Barnrazing by the Bitchtits
Okay, so Laurence and Gordon don't exactly have the tits to be officially part of the Bitchtits, but their nelly ways make them honorary members, if you know what I mean.
Barnrazing at the Aitken house was fabulous. For those who are unfamiliar, the Barnrazing Troupe is a group of us pals who get together one Saturday each month at someone's house and do whatever projects they need to have done. This ranges from weeding to painting, from creating shelving units to laying down flagstone, from replacing deck boards to hacking back poison oak infused shrubbery. Breakfast, water/sodas, and lunch are supplied by the homer, and in this case, after-razing drinks. We get a lot done, laugh a ton, and learn a bit.
As the homer, I think I've adjusted to my ideas becoming something other than what my mental imagery created, such as where or how things are hung on walls.
Alas, the cadre of industrious folks including, of course, Gordon, Laurence, Nancy, Terry, Joni, Kay, Anne, Karen, Vicki, Sue, and Sue downed 3 pounds, yes THREE pounds of bacon, a gallon of coffee, a couple bags of tea, nearly a dozen eggs, and some tasty pop-n-fresh eggs before spreading out like ants around the homestead.
<>100 pounds of rocks were spread along a path, ice plants found soily homes, and burlap & weedblock unrolled and adhered their flapping edges to a hillside.
<>Outside lights removed and new ones hung, a giant particle board cabinet found a home off the ground with all of its shelves shiny and clean, and two bikes were hoisted into the air by way of a wacky pulley system and a simple rubberized hook.
<>One room with funky angles and vaulted ceilings transformed itself into a new, non-mental hospital color (now it's November Rain), with an exceptional tape job and two, count 'em TWO coats of paint. Another room received an up-in-the-air t.v. stand thing (just like in a hospital!).
<>Moss, leaves, sticks, and crud found themselves dug out and hoisted off the nooks and crannies of the roof and gutters.
Lots of projects completed by a close-knit group of able friends. Really, it's an awesome day, a great time to laugh and tell dirty jokes, or talk about politics, or family, or our animals, and occasionally learn a new trade. A bunch of neighbors-cum-friends who don't sleep together but we do work well together.
The Forest Hill/Bitch Tits Barnrazers. We're quite a group of pals. Maybe other readers/friends will tether this notion and start something like this in their own neighborhood.
Next month: Gordon's place.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Episode 2: In Search Of.... Over 40 (singlet) Lesbians in N. California
During the late 1970s and early 1980s, a tv show hosted by one Leonard Nimoy titled In Search Of filled the sci-fi/quirky wonderment stuff niche that The Twilight Zone truly created. The stuff which makes us wonder 'what if...?' or 'where are...?' I believe this show was originally hosted by Rod Serling until he died, but I may be mistaken on that. It was the Bicentennial year, after all, and so much red-white-blue-Paul Revere-Boston Tea Party-Bicentennial Minute (remember those?) filled the airwaves and my nubile adolescent mind, I may be mistaken on the hosting thing.
At any rate, Nimoy's show searched out the para-normal: Aliens, the Bermuda Triangle, Easter Island, the Devil, and so on. There was always a disclaimer at the beginning about the nature of the evidence used to demonstrate and back up their "theories."
I too am in Search Of...the odd, the para-normal, the pondered but not often discoverable, the lost, wandering, or meld-into-the woodwork O-40 Single Lesbians. Do they exist, these singlets, these lawyers, graphic designers, these librarians, truck drivers, cashiers, and non-profiteers? Are they clustering in some underground organic root-vegetable cellar or saddling up to a wine bar in Sonoma? Nibbling crumpets under a string quartet or digging ditches under the leering eyes of male, shovel-leaning co-workers? Where art thou? Or, do they exist at all? In octets, duos, or on uni-cycles?
I decided, for the sake of my singlet pal, Terry, whose online match-up adventures have gone horribly south as a result of basic Lame-o, Lackluster, Lesbo-ball-dropping (not hers, by the way), to do a bit of "field research" and attempt to locate some. Just as a little insight, this was about as successful as locating a bison in Golden Gate Park. Oh! There are bison in GG Park, but one cannot see them unless you know where to find that diminishing herd. The forest through the trees, needle in a haystack, contact lens in a pool. You get the idea. Not impossible, just not obvious.
Time of day: after 11:30am, Thursday. Grocery stores: I started with mainstream stores like Safeway & Lucky's. I spotted two in each. Safeway's was a couple of dykes, paired up, wandering around the pasta & ethnic food aisle in search of tomatoes, tomato sauces. Lucky's: luckier, actually. Two separate citings of singlets, slightly grayed. One fondling cucumbers (hello!) and carrots (mmm-hmmm), the other reading nutritional labels in the cracker section. Neither of the missies in Produce gave me a glint of the upward head nod, the 'yea, I'm one too.' Or the scan-my-basket-eyebrow-raise 'I see you have a soymilk drink', which I suppose would imply I'm lactose intolerant or just a fan of natural, sweetened, thirst-quenching hormones. Nonetheless, it didn't happen. On to starches.
Where Ms. Cracker and I -- I decided to ponder the merits of the TLC vs. Triscuit Low-fat, for conversation sake -- engaged in a humorous banter about the trade-offs between more crackers, but less taste, or fewer crackers, more taste, but less fat and, of course, more salt. Back and forth between the Wheat Thin or the Breton, the Kavli versus the Sociables. I told her that Chicken in a Biscuit still were a hands-down favorite, followed immediately by the two-flavored "Duoz" Cheese Nips. She bumped the latter to first place without even considering a C.i.a.B. but clearly felt that the Waverly Wafer was in contention. For calorie sake, though, she settled on a low-fat Wheat Thin, preferring small, palette-ripping squares to any other. We bid each other well.
