Mikerowe Biology
A few weeks ago, my friend Kathie and I met at one of our favorite hang outs, Juice and Java. We often chat with our waitress/starving student, a wonderful young lady named Cassie. During that morning’s chat we learned Cassie was taking some pretty hairy classes to become a dental hygienist. “Yeah, I’m taking Micro, it sucks,” she remarked with the enthusiasm of a dental patient.
Mike Rowe? I thought, Wow! I love that guy, they really have a class on him? Is it producing? Is it hosting, directing, journalism? Can I take this class? Do they actually offer that at Butte, or perhaps CSUC? Oh goody! Clapping my hands with glee, both Micro theologians puzzled at me then and continued their discussion into the pitfalls of Micro.
It was early, I hadn’t had my coffee yet, besides, the animal known as my imagination was loose and running amuck. Wow! I wonder if he’d actually come as a guest teacher, or speaker, then we could go to lunch, perhaps on a date? God! What would I wear? Where would we go? Oh, the downtown market and then Christian Michaels, no, no too presumptions, Franky’s? It’s cute and intimate but not too over the top. Oh, how do I explain that to Tom? ‘Sorry I dumped your ass for Mike Rowe ’ I could tell Tom it was Micro-Oh And then the realization,
Micro-as in Micro Biology.
The air deflated from my great, red, fantasy balloon. Happily, I never uttered these thoughts, otherwise I may have been ushered from Juice and Java in a straight jacket and Lithium induced semi-coma muttering “Mike Rowe, Mike Rowe,” all the while my poor friend and waitress shaking their heads thinking I had some traumatic experience with a slide of bacteria or perhaps my microbiology professor (who sadly resembled a protozoa). It was fun to think about though, Mike Rowe as a class and in a way, he is in a class by himself.
I am a bonafide nerd because the study of Microbiology was fun for me. It blew my pea brain that there is a tiny world, functioning almost as we do: Eating, living, reproducing until finally, dying (Remember Osmosis Jones? Great movie about life on the inside of well, us).You can decipher what you will from my Micro biology grade (which was an ‘A’) but keep in mind, that my professor really did resemble a protozoa, specifically, athlete’s foot. Poor man had psoriasis.
Though most microorganisms are viewed negatively and associated with some of our illnesses-such as strep, remember that yeast is also a microorganism and fermenting yeast, makes beer.
Let’s compare, just for entertainment alone, Mike Rowe to one of our highest known micro organisms: Bacteria.
Bacterial cell walls consist mostly of carbon and protein...hmmm so are Mike Rowe’s cell walls...in fact I would have to say that all of his cell walls at one point or another have been in and absorbed carbon and protein. Escherichia coli, the fancy name for pooh.
This of course leads me to another comparison: The Slime layer. Yes, bacteria actually secrete a slime layer (as protection) outside their cells, and Mike Rowe has, in almost every episode of Dirty Jobs, been engulfed in slime of various origins. Although, Mike Rowe could never personify slime, he is, well, just too damn cute, decent, wonderful, etc, etc, yeah, as if you haven't guessed, I gotta a major crush on him.
Bacteria store their excess nutrients (carbon) in the form of Polyhydroxyalkanoate and Glycogen(one can be found in cheese coating the other in sugars and starch). Mike stores his excess nutrients in a slight tool shed. Hey, it’s nice to know that we (the female sex) aren’t the only ones battling the bulge.
It’s unavoidable, we all get gas, even bacteria, politely termed: Gas Vesicles which keep them buoyant in their soup de jour. I know with the involuntary digestion of all the vestibules of pooh Mike has had to endure over his five successful years of hosting Dirty Jobs, he has acquired his fair share and then some of gas. Unfortunately, the gas doesn’t keep him buoyant.
Speaking for myself, I know that Mike has magnetism and since we are doing a comparison of Mike Rowe to a microorganism, Bacteria also have Magnetism. Although for bacteria, it isn’t to attract the ladies. Magnetosomes allow the bacteria to align itself with other bacterium for maximum oxygen intake and hey, magnetosomes are species specific, so a bacterium cannot hang out with different bacteria. Just like Mike can’t really marry a pig, even though at this juncture, a sow (to be named later) is seeking piglet support from Mike because of a thwarted episode of Dirty Jobs involving pig insemination.
What separate us from the single cell microbes and other animal organisms(with the exception of some males of our species) is our ability to communicate: Just as our ancestors relied specifically on pheromones to communicate that they were in the mood, bacteria have been found to communicate that they too are horny or perhaps, just want to share a carbon or two. Just ask the Bacteria Whisperer, Bonnie Bassler. She recently discovered that Bacteria have an intricate communication system, involving pheromones, communicating with their hosts, strategizing and enabling other bacteria to enter the host as a kind of monitor position.
Mike Rowe is a great communicator. He wouldn’t be employed as the very fantastic host of Dirty Jobs if he sucked. He has pheromones and knows how to use them, as evident by the reception he receives from his female guests (and some male guests). He communicates with his staff, he strategizes with his producers, and camera people to get the best story and he enables the Dirty Job of the day to take over, thus displaying to the audience a gateway, and a view into their world, if only for an hour.
Yep, I surely do enjoy Mikerowe biology and you should get brainy with it and check him out, Monday nights, 9PM discovery channel. I may be a tad bit obsessed with him, just consider this advice from a nerd gone wild. You may actually learn something new in the dirty department!
