Back, NO ForwarD

This post was pondered for hours over the course of many days. Well, not this post, but a post in its place. For the post I'd been pondering had to do with loss; the loss of a girlfriend, an aunt, an uncle, other relatives, and our beloved Diamond, not to mention losses suffered by the nation, the world.

As of December 27th Chicago had booked 500 murders for 2012.

But in the pondering, moreover, in the writing (or rather, the staring at the blank screen) I decided not to dwell on the losses of this or any other year (except or unless it has to do with weight--which is a whole other post). I'd rather focus on the gains (again, not weight) or rather, the good over the bad.

I'd rather be the opposite of my mother who is very much about the tragic, the loss, the bad. Who sends me Christmas greetings, thank you and thinking of you notes that include the most recent illness, accident, or death as well as another tidbit about her final journey. The organization that will receive her brain (upon her death, of course) will indeed pay for the transport of her corpse.

Ain't that good news?!

Oh, don't get me wrong, I very much appreciate the foresight, the pre-planning, the taking care of business aspect of her eventual demise for I know without such instructions and plans in place my brothers will be at my door (should we all still be around) making all kinds of demands about what should (or shouldn't) be (despite ignoring her "live and in-person needs" for most of the past 30 years.)  I just don't need to talk about it. I have the papers, the contact numbers, the list of instructions. I understand, do not have any questions, and don't need to discuss her final journey (anymore.)

So yes, while I we have suffered many losses this year, feeling each one deeply, extensively, and for what has felt like an eternity, while trying NOT to. Or rather, trying to mask that desperation. I have been (more, lately) endeavoring to dwell on the gains, the positives, the goodness from this year, for it wasn't ALL bad. I am working to re-train my brain to focus on the promise of each new day,  new chances to turn tides, change directions, alter outcomes. I am re-dedicating myself to . . . well, me. Mind, body, and overall me for me, for you, for our nation, for the world at large.

And for Cinnamon who came bounding into my life unexpectedly but most thankfully.

Happy New Day, Happy New Year to one, to All!


 

Holly Jolly

The song begins, "have a holly, jolly Christmas; it's the best time of the year" and for weeks now it's been looping in and around my head, double dog daring me to just DO IT! > BE IT!

Jolly. or in everyday vernacular: happy.

It has been an uphill climb, but on this day above all others I am reminded that despite the not so grand in my life and the world at large, there is still very much that is good and cause for happiness. There is shelter, food, love of family and friends, Buttah, Pete, and puppy dawg Cinnamon.

A good friend is spending Christmas day in the hospital recovering from knee replacement surgery. Not the happiest of places to be on this (or any other) day, but the key word:
recovering. I got word earlier today that physical therapy is going well.

Jolly, or in everyday vernacular: happy.

I could name hundreds, perhaps thousands, of things that can be counted on to cause unbridled happiness and joy to wash over me like warm showers, but I won't. I'll just state for the record that I know, I remember, and I am grateful for those things and those people.

Have a holly, jolly Christmas and may those feelings spread over many days, weeks, months beyond.

"Christmas isn't a season, it's a feeling."  Edna Ferber  

Testing 1. 2. 3.

There is plenty to say, just no time, energy, focus to get it organized and down on paper or rather, screen. What I can say is that I'm glad it is raining instead of snowing. I'm glad my hip stopped hurting. I'm so saddened and distraught over the most recent (and seemingly constant) spates of mass violence. The fact that I had to ask mom for my younger brother's address speaks volumes. I don't intend to buy any "Christmas" gifts, though I will be gifting, much. I had the best time with my good friend at dinner the other night. Can't wait for a repeat. The cats are leery of the dog. Buttah however, will test his mettle against the big baby hound. And speaking of the the dog . . . 

Anatomy of an Unfriending

Hair. It seems to always be about or revolve around hair in some shape form or fashion. This time was no exception.

Many weeks ago Willow Smith (you know, the daughter of Jada Pinket and Will Smith) cut her "whip it" long hair short. Very short. Soon after, as predicable as the chiming of church bells, the media weighed in with opinions as to why and whatnot.

Then, of course, just as predictably, parent groups weighed in... "How Could Jada 'LET' her daughter . . . " (Why criticism doesn't seem to be directed toward dads whenever 'parent groups' weigh in is a topic for another day.)  Jada responds to her critics with a letter on her FB page, which reads, in part: I made a promise to endow my little girl with the power to always know that her body, spirit and her mind are HER domain. Willow cut her hair because her beauty, her value, her worth is not measured by the length of her hair.

Picked up by a number of media outlets, the letter brought Jada praise and of course, more criticism.

Enter my (now) former FB friend. The "friend" updated her status by posting a link to the article, prefacing said posting with her considered opinion that Jada is an awful parent by allowing her twelve year old to shave her hair off. She went on to defend and expand her stance in the comments. After a few of her other "friends" commented I chimed in with my own, "what's the big whoop? It's just hair."

A few of her friends "liked" my comment and the discussion (such as it was) continued; with the original poster responding to accusations that she was making judgments based on appearance, defending her 'right' to direct her own child's fashion choices, bristling over the commentary that she may have stifled her own son's freedom of expression and or creativity by such a staunch stance on something as innocuous as a haircut.

A couple of the other "friends" observed that the staunchness displayed seemed out of character for the liberal, gay, feminist, activist, they thought (or known) her to be.

After saying my piece, sharing an anecdote about my son's JR high years and baggy clothes (by way to answer the meme: you can't tell a book by it's cover) clicking, 'like' to a couple of the expressed opinions, I backed out of commenting but read with interest at the discussion was careening downhill.

Fast. During this portion of the program I kept thinking of the Bugs Bunny quote.  And nearly posted a para-phrased version. Nearly.

Eventually my (now) former FB friend took exception to the accusations and judgments (over her judgments) and "name calling" as she expressed it and asked NOT to be disrespected on her own page.

Well, that statement set off another flurry of comments. . . "what, I can't call you out?"  "I can't disagree with you?" On and on until the (now) former FB finally responded with, "F*CK YOU ALL!!!" and minutes later, I saw that I had been un-friended and I presume the others in the mix were as well. I hadn't been "friends" with any of them.

