IntrinsicTina

  Have you ever used the internet to look up an old flame? How about an old arch-enemy? Did you have the intention to reconnect? Me neither.

It's funny what we look back on years after the vacations are over. I'm thinking about road trip food. Not the oodles and gobs of burgers and fries, and disappointing cafe food but our own food from home to curb costs and extend our healthy choices. My idea of travel food was Italian chicken sandwiches on ciabatta rolls that we toted across Washington, Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming during our summer vacations. I'd boil up several chicken breasts, then pull apart the meat from the bones. Into a bowl, I would place chicken, jarred pesto sauce, sundried tomatoes, parmesan cheese, extra virgin olive oil and mix. Then in a large ziploc bag, would go the mixture, ready to be spread upon the ciabatta rolls. No additional condiments needed. No mayonnaise to worry about turning and poisoning us. My husband's domain was gorp, otherwise known as trail mix. Wikipedia says that it was once known as "good old raisins and peanuts". That wouldn't fly for Tina and Rod. W...

My poor, put-upon husband (he thought), when pressed into service, for household chores, dumping cat sand, and trash to his many cans system (his method to avoid exorbitant garbage curb service). He would go into a dirge and sing: I'm the Cat Poop Man, I'm the Cat Poop Man, that's all I am, The Cat Poop Man.  Then, as he slunk out the back door, he conversationally tossed out, "...And I don't even like that cat."  Neither the cat, nor I, believed him.

Grandfather drove bus in Hollywood during the golden age, "You go Vilshure, you go Wine?", the little Jewish men would ask of him. He was a very attractive, well-pressed man about town, intent upon rising above his humble, poor, dustbowl beginnings.

I've just put a cap on the final episode of a Sons of Anarchy binge fest, and I'm reflecting on my own life experience with bikes, bikers, and outlaw motorcycle clubs.

24 24 24 My favorite Christmas took place in West Yellowstone, Montana. My husband and I took my daughter to snowmobile Yellowstone National Park. Sixteen, curly, honey-blonde, lightly-blemished, a new driver, full of the cockiness of youth, exuding the air of boredom that only a teenager exhibits when confronted with unfamiliar circumstances. We procured a room upon arrival, the Best Western, abandoning our habit of driving into the night, and sleeping in the car, in a bear-threatened campground. We walked the tiny town, amid parka, polar fleece, wool, and boot-wearing tourists, browsing souvenir shops and dodging sports utility vehicles towing personal snow machines, mobbing the ranger station for tour permits. Snowmobile Rentals, flurry of trying on snowsuits, gloves, and boots, Should we buy balaclavas? Let's get this party started! We depart with a guide, my husband on one machine, myself and my daughter on another, six other snow machines in our caravan, You are entering ...

The Flying Nun, a character played by Sally Field in 1965, was my most memorable Halloween costume for two reasons: I idolized Sally Field and watched The Flying Nun, episode after episode, then rerun after rerun. And I remember my mother fussing, making my costume from a sheet and an album cover. I felt special and loved. Lord only knows where she scrounged up a crucifix, since we weren't church goers! In turn, I wanted Halloween to be special for my daughter and made her first costumes. I modified a Cabbage Patch bunny costume when she was a babe in arms. Next was a silky satin clown outfit that I fussed over. That one was a big deal, a financial splurge, and so unbelievably high on the cute scale! I think my efforts had an impact, Halloween is a big deal in her life. Or, so my ego hopes. Her costumes really amaze me, she plans months in advance.

Settin´ my gleaming 2006 Harley Davidson Softail Deluxe upon it's kickstand, swingin´ my right leg over the black leather, conch-studded saddle. I undo the top heavy duty snap on my form-fitting, white leather chaps, to get to the front pocket of my Gloria Vanderbilt blue denim jeans, where I, accidently, left my circular key on the Harley Davidson-authorized key fob. With a twist, I lock my bike and check my tombstone tailight, to make sure I've shut off the lights. The glacier white pearl literally glows on the two tone paint scheme under the streetlights, before the sun comes up.  I'm a lone rider on my daily commute among the sedans, SUVs, and trucks headed out to begin their days. I'm stopping off to pick up my treasured grande´, non-fat, no water, chai tea latte´ before clocking in to work. How does one carry a latte´on a motorcycle? You ask. I have a method. I have a leather handlebar bag, that I prop up the travel cup in, with extra gloves and headscarves. V...

