Wacky for Beef

One of my co-workers plays bagpipes in a pipe band. Over the weekend, there was a huge highland festival in New Hampshire. That peach of a piper thought of me when he saw this guy, and took a picture for me.

He managed to throw the hammer over the fence.

Big. Strong. Heroic. Hubba hubba.

My coworkers have a pretty good idea of what I like to look at in men. It must be said, though, that I rarely if ever have been with a guy like this. That's not to say that I wouldn't. End of disclaimer.

Long ago I planned to attend that highland festival, but I have a friend who was dancing at a fundraiser for women's charities in Rhode Island, so I did that instead. I brought me a hot date because it's fun to watch boys with a 'hall pass' to check out bobbies and booties, especially when they are shakalaka-shakin'! More to come on that.

I'm inspired. My knee is feeling better and I'm spoilin' to shake my groove thang.

From My Inbox

It started out innocently enough. I began to think at parties now and then -- just to loosen up.

Inevitably, though, one thought led to another, and soon I was more than just a social thinker. I began to think alone -- "to relax," I told myself -- but I knew it wasn't true. Thinking became more and more important to me, and finally I was thinking all the time.

That was when things began to sour at home. One evening I turned off the TV and asked my wife about the meaning of life. She spent that night at her mother's.

I began to think on the job. I knew that thinking and employment don't mix, but I couldn't help myself. I began to avoid friends at lunchtime so I could read Thoreau, Muir, Confucius and Kafka. I would return to the office dizzied and confused, asking, "What is it exactly we are doing here?"

One day the boss called me in. He said, "Listen, I like you, and it hurts me to say this, but your thinking has become a real problem. If you don't stop thinking on the job, you'll have to find another job."

This gave me a lot to think about. I came home early after my conversation with the boss. "Honey," I confessed, "I've been thinking..."

"I know you've been thinking," she said, "and I want a divorce!"

"But Honey, surely it's not that serious."

"It is serious," she said, lower lip aquiver. "You think as much as college professors and college professors don't make any money, so if you keep on thinking, we won't have any money!"

"That's a faulty syllogism," I said impatiently.

She exploded in tears of rage and frustration, but I was in no mood to deal with the emotional drama. "I'm going to the library," I snarled as I stomped out the door.

I headed for the library, in the mood for some Nietzsche. I roared into the parking lot with NPR on the radio and ran up to the big glass doors. They didn't open. The library was closed.

To this day, I believe that a Higher Power was looking out for me that night. Leaning on the unfeeling glass, whimpering for Zarathustra, a poster caught my eye, "Friend, is heavy thinking ruining your life?" it asked.

You probably recognize that line. It comes from the standard Thinkers Anonymous poster.

This is why I am what I am today: a recovering thinker.

I never miss a TA meeting. At each meeting we watch a non-educational video; last week it was "Porky's." Then we share experiences about how we avoided thinking since the last meeting. I still have my job, and things are a lot better at home. Life just seemed easier, somehow, as soon as I stopped thinking. I think the road to recovery is nearly complete for me.

Today I took the final step...I joined the Republican Party.

Heh... It made me laugh.

Prescriptive Nuisances

I will never understand people who think Oxycodone is fun. You can have it... all of it. I'm anxiously awaiting coming down from this pain management nightmare. I'd rather have the pain, thankyouverymuch.

In other news: Surgery went well. In addition to my torn medial meniscus, the good doctor discovered torn cartilage and arthritis (whatever that means... probably that I'm old) while he was poking around inside my knee.

Nodding off now.

Drinking Hijinks on a School Night

I'm on the steering committee for a ladys organization. Last night we had a meeting at a hotel in the town where I live. After the business was completed, we adjourned to the lounge for a drink (which turned into several... never underestimate the thirst of dignified professional ladies). Oh, how the hijinks ensued. We were hit upon by really cute dumb guys (Billy and Curt), we lied about our names (I was Esmeralda... my usual bar name, also the name of my gas-guzzling SUV), and we had celebrity sightings... though I had no recognition of any of them.

