Jack Johnson

   Well, it’s been awhile since I’ve blogged last. Partly due to picking up a third job and its new time constraints, but mostly because I’ve waited for something positively uplifting to happen, something blog worthy. Life’s thrown me few curveballs lately and I didn’t want to bum anyone out by sharing it here. The whole reason I’d even decided to blog in the first place was because my friend Michelle turned me on to a more well-known blogger, Kelle Hampton. I was so impressed with Kelle’s ability to elicit my emotional responses with her words and pictures and how she took ordinary day-to-day rituals and turned them into extraordinary blessings in disguise. It made me appreciate the small things that happen every day, and so her blog is aptly titled, Enjoying The Small Things. Well anyhoo, since gaining this perspective, you’ll have to trust me when I say that little good has presented itself lately and thus, no blogging. But then… guess what, guess what, guess what???!!! I won Jack Johnson tickets!
   That’s right, folks Jack mother-lovin Johnson. The venue was at the gorge in George, Washington and Jack would be the last musician to perform there before season’s end. I had won the tickets Friday morning while en route to dropping my youngest Hayden, off at school. Over the radio I heard a woman nervously trying to recall song lyrics and then talk-sing them over the phone to the two radio-show hosts, cheering her on. She said with shaky voice that she couldn’t do it and hastily hung up. The female radio host encouraged other callers to enter the contest, where you’d be expected to sing your favorite Jack Johnson song for 30 seconds on air, for the chance to win a pair of prize tickets to see him play in concert the following day. Easy peasy people, I love me some Jack (this is a term dually used to describe my other relationship with Jack Daniels). So I called in and without even a ring, the male host answered and asked me to sing.
   I sang the chorus from Jack’s song titled, Might Just Let It Go. Naturally, I rocked it and the radio show hosts cried tears of joyful adoration (likely envy) and fainted. Well, that's how I remember it anyway. Once they came to, they told me I’d won the tickets and I instantly turned into my twelve year old self, squealing, giggling, and valley-girl thanking them repeatedly. I needed this. I needed to put the cap on September’s sour milk and throw it away. I couldn’t wait. I called my boyfriend and told him to brace himself for the news. “Nate, I sang on the radio and won tickets to see Jack (inaudible excitement) at the gorge tomorrow!” “Oh yeah? That’s awesome, baby. Who’s that?” Seriously? You think you know someone, geez. I asked him to be my go-along and he happily accepted.


   Nate and I packed lightly, camera, blanket, cash, and jackets and left for George Saturday afternoon. We arrived, with 30 minutes to spare before show time. It was sunshiney and warm and as night fell, Moulson and Coors spirits kept our warmth locked inside. Zee Avi was one of Jacks opening acts. She’s very talented, but still somewhat unknown. So when she asked for audience participation in singing her most popular tune, Bitter Heart, silence filled the gaps when her microphone pointed outward begging our involvement. Lucky for Zee, there was me! I crooned and swayed and made up for the no-funners. She finished her set and then G-love played. I’m unfamiliar with their music and honestly, if I heard them on the radio, I probably wouldn’t care for them much. But that’s what’s transforming about seeing someone play in concert. They move fluidly with their music, smiling and spontaneously praising their audience and you can see it in their faces; they’re grasping the gravity of it all and reflecting that blessing with their whole being. It’s my personal opinion that you can enjoy any genre of music performed live and you owe it to yourselves to take me up on this challenge.


   After G-love wrapped up, an intermission followed while stage hands prepared for Jack. Nate and I took this opportunity to check out merchant stands and hunt down our favorite carnival food. I picked up a spiffy Jack Johnson tank top and Nate grabbed some clogged arteries and heart-burn in a fry basket. Then we hurried back to our piece of hillside on a blanket and waited for Jack. He blacked out the whole site to signal his arrival while we sat in the dark “Woohooing” in sweet anticipation. Then suddenly lights shone on the stage and there we saw a close up of our singer illuminated on a video screen behind the man himself. He said his hellos and started his set with Upside Down. The crowd applauded and sang along. Some even stood to hug or lock arms with friends and sway to the music. Everyone (conscious) expressed their delight and paid tribute in some way. The performance was electric and Nate and I were all smiles.


   We snuggled in the dark looking on but when I heard him announce Banana Pancakes, I knew the show was nearing its end. It is his finest song, after all, and little else would suffice a finale. So my responsible self told my twelve year old girl self to collect her things and head for the gate to beat the rush. She didn’t like it but she did and just like that Nate and I were heading home. We drank in the lights and harmonic arrangement between fans and the man that made each song whole. Then we took a last look at Jack’s throng of admirers as he serenaded us on the path back to our car. What good luck, getting to go. I am renewed and hopeful for tomorrow and all it took was a tiny break in the clouds. Thanks Jack.

