Now

"And I need you,And I miss you..."

Whew,only half that distance and thankfully, I don't have to walk. I'll be leaving home for the airport in about 8 hours.

I thank you for your well wishes.

I'll *see* you all next year. I wish for everyone a safe, happy new year celebration. Enjoy. Cheers!

One on One

Do you ooh!
Two hour long conversations on the phone, can't get you out of my mind
Baby are you feeling me feeling you?
Every thing you say and everything you do,Gets me lost in you days at a time,
Tell me are you feeling me feeling you?
"Feeling You, Feeling Me" ~Alicia Keys


As the months turned into weeks, into days and now with only several hours left, the excitement is alive, growing with every minute passed. It sparks and crackles propelling me forward. I check the weather forecast continuously, go over my tasks to complete before take off lists and try to keep from spinning of my axis. Five months ago it felt like this day was eons away. One more night here and then I'll be there.

Yum.

Deuce

"I wanna spend some time with you." In two days, you and I, just the two of us.

Magic Wand Number Three

My mom gave birth to three children.

My son and daughter make up my immediate family of three and on Tuesday we’ll be together again to share a holiday meal. My mom will join us, but my two brothers will not.

While I don’t subscribe to the lucky or even magic number theory, if I did it would probably be three. There has been a number three woven in and out of the fabric my life in a number of incarnations for the past thirty-three years.

Three is better than four yet not as enticing as one. Better yet, none. Soon baby, soon.

Four Play

Oh what a night, late December number 23.

As in previous years this day is full of cleaning and cooking all gearing up for the big day. And this year is no different in that regard however unlike previous years it is the days beyond that are grabbing most of my attention. What focus I can harness is tied to weather, travel and time.

Neta and I have talked at every opportunity. We’ve talked about what we’ll do together, the running theme being just that, together. The big plan is that there is no plan. Besides what we’ll do New Year’s Eve we are being very deliberately loose.

We want to relax. And we will.

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day.
When it's cold outside,I've got the month of May.
Well, I guess you'll sayWhat can make me feel this way?
My girl. (My girl, my girl)Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)
I've got so much honey
The bees envy me.
I've got a sweeter songThan the birds in the trees.
Well, I guess you'll sayWhat can make me feel this way?
My girl. (My girl, my girl)Talkin' 'bout my girl. (My girl)
"My Gir" ~The Temptations

Focus Five

Focus. Finding it this week has been beyond difficult. Friday was the hardest. I lost and found the same piece of paper four times. It took forever to complete the simplest tasks. Adding fuel to the fire is the fact that the company, for the first time ever will be closed Christmas week. Since it is a payroll week I'll have to go in for a few hours Monday to complete payroll processing. I'll also finalize my month-end and (calendar) year-end reports and tie up some other loose ends, for in five days I take off to spend 10 days with my lady love.

Finding focus for work has been beyond difficult this week. Clearly, my focus is elsewhere.

In your arms, I can still feel the way you
want me when you hold me
I can still hear the words you whispered
when you told me
I can stay right here forever in your arms
"Forever and For Always" ~Shania Twain

Sing A Song of Six

In the latter part of 1966 I was six years old. I can't recall many specifics of the beginning of my six year oldness. I do have some some memories. I can remember starting first grade. My mom had a fondness for dressing me in dark or checkered jumpers, white shirts, ankle socks and saddle shoes. I wore saddle shoes or sneakers to school. Though, as a younger student (pre K) T-Strap Mary Janes were the shoe of choice. I think those were my "church" shoes. 

Other memories about first grade include being asked all the time, "why isn't your brother more like you?" There are many differences between me and my brother, so many that folks wondered about our parentage. My very different brother was starting third grade in the latter part of 1966 and had a penchant for getting in trouble. His teacher called me to the office nearly daily to pin a note to my jumper for our parents. The notes never made it home. It was my third grade brother's responsibility to walk my first grade self, saddle shoes (or sneakers) and all, home.

Hello? Heck yeah he took the notes.

Eventually they caught on and stop pinning the notes to my jumper.

The most vivid memories of 1966 revolve around music. The radio and 45s played constantly in our apartment. My mom played number twelve on the list: What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted, Jimmy Ruffin played in a loop so often she wore it out and had to buy another record. I know I've got to find, some kind of peace of mind. ohhhh ohhhh As I recall, she wore out many discs.

Neta and I have re-counted many of memories from our respective childhoods over the past year. In six days we'll get to do that (and more) up close and personal.

Lyric

Like many children around me I bibbed and bopped to the Jackson 5. We knew the tunes and could recite the lyrics better than our own names and addresses. They were for a time, the shiznit, yo! Unlike the kids around me I liked the Jermaine led tunes best.The lyrics to my favorite from the day, I Found That Girl stayed inside me for a long, long time. And then they were gone for a time. They have returned as they are, in part anyway, my story.

Now, I admit to flubbing lyrics. There are songs that I never got/get right. For years I thought Marvin Gaye sang…Alcatraz when all along he was singing… get out of class in Too Busy Thinkin’ but, I Found That Girl… no, I had it right, I do believe.

I remembered it as: Mama, life for me now is a new sensation Just like you said it would be with the right situation
Now love has a meaning and I have a goal
This feeling inside me now make destiny a hundred years old

and so on.

In light of what I found out about Too Busy Thinkin', I thought I'd look up the lyrics to satisfy a growing curiosity. As you are aware there are many lyric sites. Not all can be trusted-- imagine that.

Several give the first line as: Mama, blind for me now is a new sensation And the fourth as: This feeling inside me now may chance to be 100 years old. Many others give the first line as: Mama, pray for me now is a new sensation. And the fourth: This feeling inside me now makes yester me 100 years old.

Were I to have that conversation with mom, I would say… Mama, life for me now is a new sensation Just like you said it would be with the right situation Now love has a meaning and I have a goal This feeling inside me now makes destiny 100 years old
Mama, oh, mama, I found that girl.

The girl is one year older today and in seven days there will be cake and more. Happy Birthday, baby. Seven. More. Days.

Eight

Why is 6 afraid of 7?
Because 7 8 9. Guffaw, I know. The day is drawing nearer and nearer and I am, well…the anticipation has me hopping around like a cat on crack. Speaking of which, Neta got a new cat. We named her Lily. She’s a striped tabby like Pete. Neta treated Lily and BoBo to wet food recently. They went absolutely gaga over the stuff, just like Pete. Lily, it seems was a veteran of the wet meal, so though excited, hers was a bit tempered. BoBo however was raised on a diet of dry and was absolutely, positively bowled over into a state of goofy giddiness after his first taste.

