A woman of wonder

Just when I get all all high on myself as a wife, mother and wanna-be author, I run across a woman who sets my world aright. (Yes, I meant to type aright. In Maple Valley-speak, that means, I got a smack down).

Remember I blogged about a new acquantaince named Sue. The woman who lost Sarah, her best friend, sister and mother of 6 children to cancer. The memorial was a few weeks ago, and yesterday, the entire crew, along with the father, came to visit Sue and her own family (5 kids+husband). Between Sue, her sister's family and brother, who live next door, it's 23 kids total.

Sue had dropped by to say hello, a random act of love, as she'd never before made it to my neck of the woods. She literally had 8 minutes between her doc appt and the vet appt before she raced home and made lunch for the impending arrival. I looked up to her (literally, as she's 6'1 to my smallish 5'11") and made stupid small talk like "where is everyone sleeping" (inside and in tents on the lawn), and "what are you going to be doing for three entire weeks with all those kids" (site see, water fights, argue).

As I listened to her comments and we rushed through a week of catching up in ten second increments, all I was thinking about was the indelible influence Sue was going to have on those six children. Who would they look up to, talk to, confide in, stay with, than they one person beloved by their deceased mother? Her best friend and confident--Sue. Their aunt of course, the one they already adore and cherish.

I was reminded of my aunts, who had an enormous influence on my life. I wondered if Sue had ever thought about how her words and actions would alter the course of their decisions. If she were ready to receive the late night phone calls or requests to come for an unplanned visit. I wondered if her words would reflect her sister's opinions or her own. Her children will no doubt also be doubly more influential to those children than perhaps they otherwise might have been, as the absence of a mother requires more time spent with a responsible, known family while the father is away working.

At that moment, standing outside on my deck, I was in awe of the responsibility she had accepted without hestitation, and was already performing with such grace. I felt very...insignificant in my small calling. Not just by the lower number of children, but the ease of my burden. Sue, full of energy, a bright smile on her (tan) face and (thin) body, ready to embrace all that life had given her. What I might have considered a challenge, she believes is a reward, a gift and blessing to help shape others, and do so in the honour of her sister, in a way that is honorable. It was one of those moments I seem to be having more frequently- you know- the one that comes from an inner place, that says, in blunt terms, shut up and be happy, grateful and appreciative. Yesterday, it wasn't whispering. It was yelling. It was also the one that gave me the desire to be better. To raise my game. To hope that if called upon, I could rise to the occasion like Sue. For truly, Sue is a woman of wonder.

Just say no to Grannie's chotckie's: Inheritence Etiquette

The finest of lines exist between an 'inheritence' and a 'hand-me-down." I'm pretty sure expensive is on one side of the line, tacky on the other.

When I began dating my husband, I should have known the future held when we drove up to his Grandma's lawn. Pink flamingos greeted us by the mailbox, hardened plastic wings in a permanent salute. Sun dials made of clay hugged the side of tin pans, cups and bowls that lined the pathway from the sidewalk to the house. A handpainted porceline gnome welcomed us at the front door, its brown, squat figure and red hat adorning the permenantly cherubic face. The inside of the home didn't disappoint. It was filled with the odd assortment of items collected throughout a lifetime of antique and dollar store shopping with a touch of Walmart thrown in.

When Grammie died, I truly mourned her. She was the lovely woman, funny and sharp to the very end. A whole lot of sassiness packed in her 4'11" 98 pound frame. It was she who collected the above items, and passed this interesting knack on to her daughter. That fondness was tested when Rog and I started receiving things in the mail from her 'estate,' including a hand-painted porceline biker, featuring an outsized head on a minature harley, the size of a KitchenAid. In the same package, we received seven necklaces of all types of shapes and sizes, all plastic, all less than a dollar, one featuring large, plastic fruits in offending, surreal colors, and another proudly displaying candy shapes, including the ever-memorable Reese's Peanut Butter cups. I knew I was in serious trouble when my father-in-law announced he was "finally going to be rid of all this crap," said to me over the phone, in an undertone so as not to alert his wife who was in the other room.A vision of box after box made me momentarily grumpy until I decided it was time to have 'the chat.'

