les's dreams come true

Some folks dream of white sand beaches and tropical breezes. Others dream of climbing Everest, writing the Great American Novel, or playing Carnegie Hall.

Not les, though. Les doesn't dream big. She dreams banjo.

And she's pleased as a poodle in pink to report that the lesmom made her Christmas dreams come true.

No, of course that isn't the banjo les is holding in the photograph, dear reader. That's Hattie Brown and Jean Bean, the lesdogs. I don't have a photo of my lovely banjo, yet. But I do have a banjo!

Ah, love is sweet.

les sorts things out

Welcome, dear reader, to another edition of the Lesblog.

The handsome young gentleman to your right is one of the lesnephews, Bailey. Last Christmas, Bailey was the star of his elementary school holiday pageant, surprising everyone in the lesfam with not just his ability to carry a tune, but the fact that he didn't faint dead away when asked to carry that tune audibly in front of a packed gymnasium.

I'm looking forward to seeing Bailey and his brother Camden perform in a local holiday theater production in a couple of weeks. Yes, les is taking yet another journey back to OH to visit the lesfam.

Having to drive 13 hours to see the kids break a leg in a small town theater production is one of the reasons why your les continues to contemplate the move back to Ohio. I tell the family I'll be there by June (lack of a job or access to vegetarian food be damned!). Then I come back here to lesland and I realize that my work is important to me (however frustrating) and my friends are important to me and my BJJ school is important to me.

Besides, there was a reason 20-some years ago that I moved away...and have stayed away all this time. I'm still trying to figure out of the reason is valid.

In response to my last blog entry, regarding my hero, Mr. Marcelo Garcia, the lesis suggested that I used to have daggerlike fingernails. Please note that the les has never in her life had daggerlike fingernails, or in fact, fingernails of any caliber whatsoever. But that doesn't mean les wasn't a scrappy kid. In fact, I think the "Lord of the Flies" atmosphere around the leshomeplace when we got off the bus everyday (with the lesbro in charge) is what made les such a fighter today. We have no one to blame but the lesbro.

les learns cool stuff

The gentleman to your left, dear reader, is one Marcelo Garcia. This is one of my BJJ heroes. He is like the Mozart of BJJ. By that I mean that he is a virtuoso. Google up his name and watch his videos if you don't believe me.

Best, he is a small man who competes successfully against big men (and being one of the smallest "guys" in my BJJ school, I need heroes who do small man jiu jitsu).

So not only is Mr. Garcia my hero, but I actually got to learn from him today. It's true. Little old Les learned from and rolled with the man who is considered by many to be, pound for pound, the greatest grappler in the world.

How, you may well ask, would little old Les have a chance to even breathe the same sweaty air as Marcelo Garcia? Well, oddly enough, Les is connected. She is a student at Link Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (formerly Marco Alvan BJJ). And Marco brought Marcelo to Ludlow for a 2-day seminar. I attended the gi seminar today.

We spent 2 1/2 hours on positions. Beginning by pulling guard from the stand up, we segued naturally into a sweep, and then took the back--pausing to learn how to get the hooks in against a defensive player--then passed half guard, with each technique flowing one to the next most sensibly. Afterward, we sparred for a while. I had a chance to have my right arm barred by my hero. Thank you, Marcelo, I'll nurse my stiff elbow with fondness.

The best part of the whole day was getting to sit back and watch world champion grapplers like Marcelo Garcia and Gabriel Napao Gonzaga (one of our Link instructors) and Regis (sorry, forgot his last name--he was there as Marcelo's uke, but he is also quite an accomplished grapper), roll.

Now Les is home, holding down the couch, nursing her stiff joints and watching the Pats alternately shine and embarrass themselves against Detroit. Looks like it's time to head to the shelter holiday party. Sigh.

the return of les: or why les has no ass

It's true.

No more boredom. No sir-ee-Bob.