I'm not at all offended or distressed by the unfriending for I'd been very close to pulling the plug on our friend status prior to this incident. This woman and I met a few months ago on a dating site and then became FB friends.  We shared a few interesting exchanges, and then (a couple of weeks prior to the incident) met in person--as we live in the same town and found ourselves at the same LBGTQ event. It was this "live" meeting and subsequent FB exchanges that led me to believe we wouldn't ever be friends, so why keep up any pretext.

So, while the incident all started with hair, it became a much larger issue, as is so often the case, especially in my corner of the world.



 

Friends

Some time over the past few weeks Cinnamon and Buttah have formed some kind of . . . grudging acceptance for the presence of the other. Buttah braves journeys to the lower perches and the floor because he craves interaction and attention.  As a result, he suffers the clumsy, flopping ministrations of the big brown pup.


Eventually he tires of the game, fends off the big brown pup, and scampers back to higher ground. Or barring navigation his own escape, is rescued by one of the humans.  Still, somewhere in the midst of the ministrations, protestations, fending, and rescuing, they . . . bonded. Of sorts. More often than not, they are just sitting, in the same place, on the same bed, without incident . . . that is, until big brown pup deems the amnesty period over.

The game, or rather the dance being played out has the feel of something brewing. . some kind of relationship. . . some kind of friendship.

Bearing witness to the brewing over the past few weeks has had me thinking about friends generally and my friends specifically. I count very few people in that category of friend (FB semantics aside). As a child I had difficulty making friends; our multiple moves, the sheltering thanks to my girl status, my being a bona fida introvert all played a role.

My high school years were the most static, as I spent 4 years in one school and was able to form a few solid (as solid as possible considering I couldn't / didn't invite people home) relationships. One such relationship followed me well into adulthood only to be lost to lesbianism, or rather her homophobic reaction to my lesbianism.

Fastforward to today and there are, as I said, very few people who I consider a friend (again, FB semantics aside). Each of the few are a treasure to me, golden. I trust each is aware of their importance to me as I am active in the cultivation of these relationships.

Still, something is amiss. Or rather, I am missing. The One.  Not necessarily a girlfriend in that sense (though that would be sweet) but a running buddy, a wing-woman, a "kick it" partner. There is a certain pathology at play with the relationships I have formed (and those that have stuck) that bear some exploration.

Perhaps some adjustments are warranted.

In the meantime, I thank you friends for being there / here for me. For helping me through some tough days (even if you didn't know you were). Your humor, honesty, creativity, and most of all your presence is a treasure, golden.

And, Cinnamon is pretty sure she wants Buttah for a friend. Buttah, on the other hand, seems somewhat wary. Though, I think eventually, he'll come around. I believe he will be able to teach Cinnamon to temper her ministrations, a bit.    





 

No scrambling, No trampling

Anyone who knows me is well aware of my aversion to shopping of any kind with the rare exception of hardware stores and garden centers I avoid s-t-o-r-e-s unless absolutely necessary.

So, the idea of ME going out anywhere near any kind of "special deal" "door-buster sale" "hot, hot pricing" is as ludicrous as finding me on a tropical beach basking in the mid-day sun, wearing a string bikini.

Ludicrous.

Several years ago my employer added the day after Thanksgiving as a paid holiday for regular, full-time employees (such as myself.) And even before then I was fortunate to take a vacation day on that day. Historically the day has been filled with outings with the kids, catch-up chores around the homestead, gorging on left-overs. . . in other words, just chilling.

To paraphrase Taylor Swift, never (ever)< did it include getting trampled by or being the one trampling on bargain hunters burning off the turkey with all the trimmings scrambling through the malls of hard knocks.

This Friday will be no exception. Tomorrow we will visit and eat and drink and some of us will repeat the eating and the drinking. And repeat once again. But then it will be Friday and beyond spending a few hours winterizing my mother's apartment, I haven't yet mapped the day. But, I can guarantee . . .

there will be no< shopping.

And speaking of ludicrous, opening stores earlier and earlier on Friday---so early, many are opening later in the evening on . . . Thursday!

Ludicrous.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Peace ♥


   

Snack Packing

A few weeks ago I tried my very first friend Twinkie. It wasn't horrible but it also wasn't a taste sensation I had any desire to re-visit.

And now with the news that Hostess is asking the bankruptcy court to liquidate, Twinkies (and other Hostess brands) being snapped off store shelves, it isn't likely I'll get my hands on the little spongy cake.

And while I'd rather not have the fried Twinkie exploration be my last Twinkie memory, I am not about to get into a bidding war for a box of cakes. Seriously? Hundreds of dollars for a box of mass produced snack cakes?

People are weird.

Prior to a few weeks ago (and the fried Twinkie exploration) I hadn't had a Twinkie in . . . I can't even remember when. I remember having them in my lunch bag on occasion, I remember packing them in my kids lunch boxes every now and then.

Truth be told, Twinkies weren't even in the top 5 of Hostess brand snack packing.

ME:                                THE ACTOR:                THE DAUGHTER:
Suzy-Q                            Apple Pie                       Honeybuns*
Ding Dongs                     Honeybuns*                    Cupcakes
Ho Hos                            Nutty Bars*                    Apple Pie
Cupcakes                      
Sno Ball Cakes              

*Little Debbie Brands

I feel awful that so many workers will lose their jobs due to (by most accounts I've read) bad management. I feel awful that while some of the brands may indeed live on (someday--as the food conglomerates scramble to snap up the more popular snacks) the Hostess bakers likely won't get their jobs back--or at least not anytime soon.

A cursory look-see was executed during Saturday's grocery trip and as I suspected not a Twinkie, Ho Ho, Ding Dong, or Suzy-Q to be found. A similar act will be conducted on my "last minute" shopping excursion sometime over the next couple of days.  I'm not holding on to any hope of finding any of the more popular cakes, especially Twinkies which seem to have grabbed the nation, if not the world, as some sort of beacon to all snack cakes everywhere.

If the fried Twinkie is my last Twinkie experience, then so be it. I'm sure the pumpkin cheesecake on tap for one of Thursday's desserts will serve as a more than adequate Twinkie memory dasher.

Two Days Running

There are many great pairings like chocolate and peanut butter, spinach and mushrooms, cheese and crackers, soup and crusty bread, bacon and . . . well, most anything, to name but a few. Conversely, there are pairings that are not so great, for instance, (any) breakfast sandwich with American cheese, fish on pizza, brussel sprouts and . . . well, most anything.  

