Inside My Skull

I enjoy a natural environment.

Laura — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 23:28:17 GMT

I thought I would title this I enjoy silence, but it’s not really silence. I prefer the sounds of nature, animals, birds, wind, and ocean; to those of human cacophony. The sounds of arguing people, loud music from cars driving by, power tools, motors revving, car alarms, sirens, children screaming, anything angry or disjointed can too easily affect my mind's ability to filter my mood. Even lonely dogs barking are of human making. I much prefer the sounds of the natural world, like birds. I like where my mind goes. Can I identify the bird just by the call? Can I see it in the trees? I enjoy the ocean. The sound of the waves and ocean breeze bring a calm to me that is necessary to my being. The wind through the leaves in the woods makes me listen. The wind off the ocean filtered by the needles of the Torrey Pines is pure magic; like a two-for-one prize. Then to look off in the distance to see the waves breaking, dolphins enjoying the surf, the endless horizon; this refreshes my soul, this restores my sanity, this gives me the peace I crave. Ever since I watched the National Park series on PBS, I have a yearning to go see them. But as winter approaches, not such a good idea. Snow and I are not good acquaintances. Perhaps a jaunt to the local mountains or walk at the beach is in order. I need to cleanse my brain of the whirring, jarring, yelling, sounds of the city.

Opulence

Laura — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 16:28:13 GMT

We found the tiny club where Wassim would be playing that night. Nicholas met us on the street and was very pleased to see us again. We had witnessed the brilliance of both of their darbuka skills at the festival, their patient teaching style in the classes, and their kind friendship during our week in Biarritz. Nicholas would not be playing but was here for support. Lexi and Quinn, along with Quinn’s husband who had joined them for the next leg of journey, Lynda, Zabeth, Line, Bonnie and I piled into the back of the club. It was sweltering hot with only one small fan blowing what seemed like two drops of air around the small cube of a room. A few other folks were there, some to see the show, others patrons of the bar. Wassim and his clarinet player had hooked up with an accordion player that evening. They started with a raucous Turkish Romany tune. They played another and another, until they were dripping wet in the heat. A few girls got up to dance in the tiny space in front of the stage. One girl was sort of doing Turkish dancing but mostly kept looking to see who was watching her. I decided she was the lost love child of Liz Strong and Paris Hilton. Wassim was brilliant. I watched his hands fly on the darbuka. The accordion player was great, swaying from side to side as he pulled and mashed at the accordion. The clarinet player wailed out the tunes. One would have no idea that these guys had never player together before this night. A violin player showed up halfway through the set and sat in. On the last song, a guy with a giant bass asked if he could sing along. They decided on the rhythm Chiftetelli and this guy went into a rap song, in French, about Chiftetelli, made a play on words and by the end it was the Chef D’Italy. Frankly it was brilliant. Weird but totally fun. At the end of the night, Wassim handed me this giant Syrian Bendir. Simply crafted of wood and goatskin with nylon strings across the head; it sounded amazing. Then he told me he wanted me to have it. He brought four of them to give to his favorite students but he wanted me to pick which one I wanted. I was floored. I knew Wassim was amazing but I think I fell in love with him that night. The next day, Zabeth took us out to the Castle Fontainebleau. These are the grounds where the kings and queens of France lived until Louis XIV moved it all to Versailles in 1682. The title of this blog is opulence. This was my impression of Fontainebleau from the first moment. Not one wall was blank, not one piece of wood undecorated, not one stick of furniture was less than fabulous; this whole place was the epitome of excess. I’ve seen castles and royal houses in England, the riches of the Ottoman Empire, and the seats of power in America; but perhaps to have it all in one place, set out like this bordered on the grotesque. Zabeth told us that Versailles is ten times what we were seeing here. No wonder the peasants revolted. The painting and the sculptures were amazing. Some, like the huge six foot jar in the picture above, were just silly. The grounds outside were just as grand with several man-made lakes, fountains, flowers, shrubbery, statuary, peacocks, forests and lawns as far as the eye could see. I spent some time trying to catch a photo of just one of the butterflies and bees on the flowers but they were far to busy enjoying the pollen to pose for me. We made our way back into Paris through the traffic. We stopped briefly at a small suburb so Zabeth could sign the papers for their new flat. We saw the Eiffel Tower off in the distance, made it back to the apartment, and collapsed for the evening.