"How do you feel about all this stuff?" I asked Rog in my gentlist of voices. As all spouses know, this is a very sensitive subject. One comprised of emotional napalm.

"I know where you're going," he said, anticipating my commentary. "It means a lot to my mother," his way of defending the gifts. I take marriage seriously. I avoided direct confrontation (e.g. I hate it. Not in my house).

"Then where do you want to put it?" knowing the answer to be the garage, for our house is berefert of shelves of any kind, for this very reason. No surface space, no chotchkies.

Rog was cornered. Truly, the Harley couldn't go on the counter. "We can't throw it away," he argued, "it would kill her." Now this topic naturally leads me back to one of my earliest blogs on regifting etiquette. Family 'heirlooms,' however loosely that term is used, must be around by defnition, in case the giver asks if we still have it. Lying is out of the question Rog agreed with my suggestion, and we put the necklaces in a box for Porsche (in the garage) while I left Harley-boy on the kitchen counter for a day, then put him on a shelf, in the very back, behind he cookbooks. Conflict avoided.

The Harley rider from the 60s, at my husband's birth

Shortly therafter, we started receiving box after box, and when relatives came to the house, they came bearing gifts. Windfans made of reused tin, crusty Easter eggs stuck on long, spindly metal wires, designed for plucking on the ground or in a plant pot. When we received a dwarf size animal for a particular holiday, I drew the line.

"You have to say something," I told Rog, lifting it up for inspection. Like Neo in the Matrix, he saw the truth in it. It was either confront the demon of gifting or have two generations of junk invade our home.
"How about making it simple on everyone? Tell your mom we want to have the opportunity to consider everything she may want to give us, but for space purposes, as well as preference, we need to have the chance to talk about it (and/or our children) to see if it's something that will be wanted." I went on to tell him the position of "giving the item to someone who will love it as much as she/her mother did, is important."

He was brave enough to take on the challenge, and the conversation went better than expected. We got and loved a 105 year old rocking chair that served four generations, including his grandfather. The adorable but weathered piece of furniture sits proudly by our piano, beloved by both my children who use it constantly. The ginormous Easter bunnie? That stayed behind, and now adorns someone elses lawn.

PS. Harley-boy is still there, behind a set of cookbooks. I'm not telling which shelf.

Natural stain removers

Headache, vomiting, swoozing around, and that's just my dog. I divine she has a cranker from her swollen eyes and the fact she's shying away from me as only pitbulls can do when she's not well. Then I step in it. One big, fat pile of grass and yellow bile. In my shreeking "Penelope!?" I try to avoid hop and get it off of my bare foot, which only serves to land my as yet unsoiled foot on the other, strategically placed vomitous glop.

Welcome to my Friday morning.

At least Rog isn't around, for his yelp would have sent my ferocious dog fleeing for the darkest corner of our basement. Instead, I calmy crawl on my knees (for I'm not going to mess up the rest of my wool carpet), with my feet in the air. Nice visual huh? Once in the laundry room, I clean my feet in the sink, then search for the best cleaner we have for stains.

The backstory: we have been through many stain cleaners. We were stocked like the closet of a hospital, rows of toxic stuff designed to get out the worst of what the human body could emit. When I went through my bout w/the big C, we threw the toxic out and went natural. Sadly, it doesn't work as well as ruins carpet. In the last seven years, we have come to an agreement natural stain removers, and I have two to recommend. The first is the All Natural Stain Remover, from organic sales and marketing.The second product that I've used is the Simple Solution Stain and Odor remover.

Now I will tell you, that when I'm out of the house for any length of time, my dear, wonderful, impatient and toxic-friendly husband will sneak in just about every brand known to mankind, as I re-discovered whilst on my hands and knees. The two mentioned above were emptier than Dracula's coffin at midnight, so I had to use what Rog had brougth home.

Oxy stain remover works like a charm, and Rog even keeps a gel stick if you can imagine. His second fav is the Scotchgard OXY carpet cleaner and stain protector (which I found next to the Oxy Tabs, for fabric).  So much for being 100% accurate.

