The Razzie Award for Worst Movie of 1980 Something goes to….

I don’t usually make up stories because Mom and Dad called it lying. I was about 5 or 6 when I discovered fiction and to say I loved it is a gross understatement. I ADORED it. I wallowed and lurched and stumbled my way to The Greats. Soon, I was basking in Fiction. Luxuriating in Greatness. God, it was wonderful. Writers were my heroes. Reading my homage. Writing was so wonderful that I wanted to do it.

What a bummer.

Yes. Bummer. I was young and lacking a natural talent for anything. Regardless of what they say, perseverance does NOT pay off. It just gets you frustrated. And you grow to be super critical of yourself. Plus, I was around naturally talented people. I mean, these are famous people who became famous.

I went school with actors and the children of actors and singers. Should I drop a few names? No, I hate that. But I will just to illustrate why, for instance, I didn’t go in for singing. I went to elementary school with Michael Jackson. He became the most famous person I used to know. Singers are, generally speaking, nice and he was no exception. Really nice kid and he was famous at the time. Never seemed to know it. I went to school with Louise and Sherri Goffin whose nice, normal Mom was Carol King. This at the height of her fame and fortune. Carol King sang at my Jr. High graduation. But enough of that.

Yeah, singers are nice, but so are the actors I’ve known. Mind you they were all pretty much failures. Except for Radames. I was buddies with Radames Pera, who played Grasshopper. Poor kid had a bald head for that role so he got teased a lot. Yeah, even in Hollywood you’d get teased for a bald head. This was the 70’s, remember. The era of long, beautiful hair.

Anyway, I didn’t think much of actors. I’d watched them filming shows around Hollywood for so many years that it wasn’t new or interesting anymore. How many times can you watch William Conrad get out of a 1972 Chevy and walk into the building across the street before you start to despise acting. Cannon? Remember that show? It aired for 4 or 5 years or something. I could look it up but I still don’t give a shit. Car chases? Ho hum…the car peels around the corner. Someone yells ‘CUT!’ and the car hooks a u turn, drives around the corner and they do it again. And again. And again.

But that’s not what I’m writing about. I think what I want to illustrate, if anything, is that some things aren’t as desirable as you think they are. Some talents are quite a lot more admirable from a distance. Like acting. It’s an interesting job, a hard job I came to realize. But for me, it was yet one more thing for which I failed to exhibit a natural talent.

And it looks so easy.

I’ve done it, the acting ‘thing’ and I felt awful. Like a lying liar. Like people were snickering behind their hands and saying ‘Oh my! who TOLD her she could act?’ I thought it would be easy. Radames never said it was hard work. No one mentioned talent, drive or luck, the things I learned later, were essential components of being a successful actor. Terrible thing for someone as smart as me. Thinking something was going to be a breeze and…well. It brought out a side of me I didn’t like. The side that thinks if everyone would just STOP for a second and listen to me it would be better for everyone.

It’s embarrassing.

I found myself arguing with the director. Criticizing the actors. Correcting the lady who did costumes, searching out and offering valuable advice to the makeup man. I even stood by the catering truck too long and too often and defended Balkan style yogurt with the caterer. I just purely loved an argument. In fact if there ever was a natural talent that I could offer up,it would be arguing.

Not rancorous yelling. I mean persuasive, convincing argument.

You see, a good argument can bring out some great stories. That’s how you fish for a story. It’s the bait.

You have to start carefully or they’ll just walk away. So you say something nice. That’s easy. Like, for the director I said ” Who’s lame ass idea was it to hire actors as cheerleaders. Because I have to tell you, not one of those girls can cheer. Not one.”

He gave me a look, but I get those all the time. Even when I was 21 and hot I’d get those looks. The ones that say ‘Who the FUCK are you?” And ‘I can’t believe you just walked up to me and SAID that!” And “Look at the size of her knockers!”

He tried a frosty look but hell…I was IN this movie. I was about to be made to look foolish. When you’re 20 something it’s a BIG DEAL. I was tip toeing around embarrassment and I bloody well had friends that KNEW I was going to be in this movie. I’d called in sick to work. I bloody well drove to Downey. You may not know where Downey is. Shit, are you lucky!

