Gimme a "B"eat...

Good news! I made the cheerleading squad! Of the gay volleyball team...

A couple of my good friends (mostly gay men) have been playing sand volleyball at the local courts every Thursday evening. My gay husband "Corky" and I have been up to watch (over a bucket or two of cheap beer) the team play most weeks throughout the summer. It's not so much that we are "sports" fans, it's more that we are fans of "skins" night... which, on a gay league, is almost every night! Afterall, why play a dirty, sweat-inducing sport if you're not going to take off the shirt and show those fine-tuned abs?!!

We, "Corky" and I, have had the best times going up to watch the gay games. We've been such loyal fans that we have officially earned the team T-shirt. The "Boobs and Botox" team (sponsored by a local plastic surgeon whose employee - that I LOVE with a capital "L" - is on the team) is a force to be reckoned with at Baxter Jacks.  It's not so much that they win their games, it's more that they are a "lean" and "mean" force because, well, they look fabulous! And they (and their unofficial team mates/cheerleaders) have the BEST time of anyone there!

The reason why it's so much fun to go to the gay volleyball game every week is that no one there takes it too seriously.  At least not on our team.  Case in point, the only Thursday this summer that the team unanimously decided to skip was because of a major conflict with two very important events.  If only the opposing team who won by forfeit that evening KNEW that half of "Boobs and Botox" (it may have been the "boobs"...) team decided to attend "Drag Queen Bingo" that evening instead, and the other half made the hour and 45-minute drive to Cincinnati for the Janet Jackson concert.  Now that is a gay sports team!  And, of course, being the supportive hag and team cheerleader ("Captain" of the squad, I'd like to think, but as this is a gay team, I'm thinking "Corky" gets the honor by default) that I am, I was also attending "Drag Queen Bingo," as you may have read in previous posts...

Surprisingly (or NOT surprisingly, for those, unlike me, who don't generalize people) the "Boobs and Botox" volleyball team has some great athletes!  The competition is usually equally-matched and the games are always close.  That's what they tell us, anyway.  Corky and I are usually more focused on the shirtless hard-bodies on the next court over reenacting our "Top Gun" volleyball-scene fantasies.  Or who on the opposing team (who we've watched play many times over the summer as well) has been working out or who should definitely be voted "Most Improved" in muscle definition of six-pack abs.

All in all, I love "Boobs and Botox" (the team, not necessarily the things themselves,) and look forward to the games every week.  You will never meet a better group of people anywhere who knows how to have a good time (and look good doing it.)  My only complaint is that when we go out for a drink after the game, I'm the only one ordering a calorie-ridden beer and fatty fried food while most of the team orders Diet Coke and a salad with a spritz of lemon juice.  Queers! (Again, I say that with only love.)

My New Friend, Tex

I started writing this blog because of my mom.  For years she has been encouraging me to write down the stories that I tell her.  So, when Mom read my first entry, she was informed that our family (namely her) is rather eccentric.  Although the rest of us were quite aware, this was, apparently, news to Mom.  She (and even my sister) like to think that everyone else is "different," and we're the normal ones.  So, I'll let them keep thinking that.  And lucky for me, eccentricity yields many blog topics.

Growing up we always had lots of pets.  My mom worked in an animal clinic for a time and we were always the family that took in stray (or dumped) cats from the neighborhood or public park.  Although we mostly kept to cats and dogs as pets, we are animal lovers through and through.

When my parents left the small town where I grew up, they moved to a house out in the country with a few acres of woods and a couple of streams.  Except for the deafening sounds of nature (birds, bugs and other wildlife,) it gets pretty quiet out at their new home.  So, one summer evening as they were sitting out on the deck, they heard the loud croaks of a bullfrog down in the creek closeby.  After hearing the familiar croaks from this frog a few more times, they decided to make a "pet" (one they only heard, but never saw) out of "Rusty."  I thought they were nuts. 

For months Rusty visited every evening, "calling out" as if to say hello and let my amused parents know that he was still out there.  One tragic day, a big storm passed through, the creek and yard were flooded and poor Rusty was never heard from again.  However, this summer, my parents' pool mysteriously filled with hundreds (if not thousands) of tiny tadpoles.  Mom and Dad like to think that Rusty's legacy is living on through the gobs of nasty, slimy, pre-historic-looking creatures (that's my opinion. My parents think they are cute.) he left behind.

A few weeks ago, after moving into a new part of the neighborhood and now parking on the street under low-hanging trees, I noticed an elaborate spider web strung from my car's sideview mirror.  While taking a closer look at "nature's artwork" on the side of my car, a small but stout, brown spider crawled out from the corner of the mirror.  Although I appreciated his beauty and friendliness, I quickly rolled up my window so as not to get too close to the icky thing.  The next day and for many days after, each time I went outside, the early morning sun shone on another beautiful web on the side of my car.  Also, that same brown spider came out of the mirror to give me a brief "howdy do."  I named him "Tex."  For weeks, Tex has greeted me every morning as if to say, with a tip of his hat, "Ma'am..."  I even find myself driving well below the speed limit (even when running late to work) so as not to blow Tex away.  He frequently rides along with me hanging on for his dear life to just one impossibly thin thread of his web.  I always apologize to him (outloud, of course, otherwise how would he hear it?) for the thrill ride he just received.

