Telenovela por Kara - 2

Episode 412

When we last left Maria and Pablo, Pablo had just walked in to Los Cha Chas to find Maria…

Maria began to cry and ran to Pablo. She collapsed in his arms and Pablo held her close. Pablo soothed Maria and told her he was there to bring her home. She cried and cried as he walked her out of the club into the blinding light of the midday sun.

Pablo drove Maria to her apartment so she could change her clothes and collect her things. They barely spoke as Maria packed a bag, but they each felt the love and intense attraction they knew years ago - it was like no time had passed. Maria hugged Pablo and thanked him for coming for her. Pablo was overwhelmed by his feelings for Maria - so much so that he broke his vows to God and slept with her. They spent the rest of the day and night making love, though Pablo knew he had to return to the church in Santa Lucia.

When Maria ran away so many years ago, Pablo couldn't imagine loving another woman so he became a priest and devoted himself to the church. He could not return to Santa Lucia with Maria as his bride and cause another terrible scandal and ruin his father's name. Everyone in Santa Lucia knew about Maria and what she had become - they could never be together as lovers, but they could be together...

Maria had sinned in so many ways, this she knew, and Pablo convinced her that the only way she could return to Santa Lucia and be accepted by the community - as well as her father - was to return as a woman of God. Maria would become a nun, just as her father had demanded so many years ago, and no one could ever know that Pablo and Maria had been together. Knowing she could be close to Pablo and would forever have the memory of their beautiful time together in El Paso, Maria agreed.

Pablo and Maria returned to Santa Lucia and Maria moved into the Convent of La Purisima Concepcion of San Miguel el Grande. The sisters of La Purisima Concepcion of San Miguel el Grande welcomed the beautiful Maria with open arms, believing that even though she’d committed many sins, she had goodness and light in her heart and would commit to God and live the rest of her life in service to Christ.

Maria found solace and forgiveness in the Convent of La Purisima Concepcion of San Miguel el Grande. She began to rediscover her old self, full of love, hope and optimism. Even though she could not be with Pablo, she saw him often in the church and her love for him deepened into something far more meaningful than she could ever imagine. He had saved her, brought her home to her family and gave her a whole new life she could be proud of. Just being close to him in the church was enough to make her happy.

After a few weeks at the Convent of La Purisima Concepcion of San Miguel el Grande, Maria began to feel ill. Incredibly tired and nauseated, she retired to her room and told Sister Lolita she was coming down with the flu. Sister Lolita brought Maria soup and cold compresses for her head. Maria rested and tried to recuperate but even after several days, felt no better and began to worry. Sister Lolita insisted she see El Doctor.

El Doctor examined Maria and right away made his diagnosis. Maria was pregnant. Shocked, Maria returned to her room and began to panic. How could she remain a faithful woman of God and have a bastard child? The church and the community would surely cast her out and banish her from the town. Distraught, she went to find Pablo…

DUN DUN DUNNNN!!!

Tune in next time for Episode 413!

Telenovela por Kara - 1

A going away gift of sorts...

Kara, here's the story we started at La Cumbré yesterday when we couldn't hear the telenova on the TV above our table.

See, Maria the nun wasn't always a nun and that child she's holding... that's no orphan...

Episode 411

Maria was a teenage runaway. She left the small town where she grew up when her father forbid her from seeing her true love, Pablo, a boy who lived in the neighboring town.

Pablo's father, Eduardo, worked for Maria's father on his ranch. One day, Pablo came to work with his father and saw Maria washing clothes in the courtyard. Maria's long, lustrous dark hair was getting wet and soapy as she scrubbed skirts in the laundry tub. Pablo was stunned by her beauty and immediately fell in love with her.

Pablo began coming to the ranch every day to see Maria. She would make him lunch and meet him in the hay loft where they could be alone. Maria fell deeply in love with the kind, gentle Pablo and agreed to marry him later that summer.

Maria's father, Don Julio, was a powerful man. He ran a prosperous cattle ranch and owned most of the town's land. When he saw Pablo and Maria together in the stables one day, he fired Eduardo and threatened to kill Pablo (a servant in his eyes). He told Maria he would send her away to Convent of La Purisima Concepcion of San Miguel el Grande.

Heartbroken, Maria made a plan to run away to El Paso and pleaded with Pablo to come with her. Pablo was torn - going with Maria would mean his father would be alone. El Paso was too far for Eduardo to move and he would not give his blessing to a marriage borne from scandal. Pablo stayed with his father and vowed to help support him. Maria left Santa Lucia and vowed never to return.

Once in El Paso, Maria worked odd jobs in restaurants and motels and tried to forget about Pablo and the beautiful life she imagined they'd have together. She grew sadder by the day and soon became bitter. What her father did was horrible but Pablo abandoning her was much worse. She would never trust a man ever again. She wanted some sort of revenge, to torture men, to make them want her but never be able to have her.

Maria quit her menial jobs and became a stripper at Los Cha Chas, El Paso's premier gentlemen's club. Within a week she became Los Cha Chas #1 performer, earning hundreds of dollars in tips every night. It didn't take long for Maria to have dozens of regular customers requesting a Champagne Cha Cha in the VIP room. She could earn thousands of dollars a week working the VIP room, emptying the wallets of the hollow, heartless men who abandoned their wives and girlfriends to watch her take it all off and show them what they could never have.

Over the years, as Maria's fame grew, men from far & wide began coming to Los Cha Chas to watch her dance. One night, a devilishly handsome stranger came to watch her show. After Maria's performance on stage, the stranger requested a Champagne Cha Cha. He said his name was Pedro. Maria felt instantly drawn to him and realized she may not be able to provide a strictly professional Cha Cha.

Once alone with Maria, Pedro offered her $1000 for much more than a private dance. She readily agreed and took his money. She sold herself to him completely and later spent the night with him in his motel room. When she awoke the next morning, Pedro was gone. He'd left another $1000 on the night table with "gracias" written on one of the bills.

Maria felt empty and ashamed. Once again she was alone and abandoned. The inner sadness she'd carried for so long was even greater. What had she become? Who was this person who would sleep with men for money? She wasn't torturing men - she was only torturing herself.

