Thor, God of Thunder

     I don't recall ever anticipating an event with as much excitement as I do the coming birth of my Grandson, Thor, The Magnificant.  Like "Auntie Mame," I'll show him the world, teach him to sing and dance, how to throw a ball, catch a ball, kick a ball, hit a ball, dodge a ball, and literally  "be the ball" just like Chevy Chase.

     We will be storm chasers, constellation counters, and weather predictors.  We will plant flowers and tomatoes together.  "We'll sing in the sunshine, laugh in the rain."

     He will be exactly who he is, a child of the Universe with the right to be here.  He will understand the value of  his civil rights and the meaning of true freedom.  He will be loved, adored, cherished, and treasured just as he is.  I will never change him, but I have a feeling that he, The Great Thor, will change me.

     I'm already in love.

Hemingway Cats

     Ernest Hemingway had 57 cats, of which some of the descendents roam through the trees that wink in the forest and pause at the waters' edge in the lakes' smile.  I have discovered a hybrid species of human beings living in a wonderland not created by Alice.  They look like people, but they are of superior demeanor and intellect.

     There is magic in the beauty of their skin, soft and healthy.  Some blonde, some brunette with blue eyes - gifted with courtesy and kindness that cannot be taught, but only resides in the souls of enlightened beings.

     They co-exist with wild horses and gracious clear water.  They live "outside of time and underneath thought."  They ask only that you be exactly who you are with no excuses, just truth.

     While there, I met three-year-old twin girls who speak the "Queens English" with perfect diction and the dignity of higher thought.  To entertain the beauty of these children was a lesson in true honor for me.

So, where is this land?  MONTANA!

Say Hail Mary and Go To Bed

I've not been well of late.  Possibly the flu, maybe a reaction to a recent diet attempt, could be that my stomach can no longer tolerate the amount of Advil I take to avert pain.

I've contemplated visiting a doctor, but as acquiescing to the advice of a professional is counter to my nature, I am reluctant.  I guess I have an attitue.  I believe in self-healing, or in other words, sleep cures all.  That was how we approached illness in the Madden family.  "Say a Hail Mary and go to bed."  My Mother, Mary Margaret Madden, was chronically ill, so there was no money  for Doctors for children

When I do have to go to the Doctor, I think, possibly, telepathically I transmit my attitude as the smart-ass that I am.  At any rate, I have been asked to seek medical assistance in another direction frequently.  Even my Dentist asked me to leave her practice.  In her written statement, she indicated that I was uncooperative.  I always thought it was because I referred to her hygienist as "Atilla the Hun."

So, I admit, I'm a smart-ass.  I recall one doctor in particular who seldom gave me more than five minutes of his time.  I noticed he charged my insurance company the top price of that which was covered.  So, in one of his efforts to escape, I said:  "Get your hand off that doorknob and sit back down.  I'm not finished with you yet!"

He didn't show up for the birth of either of my daughters.  Then, he referred  me to one of his associates for future care.  It has become apparent that doctors lack appreciation for my charm.

Leslie Gore in the Desert

Another interesting awareness in the desert is that inhabitants encompass a rather large population of older women with tight skin and swollen lips like Lisa Renna.  I understand that Palm Desert and Palm Springs represent the plastic surgery capitol of the world.  And, these Doctors are good!  I saw Leslie Gore, "It's My Party and I'll Cry if I want To," who is pushing 70 and she doesn't even look 45-years-old.  It was truely impressive.

I bought her CD at the concert and stood in line for an autograph, just like a nerdy teenager from 1965 so I could get a good look at her face.  I wanted to ask her the name of her plastic surgeon, but since one of her hit songs was "It's Judy's Turn to Cry,"  I decided to be more discreet.  Apparently, she doesn't like Judys.  Still, she was so much nicer than Tom Berjeron.

Tom Berjeron Doesn't Like Me

I'm back from California.  After 47 days and nights in the desert, I have come to come to some  startling realizations, like an awakening.  For example, Tom Berjeron doesn't like me.  After all my ballroom dancing lessons at Arthur Murray, you would think the Dancing With The Stars MC would recognize me.  You can't tell it from his TV attire, but the guy is built like a linebacker.  I'm not kidding, he was wearing shorts and a muscle shirt with one of those "Let's Get Physical" sweat bands around his head and his grey hair all jelled up.  Oh, and he's really short.  I'm 5'6" and he stands below me by quite a bit.

