A friend of mine once used the phrase “ Don’t get my ire up, woman.” he was referring to his wife and at the time Kendall and I laughed our asses off. He was only joking of course, we adopted the phrase as our own and use it jokingly when we are mildly ticked with the other.

Unfortunately today my “ire” is up for real. Has been for a while now. When I was younger I flew off the handle at every little injustice, reality or not, and relished in the tongue lashings that my victims would receive for the minor infractions that they had committed in my presence. Over the years, I have become more tolerant, or at least wise enough to keep my big mouth shut. Don’t get me wrong, I am still quick to judge, and can be pushed over the edge with little more than a shove, but I try to pick my battles and keep the ass chewing to those who are truly deserving.

So what is it that has my panties so twisted that it prompted me to write on this blog that most of you thought ceased to exist. Well, I will tell you, the color PINK.

I can hear you now, “ Have you finally lost your freaking mind Blondie, who the hell gets mad at a color?” Especially a color that symbolizes all things sweet and lovely. Sugar, spice and everything nice.

We associate the color pink with baby girls, princesses, cotton candy, honeymoon lingerie, innocence.

And. Boobs.

Yep Boobs. Now don’t get me wrong I like boobs, I like mine, yours, and even the fake airbrushed ones in Playboy, I especially enjoy back boobs brought to you by the fine folks at People of Walmart.

There is a lot of boobie buzz going around now, with October being Breast Cancer Awareness month, retailers are hauling out all of their pink colored gadgets, water bottles, hats, pens, purses, nail polish, makeup, basically anything they can turn the color of Pepto Bismol, to tug at your heart-strings, and more importantly your wallet, with the promise that a portion of your hard-earned money is going to research. The pink push is not limited to only this time of year either, I have seen pink toolboxes on the internet, early this spring I could have bought pink dahlias with the BCA logo on them, even my beloved Harley Davidson retailer, has racks of clothing not in traditional black and orange, but pink, pink, and more pink.

Don’t me wrong, I would love to see a cure for breast cancer as much as the next girl, I have several family members who are survivors of this horrible disease. I am fully aware of the need for education, early detection, and regular mammograms.

My problem is that pink has become the new green. For every pink product that you purchase, you are making a charitable contribution, however, the manufacturer of that product is also making a profit, and are their intentions as good as yours? How much of your charity is put back into marketing, and not research? Breast Cancer has become big business, and while I believe it’s heart is in the right place, I am not convinced it’s wallet is. How certain are you that the pink item you are buying was put there with the motivation of finding a cure, and not funding a retirement plan or a vacation cruise.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness month, and I am not discouraging you from purchasing something pink, hey, I am not that heartless, although I am certain that unless you live in remote 3^rd world country you are pretty aware of breast cancer.

There is no denying that this a truly successful endeavor and has done more for the awareness of breast cancer than any other campaign in history. Who can find fault with that? I can.

What you may not know is that September is Ovarian Cancer Awareness month. Their color is teal.

Ovarian cancer is a silent and deadly cancer. Do you see anyone promoting this on TV? Do you have a teal ribbon magnet on your car, or a fight like a girl teal t-shirt? Do you own a teal pen, or water bottle, how about a silicone bracelet?

With all the talk of going pink, by media, retailers, and celebrities, ovarian cancer is overshadowed by the bubble gum colored and trendy topic of breast cancer.

I recently had to have a CA-125 blood test, which can detect ovarian cancer, my insurance doesn’t cover this test, even though I have been diagnosed with ovarian cysts, and my mother died from this horrible disease. The biggest obstacle with ovarian cancer is the lack of early detection, you don’t have symptoms until in many cases it is too late.

My mothers tumor was the size of a football by the time she was finally diagnosed, and she was left with a colostomy, the inability to eat solid foods, taking all of her nutrition through a twice daily I.V. She underwent several surgeries, many rounds of toxic chemotherapy and lost her hair 3 different times

She endured this horror with a grace and dignity that I can only hope to aspire to. By the time her cancer was detected, there was no saving her, we got to keep her for 3 years, time that I am grateful beyond words for.

I can’t help but wonder if she had known what to look for, if there were television commercials, awareness programs and better education might she have sought out a doctor sooner and been diagnosed while the cancer was still manageable, might she have been here to see her granddaughters start kindergarten and this year graduate from high school.

Today I am tying a teal ribbon to my wrist, because it is September, Ovarian Cancer Awareness Month.

There is plenty of time for pink in October, all I am asking is equal time for all. Will you join me?

For more information regarding ovarian cancer please visit

 http://www.ovariancancer.org/

This weekend I tried to commit my son to the psych ward. He is a drug addict, and an alcoholic, he is 19 years old.

