I Made Chokes! (Well, not me exactly...)

Last week, inspired by a warm afternoon and a long walk, I decided to have a little cookout. I called my peeps, Leigh and Ruble, to see if they were hungry and scanned my tastebuds to see what might satisfy my charcoal cravings. In popped the Carribean Chicken with Avocado Relish that we made last year at my mom's Bon Voyage/Mother's Day party. It was just what I wanted, so after our workout, me and Leigh and Ruble headed to Kroger to load up on some groceries. I'm all for new food experiences, but sadly, my cooking knowledge base is restricted to what's in the cookbooks my mom gives me or the old standby Better Homes and Gardens Cookbook that I have lost somewhere along the line. So when Leigh, the mistress of the kitchen, suggested we make an artichoke, I was all for it. Well, all for watching her do it.

A pot of water set to boil was flavored with olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette, as best as I could see, and a spikey, weird artichoke was placed on top in its grated bowl to steam for 45 minutes. It came out looking more sage green than avocade green, but it still was a mystery to me. How do you get to the goodness that is the artichoke? Leigh whipped up a creamy dressing from mayo and worchesteshire sauce and did a little demo for us. Take a "leaf" from the outside edges, dip the bottom half in the dressing (you could also use melted butter) and then scrape it into your mouth using your teeth. It's weird at first, but it's how I've been eating bananas for a few years now, so I warmed up to the teeth scrape pretty quickly.
We ate around the core until a weird last layer was left, sitting in a wad on top of a round base.
Leigh pulled it up and offered it to me. It was just like the leaves I'd eaten before, hearty like a meat but still vegetablish, except this was a lot less work for a lot more reward. Underneath this wad was a prickly little sheild, something that I would have thought meant the end of the artichoke if it were just me.
But I would have missed out on the heart... The heart is the richest, thickest, heartiest part of the artichoke and is just beneath the prickle. It's worth the effort, and is even better when you've got three pals on a warm spring evening helping you seek it out.
Here's the delicious, fresh Carribean Chicken w/ Avocado Relish in case you're inspired to cook out (and maybe if you ask really nicely, Leigh will give more extensive tips for the artichoke):

Caribbean Chicken With Avocado Relish

Ingredients:

3-1/2 pounds boneless -- skinless chicken
breasts - split and trimmed
(12 small pieces or 6 large pieces)
-----marinade-----
3 medium clo garlic
3 medium oranges
1 cup peanut oil
1 can chipotle peppers in -- (7oz)
adobo sauce
1 cup loosely packed cilantro
leaves
-----avocado relish-----
1 large tomato concasee
2 medium avocados; peeled and pitted
cut into 1/4" dice
1/2 small lime
1/2 small orange
1 small onion - minced
1 small cl garlic - minced
3 medium scallions - thinly sliced
1 small jalapeno chile - seeded and
minced
2 tablespoon minced cilantro
1/8 teaspoon hot red-pepper sauce
1/8 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
salt & freshly ground black
pepper to taste
3 small plantains or bananas
2 tablespoon vegetable oil

Instructions:

For the marinade: peel the garlic and put in processor work bow l fitted with metal blade; squeeze in 1 cup orange juice and remaining marinade ingredients; process until pureed; transfer to a non-reactive bowl; rinse chicken, pat dry and add to marinade insuring chicken is covered completely; cover and refrigerate 12 hours or up to 2 days. (I'm never prepare long enough in advance to fully marinade the chicken and it's still delicious... I usually marinade for 45 minutes to an hour)

For the relish: put tomato and avocado in medium bowl; squeeze in 1 tbsp lime and 2 tbsp orange juice; add remaining ingredients; mix well and set aside. (May be covered and refrigerated up to 2 hours). (I never buy plantains, but instead use banana in the relish. You can also use bananas or omit them below. If you don't like something, leave it out. I usually use 1/4 the amount of onions.)

