tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19977089123430715142024-03-13T06:27:32.375-07:00Embrace the Bacongal, and what ever I'm itching to say !bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.comBlogger193125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-8636720846587074162020-06-05T07:16:00.001-07:002020-06-05T07:19:29.798-07:00Today's list of what is on my mind<br />
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1: Will our society survive ourselves<br />
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2: Do we even deserve to survive; why are we, as a country, society, still not understanding why hate has no place in our hearts.<br />
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3: Protesting doesn't include riots<br />
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4. Protesting doesn't include looting/rioting<br />
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5: Free persons protest; criminals loot/riot<br />
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6: Protesters are not criminals because they protest; two different groups of people; not to be judged as one<br />
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7: My mom scolded me harshly for ever using the word "hate" said about a person or group. <br />
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8: Many of us are tired; exhausted; tired of anxiety about illness and exhausted by grief.<br />
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9: I want to go to the forest<br />
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10: I want to go to the ocean<br />
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11: I want people to value other people; you don't have to like everyone or agree with them, just accept they are equal. <br />
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12: Black Lives Matter.<br />
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<br />bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-29321995586037434162020-05-04T13:19:00.003-07:002020-05-04T13:19:45.855-07:00Truths that pictures tellI do not usually post things like this but it's been on my mind off and on. The fact that I feel that I cannot be honest on my own blog because it's not nice or proper or might hurt someone's feelings. I already guard my posts on FB and Insta just to be sure I do not harm anyone's delicate littler feelers. <br />
But I decided after getting bored enough to scroll TikTok that if people can make videos of what ever ails them, I can certainly post to a blog that nobody reads.<br />
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I was married before. It lasted from 1990 to 2009. I was 18 when we got married and he was 38. He had two little boys that he had full custody of; we did not have children of our own. It started off all well and good, and full of hope but it did not stay that way. It was not a good marriage. Or at least the last 10 years of it was not. I know now, that for at least the last seven years of it my former spouse was cheating. Before that he was just a controlling narcissistic bully. I will call him Tim, Tim Skipper. His name. I protected him enough while I was married; I do not have to any more.<br />
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Let us fast forward through years of bullshit to 2007. Tim and I had bought a second home in Honduras. Tim, as a son of missionaries, grew up in Honduras and wanted to retire there. The home was on a lake and it would enable us to retire together, supposedly. We had gone to Honduras together in June, our usual time, and despite taking preventative medication I contracted both Malaria and Dengue Fever. To say I was miserable and very ill would be a huge understatement. <br />
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I was scheduled to fly home alone, with Tim following two weeks behind so he could "close up the house". I did not want to fly home alone. I begged him to come with me. He being passive aggressive turned it into me asking him to spend an enormous amount of money to change his ticket so being the good wife, I relented. I mean really, if I didn't give in, then I was just wrong. He would quote some ill cited bible verse that it is better to live in the mountains than live with a nagging woman.<br />
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So I board the plane in San Pedro Sula. The flight attendant stops me to ask me if I am ok. I lie through my teeth that I am just dizzy and "giggle maybe I'm pregnant". I was terrified that if anyone knew how ill I was with a communicable disease they would not let me enter the U.S. My ears were ringing from the large doses of Tylenol and Ibuprofen. I landed in Miami, went in the bathroom, took my temperature, 102. Dosed up more and trudged through customs. <br />
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When I finally arrived in Portland and got into the doctor she gave me two choices: go immediately to the hospital or agree to come to the office every morning and a phone call with her every evening. With the added agreement that at any time, if I deteriorated I would call 911. The health department began their required interview and contact tracing. It was a mess. I WAS ALONE.<br />
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I called Tim in Honduras. A woman answered the cell phone, I hung up. He called back minutes later with some story about someone else answering his phone by mistake. I knew what was up, but he just kept telling me I was imagining it. Or that maybe I needed to "up my depression medication". I again begged him to come home. He did not<br />
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He finally flew home two weeks later. And a few days after that I found an email of him talking to a friend that he needed "sopa de viagra" to keep up with his amore. That started the painful and abusive end to our marriage. It was filled with his begging for forgiveness, promises, lies, manipulations..blah blah blah.<br />
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Why does this matter now. Oh well because now, Tim is a missionary. Now Tim quotes the Bible, only in the KJV translation because that is the only "true translation". Because didn't you know that Jesus spoke old English (sarcasm). Tim and his "amore" Carolina, his wife now, are very devout Christians. They spread the gospel by going out to eat and posting on Facebook. And one of those pictures he posted this last week<br />
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He and his love at the beach in 2007, while his wife was home, ill. But look at the picture. I mean look at it. Does she look happy?</div>
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I know the ride she is on. She is Tim's fourth wife. She has grabbed onto someone who can provide for her with his police pension and home bought by his parents. But her ride is bumpy. Now she has to walk the line. The line that if you cross you are "sinful". I don't know how it feels to go from being a mistress to being the wife. Can you ever really trust? Not my problem, nor is it my shame, it's his and hers. </div>
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To me this picture is justice. </div>
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<br />bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-15955436989982690702020-04-20T10:29:00.000-07:002020-04-20T10:29:03.513-07:00Protein Brownies ReviewFirst of all I am not trying or wanting to be a blogger that is touting their idealistic lifestyle nor do I want to be an influencer. I am just a person who likes to blog and share a small glimpse of my imperfect life. I am saying all of that because I am posting unedited pictures of my cooking. Most of my pictures are un-edited. I crop to keep certain details out of pictures. Like I cropped a couple of these photos so you cannot see the chipped countertop on the edge of my stove. Come to think of it I shouldn't have cropped that. I cannot be the only person who has a chipped countertop. Oh well<br />
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Onward!<br />
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I did some online shopping at Target. I miss Target. I mean I really really miss Target, it is one of my very favorite stores. When we are not in a pandemic I love that I can order online and walk in a pick it up. It keeps me from experiencing the bloated cart that comes from cruising Target aisles.<br />
