The Red Carpet of My Mind

It occurs to me that making friends on the internet is kind of an odd exercise when it comes to me. I spend a lot of time watching people…how they speak, what they say, body language, tone inflection, etc. Last night, I spent a good amount of time talking with Sara, and we talked for hours about subjects I’ve almost never discussed with anyone in my entire life, except maybe with Audra.

When I first set up my blog, it never occurred to me to not put my picture on my gravatar or in the About Me section…But some of my new friends on the internet chose to keep their physical appearance a secret. In fact, most of my Blogosphere friends who opted for anonymity have been assigned a “look” in my head based on some pretty goofy criteria.

For instance, Sara looks like Katherine Heigl to me in my head from 27 Dresses. I guess it is because of her alters, though I never really have analyzed why she looks like that specific character except that she gives not many hints about her physical attributes…

What Sara looks like to me in my head…


And then there is Terry, who has only ever told me that she is a tiny bit overweight, which is nothing much to go on because I know anorexic looking women who say the same thing. So, in my mind, Terry looks like one of my favorite actresses of all time — Kathy Bates, but specifically how she looked when she was playing Delores Claiborne..I loved that movie! And Kathy plays a wonderful, fierce caregiver in that movie for her friend Vera, who wasn’t always all that appreciative, and frankly I think she looks beautiful.

Terry looks like this in my mind…


The phenomenon works on anyone I tend to communicate with or about that causes any big emotion in me. For instance, any one who reads Sara’s site knows that her therapist recently violated her trust to a spectacular degree, is kind of arrogant and dismissive of her reactions to said violations of trust , has breached his code of ethics, if you ask me, and has been a general stumbling block to Sara’s fight to heal from her childhood sexual abuse. So, in my mind, this is what doctors who cause more damage than healing look like:

George Burns…or decide..

Last night, I actually had a better monkey picture, but after I looked closely at it this morning, I decided I wasn’t as brave as I was last Sara even dared me, but I can’t use it, so I lose this dare. But I think this picture pretty much says how I feel about people who misuse their power. :)

I wonder, does anyone else do this image assigning in their heads? Or is it just me that is so weird!!

– Bird


Shame’s Destruction And How Satan Almost Won

Do You Believe in Shame?

Do You Believe in Shame? (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This is a hard post for me to write, but for the last several hours, and even in my sleep, it keeps coming up, so I’m just going to write it, and have faith that it will mean something to someone. Rebekkah, you probably won’t want to read this one…

When I was molested as a girl (12), it set into motion a ton of painful things. Children are not physically designed to have sex. They aren’t mature enough to deal with all of the powerful emotions that this act creates.On top of this, this trauma physically changes the brain of the person that it is happening to.  So,  a child that is introduced to it too early, and unwillingly, basically has their life derailed from that point on. And it was no different for me. There are libraries of books, and a ton of websites, not to mention specific blogs, dedicated to the after-effects that sexual trauma to children wreaks on these now-adult people’s lives. So, I’m certainly not going to be able to sum it all up in one little article on my little site. Instead, I’m only going to discuss one particularly hard part of this experience that I ended up having to completely depend on Jesus to heal. And that was the shame.

Shame is a complex emotion if you really think about it. There is the good kind of shame, which any person with a conscience should have. If you steal an old woman’s purse on a bus, and you feel shame right afterward, then, good. You should feel ashamed of yourself. But then, there is the bad shame. And this is the shame that makes you ashamed of who you are, not what you’ve done.

The first time this person molested me, my mind went into shock. There was a numbness that I would never be able to convey to anyone who has never had this happen to them. It is like my very soul was screaming, knowing that nothing would be the same again, and yet my mind was strangely silent. But my body responded to what was happening to me, and that was just unforgivable to me. I was being betrayed by my own self. You can get away from anything in the whole world, but never yourself.

Later that first night, alone, in shock, devastated, and feeling dirty and used, I couldn’t even cry. In fact, it took me days, maybe even a week, to come out of the fog of what had happened to me. And the one thought that kept ringing over and over in my mind was that my body had betrayed me. That I had to be a whore that deserved this. I threw up every time I thought of it, and to this very day, I still get sick to my stomach when I think about those feelings of shame.