What Les did over her summer and fall:

Les played the guitar.
Les worked her ass off merging the animal shelters.
Les played the guitar some more.
Les taught a couple of Brazilian jiu jitsu classes for her non-bjj martial arts friends.
Les worked her ass off some more.
Les visited Ohio a coupla three times where, among other things, she went bowling and played the guitar with Lesrelatives.
Les worked until she was virtually ass-less.
Les trained in BJJ sporadically.
Les watched TV.
Les adopted a new dog (much to the Lesmom's chagrin).
Les worked her ass off.

les is bored

I'm back from my 3-day weekend. I didn't go anywhere, of course. In fact, I barely even spoke to anyone. By 9 p.m. on Saturday, as I was leaving the mall after an evening of power-shopping, it occurred to me that I had spoken to only 2 people all day.

I like to tell myself that I'm just an introvert recharging my batteries for another grueling week.

Banjo update: I have learned to play my grandma's favorite hymn, "I'll Fly Away." But that's on the guitar. So I don't think it counts.

les gets (order of the eastern) starstruck

Ladies and gentlemen, Most Worthy Grand Patron, Most Worthy Grand Matron. What the...?

It is after midnight and I'm just home from the "informal opening of the Quilt of Faith Session of the Grand Chapter of the Order of the Eastern Star of Massachusetts." Or something like that. I had to attend this shindig to accept a check and express the gratitude of the animal shelter. I have never worked so hard to earn a donation.

At first, it appeared simple: show up at the Lowell Memorial Auditorium at 6:45 to be seated in the reserved chairs so that I might step forward and accept a gift on behalf of the shelter. Service organizations are nice things composed of nice people supporting nice work. How could I go wrong? I'll drive 2 hours, get the check, give a 2-minute homily to the generosity of the good sisters of the Order of the Eastern Star and be on my merry way. Home by 9:30-10:00 at the latest, right?

Holy Creeping Son of God.

Have you, dear reader, ever experienced a Masonic event? Seems these OES gals are sort of like the ladies auxiliary to the Masons. For THREE HOURS I sat on in the last of three rows of uncomfortable chairs on the stage of the Lowell Memorial Auditorium. Next to me were the representatives of 3 other animal shelters and a guy representing a diabetes charity. In front of us was the grand splendor of the stage and the auditorium. There were spotlights everywhere, an old gal tripping along on the organ, stagehands whispering into headsets, and a room filled with ladies in formal evening gowns.

I was in the place where 1980's prom dresses go to die. Poofy sleeves, princess necklines, bustles, and--in a frightening profusion--sequins and tiaras.

The men were in tuxedos. Yes, although the OES is an organization composed of the ladies, they have to have men there, too. They call each other by wild titles like Worthy Grand Matron and Worthy Grand Patron. Higher ranked than the WGM/P's, though, are the MOST Worthy Grand M/Patrons.

The entire 3 hours we shelter people sat there, various speakers and levels of m/patrons droned into echoing microphones. Every single speech was written and read. No passion, no extemporaneous asides, no humor. They read speech after speech, always opening and closing their remarks with comments to worthy thises and thats. They introduced no end of dignitaries with crazy titles, paraded them around the auditorium floor (there was only balcony seating--the floor was open to pink-and-silver-sequined ladies seated in white leather chairs under colored spotlights facing the stage).

There was a Bible opened on a pedestal under a spotlight in the center of the floor (I don't even want to go into how long it took to get that thing opened and introduced to the crowd). There was a parading of flags, the reading of stories about some flags, national-anthem singing, and no end of organ music. At one point a sequined gal got up and sang us Climb Every Mountain and that What a Wonderful World song in a shrill and mildly off-key manner.

We were constantly being signaled to stand up and sit down by the WGM pounding her gavel (but not before we endured a long story about that gavel). Finally, the shelter people got so peevish with the situation that we all refused to stand anymore. We just sat in our back row, rolled our eyes, and tried to stifle our growling stomachs. There was no food in sight. Who has meetings like this without food?

