Attack of the Killer Geese

It started out early, mostly because Liz was involved. Even in the midst of the worst hangover of your life, Liz will rise at dawn and sneak into your room to wake you up. Basically, she needs someone to play with, and even if you're still stuck on Cali time, 9 am is the latest she can stand. So, her familiar footsteps came into my tired world and lulled me into life. I was grateful, since it was the most beautiful day we've had all year.

This was Thursday. I was off work all day. Liz and I drank hot tea and chit chatted until Leiah showed up and we all went to get lunch at Good Foods. I caved and bought a slice of carrot cake for us to share. Liz and I ended up sharing it until only one bite was left for Leiah (okay, I have a problem), but in our defense, Leiah eats so slowly! It was the perfect start to a perfect day.

After lunch, Leiah lounged on the hammock while Eli and I weeded the bulb garden. The tulips had trumpeted the arrival of Spring and the hyacinths had perfumed the air, so pulling dandelions was an unnatural treat. All we needed to make it perfect was Mack to wake up and bring us some fresh lemonade.

Leiah had to go to class, and then Eli had to go retrieve her charges from class, and in contemplating her departure she mentioned driving through Harrodsburg to get to Danville. I've driven that route probably four times in my life, the most recent on a trip to get Shan from a cycling adventure, and I'm always amazed at how beautiful it is. You go through beautiful countryside, then wind your way across the Kentucky River, and climb out into pristine pastures. The mention of it was enough to get me and Mack in the car and on our way, despite $2.59 gas prices.

I took my camera and Mack took his literature book, we grabbed a blanket and a couple bottles of water, and we were off to Shakertown. After parking we walked toward the lake and wandered until we encountered King Goose.
I've never encountered King Goose before. Most of the geese I've met basically diarrhea everywhere and want bread. King Goose was my first taste of aggressive goose, and Mack, being the naturalist that he is and having a supernatural exposure to animals, was fearless in the face of King Goose. He knew all the King's tricks, and played along, letting King Goose win in the end, for the sake of a few innocent laughs.
I never knew how much geese like to bite butts. It was hilarious. Every time we'd try turn to walk away, King Goose would put his head low to the ground and charge our butts. His little goose butt would wobble back and forth and he'd stick out his tongue and show off its serrated edges. It was wild.

We couldn't get close enough to see what he was so fussy about, but we assumed it was a nest he was protecting. He had a Queen Goose, but she was quiet and kept eating things she found on the grass. I think she was even annoyed at him. He was ridiculously protective, going to the point of flying across the lake to scare off possible intruders.

Mack tried to get me over my fear of the charging King Goose by having me point my butt towards it and let him charge.
Yeah, I lasted about a second. Who knew posturing was so effective? Here I am, weighing six times what this goose weighs, with a hand strong enough to end its life if I wanted, and I was tucking my evolutionarily destroyed tail and running for the hills upon being charged. I was definitely what farm boys would call a sissy.

Mack's fearlessness comes from having been hunted by these birds on several occasions before. He's also unafraid of preying mantids, spiders, roaches, dogs (even German Shepherds that try to eat Venus when we go on walks), cats, opossums, raccoons, snakes, monkeys, lizards of all sizes and hedgehogs. When we were in England a hedgehog went running across our path, and me and Shannon and Charles were all, "You better leave it alone. It's probably poisonous, or it has rabies and will bite you." Well, Mack had a hedgehog once in his life, and he picked this little guy up with his shirt, and it was the coolest thing I've ever seen. He looked like a little baby and his bristles were like natural needles. Us fraidy cats gathered around and learned a lesson that day.
Despite our newfound connection to nature, we still weren't as brave as Mack when, the day after Hedgehog 101, he tempted a swan with his thumb. I think I prefer being behind the safety of the lens, but I gotta say, put Mack in an outside ring with creatures, and you'll have endless fodder for capture.
King Goose didn't like us hanging around, but we managed to lay in the sun and practice cartwheels and look at sheep without pissing him off too much.
It was an amazing day, that one rare Spring day when the air is being cleaned by the sun, before the mosquitoes get here and after the frost has let the flowers come to life.

Last, but Certainly Not Least

The baby Betsy, the littlest sister who promised to stop growing up when she was eight, has rounded the corner to adulthood. Today she went to Merit Weekend at UK to get schooled about classes, campus and the Cats. Betsy will be the fourth of us four girls to set foot on UK's campus, the third generation of Hensleys to get their learnin on there. My dad's dad, Pa, was the first to go to UK, which is where my dad ended up after a stint at Loyola (all I really have of proof of his time there is a photo of him by the Loyola sign wearing long hair and no mustache, so it probably was just a joke), and where Shannon ended up after a stint at Agnes Scott, and where I ended up after a stint at Transy, and where Leiah started out before switching over to UK's little brother, BCTC. Betsy's not wasting any time or money (not yet, anyway) and going straight to UK, not passing private liberal arts college, not wasting $20,000.

In honor of Betsy first campus romp, I slept in until 2 pm. I crawled out of bed and stayed in my pajamas until Leiah made it over, at which point I threw on jeans and a Wildcats t-shirt, brushed my teeth, and headed to school. I parked illegally and left my flashers on to prevent a ticket, and me and Leiah walked through the familiar wind tunnel in front of Patterson Office Tower to meet Betsy and the parents at White Hall Classroom Building.

When I visited UK for the first time, my dad went with me. I thought the whole affair was kind of showy and a waste of time, so when my dad erupted into an unexpected and uncontrollable fit of laughter while we sat in the first row of a panel discussion among UK's pre-law and pre-med deans, I knew UK was out. To this day I don't know what he was laughing about. All I know is that that day, my dad got the closest anyone has ever come to shooting peanut M&M's out of their nose. He's been up to no good ever since.