I've come to the thoughtful opinion that another not so great pairing has to do with wonder puppy. Wonder...yes, she is that. She is also quite rambunctious. QUITE! And what doesn't pair well with rambunctious puppy is being ill. Especially that brand of ill that involves many instances of emergent . . .needs.

 . . And then there is the other, uhm, emergent need. The one that begins with a rumbling in the tummy. Not the gentle gurgle signaling the need for a bit of food. No, not that. The roiling, bubbling churn signaling that all is about to break loose. . . 

A bug infected Daughter's workplace, some of her co-workers, many of the children, and daughter herself caught said bug and suffered various manifestations. Daughter's version included emissions, an emptying of stomach contents from both ends--two days worth, several days ago.

When the bug caught up with me it meant,  well, let's just say, "thank goodness there is no vomiting" to quote Daughter.

Rambunctious puppy still needed walking, feeding, watering, training, engaging, guidance in burning off as much of that puppy energy as humanly possible. Not only thank goodness there wasn't vomiting, but also, no fever, no body aches (after the first day) and more. I recognize this bout of illness (not quite over but so much better than yesterday and the day before) could have been worse and am grateful it wasn't, for all involved.

On a side note, the flash of brilliance I had of taking rambunctious out for her last walk later (10 p.m) in hopes of her sleeping through (or at least staying sated and relatively quiet) until at least 5 a.m. (she's been rousing at 2:30--3:00 ish most mornings) was doused by the cats--who came tromping through at 3:30 this morning. Buttah, feeling neglected and likely overwhelmed has been sticking to me like glue today and deciding hell or high water he's going to beat this big floppy dog at her own attention getting game.

Wonder Woman Dog

 My daughter wouldn't be my daughter if she didn't dress the dog(s) cats and any other animals (breathing or filled with fluff) in the outfit of the day. On this day (yesterday) Cinnamon appears as the canine equivalent of Wonder Woman®  I wasn't home during the Trick-or-Treat hours but I understand she was the talk of the block. She favored the witches, ghosts, goblins, and more with aerials, flips, and just plain old rambunctious puppy play.

We are learning more and more about her every day. 

For instance, she is not wild about baths. 

Nor about getting her facial hair clipped. 

She does love being outdoors, though not in the rain. I'm anxious to see how she does with snow. And  while there is still some work to do, she's a fun (and loud) puppy dog, who by the way doesn't like getting her facial hair cut. Her face is a little uneven. She is just fine with that.  She is Wonder Dog.  

Round Da Round

Yesterday in this space I posted something about me and my mom. The post (as does the event and subsequent chill that led to said post) weighed heavily on my mind.

So, I got up this morning and deleted it. *It* is likely still in the feeds. If you see it floating around, simply ignore it. Let it lie, limp.

Much appreciated.

Beyond that, what is happening? Puppy is happening. She's getting more and more comfortable. The training efforts are yielding positive results. Cinnamon sits like a champ. The daughter, of course, got her a costume for Halloween, Wonder Woman, if memory serves. There will be a least one picture.

Beyond that, what is happening? Gym! I joined over a month ago and have only been a handful of times. But the times, they are increasing. I am bound and determined to pull what has gotten out of control back together again.

Beyond that, what is happening? Just putting one foot in front of the other and moving the frack on.

Falling

Well, here we are in October. OCTOBER!! Beyond the middle of October. In 10 days October will be over and then . . .  well, then
November.

That said, as Octobers go this one has been okay. Sure, some ups and downs, ins and outs, pluses and minuses but that is the tale of the tape of every month. Every month in recent history anyway.

I will elaborate about the events of recent weeks (beyond the loss of D-dog, gaining a Cinnamon, and daughter's big day) over the next few, perhaps. But for now the biggest item on my personal agenda is the failure to maintain exercise goals. There are a myriad of reasons some might say excuses, but suffice to say the lack of discipline, diligence, and consistency is weighing heavily on my mind (and knees.)

This weekend past was the most productive, active  on several fronts than the many before it and the thrust is to build, build, build upon what worked and continue the stride. Recent rainy days aside the weather was been ideal for walking and / or riding.

Falling into step. Stat.

On THIS Day

Well, actually it was two days ago, but it has been a long, exhausting week what with the new(ish) young dog in the apartment and such. But, be that as it may, my baby celebrated her twenty-seventh birthday on Thursday.

I made her cards with colorful envelopes and said good-bye to her (for the weekend) as she choose to celebrate her day all weekend with a road trip: Atlanta, GA. Well, she isn't in Atlanta proper, but close enough.

By all accounts she's having a grand time. By happenstance, this is PRIDE weekend in Atlanta. I suggested she go over to Piedmont Park and be my proxy. She mentioned that she might.

Goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, I love my daughter fiercely and resolutely. Moreover, I like her. I have fun with her in a manner I never enjoyed with my own mother. I am thoroughly enjoying the woman she has grown into and more, as she continues to develop. She makes me proud on so many levels.

Happy, happy, joy, joy to my only daughter.

Too Much To Ask?

Dear producers of Progresso™ soup,

Let me preface by saying I am not a vegetarian and I don't generally eat your soups. Yes, I have tried a variety or two here and there over the last several years and found those offerings to be head and shoulders above your competition on the flavor scale. But with few exceptions (namely, canned tomatoes) I don't consume canned foods generally and canned soups, specifically.

Nothing personal. While your soups are tastier than most, for me, homemade truly is best for overall flavor satisfaction and value.

That being said, a vegetarian friend recently lamented over the fact of meat based broths in your vegetable soups. She queries, "Is it too much to ask . . . ?"  Her query prompted me to go to your website, which is quite informative, by the way, to see what I could see. My initial thought was perhaps my friend had checked the label of only one (or perhaps two) varieties, that surely there must be vegetable based vegetable soups for vegetarian consumers.

I must admit to being a bit surprised and more than a bit unsettled to find that of the many varieties of vegetable soup offerings, all but one boasts either a beef or chicken based broth. The minuscule variety available to vegetarians is. in a word, appalling.

And so, I join her in asking, "Is it too much to ask not to have meat based broths for vegetable soups?" Or at least, equal representation.