The shame, introduced to me at the age of 12, never lessened at all as I grew up. Derailed, but still a teenager, I would have an occasional crush, but I mainly kept them to myself. I was terrified that one of these boys would actually like me back, because I knew I could never really be close to them…I had a secret to protect. I couldn’t let on that I was so horrible…

My first boyfriend in high school, Shane (not his real name), was kind of a lesson in how this was all going to go for me. Shane was a normal, nice guy….my first introduction to “bad” boys..ha, ha. He had a band, and I simply fell in love when I heard him sing “I Wear My Sunglasses At Night”. But, as soon as he was officially my boyfriend, I could feel myself tighten up, withdraw, withhold.I didn’t really want him to touch me, or kiss me, or anything. I know it sounds strange, but I wanted to be loved, but not touched. I simply didn’t trust my own body..I didn’t want him to find out that I was dirty and shameful. And eventually, it died out, because I just couldn’t deal with my own self-image, and what I was portraying to him was an illusion that I couldn’t maintain.

This experience rang true in every relationship that I had until the one I’m in right now. And even this one suffered quite a bit due to my inability to deal with my horror at my own reaction to being molested. It wasn’t until I came clean to my husband now about why I had such a hard time with intimacy that I was actually able to begin the long, hard road to reprogramming my own self image.

As Jesus does with all of His children, He started to lead me out of the shame by first pointing out that God designed our bodies for this sort of activity, and it had not been a sin for my body to respond. Next, He pointed out that only one person in this little hideous activity was sinning, and that this particular sin was abhorrent enough to the Lord that it had a special vehemence in the Bible…A millstone, a neck, and the deepest part of the ocean are all involved. That is how much Jesus grieved these sorts of things happening to children.

Next, I had to embrace the fact that the blood of Christ washes away the most foul of sins, and was indeed powerful enough to cleanse me. That done, I had to forgive myself. Even though I hadn’t been guilty of anything, my own mind had judged my body and found it guilty. I had to grant a pardon to my body, and then let it go.

After forgiving myself, I found it easier to forgive the molester, and all these years later, I can honestly say that I have completely forgiven both him, and myself. I do want to say, though, that physical intimacy is an area that I continue to struggle with even to this day. But, it is only a shadow of what it once was, and sometimes serves to remind me of just how far I’ve come since this all first happened to me.

Now that I’ve written this painful thing, I’m going to go in my room, cry, pray, and go to sleep and never read it again.

– Bird

Thanks, God, But I Don’t Think You Understand…

Today, I’m thinking about forgiveness. Not forgiveness for other people, but forgiveness for yourself.

To me, forgiving myself has always been my number one stumbling block. I have no problem forgiving other people for failing me, or God, or other people. Call it a self-esteemissue, or whatever, but I didn’t used to set the

For better self-flagellation...Here's a clue: No matter what you do to yourself, physical or emotional, your blood is worthless. Only Jesus's was worth anything.

bar all that high for my fellow human beings, so when they failed, I almost just expected it. Satan hates us all, and he’s been doing his job a lot longer than any of us have been alive. It would be embarrassing for him if he wasn’t a master at it by now! And I know how much Jesus loves all of us, so it was with heart-felt sincerity that I would lend a hand to lift my brothers and sisters up, dust them off, and encourage them to keep on trucking down their proverbial road.

But that same courtesy just didn’t apply to myself, as I felt that I knew what I was supposed to be doing, feeling, saying…but when I didn’t fulfill whatever it was I thought God wanted of me, I would plunge into a self-hatred, despairing emotional valley, and lick my wounds for days down there. And it was in one of these dark little valleys that Jesus stepped in and shone His light on what was really happening. And you know, He only had to say one word to me for it all to become crystal clear — Pride.

You see, somehow I had elevated myself over other people by thinking that while they were doomed to fail, and Jesus’s sacrifice was complete and perfect for them, somehow God expected more from me…why? Because I was better? Because I was special? And then I would fail and fail and fail. I’d hide away in my little pity party, refusing to be comforted, refusing to answer my God’s voice. And by hiding down in my valley, feeling sorry for myself, I was telling Jesus, “Hey, thanks for dying on the cross and all, but Your sacrifice just wasn’t good enough to cover my sins.” What a big, fat lie from satan, and he snuck it past my ever vigilant brain quite easily.

I deal with my shortcomings differently now, by focusing on how Jesus taught us to pray. I am always paying attention to those tiny little voices that try to convince me that I have something to be proud of…pride is too easily introduced to me, so I pay very close attention to anything that would let satan slip that one past my guards. And when I pray, I embrace the humility of being an imperfect child of God, and then forgive myself, not giving it more importance than any other sin should be given. Jesus was pretty clear in His Word, even our good works are like dirty rags to God. Nothing to be all that proud of down here… :-)

So, today, I’m starting out my day by asking God’s forgiveness for my ever-present failings, and then I’m forgiving myself right after, and I’m going to start my day with a fresh slate — both in God’s eyes, and my own.

