Rigger 'N Quill’s blog

After just an hour of the market opening, trading has been suspended on IMB.  Damn.  That means the feds must be seizing the bank. 

As the tag line of a poster on one of the financial message board reads:  It's called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.

My heart goes out to all those loyal employees who may have suddenly found themselves told to go home. 

Shortly after we returned from the UK, we heard rumors that the iconic double-decker red buses had become too dangerous for the busy London streets.  They were to be done away with.  Gasp!  Horror!  No, please!  As bad news usually does, I was inspired to new heights of creativity.  Bless my sweet husband, he always indulges my whims.  He didn't complain once when I hauled him into the studio, grabbed a photo off the wall I'd took in London, and posed him for an homage to British gents and their buses.

Here t'is.

An English Gent & His Buses

Tomorrow something is going to happen that will send ripples throughout the American and global economies, and very few know anything about it.  Very few will care if they should hear any news about it.  And that's because very few understand that America does not sit in Washington D.C., but rather on Wall Street.  That is the place where the new global order meets and weaves its web. 

So, what is this event?  Indymac Bank (NYSE symbol IMB) will collapse/close its retail and wholesale doors/be closed down by the feds....or it will survive.  Any one of these possibilities is catastrophic in one way or another.  Right now the rumors are running wild, and well gee, oddly enough the pigs of Wall Street looking for a deal (pigs always get slaughtered on the street) simply ignore the letter of warning from a United States Senator, the scuttlebutt from employees of IMB, and the input of both customers of the bank and loan officers who broker loans for them.  They're also ignoring the five class action suits currently filed on behalf of shareholders, the multitude of lawsuits active by borrowers, and the carefully worded interview of IMB's CEO with Bloomberg on Thursday.  As of Friday, borrowers with FICOs above 800 and HELOCs valued at half the fair and true price of their homes have been locked down.  Another thing the pigs are ignoring is the rapidly approaching date of ARM increases and borrowers who cannot refinance because their homes are either upside-down, or they can't get approved in the current climate.  People hear what they want to hear, especially when the roar of greed is in their ears.

BTW, I call these investors "pigs" not because of any judgment on my part of their character.  It's just an old saying in the world of investing, much the same as "bear" and "bull."  (Kinda sounds as if Wall Street is a barnyard, doesn't it.  Hmmm.)

Anyway, if IMB is still standing by the close on Monday, something fishy is going on behind closed doors.  They barely made it through Thursday, closing at 0.67.  That's down from $52.00 18 months ago and from their 52 week year high of $32.00.  Wow!  Senator Schumer's "leaked" letter of concern about IMB caused a mini-run on the bank last week that had depositors standing in line for up to two hours waiting to get their money out.  That kind of shows the confidence we have in FDIC insured banks, don't it?  It took Michael Perry, the CEO of IMB, three days to respond to Schumer's letter, and then his response was very carefully worded as if coached by an attorney.  He said there was no foundation for Schumer's concerns today (italics added).  Funny how one little word can set the financial word on edge, especially when it comes from someone walking a very tight wire with the weight of 5 class action suits claiming he mislead investors, and a bunch of cooked books with Texas bar-b-que sauce on them.

If IMB collapses Monday, well then, big whoops for everybody.  IMB is currently the largest independently owned bank in the United States, now that B of A has swallowed up Countrywide and Bear Stern was illegally saved by some shady government dealings.  Bush is in a much tighter spot than he's been with the war in Iraq on this one, and the magnitude of this crisis we've got happening is why neither of the candidates are saying much about our economy.  If IMB collapses, it takes with it a multitude of foreign and domestic financial institutions with it, not to mention creaming the huge institutional investors that make up the bulk of its stockholders.  Bush can't have a second major bank collapse under his watch, but at the same time he can't let another string of illegal corporate activities happen under his watch, either. 

Federal regulators are already in the boardroom with IMB execs and helping/watching/policing their activities as they struggle to make it through.  With that in mind, and knowing that prime borrowers have suddenly had their HELOCs closed, there's the possibility that IMB won't collapse, won't be rescued, but will be seized by the government. 

