Ed Roland

P.S. Adding Ed Roland of Collective Soul to the Sexy Men roster. He looks great, but it's his voice and his creativity that make him truly...well...sexy. I have most of their CD's. Click that link, it's excellent.

I know at least one person who will appreciate this post

Song of the Day: Perfect Day - Collective Soul

Btw, I love some of the words used to describe various numbers: perfect, sociable, amicable, deficient, practical, irrational, real, complex, transcendental. Many of those words I'd use to describe people I know, or even myself (ya, ya, practical does not describe me, nor perfect unless you subscribe to the paradox of perfection)

Sunday - ugh wth

If you're not in the mood for a rant, look at the pretty, happy daisy above and stop here.

Not sure what happened today but it went south probably around midnight of last night and just kept going.

Synopsis -Things that bug me today:
Men
The dog
Kids - wth, they're on a whole different page today.
Headaches
Weather
My Dad
Housework
Dating
My new cell phone - my god, it really sucks

Men - I unexpectedly ran into a guy I recently dated (it was brief, but I liked him, we had a lot of fun). He dropped contact for about a month, sans a few text messages here and there. I ran into him in a part of town I rarely go to, it was total chance. He lit up like sunshine, bear-hugged me twice during the course of our conversation, smelled my hair as he squeezed me for the second time and said feelingly, "God, I miss you!"

wtf.

Give me a real guy, a responsible, strong, warm, employed, plays hard, works hard, loves hard, sexy in that strong-capable sort of way, intelligent & curious kind of guy who says what he means and does what he says. I'm not hung up on appearance - bear-hugger up there is 5'9 and built like a bulldog (adorably so). Argh.

Kids - sons in particular - are making me feel like a piece of furniture. The LOVES OF MY LIFE are being obtuse, ungrateful twerps. Gah, being a mom is painful sometimes.

Dog - she's ok, she just can tell I'm annoyed today and won't stop following me around because it worries her.

Headache - self explanatory

Weather - sucks, and possible cause of headache

Dad - stress factor, possible cause of headache

Housework - not done (thanks kids!)

Dating - well, yeah, see above.

Cell phone - *tosses it*

I'm going out. Buh-bye housework, boys- feed yourselves, dog *pat*, pleasegodletthis headachestop, and men? I live in the land of men - there are 4(?) men for every woman here, but here's the thing: The odds are good, but the goods are odd.

Song of the day (Ignore vid, yadayada, just listen): Wolfsheim - Blind

What does one do at 1am when it's still daylight?

Listen to music, of course. Possibly one of the best songs ever: DMB: Lie in Our Graves , off the Crash album.

It really is still daylight - it's nearing the longest day of the year (June 21) and it's light all the freaking time here. It's amazing/crazy/wonderful/slightly disturbing even after living here most of my life. I love this time of year. After the Summer Solstice on June 21 we'll begin the slow shift back into darkness. We'll have dark nights by August, and it'll slip faster into dark days of winter. So we live a little differently for now, up at all hours doing all sorts of things. This weird time of daylight stirs me up, makes me restless. It's great.

Would you not like to be
sittin' on top of the world
with your legs hanging free?

Some people don't like Dave Matthews, but I do, though it's a particular few albums. Whether it's the stuff I like or the stuff I don't, there's no denying they're great musicians. I love the words to this song, but the music is amazing. I also love Crash Into Me.

Dave Matthews is on my list of Sexy Men, btw.

Meandering thoughts

I'm taking a page from a fellow blogger's book and throwing up one post to bump another that really shouldn't stay at the top of my blog for very long ;)

My family on my mother's side descends from clan Campbell of Scotland - a number of generations ago my greatblahblahgreat grandmother Margaret Campbell eloped with the estate gardener, who was also named Campbell. They left Scotland and headed for Ontario, Canada. When my kids were small I had time and energy to explore family heritage a little. I visited cemeteries and found headstones of my predecessors, read clan histories, and quizzed elderly family members. My mom gave me an old family bible that was her great-grandmother's - a big book, you have to sit it in your lap to leaf through it. It contained a wealth of information about my family.

Not being particularly religious, it's a little surprising to me that I have somehow acquired a small collection of old family bibles. They're old books, and that appeals to me - they smell good, and feel good. They've been passed down and held by many hands. But what's most to me interesting is that they also serve as a history of sorts.

Back then, the bible was a focal point of family life. In addition to the usual readings and lessons the family may have enjoyed, it was a place of record keeping that was handed down from generation to generation. This old bible of my grandmother's has a long list of births and deaths posted on the inside cover. Between the pages there are wedding announcements, birth and death announcements, notes, awards, newspaper articles, feathers, photographs, napkins, legal paperwork, and all sorts of other goodies that someone felt important enough to slip in this book that stayed with the family.

I learned a lot about my family flipping through those pages. When things happened, and to whom. What was important enough to keep or record. Most of the family tree I constructed was the result of this record keeping. Each time I perused the book I found something I'd missed; it was fun and intriguing.