I had to do something. Aside from being immortalized in a crap movie. How do you live that down? It’s not like its going away somewhere.There were still people who called Radames Grasshopper. People who should have known better. I knew I’d get drunk some night and say ‘I was in a movie. I played a cheerleader.” And they’ll get the movie. Friends do that. Cuz good friends always have a mean streak that they call a sense of humor. I have that. So do you, probably.

Anyway, I told him I was one of those actors who had never actually been a cheerleader. So, like, what now, Mr. Director. Gonna direct us? Because telling that guy with the big teeth and bad breath over there to tell us to “Cheer. get ’em to do a practice cheer behind the principals while we…blah blah blah.” Whatever, isn’t going to work. Where’s the second unit director? Here? No?

He acted shocked and got all screamy. Like he had bigger fish to fry. Which he didn’t because the principals were still in makeup. So grow up, asshole. (I didn’t say that.) Big Teeth was upset. I went over to the catering truck and ate yogurt. See, I grew up in Hollywood. None of those other ‘actors’ had. I’d already checked. Kansas, Indiana, Florida, Maryland, Texas. Bumfuck where ever. And no cheerleaders. Nada. Shit. I figured yogurt had more fucking culture.

I saw one of them trying to take charge. Like herding cats. Big teeth knew a pro when he saw one. By pro, I mean me. Someone who had been on movie sets. Which I had. Lots of them. So he sidled over and tried not to stare at my tits, all the while trying to sweet talk me into doing his job.

I was getting $40 for a whole day in Downey. I made more at Color Lab, where I worked as receptionist/secretary/ payroll clerk/girlfriend of president of the company’s son. Shit. I wasn’t going to say yes. Just yes. You’d better make me. Sweeten this deal. I didn’t even have to say it. I just stared over his shoulder at the cat herder who was getting hysterical.

So he and I went back to Mr. Bigshot and I told him ‘Look. Marion (casting director) hired these dummies based on looks. Including me. My sister, Liza, was a cheerleader, but I sat in the bleachers smoking pot until they kicked me out of Hollywood High School. I watched them. And I listened to those cheers, unfortunately. I even remember them. Sort of. So, where are we? I’m gonna need some dialogue. (which was a $500 minimum payout and he knew that) if I’m going to train these monkeys.’

He got screamy AND cheap. Swore he could find someone who knew a cheer. It would make a cat laugh. He fired me. Pretty funny, really. I was already in principal background scenes from the morning, where we stood around and looked daggers at a deaf and dumb girl (heroines sister) on her way to be raped in the gym. Honestly.

What a shit movie it was. I was’nt happy. Either way I was a winner though. I was out of the movie (YAY!) or I got $500 (YAY!)

Yeah, I knew where I stood. THAT’S why I stood there. Right in line with the camera. HAH! Fucking amatuer directors from back east. I eat them for breakfast.

So I made immediate tracks out of there. I was getting paid anyway. Hollywood is full of rules about that kind of thing. Unions and shit. Most of all, I knew that I was IN THOSE PRINCIPAL background scenes. Continuity would shit bricks if a 5’11” cheerleader mugging directly behind the actors suddenly vanished. Oh, yeah. I’d be back alright. Or they would re-shoot 1/2 a day.

I went for some good Mexican and drove past Downtown LA to Pasadena. There was a really authentic English pub near Whyte Ave. with amazing beer.

Naturally, when I got home Marion was all over my answering machine. Terrible mistake. Hot sun. Hasty words. All fixed. Come tomorrow at 7am.

Well, that’s just a big NO! I had a good job and I’m a bitch when people are rude. It’s a gift, really. So I deigned to call her back and reiterate what a huge dick The Bigshot was. And Big Teeth had bad breathe. And I was told one day. Just one day. I couldn’t call in sick again. (I could and would in a split second) and WHO was going to herd the cats? Turns out me. I got my dialogue. So that was okay. I graciously accepted. And that’s when the arguments really started.

