tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-186258152024-03-07T13:08:27.468-08:00Chocolate DynamiteSome of life's more questionable edibles; Taste not requiredChoc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.comBlogger75125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-18485251296232901442010-01-17T08:59:00.000-08:002010-01-17T10:43:30.316-08:00The Human ExperimentYou are invited to join me in something entirely different on my new Web site titled, Me Amoeba. I've donated myself to science, a sort of human experiment involving personal transformation--no religious connotation there. After several years of testing the water, using the tip of my big toe and barely breaking the surface tension, it's time to get serious, jump in, and design a life I want to Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-58277576951153206962009-12-24T18:47:00.000-08:002009-12-24T21:49:59.254-08:00Merr E-ChristmasI dedicate tonight's gift idea to procrastinators. As much as I empathize, we are down to the wire. We haven’t the time to ship a summer sausage or mail a card. Stores will close in a few hours—if they haven’t already—eliminating the possibility of personally delivering a gift. But do not fear. We have the tools to keep the cloaked, fat man's horns under his Santa hat this year.Until recently, Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-92228504315685018202009-12-21T23:54:00.000-08:002009-12-23T17:52:45.573-08:00Gifting Personal CertificatesRemember the IOU and its convenience during childhood? The vague “I owe ya!” was dragged around like a favorite toy, thus absent integrity by the time Christmas arrived. Issuing an IOU before debt incurred, however, created new meaning and fresh excuses. It became shorthand for "I thought of the perfect gift for you this morning only to find out that stores are closed on Christmas;" and "I don’t Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-47063887261857446792009-12-19T23:19:00.000-08:002009-12-20T13:22:24.649-08:00Gifting Solitude ... Harder Than It LooksBecause I would like it for myself, the gift of solitude is one of my favorites. Deep down, when we are willing to admit it, isn’t it more fun to give the gifts we'd like to get? Take Aunt Jude and her holiday sweaters, for instance. You know the kind: an intoxicating sum of red weave splaying silhouettes of either holly or reindeer across the chest. She gives them because she digs them—she owns Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-568793492570402392009-12-17T23:50:00.000-08:002009-12-18T13:43:08.215-08:00A Thank-you Goes a Long WayTo appear strong and unemotional, I blamed my active tear ducts on the cayenne wafting from the kitchen's stove top. In reality, I erupted in a paroxysm of gratitude and sadness while reading sentiments already sent to our troops overseas. I’ve wanted to send cards for quite some time but never have. The logistics always sabotaged my efforts: to what address do I send them, will they be there Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-36206210211850609892009-12-15T23:59:00.000-08:002009-12-18T12:23:51.573-08:00On the Tenth Day 'til Christmas ...Today’s gifting experience turned into a test of determination. Baking is not my forte. And because it is not my forte, I lack the necessary equipment to mass produce anything other than scrambled eggs. But I can’t gift scrambled eggs; they don’t package well. Instead, I set out to make my first batch of Christmas cookies—ever. Like I said, I don’t bake. I especially can't/don't make the Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-57965388530740898222009-12-13T21:48:00.000-08:002009-12-13T23:57:48.758-08:0012 Days of Christmas ... Sort ofSometime in my twenties, I stopped participating in the commercialized madness also known as Christmas. Removing oneself from the Hallmark conveyor belt may sound like an easy way out. But it is not. As is true with expired eggnog, the guilt associated with boycotting the system slowly deteriorates your endoskeleton. Holiday parties and their designated Santas destroy empty-handed contentment. Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-58139699722844922732009-11-17T17:10:00.000-08:002009-11-17T19:19:09.792-08:00Takin' It One Stroke at a TimeWho would have guessed that such a forgetful, little blue fish would be so memorable? Anyone who's seen Pixar’s Finding Nemo, will likely remember Dora. I certainly do. Dora’s voice, rather Ellen DeGeneres’s, will frequently pop into my head singing “just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. What do we do? We swim, swim.” Dora often visits when I'm struggling with something, like wrestling octopi Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-50757269168342790842009-11-11T15:19:00.000-08:002009-11-11T16:19:09.946-08:00Test Your AwarenessI first saw this video in psychology class last spring. You might want to enable the volume on your device.Perhaps we need to take greater care in choosing what we zero in on. ... Good thing we rid ourselves of those distracting splinters last month.Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-19044415154226423242009-10-21T20:11:00.000-07:002009-10-21T20:45:34.367-07:00More Than a Flesh WoundRemember getting that awful splinter when you were a kid? It hurt like hell but damn the devil who wanted to extract it. We’ve all had at least one unassuming shard slide beneath the skin—and puncture our soul, its intrusion barely obscured by the rice-paper like transparency of a few layers of skin. Wood derivative or metal, it didn’t matter. Nor did size correspond to pain potential. Some Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-14281584649501893322009-09-04T21:20:00.000-07:002009-09-04T21:51:34.843-07:00Unable to Let Go No Matter What Color You TurnFall is my favorite time of year. Depending on where you find yourself this season, nature may provide undeniable displays of transformation. The vegetation found in the Pacific Northwest, for example, will soon become an attractive kaleidoscope of autumn colors. But beautiful horizons are not solely responsible for my excitement. For me, fall represents a chance to regroup, to transform. It Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-51764965867736881982009-08-21T20:58:00.000-07:002009-08-25T14:32:53.638-07:00Ascending—and Descending—the Career LadderJust yesterday, I was complaining—as I often do—about the Chutes and Ladders like advancement in aviation, at least for pilots. By the time you climb to the top of one ladder, an unfortunate roll of the die or twist of fate funnels you down a chute so fast it tests the integrity of your pants. (Old Navy jeans will melt like a plastic plate on a gas grill.) After all the flight training and Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-49592210887932191152009-08-10T14:23:00.000-07:002009-08-10T15:27:11.856-07:00Pigeon LatinI know. The span between posts is somewhat lengthy and not at all what I promised two and a half months ago. But my excuse is valid. It takes time to dispense retardant: to save grass, sagebrush, and pine from igniting in an advancing, wind driven inferno. Hey, somebody has to do it. Four days ago, however, Mother Nature took over—as she always does—and, after 24 hours of rain, saturated us with Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-65506442987744064492009-06-28T20:30:00.000-07:002009-06-28T20:39:43.258-07:00IllusionsI recently watched the final episode of Prison Break. It is the only television show that has captured my interest for four years, not that that means anything when you can rent the DVDs and watch an entire season in a matter of days—without commercial interruptions. But convenience has its price. The show lost its edge after the first season when back-to-back viewing exposed plot redundancy—Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-25123361973810218422009-06-21T12:57:00.000-07:002009-06-21T13:45:13.346-07:00This Aint My First Rodeo“It’s the girls’ version of steer wrestling,” my friend offered after seeing the look on my face.Having grown up a city girl in Seattle, I missed the whole—livestock—rodeo thing. Even as an adult my knowledge of saddles, steers, Wrangler jeans, and Texas bling, is pretty much nil. Within the past few years, however, thanks to a few country friends and the many Podunk towns my occupation has Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-82966991131298050812009-06-05T22:00:00.000-07:002009-06-06T12:30:00.499-07:00Welcome to the SmorgasbordIn high school, I remember feeling anxious and abnormal for not knowing what I wanted to become. Ideas were plentiful; but that was precisely the problem. I wanted to be an attorney (oh, to be naive again), and a police officer, an astrophysicist, and a writer/photographer for National Geographic. I wanted to fly fighter jets and race cars and ... well, I'll spare you the thousand occupations Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-7361639484059544972009-05-20T12:28:00.000-07:002009-05-25T19:18:03.009-07:00Gone so LongGasp! Spit. Hack ... Cough.As I regain composure to resurrect the blog, I can't help but feel guilty about my--its--hiatus. I know, "nobody reads it anyway." I tell myself that too in a desperate attempt to rationalize my behavior. And I have rehearsed