Monday Music

No post today folks. Just a quiet evening listening to music and then some sleep. Cheers - B.

Memorial Day - The Last Thing I Saw

A photo essay on some other brave souls: the dogs of war

Memorial Day - It's not a barbecue, some beer, a car race or a post party hangover. It's a solemn day in which we remember those of courage who gave their all for something they believed in. Those that served their country and paid the ultimate sacrifice.

Remember them.

That last thing I saw was the a sliver of winter sky through a haze of gunpowder.

The last thing I heard was the report of fire, one last wild spurring of colors made sound, then silence.

The last thing I felt was an intake of breath, air drawing deep into me. I don't remember the exhale. I thought nothing could reach me. I never knew what hit me.

I'll be all right in a minute, I said, but nothing came out.

I'm looking down on my still form, thinking I must have a concussion, for the vision could not be real. I close my eyes and recite the steps to field strip my AR in the field. "bolt fully forward", "remove the bolt carrier and the charging handle", open my eyes.

But the vision didn't change.



They sent me home in a box, draped with a flag, in a suit I had never worn. It was hot, the corn in fervent zeal, bowing before the behemoth combines that would pull it into an oblivious end. There was a line of cars as long as main street, headlights on yet diminished by the suns uncaring heat. They rolled slowly along until the cemetery was reached, the sound of taps drifting up to the heavens where they were only an echo.

But sometimes an echo is heard.

My name was spoken reverently, a soft word that drowned out the protestors that know not what faith and duty really mean.

The cemetery is vacant, the community at home. My wife sits with a letter, the paper , worn from touch, her last contact, the writing ashen and fine and almost intelligible. She reads it with restless tension and with every last memory, taking what comfort she can out of the words, so that she will know that my love was true, my sacrifice worthy. She reads and reads, my words to her gathering around her. The more she reads, the less she sees, as the writing becomes fainter, words wet with tears, until the paper itself crumbles away, and nothing is left to her but dust and the future she carries within her.

The cemetery is old now, my grave now surrounded by others, so many years, so many funerals. My eyes live on in a child I never met. My name lives on, on a piece of granite in a place forever solemn, in a picture, in a flag.

I am everywhere, in memorial. In a tombstone, in the sound of fire, in the flag I hope you salute more than once a year. We are all a memory that begins and ends with what is left, stakes in the hard ground on which to peg our history.

When the last thing you see is that small sliver of freedom still there in the sky, remember me. I am a soldier, I am everywhere, in the trees, in the wind, under your feet in a land that's still free.

I am a soldier. I am unknown but remembered always.

Brigid

For Amanda and Kyle

Sitting under a wing
under the night sky
as the engine cools in the night air
Just sitting after one last flight
as the the scent of the sky
remains in my hair
the clouds cling to my soul
Fireflies
little beacons in the sky
mistaking them for stars
looking up
Stars and fireflies
Thinking about friends gone
looking at the shining sparks of light
in the night heaven
and the dark shape of airplanes
darker then the sky
for which they sit in wait
Thinking how much we miss them
telling their stories out loud
but with quiet reverent hush
Those stories, those fearless days
their courage
saying their names
Whisper to them in the night sky
A pilots prayer
for those who went before
to light our sky
to guide us home
Stars

-Brigid

Update: Amanda passed last night at 11:10 Eastern Time. Her adoring husband Kyle was by her side as was her mother Jeanie Younkin, her brother Matt and his wife Michelle and her devoted mother-in-law Audean. God Bless them and God Bless Amanda.

Black Hole Brownies - The Laws of Dessert are Anything But Immutable

Thinking of making a dessert for your sweetie or perhaps some friends or coworkers?

You know your dessert is going to be good when it has its own gravitational field.


Black Hole Brownies

Make with Youngs Double Chocolate Stout and dark chocolate, these brownies are dense, dark and moist without being really heavy. I used Callebaut Intense Dark Chocolate Baking Bar, it costs less per ounce than most high-end baking bars and is complex and creamy with a slight aftertaste of caramel. You can find it at most Whole Foods or on line. Chopping up a large block of chocolate in my kitchen can be a messy task (think Godzilla and Tokyo) but it's worth the trouble.