So, summer will soon be coming to an end, and with it, so will the "circle of life" for dear Tex.  As Charlotte had to say goodbye to Wilbur, Tex will soon be saying farewell to me.  I realize that he cannot be with me forever, and I will one day have to ride to work alone.  And when that day comes, I will miss the little guy for all the times we've shared.

Tex has made me realize so many things, the most obvious of which is that I am just as "nutso-buttso" (my mom's term) as my parents.  And if being eccentric brings a little more appreciation (for friends like Tex) and humor to my day, I'll take it.

Short Bus Family

Growing up, my family had lots of pets.  My parents were (and are) animal-lovers, so my two sisters and I were destined to follow.  As adults, all three of us have pets that we consider our own "new" families. I myself have two cats, my sister just lost a cat but also has a dog (beautiful Auggie,) and my other sister, the violinist (if you know a musician, this story will probably not surprise you,) has three cats and a dog.  This sister's "family" is very loving and very spoiled, as they should be.  However, these pets are slightly different than most.  For some reason, my sister attracted or was drawn to, a most interesting collection of animals.  Seemingly "normal" on the outside, in reality they each have their own special "quirk," something that sets them apart from the general flock.  And I would expect nothing less from my sister.

My sister adopted her dog from a local shelter when he was just a puppy. Murphy is a black and white bird dog who had gangly ears and long legs from day one.  Although he eventually grew into a medium-large adult dog, his ears were still a little, well, stunted.  When my nephew was very young, he so perfectly said it in his awestruck way, "he (Murphy) kept growing and growing, but his ears stayed the same size!"  Murphy's handsome, but somewhat awkward, shape and size isn't all that makes him "unique."  This tall, lean hound makes a distinct grumbling noise that sounds EXACTLY like a Wookie from Star Wars.  It's amazing!  You couldn't imitate the sound as perfectly if you tried.

Winston, a large, black, male cat, was my sister's "first born."  He is a good, mature-seeming boy, with the appearance of sophistication and esteem.  When I look at him, I actually think of Wilford Brimley, however, he's not amused when I get in his face and recite the Liberty Mutual commercial, "I'd like to take a minute to talk to you about life insurance..."  As the most stable and sensible (it seems) of the family, my sister calls Winston her "rock."  So, it's somewhat surprising to hear this intimidating, big male cat's "meow."  This badass cat has the highest pitch "Castratti" voice, not unlike Mike Tyson.

Then there's Parker.  Parker was a preemie kitty, who wasn't expected to make it.  But he was adopted by a veterinarian's office, more particularly, the black lab who lived there.  The lab nursed baby Parker back to life, but Parker would never develop fully as an adult cat.  Small in stature, he is always cold and constantly looking for someone (cat, dog, human) to snuggle up to.  Parker acts more like a human baby or even Cabbage Patch Doll, perfectly content to be swaddled in a blanket or wrapped and zipped up in your hoodie.  As small and petite as he is, however, mysteriously Parker thumps down the hall so heavy-footed, you would think he weighed 100 pounds.

Fergus is my sister's somewhat recent addition.  He is a youthful red-head (orange kitty) that lived on the streets and probably ate out of garbage cans for years.  A healthy young brut, Fergus looks to be an all-American feline boy.  However, three year-old Fergus, as it turns out, still likes to nurse like a newborn kitten.  My sister discovered this phenomenom when wearing a particular green cotton nightgown.  Her new cat, rescued from the hard streets of Memphis, suckled and found comfort in the lining of the fabric.  Years later, Fergus has kept up the habbit, continuing to "nurse" on that one green garment.  When my sister goes out of town each summer, she makes sure to bring along Fergus' nursing nightie so that he can feel the comforts of home even when he's away.

To know her pets, is to know my sister.  Her family is a unique bunch, to say the least.  I would expect nothing less from my sister who takes great pride in being "one of a kind," which she most-definitely is.  As someone close to her, I also know that she has a special place in her heart for others who are different.  I know my sister as someone more warm and vulnerable than she would ever care to admit.  And for that, I appreciate her and her crazy family even more.

"Pookie" and Other Pet Names

I was just thinking about the story behind the name (Pookie) that my family calls me.  It occurred to me that I'm not the only one in my family (although the only human) that goes by a nickname. We've always called our family pets by alternate names. This is not so unusual, I realize.  Lots of people call their beloved shi tzu or hound dog by a shorter, sweeter, more personality-appropriate version of their actual name.  It is, afterall, why they call them "pet names."  So, Bowser may turn into "B-boy," Snoopy becomes "Snoops" and Margaret turns into "Madge," (the name of my darling beagle when I was young.) However, the nicknames of my family's pets, are anything but normal by these standards.