Hope everyone has the best day of their lives today!

– Bird

Today I wrote this What’s In A Name? at 20 Lines A Day about how I insulted a biker… :-)

How I Began To Make Peace With Who I Am

As anyone who has sexual abuse in their childhood will tell you, self-image is a hard pill to swallow, and you can spend decades trying to sell yourself on yourself. About a year ago, after I’d read all the books, articles, magazines, and, of course, the all-knowing WebMd in search of sifting out what is the real me and what are just symptoms of PTSD, I felt I was ready to begin my self-exploration. I set about to become the real me, not the weird broken me. Armed with my trusty journal and my favorite kind of blue ink pen, I holed myself in my room, and began my quest to discover and nourish my real self-identity. I was excited and determined.

Hours later, journal empty, and pen lost in the nether-land of sheets and quilts on my bed, I had only confused my self to no end. The problem was, as I saw it, that all this crap happened before I became the real me, so I had no idea who the real me would have been. There hadn’t been enough time for me to develop the real me, so I had very few clues to work with….If you understand that previous few sentences, kudos to you, because I get lost in it. Lost describes what I usually have felt in my life. I’m well acquainted with Lost.

I wrote nothing in the journal that day, or for many weeks later. My broken brain would literally send the question across my mind several times a day, and my spirit would grieve a little, assuming that the real Catherine was gone forever.

In my faith, the Bible teaches me that I’m a new creation in Christ, and thus armed, I knew that the question wasn’t all that important, but I wasn’t able to purge it from my mind. And, as is usual in my relationship with the Lord, I finally had to admit defeat. I was spinning my wheels, but going nowhere.

Then, the answers started coming through memories, and conversations I have had over the years…This is the first one that I remembered, and I had to laugh when I thought of it…It seems like a million years ago.

I have a cousin, (we’ll call her Jane), who was about two years older than I am. She was, and is, the only Christian woman I know that I simply can’t point out a sin she’s committed. Seriously. Take a minute, and think of one person you know pretty well and then think of a sin that person has committed. Saying a bad word, gossip, lying, cheating in school, something…. It is pretty easy, isn’t it? Well, Jane doesn’t sin like anyone I know of. She didn’t even french-kiss until she was married…scary. How would you like to be a Christian compared to that? And of course, every time I sinned big time, guess who I’d end up living with? Yep.

Ahhh, but that is fodder for another day…

Anyways, I was at her house playing as a kid, and Jane coaxed me up a really tall tree. That part was no big deal. But then she did this dangerous tightwalking thing across a thin branch 20 feet in the air to another tree’s limb, and then climbed back down. And then dared me to do it.

Now, I love a good dare, but back then, I had my whole life ahead of me, and I didn’t want to spend it in a wheelchair. So, as any kid would do, I made up excuses. Tons of them. Every single time my mom brought me around, Jane would try to get me to do this dangerous tree switching crap. I had nightmares about it. It got to where I would actually scan my mind for hours trying to figure out a way to not risk breaking my neck, while not being branded a big chicken. I’m a “I-want-my-cake-and-eat-it-too” kind of girl.

Finally, it all became too much work, and I decided that I would have to bite the bullet…I mean, Jane was now Mocking me, even at school. Soon, all of Los Fresnos would know that I was a coward, and this was just unacceptable to me. So, I made the decision.

Putting my mind on neutral, blocking out visions of eating through a straw for the rest of my life, I lunged right into walking across the twig, across the slightly thicker twig-branch on the other tree, and successfully making my way back down to safer heights. Triumphantly jumping the last few feet to the ground, I looked at Jane, expecting my apology, and ready to be magnanimous about it when it came.

Shockingly, Jane was unimpressed, instead choosing to remind me of how long it took me to finally try it, and then dared me to do the next most dangerous thing she could come up with. It had taken me weeks to work up the courage to do this stupidity, and her reaction hadn’t been worth it at all. As the adrenaline wore off, I became pretty emotional about the whole thing. The emotion was anger…with a smidgen of relief that I’d made it without dying. And, surprisingly, I felt powerful. Invincible. Bigger, in a way…

Pissed off and high on adrenaline, I told Jane what she could do with her next dare in the most explicit language I could muster.. :-) Yes, she told her mother on me, and I got a spanking; but, I’d do it all over again just to see her shocked face…It was worth it..really.

