30 Days of Photographs III

I'm not one for jumping on the bandwagon the first time it circles the block.  I'm also not one for disciplining myself to do something for 30 days in a row.  So it's taken me until the third round of Michael and Ziva's "30 Days of Photographs" to consent to even TRY to participate.  I'll be lucky if I complete the requirements for Day 1, let alone all 30 days.  But, in a moment of weakness, I said I'd play along.

Michael & Ziva say I have to take the pictures all by myself.
Rats... I was hoping to make the kidlets do all the work.

Here's my assignment for the first 30 days of October... post one photograph a day that you've taken since September 1 (and no cheating by pulling pictures off the internetz) related to each of the following themes:

1. Shiny
2. Fast
3. Above my head
4. Sour
5. Lotion
6. Vibration
7. Craftsman
8. Hair
9. Rules
10. Stalker
11. Heavy
12. Five
13. Calm
14. Secret
15. My favorite food
16. Bullshit
17. Coins
18. Qwerty
19. Steel
20. Nails
21. Broken
22. Neutral
23. Underwater
24. M & M's
25. Video
26. Heart
27. Kafkaesque
28. Autumn
29. The city
30. Blackout

Yeah, I'm thinking what you're thinking... good luck with that!  Qwerty?  Kafkaesque?  Seriously?

Damn you, Michael & Ziva!

The Day the Music Died: A Magpie Tale

Venus and The Sailor, 1925, by Salvador Dali

She couldn't remember the day the music died for her.

In her youth, she'd dance for hours, singing along with the songs of her generation.  Her movements were fluid, vigorous and soulful.  There were no standard "dance moves" attached to this life force... just the motion.  It was wild and impulsive.

Then a kind of discipline crept into her world.  Just a hint here and there at first. 

Small bits of routine began to expand into a daily grind.  A paycheck to be generated.  Housework to attend to.  A husband who somehow guided her thoughts away from the music.  

Before she knew what happened, she stopped hearing the music.  Her body forgot how to move.  Injuries took away her muscle memory.  A heaviness invaded her soul.

Then there was silence.  The deep, pervasive silence that signals a kind of death.  The silence that winter brings.  

Yet she wasn't ready to give up.  She did what she had to do.  She gave up the job, the housework, the husband.  

Now she awaits a new spring.  And still hopes for one last dance.

* * * * * * * * *

Tess over at Willow Manor has been providing inspiration for bloggers with her photo prompts on a site called Magpie Tales.  Be sure to check out the other fabulous writers participating in Magpie Tales this week.  You'll be glad you did!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch... (reprised)

I read a post this week from that wonderful humorist, Pearl, in which she recounts a story of trying to rescue a turtle with her son.  If you don't know Pearl, run, don't walk to read her work.  She's amazing!  Her story brought to mind one I wrote during the earlier days of this blog, so I thought I'd update it a bit and repost.  Hope you enjoy!

* * * * * * * * *

My doctor won't give me drugs unless I see my therapist regularly, so every once in awhile I go and we shoot the shit and laugh about my weird life and she tells me what's new with her and then I go away and fill my prescription.  It's a win-win situation for both of us.  Anyway, my therapist started telling me about taking her granddaughter berry picking and it reminded me of the first time I took Little Vlad berry picking.

When Vladimir was little, he wasn't a big fan of animals. He was always somewhat nervous around animals, especially large ones, because they are so unpredictable.* Trips to the zoo were highlighted by Vlad avoiding most of the caged animals and staring at the fish in the aquariums. Fish are generally pretty innocuous because they don't charge at you or anything, like man eating tigers or rhinoceroses do. And you can forget about pony rides... that just wasn't happening. (In fact, Vlad was so disenchanted with animals that he took a stuffed Thomas the Tank Engine to bed every night instead of the typical teddy bear.)

But getting back to the berry picking...

We had gone strawberry picking with some of our best friends when Vlad was three. It was a beautiful day and we were having great fun watching Vlad and his little friend Maggie eating berries as they moved along the path. They just looked so gosh darned cute with strawberry juice dripping down their chins!

We finally got several baskets filled and took them up to the farm wagon to pay for our bountiful harvest. Sitting on the wagon was a cardboard berry basket with a tiny bird inside. Apparently the owners of the field had found the bird abandoned under one of the strawberry plants. And believe it or not, Little Vladimir was fascinated by the wee bird. He just kept staring at it. I was amazed and very heartened by his interest in a real live animal... finally! Could my child actually be forming a relationship with a living creature? I was even more excited when he said....

"I want to take that bird home!"

Oh, be still my heart! My child likes an animal! I was ready to go buy a bird cage and start making up names for the little critter. The lady told us the story of how she found the baby bird and how they were hoping they could feed him and nurse him back to health until he could make it on his own. Vlad didn't make eye contact with the nice farmer lady as she spoke, but continued to just stand there and just stare at the bird. He even asked if he could climb up on the wagon to get a better look at it.

