A lil dab will do ya

Much like a tree, with aged rings inside it, you can count how old a woman is by the amount of creams she puts on her face. Being in my 40's, I now have 4 products I'm loyal to in my night and day regime.

I've never been one to use a lot of face products, maybe a simple moisturizer in the morning. Moving to the east coast learned me tho. Winter months dry you out like a piece of leather in a desert B movie (sheik included). I took to slathering on the lotion in between my usual applications. A bottle of lotion in the car, the desk drawer at work, the bar where my hands go in and out of hot water all night.

But I've not always been good to my skin. A history, as many California beach girls will admit, of hours on end in the sun. "Thermal Nuclear Tanning Oil" for that "Get down brown tan", was my weapon of choice for many years. At SPF O it was really no more than Wesson oil, which puts a lovely brown on the Thanksgiving turkey.

My sisters called me "Cocoa Baby" my mom said I looked like a migrant farm worker. That didn't stop me from basking in the sun.

Till now. My days of power tanning are over!

Last year I finally went to a dermatologist. I had funny lil dark patches on my cheeks. I wanted to know if the "big C" had finally caught up to me. It ended up a combination of skin damage and the use of birth control and a bill for $400 worth of creams and prescriptions.

They worked! The spots faded and my skin felt divine. Then I went into the sun a couple times and the patches floated to the top again. I guess the dermatologist wasn't lying about a "wide brimmed hat", which I can see myself getting right after carrying a purse: it's NOT going to happen.

So I guess I will continue to do my best to stay out of the sun and rotate my creams and potions to hold onto whatever youth still clings to these bones. If you got it, flaunt it....just in the shade.

A 3 Hour Tour

We have friends that stumbled on, what I consider, a fabulous find. There is a man made island 15 minutes from our house. Even some locals are surprised, that on that island, are 7 shacks: some in absolute disrepair, some 80 years and counting filled with happy camping memories.

They invited a dozen folks to come out and enjoy the Memorial Day weekend. And while everything hinted of perfection, a drama was brewing deep in the sun, sand, and surf.

With eye-floating amounts of alcohol and bonfires worthy of tribal dancing, we forged a dream that we all buy shares of the island and dub it "Gay Island", the get-a-way for queers and closeted celebs. We had bars for girls; The Whisker Biscuit Bar. And bars for boys; The Monkey Knuckle. We had afternoon tea dances, gift shoppes and cafes. Guests would arrive at Rainbow Pier and be escorted to one of our lovely cabins. Each section of the island, color coded, in the colors of the gay flag.

Sigh....if only.

Back in real time....out of the dozen inhabitants on Gay Island that weekend, only one couple was of the straight and open minded. Brought into the fold, a casual joke about the hets being among the mo's, but nothing mean spirited.

What makes drama? 2 parts alcohol, one part insecurity, one part crazy.

Enter the straight girl, with the above concoction mixed to perfection and ready to rumble!

It started as just a simple conversation between two folks, one my girl, the other a friend. Then Miss Crazy steps up! Jealous her sister is talking with my girl? Feeling slighted cuz she isn't the center of attention? Hopped up on beer and mood changing prescription drugs? We might never know for certain. But what happened next was her saying my girl was inappropriate. Her sister making excuses for her address being in Crazytown, and my girl in tears.

After one of the hosts came and got us from the safety of our tent, explaining that said crazy person is in the wrong, we tried to mingle again, and found no one really wanted to chat, so we exited, cabin left, to our tent once again.

The next morning Miss Insanity 09 left the island and gossip followed. It was said that she had at some point referred to my girl as a 'bitch'.

Oh....No...Sha....Didn'!!!

I got a serious problem with THAT! I'm thinking there better be a nice fat apology somewhere, or someone is going to get a punch in the neck next time I see them. Serious!

It just goes to show that you can't invite breeders on Gay Island. They don't know how to behave. The can't take the love and joy that it is to be gay.

After all.....gay does mean happy.

Who ya gonna call.....??

My grandmother told me a story long ago, about one of her ladies bridge club meetings, back in the fifties. For kicks, they invited a medium in the mix to read palms. You can imagine, back then, giggling housewives in a circle, such a taboo thing. The medium taking each of their hands in turn, time etched, pan scrubbing, floor mopping, hard working hands.

When the medium got to my grandma, she looked up at her, held her gaze and said, "You have the gift.....why don't you use it?"

Maybe it was that story that always kept the door open that it was possible. Maybe it's my love for a spooky story and a haunted house. I believe that everyone has the power to "see". Some stronger than others. Some forget they have the power. Some don't have time for such silly things.

