The Past-Revisited

I lived a different life, much different than the one I live now, back in the 80's. First, I was young and a hottie! Well, I was young, anyway. When I think back, it seems like it was a secret life, a life few of my friends know about and a life that, while etched in my memory, I don't always like to recall.

I married an Air Force Academy cadet. I have to admit that it wasn't the best plan I could have come up with. I was young, too young. And, dumb. Yet,that didn't stop me from moving from wonderful Colorado, to steaming hot Texas. I remember my apartment, new and crawling with scorpions. One day, I came home and found a gray, furry tarantula on my front door. After I got in the door, there was a scorpion on my couch. Nice. That is nothing compared to what I was considered, an Air Force wife. Not just any Air Force wife, but one whose husband was in Undergraduate Pilot Training(UPT). There were a barrage of parties, mixers, get togethers and what have you, that I had to attend. There was no choice in the matter, none. I went where I was summoned. Granted, I wasn't summoned by the commander, just his wife, and in some cases, it was just as bad. The Air Force looks at the "wife" as the posession of the husband. Those that know me, know that isn't the way I operate, but back then, I did. If we were to go to the O Club, we went. If we were supposed to go to a dinner, we went. We edged our lawn, parked our cars, mingled with friends, had sex, all by the book of the Air Force. Failure to do so... It just didn't happen, at least with myself and former spouse.

UPT is a program that lasts 1 year. It is grueling for the pilots. It is grueling for their wives. There are the 4am flight weeks, the 8pm flight weeks. There was the chamber, egress training and memorizing countless things about flying and the plane. Failed check rides and failed marriages occured frequently, too frequently. While the husband's are dutifully flying around, the wives are left on the ground, to commiserate with their forced friends about how they miss their families, miss their friends, miss their jobs, all to fulfill their husband's dreams. It is admirable but stressful enough for miscarriages and falling apart marriages. In esscence, you gave up everything and UPT is now your life, as well. You remember little acronyms for things, you sew patches on new flightsuits, you are able to recognize and name the entire inventory of Air Force planes. You and your spouse are owned by the Air Force and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.

But, there is light at the end of the tunnel! Graduation from UPT approaches and the Air Force has decided your husband is worthy of flying one of their multi-milion dollar planes. Maybe you will escape this hellhole called Del Rio, maybe not. We didn't, not for 4 years. I lived through 4 years of hot as hell conditions, very few places to get a decent meal and absolutely no shopping! And, tell me what did I do it for, a divorce. Apparently. My former spouse loved flying and was a great instructor, but his love for me couldn't/didn't have any priority for him. I, was in fact, his mistress, his first love, the Air Force and flying.

I don't regret those times, they have shaped me into the person that I am today, not that that is saying a bunch. I made friends that I think of today. Occasionally, I Google them, hoping to find that someone I knew, is having the life they dreamt of, something that they took away from that time in the 80's in Del Rio, Texas.

My last Google forway was today and what I found, hurt me. A guy that was an instructor pilot with us in Texas, was killed on 30 July at Nellis AFB, NV. He had been flying in an exercise and crashed, he died on site. He had been married to the same girl I met, way back in 1990. They had childen, they have a mom, but no dad. Reading the obituary, I saw that he was an accomplished pilot, with many missions, with many aircraft. Many, that at the time I knew him, he only dreamt about.

A Moment of Silence

A girl that I have been in school with since the 7th grade, died recently. I read her obituary in the paper, where I grew up. I was shocked to see her picture. She was 39, just like I will be next month. It sounded like she was ill and died, no bad car accident, like another girl in my class had. They both left young sons.

I remember this girl for a couple of reasons. She loved gymnastics and she had big thighs. Maybe not the best things to be remembered for. I always thought of her as mean. Not to me, we weren't friends, but I got the feeling she could probably whip up on someone bigger than her and they might live to regret messing with her. Probably not another great memory that I have of her.

I feel upset and sad upon reading of her death. I don't really know why. I don't believe that I am going to die anytime soon. You know, at least I hope not. I guess the thought of losing classmates is really hard. I lost my then best friend when she was 25. I still think of her today.

I am asking you, that if you read this, say a small prayer or have just a moment of silence for people that have passed away that you went to school with. We keep our loved ones in our memories but sometimes we forget others that have slipped away.

