Somebody Else's to them, whomever they may be.

Somebody Else's to them, whomever they may be.
How I feel after throwing a party...

Thanks for the visit!! :)

Monday, March 28, 2011

If You Go to Mexico You Can Have a Baby...Grandpa Said So.

On a day of no consequence my desk phone rang at work. It was my grandparent’s number so I picked it up. The following conversation took place, in Portuguese, and is forever seared in my mind.

**Note: Please use a Latvian or even a Russian accent when reading the part of my Grandpa.  If you don't know what that is...a mildly Dracula-esque accent will do.

Grandpa: Trrrracy, I want to talk to you about verrrry delicate subject.

Tracy: O.k. what’s up?

Grandpa: Why do you not have a baby?

(Well alright then...straight to the point...)

Tracy: My girl guts don’t work Grandpa.

Grandpa: I have been thinking about this and I have a solution. We know people. They sent their daughter to Mexico and she came back pregnant.

(Surprise...pause...digest...Did he really just say "Mexico"???)

Tracy: O.k. Grandpa. They did, huh? Good for her.

Grandpa: I have the doc-torrr’s name. You can take the bus down into Tijuana. Then on the corner of Calle Numero 7, you know, street #7, there is a doctor there who is very successful with getting women pregnant.

(my Tracy thought..."I bet he is...corner of Calle 7 indeed...")

Tracy: He is, is he?

(My eyebrows are so far up into my hairline at this point you can’t even see them.)

Grandpa: Yes! Very successful. You should make a trrrip.

Tracy: O.k. Grandpa. Take a bus into Tijuana, go to the corner of Street #7, …I can get pregnant. O.k. Thanks for thinking of me.

Grandpa: I love you!

Tracy: Yeah…I love you too Grandpa.

To this day, several years later, this remains one of the more interesting and entertaining grandparent stories...of which there are several.

I always thought it was interesting that the old man couldn't spot me a ride himself down into Mexico and that he thought I should hop the Greyhound Express and head into a foreign city of ill repute to try and get pregnant alone...well not really alone...the doctor at the corner of Street #7 was apparently well equipped to hook a sister up.

Anyway...good can't make this stuff up. ;)

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Panic in the Bog

I didn't realize this was a dream until I woke up, and then I was really glad.

Last night...
I was on a country road that passed through a forest and then a great grassy wetland. I was at the crossroad and there was a grand old estate across the way, hidden in a copse of tall, dark trees. There was a dark, wooden fence that ran its length, separating it from the road. The sky was darkening and the sky looked heavy with rain. I had a large work tractor of sorts, that I needed to move, but I didn’t know how I would make the turn, but I waited, and then I pushed.

A dark and swarthy man came up to my side, and said “Here, let me help you. You make the turn, I will push the machine.” And so we turned together. Me on my feet, and he pushed the tractor alone. We made it on to the next road, but the tractor, instead of being in the far lane by the fence, crossed over both lanes and ended up on the side of the road in the dirt. It was hard packed and didn’t seem like it would be a problem.

The man tried to move it and I went to help. Suddenly, the ground gave way beneath us and we foundered in dirt that sank beneath our feet, and turned to sand and water and mud. I found myself grasping for land, and treading sucking water. The machine was gone, and the man fought but I lost sight of him as he drifted away into the reeds and grasses.

Without warning, we had unknowingly walked into a bog and I found myself trying to swim in mud and sand and plants, I grasped at reeds and spit the duckweed from my mouth. My limbs were like lead and the wind was blowing me so fiercely that I couldn't fight against it. I swam as hard as I could and the wind whipped the long grass in my face, and was so strong that it was pushing me through the water towards a darkened, sucking pool. I feared the pool and swam all the harder, choking on water and dirt, rain began to pelt and zip my face, my eyes, my head. I pulled harder, kicking and reaching for the shore.

I felt panicked and it felt real and I wasn't able to wake then I really felt panicked.


Of Sleeping Bags and Love

O.k. I know this was awhile ago, but I've been meaning to post it, so you get it now instead. ;)

January 15, 2011

So Beloved was under the weather and feeling a little wiped out. We both love our sleeping bags and not just for camping. They're great for watching movies and stars alike, so they get mileage inside the house and outside the house as well. We generally keep them outside in the garage, but obviously when it's 7 degrees outside, that nylon is going to get a little chilly.

As a side note--I'm not a "Pack Everything in to the Woods" kind of camper. I'm a hotel camper, but if I must camp outside (which I can enjoy) I'm a "Pull the car into the camping spot" camper. The following phone conversation took place:

T: "If you want to use the sleeping bags bring them in from the garage before you want to use them so they warm up a little."

J: "O.k."

T: "And you can use my sleeping bag if you like."

J: "Yeah, I love your sleeping bag. I wouldn’t want to hike and pack your sleeping bag, but it is really nice."

T: Pause…"Have you seen me?...Yeah. My sleeping bag doesn’t get packed anywhere but in the back of the car and then into a tent. That’s it. Most of the time it’s from the garage to the family room for a Sunday afternoon nap. You know that."