©All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff May 2008
Sources:
Microbiology is the study of microorganisms, which are unicellular or cell-cluster microscopic organisms (Fungi, Protists, and certain Algae).
Antonie van Leeuwenhoek observed through a single-lens microscope (of his own design) micro organisms.
Wired magazine, November 2004, Bonnie Bassler, the Bacteria Whisperer
Dirty Jobs: Hosted by the fabulous Mike Rowe, New episodes Mondays @9PM, Discovery Channel
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Good Vibrations
By Anne Wycoff
I hate cell phones. I detest their vibrations, photos and illusions of communication. I think it’s a pathetic commentary on our civilization now that we have become a society of cheery beeps and ringer tones. We personalize those annoying rings as if they were a concoction of Starbucks coffee. Sadly, in today’s world of nano second lifestyles, a cell phone has become a necessity.
My loathing for cell phones was cemented with the surge of the head-set style. I was in a grocery store a few years ago when the new head-set style came out. As I picked through the fruit, I heard a gentlemen say, “No, not that one, the other one is better.” Thinking I was in the presence of some green grocer guru, I switched my choice of peaches and asked, “Is this one better?” “Well, that’s your call, I’d go with the one we looked at before.” I was confused: First, the green grocer guru tells me to switch peaches and now he is saying it’s up to me and maybe the first one would be better. I just don’t have that kind of time. I want to give the produce a slight squeeze, make a decision and move on. I finally chose the first one, piled more into my cart and turned to give the green grocer guru a piece of my mind: “Thanks a lot buddy, what do you do all day? Stand around the produce aisle stalking bewildered, domestically-challenged women just so you can feel superior?” Turning in time to see the green grocer guru utter in mid air, “Well Mike, I would seriously consider the consequences of that choice, but again, it’s your call, OK, well-let me know how it goes. Nope, I’m halfway through the list, my wife will kill me if I don’t get it all, OK, bye.”
Panicked, I took a sudden interest in the melons as he passed by.
Cell phones have come a long way since then. The coveted new razor and apple ‘everything’ cell phone will eventually become obsolete, replaced with a microchip inserted into our Veneers. We will be able to just lick one tooth and instantly, an image will appear behind our eyeballs or a phone number will be dialed.
The biggest dilemma for cell users has been, to vibrate or not to vibrate. I’m not gonna lie to you, I am a big fan of anything that vibrates, but sometimes, the vibrating option can get annoying. We were at the movies the other night and my phone vibrated. It was my kids, wondering if they could have more ice cream. “Is the ice cream, house or any person on fire?” I asked in a heated whisper. “No,” they answered in meek voices.
“Then don’t call unless there is a real emergency.”
The reason to vibrate is so you can screen calls (well, one of the reasons to vibrate). It’s the modernized version of an answering machine. You can see who is calling and on some phones, you can listen to the voice mail they are leaving and decide if it’s worth answering. Naturally, I needed to take a course on modern technology just to initiate and locate my vibrate option. And here’s a ding to your ring-a-ding-ding: The Geek Patrol, nationally known for making house calls for techno emergencies, won’t come out for cell phone quandaries.
For those of us techno-challenged, downloading songs into our cell phones should be an award-winning feat. After several lessons from my kids on downloading songs, I use my cell phone as an ipod. The i-pod look deters some unsolicited conversations at the gym. However, since I exercise very early in the morning, there they are: Every old geezer in town and they are full of wisdom and chatter. After all, they get up at four, eat a huge breakfast with all their cronies, then make their way to their water aerobics and free weights class. Elderly are territorial about their weight machines. The other day, I nearly received an old lady ass kicking because I broke the sacred rules of engagement at the gym: Don’t talk to anyone with an ipod and never forget to sign in for your turn at every machine. Adding to her disgruntled demeanor was that it was nearly ten A.M., you know? Nap time. I noticed she had a new apple ‘everything phone’. Learning my lesson, I keep my phone vibrating and my tunes on full throttle. This precaution doesn’t deter the pervie old farts: These old guys use enough Grecian formula to rot their brains, eluding them into thinking they still got it and their old lines will work on women half their age.
What bothers me the most about these confident elderly jocks, is that they actually think someone like me(stuck in middle age) would be interested. This morning, one old stalker (who doubles the Ewwww factor by resembling my father. Complete with the old man, mayor of Munchkin-Land eyebrows) followed me to the inner thigh weight machine and proceeded to stare at my eyes: My aureolas.
After a few grunts and dramatic weight lifting on the floor directly in front of me, he lowered his magnified eye wear and exclaimed, “Wow You’re in great shape, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone stretch their legs that far.” I pretended not to hear him with my earphones on. It worked for about two seconds until he stood up and lifted one of my earphones, “You’re in great shape Would you like to get a coffee after our workout?”
Pretending my cell phone vibrated, I exclaimed, “Oh sorry, I have to get this.” Jumping up, I completed the dramatic effect by walking to the window for ‘better reception’ and had a one-way conversation until my stalker went on to another pair of unsuspecting aureolas.
Getting back to my inner thigh machine, I noticed a 20-something eye candy walking my way. He had abs of steel, sculpted biceps, gorgeous brown eyes, and a phone similar to mine with the earphones dangling across his buff shoulders. I smiled and said, “Good morning.”
Without missing a beat, he simultaneously nodded and inserted his earphones saying, “Oh, I have to get this.” He went to the window, giving me glances until my delusions of turning 20-something heads, evaporated.
