Wherever You Go, There You Are.

I started this essay at the time of year when people were buying neckties and fishing poles for their dads. I got my dad a gift certificate. He's not much into ties or fishing poles, and the t-shirt thing has been done to death.

Daddy is notoriously thrifty. That's the polite way to put it. He puts it like this; I'm tighter than a crab's ass. And that's waterproof.  He never fails to amuse himself. I got an email from him this morning that I assume was a thank you for the gift card. It said,

Things your parents failed to tell you #47: A $2.00 card is cheaper than a $30 gift certificate.

I am and shall remain,
Yu Ben Phartine

He sometimes signs off as Ben Dover or adds "Esquire" to his name. For years I believed he'd belonged to a fraternity called I Phelta Thi.

My dad is a typical dad in a lot of ways. He is the king of scatological humor. I mean, this goes way beyond Pull My Finger or firing a pretend fart gun. My dad's fart gun had a pretend holster. He'd load it with a couple of rounds, click off the safety, take careful aim over the opposite forearm, and fire the appropriate number of bursts. According to how many rounds he had loaded. Police Academy training, right there. If my dad said, I think I feel a song coming on, you'd better duck and cover.

My dad would do a bad version of Steve Martin's Wild and Crazy Guy routine, trying to get a laugh out of Mom. If he was feeling especially romantic, he'd dance up behind her while she was doing dishes, singing I'm in the nude, for loooove ... simply because you're near me… He looked like he was trying to waltz and do The Robot simultaneously.

Daddy would play checkers or crazy eights with us when we were kids. For money. We didn't really get allowance, so our money was pretty much amassed from the washer and under the couch cushions. I have never beat my dad at checkers. He'd collect his winnings with Mom admonishing him, "Michael, don't you dare take their money! They're kids, you don't need their money! For Pete's sake!"

Daddy would shrug, That's why it's called "gambling". Is there a second chance in the real world? He’d turn to us, Did I force you to bet your money? Your mother thinks I'm taking your money unfairly. Did you make a bet fair and square?  We had, of course. If they're gonna gamble, they'd better be sure they can live with the consequences, he'd finish, scraping up our paltry collection of coins.

We didn't realize he was teaching us anything at the time.

My dad is known in our family for dispensing Pearls of Wisdom. Some of his oft-used sentiments are well-known gems, like you know what Assume does, don't you? Makes and ASS out of U and ME.  Others are his own special brand. He doesn't sugar coat anything. After all, if you roll a turd in sugar, it's still a piece of shit. You never knew when Pearls of Wisdom were going to fall from Daddy's mouth. It was pretty much a daily thing.

My dad was not impressed by excuses. There was a Pearl for that. Whenever we got in trouble, we'd offer up our excuses like currency, and invariably the words, "But I thought ..." would come out of our mouths. You thought? Doesn't look like you thought. You know what Thought did, don't you? Thought he had to fart and shit his pants.

Well. There you have it.

We were also encouraged to keep your nose clean. And we knew good and well that when your mother's happy, everybody's happy. We also knew that everybody deserves a fair shake, and that wherever you go, there you are. We were glad we listened when he advised, don't eat any yellow snow.  Above all, we learned not be slackers and that if you do a half-assed job, you'll do it over until you get it right.  We learned it was better to just do it right the first time.

My dad was not one for kisses or I love yous when we were kids. He believed in showing love, not saying it. He still believes that. He has been showing us since the day he met my mom. I can't say he's taken care of us since before I was born, because he didn't know any of us existed at that time. My dad was in high school when I was born. He would not meet my mom for another four years.

Daddy was 21 when he and Mom got married. I actually have vague memories of it. Mom was so beautiful and happy in the pictures, and Daddy looked like a handsome, boyish, college kid. Which he was. I can barely remember the small apartment my mom, little sister and I lived in before that. Mom worked in a dentist's office during the day, and put in hours as a bar waitress some evenings. My uncle sent her $50 a month from his Navy pay.

I do remember the first Christmas after Mom and Daddy met. I'd never seen so many toys. My sister and I believed in Santa that year.

When Daddy asked Mom to marry him, she said no. Said he was too young to take on the responsibilities of a wife and two kids before his own life had even started. I'd imagine Mom was very cautious, having already been through divorce by the time she was 23.

But mom was quite the catch, in her red and white 60s-style sheath dress and knee-high, white go-go boots. He wasn't about to let her go that easily. (Years later, when Mom would tell the story, Daddy would throw a lascivious glance her way, growling, Your mother looked like just like a Christmas candy cane! He’d add the wiggling eyebrows and the Steve Martin dance, to our delight.)

My dad tacked a vinyl record up on her front door, with a note. Here's part of the song:

You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do
And it's breakin' my heart in two
Because I never wanna see you a sad girl
Don't be a bad girl

But if you wanna leave, take good care
I hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware
Beware

Ooh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
It's hard to get by just upon a smile
Ooh, baby, baby, it's a wild world
I'll always remember you like a child, girl

from Wild World, Cat Stevens

I don't know what the note said, but Mom married him.

My dad was a history major in college; he's the biggest history buff I know. He used to randomly quiz us on historical facts. I couldn't stand not knowing one of his facts, and would secretly go look it up if I missed one. He'd planned on becoming a history teacher, but the Army offered an officer's salary, medical coverage, and family housing. He signed up during Vietnam. We went to Fort Benning and Fort Riley, and the war ended right before his number was due to head across the pond to 'Nam. He would've gone though. Daddy's a firm believer in you signs on the line, you does your time.

My dad signed on the line for us as well. He adopted me and my sister. And that was that. He's still doing his time with us.

As a kid, I knew I was half-adopted but it didn't seem that way. Friends would say, "Oh, so you mean he's your step-dad," and I'd say, no, he was my real dad. I couldn't figure out why they thought that. For years I thought my biological father was my step-dad. I remember in high school, I asked a friend what it was like, being adopted. She gave me a weird look and said, "I don't know, didn't your dad adopt you?" Light bulb moment. I realized that I had never considered myself "adopted", even though I knew the whole story. I also realized what a dumb question that was.

My dad is of the Rugged Individualist school of thought. He's politically conservative. He pulled himself up by the proverbial bootstraps, by God, and so can anyone else. He doesn't get people who complain about "not liking their jobs". A job is what you do to put food on the table. You want fun? Get a hobby. Nobody ever gave me a handout, now did they? Nobody ever asked me if I liked my job, did they?

