Yes... A Blog

We're moving

2009-08-22T16:24:00.000-05:00

Just in case there's either of my readers strolls by in the near fulture and wonders where the blog is - I'm in the process of changing hosts (so I can scrap blogger and move to Wordpress) - so Yesablog may be in limbo for a few days.

We'll be back - and maybe even posting a bit more often!

Stay tuned!!

And so but then

2009-08-03T21:02:00.003-05:00

That rusty, scraping, nails-on-chalkboard sound you hear is the sound of my creative wheels attempting to unfreeze... A substantial amount of lubrication may be required to get this, me, this in motion.

I joined a group of people this summer who are making the daunting attempt to read the massive David Foster Wallace tome "Infintie Jest." I bought a Kindle for the occasion and I have to confess: without it, I seriously doubt I would have gotten past the first chapter - again. You see - this is my second try.

I bought the ~~door stop~~ book shortly after it's initial publication because a friend was reading it. At over a thousand pages, it's size wasn't intimidating; I rather like meaty literature. It was Wallace's opening serve ¹ that caused me to put it down without attempting a return volley. Whut. The. Fuck.

A few months ago some of my internet friends were tossing around the idea of reading the book together. Not together together like reading in sync together - but at the same time, book-clubish ² together. It didn't come to be until this summer when some good and brave folks out there decided to launch the Infinite Summer project. A few of us signed up, a forum for discussion was created and then...

Well, amongst each other, there hasn't been much discussion. At least none that I've been party to. Which is okay, really, because more intimidating than reading the book is the idea of trying to Discuss It.

I'm just a speck of an insect floating on the top of the vast sea that is this book - not even my Kindle can define of most of the gold-plated words Wallace pulls out of his lexicon and his intellect is leaving vapor trails it's so far over my head, for chrissakes.

But I am soldiering on. I've relied on our guides over at Infinite Summer to get my head under the surface. Thanks to them I've bruised my forehead with many a V-8 moment which has gotten me to the next chapter, and the next and the next.

I was also greatly relieved to be given permission to hate the novel - which I do, in part. ³ I've developed a dysfunctional relationship with the book. Apropos, I think, because the book is rife with and thrives on dysfunction. So I'm fully expecting to be thoroughly screwed over by the time I reach the end. But, as with any doomed relationship, I'll lick my wounds and do my best to take the lessons learned on to the next literary affair.

I will say this - it is absolutely true that DFW makes you work - and work hard. IJ is not for the feint of heart or those looking for a breezy summer read. He has reminded me why I fell in love with books so long ago. The opportunity to visit the world of another's creation - and especially one of an author like Wallace who is infinitely uncompromising ⁴ in his depiction of that world - is an opportunity to deepen my relationship to and understanding of my own world.

And in this new era of 140 character weedy snippets threatening to choke our already shortened attention span, IJ is a welcome return to whole days spent reading, exercising nearly atrophied brain-cells and going on an adventure with a great mind and talent. How sad, indeed, that this one is tragically gone from us forever.

If you love literature and haven't done so already, you owe it to yourself to settle in with the IJ experience. Truly.

¹ IJ readers will have to forgive the bad IJ metaphor, I just had to. But I promise it'll stop there. I won't abandon punctuation or burden you with sentences that run on for a mile or two up and around behind and through the subject then so come back around and finally exhaustively come to the point dammit. [back to post]

² I'm compelled to mention Oprah in the same breath as "book club" - kinda Pavlovian and sad in a way. These days an Oprah Book Club nominee is the kiss of death for any book that wants to land on my bookshelf. Or, now, in my Kindle. I'm sorry if that hurts Oprah's feelings. It is what it is. [back to post]

³ Like the footnotes ^a - this is why the Kindle is essential to reading this book in particular. The footnote is a click away as opposed to flipping ten pounds of pages back and forth. [back to post]

⁴ Except w/r/t things like w/r/t. He takes shortcuts with trivial references, transitions, impatient to get to the next serve of a capacious word he cannon-balls right to the base line. ^b [back to post]

^a And subfootnotes. [back to footnote]

^b Well, as you no doubt have noted, I lied. I snuck in one more IJ metaphor. [back to footnote]

Sincerely, L. Cohen

2009-04-05T22:30:00.001-05:00

I had listened to only the first couple of cuts off Leonard Cohen's "London Live" album (streamed by NPR online) before I was surfing the net to find out Cohen's tour dates and stops in the US. The closest location to me was in Grand Prairie, Texas (between Dallas and Ft. Worth) this last Friday, April 3rd. A modest three hour drive away.

Within minutes I was on Ticketmaster. My ongoing unemployment and need to conserve cash nagged at me as I trolled for the best "cheap" seat available. There was one available in the center of the first row of the mezzanine. A respectable seat for $57. I stopped, however, before passing go and finalizing the transaction.

"Just for the sake of, let's see what is available at any price..." I coaxed myself.

A few seconds later, there was the seat - Row O, Seat 11 just right of center in the orchestra. With a price tag of $150.

Given my current situation - an uncertain future, dwindling reserves, financial obligations - I hesitated. How could I justify spending that much for a concert? And not only just for the ticket. There was gas for the car and, most likely, an overnight stay in a hotel. The price tag was ballooning.

And then... I let all that go. It was purely an impulse; a decision made within a single unfettered heartbeat; a leap without care. How could I let a chance of a lifetime slip by?

We can live our lives blandly or we can flavor it with a seasoning of rich experiences and adventure. And while I'm prone to live in the former, this time I chose the latter. And was glad I'd retained at least one credit card for emergencies such as this.

You see, Leonard and I have had a very long relationship. His poetry and music have been a large portion of the sound-track to my life. I had to go. It was ludicrous to think otherwise.

I set off for Dallas as soon as my class ended on Friday. I did, indeed, book a hotel room at a nearby "Studio 6" and, in spite of a minor slow up in rush hour traffic, checked in with plenty of time to get to the Nokia Theatre a mile away.

Arriving about thirty minutes early, I paid the hefty $15 for parking and joined a light stream of people moving toward the venue. I'd printed my ticket at home which presented no problem at the door. It was electronically scanned and I was directed where to go to find my seat.

The orchestra was only about a quarter full, my row completely empty, when I took my seat. The stage was back lit with soft pinks, blues and purples through floor to grid lengths of fabric.

Upstage center a large projection peeked through - a later online search confirmed my suspicion that it was of Cohen's own art: The End of the Day.

The stage was set with equipment and instruments, a couple of technicians and roadies doing what technicians and roadies do. The auditorium was slow to fill and I wondered if I'd be so lucky to have empty seats in front of me. I wasn't - but it didn't matter. I had a relatively clear view and was compensated with empty seats on either side of me for the first half. Flanking both sides of the stage were large video screens. A sign of modern times.

Close to curtain time, the auditorium filled - few empty seats. The audience at last in, a cheer rose up when the band and backup took stage, then a roar and we were on our feet when Mr. Cohen took the stage.

Clad in a dark grey suit, grey silk shirt, bolo tie and his iconic fedora, a slight stoop to his stance was the only betrayal to his seventy-four years of age. He took hold of the microphone like the cheek of a lover, knelt to the ground and eased into "Dance Me to the End of Love." His rich resonating bass voice invited each of us in to share a deeply personal few hours of our time.

It's no accident that Cohen has become the legend that he is. He has the gift of artistisc genius that enables him to refract his life through a prism of experience that makes it relatable and relevant to our own. And through it all - there was a twinkle in his eye. A reminder not to take it all too seriously.

Under the musical direction of Austin bassist Roscoe Beck, the band gave each song it's signature sound augmented with new layers by Spanish guitarist Javier Mas, Neil Larson on keyboard (including a Hammond B3 organ with Leslie), saxophonist Dino Soldo, percussionist Rafael Gayol, and long-time collaborator guitarist Bob Metzger.

The gentle and almost ephemeral backup vocals were rendered by a trio comprised of Hattie and Charley Webb - (the Webb Sisters of the UK) who were exquisite on "If It Be Your Will" and Sharon Robinson - Cohen's co-writer and soloist for "Boogie Street."

There were several times I was moved to tears. Particularly poignant was Leonard's recitation of "A Thousand Kisses Deep." I looked up at the video screen to witness a tight close-up on his face. Toward the end of the poem, there was a glistening of tears in his eyes...

For three hours he took us on his journey - skipping on and off the stage to several encores and standing ovations. At last the band set down their instruments, came forward with the singers and Leonard and were joined onstage by the road-crew - all duly chappeaued. Cohen thanked everybody - everybody - from wardrobe to the hall tuners - for their work and contribution, his affection and respect for all clearly evident.

He closed by saying "I hope you're surrounded by friends and family," and then added... because he knew ..."but if that's not the way it is, may blessings find you in your solitude."

Thank you, Mr. Cohen, for a night I will long remember.

Photos: iPhone

So How's It Going?

2009-03-03T18:27:00.002-06:00

As I sat in my corner of space in the back of the room, I longed for the once-held luxury of a private office. I fished a kleenex out of my drawer and feigned an allergy attack in a feeble effort to justify the tears that were creeping down my cheek.

Why was I crying? Moments before I'd opened an e-mail from someone I've been at odds with of late. The e-mail was from me to me. A year ago today, I composed an e-mail via FutureMe.org and set it to arrive today. I'd forgotten I'd done that – as I well knew I would.

The e-mail took me off guard – hence the tears. It asked about things that I'd hoped would come to pass and people who were in my life 365 days ago. I cried because of what hasn't changed, for what did change and for what seems to have slipped away.

Aw hell, I cried because that's what I do best. What follows is the e-mail and my answers to my past self.

Dear FutureMe,

Today is Monday, March 3 2008. I'm sending this while at work - are you still there?

Nope. We staged a bloodless coup and, long story short, the organization closed up shop. Currently I'm a week and a half from exhausting unemployment benefits and a couple of months away from finishing trade school. Should be a full-fledged Certified Bookkeeper by summer. Yay. Me.

It's been humbling. Outwardly, I've embraced the opportunity to pursue a new path but, inwardly, I resent like hell that I have to. That I didn't prepare any better. That a so-called retirement is all but out of the question now.

Angry. You betcha. I struggle with it every day. So far, Optimism is still packing a pretty sound whollop on Pessimism and Cynicism, but I can't speak to it's continued success.

As of today, you're on the upswing from a miserable few weeks and months - pain, depression, health issues. Today you started to change your eating habits and have sworn to start yoga. Why? Because the blood pressure and the cholesterol levels needed to come down. Did you succeed?

Well, no. I did not succeed. Rinse and repeat. I bought a treadmill a couple of months ago. Only this week have I come to terms with using it. Two months now, I've managed to actually cook dinner the majority of evenings. I have a few hits amongst the many misses – but I am eating healthier than I have in many, many years – if ever. So I may be on the verge of a permanent change, but do not hold your breath.

In the last two days, you put your poker blog in stasis. How's it doing? Do you still play poker?

The poker blog is dead, save for the couple hundred bucks a month it still brings me. If not for that, I'd erase it from the internet.

I do not play cards right now because I do not have the bankroll – neither for live nor on-line. Until my financial situation changes, that's how it'll remain. I miss it. I love to play. I just don't ever want to write about it again.

Are you still writing Yes...a Blog?

Well, duh, yes, on and off. More off than on but, obviously I'm still making a stab at it. Writing a blog brought me a whole lot of good in the past. I hope it can again.

You've been planning - in your head - upgrading the house and backyard - did you do it?

Yes – partially. I landscaped the back yard and put in a new deck. I look forward to a great spring out there. It took so long to get done over the summer, I only got a couple of weeks out there before the weather changed.

Inside the house – no. The remainder of the remodel money is what is supplementing my unemployment for the time being.

Are you still in touch with your internet friends?

Barely. This is what I fear has slipped away. I'm not an outwardly social person which makes it hard for me to maintain friendships.

My default is to assume that if someone isn't maintaining contact with me it's because they don't want to and so I refrain from making contact because I don't want to intrude or, worse yet, be rejected out-right.

Yup. That's pathetic with a capital P, but that's how I'm wired.

It saddens me – I met some outstanding people and I would love for them to remain a part of my life, but I fear my crazy neurosis has let it all slip away.

Did you start your portfolio?

Well, yeah. With great timing – at the start of The Great Depression II. A third of it's value has already washed away in the tide of the economic tsunami.

Are you going to retire in two years?

I have to laugh, because tears are redundant.

Are you happy?

The jury is out. Ask me again in another year.

-------

(and Otis, if you're reading this – yeah – what a coincidence that we both would've done a FutureMe e-mail on the exact same day... cue the spooky music... )

On This Day

2009-01-20T13:41:00.003-06:00

A few memories have popped to the surface today:

I was embarassed when our cocker-spaniel would consistently bark at a black person.

An evening, when my parents were out to dinner, when I turned on all the lights in the house and hid under the coffee table because the TV was reporting that blacks were marching into white neighborhoods and rioting.

A Thanksgiving dinner when I was mad because my grandparent's black maid, Murphy, had to eat her Thanksgiving dinner alone in the kitchen.

"Whites Only" signs above water fountains.

Being horrified watching news reports of blacks being beaten by police and sprayed by the forceful water from fire trucks.

The first two black students to be allowed to go to my high school.

The first black family to move into our neighborhood - and the stir it caused.

The only black student my freshman year in college.

I remember coming to understand that the way things were was wrong, and believing that it just couldn't stay that way. That, ultimately, people had to be better than that.

These thoughts are swimming in my head as I try to put today's Presidential inauguration in perspective.

Earlier today I got a little frustrated. There are those who aren't pleased that Barack Obama is now our president and, with the ability to publicly voice one's opinion no further away than a keyboard, are very vocal via forums such as Twitter and Facebook.

As my memories of a time of egregious inequality, hatred, and fear bubbled to the surface, I became increasingly annoyed by those who do not seem to be able to set cynicism aside for a moment - just a relatively tiny moment - and allow this historic day to sink in.

I told them to shut-the-fuck up.

They didn't.

I won't hold it against them. After all, we have the right to express opinion in this country - along with the right to disagree. I can't help but observe, though, those who are being so negatively vocal today were born and have come of age in a time when the signs above the water fountains are no longer there; their schoolmates were a salad of different races and cultures; and Martin Luther King, Jr. means an extra day off work.

They are fortunate, indeed.

Will President Barack Hussein Obama be the leader our country so desperately needs right now? There is time to debate that - another day than today. On this day, I choose to be idealistic and hopeful. To let the weight of this historic moment sink in.

Tomorrow - we get to work.

Auld Lang Syne

2009-01-05T10:41:00.002-06:00

Ah. Well. Here I sit - and have been for a couple of minutes while listening to the first couple of spins off the last.fm wheel of fortune: John Hammond - Buzz Federline segued into Ludovico Einaudi - Fuori dalla notte... I don't think there's a better illustration of the flaky layers of my psyche...

The joke was on me this morning when I rushed out the door and to school only to discover school does not start until tomorrow. My two week hiatus had a bonus day. And with that bonus day went any further excuse for avoiding this space and picking the lint out of my navel.

So here I am. Pecking away at the the keyboard trying to figure out how I can summarize the last few months without wallowing in a slough of murky self pity...

It's a funny thing about depression. It's depressing.

Since typing that last sentence, Norah Jones, Eliza Gilykson, Eric Clapton, Johnny Lang and Jarvis Cocker have serenaded me.

I don't seem to be able to wallow. Doggonit...

Doc Watson just sang to me:

...for I thought myself lucky to be alive.

That does a good job of summing up. No need to provide details.

This is a hard bicycle to get going... I've long been out of the habit and discipline of ~~writing~~ (can I really call it writing? I think not - to do so insults those who have that talent and gift - let's scratch that and say, instead) scribbling. It may take me a few pushes to get back up on the wheels...

I think I will leave it at that and, for the time being, point you to a few folks who provide barrels of inspiration for me as Donna the Buffalo reminds me to "wake up and light the tree that you're on" - truer words... I expect to be back here more often now. Hope you'll join me.

The following blogs are consistent must reads for me. I know two of the authors personally - two guys on opposite ends of the life pole who, but for a common passion, might never have met and become comrades at arms.

One channels Hunter S. Thompson and is living life on the razor's edge, honestly and with no apology. He splashes his life onto the canvas with abandon and color and when he gets it - he gets it. Raw and uncensored.

The other uncannily and consistently gets inside my head - he is journalist, writer, photographer, family man, with a rogue-ish side, who lives a private life in a public way.

All four authors have that gift with their writing that elevates their personal experiences to a level of reflection that is universal and relatable. We share their lives through their words and are rewarded with insights into our own. Have a read or two or three while I do a little housecleaning. I'll be back.

Rapid Eye Reality
Tao of Pauly
Waiter Rant
Anthony Bourdain

Me - the disaster movie

2008-10-26T18:55:00.002-05:00

I shouldn't be allowed in a kitchen. If I had a mate, I'm sure I would be eternally banned from the vicinity of anything that is related to food preparation. But. I don't have a mate. I have cats. And they don't care. Most of the time.

I am entering week four of my "new path." A path that is dictated by budget - a very tight budget. I've had to re-examine my spending habits, which included re-examining my eating habits. Being a complete kitchen idiot, ninety-nine percent of my meals manifested out of a to-go box, bag or, if I was feeling daring and adventurous, the micro-wave.

Up until this evening, I was holding my own in the battle between all things food and making it work in the kitchen. I discovered the blessing of pre-roasted chickens in the grocery store and am now able to stretch that sucker for a week and beyond. There are frozen portions of homemade chicken soup nestled next to the homemade tomato soup in the freezer (soups I learned from a brief stint in a sandwich shop years ago - it came back to me pretty quickly).

Last week I made my first ever meatloaf. I know! How can someone reach my advanced years without ever creating one of those wonders???? It was pretty good and provided my school lunches for most of the week.

So I was feeling fairly confident. Confident enough to attempt a pork loin this evening. The recipe came from one of my new favorite sites Sparkspeople*. A simple recipe for a balsamic vinegar glazed pork loin.

That simple recipe ended up creating a scene of purple spatter that would have made an prime case study for crime scene investigation. And before that happened I had to solve the problem of too much meat, get it into my head just how to brown meat, and then do the math on roasting time in the oven...

Once the stove disaster happened (make SURE the pan has cooled to low before pouring vinegar into a pan of sizzling hot olive oil), the balsamic vinegar glaze was off the menu. The pork loin was skewered together (a result of cutting it in half) and popped into the oven.

It's resting comfortably now while an impromptu pot of applesauce is steaming on the stove. I can't screw up applesauce, now can I?

Want to lay a wager down?

A walk in the woods

2008-10-21T18:05:00.004-05:00

I got to put some things in the ground
Even with this season coming around
It's green's last gasp
And leaves brown
And autumn days are winding down
--Sara Hamer - Things to Forget

It's not because I'm going dotty. It has happened twice a year, every year, for many years. So, it's not a symptom of old age creeping near. No, really, it's merely a symptom of the changing seasons.

You see, every spring and every fall I experience a few brief moments when I'm not sure what season it is. It's a deja vu of sorts - when the weather mirrors where it was only a few months before. Are we moving from summer to fall? Or spring to summer?

Whatever it is, it signals my favorite times of year. Beginnings and endings, changing seasons, transition. Change. The air smells different. The breeze is clear. Nature is preparing - for hibernation, for awakening.

Since moving into my house nine years ago, I've witnessed what could be evidence of Brigadoon's annual descension - right outside my backyard. Or not.

It's a morning haze that tells me summer is over. Or winter. Sometimes I have to apply some thought to figure it out...

This past weekend, I went for a two and a half mile stroll in the woods with a friend. She called me up Sunday and said "You wanna go for a hike?" Without hesitation, I threw aside all plans (read: responsibilities) for the afternoon and said "Sure!"

We drove out to the local lake, plotted the "green" and "yellow" paths on the trail and set out. There was a light breeze through the trees, the temperature was perfect... About a quarter of the way down the trail was when I began to open up to the nature around me, lifting my eyes from the path before me.

There wasn't much in the way of wildlife - trail-bikers had ensured that the critters were probably well off the trail in hiding. But there were sounds - birds, crickets, the trees whispering on the wind.

Near the end of our walk, though, we were rewarded with a brief glimpse of one of nature's creatures - a deer who crossed our path, then disappeared into the woods.

As we wound around the trail, I thought of the conspicuous symbolism of the changing season as it relates to my changing life. As cliched as it is, it was inescapable. However, I didn't dwell on it. Instead I opted to just enjoy the walk and take it at face value.

And perhaps that's all I need to do, period. Lift my eyes from the path and just enjoy the walk.

Does Dan-Active Work for an Irregular Brain?

2008-10-12T14:34:00.007-05:00

Wow. It's been a while, hasn't it?

I have to confess: I haven't written in so long because, well, I've been mentally constipated. Truly - with my life (and the times) doing a 180 in the last couple of months, I think the sphincter of my capacity for self expression contracted tighter than prairie dog's butt in a dust bowl (thank you, Dan Rather).

In what I hope turns out not to be a pathetic effort, I'm just gonna get rambling here to see what I can jog loose and, at the very least, get caught up on the doings in my little speck of the universe.

My Life and Welcome To It

I'm a week into what friends have dubbed The Transition. I've been unemployed now for two weeks and started school a week ago.

The day after my last day of work I felt a little discombobulated. It wasn't like a sick/mental health day or a day of annual leave or a holiday. It was a you-are-now permanently-off work day and it felt odd. Not bad, mind you. Just odd.

I haven't been unemployed since my late twenties. Oh, during my starving artist decade of my thirties, there was a smattering of no work here and there, but nothing extended and certainly no length of time that warranted collecting unemployment benefits - not that I could have collected at the time.

I have to pat myself on the back for impeccable timing. Who could have guessed that the collective mutiny at work would have landed us on the unemployment line right at one of the worst economic upheavals in modern times!

Setting the quickly evaporating hope of an actual retirement aside, though, this could end up being a positive thing. Oh, how, you ask, do tell.

Okay, I will.

For the next nine to twelve months, I'm on a fixed - and very tight - budget. I'm fortunate in that I had a nice soft financial cushion to fall back on. I'm relying on that to see me through for the next year while I regroup.

It's limited, though. There's X amount of dollars with nothing else coming in (aside from unemployment benefits which fizzle out sometime in March) which means I have to get frugal. This has forced me to scrutinize my spending and to begin to find ways to to stretch that dollar farther than a peasant on medieval torture rack.

I've mapped out a detailed budget (thank you Google docs - they've got some great templates just for that purpose) and identified areas that needed to cut - some easy, some not so easy.

My biggest area of wasted dollars is in food. I don't, or didn't, regularly cook for myself. I am a fast food and take-out junkie (Sonic burgers my drug of choice) which isn't good for the pocket book to say nothing of the habit's ill effect on one's health.