Standing in solidarity with the vegetarian canned soup consuming general public.

Kindest Regards,

Middle Girl

Saturday, Sunday, Pup Day

She is gorgeous; flowing tresses full of fun and frolic, warmth and desire.

That sentence was meant to start a story of a totally fictional nature. It (the sentence and snippets of the story to flesh out) has been rattling around my head for weeks now. I haven't been able to mash more than that sentence out.

So be it. I will continue to work on the story.

In the meantime, while we were not looking to introduce a canine to the household so soon, a confluence of events brought Cinnamon into our lives. She was rescued from a home with three (or more?) too many puppies. So now, she is ours.

She is settling in rather nicely.

Trying. Week. End.

Diamond. D-dog. Diva. 

She came into our lives by way of our town's shelter. My daughter, an employee at the shelter, spotted her when she was surrendered by her previous parents and was determined to bring her home. Good thing, because Diamond's food aggression had her labeled "un-adoptable" and slated for termination. Her arrival came after Pete's, which rankled me just a wee bit. 

Maybe more than a wee bit, to be honest, at the time. 

But, like my daughter, Diamond had a way of working herself into your heart and good graces. Seeking forgiveness over permission every step of the way. She, the small dog who enjoyed romps in snow piled higher than her head, approached the lake (& lagoons & rivers) with trepidation, but ultimately allowed herself a taste of pleasure, who relished food, even that designed and meant for the cats, who took pure and distinct pleasure in show said cats who in fact, was boss . . . she, is no longer with us. 

Diamond developed issues beyond the diabetes and these past few days has been so not her usual self. It has been beyond difficult to watch her decline. It has been beyond difficult to watch daughter struggle with the choice that had to be made, not for us, but for Diamond; her care and comfort trumping our not wanting to be without her presence. 

Watching my daughter say goodbye to her very first pet, a pet she's craved to have since she was five years old, a pet who was with us just a bit over 5 years, but who was about to celebrate her eleventh year, a pet who has taught my daughter so much about . . . well, life, who has been the single most vital and constant presence in her life these past five years . . .  watching her raw sadness, her maturity, her coming to terms. . . has been, in a word, unimaginable. 

Leaves me breathless. That, and her thanking me for being strong, so she can be strong. Breathless. And in tears.  

Rest In Peace, dear Diamond. You will live forever in our hearts and memories.  

The Kids, 1986

Each, in recent weeks have faced life-changing events and are in the midst of making life shaping decisions, with my guidance (as needed and/or requested) but always with my love and support.

My head is much too full of all that has transpired in recent weeks, days to fully elucidate but suffice to say, their journeys continue and I'm grateful to bear witness to the marvelous metamorphosis taking place within and beyond.

Goodbye James

Mom reports, "James died at 12:22 p.m."  Five days after his 74th birthday...on this, the sixth day of September, which is also my older brother's 54th birthday. Though my good-bye was said, there are...emotions.   
R.I.P

My younger brother relates that the cancer is taking a toll, that you've seen more days in the hospital than out in recent weeks. For this turn of events I am truly sorry for I know it must not only be taking a toll on you, but on your wife and your son...well, all your sons.

Friends who have weathered the cancer storm in recent years advise the end could be very near or much further off, the time in between could be full of very ill days or not or some mix in-between.  I am choosing to believe that your silence this time is due to your sickness and your needing to focus on the variety of treatments and the side effects therein. Thus, I'm taking the initiative. Again.

This is goodbye to you, James, the man who was once, very briefly, my father.

Since hearing of your illness a year ago, I've been fashioning this goodbye, preparing myself for this departure which solidifies your absence. I've been preparing for how this ultimate departure will impact the sons you had with my mother and how that, in turn, will impact me.

In many ways, the preparation goes beyond the last year, for you have been physically absent for decades and emotionally absent virtually my entire life. I have time and time again had to reconcile that for one reason or another you wanted nothing at all to do with me. Sure, on the rare occasion you  responded to one of  the thousands of cards or letters with some declaration of love, I was left ultimately left with the deafening silences that followed. I was left with imagining  or fashioning a scenario where we'd reconcile. But, in reality, I gave up, gave in to your absence. And then, cancer.

And thus, I tried again, we talked and it was easy. But then, more silence. Perhaps due to the illness and the toll it is taking. Perhaps due to my not adhering to your beliefs. Perhaps due to . . you, being you. The history that is our existence dictates that there is always something to blame for the nothingness.

James, this is goodbye, but I also want you to know that I am not angry. I'm not angry for the decades of silences. I'm not angry that you missed the first day of every school,  every accolade, every heartbreak, every . .  everything related to me up to and including thee entire lives of my children. I am not angry that your YOU was not, is not, cannot be, my dad.

I said goodbye to that fantasy and now I say goodbye to the man James who was once, ever so briefly, my father. The man who taught me, designed or accidental, how to be present for those I love; how to say to them at every opportunity, "I LOVE YOU" and how to mean it, how to show it with my head, heart, energy, money, and more. I am saying goodbye but also thank you. For the nothingness you exhibited helped frame the me that is me.

I am sorry for your pain and suffering and how that impacts your wife and sons. I wish for the rest of your days to be as comfortable as your family and doctors can make for you. I trust that your beliefs provide for you a measure of tranquility as you transition . . .

So, for the last time, goodbye and may peace be with you.

Your Only Daughter

Daredevil

*

Part of last weekend was spent with mom. She taste-tested avocado and mango in between preparing breakfast while I did a chore or two (or three). We sat. We ate. We talked, some. Nothing serious. Well, except for the litany of sick and death notices from around the horn of family and acquaintances.

Such seems to be her favorite pastime.

Three hours later, I grab my bag, helmet and whatever else she was trying to force me to accept, gave a hug and stepped to the door.

"Be careful," she warned as I turned the knob.

I replied, "I'm always careful, I'm no daredevil." To which she retorted, "I THINK YOU ARE!"  

I don't know what my, "are you shitting me" face looks like, but I'm sure that it was plastered on for a few moments before a shrugging of the shoulders as if to say, "whatever" and the easing on out the door, down the stairs, on onto my Brin to ride the 12 (or so) blocks home, carefully.

Her assessment has hovered about my shoulders all week. daredevil! Me. Does she really think that? And if so, why? What daredevil-like things have I done in her view? By definition I'm far from that persona, in my view anyway.

