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Ireland: Day Three

To set-up  our third day of adventures, there are a few things I should highlight.

First, we’d been looking for ways to tour to the Dingle Peninsula. It’s not on a train line, and the bus goes there, but, it takes over three hours from Limerick, and once in Dingle, how would we drive around it? We looked into several options, including renting a car (but neither my sister nor I were keen on this being our first foray into driving on the left side of the road, especially since it is narrow.). We’d also found a company that does Dingle tours from Limerick online, but, the only day they had availability was on Sunday, and that was already the day we were going to go to the Burren and to the Cliffs of Moher, so, I didn’t book it.

Do you remember that we did the Cliffs trip on Friday, when we arrived?

We got let off the tour from Blarney about 2 blocks from our hotel. Frank II gave us directions to get back. We took this opportunity to hunt for the train/bus station to start arranging our other adventures. As we headed toward where I remembered the station to be from the maps, we stumbled onto the Tourist Information Center. We’d been here a few times, our tours both days stopped here. We were all of three blocks from the hotel. I was now embarrassed that I’d not realized it sooner.

As we rounded the corner across the street from the tourist office, I see a big advertisement for the very tour company I’d seen online that had Limerick to Dingle tours. They had an office right inside this small shopping mall. It was 5:56 on Saturday night. We stepped in, and walked into their door as they were closing at 6:00 pm. In fact, the employee closed the door right behind us, and had already closed out her till. We inquired about the Dingle trip, and she said, yes, they had a tour leaving the next day, right from the stop across the street. We asked if there was space on the tour, and, booked it on the spot. Perfection!

This was the first time we were especially grateful we were traveling in the “off” season. It would not be the last.

Early Sunday morning (not really that early), we went to catch our bus.  We met the first (and, perhaps only) tour guide in Ireland not named Frank. His name was Micheal.  We learned that we were going to make a shortish stop in Killarney. Killarney is known from songs, and as the original Irish tourist town. If you’re practicing your Irish, it’s name is Cill Airne, and Cill means church, and Airne well, that’s something to do with sloes, which the Internets tell me are, essentially, prunes.

This is where you learn it’s better not to translate some things.

Church in Killarny

Church in Killarney. No evidence of prunes.


Back in Prune Church, we stroll around a sleepy Sunday morning. Beyond prunes and churches, Killarney is the place where Michael Fassbender grew up, and where he lives when he’s not Magneto.  The Michael who drove the bus pointed vaguely into a hillside with several possible places as being the area where he might have a house, so I might’ve seen his house. Or his sheep.  The sheep might be the neighbor’s.  Fences are as nothing to sheep.

I’ve heard that Mr. Fassbender was an altar boy. Maybe he was at this church. Or the other one. Maybe both of them. I have no ideas, but, these two were within 1/3 of a mile from each other. Clearly, a Cill-rich environment. The prunes were inexplicably unseen.

Church in Killarney

Another prune free church in Killarney.

We got back on the bus, and started to head toward the Dingle Peninsula.  We caught sight of the most amazing and impressive Kerry Airport, clearly the most talked about airport I’ve ever encountered. At least, Michael the driver really talked about it.

We stopped just outside of Killarney, to see the famous lakes and the tallest mountains in Ireland. While not really what a Coloradan would call a mountain, there is something really pretty majestic about them. The panorama was somehow very comforting to me, even if I couldn’t really get the whole scope in the picture. I will read the camera’s manual one day.

We took our few shots, and then got along to the main show.

Mountains. the lakes were to the right, and not appearing in this shot.

The mountains, at least. the lakes are not appearing in this shot.

Dingle is the smaller western peninsula. It’s less famous than the Ring of Kerry, but, we had it on good authority that if we had to choose, Dingle was the better option. It’s one of the regions where Irish is commonly spoken as a daily language, and it’s packed full of breath-taking vistas, lovely beaches, and some archaeological gems.

We first stopped at Inch Beach. It’s a blue flag beach, which means its super-awesome. Micheal said it’s the highest ranking a beach can get, and its based on the quality of the sand and other beach-criteria that sound like wha-waa-wa wa to people from landlocked states. Or maybe just to me. I don’t care too much for beaches. People were surfing, and looked like they were having a great time. My sister and I collected some seashells, many of which we’ll probably send to our nephews. The debate over whether they’ll still be coated in sand when we send them is ongoing, but, will probably end in clean shells, since my nephews don’t care for mud. I’m worried about them, too.

