I dreamed about Guns N' Roses last night. For those of you that don't know, Guns N' Roses was one of the most prolific rock bands during the late 1980's and early 1990's. It featured Axle Rose as lead singer (I had a huge crush on that skinny red head - thank God I matured!), Izzy Stradlin on rhythm guitar, bassist Ole Beich (although I only remember Duff McKagan, his replacement) and drummer Rob Gardner who was later replaced by Steven Adler (again, this is the performer I remember), oh, and one of the greatest guitarists of my time, Slash.

Now before you go up in arms claiming that Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Santana, or even Stevie Ray Vaughn (amoung others) are the greatest, let me just explain that I'm not stating that he is the best ever, just one of the greatest. He can make his guitar talk, shout, scream, and even lullaby. And, now he does commercials for Saab. Although I do think that is a bit of a sell out, I am forgiving of it simply because I understand the desire to eat and food must be payed for somehow. Also, I'm a bit thankful that he is back in the public's eye, sharing his wonderful talent with us. Not only does the public get to experience him and his music once again, it also gives me a chance to teach Bug about the wonders of Guns 'n' Roses, how they fit into the history of music, why they became so popular, and the effect that their music has had on the music industry up to this point. This wonderful music history lesson had great potential and went a little like this:

I look at my son and say,"Bug, do you know who that is playing the guitar on that commercial?"

"No, but he has really wrinkly hands. It's gross!" He replies, but continues to stare at the TV.

"Yes, honey, he's getting old and that's what happens. But did you know that he was the lead guitarists for the band Guns'n'Roses?" I say as I sneak a look to see Slash's hands, which are rather wrinkled.

"Oh. Yeah. His hands are really wrinkly." Continues to stare at the TV.

"Yeah, well, his name is Slash and he was VERY popular when I was a teen ager. I even have some of their music. I can play it for you sometime, well... I can play a couple of songs for you because, well, you know, language."

He looks at me briefly,"Oh. That's okay, Mom."

Pause.

"So, Bug, isn't it cool that one of the greatest guitarist of my time is on TV."

"I guess."

While it didn't go as I thought, with my Bug staring at me in fascination as I explained the roots of rock, blues, guitars "talking", how politics and sociology played into it all, I did at least finally understand how it feels to be a parent, how I am now the uncool one (although, coolness was only in my own mind anyway), and the significance of all those history lessons my father gave to us at the dinner table, during a TV show, while making rootbeer floats, riding in the car, tying our shoe laces... These lessons are still around, only now I listen more attentively and have a few of my own. Which means that I know that I am planting a seed and because of this I will not give up. I mean, I have to do something to get him away from the insidious hip-hop that has infested his interest. Although, I sometimes I get pulled into the bump, bump, bump and even learn the words to an occassional song. So, I guess it's not so bad, but before he invests his musical interest into just one genre, I want to make sure I'm there to show him all the other genre's and their histories, their roots, which are all planted in the same soil.

But I digress. I was telling you about my cool dream. Although, now it doesn't seem as cool. I'm not sure how meeting the band, having the hotel room next to them, going to the concert by way of walking down a highway in the woods (because there was a fire on the road so we couldn't use our cars), then having to wait on the side of the road with the band is not cool. But it just doesn't compare to the realization that my paents' sharing of their knowledge, their personal experiences and history and how it has shaped my world is one of the many ways that these wonderful people have shown me and, of course, my siblings their deep love for us. But this sharing of knowledge and history is not just a showing of love, it's a passing of legacy. The child will eventually become the parent, the aunt, the uncle, the grandfather or grandmother and they will, in turn, have stories for the child. The realization that I have become that legacy, that I am passing it on just as my father did is monumental. No, wait, it's not just monumental, it's cooler than cool, possibly the coolest.

I just wanted to take this time to share a little information concerning my favorite butterfly: The Monarch.
Not only are they poisonous to predators, but also, they migrate. Check it out:


Unlike most other insects in temperate climates, Monarch butterflies cannot survive a long cold winter. Instead, they spend the winter in roosting spots. Monarchs west of the Rocky Mountains travel to small groves of trees along the California coast. Those east of the Rocky Mountains fly farther south to the forests high in the mountains of Mexico. The monarch's migration is driven by seasonal changes. Daylength and temperature changes influence the movement of the Monarch.
Fall Map (40K)In all the world, no butterflies migrate like the Monarchs of North America. They travel much farther than all other tropical butterflies, up to three thousand miles. They are the only butterflies to make such a long, two way migration every year. Amazingly, they fly in masses to the same winter roosts, often to the exact same trees. Their migration is more the type we expect from birds or whales. However, unlike birds and whales, individuals only make the round-trip once. It is their children's grandchildren that return south the following fall.

