "Unfortunate bumpersticker blocking the path of bird poop on the back window", which cost very little and took no points off my license. But my initial thought was to show up to court and speak only in song lyrics. A lot of Rolling Stone's stuff came to mind.

So congrats to h.c. on her mastering of our first puzzle challenge. Now I have to come up with another.
Oh, "What walks on four legs..." Nah, on second thought, I'd better give this a second thought.

Poll-y Wanna Cracker?

The polls have closed. There they are, wandering toward the sunset while kicking the dust off their spurs, wiping sweat from their hat bands, and looking for the next stop on the trail. Good-bye, pardners!

So this re-design should give you an easier read with less scrolling. I didn't want you to feel like you were standing in front of the funhouse mirror that's warped to make everything appear super tall and skinny: Good for people, not so much with the words.

As always and like life, it's all a work-in-progress with suggestions welcomed like that last Coke Zero hiding in the back of the fridge...or the magical piece of gum that shows up at the bottom of your purse...or that, hey, I didn't know there was a bag of chocolate in the pantry?!!  You get the idea.

Keep insane, insightful, and in touch.

My New BFF is a "Bad Boy"!

Clues:
*Will not give his full name
*Doesn't warn me before he pops over
*Never takes me out in public
*Keeps really weird hours

I know what you're thinking...he's married. Nope, I think he has lots of dates every night, perhaps even a few with you. His name is N. Somnia, and we've been near constant companions all this past week. It's not that I call him to come over--or that I do not have better things to do (like sleep)--he just shows up and expects me to entertain him. I have tried several times to break it off, but he just won't listen to reason.

I have no idea where or why I met up with him and even less of an idea of why he stays or how to get rid of him. Somehow I'm leaving the food out for him and he keeps turning up for another all-night feast. (More like I'm leaving the porchlight on and he flits around it with me until sun-up!)

The good thing about hanging out late with the wrong kind of guy is that you get to see and hear interesting things you might not otherwise have been privy to: Free Speech TV documentaries, kids and dogs snoring, the machinations of your own brain. The bad thing is that your new routine seems to give you license to excuse yourself from the normal world of: clocks, good nutrition, and any and all expectations. You put on his leather jacket and sit in front of the TV with Doritos or popcorn; you hop on his motorcycle and go to the wilds of your memory and imagination. You keep this up--seemingly without a choice--all the while knowing that he's bound to leave you, or get you arrested. Either way, at the end of the relationship you're in for a hard fall.

For now, he's woven his spell around me as tightly as a cocoon I cannot escape. I am the caterpillar who thinks this is all there is forever. I don't dare aspire to fly to freedom with Monarch colors, but at this point, I'd settle for the sweet chrysalis of sleep.

NEW FEATURE TODAY: Identify the pattern--UPDATE

Here's how this works: I will give you a post written according to a certain pattern--think subjects, themes, commonalities, topics--to see if you can identify the hidden pattern or patterns. If you think you've cracked it, send your answer as a comment to the post.
So without further ado, here's your first puzzle: Let's call it "Test Pattern".

I'm so lost without you! Look to the wind, the sun, and the rain--what've you got to lose? You know that I would be a liar; I was born from original sin. I'll take it, this is only a test. 
If you wanna be free when your head is your heaviest load, when the truth is found, all we are is dust. And it makes you wonder. 
Never had to knock on wood (I think I'm dumb); any kind of fool can see, maybe I'm just too demanding. Someday I'm gonna be free. I never worry, only watch the time go by...you might get what you're after.
And the answer was plain to see: Everyone around me is a total stranger. Who are you? Oh, I can still remember. I'll be there with you...(she's alright!)


Figured it out? Then tell me the answer to the "riddle". Just comment below. Happy solving!

TRAVELOGUE: This Is Where We Came In (Camping--Day Eight)

Note: This is the last installment in the Travelogue series. It was a great deal of fun to write and, I hope, to read as well. 


