State of Grace

Late Bloomer Gets Published. World Comes to an End.

Incredibly, you will read nothing about therapy, dysfunctional families and bad childhoods in this post.  Imagine that! You click over to my url and, surprise! Not only have I published a blog entry for the second time this week, said entry will be free of existential dread and struggle.  We'll save the usual sturm und drang for another time because today is a special day, a red letter day, a happy day.

You wonder, what's going on? Why is GraceD so uncharacteristically upbeat and who put on that damn Kool and the Gang song that's always played at weddings and professional sports playoff victories?

Well, I just want to 'Celebrate' because this hot-flashing baby boomer, this Grandma Moses-like late bloomer, this writer/blogger/mother can officially announce that her ultimate fantasy has been realized: I am included in an anthology that will be on sale at a bookstore near you!

Behold, our book - celebrate good times, come on!

 

I have a story in this anthology that Roxanne Cooper told me a long time ago would be suitable for publishing.  To Rox, I thank you for saying such a nice thing.  I'm proud to tell you that I met your challenge and with this accomplishment, custom dictates that you owe me a round, if not two or three, of salty rimmed, over ice (not blended)  Austin Texas style Margaritas the next time we meet.

I am also indebted-for-life to "my Jenny" (drawled worshipfully in a kinda lame but nonetheless heartfelt imitation of Forest Gump).  Jenny Lauck, she of Three Kid Circus blogging fame and renown, suggested to editor, writer, agent and all around wonder woman Rita Arens that I may have some material for this project.  Ever the professional, Rita gave my submission a thorough shakedown, editing out pictures of my dog and the obscure references that are usual fare on my blog posts.  She was able to format my little tale of yelling at Molly then desperately wanting to escape to a Menopausal Hut into a short story.  For this, not only am I indebted-for-life to Rita as well, but I will handing over my only born, the aforementioned Molly, to the Arens household.  Rita, you're getting a deal - Molly is just a year and half away before she's 18 and kicked out of the nest to the cold, cruel world.  Thus, you have escaped Molly's middle school years and toddlerhood. A bargain, I'm telling you.

There are parent blogging superstars in this anthology, and the Table of Contents is not unlike the roster for an amazing music festival where I am an opening band (like, dare I say it, Feist?) to Radiohead-quality rock star writers of these beloved blogs:

Amalah
Binkytown
Birdie's New Mexico Time Machine
CityMama
Finslippy
Friday Playdate
Fussy
IzzyMom
Laid-Off Dad
Mom-101
Mommy Needs Coffee
Mommytrack'd
Motherhood Uncensored
Not Calm (dot com)
Paper Napkin
Rancid Raves
Surfette
Sweetney
The Modernity Ward
The Naked Ovary
Three Kid Circus
Woulda Coulda Shoulda

Adding to the glam and bling of being published, we will be doing book signings.  Be warned, someone responsible better monitor my activities at these book signings, lest I get all full of myself and sign off in the smart-ass way that David Sedaris autographs his books.  Our lovely Rita Arens, who is far more couth than David Sedaris or I could ever be, will kick off the "Sleep is for the Weak" book tour on May 17 at the Kansas City Literary Festival.  Book signings are confirmed for July 18 at BlogHer, August 29-30 at the Decatur Book Festival, September 4 at the Kansas City Barnes and Noble, and September 13 at The Full Circle in Oklahoma City. 

More "Sleep is for the Weak" events to be announced, including book signings in California where I will be on hand to conduct a bonus tequila shot drinking contest for parents of teens and/or toddlers.  Think I'm kidding? You'll have to show up to find out.

Those who need to get a jump on things can pre-order our book from Amazon, Barnes and Noble and indie book sellers, Booksense.  Official release will be September, 2008. 

I can barely stand it, dollins.

Love and blessings to all,
GraceD

 

Disaster Management

I'm back home in Santa Cruz.  In truth, I've been back for a week.  Once again, I did not fall into the abyss. But you, my Dollin Readers whose generous attention you shower upon this humble bit of bandwidth, knew that I'd be back.  Thus, here I am.  And, so, hello.  Again.  Good to see you.  I missed you.