Another note. The purist in me was unhappy with the 'true' natural remedies. While baking soda is supposed to be ideal for getting rid of odor, it doesn't pass the sniff test with either Rog, or my mother, who claims to have lost half her olafactory senses. White vinegar or club soda is also supposed to do the trick for stains and odors, but not in this household.

I walked back to the offending spots on the carpet (which I'm not showing you pics. I figure you can do w/out seeing dog vomit on this cheerful day). Worked like a charm, but the trick is this: remove the gunk off the carpet, spray and leave on for 2-5 minutes, then scrub. Once done, take a bit of water, go over it again, then spray one more time for good measure. Works like a charm. Next time, I won't let the darn dog eat so much of the lawn again.

Back of the Arm Bumps

There I am, standing at my daughter's voice recital (for sitting was out of the question. I had a babe in arms, the room was chock full and I'm the hostess. Therefore, I stand). I'm noticing the singers of course, and since I'm in the back, I'm looking around, making sure everyone has a drink, is comfortable and not otherwise in some mortal pain. In doing so, I can't but help taking in the arms of folks, as it was a warm evening (for Washington), topping out at a heat-wavish 74, so the short sleeves were out. What do I notice? Bumps. Bumps for days.

This is a sore spot with my wonderful Swedish relatives and friends, all girls, though admittedly, a few male cousines are afflicted with the back-of-the-arm bumps. Family lore had it that the bumps came from puberty. "Ok," we all said to one another, "this too shall pass." When it didn't, it was a "stress thing," sure to end with high school. Then came college. "It's a side effect of the freshman fifteen," our elders told us. "Lay off the ho ho's and pizza and the hormones will calm down." After that, it was attributed to wedding stress, the monthly gift, chocolate and breaking up.

In reality, a name exists for this, and it's not easy to saw. Back of the arm bumps go by Keratosis Pilaris (KP). Like goosebumps, except they don't go away when you get warm.

From the first little bump to the largest strawberry field, me and mine and have to rid ourselves of this wicked family inheritance. Granted, my personal afflication has lessened with age, but not so with many in my circle of pain. Waxing? No good. They get bigger. Shaving? Worse. All that does is make the red dots more pronounced. Scrubbing with a luffa, while wonderful on the face and heels, ensures that the strawberry fields are indeed, forever. Vitamin E? Wives tale for sure.  When I went on line, this site had the most helpful information, starting with the optimistic "there is no cure...but there is help." Bottom line, you need a "beta hydroxy acid (BHA) product with the active ingredient salicylic acid and a pH low enough for exfoliation to occur." There is is. Never tried it myself.

My showdown at the Sarah Coral came when I ate a more balanced diet, stopped frigging around with the backs of my arms and let them be. Until I came to this thoughtful conclusion, I opted for three quarter or elbow length shirts. It covered my skin, which is what I wanted. Now that I'm no longer in high school, on a marriage countdown or eating tons of pizza, my arm bumps have subsided.  hallelujah.

Iodined stained teeth and oil pulling

Love mom being here and all was well until she grinned and I saw dark yellow coloring on her lower teeth. (Since she's sitting in my living room, I got her permission to talk about this subject, probably affecting all).

My  mother's teeth are a close second to this pic
(she said that, not me, and btw, she said
"remember that shot from the Little shop of horrors?"
Sure 'nuff, it took me 3 secs to find it, crop it
and put it up. My mother is gross. I like it.

Let me backtrack. After the nuclear issue in Japan, folks have been advocating taking liquid drops of iodine to prevent against radiation sickness (although it's commonly used for metabolic purposes). My bro-in-law got a huge bottle (quartsize) before the price doubled. Immediately thereafter, the entire fam started taking iodine, putting so many drops in water and taking it every day (some directions are once a day, others are twice a day). Mom took 10 drops a day in a six ounce cup of water for a few weeks. Not long thereafter, her bottom teeth turned yellow. We aren't talking slight yellow.

Now, this was all against the advice of my homeopathic swami, who told me "no iodine!!" before I had a chance to tell him I was calling to solve a flu issue. No one else was affected by the iodine. Not my father, bro-in-law nor my sis (or her two children). But mom, she took the brunt. The irony is that she was born with the most beautiful set of teeth nature ever created, straight, narrow, beautiful and white. Since she's sworn never to defile her face or body with surgery of anykind, her face may sag, her butt fall and skin turn colors, but as she says, "I'll at least have my teeth!!"