I've set a target for weekly food expense and am determined that the food I eat will be generated from my kitchen. Period. I've managed to log one full week without slippin' off the wagon - yay me.

One element that helps this effort along is the school I am attending is darn near out in the middle of nowhere, which makes lunch time treks near impossible. So, I bought a lunchbox and have been bringing my lunch every day which, by the way, has garnered some envious looks from other students who've lusted after my homemade chicken soup while they munched away at a box of microwaved, over-processed, and poor excuse for sustenance in the misguided belief that what they are eating is actually better than the fast food fare offered from the school cafeteria.

Speaking of lunchboxes, I'll soon be replacing the one I have with a Bento Box.You may be thinking that that's not exactly frugal, and you might be right - but, my reasoning which lead me to the purchase had to do with efficiency.

justification of purchase/ The Bento Box stores hot food and keeps it hot along with un-hot food. It will allow me to heat up my lunch before leaving for school in the morning and thus avoid the line at the microwave at lunchtime, as well as avoid microwave line social faux pas, like removing someone else's meal before it's done even though the timer'd gone off and it's owner wasn't standing there waiting on it and how was I to know it wasn't finished yet?

With winter coming on, hot meals will be a comfort, plus I prefer to eat my main meal of the day at lunch. The Bento Box will hold more than will my little Target box. Plus, it's just way cool./ justification of purchase

So, unemployment, radical life shift and an uncertain future, in the long run, may just turn me into a kitchen queen and budget diva - not a negative, to be sure. And in the meantime, I'm gaining new skills that just might be in greater demand once this economic crisis subsides - anyone think they might be in need of a newly minted bookkeeper in about, oh, say, nine months?

He Said, She Said, They All Said

How about that economic crisis, huh? How about those presidential campaigns, huh?

I've purposely avoided tuning in to the TV pundits this fall. Their egregious and willful ignorance (to say nothing of their bias) does nothing to keep my blood pressure down. Instead I've been hitting the internets, reading everything I can - pro and con - about the campaigns, the economy, et al.

I am so weary of the partisan shenanigans. How does one party dare to point the finger at the other? No-one has a clean record here. No-one doesn't have a few bones rattling around in their respective closets.

And of course the tail-spinning economy is the Democrats fault. No, wait, it's the Republicans fault. Ooops, no it's Obama's fault for his tax plan (which hasn't been implemented yet because he hasn't been elected yet - surprise!). No, wait - it's McCain's fault because he was buds with Charles Keating.

You know what's really frightening? It's the voters who make up their minds based on a few sound-bites on the evening news. It's the noisome party die-hards who refuse to engage in intelligent and open minded discourse. It's the, excuse me, idiots who can't see past the propaganda and do nothing on their own to ferret out the facts.

Add to that the sorely misguided folks who opt not to vote at all, who do so out "protest" or to "send a message" or, even worse, just don't care.

I have a very good friend who is a political officer for the State Department. In a recent conversation, he stated that he may not vote at all because there were aspects of both candidates' platforms with which he strongly disagreed.

Well, I kinda lit into him. I was appalled that he would so blithely give up this most fundamental of rights. Especially given his position as a State Department employee!

I later got an email in which he stated my sermonizing had prompted him not to waste his vote after all. He found a party more in line with his views - the Green party - and he's voting.

Folks, not voting isn't the way to fix things. Not voting is saying "I don't care. Do whatever you want." Not voting inches the door closer to shut on our basic freedoms. Think about it. Think about the consequences if we all gave up that right.

Shudder.

Okay. Well, I think I've rambled on enough. I certainly hope I'll be back here more regular-ly in the future (pun intended). In the meantime, I'd be interested to know how the economic turmoil has affected you. Have you made budget changes? Lifestyle changes? Let me know in comments.

Thanks for stopping by - before you go, enjoy some pics taken (with the iPhone camera) on the campus where I am attending school. Not bad for a Vo-Tech, eh?

Hard Day

2008-09-11T16:32:00.001-05:00

I haven't forgotten I have a blog here. It's just that life has stepped and taken my attention elsewhere for a bit. My planned post was going to be about my life changes waiting around the corner. About all those things, ups and downs, one faces when at the edge of the diving board ready to jump off. In spite of the upheaval of my personal life events, my outlook is positive and optimistic. But today.... I can't write about those things... yet. Right now, my life's quirks and quakes just aren't important.

Today I was reminded how brutally fleeting life is. I was reminded how fragile we are. I was reminded that no opportunity to let someone know you care should ever be ignored. Today I am broken-hearted. Today I learned that, late Tuesday night, one of the kids in our youth program committed suicide.

He was bright, personable and disenfranchised. A victim of circumstances that left him faced with decisions and responsibilities no one so young should have to endure. An individual who carried a heavy burden of pain no-one close to him fathomed.

I'm doing my best to avoid the what if's. What if I'd stayed in touch more often. What if I'd gotten him to the workshop Tuesday... What if I'd.... Selfish sentiments, to be sure. The thing is, one can never do enough. One can only do what one can. The important thing is to do. Even the tiniest gesture may mean, quite seriously, the difference between life or death.

I will resist the urge to step up on a soap-box here. I will, instead, challenge you to perhaps to get involved in a young person's life. Be a mentor. Take your kid fishing. Get to every ball game. Read to kids at the library. Camp out in the back yard with your niece and nephew. Be honestly interested in their lives.

Listen to them.

Respect them.

Love them.

And let them know you love them at every opportunity.

Snews that's fit to print

2008-07-30T11:04:00.004-05:00

I have to confess. When it comes to local news, I am an ostrich - my head is firmly planted in the sand. Yeah, I know - it's irresponsible, but I have a responsibility to my health to keep my blood pressure down!

Years ago, I gave up on the local TV news. The competition to outdo each other on "Live-Late Breaking," if it bleeds, it leads, so called news wore me out. Rarely was there a story or "late-breaking" news that I felt carried any relevance to my life in general, informed me of something that was compelling or that I needed to know.

However, there are exceptions. During tornado season, you can't get any better weather reports than from an Oklahoma meteorologist. And during a disaster, the local stations step up to the plate - they showed the right stuff at the time of the Murrah bombing, putting the national media to shame. The same was true for the May 3rd, 1999 night of tornadoes that ripped a good part of Oklahoma apart.

Next to go was the local paper. Our city rag is mostly fluff, containing little to no journalistic reporting. From time to time, though, I pull up the online version to check in with what's going on, especially during election season.

Today I was cruising through some local election results and stumbled upon a bulletin board loaded with discussions about our community, relevant news and sprinkled with a few odd musings here and there.

As I scrolled through various postings, I was struck by the similarity to the coffee clatches that can be found in various cafes and restaurants around any smallish community. There was only a handful of posters musing about the this and that's of our town. It was kind of quaint.

There were a couple of items that I pulled to share. One was a link to this video. Although I'm an animal lover, I'm not a fan of PETA - but I loved the ad.

Second was this article about a church that canceled a gun giveaway:

Windsor Hills Baptist had planned to give away a semiautomatic assault rifle until one of the event's organizers was unable to attend.

The event? A weekend youth conference. Yes. A semiautomatic assault rifle in the hands of a teenager - the path to Jesus.

But what got an out-loud guffaw out of me was the list of links at the bottom to other stories. I'll let the screenshot speak for itself:

I'd like to meet the copy editor or programmer responsible and give 'em a high five.

Discovery of the Century

2008-07-26T22:11:00.001-05:00

Happily ever after - surving PC abuse

2008-07-06T16:16:00.002-05:00

It's a funny thing about relationships. For some, they fall into a relationship as easily and gently as snowflake falls from the sky. For others - falling into a relationship is like falling down a rocky slope - thrilling, scary and leaving them black and blue at the bottom.

That rocky slope aptly describes my relationships. With computers, that is.
From the day I abandoned my first computer - a Mac - for the increasingly ubiquitous PC, I've nursed the wounds and bruises those relationships evinced. What would start as a seemingly happy union would end in a bitterly contested and painful divorce. And with no alimony, either - insult to injury.

This weekend I liberated myself from the pain and emotional toll those PC bastards exacted from me. I finally found the strength and the courage to stand up for myself and cry to the winds, "No more!"

I bought a MacBook Pro. I asked forgiveness and found it'd already been granted. Mac took me back, no questions asked. I guess that's what happens when you find your soul mate.

Spinster for Hire

2008-06-27T20:01:00.004-05:00

I've enjoyed a small variety of jobs in my working lifetime. I've been a liquor store cashier, a candy store attendant, a file clerk for a tuna company, a psychiatric attendant in a mental hospital, an assistant stage manager for a summer musical theatre company, a union election monitor, a customer service rep for the water department, an actor, artistic director, sandwich shop minion, waitress, employment counselor, performing arts center director and then employment counselor again - my current job.

Of course, the most satisfying and longest periods of employment were as an actor and then artistic director of the small acting company I'd help to create. Second to that was my ten years as director of the performing arts facility.

But as satisfying as those jobs were, well, this is Oklahoma - a career in the arts will barely keep your cupboards stocked with Ramen noodles, to say nothing of paying the bills. My roots are deep here and, rather than heading for more verdant artistic real estate, I opted to stay and entered the eight to five world of a steady paycheck and health insurance.

That's what I've been doing for the last eight and a half years. Collecting that steady paycheck and setting sights for a longed for retirement. It's what you do when you're my age - and those who don't are just work-a-holic nuts. Or just plain nuts.

I figured I had about three years before even considering jumping out of the airplane (figuratively and literally - I'm planning the sky dive for number sixty). Funny how fast the worm can turn - hell, it can break the sound barrier in it's speed. I'm standing at the hatch and about to be pushed into the great beyond like it or not.

As a Philly friend said this week - I hope my parachute will open. Strike that - I just hope I have a parachute.

So, what happened?

I work for an agency that is funded with federal money (administered by the State) to do what we do. The Feds, as we affectionately call them, decided that the States weren't spending the money given them, which is in turn allocated to entities and agencies - like the one that employs me - to do what they do within their respective state.

Ten million dollars was rescinded from my state. Three million of that was due to an error in a report our state submitted to the Feds. That translates to a deficit of over a hundred thousand dollars in the budget of the agency which employs me. Which leaves us enough green to stay in business until about, oh, December.

There it is - I'm losing my job and the ~~incompetent jackass~~ ~~state official~~ incompetent jackass who sent in the erroneous report gets to keep his. And don't even get me started on our theory of the real reason the Feds took the money back. Can you spell I-r-a-q?

I expect extreme apprehension and maybe a little panic to set in in a couple of weeks or so. Right now, though, I'm fairly calm and resigned. Kubler-Ross's first stage is denial, isn't it?

I will be doing my best to see this as an opportunity - but, truthfully, right now I haven't the foggiest of what I'm going to do.

Do I want to pursue another eight to five? Do I want to strike out on my own? Do I want my lottery tickets to hit?

Well, yeah on that last one.

Oddly coincidental, I'm an employment counselor (for a few minutes longer) working in an agency which is housed in the former veteran's ward of the mental hospital where I worked as a psychiatric attendant - my first job upon returning to Oklahoma. There's some irony in there somewhere....

The One Where I Play Around with Live Writer

2008-06-11T12:01:00.004-05:00

I'm all about geeky stuff. I'm like a mosquito to bare skin when it comes to new internet thingamabobs and tools - I just can't get enough. So, when I read this post from internet neighbor Otis, it was incumbent upon me to check out Live Writer as well.

After a few moments of frustration with install (lovely, lovely Microsoft - still hasn't got the user-friendly part down), I was underway with this post.

This blog uses the Blogger API to publish to my domain. I'm pleased to report that the first test - the blog set-up - was a breeze. Score one!

Currently, I am using the Web Layout to compose the post. It presents a box formatted as my blog is formatted - CSS styles included. That is a very sexy feature. One press of the F12 key, and I have an instant preview of the post as it would appear published. F11 gets me back to writing in a snap. Score two!

I'm thoroughly anal about code, so I am thrilled to see that the auto-italics button codes the proper tags instead of the deprecated and the bold tags win with the instead of boo-bad . Score three!

Next is the image test - the photo at ~~left~~ right is from my recent trip to Philadelphia. I converted it to B&W, resized, selected the "Photopaper" border, added the "watermark" and used drag & drop to position it. Very, very cool. A big score four!

I rarely use tables, so I'll skip that feature. On to the Insert Map. I was impressed with the bird's eye view of Mt. Willis, so much so, I was inspired to go hunting for my current and previous abodes via the map feature which use Virtual Earth:

Mine is the one in the middle...

A snap to do the insert and a big plus is the caption function, but I encountered a problem with the format. I wanted that to be centered on the page. The code is there, but it's not centering in the preview. This could be a browser glitch if Live Writer is using IE for the views. Will have to wait to view in Firefox. Score five with reservations. [UPDATE] The centering affects the caption, not the map.

More abodes:

The little brown house - the house on the right was a crack house.

Just about at the south end of the lot was my little house on Faerie Queen Lane. Owen Stadium (home of the Sooners) is just outside frame to the left.

I'll skip the video embed. I'll accept it on faith that it's a breeze. Auto-score six!

Okay - so far I'm very impressed with the software. Now let's see if this baby publishes!

Score zero on the publish. It uploaded to Blogger, but did not publish to the domain. ~~Will have to troubleshoot to find out why and get back to you later.~~

[UPDATE] I'm still not sure what went wrong with publishing. I've also tried my best to get the maps centered in the post and have been unsuccessful. My attempts at altering the the HTML were obliterated, stripped from the code.

The long way to solve the problem would be to download the map images and hard code them into the post. I'm just OCD enough to do that, but I don't have the time right now.

Bottom line is, I like the software. A big drawback, though, is that it's not web-based which would allow access from anywhere. As it is, it's a download to your local machine, which makes it portable only if you have a laptop and travel with it everywhere. That said, I will no doubt use if only for it's way-cool image inserter thingamajig.

del.icio.us Tags: Live Writer,blog tools,blogging

With apologies to Mr. Obama

2008-06-05T18:01:00.004-05:00

This blog doesn't get many visitors. I'm completely OK with that. I come here to write, ramble, drone on about stuff and to, occassionally, attempt to write something worthy of being read.

I had a very unhappy reader today. He/She left a comment on an old post which, bluntly, called me "a pathetic, jerk-off, time-wasting jack ass". The commenter didn't find what she/he was expecting and just couldn't withhold her/his wrath.

What was the commenter in search of? Dirt. Dirt on the (now) Democrat nominee for the President of the United States, Barack Obama.

You see, that particular post was an attempt to mock the media and the penchant for salacious leads and teasers only to have nothing in actuality to report. It's all designed to keep one tuned in, see. Get it, Mr./Ms. Annonymous?

You can take comfort though, Mr./Ms. A, you are not alone. Approximately 90% of the folks who land here by way of a search engine, are looking for the same dirt. To wit:

 Num  Perc. Search Term
 53 16.26% obama cheating on wife
 34 10.43% obama cheating on his wife
 33 10.12% obama cheated on wife
 27 8.28% obama cheated
 12 3.68% obama cheated on his wife
 9 2.76% obama wife affair
 8 2.45% barack obama cheating on wife
 7 2.15% obama cheating wife
 6 1.84% is obama cheating on his wife
 6 1.84% barack obama cheated on wife
 6 1.84% obama affair
 5 1.53% obama affair wife
 4 1.23% obama extramarital
 4 1.23% obama caught cheating on wife
 4 1.23% obama caught cheating on his wife
 4 1.23% michelle obama cheated
 4 1.23% obama cheated wife
 3 0.92% obama's cheating on wife
 3 0.92% wife obama affair
 3 0.92% barack obama cheated on his wife
 3 0.92% obama cheating on wife?
 2 0.61% obama's affair with another woman
 2 0.61% barack obama cheating on his wife michele
 2 0.61% obama wife
 2 0.61% obama cheating on his wife?
 2 0.61% obama affair his wife
 2 0.61% obama & wife affair
 2 0.61% obama has affair
 2 0.61% obama extramarital affairs
 2 0.61% obama cheated on wife?
 2 0.61% obama, wife, affair
 2 0.61% is obama cheating on his wife?
 1 0.31% has obama had any marital affairs
 1 0.31% has obama cheated on wife?
 1 0.31% obama affair with wife
 1 0.31% obama and cheated on
 1 0.31% obama cheated with another woman with michelle
 1 0.31% obama affair extramarital affair
 1 0.31% has obama had marital affairs ?
 1 0.31% did obama cheated on hi wife
 1 0.31% obama's wife affair
 1 0.31% obama affair cheat michelle
 1 0.31% does obama cheat on his wife?
 1 0.31% obama affair with another source:woman
 1 0.31% weekly dizzy spells senior citizen
 1 0.31% obama cheat affair
 1 0.31% is obama cheating on wife?
 1 0.31% obama and wife's affair
 1 0.31% obama cheated?
 1 0.31% has obama cheated on michelle
 1 0.31% obama affair on wife
 1 0.31% obama cheated on wife with man
 1 0.31% was obama cheating on his wife
 1 0.31% obama cheated affair
 1 0.31% has obama cheated on wife?
 1 0.31% obama wife cheated
 1 0.31% obama cheat wife
 1 0.31% obama cheated on wife marriage
 1 0.31% obama cheating on wife
 1 0.31% obama, cheating on his wife
 1 0.31% obama cheat on his wife
 1 0.31% obama's cheat affair
 1 0.31% obama affair extramarital cheating
 1 0.31% obama affairs cheating
 1 0.31% obama cheating wife
 1 0.31% master of my own domain
 1 0.31% obama's wife cheating
 1 0.31% obama's affair with woman
 1 0.31% obama cheated
 1 0.31% obama - cheating on wife
 1 0.31% barack obama cheating on his wife
 1 0.31% michele obama affairs
 1 0.31% obama, cheating, wife
 1 0.31% obama wife affair
 1 0.31% obama latest news about cheating on his wife
 1 0.31% obama affair with another women
 1 0.31% barack obama caught cheating on his wife!
 1 0.31% obama affair, cheat
 1 0.31% obama affair women cheat
 1 0.31% obama caught cheating on his wife?
 1 0.31% obama wife have affair ?
 1 0.31% barack obama affair wife
 1 0.31% obama's cheating on his wife
 1 0.31% obama wife cheated
 1 0.31% obama extramarital affair
 1 0.31% obama affairs cheating michelle
 1 0.31% extramarital affair obama
 1 0.31% obama wife cheating

To all of you out there so desperate to find dirt on Mr. Obama - you're wasting your time. Why not just listen to what Barack has to say? That would be a far more productive use of your time then wasting it on a fruitless search only to land here, the vaste wasteland of a pathetic, jerk-off, time-wasting lazy ass (I have the t-shirt ordered).

But, thanks for stopping by. You're welcome back anytime.

And the Wind Comes Sweeping

2008-06-05T12:10:00.002-05:00

Nearly a week of wind, wind, wind! Forty MPH gusts - almost knocked me on my butt at lunch today. The the tree above caught my eye as I left the building - all the trees are in a perpetual northward lean.

Faces in the Wind

2008-06-01T21:39:00.001-05:00

The iPicture above was taken with my iPhone while enjoying a perfect iEvening with friends and music in the park. Karla Bonoff was singing and the sky took on that lazy summer turquoise and orange color.

This was just a damn good day.

I rhy got thm

2008-05-14T11:34:00.005-05:00

Heart watch update:

Two hours yesterday were spent sitting and lying at the doctors office. Mostly sitting. During that time, I had a rush on iPhone blackjack that earned me a thousand fake dollars and then the battery pooped out.

My battery (read - heart) was kicking along. Another ECG revealed the anomaly which turned out to be premature PVCs (not related to premature ejaculation or premature gray or premature birth or....). Nothing to be concerned about unless it just refuses to subside. Stress is most likely the cause.

So, I'm beating out a syncopated rhythm that sometimes goes:

thump-thump-thump
.....
thump-thump-thump
.....
thump-thump-thump

or

thump-thump
.....
thump-thump-thump-thump
.....
thump-thump
.....
thump-thump-thump-thump

I'm ready for Rockband, I tell you. Bring it on.

How to Enjoy Being a Lazy Ass

2008-05-11T15:40:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, Saturday, I took an intentional holiday from responsibility. I say intentional only to delineate from the weekend days in the last few months I've slothed due to health - mental and physical.

No, yesterday I made the conscious decision to let the bills go unpaid, the laundry unwashed, the cat-box ungroomed, the dishes remain in the sink and curled up with a book. It just felt like the thing to do.

At brunch I brought up that I'd finally seen The Golden Compass (Netflix). I was the last of my group to see it. All of us agreed the movie left us wanting. I felt it moved at such a pace, it left no time for any depth. It was a long chase scene with a lot of CGI animation.

Those who'd read the books said "Read the books." So, after brunch, I went straight to Border's and bought the books. I bought two other books as well. It's been a while since I've read a book - largely due to an inability to concentrate which I'm blaming on the Tramadol. Now off that crap, my voracious appetite for literature has returned.

Here is what's now populating my night stand (which isn't a night stand, it's a desk, but - well, you get the idea):

1776 by David McCullough

Children of Hurin - Tolkien

Gentlemen of the Road - Michael Chabon

The Shape Shifter - Tony Hillerman

His Dark Materials Trilogy - Phillip Pullman

What Every Body is Saying - Joe Navarro

That last book is what took me from my responsibilities. I'm fascinated with the subject due to the hobby that will not be named here and it's a quick read. Today, while at Panera (which, by the way, has become a wifi nazi by now limiting access to thirty minutes and banning access during weekday lunch rush....) I started McCullough's 1776.

This coming weekend I trek off to Philadelphia for a chance to be a tourist and visit the historic sites where our founding fathers tread. I intend to have that book read by then in the hopes to enhance the trip with the relavancy of McCullough's literary depiction. In fact, I'm just about to throw today to the winds and get some more reading done. I have paid one major bill (the credit card) and the cat-box is clean and fresh...

... yup, sounds like a good idea. I'll see you fine folk later!

Of hiccups, zombies & mint chocolate chip

2008-05-06T15:18:00.009-05:00

I took in my surroundings, although a bit difficult since my surroundings wouldn't stop spinning. The signs on the door admonished me to keep my cell phone off, keep the door closed, and to not dare leave before Nurse Ratchet gave her permission.

On my left was a wall chart depicting various stages of eye disease. Staring back at me was a line of progressively worsening red and festering eyeballs. I wondered what zombie volunteered for the photo shoot. That had to be a creepy casting call.

Classic rock boomed from the overhead. "Sugar (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) oooohh honey, honey (ba-da-bum-bum bump-bum) you are my candy girrrrl...." Archies. Nineteen and sixty nine.

