The Woven Tale Press #1 by The Woven Tale Press

The Woven Tale Press

Editor: Sandra Tyler Author of Blue Glass , a New York Times Notable Book of the Year, and After Lydia published by Harcourt Brace; awarded MFA in writing from Columbia University; creative writing professor; freelance editor; judge of Stony Brook Universityâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s national annual fiction contest. Visit her blog at http://www.awriterweavesatale.com

Editor’s Note The Woven Tale Press is a monthly culling of the creative blogging web – too many well-conceived and artful blog posts are relegated to their archives too soon. So enjoy here an eclectic mix of the literary, humorous, innovative and visual arts – blog posts ephemeral but meant to be indelible. If you like particular posts, click on their URLs to visit the authors’ actual blogs. To submit a post, go to submissions page at: http://www.awriterweavesatale.com

http://writinginthemarginsburstingattheseams.blogspot.com

Trash Day

Thursday. Trash day. I walk along the sidewalk past garbage cans heaped with refuse. A deer lay on its side, adorned in white Christmas lights, metal legs bent backwards as it waits to be scooped up and tossed into the back of the garbage truck. On this trash day, I walk past stuffed animals; plastic toy kitchens; empty hamster cages. At around six oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock every Wednesday, a man drives through my neighborhood, inspecting the wares. Occasionally, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll stop to claim a bike or a table and load it into the bed of his truck. Now, the wind picks up and sends garbage blowing down the street: newspapers; discarded Christmas cards; empty cans and plastic milk jugs. As it blows past, I wrestle with myself, part of me saying I ought to pick up the trash, the other part saying it does not belong to me. It is not my responsibility. I claim no innocence in this tossing. My cans, too, overflow with the stuff of life and of death. Plastic bags of dog waste, neatly knotted. Tissues. A bathroom sink. Opportunity. Costs. Trash day reminds me of all we have purchased to make our lives simple; to entertain ourselves and to distract our children. We buy to fill ourselves up and end up empty. Trash day reminds me of that we have wasted; all we have willingly 1

Just One Line

http://codiart.blogspot.com Sometimes when I am doodling around something great can happen. And suddenly a face without notice exist.

Then with the possibilities of Photoshop Elements more and more opportunities occur and it is difficult to stop. When I have such a moment I can go on for hours. The only thing is: All those sketches take a lot of space on my computer. Many Megabites. Here are some more pictures of this one line drawing. 2

Waste Not... Want Not

http://bohemiannieart.blogspot.com

Metal weaving on Wood

http://gigglingtruckerswife.blogspot.com

Lessons From the Playground What are the most important lessons I learned from the playground? The last playground I recall playing on myself was in elementary school. I have lots of memories from recess, but what did I learn? The first time I got on a teeter-totter the other kid jumped off. T he teeter totter banged to the ground and I slammed my chin into the metal handle I was holding in a death 3

grip. My chin quickly covered with blood and my eyes filled with tears. That was the first and last time I ever got on a teeter-totter. Lesson number 1: Steer clear of the teeter totter! I loved the swings, but got queasy the higher I soared. My friends and I used to put our legs through the swings beside the ones we were on and allow ourselves to be pushed. Instead of feeling a thrill of soaring through the sky, I felt a wave of terror and screamed. Lesson number 2: If the swing goes too high, drop your feet, and slow yourself down. To hell with those kids that tease you because you are a scaredy cat! Later in life when I took my kids to the park I witnessed this idiot kid who was swinging way too high. At the highest point, he jumped. He ended up black, blue, and bloody. Lesson number 3: Use your head. If the swings aren’t surrounded by something soft instead of 2X4’s, don’t jump. Hello!!!! You could hit the wood and end up road kill. Lesson number 4: The best games are those that come from your own imagination. Much like my kids pretending they are at Hogwarts and Harry Potter cohorts, my friends and I used to pretend we were the characters from our favorite TV shows. I would play “Little House on the Prairie” where yours truly was Laura, and “Pinky Tuscadero and the Pinkettes” where I was a Pinkette. Pinky Tuscadero was featured on the TV show “Happy Days” and we took great delight in singing to the trees that bordered the playground. Lesson number 5: Trees make a great audience. They are incapable of throwing tomatoes or booing. Unfortunately, it seems most lessons in life, especially on the playground, are learned that way until next time when I give you another glimpse into the life of a trucker’s wife.