She returned to Los Cha Chas the next day and told the manager she had to quit, that she wanted to return to Santa Lucia and try to make amends with her father and reunite with Pablo. The manager refused to let her go and threatened to call immigration and have her incarcerated.

Despondent and defeated, Maria danced on stage and gave Champagne Cha Chas in the VIP room, but she felt forever changed. She no longer danced with a spring in her step and a sparkle in her eye. She had to find a way home, back to the person she once was.

A week after her sad tryst with Pedro, another handsome stranger came to the club, but he wasn't just a stranger - he was a priest. The priest walked directly to the bar and asked to see a dancer named Maria. The bartender went backstage and brought Maria out to the bar. As soon as she saw him, she knew - it was Pablo!

DUN DUN DUNNNN!!!

Tune in next time for Episode 412... (no kidding - it keeps going - it's getting ridiculously long - so, remember, you asked for it!)

New Phobias

I've developed an exciting new phobia. One thing to enjoy about getting older, every day brings a whole new adventure - a new fear, a new ache, a new thing I can't eat.

While visiting the parents in Bend (Oree-gone), we had thunder storms roll through one afternoon. I was driving back from the store watching ginormous bolts of lightning shoot down from the sky and my first thought was, That's going to come right through my car, into my face, and they'll find me crashed into a tree with most of my face charred off.

I drove the rest of the way hunched down in my seat as if that would prevent the murderous bolts from finding their way to my face.

When I got to the house, I slowly opened the car door to get out, then ran toward the garage thinking that at any moment that bolt would shoot down into my face - always into my face - and my parents would find me in the driveway with most of my face charred off.

Where this came from I can't begin to tell you, but I think it's probably a good thing. One should have a healthy respect for lightning. One shouldn't feel emboldened and confident about standing out in a thunderstorm holding a nine iron into the sky.

Climate change is a real issue, and maybe lightning is much more aggressive and dangerous than it once was. Tough to know for sure, until it shoots down into your face to confirm it, but why not just expect that along with heavier snow storms, more ferocious hurricanes and increasingly torrential rain storms, lightning is more sinister than it was in years past?

Radio Silence

Where to start?

Reader's Digest version - I got the bird home. Came close to having to give him up in Canada or stay there indefinitely waiting for the U.S. government to pull its ginormous head out of its even larger ass.

The morning we were ready to drive south I called Slow Suzy in Virginia. After her last brain cell finally woke up and churned the data, she told me my permits would likely be denied. The best reason she could muster? Because I never had the proper Export Permit.

So, even though I was trying to obtain the proper permits, because I never had one last year, they were going to deny them. Just thinking about that tells you everything that's wrong in D.C.

I explained that we could not stay behind for too long to wait for the permits - new tenants were moving in the following week. She was nonplussed about why I could not leave without my bird. She helpfully informed me that there are many bird rescue organizations in BC that would take him off my hands.

In hysterics, I pleaded with her to talk to whoever she could talk to to find a way to solve this problem. The best she could offer was to have me call her back the next day, but she didn't think the answer would be any different.

After a brief respite in the fetal position on the floor, I pulled myself together and called the U.S. Fish & Wildlife officer at the border - Border Guy. I'd been talking to him since the start of all this bullshit and I told him what I'd learned from D.C. I hoped he could call Slow Suzy and find a way to let me get my bird home.

Border Guy is all by-the-book, explaining that he takes his orders from D.C., but he said I could call his supervisor and see if there might be anything he could do. I was still a blubbering mess so I took five minutes to grab a shower and calm down.

Just as I was drying off I heard my phone's voicemail tone. I'd just missed Border Guy's call. His message said that he'd talked to his supervisor and I should call him back so he could explain the situation. Good news or bad news? What's the situation! Gah!

I called him and heard the best news of my life. Because my permits had not yet been officially denied, they could write me a citation for illegally exporting my bird. Had those permits already been denied, there wouldn't be anything they could do. I laughed and told him I would *love* a citation!

We packed our cars in a crazed panic and sped down to the border with our hair on fire. After clearing the CITES Export Permit on the Canadian side, Border Guy and the vet on the U.S. side filled out their forms, charged me $35 for the vet and wrote me a $275 citation. I was on my way in about an hour with my feathery & furry family totally intact.

I drove the entire way to my parents' house in Bend without the radio. No tunes, no nothing. Just silence. Eight hours of uninterrupted silence. I don't remember what all I thought about, but I thought about a lot. I think I traveled to another dimension.

The next day I turned off the Canadian cell phone. If D.C. has tried to reach me, they're not. I have my stamped, official documents clearing Henry through customs, so Slow Suzy and the entire Department of the Interior can blow me.

U.S. Dept. of Redonkulous

The full name is Department of the Interior, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Division of Middle Management Authority, Feet Dragging and Hemhawing.

What a ridiculous exercise this has been. This goes into the If Its Not One Goddamm Thing Its Another file. This is one of the things that sent my stress level through the roof last month and had me hyperventilating daily between bouts of spontaneous crying and hand-wringing.

Here's the thing... we're moving... again. We're moving the household back to Alameda so I can be close to family and go back to work. It's a long story.

I thought it would be somewhat complicated but not redonkulous. We hired an actual moving company this time that will magically load the giant trailer for us and clear our stuff back through customs - all good and a huge relief to have professional help.

On a hunch, I asked our moving coordinator if I had all the proper paperwork to move Henry - the blue-fronted Amazon parrot - back home. My little voice kept nagging at me to make sure. She didn't know but offered to ask around. Thank gawd she did.

See, when we moved here, I took all the kids to their vets and had them checked out, vaccines updated and received State of California Department of Food and Agriculture certifications for international movement of household pets. That's all the vets said we needed. Great!

I don't know why I thought that might not be enough to get Henry home, but I'm glad I asked...

Turns out, we NEVER had the required permits to travel with/move a pet bird. Our vet didn't know about such permits nor did the Canadians who helped us move here. When no one knows about such permits it's tough to obtain them.

I scoured the web trying to make sure we'd have all the required paperwork/certifications when we came into Canada. No website - US Customs, Canadian Customs or any other - had any information about these permits. If they had, well, I wouldn't be writing this post.