I've been thinking about the recent natural disasters a seemingly angry earth has released upon its inhabitants.  I've been thinking that my problems are nothing next to those of the disaster's victims.  That may be true, but that should not distract me from my ongoing work in therapy.  I need to reinforce that truth to myself, hence this blog post. 

I also want to reinforce that truth with my Dearest of All My Dear Readers, any of you who are survivors of child abuse, or depressed, or undergoing a crisis of heart and/or soul - anyone who is working on their stuff like I am and who feel like their problems in the face of all this chaos are nothing.  These issues, our issues, are important and you must continue your work of seeking enlightenment and freedom from your pain.

But, it's easy to get overwhelmed with the suffering of others.  I certainly am.  What happens is that I identify with the victims and see the parallels of their life with mine.  Then I slap myself silly for thinking that my lot may be half as bad, even one/millionth as bad.  Then, I'm back to square one, where I'm feeling like a shit and loathing myself for breathing.

What it's like for me:

This morning  I woke up to the clock radio tuned to NPR news.  The reports from correspondents in China described the  earthquake's devastation as so utter and complete, I couldn't move.  I went perfectly still. I listened to the stories of mothers wailing at the site of a school collapse, their children under the crush, broken, suffering or dead.  Residents refusing to sleep in their homes, fearful of the aftershocks, and setting up camp in parks and the center of traffic roundabouts.  Chaos and destruction many times worse than what I experienced in the Loma Prieta quake of 1989 which killed 67 people.  The 7.8 quake in the Sichuan province has claimed 12,000 by official count, but doubtless will rise to at least 20,000 deaths.

Then, the NPR story segues to Myanmar and the chaos and destruction there, made worse exponentially by a totalitarian government's refusal for international aid.  Most survivors have no food, clean drinking water and shelter.  Bodies bloat and rot in the rivers.  The estimated death toll will likely climb to a million people.

By this time, I had to get up and out of my stillness, start my day and remember to maintain a balanced perspective. I  know I can become completely obsessed with a disaster half a world away.  Glued to CNN with the laptop teetering on my thighs, clicking to the BBC, New York Times and the rest of my news bookmarks, I plug myself into the news feed of  storm/quake/terrorist bombings.  It's my subconscious in overtime, in trying to get any and all information so I can gain mastery of the trauma.  If I have that knowledge, then there's control.  If I have control, then I won't be fearful. 

And this is an analogy to the biggest task I've undertaken -  examining my life thoroughly, getting  information so I can gain mastery of my own background of trauma.  But, rather than simply gathering the facts as I do during a disaster, the job in uncovering the truth about myself involves compassion that I would rather extend to grief stricken mothers in China and Burma.  I have to work very, very hard to tap that place of mercy and sympathy and give it to myself.  Why should I be focused on abuse that happened years ago to me as a teen/girl/baby, while these Chinese and Burmese mothers - and fathers, siblings, cousins, friends - are  sorting through the rubble, desperately looking for signs of life?

The answer to that is many fold, but I can sum it up with a twist on a Buddhist precept:

Save all sentient beings. And, start with yourself.

That's hard to get, especially for women.  We women put off our happiness.  We risk our health.  We place ourselves last.  For those of us who are survivors of child abuse, we're downright professional at self-neglect.   Why should we care about ourselves when those who should have cared for us fucked up the job?  If you're like me, that's an old imprint, one that's currently taking time, energy, money and patience from my family to erase in therapy. 

But, reclaiming my self worth at this point in my life is necessary on a critical, if not emergency level.  I've wasted a lot of time feeling stuck and defeated.  This doesn't work anymore (and, really, it never did).  I want to be fully functioning, I need and deserve to be whole. 

This seems easy for a comfortable American middle class woman to say on her blog.  At least I have food, at least I have clean water.    Not only do I have electricity, but I have a phone connection and this laptop, so at least I'm in communication with the world.  I'm not waiting for the high energy biscuits and water to be air dropped from a UN plane and I'm not looking at a heap of concrete blocks where my apartment used to be.  But, because I'm in this position of relative luxury, I owe it to myself to take advantage of the resources at my reach to help heal my own PTSD.  I owe it to the world to heal myself as the planet can use more  healthy, whole and loving folks. 

