Tennessee

We met in December, barely. Barely, in that it was very nearly January, 12/30 to be exact. Barely, in that after a couple hours, following a couple of months or perusing profiles, floating hello balloons, drafting and sending actual emails, few hits and many misses, I'd very nearly given up meeting anyone who might fit or at least anyone good for a few laughs, some good times.

Then..I saw her profile. I took in the photos, studied the text and thought, hmmm interesting. We are the same age. We like many of the same things. We have some differences that might make for energetic encounters. She is in another state. Some cause for concern, though, not an insurmountable obstacle, it's not that far. Her profiles states, no 'break the ice HIs, only real emails!' Well! I click to place her profile in the hot list to save, giving myself time to think about the email, the real email that would be sent later.

Little did I know that we was checking me out, checking her out. She'd seen that I had looked at her profile and decided to write, as it happens her email arrived in my IN box box while I was composing my email to her. I fired off my email, which now instead of being an introduction, was a reply. She replied right back. She expressed some concern about the physical distance between us, but would love to 'talk' with me. I seemed fun, she wrote and so different from every one else she'd encountered for months. I replied with similar sentiments.

For the next several days we emailed each other multiple times a day. She noted how exciting it was to get up in the mornings and 'see me in her box'. I tittered at her terminology, or more accurately, my connotation of her terminology. We shared mostly silly, non-essential factoids and stories about one another and our lives. Falling immediately into an easy camaraderie. At some point we moved the communication thread from the meeting site to our own personal email addresses.

The multiple daily emails continued for many more days. Soon we began chatting via Google chat. Soon, that hours of chats became known around my apartment as my 'dates' with one of the (g)oogle (l)esbian (b)uddies. This buddy and I chatting into the wee hours of many mornings.

We dated in this manner for for several days, a few weeks, during the Superbowl, the Academy Awards and more. Our emails and on-line chats and instant messages continued, growing in duration and intensity until 2/26. On this night we talked on the phone for the very first time. On the basis of this conversation and a few that followed, we decided we should meet, sooner rather than later. She was coming up on a break from work and other commitments and big bam boom, before I knew it, I was booked on a flight to see the her I'd been in near constant communication with for two months.

Filled with equal parts fear and excitement, the days until the 3/9 flight date couldn't pass fast enough. I let M and D know I was going. They both accepted the news with grace, D starting immediately to plan her party, asking me if I could be gone longer; M taking note to hang around home a bit more that weekend.

She and I continued to talk every day, via email, instant messages, on-line chats and telephone calls. In the interim there were even snail mail cards and letters. The flight date arrived, D dropped me at the airport a few hours early, with too much time to think. What I thought was, 'have I lost my mind?' That thought was quashed pretty quickly. I hadn't, I was sure. Still, I was nervous and excited, not knowing what to expect, what was going to happen.

I arrive and as you may recall, some kissing took place, eventually. In addition to the hours upon hours of delectable face suckage, there was talking, eating, drinking and.....laughing. Oh how we laughed! We had a ton of fun....laughing. So much so that I switched out my early Sunday flight to one later in the day, which I nearly missed. Oh, the fun! The laughing! The...WoW!

On the flight home, already missing her face, voice, I wrote her a letter in my journal. I copied it to stationery and mailed it the very next day. We are back to the daily missives and the hours on the phone. The daily, nightly phones calls quickly becoming the hi-lights of my days. I will go back in May. This time, instead of the 1 full day and some hours, we will have 3 full days and some hours. Three full, glorious days together. WoW, I am itchy twitchy with excitement. M is hoping to have secured his apartment and is tentatively planning to move out the very same weekend. D, upon hearing our news, danced a little jig, not quite believing she could be lucky enough to have the apartment totally to herself.

I will arrive on the evening of 5/3, in much the same manner as before, minus the nervousness. I know what to expect, I know what will happen, although she promises some surprises. WoW! We will go out for a bite to eat, some drink, talk and I'm sure, laughs. We will go home and spend the next hours and three full days thoroughly enjoying being in the same state, together.

I have a girlfiend. I love her. Her name is....Neta.

He Did What!?!

My son loves to dance. He also loves live music. Quite often you might find

him twisting and shouting in one of the city's fine blues clubs. He was in one such establishment when he was treated rather rudely. He tells the story in his trademark nonchalant and humorous manner. I believe he adopts this method, especially when telling me such stories, so as to not bear witness to my head being flung from the rest of my body, thus forcing him to clean the mess that might be caused. Although, the event, I'm sure, would at some point, become a star in his repertoire of tales.

I am paraphrasing his tale of the Hoochie Coochie man incident.

Lacy and Tammy were visiting from from Minnesota. They met dancing man M at the blues club. Dancing Man, decked out in his usual suit, tie, hat (although not while inside the club) and cane is a vision, quite like no other in the club. The ladies are drawn to him like moths to a flame, flies to butter, D to shoes, you get the picture. The three of them proceeded to have a grand old time, talking, laughing and of course, dancing the night away.

It was edging towards final call and the trio was saying their good-byes. Hoochie Coochie man foisted his way into the scene, smashing into their space. Never one to pass up an opportunity to annoy impress women, he barked out a "HEY! I'M HOOCHIE COOCHIE man!" The ladies, startled by his insistent intrusion managed to mumble a soft hello. The ever polite, gentlemanly, M, offered his own greeting, addressing H C man by his given name. Hoochie Coochie responded to M's greeting with a stream of spit towards the vicinity of M's freshly buffed shoes.

Shocked, Lacy and Tammy emit a gasp. Undaunted, M excused himself, walked calmly over to the security station and reported Mr. H C's actions. Mr. Hoochie Coochie was then escorted from the building with security talking very sternly into his ear. M returned to the ladies, bid them a good night and safe travels by to Minnesota.

A little background: Hoochie Coochie man is a musician at the club. Sometimes a headliner. He wasn't playing the night in question. I'd heard tales of Hoochie Coochie's actions before. Hoochie has been sneering and snorting at M for some weeks now, presumably because of M's attractiveness to the ladies, infringing on that which Hoochie considers his territory. I suppose. He could of course, just be a nut, he does introduce himself to women as hoochie coochie man. Throughout all his dealings with Hoochie Coochie, M has continued to be polite making sure to congratulate and praise him on his good sets.

I am pleased and proud of M's handling of the situation and his over-all composure and demeanor. His more volatile sister had some choice suggestions for alternate responses to becoming the target of someone's spit. Never-the-less, we couldn't stop laughing during M's recitation, as he does exhibit a certain story telling flair.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder what Hoochie Coochie would have looked like with a size 13 freshly buffed shoe print all over his hoochie coochie butt.

GMail

Gone? for Good?

Probably not. But not having access for over two days now, feels like a lifetime, a forever kind of thing.

Very frustrating, to say the least.

friends are like bras: close to your heart and there for support

My friend Nina is celebrating a birthday today. I know this because she told me so months ago when we became acquainted through blogging. Some months after I started my blog, I found hers via some link from some other blog. I commented on hers and she responded in kind. She went back to Inauguration and offered the bit of trivia about her birthday.

