when words fail me, which is often, I paint. When words work for me and are available on time, I am surprised.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008


For Christmas, Tate gave me a special picture... of his pole.
What? I have everything I need and I didn't want him to spend any money- you know, times are hard (guffaw!)
I really enjoy it,
it's my favorite
picture ever.
If you were here, I'd give you a chocolate kiss or something sweet, a hug, a merry, merry to you- but you're not even close
So, I will share my special glimpse of Tate's spectacular pole with you,
just this one time
Happy holy days my friends, with all my heart and Tate's pole!

Tate's Pole

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Not Dead- Yet

Nope, I am not dead yet
sometimes I think the zillions of stressful things I deal with on a daily basis
which I am ill-prepared to manage
just may kill me once and for all
but it hasn't happened
I am just busy, which could be good except my creative urge gets stifled when I have to work all the time
or go to the beach for a few days instead of working the pre christmas rush
but I did my homework- some of it
So- the boys laugh and tell me the Avalanche music video is ANCIENT!
who knew? So that's why nobody had anything to say about it.
I cannot wait to get back into this loop and see what is going on in your exciting lives
as soon as I get a little break AND the computer working!!!! (bastard)
So- here's another cop out, hysterical though- see you soon, on this side I hope-

This explains everything

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Gray Days call for This; Part II

Avalanche of too funny
A visit to geniusMr. Tom's blog brought this fabulous piece of performance art to my attention; Mr. Tom rocks too. Thanks Mr. Tom.

Post script: my sons tell me this is way old news and mock me for being so out of synch- whatever, its funny!

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Yes We Did!

I wonder how many people have titled their blog the same title yesterday; I have not checked into any other blogs today- anyhoo-

Tuesday, THE Election of my lifetime day, it is raining.
Rain usually means Tate does not go to work and most of those rainy days we get to play.
He wakes me up and tells me it is getting late; let's go vote.
I look at the clocks which have not been set to daylight savings time (I do not want to shock my system so I wait until the biological clock gets with the program)and say it is really an hour earlier, maybe only 7.
He lies and tells me he reset the clock and I believe him.(now he denies this little fib)
But let's go vote! Yes.
I jump out of bed and get dressed. I grab my camera and we drive to the Waltons Mountain Museumto vote.(I love the museum and there are no lines and we do not have to pay to tour today, but I have to take off my hat with the Obama button, YES, I was told I had to take off my hat because of the button on it, even though there were mcCain/Palin (gag me) signs all over the front lawn.
I took off my hat, we voted.
I forgot to take a picture of the event, it was raining pretty hard.
All afternoon I watched the election coverage on news networks. I became obsessive and nervous, really nervous.
Foot tapping, sweating, agitated.
As I watched Obama vote for himself, I cried real tears.
Tate realized I was a nervous wreck and came up with a few distraction techniques, which did distract for a bit.
Evening time came, PARTIAL polls were being announced which infuriated me.
McCain was ahead in nearly every state that was announced in the time of my falling asleep.
I became despondent- Not again! I pulled the blankets over my head and wept quietly until I fell asleep.
The TV was still on.
Two Oclock in the morning (not daylight savings time)
I roll over and out of my sleep and become aware of the voice of the announcer on the television proclaiming the official count is in and Barack Obama is the 44th president of the US!
I cannot even count how many times I have spontaneously burst into tears in the past 2 days. Yes my friends for the very first time in my lifetime I am proud of my country and my president; the very first time in my 43 years.
Blessed be.
Yes we can!

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Shoes, Ships and Sealing Wax

Although I often create posts and poetry in my head, I rarely seem to have time to get these ramblings out of my head. I am currently less than 20 credits away from my B.S. Psychology degree and have been working towards this degree for more than 20 years. I left high school at the age of 16 and went to college out of state. Leaving was simply my choice of escape route, escape from my family which was re-creating poor Usher's nightmare. Yes, even the house- once grand was Falling!
After one year of college I entered the school of hard knocks and then dedicated the next 20 plus years to surviving and raising my two little boys- by myself.
(Do I hear violins playin somewhere?)
Online college classes are accelerated; every 5 weeks a new course begins and ends. Textbook, writing, tests, discussions, and 15 pages of academic research papers. One course ends on Monday, next one begins on Tuesday, little time for writing out of a creative urge within.
When I was in the first grade I was a bit of a loner. Although I attended preschool for 3 years (my mother's way of getting rid of me for the day), I felt absolutely clueless as to what to do in this school place. I did not know anyone in my class, my teacher was mean. I didn't know how to count by fives and had NO IDEA how to get lunch when the time came.
In the morning the teacher would take a tally, who was having the "hot lunch", a hamburger, a hot dog.
What's a hot lunch?
She would ask the question and I would begin to break out into a sweat- all out panic actually.
I would wait for my classmates to respond and when I saw other kids raise their hands in response to the teacher's order request, I would raise my hand too.
Stacy- you can't order more than one lunch! My teacher would shout. The kids giggled and I squirmed and said NOTHING.
(I don't even like hot dogs)
Somehow she would make a notation about which lunch I would have and somehow again, I ended up in the cafeteria with some meal waiting for me.
I usually had to get a ticket for my lunch and who knows where the money came from to pay for it. (My family surely could afford to pay for my lunch at the time, it was simply my mother's failure to give a darn about whether or not I was cared for while out of her blessed sight.)
Sitting at the long table, old overcooked broccoli smells and greasy fish sticks. The muffled sounds of kids laughing and talking while the industrial fans roared and wheels squeaked and hairnet ladies shouted- keep moving! and hamburger or hot dog!
I usually sat alone until one day a new boy came along, I think his name was Manuel. He was an outsider in our suburban mostly white neighborhood too.
Manuel was my friend; he taught me to tie my shoes.
Manuel giggled alot and made me laugh too. When I first asked his name he told me it was Mickey Mouse. Oh boy was that funny- really funny and we giggled forever over that.
Mickey always drank his milk, the kind that comes in the small wax paper box, with a straw.
One day I asked him- How come you always drink your milk with a straw?
-Because, he said- my father told me to because he says the ceiling wax gets in the milk from the opening and it can make me sick.See, its brown there.
Oh, this sounds very serious. I look up at the ceiling to ponder. Industrial-I beams painted white and fluorescent light fixtures, a little rust and water marks, and I wonder how did that ceiling wax, way up there, get into the milk cartons? HOW?
Throughout my entire school career, through high school and even into the years of my own son's schooling,Even Now, the sight of a small milk or juice carton sends me into the realm of questioning- what is ceiling wax and why did my first grade friend's father warn him of the dangers of it?
I have heard of many food scares in my lifetime, the lye on pretzels, the worms in McDonald's burgers, spider eggs in bubblegum, but never did the ceiling wax scandal make headlines that I recall.
Last week while conducting research for yet another term paper, I came across this title in the online collegiate resource library;
"Of shoes, and ships, and sealing wax: The faulty and specious assumptions of sexual reorientation therapies"
And the light bulb finally came on-

Thursday, October 16, 2008

The Writing on The Wall

I hear it, the writing on the wall.
Its a sickening rumble underfoot. Five per cent lead, and stolen elections,
and then thisRacist Bullshit

I was told the story today about a man who was running for the Senate a few years back. The man is black (well he's probably more a mixture of sienna, umber, white and cadmium red, but I couldn't say for sure).I do not remember his name. If you know me very well, you know I suck at remembering names, even yours. According to the polls, he had a ten point lead, it was a slam dunk- Until- the people went behind the voter's curtain, and pulled the lever for the white guy. They just could not fathom a black leader. STUPID!

I hear it, and it makes me sick, the 5 point lead, the racist slander, the oops- we didn't mean to say that- IGNORANCE, is not bliss for those of us watching.
God please hear my prayers, please, please, please, strike those racists down , and hurry up. Yes, all of them. It's your law you know, the law of karma, Ok, call it "do unto others. . ." or even better "What you Reap, You Shall Sow"
Reaping hatred and murder and oppression, what is wrong with these people?

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

To M.

Yes, this is not for all of you who are looking to see whether I have finally come up with something clever to say, or not, this is a message for Ms. M.-you know who you are.
I cannot call because I threw your number away after I gave the message to T- that you had called.
I made a slight error in our telephone conversation: you were not the one he said I reminded him of: That was another S. you might know her name.
I do not know how I forgot, but I did.