For one thing Mr. Bigshot decided he was going to be an asshole to me. Which is never a good decsion. He complained that the pom poms made too much noise when we shook them. Fine. Girls,pom poms on the ground. We dont look like cheerleaders without the pom poms. Can’t we just hold the pom poms still and also cheer and stuff? I gave him my 1000 yard sniper stare. He stopped talking to me. Oh,sorry. I mean ‘directing’ me. So we did this cheer my sister and her tennis playing, non pot smoking friends used to do.

To the left, to the left,
to the left, right, left,
My back is aching, my belts too tight
My booties shaking from left to right
to the left, to the left, to the…

blah blah blah…I thought it was hilarious…sure to drive Mr. Bigshot around the bend, right? Nope. He loved it. (This was a spectacularly BAD movie) I even learned a real cheer when I agreed to come back for the second day! Ahhhhh…he was a twit, who ever he was. Say, can he sue me for calling him a twit? Maybe…but he was. And his crap movie won a Razzie Award for worst movie that year. I think it was worst movie ever made. And there I was. IN IT1

Anyway, after filming that cheer scene the lousy rotten creepazoid actually sidled over and told me he’d like me to be in the shower scene. The ubiquitous shower scene. Except this was a crap movie, so it was a cheerleader vs punk rock girls wet topless undie soaked fight to the death shower scene. I almost punched him in the face. Instead, I left. I was done. I don’t think I even collected a check on that movie.

No, it finished me for acting. Stick a fork in me. I was done. It was time I returned to my first love.

Arguing with people.

I shoulda been a lawyer, right?

So, years pass. I don’t think I ever got the name of the movie. Seriously. I forgot all about it. I remembered Linda Blair was in it. But the rest? Just Mr. Bigshot and Big Teeth with Bad Breathe, what smarmy jerks they were. That was all.

Then my friend called. ‘HEY, you’re in this movie! Up at the $2 movie house.’ Yeah, the place that all the drunks and homeless people go to get out of the rain. That place. And everyone went to see it. Except me. I still haven’t seen it. And I hope I never do. Actually I checked on…oh never mind. I found my bit part and watched what was left of it. I thought I did pretty good.

Yay?

The 8th Floor

I’m sitting here listening to the couple in the infusion bay across the hall. They’re having a tough day. Something about cell counts etc…my platelets are down too. She is weak and not feeling well. Neither am I, sister. You and me both. What we don’t share though is the loud talker on the cell phone. She’s got a guy who can’t seem to shut that sucker off. Can’t turn the ringer down to a normal decibel, it’s got to be really loud. As if his pants were going to absorb the sound and leave him without a lifeline to the outside world.

Or the pretty girl we met coming in. She was tiny. Maybe 5′ tall and with the largest, most liquid dark eyes. She was pale under her makeup. Wearing a wig. And a hat. She looked nervous and scared. I told her I liked her hat and she touched her hair and said ‘It’s a wig.’ I said I know. But it looked good on her. Forget about the hat right? Then she blurted out that she was nauseous. Just the thought of chemo was making her sick. I felt bad for her. I said the only thing I could say, under the circumstances, which was ‘Try not to think about it. It works for me.’ Usually.

Here. It’s like a world unto itself. I guess its scary.

But this guy..It’s kind of funny how he lets his phone ring really loud and then apologizes to her in a hushed tone and comes to the empty bay next to me and talks. As if a curtain could form a sound proofed barrier and no one, least of all that lady he came with, lying there so exhausted and pale, can hear him. Not that I listen. I don’t. Really, I don’t care what he’s going on about and if he talks loudly its only because he is so nervous and scared.

I’ve seen the loud talkers, the criers, the complainers and the stoic ones, the ones that come with people and the ones that come alone. He’s just scared. That’s how it seems to me. Otherwise he wouldn’t have his phone on, would he? It gave me a pang to see him there with her. Holding her hand while she lies there so quiet with her eyes closed. I smiled at him as I pulled my stupid pole along with my stupid chemo drugs dripping into me. Going to get some water. I can get along alright by myself.

But poor them.

