tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-361725492024-02-19T04:23:51.208-05:00A Thousand NicknamesDescription Goes HereRobertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-67535755538196052712012-03-17T16:02:00.001-05:002012-03-17T16:02:58.397-05:00(4-Wheelin + Camping) X No Sleep =<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/6990849203/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7043/6990849203_5c41195e4e_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/6990849203/">(4-Wheelin + Camping) X No Sleep =</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/">Bird'sEyeView Photography</a></span></div>(4-Wheelin + Camping) X No Sleep =<br clear="all" />Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-13804274917986905442012-03-09T18:40:00.001-05:002012-03-09T18:40:47.878-05:00Dinner is Served<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/6821933630/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7049/6821933630_29b069c93e_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/6821933630/">Dinner is Served</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/">Bird'sEyeView Photography</a></span></div>Dinner is Served<br clear="all" />Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-980812064713345842010-06-02T11:28:00.002-05:002010-06-02T11:30:21.594-05:00StrandedWhen I was 5, I distinctly remember a trip to Tampa with my mother, grandmother, and great aunt in the 1970 Pontiac LeMans. Somewhere along the way on I-75, we ran out of gas. I freaked out. Screaming, kicking, crying. I thought we were going to die. Then a stranger carried my mother away in his truck to get gas. My poor Grandmother Esther and Great-Aunt Eleanor...these poor ladies were both high strung and nervous anyway. I'm sure they were in agony, charged with the supervision of The Banshee-Child Who Sees The Future of Mommy-less Death. Mommy returned with fuel and we finished our journey to see my half-sister JoAnna and visit Busch Gardens.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-42150945722548419822010-04-25T21:41:00.003-05:002010-04-26T08:28:56.152-05:00Rusty the RugdogI have one of the greatest dogs in the world. Probably just like your dog, who is also The Greatest Dog in the World. Perhaps my dog has been The Greatest Dog in the World a tad longer, because he is 13 and a half years old. Rusty is a Golden Retriever, which are The Greatest Dogs in the World. He’s not of superior bloodline, but he is AKC. His tuft of white hair on his chest is probably too big, and he has a white spot on his paw. A judge would find that a fault, but I rather like the dog. <br /><br />Rusty spent his early years living outside within a white picket fence, which he climbed regularly. One time, he left for about a week. I honestly think he found someone he wanted to live with more than us. It must have been a brother from another mother, or something. I could see this kind of devotion to a female. I don’t know if Rusty was hanging around waiting for the friend to go in heat, or what. Maybe he was having a bi-curious moment and he wanted to experiment. His wild oat crop was abandoned suddenly when the other dog’s owner responded to our ad in the paper. He said a dog matching the description of Rusty had been hanging out at his house for awhile. We retrieved the retriever and he didn’t wander that far again. In his wanderings over the years, he was shot with a pellet, and an across the street neighbor deliberately chased him into a car’s path. He survived it all.<br /><br />About 6 years ago, Rusty became an inside dog. He was slowing down because of middle age. We had several female Golden’s before and concurrently with Rusty, and he has outlived them all. How, I’m not quite sure, because I have definitely tried to kill him accidentally more than once. Now that the compulsion to imitate a female dog was out of his system, he needed a new hobby. He settled on “Pretend to Be a Rug.” We evidently need lots of rugs, because Rusty demonstrates locations all over the house--in front of the door, between the dining room table and the sliding glass door, in the bedroom doorway, in the walkway between the couch and chair. He is comfortable in his rug emulation, and he trusts us completely to treat him as the rug you actually don’t step on.<br /><br />Not too long ago, I purchased a new computer and gave my mother-in-law my dinosaur Dell. I carried the pieces one-by-one out of the bedroom to the bar so that they could be loaded into her truck, first the CPU, then the monitor. The monitor was quite impressive in its day. It is 19”, and the size of a television of the same measurement. When something this large is carried, one cannot see her feet. Rusty was rugging it in the bedroom doorway, and I forgot that five minutes prior he was laying there. I tripped over the dog with this heavy monitor in my arms and thought for a moment (this was all going in slow motion) that I would drop it and kill my dog. Not pleased with this thought, I tucked the monitor into my body. I think I heard my husband yelling “The Dog! The Dog! The Dog!” I managed to alter my course in mid-air and landed on a knee with the monitor still in my clutches. The monitor and I hit the floor kind of sideways. On my way down, my chin thought it would be a good idea to bounce off the monitor. I think I made some kind of grunting sound similar to that of someone falling to the ground from a considerable height. My husband and my father-in-law were at my side immediately trying to get me off the carpet. I was too embarrassed to accept their help graciously. I couldn’t even look at them. I asked for a little space in unkind words and clicked my joints back into place, gradually getting up. <br /><br />I looked at the dog. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye like I had disturbed him from a really nice nap where he was chasing rabbits through a sunny meadow. I put my hand on my forehead and said, “Wow. I almost killed my dog.” <br /><br />I’m pretty sure my brain sloshed around in my skull. My forehead hurt although I didn’t hit it. I’ve not been the same since. I even had a round of physical therapy last year for my neck. But my rugdog is OK! I wouldn’t have it any other way. We pull a muscle and break a toe here and there stepping around Rusty, but because he brings so much joy to our lives it’s more than worth it.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-66656722513920104052010-04-22T05:56:00.008-05:002010-04-22T06:55:56.199-05:00Don't Let The Name "MASTERcuts" Fool You!I am an emotional haircutter. If I'm feeling a little down at work, and there's no chocolate handy, I will obsess about having my tresses lopped. This symptom usually follows a particularly rough morning of battling my straight near the crown, wavy near the bottom, frizzy, not curly enough to be attractive brown hair. I'm also graying. Now that my face is sagging and showing the wear and tear of middle age and a little chubby, it's extremely important to have good hair when going out in public. My hair and my lips are about all I have going for me these days.<br /><br />So, one day I was having these symptoms (oh, I need to add that I had not decided on one hairdresser in 14 years. When I lived in Florida, I had a fabulously talented lady named Roma who cut my hair. It's hard to choose a new stylist). I studied the yellow pages and google mapped the salon locations trying to find one close to work. No luck. I had to go after work. I saw there was a Mastercuts in the mall, so I struck a trot.<br /><br />When I arrived, there was a lone Hispanic lady sitting in one of the chairs. She seemed to be late middle-age. I smiled and she smiled back, asking "Can I help you?" I looked at the sign in sheet, and saw no one had signed in since about 12:15pm. I should have just looked confused, apologized, and walked away. Your first reactions sometimes are the correct ones! I requested a haircut and put my name on the little sheet.<br /><br />Hispanic lady had on too much makeup, her hair wasn't right, and she barely spoke English. A good rule of thumb on hairdressers is if you don't like his or her hair, maybe you should find another...and I daresay if there is a communication breakdown, you'll never get the look you desire. It could end up being disastrous. Like my experience.<br /><br />I told her what I wanted, and she seemed to understand. She sat me in the chair and did a dry cut. All the while, talking about her sister in the Peace Corp. Her sister evidently makes a lot of money in the Peace Corp as an English language teacher in some third-world country. She highly recommended me choosing this vocation. More than once. As she picked up bits of my hair and wacked at them (not the way a normal stylist would--holding the strands between two fingers and trimming them the same length as neighboring hairs--just picking tufts of hair at random), she cooed about how dry my hair was. She grabbed a spray conditioner and urged me to purchase this $16 bottle to repair my hay-like hair.<br /><br />The lady asked my name. I told her. She trilled it off her tongue with the rolling R's. "Rrrrrroberrrrrrrta." She then told me her name. It was Carmelita, or Juevos, or Pilar, or Juanita Bonita Abuela Chiquita Banana or something. Well, I hit the nail on the head with the pronunciation, and her little radar antennas went up out of her head like rockets. "Ooooooooooh, you espeak such a beautiful Espanish! Say it again!" I said it again. "How you learn to espeak Espanish?!" I described two years in high school and one semester in college.<br /><br />Then, she really plugged the Peace Corp. I REALLY could make some jack doing that. How does she know? Because her sister does it and she's making money hand over fist. I have such a beautiful tongue I could make lots of money, too!<br /><br />She kept saying "You have esuch a beautiful tongue!!" I thought she was going to have an orgasm right there.<br /><br />I was starting to get scared after about an hour of this. My Blackberry was going off as a result of my husband wondering where the heck I was. I wanted to text him back "pls come get me im bein held prisoner by lady w/sharp scissors", but she wasn't finished destroying my hair.<br /><br />I had requested a cut that would make the most of my NATURAL waves, so I wouldn't have to blow it straight all the time (thereby lessening the hay effect). The goal was to put some stuff in it, scrunch it around and let it air dry." NO. She heard waves or curls or something, so after she hacked at it, she applied an 800-degree curling iron. I could see smoke coming off my hair.