It's maddening, sometimes. Try discussing institutionalized racism, or how education and health care for all would advance society as a whole, or how other countries that are doing those things are already overtaking us, or questioning why such a small percentage of fat cats hold such a large percentage of the country's wealth. What are you, some kind of Socialist? You think people should get a free handout from the government? Guess that's what living out on the Left Coast does for you – har har har!

My dad firmly believes in the whole Land of Opportunity deal. He asserts that with hard work and determination, any able-bodied person, regardless of gender, religion, race, or orientation can do the same damn thing. If you can't, you're not trying hard enough. Either that, or you're spending your hard-earned money on wine, women, and song. Despite his history buffery, he’ll summarily dismiss history’s effect on today’s disparities. Try discussing why, over the course of that history, some folks were a lot farther back from the starting line, or how the founding fathers consciously constructed our institutions for the benefit of white Christian males only, and you won't get far. The idea that while past generations of some families were busy building up a future, past generations of other families were on a plantation, building someone else's future, doesn't hold much sway with him.

Just catch up.

We joke a lot about Daddy's thriftiness, or as we call it, his crab’s ass tendencies. He pays cash for everything. He and mom are both on a strict "allowance". It's something like $25 a week. If Mom wants books or sewing supplies or a new skirt, she has to save up. She has taken "loans" from their bank accounts, but swears each time she'll never do it again. "I swear, honey, he's going to start charging me interest! He IS tighter than a crab's ass!" (Me: "And that's waterproof!") He lives by the same rules with his own allowance, though.

He and Mom paid off a 30-year mortgage in eight years on a cop's salary and, for part of that time, Mom's nurse's salary. Mom was diagnosed with MS not long after they had the house built, and was unable to continue working. That was a huge blow to her. I don't remember the timing, but Daddy had to take a medical retirement from the police department after that. (A fire truck ran into his cruiser as he was reaching to answer the radio, and buggered up his back.)

We realized, during that time, how wise his tightwad approach to finances really was. The mortgage is paid. They've got money in the bank. They've got health care. They've got Daddy's police pension, Mom's "disability" checks (until she hits 65, anyway), and he went to work part time at Toys R Us in order to put in time toward Social Security, so they'd have that as well. Plus, he couldn't deal with not working. He promised Mom he'd quit as soon as he had enough quarters worked for Social Security. That was two years ago, I think. I asked him how he could stand working part time with a bunch of teenagers and self-important "managers" after being on the police force for so many years. Well, you do what you gotta do, don't you? Plus, I get a discount.

During his years on the police department, Daddy was all about some Justice for All. He wrote tickets to judges, priests, the mayor, he didn't care who you were. The only person he ever let out of a ticket was a woman who had to go to the bathroom so badly she was nearly in tears. When you gotta go, you gotta go, he quipped, shaking his head and grinning.

We, however were in the same boat with the judges and priests. Don't try to use my name to get out of a ticket. He told me when I started driving. Wives get a free pass on tickets. Snot-nosed kids don't. Try to use my name, I'll say I don't know you. Don't speed.

My parents have not always been happy with my decisions in life. Some of those decisions, like getting married so young, caused huge rifts that I wasn't sure would ever be repaired. If I'd listened to my parents around those decisions, I'd be in a hell of a different place than I am now, that's for goddamn sure. I wish my kids could get that shit NOW, instead of decades from now. But that's not the way it works, is it? My parents wished the same thing, but I thought I knew better. I didn't.

I have earned my dad's grudging respect, which means a lot to me. He and I had a long conversation a few months ago -- not a common occurrence. He's a man of few words. (Another running joke) But that day, for some reason, after discussing jobs, baseball cards, the offspring, and whether professional "wrastlin" qualifies as a sport, the conversation took a serious turn. He's not one for mushy sentiments or empty praise, but that day he practically waxed poetic. He told me,

Well, one thing I gotta say about you -- you do what you gotta do for your kids. You've done the best you can with your life, and you're doing okay. You could do better with remembering to send your mother a card on her birthday, but I get my ass reamed for mentioning that, so you didn't hear it from me.

You're not stupid with your money, you don't seem to take a lot of bullshit, and your kids are good citizens. Hell, they might even be rich, they play their cards right.

You've shown some smarts and some responsibility, and done it without a whole lot of help. You got rid of your husband when he turned into an asshole playboy, even though you should've taken him for more money.

You seem to be good at your job and you're not a whiner. I'd lend you money, and that's not because you're family. Family don't mean shit when it comes to lending money. And next time, remember: You can marry rich as easy as you can marry poor.

And wherever you go, there you are.

My dad my not have been the most mushy guy growing up, but he took me and Sis and the neighborhood kids over to the old Fraternal Order of Police lodge and played baseball with us. That was fun. A lot of fun. He laughed a lot, and made us all laugh too. He passed on a sense of responsibility and honor to us, along with a scathing dry humor. He may not be politically correct, and some of his views and comments may grate my core, but you know where he stands. He says what he means and means what he says.

I remember asking my mom about the whole dad thing when I was still little; must've been shortly after they got married. I still didn't get the terminology. Mom told me, "Anybody can be a father, honey, but it takes someone really special to be a Daddy." She pretty much nailed it with that one.

Bonfire of the Vanities

So, Male Offspring got back from football camp last night. Teen Demon had to pick him up, as I am still ensconced in my new cubicle with my colleagues, dealing with our recent relocation. Whole'nuther meaning to "close quarters". I thought one colleague was readying to give me a lap dance, but she just wanted to use the printer.

I put my dollar away.

Anyway, my daughter picks up her brother from school. Now, he'd told me he had a surprise for us once he got back. I was curious, as he could not be persuaded to spill the beanage. My phone rings:

Annoying Ring! Annoying Ring!

Me: Hello?

Perky Female Friend of Male Offspring: Hi! Is ____ there!?

Me: No, I'm still at work, he's not with me.

Perky Friend: Oh. Wait! Okay! Can you please tell him that Perky Friend said, "Ohmygod, I sooo can't believe you got a mohawk!"

Me: ... (a mohawk?!) ... Sure. I certainly will. Thanks for calling, Perky Friend.

Perky Friend: OK!! Byeee!!

Oh, this was going to be fun. I live for these times. Doesn't quite make up for the stretch marks, but hey, what can, really?

I pick up the phone:

Male Offspring: Hello?

Me: You got a mohawk?

MO: ...