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I wanted some baked goods but I did not want to waddle after the end of this lockdown. I have tried Kodiak brand in pancakes so I gave this a try<br />
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As you can see, it may be unavailable right now, if you order online, at least where I am at. But I think you can find it at other stores. </div>
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I needed to use up some yogurt because I found I really do not like the tart cherry and Riddick likes his greek yogurt. The box said you could substitute the half cup of yogurt for the melted butter. This is full fat yogurt so I am not even sure there is a caloric savings</div>
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This is the first time I have used yogurt as a sub for anything in baking. So I was a bit nervous of the texture but not the flavor; I figured cherry would either not be noticeable or pair nicely. The directions said to hand mix until just mixed. The batter is thick, it might be thinner if you used the melted butter instead. <br />
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The batter is grainier than a standard white flour based mix but blended nicely</div>
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Place the mix in a prepared 9x9 and bake as directed. The baking time on the box indicated 22-24 minutes, at 24 minutes the middle was unset. Yogurt is high moisture so I extended the baking time in 4 minute increments. At 32 minutes the middle was set and the edges were not burned.</div>
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As you can see above I use a small knife to test my baking. It is just habit I guess; I have plenty of toothpicks in a dispenser on the window sill but never remember. After cooling a sliced them all in small squares. The texture is that of a thick cookie. The flavor is sweet but not that of a brownie. I do not notice a cherry flavor but there are moist.</div>
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I think they will satisfy a sweet tooth craving and provide a small amount of energy. They remind me more of a home made energy bar. If you have littles you can definitely con them into believing this is a brownie. And I can report they pair nicely with coffee. :-) </div>
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bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-50529112233540880922020-04-08T07:11:00.002-07:002020-04-08T07:11:57.313-07:00Perfect WFH Shoes!<br />
When I turned 40, 7 years ago, I promised myself I would stop wearing shoes that hurt my feet. That was difficult at first because the kids were still kids and the budget was tighter, so buying a decent pair of Dansko or Cob Hill sandals or heels for work meant I had to choose very wisely. Now that the budget is a bit roomier and I have had seven years; I have amassed a nice selection of comfortable shoes for work and for hime. <div>
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These past three weeks of working from home presented different challenges. My slippers do not work because it is springtime in Oregon, so while it is chilly in the morning and evening, during the day in the house, the lined slippers where just too much.</div>
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I tried my Furoshiki wrap shoes, which I usually wear post gym or workout. Those worked well for temperature but the Vibram soles were not conducive to my habit of working with a leg tucked under me. It just felt weird. </div>
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Since I am an avowed shoe whore and DSW has had so many lovely coupons and sales to tempt the home bound show lover like me, I found the perfect WFH shoe for me. Practical yet a tad whimsical. Warm but not too hot. Easily taken off and on. And besides I had a coupon honey, think of all the money I saved.</div>
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Behold the fleece lined Birkenstock. The Arizona Happy lamb. No I do not get anything for this post other than sharing my ugly feet and cute shoes. </div>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-88855389234103793512020-02-06T11:38:00.001-08:002020-02-06T11:38:44.428-08:00Penny in ReposePenny spends a great deal of time in repose. Our dog lives a peaceful life; which I think she should<br />
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bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-18651699237998536092019-06-19T09:50:00.002-07:002019-06-19T09:50:41.482-07:00Visit out of the blueI have mixed feelings about people just dropping by our home. Most of the time the folks that just stop by are friends that live nearby and drop by when they are visiting another mutual friend in the neighborhood. Nothing is expected and nothing is awkward. <br />
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Last weekend we had surprise visitor from my former step-son. I say "former" not because I stopped considering my step-sons from my first marriage family when we divorced, but to specify that I am not talking of Zach. It is odd that I have been rather a permanent step parent since I was 18. My first marriage (I only have two, don't panic) I was step-mom to two boys, full time, as their Dad had custody. It was a very unpleasant situation. The parents did not get along; in fact they actively fought and it was miserable. I really do not feel like dredging all of it up but it involved courts both civil and criminal. Looking back now I think that their mother was treated badly and even though she had made mistakes she was never allowed to move forward from those. <br />
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My former step-sons, TA and TJ were 6 and 8 when we married, and 25 and 27 when we divorced. They stopped speaking to me. Just flat stopped. Didn't bother to check and see if I was ok. Didn't call. Didn't text. I heard from their respective wives and others things they said about me, but never to me. They had both been present when their dad cheated on me. Visiting his mistress with their Dad, while we were married, and never telling me, but telling others. They made me the subject of gossip but didn't give me the concern or courtesy to tell me what was going on. <br />
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TA, the oldest had reached out to me. He was very honest and very clear in his apology and his wish to make amends. TJ has not. <br />
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TJ showed up unannounced. While the visit went nicely I am not comfortable with it as TJ is much like his father and for that I do not trust him. I want to trust him. I think of him as a 6 year old who couldn't say his "r". But I remember also the pain he caused me. The disrespect. The meanness with which he treated me and his active role in the gaslighting and abuse that his father used against me. I remember TJ shutting the door in my face when I was scolding him. I remember the insults. <br />
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I do not know the path forward. I want to forgive but I also do not want to be hurt again. That is the risk isn't it in forgiving; if there isn't a change in behavior there isn't safety or trust. bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-23217751195355881192019-02-27T07:39:00.001-08:002019-02-27T07:39:28.621-08:00I was gone but now I am hereI had to set my blog aside while I finished my degree and adjusted to new challenges at work. I moved into a management position in 2016 and also decided to further my education. <br />
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While I can say that I am happy I did it, I can also say I am happy it is done. My college education has always been done while working full time. The majority of my schooling has been funded by employer provided educational assistance. While that is a gift I am grateful for, it did not pay for all and it required me to work full time and school 3/4 time. <br />
