Who's on First?

This about sums up my experience with qualitative research so far.

My original reference was from Rain Man...(if you haven't seen the movie, do yourself a favor and watch this classic!)



But the original version from Abbott and Costello is worth the watch. 

Shaved Kitty

Today Nigak went to the groomers. I kept trying to warn her, but she didn't understand. She got a little nervous after I picked her up and started locking doors. Once I got to my car, she was ready to play outside. I think she likes car rides, but as I got closer and closer to The Pet Stop, she grew anxious and became more vocal.

Inside, it was calm and the people were friendly. They seemed to genuinely enjoy their jobs. Groomer Mike was to the point, yet kind. He helped me claw her off of my shoulder as I was leaving. They all had a little trouble with her name. It is Ni-gak (knee-GAK). A little tricky- everyone has a difficult time at first.

As I drove away, I wondered what kind of experience it would be for her. I didn't bring any food for her- did they feed her? Where did she...ya know...go? Did she like her neighbors?

Then I frankly forgot about it, until I almost forgot to pick her up. She looks beautiful! A little funny with her puffy head and paws and tail, but so pretty! She's a little beat tonight, but I think she is muy gracias!

Before...

After...

I think she looks like an alien cat in this picture! LOL!
...And also this is a nice quote I found today...

There is no greater impotence in all the world like knowing you are right and
that the wave of the world is wrong, yet the wave crashes upon you. - Norman Mailer

Close Encounters of the Moose Kind

Tonight after an excursion to Denise's home for the second time to get information about her 2006 tax return, we returned to my house, and upon getting out saw a moose munching on the tree in the front yard.

We were scared.

Ok, it was just me that was scared.

But I've heard of the stories regarding innocent bystanders and mean ass, charging moose, and ain't gonna be one of THOSE suckers.



So we stayed in the car and watched it for a moment. Nigak was on the roof and was paying close attention to the moose as well. We watch it jump on it's hind legs and munch on the high branches. Slowly, it wandered off, but kind of looked like it was hanging out in front of my door. Just to be safe, we decided to back out, go around the block and enter the alley. That is where we saw them.

Yes, two of them! One was a baby and mother aside, they just chomped away at the bushes. Denise put her brights on to see if they would react, and also so we could watch them better.

They mosey'd their way across the street, mother leading, and baby right behind. We decided to follow and watch them since they seemed to not be upset that we were hanging around for a while.

We watched as they meandered through the neighborhood, spooking just a couple cars. Luckily for everyone, there were no close encounters! The moose stopped at the corner of Medfra and 14th to dine a little more. Denise tried to get a picture of them, but it was just a little too dark. Instead, she got a picture of a cop car driving behind the moose. It's funny how large these creatures are, and how often they are dismissed or not even seen.

It was a good thing the bus saw them, though. The brakes of the bus scared the baby and both retired to the other side of the street for dessert. We warned the two passengers that exited from the bus about the duo calavanting around the neighborhood.

At the same time I wanted to warn them of the potential danger ahead, Denise got the information out much faster. "There are moose ahead!" The passers-by were grateful of our civic courtesy and moved the other side of the street to give the moose more grazing room.

It was beautiful to watch these wild animals roam around our city, as if to say, "I remember when you could see around this land for miles." I have to say it put me into another time before humanization existed and wondered how long it would be until we were standing in the midst of something no longer recognizable.

The Lost Art of Dining

In the last couple weeks, it has been brought to my attention that there is a serious lack of dining appreciation happening in Anchorage, Alaska. I mean, here we live...millions of miles away from a mainstream dining experience, surrounded by high-end, high-priced restaurants, and faced with a total lack of hospitality.

Dining can be considered a hobby. It certainly is a hobby of mine. It requires a heightened sense of knowledge about ingredients, about the environment, the culture of the fare. It requires money and time. Dining can even be considered a sport- a team sport, nonetheless- the more you practice the better you get.

You have the the Hosts, the Bartender, your Server, and the Chef- along with yourself, the consumer. Sometimes there are second string players such as the band, the water boys, and the manager. If one player is out of whack, it takes a whole lotta work to make up for it in the long run.