I would have been back posting my drivel sooner on Vox, but I've been watching this drama unfold for the last month.  I was a customer of IMB, and I've experienced first hand how they operate, what independent loan officers have to say about them, and the comments made by state and federal agencies about their....er....let's just call it "creative" bookkeeping.  As of three weeks ago, homeowners trying to stop foreclosure or default on their homes were unable to do so because all phone lines into IMB were answered by a recording that says, "Due to high call volume, we cannot take your call at this time."  I can't even begin to imagine what this is doing to those decent people ready and able to make payment, only to find themselves literally thrown out on the street by the sheriff when their homes are foreclosed.  IMB can't take their calls, but they can take their house.  I drove through my old neighborhood last weekend and became sick to my stomach.  Our quiet little Anywhere USA neighborhood looked like a war zone.  It was hard to comprehend how quickly so much had changed. 

I don't know why we've been so lucky in the midst of this mess, but I'm going to take that luck and not ask questions.  I'm just hoping like hell this administration, and the corporations they've allowed to run out of control these past 8 years, finally stand up and do something honorable for a change. 

It's too late for Joe Q. Public to step up now and let their voice be heard on the housing crisis, but there is still the chance for us to stand up and speak up on another crisis that has fallen under the shadow of the housing and financial crises.  

Subprime credit card lending.

Shit.  The newspaper article I had with the web site where citizens can go to and voice their opinions on the Credit Reform Act, and particularly Regulation Z, got thrown away by my beloved husband.  Grrrr.  And as much as I've searched, I can't find that link anywhere on the internet.  I guess I'll have to leave it at the point of saying that, yes, we've been bad little boys and girls by living beyond our means on credit, but that the corporate free-for-all Bush has endorsed has been a trap set by the greedy.  It's especially sickening when our disabled veterans have been issued subprime credit cards with a limit of $250 and receive their first statement to find that they've been charged over $200 in fees for the card without any disclosure of those fees before accepting them.  Double grrrr.

What I did find was an FDIC warning that was issued on Thursday warning banks about freezing HELOCs without reason or warning.  Doing so is a federal violation.  In that warning was also another warning to banks about REMs (those are foreclosed houses the lenders couldn't sell at auction).  Some banks are not paying the taxes on such properties in hopes that municipalities will have to seize the properties for back taxes.  That, too, is illegal.  And that, too, is something Indymac has done. 

I also discovered if the FDIC is going to seize a bank, it will do so on a Friday so they will have the weekend to disburse the federally insured deposits by Monday.  If Friday is a holiday, as this past Friday was, the seizure will be delayed until the next business day.  That would be tomorrow.  If IMB is seized, the three smaller banks below them in big trouble will also probably be seized, leaving the FDIC to cover over 340M in deposits.  Guess who pays for all of that?  The taxpayer. 

There is a purpose to this rant, aside from the smoldering rage I hold for the Bush administration and the carte blanch they've given to corporate corruption.  I've learned a few things this past year, and one of them is to sweat the small stuff and forget about the big ones.  The worse the big ones are, the more they will be self-correcting, as we're now seeing in the financial sector.  It hurts, it's a struggle, but it also gives a kick in the ass to ingenuity, creativity, and always, always, always gives power back to the people. 

We're all going to lose as these banks fold, but we can make back what we lose in the new arena of crowdsourcing.  Yes, there is risk, but on the whole those who are investing in their fellow human beings are seeing a minimum of 5% return and as much as 23%.  The best part is that anybody can invest in crowdsourcing with as little as $25.  Pretty good, huh. 

There's also the option of altruistic investing globally with no return on investment through organizations such as www.kiva.org.  So far I've invested in a little lady in Peru who makes candy, a group of women who are pig farmers in Uganda who want to move up and buy a cow, and another group of women in Uganda who are expanding their pub and restaurant.  Is that just too cool or what?  Most of the borrowers are women, which makes me feel even better to be part of the global rising of Girl Power. 

Just one of the crowdsourcing sites for helping out your fellow man, with the perk of a nice return, is www.prosper.com.  You can help someone better themselves, or ask for some help yourself.