So, shout out to all of you in the struggle to attain self.  Don't stop, you're important. The world needs a healthy, whole and loving you.

I apologize in advance for the earworms*.

O, Florida! Sandbar state of gators and grannies, you are a source of endless fascination! Your wonders are many.  Here are a few:

This business about unruly curly hair in this climate is true! I happen to like having the humidity pump up the volume of my hair so much that I look like Barry Gibb. When I connected my puffy hair with the Bee Gees last night,  "How Deep is Your Love?" began to spin in my head. I sang just a little to my hubs ("...cause we're living in a world of fools/bringing us down/when they all should let us be/we belong to you and me") and he fell into the brothers Gibb song warp. Now you're caught in the dreaded spiral. Feel free to hate me, my hubs sure did. But the hubs, as a man of science, should have known better to aim his wrath at his very own auditory cortex which, according to other men and women of science, continues to spin the unwanted tune without your permission. 

MRIs on every block! Why is that? Hubs, that man of science, informed me it's for the elderly population, but I think the MRIs are for the folks who have McCain signs in the front yards (the first I've seen, being from Northern California and all).   McCain is for another 100 years in Iraq which is nuts, thus McCain backers need to have their heads examined.  A neuro MRI does the deed in color and cross sections.  Of course, the MRIs would have done a fine job in locating my overactive auditory cortex, which is now stuck, without rhyme or reason, on "My Sharonna".

The Venice of North America, Fort Lauderdale, with its waterways in and around both swank and modest neighborhoods. On a walk with Malcolm, I located our local canal:

I think these are lovely.  I scanned the water for manatees and gators, but none were available for viewing.  Unfortunately, a song of my youth, "Poke Salad Annie (the gator's got your granny)" got revved up on my mental turntable.    Truth be told, Tony Joe White, the father of 'Swamp Rock', is preferable to the aforementioned Bee Gees any time.

Family! Behold my hale and hardy 90 year old mom-in-law and my not-a-mean-bone-in-her-body sister-in-law Barbara, hangin at their crib. They're just up I-95 from our sweet little vacation house. We're going over there now and, as I told my Twitter friends, I better put on a proper bra.  Heck, I should put on clothes.  I can't think of a song suggestive of poolside nudity.  Visuals, yes, but in my case your image would involve a 52 year old mother with mild but persistent cellulite issues.

Come on, put on your clothes and let's see our peeps.

* Earworm, a loan translation of the German Ohrwurm, is a term for a portion of a song or other musical material that becomes "stuck" in a person's "head" or repeats against one's will within one's mind.

Napping and Wise Potato Chips - My Kind of Vacation

Yesterday I took two naps, one at noon for an hour and half and the second snooze in the late afternoon. I must have been exhausted because I fell asleep with Chris Matthews hollering at America on Hardball, sniping away at something to do with the Obama/Wright debacle.  The day before I dozed off reading and went down for a two hour napper. The day before that I didn't nap, but I did have a sip of Manischewitz concord grape wine that was so outrageously sweet, I fell into a sugar induced coma. I believe that counts as rest.

Napping and Kosher wine isn't my usual thing, but I'm in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where the hubs is attending an eye doc meeting and I've been hanging out at the sweetest little vacation rental house and visiting my dear mother and sister-in-law. We're a long way from LA, scene of my last post published 20 light years ago, and the LA hipsters in black and leather have been replaced with Florida's fine seniors in shorts and visors. Then again, conceptually I'm not too far from LA as this cute house has a pool and a hot tub and I've been using both with hedonistic dedication. 

Malcolm is with us, having been drugged into a stupor by the vet prescribed sedative and crammed into an airline approved carry on bag. We flew non-stop from SFO to Miami and he was conked out through the entire trip. Malcolm has his wings!  With the good drugs, we can take him places! I'm thinking he'd like France, where dogs can dine in bistros with impunity and wear little dog berets.

About the napping - I feel a little guilty about napping as I'm unemployed and living off the land with no real reason to be crapped out, but still, I'm bone tired.  My psyche has been working overtime since my last post and that's been taking a big toll. Certainly, the EMDR therapy has helped me more than I can articulate and I'm at ease with myself more than I have ever been. But, not all of the demons have dissipated. They've gone underground and I can tell they're lurking when I consider my moods and behavior as of late. I've been overly vigilant, excessively worried about little and large life issues.  I get easily pissed off, as demonstrated by my comments on other blogs, and have administered swift smackdowns to an infamous female troll and some bloggers who should know better.  And, most telling, I want to eat fatty, salty carbs.  (But don't we all?)

