This was a day, not THAT day, but . . a day

Some days. Some days. Some days defy description
understanding.Some days scream for a re-wind button, or better yet, delete, or at the very least a re-booting.

One day you'll look back on a day like one of those days and you'll frown, you'll shudder, and you'll be thinking thank goodness there weren't more like that in the mix.

Some days: Finding Her Here*
I am becoming the woman I've wanted,
grey at the temples,
soft body, delighted,
cracked up by life
with a laugh that's known bitter
but, past it, got better,
knows she's a survivor--
that whatever comes,
she can outlast it.
I am becoming a deep
weathered basket.

I am becoming the woman I've longed for,
the motherly lover
with arms strong and tender,
the growing up daughter
who blushes surprises,
I am becoming full moons
and sunrises.

I find her becoming
this woman I've wanted,
who knows she'll encompass,
who knows she's sufficient,
knows where she's going
and travels with passion.
Who remembers she's precious,
but knows she's not scarce---
who knows she is plenty,
plenty to share.

is just what is needed to shake the crap of some days, renewing for the next, hoping, expecting better. Some days are indeed better and some others are simply, the best.

*Jayne Relaford Brown

A. F. D*

The current (or previous?) slogan for the Chicago Park District is, "come out and play." The warmer weather has afforded Diva dog the opportunity to embrace the slogan. We live somewhat near one of Chicago's impressive parks. On the warmest of the recent warm days, Dani took Diva (Diamond) to the park for change of pace.

In addition to the squirrels and small birds she chases on her usual walks, she has been able to scamper after large birds (ducks, geese of some variety) and hope for a second that she might catch them. In the beginning she was confused that they didn't fly away, they escaped into . . . water. This, I think, was doubly troubling.

I haven't been to the park with Diamond yet. I usually ride my bike to (and around) the park (remind me to tell you about my mishap near the waterfall area footpath). Diamond is usually driven to the park as she isn't the most focused or direct route walker, as a general rule of thumb. One day, when it is very much warmer, I'll walk her there and perhaps then, there will be photos of her with the big birds. Or maybe just her. And the big birds.

*A.F.D--all fall down, in reference to one recent adventure of mine. Remind me to tell you all about it.

Let's Hear It For The Boys

My Our boys are not outside cats. And as they live theirs lives indoors, they very much welcome the warmer weather bringing open windows. As you know, they both adore sitting upon the sill, soaking up the sun.

Of the two, Buttah is more interested in investigating the outside, apparently still remembering is outside romps. He scampers to either door at nearly every entry or exit by any of the human occupants. We don't use the back door all that often, but when we, or rather I do, I must be extra vigilant toward keeping him away as the back door gains him instant access to the world as access through the court-yard out back. He got by me once, be he wasn't swift enough to escape my clasp.

Some nights ago I dreamt that he had escaped via the back door. He was out and down the steps in a flash, which further proves that it was a dream. Buttah is . . . not quick. I was shaken for several minutes as he'd gotten out of sight. I called and called into the open air. There wasn't any sign of him or any tingle of his jingling tags.

Horrified, I scrambled down the stairs, scanning the area searching for a ball of orange. Growing more and more anxious as the seconds turned into minutes which felt like hours, I began to think about which pic of him would be best to post on a "LOST" poster. My heart begins to race as I see . . . orange. Around the corner ambles a ball of orange fur, excited but not wanting to scare him away, I softly call him toward me. Closer and closer and then I see, it isn't Buttah. It is another orange cat which from a distance resembles my our boy. This fella appears friendly enough and he continues to advance toward me. I wait so that I can check him for tags, wondering if I should come inside to grab any one of 3 carriers. Deciding against leaving, the alien orange is nearly at my feet.

Just as I bend to make friends with him, out from the shadows I hadn't realized existed popped Buttah, mewling his trademark rolling, nasally purrs. He looks up as if to say, "look what I found, can we keep him?"

At which point I wake up, get up to re-check the doors, windows, and the number of cats in the apartment. Ahhh, only two. . . both looking to barrel through the bedroom door clamoring for breakfast in just another hour. Buttah follows me back to bed, I let him hang with me for that next hour.

The cat I didn't want has become the cat I can't imagine a day without.

Lunchables

baby greens with grilled chicken, red and green sliced apples, dried cranberries, candied walnuts and blue cheese perfectly complimented by sweet onion dijon dressing

Sounds delicious. Trust me, it is. Or rather, was.

This is another round of randomness because I just can't seem to wrap my head around much of anything else (not work related). Bummer, yes . . . I know.

1. Are you the sort to wear white elegantly, with ease and grace? No, me either. Today, hi-ever, I've chosen to wear a white shirt. Don't fear, I didn't get any of that sween onion dijon dressing on my white shirt. Hi-ever(2) it is only a $3.00 t-shirt (relax, I'm wearing a jacket too) so I wouldn't be too upset if I didn't happen to dribble, as is my usual custom.

2. So have you seen the ads for KFC's new double-down? Looks and sounds positively . . . typical. I know I won't be trying it, how about you?

3. I don't know if I've mentioned this before, likely not, but I stopped wearing . . . oh, never-mind.

4. And speaking of food, I had occasion to expand my sushi experience. I couldn't tell you what the dishes were called, but they were all delicious. I suppose next time I'll inquire as to what was ordered.

5. My skin is responding positively (for the most part) to my treatments. I have made an executive decision to stay away from acidic foods and beverages, especially tomato sauce / paste based products. Which bugged the bejeebus out of me when daughter had the little place all lit with lovely bar b que-y aromas, via some new sauce she was trying out. Hmpf.

6. My mom told me a while back that she thought I'd become more out-spoken in recent months. I'm still mulling that over.

7. We are on tap to have some fairly decent weather over the next few days and I'm going to try to be out enjoying same, as much as possible. I have the yard yet to tackle for (really) the first time this season / year.

8. I don't need an alarm clock to wake up on time in the mornings (2 cats and a dog clamoring for breakfast take care of that well enough) but I am (recently) needed something to get me up. Working on that, whatever that is.

9. I am 5 pages from being finished with my latest read. 525 pages down, 5 to go. I've had this book checked out of the library long enough to elicit multiple terse e-mails from them. Yikes!!

10. I'm betwixt and between deciding among two events scheduled for May 1st. Technically, both are possible, but not realistic to think both can be attended in well enough spirit to fully enjoy. Coin tossing time. Maybe.

Chicago Spring. Really? Yep.

Spring is nearly twenty days gone but blustery winter is reluctant to let us go. Folks talk long and hard about the long and hard winters we suffer here in the city of big shoulders and rightly so. But even more conversation worthy are the unpredictable and spirit zapping springs.

Snow in April is probably more rare in actuality than it seems. But I, for one, always expect a kind of last burst of winter, that is to say very cold blustery days and even sometimes, snow. It seems as though we are in the midst of that right now. Cold, under 40 degrees, hat, coat, not quite gloves, cold start to the day today. Blustery winds, some rain and perhaps even a spot of snow. Ahhh, Spring.