It was so sweet I almost cried. Then, as his eyes remained glued to the bird, he said...

"I want to take that bird home and eat it for dinner!"

Where did I go wrong?

And just in case you were wondering.... We did not have fowl for dinner that night.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

*Vlad was 9 before we got our first pet... Hickory the Wonder Dog. Vlad had finally begun to show an interest in animals and I figured a dog was a better bet than the slug he brought home and begged me to keep.

Am I Better Off Today?

This past week, I've been hearing the Republican Party ask me, "Are you better off today than you were four years ago when Obama was elected?"

My reply, "Absolutely not!"

In the past four years:

I've learned what it's like to be unemployed, underemployed, live paycheck to paycheck, and use up all my "safety net" savings because of breaking my leg and being out of work for five months.  For the first time in my life, I wake up with anxiety attacks because I'm not sure I'll be able to pay my bills.

I've witnessed my child graduate summa cum laude from college and not be able to find a job that pays a living wage.  

I've witnessed my unemployed, uninsured brother rack up over half a million dollars in medical expenses that he'll never be able to pay.  The diagnosis:  sepsis from rotting teeth.  Not something you'd expect in a developed country like the United States in this day and age.   After 30 days in intensive care on two ventilators, the underlying cause of his illness was not addressed, so the whole sequence can be triggered again any time.  When he developed a blood clot in his lung after they sent him home, his caseworker told him his only recourse was to call 911... it was the only way he could receive treatment.

Something is wrong here.  

But do I think it's a failure of the Obama administration?  Hell no!  I admire what Obama has been trying to accomplish over the past four years:

http://obamaachievements.org/list

Universal health care, education, women's issues, economic recovery... Obama's headed in a direction that I want to go.  Obama took what was an untenable situation and has chipped away at it.  Slowly, but surely, he is getting things back on track after a disastrous eight Bush years which set the stage for where we are now.  Has his track record always always perfect?  No, but his ideas are a lot closer to getting us to where we need to be than anything the Republicans are offering.  

Romney's constituency is the upper 1%.  Obama's constituency is the other 99%, which includes me.  

The choice for me is simple.  I still have to believe in hope.

"Travels with Henry" or "No, I'm Not Really an Ax Murderess"

The great thing about having a dog is that people cut you a lot of slack. Especially when the pup is too cute for their own good. Take for example, my recent trip to Canada. I was off to meet up with that intrepid blogger, nonamedufus.  

Rumor has it that this is what Dufus looks like in real life.

(At least that's what his brother would have you believe.)

You know what they say about encountering people you meet online... they always turn out to be ax murderers. Which means they're convinced, in turn, that you are also an ax murderess.

So, in order to perpetuate that stereotype, I never leave home without my trusty ax. It helped me survive my first close encounter with another blogger, Unfinished Person, earlier this summer. It was touch and go for a moment or two, but we called a truce before things got ugly...

In truth, Unfinished will never make it big as an ax murderer,
since he looks too much like a happy pirate.

Since we parted ways without finishing each other off, Still Unfinished (as he is also known) vouched for me with Dufus. That, plus the fact that I have a cute dog and the fact that Dufus had back-up in the guise of his lovely mate, Maryse, garnered me an invite to Chez Dufus. So, off we went... Henry, myself, a peace offering of a couple bottles of wine, and my trusty ax under the passenger seat of the car.  

Now, it's all well and good when you're off to meet American bloggers. However, a meeting with Dufus is somewhat more complicated since he happens to be Canadian. Which means you also need travel documents beyond the mapquest directions to Dufus's house. Passport and Henry's rabies certificate in hand, I reached the border.  

Canadian Customs Officer (examining travel documents which have been surrendered):  "What's the purpose of your visit to Canada, today?"  

Boom Boom:  "To have dinner with friends in Ottawa." (*Whom I've never met before and who are probably thinking I'm an ax murderess*) 

Canadian Customs Officer:  "Are you carrying any weapons with you?"

Boom Boom:  (*What? You mean like the ax I have under the passenger seat?*) "No." 

Canadian Customs Officer:  "Are you taking anything with you that you intend to leave in Canada?"

Boom Boom:  "No."  (*Except for the wine.*)

Canadian Customs Officer:  "Are you carrying any alcohol, tobacco or firearms?"

Boom Boom:  "No."  (*Lying through my teeth!*)

Henry:  "Woof!"

Canadian Customs Officer (smiling):  "Say, that's the cutest dog I've seen in a long time!"

Boom Boom: "Yes, too cute for his own good!"

Canadian Customs Officer (still smiling as he hands my travel documents back to me):  "Have a good day, eh?"