Today, we walked into CB 106 to meet up with mom and dad and low and behold, he had already shifted into vandalism mode. While the etching of SH + DH (his initials and my mom's initials) is cute, it's a little disconcerting that it comes 20 years after their wedding and in an academic environment. Between his knife wielding and mom's suspicion that everyone passing by was going to steal "the bag," the hour and a half I spent on campus today was one of the most educational and entertaining I've ever had.

I conned Betsy into the wind tunnel and suckered her onto the Patterson peg-leg statue with me and Leiah for a UK pic. The cute little thing is nothing like her dad: "This is illegal," she said climbing onto the copper topped man. But I guess that's the difference between pre-grads and post-grads. Before you get the smarts, going outside the box is scary and intimidating. Once you get them, you find you have the ability to dodge trouble, the courage to risk it, and the talent for finding it. And oh the fun it brings.
Just don't be too bold with the trouble until you get the smarts, Betsy!! Otherwise, all you'll end up with is the trouble. I'm so proud of you. Congratulations on being the beautiful, talented person that you are, and good luck becoming the even more amazing person you'll grow into!

The kids

It's time for some light reflection, something to put a layer of perspective on the tarnished silver that is life. It's time to take a good look at these three:

Hera, the Goddess of the Home

Venus, the Goddess of Love

and Miss Kitty, the Court Jester

Hera, she's so cute, has finally managed to shift her "meow" into the word "now," which she uses relentlessly and maniacally to get in or out or served some Friskies. Hera has been with me the longest, pushing her ninth year as mine, and together, we've been through the most. She once almost lost her toe from some freak accident (she did lose her meow from said freak accident) and had to have drainage tubes put through her tail from some neanderthal bite infection. Hera is most admired for her promiscuity; when I lived on S. Upper St. with Ruble, Hera was known for her parties. Oh, we'd go to work, come home around five, and watch as three or four cats jumped out of our window and fled the scene. We never did find out where she hid the kegs.

Venus, she's such a breath of fresh air, is the most feeling of all the pets. She has expressions to share her mood, most of which have a corresponding tail level, and loves to have her belly rubbed... unless you are a stranger, in which case she will bite your nose or some other facial feature. Let's see... Venus has dined on Chris Ramsdale, Sarah Rzasa, Bob Niki's Boyfriend, Aunt Becky's Co-Worker, and some other blonds I'm not remembering (anyone??). She even tried to sample Shannon on one Thanksgiving not too long ago, but Shan's cat-like reflexes saved her. Venus, some of you may not know, has an endless collection of fur creatures. They accumulate in the corners, around the chair legs, behind the desk, on the couch cushions, under the bed, and beside the cabinets, probably holding meetings on how to recruit other members into their club. I think they secretly inject Venus with an offensive odor that is intoxicatingly delicious that then makes the V chew on herself until she is a chunk of raw meat with two fatty globules and counting. That's when she's at her best... that and when it's cold and rainy and her back legs won't separate from her crippliosis. She's pushing eight this year, and while she came to me later than Hera, she nuzzled her way far deeper into my heart. When I go away, Hera fends for herself... Venus, she gets someone to watch her.

Miss Kitty, she really hates me, likes to pet people. She sleeps about 22 hours a day and hates to jump. She hates to jump so much that she will walk around the kitchen into the living room to hop onto the coffee table, take a long step to the comfy chair, climb to its back, step onto the stool around the island, and then step onto the counter. If she does jump ever, she usually slides six inches farther than she meant to because of the little hairs that grow from between her toes. Miss Kitty is Mack's cat; they met when Mack was a kid and she came, uninvited, to his camping adventure with his brother. Since then, she won't let anything come between them... having a litter while sleeping on Mack's chest, don't worry, just have the litter right there... Mack's girlfriend trying to snuggle him in the middle of the night, no problem, just stick your furry butt in her face and wedge yourself between them. Miss Kitty only has eyes for one, they're situated on both sides of her perpetually dirty nose, which is fine by me as long as that one cleans up her pee when her preciousness keeps her from going outside.

These are my things. They don't have jobs, they demand to be fed, and they have not been inoculated in years. Luckily, the toilet always has water in it or else I don't know how I'd keep them alive.

WE CAN DO IT!

I've been complaining about going to Ford's Fitness Center for a week now. It's hands down the best gym in the city, and as proof there are intense action photographs and Arnold Schwarzenegger's body building portfolio shots adorning the mirrored walls. Oh, and it's where the Mexicans go, and if you've ever watched boxing, you know they're physical little sticks of dynamite. Anyway, turns out the gym is as good for the mind as it is for the body.

After realizing I'd stepped in dog shit as I went to do my crunches, I went to the locker room to treat myself to the glamorous task of cleaning it off. There at the entrance, next to the 1984 Los Angeles female body building champion, was Rosie the Riveter, functional and flexing. A little piece of paper taped on the wall next to this all-too-familiar image offered a new appreciation for it. Rose William Nelson, a Kentucky gal with roots in Pulaski County who went to Detroit to make a living to support her family when her husband died, was the inspiration for Rosie the Riveter and, in essence, the inspiration for women joining the workforce. Oh, where have all the inspiring Kentucky gals gone?

Aah Life

Introducing the newest blog addition... Leiah Joy Hensley is now offering her insights and hindsights and foresights for a grand total of delights. The girl is funny. I mean, hi-freakin-larious. Day one and she's already had a plumbing disaster, scalded some french fries, excused her spelling and showed us how she spends her spring break. Check it out... www.ahh--life.blogspot.com. (By the way, the pic is of Leiah after her first tri-mester. She looks like me after a six-month diet. But hey, I did get the eyelashes...)

So why did the basement flood?

