Goodbye James

Mom reports, "James died at 12:22 p.m."  Five days after his 74th birthday...on this, the sixth day of September, which is also my older brother's 54th birthday. Though my good-bye was said, there are...emotions.   
R.I.P

My younger brother relates that the cancer is taking a toll, that you've seen more days in the hospital than out in recent weeks. For this turn of events I am truly sorry for I know it must not only be taking a toll on you, but on your wife and your son...well, all your sons.

Friends who have weathered the cancer storm in recent years advise the end could be very near or much further off, the time in between could be full of very ill days or not or some mix in-between.  I am choosing to believe that your silence this time is due to your sickness and your needing to focus on the variety of treatments and the side effects therein. Thus, I'm taking the initiative. Again.

This is goodbye to you, James, the man who was once, very briefly, my father.

Since hearing of your illness a year ago, I've been fashioning this goodbye, preparing myself for this departure which solidifies your absence. I've been preparing for how this ultimate departure will impact the sons you had with my mother and how that, in turn, will impact me.

In many ways, the preparation goes beyond the last year, for you have been physically absent for decades and emotionally absent virtually my entire life. I have time and time again had to reconcile that for one reason or another you wanted nothing at all to do with me. Sure, on the rare occasion you  responded to one of  the thousands of cards or letters with some declaration of love, I was left ultimately left with the deafening silences that followed. I was left with imagining  or fashioning a scenario where we'd reconcile. But, in reality, I gave up, gave in to your absence. And then, cancer.

And thus, I tried again, we talked and it was easy. But then, more silence. Perhaps due to the illness and the toll it is taking. Perhaps due to my not adhering to your beliefs. Perhaps due to . . you, being you. The history that is our existence dictates that there is always something to blame for the nothingness.

James, this is goodbye, but I also want you to know that I am not angry. I'm not angry for the decades of silences. I'm not angry that you missed the first day of every school,  every accolade, every heartbreak, every . .  everything related to me up to and including thee entire lives of my children. I am not angry that your YOU was not, is not, cannot be, my dad.

I said goodbye to that fantasy and now I say goodbye to the man James who was once, ever so briefly, my father. The man who taught me, designed or accidental, how to be present for those I love; how to say to them at every opportunity, "I LOVE YOU" and how to mean it, how to show it with my head, heart, energy, money, and more. I am saying goodbye but also thank you. For the nothingness you exhibited helped frame the me that is me.

I am sorry for your pain and suffering and how that impacts your wife and sons. I wish for the rest of your days to be as comfortable as your family and doctors can make for you. I trust that your beliefs provide for you a measure of tranquility as you transition . . .

So, for the last time, goodbye and may peace be with you.

Your Only Daughter

Daredevil

*

Part of last weekend was spent with mom. She taste-tested avocado and mango in between preparing breakfast while I did a chore or two (or three). We sat. We ate. We talked, some. Nothing serious. Well, except for the litany of sick and death notices from around the horn of family and acquaintances.

Such seems to be her favorite pastime.

Three hours later, I grab my bag, helmet and whatever else she was trying to force me to accept, gave a hug and stepped to the door.

"Be careful," she warned as I turned the knob.

I replied, "I'm always careful, I'm no daredevil." To which she retorted, "I THINK YOU ARE!"  

I don't know what my, "are you shitting me" face looks like, but I'm sure that it was plastered on for a few moments before a shrugging of the shoulders as if to say, "whatever" and the easing on out the door, down the stairs, on onto my Brin to ride the 12 (or so) blocks home, carefully.

Her assessment has hovered about my shoulders all week. daredevil! Me. Does she really think that? And if so, why? What daredevil-like things have I done in her view? By definition I'm far from that persona, in my view anyway.

I'm an office worker for cripes sake! I do take public transportation to and fro, but so do several thousand others, she among them. I don't smoke. never have. I don't take drugs except vitamins and those needed to temper the skin issues, mostly over-the-counter. I do drink alcohol, but not in a reckless, irresponsible, ostentatiously daring manner.

I'm fucking pedestrian. Daredevil? Hell. No.

Oh sure, I've engaged in unsafe behavior on occasion in my 50 plus years, but she can't know of more than one or two of those instances. And unsafe, on occasion, does not equal daredevil no matter how you slice it, in my view anyway.

So I'm back to what constitutes daredevil in her eyes and when do I engage in such behavior?

Is it the atheism? Keeping my hair extremely short? Dating (and falling for) women? Wearing purple or striped socks? Can it be the art? The writing?  The voicing my opinion with regard to my dad, brothers, and other family members? Is it the bike riding? Is it the favoring of avocado as well as Mexican, Italian, Greek, Thai, and food of other lands? Is it the wearing of two pair of earrings on occasion but rarely a necklace? Is it the thumb ring? Is it my beliefs regarding church and state; the separation of the two? For cripes sake, I sold my rollers skates for fear of falling off them and breaking my ass.

I am so fucking pedestrian. Daredevil? Hell. No.

What then, pray-tell is it that defines me as daredevil-y?

Could it be that I'm merely different from her (and most everyone she knows) and that it wasn't the meaning for daredevil she meant to retort at all?  Could it be she meant something else altogether? And if so, what?

We'll never know. We're still working through that complicated tag she hung on a couple of years ago. We have yet to have a conversation of revelations and truths. Try as I might, that brand of dare-devilry is . . . well, like I've been saying, all along,

daredevil? Hell. No.

*artwork by daughter--age 8.

Weekender

   

1. Thank you dear friend for the bottle. Buttah insisted on being in the shot.   

2. Bike riding happened (beginning Thursday). And it was fun.   

3. My mom had not (until Saturday) ever tasted avocado (or mango). 

4. Avocado = fail. She didn't hate it but didn't like it enough to try to improve the taste (for her palate) with any additions; salt, pepper, tomato. etc.  One and done. 