There is, actually, was (poor baby passed this year) my sister's cat, Claude. Claude was a handsome, lean, tabby that had a special way of entering a room (chin first, ears back and with a sudden stop as if caught redhanded) with all the grace of "Kramer" from Seinfeld.  Anyway, handsome Claude was soon called "Claudimus" (a masculine, almost "gladiator"-sounding name,) then "Claudimutz," and that eventually shortened to just "Dimutz."  And this strange, less than warm-sounding name is what the poor guy answered to until the day he died. My sister's other cat, Daphne, also had an interesting nickname.  Daphne, unfortunately, came to my sister during the heyday of the show, Melrose Place. Daphne Zuniga (who you may also know as "Princess Vespa" in Space Balls) had a starring role in the show. So, through no fault of the unlucky cat, she soon became "Zuniga" of the B-list actress fame.

My sister's critters aren't the only ones with interesting nicknames.  My parents have a slew of cats and two gorgeous dogs, Ella and Max.  Both of these are nice normal names, even fairly-common for family pets.  But for some unknown, and slightly bizarre reason, my nephew began calling Ella "Montez" and Max became "Peru." Why, you ask?  I have no idea. My nephew was very young at the time he came up with them, so who knows where he heard the words, let alone the names. But, these nicknames are still around today.

I have to admit that my own cats have also been subjected to alternate names. I've spoken a lot about my kitty, Harold, the one who's gay (I say in a whisper as if it's an unconfirmed rumor -- it's not. He's out, trust me!) But I also have the beautiful Henri who I got when she was just a kitten. Even though I've had cats all of my life, determining the sex of my baby was not as certain as I thought, so I gave her a "boy's" name. (I'm not the only one to make that mistake. My parents had a cat, "Blanche" until they realized "she" was, in fact, a "Bud" instead.) Henri is a funny (some would say "bitchy") girl with a complex personality and a bad attitude. She loves her mother (me,) most men and all lesbians. She does not love women, Grandma, my gay husband, "Corky," or anyone else. Anyway, my complicated girl, "Henri," has eventually become "Tissie" or "Tiss."

Truth be told, the origins of this name came from the term "Tissie Pristle," the term that my grandpa used (in a loving way, I like to think) to refer to gay men.  I don't know why my kitty, Henri "Tiss," got the nickname instead of my gay son, Harold.  I have a feeling that perhaps Harold is holding out for an even more fabulous title, maybe one of European royalty. Or, more likely, he may be waiting to pick out the most perfect "show" (drag) name.  My gay baby is probably secretly trying out new ones soon to unveil a new persona to fit a name, like "Amber Fields" or "Vaseline Dion" or "Amanda Reckenwhith."  That reminds me, has anyone seen the fabulous hot pink flapper-girl wig from my Halloween costume?

(Thanks, Lynnelle, for the truly frightening Photoshop work!)

She's Fallen and She Can't Get Up!

Whenever I think of my childhood or of any family memory, I think of my two older sisters. We, all three of us, were (and are) very close despite an eight year age difference. With this, I've always considered my oldest sister a "mother" figure, someone whose maternal instincts were evident even as a young girl. There are so many pictures of her holding and taking care of a newborn me. I'm also told that she has been looking after me as her own since day one, and I have more than a few memories of my sister getting after me to do the right thing, or to stay out of trouble, or nagging me to wear my lipstick (which she thinks brightens my face and "pulls me together.")

I'm grateful to my sister for taking such good care of me all these years (she still "mothers" me even now.) But, despite her fine-tuned maternal instinct, it's a bit of a surprise that she is NOT good in emergency situations. Although she has cared for her testosterone-filled family of athletes for fifteen years (and her sisters for even longer,) including the occasional sports injury or accident, this highly-educated, CPR-trained, former-lifeguard, 4th grade teacher (is there a tougher job? no!) woman, cannot handle an emergency. Unfortunately, she gets so panicked that she freezes and all common sense leaves the situation.

Years ago, I offered to accompany my sister on a 2 1/2 hour drive to deliver my nephew to my other sister so that he could stay with her for a few days. After making our delivery, we started back for home. However, shortly into our journey it started snowing. Then, it started snowing A LOT. I could see that my sister was too panicked to drive in the nasty weather, so I offered to take over and drive her SUV instead. Then, not two miles down the road, my frantic passenger let the stress of the snowstorm get the better of her and she insisted that I pull over. Although I felt fairly confident driving in the storm, I pulled over and let my sister calm her nerves. What I didn't expect was that my caretaking big sister, who was too petrified to drive or even let ME drive, would now be reclined back in the passenger seat, mouth hanging open, snoring five minutes after she insisted that we stop and leaving me to deal with our predicament on my own. So, I went ahead and made the executive decision that we find a hotel for the night since we weren't going anywhere and my sister was obviously exhausted from her trying experience. The next morning, we finally started for the drive home, that was, only after scraping ice from the windows using the butter dish and block of wood she kept in the car for such occasions. No, really.

Another time when my sister demonstrated her heroics during an emergency situation, was when the neighbor's house caught on fire. Reacting quickly in her attempt to help, my sister ran back to her own house, just a hundred or so feet away, to get a fire extinguisher. However, in her panic, she had a horrible time making her way back to the fire. With the bottom half of her body suddenly paralyzed in distress, my sister's legs gave out, she collapsed on the muddy lawn, not once but four times! Every time she attempted in a frenzy to get back on her feet, her legs buckled and she fell down again. And with each "fall," she got more anxious and more covered in mud. Meanwhile, the "helpful" other neighbors, having witnessed the whole, unfortunate scene, casually went about their barbecue, never once offering to assist or at the very least drag my sister out of the mud pit in which she was now swimming. As you can probably guess, by the time my sister finally did arrive with the extinguisher, the fire was already long out. Lucky for them, the neighbors quickly forgot about their frightening emergency after watching the entire scene of my poor sister dragging her way (as if she were on a "boot camp" obstacle course) across their yard from the kitchen window.

