Friday, September 12, 2014


Hey, hey, hey.   Let the good times roll! 

We are now resuming the continuing program that was momentarily sidelined.  My readers, friends and I are happily going on with our lives.  

And I got a humongous package delivered to me from my Canadian buddy, Helga, full of clothes, perty knick-knacks, baseball caps, and gifts for Beau AND Joe.  

The Cpap has proven effective.  It was needed, and I love it.  My apologies to the DOKTOR who was accidentally correct.  Hey, even the sun shines on a dog's butt occasionally, and occasionally a Doktor gets it right.  First time for everything.

I have energy again.  Gaaa-LORY hallelujah!  

I'm starting to really love this area now.  After realizing most fruitcakes live elsewhere, (and our particular tiny town is fairly sane), we had proof positive in the following photo over our house.  

  It started in the front yard and ended in the back.  
JUST our house. 
At least that's what Joe said and he's right.

My insulin intake has dropped from 80 units a day to 28, with a ten pound weight loss thrown in for good measure.  Ten to go and I'll be at my old fighting weight, but that's just a sideline benefit.  I FEEL GOOD for the first time in about 5 years.

Of course, being paranoid, I figure there will be a kick-my-ass-to-the-ground reaction, but until there is, I FEEL GOOD.

So I'm going to show you what I felt like doing this morning.

Believe it or not, but that is a FOUR EGG omelet overpowering my 14 inch teflon skillet.

With mozzarella and sharp cheddar oozing out of the center. 

The "trick" is to separate four eggs and whip the whites until they triple in size and stiff peaks form.  Fold in the yolks and poor into a well buttered pan on medium heat and cover.  It's HUGE!!  

When it's almost done, put cheese on top and slap it into the oven to melt the cheese.

Next up?  I've already finished cooking our evening meal and it's only 11 am!!!
Chicken and dressing.

AND!  Can you take one more thing?

Four sticks of butter at room temperature:  $3.45.
1 cup of buttermilk
1 cup of canola oil
1 teaspoon salt.

Pour into two empty butter containers and you have this:

At $3.75 per tub at the grocery store, this is two for the price of one.  
And it's ONLY butter, buttermilk, and canola oil.  
NO artificial ingredients.

Plus, add cinnamon and sugar and you have restaurant style flavored butter.

Now: I have ironing to do, then I've gotta boogie to the beat.

Thursday, September 11, 2014


September 11 means Joe is watching non-stop film footage, but not as much as he used to.

When we were still in Indiana, the news crew always met in our front yard to interview him, next to our flag in the yard, surrounded by fields:  a most beautiful tribute.

I was on duty and called him at his 'off-duty second job' and said  "turn on the TV". 

I called my daughter at her job and said  "Fill your car up on your way home"

Firemen filled my office.

The Mayor agreed to send Joe as Commanding Officer to New York immediately with five members of Joe's crew.  New York's finest opened barricaded streets to allow the Indiana Fire Department Rescue Vehicle  access to "the scene of the crime" via police escort.

As they were loading their gear at headquarters, the local TV and newspaper reporters descended, and I was shocked to see the two people most interviewed were Joe and me.

Me, because I was the only woman.  Joe because he was Command, and both of us because we had been recently married.

There was a full closeup of a black fireman's hand holding mine as we prayed.  The next day it was on the front page of the newspaper.  I assume is was to show unity, and how the difference between skin color fades when there is a singular threat for all.

Another film clip showed Joe and me in a personal moment:  hugging tightly, having only been married for four months.  The interview concerned how I felt, knowing Joe was leaving for Ground Zero. It was a stupid, silly, "watch the woman cry", sound bite.  I don't cry.  Sorry.

Joe came back a changed man.  The mound he dug through, looking for survivors, was four stories high, dwarfing what the cameras showed as being a lump of black stuff.

Joe stayed at local New York fire houses, helping fill the gap left by the deceased crews.  He dug through the rubble, wearing a mask not designed to filter everything he was breathing.  

