tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13423053648664257742024-03-18T02:48:02.416-07:00The Good, The Bad, The WorseI've been single; I've been married; and I've been divorced. I've been a good girl who made bad choices, and I've been a bad girl who made good choices. That's what this blog is all about.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.comBlogger569125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-59059280989150048622016-03-29T20:00:00.000-07:002016-03-30T11:26:33.724-07:00With Love, To Nicky Eff and Max<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I fell in love with her online. Nicky and I seemed to have lived in a parallel universe in many ways.<br />
<br />
Exactly what drew me to her, i am not even sure. But I knew her and she knew me. I was so thrilled when she told me that she and her son, Max, were coming to visit me in 2012.<br />
<br />
Alex and I drove to the airport and were very excited to meet them both. We had brought snacks for Max and could not wait to see them in person. Even before the plane had landed, we had checked a hundred times to be sure we would be there on time.<br />
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Finally, the plane had landed, and I insisted that Alex drive up to the terminal level to see if they were outside. My first sighting of Nicky was a young woman with beautiful alabaster legs standing on the curb wearing a pair of shorts and high heels, smoking a cig as a lovely boy ran in circles around her knees while she spoke on a cell phone. She was the most glorious woman I had ever seen.<br />
<br />
Five minutes later, Nicky and Max were in our car heading home to our house in Alameda, California.Max was curious about every thing he saw. He was such a smart little guy! His introduction to our crazy pit bull Zoe worried him a bit, but he soon got more relaxed with her. Max was more comfortable with staid and reserved Harry, deeming him to be a "good boy". He told us very seriously in English that ZoZo was "not a good boy".<br />
<br />
Max spoke very little English, but that did not stop him from bonding with us. His fluent French and Alex's fluent English was enough to make a firm friendship between them. He was the most beautiful little guy I had seen in years. Alex and Max spent many hours playing chess, and I was pleased to see that Max actually won several games.<br />
<br />
Max and Nicky and JP got on Face Time a couple of times a day and I was lucky enough to walk in on some of their online visits. JP was so happy to see his gorgeous wife and boy child. JP was a handsome and sexy man. He and Nicky flirted obviously delighted with each other for an hour every day while they were here. I was so happy seeing that kind of affection. <br />
<br />
We drove to San Francisco and on the ride I spilled Diet Coke on Alex accidentally. He was not pleased. Alex's displeasure caused me and Nicky to start laughing. The more we tried to stop laughing, the worse it got with snorts and snickers. Soon Max and Alex joined in the absurd giggles. Nicky and I also managed to get locked in our parked car after setting off the alarm. Panic ensued! It was getting hot in the car and we couldn't open doors or windows. I finally called Alex and he told us how to shut it down. We looked at each other after the horrid siren had quit screeching and simply cracked up. Neither of us was really good at dealing with a crisis.<br />
<br />
To say I will miss Nicky isn't really true. She is in my heart and always will be right there.<br />
Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-83446052612328662602016-01-22T11:57:00.001-08:002016-01-22T11:57:15.959-08:00Roller Coaster Rides<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Three days before Christmas, I was sitting at my kitchen table watching CNN News, and drinking coffee. A white cloud came down over my right eye and rendered me blind in that eye. To say I was terrified is not an overstatement. <br />
<br />
Within 5 or 10 minutes, my sight slowly came back. Fortunately, Alex was home and took me to the hospital emergency room where I would have about 10 hours worth of tests, pokes, prods, and so on. It was determined that I had experienced something called "Amaurosis Fugax", also sometimes called a TIA or mini-stroke. The ER doctor coordinated with my primary care doctor and I was set to meet with him the Monday after Christmas.<br />
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I waited to see if the weird stuff would happen again after I got home from the day of ER tests. I was feeling stressed and frightened. Christmas came and went without incident, but I couldn't get past the fear of "what comes next". It didn't help that multiple people started telling me about somebody they knew who "had exactly the same thing and then they died". Worse, even, I watched the movie, "Legends of the Fall" with Brad Pitt and Sir Anthony Hopkins, which depicts Hopkins after a supposed stroke struggling to walk, unable to talk, walking around with a tablet to write on, while he drooled and slobbered constantly. Oy vey!<br />
<br />
The doctor appointment on Monday was fairly low keyed. My doctor is a calm person and I trust him completely. He told me I would have to have more tests, visit an eye physician and surgeon, and a neurologist, and perhaps a vascular surgeon in the next few days. At least there was a plan. I had a CT Scan, Angiogram, with contrast dye which was fairly quick by also fairly scary because I was told I would feel "warm" from the dye injection. I actually felt my womb and ovaries heat up like they had been zapped in a microwave oven. Warm? Hah!<br />
<br />
The eye doctor explained to me that Amaursis Fugax is not a diagnosis, but a description of what happened. He also said that it could have been caused by an ocular migrane or a wide range of other undetermined factors. Further good news, he told me that my eyeballs are healthy and I have very good vision. I was feeling better by the moment.<br />
<br />
Two days later, I visited a neurologist. It was a strange doctor's visit. First thing, the guy shares offices with two OB/GYNs. They actually all share one office and one exam room, and play musical chairs with each other to see patients. While the doc and I were discussing what had occurred with my "episode", people in the waiting room could hear every word with said as clearly as if they were in the same room with us. I'm just glad I wasn't there to see the OB/GYN about STDs.<br />
<br />
My next appointment was with a vascular surgeon. Long story short. I'm okay. I do not need surgery, or anything except a low dose aspirin every day. Then, of all things, David Bowie died at age 69. Two days later, the actor from Harry Potter died at age 69. Do you see where I'm going with this? My mother was a whimsical creature. She identified with actresses Jean Harlow and Marilyn Monroe. Harlow died at age 26, and Monroe died at 36. My mother announced that she knew she would die at 46. (No, she died at age 81.) But all at once, I started feeling like I was turning into my mother.<br />
<br />
I waited up until midnight the last night of my 69th year waiting for the grim reaper to come and get me. I also made Alex stay up with me. I was so relieved when midnight came and went and I was still breathing.<br />
<br />
I never expected it would feel so damn marvelous to turn 70! <br />
<br />
<br />Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-24122166080232921842016-01-10T19:14:00.001-08:002016-01-10T19:14:37.683-08:00Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-31743509952692237042016-01-10T19:08:00.000-08:002016-01-10T19:13:05.288-08:00"Yes. Feed The Ugly Ones To The Lions."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I may or may not have uttered those words to my friend Jim, 25 years ago or so.<br />
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He may or may not have commented on the attractiveness of my children in order to elicit such a response from me.<br />
<br />
Who remembers?<br />
<br />
I lost touch with Jim for many years, but it was such fun before he disappeared off the face of the planet. We were friends. We were co-conspirators. We were cohorts in crime. And then he was gone.<br />
<br />
I was instrumental in hiring Jim at the engineering firm where I worked. He was young, brash and handsome. Oh, and he was very smart as well. Jim was charming and appealing, and too many of the young women at work started vying a little too hard for his attention. I had to fire a couple of them when the catfights got too noisy to ignore.<br />