Field Research Part Deux. Coffee. We love coffee, the scent, the warmy-ness, the cartoony steam that rises from each luscious cup and into our nostrils like a roast turkey with those papered feet to Foghorn Leghorn's black and white dog buddy. Coffee has that cobra-in-the-basket allure not only to me, but to so many lezzies out there. It's the wooden flute to my hooded nose, you know, all taken by the hypnotic tune or scent that I'll just rise from a deep, pillowed slumber and walk my zombied self to the nearest mug o' joe. Most of my gal pals are this way; I know a few tea drinkers, though, and I've opted to maintain an open mind about their, mmm, 'choice.' I forgive them for this gastronomical life-path divergence.
Coffee houses and cafes. This is where I was certain I'd spy a few wandering O-40L-eyes. 9:45am I ventured off towards Berkeley. College town, hip, youngish, and foggy and a little drizzly. Mist and fog are good. It means that people are a little chilled and need warm liquids to ward off Nature's perspiration resting on their Gore-tex and the cloudiness settling into their minds.
I started at Peet's, mostly because this is the only liquid beanery that I consume. I'm costumed in my usual moist weather garb: old LLBean rainboots, jeans, t-shirt, and a long, mid-shin raincoat. I'm identifiably gay by such equipment and the short hair doesn't hurt either. I get my joe, settle into a tiny table and chair with my back against the wall, and casually open my Sun magazine. It's a literary thing, sure to draw a lurking O-40 literate eye for sure.
30 minutes into this little survey, and I've shared not much more than a couple half-mouthed grins to some 20-something, backpacked dykes (prob undergrads), cute, for sure. One grandmotherly Berkeley woman who just seemed solid, strong, and, well, a smart yet straight grandmother (I'm guessing 80s, btw) who simply needed a little help with the door as she juggled her umbrella and two coffees. One very straight woman clad in heels, slacks, and a sparkling boulder on her left ring finger who I'm assuming fit the 'literate lurker' but not gay bill. And one toothless homeless woman seeking change. My cup was dry and my research proved little. Strike one.
A little buzzed, I move onto Cafe Numero dos: the side tables at noneother than The Berkeley Bowl, the awesome super-produce, super vegged, super-organic, super-selection of deli and bakery foods, and just plain, super-market in, duh, Berkeley.
When I'm not doing "research" I bump into hoards of lezzies fondling bottles of strawberry kefir, scooping almond-stuffed olives, pondering 'green' lotions in cobalt plastic bottles, or digging into the bulk granola. They're always strolling every aisle, making eye contact over egg plants, colliding their carts into my overflowing handbasket, and pawing every food on the pyramid. It's a great store.
The O-40s should be there, as should everybody else..... I mean, the store's always busy. Even at 10:30am. Except today.
I actually bought a Powerbar and a banana: something to soak up the yummy, carmel-colored coffee (I always add a little milk to cool it and skim some of the bitterness). I took a seat and, magazine in hand, peered over the pages for research purposes.
20 minutes and many pages actually read, because the Lesbians were not shopping this aisles. Baked goods and hot deli items clearly not on the cuisine radar today. Not even a lez-mom w/child-in-stroller sauntered by. What's with that? A little drizzle gettin' you down? Get outside, people! Strike two.
What will come of my research?
At any rate, Nimoy's show searched out the para-normal: Aliens, the Bermuda Triangle, Easter Island, the Devil, and so on. There was always a disclaimer at the beginning about the nature of the evidence used to demonstrate and back up their "theories."
I too am in Search Of...the odd, the para-normal, the pondered but not often discoverable, the lost, wandering, or meld-into-the woodwork O-40 Single Lesbians. Do they exist, these singlets, these lawyers, graphic designers, these librarians, truck drivers, cashiers, and non-profiteers? Are they clustering in some underground organic root-vegetable cellar or saddling up to a wine bar in Sonoma? Nibbling crumpets under a string quartet or digging ditches under the leering eyes of male, shovel-leaning co-workers? Where art thou? Or, do they exist at all? In octets, duos, or on uni-cycles?
I decided, for the sake of my singlet pal, Terry, whose online match-up adventures have gone horribly south as a result of basic Lame-o, Lackluster, Lesbo-ball-dropping (not hers, by the way), to do a bit of "field research" and attempt to locate some. Just as a little insight, this was about as successful as locating a bison in Golden Gate Park. Oh! There are bison in GG Park, but one cannot see them unless you know where to find that diminishing herd. The forest through the trees, needle in a haystack, contact lens in a pool. You get the idea. Not impossible, just not obvious.
Time of day: after 11:30am, Thursday. Grocery stores: I started with mainstream stores like Safeway & Lucky's. I spotted two in each. Safeway's was a couple of dykes, paired up, wandering around the pasta & ethnic food aisle in search of tomatoes, tomato sauces. Lucky's: luckier, actually. Two separate citings of singlets, slightly grayed. One fondling cucumbers (hello!) and carrots (mmm-hmmm), the other reading nutritional labels in the cracker section. Neither of the missies in Produce gave me a glint of the upward head nod, the 'yea, I'm one too.' Or the scan-my-basket-eyebrow-raise 'I see you have a soymilk drink', which I suppose would imply I'm lactose intolerant or just a fan of natural, sweetened, thirst-quenching hormones. Nonetheless, it didn't happen. On to starches.
Where Ms. Cracker and I -- I decided to ponder the merits of the TLC vs. Triscuit Low-fat, for conversation sake -- engaged in a humorous banter about the trade-offs between more crackers, but less taste, or fewer crackers, more taste, but less fat and, of course, more salt. Back and forth between the Wheat Thin or the Breton, the Kavli versus the Sociables. I told her that Chicken in a Biscuit still were a hands-down favorite, followed immediately by the two-flavored "Duoz" Cheese Nips. She bumped the latter to first place without even considering a C.i.a.B. but clearly felt that the Waverly Wafer was in contention. For calorie sake, though, she settled on a low-fat Wheat Thin, preferring small, palette-ripping squares to any other. We bid each other well.