I checked out the drawers in the exam table. Nothing but cotton gowns and towels. I leaned my head back against the hard wall, closed my eyes and waited.

Nurse Ratchet arrived. I was weighed and BP'd. I gave her the synopsis of why I was there - weird episode of dizziness, clammy and general malaise that took longer to subside than usual. Oh, yeah, and there was this heart skipping thing.

"Ok, the doctor'll be in in a minute." Ratchet closed the door. I was alone again. The minute turned into several. I leaned my head back once more, closed my eyes and commenced with the "what ifs..."

I thought back to the conversation at brunch. "You are all in my ICE list," I'd announced.

"Ice?" queried friend Mark. "In Case of Emergency list," Norman answered. "You're in my list, too." I pulled out my i-Phone and showed Mark how I'd organized the list to be at the top of the contact list.

The conversation progressed to who had wills, living wills, executor's or not. We thoroughly covered the topic with a healthy amount of humor - har, har, as if any of that's gonna be needed any time soon.

Then I got dizzy. Real dizzy. Dizzier even than what's appropriate for a blonde. And clammy. And there was that heart skipping thing. George Clooney was no where to be seen, so it was skipping for another, more sinister reason I was sure.

I'm no stranger to dizziness. My mother and I shared the affliction of BPV - benign positional vertigo. We were in good company. Mamie Eisenhower suffered from it and was even accused of being an alcoholic because of it.

When it strikes, I will have days where walking into walls isn't unusual or I will have very brief spells of intense dizziness.

But this episode was different. The longer it went on, the more difficult it became to convince myself it was nothing. Finally, the indecision was taken out of my hands.

"We're going to the urgent care clinic. Now."

The doc appeared at last. He was affable and informative. He peered into my ears and throat, listened to my heart and my arteries. Good news - no unusual sounds. He queried me on my malaise, general health, et al, then surmised that it was most likely an inner ear thing, buuuut because there was that heart skipping thing, an ECG would probably be a good idea along with a blood panel.

I was left alone, sitting on the edge of the exam table, to wait again. A large, bearded man came in and announced he was there to stick me. Oh boy. A phlebotomist who's a comedian.

I bared the good arm for him - the one with a nice bulging vein. This guy certainly wasn't new school. No pillow on which to rest my arm... didn't glove up... had a nasty nail-biting habit... sported a gaudy gold ring... and just before sticking me says:

"The pointy end goes down, right?"

Take my blood. Please.

Next came the ECG with Ratchet. No nonsense - strip, exam gown on open in front, lie back, get ten electrodes stuck to various body parts and areas.... ECG done, she removes the hookups and instructs me to remove the electrodes myself.

"There's ten of them." I do as instructed, dress, and wait again.

It occurs to me that in the between times, the time waiting for nurse, blood-sucker and physician, I could have died several times. Oh, well.

I started to wonder about hospitals. The part of the earlier "what-ifs" I avoided. I wondered if I'd be able to go home first. Shower. Change my underwear...

The doc returned, ECG printout in hand and begins to explain it. Good news, it wasn't a flat line. Not so good news, there was a hiccup. In one four count bar, my heart fired too early. Percussion was never my strong suit.

"Not unusual, blah, blah, blah, noise, words, not listening anymore... .... .... but you should follow up with your doctor next week for sure."

"Will do," I promised.

I paid the piper then greeted my friends who'd waited it out - about an hour or so - in the appropriately named waiting room. I informed them I wasn't dead yet and actually was feeling better. Which I was.

Mark said something about ice-cream which resulted in a caravan to Target for some cold-stone ice cream. I love my friends.

The really disturbing thing about my little episode, is now when I hear "Sugar, Sugar" on the radio, it conjures up images of puss-filled eyeballs bulging from a large hairy man with a fist full of hypodermic needles cracking bad jokes.

"You are my candy girrrl - and you got me wanting you... heh, heh, heh....."

Make it stop.

Another year....

2008-04-28T16:12:00.003-05:00

It is such a cliche, but I am at a loss for any other way to express it.

Time is moving way too fast.

In a few hours from now, around 12:30 am, April 29, the clock will be at the hour of my birth, which happened fifty-seven years ago. It is not possible that it has been an entire year since I posted that picture to the right.

That's my favorite picture of me. She's a goofy kid who turned into a goofy adult and is now a goofy geezer. I found it in my father's things when we cleaned out his apartment last year.

This past year's been kind of a tough one. A year I don't want to repeat - ever. I'm glad to report, however, that right at this moment I'm feeling better than I have in a very long time.

Today at work during my weekly "relief" receptionist hour, a woman came in who was my age. I know that because part of the process in this office is to validate ID - license and social security card, please.

She looked fifty-seven. She looked like a senior citizen. I felt a pang in my stomach. Do I look like her fifty-seven? Must I accept that I've now passed the threshold and entered fully into senior-hood?

I'm not an overly vain person. My looks aren't that important to me (save for a brief period of girly-ness a while back that resulted in bras and painted toe-nails... I got over that, thank goodness...) ... but, I am concerned about looking old before I'm ready (as if one can ever be ready).

I am fortunate that my parents endowed me with a genetic framework that has kept me younger looking than my actual years most of my life. But, that fountain of youth isn't going to last forever - and it isn't.

The face is sagging, among other things. Wrinkles are increasing and deepening. Gray hair is hiding under the dye job.

I just don't feel it, though. I am way more immature than my years would suggest. Yet I wonder if I'm not breaking some unwritten rule somewhere that says at some point you have to be your age. I feel that I have to be careful not to end up a fool.

These are things that swirl through my thoughts more frequently these days but that I, for the most part, have been successful at ignoring. In spite of my fits of conern, I'm optimistic that, no matter how wrinkly or gray I get, I will avoid becoming an old fuddy duddy.

I may take more naps as time goes on, but I fully intend to rock on as long as this body lets me.

And I have to tell ya' - I was encouraged when I renewed my drivers license today. The agent had to call to get clearance to override the new facial recognition dealio.

My new picture had to be taken with glasses off and the machine couldn't match my face to the old picture. When she called to get the clearance, it almost wasn't granted. The person on the other end of the phone said the old pic and the new pic were two different people.

"Her hair is blonder, there're no glasses and she's smiling."

Finally, it was resolved and I went on my way with my new license. One, as a matter of fact, I don't mind showing. The first license picture I've ever liked. Just as much as I love that goofy kid in the picture above, I'm really liking the goofy geezer in the picture below.

I can haz muziks

2008-04-27T12:30:00.005-05:00

My home town launched a free music festival last night that is hoped to become an annual event. With three blocks of our downtown closed off, two main stages flanked the east and west end with several mini-venues sprinkled within various store-fronts and one larger indoor venue.

The festival ran from noon to 11:00 pm - ~~I'd tell you who the artist's were, but it's website has already erased that info~~ - a list of the artists can be found via this link. But I do know there was a healthy mix of genre's from indie to bluegrass. Word has it that it wants to grow up and emulate the massive SXSW festival in Austin. I'm a bit skeptical of it's chances.

Once upon a time, back in the day, our town was on the rise with it's local music scene. The Campus Corner area at the rim of the University was rife with restaurants and clubs crowded on the weekends with people clamoring to see their favorite local band or artist. It wasn't unusual to see street musicians on the corner in those days.

But the scene fizzled. It's been debated over and over as to what happened, but my guess is one of lack of support from the city 'fathers' and lack of organization from the artists. It just never took off.

I am really out of touch with the current scene in this town, so when I heard about the festival - yesterday, day of - I was surprised (I don't read our local rag, something that an acquaintance I ran into last night responded to by telling me I needed to get my head out of my ass... he may be right).

I was really surprised that the downtown merchants agreed to such a venture. My ten years running the indoor venue taught me just how tight-assed they were about anything that could potentially take money from their pocket without any consideration as to how they may make it work to their advantage.

A lot of those merchants have either moved on or were beaten into submission I suppose, because for twelve or so hours, on a Saturday, downtown was closed off and streams of people flowed in to enjoy the current local music scene.

I arrived about a half hour before one band was set to play. I came because it was a reunion of a hometown band that "made it big" as it were. A band that had also played at the indoor venue during my tenure there which gave me the opportunity to chit chat with some of the band members. They were/are great guys.

The band? None other then the Chansaw Kittens. With proud parents and grandparents at the foot of the stage, they jumped into an hour long love fest with their audience. I recorded a bunch of it with a friend in mind who, perhaps, has made more music festivals in his young lifetime, then I ever could have boasted of in my hippy youth.

This one's for you, Pauly (the beginning is rough, the sound is out of sync for a brief moment or two).

...

Can you hear me now?

2008-04-25T15:39:00.003-05:00

Communication. It’s been on my mind of late and especially in the last couple of days. Due to a couple of friends’ recent discovery and subsequent blogging about Twitter, I’d thought I’d chime in and ramble on a bit about it today.

Since the dawn of the internet and the ubiquitous chat-box, I’ve been fascinated by the ever-increasing facility of instant communication with just about anyone, anywhere, anytime.

I remember just how out of the world cool it was to type a sentence on my Mac and for it to appear - one letter at a time - on the screen of my friend's Mac instantaneously. And I won't even go into how jaw-droppingly awesome it was to use a modem for the first time.

Then there were the early days of AOL member chat, occasionally joining the “40-something” chat-room and actually carrying on a decent conversation with perfect strangers. That lasted only a short while before the chat-rooms became too crowded and the conversations declined to queries of one’s mode of dress, or rather, un-dress, as it were.

The bulletin boards born of the BBS and VBBS systems in the nascent days of the internet were the place to go if chat rooms weren't your thing.

I dabbled in those only very briefly before finding the next generation of forums at the dawn of the century – one in particular that became the birthplace of my online persona of another name.

Then personal vanity websites evolved into web-logs which took about two seconds to be reduced to “blog.” I eventually and serendipitously, along with now about 6,663,642,300 other people, found a small voice in the blog universe. Well, actually two of those voices are mine.

Along with blogs we now have the rapidly growing social-networking trend with MySpace, Facebook, Friendster, Linkdin, ad naseum. Internet popularity contests designed to trigger loads of anxiety in my inner, very insecure, high school self.

So all this has been swirling in my brain of late, triggered by the stream of Twitter tweets which punctuate my day. Twitter is an intriguing little communication tool that I haven’t decided whether or not I like.

On the plus side, I can – and do – use it to notify the hive of twitterers that I have new blog posts ready for the enjoyment and edification, thus driving ~~a stampede of~~ one or two readers to my blog door.

Some “tweets” that trickle by are interesting. Another twittering friend has a habit of sending out obscure “tweets” that seem to come from some odd corner of his mind. They are always intriguing, if not perplexing. I engaged in a Twitter haiku round there for a while which was challenging and a bit fun …

… but, I find myself wondering – to what purpose? And, yet, I’m drawn to it like a magnet to the fridge. Here is a micro-world of people, myself included, mostly sending out spontaneous thoughts to the ether just ‘cuz.

What drives the compulsion to share a thought – right now – with the universe? Are we entering an era of talking at rather than with? Are we already there?

And, intriguingly, why do I have nearly every portal open – IM, SMS, iPhone, e-mail, social-network accounts, you name it – and rarely walk through to say “hello…”

….with the exception of the blogs. And, perhaps now Twitter, which is hailed as micro-blogging, so that makes sense.

And why am I more comfortable spewing out my thoughts in a blog than tapping someone on their virtual shoulder and saying “You wanna do lunch?”

It may have something to do with lack of anonymity, shyness, fear of… whatever. I suppose that would be a few dollars spent for couch time and a brain dusting if I wanted to go that route.

Or I could point to another portal – the comments section of this blog – and invite you, dear reader, to offer your opinion.

So, I do.

Let’s do lunch and discuss this communication thing. I think we have enough for a four-top.

Politics - scattered, smothered, covered and chunked

2008-04-20T11:42:00.006-05:00

Enough of the gloom and doom, dear readers. The sun is out and I've let some light in. I just may be back to my usual self. In fact, I'm darn near perky, if you can believe that.

My appetite seems to have returned in spades. To satisfy it, I paid a visit this morning to one of my favorite breakfast spots in town. It'd been a few months since my last visit due to the initiation of a new diet - one for health, more than for losing weight. I, therefore, had banned myself from...

Waffle House

Yeah. Crazy of me, I know. Who in their right mind would do a thing like that? Well, it's fairly evident that I have not been in my right mind of late...

There are two of these establishments in my fair city. One is Waffle House Hell and the other is, well, not. In three visits to the first one, I've walked out twice after waiting too, too long to get served. In addition to that, it's lack of upkeep would discourage even an in-discriminate cock-roach.

The second, well, I've had only one bad experience with a waitress who had an irrepressible need to give more attention to stocking the silverware than taking my order. Other than that sour encounter, it's rep with me is one of a clean, well-managed establishment. And friendly.

This morning was no different. I was greeted like an old friend when I entered and my waiter proposed marriage after I sat down.

"No, really. You think I'm kidding. You say yes, I"ll leave right now," he implored. I laughed and gave him my order - coffe, OJ, cheesey scrambled, hash-browns, wheat toast and bacon. Crisp.

On my left were a largish man and woman who had just finished what looked like a couple of heaping plates of biscuits 'n gravy and whatever else the kitchen had to offer. They were jovial and chatty with the staff. While I waited for my order, I dove into my Google-Reader subs on my handy iPhone to catch up on my internet neighbors.

Just before my order came, the largish man ordered a steak. The waiter thought he was kidding. "Nope, I'm serious. Cook me up one of those steaks."

One-of-those-steaks was a two handed Waffle House T-bone. Did I mention he was a largish man?

A couple on my right had finished up and, when the waiter brought the check, mentioned they were going fishing.

"I'm going with you," the waiter announced. He turned to the rest of the staff, "Hey, I'm leaving. I'm goin' fishin' with these guys."

There was a general laugh and the largish man said, "What? Ya' not happy here? How long you been workin' here?"

"Four years, but it's about to be none."

The largish man asked him what was going on.

"Well, ya' see, I'm a cook. I kin cook uppa thousand dollars inna night an' this croppa new cooks cain't even manage a coupla hunert dollars worth without screwin' up an order."

He was clearly frustrated.

My breakfast was delivered, whereupon the largish man expressed his desire to possess my bacon. Crisp.

"Kin I have yer bacon? It looks mighty good." He smiled. I thought to myself that this poor man's wife was probably going to find her husband keeled over from a heart attack someday soon.

"Maybe, we'll see how far I get," I answered, but my bacon was going to stay put. I didn't want to contribute to his impending coronary distress.

I gave my attention to my breakfast and my reading and let the rest of the Waffle House world swirl outside my bubble for a bit.

I tuned back in as I was finishing up. The general topic had shifted to politics.

"I'll vote fer her, before ah'd vote fer that Obama," the waiter stated as he cleared the dishes from in front of the largish couple.

"I cain't stand her," largish man protested. "She's a liar and cain't be trusted. I cain't vote fer him either."

"I'm not a democrat, but ah'd vote fer her before him. I couldn't vote fer him ever." Clearly my potential intended was further right than I. And maybe just a bit of a bigot. But, as I learned in the next moment, perhaps not as much of a bigot as my largish neighbor.

"Well, that Obama is full of anti-Amurikin sentiment. He's got no substance. But, he's got the blacks nailed."

It was at that point that I noticed a new couple on my right. A young black man and his girlfriend. I gave them an "He's an idiot" look. They sat quietly waiting to give their breakfast order.

Attempting unsuccessfully to lower his voice, largish man turned to his spouse and scoffed "When you mention blacks it's s'posed to be high praise only..."

I pulled two dollars out of my pocket for the tip and tucked them under the side of my plate. I gave another look to the young couple on my right. I then looked at the largish man.

"Bacon?" He gleefully took my half eaten plate of bacon - crisp - from my hands.

I paid my bill and departed.

Dancing with the devil

2008-04-16T14:50:00.005-05:00

I am posting the following more for my own benefit than for any other reason. If any one reads this and gains some positive use from it, then so much the better.

This is how it went down:

Tues. 4/08: Last Tramadol taken
Wed. 4/09: Withdrawal symptoms start trickling in - restlessness, insomnia..;
Thurs.4/10: Leave work at 1:00 due to inability to concentrate, put together a coherent sentence and to sit still;
The next 24 hours are somewhat of a blur. Very little sleep and any sleep that did happen was out of utter exhaustion;
Fri. 4/11: 6:30-ish pm - felt better after a few hours of sofa snoozing... calmer yet tired, but inspired to visit local gambling establishment for some recreation. Left 3 hours later ($600 richer) when symptoms began to reappear - in spades;
Sat. 4/12 6:40 AM: Finally fall asleep out of exhaustion after a watching the hours tick slowly by while compulsively rocking to try to quiet the nerves and tire myself out, plus thrashing, yelling, crying and sinking into really dark thoughts...
Sat.: 4/12

---11:30 AM: Awake and join friends for brunch. Discover I cannot sit still let alone join in the conversation without stumbling through words and thoughts. Leave in haste and drive straight to the urgent care clinic. Wait an hour or so to see a Dr. who prescribes an ambien and benedryl cocktail and wishes me to have a "nice nap." Doc also informs me the symptoms will take about ten days to get completely out of my system...

---3:40 PM Took ambien and two benedryl, took a long hot soak in the bathtub, then went to bed. Over the next 16 hours I mostly slept, but remember getting up three times - twice to chug some orange juice, once to get my bose ipod boom box for music to listen to in order to distract my mind from its thoughts.

Sun. 4/13: 7:51 AM - Awaken and remember friend Gracie telling me that the best chance of scoring a Wii is to get to Target at opening time on a Sunday. So, that's what I do. I get up, drive to Target and score the Wii. The rest of the day is spent setting up the Wii, playing with Endless Ocean and, apparently - later that night in my sleep - attempting to text message a friend an incoherent message about Leonard Cohen, soul-mates and training manuals. Only it went to Sonic (the burger drive-in), and not my friend. Thank goodness.

The above was the worst of it. I'm still a bit addle-brained and groggy most of the day due to the ambien. I experience anxiety at bedtime because I'm afraid I won't sleep and the withdrawal symptoms will return. I barely have an appetite. But, each day is better than the one before. My optimism is returning and the gloom of Mordor is all but vanished.

So - that was the few days that was. If I've learned anything from this is to a) forget about being a guinea pig for bucks and b) thoroughly question my doc about any prescriptions AND to research them if there's any hint they could be narcotic, addictive or have withdrawal side effects.

Tramadol Ultram is not on the list of scheduled narcotics because it is not considered habit forming. That's what I was told when I started the study six months ago - that it wasn't habit forming. It's a pain killer, but is not a "euphoric" which would put it the the danger zone for addiction.

What I wasn't told was to expect withdrawal symptoms. Even though the drug is not a "euphoric" - I was craving it if only to stop the agony of withdrawal. I'm starting to get angry about all this but, really, I have no one to blame but myself. I didn't do my research so I could ask the questions that needed to be asked at the outset. I was foolish in trusting the research company.

Never again.

My heart-felt thanks goes to those of you who sent support. You are true friends, indeed.

How not to buy a Wii

2008-04-13T17:02:00.002-05:00

It's been a rough few days in the land of Yesablog. I only thought I was kidding about the withdrawal thing. Last week was just a warm-up for the real thing this week. I will never - and I mean never - put myself willingly through anything like that again. I'm about 85% out of the woods. Thanks to a ten day prescription of Ambien, I was finally able to get some real sleep - 16 hours worth - (you read that right) after two and a half days of mind-fucking agony.

During the past three days, I gained $600 via the hobby that will not be named here, ordered a pizza and cheese sticks - but don't remember when - and scored a Wii. So some good came of it, however I don't recommend the method.

I expect to be up to 100% in the next few days and will return to report on all things Wii. Why? Because I'm already loving it. The first game I bought was Endless Ocean and it is the perfect distraction for this shaky time - calm and relaxing.

In the meantime, I'd like to direct you to an internet neighbor's blog. Gene recently returned from a trip to Viet Nam. Take a few moments to read his trip reports. Fascinating and compelling.

From the prescription bottle to the mountaintop

2008-04-09T08:33:00.000-05:00

Due to a cut-back in my drug habit, I've been near to chewing the wood-work for the last week. Withdrawal. It's a bitch. Let me 'splain.

For the last six months I've been a drug whore. That is to say, I've been participating in a drug study and have been a guinea pig for a combination of two drugs with the plan to combine them into one at the end of the study and pending FDA approval.

I agreed to the study because it promised the relief of pain, not to mention free doctor stuff and money in my pocket for my participation. Plus, I was already taking one of the drugs so, what the hell, pile on another. Free drugs, free xrays, free ECGs, free Doctor probings and a little green for things like Flips and such - what more could a girl ask for?

The study was supposed to last for a year, but was cut short because the drug company deemed it no longer profitable. It'd incurred a substantial fourth quarter loss in its bottom line, therefore was cutting its losses. And cutting off my drug supply. Thank you, Bushonomics.

So, I was put on a week of half doses until I'm cut free entirely next week. Now, one of the drugs - the pain-killer - had literature that stated it was non-narcotic. However, right now I'm doubting that claim. When I find myself sitting and rocking - even while I type - while at the same time longing for sleep, as well as wanting to claw my way through the wall.... well, I'm thinking there's got to be a wee bit o' narcotic in that wee bit o' pill to be experiencing withdrawal symptoms.

Of course, I do not mean to make light of what it REALLY means to experience narcotic withdrawal. I'm getting only a tiny, tiny, teeninsie, taste of that. But that tiny taste of hell is enough to reinforce my resolve to never venture into that realm and count my lucky stars I dodged it in my hippie youthdom.

Speaking of which - my co-worker, being an avid NPR fan, pointed out that Friday, April 4th, was an ironic day in history. "Oh, do tell," I'm implored him as we strolled in to work. As it is, on that day in history, forty years ago, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated and the peace symbol was born. Ironic indeed.

I also listened to an NPR report - the day before - on the way to work. I only heard the last part of it, as the Rev. Samuel Billy Kyles remembered, forty years ago, listening as King delivered his portentous "Mountaintop" speech. Kyles was only a few feet away from Rev. King.

I am not religious. In fact, by way of a lifetime of exploring, reading, contemplating, debating, questioning and even being born again, I am now an affirmed atheist. But, I still weep when I hear that speech. It is a transcendent speech. A speech for the ages, while at the same time a deeply personal affirmation of faith. A faith that I cannot and will not question or criticize.

Martin Luther King, Jr. not only had faith in his god, but faith in human nature. He believed that somehow, some day, we humans would transcend. We would get past our differences and find common ground. A simple, but profound faith and seemingly, for the times, an impossible faith.