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I would say that Jim was innocent and blameless in all of these shenanigans, but that would not be the truth. He was neither innocent, nor blameless. I never really saw him in the light that the younger women did. To me, Jim was smart, funny, and incorrigible and I like that in a guy. But as a red-haired white boy, let's just say, he was never my cuppa tea.<br />
<br />
Jim had a preference for nubile young blonds. (Don't all men?) I think he was close to 30, but dated 18 and 19 year old girls almost exclusively. He even moved some of them into his apartment. Jim promptly asked them to leave if they left bra's on his door knobs. (Why else did God make door knobs?).<br />
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I loved him. And he found me after 25 years on this site. There is a god.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-81389724610047571152015-07-06T17:43:00.000-07:002015-07-06T17:43:32.061-07:00Native Americans and a True Life Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In the early 1940s, Nellie was forcefully taken from her family on the Navajo Reservation by Missionaries and placed in an Indian Boarding School. Nellie's ten siblings were also placed in the same boarding school.<br />
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The children were told to speak English, were punished for speaking in their native tongue. And taught about Christianity. We must not forget the Christianity! They were also taught how to read, write, some basic math skills, and most of all, how to do domestic chores like laundry and housekeeping. The skills from the Reservation, like pottery, weaving, storytelling, healing, and so on were no longer desirable.<br />
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At 18, Nellie married Fred, a Navajo man with a similar background, and soon after bore a son, my husband Alex. As a young mother, Nellie got educated to be a practical nurse. She and her Marine Corps husband lived in San Diego where he was stationed at the time of Alex's birth. After serving in the Corps for 4 years, Fred and his family moved to Phoenix, Arizona. Fred worked for the City, and Nellie worked at Indian Hospital.<br />
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My husband's upbringing was a series of highs and lows because the relationship between his parents was usually turbulent. Alex's two sisters were born shortly after they moved to Phoenix. A growing family, tight money and oppression linked with some alcohol and anger made for some unhappy times. Eventually, it got bad enough that the marriage ended, increasing the stress on all members of the family.<br />
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Alex spent summers on the Navajo Reservation with his family members who lived there. From a fairly young age, he learned to walk between the two worlds, not as easy a task as one might think. In the world of Phoenix, he was discriminated against because he was Navajo, and on the Rez, he was considered "an Urban Indian", and disparaged because he was not "Navajo enough" to be like his cousins. <br />
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Predictably, Alex got in some teenage trouble and decided to join the Military at a fairly young age. That may have saved his life. Most of his childhood friends are either dead or in prison. A very disproportionately large number of Native Americans join the Military. When I asked Alex why he thinks that is his response was "We have nowhere else to go. We can't go back to Europe, to Canada or to South America. This is where our roots are."<br />
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I met Alex when he was 22 years old. It was the night before he was leaving on a Westpac cruise and Alex would be gone for six months. We exchanged addresses and began a six month friendship through two or three letters a week. The rest (as they say) is history. <br />
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We try to visit the Reservation every couple of years at least. Alex went alone this time to meet his family and receive a blessing from the Medicine Man. The Navajo Reservation is a beautiful place. Alex's family are always thrilled to receive us as visitors. All of his "Reservation family" have jobs and seem to be enjoying their lives. None of them are wealthy, but they aren't impoverished either. It's a different and more spiritual world than the one we live in. The more I learn about the culture, the more I understand why there is a peace and harmony on the Reservation that is missing from many of our lives.<br />
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<span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">22a)
</span></span></span><strong><span style="color: white;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Department
of the Interior (DOI) letter, 2011:</span></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The
Department of the Interior has a solemn responsibility to uphold
the federal government’s unique government-to-government
relationship with federally recognized American Indian and Alaska
Native tribes, as provided for by the Constitution of the United
States, U.S. treaties and court decisions, presidential executive
orders and federal policies and administrative actions.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We
recognize that a legacy of injustice and broken promises shapes
the history of the federal government’s relationship with the
American Indian and Alaska Native people.</span></span></strong><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
We are therefore working to turn the page on the federal
government’s pattern of neglect of this community and, instead,
build a strategy for empowerment that helps the tribal nations
forge futures of their own choosing.</span></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To
chart this new path, we are restoring the
government-to-government relationship between the federal
government and these tribal nations because “self-determination,”
“sovereignty,” “self-government,” “empowerment,” and
“self-reliance” are not abstract concepts. Rather, they are
the tools that will enable tribal nations to shape their
collective destiny. </span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This
is why Interior is committed to partnering with American Indian
and Alaska Native communities to help them prosper by expanding
education and employment opportunities for youth and adults,
protecting lives and property by strengthening law enforcement,
and building strong, sustainable tribal economies....</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.doi.gov/whatwedo/firstamericans/" target="_self">SOURCE</a>
www.doi.gov | <a href="http://www.kumeyaay.info/san_diego_indian_casinos/Native_American_Nations_DOI.pdf" target="_self">PDF</a></span></span><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, Geneva, SunSans-Regular, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><img align="BOTTOM" border="0" height="3" name="graphics1" src="http://www.californiaindianeducation.org/images/1x1.gif" width="430" /></span></span></em></div>
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Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-63415897813734815922015-03-29T18:46:00.001-07:002015-03-29T18:46:17.338-07:00Glorious Little Slobs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I have some expertise about teen girls.<br />
<br />
I was one. I have a daughter. I have 3 sisters. I have 4 granddaughters. I have 3 nieces. And I know all the really big secrets about teen girls. They are glorious little slobs.<br />
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Clothes are left in piles on the floor and hanging out of dresser drawers and closets. There are mostly parents who end up saying "I give up" when it comes to teen girls and their rooms.<br />
<br />
The likely outcome is that parents eventually tell these glorious little slobs to close off their rooms when you are having company. This solution never really satisfies the parents completely, but the alternative threats, tears, and trauma are much more dramatic and unpleasant than just closing a door. <br />
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The amazing thing is that these glorious little slobs emerge from their lairs looking like the cover of glamor magazines. How they find anything is a miracle. How they get so perfectly "put together" is a mystery! But they manage to do it.<br />