I'm an office worker for cripes sake! I do take public transportation to and fro, but so do several thousand others, she among them. I don't smoke. never have. I don't take drugs except vitamins and those needed to temper the skin issues, mostly over-the-counter. I do drink alcohol, but not in a reckless, irresponsible, ostentatiously daring manner.

I'm fucking pedestrian. Daredevil? Hell. No.

Oh sure, I've engaged in unsafe behavior on occasion in my 50 plus years, but she can't know of more than one or two of those instances. And unsafe, on occasion, does not equal daredevil no matter how you slice it, in my view anyway.

So I'm back to what constitutes daredevil in her eyes and when do I engage in such behavior?

Is it the atheism? Keeping my hair extremely short? Dating (and falling for) women? Wearing purple or striped socks? Can it be the art? The writing?  The voicing my opinion with regard to my dad, brothers, and other family members? Is it the bike riding? Is it the favoring of avocado as well as Mexican, Italian, Greek, Thai, and food of other lands? Is it the wearing of two pair of earrings on occasion but rarely a necklace? Is it the thumb ring? Is it my beliefs regarding church and state; the separation of the two? For cripes sake, I sold my rollers skates for fear of falling off them and breaking my ass.

I am so fucking pedestrian. Daredevil? Hell. No.

What then, pray-tell is it that defines me as daredevil-y?

Could it be that I'm merely different from her (and most everyone she knows) and that it wasn't the meaning for daredevil she meant to retort at all?  Could it be she meant something else altogether? And if so, what?

We'll never know. We're still working through that complicated tag she hung on a couple of years ago. We have yet to have a conversation of revelations and truths. Try as I might, that brand of dare-devilry is . . . well, like I've been saying, all along,

daredevil? Hell. No.

*artwork by daughter--age 8.

Weekender

   

1. Thank you dear friend for the bottle. Buttah insisted on being in the shot.   

2. Bike riding happened (beginning Thursday). And it was fun.   

3. My mom had not (until Saturday) ever tasted avocado (or mango). 

4. Avocado = fail. She didn't hate it but didn't like it enough to try to improve the taste (for her palate) with any additions; salt, pepper, tomato. etc.  One and done. 

5. The mango on the other hand was quite successful. 

6. Daughter went to the funeral of a former classmate. He was 31 days older than she. She has made plans for her 27th birthday. He didn't survive to see his 27th birthday.  

7. THAT has weighed heavily on her mind as well as mine. 

8. Back to mom, she continues to take issue with my closely cropped hair. She feels I'm 'dissing' the struggle (from when I was an infant/toddler with eczema) she faced 'saving my hair'.   

9. When I saw her Saturday AM my hair was (in my estimation) too long. By Saturday evening, no longer was it too long, it was just right (in my estimation).  

10. I wanted to put together a cucumber salad for my lunch(es) this week and likely still will but pretty perturbed that I couldn't find Kalamata olives at the store. 

11. Bike riding will happen in the early morning hours (before work) at least three days this week.  

12. Despite the emotions mixed with some procrastination the entire list of weekend (to-dos) gone themselves done. Well, almost. The folder containing the work I was going to do from home somehow got itself forgotten at the office. 

To paraphrase "Feeling Good" it's a new day, a new day, and I'm feeling . . .  

  

Deborah Dear

Dear Deborah, 


Finally, you are officially fifty-two. The daughter has been teasing, calling you, "52" since the day after you celebrated number fifty-one. The taunting, good in nature coming after you did something particularly 52-ish, like forget where you were going mid-step or a word mid-sentence, or something like put your shirt on backwards and inside out, has served as a constant reminder that, well, fudge, you're gettin' UP there.  

But that's okay. Gettin' UP there ain't so bad  especially if you have your health and some semblance of your mind. Or so I've been told. 


That said, dear Deborah, the birthday was several days ago and I'm writing today to tell you that the partying must be over. Enough with the Irish whiskey, French vodka (two martinis at Melting Pot! Really? two?)  Belgian Beer, and the rich desserts. Enough! Truth be known you've been in celebratory mode for the entire month prior to your birthday weekend. 


Well, that's what we'll call it, celebrating.


But I know the truth, and deep down, so do you. And I'm here to tell you here and now, 


Enough! 


No more blaming the heat, heartache, knee pain, crappy dye jobs, or crappier days at work. No more drowning in the dumps because your mom is...well, who she is and your dad, not a dad at all. I won't mention your brothers because well, what is the point of that?  


Enough!  


Your calendar notation for Tuesday reads, 'early AM ride' and did you? NO! It wasn't raining, wasn't unbearably hot. Sure, you were out late Monday (and again, two martinis?okay enough about that, it WAS your birthday, but still . . ) true enough, but if the skipping days doesn't stop doesn't stop you won't get back on track. And you must, you know, get BACK at It and YOU KNOW IT!!  It is so much more than a body thing, it is a mind thing. 


So, have some Hil....  

AND get your head out of your ass and get said ass in gear. I don't give, to steal a phrase from daughter, "two shits and a fuck" about  your looking sexy for the beach (or whatever) but I do want you to feel good. Bump that, I want you to feel GREAT, inside and out. I want you to think, I want you to write, I want you to create. I love what the actor said the other day, "crazy for creatives!"   I want the two of you to collaborate. I want. I want. I want...YOU BACK!! Now, dammit. I want to see you, feel you, hear you fucking Laugh Out LOUD once a day, every day right up to birthday number fifty-three. 


And then some. 


Happy, happy, joy, joy...for realz. 


♥, 


 ME  


  

Fried Days

Okay, I'll say it here and now. July has basically been a bust with regard to my goals.  I mean, for fuck's sake it's been hot, beyond hot. And when it hasn't been hot it has been storming. And when it hasn't been storming, it has just been . . .

BLAH.

Well, blah for me.

Not so much the heat, well yeah the heat, but because of the heat the usual, 'unable to sleep through the night' plague is even worse.

Which means getting up (waking up not the issue) to don some clothes, get on the bike and ride, ride, ride, Sally Deborah ride, is just . . . well, it hasn't been happening with any regularity. Or, at all.

And I bought new gloves and padded shorts too.

