She

A friend's status update: Some weeks just kick my ass . . .

  And I agree. Some weeks kick asses...all over this land. These have been two such weeks for me. This ass-kicking week has resulted in  a two martini, skip the Condo board meeting, relax in my socks and undies (the actor is out) kind of Friday night. And while my ass is thoroughly kicked on this day, well into this night, I am bolstered by this new find:

She. Don't. Stop.  

A special shout out to friends who check in, check on me. Your words lift me up so very much. ♥ 

I Can Feel You Breathe

. . . grief pushes all emotions to the surface and leaves you helpless to their whims.*

The only good thing (if there IS such a thing) about being in the throes of grieving is that my head is too waddle bummed to be front and center with current events. While I can appreciate the import of this time in OUR (marriage equality / courting supremely) lives, I just can't participate, can't even get excited, not really.  Though trying, really. 

  

Beyond the grief, there is the realization that I have to find another job. I cannot continue to work they have I have been working for the past several years. Enough is enough. Resolved, but still . . . 

daunting 

*Wendy Hornsby 

Train Tripping

Being trapped in a confined environment can turn an ordinary experience into a powder keg. Write about a thing that happened to you while you were using transportation: from your first school bus ride, to a train or plane, to being in the backseat of a car on a family road trip

Not a commute day goes by when there isn't something to talk, write about on the trains and / or buses. Not. One. As a lifelong user of public transportation I pretty much take it in stride that I will encounter a seat hogger, gambler, solicitor (that is to say, I'm homeless and hungry or an ex-con looking for help to get a let up) a thief (smartphones favorite target these days) a nose and / or zit picker   , a sneezer and / or wheezer, a snorer, a very loud talker, and let us not forget the folks who blast their listening pleasures beyond their inadequate ear buds, plus a few working stills like myself who just want to get to work and back home again relatively unscathed by the public transportation experience. 

Given that I work in and live very near a sprawling metropolis with a sometimes celebrated public transportation system I haven't ever worried about getting from here to there, just about what I would encounter on the journey. 

That is, until that day.  

Well, actually two days.

The first: I was a teenager, a high school senior. One of my after school activities met downtown once or twice a week. On one of these days, I was wrapping up my story (I worked for a city-wide, student newspaper) putting it to bed, trying to hurry as I wanted (needed) to get by to my neighborhood before it was too late, too dark.  

I had everything done, was saying my good-byes while putting on my coat, grabbing my bag when Hattie yelled, "hey, wait a minute!" Oh shit, Hattie talks a mile a minute for 45,000 hours. But, she's my home-girl, so I had to wait. And listen. For days. 

Not long after Hattie started talking I took note of the train I would have caught, rolled past the window. (The windows of the office the newspaper used were at eye-level to the elevated tracks). And shortly after that there was a large screech, a flash of light, and noises associated with crashing. Oh. shit. 

The train derailed at the turn that is just beyond the building we were in. Just out of our line of sight. But we heard it. I heard it. And when I went outside, I saw it. One of the cars was hanging over the side. Oh. shit. 
there were injuries but no one was killed. And while the rail services weren't out of commission for very long, it took a very long time for me to get back on the elevated trains. And longer still to be somewhat comfortable. I still don't like the turns. 

I don't think I ever thanked Hattie. So, Thank YOU Hattie. 

The second: Chicago is known as, "The Windy City" which, if you believe the lore, doesn't have anything at all to do with wind velocity in our fair city. Oh sure, Chicago is nestled on the bank of Lake Michigan and that prime real estate may explain some of the windiness, but Chicago is not significantly windier than any other city. 

Still, Chicago is privy to the weather patterns just like any other place in the world. And on one particularly windy day, I found myself trapped on an elevated train, short of the station by too many feet to even consider the posted evacuation plan. At least in my view. I could have been inches from the station platform, but there was no way I was going to (willingly) exit that train care, walk along the electrified (3rd rail only, but still) tracks, and climb a ladder to safety. 

Elevated. I don't know how many feet the tracks are elevated over the street, but enough to have buses and semis ride underneath them. Oh, hell NO! It is a marvel that I can even get ON the train, but as I say, life long user. I was using the elevated train system before I knew enough to be afraid of heights. And, I'm no so much afraid of heights as I am afraid of falling down from a great height. Or even, not so great. 

Well, I was trapped on a train because the train had been stalled by debris blown by the great and powerful windy city wind onto the tracks. The conductor ran over a plastic trash can that, once blown onto the tracks, run over by the conductor, had become lodged in such a way that the train couldn't move, which meant we couldn't move. 

The train (7 cars long) was full of 5 P.M. commuters. All anxious to get home. Mom's who needed to get kids from daycare, dad's who were trying not to miss another (insert kid event of your choice) students who were eager to get home to get started on . . . whatever. Everybody who just wanted to be DONE with the day!! 

It didn't take long (2 minutes, tops) of being stalled before folks started huffing, puffing, and WHAT THE F*CKING!! Goddamn C T to the F*CKING A!!! Folks lost their shit. I had a book to read (I almost always do) so I wasn't so. . so. . quick to flip. What concerned me more than the non-movement was the possibility that we might have to evacuate. THAT, had me sweating through my cotton briefs. 