Just goes to show you, good vibrations are in the eyes, pants and possibly thoughts of the beholder.
To get the download on cell phones, and cell phone etiquette, visit www.celldocs.com
©All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff, March 2007
By Anne Wycoff
I hate cell phones. I detest their vibrations, photos and illusions of communication. I think it’s a pathetic commentary on our civilization now that we have become a society of cheery beeps and ringer tones. We personalize those annoying rings as if they were a concoction of Starbucks coffee. Sadly, in today’s world of nano second lifestyles, a cell phone has become a necessity.
My loathing for cell phones was cemented with the surge of the head-set style. I was in a grocery store a few years ago when the new head-set style came out. As I picked through the fruit, I heard a gentlemen say, “No, not that one, the other one is better.” Thinking I was in the presence of some green grocer guru, I switched my choice of peaches and asked, “Is this one better?” “Well, that’s your call, I’d go with the one we looked at before.” I was confused: First, the green grocer guru tells me to switch peaches and now he is saying it’s up to me and maybe the first one would be better. I just don’t have that kind of time. I want to give the produce a slight squeeze, make a decision and move on. I finally chose the first one, piled more into my cart and turned to give the green grocer guru a piece of my mind: “Thanks a lot buddy, what do you do all day? Stand around the produce aisle stalking bewildered, domestically-challenged women just so you can feel superior?” Turning in time to see the green grocer guru utter in mid air, “Well Mike, I would seriously consider the consequences of that choice, but again, it’s your call, OK, well-let me know how it goes. Nope, I’m halfway through the list, my wife will kill me if I don’t get it all, OK, bye.”
Panicked, I took a sudden interest in the melons as he passed by.
Cell phones have come a long way since then. The coveted new razor and apple ‘everything’ cell phone will eventually become obsolete, replaced with a microchip inserted into our Veneers. We will be able to just lick one tooth and instantly, an image will appear behind our eyeballs or a phone number will be dialed.
The biggest dilemma for cell users has been, to vibrate or not to vibrate. I’m not gonna lie to you, I am a big fan of anything that vibrates, but sometimes, the vibrating option can get annoying. We were at the movies the other night and my phone vibrated. It was my kids, wondering if they could have more ice cream. “Is the ice cream, house or any person on fire?” I asked in a heated whisper. “No,” they answered in meek voices.
“Then don’t call unless there is a real emergency.”
The reason to vibrate is so you can screen calls (well, one of the reasons to vibrate). It’s the modernized version of an answering machine. You can see who is calling and on some phones, you can listen to the voice mail they are leaving and decide if it’s worth answering. Naturally, I needed to take a course on modern technology just to initiate and locate my vibrate option. And here’s a ding to your ring-a-ding-ding: The Geek Patrol, nationally known for making house calls for techno emergencies, won’t come out for cell phone quandaries.
For those of us techno-challenged, downloading songs into our cell phones should be an award-winning feat. After several lessons from my kids on downloading songs, I use my cell phone as an ipod. The i-pod look deters some unsolicited conversations at the gym. However, since I exercise very early in the morning, there they are: Every old geezer in town and they are full of wisdom and chatter. After all, they get up at four, eat a huge breakfast with all their cronies, then make their way to their water aerobics and free weights class. Elderly are territorial about their weight machines. The other day, I nearly received an old lady ass kicking because I broke the sacred rules of engagement at the gym: Don’t talk to anyone with an ipod and never forget to sign in for your turn at every machine. Adding to her disgruntled demeanor was that it was nearly ten A.M., you know? Nap time. I noticed she had a new apple ‘everything phone’. Learning my lesson, I keep my phone vibrating and my tunes on full throttle. This precaution doesn’t deter the pervie old farts: These old guys use enough Grecian formula to rot their brains, eluding them into thinking they still got it and their old lines will work on women half their age.
What bothers me the most about these confident elderly jocks, is that they actually think someone like me(stuck in middle age) would be interested. This morning, one old stalker (who doubles the Ewwww factor by resembling my father. Complete with the old man, mayor of Munchkin-Land eyebrows) followed me to the inner thigh weight machine and proceeded to stare at my eyes: My aureolas.
After a few grunts and dramatic weight lifting on the floor directly in front of me, he lowered his magnified eye wear and exclaimed, “Wow You’re in great shape, I don’t think I’ve seen anyone stretch their legs that far.” I pretended not to hear him with my earphones on. It worked for about two seconds until he stood up and lifted one of my earphones, “You’re in great shape Would you like to get a coffee after our workout?”
Pretending my cell phone vibrated, I exclaimed, “Oh sorry, I have to get this.” Jumping up, I completed the dramatic effect by walking to the window for ‘better reception’ and had a one-way conversation until my stalker went on to another pair of unsuspecting aureolas.
Getting back to my inner thigh machine, I noticed a 20-something eye candy walking my way. He had abs of steel, sculpted biceps, gorgeous brown eyes, and a phone similar to mine with the earphones dangling across his buff shoulders. I smiled and said, “Good morning.”
Without missing a beat, he simultaneously nodded and inserted his earphones saying, “Oh, I have to get this.” He went to the window, giving me glances until my delusions of turning 20-something heads, evaporated.
Just goes to show you, good vibrations are in the eyes, pants and possibly thoughts of the beholder.
To get the download on cell phones, and cell phone etiquette, visit www.celldocs.com
©All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff, March 2007
Hazerdous End To Finding Your Roots
Hazardous End To Finding Your Roots
By Anne Wycoff
When all is said and done, bragging about your ancestors may be hazardous to your psyche.