If you own a pet bird and are planning to go ANYWHERE outside the U.S. with that bird at ANY TIME - moving, road trip or whatever - you MUST have the following permits:

• a CITES permit for the transportation of live animals or animal products (pet parrots usually fall into the Appendix II category).
  
• a U.S. Dept. of Fish & Wildlife Export Permit for a pet bird (PDF form). You may also need an Import Permit as well, to get the bird back into the States.
  -- no ifs ands or buts --
  

So, I found out about these required permits at the beginning of June. The CITES Export Permit from Environment Canada takes 4-6 weeks to process. The U.S. Import Permit takes at least 4 weeks and up to 90 days to process. The moving truck arrives next week.

Amazingly, Environment Canada was fine with a faxed application and required no fees. The U.S., of course, would not accept faxes or email. Everything had to be FedEx'ed (or snail mailed) and they require a $50 processing fee.

Environment Canada was great. I got the direct number for a lovely woman, Lynn, who helped process my application and couldn't have been nicer. She took the initiative to communicate through email, keeping me updated and letting me know when the permit was issued and on its way. Canada took about a week to process the CITES Export Permit.

As I sit here writing this sorry tale, I'm still waiting on the U.S. permits. They've had everything they needed to process the paperwork for four weeks and I've not heard a word about status.

The woman I've been calling in Virginia - I'll call her Slow Suzy - is no longer returning my calls. Early on, she sounded somewhat sympathetic and like she might make this happen within a month - imagine that - issuing TWO WHOLE ONE-PAGE DOCUMENTS in a month's time. CRAZY!

At first I was told I would only need an Import Permit to get Henry home, but after talking to Suzy and explaining our situation in detail, she said I would need a "retrospective." I believe she meant "retroactive" - a retroactive Export Permit.

Because we never had the proper permits, I moved Henry out of the country illegally. Had Canadian Customs seen him in my car at the border, they would have confiscated him. Without the right permits going back, the U.S. can confiscate him.

To be clear, the bird was never hidden, nor were the cats. When we crossed the border they were all right there in the car. No one asked me for any paperwork or any sort of documentation about ANYTHING we had with us. No one even glanced into the goddamm car to see what was in there. I was ready for them to inspect the car and to hand them all the documents I had - no one asked for anything.

To make matters worse, when Suzy learned we've not been out of the States for at least 12 months, she told me "Oh no, you have a real problem." Why? No one can explain why. Why a U.S. resident cannot return home trouble-free in one month, five, or 15 no one can explain. Free country? I guess not.

So now I'm waiting on Slow Suzy to figure out a way to issue a retroactive ("retrospective") Export Permit and an Import Permit, all by next week. She's had a month to get it done.

Maybe she's required to make the paper on which the permits are printed, then make the ink with which the letters are printed, then weave a decorative border out of flaxen linen and spun gold. Whatever she's doing, she's doing it as slowly as one can move without being declared legally dead.

Bottom line, I cannot leave here with my bird without those goddamm permits in my hand. This is when we should pack Henry a little satchel of food and Gatorade and tell him to fly his ass home.

Even more annoying, I'm playing by the rules and I'm getting screwed up the ass for it. I'm not trying to pull a fast one or cheat the government out of $50 critical dollars. They didn't catch me - I contacted them to get this squared away, and what are they doing? Nothing.

Slow Suzy is sitting on her lazy, government-job-time-wasting ass filing her gaudy acrylic nails and telling her girlfriends about her corns. If I ever meet Slow Suzy one day, I will punch her in her lazy goddamm neck.

p.s. If you ever apply for such permits and your bird does not have a microchip or a leg band, you'll need a letter from your vet explaining why this should not be done - both are very dangerous for birds. But in that letter you can have your vet provide a description of whatever identifying characteristics your bird might have that should help identify your bird as YOUR bird.

Disneyland!

Sort of... Yesterday I went to my type of Disneyland... a cute neighborhood (Queen Anne) in the States where I could get Peet's Coffee, Top Pot Doughnuts and hang out with good friends. I was so excited the night before I had trouble getting to sleep.

(I cannot stand Walt Disney's Disneyland - it should be razed and turned into a giant doughnut factory.)

I zipped down to Seattle to see friends and enjoy a beautiful summer day. And when I say zipped, I mean I zipped down to the border where traffic slammed to a stop for an hour as four thousand other day-trippers and I waited to cross into America.

Being Canada Day - imaginative title, eh? - lots of people went south to play. Canada Day is much like the U.S.'s 4th of July - a holiday spent grilling meats, lighting fireworks and getting shitty drunk in your front yard.

The weird thing is, they take the day off right there in the middle of the week. No 3-day weekend where you have a whole other day to stay drunk then another day on top of that to recover before you have to go back to work. No, you get that one day to live it up and make the most of your holiday before you call in sick to drag your ass into work the next day.

The guy behind me at the border made the most of his holiday by hosting his very own Nostril Drilling Festival. I wish I hadn't seen this but unfortunately I did, and it was a fantastic disaster.

He had no shame. He went to town on both nostrils oftentimes using both the index finger and the thumb. When I first caught sight of him in my rear view mirror I thought he was going for a quick grab and it would be over in a flash. It was amazing to see him keep going at it like a booger-loving badger. Ah-mazing.

A strange way to start the holiday, but my excitement for Peet's could not be dampened. On top of getting a delicious cup of java, I also got to see an Andrew Wyeth exhibit at the SAM, enjoyed a lovely mojito at Shmick's and later, a satisfying maple glazed old fashioned at Top Pot. Yup - Disneyland. Thank you Linda, Alan & Miriam - wonderful day!


t-bird headed south




"Likeaflex Superzoom" late 1970s
Ceramic w/ glaze, metal and leather strap
Fred Bauer, American, born 1937


bootleg phone photo of the exhibit (shhhhh)

The Douchebags

I'm renaming the incredibly lame show "The Doctors" to "The Douchebags." Who's producing this giant turd? It's some of the worst television I've ever seen.