I took a batch to work and piranha could not have skeletonized a cow in less time than it took for my team to polish these off.

click to enlarge photos, you know the drill :-)

Words in the Wind

Scientists say that the ability to speak developed in our ancestors some 400,000 years ago. Their evidence appeared to be in engineering; the little hole in the back of the skull, the hypo-glossal canal through which fibers of nerves attach to the tongue, is larger in early humans than in other species. Hence the scientific explanation of our decidedly more articulate speech. So as speech divides us from the animals also does it divide us from each other.

We speak in different languages, and even when speaking the same language, we often don't communicate, and when we do, we often don't truly mean what we say. Promises can be nothing more than words and oaths empty air, especially in election years.

Words can support, they can heal, they can cut like a knife.


English is the official language of aviation, and all air traffic control transmissions, worldwide, are supposed to be in English (of course, one man's English is another pilots' "Say Again??")

But conversation itself in aviation is regulated somewhat. Below 10,000 feet above the ground or while moving about on the ground, there is to be no conversation outside of what is required to operate the airplane on a commercial flight. But on long flights aloft, and sitting on the ground waiting for people or bags, all checklists and duties completed, the conversation often moves to the personal.

At one airport in the West, on a transport trip out of there, we heard, on ground control, what appeared to be a conversation between crew members, slightly muffled as if they're not speaking into any microphone, but a mic is picking it up. A youthful voice, likely the First Officer, is talking about his girlfriend and how much fun they had over the weekend, where they ate, the movie they saw, etc, etc. He then asks the other pilot "So, you got anyone special?"


No one can get a word in edgewise to tell these guys they're transmitting in the blind, as they've completely blocked the frequency, we can all just sit back and listen to the impending train wreck.

The captain responds". Naw, man. . I've been having this .. .um. . . uh. . . problem, man. Just can't get it up anymore. . . (sigh). . it sucks" as he goes into detail on his er. . ."condition." (this was years before Viagra mind you)

Finally, the controller breaks through with a stern "Gentlemen !! check your MICS. We've been listening to someone talking for the last 5 minutes on ground control !!!"

Deathly silence reigns after the blast from Ground.

Then, some anonymous pilot chimes in with "Sorry about your dick, man. "

Howling laughter in all cockpits.

Words, a movement of lips and tongue, that can cause laughter or pain, that can divide or conquer. Even in a nation where English is the official language, in parts of our country, there are whole neighborhoods where you won't hear it spoken.

Yet, sometimes one doesn't need to speak at all.

h/t to Suzette for the hands photo, source unknown.

When disaster strike, the land itself turns mute and those that remain, stand simply as silent instruments unable to make a sound.

An old woman, standing in front of what remains of her house of 50 years, nothing, left, not even a photo. She cries, silently and wet, in a faded housecoat, as a neighbor puts his arms around her.

A pregnant young woman, her face growing older by the minute, wanders through the wreckage, clutching only a photo, making pathways between what now is only unknown.

The old and the young, looking at the work of their sweat and tears strewn about for miles, the wind thick and warm, like blood spilled, pooling around what little remains. A lone tree stands, its nervous branches bent down as if hoping not to be noticed.


Moving in and around, the firefighters, EMS, LEO's, volunteers, wearing blue and black and yellow. Such garments, solemnly worn, exchanged for lives that used to be ordinary, worn as they shape something from chaos, coercing that terrible blood wind to give up a sound, the forlorn echo of someone who might have survived underneath the rubble.

Survivors and saviors, moving without sound, sending a message as loudly to the sky as if they were one voice. There is no language for this, no words, it's defiant and imminent life, holding on.

Missouri News

I normally don't blog as to where I am, wishing to keep my comings and goings (attention burglars!) private, but I'll make an exception here. I'm in Missouri working for a few days. As I drove through the airport area of St Louis, I could see the damage from their tornado a few weeks ago, trees torn up, businesses destroyed, houses with roofs missing. It looks like a two year olds tantrum compared to Joplin. The local papers show much more coverage of the devastation than you see on the national news.

Please say a prayer to those folks. The pictures you've probably seen don't begin to show the extent of the devastation and the number of lives lost continues to grow. If a nuclear bomb had gone off you'd not see much difference in damage. To add to the problems there were some storms yesterday and a forecast of more severe ones with possible tornado activity today, while search and recovery efforts are underway.