Hopefully this burst will be short-lived. The forecast is for sun and upper 60 / lower 70 degree temps for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. It remains to be seen if the winter burst we are experiencing now is the last for this Spring. I, for one, hope that is the case.

p.s. My second article was published today. Thanks to Lori for the opportunity and for all the support, especially over the last couple days. It is great fun to not only write but also to be in the company of some pretty awesome folks.

photo credit

Random Umbrealla Style

How big is your umbrella? Does it cover just you or is there room for two? Three? Is it colorful? Does it make a statement? Or is it non-descript? Basic black, utilitarian? Are you always sorry you forgot it, or always please you remembered? How many have you lost to high winds? Shoddy construction? Have you ever pretended to be Gene Kelly (or GK-like) and sung in the rain? Do you follow the suggestion to leave your umbrella open to dry? Do you do a slicker / umbrella combo? Just the slicker? or just the umbrella? How many umbrellas do you have? One in the car (or each vehicle)? One at work? Several at home? Do you think you have umbrella karma? Is it good? Bad? Do you believe that superstition about opening an umbrella indoors? Is an umbrella something you give absolutely no thought to until you need one? Have you ever bought an umbrella based on the color of your coat? shoes? car? horse? cat? dog? snake? bird? Or anything? Have you ever seen someone carrying an umbrella you thought was totally wrong for them? Have you heard this: "If April showers bring May flowers, what doe May flowers bring?" Pilgrims. Big Guffaw? or Big Snooze?

image snagged from here

Generational, Relations

My childhood was rife with family gatherings. All family, aunts, uncles, and cousins would descend for most every holiday to the home of the matriarch, Big Mama. My mother socialized with the younger third of her siblings and we in turn socialized with their children. There are hundreds of photos of all of us crowded in my grandmother's kitchen, living room, or yard, in celebratory unison. We weren't as close as the photos would have you believe. That fact that we, for the most part, dispersed after Big Mama's death, bears witness to that fact.

My children were rarely privy to the extended family celebrations and relationships I experienced growing up. There were some, prior to Big Mama's death (one month after Easter 1989) and a handful after, but mostly, gatherings meant us (and now and again, a trip to visit their dad's family). Sometimes (oft times) I think that is a good thing, but sometimes I can see how they missed (perhaps a vital) aspect of growing up.

Having Michael back in residence and spurred a lot of memories and certainly much conversation. I've been thinking how different things would have been had things been different.

But, then I think what the hell, let's just enjoy what is to the best of our ability; celebrate the moments of our lives, whenever. Whatever.

Fire Ants

I should know better. Seriously, I've been dealing with this stuff my entire life. Actively, directly since my mid-teens.

The outbreak from October subsided some, made a couple less invasive returns over the winter months, but was mostly under control. My skin, though showing some discoloration from the recent attacks, appeared to be mostly on the mend.

Until the tomato sauce incident.

I consumed a meal with a tomato sauce base some weeks ago and the next day felt as though my skin was being chewed from the inside out . . . by fire ants, I've decided today. I didn't trust that it was the tomato sauce, because over the years I'd thought I'd developed a certain resistance and it wasn't that much.

Well, a couple days ago, I did it again. And again, itching now into the second day, though not as bad as yesterday, is still pretty aggravating. And though, feeling much better today I still must wash, rinse, and re-salve my face every hour to keep the fire ants at bay So, it's official. It's was the tomato sauce.

My outbreaks have been (historically) food based, specifically, citrus. I've avoided lemons, oranges, limes, grapefruit and products containing those items, flavors as well as products containing citric acid. Tomatoes in and of themselves have not been a problem, but tomato sauce and tomato paste, have been. One year I went to dinner and ordered (& devoured) a most decadent lasagna. The next day I had to leave work for the outbreak was that severe. I rubbed my skin raw, all over. It was horrible.

My tolerance changes over the years. I spend weeks, months, avoiding certain things, then consuming formerly taboo items, in moderation. I've been enjoying a return to having an occasional (some weeks more than occasional) lemon, lime, and grapefruit. I've had lasagna since that infamous outbreak and a number of items containing tomato sauce (though I'd continued to avoid tomato paste) with no incident. It appears my tolerance is changing, again. For the worst.

Not only am I being sent around the bend over the tomato sauce I consumed, but I appear to more prone to suffering the skin-crawling heebie jeebies over seeing peeling paint, certain repeated patterns, not to mention crawling, flying bugs, just to name a few things. Just typing that, having the image inserted in my head, made me itch and twitch, just a tad.

I do so hope ALL of this is another temporary affectation of my life-long allergy. It would really blow to have to give up tomatoes and tomato based products. Not to mention being unfazed by (or maybe even, less fazed by) that which is fazing me much. For now, until I'm completely clear skinned, I'm staying away from all things tomatoey, acidic, and and otherwise triggery. Or at least, I'll try.

I really should know better. I've been dealing with this my entire life.

Are You Into Women?

Though a seasoned urban walker, I was not precisely prepared for the query posed by a pan-handler yesterday. There I was, walking along Michigan Avenue, minding my own business, taking in the sights, watching people, and thinking; thinking about the art I just saw, whether I should walk through Millennium Park or just along, and where I should have a late lunch, early dinner.

Though a seasoned urban walker, I was still taken aback a bit by the guy's question. A stumbling, stammering (it was clear what previous donations financed) Q & A later indicated that he wasn't so much interested in my sexuality, well, actually he was (as he'd admitted to looking for a soul mate, ostensibly to entice me to consider . . . ?) but he hadn't presumed I was a lesbian. He was looking to determine if I, the feminist he apparently had presumed me to be, would be amenable to giving him, a man, a donation.

At least that's what I surmised from the bits and pieces I could understand, for as I say, the back and forth wasn't exactly lucid. He walked with me for a block or two, our disconnect arriving just as he began asking about my church affiliation.

The seasoned urban walker continued south down Michigan Avenue, still thinking about where I might take in a meal. I began to chuckle about the various people who'd approached me, the snippets of conversations I heard and those I participated in. I began pondering the relationship between lesbians and feminists and vice versa.

Then of course I returned to thinking about being into women . . .

Head vs. Body

5:00 A.M

Head: Hey, it's 5:00

Body: Shut up

Head: No, it's 5:00 (am)

Body: We're giving it until 5:15

Head: No, it's time to get moving, now.

Body: SHUT UP. 5:15, give us 15 minutes.

5:15 A.M.

Head: Hey, it's 5:15

Body: Shut up.

Head: You said 5:15. It is now 5:15. Shake a leg.

Body: Feet are ready, the but knees are balking. Give us 15 more minutes.

Head: No, you don't want to get the slacker reputation. You need it rock n roll. It's time to, "get up and at 'em". Come on, let's gooooooo!

Body: Shut Up. 15 minutes. That's all. Just 15 more minutes.