That is what I love about blogging.

During these past 12 months I’ve shared stories, stories of my past and present. Embedded within those stories are some hopes for my future. I’ve gone on journeys with these stories. I’ve ventured into some fictional exercises with posts like, Jolly and I’ve even been lucky ducky enough to have a post published in the brainchild of some cool ladies from Houston.

I was afforded the opportunity to attend a conference in Memphis, which in turn gave me the chance to meet those cool ladies, Elizabeth and Maxine in full living color and lesbian glory. How cool is that? Say it with me…waaaaaay cooooool ! ! !

Or to put it another way, too totally tubular !

Blogging has been for me, a voice different from that mom, daughter, sister, worker, friend voice I use daily. It is my voice, for me alone. Sharing that voice has prompted others to share, speaking to me through the comments and in some cases, email. Those comments and emails have helped clarify, raise questions, offered solutions, and on many occasions made me laugh out loud.

That is what I love about blogging.

It was the blogging I believe, that gave me the confidence to come out. Hitching up that confidence, I ventured further, endeavoring to meet other lesbian ladies. I held to the hope of finding some who would be friends and perhaps one who would be more. One such lady is currently positioning herself to be the jelly in my roll. How cool is that? Yep yep, that cool.

I’ve had fun, more than I thought I would. I’ve made friends, more than I thought plausible. That inaugural post ended with, I’m not quite sure where I’m going but I do hope the ride will be vigorous, entertaining and enlightening.

That, dear friends, thanks to all of you, it has and continues to be.

How cool is that?

Happy Birthday Nina!

...mooch some homemade hooch

I could be so much more productive if I didn't have to re-fax, re-mail.
(electronic or puhleeze snail), REITERATE, re-invent the freaking
wheel.

Insurance Broker: did you email that form?
Me: I faxed it, your assistant asked me to fax the form.
IB: When?
Me: January 16th
IB: Did we talk afterwards?
Me: Yes, several times
IB: Can you fax it again?
Me:....well, of course I can.

Once a day, every day, it seems, I must follow up with someone about something they should have done, only to be told they don't
have, can't find or don't remember the original contact.

You have any idea how annoying this is? Of course you do!

I think I'll mooch some homemade hooch, and go out for a lark, just to drive off these mean old....

Excuse Me

The idiom touts apples and good health, how one a day keeps doctors away. I'd read somewhere recently a quote attributed to Mae West, replacing orgasm with apples. Orgasms have nothing to do with the post, except that given a choice of an apple a day or an orgasm a day, to keep doctors at bay, well, I don't suppose I have to spell out the choice I'd make. Do I?

I do, however, like apples. Very much so. I eat them often. Not everyday, but very often. Eating apples, though, does present a problem, or shall I say, a challenge, as I do like to eat them on the run. Apples are the most portable of my favorite fruit selections. Eating apples on the run or in public present a problem for me because I belch after finishing the apple. No sooner do I swallow the last bite, does a barrage of belches well up and spew out like the dirty words that spew out of the mouth of the carpenter who has banged her hand with the hammer, again.

No other fruit or other food product produces this reaction. I suppose there could be worse reactions, so perhaps I shouldn't complain. If however, you do see me eating an apple, which you probably won't because as you might imagine, even though I might eat the apple on the run, I do tend to avoid being in the vicinity of people when I do...but, should you see me eating an apple, you will excuse me, while I take my leave until the belches have passed.

Violet Tendencies

Well, in all honesty, not violets, really. Or violets exclusively. Or violets obsessively. I do buy one or two every year and like the way of the ferns, they tend to fail me, or I them. not quite sure how the bargain is struck or where it goes awry. But awry it does go. I keep trying because I really do like violets. There is a violet in need of tending, in my office right now, in fact.

You may have noticed, it is Spring. As is my ritual, lately, I will get down and dirty with plants and flowers, inside and out. For the inside it will be mostly more non-flowering house plants . I had a couple of large plants or small trees, depending on your perspective, give me their final notices. They were with me a long time, but they apparently decided it was time to move on. That they did so simultaneously, oddly enough, softened the sting.


For the outside, I must clear leaves, twigs and other debris left over from the ravages of a Midwestern winter and more recently, that left by kids and others leaving the nearby McDonald's. I will then continue the work begun a few Springs ago, cultivating perennials, ground cover and shrubs already in place. I will plant more, fill in more. As I've mentioned before, it is a work in progress. Slow going because of more misses than hits and economic realities.
This year the call goes out to fellow owners. I am willing to do all the work (help will not be turned away) but I announced how it would be fabulous if any or all could contribute plants, shrubs, bulbs, top soil, mulch. I will provide information about zone suitable plants and specifics about what the experts feel will work best given our sun / shade exposures.

I don't know if any will heed the call. Given previous experiences with these people, I don't have any expectations. If I don't get any donations, the progress will continue along the current path. I won't be bothered, much, as there remains much to treat my tendencies.

plots: June 2005 shot by my mom

Jackie's Back!

Hooray! and Yahoo!

Can't believe I missed the premier episode of tee vee girlfriend's show, Work Out . I have an excellent excuse. A couple, actually. I'm sure I would be excused due to being on the phone wooing and cooing with actual girlfriend and then listening to daughter recount her boyfriend troubles into the wee winky hours of the morning. One must have priorities and proper perspective.

Thank goodness, though, that there are re-runs and hippy hippy hooray, marathon showings. Not to mention this wonderful invention called the Internet.

Bravo TV has episodes, blogs and all manner of fodder to feed an addict's fan's tank.

If you are looking for me, I'll be working out with Jackie.

Sprung? No! Spring.

It is my daughter's not so humble opinion that her 46, knocking on the door to 47 year-old mother, is sprung. She believes she has, again, in her not so humble opinion, several facts in evidence to support her position.

Not quite ready to concede her point, I will admit to feeling a buzz, a certain breeziness, the feeling of having some air in my oh so short hair. I offer however, several factors which may account for such a condition.

For instance, I have resolved to not get too totally tweaked about the work situation. In the not so immortal words of my oh so befuddled boss, 'it is what it is.' I believe it was Maya Angelou who said, if you don't like something, change it, if you can't change it, change your attitude. Don't complain. Well, I can't change it and I can't leave it, at least not now, so, I will do my best to maintain my decorum, professionalism, and personal standards. (That doesn't mean that I won't try to change it..because IT is pretty stupid and needs to change.)

I was able to get some of the owners of the condo association to agree, at least in principle, to donate some garden supplies, plants, mulch and such to aid in my continuing efforts to beautify out little piece of earth. This news and the possible confluence of events is certainly worthy of a buzz or two.

My mother, though still believing she is under surveillance, is much less anxious over the sight of taxicabs parked on her street that in years past. She has also had some resolution to some long standing health issues. Others remain, but getting some answers where there were only questions and confusions is comforting, to some degree.