 Saturday evening he had gotten into a fight with his father, over some pain medication he that he had stolen, he called me to try smooth things over with his dad and to stop him from pressing charges and having him arrested. This is not a first time occurrence, he calls me all the time to run mediation between the two of them. This time was different, he called me from his cell phone while on a break from work, and told me he was sitting in someones van , he had no idea whose, no idea where he was and was drinking Four Loco, and had been all day. He had also told me he had taken several hydrocodones and was stealing the van and was going to kill himself. He was crying and hysterical. I convinced him to get his ass out of the van, and tried to get him to pour out the booze, I heard him chug it and shut the van door. He told me he was going back to work. I told him that was a good idea, just go back and stay there. I called his dad, who was much closer than I was and told him to go get the boy, pick him up and take him straight to the hospital.

Reilly could not comprehend why he was at the hospital, and tried to use his usual manipulation techniques to persuade us to just take him home, it wouldn’t happen again…blah blah blah. After a blood and urine test, and telling the doctor that he had in fact tried to kill himself earlier in the week, and had recently started smoking crack. He was released due to the lack of a bed. There were also no beds available anywhere in Cr. Waterloo, or Dubuque.

 He is now thrilled because he thinks he beat the system, and is probably getting high again as I write this.

So my blog friends, any ideas. He will not agree to rehab. He can leave a hospital situation in 24 hours. I do not know how to help him. If anyone out there has dealt with this or can help point me in a direction to some other resource I be so grateful. I do not want to lose my son, and he is in pain.

Elizabeth Edwards death hit me hard. I cried when I heard the news, and tears welled up every time there was another tribute to her running across the airwaves. I have admired her for years, even before her terminal cancer diagnosis, I was a big John Edwards supporter way back when he was on the ticket with John Kerry, part of me loved her because John and those kids were just so damn beautiful and Elizabeth was normal, not unattractive, but not gorgeous, she had a few extra pounds just like me, and yet she was captivating in her own right with her own clear ideas and voice. Her ability to stand by her man when he turned out to be a complete douche made her even stronger in my eyes.

Losing my mother to cancer when she was just 54, certainly plays a role in my admiration for Elizabeth, the women that fight the good fight with grace and optimism never fail to capture my attention. In the end Elizabeth was a mother, the political ambitions ruined by her cheating husband, the reality of her own mortality brought into sharp focus the those things in life that truly matter, family, and leaving a legacy for her kids in the form of an ongoing letter left incomplete yet filled with instructions, advice and pieces of herself for children to hold on to forever.

I have said in the years since my mother has passed, that cancer is often a gift. In its excruciating, slow, and painful journey through your body, it gives you time. The time to say what you need to say, and leave no loose ends. I was given that gift by my mother in the few months we had after she was pronounced terminal, I asked all the questions that I needed too, she was open, honest and giving with me. I have never felt for a moment that I was not truly treasured and loved by someone unconditionally.

I have days now that the need for more answers arises, but there is no one to ask. That makes me sad, I miss my mom, she was my closest confidant, I can deal with that, the worst part about losing her is that I lost my guide, the person who walks through the hard places in life, then takes your hand, pulls you along and shows you the path that is easier. At 33 I asked the questions that were relevant at the time, my children were small, I had no foresight into the fact that I would be older, my kids would someday be on the verge of adulthood. I was selfish and scared when she was dying, focusing on losing something, instead of paying attention to her uniqueness and learning all there was to learn about her life as a woman until that point. I live my life without regret, except for that.

I have no illusions that I will live a long life. As I write this I am eating Christmas cookies for breakfast, smoking a cigarette and slugging Diet Cokes. No regrets. My daughters were five when they lost their grandmother,they are turning 17 this weekend. We have a wonderful open relationship, they know that nothing is forbidden to talk about with me, no matter how uncomfortable it may be for either of us. We have no secrets. And yet in the spirit of Elizabeth Edwards, and in fond memory of mom, I am going to start a life list for them, not because I think I have a ton of wisdom to share, or even that I am a particularly good mother, but because I know what it is like to have a piece of a person that you loved to hold  after they are gone.

Things to Know Before I Go

Do not smoke. EVER.

Brush you teeth every single day.

Music makes every awful task that you have to do, better.

Education really is important.

Always have a book in your home that you haven’t read yet. Just in case.

There is never a bad time to eat bacon.

Or chocolate.

Be honest with yourself and others even if it hurts a little.

Don’t be intentionally mean.

Some people are stupid, you can’t fix it.

Do not buy cheap macaroni and cheese. Not worth it.

Bridges are tricky business, proceed with caution.

You are beautiful.

You should exercise, it really will make you feel better, don’t follow my example.

It is wonderful to have a man in your life, just don’t make that your only goal.

Use your manners.

Dress up for church, weddings and funerals, no jeans are not appropriate.

Vinegar makes stainless steel shine.

Don’t use bar soap in the shower, it is gross, slimy, and am pretty sure it’s full of germs.

Drugs WILL fuck up your life.

Try to find a guy with a Harley, or learn to ride your own.

Stand up for what you believe even if it pisses people off.

Not everyone is going to be your friend or even like you, that is OK.

You don’t have to drink milk.

Share what you have with others, but be careful about who you lend your books to.

On the subject of books, never, never, dog ear the pages. Really.

Keep your house clean, but don’t be obsessive about it, a little dust boosts your immune system.