Let Bush and his cronies try to take us to hell in a handbasket.  We won't go.  We're America, and we'll find a better way by taking it to the streets all around the globe. 

Yeah!

Let Black Monday come.  We've got what it takes to get back up again stronger and smarter, and at half the price.

In December of 1999, I and my little family stubbed our toes on the brink of sanity and tumbled into a pocket of chaos.  Since then we've had some pleasant stretches of calm and pleasure, but they've been few and far between.  I don't know if it's widely known that within chaos there are hammers and whips and chains that are thrown at those who fall into its darkness, but there are, and each one stings worse than the last. 

But now, she writes with fingers crossed (makes it hard to type), it seems to be over.  Someone left the back door of chaos open, and we slipped out when nobody was looking.  On the other side of the door was a gynormous fat woman singing.  She's been singing for months now, so I assume it safe to exhale. 

Not only is the turmoil over, but so, too, is the folly of photography.  Last month I sold off all of my studio equipment, and this past week I listed all my camera gear on eBay.  I was stunned when every last bit of it sold within 6 hours.  Even more stunned when I realized how freakin' much there was of it when it came time to pack it up and ship it off. 

But now it's over.  Really, really over.  Thank God, or somebody.  What a lock-jawed trap that had become.

During our journey through chaos, we were overtaken by all sorts of dybuks, demons, monsters, and plain old raw deals.  Mostly we dealt with grief.  All of it was painful and difficult, but none were as personally challenging as this past year.  Life really sucks when it sucks and you decide to take full responsibility for everything, even if it's obvious that the Other Guy was a major player in your hard times, or that so much was beyond your control  It's exhausting to say, "That's their problem, it's how the world turns. Now, what's my problem, and how do I kick the shit out of it?  How do I become the person I secretly want to be?"

I've been very proud of me and my little family and the choices we've made during this last struggle.  Proud to the point of seeing us all as true celebrities on the stage of life.  Just as an example, and not as a religious dictate, we all chose the path of fighting the dark angel in the long night of the desert, and answering, as Jacob did when the angel asked his name, with all of our faults and weaknesses, all the dirty little secrets of our character.  I'm talking the nitty-gritty truth about self that keeps most of us on the run most of our lives.  And just as the angel told Jacob, "No, your name is Israel, the one who has fought with God and won," and then received blessings a sinner like Jacob did not deserve, we, too, have discovered the damndest goodies in the aftermath.

I used to say that I didn't care what other people thought about me.  Um, that would be a wagon full of horseshit with an angry fist of self-defense rising out of it.  But now--wow--I've impressed myself so much that I really don't feel the need to impress anybody else.  Almost.  Some cultural chains remain, and I'm still only half crazy, so I'm not running naked in the streets, farting and eating ice cream straight from the bucket.  I do care what others think, but only to the degree that I need others and want their company and comfort.  Beyond that--phfft.

I'm proud of my husband, my home, my daughter, and especially my new son-in-law.  He's really grunting to be the man we all know he is, the man we showed him in our mirror.  This past week we went over to their house for dinner, and the next day my daughter called to say that being together with her family, as we'd been the night before, was the reason she muddles through her crappy job all week.  Every dream she's ever had comes true each time we get together to share food and watch our dogs play.  Everybody, including the dogs, likes me better now that I've stopped blinding them with a camera flash.  And I've got to say that I'm loving being in the world without that barrier of electronics and metal put up in front of my face to keep me separate and safe. 

Another unexpected by-product of this last struggle has been the return of my daydreams and flights of fancy.  For a very long time I'd lost the ability to dream in my sleep.  Slowly that returned, and now the daydreams are back.  I didn't expect that.  Most of them are new friends, a few of them are timeless.  All of them are welcome.

So.  Where from here?  No clue.  I'm sure that hot on the heels of the daydreams will come discontent, an appetite for more challenges to digest, more struggles to manufacture.  But this time they'll be the struggles of my own choosing, and the brambles I hack through will leave a path that is mine and nobody else's. 

Until then I'll just have to "suffer" through this season of my profound content, keep swimming everyday and taking to the waters again at night to float on my back, looking up at the stars and hearing nothing but my own breath.  I'll endure the frustration of a home that's orderly and sparkling clean after just an hour's effort, and know that one day I will no longer wander with rag and cleaning cloth as I groan, "But there's got to be something somewhere that's filthy." 

