Scandinavian roots

Okay.

I went a little Swedish crazy.

Yes, I did.

While browsing the internet for Swedish activities – like a trip by the Swedish Society to the Shark Tank to watch a hockey game, I came across ALL SORTS OF GOODIES.

Like Beginning Swedish language classes through the Scandinavian School.

Woot!

I’ve been trying to learn Swedish but it’s hard since I don’t practice speaking the language.

What I really need is people to practice my Swedish with.

I know there’s always The Swede.

But we mostly text and my ability to spell Swedish words is ATROCIOUS.

There are extra vowels in the Swedish language – å, ä, and ö.

They throw me for a loop.

Then, of course I found a link to a Danish Rye Bread Making class and I GOT ALL EXCITED.

Things to do that involve learning Scandinavian arts?

Sign me up!

There’s a MeetUp for Scandinavian crafts, food, and art coming up this weekend that I really want to go to and I got a personal invitation from the organizer.

The downside to all this is that although my DNA says I’m Scandinavian, my ancestry points definitively at Norway.

In the past 200 years I had relatives living in Norway.

So although I might have some Swedish in me (no jokes, folks), we’re now certain there’s a little Norwegian in me.

Nevertheless, I will pursue my interest in all things Swedish.

Especially The Swede.

And just for shits and giggles, I’m posting a picture of Norwegian women here.

Looks like I’m in good company!

Sexy scars

About 5 years ago, I had surgery to fix an epigastric hernia, or as I like to call it, my alien.

Yes indeed, my guts were nearly popping out of my chest.

The doctor who fixed me was skilled at repairing hernias, but not so skilled at stitching up a woman who wants to be able to be seen naked without an angry, jagged, red scar.

Well, the redness has faded. But I still have a large, crooked scar across my abdomen.

Every time someone new sees me naked, his eyes are drawn to the scar and I find myself explaining how I gave birth to an alien (aka a hernia).

I’m a little sensitive about it, to say the least.

But the other day, I noticed a scar on my friend Rick’s chin. He walked through a glass door as a child.

And my sister has a scar on her forehead from when she went into a windshield on Thanksgiving Day during a car accident which thankfully wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

I have several other friends and relatives with c-section scars – a noble way to obtain a scar, in my opinion.

My mom has a large scar from where she had open heart surgery.

I have countless other tiny scars all over my body and each tells a story.

  • The time I stepped on a glass on the floor and nearly passed out.
  • The tiny mole I had removed from under my left eye.
  • The scar on my left palm that I got while trying to bake a homemade apple pie for my neighbor from scratch.

Each scar has a story. Each scar, when noticed, brings up memories of a past time.

I got to thinking that maybe scars aren’t as ugly as I once thought. Maybe they’re beautiful. Sexy, even. Lord knows I’ve enjoyed kissing all the scars on my ex-boyfriends. Scars hold part of our history. Our past. If our bodies are the rulers by which we measure our lives, the surely the scars are the units that we use as a guide.

So last week, when I was relaxing at home, instead of covering my scar, I grabbed a red pen and. . .

This is how I started to love my scar.

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Outrageous

I voted.

I can’t remember the last time I skipped voting.

I think it’s important to make my voice and opinions heard, regardless of whether or not I’m a huge fan of the candidates, measures, or propositions.

This is not a political blog.

I don’t write about my political beliefs, although I do occasionally let my distaste for certain politicians be known.

I have a few friends who have a different political persuasion than me.

And honestly, I have found that NOT DISCUSSING POLITICS is the best way to stay friends.

But sometimes I JUST HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING.

And for that, I don’t apologize.

I have at least one friend who is to some degree a Trump supporter.

The other day he posted on his Facebook page that he was never going to watch Saturday Night Live again because a cast member made a joke about veterans.

I think the joke was in poor taste and missed its mark.

I don’t watch SNL nor do I plan to.

However, I found it HUGELY ironic that my friend felt this was worthy of a boycott while still supporting a man who joked about sexually assaulting women.

Grab them by the pussy.

It’s just locker room talk.

Totally excusable.

But heaven forbid someone make a bad joke about veterans.

I’m not excusing the veteran joke.

