Happy Feeling

" . . . from deep in my soul I wish you Happy, Happy, Happy . . . " 
The weekend, meaning "the holiday" was quiet by design.  No big family gatherings. No mountains of bar-b-que and potato salad. No fuss and very little muss. Just me, the cats, the dog, M (though I didn't know he'd be around all weekend) and D. Quiet. Relatively.

It was bliss.

Well, except for the few anxious moments I spent looking for my Gopher , certain that someone had stolen another one, chiding myself for leaving it outside and really detesting the thought that someone IN the building took it. Sigh of relief when I located it in the special place I'd chosen to store it, to keep it safe(r).

And then there was the lost ip*d shuffle. I don't use it everyday. In fact, since Brin went down I've used it rather sparingly. It dawned on me one day last week that I wasn't using it (mostly) because I couldn't find it. Then of course I couldn't rest until I found it. I set out on the search, all the usual (i.e. bookcase, by the computer, in the everything box) no luck. On the verge of despair (oh ok.  it wasn't ALL that tragic, but still . . . ) I plop down on the bed to confer with Molly McBear and voila, I see the shuffle gizmo peeking out from under the bed. Mind you this is the other side of the bed. The table on that side holds my phone charger, blood pressure machine and log book, a portable cd player, mini speakers, and a small stack of music discs. On the rare occasion I have an active dream or a the less rare restless night (for some reason other than dreaming) I smash into an item or two on that table and it crashes to the floor. Why it didn't dawn on me to give the are closer inspection is a mystery for the ages.

But, those events (I won't mention seeing baby brother at mom's) aside, the weekend was quiet and in a word, blissful.

Partly due to, as mentioned up top, no gatherings, no cooking (well, not by me) no fussing and no mussing. Another part due to witnessing the actor's participation in an Independence Day celebration. I was pretty far away but I'd know the lean guy in the white linen suit anywhere. It was a grand experience.

I even went to our little town's fireworks display on Monday evening.

But, the very best, most bliss filled event of the weekend past, getting Brin UP and ROLLING again. She took me to the laundry mat. She took me to the fireworks. She took me...just took me. Being on her saddle fills me with . . . well, happy feelings. So happy, I'll spread them all over the world.

Various pals are going through some difficult times and I wish it were as easy as waving a wand, saying some words to happy away said difficulties. I know it isn't, but note to each of you know you are on my mind, in my heart and I hope there is some happy feelings in your air, soon.

Disappointment

The weekend began with such promise. Though worn out from a work week of moving the business from one location to another, working feverishly to keep to "business as usual" all the while, I kept my meet-up reservation promise and went to the Pride Festival on Friday night.

I was a bit subdued as a companion who had promised to join me backed out at the last minute, but I solidered on and wound up having a fantabulous time. It was great to be out among all the revelers, seeing all the performers, drinking a damn tasty mojito, and blowing bubbles with a light up bubble blowing gun.

By the end of the evening my moodiness had eeked from my body and I found myself even looking forward to Saturday's lunch with Mom, a cousin, and her seven year old grandson. Please know, of course, I love my mom it is just that she isn't the most companionable dining partner. And when others are in the mix, she is even less so.

Lunch was lovely.

And then there was Sunday. The event of this day I looked forward to most of all.  I passed on attending the parade, which has become a tradition, to attend the event. I bought an outfit and accessories, which if you know anything at all about me, you know that is monumental.

But, it was not to be. My companion who was also my ride drank herself into oblivion last night and was not in any position to drive two blocks let alone the extensive ride to the event location. I've been angry all afternoon. I'd hope to pound out said anger by pounding some tennis balls. All that served was a reminder that I hadn't hit a tennis ball in over 50 weeks.

The soak, the nap, and dinner has diminished some of the anger but none of the disappointment. I wish I could say I'm happy for the good times of Friday and the pleasantness of Saturday and that those supercede the disappointment of today. But I can't.

Not yet, anyway.   

P.S.  To my friend, congratulations to your girls and have a safe trip.

Nakedness

As of this writing Miss Brin is still one wheel less. I haven't ventured out to secure a wheel, tube, and tire for Miss Brin because my mom has an acquaintance. Mom told me her acquaintance had bike parts; lots and lots of bike parts. She further told me that said acquaintance would be happy to check his bike parts stash and if he located the parts I (and Brin) needed he'd give them to me (us). 

I asked mom if acquaintance only had parts; did he have whole bikes? For I'm considering a new (used) bike as well. "No," she said, "only parts." 

Well, after week one acquaintance relayed to my mom that he didn't have time to look for the parts but he would get someone to help him. 

Now, two weeks later, acquaintance relayed to my mom that he doesn't have the wheel but we does have a ladies 10 speed to give away. I ask my mom if it is a racer, mountain, or what? She doesn't know and wondered what's the diff? 

I won't get into the intricacies of that conversation with my mom but know that it ended with me accepting with graciousness whatever the brand, model, condition this entire bike (that he didn't have two weeks ago) he now has to offer. Best case: with some modifications I can ride it. Second best case: daughter can ride it. Third best case: I can raid it for parts, or sell it, or give it away to someone else.

The downside to Brin being one wheel less these past weeks is that she missed the most recent installment of the Naked Bike Ride. She was most disappointed. 

Maybe next year. 

Wait, What Happened To Wednesday?

The evening leaked away from me. The plan? Come home, shower, get into softer clothes, fix a plate of whatever delectable delight my lovely daughter prepared, eat, drink a beer (or two) watch So You Think You Can Dance? brush my teeth, read, write a letter (or in my journal) click on something to watch until my eyelids could no longer defy gravity.

Well, the eyelids no longer defying gravity happened much earlier in the evening than planned and as a result a few things got missed. It is probable that sudden sleep after eat and a bit (12 oz) of drink i but one consequence of many thousand steps.