And I'll nap.

And be bored.

And wait for rabble-rouser, the devil's advocate, the contrarian, the challenger, the discontent, and all the other little imps asleep inside my belly to wake up and raise some hell.

(First job on the list will be stuffing a sock in that fat woman's mouth.)

I did a "little" black box shoot Wednesday of a show called "Piece Of My Heart."  Phfft.  Easy stuff.  Probably just a cute little show about love.  Boy, was I wrong!  The title comes from Janis Joplin's song about ripping out another little piece of her heart, and the show was about the nurses who served in Viet Nam.  It nearly buckled my knees.  Talk about flashbacks to a time I'd just as soon forget!  A couple of times I had to find a corner, slide my back down the wall until I was squatting, and just wait to get myself pulled together again.  Here's just one shot from the show.

POMH-7641-66 copy

For most of us who live in Vegas, going to the Las Vegas strip is the same as it is for anyone.  It's our economic base, and rarely do we go to oggle what funds the state.  It's vacation time, and a whole bunch of sensory overload.  Good God, but the traffic was intense and slow.  And this is the slow time of year.  But once inside the guts of Caesar's digestive track for eating tourists, I had a hoot.  I really love to drive, but only if it's challenging, fast, and a bit dangerous.  I got all three in hefty doses, and my little old Subaru Forester was handling like molten chocolate under my hands.  Yeeeee-ha!

Just one problem.  They so heavily overbooked Elton John's show that there wasn't enough parking!  I zipped and zoomed from one garage to another, and not one single parking space was to be found.  I don't get it.  The show was in the same venue built for Celine Dion, and they were 98% sold out for four years.  Where'd all the parking go tonight?  It's a good thing the tickets were comps because we would have been righteously ticked if we'd paid for them and missed the show, which is what happened.  Oh, well, and so it goes, eh?  You betcha. 

The night was not a total loss.  We rolled down the windows and had a nice ride back up to this neck of the woods, stopping at Sonic for a romantic dinner for two in the car.  I'm too old to be eating foot long coney dogs with extra onions and a side of tater tots, but what the hell.  We were on vacation, so I went for it.  Now I'm paying for it.  One of my all-time favorite lines from a TV show was on WKRP when Venus was told was escargot was, and he replied, "Man, there ain't enough ketchup in the world for something like that."  At my age, there ain't enough DiGel for a foot long coney, which is why I'm up late and tapping on the computer.  But--nummy-num--it sure was good.

It also gave the hub-dub and I a chance to reminisce about our childhoods when drive-ins were all the rage.  In my hometown of Santa Monica, CA. Goody-Goody's was the place to be on a Friday or Saturday night, and the cars were parked two and three deep.  Back then they actually hooked a tray over the door with your food on it, and my mother would yell, "Hold on to your fries.  Jerkalong Cassidy in front of us can't wait until we're done before he leaves.  I'm backing up."  I'd quickly suck up a bunch of my orangeaide before the car started moving so it wouldn't spill.  After we were done "dining" at the drive-in, we'd drive over to the Baskin Robbins on San Vicente Blvd for ice cream.  My mom would run in and get me a double decker cone of chocolate and two scoops of pistachio ice cream for my grandmother.  Nana really loved that stuff, but she couldn't chew the nuts, so she'd roll down the window and spit them out with a mighty pop of her lips so they'd clear the car.  At least that's what she said she was doing, but it sure looked to me as if she were aiming at the passersby.  BTW, that was the same ice cream shop Nicole Brown Simpson visited before she was murdered.  It was a more quiet neighborhood when I was a kid. 

In Dane's hometown of Grayling, MI, they had four drive-ins.  The town was so small in those days that they only had one traffic signal, but by God, four drive-ins were barely enough.  He says at one of them they'd build a big stage behind the kitchen so the teenagers would have a place to dance to the music piped in over the loudspeakers.  All drive-ins had music, innocent music, stuff you could dance to without a driving beat that made you feel as if you ought to be stripping. 