http://unsweetenedtea.wordpress.com

Mellow Marrow

The phlebotomy lady from the National Bone Marrow Donor Registry is coming to take seven vials of blood from my body. I fully intend to weigh myself directly before and after, because I’m pretty sure seven vials of blood weighs about ten pounds, and since I’m doing something awesome, I should get credit for it. What I’m doing is donating either stem cells or bone marrow to a 57-year-old man who needs them. I don’t know anything about him, other than his gender and age, so I’m pretending he’s an older version of my father, who received stem cells from a different donor (I didn’t match my own father, but I match a stranger. Science is weird, yo.) and that gift afforded us several extra years with him. So, in my delusional brain, I’m giving someone else’s daughter several extra years with her dad. Not because I’m a super good, altruistic person, but simply because paying it forward is just about all I can do. Also, there’s benefits for me, too. For instance, this week, when the blood-sucker lady comes, I’ll get to interact with an adult who doesn’t snore next to me at night. Since, on an average week, 2.0 is the only adult I have face to face interaction with (I’m not counting my therapist because I pay her to pretend she likes me) this is quite a rare treat. I’m also not counting the UPS and FedEx men because they don’t even know we’re BFFs, and also I never give them my blood the way I’ll be giving it to Dolores. In addition to getting a visit with a human, I also get to feel this sense of smug supe-

riority because I gave life to two humans and keep another three from starving 5

right to death, and now I’m offering a gift of life to yet another human. I’m practically Mother Teresa over here, people. Also, since the marrow will be taken from my hip bones, I’ll get out of floor- scrubbing duty and lunch-making detail for at least two days. I’m betting I can milk it for a week, though, because I wouldn’t want to get an infection, and I’m pretty sure ham sandwiches and Mr. Clean cause scoliosis. Also, I might need to watch more House to make this mandatory resting time believable. I’ve donated blood regularly since I turned 17, and have done the plasma donation. I’m a card carrying organ donor (I get a fancy heart next to my picture on my license and everything) and have cut my hair for locks of love. Why do I do all of these things, really? Sure, some bald kid enjoyed my hair, and some surgeon made good use of all the gallons

of blood I’ve given over the years, and when I die before they turn me into a tree, I’ll let science figure out how to use up all of my parts, and those things are feel good, happy things. Let’s be honest: I do these things because

I’m

better than you. If you also give of yourself, you’ll get to feel this deep and abiding sense of satisfaction knowing you’re a better person than your neighbors, that perky yoga pants mom at school drop-off, the dad who coaches your kid’s baseball team, and the lady handing out samples at BJ’s. All combined. That’s a pretty powerful motivator, yeah?

This biodegradable urn is seriously awesome. They put your ashes in with a tree seed, and poof! You go from a dead human to a live oak. Or elm, or whatever.

http://totalimagephotography.blogspot.com

Simplicity

Have you ever wondered whether the roots of a tree might look like the branches that sprawl into the sky, if you shook the dirt from them, and gave them air?

http://anicraw.wordpress.com/

Grief Along the River My heart is breaking as I write this. Maybe I should wait to write until the grief isn’t so new.... I was out walking two hours ago as I came around the bend in the river so I could peek in on the new otter den. I saw something out of place up on the hill across the river from me. It was large and white and close to the ground – it was the white horse. My heart tugged with heartache as I awaited some type of movement. The sun was just coming up over the horizon and the horse lifted its head. I calmed down just a bit, but I knew that something was horribly wrong. I have watched this horse graze every morning along the hillside or atop the hill. Today something just wasn’t right. I moved east a bit so that I could see from a different angle. I could see that both of its back legs were covered with dirt. Its right front leg was dirty and kind of tucked under, not a good sign. I stood helpless ….I was alone, the horse was on the hillside across the river from me, and there was no way for me to cross over to be with it. My phone was turned off three days ago so I stood there crying. There was no way that I was going to let that horse die alone, so I stood talking and praying from across the river. All I could do was pray and talk to the horse. I stayed there standing with the river between us until I knew that the horse had passed on. I walked home in tears, aching … wishing that I could have done more. That horse had been a daily part of my life for the last six months and this morning I had to stand in silence and say goodbye …

http://elainelk-tealeaves.blogspot.com/

Fiblets

I remember how liberated I felt when I discovered the concept of “fiblets”