Not riding wouldn't be so bad, but I'm eating horribly. Well, not so much horrible choices but just too damn much. Over-stuffing. And I'm drinking a hella beer.

HELLA!

Not riding (or walking beyond what is absolutely necessary) eating and drinking too much wouldn't be oh, SO bad, but on top of all that, feeling guilty about it . . . I can't flippin' think.

It took too many days (cha-ching to the library coffers) to finish a 378 page book. I saw the movie for fuck's sake. I KNEW (basically) how it would end. And it wasn't like it was (at) all challenging. Come to think of it, maybe, 'can't flipin' think' is not precisely accurate. I. Can't. Focus.!.!

My brain is just fried (hehehehe, I typed, 'friend')....anyhoo...F.R.I.E.D and speaking of, fried green tomatoes, now, YES PLEASE, and while we're at it, fried pickles. EXCEPT for the variety I had at Seven Ten in Hyde Park many months ago. They were awful.

That said, July isn't over. I still have a chance. I have to shake this . . . whatever. I can't change the heat, the  job, any other stuff proffering the 'blues' just my reaction to it, them.

Each day is a brand new day. Welcome to the end of Wednesday and (plus) 100 heat index.

Bring on Thursday.

PS: special note to newest recruit who once gave me HOT SEX and who  is no longer, technically new . . .well, she is, but isn't; it's a long story . . . anywhoo, note to newest recruit who is now a bona fide friend . . . THEY  ARE FUCKING IDIOTS!!! 

Any Given Sunday

Some days ago I opened my email account to find a to find notice of a:

New Meetup Group!

The notice, in and of itself, did not surprise. Some weeks I get three or four such emails over the course  of said week. Art. Writing. LGBTQ. Socializing. Fitness. Films. Live Theater. Just some of the boxes I checked in my profile. So, I get an email whenever a group forms that touches (even ever so slightly) any one (or more) of my interest bullet points. 

So again, no surprise an email announcing the formation of and invitation to join: Polyfidelity, Polygamy, and Group Marriage MeetUp group appeared some days ago, for the tags used to categorize this group LGBT. Socializing. Friends. Women. Bi-Sexual Women. do indeed hit upon some my my bullet points.  

The organizer(s) asks two questions:  

Do you want more than one loving life-partner?   

Are you looking for multiple committed relationships?   

This meetup group intends to be a smaller, more personal group than the larger swinger and polyamory communities. Together we host potluck dinners, discussion groups, movie nights, and book clubs.

 

Yes? to any (all) then this might be a group for you. 

No, not for me. I'm not certain I want (or am capable of sustaining) a loving, long-term, committed LIVE-IN relationship with ONE adult woman, let alone more than one. Suffice to say, I'm a one woman, woman and while I do want a committed, loving relationship that hopefully develops over the long term, I do not know that we (whomever "we" may be) will live together.    

I am, however, certain that I will not ever live with a another man, who isn't my son. 

And while I took a pass on the Polyfidelity, Polygamy, Group Marriage invite and in fact, take a pass on many of the MeetUp invites as most are simply not my bottle of beer, every now and again a new group feels right enough to click, "yes." I've met some intriguing, fun, smart, engaging folks through some of the MeetUps. That isn't to suggest that the folks in P, P, Group Marriage group are not similarly endowed. . .  

the group's mission, is just. . .

no, not for me.    

First Sunday in July

This first Sunday in July also happened to be July first. Of course, we know that July first is only scant days prior to probably the most famous of July days since its inception, but were there any ot historic happenings on the first of July?

Well, according to this site there were several; for instance, the first postage stamp was sold on this date in 1847. Also, on this date in 1910, White Sox Park (Comiskey Park) and now, US Celluar Field, opened.  The White Sox lost to the Browns 2-0. In 1963 the post office institutes what is now called, zip code. Zipping ahead to the year 2000, Vermont's Civil Unions law goes into effect. The list ends with the July 1st (2007) notation of the smoking ban in public places for all of the UK.

The list ends there. I don't know if there were no items of historic significance on July 1st since 2007 or if events in more recent years are not yet considered, "historic". That is really hear nor there, for what July first means to me is, well, July FIRST. And beyond the July birthdays of which I am aware (a cousin turning 59, an two aunts 82 and 70, and me, 52) it also marks a newer focus on, well, marking.

Scale. Measuring Tape. Blood Pressure Gage. Note. Record. Focus. Goal. And to mark, there must we work. And the work must begin. The work did, in fact begin. I got up before the sun on Monday and rode 30 minutes, returned home, showered and went to work. I've been trying to walk at least 10,000 steps but blazes it is HOT and while not normally all that affected by the heat, I ain't stupid. I'm being careful and cautious and by all means, hydrated. But, the idea is, 30 minutes (minimum) at least 3 days a week of riding and 10,000 steps (minimum) every day. Plus, eating less processed, more fresh produce, and more . . . variety. I have quite a limited produce comfort zone. I. must. expand. (so to speak) my. horizons.

To be blunt, I'm not happy with where I am physically. Not just my weight but overall health. I don't feel as good as I used to feel. I want to feel better and to feel better I have to do better and to do better I must shift my focus and I must MARK.

My problem is that sooner or later the marking, the recording becomes a bit too....mundane. I'm working on a method that will be less so, over time. I haven't quite figured that part out yet, but I will and I think art will be involved somehow. For art must become much more present in my life. But, that's an entry for another day.

On that day, the first of July, the first of many thousand steps was taken toward the next evolution. By next July first (or FOURTH, happy Independence Day, ya'll) another happening of historic proportion can be added to a timeline. :-)

Peace.

Fourth Sunday in June

 So, here it is . . . and thus begins her email that effectively spells the end of US as a couple.

I wasn't blindsided, not totally. I felt it (or something akin) was brewing. There were signs. Prior to the email last week there were periods of silences, missed opportunities to get together, other changes to what had become our routine for weeks prior. Understandable. given her very busy schedule. But, still . . .  

Time.

Being compatible. Being companionable. Having fun. Enjoying one another on a variety of levels. Being happy. Beginning to fall . . .   None individually or collectively necessarily spell success in hammering out a relationship. There can be and certainly were in our case mitigating circumstances.

Time.