It is perfectly fine to take a mental health day and waste it entirely on something that makes you calm and happy.

Always wrap presents pretty, no one likes a crappy wrapped gift.

That whipped frosting shit is bad, butter-cream is always the best choice.

Good grammar.

Do not have cats unless you enjoy cleaning shit out of box.

Miracle whip is fake mayonnaise and should not be eaten. Nasty.

Pugs are the work of the devil, do not own one, or I won’t visit.

Don’t be afraid to do your sexy dance.

Kid Rock. Makes you happy. Every. Time. ( May cause a craving for Bud Light) .

Don’t be late. Just don’t.

If you HAVE to be late. CALL. No exceptions to this rule.

Keep your reflexes NINJA fast.

Orange lighters are really the only ones that work properly and aren’t dorky.

Don’t drop onto furniture with thunderous abandon, sit, don’t plop. It is not ladylike.

Find a pair of jeans that make you ass look fabulous, never mind what they cost. Worth it.

You should probably smoke pot a few times, cause really it is kinda cool, just don’t make it a lifestyle.

You have been loved since the moment you were born.

Don’t bother wasting time with people who piss you off continually.

You don’t have to be needy to be needed. This is a big one.

Drama is for insecure people, that demand attention, no one likes that guy.

Tequila really will make your clothes fall off.

It is OK to flash your boobs once in a while, but remember, there are cameras everywhere, use caution.

Beets are disgusting and taste like dirt, don’t eat them, you will be fine. Same thing for pears.

No blinking lights on Christmas trees please. Unless you enjoy being tacky as hell.

I intend for this to be an ongoing list, as I continue to think of wisdom to share, and although some of this is for comic relief , that is part of what makes me, me. When I am gone, I hope my kids will remember most that we laughed and loved as much as possible.

Feel free to leave a comment and add to my list, I can’t possibly remember everything to tell them.

What is it that you want to make sure your people know about you when you are gone.

I am not a morning person. By nature I am not an early riser. There is nothing I like better than burrowing under the covers and grabbing another hour after the alarm goes off. Kendall in contrast is one those happy morning people, his eyes pop open 5 minutes before the alarm goes off, jumps up, clothes on, teeth brushed, ready to start the day, leaving me free to sprawl out and revel in the whole ocean that is his water-bed.

Yes I said waterbed, that is a story for another day. And satin sheets.

So a few weeks ago, I am lounging around in the bed, half awake when I smell bacon frying, this is my cue to get up, because this man is sweet enough to cook breakfast for me every morning on the weekends and mostly because I really like bacon. And I am starving, okay, I am always starving.

I drag myself out of bed, and this is more difficult than it should be. Considering it is a water-bed, my ass sinks a foot below the side rail, and I am barely awake and have to hoist myself out. Instead I just grab my wrinkled up clothes that I threw on the floor the night before and lay back down dressing myself by rolling around in the sloshing bed and the now messed up sheets and blankets. Finally fully clothed I manage to heave myself up and out of bed. It is not always easy being a curvy (fat) girl with bad knees. Bacon is a pretty decent motivator.

Breakfast devoured and now awake for the day we head to Menards for some shopping. We love to go to Menards and wander around, dreaming up projects for the house that we don’t own, surprisingly our tastes are pretty similar mostly because it is easier to agree with me than to try to win an argument. About 20 minutes into our gawking around, I am going to die from heat stroke, for some reason it is 108 degrees in that damn store, could be a hot flash, I unzip the hooded sweatshirt that I am wearing to disguise my curves, and find that the t-shirt that I threw on that morning while wrestling around in the bed is on inside out. And it is way noticeable. Hmmmm. I zip it back up, and just start bitching about the temperature and store managers trying to kill people, So Kendall, says to me “ Take your sweatshirt off dumbass”. Hmmmm.

“ I can’t”

“why not”

“because I can’t “

“ you are being stupid, just take the sweatshirt off “

“I don’t think you want me to do that”

“what now”

I unzip it a little to show him my mistake, and he busts out laughing like the ass that I knew he would be.

“ Jesus, do I have to help dress you now.”

Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

“ you can suck it.”

We then proceed to walk around for another half hour just to make me suffer.

I think about trying to find the bathroom and fix my shirt, but I never can, because they magically move from the place that you are, to the other side of the store, wherever you are, the facilities are always at least 6 miles away, and then Kendall wanders off and I spend another hour trying to find him, I am pretty sure that he does this on purpose, and I don’t find it amusing.

As if I am not uncomfortable enough, we get to the checkout and I am confronted with my biggest rant producing, pet peeve of all time, the slow checker. There are few things in life that piss me off more than standing in line. I have zero patience. None. I am sweating horrible now, and we get the friendly checker, one of the worst, she feels the need to chat with every customer that comes through her line, about the weather, what she is having for lunch, how many drinks she had at the bar last night, her whole fucking life history, she also feels the need to ask about every purchase and add her useless commentary, and moves like she has taken a bottle of Qualudes, how hard is this job, scan, take my money, have a nice day. Our line is progressing so slowly we would have to drive stakes to see if it was moving. I am pissed, hot and beyond cranky by the time we get out the store.