They seem so sad. He was surprised to see me smile, I could tell. He gave me a sad smile back, and she was asleep, or just lying there. Waiting for it to be over so she could go home. But me…

Hmmm…I like coming here. There are things about it I love. The people who work here are funny, smart and kind. The food is great. The view from the 8th floor is spectacular. Sometimes you hear laughter from other rooms, or the front desk. There are stacks of new, yes, new as in the latest issue, magazines. There’s wi-fi. Yeah, it’s not bad at all. I’m getting cured! Yes, I am. Thats how I usually think.

The good things about having cancer are:

I quit smoking for good, once and for all, without a single craving.

I eat healthy and organic (whenever I can)

I lost that extra weight.

I’m very very well rested now-none of that working double shifts, split days off.

I see things differently now. I appreciate little things more. I see the passage of time much much more clearly.

I’m finally drinking 8 glasses of water a day (and more)

I have time. Sometimes.

The thing is, it’s not therapeutic to see people who are so sick. It gives me a funny drooping feeling. I get heartsick. Not just for me. Its hard, I know, sometimes. Frightening. I can’t look at the other people and not wonder. Just like they wonder about me, probably. But a good smile isn’t hard to muster up for me. Not yet anyway.

Don’t think I blame them. God knows I don’t. But sometimes I wish I could just sit in a room with a chair and a nice radio, playing some loud music and get the poison/medicine and read or write or draw. Just shut out everyone else. The sad man. That poor, pale lady. The pretty young girl with her expensive hat and her cheap wig.

Maybe that’s the lesson I’m taking away from here. And I’m putting it to immediate use. I gave the sad man a good, genuine smile. I wanted to just talk about something normal with him. That’s why he won’t shut his phone off. Some normal, everyday talk is what he wants, needs. I wished I could have talked to that girl a little more. Not about this. Just about fashion. She was dressed really nicely. Maybe talk about vacations to someone. Where they went for a vacation. I haven’t been on a vacation for years and years.

You can’t though.

People are fixated on what’s happening right now. I don’t want to be. I heard my surgeon on the radio today. She was being interviewed about ovarian cancer. It was odd to hear her name. I almost didn’t listen. It’s just plain scary. There are many, many forms of cancer and I’ve got a bad one. Yes I did. Its a 50% shot, maybe less. I wish I had shut her off. Thats some news I wish I didn’t know. But I feel lucky. I feel like I can be one of the lucky ones.

I feel like my therapy is overcoming the sadness of the 8th floor. If I can just keep appreciating the things I can enjoy. The laughing, the food, the view, the ferry ride, the eclair once in a while, Mom and Liza coming with me so I don’t have to be alone. So I don’t have to think of them sitting there holding my fucking hand. shit.

Its called chemoTHERAPY….

Chick lit and baby chicks.

Fancy hat

So it was that kind of day. Full of surprises, sort of. The kind of surprises that you just know aren’t surprises. Just that you were unprepared and caught off guard. In other words it’s not a surprise if you should have seen it coming.

I’ve been sick. I don’t mean more or less lately. Just overall, so some things tend to get away from me. Surprising things, really. Today I was hanging around the henhouse looking at Rosie being a big girl chicken, admiring how pretty she is and irritated by how she still treats me with suspicion, as if I were going to suddenly leap to my feet and EAT HER raw. Stupid chicken, I just want to PET HER! she’s so fluffy and cute and all she does is run away. So I’m a little choked by this- yes I can get mad at a chicken, after ALL I’ve done for her!-and there, off in the corner is a baby chick. Tiny little thing with a insanely protective silky mother hen. They are all good moms, silkies. But add good genetically programmed to be a mom chicken and the tension of only having ONE chick? She’s nuts, right now. So I couldn’t even get a good look at that cute little thing (god, I hope it’s not a rooster, please,please please)

I was pleased as anything, love little babies, love chicks, love fresh eggs so I called over to my sister to tell her that Loretta had a baby chick, come look! and it seems Liza knew. She didn’t even tell me! I’m not supposed to be near the henhouse. Bleh…so when Loretta loaded up with her baby, Liza told me our new silky chickens name was Boston.