That I learned when I began a five-year process of piecing together my family tree with bits of information about my paternal grandfather. His mother had immigrated to California from Mexico. He had been in foster homes most of his life. At eighteen he had changed his name from Rivera (his mothers name) to Rivers.
A friend emailed me a link to the Latter-day Saints Genealogy web site. With, “Curiosity killed the cat, “ as my new mantra, I leaned close to my monitor and entered the data about my grandfather. I fantasized about my ancestors. Maybe they were founders of this country, inventors, scholars or politicians?
From a census taken sixty-three years ago, I learned about my grandfather’s birth parents. I had a surname for my great-grandfather. My great-grandmother also named him on my grandfather’s birth certificate. But I soon discovered my great-grandfather had remarried (or married) directly after my grandfather’s birth, so my great-grandparents were never married. The plot thickened.
I learned my great-grandfather had five more children after he remarried. One had a first name matching my grandfathers middle name. A coincidence? Probably not.
By this time, my bottom was numb, my fingers ached and my heart pounded as I raced through my lineage. My great-grandmother’s line had long since disappeared, but I continued to pursue the paternal side of my family tree. I found branches reaching from England, France and Portugal. I wove my way through the LDS links from Ellis Island to births, deaths and marriages in other countries.
And then, horrified, I stopped. At fifteen, Rosalia Marquesso Crappo had married some Frenchman fifteen years her senior. A gentleman by the name, Gerourd D’Manuar. Yep Crap and Manure. In shock, I pressed the print icon. Hard evidence mocked me. I hoped I made a wrong turn. I called my dad.
He roared with laughter.
“Oh honey, you have no idea,” he finally managed to say. Composing himself, he continued,
“Your Grandfather kept in touch with his father through the years.”
“Yes Dad, so what?” I wanted to get to the bottom of this.
A long bout of giggling ensued. My Dad had to catch his breath.
“Well, your Great, great-grandfather invented the first flush toilet.”
There ought to be a law, I thought. Our family crest was probably a knight sitting on a toilet bowl, holding a plunger as his scepter. Knights of the toilet bowl
“So how come I am not the Princess of Pooh?” I was hoping to flush some kind of restitution.
“Your great-grandfather did inherit the patent, but he sold it to some plumber and then lost the whole load in the great crash. It all went down the drain”
Yes, my Dad actually used the word’s load and drain. And here I am, the descendant of the inventor of the crapper. It could have been worse: My ancestor could have invented the enema.
In closing, I would say if you dare risk damaging your psyche, go to the LDS genealogy site at www.Ancestry.com.
Who knows? You may be the descendant of Major Joel Connolly, the first Chief Inspector of Sanitary Engineering.
©All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff, November 2006
By Anne Wycoff
When all is said and done, bragging about your ancestors may be hazardous to your psyche.
That I learned when I began a five-year process of piecing together my family tree with bits of information about my paternal grandfather. His mother had immigrated to California from Mexico. He had been in foster homes most of his life. At eighteen he had changed his name from Rivera (his mothers name) to Rivers.
A friend emailed me a link to the Latter-day Saints Genealogy web site. With, “Curiosity killed the cat, “ as my new mantra, I leaned close to my monitor and entered the data about my grandfather. I fantasized about my ancestors. Maybe they were founders of this country, inventors, scholars or politicians?
From a census taken sixty-three years ago, I learned about my grandfather’s birth parents. I had a surname for my great-grandfather. My great-grandmother also named him on my grandfather’s birth certificate. But I soon discovered my great-grandfather had remarried (or married) directly after my grandfather’s birth, so my great-grandparents were never married. The plot thickened.
I learned my great-grandfather had five more children after he remarried. One had a first name matching my grandfathers middle name. A coincidence? Probably not.
By this time, my bottom was numb, my fingers ached and my heart pounded as I raced through my lineage. My great-grandmother’s line had long since disappeared, but I continued to pursue the paternal side of my family tree. I found branches reaching from England, France and Portugal. I wove my way through the LDS links from Ellis Island to births, deaths and marriages in other countries.
And then, horrified, I stopped. At fifteen, Rosalia Marquesso Crappo had married some Frenchman fifteen years her senior. A gentleman by the name, Gerourd D’Manuar. Yep Crap and Manure. In shock, I pressed the print icon. Hard evidence mocked me. I hoped I made a wrong turn. I called my dad.
He roared with laughter.
“Oh honey, you have no idea,” he finally managed to say. Composing himself, he continued,
“Your Grandfather kept in touch with his father through the years.”
“Yes Dad, so what?” I wanted to get to the bottom of this.
A long bout of giggling ensued. My Dad had to catch his breath.
“Well, your Great, great-grandfather invented the first flush toilet.”
There ought to be a law, I thought. Our family crest was probably a knight sitting on a toilet bowl, holding a plunger as his scepter. Knights of the toilet bowl
“So how come I am not the Princess of Pooh?” I was hoping to flush some kind of restitution.
“Your great-grandfather did inherit the patent, but he sold it to some plumber and then lost the whole load in the great crash. It all went down the drain”
Yes, my Dad actually used the word’s load and drain. And here I am, the descendant of the inventor of the crapper. It could have been worse: My ancestor could have invented the enema.
In closing, I would say if you dare risk damaging your psyche, go to the LDS genealogy site at www.Ancestry.com.