I've had a problem with heavy rain causing a little stream through my basement since I moved in. I spotted the root of the evil when I braved the dungeon basement during one rainstorm and discovered a temporary but convincing waterfall coming in through an outdated window. When I say outdated, I mean the thing is latched shut with a rope. It just needs sealed shut with some caulk, but I figure a little rainwater every now and then keeps me from having to sweep too much down there. Plus, I don't really like to mess with nature too much.

Well, little did I know that tilling the yard to make way for better grass last year would alter the atmosphere of the basement. My poor little sump pump has been trying to spit the last couple days' rainwater into the yard all day yesterday and all day today with no luck. We finally paid attention to its constant cry for help and relieved the pressure on it by reopening the earth where it dumps the water. (In our defense, after the yard work last year, everything was draining according to plan.) Now, we have Picadome Springs in our side yard, complete with the scentilating aroma of dirt, sewage, goo and breath. At least we're making progress and the two inches of water in the basement is being displaced back to the earth. And it's not toothpaste in the eye!

The Essence of Lucinda

I've been a fan of Lucinda Williams for a few years now. I first met her when Dave downloaded "Essence" when we still had dial up. I listened to that song so much that David quickly started to hate it. (Sorry Dave.) I went out and bought Car Wheels on a Gravel Road, and not long after that, Shannon bought her album World Without Tears and brought it on our trip to St. Louis. We walked from our cousin Angie's wedding to the reception singing "All I ask, don't tell anybody the secrets, don't tell anybody the secrets I told you." It was one of those perfect moments that ought to be a part of a movie, but it was real life and completely unrehearsed (unless you consider knowing someone your entire life rehearsal). On the way home we added "Those Three Days" to our life soundtrack too. About three days later, I made an offer on a house, which was accepted minutes later, and celebrated on my way to a kayaking class with Lucinda and her "Fruits of My Labor." She just has a knack for saying all the right things at all the right times.

Last night I finally got to see the woman who rips my heart out of my chest and gives me more soul than I actually have live and in concert at my favorite Kentucky Theater. She was beautiful, her voice was true and raspy and honest, and she moved me to tears with "Sweet, Old World." Her new album, The Knowing, is supposed to come out in October, so anyone who believes in life, love and the pursuit of happiness through the realization of sadness needs to experience Lucinda. Consider yourself beckoned.

The Endorsement Series (Part 2 in however many merit it)

I love a manicure and a pedicure. But, alas, I am a waitress who'd rather spend her income tax return on a trip to foreign lands than blow it on temporary glamour (unless said glamour features shoes from the Black Market, in which case it's a toss up). With Sally Hansen's French Manicure Kit, available at most stores that sell nail polish for $8-10, I can pretend to be fabulous in a matter of minutes and for mere pennies.

French manicures are my favorite because they make your nails look so clean, and anyone who's ever seen my Flintstone toes with a French twist knows the beautifying power of a pedicure. The best thing about Sally's kit is that you paint it on once and then if the tips get scuffed while your dropping off broiled seafood platters or dicing tomatoes, you just get out the handy highlighter like pen and fix the knicks. With actual painted nails featuring a color, you have all that worry about matching and chipping. With the FM coupled with the SH kit, nails have never looked so good. Or been so easy. Or so cheap.

Thanks to the nurse Shahin worked with in LA who introduced it to her who then introduced it to me. Now, ladies, you have no excuse for not having the nails you've always wanted. And a side note, be patient when you try to draw the tips with your opposite hand... it's awkward at first but it comes with a steep learning curve so don't give up!

I Hate Mornings

After two alarm warnings from opposite sides of my bedroom (courtesy of my cell phone and my alarm clock) I was finally able to pull myself out of my bed cocoon and creep into the bathroom to get ready for work this morning. Sleepy, soft and small, I started my day off by brushing my teeth, as I have probably 8,000 times before. Today was different though.

As I glazed the bristles with Arm & Hammer Baking Soda Toothpaste, which is grittier than I prefer, an invisible but deadly fleck of the toothpaste flew into my left eye.

I have had lemons squirt in my eye while prepping my water. I've had champagne sprayed into my eye on numerous New Year's Eves. I've had eyelashes, dust, hair, sawdust, food, mascara, dirt, mulch, paint, tissue and a finger in my eye before. Nothing compares to the instant and blinding pain of having toothpaste flicked into your eye. Pulling the eyelid out does nothing but spread the paste around, blinking helps to dissolve it but also spreads it around, crying helps melt it, but the minty fresh burn stays unbearably intense from start to finish.

And as if that experience wasn't bad enough, I found my first actual, real, no-kidding-it's-not-just-light-blond grey hair just minutes after my vision resumed. What a sight for sore eyes.

Jenny from the Block

I knew Jennifer long before she became a perfectionist. She was all of 16, and though we both were Creek Dawgs, we didn't actually meet at Tates Creek High School. No, our friendship blossomed, like so many of my friendships, in the aisles of Lexington's Toys R Us.

The Way We Were

She and I both feared Jon Connor because of his perpetual serious look in the break room (which was at this point in history a smoker's haven), but while I lacked the confidence to inquire about his furrowed brow, Jen had the innate and innocent curiosity to start a conversation about it. I think it went something like this...

Jen: Why do you always look so mad?

Jon: What?

That confrontation ended up evolving into an odd relationship that left me and Jennifer going to Jon's fraternity basketball game -- which tells you how long ago this was... Jon still had knees -- where we crafted inspirational signage with colorful markers and chewing gum. The phi psis were in awe of our sidelining abilities, I'm certain.

From then on, Jen has been one of my best friends. She's been an inspiration with her courage, a riot with her perspective, a rock with her convictions and a host to beat all hosts. I've visited her everywhere she's lived -- Cincinnati, Chicago, Charlotte, back to Cincinnati -- and would follow her blazing path even if it took her to NoName, Wyoming. No matter the place, no matter how much money you have, time with Jennifer is time well spent.