5. The mango on the other hand was quite successful. 

6. Daughter went to the funeral of a former classmate. He was 31 days older than she. She has made plans for her 27th birthday. He didn't survive to see his 27th birthday.  

7. THAT has weighed heavily on her mind as well as mine. 

8. Back to mom, she continues to take issue with my closely cropped hair. She feels I'm 'dissing' the struggle (from when I was an infant/toddler with eczema) she faced 'saving my hair'.   

9. When I saw her Saturday AM my hair was (in my estimation) too long. By Saturday evening, no longer was it too long, it was just right (in my estimation).  

10. I wanted to put together a cucumber salad for my lunch(es) this week and likely still will but pretty perturbed that I couldn't find Kalamata olives at the store. 

11. Bike riding will happen in the early morning hours (before work) at least three days this week.  

12. Despite the emotions mixed with some procrastination the entire list of weekend (to-dos) gone themselves done. Well, almost. The folder containing the work I was going to do from home somehow got itself forgotten at the office. 

To paraphrase "Feeling Good" it's a new day, a new day, and I'm feeling . . .  

  

Deborah Dear

Dear Deborah, 


Finally, you are officially fifty-two. The daughter has been teasing, calling you, "52" since the day after you celebrated number fifty-one. The taunting, good in nature coming after you did something particularly 52-ish, like forget where you were going mid-step or a word mid-sentence, or something like put your shirt on backwards and inside out, has served as a constant reminder that, well, fudge, you're gettin' UP there.  

But that's okay. Gettin' UP there ain't so bad  especially if you have your health and some semblance of your mind. Or so I've been told. 


That said, dear Deborah, the birthday was several days ago and I'm writing today to tell you that the partying must be over. Enough with the Irish whiskey, French vodka (two martinis at Melting Pot! Really? two?)  Belgian Beer, and the rich desserts. Enough! Truth be known you've been in celebratory mode for the entire month prior to your birthday weekend. 


Well, that's what we'll call it, celebrating.


But I know the truth, and deep down, so do you. And I'm here to tell you here and now, 


Enough! 


No more blaming the heat, heartache, knee pain, crappy dye jobs, or crappier days at work. No more drowning in the dumps because your mom is...well, who she is and your dad, not a dad at all. I won't mention your brothers because well, what is the point of that?  


Enough!  


Your calendar notation for Tuesday reads, 'early AM ride' and did you? NO! It wasn't raining, wasn't unbearably hot. Sure, you were out late Monday (and again, two martinis?okay enough about that, it WAS your birthday, but still . . ) true enough, but if the skipping days doesn't stop doesn't stop you won't get back on track. And you must, you know, get BACK at It and YOU KNOW IT!!  It is so much more than a body thing, it is a mind thing. 


So, have some Hil....  

AND get your head out of your ass and get said ass in gear. I don't give, to steal a phrase from daughter, "two shits and a fuck" about  your looking sexy for the beach (or whatever) but I do want you to feel good. Bump that, I want you to feel GREAT, inside and out. I want you to think, I want you to write, I want you to create. I love what the actor said the other day, "crazy for creatives!"   I want the two of you to collaborate. I want. I want. I want...YOU BACK!! Now, dammit. I want to see you, feel you, hear you fucking Laugh Out LOUD once a day, every day right up to birthday number fifty-three. 


And then some. 


Happy, happy, joy, joy...for realz. 


♥, 


 ME  


  

Fried Days

Okay, I'll say it here and now. July has basically been a bust with regard to my goals.  I mean, for fuck's sake it's been hot, beyond hot. And when it hasn't been hot it has been storming. And when it hasn't been storming, it has just been . . .

BLAH.

Well, blah for me.

Not so much the heat, well yeah the heat, but because of the heat the usual, 'unable to sleep through the night' plague is even worse.

Which means getting up (waking up not the issue) to don some clothes, get on the bike and ride, ride, ride, Sally Deborah ride, is just . . . well, it hasn't been happening with any regularity. Or, at all.

And I bought new gloves and padded shorts too.

Not riding wouldn't be so bad, but I'm eating horribly. Well, not so much horrible choices but just too damn much. Over-stuffing. And I'm drinking a hella beer.

HELLA!

Not riding (or walking beyond what is absolutely necessary) eating and drinking too much wouldn't be oh, SO bad, but on top of all that, feeling guilty about it . . . I can't flippin' think.

It took too many days (cha-ching to the library coffers) to finish a 378 page book. I saw the movie for fuck's sake. I KNEW (basically) how it would end. And it wasn't like it was (at) all challenging. Come to think of it, maybe, 'can't flipin' think' is not precisely accurate. I. Can't. Focus.!.!

My brain is just fried (hehehehe, I typed, 'friend')....anyhoo...F.R.I.E.D and speaking of, fried green tomatoes, now, YES PLEASE, and while we're at it, fried pickles. EXCEPT for the variety I had at Seven Ten in Hyde Park many months ago. They were awful.

That said, July isn't over. I still have a chance. I have to shake this . . . whatever. I can't change the heat, the  job, any other stuff proffering the 'blues' just my reaction to it, them.

Each day is a brand new day. Welcome to the end of Wednesday and (plus) 100 heat index.

Bring on Thursday.

PS: special note to newest recruit who once gave me HOT SEX and who  is no longer, technically new . . .well, she is, but isn't; it's a long story . . . anywhoo, note to newest recruit who is now a bona fide friend . . . THEY  ARE FUCKING IDIOTS!!! 

Any Given Sunday

Some days ago I opened my email account to find a to find notice of a:

New Meetup Group!

