Silence

The playback, empty of meaning, devoid of thought transmit the images of a long time gone, the facial hair, glasses, coffee breath and nicotine stained teeth. The photos logged into evidence serve to further cement those images.

She asks every day, since hearing the news, "has your dad called you back?"

Each time, the reply is no.

Mom speculates as to the reasons for the call, longingly lonely for his only daughter, regretting the choices of the past or dying. She questions why I’m not more curious, more insistent, more anxious, angry.

Despite the periods of cruelty, the missing hugs and endearments, the image of hope and expectations of reclamations crystalize anew with each passing day, each time the question is voiced.

"Has your dad called you back?" Again, the answer is no, again and again.

I’ve chosen to avoid thinking about why he called, more importantly, I’d rather not be reminded that he wasn’t calling back. The sounds of the silence have become soothing to the ear, a comfort to the mind. It’s the pungency of the images that threaten to decay the calm.

I must believe, accept that he won’t call back anytime soon.

"You don’t know, he might..." she continues to push for purity.

Mom please, stop.

The silence has become routine, golden.

Annual: Follow-up

Fighting the urge to procrastinate any longer, the appointments were made.

The annual trek to be assaulted by the weapon of mass compression, otherwise known as the mammogram, fills me with dread. I have yet to have an experience that didn’t include copious amounts of insensitivity, incompetence and pain, in spades. Until now.

Angela made this visit damn near pleasant. It still hurt, how could it not? But, the technician, "...please call me Angie", spoke to me in a way that suggested she knew what she was doing, understood and commiserated with the discomfort and thanked me for my patience while waiting for the film to develop.

Angie even got all the necessary views in one take. Go Angie!

Moving on...the next phase of the day’s events included a modicum of trepidation and a very full bladder. Patricia steered me into the exam / procedure room, dark except for the light emitting from the viewing monitor that would be used during the test. She asked if I’d ever had a gynecologic ultrasonography procedure. Negative. She went on to explain the procedure carefully, quietly and in great detail. She was extremely calming. Man, did I have to pee.

Patricia proceeded to press the probe or transducer into my belly area-watching the screen-snapping photos. This part of the exam is not painful, but uncomfortable, with the full bladder and all, but Patricia did her best to make it bearable. After about 35 minutes of the probing motions, Patricia, finally announced the end of part one-I get to go pee now. Whew, just in time.

The full gynecologic ultrasonography includes an internal probe as well. I’ll presume you can picture this for yourselves. The exam was pretty uneventful, with one exception, Patricia had some trouble locating my right ovary. What? "Are you sure you haven’t had any surgeries in this region?" Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure no one’s been rooting around in there. Patricia needed to call in Supervisor Yvletta. After about 10 minutes Supervisor Yvletta was able to coax the reticent organ out for her close-up. Yeah for Yvletta!

The friendliness of these practitioners caught me so guard it felt like being in an alternate universe. I thought, not for the first time, how accustomed one becomes to mediocrity and when faced with service delivered not only with a smile, but professionalism as well, it throws you for a loop.

These techs who had direct and intimate contact with my ta tas and hooha thought it important to introduce themselves to me. It seems so basic. Why doesn’t everyone do it?

W

This has been the longest week in the longest month of the longest year ever recorded in history. Ok, clearly, I’m exaggerating. It’s only limping towards the end of Thursday, though I feel like I’ve survived three Thursdays already this week.

Being sick is one culprit. You would think that with all the medication and the resulting coma like states that time and days would fly by-but oh no, they are plodding and trodding like the edict came down from some high place, for time to stand stock still. It’s still Thursday of a very long week and I’m still sick and I've been working, hard. Lovely.

One aspect of my job, the office, that I really enjoy is the autonomy. I have a boss and I do have to keep regular hours (M-F 8:30 a.m. until 5:00 p.m), but once there, my day is my day, for the most part. I wear many hats at the office and while everyone is aware of my responsibilities, no one knows day-to-day, what I do or how I get it done. The end result is all that counts.

Personally, I think this is a dangerous way to run a business, especially one as small as ours. I’m always after my boss to implement a cross-training program. He has, on a limited basis with the primary sales and customer service fellas, but my functions have been off-limits to everyone (including him-which really baffles me). Anyhow, the autonomy usually makes for a relatively stress free day. There are days when I’m busier than a beehive but the salvation is that I have control over much. My days can and often are driven by: phone calls, faxes, emails, nutty comments and anecdotes from co-workers and in-box bashing, but otherwise, I have control, yes I do.

The department-of-one does have drawbacks. The primary down-side is not having a back-up for my days off, planned or un-planned. For planned days off I must put in extra work to put things in order to minimize any surprises during the absences. My responsibilities cover so many vital areas of the day-to-day operations, scheduling days off around certain events becomes problematic. Hence, I haven’t had a real vacation yet this year. A day here, a couple of days there-nothing of any real substance, yet.

By the same token, being ill is well, like my kids coaches used to say, "not an option during the season". Our business and work flow is seasonal, generally. We are currently in our busiest season. For my position, it is compounded at month-end. I cannot be M.I.A. at the end of the month, any month. The three to four days leading up to the end of the month and the three to four days of the new month are busiest of the busy days for me.

So, I’ve been slogging through these days, slurping hot tea, sipping non-drowsy formula cold remedies and sucking enough Lemon Mint Sugar-Free Ricola TM to make me wish I, or someone I knew very very well, owned stock. At the end of the work day, I retire, crashing after taking the yes please, drowsy, cold remedy of choice.

Any wonder why the placard I saw adhered to a wall of a vacant building struck me instantly giddy? It read:

WICKED WOMEN WITH WARM WILD WONDER

I had to wipe some spiggle (that’s giggle spit for the un-initiated), I did. Then found myself spending countless walking minutes re-positioning the W’s; Wild Women With Wicked Warm Wonder or Warm Women With Wild Wicked Wonder or Warm Wicked Women With Wild Wonder

or just a bit more playfully, Wickedly Warm Women With Wonderful Wildness.

The letter W has been brought to you by Alka-Seltzer PlusTM

Rejection

Having ever so briefly emerged from the drug induced coma, I was driven to check emails. Now, I must dwell, ever so briefly, hopefully, on the fallout.

Getting theonlydaughter a date initiatives entailed, among other actions, spiriting a request to join an on-line group peopled by local lesbians, looking for connections, be it friendship or otherwise.

A couple of weeks have gone by and my mind swirls with questions. Did I send the email? Check.
Did I include the correct return email address? Check. Did I spell everything correctly? Check.

Why haven't I heard back? I don't know the make-up of the group, so I wonder-Am I too old or not old enough? Too ethnic or not ethnic enough? To what or not what enough? Could the leader or moderator tell any of that about me, based on the briefest of brief bio included in the email?

I finally get a reply. "Your request to join the CL group was not approved." Turns out the moderator of the group was too busy or just couldn't be bothered. If an application isn't approved in a given about of time, the request is automatically rejected. The automatic email included some ying yang about high quality of service, you may try again, dum ditty dum ditty dum dum dum.

I'm going back to bed.

Damn

So is the Internet contagious? Oh, I don’t mean contagious like addictive, I know the answer to that question. What I need to know is, if one visits oh, I don’t know, 4000 bloggers over the past 36 hours. And maybe 40% of them have posted about having just gotten over, currently suffering from or feel like they are about to come down with sniffles, headache, body aches, fever, coughing, sneezing and more. Is it possible to freaking catch what they got through the screen, keys, speakers or osmosis or something? Can you? HUH? Answer me, dammit!

Oh, never mind. I don’t need to know how I got my freaking cold. I just need a remedy and sleep.
Good Night. Oh, if I’m contagious-I am so so sorry.

Synopsis

It all started with a twitch. A teensy little crinkle of a nose. It sent shivers up and down my spine. And then, oh and then, she flew, on a broom. Baby, it was a wrap. I was in love with your friendly, suburban witch, or rather the actress who portrayed the fetching sorceress, Elizabeth Montgomery.

Oh my goodness.

From very early on, I remember feeling, wanted to feel, connected to women. It felt warm, safe and on a very primal level, right.

Contrarily, external messages and signals dictated otherwise. What was inside me wasn't at all right. What was a little girl to do?