From my pedometer's memory bank:
Day 1 10,566
Day 2 13,807
Day 3 18,398
Day 4  0 (I'd forgotten to wear it, but based on my own memory of what happened this day, at least 10,000)
Day 5 10,342

The work days these days are filled with frantic, frustrating, mind numbing tasks, negative cash flow bullet dodging, primal screams in my head, calm, diplomatic voice, compromising, deal making, take me away, Gill's reply to my email: "Oh Deb, you crack me up!"  and Isabel apologizing for the confussion (meaning: confusion)  in her previous email (which, in my state of chocolate milk induced delirium cracked me up) and the wish for a partridge in a pear tree.

And just think in a few more hours I get to do it all over again. Thursday's fun house games? Compliance and possibly Tech Support.  Oh. Happy. Day.

But that is tomorrow and I must file that away and get down to enjoying what is left of this night. I must allow the warm water shower to massage the webs from my mind and creakiness from my body and trust that will be enough to force another sudden (dreamless) sleeping spell that will last throughout the night.

Six AM arrives quickly and I must, simply must get UP by six if I have any hope at all at getting to work by eight. I told them I would. They will be waiting. I do so hate to keep anyone waiting.

Do You Know the Story of the Hottentot Venus?

The play in which my son currently appears is quite a story. A story, I must admit, I hadn't heard until he was doing his preparation research. And while I always enjoy seeing my son on stage, this time no exception. And while this production is very superbly directed and deftly acted by all cast members, it was a difficult play to watch.

That being said, I was happy the director staged the play the way she did. According to the actor, this production is much different than others in that it deconstructed the side-show aspect, humanizing all the characters, which made the audience (me, at least) care about them, which contributed to making this a difficult play to watch.

Still, it is a fascinating story which the play only scratches the surface of based on the stacks of research material scattered about the living room at one time. The play has a very short run. That, plus it being a difficult play to watch, will keep me from seeing more than the one performance witnessed yesterday.

Maybe.

But even if I don't see him again in "Venus" I'll have ample opportunity to see him perform in the coming months as he has been offered roles (though contracts are still being negotiated) in not one, but two major productions.

The actor has worked very hard and has much hard work ahead. He is more than ready for the challenges and the opportunities.

And as a playwright wrote long, long ago, " . . . the play's the thing."

End Scene.

*actor in rehearsal. photo credit Joel Moorman. 

Why O Why Wednesday

My hands, especially the one on the right side, look like they've been dipped in rubber cement for a game of "let's play who can make the best rub-off pattern." That is to say they are peeling and not healing.

I know, enough with the skin already. But ladies and gents, it IS an issue.

Stands to reason because I was running late this morning that I'd miss not one but two buses.

On our beer run this evening daughter and I encountered a line jumper. We were in a good mood didn't fuss, just made mention in our own unique way. Well, the guy immediately ahead of us wasn't taking it lying down. He confronted "silver fox line jumper" -so coined by daughter. Line jumper basically told him to go (expletive) himself. The entire episode nearly made the quarter mile hike in the heat worth the trip. The ice coffee on the way back and icier beer for later sealed the deal.

And speaking of heat we'd had ourselves some ninety degree plus days making some folks (newest recruit ::snicker::) a tad grumpy as the (current) work place is not air conditioned. Hi-ever, rumor has it we're in for a cool down but of course that likely means rain, just in time for the Blues Festival. Here's hoping Saturday evening (when son is planning to attend) is relatively dry with moderate temperatures.

The Immunology/Allergy clinic the foxy MD referred me to is not calling me back. I'm trying not to take it personally.

The owners/caretakers of the shuttered laundry mat around the corner from my residence were painting the exterior--at 9 p.m.That is to say they (or rather she, he was just watching) didn't start until 9 P.M. I did wonder why but moreover I wondered if they'd be cutting the v-e-r-y tall grass (if they are still the owner / caretakers ) of the property that abuts ours tonight--or ever (again).

I promised a co-worker I'd be opening the doors at 8 A.M. sharp so I better get my icy coffee slugging, beer chugging self in the shower and down for the count.

Peace Out.  

Ok to eat, but otherwise, ICK

I can't begin to tell you what seeing a clump of mushrooms popping up out of the earth does to my skin. Even now, I can't even look at this picture without feeling the creepy crawlies all over my body. It doesn't take much, especially these days, to send me into a cat scratch fever meltdown and clumps of mushrooms are just the ticket to send me over the edge. 

And wouldn't you know it 'shrooms had popped up all over the neighborhood and seemed to be everywhere I turned this weekend. Even in my own yard slash wannabe garden, which had to be eradicated immediately in spite of the squeamishness. 

As a young girl I remember . . . 

sorry, this post cut short by the ick factor.    

**image located here**  

Seventy-One

My mother turned seventy-one a few days ago and to celebrate I took her out to breakfast this past Saturday. Normally, our trips to dining establishments (well, most any place actually) are fraught with,  well, just fraught.  Mom can be a challenge. But, as we both grow older I find that I'm developing a kind of barrier, I guess, to her, stuff, for lack of deeper, more comprehensive word.  I wrote the following for Our Big Gayborhood late last year which speaks a bit to the nature of that which is between me and my mother:

Skimming The Surface

My mother has decided that I’m complicated. Nothing I say or do can dissuade her from that assessment. In fact, everything I say or do, seems to serve to solidify the opinion she has come to in the past year or so since I came out to her.


She is either unable or unwilling to expound on that which renders me complicated. So, I can only speculate.
I suspect that the “complicated” tag transcends my sexuality.  I suspect that my mother is finally struggling to know who I am after all these years. I suspect that she has come to realize that our relationship for most of my life merely skimmed the surface of the who of us. That we never delved beyond the obvious or the mundane. I suspect she has come to believe that I do not espouse all her values. I suspect that said belief makes her extremely uneasy.


The eight years leading into and now the few out of my lesbian-flavored epiphany are all about discovery. I’d spent so many years prior hiding, suppressing, denying, and comporting myself to align ever-so-carefully with what I thought others wanted, that I cast barely a shadow of any authenticity. I walked the walk and talked the talk that everyone expected. Carefully coloring my life within the lines. In my mind, to do otherwise conscripted me to a lifetime of pain and suffering, in line with the messages delivered to me during my early years.


