Father's Day Weekend

Hallmark Holidays… I don’t love ‘em. I never have. They leave me with an unsettled feeling of distress around these trite and precious holidays that has carried on throughout my life. As a child, it started with Valentines Day. Valentine’s Day makes children feel insecure about which of their friends likes them enough to send a valentine, or more devastatingly, which ones dislike them enough to send the ‘message of omission’ from their valentine distribution list. In adulthood, Hallmark fosters insecurities in fully grown adults who aren’t actively in a relationship on Valentine’s Day. Send a valentine to your parents or someone else you love…they suggest. Fuck off! Don’t tell me how and when to love! I realize that I’m a scrooge about these holidays, but what can I do? They vex me.

So in the holiday chute this weekend is Father’s Day. I’ve got it easy. My father has been dead for almost as many years of my life that he was alive. Miss him… you betcha. He was fucked up and totally flawed, but a really good dad. I’m not, and never have been the sort who turns a dead loved one into Saint Dad, Saint Mom, or Saint Anyone.

That said, my dad was the kind of father who taught me to change the oil in a car while we listened to Dodgers games on the radio. He taught me to drive and speed-shift a standard transmission and made sure that I didn’t get behind the wheel of an automatic until I was well into my twenties. He cared enough about the people my sister and I would grow up to be to not allow a television in the house. He made sure that we knew how to conduct ourselves at the card table and could cut a ball in at the pool table and considered these social skills that everyone should have. He didn’t give a shit about golf and neither do I. Our house was brimming with musical and literary resources that ensured that no matter what crazy adolescent whim had grabbed our attention, we could speak intelligently among respectable folks. He didn’t baby us and made sure that no one around us did. When he took us out for family portraits, nothing got done until we understood the concept of depth of field and the basic functioning of a camera. We sat down to dinner every night and stayed put until the salad was eaten, anything else served with it could be a leftover, but we all stayed until the salad was done.

He also drank too much, until he stopped, smoked cigarettes and ‘the dope’ every day of his life. Well, he stopped with the cigarettes when he got really sick. He also loved the ladies and they generally found him irresistible. Dad had some game with the ladies and being in a relationship in no way got in the way of that. It was the undoing of all of his relationships with good women. He was tall, handsome and strong and had some of the best legs that I’ve ever seen on anyone. He was a robust figure of a man and any of my dates were rightly intimidated as hell of him.

It’s hard to imagine that something as small and insignificant as a pea-sized tumor could kill such a force of life. But that’s exactly what it did.

There were 11 months, two brain surgeries, full body muscular atrophy, vocal cord paralysis, a feeding tube and a television entering the house from the time he was diagnosed to the day he failed to wake and everyone cried for a really long time. The last thing he asked me to do for him was to cut his finger and toenails because his coordination no longer allowed him to. Which I did and it was then as I knelt before him trimming his toenails that my heart knew it was over. My head wasn’t quite as wise. I still harbored the “positive thinking” mentality that drives the “denial” stage. It’s hard to face the death of your first hero with open acceptance.

As death goes, it was a successful death. Dying people know when the jig is up. And if you’re lucky they’ll tell you in subtle ways as they make sure their “house is clean” before they go. The day after he died he had an appointment with a lawyer to finalize his will. He had written one out longhand and signed it with a witness, which helped matters, but by the eyes of the law, his death was treated more or less, intestate. It was a TREMENDOUS pain in the ass. Especially since dad’s way of sticking it to the man was to not file income tax returns for 10 years. Let me tell you. In the end, the IRS gets their money. Don’t think for a second that they are forgiving or sympathetic to personal tragedy. They couldn’t give a shit.

But as I was saying… a successful death. The day he died, my sister, step mother and I were all able to look at each other and say, “no regrets” and mean it. We were there for him, and with him as he became ill and deteriorated and finally died. Everyone who mattered had the opportunity to make peace and set up the pieces so that it was safe for him to leave us. Which he did with grace. It was an honor to participate.

So Father’s Day…

I don’t smoke. I gave it up at 26 after being a smoker for 12 years. It was easy. Yes, I feel lucky because I know how hard people struggle with this. I view smoking in men as a deal breaker. To me, it is a weakness and the hallmark of a sucker in this day and age when we know that its repercussions are. Yet still, occasionally I get close to the personal space of a man who smokes, and sometimes, it smells divine. Not the dank stale smell of cheap cigarettes, but a more subtle olfactory hint of a bad habit. Sometimes the bad habits have a lot of charm and when we least expect it, they are a reminder to be flexible. If you do smoke, don’t kid yourself, it’ll fuck you up. But do what you must.

Whether you have a family or not, just write up the damned will. It’ll save your loved ones a load of distress in the bitter end. And if you don’t have loved ones, get the hell away from your computer RIGHT NOW and go love someone. And as ‘spam email’ as it sounds, settle conflicts in your relationships. Live clean with the people you love and make sure they know you love them.