Me: Mmm-hmm. That's right. You can run, but you can't hide.

MO:  How do you ...

Me: Those eyes in the back of my head? Yeah. Maybe think about that next time. When were you going to tell me about this little styling adventure?

MO:  That was the surprise! That's what I was going to show you! Who told you? Did TeenDemon call you? Man! I can't believe she to--

Me: She didn't tell me.

MO: But ... you're still at work! How do you kn--

Me: How I know doesn't concern you.

MO:  Did Coach call you!? Crap! Coach didn't call you did h--

Me:  I can't believe you did this. You're grounded.

MO:  What?!? But, why -- grounded?! Are you serious?! But ... it's my hair! What about the beach bonfire tonight? You said I could go! It's my own hai--

Me: Gotta go, things are crazy here.

MO: What? No! Wait, I need to --

Me: *click*

Of course, later he claimed he knew I'd been joking all along. Hey, whatever you have to tell yourself.  The mohawk is pretty cool.  He calls it his 'frohawk.

So I end up chaperoning the beach bonfire. The idea is to burn the last vestiges of middle school in a blaze of glory before moving on to the vaunted halls of high school.

Kind of an adolescent cleansing ritual involving fire, marshmallows, and illegal fireworks.

All week I'd tried to get the lowdown on this bonfire business. I thought he called from camp because he missed me. Or at least because he knew I'd miss him. He called to ask permission to go the bonfire. I, of course, had questions about an event involving darkness, fire, hormones, high tide and a bunch of boys fresh from football camp, pumped up on adrenaline and testosterone. (This was before I even knew about the fireworks.) I had questions like,

• Who's sponsoring the bonfire? (I don't know)
• Is it a school event? (I don't think so)
• Well, is it a city event, or just a private party? (I don't know)
• What time does it end? (Um, probably after dark?)
• Who will be there? (My friends)
• Do your friends have names? (You know. Just my friends!)
• Who is supervising? Are parents going? (Probably. I don't know)

Finally, half an hour before the big event, I am put on the phone with someone named Rachel's Mom. (None of us have names. We are all ______'s Mom.) We parents decide to pull together and start this high school thing off with a strong united front. In short, we're chaperoning.

I saw one firework go off a few inches from someone's hand. I saw a kid throw a firework into the fire, and then (get this) reach into the fire pit with his bare hand to retrieve it when it didn't go off. I saw another kid balance on the edge of the fire pit on one foot, while he kicked some logs around with his other foot to "rearrange things". I saw kids pushing each other while precariously bent over to roast marshmallows with what looked like a toothpick.

One kid shot a firework through a buddy's legs. Hello! I mean, seriously, I'm all for fun, but do they not know they could lose a hand? Or an equally useful appendage?  Yeah, Junior, you might want to hang onto that for later.  Just sayin'.

At least they weren't spraying Silly String into the fire, which can ignite the string and blow up the can, just like the warning on the side of the can says. (That, apparently, once happened when another parent foolishly left the room during a birthday party. Amazing what tidbits of information surface when parents compare notes.)

The fact that there aren't more grown men walking around with eye patches and bionic parts amazes me. I didn't see a single girl doing these things. A little testosterone is a dangerous thing, people.

Male Offspring missed all these pyromaniacal goings on, as he and New Girlfriend were sitting on a piece of driftwood, the 'frohawk silhouetted against the sky, watching the sunset. Well, they would've been, had the sun been visible. They were actually sitting on a piece of driftwood watching the various and sundry shades of grey swirl around. Pacific Northwest, people. I was actually proud -- okay, fine, smug -- that he didn't get sucked into the frenzied drama.

Next up, high school.

Today I Didn't Have Time to Sneeze.

So the whole work relocation thing is ... well, it is what it is. I forgot to eat lunch and forgot to go to the bathroom. Which is a good thing, because I probably wouldn't have had time to wipe my ass anyway.

I decided when I started this blog adventure that dishing about colleagues is bad form, plus can probably get you fired, and cause people to throw rocks at your house at night. So no down and dirty on that front. Suffice it to say that close quarters and impossible deadlines topped with offering a public service with a smile is a recipe for folks to flip the fuck out.

Luckily, I've been through basic training and a child with colic, and am able to draw on those experiences for perspective. I mean, it's not like I'm up at 3am for the 8th round of breastfeeding, or lowcrawling under barbed wire and tracer rounds, right? Not really worth getting one's panties in a bunch. In my last job, I was the only female working with a bunch of ex-military and IT guys in an old concrete building on a former Russian army base. We had no central heat, no window screens, and our bathroom was a toilet in the cleaning supply closet. We had no sexual harassment policies, 12 hour days were fairly common, and my boss was known to yell things like, "Where the fuck is my CONTRACT?!" or "So I need you to go to Bosnia. Tomorrow. "

It was more fun than it sounds.

Anyway, it's been interesting this week. Office Dynamics are fascinating. And entertaining. It's all in how you look at it. And, my current boss is not among the numbers of those flipping the fuck out, so it's all good.

OK, time to go watch Dick with the daughter. Hmm. 1972, 2007 ... big old Dicks in the White House. The more things change the more they stay the same.

Are We There Yet?

Yes, still alive. No, I am not off on a secret love tryst. Crap.

What I have been doing is 1) dealing with various teenager issues. Don't ask. 2) helping to relocate our entire division to other locations, because contractors are having to install sprinklers for the next 10 weeks at Ye Olde Place of Employment. When did we find out about this move? Last Friday. When was moving day? Yesterday. Where am I today? Work. (No, my job does not normally involve Saturdays, as the state does not like to pay overtime, and I work for the state.)

Damn, yesterday I should've been getting an additional salary as part of the Facilities crew. I even have the cool boots. I and one of my colleagues moved shelving units, file cabinets, tables, and all the personal effects. We hooked up computers, faxes and printers. And no, we were not moving across the hall -- I'm talking moving to a completely different building. Actually 2 different buildings. Basically, we hustled. And now, I and 3 of my coworkers are cramped into one room until fall.

Let the Office Dynamics begin. Whee.

Actually it felt good to do some physical work for a change. Then, when I got home, exhausted, the whole Summer Solstice Endless Daylight thing got me pumped up even more, and I mowed the entire lawn.

Today my back feels like someone mowed it.