Moving on from the beach, we moved along to the Slea head, the most westerly part of Europe.  We stopped at many places to take pictures. Here, look at them. They’re better than the ugly words that keep going on about nothing much.

Sheep! Crashing waves and distant islands.

Sheep! Plus dramatic ocean edge and distant islands that no one lives on anymore.

rocky coastline

Look at that coast!

more coastline

The water is blue! I am not a very good photographer!

This journey was about 11 hours, round trip. We stopped briefly in the town of Dingle, and met the bronze version of the local hero, Fungie. He’s a playful dolphin, who likes to entertain tourists. Don’t worry, they didn’t reward him by encasing him in carbonite. This is just a sculpture.  We got expensive ice cream, but, to its credit, it was much, much better than what we got in Cork. The dairy was so fresh, and the texture was rich and creamy. We somehow missed getting actual lunch, and were slightly sad about that. We came back to Limerick, and got some dinner to take back with us to the hotel, and I’m pretty sure exhaustion claimed us all.


Little lambs. Everyone loves the lambs.

My sister sitting on a dolphin sculpture.

My sister meets Fungie. The sculpture, not the mammal.

Ireland, Day the Second

A funny thing happened on the way to the post.

By “the post” I mean turning this into a post while I was still in Ireland.

You all still love me, right?

So, where was I?

That’s right. I was in Ireland. Limerick, Ireland, to be specific.

On day the second, we were headed to Blarney Castle and Cork, Ireland’s second largest city.  We were picked up at our hotel by our tour guide, whose name turned out to also be Frank.  We referred to him as Frank the II when he was not around. He was no Frank I, that was very clear.

Blarney Castle

Yup. That’s it. Blarney Castle. And, you can’t tell, but, it’s raining.

This was one of the two days where it rained pretty much all day.  If you’ve heard of Blarney castle you know about the famous stone, but, what you might not know is that the castle is a ruin, and it has absolutely no roof.  The famous Blarney stone is located at the top of the roofless structure. The way up is via a steep circular stone stairway, which has acquired a lovely coating of Irish moisturizer due to that unfortunate “no roof” thing.  There is a rope “banister,” and that is the only reason I made it to the top.

My dad, who is already a gabby individual, was really excited about the whole Blarney stone thing, and had, for the first, and pretty much only time on the trip, shot ahead of me and my sister, and raced up the tower to the top, ready to pucker up with the legendary stone.  He beat me to the top by such a large margin, that I completely missed his big moment. The moment I was sure meant that the world would explode from the enormity of the world’s gabbiest guy getting gabbier. Fortunately, like all tourist traps the world over, they have their own photographer, and they will gladly sell you the photo. My sister, who refused to go up the treacherous tower, was only too pleased to buy that bit of blackmail.

My dad, smoochin' a stone. Heaven help us all.

My dad, smoochin’ a stone. Heaven help us all.

My lips were not going anywhere near that filthy thing. Especially because, for some reason (my money’s on a “let’s make the tourists do ridiculous things” tradition) you have to be lying on your back and hang your head, upside down, over the open death-slot to put your lips on a stone kissed by millions. I can’t say that I’m that taken by the notion of third-party stone smooching millions of people in one go. Even if these millions include people like Winston Churchill.

One of the things that you never really hear about Blarney Castle is that the grounds around it are really quite spectacular.  There are lovely flowers and trees all over the place, and a stream runs through the grounds. There’s a poison garden where you can find all of Snape’s favorite lethal plants, and there’s caves and a dolmen, plus a whole bunch of other stuff I didn’t really get to see.

Because dad ditched us.

We’d planned to head to the nearby Woolen Mills, to look for a gift for our mom, so we were trying to hurry back to have some time to look. We had started back, and dad was lingering at the gift shop. We told him we’d be just outside, waiting. We waited just a bit down the path back to the bus and the shops.  And we waited. And waited. We kept watching the paths, and we retraced our steps. No dad.  We posted ourselves at strategic points to see him, and we never saw him.

At this point, we only had a few minutes to get back to our ride, before Frank II left us in the rain, so we headed back, hoping that dad would know to go to the bus.