My husband's eldest cousin died, unexpectedly, this weekend. His body was discovered off Vashon Island in a kayak. We really don't know any details. Charlie was not only a family member, but a friend. My husband logged many hours mountaineering on many of the peaks in Washington, and one in Oregon. Mount Rainier, Mount Baker, Mount St. Helens (before the eruption), and Mount Hood (if I'm remembering accurately), Along with Charlie and his brothers; Mike, Dan, Rick, and Ernie. They sounded like a somewhat motley crew, climbing mountains on-the-cheap and whilst drinking Rainier Beer and smoking grass. Oh, and cousin Ernie was crazy (or more politically correct, mentally ill). It made for some hair-raising tales of adventure, not fit for publication by The Mountaineers.  It should be known that the misadventures occurred when they were young and dumb. Charlie grew up to become a responsible adult, a single father of two sons, a respected electrical inspector, and a minis...

21 Remember making sauerkraut? Cowboy catsup?!!! Green tomato relish? Blueberry jam? Pears? Garlic dill pickles? , I asked my husband the other day. Great memories encompassed each canning endeavor; we made some delicious and uncomplicated foods, my husband and I. As I recall, the first thing we committed to can was pears.  It was my project but it evolved into a "we" project. I'm not sure how exactly but back in the day, that guy was glued to me! We bought a box of pears from eastern Washington, the small town of Naches, where Rod bargained for a better price. Home to quart-size Ball jars, canning bath tub, and canning wrench; store to purchase lids, rings, and extra sugar. We were in business! Our home-canned pears were peak of the season fresh and gorgeous. We were so proud; the family got gifts of ribbon-wrapped pears (whether they wanted it or not.) Following the footsteps of Rod's mother and father, we planted a good size garden. Radishes, beets, carrots...

20 20 1 .G... I know what it's like to love a frog. I believe my first pet was a common frog, a moist, green, handful in the grasp of an intrepid four-year-old. Caught fresh from the ground by a grubby boy. I loved grubby boys; grubby boys knew how to have fun, they were brave, reaching out, unabashedly, into the world taking what they wanted, enjoying life fully. I was not a prissy girl; in fact, I was more often found down in the dirt, driving cars, contouring roads in the bare earth, unconsciously, wiping dirty hands on my shorts. Regularly unaware of filthy knees, dirt-streaked brow and cheek, my mother disgusted with my appearance, admonished me to clean myself up. My grandmother understood my penchant for boy-centric tendencies, indulging me with cars, trucks, and approved places to drive them; the knee-high, concrete block wall, magically transformed into a highway, through the power of imagination. Or the special place in the backyard, carved out from the flower garden. ...

. I've long wanted to chronicle my own experiences regarding sex. I'm not exactly sure why because I'm certain it places me squarely in slut territory, and opens me up for criticism and shaming. However, experience has shown me that when tough things are lain upon my heart, and I obey, good things are generated, that somebody needs to hear, or read, exactly what I have to say. So, here goes...

Sing it with me... "I went skydiving; I went Rocky Mountain climbing; I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu..."  Hell to the yeah!  It was an awe-inspiring, balls-to-the-wall, scream-worthy, boundary-pushing event! A not-to-be-denied booster shot to my ego. It was so far out of my formerly staid domestic life. Nobody saw it coming...not even me! Following the implosion of my marriage with the requisite accusations, grenade-lobbing of insults, splitting of the money, bills, furnishings and paraphernalia of a married life, I was an empty shell walking. Alternately filled to bursting with anger, bitterness, rage, self-loathing, and terror, without a support system, I turned to alcohol, men, and anything that took me out of me. Oddly, it was a man, my paramedic, who appeared following a suicide attempt, that introduced the idea of skydiving. He described his experiences and the idea took root and quickly came to fruition. One beautiful, sunny desert day, I awoke to t...

2 I reluctantly, very reluctantly, awoke from a very tactile memory dream. I had a card table set up in the living room, upon it, a partially worked jigsaw puzzle, a 1500-piece monstrosity. All the pieces were turned right-side up and separate sections were assembled, like little rafts or islands ready to be connected up with the mainland. Like days gone past, I'd scan the table for certain color combinations and shapes then try to fit them in.  This time, I was looking for leafless dark branches fingering out on a background of robin's egg blue sky, my favorite -- high contrast. Unlike days gone by, the kodak-color, high gloss pictured lid is not propped up on the corner of the table lending guidance. I notice the deepening shadows in the room and go for a lamp to put a little light on the subject. The lamp is an ancient relic, a yellowed marble-patterned spike with an equally yellowed lampshade. Plugging in the thick braided cord with it's oblong yellowed plug, produc...