Well, we didn't have to evacuate. We were stalled and stranded on that train for about twenty minutes. It was an odd experience, seeing the meltdown of so many people. Even after it was known WHY the train wasn't moving (for that had been the biggest gripe--the why) folks still were . . losing their shit. Stupid wind. Stupid plastic trash can. Stupid conductor. . . ding. ding. ding. All manner of abuse and vitriol was heaped upon the conductor who probably couldn't avoid running over the plastic trash can. 

Probably. He was shaken enough by the events of the evening that he had to be taken away by paramedics. The last five minutes of stalled time was waiting for his replacement to take us all to our respective stops.  

I bring several things away from that day, but the one thing that sticks with me the most: the train stalled and was stranded a mere 3 stations from my destination. 

Like being delayed, by Hattie, so close, so close. 

  



   


   

Scintilla Project: Day 2 Liar Liar

Remember the Petula Clark song, "Downtown"? When you're alone and life is making you lonely, You can always go--downtown. When you've got worries all the noise and the hurry seems to help I know--downtown.  

When I was a girl, DOWNTOWN Chicago was so full of wonder and suspense. It was one of the of the many out-of-neighborhood destinations we were forbidden to go alone. Yet, we ( me, my brothers, and our friends)  planned and took field trips to the downtown movie theaters and the lakefront (beaches) every chance we got. 

One of the chances happened the summer of my twelfth birthday. 

My brothers and I hatched a plan. Our mother had to work and we decided we'd blow off some summertime steam downtown. I used the occasion to dress (like a girl) for a change. Except, I didn't, in my opinion,  have any pretty shoes.  

My mother had very pretty shoes. White sandals. With heels. 

Of course, I was forbidden to wear my mother's white sandals with heels. 

I take my time and dress very carefully. My brothers are huffing and puffing, anxious to get going, wanting me to hurry up. The finished product was well worth the effort, in my opinion. I looked pretty cute. 

DOWNTOWN.  

There weren't lights because it was daytime. But the adventure felt like bright lights, big city. This was one of the few times that my brothers and I got along. We were laughing, talking, walking, munching, and have a grand time. On our final trek along the lakefront we were walking pretty close to the lakefront when . . . 

 . . . the heel off one of the pretty white sandals popped off. Into the lake. 

Panic. Scramble. Panic. 

The heel floated farther and farther out, well out of reach. 

Back toward home, dejected, one heel less. 

Trying to come up with a plausible tale, not so much about being downtown--we'd worked that part out, but the shoes, the pretty white sandals with heels, that was on me.  And all  I could come up with was: hide the shoes.

And then, deny. deny. deny. "No, I haven't seen those shoes." 

My brothers never ratted me out. 

The mystery of the missing pretty, white sandals with heels lived on and on. 

And yes, if I could tell my mother the truth today, I would. 

Scintilla Project

Not the Same Old Song *

Mem'ries, like the corners of my mind, misty water-colored mem'ries . . .

Deep inside the recesses of my mind is what was playing on the radio during my first solo road trip. Gosh darn it if I could dredge it up now even if my life depended on it. The music I remember during that trip, beyond the rattling of my nervous energy, was the song of sweet flirtation. 

We'd met on-line just a few weeks (maybe a couple) prior to my trip. We emailed furiously every day after the initial meet. Somewhere around day 5 we exchanged phone numbers. Emails turned into text messages which turned into phone calls.

During the eight or so hour drive to Memphis we spoke twice, perhaps thrice. So charming was her accent, a mix of nearly native Tennessean, by way of the west coast, by way of Europe. What was said during these calls? Couldn't tell you. What I remember is how the timbre of her laughter and deceptive cadence soothed and thrilled me for the next leg(s) of the trip. 

Excited to meet the ladies from Texas? No doubt, but fueling that trip, beyond all the firsts...was the flirt and the sweetness of that sound. 

It changed me. She changed me. 

Mem'ries, like the corners or my mind, misty water-colored mem'ries . . . 

*Scintilla Prompt (Friday)  Thursday and Saturday. . . thinking. Loving the challenge, the sharing, the stories. 



            

A Grown Up Party

 . . . a welcome diversion *

It was February 1977, a few months from high school graduation and a month after that, my seventeenth birthday. I got off work, drove home in my new used Maverick, and jumped in the shower. I donned my best slacks, my preppiest shirt, and my best . . . okay, my only pair of dancing shoes. I was going to a party. 

A grown up party. 

You must understand, I was not the most social of creatures growing up; truth be told, am only a trace more so today, but that is another story. I was not pretty nor particularly athletic. Don't let the high school tennis team fool you. That folly was due to tennis star (Billy Jean and Chrissy) crushes. I was a  geeky, glasses wearing, middle child, dark skinned,  all kind of wrong kind of girl growing up. So no, not the most social of creatures. . 

But Velda liked me, took me under her wing, as it were. She was five years my senior. Her mom and my mom were some kind of friends. I thought of Velda as more of a big sister than friend. Well, even more than friend, in my mind, anyway. She liked me enough to invite me to her birthday party that February. 

A grown up party. 

The many hours I'd spent in Velda's apartment prior to party night hadn't prepared me for the sight of strobe and black lights, beads and baubles hanging from the rafters, all the food and drink. Lots and Lots and Lots of stuff to drink. Drinking, like the Maverick, was new to me. Yes, I know, I had no business, but there it was . . me wanting to feel like a grown up and more than that, me wanting to feel like something, someone other than me. 