One of my perpetual childhood stories describes the way in which I saw movies as a young child. Because my father worked late hours, whenever we went out to a movie we would catch it already in progress. We would watch the remainder, sit through the credits, then stay through the beginning, leaving only when we'd arrived back at our own unique starting point. "This is where we came in," my dad would quietly announce, at which point we'd gather our things and make for the exit. It was an odd way to see a movie but at the time I thought it was normal.

Tonight, our last night, we met back up with our starting point when a serious-looking sky brought a smallish storm. Again, like that first night last week, we only got the edge of the action and not a full-on attack. But still, we were bookended by storms. There's a bit of rain now, barely audible and not nearly as prevalent as the lonesome train whistle in the distance. And there's a good breeze, but nothing like the blow that brought this system toward us back during the daylight hours, causing us to douse the campfire and batten down the hatches.

So this is where we leave. It has been a grand week-plus full of fun and frolic. But the filmstrip is flapping in the projector and the houselights are coming up. We need to pick up our things, stop by the garbage can (dump station), then make our way home.

There was a second bookend as well. Two days into the trip was when my son saw the bald eagle, and two nights before the end of our trip he pointed out the International Space Station as it made its pass over our piece of the sky. We've come full-circle and in life, as in art, that's always a good thing.

TRAVELOGUE: Fish Out of Water (Camping--Day Seven)

Today we successfully undocked, de-laked, and re-trailered the Kon-Tiki. I don't live in an area where traffic jams are common, but the next time you curse being in one you should realize that car traffic jams are nothing when compared with their marine counterpart. You don't just point a boat and steer, there's a finesse--a calling on the wind gods, a reading of the water, the wake, and the other mariners. You can't get bored on-board, in other words.

And now as she winds her way back to our driveway, the campsite is less populated and quieter--we are yangs left to flow without the push and pull of our balancing yins. Son and Dad are ferrying the boat over land, Daughter and Mom are keeping the campfires glowing. The dynamic shifts and with it we wriggle and lurch before finding our way in this new, temporary world. We grill burgers and tend the dog herd, we play cards and people watch, we turn on a movie and relax.

Tomorrow is our last full day of vacation. The boys will return, and we will have a celebratory day and night of another fine camping trip. For now, we look back on all the waves and on those thrilling first hills of the rollercoaster while appreciating the anticipation of that one last little drop, one more plunge before we round the last curve and head back to the coaster platform.

All around us are other campers--fellow travelers--all at different points on the curve. Some are just setting up, are at their nexus point. Others are well-underway or even nearing the middle, perhaps. And we are the ones who must cast an eye toward reassimilation into the real world of everyday life. Our number of days is nearly up and it is our turn to start packing up for the long trip home. One more day in these waters, then back to the home pond.

Today's Cockeyed Horoscopes

Aries: Dude, seriously, when are you going to learn to relax? Chill out, you've already won it all.
Taurus: Remember to let people be themselves. They'll mess up, but they'll learn more from it.
Gemini: Hope you're still out there keeping on! Treasure the past but live in the present.
Cancer: Your stories will live on forever. Heavily editorialized, but immortalized.
Leo: Find empathy for others and you will find happiness. A smile goes a long way.
Virgo: Your gifts never stop giving; your lessons inform always. You know so much.
Libra: You will help two little old ladies across the street--or the information superhighway. Thanks!
Scorpio: Slow down, you'll grow up soon enough. Take your time to enjoy the scenery.
Sagittarius: You are a friend when no other will be. You light up a room.
Capricorn: You patient creature, we couldn't survive without you. We are so grateful to know you.
Aquarius: Keep the peace, and love, and heady notions. Your dreams make the world go 'round.
Pisces: Remember, just grin and go on. We can't let them know we're the ones in charge. (Shhhh...)