I suspect that she doesn’t believe me when I say, “I’m fine.” I suspect she believes our relationship is tenuous at best and non-existent at worst. I suspect that each time we disagree she believes it will be the last time we speak. I suspect she is afraid. She is afraid that I don’t love her (enough), that I don’t care (enough), that I don’t have (enough) in me to do what she’ll require as she loses more and more of her self-sufficiency. I suspect she doesn’t want that burden for me and me alone. I suspect she’s most afraid that we’ll run out of time, that we won’t be able to repair the mistakes of the past.


These years have been about discovery. I’ve discovered that I’m intensely fierce with my love.  I’ve discovered that my authenticity hasn’t and won’t bring the world to a crashing end. I’ve discovered that my mother is troubled. 


I’ve discovered it isn’t all about me. I’ve discovered that I can’t fix her; I can love, assist, and try to encourage her, to the best of my ability.  I’ve discovered that troubled or no, she is much stronger than she realizes. I’ve discovered that she supports me, complications and all.


She is either unable or unwilling to expound on that which renders me complicated. So, I can only speculate.


I suspect that the “complicated” tag transcends my sexuality and further that all the discoveries will ultimately lead to a happier, more fulfilled rest of each of our lives.

The recent outing was the most relaxed outing we'd shared in quite some time. We haven't worked out many of our issues, but we (or at least, I) have begun to develop behaviors that keep the complications from bubbling over our surfaces.  

Violated

It has been a horrible spring, i.e. beginnings of bike riding season. Leaving aside the cold and wet weather, as well as the skin ills and other stresses there were bike repairs to execute before any riding could be done. 

Repairs executed, Brin* and I did get out toward the end of last month for a few laps around one of the local parks. The plan this year as in years past was to use the early part of the season to get back into biking to work shape. However, the wonky health and wonkier weather has not allowed for much more than an occasional jaunt to the train station where I lock her up and leave her for the ride home (and weather permitting, some extra).     

However, now even that little bit of riding must be tabled for the time being.  Last Friday I'd ridden Brin to the train station and after having suffered throughout the day, the outbreak growing more severe with each passing hour, looked forward to re-connecting with my lovely and having her help get my very itchy self home. But that was not to be. My bad day turned even worse when I emerged from the train station to see Brin leaning, balancing on only one wheel, locked to a bike rack. 


Some cretin with a crescent wrench (or similar tool) had taken Brin's back wheel with the brand new gel filled inner tube and brand new white wall tire.  


Damn. I'm not a crier as a general rule of thumb (though, since approaching and then turning 50, tears come easier than ever before) and they came right there on the street, just a little bit. I wasn't at all up to unlocking Brin and half carrying, half rolling her the six or so blocks home, but I couldn't leave her locked to the rack, vulnerable to further violations.  


She will be repaired again. It may take another two to three weeks, deep into spring and nearly summer before I will be able to ride. If the recent weather pattern is any indication there won't be ample opportunities in the coming days anyway. 


When she is returned to glory additional safety measures will be employed.  


I detest that I'd been lulled into a sense of security that prevented me from taking those measures before. 


I detest that I'm being forced to spend money I didn't anticipate for additional and now, more costly repairs. 


I detest that that I'll be without Brin's able service (wonky weather aside) for two or three (or more) weeks it will take to secure and replace the parts. 


I detest cretins who troll the town with crescent wrenches (or similar tools) preying on lovely Brins and others like her. 


The very worst wrinkle in this entire episode was speaking to my mother later that evening. Achy from the itching, weepy from . . . everything, I heard myself whine when I began to tell her about my Brin. 


W-H-I-N-E!! to my mother. Oh me, oh my. 


*Yes, I named my bike Brin. I realized in the telling of this tale there is no precedent in the archives. I'd only mentioned "Brin" in other media. ;-)  

Severe Epidermis Ills

For several weeks now my skin has been under attack. As to whether the cause was some things I'd eaten, some things in the air, some things on my clothes, stresses, or various combinations of those some things or more, ceased being the point last Friday.

Severe eczema outbreak.

For whatever reason none of the usual, tried and true home remedies, diet modifications and the like seemed to stem the hives. In fact, it seemed as though everything I tried served to make matters worse, critical even. Expending every ounce of energy to refrain from scratching began to affect my focus at work and rendered me virtually lifeless at home.

Severe, in the form of pain and swelling.

Last Friday was the beginning of the worst (the worst coming on Sunday). But the new twist that developed during my morning work hours last Friday led me to call my foxy MD's office for an appointment; the earliest possible time, Monday at noon. I just had to get through Friday and then the weekend.

Severe, as in raw, weepy skin and a raw and weepy Deborah.

My "Sleepless in Oak Park" night led to a very lethargic Monday morning. I had to go to work to bring the newest (and very best ever) recruit up to speed on some vital tasks before heading back west to foxy MD's office in the search of answers and remedies.

Seventy bucks and three medications later situation outbreak is coming to an end. The itching has virtually vanished, the pain and swelling are all gone, the residual peeling is less annoying today than yesterday and a LOT less so than Tuesday. Save for the cold, wet, windy weather all is good. But then again, not even complaining (much) about the weather, other places are catching it in spades, much worse than here.

Aside from being uncomfortable and physically unappealing for the past several weeks this outbreak may also reveal a new food allergy or series of allergens. For now, foxy MD suggested I give dairy products in general and milk specifically a pass for the next couple of weeks.

As painful as said avoidance may ultimately prove to be it shall be infinitely less painful than the outbreak.

  
  

Welcome To Wednesday: 4 Letter Word Edition

 What do you mean it is only Wednesday:


COLD WORK HARD ITCH WHAT F*CK RATE LOSS FILL SHIP SCAB SCAR PAIN DAMN POST SELL TEST MATH EYES ASHY HAND FOOT MUFF EDIT CALL CELL MIKE DANI BANK F*CK GIFT


GLAD . . . THIS DAY IS NEARLY ENDING. NEXT? BODY MIND REST.