As for the message you left
he said- What? As in what does she want?
I told him of our conversation and he said he was not buying your story and had no interest in responding to you, now or ever.
So , there you have it.
I really enjoyed talking to you- good luck with everything.
I swear i wasn't snarky in relaying the message, I am more confident than that.
I do not mean to sound snarky now, just thought you might want to know.
Love to you-

Scottsville Merchants Kickball League

The score for the Thursday 10/9 Scottsville merchant's Kickball game:
Everyone who played- scored several times.
So many in fact we lost count.
In attendance this week were:
Me, of course
Bebe Williams- artist extra extraordinaire( no kidding)
Town Administrator- one to watch- Clark D.
Josh? Kyle? whatever, one of the new Country Blessing's store employees who truly was this weeks MVP. His enthusiasm was contagious.
A volunteer who appeared in a black SUV and sunglasses, a stranger whose name also eludes me at this moment, who could not be convinced it was time to end the game. We were all out of breath in a half of an hour.
Of course the Kramer La Kreme was present, although the mighty terrier once again scored NO runs! Whose dog is that anyway?
The teams were intermingled and flowed more like a cafeteria line than a defense line, which means- kickers were the offensive team and sometimes were called off their base to make the play, or to pitch.
fun times were had by all.
check in next week for this Thursday's update.
oh- and all you Scottsville Posers (especially the 330 type)need to get your chicken butts out there- 2:00
buck, buck, buck

Friday, October 03, 2008

Billion Dollar White Elephant

I try not to talk politics here; politics make even less sense to me than my worst fractured dreams and drunken thoughts. I am going to simply attach this little article with some political Blog links underneath, which I may have responded to in the comments of - go figure- the Atheist Blogger- you know, sometimes I question the big question, but when I do god simply questions my questions, like all the Shrinks I've ever known. Hey, maybe that's it, God is a Shrink.. . I'll stop.

Crazy Stuffed Pork

Thursday, October 02, 2008

Kickball Update

This week marks week 2 of the weekly Scottsville Merchants Kickball challenge. Of course last week was a rain out due to the tropical storm so this could have officially been considered the historic first game. The score- Stacy 2 Kramer 0
Stay tuned for the results of next Thursdays exciting match!

The Disappearing Kind

Tate's gone fishing again, I am starting to suspect he's

learning to RELAX for the first time in his life.
Even when he isn't here I talk to him.
Last week- our conversation as I was attempting to get dressed: I stand in my closet doorway, shuffling through my chaotic basket of socks and underwear
"I can't find a pair of matching socks! They keep disappearing. I think I need some socks."
"You Know, they sell socks in the stores. The non disappearing kind."
"Yeah, they've been selling them for years"
So I did.
I went to the dollar store and I bought a bag full of new thick cushy non disappearing pink toed and white ankle length FAT socks.
And I wore them all happy week. A new pair every day.
This morning, Tate calls me from the road to make sure I get to work (late again) on time. I sleep a bit longer
and when I walk to the closet to pull out today's clothes
I am saying aloud "Oh NO! these are disappearing socks too"

where do they go? fishing? no I don't believe it.

Friday, September 26, 2008

Life is but a Dream

We have rain, the air is cool and smells soooo good! we sleep under an open window.The level of relaxation this creates in me, right now, today, there is much to post about. . . Lot's of cool stories, much more upbeat than my normal melancholy self, like psychic dreams, seeing Brad, getting a mandolin AND a ukulele, the creation of the merchant kickball league- but I just don't. feel like posting right now, too relaxed in this cool, damp and green mood
Maybe later- love ya-

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Phone Calls

ooh I'm scared.
I answer, the woman on the other end of the line asks for My oldest son by name.
Assuming incorrectly the caller is calling in reference to a College Loan, I reply, "He is unavailable, may I take a message?"
- Do you have pen and paper ready?
- This is ____ _____ calling from the US Army Recruiting headquarters and my number is-
-That won't be necessary mam, I say. My son isn't going to join your army, my son won't be fighting in any rich corporation's pig war. My son will not be any Fascist's pawn.

-Will you give him my number and let him tell me that for himself?

I hang up the phone and think to myself- How arrogant are these people? I live my life to raise these boys, teach them right from wrong, educate them, to pray and work diligently to keep them ALIVE- Alive I am saying out loud now.
And these people call my house where I pay the mortgage and I pay the phone bill and I raised my children and sheltered them from harm
and now here they are
FINE Healthy, young MEN
And you want to slip them some funky assed false promises and some petty assed amount of cash
to gear up in bullets and grenades and go off to the middle east to go murder innocent people- who won't even be counted
or to be blown up by hapless roadside bombs or shot full of holes- murdered to DEATH!
So some Fat Freaking Pigs in OPEC and the US government and Corporate oil Disney trader land can have even more money????
NO WAY- shut the F up! Don't call me anymore and no-
you cant have my sons- send your own!

* * * * *

There was another call this morning (which fuels the rant)
tragedy, gut ripping sadness
it's on Numb Benign- the group blog I participate in
the link is over there- on the bottom right-
Holden Caulfield- get your catchers mitt on- damn it!

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

My Thoughts Exactly

"The Summer can be a difficult time for me. What appears to be a beautiful day usually means boring light- even and flat at midday. So I wait for stormy occasions. . . to seek the light I enjoy. . . " Peter Fiore

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Don't Leave Me!

Yes, things or times have been beyond distressing lately.
The Dominican Horror Show
The parasites
The allergic reaction to the herbal remedy- too horrific to discuss
Mr. Monk- the Rhodesian Ridgeback- who had just seemed to be adjusting to his life as a dog- not a suburbanite toddler- DISAPPEARED
I suspect Billy Bob- the alpha mutt- a Hansel and Gretel type of walk into the woods- sans bread crumbs.
Mentally unstable(worse than me I swear) women- 2 days in a row- acting very badly in my shop
Which has been quite slow in August
and I have not been here enough, I know
The drought, the DROUGHT!
Trees dying- shrubs- struggle- brown grass where it should still be green
I let my flowers go, long ago, the smell of dead things.
School papers due, dishes, laundry, vacuum, dishes, laundry, vacuum
Books- bills, books, bills- Pay
T comes home from another arduous, drought stinkin hot day, exhausted
I am writing a paper and not paying attention to the fact that he hasn't had a bite to eat all day and has tipped the Vodka bottle too heavily
and then- he bottoms out
He says he is ready to leave. . . and he isn't talking about a vacation
or walking away either
he means- this lifetime
he's tired, and he's had enough-
(he's drunk and exhausted)
I humor him and get him to bed-
Sure, I say, let's go- pick a place.
I can hang a world map- we can throw darts at it, destination here we come
He sleeps
Next day- yesterday-
Paper finished, bookwork done, vacuumed, dished, laundried, RAIN IN THE FORECAST!!!!
Paint- smile- rain falls- relax
yes I paint like a talented fourth grader- I know- but it makes me happy
Happy Yes.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008


I am home.
My house seems enormous, beautiful and spacious after spending 7 days in a room the size of my bedroom with 9 women, 1 toilet (which nothing besides bodily fluids will flush-all waste papers in the trash basket), 2 cold only showers, cockroaches, mice with long tails-must I go on-
And I have PTSD from what i witnessed in the DR. I am working day and night to contact all World Health Coalitions on this one.
Oh the nightmares, scarred for life, not kidding.
Here is my letter, I know it is long so read it a little at a time, please, if you are strong enough.
I won't be taking it down.
Boy I missed you-Love _S