Despite her successful or not so successful attempts to help in an emergency, her intentions are good. And really, that's what matters at the end of the day. I just hope that she has 911 on speed dial. And really, "Life Alert" isn't just for Grandma.

Remember when?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bQlpDiXPZHQ

Pookie Goes Home

I just got back from a weekend trip to Illinois to visit my family. Although it's an easy four-hour drive, perfect for a weekend (preferably a long weekend,) I have to admit that I don't get back there nearly as often as I'd like. Despite the distance between us geographically and the completely different lives we all now live, I'm still really close to my immediate family.

During my visits home, of course I look forward to catching up with my family, but I also look forward to the break from my "real life," the 30 year-old professional woman who works 9 to 5, pays bills and has a healthy retirement plan. Sometime during the drive back to the "homeland," I transform from the independent career woman that I've become to the youngest child, little sister, spoiled with love and attention teenager. Somewhere in the middle of Indiana, between Clarksville and "Skeeter Mountain," I, once again, become "Pookie."

Since I was probably ten years-old, my family has called me nothing but "Pookie," or worse, "Pook," and even on special occasions, "Pook Stain" (nice, right?)  I am "Pookie" to my parents, my sisters, close friends of my sisters, and even to my nephews, at home and in public without fail. In fact, it is so ingrained in me now, that I don't even realize that I'm answering to this silly nickname from across the grocery store or in the middle of a nice restaurant. It no longer even occurs to me to be embarrassed about my funny "name" like I once was.

I hardly remember how it all began, calling me by a nickname, but "Pookie" does not exactly fit me, at least I don't think. When I think of someone who might better fit the name, I think of a preppy, pastel sweater-wearing (draped over her shoulders, of course) big-haired blonde, southern socialite who has a trust fund and even as a grown woman calls her dad "daddy." This is most definitely not me. My dad would laugh if I did, or he'd squirt me with the tiny water gun he always has closeby to keep cats off the table or to show his "disapproval" of a particularly obnoxious belch or bad word one of the rest of us might share.

As much as I can tell, my sister started calling me this long-enduring nickname for the very reason that it isn't me. As I do a bit of soul-searching, I will have to get the real story from my sister, but I think the name stuck because of my very dry sense of humor (a quality given directly to me from my dad.) "Pookie" is not a name you would give to a nearly six-foot tall woman who may wear a pastel-colored sundress with the appearance of warmth and friendliness on the outside, but who is wearing head-to-toe "goth" black and silently judging you on the inside. Only my family knows the real me, the girl who has always been more introspective than outgoing, more mature than naive, more "Mrs. Robinson" than "Elaine," at least on the inside.

I've long given up on the hope that my unfortunate nickname would go away. I now realize that I will probably someday be the oldest, wrinkliest, most sarcastic "Pookie" in "the home." But I've also come to love my name. To me, it is a wonderful and nostalgic reminder of where I come from, the people (my family) who've known me on my best day and my worst and that I'm still the same girl I've always been, even though I now have (gasp!) responsibility. So, now I'm going to go pay bills and with new inspiration. I may even sign the checks "Pookie."

Drag Queen Bingo

As someone who works in fundraising, I try to support as many charities as my "non-profit" salary allows. The charities that generally appeal to me are those that advocate for animals, those that fund research for diseases that have affected my close family or friends and those that support the "LGBT" community. As an experienced fag hag, I have always supported gay causes (by dating some of their "members" before they came "out" and attending more pride parades than your average homo) but I also try to lend my financial support when I can.

Last night, Drag Queen Bingo! The event raised money for the Louisville Youth Group, a support group for gay teens. The concept is not a new one, I've heard of other cities having similar events with much the same success as this one. For those who are not familiar, it is what it sounds like - gays, hags (like me) and other supporters play Bingo (just like any ol' Catholic affair) but the catch is, instead of "Father John" or "Sister Mary" calling the game, it's someone infinitely more fabulous (and exceedingly better dressed!) Last night, the "callers" were a couple of elegant "ladies," local celebrities from Connection's very well-known and well-attended (by both gay and straight audiences) drag show, Terri Vanessa Coleman and Hurricane Summers.

Unless you live here, it's hard to believe that Louisville, Kentucky boasts a surprisingly large and generally "accepted" gay community. There are lots of gay-owned businesses, gay-friendly social groups and events and some of the best gay clubs (including the biggest, Connection) of any city this size. I guess it's really not that unusual that we have such a large population of gay residents in the metropolitan city, because if you live in Kentucky and you're gay, where do you go? This is, afterall, the state of rednecks and pick-up trucks (I'm not talking about the lesbian kind) and the location of the movie Deliverance. But, despite the city's gay-friendliness, I still frequently warn my gay husband "Corky" not to get hate-crimed when he's venturing down a dark street or going somewhere uber "straight," like the state fair or (gasp!) Walmart. (How many gay men do you know who shop at Walmart?)   