I was contemplating the topic of my next blog when mom asks me to look up iodine stained teeth. All sorts of chat blogs came up. Here's some information....

• teeth stained...from iodine
• coloring is almost always on the bottom teeth
• sonicare, baking soda, peppermint--nothing works
• oil pulling has mixed effects...
• home-remedies and fixes aside, it probably takes a dentist to clean it off

What is oil pulling you ask? Mom's sister recommended Mom try it. Mom said it was as close to waterboarding that she could think of. She tried oil pulling for two to three weeks, "going back and forth, swishing the oil between your teeth," until you can't do it anymore." She used sesame oil on the recommendation of her sister. Mom said it didn't do any good, but her sis said it helped with her energy level.

Mom says she's tried it all, and given the experiences of others on the blogs, it looks like the only fix is a trip to the dentist.

Nature at its finest: the Oregon coast travel itinerary

 The Space Needle. Mt. St. Helens. Forks. That's what pops in to the minds of non-NW or non-US travelers when considering a travel date with the northwest. Having lived up and down the west coast, from Canada to San Fran, (with travels down the Mexico), I'll give some first-hand experience and tips.

This is the only bridge I ever get scared going down-serious.
It's so steep it's like bungey jumping in a car. freaky but fun

The Canadian and Seattle, Wa coastline is a bear to reach and travel. Although the maps show a relatively short distance, it's fair to say it's 'as the crow flies,' not as humans drive. In other words, from the city of Seattle, getting to the coast can be a challenge. The expansive 'sound,' gets in the way. This 'sound,' as it's referred to, is the Puget Sound, and is a waterway between the land, and the Olympic Peninsula. Few knew or cared until Twilight came along and gave fame to the wettest place in the US. It takes about 3-4 hours up or down to reach the actual shoreline.

A better route is to hit Vancouver and Seattle, have fun, eats lots of salmon, for the runs are unpredictable, and there might not be many left in 10 years. Take I-5 down south and cut over to Astoria. This is where the fun begins.

The Oregon coastline is considered to be the most beautiful in the country, and for good reason. First, Highway 101 follows it all the way down from the amazing 4.1 mile long Astoria bridge. Granted, you'll be going about 20 miles an hour if traveled during peak holiday times in the summer, a load full of campers and RVs in front of you, or Porsche convertibles taking up the road. But it's so gorgeous, you don't mind. Whereas Seattle has long stretches of (cold), the Oregon coast alternates between dramatic cliffs, beaches (a little warmer) but is dotted with the alcoves, coves and punchbowl-like inlets that make for amazing discovery zones. It's also dotted with small towns with quaint names like Depot Bay, Coosbay and Newport, each residing right on the cliff side, scenic enough to be a vision in an Ann McCaffrey Dragonflight novel. When in Depot Bay, you must stop at the taffey joint on main street (101 goes right through town. Park on then the right and get sprayed with the smashing waves, cross the street and hit the foot joints). A must at Newport is Mo's, a casual dining experience where everyone sits on family-style benches with fresh crab, seafood and the best (or rather, most famous and beloved) white clam chowder on the coast. (for non-Americans, the east coast tends to favor red chowder whereas white is more prevalent on the west side of the states). Smart folks than I know the reason for this...

The summer is filled with major events, from sand castle making kite flying and beach drag racing. The tidal pools of the Oregon coast are famous, probably mostly so with school children. They extend for hundreds of feet, allowing waders to go out sometimes as far as a mile in water up to your ankles or knees. This is an explorers playground. The unwritten rule being--don't disturb the animals. Petting ok. hurting not.



Devils Punchbowl in Oregon. Amazing from the top,
unreal from the inside

 The ultimate entry points are 2. One--Devils Punchbowl. From the rim, peering down a hundred feet, it's literally a round bowl that nature has carved from the waves coming through an opening. During low tide, the brave and jump in, walk around and view thousands of colorful sea anemones on the wall, starfish and other creatures. Time is limited though. When the water starts coming through and one gets stuck, your dead. Literally. In my bravest of days, I followed by 16 yr old brother through (I, 14) several times, and we took in the wonder. The 2nd time we nearly got stuck, and that was it. No more venturing. Its is astounding though. Park and walk down to the rim and sea nature in all its glory.