Seemed like an odd choice to me. Boston? We usually name the chickens after singers. Female singers. We have Joan, Loretta, Nina, Annie, Maria, Britney, you get the idea. Well, naming a tiny little chick after a band seemed ambitious to me. Not that I don’t love Boston. What the hell? They’re Boston. Who doesn’t like Boston. But for a little chick? So she told me that Boston was born the morning of the Boston Marathon. And she had fallen out of the nest box and was cold and, it seemed, dead. She gave Loretta her baby back, so she’d know what happened, (my sister?!-I would have chucked that baby out and that’s that) She went inside, turned on the tv and, like the rest of us, was horrified at what was unfolding in Boston. When she came out after watching the tv footage, there was Little Boston alive a kicking and momma ready on take on all comers. Good momma! Good Liza!

Now if I could just get my hands on that little chick! Just to pet her, she’s so cute. Maybe THIS will be the friendly chicken I’ve been craving…

The other surprise, I found an old story line I’d been working on. And it’s good. It was in an old notebook. I hauled it out so I could use it to manage the garden. We list what was planted where and when, which rows are what, all so that we can, hopefully, identify what is a plant and what is a weed. And know what is germinating and what isn’t. This old notebook contained the outline of a great chick lit story. I don’t know why I didn’t keep it up. Somehow I just set it aside and forgot about it. So, now I have a full bloomed story that’s been sitting on the back burner for, god, maybe 3 or 4 years. It’s very exciting. I love telling stories, especially if a lot of it is based in truth. And lemme tell ya, I’ve had some odd and interesting things happen to me. Who’d believe it? Best to call it a nonfiction book and subset it as chick lit, right?

So it’s a chemotherapy day tomorrow. I’m not even going to say bleh! I have another surprise. My step son, Kevin Jr. Is flying down from Fort McMurray to see me and he’ll be here on Saturday. So nice to see him. He’s such a good boy, well, he’s 26 now. He offered to do all the fix it stuff that needs doing so he’s going to paint the bathroom and dig some holes for potatoes and squash. We’re going to see the Mariners play baseball and maybe go to a blues club…I’m so happy. I didn’t think I would see him even when he said he wanted to come down. I thought it wasn’t necessary. I’m not going to be fun. I have no energy. I’m not able to walk around for long and show him Seattle. It’s not easy flying anywhere from northern British Columbia. But he’s taking the trouble and he shouldnt really. It’s very expensive and he’s going back to school to get his ticket for being a crane operator so that’s coming up too. But I’m happy. He doesn’t mind coming down. And he loves me. I was a good second mom to him.

I should have known he would want to come. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. But such nice surprises, yes?

Sunny Day in LaLa land.

It’s beautiful. Today I feel beautiful, too. It’s sunny and warm, they say its going to be in the 70’s (lower 70’s, but who’s counting)

Today I like to think all I need is sunshine, warmth, a couple of dogs and a car and I’m going to be fine. Everyday is a struggle for someone-everyone?-somewhere. Even if its something simple, such as putting sugar in your coffee when you swore off it, or something big, like feeling horrid because you have cancer. It doesn’t matter what your problem is, sometimes all you need is a word of encouragement (thanks Karen!), maybe you read something funny (thanks Dimwit and Donofalltrades) or maybe it’s about someone else’s struggle. Jennwith2ns gave me pause. She’s a Christian. Capitol C type Christian. She wrote a post about not judging people because it isn’t her job to judge people. That’s kind of it in a nutshell. The reason it made me think, though, I mean, I KNOW I’m not up to judging the how’s and whys and wheretofore’s of what makes people tick, but it made me think, really think hard, about my illness. And my response to other people. If they are uncomfortable around me, avoid me, laugh to loudly at a bad pun I made, or just slowly fade out, who am I to judge them?

My illness, no no no, THIS illness-just to make sure I don’t ‘own’ it-is making me uncomfortable too! More than uncomfortable, really. But what it shouldn’t be doing is making me wonder at my friends and families response to it. It’s natural to not want to watch someone suffer. Or something suffer. We want to help. We need to help. It’s one of the most ancient responses we have. If it weren’t we would have quickly died off this planet and left it to some other (better?) species.