I also ask that you add in one big, special prayer for Missouri native and pilot Amanda Franklin. Amanda was severely injured in an accident many many weeks ago, suffering multiple broken bones and 3rd degree burns over 70% of her body. Her husband, Kyle, who with her, does one of the classiest acts in the Air Show circuit, was burned in his attempt to free her, but is recovering , unfailingly by her side. She was doing much better after surgery and grafts but has taken a turn for the worse. I didn't know them personally but having been active in airshow support, I'd met both their Dads. Like many aviators, I have been following their story and courage since the accident.

As I start a day on much too little sleep I can only say thanks for all I have, a home intact, friends safe and sound, and someone who loves me with his own strength. We should all be so blessed.
- Brigid

I Wonder How Barkley is Behaving While I'm Gone?

From One Memory Comes Another - The Sound of a PT6

I talk to a lot of school kids during "career days" and one of the questions (from those that watch MUCH too TV) is if there is any danger in what I do. They also ask a bit about flying jets and why I left it.

The biggest danger on the job most days is forgetting why I gave up a much bigger income to wear a badge. I show up for things one doesn't want to experience, representing something to some people that they don't like. They often don't hesitate to let me know in some fashion. I've been into many places where I felt about as welcome as a fox at a poultry convention. It's a difficult job, and in a lot of ways harder than herding a jet around. But in small ways, it makes a difference. It matters to many, and it matters to me. But like flying, my failures can be horribly real but they are more real life, in thought and emotion than anything you see on TV. Also, not even close to be interesting enough to be on TV, and if I dressed like the women on CSI, I'd never be taken seriously.


But there are times I miss the flying. I'd be lying if I said I don't. Many of those flying stories, when I was in service to our country and not a CEO, are mine alone, to be shared only with trusted friends. The rest come up at odd times, and on the rare and odd occassion will be shared here.

Driving out West this month to meet Dad and my oldest brother near the coast, driving through Spokane and Moses Lake and Yakima, one such memory came back in rush of wind and the echoed perfume of JP4.

So to accompany some photos of vacation, a story. . .


The little turboprop trudged on towards Seattle with the slow but steady efficiency of a tax preparer. Six a.m. and I'd already been up for 3 hours. With the luck of the quick-turn gods at SeaTac we'd be on our way to Moses Lake in time for an 8:30 am "dinner". Moses Lake airport had little scheduled airline activity, yet was a home for training for Japan Airlines and we'd sit in the little terminal restaurant watching the giant aircraft launch into another touch and go with all the grace of a drunken bumblebee. It was a regular run and we'd sweet-talked the breakfast cook into heating up the fryer when we called in to the station so we could have our only meal in our 14 hour day, two cheeseburgers and fries as the rest of the world headed off to the office. My Captain may not have been the most personable guy in the world, but he knew the value of a good cheeseburger after a 3 a.m.wake up call.


It wasn't the first job I'd held as a pilot. But it would give me enough hours to help finish college and college was required to open the door for most cilivian, and pretty much all federal and military flying gigs.

It wasn't easy getting even here. There was one interview I went to, flying copilot on a large radial engine twin hauling cargo. An attorney who was also a private pilot that I'd worked for as a temp knew the owner and sent me off with a glowing written recommendation. I'd just put my initials on the resume and my last name, more to save space than to hide my gender. But as I walked in, the Chief Pilot took one look at me, and with a withering glance said "I prefer men".

I replied. . "So do I. . . but let's talk about the job".

Needless to say the interview was over at that point.


But this little commuter airline was willing to give me a chance, but it was obvious that women weren't the norm in the business. They had no bathroom for women in the hangar. The uniform hat just flat out didn't come in a size that fit me, and after using it for everything else, a repository for my keys and change on the counter, a chip container while watching movies and a shade in the tiny window in my bathroom, I finally told the Chief that my dog ate it, and no one asked about it again.

Though honestly, 99.9% of the pilots were great once they realized I was no different than they, except I smelled better and had big bumps in my uniform shirt. I only had one problem pilot. On an empty leg, he once unzipped his pants, level at 9,000 feet, and whipped out Mr. Happy and asked me what I thought. I replied "oh. . sorry. . didn't realize it was so cold in here. . I'll turn up the packs" ( controls heat and a/c). He left me alone after that. If there were Playboy pictures hidden around the cockpit, I didn't make a fuss, I just got out my pen and draw little outfits on them. If the guys exhibited "guy behavior" that crossed the line, it was dealt with one on one and privately. We were a diverse bunch, poorly paid and worked hard, but we were brothers in the sky and we had to stick together.