On April 4, 1968 I was a sixteen year old junior in high-school. I remember shock. I remember fear. I remember the images on the nightly news. Little did I know what that day and another assassination two months later would do to shape the person I was becoming. A generation was poised to set the nation on it's ear and I was one, small, insignificant member of it trying to figure it all out.

As Rev. Kyles pointed out, some would say we haven't progressed very far in those forty years since - that it's worse now then it was then. His response:

...the only reason you can say that is because you were not here then... Think of how far we have come - it was illegal for my ancestors to read during slavery... [my ancestors] came to this country in chains...

And now an African-American has a real shot of being our next president.

But, even with that, Rev. Kyles reminds us that there is still much to do. "Each generation will have it's portion, and that helps to keep the dream alive."

I am fortunate that I lived in a time that had such leaders as Martin Luther King, Jr. A time of great, yet turbulent, change. But, change for the good.

I am fortunate I live in a time of such potential as that of Barack Obama. Time will tell, whether he becomes our nation's next president or not, if he will be a leader who brings change. Change for the good. Change that is desperately needed today.

I would encourage you, dear reader, to take some time and listen to Dr. King's speech. Reflect on where we are now, and what is yet to be done. You can play a part in keeping the dream alive. You just have to figure it out.

Karma

2008-04-03T18:08:00.003-05:00

It's baseball season. The first ball of the season has been thrown. I don't know who threw it, but I bet whoever it was, the ball was thrown better than could I. I'm not good at throwing baseballs, or footballs, or basketballs. What I am good at throwing is conniptions. I threw a good one this evening.

Angry at myself for losing something that was near and dear, I attempted to distract myself by gathering up the items that needed to go to the recycling bin. A couple of Simply Orange bottles, a diet coke bottle, a plastic to-go container, a tuna can and a pile of junk mail. They wouldn't cooperate and, in a flash, ended up on the floor and half-way across the room.

I then slammed into the bathroom and took my displaced wrath out on the clogged toilet that has been holding on to its prize as if it were Gollum with the ring finally in his grasp. I succeeded only in splashing water all over the floor and pumping my blood pressure to the brink of popping a vein.

My only pleasure was in squashing some ants that had dared to invade my kitchen space. I am not a Buddhist.

That is all.

"Sexism! Still a Force in American Politics"

2008-03-14T11:37:00.002-05:00

I am always suspicious of forwarded emails. Most (memed surveys, "click this", and megabytes of cute jpegs) I usually discard without even reading. My sister is the source of many of the forwarded emails I receive. As this is usually the only communication I get from her, I am loath to discourage her of the habit. Every now and then, though, I get something from her that makes me laugh, intrigues me or makes me think.

One such forward landed in my in-box today. It echoed thoughts that have been racing through my head during this election season. After reading it, I went to the altar of Google and invoked its great wisdom regarding the author of the essay. I wanted to know if this person actually existed and whether or not he was a legitimate intellect or some crackpot. It's always helpful to know if one is running with the idiots or with genuine thinkers.

Google offered up the source of the essay - John Shelby Spong's website. From Bishop Spong's website, I learned that he is a very liberal retired Episcopalian Bishop who e-mails his essays to subscribers. For a fee. Yes, capitalism is alive and well even in liberal Christiandom.

I did, however, find the few essays that were available for free to be interesting and compelling. Plus, this guy has some street cred with appearances on several prominent television shows - 60 Minutes, Politically Incorrect and the ever enlightening Extra.

Ok, so maybe that last endorsement lands him in the crackpot pile, however I suspect, depending on one's religious, political or intellectual point of view, he is viewed as both crackpot and wise sage.

At any rate, I felt the essay my sister forwarded was worthy of passing on. This election year is proving to be historical, stirring up passions in the political arena that haven't been seen in ages - if ever. Bishop Spong offers a reasoned point of view that, admittedly, could be criticized as biased, but at the very least is food for thought - especially for those folks out there who are quick to paint Hillary Clinton as an evil entity bent on obtaining power at all costs. It might just explain why she's fighting so hard.

Anyway - here it is for you to read:

March 12, 2008

Sexism! Still a Force in American Politics

The quest for the Democratic nomination continues to ebb and flow as the two rivals struggle to gain an edge. Senator Clinton was presumed to be the front runner prior to the Iowa Caucuses, but Senator Obama won that state impressively. Then Senator Clinton came back to win the New Hampshire primary and looked poised for a sweep on Super Tuesday. The sweep turned out to be more of a draw and launched Senator Obama on to a string of eleven straight primary or caucus victories from South Carolina to Wisconsin from Washington to Vermont. Once more he seemed on the crest of victory. The super delegates who had been pledged to Senator Clinton began to waver and defect. No one smells blood better than a politician. The pundits were now sure that he would wrap up the nomination on March 4. It was, however, not to be as Senator Clinton roared back dramatically, scoring impressive victories in Ohio, Texas and Rhode Island. Next Senator Obama won a caucus in Wyoming and a primary in Mississippi to regain his frontrunner position, but he did not win so decisively that he was able to clinch the nomination. So the struggle now moves on to the key state of Pennsylvania in which Senator Clinton, according to the polls, stands poised to make her third comeback of this primary season.

Beneath the excitement of what is surely the most interesting political contest in recent memory, there is another dynamic, always present, but seldom talked about. Two debilitating prejudices, sexism and racism, are in this political process being routed from their dwelling places deep in the psyches of our citizenry. Both have had long histories in the Western Christian world. Racism, the more overt and obvious of the two prejudices, was once protected by the laws of this nation, but it has had its back broken first by the bloodiest war in our nation's history and second by a rising consciousness that found expression in the relentless pressure of the Supreme Court. Sexism on the other hand penetrated the culture in an almost assumed way that seemed to many to be appropriate, even proper. Even though sexism was also protected by the laws of this nation it was always more subtle and its evil less recognized. While no one would seriously argue today that racism in this society is dead, it is recognized at once when it rears its ugly head, while sexism is still widely supported in high places, including an obvious presence in the official statements of organized religion. Many church leaders continue to use a version of the "separate but equal" argument that has no credibility at all when applied in a racial context. No one in the political arena would dare to make an overtly racist comment, but overtly sexist comments have not been absent from this campaign. History tells us that while racism is crueler, sexism is more difficult to root out. Remember that this nation gave the vote to black men many years before it was given to white women. Data from this political season still points to the fact that sexism continues to be less recognized in the body politic than racism.

Senator Clinton, who had been first defined nationally as the "First Lady," had to establish her professional competence apart from her husband. She did this by winning a seat in the United States Senate, by mastering the intricacies of that most exclusive of clubs, by gaining the respect of her colleagues on both sides of the aisle, and by avoiding the spotlight of the media while doing her unglamorous homework. Her constituents in New York responded to these efforts and rewarded her with election to a second term by an astonishing 64% majority. Senator Obama, on the other hand, had been in the Senate for only two years when he announced his intention to seek the presidency. This is not to say that he is without significant credentials. He was an impressive student in law school, being chosen to be editor of the Harvard Law Review, an honor that goes only to Harvard Law School's top student. He taught constitutional law at the University of Chicago's Law School for ten years, during which time he was elected to and served in the State Senate of Illinois. Those accomplishments are not to be minimized, but it is to say that no woman with a resume as brief as that of Senator Obama would have been taken seriously as a presidential candidate. A woman still has to be twice as impressive to be viewed as equal. That is an expression of sexism.

Hillary Clinton also had to carry the baggage of her husband in a way that no male politician has ever had to do. She is colored by the foibles of her husband's administration. His negatives became her negatives. She wanted to keep her maiden name, Rodham, but political pressure on Bill Clinton after he lost the governor's office in Arkansas forced her to become Hillary Rodham Clinton. The loss of her own identity, a reality that women have had to live with for centuries, has played a significant role in this campaign when people, defining Hillary as a Clinton, realized that in the elections of 1980, 1984, 1988, 1992, 1996, 2000 and 2004 there had either been a Bush or a Clinton on the presidential ballot. She was thus identified with the Clinton politics of yesterday, not the Rodham politics of tomorrow. She was implicated in what came to be called the Whitewater Affair, which was investigated endlessly and finally dismissed, yet its odor seems to cling to her. When the Clintons left the White House in 2001 charges were made about the Clintons removing things that were not theirs. These charges turned out to be nothing more than political attacks and were demonstrated to be false; nonetheless the stain on her integrity remained. When Hillary Clinton was cast in the role of violated wife in the sordid Lewinsky affair, she could not win. She was criticized by some for refusing to leave her husband and by others for standing by her man. None of these things would have been the fate of a male politician. Sexism was clearly operating below the surface.

In 1972 when Shirley Chisholm became the first woman to seek the Democratic Party's nomination for the presidency, she carried with her candidacy the impact of both racism and sexism. It is interesting to note that she said overcoming her status as a woman was always more difficult than overcoming her status as an African-American. That was an indication that even long ago racism was more overt and easily identified in the public arena than was sexism. In support of that thesis, I cite the following data from this campaign.

When Bill Clinton played the race card in the South Carolina primary, it backfired because people, aware of racism, were embarrassed by it. The sexist rhetoric that commentators let forth on Hillary Clinton, however, did not receive a similar rebuke in the Court of Public Opinion. Carl Bernstein on live national television referred to Hillary's "thick ankles" and Tucker Carlson, an MSNBC conservative talking head, observed that "every time I get near Hillary Clinton I feel castrated." Those were weird sexist comments, saying more about both Bernstein and Carlson than they did about Senator Clinton, but the point is that no female reporter could have gotten away with describing Governor Huckabee's legs or with saying, "Every time I am in the presence of Mitt Romney, I feel like I am going to be raped!"

A male radio host for Station KOA in Denver, Colorado, wondered on a live national network whether Chelsea Clinton "was going to wind up with a big posterior like that of her mother." Can anyone imagine such a statement being made about a son of John Edwards? When a woman in a political gathering asked John McCain how he was going to "beat the bitch," he knew to whom the question applied and proceeded to answer it without unloading its hostility. McCain later, however, rebuked a right wing radio host when he spoke of Senator Obama in a derogatory racist manner.

Another radio talk show host accused a cable news channel of overreacting by suspending one of its political reporters, who had wondered aloud on national television "if the Clintons were pimping out their daughter as a campaign presence." Is that not sexism?

Senator Clinton also had the distinction of being the only candidate to be called "the anti-Christ" by a member of the religious right. That was, I believe, a sign of misplaced sexist rage. Why would not the three times married, admitted adulterer, Mayor of New York, whose children will not speak to him because of his treatment of their mother, be a candidate for that title? Yet he was spared this ultimate religious slander.

Many people quite clearly still carry unconscious fears about a powerful woman. Look at the way Sandra Day O'Connor was negatively described by all of the Republican candidates except John McCain. Look at the number done on Geraldine Ferraro when she was the vice presidential nominee. Look at how Margaret Thatcher developed the aura of autocratic masculinity to win in Great Britain and how British male pride was displayed when they described her "as a man wearing a skirt." Maybe no one ever forgets those years in our lives when we were helpless dependent infants being cared for by that seemingly all powerful woman we called mother. Maybe the fear of being made dependent again on a strong woman is still buried in our psyche. Maybe our sexist, male-oriented society, which still holds to the primary definition of a woman as a sex object, creates an unconscious difficulty in our ability to relate to women in a position of ultimate authority. Maybe women, who were taught how important it is to please a man to get ahead, were also threatened by her potential power. Perhaps that is why there have always been more "Aunt Jemimas" in the women's movement than there were "Uncle Toms" in the black movement. There is much about which we can speculate, but the fact of which we are certain is that sexist barriers are still potent and that Hillary Clinton, is the current victim.

People uncomfortable about this charge reply, "I am not opposed to women, only to this woman." However, this woman was the only one who has battled to the place where she has a real shot at the presidency and, in the final analysis, she has not yet won a normal portion of the white male vote while she has consistently lost,, never the majority, but a substantial part of the female vote to her opponent. Hillary Clinton may or may not become our next president. That is yet to be decided. What is clear, however, is that she has taken some of the sexist poison out of the body politic by absorbing it. That will make it possible if she fails in this quest for another woman in another day to climb to the top of the hill.

I am drawn to Hillary Clinton's ability and to her intelligence. I admire the integrity and independence of John McCain. I am excited about the vision of a potential Obama presidency. I hope, however, that I will live long enough to see my nation and this world be able to celebrate the full humanity and the equal competence of women.

John Shelby Spong

Reunion

2008-03-11T20:42:00.001-05:00

I had something entirely different on the agenda to write about this evening, but it went by the wayside when I got a call this afternoon from an old friend. Barbara was a friend and neighbor from another time and another cul-de-sac years ago. That cul-de-sac was Faerie Queen Lane, a small spit of rental properties which cowered in the shadow of Owen Stadium, home of the OU Sooners.

I hadn't spoke to Barbara for, oh, probably a good thirteen, fourteen years. I almost didn't speak to her today. Thanks to an internet beta phone thingy, when Barbara called my home phone, it rang through to my cell and my office phone. I chose the option to put it through to the voice mail and listen in, since I didn't know who was calling. I hesitated before opting in to talk when I learned who was calling - why only became evident as the conversation ensued.

We were good friends back in the latter few years of my twelve year life on Faerie Queen Lane. She was a horse-woman and helped rid me of my fear of horses. She boarded her horse on a farm south by the river known then as Potts Farm. It was a milk farm and even up into the late '70s there were places you could still buy Potts dairy milk here in town.

Her horse, Wendy, was an Appaloosa and shared the acreage with a few other horses, one of which was a champion Ap - a stud named Shoshone. Barabara taught me to ride by getting me up on Shoshone, bareback, while she shadowed me on Wendy. One whole summer were down on the river-bottom three or four times a week. After I gained confidence bareback, she taught me how to saddle Shoshone, sit a western saddle and rein.

There's nothing I loved more then going for a ride. Eventually she got me to pick up speed and it didn't take long before I was perfectly comfortable at a gallop. There is nothing, I mean nothing, that compares to being on the back of a horse at full speed. Who needs drugs - that was an adrenaline high I couldn't get enough of.

Talking with her today brought back those memories. But my anxiety, and the reason for my phone hesitation, rose when it came to the "What have you been doing" portion of the conversation.

Barbara married and moved to Texas (I was one of a trio that sang at her wedding). I listened to her as she caught me up... daughter entering first year of college... still married to Chris.... taught school for thirteen years... volunteered with the police department and developed, wrote, and directed a video project.... (cue the hollow sound as the voice goes on and on).

I was impressed with all her accomplishments, but, well, it's this part of the "catching up" with people that has kept me far from reunions and such. It has the feel of "top this" about it. I could list my accomplishments and the things of which I'm proud, but the cruel fact is, I lose the competition without even getting out of the gate. No husband to boast of, no kids to brag on. Anything else coming out of my mouth is the cue for the auto response: "That's nice.... (blink, blink)."

Nonetheless, it was good to hear from her if for no other reason than I got to trek back to a time that was pretty darn good. I haven't ridden a horse since Barbara moved away. I seriously doubt I could last very long now - no "legs" to speak of. Doubt I could even hoist myself into the saddle let alone charge off at a full gallop. She was a good friend during an extraordinary part of my life - those years on Faerie Queen Lane. Some great memories were made there - and some not so great. Fodder for future posts, now that they've been stirred up....

...maybe one day I'll tell you about the time Barbara and I conned our way in to the fair and then conned our way into the rodeo - all for free. Or, no, wait, how about the time the south end of Faerie Queen Lane - including the baby - piled into Mary's van to take a tall-boy Coors and a straw - by request - to a DJ at a radio station in OKC... or the time a spontaneous party broke out a my duplex and we improvised and recorded a "Perils of Pauline" story while plowing through a case or two of beer... or the time - damn - so many great times.

Harlot's Dream*

2008-03-07T21:25:00.003-06:00

The M3SC, like the former M36, features a 3-piece back, but with an added striking visual and tonal feature — the center wedge is Indian rosewood, with solid mahogany wings, and solid mahogany sides. The rosewood center wedge in the back adds warmth to an already crystalline mahogany tone. This spectacular mix is highlighted by C.F. Martin’s renowned hand-polished, nitro-cellulose gloss lacquer finish.

Of the few folks who drift by this blog time to time, I know there's at least one person, maybe two, who understand why the above quote makes me positively cream...

I returned to a familiar daydream today. One that brought back sounds, smells and sensations of a time long ago and which were intensified when I gave into temptation, fired up the browser and took a stroll.

Many, many years ago I fantasized about being the next rising star on the folk music horizon. My top heroes were the three "J-s" - Joan Baez, Judy Collins, and Joni Mitchell. During my high school years, most of my non-school hour time was spent with a guitar in my hands - I was either practicing or paying a bit of dues in front of an audience in the local coffee-houses.

I never gained proficiency on the guitar - picking patterns continually eluded me and were a source of great frustration - but, I never let it stop me from playing. I would spend long hours learning a tune, chord by chord, verse by verse. The song was ready for performance when I finally reached the moment when it would become organic. I didn't need to think about the chords or the words or the tune - it would all just flow together and out.

There was a commercial that ran a few years ago that had a father and a young child sitting on a hill, under a tree, watching the sunset. The sun slowly dips below the horizon and then the young, awestruck child whispers "Do it again, Daddy." It's that kind of intangible magic moment that, when I'd hit it with a song piece, made me want to sing it over and over and over. It's that intoxicating high that made me want to share it with an audience. I loved it.

College days and new interests kept the Gibson in its case for longer and longer periods as time went on. I finally sold it a couple of years after college when it came down to a choice between it or the camera and dark room equipment when I moved from Oregon back to Oklahoma. I couldn't fit both in the car. Eventually, the songs left my memory, the callouses healed and my hands lost their familiarity with the strings and the frets.

Right now there's a ton of good modern folk/accoustic music floating the airwaves and residing on a million iPods. Listening to it provoked me into buying a ninety dollar guitar from the local pawn shop a couple of years ago. I wanted to learn and play that music. I wanted to revive a part of me that had been in a deep sleep for a very long time.

The guitar was at home in my hands. The smell of it evoked remembrances of smoky coffeehouses and sitting alone on a stool on a tiny stage. My hands struggled through the first few chord progressions. Determination kept me at it while I attempted to learn a tune I'd craved to learn since first hearing it. My voice isn't the voice of the singer I once was, but croaking out what I could while stumbling through the chords launched a time machine, of sorts, that took me back to that time when dreams were still possible and magic still happened. It felt good.

Unfortunately, I didn't keep at it. Other distractions took my attention away and the guitar has remained a mere decorative item on its stand in the living room. Today, however, I felt the desire rise again after listening to a couple of great songs. The number of female artists is exponentially greater than it was in those coffehouse days and the songs they are singing are songs I want to play.

And it's what, today, prompted me to type the magic words into Google which lead me the mecca of guitarists all over the world - the Martin & Co. website. I've had the desire to own a Martin guitar ever since the first callous formed on the fingers of my left hand. I came close - my Dad considered getting one for me as a birthday present one year, but stopped short when he saw the price tag of five-hundred dollars.

To buy the Martin I want, today would cost about three to four times that five hundred of thirty some-odd years ago. But, I'm really considering doing it. I hesitate, though, because I fear it would end up occupying space in a closet, rarely to be seen. That's a lot of money to spend for something to toss the laundry on to. However, I'm lured by the tone, the look, the feel and the craving for the high of accomplishment I once felt so long ago.

Select abalone pearl inlays in the Style 45 rosette, and around the top and fingerboard extension, are highlighted by black and white fine line wood fiber borders. The Madagascar rosewood headplate on the square, tapered headstock provides the canvas for the rare Alternative Torch inlay...

I need a cigarette.

*Mortal lovers must not try to remain at the first step; for lasting passion is the dream of a harlot and from it we wake in despair.
-C S Lewis

Operation Snap Out of It

2008-02-24T19:00:00.001-06:00

What a difference muscle relaxants and sleep make. It may only be a slight difference, but today I actually felt a familiar - and missed - sense of optimism and energy. I woke up today, ran through the routine of checking for tension, and couldn't find it. For the first time in a long time I didn't wake up in a clinch. This week I managed to have several mostly good nights of sleep (which have included some very strange dreams) thanks to the muscle relaxant my doctor prescribed.

The physical therapists are noting progress and I can feel it. I have nine more visits and between now and the last one, I'm launching Operation Snap Out of It. I'm returning to a healthier diet and my quest to lose fifteen more pounds. I'm revisiting my account at The Daily Plate (keb1717 is my id for anyone who'd like to link up) which is a great way to track calorie intake. I'm also re-starting yoga - that is I will when I can figure out how to get my thrity year old Sony upstairs. I have a couple of good yoga tapes and the upstairs loft will make a good spot for Tranquility Base.

I've bought a blood-pressure device. I was very alarmed on my last visit to the doctor when my blood pressure read out at 154/91 - danger Will Robinson. My doctor suggested doing a daily monitoring of the BP for a month and, because I couldn't seem to get my ass to her office every day, I opted for purchasing a device. Of course I went high tech with one I can plug into the computer and download the data. Today's reading was a much better 124/82.

I'm understanding a bit more the why-fors and the where-fors of my misery. Eventually I may write about it in more detail - more for myself than for anyone else. Part of the process has involved a gradual shedding of my "other self" (no - I'm not Sybil... not multiple personalities that I'm aware of), or rather my other internet self. That self has not done much to enhance my life of late and I think I've been experiencing a sort of reluctant mourning over letting it go.

I'm very grateful for the few of my internet pals who come by this little corner of the interwebs from time to time and for those of you who have given me encouragement and support. I don't make friends easily, but I treasure the few I have, near and far. Thanks for sticking around!

And now - I have a salad in the fridge and some V8 fusion to guzzle. 'Til next time....

Perchance to dream

2008-02-18T18:54:00.001-06:00

If you're tired of my whining, stop reading now.

I'm a mess.

I cried in the doctor's office today. Why? Because I was awake? I am, therefore I cry. I don't know. I've been abnormally weepy of late. I had an appointment today in regard to my chronic neck muscle problems and I nearly walked out of there with anti-depressants. It didn't help that my blood pressure was through the roof prompting a set up of daily visits for the next month to monitor it.

I squeaked by as "mildly depressed" on the Depression Scale so the happy drugs were nixed in favor of the mild muscle relaxant to help me sleep and, we hope, to bring down the blood pressure.

Ah, sleep. Not something I do a lot of these days. I'm in a feed-back loop of self-torture. Emotional pain feeds the body pain feeds the emotional pain feeds the... ad infinitum. I've played a billion games of solitaire on my iPhone on into the wee hours of the morning. I've Twittered haiku to pass the time. I've watched a marathon of Discovery Channel episodes. Ask me anything about the universe or the ultimate destruction of mankind - I'm a font of information.