This morning my Teenager: Male Type left for football camp. He's going over the mountains to Eastern Washington. This should seriously be a separate state from Western Wa. The Cascades are like a freaking border, politically, physically and weather-wise. He will get to experience heat. I'm insanely jealous. I mean, are you telling me the coaches couldn't have used an assistant? Kind of a Mom-Friday? Would it have killed the boy to have his mom there at football camp?

Also, now that he's getting up there in years, and has moved from middle school football to the high school football, where the almost-men play, AND because he has raised his level of studenthood and studiousness to new heights this year, the boy deserved a pair of football gloves. There are, I've learned, many types of football gloves. It's not like you can just go in and ask for "football gloves". Oh no. And have the pimply faced sports store employee smirking in his superiority? I don't think so.

The Man Child is a Running Back and working on his receiver skills, so there is a certain glove for that. The palms are sticky like fly paper. I bought middle of the road gloves, which are $45. WTF?! That and the cost of the camp and the friggin' snacks should buy me some heavy loyalty and chore-doing on his part. Maybe he'll even kiss my ring. Anyway, he tried the gloves at practice yesterday, and pronounced them "pretty sweet."

Oh, the aforementioned Son has a new girlfriend. As of the 8th grade "graduation" dance last night. This is not the same new one from 2 weeks ago. Thankgawd it's not that fast little trollop who's been tailing him all year. Anyway, more on the Girlfriend Chronicles later, it's actually a pretty good story.

Eldest daughter left for QueerFest this morning with her two friends, Cello Boy and Piano Boy, whom she basically hooked up. Cello Boy has been one of her best friends since we came back to the States. Obviously, he plays cello. He also conducts. He recently turned 21, and has basically been getting his Ho on since he turned 19 and moved to the city to attend college. He is now figuring out how to get his drink on. Daughter, who shuns alcohol of any type, was on the phone last night giving directions on crossing the street safely and instructing him to get somewhere and get some food into him. Then i hear her groan, "OhmyGAWD -- no! Tequila is not your friend! And it does NOT go well with vodka. Seriously. Ask my Mom. She imposed a tequila limit on herself. There's a reason for that." He started singing after that, apparently, then told her to relay his love and devotion to me. Gotta love him.

Piano Boy is younger, just graduated high school, has been out for about a year, mildly religious, but "in a good way" whatever that means. Great kid. Anyway, long story short, daughter gets these 2 together, but Cello Boy is basically in it for fun and prizes, while Piano Boy really likes Cello Boy. But, surprisingly, turns out Piano Boy can pretty much fend for himself. Asked the daughter point blank if Cello Boy was safe, if he got tested regularly, if he was a player, or into relationships. Daughter told the truth. Cello Boy got pissed, daughter told him to get over it, he pretty much saw the point. Piano Boy set his boundaries, and they're all going to Queer Fest today.

Daughter fully expects to get dumped for greener pastures today.

When she met these guys (separately and a year or so apart), she fancied they might be "prospects". They're both scathingly hot. Of course they are. They have further confirmed for her that All the Good Ones Are Gay or Taken.

Tomorrow she and Cello Boy are leaving for Leavenworth WA for the Summer Symphony there. As daughter is the rehearsal pianist for the symphony, she gets the whole shebang at no cost to her. Leavenworth is weird -- it is basically a reproduction of the Bavarian Alps here in the good old US of A. I mean, it's beautiful, I like it, but ... I don't know, it's just weird. I mean, after having lived in Germany, it's just strange to go to this Pseudo-Bavaria. It's not Disneyesque or anything, but ... I don't know.

Anyway, the man-child is off to warmer climes, the daughter is off to a Cascade paradise. Not liking them too much at the moment.

So, that leaves me and Teen Demon.

Luv y'all! C U L8R! 2 gr8 2b 4gotten! Let's def hang out over summer!!! Kewl!

Sorry -- been looking at the new yearbooks too long.

Bite My Ass

You know you want to.

Happy Father's Day

One of my dearest (and most entertaining) friends called this morning, and left a message on my phone, seeing as how my Left-Coast-timing ass was still in bed. She wished me a Happy Father's Day. Those of you who know of my ongoing circus with the Ex, and how much participation he's contributed to the upbringing of the teenangels in years of late, can appreciate the appropriateness of those well wishes.

She made my day.

Which sucks ass, but there you go. The recognition was nice, but I'd so much rather it wasn't warranted.

Happy Father's Day to all you Daddies and Daddy-fill-ins out there.

Ooh, ooh! Pick Meme!

I've been tagged! Veronica popped my meme cherry. That saucy minx.

Now, being a veritable blushing maiden in blogger years, I have no idea whether this is cool or lame. You all may be rolling your eyes and elbowing each other, with a "Hey, Hat, check out the new kid!" I, however, blissfully unaware of those possible goings-on, choose to believe that I am, in fact, amazingly cool.

Bitchin', one might even say.

Sweet! OK kids, here we go! This here game is called Pieces of Eight. I guess I should pick things that are not on the "however many things about me" list. (I'm so excited. My first time. I hope they can't tell I've never done this before. Did I shave this morning?! Shit. )

Rules:

1) Post the rules, then list 8 things about yourself.

2) At the end of the post, tag and link to 8 other people

3) Leave a comment at those sites, letting them know they've been tagged, and asking them to come read the post so they know what to do.

• I can wiggle my eyes. It looks like they're vibrating. It freaks people out.
  
  
• I have 2 dog bite scars on the inside of my right forearm. I was in 4th grade. The dog, a German Shepard named Midnight, went for my face. Just by reflex, I threw my arm up in front of my face. It got my sleeve and a couple of chunks of arm. A plastic surgeon had to do the work on one of the bites. The nerves under it are still funky. Turns out the dog had bitten 3 other people. One guy, trying to save his toddler nephew from the dog, permanently lost the use of his thumb. The dog was quarantined, the owner let him out anyway, the cops were called. My dad was one of the cops. Vet gave the dog enough tranquilizer for a 400lb animal. It was still up, and charged the vet. My dad shot it. I was furious at my dad. The lady got a new GS puppy, named it Midnight the Second, and was bitchy to me and my sister until we moved.
  
  
• I love to play chess, but basically suck at it.
  
  
• I love to color. With crayons and coloring books. It has to be Crayola crayons. Fuck that Rose-Art shit. I also still love to Play-Do. If there is a heaven, I'm pretty sure part of it smells like Crayola and Play-Do. Yes, of course I tried to eat it as a kid. We all did.
  