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Teen boys are much more likely to be neat and tidy in their quarters for whatever reason. My son and grandsons and nephews are actually pretty organized. It's the girls who are the "hot messes". Almost all of the girls I know, including myself, get their neatness act together in their 20's. <br />
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Men seem to go downhill from that point. Or maybe that's just my experience.<br />
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It's a good thing teen girls are so gorgeous. If they were not, I'd feed them to the lions.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-8719056000061218692014-12-11T13:47:00.003-08:002014-12-11T13:47:55.265-08:00Muted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's only one o'clock in the afternoon, but the dark skies make it feel like dawn or early evening.<br />
<br />
The storm of the decade has arrived and brought with it pounding rains, hurricane force winds, fallen trees, power outages and mudslides. Never mind. I'm safe and warm in my lighted and warm house. I have books on the kindle, hot tea and lemons, <br />
<br />
I didn't sleep well last night partly because I was waiting for the pounding rain to come through our bedroom ceiling, or for a tree to come crashing through the house. I had flashlights and candles stacked in every room because if there's one thing I am, it's prepared. There was another reason I didn't sleep last night. I'm sick.<br />
<br />
One week ago today, my husband Alex came home after work complaining of a cold, a sore throat, a cough, a headache, and a hurting stomach. Upon observation of him, I did notice that his eyes were a little more "glassy" than normal and he had a slight flush on his cheeks. I insisted that we check his temperature and was unhappy to see that he was running a fever of 101 degrees. I gave him some over the counter cold pills, and some Aspirin and told him to go to bed.<br />
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Alex enjoys being taken care of, and I am a good nurse. The only part of this situation that isn't 100% fun is that I hate being exposed to illnesses. Alex and I both have had flu shots, so I doubted that it was the dreaded influenza, but I still don't want to catch what he's got. I wash my hands every time I touch him or anything he has touched. I avert my face from him so he can't blow cooties on me. I'm careful.<br />
<br />
I make every effort to keep the man comfortable so that he has no reason to venture out of bed, or move for that matter. I don't want him spreading his germs all over the place and if I can contain him, all the better for me. The problem is that Alex does not like being contained. He likes to walk through the entire house, and touch everything with his germy hands. If he's not touching things, he's sneezing or coughing on, or toward, things in every part of the house. If I bed down in one of the guest bedrooms, I am generally awakened when Alex crawls into bed with me and wants to sleep "with" me. <br />
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Fine. As a result of all this, of course I got sick with Alex's crud. After 3 days of coughing fits and a sore throat, I have completely lost my voice. I cannot make a sound. I cannot yell at Alex for making me catch his germs. I can't even whisper. I have been struck dumb.<br />
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As of today, Alex is officially "feeling much better". I, on the other hand, have another 4 or 5 days to go before I will improve. In the photo above, it looks like I have a wonky left eye. I assure you that is not the case. Sleep deprivation causes it. Not being able to talk makes it worse.<br />
<br />
Much as I am tired of coughing my damn fool head off, I am even more tired of having to keep mum on how much I blame my husband for my condition.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-45527368343121510502014-12-05T11:02:00.001-08:002014-12-05T11:02:03.361-08:00Linda And Alex Have An Excellent Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtE5gxjte2goi1GowJpV23b4jB4xKy7NOkmfF6LVv37ySaioOdRyfe5YpQ9VsNNHFtrGmMxxBZkCseTWE4qeoaa0Fy35pXWD7-kALsCof6I2jArv3WayFVrbysasPrPLx7jxVzz4BrR2w/s1600/seaplane.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtE5gxjte2goi1GowJpV23b4jB4xKy7NOkmfF6LVv37ySaioOdRyfe5YpQ9VsNNHFtrGmMxxBZkCseTWE4qeoaa0Fy35pXWD7-kALsCof6I2jArv3WayFVrbysasPrPLx7jxVzz4BrR2w/s1600/seaplane.jpeg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
I don't travel. I don't like to travel. I dislike leaving my dogs so we usually drive and take them with us most places. Alex flies a lot. It's been several years since I have flown at all. I always have found an excuse not to go. I'm not afraid of flying. I simply don't like flying.<br />
<br />
We have made two trips via airlines in the last couple of months. <br />
<br />
One trip took us to Oklahoma City for my 92 year old Aunt's funeral. Despite it being a sad event, we did enjoy visiting with my cousins and the trip was actually very enjoyable.<br />
<br />
Our most recent trip took us to beautiful British Columbia where we spent several days at the Empress Hotel. The hotel is glorious! The people were delightful. Canadians are lovely to look at and probably among the nicest people on the planet. Even the custom's officer with his quick smile and "No worries!" comments was charming.<br />
<br />
Canadian folks just seem to ooze charm, friendliness, and warmth. I actually wonder if they might be aliens. Adorable aliens, but aliens none the less. <br />
<br />
Yeah, yeah, yeah. It was all great. This is not a travel blog. <br />
<br />
We made the questionable decision to take a seaplane from Victoria to Seattle in order to accommodate our airline schedule. I am not the adventurous type, (except when it comes to romance of course), but I overcame my hesitation and decided getting a seaplane ride would be the best way to get to our plane in time. Never mind that I don't like to fly. Never mind that I don't like heights. Never mind that I don't even like water. Yeah, it was one of those "what was I thinking?" moments.<br />
<br />
We arrived at the terminal of Kenmore Air in Victoria about an hour before our scheduled flight. They thoughtfully had coffee and bagels set out for passengers, many of them looking like daily commuters. While Alex with his cast iron stomach opted to eat and drink, I sat and wished I could remember what a rosary was and how to pray on one. <br />
<br />
Several of the pilots walked into the terminal with their dark glasses and pilot gew gaws on their shoulders. They looked cocky and about the same age as my 18 year old granddaughter. Confidence inspiring for some I'm sure, but I began to feel a bit nauseous with nerves. I watched the tiny seaplanes take off and wondered if I could still change my mind about this mode of transport.<br />
<br />
Then she walked in. She was a small woman, perhaps 30 years old, and gorgeous. She wore tailored trousers, shiny boots, and a windbreaker jacket. Her dark slightly curly hair was tied back in a ponytail. There was something about her that stunned me. Besides her obvious beauty, she radiated a quality of utter confidence and competence. I sort of fell in love with her at first glance.<br />
<br />
When our flight was called and we were told to gather outside the terminal and wait for our pilot, I was feeling a tiny bit shaky. But then I saw her walk toward us. She said good morning and introduced herself as "Anna". She was leading our group of four people to a tiny plane. Alex asked me when the pilot would come out, and I told him "Anna is the pilot".<br />
<br />
Alex commented that she was probably just the person who helped with the luggage and such. (Silly men.) We got on the tiny plane and Anna told us to strap our seat belts and warned us not to get out of our seats during the flight. Anna jumped into the pilot's seat and started the plane's engine and eased out onto the water. She picked up speed and before long we were airborne in the smoothest take off I have ever experienced. We flew low enough to really see the channel islands. <br />
<br />
It was a beautiful flight. I never experienced one second of trepidation. I've never enjoyed a flight more! <br />
<br />
In fact, I've never enjoyed a flight at all before come to think of it. All too soon, we were landing in the water in a totally smooth transition. <br />
<br />
Oh well done, Anna! If I were a rich woman, I would hire Anna to take me everyplace! <br />
<br />