We got back a few minutes late, and as I walked up, Frank II pointed into the shops at the Woolen Mills. I was *so* close to launching into a “Don’t make me have to pull this trip over, young man” lecture.  Parents.  Geesh. You can’t take them anywhere.

The group back together, we headed to Cork.  For shopping.

Most of you know that I’m not so much of a shopper, but, since we’d missed the Woolen Mills, and needed to find something for mom, this was good. Plus, we’d not eaten anything, and it time to find lunch.   We left the bus just as the rain got harder, and we spotted a place for lunch. The golden arches called. As we got in, I realized this was the first time I’d ever even been inside an American fast food restaurant in a foreign country.  Given the rain, it was easier to stay and eat than to find another place, so, we settled in for a meal.

DSCN0905 In between bouts of rain, we did see a few things. The fountain on the left was just behind the city council building, in something of a small park. It’s hard to photograph. It was a collection of seven large geese(?) artfully arranged like on a mobile, around the fountain.

The distant church in the picture on the right?, well, I admit, I have no idea which one it is. It looks nice, though, doesn’t it? It’s got that nice view of the river, and old and new bits of Cork nicely blended.

We did try to find something for mom, but, most the shops had stuff that mom would not find interesting, and the rain was occasionally really heavy, so, we kept trying to dodge into shelter.  One of our sheltering spots was a crepe shop that had ice cream. So, we had some.

It could’ve been better ice cream, but, it the shop was nicely situated right along the river there, just to the left of the edge of the picture with the church.

Eventually, we gave up the search for the right thing for mom, and went around the corner from the crepe shop to wait for the bus to return us to Limerick.


Ireland: Day the first, Part the second

When last we talked, there was the challenge of jet lag facing our heroes.   I cruelly showed you a pint, and a donkey. Yeah, I know. Mean.

So, more pictures.

At the airport, our ride asked if we wanted to do the tour of the Cliffs of Moher and the Burren today (Friday) instead of Sunday. This required very little thought, and as he cheerily said, “but you probably would rather just go to the hotel and relax…” We said, “no, if we can go today, that would be very helpful.”

I think he was actually a bit disappointed.

To his credit, it passed quickly.  He called his guide, and the after a stop at the hotel to drop our luggage, and a heading to an ATM to get some local currency, we were off. Just the three of us with our guide, whom we refer to as Frank I.

And this is the first thing we saw:

I can’t this moment remember *which* castle, and I’m not feeling the need to look it it up right this instant. The tour companRuined castley’s website advertises the stop as the place we’d hear a dramatic tale of fiery redheads. The story is not half as interesting as the descriptor you just got. Your version is better than the tale we got, and which I’m going to be honest, I barely remember even now.

We didn’t stop very long. It was windy and a bit chilly.

They we went to this bronze age stone fort. Dad wanted to watch the sheep dog herding demonstration, so my sister and I went to look at the fort. (This was the one in the teaser. The donkey lives here, too. Well, not in the fort, but, the same people who have the fort have the donkey. )

inside the stone fort This is all in a protected area know as The Burren. It’s a geologically fascinating area, with its own unique flora and fauna, and mostly tons of rocks. “The Burren” .which is a name that comes from an Irish word meaning “rocky place.”

We only had about 45 min here, but, that seemed just about right. Dad didn’t get to see all the tricks that a sheep dog can do, but didn’t seem too disappointed.

Practically, just across the road from this is the stone fort sheep herding place, is the Poulnabrone dolmen. This is a portal tomb, and this is this first of many times that I was grateful to be here during the slow season. There were more than a few tourists here, but, not so many that I didn’t get several pictures that were without people. Poulnabrone dol, a megalithic rock tomb

There are more than 90 such tombs in the Burren, and I feel a tad sad that the quiet of this sacred space in a rugged landscape is pretty much a revolving door of peeping tourists for half the year. Of course, as I am a peeping tourist, well, I can’t say too much, can I?

After this, we drove with the Burren to the southern edge of Galway Bay. (It’s there, the blue between the darker mountainy bits just under the clouds, and just about the gray and green of the rocky foreground. Those limestone rocks are the general ground cover of the Burren.Galway Bay from the Burren

We continued along until we stopped for lunch at Ballyvaughan, on the edge of the bay. Something of a touristy place, we got there before the big coaches, and had the place to ourselves. I got fishcakes, and the pint of Guinness seen in the teaser. The food was much better than one would expect from a tourist place, and it was a fair price. The view was pretty good, too.