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Working and going to school was much easier in the 20's than now in my 40's. All of a sudden I feel my age creeping into my life like mold. I know it is partly because while pursuing this most recent educational goal I also had major knee surgery, leaving me in a wheel chair for six weeks. I felt the consequences of my age in fatigue from working and studying but also in the comparison between recovering from a hysterectomy in my 30's quite quickly and recovering from holes drilled into my Tibia in my 40's. <br />
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I notice that pushing through pain or fatigue is much more difficult. Don't misunderstand me I have never been an elite or gifted athlete. But for my performance level I have noticed the difference. In short I am a middle aged woman and that reality has snuck up on me. <br />
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All of a sudden I am afraid. Afraid of a bad mammogram. Afraid of not keeping my mobility if I wreck on my bike. Afraid that I will not be able to keep doing all of the things that I love doing. <br />
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The fear is palpable. I think it has a root of being older than my Mom ever lived to be and also knowing that my biological mother is a mess. You may not know I am adopted. Adopted at birth. I chose to meet my birth mother when I was 21. <br />
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Meeting her was a mistake. I do not feel like a good human for typing that but it has not provided me with anything other than heartbreak. I guess that is a different story for a different day.<br />
<br />
Sincerely yours,<br />
middle aged scaredy cat bad assbacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-89740101942909502952017-05-29T19:44:00.001-07:002017-05-29T19:44:19.660-07:00Dad's Camera<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="APAText">
I have a few possessions that belonged to my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Items that hold special memories for me are displayed in my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My mom’s glass bell collection and my dad’s acoustic guitar are all in my living room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People that come to our home sometimes notice them, and I like to mention that they belonged to my parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is one item that I don’t display, it’s too precious and for me acts as a pathway to the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A touchstone that when I concentrate can take me to a time when my parents were alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Dad’s camera, a 1978 Mamiya NC-1000 35 MM camera, for me is a talisman of my parents, and my history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="APAText">
My Mom died from brain cancer when I was sixteen years old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Dad died, unexpectedly, when I was thirty-five.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The loss of my parents are the two experiences that have had the biggest impact on who I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were both good, honest and loving human beings that lived their lives with grace and courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that I was lucky to have had the parents I did, even for the short time that they were here on Earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But somedays are harder than others, and somedays I need to go to a place in my mind where they are with me.</div>
<div class="APAText">
My parents were not wealthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They both worked blue collar jobs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad drove a local delivery truck and mom was a custodian at the local middle school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our house was small, but owned and not rented.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were very fortunate that each of them earned a fair wage and benefits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But working class would be the best description of our economic situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anything extra that my brother and I had or got to do, came to us by our parents sacrificing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t buy themselves new stylish clothes, but I had plenty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They both had old bicycles, while my brother and I had nice Schwinns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="APAText">
I remember my parents talking about buying a good camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pictures were important to both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom would add them all to albums, recording the dates on the back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have those albums and they are precious to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember all of us stopping at garage sales and flea markets, looking for a good deal on a used camera. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my folks weren’t successful at finding one, they decided to invest in a new camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad was the one who did all the research into what to buy and how much it would cost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom loved the output of a camera but didn’t enjoy taking the pictures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="APAText">
The only way he could afford it was to put it on lay-away and pay every two weeks, on his paydays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My Dad would drive up to the store and I would hop out and go in and make the payment, bringing the updated receipt back to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He completed the purchase in time for my seventh birthday, in May of 1979.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still have the pictures he took of me on my brand new yellow Schwinn, complete with bell and basket. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="APAText">
The camera is small, black and silver, all manual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even now, nearly forty years old, it is still a beautiful piece of craftmanship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It still has the original leather case and strap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad would oil the leather at regular intervals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now the leather is showing some wear, but still smells of leather shoe polish. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The battery, that my Dad removed after each use, is stored in a film tube that he mounted to the camera strap with two notched holes in each side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Underneath the lens cap is the exposure limit of the last film he loaded, so he would never forget how many shots he had available.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The film was usually Fuji brand, which became his favorite brand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would clip coupons and stockpile film.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He never wanted to be without a roll.</div>
<div class="APAText">
Like mom I love pictures and like dad I love taking pictures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I begged to hold it from the time he bought the camera I wasn’t allowed to learn to use his camera until I was eight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remember the hours of time that I would spend watching and listening as he explained the new things he was learning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Details about aperture and focal length.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hard to learn, I was young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the process of capturing a moment in time was and still is fascinating to me. I supplemented his lessons by reading library books and looking at picture books at the thrift store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He allowed me to use the camera with his permission, if I always had the strap around my neck, and never rode my bike while using it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those were very minor requests and I can remember how proud I was of myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would plan and ponder on what to photograph and wait for the light to be just right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the rolls would get developed my dad and I would sit and review the snaps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dad was constructive with any criticism and we would both proudly show mom.</div>