<br />Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-7121895450465638122014-09-25T16:35:00.001-07:002014-09-25T16:35:35.103-07:00The Second Time Around<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlHUM49Lx1K8D80qzZj4XX34GaC-qoOYoddK_ZLelCUpImRERttJBYd6pPwqDO7QpfpiMzClOp5aiF5IV1OWMuQlOsvvuaEa0EmUKhTG-Bu3B5ke1stvNsL5C1fBhQ2SrWuopF0-NTqQ/s1600/kids_in_cage.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlHUM49Lx1K8D80qzZj4XX34GaC-qoOYoddK_ZLelCUpImRERttJBYd6pPwqDO7QpfpiMzClOp5aiF5IV1OWMuQlOsvvuaEa0EmUKhTG-Bu3B5ke1stvNsL5C1fBhQ2SrWuopF0-NTqQ/s1600/kids_in_cage.jpeg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
It was August and I was 22. My husband John and I met a lovely couple who were visiting San Francisco and they invited us to visit them in British Columbia, Victoria, to be exact.<br />
<br />
We were looking forward to our road trip, despite having a year old baby with us. It would have never occurred to me to leave my son with anyone. He was the most important person in my life from the moment of his birth.<br />
<br />
We drove from San Francisco to Portland where we spent the night with a relative of my husband's. The next morning we drove on up to Washington State and drove on to a ferry headed to Victoria, British Columbia. The baby gurgled and smiled at us as we all admired the scenery and the ocean waves.<br />
<br />
We arrived mid-day and called our friends who gave us directions to their home. We were very happy to see them and looking forward to a really fun week. Jim and Edna were an "older couple", meaning that they may have been 50. (When I was 22, anyone older than 30 seemed like a grandparent.) They showed us to our room and everything was charming and comfortable. Jim and Edna said they had a surprise for us.<br />
<br />
After we got settled, and the baby was left sleeping on our bed, we joined them in the living room where they had prepared cocktails for us all! They said they were going to make us very happy and looked at each other and sort of giggled. "Oh come on! Tell us!" I begged.<br />
<br />
"Well," said Jim, "We realized that having a baby with you would be an inconvenience and keep you from being able to relax and have fun. So we have paid for a Children's Hotel for the baby for the week!" I was struck dumb (as in speechless, not stupid) and must have had a very peculiar look on my face. My husband said "Oh my God! What a great idea! How can we ever thank you enough!" and pretended not to notice that I was looking at all of them with daggers in my eyes.<br />
<br />
Now, don't get me wrong. I did hire the occasional babysitter for my son. I did leave him for an hour or two occasionally when I couldn't avoid it. But I'm in frigging Canada where two people I've only barely met are talking about sticking my baby in a kennel for a week. And my so-called husband is "fine" with it.<br />
<br />
I stormed out of the room and went to the bedroom where my baby was sleeping. I must of slammed the door because my son awoke and started crying. I picked him up and tried to calm him down, although I may have needed calming down more than he did. My husband came in the room and said "What is wrong with you? These people have done something really nice for us, and you are acting like an ass!" I joined my son in crying at that point and told my husband I would never forgive him if he didn't take us out of there right that minute. I just wanted to go back home. John put his arm around me and said "Oh let's just try it for a day. Then if you still feel upset, we'll go get the baby and either stay in a hotel or go back home." I was trying very hard to be reasonable so I agreed.<br />
<br />
When we came back out to join our hosts, Edna assured me that the children's hotel was run by two very nice British nurses and that the place was very highly regarded. I tried to smile and act reasonable over the whole thing, but I really wasn't going for any of it. I wished that Edna, Jim, and my husband would also somehow magically drop dead. But alas, they didn't. In fact, I was told that "It's all arranged. We'll drop the baby off at 4:00 PM and then go out for a bite." I cannot describe the horror I felt as I clutched my first born son even tighter in my arms with tears running down my face.<br />
<br />
The three of them seemed a bit amused by my rage, but we went on to the "children's hotel" at the appointed time and dropped off my son with people I didn't know from Adam. I hated their British accents. I hated seeing the place out in the country where the two British nurses would be attending to my baby. I was not allowed to tour the facility but everyone assured me it was quite nice and I wondered what they did with the kids dropped there. I had seen kennels. I would have never left my dog at a kennel. Was this place the same principle? Oh who the hell knows.<br />
<br />
The entire week was a living nightmare for me. We went salmon fishing. We went to the beautiful Empress Hotel for lunch. I saw the magnificent Canadian Mounties mounted. We went to pubs and restaurants. If I had not been so horribly distraught, I would have loved the place.<br />
<br />
I went from teary to bitchy with every waking hour. I'm sure I wore on everybody's patience. Being a complete pain in the ass to everyone all the time is exhausting. When we finally picked up my son at the end of the week, he had a runny nose. I was enraged. Two British nurses couldn't keep my son from catching a cold?<br />
<br />
So I'm going to Victoria, British Columbia again in a couple of days. This time will be better.<br />
<br />Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-64345249138799565162014-07-24T18:24:00.002-07:002014-07-24T18:24:43.450-07:00La Vida Loca<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I went to prom with a Chinese guy when I was 17. He wasn't really my boyfriend, but he was a good guy and cute too.<br />
<br />
I had a boyfriend who was African American when I was 19, (right before, and okay, right after I got married to my first husband). I also dated a Japanese man.<br />
<br />
I had an Arab boyfriend from the Kingdom of Saudi, and an Israeli boyfriend who gave me a ring. <br />
<br />
I've dated, lived with, and married a few men. <br />
<br />
I've dated, lived with, or married doctors, lawyers, cops, criminals, firemen, scientists, rich men, poor men, business men, arms dealers, bankers, bikers, truckers, sailors, soldiers, pilots, drunkards, professional athletes, and the occasional silversmith. I have enjoyed every version and color of the rainbow of men.<br />
<br />
But now, I've been married for 25 years come September to my Navajo husband..<br />
<br />
Do I ever miss the variety factor? Well, of course. But the truth is, I'm content most of the time.<br />
<br />
I am serving on a Jury. I think I'm lucky that I actually feel no hesitation to say that I really think people are pretty much the same regardless of race, station in life, economic status, and so on.<br />
<br />
I was surprised when I was selected for this jury. But when I thought about it, who better?Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-6170093156076891882014-07-08T18:57:00.000-07:002014-07-08T18:57:07.379-07:00The Bullfight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyocRf9oayjvmS-T9BsBn8l8qkTy2RGHIVYmybg9TQhzvfs1LwQdWJnk7FTCOulkLzJHShBo8DupYrE_twJ5TxOAUi_-mx9AvWd1uefEzR-YkOjN5ZulLAoLdGTdkasvVvOJLc9cHmwc0/s1600/bullfight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyocRf9oayjvmS-T9BsBn8l8qkTy2RGHIVYmybg9TQhzvfs1LwQdWJnk7FTCOulkLzJHShBo8DupYrE_twJ5TxOAUi_-mx9AvWd1uefEzR-YkOjN5ZulLAoLdGTdkasvVvOJLc9cHmwc0/s1600/bullfight.jpg" height="270" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
In 1974, I was in Mazatlan, Mexico for a short honeymoon with a short-term husband.<br />
<br />
I saw the posters for the bullfight posted all around the Plaza, and decided that it was a spectacle that I really wanted to see at least once. My blue-eyed blond husband wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the venture, but I finally wore him down and he got us event tickets for the next day.<br />
<br />
The seats we got were in the shaded area of the stadium and we were not exposed to the blazing Mexican sun. The first ten minutes were full of pageantry I was enjoying the marvelous colors and the ritual of the opening ceremony, and enjoying myself until I became aware of the first sighting of blood on the bull. I expressed dismay, but my husband insisted that he had "shelled out good money" and said we were staying for the entire bullfight, like it or not.<br />
<br />