TRAVELOGUE: Illusion (Camping--Day Six)

After an afternoon at the beach with lots of rowing, swimming, and water polo frisbee, we boarded the Kon-Tiki to watch the full moon on the water. Sitting on the back of the boat in the dark with only the ripples immediately around you illuminated, there's this weird "oasis" effect. You can clearly see the arcs of water moving away from you and increasing in area as they do so, but there comes a point--for me it was about 20 yards out--where your eyes fool you, or maybe the water does, where you think the water is building and it seems like a wave that's readying itself to break over you. If you stare into this anomaly long enough, you can get lost in it, much like a case of snow blindness in wintertime. In both instances you lose the true horizon and begin to feel pulled by unseen forces toward some false reality. It was odd, but not in an unsettling sort of way, more like that illusionary moment when you're stopped at a railroad crossing waiting for the train to pass when you forget whether it's you in motion or the long line of boxcars before you.

If you've ever stared into a mirror for a solid five minutes you know the kind of thing I'm talking about. For when you quit seeing yourself you start to see the person others see when they look at you. You honestly--with patience and practice--have no idea who you are.

Maybe all these effects are just reset buttons for our psyche. Perhaps they help us clear out the clutter and wipe clean the chalkboard of all the inner scramblings we no longer need.

TRAVELOGUE: The Sagging Middle (Camping--Day Five)

In football it's halftime and for novelists it's called the "Sagging Middle". Just look at those last two words; with their centered double consonants they look like letter-drawings set to prove their own words' meanings. And unlike the maneuvering of boats and airplanes, it's the middle part that gives the difficulty. With book-length fiction you can usually get your mind around the takeoff and the landing, the casting off and the docking, but the cruising portion of the journey is where the steering can get tricky.

We are just hours beyond the midway point in our vacation, to the place where you begin to do the math. Try as I might, I could never force myself to stop keeping score of the remaining days of summer when I was young. Even then I knew that though there would be vacations, gatherings, picnics, and softball games somewhere it would never get any better than that first day when you wake up at a reasonable hour knowing the entire summer lay stretched out before you. Wasn't it Basho who wrote:
                            "Even in Kyoto,
                              When the cherry blossoms bloom,
                              I miss Kyoto."
In the midst of a thing your mind produces a balance sheet of sorts, your debits and credits, as your honors try to keep pace with the demerits. And you scan the horizon always for the thing that chases you relentlessly--the end.

Sometimes when you're creating something you get a feel for the ending and you stand there alongside it, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, in an effort to hitch things up as they should be, in an attempt to board a fast-moving carousel. At other times you drift in your Blue Boat #3 with the clangy bell, going in slow circles, waving at your folks and their camera at every pass, looking for the ride's end.

I'm not sure which ride I'm on right now, I just know I'm enjoying every minute of it.
            

TRAVELOGUE: Fish Stories (Camping--Day Four)

Kitchens should always have windows. I remember a few apartments I lived in where that was not the case and they were not fun to cook in. I think I spent less time in them because they were windowless. Skylights help but there's no substitute for cooking or washing dishes while looking out at your yard or the place next door or the view.
This morning as I made breakfast on the propane grill I watched boats tooling across the lake. I really enjoyed making that meal.
Just now the kids are off on their bikes looking for a good fishing hole with their dad. It is very warm already and the lake currents sparkle like a thousand camera flashes at a night-time rock concert. The boats cut through the bright flashes drawing chalk-white lines behind them.
If you've ever looked behind you as your boat is underway you know that the wake is three-pronged: There's the path you carve with a left-flowing and a right-flowing divergence on either side. No wonder Neptune's trident is the shape that it is, same with the old-style anchor for that matter.
It has been my experience--and I've read it in other's opinion as well--that writers, perhaps all artists, live by the Rule of Threes: Three examples in a list, three word repetitions for an echoing effect, three finesses of a single metaphor. When I would try to coax myself to sleep as a child I would say a homemade jingle in my head three times; it was my own little mantra. Sometimes I would make a hand motion three times. Many songs end by repeating a strain until three is achieved. There are at times three crashing drumbeats to signal a finale. There's just something soothing and right about Three: "Three Coins in a Fountain", "Three of a Kind", the "Third Time's the Charm".
So with my trident of a pen/keyboard, I launch out drawing my storyline and let the elements of my tale wander off to the left and right to fill in the details. Eventually, when I'm through, all the paths should reconverge to complete the journey. Then I find myself back at the dock, waiting for the next word-fishing trip to materialize.