Cherchez les femmes

Laura — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 19:25:14 GMT

We had set aside a day to explore the historical sights of Lesbien Paris. Bonnie looked up the addresses where Natalie Clifford Barney had her salon in the 20s, Gertrude and Alice had their bookstore and home, the coffeehouses they hung out with Jean-Paul Sartre, Picasso, Oscar Wilde and Colette. The hotel d’Angleterre, where many of the out of town guests stayed, like Hemingway, Ezra Pound, and Thorton Wilder. Zabeth would be our tour guide for the day. She had previously been to Natalie Barney’s apartment and had been let into the inner sanctum by a then elderly maid who had kept all of Natalie’s books. We stopped at Violette & Company, a lesbian bookstore. It was a small quaint place filled with books and postcards. There were some t-shirts on the wall; one said, “The cure for homophobia is homeopathy.” We bought a book and some cards. We started on the bus and then walked by the Seine. We wandered the side streets until we found the address of Natalie’s house. The whole place was undergoing a renovation. We snuck into the courtyard and peeked into the backyard where many a fabulous garden party had been held. These walls had seen many a scandalous moment in those days with women in several apartments, artists painting models, and tumultuous writers knitting their brows at desks now long discarded. We went into a stairwell and Zabeth pointed out a door that used to lead to the library where she had been. These were the stairs where great women had walked. These handrails were caressed by those hands. This window had framed the vision of a woman as she waited on the street below. Had this corner of the stairwell been where Natalie pressed Renée Vivian against her for that first passionate kiss, not able to contain her beating heart any longer? There was no plaque, no notice, no idea what had gone on here, except what research we had done. It seemed only we knew at that moment. These were just someone else’s apartments now. Did they even know? Were they secretly inspired in the night? Did their hearts swell with love and creativity? The hopeless romantic in me dreams it could be so. We stopped at the Hotel d’Angleterre and saw a notice on the wall about Hemingway. We walked on to see the Deux Magots café where many of them sat and talked over their lives. We found Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas’s house. There was a plaque on this wall commemorating the place. The courtyard garden looked so sweet, I could almost picture them having coffee together on a summer day. Here is where they made their lives together, outside of the prying eyes of the world, safe, together, and happy. This is where the ordinary happened and the extraordinary part of love bloomed. The part of love when you fix a meal together, wash the dishes, and lay in each other’s embrace at the end of a long day. It was here where perhaps two of the most recognizable names in lesbian history lived out the precious mundane moments that made up their life together. We walked down to the Luxembourg Gardens at the end of their street. Many famous painters have depicted scenes here, many artists of the time found inspiration here. We walked through and saw children sailing toy boats in the fountain, lots of flowers, donkey draw cart rides for children, and many beautiful statues. By the time we made it to the other side to find the bus home, we were exhausted. We stopped at the Monoprix grocery, had a bite to eat, and prepared to go out to see Wassim play at a local club.

France Travel Log

Laura — Fri, 14 Aug 2009 18:58:39 GMT

Hopefully the France travel log will contiune this weekend. Sorry for the delay. Hopefully Tribe stays up long enough for me to post the rest. Have a great weekend everyone! Happy birthdays to all you Leos, my beautiful wife and to ME!

Pere Lachaise Cemetery

Laura — Sat, 08 Aug 2009 16:53:20 GMT

One of my odd hobbies is exploring old cemeteries. You find out the most interesting history of a place that way. Napoleon decided that all the great French people, artists, writers, musicians, and statesmen would be remembered properly and show the greatest of France. The remains of Moliere and La Fontaine were moved there in 1804. There are over 300,000 buried there. I knew we would only manage to find a few of the precious ones close to our hearts. The cemetery was just up the road from the apartment where we were staying. We strolled up the street and stopped at a small café called Art and Te for an omelet and coffee for breakfast. This was also one of the things I wanted to do in Paris. Just sit in a café, off the beaten path, and have a real coffee. Our waiter was very nice and spoke some English. Again, shattering the tales of rude Parisians. The couple of flower shops along the way were closed on Sunday, so I would not have a chance to buy flowers to place on Marceau’s grave. That was all right as he wasn’t expecting me anyway. All the websites had said there would be stands selling maps and the guards would have maps at the cemetery. We did not see anyone selling maps but there were a few general maps posted. We did see plenty of people with maps but not where to get one. I asked the guard where Marceau’s grave was at and he said “21.” This referred to the section where he was located. We had our print out of who was in what section but immediately we were overwhelmed by the spectacular sculptures and grandeur of this place. We are so used to angels looking up to heaven and cherubs so happy that the dead person is with God now. But here, the angels were weeping, faces held in hands, broken hearted. Palettes and brushes of great artists lay aside crying statues for that art will never be made again. The angel at Chopin’s grave held her harp in her lap, so sad that that music could not even be played. So much more honest, this grief of death. We saw the great writer Collette’s grave. Hers and Chopin’s grave were well tended with many flowers and plants. We searched and searched for Marceau but couldn’t find him in section 21. Finally I asked a family to look at their map. He was in section 20. I thanked the nice man and we walked up the hill to find him. Bonnie spotted a newer gravestone with the Star of David and sure enough there he was. I found a nice shiny black stone to place for him and took some pictures with my master. We wandered on through the city of the dead. The trees and streets through the graves were amazing. Obelisks, statuary, ironwork, monuments, and history surrounded us. We found the columbarium where Isadora Duncan rests but could not find her among the thousands of plaques. We walked on to find Oscar Wilde’s sphinx. The entire thing was covered in lipstick kisses. Written on the bottom was “The greatest man in all the world.” It was so sweet. We found Gertrude’s Stein very plain grave together with Alice B. Toklas. It had a few stones along the top and one plain rose. Very poignant for her “A rose is a rose is a rose.” We walked past the section for the WWII memorials for the concentrations camps. “France will never forget you,” was written on many of them. We cried a lot on that path. We heard someone ringing a bell in the distance and figured that this was our notice that the place would be closing. We had walked for hours and only seen a small part of this amazing place. We were hot, tired and hungry again. We walked around the outside of the cemetery back to the café and had a salad and a cold drink. There was a picture on the wall of some fish. They all looked very surprised. Bonnie had me pose with the fish with the same face. It was very hard to take the picture since every time I made the face, Bonnie laughed her head off and everyone in the place looked at us and then I got embarrassed to be making such a ridiculous face. But eventually the masterpiece was made. For more photos of out trip, check here: http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/album.php?page=1&aid=106581&id=607920123 For more info on the cemetery, check here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P%C3%A8re_Lachaise_Cemetery http://goparis.about.com/od/sightsattractions/p/Pere_Lachaise.htm