Who knows? You may be the descendant of Major Joel Connolly, the first Chief Inspector of Sanitary Engineering.
©All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff, November 2006
Smoking ashes
Older but goodie, especially since today is a RED FLAG DAY!
A Burning Question about smoking ashes
By Anne Wycoff
We’ve all heard the saying, "One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure," but one mans garbage shouldn’t be another man or woman’s phlegm. This subject of phlegm came up, so to speak the other day when I attempted a run at Bille Park. I couldn’t even get out of my car. The smoke from neighboring bonfires was so thick, it engulfed the grass area and the would-be track. Since there was a slight breeze, the smoke wafted a bit however, since the bonfires continued to burn, a cloud continued to invade my potential running area and threatened to suck up oxygen anyone(including children and adults in the playground) were using.
Since I am fond of breathing and running I took my endeavor to the high school track and accompanied several other runners. After my first mile, bilows of bonfire smoke invaded the track and the song, Nowhere To Run To by Michael McDonald, kept playing into my oxygen-deprived brain. I was starting to really get choked up, nowhere to run to baby, nowhere to hide (the track became blurred), got nowhere to run to baby, (my eyes started to itch), it’s not love I’m running from, it’s the heartaches I know will come (my chest started to hurt), cause I know you’re no good for me,(I started to cough), but you’ve become a part of me. It was at this point, I realized that I was the only fool trying to run in the ominous cloud and I was forced to leave and go to the dulldroms to finish out my run on the gym treadmill.
The arsonists (I mean old men) have nothing better to do than to rake their yards and put what their poor eyesights entail to be rubbish in large piles and lighting up. I know it’s old guys, I’ve seen them, we have three up in our neck of the woods. Every Saturday, they get up at four, rake their yards or worse, use the weed blower and make a huge bonfire. After their nap, they rake and blow more rubbish(one neighborhood old fart actually has his friends drop their garbage to burn-who knows what he’s burning?).
I figure it’s their way of looking productive. This is the same MO my husband uses while cleaning the kitchen: He moves the dishes around, stacking them neatly on one side of the sink. He even goes to the trouble of putting all the silver ware into a large cup and filling it with water. There! He has cleaned the kitchen!
These old coots are doing the exact same thing, but not only are they contributing to a useless and meaningless task that could, I might add be completed during a drizzle or even rainy day, they are also contributing to our greenhouse affect. Now, don’t get me wrong,
I am not some yahoo who thinks we need to chain ourselves up to trees and collect benefits (this sounds like something I may have seen in a play ;0), Nope, I am just a running nerd, who would love to breath during my run and not cough up something that looks like road kill.
Perhaps I am turning into a Don Quixote of sorts? I’ve had fantasies of running all over town, toting a large pump full of water and screaming, "Phlegm be gone!" while I saturate each bonfire. I also thought about drinking six gallons of water and urinating on each bonfire. I’d bravely outrun the old men in their boxers, black knee socks and orthopedic sandals as they screamed, rakes raised, "Don’t poke her until you see the white of her ass!" This last fantasy however, reminded of another painful encounter with the new waxing sensation and it was quickly cast aside.
Instead I confronted one my "old guys" while he proudly stood over his creation of soot and smolder and a huge cloud matched his huge prideful grin as I approached, "Nice day, isn’t it?" He stood like Pa Kettle, rake cuddled under his gloved hands. "It would be nice if you weren’t killing us off with this smoke, why do you do all that? That’s screwed up man, just screwed up!"
"It’s my yard and I’ll do what I want, besides, I have a permit."
He pulled up his shorts and held his head high. It was all I could do to not drop my pants and relieve myself of my third cup of coffee.
The city of Chico has an ordinance of no burning allowed, not even if you go to the trouble of obtaining a permit. Instead, the officials decided that Chico should become like most cities in California; each household should have a garbage, rubbish and recycle container. Why haven’t the towns of Paradise and Magalia adopted this policy? If you said money you are incorrect-and you are, I might ad, the missing link. Yes, initially it would cost the county (In Magalia county, Paradise, city) some money. But it’s going to cost them more with all the asthma, allergy and pulmonary problems the bonfires of the cranky’s is going to cost. Taking into consideration too, the fact that most these cranky concoctionists of the foul don’t supervise their little sparks, we are talking increased chances of a residential and potential wild fire. In addition to all this hullabaloo, the Federal Clean Air Act alone should make some Paradisian and Magalian officials shake in their boots or sandals.
We might, if we are lucky, receive almost three weeks of rain for the remainder of our really wet season.
My burning questions are these, where there is smoke, isn't there usually a fire?
And,
why is my ash smoking?
Love,
annabanana
A Burning Question about smoking ashes
By Anne Wycoff
We’ve all heard the saying, "One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure," but one mans garbage shouldn’t be another man or woman’s phlegm. This subject of phlegm came up, so to speak the other day when I attempted a run at Bille Park. I couldn’t even get out of my car. The smoke from neighboring bonfires was so thick, it engulfed the grass area and the would-be track. Since there was a slight breeze, the smoke wafted a bit however, since the bonfires continued to burn, a cloud continued to invade my potential running area and threatened to suck up oxygen anyone(including children and adults in the playground) were using.
