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.
 

d is for . . .

In the many days since the previous post several topics, reasons to write presented themselves as possibly post-worthy. And then they were not, in fact, posted for they couldn't in all honesty post themselves. I would have to play blog post conduit and for one reason or another, I couldn't.

d is for December

And then there we were at year-end and if there is ever a topic ready-made for posting it is the looking back, looking ahead noise that permeates the end of one year and the beginning of another.  Memories take over, take control as does sense of resolve about the coming days, all 365 of 'em in one fell swoop. Oh wait, 2012 is a leap year, make that 366 days.
d is for dog
That post didn't write nor post itself either. Because as in previous days and prior posts not posted, I couldn't play blog post conduit, what with the trip to Houston, making room for the tree, preparations for the holiday meal, a short trip to Hoosier-ville, not to mention outside the home obligations, writing and posting (beyond that about making room for the tree) didn't work in the mix of things to say and do.
d is for Diva
And then here we are at the second day of the new year and finally a post is winding its way out of the ends of my fingers, off the tendrils of my mind. And this post is not at all about year ending, new year beginning or any resolve to be resolute*. This post is about the diva, our dog, Diamond.
Our sweet little fuzz face has been lethargic, losing weight, drinking beyond what you'd believe her body could hold and then of course, the body not holding it. A visit to the vet and a battery of tests reveal the underlying cause:

d is for diabetes
The news hit the other D rather hard. Her concern for the pup as well as her concern for caring for the pup (financially and otherwise) all causing, as one might expect, an overflow of emotions. The news hit this D rather hard too for the same reasons added to my concern for my daughter.
That was all several days ago and since then Diamond has been treated as an out-patient with fluids and d-daughter has administered several insulin injections, the vet tech training as well as sustaining relationships with a former co-worker (a vet M) playing vital roles is emotions calming and focusing on doing what we can to care for Diamond and care for one another.
D-dog has a bit more pep in her ten year old doggy steps and a bit more light in her eyes. She won't be well in that she won't be rid of diabetes but her condition can be treated and will be to the best of our ability. She won't be well but she is better today than she was in those days leading up to this day.
d is for Diamond our Diva, our ♥.  

*as coined by ef

   

Through The Years

Shoes to fasten, hands to hold. A fierce little girl who was rarely quiet, quite often bold. A fierce little girl who was rarely quiet, quite often bold.

Arms and heart wide open truth be told.

Has become a young woman, lo and behold!

My darling daughter celebrated birthday number twenty-five, October 11th. And while this hasn't been a stellar year for her (us) she (we) are forging on. As some wise person said, "every difficulty is opportunity is disguise." Cheers and here's to the next twenty-five.

In addition to being HER special day, October 11th is also National Coming Out day and as she was my first tell, the day is doubly special for me, us. She is a great supporter and enthusiastic cheerleader. I love her for that and so much more.

Celebrate Good Times, Come On!

Day Three: D Day

Meet Daphne. Daphne fluttered around one of the surprises of the season last weekend while I worked in the yard. She hung around long enough for me to drop my tools, trek upstairs, grab the camera and snap her portrait. She's an honored visitor and I am glad she took the time to feast upon my work in progress.






On to day three of the 5 days celebrating my fiftieth year. This is D day as it is the actual date of my birth fifty years ago. Per my certificate (once again, note to self, get that thing laminated or something) I was born at 11:50 AM. I am the second of what tapped out at three, the middle and only daughter.

This day began with a hug, kiss, and happy birthday wish from my D before she left for her half-workday, as we have a lunch date for later. No work day for me so the rest of the morning progressed rather peacefully. A light breakfast and some email exchanges wrapped around a mostly quiet, contemplative time. And oh yeah, there was also Project Runway re-runs from . . . I don't even know which season, or cycle, or what da what. Not quite sure what held me captive . . .

D and I lunched at Carnivale. I've been wanting to give Carnivale a go since it opened a few years ago. I don't usually go to new (new to me) places for celebratory type outings, but I decided this time to adjust my playbook. I'm so thrilled I did. We arrived toward the end of lunch service, so it wasn't hustle-bustle. The food was great and the company, well, you know.




The outing (or the chocolate martini before and mojito during ) tuckered me out and I slept for a bit.




Now I'm awake gearing up for more celebration tomorrow. Mom and I have plans for a movie and a meal in big city. The current plan is to see "The Kids Are All Right" after some back and forth over who the heck is "that Jolie, do you know her?" And then, some rest.