and learned that they were not only acceptable but considered therapeutic for people with dementia. How freeing to have permission to lie! For the past few years I had been struggling with my mother’s increasingly deteriorating sense of reality, constantly trying to reorient her to the “truth” when it eluded her. One problem was her lost memory of her family members who had died, and the most wrenching of these was my brother. My brother passed away of a massive stroke at 2008 at the age of fifty-five. It was a devastating shock to all of us. I was afraid at the time that it would literally kill my mother, but she was surprisingly strong and held up through the ordeals of the vigil at the hospital and the funeral. In retrospect, I believe that this was when her deterioration really began. She soon forgot what had happened and from that point on her memory and cognition got worse and worse. I felt at the time that it wasn’t right to lie to her by omission, by not correcting her delusion. When she would ask about David, I would gently remind her that he was gone, then have to watch her face collapse and hear her agonized question, “Why? Why him?” So I was relieved and happy to learn about fiblets—little white lies told with compassion. The rationale is wonderfully simple: because people with de-

mentia can’t hold onto new memories, they tend to forget what happened only a minute before. All those times I had told my mother the truth, it had never stuck; she would ask the same questions a few minutes later. So what good did it do to upset her in the moment? Fiblets take advantage of one of the blessings of memory loss. They allow the kindness of going along with delusions. So when she talked about going home to make dinner for David, I would tell her that his wife would do that. If she asked how one of my aunts were, I’d tell her she was fine. Fiblets are part of dementia care, and I’ve seen them used well in the AL. If a resident wants to use the phone to call a cab to take her home, she’s told that the phone is out of order or that someone else is using it right now. Then the staff distracts her, and she forgets. I used to think I owed it to my mother to be honest with her. Now I know that compassion, more than honesty, is what she really needs—and that it’s just as valuable to the caregiver as to the patient.

http://gigglingtruckerswife.blogspot.com/

http://termitewriter.blogspot.com

Ever Notice How the Whole Universe Speaks English? This has been a pet peeve of mine for years, ever since I first encountered the

Universal Translator in the original StarTrek. This was way back when the series

first appeared, before most of the people reading this were even born. Of course, that was long before the kind of computers we have today, but even now I can’t

find the concept credible. There is no way around it -- when we make finally first

contact, Earthers and ETs are going to have to buckle down and learn each other’s language!

So that’s part of my purpose in writing The Termite Queen: to show what might

really happen in a first contact. The situation is complicated here by the fact that the alien language is not vocal. Termites don’t have vocal organs and they’re

totally deaf. I could have used a pheromonal language, which is probably closer

to how insects really communicate, but I wanted a real verbal language that had

words corresponding to English words. Therefore, I devised the radio wave idea, producing a spectrographic or bioelectric language. Evolution can produce some pretty strange adaptations.

Since the Shshi could not possibly learn a vocal human language, it’s incum-

bent on my linguistic anthropologist to learn theirs. The language exists only in

transliterated form and so pronunciation is not an issue -- it’s rendered in familiar English phonemes. Several chapters in each volume of The Termite Queen are devoted to the process of learning to communicate with the Shshi. I find this to 11

be a fascinating process and I hope it will also be so to other people interested in languages.

Three other alien races play a part in The Termite Queen, because the novel is

laid in the 30th century, when Earth belongs to a Confederation of Four Planets. One of the main supporting characters in the novel is from the planet Krisí’i’aid,

where intelligent life evolved from birds. Prf. Tió’otu A’a’ma, who is a human-sized eagle, is the only off-worlder ever to hold a full Professorship in a terrestrial university. He speaks excellent English, but his native language is !Ka<tá, a lan-

guage far more complex than Shshi. The eagles have the vocal apparatus of

songbirds, so their language has tonal characteristics and utilizes warbles, trills, whistles, chirps, coughs, and clicks. It is totally unpronounceable by the human

throat. The Termite Queen makes only occasional use of this language; here are a couple of examples:

Chitú<^ ♫po·atré ♫Wéwana♪] (An insult meaning “A pair of stork-heads!”) kheda<tri’e hi kukh^maw’ez (To make the gizzard happy; would correspond to “from the bottom of my heart.”) Anyway, the point I wanted to make is that in my

universe, English (or Inj, as it is called in the 30th

century) is spoken natively only by Earthers!