Another thing about drive-ins back in the 50s and early 60s was their importance on Saturday afternoons.  They'd be jammed packed with girlfriends sharing fries and Cokes and showing off the rollers in their hair.  It meant they had a date that night.  No music was played on Saturday afternoons, just the giggle of the girls was enough.

The nice thing about getting older is that you get to choose what you'll remember.  The 50s and early 60s were times of secrets and things rotting under thin veneers, but we didn't know it yet, and we didn't care.  We were still in the thick of innocence. 

We all grew up asking, "What did you do in the war, Daddy?" then couldn't wait to brag to our friends about the sugar-coated versions of battle our shell shocked fathers, then ask if their dad could beat it.  Our houses were small back then, but our days were long with playing in the street and working up the sweat of childhood that smells rusty.  You don't smell that much on kids growing up these days.  They smell of electronics.  Dinner was pedestrian, but it sure tasted good.  It felt good, too, when our tired heads dropped on the plate in exhaustion.  No TVs in our bedrooms.  Entertainment was either Ed Sullivan, The Lone Ranger, or some other politically incorrect show.  On the nights when there was nothing on our scant three channels, we'd have a real treat--sitting at the feet of our collective family and hearing stories about the good old days, never once having a clue that we were living out our own good old days. 

I came from a crap family so abusive that the State of California put me in private foster care when I was 15 for my own protection, yet I still remember having had one heck of a grand childhood.  I guess I choose to remember it as carefree and magical, but it's not a conscious choice.  Or maybe there's a difference between being a child and how we're treated.  Maybe there isn't anything that can touch the magic of discovering the world all fresh and new, and the astonishment of that world spinning in the palms of our hands as we practice doing cartwheels.  Maybe we're taught to forget the fleeting happiness of innocence by modern psychology and our culture of blame. 

Or maybe I'm just one of the lucky ones, who still sees a foot long hot dog on a balmy spring night as something something special, not feared.  Something better than a raz-ma-taz of celebrity. 

Or I could be nuts.

Not!

In the midst of moving, I had to carve out some time to shoot "Cats" for LVA.  It was the first time I'd really pushed my neck and back since I got the diagnosis of You're Screwed, also known as a degenerative spinal disease.  I've had the MRI to see how far it's progressed, but I've refused to call for the results.  The last thing I needed was a negative or limiting thought before going into a very physically demanding time. 

Anyway, shooting "Cats" was a whole bunch of pain because I was literally breaking off bits of bones from my spine.  I sweat buckets and was soaked by the time the shoot was over.  The funny part about pushing through something difficult and taking on some short term pain for long term gain is that it actually works.  About a week after the move, and all the accompanying hauling mixed in with editing over 600 photos, I was sitting on the patio and casually turned my neck to look at something and experienced all hell, literally, breaking loose in my neck and upper spine.  It was as if a bunch of elves living in there dropped their champagne glasses, shattering them to pieces.  Boy, what a crunch!  And, boy, did I ever start feeling better than I have in a long, long time.  I've been diagnosed with everything from Chronic Fatigue to MS over the years, and of all the things it could have been, this spinal disease scared me most because of what it did to my mom.  Once again I'm in a place of being grateful for adversity that pushed me past my willing limits. I won't walk in my mother's past.

Now that I'm done bragging on my good luck, I'll post a few pics.  This school really does things up good.  Before I post, a word of caution.  This is "work for hire" and I don't own copyright, LVA does.  Swipe these photos and you're swiping from the 4th largest school district in the country.  Not a good idea.

LVA Cats030

LVA Cats078

LVA Cats012

LVA Cats054

I loved their choice of setting it in the Las Vegas "bone yard" rather than an alley.  Everything about this show was first class, and nobody works harder than the staff at LVA.  I was just terrified I wouldn't be healthy enough to do a half decent job shooting the show.  BTW, this was put up in their secondary theater, not the tippy top new one that my husband manages.  This one still has an 80' proscenium, but it's not as elaborate as the Lowden....