Cockroaches of the Sea:How the Lawrence Men Will Do Anything for Dinner

I believe it is my nephew, Aaron, that coined the phrase, "Cockroaches of the Sea," for those strange, yet tasty, things we call crab. With the Puget Sound literally in their backyard, my sister in law and brother in law, drop the crab pots and hope that no one steals their haul. It starts out easy enough, you load the crab pot with some type of bait that the crab will flock to eat, and then they are caught in the trap. In most cases, the crab really seem to go for turkey legs, raw. Very odd... You put the pots in the boat and set out to put them somewhere where you can see them bobbing and then you wait. A crab pot, for those of you that don't know, and I didn't til I went to Seattle, is not a pot at all. I assumed, incorrectly, that it was a cylindrical object possibly made of clay?!? In actuality, it is a metal, mesh looking cage with a hole for the crab to get in. I think that it has a nice little area for the bait, but I may well be wrong. Ok, so you are in the boat, you go out a little ways and throw them in and wait. A lot of people throw their pots out. A lot of people will pull up at your pot, dump the crab in their boat and then take off. This is not a good thing as witnessed on our last trip. Let's just say that someone was rowing nearby the pots and from way high up, apparently looked like they were trying to get our haul. There was yelling and mention of reporting boats to the proper authorities. I'm not really sure what authorities respond to a crab heist but my guess is they respond with guns drawn and the order to, "Drop those crab or I will shoot!" Anyway, one would think that dropping the pots one morning and checking them in a few hours, a couple of different times of day would be speedy and sufficient. Well, you haven't met the Lawrence's.

The mention of boats and crab makes the male Lawrence's salivate with the anticipation of a feast. At Thanksgiving last year, they donned several layers of winter gear, took the boat out of winter storage and dropped the pots, like it was a warm summer day. There were lots of wet clothes and cold men. We had crab, one of which I actually sacrificed for the sake of dining enjoyment. I might make mention of this later, but maybe not, as it is not for the faint of heart. Anyway, our summer trip started out much like our Thanksgiving trip. Since I have no boat knowledge, I am going to give my opinion of what happened, although the use of technical boating jargon will be avoided. My brother in law pulled the truck near the boat trailer. I guess you have to attach the boat to the hitch with a winch that requires cranking. The crank broke, leaving my husband and 18year old nephew having to manually put the boat on the hitch. I don't think that boats are light, but I may be wrong. Turns out the battery was dead so then the motor wouldn't start once they got the boat in the water. A new battery was attached and the boys were off to drop off the pots. It was a go for crab!

Ok, well, not exactly. At one point, the tide was coming in and there were whitecaps. Turns out that tying the boat to the bouy wasn't going to be that easy. Then, there was this little matter of getting everyone into the dinghy. That is a rowboat, come to find out. Four big guys in a little boat, is quite an interesting feat. I'm not sure they actually did this, though. Apparently, they decided swimming back to the shore in 48 degree water made more sense. Shrinkage be damned! Fearing for the fate of the "Lawrence's Deadliest Catch" crew, I don't truly know all of the gory details surrounding this last foray and I don't think that I want to know. They all returned safely, with very low body temperatures. After some showers, hot chocolate with a dash of Bailey's, they seemed somewhat recovered.

Soon, it was time to haul the catch up the 7000 stairs from the beach to the house. There aren't really 7000 stairs, but there are a bunch. The crab get lined up, whacked and thrown in the boiling water. They are screaming and flipping the crab bird at us through the entire process. I am making this part up, of course, they can't flip the bird. Ok, ok, no one call PETA on me. For the record, I didn't hear any screaming.

Actually eating the "cockroach of the sea" isn't an easy task. There are many tools involved. I saw nutcrackers, small little crab forks, and sometimes kitchen shears. My nephew, just uses his teeth! Removing all of the meat can be time consuming and messy. It is worth it, though. There is nothing better than dipping freshly caught crab in hot butter. A new Coach bag is pretty close, though. Anyway, at Thanksgiving, my nephew cracked me a fine pile of crab and I didn't even have to slip him $20. Thanks, Michael!

All in all the crabbing went well. There were the usual scrapes, attacks from rabid barnacles and a lost oar, but no one was seriously injured. No trip to Seattle would be complete without a crabbing adventure. Maybe with practice, they will get better, but what is an adventure without a little blood, sweat and tears?