Later, when I was old enough to form some thought on the matter, I surmised, or rather, rationalized that it had to do with not having a sister. Sandwiched between two boys who garnered more attention, more energy and more focus from our mom left me on the outside looking elsewhere for something, anything, connection. It wasn't for me to question why I felt safer seeking or in the company of females.

A social mis-fit from the beginning, I retreated to televison, music and books; living inside myself. Elizabeth Montgomery, Billie Jean King, Janis Joplin (post-humously) and more were responsible for hours of enjoyment and pleasure on many more levels than I was fully equipped or prepared to handle.

During my pre and early teen years, this exploration was not about sex, entirely. It had to do with admiration for the accomplishments of strong women. Strong, throaty, viable women spoke to me, enlightened me, warmed me. That, was indeed, primal.

Yet, even as I was becoming more aware of my real self which included my sexual self, I became even more reticent about showing those true colors. My family's dysfunction was only partly the cause. During the entire sum of my child and early adult-hood, I felt less than. Less than pretty, less than smart, less than human. The poverty and racial disharmony that permeated my existence, forced the formation of some rather tough and thick shells. Did I really need another struggle?

I continued to minister my admirations, quietly, secretly; coveting the comfort while concurrently seeking possible remedies for the maladies of my real life. It was becoming increasingly crystal that my secret self was for real but, as that was verboten, the treasured secret persona must remain buried.

Ultimately, I became a girl who had to be about wanting a boy. I let him find me. Following some ancient script, we married and pro-created, twice.

I threw all of my energies and fortitude into making this union and the family formed, a success. Nothing was or is more important to me than the health, safety and comfort the people we brought to the show. This job was my new real self. The other, not gone, just deciding to rest comfortably, companionably, seemingly in agreement-going with the flow.

The marriage failed. I was devastated.

I found myself with two teen-aged kids, a mountain of debt, still [other] family dysfunction and entirely new esteem issues to combat. I had neither the time or tools to fully address the anger, bitterness and guilt that surfaced, threatening to swallow me whole. The shrouded, deeply buried persona remained dutifully silent as the public, viewed as normal, capable, in charge, persona, stepped to the plate, swung and advanced the game.

After 21 years of virtual ful-fillment, but real-life emptiness, 17 years of a moderately happy, failed marriage, 8 years of single-dom and celibacy; the anger, bitterness and guilt have been addressed and have subsided.

Leaving, my here-to-fore, greatest joys and proudest moments-my 100% satisfaction guaranteed-progeny, YM and YL, my heart.

And my buried treasure.

The show shall go on.

Smoking

I was once married, to a guy, no less. He smoked. How and why I married him, in spite of his smoking (and more) is just one of the mysteries confounding the psyche. Yet, there I was married to a man who smoked.

Though the entire sum of my life had been in the company of smokers, I was steadfastly and resolutely in the non column once reaching maturity. So, how did I hook up with a smoker? Well, given the size of the pond the odds weren't in my favor. However, I could not continue to live with a smoker.

YM was a wee babe, very nearly a year old when the "Get Daddy to Stop Smoking" initiative was launched. Early on, daddy was all about the babe and generally protective of his progeny.

Out of a newly purchased pack of cigarettes, came two, the rest I threw away. Whenever YM and I were alone, I selected a moment to show him the cigarette. When I did this in a manner consistent to *lighting up* I simultaneously coughed uncontrollably. YM was encouraged to mimic my actions.

He got so good, I thought he might really be sick.

A few weeks later, no more smoking pop. Efforts to adjust other behaviors weren't so successful.

When I was very young only daughter, stuck in the middle, yearning to be accepted, I joined the brothers and cousins in a fam favorite, grown-up game. A bunch of little kids mimicking the *cool* adults and older teens in their world. Our cool adults liked card parties. They played cards, drank whiskey or beer, and smoked.

Everyone in my life, in the beginnings of my life, smoked. My mother who started when she was 15, was a grizzled veteran by the time she had me at twenty. I don't recall ever seeing my dad without a cigarette between his fingers, lips or stuck behind his ear. Each and every one of the aunts and uncles, from both sides, that I'd ever met, smoked-around the kids-around the clock.

Smoking was big in my world.

The kids bit down lollipops to use the sticks as props. If we were flush we would get some of those candy cigarettes. We sucked and puffed on the sticks and pretended to be cool, just like our parents and older cousins. Launched whenever we all got together, we played variations of the game for weeks.

My dad saw me, well noticed me pretending one of these times. He chose this day to decided he didn't like what he saw. After smacking me a few times, yelling, "So you want to smoke? I'll teach you about smoking!" He sat me down, stuck a cigar the size of Idaho between my lips, lit it and forced me to smoke it down, until I became too sick to even cry. I was seven.

I never knew why I was signaled out for this lesson. Later, I thought it was because I was a girl. Or he just didn't like me. Aside from our group whippings, my punishments always seemed more vigorous than any my brothers received. Or my brothers were tougher. Much later, I'd decided my dad was a kook-or high most of the time, he was in our presence.

Still, I don't smoke.

The initiative towards getting this only daughter a date has launched. Smokers (and men) need not apply.

Short and Sweet

Is there anything sweeter, than working an 8-hour shift, walking the 2 miles to the PTG, getting there on time and ahead of the bus you would have taken?

Yes! Stopping for White Chocolate Delectable Delicacies, from the Chicago Chocolate Company café, and getting it at a discount.

No, I didn’t stop for the treat, I’m on a diet, remember? But it was a sweet thought. Walking past the café is torture, but we must test ourselves, right?

Annual

Since tip toeing into the forties six years ago, annual physicals have turned into multi-visit affairs. Generally the marathon of visits are scheduled for early July through early August because this time tends to be the least hectic at the office. This year, however, having been faced with one conundrum after another due to the orchestrations of a Use and Sales Tax auditor from another planet, I couldn't get started until August. I had hoped to have all requisite visits and follow-ups done before the onset of our busiest season.

Before the forties, I didn't expend much energy thinking about my health. No need, really. I stayed relatively active due to chasing around two active young kids. I ate relatively healthful because I fed the two active kids healthful foods. Trips to the primary care doc, every two years, were no muss and no fuss.

Then came the forties and booming changes. I was now a single mom of teenagers, one about to start college, the other high school. I began working longer hours and partaking of fewer healthful meals. I had much less time and energy to get the necessary exercise to counter-balance the fewer healthful meals plus the slowing to a crawl metabolism. The stress I'd been working on packing away, deep, to the back of the closet, inside of the 25 year old bowling ball bag, decided to leak out and settle itself right out there on the rarely used dining room table. Concerns about blood pressure, cholesterol and more became vibrantly relevant.

Over these past few years, particularly the last 12 months, the concerns are being addressed through diet, exercise, slow, deep breaths and lessons in the judicious usage of polite, but firm refusals. Low-sodium, low-fat, and fresh food stuffs are the order for most days now. I work-out vigorously, regularly, if not daily. The judicious usage...a work in progress. Over-all, I'd give myself a B on the efforts.

I knew going in that the primary care doc visit would result in at least one referral, additional visit to a breast center for a mammogram. Much to my chagrin, she also issues two more for radiology for a knee x-ray and pelvic ultra-sound towards pin-pointing cause and treatment strategies for an increasingly achy right knee and tidal wave proportion monthly cycles.

Even after the efforts of the past year the blood pressure remains a serious concern. So serious I must take another pill, on top of the daily vitamins and mild pain relievers. I really do not enjoy taking pills.

So two, maybe three more visits to various technicians are on tap before going back to the primary care doc for assessment and any additional treatment, in a month. On the upside, the blood work is done and no more being left to the ministrations of not one, but two nurses who whined, while trying to find my very small, mobile veins. I hope.

In the meantime, the regimen continues. Achy knees and tidal wave monthlies aside, I'm feeling pretty well. Some days, like last week when this 46 year old mother of two in the twenties, got carded, pretty damn well.

Never-the-less, note this: crankiness level may change with out warning.

Orange

Knock, knock.
Who's there?
Orange.
Orange who?
Oran-gu-glad to see me?

Everywhere I looked, orange. Hats, shirts, blouses, shorts, shoes, thon..well, you get the idea. Hey, it's summer. Yellow, white, lime, orange; brighter, lighter, friendlier color combos are de-rigueur looks for the season. Generally, I tend to eschew the trend, as I am woefully without trend, but that's another story.

