PaJamas

I am tired. But it is much too early* to turn in. Going to bed now means that I'll be awake at the very wrong side of dawn, unable to get back to sleep until it is too close to time to get up, which will make me very cranky. I'm having lunch date with mom on Thursday (I get released from work at 12:30 woo hoo) who is "anxious to talk with me" about something. What? I don't know, I'll find out. If I had to guess, I'd say another diagnosis and / or new med 'scrip and she'll be wondering if I think it is a good idea to . . .

Anyhoo, point being, 'tis best to avoid crankiness, especially when lunch with mom is on the docket. Moving on . . .

Pajamas. I like them well enough, the concept of them anyway. But, I wouldn't categorize myself as a pajama kinda girl. I mean I am usually attired in something, that something having been designed and produced for use beyond the purpose of sleeping. That is to say, I usually sleep in a tee shirt and lounge pants or boxers if it is very warm. If I buy a pajama type product it is almost always just the bottoms and almost always from the men's department.

Four, maybe five times over the past 3 years I've been gifted with pajamas. Tops and bottoms, women's, 3 of the pairs flannel (long sleeves, long pants) and all printed with . . . something. three of the four (or five) were most memorable for their . . .design. One was dotted with horses. And cowboys. The field was mostly blue and the horses & 'boys, brown. I donated them to Goodwill (or someplace like that). Another was dotted with skillets and fried eggs. The eggs were not in the skillets, each element was floating about a sea of yellow flannel. After a hearty laugh, I donated them to Goodwill (or someplace like that). The most recent were dotted with . . . well, look
Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not judging if something like this is exactly your style. If this is for you, then fantastic. But, this outfit is definitely not for me. At all. Not only is it printed all over with . . .well, you see, but the pants are too short, and well, for me, just butt ugly. Not quite as ugly as the cowboys and horses or the fried eggs and skillets (and yes, I'm regretting not having taken photos of those) but ugly none-the-less. To me, for me. Just not me.

As you may have guessed the same person is gifting me with these treasures. Her intentions are swell and I appreciate that, but . . . major fail otherwise. This time I asked, "why do you keep getting me pajamas? (I'd mentioned the previous times that I'm not really into pajamas and further, all-over patterned wear . . . ick. However, plaid is barely ok). Her response, "well, I figured they'd be warm."

Well yeah, except I have not complained about being cold when I'm inside and I don't sleep outside. And if I did, not even these very action-packed, flannel things will offer much comfort. Unless of course, they were but one of many layers. This time I said, "I appreciate the pajamas, but they are not really my style and I really prefer other sleepwear. Please . . . "

We shared a laugh over her having forgotten the previous conversations along with me offering, yet again, a definition and description of lounge pants and yes, I know that sometimes they are called sleep (or even pajama) pants, but in my view the pants I prefer can, in a pinch, be worn outside. I would not, even on a dare, wear pajamas (especially those butt ugly ones) outside, not even to empty the garbage.

It would be nice if my request was heeded. But, in all likelihood, it won't

Thankfully, there is Goodwill (and places like that) who will gladly accept these treasures.

*when I started it was barely 9 pm. I have in the meantime, had a martini, two conversations with son and one with mom (to solidify the lunch plans, still no clue about what is on the "agenda") it is now 11 and after a shower, sleeeeeeep.

What's Your Sign?

I forgot my book this morning (that really irritates me) meaning that I didn't have anything to read on the train, so I picked up a RedEye, a local freebie rag. The paper is thin, this morning's edition only 36 pages. It is full of thumbnail sketches of local, national, and international news, entertainment tid-bits, morsels of restaurant, music, and movie reviews, a smattering of sports related spots, puzzles, and horoscopes.

Even if I were to read the paper end-to-end it'd take, well, the ride in to work. Most of the "news" stories are re-hashes of stories I've seen / read elsewhere, so I skip those. Now and again I catch sight of something I didn't know and I'll read that. Usually, I just work the puzzles and every once in a blue moon, I'll check out the horoscope.

This was a blue moon day.

My horoscope read: A lunar eclipse in increasing your libido. Your partner won't know what got into you. You'll demand sexual attention morning, noon, and night. Just realize that your honey might think you're falling in love with (him) or her, so play nice.

Note to self: Don't forget book, again.

And, speaking of partner, mom is still (continuously) in question mode. Peep a recent installment:

Mom: Sooo (she begins most conversations, all inquisitions with soooo) when are you going to Texas again?

Me: I don't know, when I'm invited again? I don' know when that could be, they travel a lot.

Mom: Sooo, yeah? yeah? What do they do?

Me: (I tell her what they do)

Mom: Sooo, is this like the Net(ta) situation? (she has always mis-pronounced her name. For those who are not aware, mom new of Neta, she just didn't know Neta was my girlfriend until a month ago. Or maybe she knew but we didn't discuss it).

