So It Begins...Again

When can I see you again

When can my heart beat again, baby

When can I see you again

And when can I breathe once again

And when can I see, babe, again

Wanna see you again

Again...*

The wait until the next time. At present that is tentatively February. Could be a small, short trip before then, but then again . . .

The trips are hard. The travel part is becoming easier and in some ways, sad yet routine. This trip down there was the usual: constantly chattering toddlers (& mother, aunt and grandma heading to Tennessee for a family wedding), someone who couldn't quite grasp the concept of the overhead bin door, a chronic (fill: cough, sneeze, wheeze, whine) and a cowboy hat wearer. The return travel featured the oh so routine sit-on-the-runway-30 minute-weather-related delay, the must make 400 phone calls before cellphones must be turned off person, sarcastic flight attendant, the "oh, is this row 7 I thought this was 6" person and the frantic fleeing of patrons trying to make connecting flights. Routine.

Though ecstatic at the thought and overjoyed at the actual experience of seeing, touching and being the the company of Neta I am always sad when our time comes to an end. We are always sad. This time and each time, even more so. This time after I returned we had...words. Many, many words later we are coupled in a different way and though not much closer to shrinking the physical distance, emotionally we couldn't be closer.

Long distance relationships are hard, everybody has told me so. 'Tis true. In general, though relationship are tough, especially in the beginnings and even more especially when you have the extra added pressures of all the coming and going.

Relationships go through phases. The transitions through said phases can be bumpy. Neta and I are able to talk and more importantly, listen to one another. It remains to be seen if, or rather when when we will be able to break through the barriers rooting us to our respective turfs. But at the end of the day we have a deep and abiding love and respect for one another. She is quite simply, my heart and I will move heaven and earth to be with her, always.

*When Will I See You Again Kenneth "Babyface" Edmonds

Buggin' Out

You know what bugs me? Well today most every little thing but on the top of that list is the head guy’s penchant for walking the distance (his office is two doors down) to my doorway to tell me he’s forwarded me an email. In addition to telling me that, he goes on to tell me what to do about the email (note: these emails are almost always from a vendor reporting that our order can’t be shipped because the account is delinquent and wanting to know when payment will be sent).

“….check it out, email {them} and copy me.” 9 of 10 times the payment had already been processed.

1. S O P
2. I’ve been doing this type of work for nearly 15 years*
3. S O P



2nd day back, I really should have taken the rest of the week off. I wish I could have. In honor of the head guy, ::heavy sigh::

*he’s been my boss for 9 of those years. He knows (or should) how I operate. Sheesh.

Up, Up Away

And soon I'll be there with her! YUM! and YaY! and Happy, happy, joy, JOY!

Though I'd rather circumstances were different, traveling to TN gets easier and easier. I always used the same airline, the gates are usually the same (or very close), I generally even have the same kind of plane and my seat assignments (though totally random) have been eerily similar.

I wore this shirt last summer when I visited. On the Tennessee end some guy yelled out, "so, who is he?" I wish I'd said, "I'm sure you wouldn't know her." But I didn't, I just smiled and kept walking toward her because I knew she was there, waiting.

When I visited in the spring I missed my flight. Ayup, missed it. As excited, ready and anxious as I was to go, I was late. I was crushed. Oh sure I got on another flight 3-4 hours later, but still...

I will not miss my flight tomorrow. And to be clear, Neta is in TN and she loves me and I love her right back.

Soon, ah...very soon, I'll be there and we can love face-to-face, eye-to-eye, heart-to-heart.

YaY! and Yum!

Be Still My Heart

. . . well, not still. If it were still then I'd be, well, you know.

What I mean is slow down to, you know, normal. It's been racing you see. As has my mind. Racing with thoughts of being down there. By there, I mean in TN. Not just anywhere in Tennessee, but her part of Tennessee.

She'll be there at Nashville's airport, waiting in baggage claim, standing as usual, at the bottom of the escalator looking up to me with those eyes. The heart and mind will begin to slow and settle immediately upon sight of her. Of that, I am sure.

However, I could use some interim salve, for getting through this day and the next will be hard enough without the vroooooms booming the heart.

These Eyes

...are calling out to me.

Who Needs It?

We have to what amounts to 3 or 4 dates (albeit somewhat extended) a year. These buggers better be gone by Friday, or I'll... I'll... Well, I don't know what, but they just better vanish!

The Look of Love

The look of love is in your eyes

a look your smile can't disguise

the look of love

is saying so much more than these words could ever say

and what my heart has heard, well it takes my breath away

I can hardly wait to hold you, feel my arms around you

how long I have waited

waited just to love you, now that I have found you

don't ever go

You've got the

Look of love, it's on your face

a look that time can't erase

be mine tonight

let this be just the start of so many nights like this

let's take a lover's vow and then seal it with a kiss

I can hardly wait to hold you, feel my arms around you
how long I have waited
waited just to love you, now that I have found you
don't ever go
don't ever go
I love you so…

Upon seeing my frame (with photo installed) mom's only comments were, "Who is Herman Hesse? and That's a nice frame." I related what I knew of Herman Hesse which, to be frank, was a lot less than I now know. I thanked her for her compliment and thus ended that conversation.

Months later she spied some of the shots from Neta's visit this summer, framed and prominently very lived in living room. Mom didn't have much beyond, "those are nice pictures" to say.