Though I felt it coming,  had time to prepare for the shoe to drop, the reality hit hard and rendered momentarily stunned and incredibly sad.  She made it clear she didn't come to this decision lightly, it wasn't something she relished doing. She'd hoped (as did I) for a different outcome. 


But now is simply (well, nothing simple about it) not the time. 


It has been a week and the time has quelled most of the emotions. There was no acrimony, no hard feelings. We remain in touch and connected through FB. I wish her the greatest of success in her business and life, as she does for me. I feel honored to have met her and grateful for the time we shared. I hope there is  an opportunity to chew the philosophical fat with her somewhere down the road for she truly is . . . well, in a word, awesome.   

Time.

Meanwhile however, I am single and while not in love with said state of affairs, the intent is to embrace my favorite season. Further, the intent is to mitigate the work stresses with more focused determination toward my passions.  There is a 5K in the not too distant future calling my name. I will likely walk the course but am not dismissing  the possibility of running. The knees will decide. I may even post more frequently, though no promises, as I explore further explorations. The intent is to continue, to adopt daughter's vernacular, "doing me" which is to say, looking out for my family, honoring and cultivating my friendships, and caring for my own well being the best way possible.

But first, breakfast (omelette, preferably spinach and feta but most any will do) and then, laundry. It is Sunday after all.

**and note to my very supportive friends (you know who you are) ya'll rock hard** love you ladies. :-)

Third Sunday In June

Another picture perfect Sunday, on the outside, the aftermath of much needed rain, barely visible.

Pictures are not always what the seem.

On this third Sunday in June, designated "Father's Day" I've spent barely a moment thinking about my dad and even less about their dad. My son, daughter, and I were all here together for a good part of this day and that, in and of, itself, is cause for celebration. We had a handful of meaningful conversations that led to a handful of revelations.


Catharsis, or catharses comes to mind. Each has spent part of this day ruminating over focus and dedication toward the next stages of their respective days, weeks, months, and quite possibly, years.

I've spent a considerable amount of time today in my own state of rumination as my own life has taken some turns and is about to turn again. For better or worse, time will tell. For this day, however, and the couple leading to it? far from the bike ride in the park of the most carefree of summer days.

My present may very well become my past but it could also become my future. I was shown a picture of myself today and though I disagreed with the accompanying hypothesis, I can relate to and respect the sentiment presented.  

I read this quote somewhere, don't recall where and didn't take note of the author, so forgive the lack of credit, "Let your past make you better, not bitter." I feel like that quote has been the cornerstone of my entire existence.

This third Sunday in June, this Father's Day, turned out to be grand mother of days, existentially speaking.

Second Sunday in June

Sun shining, temperature high, and humidity low, by most meteorological accounts a picture perfect day. In fact, by most all accounts, a picture perfect day.

That is, if it were a picture. If the day (beyond that which one has not control, like the weather) could be scripted or molded or otherwise fashioned to one's particular specifications it would have included much more than shining sun, high temperature and low humidity, a library run, a trip to the movies and a free bucket of popcorn by virtue of Classic Cinema Reward points accrued over a period of time.

Of course I don't mean to suggest that ALL that wasn't great. In fact, it was all pretty awesome. It just wasn't everything.

But that is okay. On this sun shining, high temperature, low humidity, trip to the movies,  and free popcorn day, it was enough. It was a, "make due with what is in the fridge" kind of day and some days that is okay. In fact, some days, that is golden.

While one's deepest desires are deferred with a 'make due with what is the fridge' scenario. The same scenario does sate the urgency of the hunger. On that second Sunday in June, I was full but not content; happy, but not ecstatic, smiling, but not laughing that full throat,, rising from the depths of your soul, kind of laugh.

Still, by most accounts, the second Sunday in June was a picture perfect day.

I'm ready for another, only better.
 

First Sunday in June

Younger brother (he's 50 and I'm 51 escalating toward 52) is getting married this first Sunday in June. The wedding (reportedly set for 1 PM) is his second.

I was informed on the impending nuptials last Sunday. But Mom, the informer, didn't know the time or the precise location of the ceremony. She'd prefaced the information by asking me to, "think about attending."

The additional details didn't arrive until Friday evening around seven, from the groom himself, "Hey, I'm calling to invite you to my wedding on Sunday, at one o'clock, in Aurora. We didn't have time to send out invitations and . . . . "

Long story short, I declined with no regrets.

Younger brother is a born again (and again, and again ad nauseam) christian, as well as an infantile,  narcissistic, know little know-it-all, user and abuser who has spent most his his adult life behind bars, a guest of the state. a drain on taxpayers.

But none of that directly caused me to decline his eleventh hour invite.

I declined primarily because my brother's events (first wedding, birthday parties, ordination into some kind of ministry, and holiday dinners) all have been notoriously and infamously late. Even on this past Mother's Day, we conspired to surprise our mother by appearing side-by-side to treat her to lunch and try to appear the happy family unit, he was two and a half hours late, with no apologies.

The other traits just add fuel to the furor that is our dynamic.

I realized last Sunday while Mom was trying to convince me to "support his decision" ill-conceived it may be, that while I like my younger brother well enough, and for our mother's sake, shoot for cordial whenever he and I speak or are together, I do not love him as she does. I cannot support him, as she does, unconditionally.

Still, I offered congratulations and best wishes. For despite the furor that is our dynamic,  I do wish him well, especially for the sake of all the children affected by his actions. At the end of the day, I do hope that my younger brother has, at long last, grown up and is thinking of others above himself. I hope that he has (or will soon) take the steps to "stay" his recovery, own his mistakes and work to ascend beyond them. I hope that he has stopped blaming everyone for his "crappy childhood" and using that as an excuse to be a total . . .

Anyway, while recent events and statements indicate none of the aforementioned hopes have come to fruition yet, HOPE is still the order of the day. And I do support my mother. And by so doing, affect some measure of support of my younger brother,  to a degree. I suppose.

That said, during our call on Friday I recognized that on this first Sunday in June navigating my own recovery from yet another horrid week would be best. I recognized that traipsing out to Aurora, sitting in some church waiting for a service that would have likely been at least an 1 1/2 hours late, suffering through all the "blessings of the lord" and forced cordiality with younger brother (and the stranger he will "take as his wife") was not going to be the ticket.