Since I am fond of breathing and running I took my endeavor to the high school track and accompanied several other runners. After my first mile, bilows of bonfire smoke invaded the track and the song, Nowhere To Run To by Michael McDonald, kept playing into my oxygen-deprived brain. I was starting to really get choked up, nowhere to run to baby, nowhere to hide (the track became blurred), got nowhere to run to baby, (my eyes started to itch), it’s not love I’m running from, it’s the heartaches I know will come (my chest started to hurt), cause I know you’re no good for me,(I started to cough), but you’ve become a part of me. It was at this point, I realized that I was the only fool trying to run in the ominous cloud and I was forced to leave and go to the dulldroms to finish out my run on the gym treadmill.
The arsonists (I mean old men) have nothing better to do than to rake their yards and put what their poor eyesights entail to be rubbish in large piles and lighting up. I know it’s old guys, I’ve seen them, we have three up in our neck of the woods. Every Saturday, they get up at four, rake their yards or worse, use the weed blower and make a huge bonfire. After their nap, they rake and blow more rubbish(one neighborhood old fart actually has his friends drop their garbage to burn-who knows what he’s burning?).
I figure it’s their way of looking productive. This is the same MO my husband uses while cleaning the kitchen: He moves the dishes around, stacking them neatly on one side of the sink. He even goes to the trouble of putting all the silver ware into a large cup and filling it with water. There! He has cleaned the kitchen!
These old coots are doing the exact same thing, but not only are they contributing to a useless and meaningless task that could, I might add be completed during a drizzle or even rainy day, they are also contributing to our greenhouse affect. Now, don’t get me wrong,
I am not some yahoo who thinks we need to chain ourselves up to trees and collect benefits (this sounds like something I may have seen in a play ;0), Nope, I am just a running nerd, who would love to breath during my run and not cough up something that looks like road kill.
Perhaps I am turning into a Don Quixote of sorts? I’ve had fantasies of running all over town, toting a large pump full of water and screaming, "Phlegm be gone!" while I saturate each bonfire. I also thought about drinking six gallons of water and urinating on each bonfire. I’d bravely outrun the old men in their boxers, black knee socks and orthopedic sandals as they screamed, rakes raised, "Don’t poke her until you see the white of her ass!" This last fantasy however, reminded of another painful encounter with the new waxing sensation and it was quickly cast aside.
Instead I confronted one my "old guys" while he proudly stood over his creation of soot and smolder and a huge cloud matched his huge prideful grin as I approached, "Nice day, isn’t it?" He stood like Pa Kettle, rake cuddled under his gloved hands. "It would be nice if you weren’t killing us off with this smoke, why do you do all that? That’s screwed up man, just screwed up!"
"It’s my yard and I’ll do what I want, besides, I have a permit."
He pulled up his shorts and held his head high. It was all I could do to not drop my pants and relieve myself of my third cup of coffee.
The city of Chico has an ordinance of no burning allowed, not even if you go to the trouble of obtaining a permit. Instead, the officials decided that Chico should become like most cities in California; each household should have a garbage, rubbish and recycle container. Why haven’t the towns of Paradise and Magalia adopted this policy? If you said money you are incorrect-and you are, I might ad, the missing link. Yes, initially it would cost the county (In Magalia county, Paradise, city) some money. But it’s going to cost them more with all the asthma, allergy and pulmonary problems the bonfires of the cranky’s is going to cost. Taking into consideration too, the fact that most these cranky concoctionists of the foul don’t supervise their little sparks, we are talking increased chances of a residential and potential wild fire. In addition to all this hullabaloo, the Federal Clean Air Act alone should make some Paradisian and Magalian officials shake in their boots or sandals.
We might, if we are lucky, receive almost three weeks of rain for the remainder of our really wet season.
My burning questions are these, where there is smoke, isn't there usually a fire?
And,
why is my ash smoking?
Love,
annabanana
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Motherhood Moment
A Moment for Mothers
Did you know that Mothers day was inspired by Julia Ward Howe, a civil war activist as a heartbreaking, united momentous outburst by women everywhere to end war and have peace? I assume she was tired of watching her country’s sons and sons friends killed in action, weary of watching every woman around her sullenly bury their children. A moment to somehow recognize the silent outrage of mothers, sending their offspring into war.
I find it even more intriguing that we only take one day, one moment of calling FTD and eradicate our depreciating credit to remember:
The woman who gave you life(or in some cases gave you a new life),
Perhaps she even:
Held your hand walking across the street
Wiped your butt,
Held your head while you were vomiting,
Made the owie feel better just by kissing it,
Taught you how to sew, salsa, ride a horse, ride a bike, or fish,
Defused battle 999 of sibling world war,
Taught you to drive,
Showed you how to apply cover up on what you considered teenage social death by zit,
Talked you through a friends death,
Stayed up with you and shared a gallon of chunky monkey during your first heartbreak,
Helped you write your college entrance essay; two days before it was due,
Convinced your father that your future husband was really a great catch,
Told you how beautiful you looked even though you had a nasty cold while trying on your wedding dress,
Helped you during your first born’s first weeks, even though you said you didn’t want nor need her there,
Held your broken body through chemo, radiation, and co-collaborating and deceiving your kids into thinking you just “have the flu,”
Helping you through a marriages break up, break down and break apart,
Encouraging you to keep writing even with your first writing rejection letter,
Encouraging you to keep writing even with your eightieth writing rejection letter,
Telling your mother-in-law to “blank-off” because you are perfect, no matter what condition your kitchen is in,
Recognizing your sisterhood into the battle of the bulge and sympathizing with you,
Your many and ongoing triumphs and tears.