It's not good bad TV like The Hills, it's just terrible, useless and maybe even harmful. (Some would argue the same about The Hills - totally fair.)

I tuned in today because they advertised "the four Fs women fear": Turning Fifty, Fatigue, Forgetfulness and Fat. I was interested in what they might have to say about fatigue.

First - lots of Fs today - the plastic surgeon douchebag (PSD) can't keep his smelly botoxed mouth shut for any length of time, even if they're talking about vaginal discharge. Even the ER douchebag and pediatrician douchebag know when to shut up for five minutes.

So, they're talking about turning 50 and the things we should do to age healthily, such as weight-bearing exercise for bone health. The PSD butts in to start explaining how as we age, our bones which were solid become like a honeycomb.

No one interrupted to correct him. Three other douchebag "doctors" sat there and said nothing. Then the gyno douchebag (GD) went on and on about how great it is to go through menopause and not have periods while we pop pharmaceuticals to rebuild bone.

Everything I've read about bone-building Rx's tells me they're not as great as they'd like you to believe - they might actually be harmful. They tell the body to build new bone, but the old bone that must be reabsorbed/removed is not. This makes the bone, which is naturally somewhat flexible, lose some of that flexibility and is more prone to breaking. Hello?! But the GD thinks it's fine to recommend we start popping prescriptions as soon as we turn 50. Excellent work.

There was absolutely no mention of working closely with a *qualified* doctor to manage hormone and/or bone health, no mention of nutrition or any supplements that could be beneficial. Just "go for a walk when you can and take bone-building Rx's." Fugging quacks - all of them.

When they got to Fatigue, they profiled a woman in her 40s who's been complaining of extreme fatigue for years. They followed her to an endocrinologist's office where the doctor explained all the tests she would run to try to figure out what was going on, but that all her symptoms may not have anything to do with thyroid.

???

That is so ridiculous I don't even know how to describe how ridiculous that is, especially when moments later the very same doctor said her test results came back as HYPOTHYROID and that SHE'S BEEN HYPOTHYROID FOR YEARS. What the brackafracka?

So, they show her in the doctor's office with the doc telling her all her symptoms may have nothing to do with thyroid, then later it's the PRIMARY CAUSE? Douchebags! What is the fricking point of that?

The *one* thing the endo douchebag (ED) mentioned that I found interesting was B12. The fatigued woman was very low on B vitamins, so it was recommended she eat red meat more often and/or take supplements. The woman said after she had a B12 shot she felt better right away.

In the past week I started supplementing with B12 and it might be helping. I've also had steak a couple of times in the last week and I'm feeling much better now than I have in weeks.

But I lost 40 minutes of my life to this stinking dung pile of a show. Not only is the show totally disorganized and a stupid free-for-all with PSD constantly chiming in about shit he knows nothing about, they give out ridiculously incomplete information and cannot spend a quality amount of time on any one topic because they have commercial breaks every 45 seconds.

They're making shitloads of money on advertising but they're not supplying any useful information. It's one giant popcorn fart after another. They should all be fired. As in, lit on fire fired.

Adrenals Adrainals

So... I've been reading about adrenal fatigue. Why? I have that sort of free time. And I'm wondering why I don't have enough energy to make a maple syrup & bread sandwich, but if I did, I'd make and eat fourteen of them in one sitting.

A few weeks ago all sorts of shit started hitting a big frickin fan. I'll bore you with those details another day, but it was a giant stress shot in the ass.

It was a rough few days, but then things mellowed out somewhat. Now I'm dealing with its aftermath. It's like having a mild case of mono, which if you've ever had mono, even "mild mono" makes you want to sleep for a year.

Even when I get to bed on time or early, I wake up tired. After feeling OK for about an hour, I'm ready to collapse back into bed. When I get in bed at night, I lie awake trying to shut off my brain and it takes forever to get to sleep.

I spend all day dragging my ass wherever I have to drag it, and if I don't have to drag it anywhere, I park it in a chair or on the couch. I feel OK again for about an hour in the evening, then I can't wait to crawl into bed.

Even though the PMS has long since come and gone, I'm craving sweets & carbs like an addict. Way worse than usual. No amount of coffee makes any difference - no jolt whatsoever. And out of nowhere, I'm having trouble with hay fever. I haven't had allergy trouble in years.

The writing project I was excited about a couple of weeks ago is a distant memory. I tried to work on it yesterday and put in maybe half an hour before I had to lie down. I've had headaches - no migraines - but I'd been headache-free for many months. I haven't run in three weeks. Not even to the fridge.

So I Googled "constant fatigue craving sweets" and found a few articles on adrenal fatigue. It makes a lot of sense. After years and years of stress, it seems plausible that at some point the adrenals say Enough! and go on strike.

Then I thought about past stresstivals and how I felt physically in the weeks or months afterward. I remembered at least a few occasions where after dealing with enormously stressful events, there was a time afterward of feeling physically drained and generally unwell. The recovery period seemed to be proportionate to the stressful period - the longer/more stressful the event, the longer it took to recover.

The worst thing I read about adrenal fatigue... you have to avoid sugar and caffeine. How cruel. I'll get back on the Greens Today and keep napping til this passes. I suppose I could see a doctor, but they're full of shit. I bet they'd try to tell me Paxil's been approved for treating doughnut cravings.

More about adrenal fatigue:

• Adrenal Fatigue/Adrenal Exhaustion
• Liz Lipski, PhD on Adrenal Fatigue - Google video (part 1)
• Liz Lipski, PhD on Adrenal Fatigue - Google video (part 2)
• Adrenal Fatigue vs. Low Thyroid symptoms matrix
  
• Project Aware Adrenal Fatigue
• Adrenal Health in Women
  
• Adrenalfatigue.org

It's Not The Heat

It's the cacophony.

It's gotta be age. It's gotta be getting older that's made me less tolerant of certain things, like bullshit, onions, and noise.

I don't remember being so annoyed by noise when I was younger. But I drank a lot in college, so there's much I don't remember.

All week it's been one noisy assault after another and I'm ready to buy a high-powered rifle.

There's a house next door that's been under renovation since before I got here last year. It looks perfectly fine from the outside, but they've been slowly tearing its insides apart and putting it back together, one screw at a time, for an entire year. They must charge by the month.