I'm pretty certain of what is feeding all this physical and emotional angst. I've been dusting my own brain for about six months now in an effort to get it under control. Unfortunately, it's not a single thing, but an "all of the above" on the multiple choice life quiz. Pick an issue - I can assure you it's on the list.

In about ten minutes I will take one of the mild muscle relaxants. I don't expect it to work immediately. I do expect to sleep a little better tonight, though, in light of the fact I didn't get to sleep last night until 4:00 am. Part insomnia and part wanting to stretch my three day weekend to as long as possible.

Like I said. I'm a mess.

Avoiding the potholes...

2008-02-10T19:15:00.000-06:00

There's a stretch of road in my town that, up until recently, was devoid of buildings and traffic. It winds between the highway and the small airport on a north/south route for about two miles. It's a route I enjoyed taking because, most times, I'd be the only driver on the road. I could wind my way slowly or push my speed to challenge the curves, worry free that there'd be other drivers to contend with - low risk and, well, relaxing.

It's no longer an empty road. Progress has invaded with a surge that includes and strip shopping center, a Super Target and a new Embassy Suites hotel - and that's only the beginning. Traffic has picked up, more stoplights have been installed and my enjoyment of a lazy two mile ride has been spoiled by shoppers hell bent to beat the next car to the best parking space.

Oddly, this road came to mind today as sort of a metaphor for some experiences of the last few weeks.

-----------------------

I'm not a person who enjoys controversy, nor do I like to stray very far from routine. I like things to stay on an even keel and agreeable. I'd like to say that this sort of existence brings me a nice level of peace of mind and tranquility. The truth is, though, I tend to take it too far and bury my head in the sand. I've become an expert at avoiding the uncomfortable. This has resulted in a solid pain in the neck - quite literally - that I have struggled to get under control in the last couple of years.

But I'm digressing a bit. On the personal front, in the last few weeks I experienced the death of a colleague and the announcement from my best buddy his wife is leaving him. On the work front - our office is the champion of low morale and poor working conditions. On the external front - the election has me more concerned than any previous election has in my lifetime. My nice, empty, winding life road is filling with with unavoidable traffic.

What I want to address with this post, though, is the last concern - the election. I got so wound up about this that by Friday of this last week, I was having small bouts of uncontrollable and irrational tears throughout the day. I wound myself up so tight that Friday night, I had perhaps the worst nightmare I've had in a long time, if not ever. I woke up panting and scared.

The source of this angst began with my indecisiveness over who would get my vote in my state's presidential primary. As a registered Democrat, I had two choices - Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama. My lead choice, John Edwards, had dropped out of the race. I took every chance to talk with friends and read everything I could in an attempt to make a decision. The critical factor for me was who was the better candidate to win the general election. Which one could beat McCain?

Getting the Republicans out of the White House is extremely important to me. I firmly believe Bush's administration will go down in history as one of the worst - if not the worst - our nation has ever had the misfortune to experience. I also firmly believe that another Republican administration will do little to clean up GW's mess and nothing for bringing the kind of change and leadership the nation needs to get back on track and strong again.

I was equally divided between Hillary and Obama. Not so some of my friends. The fuse to my extreme angst was lit after a conversation with a good friend and a response from another friend to a post on my other blog. Both of these individuals stated that, for them, it would be Obama or no-one. They unequivocally and unabashedly hate Hillary Clinton to the extent that if she were to get the nomination, they would choose not to vote..

I can't understand it. The hatred borders on the irrational. I launched a search on the internet in an effort to understand and found that there is quite a faction of people out there that share this extreme hatred. It goes beyond a disagreement with policy - Hillary and Obama are nearly identical on their issue positions, so it isn't that. It is vitriolic, vehement and unwavering hatred.

But that expression of hatred isn't what wadded me into a ball of angst. It was the statement that if Hillary Clinton ends up being the nominee, these individuals that have this hatred for her, would throw away their vote and not vote. I love my friends, but I can't respect that choice. I'd rather see them give their vote to McCain then to waste it in some petulant protest that proves nothing. Giving that vote to McCain might serve to make them think about what is at risk with another Republican administration:

the loss of even more of the individual rights that the Bush administration has chipped away in the last eight years.
the perpetuation of a war that is wasting billions of dollars that could be better spent on a crumbling infrastructure and rebuilding the farce that is "Homeland Security."
up to another decade before real progress can be made in the Health Care crisis.
a worsening of the economy, more job-loss to off-shore and overseas interests, and increased unemployment...

I could go on, but I'll stop there.

I've managed to calm myself down. I actually got a stretch of good sleep last night - a rare thing. I believe the haters are a minority and that whichever one gets the nomination will have the fight of their life to get elected. Either one will be fine by me. I urge my friends to rethink - really consider what not voting accomplishes - what would really be achieved by throwing that fundamental right away?

--------------------------

One last thought on my metaphorical drive. My quiet two mile stretch of winding road has a disturbing landmark. A tree was planted on the divide where someone died in an accident. No doubt a young one who felt the need to push the boundaries and had something to prove. I'll leave you to ponder on whatever you wish to extract from that.

Life twists

2008-01-30T00:15:00.000-06:00

Tough times for friends. Puts my petty problems into sharp perspective. My dear, dear buddy Mark's marriage has fizzled. Another friend dropped dead Sunday. Barely into his fortieth decade on the planet.

I am heartbroken, and yet, a celebration is planned for buddy Mark's fiftieth birthday this weekend. It'll be here at my abode. Bittersweet. It'll be good for him to have his friends around him. But there will those who will be missed....

Dear Man o My Dreams

2008-01-25T13:01:00.001-06:00

I found the list below over at Men's Health. Don't ask me why I was reading Men's Health. I wasn't - just cruising on StumbleUpon. Whoever put it together purty much has it dead on.

Women can use most of the list for their man, too - I've made some suggestions in parentheses.

Ask her to dance. (Don't even...)
On windy days, brush wayward strands of hair from her eyes and mouth. (Works for the guy, too)
When she’s coming down the street, across the room, or up the stairs to meet you, walk towards her as soon as you see her. (Works for the guy, too)
Kiss her between her shoulder blades when she turns her back to you to go to sleep. (Works for the guy, too)
Put your arm around her when you introduce her to your friends and family. (Works for the guy, too)
Grasp her hand when a scantily dressed, beautiful woman walks by. (Say "She's hot" when she walks by)
Call her when you’re feeling sad. (Call him when he's feeling sad)
Kiss her eyelids. (Works for the guy, too)
Ask to see a picture of her when she was a child. (Don't even...)
Wash her from head to toe in the shower. (Works for the guy, too)
If she’s crying on the phone, go over to her place. Immediately. (If he's crying on the phone, assure him the team will rock it out next season)
Stand her naked on a sturdy chair and lick between her legs. (Straddle a chair naked and say "c'mere, baby')
Occasionally call her by her first and middle names. (Continually call him your Big Stud)
Buy her your favourite rock album of all time on vinyl. (Buy him HIS favorite album on vinyl)
Order coffee for her, remembering exactly how she likes it. (Order beer for him, remembering exactly which brand he likes)
Undress her and put her to bed when she falls asleep in the car. (Help him to the couch - he passed out)
Mention your upcoming anniversary before she does. (don't expect him to remember - love him anyway)
Send her something in the mail. Anything. (Send him tickets to the big game in the mail)
When she’s feeling insecure, stare into her eyes and tell her there is no-one in the world who could be as right for you as she is. (See #12)
Call her just before you get on the plane. (Tune the TV to ESPN before you leave the house to go on a trip)
Pick her clothes up off the floor. (Get the clothes to the floor by doing a strip tease)
Try desperately to make her laugh when she’s feeling down. (See #12)
Take her to see your favourite sport live. Pay more attention to her than to the game. (Know Brett Favre's stats like the back of your hand)
Touch her arm when you leave the table to go to the bathroom. Touch her again when you come back. (Touch his thigh)
Shave just before you see her. She’ll notice. (Works for the guy, too)
Hug her when she gets jealous. Hug her hard. (See #12)
Worship her breasts. (Worship his, well you know)
Give her jewelery. (Give him tickets to the big game)
Hand her two towels when she gets out of the shower. [The second one is for her hair.] (Be standing there in a towel when he gets out of the shower)
Ask her specific questions about her work. (Works for the guy, too. Especially if you're doing a strip tease while you're asking)
Keep her favorite cereal on hand. (Works for the guy, too. Keep a second box in the bedroom along with a jar of honey)
In the middle of a conversation, tell her you love her. (In the middle of a conversation, squeeze his thigh)
Send her very expensive flowers when you screw up. (See #28 above)
Take her to a cabin with a fireplace. Build her a fire. (Make sure the cabin is by a lake and bring the fishing gear)
Moan her name when she goes down on you. (See #13)
Read her a story when it’s her turn to drive during a long road trip. (Just let him drive)
Offer to fix something at her place that you realize is broken. (Learn how to use tools - especially a circular saw.)
Notice when she’s wearing something new. (Help him notice by doing a strip tease)
Make love to her standing up, against a wall. (Oh boy does it work for the guy, too)
Kiss her hand in front of your most die-hard bachelor buddies. (Don't even...)
If she’s too stressed to want sex... (He will never be too stressed to want sex)

Run a bath for her.

Give her a full-body massage.

Ask if she wants to wrestle.

Choice

2008-01-23T09:35:00.000-06:00

I'm a day late - yesterday was the anniversary of Roe v Wade. Thirty five years ago the Supreme Court recognized a woman's right to choose whether or not to end a pregnancy. I was twenty-one years old.

I am profoundly pro-choice and understand it is never an easy one. At least not for anyone who has a conscience. The Supreme Court decision was a good one and this anniversary reminds me that we must continue to fight the good fight to prevent a return to an era of back alley butchers and bent hangers.

I read the words of another woman today who eloquently expresses the deeper meaning of that landmark decision thirty five years ago. Go, read.

I am woman...

2008-01-01T22:27:00.000-06:00

Sometimes I do things that can make me pretty darn proud of myself. Living a single life, I've had to learn how to be self-reliant over the years - which means bug extermination, spider elimination and all such squeamish chores are completely up to me. A scream of "ewwww! help!" would only elicit bland looks from the other two occupants of my abode before curling back up for a furry nap in the chair.

Some household chores and tasks present tricky challenges from time to time. Furniture moving in particular. I've got a somewhat reliable system which involves scooching, tugging, pushing, and shoving, usually on my butt and with my legs. It may take me longer than what could normally be expected, but I get it done. Most times.

Over the past few months I've been gradually moving my office, such as it is, to the upstairs loft. It's a largish room that overlooks the front entrance and a part of the living room and kitchen area (I have one of those "open" floor plans). The most difficult task was a set of bookshelves for my stash of paper backs and other books that were collecting dust and becoming a mountain for the kitties to play on. It was time to shelve them properly.

The difficulty with getting furniture and such upstairs lies in a rather awkward spiral staircase. A type of staircase that my builder vowed he would never again ever install in a house ever again. Ever. I managed to get the bookshelves up the staircase, unassembled, one box at a time, literally dragging them up and then assembling them upon arrival. Who needs a gym?

Today I attacked the problem of getting the office chair up. I came upon the solution in a round about way. Of course it was the logical and easiest solution, however I'm notorious for going at things ass-backward. I've dulled many a blade in Occam's razor, believe me.

So I needed to get this chair...

...out of that room...

...and up these stairs:

I know most of you have already figured out how to do it in the simplest, most efficient manner. I ultimately figured it out, too. But first, I had to ponder it for a few weeks. Why? I was stuck on the notion that I would have to get a hoist to lift it up over the partial wall overlooking the living room.

While I was trying to figure out how to get it out of the room downstairs in a manner that would not require moving another piece of furniture out of the way in the little hall way, I had that annoying light bulb moment. Annoying because that's when I saw that I'd been trying to make this a lot harder (typical) than it needed to be.

A quick scan of the chair told me what I needed. I made a trip to Lowes, purchased the tools I would need and after the required stroll around the flooring, kitchen cabinetry and appliances (a girl never stops dreaming about appliances...) I returned home to attack the task.

Of course the solution was to dismantle the chair, haul each piece up the stairs and reassemble it. Duh.

So now I'm in my comfy office chair up in the loft thoroughly amazed at my awesomeness - clumsy awesomeness, but awesomeness none-the-less. And I've filed this solution away for future use:

When in doubt, take it apart, dumb-ass.

Home for the Holidays

2007-12-25T14:44:00.000-06:00

I wasn't sure how I was going to weather this Christmas. Last year at this time I wasn't doing so good. It was the first Christmas in decades that I wasn't in Oregon with family and I was not just a little unhappy about it. But, it was a decision we, as a family, decided "would be best." So I stayed here and my sister stayed in Hawaii and we both cried on Christmas day.

My next visit to Oregon was when my Dad died. In spite of the sadness of the occasion, my time with my niece, her family, my brother, nephew and his wife was wonderful. I told them, though, that I wouldn't be coming for the holidays. Instead, I said, I'd come for visits at a time when the weather is better and there'd be more and less hectic time to spend.

So, I had more time to prepare mentally for my second Christmas on my own. As it turns out, it hasn't been horrible. In fact, even though the miles have put a physical distance between me and my family, I feel we are closer than we ever have been.

I have a brand new grand-niece and a brand new grand-nephew and, if she says "yes," soon I'll have a brand new nephew-in-law. Plans are already under way for a spring visit and I'm looking forward to it.

Life's path has gone 'round another bend. New traditions will take over from the old, but the bonds of family can't be broken by a few miles or a missed turkey dinner with each other.

So, this Christmas, I'm doing great. I've shared some wonderful moments with friends, relayed hugs across the cell towers to Oregon and beyond and am starting my own tradition with a pork roast in the oven. Life is pretty darn good.

Merry Christmas, all, and my very best to you for the new year. May it bring you all you wish!

Where the hell have you been?

2007-10-11T22:54:00.000-05:00

And right well you may ask. Golly gee, I didn't mean to neglect this little room of my blog house. I've composed a dozen or so posts in my head over the last couple of months, but I just couldn't get here to jot them down. A freelance gig nagging at me, out of town visitors, some traveling and a large dose of nasty procrastination piled up against the door and I just haven't been able to push the crap aside and get in here to write.

La Pensione B&B - Key West

Summer's over and I have to say, I'm kinda glad. It was a mixed summer of events. The best: some of my internet buddies came to visit and I made two visits east - northeast and southeast - to return the goodness and visit some of my internet buddies. I've had two more invites to head east again, in fact. I've had to reluctantly decline one due to timing - but, oh, how I wish I could go, and the other is open ended which I will definitely follow through on when the time can be eked out.

The not-so-best of the summer: I engaged in a couple of experiments. First, I put myself on the market via eHarmony.com. I bit the bullet and bought a three month membership. Yeah, I nearly reached the edge of desperation. I am way too picky for my own good. I will die alone. My withered bones picked clean by my hungry cats. I'm good with that.

And they should have plenty to eat because I'm failing at my second project of the summer. A diet. I was determined to put better food in my body - change my eating habits and to shed some poundage. On the tail end of the eHarmony thing, I signed up for Nutrisystem. I stuck with it for nearly two months before my taste buds took up arms and launched a coup.

Now I'm attempting to go solo on the diet thing without a gimmick, but I'm having a rough time. This weekend will be a time to evaluate, plan and see if I can turn it around for good and healthify myself. If I am to die alone - let's make it at age 110 after a rockin' session with my little blue battery powered buddy that lives in a box in the armoir...

Moving on.

Er, .... oh - yeah: my freelance gig went by-the-by. Economics. I was kinda relieved, though. I learned that writing because you have to is really hard. My already burgeoning respect for those who do it, and do it brilliantly, has swelled to tsunami size.

I'm basically a lazy person. It's my nature to rebel when faced with "haftas" - usually because I have little confidence in myself - especially as a "writer." I felt like an interloper - a fraud. But I took great care to put out the best content I could and, as a result, it was a great learning experience. Never mind that no-one was reading it. Hence, the economics thing, ergo the boot.

So, dear readers (reader?) (anyone out there?) - I will attempt to get back here more often. I have some thoughts wandering the halls of my head looking for a place to have a pow-wow. It's time to stir the ashes and see if I can get this fire burning again.

Master of my own domain

2007-08-17T13:57:00.000-05:00

Welcome to yesablog.com! If you found your way here that means I did something right.

I've moved the blog to its own domain because, well, just 'cuz I can. There's a few kinks that I hope I can work out. Like the blogger nav bar up there. That's not supposed to be there. I'm hoping it will go away with this post. So...

Stay tuned!

...and tuned....

It appears that I've succeeded in removing the Blogger nav bar. So...

Hi, ya'll! After a bit of an unplanned absence I'm back. I'm in the process of launching a fun (I hope) new project and may just be tapping on a couple of friendly shoulders out there to come join the festivities.

Stay tuned... again!

I diddent mean to do it

2007-07-27T17:45:00.000-05:00

I don't know when it happened. I only know it had to have been when I was distracted, or in the dark of night. Any other time, I'm certain I would have seen the peril and avoided its guesome consequences. It was an accident, I swear.

I'm guilty of birdiecide.

I discovered the horror when I left for work this morning. I was cursing my municipality for not picking up all of my trash bags on Thursday. One bag topped the container, not allowing it to close all the way. I'd committed a mortal trash sin which will give you seven days of pennance with the rotting garbage in your garage. That's the aroma I thought was overwhelming my nostrils this morning.

It wasn't. Out of the corner my eye, as I was shuffling trash bags, I spied the source of death's perfume. The little carcas was flat as a pancake right where my garage door meets the floor of the garage. Smashed birdie.

I stood there for a moment, at a loss as to what to do. Then I saw movement... I will spare you the details.

I got in my car, backed out of the driveway and hit the button on the garage door opener in the side pocket of the car door. A routine so automatic, I sometimes do a u-turn before leaving the neighborhood to be sure I've, indeed, closed the garage door.

In the street, as I shifted into drive, I realized what I'd just done. Birdie carcascide.

When I returned home this evening, I washed away the evidence. Oh, I know, even a pale imitation of Gil Grissom would have no difficulty in gathering enough DNA, microscopic feathers and fat maggots to incriminate me. But all that pales in light of what I faced when I stepped inside and looked out my kitchen window.

He stood there, staring at me with condemning eyes that said, "I know it was you. How could you? How? How could you?" Oh, horror, horror!

Meme me, it's all about meme

2007-06-21T23:10:00.001-05:00

My internet neighbor (and, oh, how wonderful it would be to really share a neighborhood!) launched another one of those nasty memes. Alas, I kinda have fun with those things, so I took a stroll through my birthday - April 29 - on Wikipedia (which is a major god in the internet pantheon, second only to god Google).

I like the very first item - a role, by the way, I would've loved to have added to my resume (Shaw's Joan), but never got the chance:

1429 - Joan of Arc arrives to relieve the Siege of Orléans.

The second entry reminded me of my favorite Star Trek movie - "The Wrath of Khan" - a gold star to the first person who knows why (no fair Googling):

1770 - James Cook arrives at and names Botany Bay, Australia

It was a busy day in 1945:

1945 - World War II: The German Army in Italy unconditionally surrenders to the Allies.
1945 - World War II: Start of Operation Manna.
1945 - Adolf Hitler marries his long-time partner Eva Braun in a Berlin bunker and designates Admiral Karl Dönitz as his successor.
1945 - The Dachau concentration camp is liberated by United States troops.

I was in the spring semester of my second year in college in Columbia, Missouri when this happened:

1970 - Vietnam War: United States and South Vietnamese forces invade Cambodia to hunt Viet Cong.

I was once really into baseball, but I don't think I saw this game (I was probably doing a children's show, or in rehearsal for something):

1986 - Roger Clemens sets a major league baseball record with 20 strikeouts in nine innings against the Seattle Mariners.

When this happened, I remember thinking "I won't have a problem remembering the date of this sad bit of history" but, had forgotten it until I saw it in Wikipedia:

1992 - Los Angeles riots: Riots in Los Angeles, California, follow the acquittal of police officers charged with excessive force in the beating of Rodney King. Over the next three days 54 people are killed and hundreds of buildings are destroyed.

These guy share my birthday. Now I know why I identified so much with the whine "Marsha, Marsha Marsha!," had a great appreciation for the Seinfeld show and, um, well don't have much for Mulgrew. I didn't like her on "Voyager":

1954 - Jerry Seinfeld, American comedian
1955 - Kate Mulgrew, American actress
1958 - Eve Plumb, American actress

Astologically (and pretty darn accurate):

Individuals born under this sign are thought to have a calm, patient, reliable, loyal, affectionate, sensuous, ambitious, and determined character, but one which is also prone to hedonism, laziness, inflexibility, jealousy, and antipathy.

And of course who am I to deny this:

The opposite sign to Taurus is Scorpio and the two signs are widely considered to be the most sexually responsive of all zodiacal members.

Can't trust that day

2007-06-18T17:25:00.001-05:00

Monday.

That's what this day has been. Pure, unadulterated Monday.

An employee, who a few years ago freed herself from the hellhole that is my workplace, was welcomed back this morning with a cake and a fruit salad. The fruit salad was appropriate because I thought she was absolutely fruity for wanting to come back.

I snapped at my supervisor because I was tired of her ignorance.

I shut my office door because my co-worker's latest annoying trait is TALKING AS LOUD AS SHE CAN. ALL. THE. TIME.

I wanted to tongue lash a client because she needs to buck up and stop being a victim.

That last part is the only aspect of my day and my lousy attitude I truly feel bad about.

I need to not be working. At least not this job. Not the eight to five. I need to be retired. Or, if not retired, acting my ass off on stage, or pounding away at the computer putting my mad CSS skills to work. Or writing, writing, writing. Or working on becoming a real photographer. Or spending a month here. Or, or, or.... anything but what I'm chained to right now.

Yes. It's been a Monday. Through and through.

Pomp and circumstances

2007-06-13T18:53:00.000-05:00

I haven't intentionally been ignoring this blog. I've just been running at full steam the last couple of weeks. This is my busiest time of year work-wise.

I attended two high-school graduations, a nursing pinning ceremony and I have another nursing ceremony tomorrow eve. This is a great time of year. The high school graduations are the best. The kids I work with usually have a lot of obstacles to clear in order to taste even a tiny bit of success, so I get a great deal of satisfaction in seeing someone who's beat the odds be handed a hard earned diploma.

This year, one graduate in particular is a kid whose mother gave up on her a year ago, who couldn't be bothered to drive her to summer school. I and my co-workers stepped up and made sure she got to school and, with a little convincing, she got into an independent living program. As I watched her walk at her graduation, I couldn't have been more proud of her if she'd been my own child.