My fretting and quick temper aside, all I really want to do is rest. Do nothing. Go nowhere. Just lie out by the pool of this lovely little house on a palm lined street in the warmth of Southern Florida and catnap.  Dreaming of nothing, maybe except for the Wise potato chips waiting for me in the kitchen. Wise potato chips cannot be found on the West Coast. Ask my hubs how I squealed when I encountered the rows of Wise chip bags, resplendent in its varied flavors and salt content.  The profusion of fresh, not frozen, Lender's bagels inspired another squeal and a leap.  Be sure to ask my hubs how he backed away from me in embarrassment, hoping no one saw me jumping in the Publix aisles and ready to say to any one who saw the spectacle,  "I don't know this weirdo woman screaming at the carb products! No, not me!"

Want to see some pics?  Sure you do:

The house.  Prettier in real life and it sure looks great here.  Owner is a super guy.  $238/nightly.  Slightly cheaper than the Marriott but way bigger, like two bedroom, two bathroom, living room, fully equipped kitchen, pool and hot tub bigger.  Did I mention reliable and zippy wifi that doesn't cost an extra $12 bucks a day?  Marriott, you and your Book of Mormon in every room does not cut it for us. 

Power napping here and maybe the occasional set of laps.  But nothing too rigorous as I have pronounced that this area is dedicated to high-quality, professional lounging.

 

 

 

Further to laps - I learned that Malcolm is not a swimming dog.  He is a terrier.  That means land based.  If this terrier smothers me with a pillow tonight because I didn't consider his land based orientation and, instead, violated his delicate sensibilities by taking him for a swim, I want you to know that it's been fun and I love you all.

Living room opens to pool.  Cool, loft-like space.  Martinis should be enjoyed here, with Wise potato chips, of course. 

 

 

 

Hip dining area.  Lenders bagels have been enjoyed here. Muted gold wall color contrasts nicely with the fern green of the living room.

 

 

   

The only thing objectionable to our otherwise perfect lodgings.  We call this objet d'art, "What the Fuck?"

 

 

 

 

I'm sorry to end with that thing, but it's time to sleep. I need to rest up for tomorrow's naps.

You sleep well, too, Dollin Readers.

We go to SoCal, take in the hipness and walk the dogs.

  In Santa Monica 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

For many reasons, most especially those involving the self-preservation of sanity, Hubs handed me the keys to his car and announced, "Let's go to LA and see Tracy." 

The hubs, he is a wise and generous man. He knows I love a good road trip - I enjoy driving long distances and the good road trip satisfies the restless vagabond within.  The arrangement reflects the easy going, complementary elements of our marriage:  He catches up with academic papers, plays with the GPS and his cell phone, and takes epic naps. I get to be Queen of the Road and play my CDs of This American Life podcasts and mixes reflecting a weirdly eclectic taste in music (Django Reinhardt, Glenn Gould, Hall and Oates, Radiohead). Most importantly, by driving I avoid car sickness.  There's also something grand and authoritarian in serving as the primary road warrior, the woman you can count on to get you there.  I take this role as Mother Trucker seriously and my hubs loves to kick back toying with gadgets while  riding shotgun.

It's turned out to be a brilliant idea, this little va-kay.  The weather is perfect, upper 60s/low 70s (too chilly for some Angelenos who, astonishingly to those from a cooler climate, wear sweaters and scarves in this Spring like temperature), I scored excellent and reasonably priced last minute seaside accommodation where I'm basking in the cozy companionship of the Hubs and the Hound, Malcolm. 

Another excellent reason for the road trip was that our kiddo Tracy's band, the up and coming Twilight Sleep, gave an acoustic show last night at a deeply hip Los Feliz restaurant/bar that has a small but very nice backroom stage.  Tracy, whose ethereal voice recalls a bit of Bjork, was well received by the Deeply Hip and, of course, from us, The Parentals, aka the only 50 year olds in the room. 