J: "Laughter. I know."

Rushing Perpetuity

When I remember my dreams, it's usually because they were extremely vivid. I do not always remember them. This one stayed with me for quite some time and even now, almost two months later, I can still recall it with fair clarity.

The same day I dreamt it, I typed it out--it was so incredibly intense, I didn't want to lose it. It felt real when I was in it and everything was deep, electric, vibrant and intense.

January 13th, 2011

I dreamed of the ocean last night and it was huge, and vibrant and dark. It was shot through with colors in the midst of its black and blue-ness. Oranges and reds and deep pinks, but they were not reflections of a fiery evening sky. It was as if the ocean was imbued with colored electricity that was casting itself back and forth. Violence within violence. The waves were huge and crashing in giant curls of pounding white. The sand was dark brown and wet and full of every kind of shell imaginable. There were huge red stone archways that reached from sandy land into the feet of the sea.

I was in the in-between. In between the water than ran to the shore away from the waves that crashed into it, standing on the wet sand, my heels sinking in and my toes wet, with the dry sand on an incline a few paces away.

In this sand, if you just dug down a bit, were every type of shell imaginable. Every size, every shape, every color. Shells I had never seen before—and I was greedy, not believing my good fortune and find and I plunged my hands into the cool, wet sand and gathered the shells into my hands, and into my arms. I ran from spot to spot, my feet spattering through the lapping, rushing water. I glanced out at the ocean and saw that night was falling and a storm was moving in. The sky over the ocean was velvet navy and looked soft enough to cast yourself upon. The ocean was coming in and the waves were drawing closer.

I sprinted up to the steep, dry sand, and saw that the sun was setting low over the dunes. Beach grass waved back and forth, silhouetted against the swirl of orange and yellow sky. There was an old wood and wire fence that ran perpendicular to me. I wanted to set down my shells and go back for more, but there were a few people around me starting to notice the shells as well and I didn’t want them to take my cache, and so I carried them with me back down to the wet sand to collect more.

I stepped down into the water, flanked by black rocks at my back, the ocean and a steep incline of sand. I was in the shadow of the rocks and I started digging again in the wet sand as the waves went out and in and out and in. I found one that was shaped like a Vikings horn. It was smooth and creamy alabaster shot through with caramel and chocolate browns. I thought it must be a horn of some sea animal, and so I tucked it in with the others.

A woman leaned over and put her hand out to take some of my more beautiful shells and I slapped her hand away and said “No! They are mine—dig out your own.” And I wondered if I was wrong to speak in such a way, but quickly decided that I was not. Everyone must work for their own beauty and their own gain. I found more shells, swirling shells with spiny edges and smooth pink and coral colored insides, tiny shells that looked like soft ice cream cones, spattered with chocolate sprinkles, large smooth shells that must have been home to some soft-bodied creature, and creamy white and green fossilized shells that had been eaten through by time, and sand and water.

The water crept up. I looked out once again and the waves were coming in closer, even bigger than before. I knew if they caught up to me that they would pull me into the black, the shells would be lost and so would I. I stared—fascinated—wanting to reach in—to swim—but terrified to give myself into it.

And then I woke up.

Beauty and the Nude

Warning: If you get your panties in a snit over artistic nudity, don't waste my time. Naked bums alert.

Incredible song, beautifully done video.

I stumbled across this completely by accident as I was perusing free stuff on iTunes. I loved the song, and thought "Hey, maybe there is a video for it." And sure enough there was.

At first I was a little wary, because you never know what people are going to spring on you without your consent (hence my own warning above.) As the song got underway, my body swayed, my foot tapped, and I could not help but become completely engrossed in the story of naked love and longing.

True love, love-you-til-the-end-of-the-world-love-when-the-lights-go-out kind of love is raw and naked and exposed and that's where the sweetness of the trust, the loyalty and the honesty come from.

There is beauty in the love between a man and a woman and their ability to create life together, creating a legacy of humanity that goes on and on and on. I think that gets lost at times in the over-sexualized society that we live in--a society that can be broken down to varied and sundry entertainment, club music, sex and hook ups. Yes, I know there is more than that, but sometimes, it seems like the debauchery would overpower everything else. Overall I think that there are encouragements and leanings for a lack of commitment between the sexes to respect each other and to value what each one brings to the table, things that are good, and different and complimentary, and that is a sad thing.

I don't know...the is about life, and love, and sex. It is sensual and there is beauty and intensity in the spoke to me and I think I've listened to it 12 times now.

Enjoy...or don't. ;)

Monday, March 7, 2011

Little Girls are Interesting, Strange Little Creatures...

In Primary yesterday (for the non-Latter-Day Saint's like Sunday School for the 3-11 year old crowd...and I am in it to win it as a member of the leadership team...4.5 years and going strong...) I looked down at the row of 3-year old Sunbeams (the name of the class for 3 year olds) yesterday and one of them had her head in her hands and was **weeping**...not crying mind you...**weeping** as thought the world had ended and all candy and kittens were gone.