In the meantime however, some cake, ice cream, and chocolate martini taste tests.

Spinning

It could be because there is too much coffee in my system as I've just realized that I've downed 1/2 a pot, 6 cups (only half, because I only made 1/2 a pot). It could be because in addition to the 1/2 pot of coffee there was also the two slices of peanut butter toast not to mention the carrot cupcake topped with butter cream icing. It could be all that. But, it could also be this: That little girl in pink with the one finger thrust in the air, posing for the camera, is my little girl. We were celebrating that day the event of her very first birthday. On that day in October it was all about balloons, cake, ice cream, and fun...for her. Today, as we celebrate the event of her 24th birthday it is still about balloons (well, one anyway ::smirk::) cake, ice cream (in the cake ) and for fun her, but it is also about our evolution as mother and daughter, as women. It is also about who we have become individually and as a unit. It is also about how relate and are related.

To say that I love my daughter (or she me) is only the beginning. There are so many layers to who we are as women today, October 11, 2009.

In addition to being my daughter's 24th birthday, it is also National Coming Out Day and as part of that celebration and commemoration, I joined a movement that utilized the automatic fb status update device. The status update:

Deborah Xxxxx is a lesbian. It is National Coming Out Day and I pledge to have heartfelt conversations for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender equality.

The status ran for a few days leading up to and then of course, including today. My daughter took a few moments out of her celebratory week to comment on my status:

Danielle Xxxxx U GO GIRL!!! I LOVE AND RESPECT U!!!!! YAY
Yesterday at 8:49pm

Like I said yesterday, my story is evolving and I am beyond overjoyed that my daughter plays an active role in that evolution. My head, it spins.

Happy, happy, joy, joy to my girl, daughter, and friend.

Four-Hundred and Sixty

My twenty-three year old daughter, as you may know, lives with me. We are the best of friends, mostly and the arrangement is agreeable, mostly.

Being here together and being women we tend to share some things. My socks, my sweats, my cash, come immediately to mind. We don’t, however, share shoes because her feet are bigger and she wouldn’t want my shoes because she hates my shoes, mostly.

Which leads me to the point, which is, what we don’t share generally, is taste in clothing or rather, style. Granted, our age difference is 25 years and we probably shouldn’t be interested in the same style of clothing, and believe me, we’re not, but what I’m talking about goes beyond that.

And while she prefers mall shopping, I’m a catalog (electronic mostly), mail order kind of gal.

Still, periodically clothing catalogs arrive addressed to her. Most are addressed to me and some are simply addressed to our shared first initial and our shared last name. Usually, it is crystal clear as to which {D} would be more interested in the contents of a particular clothing catalog. The division between what (and from whom) we buy is pretty definitive.

Sometimes, however you can’t tell by the cover.

Last week’s mail yielded a few catalogs. All but one addressed specifically and directly to one or the other of us. THE one, company unknown, product line borderline, was claimed by the younger D with her saying, “there’s cute girl-y stuff in there, this isn’t for you, you don’t do cute.”

Huff. (sorta)

She continued, “well, you don’t! You got that butch thing goin’ on. Hey, that works for you.”

I countered with, “butch can be cute.” And she said, “yeah, but not girl-y cute.”

She’s a cutie, that daughter of mine.

Predictable

Fade In:
The apartment isn’t shut down for the night yet at just a shade beyond 10 p.m. The alarm is armed but the computer is still up and a lamp continues to burn. Stretched out on the bed/sofa, sipping on daughter’s version of a Pena Colada, waiting for Neta to call, I tune in Logo’s sanitized version of QAF.

Then I'm out.

The next conscious moment comes at 2:30 a.m. I’m not sure what woke me, probably the thumpa thumpa of the QAF re-run being broadcast at that time. I do a walk-thru, making sure all is well, use the bathroom and shut down the computer. I realize I’d not spoken to Neta, so I call.

Neta: Hey baby, what are you doing up?
Me: Not up, really. I slept and something woke me up.
Neta: Well, by the time it slowed down enough for me to call you, it was late and I didn’t want to wake you.
Me: Yeah, I know. I figured. I just wanted to call to say hey. And I love you, and goodnight.
Neta: Goodnight baby. I’ll call you in the morning.

I settle down to sleep a bit more. It won’t come, at least not until nearly 4 and even then it was fitful. The remnants of a dream niggled at my edges.