So, I had rum with cola. And then another. And then . . . too many more later, it was time to go. Was I okay to drive home? "Sure!" I walked a straight line, relatively up-right and was allowed to go down the two flights of stairs, into the cold, cold, February night, nearly morning. I was somehow able to maneuver the key into the lock. I was somehow able to position myself inside my new used Maverick. I was somehow able to fit the key into the ignition. 

And then I passed out.

Some hours later (morning had broken) Velda's significant other, James tapped on the window startling me awake. I was coaxed out of the car with only slightly less precision in play while getting in the car. James invited me to lean against his massive hulk while he lead me back to the  beads and baubles, and Velda's warm embrace. (Okay, that part was a dream). There was conversation between them, hell if I can remember what was said. Long story short, I was invited to (finish) sleeping it off on the sofa. 

An offer I stayed on my feet just barely long enough to accept. 

My first grown up party. 

My first (AND LAST for many, many years) drunk out of my gourd event. 

A long nap and a late lunch of sliders and fries later, me and my new used Maverick made our way back to the place I never called home. 



*Scintilla Project 

Checking In

Dear friends,

Thank you so much for checking in with me and your continued and generous support. I am, in a word, tired. I am many other things too. But the tiredness is pervasive. The tiredness is threatening to consume me. Some days, the tiredness thwarts my progress and messes with my mind.  

Thwart progressing and mind messing are not options for there is a shit-load of stuff to get done.

The business of taking care of my mother's business is, in a word . . . 

don't even have a word. From clearing out the apartment, to purging papers, sorting memorabilia, making (and receiving) calls, writing notes, filling out forms, and . . . remembering, re-living those< moments. 

If there is a word that describes the last three weeks it is . . .   

Surreal. 

These last three weeks and all that they have entailed have felt out-of-body-ish, just not right, not me, not what I should be doing or what is supposed to be happening. 

But it is real. It is happening and it all is so very. . . 

tiring. 

Still, in the face of all that feels surreal, that is which is making me oh, so very tired,  I am putting one foot in front of the other, doing the hokey-pokey and turning myself around. 

'Cause that's what it is all about. 

Or am I mistaken? 

Every Breath Taken

It has been mentioned in this space that we had, at times, a fractured relationship. Yes, there was some discord from time to time. But she loved me (and my brothers) fiercely and depended on me mightily.

And I love her. I did (and will continue) to do what I can to honor her wishes and embody her vision with regard to commitment to community and family.

My mother took her final breath Feb. 18, 2013, 7:14 p.m. After all the laboring and uphill battles she finally, simply heaved a final sigh of release and went to sleep.

I was with her virtually every minute of her last day.  I trust that I was able to assure her that we were all okay that it was okay  for her to leave us, that we all would be fine.

I don't have the where-with-all to speak on the last several days and all that had transpired. I may not be able to expound fully, ever. But for now, please know that her being and leaving has left an imprint.

My brothers and I gathered for a meal Tuesday evening, our last before older brother returns home to Austin, TX Wednesday afternoon. After some conversation we each committed to working toward burying the dysfunction that has defined our existence for the past few decades.

I know it won't change overnight but it is comforting to have heard the notes to a song Mother had been singing for a long, long time.

Rest in Peace, mother dear. I am so honored to have been your voice when you needed it most. I am so pleased we were able to mend our fences and share some meaningful times in these last few weeks.

Thank You for your unabashed show of strength, courage, and compassion.

And thank you all for the words of support, expressions of love, encouragement, and more. My heart is very much warmed by your generous spirits.


♥ ♥ ♥

Weak(en)ed Update

February 13th 2013 was to have been the first appointment with the oncologist (since the diagnosis). The first treatment.  It was my goal to get answers to questions, an understanding of the plan for attack, and some sense of assurance . . .

But we never made it to the appointment. I arrived at mom's very early that Wednesday morning to find her weak, barely responsive,                                  
                                                   
and just . .  worn.

It didn't take long to realize another trip to the ER was in our very immediate future. The paramedics arrived within moments of the 911 call and she was in the ER within moments after that. And several moments into that visit, mom declared loud and clear, no more!

No more tests. No treatment for the infection, whatever the cause. No chemo.

Nothing.

Several (hundred) thousand anguished moments later, transportation to hospice care was arranged.

And that is where she is today. Tired, but comfortable and content.

Ready.

The mass, I am told (now) is (very) large.

Mom was (apparently) sparring with herself to find out if there was any extrafight present to  partner with the fibromyalgia, osteo-arthritis, and other battles already in the ring. On that early Wednesday morning when she was too weak to stand, unable to tend to her most basic need, and became overwhelmed by the smallest of details, the internal sparring came to an end.

 NO  MORE!

Coherent. Cogent. Convinced.

Nourishment, oxygen, and a drug to help the labored breathing (so she can rest) . . . comfort care has been the order of the last few days.

My older brother will arrive soon.

  

taking the deepest breath

Yesterday was my son's thirty-first birthday.  I was prepared to post poetic about the thirty-one-derful reasons why I not only love him, but like him So SO SO much.

But yesterday was also the day I learned that my mother has lung cancer and that she's been sitting on this news for a few weeks.

waiting to exhale

inhale, exhale

Many, if not most of us take breathing for granting. I mean it is just there, like . . . air. It is as natural as wings and the Super Bowl. and speaking of wings, did you hear some days ago about the shortage of wings?