Head: Oh, all right. 15 more minutes, but you'll be sorry. If you don't get to moving now, you'll have to double-time. That . . . Body: SHUT UP ! ! !

5:30

Head: ::sing song voice:: Rise n Shine. Good Morning. It's 5:30.

Body: Shut up.

Doubt

While the collar has restricted some of her movement, it hasn't dampened her spirit (too much). She still seeks to "body up" Pete as often as possible. Their sharing the recovery blanket is a pleasant turn.

I doubt this sudden closeness will remain after the collar is gone.

But, we'll see.

An uncle died last week. I attended his funeral was today. It was a typical affair, a coming together of family from near and far. Full of amens and alleluias. As is usually the case with these affairs (at least in my family) folks are full of promises and proclamations.

I doubt . . .

Well, we'll see.

I hope some of what was said, comes to fruition. It'd be nice and my Uncle Daniel would be pleased.

S P R I N G on Hold

Sixty to snow in a single day. Happy first day of Spring. Not.

Hi-ever, not to worry. Spring will arrive, eventually. I have it on good authority. I met a woman a couple of weeks ago who, determined to force the issue, decided to stow away her boots and wear only light jackets. She talked with me about being convinced this action would force nature to see things her way. I'm sure to her mind, today (& tomorrow) are merely blips.

Ok, maybe not good authority, never-the-less, spring will arrive, eventually.

For me the blip spells time indoors. I was going to get going on some spring clearing / cleaning type projects this long weekend anyway. The weather blip spells no guilt about being in rather than out as well as eradicating any possibility of being distracted by the sun and warm temps.

That doesn't mean I'm not distracted by other things, but those things are not germane to this post. The point is getting on with a number of projects. For instance, one bike to de-commission and another to prep for action.

Spring will arrive, eventually.

Oh, For The Love of Ivy

A couple (maybe three) weeks back I made mention of some kind of weekly feature. Well, it didn't happen, not really. So there. . . . this was going somewhere, I know not where, now.

Anyhooo...

Margaret called today. Margaret is a vendor representative. Margaret got me reaching, screaming really, for the end of the day at 10:00 a.m. Margaret repeated herself repeatedly. Even after I made it perfectly clear that I understood. I got it, her company screwed up, my company was harmed (a bit) by that screw-up, she thought she fixed it, but didn't, and is trying to fix it now. I'm not mad, just fix it, move on, and GET OFF THE PHONE. I got IT 45 sentences ago.

Moving on . . .

Can you read and walk at the same time? Not billboards, street signs, and the like. But the screen of your device (a phone is no longer a phone, don'tcha know) for instance. For that matter, can you walk and manipulate your device at the same time?

I can't. I have to stop moving. Not always to read, but certainly to type. I'm not annoyed that I can't, I'm annoyed that those who can and who do don't watch where they are going and as such are annoying as they tend to walk erratically thus creating a need for creative sidwalk navigation.

How annoying is it when folks have music, pod casts, or whatever playing from their device on the bus or train and they don't even bother with the headphones, ear buds, whatev; never mind the inadequate private listening devices, but to eschew them altogether?

Yeah, that annoying.

On the positive tip, today is my Friday.

YaY.

Sweet K I S S

To honor the day and in anxious anticipation for the season to come, I've gone green. I'm drinking green tea out of my leafy mug, ate a slightly green banana, and will have some salad greens for lunch. I'm not wearing any green unless you count the stripes on my panti...ok, tmi.

The header name change thanks to Maggie, per her comment in my other Irish post.

Daughter's planning Orange Chicken (not homemade, frozen) for dinner. I'll have to plan something else for myself, that option likely has too much sodium for my taste and sensibilities. I'm still considering the possibilities.

Whatever happens for dinner, the after dinner treat will be whatever Irish beverage currently on hand. Given the son's taste, it will be a shot of Jameson, (I would have linked, but the site declares my DOB invalid...I must be of legal drinking age to enter... hahahahahaha, lovely) his current fave. We, the son and I were just having the "carded" conversation.

And on that note, Happy O'Humpy Day.

whereas, pursant, therefore

1. Ok, I am an idiot wrong eyes

2. loosely translated: I wore the wrong glasses to work

3. There is no RIGHT day to wear the WRONG glasses. But, of ALL days, Monday is the worst.

4. Not counting repeated phrases to the cats, dog, and my mother, I can count on one hand the words I said aloud yesterday.

5. The folks in my office have a lot to learn about cleaning up after their microwave explosions.

6. The female who works for the owners other business washes her hands like a 4 year old, judging by the water spray pattern she leaves behind.

7. Hi-ever, it could be worse.

8. Part of me is hoping that there will be some of Sunday's dinner left.

9. For my own sake, part of me is hoping not.

10. . . . got me going in circles, round and round, I go

Dear Miss Flo,

You will have to forgive me for not using the more familiar “Auntie” title, but I’m not feeling all that charitable toward you these days. Let me say right from the giddy-up that it isn’t anything personal, it’s just that, well, WHY ARE YOU HERE?? Again? So Soon? And more stridently, STILL? What, did Frances in Kansas fete you with tainted beef?

I don’t understand. Last year you were sparse, nearly to the point of being rare. I was giddily hoping (again, nothing personal, mind you) that I’d seen the last of you. It HAS been a long, long time. Still, I remember your first visit as though it were yesterday. THAT was a day filled with mixed emotions. Boy/Girl, Girl/Woman, what the fuck, who the fuck? Mom seemed thrilled until it truly dawned on her what your visits really meant for me, “her little girl.” Her trying to watch me like a hawk kicked into overdrive that first summer.

I was barely eleven. All I wanted was to jump rope, play ball, and ride my bike around the world.

Now understand, there were some reckless days in my very late teens, early twenties when I wanted nothing more than to see you EVERY MONTH, like clockwork. I welcomed you with open arms, prepared a nice comfy spot to stay. You were kinder, gentler then. Hanging out for 2, 3 days tops and then on to the next assignment. It was, to my mind, the way it should be.

But ever since I hit forty-five, you’ve been on some kind of rampaging tear. I don’t remember who recorded that song, “Heavy Fallin’ Out” but that’s exactly what I feel like many of months. And yes, you have eased up the throttle a bit, and even disappear for months at a time. And then slam, bam, ma’am, DAMN, there you are again, not like clockwork and not at all welcome.

Flo, I’m a stone’s throw from 50 years old. FIFTY! And while some women my age may be holding on with clenched fists to their woman-hood, still feeling the want, desire to re-produce, please HEAR THIS: I AM NOT ONE OF THEM Don’t get me wrong, I love being a woman and I loved being able to give birth (well, maybe not the actual child birthing part, that shit hurt—but the idea, and certainly the reality of the actual child) not once, but twice…and for all those who want, but can’t, my heart goes out to them, but I am not that woman. The factory is closed, out of business. Or if you prefer, closed for re-tooling.