Everyone has their particular part to play. The Host: welcoming consumers, making them feel at home, welcome, invited, comfortable, special. The Bartender: a quick drink that is expertly mixed, as in the case of cocktails, or carefully chosen, as in the case of wine. Your Server: the Leader of the team, and the one responsible to make your experience one to remember. Friendly, intuitive, and respectful, this person serves as a knowledge guru for anything you may want. S/he offers their infinite knowledge about the menu, the ingredients, the wine to pair, and even what to order for desert. And of course, The Chef: ultimately prepared for any request to his dish, not taking anything personally and highly accommodating for any consumer.

Then there is the consumer: armed with the right mindset of having a delectable dish, understanding the environment of the restaurant, and aware of the expectations of it and it's staff.

The art of dining has to have been around for ages. In my quick Google research of five minutes, I found the earliest book on etiquette and dining to have been published in 1780. Frances Trollope (1780-1863).Domestic Manners of the Americans. London: Whittaker, Treacher & Co., 1832. 2 volumes.

But just because something was born so long ago doesn't mean it must be discarded with the latest fads. Just because the world is more in sync with technology, doesn't mean the bodies technology must be denied. At least not to me.

So here, is my take on a fine dining experience:

• Make reservations. It is appointment setting- the restaurant should be expecting you, and you don't have to wait awkwardly in a bar until the little beeper starts blinking or your name is called out like cattle.


• Check your coat. It will allow you to have a more relaxing and calm dinner, also giving subliminal hints to the server that you are planning on staying awhile to enjoy the experience.


• Start with cocktails or champagne as an aspertif to tickle your stomach awake.


• Order a light appetizer.


• Depending on where you are, I like to insist on keeping my menu and ordering as I go. This eliminates my ultimate dining pet peeve, which is when the next course arrives before you have finished the first.


• Order the wine next. If you want to have a different drink with each meal, this would be the time to order a nicely chilled white wine. It will not overshadow your appetizer or the second course of soup or salad. Use the smallest fork the left side of your plate. To eat soup, use the spoon accompanying the dish, and ladle the spoon from the front of the bowl to the back. When finished, place the fork on the left-hand corner of the plate. This should signify to your server that you are finished. A true professional, will understand this type of communication and will clear your plate without having to interrupt the conversation.


• While exploring the flavors of the first course, and matched wine, discuss your dinner options and wine choices. The old adage of particular wines with particular meats (i.e. white with fish, red with beef) does not have to apply here. If you do drink a red, find one that will complement your dinner, or ask your server to help. Lighter red such as a fine rose, or even a Merlot can compliment your dinner perfectly.


• Always take into heavy consideration the specials of the day- and weigh the options of a chef's choice. These are usually fresh dishes not always available.


• As you taste the first bite of your entree, place your utensils down in order to experience the whole morsel. Close your eyes and let the flavors melt into your mouth and into your senses. Sometimes it is even possible to feel the character of the dish based on the way it was prepared. Be sure to taste your entree with a swig of wine, in order to let additional flavors unveil themselves.


• Dine slowly and with purpose. Enjoy the dish with all senses and appreciation.


• Table should be fully cleared and drinks should be refreshed before each course is served. Plates should always be cleared from the left side.

Your server should be aware of your seriousness of dining, and should be kissing your ass right now. Afterall, a server who understands this form of lost art, is handsomely rewarded based on the experience. This includes a good intuition of when to interject into a conversation, when to clear plates, refresh water, and offer the next course.

Dessert is allowed to be shared, and should be offered with coffee, port, ice wine, or any other after-dinner drink.

Diners should be left to relish in the memory of said perfect meal and service, and the check should not be delivered too soon.

Servers and hosts should be aware of the timing of each table, able and ready to seek coats, call taxi or valet, and open doors, warmly smiling as you humbly exit to the outside world and onto the next experience.

Ahhh, the lost art of dining. It seems in this world, where we are often in dining situations, the art and appreciation of a good meal and dining experience has been lost. It may seem caddy to have to remember all these manners while dining, but I think it is fun. It is a challenge to execute dining at it's finest. Of course, it is not something I always want to have to do- and usually don't- but I do enjoy the art of dining, the experience of dining, the enjoyment to dine, and would appreciate a good team that can successfully execute this opinion of a true dining experience.