Once we get in truck, it is cooler and I am feeling better, and he asks if I can make it through Target without having a breakdown. Of course, I love Target, and their checkout is pretty fast. I also know that we are going there to buy our weekly 12 pound bag of Peanut M&M’s. I perk up immediately.

Target is wonderful, air conditioning on, cart full of miscellaneous items that I had no idea that I needed, and the M&M’s. Kendall picks the checkout lane with the no line, I love this man.

We get to the cash registrar, and the checker is, and I don’t mean to be unkind, SLOW, as in just stepped off the short bus slow. I uncharacteristically bite my tongue and say nothing. I swear it takes 20 minutes to get the stuff checked and bagged, I am pacing, but quiet. As we make our way to the exit, I say “ Are you kidding me” and begin my little tirade, Kendall looks at me, laughs and says…

“Blondie, at least he had his shirt on right side out.”

Point taken, shut up and open the M&M’s.

I read an article recently, touting the expandability of men. At first glance, I agreed. Women of our generation probably don’t need men, with the exception of sperm production, and I am pretty sure that particular substance can somehow be manufactured in a lab. And if it can’t be yet, I know plenty of men who are willing to donate just for the sheer pleasure of touching themselves, they do it all of the time anyway.

Women are capable of making a decent living, maintaining a house, and firing a gun. We are able to provide for ourselves, food, shelter and god knows clothing, and have the ability to protect ourselves thanks to advances in tazers, pepper spray, and cute little firearms that fit in your purse. We can bear and raise children without a man, look at Octomom, 14 children, without getting near a penis. Women change tires, fix leaks, unclog toilets, and even open jars every day without the help of a man.

Feminism has given us the right to perform all the duties of men, and get paid for it. We have become equals. That’s what we fought for and what we wanted, to no longer be stuck in the kitchen, barefoot, pregnant, wearing just an apron. HOORAY, score one for the ladies.

In doing so, we have somehow made a joke of men. Man bashing has become the norm, we make fun of their Neanderthal ways, and send them to the basement, lovingly (?) called man caves, we make light of the fact that our partners aren’t as enlightened or emotional as we are, that their hobbies are silly and useless, their housekeeping skills non-existent, and their personal hygiene is deplorable. We have reduced them to ball scratching, fart producing idiots who are good for nothing except a paycheck handed to us to spend as we wish.

I am the first to admit that men frustrate me, I have made them the butt of my jokes, and insulted their intelligence. In response to all of this man hating, we have created the metro-sexual, the guy who isn’t gay but looks like he might be. He douses himself in Axe body spray and shaves or waxes his body hair, he gets in touch with his feminine side. He eats his vegetables, and watches chick flicks with you.

He drives a hybrid foreign car and shops at the mall. He carries a satchel. He moisturizes. Good Lord what have we done to men. Where has all the testosterone gone.

I am all for equality, I don’t believe that one gender is superior to the other, but we are different, as we should be, I don’t want my man to become a woman. Just because I don’t need a man a man does not mean for one second that I don’t want one.

A real man, a man with all of his body hair still intact, who drives an American made truck, who wears Levi jeans and cowboy boots, who wouldn’t be caught dead in a mall, unless it is to buy me something from Victoria’s secret or the jewelery store, a man who goes to work and is not afraid to get dirty, who does not know what a mani-pedi is. A man who grills meat and drinks a beer not a glass of white wine.

I want to lie down at night on a broad shoulder,be held close and feel safe. I want a man to protect me from the things that go bump in the night, to get up at 2:00 am to wander at around a dark house in his underwear looking for the origin of the thump that I heard, because that is his job, and he wants to do it.

I want to have children the good old-fashioned way, not with a turkey baster and a test tube. I want razor rash on my face from making out with a face covered in stubble. I want a man curled up behind me while I sleep because really is there anything nicer than waking up in the arms of someone you love?

I want a man who will listen to me, and nod and let me cry, and just shut the hell up about it, I don’t need him to talk everything to death, I have girlfriends for that. I want him to grab my ass in public every once in a while, because it makes me feel hot, and sometimes I want to objectified as a woman, because that is what I am, I like the fact that a man will appreciate you sometimes just because you have boobs, why not, not everything in this world has to intellectual, can’t we just get by on instinct and nature once in a while.

I can plunge a shit filled toilet, open a pickle jar from hell, I can dig a hole, or read a map but I don’t want to, I can walk in the rain, but I would rather have a man drop me off at the door, I can kill a mouse, or clean a fish but it’s not my first choice. I will never be comfortable backing up a vehicle with a trailer. Men are hardwired for that kind of thing, let them have it I say.

I want a man to take my children to ball games, and car shows and scary movies, I want a man to teach them honesty, loyalty and respect, because a good man excels in those qualities. I want my daughters to feel loved by their father, so they don’t go looking for it somewhere else. I want a man to show them how to treat a woman. Children need fathers, if that were not true, there would be no such phrase as “ Daddy Issues”. Every adult I know has a story about their dad that made them the way they are.