Remove breasts from marinade and let drain; grill turning once during cooking until juices run clear when chicken is pierced with a skewer, about 6 minutes. Peel plantains and halve lengthwise; oil lightly and grill, turning once, until marked by grill surface, about 2 minutes. Transfer 2 pieces of chicken and 1/2 plantain to serving plate; spoon 1/4 cup relish along side chicken. Serve immediately.

Five Down, Four To Go

Leiah has turned the corner on the half way point of her preggers session. We found out last week she's having a baby boy, to be named Benjamin Ace Messer (BAM!), but the poll is still going from the previous post if you want to make a guess as to birthday and dimensions (weight, length, etc). Congrats to Leiah and Matt!

We'll be having a shower for them on May 21, Sunday, from 3-5 pm, so plan on being there. It's a party for boys and girls, and everyone will be expected to fight for prizes by competing in exciting baby contests. Jeremy, start growing that affinity for spinach that you had at Kate's shower! Look for your invites in the mail this week. In the meantime, here's the progress update and the first glimpse of the thing that makes Ben a boy (the last on the right) as well as his hands and feet and manly little profile.
Which reminds me of the totally parasitic question mom posed to Leiah after her last visit: "Do you realize you've got ten toes inside your body? And ten fingers? And a penis?!" In effect, Leiah has a penis right now. That's just gross. And weird. Good one, Mom.

They're BAAAACK... almost

The love birds flew south for the winter, and are now on the grey isle of England, soon to be hopping the ocean to springtime Kentucky. Charles sent us this pictures to tempt us, and since they're beautiful -- both the pictures and the people in them that I love -- I wanted to share. Shan and Chaz get home in 6 days!!! I have not seen their faces in eight months, have only heard her voice once in that time, and have happened to catch her on Google chat twice since she left. Finally, that space in my heart will get filled again!

What a Long, Strange Week It's Been

I guess in honor of the full moon's shift to a half moon, this week has decided to be one of the strangest in my life. Not bad strange, just weird, kind of how every week of Shannon's life is. First, it's the incredible, intense, inspiring Women Writers Conference weekend, so since Thursday I've been nurturing the words in my brain and trying to coax them out in some way that leaves them with the meaning that they had in my head. Trouble is, well, there's not much time for it. Good news is that I've got lists of blog topics, so stay tuned as I detox from inspired to mundane.

On to the real action. As some of you know, my house at 411 Picadome Park is a couple of stone's throws from Bob-O-Link, which, as some of you know, is where at some point or another Leiah, Amy, Phil, Elizabeth, Justin, Phil and Tracy (unofficially) lived with me and David, the original dwellers. Dave stayed til the end, and when I moved out, Venus and I took a few walks over to the old homestead for some visits. Venus loves David, probably more than she loves me, but I will never fully accept or believe that, even though it's probably true. When we all lived together, she slept in his bed. When she got in trouble, she'd go to his room to sulk. I think she thinks they are married (sorry Lisa!), which is why, one afternoon when Phil called to let me know Venus had stopped by unannounced for a visit, I was suprised but not in disbelief. We'd made that walk together sooo many times before, since I walked in the neighborhood I live in now even when I lived at the Link. That stretch was a beaten path for me and my canine companion, and that she felt competent to do it on her own on that one occasion really made me proud. See, to get to Bob-O-Link, you only have to cross neighborhood streets and negotiate Lafayette High School's grounds. No immenent threats there, unless you count the teenagers.

The other day, after frantically driving to Frankfort to apply for a temporary liquor license it turns out I didn't need to get and wondering why I know Kentucky has Unbridled Spirit at the expense of having street signs near government buildings, I came home and felt that weird, scary, vacant feeling that comes when Venus doesn't run up to me when I pull in. Where did she go?