<div class="APAText">
My dad continued to use the camera until his death in 2008.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After my Dad’s death, his camera came to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It lives on a shelf in our spare bedroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s where I visit it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t display it to people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s too special to me to allow others to touch it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I hold the camera, I can feel the same pride I felt as an eight-year-old. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I open the leather case I can hear his voice talking me through the steps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can feel his calloused and warm hands on the back of my neck, guiding me to look at a specific angle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The smell of the leather from the bottom case is strong when I raise the camera to focus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The click of the shutter is strong and clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much crisper in sound than my DSLR Canon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="APAText">
Currently I use a digital SLR 35 mm camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To me it was the natural progression of my photography love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That love of photography was given to me by my dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was nurtured during hours of walking around outside, looking at shadows thrown by fences and trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shortly after dad’s death I would go to the same park, walking and snapping, trying to come to grips with being without both.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="APAText">
When I’m holding his camera, I can believe for a moment that my parents are alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are at work, or maybe in the next room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can smell the green disinfectant my mom uses on the counters and the special way she says “Frank” when calling my Dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The loveseat has clean laundry folded on it, waiting for each of us to put it away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a pressure cooker on the stove steaming artichokes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m safe and loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m the baby of the family, the little girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I stay in the quiet long enough I can start to smell my mom, the Paul Mitchell Awapuii shampoo that lingers on her hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as I’m interrupted or my mind wanders back to the now, it’s gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not a little girl anymore; my parents are gone and I feel the cold harsh pain that is being an orphan.</div>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-56474760237743442452017-01-15T12:02:00.001-08:002017-01-15T12:02:19.783-08:00Good readerSince I mastered the skill of reading and comprehension I've been blessed with a very strong ability and drive to read. I read everything. If I'm caught on the toilet without a device that has an e-book on it, or a magazine, I read the backs of bottles, the inserts in medication, whatever I can reach while ensconced on the throne. <br />
<br />
Growing up my Dad had his collection of Reader's Digest stored in the bathroom, along with the collection of coupon toilet paper that was purchased by pimping me out to go buy the limited 2 rolls with the coupon. <br />
<br />
Before my first kindle ( I have 4, don't judge) I kept a book on the tank at all times. I also carried a book in my purse, car or gym bag. It's a sickness, I know. <br />
<br />
I love the weight and smell of a real printed book. I love the portability of an e-book. Having a Kindle has not ended my purchasing of printed material.<br />
<br />
In fact I was humiliated by my own cheapness at the Wilsonville Goodwill. I'd buy a book at Goodwill, than return it in a week, and so on and so forth. Until they changed their policy that books are not returnable. I was notified by a very kind woman who did a very good job of not giggling when she gave me a knowing yet sympathetic look.<br />
<br />
G-Mama, Mama, aka Mother in law sent me the book "Fervent"<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FNEMTW8Xzi8/WHvUROVlVQI/AAAAAAAAGz4/oFwjRggFzVAWR1HiPUtsNIJ-ewJMl1GGACLcB/s1600/fervent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FNEMTW8Xzi8/WHvUROVlVQI/AAAAAAAAGz4/oFwjRggFzVAWR1HiPUtsNIJ-ewJMl1GGACLcB/s1600/fervent.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
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<div>
It's the first book other than the bible that has actually taken me two weeks to read. It's like taffy or Sugar Daddy, you really have to gnaw on it and think. </div>
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It's got prayer cards included in the back. Blank, for your own use. </div>
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<div>
My copy has the spine broken, which is a sign I love a book so much that it's bugging me that it won't stay flat, so I bend it backwards until it behaves. Ya, by the way, I'm not a good person to loan a book from. And if I loan you a book, it's probably a gift, because it's been beaten down and has diet coke rings on it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I can't say enough about what this book is doing in my life. It's not tritely funny. The author is very clear that it's meant to stir up a desire for prayer in your life. Always have a prayer strategy. Always have a prayer. Be grateful and be brave in your prayers. Be precise as you can be, and never ever stop.</div>
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bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-50004748880867477712016-05-23T08:39:00.000-07:002016-05-23T08:39:14.031-07:00Today is my birthdayToday I am 44 years old. I don't know what 44 is supposed to feel like, but I don't think I feel like what I thought 44 felt like when I was 22. <br />
<br />
I feel good. I'm not in the same shape I was at 35, time seems to give less results for the same output. But I can still do everything I want to.<br />
<br />
For my birthday this year I am giving myself a gift. <br />
<br />
I'm giving myself permission.<br />
<br />
Permission to have people in my life that I trust<br />
<br />
Permission to remove people from my life that hurt me, mistreat me, ignore my feelings or in any way directly make me feel less than who I am. <br />
Fortunately for me, there aren't very many people that fall into the category, I can think of 4 right now. <br />
<br />
Permission to laugh as loud as I want.<br />
<br />
Permission to wear what I want, even if I don't like my upper arms. (don't panic I'm not talking hot pants and crop tops )<br />
<br />
Permission to live my life, with Riddick, as we see fit. No one else really needs to like it.<br />
<br />
Peace<br />
Bacongal outbacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-51858392426031360422016-04-19T14:20:00.000-07:002016-04-19T14:20:02.941-07:00Hello, Hello is anybody there?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wow it doesn’t seem like it’s been September since I
uploaded something to my blog. I write
all the time, and I think of uploading but I guess I forget the last part. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last summer started smoothly, or as smoothly as it can be
when you are remodeling your home. Most
of the labor was done by Riddick. I’m
the planner, accountant and sandwich maker. It was a huge job replacing
flooring, windows, doors, siding and painting.