The Lowden

Seriously, as in a real wall, a great big yellow wall.  I've been away for a time because this moving and downsizing business has been a much bigger deal than I ever could have imagined.  I've been sorting and packing and tossing and hauling for months, and I'm still not done.  The biggest problem has been books.  Oy, mein Gott in Himmel, so many books you never did see.  I dumped over 3,000 of my precious babies on the Salvation Army (they love me down there), leaving a little under 1,000 to go.  Whew, getting closer, almost there......but getting weary, big time.  The majority of the books left are upstairs, and these tired old stumpy legs just can't take hauling all those heavy books down those stairs any longer.  I was close to yelling Uncle! and leaving my mess for someone else to clean.

Ah, but I am woman.  I am a charter member of the Sisterhood that is the Mother of all invention.  There had to be a way to get those books down those stairs without killing my back, and by God, I was going to find it.  All any of us ever need do when faced with an obstacle is hang loose and be receptive.  The answer will come.

My answer came at Costco, in the form of really big but very shallow produce boxes.  Perfect.  I could load books in those, get on my hands and knees, shove them to the top of the stairs, then just tip them over the top stair and let the load bumpty-bump down the stairs by themselves. 

Didn't work.  Books went flying everywhere.  Shit.  I needed someything big and heavy to go on top of them and keep things in place.  Hmmmmm.  What to do, what to do.  Ah-ha!!  My butt!  It certainly had the heft needed to keep things secure, I'm always reasonably sure where it is, it's washable, reusable, and cheap.  It's also attached to a 55-year-old woman, so I took it slow and easy, just sitting on top of the books and sort of walking the boxes down the stairs while seated.  Absolute perfection.  Worked like a charm, and with each box I got down that way, the more confident I got in my growing skills of book surfing.  A couple of times I lifted my feet and went for a bit of a ride.  Then more of a ride.  Then more and more and more.  What a hoot, and so much fun!

But then disaster struck.  Just as I was feeling we were actually going to see the finish line of downsizing a lifetime, my daughter and her husband got kicked out of their apartment.  They're both intelligent young adults, but why they thought they could sneak a puppy weighing 30 lbs. at just three months old into a no-pets-allowed building is beyond me.  Oh, well, those are the things that life lessons are learned from.  I just wish I didn't have to learn with them.  Before I knew what hit me, I was back sorting and sifting and wrapping and packing and hauling and moving the kids into our old house while it's waiting to be sold.  Geez, but they've got a lot of stuff.  And added to what we had left in the house, my last bit of moving and hauling now seems so daunting that I've clean gone out of my mind.  Woof! Woof!  Grrrrrrrrrrr.

Anyway, there's nothing to do but keep going.  My daughter, the Drama Queen, of course feels that a horrible fate has been handed to her with her move, and of course I feel it's my duty to cheer her up, once I'm done with my lectures.  I thought the book surfing would be just the ticket and couldn't wait to show her how clever I was, how much fun it was, and how easy it made life. 

Mothers tend to go overboard when their children are distressed, and that's exactly what I did.  I filled a great big box with books, anchored them in place with my butt, then took off down the stairs, and I do mean took off.  My feet touched maybe one stair, then up in the air they went, and I started flying down those stairs at a speed I don't think I've ever hit in the car on the freeway.  My entire life flashed in front of my face as I kept gaining speed and the big yellow wall at the foot of the stairs kept getting bigger and bigger.  It's amazing how fast the mind works in times of danger, and how it can think multiple streams of thought at the same time.  Of course I was worried about whether or not I'd be fatally injured, but I was also thinking about how I'd injure my daughter if I survived for turning inside out with laughter as I flew down the stairs to my death.  I was also wondering how I'd explain my injuries to the doctor and/or paramedics if I was lucky enough to just shatter a few bones here and there.

What happened next would be called dumb luck by some, while others would spend weeks working out the mathematical equation of velocity, weight, friction, time, and space to explain it.  I like to keep things simple.  God blessed me with a miracle that day.  I came to a sudden but nice and easy stop, with my knees and nose just inches from that yellow wall.  I shouldn't have, considering how fast I was going, but I did, and I didn't even go ass end over tea kettle.  I'm a true believer in Joseph Campbell's take on things.  We're not humans having spiritual experiences, we're spiritual entities having human adventures.  My spirit decided 55 is too young to give up the fun and wanted, literally, to kick up her heels and go for it.  And Sweet Mother of God, did we ever fly.  The books stayed in place, too.  My daughter started to gag from laughing so hard, which is proof enough for me that there is divine retribution. 