My name is Stacy; I am a traditional Midwife in North America. I returned from a 1 week trip to Santo Domingo’s Altagracia Hospital de los Partos. My intention of going there was to attend a few births which I could document for the purpose of receiving certification in the US.
I am still in shock from the horror of the behaviors I witnessed in this countries public hospital.
The standard of care for a laboring woman is this:
Laboring women, labor in one room with sixteen beds and sometimes three women to a bed at a time. There are no clean sheets or chux on these beds, they are in their street clothes, body fluids are expelled on the floor or on the bed, all waste products are released in the bed or on the floor by the side while they labor. The women are not given food or water to drink.
When the doctors find the woman is completely dilated (or not as I witnessed), she is walked down the hall to the delivery room. If she refuses to walk she is placed in a wheelchair soaked in blood and fluids of the women who sat in it before her, no cover.
In the delivery room, less than three minutes from full dilation, the woman is then instructed to climb up on the table with a plastic garbage bag on it and put her legs in the stirrups. The intern then sticks her fingers inside the woman’s vagina and yells for her to push. She gets one push. Even though the baby's heart tones are WNL, and the baby's head is either -3, -2, or +1, or +2 station, the interns and doctors reach for a large needle and inject her with lidocaine and proceed to cut an enormous mediolateral "episiotomy" into the ladies bottom. The scissors they use are dull and they cut and cut and cut. I witnessed the doctor opening the scissors to find they had blood on them from another woman. She called for a nurse and none came; she used them anyway to cut this woman (What is the AIDS rate in this country neighboring Haiti?)
After the large incision is made, the doctor again puts her fingers in the vagina and orders her to push, if the baby does not fly out (which is rare), a nurse or another doctor pushes the baby out from the fundus.
One day I witnessed an intern cut a woman on both sides and a third time into the rectum; the head was not even visible and no one took a heart tone. This woman was left with a gaping hole in her pelvic floor which words cannot describe.
After the baby is forced out of the woman's severely compromised vagina, the doctors immediately clamp and cut the umbilical cord depriving the baby of its blood. The baby is whisked away to another room and the doctor immediately pulls on the cord of the still attached placenta until the woman hemorrhages and the placenta is expelled. Three times in one hour I witnessed projectile expression of copious amounts of blood at this pulling. Not only did I witness this type of bleeding as they pulled on the cord of this one woman's uterus, it was then found that she had two large medio-lateral tears on her cervix and a mediolateral episiotomy which was (and averages) nearly three inches in length. Needless to say the woman lost more blood than one could imagine, I could not begin to estimate. After much suturing in in a non sterile environment, the woman was instructed to sit up, get off of the table and walk back to a post partum room (she could not and the wheelchair was used),where she received little to no post partum care or any pain medication.
The private hospitals in the D.R. supposedly are much safer and saner than the public hospitals. I witnessed the same behaviors on all of these women giving birth in 2 separate public hospitals.
Instead of coming home and filling out my paperwork that I had attended births in another country, I am writing to you as a plea to investigate the situation in the public hospitals in the Dominican Republic. I am at a loss as to what I could do alone. If you are unable to do anything perhaps you could advise me on what could be done and who could possibly teach these doctors and interns how to receive a baby safely. The practices in the DR. not only endanger the health of the babies, but the mothers as well. The cross contamination of blood is rampant, the infection rates must be through the roof, the integrity of the mothers vaginal tissue is severely compromised. What happens in the public hospitals of the Dominican Republic as I am witness is not birth but torture. We as an educated global society should not in good conscience turn a blind eye to these women and children of our world.
Thank you for your time and response.
With all my heart, -Stacy Sheer

Friday, August 01, 2008

So Kiss me and smi. . .

Yes I am leaving on a jet plane, early in the morning. I am packing now, I am tidying up the office now.
I am laughing and crying all at the same time
I am scared
I am excited
All new
what if??
Breeathe, ground, feel your feet on the ground
see you all soon
i hope

Sunday, July 27, 2008


Is it a blog if you only post every few weeks? I don't know but I am taking a few minutes to post a little update and then i will most likely disappear again for some time.
-My headache has finally subsided after one month of falling head first into the cast iron bath tub edge.(my left ear still crackles though)
-Our new dog has stopped acting like a chihuahua in need of a lobotomy, thank god.
-I got another A in my last course, all accelerated online BS courses, every 5 weeks. I thought I would have my degree by Jan/09, only to realize I would not be finished until next June.
-This Spring I have Midwifed three beautiful women while they gave birth to their babies. One of my closest friends was one of those women. Imagine this- at a certain point of her laboring, she returns to the shower. I help her break her water and wait outside the bathroom door for her to say -Something. She does-"Head's out" Entirely cool, she wanted to do as much as possible by herself, and she did . Love it.
-Two Nights ago Michelle O Neil from Full-Soul-Ahead entered my dream with her completed memoir in her hand. This morning as I am reading my textbook on Physiological Psychology, I read the end of the chapter on Autism and Asbergers Syndrome (which Michelle O's daughter has the diagnosis) and the final sentence in the TEXTBOOK, which blows my mind, reads-"By the way, careful studies have found no evidence that Autism is linked to childhood immunization." That's kind of like the "guns don't kill people" slogan isn't it? I wonder where the University researchers get their funding from. Hmmnnn.... I like butterflies.... I believe, clap your hands, WHAT F-ing Bullshit!!!
see, that is why I don't write political blogs, I can't write anything that shouldn't be censored when I get angry, which is too often in that advocacy arena.
I digress
- I am leaving for a week long missionary trip to the Dominican Republic, Friday night. I will be working in a birthing clinic where 15 laboring women labor at once in the same room, on tables with no sheets, covers or sanitary conditions and there are several species of insects all around. Going to be interesting. I am excited. but- before I go, I have 4 days to complete my 10 page term paper, several weeks of homework,as my class ends while I am away and I have to get it in early. I have to get Tate's company bills and ducks in a row which takes an average of 2 workdays per week. Prepare the house and animals and my shop and pack and pay all household bills so the glass menagerie does not crumble without me, as i fear it might.

-And here I am, its 3:20 pm Sunday afternoon. The plan, to write the paper, take the tests, do the homeworks, all today. Begin the company work tomorrow-
Procrastination? What is that?
Think I will go check out what you all are doing.
See you in a few weeks.

Monday, July 14, 2008


A few nights ago. . .
I am sitting at a table with my oldest son, at the age of 16 maybe, before me. I take out a pen and sketch pad and begin to draw a figure of the bad guy. One eye this way, the other upside down strokes. Son is impatient. I tell him I must draw this picture to rid ourselves of him once and forever; be patient.
In the morning I awake and record the image. I then pull a tiny sketch pad from the bath side table, and a fine point Sharpie. I draw him in the same fashion as the dream instructed. Then I begin to aim projectiles at his face, and sketch his Lilly liver, and shrunken head and tears, because he is a very sad and wounded soul, and yes, I hate him. I am tired of him entering my psyche and tormenting me in my nightmares.
But this time it was different. I was in charge, I was creating the drama, not fighting or running or surviving his madness, I was exorcising him, the demon that he is.
After the bath, I doused the little sketch in alcohol and watched his face swell and bloat, and struck a match.... and said a few choice words. . .

Last night, in order to get to my love (who in the physical world sleeps next to me)
I fly
Above fields and people and buildings and hills
I wave my arms as if swimming the breast stroke.
I am in an upright position and I lift up high into the air
saying to myself out loud
I can fly.

Monday, July 07, 2008

Sounds of Now

We have a new dog, he's a rescue.
We have named him Polio, short for Napolean Dynamite. Polio is a Rhodesian Ridgeback, 90 pounds of solid muscle. He was a suburbanite purgatory rescue and he is currently 5 years old. He's used to being on a lead and being locked indoors during the day. A Rhodesian Ridgeback is bred to hunt Lions! The real kind. A regal beast with teeth 2 inches long, he's ferocious looking. But he's an enormous spoiled suburbanite wimp. We brought him here to save him from the county dogwatchers. They threatened to have him put to death for escaping from his chain and chasing the neighbor's un-neutered male dog.

Free, seven acres on a hilltop, surrounded by thousands of acres of woods. No neighbors, neigbor dogs or cats, plain frredom.
Polio cries all day on the doorstep
"I want to come inside! Pleeease! it's hot out here (he's an African breed mind you)
There's big trees out here, and bugs, I want to go to PetSmart -puppy playtime you know, with carpet and toys. . . whaaaa"

Enough, my head can take no more
Still recovering from my concussion. My hematoma somehow became infected. I had to take antibiotics and missed the family reunion. I just got out of bed to work on the books and write my term paper due tonight by midnight.
Shut up Polio, and I mean that in the nicest way.

Saturday, June 28, 2008

The shoes should come with a warning

If a girl has a painful back issue and she works on her feet many hours without a break during a day, she might wear MBT -zero balance shoes. They help her enormously during the work day. These shoes cost as much as an ounce of gold during a high phase. They come with a DVD, an instructional DVD. Although I know how to put them on and how to walk, I watched the DVD anyway. There was no warning, no disclaimer, but I wish there had been.
The warning might say: If you are going to drink 2 Bloody Mary's and one glass of Pinot (ok, maybe 2)after a long, very long, stressful week; REMOVE YOUR MBT's before imbibing!"
The simple disclosure may have saved me from the unfortunate headlong dive into the far edge of the cast iron bath tub. The resulting hematoma on my skull and the Gumby like shape of my head the following morning. Did I mention the sensation of a fly buzzing on the opposite side of my head? There is nothing there. And no, no one pushed me, no one in a body that is.
I am back, missed you all, going to see what you've been up to. . .
If my unevenly dilated pupils will allow.
Sheeze it really hurts!