The notice, in and of itself, did not surprise. Some weeks I get three or four such emails over the course  of said week. Art. Writing. LGBTQ. Socializing. Fitness. Films. Live Theater. Just some of the boxes I checked in my profile. So, I get an email whenever a group forms that touches (even ever so slightly) any one (or more) of my interest bullet points. 

So again, no surprise an email announcing the formation of and invitation to join: Polyfidelity, Polygamy, and Group Marriage MeetUp group appeared some days ago, for the tags used to categorize this group LGBT. Socializing. Friends. Women. Bi-Sexual Women. do indeed hit upon some my my bullet points.  

The organizer(s) asks two questions:  

Do you want more than one loving life-partner?   

Are you looking for multiple committed relationships?   

This meetup group intends to be a smaller, more personal group than the larger swinger and polyamory communities. Together we host potluck dinners, discussion groups, movie nights, and book clubs.

 

Yes? to any (all) then this might be a group for you. 

No, not for me. I'm not certain I want (or am capable of sustaining) a loving, long-term, committed LIVE-IN relationship with ONE adult woman, let alone more than one. Suffice to say, I'm a one woman, woman and while I do want a committed, loving relationship that hopefully develops over the long term, I do not know that we (whomever "we" may be) will live together.    

I am, however, certain that I will not ever live with a another man, who isn't my son. 

And while I took a pass on the Polyfidelity, Polygamy, Group Marriage invite and in fact, take a pass on many of the MeetUp invites as most are simply not my bottle of beer, every now and again a new group feels right enough to click, "yes." I've met some intriguing, fun, smart, engaging folks through some of the MeetUps. That isn't to suggest that the folks in P, P, Group Marriage group are not similarly endowed. . .  

the group's mission, is just. . .

no, not for me.    

First Sunday in July

This first Sunday in July also happened to be July first. Of course, we know that July first is only scant days prior to probably the most famous of July days since its inception, but were there any ot historic happenings on the first of July?

Well, according to this site there were several; for instance, the first postage stamp was sold on this date in 1847. Also, on this date in 1910, White Sox Park (Comiskey Park) and now, US Celluar Field, opened.  The White Sox lost to the Browns 2-0. In 1963 the post office institutes what is now called, zip code. Zipping ahead to the year 2000, Vermont's Civil Unions law goes into effect. The list ends with the July 1st (2007) notation of the smoking ban in public places for all of the UK.

The list ends there. I don't know if there were no items of historic significance on July 1st since 2007 or if events in more recent years are not yet considered, "historic". That is really hear nor there, for what July first means to me is, well, July FIRST. And beyond the July birthdays of which I am aware (a cousin turning 59, an two aunts 82 and 70, and me, 52) it also marks a newer focus on, well, marking.

Scale. Measuring Tape. Blood Pressure Gage. Note. Record. Focus. Goal. And to mark, there must we work. And the work must begin. The work did, in fact begin. I got up before the sun on Monday and rode 30 minutes, returned home, showered and went to work. I've been trying to walk at least 10,000 steps but blazes it is HOT and while not normally all that affected by the heat, I ain't stupid. I'm being careful and cautious and by all means, hydrated. But, the idea is, 30 minutes (minimum) at least 3 days a week of riding and 10,000 steps (minimum) every day. Plus, eating less processed, more fresh produce, and more . . . variety. I have quite a limited produce comfort zone. I. must. expand. (so to speak) my. horizons.

To be blunt, I'm not happy with where I am physically. Not just my weight but overall health. I don't feel as good as I used to feel. I want to feel better and to feel better I have to do better and to do better I must shift my focus and I must MARK.

My problem is that sooner or later the marking, the recording becomes a bit too....mundane. I'm working on a method that will be less so, over time. I haven't quite figured that part out yet, but I will and I think art will be involved somehow. For art must become much more present in my life. But, that's an entry for another day.

On that day, the first of July, the first of many thousand steps was taken toward the next evolution. By next July first (or FOURTH, happy Independence Day, ya'll) another happening of historic proportion can be added to a timeline. :-)

Peace.

Fourth Sunday in June

 So, here it is . . . and thus begins her email that effectively spells the end of US as a couple.

I wasn't blindsided, not totally. I felt it (or something akin) was brewing. There were signs. Prior to the email last week there were periods of silences, missed opportunities to get together, other changes to what had become our routine for weeks prior. Understandable. given her very busy schedule. But, still . . .  

Time.

Being compatible. Being companionable. Having fun. Enjoying one another on a variety of levels. Being happy. Beginning to fall . . .   None individually or collectively necessarily spell success in hammering out a relationship. There can be and certainly were in our case mitigating circumstances.

Time.

Though I felt it coming,  had time to prepare for the shoe to drop, the reality hit hard and rendered momentarily stunned and incredibly sad.  She made it clear she didn't come to this decision lightly, it wasn't something she relished doing. She'd hoped (as did I) for a different outcome. 


But now is simply (well, nothing simple about it) not the time. 


It has been a week and the time has quelled most of the emotions. There was no acrimony, no hard feelings. We remain in touch and connected through FB. I wish her the greatest of success in her business and life, as she does for me. I feel honored to have met her and grateful for the time we shared. I hope there is  an opportunity to chew the philosophical fat with her somewhere down the road for she truly is . . . well, in a word, awesome.   

Time.

Meanwhile however, I am single and while not in love with said state of affairs, the intent is to embrace my favorite season. Further, the intent is to mitigate the work stresses with more focused determination toward my passions.  There is a 5K in the not too distant future calling my name. I will likely walk the course but am not dismissing  the possibility of running. The knees will decide. I may even post more frequently, though no promises, as I explore further explorations. The intent is to continue, to adopt daughter's vernacular, "doing me" which is to say, looking out for my family, honoring and cultivating my friendships, and caring for my own well being the best way possible.