Field Research Part Deux. Coffee. We love coffee, the scent, the warmy-ness, the cartoony steam that rises from each luscious cup and into our nostrils like a roast turkey with those papered feet to Foghorn Leghorn's black and white dog buddy. Coffee has that cobra-in-the-basket allure not only to me, but to so many lezzies out there. It's the wooden flute to my hooded nose, you know, all taken by the hypnotic tune or scent that I'll just rise from a deep, pillowed slumber and walk my zombied self to the nearest mug o' joe. Most of my gal pals are this way; I know a few tea drinkers, though, and I've opted to maintain an open mind about their, mmm, 'choice.' I forgive them for this gastronomical life-path divergence.
Coffee houses and cafes. This is where I was certain I'd spy a few wandering O-40L-eyes. 9:45am I ventured off towards Berkeley. College town, hip, youngish, and foggy and a little drizzly. Mist and fog are good. It means that people are a little chilled and need warm liquids to ward off Nature's perspiration resting on their Gore-tex and the cloudiness settling into their minds.
I started at Peet's, mostly because this is the only liquid beanery that I consume. I'm costumed in my usual moist weather garb: old LLBean rainboots, jeans, t-shirt, and a long, mid-shin raincoat. I'm identifiably gay by such equipment and the short hair doesn't hurt either. I get my joe, settle into a tiny table and chair with my back against the wall, and casually open my Sun magazine. It's a literary thing, sure to draw a lurking O-40 literate eye for sure.
30 minutes into this little survey, and I've shared not much more than a couple half-mouthed grins to some 20-something, backpacked dykes (prob undergrads), cute, for sure. One grandmotherly Berkeley woman who just seemed solid, strong, and, well, a smart yet straight grandmother (I'm guessing 80s, btw) who simply needed a little help with the door as she juggled her umbrella and two coffees. One very straight woman clad in heels, slacks, and a sparkling boulder on her left ring finger who I'm assuming fit the 'literate lurker' but not gay bill. And one toothless homeless woman seeking change. My cup was dry and my research proved little. Strike one.
A little buzzed, I move onto Cafe Numero dos: the side tables at noneother than The Berkeley Bowl, the awesome super-produce, super vegged, super-organic, super-selection of deli and bakery foods, and just plain, super-market in, duh, Berkeley.
When I'm not doing "research" I bump into hoards of lezzies fondling bottles of strawberry kefir, scooping almond-stuffed olives, pondering 'green' lotions in cobalt plastic bottles, or digging into the bulk granola. They're always strolling every aisle, making eye contact over egg plants, colliding their carts into my overflowing handbasket, and pawing every food on the pyramid. It's a great store.
The O-40s should be there, as should everybody else..... I mean, the store's always busy. Even at 10:30am. Except today.
I actually bought a Powerbar and a banana: something to soak up the yummy, carmel-colored coffee (I always add a little milk to cool it and skim some of the bitterness). I took a seat and, magazine in hand, peered over the pages for research purposes.
20 minutes and many pages actually read, because the Lesbians were not shopping this aisles. Baked goods and hot deli items clearly not on the cuisine radar today. Not even a lez-mom w/child-in-stroller sauntered by. What's with that? A little drizzle gettin' you down? Get outside, people! Strike two.
What will come of my research?
Friday, March 13, 2009
Pupsters- our buddies and their abbreviated lives
I've had many dogs in my life. In the early formative years, we were a Basset hound family, starting with Wadsworth (mom named her thus because she was such "a Longfellow"), aka, Wadsy, Melvin her disinterested mate and a rather cranky sleeper, Myron (my buddy), Jesse, Snerd, Smedley, Eustace, and Mabel. In between a few of those floor-cleaners were some taller pooches, Clifford, or 'Cluff-a-dawdle-doodle', Maggie, a loyal, smart, and joyful lab-springer mix. My parents had a Dachsund named Heiste Von Hund long before any of us were born. Lots of cats, a bunch of ducks, geese, three tortoises, all bearing the name Yertle (I, II, and III), a handful of rabbits, various county fair goldfish, and, of course, one pony appropriately named Eeyore fit themselves in there too, but it was the dogs, our lovable barking buddies who I really connected with, and subsequently felt the greatest loss when they died.
Cliff's & Maggie's lives were cut short by car wheels, while the others met their untimely fate from the basic end-of-life system.
Mabel, the last Basset my mom had lived her final year down here in Oakland. Mom moved into an Assisted Living facility and couldn't take her with, so I adopted her. Initially, she could hardly walk the entire block around my house from basic lethargy from the lack of exercise living with my mom and her lung-cancered husband. Within a couple months, though, Mabel's ears were flopping and flying over the dirt paths in the East Bay hills, her shoestrings of slobber picking up stray insects and dried pine needles. She died of a bladder cancer, but at least she was happy in the end. On her last earthly day, she rolled on some worms and chased the mailman across the street, wagging the entire time. Her eyes glistened with complete happiness as did mine even during her last moments here.
Dogs have a way of conveying that love and trust of us, especially when they finally turn and make that decision to allow Us to make That decision. It's like they know that we won't make it at the right time. Sometimes, because of all that pure contendedness they've brought us, we humans just aren't ready to let them go, and perhaps this is when our canine pals take that step, get a little sicker, or just go to sleep forever, and make it a hair easier for us because they know we can't always make the right decision about ending their soulful lives which have added so much zest and vitality to our own. Dogs know and they try to make it a little easier for we bi-peds.
Other than Myron, the black and white spotted and pudgy Basset who was my best pal during adolescence, Abby was my girl. A 21st Birthday Gift, she was a black lab (shimmering with natural gold highlights) with one black and three pedi-dipped white paws and a tiny white star on her chest. Brilliant dog, she and I were inseparable. Pure heart and affection, she knew me better than any human could, or should I say any that I allowed. She grounded me with her solemn presence and thumping tail. An old soul in a youthful body.
She had a certain affinity for finding a ball anywhere. Anywhere. Sure she could swim in the rapids of a spring run-off river, and, she ruled the house, chased after cats, squirrels, fish, and ducks on any pond or lake (even wanting to chase after some migrating fowl on the frozen Clark Fork River) but it was her ball sense that really set her apart.