I stopped watching the travesty in the ring, and began watching the other attendees. Most of the local Mexicans had the cheaper seats in the sunny area of the arena. They were keeping hydrated with copious amounts of tequila, swallowed directly from the bottles they were pulling from pockets and backpacks.<br />
<br />
Since it looked pretty unlikely that the bull would gore the matador, I excused myself for a restroom break. I did take a moment to touch up my lipstick and then headed for the bar. I ordered a margarita and was soon approached by a handsome young Mexican guy. We chatted in both Spanish (mine is halting) and English (his was abysmal), and spent about 15 relaxing minutes getting acquainted. I saw my husband walking in the crowd looking for his bride with a touch of fury in his eyes. I bid Angel (pronounced Ahn Hell) adios and hurried over to meet my spouse.<br />
<br />
I explained my delay by saying that the brutality of the sport really had upset me and I was just trying to compose myself before I returned. (Actually, I had considered running off with Angel, but I doubted that he had serious intentions toward me beyond an hour or so of entertainment.)<br />
<br />
My husband was angry. We left the arena and the bullfight. I got my wish.. Even better, I got a divorce.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-53841418554796316502014-06-13T17:29:00.000-07:002014-06-13T17:29:19.433-07:00Little Luxuries <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluK2z7ntAMMndG0COCTEt9qs0zG-rDBhVZfeHrSpaZ2Fn9_aR6q33zcAKUewO6gMo8qQ9FUQeMHYj5GlhzYDijTtS2KQZAX3gOLc65pwSWe-3N9g9Kv5KsrDlMOtCNqevD6VWU6mS0Vc/s1600/littleluxuries.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluK2z7ntAMMndG0COCTEt9qs0zG-rDBhVZfeHrSpaZ2Fn9_aR6q33zcAKUewO6gMo8qQ9FUQeMHYj5GlhzYDijTtS2KQZAX3gOLc65pwSWe-3N9g9Kv5KsrDlMOtCNqevD6VWU6mS0Vc/s1600/littleluxuries.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
Sometimes it really is the little things.<br />
<br />
The last few weeks, I've been going through 'a rough patch'. This sort of thing is not really anything new. Heath issues pop up; emotional issues start taking up your time and your energy;minor personal problems become paramount.<br />
<br />
For a rather nominal amount, I have arranged to have my florist Shirley surprise me with a bouquet for my kitchen every Friday. Shirley is a talented florist and a lovely woman. I return all over her vases to keep her prices (and charges to me) reasonably low.<br />
<br />
There is something about having a lovely fresh floral arrangement that pleases me.<br />
<br />
I also have manicures and pedicures at least once a month. This is no longer a luxury to me, but a necessity. I just don't feel "finished" unless my talons are done!<br />
<br />
I sometimes feel guilty for spending money on me. And then I think, "Whoa! I'm not taking money from anyone else and if these things make me feel good, why not?" Yes, I could donate every extra dime I have to charity, but if I'm not happy, I don't feel very charitable either. <br />
<br />
I think it's a win/win situatoin!<br />
<br />Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-10034216611235421102014-05-24T18:51:00.001-07:002014-05-24T19:13:21.519-07:00Important Bed Advice!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXP3F0z0J8GI8vDNmSY4jKv48XLrwIMTQiKsC0X6tcNP8EdRlGarbBKhmEBo0OLZ6jnGyagnjnt0cejaB1mXievXNQvDL7E5Wg2I1LsGgDRkUt6OvObHJDtsWiH7dzyfDZx6KUe7O1zuo/s1600/bedding2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXP3F0z0J8GI8vDNmSY4jKv48XLrwIMTQiKsC0X6tcNP8EdRlGarbBKhmEBo0OLZ6jnGyagnjnt0cejaB1mXievXNQvDL7E5Wg2I1LsGgDRkUt6OvObHJDtsWiH7dzyfDZx6KUe7O1zuo/s1600/bedding2.png" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
We spend a lot of time in our bed. Beds should be wonderful places to be.<br />
<br />
I've slept on couches, on carpeted floors, and in the back seat of cars.on bathroom floors, on a towel at the beach in the sand, and in movie theater chairs.<br />
<br />
Believe me, none of those places is comfortable compared to a bed. Many years ago, I realized that buying the best quality bed linens I could possibly afford made sleep (and lolliy-gagging)in bed much more enjoyable. I love very soft cotton for my linens. Sheets and pillowcases should feel like they have been washed a hundred times even when they are brand new.<br />
<br />
Years ago, I stayed at a hotel that claimed to have "the heavenly bed" and it was very attractive. There were pillows of all shapes and sizes and it looked very inviting. Unfortunately, the comfort level was just nowhere near "heavenly". The bed was okay, but I really wanted "heavenly" (having nothing to do with religion, if you get my drift). <br />
<br />
One thing that I have been very remiss about for years is pillows. It's damned hard to find the "perfect" pillow. They are either too hard to too soft. And, to my surprise, even the higher priced pillows are not always any more comfortable than the cheaper pillows. When I found pillows that were at least tolerable, I tended to keep them for a long time.<br />
<br />
When I was changing our sheets I noticed that the pillows I had were old, worn and even stained. Now that is disgusting! I decided I would go on a mission to find some "great" new pillows. I went to Bed Bath and Beyond and found a couple of strangely shaped pillows for side sleepers. They were expensive, but I thought it was worth a shot.<br />
<br />
I brought home two pillows and neither my husband nor I could stand them. They were hard and there was no way one could sleep on them. (The sales person had told me they were wonderful, but you had to use them the right way. She didn't explain what the right way was, unfortunately.) They only way these pillows could be used is as a place for our pet canaries to perch and we don't have canaries.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, I found the perfect pillow. It was $49 (expensive), but oh so worth it. The pillow is filled with white duck down. Now what difference white duck down makes, I have no idea. I wonder if brown duck down would be as perfect but somehow I doubt it. This pillow makes my head, neck and shoulders feel like I"m floating on a cloud. I hate to even get out of bed and leave this magical and marvelous pillow. I let my husband sample it for an hour this morning and he agreed. Alex thought a $20 pillow would be just fine, so that's what he got. After sampling my pillow, he had to get a "white duck down" filled, $49 dolla,r pillow for himself too so we went back to the store.<br />
<br />
My advice to you is to go get some white ducks and gather their down for a while, or just go spring for the expensive pillows. You will thank me.<br />
<br />
<br />Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-40943485202886649492014-05-14T15:43:00.000-07:002014-05-14T15:43:12.186-07:00Secrets!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJ5MnEDF4c1Usdq8x0jJnZggsF5i2lXA4WOzCPTTRqjIenOreR6YUyu_tlX41XFL2tcrhNFEdPzJJIOyoBr5Vr0cxWR_aX7c5OJI3cUil8H7RpPqr93_dFi9pW4FRwbdoX1MgVdrjcsc/s1600/me3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdJ5MnEDF4c1Usdq8x0jJnZggsF5i2lXA4WOzCPTTRqjIenOreR6YUyu_tlX41XFL2tcrhNFEdPzJJIOyoBr5Vr0cxWR_aX7c5OJI3cUil8H7RpPqr93_dFi9pW4FRwbdoX1MgVdrjcsc/s1600/me3.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Today, I was referred to as "my secret lady friend". Damn! I love that. My gentleman friend went on to say, "For obvious reasons, I will show no photos."<br />
<br />
I love intrigue! I love romance and a hint of danger and misbehavior. <br />
<br />
It's no secret that my husband travels all the damn time. He's away this week, and I decided to invite a neighbor man (Phil) to dinner. Phil is really a great looking, smart, and fun single man.<br />
<br />On Monday night, I decided to serve dinner in the kitchen rather than the dining room. It was cozy and intimate. I prepared cold artichokes and a spicy mustard dip, New York cuts, and Israeli couscous with sauteed mushrooms and onions topped with fresh parsley and tomatoes from the garden. It was a delightful dinner. Because we are having extreme heat, sparkling water was our beverage of choice. Phil went home at a respectable hour but we had decided to have lunch the next day.<br />
<br />
We went to a restaurant that Alex and I frequent, and our busboy asked where my husband was. Phil answered for me saying "Alex is out of town this week and Linda gets lonely". The busboy looked somewhat chagrined but I just smiled at him and nodded in agreement.<br />
<br />