Our Cabin Trip

   Ah cabin trips, positively the best way to align your intrinsic need to hunt , forage, and run unabashedly wild with mother nature in the most wondrous of primitive settings. It’s been a beautiful gift bestowed to my family by our patriarch, my Grandfather Martin. He fell in love with the idea of taking refuge in an isolated northern region of Washington state and built a cabin there with a business partner, some 40 years ago. He ultimately traded his interest in the business for his interest in things divine; this gleaming gem that sits hidden between mountains amid bustling waters and chattering critters. It’s somewhere on this planet, so rich in matchless splendor, it seems hands down to be more heaven than earth.


   I’ve paid countless visits to the cabin, each time leaving with one of a kind tales (some tall) of fiercely obstinate fish forced into an angler’s submission, tracks of mystery creatures spotted, and majestic trails discovered and explored. My childhood memories are chalk full of things few of my friends were ever able to experience. I’ve played an arms-in-a-bucket game of chicken with my dad and a biting-mad water snake. I’ve hunted basking rattlers at twilight along winding warm roads with him too. I’ve ridden four-wheeler’s to the tip top of the world I’m pretty sure, and the view from up there was nothing short of spectacular. The enormity of my surroundings, coupled with the perspective of my newly assigned place in its ranks, was more humbling to my human senses than anything else. I’ve been so privileged.
   So now, with years of memories collected there, I go back to make more with my boys. I do feel a need to add a disclaimer here before I give you a run-down of our trip: I’m raising boys, not girls, and as such, I willfully participate in all endeavors partial to boy children, no matter how gruesome or icky. Now, where do I begin…
   Nathan, the boys and I arrived at the cabin Saturday evening. Car confinement made the boys eager to venture the sprawl of land surrounding the cabin. I chose to shake it off with a drink and nestled indoors instead. Getting situated and retrieving four-wheelers from the garage was about all we accomplished before the sleepies set in and we headed for bed. The next morning we’d tackle the wilderness and lose ourselves in its sublimity. Day one: Pancakes and Joe.


For this special occasion, I served Hunter a hot cup of requested joe, as if he needed anything else stunting his already snail-paced growth!


Nathan got his panties in a twist when I complimented his abilities in the kitchen and resigned my duties there as chef forever. Smacking him on the ass to signify my approval went over poorly as well. What gives Nathan?
   Then we were off on quads exploring. First, we fished T-bone Lake. It’s a lake my Grandfather constructed and seeded with a thousand or so trout a few years before he passed away. It sits down a ways behind the original cabin. We stayed at my Dad’s place up the road from there. Since its inception, the land quickly adopted Grandpa’s lake and it flourished with new growth, indigenous to the terrain. It’s a beautiful marriage between man and Mother Nature, orchestrated by the only person I know who could pull it off this flawlessly. Thanks Grandpa.


   We caught, and then released, several trout we’d lured with grasshoppers on our hooks. I was the bug netter, running in a frenzy to catch enough bait to keep up with demand. I fell and nearly broke my ass trying to catch a flying four-incher. It was lots of fun! Alas, our enjoyment flew out the window when Hunter announced he wished to eat the last trout he’d caught. Remember that disclaimer I mentioned earlier? Well, apply it here.
   I kinda remember how to dress a trout, but kinda don’t. My befuddlement equaled bloody mind scarring memories formed for both boys, the kind they’ll likely suppress. On the upside, they’d make piss poor serial killers and that can’t be bad. I, on the other hand, should be feared! And consoled maybe, because that was hard on me too. Look at Ol’ Eats What He Catches…


   We are strictly a catch and release family from now on. I will say, however, that there was much to be learned from lifting the curtain on the fish to fish-stick process. It’s a lesson not all people are taught. Afterwards, we plinked at bottles perched atop logs with pellet and air-soft guns, from our front porch. It helped to clear our minds and shed the ickiness that lingered, post fish dressing debacle. Hayden, it turns out, is a crack shot!