Once I had mastered that fear up in the tree, though, I did relish the power. Even though Jane’s response was lacking, I was exhilarated with new found mastery of fear, That power is what made me scoff at her next dare, knowing that I no longer had to prove anything to her. Besides, if she kept this up, she’d be the one in a wheelchair, and I’d be the one mocking her…I know, rude, but hey,  I was 10…

Over the years though, I have come to really enjoy a good dare.

Dare me to use the man’s bathroom during a Spur’s basketball game? Done.

Dare me to make a random announcement on an unattended microphone in K-Mart? Done.

Dare me to drink ten tequila shots under one hour? Done x 10. ( Actually, this one I’ve done a couple of times.)

Dare me to ride a motorcycle again after I almost died in a motorcycle wreck? Done.

Dare me to lie to my boss all day, change out soft drinks on a desk, and move my co-worker’s work around periodically, to cover for a his absence? Done.

Turns out, I’m no coward.

What this memory showed me about the real me is that I am stubborn in my pursuit of something if I set my mind to it. and the consequences be damned. Jane has no idea what a Dare Devil she’d released up there in the insanely high trees all those years ago.

I don’t give up, even when giving up would be the wiser, safer thing to do. That same streak has kept my marriage together for decades, through problems that would have ripped apart any lesser marriage. It has kept me from resigning myself to being a drug addict. It has served to protect my own opinions and beliefs, though an entire church should proclaim me wrong, repeatedly and publically. It has bolstered me into accepting jobs that I had to study for the night before, because I’d sold an interviewer a crock of lies, just to get a better job with better pay. It is the part of me that pushes myself to do things I wouldn’t think I normally could, just to prove to my own self that I actually can.

And you know what? I wouldn’t trade that characteristic for the world. It is a part of me I like.

I feel that Jesus has used this time of self-discovery to show me that the real me is just the one I am now…the one I had hoped to uncover has never existed, and thus can’t be real because she is just a character in a fictional book about my life called “What If”.

I think that there tends to be plenty of voices all around us, that point out all the flaws that they would like us to change about ourselves, with our own voice the loudest of them all. Sometimes, there is nothing wrong with sitting down, and taking a mental inventory of those unique characteristics about yourself that you like..You know, to kind of balance yourself out mentally, from time to time…

So, tell me what is the favorite thing you like about yourself?

– Bird



Label Me Correctly, Dammit

Today, Chef accidently started me down a road that I’ve now been exploring for hours, much to my head’s chagrin. I now have a mother of a headache. Originally, I was ordered by His Chefness to find fellow Manley Biker Bloggers so he could follow their work, and learn from their blogging wisdom. Or make a friend, whichever worked out.

But, as I do, I got distracted by the opinions of the professionals about what constitutes a Real Biker Chick.

Of course, I was immediately concerned that people might be getting My Stereotypical Label Wrong. I mean, in this Politically Correct Day and Age, stereotypes are fading fast and soon none of us will belong to any individual groups, but we’ll all be lumped together in a Horror Show One World Order Of Political Correctness Kumbaya Thing…. We’re almost to the point where common

No political correctness

No political correctness (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

sense and honesty are no longer more important than “not hurting someone’s feelings, self image, self – esteem, selfishness, blah blah blah. Here is the definition according to me:

politically correct – Not telling people things they either don’t want to hear, or even acknowledge to themselves, or don’t want you to be the one telling them the stuff they don’t want to hear. Or not telling people what they want you to say to them. It is tickling people’s ears, instead of giving it straight and honest to them. It is trying to please everyone, and ending up pleasing no one….and losing your ass over a bridge…:-)

.Don”t you see? Without some kinds of stereotypes, you’re wiping away about 90% of the things we laugh at, and you are guaranteeing that people live with a lot of pain and sadness, because they do not learn to laugh at the uncomfortable parts of their lives, but instead hold onto the pain forever…When I laugh, I can feel the physical pain that my childhood saddled me with, melt away. You should listen to some comedians, and count how many stereotypes they take shots at.

So, in the name of laughter surviving on earth, I want to be stereotyped, if you please. It seriously doesn’t matter what people are going to say about whether or not I’m a bona fide Biker Chick. .I take absolutely no self-esteem, whether it be the good kind or the damaging kind, from people disagreeing with something as silly as a stereotype of my Biker status. And I do mean inconsequential things, not like stereotypes  that seek to hurt or destroy races, or religions, or people in general. I just mean the nonsense ones we deal with from day-to-day that groups us up in nebulous, nonspecific, but hilarious ways.

