My cat – the drug addict

My cat, Baghera, is on my shit list.

He climbed up into the pantry and found the catnip. Which, by the way, was double Ziploc bagged.  There is catnip spread out onto the three shelves below and everything on the floor. He shredded the damn bags, flinging the fine powder and leaves of the funky smelling plant all over. It wasn’t a small bag either, mind you. It was like a gallon size Ziploc bag half full. Little stoner. No wonder he has been sneaking in there every chance he gets. No wonder he was crashed out like a friggin rock on the bed last night and this morning. He was stoned. He was stoned out of his little mind. I wonder if there can be permanent damage from that. Like the damn cat is going to be retarded for the rest of his life. Dummy. Even now as I type this, he comes flying into the kitchen like he is being chased by the boys, or the dog, or the other cats – who hate him. Attacking his tale like it’s some kind of evil thing that’s got a death grip on his butt. His Batman identity tag jingles and clinks a bit as he rolls around on the floor. OOOhhh. Now the little fucker is trying to get into the pantry. Oh, what? Did your high go away? You coming down? Leaning against the door, he gives me this pitiful little meow. Then his tail somehow has a life of its own and twitches on the floor. Taunting him, teasing him with a flick and a swish. Suddenly, it’s too much. He can’t take it anymore and leaps two feet in the air while doing a flip. I gotta give it to him – he did catch the end of his tail in his mouth, mid-flip.  Even if his landing lacked all grace and athleticism that most cats have; he landed with a thump on his side. Well, the little bastard is fun to watch, and he is really very sweet; but I will be cursing him while cleaning up that mess.

Maybe I will leave the door open all night and the other cats will smell it. They’ll be in there having a little drug fest. I’ll come down here in the morning and they will be spread out across the floor and the couches. Cracking open one eye and giving a little “meowfff”. As if to say “What’s up dude. I found your stash in the closet, and whoa… It was some good shit.”

Ha, little kitty stoners. I still think it’s hilarious that it has that kind of a reaction. But I really would have preferred to ration his portions.

Even after it all, I will still welcome that little bum into my arms while sitting on the couch.  I love my kitty, even if he does have a drug problem.

Crestone

Let me tell you about the town called Crestone. It’s in the San Luis Valley of southern Colorado. My sisters, who live there, have different views and will most likely disagree with what I say. We’ll see.

Driving up and over Poncha Pass opens my eyes to the beautiful valley.  I can’t usually put into words how it makes me feel.. almost like coming home. More on that later. Lush trees and foliage disappear as you make your way onto the plains. Dry, dusty earth barely allows any growth. Open space for miles in front of you, few trees and even less buildings. Scattered here and there are farms thriving off of springs, trees and vegetation lining the slightly damp earth. To the right, or west, are the San Juan Mountain range far off and in the distance, but still impressive. To the left, or east, the Sangre De Cristos shoot up out of the tumbleweeds like giant rock demons escaping the underworld before being frozen in time by the Gods. It is at the foot of these monsters that the little town of Crestone flourishes, even when it shouldn’t.  People from all walks of life call this place home. From Buddhists to devout Christians to the hippies that Boulder rejected.

A little history, for those that might be interested.  Crestone is a small mining town of about 90 people. Until the early 70’s most residents were without plumbing and electricity.  A woman recently gifted with large amounts of land decided to bring religion to the obvious heathens. Wanting to create a melting pot of followers, she gave pieces of property to Buddhists (Tibetan and Zen) Carmelites, Sai Ma, Shu Mei, Hindis, and some others that I cannot remember at the moment. Each one used the land as they saw fit, building shrines to deities and creating welcoming places for the masses I am sure they thought would come.  I have yet to peruse the different shrines and centers. I’ll be sure to post on that when I do.  Last visit I was able to make a trip up to the Stupa there. The big one. It’s amazing. When I remember the name of it I’ll post it.

