. . . and the survey says

I've been guaging things on by scales lately. It's probably an offshoot of all the surveys I've been participating in lately. Or maybe it's a by-product of all the new juggling, rationalizing, and prioritizing I have to do at work now-a-days. Or maybe it is the result of the extra home stuff due to the extra person and re-adjusting to having a six foot tall man who was once my little boy, with his pizza and chocolate frosted doughnut penchants tormenting me every other day.

Whatever . . . every question, every issue, every thought is run through a numbered meter. On a scale of 1 to 10, how . . . etc. I probably always did, think in (& make decisions based on) scales, or degrees. But for some reason lately, it seems louder, or more obvious, or . . . something.

So, I thought I'd make it a feature, a device. Features are fun, yes? Yes. A weekly feature. this week's theme, annoyances.

On a scale of 1 to 10: (1 being, "heh, I'm oblivious to your stuff, doesn't annoy me a'tall" and 10 being, "oh for the love of Ivy! Please STOP NOW!!")

How annoying is / was:

1. the lady on the train who cracked her gum so hard and so loud that I thought she was breaking walnuts. 10

2. forgetting my ip*d shuffle at work twice in one week, leaving me more vulnerable to events like (see #1) 7

3. my downstairs neighbor who came home inebriated (again) and couldn't talk his front door into just opening for him (again). 8

4. the vendor who called to ask why we / (I) short paid an invoice (again) and I had to explain (again) that we / (I) deducted for a product not received. 6

5. my brother(s) especially, the younger. 9

Feel free to play along, share, vent, or whatever. I'm all ears, or rather, eyes.

My Hands, Our Hands

I haven't been wearing gloves a lot lately. As I was leaving mom's the other day she asked, "do you have gloves?" I do, several pair in fact, but I haven't been wearing them. I find I don't need them as frequently. My tolerance to the cold, how my hands feel in gloves, how having gloves on make it difficult to retrieve my bus card, so and and so on, being among the reasons I generally pass on donning my gloves, lately.

The downside is the effect the wind and cold have on bare skin. Can we say dry? I'm prone to dry anyway and with the eczema (though these days it is looking more like psoriasis) adds kindling to the fire. I must stay moisturized. Even more now that I haven't donned gloves much lately.

Anyhoo...I was looking down at my hands during one of my commutes in recent days and I saw an unfamiliar, un-settling sight, my mother's hands hanging beyond the cuffs of my coat. My mother's nearly seventy year old hands. Though, admittedly, if you were to look at her hands, heck, look at her, you likely wouldn't peg her to be nearly seventy, but I know what lies beneath the surface. I know the pain (physically and emotionally) she endures each day. I know the frustration she suffers as she works to maintain her independence. I know that each crack and crevice invading her once smooth skin is the result of decades long battles.

I know.

And now, I see those hands on me. Mind you, they only surface when over-dry and exposed to the elements. But still, they are there.

My hands are strong, still. My mom's are weak. My fingers are straight and relatively nimble (practice, practice, practice). Some of mom's are curved due to arthritis and not as sure as they once were, "please excuse the errors" she types at the end of all her notes. I can't think of mom's hands without picturing dad's. I know he has at least one curved finger also. His due to a gunshot wound suffered many, many years ago.

I think about our hands. I look at the long, strong fingers of my son and of my daughter. I wonder what shape their hands will take over the years. How different they are even today. I wonder how their eventful lives will reflect in their hands. Will they one day see my hands hanging out of the cuffs of their coats?

Thinking about my hands, my mom's and subsequently, dad's hands, and those of my son and daughter, put me in mind of my grand-mother's hands. My maternal grand-mother as she is foremost in my memory, and closer to my heart. I think about her hands, folded over and under one another as she surveyed whatever issue brought before her. Those hands, they were very, very strong nearly to the very end. I remember as her hand was placed under the sheet in the final moments of her final day.

I remember being able to take her hand in mine to say good-bye, one last time.

The flash of memory and the thoughts that tumbled forth, puts me in the mind to be mindful of my hands, and to treat them, well, better.



*image

A Beautiful Day

It’s a good thing I don’t have a window in my office / work space. The sun shone (or at least it was shining every time I got up to pe… well, got up) all day today. I could tell by the temperatures in the office (and the weather gadget on the home page) that it was very warm as well as sunshiny outside. It would have been even harder to concentrate on work today.

Today will likely wind up being the best day over the next several, but by mid-to-late February standards, the next several will still be pretty good days, provided the current forecast holds true.

Good news, which brings me to my point, being outdoors.

I am not outdoorsy in that hiking, camping, wind-surfing into your life, kind of way. I’m an urban girl, a pounding the pavement, walking, running (not for awhile now, but at one time), and biking (on solid ground) kind of girl. I like being outdoors in that way. Over the last few years I have even enjoyed rooting around in the little piece of earth in the front of our building. I won’t go so far as to say I’m a gardener by any stretch, but I have had some success and have enjoyed the fruits (though technically, I haven’t planted any consumable items—yet) of my labors. Neighbors have approached with praise for the effort.

I smile, nod, and thank them kindly.

It is still a long way from great, but as someone told me recently, your garden is never done or something to that effect. I’m looking forward to getting back into the mix. So with that, I’m eagerly anticipating many more sunshiny, warmer temps, melting snow, and getting out in the yard weather.

Whip It

Where O Where does a three day weekend go?

Two words: LUNCH NAP

In either order, but usually it wound up, lunch and then, nap on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. It was marvelous.

Hi-ever, after lunch on this Mon Tuesday, I am craving a nap. Point of fact, I needed a nap even before lunch, but now....yaaaaaawwwwwwwnnnnnnnn.

In other news . . .

