Brenda's Bra Size

Oh Internet Expert, there really isn't a bra size listed here, is there? I am so glad we have super-hero geniuses in the community. I stand corrected.

How to Change a Flat Tire

In which I rattle off the events of a wonderful morning:

On what was to be a sunny day, mist covers the hairs of my arms when I go to get coffee. Ugh. I’m also getting ready to frost a coconut cream cake and realize I have no powdered sugar…

First, forego the exercise you need and decide to DRIVE your son’s old truck to the store rather than speed walk--just for ONE item. Your own truck is blocked in the driveway by his new truck and you have no key. Buy powdered sugar and drive away.

Sigh, turn around and go back to tell a little old lady she’s left her lights on in her 70’s ‘pimp’ car and feel great you’ve done a good deed! Gawk and continue to gawk at the magnificent yellow-peach roses growing around the block as you near home.

Continue drooling over the flowers, making sure you turn too sharply and knock up against the curb. Sheepishly drive around the corner a few more feet and park, expecting the worse and hoping for the best as you climb out of the truck. (It’s the worst.)

Cuss inside your head and find the WD-40 to spray the lug nuts. Go inside and make the frosting, which turns out rather gluey. Wait awhile and spray lug nuts again, crawling under the truck to find the best spot for the jack; drag your clean hair in the dust. Position it underneath and go buy some ice at the gas station, knowing you’ll soon need a cold drink.

Wait a while longer and reach in the back of the truck for the lug wrench which isn’t there and the crowbar which isn’t there…continue on to the newer truck, then your own truck. It’s ok to cuss out loud at this point, as all the truck beds are unexpectedly tool-free.

Search the garage for some mediocre piece of steel that might work, realizing it doesn’t quite fit right, but ya gotta work with it anyway—and cautiously. Jump up and down on each lug nut—scraped shins aren’t fun. Spray again and come back later.

Continue jumping, putting the tool back on, jumping, etc—soon you’ll be dripping. Do this 5 more times and reach for the jack handle behind the seat, which had vanished, (but at least you've located the hacksaw your son has accused you of taking). Spend 25 minutes painstakingly rotating the jack with a piece of steel; avoid scraping your knuckles on the pavement every ¼ turn and pray that it will lift the truck just high enough ‘cause it looks pretty darn close. Wipe profuse sweat out of your eyes.

Loosen lug nuts all the way so the tire falls off on your foot. Examine the rip in the sidewall, knowing it’s beyond repair. Cuss once again at your idiot self as your realize your Hawaii spending money is about to diminish—because dad always said, ‘if you ruin one tire, you have to buy TWO’. Realize also that 3 Grad hours were unhappily purchased this week. Go get some ice water.

Try to place the other tire on—jack it up another ½ inch, then finger tighten every other lug nut. Lower jack, another time-consuming trial. Tighten lug nuts further—but not excessively—in case the spare goes flat too...

Get another drink and realize your son WAS at home after all…and asleep upstairs.

10 Month Old Tests Chaos Theory

Emery Clay, 10 month old baby from Homer Alaska, spent the better part of his New Year’s Day absorbed in the Sciences while vacationing in the Flint Hills of Kansas.

“It may be early in my career, but I have an uncle who is a Nuclear Engineer and a grandpa that taught Marine Biology—I have a lot of expectations to live up to and time’s wastin’ away”, said young Clay. “I’ve already experimented with Newton’s Universal Law of Gravitation (dropped objects result in a downward movement—like my spoon from a high chair), well enough of that—I feel it’s time to move on.”

With two dedicated lab assistants, Emery resolved to spend the better part of the holiday afternoon experimenting with Physics (the study of Matter and Motion)—but more importantly, the ever-evolving area known as Chaos Theory, where small differences in initial conditions yield widely diverging outcomes.

“I was using analytical techniques—3 balls of various types, and dropping them using a recurrence plot. For any given moment in time, the balls would drop, but after the initial fall, they landed with distinct irregular behaviors.”