There is reverse discrimination going on here, we are committing the same offense that we as we woman fought so hard against. Is that what we wanted. Watch any television program about families and the men are portrayed as fools, useless and unnecessary, the joke is always that the woman is smarter, when did men become little more than comic relief, do we really feel that way about our fathers and our husbands, I don’t think so. It has become fashionable to humiliate men. If you have a son or a brother, is this how you would want his wife to think and behave? Since when is it OK to trivialize any part of the human race. It is not acceptable to use the N word or R word, or really any word that sets off someones sensitivity trigger, but it seems perfectly unobjectionable to say that 50% of our population is expendable.

We are different for a reason, I want to be a strong capable woman, but I also want to embrace my femininity, in the grand design of things women are the bearer of children, the caregivers, and men are hunters, gatherers, and protectors, I am fine with that. When we reduce men to cartoon characters in our lives, we diminish ourselves, superiority is not pretty on anyone.

I am going to stop my man bashing, my father, my brothers, and my sons don’t deserve that. I have been lucky to have a few good men in my life, and a few bad ones too, the same can be said for women. I have learned something from each of them, and knowledge is never a bad thing, For the man in life now, I am keeping him for as long as he will have me, and appreciate every ounce of testosterone that courses through him and embrace all of his ball scratching manliness, because my life would certainly be less without him.

Labor Day Weekend road trip 2010 was spent in Wisconsin as usual, I am fond of the land of cheese more than I should be, whenever Kendall asks where I want to go I just look at him and roll my eyes and he immediately knows my response. WISCONSIN.

The great river road following the Mississippi river, is by far my favorite place on earth, which is ridiculous considering my horrible fear of bridges, especially the kind that have all of that crap over your head, what the hell is all that for anyway, the damn bridge is not suspended from the sky, as soon as I see all of those metal arches in the horizon my stomach clenches up, my knees lock, and I start squinting my eyes shut and grabbing Kendall a little tighter, by the time we reach the actual bridge approach, I am a giant ball of anxiety and dread, I am certain that as soon as we are on the bridge that cars will hit me, bolts will start loosening and the bottom will open up and I will fall into the water a screaming ,tangled mess of metal. About halfway across Kendall will do something cute, hit the brake or the throttle, or start weaving back and forth which pisses me off and makes me sick all at the same time, he knows that he is pretty safe while he does this because I can’t release my death grip on him long enough to junk punch him. Even with my eyes squished shut I can feel him gawking around at the water and the boats and the scenery, causing my mental state to erode further, he really needs to be paying attention for cracks and cars and things that will cause me to perish. Unfortunately the only way to get to my favorite state is to cross a bridge.

Once we finally get across the bridge, and I can open my eyes and breathe again, I am immediately met with the dreaded road sign, the one with the picture of the truck on a downhill descent, signifying a super steep hill, that I am pretty sure goes straight to hell, causing a repeat performance of the bridge behavior, jaw clenched, eyes shut, death grip, more cuteness from the driver.

And why do I put up with this heart stopping vomit inducing endeavor because 20 minutes later, we are in Prairie Du Chien.

Wisconsin, the land of Harley s, cheese, beer, and badgers. I am not mentioning the Packers, oops I just did. They can suck it.

We head to the Delta motel, a tiny, clean little place where I feel safe and comfortable, I have been there so many times it feels like home, we unpack the pack the bike, and Kendall turns on the air conditioner to ensure that I freeze all night, we jump back on the bike and head downtown to Mulligan’s for dinner. We order beers and fried cheese, the best damn fried cheese I have ever eaten, and sandwiches, get uncomfortably full, walk over to the Sawmill Saloon for one more beer, then back to the Delta for some much-needed sleep.

We are up at 7:00 and repack the bike, ride straight to the Hungry House Cafe for biscuits and gravy. Well rested and well fed we hit the highway and ride up the river.

I should mention that I am also not fond of sharp curves or water, and that makes this trip even more crazy, because that is all that this road is, winding around the bluffs, with the mighty Mississippi

running right beside me. The first few times we rode this route I was so tense I had a hard time enjoying it, but the beauty that surrounds you takes away the fear, I still can’t look at the water for very long, and I am fairly certain that if we don’t slam into a rock wall going around a curve, that a giant piece of limestone will fall from above and land directly on me smashing me to bits. I don’t care.

The roads of Wisconsin are smooth and black and sparkle in the sunlight. There are river towns every few miles with buildings that were built with bricks and imagination and have stood the test of time, there are roadside bars with cold beer and friendly folks who welcome strangers with tales of fishing and football, and Kwik Shop chocolate chip cookies in almost every town.

There are houses built into the sides of hills that I can’t begin to imagine living in, eagles flying high, and American flags planted impossibly on top of bluffs. There are dairy farms nestled in the foothills sporting big red barns and the smell of fresh mown hay is abundant throughout 3 seasons.

The wildflowers begin to peek out in the spring, full bloom in the summer painting the roadside with color, the leaves in autumn can take your breath away. It magically never rains on me in Wisconsin.