It was one of the most pathetic things I've ever seen.
I thought "Holy Crap what the Hell happened here?" (yes...I have thought such things during see---I am no saint nor martyr---nor do I have any plans for either anytime in the near future) and said "Oh baby girl, come here, come here." and I picked her up and walked to the back of the room with her saying "Avery, Avery...what's the matter, honey?"

She lifts her head, huge tears welling in her eyes and rolling down her face and says in a teary, trembling, teeny, tiny, baby girl voice..."I forgot my song book to sing our songs!"

So I said "Well, where is your song book, sweetie?"

"My mommy has it in the diaper bag."

"O.k. well let's go find her and get it for you."
Found mommy, got book, instant smiles, little child running back to the Primary room, in her chair, singing like a little bird.


Easiest problem I've solved all week.

Kitsch Overload...Whoring Your Time

So this is a piece of an old post that I started but didn't finish, from a few weeks back.


I od'd on TV last night and I feel kind of gross today about wasn't even good was kitsch (a la Kardashians and Holly Madison and Chelsea Lately)...which is great in the twinkies...but then when you're just kind of feel like you whored your time out like bad sugar consumption that you should have held out against.

Anyway...ugh...yesterday does not go down as a good habits and choices day.


To set the stage of why I said what I said--

I had spent a late evening alone browsing t.v. to my hearts content, eating the dregs from the potato chip bag, and I watched all the stuff that when anyone else is around they wonder if you've lost all of your brain cells and what kind of a person you really are deep down inside.  What they don't know is that you're still a good person that has read Dostoevsky and Dickens, and understood them, among other things.

There is just something about pablum t.v. that appeals to some kind of inner 15 year old idiot and sometimes I can't believe the things I see, the things I laugh at and the things that are seared into my brain in the name of mindless entertainment and escape.

Through the years...

Yes--I have laughed at Beavis and Butthead.  Yes--I have laughed at South Park.  Yes--I have enjoyed game shows.  Yes--America's Funniest Home Videos has put a stitch in my side.  Yes--I have watched car crashes and stupid human tricks on YouTube for too many minutes in a row to tally and then admit to.  I love that little pagan weirdo Bam Margera and I have hours of Jackass in my t.v. viewing history.  I've got a strange soft spot for Ozzy Osbourne and his family from watching episodes of The Osbournes and I think my mom should cut her hair like Sharon Osbourne. I must admit that Gene Simmons is a funny, arrogant, vain ass of a man, and frankly his show, is much more boring than most of the other reality shows.

Then of course there have been a couple of marathon Saturday afternoons of America's Next Top Model, wherein I have the t.v. on while doing laundry, watching Tyra Banks and these megalomaniacal, egocentric, narcissistic teenagers, and listening for my husband's key in the lock so that I can change the channel to Law and Order before he comes down the stairs and asks "What are you watching??" and I have to admit to my everlasting voyeuristic shame that I'm watching the dramas of other lives.

Have you ever read Brave New World by Aldous Huxley? They've got the "Feelies" and though I'm not popping pills or hooking into some kind of a machine to feel what I'm watching, the effect is still somewhat the same, but only different...anyway...the point is that it is pointless.

This particular evening it started with the train wreck of the Kardashian girls, on other nights it has been Toddlers and Tiaras...and don't even get me started on that one...

What is it about these crap shows that make them so appealing?  I was going to say that it's not like you learn anything, but you kind of do I guess.

If you want it you get an interesting insight into the life of the vain and frequently vacuous rich and famous, or at least those that aspire to it. Some of the lives are such train wrecks that you can end up feeling better about your own life and the fact that, while you may not be rolling in money and plastic surgery, the peace and quiet and relative order that you enjoy is better than selling yourself to the highest bidder.

Of course there is also the psychological aspect of it all.  Some of the people I've seen obviously need some kind of intervention, whether professional, or familial, there is definitely a need for some counseling there.  I briefly mentioned Toddlers and Tiaras earlier.  Right there you'll find an enormous need for family counseling as well as some solid, consistent one-on-one counseling for the maniacal parents as well as the uber-spoiled children who are going to have some serious social balancing issues when they get older.

At any rate, it's an interesting entertainment and social phenomenon that we, as a human race, have become very accustomed to and very tolerant of.  You can find kitsch t.v. all around the planet, some of it translated, some of it localized.  What does it say about us as a people that we have disposable time to spend and/or waste on such frivolity?  We are the ones that fund it, through watching it, and supporting it through a variety of means.

For the most part, I try to stay away from it so it's not a consistent norm in my life, but it's true--I am attracted to the gossip magazines and the cheap and tawdry lifestyles of the rich and famous. I like to know what's going on so that I, too, can participate in those water-cooler conversations with their ensuing whispers, gasps and raised eyebrows.

Anyway, there you have it...more of my humanity.

Happy kitsching...try not to let it run away with you and all of your time.  In the end it's just empty sugar calories that will rot your brain and your teeth and end up manifesting itself in your gut and on your butt. ;)

...Unless you find something really juicy and awesome, and then you need to let me know so I can take a peek too...  ;)