Friskies ocean whitefish with tuna, or as we call it now, crack for cats, seems to be the early favorite of all three kitties. I wonder what other likes our three kitties share.

In EIGHT days I get to meet the lovely Lily. And get reunited with her mommy.

Reunited and it feels so good
Reunited 'cause we understood
There's one perfect fit
And sugar, this one is it
We both are so excited
'Cause we're reunited.

Hey, Hey.

Final Touches

Counting down to T-time. We are down to single digit days and I can all but taste the pickles, omelets, and oh, her coffee in the mornings. Lest you think its all about the food, let me assure you, it isn't.

We both have struggled these five months and I fear this final week will be the hardest yet. With preparations for the holiday, work responsibilities and social obligations we probably won't talk as much this week.

I'm pretty sure I won't be sleeping much either.

Raise Your Hand If You're Done

This is the day I’ve been dreading. Not dreading so much as…well, yes, dreading.

I’m going to a mall. I will be in a very large mall, in December a mere 10 days from THE DAY.

I know the why Deborah is punching your teeth to trip off your lips.

Don’t get all slobbery, I’ll tell you why, in a word…daughter.

At some point it became clear that I could not be trusted to buy clothes or gadgets for my daughter on my own. The male was not a problem, but my D oh no—she made it perfectly clear that I didn’t have a clue about those things. So long story short it is now tradition for me to treat her to a shopping spree, well, on my budget—more like splotch, for Christmas. So a-splotching we shall go. She gets to do what she loves most without me griping. That’s the real gift because Deborah Does Not Do Malls. For a few hours on a Saturday in December she shops while I yay or nay (mostly yay--I know my role) choices, pay, hold bags and demand suggest lunch.

It is an event. Really. Alert the media.

Normally my own shopping is done by now. I do mail order. I do it early. I get the stuff in, wrapped and if gifts need to travel elsewhere, they are gone. This was not a normal year. I’ve been a bit off stride, out of sync, off schedule. While the needing to be shipped stuff is done, the other is not yet finished. There are a few more items to be crossed from the list.

I must shop on our visit to the mall.

This could get ugly. Truly.

***click on photo for ~hand soap~ vendor. Note, however, most are on backorder -sigh-

Listen to Yourself

The time has come, dear friend, for you to retrieve your life. Get it down off the shelf, if not out of that closet (yeah, I know…..I'm still lingering amongst the sweaters)….

I have a friend, a rather new friend, who is struggling. I won’t name or link to her because 1. I haven’t asked her and 2. Don’t want to put her on blast…which is to say I wouldn’t want to yell point out that the young lady in the third row is wearing a baby phat jacket with rocawear jeans. In my daughter’s world that fashion faux pas is bad enough, to blast someone so much worse, unless....

Anyhoo… the friend is struggling with a number of issues not the least of which is the coming out process. She’s married, with children and has come to the realization that she’s a lesbian. She had begun her journey, had a plan in place and then tragedy struck, setting back the process of progress.

Stagnate. Yet, oops there it is: lesbian, hear me roar and the desire to get on to the next phase is strong. Alive. I know this feeling well. I offer whatever encouragement I can. Yeah, that’s me, the new kid on the block offering….something, anything.

I’d given my mom Neta’s numbers to have in preparation of my first visit in March. While winterizing her apartment the other day, I noticed she still has the paper taped to one of her walls. My mom has not asked me one single, solitary question about Neta. We have not discussed the Facts of Neta, i.e. my life.

Yet,

after our Thanksgiving meal, D was rattling on about one thing or another, at some point I heard (vaguely, as I was dozing) her say "…you know like, I might dream about helping mom because Neta had broken up with her….“ I think they were talking about Jerry Springer or Divorce Court, point is, mom let that part of the conversation pass like a silent fart. Even in my stupor I couldn’t help but wonder if it was my daughter’s intention to put me on blast. Oh well, It doesn't matter because it is what it is. Ask me. I'll tell.

To my friend: the road may be littered with debris right now but the cleaning crew is on the way. Things will look clearer soon.

Cat Nap Change

The event of the season is fast approaching. Catsablanca! Treats and prizes and no foolin’ all black and black/white cats are 50% off. One Day Only! If you’re in the ‘hood, into cats, stop in, say hello and by all means adopt a kitty!!

Now, my own adopted from the ACL kitty, Pete has steadfastly refused to listen to several reasoned and carefully modulated arguments surrounding his late night activities. His 4 am routine became a 3 am routine which quickly became a 2 am routine. The consistent two a.m. routine being the line in the sand. As it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore his insistent pleas for play, as some experts suggest and he wouldn't listen to reason, it has become necessary to give Pete his own night time space and to adopt a bed time routine.

Prior to bedtime we enjoy our quality playtime, the hunter is rewarded and then bid a fond good night. Pete has his food, water, can tend to his personal hygiene needs and if he chooses, can play all he wants without disturbing anyone, namely me. My sleep is still sometimes interrupted ( I am 47) but not by the cat scratching fever of my cute tabby.

Pete and I will talk more about our mutually harmonious living, sleeping when I return from Tennessee. --I don't leave for 16 days--- s-i-x-t-e-e-n d-a-y-s

Here's looking at you kitty!

Like Crazy

We talk every day, multiple times. Still, I miss her. Saying good-night and then lying down to think about how much I want to hold her is the hardest thing I do--everyday.

A couple of Sundays ago, we were talking. Sharing a cup of coffee and some jibber-jabber about the Titans and the Bears when suddenly I felt a whoosh and my head began to swim. I remember that feeling when I fell off the monkey bars at eight. The supreme feeling of lonliness even while talking with her on the phone knowing that I couldn't reach out and touch, couldn't see, smell or taste--for weeks, the lonliness overwhelmed. The sensation took my breath away. I had to go. I had to walk.

That feeling didn't last long. But it was followed by anxiety. As time draws nearer a fear that something might happen to prevent me from leaving on the 27th settled into my head. I couldn't shake it--until today.

Launching myself full tilt into year-end reporting needs, preparing budgets, organizing to make sure bases are covered during my vacation, anticipation & prep for two Christmas celebrations (D's employer & my own), finding a solution to Pete the cat's sleep disruption pattern and just shaking myself--has cleared my head.

