It Is Not A Game

family: a six letter word maze.  

A couple of Sundays ago both brothers bounced into my day-to-day. You need a little background to know how incredibly odd a happenstance that is: we were never close (emotionally) my brothers and me. Older brother our home state when he was twenty-five. For over a decade there was no communication from or news of him or his whereabouts.

During that period younger brother occupied his time with a variety of nefarious activities, most of which got him arrested and incarcerated. He also found the time to father more children (he'd fathered one in his teens, before older brother split) get married, ordained, and more.  

In the late nineties older brother resurfaced and even returned to IL for a brief stint, until younger brother managed to get himself arrested yet again. Since older brother's return to TX (where he'd been living most of the time he'd been gone) in the year 2000 he and I have exchanged 2 birthday cards, a couple of text messages, and three phone calls, for most recent, that Sunday.

Younger brother's release from prison earlier this year AND news of our father's illness PLUS our mother's constant urging for her children to become, if not friends, at least cordial has set this, "let's be a family" train in motion. I'm convinced that my older brother calling me that Sunday and younger brother dropping by (after calling to say he, two of his children, and his girlfriend were in the area) for a visit on the same Sunday was not a coincidence.

You see, I'm seen as the pariah. I'm the one who didn't do drugs, didn't rob, steal, run away, prostitute myself or others, do time in state prisons or local jails, disappear for over a decade driving our mother insane with worry, or treat her with disdain at best and something less than human, at worst.  

I'm the one with the issues. I am the one who must be convinced that WE ARE FAMILY and need to start acting like it.

I am the one.

Older brother's first conversation with me that Sunday ended with him yelling at me, "that's why I didn't want to talk to you, IT IS ALWAYS ABOUT YOU!!!!" This, after I agreed, we should be cordial, we should try to build some kind of relationship, we should do this, for our mom, who has wished to see us relate for it would, "make an old woman happy."  But I also added that I've been here with our mother the entire time he was gone. I've been here to hear her complaints, soothe her fears, carry her groceries, help with her meds. I've been here with her wishing our family was different, better.   

He screamed about it being about me and hung up. However, not before I was able to interject that I'm the last person IT has EVER been about.

Older brother called back apologizing while patting himself on the back ("years ago I wouldn't have") and revealing that he still has some anger issues to work through. I don't know what I ever did to make him angry and he admitted, that he didn't either.  The second call ended with us agreeing to let go of old resentments, hurts, and whatever else we might THINK of we know one another (info gleaned from our mother as she is the conduit between us or our collective imaginations) as we've been separated for most of our adult lives. He reminded me that I used to call him, "Day" unable to get my toddler mouth around his actual name, "Wayne" and that no matter what, I'm still his baby sister.

Younger brother, on that Sunday, called at 11 to say he'd be in the area visiting Mom and would it be okay if he, the kids (16 y.o. daughter and 14 y.o. son) dropped by around 3 sweetening the deal by tossing in, "the kids really want to see you."  It was well after 5 before they (with girlfriend I hadn't met before) arrived. Oh, his wife divorced him during his most recent incarceration, the second since they married 17 years ago. 

They arrived, we all sat and chit-chatted, all friendly family like. Note: my brother has been in my condo since shortly before his arrest nearly 6 years ago. My condo was broken into some years ago and my daughter remains convinced that he was the culprit. He's stolen from me before, so that thought isn't a huge stretch.

After about 30 minutes younger brother announced it was time to go. We were saying our farewells when he began taking pictures of the photos affixed to my wall, and on his way out the door said, "there is something I would like to talk with you about."

The something is either money, a visit to our father, or both. I have yet to discover as he has yet call.

Still, as I've mentioned to both brothers on at least two occasions, I'm willing (and able) to let go, I will release any old resentments, I'm willing for the sake of all our children and our mother to try to mend fences and become this family we each seem to have pictured in the back of our minds, perhaps even in the deep recesses of our hearts.

I am the one. I always have been. 

I just hope I'm not the only one. Still.

Family: A SIX LETTER WORD MAZE.

Six Word Saturday

*My contribution to the project:

Pummelling the pull of potato chips.
















*Found via a blog I read. 

September Eleventh, Twenty Eleven

On this date in history, in addition to recollections reverent memorials and extending warm birthday greetings,   I will recall the first conversation I'v had with my father in . . . I don't know how long. It would have been long before Katrina, for he called sometime after, but got my machine. I called him back, getting his machine and from that moment to this, SILENCE.
He'd called me way back when in (delayed) response my my reaching out to him in the aftermath of Katrina. The various (and as it turns out, unreliable) reports were of little comfort and I sought to communicate with him directly. That effort added yet another chapter to our storied history.