Once, we went camping in the Mendocino Nat'l Forest. Never been there before, so the adventure was fresh, engaging, and each duel with all the gargantuan biting horseflies became regular, human vs. nature comedy acts. Abby was happy as a lark, running along the trails with her buddy, Ren, a shepherd-pit mix with a sensitive heart and endless energy. They chased scents and, of course Abbers endlessly chased down pinecones until she disappeared in the thicket. I couldn't even see her wagging tail, usually an indication of something fabulous to roll in, poke, or dig for. Ren stood on the trail, perplexed at his sister's disappearance.
Five minutes later, my little black, 4-legged ground-force returned all wags and happy amber eyes. Leaves, burrs, thistles, and a few ticks covered her gold-flecked fur. Dust clouds wafted from her allegro-metronome tail for one and only one reason: in her mouth was a musty, hardly-yellow, mottled tennis ball. No bounce remained in its rubber. It hit the ground with the same buoyancy of a stick. That didn't matter to her, though, because it was all about the ball, the true hunt, the spherical objet d'arte that enhanced her daily life there. This made the camping trip beyond worthwhile, not only for her, but for me, the proud, beaming human who brought her here.
Abby was a life force for me. She grounded me with her placid nature, she energized me with her joy and her ball chases. She astounded me with her intelligence, able to cross the street with enough knowledge and awareness of approaching car proximity. Often she'd step out into the street, heading for the other side, and I'd call her back. She'd just stand there and look at me, then up the street, where the car was slowly rolling. It was like she did a mathematical story problem in her head, figuring the rate x time = distance, and solved how long it would take pokey-joe driver to arrive at our location. It was clear that we humans were the uninformed and unlike her, didn't do many math story problems in our dreams.
Abby was the Alpha, no doubt about that. During rainstorms, she chose the hike or walk route, which usually indicated a longer distance than what I, or any other human wanted. Soon, I learned to appreciate the rain as much as she. Loved the water, being in or near it just as I did.
When I moved to Montana, I actually drove out of my way because she woke up, stuck her nose out the passenger window and started whining. The highway sign indicated there was a lake nearby. Abby being Abby, and me being me, I obeyed (hmm, now we really see who was Alpha here!) and drove 10 miles out of my way to get her to the water. Was it an inconvenience? Well, when we see our puppies romping, swimming, smiling, and wagging rib-to-rib as they stand in the water, can we count this as annoying or bothersome? Horseflies, yes, but Pure-doggie-joy is never, no never an annoyance. A couple of her front teeth were a bit chipped from her other fave game: chase the rock! Streams, ponds, and rivers bore out this delightful game: she'd dig up a rock, then I'd toss it into shallow water where she'd blow bubbles and waggily dig it out again. Whenever I drove from the Bay Area up to Oregon, we always stopped at a mountain stream near Mt. Shasta. Not only was she content to wade and swim in the water (btw, the season didn't matter) but this Abby-reinforced rest stop settled my nerves a bit. She took care of both of us, as most dogs tend to do.
Abby died at home in 1996 at 12 years of age. She'd developed a large mass on her spleen and despite surgery, the complications that resulted were too much. Her normally Wide-Load body (she always carried a bit of that "puppy fat") was thin from not eating for more than a week and what the i.v. fed her before and during her surgery. When she died, she turned away from me, faced the wall. Part of me turned away too, unable to face the loss of her, the loss of a friend, and a little loss of me.
HILLARY
About 15 years ago, Hillary, Karen & Kim's lab was born from her yellow lab mother, Bonnie (Karen's family pooch). Hillary popped out chocolate brown and wagging. She, like Abberoni had velveteen ears, an ever-moving tail, and a warm, nuzzling demeanor. She'd lie in the sun and, with her cat buddy, May, two years her senior and lying next to her, they'd watch hummingbirds, starlings, finches, and butterflies flit about their flowered yard. Peace between the factions, a kinship between old friends. They appreciated life, probably had those Far Side conversations about The good ole days when they'd chase after these critters, but the ole bones reminded them to just watch and reflect. The two pals were Zen masters in their own rights. Mind you, just a couple months ago, she tussled with a marauding raccoon. Because Karen & Kim live near the ocean, the beach became her favorite weekend romping ground: what could be better than soft, diggable sand, lapping waves, and flocks of just-out-of-range birds skimming the water's edge? Again, like Abbers' river-rock game, the beach was pure joy for Hill. This will be where some of Hillary will be released.
On Tuesday, March 10, age and pain got the best of Hillary. She thumped her tail, stretched her body out, and with the help of K & K's vet friend, Hillary joined Abby in the land of endless water and limitless chases.
Her velvet ears, snuffling snout, and adoring eyes will be missed. She, like so many of our little four-legged buddies, these beings that give us so much and ask so little other than kindness and dependability was cheated out of more years on this planet. At least now, up in Doggie Nirvana, all is painfree and pleasant.
A dog's life is such a cheat by Mother Nature. Most don't live beyond 12, some make it to 14, a few hardies stretch it out to 17, still these are mere portions of our lives: sometimes only a third, maybe even half, for some of us, these buddies live our entire (aware) lives then let go when we move away, or as we prepare to. Their purpose on earth served: to share goodness, to push our tolerance buttons (those "rare" chewing, digging, tearing-up moments), and to help us heal whatever wounds us. Dogs understand that loss of love, that failure, the anger and unjustness we feel from life's wrongdoings. But they're always there, lending a lick, a paw, or just a heavy sigh to let us know that we can rely on them. So why, oh why, Mother Nature must you mock us and keep their lives so short when these little guys give so very much? Parrots live 65-75 years. Why can't our pupsters have their abbreviated life-spurring presences extended a healthy decade or so? Only seems fair.
Alas, I must accept these losses in the face of the extraordinary gains.