A good percentage of blogs that I pulled up “biker chick” with, either hated bikers and were making fun of them,  or they were news magazines reporting on the latest biker criminal crap that decorates the daily news occasionally, or stylish biker attire, for the Biker Chick who never actually rides on a motorcycle..ever…But suspects she would look awesome doing it in those heels if she ever did become a bona fide Biker Mama….

The Dating Place: A random click linked me to a Single Biker’s Dating site, “where you won’t feel like you are sticking out because you are surrounded with people just like yourself”… Yes. That’s what I want!! Blending is the ticket! Then, I looked through the ads, and I was a tiny bit offended. This is where you thought I would be surrounded by people who are just like me, Google? I beg to differ….Single Biker’s isn’t attracting the cream of the crop, if you know what I mean.

So, here is some stuff I was able to uncover and study intensely today about Biker Chicks, along with my thoughts, hopes, dreams, yada, yada, that I thought you would enjoy.

What Basic Criteria for Being A Real Biker Chick Do I Need To Be Real?

Absolutely nothing. None of the so-called “It” People of Biker Culture Knowledge Community could agree on any basic characteristics or features/actions/situations.. Well, other than one– the must-have for any Real Biker Chick is someone in the house has to own a motorcycle.

…..Apparently the opinion at some sites is that I have not actually been a real Biker Chick this entire last decade. According to other websites and quotes, some which I’ve included on this post, I’m woefully uneducated in how I should dress (high heels, tight jeans, leather halter tops) to show off my Beautiful Biker Chick Image. I would get laughed out of the state if I showed up in high heels at a rally…, ….

….what kind of dental plan I should have (Or rather, not have. Evidently, hard-core Biker Chicks are always missing some teeth..), This would be a deal breaker for me.

….I should always be carrying some form of weapon..Iol. I meet this standard.  :-)

… I should be willing to sacrifice my entire sexual existence, my peaceful conscience, and my physical purity, not to mention my spirituality, my belief in God, and any ability in the future to ever trust a man again, should my man want or need me to do something sexual to help a brother out..,Creepy, and I have never seen anyone do this, or even hint that it is done.

.. No. That kind of sacrifice is too big, too evil, and I wouldn’t play along. Should that suggestion ever be spoken in my home, someone will lose a lovely pair of testicles. Just saying. This is the garbage I hear on Gangland and Outlaw Bikers that makes me yack.

….And what exactly would I be willing to do to make my man happy? His happiness is of paramount importance to the Motorcycle Club gods….Well.. . I am his partner, wife, and his friend…. not his Fairy God Mother..Not his slave. I’m am different, but equal. ..

Do I have a dangerous, mysterious aire about me? You guys do  remember the last time I thought I’d try to look dangerous, right? People thought I was constipated.The only air  I have about me is one that screams “Oil of Olay”.


Up first, we have this little jewel –Freeriderspress’s Definition of a Biker’s Chick – He isn’t too far off on some stuff, as far as what  I have always understood about Biker Chick rankings, but he does say at the end of his long, winding rant that if I don’t drive my own bike, then I’m just “a character in someone else’s fantasy”. Mmm.

Message to Mr. Freeriderpress: So, I want to clarify this and show you my credentials.  I know how to drive my own bike (true), used to own my own bike (true), but am safer riding behind my 35+ years of experience husband(very true). Plus, frankly, I sucked at driving my own motorcycle.. I’m not graceful, attentive, nor am I an adrenaline junkie, so what was the point? Chef drives safer, faster, and better than me anyways.

Please note: .I have never been a character in someone else’s fantasy that I know about…and if I show up in one of your fantasies, you’d better wake up and apologize!! What are you writing here, a piece about Biker Chicks or a Biker Chick Porno Script??

Riding your own bike doesn’t make you a biker anymore than driving a Honda makes you a drag car racer.

This next one I’d like to title, Trying Out For the Team.  I spent some considerable time at this message board because every few posts or so, some chick would try to turn the subject to sex and how beautiful she is, and how available she it right at that moment…Does anyone want to be her friend? She was flirting, before all of God and Men, right there on the message boards.