So, as you can imagine, Drag Queen Bingo was a hit! I even won a game! Actually, my gay husband won but refused to raise his voice (and lower "himself") by yelling "bingo." Also, he wasn't wearing the cutest, butt-emphasizing shorts with which to show off his booty from the stage where winners go to claim their prize. So, I gladly took the honors, marching up to greet Hurricane and pick up my winnings (a $25 Mastercard gift card.) The highlight of the evening, however, was the attention Ms. Summers showered on me, calling me a "pretty thing" and commenting on my "perky boobs." Believe me, this is a compliment matched by none! A man, um... "woman" who knows her D-cups and has maybe even shopped for a couple of her own, recognizing a good set. I will proudly accept that admiration.

The Incident

Disclaimer: I've decided to share a funny story that is highly embarrassing. The rule is, after reading, you can't look down on me. You can't look at me differently. And you can't judge. I only tell it because it's really funny, and your laughter is more important than my humiliation.

So... a few of my closest friends and relatives (I mean only THE closest who already know the story) have asked me whether I would be sharing a particular story of mine that is more than a little embarrassing. As a habitual "over-sharer" who knows no "T.M.I." I eventually came to the conclusion that everyone (I know you do) has a story, an embarrassing story, a story about shitting their pants... and so, I share mine.... Yeah, I'm going there...

I had only worked at my previous job for a few months before the big "gala" fundraiser. As a representative of the company, of course I had to attend the high-profile event in town with the "who's who" of Louisville. I hadn't been to many formal affairs in my professional career but managed to dig up a former bridesmaid dress that would serve as the perfect ball gown for the debut event.

Dressed in my beautiful gown and feeling like a million bucks, the event went off without a hitch. Although not a natural "socializer," I managed to make small-talk with some major donors, got to know some loyal volunteers a little better and took full advantage of that blessing, the open bar. However, I did not, unfortunately, have the opportunity to enjoy much of the buffet dinner served to attendees of the opulent event.

When the event's agenda was complete and only a few party-goers remained, I politely excused myself from that long day. I was finally able to relax on my drive home. That was, until I felt a somewhat familiar pang that made me just a little more urgent (panicked) to get to my final destination. So, when I arrived at my condo building I pulled into the service driveway where I hurriedly turned on my emergency flashers and set the car in "park." As I scrambled to get inside to the privacy of my own home, I could not find my keys! Rushed and panicked to find the keys, I listened for the familiar clank in my purse... But, it was too late... I shit my pants... in my ballgown...

Desperate to do something (anything!) to conceal my "accident" (until now, when I tell all via blog,) I casually walked down the drive to my condo building's award-winning landscape garden. There, I'm mortified (obviously not enough to keep from sharing) to say, I covertly shook the offending turd loose from my gown. But, as I sheepishly made my way back to the car, I realized that in my haste, I had left the keys in the running car!

So, I let myself into my condo building and guiltily snuck into my apartment to destroy the evidence and forget that unfortunate, scandalous evening. Much to my dismay, however, Mother Nature would NOT let me forget my unforgiveable, embarrassing offense...  See, the turd from my fancy ballgown on that infamous evening mocked me for at least six months from its landscaped high-traffic location where I had last left it. That son of a bitch lasted in the ornamental grasses through rain and shine, snow and sleet, humidity and drought. And my humiliation lasted for at least three times that amount of time! 

But, despite my incredible embarrassment, I share my story now partly because I recently moved out of the condo building where I single-handedly caused the ruination of the landscape committee. Also, I don't keep "secrets" very well. And if you don't have a story (about dirtying your pants or something equally as embarrassing,) you're just not human. And you're lying...  Now, we will never speak of this again.

My Family Tree

Like a lot of families who eventually settled in the Midwest (and particularly my hometown in Illinois,) my ancestors are an even split of both English and German heritage. As farmers in the early to mid 1800's, both "sides" of the family came to America looking for a better opportunity in the rich farmland of the area near where my parents actually live now. While my family tree has both very English names, Bird and Hall, it also has VERY German names as well, Heitzman and Klaustermeier.

Despite the even split between two cultures, everyone in my immediate family will probably tell you, we most resemble our German heritage in appearance -we are a "robust" bunch, freakishly strong, particularly us "damens," and we have a special fondness for cured meats (summer sausage) and strong brews - ok, that may just be me- but also our work ethic and stubbornness. Afterall, a favorite saying (more a proud motto) in my family is "you can tell a German, but you can't tell him much!" (Truth be told, I've heard this saying applied to Irish and Italian as well, so I guess it's an equal-opportunity generalism.)

Fortunately, my dad has done a lot of research about our family roots, and I've been lucky to travel in the last couple of years to the areas where my family originally came from in both England and Germany. And, without a doubt, I feel very strongly connected to my roots in Germany where people most look like me, traditions are more familiar (they eat meat and cheese for breakfast!) and where I feel like I could very well be sitting in my grandma's or great-grandma's living room. When I was travelling there, I even noticed that some of the houses looked exactly like those of my relatives, including their spotless, clean-swept porches and tidy, obedient flower gardens.