Friday, May 30, 2008


The toothbrush swap was the first clue, the failure to add a comma and a zero to the total for my Tate's company customer invoice (still waiting to recover, he hasnt received a paycheck in weeks thanks to me)was the second. Toothbrush trick you say? It's when you go to brush your teeth in the morning and you reach for the toothbrush in your tooth brush holder and you look at it and say out loud- This is not my toothbrush! My tooth brush is a different toothbrush altogether, I think. What color is my toothbrush? And you get really nervous because you have no idea, even though you used that toothbrush everyday for the past few weeks, maybe months, what your toothbrush looks like. But you have to brush your teeth because you have to go to work and you can't stand the glue and dust bunny flavor in your mouth so- even though you might begin to gag at the thought of where this toothbrush might have been before sneaking into your toothbrush holder-You use it anyway.
That's a big clue right there that it is time for a change.
Change of place, mind, wardrobe, empty closets toss out clutter, simplify and slow down.
The Empress runs naked through the garden, laughing at Adam's apple. What a joke.
She feigns fearlessness, laughing at the sound of lightning crashing through the far side of the moon
It's all fun and games until she sees the snakes
Slithering on door jambs
rising up bare walls every surface lined with Set, and his friends
They have a message, will she listen or is it true
She's just crazy in her head? So he says.

Maybe a little. It was just getting too crowded in there. Dump the head, clean the clutter, revamp your Blog and go for a walk.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

We're MI

"We're MI!" my favorite line from Monsters Incorporated. I wonder how many kids get it, or adults for that matter. If you've been by here lately, or if you've given up on me completely and you are not here and therefore not reading this and I wonder where you are too. . . .Then, you'd know I have not been here in a long time and I have nothing to say. I think I am not the same person anymore. I have wanted to write, I have been aching to paint, I am practicing my violin very little, but some.
End of the world weather rolling on with earthquakes, fires, volcanic eruptions and twisters. What could I possibly have to say at a time like this? I am stressed out? Sheezus, forget I was about to go on about how busy I am and all of the (just 1 maybe)mistakes I have made lately in the accounting arena and woe is me, but forget all that.
I am blessed, I am lucky, thankful, busy, free, loved. Did I say blessed?

Speaking of MI and blessed and all that, I have registered to go on the Medical Ministries International trip in the Dominican Republic this Summer for a week. I will be delivering babies in a maternity clinic with a group of midwives and doctors. Going to reboot my midwifery skills in a clinical setting; the clinic receives nearly 400 babies per month. Going to be a trip indeed.
I miss you too, almost as much as I miss me, really.

Monday, April 28, 2008

The Real story

Sorry to upset anyone about my last post. I had those pictures of the bear incident, from a few weeks ago, before the Flu, and had to find some mythical way to use them. I thought it was funny, but I have been accused of finding humor in strange places.
The truth. I did get a terrible cold. I had a baby due on the 29th, which is tomorrow, no, wait, now today. The baby was feeling big to me and it was the Momma's first. Long labors come from that scenario and I had to keep one step ahead of myself, my schoolwork, my business, tate's company and it is gardening time. My schoolwork has really cut into my gardening performance. And what if I had to give that baby a breath? With a head full of flu? Worries. . .
I wrote my final paper on Sunday. it was due on Monday. That is a rare event for me.
Early this morning I awoke from a dream my pregnant lady called to say she was having contractions. A few hours later she called to say her labor had begun at one in the morning.
Long, very long story short-
I just arrived home, still smelling a bit birthy. Need to change my clothes and wind down from the high.
A BEAUTIFUL baby girl, Aurora, born this evening at 8:45 pm. Amen.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Beary Sad Story

People! I have to tell you something. Thanks to Stacy's friend Farhad who called me yesterday and informed me that Stacy had you virtual friends who would (maybe) be wondering what happened to her. He told me how to get here and i am not a techie, so bear with me. Shit, did I say bear? It was horrible really. No, she didn't die from the flu or the Theraflu. I read her last post. Yes she had a bugger of a flu, yes she took way too much Theraflu. She went to the doctor and the doc said her heart was skipping a beat for every beat it thumped out. She told her to switch to the daytime stuff and then she seemed to bounce back to almost normal as usual self in no time.

And then, like she mentioned. . . the bear, it was back.

This time the bear was bigger than any we had seen. Bigger than the one who carved up Billy Bob last fall, way bigger.
Maybe that's why she got sick in the first place. All night long, night after night the barking of the dogs, me running around trying to get pictures of it (it was beautiful), but in the morning she wasn't very happy. All of the bird feeders had been torn down. . . flowers trampled, tree branches broken.
So , last Sunday, on the full moon she snapped. I tried to stop her but I couldn't, it was too late.

The bear came back. Stacy rolled over in her sleep and said that she thought the bear just needed a little peanut butter and honey sandwich. It was hungry, that's all.
Right, I said as I rolled back into my dreams, sure she was kidding.
I heard the door creak then close and I ran to the kitchen.
A knife, peanut butter and honey stuck to it, sat on the counter top.
A giant jar of peanut butter. A honey-bear dripping honey and a half a loaf of bread sat next to the knife acting all innocent and unprepared for what came next.
She wasn't in the kitchen though.
I opened the front door to run after her
at the very instant
I saw the bear bite off her head.
What was she thinking?
The woman was nutz! I really miss her though.
Just thought you ought to know.

Monday, April 14, 2008


Wine, Truffles and Theraflu
480 x 320 - 117k - jpg

One question:

Where was Scooby Doo when there was work to do? Where?

Maybe he suddenly came down with a sore throat and head cold which fell into his lungs. Fast. Fever, aches, started Saturday night, after the Blessing way for the lady who is set to give birth any day.
no time for Flu, so. . .
A pot of Miso and seaweed with rice and red pepper. Doses of vitamin C.
Homeopathic remedies, echinachea, lobelia drops and Three doses of theraflu.

One dose and venture into a deep dreamless sleep, beyond the next world.
Awaken feeling groggy and a little lighter. Another dose. The heart pounds the snot dries up, the lungs turn to tissue paper sails in a giant tropical squall. Then sleep, a little less deeply.

Awaken, delirious and prepare the third dose of the pharmaceutical witches brew that sends me into stranger's bedrooms and lands between the land where no one walks or dares enter.

Trying not to breathe on Tate, who is resting next to me on our fluffy feather bed, I'm not nice enough to sequester myself to the cold hard beds of the guest rooms.

between awake and dreaming, I notice the vibrations of the words playing in my head and on the television set across the room. They intertwine and separately weave their vibrations through my heavily drugged body. All negative words and sounds affect me, I tense, all over, breathing changes, contracts. A negative thought, does the same. Our brains are taking in over 2 billion bytes of information per second, consciously we are only aware of 2 thousand. Subconsciously we are still affected by the sounds and thoughts we are not concentrating on. This reminder as I am beginning to catch myself in repeated negative banter with myself, WATCH YOUR THOUGHTS.
Would you say the mean things you say to yourself to anyone else? Your sister, best friend, lover, child? Why would you say them to yourself?

So, I turn to Tate, as my heart beats uncontrollably in my chest, trying to escape "Can Theraflu kill you?"
"If you drink three glasses of it, it could."

I am still here. The bear who came back full swing has moved on, spring is happening, statistics is over-got an A, have another paper due for another class, haven't started, my mom is in Md. visiting-I won't be able to get there, a baby due, shop busy, tate needs papers done and I am thinking about doing my taxes NOW. BUWAHAHAHA
Maybe another drink of Theraflu would do.