The owner of the restaurant dropped by, and kissed me on the cheek. I introduced him to Phil, and he showed no reaction at all except a slight quiver in his pupil. He made a few minutes of small talk with us about our meal and then excused himself.<br />
<br />
When we got back home, Phil walked me up to the house and gave me a hug and kiss on the front porch. Two of my neighbors were watching intently from their windows.<br />
<br />
Is it bad that I don't mind having a bad reputation?Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-9901629181493214722014-05-05T14:46:00.003-07:002014-05-05T14:46:48.760-07:00The Good, The Better, The Best!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been trying to concentrate on the positive and ignore the negative in the last week or so. I think it's working!<br />
<br />
Last week started off rather ho hum. Alex was sent up to Beale Air Force Base to solve some technical problems. I was a bit bummed about being alone, again. Now, I know I've bitched and moaned for years about how much Alex travels. I hate being left to my own devices. Okay, I don't trust me with my own devices. I've been known to do some reckless, foolish and occasionally dangerous things when I get bored. Inviting the Kirby vacuum cleaner guy in for tea might be an example of one of my stupid moves, but on occasion it has been worse. Much worse. I won't elaborate on that.<br />
<br />
Yes, I could go on and describe depravity, insanity, and that one trip to the City Jail (not being in custody though), but I won't. Sometimes I can be discreet.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the positive started when Alex called on Wednesday late afternoon and said he was coming home early. Happy Happy Joy Joy! I pulled some lamb chops out of the freezer to defrost, changed the sheets, and bought some flowers! I also ran to the market for some fresh organic vegetables! I bathed and primped until I looked like a sparkly eyed minx, or an overly made up hussy. (Alex likes me either way.)<br />
<br />
When Alex got home I opened a bottle of "Prisoner", (a wonderful Zin), and spent about an hour listening to him emote about the challenges of his trip. I shook my head and clicked my tongue at appropriate intervals while I prepared dinner. Finally, Alex started talking about something that interested me more than his technical issues. He mentioned the Kentucky Derby!<br />
<br />
I have long been a fan (sometimes way too fanatically) of horse-racing. I try to watch the Derby most years because of the color, the scenery,the hats, and the magnificent horses. Alex was telling me about a Yuba City horse named "California Chrome" who was going to be running in the Kentucky Derby this year. (Yuba City is adjacent to Beale Air Force Base and apparently California Chrome had been talked about constantly while he was on site in the area.)<br />
<br />
The horse is something of a mongrel. His sire was not of royal lineage, nor was his mare. Chrome was the equivalent of getting a "mixed breed" from the shelter up against all the horses with royal pedigrees. None the less, California Chrome was looking like the favorite to win the Derby.<br />
<br />
We have a local cafe where the owner, an Irish woman named Noreen, is an avid fan of horse racing. Noreen actually owns a couple of horses and races them. She and Alex were discussing the Derby when we were having lunch at her cafe. Noreen was sending her husband to the race track the next day to place her bet for the Kentucky Derby. Alex asked Noreen if she would mind having her husband place a bet for him as well and she said "sure".<br />
<br />
Alex gave Noreen $100 and asked for it to be placed on California Chrome to win. She took his money and said she would take care of it. (I was somewhat surprised because we really have never bet on horses in the 25 years we've been married - and $100 to win is a fairly serious 'bet" to my way of thinking.) <br />
<br />
We were invited to a "Kentucky Derby" party at Pican Restaurant in Oakland on Saturday. Pican is a gorgeous restaurant with a truly Southern feel, and dressing up worthy of the Kentucky Derby to sip mint juleps and watch the race sounded pretty fun to us both. We spent a couple of hours sipping fine bourbons and nibbling on Southern delicacies waiting for that heart pounding two minutes of the race. <br />
<br />
By the time the race was 2/3rds over, it was obvious that California Chrome was indeed the winner! Wow! Our horse came in! That in itself made it a great day. But wait! The odds had been 2-1 on Friday when we placed the bet. I figured that we would get back our $100 and get $50 on top of that. Okay, I'm thrilled with getting $25 (community property, you know), and we came home happy.<br />
<br />
On Sunday, Alex went by Noreen's cafe and she had his "pay off". She counted out $350.00 and handed it to him. Alex was shocked! When he came home and gave me "my" half of the winnings, my mouth flew open in surprise! We both did the "money dance" for about two hours!<br />
<br />
Why it's so much more fun to win money than to earn it, I have no idea! But it is!!!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-18764545719707420642014-05-01T15:03:00.000-07:002014-05-01T15:03:05.906-07:00Some Quarters You Just Don't Want To Get Out of Bed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I haven't written much in the last 4 months, but I did try to participate in the 30 days of writing minus 2 days challenge put on by "<a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>" in February. So that leaves a quarter of the year I've written nothing, nada, zilch.<br />
<br />
I could say it's because of "writers block" or something. Actually, I think it may be more related to the episode where I fell and smashed my face in the concrete and fractured my hand last year. Oh I've recovered, (except for the nerve damage in the hand which really is not that big a deal), but mentally, and emotionally, that episode did something weird to me.<br />
<br />
For the first time in my life I felt horribly, terrifyingly, absurdly, vulnerable, and overwhelmingly afraid of just about everything. I've always been an almost "macho" woman feeling helpless and scared is just not a person I've ever lived with before.<br />
<br />
I was afraid to go outside alone. I was afraid to be home alone. I didn't leave the house for weeks at a time. I felt like I should "hold on" to furniture to keep me from toppling over. I woke up at night gasping for air after dreaming of falling and knowing I was going to be maimed for life from the landing. My husband said I was acting like someone with PTSD, and I guess maybe I was. Part of the problem was that I really couldn't talk about how frightened and vulnerable I was feeling because I was embarrassed and deeply ashamed.<br />
<br />
During this time, I trekked to all my my fellow writers blogs and read what they had written. I was mostly unable to even leave so much as a comment on their articles. My confidence was gone and I thought I had become old and infirm with nothing to say.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, I think I'm better now. I'm forcing myself to take a walk at least around the block every day, rain or shine. I've stopped canceling appointments. And best of all, I think I may be back on track.<br />
<br />
I may not be able to post as often as I would like to, but I hope to continue doing so with some regularity. You really can't keep a good (or bad) woman down!Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-32214080219810760542014-02-27T14:08:00.001-08:002014-02-27T14:08:23.407-08:00How Did You Know?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKEcWszItED5iBQw_NkiMYbIQ5hEuzGoYdBQviBpS95jWryfotY7r6cApew3ym5LwXGAf9OAxVPNrmWHZgbISleMXHLdGQeOmLP0yZa6uparQrPrHVVdqFw0O8r6xfpRZbkTxA_uKjkAI/s1600/alexandlinda.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKEcWszItED5iBQw_NkiMYbIQ5hEuzGoYdBQviBpS95jWryfotY7r6cApew3ym5LwXGAf9OAxVPNrmWHZgbISleMXHLdGQeOmLP0yZa6uparQrPrHVVdqFw0O8r6xfpRZbkTxA_uKjkAI/s1600/alexandlinda.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
"How did you know?", she asked.<br />
<br />
"I always know.", I responded. And that is the truth.<br />
<br />
When I'm being lied to, I always know. It is a blessing and a curse. There may be a physical "tell" that I pick up on without even realizing it.<br />
<br />
A boyfriend lied about who he was having lunch with. I caught him in the act of taking a new secretary to "our" favorite restaurant.<br />
<br />
My husband lied about where he got the new stereo. I found the receipt. (Why Alex thinks I would be happier with "it fell off the back of a truck" than "I bought it", I'll never know.)<br />