Today I'm going back over to the house and finish getting those books down the stairs.  I'll let you know how it goes.

Other than that, life couldn't be sweeter.  I'm stunned at how much I love apartment living, and how little I miss all that stuff I gave up and got rid of.  It's been an adjustment, to say the least, and I spent my first week here crying myself to sleep every night, but that was just the stiffness of emotion that needed some loosening.  I can honestly say that as it's all sunk in and the days have taken on their new rhythm, I'm realizing I haven't felt this free and loose since I was a very young adult.  I've got everything I never realized I wanted, but secretly wanted so badly I was miserable without it.  But most important of all, I've got me back, all fresh and new with no labels stuck all over me like blinders.   Each and every day belongs to me and nobody but me.  It's been a very long time coming, and it didn't come easy. 

I'll take it.

(Wish me luck on the rest of the book purge.  I'm hoping I survive so I can catch up with all the other blogs and get back in the game.  I've missed it bunches.)

I have a deep love-hate relationship with Valentines Day.  Don't we all?  Those Valentines that didn't come, the ones that did and we ate....and still carry on our hips?  Gotta love those roses that come with the day.  Sooo naughty, blood red, sensual, prickly, and a fragrance that shuts up the mouth of doubt, fear, and everything that is ugly.  I'm a sucker for roses.  And cake. 

Today is my mother's birthday.  I miss you Mom, you unbearably difficult old broad.  You had the biggest heart I'd ever come across, but you gave it too often to those who like to play kickball with the hearts of others.  You got bitter and mean, but I knew your secrets, how deeply and unconditionally you loved.  You loved me good, and that's something that sticks with an arrow.  For you, Mom, and all the other Valentine Babies, or those who love Valentine babies. 

Cherry Valentine Cake With copy

My daughter was Grandma's favorite, and Amber returned the favor.  My mom didn't die easy, and she was the last of our parents to die within 18 months.  All of a sudden my husband and I were the family elders, the ones everyone else turned to as the wise ones, the ones with the answers, the ones they could depend on.  That was not good new for anybody :-)  My daughter, ever the fixer-of-everything, tried to fix February 14 by filling it with love, romance, glamor, excitement, and a wedding.  She up and fell in love with an Austrian rock 'n roller.  This was the engagement photo I took of them.

The Muse

3 comments

That photo won't stay up long because Prince Charming turned out to be a toad, i.e. a true sociopath.  Damn but he was charming in the beginning, and he could lie like a rug and make you believe that rug was a precious weave with a pattern as old as the ages.  We all bought it so big and without question that my husband, based on the toad's lies, ended up the bridesmaid at the wedding.  It took us three tries to get her out of Austria safely, but she's been home now for two years.  Another bullet (possibly literal) dodged.  She's a tough kid.  As difficult as it all was, she shook it off....

Hair Spin

And got back to being her sweet self. 

Green Eyes

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She looks so delicate, which is why I always photographed her with something to show just what a scappy little tough broad she is.  Here it's a clenched fist.  Seriously, don't mess with her.  It's not safe :-)

Now I'm going to get on with my Valentine celebration (hey, gotta celebrate the heart, right?).  I've got my iTunes make-me-weep-and-lust playlist going.  Lots of Brian Adams and cheesiest of the cheese recorded by Savage Garden, especially this one.  I should be ashamed of myself, but I'm not. 

savage garden - Truly madly deeply

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I'll let that and some Alicia Keys and Bill Withers play as I knock back some of this....

Espresso Drip

And make myself really, really happy by letting loose and going for it.

Cure for a bad day

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Here's to a great day of hearts for everyone. 

P.S.  I finally got around to fixing the design of my blog.  The cabaret girl is one of the best models I've ever worked with, who is now taking off like crazy in her career.  The profile photo is me in my Pre-Raphaelite bathroom.  We all have one of those, right?  Sure.