TRAVELOGUE: The Bizarro World (Camping--Day Three)

One of the Great Truths of the "Seinfeld" show was in their acknowledgement of the Bizarro World. If you've read my profile you know that I've moved around a lot and every new place I go, I tend to find myself in the company of the bizarro twins of the people I've just left someplace else. Or maybe they find me.

Today I met up with the Camp Host who is so much the bizarro of the first friend I made when I moved to this area 15-plus years ago that I almost called him by that name. It was eerie but sweet. I think if I ever found myself in the plot of one of those back-from-the-dead-second-chance-at-life movies, I would have my motivation all polished off and ready to go, as in: "You don't realize you know me but you do and I am saddled with remembering to keep the secret".

Hubby is also privy to this knowing and we have collected an entire set of people in a handful of states to whom we refer as "Bizarro This" or "Bizarro That" as those are simply, to us, their proper names. These people run the range from dear friend to casual acquaintance. There's the school parent in one state who is the bizarro twin of the grocery store checker in another, the ice cream man there who is a twin of the sandwich shop guy someplace else, and the helpful tech-savvy kid close by who is the lost twin of one of my old writer friends from two-plus decades ago. They are everywhere if only you look for them.

I like to think it's like Doritos flavors--there are only so many and that's it. They don't branch off into an infinity of flavors--there are a lot--but eventually you get back to the same little chip gene pool. For though we all come in tons of shapes, sizes, and flavors, it seems to me that we're all one family, one bizarre, quirky little family.

Poll-tergeist

No results to share with you from the three most recent polls except my own foggy notions. What will I do with these long days? Watch all the sunrises and sunsets I can. I wouldn't mind any of the choices for my bucket list, and I'm most proud of my mind.
This week we'll try again with some new polls to see if these can strike anyone's fancy. And as always, if any of you have a suggestion for something you'd like to see in this space by all means let me know. If it's legal and legit, I'll be glad to include it.

TRAVELOGUE: Setting the Stage (Camping--Day Two)

This morning the boy child spotted a bald eagle. We all went over to watch as it soared above us, circling a field ringed with big cottonwood trees. It was the first baldy I'd seen in a few years, so I really enjoyed the experience. I told the kids about the neat photographs I took many more years ago as their dad and I watched several bald eagles fish in a stream in Washington. I love to watch our prairie falcons in flight, but I don't think any other bird's method can match that of the baldy in pure elegance and style.

This afternoon I took my first ride on the Kon-Tiki. She's new to us this summer and our first boat as a family. The hubby is a somewhat experienced boatman, but I am a nervous neophyte. After a literal false start we had a beautiful cruise around the lake and were treated to terrific views of the mountains. I took a turn at the helm and scurried atop the boat twice while we were underway--once to reign in the buoys and once to bring us alongside the bilge dock. Like I told you, June will be full of firsts.

Just now the cottonwood trees are showering us with "summer snow" and the lake is only a few shades darker than the sky. There's a calm breeze making the leaf shadows dance as I write this. Crickets are dueling with robins and orioles in a sing-off, and the low hum of outboard motors drifts across the lake to our campsite.

After the terrific electrical storm the first night and two chilly mornings, today has been perfect. The green grasses stretch out long and low like a lazy summer day and the trees around the lake shoot up like frothy green fireworks caught still in a photographic image. The greens and blues slow you, trap you in their cool, sweet magic and the breeze finishes you off into a deep, mystic trance.

And here I sit, in a perfect snow globe under the shedding cottonwoods, right in the middle of everything summer is supposed to be.