. . . and I've totally lost where this post was meant to go, but I do know how it was meant to end:

Neta is prominent on my walls, my mind and my heart. I love the look of her eyes. I love even more what I see beyond them. When I see her I see the miracle that is life, I see hope, I see togetherness and I see joy.

Joy to my girl lady.

The Look of Love penned by B. Bacharach / H. David and performed by nearly everybody.

Miss October

That smile, it flashes and the room, seriously, lights up. Electric, that smile is purely electric. My former slugger is also fiercely loyal, sensitive, compassionate, funny and strong. Stronger than she realizes sometimes. She is incredibly sentimental and saves e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. Seriously.

Miss October, lover of big ball sports, animals, high heels, make-up, skulls and crossbones, Nikes, shoes, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, reality tv, entertainment gossip, cars, trucks, sweet and colorful cocktails, shoes, cooking, creating in th kitchen, horror films, video games, purses, rock and roll, hip-hop, old school, shoes, clothes, clothes and more clothes, family, friends, Diamond, Buttah and even Pete celebrates her 23rd birthday today.

Cheers to the girl woman who calls me mom and thereby making my smile as bright as her own.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Her Name

A friend asked Ellen DeG to give me a wake-up call. She did and I was tickled pink. Thanks friend.

I, in turn, asked Ellen DeG to call Neta (and a couple of others). Ellen DeG had a problem with my request for a call to Neta. "I'm sorry, I cannot say that name." I was given the option to have the call made without a name (boooo) or choose another name. Well, Neta has a middle name so I tried that. Nope. "I'm sorry, I cannot say that name." Well, fudge.

I went back to Neta, spelling it the way it sounds: n-e-e-t-a-h. No go.

I tried n-e-a-t-a. "Sorry, I..."

I thought about trying any one (or all--until accepted) of our endearments for one another. Then I thought, screw it and just went with the message without a name.

Well, double fudge.

I'm inclined to think it was just a glitch. Neta isn't a rare name nor particularly hard to pronounce. Oh sure, some folks might say Net-ta instead of Nee-ta, that would have been acceptable. But unable to say any variation at all? Odd.

Then again, my mom has a difficult time with Neta's name too.

Mom: How is...uhm, your friend, in Tennessee, what's her name?

Me: Nee-ta.

Mom: Oh, I thought it was Net-ta.

Me: No, it's Nee-ta and she's fine. (aside: yum).

Mom: Oh, I thought...well, you know your father's wife is.. Me: Yes, I know, but her name has two Ts, it's Net-tie.

Then, of course, we get on to a conversation about 'dear old dad' which is where I sign off.

Do It

We are approaching the 2nd annual Feel Your Boobies (TM) week. I understand that October has been designated Feel Your Boobies (TM) month. So go ahead, feel free to feel your boobies. And if you haven't already, make time for a visit to the mammomat.

I visited a mammomat week ago Thursday. While I found the mammomat cold and impersonal, the technician was warm and personable. The very vocal technician wanted me to know those were her hands touching me there. She was very good as we only needed one go-round. The entire visit (including registration) was accomplished in under 30 minutes.

Most excellent. Ta ta to mammomat. See you next October. In the meantime, feeling those boobies.

Mermaid, Roosters and Jesus

Minus the dad, one liners and sassy, sexy neighbor, we could have been Good Times. In fact, part of the exterior shots for the opening credits were of our housing project. My painted on smile aside, the times there were as bleak as the concrete floors and as stifling as the cinder block walls.


Though hope was hard to come by, hard to hold, it did exist.


It, the dissolution and destruction of little family unit went into hyper-drive during our 'projects' stint. Not very close when we moved into the projects, (mostly the usual sibling stuff) our time there drove a wedge into us that continues to mar our interactions (what few we share) to some degree. We were, remain, as disparate as the plaster mermaid, wooden roosters plaque and Jesus portrait you see there behind our respective heads.

My brothers both joined gangs, albeit different ones and very little was good from that day until I moved out of the the family shelter some six years later, having endured all the verbal, physical and emotional trauma perpetrated by my brothers and their various crews I could take. I was the "good one" trying with all my might to be all that they weren't and to make that be enough, more than enough. Accepting that my mother couldn't protect me and I couldn't save her, eventually had no choice but to leave them all to their own devices during Spring 1978.

I look back on those times and I recall going with mom to police stations to claim one or the other brother, the many fights, running from the bangers, crying myself to sleep or losing myself in tv programs, books and music. I recall any number of horrors that I experienced first hand, more that I witnessed and even more than I heard about.

Thankfully, remembering what good there was embedded with the bad comes easier as time goes on. My academic achievements, the piano my mother scrimped and saved to rent for me, my joy in playing it despite the teasing I took, the few celebratory moments we shared as a unit, the easy like Sunday morning times we had, like caring for the puppy little brother rescued from a gang banger who thought she too puny to live are but of a few pockets of memories it is a pleasure to recall.

My older brother turned fifty a few weeks ago, the card I sent him went un-answered. But that's ok as that is what I expected. I hope it made him smile. I hope it drove him to recall a pinch of whatever goodness we shared. I hope that one day we three can put that past and that which has transpired since behind us. Hope, it still exists.