It was a bad joke and other castmates have spoken out against it.

However, if you’re going to get outraged about things people say, then I think that outrage over someone bragging about sexually assaulting women is not misplaced.

If we generously ASSUME Trump was making a joke, I personally think both “jokes “are distasteful and worthy of my spite.

Just saying.

Me at 18

I’ve been thinking about age a lot.

Especially since I had my birthday last week and turned 45.

I’m not going to lie.

I feel like I’m getting better the older I get.

I spend less time making EVERYTHING about myself and more time enjoying my family and friends.

I’ve learned to mellow out and relax instead of getting uptight about everything.

For the most part I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.

Although I will, on occasion, emphasize all my stellar qualities and attributes.

Like when I’m trying to impress a guy.

I’m glad I’m no longer 18 years old.

But damn, 18 was a GOOD YEAR!

Here I am at 18, graduating high school with my sister.

And all dressed up going out with friends (probably 19 years old in this picture).

At 17 years old, posing for my Junior Prom with my date.

And here I am with friends at the top of Half Dome.

It’s crazy to think of how the years have passed by in the blink of an eye.

But there you have it.

Me at 18.

 

I need a dog

Pints and Pups was this weekend.

I dragged myself out of bed, picked up Barbara, and headed over to Golden State Brewery in Santa Clara for some snuzzles with doggies and BEER!

It was fun to see old friends and to hang out with Barbara.

Drinking beer.

Barbara, in case you didn’t know it, is my “sister.”

We look so much alike people mistake us for sisters.

I got to check out the rescued dogs brought to the event by Thulani Senior German Shepherd Dog Rescue.

They rescue senior German shepherds that have been abandoned by their owners in their old age.

It’s heartbreaking.

I got the feeling like these dogs were searching the crowd for their person and not finding him or her.

They kept looking off into the distance.

Oblivious of my attempts to garner their attention.

But I loved on the doggies anyway and perhaps even signed myself up to volunteer with Thulani next weekend.

Of course, you MUST know that my favorite breed of dog is German shepherd, on account of I’ve had two and they were THE BEST DOGS.

I miss them terribly.

So I was incredibly pleased when friends took it upon themselves to paint an image of my Wendy girl from a picture I gave them.

It’s stunning!

Warms my poor little heart to see her again, in a painting.

This is actually a picture of Wendy around 3 years old, taken when I was rescuing her from the Tri-Valley Animal Shelter.

She somehow managed to sit long enough for me to snap a photo.

Wendy was never the sort to sit still for any length of time, so I was especially pleased I managed to get that photo of her.

And just like this picture of Mac (below), my first white German shepherd, it has become my quintessential photo of Wendy.

I need a dog.

 

 

Bridget Jones and I

It is rather ironic.

I should identify with some wonderfully successful, bright, clever young woman like Amal Clooney or Samantha Jones.

Instead I identify with the character of Bridget Jones – the ever-so-slightly-plus-size, funny, awkward heroine in Helen Fielding’s novels.

Why?

 

I’ve given this quite some thought and I’ve begun to realize that Bridget Jones and I have many similarities:

  1. She likes to go around naked in her paddling pool. I like to go around naked in my pool.
  2. We both are enamored of Mr. Darcy. Granted, her Mark Darcy was a human rights barrister, and my Mark Darcy is a character in a Jane Austen novel, but you get the picture.
  3. We are both, ahem, plus-sized. Although unlike Bridget Jones, I embrace my curves.
  4. We both have intimate relationships with bottles of wine.
  5. We both are attracted to really shabby guys.
  6. I too hate going to parties where I’m the only single.
  7. Like Bridget, I begin each year with boundless optimism but trouble always seems to find me.
  8. I am always on a journey of self-improvement.
  9. She writes a diary. I write a blog. ‘Nuff said.
  10. My professional life is one long fumble-save, just like hers.
  11. I flirt all day. With people who read this blog. You know who you are.
  12. I never feel like I’m the intellectual equal of everyone in the room.
  13. We both need a career change.
  14. My big plans never quite make it to fruition.
  15. I too use 4-letter words liberally.
  16. I’m also waiting for someone who likes me, just the way I am.