Thank you, Stuart Smalley

In the middle of life's chaos, I am faced with the realization that every other human, and in particular woman, goes through the exact same things I do. It is easy, especially in Alaska, to think that I am the only person who goes through this life in this way... but it is always comforting to understand that women, even older than myself, are just now experiencing the same feelings, insecurities, troubles, and understandings as myself. Then, I have to tell myself, I'm not doing too bad. Despite relapes, soft spots, bad decisions, I am doing okay- just fine.

...and to credit this blog... Stuart Smalley

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3xqKkLlCfLE

Padded

So sometimes you go through life just...padded. And this is what I mean...

So I'm at the store and I have to wear pads. When was the last time you wore pads? Just think about it for one second. It was probably when you were 14, and you just started to experience the natural womanly flow that happens. And because you didn't want to just start pluggin a hole, you most likely began with pads. Yeah, me too.

You can imagine the surprise it was to arrive in a grocery store at 7:30 am looking over a decade of feminine evolution. It took me ten minutes to realize that they now have pictures on the outside. So then I thought I was safe. I knew I just needed the short ones. So that's what I bought.

I'd really hate to see the long ones.

Needless to say, for the past five days I have been walking around with something short of a diaper between my legs. Imagine having to wear a down pillow there, while moving around, wearing normal clothing, and engaging in business. So forgive me if I've been a bit tempermental.

But wearing pads is the most uncomfortable, enconimally destroying thing I have ever had to participate in! I feel horrible that I had to in the first place.

But alas, I did. Who wears these things? I think the entire pad industry has to be based on new gals with periods under the age of 16.

The lesson here is a new profound appreciation for any man that has had to buy feminie hygenie products. For whatever reason. If I have a problem figuring it out, after ten years, I truly pity the man who has to make the decision in that life changing isle.

Artist: Lyrics

Song: I Love To Laugh

Lyrics

Uncle Albert:I love to laugh

Loud and long and clear

I love to laugh

It's getting worse ev'ry year

The more I laugh

The more I fill with glee

And the more the glee

The more I'm a merrier me

It's embarrassing!

The more I'm a merrier me!

Mary Poppins: Some people laugh through their noses

Sounding something like this "Mmm..."

Some people laugh through their teeth goodness sake

Hissing and fizzing like snakes

Bert:Some laugh too fast

Some only blast - ha!

Others, they twitter like birds

Then there's the kind

What can't make up their mind

Uncle Albert:When things strike me as funny

I can't hide it inside

And squeak - as the squeakelers do

I've got to let go with a ho-ho-ho...

And a ha-ha-ha...too!

All:We love to laugh

Loud and long and clear

We love to laugh

So ev'rybody can hear

The more you laugh

The more you fill with glee

And the more the glee

The more we're a merrier we!

If we couldn't laugh, we would all go insane. - Jimmy Buffett

Being a Cope Street Bully

Tonight's dinner was in honor of my friend's, niece, who is 13 years old. On the way to the dinner, I reflected that I no longer knew what anyone that age was like, or what they did, or what year in school they were. Indeed the last encounter with a 13 year-old was at a movie theater when I threw my bucket of popcorn over some big-mouthed kid who wouldn't shut the hell up. (Ok- while this space is a place for me to embellish my wildest dreams, that really didn't happen).

Well, niecey is a sweetie and dinner was fine. It only struck me as I was driving through my po'dunk hood why I really didn't like those 8th grade punks. Two of them (boys) were playing on the side of the road, frolicking in the bushes. As I passed them, I saw out of the corner of my eye the white punk kid wind his arm and throw something at my car.

Without thinking, I immediately slammed on the brakes and threw my Blazer into reverse, the transmission almost dropping on the ground. The fat kid just stood there calmly stroking a tree with a stick, while the other punk immediately beat it into an overgrown yard.

"Hey!" I yelled out the window. "Get the hell back here."

The kid stopped and I was pleased that he listened, turned around and slowly inched his way toward me.