One wintry day a few years ago, Kate and I made a hungover voyage to Cincinnati to go shopping with Jen. We wandered into Z Gallerie and picked furniture we couldn't afford for lavish houses even less likely. We went into some high end kitchen store to gawk at copper bottomed pots and pastel colored mixers. Wherever we went, Kate and I started picking the "Jen Item" in the store. As long as it was miniature, she was a sucker for it. I'd suspected this for a while before actually realizing it was a quirk of hers. Who else enjoys travel deodorants and single use canisters of shaving cream on white water rafting trips as much as Jen?

Jen and I have showered together, have done tae bo together, have spent afternoons sleeping on couches in front of the television together, have kept each other abreast of the latest celebrity gossip, have watched entire seasons of Friends and ER together, have cooked meals for dozens of people together, have done nude photography projects together. Jen has called me to the carpet when I have spun out of control. She has asked me why I am making changes instead of trying to make me feel guilty for wanting them. She keeps me grounded and holds me accountable without being judgmental or sentimental or afraid. She is as close to a sister to me as someone can possibly be. I've been through so much with Jen, including tolerating her snoring for five years on ski trips, but none of it has ever been bad. Even the last year of Cancer Challenge '05-'06 has been something with Jennifer I will cherish forever.

I found out in July that Jen had cancer. I still don't know what kind it is, since I was too pissed when I found out to care about the details. Was she kidding? I could see someone sloppy getting cancer, but not Jennifer. There is not a more meticulous person in the world. There is not a more health ambitious person than her. If metaphysically speaking your body acts out what your mind won't, what were Jennifer's lymph nodes and bone marrow trying to say? It was all senseless, and if I could have been injected into her body and if my words had the power to kill, that cancer would have been a distant memory before it had the chance to be realized. She was past the angry part by the time she told me, and as soon as the words came out of her mouth, she cried.

I cried. I cursed. I wanted to swallow the cancer for her. I deserved it. I recklessly fornicated. I drank too much and smoked too much. I was selfish and had wavering faith. I overate and was financially irresponsible and went days on end without bathing. Cancer should live in toxic people with shady hearts, not clean, pure people like Jen. When she told me she had to think about egg donation and losing her fertility and chemo and surgery and hair loss and dying, I let fucks fly out of my mouth more than usual. I offered her anything I could give her -- my womb, my lymph nodes, my bone marrow, my hair -- but none of that made any of her burden mine. She only cried that one time on the phone with me, and since that day, I wouldn't be able to tell she was going through chemo or had cancer if I didn't know. The only sign of sickness at her apartment is this poem hanging on the fridge:

WHAT CANCER CANNOT DO
Cancer is so limited.

It cannot cripple love.
It cannot shatter hope.
It cannot corrode faith.
It cannot destroy peace.
It cannot kill friendship.
It cannot suppress memories.
It cannot silence courage.
It cannot invade the soul.
It cannot steal eternal life.
It cannot conquer the spirit.

I've heard life will only give you what it knows you can take. I never doubted Jennifer would rise to the occasion with whatever life handed her. What I didn't realize was how she would be able to do it with such grace and serenity, with such selflessness and interest, so completely. Jen has become an even better person since having her disease diagnosed, and in doing so, has dragged me along. She has reminded me of what's really important and shown by example that life is meant to be lived. Even while going through chemo, Jen has come to my Halloween party, has kept up with her Wildcats, has organized dinners with her friends, has performed in videos, has done her brother's taxes, has started to plan summer trips for her friends, has bought a house and has been dating. She has crammed more life into the last six months than I've seen other people cram into the last six years.

Jen's new home. Of course, it has a guest room...

Jen is on her last chemo treatment. When she started in October, they hoped she'd get through six but admitted she'd do well to get through four. She's had needles shoved into her bones and a port installed in her chest. Her neck has swollen to twice its size and back, and she has a new vocabulary featuring the names of medicines I haven't even seen commercials for. She has kept her hair, kept going to work and kept a smile on her face. The only time I saw her grimace when I went with her to the doctor's office on Monday was when the nurse shoved a ballpoint pen-sized needle through her skin into her port. She didn't squirm as blood squirted from her body and entered a small test tube, and she actually tried to talk the doctor into giving her chemo even though her platelets were borderline low and she was sedating a sinus infection. She was braver than I expected her to be, excited to tell me about her blood results and how the machines worked. I saw just the beginning of what she's been going through each month for the last six months, I saw the nurses smile when she walked in the office before they realized Jen was bringing them flowers, I saw the doctor impressed by her questions and reassured by her commitment to the fight. I'd been in awe of her before, but never like I was that day.

Jennifer's Friendly New Parasite, "The Port"

Yes, Jen Can Interpret This Information

Jen's Version of a Permanent Record

Jen will finish her last chemo treatment, will have a bone marrow transplant, will take weekly injections, will do whatever it takes, and I will never know how she does it with such a positive attitude. If you ask her, she'll say, "I do it because I have to. I can do it with a bad attitude or a good one, but a good one lets me smile more."

That's just Jen for you. My god, I am so lucky.

Thanks to these people and all of Jen's family for letting us keep our JMil.

Fortunately

While waiting an hour to get my transmission serviced and having eaten a Chipotle burrito so big it ought to be outlawed, Mack and I wandered into the ever-fragrant Sqecial Media on Limestone to waste some time. I used to love to go to Paisley Peacock to look at jewelry and then head upstairs to take in the walls of books, magazines and cards that make up Sqecial when I was in high school. Well, Paisley closed down, not at all because the face-pierced, belly-up creep who ran the place made the entry way smell like a retirement home, so today Sqecial was all we had. I looked at the art magazines and wanted to be an artist. Then I went to the yoga magazines and wanted to be a yoga master. Then I headed over to the handbags and decorative boxes and wanted to be Indian.