Boom Boom (as she drives away from the checkpoint):  "Good dog!  You're getting an extra treat tonight!"

And so it was that I was allowed to enter Canada and met Dufus and Maryse. As for how I knew Dufus wasn't an ax murderer? It was when I asked how to pronounce his wife's name. He replied, "Mahreeez...," pretending to tease her for being Quebecois. But I could tell, he really thinks she's magical... nobody can be an ax murderer who says his wife's name like that! Dufus has way too much love in his heart! That was also when Henry started giving him doggy kisses... and Henry's a good judge of character.

The lovely Maryse. whose birthday also happens to be today!

    Boom Boom, Henry and Dufus.               

"Now... who to visit next?,"  she asks herself as she puts a fine edge back on her ax.  

Under Windsor Bridge: A Magpie Tale dedicated to Indigo Roth

Under Windsor Bridge, 1912, by Adolphe Valette

When she originally planned her birthday party at the Euthanasia Curry House, it had seemed a grand and glorious idea. Now she wasn't so sure.  Granted, the things she had heard about it and its exotic clientele had given her pause, but she was looking for a change and change she would have.  Her life had become so dull of late and she wanted to feel alive again. The fact that her birthday coincided with the Annual Evil Genius Scavenger Hunt only made the prospect of a very British birthday even more enticing.

So, the invitations had been sent, the cake ordered and the birthday frock taken out of storage.  The waiting was over and the time had come to meet her fate.

Would any of her guests actually show up?  Would there be gifts beyond what was gathered during the scavenger hunt?  Would her 60th birthday be her last?

The fog enveloped her as she took a deep breath and approached the figure in the bowler hat.  There was the faintest of rumblings and the ground began to shake beneath her.

With a flash of light, she was transported from Windsor Bridge to that mysterious and most elusive of villages, Slobbering-Under-the-Bed.

Could it be?  Was that...?

"Welcome, Madame," said Elliot Nesh.  "The rest of your party has already arrived.  Let the games begin..."

She thought to herself, "I am in my element.  This is what I was born for."  And with that, she stepped toward the scent of curry wafting out of the door.

* * * * * * * *

Tess over at Life at Willow Manor  has been providing inspiration for bloggers with her photo prompts on a site called Magpie Tales.  When I saw this week's prompt, it reminded me of another image by that mastermind, Indigo Roth.  If you haven't yet met Indigo, please  go introduce yourself... you'll be glad you did!

Rocking the Danger Cart

Back when he was in high school, Vlad was a fan of Aqua Teen Hunger Force.  I, of course, only watched it with him in order to connect to him on a deep personal level, parent to teenage child. (Not because I actually thought the antics of these three wayward anthropomorphic fast food snacks were hilariously irreverent.)

Okay, true confessions time... I was actually a fan of little Meatwad.  How can you not like a character with such a silly name.  Don't mock... I need a few guilty pleasures!

The Aqua Teens always traveled via Danger Cart:

Picture courtesy of AdultSwim

Little did I know at the time that I'd one day be rocking the Danger Cart, myself.  Yes, my daily routine at The Home For Wayward Wee Ones includes an outing in a wagon that I lovingly refer to as the Danger Cart.  (Go ahead... try to explain that reference to your co-workers.  No wonder they all think I'm weird.)

But, I ask you... wouldn't you make the same connection?

(Faces have been pixilated to protect the innocent.)

Obviously, I make them do all the hard work because I'm thoughtful like that.  Besides, everybody needs their own Meatwad to rock the Danger Cart.

Yes, I lead a very exciting life these days.  *sigh*

Good Dog: A Magpie Tale

Looks can be deceptive.

Walking down the wooded path, she knew she was late.  The shadows grew longer, then disappeared altogether as the sun sank behind the hills.  Twilight was approaching rapidly.

She loved finding a quiet spot in the woods to sit and read.  Her mother had cautioned her against staying out too long but she had become lost in her story and now she was alone, in the dark.  While the nearly full moon provided eerier shadows, it also provided just enough light for her to find her way.  Even so, each time the wind rustled the leaves or a twig snapped beneath her feet she startled, expecting some horrible creature to lurch out at her.

Ahead of her, the man in the ominous black hoodie walked down the darkened path with his black dog.  Not the hero in her book by any means.  She froze, not knowing whether to turn back or to keep walking, whether to look down or to meet the stranger's gaze head on.

The dog reached her first, tongue lolling and tail wagging.  To still her thundering heartbeat she stopped and put her hand out for the dog to sniff.  He graced her hand with a lick of hello and then sat before her, waiting.  The black dog's master approached cautiously, as though he didn't want to disturb her moment with his dog.  He stopped a respectful distance away.

"It's getting late... be careful out there," he said in a gentle voice.  With that he moved on, keeping a wide berth.  After one more caress with his tongue, the dog followed.