I know it is nature and I confess, I should grin and bear; that when the time comes to cease, you will. But, I just don’t feel that charitable. I want you gone. Today. And if not today, make this visit the last. I beseech you. Don’t make me call Frances!

Regards,

Deborah

Four, He's A Lovely Fellow

When Pete first arrived on the scene he spent a lot of time writing or at least deeply expressing his desire to feel a part of the writing process. Or just part of whatever. I'm guessing his desire to write was fueled by his questions.

Questions. He had (has) plenty of questions. Not of least of which I'm sure revolves around diva dog, since he happens to be her favorite humping candidate. Well, actually, only since Buttah won't let her anywhere near his . . . well, she doesn't get that close to him. I gather Pete doesn't understand that one whit. And so, questions. When Pete isn't writing (or eating, sleeping, pooping, drinking, licking himself or Buttah, being humped by the dog) he's contemplating.

He spends much time contemplating, for there is much to contemplate. Still, I think Mr. Pete (Peter, when we're feeling formal) is satisfied, dare I say, happy? to be here with us and while he may not have been the happiest camper on the grounds when diva dog and the Buttah boy came interloping into his quiet place, he's pretty much accepted his role as prince tabby number one. We are all (even Mike--since Pete pretty much leaves him be--Buttah, that's another story) are pretty happy to have Mr. Pete here with us.

Happy Birthday (#4) Mr. Pete a.k.a. Shawshank

Come On Over

Come on go with me, come on over to my place Sorry, having a T. Pendergass moment there. Memories, not all bad. Ahem, moving on . . .



Some time ago I made mention of having to write a bio for something I'd talk about later. Now is later. My pal Lori got with some of her pals and together they created a place, a sensation, a Gayborhood. A Gayborhood that is bright and pretty, fun and informative, warm and inviting. And I'm not saying those things because I'm part of it. Well, I am, but not just because. :)

Without getting all mission statement on you, one of my reasons for blogging was to improve my discipline and diligence with regard to writing. I've always enjoyed writing, but it also has been mostly a private affair, a way to excise the mutterings in my being. For the past few years, I've wanted, needed more. And so, have been seeking and taking some advantage of some opportunities that filtered my way.

It is an honor to have been invited to contribute to the 'hood. A few of the other contributors I know and enjoy via blogs, many others I didn't know prior to O B Gayborhood, but am finding everyone a joy to read. So, come on over, come on over to our place.

Live Blogging Sunday

7:00 a.m. Pete, Buttah, and Diamond cry for breakfast

7:05 a.m. Pete, Buttah, and Diamond scarf breakfast.

7:06 a.m. Pete and Buttah still scarfing, with Diamond sniffing and grunting, rushing them.

7:08 a.m. Pete and Buttah relenquish their claim on their respective bowls.

7:08 and 10 seconds a.m. Diamond finishes whatever remnants they left.

7:09 a.m. thru . . . . well, still sleep, snort, poop, drink water, sleep, snort, lick each other, sleep, nibble, snort, sleep, snort, lick each other, sleep, eat, poop, sleep, sleep, sleep, and

sleep some more.

Oh, and play, but mostly, sleep.

Re-Visit, Re-Vise

As you may recall your plucky (plucky?) Middle Girl began a quest at the beginning of last year. If you're interested in that journey, click: here. That post links to the related posts along the way. Also that post notes plans for moving forward.

Well, this post is here to tell you, shit happened. Oh, I was doing fine and dandy. Eating my sensibly put together meals, getting some exercise, and shedding a pound here and there. . . moving right along.

Then, blam. slam. flim. flam. winter. And what I feared would happen, happened. I stopped moving (so much) and starting eating more (and less sensibly). Spending more time inside has had a direct affect on my waist-line.

Of course, I can't blame it all on winter and being indoors (there were other issues, but still...) I saw it coming and should have been able to build the reserve, strengthen the resolve to solider onward. But alas, I didn't. It's on me, quite literally.

So, here I sit at the exact weight I was when I started the quest last January. And I'm here to tell you, 1. I'm annoyed and 2. I'm beginning again (The Quest 2010). Effective immediately.


Much like the 2009 Quest, the 2010 version will feature sensibly sized portions of figure friendly foods and beverages, as much physical activity as the heart and knees can muster, and an attention to stress triggers and a concentration on relief that doesn't involve food or other less than constructive acts. I enter Quest 2010 with a fierce, ferocious, nearly feral attitude. I'll need it to 1. begin immediately, what with the still 20 degree morning / overnight temps and 2. sustainability. I have to keep this motor running well through December, at least.

I'm planning to schedule my annual physical for later in the year. I'm hoping the desire to visit the doc many, many pounds lighter, with bp well in check, and cholesterol readings well under warning levels will provide enough incentive to power through November.

I have a proven track record and I'm not concerned about the ability to lose the weight once I focus, but sustaining that through the long, cold, dark, power sucking winter . . . well, that's proven the challenge.

Well, here I go. . .

. . . and the survey says

I've been guaging things on by scales lately. It's probably an offshoot of all the surveys I've been participating in lately. Or maybe it's a by-product of all the new juggling, rationalizing, and prioritizing I have to do at work now-a-days. Or maybe it is the result of the extra home stuff due to the extra person and re-adjusting to having a six foot tall man who was once my little boy, with his pizza and chocolate frosted doughnut penchants tormenting me every other day.

Whatever . . . every question, every issue, every thought is run through a numbered meter. On a scale of 1 to 10, how . . . etc. I probably always did, think in (& make decisions based on) scales, or degrees. But for some reason lately, it seems louder, or more obvious, or . . . something.

So, I thought I'd make it a feature, a device. Features are fun, yes? Yes. A weekly feature. this week's theme, annoyances.

On a scale of 1 to 10: (1 being, "heh, I'm oblivious to your stuff, doesn't annoy me a'tall" and 10 being, "oh for the love of Ivy! Please STOP NOW!!")

How annoying is / was:

1. the lady on the train who cracked her gum so hard and so loud that I thought she was breaking walnuts. 10

2. forgetting my ip*d shuffle at work twice in one week, leaving me more vulnerable to events like (see #1) 7

3. my downstairs neighbor who came home inebriated (again) and couldn't talk his front door into just opening for him (again). 8

4. the vendor who called to ask why we / (I) short paid an invoice (again) and I had to explain (again) that we / (I) deducted for a product not received. 6

5. my brother(s) especially, the younger. 9

Feel free to play along, share, vent, or whatever. I'm all ears, or rather, eyes.

My Hands, Our Hands

I haven't been wearing gloves a lot lately. As I was leaving mom's the other day she asked, "do you have gloves?" I do, several pair in fact, but I haven't been wearing them. I find I don't need them as frequently. My tolerance to the cold, how my hands feel in gloves, how having gloves on make it difficult to retrieve my bus card, so and and so on, being among the reasons I generally pass on donning my gloves, lately.