Welcome To Wednesday*: Summer Edition

1. Well it is an unofficial summer edition. We've gone from Winter to Summer in the last two days and no, I'm not complaining. I have up the idea of having a Spring weeks ago. I'm just making an observation. And those folks bitching about the cold, now bitching about the heat? Well, they just like bitching. I do wish they'd take it somewhere else.

2. Do you know how much energy it takes to resist scratching 'till you bleed tearing your skin off? Not just physical energy, but you're robbed of your mental focus as well. It is a wonder I've been able to finish anything at all. The worst is over now (I'm soooo hoping) but for awhile there it was all I could do to keep from tearing my skin off.

3. The itching and just feeling blah put a bit of a pall over "Mom's" day which sucked double since I cooked for and hosted my mom. The food turned out good (the kids thought it was great) but mom didn't seem to enjoy the menu of tilapia, mixed greens (& turkey tails) and mac n cheese. And of course due to the itching, medication, and more I wasn't my most patient but scintillating self. Maybe it was my mood spilling over everything. Still, it wasn't so bad.

4. Do I have to say (again and out freakin' loud) how annoyed I am at motorists who run red lights, roll through stop signs, and fail to come to a complete stop before navigating a right turn on red while I'm trying to cross the freakin STREET!!! ?! OH. EM. Gee!! Makes me want to S*C*R*E*A*M for realz, yo!

5. What do you think possesses a person (you know it isn't just the guys and not just kids) to choose to wear britches that slide down and off their asses? Though, I must admit the symphony of movement, the peg leg walk, the constant hitching up said britches is quite the sight. I think we need an anthropological study. I would have thought the fad would have faded long, long ago.

6. Speaking of possession, what possesses a person to lounge on the bus with their feet on the seat next to them, reading their K*ndle (or whatever)? Do you think they are screaming for a confrontation? The little diva just doesn't know how close she came.

7. So, so happy it is bike riding weather (today's thunderstorm not-with-standing). Now, I just need to get closer to 100% itch free to really enjoy. By the weekend, fingers and toes crossed.

8. Major doings going on at work, though not at liberty to discuss and while exciting am also nervous. Major doings going on with the actor. He has gigs strung nearly back-to-back through next Spring (at least). Major doings going on with the daughter, finishing her schooling, extern- ship, and prepping for graduation and full-time job hunting.

9. Not sure if I mentioned before, but I've been cutting my own hair for some time now. Somewhere deep in the archived comments someone suggested I do it myself, "it couldn't be that hard." I hesitated taking up the clippers, remembering the butchering I'd done to my son's head many, many years ago. But, several tries later I'm beginning to get the hang of it. It isn't a professional grade cut, but it's doable and rather neat, if I do say so myself.

10. Finally, the next couple of Saturdays seem promising. I was going to link some stuff *here* and *here* but the blasted linky poo thingy ain't working and I'm too tired addled lazy just too done to DO IT the long way. I'll talk about the events when they happen (or before iffin I find myself back here in the meantime).

Peace Out

*Yes, I know it is Thursday, but Blogger was having issues.

Welcome To Wednesday Rambling Randoms

Wednesday. I'm never 100% positive I'm spelling that right the first time. You'd think it be etched in my memory after all these years, but no, I have to stop and think, for at least a fraction of a second, to be sure it is correct.

It is annoying. I do get annoyed I misspell (or mis-type) something, especially something simple or relatively routine, like "music". I discovered recently I left off the "c" on a piece of work correspondence. And of course I didn't catch it until it was too late.
Color me e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y annoyed with myself.

Speaking of annoyed, how about coming home from work to find you have no running water. Zippo. AND to find out the water is off because the treasurer didn't respond to notices and of course, didn't pay the bill. Seriously people? Not to worry, service was re-started within an hour of my arrival, thanks to a neighbor's son who is employed by public works. He called in a favor. Otherwise, things could have gotten ugly. Very ugly. And nasty.


Mom will be having dinner with me on "our" day. This is my treat to her. Going out these days is just too complicated and stressful. Mom can be a . . . difficult diner and what with the transportation issues, well, it is simply easier to play hostess. My kids will treat me some other time. The son is thinking burgers and the daughter hasn't chimed in yet. In either case, on Sunday we'll all be together for a bit and that can be counted as a treat.

And speaking of treat. Look at this great tee shirt:
The treat? I WON the shirt. You see, TLQ ran a contest. I entered and my name was picked from the hat, bowl, pot used for baked beans . . . I don't know the vessel of the picking, but I was picked and I'm tickled nearly pink. Well, not quite nearly. Actually, pretty darn far from pink, but I'm pretty tickled. And honored. And happy.

I so anxious to receive and then to wear my new tee.

Check out the site sometime, there is a widget there in the margin.

It takes a village.

Peace.

This or That Thursday

Well, no is isn't Thursday. I meant it for Thursday, but that didn't happen. Where have I heard that (or something similar) before? Anyhoo, it isn't Thursday, but this is this or that. So, piano players, not necessarily, Ms. Alicia, but generally. That is to say, tickling the ivories? Or . . .

Plucking or strumming the strings. Recently, I had occasion to hear a woman telling a story whilst she played a sitar. I do believe it was my first live sitar playing story-telling concert like event. In fact, I know it was. Well, not the live women telling stories part, just the sitar part. She told a fascinating tales whilst plinking the strings. Oh, and it was an audience participation type event. Oh. The. Joy. Anyhoo...strings (not necessarily a sitar) or piano playing.

But then again, it really isn't an either / or situation, is it?

Well, in either case, play ON.

This Week's Weather . . .

Post title courtesy of one of an earlier Chicagoist entry which reminds me yet again, that no matter how bad mine might be, someone else is catching it harder.

Not, mind you, that I needed the minder. I'm faced with that reality each and every day. And on this day, I am grateful that my problems are infinitesimal compared to that others in my sphere face.

On this day, I am grateful for two (Saturday more than Sunday) wonderful weekend days that found me outside walking and riding up a storm, especially as we brace ourselves for a week of craptastic (I can hear the wind whipping and whistling) weather, and the peace being out on those two days created within.