So when I read the post, since removed, about how hurt and angry I was, how jealous and bitter I felt about other cancer patients with groups of people who were better able to deal with their friends suffering, it made me feel small. I don’t need cheerleaders(but thanks Kate at MasonBentley-you made me laugh out loud with your cheer! Do they even HAVE cheerleaders in England? Because you’re a natural!)

After thinking it through, hard and long, I am going to stop feeling sorry for myself. Well, not entirely. I mean, shit, this totally sucks rocks, this cancer thing. But I am going to try, really TRY, to think positively especially with regards to my family and friends. I’m going to cut them some slack and if I am at home and alone or feeling lonely, I am going to DO something. Like maybe learn PhotoShop. Then I can PhotoShop pictures of me doing something fabulous, if untrue. With unicorns. Rainbows. Bottles of vodka.

I may be too worn out to take the dogs to the beach, too tired to go anywhere, but I can at least stay on top of my game. Maybe I’ll take up something new. Like tortilla making. Or hat making. There’s a thought. It could be a fun past time. Anyway, not the point.

The point is that I learned something from a Christian. What a thought! One of those finger pointing, intolerant, mean spirited, judgmental Christians. Except jennwith2ns isn’t. She was nice about it. Nice, even, to the finger pointing, intolerant, mean spirited, judgmental Christians, which I actually have a problem with. I think someone should SAY something when people are that way. They won’t listen to ME. But they might listen to their whatever you call ’ems, pastors or priests or grand poobahs…or their fellow parishioners. Just saying. Trying not to be judgmental, but it’s baby steps here.

Okay, I’m going out. Mom and my sister are taking me out to Port Townsend with the dogs and a picnic lunch. It’s sunny. It’s warm. Its April. It’s the Pacific Northwest, so it’s a miracle.

See, it’s like reading ONE little Christian post and I got a miracle!

Oh shit…now they’re all going to be mad, aren’t they?

Kitty Wampus

Yeah, so Dimwit Diaries very kindly gave me a sweet sweet mention and I’d JUST finished writing a really depressing rant because I was having a truly shitty day. They happen when you are left stewing too long in your own juices. I thought I would write something nice in a contemptible effort to not drive everyone to suicide.

Yes, it’s lousy having ovarian cancer, yes, I have moments when I want to scream out loud. However, I also am a nice person and those of you out there who are reading this…thank you. It’s nice, believe it or not, to have people read what you write. Especially when you don’t understand why anyone would want to.

So, that’s all. I like writing. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t understand the power of positive thinking all the time. But I have some awfully good people out there, Dimwit is one of them, The Peckish Kiwi and Hang and MasonBentley and Papaya Pieces and Sassy Earl Gray, Mancakes and Bens Bitter Blog, all of you make me laugh and make me hungry. Two good things.

I may not get what’s happening to me, or understand what’s happening to the people around me as they see me going through this but just know this…I can be upbeat once every two or three weeks. Sometimes things still startle and amuse me. And when they do, I’ll try not to make you depressed. Promise.

Otis

My Raised Bed Garden

In the beginning

Don

Don Carley- carpenter extraordinaire

Getting it together

Ken, with a corgi bit hand, still going strong!

Leveling and weed proof cloth

The first of three dump trucks

It took 20 wheelbarrows of dirt to fill one box

Holly, making sure we got every bit of dirt- thanks Holly! You were awesome!

Everyone working hard

Only 49 wheel barrows to go, Ken!

…and he had a water polo game for school early the next morning!

So beautiful

Volunteering at its very Best. My Heroes from Arms Around Bainbridge to the Rescue!

My heroes, coming today to put in a raised bed garden for me.

These people are the ones you strive to be. The ones who make the time in their busy schedules to find someone in need and help. They buy food, ferry passes, help pay bills (even the BIG hospital sized ones)invite you to fabulous parties with great food, in beautiful homes, they do this all with a smile and a joke and a hug. Gracious is the word, it defines them. Except Don who is also just darned funny!