From here, we worked our way along, out of the Burren to the Cliffs of Moher.

They are as advertised. It was a clear day, if windy, and cool, but, you could see the Aran Islands from the top.The Cliffs of Moher It’s likely hard to tell how high up we are, standing on the tops of these things, but, it’s not a fall you’d recover from. There is a wall, but, there are places where you aren’t supposed to go, which were visited by people with little sense, who could, with a good gust (of which there were clearly many) and a bit of unbalance, would find themselves getting a burial at sea. I myself offered a sacrifice of Euros, after pulling my hand out of my pocket, not realizing it had dislodged from the depths, and in a heartbeat it was zooming its way to a watery grave. (It’s ok, just a bit of money. I was not stupid enough to try and catch it.)Cliffs of Moher

This beautiful place was the highlight of the day, though, it was hard getting my jet lagged, out of shape self up the hill to see them.  But, hard or no, we all made it, and it was actually light duty compared to the days that were to come.


And that was just the end of day one.

Ireland, Day the First

Seriously, a pidgeon inside the airport. Walking three feet from me. I had many plans to do some pre-narrative about the trip, and have themes and different narrative tracks, and they are likely to turn out to be done when I get back. The weeks leading up to the trip were unexpectedly busier than I expected, between the sewer and other matters that took me away from writing. No, they weren’t just me procrastinating. Yes, that happened, too.

I had wanted to do a whole set-up of the “dramatis personae” (that’s snooty English major talk for “the characters in the drama”), which were going to be longer and have set-ups for the larger story, but, that was a fail.

Instead, a reader’s digest overview:

Traveling in this group are me, (you know me, I hope, if you don’t, then one of my associates ratted the password out to you, and I really hope you are not a robber, and I also, also hope that you’re no good with the Google.) my sister, (she looks like me, but is taller) and my dad (who has never been out of the country before, and who is a retired fellow with a fair number of eccentricities. )

There is also a person who shall be mentioned from time to time, who is technically not one of the “dramatis personae” because he’s not a character, but, he is, in the end, the impetus for the trip, a Mr. Brinsley Barnes, who is my 6th? 7th? great grandfather (I could’ve put any number, and you’d never know that I couldn’t remember exactly which “great” it is as I’m writing this late at night in Ireland, and you don’t really care which one it is, the point of the number is to tell you that it was a long time ago. Early 18th century, 1713ish to be vaguely exact. Okay, it’s the 6th great. My OCD wouldn’t let me not look it up, and I remembered where I could find the information on this computer. )

Back on track, it’s after 1 am in Ireland, and I’ve got to get an early start tomorrow.  We’re heading to the Dingle Peninsula. That’s a bit of a teaser for you.

The actual trip part of the story usually starts with a visit to the airport. This story is not different in any way. We went to the airport. At very painful o’clock in the morning. A time made more painful by getting very much less than 4 hours of sleep. There were good intentions, but poor execution.

After leaving Denver, we arrived in Newark. We had a long layover. We didn’t do much, and there’s a story behind that I might tell later. At any rate, all of this is to explain the first photo, which is a pigeon, who somehow got into the airport, and was flying around and landed near us. It didn’t fly like a bird in panic mode, and walked around without an iota of fear, not one concern about the strange human who followed it and flashed a light at it after making a noise that sounded like “cheese” to the humans watching it. I think it actually has made its home there, and survives off the bounty of food waste in the concourse.

The pigeon was the first picture I took on the trip. I am not sure if that is really sad, or really interesting.

Time passed painfully slowly, and though it was an “overnight” trip, I was only able to get a few  moments of sleep.  We arrived at 7:30 AM Ireland time, which was midnight Colorado time.    We had a tour company to pick us up from the airport, but, they were expecting to simply take us to the airport, and leave us with nothing to do.  We had other plans. Our plan was to be as active as possible after arriving, to survive jet lag. The only question was: How were we going to manage that feat? What were we going to do to keep us awake until bedtime?

The answer…

Will wait until the next post.

It really would be a better ending if I left it there, but, I feel guilty that you were expecting Ireland pictures and got a stupid pigeon.