It was a grand time, though I barely made enough for a crash pad, and to me, hell would be a small windowless crew room filled with the odor of sandwich-like products wrapped in cellophane and carbon dated for freshness. Yet I wouldn't trade that time for anything, the unheard poetry of the first sunrise from two miles aloft, those moments of understanding that you are truly alive, the world at your feet, your aircraft splitting the air as it passes, dividing it into rivers of wandering thoughts.


There was the flight where we only had two passengers to Pullman, college students, and enroute we suddenly smelled the odor of pot (not that WE knew what pot smelled like growing up in the 70's). Without missing a beat, the captain brought back one power lever just enough to trigger the gear warning horn. "beep beep beep". He then puts the PA microphone up next to the speaker, so the "BEEP BEEP BEEP" was blaring in the back of the plane. Then he gets on the PA with his smooth, authoritative Captain voice and said "Ladies and gentlemen, our marijuana detector has just gone off, please put it out and return your seats to the upright position".

There was the day where over the Cascade Mountains one of our cargo pods on the belly of the plane popped open, through no fault of ours, and the small pieces of luggage that were in it fell out. When we landed in Wenatchee, the ground people said. "uh. . where's the bags" and we were like. "Uh. . gotta go!!!. . bye!" I think there's a special place in heaven for ground service agents that have to work with the public.

There was the time we heard one of our planes coming in on priority sequence, after declaring an emergency after a flight up the Gorge in from GEG. We all waited, hearts in our throats, to see our fellow pilots safely on the ground, only to watch the 19 seat /no flight attendant/no bathroom plane pull up in one piece to the gate, the captain FLING the main door open and RUN to the bathroom. . .victim of another PDX crew cafeteria burrito "du jour". Scary times, fun times, times I will never forget.

Yet of all the benefits that come from those meager years of early flying, which we all have to endure, like childhood, are the moments of camaraderie, of pitting your youth and your skill against a temperamental piece of equipment and a landscape of mountains, sky and ice that has little patience for the uninitiated or unwary. At the end of yet another 14 hour duty day, stomach growling and shoulders clenched with fatigue from fighting the wind, you have a memory, of laughter and accomplishment and pride, a memory of the smell of jet fuel and exhaust, combined with the smell of crisp, high altitude air and clouds. Memories that will forever influence your life as a pilot, inside or outside of the cockpit.

It is only our sheer love of flying that kept us in a job like this, and although we may not have loved the moment, we'd love the memory of the moment, of that particular day, or that particular plane, even if the plane itself has long since been retired to the desert, left behind for something newer and faster. As the philosopher Homer said (though he worded it better), the journey's the thing.

The journey was long hot summers, the rationed coolness of fall, and short severe winters that saw no hope for spring. Yet Spring always came again, on that last conceit of winter, with blossoming wind, wings free of ice, and high above, the roar of a C-130, the deep throated rumble of a DC9, sounds that called to us. It was a journey we all take, no matter what our calling, moving in hot motion that is not the wind; strong young blood chasing after its long journey towards home.

Now - 20 or so years later, my favorite airman in the left seat of a small sporty car and me riding shotgun, we stop near Moses lake and get some lunch at a little ma and pa burger stand. The odor of meat and fries cooking takes me back to a book closed except to one finger, kept upon a page. The smell of cheeseburgers, made just for my Captain and I, trailing behind us, we scurry out of the terminal back to our little aircraft, for that final leg back home. If we were lucky, we could preflight out in some dry warmth. Just as often we'd do so hunched over in the slow , cold and opulent rain, tending to a spent horse with Pratt and Whitney engines.

We have no airplane cleaners, so we tidy up the cabin, I with a little can of air freshener and some mints to leave on the seats that I bought out of my meager paycheck for this regular group of passengers that fly this run with us on Mondays. We polish the windshield and check the gas, catching a quick glimpse of ourselves in the spinner of the prop, noting a smile of pride that even a clapped out Beech 99 and a $400 a month paycheck can't take off our face. We are airmen, and this is our journey.

When Words ARE Necessary

There I am trying to get a few cooking supplies before the end of the world today and I spot this in a small grassy lot across the way from my favorite gun store.

I'll let you all supply the perfect caption.

Are You Just Happy to See Me? - A Pocket Pistol Review

The .32acp was a standard police round in Europe for decades. The original Walther PP was chambered in it. While the Beretta Tomcat may also be chambered in the same .32acp, it's clearly a pocket pistol. Not a holstered official police weapon.