The downside is the effect the wind and cold have on bare skin. Can we say dry? I'm prone to dry anyway and with the eczema (though these days it is looking more like psoriasis) adds kindling to the fire. I must stay moisturized. Even more now that I haven't donned gloves much lately.

Anyhoo...I was looking down at my hands during one of my commutes in recent days and I saw an unfamiliar, un-settling sight, my mother's hands hanging beyond the cuffs of my coat. My mother's nearly seventy year old hands. Though, admittedly, if you were to look at her hands, heck, look at her, you likely wouldn't peg her to be nearly seventy, but I know what lies beneath the surface. I know the pain (physically and emotionally) she endures each day. I know the frustration she suffers as she works to maintain her independence. I know that each crack and crevice invading her once smooth skin is the result of decades long battles.

I know.

And now, I see those hands on me. Mind you, they only surface when over-dry and exposed to the elements. But still, they are there.

My hands are strong, still. My mom's are weak. My fingers are straight and relatively nimble (practice, practice, practice). Some of mom's are curved due to arthritis and not as sure as they once were, "please excuse the errors" she types at the end of all her notes. I can't think of mom's hands without picturing dad's. I know he has at least one curved finger also. His due to a gunshot wound suffered many, many years ago.

I think about our hands. I look at the long, strong fingers of my son and of my daughter. I wonder what shape their hands will take over the years. How different they are even today. I wonder how their eventful lives will reflect in their hands. Will they one day see my hands hanging out of the cuffs of their coats?

Thinking about my hands, my mom's and subsequently, dad's hands, and those of my son and daughter, put me in mind of my grand-mother's hands. My maternal grand-mother as she is foremost in my memory, and closer to my heart. I think about her hands, folded over and under one another as she surveyed whatever issue brought before her. Those hands, they were very, very strong nearly to the very end. I remember as her hand was placed under the sheet in the final moments of her final day.

I remember being able to take her hand in mine to say good-bye, one last time.

The flash of memory and the thoughts that tumbled forth, puts me in the mind to be mindful of my hands, and to treat them, well, better.



*image

A Beautiful Day

It’s a good thing I don’t have a window in my office / work space. The sun shone (or at least it was shining every time I got up to pe… well, got up) all day today. I could tell by the temperatures in the office (and the weather gadget on the home page) that it was very warm as well as sunshiny outside. It would have been even harder to concentrate on work today.

Today will likely wind up being the best day over the next several, but by mid-to-late February standards, the next several will still be pretty good days, provided the current forecast holds true.

Good news, which brings me to my point, being outdoors.

I am not outdoorsy in that hiking, camping, wind-surfing into your life, kind of way. I’m an urban girl, a pounding the pavement, walking, running (not for awhile now, but at one time), and biking (on solid ground) kind of girl. I like being outdoors in that way. Over the last few years I have even enjoyed rooting around in the little piece of earth in the front of our building. I won’t go so far as to say I’m a gardener by any stretch, but I have had some success and have enjoyed the fruits (though technically, I haven’t planted any consumable items—yet) of my labors. Neighbors have approached with praise for the effort.

I smile, nod, and thank them kindly.

It is still a long way from great, but as someone told me recently, your garden is never done or something to that effect. I’m looking forward to getting back into the mix. So with that, I’m eagerly anticipating many more sunshiny, warmer temps, melting snow, and getting out in the yard weather.

Whip It

Where O Where does a three day weekend go?

Two words: LUNCH NAP

In either order, but usually it wound up, lunch and then, nap on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday. It was marvelous.

Hi-ever, after lunch on this Mon Tuesday, I am craving a nap. Point of fact, I needed a nap even before lunch, but now....yaaaaaawwwwwwwnnnnnnnn.

In other news . . .

I'll have to get back to you on that.

Meandering (2)

The two only because I've post titled Meandering and oddly enough it started out being about Pete, too.

Pete is going to be 4 in a few weeks. I was looking through my photo files and 1. there are a lot of photos of Pete, Buttah, and Diamond. 2. there are a lot of photos of Dani and to a lesser degree, Michael, unless it is them together. 3. I wondered if somewhere along the blog way I mis-stated Pete's age. Per the photo labels, tags, it looks like I made him three in 2008. But no, I checked the posts and each correctly reports his age, two and then three, respectively. In a few weeks he'll be four. We'll talk more about him, then.

For now, I'm struck. I have to write a short bio for something I'll talk more about later. Whenever faced (which isn't all that often, but still . . .) when such a request I'm always struck, well, stuck by what and / or perhaps more importantly, what not to say. Or perhaps even more, how to say whatever this is to say.

I have been meandering around this assignment much of the day, stuck in neutral.

Ideas?

forty-eight, twenty-eight, and three

The seventh of February is my younger brother's birthday. This year he celebrated birthday number forty-eight. I saw "Up In The Air" recently and there is a line (or situation) where George Clooney's character is confronted by one of his sisters and she says something like, you've been gone so long, so much, that you are of no consequence. That sums up the relationship with my younger brother (both brothers in fact). The younger brother's existence is more often a subject of conversation because he's closer geographically and he has children with whom I interact. But, mostly, in my mind, he is of little to no consequence.

The eighth of February is Michael's birthday. This year he celebrates birthday number twenty-eight. He, of course, is of great consequence. As you know, if you read the previous post, he moved back home recently. He became a casualty of the economic downturn. But, while it is very crowded, all is not dire. He's is working, he is acting (or rather, right now understudying) with the prestigious Steppenwolf, he is continuing to audition, network, and make all the right moves. Raising a class to my first born: Cheers! As fate would have it, Michael shares a birth date with his favorite cat, Buttah. Mr. Puss n Boots celebrates his third birthday on the eigth. I kid about he and Michael being best buds. Michael is not a cat person, and most decidedly not a Buttah person. Buttah though, LOVES Michael. Of course, Buttah loves everybody, especially if they are eating. Which come to think of it explains why he angles to be all over Michael. Many days have been bracketed by the phrase, "too many pets here" and most now and again, "I like that cat" (referring to Pete) "he's cool, he's laid back, he doesn't even make that much noise, but that one, he's a pain."

Hi-ever, I think Buttah is wending his way into Michael's...well, maybe not his heart, but certainly being seen as less of a pain as days go by.

Happy birthday boys, play nice.

It's Been One of Those

First off, it's been a year. And for the most part, I am better. Not necessarily happier, but better. We do talk on occasion and we declare our undying friendship. In reality it doesn't feel alive, like it's thriving, but it is there.

Second, there is no new love in the midst. I've met some wonderful women (the best, already in committed relationships) and have had some good times. I have some budding friendships and that is good. To be fair I haven't felt much like dating in that sense, well, until recently. Now, all there is to do is to find her, woo her, and . . . vice versa.

Third, when I say no new love in the midst, I should add . . . anymore. Well, it really hadn't gotten to that point yet but seemingly some potential for something more than friends. But whatever was, might have been seems to have fizzled, faded, moved on-ward to other endeavors.