Sofia the Beagle

Seriously?

Post Season

When the kids were kids we rooted for the White Sox. D was a softball player, a rather large (as compared to the other girls her age) player with a big swing. She was dubbed "lil Frank" by her teammates. Unlike Frank though, D wasn't just a big bat, she could field the ball. She was awesome at first base, if I do say so myself. But alas, softball gave way to soccer and volleyball.

As a kid I rooted for the Cubs. When I played ball with the other kids my player name was "Billy Williams" primarily because I batted from the left side. I also threw left-handed but was otherwise rigged to pursue the right-hand mind-set.

As adults we (D and me) kinda, sorta root for both teams. We are not big baseball fans but we are fans of the home town teams. M is not much of a fan either. But since he lives on the north side, a couple of miles from the "friendly confines", he has to at least pretend to bleed Cubby blue, especially on game days. He says the atmosphere is insane on game days, Win days.

Both home town teams have made it to the post season. I'm rooting for both for what it's worth, though truth be told I don't want to be anywhere near the city if by some chance they both make it to the World Series. Oh Me. Oh My. I think though, if they both do make it to the big show, Chicago is a shoo in for winning the 2016 Summer Olympic bid.

Big news, yes, but our eyes are also trained on the Fire and we are looking forward to the inaugural season of Women's Pro Soccer ( re-vamped form of the defunct WUSA) next year.

Chicago, it seems is building a pretty impressive team.

The LA Sparks are not playing for the championship and in that case, Go Silver Stars!

Another Cat Tai..Tale

Buttah. deciding that Pete's ears needed attention, tending them with loving care.

The daughter hasn't given up the idea of dressing the cat. However, now she has her own cat to embarrass dress. Someone donated a bag of pet costumes for a variety seasons and occasions to the shelter. Daughter snagged a few items for possible consideration.

So far, only the rubber band ball will wear the pilgrim hat. I'll keep you posted.

Woman's Work

For September's Wordsmith's Challenge: Woman's Work

The drink order was delivered without benefit of eye contact from the morose waitress. The absence of that little bit of familiarity and camaraderie would normally upset this customer. Not today, today is not a normal day. The customer, Dusty, was in a funky mood and the plan was to drink her way to a more agreeable mood, fast.

Dusty Lickliter’s funky mood was caused by her termination. She was fired from the job she loved as the number one taste tester for the Kook-ee Candies and Confections Company. For three years Dusty poured her heart and soul into this job. She never missed a day and she applied for extra hours whenever she could.

Proposed all-day-sucker flavors always warranted extra hours.

There would be no more extra hours though. Dusty was fired. No reason to get up in the morning. Gone was the sniffing and licking ritual that defined tasting. Gone was Lickliter’s joy except for that which she hoped would be found at the bottom of this drink. Well, truth be told, many drinks.

Deep into drink number four, Dusty began to accept that her termination was justified. She recalled the day the Pink Pulse samples were delivered to her cubicle.

Pink Pulse, a new hard candy flavor sensation, was slated for a vigorous round of tasting. Dusty gave it all she had. She sniffed and licked the Pink for five days before finally awarding the flavor four tongues up, the highest praise a hard candy could achieve. Pink Pulse went into production almost immediately, based exclusively on Dusty Lickliter’s trusty tasting skills.

The Pink bombed.

Kook-ee Candiies and Confections lost millions. While the business survived the fall-out, Dusty was not so lucky. She was out, a taster without a purpose. Her tongue was once considered the best little licker in town. That’s all kaput now.

Though content to drown her sorrows in as many of the tasty concoctions the morose but pretty waitress of the garishly decorated restaurant / bar could bring her, Dusty was pleased to have been able to walk home under her own steam.

Checking her receipts several days later, Dusty saw that the delectable concoction she’d been drinking that night was called Pretty in Pink.

If there were such a concept of ‘lucky color’, Dusty Lickliter has decided that the color pink is certainly out of the running as her charm.

Knock On Wood

You’ve had one of those days, I’m sure. You wake to a shining sun. You’re hair is working with you instead of against. You don’t burn your breakfast and the pets manage the morning without too much fuss. Your mind is as clear as your goals for the day. Your very workable things-to-do list will rule the day. You are feeling good, so good you are literally humming on your way to work.

The first hour is good. Your commute is un-eventful, you don’t spill your tea and you’re not nearly killed by a crazed motorist.

Into the second hour is when it starts. Barely half-way through your list, Justin appears in your doorway. Somehow he has managed to erase the system administrator password for the antiquated phone system. Helping him reset and restore kills too many minutes and much momentum. Yet, the rest of your list looms.

You take a break, get some air and eat an apple. After your burps, you get back on the case.

No sooner do you get humping on the rest of the list items, the phone rings. It is your mother. The topic—doesn’t matter, the conversation rips into the next several minutes the way the kids in the neighborhood rip into flamin’ hot chee-tohs.

Then a flurry of minor, mind numbing disturbances swirl around like dumpster flies.

Your last ditch effort to salvage any remnant of focus is thwarted by the ache creeping up your back and deciding to nestle itself at the base of your skull. Thankfully it is close enough to 5 to call it a day.

You head home, done in before you could finish the list which now adds to the challenge for the next day.