  
• When I was a kid, my mom didn't believe in Barbie. Sis and I had The Sunshine Family. They were a family with a baby, country house, jeep, Grandma & Grandpa, dog, and cat. They were the hippie version of Barbie. We lost the baby's clothes, and used popped balloons to make a sort of colorful Onesie for the baby.
  
  
• I've never had a broken bone.
  
  
• My sister and I had "characters" growing up. We'd play these games where we were a talking cat, a Great Dane who was also a drill sergeant type persona, spoof characters based on some weird neighbors we had. Those were the main ones. The characters had their own voices, history, personalities, expressions. Sometimes we'd go days without breaking character. This was pretty much one step away from a multiple personality disorder. Make-believe is run of the mill play for little kids, but we continued it until I left home. Actually, we still do it when we see each other.
  
  
• I'm artistic, and will go on manic creativity jags, but never really do anything with it. I wish I did.

OK, whom shall I tag? (I remember Eric doing something like this recently, so he's off the hook.) See, this is where being a relatively new kid is a disadvantage -- not sure if you guys will be all, "Hey! Cowbell tagged me! Sweeet!" or if you'll throw virtual tomatoes at me. Oh well, here goes anydamnway [pushing up sleeves and readying pointer finger]:


Eurotrippen, The Hat, Willym, Belle, not to be confused with Lynette, Allan, Sling, and ... Quakerjono.

Oh, and if any of you have already done this ... tough crap. (You thought I was going to apologize, and excuse you, didn't you?)

Out of the Mouths of Matrons

Heard over afternoon tea:

She was well endowed ... and she used her assets as a battering ram.

--Colleague, primly describing a crowded elevator situation.

Naked Bikers or Drag Queen Softball?

I have a conflict this weekend.

This Saturday is the Fremont Solstice Parade, part of the annual Fremont Festival.

1) It is a Solstice celebration. Enough said.
2) Awesome food
3) Car art competition -- handpainted crazyass cars.
4) Bikers costumed only with paint.
5) Republicans usually won't get within 2 miles of it.










Also scheduled for this Saturday is the Bat-n-Rouge softball game, to kick off Pride.

Drag Queens v. the Dykes. Enough said.


How the hell is a person supposed to choose? What the hell were the softball teams thinking? The Solstice Parade? Are you kidding me? What group would play opposite that, other than the Young Republicans?


Dammit.

Evolution

I am loving Dove’s Campaign for Real Beauty. It’s a big Hell Yeah for women. And a big Fuck You to the media. Dove is stepping up and actively working against the unrealistic portrayal (and expectations) of women. They are celebrating real women, of all ages, sizes, ethnicities, and shapes. They tackle several different areas, including:

Print Advertising

Please watch their Evolution ad. You won't believe this shit. It's the down and dirty on what we’re really seeing when we flip through the latest copy of Cosmo or drive past that billboard. All women and young girls need to see this.

This ad could just as easily have been called Exposure. As in exposing the bullshit.

Women: Get it? It’s not real! I mean, did you see that bit they did with her neck? The eyes? The media has purposely and methodically wrapped this shit up in foundation and Photoshop and shoved a pretty package down our throats. And we swallow it. We end up believing that size 0 is normal, that 60-year-olds don’t really have wrinkles. They feed us this airbrushed, Young White Emaciated standard of beauty until our eye becomes accustomed to this constructed veneer, and we think that real is ugly. Old. Fat. Disgusting. Our fault. We think this based on a lie. But even when we know, we still think it.

Weight & Body Image

Dove is also celebrating women's curves. As in fuck that cookie-cutter bullshit. I've seen recent media coverage on beautiful, sexy, talented women like Jordin Sparks, Sara Ramirez and America Ferarra, wherein the Media Tool of the Day ponders the issue of their weight. I'm sorry, but if these very sexy women are considered “fat” -- if they are even in the neighborhood of fat -- there is something very, very wrong.

That’s the media, right there, honey. They did that shit to us. They made us believe that. They have warped our perceptions with that steady diet of skinny, white, child models.

I call bullshit.

I tell you what, Sara Ramirez ever shows up at my door, I’d be goddamned if anything comes to mind other than hot. Seriously, people, have you seen that episode of Grey's where Callie (her kickass character) is dancing in these sexy boyshort type undies, alone in her little camp-out room below the hospital? Goodgawd! How can anyone see that and not fall down at the woman's feet? Please.

And Jordin Sparks? Gorgeous. Stunning. And poised as hell. I was shocked to see that bonyass, sickly-looking FOX news biotch talking about Jordin being "obese". (Lynette's site) Obese? Are you fucking kidding me?! It had never crossed my mind that folks might actually think she had a weight issue. America Ferarra, let's just say it takes a whole lot of work to make that fine female into the supposed "ugly Betty".

It's all about presenting an image to us that over time comes to be associated with The Norm. After a while our brain stops questioning that shit, and we think bird legs are normal. Teri Hatcher is not the norm, people. After we see her type night after night, year after year, we get conditioned to it, and a normal woman actually appears "fat" to our eye. Instead of normal. Because she's standing next to No-Ass Teri. And we don't even realize we've been brainwashed when we autorespond, "Damn, you need to lay off those fries, sister," Personally, I think Teri needs to pick up a milkshake.  And some damn fries.

It really pisses me off, because they've sucked me in, too. Yeah, I can fully recognize Sara Ramirez' sexiness and strength, but I feel that it's somehow "different" for me. It's not beautiful on me. I know better -- in my head -- but there it is.

Beauty at Any Age

Dove made a TV commercial promoting their Pro-Age line of skin products, celebrating female beauty in women of all ages. The commercial showed older women, nude, very tastefully positioned so that no lady bits were in evidence. Profile shots. Limbs artfully arranged.

The commercial was banned, ostensibly due to "partial nudity". Fortunately, you can still watch it at the Dove site. It was in no way erotic or offensive. See what you think.

There is plenty of offensive partial nudity out there that isn't banned. Then again, that nudity usually involves skinny, white chicks in their 20s. Hmm. I'm thinking maybe folks were more uncomfortable with real women above 25 having the nerve to show their skin, than they were with the idea of skin in general. Best keep that shit behind a hefty layer of polyester, ladies.

Girls and Self Esteem

I absolutely love their True Colors TV spot. It's beautiful. Watch it. This is where I'm impressed. Getting to young girls before their heads get filled with this fuckery. Stop the cycle and all that. They have a free kit to learn how to facilitate a Real Beauty workshop for girls. They're partnering with the Girl Scouts on the Uniquely Me! program to raise girls' self esteem. Their True You guide for moms (or aunts, grandmas, mentors) and daughters deals with feelings of beauty. They've got discussion groups and even casting calls for their ads.