So there you have it, the reasons why I am like Bridget Jones. Because   no matter how hard I try, I always seem to not quite achieve what I set out to achieve. And it takes a pretty evolved sense of humor to find the beauty (and the humor) in that.

Hence…. unblunder.

 

Love is. . .

This post is going to remind me that I am always surrounded by love. Just because my life is missing a few pieces doesn’t mean that I don’t have a lot to be thankful for.

LOVE IS:

    A father who defrosts your car in the morning so you don’t have to.
    A friend who calls you on your birthday.
    A brother who treats your children like they’re his own.
    A best friend who always gives the best advice, but only when she’s asked to.
    A sister who lets you call her at 3 AM when you’ve just had your heart broken.
    Girlfriends who always tell you how beautiful and thin you are no matter what you look like or what size you are.
    A birth mother who saves your voicemails so she can hear the sound of your voice over and over again.
    A cousin who lets you hang out with her because she knows you be alone otherwise.
    A mother who looks after you when you are sick, no matter how cranky and needy you are.
    A grandmother who always sends a birthday check, no matter how small her fixed income is.
    Boys who race to the front door and throw their arms around you when you get home after work.
    Dog kisses.

All things considered, that’s a pretty good list. I’ll remind myself to read it when I’m having a pity party for one,

New fetish

I have a new fetish.

I JUST discovered this.

This is in addition to black vinyl lingerie and neoprene wetsuits.

While browsing Instagram, I discovered that I like to watch other people eating food.

There’s the whole WORLD out there where women (and men, but usually women) loudly eat food in front of a camera.

It’s crazy I know, but I can’t look away.

Who discovered this stuff, is what I want to know.

So there I am, browsing Instagram when ANOTHER video comes on which TOTALLY CAPTIVATES me.

Slime.

That’s right, I like videos of people squishing and folding slime with their hands.

I know it’s odd.

My friend Nathan told me as much.

He asked, “How high are you?” when I sent him links to the videos I was watching.

Not at all, but that’s besides the point.

I was floored that he too, wasn’t enthralled with the videos.

And then it happened.

I came across a mash up video of slimy things and eating food, and my life was complete.

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

So there I am, sipping a beer with a nice gentleman, chatting casually about Burning Man when he asked me a question.

I HEARD him ask, “So what’s was your favorite part of Burning Man?

My response?

The sex.

You just can’t save me from myself, can you?

He leaned in closer to me and asked, “Like sex on the beach?”

Wait!

What did you just ask me?

APPARENTLY, he asked me what was my favorite DRINK at Burning Man.

Oops!

So.

Now he knows that I’m a horn dog.

Also?

He knows I’m honest to a fault.

That must count for something!

Fingers Crossed

Elon Musk took his FIVE sons to a pumpkin patch.

That’s right.

The CEO and founder of SpaceX and Tesla, Inc. has FIVE sons.

I’m less concerned with how something like that happened and more concerned with how wonderful and chaotic it must be to be the father of FIVE BOYS.

I know it was CRAZY with my two.

Elon’s five boys remind me how very badly I want to have more children.

I thought for sure it would happen in the years after I got divorced.

I was sure I’d meet someone special, settle down, and maybe have a girl or two.

Or another boy.

I’ll always feel like my family is too small since I lost Douglas and Ruby.

Missing children.

It is my lot in life to carry around the burden of having lost children.

I have, by no means, cornered the market in this area and I am aware there are bigger burdens than mine.

Still.

I want more kids.

Now, I’ve TOTALLY given up on the idea of having more kids of my own.

I’m too close to the tail end of raising my boys to turn around and start all over.

But reading about Elon Musk’s abundance of children, I am struck with the hope that perhaps, if I’m lucky, I will meet someone special who has children of his own.

The game is not lost, my friends.

I could still wind up with a girl or another boy.

I am struck, given my own adoption background, how families are made in all different ways.

I happen to have two mothers and two fathers, an abundance of siblings (six), and even more cousins, aunts and uncles.

So I know better than anyone that more than blood makes a family.

There’s hope for me.

I might get more kids yet!

Fingers crossed.