I have an old wool tartan that my mom was kind enough to pass on to me - I don't know how old it is, but it was my great-grandmother's at one point. I curl up under it on cool nights - my kids have grown up knowing it as the 'precious blanket' and know that it never ends up on the floor or under the dog.

I love old things that have belonged to those before us, I hold on to them. I hadn't realized I'd instilled this sort of reverence in my kids to some degree - they each have a few 'precious things' they've already accumulated in their young lives, things that speak to them of family connections and their history. It's neat.

Derrrrrtay

Breasts heaving, body slick with perspiration, hair tumbling wildly about her face, she leans back and releases a content sigh. Her eyes close a moment, lips parted as she catches her breath, and she gives a small giggle, as she often does after the culmination of satisfying physical exertion.

She reaches over and wraps her fingers around the neck of a cool bottle of beer, frosty with condensation. She tilts her head back, the bottle pressed to her lips, and drinks slowly, hair falling down her back save for a few stray locks that cling to the damp skin of her neck. She relishes the taste and feel of the bubbles rushing down her throat. She turns to the one beside her, face flushed, eyes bright, and gives a languid smile accompanied by another small, satisfied giggle. She breathes, "Good girl."

That's right - I dug up my flower beds AND got them planted. And my dog, Ginger, "helped".

Now to get all the dirt out from under my fingernails. And hair. And wherever else I got it, I think there's some down my shirt.

Work Sucketh

Enjoy some Saturday for me.

I'm at work, it's gorgeous outside and I want to be home murdering dandelions. People ask, "why don't you have the boys mow the lawn?" but I actually LIKE doing it. We never had a yard growing up (all trees), and I love how fresh cut grass smells. And there's something about mowing that appeals to the OCD in me - I have this horrible feeling I'd enjoy being one of those people who mows baseball fields into neat patterns. I don't have a ridey mower though, just an old mower my Grandfather rebuilt that I have to talk to nicely to get started. It gets the job done.

It's good exercise, which I negate with the ice-cold Corona I savor after I'm done (oh that tastes good). Collapse in a deck chair, sip cold beer, gaze out over the fruits of my labor. Also, I figure if I do the mowing, they're stuck with dishes (hooray).

I saw "Hangover" last night - what a riot.

It's Tuesday. Not Wednesday. Crud.

I'm working extra days these past few weeks due to someone being ill, and my schedule's a mess - I was certain today was Wednesday, but alas, 'tis not. Thank goodness Wednesday is about 20 minutes away, Alaska time.

There's an interesting article in the May issue of Smithsonian about Zhorzh Koval, a GRU cold war spy, a sleeper agent who was "Iowa born and army-trained". I read it on paper but they've got it on their website. I read a lot of cold-war fiction when I was younger, this sounds like it came right out of one of those novels.

Song of the day: Drowning (Face down) : Saving Abel (blahblah ignore vid, just listen)

I love this picture. Water movement of any kind fascinates me, but look at that.

'nuffsed!

hahahaha!

Chocolate, Sex & Stephen King

I've gone over the deep end. You know how there are certain things you -know- you should avoid, those sweet temptations that can lead to trouble because they quickly move from attraction to addiction and overindulgence, and possibly ruin?

I don't do drugs, but I have my own vices which I am aware of and try and be cautious of. It's that chocolate bunny you got in your Easter basket when you were a kid - you bite the ears off and leave it for "later". The next thing you know, you're taking another little taste and voila! The whole thing's gone. Or that drink or two you have with the person you're secretly attracted to: inhibitions lift and *blammo* it's no secret.

I like chocolate. I get affectionate after a few drinks. Two conditions I've learned to keep a wary eye on. And then there's Stephen King.

I don't think I even put him on my favorite author list. I haven't read one of his books in -years-. I don't particularly like his subject matter. But damnit, he is a brilliant story teller and his writing style captures me. I get hooked.

When I was dating my (now ex) husband, I borrowed my first dangerous King read from him (The Tommyknockers). We'd taken a weekend trip to visit my dad on his boat. I nearly sabotaged the relationship by spending the whole trip with my nose in that book and subsequently ignoring him. I left that poor man with my dad ALL WEEKEND while I cavorted with King. I was riveted.

Later, after we were married, I had to take a brief hiatus from King reading. I was pregnant, had finished Needful Things, and started The Dark Half. I had to put this one down even though it was a good read. It was too scary/intense - I'm emotional and get heavily involved in what I read, which was amplified while I was pregnant (hormones, whee) and I'd had enough stimulation.

I started up again when I found The Dark Tower series, blazed through the first four and found that the next book hadn't even been written yet. I had trouble wrapping my brain around that, it was weird. I didn't read King for quite awhile after that, partly because of being (ridiculously) annoyed at the unfinished series, but also because I just didn't like some of the other stuff he'd put out at that time. He's since added to the series, I've been thinking of picking it up again. Is it finished?!