On to Paris

Laura — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 04:42:59 GMT

The first day we didn’t get awakened by slamming doors or yelling was the only day we needed to get up at a specific time. My alarm on my Tako sports watch didn’t go off since I had set the second time not the alarm. Ok who needs two different times on a watch but I digress. We woke up 15 minutes before the ride to the airport was to arrive at 5am. Slap dash, we threw ourselves together, chucked our stuff in our suitcases and rushed out the door. The Air France flight was delightful considering it was 0-dark-thirty. A very handsome flight attendant offered us coffee, croissants, and tiny little sweet breads. We arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport and said our goodbyes to whole group. We set out to take the RER train to the Metro and then on to the apartment where we would be staying. The first thing to know is that there are no escalators or elevators on the Paris train system. This means if you have suitcases, you carry them up, down and all around the many flights of stairs. When we got to the Anthony Station to transfer to the Metro, we were tired, overwhelmed, and had tourist written all over us. I noticed this man hanging around the turnstiles but not moving through to the trains. Then we found out the hard way, he’s a pickpocket ready to play the crash-and-grab with Bonnie. He waited until she was in the train turnstile and pushed into her. While she was trying to get through he lifted her wallet out of her purse. We were so tired from our early morning flight we thought he was just being an ass. I had a weird feeling about it and had her check her bag. Sure enough her wallet was missing with her passport. Poor Bonnie burst into tears. I said, “Stay here,” dropped everything and I ran back. He was STILL THERE! waiting to do it again to the next person! I chased him down and grabbed him. I shook him and yelled as hard as I could. He kept saying, “No it was a black man.” I kept yelling, “I know it was you! Give me the wallet!” I grabbed at his pants to see if he still had it. Then he laughed at me. I decided he needed to take me seriously. I kept a hold of his collar and punched the side of his face with that fist. I shoved him into the wall and hit him again. His eyes got very big. He took me down a hall in the struggle and pulled the wallet out of a trashcan. I grabbed it and the passport, driver's license, and all her credit cards were there. He ran off pretty quick when I let him go. All he got was 15 Euros and a 20 dollar bill. I yelled so hard I hurt my throat. I ran back to Bonnie who was in tears. Some people from the train station were trying to help her. This man said, "How did you do that?" when I showed up with the wallet. We got our things together, tried to calm ourselves and got onto the next train to get out of there to the house were are staying at. It was quite a shock to go through that. It took us quite a while to calm down. When we finally made it to our destination, with some help of some very kind Parisians, we tried to lay down to take a nap. But I couldn't sleep; every time I closed my eyes I could see his face. Bonnie couldn’t sleep either. The whole episode was so upsetting. Bonnie felt awful but none of it was her fault. Those shits do that every day. Like it is their job. I am grateful for all that we have and thankful for the outcome. I'm glad my beautiful Bonnie is ok, that she is unhurt, has her things back, and she is safe. I'm glad I apparently have no fear and no sense. Day one, welcome to Paris. Great.

Medieval Walled City

Laura — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 15:33:53 GMT

Our last day, we went on a train trip through Basque country, to the medieval walled city of Saint Jean Pied de Port. Bonnie decided to stay at the hotel to sleep and have some down time to herself. It was my job to go on an adventure, take pictures, and report back my findings. The countryside was beautiful. People rafting on the river, cattle, horses, sheep, and goats in the fields, crops, forests, and dotted through the countryside, sweet little villages. I noticed everyone had flourishing kitchen gardens. One stop was next to a farmhouse. Our car stopped right next to a pen with three piggies. The pigs all came over to the fence and gave us a good looking over. I took their picture while they posed for me. The city of Saint Jean Pied de Port was so interesting. The streets were narrow and for walking only. Cobblestones, old brick facades, and glorious ironwork on heavy wooden doors surrounded us. As we walked down the first street, I saw a man leaning out the second story window. His shirt was billowy, his hair full, and he watched as this passel of dancers strolled through his town. I said to Amy, “Look, that could be any time in the past 500 years.” The city itself was odd. Part working village, part tourist attraction with the fashion shops and theme stores, and part living history, I was fascinated by it We walked out to a picnic that awaited us on the green. Midway through our meal it began to rain. Tjarda and Quinn had found a tree that had good cover so I lunched with them. The rain let up just in time for amazing almond cake with a yummy custardy middle. I fashioned a to go container to take some back for Bonnie. We went back to the city to a café and had some coffees. The rain came and went. Some of us split off and went adventuring on our own. Sarah, April and Tangerine let me tag along with them to go check out the Citadel. The highest point in the surrounding area, this citadel would indeed have been an ideal place to defend from. Many arrow slits in the walls for archers, a great moat, and a rickety drawbridge that gave me the willies to cross. We rendezvoused back at the café. We had some time before our train would arrive. I decided to go back to the old church that had once been the original building in the city. The foundations were laid in 1212. The church was built upon those foundations in 1508 and remained mostly unchanged since then. Those of you who know me, know that I’m not so into the whole religion thing, but I am a sucker for some good history. Inside, at the nave of Mary, I could feel the thousands of women who had come there to pray to her; asking for help in hard times and giving thanks in times of plenty. So many, right there. We walked back to wait for the train ride home. We were a bit early. I wandered around looking at the old train buildings. Kami gave me some flowers to take to Bonnie. I went across the tracks to pick a few more for her. I noticed the sky was amazing right then and laid down to watch the clouds and sun dance together above me. All in all, a wonderful day to walk through history.