And I am grateful on this Monday for the luxury of being able to lay down nearly immediately upon arriving home after THE. LONGEST. MONDAY. EVER. (ok, hyperbole, but roll with it) to rest my mind, quiet my nerves (which is flaring up the eczema, which is making me want to rip my skin OFF! NOW!) toward recovery for the day, days ahead.

And now, with Tuesday, carry-over problems, and likely newbies to the mix only hours away, I am grateful for heat that will serve to lull me to sleep and for the sound of music drowning out the dreary weather noises.

And finally, to my friend who is feeling overwhelmed by life's offerings at present, I know it doesn't feel like it now, but . . . well, you know what THEY say. Know that my thoughts and more are with you.

Peace.

Whew!

It is Friday and of course, you know what that means, RAIN and in the words of a work associate, "as if we haven't had enough." Truly. But, still rain is good. Good for the grass, the trees, the flowers, the knees...oh, well, maybe not the knees.

Still, the rain is better than the alternative, SNOW, which we also saw this week. Monday's snowfall (a trace amount, really, less than an inch) broke a record for the day, I read somewhere. And according to a professional weather prognosticator snow in April is not all that un-common and as a second work associate noted today, "I can't remember a Good Friday when we've had good weather." Neither can I, though, my memory isn't specific to Good Friday weather as it is to April in general. The last few Aprils, it seems, have been crappy, meterologically speaking.

However, it is Friday and of course, you know what that means, the weekend beckons. Saturday morning is a few hours away and I'm already anticipating the sleeping late. Well, not sleeping late, but rising (a second time) later. For there is no sleeping late. The body is forced, yes, forced, to awake at 3 (or 4) am every morning. Ankles, knees, and other joints gather and conspire against the bladder (who fights valiantly) to raise the body up.

On weekday, work day mornings the pre-dawn rising precipitates a frustration that settles about the shoulders creating conditions that ultimately hamper 1. falling back to sleep and 2. navigating an "on-time" getting up and out. Tomorrow morning there will be no need to get up and out (prior to 10 am) and thus, the pre-dawn rising, which will occur, like clockwork, will not result and anything more than emptying the bladder and releasing her from the guilt of being overrun by the others.

For it is Friday and in the spirit of, "acting like it dammit!" after having left work early on this day. I will partake of some delicious (prepared-by-someone-else) food and drink a few fine brews, and perhaps dance or something similiarly relieving. When I get to bed I shall sleep-the-sleep of a well worn week to rise at the usual time, at the usual insistence of a bladder weakened by the chattering noises of ankles, knees and the like, only then to return to bed. I will gleefully burrow back into and under the blankets and stay that way until the sun (which I've read will make a glorious appearance) is shining high and bright, even if it is only in my mind. Well, that is unless the cats join the conspiracy.

Still, the plan is to get on with the day and rest of the weekend in as leisurely fashion as can be mustered.

Welcome to Wednesday? Naaaah, Welcome to THE WEEKEND!!!!!

May The Force Stay With Me

Over the past couple of years one circumstance or another prevented me from accepting any one of a variety of invites to experience what I now recognize as one of Chicago's treasures. This year once circumstance and then another fell into place which is how I came to accept the most recent invite and found myself among a throng of folks cheering (wildly, in some cases) the home team Chicago Force as they dismantled the Minnesota Machine . The lop-sided score did little to quell the enthusiasm of the fans. Though at some point, I think at least some in the crowd harbored some hope that the Machine would put together one successful drive. That hope was dashed as the Force had every aspect of their game; offense, defense, special teams clicking on all cylinders. It was quite simply, a spectacular display. Peeping over the schedule, chances are I will only make it to one more game. But, I have that hope circled and will do my best to steer circumstances that way, for that Saturday afternoon at the stadium proved to be a raucous good time. Go Force!

Welcome To Wednesday

Delivered with far less exuberance than the former CTA CSA's "Good Morning Precious" the current CTA CSA's "Welcome to Wednesday" greeting falls somewhere between, "Hey, at least it isn't Monday" and "Hey, it is almost Friday" in the cheery schematic. Mostly, she sounds bored but feels compelled to offer some greeting to her customers. Though, I've noted, she apparently feels no such compunction for any of the other days. Perhaps the other days; Tuesday, Thursday, nor Friday (she isn't on duty on Monday) aren't as welcoming or don't lend themselves to an alliteratively proper greeting.

The weekly, "Welcome to Wednesday" greetings are met with, for the most part, grunts. But some customers do volley back a "good morning" or something like that. While the CTA CSA seems neither daunted nor encouraged by the returned greetings I wonder if she wonders what we might be wondering about her and / or her welcome. Or something like that.

My mind usually wanders to Ricardo Montalban's greeting, Welcome to Fantasy Island or sometimes to the sandwich sign out front of an events business near my place of work; on event days the business places a chalkboard sandwich sign out front with the message, Welcome PRIVATE EVENT printed with bright chalk colors. I happen to find the sign somewhat disingenuous as the event is private, so everyone isn't welcome. Granted, it doesn't say, "everyone welcome" but placement on a public street generally implies that all who see it are welcome. I recognize the desire and need to welcome invited guests, but I think that goal could be better met once the guests were inside.

Anyhoo . . . I've decided the "Welcome to Wednesday" CSA is happy about Wednesday and likely even more so for the other days of the week. I think her pro forma performance is due in large part to the frustration she feels at not being able to devise unique, sufficiently lyrical greetings for Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday.

Maybe.

Whatever her deal I welcome you to Wednesday and every other day.

Embrace and Celebrate.

Never Say Never

. . . or another week of random stuff. It's like needing to clean the closet, you can't move on until the underused, no longer fitting, the "what the heck was I thinking?" are purged from your cramped space.

My head feels like a cramped closet. Thus . . .

The actor's current show is entering the final weekend. I was saw the show this past Thursday and again on Sunday. Sunday made three. The Irving Berlin penned, "Blue Skies" is woven into the story line and as a result the song (and overall theme) has been looping.