On this first Sunday in June I worked in the yard, helped my daughter grill meat, took a spin on my trusty Brin, ate some of the aforementioned grilled meat (and some tasty sides) watched some softball, drank a couple of beers, and de-cluttered my bedroom. All toward getting my mind and body prepped to take on the week ahead.

To wit, Happy June,  Happy "Season of Pride", and congratulations to Mr. and (the new) Mrs. Younger Brother. Perhaps  he will call the next time he's in (or on his way to) town. Perhaps we can share some cake to celebrate his union.

Seventy Two

My mother will be 72 on Saturday. Her assessment of me hasn't changed much in the nearly two years since I wrote "Skimming the Surface".  The biggest change to our relationship is my brother's return from prison. He, as always, permeates the family dynamic. Her call to thank me for the hand-crafted, personalized birthday card I sent, wound up being about him and his upcoming (reported--kinda like the boy who cried wolf) nuptials. Never-the-less, complicated or not, I wish my mother the happiest of days. 

  

SKIMMING THE SURFACE* 

My mother has decided that I’m complicated. Nothing I say or do can dissuade her from that assessment. In fact, everything I say or do, seems to serve to solidify the opinion she has come to in the past year or so since I came out to her.

She is either unable or unwilling to expound on that which renders me complicated. So, I can only speculate.

I suspect that the “complicated” tag transcends my sexuality.  I suspect that my mother is finally struggling to know who I am after all these years. I suspect that she has come to realize that our relationship for most of my life merely skimmed the surface of the who of us. That we never delved beyond the obvious or the mundane. I suspect she has come to believe that I do not espouse all her values. 

I suspect that said belief makes her extremely uneasy.

The eight years leading into and now the few out of my lesbian-flavored epiphany are all about discovery. I’d spent so many years prior hiding, suppressing, denying, and comporting myself to align ever-so-carefully with what I thought others wanted, that I cast barely a shadow of any authenticity. I walked the walk and talked the talk that everyone expected. Carefully coloring my life within the lines. In my mind, to do otherwise conscripted me to a lifetime of pain and suffering, in line with the messages delivered to me during my early years.

I suspect that she doesn’t believe me when I say, “I’m fine.” I suspect she believes our relationship is tenuous at best and non-existent at worst. I suspect that each time we disagree she believes it will be the last time we speak. I suspect she is afraid. She is afraid that I don’t love her (enough), that I don’t care (enough), that I don’t have (enough) in me to do what she’ll require as she loses more and more of her self-sufficiency. I suspect she doesn’t want that burden for me and me alone. I suspect she’s most afraid that we’ll run out of time, that we won’t be able to repair the mistakes of the past.

These years have been about discovery. I’ve discovered that I’m intensely fierce with my love.  I’ve discovered that my authenticity hasn’t and won’t bring the world to a crashing end. I’ve discovered that my mother is troubled. I’ve discovered it isn’t all about me. I’ve discovered that I can’t fix her; I can love, assist, and try to encourage her, to the best of my ability.  I’ve discovered that troubled or no, she is much stronger than she realizes. I’ve discovered that she supports me, complications and all.

She is either unable or unwilling to expound on that which renders me complicated. So, I can only speculate.

I suspect that the “complicated” tag transcends my sexuality and further that all the discoveries will ultimately lead to a happier, more fulfilled rest of each of our lives.

*As Published in Our Big Gayborhood 

minutiae

Paper everywhere. Not confetti-like pieces scattered about willy-nilly, but large newsprint sized sheets. Someone had placed these sheets in a serendipitous fashion; some clearly to soaking the results of past accidents while others lie in wait of accidents to come.  

Thus was the beginning of a dream, a story, that has since been long lost. Out of my head, my mind, my bones, just g-o-n-e. Blown away into the details of day-to-day.  And oh, has there been a mountain of day-to-day. 


minutiae 


Work has been and has felt much more like w-o-r-k I don't know how much longer we can go or more to the point, how much longer I should go . . . on and on. Decisions about, preparations for the possible next step(s).  


minutiae


The actor is in a play and has been busy, busy, and even more busy. He's come home with stories of the production, the cast, the import of the work. I have yet the see the show(s) (the play is actually two plays performed in rep) but will get my opportunity a week from Saturday and then again two weeks from Friday. I try to follow his example and ignore the reviews but I can't. 


minutiae


The daughter is working steadily at a job she seems to really like and as important, they really like her. She's continuing her education toward enhancing her skills and advancement possibilities at work and beyond. But the other side of the coin, the personal relationship? Not so winning. Here's to her heart syncing with her head toward allowing her to move away, onward from the current main squeeze. 


minutiae


And then there is the rest; mom, brother(s) dad, cousins, aunts, uncles and all the related day-to-day. Or rather, my thoughts and possible action and/or reaction to the various day-to-day. 


minutiae 


My personal relationship is moving right along. She and I are dancing metaphorically (though we do plan to dance, literally, at some point) doing the relationship foxtrot, feeling are way along to wherever, forev....well, we're moving right along. Bring on date night(s). 


minu...YUM


     

The Newest Normal

Having not dated since my break-up I'll admit to being woefully out of practice. Having not dated locally since . . . well, shit, since before my oldest (30) was even conceived, I'll admit to being just . . . whoa.

But now I'm dating. Not dating as in seeing a few people to see how they fit. No, I'm dating one woman and discovering how we fit.  The indeterminate "US" from a couple of posts (and few weeks) ago has grown into a definite relationship as so declared on FB.

A good fit, yes. A good match, again, yes. Still, dating . . .

Dating can be, is . . . challenging. Even when one is ripe to the idea of opening heart, mind, body, and life to another, for another, there are . . . logistics; schedules, finances, families, and jobs just to name a few. Then there is all the newness, the first times, the discoveries . . . all of which can be, is . . . fun, exciting. It is, can be . . . daunting.

It is very, very easy to become accustomed to having good time, to become conditioned to expect it every time out, to fall into a routine and then become soundly disappointed with the routine is broken even for a very good reason, a very worthy cause.

And in our brief stint dating we've had both, the good times and the disappointments. The good times however, have outdistanced the disappointments. And while we are determined to maintain that ratio, there are those challenges, those logistics.

Still . .  I am up for the challenge, the earlier "whoa" not-with-standing, for we are a good fit.

We are dating one another exclusively. And this is my newest normal.

Whoa.