But first, breakfast (omelette, preferably spinach and feta but most any will do) and then, laundry. It is Sunday after all.

**and note to my very supportive friends (you know who you are) ya'll rock hard** love you ladies. :-)

Third Sunday In June

Another picture perfect Sunday, on the outside, the aftermath of much needed rain, barely visible.

Pictures are not always what the seem.

On this third Sunday in June, designated "Father's Day" I've spent barely a moment thinking about my dad and even less about their dad. My son, daughter, and I were all here together for a good part of this day and that, in and of, itself, is cause for celebration. We had a handful of meaningful conversations that led to a handful of revelations.


Catharsis, or catharses comes to mind. Each has spent part of this day ruminating over focus and dedication toward the next stages of their respective days, weeks, months, and quite possibly, years.

I've spent a considerable amount of time today in my own state of rumination as my own life has taken some turns and is about to turn again. For better or worse, time will tell. For this day, however, and the couple leading to it? far from the bike ride in the park of the most carefree of summer days.

My present may very well become my past but it could also become my future. I was shown a picture of myself today and though I disagreed with the accompanying hypothesis, I can relate to and respect the sentiment presented.  

I read this quote somewhere, don't recall where and didn't take note of the author, so forgive the lack of credit, "Let your past make you better, not bitter." I feel like that quote has been the cornerstone of my entire existence.

This third Sunday in June, this Father's Day, turned out to be grand mother of days, existentially speaking.

Second Sunday in June

Sun shining, temperature high, and humidity low, by most meteorological accounts a picture perfect day. In fact, by most all accounts, a picture perfect day.

That is, if it were a picture. If the day (beyond that which one has not control, like the weather) could be scripted or molded or otherwise fashioned to one's particular specifications it would have included much more than shining sun, high temperature and low humidity, a library run, a trip to the movies and a free bucket of popcorn by virtue of Classic Cinema Reward points accrued over a period of time.

Of course I don't mean to suggest that ALL that wasn't great. In fact, it was all pretty awesome. It just wasn't everything.

But that is okay. On this sun shining, high temperature, low humidity, trip to the movies,  and free popcorn day, it was enough. It was a, "make due with what is in the fridge" kind of day and some days that is okay. In fact, some days, that is golden.

While one's deepest desires are deferred with a 'make due with what is the fridge' scenario. The same scenario does sate the urgency of the hunger. On that second Sunday in June, I was full but not content; happy, but not ecstatic, smiling, but not laughing that full throat,, rising from the depths of your soul, kind of laugh.

Still, by most accounts, the second Sunday in June was a picture perfect day.

I'm ready for another, only better.
 

First Sunday in June

Younger brother (he's 50 and I'm 51 escalating toward 52) is getting married this first Sunday in June. The wedding (reportedly set for 1 PM) is his second.

I was informed on the impending nuptials last Sunday. But Mom, the informer, didn't know the time or the precise location of the ceremony. She'd prefaced the information by asking me to, "think about attending."

The additional details didn't arrive until Friday evening around seven, from the groom himself, "Hey, I'm calling to invite you to my wedding on Sunday, at one o'clock, in Aurora. We didn't have time to send out invitations and . . . . "

Long story short, I declined with no regrets.

Younger brother is a born again (and again, and again ad nauseam) christian, as well as an infantile,  narcissistic, know little know-it-all, user and abuser who has spent most his his adult life behind bars, a guest of the state. a drain on taxpayers.

But none of that directly caused me to decline his eleventh hour invite.

I declined primarily because my brother's events (first wedding, birthday parties, ordination into some kind of ministry, and holiday dinners) all have been notoriously and infamously late. Even on this past Mother's Day, we conspired to surprise our mother by appearing side-by-side to treat her to lunch and try to appear the happy family unit, he was two and a half hours late, with no apologies.

The other traits just add fuel to the furor that is our dynamic.

I realized last Sunday while Mom was trying to convince me to "support his decision" ill-conceived it may be, that while I like my younger brother well enough, and for our mother's sake, shoot for cordial whenever he and I speak or are together, I do not love him as she does. I cannot support him, as she does, unconditionally.

Still, I offered congratulations and best wishes. For despite the furor that is our dynamic,  I do wish him well, especially for the sake of all the children affected by his actions. At the end of the day, I do hope that my younger brother has, at long last, grown up and is thinking of others above himself. I hope that he has (or will soon) take the steps to "stay" his recovery, own his mistakes and work to ascend beyond them. I hope that he has stopped blaming everyone for his "crappy childhood" and using that as an excuse to be a total . . .

Anyway, while recent events and statements indicate none of the aforementioned hopes have come to fruition yet, HOPE is still the order of the day. And I do support my mother. And by so doing, affect some measure of support of my younger brother,  to a degree. I suppose.

That said, during our call on Friday I recognized that on this first Sunday in June navigating my own recovery from yet another horrid week would be best. I recognized that traipsing out to Aurora, sitting in some church waiting for a service that would have likely been at least an 1 1/2 hours late, suffering through all the "blessings of the lord" and forced cordiality with younger brother (and the stranger he will "take as his wife") was not going to be the ticket.

On this first Sunday in June I worked in the yard, helped my daughter grill meat, took a spin on my trusty Brin, ate some of the aforementioned grilled meat (and some tasty sides) watched some softball, drank a couple of beers, and de-cluttered my bedroom. All toward getting my mind and body prepped to take on the week ahead.

To wit, Happy June,  Happy "Season of Pride", and congratulations to Mr. and (the new) Mrs. Younger Brother. Perhaps  he will call the next time he's in (or on his way to) town. Perhaps we can share some cake to celebrate his union.