Slowly churn to September, Twenty Eleven. In the round-about, circuitous, in-direct style of communication that has become an Olympic sport for my Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, Brothers, and Mom. I discovered my dad has lung cancer.

I did the only thing this only daughter could do, I contacted my younger brother and asked for our dad's contact information. And then I called James. As it happens he wasn't home. His mother-in-law volunteered (way too much, imo) information and to take a message. The exchange between she and I, who have never met was a bit like the Costello's "Who's On First?" routine.

When she asked which daughter I was I admit to having my heart shattered in a million different pieces. Later, after thinking it through I rationalized that there wasn't any reason to expect her to know he only has the one and for that one to be on the phone on that given Saturday. But still, I'd decided my next attempt at communication would not be via the telephone.

On Sunday, September Eleventh, Twenty Eleven my dad called me. His opening line, "do you know who this is?" mended the million shattered pieces to some degree. Our conversation was easy, considering the history  and we talked for as long as his energy would allow. He was direct and frank about the onset of the disease, the treatments, the side-effects, and his resignation to what is and what will be.
He signed off with professions of love and promises to stay in touch. We may or may not talk again and I think I may be fine either way because I do now have September Eleventh, Twenty Eleven and it shall be woven into the fabric that is the story of James and his only daughter, Deborah.  

End of Season

Someone in my building or someone (at the very least) with access to the front hall of the building sliced down more than half of the sunflower stalk growing, flourishing out in the front yard. I'd left my pruning shears sitting on one of the tables (holding my indoor plants) planning to use them at some point during the week to touch up some of the shrubbery following some aggressive growth following all the rain we've had. 

My usual practice is to put all the yard tools away in one of the various storage nooks that populate the first floor of the condo building. But since I was planning to do some (light) weekday work, I'd left the shears at an easier access point. I'm trying not to take as a coincidence that the chopping down occurred during or just after  Moe, Larry, and Curly of twenty-first century plumbing were in the space to replace a blown water heater. THAT, is another tale. 

To say that I'm incensed over the incident is putting it mildly. I'd said a few of these: 

upon leaving for work Friday morning and seeing the mutilation of my stately sunflowers.

Our small, nine unit condo building is self managed. I get a break on my assessments for caring for the common areas; sweeping, mopping, wiping down the halls and caring for the grounds. I shovel snow and clear ice in the winter, care for the yard , and keep the rear court-yard clean.

I tend to every plant and shrub (most of which I purchased out of my own funds) weeding, watering, and pruning as needed. I never maintained a yard before moving into this building. I've been an apartment dweller (mostly surrounded by concrete or yards "hands off" to tenants) my entire life. This little patch of earth was a new, exciting experience for me. I work diligently to clear trash, reset stepping stones, eradicate weeds (and mushrooms) and generally keep the area as appealing as possible given the limitations of time and budget.

For someone to rudely attack my work, my investment is beyond mean and it makes me want to

SCREAM

 I did scream. Ask Neta, she'd called early Friday morning as I was leaving for work. I walked outside, saw the mutilation and . . . yeah, WTF'D all over the place. 

I'm better now, though. It is September and soon the thoughts will turn to preparing the ground for winter, planning for next year, buying and burying bulbs. And yes, marking the spot of the current sunflower yield and devising a plan, for electrocuting anyone who touches protecting them, as well as, other yields from the savagery of neighbors? or their kids, or the friends of their kids. 

In the meantime I will enjoy what is left of  the summer, left of the various colors of our my yard. 

Babysit Mom

Opening email from the home unit means doing so in full view of whomever may be sitting in the living room. Depending on the day and time of day, that means in full view of the actor as the living room his room since he is temporarily in residence.

A few nights ago I opened a  message with the subject line: friends?

The body of the message was a photo of a voluptuous woman, dressed rather provocatively, sporting a tat on her right tit of a trio of roses. Beneath her photo was the query, "do you want to be friends?" I must have made some kind of noise for the actor looked up from his reading. His response was to merely shake his head and return to his reading.

The daughter chose the next few moments to come out of her room. The noise making must have still been going on for she decided to come see what was UP. After taking in the scene she shrieked, "what are you doing?" turning then to the actor, "Aren't you watching her? You're supposed to be watching her! You can't let her just . .    She doesn't know . . .  Why aren't you watching her?"

All I could do was shake my head. 

Self Portrait Friday*

 If you look closely you can see my brand new haircut. I did it myself!  My shoulders have been aching for several days. NOW I know why. Welcome to the Weekend.