One of my drawings of my extraterrestrial intelligent lifeform called the Shshi.

http://menopausalmother.blogspot.com

Time in a Pocket

When winter was actually approaching Florida, and the palm trees were threatened by frostbite, I pulled out the winter clothes from the attic. Inside the trunk I found an old, leather jacket from my early mommy days. As I tried it on (and noticed it was a bit snug at the waist), I slipped my hands into the pockets and discovered unidentified objects from years past. My fingers delved into the deep depths of the unknown for hidden treasure, and this is what I found: â&#x20AC;˘ One lint coated breath mint â&#x20AC;˘ A faded receipt from a Star Trek convention, along with one rubber Spock ear * Fossilized stick of gum from 2001 * A key to a piece-of-crap minivan I unloaded 10 years ago * Wadded-up tissue that had disintegrated into a pile of white ash * A used strand of floss from a steak house * An unwrapped tampon that had swelled up to the size of an airline pillow * A clump of moss 13

* Ticket stubs to an outdoor concert where the Hubs got smashed and stumbled into the ladies room * A champagne cork and two sea shells from a night of celebrating on the beach when we...well, you know... * An arm from a Batman action figure An arm from a Batman action figure

* A scrap of paper with a phone number to a turtle taxidermy * A scrap of paper shop with a phone numb ** Two Two quarters, quarters, aa Heineken Heineken beer beer bottle bottle cap cap and and aa baby’s baby’s pacifier pacifier (sounds (sounds like like aa party party to to me!) me!) ** A A Barbie Barbie doll doll head. head. No No comment. comment. ** A A cocktail cocktail napkin napkin from from Al Al and and Suzy’s Suzy’s wedding...the wedding...the party party lasted lasted longer longer than than the the marriage marriage ** A A matchbook matchbook from from aa hotel hotel in in Orlando Orlando where where the the fire fire alarm alarm went went off off at at 3:00 3:00 a.m. a.m. and and we we were were herded herded like like cattle cattle out out into into the the parking parking lot. lot. II learned learned that that people people at at that that hour hour of of the the morning morning look look like like they they belong belong in in aa circus circus act act or or episode an episode of Swamp of People. After much consideration, I decided to leave the contents in the pockets---it was a time capsule of sorts. One day my kids will inherit the jacket and wonder about the contents. I like to keep them guessing. 14

http://viewsofanoptimist.blogspot.com

Weird Food “No, no, no. Stop! You are going to overcook that thing!” Mother was begin-

ning to lose patience with me. Grabbing my wrist she pulled it, along with me, away from the flame. “The meat will be as hard and chewy as shoe leather.

Now keep your skewer further back and s-l-o-w-l-y cook it.” As she spoke, her words came out more slowly and her voice took a deeper pitch.

Reluctantly, I took two steps back, sighed, and pointed my skewer towards the fire. “What good is cooking over a fire, if it won’t be done quickly?” I pouted.

“It’s tradition to cook our meals over the open flame for the October full moon.

You are the one who wanted caramel and chocolate covered bugs. Now, if I’m to eat that spider you have on your spit, I want it nice and juicy on the inside.

Not all dried out like a raisin. Do that right, or I’ll ask your know-it-all cousin to

come over here and help us. She’ll drive us both batty, but the job will be done right.” Mom turned and began skinning the large snakes she had captured. “I think I’m going to be glad when all this celebration is over. Most kids just beg candy on Halloween, we have to host a whole coven of goofy witches

who want to eat the weirdest things. Who ever heard of eyeball pudding? I

like tapioca, but does it have to be real birds eyes? I sure did have to unsocket enough of ‘em! And why do we always have to have bird feet soup just for Nana Holly? I know she doesn’t like it anymore than I do. All those toenails

getting stuck in my teeth. But she insists we have it just because of tradition? Cheese!” 15

My mother simply grunted while she continued to pull the snake out of its skin. “Can you see the wood pile?” Mom was trying to look around the side of the tent we had staked up. “I can’t see around there. Have those boys collect-

ed all the wood? Is there enough? I can’t hear them, they must be up to no good.”

Just as Mom was getting to her feet, the boys rounded the side of the tent, yipping and yelling at the top of their lungs, “Ma, look what we got ya! Just look at ‘im Ma, ain’t he the biggest thing you’ve ever seen?”

My mother put her hands on her hips and tilted her head as though she were really trying to figure if the toad

the boys had found was indeed the biggest she’d ever seen.

“That toad will be especially tasty tonight as a pâté for your guests. Why don’t you boys just pop that big ol’ toad right here into this

pot? I think that will be just de-

lightful. Give us something good

to eat besides the bugs your sister is roasting. Thank you boys.” Wriggling to get away from the heat, the toad thrashed about, making the boys laugh and jump all the more.

