One March On

Ruby Bridges is 62 years old. Fifty-seven years ago she was the first Black student to attend Franz Elementary school in New Orleans, LA after the federal government forced Louisiana to comply with the landmark, Brown vs. the Board of Education Supreme Court ruling leading to the desegregation of the nation's public school system.

For over a  year, she was the only student as all the white families pulled their kids out. The teachers refused to teacher to teach her, save one: Barbara Henry, a Boston native. Ms. Henry taught Ruby as though there were a room full of Rubys. 

♥  ♥ ♥ ♥

I mention it here because one: I will celebrate my 57th birthday in a few months. Two: Women's History. Black(s) in America history IS  AMERICAN
history. Three: I have been thinking about my school experiences as well as been in conversations with my son and daughter about experiences during their school years.
Four: Fifty-seven years ago Ruby was the first Black child to attend all-white Franz Elementary.

" . . . one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."    



#post 1,000.

March. Women.

The month of March is designated women's history month in the same vein as February is for black history. As my friend Elizabeth (who was HERE a couple of weeks ago-wheeeeee!!) noted, "you get two back-to-back." To which I replied, . . . well, I forget the words as there was wine and beer, talk and laugh, and very much glee. But the sentiment was, YaY.

So, the month the March is designated women's history month and for each day, I've noted some woman of note who has touched me in some way throughout my own history. To date they are:

March 1st:  "And while I don’t expect you to save the world I do think it’s not asking too much for you to love those with whom you sleep, share the happiness of those whom you call friend, engage those among you who are visionary and remove from your life those who offer you depression, despair and disrespect." - Nikki Giovanni

March 2nd: "Never be afraid to sit and think." ~ Lorraine Hansberry

March 3rd: Anna Julia Cooper  March 4th Jessie Little Doe Baird March 5th: Leslie I. Hill 

March 6th: Anna Devere Smith  March 7th: Julie Murphy March 8th: Kim Ransom 
March 8th was also International Women's Day!!

March 9th: Toni Stone March 10th: Aretha Franklin: March 11th Lisa Taylor 

March 12th: Eleanor Taylor Bland  March 13th: Althea Gibson March 14th: Juanita Moore  

March 15th: Mahalia Jackson March 16th: Dr. M. Joycelyn Elders March 17th: Veronica O. Davis

March 18th: Sylvia Woods  March 19th: Wanda Sykes March 20th Diahanne Carroll 

March 21st: Debbie Allen March 22nd: Grace F. Edwards March 23rd: Marian Anderson

The mention of these women in particular is not to slight any others. I laud them (us) all in whatever endeavor(s) they (we) pursue; for they (we) all are worthy of note. Every day of every month. Women. March.

In addition reveling in the stories of women, a visit from my dear friend Elizabeth which included a journey of downtown Chicago, parts of the IL leg of historic Route 66, and my (surprisingly VERY IRISH) heritage, the other minutes of the month have been about 1. getting a new job and getting acclimated to all that THAT entails. 2. tending to a cousin who is tending to a mother-in-law who had a stroke AND a husband who had a stroke and heart surgery. 3. tending to my daughter who had her heart broken and the stress that brings not to mention her work and school stresses. 4. working to focus myself on health (mind and body) and one stated goal: the ever elusive weight loss. 5.thinking about longer, warmer days and the return of bicycle riding season. Melody has been patient.

I'm still also working to complete the January Mandala journey. I did participate in the Women's Circle Traveling Journal, sending the journal on to the next link in the chain. I'll show the art produced for that in another post.

Yes, there is the last days of March to march through and I am happy for them. But, I am looking forward to April toward getting more involved with the new job, learning more terms and procedures. I am also looking forward to April toward focusing on A-R-T and hopefully, getting my cousin out of her house for some kind of recreation and down time. And of course, riding--rolling, rolling, rolling on.

Dream A Little Dream

She was in white; turban, tunic, and long-ish skirt. The sofa upon which I was laying was also white. Not leather, for which part of me was grateful . . . I think.