The Beretta 3032 Tomcat is a simple blowback pistol with a single and double action mechanism. Fitted with a frame mounted thumb safety, it's small but it's not crafted cheaply. The frame is aluminum alloy, and the slide and barrel are either carbon or stainless steel though the grip material is plastic. It is available in an "Inox" variant, with stainless steel barrel and slide and the frame anodized to look the same.

For a short time a titanium model was also available. It's been reported that only 1,500 of the titanium models were made. There was also a Tomcat Tritium version with tritium night sights.


The 9 mm is often pointed to as the minimum caliber for serious defensive uses and for good reason. I'm one of many who consider that too small. For home defense, I have a .45 with hollowpoints. In concealed carry, unless clothing prevents otherwise, I carry a .45 while traveling in areas I might need it, and 9 mm otherwise. 9 mm, compared to the .45, is smallish and the .32 acp, in comparison, has about half the power of the 9 mm. It's a 70 grain slug at about 850 fps. Not man stopper. Perhap's not even a man-slower, if they are high on drugs.


On the other hand, it's a small hideout pistol, meant to be quite the little surprise when you pull it out of your pocket holster or small bag. Draw, fire until the bad guy is distracted or down, and run like hell. Perfect for slipping in your pocket if you're running to the corner store. Or for deep cover concealment when nothing else is available.

One feature on the Tomcat (which I believe was adopted by Taurus) is the 'tip up' barrel. (meaning the barrel can be released to pivot on a pin under the muzzle).This feature allows a round to be inserted into the chamber directly, without manipulation of the slide. Likewise, the chamber can be easily inspected for its load status. Ammunition companies have also improved on the .32 acp load, by making it in 60 grain hollow-point. CorBon is making some serious kick-butt defensive ammo for the .32 acp. It's not .45 or 9 mm but it's a step up.

http://www.midwayusa.com/eproductpage.exe/showproduct?saleitemid=153200


To load the pistol, insert a loaded magazine. Then, you can chose to rack the slide OR push a lever and tip the rear of the barrel up, exposing the chamber. You drop in a loaded round, push the barrel back into place, and the weapon is loaded. The slide never need be operated, and the hammer need not be cocked as a result. Since it's a double action pistol (like my trusty Sig), the shooter can just squeeze the trigger to fire. Also easy for people with weak hand/arm strength to load.

So what about accuracy? Don't expect a whole lot, it has a very short barrel and small, all matte sights - notch in the rear and a blade up front with no dots to line up. But then again, not a real issue, the piece is meant for close range work where there won't be a lot of opportunity for aiming. But it's quite accurate for it's size, even with the little sights.

Ladies, you may find the DA trigger a bit heavy, though I prefer it to the .32 Kel-Tec's trigger pull. SA is fine. With the blowback, recoil is snappy for it's size, but more than manageable. If you have small hands, this works well. People with large hands may only get a couple fingers around the grip, and if you have larger hands like I, there's a chance of slide-bite. You can add a stock with a large palm swell as an alternative.

Another drawback, other then the firing power, The pistol lacks an extractor, relying upon the expanding gasses to force the spent casing rearward. This means that racking the slide will not remove either unspent or defective cartridges. This can lead to complications in a self defense situation, but is often balanced out by the tip-up barrel. There have also been some design issues, with reported frame cracking and failure to feed. This gun has not experienced it, and has been nothing but reliable.

By American standards, underpowered, though I'm sure many of you can relay stories of how it was quite lethal. In my opinion though, in self defense I prefer the 9 mm and most definitely the .45.

For me, if there's an imminent threat to my life, the .32 is one step above "Look. . a Squirrel!"

Yet there are times this gun might come in handy. Certainly, if I was a criminal, I'd give pause if I was looking at this, as opposed to no gun.

There are better concealed options, but if you have you mind on one of these as an ultra small concealed option there are others you might look at as well. Kel-tec is one. Compared to it, the Beretta is a bit large and thick. But I didn't like the Kel-tec near as well, for feel in my hand and looks alone. It felt like a little plastic squirt gun to me though a partner at work loves his Kel-tecs. On the other hand, it's light, it's thinner and their customer support is really good. If you're buying, try out both. Look and feel and comfort are important in any gun that may, on a given day, be a concealed piece for you.