I still miss her but I know that in TWENTY days, I'll be on a plane. I'll see her smiling face, sparkling eyes and breathe her in, touch her skin. Twenty. Just.

Even though its been so long, my love for you keeps going strong
I remember the things that we used to do, a kiss in the rain
Til' the sun shined through, I'll never try to deny it, I'm so in love with you
I miss you like crazy, I miss you like crazy, ever since I went away
Every hour of every day, I miss you like crazy, I miss you like crazy

Too Much Ado Re: Poop

Upside to scooping poop in winter and /or winter conditions: poop much easier to see.
Downside to walking small pooper looking for inspiration: takes her twice as long to get the show on the road. Brrrrrrrr

What about the kitty? Well he poops indoors in a box lined with litter. I scoop this poop along with clumps of the other emissions from the feline. I’ve tried two litter brands, Fresh Step and Tidy Cats. I like the Tidy Cats better. Pete hasn’t expressed an opinion one way or the other. Or maybe the fact that he does his yoga on my desk when I’m on the computer is an opinion.

A Thought

Happiness is when what you think, what you say and what you do are in harmony.

Or so I've been told.

Your Name, Says it All?

In my profession I encounter names. Lots and lots of names of streets, towns and people are woven into the daily fabric of my life. Most are common, regular run-of-the-mill, like Jones, Main or Smith. Some are not so common, run-of-the-mill or pedestrian. .

Those not so pedestrian names prompt me to wonder as to their origin or whether or not the so named exemplifies the moniker in anyway. The wonderment escalates when interaction with those uniquely named folks ensue.

Take Ms. Tingle, for instance. Does she really? Tingle I mean. Or does she routinely elicit such a response from those in her sphere? Though I didn’t find Mr. Rudebush all that rude he may have been bushy as there was no way to determine that during our brief verbal encounter. I admit certain notions come to mind when I see that a Ms. Schleppy and a Mr. Moron must be contacted about a particular issue. I do take a moment to admonish myself that they’re just names. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if S. Barefoot was indeed sans shoes when we spoke recently.

Seeing Pepper Eggars’ name tends to kick-start a craving for a Southwestern style omelet.

Living in a place called Suck Spring would probably not be pleasant for me, yet I suspect I’d feel a bit pressured to be so always if I lived in a place called Happy.

Our names can define us or at least prompt others to use them as a way to define us. What about it? Do you live your name, bring your name to life in some way?

It Is What It Is

Once again Lauren spotted Lori standing in front of that painting. Lauren slid up behind Lori, wrapping her arms around Lori’s waist, planting her chin on Lori’s shoulders and trying to break through the reverie she imagined must be going on in Lori’s head. How could she stand and stare at this painting for hours?

Over and over again, Lauren fights to understand what Lori sees in the painting. The mystery has made her wary and sometimes weary.
Lauren shook off the doubts, leaned in closer and whispered into Lori’s ear, “darling.”

Not a muscle did Lori move. She barely took a breath. Lori stood stock still, cemented to the spot by some magical glue. Lauren kept hold of Lori’s waist as though to further anchor her to the spot. It seemed the thing to do, the only option available. Lauren looked at the painting summoning whatever data she’d gleaned from the Art History class taken so long ago. What is in this frame that is holding sweet, dear Lori hostage?

Lauren didn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. All she felt was confusion and overwhelming love for Lori. “Darling, what is it that you see. What are you feeling?”

A crowd began to form in the tiny gallery. Lauren, feeling self-conscious, began to fidget. “Baby, I think we should be moving on” she whispers to Lori. Lori became rigid, a statue staring at a painting. If it weren’t so nerve twisting Lauren would find it all somewhat comical. Lauren didn’t think she’d be able to stand here much longer, yet she clung even tighter to Lori’s waist trying to move her by sheer force of will. Still, Lori stood, staring.

Minutes felt like hours. Lauren began to feel swarmed by the crowd. It felt like she and Lori were on exhibit. It felt like the floor was shifting, the walls closing in, the air thinning. Lauren began to feel ill. One last plea went ignored like the others. Lauren was beside herself. She didn’t know what else to do. Lori was just transfixed and oblivious to everyone and everything but the painting. That stupid looking head with the freakishly weird expression and that nonsensical landscape has kidnapped her girlfriend. It was clear, Lori needed to be rescued.

How? What to do?

Lauren needed to regain her composure if she was going to rescue Lori. She was going to need all her wits to get them out of this pickle. She was going to……”Lori?” Lauren felt Lori move and then move again. The movements became quite herky jerky. Seconds before the sound emitted from Lori’s throat, Lauren knew she was laughing. Lori’s laughter had the swarming crowd receding, the floor settling and the walls returning to their posts. Lori’s laughter soothed the room.

Lori turned to face the love of her life, her eyes sparkling and her smile bright and asked between giggles, “have you seen that foot coming out of the head of that soldier? Isn’t that hilarious?”

November Wordsmiths exercise.

Please Don't Talk

…..to me when it’s dark, raining and Diamond is pooping. You see, I’m tracking the poop as I must scoop the poop expelled from the pooch. When the pooch finishes her poop she skitters. She sometimes skitters left and sometimes she skitters right so I must keep my eyes and mind on where she laid the poop.

It is November. There are small brownish leaves all over. In the rain and the dark clumps of small brownish leaves look a lot like the brownish poop of one small Diamond pooch.

So please, hush. I must focus.

Not Yet Scrambling

Help! The first full weekend marking the beginning of The Holiday shopping season is gone and not one shopping trip was made, not one gift procured. Not. A. One. Time is a-wasting, the clock is a-ticking and yours truly has got to get moving. Truly. But hope is not lost. Not by a long shot, no. Some thoughtful purveyors of some fine merchandise have flooded my mailbox with catalogs, flyers and brochures trying to garner my attention, attract my interest. Some of the items are indeed worthy of a look-see. I have a couple of candidates in mind for two such products.
I think GS would recognize some of his lunches in the selection the lunch lady has in her kitchen. Yum.

Surely, drunk dialer will appreciate having his heroine on top of his tee-vee.

No, not scrambling yet. There is plenty of time, tons of choices.

One More Thing

Thankful that this is not my cat, this week anyway.
Happy Thanksgiving All!!