Do you have eyes?

Laura — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 14:58:28 GMT

All week we had bread, cheese, milk and jam delivered for breakfasts. Mimi, Djeynee’s mom, along with some of the crew prepared food for all of us; mindful of the vegetarians, gluten-free, and salt-free diets various people are on. The food all week was yummy and more than a lot of work feeding all those people. I wanted a warm breakfast. The nearest grocery store was at least a miles walk away. At the first little market they did not have mushrooms. Bonnie really likes scrambled eggs with mushrooms and cheese. The next nearest store was an additional mile walk away and they did have mushrooms. I asked the lady behind the counter; first with my “sorry my French sucks” phrase, then “Avez-vous l’oeil?” thinking I’m asking for eggs. Oeil is French for eyes. Oeuf is eggs. At first, she stared at me while I tried to gesture “eggs” in the best way I could. She figured out my mistake, showed me the eggs, and had a chuckle. I had no idea I’d said it wrong until Pascal, Djeynee’s husband, explained it to me later. One evening we had a picnic at the beach with a drum circle and dancing. I’m used to evenings at the beach with a bonfire and beach chairs in the sand. In France the sun does not set until well after 10 pm, the sand ranges from rocks to small pebbles, and usual snackie bits are wine, bread, and cheese. The day after my surf adventure, the outing was to be a 30 minute walk to Biarritz to a night market. Up one side street in Biarritz, a little French bulldog came over and let me pet her. She went back to the gutter, picked up a fat green onion, brought it back and dropped it at my feet. Then she sat on my feet and wagged her tiny little tail. I bent down to pet her and was rewarded with many licks on the head. The walk was difficult for me. My body had been so beat up by the surf the day before, sleep had been sporadic with loudness waking us up in the mornings, plus Bonnie was exhausted by classes. By the time we both got to the destination, we wanted to go back to the hotel to sleep. We made our way back to the bus and got a ride back. The show at the end of the week was amazing. The stage was right off the main beach in Biarritz next to the fancy casino. The wind was blowing but everyone performed their hearts out. This show was outside, open to the public, and they flocked to see the show. Tjarda and Renata of Uzume from the Netherlands were fierce. They looked like Norse Goddesses walked right out of the ocean onto the stage. Amy and Tangerine did a wonderful piece together. Our drum class did a little bit. All the French groups, Kami, Fred, Ariella and Jenn were beautiful to watch. And of course, Unmata tore the stage up! Raven co-hosted the show with a French fellow. She provided the English portion of the show. I talked them into letting me tell a wee tale. I told the story in French, as I had been practicing, about my trip to the market. Comedy in general is hard but in a foreign language is really difficult. They were all slightly amused by my attempts at French but they did enjoy the story of “Imagine. Instead of eggs, a breakfast of eyes.”

A Week in Biarritz

Laura — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 14:53:41 GMT

Our hotel was overlooking the beautiful west coast of France in a small town called Anglet, just north of Biarritz. Out the front door you could see, hear and smell the lovely ocean. A lighthouse framed one side of the view. This was a wonderful way to wake up. Our room was indeed small. Six women, all our stuff, one toilet, two showers, two floors; if you can call the little attic room a floor, and a common area that you could almost swing a cat in. The common area was the kitchen, an eating area, a little couch, and a small back porch overlooking the golf course. I had been a little greedy and grabbed the one room with a bed for Bonnie and I in my rush to sleep the night before. We had a small meal of baguettes, cheese, and pizza that our hosts had prepped our rooms with. The rest of the crews were roomed up similarly. Unmata and Uzume in one room; Ariella and her crew in another; while Amy, Raven and the girls were in the adjacent bldg. The only internet was available downstairs in the lobby. The wifi (pronounced wee fee in France) would be up or down all week, in one bldg or the other depending on the moment. All of us spent some time up and down the stairs trying to stay connected with email. Cars arrived sporadically to shuttle us to various events, classes, lessons, and shows. All of the Tribal Umrah crew were amazing. Some knew English or varying degrees of it, some did not. I had a wonderful time figuring out what to say, how to say it, or just how to get it across. All in all, they were a bunch of wonderful people. The first night before the festival was a preview show. Djeynee had organized dancers from a few areas in France and Spain plus some of the dancers from the states. The show was great followed by a question and answer period. The press was there and did a couple of stories in the local papers about the festival and the big show in Biarritz at the end of the week. All the classes were well attended. I got to take two classes with two amazing drummers, Wassim and Nicholas. I went down to the beach with Fred the first day. We took some pictures and just enjoyed the sound of the ocean. Kami, Fred and I walked around and looked at the architecture, some amazing houses, and some shops. A couple of days later I rented a bodyboard and went surfing. Little did I realize, but a storm was brewing in the Atlantic and I surfed in what turned out to be 12’ surf. It felt big at the time but I really wanted to experience it. I got my ass handed to me a few times, my speedo nearly pulled off me more than once, but all in all I had an exhilarating time. The next day I took board back down to the beach. “Odd, no one is in the water.” I thought as I traipsed down the hill. The storm was imminent and the sea was angry. I thought, “I wonder if I should even go out. Well I rented this damn board, I guess I have to.” I put on my fins and started to enter the water. I heard lifeguards yelling and saw them waving up on the boardwalk. One of them came down to explain. I told him my standard beginning phrase, “Pardonez mois, ma Francais est terrible. Parlez-vous Anglais?” He told me, “You cannot go. The red flag. It is your life. We will not come for you.” I was truly shocked by this response. I sort of count on the lifeguards to come get you if you are in trouble. But I pretended not to be and asked, “Is it because of the storm?” “Oui,” he replied, “We have a lots of the streams,” as he pointed to the ocean. I took this to mean bad currents. I thanked him for explaining. He apologized for his accent. I told him, “I’m in your country. I should learn better French.” He smiled and went back to his post. I went back and gathered my things, and walked down to the board rental shack. After much back and forth with the owner, and the girl behind the counter telling him in French, “Fine you come and work. You tell her!” I got half my money back for the rental. She knew it was fair. The owner just didn’t want to give up the money since he would get no business for days. I went back to the hotel, relieved that I really didn’t have to surf in hazardous conditions just to get my money’s worth. I was kind of scared looking at that raucous sea. I had surfed the day before in huge conditions. The next few days I was so sore but it was worth it. I told my story to the girls and for the next few days we often said, “It is your life. We not come for you.”