Orange, the color, reminds me of orange, the flavor. My brother, the older, developed quite an obsession for many things orange flavored. During one fateful summer, the frightfully uncheerful one had an experience with orange I'll never forget.

OB played baseball. During a good part of our childhood, we bounced around quite a bit. No matter where we were living during the spring and summer, he managed to get on a team. I think for a time, he was pretty good. I never actually saw him play.

In addition to playing ball, OB ran scams. He had more scams than Charles Ponzi. He was small time and it was mostly *chump change* but certainly enough to keep him in orange; Hi-C, popsicles, Freeze-pops, soda, all treats mom never bought, yet never questioned why there were in the house. My brother hoarded and lorded over these treats and consumed them all with gluttonous glee.

One game day, OB donned his uniform, hours before game time. We'd had one of our usual encounters, sending me to my room, wishing he would just leave already. He did eventually, leave, after ingesting, what I can only presume was four gallons of Hi-C, three orange popsicles, and at lease one Freeze-pop, judging by the trash he'd left in the kitchen. Knowing him, like I did, he likely had taken a Freeze-pop or two with him to the field.

After he left, I cleaned the kitchen and retired to the living room to watch television. About an hour later, I heard him run and then trip up the steps. He was yelling, cursing, crying, vomiting and more.

OB had orangery colored fluids emitting from seemingly every pore and orifice. He was one big orangery glob of soiled. He bounded the door, slammed into the bathroom and launched himself into the tub, snatching off uniform, socks, shoes and such all along the way.

Eventually, his stomach settled. Supremely unsettled long afterwards, he begged me to help him clean.

The uniform was never the same.

It took me a long, long time to even look at the color orange, let alone, eat or drink anything even mimicking orange.

Dad

My dad called today. I wasn't home. He left a rather cryptic message ending with mentioning he would call back later in the day. This was 12:16 p.m. When he hadn't called by 5:00, I called him, got their machine and left a message. Now, I wait...

Titivating delayed until further notice.

On the upside, I've been drowning the time with my new Paddle-Ball. Isn't she just gorgeous?

Pictures Worth Thousands

There aren't very many photos of me, anywhere, from anytime. I have a theory as to why this phenomenon has occurred, that, unfortunately I am not at liberty to share at this time. I do know that like most factoids of my contemporary life, it started at the beginning. For those of you who may have been wondering what I look like, I submit these: On top is original art by five year old YM. Produced in 1987 toward the end of his kindergarten tour. The caption above the picture reads: "I love my mom because she makes me silly. She tickles me." The other is original art by 4 and 1/2 year old YL toward the end of her pre-kindergarten tour. The caption here reads: "This is my mom and her necklace. Her likes earrings, but they are hard to make." Both, apparently, see me without my glasses or they too, were too hard to depict.

I am endeavoring to stay off the computer for the rest of this weekend, as I have much titivating on tap. Cheers.

More Ado About Nothing Much

This by way of SassyFemme by way of Courtney by way of...who comes up with this stuff? Many Memes that I come across, though interesting, have questions that I find honest or flippant replies problematic-this, though a bit long-seemed different, so I thought, what the heck!

1. How tall are you barefoot? 5' 6"
2. Have you ever been cheated on? Yes
3. Do you own a gun? No-not even toys (water & such)
4. What do you think of hot dogs? Probably the worst food on the planet-especially for us sodium conscious types-but a good all beef Vienna Jumbo frank loaded with fresh lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, hot peppers on a warmed poppy seed bun, can be hard to resist.
5. What's your favorite Christmas song? Deck the Halls
6. What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Coffee-hot with just a smidgen of skim milk.
7. Do you do push-ups? Yeah, the girly ones
8. Have you ever done ecstasy? NOPE
9. Do you like Disney World? Conceptually, I guess. Haven't been--not that into amusement parks
10.Do you like the rain? Anything that will keep me from having to haul out that hose-you betcha!
11.Do you own a knife? Well yes, for which to cut up my chickens n fish n stuff
12.What do you smell like? A woman who has showered with Aloe scented Ivory body wash-unless you are sniffing me right after a workout-in which case I smell slightly...different.
13.Do you have A.D.D.? No
14.Full initials? -sorry no can do-
15.Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment: I should have put the chicken on an hour ago.I should get clothes ready for work. How YM's audition went.
16. Name the last 3 things you have bought today: Lime flavored sparkling water, bananas, Coke
17. Name five drinks you regularly drink: Water (spring, sparkling, tap & flavored), coffee, skim milk, low sodium V8 and tea (usually green)
18. What time did you wake up today? 5:15 a.m.
19. Can you spell? Probably wouldn't win any BEES, but yes, I can spell. As it is a pet peeve, I double, triple check-I get very testy when I make a spelling and/or typing error.
20. Current worries? Will I feel safe, will it BE safe enough for our planned trip to Vegas in October. Will YM get the part he wants-soon? Will YL find someone to do her hair for under $200.00?
21. Current hate? Annoyed & frustrated with and over much, but no hate.
22. Favorite place to be? Home
23. Least favorite place to be? Anyplace that might put me at risk for falling in water.
24. Where do you want to go? Vegas, because I promised-otherwise, I could get with Taos, NM
25. Do you own slippers? Yes-but I really don't like them-must replace soon.
26. Where do you think you will be in 10 years? Talking a steam after my workout, asking myself my wife when YM and YL are going to stop their globetrotting, settle down and start families-for Eve's sake.
27. Do you burn or tan? I am special dark chocolate by nature's choice-No sunning on purpose.
28. Yellow or blue? Blue with yellow accents.
29. Would you give up your current life to be a pirate? Only if I didn't have to be on a ship and there was no marauding involved-so maybe that's a no.
30. Last time your cell rang? Uhm, this is really hard. I'm going to say...1999? No cell for awhile-need to bite the lime though and get re-connected.
31. What songs do you sing in the shower? "Natural Woman"
32. What did you fear was going to get you at night as a child? My dad
33. How much cash do you have on you? $5.00, oh wait, $4.50.
34. Last thing that made you laugh? YM's mimicry of Strother Martin's character in Cool Hand Luke
35. Best bed sheets you had as a child? -nothing special-
36. Worst injury you've ever had? Nasty infection spread over several fingers due to eczema outbreak & resultant scratching and pawing-ouch.
37. Where have you been out of the US? No where yet--traveled to Canada, vicariously through YM-working on my own travel points.
38. Who is your loudest friend? YL
39. Who is your most silent friend? Von
40. Does someone have a crush on you? Unbeknownst to me
41. Do you wish on stars? Absolutely, every bit helps.
42. What song did you last hear? Carly Simon's "Attitude Dancing"
43. What song do you want played at your funeral? NOT a funeral! A memorial? or better yet, a brunch-where Dianne Reeves' "You Bring Me Joy" and other uptempo tunes will reverberate.
44. What were you doing at 12:00 last night? Reading
45. First thought upon waking up this morning? Damn, YM beat me to the shower, again.

Nothing Much

It is 2:30 a.m. and the alarm is set for 5:15 so, by way of Gunfighter, by way of sf, by way of who knows. I'm playing because, hey its 2:30 a.m. Play or nay, entirely up to you.

1. Grab the nearest book of at least 123 pages.
2.Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence - if the book you grabbed has fewer than seven sentences on page 123-grab another.
4.Post the text of the next three sentences on your blog along with these instructions.
5. Don't you dare dig for that "cool" or "intellectual" book in your closet! I know you were thinking about it! Just pick up whatever is closest.

Ok, so I have three books currently in rotation, at my fingertips. One, a novel, I just started. The other two I've been in and out of, trying to gain some...well, the titles pretty much say it all.

"The Art of Detection" by Laurie R. King is the fifth installment of her Kate Martinelli series. She is probably more renown for her Mary Russell series, where I have yet to venture, for fear of falling head over time management, anxious to digest all eight in one swallow.

Text: "Sounds like the moon. I had an interesting talk with Mr. Nicholson." She told him about the manuscript, its apparent worth and importance.

"The Whole Lesbian Sex Book-A Passionate Guide for All of Us"

Text: "[N]ot unlike their heterosexual brothers and sisters, and gay brothers, the women met, fell in love and created a life together. Their work and family lives developed and demanded attention and energy, sometimes at the cost of quality intimate time together." Iasenza goes on to say that a "careful" reading of sex research "provides little evidence that lesbian sexuality is less active or less fulfilling than gay or heterosexual sex."

