There Is Always Room For Pie

I won a book on Goodreads today. Go me!

The whole idea of free books for reviews is almost as good as employment as a dessert taste-tester for The Cheesecake Barn but with less chocolate sauce and far less guilt.

Stretchy pants optional.

No, not pants optional. What kind of girl do you think I am?

Pants, as a rule, should never be optional. Stretchy pants are a different story. As a matter of fact, reading in stretchy pants is highly under-rated. Eating dessert, reading, and drinking coffee in stretchy pants, even more so. Ask anyone who has ever eaten dessert after a Thanksgiving dinner.

"Keep eating. It's tradition...and ignore your Uncle unbuttoning his trousers."

Stretchy pants give you freedom to move, to be active, to go rollerblading with your chocolate lab and allowing as much freedom as a Tampax commercial. Stretchy Pants also support the golden rule.

"There is always room for pie."

No matter how short-short skirts are hemmed or how many skimpy fashions emerge, trends of the publicly* pants-less, and I say this with confidence, is not happening. No Pants-less Day Of The Week will ever go mainstream. Especially when cafe sofa upholstery is involved.

First off? Eww.

Secondly, who says, "Hey, I'm going to get coffee. You wanna go with? Cool. Take off your pants."

Perhaps these words are only spoken in hushed, reverent tones by people who cant wear stretchy pants? It can happen. To be, but stuck...butt stuck, in the traditional confines of non-stretchy pants.

Those poor souls will want pie at Thanksgiving and as a result, realize too late that their ability to sit upright is futile; learning a fatalistic lesson of Supply-Side Economical Effect of Free Price Mechanism meet Laws of Gravity (You Are Now My B##ch Edition).

Commonly known as "I can't believe I ate that whole pie. Where are my stretchy pants?"
 
Just kidding! I know. Eating a whole pie...that'd be silly.  Silly as waxing near mind-grindingly poetic about coffee shops with half-nekkid patrons, sipping scalding hot beverages while lounging in chairs that probably need to be dry cleaned more often than twice a year.

Who knew winning a free book would inspire this nonsense? But yes, Mr Savage. I call him Fred. Or that kid who was sick in Princess Bride. Yes, I have on stretchy pants and it is a kissing book.

~Bee supports The Golden Rule.
Listening to: Slip by Deadmau5

 

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*or if it may interest you wordsmithies, the dictionary advises the lesser-known alternative, yet equally acceptable spelling of "publically" which looks too much like "pubically" and that's just wrong.

Sweet Valley High Books May Cause Pregnancy

I am reading romantical books, ya'll. Give me a minute, I gotta quit blushing.

 ~tomato red!~

Okay, done now. 

 I've recently read a romance book. My first romance read ever. Not joking. I've only started reading the romance genre in this last year. I will blame it on cell phones. And my mother.

 You see, if I hadn't gotten a cell phone, I wouldn't have downloaded a book reading app.

 If I hadn't downloaded the app, I wouldn't have found free classic books online.

 If I hadn't found free books online, I wouldn't have started reading again.

 If I hadn't started reading again, I wouldn't have used Goodreads.com and connected with friends. These friends who used to work at a bookstore. Friends who said, "If you like historical fiction, you will probably like Outlander by Diana Gabaldon. A lot of women like that book" At this point I didn't know whether to be insulted or thankful he'd recommend something I would dive into. I went with thankful.

 I read all kinds of books now with few exceptions because of my mother. I will say on her behalf, she does not remember it this way. Why? Because it is a universal truth that no family member should agree on past events. No one remembers what happened growing up. It's Murphy's Law, senility, or perhaps the need to be contrary. My sisters and I don't even agree and we haven't the age excuse on our side. (Sorry, Mom. No, you are not old). Its some generational, space time continuum thing. In fact, my kids are probably making fake memories as I type this on my keyboard.

 In my humble and faulty recollection, which is very, very humbly recollected, my parents homeschooled me. This is not in dispute. However, the parental units allegedly had me write book reports on classics like the autobiography of Rush Limbaugh while I begged off to write something meaty and homeschooler-ish by CS Lewis or Oregon pioneer, Dr. John McLoughlin. Or dissect quantum mechanics departing from classical mechanics, primarily at the quantum real of atomic and subatomic length scales.

I was homeschooled.

What does this have to do with the book, Outlander? I'm blaming my android phone and my mother, that's what. I'll get there, now hush or go make me a sandwich.

 I vividly remember my mother, who continues to not remember, giving my teenage self a good deal of flack after seeing I checked out Jr. High romance books. Good girls don't read that stuff. Judy Blume, beyond Fudge and Tootsie? Not allowed. The new Nancy Drew was also deemed a tart and she was banned from the house as well. Sweet Valley High girls were trouble. I mean, look at these faces.

The new face of teenage rebellion.

 

They may look like innocent teens who scribble "Mrs. Sweet Valley High Guy" on their sparkly unicorn trapper keepers. But we know better.