Anyway, they're doing something. Check out Dove's site. Watch the Evolution ad. See the truth, ladies. America's top models look pretty close to you and me.

I Hope You've Learned Your Lesson, Missy!

So the sunburn peeled over the weekend. No, I will not post a lurid description of that process. Freaks.

I am left with tender new skin, itchy and ultrasensitive. Better than feeling like a Komodo Dragon, though. No peeling pics -- sorry -- but here's a pic from B-day, last Sunday.




If you look closely, you can see the strip of bright red between my Tigger pajama pants and my strappy top. Basically, I had this fire engine red deal going on with my shoulders, a blinding white back and ass, and this attractive crimson stripe, painted right across the lower back.

My son found the stripe particularly amusing. Hilarious, in fact. The boy actually had tears coming out of his eyes. I'm pretty sure I even recognized the "What the hell is up with white people frying themselves like that?!" look in his eye.

Whatever. It wasn't that funny.

Now why couldn't I listen to my own damn self? How many times have I told Teen Demon about the evils that could befall her while wearing a Too Short Shirt? Especially when paired with Low Rider pants! Anything could happen, walking around with Bare Midriff! There's a reason it's against the school dress code, Missy.

No wonder she smirked beyond what I thought appropriate. Brat.

I have not bared my midriff since setting foot back in the States. Well, okay, maybe that first summer, but not since then. No friggin' way. For one thing, my midriff is more like the dreaded muffin top these days. Second, it's too damn cold here. Tank tops? Are you freaking kidding me? Only as an undershirt. Which I always have on, even in summer. And the closest I've come to shorts in three years are cargo capris.

Cargo capris are found at any Old Navy store. They are casual, loose fitting, and sport an abundance of pockets. More often than not, they are also low riders. Last Sunday, what with the freakish heat wave and all (sarcasm, Puget Sound readers), I donned my cargo capris and a strappy top. (These things were actually stored away under my bed. That's how often I wear capris. I had to shave my damn legs, too.)

I was feeling exposed and out of my comfort zone, what with no undershirt on last Sunday, arms and a bit of lower back open to the elements, but what the hell! It was hot! I was happy! Actually I was manic, truth be told. So, out I went to mow the lawn in my cute little summer ensemble.
You know the rest of the story.

Scenes From the Yard

No, this is not a post about Paris Hilton during Rec Hour.

Does anyone know what these little purple flowers are? (Willym?)





And, are these buttercups? (Hey, a gardener I ain't.)

Oh, and check out the sunset from last night. The colors were brilliant! Unfortunately, our house is not the best place for viewing celestial phenomena -- we're not on a hill, and there are lots of trees around. Mostly we can see my neighbor's raised back deck, which they basically use for storage of all manner of junk. So I aimed the camera up. Made me want to jump in the car and drive down to the water, to see the sunset across the Sound, but I knew it would be gone by the time we got there.

When we lived in Hungary, our house was up on top of a hill and we had this wonderful terrace facing west. Every sunset was gorgeous, it seemed. Summers were hot and sunny, and it was heaven out on the terrace, heat still hanging in the air, nothing but a strappy top, shorts, and a beer, watching the sun fall down behind the neighboring hill.

You could still feel the warmth from the big ceramic tiles on bare feet, even after the sun went down.
Okay, enough of that -- I should get up off my ass and take the canines to the dog park. But if anyone knows what those little purple and yellow flowers are, let me know.

Musical Wisdom of the Day

Songs are like tattoos

Joni Mitchell, Blue

Creation Museum's Adam: Bringing the Bow-Chicka-Bow-Wow

BREAKING BIBLICAL NEWS:

Our own field reporter Big Ass Belle gave me a hot news tip this morning, regarding the Creation Museum. Apparently, the actor hired by the Creation Museum to play Adam has his own idea of Paradise.

Adam, it seems, is porn star. The museum has pulled the video, and banished Adam from the Garden:

The Expulsion of Adam & Eve - Benjamin West

Here's the down and dirty, according to WKYT in Kentucky, the museum's home state.

Registration records show that Eric Linden, who portrays Adam taking his first breath in a film at the newly opened Creation Museum, owns a graphic Web site called Bedroom Acrobat. He has been pictured there, smiling alongside a drag queen, in a T-shirt brandishing the site's sexually suggestive logo.

Linden, a graphic designer, model and actor, also sells clothing for SFX International, whose initials appear on clothing to spell "SEX" from afar and serve as an abbreviation for its mascot, who promotes "free love", "pleasure" and "Thrillz."

The museum's operators, informed Thursday by The Associated Press of Linden's online appearances, acted swiftly to suspend airing of the 40-second video in which he appeared.

What? Adam pictured with a drag queen? Well, well, well. Could this be the elusive Steve?

Apparently, Eric Linden gave up the rights to Bedroom Acrobat, and is no longer affiliated with it. Records show he registered the site a mere 18 months ago. (Gotta say, I'm loving that site name.)

Adam and Eve -- Tamara de Lempicka

I'm thinking the Creation Museum's directors may have been a bit too hasty. I mean, the main premise of their mission statement is to evangalize the lost, right? It's not enough to preach to the choir, -- they're saved, praisegod -- it's the heathens they're after, right?

I'd have never stepped foot in the Creation Museum before. But they might just be able to pull me in with some Thrillz like a porn star Adam. That might just pique my interest.

From a marketing standpoint, it's genius. Think about it; porn star Adam, a few paintings like this one, and a little bow-chicka-wow-wow theme music going on. Eve could even have a pole and do some kind of crazy snake charmer dance.

All the Heathens in the house say Hey! (Hey!) Hey! (Hey!)

Yeah, I'd go see that.

As for Adam, here's his take on the matter:

For the Creation Museum, I did what I did as an actor. It doesn't necessarily mean I believe in evolution or a believe in creation, I'm hired to get a point across. On the flip side, if I was hired to play a murderer, that doesn't mean I'd go out and kill somebody. It's make-believe.

Make believe. I'll leave that one alone.

The Tattoo Didn't Exactly Work Out So Well.

You can tell I don't exactly have any hot dates for the weekend. So, I'm farting around on the Internets today, when I see this Official Seal deal over at Sling's Domain. Hey, that looks fun. I've got nothing better to do -- let's make a seal!