Monday, April 07, 2008

Sonic the hedgehog

I really have much to write about, but again, too many things to do at one time.
The memory is a mine field and the bombs have been going off like mad.
I procrastinate writing this simple paper for yet another mind numbing class, and I IM my seriously funny son- the Avi-meister.
I just told him I was considering getting back on antidepressants from these mind weed troubles. He said go ahead, he'll start shooting heroin in return. End of topic. Eavesdrop if you want. read it, it's hilarious.

me: i dont see anythin
Avi: http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/expats/expats_news/article1009799.ece
Sent at 3:25 PM on Monday
me: funny, poor sonic
hey, could you guest host my blog?
I am too stressed out to blog
Avi: what?
youre trying to outsource your blog?
me: people do it all the time
Avi: im buying my blogsite today
me: they should be free
Avi: whatever. 10 bucks a year.
me: i am serious, you know how to get in to my blog, just sign in to google as me, then hit my account and blogger
go tell them about the hedgehog and mom too stressed out to do anything or something
Avi: i have to work on my short story. anyways id just steal all your subscribers and redirect them to my page
me: AVI, I need to write this stupid paper
all 3 of my friends! ha
Avi: dont make a difference to me
ill steal em
me: OK, I am going to post before I write this dumb thing.
Avi: no youre not
write it now. because its your fault i procrastinate. its your parenting. lead by example bum
me: you cannot blame that on me, no way not goin there
Ok help me
I have to write about open ended questions, the hypnotists style, not a problem
i have to create a survey topic, then create 3 open ended questions for it
give me a topic
i can do the rest
only a 2-3 pager
Avi: bird feeding
me: What can you tell me about bird feeding?
Have you ever created bird feeding places in your surroundings
Avi: i dont know. i dont feed a bitch, pigeons!
me: be serious you said do it so I am
should people feed birds?
OK that'll do, now we must quantify their answers, when respondents say I dont feed no pigeons we throw hedgehogs at them
Avi: yes. negative reinforcement
actively force and rewrite the homeostasis of the planet
me: no, it is positive reinforcement, taking away the hedgehog is negative, they have to have something subtracted
Avi: whatever
me: punishment is the throwing of the hedgehog
dammit now you are keeping me from my paper.
Sent at 3:41 PM on Monday
Avi: nope
im buying my website
youre wasting my time

Tuesday, April 01, 2008

Don't Cry For me, OK?

I'm sorry to say this will be my last Blog. Things have been a bit tough lately and life is getting shorter and shorter every day, and I want to take time and smell the roses. So, I am going to travel full time with a biker gang to see the country and enjoy life while I still can. Don't worry about me - they all seem like really nice people.

Thanks cuz!

Thursday, March 20, 2008

First Love

Stuart Stein aka my first boyfriend and still one of my silent heros

Review Summary http://nytimes.com retrieved March 20, 2008.

Baltimore artist Dan Keplinger is the focus of this documentary short which first appeared on HBO. In 1985, when Keplinger was 12 years old, filmmakers Susan Hadary and Bill Whiteford began recording his life and periodically checked in on him over the next 13 years. Afflicted from birth with cerebral palsy, Keplinger was six years old when his parents divorced; his father wanted his son institutionalized, but his mother, Linda Ritter, insisted on raising him to lead as normal a life as possible. At 12, Keplinger was sent to a school for youngsters with disabilities but two years later, after a close friend died, he and his mother decided that a mainstream education was best for him. He had already begun painting by using a brush attached to a head brace. Laura Moore, a young student, befriended him and helped to tutor him, and his work began to appear in shows. During his senior year in high school, he moved into his own apartment, determined to be as independent as possible. Keplinger was accepted into the art program at Towson State University, outside of Baltimore. There, he met some resistance from several faculty members in the art department,

but Stuart Stein, an artist who was also a teacher at the university, took Keplinger under his wing, and Keplinger graduated, even managing to complete his sculpture requirement with the help of a computer. King Gimp won the Academy Award for Best Documentary Short Subject at the ceremony honoring 1999 releases. ~ Tom Wiener, All Movie Guide

Hi, I do not know exactly, what possessed me to check in on you on Google today, but I did. I learned of the "Gimp" movie and story just now. I don't know why there are so many things about you I fail to keep up with but I do know this- You are simply amazing. Way back then when we were so young, the arguments we had when I said I wanted to grow up and touch everyone I met. You would tell me how impossible and naive I was. Now, so many years later I learn, you are the one, who touches everyone with your divine and deep, deep heart. I am beyond words but not tears, love- S

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

What is The Point?

I miss this place, but yes the Statistics and the rest of life is keeping me busy doing things I'd rather not, but the material flows nonetheless

OlD decrepit man, well past 85 hobbles in through my shop door. The quiet afternoon sun pours through the store front window. A familiar, uncomfortable sound, high pitched and whining reaches me at the other end of the room. A sound that makes me want to cover my own ears, to escape its hideousness, the sound of hearing aids being run under water. The microphone feedback when the speaker is too close or filled with some sort of static electricity maybe.
Saying nothing, I watch as he limps through the motions, readjusting his cane in order to hang his hat and coat on the peg on the wall.
I nod to indicate hello, and point to the chair where he may sit.
I cape him and grab a clean comb.
I ask,"doesn't that ringing hurt your ears" incredulously.
Old man looks and me and replies, "ARE THEY RINGING?"
A smile spreads across my face.
Thankful for the muse in my daily routine.

Friday, March 07, 2008

Dog Tales

Worse than the cat lady is the sad little woman who tells you stories about her pesky little dog; good thing I don't do that, right.
A few months back, Kramer the infamous R.A.T. terrier, began feelin mighty oatey. We were in the office supply store.
Kramer eyes every customer who passes us in the aisles to make sure I am safe; his job 'To protect and to eat'. He spies uniformed, raging hormone man; 'To serve and protect'. Kramer puffs up as he stares the manly man down, then lifts his leg, to let him know who's boss.
I caught him in the nick of time and snatched him into reality, then put him in my car to wait obediently while I finished shopping.
Unbelievable the adolescent hormone thing of the 18 month old un-neutered male dog.
I was shocked by this new indoor behavior, he began lifting his leg in the most inappropriate of places, like my shop.
Yes, he goes to work with me nearly every day. I've taught him a few manners, to stop licking people incessantly and jumping into their laps when they sit in the styling chair.
But now, he seemed to have forgotten a few ground rules- HE LIFTED HIS LITTLE LEG ON ONE OF MY WAITING CUSTOMERS!
Sealed his un-neutered fate that day, I kid you not.
I scheduled him to be fixed. funny term, fixed, altered, neutered, and I told him too.
Tomorrow, you are getting your nuts cut off buddy, this testes thing is over for you.
The surgery went well, two days later he thanked me, really. He said he felt much better now and he didn't feel driven by his raging hormones anymore.
He hasn't lifted his leg inappropriately since.
But this was kind of funny.
Yesterday I took him for his two week follow up at the Vet. . .
We walked through the door.
He looked up at me and asked, "Are they going to sew them back on now"?

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Curs -ed Pukany's

Network Error (tcp_error)

A communication error occurred: ""
The Web Server may be down, too busy, or experiencing other problems preventing it from responding to requests. You may wish to try again at a later time.

For assistance, contact your network support team.

And the beat goes on This from solely trying to communicate my pain tonight.

Saddist Gods and blessed Goddess

I am not even going to tell you the story of the past few days and the computer Techno stresses, it wouldn't change a thing. Glimpses of tyrannical, twisted , sadistic computer gods somewhere in the techno verse, laughing as they take over my ethernet communications, making my mouse suffer and lead me into a tailspin.
First the post to my online discussion board of my online university statistics course, the one I had sweat over all day. I hit the submit button and was bounced off the website and landed in my homepage browser. Second attempt, I got wise and hit save, to be safe, just in case. The saved file however seems to not exist.
The Pukaneys laugh, rolling on the floor, the dirt floor, laughing.
Yesterday, the company QuickBooks , which I back up to an external hard drive now, after the computer crashes and viruses, refused to open. Who'd a thought, the Pukaneys could cause the external hard drive to become "DAMAGED"?
Realizing it was having a problem, the Ex that is, on Friday which caused me to be four hours late to work, yes four, I backed up the files I was finally able to retrieve after plugging and un-plugging old Ex a thousand times, I backed up the books to my internal hard drive.
An hour one way trip to the computer store with free device in hand, came with the new computer we had to buy after the last hard drive brain freeze. I didn't know how to work the tiny flash drive. It is the shape and size of a credit card. "Just plug this piece into your USB port" kid techie tells me.
"If your files are open you can back them up to it, plenty of room."
Yeah, right.
The computer this morning went into a nose dive, ctrl, alt, delete, to no avail.
Cant find your Ex drive, your other flash back up was incomplete, Windows is going CODE BLUE.
I frantically plug in and out the Ex drive cord. To no avail.
But there is the sacred internal back up.
I see it, all green and man running, and click.
To no avail.
Can't retrieve this. . . message over and over again.
We have bills to enter, to pay. I have so many other things to do this day, GOD PLEASE! I pray.
To no avail.
I begin to shake,to panic, and I actually cry.
The Pukanys roll with laughter, the thunder thunders, the rain falls.
I call the QB company.
They send an SOS to their online service for me.
The Goddess calls me.
I give her my power, I surrender.
She takes control and finds my back-up.
She creates files in my hard drive, she creates copies. She is in New Delhi, India.
I breathe.
The sun comes out, the Pukanys have had their fun.
While normally terse with people who do not speak the same language as me when dealing with sensitive issues such as my credit cards and company files, with Aarna, I am meek and respectful.
"Can you stay with me on my computer forever?" I beg her
"No, I cannot. After I help you with your problem, we must disconnect."
"Please, I love you. I do not have much money, but I have two very handsome and smart sons. You could have your pick, Please don't leave me."
The Goddess laughs and says thank you.