Wisconsin loves me and I love her back, I will choose her until her scenery and hospitality start to bore me, I don’t foresee that happening anytime soon.

Yes I know that some will say that Iowa is beautiful also, where is my loyalty to the heartland?

Well, when I left Ia, on this last trip, the wind was blowing so hard and the sky so gray it was about 40 damn degrees, but the sun was shining on that black Wisconsin asphalt. We rode for 2 days under blue skies on roads smooth as glass and perfect temperatures. We gassed up in Prairie Du Chien Sunday afternoon and headed across the damned bridge for home.

I shit you not, as soon as we passed the Welcome to Iowa sign, the sun was swallowed up by giant gray clouds again, and the wind started to blow like a hurricane Igor, within a mile we hit 2 bumps in the road so hard they raised me off the seat. In that same mile we were confronted with 2 idiot drivers on the damn phone, heads squarely up their ass almost causing an accident involving me, not cool.

The scenery did I mention the scenery, corn, corn, corn, dead skunk, corn, corn,corn. Iowa can suck it.

So I am on my way back from the grocery store today with provisions, laundry soap, cigarettes, and pink lemonade vodka, I like to smell April fresh while I am drinking and smoking.

I am walking, the sun is shining, there is a beautiful breeze blowing, and I thinking how nice that ice-cold UV lemonade is gonna taste after my exhausting 6 block walk, when my phone goes off.

It is a text message, ooh, my favorite, makes me feel all cool and with it, (do people say cool anymore?)

I know it is a text message from the telltale road runner beep beep that is my text ring tone ( I said I was cool already, right?)

I am jaywalking across the street, while digging my phone out of my purse, and people are honking at me and I hear some slamming of breaks, and I think a cuss word, and find a message from my favorite blonde buddy. This requires my immediate attention.

I would like to tell you that I am great texter, but apparently my DNA is so old that I was not gifted with the gene that makes my thumbs able to play video games or type on a tiny keyboard without complete concentration.

I cross over into the bank drive through lane, thinking that this is safer, less traffic for me to impede, while I write my text, I am laughing out loud to myself while writing to blond girl, thinking how hilarious I am and how she will appreciate my dig at Kendall, she totally gets me. I hit the send button and BANG.

I walk directly into the concrete barrier that separates the drive through lanes, drop my purse and phone,“OW, FUCK” , I do the quick look around to see if anyone saw me. Nope all clear, I reach down to pick up my shit, and realize someone is laughing at me, I lift my head up and see the drive through teller coming across the parking lot, laughing his ass off.

Turns out, it is the cute kid who used to be a bagger at the grocery store, and totally had a crush on me, he gave me a hug on his last day of work, and said he would miss me, if that doesn’t mean he thinks I am hot, I don’t know what does.

He of course asks if I am OK while trying to stifle that stupid grin on his face, and I say “Oh hey Hi, I’m good”, he says “you should watch where you are goin’” (grin, grin) really dumbass I had not thought of that, I mumble some nonsense about texting and waking, and trying to be cool and in that moment realize his crush is over, that he is now in his air-conditioned little cubby texting his buddies without looking at the keys about how some dumb blonde chick just walked into a wall.

Thank God I didn’t drop the vodka.

On a side note, or what I really was going to write today, as many of you know I have had some employment issues, and that has left me with some free time to pursue some of my craftiness.

Here for your enjoyment of sampling of crafty goodness:

370 tiny paper rolls later, a bridal gift for my cousin, I won’t be doing this again for a while:

next up the thing I am really passionate about barn quilts this one is hanging at my apt. hope to do an 8 foot by 8 foot for my aunt’s barn soon

and finally the butter cream frosted, homemade fondant, perfect boobie cupcakes:

they were delicious and no I am not sharing the recipe.

I have way too much time on my hands.

My grandmother turns 94 this month, she is a good woman. The kind of woman who I have never been and in all likelihood will never be. She is the cookie baking, apron wearing, rock you to sleep kind of Grandma that you read about in stories, she is small and soft, and just round enough to give you the kind of hugs that matter and stick with you. She has never had that awful old people smell, no, my grandma smells like laundry dried on a clothesline, and powder blush, that kind of talcy smell that older ladies are dusted with, I can never remember her smelling of perfume, she was never a vain woman. I think of her hands, tiny, wrinkled, red, from years of hard work, wringer washing machines, and years of cleaning and keeping a house the way that it should be kept, and yet impossibly soft. I know this because as long as I can remember she has grabbed my hand and given me 3 tight little squeezes that stand for I Love You. She taught me to make cookies and to bake bread. She tried her damnedest to teach me to sew and crochet without much luck, it wasn’t her fault, I have always been better with food. I cannot recall her ever saying an unkind word, and maybe my memory is faulty and I have elevated her to fairy godmother status, but I honestly don’t think that she has it within her.