Our local wing emporiums had been pushing folks to order their Super Bowl wings days in advance, not necessarily due to the perceived shortage of wings but mostly to avoid the last minute Game Day pick-up rush and delay. there were horror stories about folks waiting 45 minutes for their Game Day wings . . . and the GAME starts in 10 minutes!!!

The wing shortage rumor has been refuted. Still, there will be lines. I think. I won't be getting wings from any of the emporiums. But, back to the point at hand, breathing. granted. taken for.

My phone rang very early on the morning of January 23rd. An actual call (versus a text message) that wasn't from my mother. But, it was about Mom. She had called a friend to take her to the ER and the friend called me.

SOB Shortness of breath.

The ER visit turned into a week of poking and prodding, testing and scoping, and a general upset of routine. Very tiring and quite overwhelming for her, as she repeated. Often. And for me it was an  exhaustive yet educational exercise.

And then she was discharged to her  home. Home with the newest normal, oxygen. And further limitation on mobility and independence. The first night was the hardest (so far). After having spent most of the evening with her while she acclimated to the oxygen canister, waiting for the delivery for the concentrated oxygen and related training, I was called out in the middle of that night by the medic alert company: mother having problems with her oxygen, am I able to go.

Yes.

The trouble was mostly anxiety.

And now, in addition to anxiety and fear there is dependence and guilt. There is confusion and helplessness. There is exhaustion and desire.

There is . . . breathing.




 

some things change, some don't

It's cold. That isn't news. It IS January and it is Chicago. I heard the other day that the single digit temps we had earlier this week were the coldest experienced in this area in two years. And though cold, I wasn't complaining for One: is IS January. Two: it IS Chicago. Three: there isn't wasn't any snow. (There is snow now, but just a tiny bit.) Four: No matter how cold, how bad it is, I know it could be worse.

.

So, it is cold. And now, a bit of snow. 

,                                                      

The pup however, is not at all phased by the cold or the snow. Granted, she hasn't seen a snowstorm yet. (There have been several inquiries as to whether she can *see* at all, what with all the hair and the phantom eyes.) But, I have a sneaking suspicion that she will handle mounds of snow in the same way she's handled everything else, with great mounds of exuberance.

There is much going around these parts, most of which I have yet to truly wrap around my head and wear it brightly. I'm worried about a some friends. I'm distressed over job, work issues. I'm fearful for my mom. I am harried, heckled, haunted, and hounded much.

But, I have a dog who is mostly calm about getting her hair snipped (except around her eyes). Hard to tell, I know, in the seated (most recent) pic that she has short ringlets instead of the shaggy dog appearance. Trust, she does. I have two cats who suffer the indignities of being (lovingly) mauled by the big, goofy dog with, well, dignity and I dare say, aplomb (mostly). I have a son and a daughter who enjoy talking to me and I enjoy most of that talking, very much.

And while it is very cold, I have heat, hot water, tea, soup, enough clothes to layer upon layer as well as a kick-ass pair of mittens (thanks to my good friend Maxine). I also have (still) a sliver of optimism that this cold snap is just that, a snap. And while my problems (and those of my friends) will not dissipate as the temperatures rise nor entirely on their own. But, solutions will be found, executed.

Things will get better. Here's to the mindset that has better coming sooner rather than too much later.

In the meantime there is the pup to walk, in the cold and tiny bit of snow.

Second Saturday AM

 

Today's entry was to have been about getting (and keeping,  mis-stepping and now needing to regain) Cinnamon's sleeping through the night schedule for in the last couple of days she's back to rousing at 3:30 AM for walking, feeding. . . . aaarraggghh.

But, that will have to wait for another day, for on this day,  there is a dream to relate. 

We're up at 3:30 AM. We walked. She ate. I drank the coffee the actor had brewed, up early to prepare for his coaching gig and an audition. We talked (the actor and I) about a great number of things while Cinnamon harassed the orange cat and ripped apart a carton (when she couldn't get at the cat).  

A couple or so hours later the actor had to shower and dress for his day. After he left I went back to bed, to re-boot my Saturday morning. Sometime after I dropped back off to slumber-land, a dream crept up beside me. 

As you know, of maybe YOU don't, but some do--I don't remember dreams, or at least not the full scope of them. Just snippets. Slices. 

This dream starred Kobe (as in Bryant, as in, ick, I can't stand him). He was the waiter and I the diner. I  was having a dinner or it could have been a series of dinners with someone whose identity was never revealed. Kobe kept bringing me dishes I didn't seem to be ordering. First, fish. Then, linguine. Then, some kind of sandwich. And then . . well, it went on and on. 

With the delivery of each dish Kobe would moan and groan. He had some whiny commentary about my eating and he and his team losing. There appeared to be a correlation. The final dish (that I remember) him plopping down in front of me was an extremely large mound of french fries and a saucer full of fried pickle slices. The End (of the dream).  

And then, screaming bladder.  

I know why the food, as the last of the great many things the actor and I discussed before my morning nap was diners and the virtues (and / or risks) of  high, middle, and lower end dining establishments and experiences. I don't know why the specific food items except for the fried pickle slices. Their appearance is undoubtedly the result of my first former girlfriend being heavy on my mind in recent weeks.

Kobe's whiny ass?  What? Why? And Stop!  

And now, onward to a re-booted Saturday AM. Cinnamon and I have been outside again. Soon she will get a bath where I will attempt to clip more hair from around her face so it is in better alignment with her body, the litter boxes will get cleaned, and . . . well, a number of other chores before going out tonight.