Adios Hillary. You are and will be missed. Say hello to Abbers for me and give her a little nuzzle behind the ears. She always liked that. Please check in with Patch and Poppy, they'll help you out. The Sophster is a lot like Abbers, I'm sure you'll get along. Pahtu will show you what being a real Bernese lap dog is all about. Janie and Dylan will be wandering around too, hanging out in the sunny grass. Aspen might act like she wants you to stop playing, but she really wants to join in the fun. Look out for Bijoux, she's got a thing about being an alpha, but she'll probably share the buffet litter box -- and Beau will too, since that's one his faves -- or various discarded Kleenex's with you. Woody and Pete, will hopefully share some tennis balls and a comfy bed with you. Daisy, Duncan, Oscar, Lucky and Rags will be guarding your shins and shoulder blades from any unwanted marauders. Mabel might drool on you, but both she and Myron only do it out of kindness.
As with all our little buddies, many not even mentioned here, we'll miss you, your bark and your wag, miss cuddling with you, and really miss seeing your reliable, dependable, loving self every day.
Cliff's & Maggie's lives were cut short by car wheels, while the others met their untimely fate from the basic end-of-life system.
Mabel, the last Basset my mom had lived her final year down here in Oakland. Mom moved into an Assisted Living facility and couldn't take her with, so I adopted her. Initially, she could hardly walk the entire block around my house from basic lethargy from the lack of exercise living with my mom and her lung-cancered husband. Within a couple months, though, Mabel's ears were flopping and flying over the dirt paths in the East Bay hills, her shoestrings of slobber picking up stray insects and dried pine needles. She died of a bladder cancer, but at least she was happy in the end. On her last earthly day, she rolled on some worms and chased the mailman across the street, wagging the entire time. Her eyes glistened with complete happiness as did mine even during her last moments here.
Dogs have a way of conveying that love and trust of us, especially when they finally turn and make that decision to allow Us to make That decision. It's like they know that we won't make it at the right time. Sometimes, because of all that pure contendedness they've brought us, we humans just aren't ready to let them go, and perhaps this is when our canine pals take that step, get a little sicker, or just go to sleep forever, and make it a hair easier for us because they know we can't always make the right decision about ending their soulful lives which have added so much zest and vitality to our own. Dogs know and they try to make it a little easier for we bi-peds.
Other than Myron, the black and white spotted and pudgy Basset who was my best pal during adolescence, Abby was my girl. A 21st Birthday Gift, she was a black lab (shimmering with natural gold highlights) with one black and three pedi-dipped white paws and a tiny white star on her chest. Brilliant dog, she and I were inseparable. Pure heart and affection, she knew me better than any human could, or should I say any that I allowed. She grounded me with her solemn presence and thumping tail. An old soul in a youthful body.
She had a certain affinity for finding a ball anywhere. Anywhere. Sure she could swim in the rapids of a spring run-off river, and, she ruled the house, chased after cats, squirrels, fish, and ducks on any pond or lake (even wanting to chase after some migrating fowl on the frozen Clark Fork River) but it was her ball sense that really set her apart.
Once, we went camping in the Mendocino Nat'l Forest. Never been there before, so the adventure was fresh, engaging, and each duel with all the gargantuan biting horseflies became regular, human vs. nature comedy acts. Abby was happy as a lark, running along the trails with her buddy, Ren, a shepherd-pit mix with a sensitive heart and endless energy. They chased scents and, of course Abbers endlessly chased down pinecones until she disappeared in the thicket. I couldn't even see her wagging tail, usually an indication of something fabulous to roll in, poke, or dig for. Ren stood on the trail, perplexed at his sister's disappearance.
Five minutes later, my little black, 4-legged ground-force returned all wags and happy amber eyes. Leaves, burrs, thistles, and a few ticks covered her gold-flecked fur. Dust clouds wafted from her allegro-metronome tail for one and only one reason: in her mouth was a musty, hardly-yellow, mottled tennis ball. No bounce remained in its rubber. It hit the ground with the same buoyancy of a stick. That didn't matter to her, though, because it was all about the ball, the true hunt, the spherical objet d'arte that enhanced her daily life there. This made the camping trip beyond worthwhile, not only for her, but for me, the proud, beaming human who brought her here.
Abby was a life force for me. She grounded me with her placid nature, she energized me with her joy and her ball chases. She astounded me with her intelligence, able to cross the street with enough knowledge and awareness of approaching car proximity. Often she'd step out into the street, heading for the other side, and I'd call her back. She'd just stand there and look at me, then up the street, where the car was slowly rolling. It was like she did a mathematical story problem in her head, figuring the rate x time = distance, and solved how long it would take pokey-joe driver to arrive at our location. It was clear that we humans were the uninformed and unlike her, didn't do many math story problems in our dreams.
Abby was the Alpha, no doubt about that. During rainstorms, she chose the hike or walk route, which usually indicated a longer distance than what I, or any other human wanted. Soon, I learned to appreciate the rain as much as she. Loved the water, being in or near it just as I did.
When I moved to Montana, I actually drove out of my way because she woke up, stuck her nose out the passenger window and started whining. The highway sign indicated there was a lake nearby. Abby being Abby, and me being me, I obeyed (hmm, now we really see who was Alpha here!) and drove 10 miles out of my way to get her to the water. Was it an inconvenience? Well, when we see our puppies romping, swimming, smiling, and wagging rib-to-rib as they stand in the water, can we count this as annoying or bothersome? Horseflies, yes, but Pure-doggie-joy is never, no never an annoyance. A couple of her front teeth were a bit chipped from her other fave game: chase the rock! Streams, ponds, and rivers bore out this delightful game: she'd dig up a rock, then I'd toss it into shallow water where she'd blow bubbles and waggily dig it out again. Whenever I drove from the Bay Area up to Oregon, we always stopped at a mountain stream near Mt. Shasta. Not only was she content to wade and swim in the water (btw, the season didn't matter) but this Abby-reinforced rest stop settled my nerves a bit. She took care of both of us, as most dogs tend to do.