Sunday, February 24, 2008


Blogger Michelle O'Neil said...

Never mean to humble you Stacy.

You should have seen my in my lieder-hosen when I was a beer wench at Busch Gardens. Now that's humbling.

Now, I just want to clarify something, it is not bad to be humble. I simply meant humbled in a good way. I deduced, (did I make that up? Is that a statistics term?) If I said I wouldn't have created such ugly things if I was creating my reality and universe, I must be implying that the creator or creators, whatever truths may be, did a worse job than I would do. And Michelle reminds me, that I may not have created mice with very long tails and ugly liederhosen for middle aged women, . . on purpose. But wait, maybe she is saying the creator made mistakes.
Now, I am curious as to the implications of the responses to the comments in my make believe universe to my pretty lame post altogether.
Attempting to organize my head by moving office furniture around, but its Sunday and I am terribly in need of a good long nap. My outside world is a reflection of my inside world. In need of better organization, battling the need of a great nap. And the winner is zzzzzz....

Thursday, February 21, 2008

5 Weeks Update

1) I found my deck in the upstairs bedroom.(where i store all of my midwifery stuff)

2) Mercury is no longer doing a retrograde dance in Mars, as of yesterday- hooray

3) FOUND THIS in my statistics text book this morning in an article about math fear, "you might be a" type point.

4)Last night Tate and me were practicing singing gospel songs in harmony.(its a new game we like to play) I went into a long explanation of the essence and structure of harmonizing, as I understood it, and then. . . we turned on the tv to see Paul Simon and the harmonizing group from Africa,(I apologize for not knowing their name) performing.

The Universe works in such synchronistic and mysterious ways, sometimes I wonder, am I dreaming? All the time? Or is this a Universe I created in my mind?
But then there is George Bush and I would never have created an arrogant monster like that in my universe.
I wouldn't have created disease, poverty, hatred, ignorance, STATISTICS, ticks, mice with very long tails (if you get my drift), war, roaches, mosquitoes as well as a few other things, like those high waisted shorts women wear in the summer, with flats, that make them look like Pinocchio or some middle aged lieder-hosen wearer with boobs. gross.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Five Weeks

Yes, the ego still aches. I am too thin skinned, sensitive, call it what you will. I have always been this way. As I child I remember weeping at the beauty of the sky after a thunderstorm, the scent of burning leaves on a mist filled Autumn morning. I'd cry even. Also, I have a tendency to feel other peoples' pain. I sometimes realize when I am in a crowd that the fleeting headache or sore throat I suddenly feel is really an indicator of what is going on with the person standing next to me. If I see a wound on someones body, I feel a lesser (thank goodness) version of the pain in my body.
I started collecting Tarot decks a few years ago, I must have close to twenty by now. I get excited about the new one, season it with my dreams and essence by putting it under my pillow for a few days and sleeping on it. I usually dream the images and sometimes my guides come along and tell me things, which unfortunately, I think I forget.
My favorite deck is the Klimt deck. Gustav that is, yes. Every card has his "Tree of Life" image on the back and the fronts are beutiful, strange, realistic and gilded. Gilded means laced with shiny gold right?
This deck is the most inspirational deck I own. I shuffle, they shuffle, then lay them out on an orange and white M.C. Escher type scarf, the images I get from these cards have caused me to make some people cry.
When I realized this was my favorite, I made it a special pocket pouch lined with emerald green velvet to carry it in, along with the orange scarf.
It fit nicely in my coat pocket. Sometimes I just carry it for company, like having a friend walk with me, so I won't feel like I am walking alone.
Two weeks ago Monday, I put it in my pocket. I recall thinking at some point since then that it would be bad juju to leave it next to the heater at work, or something like that, but I can't really remember what or when that really was. Last Wednesday, I realized the Klimt was not in the pocket, the alter, the pillow, the office, the shop, under the bed. . . . I have looked everywhere I can think of.
Freaking out about where those cards are, all infused with my psyche and everything, I ask myself what this means.
The answer comes to me instantly.
I am such a great psychic, I can't find my Tarot cards.

OK, the title 5 weeks has nothing to do with this post except, it may be my last for a few weeks. I just began a 5 week crash college class in statistics, now I am really ready to end it all. . . drama queen I am, but if I have been depressed the past few days, I am betting the statistics is going to take my head in a completely different direction.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Calender Eraser

Ms. Mary is my music teacher; she is pure genius. Julliard trained, many years ago, she has taught thousands to play stringed instruments. She has created a color coded score which creates learning by ear and then conveys to reading notes on printed page. She is truly amazing. Nearing eighty now, she teaches in her home, in her front parlor. Boxes of tapes and music sheets, markers, instruments and family photos. Royal red Persian rug, cozy quilted day bed, bay windows. We play. Arkansas Traveler, Old Joe Clark, Tender Shepherd, Silent Night, Cripple Creek and more. I began my once a week lessons this past Summer; Mary is an incredibly patient person. When I practice at home, both cats race to the front door and beg to be let outside, really.
Your fiddle is the woman, the bow is her man. She tells me. I blush. They are in love.
I have a bruised ego this morning, a friends hair color job went very awry the other day. It wasn't my first failure to make the right call with respect to the correct color formula to mix and it probably wont be my last (if I don't commit suicide that is), but my timing was just horrendous!
It's a long story, but she's a ballroom dancer, she and her husband of 40 years were throwing a huge ball and fund raiser the following evening. There was so much work to be done Friday, she thought she'd save time and come to me to touch up her hair color. I made a bad decision, and then a worse one. It is a story I do not want to tell. Anymore. So I won't.
It ends with me feeling sick to my stomach and mad a myself, depressed. I wish I could take those hours and decisions back. My ego is in the trash can. Dammit! to hell I say.
I feel like crying.
I dread getting out of bed. I know it will pass, but. . .sleeping is good.
On the first night, the Dali Lama appeared in the village; he was leading meditation dances and exercises.
My haircolor lady said I needed to learn to handle stress, and there he entered, the dream.
It was now my turn to work with him, (Oh yeah, he is not the current DL, he is very young and from the past. I do not know which one he is)I am very close and he is gazing into my eyes, pure love.
As we are doing this meditation together, my sweater enclosure or earring becomes entangled in his sweater. I pull away and the threads from his sweater begin to unravel. I am horrified and embarrassed. He laughs and hugs me. He tells me he loves me and I feel how much he does. He tells me I try so hard to create love, to try to make people love me while all the time I am love.
In the morning, I try to remember his words, the unspoken ones. I wear saffron orange shirts, to remember. It's hard though because I am really good at punishing myself.

And then, last night, Ms. Mary said to me, "I need to know what you are."
I tell her- I am an artist, and a poet (its a dream relax). I love to laugh and to dance. I pause and then say, I just wish I was smart.

You're smart OK she said.
Yep, that's me- smart.