But, for tiny pocket pistols, I'd stick with the Tomcat. It's better than an unkind word, and almost as easy to carry. You could lose it your purse and forget its there, at well under a pound. Making it good for clothing that's snug as well. Keep it clean (it doesn't like lint) and lightly lubed, feed it some nice Silvertips, Gold Dots and Federal HS JHP's, house it in a nice pocket holster and you'll have a another friend for life.

POP Goes The . . . . .

THE BUTTON ON MY PANTS . . .

Jalapeno Poppers

12 jalapeno peppers
6 oz cream cheese, softened
dash of salt
pinch Cumin
1/2 c flour
1 T cornmeal
1 large egg, lightly beaten
1/4 c whole milk
1 T honey
1 t salt
pepper

1 c fine or Panko bread crumbs

1/2 teaspoon ancho chili powder (ancho is a smoky, not "hot" heat but you can use less or omit)

Roast peppers in 450°f oven, turning when they begin to brown and the skin blisters. Remove and place in a paper bag, closing the top, and let steam for 10 minutes so that the skin is easily removed. Allow to cool.

Heat 2″ of peanut oil to 325°F. (165 C) Note: 325 degrees is pretty much the minimum temperature required to ensure that food seals quickly enough to prevent oil absorption. You can fry foods at lower temperatures, but the final product will be "greasier". Once the proper oil temperature has been reached, the oil may drop in temperature by as much as 50 degrees when food is added. The "sealing" process in the first batch occurrs almost immediately so the food will cook properly. But after the first batch is removed, allow the tempereature to return to 325 before the next batch is added to the oil. This will keep your final product, crisp, not oily.

Mix together cream cheese salt and a pinch of cumin. To create the "boat shape" in the pepper, pinch a fold and cut around the your fingers from almost the top to almost the bottom (leave the stem). Scrape out seeds with a spoon and fill with cream cheese.

Mix together flour, cornmeal, milk, egg, honey, salt and peppers just until combined without any noticeable lumps to make the batter. Put breadcrumbs and ancho chili powder into small, seperate bowl. Using the stem as a little handle, dunk pepper into batter. Coat thoroughly, let excess drip off and then gently roll in the breadcrumbs.

Deep fry 2-3 minutes until golden brown, turning once. Drain on paper towels. Try and eat just one.
h/t to my gal friend E. for sending the photos (my battery died)

To Shoot and to Score - a HOTR gift giving guide

Many men don't like to buy gifts, thinking of it only when certain occasions arise, like realizing their anniversary was last month. I was in a ground school class at a civilian training center with a bunch of Marines and some other fellows going over the systems of the T-39 when one of the admin people brought in a large bouquet of flowers to the room. For me. It was February 14th. There was a collective "oh shit" whereupon about a dozen strapping young men ran for the break room to get on the phone.

I work with nothing but men, and they often come to me with "what should I get my wife for our anniversary/birthday/etc?

Some women do like lingerie. But lingerie is a minefield. Buy it too small and she'll think she's fat. Buy it too big, she'll think YOU think she's fat.

Gentlemen, not an area you wish to go, either way.

Avoid flannel. Sure it's warm, and great if the power is out. But it's not romantic unless you live in an igloo.

Fragrance? That's a deeply personal gift.

I wear something called Elixir of Love No. 1, which is from a very old American toiletries company, or an Irish perfume called Inis which has a subtle scent of Muguet with a subtle underscore of fresh lemon that I love the smell of. Either that or Hoppe's No. 9. Many women want much more sophisticated scents. Do you remember what fragrance she was wearing when you met her? I guarantee if she loves you, she remembers. Find out. Again, don't just grab something because you are at the drugstore and it's cheap, like this one which appears to come with a free cat toy.

Then there's chocolate.

It's hard to go wrong with chocolate. But the huge red block of chocolates that's as big as an AK47 for $5 may be great little surprise for a road trip snack or a door stop but it doesn't say "romantic gift". Quality and elegant presentation is the key here.

Appliances

Bet the carpet in the living room was the only thing that saw any action that Christmas.

Books can be good, but pick a book that is similar to the type of books she has on her shelf. If she's into Bodice Rippers involving pirates and lusty maidens, this probably wouldn't be the book for her
Not just medium ships, or large ships, but HUGE ships. Who knew they were such a menace as you go out and about each day.