"Everything You Need to Know About Menopause-A Comprehensive Guide to Surviving-and Thriving-During This Turbulent Life Stage"

Text: "Women with a nutritious diet will get most of the nutrients that they need for long-term heart health, but herbs and supplements can provide some extra insurance. Studies have shown that women who take vitamin E supplements reduce their risk of heart attack by up to 41 percent. Vitamin E may help prevent heart disease in several ways.

I'm turning off the lights and trying to catch a few z's.

Do Attempt To Adjust The Set

My mind has been in swirling, swishing, swashing motion. I have lists upon lists of things to start, continue and complete. I’m wondering, more often than not, if the steps I’m taking, the moves I’m making will get me where I want to get.

I’m wondering, more often than not, if I even know where it is I want to get.

Goals, I thought, reasonable and reachable, seem further away with each step taken. I feel out of focus. Having taken the lead in so many areas, for so many people, for such a long time, has rendered me, spent.

My life has sputtered off track. The conductor has taken a break and the *back in five minutes* notice, insolently mocking, provides little assurance.

Some adjustment, apparently, is in order.

Workout News Blues

My gym is a nice and pleasant place, for a gym. I mean the purpose is to go, work up a sweat and get all hot and bothered, is it not? My workouts, during the week day lunch hours, generally consist of 30 to 40 minutes on the treadmill. I try other machines and equipment when I have more time, require more variety or when I workout in the evening. But, for lunch hour workouts, it's the treadmill.

The gym, I may have mentioned before, is a recently converted space formerly dedicated to basketball activities. In fact, there are still two full size courts surrounded by the rest of the gym, behind a mostly glass enclosure. Former and current NBA players and prospects have and continue to workout on the courts. The courts are also a popular destination for those not aspiring to be in the NBA.

All of the treadmills look out over the two basketball courts, so I am often treated to a view of the happenings on the hardwood during the 1:00 - 2:00 hour. The happenings, of late, are 10 guys (of the not aspiring variety) playing five-on-five, full court basketball.

These guys play shirts vs skins.

For the past week or so, it's been the same 10 guys and the teams have always been divided the same, the shirts are always shirts; skins always skins. Three of the skins provide a haven for a lot of hair. These three guys have more hair than all of the King Kongs combined. These three guys have A. Lot. Of. Hair. Covering the chests and backs, up over the neck and down through the knuckles. A. Lot. Of. Hair.

I'm considering asking the gym to install shades, turn my treadmill around or at the least adopt a not shirt - no service policy.

Oh, I guess I could just watch the TV mounted to the top of the treadmill, but don't even get me started on the afternoon TV fare -Maury, Jerry, Tyra, the soaps and the multitude of courts and judges- no, please do not get me started down that road!

Or, I could just close my eyes.

Help! Hardware

I visited the place with the helpful hardware persons recently. They weren't, but that was OK, I was still wet with wonder. I avoid hardware stores because I tend to get cosmic and orgasmic about the possibilities of it all. I have a similar reaction to arts and crafts stores, but it's more controlled because I'm a bit more in my element there. Hardware? Eventhough I don't know what half that stuff is, what it does or what one can do with it, I am cross-eyed with want.

I needed to get some caulking materials. YL was with me, I needed the ride and ballast. While pretending concentrating on looking for the aisle with the caulk stuffs, my eyes began to glaze, my head loll to and fro; YL, flabbergasted by my reactions, shook me into the now. "What is wrong with you? These aren't even clothes!"

"I hate shopping!" had been my mantra for years. What I've come to discover is that it's a specific kind of shopping that I find extremely distasteful. I cannot, without serious and creative inducement, shop for clothes, which is the polar opposite of my daughter. I find the places that house items to cover out bodies are some of the most frustrating places on the planet. Besides, building the perfect outfit doesn't provide me with anywhere near the same spark as does getting the materials that will allow the assembly of furniture, repairs and various household makeovers. The eruption caused by the prospect of getting my hands dirty with this stuff is off the scales.

We were leaving the neighborhood hardware place with ideas swelling and visions of acres of wares at discounted prices dancing in my head. I asked YL if she would take me to Menards (a Home Depot type outlet) in the next week or so. She looked at me like I'd sprouted wings, "I don't think I'm we're ready for that yet!"

Hmph.

A Moment of Your Time

Pajangle: Condition of waking up with your pajamas turned 180 degrees. For those of us who sleep alone, quite the phenomenon, worth pondering, long into the day. For the rest of you, way to go!

Have a delightful weekend.

Overwhelmed

1. Submerge beneath a huge mass. 2. Defeat completely; overpower 3. Have a strong emotional effect on. -courtesy of Oxford University Press

The concept of overwhelmed has been niggling around the edges for several weeks now. Four Three days a week at the PTG I ask candidates for various customer service positions the following: We've all had times when the responsibilities of our jobs are overwhelming. Please tell me about a time when you have been overwhelmed at work. How did you react?

Nine of ten respond with some variation of 'take a step back and / or take a deep breath.'

So, when overwhelmed, you breathe. Step, two, three, four and don't forget to breathe, so says the aerobics instructor.

Further probing is required of the recruiter, me, as I must decide, on the basis of responses to several questions, whether a candidate moves forward. The probe, designed to elicit some sense of what the candidate considers overwhelming and their coping mechanism in response to that situation, is worded thusly; Relate an overwhelming situation and please tell me, what specific steps you take to minimize or eliminate the stress.

Six of ten respond with eerily little variety; you know, what I do, basically, you know, is just, you know, do the best I can do, you know, to actually, you know, get it done. You know?

How underwhelming.

Candidates sometimes relate that they don't get overwhelmed, ever. I believe them, but I must still probe. Some people are put off by the terminology. Being overwhelmed is tough to admit, especially when definitions 1 and 2 are applied. My mom asked me several weeks ago, well, she didn't ask as much as accuse me of not being overwhelmed by the status of being a parent, particularly to adults. She admits, often and in living, breathing color, to being overwhelmed. I know that she uses as her benchmarks, submersion, complete (and utter) defeat and overpowering. She appreciates and resents my apparent calm. However, every stage of parenting has had a strong emotional effect on me. Not crippling, or defeated, but powerfully emotional. Now, I think, more than ever.

Mom and I have vastly different sensibilities.

Anyway, one more stab at getting the candidate to be more specific, or at least coherent. After hearing the probe again, most candidates let loose with a busted blimp whooshing quality sigh and then, 'you know, I just basically, go the extra mile to make sure the customer is always satisfied, actually, you know?

I ask, how they do that and if they could please give me a specific example to illustrate?

I get the telephonic equivalent of a blank stare.

Right, moving on.

And oh, by the way, the phrase 'going the extra mile' and the evil twin sister, 'above and beyond' should be stricken from the customer service representative lexicon. You know?

I am the mom.

I know this because:
1. The mailbox key is on my ring. (there is a spare for emergencies)
2. Bathroom linens usually wind up in my laundry basket to be washed.
3. I take out the garbage without being asked, ditto load dishwasher, ditto refill ice trays.
4. The mystery of the disappearing spoons pickles only my psyche.
5. I'm the first one up and the last one asleep, even before this perimenopause crap.

☐35-45 ☐Over

The candles extinguished, only crumbs remain of the double-chocolate, double layer circle of sweetness. The dust has settled on the weekend of celebratory events and it was fine. The first gift to myself, an entire weekend free of work; no schedules, reports or recruiting responsibilities. I even managed to snag seven full hours of sleep on Thursday night, signaling a mighty fine start to the Over celebrations..

The principles in my life, having different schedules and styles, each devised their own tribute to me this weekend.

On Friday, YL invited me to join her and co-workers, along with their chargees at KiddieLand. Hanging out with 3-5 year olds, some experiencing inner-tube, lazy river rides for the first time was more than worth the price of admission.

Later that evening I had a date to go dancing with YM. He took me to Chicago's Summer Dance event, featuring East Coast Swing dancing. We, along with many others, were taught some basic jitterbug steps by top instructors. We were then let loose to dance our happy feet away to the music of the Rhythm Rockets. After a sangria or two, it didn't even feel like 90 degrees in the shade. It was a blast.

I played tourist on Saturday. Mom treated me to lunch at a favorite spot, Lone Star and then a trip to Navy Pier. We saw throngs of people, a very large Ferris Wheel, cruise ships, speed boats, a lighthouse and fantastic views of the Chicago skyline. I don't normally have time for this kind of folly and haven't been to the pier in a few years. In spite of the crowds, it was peaceful.