There are other little triumphs, like losing nearly 8 lbs since mid-January, causing some pep to my steps, some glides to my strides, prompting my daughter to assign the sprung label to my general state of breeziness. I could make my case with any one of the reasons already stated. I'll offer another. One could chalk my buzz, the breeziness, up to the onset of Spring. Warm weather alone is cause enough for a buzz, a breeziness of steps and spirit.

I do not buy her contention that the buzz has anything at all to do with the cards, letters, emails, hours of telephone conversations, some past and the prospect of future kissing and...more, that a certain someone and I have shared over these past several weeks. No, I do not buy that, at all.

This buzz has nothing at all to do with correspondence, soft conversations and more. Not any of that, no. This buzz, my daughter, is not your sprung mother.

It's Spring! Darn it!

All In The Family

For some years, as a young woman, I harbored the illusion that my paternal ancestors were of French descent. I do not know how or exactly when I came upon the notion, but it was there. The idea of my French ancestry was lying dormant, awaiting the time and opportunity to be known out loud and in color.

At some point, I co-opted an accent for my last name, borrowing an extra syllable. Words like au revoir, bonjour and merci beaucoup were becoming part of my daily speech patterns. I'd even gone so far as to take a semester of French in an attempt to get closer to a heritage I'd presumed was mine.

Or course, I was wrong. This notion of French ancestors is completely false, without merit. At least, that's what I've come to believe. Some preliminary investigation surrounding the origins of my last name seem to indicate that my paternal ancestors were more likely of Irish descent.

Further, some discovery reveals that my last name was at one time slang for what amounts to a laze-about or perhaps more accurately, someone who travels the least challenging path. Further still, I discovered that combined with another word, which coincidentally, is the family name of some related by marriage relatives, the Irish version of my last name roughly translates to 'kiss my ass.'

As you may imagine I was not overly excited about these discoveries. Yet, I remain interested not only in the origins of my name but the family heritage as well. I'm wondering if I might be distant relatives of the family wearing my last name, who produce a bourbon bearing that same name. The plot thickens.

Kiss Me. I'm Irish. Maybe.

Progeny

Something extra-ordinary happened while I was out of town, kissing my weekend away. My son and daughter talked with one another. The talking, in and of itself, is not that extra-ordinary. They talk all the time. They are two talkers, those kids of mine.

She usually says something like, “you are such a nerd” in rebuttal to one of his many stories. He usually says something to the tune of, “why do you talk like that?” in abject horror to one of hers. A healthy disdain for one another’s style seems to be the common glue holding them together.

I kid. My son admires his sister’s spirit and verve. My daughter, in turn, admires her brother’s talent and drive. Shhh…don’t tell them I know or that I told.

Yet, like many sibling sets they get a charge out of getting a rise out of each other and enjoy rousing bouts of good-natured teasing. One of my very deliberate acts and goals as a parent was to foster a good relationship between these two. I wanted them to be friends. I wanted them to be able to count on each other. I wanted them to have the relationship I couldn’t, didn’t, don’t share with my brothers.

This past weekend, while I was away, they talked. Really talked. True to their routines, understanding their respective roles, they kidded each other often. I know this because they each told me their own versions of their weekend exploits. Yet, somewhere in there, some real talking took place.

Late last night, very early this morning, my daughter, in the midst of telling me one thousand things, said, “You know what, that guy. (pointing at her brother’s bedroom door) is a great guy. He’s very smart and very insightful. He helped me a lot.” I did know.

Still, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Seriously.

They are two talkers, my son and my daughter. I’m so glad they talk with each other almost as much as they talk with me.

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.

Don't Fret

Over a week ago, the email was drafted, refined, proofed and proofed again. Nervous about the implications and the results, I fussed and debated.

I began in a familiar fashion, "Hey Lady D", and with common grounds, our respective daughters and then sons. The topic of work, always safe but fertile territory provided the buffer for what was to come next.

On another front, I have something to tell you about me. For the past several years, most of my life really, but more profoundly in the past several years, I’ve experienced attractions to women. I suppressed it, buried it, dismissed it. I don’t want, can’t do that anymore. Last June I came out to M and D. I have yet to tell my mother, but that day is coming. I just wanted to clear this off, kinda like a 12-step, -hehehe- I’d hope we might have had a chance to get together for lunch or something, but our respective lives are working against us on the front.

I paste Synopsis and finish by saying how I’m hoping to find a woman with whom to share the rest of my life. I wish her family well.

Satisfied, I click send. And then I wait.

I wait for a return email, a phone call, a card or letter. I wait for acknowledgment. I wait for acceptance. I wait, not knowing, how she’ll react, how she will reply or even if she will. I wait for silence. I have experience with waiting for silence.

Six days. Six days later her address is one of the Incoming messages in my box. With some trepidation and nervousness, I open the mail. Following my pattern, she begins in a familiar fashion, "Hey Gurl" and onward with daughter, son and then work. She uses her upcoming adventure to Spain as the buffer. And then the verdict. I read the entire next section twice. I flash and hold onto snippets, thank you for sharing, glad you did, only want happiness for you.

"Discovery will give you peace of mind when acceptance is embraced. Much Love, D"

And with that my oldest friend is in, on board. She shares in my full discovery, full disclosure. Fullness of life.

Spam. Vodka.

I didn't see much of my son this past week. He was up and out before me and I was in and down by the time he returned. The only evidence that he'd been in at all were the chicken carcasses and pizza boxes.

Sunday we played catch-up.

On our walk to the grocery store, a rare treat for me, (jeez he walks fast) he talked about his day job and all the changes that are afoot. He's about to change assignments and well, I don't remember all the particulars but he's excited about the prospect.

In the fruits and veggies section he talked about his substitute teaching gig. The great fun, anxiousness to do it again and being overjoyed about having received the payment as promised filled the time while I was picking over bananas.

While waiting for hot wings and potato salad from the deli section, he told me all about how promising the "Othello" project seemed and how disappointed he was when it fell through. "They were really disorganized, but they said they'd pay me anyway."

Between the meats and dairy is where I learned all about the past week as an under-study to 2 actors in one play, representing 4 roles. "There is a real possibility I might go on for at least one of them soon."

There was the whack house party on Saturday. We were at the check-out by this time. He went on to say how he hates house parties and he's going to stop going, no matter how much his friends urge. "I only went because Matt asked and because the apartment is in the neighborhood where I'll be looking for an apartment." During the walk home he reveals that he will start looking for an apartment in two weeks.

My son was loading his plate with hot wings and potato salad when he told me about the small, tight grocery store near where he works. How much he doesn't like the neighborhood and why he won't look for an apartment in the area. "Mom, the girls, from the college I think, fill their shopping baskets with Spam, vodka and nothing else."

He goes into his room to eat the mounds of food, watch (probably) a Fraiser dvd and then to nap a bit before he has to leave for the show.

Two weeks. He's going to start looking for an apartment in two weeks?