She has been a woman of quiet strength and endurance, she has buried a husband and daughter, and her answer to that sorrow was to keep busy, and go on day by day until the pain lessened over time, there were no temper tantrums or fits of rage, her family stood beside her, and she gave 3 squeezes of hand and the days got brighter. She has not been a woman who wanted attention for herself, and looked after others first, always, I think we could all learn something from that.

I tell you all of this because I am feeling a bit nostalgic, grandma has moved into Windsor Manor, a wonderful community for our seniors and is quite happy and her home is for sale. Her home of 45 years, exactly, we know this because she and my grandpa built that home the year that I was born, which she has reminded me of for the last 45 years. When I heard the news of the sale I was fine with it, times change, move on, it is just a house I told myself. This weekend I drove by it and saw the for sale sign stuck at the end of the gravel road and I got hit smack in the chest.

So many memories there, just looking at the house from the highway now, it has changed so much, I can remember the evergreen trees that my grandpa planted as a wind break, so small when I was a child and now obscuring the house even from the road.. I remember the silky yellow blanket folded in the 3^rd drawer of the hall bureau and wonder what happened to it. I remember the whomper stompers hanging on a hook in the garage, and trying to turn cartwheels in the front yard. I remember grandma telling me to be careful every time I went out the back storm door and to not let it hit my heel, picking strawberries, and grilling hamburgers with my cousins out on the back patio. I remember birthday parties, and blowing out candles, eating cake and ice cream from the freezer in the cellar covered in homemade hot fudge straight from the pan on the stove. I remember playing pool in the basement, and looking up at the sparkles on the living room ceiling, while grandma and I rocked in the rocker when I was up all night coughing and baths in the green bathtub. I can still taste vanilla ice cream with Nestle chocolate milk powder sprinkled on it.

I can recall looking through the old scrapbooks and photo albums with the black paper and white lettering and the adults playing Pepper and 500 at the dining room table. I remember rolling out bread on the kitchen counter while my grandpa sat in the rocking chair with the radio on listening to a ball game, and visiting their house on Sundays and digging the comics out of the paper. I remember family meals where it was so hot in there that you thought you would die, and grandpa would put even more wood in the stove. I know exactly where the cookies in the closet are, and the drawer that the Kleenex and the toothpicks are in. I know where all of the silverware goes in the 2 leveled drawer. I will never forget the taste of goosy noodles or Aunt Arlene’s chocolate pie with generous helpings of Cool Whip.

This is the home where my grandpa taught me to play cribbage, pick raspberries, and pit cherries.

The place where I tasted homemade wine that was bitter and awful and ate the smelliest cheese on the planet and made grandpa laugh at me and Grandma. Where I learned that a coffee can with a paper towel in the bottom makes a spittoon. The home where I learned what respect was, and that sometimes it is better to keep your mouth shut and just get along. That being frugal does not mean being poor, it really is always better to give than to receive, and that real love is truly unconditional, where family is everything.

I am an adult and realize that this is what is best for grandma, after all no one deserves better. It is hard for me to imagine someone else living in the house where I felt so much love, the house built on family gatherings and togetherness, and cared for with respect and tenderness. It is difficult for me to think of someone replacing and re-purposing drawers and cabinets. Who will change the towels in the bathroom with the seasons? Surely that is a tradition that she be kept. Will the new owners play cards at the dining room table, keep extra quilts in the empty freezer “down cellar”, will they keep a rocking chair in the dining room that looks out at the clothesline and the bird feeders? Will they have Christmas and holiday dinners, with the same dishes served every year, and say the same prayer before dinner? I hope so, I would like to tell them that tradition is what makes it easier to get through the tough times, that the comfort and safety of home will save you from the worst kind of trouble.

And yet my grandma will be 94, in wonderful health, her mind is sharp and she can still squeeze my hand. My memories will always be with me regardless if I can no longer walk in and see them, I have her and that is all that matters, isn’t it.

As I look back over this blog I see that it has been over a year since I last posted, I would like to be able to say that I have been So busy, or had been involved in some remarkable adventure, or traveling the world, but in truth I have been lazy, uninspired, and felt that I had nothing pertinent to say, for those of you who know me in person, I can hear the scoffing now, thinking what a big mouth and overblown ego that I have. I have cruised by for last 13 months or so, on autopilot, taking shit as it comes and trying to deal with what is, just is. Frankly I am fucking sick of that.

My job, the soul sucking, life killing place that I spend most of my time has gotten to the point that I want to start stabbing people in the face just thinking about it. I have stayed out of some distorted kind of loyalty, and the fact that I felt needed in a place that really doesn’t need me after all, I have stayed because I was raised to believe that you don’t quit, and you just suck it up, if you are tough enough you will be rewarded in the end for all of your hard work and stamina. Turns out that the rewards were not as great as promised, and are getting farther in between, in reality non-existent. The side of my face hurts all of the time from clenching my teeth, and I am exhausted from not sleeping, from stress and the simple fact that I don’t go to bed because I dread getting up in the morning. But mostly I have stayed out of fear, fear of change because that is scary, and I am 45 years old and still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. Writing that seems silly to me, I teach my daughters not to be afraid, to ask for and get what they need and deserve,to not settle and above all to be proud of who they are and I have been a not very shining example of that lately, I have become a whiner and complainer, qualities that in other people make me want to bitch slap them. I deserve a smack upside my own head.