I’m grateful for Riddick but I’m even more grateful that we are done.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The end of summer wasn’t nearly as smooth and definitely
wasn’t planned. Late August my step-son
Ironman decided to move in with us and finish his senior year. Without going into gory detail that
combination of having my in-laws (whom I adore) and my 18 year old red headed
step child (yes he really is) was beautiful chaos. I don’t know how we all did it, but we
did. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As Mama and Papa ventured south in the fall and Ironman
started school there was a peaceful lull where it was just the 3 of us in the
house. But it was short lived. Very quickly things were amiss with
Ironman. I don’t want to violate his
privacy nor do I want to blog about his mom.
I am comfortable saying that his exodus to our house brought many other
issues to light, namely depression. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think it was there before he moved, simmering, but once
his whole world changed, it was more than he could handle all alone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The next 6 months were a wild ride that I thought would
never, ever, ever end. Weekly
appointments, lots of checking in, dropping whatever you are doing to listen
when he’s ready to talk. Worry and
prayer, more praying to stop the worrying.
Praying for any sign that there is going to be light at the end of a
tunnel and that tunnel won’t be the end.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then in a very short time, the fog lifted and out came
the Ironman we all knew. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is he perfect
now, oh hell no, but nobody is. I tell
my kids I’d rather know exactly who you really are and maybe not like everything
you choose than have you pretend to be something you are not, just to please
me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All of that coupled with some job changes and the holidays
and poof….it’s April already. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ll have more later, for the maybe 1 human being that reads
this<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">J</span><o:p></o:p></div>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-83878815047459990772015-09-11T17:26:00.001-07:002015-09-11T17:26:22.371-07:00My 9 11<p dir="ltr">I wrote this 7 years ago. It seems so long ago. Before I met Robbie and learned what marriage and life can be. So grateful. This day is about remembering those fallen and sacrifices. This is just my little story. <br></p>
<p dir="ltr">9-11-01 is a date that none of us could forget, nor should we. It was like a wake up call in the most horrific painful way, for the whole country. For me it was a wake up call on a completely different level. I didn’t know it was a wake up call for another 8 years, and those 8 years will be something that I can never regain.</p>
<p dir="ltr">On September 11, 2001 my husband was spending a long weekend with another woman. His mistress. His first mistress, that I know about. Her name was Dora. Dora Elise Perez to be exact.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I just said that out loud as I typed it. Because for years and years I was afraid to say it out loud, to think it even. Because if I thought it, than I would be accusing the man I love of something horrible.</p>
<p dir="ltr">Dora was just the first, or at least he said she was the first, but that’s a different story for a different page. Dora was from Honduras. He flew her up here for a visit.</p>
<p dir="ltr">He said he was going fishing. Fishing at Billy Chinook. I even bought him a new anchor and float. He took his boat, but forgot the anchor. I felt something was up, something wasn’t right. So I did what any sane, hard working, healthy 29 year old would do…I tore everything out of my bedroom and painted the walls. Of course I picked a color, Columbine Pink, which was so close to the original you never would have known. I didn’t want to upset him after all.</p>
<p dir="ltr">I had painted all night long, into the early morning hours. I had taken the day off of work just to finish it. When I woke from my paint fume induced nap at 9 AM, the world was different. I watched the playback of that huge jet and all the destruction and I immediately called Tim. Wanting him to know we were ok. I left a message, upbeat that we were all fine and he didn’t need to worry.</p>
<p dir="ltr">He came home on September 14. Quiet, I thought it was because of what had happened in NYC. I even reassured him that I wasn’t hurt that he didn’t cut his fishing trip short, and believed in him. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I don’t know why I never left him. I can think of several very good reasons to leave him long before I ever suspected he was cheating. But I didn’t want to admit a failure. To broadcast to the world that I had chosen wrong. That a 20 year age difference might matter. That if he was cheater on his first wife, and than again on his second, that I being his third had no reason to be surprised that he was still…a cheater. All those reasons seem like the right ones. But there are more. I didn’t want to leave his kids, kids I loved, kids I would miss. I didn’t want to not be a wife. To be alone out in the world that scares me still. And who would want me? I was chubby, freckled and prone to crying jags. I can see now that the crying and the chubby were directly influenced by my misery, I can’t blame him for freckles, God gets that one. </p>
<p dir="ltr">But most stories of marriages that end in heartbreak don’t start out bad, and neither did ours. I can’t claim he was a bad husband all the time, he wasn’t. When he was good he protected me and cherished me until that moment in our marriage when he gave up but didn’t want to tell me. I know that moment too. I felt it. I didn’t know what it was, but it was like a change in the weather, everything got a little cooler. I wonder if I drove him to that point. If I was and just am too much of a person for one man to handle. He said once that he could always see this bright shining light in me, a light that was good, and pure, completely hokey. It’s what attracted him, this idea of someone being pure and loving and wanting to be with him. It made him want to be a better man, a better father, just better. But I think it burned him. That trying to be something he wasn’t because of an idea of what he thought I was, it’s too much for any of us to handle. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I’m not that person. I don’t have that light in me. That’s a burden that isn’t right to put on another. What he saw in me, what is in me, is an ability to love. An ability to feel. It’s a blessing and a curse in one. A gift that hurts me as much as it comforts others.</p>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-56345826397164081612015-04-29T23:44:00.001-07:002015-04-29T23:44:20.284-07:0042 Years, 11 months and 15 daysThat's how old my Mom was on the day she died. <br />