Seventy Two

My mother will be 72 on Saturday. Her assessment of me hasn't changed much in the nearly two years since I wrote "Skimming the Surface".  The biggest change to our relationship is my brother's return from prison. He, as always, permeates the family dynamic. Her call to thank me for the hand-crafted, personalized birthday card I sent, wound up being about him and his upcoming (reported--kinda like the boy who cried wolf) nuptials. Never-the-less, complicated or not, I wish my mother the happiest of days. 

  

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.

*As Published in Our Big Gayborhood 

minutiae

Paper everywhere. Not confetti-like pieces scattered about willy-nilly, but large newsprint sized sheets. Someone had placed these sheets in a serendipitous fashion; some clearly to soaking the results of past accidents while others lie in wait of accidents to come.  

Thus was the beginning of a dream, a story, that has since been long lost. Out of my head, my mind, my bones, just g-o-n-e. Blown away into the details of day-to-day.  And oh, has there been a mountain of day-to-day. 


minutiae 


Work has been and has felt much more like w-o-r-k I don't know how much longer we can go or more to the point, how much longer I should go . . . on and on. Decisions about, preparations for the possible next step(s).  


minutiae


The actor is in a play and has been busy, busy, and even more busy. He's come home with stories of the production, the cast, the import of the work. I have yet the see the show(s) (the play is actually two plays performed in rep) but will get my opportunity a week from Saturday and then again two weeks from Friday. I try to follow his example and ignore the reviews but I can't. 


minutiae


The daughter is working steadily at a job she seems to really like and as important, they really like her. She's continuing her education toward enhancing her skills and advancement possibilities at work and beyond. But the other side of the coin, the personal relationship? Not so winning. Here's to her heart syncing with her head toward allowing her to move away, onward from the current main squeeze. 


minutiae


And then there is the rest; mom, brother(s) dad, cousins, aunts, uncles and all the related day-to-day. Or rather, my thoughts and possible action and/or reaction to the various day-to-day. 


minutiae 


My personal relationship is moving right along. She and I are dancing metaphorically (though we do plan to dance, literally, at some point) doing the relationship foxtrot, feeling are way along to wherever, forev....well, we're moving right along. Bring on date night(s). 


minu...YUM


     

The Newest Normal

Having not dated since my break-up I'll admit to being woefully out of practice. Having not dated locally since . . . well, shit, since before my oldest (30) was even conceived, I'll admit to being just . . . whoa.

But now I'm dating. Not dating as in seeing a few people to see how they fit. No, I'm dating one woman and discovering how we fit.  The indeterminate "US" from a couple of posts (and few weeks) ago has grown into a definite relationship as so declared on FB.

A good fit, yes. A good match, again, yes. Still, dating . . .

Dating can be, is . . . challenging. Even when one is ripe to the idea of opening heart, mind, body, and life to another, for another, there are . . . logistics; schedules, finances, families, and jobs just to name a few. Then there is all the newness, the first times, the discoveries . . . all of which can be, is . . . fun, exciting. It is, can be . . . daunting.

It is very, very easy to become accustomed to having good time, to become conditioned to expect it every time out, to fall into a routine and then become soundly disappointed with the routine is broken even for a very good reason, a very worthy cause.

And in our brief stint dating we've had both, the good times and the disappointments. The good times however, have outdistanced the disappointments. And while we are determined to maintain that ratio, there are those challenges, those logistics.

Still . .  I am up for the challenge, the earlier "whoa" not-with-standing, for we are a good fit.

We are dating one another exclusively. And this is my newest normal.

Whoa.







 

Distraction

Were I committed to participating in the A-Z April Blogging Challenge today's letter could be "D". And further, were I committed to participating in the A-Z April Blogging Challenge by letter "D" word, subject designation:  Distraction. 


You remember back in grade school when you were crushing on someone and you could barely keep your mind on your spelling words, cursive writing practice, or multiplication tables? All you could think about was that smile, those eyes, having lunch together, and passing one another on the way home from school?


Distraction 


And what about some time later when all you could do with any consistency is write their name over and over on your notebook? Using different color pens? Adding stickers? Making {Art} out their name by adding wings, curlicues, faces, or plants?

Distraction 


Now grown up, mature, with some life under your belt and a full menu of items clamoring for your attention and yet, you want to talk with her every minute of every day despite your respective busy schedules. You work to memorize her phone number so you don't waste a fraction of a second  scrolling your address book. (Assigning her number to a speed dial button seems...off, somehow).

Distraction

As one nifty day leads to another and then yet another, as you begin to adjust your life to encompass the thoughts, emotions, and being of another, as you begin to think of yourselves as an "US" you likely find your mind flitting from this idea to that, your body going through the motions of task completion but your mind clearly engaged elsewhere.  You likely find yourself in a Den of Distraction. Or, that could just be me.

But let me state for the record that being distracted by that smile, those eyes, the thought of having lunch (or whatever and then some) together . . .

desirable. delectable. dandy. 

There is an "US"

We met several weeks ago as many folks do, on-line. We were both on a meeting-to-dating site that made no more but no fewer promises than any of the others toward success at "finding a match." (Why do I feel compelled to break into song, matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch)? And we were both out there awhile before our respective profiles brushed against one another.

She wrote me. I wrote back. She responded. And then so did I.  We spoke via telephone and soon agreed to meet face-to-face.

We met in a cafe. Had a lunch that bled into the dinner set-up where we said our good-byes. But in the meantime, we talked. And talked. And talked. Such a good time we had, so much discovery.

That get together has led to others and even  hand-holding.  Ahhhhh . . .

She recently shared: <i>Somehow, I managed to find – managed to be found by – someone who shares my understanding of the world and the nature of reality . . .  

Which could have easily been my share. 