Pickles, Peppermint and Pomegranates

After nipping the tops off the large, juicy, spicy dill pickle, a peppermint stick is poked into the flesh. The pickle, peppermint combo is then dusted with powdered strawberry or cherry kool-aid.
For nearly a year Pam, Peggy and I would pool our pennies to score pickles, peppermint sticks and a package of kool-aid from the ‘penny’ candy story. We were in the third grade and we thought this concoction second only to Chic-O-Stiks.

I haven’t had a pickle in I don’t know when. I haven’t had the pickle, peppermint, kool-aid combo since the third grade. I moved away from Pam and Peggy and haven’t seen them or our treat since. The new neighborhood’s ‘penny’ candy store didn’t even sell pickles.

A few blocks from where I work there is a pickle factory and distribute business. Every so often, when the wind is just right, the vinegary, cucumber stench aroma from the plant reaches my nose and prompts a joyful little tromp down memory lane.

There are a number of pleasant food and food combo memories from childhood. There are also a number of very un-pleasant foods from childhood that I prefer not to remember or re-visit. The worst of the bad foot vignettes star beets and black-eyed peas. The peas I was convinced to re-visit with dire results. Beets, I thought I might be now mature enough to re-visit. I haven’t and I don’t think I will, now because...

I did recently re-visit a good food memory. Eating pomegranates was a childhood favorite. My friends and I, from the many neighborhoods I inhabited as a child, all indulged in pomegranates. We peeled and pulled the tangy, sour seeds from the pulpy center with reckless abandon. I remember our fingers being stained by the juicy seeds. I bought a pomegranate a few weeks ago for the first time in many years, bringing back a surge of a few happy times.

For my morning snack break, I broke open the pomegranate. I start to peel back the skin, dig through the pulp to plop out the seeds. I ate one and then two. I peeled more and found a cluster of seeds. A funny feeling started to come over me. Not a funny ha-ha happy, but funny icky, weird feeling. I kept peeling and eating. The creepy crawly, heebie jeebie, willie nillie feelings kept coming, intensifying. Each pull of pulp, each exposure of a cluster of the deep red seeds, brought on more itchy twitchies. I’m feeling a little goosey just thinking about it now.

Enough! After only a few seeds, I toss the whole thing in the trash. I take the bag out to dump it into the office dumpster. I wash my hands and all the while deciding that some things are best left in the past.

u m p f !

A vendor faxes a copy of an invoice I'd paid along with the check stub showing the relevant payment, with a hand written note; ‘Deb, thanks for your payment of $4,716.77, however, the payment should have been $4,716.87. Invoice 8976 was paid 10 cents short. Please include this amount with your next payment.

The bookkeeper persona in me is devastated that I dropped a dime.

The customer service persona in me is apologetic and wanting to correct the grievous error, A S A P.

The other persona in me is seething, internally screaming, "kiss my grits! Who the hell said you could call me Deb, we aren’t friends" while entering the 10 cents to be paid with the next round.

Vacation day or days. Soon, I think. Yes.

Workin' for a Living

I had planned a perky little post about pickles, peppermint sticks and pomegranates. Instead, though I need to release some work-related mess.

Ours is a small shop, just nine of us to satisfy the demands of the business. Accordingly, we all were multiple hats. My hats are labeled anything related to the finances and the day-to-day operations, making sure *the office* runs smoothly.

Suffice to say, my days are pretty full, what with keeping the books, paying the bills, collecting the debts, dealing with service people, ordering supplies and being the answer lady. Since I don’t have any back-up or any assistants, any time off, means extra added burdens to the constant barrage of to-dos.

This week the captain has been in a snit. His snit is the result of multiple failures of areas under his direct supervision, sales, marketing and customer service. The guy charged with the day-to-day of these areas has fallen down on the job. In my opinion, he was never up to the challenge, but, nobody asked for my opinion. Truth be told, the captain is...well, he did allow this situation to fester for over two years.

GS has not ever shown any talent for organization, supervision or administration. He has been building, for the past 2 ½ years, a shrine on and about his desk. This shrine consists of files, mail, reports and whatever that else has come across his nose. He quite literally has stacks on his desk and on the floor around him topping off at three feet, I kid you not.

Captain, freely admits being unable to get an answer from this guy about anything, without him having to rummage through one of the various shrines. It takes hours to uncover information, if ever, often re-construction is necessary. Deadlines have been missed, goals have not been met.

The boss, the captain, shrugs, sighs and pulls his hands through his rapidly receding hair.

Thursday, the snit hit a fever pitch and as usual I’m holding the catcher’s mitt. "I’m going to ask you please to supervise the clean-up of that desk..I want you to look at and assess every piece of paper. I know I’m asking a lot, but..." The boss wants me to take on more responsibility, to enforce suggestions I’d been making to the BOTH of them for over two years now.

I started going through some of the stacks before I left work Thursday. Based on what I found, it is crystal clear that we should be looking for a trade. I don't know why it's taken so long for captain to act and I am not at all thrilled with the direction this action is taking. The trade talks may include a face the captain wasn't expecting.

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.

I Don't Paint Myself Into Corners

I don’t paint myself into corners anymore
In a brittle heart of clay
I threw my brushes away
The tools of the trade that chained your memory to me
Are out the door
I don’t paint myself into corners anymore

When I was 13 I was hit by a truck.

My aunt, who was taking a break from her marriage, on our living room sofa sent me and my older brother to get some chicken. Back then, there was not a chicken or burger place on every corner, we had to take two busses, to get this chicken. Since we were trekking to the chicken place, we asked if she’d buy us burgers, the burger place was next door to the chicken place. She agreed.

The trip to the chicken and burger places was uneventful. We get the chicken. We get the burgers. We head back towards home. We’re on the first of two busses to get home. My brother, who is carrying the burger sack, exits the bus on the west side of the street. This was not a stop. The bus was stopped for the light. I waited on the bus until the light changed and the bus stopped at the sign, on the east side of the street.

The second bus we needed to get home was coming. My brother yelled for me to run. The light was still green, so I took off, running across the street. I’d barely gotten off the curb when I went flying. My glasses went left. The chicken sack I was holding went right. I bounced a couple of times before I came in contact with the curb. The guy driving the truck, I was told, had been drinking.

My brand new coat was getting soaked and soiled. That was the only thought on my mind. I really liked that coat. It was the first new non hand-me-down coat I’d gotten in a long time. I really hated lying there on the ground waiting for the ambulance, my brother yelling for me to stay down. The milling spectators all had opinions as to what happened. Some absconded with the chicken from the sack. One was kind enough to retrieve my crumpled glasses and hand them to my brother.

Emergency vehicles arrived, I was taken to the hospital. I spent much of the next several weeks getting treatments for a sore back. Some months later I got new clothes, including a new coat and we ate better for a time. My aunt eventually left our sofa and went back to her marriage. She was a little bummed that I’d lost the chicken.