Love Ms. Mary, love the Dali Lama.
Staying mad a myself, licking the ole bruised ego, not getting out of bed. Not today.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Arcane Messages

If you didn't quite get the meaning of my last post, as I am usually unclear even to myself, I passed a teensey kidney stone last Thursday night. It had been aching since the Monday before. It's not a pain one forgets easily, I know. I had an interesting experience with kidney stones when I was a teenager, it was 26 years ago, three months, two days, fifteen hours, but who would bother paying attention to that? Not me, right.
I was sixteen. I was taking alot of drugs, anything hallucinogenic was my favorite. I also drank quarts of herbal teas daily. I was in love with the herbs and was especially fond of Red Clover and Licorice Root to cleanse the blood and relax the nerves. I wore a tiny satchel around my neck, in it Cubeb Berries, to attract love. I knew it was safe, attracting love that is because if it didn't work out, Borage leaves under your pillow and in tea, and the bath, would mend a broken heart.
I liked to drink whiskey, beer and mouthwash (not really)too. I called it my macro-psychotic diet. I was very close to a realm without time, where scents ruled and the senses were full.
One day I was hiking with some friends and drank from a little stream, I was thirsty. The friends thought I was nuts, (but we already know about that)as the creek was in Maryland, just a stones throw from industrial parks and landfills.
That evening, I was in my friend Andre's basement, I love the name Andre, don't you?
Andre was in his early twenties, he went to college and had lovely blond curls. I wonder now if he was adopted, but no digressions-
The regular crew I hung out with was gathered at Andres on a weeknight, as usual. Almost every night was spent at Andres back then. My friends were mostly a few years older than me, all male, non had steady girlfriends that ever attended Andres house, not then. There were usually five to eight of us. I had women friends then, but I really didn't seem to be spending any time with them during this period.
That night we drank two bottles of Wild Turkey and I think I went home with the one who was obsessed with the idea of building underground houses. His name was Slab, really.
If this were really a memoir, I'd go on about the relationship with Slab and the sex and the acid, but I might be boring you, or making it all up. You never really know.
Do you?
Long story longer, but I will try to tell it fast now, what happens next that is.
My father, the nice one but naive, left me and my two siblings and my Jewish Mother (yes, we are all Jewish), for his Catholic younger than my mother, receptionist. Needless to say, I think, if Dad was the nice one, Mom was the? Disinterested self absorbed slapping type. Yes, that's it. She took the house and all of his bank account, so she could pay for my college tuition (I was in college by 16), or not. Actually, Dad convinced me he could not afford to send me to college as he had prepped me my entire life to do, as his academically smartest child. Thats right, mom spent his money on shiny pale blue sports cars and fur coats,and the singles club, and the "business" trips.
I woke up early the next day, as Mommie dearest was getting ready for work. She had been missing alot of work, her social life was demanding. I was doubled over in pain, holding my right side in clenched fists. I knew I was dying. In my mother's bathroom,I threw up over and over, moaning like a Rabbi with a bullet in his head.
"What's the matter with you?" she demanded.
She probably thought I was hungover. This was no hangover, even I knew that.
"I don't know, I drank some water yesterday from a dirty stream, maybe it's that"
"I'm going to be late, call your father." She ran out of the house
I called Dad, he sent one of his nurses, she was like family.
Shelly picked me up and I was really loosing it. The pain was unbearable. I was holding my side and falling down fainting trying to get to her car. I kicked her dashboard (wounded horse in a wooden stall?). I feel bad now that I kicked her dashboard, even if it was 26 years ago.
She said, "hold on baby, its gonna be OK"
I really did like her; she was a Lesbian, wait. I bet she still is.
I do not remember much else that day. I fainted a bit, the tests weren't showing the expected, the Docs were sure my appendix had ruptured, they gave me MORPHINE and I didn't care about anything that day anymore.
Then they sent me for an exploratory surgery, six inch abdominal incision, verticle, through the belly button on one side.
The appendix was healthy, but they took it anyway, you know, because you really don't need it and while they were in there, they might as well.
They sewed me back up.With numerous staples. I was in the Pediatric ward, on morphine, for three weeks, until finally one day, the Docs decided to scan my water tract with an XRay. They found the stone and told me I could go home to pass it.
There is so much more to this story. I am going to spare you, but it ends somewhere with me, the healer, attempting to heal myself from the harm and wrong of the evil-doers in the hospital. I was going to rebirth every cell in my body. I was going to fast for days, and I did, until I forgot when it was time to eat again.
I walked with Jesus in the desert. I made the rain fall by communicating with the clouds and skies and then I walked through the rain and rested under the sweet smelling canopy of pine trees. I walked the streets of the city and gathered poets and prophets and homeless people as friends.
After a certain lost period of time, I crashed. I forgot how to read, converse, brush my teeth, everything but cry and sleep.
The crash lasted nearly a year.
Last Monday, when I woke up with that pain one never forgets, I was frightened. Afraid to throw it, to let it go, to breathe.
In four short days with only a few brief hours of severe pain, Alas, the stone has passed
and I am as sane as ever.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Stones Throw Away

I won't be around to visit you too much
i submitted a lousy draft of a boring paper
i am going to puke
pecking away with 2 fingers, this keyboard
i'd rather have a baby than this, this stone
this kidney saved for years
to throw
see you all later, i hope

Saturday, February 02, 2008

So She Said

Saturday, January 19, 2008
So She Said
(I posted this on my Take Back the Birth website a few weeks ago. No art will flow if I continue ruminating about this social ill, so I post it again today.)

A certain neighbor of mine is well below the drinking age and 24 weeks pregnant. She has pulled out of her high school classes and is finishing her senior year online. Although she tells me she is not a Goth, she is still wearing her heavy soled, clunky, black leather knee high boots and her mini dresses. She had to give up the black hair dye because her mother will not permit her to color her hair until after the baby is born. Her belly button is pierced.
"Hey, I don't know if you are aware that I have a bit of experience with childbirth," I told her one day recently, "If you want to give birth at home, I could possible help you with the details."

"I don't like my home (her parents)that much" she said.

Realizing her perception was that women have home births because they like their homes so much they just don't want to leave, I explained:
Actually, women have home births so they can labor in private, comfortably amongst people they are familiar with, they receive one on one attention and have non- medical, natural births which are safer for mother and babies.

She said she liked the hospital. She said she was planning on having an epidural. She said she would be happy to have a C-section. She said she heard it hurts and there was no way she was going to feel that baby coming out of her.

"Wait, you would want to have major surgery instead of experiencing the pain of childbirth which you have never actually felt before?"
"Well, yeah."
"How do you know it hurts that badly, what does it feel like, what hurts exactly. . . I started in with my birth education spiel."

"People say it hurts. Friends of mine have told me it hurts alot."

"Really? Do you have any tattoos or piercings?" I asked.
"My belly button is pierced. My mother won't let me get my tongue or nose pierced as long as I am working for her."

"You'd have your tongue pierced?!!!. . .But that really hurts. I'd rather have my head cut off and served to me for Sunday brunch than have my tongue pierced. I'd rather give birth without drugs ten times in a row than have my tongue pierced."

"My friends tell me it doesn't hurt. I have two friends that have done it."

"I see."

I stopped talking and the next day I lent her a copy of

Ina May Gaskin's newest book

Ina may talks about this very conversation with other women in her lectures and her book.
Articles are being written in academia on the subject of C-sections as a social problem, not a medical problem.
Before I begin to say bad things about people, I am going to take a deep breath, close my eyes, and send love and
Prayers to my neighbor and her unborn child.

(Yesterday said mother of mother to be, returned the book. She said, "we are not interested" )

Wednesday, January 30, 2008


For those of you who do not want to read sappy love letters to my son, here's my en-lightening thought for the day:
Red Drum, Red Drum
(yes, business is very slow today)

Happy Birthday Minnie Me

For nine months I carried you and spoke to you and dreamed with you.
I thought you were a girl
I thought about naming you Mercy
I promised you I'd be there for you, love you, unconditionally forever.
I dreamed about the walks we'd take, the games we'd play, the friends you'd make
On the morning you were born
I awoke feeling stranger than normal, everything was glowing
golden lights danced around the room
I was restless and took a walk, to get things moving
Unsure if this was really the day, after the false labor ten days ago.
We lived in a remote mountain town, three thousand feet up, it was the round valley
Covelo, California
Pristine, idyllic, the long road into town was lined with cattle ranches, fence posts and cows.
Chilly January morning, I walked out into the morning dew, alone, with you
I wore the only dress I owned, the same one I had worn every day for the past several months. (yes I washed it in the evenings)
Running shoes, wool socks.
I smelled the sweetness of the mountain morning, mixed with damp field grasses and anticipation.
As I walked, the cows came to the fence by the road and in muffled snorting sounds they told me it was time, I'd be OK, I was crossing the threshold of motherhood. They were the sacred gatekeepers, they blessed us.
Two and half hours after the labor kicked in, you were born, sparkling blue eyes, and sunny side up.
I held you in my arms and cried.
So perfect, so beautiful, so wise.
I stayed awake the entire night, looking at you in awe.
Never had I met such a wise and pure soul.
But I knew you for eternity and loved you the same. You would look into my eyes, so small, pleading with me to protect you. I promised, but sometimes I have failed to keep my promises. Not because I didn't want to but because I didn't know how.
On the day you were born, I learned the true meaning of love. You are my precious baby boy.
Happy twenty-third birthday. I am so proud of you.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Seen This?