The New York Health Department for 9/11 followed his health closely for years, until he told them to stop. He had known the danger when he went in and he's not a man to "accept" outside help.

That's just the way he and I click and continue.  We are one.

Mess with me, and you mess with a man of instant, unsuspected, abilities.  Mess with him, and you mess with the contents of my gun safe.  

Mess with both of us, and you risk slowly being nibbled to death by Beau.

Mess with our country and you mess with . . . . uh. . not much to see here, folks.  Move along.

Sunday, September 7, 2014


I've received several emails mentioning the "odd" behavior of familial grown adults in families after childhood molestations occurred.

I would imagine the effects would not only differ between the victims, but also correlate with the severity, frequency, age, and the relationship between victim and perpetrator.

A Father, Father figure, Mother; any blood relative would have a profound affect on the outcome of the child's mind and emotions.

This post will only address molestation with a trusted member of the family, which lends the probability of continued episodes with the same person.

We are all born pre-wired with possibilities related to the genetics inherited from our ancestors.

Artist, thief, narcissist or self-destructive, our future behaviors linger somewhere within our personalities, waiting to be harvested or destroyed as our parents, guardians, or peers, see fit.

When, somewhere along the line, comes a trusted individual who oversteps the bounds of decency, and persists in the destruction of a child's natural instincts for survival and right to protection, changes occur that may - or may not - be evidenced until the child reaches the age of maturity.

Having learned at an early age that no battle can be won, I proceeded through adulthood, accepting whatever fate had in store for me.

Having the courage of my father, the self-protective instincts of my mother, I may have developed into quite an unbeatable handful as an adult.  I think I would have loved that person.

Instead, I morphed into the personality of a victimized wimp, DUE TO THE INFLUENCE OF OUTSIDE FORCES upon my growing, and adaptive, brain.

My motto, if I'd had one, would have been  "Accept and Adapt".

My battle cry was against unfairness and the exploitation of anyone or anything weaker than the assailant.  This did NOT include myself.

I spent my life going to the mat defending the weak and defenseless.  Never mind the fact I got trounced in the effort.  I had no other expectations than losing the battle.

Some victims become unstable in their ferocity, making weaker individuals victims in their quest for domination.  This also includes any species perceived as defenseless as an opportunistic target.

Some victims become overly sexual, possibly in an effort to extort an equal feeling of power, or to align themselves with their feelings unworthiness.

The list goes on as long as any standard book of abnormal behavior can describe.

But the ONE blatant misconception is that ALL victims of child abuse go on to become child abusers.

My theory (and that's all it is.  MY theory) is that ALL child abusers WERE abused as a child.   But not ALL victims of abuse become abusers.

Some of us hide.  Some of us come out swinging.  Some of us only come out and swing in the defense of others.  Some of us climb upward, pointing a great big ol' spotlight into the darkness.

Now?  I'm jettisoning the baggage.  I no longer only fight for others.  I've declared myself strong, successful, and worthy to fight for myself and win.

My old motto of  "Accept and Adapt" has become "ACCEPT, ADAPT, OVERCOME"

Accept the reality of the situation.

Adapt until adaption is no longer an option or the need for immediate action is necessary.

Overcome:   whatever the cost.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014


When I married Joe, even he wasn't aware of what I did late at night after getting home from the fire department.  

When I told him, he was proud to know what lengths I would go to protect a child.  When he found out just what was required to do this, he went into a permanent state of shock.

One night he watched me as I sat in the computer room in Indiana, wanting to be better informed regarding just what the hell I was doing wearing a full headset and my fingers flying across the keyboard of my desktop while making rapid notes in shorthand.

What was I doing?  Pretending to be 14 years old.

I would clock in and go to the internet site I was trolling that night; a chat-room full of young kids, some in their teens, some YOUNGER, chatting. 

The second I would arrive, my screen would be hit with splashes of colors.  Tan was usually a confirmed child under the age of 17.  These I would not answer. Yellow splashes identified those over 21 who were wanting to "chat" with LOTTA JOY.