Just outside Crestone is the Baca Grande Subdivision. A 500 acre area of subdivisions and grants. Keep in mind this is not your normal subdivision, not even close to a mountain suburb. Unless you count the gaudy displays of wealth and prestige mixed with eclectic rock gardens boasting colorful gnomes, disabled vehicles and retired school buses acting as an addition to a 1960’s airstream mobile home. Monasteries and sacred buildings litter the mountain side. Colorful prayer flags wave lazily in the breeze throughout the area. One home boasts a wall of televisions and straw bales. He calls this work of art “10 good things to do with a TV.”

Alternative building and state of the art buildings litter the subdivision.  Brave new ideas using recylced materials seems to be the norm.  Saving the earth is a part of every ones life out here. My sister and her husband have two businesses, one dealing with dirt and the other energy. Mudcrafters Construction is all about using natural or green materials to build your home, such as straw bale or adobe flooring.   NewGen Energy provides people with renewable energy systems, such as solar or wind.  Their home, when finished, will use only renewable energy.  Fascinating.

People from all walks of life roam the streets of Crestone. Walking by the now closed liquor store a woman might wave at you. The wave is enthusiastic, even though she doesn’t know you. Carefully watch the underarm, the growth of hair there could set world records. In Curts, the local market, be wary. Eye contact might win you a hug with a stranger. A stranger that hasn’t bathed in god knows how long. Avoid this at all costs, as the body odor can somehow transfer itself to you like an unwanted cologne from the JC Penny salesperson. Dreadlocks are abundant, as is the no ‘no diaper technique’- where the baby never wears a diaper. The mom just holds the baby over the sink or toilet every 20 minutes. I wouldn’t want to go on a car ride with them. Lesbians are very welcome, in fact the last town mayor was one. As far as I know there is only one gay man, he must be very lonely….

 Just outside of town, there is a trailer park. Looks pretty normal, until you look into the homes. Just driving by and peeking in the windows you can see altars to Buddha on one wall and Christ on his crucifix on the other. Only here in Crestone can you believe in both and it’s totally ok.

Then there is the campground. Where you can find old school busses, bright silver airstreams and RV’s older than my parents. all trying to stay warm through the winter with the ‘free’ electricity that is offered. One of these days they are going to catch the straw bales under the trailers on fire…. I don’t even know if there is water there, and you sure wouldn’t know it by the people calling it home.

All throughout Crestone and the Baca, there is one common thing. A sense of wanting to make the world a better place. But how they go about it is totally different. I wonder the things they might accomplish should they actually agree on something.

“Oh! My liver.”

I never watched much of Beavis and Butthead. But, there are some words and phrases that just stuck with me… The title of this blog is one. Especially after Logan starts whining “Oh! my ankle.” I think he bumped it on something and now, he has decided it is broken. What makes this even funnier, is that he is cradling his wrist. After explaining to him the difference between a wrist and an ankle he changes his tune…. It really is his ankle that is hurting. Begging for some ice and leaning back on the recliner I can’t help feel deja vu. Two or three weeks ago, my husband twisted his ankle in the back yard. It was the most dramatized thing I have seen in a while. From the way he was carrying on, you would have thought he had stepped in a hole and his foot had been torn off. Then I remember Logan following him around with an ankle ace wrap on his leg too. Oh, my goodness. Just now, he was tearing around the living room and jumped off the couch onto the floor… immediately he begins rolling around on the floor screaming about his ankle…