Still, as often as we have spoken, as grand a time we've had with one another, as close as we are becoming, we are both cautious and dare I say, somewhat fearful. This is new, is precious, is fragile in its beginnings. 

And it is everything. Again.   

Thus, despite her thinking me beautiful and me thinking the same about her, despite all we've shared and the eagerness we have for more, despite the discoveries made and the euphoria of the prospect of future discoveries, we are careful at naming this . . . confluence of events, except to mutually assert  that she and I are most assuredly, most gleefully, an US! 

   

not crying, but there are tears

Whatever crying I do is done in private.

Quietly. 

In my room, in the shower, in the darkness of a theater. 

Silently. 

Without witnesses and very little evidence. 

But this isn't about crying. 

It is about tears. 

Allergies have attacked my eyes which have produced tears. 

A lot of tears. 

Additionally, I'm not sleeping very well at night and as a result grow very, very tired during the midst of my workdays. The train rides home turn into yawning marathons. 

Serial yawning produces tears. 

A lot of tears. 

Most of the other commuters ignore me and my waterlogged face. Some pretend to ignore but are clearly disturbed. While others, disturbed and concerned, ask outright, "are you okay, is there anything I can do for you?" 

Nothing to be done except take the anti-allergy meds, try to get enough rest, and keep my pockets stocked with tissues. 

never let them see me cry*

the week tested my mettle in more ways than one. it made me cancel plans to celebrate with my very dear friend one of those milestone birthdays. missing the event pained me deeply and will haunt me for days, if not weeks to come. it made me concerned over my financial present and scared me shit-less over my financial future. it made me cry. it made me sick. it made me tired, weary, and just . . . damn.

but.

i held it together, mostly.  thanks in large part to the presence and help of a new friend.  her listening to me this week, the silver around all the clouds.

she and i are navigating a path toward being more than friends. but for now a friend is what i needed and a friend is what she's been and for that i am truly grateful.  that said, traveling the path toward more . .  the thought, the moves, those feelings made the week bearable and the prospect of beyond, brighter, no matter what.

*six word saturday submission   

Moving to Living

Our little family of companies has been moving this week. It feels deja vu-ish as it was just June 2011 that we moved to where we are moving from. now. Still, as familiar as many of the activities are, this move feels different in a way.

First off, the owner bought the building that we're moving into and that has an, ahhh...finally, a home, kind of feel to it all. Secondly, the building we're moving into has some history. It recently housed a museum and some of the artifacts were left behind by the most recent owners.

Our owner decided to keep some of those, at least for a time. Fun, that.

As excited and eager as I am to settle into our new space, there is also a sense of nervousness. This move comes at the heels of the most challenging 18 or so months of my working life. Business has been bad and we've squeaked by but we are all showing the wear and tear of frustration. And the move? It will either finish us or be our saving grace.

If I were to bet, I'd place my chips on survive and thrive for a number of reasons a couple of which are the owner's commitment to success and the number 3 in our new address. This is my 33rd year with the family of companies (in its many incarnations). The most recent previous location aside, there has been a number 3 in every business (and home -save one-) address of my adult life.

I'm not superstitious or anything, but . . . well, it's THREE.

Who's Five?

With all the hustle and bustle of the actor turning thirty, phantom library book requests, company on the move (yet to be discussed) and various other happenings, this space failed to mention the momentous event of Buttah turning FIVE. Daughter adopted him in August of 2008 at which time he was a few months beyond his first year. He warmed his way in my heart only minutes after coming on scene. And while technically, he's her cat, our deal is, when she moves (which she promises is STILL the plan) he's to stay with me and Pete. Buttah, the friendlier, more gregarious of the two, is also a ham for the camera--not to mention, being anywhere I happen to be, smack in the middle of whatever I happen to be doing.

Before Art

Project Saturday  

After Art

You Read It Here 

 He's quite the helper, that one. Happy (belated *2/8*) Birthday Buttah Boy!

Ah, Muse

Books. I read a lot of books. Some weeks many books. And some weeks, it takes weeks to read {a}book. Lately, it has been the latter rather than the former scenario.

Most, if not all of the books that I read come from our local library. Well, libraries, since our library participates in a reciprocal lending program with libraries of many of the surround suburbs. I go on-line, select titles, and request a hold. The order is filled, I'm notified via e-mail and I go to our main branch to pick up and check out my selections.

The system is usually flawless. However, the last couple of times the books there for pick up turned out to be titles I didn't remember requesting. In fact, I'm pretty sure I didn't request them.

The first time I didn't think very much about it, figured it was some fluke or what my daughter describes as me being, "51."  Surely, I requested this book, I just couldn't remember having done so. Perplexing, as some years ago I'd decided this particular author, this particular serial was no longer my cup-of-tea. Ah well, I scratched my head, shrugged, my shoulders and  checked out the novel and read it, albeit very slowly.

It happened again and this time I was pretty damn sure I HAD NOT requested this book. One, it was too new and two, again I this (different) author and her series were not tops on my list. She, much less so than the first does still appeal on some level but as a back-up, a filler when all else fails, kind of read. Certainly, I would not request to have held her recently released novel I had not even known existed. Still, I was resigned to take it home and read it within the three weeks of the borrowing limit, hopefully.

When a faulty self check-out scanner forced me to see a librarian I decided to casually mention the phantom, random books held under my name. She seemed as perplexed as me and deeming the entire situation, "weird." A few taps of her keyboard, some pertinent questions later and we concluded that some some alternate "me" appeared to be using a card registered to my home address (from 15 years ago) and requesting novels by authors who were, at one time, high on my preferred borrow list.

Someone had stolen my identity but instead of ruining my credit they were ordering me out of favor (my current favor) library books?