Whenever I hear, "I Don’t Paint Myself Into Corners" I always think about the year I got hit by a truck, running to catch a bus, substituting my own lyric, I Don’t Run for Busses, Anymore.

I miss many busses.

I'm It. Again

Bill over at The View From Here was very kind to include me in his Meme game. I'm happy to respond as it has diverted my attention from THE SNOW. We were not hit this hard...but it will seem like it when I'm trying to get to and from work over the next several days. For the time being, I'm thinking about questions regarding my book habits. Hardback, Trade Paperback or Mass Market Paperback?

A book is a book is a book. I'll buy whatever I like, when I find it, in whatever manner I happen to find it; hard, paper or cloth--all the same to me.

Amazon or brick and mortar?

I'm going to presume that Amazon is representative of all on-line outlets. I tend to shop on-line because I have such an aversion to many stores, their employees and even the customers. I do like looking at books and will browse, on occasion. Generally, I'll be in a store on an un-related mission, see something I like. I'll buy it.

Barnes & Noble or Borders?

Between the two, Borders as there are more near me. I like the independents also. We have several in my town and I visit them as often as I do Borders, which frankly isn't very often because of the aversion.

Bookmark or Dog Ear?

Bookmarks. I have several.

Alphabetize by author, alphabetize by title, or random?

Uhm...no. I sort and stack by size.

Keep, throw away, or sell?

I keep everything initially and for awhile. When the shelves are groaning under the weight and stacks have been started in more non-traditional locales, I donate them to the high school. They hold a huge book fair every year, a two day event. I heard about Paberback Swap some time ago and have been meaning to check out the site.

Keep dust jacket or toss it?

I keep them but....

Read with dust jacket on, or remove it?

I remove them while I'm reading the book.

Short Story or Novel?

Yes! Please.

Collection (short stories by the same author) or Anthology (short stories by different authors)?

Yes! Please.

Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket?

I haven't read either, that is not to say that I won't.

Stop reading when tired or at chapter breaks?

At chapter breaks. I do not, can not stop in the middle of a chapter. If I'm tired, I don't start.

"It was a dark and stormy night" or "Once Upon a Time"?

Mysteries, thrillers and intrigue are my prime reads, so "It was a dark..."

Buy or Borrow?

In keeping with the budget and to minimize those stacks (hauling cast offs to the high school is a trial without a car, since my wagon broke) I am a more than frequent guest at the local libraries. I don't borrow from friends and my son is the only relative I've ever asked to borrow a book.

New or Used?

Generally new in the sense that no one has owned it before. However, it is worthy to note that I rarely buy a book "hot off the press". Should I hear about something new that I might like to read, I put it on a list. Should I become anxious about it-I check the library holdings.

Buying choice: Reviews, recommendations or browse?

There is a core of favorite authors, but I do step out of my comfort zone from time to time, usually based on a recommendation or luck into an interesting read by browsing.

Tidy Ending or cliffhanger?

I like the endings tidy and plausible but they don't have to be happy or uplifting.

Morning, afternoon or evening reading?

Rarely afternoon, unless I'm in a line someplace. I try to always have reading material along when doing errands. Helps to minimize the affects of many adverse situations.

Standalone or series?

Mostly series. Many of my favorite authors have written stand alone books, but I read others as well.

Favorite Book of which no one else has heard?

I can't imagine that I've read a book that no one else has heard about. If I know about it, many others likely know about it as well. If pressed for a reply I'd say, "Third Girl From the Left" by Martha Southgate

Favorite Books read last year?

Fiction: There were many

Non-Fiction: Again there were a few, but the one that resonated the most, "From Wedded Wife to Lesbian Life" Deborah Abbot, Ellen Farmer

Favorite Books of All Time:

I really don't like naming 'favorites'. So many books speak to me for so many reasons. Favorites of all time? There are many. Several. To name but a few would diminish the import of the others.

Feel free to play along.

Tat. Me?

I've seen many tattoos. Some I've liked and some, not so much.

Some time ago the question was posed, "Do you have any tattoos?" The answer is no. The person posing the question further queried, if I were to get a tat, would I design it myself.

Frankly I'd never, ever, given any thought to getting a tattoo. The topic, however, has come up frequently, recently. My daughter, for instance, has been wanting one for some time now. The only thing holding her back is indecision. She cannot decide what or where. She has not asked for my assistance and I have not volunteered, except to say, if she thought she must have one, it should be on her upper back, shoulder blade area, on the right.

Tattoos are not for me. I am dark complected and I don't like how tattoos look over time on some other dark skinned people. Further, as I'm rather conservative in manners of dress, no one would ever see this tat, unless of course, I manage to get myself one of those partners I hear are all the rage. That might be fun but still, it would seem a waste of time, money and ink. I'm not a big supporter of waste. My eczema, too, gives me pause.

Since the friend mentioned the possibility of designing my own tattoo, I haven't been able to get



this image out of my head, so I put it on paper. If I were to get a tattoo it might look something like the image shown here. Or. then again, it might not. The point is moot, as I am not even thinking about getting a tattoo. The images, however are continuing to materialize.

Twenty-Five

It was early, a very early Monday morning. In fact, morning had yet to break when the pains began. I was alone, the hub-ex had gone to work. I tried to ignore the pain deciding they couldn’t be that pain, it was too early. Too early in the day, too soon by a couple of weeks. The pains became more insistent and harder to ignore, the thought circling around and around as they did, I did not want to go to the hospital in the dark.

I willed the pains to slow and miraculously they did. The day broke, I called the ambulance and 3 hours later my baby boy was heralded into the world, twenty-five years ago, today.

We’ve shared much over these twenty-five years. He conspired with me to get his dad to quit smoking. Well, more like he was conscripted, as he was only 7 months old. He performed his duties admirably, however they came about. His coughing on cue would surely be worthy of a Tony.

From his early childhood obsessions with the World Wrestling Federation’s Hulk Hogan and Randy "Macho Man" Savage and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to his introduction to poetry and spoken word, which ultimately led to drama and acting, we’ve shared much. Not just the times, the actions and the events, but also the stories.

What I cherish most these twenty-five, especially the last five, are the conversations. He has talked, eventually, about everything. I’m pretty sure it was the muscle relaxant he was taking for an aching back that had him discussing the merits of boxers over briefs and why it was urgent for me to know those merits, just then. Whatever made him share, I welcome the information.

The infant boy who once laid on my chest as we slept through watched football, the toddler who made sure I was aware (in a very loud voice) whenever his sister was crying, the little boy who constructed elaborate scenarios for his action figures, the adolescent who struggled until finding his voice, his strength, his calling through poetry, this gentleman, my son, is twenty-five today.

He’s going out tonight. He will enjoy a very nice dinner, go to the symphony and then....samba.

Tomorrow he will tell me the stories.

Happy Birthday Son.

***photo from 2006 graduation. He won't stand still long enough for me to get a more current shot. If I manage one, I'll post it.