sense of humor – MIA

It seems that all I have done on the last few posts is rant. Well, I felt like it. And I got it out, so I’m done… I think. HA
I have been working on my novel. It’s been fun. I wonder if I enjoyed the last scene a little too much. It’s a scene where she takes him home, screws him and kills him. Her character is deveolping into quite a nutcase, and I love her.
On to other things…
My brother built a track on the back part of his 40 acres for his ATV’s and my dirtbikes. I went out there on Tuesday. Something is wrong with my bike, I think it has to do with my brother in law riding it. He’s well over 200 lbs and has no clue what he’s doing. He wrecked my bike into my husband’s. While he was on it. My bike seemed ok, while my husband’s suffered a bent handlebar and broken brake levers.
It took over 30 minutes to get mine running, at which point we heard a strange noise coming from the crank case… sounding something like a faraway dog barking. Fantastic.
Since my bike was not running, I sat on the little tractor they have out there, letting Ethan play and watched them jumping and basically being lunatics. I decided I wanted to putter around a bit.
So, I got on one of the race quads. These things are scary, I’m serious. Well, they are to me. I have never had that ‘need for speed’ and these monsters have it. I am little miss timid when it comes to those things.
After going over a few little bumps, I head to a part of the track that Logan was having a blast on. He has his little 50cc bike. If I could see beyond his helmet, I am sure he had a huge grin on his face the entire time. Well, going over those things on a super heavy quad is totally different than on my 150 dirt bike. Just puttering doesn’t work. I went down the other side of some of these things and just about threw myself off the front of the quad.
So I asked my brother how you are supposed to go over the damn things without launching off the quad.
“You jump it”  He said.
I laugh for a second, right, me.. jump..HA
Then I ask him how to do it. Within a few minutes I am jumping. And LOVING it. Still a bit scared, but I’m doing it dammit.
I ended up clearing the tabletop that he built for beginners, like me. I know, I know. A table top for BEGINNERS?! Ok, give me a break here. It is a start. Not that I’m going to be flying off of things any time soon, but I am moving along at my pace. Which could be a medium pace… he he. Now that song is stuck in my head. All I remember about that one is a shampoo bottle.
Any ways. I am proud of myself. And I guess this was all about bragging.

Can we move on please?

Today I was sent an email with some unforgettable images of the World Trade Centers burning and falling. The email subject line was ‘never forget’. Honestly, how can anyone forget that? Do we really need constant reminders? What about the families that just want to get on with their lives, finally learning to cope with their tragic loss? How are they supposed to do that with things like this flooding our televisions and inboxes?

Don’t get me wrong, I have sympathy for those that were hurt in some way. But Jesus Christ people, when will it be enough? When will we be able to turn on the TV and see a happy story, a good economic forecast or open our email boxes to an uplifting story that doesn’t have us choking on the sappy fake lie someone wants us to believe is real.

I wonder why we don’t have pictures of the devastation from the Battle of Little Big Horn or from the Civil War flooding our minds. There are photos as well as numerous artists’ renderings. Hey, even better, let’s send out mass emails of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Let’s do a television series on all the shitty things we have done to other people. Our society’s gluttony of thriving on other people’s misery is disgusting.

It brings to mind a song I like to listen to. ‘Vicarious’ by Tool. I’ve copied some of the lyrics here. If you get a chance, find the rest of the lyrics online.

 

Eye on the TV
Cause tragedy thrills me,
Whatever flavor
It happens to be
Like:
“Killed by the husband”
“Drowned by the ocean”
“Shot by his own son”
“She used a poison
In his tea
And kissed him goodbye”
That’s my kind of story.
It’s no fun ’til someone dies

Don’t look at me like
I am a monster
Frown out your one face
But with the other
Stare like a junkie
Into the TV
Stare like a zombie
While the mother holds her child,
Watches him die,
Pleas to the sky crying,
“Why, oh why?!”

Cause I need to watch things die
From a distance
Vicariously, I
Live while the whole world dies
You all need it too
Don’t lie.

 

 

HA!

So, I discovered the little ‘blog stats’ thing shows what prompted people to look at my blog.  I knew before that it showed a graph telling me what days had the most hits. But I noticed today that when people do a search for certain things using key words and then visit my page, it tells me. In the last week, I have had 2 hits just from the word ‘hustler’. HA. I find that hilarious. Especially wondering what people might have really wanted to find. Instead, they come to blog where I am shamelessly promoting myself, bitching about the damn minorities in my neighborhood and blabbing about being a whiny bitch. Gee, wonder if they read a bit anyways. J

A dying breed? Not for long.