It was a little trip around the world, ending up in a far off land in Asia... the one where squirming fortune teller fish abound... and some village in Guatemala, where microscopic children make worry dolls for little children. I hadn't seen fortune teller fish since my days at the skating rink until this Christmas, when Leiah officially made holiday crackers a new tradition. Shannon and Charles had brought some crackers over from England last year, which is why in our family Christmas picture we're all wearing tissue paper crowns. The crackers each have a surprise inside... a keychain, a plastic motorcycle, a fortune teller fish, in mom's case. I bought one for 19 cents today at Sqecial, hoping that its moving head, moving tail or curling sides would tell me something about myself and others that I might not be able to tell myself.

Turns out, I'm jealous at first, then the tail starts moving and I'm in love, and before too long, the thing curls up entirely and I'm passionate. Who knew?

Rediscovering worry dolls was even better than finding the fortune teller fish. We had these dolls when I was in elementary school, but I never really knew what they were for. I knew I liked to play with them and I appreciated that they came with their own little decorative storage bag and I loved that they were miniature. Turns out, worry dolls are little martyrs, existing solely for the purpose of doing your worrying for you. Tell them your woes, and they'll try to fix them for you. Much more trust-worthy than a priest, the dolls come in multiple sizes and genders, and the longer you stare at them, they also seem to come with multiple personalities too. All this for only a buck.

During our voyage to foreign lands, Laila called to ask for help deciding what to take to Fun Friday's show and tell. I suggested her chess set -- "that's nuts" -- and her Iran book -- "I already did" -- until she finally came up with something on her own -- "I'll take teddy." Good, none of the other kids will have seen a teddy. So, I'm gonna send Laila the Guatemalan worry dolls from Kentucky and replenish the Fun Friday offerings for those little kindergarteners at California's Hancock Elementary.

It's a small world, after all.

The Endorsement Series (Part 1 in however many merit it)

It's new, sort of. It's spongy, sort of. It's a cleaning miracle, for sure.

This is my second favorite household, inanimate best friend: the magic eraser.

Sure, stick magic in the name of something and I'll fall for it. But this is more than that. This sucked up that green-brown crap that grows on my shower curtain. Then I took it into the kitchen and it licked my appliances cleaner than they deserve to be. I ran out of things to use it on, so I retured it to under the bathroom sink with its untainted partner until I am faced with another unbelieveable mess that leaves me feeling hopeless and underinsured. Two magic erasers for roughly $3.50. Best of all, the box gives a pictorial lesson on when to throw it away so you don't feel stupid for using something that is decaying before your eyes.

Let's just say it lights up my life.

Kudos to housewife extraordinaire Leigh for turning me on to the magic eraser -- in addition to margarita lunches, power walks, and google chats, Leigh still finds the time to make lattes for her man early in the morning, make cocktails for her friends late in the night and keep the bathroom magically clean for when the elements don't agree. And yes, magic erasers are acceptable birthday presents.

Mack and Cheese

It's one of those days, where you open your eyes with a gush of emotion that tries to bowl you over into fantasy land with love. One of those days where people stuck in reality want to vomit at the sight of you and hate what comes out of your mouth mostly because they are jealous or tired of hearing it. I know, I am those people on more days than not, but today, I'm one of those gushy in love kinds, and it feels so good.
I love Mack. I love him so much it actually hurts, and makes me dumb, and wears me out, and depresses me, and brings me to tears, and steals my breath, and pushes me into a loneliness I've never touched before, and makes me insecure, and terrifies me, and isolates me, and makes me hungry and afraid and worthless and sick. So much that sometimes I want to die than think of a life without him.

And it's not just something that I feel anymore either. Loving Mack has become a way of life for me and if loving him ever gets taken away, I won't know how to exist. I enjoy his company, am in awe of his mind, have found my perfect match, am inspired by his strength. He has breathed life into my living, broken the bonds of comfortability to reveal possibility and allowed me to experience my short time on this planet rather than agonize about its end and waste time preparing for its postponement. It's thrilling to be with him, to feel the energy come off of him, to experience it quickening my heartbeat. He is magical and whimsical and superhuman.

I love Mack. I love him so much it makes me fearless, and gives me the confidence to go anywhere and do anything, and lets me sleep soundly every night, and picks me up off the ground when life pushes me face down in it, and fulfills me the way religion does for some people, and makes me feel safe and protected and secure, and teaches me to be kind and forgiving, and empowers me to stand up for what I think, and makes me calm, and inspires me to be a better person, and makes everyday worth living, and brings a smile to my face at the very thought of it, and overwhelms me, and is all I'll ever need and more than I ever expected.

I guess it's just one of those days.

The Writers Almanac

Garrison Keillor took center stage at the Norton Center for the Arts in Danville, Ky., last night in a charcoal suit split down the middle with an American-red tie and grounded by faded red Saucony sneakers. His familiar voice ran 150 yards to reach me in the nose bleed section of the right wing (I did, however, get an actual seat... Liz, my date 6 rows behind me, was in an office chair). We arrived a few minutes late, having underestimated Danville's potential for parking woes. I held the two people closest to the aisle for balance as I walked in darkness to my seat, letting out a chuckle I blamed on Garrison but which was really aimed at the old man already asleep in the seat next to me. Why do old people spend so much money on tickets just to nap in public? Suckers.

I laughed at all the right places and appreciated the words that painted pictures familiar to me -- independent relatives with the courage not to conform, dry communities focused more on their feet than what's going on around them to preserve their comfortable simplicity, hand-me-downs and church meetings.

"They'd always say, 'Why waste a ten dollar haircut on a 59 cent head?'"