"What the hell are you doing?" (When you live on Cope street, every sentence must have the word "hell" in it for anyone- even 13 year-old punks- to understand).

His reply, simply: "Nothing." (don't make eye contact, don't make eye contact)

"Why the hell did you just throw something at my vehicle?" I realize now I am actually kind of bullying the punk, and am getting concerned about where this will actually lead. For all I know his wife-beating dad and pitbull could be around the corner.

"I thought... your car looks like my friend's," he stammered.

"Oh. So you throw things at your friends?"

"Um. Yeah."

"Well, don't throw things! Jesus!"

By this time I am blocking traffic and the punk-ass boys are ready to laugh at me. Almost humiliated, I drive away. Now I am scared they are really going to sabotage my car- probably pop a tire or throw stink bombs in my window. I wish I could have been meaner- taught them a real lesson somehow-so they know not to mess with me, but even now, I feel sheepish for yelling at the kid. (As I drove away I saw him pull a red berry off the tree and throw it at my bumper.) I thought about repeating the dramatic scolding escapade, but decided better of it. What was I going to say now, "Don't do that because it is not nice?", "Please don't throw things at passing cars?"

These children don't really know "nice". Hence the reason why they were throwing frickin berries at my car in the first place. whyiotta...

I remember a scene in Tommy Boy when Julie Warner and Chris Farley are on a boat and the same bratty-type of kids start making fun of them when Warner turns sharply saying, "I know where you live and I've seen where you sleep. I swear to everything holy that your mothers will cry when they see what I've done to you. "

I don't know if you, the reader, can hear in her voice or see in her face the conviction to which she speaks during this scene, but I wish I had that today.

...and because advertising seems to be the topic of the night, I know you will appreciate this.

In light of the new- annoying- Geico TV ads, one question remains:

What happened to the geiko?

PSA (Public Service Announcement)

I'm sick. I feel like I have been stuffed with metallic-infused, unsweetened honey. My chest is tight; my throat is scratchy. As a result, my body goes into three-minute coughing convulsions, involving not only my throat, but also my abdomen, shaking my shoulders, leaving my head swooning and light, and bringing tears to my itchy eyes. The small nasal passages have been blocked with a think, green goop. They feel as if they will collapse with too much forceful blowing. This forces my mouth to remain open in order for an ample amount of oxygen to reach my brain. The open mouth causes my lips to crack dry in a cry for moisture. There is no relief. The moment medicine is applied, it is quickly absorbed and the cracked skin wilts on my face.

My body aches everywhere. My neck from having to prop a laughable number of pillows beneath my head in a position so that my mouth could remain open for any amount of oxygen to remain in my brain. This creates an incredible need for constant water, which creates a need to move, which creates a need to urinate. This sucks.

If I lie my head to one side, I have approximately 10 minutes before all the gooey stuff has drained to one side. Then I can make myself sneeze and blow my nose for about 10 more minutes. I feel better for about three minutes, so I lie on the other side and wait 10 minutes until the remaining goo has crept back to one side, and wait for it... sneeze.

I can't move, but I can't stay still. I can't smell, taste, or see, though I know I must smell foul. Wreaking, no doubt, of curry and garlic, the warm liquid soup relives my chest and begins to loosen the flem stuck on the bronchial tubes. Every cough leaves my throat cold and my lungs breathless, heaving like I have just ran 5K. I make grunty and whiney noises like a child to express my discomfort. I wish for cute cat who is immune to this cold, so I could hug it and not make it sick.

I've tried to get stoned. I tried to get drunk on alcohol and NyQuil. I've tried to read, to sleep, to watch TV, to read world news, read books, brainstorm work, contemplate life, love and liberty. I've tried to clean, pick-up the massive heaps of damp Kleenex trailed across the floor. I've tried to meditate, cook, blog. I don't know if I am even making sense.

My ass hurts from sitting too long. My arms have been weighed down by toxins. My head feels as if it could pop off and float away at any minute. My eyes feel crossed and lazy. My nose is raw and stings as an unexpected glob of snot drips from one nostril. My eyes are puffy. I feel helpless and hopeless. Even the day is a dreary, grey doom. It's raining, too, though I liked listening to it drop through the trees.