Abby died at home in 1996 at 12 years of age. She'd developed a large mass on her spleen and despite surgery, the complications that resulted were too much. Her normally Wide-Load body (she always carried a bit of that "puppy fat") was thin from not eating for more than a week and what the i.v. fed her before and during her surgery. When she died, she turned away from me, faced the wall. Part of me turned away too, unable to face the loss of her, the loss of a friend, and a little loss of me.
HILLARY
About 15 years ago, Hillary, Karen & Kim's lab was born from her yellow lab mother, Bonnie (Karen's family pooch). Hillary popped out chocolate brown and wagging. She, like Abberoni had velveteen ears, an ever-moving tail, and a warm, nuzzling demeanor. She'd lie in the sun and, with her cat buddy, May, two years her senior and lying next to her, they'd watch hummingbirds, starlings, finches, and butterflies flit about their flowered yard. Peace between the factions, a kinship between old friends. They appreciated life, probably had those Far Side conversations about The good ole days when they'd chase after these critters, but the ole bones reminded them to just watch and reflect. The two pals were Zen masters in their own rights. Mind you, just a couple months ago, she tussled with a marauding raccoon. Because Karen & Kim live near the ocean, the beach became her favorite weekend romping ground: what could be better than soft, diggable sand, lapping waves, and flocks of just-out-of-range birds skimming the water's edge? Again, like Abbers' river-rock game, the beach was pure joy for Hill. This will be where some of Hillary will be released.
On Tuesday, March 10, age and pain got the best of Hillary. She thumped her tail, stretched her body out, and with the help of K & K's vet friend, Hillary joined Abby in the land of endless water and limitless chases.
Her velvet ears, snuffling snout, and adoring eyes will be missed. She, like so many of our little four-legged buddies, these beings that give us so much and ask so little other than kindness and dependability was cheated out of more years on this planet. At least now, up in Doggie Nirvana, all is painfree and pleasant.
A dog's life is such a cheat by Mother Nature. Most don't live beyond 12, some make it to 14, a few hardies stretch it out to 17, still these are mere portions of our lives: sometimes only a third, maybe even half, for some of us, these buddies live our entire (aware) lives then let go when we move away, or as we prepare to. Their purpose on earth served: to share goodness, to push our tolerance buttons (those "rare" chewing, digging, tearing-up moments), and to help us heal whatever wounds us. Dogs understand that loss of love, that failure, the anger and unjustness we feel from life's wrongdoings. But they're always there, lending a lick, a paw, or just a heavy sigh to let us know that we can rely on them. So why, oh why, Mother Nature must you mock us and keep their lives so short when these little guys give so very much? Parrots live 65-75 years. Why can't our pupsters have their abbreviated life-spurring presences extended a healthy decade or so? Only seems fair.
Alas, I must accept these losses in the face of the extraordinary gains.
Adios Hillary. You are and will be missed. Say hello to Abbers for me and give her a little nuzzle behind the ears. She always liked that. Please check in with Patch and Poppy, they'll help you out. The Sophster is a lot like Abbers, I'm sure you'll get along. Pahtu will show you what being a real Bernese lap dog is all about. Janie and Dylan will be wandering around too, hanging out in the sunny grass. Aspen might act like she wants you to stop playing, but she really wants to join in the fun. Look out for Bijoux, she's got a thing about being an alpha, but she'll probably share the buffet litter box -- and Beau will too, since that's one his faves -- or various discarded Kleenex's with you. Woody and Pete, will hopefully share some tennis balls and a comfy bed with you. Daisy, Duncan, Oscar, Lucky and Rags will be guarding your shins and shoulder blades from any unwanted marauders. Mabel might drool on you, but both she and Myron only do it out of kindness.
As with all our little buddies, many not even mentioned here, we'll miss you, your bark and your wag, miss cuddling with you, and really miss seeing your reliable, dependable, loving self every day.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
A Big Deflated L-Balloon: The L Word's Finale
The L Word. Or, should I say, The L-not Word? Such a let down, this final episode.
At the beginning of this final 6th season, I hoped that when Jenny was finally killed off, we would be done done done with her whiny, icky character. Ever since those initial season, grainy, b/w scenes at the amusement park I wondered her relevance. Straight girl becomes gay? No biggie. I'm good with that story line. We always need more on our team anyway.
It would have been more intriguing if one of the Ilene Chaiken crew decided to do a switcheroo, you know, the ole AC/DC/AC thing and vacilate between both sexes/genders (more than Alice or Tina did), and beyond Max's People Magazine predictable, 'surprise' child-bearing state.
Still, to keep all the focus on Jenny who's MaryAnn (from Gilligan's Isle) innocence turned to darkened-cutter-cutthroat super rich (really? really?) writer lesbian? Don't think so. Not believable even in the fairly unbelievable LA-LA setting of this show.
How did she become such a central figure anyway? I mean, when the show kicked off with all of its random story snippets, Jenny was straight and struggling. Did I simply dislike her that early on to miss that Bette and Jenny would be the focus? In 6 years she becomes the hub to this whole unreal L.A. lesbo mess? It made no sense that the writers/directors/producers thought her character, the evil, undermining, pity-me disengenuous author was the key to this whole show? Pathetic. I would have preferred more of a typical lezzie scene each seasonal episode, perhaps Alice sleeping w/the cluster of friends (recall that cool, so-lezzie web thing?) and constantly saying, "Oh yea, I remember when you liked it when I ...." while chomping a croissant or slurping a brewski at an art opening, brunch, or womens' basketball game among throngs of acquaintances and other past discards.
Here are some thoughts about the poor writing of this show:
<> Killing off Dana, the tennis player. Why not make her a Breast Cancer Survivor rather than pure mortal victim? More women are living & surviving this cancer. Lame.
<> Ivan the FtM transgender King. Lots of potential to infuse into the lez world, especially since Max was brought in later. Acceptance? Denial? Where do these f-ms fit in, esp when we think of the still-in-transitions who would like to march in the Dyke Marches during Gay Pride celebrations?