Later, when our wicks were burnt at both ends, the moon lit a fire under our asses and lunacy took hold! Observe the Loons…


   The next day we collected our poles and nets and piled into the gator to fish the river. The boys waded into the shallow water and flipped over rocks in search of crawdads. Nate and I walked the shoreline, catching bait in bug nets, when we stumbled across a snake! The good kind too, free of rattles and tell-tale warning colors. I attempted to catch it in my bug collecting container. I was careful not to use my hands, as I feared it would bite me. Big mistake. I unintentionally clubbed the snake (repeatedly) in an attempt to head it off and herd it into the receptacle. Ultimately, I gave up after inflicting him great pain and likely confusing the poor thing. He flipped me off and slithered into tall grass. I wondered when I had become so cautious and fearful. Adulthood is a total jip! I kicked myself for acting so cowardly in front of the boys and vowed to do better if the opportunity presented itself again.


   I did my best to make sure it would by paying visits to nearly every place I’d caught snakes as a kid; Turtle Lake, the crick by dad’s smaller cabin, roadside and near dead logs. I even foolishly walked through tall grass (and nearly peed my pants anticipating a rattlesnake’s sneak attack). This went on for the next few days until finally Hunter spotted a dandy blue racer and the chase was on! All four of us surrounded the bush it had ducked into and I was elected to go in after it. I searched the base of every skinny stick trunk in the whole bush to no avail… and then I looked up. The snake had weaved itself high into the tip top of the bush. Snakes can apparently climb! I snatched him by the tail and he struck my hand repeatedly in protest. His little fangs only broke the skin once, not so scary after all.
   The trip seemed complete. We spent our last day without agenda, no itinerary, just an infatuation with Mother Nature and a desire to take in all we could before returning home. We initiated the leaving sequence, wherein we all concoct schemes that enable us to live there forever. We pick our career paths, ones that allow for remote operation. Hunter and Hayden spitball their ideas for mass-market scaled inventions, with which they’ll make their millions. I thumb through my mind for countless memorable locations to carve out and call our own. With a sense of dread we head back to the cabin to shelve our outdoor accoutrements, and collect our things. The rule is to leave this place better than you’ve found it, so we clean it real good. We take lots of porch breaks because we’re foot-draggers today. Saying goodbye is so hard.


We’ll go back soon, we have to.

BP and Dawn... A Conspiracy?

   So I had a thought this morning that Coleen thought was worth sharing with the world. I watched a commercial on TV about the BP oil spill and their clean up efforts that made me chuckle. There was a white screen, with a picture of a beach to the right, and on the left was just three words.

      Cleaning up.
      Beaches.

   I started laughing when I realized that it read "Beaches" and not "Bitches" like I initially believed. But then I started thinking about other oil spill related commercials, and I remembered a scene of a volunteer cleaning oil off of a penguin. Who was the commercial for? Dawn dish soap. They were advertising that their soap was so gentle and effective that it was ideal for cleaning the spilled oil off of wildlife.
   This is where my sad, strange, twisted mind started working. Hear me out on this one... BP has oil, but not enough money (greedy bastards). Dawn has soap, but also not enough money. Dawn tells BP "you know what? our soap works amazingly well at cleaning your oil off of animals. see this commercial we made?" BP then tells Dawn "wow, that does work great, and we have all this extra oil that we're hiding so we can charge people their first born when they need it!"
   Now, even though the entire world knows that Dawn works so well you could just squirt 30 gallons or so in the ocean and the entire oil spill would be gone, BP decides instead to drag things out so that their co-conspirator can sell a lot of smaller bottles of soap to the cleanup effort. BP raises prices on oil, citing the loss from the spill as the cause. Dawn raises prices on soap, because they're running low from how much they send to BP. Suddenly both companies are filthy stinking rich (yes, I realize I just said Dawn stinks. Ajax smells much nicer), and no one's the wiser!
   Except for me anyway. And you. Since you just read my dose of truth. You're welcome. So the lesson to be learned from this, is anyone that shows something terrible happening to a penguin is an evil bastard. Even if they're trying to show you that their product is saving the penguin. Those bastards are the ones who caused it all! Where was I going with this... Ah yes, Ajax smells delightful. Buy the grapefruit kind, trust me.


We want our penguins like this...


Not like this.

