Tijuana time

This will not be profound. Well, I guess I've already established that with my previous entries.

One pickle jar, small; one empty bleach bottle; a half empty oil container; a very unfashionable charcoal-colored coat, size ... I'm not looking that closely. These are not items that I put on today's shopping list. These are items that I picked up from entangled brush and weeds near the Mexico border as a contributing hand at today's Surfrider.org's "No B.S." clean up project in the Tijuana River Valley. I was late. I was militant. There were no porta-potties. I had issues. I had to leave early. I helped some. I made a dent, a difference.

I'm off to show my grandson penguins. At four months old he is now aware. I am in love with this fuzzy warm little baby. He's on my lap now. He is eating my hand and curling his pink toes.

Trash-picking in TJ has pumped me up. Burger King at Interstate 5 N, let me use their restroom. All things are cleaning up around San Diego. The freeway will be nuts as always. I wish everyone drove slow. This is why I walk - it's slow.

Penguins are slow. Time means everything to me.

Oral Opening

So, I went to the dentist yesterday.
She smiled.
She hurt me.

Sadists are mean.
They smile alot with their gleaming white teeth.

Perpetual cheese versus nicotine.

I'm back. Suck? Cause I just can't seem to get it rolling. A pink stickie note on my refrigerator urges me daily to get with it; I am.

Speaking of my refrigerator ... I have a story.

My addict husband keeps singing the same old, boring song. "This is my last pack." My ass. I've been hearing that for four years. The melody is permanent and dull. Today he was heading out the door to smoke his "last" Pall Mall. Our grandson Caleb watched him with curiosity. Caleb, three-month-old genius that he is, whispered to me. I asked David to wait. Caleb whispered, David waited.

Word for word I repeated Caleb's words ... "please stop smoking so you will be around when I get older." (It could have been, if you don't quit, Kuku (that's me) is going to be stuck here, alone, wrinkly, without a husband, so give up the cancer sticks pops, but I spared David this version.)

David looked at me and said, "Okay." Okay? That's a word and not a commitment. "Okay, stop talking for the baby?" "Okay, you're a perpetual pain in the ass - Cynthia!" I let him slink away to participate in his own death. Later, the carbon monoxide got to him and he had to have a nap.

When he woke from the nap, he was hungry. He was hungry because he had no cigarettes to smoke and when there is no cigarette, he turns to food. He went for the animal fat drawer and found his Swiss Cheese missing. I wasn't aware that until this moment that Swiss Cheese was always his. Now the entire household is clear. He demanded to know who ate the cheese. I admitted I had some. One daughter confessed, the other denied. This was not good enough for cheese head. "I just want to know who ate it." I told him we had just clarified that and from now on, I would personally take full responsibility for making sure that there was a perpetual stock of Swiss cheese on the premises. Believe it or not, this is exactly what he had been wanting to hear. I am effing astounded, once again. Tomorrow I will head to Costco and buy a 50 pound block and put it in the backseat of his truck so he will never be without. He can cut off a chunk when comes into the house for the night and another to take to bed with him. Oh! and one for the shower. My God.

The daughter who confessed to a slice of dairy delight hooked up the Hookah; which I bought for him, and taught him to smoke this evening. I'm told that the shesha is less lethal than mainstream corporate tobacco products and relaxing in non-blood-vessel-constrictive-way. Let's hope. Well, either way. Whatever. After the cheese, I don't even care.

I suck. Well, I used to. I'm not going to be a sucker any more ... sucky no more. Right after this nap. Damn hookah.

Ha.

The title is actually meant to be enthusiastic, but I resist exclamation points unless it's absolutely necessary! See what it does to you? You think you know where the writer is taking you and then that! Do you run? Scream? Hide? I'm not sure myself; which is why I leave them alone on the keyboard. It's a dangerous area.

So, yea, it's been less than six months this time my friend(s). (God let there be at least one!) Okay, I will stop. Given that only one day has passed, there must be something terribly exciting right? No. Nothing. It's just that I had this dream ...

I apologize to Brad Pitt, because like Brittany, I wish he could be left alone, but I wasn't the chaser in this dream. I wasn't the stalker. It was not me. It was Brad. Now I could lead you off into this fantastic meandering little path of wonder and eager curiosity but I'm not going to do that. I'm straighter than that. It was just a kissing dream. Just? No, not just - it was a fabulous kissing dream. (Today seems to be the day of "F word" writing for me; the biggie will not be used here.)

I've got to make some confessions. One's a statement actually: I don't have a thing for Brad Pitt. Of course, he's cute; worldly; beautiful; rich - none of this matters. I don't have daily thoughts of Brad Pitt. See? I don't even call him by his first name; that's proof! Brad came to me last night - it was not the other way around.

So, that confession. I love kissing. Love. It. I want to marry it. I want to eat it. And ... apparently, so did Brad. Pitt. I wanted more and he just kept on giving it. It was effing delicious. (Technically, effing is not an "F word.") But he stopped and put his shoes on, and I clung to his jeans and tried to keep him in that room, but he left. He was smiling though and I'm pretty certain it means something. I'll tell you what it meant: the kiss has left the frigging building.

I'm brought to reality, as I have to wake up eventually. I tried to stay in bed once all day and sleep but I can't do it. Reality is that my husband and I peck. Three years of marriage and we peck. When I was young I pecked only because I was pissed. Now it's my hello, goodbye and be safe at work. How do we start over? I don't know. I love kissing. I want to marry it.

Oceanside, California

I'm bad. Six months is a really long time. I now understand why it feels like life is racing past me - it's because I can't get much accomplished in less than six months. Six months is my whole life, divided by two. That's crazy.

Speaking of crazy ... wait, never mind. So my grandchild hasn't been born yet. We moved to California and don't have our own house yet. I haven't won the lottery - yet, and ... someone should take this computer away from me.

For what it's worth (which isn't much of anything at all) I'm going to publish and leave and will try really hard to not let half of my life pass by before writing again, because the brain isn't ... later

Renting

I think I will post more than once every six months; let's see how I do.



I can't remember now does this thing date stamp? I will know soon enough. So, we sold the house, the animals and the work that went with it. Now we're renting. Glad to be free from that dream. My idea of dream apparently differs from other people that I know. I've heard it often: "I thought that farm was your dream." It was. I did that and now I don't. I wanted that and now I don't. I'm guessing most people have one dream? How boring is that? For me, that would be boring, so I'm going to stick with my own ideas, and for the record, as long as my ideas and my dreams don't affect you, keep your definition to yourself. That sounds kind of blunt, but I'm really just making a point.



It seems that we gather friends, even within our own families, who bond with us when their ideas are like our own. Most people don't want a friend with opposing thoughts. I can see the extremes of this not being logical: an environmentalist and a neighbor who piles old tires in his front yard. It would be naive to think they are going to meet for lunch on a regular basis. So given this much information, I think people want others to be like them so they can stay in their comfort zone.



Comfort zones are nice, warm places that we all like to hang out in, but seriously doesn't anyone ever want to just jump across the line into the blazing sun and sweat? Don't you want to know what someone else might think about say, baked yams without marshmallows? It's a challenge, but it doesn't have to be scary or life-threatening. I say risk it. Get to know people and imagine the possibility of changing your own idea of what you believe in. It's only information, an option. Respect at the very least that if we are not different, we are bored. Imagine that. I'm off to jump into the warm, succulent sun. Wait. I'm still in Iowa.