Fourth, it's probably just as well.

Fifth, it's been a year and then some.

Sixth, hey, did I mention my son moved back home? It is temporary. It is crowded. It is hectic.

Seventh, diva dog is in an E-Collar . She has a thing (yes, medical term) very near her eye that is somewhat inflamed. She's on meds to bring the inflammation under control. After two weeks of meds she will have the thing removed.

Eighth, it's been quite somber. She is . . . sad.

Ninth, I inadvertently locked my son inside the apartment. He felt so strongly about behing late to rehearsal that he jumped (ok, climbed) out of the window.

Tenth, this one day after leaving rehearsal on a gurney on the way to an ER after having thrown his back out.

Eleventh, Lumbago diagnosis and a handful of prescriptions followed him home.

Twelfth, We (or rather, Daughter) is fostering a shelter cat. His name is Chaplin and NO, NO MORE PETS!! He's sick and wouldn't eat at the shelter. The hope is that he'll eat in more comfortable surroundings. Apparently we will, has. I feel for the little bugger, but NO!

And speaking of NO...the New Orleans Saints are IN the SUPERBOWL. And yes, I'm rootin' for them. I don't have a personal stake per se, but some friends do and, well . . . GO SAINTS, MARCH ALL OVER THE COLTS!!!

Finally, it's been a year. . . talking, laughing, loving, breathing, fighting, fucking, crying, drinking, writing winning, losing, cheating, kissing, thinking . . . dreaming.*

Being. Evermore.

*portion of "The L Word" theme.

I'd Blame It On the Rain

. . . if there had been rain. But no, only snow. Well, not even snow until today, just cold. Tomorrow is my second meeting of the Queer Writing group. I'm to come prepared to write, or with anything I've been working on, or . . .

And I'm blank. I haven't been working on anything, I can't seem to string together more than two coherent thoughts on any subject let alone stitch together any kind of creativity. The organizer offered up a prompt for those (like myself) who might need an umpf. Write about your favorite cartoon character. Create a scenario with them, a dialog between you and them.

Nothing.

Comes.

To.

Mind.

NaDa.

There was a nugget of an idea weaving around Betty Rubble , Wilma Flintstone and their coming out party in the party room of the yOni Spa.

. . . and then nothing. The thread just lies there, resisting any effort to work itself into the fabric of a tale.

So far.

Maybe something will materialize by 7:15 p.m. Wednesday, February 3, 2010.

And Oh, BTW

1. Just to clarify, I wasn't riding my bike when I wrote of the traffic scare. I don't ride in the winter, into fall maybe as long as the conditions are favorable, but not winter. Biting winds, snow, and ice aside, I just don't have the gumption to fight those elements and a-hole drivers. Being a pedestrian is trying enough.

2. I think I must have Spidey sense when it comes to cat puke. I hardly ever step in it, which of course means I've just sealed my fate and I will suddenly start finding all the puke with my feet first.

3. Buttah is the more prolific puker. Just thought you'd like to know.

4. The here-to-fore missing partner to the other pair of leg warmers has been located. I wasn't overly concerned as I had a pretty good idea where it was hiding, it was more a matter of getting down to the bottom of the hampered laundry. Still, happy dance ensues.

5. Mom asked, "how's your social life . . . going?"

6. I do not recall ever, ever before hearing that question from her before. And speaking of, it's going . . . slow. Which is fine as there is other stuff going on now filling up the days. By night, I'm pretty spent. Still, I'm doing the meet-ups, have had some pretty dandy ones of late and a few prospective dandy ones on tap.

7. I signed on to a number of groups, only a few of which have fairly regular activities planned. Schedule, dollars, and location dictate which activity I can manage participation. None (so far) have netted any dating prospects, but then I'm avoiding the singles meet-ups, or rather I have avoided them. I may be ready for those sooner rather than too much later.

8. And speaking of, I'm not much for the what are you looking for? conversation, revelation. I mean, I know in terms of qualities in a woman that appeal to me and I know the conversation must be had, but . . .

9. Anyhoo . . . Buttah puked on my bed a couple weeks ago. That was a first and hopefully a last, though I won't bet on it. And yes, I saw the puke before I felt the puke. And speaking of Buttah, my wake-up call was mister bumble buns knocking over the remnants of the night-capping beverage.

10. End of random update.

And oh, by the way, the pic of my leg feels like a first, but I don't think it is. Maybe.

A Thought

Losing one glove

is certainly painful,

but nothing

compared to the pain,

of losing one,

throwing away the other,

and finding

the first one again.

Piet Hein, poet and scientist (1905-1996)

Which is one of the reasons I have so many single socks. Oh, I know the other part of the pair is gone, I just don't believe the sock partner departed. But, I also know that I must come to terms with that and either do away with the remaining sock or find something useful for it to do.

Which brings me to leg warmers. My leg warmers to be more precise. I have two pair. I've had them for some time now. One pair has gone and gotten itself separated from her partner. I'm fairly certain the separation is on a trial basis. Or at least I hope so, I rather like them together. I think they make a perfect pair.


The second pair is a quandary. One of the two is perfectly fine. She stays in the up position through-out the day, requiring very little in the way of adjustment. She is stoic, that one. The other is not. Somehow, somewhere along the way she's lost her elasticity. Or rather, some of her elasticity. I pull her up over the knee and before I know it she's puddling down around the ankle. Outside of that little quirk she's perfectly fine.

What to do with the one leg and one (now) ankle warmer? I've grown quite fond of them as a pair and I like them well enough individually as well. Quandary.

One thing I do know for sure, no decision will be made until I am sure, absolutely certain that the other pair will come back together, or rather has come back together.

One other thing I know for sure, the one warm(er) and one cold(er) leg sensation is rather odd.

Special, Special Day*

Mostly I like my job. Not like as in it fulfills any burning desires (except of course earning bux to pay bills). But it is an ok job, usually. If I had to put a finger on what I like most it would be that there is variety. I am charged with a number of different tasks for the (now) two (soon to be three) companies owned by Mister Eff.

The various responsibilities make for full, sometimes hectic, and frustrating days.

If I had to put a finger on what I like least, that would be people. Not all the people, but those who do things that defy logic, my logic anyway. Like the person who received a fax from me had a question or concern about the data in said fax. Instead of call ME like the cover letter asked, he called my colleague in NY who hadn't seen the fax, knew nothing of the fax, nor any of the information outlined in said fax. The fax was to correct a Soc. Sec. number for one of the employees. I had the employee print the WRONG number and the CORRECT number as ask that the records be adjusted to reflect same. I'd asked for a new W-2 for this employee. I got a call from my colleague, who reported that payroll service rep didn't SEE any difference. When I called him he repeated that to me . . "I don't SEE any difference."

He read the number to me: 355-xx-xxxx (wrong number) 335-xx-xxxx (correct number) and said, "maybe it's me, but I don't see any difference."