But first, breakfast. 

First Sunday 2013

Back, NO ForwarD

This post was pondered for hours over the course of many days. Well, not this post, but a post in its place. For the post I'd been pondering had to do with loss; the loss of a girlfriend, an aunt, an uncle, other relatives, and our beloved Diamond, not to mention losses suffered by the nation, the world.

As of December 27th Chicago had booked 500 murders for 2012.

But in the pondering, moreover, in the writing (or rather, the staring at the blank screen) I decided not to dwell on the losses of this or any other year (except or unless it has to do with weight--which is a whole other post). I'd rather focus on the gains (again, not weight) or rather, the good over the bad.

I'd rather be the opposite of my mother who is very much about the tragic, the loss, the bad. Who sends me Christmas greetings, thank you and thinking of you notes that include the most recent illness, accident, or death as well as another tidbit about her final journey. The organization that will receive her brain (upon her death, of course) will indeed pay for the transport of her corpse.

Ain't that good news?!

Oh, don't get me wrong, I very much appreciate the foresight, the pre-planning, the taking care of business aspect of her eventual demise for I know without such instructions and plans in place my brothers will be at my door (should we all still be around) making all kinds of demands about what should (or shouldn't) be (despite ignoring her "live and in-person needs" for most of the past 30 years.)  I just don't need to talk about it. I have the papers, the contact numbers, the list of instructions. I understand, do not have any questions, and don't need to discuss her final journey (anymore.)

So yes, while I we have suffered many losses this year, feeling each one deeply, extensively, and for what has felt like an eternity, while trying NOT to. Or rather, trying to mask that desperation. I have been (more, lately) endeavoring to dwell on the gains, the positives, the goodness from this year, for it wasn't ALL bad. I am working to re-train my brain to focus on the promise of each new day,  new chances to turn tides, change directions, alter outcomes. I am re-dedicating myself to . . . well, me. Mind, body, and overall me for me, for you, for our nation, for the world at large.

And for Cinnamon who came bounding into my life unexpectedly but most thankfully.

Happy New Day, Happy New Year to one, to All!


 

Holly Jolly

The song begins, "have a holly, jolly Christmas; it's the best time of the year" and for weeks now it's been looping in and around my head, double dog daring me to just DO IT! > BE IT!

Jolly. or in everyday vernacular: happy.

It has been an uphill climb, but on this day above all others I am reminded that despite the not so grand in my life and the world at large, there is still very much that is good and cause for happiness. There is shelter, food, love of family and friends, Buttah, Pete, and puppy dawg Cinnamon.

A good friend is spending Christmas day in the hospital recovering from knee replacement surgery. Not the happiest of places to be on this (or any other) day, but the key word:
recovering. I got word earlier today that physical therapy is going well.

Jolly, or in everyday vernacular: happy.

I could name hundreds, perhaps thousands, of things that can be counted on to cause unbridled happiness and joy to wash over me like warm showers, but I won't. I'll just state for the record that I know, I remember, and I am grateful for those things and those people.

Have a holly, jolly Christmas and may those feelings spread over many days, weeks, months beyond.

"Christmas isn't a season, it's a feeling."  Edna Ferber  

Testing 1. 2. 3.

There is plenty to say, just no time, energy, focus to get it organized and down on paper or rather, screen. What I can say is that I'm glad it is raining instead of snowing. I'm glad my hip stopped hurting. I'm so saddened and distraught over the most recent (and seemingly constant) spates of mass violence. The fact that I had to ask mom for my younger brother's address speaks volumes. I don't intend to buy any "Christmas" gifts, though I will be gifting, much. I had the best time with my good friend at dinner the other night. Can't wait for a repeat. The cats are leery of the dog. Buttah however, will test his mettle against the big baby hound. And speaking of the the dog . . . 

Anatomy of an Unfriending

Hair. It seems to always be about or revolve around hair in some shape form or fashion. This time was no exception.

Many weeks ago Willow Smith (you know, the daughter of Jada Pinket and Will Smith) cut her "whip it" long hair short. Very short. Soon after, as predicable as the chiming of church bells, the media weighed in with opinions as to why and whatnot.

Then, of course, just as predictably, parent groups weighed in... "How Could Jada 'LET' her daughter . . . " (Why criticism doesn't seem to be directed toward dads whenever 'parent groups' weigh in is a topic for another day.)  Jada responds to her critics with a letter on her FB page, which reads, in part: I made a promise to endow my little girl with the power to always know that her body, spirit and her mind are HER domain. Willow cut her hair because her beauty, her value, her worth is not measured by the length of her hair.

Picked up by a number of media outlets, the letter brought Jada praise and of course, more criticism.

Enter my (now) former FB friend. The "friend" updated her status by posting a link to the article, prefacing said posting with her considered opinion that Jada is an awful parent by allowing her twelve year old to shave her hair off. She went on to defend and expand her stance in the comments. After a few of her other "friends" commented I chimed in with my own, "what's the big whoop? It's just hair."

A few of her friends "liked" my comment and the discussion (such as it was) continued; with the original poster responding to accusations that she was making judgments based on appearance, defending her 'right' to direct her own child's fashion choices, bristling over the commentary that she may have stifled her own son's freedom of expression and or creativity by such a staunch stance on something as innocuous as a haircut.