 

This morning I went to Wal-mart to buy some diapers and other necessities and the fifty-ish checkout woman noticed that I was buying some yeast packets. She looked at them, and then at my 20-something face, my short, purplish hair, and my 18-month-old son in the cart, and after a moment asked, ‘Do you bake bread?’ I replied yes.

With a face and voice filled with surprise, she said, “I don’t know anyone your age who makes bread.”

 

We talked for a few minutes as she scanned my groceries, and I told her that I also can and freeze vegetables from my garden. Since this surprised her as well, I took my opportunity.

“I quilt, crochet, and know how to follow a clothing pattern too,” I said.

She told me her son’s wives had no clue how to cook or clean and don’t want to take care of the children.

It made me sad – not just for her boys, but for mine.

I know there aren’t enough women like my sisters and me and I don’t want my boys to fall in love with a woman who can’t cook, doesn’t want to clean and wants to get a nanny for the children. While I won’t be teaching my boys how to sew a shirt unless they want to, I feel they should know how to cook, clean and do laundry – and that includes ironing. I want them to be able to leave my home with basic skills that too many people don’t know how to do. 

.

I am grateful to my mother, because without her I would not have the skills that I do. My two sisters and younger brother all learned how to cook, as well as sew. While my brother didn’t get too involved with making the clothing part, he did learn the basics and has been known to sew a button back on a shirt or two. I can thank my father for the basic carpentry and plumbing skills. I can change the oil in my car, fix a broken toilet and don’t shy away from the weed eater. I was blessed with parents who passed this knowledge on to me and my siblings. It makes me feel useful.

I could work.

Before having children, I was a well-paid medical professional and could return to a great career. But I enjoy being able to make my son a Halloween costume and have it turn out to his liking.

I get a fantastic sense of pride from being able to grow a garden, make clothing or blankets and fix basic problems around my house. I have a pantry with canned fruit and jellies and a freezer with vegetables from my garden. While it may sound old fashioned, it is actually cheaper in the long run and a whole lot healthier to do home canning. Vegetables from my garden taste different than those from the stores, even the organic ones. They have a bolder, livelier flavor and I am surprised at the washed out taste that store bought vegetables have.

Sewing on the other hand, is a dying art, and while it can cost more than buying outright from a store, the satisfaction taken from making something by hand is incomparable. There are people who throw things away because a button falls off or a seam is a little ripped. Some have difficulty finding clothes that fit their body shape. If they knew how, they could sew that button back on or alter the clothing to fit. Quilting is a time-consuming love affair that gives me a welcome sense of accomplishment and quilts make wonderful gifts.

 

Men are traditionally less likely to get involved with such things as canning and sewing, but some might be interested in learning how to coax a small-yard garden to life or in unleashing latent culinary skills. I know a man who can knit socks beautifully and suspect that there are others like him.

 

It isn’t too late to learn.

My brother’s wife, for example, didn’t know how to sew or replace a button, had no clue how to grow a garden. For her, cans were meant to be drained not filled. Her cooking skills were limited, but she wanted to learn.

Timid at first, she began to ask questions.

Within a year my brother had bought her a sewing machine and she has made quilts for her grandparents and clothing for her friends’ babies. I started teaching her the basics of home canning and freezing, and now she is as excited about the prospect of self sufficiency and making what she needs instead of buying it as I am.

While that may not be everyone’s dream, some of today’s women have never been given even the chance to learn these things.

I have a rare set of skills, yet I know there are others like me. I also know that many want to learn, but don’t know where to start.

A place where we can share the skills we have and learn something new.

A place where a dying heritage can flourish while we use what Mother Earth provides us in a ‘greener’ way.

So, I started Fruits of Tradition. It’s in the beginning stages – look for updates soon!

Morning Pages *warning – bitchy content…

So I have decided to do some sort of morning pages. Just to get me writing. Even if it might be meaningless nothings…

On my way to take Logan to school, I listened to a talk radio station. I have no idea which one it was, I just flipped until I found something interesting.