Yes, I told him it was him...3 5 5 versus 3 3 5. Oh, he says.

Or the people (vendors) who call seeking payment on an outstanding / past due invoice. I ask for the invoice number in question and they say, "oh, wait, hold on, let me look. that. up." Look it UP? You called me, and you don't have it there IN FRONT OF YOU???? I have to WAIT while you fumble and bumble around your computer (which is always moving "sooooooo slow today for some reason") of course to find an invoice you called me about? Oh, joy.

Most days stuff like that doesn't bother me overmuch. After so many years I've grown accustomed to certain . . . types. But, today . . . on this most special day, I got a bit miffed.

A little late, I know . . . but go appreciate a squirrel. Then again, it's never too late to appreciate a squirrel.

*according to them.

DAGNABBIT

Driver A was in the right lane of a two lane roadway, travel in both lanes, west-bound. Driver B was in the left lane 1/4 car length behind driver A. *I* was standing on the median between the service drive and the 2 lane west-bound traffic, waiting for traffic to clear so I could continue crossing the street(s).

It is just beyond 5:00 p.m. so traffic is heavy and near the intersection where I'm waiting to cross the street stands a Montess*rri school, parents and care-givers double parked retrieving youngsters, buckling in youngsters, admonishing youngsters, bribing youngsters to get in the freakin' car. It is a rather congested intersection at just past 5:00 p.m. I know better than to come this way, but I was taking this different route home and had forgotten.

Driver A and driver B ride along (I pick them up two blocks away) nearly side-by-side, with driver B fading behind ever so often. As they get closer to the intersection where I am waiting to cross the street(s) and where all the double-parked, blinkin' flippin' youngster activity is going on, something strikes me. I don't know what but before I could could think about what I see driver A veer to her left, prepping to make a left turn from the RIGHT lane. She nearly clipped driver B who veered to her left, right toward where I was standing on the median between the service drive and two lanes of west-bound traffic they were traveling.

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!! That would be me.

Horns blaring, middle fingers raised, traffic stalled, Montess*rri youngsters, parents, and caregivers paused to take note of possible horror.

I've been hit before, it hurt like a sum-bitch. And like THAT time, I was holding food in my hand, well, in a bag. Though, unlike that time it wasn't fried chicken from the colonel. It was 3 lbs. of ground beef and six cans of cat food.

My life didn't flash before my eyes. What flashed was that I was likely going to lose the ground beef and maybe a couple of the cans. Not to mention being laid up for a while. Shit. Fuck. Damn.

Hi-ever, I didn't get hit this time. Thankfully, driver b had just enough distance between her and A and possessed enough skill and instinct to avoid being hit and hitting someone namely, ME.

Thanks much to driver B and her skills.

Driver A can go suck it.

image cred

BLAST

Judging from my hair, it had to be the 80s. It had to be after Michael and might have been before Danielle, but it was definitely the 80s. I wish I could tell you I'd gotten caught in the rain that day and that's why my hair appears a big, poufy, matty mess. Buuut, that might not necessarily be the case. My hair was often a big, poufy matty looking mess. Unless I was braiding it, I had not a clue about my hair. I toyed with the idea of cutting it all off then, and in fact, I did, once. My husband had a conniption.

The more I think about it, this HAD to be before Danielle.

A woman I worked with back in those days was always taking pictures. Problem was, she was usually very slow to get them developed. As a result, many of the pics she snapped were rarely seen by the subjects.

We haven't seen each other in over twenty years and haven't (until recently) spoken in nearly as long. She contacted me some weeks ago and we played catch-up. She said then she was working on a project related to the photos from that time. Today is my first look at many of the photos. Today is my first look at the photo shown above.

Looking at some of the photos, it's amazing how many of the names came fluttering back to my mind, folks I hadn't thought about in years; Donald, Pat, Beverly, Earlene, Wanda, John, Mac, Ted, James, Suporn, Allena, Ann, Georgette, even Paulette H. Paulette's nickname was Hard n Nasty, which was a play on her last name and a description of her personality (mean, yes I know) and of course Nora, the photographer.

Even more amazing than how my mind called up most of the names and attached them to the right faces was THAT waist, THOSE hips. Oh Mah Goodness...

PEACE

he was killed April 4, 1968. he was 39 and if he were alive today, he would have just celebrated his 81st birthday.

most of what i know about martin luther king, jr. i read or saw on television after his death. i was seven when he was killed. i hadn't heard much about him prior to that fateful day in april. he was busy leading his crusades and while news of some of that filtered through via adult conversations, i was much too young to take much notice. that day in april changed what i heard, saw and my relationship with the information.

the whole of 1968 was hot. my parents were in the midst of making up to break up moves only to break up for good in 1968/9. after dr. king's death parts of chicago went up in flames and more, the outside volatility surpassing the inside for a time.

my most vivid memory of that time, outside the images of the burned out buildings, debris strewn about the streets, and the televised images of police beating back the rioters is that of my older brother standing side-by-side with me, facing a full-length mirror we had in our foyer.

i remember him taunting me, "i can go outside because i'm white and you're black!" i remember my mother slapping the taste out of his mouth and telling him, "fool, you just as black as she is!"

it feels weird to say happy mlk day, when here in 2010 there are still debates as to whether or not the election of our current president signals a post-racial america, where the race of our current president is even a topic of conversation or more disturbingly, a point of contention. it is my belief that we won't be beyond race (gender, or class) issues in this country, at least not in my lifetime. i cling to some hope that i'm proven wrong.

i am happy that he lived, that he dedicated and gave his life for the advancement of people, for equality, for . . . peace. i am sad that after all his words and work, and the words and works of so many others (before and after) that we are still fighting for the ideals on which this country reportedly built. . .

. . . liberty and justice for ALL

Six Points

Weekend Wordsmiths prompt from a couple of weeks ago. Any resemblance to any creatures large or small is purely coincidental.

Six points. That's all that separated my sweety, Grace from victory. Six lousy points. That Grace wound up on the wrong side of the six points is surprising in and of itself, but more to the point is that Grace being on the wrong side of six points doesn't bode well for me and the evening's plans. Well, my plans. Instead of the victory dance (read: sex) I was tuning up for, there will be angry recitations of the flow of the game gone wrong. Grace will review each move, each strategy. She will obsess over the loss, she will gnaw and pick like a dog with a bone. She will not be cajoled, she will not be wooed. There will be heat, but not in the way I desired.

Six. Lousy. Points.

Grace hardly ever loses, for this I am grateful. She is the most competitive person I know, the most competitive person I've ever met. Grace accepts challenges to play a game she'd never played. Upon accepting a challenge to play a game formerly foreign to her games repertoire, she studies and practices until she acquires (in her view) the skills of a seasoned veteran. It seems to work for as I say, she hardly every loses. Grace expects to win every game played and her sore losing is nothing compared to her boisterous winning. And while her public victory lap is a bit embarrassing, the private one is most welcomed.