However, you’re met at the door by the smiling eyes of one curly haired pup, a sauntering orange tabby and a wary grey one. They all are happy to see you, but they want to eat so they’re happier to see food. You walk the pup, take care of some essentials and prepare your own dinner.

You share a meal of turkey tacos with your daughter who relates the best and worst of her own hopeful day. You talk (by phone) with girlfriend and then your son and then your girlfriend again. They both make you laugh and you feel relaxation taking over where tautness once reigned.

The night ends with you and girlfriend exchanging, 'I love you', giving one another a virtual kiss and you dreaming of her sparkling eyes.

You wake the next morning (much too early) but you know the sun will be up soon. You prepare breakfast for you and the pets. You move onward to the rest of your day. Another shot to crack that augmented list and then some. If you succeed fantastic and if you don’t, well, knock on wood there is another day.

You understand your days can turn on a dime, your well-laid plans melt like ice cream in the summer heat, leaving residue all over your hands (unless you had a napkin). You never seem to have a napkin when you need one. But there is soap and water, all is well.

The day will go the way it goes and then you’re home. You talk with son, daughter and girlfriend. You go to sleep dreaming of sparkling eyes knowing that each day that passes, brings you closer to days without work and with those eyes (and the rest of her).

Knock on wood.

Cel-e-bra-tion

D-dog, Diamond, the diva is seven years old today. Since coming to us a year ago (next week) she has revealed a feisty, sweet, fierce, perpetually hungry, loving, happy, hefty bundle of curly grey fur.

The plans for the day, I think, were to eat, sleep, punk the cats, sleep, lick her paws, punk the cats, sleep, beg for daughter's cheeseburgers (or whatever she decided to have for lunch), sleep, walk, piss, poop, sleep, drink some water, punk the cats, roll over many times for belly rubs and for good measure, punk the cats. She lived in one household prior to being surrendered to the shelter. Daughter scooped her up before anyone else, even before she was deemed "adoptable." She sure knows how to pick 'em. Happy 7th Diamond girl.

As an aside, Syd talked about meat, more specifically BBQ which of course, made me want some, bad. I entertained thoughts of tossing the cottage cheese that was lunch out the window, but decided just to save it for another day. I did go out for BBQ (flavor anyway). I don't go just anywhere for BBQ and there isn't anyplace around work that comes close to being acceptable. There is a fairly new place that I thought might work for flavorful sauciness. I tested them with a grilled chicken sandwich a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't bad, but they could do better by the chicken by upgrading the bun. Wimpy buns bum me out.

Well, I decided today (since Syd was all over meat BBQ) to try their BBQ chicken breast sandwich. Now, the wimpy bun I expected and was willing to give a pass, but the limp lettuce? Ewww

Worse than the wimpy bun and limpy lettuce was the crap-tastic shit swill they were passing off as BBQ sauce. I don't say (or rather write) this often but...WTF? Seriously. I needed 2 cups of water to wash that muck out of my mouth.

I'm going to go brush my teeth now.

Happy, happy, joy, joy to daughter's dog.

Bits on a Thursday

Mom has called every day this week asking about my labs. I had blood drawn on Saturday morning for the routine screenings connected to my routine annual physical. No, I don’t have the results (as of yesterday). “You are very patient”, says she. These weren’t urgent, it is routine. Anxious is her middle name.

I was nearly run over yesterday. Shhhh, don’t tell Neta (or my mom or my daughter). I had a rant all booted up to talk about the dipshit who blew a red light and nearly turned off my lights. I’ve calmed down some, mostly because this kind of thing happens much too frequently. Such are the hazards of walking and pedaling among thousands of motorized vehicles, handled by moronic, inconsiderate speed demons.

Holly sheets!!

A friend of my daughter’s had to swim away from his car on Monday. He was driving down River Rd. when suddenly it became…a river. A mis-calculation had him stranded in the middle of a flooded intersection. Daughter drove out to rescue him, bummed by the fact that Micky D’s was closed. Of course it was…there is a river of water where the sidewalks used to be. He was able to salvage his tools and textbooks (studying to be an auto mechanic) and his teacher says car may not necessarily be toast.

It is harder to be a daughter than a mother. That may not be universal, could just be in my universe. Not, mind you, that mothering son and daughter didn’t have challenges along the way (or still) it’s just that I felt surer of my own steps in those regards.

I got word that dad (& wife) evacuated for Gustav by heading to Georgia. For all I know they may still be there. dad James celebrated his 70th birthday at the beginning of this month. I have no idea what form that celebration took. I wasn’t in that loop.

I broke down and gave a cousin my email address, hoping that maybe we could “re-connect” in some meaningful way. I thought that she, being 5 or so years my senior might be able to offer some insight from the over 50 point of view. A few of her messages so far:
FWD: Guurl I just got my nails did FWD: Men! ! FWD: Prom day in the ‘hood

Sometimes I feel like I sprang from a pod. I am one of them, but I’m not.

Neta’s newest nickname for me is “Detail Deb” as my tales tend to go a little long. Heh!

My wasband took to calling me “chocolate” for a time. Yours truly didn't feel endeared by the term.

Such a Little Thing

If you ask me (or anyone really) for directions and I (or anyone) offer the directions, your response to same is: Thank You or thanks, I appreciate your help or some similar variation.