Sea Lion cave-the largest in the world.
Incredible to see at any age

The Sea Lion Caves are another must. This cave is an underground playground where the sea lions come from all over to hang out and breed. One must go down a huge elevator shaft, walk underground, behind a man-made, glass divider.

Continue on down the coast (a slow ride will take you 2-3 days). Take your time, spend the night in some quaint hotels and enjoy the food. Nearing the Northern California border, you'll enter the historical, and impressive Redwood Forest. Although many of the grandest trees have been chopped, a few still exist, and have been preserved for viewing. It truly is awe inspiring to drive through the forest. Quite a few small cabin-like hotel dwellings are in the forest. One time we lucked out and found one the night of traveling through, but I wouldn't take that chance during high season.

I could name a lot more sites to visit, but these are the tops sports. Having been up and down both East and West coasts (and lived in Florida for 4 yrs to boot), other coasts are much warmer and better for sunbathing (don't plan on whipping out the bathing suit in Oregon or Washington unless you are from Alaska or Greenland). But if you're looking great food and nature at its best, visit the Oregon coastline with a bit of Washington and California thrown in. It will be a trip to remember.

And as for my blog on Harley riders going to church, an anonymous reader posted that in Carson City, NV, a church exists called "Bikers for Christ." Apparently, the parking lot is always full of Harleys. This, non-American readers, is how we really roll to church in the US. Any. Way. We. Want.

Sugar free = more energy

A real Boehms Frualine--
I actually no her! She works there!

To satisfy the unwashed masses who have afeared for my safety, I'm here. In spirit that is. My physical body is beaten down, an inch smaller from this new naturopathic program that eliminates sugar from the ol' diet. Sadly, this includes Boehms chocolates. It's been 8 days and 2 hours that I've been away from it. But like a dog to its vomit, an hour doesn't go by where the craving doesn't rear it's ugly head. I'm sure meth would have been cheaper, but I'd have teeth loss, Starbuck's more expensive; I'd have my teeth, but they'd be black. (I know, I have a fixation with teeth). (FYI-Boehm's has great father's day selection. I got my dad the toffee and an assortment of milk chocolate...and FYII...on Saturdays, all the young girls actually wear the traditional Swiss outfits. Apparently, Julius, the founder, was quite a ladies man with an eye towards....busty, young woman. Don't hold that against him though. Apparently he was a great skiier, and that has to count for something).

In other news, I'm ready to throw my husband out for invading my space. Ok, not out as in, out-out. But out of my little hobbit hole I call my writing space. He's announced he's taking July off to focus on "my business," which, loosely translated, means the business of Sarah Gerdes writing. What business, you ask yourself? 3 national orgs have come on board to have in-store events in July, though I can't announce the names. The studio is going to give away 3 walk-on roles to people who register by downloading Chambers. Great idea. $2.99 gets you a shot at hanging with Angie and Brad. It's surreal actually. One day, I'm typing away in anonymity, the next, I'm on the phone with a division vp who runs entertainment and merchandising for a national chain, then I'm talking with the producer, who will be signing autographs.

"What about security? do you have a hander to move people through? how many seconds for each autograph? where will the stand be?..") All good questions, for which I have no answers. Yet. Will I know it soon? "You betcha" (my one and only channeling of Palin).

This week has been full of the minuteau of things like trying to track down a videographer, a photographer, extras, what to put on the registration cards...blah blah. If you have a vision that "authors" arrive at an event, sit down and look glamorous, perish the thought. Reality is perhaps a bit less exciting (I've heard that truly famous authors ride around in limos until the last minute, whisk in, smile and leave), but as my Dad says "I don't want to hear it!! Don't diminish my vision of you!" Yeah, whatever. This is bloody hard work, that's all I've got to say.

On the bright side, I've never been so motivated to get rid of the stuff and puff that lines my muffin top and jawline, leading us full circle back to the no sugar thing. It's actually working, by the way. Good thing. I need the energy!