A couple of the other "friends" observed that the staunchness displayed seemed out of character for the liberal, gay, feminist, activist, they thought (or known) her to be.

After saying my piece, sharing an anecdote about my son's JR high years and baggy clothes (by way to answer the meme: you can't tell a book by it's cover) clicking, 'like' to a couple of the expressed opinions, I backed out of commenting but read with interest at the discussion was careening downhill.

Fast. During this portion of the program I kept thinking of the Bugs Bunny quote.  And nearly posted a para-phrased version. Nearly.

Eventually my (now) former FB friend took exception to the accusations and judgments (over her judgments) and "name calling" as she expressed it and asked NOT to be disrespected on her own page.

Well, that statement set off another flurry of comments. . . "what, I can't call you out?"  "I can't disagree with you?" On and on until the (now) former FB finally responded with, "F*CK YOU ALL!!!" and minutes later, I saw that I had been un-friended and I presume the others in the mix were as well. I hadn't been "friends" with any of them.

I'm not at all offended or distressed by the unfriending for I'd been very close to pulling the plug on our friend status prior to this incident. This woman and I met a few months ago on a dating site and then became FB friends.  We shared a few interesting exchanges, and then (a couple of weeks prior to the incident) met in person--as we live in the same town and found ourselves at the same LBGTQ event. It was this "live" meeting and subsequent FB exchanges that led me to believe we wouldn't ever be friends, so why keep up any pretext.

So, while the incident all started with hair, it became a much larger issue, as is so often the case, especially in my corner of the world.



 

Friends

Some time over the past few weeks Cinnamon and Buttah have formed some kind of . . . grudging acceptance for the presence of the other. Buttah braves journeys to the lower perches and the floor because he craves interaction and attention.  As a result, he suffers the clumsy, flopping ministrations of the big brown pup.


Eventually he tires of the game, fends off the big brown pup, and scampers back to higher ground. Or barring navigation his own escape, is rescued by one of the humans.  Still, somewhere in the midst of the ministrations, protestations, fending, and rescuing, they . . . bonded. Of sorts. More often than not, they are just sitting, in the same place, on the same bed, without incident . . . that is, until big brown pup deems the amnesty period over.

The game, or rather the dance being played out has the feel of something brewing. . some kind of relationship. . . some kind of friendship.

Bearing witness to the brewing over the past few weeks has had me thinking about friends generally and my friends specifically. I count very few people in that category of friend (FB semantics aside). As a child I had difficulty making friends; our multiple moves, the sheltering thanks to my girl status, my being a bona fida introvert all played a role.

My high school years were the most static, as I spent 4 years in one school and was able to form a few solid (as solid as possible considering I couldn't / didn't invite people home) relationships. One such relationship followed me well into adulthood only to be lost to lesbianism, or rather her homophobic reaction to my lesbianism.

Fastforward to today and there are, as I said, very few people who I consider a friend (again, FB semantics aside). Each of the few are a treasure to me, golden. I trust each is aware of their importance to me as I am active in the cultivation of these relationships.

Still, something is amiss. Or rather, I am missing. The One.  Not necessarily a girlfriend in that sense (though that would be sweet) but a running buddy, a wing-woman, a "kick it" partner. There is a certain pathology at play with the relationships I have formed (and those that have stuck) that bear some exploration.

Perhaps some adjustments are warranted.

In the meantime, I thank you friends for being there / here for me. For helping me through some tough days (even if you didn't know you were). Your humor, honesty, creativity, and most of all your presence is a treasure, golden.

And, Cinnamon is pretty sure she wants Buttah for a friend. Buttah, on the other hand, seems somewhat wary. Though, I think eventually, he'll come around. I believe he will be able to teach Cinnamon to temper her ministrations, a bit.    





 

No scrambling, No trampling

Anyone who knows me is well aware of my aversion to shopping of any kind with the rare exception of hardware stores and garden centers I avoid s-t-o-r-e-s unless absolutely necessary.

So, the idea of ME going out anywhere near any kind of "special deal" "door-buster sale" "hot, hot pricing" is as ludicrous as finding me on a tropical beach basking in the mid-day sun, wearing a string bikini.

Ludicrous.

Several years ago my employer added the day after Thanksgiving as a paid holiday for regular, full-time employees (such as myself.) And even before then I was fortunate to take a vacation day on that day. Historically the day has been filled with outings with the kids, catch-up chores around the homestead, gorging on left-overs. . . in other words, just chilling.

To paraphrase Taylor Swift, never (ever)< did it include getting trampled by or being the one trampling on bargain hunters burning off the turkey with all the trimmings scrambling through the malls of hard knocks.

This Friday will be no exception. Tomorrow we will visit and eat and drink and some of us will repeat the eating and the drinking. And repeat once again. But then it will be Friday and beyond spending a few hours winterizing my mother's apartment, I haven't yet mapped the day. But, I can guarantee . . .

there will be no< shopping.

And speaking of ludicrous, opening stores earlier and earlier on Friday---so early, many are opening later in the evening on . . . Thursday!

Ludicrous.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Peace ♥


   

Snack Packing

A few weeks ago I tried my very first friend Twinkie. It wasn't horrible but it also wasn't a taste sensation I had any desire to re-visit.

And now with the news that Hostess is asking the bankruptcy court to liquidate, Twinkies (and other Hostess brands) being snapped off store shelves, it isn't likely I'll get my hands on the little spongy cake.