Most of the work has been fairly quiet - pickup trucks coming & going, large trucks delivering appliances, nothing too disruptive. Then this week began Monster Renovation Week!!!

On Monday they brought out a power washer to strip the old paint off the front steps. A power washer so loud, it sounded like they were in my house power washing the shower.

In the backyard, another guy was running the weed eater. This went on for hours. Around noontime I walked over to ask how much longer I would be without the ability to hear myself think.

Power Washer Guy claimed to not know English. He walked me to the backyard to talk to Weed Eater Guy. WEG translated and mercifully, PWG said he'd only need about 20 more minutes on the front steps. Then WEG said after that, they'd have to do the back deck. Fucking hell.

It's the decibels and the endless onslaught and the constant RAWRR of the generator as he revs it up and down. It echoes off of every other house on the street - it's everywhere and it never ends.

I get it - the guy has a job to do. But would it be the *worst* thing to WORK QUICKLY with the goddamm head-rattling machine? He was moving at a glacial pace, happy to power wash the goddamm stairs all goddamm day.

They finally finished about an hour later and I was able to relax. It was quiet for a while until people started to get home from work.

I guess because it usually rains all the time, whenever it's not raining, people flock outside to do yardwork while they can. Every day it's not raining. Every goddamm dry afternoon you hear the goddamm lawn mowers, weed eaters, hedge clippers and leaf blowers start up all over the goddamm neighborhood. They keep going until it's dark, about five hours later. Every goddamm day.

If you're trying to watch the news or listen to the radio while enjoying a cool evening breeze from an open window, forget it. Might as well throw some marbles into your blender & fire it up.

Day after day, it's been one noisy project after another. Wednesday morning's wake up call was at 7:30 a.m. with what sounded like boulders being pitched into a giant dumpster.

So, so, SO annoyed, I screamed out the window, "IT'S NOT EVEN 8 O'CLOCK YET!" and it went quiet. It stayed quiet until 8 a.m. on the dot, and then the boulder pitching began again.

Later when I went out to run errands I saw they were tearing off the old roof to replace it. Awesome.

We endured More Boulder Pitching Thursday and then this morning began Electric Nail Gun Friday. The best part? They had to use our power for the nail gun.

New Roofer Guy came over early this morning just before 8 a.m. to sheepishly ask if he could "borrow" some power for a few hours because they blew the circuit yesterday.

Feeling generous, I told him he'd have to ask our landlord downstairs. She's usually not up until after 9 or 10 on her day off, so I thought she'd enjoy an early start to her day. She must have said yes, because the nail gun was rat tat tatting moments later.

If it's not one neighbor it's another making all sorts of goddamm noise and I don't understand why they have to do it so goddamm often. Is it because hockey season is over?

They All Grunt a Little

Woke up to very dark, overcast skies this morning so I crawled back into bed after feeding the lions.

I tried to sleep in but was already too awake, so I watched a little "Breakfast Television" - a local TV news show on Vancouver's CityTV.

Never tuned in before this morning. I hope someone else was watching.

The hosts are chatty and bubbly and annoying and at one point they were talking about female tennis players that grunt and make a lot of noise when they play.

They cut to the guy who's supposed to be the serious news anchor, supposedly a tennis fan, to help name some noisy players, and he says in all seriousness, "They all grunt a little after smoking the ball."

They cut back to the bubbly hosts - one was holding her head in her hands and her co-host sat staring into the camera wearing a frozen grin, unable to react to what had just been said on live TV.

They cut to a split screen with the hosts and the serious news anchor who desperately tried to distract us all from what he'd just said by babbling on about tennis as the hosts sat silently waiting for him to stop.

Thankfully, it was time to show us the clogged roads. I'm looking forward to tomorrow's show.

Doctors Suck

Happened to catch this show on TV yesterday, Mystery Diagnosis, and it made me angry at doctors all over again.

Most seem totally unqualified to be doctors and not even fit to be plumbers. Plumbers are much more thorough about finding and fixing the problem.

Here's a fantastic example of how doctors FAIL, and at something so simple. So simple they should be slapped so hard in the mouth they forget they're doctors and go become janitors.

A woman in seemingly perfect health goes from a size 2 to a size 20 in a matter of a few months with most of the weight gain in her abdomen. She has numerous other symptoms I won't bother to list, but all are completely abnormal.

She sees doctor after doctor after doctor who cannot figure out what's wrong with her. For seven years this goes on as she tries everything she can think of to deal with her symptoms, hoping on every birthday and Christmas that by the next birthday or Christmas someone will help her.

Totally fed up she decides to take matters into her own hands and gets a hold of her medical records. She reads through all the tests and results to see her cortisol levels are WAY too high - ridiculously high. It was right there in her records, but NO ONE SAW IT. Or more accurately, no one bothered to read her goddamn records that were right there in her goddamn file.

She goes online and starts to research high levels of cortisol. In five minutes she diagnoses herself with Cushing's Syndrome.

Seven years. Seven years she tried to get one doctor, any doctor, to help her, and none of them could. Five minutes with her own file and she diagnosed the condition. She was a flight attendant. No medical background of any kind. Doctors - FAIL.

How hard would it have been for one doctor, in the dozens and dozens she saw, to take five minutes to read her lab tests? What colossal lame bags of shit.

So they're not all endocrine specialists - fine. But if the patients can use Google, can't the doctors? Too busy golfing and writing out useless prescriptions?

ARGH! Makes me so mad!

I have to wonder, if we're trusting these people with our lives, why don't we require all doctors to take annual refresher courses and certifying exams to remain practicing physicians? Fail the course and you're on probation until you learn it and pass the test. Can't pass it within a required timeline? You lose your license.

Even my mechanic has to take ongoing training to remain certified to work on my car, but my doctor can graduate med school, complete a residency, then not take another course or exam for 20 years and still remain qualified to do the job? Hardly.

I Remember...

...I'm radioactive. - Steve Martin

We're in the thick of hairball season here in PoCo. Almost every day we find a large, slick, fuzzy casting in the middle of the floor/rug/carpet/hallway. The collection is impressive. They really soak up the varnish nicely.