“The atmosphere you create and the foods you serve help create the tradition

of the holidays. Halloween has always been my favorite.” Mom smiles at me, and I know I will always make Nana Holly’s birds feet soup for Halloween.

http://lisawieldswords.wordpress.com

In Search of Fairy Tale Magic To Whom it May Concern: I have been waiting a long time for an appearance from my Fairy Godmother, or for a man with a long beard to appear with my invitation to join a school of wizardry. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve made hundreds, if not thousands, of wishes upon stars, and clapped until my hands hurt, to prove my belief in fairies. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve looked for the pot of gold at the end of every rainbow, and I still open every new closet or wardrobe door with the hope that this time I could walk

through to another world. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve started building fairy houses on the back hill, hoping to at least hear the tinkle of laughter and music from an all night gathering. A fairy house in a stump. Perfect neighborhood. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve believed in magic with all my might. But still, you tease me and refuse to give me my hearts desire. Every time I ask for a little magical assist, or an answer to come in my dreams, you make me find alternative solutions instead. Enough is enough. I hereby turn in my resignation and will no longer believe in the magic of others. I plan to create my own magic instead. Sincerely, Lisa Kramer, Word-Magic Weaver and Prince(ss) Charming

A fairy from my imagination.

http://amywritesnet.blogspot.com

Barbie

Looking back, the penchant I had for biting off the fingers and toes of every Barbie doll I owned was a strong sign. Of what, I don’t know, but I’m sure it wasn’t good. What I do know is that Barbie never wore a swimsuit or a pair of short shorts and a tank top. I mean, really… without any fingers or toes, she just didn’t have “the look” any more. I was all about putting her in the long sleeved gloves that reached past her elbows, or little white ones with frilly cuffs. She wore boots or heels – never sandals. Barbie lived a simple life and wasn’t surrounded by

all her store bought

hype and perfection. There was no fancy pink

car, no motor home,

no mansion. She rode around town in a cut out

toothpaste box.

Her house was tastefully decorated with the Sears

& Roebuck catalog

as her bed which sported one of my dad’s han-

kies draped over

it as her bedspread. Her living room furniture

was a variety of

deodorant can tops for chairs, and other house-

hold items that

worked for couches and end tables. The rugs

were easily

changed out with whatever color washcloth I

had on hand.

Pencils marked walls, hallways and doors. I never felt lacking for not having the fancy ex-

tras; it was all

part of just playing Barbie and letting my imagi-

nation take over.

And it was great. Many years before, Nana

Wood, the

grandmother I never knew, sewed beau-

tiful custom

outfits for the Barbies my older sisters

with. Those clothes and the Barbies got 19

played

handed

down to me. So mine was a real dichotomy, dressed to the nines with no fingers or toes, entertaining in her pencil-lined living room, as her guests sat on rolled-up socks for bean bag chairs. So about those missing fingers and toes…1994 was a tough year for me. I lost about 70 pounds, got down to a weight lower than I ever remembered being in my life, and permed the hell out of my long, blonde, fine, bone-straight hair. It was my outward manifestation of working on some intensely personal and emotional issues. And to hide what was going on inside, I made myself look totally unlike me on the outside. I looked like Barbie. (Absolutely unattainable figure measurements not withstanding – let’s be real, no one can look like Barbie in that way!) For Christmas that year, my sister gave me a sweatshirt, meant in the most loving way, that I cherished. It read: “I want to be just like Barbie.” That bitch has everything. Well, everything except her fingers and toes, I guess. I’d purposefully ruined her perfection. I’d carried Barbie’s dichotomy with me all those years, always projecting one person on the outside while another, different me, was hidden underneath. Over time, just like with my Barbie, I covered my flaws and scars. Since ’94, I’ve done my best to become more honest with myself. To search out those flaws and scars, resolve or accept them and find a sense of peace. In Bar-

bie-speak I guess you could say that the gloves have finally come off. This summer you might even find me in sandals.

http://faithinambiguity.blogspot.com

The Chicken Diaper We just purchased my chicken a diaper. It is a lovely, handmade thing. Stitched to order, blue, with daisies emblazoned on its expanse; like an oilcloth, really— one we’ll be using to catch crap.