Harley rider goes to church

It's the last verse of the opening song. I peer in from the doorway, peeking around the corner, and find an open spot on the last row of the church. Slip in, take a seat, and wait out the chorus. I randomly look around, eying the backs of heads in front of me. Good hair, bad hair, short and long. Then I see it, the braid. I know it instantly. It's reaches to mid-back, threaded with grey, not bleach blond or brown. The shoulders are wide and buff, stretching the thin, off the rack white shirt to its breaking point. I can practically hear the stitches groaning in agony.

The braid you see, belongs to a guy. Not just any guy, a biker guy. He started coming a year or so ago, but I'm not sure. My own attendance is spotty, with travel and meetings with other congregations. It was hard to miss this newcoming though. Beared and smelly, tatt'ed up with an earring and believe it or not, eyeglasses. The first time I was curious, though didn't stare. When I started coming to this congregation, I had just moved from San Francisco, sported spikey, platinum blond hair, and probably wore a skirt that was a few inches above the knee (ok, maybe a foot, but who's counting). I hated the stares. At the end of the meeting, I wanted to say hi, if, for no other reason, than to congratulate him on braving the onslaught of greeters who accosted him like the apostate child on the mend. I let it go until the next time I saw him. As I drew near, he saw me, or rather, looked as though he saw through me. He avoided my eyes, then me altogether as he turned to the side. No biggy, I told myself. I was yet another stranger he could do without.

As time wore on, I began to take it personal of course, for who doesn't want to be liked, or at least, not feel as though someone is running away from a leper? Skip forward to today. I hang around after service, wanting to catch up with some friends and finally make it to the doorway. A man with a walker is trying to come in, and the man with the braid bounds in front of me, opens the door and lets the man in. I barely recognize biker-man. He's in a white shirt and tie, his beard is now a coiffed g-tee. His glasses are wire-rimmed in a Wal-Mart kind of a way.

Now is my time I think to myself, stirring up my confidence. It was really going to suck if he turned away from me right in the open. I cut the distance in two strides, my hand out, smile wide.

"I've been meaning to introduce myself for some time," I opened, looking him in the eye. I tell him my name, and he reaches for my hand, giving me a slightly less than crushing handshake. He tells me his, and then I joke about coming in and out of the back like a ghost, but it's not meant to be inhospitable. I told him about my move from San Fran, and how I've experienced first hand how hard it is to be different, look different, and not know a soul at a new church. I commend him for his bravery. He laughs. Being brave was an issue, he acknowledged. Church can be intimidating, even for a biker. His voice is softer than I expected, but his enthusiasm is boundless. I mean, his spirit was on-the -ceiling-boundless.

"I'm still here!" he replies, "they haven't chased me off, but I have yet to take the plunge," said with a wink and an even bigger smile. It cross my mind to tell him that I didn't think God cared if he rolled up in his Harley. His joy almost made me envious, like I wanted to capture an ounce of enthusiasm and bottle it up for a dose later on. We were interrupted by another well-wisher, and braid-man excused himself to go off to Sunday School, pre-apologizing for "probably already forgetting my name." I didn't ask why. The second wink told me everything.

His avoidance wasn't directed at me, I concluded, leaving the church. We were probably both a little afraid of one another, pleasantly surprised by the interaction. Though I could berate myself for not meeting him sooner, I happily reflect on his child-like happiness, and how is beard-covered, grey-braided self has made me smile all day long.

Put it on "the List"

Angry. It's the first emotion I feel after spending good money for a dinner out and being disappointed. Late, cold, undercooked over overdone food, food is only one reason to put an establishment on the list. Bad help, as defined by slow, inaccurate order-taking, also is justification for making the list.

Bad food at a joint? Put it on the list

In our Swedish family, 'the list' represents the ever-feared Swedish matriarch's opinion the restaurant wasn't up to snuff. This, dear readers, is yet another mutation of the English language, that commonly translated, means: it was crap. Since dear mom and her sisters wouldn't deign to let this four letter word pass through their lips, (along with the word margarine), used a phrase my mom created, and "puts it (establishment in question) on the list."