We also scored heavy celebrity creds by hanging out with Tracy's boyfriend Brian, an awesome guy on all counts, most especially in his utter kindness towards us geezerly boomers.  Tracy and Brian just returned from Hawaii, Brian's home turf, where the Silversun Pickups played clubs in Maui and Oahu.  Though our kids are the very definition of Deeply Hip, they're also big, sweet nerds when it comes to family.  They stayed with Brian's grandparents and his Uncle Petey in Kailua Kona where they happily watched his Grandma's "stories" (subtitled intense Korean soap operas), and drank beers with Grandpa, a Pearl Harbor survivor.  No glitzy hotel suites and throwing TVs out of  windows for these rock stars, who prefer Grandpa's solemn stories of the Pearl Harbor Attack and Grandma pointing out the cheating wives in her Korean soaps.

Because I'm the worst of stage mothers, I am pleased to embed for your viewing pleasure below the new Silversun Pickups video directed by Johnny Cash, who is reportedly a very crazy man.  Joaquin P. set up the band on the back of a pickup truck and filmed them whizzing way too fast and doing donuts on the streets of downtown Los Angeles.  Talk about car sickness, everyone lived, but just barely.

Here you go, and off we go to a leash free dog park,  Runyon Canyon, where we will release Malcolm and mingle with the locals.  For all its many faults, I love LA, I really do.

And now for something completely different: The Mother of All Home Births

 
 

Behold my handsome Stepkiddo Andy and his beautiful wife Irene who delivered her first child in her home ALL ALONE, ALL BY HERSELF, NO EPIDURAL, NOTHING.

Before she met Andy, Irene was an EMT and married to her first husband. Her daughter Josie (who is known around here as My Dude, as opposed to My Grandchild and she addresses me in kind), was one of those fast births and Irene had the training to deal with such events. By the time her EMT colleagues arrived, Irene was holding Baby Josie in her arms while delivering the placenta.

Holy Clan of the Cave Bear!

My womenfolk are mighty and not to be messed with. You have been warned.

Wake me up when April Fools is over, 'kay?

  Lazy Mister 
  Originally uploaded by GraceD

So much to say, so much to say, so much to say.

But, let me say this first - THANK YOU FOR YOUR VALIDATION, LOVE AND WELL WISHES.

And, secondly - YES, I AM SHOUTING IN ALL CAPS. STILL AM. SUCH IS MY GRATITUDE.

I have 5 kazillion emails to return resulting from my last post.  Most are from child sexual abuse survivors who did not want to come forward with an online comment, but wanted to say, "Yes, me too."   

I understand, my dollins, I understand completely.    I have amply demonstrated that I can barely get out a blog post after I come forward with my own sorrow and shame. 

Yet, once you begin to tell your truths, there's no stopping.  You can't halt the birth, you can't push the baby back in.  Don't stop.  However, do find support when it comes time to stand up and speak.  Therapy works for me as well as compassionate friends and journal keeping.   Books, too.  Start here - The Courage to Heal -  the book that saved my life.

Dollins, Happy April to you.  I am determined not to make this my "cruelest month".   And,  I need to remind myself that my life is no Waste Land.

Don't worry, I'm quitting right here with the cheap and easy as well as dark and gloomy T.S. Eliot references.  After all, today is a good day for a prank. 

Many bunches of  "lilacs out of the dead land" to you, Dollin Readers.

Might be the bravest, most hopeful thing I've ever written.

So, this blog has been pretty lame lately.   Sporadic posts with cliffhangers - hey! I got my kid a fancy bag! Now, I'm off to therapy! THE ABYSS! Maybe I'll be back soon and maybe not.

Then, an ominous silence.  And, perhaps some curiosity - The hell did she go? Was the headshrinking session that awful?  Did she fall into the toilet before she went out the door? 

Well, it's the former - headshrinking = awful - rather than the latter, though falling into the bowl is the sort of freak accident that would happen to me.

What's the big deal about therapy?  Hasn't this blogger been through her share of psychotherapists, psychiatrists, group therapy sessions, inner child workshops, warrior woman weekends, and a stay in the psych ward already? 

Yes, I have.  Thousands and hundreds of dollars have been invested in my mental health.  This EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization Reprogramming) work, however, is different.