I was actually losing interest in people’s opinions about my biker chick subject; In fact,  I have forgotten every one of their opinionated diatribes about what constitutes a real biker chick ; Instead, I  became fascinated by this Trolling Biker Chick Wannabe looking to electronically pick up some company for the evening.. I tried linking the site to her entrance into the discussion in case you wanted to marvel at this yourself, but I keep ending up somewhere else…

Well, Que Sera Sera.  I went through that Harley Message board for hours, forgetting my initial quest. Instead,  I searched for the one person that would answer her mating call for attention. I figured someone would notice, and say something, even rudely, or dismissively, but no…… It was radio silence for the Biker Chick Hopeful. The conversations between the other members,though, went on without a bump or hitch. ….. Seriously. I mean, you have to wonder – did all these people know her, and was she 86’d forever? Out in Bad Standing? Excommunicated? Wow. Not one guy was desperate enough to invite her to a secluded chat room for a little loving. I find that almost impossible to believe with the vast knowledge I now possess about the males of this planet and their internet / romantic habits in general.

I’m a little annoyed I can’t find my way back there because I’m not going to get to finish reading the little flirty comments she was making to the chatting men, and I will miss marveling at the stones on this girl….I couldn’t take that kind of  rejection as long as she did. Respect, Wannabe, Respect.

By the time-marks on her comments, she was fishing in that lake almost all night long… Lesson in this one: Sleeping with a Biker, alone, or having a Biker husband/boyfriend, especially a cyber boyfriend you’ve never actually seen,  does not in and of itself, make you a Biker Chick. As I’m sure Desperate Britches here below figured out.

From Harley Message Boards:

What’s a real biker chick? It doesn’t look like we’re going to agree anytime soon on what a “real biker” is so I thought we could give the real “biker chick” a try. Wouldn’t want to leave the ladies out, would we… I say a real “biker chick” needs to be older with some very hard edges (lots of miles) who works somewhere like a 7-11 to support her lazy ol man who only gets off his fat ass once in a while to do a crappy tat on someone…If you don’t fit in that category, you could maybe be a “biker babe” if you get the dress down good enough…

Tired of random people’s opinions, I went looking for some hard facts. Tangible definitions that I could hold up to myself in the light of day, and say Yay! or Nay! So, what better place than on-line dictionary.

Behold the definition of Biker Chick in the dictionary : 

“Phrase not found in the Dictionary and Encyclopedia. Please try the words separately:
biker chick
Can’t find what you are looking for? Try Google site search or help us improve by submitting your definition.  They want me to come up with a better definition, when that is what I was looking for from them in the first place….”Fail “

Lastly, I tried, but it has no answers either, though they have asked all the important questions in life:

Is one of these your question?  | Unanswered 

Me: Yes. Now waiting for the answer….and waiting…and waiting.

What is the definition of biker chick? | Unanswered

Me: I asked you first.

How do you get hot biker chicks to give you head? | Unanswered

Me: Thank you for asking. This is my personal favorite question of all time…. Seriously, dude, if you are at this site with this kind of question, you aren’t getting laid by biker chicks, or probably any other kind of chick either…Good grief, Man! We ride with the Bad Boys of the Highways, Not the Basement Boy with his computer and a dream!!

How long does a chick stay a chick? | Unanswered

Me: Til he grows into a chicken
How do you get a chick? | Unanswered

Me: Buy one? Is this one a trick question?

Where do you get a chick from? | Unanswered 

Me: An egg.

Now,, let me ask a few questions.

A) Does any one answer any of the questions on this site ever, at all? If not, change your name to…It is more fitting and I won’t come looking for answers here..only questions.

B) Does this site have anyone administrating it, or at the very least, let’s let the guy who can’t get a biker girlfriend to give him a bj,  but thinks someone out in cyberspace will give him a magic recipe…let him log in and answer some of the easier questions? He’s going to have the time…I assure you.

Some after thoughts, just in my own opinion.  Biker Chicks don’t need bad dental hygeine, poor career choices, dead-end jobs,  leather halter-tops, or a stinky old man with a fat ass to make them Real Biker Chicks. Being a Real Biker Chick is an attitude that comes from spending hundreds and thousands of miles on the back of a bike, or in the front, with a select group of people. It is reaching out to the other bikers in the community you reside in, whether it be cultural or otherwise, and being there to lend a helping hand, or a shoulder to cry on, knowing full well they will be there for you some day too. Being a Real Biker Chick is 100% an attitude, not a list of qualifications.

Well, except for the motorcycle.. :-)

– Bird

Be True To Yourself, Or You’ll Become Constipated

Don’t ask my why, but girls just seem to love “bad” boys. This never became more apparent than when my husband earned his patch, and became a member of a large well-known motorcycle club. Instantly, I was thrust into situations that I was ill prepared to deal with.