I'll have to get back to you on that.

Meandering (2)

The two only because I've post titled Meandering and oddly enough it started out being about Pete, too.

Pete is going to be 4 in a few weeks. I was looking through my photo files and 1. there are a lot of photos of Pete, Buttah, and Diamond. 2. there are a lot of photos of Dani and to a lesser degree, Michael, unless it is them together. 3. I wondered if somewhere along the blog way I mis-stated Pete's age. Per the photo labels, tags, it looks like I made him three in 2008. But no, I checked the posts and each correctly reports his age, two and then three, respectively. In a few weeks he'll be four. We'll talk more about him, then.

For now, I'm struck. I have to write a short bio for something I'll talk more about later. Whenever faced (which isn't all that often, but still . . .) when such a request I'm always struck, well, stuck by what and / or perhaps more importantly, what not to say. Or perhaps even more, how to say whatever this is to say.

I have been meandering around this assignment much of the day, stuck in neutral.

Ideas?

forty-eight, twenty-eight, and three

The seventh of February is my younger brother's birthday. This year he celebrated birthday number forty-eight. I saw "Up In The Air" recently and there is a line (or situation) where George Clooney's character is confronted by one of his sisters and she says something like, you've been gone so long, so much, that you are of no consequence. That sums up the relationship with my younger brother (both brothers in fact). The younger brother's existence is more often a subject of conversation because he's closer geographically and he has children with whom I interact. But, mostly, in my mind, he is of little to no consequence.

The eighth of February is Michael's birthday. This year he celebrates birthday number twenty-eight. He, of course, is of great consequence. As you know, if you read the previous post, he moved back home recently. He became a casualty of the economic downturn. But, while it is very crowded, all is not dire. He's is working, he is acting (or rather, right now understudying) with the prestigious Steppenwolf, he is continuing to audition, network, and make all the right moves. Raising a class to my first born: Cheers! As fate would have it, Michael shares a birth date with his favorite cat, Buttah. Mr. Puss n Boots celebrates his third birthday on the eigth. I kid about he and Michael being best buds. Michael is not a cat person, and most decidedly not a Buttah person. Buttah though, LOVES Michael. Of course, Buttah loves everybody, especially if they are eating. Which come to think of it explains why he angles to be all over Michael. Many days have been bracketed by the phrase, "too many pets here" and most now and again, "I like that cat" (referring to Pete) "he's cool, he's laid back, he doesn't even make that much noise, but that one, he's a pain."

Hi-ever, I think Buttah is wending his way into Michael's...well, maybe not his heart, but certainly being seen as less of a pain as days go by.

Happy birthday boys, play nice.

It's Been One of Those

First off, it's been a year. And for the most part, I am better. Not necessarily happier, but better. We do talk on occasion and we declare our undying friendship. In reality it doesn't feel alive, like it's thriving, but it is there.

Second, there is no new love in the midst. I've met some wonderful women (the best, already in committed relationships) and have had some good times. I have some budding friendships and that is good. To be fair I haven't felt much like dating in that sense, well, until recently. Now, all there is to do is to find her, woo her, and . . . vice versa.

Third, when I say no new love in the midst, I should add . . . anymore. Well, it really hadn't gotten to that point yet but seemingly some potential for something more than friends. But whatever was, might have been seems to have fizzled, faded, moved on-ward to other endeavors.

Fourth, it's probably just as well.

Fifth, it's been a year and then some.

Sixth, hey, did I mention my son moved back home? It is temporary. It is crowded. It is hectic.

Seventh, diva dog is in an E-Collar . She has a thing (yes, medical term) very near her eye that is somewhat inflamed. She's on meds to bring the inflammation under control. After two weeks of meds she will have the thing removed.

Eighth, it's been quite somber. She is . . . sad.

Ninth, I inadvertently locked my son inside the apartment. He felt so strongly about behing late to rehearsal that he jumped (ok, climbed) out of the window.

Tenth, this one day after leaving rehearsal on a gurney on the way to an ER after having thrown his back out.

Eleventh, Lumbago diagnosis and a handful of prescriptions followed him home.

Twelfth, We (or rather, Daughter) is fostering a shelter cat. His name is Chaplin and NO, NO MORE PETS!! He's sick and wouldn't eat at the shelter. The hope is that he'll eat in more comfortable surroundings. Apparently we will, has. I feel for the little bugger, but NO!

And speaking of NO...the New Orleans Saints are IN the SUPERBOWL. And yes, I'm rootin' for them. I don't have a personal stake per se, but some friends do and, well . . . GO SAINTS, MARCH ALL OVER THE COLTS!!!

Finally, it's been a year. . . talking, laughing, loving, breathing, fighting, fucking, crying, drinking, writing winning, losing, cheating, kissing, thinking . . . dreaming.*

Being. Evermore.

*portion of "The L Word" theme.

I'd Blame It On the Rain

. . . if there had been rain. But no, only snow. Well, not even snow until today, just cold. Tomorrow is my second meeting of the Queer Writing group. I'm to come prepared to write, or with anything I've been working on, or . . .

And I'm blank. I haven't been working on anything, I can't seem to string together more than two coherent thoughts on any subject let alone stitch together any kind of creativity. The organizer offered up a prompt for those (like myself) who might need an umpf. Write about your favorite cartoon character. Create a scenario with them, a dialog between you and them.

Nothing.

Comes.

To.

Mind.

NaDa.

There was a nugget of an idea weaving around Betty Rubble , Wilma Flintstone and their coming out party in the party room of the yOni Spa.

. . . and then nothing. The thread just lies there, resisting any effort to work itself into the fabric of a tale.

So far.

Maybe something will materialize by 7:15 p.m. Wednesday, February 3, 2010.