Along about 9:30 p.m., the worthy grand poobahs finally introduced us and gave us our 2 minutes of fame. The ceremonies were still in full swing when we ducked out the door.

Bless their hearts: they donated $1,000 to the animal shelter. Next time I'll just see if they'd be willing to drop it in the mail.

les has a big day

It was a red power suit day today in Lesland. Today is the day that my animal shelter and my neighboring animal shelter finally decided to tie the knot.

We've been talking merger off and on for 4 years, now. But after some recent very hard work ironing out the details, our respective boards of directors voted to make it happen.

I know, dear reader, that this may be less-than-compelling news--especially if you live in, say, Portugal. But cut me some slack, it's late, I'm tired, and I won a long-fought battle.

The Lesdad is sitting up and has his "teeth" back in. Good news abounds in Lesland.

Of course, banjo-wise, prospects remain bleak.

les talks fighting

Did you know the banjo was originally from Africa and introduced to America by slaves? I just learned this important fact on my latest podcast, Jack W. Lewis's "Old Time and Bluegrass Music Radio Show." This is an informative program that only plays unsigned bands.

But that's not really while we're here today. We're here to talk Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, aren't we?

See the cool chicks in today's visual aid? Do you know how hard it is to find good photos of women doing BJJ? Take it from Les, it's not easy. I've been the only woman training at Marco Alvan Brazilian Jiu Jitsu for a year. A new woman, Sandy, started a few weeks ago. She's a college student, though, so I'm not sure how long she'll be around.

Why no more women than that? I'm not entirely sure. Certainly there are plenty of women--especially in my part of Massachusetts--training in other martial arts. I have several women friends who own their own martial arts schools (one is even an all-women's school). I belong to a group of women blackbelts from different disciplines who get together to train and socialize every month or so.

But few women--even at giant tournaments--train in BJJ. Maybe it's the terrible intimacy you have with your opponent. You are always either maneuvering to lay on top of or get out from under him. He sweats, stinks, and uses your clothing against you. Some of the guys have cauliflower ears from grinding them into the mat. Most of them are big (as in much, much bigger than Les). Even the small guys (the ones only 10-30 pounds heavier than I am) are much stronger than me.

What is BJJ? Well, you could check out the link to your right, dear reader, and see what Marco Alvan has to say about BJJ. But if you'd rather just hear it from me, I'll tell you that it's a form of grappling (think "wrestling") where, instead of pinning your opponent's shoulders to the floor, you try to choke your opponent (either by cutting off her air or cutting off the blood flow to her brain) or you try to lock up your opponent's joint in a way that would cause injury if she didn't "tap out." Some people call BJJ--especially BJJ done without the traditional "gi," or uniform--"submission wrestling."

So in today's visual aid, the gal on the bottom is attacking the gal on the top in two ways: she has her legs wrapped around the gal's head and neck, creating a "triangle choke." This choke will eventually cause the gal on the top to lose consciousness due to restricted blood flow to her brain if she doesn't tap out (meaning tap her attacker as a way of saying "uncle"). The second attack the gal on the bottom has is a wrist lock--she has trapped the top gal's hand and wrist and is bending it in a way that is painful...causing the gal on the top to tap out. Cool double attack, I must say.

Today was the first day I've been back at BJJ in almost 3 weeks. First, work was getting in the way. Then the trip to sit by the Lesdad's bedside (he's doing much better, by the way, thanks for asking).

The time away did me good, apparently. A couple of the blue belt guys (some of our highest ranked and best students) commented that I was doing very well. Then, honor of honors, Marco bestowed my 4th stripe on my little white belt. Receiving a promotion from Marco isn't easy. We eat a lot of mat and wallow in a lot of sweat to get those stripes.

I've been training in BJJ with Marco for just over a year. And while I'm progressing and learning and even holding my own against the smaller guys (and even the big new guys), I feel like there is so much more to learn. This is my 4th martial art (my blackbelt is in tae kwon do--which I still teach once a week) and never have I found such a confoundedly technical style of fighting.