Don't plan to stop over. The place is scheduled for quarantine early tomorrow morning. They may have to bulldoze the thing. Don't call. You will not be able to understand me, and I will not be able to hear you. Cards and flowers are accepted, just have them leave it on the steps of my apartment, and I will check outside hourly. I will open the door for drugs and tea, but will promptly kick you out after delivery. I will be washing my sheets sometime this week, presumably when I have enough strength to actually get out of my bed and move more than the 44 square feet of my entire apartment.

I do ask this one thing. Help stop the spread of the common cold. Cover your mouth when you sneeze, wash your hands after blowing your nose. Don't lick the knives at work and put them back in the drawer. Don't share straws or mascara. Don't lock yourself in small quarters without ventilation. Dry off after getting wet. Don't drink OJ or milk from the container. Lysol doors and cell phones frequently. Remember to take your vitamins and eat healthy. Recycle and pray that together we can end the common cold and take back our vibrant lives.

I claim this guy to be on my team.

The Dentist

Today was the worst day to visit The Dentist. By now, I am used to sitting in the straight chair with a plastic head cap, on my back with my mouth pried open for hours. I am used to the jutting of the jaws, the unexpected, intense bursts of air, the high squeal of drill spraying enamel throughout my mouth. But today was just not the day.

I have to admit that even while I am sitting patiently in a chair, a baby bib on my chest, legs crossed with a good book for 45 minutes, I still am thinking this is better than being in my stuffy office with stuffy people. For that I am grateful. My dentist is great, a friend referred by a friend sort of thing. He can't be sweeter, allowing me not to pay my lousy $50 a month for the eight months of work he has done so far. Half my mouth has actually been restored to looking like natural teeth, instead of telling all my secrets with metal fillings. He is great, and the assistant that used to be assigned to me was great. But she has recently been replaced with a new dental hygienist, Rosa.

Rosa is a nice enough lady, but she is not very sensitive. I have to chalk it up to her Spanish background. It isn't like she was born in America and learned from the beginning to dance carefully around things. Instead, she treats my mouth like a bean bag, clashing that long metal object against my teeth. (Easy lady, I know they're not pretty, but they work for me!)

The doctor arrives and I watch as the hygienist and he do a little dance around my chair in the small room. Finally, they find my ex-rays (filed under O', which apparently goes to the end of the "O"s in the filing system), and begin administering the novocaine. This seems to take longer than usual, and finally Dr. pulls out the needle and mentions something about not wanting to hit a vein and numb my entire body. Good call, doc. Let's try again.

Twenty minutes later the entire right side of my face has swelled up like a blowfish, and they begin with the tools. "If you feel anything at all, let me know immediately," he says as three fingers are shoved in my throat, holding four different objects. I try to gesture like I understand. It doesn't take long before I have to give into the sawing off of enamel, apparent that more drugs were needed. Another dose of novocaine does the trick.

At this time, I have sat in this chair six times before thinking I needed a stress ball to save my hands from clenching together. Today, I finally mentioned this to him. Apparently, I'm not keeping things to myself anymore. "My, what balls you have grown lately," my conscience says to my brain. Well, he thought it was a good idea.


Anyway, I impressed myself during the sawing and drilling bit by recalling each name of the tools they were placing in my mouth and the function it was used for. I was impressed as I recognized the calls:

explorer, please
the pick?
scraper-
suction (large and small) aka: air!
water

(funny, I know there are more...)

Like I mentioned, I visit the dentist about as much as most people should see a therapist. I feel like we have become friends. In fact, I've already added him to the Christmas list. But today, I just wasn't up for being a dental champ, contortioned into various uncomfortable positions, with numerous metal objects hanging out at the same time, jamming about my bite. I really could have gone without my mouth getting needled and assaulted for two hours, and I certainly didn't need the brain numb so early in the morning.

I spent the time with my eyes closed, feeling like a construction zone is happening between my teeth. I think of things like good food, reflect on memories the music has spurred, recall recent sensual experiences, and am immediately pulled back into life with a deafening, rocky, insect sound.