Trip to France

Laura — Fri, 31 Jul 2009 14:43:33 GMT

This is what I had dreamed of. That I was actually going to France. 1974 I discovered the amazing world of Marcel Marceau and my dreams began. I worked hard at my craft of the Mime. I entered a prestigious contest at age 16 and won Most Inspirational Mime out of a field of 300, including professionals. I studied with every teacher I could. I took French so that when I graduated high school, I would travel to France and study with the master Marceau. My father died the summer I graduated. I didn’t go to France. That dream was derailed. I went to see Marceau when he came to town. I snuck backstage the first time and spoke with him. He told me, “Show love in all your work.” I saw him again, aged but still able to fill a stage with his magic. Bonnie and I waited to see him. Again we spoke briefly. I floated from the auditorium. When he died in 2007, the world lost something great that I don’t even think it realized it had. Yes I had preconceived notions about what France would be like. I had people telling me how rude the French were and even, “The problem with France is it’s full of French people.” But in my mind I knew that this place was filled with history and magic. Reality began with the travel. San Diego to San Francisco to hook up with the first group, San Fran to New York, then New York to Paris; seemed like flying for an eternity. The overnight portion was no room to move, kids kicking our seats every 3-5 minutes, and zero sleep. We arrived at Charles De Gaulle airport. Here we had a 5 hourish layover while we wait for various groups to arrive. Raven, Plum and Tangerine along with Shelly and Sara from Unamta go to meet up with Amy and Kami from their flight. Frederique, Bonnie and I go freshen up in a clean restroom. We agreed to all meet up in the train station. While in the rest room, we heard several announcements about “please pick up your lost bag.” On the way to the train station, we heard a very large explosion. It was the kind of sound that makes you stop and you guts says, “this is bad.” We were assured by an airport employee that the French military was taking care of everything – by blowing up the bags. We never found out if this had been some kind of exercise or if some poor schmuck had their underwear blown to smithereens. We finally get all the different parties together. With half an hour left before our train leaves for Bayonne, the final party arrives with our tickets. We rushed to the train platform, piled on, and proceed with a five hour train ride. Yes, after starting out our day at 6am Pacific time the day before, flying, waiting, flying, waiting, blowing shit up, waiting – a train ride for five hours. Yes the countryside was beautiful, but sleep would have been more rewarding. The only opportunity I got to sleep in the train was for 3 seconds of lying down before the train filled up again. Cranky, delirious and hungry, I went to the cafe car and stumbled out some bad French to order some food. The lady was very helpful and knew some English. I got us some tasty sandwiches and that took care of the hungry part. By the time we arrived at Bayonne, Bonnie and I hadn’t slept in about 40 hours. Our hostess Djeynee and a group of at least 12 greeted us. We split up into various cars, piled our luggage into a van and headed off to the hotel. We were allotted six to a room. I wasted no time in getting to the room, picking out a bed, and hurrying to get to sleep. The others girls were not so happy with the arrangements. Apparently the rickety bunk beds some got were actually sized for children. All I knew, I needed to sleep and whatever happened tomorrow, was tomorrow’s problem. Earplugs in, eye mask on, I slept fitfully – but at least it was sleep.

Whew!

Laura — Wed, 29 Jul 2009 23:02:23 GMT

I feel like I just got kicked off Survivor Paris. We made it to the end but failed the "ride the kiddie tricycle with a flat tire through the hoops of fire" stunt. Been home 4 days and still feel like I've been run over by a bus. I will eventually write out all the ridiculous, can't believe it happened, wait here's another twist, are you kidding me, moments. For now I am just trying to get rid of the French flu.