Yes.  That's where my online name came from - my years of trolling for perverts who were trolling for me:  a young, innocent, 14 year old......or so they thought.

Red splashes signified men who were already being actively investigated.  

My fellow investigators ranged from age 21 up, and spread across the nation.  

I always looked at those red splashes and admired whoever was on the other computer, rarely realizing that when I was actively investigating a serious troll, MY pervert would be splashing red on the screens of others working under-cover.

Thus I worked, late into the night, every night, even on holidays.

Most of the time was a waste of time, but I could not cut the conversation short until I had received the usual "blah, blah, horny request" common with all the "I'm just here to jerk off" men.  After proper training, I was knowledgeable on the SO common string of conversations that each man thought was unique, but far from it.

I was equally trained to respect the queasiness I would instinctively get when a serious stalker was in the room.  I would watch the conversation within the room and hop into the conversation WITH THE GIRL only, in order to grab the one who presented all the warning signs.

I was to NEVER initiate the conversation, I was only to make myself visible.  My name helped, and was why I chose it.  LOTTA JOY drew every jack-off, perverted conversationalist and serious threat that entered the room.

The particular night I'm talking about, I opened a conversation with the young girl, while ignoring the man.  I was aware she was stepping into dangerous territory and, as I had planned, the man "conditioning" her quickly turned his attention to ME.  She was now safe.

When he requested we go into a 'private chat' and Joe  started following the conversation, he ended up getting physically ill.  I couldn't blame him.  I always had the same reaction.

I wasn't too happy either, having the man I loved witness the things I had to pretend to be interested in, in order to lull the man into a sense of safety with a child.

Oddly enough, I had two men - at the same time - who were great fans of LOTTA JOY.  After several weeks, their nights of "grooming" me were drawing to a close.  

Each one of them had "gained my trust" and I was now rapidly hopping from one to the other, neither one knowing the lulls in our conversations were NOT from me blushing, or complying with their requests.

The lulls in the conversation were due to me cross-referencing their locations, dates set up for their individual flights into Standiford Field in Louisville, Kentucky, complete with verified rental cars on hold for them.  Each of them would then meet this 14 year old girl in Georgetown, Indiana, or a central point of my choosing.

All of this was necessary on my part to show INTENT on their parts.  I couldn't just take their word for it.  I had to have verified tickets and rental cars reserved.

My last night consisted of calling in with the proper information regarding these two men who did not know of each other.  One was a doctor coming in from Florida.  The other was an Army Sergeant, coming in from Texas.

I couldn't take it anymore.  I had been spending my nights with little to no sleep, my days filled with the knowledge of all the sickening things happening EVERYWHERE in the world, and I was becoming my own victim:  suspicious, feeling vulnerable, and a growing inability to remember I was NOT a 14 year old girl about to step into hell.

I recently had the "opportunity" to rejoin and spend my retirement back in the saddle, feeling ill, invaded, violated,  dirty, and wondering how the world got to this level of sickness.


I think I'll go cuddle with the love of my life and stare at the gorgeous sunset.  I've earned it.

Monday, September 1, 2014


Speaking of trucks....

Last night I was hopping around on facebook, congratulating one friend on his new truck while enjoying Coffeypot's compliments regarding my headlights. 

This morning, while opening the door on Joe's truck, I asked:  "Have you been burglarized?"   

We proceeded to return the contents of the glove compartment, center console, and door pockets back where they belonged.  Everything had been scattered during the night while "they " looked for whatever "they "look for. 

It seems Joe didn't have anything worth stealing and even his Triple A card and auto insurance card were left behind.  (I doubt these 'people' even know what insurance is)  

Forget the fact I want a reason to do some target practice.  We were asleep when it happened and we're lucky they didn't get mad and break in to tell us what cheap bastards we are.

We didn't even bother calling the police. 

Joe said that Beau HAD barked during the night, but he barks if a gnat lands on the screen door, so we've become immune to it.