Hunter’s Date…

   This weekend we chaperoned a date for Hunter and his special girl, Rebecca. He toiled over preparing for the occasion; a spiffy shirt from his new school clothes collection √ a breath mint from a pack of super spendy Breath Rx mints √ and a gift for his betrothed…
   This posed a challenge. You see, Hunter had already gifted Rebecca a nifty necklace, at her family’s picnic he’d attended, earlier this summer. It was a quaint brass pendant at the end of a chain. The pendant was a functional envelope charm with a message etched on a brass note inside that read “I Love You”. Hunter purchased it with his earnings from making the Honor Roll, but now he was broke. He thought better of asking me for cash, I assume because he knew he’d have to earn it or get my infamous, “Where in the hell do you think money comes from?” speech. That, coupled with a foot dragging shopping trip, was more than a 12 year old boy could bear. So he planned to write her a poem and he asked for my help. I was touched.
   Unfortunately, with my work schedule and errands, I was unable to help him in time for his date. He was disappointed but nothing could squash his excitement over getting to see her. He thanked me repeatedly for chaperoning and handed out hugs all day… and that smile, well, it was dreamy to say the least. The itinerary was as follows: Pick up Rebecca at her parent’s and head over to Round Table Pizza for some dinner and games in the arcade. The timeline was two hours, from 6:00 until 8. He chewed a breath mint with the frenzy of a hungry piranha beforehand and took one for the road. He gave Nathan and I the rundown of acceptable behavior and approved topics of conversation on our way to pick her up. He stressed the importance of not bringing up that he could sing (like a beautiful bird), because he would absolutely not perform! We agreed, but I reminded Hunter that girls swoon for handsome crooners, such as himself.


   We arrived at Rebecca’s parents and she emerged with giggling siblings and cousins swirling around her, eager to greet my bashful boy. I visited with her folks for a quick minute before leaving for the date. Nathan and I behaved ourselves on the car ride there, but it was damned difficult to say the least. Once there, the kids engaged in game play. A racing game first, and then on to the air hockey table. I shot a text early on to Hunter, instructing him to let her win, but it was a non-issue. She whooped on my boy so mercilessly bad.




   If I were a nicer mom I would’ve ended the game play with an interruption like say, dinner arriving at the table, but that’s not how I roll. Hunter shook it off well though and found his own ray of sunshine in watching Rebecca laugh. When Rebecca was done teaching Hunter that girls rule and boys simply drool, we gathered at the table for dinner. Hunter turned into such a girl. He was peckish and pretended to be stuffed after eating only a couple slices of the( very best) pizza (on earth). Rebecca opened up and let us see what I think Hunter values about her most; her no apologies, take me as I am, carefree spirit. She’s pretty and witty and freely admits she’s a nerd, so good luck embarrassing her. Hunter has met his match.




   The kids finished eating and Nathan and I watched them compete and flirt. Hunter begged her to play a hunting game to which she declined, due to its graphic nature and its ugly emphasis on animal cruelty (she’s a keeper!). I suggested they play the dinosaur hunting game, seeing as dinos are already dead. Game on. Nathan and I entertained ourselves…



Amusing Nathan
   The date wrapped up right on schedule and we returned Rebecca to her parents. Hunter was giddy despite having not landed a kiss. He talked about second dates and thirds and kept saying, “I told you she was pretty!”, as if we ever doubted. But here’s the best part, he came home and wrote this…

Your face is as beautiful as a sunset on an autumn day
It makes me feel as though there is no one right for me but you,
Your smile lights up the sun, if only I could have a smile as bright as yours too
And as you smile, whether or not we’re together, as long as you’re happy, I’m happy each day

   I think Hunter has a muse. I also think it’s good that he didn’t let me help him write it because as simple as it comes across and as many structural and grammatical errors as I can find in it, it’s from his big beautiful perfect heart. Hunter, you are so special.