Super? I Wish

According to the quiz I'm Spiderman, to wit: You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

So? My girlfriend is still in TN without ME--38 days.
My daughter is still thinking about giving the clueless boyfriend one more chance.
My mom is still asking 1001 questions--but not the question.
Pete the kitty is still enamored--with my leg.

38 days is still 38 days.

For, Fore, Four plus Tees, Teas

During much of 1999, many became mired in the dire doomsday scenarios predicted for the calendar's journey to double ought. 2000 or Y2K as it came to be known, was going to wreak havoc on the world to have the ubiquitous them tell the tale. I, however, couldn't be bogged down with those possible scenarios. I had my own, real-life stories to file. The year 2000 meant that I was turning f-o-r-t-y. Big whoop.

You know the saying, "life begins at 40"? Well, my mom can often be heard uttering her own dire, "not mine!" She has said on numerous occasions how her life ended at 40 (or during her 40s). I find this statement terribly ironic as she was born in 1940. But, that's another post, for another day, or never.

Anyhoo..Me. 40. Big whoop. Even bigger than a 40 year-old me was an 18 year old son. He graduated from high school and started college that year. He voted in his first election and continued stretching those incredibly long "man" legs. Me. 40. Big whoop.

Me. 40. Big whoop. Even bigger than a 40 year-old- me was an 14 year-old going on oh my gosh could she possibly screech any louder? She came out of Jr. high that year and entered the BIG school. Not two minutes in the BIG school did the noise requests for practice driving time begin as did the screeching about following her "rock star" brother. If I said it once, I said it...oh, 40 times...following a good brother is rainbows better than following a bad brother. Whoop! Big.

I was newly single in the year 2000. I had no time to celebrate let alone ponder the significance of what--if you believe the ubiquitous them-- a most significant occurrence that is turning f-o-r-t-y. The celebration and the pondering came in between the seven subsequent birthdays. Given the givens--the periodic frustrations with adult progeny, an aging parent, achy knees, erratic marathon menses and other interesting health related concerns--all that aside, this I submit is my best decade to date.

The seven birthdays since have afforded the opportunity to see my adult progeny grow and glow. I have wallowed in a swell of respect and have been comforted by the strengths I witness within them daily. This seven subsequent birthdays have taught me more effective techniques when faced with the challenges of being my mother's only daughter. Yes, the seven birthdays that have come since 2000 also brought achy knees, erratic marathon menses and more--but those provided never-ending bitching and moaning conversation. Whoopie big.

The very best benefit to come from those seven subsequent birthdays was the emergence of me. The real, blossoming me has been un-folding petal by petal and the garden continues to grow. Sure, the seven birthdays brought cravings that I must be careful (re: health related concerns) about indulging, namely, salt, especially in the form of Spanish olives and potato chips. But the seven birthdays also brought cravings that I try to indulge every chance I get--if not in person, at least in spirit--namely, making love with women one special woman.

Those seven subsequent birthdays brought me out of my 30s and are bringing me into my 50s. The net result of those subsequent birthdays is the joy of seeing the next ones. I'm looking forward to each and every one, for i see them getting better and better.

Soon you will start seeing year-end review lists. The year that was will be condensed to to neat little lists of events great and small causing one to remember, reflect and wonder. Birthdays are like that too. One tends to remember previous celebrations, reflect on the significance of the age and wonder about what comes next. Add this date, November 15th to your lists of events, from this day forward. This date, November 15, 2007, my friend Teresa turns forty. 40. F-O-R-T-Y. Please. Take note.
Happy 40th Birthday, Teresa. Enjoy this decade, it will prove to be quite the ride. At least that's how the ubiquitous them will ultimately tell the tale.

The Play

Hamlet: I'll have grounds

More relative than this—the play's the thing

Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King .Hamlet Act 2, scene 2, 603–605

No butt bearing. Clothes were removed but only bare chests revealed (his, not hers). There was the illusion of being nekkid in one of the final scenes, but no, butts weren’t bared. M’s character, Lawrence tells his girlfriend a tale about warring Chinese rulers who want to negotiate peace. The meet on a mount with good intentions but little trust and goad each other into “proving” they are not hiding weapons upon their personage. Only by facing one another butt nekkid were they comfortable speaking honestly and openly about how to bring peace to their respective lands.

The play was about honesty and relationships. More acutely, honesty IN relationships, be they your business, personal (romantic) or with your god. We are shown how the house of cards constructed with the lies we tell others and the lies we tell ourselves can crumble under the weight of truth.

And oh yeah, my son, the actor—was good. And that’s the truth

In His Words

He titled the email: Menorahs and Turntables. It went on to say:
I invite you to Laura Jacqmin’s (Chicago Dramatists Resident Playwright) world premiere of Butt Nekkid directed by Side Project Ensemble Member Gina LoPiccolo.

The play tells a tale about a Jewish music producer, his determined daughter, and a Hip Hop artist. Their lives collide in this drama examining the truths about religion, race, and culture.

I play Lawrence, the ever aspiring Hip Hop artist looking to crossover to the rap game and get signed. The character is a lot of fun to play and I had such a blast doing the research. Nothing like waking up in the morning to the sounds of Public Enemy, Nas and The Last Poets.

I'm going to the theatre tomorrow night to see my favorite actor do his thing. As he suggests he throws himself into researching a role and it shows on stage. Moreover, local theatre community is beginning to take note of his dedication, work ethic and talent. His name has been thrown into a few hats--opportunities that he's had to turn down because of other commitments, he was recently nominated by a local Arts Alliance for a best actor award for his last role and he was recently cast in a small but pivotal role with the very prestigious Steppenwolf Theatre that will go up in February.

The blast he gets from doing research is nothing compared to the blast I get from seeing him onstage. I hope all this blasting isn't hurting your ears.

Hello, the Weekend Calls

uhm..no, not me..but somebody, in this--80 somebodies. Enjoy.

Rest In Peace

Neta's LuLu died early this morning. She talks about it over at her place. What I want to say here is how utterly useless I felt when I couldn't wrap my arms around her and comfort her in the way that I know she needed. I could only listen, cry with her and say all the stuff you say--when that's all you can do. Being away in general is hard. Being away during trying times is unbearable.

Truly.