So when my friends look at me like I'm some kind of a kook because I like fighting, or when they think the guys I train with must be big dopes, what they miss is that, sure it's a contact sport that is, ultimately, organized violence. But it's also a chess game. A thinking person's sport.

downhome with les

Today's banjo update: My guitar-picking has improved (see below), but still no banjo.

So yesterday I made the 13-hour drive back to Massachusetts from visiting the Lesfam in Ohio. Leaving family behind is usually hard, even after all these years. Sure, there are visits that go badly, but they are few, and I inevitably end up driving away faced with 700 miles of highway to contemplate what it might be like to move back there. To enjoy my niece and nephews as they grow, to take care of my aging parents, to have a real adult relationship with the Lesis and the Lesbro. What would it be like to have them all so mixed up in my life?

If you don't count the misery of the Lesdad's hospitalization (the daily 4-hour car rides to and from the hospital, the watching him writhe in pain, the facing his alcoholism as he de-toxes while recovering from having his chest cracked open), if you forget that I had to keep checking in with high-priority stuff from work, this wasn't such a bad visit home.

I got to bond with my 16-year-old nephew Cody over guitar-playing. And while he isn't obsessed (yet) with learning to play the banjo, he has thought about it. Cody has been taking guitar lessons for a few years now and shows some actual talent (as opposed to yours truly). The grand finale of our picking together was the opportunity to sit with my cousin Mary and her husband Bob. They have been playing for decades and were generous enough to let us play with them, even giving us pointers, new chords, and encouragement.

Hey, check out the link to your right for Helltrain Records. One of my new adventures with the LesShuffle is the discovery of podcasts (see? there's hope for the technologically hopeless). I'm listening to Mr. B's show on Helltrain Radio. I highly recommend that you subscribe to this good time. I'll be searching for more cool podcasts out there playing roots, old time, bluegrass, and any other thing I think just sounds good.

The LesShuffle is currently charging, awaiting its maiden voyage. Wish us luck!

les reports on the lesdad

I apologize to those dear readers who are so addicted to the Lesblog that they are finding themselves with a bad case of withdrawal. You'll recall from my previous post that the Lesdad has had open heart surgery. It's a few days post-surgery now and the Lesdad is drifting in and out of reality, pulling at his various tubes, and painfully coughing up the yellow contents of his lungs (to the veritable cheerleading of the nurses who don't want that crap to stay down there to turn into pneumonia). All in all, heart surgery is not a pretty thing.

Lesdad is at the Ohio State University's Ross Heart Hospital. This is a shiny, state-of-the-art affair with marble tiles and brushed stainless-steel finishes. He lies propped in a bed behind a sliding glass door, a tangled mass of wires connecting him to bags and beeping computer screens. The Lesdad has not had a successful dental history so many of his "teeth" are floating in a mauve plastic cup. The Lesmom (they are divorced, but she still cares) put water in the mauve cup to keep the "teeth" comfortable and little flakes of chewing tobacco began floating about.

Which brings us to an interesting aspect of the Lesdad's situation: he doesn't take care of himself. In fact, he's been downright self-destructive for many years in more than the average owns-firearms-and-eats-too-much-comfort-food kind of way that is typical of rural Midwesterners. The Lesdad has dipped Skoal for longer than Les can remember. He has had addictions to prescription pain medication (for migraines, abdominal pain, etc). He manages his diabetes with copious quantites of beer. In his golden years, the Lesdad has become an alcoholic with the gout.

So while we all love the Lesdad and cherish fond memories of his quiet sense of humor, his willingness to get up at the crack of dawn to feed horses he never rode, and his soft spot for tomcats and good dogs, we also find ourselves frustrated at his apparent surprise and misery over something as serious as heart surgery.