These guys were talking about immigration. hmmm. A very controversial subject – for some. For me, I think it’s a load of crap that people can just walk into my country, take jobs away from deserving Americans, not even bother to learn the language AND GET AWAY WITH IT. What the hell? Seriously. Because my husband works in construction, I hear a lot about this. 75% of the people he works with can’t speak English. How is he supposed to create a safe work environment when they can’t understand him. He has to spend time looking around the job for someone that can translate. Talk about a waste of time, just to tell someone that they are digging the hole in the wrong damn spot. Some might think that he should learn their language, so that he can communicate. Well, his views are the same as mine – this is America, and we speak English. If you want to live here, learn it.

I sound so bitchy. But I get so sick and tired of the minority shit. It’s bull crap. Maybe a few years ago it was a good idea. But now, I can’t find a single student loan. Why? Because I am a white, married female over the age of 25. Now, if I were a minority, oh, well then – ‘HERE take money from me, please!” There is so much available to minorities it makes me sick. What is worse – I am becoming the minority.  I can’t go to the grocery store and ask someone for help finding something. Why? Because they don’t speak English. I can’t even ask the very large family that is blocking the aisle to move. Why? Because they don’t speak English.

My neighborhood is just as bad. Block parties with circus music playing until late at night. I am afraid to drive my car down my street because their children dart out from behind a car just as I am driving by, totally oblivious to me. Driving around the neighborhood with tiny children in their laps.. What the heck? While I am guilty of moving the car from the driveway to the street while Logan steers, I don’t take a joyride around the subdivision.

I like to think I am not racist. I would just like to live in a country where foreign people aren’t allowed to come in and take over. I would like to see people that agree with me stand up and make a difference. It’s not something I can do on my own.  So, after this rant I feel like I need to find out of there is a local group that feels like I do, and join.

Another fun writing exercise…

Take this extremely short and dull bit of dialogue. Rewrite it, adding more. First, write it as a conversation between a teenage boy and an elderly woman. What you add may include longer speeches, more speeches, a setting, and descriptions of the people, how they say things, their gestures, and anything else you want to add. Now write it again, as if spoken by two people in love, of any age. Then try it again as…??? Whatever you wish…

Here is the bare-bones dialogue:
Hi.
Hi.
Where were you?
Nowhere.

 

The trees were starting to turn. Yellows, oranges and reds made themselves known throughout the green foliage. Squirrels and chipmunks scurried here and there gathering whatever they could to add to a secret horde only they knew about, frantically stockpiling for the long months ahead. The gray blue water of the lake was marred by ringlets and tiny waves caused by the ducks and geese milling about. They traveled by each person near the water’s edge, hoping for a morsel of something to be tossed out. The afternoon sun shone brightly on the brilliant greens of the mallards and the bright orange beaks of the Chinese geese. Black and gray dominated as the Canada geese outnumbered the others 3-1.

A slight breeze ruffled the woman’s gray hair as it swept by. She paid no attention; she was focused on something far off in the distance. A honk from a nearby goose brought her back from her mind wanderings.

Rummaging through her purse for a mint, she found one, undid the wrapper and popped it into her mouth hoping it might help with the coppery taste that seemed to linger.

She leaned over and tossed the wrapper in the nearby waste bin.

She straightened immediately when she saw him coming through the gate.

Leather jacket, plaid pants and a bright green mohawk made him easy to identify.

He shuffled over to her and knelt down to tie the frayed and already knotted laces on his black converse high tops.

Looking up at the woman he smiled. “Hi”

“Hi” She smiled back.

“Where were you?”

Her mouth opened and closed it once before she replied, “Nowhere.”

He knew better than to press her further. Even at 16 he understood the mind crippling powers of Alzheimer’s disease.

He sat down on the bench next to her and took the hand she offered and together they watched the birds gliding across the water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hi” he said as she crawled into bed with him, her long brown hair falling over a shoulder and tickled his bare chest. His eyes were still half closed, his body slack from a restful sleep.

“Hi” she kissed him and settled into him welcoming arms.

“Where have you been?”

“Nowhere” Her eyes twinkled with mischief and humor.