Jolly

It is a million degrees below zero, I could be writing about the cold, but I'm not. The Bears are slinking back into town singing the refrain of all big game losers, 'there's always next year!' and I could be writing about that, but I'm not. My son will be 25 this week and certainly I could write about that, and I will later this week. Today is the day for this month's challenge inspired by Bent Fabric, who by her own admission, doesn't "do jolly."

The jimjams had a hold of Jillian, or Jilly as she prefers to be called. She’d been too nervous to sleep after the messenger left, so she got up. Looking into the bathroom mirror and seeing the dark circles under her light-blue, almost gray eyes and the frazzled brown hair it was hard to understand why Qmax thought Jilly would make the perfect heroine to deliver jollies to a jolly-less world.

The first order of business was to assemble a costume. Unsure as to how she was going to jolly up the world, Jilly thought that a costume, at least, would be in order. Qmax didn’t mention it, but Jilly was sure she would agree. The costume Jilly envisioned would be presentable and indestructible.

Washing the weariness from her face and mind, Jilly thought her black wrangler jeans would work, they were indestructible and they fit perfectly. She would pair that with her green airwalk lace-up boots with the silver lining. She wished she had silver boots. Silver boots would be fabulous, but she’d have to settle for the silver lined boots. Jilly was stumped as to what to do about a top and then wondered if she’d need a cape. What could she use for a cape?

Jilly applied some gel to her frazzled mane. The much stronger gel Qmax left had Jilly’s nose twitching. Her head spinning from trying to think of how to jolly the world and the rest of her costume, combined to make her a little woozy and a little....aaahhhccchhhhooooo! Whew!

The big sneeze provided the answers to Jilly’s questions, for out of her nose blew the most beautiful sweater. A sweater of deep forest green, trimmed with silver threading that shimmered like sterling. There were silver glitter sprinkles and teeny tiny twinkle bells. The sweater even had wings. Oh. My.

Jilly almost fainted at the sight of such an extraordinary sweater.

This was fantastic! Jilly was beside herself with excitement. She quickly shed her pjs, trading them for the black wranglers, warm socks, the airwalk boots, a tee shirt and finally, her very own...her very own...Jilly pondered a name for the sweater and for the mission. Jilly surveyed herself in the mirror, twisting and turning to get better views. The teeny tiny twinkle bells making teeny tiny sounds like...jingles. Jingle Jangle!

Jingle Jangle Jollly! That’s it! Jilly would fly around the world sneezing out Jingle Jangle Jolly sweaters to all who needed some jolly. Who could resist the jollies after donning a Jingle Jangle sweater? Each sweater would be tailored to fit the recipient's personality to assure maximum jolly.

Jilly sent word to Qmax, assuring her that the Jingle Jangle sweater mission was up and about to be running, or rather flying. Jilly got out on the roof, stamped her boots twice and in a whoosh was off to her first jolly stop, Juneau. Jilly decided it was only fitting to sneeze jolly sweaters to *J* places first.

Dunder Heads

I like staples, not the store…well, I do like the store. While Staples is not the outfit professing passion for office supplies in a marketing campaign, I still like them. Staples, the outfit trying to get us all to jump on the easy button, is an acceptable outlet for staples and other supplies. This, however, is not about stores, but about supplies, specially, staples and paper clips.

I like staples. Staples are handy for binding pieces of paper together. (I know there are other kinds of staples for other purposes-but for today we are talking paper-just paper). For me, staples are a more permanent binding solution, for use when you don’t intend for the papers to be loose, not wanting them to run amok. Of course, staples can and sometimes must be removed. Removal of a staple is not that difficult, provided you have the proper tool. The tool, staple remover, is available in several styles. I prefer this style.

However, I don’t like removing staples. It can be messy. The paper can rip and you wind up with broken, now useless staples littering the desk. More times that not, the handy little remover is not at hand when you need to remove a staple. Your choices are to wrench the papers apart or use your fingers to try and pry the staple loose. While not overly painful, the stab of a pried staple can be annoying.

For temporary binding of multiple pages I prefer paper clips. Paper clips are sturdy and a perfectly acceptable temporary paper binding agent. A paper clip can be removed without any damage to the papers or fingers. A paper clip can be re-used, over and over and over again.

I receive faxes. Many faxes, usually multiple page faxes, often, throughout the day. More often than not the fax requires some action and a return fax. The fax machine will not scan a stapled sheet. A staple can damage the fax machine. I don’t have a stapler near the fax machine. I have equipped the fax machine area with a container full of paper clips.

The guys in my office apparently don’t like paper clips. They appear to have a passion for staples. They staple everything. Sometimes, multiple times, as if one staple is just too weak to hold 2-3 pages together. When the guys in my office retrieve faxes from the machine and they see it is address to me, they leave the fax machine area, staple the pages and place in my tray—which is inches from the fax machine, very near the container of paper clips.

DUNDER HEAD! Paper clips rule!

M o M

With a little less than a week to go before my son’s 25th birthday, mom and I had the following exchange which is nearly a carbon copy of the exchanges before every birthday since his twentieth.

Mom: I’ve been thinking about what to get Michael for his birthday. What are you getting him?

Me: I got him the photo shoot. I will take him out to eat, he hasn’t said yet, where he’d like to go and I will get him some dvds, probably "Fraiser" seasons 1 and 2.

Mom: Well, I’ve been thinking about a gift card.

Me. That would work

Mom: Where?

Me: Borders. He loves Borders. He could get a book, a new journal, some music, a dvd and /or have several cups of tea, while playing working on his laptop.

Mom: hmm. I’ve been thinking about clothes.

Me: No. Don’t buy him clothes. I don’t get him clothes anymore, unless he’s there to try them on. I got him some shirts recently, the sleeves were too short. He's either still growing or the sizes wre wrong or something.

Mom: No, I was thinking a card from a store that sells clothes.

Me: Oh, well, I’d go with JCPenny. He like’s their stuff, the accessories anyway, monogrammed hankies or gold toe socks. He could use a gift card from JCPennney, but I’d go with Borders.

Mom: hmm. I’ve been thinking cologne, or those African oils. I don’t know where he got them.

Me: He doesn’t wear cologne and he got the oils from Afri-Ware, but he hasn’t been there in awhile He didn’t even know they had moved. He doesn’t wear the oils anymore..he says every ‘brother’ smells like those oils. He just smells like soap to me. He’s really into Irish Spring these days. I still think Borders is the best bet.

Mom: hmm. Well, what about Old Navy? Does he go to Old Navy?

Me: Uhm, No. He doesn’t go to Old Navy. He doesn’t wear anything...MOM: I bought him that sweater...Me: except for that sweater you bought him, from Old Navy. I think Borders is the way to go.

Mom: Well, I just don’t know.

Me: Really. Seriously, mom, a gift card from Border’s is the perfect choice.

Mom: Well...I guess. Hey! Your cousin is retiring.