A grunt, some other noise or worse, nothing at all is not a similar variation.

If you ask me (or anyone, really) for directions and I (or anyone) relate, "I'm sorry, I'm not sure how to get there from here." Your response to same is: Oh ok, thanks anyway or some similar variation.

A grunt, some other noise or worse, nothing at all is not a similar variation.

And if you shove me (or anyone) trying to do, whatever it is you're trying to do--excuse me, I'm sorry or some similar variation is appropriate.

"Get da F#*# outta... "
Well, you know...not a similar variation.

Stimulus Query # 200

Paranoia strikes deep in the heartland

But I think it's all overdone

Exaggerating this and exaggerating that

They don't have no fun

*Paul Simon's Have A Good Time

Nature Au Naturel

Five days is average, normal and . . . ok, acceptable. Even at 48, 5 days is acceptable. Barely.

Nine days is above average, maybe normal but skirting the edge and nearing the realm of un-acceptable. Seriously.

Twelve days, though not the longest I’ve experienced in the past 2—3 years is well beyond average, has tottered over the edge of normal and is quite totally unacceptable.

Always Maxi with wings, I am not singing your praises. You are better than your competition but you leave much, well, let’s just leave it there.

However, it isn’t raining today, I didn’t have any electrical issues or flooding (though a couple of co-workers did), the new barber (I had to get a new one, Norman passed away) did an ok job a few days ago and I am not Joe. Joe lost his job on Monday because he was irresponsible and inconsiderate on Friday. Joe was not pleased with losing his job on Monday. He became belligerent and vulgar. I thought we’d need to summon the police. Joe ultimately left quietly.

To everyone who has suffered the forces of nature this weekend past, here’s to recovery.

Expectation Express

Back in 2006 the public transpo option to / from work nearest my home and work-place went express. Overall I was happy about this service improvement though even after two years, nearly every day someone shouted, "LET ME OFF! I DIDN'T KNOW THIS WAS AN EXPRESS!!"

Some weeks ago the public transpo authority decided to de-express the express (partially). They decided that for part of the route (the longest, most populated part) the bus would make all stops for about a 2 1/2 mile stretch. That's about 20 city blocks (give or take). There are 23 bus stops in that stretch. TWENTY-THREE vs. the 6 it was making as a pure express bus. SIX and that includes the end-of-the-line turn around. Keep in mind that over this same stretch of 23 stops is the regular route bus making the same stops.

Think the express patrons were confused before? 'Taint nothin compared to the confusion reigning now, not to mention the anger.

The route does maintain the express concept for the second part of the trip, making only another 10 stops before it hits the down-town area. I get off at stop number seven. So in theory the bus could stop 30 times (not counting traffic lights and stop signs) before I get to my destination. THIRTY vs thirteen.

Change, it happens. I get that. I adjust. I deal. What continues to burn my buttons about this change is that the patrons found out ON THE DAY of the change. There were no hearings, no notice and no signage along the route until the day of the change. Further, I don't see how they can call this an express bus, when it is clearly no longer express (at least for most of the route). The CSA responding to my emails spouted the company line about servicing the maximum number of customers in the most efficient manner. It was / is my position that this change does the exact opposite.

Partly as a result of this change and partly because I'm working on working in more exercise in my daily routines (more about that later) I found an alternative to the non-express express bus and the elevated trains with all those daunting stairs. I take the on-ground train, but I have to walk (or ride my bike) several blocks to get to the station.

Now and again, I'm not up to the walk (especially in the rain) so I resort to the non-express express bus. This morning was one of those times. This morning there was a public transpo authority service rep on the bus handing out survey forms about this route. Trust, I stated my opinion.

I expect one of two scenarios. 1. the non-express express will be cancelled altoghter or 2. will only run from that 2nd part through the downtown area, which will effectively take it off my service radar.

In either case, I expect that I must embrace walking (or riding my bike) the several blocks to the on-ground train, come rain (wind, sleet, snow) or shine. I suppose considering the overall health benefits of the alternate travel plan, they can take this express bus and shove it.

Veggie Tale

I bought and prepared a small (though not small enough) head of cabbage for the Labor Day meal. The cabbage was at the daughter’s request, but as it turns out due to her drugged out state she didn’t eat that much that day or the days immediately following.

I don’t care for cabbage. I don’t hate cabbage but it certainly is not among my top 10 veggie likes. Son apparently is not a big fan either. Though he ate a healthy portion that day he didn’t take any home. He did, however, clear us out of spaghetti and apple pie.

Yesterday, we finally finished the Labor Day cabbage, re-heating a little for dinner (and even once for lunch Saturday).

My mom stopped over on Sunday. She brought me a container of almost done cabbage and 2 ears of corn (frozen).

On Monday she called wanting to know if I wanted more cabbage. It seems the large head she bought at the farmer’s market keeps getting . . . bigger.

No. More. Cabbage. I respectfully declined the offer of more cabbage.

Then, “well, what about Brussels sprouts?”

The previously delivered almost done cabbage was resting in the freezer.

I respectfully declined the Brussels sprouts offer.

Calculations and the Cat(s) and a Dog

I’ve lived with the two cats and a dog for a few weeks now and I'd like to share a few observations:

Buttah tolerates the crunchy kibble but he goes cuckoo for co-co puffs over the moist food, i.e. cat crack. His fervent mews for moist food time are second only to those reserved for the appearance of human food. Pete likes the moist food too, but much like his response to most everything, he’s… heh, whatev.