The list is not a physical Angie's list of service providers. It's spat orally, as though the list itself wasn't worthy of the paper it took to write it on. That bad. My brother and I were ever in fear that one of our favorite joints wouldn't be up to par just one time for Mom to complain and then it would go on the list forever, the doorstep never darkened again with our patronage.

It became a joke by high school, adopted by ex-boyfriends, used by current in-laws, and is such a part of the fabric of our lives, the list now applies to all sorts of places. Massage joints, hair salons, even clothing stores. Now and then, she'd give a place another chance, and if we really begged, even a third. But the three strikes rules applies to more than just drunk driving infractions. Even those criminals get out of this temporal pergatory at some point. Not so when making the list of the Swedish clan. Once on, forever marked, the scarlet letter of badness.

It occurs to me I should be putting all these inside phrases and words on the urban dictionhttp://www.wikepedia.com/ary or wikipedia. But then it would take the mystery out of us adopted Americans who are speaking in foreign tongues, especially when a proprietor comes a 'callin, wondering why no tip has been left.

The lost art of outting oneself

An unhappy man

Why, I wonder, can't people 'out' themselves in more diplomatic ways? I mean, if one is going to take and send lewd photos, own it! Be brave and strong, not shy and timid. For, if one is endowed enough, (at least in ego), to think their body should be shared, then so be it.

However, the salacious news of the day is not the point of this blog. Rather, its all about owning up to stuff. The Internet makes it really hard to hide stuff, for, as President Obama said, the Internet is forever. Rog, the epublisher, She, and others reminded me of this when it came to a review of this site.

"Take down the laser resurfacing photos!" It rang like a chorus from all points. Apparently, no one wants my puffy, bloaty face of the post lasering of me to be interesting that my latest book coming out. Can't see why not. I mean, I'd be more interested in an author's destroyed face than the book, wouldn't you? Sure you would, it's why we read stories in People Magazine (see, there I go, outting myself again). And while I'm on this little digression, People Mag is a sordid secret among authors, like locker room gossip that goes no further than the end of the stall.

"Of course I read it," said a well-known book editor. It's jelly for the brain. Non-thinking, entertaining stuff that can be read at Big-O Tires or the mani-pedi joint. I see as many men reading that as women (btw, trying to hide the cover doesn't work. The type face/font shouts PEOPLE really really loudly).

Truth is persistent and honesty is sexy. Best to be honest. And if one doesn't have a tendency toward honesty, then it's probably best to refrain from acts that are going to cause future embarassment, or worse, job loss.

(PS, all my photos and previous posts are out there on the Internet, cached across millions of machines. I don't mind at all. I put it up and out for all to see and learn and be educated. Now, my peeps are satisfied it's not actually on my site, and not associated with my name or likeness. Go to and find it!)

The new normal

A friend was recently diagnosed with MS. She's forty-two, in good health, no family history of the disease. We were talking about the situation and her mental attitude about dealing with the realities of the life-changing routine of pills, sun and sleep that has become her world. "It's the new normal," she said, a hint of optimism in her voice.

This was eerily identical to the friend with a daughter suffering from childhood diabetes. She used the exact same phrase when I was inquiring about the best way to be sensitive to friends with children who have special dietary or other physical needs. "The bigger thing is what to say, what not to say and how to treat it normal," she explained. "Because it affected everyone in our family so much, what was odd before became the New Normal for us."

Suddenly, I heard this phrase used over and over, each and every time associated with a negative experience. In the business world (my previous existence that is continually fading to black) The New Normal is generally associated with burgeoning business opportunities in a time of recession. In my little microcosm, friends have used it to describe unemployment, job loss, divorce (single mother/father hood), the loss of a house (a friend with 5 kids who is facing foreclosure)...the list is seemingly endless. This would be terribly depressing if weren't for the wonderful emotional undertow accompanying the phrase. The users of this phrase, as a class, are optimistically resigned to their state in life, determined to go forward, putting on a brave face and positive outlook on their particular trial.

I don't need or want to face a devastating or debiliating health issue, nor do I desire a financial hardship of the kind warranting the use of this phrase. Nonetheless, when the unpleasant fate comes knocking at my door (for it's not if, but a when), I'll endow myself psyche with the new normal of my life, and carry on. Hopefully with the grace and fortitude of the other examples around me.