Finally, the mouth bridge is taken out and my jaw is allowed to relax. The doctor gently rubs the joints in my jaw with his condom smelling latex gloves and pats my cheek. Today he was distracted by loosing his dog and forgets to even tell me what the next procedure is or good-bye. All I am left with is Rosa telling me not to move because all the blood needs to rush back through my body and handing me a Q-tip with massive amounts of baby powdered vaseline to apply to my lips. I can only feel the left corner, so I as I apply I hope I am not spreading it all over my face.

I am guided to the front desk, where I feel interrogated about what just happened, when the next appointment is, and how much can I pay? Actually, they don't ask me this anymore, as I think they feel sorry for me as my puppy-dog eyes float across the partition while I proudly ask for a bill to be sent.

As I leave, I am thankful that even in a town a million miles away from people who really know me, there are still people who really care, no matter how much it hurts.

So Snorry

My mother gave me many things including small nasal passages. Many people compliment me on the "perfect" size of my lil' nose. Not too long, or wide, openings just right, straight. But the first time you spend the night with me, you will look at that beautiful nose just a little different.

The history of my snoring life begins early in my memory. I remember taking family vacations where my parents would put everyone to bed at 10 p.m. in a small, two-bedroom motel off the side of some forgotten Midwestern city. Since I am a nightowl, I have a hard time going to sleep at 10 pm, especially in foreign places where there is so much to see and learn.

Going to sleep usually included some family diagreement, where the only way my parents could get us to go to bed was to piss us off enough that we were angered into silence. And after everyone had gotten over that and fell asleep, I was often left fuming well into the rest of the night. This always even more agitated when they started.

First, it was one. My mother. Slow to begin. Infrequent. She is just losing conscienceness. At first, it even sounds sweet, like a low harp playing sharp riffs through it's strings.

Then the harmony began by my sister, sleeping next to me. One thing to watch with her was her deadly ability to break an eardrum while gassing the entire room. Flatulence was a specialty for my sister, and it was always a weapon she wasn't afraid to use. Like her snoring, it happened abruptly, sneaking up on you and scaring you with powerful force. These patterns were conducted open mouth, while she managed to spread across the bed like a cold amoeba, slowly and swiftly collecting the covers, until I was left completely miserable.

The harmony is accompanied by the bass. Enter the boom. Dad sleeps on his back with his hands on his belly. It's like he is poised for the song of the night, ready to add the steady drum of rips and snores. His remains constant, snoring in, and snoring out, a deadly octave lower.

By this time, my mother had fallen completely at the mercy of the snore. It's a slightly higher pitched tone, laced with a bit of saliva that seems to get stuck right in the back of her throat. I've tried imitating this and almost lost one of my tonsils. Unlike both my mother and my sister, my tonsils are still intact.

But my head is not. At this point, I become flamingly mad, getting out of the bed and pacing back and forth, not believing once again my relation to these people. I try to ignore the symphony of snores by sitting in a window sill, behind the curtains, with my hands over my head, looking out on the city. If we were lucky, we were high enough in the building to see the city below, bustling. I would open the window if I could to hear the people on the streets talking, hear the wind or rain, hear the sound of life outside of this room. It worked for a few minutes. But the second movement inside the room was gearing up.

It was the Midnight Switch. Now each person was comfortably prancing in Sleepyland, and had moved into their midnight position. Bodies are turned from stomachs to sides, arms are relocated, pillows adjusted, legs curled, feet covered. Ahhhhhh.........rrrrrrgggggg!

Now each person is adjusted so that while in the beginning, two were snoring about the same, they have managed to cover any individual piece of silence left over by weaving their instruments.

This is an instance of where I really learned my own strength of will. As I worked myself up enough even to cry because my sleep was being robbed, I put myself to bed and dedicated my mind to taking me somewhere else. This is an extremely exhausting process, that ultimately puts you straight to sleep, but the next day, I would still be mad that I was mad, mad that I was tired, and mad that they could not control their damn snoring!

Today, I have realized that my mother truly did give me, personally, my own ability to join the family snoring circus, perhaps even as their star. This is completely humiliating.

I wonder how many sleeplessness night(s) I have imposed on people from across the world?