A teaser then:

A pint of Guinness






Searching for Stories


Uragh Stone Circle, Ireland, by mozzercork, creative commons licenseI had never considered myself to be remotely Irish, even though my mother’s maiden name practically screams its origins with an unsubtle brogue and a fanfare of haunting pipe music blasting from across the Atlantic carrying the tune straight from Éirinn’s green hills.  Her family has been here for generations, and not even the oldest in her family is likely to remember any ancestor cooking a traditional Irish dish, or chasing leprechauns, or muttering in Gaelic when someone tracked mud into the house.

I used to complain to her that she couldn’t understand the misery of having a surname that kids found easy to turn into insults, and she quickly corrected my ignorance by telling me that kids in her day rhymed her surname with “baloney.”  I still thought I had drawn the shorter straw, because my pain affected me, and her long ago pain was not mine.

To be certain, I had no idea about the origins of “Barnes.” The children on the playground, however, were very certain they knew where the name had originated, and it was not a country. Frankly, I was afraid that their guesses might end up being more correct than I was willing to admit on the mean streets of the playground. While it was easy to refute the implications of “being born in a barn,”  and the suggestions that my heritage might not be entirely human, I had uneasy feelings about the humble origins of the ultimate derivation of my last name, and I really didn’t want to offer any additional ammunition to those merciless monsters of mockery.

And here I am many <mumblecoughyears> later, learning that my Barnes ancestor likely came here from Ireland. Like my mother’s ancestors, the Barnes family has been here for centuries, and if there was a family recipe for colcannon or boxty, well, it’s been lost. Possibly on purpose. 

While I always had hoped that I might go and see Ireland, I never expected to have any sorts of actual roots there. Any kinship I have felt with the land has been with those crafters of stories and words that have come from that far away place. I often think about how “the snow was general all over Ireland,” and how it fell “upon all the living and the dead.”

I have thought about the legends that have inspired me in my formative years, of a place where magic and mystery lingered in the very rocks and trees of an ancient land where children might find a snowy wood and a lamppost in the back of a wardrobe. 

In short order, I will see those “dark mutinous Shannon waves,” and lonely churchyards with “crooked crosses and headstones,” and perhaps see upon them names that look like my own. I will wonder about their stories and what they knew of the mysteries that lurked in these places they called home. Perhaps they will share some of their stories. I just hope they don’t feel the need to leave the churchyard.

Adventures in Ireland

Pasture at the Viewpoint by Pam Brophy.


Welcome to Ireland Central.  As I post a new story, I’ll collect them all here. There will be a few before I leave the last week of April, and I hope to have pictures and stories daily while I’m there, exhaustion permitting.

*Update to say, I got zero posts done before I left, and then, I only got one post done while I was there. I’m working on filling in the gaps every night. Since this post exists, I’ll keep adding the links to the posts here, as I complete them.

Post 1: Ireland: Day the First

Post 2: Day the first, Part the Second

Post 3: Ireland: Day the Second

Post 4: Ireland: Day Three

Post 5: Ireland: Day Four

Post 6: Ireland: The Day that comes after Four

Post 7: Ireland: Day Seven Minus One

Post 8: Ireland: One Week

Post 9: Ireland: A Week and a Day

Post 10: Ireland: Day the Next

Post: On the Train to Belfast

Post 11: Ireland: Day the Next Plus One

Post 12: Ireland:Bank Holiday

Post 13: Ireland: Penultimate Day

We are in Ireland!  We leave for Day three in a few hours, but, I feel better about myself for having posted something at long last.

Post 1: The Search for Brinsley Barnes (Week of April 7) Postponed!

Post 2:  Preparing for the Expedition Postponed!


We Used to Be Friends

Kristen Bell as Veronica Mars Robert Voets—2014 Warner Bros. Entertainment

We met in the fall of 2004. She was still in high school, but she had a world-weary outlook and a laundry list of tragedies that had aged her beyond her 17 years.

I liked her from the start. She was quick-witted and immediately jumped to the aid of the bullied and disadvantaged, with a bit of stylish sass and a sack full of street smarts. I admit it, she had better writers than me.

She lived in the noir-blackened seaside town of Neptune, California. Her name is Mars. Veronica Mars.