I find it very intriguing that we give this Mother’s day holiday credit to a man: President Woodrow Wilson. Though his intentions were good, his National recognition of the day was marked for the boys who died in war. Just a moment, of honoring the biggest sacrifice a mother could ever make.
Shouldn’t we call a spade a spade and say what Mothers day really is? Mother day is a mini-moment for amends, a sad, small attempt for recognition of what is a mother. For some of us, it’s a day to expel our guilt. A day to be thankful, but it’s only a moment. Sadly, our spouses, siblings, offsprings and we ourselves may be guilty of thinking that taking that moment to recognize the mothers in our lives, as one more thing to check off our ever expanding, chaotic list of life. However, as I am learning in my wise-old age, it’s only a moment.
Though truth be told, I usually receive for my mother’s day: Handmade cards made from Cheerios, pink colored flowers that may resemble ducks, or palm trees or money in the form of certificates for hugs, dishes done, and dinners to be made. Though the recognition of my motherhood falls mainly on people in my household with limited spending income, it is the moment of thoughts that really count.
It’s easy for me to slip into nostalgia this time of year: My son was born on Mothers day, he is now twelve (sniff) and instead of a big birthday party with the usual pinata, balloons and a horde of extended families, he just wanted to “hang out with his homies at the park with hotdogs.”
That was the moment I came face to face with my evolving motherhood: I didn't have to buy matching paper plates, goodie bags, nor balloons. Just hotdogs, nerf guns, nerf ammo for the occasional adult nerf target. Most of my friends congratulated me, “You have now entered the zone of no more birthday fuss.” I felt inexplicably sad and useless.
This year, I didn't get to go to the dollar store and pick out matching plates and napkins nor goody prizes or candy for a pinata. This year, I sent my husband to Winco for hot dogs. At the park, the scene of the crime (my son's first birthday was celebrated at Bille Park), my husband took the “homies” on a short hike, I sat on the bench, feeling very alone. I listened the sounds of a sun-drenched park on a perfect Spring afternoon. The family next to us celebrated simultaneous birthdays of granny (age 96) in a walker and baby Gabrielle, her first birthday, also in her walker. Both birthday girls dependant on family members to bring them their cake, juice and help them sit upright. Both birthday girls laughing, a baby glee from Gabrielle as her butterfly balloon floated by her lit face and Granny, chuckled reaction to Gabrielle’s glee.
I remember like it was yesterday (doesn’t that sound like something your mom would say?): My husband throwing our chubby, baby daughter up in the air, her squeals of glee wafting through the gentle waving grass tickling everyone's ears across the playground. Relatives old and young, laughing and enjoying a moment of eating pink roses from birthday cake on matching pink plates and my beautiful daughter, in the first and last dress she ever wore. She’s a tomboy now, hardly putting her beautiful red waves back in a ponytail, let alone wear something feminine. As I fast-forwarded to my sons’ first birthday(I realize with shock that I am sitting at the same table and park bench), I remember Winnie-The-Pooh theme balloons, plates and cake, cousins, grandparents and tonka trucks galore littering the picnic tables as toddlers and adults poured onto the generous lawn to play and romp.
Zip, it’s gone, and I am in the present noticing dammit, I have my first age spot on my left hand. We only have these moments, these ever changing, evolving moments in motherhood. As our children grow up, out and away from us, establishing independance, we have our motherhood moments marked by a tide of change, folding like waves into each other. Choking back my tears, I realize how fast, how fast, they try to tell you, how fast this motherhood goes. I had listened with haughty ears because I was twenty-something, my whole life, family, love pouring out of me, into me and I was a triumphant, ever flowing cup of motherhood. My cup is now full but all too soon it will be empty save for a few cobwebby memories. They will drift through the catacombs of what is left by a miracle of my grey matter. A smell, perhaps of a BBQ, will dance along a spring breeze into my nose, the sound of a baby’s laughter will bounce and register into my deaf ears, the sight of pink roses I will recognize on a cake, the touch of a fuzzy blanket against my paper thin, wrinkled arms, will charge and define an Alzheimer moment of some random memory in my motherhood life. I will only have a nano second to grasp and recognize that fragment of a birthday, family gathering or holiday and then, poof! It will be gone and I will succumb to eating my oatmeal with help and having my Depends changed.
I will just have a moment to remember that I had a fantastic motherhood.
So this Mothers’ day, take a moment, to call, email or better yet, if you can visit your mom or someone close to you who is a mom, is like a mom, or who wants to be a mom, put down your to do list for the day and take a moment for them. It’s only a moment.
All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff May 10, 2008
Did you know that Mothers day was inspired by Julia Ward Howe, a civil war activist as a heartbreaking, united momentous outburst by women everywhere to end war and have peace? I assume she was tired of watching her country’s sons and sons friends killed in action, weary of watching every woman around her sullenly bury their children. A moment to somehow recognize the silent outrage of mothers, sending their offspring into war.