<br />
Mom was born October 13, 1945 and died September 28, 1988.<br />
<br />
Today, I am 42 Years, 11 months and 7 days old. <br />
<br />
The idea that in 8 days I will be as old as my Mom ever was is kinda freaking me out. <br />
<br />
When she died, I was 16, and of course she seemed old even though I knew she wasn't.<br />
But now I am her age, and unless I get hit by a truck or the rapture happens, I will grow older than she did. <br />
<br />
Thinking of that is a huge dose of her reality versus what mine is. <br />
<br />
She was dying when she was my age, and had been for a couple years. Me, I don't think I'm dying, not any faster than any other healthy person. I should be very grateful for my reality. I am a slow runner, but can run 5 miles and at worst have a sore big toe on my left food (true story).<br />
<br />
Be thankful for all you have, grateful that you are healthy enough to know what you don't have, and humble enough to remember there are those that see the end of their life coming towards them way too soon.bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-30482572619775301872014-11-29T16:59:00.000-08:002014-11-29T16:59:51.558-08:00Christmas memoriesMy Mom loved Christmas. She loved Halloween and Easter too, but not for any religious reason. Halloween because it was the same month as her birthday and of the cool decoration possibilities, and Easter because of the get together s with family and the baskets.<br />
<br />
But today I'm talking of Christmas.<br />
<br />
I did not understand, as a child of the 80's when on the news people would speak of not being able to afford a Christams tree. I lived and live in Oregon. When I was little, trees were as little as $5 or free. My parents, loving the Grand Nobles, spent more in the area of $15. But until my Dad explained to me that Christmas trees in other parts of our country were actually expensive did I grasp my fortune. <br />
<br />
We would get our tree. And than the waiting and whining would start. My Mom would take what felt like forever but was probably no more than a day, do put on the lights. Plastic flower petaled ensconced plastic lights that she meticulously put on, making sure each branch was represented.<br />
<br />
Once that was done, the decorating would begin. Supervised by Mom. Making sure we didn't put all the ornaments on the front and equally distributed the bling. There would also me the the cardboard Christmas village set up on white glittered batting to give the effect of snow.<br />
<br />
We opened our presents from Mom and Dad on Christmas Eve, saving the Santa gifts for Christmas morning. Christmas Eve was the big haul. I don't actually remember believe in Santa. Maybe it was because I was deathly afraid of Santa. That carries forward to today. I still do not understand why we ask our kids to go and ask a perfect stranger in a stupid costume for presents for Jesus's birthday?? Why? <br />
<br />
But of course I digress, because this wouldn't be my blog if I didn't get off track.<br />
<br />
Now where was I...oh ya presents!<br />
<br />
Now as an adult, and after reviewing all the financial records from my parents, I have no bloody idea how they afforded the Christmas gifts they gave us, as well as the rest of the year. It wasn't on credit cards, so I can only assume they sacrificed all y ear long. Which makes sense because I don't remember either of the parents ever buying themselves much if anything. They gave Steve and I their all. Looking back we were both dressed and afforded a lifestyle that only our more wealthy friends had, even though our parents, a truck driver and custodian worked dearly for it. I think that's why now I am willing to sacrifice so much for Iron Man and Pinky.<br />
<br />
Aaaand now again back to my point. What was my point ??????<br />
<br />
Oh ya it was Christmas memories. After the Christmas Eve dinner and present opening we would go to sleep. Hoping that on Christmas morning whatever Christmas wish we had, that hadn't been satisfied would be filled. And usually it was.<br />
<br />
Than after Christmas morning presents we would load in the car and head to Centralia for the extended family celebration. Where food would abound and more presents would appear. Essentially it was a cousin fillled mad house.<br />
<br />
For all of us cousins to be together, was and still is a case of beautiful chaos. Lots of love, tiny bit of rule and a whole lot of fun. Not so different from now. Except now, it seems we only see each other and funerals and weddings. Which frankly sucks!<br />
<br />bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-5518438438799364772014-11-16T21:27:00.001-08:002014-11-16T21:27:43.014-08:00I try so hard to understand and I just can'tWhy do grocery stores place black pepper in the egg section~am I missing something....salt taste so much better on hard boiled eggs than just pepper.<br />
<br />
What exactly does "one size fits most" really mean to clothing manufacturers...to me it means if you have boobs or an ass it will make you feel like a tuna boat.<br />
<br />
Why if I wax my brows at night do I swear I grow em back by morning.<br />
<br />
How did I ever miss "Gilmore Girls" when it was in primetime? I love it. Just like me I don't find a series until it's over, think "Firefly"<br />
<br />
Mean girls? What's the purpose really? When you mean girls, you know who you are, snigger at someone in public or roll your eyes and look over at me, are you expecting because maybe we dress alike that I'm going to smile and agree with you? No you will get the patented Bacongal "eat shit and die" look. Graybelle named that look back in the late 80's, so I'm very good at it.<br />
<br />
Oh and more about the above...mean girls. I think they exist for two reasons, separately or combined....you are mean because you are hungry and therefore bitchy or because your mom's let you be a mean girl. My mom, she told me I had two choices, be nice or be quiet. Ha!<br />
<br />
Jalapeno spiced sweet potato chips...someone please make them, I'll buy them in bulk.<br />
<br />
Why at the end of a 5k do people anchor it right at the finish line to take a selfie? Why? You know that chip that you ziptied to your shoe, well it times you and some of us really care about our time. I swear I'm steamrolling the next selfie taker. Look for news at 11.<br />
<br />
Soooo if I get a bikini wax, do you actually have to see my junk?<br />