It should be noted that I have many, many cousins. Quite a few could fit into the ‘your cousin is retiring’ scenario. I play along, volley up a couple of possibles before she reveals that K D the III is the cousin retiring. He was going to be my next guess, really.

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.

Envy

Green with it, I have been. When I hear, read, or see examples of people who have warm, fond memories of their parents and continue to have flourishing relationships with them, envy colors my landscape. Mom and Dad. Your world begins with this set. You may be added to a mix that includes a brother or two, a sister or two, all or nothing. Mom and Dad dictate your beginnings. Basic.

In my case the beginnings were, I believe good. I can remember back to being as young as 3 or 4, definitely 4 because I remember my first school, parts of it anyway. Mom and Dad were constant in my life then. I remember going on picnics, amusement parks, to visit my cousins and Big Mama’s house.

Mom rarely played with me, I recall. I don’t have a single, solitary memory, of her playing cards, board games, or even dancing, being silly with me. I don’t remember her ever reading to me. My dad was the goof. He liked silly songs, like Charlie Brown, Splish Splash and the like. He would dance and cavort, make silly faces and play. He was fun, until he wasn’t. Somewhere, somehow, dad got mean. He started to hit. It seemed I was getting hit more than my brothers, possibly not, but that is the perception.

Then he was gone. Because of all that led to him being gone, I, for one, was thrilled with his departure. My seven, almost eight year old brain processed the event as such, no more getting hit!Yay! I’m not quite sure how I knew that once he was gone, my time with him would all but vanish.

After dad was gone, mom grew even more sullen. She had moments of joy, some periods of UP, but mostly she was riddled with anxiety, bouts of depression and physical ailments that kept her from sustaining any long term motivation for nurturing. My brothers, eventually capitalized on the absence of any real parenting by acting out, drinking, drugging, joining gangs and participating in gang activities. I tried, as much as possible, to stay out of the way.

There were pockets of times when mom was lucid, she tried to correct the ills that had befallen the family. She screeched s o s to other family members, clergy, teachers and even though, still very angry, and bitter towards dad, tried to elicit his help, towards regaining control. He had, by this time, regained control of himself and was building quite a nice life for his new wife and his new kids.

There was temporary relief. Short-lived. Transient.

I envy women who have friendships with their mothers. My mother and I are close in that I know her well. I understand her mind. We love each other devoutly. But we are not friends, not in that way. Not in a "Hey, what are you doing Saturday, would you like to have lunch" sort of way. We are mother and daughter, she took care of me when she could, the best she could. I do the same for her. We are mother and daughter, roles slowly but surely reversing. Mom told Michael during a recent dinner, she didn't need friends, friends were too much trouble. She doesn't have many interests beyond navigating the waters of turmoil and strife.

I don’t know my dad. In the beginning, I didn’t want to know him. The older I got and the bad memories faded, the more I found myself, wanting so very much to be a part of his life and have him be a part of mine. There, again, were moments, pockets. He took me out for a fancy dinner on the occasion of my graduation from elementary school and again, from high school. His families (his mom was married twice) held a family reunion, we were both there. This is where he met my children for the first time. That was 15-16 years ago, he hasn’t seen them since.

I told a friend that I was would not play any more overtures towards my dad. I would not seek his companionship, love or approval. Anymore. At the time I meant what I said, lately, however, I’m feeling the need to reach out. Maybe it was the Saints being in town, maybe it’s the novel I’m reading where the story is set in Louisiana, maybe, just maybe it’s time again, to try again. Maybe.

I envy folks who have a treasure trove of warm, fond memories of past , and enjoy warm, fond relationships, still, with their parents.

Green, I am with envy, despite my best efforts to the contrary.

Inside Out

We worked together a few years ago. He’s tall, thin and very hairy. The kind of hairy that had the fine, long hairs-which I presume-covered his chest, find their way outside the boundary of whatever shirt he was wearing, to tickle at his neck.

He plays guitar. His fingers, long and nimble worked the strings with skill and finesse.

Banana boy, so named because he came back from lunch with a banana, nearly every day. Many days he came back with two. He would give me one. He had a crush on me, did banana boy. I liked him as a person and I appreciated his musical prowess, nothing more.

He would email me, professing his attraction and wish that we could get together. Emails to my office address, during off hours were his preferred method of communicating his feelings. I would sometimes find him watching me. The emails, looks and the gifts of fruit were all that passed from him to me.

Banana resigned from the company 2 years ago. He continued to email me until a computer upgrade forced a change to the office email addresses. Banana did maintain a relationship with a couple of the other guys in the office. I would hear that he had called, one or more would pass along a *hello* to me from him. He never called me directly.

Two weeks ago, a call was transferred to me. The caller hung up when I answered. After a little questioning of the staff, I discovered the caller was Banana Boy. Since then, I’ve been treated a a few hang-ups and even some heavy breathing sessions.

Monday morning I check my voice mail and Banana Boy’s voice rings out. “Hey gay wad, call me!! My number is xxx xxx xxxx!!! Gay wad? I replayed the message four times to be sure I heard what I thought I heard and sure enough that’s what he said. The message was extremely terse.

I’d never told Banana of my interest and desire for women, even while he was professing an interest in me. I hadn’t professed it to myself, at that point. My preferences however, were beside the point. I wasn’t interested in him. His age (14 years my junior) and our working status (I was his boss) being the prime reasons that I gave. There were others, obviously, but I thought these were enough. I expressed these often during his wooing and tried to gently discourage him from continuing his campaign.

He’s discovered, apparently, my preferences. While not out at work, I don’t go out of my way to shroud (workplace acceptable) reading materials I might have on, around my desk. I don't share office space and periodically my personal items might be out and about. I don’t shout it out, but it’s not hiding under a rug either. No one has asked, point blank, but it wouldn’t take much to be led to certain conclusions.

One or more of my co-workers, outed me to Banana Boy. Given the hang-ups, heavy breathing sessions and the message he left on a Saturday, leads me to believe that he doesn’t want to talk about it or to me. I called him back anyway. He didn’t answer, I left a message.

He hasn’t returned my call, yet. I don’t really think he will, but if he does, I'll talk.

I didn't ask, but there it is

According to Snapple ‘Real Fact" number 132 a crocodile cannot move its tongue. "Why" pops into my head before I can stop it-toddler mom conditioning-still ingrained.

I really don’t care why a croc can’t move its tongue, I wonder would he, if he could. I presume he would, I mean, it stands to reason, does it not?

Sometime ago I talked about a lost bike and a field of frogs. I sought, found and posted a picture of a frog that had a pretty impressive tongue. Depending on your point the view the tongue was either beguiling or disgusting. I hadn’t given it very much thought one way or the other, until the emails came, since then tongues have been on the brain.

L presents as a kind woman of a 20 something year old son. She teaches physical education to special needs youngsters. Somewhere in the middle of her stream of consciousness about the ups and downs of her day, she inserts, that she and her ex broke up because the ex appreciates giving and receiving oral pleasure. L is not so inclined. She and the ex live together but are no longer intimate. L went on to relate her trials and tribulations over a broken dishwasher and grout.