My daddy

Laura — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 21:37:50 GMT

My dad was not the perfect man. He had a big problem with alcohol. It ended up killing him at age 48 right before I turned 18. So many stories of drunken escapades can be told. But I loved him for the man that he was when, as my grandmother would say, when he didn’t have the drink in him. My dad knew how to grow things. Our garden was amazing. We had a plum tree, tangerine tree, peach tree, orange tree, roses, vegetables, flowers, cactus and succulents galore. We would often sit in the yard together and dig out the weeds from the lawn. He taught me about pruning, mulching, planting, and care for all our plants. He would take me with him to the nursery and show me how to pick out healthy plants. My dad knew how to sew. He would make us clothes. He made my prom dress. He made me a handbag for school. He recovered a couch and a chair. I learned how to sew and that sometimes swearing at the project is necessary. I still have his sewing machine and still use it. My dad knew how to crochet. He entered the Del Mar Fair with two of his bedspreads and won first place in the general category. One has an amazing pineapple design; the other has 3-D roses. These were to be my brother and my wedding presents. Neither he nor my brother lived long enough for that. I have them both along with a few other pieces of his. I spent many hours playing cards with him. He would sit in his chair, the ottoman was the playing surface, and I’d be on the floor in front of him. He taught me how to shuffle. This is one of my special memories of him. We painted and wallpapered stuff around the house together. I was always his helper. My brother was busy being a bookworm genius resentful of any interruptions. I was more than happy to spend time with my dad. Whenever we painted, I was in charge of painting the left-handed corners of things. He seemed to be able to invent solutions to household repairs. I fully accept my unusual way of thinking about problems as well as my stubborn streak from his examples. He taught me how to pack efficiently. He took some suitcases and a couple of boxes out to the car one day. He said, “See if you can fit all this into the trunk.” He guided me with, “Try to turn it that way,” and “Now that will fit over there.” He had me unpack it, got a couple more boxes, and had me pack it again. I attribute my Tetris packing skills to this valuable lesson. After my father’s death, more than one person had been more than freaked out just how like him I am. I speak like him without the Indiana accent – the phraseology and the gestures are his. I look like him. I have had more than one person ask when I took the old-timey picture in drag that is his high school photo. I have both my parents silly sense of humor and his playful attitude. I miss my dad. I’d like to show him my cactus and succulent collection. I’d like to make him an amazing dinner. I’d like to play a game of cards with him. Mostly, I’d like to hear him laugh again. Thanks for being the best dad you knew how to be. Happy Father’s day Daddy, wherever you are.

Still unemployed / looking for a real job

Laura — Wed, 10 Jun 2009 19:33:05 GMT

I just spent 2 hours looking for jobs - again. I do this at least once a week. Sending out resumes, filling in annoying applications, and trying to find something in my salary range. That part is stupid hard right now. Admin asst. jobs have all been cut. I used to send out 50-60 resumes a week in the past. Now I’m lucky if I can squeeze 20 out. All the jobs listed are way under paid, part-time, and no benefits. I’ve been looking since Jan – still nothing. Part of my problem is my spotty job record. I worked at a coffeehouse for 10 years. Opened the door and helped the first customer. But the $8/hour was getting me nowhere. On the advice of my stepfather, I went to the corporate world. Since then, I haven’t kept a job for more than one year – in 15years! Budget cuts, bankruptcies, and psychos have made this impossible. Now with the economy in this false fear attitude, no one is hiring. The university that hires people all the time is canceling jobs or just keeping them open until they can afford it. Mind you, none of these places have actually lost any business, none of their money is different, and there is no excuse. I wish there was a way to not have to get a regular job. I wish that my home business (that has only lost money for 7 years) could get me by. Nothing I’ve tried has worked – in fact all attempts have only cost me thousands of dollars with zero return. I wish my job at the Book Mine could pay me the salary I need/deserve with some health benefits. The furry purry love I get there is wonderful and my heart has healed from that awful place I was in a year ago with the Russian Prison Matron. I feel so much better. To go to work each day and have everyone happy that I showed up is amazing. Dancing kitty feet waiting for pets makes me smile. Or win the lotto. Are these things too much to ask?

The dinosaurs are coming in the morning

Laura — Fri, 22 May 2009 22:05:11 GMT

One evening, Bonnie came to give Laura her good night kisses. The goodnight kisses are Laura’s favorite time of day. “Put in your earplugs. The dinosaurs are coming in the morning.” Bonnie said sweetly. This could only mean one thing. It would be Friday morning and come the dawn the garbage trucks would be roaring and banging and making all sorts of ungodly noise for that time in the morning. Kind of like if a T-Rex were on the job, picking up the cans, screeching to the sky over his found treasure, devouring the contents, and slamming the empties back on the curb. If I indeed wanted to sleep, earplugs would be the way to go. I offer you this pictorial of our street with our new garbage man. Thank you Photoshop for making my imagination come to life.

Memories of a Farrier

Laura — Thu, 14 May 2009 18:28:22 GMT

The book I’m working this morning took me back, way back. “The Principle of Horseshoeing” by Doug Butler has me dreaming. Long ago and far away, I rode horses. I took riding lessons on a giant Belgium draft named Chestnut. He was blind in one eye and my little twelve-year-old legs barely reached his sides. I learned how to get this gentle giant to perform the most intricate dressage patterns. I would bring him apples and carrots for treats and he would return the favor with giant horsey love. My riding instructor was this cute teenager, probably one of my first few girl crushes. She had long, shining blonde hair. She was very proud of me and we often went on riding excursions, just the two of us. My grandmother would go over to the Alpha Beta everyday and sit at the lunch counter for a couple of hours in the afternoon. She used to be a waitress in a diner back in the day and found the camaraderie there stimulating. One of the fellows was a traveling farrier. A thin man with black hair and black rim glasses, he was as kind as his hands were calloused. My grandmother encouraged me to befriend him. He told me he’d like me to be his apprentice. He took me a few times to jobs and showed me the trade. I learned to clean hooves, pick the right shoes, and take off old ones. He gave me a horseshoe and told me it was from the great Secretariat who had won the Kentucky Derby earlier that year. I hung it over my bedroom door. I started to learn about grooming from my trainer at this time as well. This was a happy time for me. Then one day he stopped coming to the lunch counter. I never saw him again. I guess another big racing team picked him up. Shortly after this, my lessons were to advance to jumping and a higher price. My father decided it was too much money. We didn’t have much and it was pretty extravagant that I got to take lessons at all. I was heart broken but knew our family couldn’t afford it. My horse years were over. I get nostalgic over horsies from time to time. Like today.