Something about the man's voice warmed her and gave her confidence.  She sensed there was something heroic about him after all.  She turned as they passed and gave a smile of recognition and of good-bye.  Then, without a word, she hurried on toward the light in the window where her mother was waiting.

* * * * * * * *

Tess over at Life at Willow Manor  has been providing inspiration for bloggers with her photo prompts on a site called Magpie Tales.  Be sure to check out the other fabulous writers participating in Magpie Tales this week.  You'll be glad you did!

Knocked Off My Ass

I know, I know... you're thinking I meant to write "Knocked On My Ass",  especially considering my usual ass mishaps, (both literally and figuratively.)  But the truth is, I have been knocked off my ass on my ass.  It's been awhile, but I still remember it like it was yesterday.

It all began in a small, country home somewhere in the midwest...

My father was the pastor of the First Moravian Brethren Church of Ely, Iowa.  Well, it was actually a Presbyterian church but that was the church's original name.  And that, in itself, explains a lot about where I may have taken a wrong turn or two in my life.  Preachers' kids... geesh!  (Right up there with psychologists' kids.)

But I digress... My dad made next to nothing to minister to his flock, but to help compensate him people would always be bringing around things like chicken dinners and eggs and shit... literally.  We'd get a free load of manure each spring to fertilize the garden.  And of course, my father detested both chicken and eggs but was always too polite to mention it.  They also tended to give the poor minister's children their cast-off pets.  We were the equivalent of the humane society in those days.

At one point, we had a dog, 18 cats, a guinea pig and a donkey.

Figures... most kids grow up asking for a pony for Christmas... all we got was a freakin' donkey.

My parents decided we should call the donkey "Harry", short for Harry S. Truman.  It was the 50's after all and my parents were (gasp) Republicans.  At first it was all very exciting.  Silly children that we were, we thought we could ride him.  Harry, on the other hand, thought that was a stupid idea.

That didn't stop us, though, from chasing him down and trying to jump on his back, grab onto his bristly mane and take him for a little spin around the yard.  Harry lived in the lower back yard, down by the tree lined creek, (or "crick" as we country folk called it.)  Most often, Harry would stand there refusing to budge.  If you were lucky, Harry would move at a slow walk.  Not all that exciting, but hey... when you're 7 years old and it's as close to a horse as you're going to get, you take your shot.

One day, the little girl from up the road came over to play and we decided it was time to go for a ride.  Being the polite girl I was, I let her ride in front and I jumped up behind her onto Harry's behind.  It was the one time in his life that Harry decided to take it up a notch and actually started to speed up to a lope.  The crafty animal had a sinister plan... he took off for the tree-lined crick.  We were thrilled!

Unfortunately, my so-called friend neglected to remember that all-important word... DUCK!  As we came to the trees, she suddenly leaned down over Harry's neck and I was hit smack in the chest by a low-growing branch.  Whop!  Next thing I knew I was flat on my back on the ground, gasping for air.

Yes, Harry got the drop on me.  I had been knocked off my ass on my ass.

And so it goes... the beginning of a lifetime of mishaps.    *sigh*

I Should Have Paid More

I'm getting a new roof this week.  I knew it was time when I started finding shingles in my front yard.  Then my neighbors began stopping by to give me recommendations for roofers, since they were finding my shingles in their front yards every time there was the slightest breeze.  (Yes, I'm the poor white trash of the neighborhood.)

Hopefully, other than a couple of days of annoying noise and dust, it will be an uneventful event... unlike the last time I got a new roof.  Back then I got several estimates and chose the least expensive option from the least sleazy looking guy.  No problem.  Roof fixed.

But then a couple of weeks later, I was sitting in the living room reading whilst an infant Vlad was sleeping in his crib upstairs.  Suddenly, there was what sounded like a huge explosion and my heating ducts instantly released black dust into the air.

My first thought was, "Holy Mother of God, the roof fell in on Vlad!"  Choking from the dust as I raced up the stairs, my second thought was, "I should have paid more for the roof!"

I grabbed Vlad and ran outside where debris was floating down from the sky.  I looked up... and the roof was still intact.  "What the hell?"

Here's what had happened:

(skip to about 1:35 to see video footage)

Yes, some asshole blew himself up just 6 houses away on the street next to mine... a suicide because he was mad at his girlfriend.  WTF?!  Seriously?  Blowing yourself up?  Seems to me like there are a lot of ways that would be much easier and not take out half the neighborhood.

It's the first time I've ever seen something that was literally blown to smithereens.  In the end, they also had to demolish the houses on either side of the explosion site.

As for infant Vlad... he slept through the entire thing!

So this time I did NOT go for the cheapest estimate.  I don't want to tempt fate and endanger the neighborhood.