I rode the bike around the block to see if I could find her. Nothing. Hopped in the car and drove over to Bob-O-Link to see if she'd braved that journey again. Nothing. At this point it was time for work, and Mack had asked 25 times, "Do you think she went to Dave's?" and I had answered, "She wouldn't go there. She doesn't know where it is," I decided to swing by just in case. We've only walked to Dave's house once, we've only driven there four times, and she's only stayed with him on a couple of occasions for no more than two days. There was no way she would know how to get there, how to safely cross both Rosemont Garden and Clays Mill, how to figure out which house was Dave and Lisa's.

Imagine my surprise as she ran up to my scooter to greet me then.

I was so excited to see her stupid, bad face that is too smart for my own good that I forgot about the tears I'd shed earlier while on the phone with the Humane Society. I put her in the back yard at Dave's and went to get the car to bring her home (I was on my scooter, see). By the time Mack and I got back, David was home, understandably confused to see Venus in his backyard. I explained the situation, which he still probably doesn't believe, and on our way to the car he says, "I get off around 5, Venus."

Venus and Her Lover, Reunited at Long Last, if Only for the Afternoon

Venus heads home as I go to work, where the weird Ketch people contributed to the weirdness of the week in their special way, and when I got home I noticed the moped we have for some stupid reason which recently sold on ebay wasn't in the carport. "Hey," I say to Mack as I come in the door. "Where's the moped?"

"It's not out there?"

After some speculation we had several scenarios of possibilities, but nothing that left us feeling vindicated. Mack wanted to show me the car Bubba had just bought at the auction, a golden 4-door Ford Escort all clean and posh inside, for $1800. (ASIDE: If you need a car, set your ego and class aside and go to the KASP auction. They're cheaper there than anywhere else, and the auction experience is worth a blog itself. I mean, they sell nachos at the auction, it's such a big event!) We hopped in the car and set off around the block, where, about half way up the hill, we spotted our abandoned moped laying on its side, unharmed and still a piece of crap. This newfound evidence led us to believe that either our theives were lazy and got tired of pushing the scooter up the hill or reconsiderate and realized they wouldn't be able to ride it around the neighborhood without us spotting them. Whatever the reason, we got the stupid moped back and are again waiting for the ebay winner to claim his prize.

So the next day...

Dave calls me around 6, while I'm in the midst of the Dinner & A Movie event with the WWC, to ask if I'm missing anything. I didn't know, so I called Mack, who couldn't locate the dog. She did it again, this time in the pouring rain! Dave let her spend the night and I picked her up the next day. Hopefully she's had her refill of Dave and will stick around for a while. If not, Lisa, I'm afraid you might have some smelly, biting, angelic competition on your hands.

Ice, Ice Baby

He asked.
I said yes.

And so begins
happily ever after.





Boo. Ya. Ka. Sha. Respek.
Seriously, the ring is a little too pretty for my manly hands, but I guess I'll wear it if I have to.

Something I Discovered

This was the quote of the day courtesy of google's personalized home page. I loved it. Realize it.

Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.
- WH Auden

Heroes & Sickos

Just finished watching a documentary called Sick about S&M expert Robert Flanagan, who also suffered from cystic fibrosis , and would like to officially proclaim him a hero. Yes, the film is disgusting and painful, both watching him suffer through every breath and watching him hammer a nail through his penis, but his courage and his strength is one of the most inspiring things I've watched since beginning my subscription to Netflix. Flanagan and his partner-in-crime Sheree Rose shied away from nothing ugly and left a picture of raw human, flesh and bone made beautiful through its honesty and realism. Before he died in 1997, at the ripe old, record-breaking age of 43 (most CF sufferers die before their 20s, and two of his sisters died from the disease -- one as an infant, one at the age of 21), he kept a pain journal, which you can read here, and exhibited several performance pieces from New York to Los Angeles. In the documentary he talks about an exhibit he wanted to do post-humously called The Viewing, where a video camera would be placed in the coffin with him and subscribers/collectors could subscribe and watch his evolution beyond death. I don't think this happened, and although I think it's cryptic and sad and somewhat mocking that he would do that, I can't help but admire his bravery at showing even the most disgusting parts of his life/death in real time and without any fancy make-up or lighting tricks. Bob Flanagan, self-proclaimed SuperMasochist. Just goes to show you never know where you'll find a hero.