For a too-short three years, we’d check-in once a week, she’d fight the corruption of the police, the disparities of race and class, all while whistling a jaunty tune, and making life-changing coffee at Java the Hutt. Granted,  I’m sure she’s a great whistler, but,the whistling thing is me just trying to make an easy joke. And, my specific form of television-trivia OCD is not letting me leave well enough alone, so I must clarify that she was a hostess at the Hutt, not a barista. I just wanted to trot out the cleverly named coffee shop, and make you think I’d come up with it myself.

I’ve missed seeing her and her gang over the years, and when there was an opportunity to return her to life on the big screen, well, I was one of those with a reel and a hook, pulling her back.

I know, most of you are completely lost. You’ve never heard of Veronica Mars. And you wonder what I’ve been talking about, because you knew there was no such place as Neptune, CA.

Yes, you’re very smart.

Except, to me, Neptune is a very real place, (Unless you’re trying to find out if I’m suffering from mental illness, and then I’ll be sure to tell you that I am aware that it’s all fiction.) and I’ve missed it, warts and all.

I thought by now it’d be out of my system, but, I just can’t quit Neptune. I’ve been basking in the glow of the movie for over a week, and I find myself thinking about it all the time, knowing that it’s not likely to be in theaters much longer, and that, while the movie is completely watchable to those that haven’t seen the television series, it’s not going to pull crowds of people. There’s unlikely to be a movie sequel. It’s mostly a movie for those of us that love Veronica best, and for today, I guess that’s enough. There are few happy endings in Neptune, as everyone knows, and so, I’ll just be happy with what there is.

Crappy Jokes Are All That I Have

Sewer cover, by Greg L English Wikipedia

For several weeks now, I’ve been living a double life. One where I spent most of my weekdays at an undisclosed location, where I sleep on a couch and use a shower, and wash my clothing. Occasionally, I’d get a night in my own house, where I could enjoy my own bed, but, need to limit the number of times I flush, and could not consider washing anything: pots, hair or underwear.  I’ve been living the life of a sewer hostage.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to turn this ongoing tragicomedy into a something suitable for this venue. I considered that I if I were to embrace my inner 12-year-old boy, where jokes about body humor are the pinnacle of playground jocularity, I might find something that I could elevate to more tasteful and sophisticated style, that would evoke the basics of bathroom humor and yet set a higher standard. I had tried to use all the techniques I knew to come up with a way to frame the whole mess into this form, but exaggeration? No one wants a mountain built out of this schmole-hill. It’s an unpleasant image, and a somewhat awkward lingual construction.

I’m not particularly adept at the vulgar, and I think it’s rude to unleash upon my readers a Shih Tzu-nami of unpleasant images, especially ones that are likely to last longer than whatever weak smiles might have been invoked before the image landed.

I do like word play, and while I can disguise a few references under a well-placed shiitake, those are very small jokes, and they seem far too obvious for a “professional” humor writer to employ. Those jokes have probably all be thought of by the audience before the joke appears in the narrative, and they don’t really contribute much to sustaining a story-length set of punch lines.

There were a few moments when I considered unleashing some dark humor, where I could be glad that all that schhhhtuff has mostly stayed in the pipes and hasn’t escaped. And, I am glad about that. But as honest as it is, it feels too gloomy.

Even after looking at all the tools in my arsenal, all the tricks of turning an unpleasant topic into something people were willing to laugh at and not feel like they needed to bathe afterwards, I realized that I could no longer find any humor in the form of solid waste matter. Something as expensive and unhygienic as the system of removing waste matter from a home is no longer capable of inspiring even a microscopic upturning of the corners of my mouth.

I guess you could say I am tired of those particular mushrooms.

I’ve spent these weeks trying to find something funny about my hostage situation. Everyone told me I had this terrific topic, easy to write about, and they insisted that there was nothing but funny in this subject matter. And all I’ve been able to do with this golden topic is fail miserably. I am certain this is not actually a success, yet, I could no longer avoid the subject entirely, because, the parade of plumbers and pipes kept me from my usual deadline.

And I’m sorry.

And still a hostage. At least for a bit longer. The light is coming.

How Can You Tell if Your Clothes Hate You?

Jeans pocket

I am certain there are a number of items in my wardrobe that have the power to attract the food items that have the strongest stain-leaving capabilities directly to the fabric most likely to be ruined. These items will absorb every molecule of potential stain-causing material, not just the substances with the worst reputations for leaving lasting souvenirs.