I was falling in love with the embodiment of the voice that had ridden home with me from Louisville so many Sunday afternoons. I knew he was an ugly man, a face scrunched up and sour, but I was far enough away to appreciate his stature. And, he was funny. I've always been a sucker for funny. His voice was so familiar, so rhythmic, so comfortable.

I jerked awake upon feeling my head drop to my chest. How long was I out? Surely I just dozed off for a second. Yeah, he's still telling that story about his cousin Kate "celebrating a commitment" and the Lutheran ministers visiting. The jerk brings me back a second time. What is my problem? Why did I pay $40 for a nap? Come on, how much did I miss? Okay, good, he's still talking about his cousin Kate "celebrating a commitment" and the Lutheran ministers visiting. I dozed off 20 more times, always to wake up to the same part of the same story. It was like Groundhog Day and I was Bill Murray trapped in a lecture wanting to love it but starting to resent it, hearing his voice was enchanting at first, and, like any good lover, it ended up a boring drone. The only difference was that in my recurring daydream, time was advancing.

We ended up leaving with our disappointment trying to trump our fond memories, but I don't think they'll end up succeeding. Garrison with clever "commercials" on Sunday afternoons or reciting poetry on the way to work is the Garrison I love. The old man droning on and forcing me into early retirement is not Garrison. That is Mr. Keillor.

"Writers are vacuum cleaners who suck up other people's lives and weave them into stories like a sparrow builds a nest from scraps." ~Garrison Keillor

"It's better to be burnished with use than rusty with principle." ~Garrison Keillor

"Years ago, manhood was an opportunity for achievement, and now it is a problem to be overcome." ~Garrison Keillor

"English is the perfect language for preachers because it allows you to talk until you think of what to say." ~Garrison Keillor

Winter Olympics de Amber

In the spirit of winter and to have a better appreciation for the athletes competing in the Olympics right now, my pal Leigh and I took to the ice last night.
Seeing as I am back in Lexington, there aren't too many choices for ice skating venues, so we headed to the Christian rink which also stars a Jesus-inspired putt putt course. After being reminded of the ten commandments posted next to the cashier's window, we headed over to skate rental for some of the world's most aromatic skates and to begin our ankle workout.
Leigh is a natural, but she had the privilege of ice skating lessons when she was a kid. I, on the other hand, was gifted with a roller skating gene, and while at first it seems like the roller skating gift can be easily transitioned to the ice skating one, that is not the case. To my credit, I didn't wipe out once, more out of fear of breaking my new mini-dig camera than out of fear of falling.

I started to get the hang of it just as the ice was starting to be blanketed with hockey skate scrape and as the hockey players started to chase each other through the crowd. Then I started dodging death. It's been a while since I'd tasted middle school, and after last night's experience, I'm glad to be in the almost thirty era of life.

I'm not sore today, except for the scrape/blister thing on the inside of my ankle and the bruise on my shin from the front of the skate. I think I'm almost ready for the next Olympics, but in the meantime, the U.S. better start bringing it... Medal count to date has Norway with 16 and US with a wimpy 12 (Russia is even beating US with 13). We do have the most golds, with 7 so far, but that's only one more than Russia and Germany. Maybe if I'd discovered the Kwanness in me before last night...

Operation: Visit Family

Politics are by far our greatest hindrance as an earthly society. I'm planning to go to Iran this summer with Mack and his family to visit his extended family still living there, and man, do politics make it difficult. Pictures, letters of purpose, letters explaining how your expenses will be covered, applications, contact information for the people you know who will claim you in the country, father's name (this adds an element of confusion since my dad's last name is different from my own -- something rarely seen in Iran, I'm sure). Fortunately, his mom knows how to jump through the hoops and she's handling our visas, etc., so I don't have to understand how to navigate those obstacles. But, even with all her talents, she might not be able to get us visas. Which is so stupid to me. This year she has to apply for our visas from within the country. The Pakistan embassy, which the visas go through, isn't letting non-Iranians apply for visas from the U.S., so Shahin has to go to Iran, talk to the embassy there, get our visas and then send them over to us. Who knows what the state of their and our unions will be by then.

All this trouble because of politics, because religion has become the scapegoat for politicians who can't stand on their own two feet, so they stand on the shoulders of religion. Extremist muslims are as bad as extremist christians, which might actually be worse because they pretend like they're not extremist. That god, the foundation of love, could be blamed for creating this rift in humanity has got to be disappointing and condemnable to him, but who am I to judge? I don't think there's that much measurable difference between muslim and christian beliefs... both believe in Jesus, both believe in the ten commandments, at their core they are the same. Like the Bible goes one chapter further than the Torah, which the Jewish faith is based on, the Koran goes one chapter further than the Bible.

But these religious differences aren't something that keep people apart. I've drunk tea in muslim homes in Morocco, walked in muslim downtowns in capri pants and a tank top and had people whose language I didn't understand show me pictures from their family's recent wedding, had muslim taxi drivers watch over me while I waited for Mack to come back, and watched very white people who were raised with the father, son and the holy ghost forfeit their Western wear in favor of a head scarf. In my mind, to each his own. In the minds of the muslims I've met, to each his own. The only reason religion gets infused with hatred is politics.

Politics start using religion as a platform and cause deep, personal rifts between societies. It sums up people and cultures and breeds fear among them, which perpetuates ignorance. I'm not exactly a muslim, I'm not exactly a christian, I'm not exactly jewish or buddhist or hindu or wiccan. Each has words of wisdom worth living by, each has strategies for living that are better than my own, each has love and respect at its core. So none are bad. What is bad is how we let politics corrupt our religions, especially when there is text that exists in all of them that command a respect for life and a love of thy neighbor.