I found this blog this morning on Rayne's Blog.

Plug removed due to feelings of personal insecurity for the day
, Instead I recommend you go here, Thanks to Jerri for the heads up. Patry's Blog

More Voices

As I load the clothes into the top loader
the soundtrack begins to play
The gravelly voice, syllables deep and slow to emphasize the horror and the pain.
". . . and within seconds, which seemed like hours, my arm was ripped from it's socket and torn completely from my body."

Sheezus H Christ!

That laundromat horror story, legal ad is stuck completely and permanently in my head, somebody please stop those voices in my head.

Saturday, January 12, 2008

Voices in my head

I am not really a girly girl. I never learned to wear make up, carry a purse,and any heel over 1/2 inch sends my feet into crippling spasms. I have attended many a Winter event barefoot even though I arrived wearing stylish girly shoes. It's either take them off or limp around like a newly castrated lamb. If you've ever witnessed the lamb neutering thing, you'd know what I mean.
My mom was a big make-up wearer. She had a little make up artist table with a tiny stool to sit on in front of it.The mirror had lights all around like the kind the movie stars have. On the table sat her Styrofoam head;it wore her wigs, falls, and bandeaus when my mothers wasn't wearing them. I liked to stick pins in it's face when my mom wasn't looking.
Mommy Dearest would sit and apply the fake eye lashes, the blue eye shadow, go from brunette to platinum in seconds flat and then the shower of Aqua net while we hid our faces in our tee shirts from the toxic cloud.
Glam or US!
That's the way it was. All gussied up she'd then spend the rest of her day avoiding us (three children), yelling at us,or slapping us into submission. . . Or maybe just into hating her, I don't know.
I learned to stay far away from her whenever possible.
As a teen ager, my glam routine deviated from anything related to being like her. I woke up ten minutes before having to leave the house for school. Spent three minutes in the shower. Tied my hair into a pony tail, put on my jeans and a tee shirt,grabbed my back pack (never a purse), and walked to school.
As an adult, much less concerned about my mothers influence on the Universe, I realize the wearing of make up is an art form and if applied in the right way it can be pretty. Carrying a purse is something I do now out of necessity; I still do not know how to buy one though. What makes a purse good? (Please answer this if you know).
I grew out of the backpack thing when I was nearing thirty. I remember carring my blue backpack into a bar after work one afternoon. I tried to fit in and act like the natives in suburbia. "You spending the night" a fat middle aged male patron asked.
That shifted my perspective.
I still can't wear a heel. I am not into self torture and probably never will be.
In my mid twenties, I decided to try and wear a little makeup. I bought some lipstick, some eye shadow and blush. I could not handle the strangeness of this mask all happening at once so I would wear blush one day, lipstick only the next, and maybe combine two at the same time if I actually was going somewhere.
I'm lying, I never went anywhere in those days that required makeup.
Lipstick is fun, but it rubs off on your teeth. I don't know how often you are supposed to apply it, even now.
In my forties.
It makes my lips feel funny too and sometimes I put it on and see nothing but monkey butt in the mirror.
I remember the first time I wore lipstick to my job in Colonial Williamsburg. I was a server in one of the Taverns. Although we had to wear authentic colonial costumes and were not allowed to wear hair adornments or non-period accessories, we were permitted to wear makeup.
In the locker room, I change out of my jeans and tee shirt. Take off my flip-flops and put my backpack in my locker. I put on the white shift, the wool knee socks (even in August in Virginia), the skirt, pocket, apron and mob-cap.
I walk to the mirror and apply blood passion red lipstick to my lips and go up three flights of stairs to the dinner line up. All evening servers on hand, two managers and two chefs.
Managers talk rules. Chefs talk specials. Comments anyone?
Pam, our very Southern shaped hostess and my friend, has one she'd like to share:
"Ummn Hmn, everybody look at Stacy, tryin ta git a kiss."
Nearly twenty years have passed from that day. Just this morning I applied a bit of colored shimmery gloss to my lips when I got into work. And in my head I hear her voice, again, "Look at Stacy, tryin ta git a kiss"

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Forty Miles

Last night I was in a large modern hotel. Avi (my newly relocated to cosmopolitan city, serving dinners to Tatum O Neil, youngest son)was with me, he was maybe seven years old. There was a sense of tedium, boredom and excitement all at once and it was morning. The breakfast buffet was being prepared and hundreds of people began to line up in multiple balcony levels to receive their break-fast. The food was very slow to come out. People began to get impatient.We looked to one side and saw a harried European chef storming around a kitchen followed by his Sous chef who was more like a court jester than a chef. The image made us laugh. The food was finally served, I scooted Avi along into the buffet line then went to find a plate for myself, but there were no more plates. In order to cut to the chase, I ended up walking. In search of a plate which turned into a cake circle. I came into contact with some people who were trying to help me on my epic journey (yes kidding) who informed me I had walked forty miles in search of the plate.

Forty, forty, 4-0! a damn significant number. Kabbalistically and spiritually speaking, it takes forty somethings to create something.This is the answer to the biggest mystery question of all creativity: How does something come from nowhere. No where, now here (love that). This is the Virgin birth,creation from no-thing. Jesus wandered in the desert for 40 days and nights (feel free to correct me if I have this wrong, I am a bad scholar), he received forty lashes before he was crucified. A baby is born after ten lunar cycles, 280 days or-40 weeks gestation. I think there is a Noah significance which would make sense as Noah's Arc is a water creation (waters breaking-birth) myth.It was a forty day flood, that's right. So forty is a significant spiritual journey marking, and I travel 40 miles from my seven year old son (40-7 day weeks gestation-the son)in order to get my own plate.
My own plate or the object that holds or is the foundation of the bounty, sustenance, variety that I have prodded my son to receive. I sacrifice my needs and continue on in order to see he is provided for ahead of me.
Are dreams really that boring for others to read?
My writing teacher said it was true. he might be right.
Then again, the other son was in there later and he was asking me to cosign a loan for him.
Now, that's a real nightmare if I ever had one.

Saturday, January 05, 2008

Water Buffalo

Last night I dreamed Kramer (our little puppy) was in the water and attacked by a Water Buffalo. It didn't kill him but his back leg femur was sticking out and he had a bunch of holes in him. I took him to the Vet. I don't remember the rest of it too clearly because I did not have time to record it in my journal this morning.
I don't know what it means
But now, when I tell the dream to people
I cannot stop laughing
What is so funny about a Water buffalo?

Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Not Slappin the Monkey

Back to work this morning, been gone for two weeks.

I know it was a vacation and I shouldn't complain, so I won't

For the better part of the past two weeks, Tate has been spoiling me rotten

The beach house, the food, OMG the food: The crabmeat and rockfish and shrimp and the sushi, then the wine and bloody mary's

never mind

Oh the walks on the sand, barefoot in the ocean edge

The tower, the fourth floor of the enormous house on stilts with the 180 degree ocean view

I finished my novel, the same one I have been attempting to finish reading since October

Reading about Anne Boleyn in the tower; in the tower
I did have a fever the majority of the time, but it was one of those low grade things that just made me wish I felt 100 percent, and would spike up as I slept

And I slept, and I slept, and I slept

This morning, back to the old routine: Up early, coffee,make bed, laundry, dishes, dress,Bowflex,bathe, tarot reading, record the dream, animal rotation, prepare mail for mailing, practice fiddle, get to work LATE
but not too late this morning, only a minute or so...

I open the door to the 100 sq. foot shop with exposed beams in the ceiling and hardwood floors and twinkly retail jewelry and the Christmas Poinsettia Tate brought me before we went away.

"Hi Shoppy" I shout out in my best falsetto sing song voice as I walk through the door.
and then I even made fun of myself and called me PeeWee Herman
who wouldn't?