Blue skies, smiling at me, nothing but blue skies, do I see Not surprising to have learned of the many, many recorded versions of this song. And even less surprising, that in spite of the happy, tappy message of the song and the looping I'm feeling the other blue that is to say, blah and bummed.

A cousin lost his battle with cancer last week. His "home going celebration" was today. And while he was ill for quite some time and his death expected, the reality and witness to the finality, was (again) daunting and yes, sad. Still, there are happy memories embedded in our history and I will recall and recount those, down the road a bit. But, what I take away from the services is his beautiful smile and how he touched so many people in a very positive way.

In other news my daughter started her extern-ship today. She's training to become a Pharmacy Technician and while she was all knotted up with nerves this morning, she donned her professional clothing and lab coat and set off to conquer the world! The first day was a winner and she returned home with a brush of confidence that she can, "do this!" One day, one step but YaY for starting on an UP note.

And finally, pickles. An email alerting me to a comment posted to an old blog post had me thinking about pickles in all the incarnations. I read the comments and among them, my 'not on a bet' comment re: fried pickles. That was March 2007. And while rooting around the archives, I spied another post where I talk about (among other things) fried pickles at Toots. I don't think there was a bet involved, but certainly some influence was asserted to get me to try them. And as it happens, I couldn't get enough of them.

A friend and I talked about about things we might or might not do and while we were reluctant to say, "I'd never" we were pretty clear about certain likelihoods and the phrase, being in love . . . bracketed a few statements on how that state may change what we may or may not ordinarily do. Of course there are factors other than love, but at that (and this) moment in time, I'm looping (among other songs) N. Cole's "Nothing Stronger Than Love".

R*A*N*D*O*M*

A meeting site that I visit on occasion asks, among many things, "six things you can't do without" as part of the fleshing out of one's profile. As you might guess the responses vary as widely as the respondents. Some folks are literal. Some are surreal. Some have only one or two things, some exceed six by six or more.But, whether a respondent is smart or smart-alecky, the responses say a bit about the respondent. This post however, is not about the art or science of reading any sort of meaning into the responses to some getting to know you Q and A. This post is about the randomness of a day (or days) and things that make you go . . .

One respondent answered her number five as follows: 5.TALKING

At first glance, I saw Stalking. Thinking what I thought I read, I thought maybe someone with a sense of whimsy and I read further. But, when my brain caught up to my eyes the interest level diminished drastically. Or maybe it was number six: cigarettes.

My older brother called me yesterday. When mom warned that my number had been offered (actually, she asked if she could give it to him, I knew instinctively, she already had) my immediate thought was, "what do you say to someone you've barely spoken thirty words to in as many years?" Turns out, not that much. We spoke a bit about our younger brother and his impending release. But mostly we skipped around the maypole a few dozen times before wishing one another well. My anger and resentment toward him has long since dissipated and while we probably won't ever be friends or confidantes, we can and will be cordial, at least.

My younger brother is a whole other bag of beans and I don't even want to think about the day when he's back among us.

Have you ever had an injury to your elbow that resulted in swelling and scarring? Ouch!

The minimum goal of 10,000 steps was not achieved today, only got to 8,990. Yesterday, however nearly 13,000 and Sunday was light, but Saturday, nearly 15,000. The 15,000 though was due, in part, to my addle-daddle brain forgetting my wallet and having to make 2 trips to pick up my reserved RedBox dvds.

Momma Nature don't give a damn what the calendar says. She'll make it Spring when she's good a ready. Hi-ever, if anyone has any pull with her Highness, whisper in her ear. We need warmth. We need blooms. We need the color of life up 'round these parts.

Back to the meeting site: Recently I was sent a "match" and the first line of her profile read (I'm paraphrasing) I want a white feminine woman. In fact, she said it more than once. Since I'm clearly 1. not white and 2. well, not the F word--not in the way she likely meant. I decided to message her. It was fun.

Someone I see nearly every day (not my son or daughter) reads here and at first I found it . . . weird. But then, good. (It's possible others I see often read here, but they haven't mentioned and we are not simpatico) Still, I worried, "well, you read my thoughts, whatever would we have to talk about?" In the famous utterance of Kmae, "HA!" no worries, there's a'plenty. Said someone is very dear to me and she's having a rather rough go of it these days and I want her to know, I know. I care. If you want, if you need, call.

Peace.

Another Week Twelve Days

Many evenings I sit with my fingers poised over the keyboard, mind full of words, thoughts, impressions . . . news to share, to spill. And many evenings I log off, shut everything down, frustrated by the inability to quiet my mind enough to put forth a coherent thought.

This evening isn't much different but I shall try, hard(er) for I don't know when this opportunity will arise again, being home alone and all is quiet. The animals all fed are now all sacked out; Diamond at my feet and Pete and Buttah in their respective favorite sack out places. But, my mind is racing, partly because my body is wanting to race to catch J. Beal's in her role as a high ranking cop in The Chicago Code . While I enjoy (understatement) watchig the lovely Jennifer I'm not a huge fan of the show. Still, I hope it survives the first season for two reasons: 1. well, Jennifer and 2. Michael may get a third chance to audition and isn't there something about the third time being charming? So, bring on season two.

Mention of the television show reminds me of the very early morning, "I should be up getting ready to walk" dream. . . Goren and Eames of L & O: Criminal Intent were featured prominently. While reconciling our (the business) bank accounts a discrepancy was discovered. The discrepancy (a $2.78 shortfall) involved a return made by Eames. Goren stuck his two cents in and the next thing I knew, a task force had been formed. Needless to say, I overslept and was unable to get out for my 2 mile, before work, walk. Those steps however, were made up over the course of the day. The goal: minimum10,000 a day. Today's total: 13,998.

Mom called, so I missed the Code. Perhaps I'll find time (energy and all that whizz) to catch it (and other misses) sometime over the next several (maybe 12 or so) days.

No Words

. . . except, soon it shall be Friday and I do intend to act like it, dammit.