Usual suspects, like pasta with red sauce, or finger foods slathered in BBQ or hot sauce are not the only things that represent mortal danger to your wardrobe.   I’ve encountered salads with stealthy rogue peas, coated in just enough dressing to roll out of the clutches of your silverware, and happily bounce across your front leaving a trail of greasy tears in its wake. One single pea.

It’s practically inconceivable that one tiny pea could leave a stream of dressing wide enough to look like a full necktie has been drawn on your top, but, there, I’ve just conceived it. It wouldn’t be so bad if the pea would’ve managed to drive straight or pick a path that was centered. Where are all the warnings about drunken peas?!

If you are wearing white, your accessory will be tomato-based. If black, look out for sour cream, ranch dressing or whipped topping. Your clothes know to attract the sauce that will achieve maximum visibility, and prove that your clothes are trying to show to the world *exactly* how much they hate you.

At first, I thought it was just me.

Clearly, I was destined to coat my clothing with the memories of a thousand meals. I decided to embrace my front full of food. I could start an entire fashion trend, where it was *stylish* to wear decorative “dressings.” Accessorizing with food would be cheaper than buying boxes full of jewelry. I could brush off the horrified glances and assumptions of sub-human table manners by cheerfully proclaiming that every spot was an intentional and carefully considered contribution to my ensemble.

There are a few flaws in my plan to turn “stain” into “sparkle.”

I am not well known for being “fashion forward.” There are hobos with better instincts for fashion trends than me.  I can barely convince myself that my own fashion trend is legitimate, much less be persuasive enough to sell the notion to the actual glitterati. Best I could hope for is a show of support from an eccentric hipster crowd, who see the idea as a green way to extend the life of garments produced in sweatshops in third world countries. This is the crowd that uses their pockets to produce compost. They might even be convinced to refer to stains as “food storage and carbon efficient transport,” if I can figure out how to reconstitute it into actual food with fewer than 10 drops of water.

On second thought, I’ll just pre-treat the stains and hope no one notices.

Celebrating Generosity Day

Antique (Public Domain old) Valentine. Caption reads "To My Valentine"

I am well-known to be averse to VD. I’m sure you are too. In my case, I mean both the health issue and the holiday. If you had missed that quirk of my personality and didn’t click on the link, then this sentence will have to suffice as background for the next few paragraphs.

I had been proud of that piece of poisonous prose, and while I patted myself on the back for my wit and use of indelible imagery, I passed it along to many who were not regular subscribers to this column, thinking that they would be unable to resist signing up for it the minute they read that spectacularly awesome indictment of the holiday of 50 Shades of Red.

I was wrong.

Of the 15-20 people I had shared it with, *ZERO* signed up. More telling to me was that one of them had the courage to tell me her thoughts. She is not one to mince words. She simply said: “It was not worthy of you.”

Inside my head, InsecureFraud38 shouted “See? Everything you write is worthless! You are a fool to try and pretend you are talented enough to impose your barely literate ramblings on an unsuspecting public!

OffendedArtist12 jumped into the onslaught of self-doubt with its twist: How dare she say that horrible things about me and my art! She cannot comprehend the brilliance of my tortured soul!

About this point, InsecureFrauds 1-38 ganged up on OffendedArtist12, and the results were spectacularly horrific. Suffice it to say, there are only 11 these days.

I managed to say something, I probably even thanked her for crushing my soul and unleashing the specters of self-doubt and loathing, but then BrutallyHonest numbers 1-20 told me that she was right. I had taken the easy way out, and relied on the Crutches of Snark and Sarcasm. I could do better. I put in a request that the nicer parts of my psyche go visit with the brutally honest parts, and maybe teach them to be a bit more gentle in their delivery. Then I realized I didn’t really want any more sugar coating, because I really should cut down on my sugar intake.

About that time, I learned about “Generosity Day.” It was a way to reclaim the day of commercialized love with all its superficiality and fill it authenticity and kindness. Something not confined to couples, and lacking the burden of obligation.

Perhaps, just by sharing this idea with you, I’m losing my “street cred,” but, BrutallyHonest4 tells me I never really had any in the first place. Maybe, I’m simply getting weak in my advancing age. Or perhaps I’m just remembering the gift of honesty from a friend that I got last Generosity Day.