You can find this and more interesting information at www.monarchwatch.org. Although, it doesn't mention that Monarchs take up residence in the eucalyptus trees along the Santa Cruz, California coast, merely a two hour drive from my home (if you drive with way Mr. Peevyhouse drives, which we all should, lest we desire to receive the muttered-behind-closed-doors-and-car-windows comments). Which is yet another reason to retire in the Santa Cruz Area: Monarch Migration. Imagine the site of Monarch's flying out in the Spring and then returning in the Autumn, bringing all of those beautiful colors with them, as if they are painting the trees with their wings.

Yes, it has been awhile. But, hey, I didn't promise that my gift of words would be delivered to you on a daily basis. Though I do know how you so look forward to my prose. Okay, enough of stroking my own ego. A whole lot of nothing has been going on and I have been exceptionally busy at work running in my little hampster wheel, which has caused me to be physically exhausted and mentally running in circles. Yes, I know the mentally running in circles is not uncommon with me, but when you add the physical exhaustion you get a very non-productive Cay on your hands.

So, let me start with our recently aquired pet. I didn't have to purchase anything to gain this tiny, cute, cuddly pet. I only had to leave my kitchen window open. And in order to rid myself of my little friend, all I had to do was put out a green little square of poison. Or two. My smarter than smart Dad gave me the wonderful poison, my more than resourceful stepmother promised it would work, she had experience and tales of tails to back it up. The poison went to the creature's habitual visitation corners and was eaten everyday, per my ever observant son. He checked not just daily, but twice a day and report back to me, flashlight in hand. Yes, the mouse had eaten more of the poison blocks. Yes, there are pellets, lots of them. Yes, he should die soon.

Now here is where it gets interesting:

One feeding, the box said.

One whole block is gone, and one is 1/4 of the way eaten.

Four of my family members have contributed to the demise of this little creature.

And yet, the mouse is still alive.

I think we need more poison.

Maybe a few traps.

And a big, strong, sexy man named Sven to clean up the mess for me... Okay, maybe I don't need the last part, but I'm definitely not going to be the one to pick up the dead mouse if it ever does die. Because, let's face facts, it just might not. It could be one of those radioactive mice that can live longer than a cockroach*. Don't laugh, stranger things have happened. And if it is radioactive, I think I should find a way to get it on MY side. You know, name it, be nice to it, stop screaming everytime I see it, let alone hear it.

Not only do I have a mouse that has inhabited my home and scared the you-know-what out of me, but also I have discovered a spider in my laundry room. Of course, it was actually discovered the day the mouse moved in, but I just have not mentioned it here as I am realizing with each telling of the discoveries that I have grown peculiarly squeemish. (Why is that? Can anybody give me a plausible reason?) And, seeing as how I never viewed myself as such and discovering myself to be (drat!), I am hiding from you all exactly how much I am. And if you followed that sentence, then you get a brownie!

Anyway, back to the spider. Once I steadied myself and then studied the creature I came to actually like the markings, not the spider, but the markings. Bug and I have even taken pictures with my camera phone. (Still need that cord to download them!) He, or she - I don't think it cares either way - has a beautiful golden color on it's legs and body with horizontile black strips on the legs, and black stripes going toward the center of the body on the torso. Then, right in the middle of the torso is a white, almost silver, cross. Quite interesting. I pray everyday that it is just a common garden spider and not some crazy Amazon spider that will grow to the size of my hand and eat my face in my sleep. To insure that my son and I are in no danger I seek out it's current web when ever I go into the laundry room. I think Bug is doing the same thing, because he always runs back up the stairs, yelling,"Mom, lemmie use your phone to take a picture! Quick! I found the spider!"

Maybe we should name it with all of the attention we give it.

Other than my two unwanted, but definitely settling in pets, I have not had much, but my rambling thoughts to pound out here on the keyboard. I will probably sit down one of these afternoons and wax philosophical, or wan, or wax, wan, wax on, wax off, wax on, wax off...



*I have personal experience with these creatures as well. Not only are they extremely bold and too dumb to die, but they grow to huge proportions. Oh, and they can live for nine days after you cut off it's head, finally dying due to starvation. Yuck!