Me: No. N(ee)ta was my girlfriend. The Texas women are my friends.

Mom: Sooo, do you have another girlfriend?

Me: No, not yet.

Mom: Sooo, are you working on that?

Me: Well, kinda. But more, I'm working on me. The girlfriend thing will take care of itself in due time.

Mom: :::laughter::: Sooo, okay.

End scene.

Cheers

Two, three, four, no...three martinis later Christmas holiday dinner circa 2009 came to a close. This one wasn't too bad at all, granted my perspective was colored by the buzz, but still, I think it went fairly well.

I came away from the meal (as usual) with some observations / reflections. This year's version:

1. We don't play games. I played games with my children (though Danielle was / is the bigger fan) but I realized, growing up and since, my mother never played with us and doesn't to this day, won't even entertain the suggestion.

2. I never had gin before a couple days ago. Gin martinis are as tasty as vodka martinis. More potent, though. It is possible I haven't established a tolerance, yet. Or my mixing hand just a tad heavy.

3. We don't sing as a family. Each of us sing on our own (along to the radio, music player, whatever) but not together. I think only Michael feels he has a passable singing voice.

4. More than half of the various conversations during dinner were a re-hash or actual verbatim repeats of previous conversations, dominated by mom's church family and siblings (from decades ago).

5. Telling stories...oral history, folklore...is an important (the primary) activity during these family dinners.

6. My mom does not do well with change, or even the suggestion of change.

7. I'd really rather not receive another pair of heavy material, heavily patterned pajamas. Really. Not.

8. Still, I'm sure the next owner of the lovely garments will be rightly enamored with them.

9, You know that line in "The Christmas Story" Aunt Clara had for years labored under the delusion that I was not only four years old . . . well, we got some of that goin' on around here.

10. Pete must have had a reaction to the scent of the butter on the table. I can't think of any other reason why he'd be so adamant about getting on the table, which is quite odd for him when people are around. Buttah is the people cat, Pete's the loner. Had to be the butter luring him.

And oh, know that the antlers on the diva was not my idea. She didn't like them but was, for the most part, a good sport about them. She didn't have to suffer the indignity too long. And she was awarded a treat for her trouble.

Cheers!

Fa-La-La-La

The bus operator on this morning's ride into work was in a jovial mood. He greeted each passenger with, "good morning" and "merry Christmas" when they boarded the bus and another "merry Christmas" upon the exit of each passenger.

For the most part his greetings were well received and returned in-kind. Even folks who weren't particularly happy about being on the bus at 7:30 a.m. on this icy Thursday morning garbled out a "merry Christmas" to the operator.

Cheeriness can be infectious.

We were rolling relatively merrily along until HE boarded the bus. HE is a loud-mouthed, opinionated, gas-bag. He works for some government entity and often boards the same bus, thankfully, well into my ride. There is usually only one, at most three (he boards at different locations) stops between his boarding and my exit.

HE was on the phone when he got on this morning, loudly offering his opinion to whomever was on the other end of the call. It was only after he ended his call and moved forward to pay his fare when the bus operator offered his cheery day before Christmas greeting. Before the final tone of the bus operator's greeting tinged, HE vaulted into a tirade about how December 25th ISN'T Jesus' real birth date, and how celebrating on this date is a sham, a lie. And on and on.

HE can believe what he wants and HE can even voice these beliefs to whomever, whenever, I suppose. I just wish he hadn't disrupted what was proving to be a mostly enjoyable ride in to the four hour sentence work this icy Thursday morning.

Whatever your leanings, however and whenever you choose to celebrate...whatever, may your celebrations be happy, gay and full of glee!

'Tis the season to be jolly. . . Try.

Sh-Boom

The title was going to be, "Sorry, No Pictures" and while I don't have pictures of the trip I like the koi, so heeeerrrrre's koi.

It is not entire accurate to say I don't have pictures of my trip to H-town. I do, there are just not in a format that I can visibly or physically share, at least not in the most traditional sense. Over the course of some time, I suspect that as I reflect, images will be revealed thus telling the tale.

For now, know that I had a blast! I haven't talked, laughed, or eaten so much (and so well) in the span of 2 point however many hours into days in a long, long time.

And yes, there was wine (and more) and even a chance meeting.

Now I must sleep for work-a-day Tuesday looms.


h/t

Review, Renew

I spent two of the past three years falling and and then actively being in love. I found myself wrapped with it's warmth and thrilled by the euphoria that resides in that fascinating state.



This year I've been sinking out of love of that love. The warmth and euphoria ebbing bit by bit every one of these 300 plus days.



Some of the 300 days have been incredibly cold and low. Some, however have been somewhat closer to fine.



It has been an experience I'd just soon not repeat, but one I suppose I needed to have. Into each life a little love must fall? I don't know, what I do know is that I'm ready to put this year behind me. The sinking out of love, the trials experienced by my son, daughter, and mother have well worn me.