And while I'd rather not have the fried Twinkie exploration be my last Twinkie memory, I am not about to get into a bidding war for a box of cakes. Seriously? Hundreds of dollars for a box of mass produced snack cakes?

People are weird.

Prior to a few weeks ago (and the fried Twinkie exploration) I hadn't had a Twinkie in . . . I can't even remember when. I remember having them in my lunch bag on occasion, I remember packing them in my kids lunch boxes every now and then.

Truth be told, Twinkies weren't even in the top 5 of Hostess brand snack packing.

ME:                                THE ACTOR:                THE DAUGHTER:
Suzy-Q                            Apple Pie                       Honeybuns*
Ding Dongs                     Honeybuns*                    Cupcakes
Ho Hos                            Nutty Bars*                    Apple Pie
Cupcakes                      
Sno Ball Cakes              

*Little Debbie Brands

I feel awful that so many workers will lose their jobs due to (by most accounts I've read) bad management. I feel awful that while some of the brands may indeed live on (someday--as the food conglomerates scramble to snap up the more popular snacks) the Hostess bakers likely won't get their jobs back--or at least not anytime soon.

A cursory look-see was executed during Saturday's grocery trip and as I suspected not a Twinkie, Ho Ho, Ding Dong, or Suzy-Q to be found. A similar act will be conducted on my "last minute" shopping excursion sometime over the next couple of days.  I'm not holding on to any hope of finding any of the more popular cakes, especially Twinkies which seem to have grabbed the nation, if not the world, as some sort of beacon to all snack cakes everywhere.

If the fried Twinkie is my last Twinkie experience, then so be it. I'm sure the pumpkin cheesecake on tap for one of Thursday's desserts will serve as a more than adequate Twinkie memory dasher.

Two Days Running

There are many great pairings like chocolate and peanut butter, spinach and mushrooms, cheese and crackers, soup and crusty bread, bacon and . . . well, most anything, to name but a few. Conversely, there are pairings that are not so great, for instance, (any) breakfast sandwich with American cheese, fish on pizza, brussel sprouts and . . . well, most anything.  

I've come to the thoughtful opinion that another not so great pairing has to do with wonder puppy. Wonder...yes, she is that. She is also quite rambunctious. QUITE! And what doesn't pair well with rambunctious puppy is being ill. Especially that brand of ill that involves many instances of emergent . . .needs.

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

A bug infected Daughter's workplace, some of her co-workers, many of the children, and daughter herself caught said bug and suffered various manifestations. Daughter's version included emissions, an emptying of stomach contents from both ends--two days worth, several days ago.

When the bug caught up with me it meant,  well, let's just say, "thank goodness there is no vomiting" to quote Daughter.

Rambunctious puppy still needed walking, feeding, watering, training, engaging, guidance in burning off as much of that puppy energy as humanly possible. Not only thank goodness there wasn't vomiting, but also, no fever, no body aches (after the first day) and more. I recognize this bout of illness (not quite over but so much better than yesterday and the day before) could have been worse and am grateful it wasn't, for all involved.

On a side note, the flash of brilliance I had of taking rambunctious out for her last walk later (10 p.m) in hopes of her sleeping through (or at least staying sated and relatively quiet) until at least 5 a.m. (she's been rousing at 2:30--3:00 ish most mornings) was doused by the cats--who came tromping through at 3:30 this morning. Buttah, feeling neglected and likely overwhelmed has been sticking to me like glue today and deciding hell or high water he's going to beat this big floppy dog at her own attention getting game.

Wonder Woman Dog

 My daughter wouldn't be my daughter if she didn't dress the dog(s) cats and any other animals (breathing or filled with fluff) in the outfit of the day. On this day (yesterday) Cinnamon appears as the canine equivalent of Wonder Woman®  I wasn't home during the Trick-or-Treat hours but I understand she was the talk of the block. She favored the witches, ghosts, goblins, and more with aerials, flips, and just plain old rambunctious puppy play.

We are learning more and more about her every day. 

For instance, she is not wild about baths. 

Nor about getting her facial hair clipped. 

She does love being outdoors, though not in the rain. I'm anxious to see how she does with snow. And  while there is still some work to do, she's a fun (and loud) puppy dog, who by the way doesn't like getting her facial hair cut. Her face is a little uneven. She is just fine with that.  She is Wonder Dog.  

Round Da Round

Yesterday in this space I posted something about me and my mom. The post (as does the event and subsequent chill that led to said post) weighed heavily on my mind.

So, I got up this morning and deleted it. *It* is likely still in the feeds. If you see it floating around, simply ignore it. Let it lie, limp.

Much appreciated.

Beyond that, what is happening? Puppy is happening. She's getting more and more comfortable. The training efforts are yielding positive results. Cinnamon sits like a champ. The daughter, of course, got her a costume for Halloween, Wonder Woman, if memory serves. There will be a least one picture.

Beyond that, what is happening? Gym! I joined over a month ago and have only been a handful of times. But the times, they are increasing. I am bound and determined to pull what has gotten out of control back together again.

Beyond that, what is happening? Just putting one foot in front of the other and moving the frack on.

Falling

Well, here we are in October. OCTOBER!! Beyond the middle of October. In 10 days October will be over and then . . .  well, then
November.

That said, as Octobers go this one has been okay. Sure, some ups and downs, ins and outs, pluses and minuses but that is the tale of the tape of every month. Every month in recent history anyway.