Now remember, avoid tools unless your spouse or lover loves to build things as a hobby. Myself, some great gifts I have received involved tools or gadgets but I am not the norm. Avoid buying anything like these things pictured below. Even the most practical woman does not want an extension cord, duct tape or a paintbrush for Christmas or her anniversary.







Men often make the mistake thinking they have to buy a gift that "does something". Blend, dice, chop, (bad) reduce cellulite (really bad). Do not fall for this. Think of something that signals your undying passion. This is NOT a toaster (adding a note, I think you're HOT, doesn't make up for it). If you don't know the hobbies of the woman you are attempting to impress, your safest bet is to buy something that doesn't do anything. If it just lies there in a small box in a coma and sparkles or smells good most women will be happy.

Avoid things you see on TV. If it says thighbuster, thighsmasher or thighrehabilitator, RUN, do not walk away from your TV now (see rule about lingerie). Even if it comes with a free Cap Snaffler. Dad wasn't immune to the TV gift thing. I once got a Car Duster® from him. That might be fine in the city but I lived on a cattle ranch. I promptly took my truck out four wheeling, got it completely covered with two inches of mud then posed, covered with mud myself, holding the Car Duster® in my hand next to it. He got the point. Still, he bought my Mom an ashtray shaped like Mt. St. Helens where the smoke would come out of the top of the little ceramic volcano. NOT a big hit.

Cupid shoots and misses.

Another female blog friend got a shovel for her birthday (wonder if they've found the body yet). And there's my friend from college, whose husband of 15 years bought her brake fluid for Christmas.

Another woman had her husband give her a chain saw. He was lucky it wasn't operational at the time.

You can only guess the reaction to those gifts.
But wait!

Bad gifts aren't just from men. We ladies can be just as deadly in the art of bad gift giving and here are some real delights that both sexes have bestowed upon their loved ones.

The Maniki Butt Bra for Men.

It lifts, it separates.

It gets you laughed out of the locker room.

The Better Marriage Anti-Flatulence Blanket. Using the latest in chemical warfare technology.


The Banana Guard - there are good places to stick your banana. This is not one of them.


The electric butter warmer - bored watching paint dry?

Camouflage Toilet Seat.

Throw in the cammo Snuggee and you're guaranteed to be sleeping alone.

At last - a gift that sends that message of undying love - "From the back, with your shirt off, you look like a wookie."

The War Hammer is a plastic handle designed to hold a razor so you can shave hard to reach areas. This product comes in various sizes and colors with detailed instructions for use, as well as this safety note: "Wear thick pants, shorts, or a thick towel and eye protection when using this product."

I do NOT want to know why you would need thick pants.
Tired of boring yard gnomes.? How about the Zombie of Montclaire Moors, climbing out of your mulch to munch you. This sort of lawn ornament tells your neighbor you're either a really fun person or are under psychiatric care.

The best part? It's portable. Think of the fun you can have with it, take to a playground, a salad bar, your best friends wedding reception.

Why give a hug when you can give the Hug Me pillow. Shaped like a human arm, complete with hand, and attached to half a chest this looks like something left after a nasty accident with a wood chipper or the Razorba war hammer.

It's just like sleeping with a real loving and caring companion, except it has no head and is missing numerous key body parts.

The fringe visor. Don't hide in the shadows, every day is a risk when at any given moment a bobcat may attack your head.

Seriously though, Pay attention to the things your loved one likes to do to relax (and no, that is not house cleaning). Books, crafts, gardening, computers, photography, shooting, etc., and surprise them with something that would allow them to do more of that. But remember, despite the ads, despite the hype, it's not what you give that matters, it's that you took time to think of something to make them smile.

Don't fall prey to the ads, and don't feel guilty if your budget doesn't support an expensive jewelry store or a new computer. It's not what you buy but what you are the rest of the year. Love is not a lover, it is not a gift or a holiday. It's not not what you buy or what you say, it's what you demonstrate every day. What is important is the friends and family around you; the patient, trusting support of a life. It is those who wait quietly in the wings while you flounder and fall, being there to gently pick you up, not with unrealistic expectations, but with unconditional love and support for just being you.


Look at the photos of those you hold dear in your home. Look to your friends. Whether you have a significant other or not, love is all around you. It is a certain special way of being alive. It is an intensification of life, a completeness, a fullness that seeps into the empty places and makes you whole. That is something no one can buy for you.

Savor it, even with your Mt. St. Helens ashtray.