Lulu, Luie, Sissy or Sissy Lu was a cat with a lot of 'tude. In fact I dubbed her tail-i-tude after I met her in March. She had a way of 'flipping' you off with her tail that was just so feline. She and I hadn't a lot of time to bond as she was typically aloof. She was, however, much more visible during my July trip. She sat out and still long enough to snap this shot of her and to get to know her a bit better. I know she will be missed. Neta, baby, may peace be with you.

Fifty days.

Me a Meme, Another Meme

I’ve been tagged by a fellow blogger buddy. The game I will play but only to a point. There will be no tagging at the end-but if you feel the urge, splurge.
The game: list 10 acts of randomness and away we go:

1. I need a second job to feel like I can afford a car.
2. I’ll need a car to get a second job.
3. I may be suffering a case of decorator’s anxiety syndrome--DAS.
4. Are all cats afraid of the sound of ripping aluminum foil?—or just Pete.
5. I have an overdue library book that I renewed twice and still haven’t read.
6. I’ve read two other books in the interim.
7. When I talk about my brother, it’s the younger who is the subject.
8. The younger has gone and gotten arrested—again.
9. I don't feel good about having predicted this upon his release last year.
10. It's late. I should be asleep.

Extra! Extra!

Well, I’ll be dipped in donuts and rolled in sprinkles. Cate over at Sunday Dreams has voted me nice. Imagine that. I happen to think she’s pretty nice too. I discovered Cate by way of Nina and have enjoyed getting to know her and the kids. They are very groovy folks.

In keeping with the spirit of the tag—I’m to pass it on. It goes without saying that there are a number of people to whom this honor may be bestowed as I have met some fantastically nice folks out here in blog land in the bit over a year that I’ve been blogging. The person I’m going to honor though, I didn’t meet through blogging. However, blogging did give me the extra push I needed to create a profile and go “a dating.”

Neta started blogging only after finding my blog, checking out some previous postings, bloggers on my blogroll and deciding that blogging sounded looked and sounded like fun. Sharing blogging with her has added a new dimension to our relationship as well as providing some additional insight to and for both of us. I give you Neta who is as nicer than all the sprinkle covered donuts around

Craving

This one has provolone cheese. My version features mozzarella. A lot of mozzarella. My sandwich must also contain many sweet bell peppers in addition to the hot and be wet. Dripping, sopping, paper napkins not good enough, wet. Yeah, baby.

But, I'm being good. It will be grilled chicken or fish for dinner. Yum.

Pot Luck

Happy Wordsmiths Halloween exercise: Pot Luck

Maura was delighted to be alone, finally. She’d been waiting all day to get the kitchen all to herself. There was a lot of work to do if she was going to be ready for the pre- judging and she didn’t need the prying eyes of the other contestants peering over her shoulder. Maura thought a win here would set her apart from the rest of the students. Maybe Madame Cora would notice her, finally.

Madam Cora is the queen of culinary arts and Maura was in love with her.


Ingredients assembled, utensils aligned, Maura set about her work. She’d decided on three dishes, going for the maximum allowed. She told herself it wasn’t overkill. The banging overhead was annoying, but Maura was determined not let anything knock her off her stride. She was on a mission.


The cumin-spiced sirloin with tomatillo salsa was going to anchor Maura’s entries so she decided to concentrate most on this dish, which would be easier if that incessant banging would cease. Maura wondered who was upstairs making all the noise. She wondered if it was one of the other students trying to distract her. She’d show them, she refused to be rattled.


Maura put the ingredients for the salsa in the food processor and flipped the switch. Damn. Nothing, no juice, why? Maura flipped the switch a few more times and still, nothing. Maura walked over to the circuit box to check the fuses. Of course she didn’t know what the heck she was going to do when she got there. Food she knew, fuse boxes? Not so much.


Before Maura had to decide what to do about the fuses in the box, the lights went out. Believing she must now be the un-lucky recipient of some prank, Maura didn’t panic. She did get angry and anxious. All she wanted was to finish her meals and every delay, every diversion hurt.


The banging stopped. Maura was ecstatic because her head was near splitting from the noise. Maura hoped for the lights to return without incident. She wondered why the pranksters would stop before the prank was concluded. Still, she hoped.


In either case, Maura was determined to cook these jerks under the table, putting her closer to the lovely Madam Cora. Madam Cora, hazel eyes that mesmerize, tantaliz..Bang! Maura was shaken from her reverie by big clanging sounds. Just then the lights return allowing Maura to see the source of the noise. Pots strewn from the pantry had landed in the middle of the kitchen floor.


Maura, full with all the shenanigans, stomps over to the pots building intent to do bodily harm to the first of her horrid classmates to show their putrid face. The rage taking over every fiber blinds Maura to the reality. Her last thought was how the cold floor could feel so warm.


Madam Cora’s thoughts wandered that morning during class. The lovely green eyed Maura must be sleeping in this morning-sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Daryl, Duuuuude...

Heard on ans. machine every couple weeks for the past several months: Hey Harold! This is your cousin Daryl, Daryl from California. I've been trying to get in touch with you. Give me a call.

A few weeks ago: Hey Harold! I hear there's a bun in the oven...and it's cooking too!!!! Congratulations man! Hey, this is your cousin Daryl, Daryl from California. Call me!!!

A couple weeks after that message I answer the call from California--recognizing the number. Daryl says hey and I go on to tell him that he's got the wrong number. But that daughter and I got a kick out of the 'bun in the oven' message. Daryl and I share a giggle. I tell Daryl that he's left several messages on my machine, he's dialed incorrectly a few times. Incredulous, he asks about the number, the town. I just assure him that while he's dialing the correct area for his cousin Harold, he is indeed dialing the wrong number. Daryl believes me, but unwilling to let go--asks me what I'm wearing. I laugh, quite out loud, before hanging up on him.

Heard on ans. machine once a week since: Hey Harold! This is your cousin Daryl, Daryl from California. I've been trying to get in touch with you man. give me a call.

Diva Dog

Diamond, or as she has come to be more affectionately known, Attention Whore, is so clearly D's dog but when I come home after an extended absence, she yips, yaps, skips, sprints and slides through two rooms with unbridled glee. An area rug has been planned for the living room for some time now, and I'm getting one, except now, I think I might miss her slide shows.
After she's run the gamut she crashes herself into my ankles. I reach down to pet her and she wiggles and waggles towards flipping over on her back, offering up her belly. Having her belly rubbed ranks high on the pleasure meter for diva dog, AW. Oh, don't get me wrong, D gets the same greeting, only times 12.