While the Lesmom and I were visiting him this morning, the Lesdad wasn't entirely with us. He was disoriented now and again, thinking he was in Mexico or about to board a plane. Then he would recognize us and try to make coherent comments (sans teeth, the Lesdad is not so eloquent). At one point, he began to cry. I've never seen the Lesdad cry before. I wanted to give him a hug, but, of course, I couldn't--not just because I would hurt his cracked open chest but because we just don't do that in our family. So I did the next best thing and held his big hand and stroked his head.

les at the last minute

Today's visual aid is brought to you by yet another journey to Ohio. As it turns out, the Lesdad is heading in for emergency bypass surgery tomorrow afternoon. This is where living so far away from the Lesfamily is frustrating.

In the interest of not spending more time blogging so I can get some zzzz's and wake up bright and early to begin the 12 hour drive to the Land of the Soybean, I'll cut this one short.

Good night, dear reader.

les joins the 21st century, musically-speaking

Ok, sure, I was the last person on the block to embrace the cd player (only because my truck came with one 5 years ago). Today, though, I took the plunge: I ordered an ipod. Yes, an ipod. Okay, not really an ipod. Not even an ipod nano. But an ipod shuffle. Why just the shuffle? You may well ask, dear reader. I ordered the shuffle because I'm not your bells and whistles kind of person. Do I really need to view the album cover art while I run down the road listening to music? Do I really need it to sync with my calendar? No. I just need a skip-free, light-weight, long-battery-life, high-volume digital musical accompaniment to running. So I went the cheapest, low-tech no frills way and got the shuffle. It is shown here in all its svelt splendor. Apparently it also comes with a lifetime supply of chewing gum.

In more low-tech news, my banjo playing has not progressed. Should I have spared myself the expense of the shuffle and saved for the banjo? Perhaps, but I enjoy hearing the banjo played well, and the shuffle is more likely to allow me to hear a banjo being played well than if I actually played the banjo myself.

Still, a girl can dream.

the lessis has a birthday

Today is my sister Jennifer's birthday. She turns an astonishing 36 years old. As of today, she is officially going on 37.

In honor of my dear sister (who, in her spare time, is a faithful reader of The Lesblog) I thought I would share some sisterly memories:

I remember that Uncle Al used to call you Baldy when you were a little girl because your hair was so white-blond it was almost invisible.

I remember that for Christmas one year you got movie passes to go see King Kong. So our family all dressed up in our brand new Western shirts and went to the movies in Marion. What a treat!

I remember that we were playing at Grandma's house and you fell and hit the back of your head on her marble and wood coffee table and laid the crown of your head open. I remember Grandpa looking at it and deciding it needed stitches.

I remember you crawling into my bed at night asking to sleep with me because you were afraid of dad's coonhounds barking into the dark.

I remember you used to play with my Barbies when I wasn't home and then leave them in a mess on my floor, making me no end of mad.

I remember you and me and Bill dragging the canoe down to the woods and paddling our rain-swollen creek out to the road. (Do Mom and Dad know about that? Wouldn't you just kill your boys for doing something that dangerous?).

I remember that you didn't share Bill's and my love of horses. So you were perpetually frustrated that we were unwilling to surrender our horses in favor of a snowmobile, or an Atari, or any number of other expensive items.

I remember that you were called Nervous Pervis in high school because you got so worked up before basketball games. And I remember that you gave Mom heartattacks because you were so competitive that you would dive into the bleachers after a stray ball.

I remember that you always made sure little Bay and Cam knew who Aunt Les was, even though she only saw them twice a year. This is good, because it will come in handy when I'm 90 years old and living in a cat urine-stained farmhouse in Vermont and don't have any kids of my own to take my truck keys away.

I remember that you are my favorite sister! Happy Birthday!

les gets serious for a second

Today I wrote a letter to Mr. Charles Foti, the Attorney General of the State of Louisiana. It seems that Mr. Foti and some of his colleagues have decided to "investigate" the Humane Society of the United States and their response to Hurricane Katrina. They are raising concerns that the HSUS operations hindered people's chances of reclaiming their lost animals after the storm.