At Gillette Stadium tonight, a clash of titans will ensue. There will be a Futbol match between Mexico (VIVA LA RAZA!!!) and Brazil (DOUCHE BAGS!!!). Admittedly, I don't follow the sport outside of the World Cup, but I've got to pitch good energy toward the team representing the country that produced my ancestors and also produces the best culinary mastery on the planet. Anyhow, the Brazil team is staying at the hotel where we were drinking too much wine and telling lies to unsuspecting Lotharios. They arrived while we were sitting in the lounge and a sea of people in green and yellow shirts surged around them as they came through the door. I was told that one of the best players in the world was right there. I looked at him and he looked like the kind of guy who sits to poop, stands to pee, and pukes when too much booze gets past his gullet. I wasn't impressed. Then I was introduced to some guy whose name escapes me (probably because I wasn't impressed by him either) and was told that he is the former general manager of the Boston Red Sox... whatever that means. It was a fair amount of excitement to be around people who are recognized and respected for whatever skills they have... or don't have.

After all the excitement, I managed to get to sleep and woke in the middle of the night having a nightmare about nearly missing my appointment for surgery, and forgetting that I'm not to eat anything for 12 hours prior to surgery, and forgetting to take out my belly button ring prior to surgery. As I started connecting thoughts, for a fleeting moment, I thought the surgery was today. Phwew!! I've got a whole extra day to get my ducks in a row and make sure that in this case, dreams don't come true.

DRUNK

In a mere 36 hours... I'll be having knee surgery. I predict mighty prescriptives and amusing grammar errors...

All Right, All Right, Already! Part 2

I'm back.

I've been back for a couple of weeks but my muses haven't been at my side, so getting back into the swing of writing has been slow going.

Visiting the homeland... it appears to be a challenge on many levels. There is no denying the beauty of the place and it's amazing how much has changed since I left. Likewise, it's amazing how much stays exactly the same. I've just wrestled one of my more unsettling demons to the ground so I'll make this short and show you pictures from Fiesta. Mostly, I just gave my camera to my 7 year old niece and had her do the heavy lifting for the photo-documentation of the trip. The kid has a good eye.

Here are some of the performers.


They have boys in the game as well…

This boy may look a little fruity, but he isn’t going to have any trouble getting laid. He might have half of the football team trying to kick his ass because he’s a dancer boy, but every single girl he pursues will gladly cast aside her chonies* and have a piece of him.

And, most importantly, the Grand Master of the Parade. Ok not really, but if I was running the zoo, he would be. The parade really looks more like this:


One of my favorite parts of Fiesta is the mariachi culture.

Ok, a leather mariachi suit… a) How very heavy Mexi-metal!, b) I so want a leather mariachi suit of my own… and I’m not the type to wear leather.

A point of pride... my little sister...

At one time there was a private catholic school for boys in this building.


The pedo Franciscan monks fiddled with the boys and those damaged boys sued the ever loving Christ out of the church. They all walked away with copious piles of cash, but are still fucked in the head. The building is pretty, though. And there is a lovely eucalyptus tree in the foreground. Eucalyptus trees are the sexiest trees… sigh….

A big forest fire has been burning since July 4th in the Los Padres Forest which backs up to Santa Barbara. It was smokey and ashy most of the time I was there. I went to Los Angeles to get fresh air and shenanigans with a new friend and an old friend. My life is littered with ironic twists.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­*chones are the Chicano equivalent of skivvies, knickers, or panties. choners=boxer shorts, chonies= underpants usually female variety, chones=underpants gender unspecific.

All Right, All Right, Already!