Neta, D and I were in a house. Not the condo, not Neta’s house. It was some other place. For some reason I’m up very early re-decorating. I’m moving a narrow baker’s rack type shelving full of pots and pans. For some reason I don’t remove the pans. I carry the laden shelving to some type of pantry without dropping a thing. Miraculous, I’m thinking, when my attention is diverted to a hole in a wall. The hole looks like an opening for the beginnings of a small window.
Curious, I look through. I see a lump. Suddenly the lump begins to lumber toward the opening, toward me. I don’t shriek until the lumbering lump takes a leap. I see that it is a HUGE striped tabby. I mean HUGE. Huge, but not like a real cat. This cat was a cartoon-y, puppet-like cat. The fur was felt. The eyes like buttons. But it was HUGE. And it moved. Slow and then fast. Only the head fit through the opening I realized after I’d backed into the shelving, crashing all the pots and pans. Neta appeared at the doorway to the pantry with a WHAT THE FUCK look on her face.

I got up, showered and such, fixed a cup of coffee, ate a watermelon slice and got dressed. D got up shortly after and when she was ready, we left.

D nearly spit out her iced coffee when I told her the dream on our way to the train.

Poli - Tick

Judging by her excitement one would think that this was my daughter's first opportunity to vote in a presidential election. It isn't. She got her first taste in 2004, Bush vs. Kery. D understood the import of the occasion as it wasn't her very first election. That came in 2003 when she got to vote for some local officials. However, as I recall she was pretty ho-hum about the whole thing.

There isn't much as exciting as the presidential race, politically speaking that is, especially in our little town where the hottest issues of late were to light (or not) the football stadium or to open up a shopping district street to car traffic, taking away yet another pedestrian paradise of benches and greenery.

This time daughter is feeling it. D is aflutter with excitement. She cast her vote on Super Tuesday with joy and pride. She is bursting to do so again in November. D is making no bones about who she is supporting. So much so she couldn't wait to show Diamond dog her new toy.* Hillary, sporting her "I'm with Stupid" tee shirt, packing her "It Takes a Village to do my hair" manual and BILL collar (attached to a short leash), is no match for sharp little doggie teeth. I predict Hill's stuffing will be all over the dining room rug in no time flat.

D tosses Hills into the air with extreme glee exhorting Diamond girl to "get her!"

*for the record Diamond dog has Bush & Governator Ahnold too. They weren't as well received initially, but with the addition of Hills, they are being re-evaluated in a way that only she can.

P is for..

D and I called one another at least once a day while I was away. Just checking in, we talked about the weather, the pets and my mom, usually. Thursday, the third of January was different. She called shortly after getting off work, as usual. I gave her my usual greeting, “hey D, how ya’ doin’?”
She stopped me cold with…”mom, don’t panic.”

Well, I didn't, much. D was in an auto accident. While she was able to settle me some,convince me that she was fine physically and would be emotionally in fairly short order, it took a bit of time for my heart rate to return to normal. Neta came home to lunch that day to a less than serene Deborah. But, “no, baby, I don’t need to go home, she’s fine” I assured.

The rest of the visit progressed without further (troubling) incident. D and I continued check in with one another daily. I returned home to a daughter frantically trying to adjust to the fact that she will have to take a public transpo train to work for the foreseeable future.

My daughter is not quite the veteran I am when it comes to public transportation. "Sweety, it will be fine, try to relax, stay alert and allow yourself plenty of time."

I didn't mention the P word once.

Raise Your Hand If You're Done

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

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

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

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

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

It is an event. Really. Alert the media.

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

I must shop on our visit to the mall.

This could get ugly. Truly.

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

All in A Day

Depending on the day and the activities encountered, Dani can go through, at minimum 3 pairs of shoes. She can go longer than three weeks without a repeat the last time I tried to count. Of late, she seems partial to Reebok, but there is fair representation by Nike, adidas, Sketchers and Vans.

Yes, Dani does shoes. Shoes of many shapes, colors and styles. Beyond the athletic and the casual, there are also the dress and the boots. High heels and flats in fairly equal measure. Her closet and under-bed storage are straining from the weight of all the shoes. So full is her closet, that the shoes (and more) have started invading other closets and common areas of our unit.

When I was a kid, I had a pair for school, a pair for play and a pair for church. Quite often the school and church pair would masquerade for one another. Sometimes, they would be one in the same.

This ethic followed me into my adulthood. Sometimes out of habit, sometimes not.

Eventually I learned to embrace shopping, even learned to opt for the madness that is shopping. I learned to shop for new shoes, to elect buying shoes out of want more than need.

The thing is by then, I had a daughter, who loved shoes.