<br /><br />Why didn't I say anything? I don't know. I'm just such a nice person I can't bear to displease a stranger (but I can be a total bitch to the people in my house). I just sat there, for about 2 hours, repeating all the Spanish words she demanded I repeat.<br /><br />"Carrrrrrrrrrro."<br />"Carrrrrrrrrrro."<br /><br />"You have esuch a beautiful tongue!"<br /><br />"Pelicula. Do you know what that mean?"<br />"Pelicula - movie theater."<br /><br />"Oooooh!"<br /><br />"Say my name."<br />"(Whatever her name was-in exagerrated accent)"<br /><br />CREEPY.<br /><br />She curled my entire head of hair with a searing hot curling iron, put some hairspray in it, and asked for $25.00. I didn't feel bad about leaving a lousy tip. I had planned to write Mastercuts the next day, but I didn't get around to it. She had a State of GA license, but I really wonder about her qualifications.<br /><br />The next week, I went to a salon I had visited a couple times in the past and asked her to fix it. She said there wasn't a whole lot she could do in the back, because Hispanic lady had tried to thin it out or something.<br /><br />I have fully recovered, and vowed to never salon-john myself out again. I've gone back to the first hairdresser I visited when I moved to this area 7 years ago. She's still at the same place, still has the same great hair, and still gives the best haircuts I've had since Roma. Jessica at Cutting Edge in Toccoa is fabulous, and always does exactly what I ask. Even that time I asked for a pink highlight in my hair like the red one she had that time...Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-37214699350839867742010-04-21T07:50:00.006-05:002010-04-21T08:19:29.914-05:00Fries On The GroundIt was horrible. I might have chipped a tooth. After a long, strenuous night of facebooking and such on my part, and a tough go at fishing in the rain for my husband and son, we were too tired to cook. I ventured out to the local fast food eatery in search of a meal for us. It was doomed from the start. I hadn't been asked to "pull forward to the yellow line" in many years. They must have put all the little meat patties back in the freezer, because they had to specially hand-prep 3 no onion double cheeseburgers and three medium fries.<br /><br />Being the queen of one trip that I am, I attempted to remove from the car the food, three large drinks, my blackberry, keys, wallet, and my body in a single armload. The sharp door of the '89 Crown Vic with fresh dual exhuast caught the bag of food, ripped it, and two orders of fries and one fry carton hit the ground.<br /><br />There they were--about 75 of the prettiest french fries I have ever seen--flailing around on the rain-soaked Georgia clay. I rationalized that the dirt had recently been rinsed, and picked up the fry container that still contained a few fries. Those that were teetering on the precipice of the container fell out. This left only 9 fries in the bottom of the vessel, so, I theorized that those had only been in close proximity to the dirt. I taste-tested them and deemed them clean. I surrendered all rights to the McDonald's fries and let my husband and son split the remains. I figured this was a signal that I really didn't need them.<br /><br />This made me think of a song set to the tune of lovable American Idol tryout General Larry Platt's "Pants on the Ground":<br /><br />"Fries on the ground, fries on the ground, looking like a FOOL with you fries on the ground!"Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-9382085799341832322010-04-20T14:26:00.010-05:002010-05-14T07:02:57.135-05:00I Love Olives More Than Anyone ElseI love the movie Under the Tuscan Sun with Diane Lane. She leaves her cheating husband, and on a whim, purchases a villa in Tuscany with an olive orchard. That would be so cool! I often wonder if olives would taste good without sitting in the brine. You see, I've abused my body all my life and now must take as much medicine as an old fart. At middle age, I can no longer tolerate salt. Drat!!! I LOVE OLIVES.<br /><br /><br /><br />It started when I was a wee little girl at Granny's house in FL. Her favorite thing must have also been olives, because she always had a relish tray on the bar with pickles, green olives, and black olives. I believe this was always the case as I visited mostly on major holidays, or over the summer, which had a big holiday, too. Granny would have a big shin-dig of food for these events...ham, bunny cakes at Easter, Fourth of July cake for 4th of July. And then the birthdays were always food occasions. Food Glorious Food!<br /><br /><br /><br />Back to the olives.<br /><br /><br /><br />I don't remember at what point I developed this olive-lust, but I remember taking black olives and putting one on the tip of each finger, then eating them off one by one. Black olives are good. What is funny about the black olive thing, though, is they have the texture of mushrooms almost, and I don't really like mushrooms. I love the texture and taste of black olives so much that I can down a whole can of large pitted black olives easily. Green olives are a little more technical. As a child, I would suck the pimento out before ingesting the olive. I'm not in to that anymore.