I don't know why the white or the turban, for that matter. I don't know why I was there laying upon the white (not leather) sofa with her hovering over me blinding me with her incredibly white teeth or why I only remember this part of the dream . . .

. . . (she) is my best friend from high school. She was also my first crush, my twice married, multiple child having, grandmother thrice over . . she was saying (over and over) that she thinks she'd like to "try" being with a woman and would I be "down" for that.

Blinding. White. Teeth (and turban, tunic, long-ish skirt--not to mention, sofa). Well, shit.

She went on to babble about taking time to work up the nerve to ask me here (after we hadn't spoken in years) to say these things to me . . . that I was attractive (enough) and "safe" since I had already come out as a lesbian. She didn't want to approach any other friend or worse, a stranger. . . she couldn't risk her husband (or kids or grandkids) finding out about . . . anything.

She was sure. She wasn't leaving her life. She didn't want to date. She just wanted . . .

a taste.

Before she was done with her spiel and before I could respond I found myself being hustled out the back door as her husband was charging into the front, through the rooms, into the kitchen. Rooted to my place on the porch I heard pieces of an argument, not related to our conversation . . . well, her monologue. The crack which sounded like a fist connecting with a jaw . . .

woke. me. up.

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.    





 

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.    

Babysit Mom

Opening email from the home unit means doing so in full view of whomever may be sitting in the living room. Depending on the day and time of day, that means in full view of the actor as the living room his room since he is temporarily in residence.

A few nights ago I opened a  message with the subject line: friends?

The body of the message was a photo of a voluptuous woman, dressed rather provocatively, sporting a tat on her right tit of a trio of roses. Beneath her photo was the query, "do you want to be friends?" I must have made some kind of noise for the actor looked up from his reading. His response was to merely shake his head and return to his reading.

The daughter chose the next few moments to come out of her room. The noise making must have still been going on for she decided to come see what was UP. After taking in the scene she shrieked, "what are you doing?" turning then to the actor, "Aren't you watching her? You're supposed to be watching her! You can't let her just . .    She doesn't know . . .  Why aren't you watching her?"

All I could do was shake my head. 

Just Some Thoughts

I'm trying, really, I am. Or not. But, I am, a little. The dating. On-Line. Yes, I'm trying. Still. Kinda. Sorta. Really, I don't want to date (I don't think) so much as to meet someone or a couple of someones to "hang out" with, after some time conversing, of course. But, I can't seem to get past the profiles. And pictures. Of dogs. No, not figuratively. I mean literally, pictures of dogs. As the profile pic. To meet . . . people. I think.


Anyhoo. . . . speaking of dogs, to be specific, hot dogs. I don't eat hot dogs all that often. But, now and again a good Chicago Style Dog is just the ticket. And since a new place opened in the neighborhood AND there was a coupon, well, no time like the present.

The new sandwich place (that of the arm waving man dressed like a hot dog) features beef, pork, turkey, and chicken products serves something called a Chicago Style Pretzel Dog. Which is just a hot dog with the classic toppings (tomatoes, onions, relish, mustard, sport peppers, celery salt, and pickles) on a pretzel roll (which takes it out of the Chicago Style realm, as that roll is poppy seed). Intriguing if you're in to that sort of thing, which I am, from time to time and the time was today.

Whatever hopes I had were dashed as soon as I discovered:
1. it wasn't a footlong hot dog sandwiched between all that bread, but two regular sized dogs fighting for space among the gigantic tomato wedges and other toppings.
2. it was slathered with mustard. Now, I like mustard on my dogs but there was GOMPERS of mustard on this thing!
3. the worst technical error in the history of hot dog serving technical errors. The damn dog(s) were C-O-L-D.

Now, I'll forgive that they don't seem to have a grill or a proper steamer (they should get out of the hot dog biz immediately if they don't intend to acquire one or the other, or BOTH) but to pull these limp tubes of meat product out of a vat of c-o-l-d water is just w-r-o-n-g! Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Unfortunately, I didn't know the water (& the dogs) were cold until I got home, taken off shoes, one of the two pairs of socks, pants, and 3 of the 4 top layers. So no, there was no going back out.