Diamond craves the touch. She wants her belly rubbed, head stroked and back scratched perpetually. Should the rubbing, stroking or scratching cease without her permission, she nudges her head into your hand until it resumes. When she is not clamoring for attention, she's assaulting playing with Pete the cat, or eating. When she's not doing any of those things, she is simply following D (or me) around--everywhere. Or snoring sleeping at D's (sometimes my) feet.

The Diva Diamond, AW has skittered her way right to the top of our little heap.

My Pete

The kitty, Pete or as he has come be known, Midnight Madness soooo his own cat is not so slowly and very surely become my cat. Midnight, though, is a misnomer as one of Pete's most active periods is the pre-dawn hours between 2 and 4 a.m. In the very beginning he was just talking, poking me with his paw to get my attention and yammering away about one thing or another. This was even before the lovely diva dog appeared on the scene.

As time has gone by he has become bolder. He climbs now. On me. Up and then down my body, hovering and then camping around my feet. He talks the entire time. The weather? The state of world affairs? Why his kibble bowl is blue? Who knows? Eventually, the parade of paws forces me to an upright position. He takes that opportunity to investigate my neck. I took this move as a want or need to hug, nuzzle. When I try, he skitters away only to return after my return to slumber. The process begins again. We have three or four rotations before he moves on to much more stimulating activities, like licking himself bald.

Over the past several days Pete the kitty has added a new wrinkle to his routine. He's much more at home, more at ease and I've noticed, more insistent. He no longer gingerly steps atop my body. He leaps now, usually towards my head. When the fur settles from this maneuver he assumes the previous practices of walking and talking. He has taken to wanting to settle his butt atop my head instead of feet. I am having little luck in dissuading him from this notion. However, eventually he returns to the feet, ankle and shin area. Pete the kitty has taken to clamping himself to my shin where he then proceeds to move his body in a motion reminiscent of an old-fashion water pump? A buoy bobbing in the bay? Whatever, point is...he moves.

It is quite obvious that I have mis-interpreted some of Pete's wee hours chatter.

Clearly, we have some bullet points to review.

Daddy Dear, Rest

I found a letter he wrote to me in 1980. I’m not sure why I deemed this one special enough to save. It wasn’t the only letter I got from him. There were a couple before and a couple after this one. After having read it over several times, nothing special, particularly endearing, clever or even true pops out at me. It starts with a “hi honey” and ends with a “love dad.” The stuff in between was mostly forgettable.

His letter to me in 1980 was in response to a letter I’d sent several months prior. He makes mention of this. I gather that in my letter I mentioned the plan to “hook up” with the man who would become father to my son and daughter, he makes mention of this as well, advising me to “be careful.” This communication in 1980 would have marked the first such communication in several years—on either side. I was trying to get past an intense hatred I felt for him. I don’t know what his motivations were. He said he loved me. I had a very difficult time believing he felt anything akin to love towards me.

Since 1980 there have been perhaps ten letters between us—his to me were usually in response to one of mine to him, always several months or years after the fact. Since 1980 I have seen him twice, talked with him on the phone perhaps a half-dozen times—the last time maybe 3 years ago. He did call and leave a message on the machine a year ago. When he didn’t call back like he said he would, I called him—got his machine, left a message of my own. I’d resigned myself to his silences leading into this exchange of messages. I’ve had to all over again. The silences really don’t bother me that much anymore. I prefer the silence over the lies.

In the years since 1980 I’ve come to feel something other than intense hatred for him. In all likelihood it wasn’t even hatred I was feeling. How could I hate my father? I didn’t even know him, not really. Further, what I’ve come to realize over that time-line was I don’t want to know him. Really, I don’t.

Still, he’s been on my mind a lot lately. Perhaps the letter, perhaps the birth date that recently passed, perhaps my younger brother—his spitting image—kicking up dust these days, is bringing him to my mind, perhaps.

The last time we talked he told me he loved me. I still have a hard time believing that sentiment. How could he love me? He doesn’t know me any better than I know him. Further, the realization has finally settled into my head, my bones, my soul-he doesn’t ever want to know me. Really, he doesn’t.

Mom always accused me of being said I was just like my father. I guess, in this, she must be right.

Sweets for my Sweet

A hug is a great gift - one size fits all, and it's easy to exchange. ~Author Unknown

“So what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get here in December?” She asked me during one of recent e-mailing sessions. That’s a snap. I’m going to hug her—for a long time. In fact, I may never let her go. I suppose we’ll have to break long enough to get to the car for the drive home, but only because neither one of us wants to spend my time there in the airport. We have other places we’d like to visit.

What I miss most about her being there and me being here is the touching. That touching to be sure, but all touching. The holding of hands, rubbing of backs, the sweet simple caresses of women in love—yes, I miss this most.

Well, that and the eggs. She does make a killer omelet.

The making of plans has begun in earnest as it’s starting to feel more real now. Only a bit more than 60 days, nearly close enough to taste it—oh the sweetness of it all. I miss you baby, I’ll be there soon. Be prepared to be touched, much.

'cause I would give sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey

Your perfect kiss thrills me so

Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey

I'll never ever let you go

The Earth Moves

Whew! Some final touches remain but the heavy lifting is done.

I’m sure you’ve noticed there have been some changes around here. I’m not sure why but then again, why not? I did like it the way it was but I was tooling around and before I knew it I was adding this, deleting that, previewing this and eschewing that. And voila…make-over.

I had a similar kind of oh, what the heck kind of sensation with my office space. I moved my desk 2 or three times in the last 4 or 5 weeks or so, raising all kinds of comments, some eyebrows and in the case of at one co-worker, eyeballs. To a man, every single one offered an opinion as to how much roomier the new configuration made the space appear. It does finally feel right, at least for now.

What on earth has gotten into me? Is it the season? I don’t think that’s it, not all of it anyway. Tweaking the template, re-ordering the office space are but small replies to larger questions. My personal living space, for instance is in need of some minor and major make-over moves. One thing or another is keeping much of that from being accomplished right now.

But there is more. Moving desks, re-working templates and even when I get around to purging, scrubbing, sanding and painting—that won’t solve everything that seems to be swirling. There is more. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is it simple restlessness or……?

It’s still October, isn’t it?