As someone who appreciates history but mostly looks forward to what's to come, it's a comforting feeling to know your "roots." I never would have understood this if I had not travelled there (in both Germany and England) myself. I'm so grateful to my dad for having understood this long before I did and for doing the hours of research in order to find this information.

Come to find out, our family tree boasts no exciting drama (except maybe a couple of horse thieves in the early 1900s and my current immediate family) and certainly no European royalty (although we/I may occasionally act like it.) But it's incredible to learn more about the hard-working, aspiring people (farmers and factory-workers) who took that big leap and started over in a foreign country (America) with nothing at all. At the same time, it's also heartwarming to know that despite the distance and years our family has come, we still see and identify with the distinct characteristics of our ancestors' home lands.

So, perhaps my fondness for the German language (with its "fahrt" and "weiner"and such) is not because of the cheap giggle it brings to the "teenage boy" in me, but because of a centuries-old, deep-seated connection to my heritage............  Nah, it's because of the "fahrt" and "weiner"!

Crazy Cat Mom

I have two beautiful, spoiled cats who are like children to me. Wait, before you get the thought in your head that I'm THAT woman, the crazy cat lady wearing a muu muu and shaking her broom at the neighbor kids, I'm way ahead of you. I won't be sporting any bumper stickers like, "Proud parent of a calico 'wildcat'" or "My cat is smarter than your honor student" (only because I haven't found a place that sells them yet, but that's beside the point.)

Today, I was woken up at 4 a.m. by the feel of soft cotton balls lightly touching my face. In my dream, I imagined fluffy pink powder puffs floating through the air, a peaceful scene relaxing enough to keep me in a deep slumber a little while longer. But then, the touch of those cotton balls lightly touching my face hit with just a little more pressure than before. Soon, those light, heavenly cotton balls were tapping my face heavily and insistently... and with sharp, flesh-slicing claws outdrawn! My damn cat was waking me up, like she does every morning, way too early by sitting on my chest and repeatedly smacking my face (not my arm or chest or back, as if to politely jimmy me awake) with her paw. The reason for the obnoxiously early wake-up call? Breakfast, of course. Henri, my regimented feline daughter insists on being fed very early. I would understand if she had, perhaps an early meeting or wanted to get a head start on her day...

I realize that I indulge them, which is nobody's fault but my own. But I also realize that my feline kids most-likely don't understand the concept of sleeping in or the need for rest because I have a big day ahead (I hope they don't, or else they're in trouble,) so there's no reason to punish them for waking me up. So, when they go back to bed after they've had their early breakfast and their bellies are full, and I have to get up a few hours later with a foggy head and sleep in my eyes, I don't hold a grudge.

This morning I got up at the crack of dawn to feed my spoiled babies then woke up hours later to get ready for work. But when I was attempting to drag my weary bones out of bed, I bounced the mattress just a little too hard for their liking and woke up my two sleeping beauties. I got the nastiest-looking, devil eyes half-opened, not-even-lifting-my-head-from-this-pillow scowl from two cats you ever would see! A look that says, you have personally offended and most definitely insulted me with your mid-morning disturbance. If you have a cat (any cat) you know that look... It says, "I love you, but I will cut you..."

But, I love my cats just as they are. Sure, they're spoiled, demanding, they know what they want and will accept nothing less, but how else would I know that they're mine? They are, afterall, their mother's "children."

Actual Family Recipes

As long as I can remember, the kitchen was the center of my family. Growing up, the five of us lived in a modest ranch-style home in a typical neighborhood. And the kitchen was the place (like a lot of families) where we spent most of our time, doing homework at the table, talking about what happened at school that day and either baking elaborate recipes or cooking fabulous meals.

My mom is an excellent baker, and whether it's a large project or small, she loves the hobby of it so much that she actually bakes something just about every day. Some of my earliest memories are of scooting a kitchen chair over to the counter, wearing an apron and helping mix up a batch of chocolate chip cookies (Toll House recipe, of course.) I am the youngest daughter and the last to go to school, so I was home during the day by myself with Mom. And it felt like I was chosen for special duty when serving as Mom's "cookie assistant!" Each of us (my sisters and I) had that same experience helping Mom in the kitchen. That might explain why even today each of us swears we are still Mom's favorite. Also at an early age, my sister caught the cooking bug, scouring cookbooks, trying challenging new recipes and eventually taking over cooking a lot of our family meals. Still today, when she is staying at my parents for a period of time, she is the "manager" of the kitchen and no one challenges her over that role. She also makes the best schnitzel this side of the Atlantic Ocean (the best is still Margit's in Graz, see earlier post, "Life As An AIMS-er." I have to say, my other sister and I like to cook but mostly prefer to leave it to the "experts." However, all of us love food, love to talk about it and appreciate good cooking.