So last Saturday night I was in Barnes & Noble (hot date = latte with two splenda). I couldn't find the books I was looking for but I found a Stephen King: Duma Key. I set the book on my end table and ignored it for most of the week, then finally picked it up and started reading.

Now here's the thing -I'm very tactile...things like paper or writing utensils are very personal and I take great pleasure when I find the right pen, or the perfect page. The texture, weight, feel of something I hold in my hand makes a difference to me. I love holding my iTouch, hate holding my cell phone. I love how artist pastel crayons feel, hate the glossy pages of the text-book my son had for history last year. And this book was designed to lure me in.

This paperback has the smooth pages that feel kind of fluid when you thumb through them ( I have no idea about names of paper types, sorry). The book is the same width as the average paperback but (and this took me a day to realize) it's about 1/2 inch longer. It gives the book a weird brochure feeling. I'm not sure that makes sense. Because of the page material, the book lays open on the page you're on, you don't have to fight with it. It makes a satisfying soft papery slap when you close it. Ok, ok, I'm a little overboard, but seriously - the whole psychology of marketing is about sublte things like how a book feels in your hand.

And yep, I'm totally hooked on the story. I've been up past 2am reading it nightly. This leaves me slow in the mornings and tired most of the day, which triggers depression, anxiety, and more tiredness which I alleviate by (oh yes!) curling up with said book and running away with King, escaping into my drug of choice.

I usually have more self control, but even though I'm aware of my weaknesses, sometimes I just can't help myself. I'll finish it quickly, then have a few days of feeling bereft because when you're consumed and the thing that consumes you goes away, there's a void. It's (omg) like a mini-relationship that ends. My cycle of high then low will run itself through, I'll catch up on sleep and pick up the pieces of the week I King-binged: unreturned calls, broken dates, forgetfulness, uncommunicative behavior, a messy house, and a bored dog ( I haven't thrown the frisbee for her all week). I'll get it out of my system and move on to more productive and healthy endeavors, putting my lapse into secret sin behind me.



Song of the day: Nine Inch Nails: Only (As with all song links, just listen, ignore crappy vid)

A legacy of sillies

So this morning I was running late, and zipped into the kitchen to grab some breakfast for the road: a banana, a yogurt, and a ziploc bag of mini-wheats. Hey, don't judge me, that's fairly well rounded. As I ripped open the new box of cereal something in the box made me stop and breathe, 'OOHH!'

My 19 yr old son (the older one) rounds the corner to the kitchen, all six beautiful feet of him, and stares at me, puzzled. 'What, Mom?'

My eyes alight, I hold up the treasure from the cereal box: a Star Trek flashlight thingy that LOOKS LIKE A COM BADGE. *cue heavenly music* I haven't been this thrilled with a box toy since I found the light-saber spoon in my younger son's Frosted Flakes.

Now this kid, er young man, is a tall, lean blond with a friendly face. He's a biker/skier/runner/hiker without an ounce of body fat on him. He's currently dressed in spandex or lycra or something like that - a form fitting, nicely put together ensemble of red & black including helmet and sunglasses. He looks like, well, a real bicyclist - you know, the serious ride-350-miles-for-the-hell-of-it kind. And that's exactly what he is. So this athletic stud stares at the thing I'm holding up in his face and...he giggles. At me or the toy, I don't know, but he giggled and I giggled, we giggled together.

That's what I love about my kids (well one of many things). I -LOVE- their sense of humor. These big tall men (the younger is 6'5") are funny as all get out. One day I made dinner with peas as a side. My younger son is picky about veggies (at least he eats them now, when he was a li'l guy he avoided anything green, unlike his brother who was and is a total health food nut). He moaned about the peas, I said something like "eat them!" and silence ensued. I was at the computer while he finished his dinner and soon I felt his presence behind me. I turned and he was standing there, holding out his plate. It was still full of peas, but they'd been herded into the shape of a frowny face. I busted up laughing, relayed the story to some friends online, and from then on when they asked about my kids, they'd ask how 'Frowny-Peas' was doing.

When they were little guys, they were always doing interesting and funny things. They were 3 & 5 when I let them play with spices & stuff in the kitchen. There were like little mad-scientists. Next thing I knew they were trying to make a bomb in the heater vent using baking soda and curry powder (hey, it smells powerful). I couldn't get the aroma of curry out of my house for weeks. The older one took up calling the younger one "butthead" briefly till we told him he couldn't say that - so he made up his own word, something like "pingkonk" which he used for quite awhile when perturbed. I have pictures of them running around with balloons shoved up their shirts and down their pants - they looked like hunchbacks with huge badonkadonks, it was hysterical.

One day, as I collapsed in giggles at some antic, I asked 'Where did you get those sillies?' My youngest pointed at me and said, 'We got them from YOU!'

It's the highest compliment I've ever received.