The memory of my own high school graduation is really vague. I was experiencing a period of high drama at the end of my senior year (1969 - w00t!). I'd just broken up with my boyfriend which caused all kinds of teen-aged trauma - to the extreme. "If he kills himself, then I'll kill myself..." "If you kill yourself, then I'll kill myself..." "Well, if he kills himself and you and you kill yourselves then...." Shakespeare would've been proud. There was even speculation that the mass suicides would make the cover of Life magazine.

I ended up being grounded by my parents who, largely clueless, just couldn't deal with the histrionics. I was to go to the graduation then straight home. All I remember was sitting there and watching one of the jocks walk up for his diploma and listening to the cheers. I have absolutely no recollection of making the walk myself. Our class was so huge, it's entirely possible that we didn't walk, that the only diplomas given out were to top students and the athletic stars. I later learned that my parents weren't even there. They said they weren't able to get in it was so crowded. I've never been convinced that was entirely true.

Just as I was never convinced my Dad was on a sales trip for work which caused him to miss my sixth grade graduation. But both parents were there for my college graduation - 1972. Many of us sported red arm bands worn in protest to the US bombings of Cambodia. I was also part of a small group who technically did not graduate until the end of the summer (I had some credits to, er, recover). We had to sit off to the side and were instructed not to stand for recognition at the end of the ceremony, nor were we to flip our tassels.

Well, I would have none of that. My inner rebel roused and I sent word down the row that we would stand and be recognized and we would most definitely flip our damn tassels. And that we did. The rest of the graduation weekend was spent packing and loading up my three years of college life. It was lonely, though. I was never part of any tight group of friends while there and and those groups were spending their time saying goodbye to each other and sharing those BFF moments.

So - I make the effort to get to the graduation ceremonies of the kids who've come through our program. I cheer and w00t for them - sometimes I'm the only one cheering. They all get cards and a hearty congratulations. My reward is the huge smiles and an occasional "Wow, you came to my graduation!"

If you're ever in need of a little renewal, or are looking for a way to banish the blues, I highly recommend going to a high-school graduation ceremony. It's certainly served me well as my own brand of B-12 spirit boost.

Exit Laughing

2007-05-27T23:15:00.000-05:00

We didn't lay him to rest. We tossed him.

--------

I napped for about an hour before loading up the car and driving to the airport in the early AM. Normally the drive takes only about twenty minutes, but that morning I clipped the first wave of rush hour which slowed me to concern and constant glances at the clock. I'd back-timed my drive to get me to the airport an hour before wheels up, the slowed traffic threatened to cut it to a dangerous half-hour.

Fortunately, once past the clog, I was able to resume my normal ten miles-per-hour over speed limit and got to the airport on schedule. Unfortunately, the parking garage was full which meant I was going to have to hunt for an open spot in the uncovered airport lot and shuttle in. While I circled the nearly full lot, I wondered what karmic retribution was in play here. Could it have been payback for feeling relieved my sister wasn't making the trip? Possibly.

I found a spot in row S, backed in - right in to a little tree. I trimmed a few branches upon opening the trunk to get my suitcase. I started walking towards the terminal, eventually coming upon an attendant who asked me if I wanted a shuttle, I said "Whatever." He radioed while I kept walking then informed me I wouldn't be allowed to walk to the terminal due to construction. "Then why ask if I wanted a shuttle, dip-shit?" I wanted to say, but didn't.

At the terminal, I tipped the driver hoping to regain some good karma. I wasn't happy and wasn't able or willing to put on a smile for anyone as I made my way through security and on to the gate. I kept my shades on and wasted no time getting the iPod plugged in once in the air. My seat mate was on chat mode and I was not in the mood to hear all about the book she was reading and its christian messages. Bob Dylan and his Visions of Johanna put up a solid barrier of sound and I was left alone for the remainder of the trip.

After arrival in Portland, a shuttle to the rental car and another karmic tip, I was rewarded with a loaded Impala replete with sun roof, electric black leather seats, varnished wood accent, OnStar and - most importantly - mp3 aux plug-in, XM satellite radio and Bose speakers. Score.

----------------------------

"Bracken rest-home and mortuary. How can we help you in your time of sorrow?"

"Dad, that's not funny," I heard my niece say in the background with a trickle of laughter.

My brother gave me directions to the mortuary where we were to meet and complete the paperwork needed for my Dad's cremation. When I arrived, I couldn't find the front door and so went in a side door. A man came bounding down the stairs and disappeared, oblivious to my presence. I explored a couple of empty rooms, then startled the man who was on his way back up the stairs. I wondered if he was scared of ghosts.

He took me to the office then disappeared again. I was restless and didn't want to sit. I wandered into the reception area where sappy, serene mortuary music was being piped in. I unlatched a door to peak in to the sanctuary, but then couldn't get it latched again. Extricating myself from that Seinfeld moment, I escaped back to the office where I discovered the closet was being used for the file cabinets and toilet paper storage.

I thumbed through a few pamphlets which cautioned me to plan ahead and save my relatives the burden of my funeral arrangements. I wondered which funeral package included one of the phone book covers which were fanned out on a counter.

My brother arrived and the funeral director gave me the paper-work to co-sign. We were informed, in appropriately hushed funeral director tones, that my father's ashes would be ready for pick-up on Saturday. We said thank-you in not so appropriate, chipper tones as we departed.

I followed my brother over to my Dad's apartment at the nursing home, where we continued sorting and tossing. Being the sentimental pack-rat I am, my pile was much too large, but I wasn't able to thin it out. We reached a stopping point and I took a load out to the trash bins. When I returned, my brother had mixed two gins and gatorade - it was the only mix available.

I phoned my sister in Hawaii and after she mixed a Bombay and tonic with a twist of lemon, we toasted our Dad.

----------------------------

"He didn't get a can? At least Mom got a can." I stared at the box on the counter which loudly proclaimed in large, bold print it was a TEMPORARY CONTAINER.

"She didn't get a can, we bought the can," my niece replied.

We were all unsuccessfully stifling fits of laughter. Our family has long had a warped sense of humor. An outsider might think we were an insensitive, heartless brood but we understand our laughter is what gets us through the hard times. We also understood no-one would have enjoyed our misplaced mirth more then my Dad.

My grand-nephew bounded down the stairs and came face to face with the box. "What's in it? A birthday present for me?"

"Nope. That's Grandpa Kenny." My grand-nephew immediately made a sad face as he peered at the box. "I wish I had a picture of that," I said. Without missing a beat, holding the look on his face, my grand-nephew said "Get the camera." Which I did and snapped the photo between belly laughs.

My brother opened the box and lifted out the heavy plastic sack.

"Looks like Quik-Set" commented my nephew. I glanced at him. "We could put him in a driveway..."

I was handed a scoop retrieved from a kitchen drawer and charged with the task of divvying up some of the ashes which were going to Hawaii, Oklahoma and to southern Oregon. Secured in baggies we then entered into an intense discussion of how we were going to disburse the remaining ashes.

When he was able, my Dad would drive to the post-office then visit "the office" to read the mail and start his day. "The office" was a parking spot at the cove in Seaside. He'd read the mail and watch the die-hard surfers who'd come out in droves to brave the rocks and the frigid water to get their fix on their boards. That's where we wanted to "dispurse" him.

"Do we just want to toss the ashes in?" I offered. "No, probably not," replied my niece. "We won't know which way the wind is blowing."

"Oh, yeah. One toss and we'd have a Lewbowski moment..."

"I'm going to open the top of the bag and then throw it in," commanded my brother. Alrighty, then.

-----------------------

The rest of the morning was filled with preparations for my nephew's eleventh birthday party. A cake was decorated, a pinata was debated. I couldn't think of anything more appropriate then a celebration of a young life - a fitting transition.

My grand-niece came bounding in the door just as my brother, niece, nephew and his wife, and I were leaving to drive to the cove for the final farewell.

"Where are you going?" she asked. Her Mom replied "We're taking Grandpa Kenny's ashes to the cove."

"What??"

"Oh. Um. I forgot to tell you, Grandpa Kenny died..."

With a thirteen-year-old's typical flair, my grand-niece replied, "Whatever..."

It was raining, but nearly all the parking spaces were filled at the cove. With a storm coming in, the surf was prime and the surfers were taking full advantage.

"This is going to be hard to do without being seen," I said. We headed down the slick slope of rocks towards the water.

"We're going to have to be quick. I'm not going to jail," my brother replied.

"Yeah, you're supposed to get a permit." My nephew's reprimand exacted only a terse reply from his Dad. "I'm not paying a couple of hundred bucks for a permit..." He was cut off by a misplaced step which nearly caused a premature launch of the bag in his hand.

"Why not find a hole in the rocks with a pool and pour it in," I shouted as I nearly fell face forward on a slick boulder.

"Let me take it." The bag was handed off and my nephew picked his way across the boulders. The rest of us were scattered up the slope, unable to go any farther.

I raised the camera just in time to capture the moment. The bag was hoisted and flew into the waters of the Pacific. We all said our silent goodbyes.

--------------

Later, amidst the frenetic energy of a house full of ten and eleven year old boys, the adults gathered in the kitchen. I looked at the faces around me and felt as though I was wrapped in a warm blanket of family - lots of laughter, lots of love. We all weathered this transition in our own, unique manner. We didn't require ceremony, all that was needed was coming together, being in each other's company, sharing memories...

My share of my Dad's ashes currently reside in another temporary container on top of my refrigerator. It sits next to the container of a share of my Mother's ashes and the little stuffed reindeer that plays "Grandma got run over by a reindeer."

Another story, for another time. Makes me smile just thinking about it.

---------------

To all of you who took the time to comment, e-mail, IM, and call, your words of comfort and condolence are greatly appreciated and they have gone a long way to help me through this rough patch. I can never thank you enough. Truly.

Pacis pro meus abbas

2007-05-16T20:12:00.001-05:00

The young sailor stared at the picture on the mantle. "That's the girl I'm going to marry," he said. "Who is she?"

He was eventually introduced to her. Her name was Hazel Simpson, but everyone called her Suzy and she was no ordinary woman. She learned to fly at age seventeen and had rubbed elbows with the likes of Wiley Post and Will Rogers.

Defying the wishes of a strict father, she'd left home at a young age, co-piloting an aircraft cross-country to California. She was from a family of wealth, he of more humble beginnings. A small town lad, the sailor realized he had his work cut out for him if he was going to win the heart of Miss Simpson.

The young couple soon fell into a rhythm of earnest courtship, hitting up the the Trocadero in West Hollywood, or the Troc as it was more familiarly known. They didn't often make it inside, finding themselves embroiled in conversation that would last for hours in the front seat of the sailor's car.

The sailor's ebullient charm and determination eventually won the heart and hand of Miss Simpson. She said yes to his proposal right before he shipped out to Honolulu and his post at Pearl Harbor.

The next time they would see each other, instead of the affable sailor she'd bid farewell to nearly two years pevious, she would greet the sober man who'd survived the horrors of the morning of December 7th, 1941.

She had concerns about this changed man to whom she was about to make a life time commitment, but she set those concerns aside, and in the Little Brown Church, as they called it, they were wed in the company of a few friends. A month later, he reported for duty on the newly commissioned escort carrier Liscome Bay.

Barely three months after that, in the wee hours of a south pacific morning, the sailor was struggling for his life as he shinnied up a searing steam-pipe moments after the carrier had been struck by torpedo.

He didn't know how he made it off the ship. Less than half of the crew survived, he was one among them who'd been fished out of the pacific waters, severely burned and clinging to life by a thread.

On the mainland, the sailor's young bride had been back on the job, working at Lockheed Vega designing the aircraft that would help to advance the country's war efforts, when she got word her husband's ship had gone down. There was no news, however, as to whether he survived.

After an agonizing wait, she finally got the news that he was in a hospital in Hawaii. Some time later, he was shipped home to recuperate.

He kept his commission, working a desk job after his recuperation, until shortly after the war ended.
-----------------------------------------

It was those experiences, the coming of age during a time of war, facing its horrors, surviving what so many others didn't - it was those experiences that served to define the character of the man who was my father.

Although those experiences irrevocably changed him, he never lost his optimism, never lost the spirit which made my mother fall in love with him. He was always reluctant to talk about those times, however it was always there, the backdrop to a life of devotion, unwavering duty and integrity.

Of course he wasn't perfect, but even the finest gems are not unflawed. He kept his feelings tightly boxed, but he always had a story to tell and had a sense of humor as large as all outdoors.

It was that sense of humor that became our family's hallmark and provided the bridge that carried us over, around and through our various dysfunctions. Laughter is the glue that bonds us.

Fiercely loyal and unforgiving of betrayal, he kept his vow to his war bride, weathering the storms of marriage and all of its twists and turns until he said farewell to his Suzy fifty-eight years later.

It's now time to say farewell to him. His ninety years on this earth have left their mark. No-one who has ever met him will soon forget him. I am glad I got to be his daughter, glad for what he taught me and proud of the man he was.

Bye, daddy. I love you. You did your job well. Be at peace.

Validation

2007-05-10T16:29:00.000-05:00

There's not much I can say publicly about the work I do without violating my profession's code of ethics. I can say I work with at risk youth, helping them to develop a career choice and providing services designed to help them reach that career goal.

It can be a struggle. Many of my kids are faced with some daunting barriers that no child should have to endure, but occur all too often and are all too common for the culture of wealth we enjoy in this country.

This is the time of year I like best, by the way - graduation time. There's no greater satisfaction than seeing a kid achieve something that once looked impossible. I've said it before elsewhere - if you want to get a shot of inspiration, go to a high school graduation. Want even more inspiration? Go to a GED graduation.

Anyway, once a youth has completed program services with us, it's rare that I hear from them again or that we even get a thank you. That's perfectly ok, it's not something I expect. If the kid had even a modicum of success while with our program, that's thanks enough.

Occasionally, I get a phone call or a visit from someone who participated in our program which is always a treat. Today I got such a visit from a young woman who came through our program about five years ago. At that time she was at a crossroads - she'd dropped out of high school and was trying to get off of drugs. While with us, she got her GED and then decided to enter the military.

She has just returned from a twenty-seven month tour of duty in Iraq. In that twenty-seven months, she did a lot of growing up. In front of me sat a vibrant young woman who now had focus and a purpose. While we were talking, she thanked me for the influence I had on her five years ago. She said I helped her find a direction and without that, she didn't know what would have happened.

I was floored. I do what I do, try to do my best, collect a paycheck and go home. As I stated above, I've never expected a thank you from any of the kids I've worked with over the years - after all, they are the ones doing the hard work. They are the ones that have to walk the path. All I've done is maybe given them an inkling of what direction to go. The rest is up to them.

So when this young lady said that to me, I was humbled. She made all the crappy bureaucratic bullshit I've had to put up with for seven years completely worth it. That one statement reminded me why I do what I do, to hell with the rest.

I gave her a big hug and then we compared tattoos. She had a brand new beautiful tat on her back - a floral design, full of color - subtle reds & blues. She wanted something that hinted of patriotism for this was her "army" tat. She is a vet and a patriot - but she is against the war.

She told me she wrote a lot of poetry during her tour and that several of her poems have been published on Poets Against War. After she left, I spent some time and read all of her poetry. The poems are a little rough around the edges, but woven with raw, sad and painful imagery of war and a soldier's dilemma.

I found the following line from one of the poem's especially poignant. The poem's title is Mistaken: a Soldier's Horror:

With shaking hands through the rubble I sift
They tell me weapons of mass destruction are here
But so far it’s only ribbons with singed hair that I lift

I am very proud her and I am very thankful she walked into my office today. She gave me a bit of validation I was sorely in need of, more-so than I care to admit.

I'm it!

2007-05-10T11:28:00.000-05:00

I've been tagged in two places from my favorite South Carolina bald man and my favorite South Carolina mom of a toddler! One of the marginal advantages of being an internet schizophrenic, I suppose. I was tagged here and at the other blog which is about the unnamed hobby.

I once considered doing a 100 Things list about myself, but I abandoned the idea because I didn't think I could come up with 100 things that would be remotely interesting. Seven is more reasonable, but, that said, it's taken me most of the morning to come up with even that paltry amount. Why is it easier just to write and narrate than it is to generate a list, I wonder?

Any-who - here's my offering to the meme machine:

I am a burger-holic. If I didn't have a drop of discipline, I would eat hamburgers everyday. In fact, I almost do. I know where the best burgers can be had in town and can be found there frequently, indulging in a burger with mustard, pickles and ketchup only, please. Lettuce and onion are optional and NEVER put a nasty tomato on it. My favorite burger joints are the drive-ins - one in particular that's been in existence in my town since before I moved here 33 years ago. They still wrap the burgers and fries in paper and put 'em in a brown paper bag.
I am slightly dyslexic. I didn't find this out until I was in my thirties and it went a long way toward explaining a lot of my difficulty with school. Especially math and reading comprehension. My form of dyslexia is called Scotopic Sensitivity Syndrome. Fortunately, I was raised in a family of avid readers and love to read - but I'm very slow and have a hard time retaining what I've read for very long. Math - well, it's ironic that my current hobby I'm so passionate about depends on math to a large part for success. But, I do love a good challenge!

I once was an avid fan of baseball. So much so that I learned to score the games and followed the season religiously. The box scores were my morning read. My favorite player was Carlton Fisk, hence I was a White Sox fan. I lost interest after a) Pudge was retired before the end of the '93 season and b) the '94 strike. The Sox were on a roll and headed for the series that year, if memory serves. The strike nixed that dream and soured me on the game. Haven't been able to rekindle the interest ever since.

I ran away from pre-school. I decided one day I'd had enough and so hid behind a chalk-board in the hallway when the class went on a water-fountain break. I remember that part, but what I did after that is a blank but has been retold as part of family legend for years. As the story goes I, at the tender age of 4, walked the two miles to an empty home and was found in tears in the middle of the kitchen floor with an empty cookie jar in front of me. That served to stem the tide of my adventurous spirit until well into adulthood.

Which brings me to the next three items, the first of which is - I have climbed a mountain. This one as a matter of fact. Maccu Piccu is perhaps the most awesome place on earth. Mere words and pictures cannot describe the experience that it is. The day we climbed the mountain we weren't intending to and I almost didn't. Fortunately, I mustered my courage and made the trek. Two hours up and three hours down - chewing coca leaves to abate altitude sickness. One day I will post about my Peru trip.

The next adventurous endeavor was a 26 mile bike trip on trail through the Iowa corn fields. I was told that day we were going for a bike ride. I wasn't told how long it was going to be. It was during the visit I wrote about here. Many of the old rail-lines in Iowa have been converted to bike trails. Fortunately, there were no hills. I was amazed at myself for doing it. I rode at home, but not seriously - maybe a mile a week. I also found out a little known fact about biking and the male libido which would maybe make me think twice about getting involved with another biker.

And finally, since Dec. of 2004, I've taken 8 plane trips and 4 road trips which have taken me to seven states. The remarkable thing about this fact is that it's all due to the internet and friends I have made by way of blogging. I ventured out of my comfort zone and have not looked back!

OK, that's my seven little known facts. Now I tag the following good folk:

Gracie
Fred
Matty
Jason
Dave - aka F-Train
Jeremiah - he of the oversized head
Lady Luck - we all want to get to know this special lady!

Suburban Swing

2007-05-07T17:51:00.000-05:00

Nine years ago if you'd told me that in a year's time, I'd be living in suburbia, let alone building a house to live in suburbia, I would've asked you what kind of drugs you were on. No way, no how could I picture myself in 'burbs. My vision was a vintage bungalow in the city core, with a front porch and full of character.

I was then living in a tiny house by the rail-road tracks, a rental barely 900 square feet - if. My landlord had offered to sell me the property which got me thinking about buying. I passed on that property, but took the plunge with the help of a realtor friend and bid on a sweet little 1920s home a couple of blocks away.

I didn't get that home and was devasted. I cried for three days. I toured a few more homes in the next few weeks while researching online. I discovered in my research that I could probably build a home for about the same cost as buying a "used" one. I began to explore the possibility when I got a few offers I couldn't refuse - everything fell into place.

First, my parents said they would finance it with a very low mortgage rate, then an acquaintance who's husband is a developer told me about a lot in one of his developments they'd had difficulty selling and offered it to me at a steal, then another acquaintance who is an architect offered to design it for a reduced design fee and I found a builder through a third acquaintance who was just striking out on his own as a builder and came in right on budget with his bid.

Suddenly, I was on my way to movin' on up to the eastside and to the 'burbs. Who knew that right about this time eight years ago, or more precisely, on May 4th, 1999, the day after the infamous F5 tornado tore through not 10 miles from here, I'd have to leave the ruins of a friend's house to come consult with the cabinet installers as to hardware and stain for the house in the suburbs that I was, indeed, building.

Bizarre with a capital B.

I knew several people who lived in this development or who knew people who lived here. I began to get the scoop on neighbors. My north neighbor was very diligent in informing me how negligent the construction crew was with my house. My south neighbors have a pet iguana. They neighbor on the corner is the mother of the neighbor across the street. People were very friendly before I moved in. After - not so much. I never got a welcoming committee at my door with an apple pie and welcome basket.

But I had learned some good gossip about my south neighbors. It was rumored they were swingers. My imagination was spurred with the idea of that - I began to wonder about the neighborhood on the whole. What really was going on behind closed doors?

All this is the long way to telling you about a discovery I came upon after returning from three days in Tulsa last week. I don't have to wonder about this neighborhood any longer.

You've heard about speed dating, no doubt. Well, allow me to present the newest trend in suburban kink:

Need I say another word more?

blush humbled blush

2007-05-06T20:45:00.000-05:00

Imagine my surprise when I tuned in to one of my favorite bloggers to find this little blog listed as one of these:

I rarely think that what I have to say is of interest to anyone else but me - it's always a pleasant surprise when someone leaves a comment or I see someone's added the blog to their feed list. So, for someone to actually point to this thing and say "It's worth reading" is huge.

My bloglines feeds recently underwent major reduction surgery. Most of the blogs were centered on the hobby which will remain unmentioned here. That's not to say they were unworthy - I was once at the stage many of those bloggers are in relation to that hobby and so I understand what it is they are experiencing and the need to write about it.

They were excised mainly because I was over-saturated with that content. It'd even reached a level that was also making it difficult for me to write on that topic for a site which pays me to do so. I needed to take a break - even from my own hobby-centered blog - and just concentrate on producing content for the paid gig.

My attention turned to this blog because I wanted to expand my horizon, so to speak, break away from a topic centered blog and write about, well, me, me, me, my thoughts, experiences, et al. A pure narcissistic adventure - that's what blogs are, no?