Frankly sick of idiotic Republican hypocrisy

Laura — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 05:29:44 GMT

We put up with your crap for eight years. We put up with Daddy Bush, Reagan and Nixon before that. Yes I know all the ways deregulating the banks, removing oversight from corporations, tax loopholes for your rich buddies, mowing down our forests, destroying our air, water, and land you have pulled. I know all about your schemes with insurance companies, oil and gas, starting wars for profits while ignoring famine, disease, and genocide. I know how you systematically took my rights away, kept this country in false fear, and all the while ruining undermining the very spirit of this great county of ours. This bull about how gay marriage is destroying America is false. You did that. This squawking about socialism is a lie. Fixing the very problems you created is not going commie. It’s called first aid to a system that is about to bleed out from your arrogant, ignorant, blatant disregard for the citizens of this country. Rallying your idiots for a “tea party against taxation” is propaganda, pure and simple. Other first world countries have national health care, better working conditions, better transportation systems, better educations systems and many more qualities these protesters call socialism. They don’t want to be taxed for services. Right now in France a family that makes the same amount of money my family makes is taxed LESS than I am and gets more benefit. What do I get? I appreciate the police, the lifeguards, the libraries, the streets I drive on. But I’d like some health coverage. I’d like an equal tax system that taxes everyone without loopholes and deductions. If everyone, including corporations paid their fair share, there would be enough money to feed, clothe, educate, and care for all of us. Tell me Mr. Republican, what is so wrong about that? Have you no compassion for your elderly mother, your children, or anyone else for that matter. Are you so self centered that you are the only one who counts? And you call yourself a Christian. You should be ashamed. *This message has been brought to you by a left-wing lesbian who dreams of a world filled with happy, smart, fullfilled people who think with thier hearts and not with their greedy wallets.

Wow, I should win a prize for grouchy

Laura — Fri, 06 Feb 2009 20:00:39 GMT

I just read all my blogs. I wanted to see a history, progression of sorts. What did I notice the most? Damn, I am one grouchy bitch. I know I have reason to have been this grouchy in this lifetime. There are several therapists who will verify those facts. But all the reasons are just an excuse. It’s kinda painful to see how grouchy one person can be and then to realize, whoops, that person is you. Ah well, insight is a delightful thing. See that right there? Oooohhh you could change that. Or even better to have an insight and realize you’ve changed, feel differently now, or just plain know better. That’s the beauty of the path. Some people can actually see where they’ve been and see positive change. So I would like to submit my past grouchy for consideration for a prize. Grouch of the year? Of the century? And please let the prize be something good, not just a plaque with my misspelled name on it. Cause that would make me grouchy. My goal for 2009, less grouchiness. Now if we could just get the rest of the world to cooperate with me on this….

So I got fired

Laura — Sun, 25 Jan 2009 19:43:24 GMT

Or as Princess Smarmy described it, “Let go due to budget cuts.” Everyone knows it was retaliation. I wouldn’t put up with being bullied. I filed complaints about the stress I was under. Hey surprise, let go. That’s right, time to let go. Time to refocus on my health, my mental state, quiet my mind for meditation, and rebuild my awareness. I used to be totally defended and learned through study to relax. Then I went into this job with all my defenses down. I was in a place of lovingkindness, compassion, and openness. Just ripe to being taken advantage of by ruthless meanies. I left there feeling wounded and crouched in full defense mode once again. I need to find a balance. Just the right balance of calm compassion but keep the shield ready to deflect those who have malicious intent. I need to know how to stand my ground with integrity. I think I managed some of that. I did handle it differently. Even the HR Rep who had to walk me out said, “You don’t deserve this.” Well at least I know I did my best in a terrible situation. Next job interview, I need to be more aware of people. I need to find out before I go in if this is a toxic environment or a healthy one. I need better radar. For now I will practice letting go. I will breathe in the healing and send it out to the world. I will work to strengthen my body and continue to soften my heart. This has not broken me. I have been through much more than these puny time thieves will ever know. I am still here, still growing, and still on my path.

Don we now our gay apparel

Laura — Mon, 22 Dec 2008 16:46:28 GMT

I have had a revelation from God this morning. At least that is what I want to tell a certain segment of society that worked so hard for Prop 8, just to deny me my rights. Remember the 80s? I do. I personally lost my brother and over 100 friends to AIDS. In this country alone, we’ve lost over ½ a million. That means that heaven ain’t what it used to be Mary. It means heaven has been redecorated, spruced up, and glitterfied. I’m pretty sure God isn’t wearing that tired old robe and those sandals either. That is so last millennium. God is wearing Versace and heavens does He look good. So all you bigots that THINK you have heaven all wrapped up for yourself – think again. The boys I knew; I am certain they went to heaven for all the kind compassionate work they did here. The love and joy they brought just to my life isn’t but a thing compared to all of them up there now. And do you think God wants to go back to boring old Sundays with you people? Paleeze! Sundays in the park with the music bumping, great food, and lots of happiness to go around – now that’s what heaven is all about. So you can pack your sorry bag of hate and get ready for the bus to the lakes of fire. Because girlfriends, God likes His new community. They’ve been around for 20 years now and the old tattered, boring neighborhood you didn’t take care of - has been gentrified. Paul Jabarra had it right: Heaven is a disco The Lord is the DJ The Angels are the waiters And there’s nothing to pay.

