a ha

For days I've felt a little . . . off, for lack of a more descriptive word. I thought it was tiredness brought on by too much work and too little rest. Or perhaps a malaise brought on by dreary weather accompanied by inexplicable? bloating, achy knees, odd cravings, emotional jags.  


Then I attributed the out of step feeling with the chore of first, reading (objectively) and then commenting to my dad about the material he sent. The material, in and of itself (though truly a chore) didn't upset me overmuch but the fact that he, of all people, would send me (among other material) a booklet titled, "How to Raise Responsible Children" really set my teeth on edge.


Oh, then there was an aching tooth. 


Two thoughts however, never crossed my mind as possible causes for the turbidity of  my daily experience in recent days, weeks.  One: this. and Two: the actual cause or perhaps more accurately, the root: P M freakin' S! 


That's right sports fans, yours truly is having an unplanned visitor.  At fifty-one. After over a year. 


It has been so long I misread all the tell-tell signs. The bloating, the cravings, the tiredness, the insomnia, the . . . everything. 


Oy to the Vey.


For all that, now that there is a face on the issue, now that the situation is flowing, so to speak, I'm much better. Well, not better in the sense that I am intensely annoyed at having to deal with this again, still. But, now I fully understand with what I'm dealing and can therefore be more focused on that root. There are known remedies. 


Still, I find myself on this Thanksgiving Eve quite thankful and full gratitude. Miss Flo and achy knees aside, there is my good health, the good health of both and actor and his sister (though she has been suffering with a wicked cold and upper respiratory infection over the past several days) and being able to put a full dinner on the table tomorrow that we will all share (along with my mother). We will trade stories old and new, laughs, and the like. And as much as I lack enthusiasm for the process, the shopping and prepping, I am overwhelmingly enthusiastic over the end result, the fullness of body and spirit. 


Happy Thanksgiving to one and all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to shoo the actor away from the ham (again).

The Posts I Lost

 . . . were some sweet posts. Well, not really. The first was about dating, or more specifically one date conducted via telephone for she is in another state (in more ways than one.) It is probably good that the post got eaten by a post eating animal, as it wasn't very . . . well, sweet. 

The second post I lost was about my bat shit crazy older brother. I won't express just how un-sweet the ranting and raving flying off the tips of my fingers sounded even to my own ears. It was likely headed to draft purgatory. That is, had it not been eaten by the same post eating animal that swallowed post number one.  

Then I composed most of a third post about my dad (or rather, a package he sent me) in my head. I decided it best stay in my head. 

Post number one made me happily nostalgic. Post number two and the idea of number three had the opposite effect, that is to say not happily nostalgic.  

Bottom line: LOST IT

Shot Without the Sound

For the record I didn't hear the gunfire, only reports its existence. While walking to the train station on my way home from work on that particular day, talking to Dad on the phone, three ladies in scrubs standing outside of the Respiratory Health Center smoking warned me against advancing further toward the park by shouting in unison, "there was gunfire over there, don't go over there!!"  The last bit I didn't need for my number one rule of thumb: Gunfire, heard or reported equals stay away, as far away as possible.

Thus I detoured to the parking lot of the Respiratory Health Center, away from the smoking scrub wearers but still allowing me an unobstructed view of the action in the park across the way. The action; bystanders scurrying, sirens blaring, dome lights flashing, announcing police presence and the expectation of order being returned, led to the conversation with Dad took on a "my, how the city has changed"  tone. 

For the record this area is one of the least likely to experience gunfire, these days, hence the quick police response.The  area near my work has been upwardly mobile for a few years now. There are expensive loft spaces, townhouses, trendy restaurants and even trendier boutiques, east of the park. And while west of the park is on the move upward as well, with the demolished projects and new condos in their place, it is still in transition and due to the influence of the neighborhood just east of the park, relatively gun violence free. 

I spent several years of my childhood in a housing project just west of the park, circa 1970--1973. Dad and Mom were already divorced by then, but was still in the city and quite familiar with the neighborhood. Back then gunfire, stabbings, beatings, and various other crimes against people and nature were the rule rather than the exception. Police action was slow, if ever.  

Dad moved away from Chicago a very long time ago limiting his visits to one every 10 or 15 years, I think. I know I've only seen him once here in the city since he moved away in the late 70s. He may have returned other than that time for I don't think he sought me out whenever he was in (or near) town. And so we  talked about changes.  My remarks of the various changes to various neighborhoods specifically the one I was standing in at the moment were met with his remark of how he's sure he wouldn't recognize much, if anything. 

Since that conversation some realizations began to crystallize; my dad hasn't seen me or a photo of me for many, many years. My younger brother may have provided Dad with a photo (of a photo) of me, but it would be a very old one. I never refer to my dad as "Dad" when I'm speaking with him, He hasn't been that for so long, the verbal expression of the term is foreign to my tongue. I notice, even when relaying conversations I've had with him to M or D, I hesitate or stumble when I'm about to say, "my dad." He isn't even listed as "DAD" in my phone listings.  

For the record I didn't hear the gunfire. I do however, feel as though I've been shot. 

  

*pirate pumpkin seen around my little town.