So today my AAB Volunteers are coming to my rescue. They asked me what I wanted, not needed, they put those fires out, but needed? Me? I wanted to grow food and flowers. I could juice my own stuff, I could sell the extra at the farmers market down the street. I could sit outside and weed and get healthy…what do I want?

A chance to participate in my recovery. Not just lie there, like I did yesterday, with bags and bags of stuff slowly dripping into that big vein next to my heart.

What do I want? I want to turn over dirt, pull out big tufts of bunch grass, dig in compost, hammer, nail, screw, lift, carry, run and fetch, drink gallons of cold tea, and at dusk, clean up, make dinner and sit outside afterwards and look at our handiwork, toasting everyone with a glass of wine.

But that’s not going to happen today. Today, I will sit and watch. I will pour tea and offer cookies. I’ll watch my heroes, my Mom! My sister, my brother, the volunteers…
But I’ll get in there somehow…more later.

Well, I just got sidelined. I was only raking and throwing the clippings into the hen yard. It’s starting to smell nice, grass clippings and sawn cedar. I had to come lie down. Just for a minute.

I feel FINE![/caption]

What a great day. My barren front yard transformed into a garden in the space of hours.

This is what it looked like at 8am. Weed whacking under way….

;

The containers under construction…

My brother, Richard.

Building the containers

The layout begins

Love this one!

a

The consultation, this would have gone a lot smoother if the hadn’t asked me.

a

A decision and the first dump truck load of soil.

Don working the whacker

Putting out snacks and drinks

Richard bolting the containers together[/caption]

a

My sister, Liza

Sidelined again but I’ll take more pictures tomorrow…what a splendiferous day! Thank you everyone, from the bottom of my heart…

My, used to be, favorite scarf.

This is my favorite scarf but I heard it might be uncool from some dimwit. But I could wear it like this.

Or…

Oh wait, that’s my buddy…

I could wear it like this, no unicorn cloud rainbows, but I left in the fluffy orange kitty, the framed haiku and the smarmy smile…that’s okay, right?

Thick as a Brick? Driving lessons for Morons

Okay, I wanted to just write a nice post. No getting all spiny. But I just have to say ONE THING!

To the Insane Cow driving the carpool van, (read giant thing that seats 12)

I don’t know where you get liquored up at 6:45 am. At that time of the morning the bars here on the island are closed, so I have to assume your drunk ass crazy driving was the result of you downing that bottle of your Grandmas green creme de menthe that you stole.

When the bicycles load, we wait politely. Then it’s the chance for motorcycles and riders…got it? We wait til they are on the ferry and stopped. THEN we get a wave and the car pool lane loads. There were only 3 cars with car pool passes. I have one because I get really really sick from car rides, car fumes and bad drivers. You were the 3rd car. In other words, you were last in line. So why you felt you needed to FUCKING WELL PASS US ALL ON THE FERRY, are you following me dimwit? You passed us ON THE FERRY DECK loading, you made everyone who works there dive for cover, you scared the bicyclists, you pissed off the motorcyclists and I suddenly decided I needed to meet you after you swerved in front of my beloved Mom and made her slam on the brakes, thereby shoving the seat belt into my chemo port (which hurts like fuck!)

Now my beloved Mom, who is the only one who drives me to chemotherapy EVER because no one else can be bothered, was rattled. And I was rattling her more because I was trying to get OUT OF THE VAN TO THROW YOU OVERBOARD. but mom said no. She said no several times until we were laughing. We had a muffin. With tea. So civilized.

However,

If you ever endanger my mother, the ferry workers, the motorcyclists and bicyclists who loaded before us -and just in case you didn’t know, they load them so they won’t be RUN OVER BY A GIANT VAN DRIVEN BY A PSYCHOTIC MORON- I will personally get out of the van the next time, I PROMISE YOU, and pull you out the window and throw you overboard. The guy who dove off the $20,000 Ducati to escape death would probably help me if the Gold wing Rider didn’t beat him to it. Also if the crowd of cyclists who were cowering behind their bikes decided to take matters into their own lithe and lean perfectly proportioned hands you’d be swimming to fucking Seattle, okay?