<br /><br /><br /><br />I can eat olives as a side dish. I can eat them as a snack. I can put them in Granny's famous Egg and Olive Salad (which my offspring LOVES--he has the olive-lust, too--thank God he has the right number of chromosomes). I don't care for martinis, so there will be no dousing them in alcohol.<br /><br /><br /><br />A relative of olives I do not like is the caper. Bleh!!<br /><br /><br /><br />I looked at the label of Queen Olives the other day, and they have nearly 500mg of sodium just in three little beautiful green creatures soaked in sourness. WHY!?!?! Lately life is about denial, or deal with cankles. Cankles make me bitchy. I've never had nice feet, but my ankles were always somewhat normal.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6eqDvriytfDR8A7pTxbuFqRMCoG_EeJO3SLHQN97fsBapTMBDpOBkmZoPuCLtV0XUZZ_Pf-6erzYYkTG2Tkm1OjwqVOpXSY79isVZAlxnDm-eVO-iE14V5Z_qi03A42q96SY01w/s1600/love+olives.png"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 242px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471094730890946162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6eqDvriytfDR8A7pTxbuFqRMCoG_EeJO3SLHQN97fsBapTMBDpOBkmZoPuCLtV0XUZZ_Pf-6erzYYkTG2Tkm1OjwqVOpXSY79isVZAlxnDm-eVO-iE14V5Z_qi03A42q96SY01w/s320/love+olives.png" /></a><br /><br />I made a grilled cheese sandwich today (cheese is another post entirely). I also had a side of queen olives. I'm looking at the plate right now, and see a bit of olive juice. I'm seriously contemplating licking the plate. If someone dumped a cart of olives on me, I really don't think I would mind. There should be an amusement park ride called Rollick With the olives. It will be similar to those disgusting inflatable ball-y things that the kids like. But with olives. I'd take my shoes off and dive in and swim amongst the fruits.<br /><br />Maybe I can fashion a necklace of olives. Then I could smell them all day. I've often wondered what it would be like to drink a little extra virgin olive oil. That smells good to me.<br /><br />Hopefully the good things about olives are benefiting me in some way...Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-87771774632057189792009-02-15T06:28:00.007-05:002009-02-15T07:02:10.478-05:00Woo woo<div style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN-BOTTOM: 10px; MARGIN-LEFT: 10px"><a title="photo sharing" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/3245500752/"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-TOP: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-LEFT: #000000 2px solid; BORDER-BOTTOM: #000000 2px solid" alt="" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3508/3245500752_0cdbc13cca_m.jpg" /></a><br /><span style="MARGIN-TOP: 0px;font-size:0;" ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/3245500752/">DSC08069</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/valpalas/">valpalas</a></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p>A few weekends ago, we journeyed to Bryson City, NC to ride the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad. <a href="http://www.gsmr.com/">Check it out here</a>. It was an enjoyable trip with many photographic opportunities. There were fabulous views of Fontana Lake, and a stop at Nantahala Outdoor Center, which was closed. We ate in the dining car at the expense of my in-laws (thank you very much), but would recommend that you bring a picnic-type lunch. The seats were very comfortable. My favorite part was walking nearly the whole length of the train to the open car at the end. It was like trying to walk after having three shots of tequila and standing up for the first time. There is an electric train museum on site that bewilders the mind with its sheer numbers.</p><p>You can view the rest of my pictures on <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/valpalas/">flickr</a>.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br clear="all"></p>Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-30455578183281579982007-06-14T19:10:00.000-05:002007-06-14T19:22:01.649-05:00Five and writingNot much to report upon workout number five. I am pleased that it is difficult to get bored going around the circle two times. Also had an annual exam at the doctor today. Not doing so well with my sugars. One day my kidney will just fall out, I expect. I hate medicine.<br /><br />Recently my father passed away. I've received so many kind condolences, as everyone understood that there was not much of a relationship between us. The grave sadness everyone feels is the absolute permanence of the finality of it all. There never will be an opportunity to bridge the canyon of a gap between me and my father, unless I figure out how to communicate with the other realm. I received a sum of money and a sweet hand-written note from the pastor of my late grandmother's (my father's mother) reverend. I composed a fantastic Thank-You letter, and received an email from Reverend Camp praising my writing ability. He described my writing to be eerily like my grandmother's. She had the knack. I have many friends and former friends who encourage me to write professionally. My biggest fear is my novel will be three pages long. That's about all I can muster. I cannot fathom how all that other filler is created. I secretly dream my financial rescue will be my first novel that sit's on the New York Times' bestseller list for 35 weeks. It's festering inside me. If the chemical exchanges increase in fiercity, it might just spray out of me. I can only hope.