Speaking of Mr. Personality his early morning wake-up routine has altered a bit since Buttah’s arrival. He is still the designated waker upper, but he’s a lot less insistent about it. No more leg humping, no nipping at the elbows, no chin chucking. Just few mews, some finger licks and one (or two) trips across the chest or around the head. And best of all, inside of 4 am it’s more like 5.

Buttah, we think, spent a lot of time outside before D found him. That or his previous family fed him human food often. The kitchen is clearly his favorite room and chicken (as in wings) is clearly his favorite, most coveted food stuffs. He calms down once he sees we won’t give in to his performance. It is, quite the show.

Diamond must be policed around any food, especially since her diet. She gobbles hers down and stalks theirs. If left on her own she will push them out of the way and eat their moist food. She pushes them around just on general principal, being the oldest and heaviest. They, however, can leap out of her reach. Still, she’s the big ticket around here, and she doesn’t let them forget it.

At least twice in the last few weeks the three of them got a bit rambunctious in the early morning hours, chasing one another back and forth through the unit, barreling to and fro. The sound my steps freeze them in their tracks, the ‘it wasn’t me’ look plastered to each furry face.

Diamond is a major league snorer. Today, for some inexplicable reason she ate the feather toys belonging to the cats. She may be acting out because of the diet.

Buttah pees like a racehorse and hair ball? It’s more like hair log.

Daughter. October. Twenty-three. Hmm, Not

If daughter got this cake for her birthday celebration, she might be put off cakes forever.

Check out some other wrecks.

It Is Time

. . . or hail to those * who wish to be chief.


*not my creation. appears to be making the rounds via emails.

Before the Weekend Update

Remember the break-in a year plus ago? Well there has been a development. Lead detective Unzngr came over last night to discuss the development and the possible next steps.

The development: The state lab has completed the fingerprint analysis. Finally, a suspect has been identified. This suspect has a very extensive arrest and conviction history. A ‘rap sheet’ they call it, one as long as my arm, the detective relayed.

In fact, the suspect is currently serving time, convicted a few weeks ago for retail theft. The detective notes that though the suspect was sentenced to two years, he’ll likely serve half that, even less depending on the state-wide convict population.

The file will be delivered to an assistant district attorney who will look at the evidence, statements and reports toward deciding whether to charge the suspect. The ADA might send the detective to question the suspect. However, lacking witnesses or any other physical evidence, coupled with the non-recovery of the stolen items, a charge is not likely.

I’ll have to be ok with that, mostly I am, for outside the occasional heart-wrenching thought of what might have happened had daughter awakened to find the suspect in our home….the episode has been pretty much laid to rest.

And oh, the suspect is not my younger brother. Of course, I have no way of knowing if my brother's path ever crossed that of the suspect. They both seemed to have spent a life-time criss-crossing the state, visiting one correctional facility after another.

Buggin' Out

You know what bugs me? Well yes that too, but also this:

A company I've known for a couple of decades as: Joe Friday Company* has changed their name to: Friday Company, Joe

A customer is charged sales tax. They know that they are exempt from same, they just need to provide documentation (an exemption certificate) which they do--with their payment. Instead of deducting the tax from the payment and asking us to credit the transaction to even, they pay the tax, ask for a credit and then a refund for the overpayment.

Our order processing software does not identify billing documents as invoices. The software issues order numbers instead. I stamp every order document meant as a billing document, submitted for payment: INVOICE PLEASE REMIT Additionally, every document has a message center. The message center has the following statement: PLEASE PAY BY ORDER NUMBER / INVOICE. REMIT "BALANCE". Customers call to say they can't find the invoice number on order number 123456A.

Save a heart attack Ain't nobody humping around Happy Wednesday.
~B. Brown

*an example for illustrative purposes only.

Connect

A life-line, for I’d be lost without certain telephone conversations. In a former life I detested talking on the phone outside of work and I did it only as needed to conduct business, shore up plans or obtain information. It was not my socializing tool. With rare exception, still isn’t. Two of those rare exceptions are my son and Neta.

In addition to talking with my son frequently via telephone, I also see him every few weeks. And though I miss seeing him more often I know that we could visit more as he is merely a couple of commuter train rides away. In theory we could have lunch as often as our respective schedules allow. That understanding is a great comfort and lessens the intense loneliness for him I might feel otherwise. Besides, he’s “out on his own” and that makes me happy.

It is different with Neta. She is my lady love and we are working toward being together 24/7. But right now she is 500 miles away and seeing her takes planning, commitment, money and optimally, vacation days. And though we talk on the telephone every day, two, sometimes three or more times a day, I do get lonely for her, very lonely and often intensely so.

During those intensely lonely times, even the telephone conversations don’t seem to provide the salve needed put the loneliness to rest. I try masking the feelings when we talk because I don’t want to bring her down with me. I try fighting or minimizing the feelings by throwing myself into tasks at hand; taking my daughter to have a boil drained, assisting my mom with . . . whatever, the yard and condo association business, studying feline interactions, not to mention dealing with all the additional hair and poop, just to name a few.