Hostels across Europe: 50 times x 10 people ave. per hostel room= 500

Camping in close, drunken corridors: 20 times x 4 people ave. per tent= 80

Plus the people walking by: 20 times x 5 person ave. = 100

Plus the people who walk by and stay= 20

College sleep-overs: ???

frat parties: two parties x ??? people= ??? x 2

train/bus/taxi ride naps: 20 x 3 person ave. = 60

Ohmagod! If I sounded like the rest of my family, I have nearly offended half of the people I have ever met, mostly those I don't even know! (Ironically) How horrible it must have been to be somewhere with someone who SNORES!!! I know I NEVER look at that person ever again the same way, and would possibly reconsider my friendship (or lack of) for any future relations.

I can recall many sleep-over friends commenting about my talent, but only one who could actually out-snore me. I'd recall the vacation memories and remedies during those loud, disturbing nights, but to no avail. When I told my sleeping buddy this, he ramified the situation by turning the TV on at night, to drown out the noise. If that did anything, it only aided his pug to actually snore louder than he did.

So I can definitely relate to current frustrations with sleeping buddies who have a somewhat nocturnal nature to begin with. How awful it is to be in someone else's home, while they are snoring up the dead and disturbing your well deserved and needed sleep. I understand how compelling it can be to take their pillow and gently lay it over their face, plug their nose, or hit them every time they begin that steep incline again, if only for a few seconds of peace. I know that moving to the couch rarely solves the problem, while the house shakes around you, and you become increasingly cold and uncomfortable, and for me, pissed.

But hear me now: I profess today that I have been hereditarily empowered with the gift of snore. It is yet another piece of me. I have not been successful in hiding this trait, because I cannot control its intensity. I do know it worsens when I am stressed, drunk, or have smoked in previous hours. If I am very tired, I will snore. Head Cold? Intense snoring ahead. Cramped, stuffy rooms? Snore, snore away.

And in this proclamation, I announce a world-wide apology to any person whom I have disturbed by snoring next to them, in the same room, campground, house, apartment, boat, train, car, airplane, beach, bar, and hotel. I admit I have a problem with snoring, but since it doesn't bother me, I cannot be held responsible. I will do my best to inform the naive, isolate and protect them as needed from this impostering characteristic. I shall wear reminders to bed, and make every attempt to fall asleep after any other sleeping buddy in the room, campground, house, apartment, boat, train, car, airplane, beach, bar and hotel. I will refrain from eating too much before bed, drinking too heavily before passing out, and smoking on the days I may be sleeping with company. I will be sure to keep a buzzer operated by frequency linked to my ear, so each time I break a sound barrier, I will be shocked back to a stage of conscienceness where I can control my breathing.

Friends, be assured I will dedicate my free hours to research the history and progressions of snoring. I will volunteer for medical treatments, studies, and proposed remedies. I will be an advocate for the search to discover a treatment for those suffering from obsessive snoring disorder. I will wear masks, sniff herbs, and rub various concoctions on my face and neck in efforts of eliminating the noise.

And to all these people, in the past or in the future, please be certain, that your night(s) of sleepless snore listening, has been credited by the snore karma, and is being felt on me through a troubling bout of insomnia.

For all this, and for all there is to come, I am snore snorry.

Let's Talk About Sex

This is a blast from the past and a tribute to my dear sista' who can do the best imitation of Salt n' Pepa I've ever seen. The lyrics were a little less impressive than the beat of the song, at least until the last line where it totally redeems itself...

"Let's Talk About Sex"

(Punch it, Hurb

Yo, I don't think we should talk about this

Come on, why not?

People might misunderstand what we're tryin' to say, you know?

No, but that's a part of life)

Come on

[CHORUS]

Let's talk about sex, baby

Let's talk about you and me

Let's talk about all the good things

And the bad things that may be

Let's talk about sex

Let's talk about sex

Let's talk about sex

Let's talk about sex

Let's talk about sex for now to the people at home or in the crowd

It keeps coming up anyhow

Don't decoy, avoid, or make void the topic

Cuz that ain't gonna stop it

Now we talk about sex on the radio and video shows

Many will know anything goes

Let's tell it how it is, and how it could be

How it was, and of course, how it should be

Those who think it's dirty have a choice

Pick up the needle, press pause, or turn the radio off

Will that stop us, Pep?