Sweet, Love

. . I feel no shame, I'm in love Not the romantic, "I want to spend the rest of my life basking in the glow of your beautiful smile and melting from the heat of your embrace" kind of love. But, the love of and for friends who share of themselves freely and fully. I'm in for that kind of love*, any day, every day; basking in the glow, melting from the heat.
A fanciful piece of whimsy came tumbling out of my mailbox yesterday evening, arriving on a day where the pick-me-up intended was sorely needed. It has been a, "make me wanna holla, throw up both my hands" week and the hits just keep on comin'. But, out of my mailbox tumbled a bit of whimsy delivering smiles, joy, warmth, and . . .

Hear me calling out your names, Maxine and Elizabeth, I feel no shame, I'm in love.

Y'all rock! Hard.

*the other kind works for me too. :-)

Urgency

Most, if not all have been there; the thousand pound weight pressing on your bladder screaming for a body to get thee to the nearest relief station PDQ or else . . .

Often most, if not all have been able (thanks to kegels?) to urge the pressing weight back up the canal, so to speak, allowing those precious extra minutes for a body to locate the nearest station toward partaking of sweet, satisfactory, sensational . . . aaahhhhh . . .

And then there is the other, uhm, emergent need. The one that begins with a rumbling in the tummy. Not the gentle gurgle signaling the need for a bit of food. No, not that. The roiling, bubbling churn signaling that all is about to break loose.

As was recently re-discovered there isn't much a body can do to urge ferocious fecal matter back up the pike, so to speak, once descent has begun. The hope and eternal sunshine prayer is that said body is close enough to a relief station toward avoiding mega-mess (memory flash) and . . .
well, yuck.

On a related note, when we were kids mom taught us to say BM as opposed to boo-boo, ca-ca, poop (or poopie). And the first curse word my mom heard me say; shit. As in, "shit nawl."

It's Friday, act like it dammit!

This or That: Cookie Candy Bar

Now and again there is a craving. The craving usually centers itself around candy. The candy is almost always chocolate and almost always with nuts, like whatchamacallit ™ Likely, something that can be picked up in a rush, impulsively.


Now and again there is a craving centering itself around cookies. More often than not the cookies are chocolate, with chips and sometimes, nuts. White chocolate, macadamia. Yum.

Not often, but at times a cookie candy-like combo craving is on the menu. And the cookie-candy-like option chosen most of those times is Twix ™ over Kit-Kat ™ especially the peanut butter or the java options.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I find it hard to resist chocolate in the form of candy, cookies or any combo there-of, which is why said products hardly ever appear on my grocery lists or are residing on a shelf, in a cupboard. For, the fact of the matter is, if I had them, I'd eat them. No craving required.

his say

first, let me wish myself a happy 4th birthday, since it seems like no one else around here is going to do it. i share a birth date with that tall fella that seems to be talking to himself all the time, though not in his normal voice. every time i ask what he's doing he replies, "i'm rehearsing." i'm not sure i know what that means and moreover i'm not sure i care.

i'm probably coming off as cranky, at the moment i am. but, let me assure you all under normal circumstances i'm not at all cranky. in fact, i'm the sweetest, most lovable bundle of fur you may ever meet.

seriously.

however, i'm a little put out at present because once again i'm being blamed for stuff falling off their perches. ok, i broke one figurine. ok, two . . . at least as far as eyewitnesses go. but, i have had nothing, absolutely nothing to do with the fallen vase (s), toppled over bears (and what is the deal with all the stuffed bears, dogs, rabbits, and such?) and all the other assorted spills and mishaps. there is no evidence to suggest otherwise; only conjecture, hearsay, and innuendo. any evidence that might be presented is circumstantial, at best.

frankly, i think it is that diva dog doing all the dastardly deeds. in either case, barring any concrete evidence, i'm innocent until proven . . .

ok, all done. just wanted, needed to get that off my chest. now i can go back to being the sweet, lovable, bundle of fur you all should know and if you knew me, you'd love me.

seriously.

buttah

Number One Son

He came into the world in the usual way. Well, usual in that for centuries women were giving birth to babies. Baby boys, even. And in that way, usual as there was nothing extraordinary about his birth, except of course, that it was happening to me for the first time. Not a usual day for me. He arrived sooner than expected. The end of February was circled on the calendar. But, given that he began to make his move a couple of weeks early, he did have the patience to wait inside the womb until I reached the hospital. See, having gone into labor very late the night before, or rather very early that morning, I stalled until daybreak before calling the ambulance. Risky yes, but I didn't want to ride alone, in the dark. It worked out, he waited (another 4 hours in fact.)

I don't remember a birthday since his middle-school days where he didn't have a game, wasn't in rehearsals, or in performance. This year is no exception. He is in rehearsals for a play that opens on the twenty-seventh which was the 1982 circled "due date." Weird, that.

It doesn't, "seem like only yesterday" nor does it feel like twenty-nine years. Some days he's telling me a tale of one his many adventures, donning voices, making the telling an adventure onto itself. And somewhere in there, he'll make a gesture, fix an expression on his face, or affect a particular dialect and I'm transported back to that little boy with light in his eyes and chocolate on his face, fingers, and of course his shirt.

The light is still there as is the love of chocolate, though he is neater.

To my number one son, may twenty-nine be the best one yet and a gateway to bigger roles, paydays, whatever your heart desires and many more adventures.

Peace

Dear Some of Our Neighbors:

The task of breaking down cardboard cartons is herculean. The difficultly level ranking right up there with the likes of brain surgery. From the intricacies of slicing reinforced tape to the precision needed to massage creases to fold in on themselves, the entire operation is a daunting challenge.


Daunting, yet many of your neighbors met the challenge with an eye toward tidiness and compacting limited trash space and learned how to intricately and precisely break down cardboard cartons.

In the spirit of neighborly acts, those neighbors who have perfected box breaking down techniques are graciously offering workshops for those of you interested in learning the most useful and esteemed skill. The workshops will be held in the lobby for the next three Saturdays.
Bring your own boxes, blades will be supplied.

You may choose not to participate in the workshops and that is fine, however, be advised that disposing of your shoe, gift, furniture, appliance, and other assorted cartons un-broken down is seen by your fellow neighbors as rude and unseemly.