By the Way

When I travel via bicycle to / from work it is over 7.4 miles of city streets, 95% of which is designated bicycle lanes. I’ve noticed in the last few weeks of consistent to or from riding that the intense concentration that must be employed while riding along city streets is sometimes broken by counting. I count for instance, the number of traffic lights I pass along the route. There are thirty. When I’m in rhythm I make most of them.

At least a dozen times each way, each time, forward progress is impeded by obstacles in the bike lane. There is a very special traffic torment set aside for those folks who choose to plant themselves and / or their cars in the middle of the bicycle path, on a city street during rush hour traffic for no discernible reason. This is particularly vexing when the plant subject is a very large vehicle AND there is ample parking in sight.

Five is the number, on average of the dunderheaded motorists who decide that right turns from the left of the bicycle lane is good and proper lane usage. I have three words for these folks. That! Is! Wrong! There is at least one primal scream every trip. It doesn’t do much to move the Hummer over to the left, but it is of tremendous help to me.

There are other stats to spout but they pale in comparison to the this: the number of lucky stars in action guiding me through each and every pedal rotation.

Birthday Princess

She came into the world in quite the usual way. If my calculations are correct, she was conceived just as 1985 was beginning. She made her screaming, squirming debut on 10/11. Today, the baby with the soft, curly hair and deep brown eyes celebrates her 22nd birthday. Obviously, my world changed the moment she made her appearance. From the very beginning I knew she was different from her brother. The most glaring difference was that she was in fact, a she-not the he I was anticipating to match the he already in residence. She made her presence known immediately. She also let it be known that she was the princess and should be feted as such. Those in her sphere were usually happy to oblige.
According to the poem, Friday's child is loving and giving. This is certainly true of my Friday's child. She loves with the whole of her heart and gives in the same manner. Her bright smile has shimmered many of the days comprising the past 22 years. I expect it will shimmer into her next 22 and beyond.

Happy number 22 to the sweetest smile in the Midwest!

Garden Weary

My garden kicks ass alright. Mine! Up and down the block. I had such medium hopes for this year, what with the apathetic co-owners and their miserly contributions, I couldn’t expect much on my very meager, limited budget of time and money. But, hopes I had albeit, medium.

But even those not overly lofty hopes, dashed.

Motivation daunted by the loss to two big ‘o trees. Progress stunted by construction crews trampling and crushing most everything in sight. Three hostas gave their lives (probably) for new sewers, the cool grooved alley and the new (hopefully not retail) space next door being prettied for possible leasing.

It’s sad, so sad, it’s a sad, sad situation and it’s getting more and more absurd.

Oh, alright maybe it’s not that dramatic. But, it is sad (and pretty bad). But it is fall or rather, Autumn and it is time to clear, clean and get ready for Spring.

And so now that is my mission as I've decided to accept it, again. I shall clear the weeds and over grown foliage. I shall find some hearty, full sun variety of bulbs to plant. I shall plant them. I shall protect them over what may not be a harsh winter, but winter, none-the-less. I shall prepare for Spring, with colors bursting all over. Well, maybe not all over--the budget is still limited.

Thinking Spring.

When Love Calls

"Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind". William Shakespeare in A Midsummer Night's Dream (I, i, 234)

My mind is fully engaged in looking at my love and thinking about when we will be together again. It’s been nearly three months since our last visit and we have another couple of months to go. The last several days we’ve been touchy, rumor has it that I’ve been snappish (or short). The tension is relatively painless and has been short lived. Still it crackles. Though we talk (have talked) every single day—some days for HOURS, the loneliness that befalls each of us at times is intense to the point of being fierce.

These past few weeks have been hard and the next few will be harder still--what carries me through is the knowledge and the comfort that follows knowing she is there, always. Neta tolerates my moods, endures my workplace frustrations, understands and exhibits extreme patience towards my family obligations. She is in short, a gem.

She calls me the best girlfriend in the whole world, well, note that I give as good as I get.

My mind is occupied with thinking about the sight of her standing in front of me, the feel of her in my arms and the sensation of her lips upon mine. December will bring a feast for all our senses.

Thanks for everything baby. This is for you. (that's for the public Deb---SMILE)

Chiquita

Chiquita called. She should not have gotten through, my screeners need some re-training as they are supposed to nip callers like Chiquita in the bud—but she slipped through. Chiquita calls and wanting to confirm she’s speaking with the right person she asks, “Is this Deborah _________?” Chiquita totally mangled my last name. Cringe.

Chiquita is from Wells Farto Fargo and she is calling me to try to sell me on the idea of allowing Wells F into my beeswax under the guise of helping me with my finances. I’m at work and I really don’t have the time to deal with Chiquita, but I listen for a bit-needing the diversion. Chiquita asks questions which I answer with questions of my own. I’m toying with Chiquita because it’s fun.

After several moments of some give and no take, I put an end to Chiquita’s spiel by telling her in a very clear and definitive voice not to call again, that I’m not interested in doing business with Wells Fargo and more importantly I’m not at all interested in doing business with her. Not that I was ever interested in Wells Farto or Chiquita. You see Chiquita had blown her opportunity at the very beginning of the call for not only did she mangle my last name she had tried for warm, friendly and familiar by calling mesweetheart as in, “I want to talk with you about how we can help you, sweetheart.”

I told Chiquita that as she didn’t know me she should squash the sweetheart talk. To her credit she recovered well, but I was lost to her. I think she knew it, but she had a job to do and I had a diversionary road to travel.

It was a fun trip.

Diamond Girl

We did it again. But unlike the tune of the pop star (?) who shall remain nameless, because her name is mentioned much too frequently, no oops! We adopted again.

Meet Diamond, our new little pup. She’s a 5 year old pug/terrier mix—at least that’s my theory. The family that surrendered here wasn’t exactly sure of her parentage. You be the judge.

What I do know about her is that she is cute beyond words, frisky and obviously used to being the queen D. We thought Pete would be a problem, but nooooooo such is not the case. He’s been the perfect gentleman, not that he’s had much choice. Diamond came in with such an air of entitlement that he was forced to defer to her will—to a point. He’s obviously very annoyed when she tries to “top” him. He leaps out of her reach and then all is well.

For the most part, the kids play nicely together. And that makes both mommies very happy.

Top of the World

This is the inspiration for September's Wordsmiths challenge. I bring you Top of the World. Only the view is spectacular. The rest of this hill could disappear and it I wouldn’t be phased one iota. Sometimes I dream of disappearing with it. Each ride up the desolate road I see his face in my mind’s eye. I scream and poof, I’m gone. He brought us here all those years ago, probably because of the view or maybe the road. Whatever the reason, he left short time later after landing us here at the top of the world, the end of the road.