It's been said that, such a gift, is passed from generation to generation. When you've seen something that you can't quiet explain. When you've heard a whisper in your ear in an empty room. Or known a truth with just your gut, it's easy to believe that genetics are a powerful thing.

It had been a while since I had an 'experience'. Not since we lived in our apartment in the university area. We were house hunting and there was a house just a block from our apt for sale. It was adorable and quirky. Then the realtor took us in the basement.

That's when I felt it.....like a prickling feeling. Then an uneasiness. Then, sometimes, someone is there. A boy..standing in the corner. And horses. I kept seeing big brown horse eyes in my mind. Then the realtor explained that the house was once the stable and was converted when they divided up the expansive farm property.

My younger sister decided to start on a path of understanding these things. We call her the lovable kook. Always outside the box, that one. So it was to her I went when, at my second job bar tending, I felt something.

It was a presence of a man, watching me in the basement, as I was storing the bottles from my shift. I told him to stay his distance, and he did. But in my head popped the name Eugene and an image of a 1920's factory worker in bib overalls and Irish cap.

I left some of the bottles and hurried from the basement.

After asking the owner if anyone had "experienced" anything, and getting his excited answer in the affirmative, my sister went to the historical society with an address and the name. The historical society answered:

Eugene Riley lived in that building in 1917. His daughter was killed in a collision with a train downtown and the car she was in, driven by Eugene's brother.

You can't imagine the chills that ran through my body!

When the medium asked my grandma that question, way back when...I wonder what the medium's answer would have been if my grandma asked back, "But what do I do with it?"

It's only just a matter of trust

It's a big one. I'll tell ya that right now. Maybe the universe is trying to send me a message, but the trust issue has come up a few times lately.

I just found out some artwork I did for someone who I was working on a project with, was presented in a fashion that my name was left off said project. Wasn't mentioned AT ALL. Lucky for me some friends were at the presentation and could tell it was my handy work on the art.

So they know I did it. Now what do you do with the liar?

I have the kinda of job where I had my work to sales men who go to the client and get the comments, compliments, and feedback. When the designs march back to my desk, all I get is a, "Order it up." or "Fix it."

Since I answer the phones, as I have mentioned here, I trip over a customer once and a while that, upon finding out I'm the artist, rave about the work I've done for them! I mean...really...like they LOVE it!! My usually response is, "Well thank you for telling me. I don't usually hear back from the sales guys." To that most clients say they had told the sales guys to tell me.

Ya...well all they heard was the sound of cash registers clanging in their wallets.

Another example of stolen genius was an idea for a local Irish music fest here in town. They were in need for a new mascot. My idea was a saucy cartoon cutie with red hair and beer mugs. Really BIG beer mugs (wink wink)! As I handed the idea to my pal who is on the committee I said, "You know....if you had the woman mascot you could have contests to look like her!"

"I like the way you think!" He said to me...visions of hot girls dancing in his head.

After the meeting, he was all fired up, as he is want to do. "You will never believe what we have come up with....A Ms. Guinness and Mr. Toastmaster beauty contest! I'm brilliant!"

Yes...yes you are. CUZ YOU LISTENED TO MY FECKIN' GENIUS IDEA AND STOLE IT FOR YOUR SELF!

I wish I could say that was the first time he did that to me, but shame on me, it tizn't.

I need to learn to keep my yapper clapped shut or just realize that my payday will come from karma. Cuz it ain't gonna come from my ideas.

Calgon....take me away....

Breaking points. How much can a person take? It's a personal measurement, I'm sure. Some take more than others. One person's flip out is another persons small nuisance.

Personally I feel that I have a high breaking point. Then I get PMS and the cat getting underfoot is, all of a sudden, reason to rant every dirty word I know. I also think I handle stress pretty well, for the most part. Emergency situations....got those down pat. I get faint after the fact, but during that "superman" moment, I'm the go to girl.

I'm even good in handling other people's flights of panic. I can mediate, break up altercations, or talk someone down. I even got a good friend to therapy who I thought was suicidal. That takes some wrangling!

When you step out of your life for a minute, and you look at all the things life throws at you, it's never as bad as someone else's problems. But it seem like the end of the world sometimes.

Kind of like that dream, that makes you sweat and kick your feet. You wake up with a start, your heart pounding out of your chest, your eyes moist from tears. Yet when you remember the dream later, it was so silly and non-scary, you can't imagine why you were so scared. But at the time, you were so horrified, it caused physical reactions in your body.

They say, 'Stress is a killer'.

Let's hope "they" don't know what they are talking about.