My Friend Crayton Bigsby

   So, I have this special pet…Crayton (Bigsby). I acquired him by accident two years ago from a local pet store. I spied him in a large tank swarming with feeder fishes. Being just a baby cray, he was about the size of a large grasshopper. He was tenaciously living high on the hog, spearing and clamping unsuspecting masses of dim goldfish. His plunderous ways were unparalleled by any other creature I’d known to require the hunted nourishment, only a feeder fishy could provide. It was love at first sight for me. I tracked down a sales associate to get his story. “Hey, what’s this guy’s deal? Why’s he in there?” I queried. “Oh crap, didn’t see him. Let me get a net.” She plunged and swathed a path the length of the tank and while he gave impressive chase, he was no match for her net.
   “They send us crayfish in our feeder shipments by accident and they can kill a lot of inventory before we notice one. You want him?” She had him hovering helplessly in the net over the tank. “What, like just take him home? Were you planning to sell him?” “Nope, we flush ‘em.” She was cold and callous, I thought; Where the pets go, my ass! “Oh don’t do that! I’ll take him.” And that was it, she bagged him and I brought him home to start our lives new, with each other in it.
   My boys excitedly welcomed our new friend and we set out on an adventure to catch mosquito fish in bug nets for him. We did so down at the crick in Spirit Trail Park, nearby. I explained his savage ways and the importance of respecting his nature to hunt. I suppose I worried it would be too gruesome for them to watch him victimize the likes of adorable goldfish, but saw no foul in the mass murder of plentiful ugly mosquito fish. It’s harsh, I know, but that’s how this mind works. We returned home to find him in a defensive stance with claws drawn. We had dug out of storage a tiny two gallon hex-tank and I hoped he wouldn’t be over-crowded with the arrival of his dinner guests. The boys dumped a total of 17 mosquito fish in the tank, spoils from their hunt. Crayton lay in wait.
   We awoke the next morning to a massacre. Severed heads, fish cut in two, a bloody mess. The boys jaws dropped as they stared at our two-inch wonder with amazement and admiration; they were falling for this one hard <3 It went on like this for a year or so and in the winter months, when mosquito fish were scarce, we supplemented Crayton with crustacean pellets from the pet store. We dropped the pellets and Crayton playfully scampered and fetched. His skills were sharp and his hunting precise. He more than tripled in size on his way to maturity! Crayton was thriving.
   But days like this, life so sweet for a lad so nimble, couldn’t last. He was aging and the life expectancy for a cray-fish dictated an end within months, but hopefully a year or more. He became less agile and more scatter-brained. He couldn’t catch falling pellets and even retrieval from the rocks proved difficult for Crayton. It broke my heart to see him struggle. Being the winter months, I couldn’t scavenge for mosquito fish, but I longed to entice him with prey to waken his predatory instincts from slumber. I would purchase sheepishly slow guppies for Crayton for Christmas that year. A well-intended gesture, turned sad mistake.
   The guppies darted from one corner to the other as Crayton snapped wildly in fierce pursuit. They were terrified and spry and he stood no chance, despite his best efforts. Sadly even when idle the fish’s lives weren’t in jeopardy. Crayton was clumsy and delayed in his attempts to catch them. His age and ineptitude were painfully obvious and the guppy’s confidence grew. They became comfortable in their environment and began to breed and multiply. They taunted Crayton, even being so bold as to peck at pellets out of reach that had landed on his back. It was humiliating and Crayton took measures to end his life.
   Crayton was found clinging to life on our kitchen floor the next morning. He had managed to squeeze through a small opening at the top of the tank surrounding the filter. From there he began his Death March to the edge of the kitchen counter before plummeting three feet to the linoleum floor below. And there he sat, covered in dust clusters found under the cabinets, unsuccessful in life and now cruelly denied a successful death. I picked him up and he fought me every step of the way back to that blasted tank. Humiliated, he fell motionless to the bottom before the scores of on-looking fish; snickering bastards. Crayton’s spirit had been broken and I made him a promise to make things right. I do love him very much.
   And so the following day I went back to the pet store where our journey first began, to explore our options. I considered purchasing a small and presumably slow bottom feeder for Crayton, the likes of which I hoped he could catch. I wanted to bolster his confidence and end his depressive slump. Alas I found that even the older, larger, less agile plecostomus could zoom with impressive speed when startled. I didn’t want to add insult to injury by bringing home another stalemate situation. So I passed on the notion and pondered another option…No, it’s too morbid, I couldn’t. Could I? Was I capable of killing prey on Crayton’s behalf? My heart would be in the right place, sure, but it just wasn’t me. So I asked a store employee if I could buy or have the floaters in the feeder tank. He offered me the perfect alternate solution instead: Pre-packaged, disease-free, frozen dead feeders! What a novel idea, and a blessing to boot.
   I purchased a package and went straight home to Crayton. He sat quietly, expressionless and unmoving, in the corner, behind fake coral. I tapped the glass to bid him happy tidings and promised him a prize. Nothing. I broke off a fish from the frozen fish brick and thawed it in warm water. I let it cool before gifting it to Crayton. One simple moment of understanding transpired between friends, and then he reached for me. Behold


   And then he speared it and disemboweled it and made a fish mask out of it’s dead fish face and paraded around the tank in it, taunting the school of guppy cowards racing furiously in all directions away from Crayton, my savage cray. Let that be a lesson to all (you fish) who doubt! It’s a beautiful thing.

An introduction

   So if you're reading this, you probably already know who I am and a little about me. This blog was created so that myself and my beautiful girlfriend, Coleen, would have somewhere to write our thoughts, rants, and family happenings.
   I hope our writing is entertaining to someone out there, I know we entertain ourselves pretty thoroughly for the most part. I'll try to write a post with actual content and something interesting to read soon. If you're here, thanks for visiting, and for those of you that aren't reading this I'll assume it's because you're illiterate. And in that case, you should really hire someone to read it to you, for you are missing out.