*for my friend, eb ef elf

Same Lyric, Different Song

If you've ever heard a rap performance* you'll recognize the familiar call:

Throw your hands up in the a-ir. Wave 'em like you just don't c-are
I hear the line (and the hip-hop melody) in my head three, four times a week; not due to any feelings of nostalgia for rap days gone by, but rather as accompaniment to the near misses suffered at the hands and feet of various motor vehicle operators.

Four out of five of them throw their hands up in the a-ir and wave 'm like the just don't c-are.
                                                                                                                      
As in, "I'm sorry I nearly creamed you with my car."

The most recent culprit, operator of a silver Hyundai Sonata was so intent on crossing three lanes from her barely stopped at the stop sign launching pad that she not only didn't see a body (mine) in the crosswalk she didn't even imagine one (in this case, mine) would deign to cross a street, in the crosswalk in keeping with the traffic laws of the land and right of way sensibility.

She saw me a split second after I saw her, which is a good thing because I could be dead. Or seriously injured. After slamming on her brakes, she threw her hands up in the a-ir and waved 'em like she just didn't c-are and mouthed, "I'm sorry." 

The hyperbolic rage was automatic but also mostly in my head along with the hip-hop melody and call to arms. And while I did fix the Hyundai Sonata operator with a steely stare there was a note of forgiveness in the tone, for I've been through this before--threee, four times a week, in fact.

Still, once I saw her hands come up in the pleading, "I'm sorry" mode amd the familiar refrain danced in my head, the very next thought was the finish . . . somebody screeeeaaaaam!

*granted, mostly from memory as I haven't followed rap performances much since the actor was a teenager.   

Bike to Work Week

Today is the second day of my bike to work week. I didn't start at the beginning of the week because my transit pass didn't expire until Tuesday night. I decided not to buy a new pass and plan to ride through the end of this week and through Tuesday of next week. From that point, it will be a day-to-day decision.

Well, point of fact, it is a day-to-day decision now because if the weather is at all disagreeable, I won't be biking. But, I won't buy and activate a pass, I'll just add value to a transit card thus, pay by-the-ride. I expect to biking more than taking public transpo for what is left of the season. That outcome is positive for my wallet as well as my waist-line. Hopefully, the weather is agreeable and my overall health holds.

I decided shortly after turning the clock on fifity-one to stop, start, change, and more a bunch of stuff. Birthdays will do that to a body; making one all refelctive and shit all that whizz. I'm still processing most of it because frankly, it gave me a pain in the neck. But, overall I think it is a good thing.

Speaking of my birthday it was full of eating, drinking, and some merry making. There was cake (there is always cake) and meals. The first, dinner (at a Greek restuarant) included a slice of tiramasu, which was simply devine. As was the Greek Mojito. The second meal featured slice of vanilla bean cheesecake and a traditional Mojito. Oh. So. Yummy. And finally, the "Happy Birthday Deborah" cake Mom ordered for me to pick up and enjoy at home, which we did. Along with the martinis and margaritas thanks to gifts vodka and tequila from a co-worker.
 
Mom wrote me another note. It was the story of the day of my birth. Or rather, how miserable she was (due to the excessive heat) on the days leading in and the actual day of my birth. Enchanting story. Anyhooo . . .

Speaking of bike riding, I saw several young women along the route back and forth yesterday and a few on the way in this morning riding in skirts. Various skirt styles; long and flowing, short and not so flowy. Both seemed quite a cumbersome (and in the case of the flowy skirt, dangerous) way to ride a bike from my point of view.

But, back to my own bike riding I feel pretty good after four consecutive trips (spread over several hours) for a total of about sixteen miles--which is the most consistent riding I've done all season for one reason or another. I'm not making great time, but hopefully that will improve over the next few trips, provided the weather remains agreeable, provided I stick to the plan and stop making excuses. My wallet and my waist-line would be most grateful.

Mourn

Brenda and I met over thirty years ago. She and my cousin C were girlfriend and boyfriend through high school, then an engaged couple a bit beyond high school, and then, a married couple from that moment to her last. A couple of daughters followed very shortly and a third (that elusive search for a male child) followed several years later. I have it on good authority that my cousin C never really let go of his desire for a son but Brenda certainly put the cabash on any more tries. 

my two, their three, and other sibling cousins

We had several conversations on the subject. She envied my having had one of each and especially the son first. Beyond that, Brenda and I shared many stories and created many memories over the years. Brenda's obituary phrased it thusly, "Brenda was a happy woman when she went to sleep Thursday night, July 14 and during the wee hours of July 15, she entered into a sweeter . . . "  

Her daughters . . . her daughters . . . I couldn't get over her daughters that day of the funeral. They were stoic even in their extreme grief and each gave warm, heartfelt, glowing tributes. The youngest put it aptly, "Your teachings will forever be used throughout my life."  Funerals are hard generally. But, when there are so many parrellels (she was only 2 years older) . . .  I couldn't help trading places and seeing my son and daughter sitting in the front pew . . .