<br />
There are times that people close to me have told me lies and I want to pretend even to myself that they aren't lying. Of course, I know that they are. In most cases, it's just silly lies, but I can always tell.<br />
<br />
<br />
I think I would have made a good cop.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is the next to last day I'm participating in the "<a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>" 28 days of writing. I may have missed a couple of days, but I'm not sure and I'm not lying either.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-47997450915037424412014-02-26T17:11:00.003-08:002014-02-26T17:17:08.146-08:00Naked and LostI've been naked. I've been lost. But I've never been naked and lost.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This is my contribution to the almost last day of "<a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>" and their 28 day writing competition. It's weak, but the other contributors have some strong essays so check them out. Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-85485492407589089432014-02-24T16:47:00.003-08:002014-02-24T16:47:30.092-08:00And Then She Said...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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And then she said, "I'd like to tell you a story."<br />
<br />
Isn't there always that one person? The person who you think about unbidden over the years.<br />
<br />
I haven't seen him for over 40 years, but sometimes I wake up in the morning and feel like he just left me. <br />
<br />
I met him when I was young. The first time I saw him, I knew I was in love. Drastically, fatally, forever and ever in love. <br />
<br />
Of course, I know now that kind of love is more mental illness than anything else. Still, my blood would zing through my veins when I heard his voice on the other end of the telephone. He was handsome, witty, charming and a surgical intern at the hospital where I was undergoing a surgical procedure. He has a slow southern accent and very gentle hands. I knew that what I felt for him was not what he felt for me.<br />
<br />
We somehow managed to be an item of sorts for about 3 or 4 years. When it ended because he met someone he fell in love with, it hurt. Over the years, I have gone over and over what I could have done differently to have made him love me. Hah! The truth is, there's nothing you can do or not do to make anyone else love you. Either they do or they don't.<br />
<br />
As a recently divorced 24 year old woman with two children and a shaky future plan, I guess I romanticized being married to this handsome young doctor. Life would be so grand! <br />
<br />
The last time I saw him, he was parking his car in the neighborhood where I lived. I had both kids with me and my heart lurched when I saw him. I waved hello, and watched as he helped a lovely young woman out of his car. She smiled at me too. I kept walking.<br />
<br />
Yes, I've looked him up on the internet. Of course I have. I learned that he moved to a small mountain town near the Nevada border and was a practicing surgeon there. Maybe a couple of times I year, I would "Google" his name. Today, I did it for the last time.<br />
<br />
It seems he has had his license to practice medicine revoked. He was charged with 6 counts of "gross negligence" and lost his career. Of course, he's in his early 70's now, so I suppose that's not really a huge surprise.<br />
<br />
Still, I can't help but feel a real sense of closure over him. I'm glad I'm not married to that grossly negligent asshole.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
If you go to "<a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>", you can see what other people talk about with a prompt of "And Then She Said".Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-24520573928751542862014-02-23T14:44:00.002-08:002014-02-23T14:44:32.299-08:00Things That Make Me Go "Hmmm"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9JbE3O2XhDuBuoBr3Fb5yDywiG1WEItFMrrNDCZHFSVB_s6nNEV2QIRZyUnVXwanfB5Qhtsqg7gRE06FY876Q-3xLwhpnfnqHBNUUd6nYODD81DI-jfHjWUq94Jl05jepgb1eIMDpyk/s1600/skater.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl9JbE3O2XhDuBuoBr3Fb5yDywiG1WEItFMrrNDCZHFSVB_s6nNEV2QIRZyUnVXwanfB5Qhtsqg7gRE06FY876Q-3xLwhpnfnqHBNUUd6nYODD81DI-jfHjWUq94Jl05jepgb1eIMDpyk/s1600/skater.jpeg" height="400" width="290" /></a></div>
I know we all like figuring skating, but does it really belong in the Olympics as a sport?<br />
<br />
The girls are all pretty. They all skate pretty well and wear charming skimpy costumes. But is this the same as being an Olympic athlete?<br />
<br />
It seems to me that almost every time, somebody gets their nose out of joint over who wins a medal for figure skating. The judging seems to be purely subjective.<br />
<br />
If a race occurs, the one who wins is the one who crosses the finish line first. With figure skating, it seems that their hair, their costume, their grace, and their make up application all get judged along with their triple axels.<br />
<br />
Plus, in all of the other Olympic events, the winners win, the losers are good natured about it, and everybody seems okay with the outcomes. Even if one of the judges was partial to a gorgeous Canadian hockey player, nobody really thinks that the Canadians Gold Medal win should be overturned and given to the USA team.<br />
<br />
In figure skating, there is a whole lot of whining about the fairness or unfairness of the competition. Let's just let the figure skaters do their own thing on the world stage and make it like a beauty pageant, "dancing with the stars", and "project runway" costume design combination show.<br />
<br />
I actually forget what the prompt was for this post. Sorry if I did it wrong. But you can always go see "<a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>" for people better at following directions than I am.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-74414506440964178212014-02-22T15:09:00.001-08:002014-02-22T15:09:25.723-08:00The Color Purple<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What were they thinking?<br />
<br />
My neighborhood has just taken a huge property value hit. When you look at this house, don't you have to think that insane people must live there?<br />
<br />
This is not an ugly house. But to paint any house with a color scheme of purple and bright taxi-cab yellow is simply a crime.<br />
<br />
I shudder every time I look out my window. The outrageous color scheme makes me feel violated and violent at the same time.<br />
<br />
The house is directly across the street from me. I'm thinking about only going out my back door and climbing the fence to avoid looking at it.<br />
<br />
Most of my neighbors haven not commented on the house. Maybe I'm the only one bothered by this monstrosity. <br />
<br />
Or it could be that this is just a dream.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
For more dreamers, check out "<a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>" to see what other contributors have to say.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-12523007651428753812014-02-20T17:42:00.001-08:002014-02-20T17:43:54.462-08:00Chaos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's all turning around so fast.<br />
<br />
No sooner was it summer then fall then winter and here it is spring again. I'm actually getting a bit dizzy. My flowers are blooming and it's still winter.<br />
<br />
People are walking around in shorts and tank tops and it's only February 20th.<br />
<br />
I'm feeling blurry around the edges.<br />
<br />
I watched the Canadians beat the USA in Women's Hockey today. It was weird. There were 3 minutes left of regulation play and the USA was up 2 to Zip. There was sort of a time warp thing happening, I'm sure. Canada tied the game and went on to win it in overtime. Strange.<br />
<br />
I have never in my life followed hockey. Now I cannot get enough of it. I LOVE HOCKEY all at once. I want to go to San Jose and watch the Sharks play. I want to dye my hair red and get a tattoo. I want to buy a tortoise. Something is off.<br />
<br />
There is chaos everyplace I turn.<br />
<br />