I did taste the sandwich I picked up for D (an Italian Beef--except with turkey) dipped, and topped with peppers and it was ok. I don't think I'll be replacing my fave Italian beef with this turkey version, but it wasn't bad. It was hot which was a major plus over the dogs.

The fries were good. Not great, but ok. And the toppings were fresh.

I have to give the new sandwich place a C for the first round. It may be awhile before round two (if they last that long). When or If, I definitely won't be ordering a hot dog.

Now, must go watch O*rah talk it out with B. Walt*rs.

Day One: It's About Cake

Well into and about to eke out of the first of the five day fiftieth birthday celebration I'm finding myself thinking, over and over, about cake.

I began day one of five going back to where it all started, mom's and she wasted no time talking about cake. In fact, this entire month many of our conversations led back to cake. She: what kind of cake do you like? Me: I Like ALL cake. She: ::raucous laughter:: ALL? CAKE? Me: Well, sure. I. Like. Cake. Sure, some are more favorite than others, but it there is cake, I'm there.

What is particularly funny (read: weird) about this conversation is that I don't recall any birthday of the previous 49 (ok, I have long forgotten the first . . . oh, 9 or so, but . . . ) that didn't prominently feature chocolate cake. Chocolate is my signature flavor. I wondered about her query and she replied, "I don't know what you like."

Me: Huh???

Mom and I talk every few days (the daily talks falling by the wayside) and see one another once a week (two, at the most) and short of perhaps knowing my preference for types of under-garments, whether it is brunettes, red-heads, or other that revs my motor, or if I prefer peanut butter over jam on my toast, she knows me. Or, should.

However, since coming out to her last Thanksgiving she's made this, "I don't know what you like" statement a few times. She's inquired as to my preferences over types of clothing, jewelry. skin products, beverages, and more. Partly, I see it as a function of aging (hers and mine) as her memory falters and tastes do change sometimes over time. But, partly too, I'm sure she is of the mind that if I could be gay and she not to have known this very fundamental thing about me, then she doesn't know anything.

I get that. But, gay or straight, I. Like. Cake.

Yesterday I got the surprise of all surprises when my newest recruit gifted me with the cake of all cakes, tirimasu (among other things, which will be addressed in another post). She and I were talking and as anyone who has had more than a 15-minute conversation with me may have discovered, talk came 'round to my mother.

I mentioned the cake conversations and that led to the admission that tirimasu was a favorite and dang it if newest recruit didn't bring one for me. And yes, of course I shared with the guys.

Her bringing me cake (and stuff?) WoWsome, that.

During my visit with mom today she handed me a receipt for the cake she'd ordered. I'm to pick it up tomorrow afternoon. It is a chocolate cake with yellow flowers, according to the receipt.

So, it appears day two of the five day fiftieth birthday celebration will have cake in the mix. Good thing I. Like. Cake.

Love of the Game

Chicago-land native Candace Parker rolled into town with the rest of the Sparks in tow to take on our Sky. The ladies played to a sell-out crowd (no, not me.) The Sky rallied from a 14-point deficit to tie the game at the end of regulation. The Sparks, minus C. Parker who had fouled out, won in OT 81-77.

Oh yes, I like the women. I love the women. However, I don’t have any co-workers who share a passion for the women’s game. The NBA follower co-worker smiles, nods and just pretends to understand. We do not discuss.

We don’t talk about how rookie Parker is leading the Sparks in scoring, rebounds and assists and is odds on favorite to score rookie of the year honors. We don’t talk about the other touted rookie, our very own Fowles, being out with a knee sprain suffered in the 3rd quarter of the battle with the Sparks. Or that Fowles ranks as her team’s third leading scorer but second in rebounds and first in blocked shots. Further, we don’t talk about how badly the 2007 champion Phoenix Mercury are struggling right now. How Cappie, Diana and Tangela have their work cut out for them but being up to the challenge.