Peanut Butter on a Rice Cake

Laura — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 20:34:14 GMT

My new favorite treat. Thank you Bonnie for my lunchie goodness. I do like a lot more peanut butter than this picture shows. It's so crunchy and delicious. But it's dry to the power of 10. So the equation would read: (Peanut butter + rice cake)¹° = Sahara in my mouth

I am 579 months old and finally spayed.

Laura — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 16:09:49 GMT

The procedure well so well I can hardly believe it. I must give a standing ovation to the staff and facility of Alvarado Ambulatory Care Center. The place was so clean and comfortable. The staff were all so kind and nice. Night and day to the treatment we received at Mercy Hosptial when Bonnie had her surgery. Alvarado +20 vs. Mercy –50. Anyway, I digress. Thank you to Genevieve for driving me my appointment. You rock! I spent the morning listening to my Deepak Chopra “Sounds of Healing” mediation. My anesthesiologist Dr. Lo was pleased to know that. I went in they got me situated and I was out. No counting, nothing. I laid down and sleep. I came to and felt a little crampy but nothing like I expected. They gave me a Perkacet so that took the edge off I’m sure. An hour or so later Bonnie came in and helped get dressed. Bonnie took me home and took care of me all day. I felt pretty good. I took a nap for a couple of hours. I felt so good with Bonnie’s help I made dinner and we even baked some peanut butter cookies! I feel really good today. Haven’t even taken any pain pills so far. Amazing. Really so easy I wonder why it took me this long. But good things come to those who wait. Peace – out!

Lasers!

Laura — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 19:14:53 GMT

Tomorrow I get to have laser uterine ablation. This could mean the end of periods. Finally after years of asking, I get some real help. I’m up to every 10 days of 8 full days of bleeding buckets. TMI for most but some people really want to know why I’m doing this. Best case scenario, zippity zap, up and at em on Saturday, no more periods for the rest o my life. According to the waiver form, worst case scenario, I die under anesthesia. That’s ok, I came to terms with life and death long ago. Either way, no periods. I asked my doctor if when she is done, if I’ll be able to shoot lasers out my hooch. She looked at me and said” That would be cool.” I think there’s an entire SuperHero costume in the making here. Bonnie has already decided her name – Laser Cunt. It just sounds the best. Laser gina, laser hooch, laser pussy, - just not as strong. Laser Cunt! ZAP! I know, I know, too crass. But if you know me at all, that’s how I roll. I make jokes about the direst of situations. If you can’t laugh at life, it can get pretty depressing. The more creative you can be about life’s curveballs, the more interesting it can be. So just in case I forgot to say it, thank you for being my friends. When you see a wild daisy on the side of the road, think of me. Next time you can, take a walk on the beach at sunset. When the pelicans fly just above the waves, I’ll be there. And if you can ever get to San Diego and ride the carousel in Balboa Park, try to grab the brass ring. Do these things for yourself. Hopefully we’ll get to do them together for a long time to come. In the meantime, I’ll be figuring out how to aim that laser….

Bittersweet

Laura — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 15:59:31 GMT

This victory is so bittersweet. Yes we needed change. Yes it is delightful to have a President elect that can actually form a clear sentence and speak with eloquence. Yet bigotry remains. By a narrow margin in California, Prop 8 has passed. Florida and Arizona wrote similar discriminatory language into their state constitutions. Constitutions – documents to set in motion freedoms and rights have been tarnished by the right-wing conservative morality police to take away rights. To take away rights from queers. It’s official. It’s ok to be a bigot as long as you direct it at queers. Illegal immigrants still get a bad rap but not Hispanics in general. But all queers – go ahead – fair game. Hell even farm animals got a better deal than we did last night. That’s right. A chicken that will go on to be a McNugget one day got more votes than I did. That future hamburger got more consideration than my 15 year relationship. It’s downright shameful. It’s not that animals don’t deserve to be treated well – but dammit – it’s the 21st century and I had hoped that this big “Change” everyone was so hot about was real all the way around. I was hoping that I was finally equal. I am glad Obama won. But I am mad as hell that California, my state I’ve been so proud of, let us down.

Tribe's hiccup

Laura — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 15:47:53 GMT

I realize everyone's fairly fed up with Tribe's inability to stay running, the crazy "updates" that lose months of stuff, but then it all comes back, and the rumors about it "going away" every five seconds. It's amazing to me that net rumors spread faster than the flu in preschool. I know you want to bail. But wait, consider this. Where else is there THIS? This format. There isn't. Everyone has tried all the other things. Just not the same. This was started as a place to gather, communicate, and connect. We did that. Now we are so connected - to let that all go would be a shame. I know it's not up to us. I know we cannot make the servers run any better nor make the management give a shit about running the company. But I personally do not want to lose you guys. I like my friends I've met here. I like the discussions. I like the fun. Why the hell is it that good things go by the wayside and crappy things (like work) just never give up pissing you off? But that's just a mild observation from my Monday morning desk. Good luck on your week all. Peace.

Off on an adventure

Laura — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 23:06:01 GMT

We're leaving tomorrow to begin the week long adventure in Costa Rica. Bonnie's going to this: http://saharadance.com/workshops/costa_rica.php I'll be meditating at the nearest coffee bush here: http://www.puravidaspa.com/ And we'll be having a honeymoon on top of it all! Yay! If you miss me, I can check on you: http://pages.suddenlink.net/baraboo57/checkingonu.html