Hair

I have read that a Leo's claim to fame is her luxurious, fantastic, smooth, shiny hair. I am a Leo. I don't have claim any of those adjectives. I have fine, flat, brown, boring hair. Don't get me wrong, I get great haircuts, it is strictly my hair that is the issue. I have a video of where I was on TV back in the 90's, I have the same hairstyle that I have right now! It is sad. I am going to revisit some of my past haircuts and the stylists that recreated me. Lucky for you, I don't have pictures so you will just have to use your imagination to get the full impact.

When I was very young, I had long, beautiful hair. One day, dear, old dad took me to the salon where it was cut in one of those ultra-hip bowl cuts. It was pretty evil and jinxed me for the rest of my life.

I had a mullet. It was in the 8th grade and we called them bi-levels. I am not a lesbian, just someone that had misguided hair. I hid the pictures.

The 80's left me with several perms and some bad blonde, thanks to Sun In. Thanks to whomever for inventing that stuff. My 9th grade picture is me wearing a light yellow sweater to match my light yellow hair. I am making no mention of the skunk like look of my roots.

I don't remember the hair of the 90's. Probably because it looks too much like it does today.

When beloved husband and I got married in 2003, I made an appointment to have my hair professionally done. I spent roughly 2 hours sitting in the stylist's chair while she tempted fate with my hair. I didn't tell her that I could never do anything with it, I let her think she was doing a great job. After about 100 different curlers and a million bobby pins and a gallon of aerosol hairspray, I was ready to go get dressed for the ceremony. I had to cut my shirt off because I mindlessly forgot to wear a button up. I took out my curlers and shook out my beautiful, ringlety, wavy hair. I fluffed it and sprayed again. One little problem, my hair wasn't ringlety or wavy and it sure as hell wasn't beautiful! It looked pretty much like it always did, semi-wavy, dirty brown and really sticky with hairspray. Humpf. I have since learned my lesson, hair and Seattle don't really mix. Too much humidity makes my already fine hair limper and greasier than usual. No wonder they have a high suicide rate.

After having Mia, I got brave, or stupid, and had my shoulder length hair cut to a short, short bob ala Keira Knightley. It was cute. For about a minute. My own husband walked right past me when I went to show him. He had no idea it was me. It took about 100 years to grow out. Learned me.

Thinking back over the years that I have lived in Wichita, I have probably had haircuts with about 20 people! I usually find someone who's hair I like and ask them who they use. That landed me at Eric Fisher with a great guy named, well I can't remember, but he moved and I cried for days. He always told me that I was beautiful and spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to coax my hair into a manageble style. I still believe there is nothing like a gay man to cut your hair. I had another, a gay stylist, I mean, at Planet Hair. I think his name was Ben. He moved too. Dang it. Ben and the Eric Fisher guy were the greatest. Among the worst, a guy at a close salon to my house in Riverside. He had dyed blonde hair. I could overlook that but what got me was the dripping blood from his fingertips as he razored my hair! You don't razor fine hair, come to find out. After the cut, he colored it some magenta, reddish, scary color. I was in shock, to say the least. He was later murdered. It was a very sad story that didn't surround poor haircuts.

There have been female stylists in my haircutting life. One of the firsts, was June, at Charisma. This was prior to the $7 quatrillion building they built on 21st. June was nice but there were always a few strands that came from nowhere that had to be recut. I did like her though. Then, there was Nellie, also at Charisma. She moved. I only saw her like twice, so I don't think that I scared her off. Maybe I am wrong about that. Recently, I used the guy that cuts the rest of my families hair. He is very reasonable and I appreciate that. He speaks little understandable English. I always get a good cut but the language barrier is a bit of a turnoff. I don't always know if we are on the same wavelength or not. For awhile, I went to my neighbor. She would give me a free haircut if I would watch her kitty while they were on vacation. Hell, yes! I can watch a cat for 2 weeks to get a $40 haircut.

My latest hair venture has been with a fellow mommy board member. I won't name her because I didn't ask her first and I think she probably thinks that I have boring hair, which I do, it is safer. I got a good cut and I still look like myself, meaning I really didn't do much to alter my appearance. I really like my new stylist. Of course, she has great hair, is pretty and as much as you want to hold that against her, you just can't because she is down to earth and really nice. She will probably move.