I also turned my attention to reading blogs that were not topic-centric to the hobby that will not be mentioned here. After my subscriptions were reduced I went in search of blogs which give me pause and make me think. Who knew someone was out there doing the same and who created that little award for it!

My collection is rather sparse at the moment, but I will share with you five of the ones which warrant an immediate click in my feed list and for which I eagerly await new posts. These are not in any particular order - they bear equal weight of importance in my blogoshpere. A couple will be familiar if you've come here from there.

Rapid Eye Reality has been a long time favorite. I'd been reading Otis over at the hobby-centric blog he writes with two other stellar writers, when I discovered RER through a link there. I felt like I'd discovered my own secret pot of gold. Otis is nakedly honest - giving the reader the full monty, so to speak, in regards to his life, loves, frustrations, self-doubt, triumphs, defeats - the whole fruit bowl. And we get a bonus with illustrations crafted from the view through his camera lens. He's not only an immensely talented and gifted writer, but a gifted photographer as well. He says he doesn't easily make new friends, but what I've learned from reading him, if he opens the door to friendship and invites you in, you'll no doubt have a friend for life who'd walk barefoot over broken glass for you at the drop of a hat.

And is it any wonder that the next blog I'm going to tell you about is written by his wife? It's not because she pointed the way here, either. OK - here it is. I'm in love with those two. There. I said it, it's out in the open... ha! Because I'm a dunce, I only recently discovered In Search of Walden. I read the entire archives in one sitting. We come from different backgrounds, are twenty-plus years apart in age, she's married with child, I'm single with cats, and yet there is an odd kinship there. Student of Life, as she has dubbed herself, also writes honestly and without self censorship, giving us an account of her daily trials and joys with raising a child, coping with separation from her husband when he's away on assignment, reflecting on past pain from an absent parent, pondering her raison d'etre, well, just everything.

Both of them have inspired and challenged me to put forth my most honest and best effort with this blog - so if I succeed, they are to blame!

The third blog I will mention is Waiter Rant. It's become hugely popular - I believe the author is writing a book based on the blog and is due to be published soon. His essays are seeded by his work as a waiter in New York City upscale bistros and blossom with insight and understanding everyone can identify with. He pulls back the curtain of the restaurant world, letting us in on the politics and culture as well as holding up the mirror to us as customers. You'll never look at that person who's serving you quite the same after reading him and I bet you'll be more appreciative. At the very least, he'll give you a tasty morsel or two to chew on.

The next blog makes me think by reminding me to stop from time to time and take in my surroundings. Chiaroscuro is a photo blog created by a very talented photographer who doesn't post very often, but when she does, it's awesome. One of my secret ambitions is/was to be a photographer. She reminds me to hang on to that dream.

For the fifth choice, I give you Random Thoughts and Thoroughbred Selections. Written by Boy Genius, this blog spans a broken marriage, politics, epicurean delights, horse-racing, sports, dating, and much more - all at a level of intelligence and erudition that is often scary but always delectable.

I'm proud to say I've met the first two writers and the last one in person. The first two invited me to their home for a raucous and wonderful birthday celebration nearly two years ago, I've also sat across from Otis a time or two while indulging in the hobby that will not be named here, and I've gotten to know Boy Genius over a few gatherings in at least three different states.

So - those are my Thinking Blogger awards. If any of the authors find their way to this post, then here's what you may do if you wish to pass on the meme:

The participation rules are simple:

If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think,
Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme,
Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative silver version if gold doesn't fit your blog).

Busy, busy, busy

2007-04-29T02:30:00.001-05:00

That kid to the left there has just completed 56 years on this planet. It's one of those "nondescript" birthdays - not a decade or decade and a half milestone, but it feels kinda like it ought to be a major one.

That's because it's got me thinking about sex. Yes, sex.

Or, more precisely, the last time I engaged in that bit of pleasure with another person. And I'm a little worried. Not so much because it's been a shocking* while, but because the memory of the last time isn't that great.

The guy was an internet acquaintance who'd e-mailed me because I had listed quantum physics as an interest in my AOL profile. After engaging in several e-mails and a few AOL chats we got the nerve to exchange a phone call or two and then decided we needed to meet.

He was pretty brave and made the trip to Oklahoma from Iowa, opting for a hotel. But he only stayed there one night. There was a bit of a physical spark and we pursued our impulses upon returning from an afternoon at the zoo. There weren't exactly any fireworks, per se, but there was quite a loud siren. A tornado warning siren, to be precise. Timed perfectly to... well, you can guess.

About a month later, over the fourth of July holiday, I trekked to Iowa to visit him. There were no fireworks then, either. Both literally and figuratively. Somehow we managed to miss Independence Day fireworks. We did have a moon, though. Which was bright and vivid as viewed each night from his tree house... The sex, though, was perfunctory. We weren't exactly clicking on other levels either, so when I left Iowa, we knew that was it.

I'm not keen on having that as my last memory of sex if it is to be my fate never to roll naked with another person for the rest of my life... or if I were to be hit by a bus next week. I am able to reach back a little farther, though, to a time when there was some damn fine sex going on - you know that scene on the train when Diane Lane is thinking about the illicit sex she's just had in Unfaithful?- it was that good. But doesn't long term memory get shakier with age?

See my problem here?

Now one might suggest I go for a grab and bag, but that's not how I roll. At least... not now. I am fascinated by the evolution of the casual sex my generation propagated, though. I hear terms today like "friend-sex," "fuck buddy," "cuddle pal" and such. Even anonymous sex. It can certainly fuel some intriguing fantasies. However, my generation ultimately discovered, I believe, that casual sex is an oxymoron. There's nothing casual about it.

So that is what I'm pondering on on this, the 29th of April 2007, the day of my 56th birthday, and perhaps pining for a special, er, um kind of package to come knocking on my door?

Oh, well. I guess I'll just have to be happy with a fresh set of double A batteries and....

Sigh.

------

*I'm not going to say how long - each person has their own measure of "shockingly" long - for some it's a week, others months... or a couple of years... or a decade... or whatever... so, I'm not going to say and don't ask.

People, people everywhere

2007-04-15T16:27:00.001-05:00

Where are all these people going?

There are times - most often when I'm on the road, rather than in the air - I'm awed by the number of people on the move.

Years ago... years and years ago, shortly after I completed that much anticipated rite of teenage passage which landed me my coveted drivers license, I could be ~~sneaking~~ driving back to OKC from a ~~kickass party~~ visit to Norman late at night and not see another car on the highway.

Not so in today's 24 hour culture. The traffic never stops and can be as busy at 3:00 am as it is at 10:00 am sometimes.

At this very moment, I'm sitting in Denver airport on an April afternoon and it's jammed packed with people as though it were the holiday time. My flight from Portland, Oregon was completely full. Every flight going out of here today is completely full - stand-bys aren't making it on.

Is this, perhaps, the way we're adjusting to over-population? We just keep moving and space is not a problem? Could so many people have so many reasons to be traveling at any given point in time? Is there ever a time no-one is on the road? Well, obviously, no.

Excuse me, I have to pause for a rant:

With apologies to friends who have young children, I wish parents of children who are able only to express their displeasure at a decibel level capable of rendering deafness would invest in home child care and leave them there. I get cranky when I fly - it can bring me, a normally calm and patient person - close to tantrum level. It may border on child abuse to subject a little munchkin to the torture of air travel.

End rant.

We're all traveling from here to there - alone in our cars, or alone with a plane full of strangers - for a myriad of reasons. One day, it might be interesting to take a recorder, camp out at an airport or gas station and ask people, "Where are you going?"

Me? I'm going home. The end of a trip I didn't want to make, but was inevitable. It's not the last one of this kind. There will be one more. When, I don't know - most likely sooner than later. And when I make the trip again, I'll be one among many traveling to who knows where for who knows why.

Will there be anyone wondering where I'm going?

Countdown

2007-04-08T11:17:00.000-05:00

I decided to treat myself to a Panera savory and a latte this morning. I threw in an orange juice, too, just 'cause.

I found a table in the back corner near a table of three people who were engaged in a robust conversation. It wasn't hard to listen in - but what I heard, I'm not so sure I wanted to hear.

The young man at the table was quoting a study that had followed retirees and compared the age at retirement to how long they lived. He said, "For every year you work past age 56, you're trading two years of your life."

There may be some merit in that. My Dad essentially retired at 55-56. He recently turned 90 years of age.

The retirement wasn't planned. In fact, I think Dad's lack of work after they made the move to Oregon was a point of contention between my parents for a while. But an inheritance and wise investments ended up fueling a very nice retirement in the long run.

A poor example to set for the kids, though. I've been aiming for the same thing since I began the 8 to 5 in my youth. It doesn't look like I'm going to make it, heh, as of today, I have 20 days to keep the aging clock at bay, if that young man's information is correct.

I'll be winging to the Northwest coast in a few days to see my Dad. It will be bittersweet. My Dad recently underwent chemo-therapy for a cancer that's eating away at him, but it failed.

I'm trying to prepare myself. This will be a goodbye and I know Dad knows that. Our family is pragmatic about such things. It is what it is.

My family is it's own jumble of familial disfunction - close on some levels, not close on most. I forgave my parents years ago for not being perfect parents and I hope I was forgiven for not being the perfect child.

There will be sadness and difficulty in this next week, but it will be tempered by seeing my family together - my niece and her kids - and spending time with them.

Well. I didn't intend this to turn into a maudlin refelction of emotional angst... I better end this before the folks at the next table begin to wonder why that woman in the corner is shedding tears all over her lap-top!

Big breath. We go on.

I like ham, too

2007-04-06T16:28:00.000-05:00

I don't celebrate it, being the atheistic heathen I am, but I like the candy and goodies that come along with Easter. There was lots of chocolate sprinkled throughout the office at work today.

I also like boiled eggs and when they are decorated in festive pastels, it's especially nice.

A friend sent a few Easter pics today in an e-mail. Even though I'm not a fan of babies or Easter - I had a distinctive "Awwww" moment with this one:

Due to bug spraying in our office, we got to leave an hour early, so I guess it's a bit of holiday leave. My plans are to indulge in my favorite passtime (that which will never be spoken of here) this evening then do my taxes this weekend.

Each year my refund shrinks a little more which is in direct relation to how long I procrastinate getting the tax returns done. I'm leaving town next week for a family gathering, of sorts, therefore it's a must I get 'er done this weekend.

Somewhere in there I'm sure there will be a pork product. Preferrably a spiral-cut honey baked ham sandwich, but I'll probably have to settle for bacon at brunch on Saturday.

At any rate, to my handful of readers - have a nice Easter. Whether you celebrate it or not - it's spring - that's reason enough to do something special, no?

Set my ladies free!

2007-04-04T16:09:00.000-05:00

A few months ago I underwent a transformation of sorts. I'd been o-d-ing on TLCs What Not To Wear and felt compelled to launch a minor makeover on myself.

Looking back on it now, I can't help but wonder if I hadn't been temporarily possessed by aliens. It was so out of character.

But in all actuality, it more likely had to do with a bit of "aging crisis" that had begun to niggle away at me. I am such a cliche.

At any rate, this compulsion spurred me to actually get a pedicure for the first time in my life, my third manicure ever, girly make-up on my face and the purchase of

bras.

That last item there is what really makes me feel I should plead insanity. You see, I gleefully abandoned the boob straitjackets and liberated my girls a hundred years ago when we women liberated ourselves back in the late 60s. NINETEEN-sixties, mind you.

I eschewed all efforts of Playtex to convince me to lift and separate for nigh on to thirty years. Now, granted, having been what my Dad referred to as Oklahoma's answer to Twiggy, my little buds really didn't need the support. But, somewhere in my fourth decade I bloomed.

No problem, though - I got really clever at clothing myself in a way that didn't make it so noticeble that I was going commando, boastful that "I don't own a bra" and incredulous at other women who avowed they woudn't be caught dead without their bra on.

Then a few months ago, after a trip to one of my favorite playlands, I saw a picture of myself and I wasn't happy with what I saw. There was a frumpy woman grinning back at me. Eek.

This was followed by a near revelatory experience with Stacy and Clinton reaching out to me from the glowing tube in front of me showing me a shining path out of Frumpiness into Hot.

Before I could fully comprehend what had happened, I was sitting on a bar-stool in Las Vegas with painted fingers and toes, mascara, waxed brows, and wearing a Victoria's Secret Very Sexy bra 'neath a form fitting red shirt.

And someone said, "You look hot!"

Yeah - that felt pretty damn good.

I kept up with a bit of the transformation - mainly in my wardrobe, not so much in the make-up and manicure department - until today.

Today I could no longer tolerate the discomfort and restriction of the contraption cinching me in underneath my blouse. In a fit of angst, I unhooked and released my girls from their incarceration.

Nothing feels better than that first second of liberation.

Looking hot at the cost of my comfort will have to take a back seat for a while. I know I have inner hot, heh, and the world will just have to be satisfied with that.

Now I just have to figure out how to transport the bra home inconspicuously...

[[UPDATE]] I walked out the office without my bra - it's sitting on top of my computer's CPU underneath my desk. The cleaning folk will just have to deal.....

Passages

2007-04-01T19:51:00.001-05:00

So. Here I am on a beautiful Sunday sitting in one of my town's local Starbuck's and I'm kinda pissed. My original destination had been our town's local Panera because it has free wi-fi. I was hungry for a bacon-spinach egg soufflé and a cup of java. However, my timing was off - the church crowd had descended so there was not a parking space to be found.

Undaunted, and with a back-up plan, I headed to the west-side Starbuck's. No church crowd and Willie Nelson crooning "Blue Eyes Cryin'" on the Starbuck's radio, I ordered my tall latte and a wildflower honey almond bar. I'd settled into a comfy chair, whipped out the lap-top, and when I attempted to access the wi-fi - I was greeted with the home page of Starbucks - T-mobile - no free wi-fi....

WTF??

Oh, well. Just a wee setback in my inalienable right to the pursuit of happiness.

I have a birthday coming up at the end of this month. I step over the ridge and complete my 56th year of life. The cliche is inescapable - time is moving way too fast.

I attended a fund-raiser on Friday. I got embroiled in a conversation with an acquaintance that had me inwardly screaming "stop, stop now!" but, outwardly, I was helpless to change the conversation's course. We went from menopause to hysterectomies to hormone replacement therapy to osteoporosis to arthritis to our various chronic aches and pains. It was old people's talk and I wanted to run screaming into the night.

The next day a friend and I strolled around our town's campus shop area. It's Parents Weekend this weekend so there were many students and parents strolling around, too. In one kitchy shop, mother's and daughters were pawing through some of the latest fashions - all retro late 60's early 70's styles.

I over heard one mother talking about how she'd wished she'd hung on to the wardrobe of her college years "It's all back in style." I whined to my friend that the popular fashion today is what my 95 lb. 20 year old self would've been wearing, but would look ridiculous on this nearly 56 year old 145 lb frumpy frame.

Is she feeling sorry for herself? Oh, well, yeah. She is, a little. But I think really what's happening is that I'm more nostalgic, really, for the youth that I once was. I love that kid.

When I see folks my age who seem to have become resigned to their age and who have lost touch with that youth they once were, I get a little scared that I could become one of them. They've disengaged and seem older than their years would indicate.

I guess that's what happens when someone hits a "mid-life" crisis, huh? O lder men seek out younger women and older women pay a visit to the plastic surgeon... We're wanting to recapture that youth we once were.

I'm not about to visit a plastic surgeon, but I'd be lying if I said I haven't thought about it for a second or two (ok, "You Make Me Feel So Young" is now playing on the Starbucks radio... who ordered up this soundtrack for my day, huh?)....

While I'm currently navigating some twists and turns of life in the elder lane, at the end of the day I'm pretty happy with how I've turned out. I love that I have friends who span a wide range of ages and I'm certainly determined to not go gently into that good night, if you will forgive another cliche. . .

This birthday will pass just as the 55 that have come before it. The dings and dents of aging are what they are - a part of life to be dealt with, but the young girl who occasionally winks at me in my mirror will continue to encourage me and inspire me live young, keep learning and stay engaged.

I'm convinced that's the path to the fountain of youth, so let that be my birthday gift to you, dear reader. May you have as many as I have and many, many more...

Spring is springing....

2007-03-04T18:40:00.000-06:00

... which means it's time for spring cleaning.

I've moved this blog to it's own spot at Blogspot and, in doing so, cleaned the archives of some of the posts that were superfluous. That's not to say that future posts won't be full superfluous crap, but I just thought it timely to get rid of some of the posts that just aren't relevant any longer.

I don't know what will become of this blog. My main one is also in flux as I attempt to figure out just what I can do. What I will try to do is to avoid posting here during my blue periods... unless I can make it more universal and less self-indulgent (not to mention self-flagellating), I'll spare you the melodrama.

I really wanted to hang on to this blog because I like the design of it... I may just end up robbing it of it's template and giving it to my main blog... we'll see!

A Time to Remember

2006-09-11T18:23:00.000-05:00

I was at work about 20 minutes early. Someone at the front desk said something alarming which caused me to turn on the little television in my office and tune to the CBS affiliate station. It was the only station I could get a clear signal on.

Dark, billowing smoke was pouring out of the north tower. The synapses in my brain made the instantaneous conclusion that a plane had hit the tower even before I heard a newscaster state as much. I was quickly reaching a level of stunned disbelief commensurate with a tragic accident while I was taking in the images being broadcast on the tiny 6" black and white screen. I was edging into a "tragic but acceptible" stage when the second plane sailed into view and sliced through the south tower.

And I went numb.

I sat for a very long time unable to grasp what I'd just witnessed. Then there was the report that a plane slammed into the pentagon. I went down the hall to see the reports on the office television - the color surprised me. Made it too real. I went back to my office to watch and listen.

Then the south tower collapsed.

Then the north tower collapsed.

My ability to comprehend collapsed.

Up until this last week, I'd avoided most reports and rehashing of the events of September 11, 2001. This past week I chose to watch two re-enactments produced by the Discovery Channel. It's taken five years for me to reach a point where I felt I could handle it emotionally.

Today, however, the anniversary passed and I wasn't even thinking about it. I'm wondering if that was right.

And I'm feeling a little ashamed.

And angry.

But I'm going to let the anger go for a moment. The men and women and children who were unwilling sacrifices to misguided fanaticism deserve to be remembered with peace.

Remember.

Verily, verbiosity abounds

2006-08-25T14:02:00.000-05:00

Each week, about this time, Los Bruncheros begin the discussion of where to meet for the weekly repast. The volume of e-mails centering on this subject may one day be worthy of publication. At the very least, they are entertaining, this week being no exception. For anyone out there who stumbles upon this lonely spot in the blogiverse, I thought I'd share some of the fun. It started innoncently, with notice a mutual friend was in town and the suggestion we meet at a favorite spot in the big city about 20 miles north.

Our favorite spot there, however, is not without its shortcomings, which was in discussion when a little competition was spawned:

Brunchero #1: I was concerned about the noise too, that was why I was hoping we might be in the back room, where it is less noisy. (How's that for a run on sentence?)

Brunchero #2: Well, as run on sentences go your's, my dear [Brunchero #1], wasn't so bad considering it addressed a matter near and dear to most all of us, namely, the constant quest for the perfect brunch-spot that appeases all of us to the "nth" degree, as if such a place ever had a ghost of a chance to even exist in the first place.

(That's my entry in the "run on sentence" contest. Anybody else care to play?)

Brunchero #3: Alas, I fear my runon sentence construction abilities pale in comparison to those of [Brunchero #2], who links copious verbiage together in such facile streams that flow unimpeded across the pale grey of the apple laptop screen and defy the merest hint of interruptability with their conspicuous stream of consciousness agglomeration of nouns, verbs, descriptors, punctual punctuation and timely flights of literary fancy.

Brunchero #4 (your, truly): The opportunity of epicurian delights along with intelligent, stimulating and elucidating social discourse, not to mention a welcome reunion with a friend and comrade of former Oklahoma habitation, is an opportunity which, should it be missed, would loose the moorings and set adrift the vessel so fondly known as Friendship, the very thought of which transports my piteous soul, or lack thereof, to depths known only to the dark denizen of the seas that are immortalized within the tales and tunes of centuries' worth of sailing men (and some women) to whom we owe a king's ransom of debt for their daring to sail into the unknown and make it known, to seek the ellusive edge of the world and wonderously discover it's bounteous beauty and treasures, to have made the sacrifices that ultimately have allowed you and I, nay, all of us the priviledge of savouring freshly ground coffee, the succulent, squeezed nectar of newly plucked oranges, potatoes which dance on one's tastebuds with the seasonings and flavors of the Indias, the bounty of the farms which are slowly giving way to the cancer of urban spread and corporate greed, subjects of which could be illuminated, discussed and debated once we convene at the appointed time, 10:30 am being my preference, within the brunching establishment of choice with a suitable seating arrangement that I hope, mez ami, can be easily obtained, thus allowing more time for the renewal of comity and the enjoyment of alimentary victuals.

[[UDATE]]

Brunchero #2: Gawwd! That's one helluva rambly-assed run-on. [Brunchero #4] clearly takes the lead by several lengths. Anyone else playing or do we declare [Brunchero #4] the winner?

Brunchero #4 (your's truly): Oh, certainly there's a worthy challenger or two - I toss the gauntlet and insist it be ta'en up....

Brunchero #1: [Brunchero #4] wins!!!

Brunchero #3: Yowza! You win!!!

Brunchero #4 (your's truly): Aw c'mon... Brunchero #1, Brunchero #5, yea even Brunchero #6, dare ye not to take up the gauntlet? I was looking forward to any ripostes... dayumn....

Brunchero #1: Actually, if you look way down on the list, I was the one who started all this with a comparatively small run on sentence and Brunchero #2 was just trying to make me fell [sic] better by doing one.

But, again, I pale in comparison to Brunchero #4's obvious hidden, and heretofore unknown, talent for this sort of thing.

Brunchero #4 (your's truly): Why yes, Brunchero #1 did initiate, which does not preclude Brunchero #1 - or Brunchero #2 or Brunchero #3 - from continuing and Brunchero #5 or Brunchero #6 joining in, and such being the case I hereby implore the competition to proceed so that I may be prevented from dwelling alone and forsaken within this alien dominion of language I seem to fallen into and from which I am having great difficulty in extricating myself....

helpeth me...

As of this writing, that's where the challenge stands. I will post updates as they occur.

Stream of

2006-06-09T01:47:00.000-05:00

The water is pouring over my hands when I become aware of a silky soft sensuousness on my finger tips. The moment of erotic sensation is broken by the incessant ring of the phone in the lobby and the unemployed voices of customers coming in for a hopeless job search.

I reluctantly turn off the stream of cool water and return to my steamy hole-in-the-wall office to endure another mundane day without air-conditioning or adventure to rescue me from a life lived on the edge of unnoticed.