What I really need is a house with all-tile floors and drains every few feet or so and a fire hose. I suppose that would mean having all plastic furniture. The static electricity in the winters would be brutal. Maybe rubber instead. Or silicone. Stain-free, odor-free, fire hoseable furniture. I like it.

Ooh, but the electronics... OK, all-tile floors with drains and a fire hose, all silicone furniture and electronics housed in waterproof, deep-sea-worthy cabinets. The walls we could paint with marine paint over Tyvek-coated wall board.

Here's a random solicitor for you... the other day I hear a gentle tap at the door, a friendly, sounds-like-your-neighbor-just-popping-by-for-a-quick-chat sort of quiet knock, so I go to the door & open it up only to see a somewhat frazzled-looking guy I've never seen around here before.

He's standing back from the door a few feet, which is good I think, because I don't know who the hell he is or what he wants, and he starts telling me, in a shaky, quiet voice, how he's run out of gas and his bank card isn't working, and might I have any bottles I could donate?

This is when I couldn't be happier about having lived in downtown Oakland and the TenderNob, where I wore a constant, stony expression of barely-restrained homicidal rage and almost-suicidal indifference. This is the face I wear every time I open that door.

Before he'd finished his ridiculous question I blurted out No and shut the door.

Any *bottles* I could donate? How are you going to get all these bottles you're asking for to the recycling center to get those shiny nickels to pay for a litre of gas when you've RUN OUT of gas?

Did he go to every house on the block with this idiotic story? Do most people in these parts say Oh sure and leave the door open while they go about collecting bottles and cans for the drifter at the door? Does he think I don't watch TV and know just about every trick in the book to gain entry into someone's house?

Wellllll mister, I do! I DO watch WAY too much TV and I don't care if you're bleeding out your eyes and have asked me for a tissue. Piss off! Don't make me get my bat! I'll give you something to cry about! Now get off my property! Well, actually, we're renting. Good luck with the recycling!

Catching Up With Your Past

There's really no escaping it, for better or worse.

Things I thought I'd dealt with and cremated are coming back to life almost in front of my eyes. This sludge bubbling up from the depths is making icky puddles in what I thought was a healthy patch of grass.

It's stuff I don't know what to do with. I've run out of mental cartons. Like the stuff that keeps piling up on my kitchen counter. I have no real place to put it.

I need to purge this crap from my head, but I'm not ready for a lobotomy. And there's no Goodwill drop-off for this kind of crap. What a sad thrift store that would be. Thousands of urine-stained mattresses.

The Universe has a way of forcing us to confront our issues. Change it or accept it and move on, but you won't be able to escape it. Not for long.

One thing, or person, I'm glad to have not escaped entirely just got in touch with me through ye olde past-facer, Facebook. He was a friend from my former life and when I left that life, I cut all ties to it. My own witness relocation program.

He happened to speak with the ex (after 12 years of cutting him out of his life) and afterward, felt compelled to track me down to tell me I'd done the right thing. That was great. It's been 13 years since we last spoke and after exchanging emails, it was like no time had passed. He's still a solid, good person and it's a pleasure to be reconnected.

As for the other crap, I expect The Universe will help me build the appropriate cartons to cram all that negative shit into and light it all on fire. But I need to do it quick because I'm running out of space.

Stayin Glued

I know my last couple of posts reveal that I'm coming unglued. I am. Or was. Today was better. Made good progress on one hurdle that I hope to clear in another week or two.

The intense leg workout I did the other day helped take my mind of things, giving me a whole new problem to focus on - walking properly.

The stress must have acted like PCP or something, making me immune to pain or fatigue. It wasn't the day after the workout that really hurt, it was the next. Sitting down and standing up have been difficult, as has not walking like a robot. I think you could bounce a bowling ball off my hamstrings.

And this morning I managed to sleep in until 9:30, which might as well be noon for me. Dawn here is at 4 a.m. I know this because my bladder is often done sleeping by then and forces me to get up and deal with it. I'm amazed at how light it is at FOUR IN THE MORNING.

(BTW, it does not stay light here until 10 or 11 p.m. Sun goes down around 9:15 and it's dark soon thereafter.)

After I had a pee, I went back to bed and slept 'til 7, when it's time to feed the lions. I woke up and noticed something on the floor near the closet. Two small brown items. Yup. Two tiny cat turds had been deposited on the floor on my side of the bed. How cute.

"Someone" obviously had trouble dropping off the last two kids at the pool so she left them with me.

Once the horror dissipated, I got up, found the rubber gloves and the Lysol spray cleaner with bleach and cleaned it up. Then I fed the lions, washed up and crawled back into bed.

With a little extra sleep, it felt like a better day. We had waffles, watched the French Open final and later I watched the Prefontaine Classic. Very cool. Got some laundry done and finally did a few days' worth of dishes.

While I was folding clothes, "someone" hacked up a ginormous hair ball. We almost named it. I put down the clothes, found the rubber gloves and the Lysol spray cleaner with bleach and cleaned it up.

There are days when it feels like I have kids, when I'm cleaning up poo one minute and barf the next. Thankfully I don't have to change their outfits every few hours when their diapers leek - I just change them for the fun of it.

I don't know how it's all going to work out, but I have faith that it will. It always does. Somehow. Say it along with me, 'It always works out. It always does.'

Is It Me?

Because if it is, just tell me. I can take it. Do I look like a total shit-for-brains idiot? Is "stupid" tattooed somewhere on my forehead where only others can see it? Am I signing "I'm a dumbass" when I talk expressively with my hands? Is it the rack?

Really. I really want to know what it is that makes some people assume that I take the short bus and eat mud pies while sitting in the front yard in my underwear.

I had to take Henry to an avian vet here yesterday, and even though he is a near perfect specimen of the Amazona aestiva species, at the perfect weight, perfect plumage, and in perfect health, the fucktard vet felt compelled to tell me how to feed my own perfect fucking bird.

The 11-year-old bird I have taken care of for over 10 years. The bird who in all those years has had no health issues, not one problem whatsoever. The bird who every time I take him to his usual vet who's known him since he was hatched, RAVES about his great health and feisty attitude.