Incredible!

Everyday that I look at Mia, I am reminded of how impressive and awe inspiring that pregnancy and childbirth are. I still marvel that I was able to keep Mia alive when she was a baby. Not that I am a horrible person, I was just totally unaware of the kinds of feelings and responsibilities that you just "do." It all becomes second nature and it is totally worth every sleepless night, every yucky diaper, every little bit of baby barf.

With that in mind, a mom I know, just gave birth to twins. You might not think this is a big deal but she had them at home, surrounded by her birth crew and family. By birth crew, I mean doula etc. She put together an amazing and powerful slide show, chronicling her labor and the subsequent birth of these 2 amazing little people. It is a very powerful testament to the love that a mother has for her children. You can see the pain of her labor and the fruit of her delivery. It is a wonderful thing to see. Pass the Kleenex.

http://www.dfwbirthphotographer.com/Chantel.html

Asshat-Or, Loosen Up Your Velcro Shoes Because Your Brain Needs Oxygen

Before I plunge into this exciting post, I must, at the very least, offer one of my favorite authors, Jen Lancaster, credit for the word, "asshat." No, I know she didn't make it up and there is no trademark etc, but she uses it pretty freely in her last book, so I am giving credit where credit is due. I know she won't be reading this, damn it, but one can always dream. Just an FYI, her last books is great.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand. I received a particularly startling and rather disturbing email last night. It was sent via Ancestry.com. I have semi-legitmately used this site to search for family members and family history. A little background, my maiden name was, Scuka, pronounced Sue Ka. Obviously, not too easy. In school, whenever I entered a new grade or class, I would cringe waiting for the butchering of my last name. Eventually, I would just bark it out, probably rudely, but since I have heard all kinds of weird pronounciations, I figured I would clear it up right away. I have found some Scuka's on this website, but I am not so immersed that it clouds my mind.

This is the email I received. "My father was Clayton Leon Scuka. We may be related. Do you need further information? Give me a call if I can help." Sounds pretty secretive, doesn't it? Almost like he has discovered some family treasure or something. I was startled and then began to convulse with laughter! Yes, I know Clayton Scuka, pretty well, actually. He was my grandfather. He used to take me out on his bass boat, let me drink his beer, which I have previously mentioned, as well as letting me have cream soda, a little less lethal than all the beer I drank.

So, who did this email come from? My uncle. Mind you, he lives in Augusta, just a stone's throw from Wichita, yet obviously many moons from here. One wonders how the gene pool has not arranged for a quicker elimination?!?!

At 60 something years of age, he still wears velcro closure tennis shoes, or maybe I should call them tennies for his sake. He is just plain odd. I don't know how he was growing up, and am afraid to even ask. I know how he is now and that is pretty scary. I used to work with him at the prison in El Dorado. When I was interviewed, I had to tell them that I had a relative that worked there. I didn't want to tell them, but they asked. Once the cat was out of the bag, the interviewers just stared at me like I was an idiot. Then, they laughed it off and stated that they were sure I would be fine. Uh-oh.

So, how did I respond to this peculiar email? Well, it was a toss up as to whether I would be a smart ass, which I thought could be really interesting, or be nice, and just say, yes, we are related. What I ultimately settled on was, "Yes, you are correct, we are related. You are my uncle." I'm still not sure as to if he knows it is me. He probably isn't sure either. What an asshat.

Here and Everywhere

I blog mainly for my own enjoyment. If I can't be bitchy, sarcastic and rude to myself, then who can I be bitchy, sarcastic and rude to? Seriously, the offers from magazines have fallen by the wayside, so I am just a run of the mill mom, woman, grouch, yada yada. I don't think that I will ever fit into the blog hall of fame, but I doubt there really is one in existence. I read a lot of blogs, and I mean A LOT of blogs. Some famous, some not. I kind of fit in the "not" category, but that is cool because I have people from all kinds of places, including some that I have to Google to figure out where they are, read my blog, or at least an entry or two. I am wondering how these readers find me and why they are reading. Sometimes I can be pithy etc. etc. but what in the world are these people Googling to end up on my blog? Whatever it is, thanks and welcome! And a big shout out to Ennice, NC!