I doubt it

All right then, come on, Spin

[CHORUS]

Hot to trot, make any man's eyes pop

She use what she got to get whatever she don't got

Fellas drool like fools, but then again they're only human

The chick was a hit because her body was boomin'

Gold, pearls, rubies, crazy diamonds

Nothin' she ever wore was ever common

Her dates heads of state, men of taste

Lawyers, doctors, no one was too great for her to get with

Or even mess with, the Prez she says was next on her list

And believe me, you, it's as good as true

There ain't a man alive that she couldn't get next to

She had it all in the bag so she should have been glad

But she was mad and sad and feelin' bad

Thinkin' about the things that she never had

No love, just sex, followed next with a check and a note

That last night was dope

Let's talk about sex, baby (sing it)

Let's talk about you and me (sing it, sing it)

Let's talk about all the good things

And the bad things that may be

Let's talk about sex (come on)

Let's talk about sex (do it)

Let's talk about sex (uh-huh)

Let's talk about sex

Ladies, all the ladies, louder now, help me out

Come on, all the ladies - let's talk about sex, all right[repeat]

(Yo, Pep, I don't think they're gonna play this on the radio

And why not? Everybody has sex

I mean, everybody should be makin' love

Come on, how many guys you know make love?)

[CHORUS]

ODE TO MARI and JUANA

Mari and Juana met briefly in high school.
At that time they shocked each other and ran away.
They did not see the value in one another.

They were introduced again their second year of college.
Both had matured.
Mari thought Juana had a nice scent.
Juana loved the character of Mari.

The two began to learn about each other from their friends.
Mari learned how to smell the different scents of Juana.
She honed the characteristic of each distintive fragrance.
She could find grass, musk, and sun-kissed grapefruit.
Sweet, damp, and thick.

Juana was intoxicated by the lush taste of Mari.
Her character filled the room.
Everyone smiled with laughing eyes around her.
Everyone enjoyed how she made them feel.
Sweet, damp, and thick.


They learned how to feel and see the differences in each other.
In the bright sun of the west their intensity grew.

They found themselves together alone.
Mari and Juana connected.

Mari and Junana were connoisseurs.
They could drown each other with affection.
Numb their brains and body in lust.
Soared.
They lived to digest the veins of every organic piece within one another.

After them remained a distinctive odor.
Sweet, damp, and thick.

THE END

Turtle Sam

Thanks to Picasa2 from Google, I was finally able to upload the picture of Sam doing "the turtle". You go, boy!


 

Freud

(Wo-man's Mind)

Freudian slip. Something that resonates in the subconscious (or Freud would say unconscious) and is mistakenly said out loud. This can get one in a lot of trouble, especially when you thought what you were thinking was going to be a secret for awhile. Your own understanding that what you are thinking is not yet ready to be said aloud, or in the presence of others. Whoops.

Physically, I tend to be clumsy, often tripping over my feet, stumbling across situations that I really shouldn't be involved in, walking into windows. Usually this doesn't flow into my conversations. Though I think I am usually not making sense, or am being harmfully vague, I think I may actually do okay. Until tonight.

What I said was embarrassing for me, but also for the person I was with. Someone who pointed out: "as a person with commitment issues, that was a big fopah." Really. Thanks for pointing that out to me. Like I wasn't already uncomfortable.

So, being the challenger that I so like to be, I casually say:

"So why are we uncomfortable?" (followed by a curious smile and wide, wondering eyes)

Predictably the answer was too uncomfortable to hash out. Hopefully someday- assuming this fopah wasn't a detrimental turn back in the relationship (again!?) we will be mature enough to revisit the conversation. It will go something like:

"Remember that time when we were talking about you cleaning my apartment naked? And you said, '______________________________.' That was hilarious."

It does bring to light, however, that this relationship has a far ways to go, and as much as I would like to dream about the outcome, it must be pursued in baby steps, and in the now.

Ummm... Interesting concept.