When one or both of us (my sister, the other out-of-towner and I) is in town for a visit, Mom always asks us to send our menu requests. Unfortunately, I'm the one who gets to visit least often, so I usually have lots of requests and a very specific list for those family favorites I miss so much when I'm gone. Also, a big part of every visit home is planning dinner ("supper," as we call it in the Midwest) every night and going into town to shop for groceries. Since I don't do much of the actual cooking but really appreciate the process, I love going to the grocery store and picking out the ingredients.  For one, it's on Mom's dime, but also because it's a bonding experience for the women in my family. It's what we do everytime we're together, without fail.

Eventually I hope to share some of our many favorite recipes we love (except I have NO love for "Bridal Luncheon Salad." Jello is dumb and gross.) and with all of the special and very descriptive names Mom has given these dishes. For instance, there's the nasty "Bridal Luncheon Salad," an offensive, pale green, foamy, Jello concoction that seems to show up at every family special occasion whether you want it to or not. There is also "Copper Pennies," the name that sounds like it would be a "treasure" to eat, but let's be honest, cooked carrots are no treasure. Another decadent recipe that is delicious despite its name, "Bean Sludge," nacho dip made with beans that does, in fact, look like something you'd pull out of your bath tub drain. "Poop Cookies," or "Chocolate Drop Cookies" as they're known in normal families. Thinking about them actually makes my mouth water, which goes to show you just how ingrained and commonplace Mom's revised less-than-appetizing name is to our family.

I'll be making a trip home to visit my family in a few weeks, and I've already started my list of requests (no Jello!) I know that Mom will come through for me. While I'm there, I hope to pick up a few more recipes (and stories) from my family's cookbook.

Grandma's Words, Part 2

After posting "Grandma's Words of Comfort" about my grandma's unfortunate knack for the Freudian slip, a few family members kindly reminded me of a few other classic Grandma moments. Again, my point in sharing is not to embarrass or poke fun at Grandma (well, maybe just a little) but to help describe her as the quirky octogenarian she is and a big part of the long line of eccentric women in my family.

One of the funniest things in the world is to hear my grandma to cuss. Now, on any given day, it's not out of th ordinary to hear the rest of the family demonstrate our four-letter vocabulary, but Grandma usually saves such language for only the most dire circumstances. One such time, was when both of my sisters, Mom and Grandma were on a very long roadtrip to take the violinist sister to school in upstate New York. The smart travelers decided to break up the arduous 14-hour journey with a stop at a motel along the way, however, it was anything but restful for ANY of them. Along with her wacky sense of humor, unfortunately Mom also inherited Grandma's amazing habit of snoring. We're not talking polite, occasional gurgling of the throat. This is full-on lumberjack, aint-no-one-sleeping-through-this log-sawing, and no one does it like Grandma! The next morning, after attempting unsuccessfully to sleep through the racket of Grandma's snores, all three weary travelers got ready to be on their way again. Irritable and exhausted, Mom and Grandma went down to the hotel lobby for the "Continental" breakfast they were promised on a promotional sign inside their room. Minutes later the defeated travelers returned to the room with no success in getting their meal. Mom calmly told my sisters that they weren't able to get anything to eat, because it was only 6:30 and breakfast wasn't served until 7:00. Disappointed and hungry, my "innocent," little old lady grandma then uttered the phrase that still haunts her (and makes us giggle) today. She very unexpectedly said, "And all I wanted was my f*ckin' danish!" Grandma?!! The "f-bomb?"

When they stopped laughing at Grandma's dramatic display, my sister (who seems to have a way with getting through to people,) left the room and quickly returned with enough "f*ckin'" danishes for everyone.

There are also the instances when Grandma utters a cuss word without intending to. One honest mistake is her regularly referring to a nearby restaurant Lotawata Creek, as "LaTwatta Creek." Although an unintentional slip, no one was surprised to hear Grandma turn the name of a harmless family establishment into something of the more X-rated variety. Now, she wasn't born yesterday, and although it's not something you normally hear from an 88 year-old, Grandma does know what that word means. And she was partly embarrassed, but mostly amused, when her mistake in pronouncing the restaurant's name was pointed out to her.

Grandma, Grandma... we wouldn't want you to be any other way. I'm certain that those "traditional" grandmas, the ones that knit and make jam and who tell bedtime stories to their brood of eager grandchildren around the fire (I'm picturing Little House again...) don't have nearly as much fun as we do!

My Gay Husband and the "Purse Scene"

As I sit here this evening, my gay husband "Corky" has been stone-faced reading my recent blog posts. Waiting for a reaction that I'll never receive, I should know better than to expect my gay to have the same emotional scope and perspective that I did. My "husband" is honest TO A FAULT! This is a man who actually believes you want the truth when you ask whether you look fat in that skirt or whether or not he really liked that gift you gave him for his last birthday. Yes, when I ask the opinion of my gay best friend, my partner in crime, I have to spell out that I don't actually want the truth, I want the kind, "friend" response.

Case in point, a few years ago I worked for an animal shelter where I was in charge of making a video for a very important fundraiser. The purpose of the video was to show the life of a shelter animal and evoke emotion from animal lovers (and potential donors) much like that commercial for the Humane Society of the United States that uses that damn song by Sara McLachlan. You know the one... Hours were spent on this video, where I painstakenly conceptualized the narrative, wrote the script, interviewed staff, pieced together dozens of photos, and worked with a local television station to produce the final cut. I was so proud of the end product and couldn't wait to show my loved ones what I had accomplished. Whether it was the pride I felt in having been part of this amazing process or the emotion I felt each time I watched this heart-felt video about homeless, unwanted and abused animals, I cried (despite countlessly watching it scene-for-scene over many months) every single time I watched it.