This is the poem that wraps up the documentary. It's difficult, brutal, pure and bare. I loved it.

"Why"

by Bob Flanagan

Because it feels good;
because it gives me an erection;
because it makes me come;
because I'm sick;
because there was so much sickness;
because I say FUCK THE SICKNESS;
because I like the attention;
because I was alone a lot;
because I was different;
because kids beat me up on the way to school;
because I was humiliated by nuns;
because of Christ and the Crucifixion;
because of Porky Pig in bondage, force-fed by some sinister creep in a black cape;
because of stories of children hung by their wrists,
burned on the stove, scalded in tubs;
because of Mutiny on the Bounty;
because of cowboys and Indians;
because of Houdini;
because of my cousin Cliff;
because of the forts we built and the things we did inside them;
because of what's inside me;
because of my genes;
because of my parents;
because of doctors and nurses;
because they tied me to the crib so I wouldn't hurt myself;
because I had time to think;
because I had time to hold my penis;
because I had awful stomachaches and holding my penis made it feel better;
because I felt like I was going to die;
because it makes me feel invincible;
because it makes me feel triumphant;
because I'm a Catholic;
because I still love Lent, and I still love my penis, and in spite of it all I have no guilt;
because my parents said BE WHAT YOU WANT TO BE, and this is what I want to be;
because I'm nothing but a big baby and I want to stay that way, and I want a mommy forever, even a mean one, especially a mean one;
because of all the fairy tale witches, and the wicked stepmother, and the stepsisters, and how sexy Cinderella was, smudged with soot, doomed to a life of servitude;
because of Hansel, locked in the witch's cage until he was fat enough to eat;
because of "O" and how desperately I wanted to be her;
because of my dreams;
because of the games we played;
because I've got an active imagination;
because my mother bought me Tinker Toys;
because hardware stores give me hard-ons;
because of hammers, nails, clothespins, wood, padlocks, pullies, eyebolts, thumbtacks, staple-guns, sewing needles, wooden spoons, fishing tackle, chains, metal rulers, rubber tubing, spatulas, rope, twine, C-clamps, S-hooks, razor blades, scissors, tweezers, knives, pushpins, two-by-fours, Ping-Pong paddles, alligator clips, duct tape, broomsticks, barbecue skewers, bungie cords, sawhorses, soldering irons;
because of tool sheds;
because of garages;
because of basements;
because of dungeons;
because of The Pit and the Pendulum;
because of the Tower of London;
because of the Inquisition;
because of the rack;
because of the cross;
because of the Addams Family playroom;
because of Morticia Addams and her black dress with its octopus legs;
because of motherhood;
because of Amazons;
because of the Goddess;
because of the moon;
because it's in my nature;
because it's against nature;
because it's nasty;
because it's fun;
because it flies in the face of all that's normal (whatever that is);
because I'm not normal;
because I used to think that I was part of some vast experiment and that there was this implant in my penis that made me do these things and that allowed THEM (whoever THEY were) to monitor my activities;
because I had to take my clothes off and lie inside this plastic bag so the doctors could collect my sweat;
because once upon a time I had such a high fever that my parents had to strip me naked and wrap me in wet sheets to stop the convulsions;
because my parents loved me even more when I was suffering;
because surrender is sweet;
because I was born into a world of suffering;
because I'm attracted to it;
because I'm addicted to it;
because endorphins in the brain are like a natural kind of heroin;
because I learned to take my medicine;
because I was a big boy for taking it;
because I can take it like a man;
because, as somebody once said, HE'S GOT MORE BALLS THAN I DO;
because it is an act of courage;
because it does take guts;
because I'm proud of it;
because I can't climb mountains;
because I'm terrible at sports;
because NO PAIN, NO GAIN;
because SPARE THE ROD AND SPOIL THE CHILD;
because YOU ALWAYS HURT THE ONE YOU LOVE.