Mom did have me running errands and had a chore of two for me beforehand, but that was to be expected, really. I tried to relax and let the day unfold; eventually, it did.

Sunday, my birthday, began predictably enough, with a phone call from mom at 6:30 a.m. (she'd forgotten I was not working this day) with a Happy Birthday wish, several questions about facts and figures not yet in evidence (mom has a 20 questions approach to conversation) and further wishes for a good day. I tried in vain to go back to sleep.

Ah well, up now and with the household asleep, I prepared and ate a leisurely breakfast, took a couple of loads to the laundry-mat, returned home and took a nap. YM was up and about when I woke and while preparing to go on another audition, told me funny stories about his Saturday night. YL arose and we made plans to go out for a meal and a movie. I had Chicken Piccata, it was divine. We saw, The Devil Wears Prada, finally, it ws a gem.

Much later, we all had cake (and ice cream for me) a cocktail or two and then it was done. It's official, one more Over is added to the check-list. The 46th birthday is booked. Now it's back to work, to diet, back to routines, recollections and expectations.

Someday Baby

Music has been a part of my existence from my very earliest recollections. Both mom and dad liked to dance, not always with each other, not to the same tune, but dance they did. My mom was up to her eyebrows in Motown hits. She had probably four trillion 45's. The Temptations, Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, Supremes, Four Tops, and Martha and the Vandellas, the more up-tempo of their offerings, being among her favorites.

She loved ballads as well. These she didn’t play as much, (except for Smokey’s.) I got the impression that these were for private moments. By the time I was old enough to notice, mom and dad were pretty much done with these kind of private moments. They fought in private, or at least tried to fight in private.

One ballad kicked Smokey and the others off the spindle. Someday Baby came out and life as we knew it changed. "Someday baby, you’re going to want to hold me." is the only lyric I remember. I don’t remember who recorded it, my search, fruitless, given the limited information I have. I only think the title was Someday Baby, I could be wrong. The two facts I know about this song; it wasn’t on the Motown label and my mom loved it with a passion she didn’t feel for much of anything else during this time.

She played this record until it warped. She bought another and she warped it as well. She bought a third.

She and dad had separated, her favorite brother, R was dying and she was fighting to hold it all together for her kids. As it happens, this song was one Uncle R’s favorites as well. She tried to see him every day when he was in the hospital. She would return from the hospital and play the record long into the night.

"Someday baby, you’re going to want to hold me."

After Uncle R died and mom stopped playing records for a time. Several days after his funeral, she went to the player and there it was, "Someday baby, you’re going to want to hold me." She couldn’t stand to look at it, let along play, she threw it away.

A few days later, she went back to the record player and there it was, "Someday baby, you’re going to want to hold me." She screamed at us, "WHO! Put this record back here!" We all denied touching the record. She screamed some more, while throwing the record away, this time breaking it in half and taking it directly to the can in the alley.

Some days later mom went to put on some records and there it was, "Someday baby, you’re going to want to hold me." After whipping us pretty soundly, she took the record outside and melted it down.

Mom didn’t go near the record player for several weeks. She and dad were fighting by proxy through their respective sisters. Talk was we were going to have to move from our apartment. She was growing more and more despondent and weak. Mom got pneumonia, got fired from her job and we did indeed prepare to move. While packing up the records, there it was, "Someday baby, you’re going to want to hold me." She cried for a very long time.

The record was left in the apartment we vacated and it hasn’t been seen or heard, since.

Whenever I think of this series of incidents, I’m reminded of Dorothy’s Lion.

Variety

Meat and potatoes, bread and butter, milk and cookies; my kitchen, more often than not, is just the basics. Nuts and bolts, plain and simple is the order of most days.

An occasional desire for variety, verve and oompah drives me to visit Gourmet 47.

Impressed by the extensive variety of exotic fruits and veggies, nuts and berries, sweets and spirits, I wander the aisles, mesmerized, hoping that some, one, of these delectable edibles will spark some inspiration to deliver magic.

Filling my head and basket with hopes and possibilities, I all but stumble upon Tequila Shots.

Morsels of verve. Tubes of oompah. Mission accomplished .

1-800-D-E-N-T-

Ouch! Could you please get your knee off of my chest?
Now, imagine this plain and simple plea emitting from a mouth stuffed full of cotton, fingers, implements and numbed to some degree by one, two, no, three shots of Novocain.

It came out more like, OKDJFLJFLAKJJFKLDFJDKFJJT?

Thus, was one adventure to a dentist. This particular sadist was attempting to extract a wisdom tooth and I do believe part of my tongue, what was left of my gums while caving in my chest wall. Had my tonsils still been in position, I would have feared their safety.

This trip to the dentist was some 12 or 13 yeas ago. What I remember most, beyond the hours, yes, hours in the chair, excruciating pain, the knee to the chest and my horror at the ineptitude of this practitioner, what I remember most, is that this disaster caused me to miss my daughter's softball game where she hit the cycle. I remember so vividly because she guilt trips, ahem, reminds me every three or so years.

It was yet another trip to yet another dentist that had me missing a soccer game where she scored a hat trick. Try as I might to work my dentistry around her sporting events..

Needless-to-say, going to the dentist does fill me with a smidgen of dread. While there are no more sporting events to conflict with appointments, there is, you know, life. Besides, I just don't like the dentist.

Last week, I appear in the office of the most recent dental practitioner to have graced my roster of practitioners. I have had and dropped a few. Some because of chunky, clumsy fingers, (and before you jump all over me for the chunky, clumsy remark-I have chunky fingers too-but I'm not sticking them in people's mouths trying to fix stuff) some because the office staff is rude, the dentist is rude, the office is too cold, they move the office to where might as well be Siberia, or the dentists' breath is just ...Well, enough said.

This newest guy seemed ok. And oh, by the way, is it just here or is there glaring absence of women in dentistry? Anyway, the new guy, I've been to the office a few times and those appointments went pretty much according to plan. The office, in an older classic building, is convenient to my office. The one negative about the building is the older, creaking elevator. Riding to the tenth floor is an adventure which makes going to the dentist seem like a picnic-which, now that I think about it, might be a point. The staff is friendly and professional. The dentist, good-looking, if you like that sort of candy, took care to pop a mint before invading my facial space. So, all things considered, maybe I've found MY dentist, at last.

Well, last week I had an appointment for 1:00 p.m. I'd decided before-hand to take the afternoon off and made arrangements to have an early dinner with a dear but distant friend. I leave work at noon and walk the 13 or 14 blocks, arriving in the office suite at 12:45 even after the interminable wait for and ride in the elevator. I check in, after a brief wait, get ushered into a room, a chair and an apron. I then sit and watch the neighboring rooftop, a paint by numbers landscape and whatever daytime soap was currently playing on the television. I sat, rotating my head from focal point to focal point, willing myself not to nap, for the next hour and a half.

I am not a screamer. So, no screaming, but seething, yes, most definitely seething. I remove the apron, bid adieu to the neighboring rooftop, the paint by numbers landscape and the daytime soap. I exit the office, telling the receptionist to not bother sending me a reminder for the next appointment. Her "but the dentist will by right with you" was being drowned out by the clang, clang, clanging of the antiquated elevator.

Shit. The search begins, anew.

Fiftieth Post: The 100 (Too Much, Too Late?)