I find it even more intriguing that we only take one day, one moment of calling FTD and eradicate our depreciating credit to remember:
The woman who gave you life(or in some cases gave you a new life),
Perhaps she even:
Held your hand walking across the street
Wiped your butt,
Held your head while you were vomiting,
Made the owie feel better just by kissing it,
Taught you how to sew, salsa, ride a horse, ride a bike, or fish,
Defused battle 999 of sibling world war,
Taught you to drive,
Showed you how to apply cover up on what you considered teenage social death by zit,
Talked you through a friends death,
Stayed up with you and shared a gallon of chunky monkey during your first heartbreak,
Helped you write your college entrance essay; two days before it was due,
Convinced your father that your future husband was really a great catch,
Told you how beautiful you looked even though you had a nasty cold while trying on your wedding dress,
Helped you during your first born’s first weeks, even though you said you didn’t want nor need her there,
Held your broken body through chemo, radiation, and co-collaborating and deceiving your kids into thinking you just “have the flu,”
Helping you through a marriages break up, break down and break apart,
Encouraging you to keep writing even with your first writing rejection letter,
Encouraging you to keep writing even with your eightieth writing rejection letter,
Telling your mother-in-law to “blank-off” because you are perfect, no matter what condition your kitchen is in,
Recognizing your sisterhood into the battle of the bulge and sympathizing with you,
Your many and ongoing triumphs and tears.
I find it very intriguing that we give this Mother’s day holiday credit to a man: President Woodrow Wilson. Though his intentions were good, his National recognition of the day was marked for the boys who died in war. Just a moment, of honoring the biggest sacrifice a mother could ever make.
Shouldn’t we call a spade a spade and say what Mothers day really is? Mother day is a mini-moment for amends, a sad, small attempt for recognition of what is a mother. For some of us, it’s a day to expel our guilt. A day to be thankful, but it’s only a moment. Sadly, our spouses, siblings, offsprings and we ourselves may be guilty of thinking that taking that moment to recognize the mothers in our lives, as one more thing to check off our ever expanding, chaotic list of life. However, as I am learning in my wise-old age, it’s only a moment.
Though truth be told, I usually receive for my mother’s day: Handmade cards made from Cheerios, pink colored flowers that may resemble ducks, or palm trees or money in the form of certificates for hugs, dishes done, and dinners to be made. Though the recognition of my motherhood falls mainly on people in my household with limited spending income, it is the moment of thoughts that really count.
It’s easy for me to slip into nostalgia this time of year: My son was born on Mothers day, he is now twelve (sniff) and instead of a big birthday party with the usual pinata, balloons and a horde of extended families, he just wanted to “hang out with his homies at the park with hotdogs.”
That was the moment I came face to face with my evolving motherhood: I didn't have to buy matching paper plates, goodie bags, nor balloons. Just hotdogs, nerf guns, nerf ammo for the occasional adult nerf target. Most of my friends congratulated me, “You have now entered the zone of no more birthday fuss.” I felt inexplicably sad and useless.
This year, I didn't get to go to the dollar store and pick out matching plates and napkins nor goody prizes or candy for a pinata. This year, I sent my husband to Winco for hot dogs. At the park, the scene of the crime (my son's first birthday was celebrated at Bille Park), my husband took the “homies” on a short hike, I sat on the bench, feeling very alone. I listened the sounds of a sun-drenched park on a perfect Spring afternoon. The family next to us celebrated simultaneous birthdays of granny (age 96) in a walker and baby Gabrielle, her first birthday, also in her walker. Both birthday girls dependant on family members to bring them their cake, juice and help them sit upright. Both birthday girls laughing, a baby glee from Gabrielle as her butterfly balloon floated by her lit face and Granny, chuckled reaction to Gabrielle’s glee.
I remember like it was yesterday (doesn’t that sound like something your mom would say?): My husband throwing our chubby, baby daughter up in the air, her squeals of glee wafting through the gentle waving grass tickling everyone's ears across the playground. Relatives old and young, laughing and enjoying a moment of eating pink roses from birthday cake on matching pink plates and my beautiful daughter, in the first and last dress she ever wore. She’s a tomboy now, hardly putting her beautiful red waves back in a ponytail, let alone wear something feminine. As I fast-forwarded to my sons’ first birthday(I realize with shock that I am sitting at the same table and park bench), I remember Winnie-The-Pooh theme balloons, plates and cake, cousins, grandparents and tonka trucks galore littering the picnic tables as toddlers and adults poured onto the generous lawn to play and romp.
Zip, it’s gone, and I am in the present noticing dammit, I have my first age spot on my left hand. We only have these moments, these ever changing, evolving moments in motherhood. As our children grow up, out and away from us, establishing independance, we have our motherhood moments marked by a tide of change, folding like waves into each other. Choking back my tears, I realize how fast, how fast, they try to tell you, how fast this motherhood goes. I had listened with haughty ears because I was twenty-something, my whole life, family, love pouring out of me, into me and I was a triumphant, ever flowing cup of motherhood. My cup is now full but all too soon it will be empty save for a few cobwebby memories. They will drift through the catacombs of what is left by a miracle of my grey matter. A smell, perhaps of a BBQ, will dance along a spring breeze into my nose, the sound of a baby’s laughter will bounce and register into my deaf ears, the sight of pink roses I will recognize on a cake, the touch of a fuzzy blanket against my paper thin, wrinkled arms, will charge and define an Alzheimer moment of some random memory in my motherhood life. I will only have a nano second to grasp and recognize that fragment of a birthday, family gathering or holiday and then, poof! It will be gone and I will succumb to eating my oatmeal with help and having my Depends changed.
I will just have a moment to remember that I had a fantastic motherhood.
So this Mothers’ day, take a moment, to call, email or better yet, if you can visit your mom or someone close to you who is a mom, is like a mom, or who wants to be a mom, put down your to do list for the day and take a moment for them. It’s only a moment.
All Rights Reserved, Anne Wycoff May 10, 2008
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