TRAVELOGUE: Vacations--Maps and Legends

The days and weeks of my childhood were marked and measured by one standard: "How many weeks 'til vacation?" Every Spring I would take out the big Rand-McNally--our Holy Grail--and plan a cross-country trip, my only parameters being my dad's dictate to try to keep it around 500 miles per day. I would pour over the historic sites and natural features, looking for the destinations that would become our next memories, searching for the subjects of yet to be taken photographs. And I would peruse motel listings in those chosen spots to find a Holiday Inn with a full-service restaurant and an elevator, or a Best Western close to the highway exit. Once the phone calls were made and the confirmation numbers recorded, we would wait and talk and dream like yogis laboring through all the inhalations until that recooperative and blessed out-breath, the belly-emptying exhale, arrived.
Then came the actual travel and the time-erasing mental olympics. My dad and I would see how many license plate numbers we could commit to memory every day. We would have who-can-recall-all-the-hotel-room-numbers competitions at various points along the way. I used the kid's secret weapon of song to try to best him: "Two floors and the outside doors...Lord, take me to Lowell." There were lots of 214s and 101s. Every so often there would be a 738 and even more rarely, a four-digit number, but not in the old days. Not in the days when we would lunch on "blue plate special" or that new invention, the tossed green salad: a crunchy concoction of iceberg lettuce, a tomato wedge, croutons, and Thousand Island dressing served in a sweaty, chilled turquoise-colored melamine bowl.
Sometimes dinner got downright civilized: Veal Cutlet Oscar at the Grand Canyon's El Tovar Lodge or a fine sup accompanied with iced water in pewter mugs at Christina Campbell's Tavern in Colonial Williamsburg, or a marvelous chicken or fish served with some velvety white sauce and wild rice at the Old Rice Planter's Restaurant on the north highway outside Myrtle Beach.
After a day's driving and dining came the final ritual, "the choosing of the beds". You see I was feng shui before feng shui was cool in the Western--or at least Southern--world, and it fell to me to read the room and feel which bed was mine and which was my parents'. I would consider the position of the window, the orientation of the room itself, then the placement of the heating or cooling system and with information in hand, I would assign everyone to their sleeping habitat.
Thinking back on it now--the trip planning, the choosing of the radio stations (constantly), the configuring of a night's rest--my parents really did indulge me, give me free reign on our vacations. They put themselves and our most special two weeks of the year entirely in my hands. Whether they enjoyed taking a break from having to think about our affairs for those other 50 weeks or whether they enjoyed the surprise of it all I cannot say. It was just the way we did things.
We always came home with great stories and funny occurrences. We built a years' worth of conversation from out annual sojourns to the point that we practically had our own secret language. More than the logging of miles or the recalling of numbers that came home with us as prizes and souvenirs, our great wealth came from the stories we lived and told.
    

TRAVELOGUE: You Are There (Camping, Day One)

Like a child's handprint in the wet cement of the new patio, my camper is imbued with the spirit of modern craftsmanship. It wasn't constructed without the aid of machinery of course, but it does bear the indelible signs of humanity, as "I was here"of invisible fingerprints.
This morning I noticed the handwritten "83 5/8" in the backing of one of the curtains and I thought about all those long ago trips to the notions aisle with my mother back when she used to sew clothing. The back of the fabrics store was a veritable map room of Simplicity patterns all parchment-colored and soft-grained, covered in the inked blue rivers of design. My mother would make her selections then set about to match the plan with a place--a fabric to bring the landscape to life like a photograph brings color and definition to travels. She would mark her needle's destinations with straight pins then follow those roadways until they became proper hems and seams--little strings of completed clothing boundaries like interstates or backroads.
I keep a small state map on the paneled wall by the bathroom door of this camper with a pin marking this, our yearly "home away from home" campground. Over the years I will likely add more pins in other places, but for now there's just this one magical place to which we are drawn. And I will continue to run my fingertips over the archaeological wonder that is this 30-year-old cabin on wheels, looking for the signs that others have "been here", have left their trail of crumbs for me to follow into the woods of our shared pasts and old memories.

Presto, Change-o!