Mr. Foti and his friends, in my opinion, are chasing their own tails and deflecting the blame for this tragedy from the people on whom it more directly should lie: federal, state, and local emergency planning officials who did not allow for companion animals in their evacuation plans; the state of Louisiana that refused to allow the HSUS to house more than 2,000 animals at any one time at the Lamar-Dixon Exposition Center in Gonzales--even with 200-300 new animals pouring in each DAY--causing animals to be shipped out of Lamar-Dixon to shelters around the country just so new animals could be rescued; and the Lamar-Dixon Expo Center itself for forcing the HSUS to shut down operations before the mop-up was over so they could HOST A RODEO.

As I wrote my 2-page letter to Mr. Foti, I was taken back to my trip to Louisiana and my work at Lamar-Dixon. The little dog, Hi, that I'm sitting with in this photograph was removed from his family's house a month and a half after Katrina hit. He had been locked inside without food or clean water. There was another Chihuahua with him. She was dead of starvation.

Things did not have to be this way. And it doesn't have to happen again. Visit the Humane Society of the United States and learn about the Pet Evacuation and Transportation Standards (PETS) Act. Contact your congresspeople and ask them to vote in favor of this act. Don't know who they are? Go here and find out. The whole thing only takes minutes.

I've worked in animal shelters for 17 years. Before I went to Louisiana I thought I had seen the worst that could befall animals and their people. Now that I've been there, I know I have.

lesoir

Today's visual aid is brought to you by the fact that I trimmed my own bangs again. This is a job that, if left to professionals, typically turns out okay. But I have neither the financial resources nor the wherewithall to go see Esmerelda every 2 weeks when my bangs start to snag on my eyelashes. So I googled "trim your own bangs" and I learned how to twist my bangs into a clump and snip off the end. I didn't do too badly this time, but as straight as my hair is, one false move and I suddenly appear to have a horrific skin condition.

I've been asked by one of my millions of adoring fans if what I write here on the Lesblog constitutes memoir or fiction. I contend that in the post-James Frey-world, there is little difference. As you know, I prefer to think of the contents of The Lesblog as Lesoir (not to be confused with the French "le soir" or, in English, "the soir")

And while I realize that Lesoir is comparable to memoir and that memoir ought to be based, primarily, on memory, I don't feel the obligation to tell the truth. So you can think of Lesoir as outright fabrication if it makes you feel better.

I would like to comment, in the interest of full disclosure, that there is an imposter Les Blog out there that should, under no circumstances, be confused with THE Lesblog.

Today's banjo update: I have begun to learn a few new songs on the guitar. Same old chords, though, so I'm not sure that really counts (I'm avoiding learning to play the F chord). I still do not have a banjo so no matter how much work I do on the guitar, I'm still not learning to play the banjo. You, dear reader, should count yourself fortunate that you do not suffer the agony of the tortured artist.

les is not this goodlooking, either, but at least she doesn't have a unibrow

I'm pretty sure referring to hillbillies as inbred is a particularly unkind thing to do. Especially when some of that breeding led to yours truly, The Les. So in the interest of avoiding self-loathing, I'd like to embrace my inner hillbilly and just leave it at that.

For the record, I am no closer today than I was yesterday at learning to play the banjo.

Today my coworker and I had a little time to kill between meetings so we did our favorite thing and went shoe shopping. I was ostensibly in the store to buy a pair of casual sneaks that would look okey dokey with jeans and shorts (so I can give my expensive running shoes a break from the dog eat dog world of everyday wear). Of course, I quickly dispensed with the lame sneaker offering and went over and checked out the pumps. In the last year or so I've embraced the high heel. And, I've got to say, I've got some pretty nice gams.