There is no culture that I’ve ever seen that rivals the biker culture for its attractiveness to random women. Slap a patch on the back of a guy, watch a few episodes of Sons of Anarchy, and these men become like catnip to cats. Add in the rumors that the media programs like Gangland and Outlaw Bikers fuel, and a marriage is suddenly launched into the midst of temptations that it has never had to experience before. And many years ago, this is where I found myself.

For a people watcher, this was an interesting turn for our lives to take. Not only could I see how my husband dealt with the issues of being in a club with a reputation, I also had a front row seat to watch how the women responded to being branded second-class citizens in this culture. And one thing I noticed right off the bat was random women’s willingness to physically kick my butt, thinking, I guess, that their physical prowess would immediately make my husband break up with me, and thus earn them a coveted seat on the back of his bike. Seriously, people?

Now, let me be clear. I am no fighter. Not when it comes to being physical. You want to sling witty insults at each other, I’m in. I can hold my own. But I’ve never understood the desire to “throw down” with another female. It all seems so ….unladylike…Add in the fact that I’m a Christian, and you can see, I had some real problems here.

Bikers hang out at bars. It is just what they do. And bars are the hunting gounds for lonely men and women, so it seemed that a lot of the times when we would go out, some random woman would decide I was the weakest woman in the bunch, and like a lioness cutting me off from the herd, would zone in on me to take down. Of course, my pack (the other club women), have never allowed these predators to be successful, and have done my “throwing down” for me, but still…it is all very rude.

My husband thinks it is absolutely hilarious. I mean, he knows I don’t like confrontations, especially the physical kind, and so for some woman to think she’s going to “take him away” from me, just makes him laugh and laugh. And a note to those aggressive women out there: my husband finds a woman who fights repulsive. If you kick my butt, you are guaranteeing he will NEVER look your way again, as a friend or otherwise. He finds the practice unbecoming of a lady, and he only married ladies…FYI…

It quickly became clear to me that I was going to have to work on my own image, or else take a karate class or something. I can’t be labelled the mark every time we go in to a public place. So, I began to work on my “dangerous” and “mysterious” look. My aim was to not look like the weakest one in the place, at the same time, be able to avoid having to fight for my turf. My husband made me stop with the mysterious look, though, because he said I just looked constipated, not dangerous, and he was tired of people asking if I was sick..ha..ha. Very funny.

I am happy to report, though, that these days, this phenomena doesn’t happen much anymore. The up-side to being the weakest woman in the pack is that the other mama-bear-fighting-women have taken me under their proverbial wings, and protect me from the great expanse of fighting women in the lonely world of bar memberships. Win/Win.

One thing I’ve learned from all this motorcycle club stuff is that I am not letting what an expanse of club members and their women think about me change who I am. I’ve earned my little place in the “family” and all without having to “throw down” to get it. I wear my Star of David with my cross around my neck, and I’ve had a surprising number of discussions about Jesus with the people your parents warned you about. I’ve had people who have lost someone show up at my house in the middle of the night, wanting some answers about my God. I’m known as a Christian, and that makes me happy.

No matter what situations or clubs you find yourself in, being true to yourself and to what you believe in is the one way to earn respect from those around you. Trying to be what you are not is only going to make people around you think you are constipated!!

– Bird

If you get a minute, check out this article: So, A Child Molester and a Little Kid are Walking in a Forest…. I wrote it today for 20 Lines A Day… Thanks! :-)

How My Own Brain Humiliated Me


You may have read on some of my earlier posts, I am a diagnosed, text-book case, Hypervigilant Person. It was caused from childhood trauma I had experienced, and was a symptom of PTSD.

Now, I had never, ever heard the word hyper-vigilant before a year ago, so I was really taken by surprise by the therapist that informed me that my brain was essentially broken, and needed to be fixed. It really almost made my poor broken brain explode, because by its very nature, a hyper-vigilant brain is going to over-analyze any decision ad nauseam anyways. That therapist had quite simply blown my mind.

I thought about copying and pasting the medical definitions and symptoms to try to give my reader an idea of what this all is and what it looks like, yada yada. But, I don’t think that would be an apt glimpse into my brain’s perception of the problem.

Instead, I’ve decided to go with a kind of metaphorical story that is more of what this feels like from inside my broken head. Here it is:

Let’s say that you are born into an obscure family in some obscure little country. And because this little country strictly forbids any kind of nudity ever, you live all of your early childhood never seeing what a naked woman looks like. And your law-abiding mom never sees you naked either. 

Eventually, you go through puberty and lo and behold! you grow three breasts, instead of the standard two. As you have nothing to compare yourself to, you assume all the other women in the world also have three breasts.