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-38795489730841268672007-06-12T18:54:00.000-05:002007-06-12T19:14:02.360-05:00Three and FourWe went away for the weekend, and I had difficulty finding an open Curves farther up in the hills of the Smokies. A small fraction of purpose in joining this organization was that a franchise existed where we visit. WRONG. Closed. Out of Business. The next-closest one did not keep Saturday hours. So, a few more miles out I found an open Curves. I went in fast-forward Spartacus leaping style twice around the circuit and realized my 30 minutes was not up. I asked about it, and the employee said it was 3x around here. I must have more equipment at my home location.<br /><br /><div align="left">Whew. That all done, now time to hit Target. I forgot to pack undies. I get so stressed out about packing to go on a trip. I have NEVER forgotten underwear. Thank goodness that the laws exist to allow a first time for everything. Like my dear pal who is going to write a furious letter to a commercial airline for losing her luggage, I think about writing a paragraph or two to Target for neglecting the huge honeys in the lingerie department. No, we don't like big white granny-panties. We do own low rider pants and we would not like for the elastic to peek out when we sit down so that everyone may see that we like the bagged Hanes. What a drain on my time. Well, Wal-Mart rarely lets me down. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Tonight I hit my home Curves and braved bare shoulders and legs. Won't do that again. </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">So now I'll talk about another pal who evidently is a "Celebutante." One of her friends shared one of her emails with a very evil Manhattan-ite website. She has been torn to shreds. Check it out here: <a href="http://gawker.com/news/summer-with-a-douche/blair-barnette-would-like-to-avoid-chavs-and-non+intellectuals-267223.php">http://gawker.com/news/summer-with-a-douche/blair-barnette-would-like-to-avoid-chavs-and-non+intellectuals-267223.php</a> The first comment is from collegecallgirl, who, apparently is a fine, classy woman who hooks. It's amazing how something so shallow can contain such a great void. If her blog is a valid description of her life, even though I am a fattie, I have so much more. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">Ha Ha.</div>Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-60256660999296320982007-06-08T05:07:00.000-05:002007-06-08T05:25:57.087-05:00DosLet's hope she was formerly 190lbs. Otherwise, skinny people are an unwelcome sight making their way around the Curves circuit. She was little with long brown hair, and probably 125lbs. The curves philosophy is that anyone who wants to improve herself, can, though. I still am not impressed by the success stories that feature someone who only lost 20lbs. Give me someone who had the mental determination and physical strength to shed 100-plus. That is raw success.<br /><br />My body, more familiar with the mechanics of each machine, benefited slightly more from the workout this time. When I signed up, I mentally rolled my eyes at the kooky, sped-up popular dance tunes and the Curves lady who bleeds over every 3o seconds and tells you to change stations. In contrast, today I enjoyed the quirky, Lazy Town-style music and I can envision Spartacus doing splits in the air. I like Spartacus.<br /><br />Again, demons on that other "Space". I'm sick of people who get their jollies posting pictures of obese people in their comments. These are "friends" of mine (I use that term loosely), but not good friends, and I wonder about the peer pressure from their other friends who inquire as to why they would even associate with a fat person. I think that is the source of the blubber-bashing. I can't take it.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-55569781843740477012007-06-05T18:31:00.000-05:002007-06-05T18:38:36.206-05:00Workout #1I arrive at the place dressed in comfortable shoes and clothes. I was not comforted by my instructor who said she lost 18 lbs 4 years ago. Bah. You don't know what kind of Hell we live in. But she was nice enough. Two times around the circuit, bouncing on a recovery pad between each hydraulic machine...not bad. My heart rate was over the recommended count for my age and exertion level. I didn't stroke out, though. I left in a much better frame of mind that I have been in for about two weeks. I would say that is worth the price of admission alone to my dear husband!Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-12718158086603666672007-05-10T18:46:00.000-05:002007-06-28T18:51:05.532-05:00Death to lifeFor 58 years this being was planted on terra firma. The behavior of most organisms is to grow. A plant is a tiny and fragile thing with a sometimes hard shell protecting its delicate inside in the beginning. When given proper media in which to grow and adequate hydration, life bursts forth, splitting the hard exterior. Fresh and new and living, it unfolds its back and reaches out its arms to greet the light - hands upturned begging photosynthesis to begin its exchange. Growth requires interaction with environment. When you stop interacting, either by choice or force, you cease to grow. Plants have no choice in life. Life or death comes thru no action of their own.