I want to tell you though, he wasn't very friendly.  You would think he would love to meet me.  He stood behind me in line at Trader Joe's  in Palm Desert.  Over the years of vacationing there, I've seen several stars and they're always filled with joy when I present myself.  So, there I was, face-to-face with Berjeron and, believe it or not, he gave me an inappropriate lok of disgust like:  "Would you stop staring at me, lady?"

I admit, I spotted him in the store early on and followed him up and down the aisles to determine if in fact it was Tom Berjeron.  It took some time because his biceps were out of  proportion.  Usually body-builders have a thick neck, but TB doesn't.   He has a pencil neck with blown-up arms.  I wonder if Hollywood sub-stars like him  get shots or body sculpting to look like that?

At any rate, all I wanted to say is:  "I'm a fan."

Letterman Salute For All Time

What would you put in a time capsule to be uncovered in 100 years?  I've given this some thought as this is an item on my bucket list.  Possibilities include:

l.  A written ode to cats and their intrinsic value to society.

2.  A Superbowl program to illustrate the twentieth century creation of a new feasting holiday.

3.  A copy of George W. Bush's Harvard report card as proof that our nation elected a President with a 2.0 grade point average.  Anything is possible in America.

4.  A Charlie Sheen bowling shirt as an explanation for Adonis DNA.

5.  A student loan bill to show how we encumber  our children with debt and then offer no jobs for them when they graduate.


6.  An X-Ray of Kim Kardasian's ass.

7.  A copy of the Baltimore Catechism  as evidence of a pre-computer era when people could and did memorize an entire book, word for word, one book for each grade, first through eighth.

8.  A written salute to David Letterman:  I wouldn't give his troubles to a "Monkey on a rock!"

9.  A Starbuck's coffee card along with a Microsoft "Surface."  Is it a coincidence that both were created in the Seattle area at around the same time?  What is the true power of caffeine?  For more information go to:  Amazon.Com.

10.  A library card to commemorate the pre-Kindle era.

More to follow, but not for  a time as I will be traveling.

What would you include in your time capsule?

Don't Say "No, No" To Me!

Today I was severely reprimanded at my Zumba class.  I admit, the rebel in me defied the rules.  I have always had difficulty with obedience.  The sign said:  "STAFF ONLY."

I was reminded of a song:  "Signs, signs, everywhere a sign - blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind.  Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?" I guess I'm just a baby-boomer, hippie from the sixties, but a sign like "Do Not Enter" is an invitation to me.

Today, I endeavored to use the staff bathroom at Curves.  With the patron facilities occupied and three needy ladies in line and facing a dance class deadline, I did the unthinkable.  Unfortunately, the franchise owner discovered my serious transgression and asked me to leave the room.  She shooed me out like a dog.

She said:  "No, No" to me as if I were  a kindergartner.  Can you imagine the nerve of someone saying "No" to me?  Apparently she doesn't recognize who I am.  I am known, in this situation, as THE CUSTOMER!  I'm always right.

Cookie Tossing - Suitable Form

Yesterday, on my way home from yoga class, I began to ponder the proper etiquette for hurling while driving?  Do I pull over and vomit in a parking lot or do I "Suck it up" and toss my cookies in the car hoping I will be spared the humiliation of public puking?

Always my Father's daughter, aka a valiant warrior, I opted to drive on.  I threw up three times, bam-bam-bam, projectile vomit.  The debris was everywhere including dribbling down my chin; in my purse, soaking the carpet and my clothes.  Always the optimist, I decided to  continue my journey and mop up at home.  When "What to my wondering eyes should appear?" but a child crossing against the light just as I sped up to catch the green-means-go signal.

Lucky for him, he was wearing a helmet.  When I was growing up, we didn't have helmets, but we knew better than to cross a busy intersection on a red light.  The sign says:  "DON'T WALK" in blinking red.  Perhaps that's what confused him.

So, I stopped on a green light with drool on my chin.  The boy stopped in the middle of the  street and waved me on.  Really?  He's going to ride his bike against a red light, stop in the intersection, and  wave a crazy lady with vomit on her face to cross in front of him? 