I'm listening to the audiobook Toxic Parents: Overcoming their Hurtful Legacy and Reclaiming Your Life . I've known for years that I had toxic parents. Thanks to Alcoholics Anonymous, I was able to identify, determine my part, if any, and move to acceptance and the amends process. I love and accept them today but they perpetrated many injustices upon their children. Additionally,  I don't kid myself into thinking my own daughter escaped the cycle of abuse unscathed. I can think of a half dozen examples she probably carries with her. I regretted the actions at the time and to this day. I'd like to think I made the appropriate amends to her but you would have to ask her. My own charming mother employed the use of wooden spoons, belts, and hangars to beat us for infractions. I remember being pre-K in the middle of a thrashing with a belt and, stubbornly, deciding not to give her the satisfaction; I turned my head to say Didn't hurt. As you can imagine, it infuriate...

2 Today marks my 21st anniversary of being a part of Alcoholics Anonymous. But, it is not my AA Birthday. I did not stay sober. I drank, again. Today is also St. Patrick's Day. Why talk about Alcoholics Anonymous on St. Patrick's Day? What began as a Christian feast day, celebrating the establishment of Christianity in Ireland, suspending the Lenten restrictions on eating and alcohol drinking, has degenerated into a day of celebrating Irish heritage and drinking to excess. I was among the revelers, participating in bar crawls, drinking green beer, and getting blind, black-out drunk, no religious connotation whatsoever. An excuse to claim my Irish heritage and dial-up my debauchery. The problem arriving upon awakening, the alarm too loud, my mouth parched -- feeling like an ashtray, though I'm a non-smoker -- stomach roiling, jittery, and surreal. And the horror of finding a stranger in my bed, or worse, not recognizing my surroundings or playmate. I well remember the ...

Twenty-four years ago, I went through the most challenging experiences of my life. Infidelity, estrangement from family, husband, daughter, grandfather, mother-in-law, sister-in-law, et al. A complete breakdown of self; no coping mechanism, no self esteem, suicidal tendencies. No safety net.  I clutched at whatever showed me the slightest bit of attention, mostly men. They were a quick fix, a balm to my battered ego. My empty dream home, devoid of life, an empty shell, a symbol of love lost and gone sucked out my will to live. An impending divorce, court battle for custody and foreclosure further overwhelmed my pysche. I sought solace in sordid places and drank my inhibitions into submission. In the light of day, my morals returned whereupon my rationalizations kicked into high gear. I hated being me in my situation, my skin didn't fit. I tried so hard to move forward in my life. I made sure that I had a job even when I couldn't get through a shift without crying. I enrol...

I had a cockatiel, an exceptionally handsome bird, a female, lemony-yellow face and erectile crown, gray and white body, with the classic dull orange "cheddar cheeks".  She came to me as an adult, a gift from a couple dear to my heart. They bought Peri a beautiful cage, like a black palace, palacial in shape not in size. She stood upon her perch, a multiple-colored, twisted cord, soft affair that gracefully spanned the width of cage, to be an integral part of my life. Peri had one fault, she would only bond with one person. Initially, she was bonded with my friend, Rita, and I worried she wouldn't accept me. I need not have worried. Peri was my bird. She outlasted and hissed at boyfriends, friends, extended family, my daughter, my husband, and a few cats. But, me, she only had eyes for me. A fact that irritated my husband but tickled me. "I feed you, you little ingrate!", he'd boom. It had to rankle when she developed an unlikely friendship with my cat, ...

25 I have a photograph of myself in front of the inscription We are surrounded by our past. This digital pic, taken by my friend, Anne Powers, numbers among my favorite photographs of myself. Not only was it a flattering photo, I had lost considerable weight and my hair was beautifully styled but I was at a place of confidence and gratitude. Contentment. Today, I am surrounded by my past. My husband brings my old laptop to view pictures I've taken throughout our years together. Additionally, he brings hard copy photos from boxes, albums, and DVDs. We pour through these pics, reliving memories, bathing in the nostalgia of holidays, vacations, meals, fishing trips, our families, friends, cats, you name it. I pluck out snapshots to post onto the metal supports of the built-in lifts, so I may view them and smile. I wish I could post my favorite pic here. 

Dear Renee', I saw you today, actually, I saw your image today. You were, pretty in pink, standing in front of a weeping rock wall, arms upraised, smiling to the Heavens. Wow! I cannot be sad when I see how much you enjoyed life. We were in Hawaii, on the island of Maui (your favorite), on the road to Hana with Dawn and Mark, myself, Rodney and yourself. But, this one is just you. The year was 2006, your first trip to the Islands, and you were ready to embrace the spirit of aloha. What fun to spend that time with you! Everywhere you went, you were decked out in flowers and/or a sarong. You were living in California, the rest of us were in Washington, thus we were Renee'-deprived. How fortunate we were when you decided to move to Washington. (I digress.) I remember your pedicure, shocking orange with white hand-painted plumeria, the exact shade as Mom's nails, though the two of you did not confer. I remember your toes in the sand, I should, I photographed them. It evok...