We don’t talk about how with the addition of veterans Yolanda Griffith, Swin Cash and Sheryl Swoopes, the Seattle Storm are hoping for a return to the championship podium.

And of course we don’t talk about the Comets, Dream, Fever, Liberty, Lynx (who are hot right now, by the by), Monarchs, Mystics, Silver Stars, Shock or the Sun. And if we don’t talk about the WNBA, you know we aren’t talking about the NCAA women. Bring on the Madness!

Play on ladies. Seriously.

Define Sexy

One of the topics this month over at The Lesbian Lifestyle is Define Sexy. I think sexy is...

... strong, sculpted calf muscles that jump with amusement when warm hands wrap them in a gentle embrace. It is also higher up, the biceps that throb under the ministrations of soft succulent lips. Sexy is that sound she makes deep in her throat when she realizes you are awake. Moreover it is that sparkle in her eyes when she looks the question in your direction. Sexy is your reply that starts as a whisper and ends with a sigh.

Sexy is reading her suggestive text message with mother sitting across the table.

Sexy is the laughter shared in the early morning hours, the lovingly prepared meals, cheerfully crafted cards, tenderly worded letters and thoughtfully selected tokens of affection. It is the understanding her need to rest and knowing her need to talk. Sexy is caressing her when she needs to cry. Sexy is her knowing the same about you, doing the same for you.

Sexy is 365 or 366 as the case may be. Sexy is love. Sexy is together. Sexy is all I am with you and all you are with me. Sexy is life.

The Club

I kissed a girl
It nearly made me cry
Thinking ahead to the next time
Oh Me. Oh My.

I flew down to meet her
At first a bit tense
She stopped at a store
So we both could get some air

We hugged in the terminal
Talked a bit in the car
She asked what I'd like to do
I simply replied, 'please no bar.'

We get to her place
She has the scene all set
This feels like a dream
I am so glad we met.

I kissed a girl today
It nearly made me cry
We held each other really close
Oh Me. Oh My.

My Girl

We’ve know one another a long time, DB and me. We met in high school, home room, day one. Over the course of the next four years we laughed, cried and danced together. DB was older by a year, yet we were in the same class. That first year we had nearly every class together. Many the second. By the third year we’d begun to separate. She went the way of Business Sciences, I went to Art. Still, we hung out as much as possible.

She was not an only daughter like me, but she was the ‘go-to’ daughter whenever her family had a crisis, which, like mine, was often. DB liked to forget her troubles by going drinking and dancing. She liked to take me with her. I couldn’t go much, because I couldn’t get out of the house as often. Besides, I was very shy and didn’t like being around a lot of people. DB helped me with my shyness, she was extremely gregarious and fun-loving. Unlike my friend Vee, who was more like a big sister (before becoming un-requited love interest), DB was a pal, one of the first, one of the best. She took me to my first bar. I was 16. We met a couple of Kenyans who, we found out later, wanted to get married. We chatted, drank a couple of rum and cokes, went to the ladies room and didn’t return. DB liked one of the Kenyans. He was cute, she kept saying later.

DB lived on what I thought was the edge back then. She was a regular at a few bars, she dated older men, at least one of whom was married. I was visiting DB one Saturday. We’d spent most of the afternoon playing tennis and cards. She decided she wanted to go visit her boyfriend, who’d been ill. We took a bus to his house. Rang the bell, was invited into a living room, where we saw two women of different generations and three children. DB announced the purpose of her visit and was led down a hall to I presume a bedroom. She returned in pretty short order. We left. DB quick stepped to the corner, where she stopped and screamed, "shit!" As it happens, the younger of the women, was the boyfriend’s wife.

After high school, DB and I went our separate ways. We did stay in touch via cards and letters, through some college, marriages, children and divorces. We are still in touch, mostly via email, even though she lives and works in Chicago, we don’t see each other often. When we do get together, it’s like 1976 all over again. We laugh about the past times we had and the times we have with our respective children and families.