And then I began to muse about some alternate Deborahs, one retro who is reading books that I read (or might have read) 15 years ago and some futuristic Deborah who is reading books that I might read 15 years from now. I began to muse about these three Ds getting together, gathering at one of the nearby coffee huts (or sandwich shops) to have spirited discussions about bad ass lady detectives, bad ass lady artists, and bad ass ladies in all walks (and flights) of life.

Fun, the musing.

The librarian snapped me out of my reverie by asking if she should cancel the "other" information.

Yes, please do. This present day Deborah has enough of her plate keeping up with the present day books requested from our local libraries.

I don't need the added pressure from any past or future Deborah gumming up the mix.  

One To Thirty

This week (Wednesday) the first born celebrates birthday number thirty. Gone by in an instant? No. Still, hard to fathom the trading of blocks for Transformers, Transformers for Ninja Turtles, Ninja Turtles for all the childhood things in between and then those for ties and cuff-links and all things gentlemanly.   

The boy became a man right before my eyes, thrilling, frightening, challenging, humoring, and inspiring me every day along the way. Love him? Of course, to pieces and more. He is a man of honor and courage, passion and conviction, discipline and fortitude, talent and humility, power and grace. And so much more. 

On stage or off the actor, the man is tailored to every moment. He approaches life with the wide-eyed wonderment of childhood augmenting that sense of joy with searing sensibility and methodical, insightful planning. As much as he has achieved he has so much more to encounter, conquer. For he may be about to turn thirty, but in some ways, he has only just begun.

Happy Birthday, Son. "Break Legs"    

Random. Fathom

Sleep not coming easily these days. The mind is muddled and is in need of some clearing. Perhaps the randoms will help, certainly a near perfect day like today does:

♥ It was 50 (plus) degrees today. Sunny. Clear. My daughter snapped this picture as she was leaving school today. Lovely, lovely sky.In fact, it was a lovely day. I read tomorrow is to be even better. I know some folks are missing the traditional winter, but I'm way okay with the turns we've had. Hey, it's the Midwest, we could be singing snow blues in April.

♥ Diamond's feeling better. However, her eyesight is failing. We're making things as easy as possible and keeping her in as much comfort as possible.
My younger brother got married a couple weeks ago. I met the new Mrs. briefly last week. I don't know if they were pen pals / romancers or he met her sometime after his release. In either case. I wish the new couple well. 

♥ I haven't given any thought to getting married (again). And given that I'm a lady loving lady A LOT of thought would be required (as it should be anyway), but, even more so since don't have the rights or luxury as does my brother and his new bride, for instance.

♥ What I have given a lot of thought to is death. Not my own, per se, but in general. Mostly due to Thought Question number 686 . It is a topic that doesn't come easy to most, we don't want to think about it, let alone discuss it. It' morbid. It is . . . eventual. My mother talks about death, not in any constructive way, just by way of offering up Obits and escalating every illness to fatalistic ends.
So, this text enhanced shit, anyone know how to turn it off? How to avoid having one's text enhanced with some broken down ad for some broken down service?

♥ I'll probably watch most of the Superbowl game out of pure habit. I don't have any vested interest in either team. But, I do like football. I was the only one of my group yesterday who knew when the game was and the teams competing. But, I'm thinking too it would be the perfect day to take in a movie, get in an extra six thousand (or so) steps or clean out that closet one thing or another has kept me from.

♥ Speaking of thee Though Questions Number 697 has had my mind spinning as well. I did respond to his religious literature, told him I wasn't a Christian. He pities me. The conversation didn't end there but didn't go too far downhill. He will continue trying to convert me inasmuch as his health (and his communication disciplines) allow, I suppose.

♥ My good friend has (had) a birthday today. She probably won't see this (her computer has been on the fritz)  but it doesn't matter for I've extended my well wishes to her already and soon her gift will be in the mail. Never-the-less, Happy Birthday  Good Friend!! Many happy returns of this day and more. You know you are on my mind and in my heart, always. ♥

♥ My son (& my younger brother and several cousins) have milestone birth days within the coming days. More about the actor will be spoken on his special day.

♥ My Aunt Betty (mom's oldest sibling) will celebrate birthday number 92 in a few days.
On that note, I'll bid you goodnight. Five AM will be here before I know it.

Peace. 

Snow, Cold

Friday's fall wasn't as much as last February's (photo evidence) but it was enough. Enough to snarl traffic and to change plans, not only for the evening but the entire weekend.

Well, mine anyway.

Passing up an invite to hear some jazz because of a prior engagement only to pass on the prior engagement because of not only event of snow but also the timing of same (the bulk of it coming just prior to the evening rush) but even more than snow was the cold. No, not the air temps (though, that is a incredible motivator for staying indoors) but the onset of the virus called commonly, cold.

Stuffy nose, scratchy throat, sneezing, and a slight case of the chills. The symptoms beginning Thursday and continuing, building during Friday played the larger role into my altering the evening  and weekend plans.

The snow just capped it. IT being the decision to head directly home after work Friday.  And as I reported to a couple of friends via FB who very sweetly checked in with me:

Home, safe and sound. Soon there will be hot food, hotter toddies, and warm jammies and a wonderful knitted shawl-like cover-ette. ♥.

And that was pretty much the weekend. 

Not going to hear jazz. Not going to see a screening of "If These Walls Could Talk 2". Not meeting a new acquaintance for coffee (or something). Not going to the Garfield Park Conservatory's concert series. Not going to see "Red Tails". 

Full disclosure, all of these things weren't going to happen this weekend but they were considered and were within the realms of possibilities, along with laundry, closet purging, and other sundry weekend chores--had it not been for the need to tend to the sniffling (sometimes stuffy) nose, scratchy throat, sneezing and such. 

Now on the eve of the beginning of a new work week, feeling pretty much over the cold, I'm sorry I didn't (at least) attempt a trip to the laundry mat. 