Did I ever tell you that shortly after I started my current job (nearly 5 years ago), my photo appeared in the local paper? I was all dolled up in a navy power suit and was perched coyly on a rock with a rescued Keeshond by my side. In the photo, a teensy weensy bit of my slip is showing just above my left knee. A few days after the photo ran I received a letter in the mail. It came in a little white envelope with no return address and was postmarked from a sizeable city that is about 30 miles away. The address and the letter were typed on a typewriter (people do, as it turns out, still have those). The letter said that the anonymous writer--the letter was unsigned--believed me to have the "most beautiful legs [the writer] has ever seen." And then the writer "congradulated" me (the spelling is, as they say, a [sic]). My very own marginally literate stalker.

So at the shoe store today, I slipped off my cute little ballet slipper-style black heels and tried on some serious black pumps. They kicked ass. But they also didn't fit quite right and there really is nothing worse than loving your shoes when they don't love you back.

Speaking of loving those who don't love you back, my pursuit of love (or at least a fricking date) on Match.com continues. Internet dating is an odd thing. I manage about 1 date a year. This despite my smashing legs. Maybe it has something to do with the bruises all over my legs and arms that make me look like I'm in denial about a less-than-ideal relationship with someone with anger management issues. (The bruises come from BJJ practice.) I guess that makes them smashed legs, instead.

One date a year and I've been divorced now for about 10 years. People tell me I need to get out more. I'm not sure what this means since I'm very rarely ever in. Apparently I'm either not out in the right places or I need to spend more time evaluating my similarities to today's visual aid.

I picture myself alone at 90 years old on some rambling old overgrown farm in Vermont, rattling around in a stained housedress worn over blue jeans (one pantleg caught inside my big black wellington boots and one pantleg out). I have on a battered brown hat, my hair is curly and unruly (how it gets curly is not entirely clear) and grey. I'm wearing glasses circa 1984 and I carry around a walking stick (my bursitic hip finally having gotten the better of me 50 years down the road). I also use the stick to hit people and I use the words "scat" and "varmint" as epithets. My nephews (I don't have kids, so my nephews are screwed) show up at my door and are discouraged by the odor of cat urine and firmly believe that my pickup truck keys should be taken away. They argue with me and call me Aunt Les in a whiny way that is entirely inappropriate for 50-something men, and their grandkids stand in my yard pulling black ants off my peonies with one hand and picking their noses with the other. I squint at them all, brandish my walking stick, and say, Scat!

I come from a long line of cantankerous women.

P.S. I'd like to thank you, dear readers, for your comments on the Lesblog. The blogosphere is something of a lonely place, as it turns out, and I'm glad to have a little company now and again.

les is pickin' & grinnin'

I don't know if my current obsession with owning a banjo can be directly traced to my childhood exposure to Hee Haw, but it seems very likely. It could also be the hillbilly genes that my dad's side of the family contributed to my makeup. Whatever it is, I'm obsessed with the prospect of owning a banjo and, worse, learning to play one.

Don't get me wrong. I've no idea what I'm doing and I don't intend to take lessons. I can play the piano (with plenty of enthusiasm if no real talent). And in order to prove my worth to the banjo, I've even been teaching myself to play my guitar. When I say "play my guitar" I really mean pick out only those chords necessary to vaguely play the hillbilly music I love and then beat them half to death. My landlords must be growing weary.

Oh, to have a banjo of my very own.

les is not this goodlooking

This is my photo as it appears on the Marco Alvan Brazilian Jiu Jitsu website. I am not this goodlooking in real life. I also do not weigh 130 pounds.

Yesterday Marco and I taught the karate class at Amherst College. Actually, we taught Brazilian jiu jitsu (heretoafter referred to as BJJ) to the Amherst College karate club. The club is made up of a bunch of smart kids under way too much pressure to succeed. But I manage to refrain from feeling sorry for them because they are also primarily a bunch of rich kids so how bad, really, could life be?