<br /><br />Humans, on the other hand, are capable of choice. It's up to us. Most of our lives begin innocently, and if we are fortunate, we have nuturing homes and lives and we flourish. We seek out further growth by choosing interaction with people with good hearts.<br /><br />Void of human love and nuturing, the poison of alcohol and illness could no longer sustain my father's life. He passed away on May 12, 2007.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-3793823907440165202007-05-10T05:08:00.000-05:002007-05-10T05:18:53.366-05:00WoofMy dog is going crazy. I think he must have the equivalent of senile dementia in canines. We can't keep him in balls. He misplaces his drug of choice all over the yard, the neighbor dog's yard, drops it out the bed of the truck whilst going for a ride...fortunately, right now it's between his paws, much like a cigarette, matches, and ashtray. He's go if need be. We just found the ball yesterday after two days of the dog frantically searching the premises every time someone twitched a foot, causing him to think we were going "outside." Dog gets up and paces every night, nosing the bed sheets to see if anyone wants to wake up at 3 am to play. No, dog. Go lay down. It's not time. At 5am, when 2/3 of the house is upright and fumbling around with the coffee filters, it's the stomping hoof horse show. Finally, someone grabs the ball and huffs it from the porch so dog will go pee. The dog days of summer are here early this year. Dog is not relaxed, constantly panting and wanting to go do something. Keys jingle?? Well, that must mean a ride. So starts the stomping hoof horse show at the front door. No dog. Just going to work. I love my dog. He stinks, but I care not. He lives here; you don'tRobertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-70407518601229492732007-05-01T19:33:00.000-05:002007-05-01T19:43:44.024-05:00scrimp, pinch, squeeze...i think we got all of the goody out of that pennySo what do you do when you can't trim the budget anymore, and gas is off the hizinge? You do without A/C. Somewhere deep inside I know this is making me more of a woman than the next chickadee. That and the 75mph jaunt home with all four cranked down and 6 cranked up with Ray Scott singing "She don't like to play my kind of music" and my dark brown shoulder-length tresses flying about like Medusa's snakes sometimes obstructing my view. Live on the edge, I say. Remember when we lived in that trailer in deep south Alabama? We'd come back from the bay, and the thick palpable stench of fried softshells, shrimp and french fries, fan-swirled furiously between those aluminum walls and cheap studs that we called home. Yeah, a little like that.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-74352771570053843622007-04-12T05:56:00.000-05:002007-04-12T06:33:47.780-05:00Saving upI have been storing things up for awhile, and now I'm going to pour them onto this page. I don't always have time to be with my thoughts. They usually hang around me like the annoying kid brother of a shadow: unacknowledged, forgotten, and sometimes he trips and whines because he scraped his knee on the rocks. It is then that I turn around and deal.<br /><br />1. What's the world coming to? Drivers' education in school is a pork-barrel project in my state and it was slaughtered inhumanely on the floor of the legislature some time back. Given the rate of unfortunate teen accidents around here, this leaves me wondering why. Carload after carload of 18 years and under wrap around tree, phone pole, screech headlong into oncoming traffic because someone who makes lots of money thought a public program was costing the state too much money. Now, parents who give a damn scrape money out of the budget to send their fledgling drivers to class. And what are they learning there? How to be bad drivers. Ever wonder why you have to stop short when someone is turning? Well, it's because 100ft is considered a safe distance from your turn to signal your intent! I don't remember that being in the book; thought it was longer than that, for sure. Lots of rear-enders?? That's because programs do not teach the one-mississippi rule for each 10mph of speed you are traveling as a safe distance behind the car in front of you. Whoa nellie! Two seconds is all you need if you are driving 75mph behind someone. Watch out, I'm nearly a ton heavier than you! LOL.<br /><br />2. Neighbors. Gotta love 'em. We are generally peaceful around here. I am a newcomer, and I was welcomed. I believe welcoming gestures are peace and quiet, lack of privacy fences going up around you, no one calling the pound on your dog, and polite waves as you pass on the road. I moved into a way of life. Not the other way around. You don't shove your way of life down a community's throat. The "When in Rome..." rule applies worldwide. Little old ladies from FL moved in, and decided they would be disgusted by the neighbor's slew of nice, classic automobiles in HIS yard and went swinging to the city council meeting demanding that the officials "clean up" the town. What the f***? I am insulted. How did she become appointed Ms. Clean for the community? Lady, cease lurking at your windows. And most definitely don't go to "offending" neighbor and ask him to buy a car and fix it up for you.