We’ve been alone here since he left nearly four years ago. Only Doc Ryan still visits. Momma has warned everyone else off. She shoots. Well. Folks in the valley talk about the crazy old lady and her daughter who live up the hill. I don’t much care what they say about me I just want to leave this place. It was never really home. Momma won’t leave because she thinks he’s coming back. I think. Maybe she knows he isn’t and that’s why she stays. The view is spectacular.

We don’t have much, he didn’t leave much more than the clothes he wore when he pretended to work. I make my way down to the valley each day to work for some families who pay me a little to keep our dreariness away from their happy families. They feel good when they can pass on the extra cheese or a pint of milk. Momma won’t have that. She tosses their guilt to the winds when I haul it inside. I understand, still, the cheese would compliment the bread she bakes some afternoons.

The sunrises brought heat and heaping spoonfuls of anger and isolation. Still, sunrises are the best. Momma rises with the sun, ending the nights of anguish. She talks in her sleep, speaking of the dreams she had as a girl, fretting over the dreams she had for her own girl. Momma trusts me not to leave her alone on this hill, with the spectacular view. Yet, I think she wishes I would. Somebody should have their dreams come true she says in her sleep.

This morning I decided that momma’s dream talk is right. Dreams should come true. Doc Ryan said I could drop by anytime I needed to talk or just to sit and think. She said a body needs quiet time. After the last family I went over to Doc’s. She welcomed me with hot tea and a hearty soup. We talked for hours sipping tea, admiring the glowing embers of the roaring fire in her hearth.

Edging up the hill at sunrise I felt the change. The top of the world, the end of the road was too still. Momma’s note explained nothing, but everything was clear. The cook stove was warm and all his clothes were gone. I found the rifle at the edge of the yard. It too was warm. I looked up at the view to confirm, yes, still spectacular.

Impulse Buy

Tequila with chocolate, good. Chocolate and Stout, not even close. Dang Blasted Aunty Flo!!!

Hit the Cycle

Saturday meant errands to the dry cleaners, bank and library. I logged about 5 miles round trip.

Sunday brought a quick skip to my mom’s a mere 1.2 miles away. Probably would have done well to walk instead of ride, but the trip meant chores and I didn’t know exactly what was in store. I didn’t want to risk being too tired to walk back home.

After work, dinner and some down time Monday I rode around the neighborhood logging a total of 6.5 miles.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday found me riding the 7.4 miles to and 7.4 miles from work each of those days.

I am back to a second Saturday of errands and five round trip miles. The cycle continues on second Sunday of chores at mom’s a mere 1.2 miles way.

I had expectations of an emotional high and a physical surge. Both were present but not as much as expected. Well enough though, to keep pedaling.

Pass The Ladle

Since she was a little girl, D liked playing around in the kitchen cooking. It was not something I either encouraged or discouraged. Well, actually, I guessed there was encouragement in that I exhibited eagerness to try her concoctions creations. Some were not half bad.

As she got older and her interests grew, the interest for kitchen arts decreased dramatically. And then they came back just as dramatically. Except now big brother was an eating machine and the amount of food needed to sate the machine would daunt all but the most seasoned provider of cooked meals. D declined the challenge.

And then he moved.

With renewed interest and vigor, D took up the cooking gauntlet yet once again. I relished the break, even if she hadn’t always catered to my dietary concerns. I tried to adjust accordingly. The dinners she assembled were often laden with pasta, potatoes and other less than healthful options. Portion control, difficult because the meals were very good and full of foods I enjoy, was even more vital. Vegetables had to be maneuvered into other meals. D is 'getting there' with regard to veggies.

A recent work schedule change will put me home ahead of D 4 of 5 weeknights, meaning I’ll get dinner on the table more often than not. D made a very specific request that I not make too much of that “diet food” and should I feel the need that I make it “good diet food.” She notes for good measure though that she doesn’t know if is such a thing exists.

I assure her that it does and further that I wasn't going so much for diet as healthful food.

Dinner. Done. I 'm pretty sure she'll be satisfied.

Twisty, Like Bread

I'd exercise more if my knees didn't hurt so much. My knees might not hurt so much if I exercised more.

So says the doc. She suggests losing weight to take pressure off the knees. I'm with that program, have been for several months years now. I'm up and down. Right now my weight is up and my resolve is down.

I feel it coming back, though. Slowly.

M'lady and I had vowed to K E O M (Keep Each Other Motivated) and it was working rather well. She was sidelined by an injury which led to surgery. She is now beginning to feel well enough to get back to the gym.

I took one of those bloggy tests the other day. The topic, health and fitness. After answering all the questions I was labeled "guru". I know what to do, what and how to eat. I just have problems consistently practicing what's been preached.

It's the last week of summer. There is a crispness in the air. Autumn is upon us and like the falling leaves, so too will my weight.

That's the idea, hope, goal, anyway. Resolved!?!

Not So Much

Woman calling boss: You won't see me today

Boss: Why?

Woman: I'm not feeling very well.

Boss: Why? What's wrong?

Woman: I have a case of anal glaucoma

Boss: What the heck is anal glaucoma?

Woman: I can't see my ass coming in to work today.

Admittedly, I spilled a biggle (baby giggle) when I heard this joke.

Mom bracketed the telling with "tell me what you think" in a tone that signaled her stance. She was not amused, in fact she found the joke offensive. She has glaucoma and has daily fears of waking without her eyesight. This fear exists for me as well. I'm saddled with poor eyesight, which has deteriorated over the years. I've feared, since getting my first pair of glasses at a very young age, that one day corrective lenses would not suffice. It is totally within the realm of possibilities that glaucoma is in my future. Yet, a biggle did spill.

Resolved, the joke is not split your sides, shoot soda through your nose, spiggable funny. It doesn't have the succulent tartness of knock, knock's "or-an-ge you glad I'm not a banana" but baby giggle worthiness is evident. Or is it? Granted I wasn't offended but I can see how my mom could have been. I thought that the woman who told my mom this joke may have flashed a dash of insensitivity.

Which is how I left it with mom.

Speaking of knock, knock, enjoy the great rack!

Cheers! x 3 to all my fantasy footballers! Rack Up Those Stats!