that very excuse since Christmas, when no one bucked up to deliver, at least, one gift idea. "It's because nobody reads it," I say, "not because Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-58477134644183588322008-12-24T09:07:00.000-08:002008-12-24T12:06:17.566-08:00The Last Shopping DayThis is it: the last shopping day. No more procrastinating . . . unless of course you wait 'til after Christmas for the deep discounts. My gift idea for today, however, will not likely go on sale—ever.Dear Santa,Perhaps you've been waiting for a better idea, something more suitable for me. I think a 2 million dollar gift is approaching the range you're looking for. You can blame Gene for Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-68038412426658843152008-12-23T09:46:00.000-08:002008-12-23T11:32:12.478-08:00Only Two Shopping Days LeftTechnically, we really only have 1 1/2 shopping days left. This is where it starts to get interesting for those who thrive on unnecessary stress. Even I feel a twinge of motivation.Time is a tickin' so let's get on with today's gift idea.Dear Santa,With COLD, crystal clear skies, the density altitude would allow stellar performance in the smallest of engines. What better way to witness a fresh Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-70249345461077537132008-12-22T09:42:00.000-08:002008-12-23T09:44:47.636-08:00Only Three Shopping Days LeftWith an outside temperature of 4 degrees (Fahrenheit) and fresh flakes adding to an—already—healthy accumulation of snow, I can't help but praise my virtual shopping idea. Since we are all busy with holiday preparations, or shoveling snow from our steps, I'll get right to the point.Dear Santa,On the third Eve of Christmas I'd like to request something relatively petite. You can blame Anthony for Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-6875157277880693372008-12-21T12:35:00.000-08:002008-12-22T11:36:41.716-08:00Only Four Shopping Days LeftOkay, maybe I got a little carried away yesterday. I'll step it down a notch. Today’s gift idea might even fit under the tree, but not for long.Dear Santa, how about a squirrel suit. You can blame Randy for educating me about their low-level capabilities with this video from YouTube.For your convenience, I've picked out a few suits at the following stores:Birdman Flight GearStyle: BladeSize: Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-51110338767127524652008-12-20T11:34:00.000-08:002008-12-20T13:09:44.868-08:00Only Five Shopping Days LeftIf you, like I, procrastinate, you'll wait until Christmas Eve to buy gifts. Anyone who has made a habit of this knows that fulfilling Aunt Jude's list on the 24th–in Walmart–sucks. I, however, can help reduce your stress by making my list user friendly. Shoot! My presents don't even have to arrive by Christmas since none of them will fit under the tree. Just send an email letting me know they'reChoc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-32253671262558222362008-12-15T18:12:00.000-08:002008-12-15T19:07:43.239-08:00Where Can I Get a Cat Like That?When I was 11 or so my father married his longtime girlfriend, Jill, or ‘Lil Toot as we called her. Hey, she made the mistake of sharing that story. When she moved in she brought a black and white, short haired kitty named Paris.Fortunate for Paris, the custody battle only granted me three weekends a month with my dad. Even still, Paris tolerated more than any cat should. I was not malicious or Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-47549509022654856202008-12-11T14:27:00.000-08:002008-12-11T16:18:50.099-08:00Product Red“It’s a sickness,” my boyfriend would say. But he’d say that about any of my idiosyncrasies. Yeah, so, I like the color red — fire engine, candy apple, whorehouse, red-red. I may have noticed a mild fever while looking to replace my classic 20GB iPod. After four years of dutiful service, it locks up when used to jog. Relentless research pointed me toward the 8GB nano. The new chromatics are hot. Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18625815.post-72313078022142071682008-11-29T17:49:00.000-08:002008-11-29T18:40:10.441-08:00He's Cute Enough to EatMy household prepared for something even more exciting than Thanksgiving this week. Instead of shopping for turkeys, I priced inedible items like bedding, blankets, and toys. Proud parents educate me all the time, “Oh, but it’s different when you have your own.” It must be true because every person with child says so. It’s just not for me, I tell them. Recent circumstances, however, have helped Choc. Dhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09485893986909309367noreply@blogger.com2