Before kicking the dust of 2009 off my heals, I be going on a trip. A small sojourn to the land of Texas. Houston to be more precise. I am being welcomed to eat, drink (wine, more than likely) and be merry by and with some lovely ladies.

To paraphrase the ladies Pointer, I'm so excited, it has been hard to hide it, I'm about to lose control and I've given up fighting it. After one more work day and the office holiday party, I'm out. For all intents and purposes, I am already. Focus. Hard.

I'll be back before Christmas, and here to put the rest of 2009 to bed and to get a leg up on 2010.

I'm so excited!!

Imagine

Imagine there wasn’t a history between you and me. Imagine we were not connected by years of disconnectedness. Imagine we were strangers except for the shared DNA. Imagine.

Do you imagine we could have come together after 50 years of our own separate lives with no memory of a history of birth, laughter mingled with tears, hurts, and haunts?

Imagine us meeting today. You just barely in your 70s and me a stone’s throw from 50, imagine us meeting in a busy restaurant, straining to hear each other’s silences. Imagine you wanting coffee and me not knowing coffee was one of your obsessions.

Do you imagine we’d stumble for the words to say? Would you be interested to hear about all or only some of the past 50 years? Do you imagine you’d share your tales of travels, where the world and life took you since my conception? Would you ask about my mom? Imagine there’d be pictures?

Imagine neither of us coming to this pre-arranged meeting alone, afraid of what we’d find or rather, what we wouldn’t. Sharing no previous history we didn’t have hope nor despair on which to hang our hats. You meet my daughter, I meet your son. We’re polite as are they. Imagine the look in their eyes when they realize they’re nearly the same age.

Do you imagine we’d work through the awkwardness? Would we find enough common ground on which to tread? Would we progress beyond talking about the weather or the economy? Imagine you’d tell me in 100 words or less how, why you found me? Imagine it would be more?

Imagine us meeting today. You just barely in your 70s and me a stone’s throw from 50, imagine us meeting in this busy restaurant, you nearly shouting about the clanking and clattering china, that you were my dad and how you so very much wish you’d thought to do this sooner, before you got sick.

Do you imagine I’d come away from this meeting with love, or . . ?

Imagine there wasn't a history between you and me, imagine.

SPBB*

I work in a three-story office building that is virtually empty. In addition to the business that employs me there are two others and the office of the building’s owner/manager. Our offices and warehouse is on the third floor as are one of the two other businesses and the owner/manager’s office.

The third floor suite of offices share public bathrooms, one for the men and another for the women. Note: Our space has a bathroom but only the 7 (or more) guys use that. I avoid it. The public bathrooms are public in that they are entered via the common areas. They are locked and only lease holders hold keys for each. I don't know about the men's room, but the women's is quite spacious, four stalls and two sinks. And well stocked (of late).

The three businesses / offices on the third floor now employ three women, one in each business / office. And the woman in the owner / building manager's office is a part-timer. All that to say that more often than not, yours truly has the bathroom all to herself. The janitor's closet is inside the women's room, so upon entering I do always check that he isn't there, or that the closet door isn't open. I always lock the door behind me. And while I am a tad weirded out but the tilted ceiling tile, I don't seriously think there is a camera hiding in the crevice of that tilted tile.

So, more often than not I'm alone in the bathroom. Which is good. I like being alone in the bathroom, especially public (or even, semi-public) bathrooms. And I'll admit here and now to engaging in Secrect Public Bathroom Behavior*.

A meet n greet site I'm using poses the challenge, "the most private thing you're willing to admit here" i didn't reveal my SPBB there, but I will reveal it here.

Jumping Jacks. When I'm in the bathroom, after taking care of bathroom-y business and washing hands, I do 5, 10, maybe 15 jumping jacks.

and sometimes squats, though mostly I find that, redundant.

When I'm in the public bathroom alone, with no chance of anyone seeing . . .

Can We Talk?

Late in the workday afternoon my desk phone chimes. I pick up the receiver prepared to spill my usual workday spiel in my, "I am a professional at work" voice: Good Afternoon, this is Deborah. How may I help you? or something very similar.

My daughter, who usually halts me at the beginning of the spiel, let me spiel out, at the end of which she said, "hey, what's up with the phone sex voice? Who are you trying to seduce?"

Laughter ensues.

We finish our conversation, her observation timely considering that earlier that day an office mate received a call from a vendor who commented on the "voice" of our automated attendant. My voice is the voice. The office mate said that his caller thought the voice was sexy, and asked if it were a real person. We both got quite the chuckle out of that...anyway, daughter and I finish our conversation and I move on with my afternoon.

About an hour later my mom calls. I pick up the receiver prepared to spill my usual workday spiel in my, "I am a professional at work" voice: Good Afternoon, this is Deborah. May I help you? My mom, who never stops me mid-spiel, had a very different reaction, "are you ill?"

Sexy or ill. Hit or miss.