To go to Iran, I had to submit a photograph in which I "respected Islamic dress," which basically translates into "put on a disguise before you come over." Iran's government is more strict about dress in public than Morocco is, but the people are not the government. And it's the people that have made every place I've ever been worth visiting.

No More Amber-Flavored Nougat

The last two years of my life have been spent cultivating an alternative monthly artcentric magazine called Nougat. I've cried and beamed and gotten depressed and felt like a complete failure and burst with pride and tasted pure optimism and idealism and experienced a depth of generosity that I never knew existed in the past two years. Nougat has been one of the hardest things I've ever attempted in my life, and while it didn't make me rich, it did give me invaluable experience and priceless friendships. I had the best excuse in the world to be more than I am and to talk to people I as lowly Amber would never have had the courage to talk to. Amber, Nougat's publisher, had to chase fast walker man down the street at 2 am requesting an interview. Amber, Nougat's publisher, had to stand up for gay rights and attend Vote No! rallies. Amber, Nougat's publisher, had to attend the women writers conference and chauffeur respected photographer Carrie Mae Weems around Lexington. Amber, Nougat's publisher, had to help artist Kurt Gohde with his celebrity fortune cookies. Regular Amber would have been too insecure to think her words of wisdom were wise. She'd have had nothing interesting to tell Carrie about when she was in the car. She'd still be looking for the safe, secure way to live, terrified that trying something risky means certain foreclosure. In the last two years, I discovered that following your dreams really means being willing to be a waitress for a little while. It's hard, don't get me wrong, but I wouldn't change one thing about the last two years... not my business partner, not the stories we covered, not the fact that we made no money, nothing.

I just finished working on my last issue of Nougat about an hour ago. It's not being laid to rest, it's fortunately just changing hands. Jennie Leavell, who started Lexington's original alternative in 1989, is assuming my post, which is the only reason I feel excited about leaving Nougat. I know she'll be great and the magazine will stay focused and keep being a voice for the underdogs... by underdogs I mean the minority of people who still have the courage to speak up for things.

And, turns out, this issue is one of the best. It's loaded with chewy, sweet goodness. I'll be autographing my finale copy at the Dame on Feb. 20 at 8pm if you want to come by. This chapter closes... the other can't wait to open!

(For anyone who's ever wondered where the name Nougat came from, well, it's from the definition, which was sort of our unstated mission statement/reminder of what to be... a confection made from mixing nuts and sometimes fruit pieces in a sugar paste whose composition is varied to give either a chewy or brittle consistency. Yummy.)

Baby Not Mine Part deux (and Trois)

Leiah, the third daughter in our troop of four Hensley girls, is having a baby. As most of you know, this has been a somewhat scary thing for us to come to grips with, but then again the unknown is always scary and since we just started the journey into marriages with Shannon a year and a half ago (at the infantile age of only 28!!), we Hensleys take a little longer to bloom than most. Baby was a little fast forward for us steady pacers, but Leiah is the first to blaze that path, and she's lighting the fire under our butts with reality. Ouch, aww, and hooray, all rolled into one.
Here's second generation Hensley's first debut for the masses. Much like its mother to be did at its tender age of nine weeks, it mirrors a bug of sorts. My mom told me the other day that Leiah got her nickname Leiah Buggy/Bug Wug/Buggy, and hence her affinity for lady bugs, because when my mom saw her on ultra sound for the first time, she looked like a bug running around. Turns out, Leiah's spawn is already like her, something I for one am happy about. So far, so good.

The due date has been set for around Labor Day, adding a second layer to the holiday.

Another bit of baby news reached me the other day as well. David Schanding, the least likely to get married, and his bride Lisa, who must be on a mission from god, will welcome a new baby to their family of three this year too. Jonah, known to some as Dark Vader (his error, not mine), will be a big brother, and David will finally get to be that great daddy he's always wanted to be. Lisa, well she's already as nice as a human can possibly be, so she'll just stick to her mommying ways, doing what she does best. Congrats to the new generation of baby boomers. Now, if you guys could just let me catch my breath before anyone else dumps baby news on me, I'd appreciate it. Whew.

What in the universe is a Pluot?

To be honest, I'd heard of the pluot before seeing it from my Cali gal Leigh (WHO NOW DESERVES ENDLESS THANKS FOR WATCHING V-To-Tha-Nus... Thanks Leigh!), whose relocation to Lexington at the very least served to broaden my Kentucky horizons. She's a true California gal... the kind that looks more like Memoirs of a Geisha than Clueless... and hence has a taste for the finer things. So when Leigh says seek out and find, it's usually worth your while to do as she says.

Which is why after school today, I cunningly asked Laila and Mack if they wanted to go on a bus adventure to the pet shop on La Brea Avenue. The real reason I wanted to sneak up to that stretch of LA was to go to Ralph (CA version of Kroger) to discover the pluot before I head back to the KY. In the midst of limes, pineapples, avocados, oranges, nectarines, mangos, peaches, coconuts, persimmons, pomegranates (which I also discovered last week and YUMMY!!), tangerines and star fruits, the plums and apricots sat innocently next to one another. I'd found them, so where was their offspring? Where was this marriage of tastes unlike anything I've tried before?

Duh, on a pedestal right next to them.

For $4.99 a pound, I bought enough pluots to get a good sampling in case some were riper or less ripe than others -- oh yeah, and to share them with other pluot virgins if they made it to the fruit bowl in time. I should note that there were about four varieties of plum next to two varieties of apricot, so finding the pluot was an accomplishment in itself. The pet shop ended up being a bust with only about three birds, so we had to go to the Beverly Center so I could redeem myself (that's where the adorable tiny puppies and bunnies are -- and the Apple store that puts a smile on Mack's face) and the pluots landed in my oversized bag for three hours until we made it home.