I asked L is she was handy around the house and she replied that she was except when it came to plumbing and machines.

P is a secretary who was once in the navy. She relates, without provocation or invitation, that she likes to kiss. She likes good kissers. Full lips and active tongues. P had girlfriends who didn’t know what to do with their tongue. It just kinda laid there, according to P. She went on a little bit of a rant about lazy tongued kissers and nothing infuriated her more than said kissers refusing to try, refusing to be taught how to kiss and be kissed.

Perhaps P was kissing a bunch of crocodiles.

In a later email, I learned that L got the dishwasher repaired but that the grout still needed attending.

Crash Davis said it well, and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.

I don't suppose three-day kissers would be of the lazy tongued school of kissing.

No Sun, No Problem

The sun did not shine it was too wet to play, so we sat in the house all that cold cold wet day.*

Well, it was cloudy and it was wet, really wet, but never ever too wet to play. We weren’t going to be put off by a little lot of rain. There was a conference to attend, ribs to eat, a mansion to visit, and a quest for yarn.

A spot on Beale Street served up some pretty fantastic ribs. I don’t remember the name, but I know what spot it wasn’t, rumor had it that spot didn’t have the finest ribs. Michael would enjoy the block of blues and food, I remember saying to my hosts. I stopped in a shop to pick up shot glasses for Dani’s collection and I didn’t spill any food, this night.

Saturday morning dawned dreary and rainy, but daunted we were not. Off in search of a fabulous, maybe famous local eatery. No such luck, no funky little spot was to be found. Equally, missing any people sighting. Daytime Memphis seemed eerily empty of shoppers, diners, walkers and talkers. Very odd. Yet, there was still food to eat, a conference to attend, a mansion to visit, and a quest for yarn.

Breakfast for me was an egg white frittata. I made a promise to be good with regard to food choices, rib platter dinner Friday night not-with-standing, I did fairly well. I’d not had an egg white frittata before so I have no comparisons to make. It was edible and I ate it. And then, the mansion. Graceland was a treat. I’d not expected to enjoy the experience, but I very much did. The company may have much to do with that, still, the mansion and the grounds are interesting history lessons.

The yarn quest, alas, ended before it could really start in earnest. Names of stores secured, addresses obtained. Yet calls to clerks for directions yielded no positive results. Apparently, clerks who work in these yarn stores do not know how to get around Memphis. I was disappointed. I was really looking forward to learning the ways of yarn.

I arrived in Memphis, into the open arms and spirits of two lovely ladies from Texas. With humor, warmth and wine Elizabeth and Maxine welcomed me, made me feel at ease, at home. I rode back to Illinois with that feeling fueling the journey, even the ticket I got on the way didn’t dampen my spirits. I was going home knowing I’d taken an important step in my journey and with the knowledge that I’d found two friends, in living color, having materialized from cyber-space before my very bespectacled eyes.

The sun may have boy-cotted the weekend in Memphis, but it made no difference to me. I was feeling sunny the entire time.
*Dr. Suess The Cat in the Hat

Do Something

The Internet is for sale. Do you want to buy it? More importantly, do you want to pay more for the privilege of navigating? Would you like big business and / or government regulators telling you where you can and cannot go? How would like to have your traffic slowed by the fact that the site you wish to visit wasn’t wealthy enough to be in a top, high speed tier?


Those who wish to do away with Net Neutrality are proposing just that kind of Internet.

In this new Internet, blogs like this, like yours might not even exist. The freewheeling Internet, as we know it may, in fact, become history.


Do you like the idea of pay-per-visit Internet?

No?


Join the fight to preserve Net Neutrality.

In addition to the potential death of the Internet, the media reform group, freepress, outlines and advocates change for the media at large. A media, supposedly owned, by the public, but controlled by conglomerates and big business is in need of an overhaul. The charge is for us, the American public, who has and continues to pay trillions, to fight and demand a better the return on our investment.


Go. Read. Act.

Reporter ?

The conversation began as many others before and a few since,
me: hey
eb: hey yourself
me: what's doin?
eb: shame shit different day
Or somthing similarly eb like.

One comment led to another and before you know, wham bam boom, I was putting in for two more of those 2006 vacation days, reserving a car and wrapping my head and arms around the idea that I was heading to Memphis, all alone, to meet up with two famous bloggers and play correspondent in the shadow of The National Conference for Media Reform.

The nervousness exists on several levels.

I've not gone anywhere without one or both of my children. They've left me, flown solo, but never the other way around. I don't have any particular concerns about leaving them to fend for themselves. They are capable adults and are adept self fenders. It is however, a FIRST. Firsts tend to invite nervous knots.

Meeting people for the first time, particularly people with whom you've enjoyed some sort of relationship tends to cause a nervous titter, at least for me. Will they like me as well in living color and I them? Will we click, clank or clunk?

This is my first foray into the public eye housed in the skin of a lesbian. Oh sure, I've been around and about, but I've basically lived the same life after my reveal as before, with a few barely noticeable exceptions. I won't go rolling into Memphis in a rainbow wagon, flying banners touting gay marriage, this is a Save the Internet conference, not a pride parade. Still, at least two people there will see me, know me as a lesbian. How will that feel? They don't know me as anyone else, so there aren't comparisons to make, still, nervous nellie lesbian thoughts abound.

Before filing any reports from the road though, some local reporting is in order. While I've enjoyed the support of both my son and daughter, I still tread carefully when addressing serious topics for the first time.

Michael, in his usual calm reserve asked, why Memphis. I explained about the conference and the meeting with ladies from Texas. He shrugged and went on his way, stopping only to remind me that his photo shoot is on the 15th and I'd agreed to pay the sitting fees.

Dani asked why, when, how long and with whom. I began the explanation. She stopped me mid-sentence, "hey, is this a lesbian thing? You're going to meet those Google Lesbian Buddies," as she calls my few chat mates, "aren't you?"

I hadn't played up that part of the recitation, I didn't think. More questions and answers later, she started telling me first time meeting horror stories she'd seen on any of the several reality shows she follows. I tried to offer her contact information for the GLBs in question, to assuage her concerns. She brushed that away and just asked me to please not spill food on my shirt. I can be a sloppy eater. I told her I'd try to be neat.

Some days later I tackled the toughest tell, mom. My mom, upon hearing any news, peppers inundates the deliverer with questions. A bombardment guaranteed to exhaust and frustrate. Mom doesn't trust the Internet so much assurance must be made that checks were made and care is being employed. She was concerned that I'd be going alone. I explained how I was meeting some on-line friends there. The lesbian connection was not discussed. Mom is not aware such a connection exists. This is best kept for another day. This topic deserves its own platform, its own bombardment.

Never fully satisfied, but willing to move on, mom expressed how she thought it was good I was getting away to do something for myself, finally. Still, she left me with, "I hope those Internet people you're meeting aren't weird."

I didn't tell her that I like a little weird in my peeps.