You might want to go visit that lovely OCD girl, Nicky, at <a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a> to see what she and some others think about chaos. Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-23368743296387120902014-02-19T10:41:00.000-08:002014-02-19T10:41:10.176-08:00Nobody Will Say It Tastes Like Chicken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCs2xcQoyZ7mVleO9MXt3G5RgCWotw8Tsu66JQYcdGnema5az311F3jUh706Lr2ukjHFaGwON-Voms7g66BfQpdYMQvcKpz89-ui8JshV6qYvjTfn9fK1MFcW7O1smT0KOAz__pGR-Wg/s1600/abalone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDCs2xcQoyZ7mVleO9MXt3G5RgCWotw8Tsu66JQYcdGnema5az311F3jUh706Lr2ukjHFaGwON-Voms7g66BfQpdYMQvcKpz89-ui8JshV6qYvjTfn9fK1MFcW7O1smT0KOAz__pGR-Wg/s1600/abalone.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I first had abalone when I was about 16 years old. <br />
<br />
Even then, (in the good old days), it was expensive and I have no idea who paid for such an extravagance. Although I don't remember my generous host or hostess, I will never forget the taste of that sweet tender white fish.<br />
<br />
I have prepared abalone a couple of times as it was given to me by divers who peeled the large sea slug off the cliffs of the Marin County shoreline. I have ordered it occasionally in restaurants but the price of the entree is usually very prohibitive (in the range of $60 - $75). <br />
<br />
Abalone is fairly easy to prepare, bread crumbs, egg, a cocktail sauce. The hard part is pounding it into tender submission. It takes quite a bit of pounding or the meat will be as tough as shoe leather which was a costly mistake I only made once.<br />
<br />
We hosted a dinner party a couple of years ago and I served what some people would consider a poor woman's abalone. I took boneless skinless chicken breasts and marinated them for 3 days in clam juice after I had punctured the flesh with a two tined fork. When the day of the dinner party arrived, I pounded the breasts until they were flat. I coated them with egg, and then bread crumbs. Then they were placed into a pan of hot olive oil, and about 4 minutes per side.<br />
<br />
Taking them out of the pan, I let them rest on paper towels to adsorb any excess olive oil, and then put them on a platter with lemon slices.<br />
<br />
My guests were sure I was serving them abalone. In fact, I had a hard time convincing them that it was actually chicken they were tasting.<br />
<br />
At "<a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>" you will find other ideas about "it tastes like chicken" and maybe even other recipes!Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-73308646093818833432014-02-18T11:52:00.003-08:002014-02-18T11:52:46.095-08:00I Did Not Have Sexual Relations With That Woman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFifPpoBLT960YXltJMkDZIKd3BaZizqzyOZdV1U8935-fISbVGThopSDyMlw9sh3PfDNWXP4ISwt1fJVkMmSRMsb_2LyAEu9ddW7lGSoK_aN5-LfiuoYsrtXZKTQlg6Nnwt-WQ1uzsXg/s1600/clinton.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFifPpoBLT960YXltJMkDZIKd3BaZizqzyOZdV1U8935-fISbVGThopSDyMlw9sh3PfDNWXP4ISwt1fJVkMmSRMsb_2LyAEu9ddW7lGSoK_aN5-LfiuoYsrtXZKTQlg6Nnwt-WQ1uzsXg/s1600/clinton.jpeg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
They all do it.<br />
<br />
When the going gets tough, politicians are likely to start fibbing. I don't even find it surprising anymore.<br />
<br />
What does surprise me is people in real life who tell lies with regularity. (I really do not lie unless I feel my life depends on telling a lie. In the first place, my memory is shaky so I could never remember what lie I told. In the second place, I really don't "care" enough to lie.)<br />
<br />
When Alex was in the Navy, he had a roommate named Todd. Now Todd was a nice enough guy, but he was truly a liar. Whatever Alex did, Todd had to one-up Alex. If Alex got a new car, Todd got a new better car. If Alex graduated from college, Todd got his PhD from Harvard. If Alex went to Europe, Todd went on a year long world tour. Todd lied. He told ridiculous lies and Alex never really minded. Todd was visiting us several years ago. It was during the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Todd was working for PG&E as a CAD operator and told us that he was going to have to go to New Orleans to support the rescue operations. Alex was in the National Guard at the time and waiting to see if he would be called up to go. <br />
<br />
I expressed the thought that I hoped neither of them had to go. Todd said, "Are you kidding? I'm dying to go!" Really? Yes. Todd said he would be earning $500 a minute from the time he got on the plane for New Orleans. Alex just said "Wow!"<br />
<br />
I wondered why a CAD (computer aided design) draftsman from Pacific Gas and Electric would be sent to New Orleans. I also wondered about $500 an hour. Do draftsmen really command that hourly rate? I left it alone since Todd was Alex's old friend but it really made me wonder.<br />
<br />
I have a close relative who is also a liar. How can I tell she's lying? Her lips are moving. This person tells outrageous lies perhaps in the hopes that because the lie is so huge, people just might believe it. I've never understood the "why" of it.<br />
It may be that insecurity and feelings of inadequacy make some people tell lies. <br />
<br />
Actually, I can understand the Bill Clinton's of the world along with the Anthony Weiner's much more easily. They have something to lose and something to protect by lying. What I will never understand is the idle lies that nobody gives a damn about in the first place.<br />
<br />
For more takes on lies and liars, please check out "<a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>".Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1342305364866425774.post-69713293880912010852014-02-17T17:16:00.001-08:002014-02-17T17:16:15.340-08:00I Faked It!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HNoGgzLsOA5vVvtXwxNAx7cWxeqiwn5pOlcSsch7Xnlvo6ctQnDvymQZ2-v-Be_Ae2nrogX4wIXf4p1kU__hDybuPmH4Yf0c_8DPd6NPH3hhU2QwXCcy7UTO3Wzye747-3EqqrDaau0/s1600/organza-strapless-soft-neckline-with-mermaid-skirt-and-chapel-train-elegant-designer-2011-wedding-dress-wd-0672.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HNoGgzLsOA5vVvtXwxNAx7cWxeqiwn5pOlcSsch7Xnlvo6ctQnDvymQZ2-v-Be_Ae2nrogX4wIXf4p1kU__hDybuPmH4Yf0c_8DPd6NPH3hhU2QwXCcy7UTO3Wzye747-3EqqrDaau0/s1600/organza-strapless-soft-neckline-with-mermaid-skirt-and-chapel-train-elegant-designer-2011-wedding-dress-wd-0672.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
We were invited to the wedding which was held at the Claremont Hotel in Oakland.<br />
<br />
The hotel is old, very posh, and very expensive. The bride was a neighbor woman who had lost her husband a year earlier. Her groom and she had met on-line on a "Christian" dating site.<br />
<br />
Lola and Tom were not youngsters. In fact, Lola was 65 at the time and I think Tom was a couple of years younger than she.<br />
<br />
Lola's deceased husband had left her "very well provided for", which was a good thing for her. <br />
<br />
We went to the hotel at the appointed time and hour and we were somewhat surprised that the wedding was a very formal affair. Lola's dress was strapless, and had a long train. She also had a maid of honor, and six bridesmaids. Tom had a "best man" and 6 groomsmen. The service was not too long, thank goodness. (I get itchy at weddings having had a few of them myself, but I've never even tried on a real wedding dress.)<br />
<br />
It seemed a bit strange that Lola would opt for a formal wedding, seeing as she had been married twice before (as I learned at the reception from a "friend" of Lola's as she whispered to her companion). Most of the guests were "church" people and they really had a lot to say about Lola finding love on a dating site, marrying a younger man, wearing a formal (strapless!) wedding gown, and marrying almost one year to the day of her husband's death.<br />
<br />
The luncheon reception was lovely. There was music and dancing and the wine flowed. Some of the conversations turned downright catty to my way of thinking. <br />
<br />
Okay, maybe I thought the formal wedding deal was a bit much for someone Lola's age, but damn it, it's her wedding and she could do what she wanted with that. I started talking about how gorgeous Lola looked in her gown, and how handsome Tom was in his tuxedo. I also admired the big rock she had on her ring finger. The other people at the table quit sniping at Lola and concentrated on eating the food she had so generously provided and drinking the wine she was paying for.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I was faking it. I didn't really love the dress.<br />
<br />
For more "faking it" posts, check out the list on <a href="http://weworkforcheese.com/">We Work For Cheese</a>.Linda Medranohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03440058568073764902noreply@blogger.com15