Ah well.
1. I'm a list maker.
2. Ergo, a list I must make.
3. I am a mother of two, a son and a daughter.
4. I once thought two sons would be best.
5. I'm glad it didn't turn out that way.
6. Don't get it twisted, a lot of the years (especially teens) were surreal.
7. The mom muscles were stretched to New Mexico and back, many times over.
8. Still flexing as needed.
9. Hard work and luck brought us to where we are today.
10. Truth is fundamental.
11. I believe we owe it to our children to be as honest as their age allows.
12. I also believe in doses of whimsy and fantasy.
13. I am nosy, usually and especially where son and daughter are concerned.
14. I am a daughter.
14. This is my hardest job, yet.
15. I am a sister.
16. I don't even know if I know what it means to be their sister.
17. I read, always.
18. I read for work, for growth, for fun.
20. I read for LIFE.
21. I wear glasses.
22. I like wearing glasses, NO contacts for me.
23. And if you don't get that laser out of my face, there will be trouble.
24. I fall asleep, (when I sleep) with my glasses on, often.
25. Not being able to see frightens me.
26. Heights, sometimes not even so great, make me wobbly.
27. Not a fan of water (deep, lake or ocean variety) either.
28. OK for gazing upon not for cavorting within.
29. I like writing letters.
30. Well, writing, period.
31. I like to draw and paint.
32. Hooking rugs and other crafty arts took up time in my space too.
33. I was once an art major.
34. I haven't tweaked those tendencies in some time.
35. This will change.
36. I used to play piano.
37. I will again.
38. I like plants and flowers.
39. But, please, for the love of Lucy, keep those images off my clothes.
40. Love is fundamental.
41. I have blissfully romantic notions.
42. My marriage was not a casualty of my sexuality.
43. It was over long before certain realizations surfaced.
44. And became real.
45. Real love has been a stranger to me.
46. When we meet...Ah sweet.
47. Movies I like very much.
48. Movie theaters, not so.
49. I like live theatre, especially when my son is on stage. (surprise)
50. I can be silly.
51. Most who know me, don't know that.
52. I struggle against being defined or typed. My landscape is not like any other.
53. I despise labels and the resulting assumptions.
54. Free form, freedom is fundamental.
55. Ooh, big ball sports, bring it on!
56. Soccer, women, so much more than men.
57. Abby Wambach rules the pitch.
58. Volleyball, Gym not beach.
59. Women, not men.
60. Basketball, college not pro.
61. See 59.
62. Some small ball, yes?
63. Tennis, softball, baseball too.
64. And what is winter without football?
65. I don't have a cell phone anymore.
66. I will have to get a cell phone, again. Aarrgghh.
67. Acronyms and other shortcuts, irritating they may be, are a necessary functionary sign of the times. :( wtf ?
68. I do not smoke.
69. I have never voluntarily smoked.
70. I have been a victim.
71. Multiple crimes, multiple times.
72. Most were perpetrated by a family member.
73. Honor is fundamental.
74. Music is a healing force.
75. The force takes me across many boundaries, into many worlds.
76. Contrary to this current display, I do not like talking about myself.
77. Forging new relationships is tough for me.
78. I am genuinely, though, less painfully, shy.
79. I tend not to scream.
80. I can be a control enthusiast.
81. Saying f-u-c-k makes my stomach queasy.
82. But is does fly from my mind and mouth, from time to tome.
83. I hardly write it, though.
84. When I was younger, I wanted to be a boy.
85. And in no particular order, a journalist.
86. An impressionist.
87. A musician.
88. A photographer.
89. An athlete and more.
90. Dreams are fundamental.
91. Years ago, I was hit by a truck.
92. No broken bones, but I was sore for a l o n g time afterward.
93. As a full-time pedestrian and bicyclist, I am an even more considerate motorist.
94. I used to dance like no one was watching.
95. I need to do that more.
96. I accept who I was. I like her, finally.
97. Deep, slow, sweet kisses are fundamental.
98. Hugs are as necessary as air.
99. Learning is fundamental.
100. The journey continues.

two dollars and forty cents

Small change, two-dollars and forty cents; miniscule, minute even. What it represents is tantamount to that place freezing over. Well, no, not really, but come on, a fine? Levied against me? For not one, but two overdue library books? Yeah, that's what happens when you don't give them back, on time.

Shit. I feel like such a deadbeat. I don't remember ever missing a due date because I wasn't finished with the book. What? Three weeks, hell six (because I did renew one, once) not enough time to finish a book? This has been happening more frequently of late. The struggle to complete tasks, even things that I want, or like doing. I've been losing focus. I. can. not. concentrate.

Something has got to give.

I can't pin-point the exact moment it started. It may have emerged sometime last year. The insomnia started last year, shortly after my forty-fifth birthday. I've gotten fairly accustomed to operating on about four hours of sleep. Physically, I feel pretty well. The concentration, or rather, lack thereof, is most likely a by-product of the little sleep syndrome.

The doctor advises; no caffeine after noon, done. No exercise at night, done. Take a warm bath, done. I've tried warm milk, herbal teas, wine, whiskey and song, you know soft music. Nope. Nothing has worked.

I'm not having dreams either. Considering how little sleep I'm getting, not dreaming might be good, but still, I miss my dreams. I drew more and with greater ease and fluidity, when I dreamt.

While discussing this with myself the other day (yeah, I am the only one who really listens to me about me) it occurred to me that my mind is both wired and weary. The wired continuing to overpower the weary until weary gives in and wired takes charge. The net result is hours of wakefulness for this woman. So, how to trick wired into assuming the weary position?

I don't know. But, I am going to take another step. I'm altering the PTG schedule. I'm going to cut out three work hours, which if you factor in commuting is really five hours.

F I V E H O U R S ! To have five hours more a week to sit unencumbered by phones, interviewees, commuters or late evening revelers would mean more time to give weary a fighting chance, possibly even a leg up on wired. Maybe, giving weary time to transform into a restful being.

Then, maybe I can take a nap, get up refreshed and finish a book or something.

Brown to Green Thumb

The total sum of my knowledge of all things green, yellow, red and all the other pretty colors of a garden wouldn't fill a thimble. I have, with some hits and misses nurtured a very small variety of house plants over the years, but until two years ago never had opportunity to venture outside tackle mother earth head-on, so to speak.

I am the polar opposite of outdoorsy. I've never been camping. I've been party to only a handful of forest preserve picnics. I've spent a good part of my life in a concrete jungle where the only thing growing was despair. After moving to the suburbs, I began to see another world and new interests emerge. I still lived in apartments where the grounds were maintained by professionals, yet, the idea of one day having my own outdoor garden was planted.

So, it didn't come as a complete and total surprise when I assumed the role of Plant Master Flash of our dis-associated condo association. Having sparked an interest in growing things and deciding that my body had grown enough, well this seemed a perfect solution.

A previous owner, bless her soil encrusted fingers, got the ball rolling with an end of season clearance purchase about three years ago. She too, apparently, harbored a desire to rid the front yard of the wayward weeds overdosed on steroids persona it wore from the years of neglect. She bought a heapa stuff with roots and green things. She enlisted the aid of a friend or two and they spent a weekend digging and planting. The final result was a bit over reaching and a bit haphazard, but I applauded the efforts.

Sadly, she sold her unit and moved away shortly after this burst of botanic inspiration. As winter was approaching, I waited to see what the spring would bring.

Ahh, spring. And look! Tulips, daffodils and some other stuff I can't call by name. There were shrubs and two small trees, one budding and one not. There was some ground cover along with a lot of unruly grass masquerading as weeds, oh wait, it was all weedy. Here I go. I'd spent many hours over the winter looking at catalogs, ordering all manner of plant life. I got out there and raked, dug, cleared a path and planted, looking to all the world like I knew what I was doing. Not. A. Clue. Yet, onward I pressed.

The buncha stuff I bought (note: buncha less than heapa--I didn't have heapa money, truth be told I didn't have buncha money either, but what the hell) now firmly implanted waiting for me to will it to yard beautiful. Like with the house plants, there were some hits and some misses. Mostly due to my impulsiveness and poor planning. One other thing I didn't consider was what a valuable asset in would be to have a spigot in the front of the building. Watering will be much less taxing if I didn't have to stretch 9000 feet of hose around the back of the building, down the length of the building, (through an alley) across the Continental Divide, I mean, the front. (note to self: get lazy board to put spigot on list of things to do and then get them to do it.)

Two years into project yard some progress has been made. We are still the not so proud (well, me anyway) owners of a raggedy plot of land. However, with the adjustments to attitude, visits to local conservatories and advice from professional and amateur gardeners, it won't be, forever. Gardens are not built in a day, or even 730. I must be patient, diligent and tolerant.

It would be nice if any of the other owners would help, but even if they don't, this is for me. I will conquer this plot. It will be mine, mine A L L M I N.., well, you know it will be pretty.

Hey You ! ?

Estimable presidential candidate, Elizabeth asks, "Are You Your Name? I think so, but...

Most of my early life, I was know as something other than my given name, Deborah. I was well into my twenties before I know of the biblical connotations. This realization didn't change anything, it was merely an interesting aside. My given name spawned my very first nickname, Debbie.