I wasn't actually going to make a seal, for real, until I saw that little sunshine emblem. I have a tattoo that IS this sun. (Twilight Zone theme song, fade in) Well, it was supposed to look like this sun, anyway.

I still have the sketchbook where I drew it for the tattoo artist, a sexyass Hungarian flesh artist with long black hair and an intoxicating sort-of-smile. Sensual doesn't even begin to cover it. Puts me in mind of Johnny Depp, actually. We had this weird chemistry thing going on the whole time I lived there. Story for another day. Anyway, Smoldering Tattoo Guy does a beautiful job with the tattoo -- I mean I was practically ready to sign up for some sort of piercing -- when I decided that I couldn't see it well enough. I thought it needed something else.

STG: This? No. Perfect.

Me: But it's not really showing up. I think it needs an outline.

STG: No. No outline. Trust me. I know what is good for you.
(half-smile. suggestive, sidelong look.)

now at this point, I should've shut the hell up and let him tell me what
was good for me.

Me: That, I'm sure of. Don't you think it should be brighter... maybe more ink?

STG: No. No ink. This is the summer skin, brown skin. Wait some months. The ink must living with your skin. If you don't like it, you come back to me, I'm gonna fix it, make what you want. Trust me.

But I didn't. (Fool!) I insisted on an outline. Just a little skinny one. To "define" it. Why oh why, did I not listen? The man knew his inks. I insisted. He outlined it.

My sun turned into a spider. Fuck!

I tried the whole "living with it" thing, but the outline pretty much ruined that. So I went back. He didn't say a word. Just half-smiled. Covered the spider with his whole hand. Shook his head.

He suggested making it into something completely different. But noooo, I didn't want anything bigger. I asked him to add some sun-colors to the tips of the rays, so it might look less like an arachnid. Maybe bleed the yellow outside the goddamn outline. He wasn't so sure. "How can it be any worse?" I asked.

It's now a spider with painted nails.

Anyway, I guess I made an Official Seal. Since the tattoo didn't exactly work out. Amazing what memories come up whilst a-farting around on the Internets.

Musical Wisdom of the Day

Mercy what I won't give
to have the things that mean the most
not to mean the things I miss.

Indigo Girls, Language or the Kiss

Some Serious Shit About Coaches

(In which I bow down to coaches and use the word "blessing")

This is important, even if you aren't into the whole sports thing. This is about coaches, and how important they are to kids growing up in this country.


Young people need role models. What with Dubya, Paris, R. Kelly, movies and MTV, the future leaders of this country need some real-life folks to point them in the right direction.

Coaches are bringing it, every day. I can literally see a difference in the way my son carries himself this year. Much of that came directly from sports. Good coaches are a blessing, y'all.

Those of you who know me just now choked to see me use the word "blessing", didn't you? (Please, I could hear the what-the-hells from here.) Well, the only other word I could come up with on the fly that conveyed what I'm thinking was "godsend". So yeah, coaches are a blessing. Goddamn right.

They don't get paid much, and some are straight up volunteers. They give so much more than just instruction. They are mentors for these young folks. They are modeling good sportsmanship, responsibility, commitment, and teamwork.

Life skills, here, people. Skills we actually use day to day, unlike sophomore algebra.


I appreciate that several of my son's coaches in particular have been wonderful models for healthy male-to-male interaction. For those who think sports coaches must be big into that stereotypical, macho bullshit, I have not seen it here. These guys have been hands-on with the kids; they hug these kids, put their arms around them, hold their faces and look them straight in the eye while telling what they've done right and what they can work on. They say things like,

I love you man; you pulled it out today!

I couldn't ask for any more from you.

I am so proud of you!

That's okay; you know you're still my boy. You'll get it.

You gave your best; that's what we do.

Way to apply what you learned!

You had good form out there today.

Things that build a kid up. I see my son and his teammates hug each other, and walk with an arm over the other's shoulders. I see them stick together off the field, help each other out.

Female athletes are still working on equal sports status with the men. They still have to deal with being called "The Lady Muskrats/Wildcats/Pelicans". They don't get cheerleaders or assemblies. Coaches don't give a damn about that; they're coaching athletes, not girls. I see the difference in my daughter, because they actually have a high jump coach this year, one who really cares about the kids. It means a lot to her. I hope he's here again next year. (Cross your fingers that he gets that teaching job ...)


And may I also add, while I'm at it, that I especially appreciate the African American men who are stepping up to mentor these kids. Kids of color in our district do not have many mentors who look like them. The images they see in the media and in their own school environment are mostly White.  Well, the positive images are, anyway. African American males face a lot of issues unique to them. That's a whole'nother post, but suffice it to say that when puberty hits and these kids don't look like little boys anymore, people react to them differently. They need positive role models who look like them and who have an awareness of what they're experiencing. The White kids need to see positive Black role models too. Again, another post. Anyway, to the African American men in our community who take time out of their lives to purposefully guide these kids, I appreciate that. Very, very much.

Coaches make a difference.

They show up.

As a single mom, I appreciate the hell out of that.

Up and Over!

(In which I contemplate the sports gene, and Teen Demon kicks high jump ass)

TeenDemon nails 5'1" at the high jump bar.

Up and OVER, hell yeah!

Track season is over. And I'm like, "What? Already?" I should be relieved -- it's a hell of a schedule. I never thought I'd be one of those "sports parents." I always thought I was lacking the sports gene. My sister and I didn't do organized sports growing up. Neither did my parents as kids. Neither did my ex.

The Bohemian's sport is the piano. Girl has some buff fingers.

I remember playing H-O-R-S-E with my dad. That was fun. It was also the extent of my sports experience. Let's just say the Army was a rudeass awakening for my behind. In hindsight, my sister and I really missed out. I think I probably would've been some crazy sports chick, had it been encouraged as a kid. I have discovered a wildass competitive inner bitch, even while just spectating. (Yes, watching the Seahawks is a sport in and of itself.) I guess I had latent sports genes.

Who knows, I could've been an Olympic Curling Champion.

Anyway, track season is over for the two younger offspring, and I'm sorry to see it end. There's something about seeing your kid accomplish something physical, seeing them interact with their teammates, seeing the coaches interact with your kid.  Seeing them feel proud of themselves.