<br />
Really? I like my junk it's pretty and all and useful but I think it's just for me and Riddick<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-14115812007186591272014-10-23T09:50:00.000-07:002014-10-23T09:50:37.926-07:00Morning RandomBrought to you by Bacongal<br />
<br />
If you drive a Prius, good for you, but if you live in a 3500 sqf home and keep it at 72 degrees year round, your carbon footprint is not offset by the car you drive. Remember this as you look down your nose at other cars.<br />
<br />
John Kitzhaber cut your losses and kick Cylvia to the curb. If you were a semi-retired Emergency room Doc from Bend she would not be sharing your bed. She's the type that survives life by her brain and body, me I use my brain and heart. She's cray cray<br />
<br />
There, their and they're, know the difference. I'm a horrible speller but please, please don't mess those up.<br />
<br />
Trust me, you don't mess with the Jews. I read my bible, I believe it. I'm not speaking of the debate over the West Bank. I'm talking of outside forces that threaten Israel. Even if you don't believe the bible, would you really pick a fight with a whole country that requires all citizens to serve in the military. <br />
<br />
At 4:40 AM as I enter my van after getting coffee at 7-11 and you role up behind me all quiet like on your bicycle to ask for money. When I turn around and scream because you scared the hell out of me, it's not because you are Black. It's because you just rolled up on me all quiet on your bicycle. So don't make it a race thing. <br />
<br />
I don't go to haunted houses. People are scary enough without me paying them to do it.<br />
<br />
And remember as my Mom used to tell me...."No is a complete sentence"bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-74223140087214318952014-09-14T14:28:00.004-07:002014-09-14T14:28:56.929-07:00I let another man rub my....feet, both of them, and it was ah-ahhh-amazing!<br />
<br />
Don't get your shorts in a wad, I would never let another man touch me inappropriately.<br />
<br />
Friday, Mama (aka G. Mama....Mama G. or half of the "prentals") had lunch and than got a pedicure.<br />
Mama was the first person to introduce me to the joy and elation of a pedicure. I immediately loved it. And being that, as I've stated before on this blog, I may not be much of a runner, but my feet show the extent to which I attempt to be a runner.<br />
<br />
We arrived and the nail salon was busy, busy, busy. A young gentlemen got us seated, a cup of water, and hot water added to soak our tootsies in. I admit I was hoping that he was just doing the prep work and someone else would take the tools to my hooves. <br />
<br />
He sat down and started to slowly and meticulously trim my disgusting overgrown cuticles and dry skin and ill-shaped, home trimmed nails. The nice, twenty something man, masculine, gently chastised me for trimming my nails so short and leaving sharp ends. He's totally right, when I trim my toenails I'm usually doing something else, listening to music or Riddick and not at all paying attention to what I'm doing. <br />
<br />
The bliss continued as we got to the massage part. His massage technique was very, very firm. I could feel the tender spot where I slammed my shin into the trailer hitch the weekend before. But the most glorious thing was the moment when he pressed his thumb into the arch of my foot......Oh mercy, holy buckets, it was not as good as sex, not even close, but it was very relaxing. <br />
<br />
The whole experience was almost ruined when he actually popped my big toe. I hate having my toes popped, I mean who, besides Riddick and this salon dude, think it's pleasant to give the distinct impression that you are going to rip my toe off?<br />
<br />
Other than that minor digression, it was a wonderful pedicure. And I bet when you saw this headline you though I went-a-whoring :-)bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-11783076034753135522014-09-11T10:34:00.000-07:002014-09-11T10:34:02.298-07:00Jack the Ripper identifiedYou may have read the headlines of late. A DNA test on a blood and semen stained scarf found with one of the White Chapel victims has been linked to a Polish barber Aaron Kosminski. The young Kosminski was in and out of lunatic asylums for much of his life and died in one.<br />
<br />
My first introduction to the "Jack the Ripper" mystery was in the form of pure 80's television.<br />
<br />
"Fantasy Island" season 4, episode 6, original air date of November 29, 1980. The episode title was "With affection Jack the Ripper/Gigolo". It was a strange pairing of a authoress that wanted to go back to 1889 White Chapel to unmask Jack the Ripper and some meek little guy who wanted to be a gigolo to get some confidence with women. Really? confidence with women, obviously written by a man. <br />
<br />
I'm sure I had no idea what a gigolo was and the questions probably prompted answers that as a 8 year old I wasn't at all interested in. I don't remember that part of the episode. <br />
<br />
But I do remember a immediate fascination with the idea that someone so long ago, in the "Laura Ingalls" of my brains history could also be a killer. I grew up with stories of "the green river" killer. A monster serial killer that was yet to be caught.<br />
<br />
And all this interest was started from a evening soap opera where Charlene Tilton could be a figure skater, they had little cars for Tattoo, and you could time travel. Who said 80's television wasn't educational.bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-8223242924397479392014-09-09T21:16:00.001-07:002014-09-09T21:16:26.731-07:00I miss my mom!I can't express to anyone why the ache of missing my Mom comes and goes at is does. Perhaps it's because I am approaching the anniversary of her death, September 28, 1988. But beyond that, right now, this moment, I am aching for my Mom.<br />
<br />
I had such jealousy of my friends who passed by the bullshit of teen years and got to know their Mom's as fellow adults. Cohorts that supported each other. In reality of my three closes friends none of them have had that much extra time with their Mom's. Missy and Prissy lost their mom to cancer not long after I did. Graybelle has lost her mom to the absence of other distractions. But still I ache.<br />
<br />
I want to know what my Mom's favorite color was. I want to know what she wanted to be when she grew up. I want to know how she felt about gay marriage. My gut tells me she wouldn't have given a fig, which is how I feel. <br />
<br />
But mostly I want the warm embrace. The hug she gave me when I started my period at Burgerville. I wish she would have lived long enough to stop me from marrying my first husband. Because I know that she would have raised holy hell if she had been alive. <br />