At least my metal heron and turtle (we replaced after they were stolen) were still here.  Of course they are hot-wired and also attached to concrete blocks buried below them.

Speaking of embroidery.......................

I get bored easily, which explains why two of my friends are still waiting for their greeting cards to arrive be sent.  

My industrious foray into needle punch embroidery lasted for as long as it took to burn me out.

These owls hang in our guest room, and guests have hinted they might be missing after they leave.  aha!  The plot thickens.

This hangs in the entrance to my ginormous bathroom, and I'm always grateful for the message reminder.

For anyone not familiar with needle punch embroidery, this photo shows the depth that creates the 3D affect.

Now where are those cards I was going to mail?  Holy Crap!  They've been stolen.  

Yeah.  uh, that sounds right.....

It might be a while longer before they get mailed  remade .

Friday, August 29, 2014


A two part sleep study that would take weeks in a normal area, took a full year here.  But the results were that I stop breathing, and my heart stops beating, 240 times a night.  

I know. I know.  Not enough.  

But the doc said I would feel better with a Cpap: able to run farther, jump higher, and leap tall buildings in a single yada, yada, yada, and so-forth.

Another month, and my Cpap arrived!  Oh the joy of anticipation!  I could not wait to join with Joe in the aggravation of straps and leaks and the job of constantly sanitizing the equipment.  

Quickly we arrived at the office and the mask didn't fit my face.  Leaks abounded plentifully as my face is smaller than the medium size mask they ordered.

"You'll get used to it" said the tech.

"You'll get used to it" said Joe.

"I'll get used to it"  said I : NEVER.  

Instead, I said "I'll be back when YOU get it right."

They immediately set about getting it right.

Here is Joe's mask, size large:

Suitable for flying bomber jets in WWII

Here is mine, size small, and it only fits over the end of my nose.
The first night, I somehow maneuvered it downward until I awoke with it IN MY MOUTH.

Another call to the office made me the proud owner of a chin strap to keep my mouth closed.  
Joe wants me to wear it all the time.  
I guess it makes me look hot.

So now our home is a cluster of straps, masks, and machines, and my hair is flatter than a pancake every morning from all the elastic wrapped around my head.

Here's my contraption:
The sound of the air rushing toward our faces at 95mph makes a nice, soothing, white noise sound that actually puts us to sleep, and keeps us asleep, all night.

And if someone breaks into our house because we can't hear them crashing through the patio doors, 
we won't have to shoot them.  
We'll scare them to death.

Here's Joe's contraption:

Here's my heated humidifier in the bathroom after being washed and air dried.

How is it working for me?  I'm running faster, farther, and will soon be nearing the Florida state line.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014


The neighbors who have dogs, walk them up and down the street until "the urge" strikes.  When Beau sees one of his buddies across the street, he never steps out of his yard to run across to meet them.

The same goes for the human idiots who stroll by and clap their hands and whistle for Beau to CROSS THE STREET to where they are.  "Isn't he cute!  Come here, puppy, puppy, puppy!"


Beau stays in his yard, won't cross the street to them, and THEY think he's not smart enough to know what "come here" means.

The dog walkers all comment that they cannot let their pets outside, off leash, like we do Beau, or they'd run off, get lost, and never return.

When we first got Beau, he immediately bonded with me through eye-to-eye contact and he has never lost that need to stare into my eyes.  Odd, since a lot of dogs won't make eye contact.

When we landed here, I walked the boundary with Beau off leash.  Whenever he put one paw outside his invisible boundary, all it took was a "no", from me, and "what a good boy" when he put his paw inside the boundary.

This paid off today.  Not so much for Joe, who went to get the mail, unaware Beau was on his heels,  and came inside to read the mail......alone.

Half an hour later, I walked into the living room and asked:  "Joe?  Where's Beau?"

Beau had thirty minutes to visit his dog friends, follow the neighbors strolling through the community, or run into the busy highway just 500 feet from our front door.

Beau?  He was sitting outside the door, waiting for his human to realize he was missing.


The hospital called.  Joe is expected to make a full recovery.