Your life goes on looking pretty normal to everyone around you, probably somewhat due to your own ignorance of the problem and the loose-fitting clothing you always wear, until you get married. But your beloved husband, who also has no idea all women don’t have three boobs, thinks you are beautiful. Up until this point, you don’t know that you are a freak of nature. You assume everyone else is pretty much built the same as you.

But, as luck would have it, the doctor that delivers your baby does know this is not the norm, and informs you that you have one more breast than all the other women in the world. You are suddenly dealing with a lot of internal issues about self-image, self-esteem, etc. But you’re making a lot of extra milk. Enough so that you can feed your own baby, and donate the rest to the local orphanage to feed newborns that have lost their mothers. So, even if you are way different, and it is causing you some real self-esteem problems, there is some good coming out of the problem. And you’ve been toting around this extra breast almost your whole life. It is a part of you now.

I know it is kind of over-simplifying a complex problem, but my perception of things are somewhat simplistic.

Note: I would also like to say that I tried to pick a different body part, but there is a surprisingly small amount of parts of our bodies that could be an asset if we had more of….The breast was literally the only one I could come up with….. 

Suddenly, I had a different picture of who I really was, and I was humiliated. Secretly, I had always taken a little pride and self-esteem from my ability to analyze the h*** out of anything. Over the years, I’d developed a reputation as a somewhat wise person, always able to present a matter from several different view-points. I had assumed God had granted me my childhood prayer to be blessed with the gift of wisdom, and even at my worst moments, when I was the furthest from God that I’d ever been, I would try to be careful with that gift as to not have Him take it away from me. I had always perceived it as an answered prayer. To some degree, I thought we Christians had all been given three breasts, to varying levels like the parable of the talents.

Hello, Catherine…welcome back to reality..Haven’t seen you here in years!!!

I sat on that too-soft couch, looking at the therapist in stunned disbelief. I wasn’t wise; my brain was broken. As you can imagine, the session was over. I vaguely remember her trying to teach me a breathing exercise or something, but I had retreated into my broken Brain-Castle and slammed the door.

And you can guarantee Jesus heard all about it on my way home. And for weeks afterward. Actually, more like months. I don’t say I prayed extensively about the matter on bended knee. No. I don’t really pray like that…I talked to Him constantly about the disappointment and dismay I felt that I’d been fooled by my own brain and my own stupid pride. I’d been betrayed and tricked. I looked the fool to myself…which is worse than being a fool to everyone else. You can’t hide from yourself. After that, when my brain would go into Solutions or Die mode, I didn’t feel like I was smart…it was just a sick, twisted reminder that I wasn’t so smart after all.

I didn’t go back to therapy. I’m only now getting over that little ordeal. But, as is His way with me, I’ve come to terms with the whole fiasco of metaphorically having three breasts by approaching the problem from God’s point of view. Maybe God wanted me to have three breasts…In fact, maybe in some strange way, God had given me the gift of wisdom, just not in the way I was expecting or to the degree I had once thought. Is it not still a gift from God, even if it is delivered to you in an unexpected way? And He is quite able to put you right back into your place when you try to take credit for the gift He gave you, or have pride in your talent as if you’d achieved it all by yourself. Jesus certainly got my attention on that little crappy characteristic of mine…And He did it because my pride would have infected every bit of what He was trying to do with the talents He had entrusted to this particular servant.

No. I don’t consider myself wise and accomplished, even secretly to myself anymore. When a pride in something I find I can do starts to seep in, I rush to kill it immediately. I can tell a good story because of my broken little brain, and a genetic gift from my dad, but every day I read other writers’ offerings that have more insight, better styles, more creative ideas, etc., and I am able to see the reality of who I really am. Jesus is what makes me special, and it is Him that people are attracted to. I’m just some girl whose brain is broken…..

After long deliberations, I decided that I am going to leave my exhausted brain alone. On the one hand, sometimes it just won’t shut up, and I get worn out from listening to myself cover scenario after scenario incessantly.

But on the other hand, I never have a problem coming up with some little pearl of wisdom I’ve figured out about life for my kids, or a well-thought out solution to a problem my husband presents to me, or even something to write about in my blog. My symptom has now become a full-fledged characteristic, but this little lesson has shown me not to think I’m the one accomplishing God’s work. He’s just using my weaknesses as He tends to do with all of His servants…

My brain and I are at peace with one another once again.

– Bird

Today, I wrote a post here: called Liar, Liar, Pants On Fire. If you’d like to read it, please check it out over there. Thanks again for all of your kind comments!!