I’ve probably not mentioned here before that I am a hospice volunteer. I am able to give back in an area that most people find unbearable but I am at ease with. I’m lucky. Although I prefer not to lose the people I love and it breaks my heart to pieces, I’m really good at it. And when you are good at something difficult, it just makes sense to help others with it.

For Father’s Day, the above is my message to all y’all.

Vacation… It’s a Rollercoaster

At the end of this week, I’m off to the Golden State to visit a girlfriend who will make me drink buckets of booze and try to get me into all manner of alcohol-induced trouble. While I’m there, we are also going to spend a couple of days camping at Yosemite. Yay!

'Pretty' doesn't quite do it justice.

I have a serious and passionate affection for the Sierra Nevada. Real live mountains. They are very much unlike these tree-blanketed, northeast foothills parading around as mountains. I’m looking forward to breathing thin, high elevation air among gigantic steep-sloped, exposed rock-faced mountains. *sigh* Mountains might be what I miss most about the west.

The trip promises to be a good time, but as y’all may recall, I had an incident with my knee last month wherein the so-called mountains of Vermont took a retaliatory swing at me after I drilled several wells in them. I’ve just returned from a visit to the orthopedic surgeon. He thinks that I have a torn ACL and has ordered an MRI. Ripping! This puts a damper on my big ideas of hiking in Yosemite. Fuck! It looks like I may be the girl who sits in a hammock at the edge of the river reading smut while German and Japanese tourists waste their trip taking pictures of what they should be taking in. Why do people spend so much time taking pictures of nature instead of getting up close and personal with it? It’s absurd, I tell you.

In other news, I have a huge crush on a fella. The whole situation has left me completely off balance. I have no idea what he thinks of me. He seems to like kissing me and he appreciates my sarcastic nature. Beyond that, I’ve no clue how interested he may be in me. I’ve never had a sense for assessing what a guy thinks of me and age isn’t changing that one bit. The day after I come back from California, he’s traveling to another country for a month. Perhaps I should just calm the hell down and deal with my crush in July when he returns. Of course, that is totally contrary to the obsessive nature of a crush, so fat chance!

I hope you like pain!

Confession: Seeing people make asses of themselves resulting in them getting hurt is one of the funniest things to me. I can watch this over and over agin.

Does that make me a bad person?

Your New Best Friend, The Black Widow

It seems that being bitten by a black widow isn’t all bad. That is, there’s an upside to it. Sure, it is commonly fatal to children and the elderly, but in healthy adults, men in particular, it can prove to be a good thing.

In Chile, they call men who are particularly virile “spider-bitten”. Some clever scientists decided to pursue the facts behind the folklore. What they found was that a certain variety of black widow native to southern Chilean wheat fields may lead to superhuman virility. In strong young farmers the bite leads to “erections that can last for days and involve involuntary ejaculations.”

Hello lover!


Antonio de la Jarra reports for Reuters:

“Scientists have discovered a potentially marketable contraceptive in the venom of Chile's black widow spider, whose bite is fatal to many but can also cause prolonged, painful and involuntary erections in men.

“The venom of the Latrodectus mactans, a variety of black widow found only in the south of Chile, has spermicidal properties not found in black widows in other regions of the world, Chilean Dr Fernando Romero said.”

Hmmm…. What an incredible opportunity… a non-stop boner and no one gets knocked up... If only they can harness these properties…

Which is exactly what they are up to!

They are in the process of creating and patenting spermicidal gels, condom lubricants and whatnot that utilize the contraceptive and erectile dysfunction abating properties of the spider venom and they are going to be rich rich rich!

In the meantime, I’ve got a hot date tonight and I’m off to the rare and exotic pet store to pick up a certain black widow.

Dirty Nun

Apparently scandalous catholic clergy behavior is not exclusively pedophilic in nature.

Who says that being a nun means: Don't want nun, ain't never had nun, ain't gonna get nun.

Creepy Stalkers

I’ve never been stalked. At least, if I have been stalked, it’s been by someone who did so in a fashion that is subtle enough that I didn’t notice it. I’ve also never stalked anyone. I’ve googled people, and I assume that most people do that. As an adolescent, I would do the “drive by” maneuver to at the houses boys who I had crushes on and put myself in their paths but nothing that involved delusions that they might appreciate it or creating a vivid fantasy of my life with them. I may be too apathetic for that sort of thing. I’ve known people who were victims of stalkers and it really isn’t very funny or cute at all.

On a cross country flight, I watched a VH-1 show called Decades Live where they showcased Elvis Costello with Billie Joe Armstrong, Death Cab for Cutie and Fiona Apple honoring Big E and his influence on modern music. I’m a fan of Elvis Costello and have been since the end of the 1970’s. Not enough to stalk, but I think he’s real swell, like his writing style, his music, his geeky glasses, the whole shebang. One of the songs performed in this tribute was a duet with Elvis and Fiona Apple where she sang “I Want You” in a very creepy and alluring way. If I was to be stalked, I’d pick to be stalked by Fiona Apple.