Tears, shame and guilt pierced my Double Loving heart and like the good girl I was, I snuffed my tears, put my shoulders back, chin high, and began smuggling young adult Sweet Valley High porn under my pillow on the downlow. Until my stash was discovered.

That was a dark day indeed, my friend.

Fast forward twenty-garblefarble years and am I grown up with four kids and a husband. I still get a little embarrassed admitting I like the romance genre. I didn't want to break down an buy a book cover, but I can definitely see the appeal now.

"What are you reading?"
"Uhhh, my quantum mechanics book? Don't look at me that way...HEY! I WAS HOMESCHOOLED YOU KNOW!"

I was told by a well-read friend I might branch into historical fiction since I liked Stephen Lawhead. This is the one that recommended the Outlander series. He didn't say it's about a strapping, 6ft 4 Highlander, a strong female protagonist, drama, time travel, love story, a rebellion, humor, and all wrapped in good writing.

I blushed, I hmmm-ed and hawwwed, but my head said HEY! ITS MY BOOK APP AND ILL READ ROMANCE IF I WANT TO!

I downloaded it for a free Nook deal where it sat on my puritanical phone for a year. Which, incidentally, is more salaciously thrilling than hiding Sweet Valley High and Nancy Drew porn under a pillow.

Hey! Someone tell Ned that Nancy-girl is a firecracker. Woo woo!

After getting a new phone, I redownloaded the book app and surprise. There was the book. Highly rated and staring at me. I started reading and I discovered where the romance novels were concerned, there were a lot of varients. Also, I'm a dirrrrty girl and I liked it. A lot.

Then call me a broadsided bibliophile, Batman... there were genres in romance, too.

I soooo need a bigger pillow.

I have to mention, the peeps who tell publishers to offer a free download are pretty smart because I've purchased all available in the series in hardback (that's how I roll). I don't think I would have been brave enough to branch out into this genre without having been given the book.

I fell in love with this story and even though my mother's consternation, which she does not remember, at my choices in books is a deep-seated voice, I have learned to be more open-minded. Not that I'm going Fifty Shades of Seriously? This Is A Best Seller? anytime soon.

All in all, I would have missed this amazing world Gabaldon had painted if I hadn't taken a risk to read out of my literary box. For that, I thank my mother who still swears I'm making this up, the inventor of the android cell phone, and the deliciously wicked pen of Diana Gabaldon.

~Bee does not put covers over her paperback books.
Listening to: The Planets Bend Beneath Us by Snow Patrol 

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Don't Eat The Shrimp Platter

I'm at a bit of a loss as to why I've looked at the calendar and it's now September. It was June just last week.

Little bit of a lot to catch up on.

I went to a cemetery today. No, it's not my time yet and all the kids are accounted for. I do something far more relaxing. Less irreversibly dead. I take photos of headstone markers.

Now, I know what you are thinking, and unless you are dead from sheer boredom reading this post, you are alive and thinking, why? who does this for fun? A lot of people.

Cemeteries are as fascinating as their living counterparts. I love to people watch. Read obits. Find out what someone did with their life. The cemetery just shows the end part. Beyond that, a peek into someone's life: Someone cleans the marker. Do they miss the person or thankful for the time they had with them? Do they have a family plot and is it forgotten by loved ones that moved away? These are little glimpses into someone's life, into a place that is quite private, feels deeply personal, yet out in the open for all to see. 

In short, I'm a nosy girl and people watching is still a favorite hobby.

You'd be surprised how many love to do this. I volunteer for an online cemetery photo database. As a curious soul, researching is brain food, piecing together family, and helping others is my altruistic bit of happiness. I get a sense of paying it forward by quietly traversing over miles of grass and buried memories. The exercise and fresh air doesn't hurt either. This is where the volunteers come in.

I could exercise like this. Rome wasn't built in a day but Romans didn't have relatives with cameras who canvased cemeteries to lose weight.

One marker in particular surprised me. I promise I'm not making this up. The last name indicated sorcery and conjuring. Big pentagram on the marker. She had a big surprise after she died.

In more linear news, I had a birthday last week. Still in my dirty thirties even though I use soap all the time. I remember being fresh out of high school and thinking that 30 was old. I certainly don't cater to that ideal. But admittedly, I have been under the impression for several years now, high schoolers are looking younger and younger.

Another something-something is my schooling. Big question mark. I won't get into the hairy ordeal here. Too many decisions and options. Closed doors, closed windows, and I basically need some air. Now you're curious.

See how it feels? Not fun. I'm still making my goals a reality however, reality requires flexibility and timing is everything.

Are you confused? Me, too. 

Zus is in middle school now. He's picked up the flute for band class. I'm housing one budding guitarist, and an additional five musicians here. Our apartment looks like a music store exploded inside.

Lastly, Mr Coffee and I went to the beach with the family for our 18th anniversary last month. We experienced traditional Pacific NW coast weather: overcast, cool, and a peek of sun resulting in a bit of sunburn. It was an excellent adventure to christen our new-to-us van. Tillamook, OR, Seaside, OR, and Seaview, WA are a lovely place to visit. Bob's Cabin Restaurant and Lounge's shrimp platter was not.