Really? You think there's something I'm not doing right? Tell me what you think that is, and I'll gladly reform my ways. No? Nothing to say on that topic?

So tell me then, why the fuck do you think you need to stand there and tell me how and what to feed my perfect goddamn bird when you just told me you usually don't see birds in such good shape? And after I just told you I feed him the best food on the market, which you can't even get in this backwater country so I have to ship it in from the States?

It's one thing to remind me about what to do for his good health - it's another to stand there and lecture me like I just picked him up at a swap meet.

How dare you. You don't know my life. You don't know anything about me. You just examined a beautiful bird in perfect health and now you think you need to tell me how to take care of him? You pompous asshole.

Here's a tip - when your head is that far up your own ass, don't talk. Please. Just don't. Nothing you say will make a damn bit of sense with all that shit in your mouth.

And you know, except for this one thing, this one thing that got so far under my skin I'm twitching, he seemed like an OK guy. I'm sure he's a good vet and he does good work. But why the fuck does this happen? I'm so tired of it.

Should I be cold and standoffish instead of easygoing and congenial? Would that make people assume I'm at least intelligent enough to take good care of my pets? I'm starting to think that might be part of it.

Maybe because I'm nice, people assume I'm like the slow kid on the city bus who talks to everyone who gets on or off. I can be an asshole, believe me, it's no trouble. Lots of other people do it and perhaps they've achieved great success as a result. Maybe that can be my "something new" for June.

Or, perhaps I should embrace this as an opportunity. If I get people believing that I'm a total retard, maybe I can start taking advantage of them in all sorts of ways. That could be a solution to a few problems. Maybe I could qualify for disability. Get a scooter paid for by Medicare.

Holy Stresscape Batman

So... there's a lot going on right now. More than I can get into at the moment. Suffice it to say, life is extremely stressful. Stress like I've not known in some time. I feel ill-equipped to deal with it.

What is this panicky, heavy blanket of anxiety I can't shake off? Even if I could, where would I put it? What can I do with it?

The other day I went running for an hour in 80-degree, humid weather. I'm not even in shape enough to run for an hour, especially in stifling heat. The next day I lifted weights for over an hour. Now my left knee is not happy, but I don't know what else to do.

I could start drinking. A lot. But I have to make phone calls, write intelligible emails, use the car... so, that option isn't an option. But I fully understand the desire to toss back a few to just take the edge off so you can keep going. You'd think Jack Bauer would travel with a very large flask.

So now I'm doing what I usually do when faced with extreme stress... cutting scope and supplementing with copious amounts of carbohydrates.

In my former life as a producer, when the budget (time, money, or sanity) ran short of the desired scope, the red pen came out and features were cut to fit the withering budget. If I had extra sanity, I'd gladly spend it. If only.

I'd planned to drive down to Alameda next week to see my niece graduate from high school and help celebrate the parents' 50th anniversary, but there's no way I can go now. Nor can I even think about all I'd have to do to prepare, pack, etc. So, that's out. Bummer, but it relieves some pressure.

Also providing some relief - carbohydrates. Simple, sinful carbohydrates fulfill a critical role - soothing serotonin. This must be why diets like Atkins & South Beach never work long-term. Life happens.

When life happens, an egg white omelet is not going to calm anyone down. Giant bowl of cereal? YES. Chips & salsa? YES. Häagen-Dazs Raspberry Sorbet? YES.

I ate so many chips the other day I swear I was sweating corn and salt.

Naps help, too, once the serotonin kicks in and I can breathe. Feels like it's about that time right now.

Sope Baux - Bad Parents

Here goes:

I just read The Mommy Files blog on SF Gate about a mother who's upset about her kids being scared by the dogs in Pixar's new movie, Up!

Are you effing kidding me?

Her kids are six and four years old and were apparently terrified by the dogs chasing after the bird. Her four-year-old son actually scolded her for taking him to "an inappropriate movie." That's so ridiculous I don't even know where to start with that one.

It's not the children I have a problem with, it's the coddling, sniveling, spineless, self-involved parents raising children who not only can't handle a movie MADE FOR KIDS, but they're growing up thinking it's in any way OK to scold a parent. Totally totally TOTALLY unacceptable.

It's true I do not have kids. I would have eaten them right out of the womb. I spent many years as a babysitter and nanny to cousins, nieces and nephews.

The way I cared for the kids was exactly as their parents did - lots of love and fun activities, but as far as rules/behavior goes, no negotiation and no tolerance for bullshit of any kind.

Those weren't my rules, those were the rules of their parents, parents who wanted responsible, polite, respectful kids to grow into productive adults, not whining, insolent, ungrateful remoras.

The truth of the post is revealed when the author says:

"I was so desperate for a mellow outing that I didn't even check the reviews ahead of time to see if the movie was deemed appropriate for little ones. I longed to sit for an hour and a half, munching on popcorn and sipping diet coke."

Longed for a mellow outing. Hey, I know, HIRE A BABYSITTER and go to the library. Or, find an activity appropriate for the age of your kids, dumbass. A movie isn't the answer, regardless of its rating.

At the end of the post she reveals:

"My kids were both knocked over by a dog a few weeks ago and my son was bitten on the back. My daughter, who has always been fearful of dogs, was especially traumatized by the incident and has had a few canine nightmares."

I peed myself laughing at this. Not at what happened to the kids, but that she took her kids who were just attacked by a dog to a movie that has hundreds of attack dogs in it. And she wants to blame the movie?

The sad thing is, there are capable parents all over the country trying desperately to adopt children who need homes, having to clear myriad hurdles and approvals that take forever, but all this idiot had to do was get knocked up - no special test, no certification. Unbelievable.

And why would anyone take a four-year-old to a movie? A toddler cannot sit still long enough to pee properly on a toilet, let alone sit through a 1.5 hour movie. Evidently, she was too excited about popcorn and diet coke to think this through.

We made the mistake of going to an early show filled with toddlers. Toddlers who could not sit still and could not stop whining at their parents for one thing or another. Their parents have likely never used a play pen, said "No" and meant it, or enforced real consequences for bad behavior.