Last week my boss suffered an unfortunate injury ( a broken arm and shoulder,that no I had nothing to do with) changing the way we do business, leaving a workload for me that I am at best uncomfortable with, and adding more hours and responsibility to a job that I already hate, for as I said before, very little reward and as much as my perverse loyalty is kicking in, my heart and head are telling me that this is the wrong direction to be going and if you believe in signs (which I don’t) this might be a big one, a smack upside my thick skull, it is time to move on, make a change, hike up my skirt and get out while the getting is good. So the job search is on, I haven’t quit my days as a window washer but I feel confident that they are numbered, and I am counting them down, and I am terrified and excited as well. Reminding myself that I am a capable and confident woman, takes practice, but it is not so hard, when you are finally stopped being thrown under the bus.

Today is one of the first days in a while that I have felt this relaxed, finally making a decision that I knew needed making but kept putting off due to a case of chicken shit, and my propensity for procrastination.

This could all turn out to be the ultimate quest for failure, but I have dealt with that before, failure and I are on pretty good speaking terms, honestly that is what I been doing for the last 15 years. I don’t have a clue what I want to do now, but crystal clear about what I don’t. There a million ideas in my head, without a clear idea of how to execute them, but that is the fun part isn’t it, finding the things we love in life that we were never aware of.

I hate winter for all of the usual reasons, and I have a seasonal affective disorder that wrecks havoc with me, fall and winter make me want to crawl in a cave and hibernate and the people that have to be around me wish that is exactly what I would do. I am grouchy, mean, lazy, and depressed; I survive solely on sugar, grease, alcohol and nicotine. It is NOT pretty.

But the biggest obstacle to winter is… the HARLEY IS PARKED.

I know right….

Don’t get me wrong, I love love love, the wind in my face, speeding down the highway watching the miles get eaten up, it is the clearest my head ever gets, and spending time alone with Kendall, with no particular place to go is about as good as it gets for me.  But my ass has logged enough saddle time for a while; the real problem with winter is, I lose my whole sense of self image.

I discovered about 12 years ago that I was a biker bitch, oh sure you see me as a mom, daughter, friend, dedicated and hard working employee. That was all true until I threw a leg over a bike, and found my true calling as an old lady.

Oh sure I was little awkward at first, and clung to Kendall like a Koala, but after a few rides, I got the hang of it, I could let go of my death grip, throw my head back, wave my arms in the air and howl like a banshee.

And another biker bitch was born. This particular creature comes with a built in attitude, I defy you to throw on a pair of ripped jeans, black boots, sunglasses and a leather jacket and not get a little cocky.

You learn quickly that perfectly coiffed hair is out of the question, and hairspray is an absolute NO. Makeup is optional and minimal at best, with the exception of some good black eyeliner, mascara and the much needed Chap Stick, you learn to pack light, one bag, small, or else face the eye rolling and scoffing of your partner. If it doesn’t fit on the back of the bike or in the saddle bag “You don’t really need that now do you”. Priorities get straight.  You get tan without a lot of work, and have that healthy glow that says you exercise when you really don’t. You develop really strong inner thighs from gripping your honey’s ass when he thinks 100 miles is an acceptable speed to take a curve. Best of all you get to hang out with a ton of people who are all together for the same reasons, and of course there is always some girl way fatter than you with a lot less clothes on, so you look like quite the catch.

The best part of biker bitch attitude, the ability to alarm people without even trying, back before my transformation I was afraid of these chicks, and god only knows who they were and what they were capable of, riding around on motorcycles with some hairy beast. I had always heard that they would beat the shit out of you for looking at them or their man, they slept on the ground and were passed around to all the men for blowjobs and who knows what else.  Now we pull up to a red light  beside some soccer mom and her husband in a minivan, with the kids waving at us from the back seat, and I raise my sunglasses and wave back at the kids while I can see Susie homemaker screaming at them and I give her my best death glare, while her husband is admiring the bike and wishing for just a minute he would have bought that bike instead of the van, when mama bear snaps him back into reality, at this point I usually drop my glasses put my hands on the inside of Kendall’s thighs and give them both a dirty little smile.  The light turns green and Kendall hits the throttle and we roar through the intersection.  

Attitude. 

5 days a week I am that chick in the van (well not a van) my life is boring and mundane, I mediate kid’s fights, pay the bills and go to the grocery store. I have a job that I hate and a family that I love, and the biker girl stays at bay for the most part, but I know that she is there; just waiting to throw on some leather, tire her hair up in a bandanna, cake on some eyeliner and leave her shitty boring life out there on the pavement. She has balls and Attitude.

I can’t get that in the winter, I have a drawer full of Harley shirts, a killer leather jacket, and pair of boots that will make you want to cry, they are so gorgeous, but without the bike it just doesn’t work. I am wearing sweatpants, eating candy corn, and drinking beer.

Spring can’t get here soon enough.