He was so vulnerable;  so innocent; so prescious; and so in need of guidance.  I wanted to protect him; pull over and talk to him about safety.  I wanted to know where his parents were and why he didn't know better?  But, what could I do with the contents of my stomach in my lap?  I waved him to the curb safely with a smile and a prayer.

I love a good barf story.  Don't you? 

Unsubstantiated Knowledge

Years ago I wrote a column about "knowledge without learning."  I interviewed two or three learning specialists in the Federal Way and Seattle School Districts.  We discussed muscle memory, right brain versus left brain dominance, visual learners, audio learners, and various related topics.

I included the possibility that intuition, or a sixth sense, provided knowledge without learning.  How do we know what we know?  Did we learn all of our stored information?  If so, why do we question what we have learned?  Where do the questions come from if not our own mind and power of reasoning or are our questions merely deductions based on learning?Do we possess inherent information?  What is intuition if not knowledge without learning?

I think we know so much more than we are consciously aware of, but how do we access this part of us?

I'm wondering now if Agnes (my supposedly addled Grandmother) in balancing between two worlds, was actually experiencing unsubstantiated knowledge?  I think she really did see dead people.

Agnes Miracles

I admit, I was embarrassed when Agnes (my Grandmother) vacuumed the front sidewalk in her bathrobe.  She move in with the Madden family when I was three years old and I remember feeling appalled by her behavior.

In her demencia, she was mean-spirited, verbally abusive, and smelly, creating a sour odor I found pratically intolerable.  Still, I wish I knew her now because, with an adult understanding, I would have learned so much.

Agnes could speak to the dead.  As a child, it wasn't unusual to walk into an empty room with Agnes entertaining a meaningful conversation with her husband and children (five of them) who passed before her.

As a self-appointed Priestess, she possessed ancient Druid knowledge of the supernatural passed down through generations of Irish women.

Agnes vibrated at a high spiritual level with an understanding of manifestations of energy, miracles, astral-travel, and signs in nature such as banshee burn marks.  She was held in high regard with the Catholic church in Austin, Minnesota where she peformed many rituals with the dead to assist in their journey to the after-life.

When I was a child, I thought she was stupid.  Now I'm considering the possibility that she posessed knowledge I would have treasured.

Hail Mary and Agnes

If you remember Agnes from earlier blogs, you already know she was my Grandmother (on the Flaherty side) and she lived with the Madden family.

She was a self-appointed Priestess.  Before she joined the Madden family, she was a paid Irish Wailing Woman,, aka a professional mourner hired to attend funerals.

In her retirement, Agnes spent all of her waking hours praying for the souls of the faithful departed.  She could magically promote sinners from Purgatory to Heaven with her devotions.

She always had a rosary entwined  in her fingers.  The funniest memory I have of this woman was when the Madden family watched wrestling on TV.  She would swing her rosary around like a cowboy's lasso and yell:  "Kill him - snap his neck - step on his head - you God damn son-of-a-bitch."  Then, during the commercials she resumed her angelic pose and continue with:  "Hail Mary, full of grace."

Dysfunctional Defined

Singing is so joyful.  Why should it be limited to the talented?  I have no talent.  It doesn't stop me.

I just returned from my Zumba class, a place I go to to make a total ass of myself.  I sing and dance, tell bad jokes, and make up stories about taking my act to Las Vegas. My daughters, Molly and Calin would be apalled if they attended the class.  They're still scarred from high school when  I sang and danced for their friends. They never appreciated the fact that my talent is that I have no talent.  Rather, I have the courage to risk the possibility of humiliation. 

All of this is acceptable to my friends at Zumba who know this is truely who I am, just a dork with an understanding of the entertainment aspect of it.  I should have pursued  a career in show business.

Rededication

Every time I have to face adversity, a voice in my head reminds me that the problem belongs to the person who created it.  It has nothing to do with me.  I can allow people to live in their own story which is their truth, but not necessarily mine.  I'm free from all  beings who hurt me in the past because I simply let them go.  I choose to not spend time with anyone whose intentions are to inflict pain. 

It's no ones' fault.  There is no blame.  I simply was, for a time, caught up in anothers' drama.