There's also something about seeing your kid friggin' trample every other kid out there, and come out The Champ, The Beast, Yeeaah, GoGoGo, It's All Yours Baby, You've Got This, YES, HellYeah, What Now, Bitches, WHAT NOW ....... oh. So, anyway, yeah, great for a kid's self esteem and responsibility and all that.

Kickassery at the high jump bar:  the 5'0" & 5'1" jump sequences:

5'0" run up

5'0" jump

5'0" landing

5'1" run up

Up & Over, 5'1"

5'1" landing (What now, bitches?!)

Did I say she kicked ass? She was so happy! Her smile was brilliant. So she ended the season as 1st in District, 2nd in League South, and came close to qualifying for State, which is her goal for next year. Her coach says she'll do it, too. (Watch her.) Hell yeah!

She was selected for one of the team's Athlete of the Year awards, which was a very cool surprise for her, and she'll be a Captain for next year's team. You go, baby!

And (rubbing hands gleefully), she got her first letter from a college actively recruiting her based on "recent athletic achievements"! Now that's what I'm talking about, that's where it pays off. She's writing her own ticket, right there. Combined with the letters she's already getting for her grades, she'll hopefully snag a nice scholarship package.

Damn right I'm proud of that shit -- kid works her ass off.

Jump your way right into university, baby, hell yeah.

Okay, that's enough parental bragging for now. Next installment: Dear Son's 400-meter-relay photo finish.

Rain, Rain, Go Away ...

... screw with me some other day.

Betty Udesen/The Seattle Times 2006

It's raining again.

Goddamnit.

It will continue for the rest of the week, although we could see occasional "sunbreaks".

The newscasters last night breathlessly announced that comfortable sleeping conditions would once again grace the Puget Sound area. They seemed actually relieved that real summer conditions were apparently just a fluke. Flash in the ol' pan. Fuckers. I wish they could see me flipping them off through the TV.

In other news, my sunburn is worse than I thought. I'm slightly feverish. I actually stayed home from work today. (yeah, yeah, you told me so. Whatever. Still worth it.)

You know how when you lose a buttload of weight, and it takes a while for the mental image you have of yourself to catch up with the new physical you? Like even though you're now thin, you still feel fat, you still think of yourself as fat, you still carry yourself as fat, you still won't tuck in your damn shirt? I think I've got a similar thing going on here with the whole sun tolerance thing. I still think of myself as one who tans easily, doesn't burn much. You know those skin guides? Very fair, light, medium, olive, deep -- that deal? I always thought of myself as toward the light end of medium.

Medium, however, was taking into account a certain level of base protection with the old melanin, there. Medium is long gone. Seattle has brought my Norwegian genes to the surface.

I didn't think I was out that long yesterday. My former self would never have burned after that length of time. I guess I have to face the reality that I am no longer that person. My mental image of myself is not matching reality. I keep getting burned because it hasn't caught up. I am apparently more like those porcelain skinned red-heads who lobster up after 15 minutes. Except I don't have red hair or porcelain skin. Figures.

--------- Time out: A Sunbreak! --------------

So, is there something wrong with me, that the heat from the burn actually feels good to me? Is that sick? It feels like a built-in heating pad on my back. As long as I don't scratch it ...

The SunWhore Gets a Fix

Thank you, thank you, thank you Seattle Weather Spirits. Or Ra. Whoever.

Finally! Finally, holy shit, the sun is out! And warm! One could even say hot without being a whining Seattleite baby today! Ohmyfuckinggod, it's actually sunny today, and I can not even tell you how amazingly fucking HAPPY that makes me.

You guys have no idea; I would dose up on sunshine with a crack spoon. I don't know if it's a genetic thing that people either have or lack, but I'm pretty sure I'm predisposed to sun addiction. It is practically orgasmic for me to lay out there and feel the HEAT soaking down to the bone. I get goosebumps, no lie. In this heat, I get friggin' goosebumps it's so damn good.

I mowed the lawn, did the weedeater, planted some flowers, lay in the heat, and now I'm on the porch with my dogs, my flowers, the Buena Vista Social Club blasting some Cuban beats, and a cold beer, with no schedule. Holy shit people, if that's not orgasmic, tell me what is.

Scratch that.

Well ... only if you feel like it.

I sweated today. I'm surprised my sweat glands weren't permanently blocked up. Apparently, still functional. I got sunburned! Not good for you, I know. After nearly four years in Seattle (shootmenow) I have no base pigment. None. No protection whatsoever. My melanin has given up the ghost. In fact, "ghost" pretty much covers my look. I mean, I know I'm white, but damn. If there were paint chips based on my skin tone, I've moved past Fish Belly and am currently about at Corpse White.

Not appealing.


It pretty much pisses me off that skin protected with sunscreen, sporting a nice blotchy pallor is actually the healthy way to go, because damn, it looks so unhealthy.

Conversely, beautifully browned skin, which looks so goddamned healthy for the first howevermany years, is actually the one that will reward you with cancer or leatherface. Bastards! Fuck.

A tan covers a multitude of unpleasantries. Think about it -- zits, those black circles under the eyes, blotchiness, cellulite -- a nice tan just glosses right over that shit.

Nature's airbrush.

A girlfriend of mine and I used to have a saying, "Tan fat is better than white fat." That pretty much covers it. You all know what I'm talking about.

I know there are those pale waifs with flawless milky complexions. Usually they have huge dark eyes and dark hair. Or green eyes and red hair. They're practically translucent. They're usually the chicks who can go bald and look friggin' awesome . Gorgeous. Yeah, whatever. Too bad they make up about .01% of the population. For some reason those people never have the blotchy thing happening on their skin. I pretty much hate them.

That look does not work for me. Regular Caucasian-type folks just look healthier with a bit of a tan, I'm sorry. It feels better. The offspring have been making note of my Seattle-pallid look. I wouldn't go so far as to say they're rubbing it in my face, it's more of a subtle smartassery, but it's there. Brats.

Anyway. I got sunburned today in my zeal for getting some vitamin D. Ask me if I care.

Okay, I'm out of here, I've got to finish that shrine to Ra.

Hummingbird!

Look what Teen Demon and I saw this morning!

I would've completely missed it if not for her eagle eyes. That girl can spot cute sandals at a mile out, why should nature be any different?

Then, flight! Or should I say levitation?
Invisible wings -- now that's some fast wing action.

I wish I could've gotten to my camera fast enough. Teen Demon gave me hers (thus the lovely photos), but I'm not that familiar with it when speed is of the essence. I am so getting a hummingbird feeder.