<br />
What I do remember of my Mom, she was kick ass. She loved me like crazy. She was kind to my friends, and never let me be a "mean girl". In fact she would jerk my chain if I tried. She knew what was classy and hated my "guess" jean mini skirt. She wasn't afraid of a fight, but wouldn't pick one. In all she was amazing. If I am half the women she was, well than I'm doing well. <br />
<br />
For all of you that have your Mom still with you, please be grateful for her. Even if she is a roaring pain in the ass. For the rest of us, that are missing our Mom's, just be understanding that part of our hearts have gone ahead of us to heaven.bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-64063743128000153362014-08-22T21:16:00.001-07:002014-08-22T21:16:44.393-07:00Just in case there wasn't enough reason<p dir="ltr">To believe that Riddick and I our raving proud geeks . Behold our new to us industrial sewing machine. Formerly owned at some point in the far distant past by Pendleton Woolen Mills. </p>
<p dir="ltr">It works great. Riddick was so excited to show me how many layers of fabric he could sew through. So much more powerful than my weiner sewing machine </p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-8N45QOwk42U/U_gVqOAgK1I/AAAAAAAAD60/-gRGwrImCR4/s1600/20140821_185434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-8N45QOwk42U/U_gVqOAgK1I/AAAAAAAAD60/-gRGwrImCR4/s640/20140821_185434.jpg"> </a> </div>bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-50683547626480135682014-08-17T22:11:00.001-07:002014-08-18T09:55:34.538-07:00Trayvon and ironman<p dir="ltr">I've wanted to post this for so long but hesitated on the off chance that any one actually reads my blog. </p>
<p dir="ltr">When I see a picture of trayvon Martin I see my step son ironman. Trayvon was black and ironman is white. And although I'm not ignorant of racial strife in our country, to me they are the same. Both are boys. Sweet boys. I realize that any young men that reads this may not like the reference of sweet boy....but that's what they both are to me. </p>
<p dir="ltr">The person that ended Trayvons life does not warrant naming in my blog. </p>
<p dir="ltr">What I know is this. Our boy, Ironman goes to the local mini mart to get a snickers and Mt. Dew..not so different from Trayvon.  </p>
<p dir="ltr">Not 1 month ago Riddick and I and our neighbor were hanging out late in the evening and <u>three</u> boys walked by. One of them said something to our neighbor that was not very hospitable. Riddick stood up and said " you guys should probably just go home" .</p>
<p dir="ltr">And that's what should have happened that night the Trayvon lost his life. I'm not assuming that Trayvon did or said something.  My view is that the adult in the situation should have greeted him, and if said adult was concerned should have sent him on his way. </p>
<p dir="ltr">As adults in this society I believe we have a responsibility to watch out for children in our vicinity   That doesn't mean you should discipline them it means you keep them from harm. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Let me be  blunt. We are the grown ups. We have to act like it. I cannot imagine or condone shooting down a child. No matter how tall he is. He's still was a boy. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I realize there are differences of race in this situation. However I think it's the media that wants to make that a difference. For those of us that parent teenage  boys its really very simple. </p>
<p dir="ltr">For me and Riddick, had this been our boy shot down I believe and fear Riddick would be in prison. I hurt so very much for Trayvons parent.  And I also am awed and applaud their handling of their heartbreak.  I'm not sure Riddick and I would be as capable of that grace </p>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-85248939595422643822014-08-17T18:00:00.001-07:002014-08-17T18:00:17.586-07:00Habits <p dir="ltr">Habits. ..habits are hard to break. My habit of drinking 5 diet cokes a day was broken by doing a "whole 30 " diet. And what really killed the habit is when I sneaked a diet coke and got a raging headache. ...it just took the fun out of diet cola. </p>
<p dir="ltr">I just told Riddick to please put the dog nail clippers back in the drawer under the phone. There has not been a phone on the wall in this home since Riddick moved I here almost 5 years ago </p>
<p dir="ltr">But like I said habits die hard </p>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-45002162464844513042014-08-15T15:54:00.001-07:002014-08-15T15:54:32.816-07:00I write <p dir="ltr">All the time. At any one moment I have at least 2 different stories going in my head. If I ever successfully get them into novel form I probably won't have to worry about how much siding is going to cost on our home. </p>
<p dir="ltr">There are to me very different types of blogs that I read. There are the ones that are meant to shock so they get lots of page hits. There are honest blogs meant to loft others up like booshay.blogspot.com. </p>
<p dir="ltr">There are others that just give some bullshit version of someone's life that they wish was true. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Where does this blog fall into that? Well its honest. I don't try and shock but if I do its true. And it's real </p>
<p dir="ltr">I am a short curvy dark haired 42 year old that lives and works in Oregon. I'm a wife and I love that part of my life. Riddick and I aren't perfect but we are kick ass. I'm a step mom and right now that part of my life is creating some frustrations for me  </p>
<p dir="ltr">My promise is if you read it here. ..not that anyone reads this. But if it's here its true. It's not mean. It's not a passive aggressive slam on any other human being. It's my little tiny insignificant voice on the Internet </p>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-47772909284883874442014-08-12T15:18:00.001-07:002014-08-12T15:18:29.423-07:0030 day Facebook fast<p dir="ltr">Starts Friday. It's time to take a break from virtual reality and enjoy the last days of summer 2014 </p>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1997708912343071514.post-77324443356687773652014-08-12T12:03:00.001-07:002014-08-12T12:03:31.617-07:00Just keeping it real <p dir="ltr">FYI. If u don't eat potatoes for over 3 months and than eat jalapeño kettle chips. Your tummy will feel like little bastard clog dancers are having a hootinanny. Just free advice for other post "whole 30" eaters </p>
bacongalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11528759856948416868noreply@blogger.com0