Why am I buying your chicken a diaper? In June, I was asked by a lovely friend of mine if I might like a chicken for my

yard. Would you like a biscuit? Have you ever tried this meth? I have a chicken

I can give you if you want. (This is how they hook you. One chicken for free and you’re back for more.)

Oh, well, yes. We’ve wanted chickens. Who doesn’t really? They’re so fashionable right now, appearing at the Oscars, like accessories, with stars. We have

ducks, but we’re already bored with them. See one duck drill mud in your yard on a Monday morning and you’ve seen the whole thing.

The chicken arrived in a dog crate—a bright-eyed, obviously intelligent creature, with pretty feathers like autumn leaves and a bright red comb. Bokkkkkkk, she said, in a pleasant way. We put her in a coop and run. She looked around, ate a bit and got bored, so she flew out. No, no, we told her. This is your house. She looked at us, as if to say she’d prefer to be with us. And flew. 21

So we built up the run to a height of over nine feet and the chicken finally con-

sented to stay in. Where, though, could we get her some friends? Chickens are social creatures. They pine in isolation. We did not want her to pine.

We purchased three chicks and raised them in our living room under a heat lamp. When they got sour crop, I massaged their lumpy little digestive sacks until the

food within disappeared. We coddled them. We fed treats of hand-grown sprouts of field peas raised in compost in my yard. When they were old enough, we

moved them outside, where Henny Penny could see but couldn’t reach. Furious, she lurked over them like an ill-tempered dragon stalking fat little donkeys near her cave.

“She’ll get used to them,” I said with confidence. And this went on. Finally, months later, it was time to introduce the friends. I’d read copious advice on this introduction, all conflicting, and was haunted by specter of pecked-out brains. Rightly so – Henny Penny the other chickens

wanted

dead. They ran in terror, huddling, a bou-

quet a chickens, quivering under a chair.

And after them again she went. I picked her up. No, no, I told her gently. These are your

nice friends. She looked at me pensively. I set her down. And after them she went.

No dice. She was going to kill them.

“We have to move her to her own coop,” I told Mike. We put Henny Penny in what had formerly been the chick’s coop and moved it into our backyard.

There, the dog discovered that he could eat both her eggs and her feed. Mike spent a weekend constructing a fence to keep him out.

One day, I went out to visit the chicken—and found her next to naked. Pin feathers, like porcupine quills punctuated her head and back. Could she have been molting in January????

It was finally decided that the feather loss was due to stress. She was lonely. Could the chicken I had so carefully tended die of broken heart and cold?

Enter the diaper. If you can’t go to the chicken, I thought, bring the chicken in your house.

After further reflection, I bought her a little jacket to go with that—a saddle, they

called the thing. It’s designed to keep chickens warm if they lose their feathers in the winter months. I chose a nice blue color that will coordinate with her diaper.

Joel Salatin, of Polyface Farms, said famously that keeping backyard chickens is no harder than keeping a parakeet. And perhaps it’s not. I imagine wounded parakeets with tiny, handmade crutches, wings in little, knitted slings. Honey, did you remember to change the parakeet? No, I thought you did. Anyway, just smell him. His diaper’s full. 23

http://dysfunctionsjunction.com

Pop quiz here. Which of the following should you never find in a tree? A. a Cat

B. an ice cream truck

C. a 37-year-old women who’s endured multiple cesarean sections D. all of the above The answer is C

The cat has the fire department, the ice cream truck has insurance, but the twicecesarean-sectioned old lady has absolutely no business being in a tree unless she is grabbing some ice cream on her way to rescue Mittens.

Wait, why are you looking at me? Pft! t’s not like I’m the one who decided to

climb to the top of a massive Oak tree that has more rings than Saturn. People these days. Always trying to one up each other until someone ends up climbing to the top of an ancient Oak tree and can’t figure out how to get down. While the 5 year old little boy below asks his dad if Mommy will ever be able to get down. What there forever?

if she is up

Alright, I’ll admit it. I saw a super cool tree and my inner Huck Finn momentarily took over, so what?

http://peopledothingswiththeirlives.com

Women Shouldn’t be Helicopter Pilots Women shouldn’t be pilots,” my sister said. “Lord, girl, why would you think that, let alone say it?” “We’re too emotional. We don’t do well in a crisis.” I dropped the dog’s leash. I didn’t want Vanessa to see how emotional I was becoming. I might choke her with it. “You don’t call calmly ferrying your sick kid to the emergency room, with your husband a pool of melted butter beside you, handling a crisis with serious aplomb?” “That’s different.” “How?” “That’s instinct. A mother taking care of her offspring.” “What if your kid was in the helicopter? Wouldn’t you want to know how to fly it, just in case?” “My kid wouldn’t be in a helicopter.” 25

