House Haunting

We've been looking for houses to buy for about the last year. And it's a scary, scary thing, this 'house haunting'--pouring over the Saturday real estate section, stealing furtive glances at the MLS web page hidden beneath emails to return and layouts to proof, hitting the streets on the weekends in seach of open houses then begging our steadfast realtor to 'meet us there in half an hour' only to wander about the place, finding cracked windowsills and ratty carpets--anything to justify not buying that particular property. Because we're scared. Scared of money pits, scared of 'getting in over our heads,'scared of shakey foundations, scared of change.
And now, fittingly, with Halloween creeping up behind us, we're entering escrow on a bank-owned property with no appliances but one hell of a view from the pool. We've found a mortgage broker we like, who is actually going to be a neighbor (down the street) if we make it through escrow. Although I must admit, it was a little unsettling to learn that he just sold his house and is now renting on the same street. "In this economy? We're downsizing!" he said with a bright smile, as he pushed a mound of papers toward us demanding that we sign our lives away. "Congrats on the new house! It's a big one!"
We just had the inspection, which came out fairly good for a bank-owned property. The only big "uh oh" was when one of the fans in the huge 2-ton air-conditioning units on the side of the house refused to come on. "Could be the fan motor," our intrepid inspector said. "Or could just be a fuse." Either way, it needs to be checked out prior to signing on the dotted line.
I'm going to try to post throughout this process, if only to provide a resource to dissuade us from doing this again in the future.

For the next month I'm going to try to check in with updates on the process.

Sins of the Father
Flash Fiction: A priest seeks absolution for his sins but discovers that it may be too late...
http://www.associatedcontent.comarticle/2053853/sins_of_the_father.html

I'll be better, I promise!

I know. I've been very remiss in posting lately. And here's why. I bought an iPhone! Between learning how to configure the letters so I can play Scrabble with all my Facebook pals and figuring out that touch keyboard, not to mention scouring the app store at all hours of the day, I’ve barely had time to scratch my own ass, much less write. Talk about a new meaning for the word ‘obsession.’ But wait, let me look it up on my phone!! I've got a great story about my first day with said new gadget. But I'm in the middle of an intense game of mah jong, so I need to go now.

Strip Teaze

The other night we took my folks to see the Ivan Kane 40 Deuces Burlesque show at a local theater for my dad's birthday. Yes, my parents are that hip, even at 82. However, contrary to what we had anticipated, this was not your typical Vegas burlesque, pasties aside. It had an urban, gritty biker bar ambiance with little or no true choreography, but abundant shimmies and pelvic thrusts. These girls were limber, I'll give them that. What they lacked in synchronicity they made up for in pole-worthy flexibility. It was as if the producer rounded up the best strippers in Southern California, gave them several costume changes, some duct tape to cover up their titties, a few traditional dance moves and then let them loose on stage to gyrate as the mood called for to an onslaught of rock and heavy metal. From Welcome to the Jungle to Back in Black. It was a true homage to sex, drugs and rock n' roll, minus the drugs. Well, at least in our case.
After the show, we went to dinner and picked the show apart. My mother was disappointed in the lack of sophistication. I tried to explain that Axle Rose in a tux was never going to happen. My dad thought the girls danced well, but felt that the repetitious thump-thump-thump of the heavy metal beat was merciless and took away from his being able to enjoy the gyrations and hair tossing. My mom joked that I could’ve done just as a good a job up there, just throwing my ‘stuff’’ around the stage.
It was then that I decided to tell them the story about my tempting career change—a tale I never thought I would divulge to my aging parents. They had enough to deal with in terms of their youngest daughter—adding stripper to the list might just push them over the edge. But divulge I did.
It happened about 15 years ago. I had just moved back to Palm Springs. I was in my early 30s, in my prime. My body was toned and supple and I knew it. A male colleague was leaving the company I was working for and we took him out for farewell drinks at a bar downtown. Several tequila shots later, he decided he wanted to move the party down valley to Showgirls, a fairly sophisticated strip club, as strip clubs go. Quite tipsy myself, I agreed to go along with about half of the crew; the others declined. Wimps.
Once in the club, the drinks continued to flow. And flow. And flow. By now I had moved beyond tipsy to downright drunk. Bob, our fleeing coworker, wanted a lap dance. We tried to get the attention of one of the dancers on stage, but were unsuccessful. I guess waving a crumpled dollar bill over his head just didn’t provide adequate motivation. I chose to take matters into my own hands—or rather hips—and proceeded to give Bob his very own lap dance, courtesy of moi.
Now, I know there’s a lot of things I can’t do that I wish I could: I wish I could sing, for example, but I just can’t. I suck at singing. I can, however, dance pretty well. And under the influence of much alcohol, I was damn Gypsy Rose Lee.
Just as I was really getting into it, my body snaking around Bob like a cobra stalking its prey, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find the manager of the club (at least that’s what his name tag stated) who informed me that I needed to stop my one-woman show immediately or I would be asked to leave. I inquired as to the harm of my giving my friend some personalized entertainment and was told that it was “distracting and that I was getting more attention than the girls on stage, who were getting annoyed.” He then asked if I would consider coming back next Monday to audition.
True story, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t think about it for a split second. Lord knows I would’ve been bringing home more green than I was at the time—or probably even now, for that matter.