So please, take advantage of the workshops, or locate a self-help book or video--whatever method you choose to learn, please do--learn and utilize your skills. Over time, with practice, you'll one day be able to count yourself among the exclusive and elite, box break down club.

You can do it. We know that you can.

Signed,

The Other Neighbors

This or That: Peanut Butter

What is your preference, smooth or chunky?

On a slice of wheat or oat bread, topped with either cinnamon or bananas (or both). Paired with a cup of skim or the newly favored almond milk . . .

What is your preference, smooth or chunky?

**note: product shown not necessarily an endorsement, though it is one of the brands currently in my cupboard.

All Together Now

For all the ugliness we witness, hear and read about, or perhaps even inflict, please take a moment and then a moment longer to recognize and rejoice.

Acting Like . . . Friday

Whew, finally. Friday.

Rising early (thanks to Buttah the chest sitter and Peter the poker) to get down to the workplace neighborhood to have breakfast with a friend*
before checking in to work for the day, was a real treat.

We were sooo into our girl time, that time flew right by. It was nearly 9:30 and we were nearly an hour late for work. Oh. Goodness. Thankfully, the breakfast spot was only a few feet from the job spot.

A fun twist was seeing how affected the boys were with our absence especially when the dots were connected and the realization struck that we'd had breakfast together.

It was a great start to this Friday; this tail end of an incredibly long, tedious, filled with anxiety and trepidation week. I only wish we'd thought to do this sooner. But, the tradition has now begun. It won't be every Friday, or maybe not Friday at all, but again, and again, and again . . . is the hope plan.

And if the boys can't deal? Oh, well.

*NR...my thoughts are with you.

Hot Sex From The New Recruit

The note was in the box and next to the note, a bottle of . . . sex*, and it was hot. Well, not hot as it is best served chilled, but oh so hot to have received it. It was good, very . . . well, in a word, YUM.

I know new(est) recruit reads here and I am sending her much love and wellness wishes. To respect her privacy I won't go further, but suffice to say she's going through some stuff and my ♥ is with her.

Take very gentle care.

*click on bottle for deets.

January First Twenty Eleven

Just about an hour in (CST) and so far 2011 feels a lot like 2010. No, I didn't expect BIG changes overnight, or even little ones. But, there has been news that will render twenty eleven different in some way, in many ways. Different better? Worse? Remains to be seen. In either case minutes will pass and adjustments will be made.

It is what it is and what we make it.

Does it amaze you that you can hear a song you haven't heard in 15, 20, years and recall every nuance, every word? No? I suppose it isn't amazing but isn't it interesting of what things remain deep in our bones?

. . . and you can tell everybody, this is your song.

Anyhoo...

I spent much of the last day of the year with those near and dear to me and I heard from others; it warmed me gently sweet. I hope everyone had a pleasant end to 2010 and enjoys a peaceful beginning 2011.

Cheers.

What The Hell IS Snicker™ Salad?

Of the definitions I found for salad this one fills the bill, a usually incongruous mixture: hodgepodge for Snicker™ Salad, most. When I first heard mention of the concoction in question I had a similar reaction, WTH?

But yes, there is such a thing as Snicker ™ Salad and from my recent (and very brief) research this salad would be of the dessert variety, of course. Also, from my research there are a number of variations most including some combination of vanilla pudding, apples, grapes, Cool Whip&0153; and Snicker&0153; bars broken into bite size pieces.

Some folks nix the Cool Whip&0153: and some, the pudding but the basic premis is the same. What the hell is a Snicker™ Salad? It is basically a fruit salad with a pudding-(like) base, and a Snicker™ kicker and is quite simply, divine.

I shall resist making my own batch for as long as I possibly can, which probably won't be very long at all.

Ho Ho Hum

Well, to answer tiff's query the work get together was, well, here is part of what newest recruit said, "The people we work with are . . . unique. I'll leave it at that." And I'll leave it there too except to say, thanks to newest recruit a good amount of food was good. Beyond good. I will be singing the praises of (her version) of Snicker Salad for the rest of my singing days.

Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum. Yum.

Otherwise the season is a mix of ho ho and ho-hum. Sometimes I'm up and sometimes down. And it seems like I'm not the only one. A few others have mentioned, "not being in the spirit" of the days. I look around my neighborhood and with only a few days before that big day, many houses (and apartments) are dark, unadorned. Fa La Blah.

Still, Cherish and Snow Dude are doing their level best to infuse some Happy Holiday spirit in my partly humbug mind. Thanks to them and the sparkly fake snowflakes and our little family's history as told by keepsake ornaments on the tree that finally did make it out of storage, even if it does have to fight for a place of honor in an overcrowded dining room, I just might get there. Pete is very curious.

The Week That Was

This week that is nearly done has been in a word, odd. I'm not quite sure I can adequately encapsulate the oddity that was this week nearly done but I can say that I believe the oddness began with a book club meeting last Saturday where the one (other) participant who came to the meet failed to finish the book. Me? Oh, I was only up until 3 in the morning finishing and making my notes for the over-due library book.

Onward to the rain and being out in it much of the rest of Saturday led to not getting the tree and other decorations out of storage as I meant to do. After waffling back and forth about whether or not to have the tree (and other decorations) I finally decided, yes, I would, only now to be down to . . . well, Saturday at the earliest the chosen square of space can be bedecked. One week. Well, actually two as it will be up at least until NYD. Well, that is, if happens at all.

I am of the opinion that the largest contributing factor to the oddness of this week however, is the missing CTA CSA. The CSA normally manning the station where I begin my daily commute to work is sugary sweet cheerful in the mornings with her, "Good Morning, Precious!" to each and every customer / passenger. I will admit, some mornings sing-song chirpiness bordered on annoyance, I realized this week not only did I miss the routine, chirpy and all, I'd also come to rely on it lifting me ever so . . .

This week nearly done has one more work day that will be sliced in half by our annual holiday, "whatever the hell you wanna call it" get-together. It is a pot-(you might get lucky and get something you like or can eat) gathering. This will be the first gathering of the trio of companies. It shall be in a word, interesting if not, odd.