Turns out the pluot is about the juiciest fruit I've ever put in my mouth. It's like a plum with pizazz, more plum than apricot for sure. Instead of being a plum and an apricot that get together, it's more like a menage a trois starring two plums and an apricot. I remember when my mom brought home star fruit for the first time and how my thirst had never been so quenched. That was sort of how the pluot felt. Fruits having experimental sex really pays off.

One of the things I am going to miss the most in my interim back in KY before we move out here is the fruit. I can walk out the door, go across the street and have a nice Mexican woman with a fruit cart cut up a bag of cantaloupe, honeydew, mango, coconut, pineapple, you name it, just for me for three whole dollars. Every time Mack's mom comes home from the Iranian market, she brings back bags of fresh fruit, with none costing more than 99 cents per pound. I've eaten my weight in fruit since I've been out here and am going to have a void that bananas, apples and oranges won't come close to filling. And the weather, well, today was 85 degrees here... 28 in Lexington. Come on, seriously.

Fishing for Stars

Getting SCUBA certified a few years ago, I realized that underwater is another world. I've always loved the water and always been a little freaked out by it. Rip tides, sharks, jellyfish, alligators, baracudas -- they're all enticing and curious and from another world and another time. When I did my SCUBA dive I saw blowfish and sand swirls and it was awesome... until I fell overboard as we were departing to go back to shore. (Amber Grace Scott, you know me, not prone to accidental falls for no apparent reason.) I've walked the shore for seashells and had the privilege of being around as someone else pulled a sand dollar from the water, but my personal experience to aquatic living has been a little sheltered. Since adopting the policy of try everything once a couple years ago, I've swallowed my fear and opted for experience, no matter how gross or scary it might seem.

This weekend at the Santa Monica Pier, I got to get up close and personal with some sea life. I saw whale vertebrae, which are as big around as I am, put my hand in a blubber glove, which was actually quite cozy, and shook hands with starfish, sea urchins, sea cucumbers and a sea slug. They were all a little smooshy, except for the pointy urchins, which slowly grab your finger when you touch their toothpick hair (the volunteers cleverly call this urchin bite a "hug" so the kiddies won't be scared).
The sea slug was so soft and smooth I, of course, wanted a sweater made out of it. The starfish were a rainbow of colors and shapes and sizes. Starfish are so cool, because (and this is the only information I retained from Ms. Shropshire's biology class) when they lose an arm or have a piece of them ripped off, that piece just grows into a whole nother starfish (it's called asexual, ahem). I've never seen a starfish in real life, so getting to touch them was just icing on the cake.
It was a treat to exercise the old touch sense. I've been getting my olfactory exercise with trips to Victoria's Secret to smell all the perfumes as a means of entertaining Laila, my sights have been overdosing in this place with so much to see, Limewire and NPR's All Songs Considered podcast tuned my ears, and the Thai, Indian, Mexican, Thai, Ethiopian, Japanese, Thai, Greek, Persian, Persian, Persian that I've been eating have over-exercised my tasting ability. But touch has been something I only got to do on quick trips home and thanks to my family and friends' tolerance of my touchy feely needs.

A Little Celebrity

I've only had a couple celebrity run-ins since landing in LA. To be honest, I think I'm only programmed to care about celebs when they land on the pages of US Weekly or Star or InTouch or any one of the other vacant brain reads I prey upon at the airport. My first sighting, of Donna Martin, who some of you may know as Tori Spelling, happened at the park across from our complex. It was actually a defensive response, since she was oogling my five-year-old accomplice a little too adoringly. In mid-front/accusatory glare, I realized I recognized her from middle school. Only thing is in real life, Donna Martin's head is way too big for her body and her boobs are just ridiculous. They look like they're floating in water -- her head and her boobs.


A few days later while having my better sense zapped in the presence of adorable puppies for adoption, Mack's mom pointed out my second sighting... Everybody Loves Raymond's wife. She was there with her sons, admiring the puppies and looking just like she does in the show, which I've only watched because Bubba is a sit-com junkie and had control of the remote when I first got here. (As an aside, kudos to Bubba, Mack's brother, for his recent earning of a commercial pilot's license. Private pilot can be checked off my list of things to get.)

My most meaningful celebrity sighting happened two days ago at the Santa Monica Pier. Like most piers, there are a lot of quirky street performers earning one buck at a time showcasing talents most of us keep hidden. We saw a strange Indian girl dancing to no music for a video camera at one corner of the pier, fishermen casting off the end of it, a black woman singing R&B halfway down it, a Korean sculptor making amazingly detailed busts of regular people by the Mexican restaurant, and this guy.
You may recognize him as Arthur Nakane, the one-man band who appeared on the Jimmy Kimmel show one February not too long ago. I didn't know him as anyone other than the guy in two different colors of socks with bad teeth at the Pier until his mic targeted us as we walked past. Look closely at the photo to see the extent of craftsmanship contained in his musical machine. PVC piping has never been more versatile, a drum stick has never been so efficient, keyboards have never been so modified, and a Rubbermaid storage container has never been such a critical component of a recording system. Arthur knows what is up. He knows.

Which is why it's too bad he's retiring this year. After finding out where we were from, what we were doing in LA, what all of our names are, and if we are musicians too, he finally did a customized rendition of Candy Girl (goes something like, Sugar, ahhh Honey Honey, You are my candy girl, and you've got me wanting you) for Mack, Laila, Shahin and Amber. Not exactly my tastes, but flattering none the less. I just hope that doesn't count as my 15 minutes of fame.

For more info on Arthur, check out this. After reading it, I think he might just be the most important, and certainly the most talented, celebrity I've met so far.

(One more aside... we finally had a dreary day in LA. It was still pretty warm and there was lots to do, but here's the drear on the pier... just to make you 27-degree readers of blog feel better...)