I don't know how it is where you are, but here the seasons change on a dime. One day the deciduous trees are bare. A day or two later they sport buds. The next day the buds sprout into tiny leaves. And two days after that the leaves are full-grown. Like I said, it's a short growing season. If you're gonna do it, you gotta do it. That's why insects are born with everything they need to know genetically. If it was up to a parent to teach them everything, they'd be dead before they learned how to poop. And last week it was in the 30s at night. Now it's in the mid-40s. The daytime temps have jumped up by ten to fifteen degrees nearly overnight.

You can see why those of us in the more northerly climes of the Western Hemisphere are clinging to our every last moment of almost-summer just now. It is precious and the days are few. (Though we never did have winter this year, so I cannot lament a long, cold, wet time; it never came.)

By August 1 it will all start to change again. The leaves will curl in for their eventual demise and the mountaintops will don a dusting of snow. That chill will return to the air, and the lowering sun will cast a buttery glow to the backyard and emphasize itself at sunset. I always get a little misty on August 1, but that's okay. I get over it quickly because I LOVE Fall. Go Pac-10!! I love that crispness that seems to ride the breezes like an injection of instant excitement.

So for now, enjoy the hell out of your season--whichever one you are currently being treated to. I will look forward to grilling and hosting garden parties, going to the Farmers' Market and attending our weekly festivals. And I will bask in the brilliance of the sun directly overhead for a little while.

I just want to make sure than when August 1 rolls around and I see that first flash of white on the peaks I can look back on the summer and say I did everything I wanted to do--I lived it all! Cheers...

Weiner or Loser?

I've listened to various viewpoints over the past few days concerning Representative Anthony Weiner's situation. I watched the coverage of his press conference from the Midtown Sheraton. And I have taken into consideration the past controversies involving other elected officials. Yet even though I have consumed all of this "information", I cannot say that I have settled on an opinion.
I like Anthony Weiner. I'm sure if I were to sit down with him, we'd be in agreement on 99 percent of the issues. I've often found his remarks to be enlightened, engaging, and empowering. But his comments on the floor and in interviews of late (before all this became public) have troubled me. He seemed to go a bit too far with his rhetoric, appeared to me at least to be overly provocative. I wondered to myself if he was having a meltdown. Maybe one has to do with the other, I can only guess. I just know that I hate to see a "voice for progressive policy" go off-key.
Now there's the Twitter photographs and the phone relationships. Those don't particularly matter to me. They are simply not my concern. I put that in the same category as President Clinton's affairs. Or Gary Hart's. And I have to stretch my imagination to even compare non-physical exploits to physical ones. None of this stuff should matter to any of us who are not in a relationship of any kind with any of these folks.
Here's my question: Why did Representative Christopher Lee resign? Over a shirtless photograph? I still don't get that one. Sure, I know Boener told him to, but I don't understand why he went along with him. And if that's my view of Rep. Lee then it must also be my view of Rep. Weiner.
Where I part ways with "Tony Bologna" is the lying. He shouldn't have made up the story of being hacked. He can do whatever he chooses in his private life, but when he lies to the press, his constituents, and the greater public, we all lose...trust. I mentioned Bill Clinton earlier. What about his lie? I think what he said under oath was parsing, as I know many who hold the view that some types of contact are not necessarily viewed in the same light as s-x. Is that revisionist or naive of me? You decide. I would probably have answered the question the same way.
Other presidents have conducted themselves in a similar fashion while in office. President Kennedy and F.D.R. come to mind. So does President Nixon, but not for the same reason.
It's like I tell my kids. I'm never going to go berserk over the transgression, but the cover-up is another matter entirely. Nixon wasn't forced to resign the office over the Watergate break-in, but because of the cover-up.
It's always the lie that gets you in trouble. My kids know that, and Anthony Weiner should know it as well.

That Sunday Thing

So the other "first" I was holding out until today to tell you about was that the past four days marks the first time I had let Child #1 out "on his own". He attended an academic conference at an upscale hotel and returned to us today safe, sound, and tired. I'm very proud of him and all his great accomplishments.