Marco always brings Cesar (his 4-year-old son) to BJJ at Amherst College. Cesar (aka the C-Monster) is a handful under the best of circumstances. Last night he was a T-Rex around the room, crawling and growling and gnashing his teeth, weaving in and out of pairs of kids on the floor practicing their techniques. Every now and then he got in someone's way and Marco would say something rapidly in Portuguese and Cesar would bow his head and stick his lower lip out and then recover within 5 seconds and morph into a T-Rex again. Marco's 2nd son will be born in July.

As I was crossing South Pleasant street on my way out of the gym, I met up with a police officer. There were lots of Amherst cops there directing traffic around a big concert that was taking place nearby. The cop helped me across the street and asked me if I was "LH." I don't think it is ever a good thing when a police officer that you do not recognize knows your first and last names.

We stopped and chatted a bit about martial arts until I finally asked him how he knew me. Seems he met me with a local animal control officer one time. One time. Had to be a couple of years ago because I haven't seen that particular ACO in a couple of years. And he recognized me in gym clothes by my first and last names. I always assume that I'm fairly anonymous and that no one could possibly remember me after having just met me. I didn't remember his name and don't recall meeting him. I find this episode slightly creepy. Apparently I'm not as invisible as I think I am.

les keeps out of trouble

I had to grace the Lesblog with another photo of Hattie Brown. Sitting on the couch in my office, looking bleary-eyed after a long day of snoozing. God help me, I'm turning into one of those pathetic souls who share their pet photos with people who could not possibly care less. It's the price you pay for visiting the Lesblog.

I suspect this blogging business will be like the old-fashioned journaling stuff I've done off and on throughout my life. I have countless half-filled notebooks littering my bookshelves, incomplete compendia of my whines and rants, penciled drawings, assignments, or cryptic notes with phone numbers.

If I leave a half-filled blog out there in the blogosphere, I suspect that will leave me with more shelf space for better books. So I can see the upside to doing it this way.

The downside, of course, is the instinct for self-censorship I never felt when scrawling in a notebook. I was surfing the blogs of others and came across Diane who is in her first year of marriage with an apparently long-suffering Todd. Diane's blog is filled with hateful entries about her sister-in-law and poor-me tales of being married (what? she isn't taking romantic baths? who would have thought that married couples don't spend all day in the tub soaking up each other's love by candlelight?). I don't doubt that Diane feels the need to get this kind of crap off her chest. I just doubt the wisdom of putting it out there for everyone and her relatives to read. Or maybe I just admire the powerful passive-aggressive gesture.

Were I to use the Lesblog to make short work of my relationships with the people I love, I'd soon regret it. They have enough reason to find my affections suspect--my anti-social behaviors being what they are. I needn't spell it out for them.

les & hb

Hattie Brown is the one in yellow. She is a 3 year old Chihuahua mix who came to me when the local animal control officer found her living (not terribly well) off a backyard compost heap. HB is my first little dog (my last dog--the late, great Homer P. Wilson--weighed more than 100 pounds), and I'm smitten. So smitten, in fact, that I waffle between wanting 2 or 3 more little dogs and deciding that I only have room in my heart for HB. HB takes up lots of love. Of course, she has to share her Leslove with Carl and Betty Lou (the cats).

I just returned from a conference of animal shelter workers. I've been working in animal shelters since 1989 when I took my first job with the Humane Society of Seattle/King County. I was an "animal welfare technician" or something like that and I made $4.50 an hour to scrub cat cages, medicate sick dogs, and deal with a fairly callous public who would line up out the door of a Saturday and get rid of their animals by the dozens. Always more people ditching their pets than coming to us to adopt. The death toll due to overpopulation was mighty high. I began to hate people. My supervisor got calls.

Of course, now that I'm 17 years in the profession, I don't hate people. I sometimes think they do some awfully stupid things and some are so downright mean and heartless that I do find myself able to dredge up some hate for them. But I also know that hating people will only stop me from talking to them. And if I can't talk to them, I can't help them or their animals.