That's all I'll say about that.

Well, now I've caught you up, dear reader. Next post will probably be more exciting. Or not. I just promise to blog before I'm collecting social security. 

~Bee has lots to blab about today.

Listening to: Past Is Prologue album by Tycho 

 
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Raise Your Hands If You're Sure

"What on earth does 'moded' mean?"

A few posts back I spoke of moded people, thinking to my old school self, "Self, I am so hip and getting down and jiggy with it."

"Like, for shizzle," says the white girl.

Apparently, there are old school terms and then there is old, old school. Even the old schooliest might not know what "moded" meant. The actual meaning of the word "moded" derived from "moated", in the medieval days when you would get stuck on the moat and look stupid. You would have to swim to dry land, across rank water full of people-eating eels or the Loch Ness monster or something.

Yeah. I just made that up.

If I read my urban dictionary right, it means: inyerface, burned, dissed, facejob, owned. A derivative of the word "demoted".

My sisters and I flung this word about often growing up in So. Cali. It was the ultimate burn, especially toward our neighbors. Calling names was nothing new. Almost a rite of passage, like high school prom. Or a first date. Or cleaning untended liquid broccoli from your first apartment fridge. As kids, we were rebels, calling the neighbor kids, "Ni**erpoos". They in turn, called us "Honkey Trash".

HUD apartment housing, folks. Doesn't get any better than this. Apparently, it takes a village to raise a child, and that same village to make your kids racist.

Not a shiny moment in my childhood memories but here is one shinier from long ago. I'm a greenie. I recycle.

Fifth grade was a very hard year for me. I discovered boys. I discovered Lawman jeans were cool. I discovered friends could stab you in the back and that hygiene couldn't be taken care of by a shake of baking soda.

You see, my parents were under the opinion that with four girls, deodorant was a commodity we could do without. The notion of buying deodorant for a second grader was probably not on their radar and baking soda was cheap and always available in the kitchen. Bad news for me.

I have always been a Sweaty Betty. (no offense to Betty). The payoff to looking like someone who is detoxing is that you have great skin, but again, one is always sweaty. The bane of my existence has been B.O. related from the start of second grade.

I recall that dark day when a parent handed us four girls a set of shakers to share. These shakers were rather like the red pepper flake dispensers at the pizza parlor, except these babies were full of baking soda.

To shake. Into my pits.

It doesn't take a science major to know that baking soda is prone to clumping in wet environments. And boy, did it.

Every morning I would faithfully shake baking soda into the caverns of my arms with the hopes I'd ward off smelling like a 10 year old couch in a frat house. I'd end up spilling white powder on my clothes and hating the moment that would come a few hours later. That moment, that dreaded moment, of catching wind of my fragrant..er..., flagrant self.

Being an odoriferous sort, I would nearly die of embarrassment when I would nonchalantly raise my arm and a small clod of grayish baking soda would fall out of my armpit. It would happen at the most inopportune times. And no boy would come within ten feet of me. Who knew that giving it another few years and I'd be modeling swimsuits for a living? How is that for moded? But for my fifth grade year, I stood three heads taller and was marked with sweat stains and raging B.O.


I would pray, "PLEASE don't let there be clods in my pits. PLEASE don't let their be clods in my pits." It was mortifying. By mid morning though, you'd think my body was having some gruesome white clod fall out.

Despite my baking soda pits, B.O., and dusted t-shirts, I had trouble making friends. I remember one morning, going over to my desk to start my school day. I came eye to eye with a gigantic, sunshine yellow, toile-covered basket perched upon my school desk. This was not any basket, it was a JEAN NATE' bath and body basket. I stood dumbfounded, eyes glazed in glorious wonder over who would be so kind to do that? Soap, lotions, a little deodorant, and more soap....all packaged in it's beautiful, golden yellow glory. I was so excited. I felt special.

I didn't realize the assistant teacher was giving it to me because I was emulating the Bog of Eternal Stench. My teacher may have thought that I (or my parents) needed some help in the hygiene department. I gather she didn't have a polite way of saying, "No offense but you smell like a sheep herder!" My stepmom became unglued (and rightly so) when she found out one of my teachers gave me body products. Why it was such an offensive gift, I wondered. I had my baking soda, right? Naturally, I didn't understand until it was explained to me how the teacher should have addressed my parents first.

And queue the deafening sound of a 5th grader's feelers being put through a proverbial meat-grinder. 

Everyone has an awkward stage in their childhood. I had big teeth, a bean pole body, mean school mates, and awkwardness all poured into a pair of Lawman jeans.

That was my fifth grade year in a nut shell.

I'm thankful now for those character building lessons. Armed with deodorant, my fifth grade year could have been easier. I could have forgone the embarrassment but I am now better equipped to empathize with my kids once that time comes...and it will...even if I will never, ever, ever enjoy red pepper flakes on my pizza.

You can be Sure of that.

~Bee never lets you see her sweat
Listening to: Animal by Dash & Will

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