Off to rummage through the (not yet purged) closet to find some things clean (and warm) to wear tomorrow. 

Numbers

 Sunday: 9,852  measurable steps taken. Atypical for me in that 1: I don't usually wear the gadget on the weekends. 2. a low daily total (judging by the weekday totals) for me. 3. Left to my own devices, I chose to take myself to the movies. Pariah I'll just say this for now: see this film!  

Monday: 10,633 measurable steps. Most weekday evenings I'm home between 6--6:15. Since I'm home before daughter I take up the pet care duties minus (the new normal: insulin injections). Dinner is often a crap shoot, as I routinely leave food prep to her. I must however, adjust that routine for 2012 as the "crap shoot" aspect is not working so well for my goals, I finally learned from 20111 experiences. The pedometer may or may not stay on my person until I retire (which simply means, I'm sitting, relaxing before bed) for the evening, which depends mostly on the day's attire. Monday's measurements would have occurred between about 7:30 am until about 8:30 pm .  

Tuesday: 8,382 measurable steps. Not a good day on many, many levels. A weariness had gathered about my shoulders and moved south throughout the day. Focus was off and cravings ON and high . It can't be . . . but, alas, I fear it must be. Oh crap. Once home and and all the pet care needs attended I took (for all intents and purposes) to bed. However, early to bed meant much, MUCH too early to rise. Oh crap!  

Wednesday: 11,238 measurable steps. Big improvement over Tuesday but understand it was forced and aided by too many cups of coffee, zinger teas, and one sugar free R*ckstar energy drink. There was one side trip after work and with a mind toward the weekly goal of 12,000 steps I pushed as much as I could. Fell short though. Crashed and burned in fact, by lights out. Well, point of fact, I don't sleep in total darkness unless I'm in someone else's space. But, for all intents and purposes, lights were out by 11 p.m. The meter was about my person right until shower time. 

Thursday: 13,385 very unhappy steps taken. Snow. Houston, we have snow. (Note the pic was from last February's storm. We didn't get quite that much this time, but it is early yet.)   And the only reason I cracked twelve thousand was because of the snow shoveling in addition to the usual routines after work. Ironic since I'd mentioned to a friend earlier that I didn't think I'd crack ten thousand due to the snow.  

Friday: 11,261 flat, stick a fork in me, I'm done, steps taken. Along with the snow, which let's face it, is a given; this is the Midwest and this IS January for peeps sake, there is also frigid temps (anything below 30) and, AND . . .  well, let's just say I found myself gorging on mint dark chocolate M & M's which are freakin' fantastic, by the way, and downing one,two, three brown ales. I'll see the Tuesday's Oh Crap and Raise you a Holy F*ck!  Hi-ever, thank Goodness was Friday and as a friend counseled, I acted like it, dammit!!  

Saturday:  No measurable steps for today. Not that I haven't taken any. I've taken several hundred, at least. But, I didn't don the meter for 1. I don't (usually) do so on the weekends and 2. this day was a take it easy, easy like Sunday morning, a sleep in (after 9) kind of day. A thinking about how to achieve the goals for next week (and beyond) and how to work other routines into my routine, for the walking (alone) isn't going to get me where I want to get with regard to fitness. (Nor for that matter, are the mint chocolate M & M's as fantastic as they are or the multiple brown ales at a single sitting, no matter how therapeutic they may appear) kind of day. And a musing of what cruel jokers Mother Nature and her evil twin Aunt Flo have become, kind of day. 

And then it will be Sunday, again. Happy New Day, New Year, New Opportunity to achieve numbers and more.    



 

d is for . . .

In the many days since the previous post several topics, reasons to write presented themselves as possibly post-worthy. And then they were not, in fact, posted for they couldn't in all honesty post themselves. I would have to play blog post conduit and for one reason or another, I couldn't.

d is for December

And then there we were at year-end and if there is ever a topic ready-made for posting it is the looking back, looking ahead noise that permeates the end of one year and the beginning of another.  Memories take over, take control as does sense of resolve about the coming days, all 365 of 'em in one fell swoop. Oh wait, 2012 is a leap year, make that 366 days.
d is for dog
That post didn't write nor post itself either. Because as in previous days and prior posts not posted, I couldn't play blog post conduit, what with the trip to Houston, making room for the tree, preparations for the holiday meal, a short trip to Hoosier-ville, not to mention outside the home obligations, writing and posting (beyond that about making room for the tree) didn't work in the mix of things to say and do.
d is for Diva
And then here we are at the second day of the new year and finally a post is winding its way out of the ends of my fingers, off the tendrils of my mind. And this post is not at all about year ending, new year beginning or any resolve to be resolute*. This post is about the diva, our dog, Diamond.
Our sweet little fuzz face has been lethargic, losing weight, drinking beyond what you'd believe her body could hold and then of course, the body not holding it. A visit to the vet and a battery of tests reveal the underlying cause:

d is for diabetes
The news hit the other D rather hard. Her concern for the pup as well as her concern for caring for the pup (financially and otherwise) all causing, as one might expect, an overflow of emotions. The news hit this D rather hard too for the same reasons added to my concern for my daughter.
That was all several days ago and since then Diamond has been treated as an out-patient with fluids and d-daughter has administered several insulin injections, the vet tech training as well as sustaining relationships with a former co-worker (a vet M) playing vital roles is emotions calming and focusing on doing what we can to care for Diamond and care for one another.
D-dog has a bit more pep in her ten year old doggy steps and a bit more light in her eyes. She won't be well in that she won't be rid of diabetes but her condition can be treated and will be to the best of our ability. She won't be well but she is better today than she was in those days leading up to this day.
d is for Diamond our Diva, our ♥.  

*as coined by ef