Choosing a colorful ball filled with beads, a small golden plastic football, and a spiky green rubber ball (courtesy of Wamego Middle School Science Dept.), Emery performed hundreds of careful ‘drop and releases’.
“I stood by the couch for the better part of an hour, concentrating on the height of the drop—varying from a few inches above the cushion, to as high as my arm could reach. Sometimes I let them roll off my fingertips, palm up—other times I utilized just a typical ‘open the fingers’ motion. Heck, after hundreds of repetitions, I even tried scattering them with both hands. My arm had gotten pretty tired.” Clay admitted.

While the assistants applauded the intense concentration Emery devoted to his experiment, they spent a few moments in quiet speculation when the baby scientist went down for a nap. “Unfortunately it made no real difference whether this tot worked quietly or yelled out heated gibberish—the balls always fell with no set pattern. And because of the language barrier, we have no idea if new theories were generated during this session of experimentation.”

An hour later (and with broccoli for brain sustenance), baby Clay resumed the task at hand for an extended period of time. “While I slept it occurred to me that I could also investigate the powers of Psychokinesis. By placing the gold football against my forehead I tried to develop my ability to ‘force’ it to drop in a consistent manner or influence the object’s movement once it hit the ground. Footballs (or prolate spheroids) tumble in an endless variety of pattern—in hindsight, I should have chosen one of the round balls or spheres for this procedure.”

He added, “Certainly Telekinesis and Chaos Theory are both sciences that I’m bound to scrutinize at a later date, but at this point I’ve decided to try another branch of Science tomorrow, probably Environmental Microbiology. ” Baby Clay concluded modestly that it was mainly his lack of mobility which hindered further processes in Chaos Theory at this time. “I’m only able to take a step or two at a time, and being only 10 months old, well, frankly I don’t have the balance to pick up balls a hundred times in a row. I’m suffering extreme exhaustion. My assistants served me with tremendous dedication.”

Both assistants were quick to point out that it was an honor to work for the prestigious youth. “We foresee great things—he’s already developed an avid interest in Archeology and the deterioration of bones and scrutinizes every leaf he finds for types of Mold. Soil Microbiology would probably be an area of great concern for him, as he is especially observant to his surroundings in nature, plus he likes to dig right in.”

As a side note, baby Emery has also shown intense concentration in the area of Music. “I have exceptional hearing and since my grandmother and dad are musicians; I’ve already developed my own style of dance rhythm—it could be a future hobby , but again, I’ll have to work on my sense of balance.”

In conclusion little Clay once again commended his lab workers. “I’d like to thank them for their many hours of commitment. They are truly caring, attentive people. I only wonder if they realized the Psychological aspect of today’s deliberations: Just how many times will an adult pick up a ball for a baby??”

Sarcasm 1: "Bluetooth".

Oh my new little Dictionary of Sarcasm...perfection written here: BLUETOOTH--a wireless ear device allowing well-dressed businessmen to be indistinguishable from ragged skid-row lunatics that walk around spouting loud obnoxious conversation with people who aren't there.

I would add that these "Bluetooth Belligerents" are one of my major pet-peeves while waiting in an airport. For God's Sake man, no one else gives a rat's ass about YOUR investments, YOUR real-estate, YOUR number-crunching abilities--though through your boorish, reverberating conversation with Casper, it gives all appearances that you believe we must all bow down before you due to your remarkable marketing skills! You believe you are the God of Gab, the God of Blab, and when your 'gifted' conversation (thankfully) ends, you blatantly leap right into the next with no consideration to all those suffering around you. Hell, even moving myself away to a far corner brings no relief from your uncouth loutishness.

Let's just say, for one minute, that I, yes I, Mr. Bluetooth, decide to read ALOUD the book I'm trying (unsuccessfully due to YOU) to enjoy. I belt forth, with great volume and determination: "They could hear sea transport hooting in at midnight. The men had been sent to bed at ten, stuffed with cocoa and bully, having suffered an inspection of rifles and feet, had deficiencies of clothing and equipment made up, and been issued with many rounds of live ammunition. After three other ranks had been shot accidentally dead and the CSM of the HQ Company sustained a flesh wound in the buttock, this issue was withdrawn as premature:troops would be given their bullets--strictly for the enemy--at the base camp at the port of disembarkation."