Organized by a Stand-Up Lady

My kitchen is organized.  Here's how it works:  Victoria, owner of  Sparkling Homes, pulls everything out of my drawers, cupboards, shelves, and establishes piles according to what she thinks is garbage and that which is questionable garbage.  The things to be kept are obvious. 

Then, in rapid-fire succession, she holds up items to be discarded.  She doesn't throw away anything without my permission, but if I try to hold on to something she has determined for the junk pile, she rolls her eyes at me and asks:  "Really?  What are you going to do with this?"  I acquiesce with admiration for a woman who can stand up to me.

I was schooled, from the time I was born, in the fine art of intimidation. It's a Madden family special talent. People usualy don't mess with me. It's usually so much easier to placate a Madden rather than confront one.  I have learned to count on that.

My daughters, Molly and Cailin, figured it out years ago and I love them for it.  They're not afraid to challenge Mom.  Another generation of Maddens "question everything."  That's why I love and respect Victoria.  She's like my daughters, a stand-up lady.

Ownership is a Burden

I have done it.  I hired a professional organizer.  She's been helping me, off and on, discard that which I no longer need and live lovely with the things I do.  She's wonderful - Victoria - she'll be here on Thursday.

I'm not quite sure why I have no organizing skills.  It could be a brain function or a lack there of.  But, I prefer to think it's  because I was raised in a family that didn't value posessions, but rather, experiences.  Everything we had was used, broken, mended, mis-matched, passed along, and usually, worthless.

The Maddens were minimalists, with the exception of sports equipment.  We had baseball bats, gloves, catchers' masks, baseball uniforms, shin guards, cleats, basketballs, baseballs, footballs, more cleats, weights, a timing bag, heavy weight punching bag, helmets, a regulation hoseshoe pit, tennis rackets, golf clubs, croquet set, roller skates, and more.  All of this equipment lived in the garage.

So, for me to make decisions regarding the placement and value of material items is difficult.  Ownership is such a burden.

Release the Inner Bitch

I'm still grouchy.  I tried eating cookies - didn't work - January sucks.

Tried eating ice-cream - gained 1/2 pound.  Tried working out every day to burn off the cookies and ice-cream.  I'm more hungry than ever. Still grouchy - January sucks.

Next month, I'm going to Calfornia, Palm Desert to be exact.  I'm  going to swim every day.  I'll read books on the patio while sipping coffee.  I'll send pictures of the beauty that surrounds me to my freezing,  rain-soaked, friends back in Washington.  I'l sing and dance in the sun. I'll laugh every day.

Of course, I'll continue to eat cookies and ice-cream , but in California I can release my inner bitch.

Bouncing Back

I'm still feeling out-of-sorts, a little off balance, you know, grouchy.  I must have crossed myself in some way, done something I know was not coming from my true self.  There's interference in my energy circuits, a disconnect in the Universe.  So, I've come up with a set of rules for people who must (or through no fault of their own) inadvertently encounter me.  It can be scary to not know the governing principles of an Irish woman.

l.  Get out of my way!  Measure your personal space and triple it.

2. Do not laugh unless I say something funny.  I'll tell you when humor is intended.

3.  If you overhear me talking to myself, please make no comment.  Assume you're not included in the conversation.

4.  I insist that, should you choose to engage, you only say what I want to hear.

5.  A contribution of flowers is always acceptable.

Of course, I realize I'll bounce back.  One day,  hopefully soon, I'll be singing and dancing with my cat, gang namn style.

Cat Socks

I feel grouchy.  Christmas is over and there are no presents in January.

Perhaps I should buy some new socks.  Socks make me happy. I have Halloween  socks, Christmas socks, St. Patrick's shamrock socks, Valentine socks, hopping bunny Easter socks, polkadot socks, scented socks, cat socks, bee and butterfly socks, and more.  When I lose a sock, I still wear the remainder of the pair.  I can match bunnies to Santas and be perfectly happy.  I'm noted at Curves (where I work out) for mismatched socks.  It's a way to get attention when I feel needy.

Tomorow, my quest for new socks will begin with the hope that this irritable mood will lift, at least until the next fun event, the Super Bowl in February.

In short, January is boring, cold, and dark.  Even my cat is depressed.  Last night, he bit me and when I said:  "NO, NO" to him, he told me to "shut-up!"  What a grouch!  Possibly he just needs a pair of socks.