The middle name, rarely uttered, was in use briefly, during my early artistic years. I don't give voice to this name because the temptation to cannibalize the two into the obvious incarnation might lead to a rather ugly incident.

Per family lore, Mom wanted to name me Clementine and oddly enough it was my dad who lobbied against that moniker. How would life unfolded for me as Clementine? We will never know.

A relative gifted my mom and by extension, me with a designer creation. Similar to Pam and Penny's dress, my frock was brown and white with a bib front and full skirt. Stitched along the hem, Buttons, buttons, whose got the buttons? Oh yeah, there were a hella buttons. Go on, guess who became Buttons for a time?

Rumor has it that as an infant I was quiet. Even as a toddler I was to the far right of gregarious. The remedy for bringing me out of the well-polished shell was Head Start. Well, shell firmly in place even after the Head Start stint, prompted by dad to color me, Gabby. Get it?

As I age, Button waned. Gabby disappeared with dad. Christmas was born of my tendency to finish lunch (well, all meals really) long after everyone else. This name fades as well. Debbie survives through childhood, into high school and a little bit beyond.

Seven trillion Debbies later, I decide during my second year in college, that it is time for Deborah to come home. Family and close friends cling to Debbie for some time afterward but eventually, most came around. Debbie still dribbles from the lips of some who knew me before 1977 and of course I'm treated to *Debbie* whenever some stranger, business or other casual acquaintance decides that Deborah is just not cute or friendly enough.

YM invented the most recent nickname. Solidly Deborah by this time, YM, just learning to speak, proudly and quite loudly, christened me Bubba. Eventually, mom, ma and many variations on the theme made appearances over the years. Bubba remains a sentimental favorite.

In October YL will celebrate her 21st birthday. She blackmailed, ahem, asked me to take her to Vegas. As I have agreed, she submits that I need an alias or two to maximize the experience. Not trusting me to manufacture my own faux persona, she has appointed herself Chief of Pseudonyms. As chief she gets first (and last) refusal of any possible candidates. The first possible, Holly Pennylips is being seriously considered.

Real or pseudo, I've been these and more. Above all else, though, I am simply, Deborah. The name may change but the role remains the same.

The Time Has (Almost) Come

He was waiting for me. He tried not to look like he was waiting, but he was. I know because he started talking as soon as I sat down. Anecdotes about last night's adventures in the blues club he frequents, contact made with potential new (day) job employer, news on the auditions front and oh, hey, by the way, "I think I found my neighborhood." Ding. Ding. Ding. He went on describing the stats; crime rate (virtually non-existent), demographics (extremely diverse), flavor (artistic / actor friendly community), and rents (reasonable). YM is going to move. Not today, mind you, but soon enough.

YM graduated from college two months ago and since then has been quite the busy actor. He secured himself an agent, researched photographers and locations for his next set of head shots, has gone on at least a dozen auditions and actively pursue a new (day) job that pays more that the current one; bringing the moving out day even closer. He is literally buzzing with excitement. I share his enthusiasm, really, I do, but I can't help but feel a little bit sad, a little bit nervous and a little bit lost.

When he was a youngster I read to him often from Marvin K. Mooney, Will You Please Go Now! over and over again. YM got the biggest kick trying to figure out why Marvin the imp was being asked to leave everywhere, in every way possible. Will you please go now! became a running joke between us for years.

I know, it is time. YM is ready for and needs to take this step. I'm grateful for having had him this close, for this long. I am comforted by the foundation we've formed. I'm confident we can sustain, even expand our relationship. Besides, his trusty little neighborhood guide book reports that the neighborhood he proposes to move into boasts a bustling lesbian population. Dinner at YM's, an idea whose time has come.

Still, I can't help but feel just a little bit like asking my Marvin K. Mooney to stay.

Hungry

Three people got on the crowded train car this morning, talking amicably with one another about, whatever. I don't really know what they were talking about, I was really trying to concentrate on my book. which is getting harder and harder to do these days. Anyway, the subject turned to food. My ears immediately perked. I wasn't really trying to listen. I really couldn't avoid hearing, they were standing directly over me.

It seems that their workplace is going to have some kind of banquet. Apparently, the location and the menu has not yet been decided. Each party had suggestion. I heard burgers, Italian beefs and it got somewhat noisy so I could really hear the connecting phrases. I don;t know if there were any preferences one way or the other until, one of the three, said, "I'm not trying to have no ham hocks in my egg rolls."

Once my internal guffaws ( at the image of these huge hunks of fatty *meat* wrapped in an egg roll ) subsided, I thought about food and the kind of food that appeals to me.

The traditional soul food fare is not really my choice; ham hocks make me gag. Much of the food stuffs I'd grown up eating, I don't eat much now, unless, my mother or one of her sisters does the cooking. I think my favorite food is Italian. I say, think because Mexican is really up there too. I like to go out for both. I've tried to prepare a few dishes, they came out ok, but... practice continues. Lasagna and spinach enchiladas make my mouth water.

Some vestiges of childhood remain, though. Chicken is still a staple. We prepare chicken in some form at least once a week Later in life health concerns, however, limits fried to once a month. And as boneless, skinless chicken breasts rest in my freezer often, grilled or baked chicken ala anything is usually on the menu.

And speaking of chicken, I want to know who in the hell came up with the Famous Bowl. Are you familiar with the KFC Famous Bowl? A bowl of mashed potatoes, topped with gravy, topped with battered chicken turds, topped with corn kernels, topped with cheese. Yuck, Yuck and more yuck, talk about gagging. If I wasn't boycotting KFC I would be in there asking them to take that hideous poster down.

Just? A Friend

I have a buddy. She and I have known each other for twenty-seven years. We were co-workers. I was a new hire and she was one of the veterans assigned to show me around. We didn't work in the same department until I got promoted a few times, over a few years.

She was accounts payable and I was (eventually) accounts receivable/credit & collections. We both reported to the controller (and what a piece of work he was--another time.) Prior to my assignment to accounting office services we were just elevator and break room buddies. 'Hey, howya doin' kind of buddies.

During the years that we worked virtually, side-by-side, we shared confidences. She knew of my crumbling marriage, mom, brother(s) and kid(s) issues. I knew of her cheating boyfriend who had at least two outside children (one of whom she ultimately adopted,) her mom and brother issues.

The company was sold and the new owner re-organized. She was one of about 60 to be laid off. She and her mother sold their house, bought a new house in a small town very much south of Chicago. She went to work in a doctor's office and she, her mother, daughter and (I guess) no longer cheating boyfriend, settled in to enjoy the slower pace of the smaller town.

In the beginning we kept in touch with letters (me,) emails and cards. Time passed and it became e-cards and a few emails. The emails were fewer and farther between and the e-cards stopped. Then the forwards began. Chain letters, electronic blessings, *funny* stories, pictures, inspirational and patriotic messages; any and all matter of junky noise.

Out of some sense of camaraderie and in honor of what we once meant to each other; I opened, read and forwarded as instructed. At some point I stopped the forwarding. Then, I stopped opening. Now, I'm deleting on sight. I'm a few beats away from coding her address as spam.

We haven't *spoken* since her mom died two years ago, just days before my buddy's birthday. In the interim, I sent cards, letters and 'hey, howya doin emails.' What I get back is the chain; forward this to ten people and receive a blessing, or open this for funny pics, or some other junky noise missive.

I have a buddy that I thought was a friend.

On the other hand, I got an actual letter, written on paper, in ink, from another former co-worker who told a funny story about her thirteen year old, almost six foot tall, son, Moses. She seems to always get a letter to me around my birthday. Whenever it arrives, it never fails to amuse and uplift.

See ya, I've got a letter to write.

Zero to Ready

The right arm had no fewer than eight gold bracelets of various widths and styles. A similar look adorned the left arm, except in silver. The right hand found a home for five gold rings, again of various styles and sizes. The left hand mirrored the right, again, in silver.

The earrings and necklaces were gold; three in each of ear and four nestled against the neck. I was momentarily blinded by the teller's glow. I wondered how she could concentrate with all that jingling and jangling. I found myself trying not to think about what might have been around her ankles or egad, her toes.

Does she bedeck herself like this every morning or does she go to bed with all this hardware? If she accessorizes like this every morning, with the hair and make-up, which from the looks of them were quite labor intensive, how long does it take her to get out the door?