One of my Sunday rituals--and it is one of the banes of my weekend existence--is that I read through the Parade magazine. It's almost like a wreck at the roadside, you know it'll make you sick but you just can't look away. Those "What Americans Make" weeks are the worst for me. But today they ran a feature on what Americans' Top 32 Bucket List items should be. I've already completed 26 of those, so I'm stoked. I won't be ticking off all that list though. I cannot imagine ever choosing to witness a lawn tractor race.

And after all my driving the other day, pent up mania kept me from sleep, and I found myself watching a disturbing program on the Fox Business channel called "Follow the Money". And while I do often worry that I am just a shill for MSNBC, blindly taking their anchors' views as my own, I have to say that what I witnessed on that show really seemed to me to be much more insidious than even I had figured on. Geez, they were even hatin' on Elmo! (What sort of animal is he, by the way?) I'll have to watch more to have a complete view, but from first blush it really does seem that the "Jolly Roger" over at Fox is as determined to drive an agenda as the recent Rolling Stone article said him to be. Remember the days when anchors used to just read the news and leave the opinion to those quirky three-minute statements from the local station manager? Ah seventies, you weren't so stupid after all.

Now to the polls: So it was a 50-50 tie between "long life" and "winning lottery ticket" for those of you who chose what you would most want. No one went with "killer physique" nor my personal favorite, "fame and reverence". By the way, you know a "long" life isn't necessarily a happy one or one without pain. I'm just saying...

And everyone voting was correct that I have never waited tables. While I find that to be a laudable ability, I have a proprietary discomfort with serving food on demand to people I do not know well. (Unless it's a soup kitchen or some other charity, of course.) Eating is so personal, I feel the need to make another connection with a person before launching into the gastronomy realm. Same principle with religious solicitation. If it's that special to you, don't you think you should conduct your business in a way unlike the Dominoes guy and the replacement window people?

And good luck with your summer of eating and drinking, my friend. I'll be all sporty and gardeny--hey, we have a short growing season up here but a perpetual drinking one.

Try the new polls on for size. (I'll even give you an extra week to play along.) I'm gonna go make 'em up for you fresh, right now!

A Short Tale

I grew up in a far away place. It is very small and doesn't always appear on the maps--I find it from the map of my soul. There were people like shadows, moving quietly with some purpose not to be disclosed to the casual viewer. Not that there were any of those around.
And there were vines: kudzu in the forests and ivy over the buildings. Vines seemed to hold the whole thing together, seemed to keep out new things and hold in the dying. The vines sheltered the bugs and the birds. Spiderwebs held the morning dew like liquid beads on sticky string, mirroring the rising sun. And morning glories, all lilac and fragile opened up veins in the gullies and ruts between people and places.
It was my secret world, and I loved it there. Whether exploring on foot, bicycle, or just in my mind, I could always find something fascinating to stare at or someplace to hide. It was an endless maze of forts and fields, hutches and hollows. You could pretend to be anyone at any time; imagination was unknowingly treasured.
Perhaps there are other places like it out there still, but not in that spot. The old ones have gone on, the buildings changed, the trees cut away. The wind blows through there in ways it couldn't when I was young. There are new people with new needs. The only way to know the place as it was is to stop by the newly erected roadside pavilions to read the captions under the historic photographs.
Or to be old enough to remember.

A Short Poem

Releasing the superstitions--
How not to believe
In the wrong things--
A stray thought
Like a whisper of
Someone I used to know
Grabs me, just for
A second, tells me
"Oh, yes, this is the way
It should be" and then
I reach the end
Of my psychic bungee and
Snap back, I remember
I don't believe
Pretty thoughts anymore
Because I know
They just aren't so.

Poem Time!