<>Why no MtFs other than season 6's Sunset Boulevard who is really just a guy who likes to drag, spin tunes, and meddle with Kit's doo-dad? He's so gay and queenie, it's hard to believe that he's a straight queen, you know? MtFs fitting into a lezzie world? I think it might be a tight squeeze.
<>Given all the chix that Shane fucked, why didn't she once turn up at a clinic with all sorts of lesions, warts, or any sort of painful STD? Why didn't any of the chix she popped either? Not once did I see a dental dam, let alone a lone piece of latex. Mmm, bad bad bad on the Safe Sex Scenes. Remember, everyone gets a hang nail or flosses too heavily once in a while.
<>Although not impossible for Max to get pregnant -- although I was wondering where Tom thought he was poking his thinger -- I wonder why Max never bothered to talk w/his M.D. about the eggs still floating around his body, let alone discuss, uh, safe sex w/Tom? Huh. Even Queer As Folks' fave little fuckaroo, Brian always condomed up.
<>How did Helena go from broke to partner of Kit & the Planet cum 'Hit'? I missed that cash cow since Mrs. Mommy Peabody said she cut her off after Helena's sex-hrss suit by sultry Dylan. Was it the $$ Helena absconded with from that evil gamblertrix' safe (that Helena, of course, won in cards)? Or was it a little something from her prison cell bitch's stash? Like many of the others, I think I must have slept through the show that explained Helena's $$ influx.
<>Given this little issue, why oh why, in all of Helena's 'inability to trust anybody' did she not ever muster up the 'I can't trust you because you sued my ass all the way to the po'house and now, in my Malibu mans I have a shoestring of a budget and a liquor store's worth of fine scotch' to the revisiting Dylan, the famed docu-editor of season 4? Just wondering why the lawsuit never crawled from Helena's Britlips. Of course Dylan did return the $ she extorted, but still, damage done.
<>What was the signif. of Shane taking temp fosterhood of her little brother? To show us she was not just a skinny, slutty, junkie-appearing hair designer but a sensitive pseudo-partial mom?
<>Were there any characters who actually seemed just like everyday lezzies other than Jane Lynch's lawyerly character (love her!)? You know, stocky, pants-wearin' (not pressed slacks, thank you), funny, intellectual teachers, fire fighters, graphic artists, or coffee jockeys ? Alice was a smarty but .... and Bette was just too Flashdancey, Max still seems too scrawny, and Tasha, tho hot and scruffy-voiced, still has that pony'. Or, was this just the whole L.A. scene in which everyone appears long-haired, make-upped, and skinny? The pudgiest person was prob Cybil Shepherd, and I simply wouldn't think of her as pudgy but breastly and shapely. Just wondered what happened to the standard dyke-lesbian. Maybe they were all the extras at the Planet, Dana's tennis tournaments, or the other chikky disco place.
<>Why oh why wasn't that teenager that Alice 'saved' from suicide committed to a 51/50? Helloo? The gal needed a bit more (professional) support than a rooftop rap-n'-hug session w/freshly fired Alice and the director of the LA Gay/Lez Ctr.
Alas, The L was a good run, even if most episodes lacked good writing, were dullish, scattered, and lacking in realia. There were some hot sex scenes including Bette in prison w/the overalls-wearing carpenter, Shane [for good measure, replace Shane's head w/any other fantasy face] in just about every location possible (car, kitchen counter, bathroom, windowed studio door), Jodi,(Marlee Matlin),Nikki Stevens, and many peops fave 1st season elusive, cafe-owning, exotica, Marina -- ooo la la! that gap-toothed alluring accent! Many shows spit out at least one good line (the Sh-enny moshing w/Alice as gawk-texting witness), and the eye rolls from the killed off Dana to Kit's eyelashed lids to Angus/the Manny's queerish hair-head flicking, all the way back to the dark-eyed Carmen's lusty, smiling dark eyes made some of the shows tolerable.
I think Ms. Chaiken, et al could have taken a few hints from the writers of Qr As Flk, who had a good Showtime run and didn't make many of the characters and their mini-ecosystems seem so bizarre. How many dykes hang at a cafe for hours on end each day, a la, Friends at Central Perk? Makes no sense.
At any rate, it's good to see that The L maintained some semblance of popularity despite its delapidated story line and writing. At least the queers weren't sequestered off the stage & screen like some sort of unthinkable equal rights legislation.
Thanks for the flash dance, JB, the laughs and depth from CS and JL, and Katherine Moenning, since you are, indeed the cousin of Gwyneth Paltrow, maybe you could borrow a bit of her dwindling post-partum flesh to put a touch more meat on them bones of yours?
At the beginning of this final 6th season, I hoped that when Jenny was finally killed off, we would be done done done with her whiny, icky character. Ever since those initial season, grainy, b/w scenes at the amusement park I wondered her relevance. Straight girl becomes gay? No biggie. I'm good with that story line. We always need more on our team anyway.
It would have been more intriguing if one of the Ilene Chaiken crew decided to do a switcheroo, you know, the ole AC/DC/AC thing and vacilate between both sexes/genders (more than Alice or Tina did), and beyond Max's People Magazine predictable, 'surprise' child-bearing state.
Still, to keep all the focus on Jenny who's MaryAnn (from Gilligan's Isle) innocence turned to darkened-cutter-cutthroat super rich (really? really?) writer lesbian? Don't think so. Not believable even in the fairly unbelievable LA-LA setting of this show.
How did she become such a central figure anyway? I mean, when the show kicked off with all of its random story snippets, Jenny was straight and struggling. Did I simply dislike her that early on to miss that Bette and Jenny would be the focus? In 6 years she becomes the hub to this whole unreal L.A. lesbo mess? It made no sense that the writers/directors/producers thought her character, the evil, undermining, pity-me disengenuous author was the key to this whole show? Pathetic. I would have preferred more of a typical lezzie scene each seasonal episode, perhaps Alice sleeping w/the cluster of friends (recall that cool, so-lezzie web thing?) and constantly saying, "Oh yea, I remember when you liked it when I ...." while chomping a croissant or slurping a brewski at an art opening, brunch, or womens' basketball game among throngs of acquaintances and other past discards.