“For some reason, I think you where somewhere.” Just then he noticed her arm was still behind her back.  “What have you got there?”

“I’m not telling.” A grin spread across her lovely face. “But I bet you can wrestle me for it”

He laughed and tickled her side. “Ah, but I know your weakness.”

They rolled about in the bed laughing and tickling. He caught both of her wrists in his hands and pinned them above her head.

“Okay, Okay.” Breathlessly, she laughed at him, “That’s not fighting fair, you aren’t ticklish.”

“And this is fighting fair?” He questioned as he yanked the can of whipped cream from her hand.

 

 

 

 

Starched white collared shirt and navy blue slacks covered a slim, wiry build. Thinning hair combed over a bluish, white scalp covered little of the growing bald spot on the top of his head. Pens and pencils fought for space in the ever present clear plastic pocket protector.  Every evening before he left for the day, he would wipe down the keyboard and screen of his computer and straighten the already immaculate cubicle that he lived in for 8 hours every day, trying to stay just a few more minutes so he might catch a glimpse of her. She was his love, the one woman that could complete him. He could only look and dream, as she was his boss and way out of his league.

She walked by his desk every night on her way out, rode down the elevator with him down to the parking lot below the building. He secretly wished that there would be a mugger some night, and he would save her.

It had been a week since he had seen her, a tough decision on whether or not he should help his brother move and not see his love for a whole week.

That night, however, she didn’t come. He waited as long as he could before sullenly picking up his briefcase and coat and walking towards the elevator.

As the doors began to close, he saw her, running towards the door. Franticly he pushed the ‘door open’ button.

Breathless, she slowed her pace and stepped into the elevator.

“Hi” looking at him was hard for her. She just couldn’t pinpoint when she realized that he was attractive to her. His dorky smile was something she looked forward to every day, especially after those long boring board meetings. He was such a nice change from the rest of the rich sinfully handsome company executives she was surrounded by. They were so shallow, so stuck on them selves it made her sick.

“Hi” His voice was so meek, so quiet. She loved hearing it.  It was such a change from the cocksure dandies she wondered if that was what had made her fall in love with him.

He glanced over at her, taking in every detail. Her mauve suit fit her perfectly, clinging in just the right places. High heeled shoes made her at least four inches shorter than him and accented her perfect calves.

Inhaling her scent always had him on edge, but he breathed deeply anyways.

“Where were you?” she asked, hoping to make some kind of a conversation with him.

“Nowhere.” He replied. Not wanting her to know why he had taking time off, as moving his brother is not exactly a family emergency as he had told the shift manager. Knowing he would go home to another microwave dinner and a night of World of Warcraft, he decided against asking her what her plans were for fear of her asking what his might be.

An awkward silence filled the small elevator as they were too shy to say any more.

They both sighed in unison, still not able to go past a simple conversation, let alone express their love for one another.

a morning in the garden

My garden is flourishing. A beatiful mixture of plants, flowers and a few weeds.  I notice the peas need to be picked, as well as the broccoli. Beans, peppers and squash are blooming and growing tiny little vegetables.  Something is eating the potatoes. Whatever it is, I can’t see it. Every year it comes back and wreaks havock on my poor plants. Thank goodness it only get the potatoes.  I weed and pick off ripe peas and broccoli. My arms are already itching from mosquito bites and the straw. What a great idea Erin gave me. It has kept most of the weeds at bay and locked moisture into an otherwise dry garden bed. I need to lay down more paper, get more straw. Not something easily done with a 18 month old with some virus. The plant my husband picked is 4 feet tall.  It’s a tomato, a yellow plum. Such a strange thing it is. Yellow tomatos.. hmmm. I lost my cucumber plant to an errant hose my son thought should drape through the garden. I should be getting another one, but I forget every time I go to the store. Just like the bug spray. I actually have some tiki torches and the citronella to put in them. A lot of good they are doing in the garage. I have so mush I want to do, but it’s too damn hot out there already. At least I got some work done. Back inside I go.