Remembering Happiness
Like the recipe for some
Wonderful casserole
Your long-dead grandmother
Served at an outdoor
Gathering, a reunion perhaps.
A tablecloth flapping
In a breeze that seems to propel
Small children in ever smaller
Circles under giant live oaks
But somewhere the clipped images
The smells remain and haunt you
And ask to be enjoyed again
But you cannot remember how
To make it, how to grow
An unsure sunshine in your soul
So you just keep moving
Through that never-ending
Day same as all the other days
And somehow you get through
On the memory of casserole.

The Idiot and the Odyssey

The first 48 hours of June certainly heard about my lame last 48 hours of May and decided to show off. Let me just start at the beginning:
On Wednesday, we drove everybody up to the lake to launch our new boat--four people, four dogs. So we set out in both cars to drive the three hours up the interstate to our destination. About ten minutes from our exit, my son says, "Look, somebody's tag blew off." Somehow I knew immediately whose it was. "Let's catch up to your dad and have a look," I replied. Sure enough, the back of the trailer was bare. So I called car number one, told them to proceed, then set about to drive several miles to the next exit in order to turn back to begin the hunt.

My error became obvious as soon as I took that exit. I realized that I hadn't gone far enough, and that the spot my son indicated was on the approach to that exit, not ON that exit. We drove those miles over again, turned around, and this time went back two exits before leaving the highway. (You have to realize that out here in the vast open spaces, rural exits are about three to five miles apart.) Long sidetrip short, I spotted said tag--luckily at the edge of the highway and fully in the shoulder (thank you, wind and traffic)--retrieved it, and continued on to the lake.

The launch was quick and successful, though holding onto a cabin cruiser while the husband parked the truck and trailer would have been a struggle at best that I was spared by a kindly older man who held onto the boat with me until hubby returned. Thank you kind stranger! So hubby gets in the boat, I shove it away from the boat ramp dock, and off he goes to the slip. All I had to do was get two kids, four dogs, and supplies across a series of narrow docks and onto the boat. Hey, no one drowned. Viva, success!

Fast forward past all the fun and beauty of the sunset and watching the dogs watching the waterfowl...Did you know dogs can get seasick? It was a long night, the details of which I will spare you. Luckily I have good and patient dogs who dutifully alert you to their problems and wait until they are safely on the grass to do their thing. Still, it was a long and fairly sleepless night.

So the next morning there is nothing to do but get these guys back to their own yard for their sake. Long car rides and rocking beds is not a good combination, evidently. So, we make the long drive back home. Then, another appointed round takes us back up the same interstate and back--turning a round trip plan into two round trips, instead. Thank you, dogs! Gas is so cheap now anyway, right? Again, long tale cropped, I drove for about 9 out of the last 24 hours.

Plans, schmans. Who needs 'em?! But that is the most I've driven in one "day" in over two-and-a-half years. You see, I live in a town, a tiny little town where we have tourists, but not traffic. And here I am negotiating five lanes at a time, with a high wind advisory, and near rush-hour traffic. I am proud of myself and I need a shoulder massage, badly.

So what were the firsts here? Well, launched a boat. Slept on a boat...uhm, make that spent the night on a boat. And there's one more (at least) that I'll blog about on Sunday, because I'm the least bit superstitious.

And what did we see on the roadside other than the license plate? A wild turkey, a dead vulture (irony alert!), and a squirrel. Now this was not just any old roadkill squirrel. This squirrel had his right "arm" crossed against his chest, his right "hand" over his heart. Was he pledging something? Did he have a coronary event? Who knows. But my son noticed that the squirrel's left "arm" was outstretched in some manner of salute. It just makes you wonder what he was really up to. Maybe he was yelling "Charge", but never made it to the roadway. Poor thing dropped dead before he got close to vehicle traffic. Whatever it was, I hope he went out with a smile. (We were going too fast to make out an expression.)

I'm not sure what all or any of this means, but I can take a couple of things from the experience:
1) If I ever need to drive in fast ovals repeatedly, I can do it.  2) June's "new thing" is already taken care of. Oh, and in case it didn't come across here, I really did have fun. How sick is that??!!