He and I met in the eighties; working for the same company for many years until only a few years ago when he resigned to continue his music education. G was an excellent musician with a lovely voice. He spent much of his time performing, directing choirs, and engaging in the business of sharing the beauty of joyful noise. It was such a mission that sent him to NJ a couple of weeks ago. Having barely arrived on the campus of Ryder University when he suffered a massive stroke. He remained in critical condition until his kidneys failed. He died Saturday. I got the word from a mutual friend while standing in the parlour viewing Brenda's body (prior to her funeral on Sunday). G, and only child, and 4 years younger than me had an amazing following of a family of friends. The news of his passing hit the office pretty hard for he was a huge personality and, "so young, so young."

Finally, there is the newest recruit. She's gone. Not in the entered sweeter sleep . . type gone. Just gone. There was a planned leave of absence and then I thought, a plan for some kind of return. But, perhaps I was mistaken and missed a queue somewhere along the line. I left messages and sent emails and . . . nothing. Well, next to nothing. Facing the office every day without her there has been more difficult than I would have imagined. Her absence hits hard but what hit hardest is the silence, the total and utter silence. . . after having shared so much over the past year.    

She's been known to read here and if she still is I'd like her to know I miss you and I care. If thre is anything at all that I can do, please don't hesitate to ask. Please take very gentle care, and here's a big HEY to the kids. And p.s. the actor was in your country last weekend. He had tales to tell. 

July has felt like trial that wasn't going my way. Each day another damning revelation to further sink my case. Still, I have worked to shake off the pall and get on with the business rejoicing the happy events off the month. One aunt recently celebrated her first birthday. This is the first birthday after becoming an octogenarian and in her view license to start over. Another aunt is now 69 and a cousin, 56. The anniversary of my own birth is in a couple of days and the plan is to eat, drink, and make some merry with the family. 

It hasn't been the greatest July, the past couple of weeks in particular. So, I thank my daughter for cluing me to this video which made laugh, you know, out loud and everything.  I needed that and will likely refer to it often. 

A to Zee Meme

Lifted from my friend because . . . well, just because.
A. Age
In just a bit over a week I'll turn the clock on 51. Not nearly as troubled about my age as I am over the fact that in a bit over six months I will be the parent of a 30 year old son. Thirty. When that day arrives and we're being all celebratory and what-have-you I'll likely say something like, seems like only yesterday  . . . 


B. Bed Size
It is full. A lifetime ago I once had a queen . . .      hmm . . there is a story swimming in there somewhere. 


C. Chore You Hate
No diggity, no doubt: Litter boxes. It is the very meaning of the chore. 


D. Dogs
Like my friend, singular, dog. She is a shih-tzu/terrier mix shelter Diva dog and though not technically mine is as much in me as can be.  


E. Essential Start to Day
Well, not for nothing but I think it is essential to wake up. 


F. Favorite Color
Blue. No, purple. No, make that green. Oh wait, yellow? Oh, I can't pick. I do know my least favorite . . . pink. Pink, pink, you stink.


G. Gold or Silver
I was once a gold girl but have since become a silver lady. 


H. Height
Five feet and five and a half inches tall. 


I. Instruments played
Took piano lessons for a time. 


J. Job Title
Mother, Daughter, Sister, Cousin, Friend, Manager.


K. Kids
Kids? A nearly 30 year old son and a nearly 26 year old daughter. They couldn't be more different but I love 'em just the same. 


L. Live
For over 28 years now in a 'burb just beyond THE city limits. I remember moving here with my wasband and baby boy like it was yesterday. 


M. Mom's Name
Her name is Florence. She doesn't have a middle name and doesn't like to be called anything but Florence. Call her "Flo" and it's ON !!! 

N. Nickname
Well, folks still will call me Deb or Debbie. As a kid I was called Gabby. When my son was young he wouldn't say mama (or anything like it) and in trying to say, "Deborah" he said, "Bubba" and that stuck for a bit. 


O. Overnight Hospital Stays
Tonsils when I was eleven. Given birth at 21 and then again at 25. When M was about three he had an operation and I stayed with him. When D was in 3rd grade she had an operation and I stayed with her. 


P. Pet Peeve
People who reply to my "thank you" with, "no problem." The appropriate response is, "your'e welcome." Thank you.  Or (rather, AND) when folks make a big to-do about their birthday and then refuse to tell you how old they are.  Or (rather, AND) when folks ask you to guess their age. And then get offended when your guess is off. 