I’ve already written to Washington Dept of Transportation, The Bainbridge Island Ferry, The car pool you’re driving for and god. God was not busy. He and I had a nice talk while I was lying there getting chemotherapy. He really hates your driving and you are going to hell.

Also, when I pulled up next to you at the red light at Alaskan Way, did you happen to notice your shitty driving didn’t actually GET YOU ANYWHERE FASTER? No. There you were with the two other cars you passed doing 35 on the ferry deck, stuck right there in the carpool lane along with motorcyclists and bicyclists you endangered. Waiting with all of us…

And when you thoughtfully rolled down the window so I could tell you what I thought of you really loudly so your innocent passengers, who load when the ferry approaches Seattle and didnt witness your shit, could hear what they were in for, you responded in a breathy Marilyn Monroe voice ‘But I do it ALL the time. You have a nice day, now.’

You are SO lucky. Sooooo lucky the light changed at that very second cuz bitch I got a virtual get out of jail free card here. I would snatch you bald headed in one quick second and ya know what the sound track playing in my head would be…Stairway to Heaven. Yeah. Not cuz it’s appropriate, no. Not cuz I totally like it either. No it would be playing cuz it the longest song I know. Me and god agreed. It was Stairway to Heaven (he loves it) or American Pie-but we agreed we don’t want you to ruin either song, which you would. My personal vote for totally long song appropriate for a protracted beat down would be Thick as a Brick by Jethro Tull. Somehow appropriate, too. So we agreed on that.

So, dimwit, look out. You got lucky a couple times here. If I see you on the ferry again next Friday, we’re going to talk. Just talk. That’s all.

But just in case, I’m bringing my iPod and its going to have all three songs on it.

Laura

That little boy

Richard Martin.

No more hurting people.
Peace.

No more hurting people. Peace.

That smile. I can’t look at that 8 year old smiling with his sign of peace and not cry.

Hey, dickwad terrorist organizations! He didn’t do anything. Neither did I. You have a problem with Canada, the USA and Europe? They aren’t doing anything either! Are they pissing you off? Yeah, we know. They piss us off too. But civilized people don’t do this! Don’t blow up an 8 yr old! A sweet 29 year old. A student from China. You think our govt is sponsoring all your opposition? You sit there and swear revenge, looking at your martyrs? Fuck ya! Richard Martin wasn’t a martyr. He was a little boy.

It isn’t our government, you loser uneducated morons! It’s corporations and shareholders MANY OF WHICH LIVE RIGHT NEXT TO YOU! Yes that’s right! The RICH fuckers are doing this. Not the governments, why do I have to tell you this? Are you stupid???
You think we can control the greedy corporations, sick and bloated with oil money?! Really!? Cuz we can’t do it! THEY are a worldwide threat to democracy, NOT RICHARD MARTIN!

Wake up, assholes! Wake up! The only geography involved here is who has gas and oil and who doesn’t. It’s the corporations setting you at each others throats. Not our governments. Not little Boston Bruin fans.

Oh I’m sick as shit of this. When are those asshats here and overseas going to be exposed for what they are? Monstrous greedy corporations destroying nations, destroying peace, destroying crops and universities and equality. Make a list of corporations and ask THEM to explain themselves. Big Pharmacy, Big Oil, Big Agriculture…they aren’t ALL HERE in the West, morons. They’ve ruined your country. Destroyed your cities. Set you at each others throats. And now some poorly educated fuckwads bent on revenge blows up people. Not the ones responsible. No. Just a little kid.

Oh and just in case you’re wondering, I don’t care WHERE your from. Terrorist dickheads? We have them here. Timothy McVeigh, those morons from Columbine, the Virginia tech asswipe, they don’t deserve names. They have no names, nothing. I don’t care if your from here or the Middle East or the moon. You are an asshole!

Richard Martin, I’m sorry. This wasn’t what you asked for. You asked for peace. But until big oil and the other worldwide corporations answer some questions about how they make profits, I think peace may be a ways off.

I’m not feeling peaceful right now.