<br /><br />3. Taking time to watch old movies...I love the songs you hear that have quotes from movies. Two movies I watched recently swirled up memories of songs from my mental rolodex. Guns N Roses placed a famous movie line in one of their songs: "What we've got here is failure to communicate..." That's from Cool Hand Luke. Wow. I think it's a White Strips song that has a line from Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, a 1970 Russ Meyer film, that says something about the main character living in an apartment with 3 other girls, and they smoked marijuana cigarettes. What a bad bad girl. :)<br /><br />4. Mass lullings into false sense of security....Recently a reader of a popular car magazine called me out in an editorial. I had previously hailed my big, gas guzzler of a commuting vehicle as practical when hauling literally assess upon assess to functions. One SUV, 8 butts, one partial tank of gas. Mr. Prius can only take half the amount of people on the same amount of gas. So I thought about all those doofus soccer moms who buy their Kia Sorrento because it is cute and whoa! It's a four cylinder (or a six), so it has to get great gas mileage, right?? No. Come one dingy bitches, get a Motor Trend and read. The new Mazda cross over barely gets 5 miles to the gallon hwy better than my big f***ing Dodge Truck. The Kia? Not better. Ran across a gentleman who should have known better, but he said that he was thinking about the Dodge Magnum 6 cylinder because an 8 cylinder drinks too much gas. I'm here to tell you folks that there is only 2 miles to the gallon difference between the two. So I bought a Hemi. Makes sense to me. Just because it is 4 cylinder or 6 cylinder does not mean it's a gas-mizer! WAKE UP AND SMELL THE COFFEE. How about the heavy-ass Honda Odyssey? It weighs as much as my truck, only has a 6 cyl, doesn't get that great of gas mileage, and people are buying stuff like this in droves because they don't understand physics. Match point: American Icon.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-58155952623196768902007-03-05T20:30:00.001-05:002007-03-05T21:02:36.634-05:00By the way<span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 0);"></span> <p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Fate brought us to this juncture. Like the black cat I crossed your<br />path. You peered at me like you would an intruder. I'm not supposed to<br />be here and you did not expect me. I could hear you catch your breath<br />when your eyes focused upon me. But I did not mean to be here right now.<br />The highway system is ground out for everyone to use freely. When I put<br />my transmission into "Park" and block your access to said free road, I'm<br />going to leisurely slide out of my big truck and saunter to your car<br />window. If you do not roll it down, I will break it. You have only<br />allowed me to speak to you by proxy, and I deserve this moment.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-88306908568709277332007-02-27T15:36:00.001-05:002007-03-05T20:37:16.362-05:00return to<div style="text-align: left; font-family: georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">Explodes in my mouth the smell of south Georgia rain-soaked dirt and beets</span></div> <div style="font-family: georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">Evoking the Eleanor Chesnut kitchen of freezer burned ice cream and medium oak paneling</span></div> <div style="font-family: georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">Emitting mustard vinyl chairs and rubber-banded pinochle decks crammed in the window sill</span></div> <div style="font-family: georgia; color: rgb(51, 51, 0);"><span style="font-size:78%;">Slams the screen door and hollers Roger at the kid not knowing a slap was coming</span></div>Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-53494245317582876622007-02-13T11:23:00.001-05:002007-01-29T09:57:00.881-05:00Slumber<DIV> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Christmas tree</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">With little red SAABs underneath</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">A man named Red </P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">With two lights on his head</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Is looking for Grandma</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /><o:p> </o:p></P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Little boy has surgery on his eyes again</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Nurse says veins are too thin</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Mommy and Daddy tied the knot</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">But they forgot</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Little girl was left behind</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Sleeping in a doll's crib</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><o:p> </o:p></P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Esther's house is falling down</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">When I got back to town</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Sneezy and Dopey were on the step</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Flat and hungry and