I sip my coffee and while the caffeine slowly lifts the fog which blankets my consciousness, I drift through my morning reads then ease into a routine so familiar and automatic, only the calendar on the desk bears witness to the passage of time.

Later I am welcomed home by the two creatures whose affection seems to ebb and flow according to the volume of food currently in their dishes. I ease into a nightly routine so familiar and automatic... the glow of the screen in front of me taking me into the thoughts and minds of others searching for... what? What? What is it that we want?

The next morning my hands linger a little longer under the stream of water and I'm almost able to surrender to the sensation, but stop myself for to do so I would be acknowledging an absence... an absence of... the absence of

touch.

Whatever it is, I'm sorry

2006-05-11T11:54:00.000-05:00

Whatever it is, I'm sorry...

If I believed in such things, I would think that I must have offended some god somewhere and am being punished for said offense. If that's true, I think I deserve to know the nature of my offense at the very least.

First, I get scammed by an online scheme which pissed me off - not because the scammers are bottom-feeding low-life scum, but because I fell into the trap so easily. I pride myself on my internet "savvy" - and falling prey to a scheme after years of due dilligence of researching, cost-comparing, merchant rating, et al... well, it had me reeling. Add to that my extremely low expectation that my credit card company will come through for me on the disputed charge and you have a double shot of godammit to choke on.

That was followed by my seven year old washer breaking down. Again, I'd prided myself on the deal I got with the washer and dryer when I bought them, and they were Maytags, for crying out loud. But, I got quite a lecture from the repairman who informed my my Maytag wasn't really a Maytag and, in fact, there really aren't any true Maytags anymore and that they are junk. He said he wouldn't put 'em in his house and that only brand he would put in his house was a Whirlpool. So, since the cost of repairing the damn Maytag was as much as new washer would be, I dumped it and bought a Whirlpool that very afternoon.

Then, as if that wasn't enough, a lightnening bolt strikes in my backyard and I learn the definition of haywire. I'm watching TV and for a nano-second, I think it explodes when I hear - not thunder - but a loud bang right on top of the flash of light. It's intact, fortunately, but then there's a loud "pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop," coming from the study. My Homemedics Massage Chair Seat has flipped on and is in a mode of manic self gratification which I unceremoniously interrupt by unplugging it immediately.

After assuring that the house wasn't on fire, I then discovered the EFT outlets in the kitchen and garage have all tripped and the AC unit is futzed. I spent a good hour trouble-shooting and got the AC back on. My lap-top was OK, but I dared not risk turning on the big computer. I didn't want to know if it'd been fried, yet, and so put that off until the next day. It survived, but the cable DSL and my phone service (provided by the cable folks) was dead.... so no internet, no phone, no luck.

And my garage door opener wasn't working either and refused to re-sync the code with the remote.

Perhaps it's a sign that it's time to start stocking up on non-pershibales and preparing for the 2012 crises, no?

Or maybe it's just the universe adjusting the underwear in its crack.

Cognitive Dilbert-ness

2006-04-11T18:15:00.000-05:00

The Dilbert Blog: Pleasure Unit Theory
The Dilbert Blog: Free Will
The Dilbert Blog: Free Will (part 2)
HotBits: Genuine Random Numbers

've been enjoying the latest "discussion" going on over at The Dilbert Blog. Scott Adams has one of those minds that can reduce a universe of bullshit to a singularity of clarity and never lose the smirk on his face.

I applaud his Pleasure Unit Theory:

People organize their lives to get their minimum required units of pleasure. While individuals vary in terms of how many units of pleasure they need, everyone is striving to reach their personal minimum.

He's managed to make me rethink my stance on free will which, prior to reading his little ditties and the subsequent avalanche of comments to his posts, I would have taken the favorable position. However, now I'm not so sure he'd be wrong and I'd be right.

Over-simply stated, up until now, I defined free will as our ability to captain our own ships. However, I am also a believer in cause and effect and what Mr. Adams posits is that to believe in free will and cause/effect is contradictory. As I pondered that, I had that eerie buzz of cognitive dissonance bigger brains than I can explain. Zzzzzzztttt. Brain freeze.

Go give him a read. It'll stir your brain cells for definite sure.

Parenthetically - the last link up there is one of the beauties of the internet and how artful a can lead to b can lead to c and so on. Dilbert to evolution to free will to cognitive dissonance to random number generators....

The Assignment

2006-04-08T17:58:00.000-05:00

My other self got tagged and given the assignment of writing a story using the Melissa Etheridge cover of "You Can Sleep While I Drive." I'm barely a non-fiction writer (more of a chronicler of stuff rather than anything resembling a "writer") let alone a fiction writer. But, I thought I'd give it my best effort. This story came from the feeling the song evoked. More of my fellow asignees can be found here here and here and here with their tales.

Only a Moment
Only a Moment

He reached for the shot of courage sitting on the bar and downed it one quick gulp. While the slow after burn of the 12 year old scotch worked it's way down his gullet, he lit a cigarette, letting the time it took for each action - match, strike, light, inhale, exhale - procrastinate the answer to the question.

He glanced in the mirror behind the bar at his reflection and that of Hannah, sitting at their familiar stations. This had become a regular occasion - their "friday conference" they called it, born out of a need to drown the complaints of the 8 - 5 in a cocktail of friendship and commiseration. But, as so often happens, over time this meeting had become so much more than a drink after work and bitch session. More was said in the silences between them than was ever uttered out loud.

"Those things are going to -"

"- kill me." They laughed at the ritual of this exchange.

"One more, bar-keep," Terry said as he defiantly took a long drag of the cigarette.

"So? Are you going to take it?" Hannah asked again. She tried to keep a distance in her voice, attempting to portray the impersonal interest of a co-worker. She took a larger than normal gulp of her drink, hoping that the pounding of her heart wouldn't betray the anxiety that was rising to the surface.

In the reflection of the mirror, Terry thought he saw something in Hannah's eyes that quickened his pulse, but he pushed it aside because it was dangerous to hope.

"Well, it's a great opportunity," Terry began. He ran his finger around the rim of the shot glass. "I don't know...."

Terry felt the moment arrive - a crystal clear nanosecond when everything he'd known or felt before became irrelevant and all that mattered was this moment and the woman sitting next to him.

Hannah looked at Terry and saw in his eyes everything she had ever hoped to hear him say.

"Terry, I...."

The cell-phone broke the moment. Terry hesitated, but then reached in his pocket to answer the device which was nagging for his attention. He downed the second shot as he flipped the phone open.

"Hi, honey.... yeah... I'll be home in a few.... Yes... yeah, I got the offer... no, I...yes, I know you don't want.... Yes, of course I....look, we'll talk about it when I get home, ok?. Sure...." He paused. "Love you, too."

He flipped the phone closed and looked up.

Hannah was gone.

Inevitability

2006-03-27T00:59:00.000-06:00

"Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation."
Tennessee Williams

I don't answer my land line phone much anymore. I even abandoned caller ID because why have it when I'm not going to answer it anyway. 99.9% of the time it's someone calling form a call center somewhere wanting to survey me, sell me something or it's the umpteenth collection agency trying to collect a 7 year old bill for $58 that I never owed and will never pay. Never. Ever. Friends know to call me on my cell.

But when the phone rings at that time in the evening that makes you really question who's on the other end and your heart rate kicks up a notch, I will pick it up. Again, most times it's a telemarketer or the housekeeper calling to ask "You want me to come tomorrow?" The answer is always yes, by the way. Hell, if I could afford it, I'd have her come every day.... I'm not a slob, mind you, just incredibly lazy when it comes to domestic things.

I digress.

The other evening I was working away at the computer when the phone rang mid-evening. I hesitated for a second as I looked at the clock. I winced as I picked up the receiver - I didn't want to have to hang up on another telemarketer. But it was just late enough to make me question.

It was my brother calling. I immediately identified two reasons he could be calling - one) he's coming to visit or two).....

There are rites of passage we all experience as we make our way through life. Most of us will face in our lifetime one of the most difficult of passages. The loss of a parent.

I paid the first half of my dues to that club a few years ago when my mother finally let go her struggle. No matter how much you try to prepare - it's insufficient. It's a hole that can never be filled. Time does bring an ease to the ache, but there's an ever present twinge at the edge of your heart...

We got the niceties out of the way quickly and then my brother got to meat of the call. My father was put into assisted living the night before. Assisted living = euphemism for nursing home. That was the beginning of the end with my mother.

Now my father is a fighter - and my brother said he was pretty darn mad. Which was a good sign. When I called him the next day it was evident his mind is still crystal clear and his attitude was what you could call "chipper." But his body... well 89 years is a long time. And so we enter a waiting period of a few weeks before we know what the next step will be. There may be surgery or it may be refused. Whatever will be his wishes.

I've cushioned myself with with a goodly amount of a child's denial. But the reality is, my father has now entered his own rite of passage, the ultimate rite of passage I guess you could say, and I'm utterly powerless. I can't stop time, can I?

SWFNBM

2006-02-11T03:57:00.000-06:00

With my chest feeling as though an elephant was sitting on it, rivers of phlegm and mucus seeping from pores I didn't know existed, and a hacking cough worthy of life long 10 pack a day smoker, I railed against the gods for sending the infectious microcosms that were laying siege to my white blood count. But my useless invectives died on the dry air as quickly as they were uttered. My wan visage, looking every excruciating minute of its more than half-century existence, growled back at me in the mirror, a pathetic portrait of an ailing spinster. Oh hell, call a spade a spade. Old maid.

I padded to the kitchen with a roll of toilet paper under my arm - at the ready to mop up the fluids flowing and exploding out of my nostrils. I pulled back the tab on a can of tomato soup and as it jiggled and farted its way into the bowl I had a fevered fantasy of home-made tomato soup simmering on the stove top, lovingly stirred by a caring hand; me snuggled under a warm blanket, comforted by a sympathetic voice and lots of home-made tlc.

A sneeze broke my reverie. I tore off another 4 or 5 sheets of tissue, wiped my nose and shoved the bowl of gelatinous muck into the microwave. I managed to glue together a couple of pieces of bread with some slabs of cheese and brought the sandwich to crisp under the broiler in the oven. Blackened cheese sandwich with lukewarm tomato soup. Just the ticket.

Feeling sufficiently sorry for myself, I planted my ailing bones on the couch, my cats providing a proper amount of purrage while we learned of Oprah's latest mission then what not to wear and then the right utensil for turning an omelet. Cable tv is a sick single girl's best friend. I eventually drifted off into a robutussic coma.

I repeated this cycle for the next 3 or 4 days, the only benefit being the time off from work. The flow of fluid eventually waned, and my body dutifully began to respond to the commands my brain transmitted.

I tidied up the various litterings of the sick room and the failed attempts at comfort food in the kitchen. The clatter of the tomato soup cans in the trash bag only serving to remind me that when you're sick, it sucks to be single.

Single. Unmarried. Never-been-married. Spinster. Although it was pointed out to me recently that the term has a definition of "one who spins," I'm not able to ignore it's most common meaning. This is right out of an online dictionary:

spinster- an elderly unmarried woman

While I concede the "unmarried woman part" and although I'm past the mid-century mark, I will, however, eschew the term "elderly." Revised, then, we have:

spinster- an unmarried woman

Old maid.

Back when I was a young unmarried woman, this wasn't exactly what I had envisioned for myself. Somewhere along the line, though, I managed to abandon the typical (for my era) young girl's quest for a husband, 2.3 kids, station wagon and a house in the suburbs. I could blame the Women's Liberation movement, however the movement's more tangible influences on me were manifested in the abandonment of my of bras and cabinet full of makeup rather than instilling in me a sense of independence and 'sisterhood.'

I've had a couple of relationships which danced on the edge of marriage, but for reasons I'll leave for future posts, I retreated back to singlehood. Over time, I became extremely picky. At least that's what 'd tell myself. Truth be told, I think that became a convenient excuse for not having to endure ending relationships anymore. Because I'd become very good at doing that. Again, I'll leave that analysis for a future post...

I'd even gotten to the point of being relatively happy with my singledom. I went from overly dependent to fiercely independent. In due time, I became my own best friend, honestly enjoying my solitude and learned how to take advantage of it.

But, of late, this spinsterhood, old maid-hood, singlehood has begun to weigh on me. My "elder years" not that far away in the future, I'm not so sure, now, that I want to get there by myself. And, currently, I seem to be wanting to share my experiences more. I'm good company, but I think I'm getting weary of it only being me. And my cats.

I've even caught myself on more than one occassion checking out the left hand of men I've met who seem even remotely interesting. The ring finger usually being occupied, I'm resigning myself to the reality that the "good ones" are already taken. Or gay.

But then there's the internet. Hoo boy. Think I'll save that discussion for a future post as well. Just the contemplation of the "D" word has me wanting to check the locks on the door, turn the phone off, hole up and retreat to the library of books on my bed-stand...

Where're my cats?

The secret blog

2006-01-03T20:47:00.000-06:00

This is my secret blog of sorts. There are only two people I know who know about this sight - if you're not one of them, leave me a comment and let me know who you are. If you are one of them - say hello, woodja'?

I shed the original title as well as the alias I write under at the other blog (no, I'm not going to link it up - I want it completely separate from this one). This blog will be... well, I don't really know what this blog will be. Most likely a place to rant and whine for a while because that's the mindset I'm currently wallowing in...

Aye, me, she sighed.

I recently had to scorch a bridge with a long-time friend... or, rather, I should say a close acquaintance. This person was on the outer rim of my close circle of friends, certainly not a confidant, but someone whom I've known for around 20 years and saw on a social basis maybe 3 or 4 times a year. What happened? Well, this person had become convinced I was in dire need of an intervention of sorts.

You see I've seriously engaged in a hobby over the last couple of years which has risks, especially for OCD candidates - which I am not. That notwithstanding, this person who is an OCD initiate and a (longtime sober) achoholic took it upon himself to e-mail after reading a post at my other blog about said hobby where I, admittedly, got on my high horse.

Now, had he said "Hey, kiddo, you're a bit over the top there, you might want to rethink..." or something like that, I probably would have laughed and agreed with him. But nope - he decended into a rant of insults and degradation and insisted I was on the railroad tracks with the train barreling toward me and it was his duty to save me.

I have a LONG fuse - it takes a lot to get me riled. And I can weather criticism from friends - it may sting, yet I know it's all for good. But I draw the line at intentional below the belt insults and degrading language. After 20 some-odd years of tolerating his quirky and difficult personality, I finally said enough is enough and shut the door. It wasn't easy to do, not by a long shot. I was extremely distraught about the whole matter, but knew it was the right decision. I just won't continue to put myself in a position for more abuse.

For me friendship is a precious thing. I'm not the kind of person who has dozens and dozens of friends and skims the social circuit.* I'm not an outgoing person. I have a handful of very close friends who are really more of a family to me. I can't be a casual friend - I go for the bond! So even letting go of this acquaintance was a swamp of pain I hope to never wade through again.

Ay, me, she sighed again.

Guess I had to get that out. It wasn't in the game plan when I started this post.

-------------

*Although this blog phenomenon has given me tasty salad of new and growing friendships... I love tech-NAW-logy...

PT and the single girl...

2005-12-06T21:35:00.000-06:00

The lights were low. The music was at a soft, mellow level. I was wrapped in warmth and his strong hands were soothing.

"Ummm, you're tight," he said.

"Uhnnmlnnn," I moaned.

"You ready for her?" He asked his partner. "Yeah," was his reply, and I felt another set of hands move my hair out of the way. "How does this feel?"

"Oh, baby..." I thought. I was melting. "Grnflhgh" I answered.

..............

Rewind. Play it all back.

The job. My boss. My failure to enter retirement before 55 candles on my birthday cake burn the house down (April 29, 2006 - presto).

Spinster. Senior Citizen. AARP.

Cats.

..............

Friday afternoon.

"I'm going to call and see if they can get you in right away, you need attention right now." Having, unfortunately, a moderately high tolerance for pain, I'd waited nearly three months to do something about the problem. While I waited for Dr. Lisa to return, I thought, "A pain in the neck. A big fat pain in the neck..."

For several months, each little problem, little frustration, little disappointment, little insecurity, had conspired to weave the muscles of my neck into a gordian knot so complex that not even Alexander the Great would've been able to unravel it.

But Scott the PT can. And is. With the advantage of modern technology and electricity at his command, he has worked his magic with the tools at hand and then put the whipped cream and cherry on it with skilled massage and manipulation.

..............

Saturday it hit.

The knot was untying and out from the loosened cords came a flood of emotion which had been dammed by months of "I'll deal with that later...."

I elbowed Better Sense aside and told it leave me alone. It obliged and didn't return until some 24 hours later. Unfettered, Impulse took control. The ride was a quick and dizzying spiral down, down.

Down.

----

Sunday night.

Better Sense had returned. The pain in my neck had eased. The ride was over, and I was calm. Purged.

But Impulse had done its damage. Self respect had been roughed up, abused and was going to need some tender care in order to repair.

Another entry in the log of life. Another lesson learned. Another fence to try to mend....

My Kevoli

2005-10-22T21:41:00.000-05:00

My Kevoli

This is for me, and for someone who is missed today.

I was enraptured the moment I set eyes on him. I think it was my first visit to En Rapport, a local coffee house that would eventually become my home away from home - our hangout. Long brown hair fringed eyes which had a light and life in them and had me even before "hello." The cape he sported, along with the rest of his wardrobe had the hint of an era populated with musketeers, damsels in distress and castle fortresses. Oh, how he swept me away.

He was a poet, a thinker, a writer, a lover, my first, and struggled with his own inner demon-haunted hell. Of course I fell head over heels in love. Through the scope of years, which can bring greater understanding of such things, it can be confirmed this was a true, deep and abiding love... Love. We were young, very young, and rode the roller coaster of love, angst, innocence, lust, confusion, joy, hell that is inevitable and required of all initiates.

It couldn't last. Full of adolescent drama and trauma "The Breakup" was truly grand in scale and teetered on the edge of ending very tragically, befitting any such scenario scribed by the Bard himself. As the song says, though, love heals the wound it makes, and over time the love which remained at the core managed to calm the stormy seas. We lapsed into a distant, but deep, friendship, silently acknowledging that while it was not in the stars to remain together, what we shared in the brief time we were together, while maybe equalled, certainly would not be surpassed.

It was June. I was sitting on my couch in my little house on Faerie Queen Lane. I was wearing red shorts and a t-shirt. Home, briefly - I was working as Assistant Stage Manager for the summer musical theatre in the City, and my days were 14 hours long, 7 days a week. No time off. Someone came to the screendoor and knocked - a long-time friend I hadn't seen in a while, Bobby, was standing on the other side of the screen door. I let him in and he told me. Tim had been killed in a car crash. A drunk driver had smashed into him.

I wasn't able to go to Texas for the funeral. I asked friends about his poetry, where was it? I wanted it. But it was in the possession of his mother, which I conceded, was where it should remain. And I comforted myself with a sort of fantasy over the years that followed. Tim was just the sort to stage a disappearance and I wondered if one day I'd get a knock at my door and there he'd be.

Several years ago his mother, "Minnie-Mum" we called her, lost a battle with cancer and passed away. After her memorial service, Tim's sister took me by the hand and took me to the little vault in the church where Tim's ashes had been placed. Seeing that chipped away at the hope I'd etched lightly in the back of my mind. A few months later, his sister delivered a package to me. It was Tim's poetry to me, some stories, notes we passed in class, prom mementos, a lock of my hair...I put it away.

All of the memories came rushing forward yesterday, when for a brief, brief time it seemed maybe, just maybe what I'd hoped might just be true. A co-worker was sitting in my office gabbing away while I was glancing through the online version of our local paper. I checked the obits and commented, "No-one I know died." He stated that there should be some sort of national obit database and I informed him there was, of sorts - the Social Security Death Index. I've used it to look up my grandparents and some other distant relatives. We played around with it for a while, looking up relatives and ourselves to be sure we were still alive. And then I thought to look up Tim. I'd never done that - had never thought to do it. I entered his name and... nothing. No records.

I entered his name every conceivable way, year of death, etc. Nothing. Oh, shit. When I got home after work, I impulsively pulled out the package of Tim's poetry and mementos and dumped it out on the bed. I started to look through, but halted - I had to get to rehearsal. The thought that he just very well could be alive, in witness protection, in New Zealand, even in prison somewhere just would not go away. After rehearsal, I read through some of the poetry and was transported back in time for a few minutes. I repackaged everything and put it away again and went to unwind with a few hands of cards.

This morning, I googled a bit farther and found another death record index site for Texas. This time I got a response. Timothy M. Robertson, date of death June 6, 1976. The fantasy comes to a close. I really never believed otherwise, but I'd had a tiny hope. I have the memories, tucked deep inside, where from time to time I can revisit. But.... maybe, just maybe...

Inside myself I see the pain
Loneliness can bring.
Outside myself, I see the rain
Veiling everything.
Everything is dying now,
Kingdoms fall away,
Yet, though the ages bow,
My love will always stay.

Yes... A Blog

We're moving

And so but then

Sincerely, L. Cohen

So How's It Going?

On This Day

Auld Lang Syne

Me - the disaster movie

A walk in the woods

Does Dan-Active Work for an Irregular Brain?

Hard Day

Snews that's fit to print

Discovery of the Century

Happily ever after - surving PC abuse

Spinster for Hire

The One Where I Play Around with Live Writer

With apologies to Mr. Obama

And the Wind Comes Sweeping

Faces in the Wind

I rhy got thm

How to Enjoy Being a Lazy Ass

Of hiccups, zombies & mint chocolate chip

Another year....

I can haz muziks

Can you hear me now?

Politics - scattered, smothered, covered and chunked

Dancing with the devil

How not to buy a Wii

From the prescription bottle to the mountaintop

Karma

"Sexism! Still a Force in American Politics"

Reunion

Harlot's Dream*

Operation Snap Out of It

Perchance to dream

Avoiding the potholes...

Life twists

Dear Man o My Dreams

Choice

I am woman...

Home for the Holidays

Where the hell have you been?

Master of my own domain

I diddent mean to do it

Meme me, it's all about meme

Can't trust that day

Pomp and circumstances

Exit Laughing

Pacis pro meus abbas

Validation

I'm it!

Suburban Swing

*blush* humbled *blush*

Busy, busy, busy

People, people everywhere

Countdown

I like ham, too

Set my ladies free!

Passages

Spring is springing....

A Time to Remember

Verily, verbiosity abounds

Stream of

Whatever it is, I'm sorry

Cognitive Dilbert-ness

The Assignment

Inevitability

SWFNBM

The secret blog

PT and the single girl...

My Kevoli

blush humbled blush