Though all these things and more require action, demand my attention and for a time even take my mind and soul from realm of despair, a nugget of emptiness remains. Time though, does heal. Planning helps hurry the utterly desperate times to go on their way. As the days pass, the day for our next visit looms larger and appears fogdog-like on the horizon.

When I break through the haze the sheer joy and happiness felt by knowing she is IN my life and that her feelings for me mirror that which I have for her rests on the other side filling me and pushing me forward.

...here’s my number and a dime, call me anytime.

Skyy

Think Again

We (me and Neta) have had a few conversations about my conservative taste in clothes, over and under wear. I don't deny favoring comfort and function over style. I prefer slacks over skirts and dresses. I prefer plain shirts over frilly blouses. I prefer pockets, nice deep pockets. I prefer flat shoes. Actually, I can / will only wear flat shoes. She's decided that I should break out of my box (so to speak) now and again. I don't totally disagree and as luck fate would have it a new catalog arrived in the mail yesterday.

I don't, however, think any of these selections quite fill the bill.
At least not for day wear.

. . .there's sumpin' 'bout your love that makes me weak and knocks me off my feet. S. Wonder

Laverne And Dion

During my child and teen years mom held very few ‘regular jobs’. We were on public assistance. She got money, food stamps and a medical card cover our basic needs. It was hardly ever enough.

To supplement the meager income my mom sold things when she could. As she was ‘sick’ much of the time ‘when she could’ was not very often. Still, when she was up and about she worked at home based merchandising.

There was of course the grand poobahs of home based business, TupperWare, Avon and Mary Kay. Mom also dabbled with lesser known entities to distribute sexy lingerie and ‘adult’ themed candles. And then there was Empress Pearls.

Mom gave Empress Pearl parties. There was food, drink and a tank for the ‘oysters’ containing precious ‘pearls’. Guests played games to win a chance to dive for oysters. The idea was to sell them jewelry for whatever ‘pearls’ were scored. As I recall.

In addition of offering food and drink, mom also offered entertainment.

Entertainment came in the form of Laverne and Dion, the last white people in the ‘hood’. They were a mother / son duo who sang, danced, told jokes and executed basic feats of magic. Mom met them in a bar she frequented, performing for beers and loose change. Laverne was in her late 50’s, wore short flippy skirts, blouses with ruffles and white moccasins. Think a younger, slightly less made up, slightly less psychotic Bette Davis as 'Baby Jane' Hudson and you’ve basically got Laverne. Dion, in his early to mid-twenties was studying to become a clown. He wore plaid shirts and always smelled of pickles. Think Weird Al Yankovic without the glasses, longer, greasier looking hair, scruffier presentation and you’ve basically got Dion.

They were . . . something.

Mom paid them with whatever was on the menu, usually fried chicken (or fish), greens, cornbread and of course, beer.

The Empress Pearl business didn’t last long for a number of reasons, not the least of which, very few of mom’s guests could justify spending what little money they had on ‘pearl’ earrings and necklaces too many times, and her pool of new suckers customers was very small.

But while it lasted those parties were scream riots.

Oh. My.

Happy Monday

Stop at McD’s for coffee on the way to work
Me: medium coffee, 1 cream on the side please.
Cashier: I’m sorry, what?
Me: medium coffee, 1 cream on the side.
Cashier: sugar?
Me: No. No sugar, just one cream.
Cashier: You don’t want sugar?
Me: NO. Please, just one cream
Cashier: Soooo no sugar?
Me: NO just one cream on the side.

He takes my money, goes to pour the coffee, adds the lid, and passes me the cup. I wait for a few seconds to see if he’ll go to the cooler for the cream, he does not and so I ask, yet again, for the cream.

There was a similar incident at the local sandwich shop today. After supervising the construction of my sandwich (you want it grilled? No. No grill? NO. You don’t want it grilled? No. I slide on to the cashier to finish:

Cashier: Anything else?
Me: Apples and water
Cashier: You want chips?
Me: No, apples and water
Cashier: You don’t want chips?
Me: NO apples and water.
Cashier: Ok, you get that from cooler.

Moral: make your own freakin’ coffee and lunch at home, especially on Mondays.

Aside: A customer ahead of me at McD’s ordered 14 sugars for his coffee. If I had to have 14 sugars to make my coffee palatable, I’d drink soda. Maybe that’s just me.

It's in the Air

It's exciting and new, come aboard....



OC over at Bear's Mountain has passed this honor on to me and I pass it on to all of you who read here and elsewhere, those of you who take the time and make the effort to comment and especially those of you who post your own thoughts, dreams, desires, tips, photos and more.



Love to love you. Cheers!

One Week

Distinctive tone:
Me: Hi son
Son: Hey, hey howzit goin’?
Me: Pretty good, how about with you?
Son: Good. Good. Soooo, frying pork chops, pretty much like frying chicken?
Me: Yep, pretty much.
Son: Cool, thanks. ~~he goes on for another hour or so with stories about work, auditions and friends. He signs off to finish the chops & prepping the rest of his dinner.

A couple days later, distinctive tone:
Me: Hello son
Son: Hey. Hey. Howzit goin’?
Me: Pretty good, how about with you?
Son: Good. Good. Sooo…how do you make gravy?
Me: ~~I’ll spare you the deets, suffice to say, I tell him.
Son: Cool, thanks. He goes on for another hour or so with more stories about work, the audition, fellow actors and former classmates. He signs off to relax by watching “Weeds” (a recently discovered, new obsession) before hitting the hay.