A few days before the big fundraiser, I brought my BFF, my gay husband, to my office to show him the video I had worked so hard on these many months. As I pressed "play" I anticipated the flood of emotion that would soon commence, however, it soon became clear that the only "flood" was from my own tears as I watched the video for the hundreth time. Meanwhile, "Corky," my gay husband, sat watching the same video as I did but with no visible emotion and Kalahari Desert-dry eyes. What was wrong with him? Didn't he see the same pictures of helpless animals that I did? Didn't he understand that the poor caged animals in the film were exactly why I worked as hard as I did? Apparently not.

When the video was over, I asked "Corky" what he thought of it. In the same unimpressed manner in which he spent the last ten minutes watching the efforts of all my hard work, he said "it was nice." No tears, no emotion, no dramatic praise. Instead of questioning my best friend (who also has two cats and a dog who he adores) whether this video brought any emotion at all to the surface, I decided that "Corky's" empathetic priorities and weaknesses were much different than my own. Clearly, we should agree to disagree.

After watching the video (my failed experiment in attempting to make my Pinocchio a "real boy,") we left my office to go see the movie, Sex and City. Little did I know that the same cold-hearted, dry-eyed martyr that sat through my "orphan animals" video not an hour earlier would BAWL HIS EYES OUT every five minutes of this silly, fictional, fashion-focused chick flick! The peak of his emotional outburst, the "purse scene!" This was the part of the movie where one Manhattan fashionista gives her assistant, another Manhattan fashionista, a designer purse as a Christmas gift. I know, I know... I can almost hear the tears falling right now!

The moral of the story, never expect your friends (even your BFF) to have exactly the same passions as yours. And always expect your gay husband to enjoy a good chick flick (and a great cry) with you.

These Are the People In Your Neighborhood

After more than two weeks in my new apartment, I'm a little surprised to find that the place still feels a little off to me. Or, as my sister might say, I feel like I'm "wearing someone else's underwear." I can't say I have a lot of experience in this area, however, I do have two sisters, our laundry was all thrown into the same pile, and misidentifications were occassionally made. So, I'm doing what I can in order to feel more comfortable and settled in my new home. This includes cooking in my new kitchen, introducing myself to the neighbors (instead of peering at and judging them from the safety of a crook in my mini-blinds, like I'd like to do,) and appreciating that I'm still in the same great neighborhood that I've lived in since first moving to Louisville more than eight years ago.

Louisville isn't a large city, but it has more culture and "big city" opportunities than most give it credit for. My neighborhood, the Highlands, is known for artsy shops and boutiques, great restaurants (many of them ethnic) and an appreciation for the fine art of people-watching. I was actually in the legendary Haight-Ashbury AND Castro neighborhoods in San Francisco only a few weeks ago, and aside from the two stark-naked gentlemen we saw walking down the sidewalk at 3 p.m. on a normal Sunday, it reminded me a lot of the Highland's own Bardstown Road.

In the Highlands, one of my favorite stops (although not bragged about to the tourists) is the Valu Market, a locally-owned grocery store that offers the best selection of Indian food ingredients and employs some of the kindest and most eccentric developmentally-disabled people in the neighborhood. I know, totally un-PC! But I mention it only because the locals know these particular employees, who have been regular staples at the store for ages (even when it was Buehler's Market and Winn-Dixie before that.) To me, this shows a real loyalty to their employees (who they've inherited from long before it was a Winn-Dixie) and a real handle on the neighborhood. For this, I am more than happy to shop there and give them my business.

Another of my neighborhood favorites, Keith's Hardware, is run by a former music teacher (that explains a lot!) Everytime I go in there, I see the most diverse group of pony-tailed, ironic band name t-shirt wearing, helpful staff. The store itself is tiny, but they literally have everything! As someone who hates household repairs, let alone shopping for "hardware" supplies, I'm comforted that I need only walk inside the door where I'm greeted with a knowledgeable (failed career musician or artist) professional who retrieves my merchandise, explains how to apply/use/replace said merchandise and I'm on my way. Last weekend I had a lengthy conversation with a lovely staff person who made it his Saturday morning goal to help me find the best rubber mat to catch that pesky cat litter from tracking all over my hard-wood floors. A homo working in a hardware store... only in the Highlands!

I do realize how lucky I am to live in this neighborhood, and I know that my new apartment will feel more comfortable with each day. Until then, I look forward to getting to know my new neighbors, the 1st-shift grave digger at the cemetery across the road and the kindly wheelchair-accessible van driver for the home for developmentally-disabled, who I've heard more than once yelling some really unsavory words out the window to those inpatiently honking at him from behind. I used to worry about whether his language was appropriate in front of his clients. But, then I figured if you can't enjoy a good cuss word when you're severely physically and mentally disabled like those riding his van, when can you?