Savage words

I just read the following comment from conservative hate talk show host Michael Savage:
"So there are the vermin now celebrating twisted perverse marriage in the middle of America, calling it a victory. It's a victory for perversion in my opinion. ... You want me to tell you what makes me sick? When I see two puffy white males kissing each other, I wanna puke. When I see two women kissing each other, on the lips, as lovers, I wanna vomit. Why? It's unnatural. It's against all of the laws of mankind. It is against all the laws of humankind. It is suicide for a society to embrace such behavior."
I must admit, while I've heard the name before spit out in contempt and frustration from left-leaners, after reading this, I just HAD to google this venomous man to see what he looked like.
Talk about puffy white meat! This guy could be the poster boy for ugly, aging, pasty white trash. All he needs is a John Deere T-shirt, an "I Heart Hunting" (read: zeroing in on defenseless animals with heat-seeking, infra-red bullets and blowing them to smithereens, taking home the trophy head to display as a badge of manliness and leaving the carcass to rot, all the while claiming, 'I kill for the meat.'), and a cluster pendant made of welded beer bottle tops, and he's ready for his crown and scepter.
How sad it must be to be Michael Savage. However, in a twisted way I kind of understand why he feels he must lash out at everyone, especially gay men, who are far fitter and classier than he could ever hope to be.

Peanut Head

I'm a peanut head. If that term is meant to describe someone who sometimes doesn't pay attention to what's going on around them, then that was me a couple of days ago. You know that recent salmonella scare with peanut butter products? For some reason, it just didn't really register or I maybe I thought that tainted food products don't make it into our little nirvana in California. It wasn't until I found myself nibbling on my fourth peanut butter cracker while at work doing research on the internet that the awful truth hit.
There I was, quietly reading about Obamania in Europe on msnbc.com, when my eyes scanned over a photo of a package of crackers wrapped in orange with the word 'Austin' prominently displayed. It looked unsettlingly familiar. The image was used to illustrate an article on the peanut butter product recall. Seems that Kellog Co. is recalling their Toasty Crackers with Peanut Butter because the FDA found salmonella several packages.
"Oh shit!" I screamed, throwing the offending package across the room. My coworker ducked just in time as the crackers tinted with an orange hue not found in the natural world hit the wall and exploded into a flurry of salmonella shards.
"Good god! What's the matter?" the coworker cried.
"I'm going to die!" I said, sticking my finger down my throat in an unsuccessful attempt to cough up the crackers. "Look!" I yelled, turning the monitor around so he could see the news clip warning people to stay away from Austin peanut butter crackers. "That's EXACTLY what I just finished eating. I'm feeling sick already."
"And you're just hearing about this now? It's been on the news for, um, about a week."
Ignoring his last comment, I quickly sent a text to my girlfriend, letting her know that I was on my way to the ER to get my stomach pumped.
"You know, it's very possible that the crackers you ate aren't from the tainted batch," the coworker said. "Don't you think you're overreacting?"
I stopped for a moment to consider this. "Yeah, maybe," I admitted.
I took a deep breath and really checked myself for signs of cramping and the impending runs. Nothing. I felt fine. In fact, great.
"If I don't show up at work tomorrow, you'll know why," I said, and started imagining all the fun things I could do on the day off I had inadvertently set myself up for.
Well, I didn't get sick and I didn't capitalize on the day off. I figured I was lucky enough to get passed this scare without incident. Why tempt fate? It's like when you were a kid and you ditched school, telling your teacher you were absent because your grandmother died. And then she does.
Even a peanut head can appreciate the curse of karma.

More work for less money

The economy's in the crapper, that's quite evident. In my quaint little resort, stores are closing with frightening regularity and while tourism is still the number one industry, the hotels are hurting and even fine dining establishments are now offering blue plate specials. All you can eat escargot for $49.99. Who can pass up that deal?
The only business that seems to be truly thriving are our local Indian casinos. It seems the worse things are financially the more likely people are to try to turn nothing into something. Makes sense.

Mean-opause

I woke up drenched in sweat... again. The wet, sticky, hair plastered to the back of my neck kind of sweat. I thought about changing out my top... again, but I was so tired, I just did the chicken-flap with my nightie, waving it around under the covers in a feeble attempt to get some air into the damp recesses of my body. I know. It sounds gross. And it is. Welcome to menopause.


I'm 47 and I think I'm entering what's called peri-menopause. I'm right on the cusp, just beginning the spiral into soaked sheets, hot flashes, rabid mood swings and sex drive disturbances. My body has somehow started to build fat in areas I didn't even know could BE fat. I'm not on any menopausal drugs--no HRTs yet (hormone replacement therapy), no regular anxiety meds (although popping a Xanax every now and then sure sounds good as of late)--and while I'm sure that's all to come as I continue this unasked for journey, I thought maybe blogging about it from start to finish, that is if it ever ends, might be therapeutic.


I'm thinking about creating a blog site dedicated to menopause, a kind of homage to the emergence of the crone (more on this later), as my partner is going through it too and we could kind of tag-team our experience, although she's a little further into it than I am. Imagine, two women sharing the joy! It'll either be hysterical or horrific--or both--but it'll probably never be boring.

Creeping into the 21st century

Blogs.
Who knew that people would be so interested in the ramblings of others? I didn't. I still don't. But I cannot avoid the future any longer; technology's curled finger beckons and I must respond. I'm a writer by design and an editor by necessity who spends 10 hours a day reinvigorating someone else's marginal creativity while denying my own.
Once upon a time I wrote a column in a magazine called Noise in My Head. It was filled with useless musings, opinions, memories, meandering thoughts--a true homage to self-absorption. But here's the weird thing: people liked it! Go figure. Maybe it's that kind of literary voyeurism that makes blogs so popular. In the spirit of reinvention and a nod to cyber expressionism, I'm going to give this a shot. Kind of like a journal, only different.