It was bad enough working with "kids" right out of college a few years ago who expect all the rewards & fat paycheck just for showing up to work, because they always got a trophy just for showing up to the soccer game - forget about earning it by winning. I can't imagine how much worse that sense of entitlement will be with the next generation.

I know parenting is the hardest job on the planet - that's why I opted for cats. But for christ's sake, if you're going to have them, do the job properly. If not, keep your legs closed or cut the vas deferens already.

BTW, we loved the movie and were not at all prepared for how deeply we'd be touched by the scenes of Carl and Ellie building a beautiful life together, her passing and his mourning. We both cried like whiny toddlers. The one problem I had with it was feeding chocolate to a bird. We had to wonder how many idiots are going to try that, because you know they're out there and they're going to do it.

Hippie Healthy

I don't want to alarm anyone, but I may be turning into a hippie.

It all started with the olive leaf. I'm still taking it, in small doses, working up to the recommended daily amount, but it feels like something's changed. It could also be age, the possible onset of perimenopause or overexposure to lawn mower fumes.

I found hemp protein at the Organic Market and thought I'd give it a try. Soy is purportedly bad for the thyroid so I'd rather avoid it. I read that some soy isolate powders are processed using hexane - an Erin Brockovich chemical! Gross!

Hemp seems to be an amazing super food. It has all essential amino acids, essential fatty acids, fiber, and it has the right type of branch-chain amino acids, the right ratios, blah, blah, blah... all good stuff - super good.

So far I've used it in fruit smoothies and as a "pesto" sauce on pasta and I love it. As I sit here writing this, I could be cramming blondies down my gullet but I don't want any. I just made them yesterday and they might as well be dirt clods.

I am trying to limit sugar overall and it's true that the less you eat it the less you crave it, but I'm not off it altogether.

The PowerBars, Kashi bars, etc. are all loaded with sugar, as are my beloved almond butter-honey sandwiches and the blondies I just made (I used xylitol instead of sugar, but they have butterscotch in them). But I'm no longer craving cookies & doughnuts like my life depended on them, which sometimes it does. Seriously.

I should add, I've not been drinking for some time - it's too expensive here and I haven't felt like it. Avoiding booze cuts out a ton of sugar & toxins right there, so that's always helpful.

It's like my body is weaning itself off anything unclean or unhealthy. Not going full-on vegetarian, but I'm eating less meat and I feel good. I think I'm feeling better than I have in a while.

Better energy, clearer thinking, and a reduced desire to pick fights with customer service reps. It's still too soon to know what might be going on, but I'm enjoying it whatever it is.

NOW I Get It

Sometimes I tune into Canadian News, especially when I want to really relax before getting some sleep.

I walked through the room as they were chatting about the deficit Canada is racking up, referring to Canada as a "banana republic."

Hadn't heard that in reference to Canada before, so I Googled "Canada banana republic" and found a number of results (after scrolling through the Gap-related links) to news articles where Canada is frequently referred to as a banana republic for myriad reasons.

Now it's all making sense. Soon after we got here I had to take my car to Canadian Tire to get the Provincial inspection for registration and insurance. I wore my red Banana Republic t-shirt - the one that says "Banana Republic" on it in white letters.

It's a great shirt. I like wearing it and have often worn it when taking care of Canada-related business, like when I've had to go down to Customs, or ICBC, or the Social Insurance office. I figured wearing red might subconsciously help me get better service. Funny, eh? But seriously, I think it works.

But as I was leaving the auto shop that day, the manager sarcastically called over to me, "You know, I HAVE been out of the republic before!" and I smiled and said "Great!" not knowing WTF he was talking about.

Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Now I'm going to wear that t-shirt everywhere.

Dear Graduates

My niece Elizabeth graduates high school in a couple of weeks, which got me thinking... What would I tell a high school graduate?

The sunscreen IS important - that's a good one - but don't go loco with it. A little sun isn't going to kill you, but the cocoa butter and the spray bottle might.

But really... what have I learned in almost 25 years since I graduated high school?

• Always lean over the sink when you brush your teeth.
• Similarly, if you drink coffee, avoid wearing white shirts.
  
• Always blow your nose when you get out of the shower. Always.
  
• Girls, always keep a tampon in your purse, bag, backpack, car - everywhere. Also, always have quarters on you.
  
• Hide a $20 or $50 bill somewhere in your wallet where you can't see it. You never know when you might need emergency cash.
• Make a few sets of spare keys to your apartment and leave them with friends. If you end up out on the town too drunk to remember where you lost your keys, you'll have someone to call to let you into your place.
  
• If a weird guy (or girl) thinks he's coming home with you after a party and gets into your cab even though you've told him no dice, jump out of the cab a few blocks from home and run like the wind. He'll never find you.
• If you must cut your own hair, use photo references - lots and lots. Try to refrain from busting out the clippers. That won't turn out well.
• If you must vandalize your place of employment, admit it immediately if management busts you - it'll go a long way to helping you keep your job (ifin you want to keep your job).
  
• Don't smoke pot with your boss. Things get weird.
  
• If you end up passed out at a friend's house (or dorm room) and puke in the bathroom sink, have the courtesy to bail it out before you sneak off. It's OK to bail it out the window if that's your best option.
• Dry wheat toast and V8 is an excellent hangover cure.
  
• Take road trips. Often. By yourself and with friends.
• Live alone as soon as you're ready. For girls, never live on the ground floor, always go up.
• Go to parties by yourself and if you're nervous, assume the identity of a Martian on a fact-finding mission.
  
• If you don't have a power drill, use a small nail to pound a pilot hole, take it out, then soap the screw (dry bar soap) and it'll go right in.
• Before you move, spackle all the holes you pounded into the wall.
• If you have an annoying neighbor living on state disability for a bad back, sneak some photos of him using a pole saw to prune the large tree in his front yard.
• If you manage to get yourself arrested, do not sass and do not call anyone in uniform a Rookie.
  
• If you have no idea what you want to be when you grow up, welcome to the world - most people never figure it out, but they usually find something fun along the way.

Good luck, Graduates!