Here are some thoughts about the poor writing of this show:
<> Killing off Dana, the tennis player. Why not make her a Breast Cancer Survivor rather than pure mortal victim? More women are living & surviving this cancer. Lame.
<> Ivan the FtM transgender King. Lots of potential to infuse into the lez world, especially since Max was brought in later. Acceptance? Denial? Where do these f-ms fit in, esp when we think of the still-in-transitions who would like to march in the Dyke Marches during Gay Pride celebrations?
<>Why no MtFs other than season 6's Sunset Boulevard who is really just a guy who likes to drag, spin tunes, and meddle with Kit's doo-dad? He's so gay and queenie, it's hard to believe that he's a straight queen, you know? MtFs fitting into a lezzie world? I think it might be a tight squeeze.
<>Given all the chix that Shane fucked, why didn't she once turn up at a clinic with all sorts of lesions, warts, or any sort of painful STD? Why didn't any of the chix she popped either? Not once did I see a dental dam, let alone a lone piece of latex. Mmm, bad bad bad on the Safe Sex Scenes. Remember, everyone gets a hang nail or flosses too heavily once in a while.
<>Although not impossible for Max to get pregnant -- although I was wondering where Tom thought he was poking his thinger -- I wonder why Max never bothered to talk w/his M.D. about the eggs still floating around his body, let alone discuss, uh, safe sex w/Tom? Huh. Even Queer As Folks' fave little fuckaroo, Brian always condomed up.
<>How did Helena go from broke to partner of Kit & the Planet cum 'Hit'? I missed that cash cow since Mrs. Mommy Peabody said she cut her off after Helena's sex-hrss suit by sultry Dylan. Was it the $$ Helena absconded with from that evil gamblertrix' safe (that Helena, of course, won in cards)? Or was it a little something from her prison cell bitch's stash? Like many of the others, I think I must have slept through the show that explained Helena's $$ influx.
<>Given this little issue, why oh why, in all of Helena's 'inability to trust anybody' did she not ever muster up the 'I can't trust you because you sued my ass all the way to the po'house and now, in my Malibu mans I have a shoestring of a budget and a liquor store's worth of fine scotch' to the revisiting Dylan, the famed docu-editor of season 4? Just wondering why the lawsuit never crawled from Helena's Britlips. Of course Dylan did return the $ she extorted, but still, damage done.
<>What was the signif. of Shane taking temp fosterhood of her little brother? To show us she was not just a skinny, slutty, junkie-appearing hair designer but a sensitive pseudo-partial mom?
<>Were there any characters who actually seemed just like everyday lezzies other than Jane Lynch's lawyerly character (love her!)? You know, stocky, pants-wearin' (not pressed slacks, thank you), funny, intellectual teachers, fire fighters, graphic artists, or coffee jockeys ? Alice was a smarty but .... and Bette was just too Flashdancey, Max still seems too scrawny, and Tasha, tho hot and scruffy-voiced, still has that pony'. Or, was this just the whole L.A. scene in which everyone appears long-haired, make-upped, and skinny? The pudgiest person was prob Cybil Shepherd, and I simply wouldn't think of her as pudgy but breastly and shapely. Just wondered what happened to the standard dyke-lesbian. Maybe they were all the extras at the Planet, Dana's tennis tournaments, or the other chikky disco place.
<>Why oh why wasn't that teenager that Alice 'saved' from suicide committed to a 51/50? Helloo? The gal needed a bit more (professional) support than a rooftop rap-n'-hug session w/freshly fired Alice and the director of the LA Gay/Lez Ctr.
Alas, The L was a good run, even if most episodes lacked good writing, were dullish, scattered, and lacking in realia. There were some hot sex scenes including Bette in prison w/the overalls-wearing carpenter, Shane [for good measure, replace Shane's head w/any other fantasy face] in just about every location possible (car, kitchen counter, bathroom, windowed studio door), Jodi,(Marlee Matlin),Nikki Stevens, and many peops fave 1st season elusive, cafe-owning, exotica, Marina -- ooo la la! that gap-toothed alluring accent! Many shows spit out at least one good line (the Sh-enny moshing w/Alice as gawk-texting witness), and the eye rolls from the killed off Dana to Kit's eyelashed lids to Angus/the Manny's queerish hair-head flicking, all the way back to the dark-eyed Carmen's lusty, smiling dark eyes made some of the shows tolerable.
I think Ms. Chaiken, et al could have taken a few hints from the writers of Qr As Flk, who had a good Showtime run and didn't make many of the characters and their mini-ecosystems seem so bizarre. How many dykes hang at a cafe for hours on end each day, a la, Friends at Central Perk? Makes no sense.
At any rate, it's good to see that The L maintained some semblance of popularity despite its delapidated story line and writing. At least the queers weren't sequestered off the stage & screen like some sort of unthinkable equal rights legislation.
Thanks for the flash dance, JB, the laughs and depth from CS and JL, and Katherine Moenning, since you are, indeed the cousin of Gwyneth Paltrow, maybe you could borrow a bit of her dwindling post-partum flesh to put a touch more meat on them bones of yours?
Friday, March 6, 2009
In Search Of .... Over-40 [singlet] Lesbians
Where are they?
What do they do all day?
Not all are busy in offices, behind monitors, catching criminals, scaling up mountains, and walking sandy shores. Many do what I do, what you do, what we all do, right? We call in sick, we grocery shop, we do laundry, we walk our dogs.
I am in SEARCH OF...
The O-40Ls.
Stay tuned.
What do they do all day?
Not all are busy in offices, behind monitors, catching criminals, scaling up mountains, and walking sandy shores. Many do what I do, what you do, what we all do, right? We call in sick, we grocery shop, we do laundry, we walk our dogs.
I am in SEARCH OF...
The O-40Ls.
Stay tuned.
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