The gory stuff after the jump.  Thus, a warning to sister and brother abuse survivors:  Graphic descriptions of abuse lurk in the next section.  Please, my dearest of all my dollins, don't venture forward if you're feeling vulnerable and could be "triggered" by such tough information. 

Moll's New Bling-y Bag

Moll's New Bling-y Bag
Originally uploaded by GraceD

OH WELL, blew the NaBloPoMo. I suppose I could have been a ninja about it and gone to the library to use one of the computers to get online and post, but OH WELL.

And, that's the story these days - I'm giving myself a break. I don't do that well and I don't do that often enough. The only time I get a break is when my body gets into cahoots with my psyche and forces me to stop using ingenious methods like an asthma attack or anxiety so vicious that I can't leave the house. "Stop!" says the bod, "you move too fast/got to make the morning last."

(Boomers - sorry to get the '59th Street Bridge Song' stuck in your heads. The antitdote to rid yourself of 'Feeling Groovy' is a bracing round of another New York song, 'Miss You' by the Rolling Stones.

I've been walking Central Park
Singing after dark
People think I'm crazy
I've been stumbling on my feet
Shuffling through the street
People ask me, "What's the matter with you boy?"

Yeah, that's more like it, "stumbling...shuffling..." To hell with feeling groovy on the Queensboro Bridge, which is a nasty bit of road anyway, known best for punishing runners on the NYC Marathon course.)

Anyway, I did cut myself some slack without resorting to illness or panic. Instead, I ran, walked, played, planted heirloom tomato seeds and chased the hubs around the house. I also bought Molly a purse that is not a Marc Jacob's knock-off from a street vendor, but rather a shiny, lustrous Kathy Van Zeeland bag from our local mall. Please observe Molly taking stock of her prize near the Capitola Mall's food court. She loves it, will use it everywhere and with every outfit. I particularly look forward to seeing her wear this fancy, shiny thing along with her gloomy skater guy look - giant black skateboard sweatshirt with hood up in that dark monk manner, jeans with flared hems that drag on the ground, tattered Vans. And the shiny bag. Oh, to be 16 again with the license to mix up the fashion rules (as long as your peers like it, your high school circle will damn a look faster - and meaner - than Anna Wintour can reject couture lines from the pages of Vogue)

Must close here. Therapy appointment at 9:30 this morn. An hour and a half! No wussy 50 minute shrink session for this stumbling, shuffling crazy girl.

In the meantime, isn't my girl beautiful? I, of course, think so. I also wonder on a daily if not hourly basis how a Popular High School Chick sprang from my uterus 16 years ago.

Crazy-long bangs. Good for flirting.

Crazy-long bangs. Good for flirting.
Originally uploaded by GraceD

Still without the laptop but iPhone-flickr blogging will keep me going for now. Must stay with the NaBloPoMo program! Here I'm being ever so slightly coquetteish at Hubs. I got a peck on the cheek for the effort.
Ahhh, Spring...

We Pause for a Malcolm Moment and for Technical Difficulties

Audrey Hepburn-esque Neck
Originally uploaded by GraceD

There's some odd glitchy stuff going on with my 'peruter, as Moll used to call this thing we pound on all day. I'm circumventing this pesky geek problem and coming at you through the back door via flickr and the miracle that is the iPhone. Cool! However, the keyboard on the touch screen is too weeny to do real power typing and I'm unable to get my fingertips on the right keys because I'm a total klutz. It's taken me three hours to get to this sentence of this post! For now, please gaze upon my furchild, Malcolm. who is doing his best imitation of a giraffe, though he would prefer that you think of Audrey Hepburn in regarding his long, elegant neck.

Why life is great...

Springtime Becomes George
Originally uploaded by GraceD

...despite all my fears and chronic dread:

1. It's spring in Santa Cruz
2. The air is fragrant with blossoms.
3. My husband loves me. Just look at that smiling man.



Therapy was great, which means I opened up a bit which means I cried like I thought my heart was going to break. Yup, it's an AFOG (another fucking opportunity for growth).

Will discuss. For now, it's off to bed after a beautiful, active day.