I'm a simple woman when it comes to accessories and other daily grooming needs. Not many styles of earrings are compatible with the telephone receiver and headset that are part of my days. I generally rotate four or five pair, but only one at a time. One simple chain goes around my neck and no more than three rings amongst the ten digits. My jewelry choices these days are usually silver, that is, when I remember to don them.

I don't wear make-up and since cutting my hair very short a few weeks ago, a risk brushing is all that I need to do to shape it for the morning. My clothing generally consists of a shirt or blouse with slacks and a jacket or sweater, even in summer. I'm all about simplicity and comfort.

If I stay away from ESPN or the morning news talking heads, I can go from zero to ready in just under 40 minutes, including the shower.

What about you?

YB ( Younger Brother )

During his freedom stint that last time, he and his wife bought a house, He started an auto detailing business. He talked his wife into quitting her job to come into the business and help him run office functions, full-time. Without her income and other benefits, clothing and feeding their two daughters and one son, maintain the house and business became too much for him and the business alone to sustain. Over extended, stressed and panicked, he fell on old behavior. He got sticky fingers. Breaking and Entering being his favorite method of obtaining viable goods to sell.

An user and abuser of drugs off and on this entire adult life; he needed to feed this hunger as well. Five years after his parole that time, he was arrested again. He was found asleep in traffic, in the car he had stolen. The car was full of items taken from a house he broke and entered. He made a deal, pled out and got 12 years. He was paroled after serving six.

YB has been out since March. He's busy rebuilding his life, reinserting himself into the lives of his family. His stepdaughter had two children while he was inside. His daughter starting learning how to play the clarinet and has had several recitals while he was inside. His son was busy being an active, playful, funny little boy while he was inside. Life went on without him, while he was inside.

At 44 years old and three prison stints, my younger brother wants exactly what he wanted when he was 16. He wants to be a gazillionaire. He wants it hard and he wants it fast. At 44 he is still impatient, immature, impetuous and susceptible to implosion.

Today he wants to distribute supplies to auto detailing shops in and around Chicago and surrounding suburbs. He would like eventually to open his own auto dealership. He has various research projects that he needs help conducting. Having been both victimized and betrayed by him many, many times before, I'm reluctant, yet...

He is his mom's baby boy, father to my only nieces and nephew and as persistent as a blood-thirsty mosquito. So for his kids, for his mom, for our family, I try to be positive. I try to be supportive. I will try to help.

I'll try to keep from getting stung.

Flipped Out

It's not personal, it's business. Business casual is the dress code at both work places. The office, oddly enough is a bit more laid back, likely due to being less corporate, strictly mail order and the rarity of client visits. The PTG is much more corporate, with clients and potential clients visiting often. Business casual is, or at least, reportedly, stridently enforced.

In case any of the staff are confused about what constitutes business casual it is spelled out in the employee manual and oft repeated in the weekly newsletters. To wit; slacks, modest skirts/dresses, shirts/blouses with collars and closed, non-athletic style shoes. The more specific no-no list includes but is not limited to, tee shirts, especially those with messages or images, athletic clothing and shoes, tank and halter tops, jeans, shorts, sandals and flip flops.

Much of the staff, apparently, not only need clarification but to be beaten about the head with the message; gym, club and beach clothes not acceptable office attire.

I work nights and weekends and as such, expect the atmosphere to be a bit less rigid than regular business hours, thus, I am not surprised to see a tee shirt or two, sweatpants, athletic shoes and such. I was not and will not ever be prepared for flip flops.

There is no place for flip flops in the workplace, unless the workplace is a beach or some similar venue. The exposure of one's bare feet in the office is just wrong. Besides being a displeasing sight, the sound of that slap of rubber against the sole of the foot when people are flip flopping their way to and fro is annoying and distracting.

Plus, most flip flops are ugly as are many of the feet they pretend to house. And dangerous. Yes, dangerous. Ask YL how many times I've stepped on her when the flop didn't flip when her foot did. That fraction of a second that the *shoe* is on the ground while the heel of the foot is aloft, is all a reforming klutz like me needs to send both parties stumbling.

I don't have anything against flip flops or feet. It's not personal, it's business casual and it's the code.

G is for...

I call them the G's. G for girl, G for grand. G for Gail and Gayle.

Both are six years older than I and bother are middle girls. My cousin Gayle, from my father's side of the family, has an older and younger brother. My cousin Gail, from my mother's side has three older and three younger brothers. Gail also has a younger sister.

Gayle made me pancakes, let me hang out with her when she was getting ready for a date or when she out with her friends. Gayle was one of the first of either family to allow that maybe, being a girl wasn't such a bad thing afterall.

Gail re-instilled fun in my life. When my family had to move in with hers after my parents separated, she took me under her wing. Even more that her sister, who was closer to my age, Gail included and enveloped me. She introduced me to music that was beyond that of Black radio. She listened and talked to me. She took me places. A bond was created during seven months of 1969 that continues to vibrate.

Several years ago I had an opportunity to attend a family reunion hosted by my father's family. Gayle was there with her kids. I hadn't seen her in many years, as she and her family had moved from the area when I was in my teens. It was like time had stood still, except it hadn't. Our kids got to know each other a bit and it was grand. She said how great it was to see me and my kids, I returned the sentiment. Gayle was the one of the few members of my father's family who seemed genuine each time we were together.

Gayle died from complications due to lupus shortly after this reunion. Memories of the moments we shared those few occasions we were together are cached like the most valuable of treasures.

Through her abusive first marriage, child births (& rearing) divorce and her mother's death, my other Gail cousin never failed to offer her support. She was especially present during the most tumultuous years, as she provided a safe haven to which I escaped every chance I got during those later teen years. Gail presents a picture of strength and independence. The spirit of which I draw upon daily.

The G's never met each other. Sad, as I think we all would have been great, great friends.

Good? Yeah it's all good, Morning

What gets you up in the morning? The alarm, dogs, cats (or other pets,) garbage trucks rumbling by, birds chirping in nearby trees or feeders, wind chimes, kids, lover, the call of nature, the call of the wild, a bad dream, a good dream, the smell of bacon, or coffee, applause, (applause?) The sun shining through the windows or rain pounding on the roof?

Is it the will? The will to start a new day. The will to succumb to the dream that this will be your day The day you find your true love. The day you get to say to your loves, you love them, again. The day that is not yesterday and gives your yet, more hope for tomorrow.

Is is the wanting? To start learning that second language, start that building project, to make that reservation to see your Aunt Betty in Maryland, registering in that on-line course, to see the sun and to hear that song you heard for the first time yesterday and simply and instantly fell in love.

Is is the need? To work, play, parent, mentor, read, write, draw, sculpt, love and be loved. Live.

Or, is it just the ringing phone, again.

Auntie & Me

Hugging, kissing, cheek pinching, hair tousling and chin chucking all while smiling, happy faces commend you on doing that which you have absolutely no control, growing.

How many times have you gone to family functions as a kid and gotten *the treatment* and how many times, as an adult, have you committed these acts yourself? It's probably not as prevalent today, what with the explosion of the internet, family blogging, emailing of photos and videos; families are much more connected these days, as least that is the perception. But still, I bet, somewhere, this weekend, as families gather to celebrate, a kid is being hugged, kissed, pinched tousled and chucked, all the while being informed as to how tall they've gotten.

My mother's family had a different little wrinkle in this ritualistic greeting where I was concerned. My aunts and uncles all greeted me with the prerequisite hugs, kisses and so on...but also with, "You look just like my dead sister, Geneva. Did you know that?"

Now, what in the hell was I supposed to do with this little bit of intel?

Did I know that? Well, I've been hearing this statement from each one of my 7 aunts and uncles and my mom ever since I can remember. I generally just accept the *compliment* with a smile and a nod.

I did begin to wonder though, did looking like my mother's dead sister Geneva (yes, she was always referred to as: dead sister Geneva) mean that I looked dead? Cute? Substantial? Inconsequential? I presumed it was a compliment, but was it really? Did it matter?

I also began to wonder about Aunt Geneva; who she was, how she died. I've never seen a photo of her..I don't know if any exists. She was an adult, married with kids, when she died, which was long before I was even born. I didn't meet her children until I was an adult. In fact, I met her grand-daughter before I met her daughter.

I worked up the courage to ask about Aunt Geneva when I was about 13 or so. I got nothing. No one ever talks about her...except to say how much I look like her, which I do take as a compliment, since it is always said with a smile and a nod.