Q. Quote from a movie
"That sanctuary looks like it's been hosed down with Pepto-Bismol." One year both of my very different children gifted me with the same dvd. They have since learned to consult one another AND I have learned to offer each vastly different gift ideas. 


R. Right or Left Handed
Well, I can be pretty even handed. I do write with my right routinely. But can also print pretty legibly with the left. I do everything else, left-handed; hold eating utensils, swing the tennis racket, throw a ball, bat a ball. 


S. Siblings
An older brother, Wayne. He is 51 and will be 52 in September. A younger brother, Jerome. He turned 49 in February. 


T. Time you wake up
Without fail, most mornings between 4 and 4:30 no matter what time I lie down. I try to hold off GETTING up until 5 if I'm going riding before work) or 5:45 otherwise. I usually get up around 7 on the weekends to get a jump on errands and chores, namely--laundry mat. 


U. Underwear
Why yes, yes I do. Mostly cotton. Mostly Hanes. But, there is an exception or two in the bunch. 


V. Vegetable I dislike
In no particular order: Beets. Okra. Black-eyed peas. All equally disgustingly distasteful. 


W. What makes me run late
Forgetting stuff. Phone. Not grabbing garbage on way out. Leaving my commuter cup full of the beverage of my choice on the kitchen counter and having to double back to get it. Ugh. 


X. Xrays I've had done
Dental. Chest. Knees. 


Y. Yummy Food I Make
Mac N Cheese. Fried Chicken. I remember when I was . . . oh, eleven or twelve, I prepared dinner for the family. It was the first time. Among the menu items was fried chicken. I had to cut up a whole fryer, prep and then fry. I finally got it in some semblance of recognizable pieces and once fried, isaid pieces looked gorgeous. Hi-ever most  were pretty raw on the inside. My mom laughed which gave my brothers license to ridicule me. .  

Z. Zoo Animal
Big Cats and Bears. I prefer the larger zoos where  the animals are displayed in habitats more closely resembling their natural habitat. I don' particularly like seeing the animals in cages, living part of my youth in a housing project I could relate. But, I remember field trips to a zoo, seeing things I'd never seen. Touching animals I'd never touched. I remember my little boy watching these guys  for hours over the years and building an affection for their flights of fancy and for the area of the world from they hail. My daughter isn't much for zoos (or animals other than dogs (especially D-dog) and cats.) That is of course, she can be pulled in a wagon and  food and souvenirs are on the docket.


 . . . now I've said my ABC's next time won't you sing with me? 

A Horrible Daughter

That would be me, judging by the scathing letter my mother sent me several days ago. She accuses me of many infractions some small, some tall, all add up to me being horrible, just horrible.

I took a moment for these letters are not uncommon. My usual tactic is to quietly seethe (ok, maybe not so quietly, but certainly in the privacy of my rooms) call her proceed in my own daughterly fashion. Whatever it was that had her riled up blows over and we're back to our kind of normal.

This time I responded with a letter of my own. I attached the OBGayborhood post of last year with a brief explanation and preface. I didn't respond to her specific charges in the letter but merely communicated the trials and tribulations of my so-called-life as it is manifested at this point and time. Long story short I'm working longer hours of late and don't have the luxury of time or the grace that is energy to do everything for everybody. 

I must admit however, as patient as I am, have always been, my mother tries that part of me more than any other relative. Still, I endeavor to hold my sarcasm in check, quell down the snappish remarks and responses, and work to envelope her in a cloak of understanding. 

In my letter I acknowledge her frustration, anger, depression, and disappointment. I assert that I will continue to do what I can, when I can to help in any way possible. My letter was mailed after work on Friday the day after receiving her letter.

Ironically, very early Saturday Mom called. She expressed a desire to go out on a journey that had nothing to do with doctors, therapy, or perscriptions. She was quite anxious. She was quite adamant, though she didn't know what she wanted to do, where she wanted to go, somewhere, anywhere.

My suggestions were all shot down in lieu of Navy Pier.

And so, we spent a compaionable Saturday together at my favorite place (that's that sarcasm I'm trying to hold in check) where we had lunch, watched people, and talked about things other than our relationship. I did mention her letter and that I'd responded in kind. To which she asked if I liked my "Memphis Dog" (as served by America's Dogs, Navy Pier: hot dog topped with bar-b-que sauce, pulled pork, and cole slaw).

I'm sure she has received my letter by now. 

I'll call in a bit to find out about her electricity (blown out by yesterday's storm) and  . . .

It is complicated? 

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".