I'm a Leaping Deer... Or Not.

Over the weekend, I got to hike up onto the top of this rock, also known as Deer's Leap Overlook, in the lovely hills of Vermont. I've got a thing for climbing onto rocks and watching the world from on high. A good time was had by all. And "all" consisted of me and my ever-lovin'-Kristie, who is a wing-nut from the word go, but always a good time to run amok in nature with. So, half way down the mountain, I managed to slide off a rock that I thought my foot was squarely planted on. And then there were three distinct echoing pops. And next thing I knew I was on my tuckus writhing and wincing in pain with alternately escaping through my clenched teeth, "Owie owie owie" and "fuckety fuck fuck fuck". Kristie, in a feat of great heroics, managed to get me to my feet and saw me the rest of the way down the mountain and then she kept me drunk for the rest of the weekend as I elevated and iced my sprained knee. None too pleased about how much my body is betraying me. At least I got a nice hike out of the deal before the wheels came off the bus.

Get Nekkid For Art

Claudio Cruz / AP

On Sunday, thousands of Mexicans stripped to thier skin and were part of an art installation conducted by Spencer Tunick. Apparently, there is a movement to cast away the image of Mexicans being prudish. Have they not been to Tijuana?

Another Bullet Dodged

My last post got me thinking about another tall tale of dodging bullets.

Becoming a geologist requires a lot of quality time camping. If you are lucky and you live in an arid region, you get to do this in the desert. Oddly enough, an academic discipline that requires going into nature, ya-hooing around in four wheel drive vehicles, hiking to some of the most beautiful places the mind can imagine, and sitting around a fire, drinking and telling lies can prove to be seductive. I totally fell for it being the easily seduced kind of lass and all.

If you’ve ever had the opportunity to go to Death Valley, you’ll know that it’s an amazing place. It’s admittedly challenging to stay for long in the searing heat of summer, but in the springtime, when the desert blooms… Amazing! There is really nothing like it.

On one of my many trips to the desert Mecca of Death Valley, I was camping with scads of people and a group of us built a fire and were drinking beer around said fire as is the tradition when sleeping under the stars in the desert. As the evening grew long, nature inevitably called. So into the desert I wandered to heed the call. I found a respectable shrub of chaparral and was in the process of squatting before said chaparral when from behind me, I heard the ominous rattling of a rattlesnake. This, for the record, did not scare the piss out of me. It scarred the piss right back from whence it came. So there I was duck walking away from my shrub grappling at my jeans to keep them from causing me to pitch onto my face and praying to anything that is holy that a) the rattlesnake wasn't a Mojave green, b) that it wasn't a baby, and c) that it didn't take that opportunity to pierce my butt.

All of which begs the question: Should my butt have been pierced by a rattlesnake, which of my friends would be drunk enough yet sober enough to suck the venom out of my rump? This can only be answered with another tall tale from the desert.

The previous autumn, I was in the Eastern Sierra Nevada, once again camping with scads of people and... you guessed it... drinking enthusiastically. My best friend, M, has a bad habit of getting drunk and forgetting that booze and pot don't mix. I've told her about this time and time again, but the girl won't listen and learns the lesson badly over and over again. This phenomenon has never really been a problem for me as I've been a pot-free-zone for most of my life. But it has given me the opportunity to point and laugh self-righteously. Anyhow, over the course of the evening, I lost track of dear M for a bit and when she showed up again, she was draped on Felix's shoulder. He promptly passed her off to me stating that he had to whiz (the slippery little bastard). As he walked away, I asked if he let her smoke pot and then damned him after he confirmed it. So poor M was in a state to be reckoned with and I said, "M, darlin', you have to execute the preemptive strike. It’s time to puke."

She slurred out, "I can't do that..."

"Of course you can!" said I.

"No, I can't." said she.

"You just shove your fingers down your throat until all lets fly."

"I can’t do that…" she insisted.

"M, come here. Hold back your hair, open your mouth and bend over."

To my surprise, she did. And my fingers went straight down her gullet and I tickled her tonsils until the heave ho was executed and she barfed her fool brains out. That's friendship. And you're darned skippy that she would suck the venom out of my ass!

For the record, the current first aid care standard for snake bites follows:
1) Call the Poison Control Center or EMS.
2) Do not attempt to suck the venom out of the victim.
3) Keep the affected limb below heart level.
4) Calm and reassure victim.

It’s not very proactive.

Happy Cinco De Mayo, Y'all

On this day, we take time to remember that a depleted ramshackle army of 4000 Mexicans can whip the ever loving shit out of the proud French army (8000 strong and well equiped, mind you). Viva la Raza, Y'all!