wet</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">My heart exploded as I gave them nourish</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Praying still they'd flourish</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt"><o:p> </o:p></P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">'Round come Jamie and Kay</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Want to teach little boy to play drinking game</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">The thunder booms and lights dim</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Jamie says she is afraid then</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">Makes her crazy</P> <P class=MsoNormal style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 0pt">If the power is lazy</P></DIV>Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-19226136418515410112007-01-26T18:49:00.000-05:002007-01-26T18:50:54.170-05:00Mind candy<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Big Mama’s house was red brick, with a swoopy-roofed entrance jutting out from the façade. The porch was brick surrounding concrete, no rail, and gleaming boxwoods hugged it on all four sides. She had those white wrought-iron leaf chairs on the porch, and around a fat pine sat the never ending bench. I always wondered how that got around the tree. Was it dropped from above, like that baby toy with the five increasingly larger rainbow-colored rings onto the plastic spindle, or was it there, and Poppy planted the seedling in the middle? The yard was always tidy, yet never did I see my great-grandparents toiling behind a lawnmower, or snipping the shrubs in the hot <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Valdosta</st1:place></st1:City> sun. The house perched there, one from the corner on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Mary Street</st1:address></st1:Street>. It was one of those whose front door was stuck until a salesman or church lady came by. Family and loved ones who had business at Big Mama and Poppy’s used the side door. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>I can’t remember the first time I went there. Pictures tell me it was when I was newborn. Swaddled in a blanket, my grandfather holds me up high at his mid-chest so he can get a good look at me. He’s looking at me, not the camera. I’d like to go back to that day. I want to open up my baby mouth and tell him, “Papa! You won’t be here in three years! Oh, Papa, please stop drinking.” Papa and Esther must have had a tempestuous marriage, because he set the house on fire in 1957. He crawled under it through that big hole in the foundation and made his way to what he must have thought was the dead center of the house, just so happens it was the hall closet. Fortunately for my newly-single, yet still hard working and gainfully employed grandmother, it didn’t burn long, because a neighbor called the restaurant to tell her the house was on fire. Papa would have netted three hundred dollars. I suppose that was a goodly sum of money back in those days.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><u><o:p><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></o:p></u></p>Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-1169205868136278442007-01-19T06:03:00.000-05:002007-01-19T06:28:43.460-05:00VintageShe thumbed through the left-behinds of her grandmother: bank statements, blue-safety paper checks in her mother's handwriting, blank cards from the 70's and 80's, and one white envelope from the state mental hospital. Within was a document detailing the Hell her deceased mother faced 30 days before her death. Her best friend and mother, feeling it in her best interest to have her admitted involuntarily. The canned verbage went something like "believe this person to be mentally ill and presents a strong danger to self." She stayed there for 6 days. Another paper shows patient voluntarily discharging herself. Three weeks and two days later, she was dead. Found in an upstairs room of an abondoned house on Patterson Street, across said street from the hospital, not 200 yards from the mental ward where the man was a patient. Somehow the man slipped out of 2 North, skitted across the street, had the thought of visiting the empty house, and discovered her mother dead. It made the Times. It was big news. The house is gone now. On top of those mental images of mushed restless spirit sits a heavy medical complex.<br /><br />Mommy took her there one time. Perhaps she was plotting her own demise. Mommy was fascinated with the abandoned home. They walked through the waist-high weeds to the back entrance. She was scared. Vandals had left their marks, broken glass, shattered floors, missing steps. Her mother told her to stay on the ground floor while she took a look around upstairs.<br /><br />Finding evidence of the tragedy that shook her very foundation at 13, she thought really hard and tried to paw through the mist of the long-forgotten memories. Nope. She can't remember what she was like then.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36172549.post-1168653717824244412007-01-12T20:59:00.000-05:002007-01-12T21:01:57.826-05:00Good thingsSuccess and health. Family. Love. The dog's wet nose. Venison spaghetti.Robertahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08764004147220802362noreply@blogger.com0