Freaked

This brief entry in list form serves to explain why the last post was so stupid:

1.  I'm very nervous because I have to go to my third therapy session this morning.
2.  Therapy is hard and anxiety inducing.
3.  I will begin a technique called EMDR soon and right now I'm prepping for it.  You know, history taking, getting to know my therapist, she getting to know me, etc.
4.  Even the prep/etc.  is anxiety inducing.

So, forgive me, Dollin Reader, this is a bitch and singing "da da da" riffs to myself is the best I can do at this point.

I will be brave and try to write about the process when I come back. 

Love,
GraceD

Day 3 of NaBloPoMo - List: Five Classic Rock Riffs

For your reference - Riff rhythms translated in "da" notation.

1.  Deep Purple, "Smoke on the Water"
Da da DA/Da da DA DA/Da da DA/DA DA

2.  Derek and the Dominos, "Layla"
Da da dadda da da DA/DA DA DA DA da DA

3.   Rolling Stones, "Brown Sugar"
Da da/Da da dadda da/Da da/Da da dadda da

4.  The Kingsman, "Louie, Louie"
DA DA DA/DA DA /DA DA DA/DA DA

5.  The Kinks, "You Really Got Me Now"
DA DADDA DA DA/DA DADDA DA DA

Day 2 of NaBloPoMo - Test! And, I'd be a gun packing mama if I had to be.

test

******************

Yeah, I got your "test", like a test of my patience, a test from the gods, a test in the form of technical difficulties. My laptop said no, no, no, no Internet for me.  No rehab either.  (I think I have just maxed out on the Amy Winehouse triple no on this blog.   No, no, no more.)

Anyway, I left the "test" above as a way to save my place on NaBloPoMo.  It may not fly, it may not count as a post, and Eden may smack me silly then force me into this pose for such a weak-ass attempt to stay in the game.  But, I will not break down! I shall carry on! Hence, tonight we have not one but two posts of lists, glorious lists.

This is for gwendomama, who loves me like a rock and will lavish me with freshly baked goods just for doing the following classic blog meme, Five Random Things About My Sexy Self. 

1.  I've gone 50 years without knowing that my left leg is shorter than my right.  My doc observed my asymmetrical gams a couple of years ago, just prior to sticking a needle as long as a curtain rod into my right knee.   I was jonesing for that cortisone injection, I had knee bursitis that hurt like a mofo.  The bursitis - and a myriad of other knee and ankle issues - all due to the sad fact that I am lopsided.  This also explains why I trip on my longer leg now and again.  That alone killed my career as a runway model.

2.  I'm all for "the right of the people to keep and bear arms."  Unlike many of my progressive friends, I vigorously object to losing any shred of our Second Amendment rights.   Evil exists and though we'd like to confront Evil with the peace and clarity of the Dalai Lama, I believe that Evil would want to cut His Holiness.  I don't have the open, expansive spirit of the Dalai Lama, and thus would prefer to confront Evil with my own legally owned weapon.  If I were a gay man, I'd have a gun.  If we lived deeper in the local mountains, I'd have a gun.  If any one hurt any of my family, I'd go after them with a gun.  Indeed, I began to feel strongly about citizen's defense when I became a mother.

3.  Also, since becoming a mother, I'm also for the death penalty.  This evil doer was instrumental in making me a believer.

4.  I'm not comfortable swimming in a medium to big body of water.   I do know how to swim and I'm fairly good at it, but I'm not one to throw myself into a sizeable pool, a swimming hole or the ocean.  I don't do laps.  I don't body surf.  Many years ago, I tried to overcome my wariness by getting SCUBA certified.  Though I documented quite a few dives into my dive log , I still felt sketchy.  Please note:  My uneasiness with swimming should not prevent you from inviting me to your pool party.  I'll bring an entree, some wine and I'll be perfectly happy bobbing around in the shallow end on an inflatable ducky ring.

5.  I have not been without a pedicure for a year now.  And, I always wear earrings.  That's about as girly as I get.

No, I will not tag anyone for this meme.  If you have a blog, no doubt you've done it anyway.  But, just for kicks, you could let me know just one odd random thing about yourself in the comments.  Go on, tell me about how you're double jointed or that there's a colorful hummingbird tattoo on your left buttock.