What do you think Mr. Bluetooth? Am I interrupting your thought processes? Disrupting your air conversation? Do you find my oration irritating? No, unlike you Mr. Bluetooth, I have the ability to read the body-language of others. I would note the disgruntled faces, the heated glares, the crossed arms, the deep-veed eyebrows and down-turned lips. Politeness would supersede --I would shut my freakin' mouth!

Quit antagonizing us, Mr. Bluetooth. You sound like a raving idiot.

He's BAAACk!

Stalkerman (not mine, mom's) is going to strike soon, I just feel it coming.

The Story of Edgar Sawtelle

Last November I needed to borrow a book from my daughter for my flight home from AK; I took “The Story of Edgar Sawtelle” because I’d read a few pages, discovered it held the anguish of miscarriage, and decided my pregnant girl did not need sad scary thoughts swirling through her mind during that long stressful time.

I read more on the long wait on an Anchorage bench, backpack under my neck, reading and sleeping and listening for the reverberating, comforting ‘dong’ of their hourly airport clock. I read the whole flight home, though at times I had to hide my tears facing the clouded window and wiping my face raw with countless rough paper towels.

Once home, I slid the book under the couch, having reached what I thought was the apex, the ultimate heart-wrenching scene—I would have to wait until later to muster up courage to finish the end. My emotions needed a break from this boy, his family, and dog.

I hadn’t thought of the book for many months and couldn’t find it until this week—at the KC airport in June a Delta agent called forth a Korean gal named “Almondine” making me nearly gasp at the name and torturing me with the need to complete this book at once. And if found, I’d finally get to watch young Edgar enact his revenge, to accuse the guilty, become vindicated and whole—and so I’d feel the ultimate relief of an incredible book while finally consoling my heart.

I re-read it entirely, clear to that throat-tightening scene and then continued until it was done. Until I was done.

So unexpected—no. Nope. I shake my head. I keep thinking if I pick it up again and go back to the final chapters the words will rearrange themselves and the REAL ending will form. I was tired after all. I didn’t comprehend correctly. It should be arranged dictionary-like and formulaic where each precise scene remedies the previous and eases the grieving, smooths soothes softens the chest-crushing pain. These chapters can’t be possible when the end was actually quite clear in my mind—I KNEW what would happen, I thought. I’m not prepared for the twist.

Online, some of the reviews gave commentary like: ‘psychological insight and lyrical mastery’; ‘comforting joy of a book’; ‘enchanting debut’; ‘big mesmerizing read’; ‘reluctant to put it down’; ‘stunning, elegant’; ‘completely smitten’; ‘hauntingly impressive’; ‘rare and wonderful’; ‘will leave you crying for more....’

Let me evaluate. ‘Stunning’-yes, nearly a shock to the soul. ‘Insightful’-yes, in a bigger way than you can ever imagine. ‘Smitten’? Not a word I’d use in this case. ‘Smitten’ implies a cute girl, your new Cabbage Patch dolly, the joy of a matchbox car or fuzzy sweater—something causing joy or warmth—I doubt this person dwelled much or even caught an inkling of that current of grief streaming through these pages. (Shallow skimmer/cheater!) ‘Lyrical’-yes, descriptions beautiful and I loved the passages about ‘words’. ‘Impressive’-yes, ‘haunting’-yes. 'Comforting'-no.‘Rare and mesmerizing and elegant’-yes. ‘Enchanting’-yes/no-many parts are, yet enchantment also seems a ‘smiling’ word.‘Will leave you crying for more’? Yet I read no words to describe the clenching of one’s jaws or the inability to swallow as one steadily blinks back tears.

I guess I am ignoring the beauty of this book at the moment, in despair for Edgar's mother. Sadly, the word ‘crying’ will suffice.

To and From Homer...

...there's an Alaska story here, but just no time to write it!