I hear y'all barking and I'll have a real post for you by the end of the day. I was working on a post yesterday, but I got boy-distracted. Then I looked at a house for sale and I'm now officially nauseated because I'm very seriously considering making an offer. Finally, there is the small issue of a good friend dropping in for a nightcap last night and keeping me up until 1:30 AM... on a school night no less... T-I-R-E-D... And I have to go and make a many thousand dollar decision.

Here is a preview... More coming at the end of the day.

Dog Days of Summer

The dog days have arrived. All around me the love affair with heat seems to be growing stale. The air is thick with sticky, oppressive heat. I'll be glad when it starts to snow again. In the meantime, I'm initiating an escape.

I'm off to California for a couple of weeks. Dry heat will clear my head, it always does. While I'm there, I will watch my 9 year old step-sister dance flamenco at Santa Barbara's Annual Old Spanish Days Fiesta. This five day festival is all about the world I grew up in.



This is the sista getting her flamenco on a couple of years ago.

I'll visit with much family, eat disgusting amounts of Mexican food, go to the rodeo, finally get some decent clam chowder, and with any luck, meet my new niece who is due to arrive on August 10th. Yesterday my aunt who lives in Indiana called to tell me she's planning to hijack part of my vacation. She and my cousin are coming out and demanding a slice of my vacation time. I was planning on spending as much time as possible with family who actually live there, and any surplus time was dedicated to being on vacation... doing things that bring me peace... things that don't involve family obligation. Usually when I go "home" or on vacation I want to be alone and not have any more obligations than I do in day to day life. That ship is steaming up and heading out of the harbor. New rule for next year: no vacations with or to anywhere that involves family. Look out, Dive. You may have another wayward sojourner on your door-step.

Men in Drag

I'm off this weekend for points west to embrace Glasgowlands. I work with a fella who is in a pipe band and I like to support him when I can. And anyway, I have a thing for kilted fellas performing feats of athletic heroics... Especially giant ones lobbing heavy crap across a field.



In truth, I'm attending this event for the most part to objectify men. Does that make me sleazy?



Imagine grunting and the sound of flesh colliding...



I'm a tomboy. I've managed to pull it off whilst wearing skirts and boots. I'm that girl. These big fellas don their kilts and carry on in athletics, work, and day to day activities. It's interesting to see how the harder sex handles keeping their modesty intact without being a wallflower.



I'd say not quite as gracefully as a tomboy in a skirt and boots.

I don't care if men talk to my bosoms (I've never really understood why women get bothered with this... Boobies are mesmerizing. Cover 'em up if you don't like the attention.) as long as they don't mind that I objectify strapping young fellas. At times, I love being middle aged. You get away with so much.

BIG and Strapping Drillers

As a follow up on my work activities today… This is what the office looked like:



Note the BIG and robust men handling steel rod. Saying that makes me feel a little like a 13 year old. :)

Drillers are a special sort. They travel a lot and are able to find a strip club anywhere they go. It’s like a sixth sense for them. Seriously, stop by any drill rig and ask any one of them and they’ll be able to tell you exactly where to go. If there is more than one in any given town, they’ll tell you which is better and which has the best priced beers.

I once went drilling with a crew from Ohio at a landfill site in Los Angeles. I know, I know… the life I lead is beyond glamorous. I mention they were from Ohio, because although there are a lot of lovely people from Ohio, a certain breed of wing-nut hails from there as well.

It was around the time that the movie “Jackass” was in theaters. These yay-hoos brought a stun gun with them to play “Who is the Most Testosterone-Laden He-Man?” at the hotel in the evenings. They would increase the voltage and shock each other to see who could take the most.

Stupid? Infantile? You bet!

It got worse. One morning at the landfill, a driller’s helper on the crew was having a slow go of it. Out of curiosity, I asked if he was hung over or if he had a late night at the titty bar. They all started giggling like adolescents. They then confessed to me that this particular guy pushed the testosterone game to its source and had shocked himself in the testes.

Cringe fellas. There is no way that this could have been a comfortable endeavor.

Drillers… They are “Special”.