A few days later, distinctive tone:
Me: Hello son
Son: Hiya, howzit goin’?
Me: pretty good, and with you? How are you?
Son: Good. Good. Tired, but good.
Me: Glad to hear it, the good part. Not the tired.
Son: Soooo Labor Day, you going to barbeque?
Me: No son, I don’t have a grill. Remember?
Son: Oh yeah, soooo you cooking?
Me: Uhm, no, I hadn’t really planned on cooking.
Son: Not even spaghetti?
Me: Well, I guess I could.
Son: Fried Chicken?
Me: Sure, I could fry some chicken and maybe make up some potato salad or cole (or broccoli) slaw.
Son: YESSS!!
Me: And you know, that pie is still here (apple, frozen) from Independence Day.
Son: Yes, I know! He might be drooling, not sure. Soooo, you’re cooking?
Me: Yes, I suppose I am.
Son: Cool. Cool. ~~he goes on for another hour or so with more stories about work, the audition (still no word, what’s up with that?), a particular (different) former classmate, his dad and shared that one of his co-worker’s proclaimed that he’d make a good husband someday, to which we both nod (I’m sure he’s nodding or maybe shaking) me in agreement, he not so much, but, sure…ok, maybe. He makes signing off noises but not before confirming that yes, I am cooking.

I say my good-byes but not before suggesting that perhaps he could bring a dish to share.

We sign off to some hearty laughter. Well, at least the pie will be gone, finally.

Gold and "The Boys"

With Abby out due to an injury I didn't expect the ladies to make it to the gold medal game, let alone pull off a win against the extremely quick, tenacious and physical arch rival, Brazil. Cheers!!

The Boys, as they have come to be known, are getting along famously. Buttah tends to take a more submissive stance in during their wrestling matches but it is clear he is no pushover. Pete, never able to get the drops on Diva Diamond, he's enjoying the power, even if it is fake.

Pete came to us one year ago today. Since then he's made a nuisance of himself, himself known what with the leg humping, midnight crawling, 4 a.m. cat calls for feeding (or whatever) and any number of his annoying amazing feline feats. Since then he's been pushed around by a short, stout, curly dog and has been able to mix it up with the orange eating machine*. Since then he's celebrated a birthday an has been able to avoid being dressed like a taco doll.

Since then he has allowed me to hug him so long as I don't hold on too tightly or for too long.

Since then he has become one of "the boys" though they are still out numbered by us girls.

*Buttah EATS much, but not for much longer. It's not a diet, it's a lifestyle.

One Hundred Foods

. . . you should? eat. Sassy asked and so here's my list. The foods I've eaten are in bold. Some of these I've not heard of before and now I'm intrigued. I still might not eat them after I learn what they are, but at least then I'd know what it is I'm not eating.

1. Venison
2. Nettle tea
3. Huevos racheros
4. Steak tartare
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho
13. Peanut butter and jelly sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries
23. Foi gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce le leche
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi (mango lassi and sweet lassi)
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects
43. Phaal
44. Goat's milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worl $120 or more
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald's Big Mac Meal
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S'mores
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs' legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings or andouillette
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost or brunost
75. Roadkill
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting meno at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88.Flowers
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue mountain coffee
100. Snake

Loop-de-Loop

There's a mirror moving inside my mind

Reflecting the love that you shine on me

Hold on now to that feelin'

Let it flow, let it grow, ya, ya

My heart is on fire

My soul's like a wheel that's turnin'

My love is alive

My love is alive, ya, ya, ya

My love is alive

My love is alive

My love is alive

My love is alive

My love is alive

My love is alive

My love is alive

last verse, refrain from Gary Wright's "Love Is Alive"

Way Back When

For my birthday this year mom gave me photos, mostly of me. Many I didn't even know she had, just as many I didn't remember ever striking the pose. Some of the photos were copies of those I'd given to her some years prior. Mom's been purging, giving away photos, trinkets and other boxed evidence of lives once lived.
I started drawing and painting more, thirty-four years ago completing my first year in high school. A favorite teacher talked me into entering art and craft fairs. Lo and behold I won a few. Mom was there for at least one award ceremony. She came with me once to the Art Institute and from that moment on, she deemed me, "weird."

Daughter asks, "was that a velour shirt?" Indeed it was and while don't remember this the circumstances of this photo, but I do remember that shirt. No doubt it was a hand-me-down from someone, though not my older brother because I was bigger. Mom framed this photo as if daughter needed any further evidence of my lifetime geek-dom.

Twenty years ago I was twenty-eight years old with a young son and even younger daughter. Though un-raveling day by day, the seams of marriage held for nearly another decade more. Besides the joys experienced by being an active participant in the growth of aforementioned son and daughter that decade yielded little in the way of bliss. It was probably the most troubling of the four I've spent in this here life. The three years between 15 and 18 were no cakewalk though.

As you may have guessed looking at the photos has kicked up a dusting of memories. Some good, some bad, some vivid and some a tad fuzzy. The memories and the photos sparking same are evidence of a life once lived, for better or worse, it is the way it was.