For all intents and purposes, DB is my best friend. She certainly is my oldest friend. Yet, I haven’t been able to tell her about this past year. The full some of my past years. I haven’t been able to say to my girl friend that I am attracted to women and that I am pro-actively seeking to date persons of the female persuasion, towards the hopes of finding a steady girlfriend, partner.

I’ve wanted to tell her, have tried to tell. Since a recent promotion, she’s been extremely busy and hasn’t been as responsive to my emails and invites to lunch. So, my news is tabled, for now. Recently, the news has begun to burn a whole in my throat and I am resisting the urge to hire a sky-writer to pen the message among the clouds.

I really should tell my mother before I do that, though, I’m thinking.

Was Talking To Me

We met, not face-to-face, but voice to voice. Immediately I was struck by how much she sounded like my paternal Aunt M. Long deceased Aunt M was scary, a ‘don’t you dare think about taking another cookie', scary. Green eyes sounded like my aunt, I tried to dismiss that notion and carry on with the conversation.

We talked about a little bit of nothing and everything. As I listened, I heard things that didn’t quite jibe with what she’d written in her profile and emails. I tried not to be critical, as this was somewhat expected. The inconsistencies were not so far off as to be alarming, but enough to notice. Maybe I was being critical.

The conversation continued, somewhat stilted, but smooth enough. As we were wrapping up, saying our good-byes, with tenuous plans to touch base after my trip, she tossed out a proposition of sorts...wondering if I would be open to meeting a few other women. Women she’s been talking with that don’t know about me, nor I presumed, that she was talking with all of us, the only common factor among the group of 4 or 5 women was we were all talking with green eyes. She thought it might take the pressure off if a group of us got together.

Green eyes said she hadn’t posed this idea to any of the others, wanted to know if I thought it was weird. I didn’t necessarily think it was weird, it was unexpected made even more so when she added that she was not looking for a girlfriend and she knew some of the others weren’t either, but some were. I'd been of the impression that she was looking for a girlfriend. The call ended with green eyes wishing me a good trip, me thinking about the proposition and getting back with her when I returned.

I did have a good trip. I did think about the proposition. I even asked for some advice. I called a few days after my return, left a ‘hi, I’m back, hope you are well, give me a call,’ message. A few days later, and no call, I emailed a similar message. She'd said she didn’t have immediate access to the Internet, so I didn’t expect to hear back right away. Several days later I checked the site, saw she’d opened the message and apparently had chosen not to reply.

Perhaps I reminded her of someone she’d rather not meet or she’d met the girlfriend she wasn’t seeking. Maybe it’s just as well I might not have been able to get over that Aunt M voice match.

You Talking to Me?

She has green eyes and short brownish red hair. Her smile is shy. Her gaze is whimsical. We've traded half a dozen or so emails. She's intrigued. I'm flattered and fascinated. She likes the zoo. I do too.

Some other similarities come to light. Some engaging banter ensues.

She suggests a meet. I agree, in principal but suggest that it might be too soon. She admits to some logistical and physical discomfort with emailing, but more than willing to continue, until such time that we are both comfortable enough to move forward. "Take your time, the ball's in your court."

Huh? Ball. Court. Is that a basketball or volleyball reference? Does it matter?

Eyes still a bit phlegmy, head addled by chicken soup and antihistamine seeming to affect my ability to properly process these events. This is exactly what I'm doing on those sites. Trying to meet women. And here is one, who wants to meet. Me.

She is not the first to suggest a meet. She is, however, the first to do so after some sort of playing field had been established. She says things like being intrigued by the images, the emotions evoked by intentional expression. To a woman like me that's some serious playing field.

The ball is in my court, she says. I'm betting it's a basketball reference. Further, I'm of the opinion that the sooner I get my eyes and head clear, step up to the line and take a freaking shot, the better. The fans are getting antsy.

Some good ladies have noted that week one is just around the corner. Suggestive, I presume, of new days.

And the ball is in my court.