photos by Sheree Rose

A Learning Journey

Took a journey down the Bluegrass Parkway, which I hereby rename Most Boring Stretch of Highway on the Planet, on Tuesday. Mack had a HIS 109 exam and I wanted to come along so I could give his history teacher, Ms. Plummer, a piece of my mind. The class is a whopping three credit hours, and she releases hour-long lectures about 20 times a week. Then she has required reading. Then she has required discussion boards. Someone needs to remind this woman that it's HIS 109, that it's offered over the internet, and that the information contained therein does not need to be so specific as to trace the lineage of every Roman emperor, especially if they attained that status by being the fastest runner. The thing is, I'm not in Ms. Plummer's class, but because Mack is, I, by default of us living together, have to listen to her monotone drone word vomit academia swollen head babble without end, and frankly, I want to kill her. Well, maybe not kill her, but a serious curling iron accident or toenail loss might even the score.

Turns out Ms. Plummer was in Germany reading dusty old books, as Mack likes to say, this semester, so I used my campus journey to learn a couple new things.

1) No college campus is immune to the short, yellow Oxford donning, Jesus-freak sidewalk preacher with bumper stickers stuck on his briefcase that applaud abstinence without acknowledging human nature, regardless of the college's geography.

2) Jesus-freaks will never learn.

3) There are no fewer than 18 semi trucks per mile on the interstate anymore (I took several random samples).

4) Americans need, desperately, to resurrect the train.

A tad bit of explanation. The Jesus-freak was surrounded by so many people, about half of them black and a third of them with cameras, that I actually thought I had walked up to a real live battle, the kind Eminem does in 8 Mile. Not so. The group started to disperse right after we walked up, and then we were in the middle of all these cameras. That's when we spotted the briefcase and its attached weirdo.

The train/semi lesson came from this:
and this:
and this:
and this: While I was driving home from Louisville one night, I called Eli only to have my cellular reception interrupted by the semi I was passing. A few select words and a compressed gas pedal on mom's Celica convertible later, and that over-sized truck was a thing of the past... until I looked in my rear view mirror and saw the headlights make a 90-degree, counterclockwise turn toward the lane I was just in, saw a billow of smoke rise up behind it, and watched, horrified and feeling grateful, as the semi skid on its side in my direction. I never slowed down, and with my newfound reception, called 911 and hoped that the cars behind the trucker were able to stop in time. If we had trains, I'd have been on it reading a book and sipping a glass of wine, that cargo would have been on it getting transported safely and efficiently, and that driver would have been getting the rest he obviously needed instead of living what had to be a nightmare.

Four down, five to go

Leiah's turned the corner on her fourth month of babydom. We still don't know what she's having but should find out soon. Everything is going great, and we'll be having a shower for her in May (don't worry, boys, I do co-ed showers so you can be invited too!), which is a little earlier than most people do it, but we want to have one when Shan and Chaz are home. I'm also having a skate party for my 28th birthday party, so get out the ankle braces and knee pads. Details on both to come. In the meantime, I thought it might be cool to take bets, no money involved yet, on due dates and sex. She's due Sept. 6, according to the docs, but mother nature has a way of changing that stuff. Also, if you have any name suggestions, let's hear those too. If it's a boy, I think they're leaning toward Benjamin Ace Messer, but if someone can beat that, I'm sure they'll consider it. So, post your labor date guess, including the time, gender guess and any name suggestions NOW! For the record, I think she's having a boy on Sept. 3, 2006, at 3:19 p.m. Whoever gets closest without going over will win something so cool you won't be able to stand it. Maybe a weekend in LA???

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.