“What if he had to be airlifted out of a remote location? They use helicopters for that.” “San Francisco is as remote as it gets for us.” “Ok, I give up. Gotta go. The dog’s

getting

anxious.” “She’s asleep.” “It’s an act.” “She’s drooling.” “She’s good, isn’t she?” During the O.J. Simpson trial my own sister stated, matter-of-factly, that Marcia Clark should not be a lawyer. She didn’t believe

Ms. Clark was a

capable attorney? That’s what I thought she

meant. Until she clarified

her position, and said that no woman should

be a lawyer.

My sister is an educated woman. But at that time she was married to a passive aggressive numbskull. For 20 years she performed what she considered as her wifely and motherly duty. She took care of her two beautiful kids, and her husband. And then she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. While she was convalescing at home, after the surgery, with a feeding tube in her stomach, he filed for divorce. Nice guy.

****

Eventually she recovered, but the brain tumor returned. It’s on the left side of her head, and when she walks, she leans to the left. It’s a slight, almost imperceptible lean, but it’s there. The funny thing is, if that’s the right word, and it probably isn’t, is this: she’s become more liberal. Now she believes we should have a single-payer healthcare system. On this issue alone she can become as riled as a nanny goat protecting her kid. I know. This is hilarious! A brain tumor caused my sister to lean to the left! Women should be, and do, whatever they want to be and do. I hope we can agree on that. Elizabeth Cook Peebles would agree. She’s a helicopter pilot, in Dubai, of all places. Imagine. As a health instructor for a weight loss company, Ms. Peebles’ office faced the runway of a small airport. She found herself watching that flight path. And she dreamed. She signed up for flying lessons. She loved it! She moved on to helicopters, and loved it more. In short order she earned seven pilot’s licenses; two in small planes, five in helicopters. Ms. Peebles is the first woman to fly offshore in Abu Dhabi. “You’ve made your point,” my sister said. “Damned straight, girl! I’m glad you had a boy and not a girl. You can’t be teaching girls they shouldn’t be one thing or another.” “My boy won’t be a helicopter pilot either.” 27

“Oh, what do you have in mind for him?” “Gynecologist. I never met a woman gyno that knew what she was doing.” “Oh brother.” Thanks for listening… Dream big!

It’s just kind of strange. You just don’t see this every day. I get a lot of stray everything, but never a stray peacock. ~ Michelle Sherman http://everydaygyaan.com/ 28

http://jennymatlock.blogspot.com

A Few Letters Shy of a Good Excuse Grrrr.... Don’t talk to me today. I’m crabby. My brain is all jumbled up with stuff. Like who made this big mess on my desk? Like what can I do to keep the birds from eating my corn seeds? Like what the heck does this say on my cattle-prod board? And how can I write about it if I can’t even read the ridiculous thing? Huh? Cattle-prod board? You know. Where you write down ideas for the days when you can’t think of anything to write about. Or the days you are too crabby to write. Because, obviously, writing about Eyot???? n??? will make a fascinating post. So...this morning I told Mr. Jenny “Please don’t talk to me because I am crabby.” 29

And he said, “Huh?” And I said, “What part of not talking to me don’t you understand?” And he said, “What are you talking about?”

And I said, “You are dumb...quit talking to me,” and huffed off.

And as I was huffing off, I think he mumbled something like, “Women...PMS...geez.” So now I am sitting here feeling a little silly for being so crabby. Because... I really don’t have a good excuse. I lost my “M” about 10 years ago. Which means I can’t really have a “P” anymore.

And that just leaves an “S” to explain my crabbiness. Which seems like a pretty pathetic reason to be grumpy.. So I guess I’ll just stop. Being crabby that is. And to make me feel even less-crabby I’m going to go and tell my husband I forgive him. Because that will really confuse him. And that will make me even happier. Because that’s what a woman armed with only the pathetic excuse of the letter “S” for “syndrome” has available in her arsenal of good excuses for “crabby just because”. Sigh.

Todd & Lindsesy

http://www.toddlindsey.com/p/diy-crafting.html

(Idea came from: http://www.youtube.com/user/GardenOfImagination)