I don't know what happened tonight, but I will. I will hear over and over, ad nauseum just where the tide turned. Grace will refuse to let it go, she will keep me awake with her, she will ask me to quiz her, practice with her, she will complain that her opponent cheated, she will deride herself for being too tentative, for playing it safe. She'll continue deep into the night until she is too exhausted to keep her mouth shut or her eyes open.

When I think of the night I could have, should have just scream . . .

SIX LOUSY POINTS!!!

Best Laid Plans

There was an event last weekend that I really want to talk about, and I will. Buuuut, my head has been mush much of the week. What with temperatures well below freezing (except for today) long, tedious days of proofing our annual catalog, along with my usual tasks, putting out some teeny fires, and so on and so on and so on . . . it has been an early to bed, too early to wake, thrash around for an hour or two, slam back to sleep, only to slog myself awake with just enough time to shower, dress to make it to work on time kind of week. Holding to the one drink minimum has been a test. Truly. I passed but I'm wondering, if I forego any drinks for the next couple days, could I double up on Saturday?

This evening I thought would be the evening. I thought tonight I'd be able to put into words the event, the fun, the, the . . . well, words are failing me because while searching for energy and inspiration I fumbled upon this little home decor idea . . . And it's giving me the heebie jeebies, the willy nillys, the itchy witchies . . . gotta go.

Could Be Worse

No amount of cat crack could entice either of my boys to take up the cause, but prehaps it was just as well, given the work-out factor and all. Shoveling snow first thing, as a before work activity is not my favored way to ring in the day, but it had to be done. It is, as they say, what it is.



Still, it could have been worse, they were predicted upwards closer to 12 inches, I think we wound up with half that, if that. We're not out of the woods yet, more snow is on the way as well as colder temperatures . . . nothing like the Dakotas though. Damn, that's beyond cold.

If it has to snow, I hope it does so overnight. I'd rather shovel in the morning than during the day, or later in the evening. Except of course, I'd rather it not snow over this night as 1. my shoulders are still a tad sore over this morning's shoveling and 2. I have an early morning appointment to braid some hair.

Speaking of which, I should be in bed and as soon as I finish my (one drink) wink eb, I'll be off.

Toodles.

Writing

Happy 2010! I'm curious, are you saying, twenty-ten, two-thousand ten, or something else? Are you still writing (or typing) 2009? I've slipped once, oh ok, maybe twice. I have to write (or type) the date multiple times during the course of an average work-day (especially at the beginning of the year when I am one of a few charged with proofing the catalog we publish annually) so it doesn't take too long to get acclimated. I'm pretty much well into two-thousand ten.

As for resolutions, know that I'm still endeavoring to shrink (more). I am in need of some motivational brio if you were, in that regard as I dumped the walking group (at least for a now) having nothing at all to do with the cold weather, though admittedly, that does factor into my work-out attitude. There are other areas of my life that were / are in need of re-shaping and some of that began last year as well. Those starts remain active, some of which I may have talked about here (or was that only in my head)? At any rate, know that I'm resolved to keep on keepin' on. I am, as noted in my bio a "work in progress." Process, progress.

Part of that work is to focus on writing and other artistic endeavors. Beyond this blog and my personal (actual pen / paper) journal, I'm feeling a drive to not only create, but to share said creations. To that end, I participated in a writing workshop in November with these amazing folks. (If you have time, money, books--give, 'tis a worthy cause). I also joined a couple of writing focused groups and a local visual arts group. One of said writing groups will meet-up tonight. We were given 3 prompts* and we could choose to write about one or all to share, get feedback. I'm anxious and nervous. This is my offering for tonight:

The First Time


Though not planned, it wasn’t a complete surprise. IT was the culmination of weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds of flirty conversation, highly charged innuendo and in-between some real getting-to-know-you chatter. Some weeks after we met on-line, hundreds of email, text message, and telephonic exchanges later we decided it was time to meet in real life, real time, face-to-face.


Some small talk crackled with nervous energy peppered the ride from the airport back to her home. Stopping at a convenience store for chewing gum was a maneuver to mask the nervousness that had filled the car to the point of near suffocation, I am sure. Some of the tension was indeed relieved with that stop, allowing that time and space for each of us to breathe, to settle.


A short time later, we arrive at her home where she had prepared a snack and wine chilled. We sat, ate and drank a bit, and engaged in more conversation. Talking, not a problem from day one. However, there was no flirting, no innuendo, but real talking. Real, getting-to-know-you exchange of ideas, thoughts, and even some dreams . . . still, it was clear there was a little bit of fear, a bit of apprehension.


Her query couched as a challenge of sorts, "you’ve never even kissed a woman" said it all.
Though not planned, it wasn’t a complete surprise. ‘Well, there isn’t any time like the present’, was my reply. Despite the spark of excitement, the initial move in was tentative; the merest melding of lips, the softest of touches, lightest of tastes . . . kind of a test.


She leaned into me and I into her in a way to suggest we’d been moving together for a long time. Our verbal compatibility translated almost immediately to our non-verbal engagement. Still, there was a slow build, a constant checking in, a need to know that all was well, all systems go. But once status clarified, the kiss, or rather a series of deep-to-light and back to deep again, kisses resumed.


We touched, hands to hands, hands to face, lips to lips, lips to nose, ears, and fingers. Not to mention, tongue-to-tongue, a tasting that exceeded all expectations. Damn the wine! Damn the chips and dip! Bring on more of that vanilla, tinged with a hint of cinnamon spicy sweetness, that are the flavors I associated with her. She was the richest dessert, the most coveted treat.


Though not planned, it wasn’t a complete surprise that on that first time meeting, we would kiss, touch; hand to hand, lips-to-lips, and before all was said and done, heart-to-heart.

*The prompts: 1.Sit in a public place and listen to the sounds. What feelings do they elicit?
2. Describe your first kiss. 3. Talk about some weird/strange family member

At least two of us wrote about first kisses and oddly enough, not first kisses, but first woman-to-woman kisses. But given the name of the group is Queer Writing Group, not odd at all, I guess.

Five Hundred and Seventy

In lieu of looking back or ahead, let's just look at now, shall we? Or in other words, random shit.

• I was soooo wrong about the point of the "anxious to talk" lunch with mom.
• Odd, when I mentioned it to daughter (welcome back to her, btw) she hit the nail squarely on the head.
• The question, "are you particular about dating preferences?" came after the soup, before the chips.
• My daughter went on a trip for a week, giving me (a little) taste of what it will feel like to live alone--with two cats and a dog, except that when I am the only human, there won't be so many pets. Maybe.
• When it is soooo cold, cold(er) doesn't feel colder, it just feels cold.
• I like love chitlins, but I won't buy or prepare them, ever again. Thankfully, a co-worker shared his with me this year (well, last).
• I'll be 50 years old this year. 1. WoW And 2. I've decided (among other things) I'm done fuddin around with my hair, except of course for keeping it closely cropped.

At least, that is how I feel today.