I will elaborate about the events of recent weeks (beyond the loss of D-dog, gaining a Cinnamon, and daughter's big day) over the next few, perhaps. But for now the biggest item on my personal agenda is the failure to maintain exercise goals. There are a myriad of reasons some might say excuses, but suffice to say the lack of discipline, diligence, and consistency is weighing heavily on my mind (and knees.)

This weekend past was the most productive, active  on several fronts than the many before it and the thrust is to build, build, build upon what worked and continue the stride. Recent rainy days aside the weather was been ideal for walking and / or riding.

Falling into step. Stat.

On THIS Day

Well, actually it was two days ago, but it has been a long, exhausting week what with the new(ish) young dog in the apartment and such. But, be that as it may, my baby celebrated her twenty-seventh birthday on Thursday.

I made her cards with colorful envelopes and said good-bye to her (for the weekend) as she choose to celebrate her day all weekend with a road trip: Atlanta, GA. Well, she isn't in Atlanta proper, but close enough.

By all accounts she's having a grand time. By happenstance, this is PRIDE weekend in Atlanta. I suggested she go over to Piedmont Park and be my proxy. She mentioned that she might.

Goes without saying, but I'll say it anyway, I love my daughter fiercely and resolutely. Moreover, I like her. I have fun with her in a manner I never enjoyed with my own mother. I am thoroughly enjoying the woman she has grown into and more, as she continues to develop. She makes me proud on so many levels.

Happy, happy, joy, joy to my only daughter.

Too Much To Ask?

Dear producers of Progresso™ soup,

Let me preface by saying I am not a vegetarian and I don't generally eat your soups. Yes, I have tried a variety or two here and there over the last several years and found those offerings to be head and shoulders above your competition on the flavor scale. But with few exceptions (namely, canned tomatoes) I don't consume canned foods generally and canned soups, specifically.

Nothing personal. While your soups are tastier than most, for me, homemade truly is best for overall flavor satisfaction and value.

That being said, a vegetarian friend recently lamented over the fact of meat based broths in your vegetable soups. She queries, "Is it too much to ask . . . ?"  Her query prompted me to go to your website, which is quite informative, by the way, to see what I could see. My initial thought was perhaps my friend had checked the label of only one (or perhaps two) varieties, that surely there must be vegetable based vegetable soups for vegetarian consumers.

I must admit to being a bit surprised and more than a bit unsettled to find that of the many varieties of vegetable soup offerings, all but one boasts either a beef or chicken based broth. The minuscule variety available to vegetarians is. in a word, appalling.

And so, I join her in asking, "Is it too much to ask not to have meat based broths for vegetable soups?" Or at least, equal representation.

Standing in solidarity with the vegetarian canned soup consuming general public.

Kindest Regards,

Middle Girl

Saturday, Sunday, Pup Day

She is gorgeous; flowing tresses full of fun and frolic, warmth and desire.

That sentence was meant to start a story of a totally fictional nature. It (the sentence and snippets of the story to flesh out) has been rattling around my head for weeks now. I haven't been able to mash more than that sentence out.

So be it. I will continue to work on the story.

In the meantime, while we were not looking to introduce a canine to the household so soon, a confluence of events brought Cinnamon into our lives. She was rescued from a home with three (or more?) too many puppies. So now, she is ours.

She is settling in rather nicely.

Trying. Week. End.

Diamond. D-dog. Diva. 

She came into our lives by way of our town's shelter. My daughter, an employee at the shelter, spotted her when she was surrendered by her previous parents and was determined to bring her home. Good thing, because Diamond's food aggression had her labeled "un-adoptable" and slated for termination. Her arrival came after Pete's, which rankled me just a wee bit. 

Maybe more than a wee bit, to be honest, at the time. 

But, like my daughter, Diamond had a way of working herself into your heart and good graces. Seeking forgiveness over permission every step of the way. She, the small dog who enjoyed romps in snow piled higher than her head, approached the lake (& lagoons & rivers) with trepidation, but ultimately allowed herself a taste of pleasure, who relished food, even that designed and meant for the cats, who took pure and distinct pleasure in show said cats who in fact, was boss . . . she, is no longer with us. 

Diamond developed issues beyond the diabetes and these past few days has been so not her usual self. It has been beyond difficult to watch her decline. It has been beyond difficult to watch daughter struggle with the choice that had to be made, not for us, but for Diamond; her care and comfort trumping our not wanting to be without her presence. 

Watching my daughter say goodbye to her very first pet, a pet she's craved to have since she was five years old, a pet who was with us just a bit over 5 years, but who was about to celebrate her eleventh year, a pet who has taught my daughter so much about . . . well, life, who has been the single most vital and constant presence in her life these past five years . . .  watching her raw sadness, her maturity, her coming to terms. . . has been, in a word, unimaginable. 

Leaves me breathless. That, and her thanking me for being strong, so she can be strong. Breathless. And in tears.  

Rest In Peace, dear Diamond. You will live forever in our hearts and memories.  

The Kids, 1986

Each, in recent weeks have faced life-changing events and are in the midst of making life shaping decisions, with my guidance (as needed and/or requested) but always with my love and support.

My head is much too full of all that has transpired in recent weeks, days to fully elucidate but suffice to say, their journeys continue and I'm grateful to bear witness to the marvelous metamorphosis taking place within and beyond.

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