Four, He's A Lovely Fellow

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

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

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

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

Come On Over

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



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

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

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

Live Blogging Sunday

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

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

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

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

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

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

sleep some more.

Oh, and play, but mostly, sleep.

Re-Visit, Re-Vise

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Well, here I go. . .

. . . and the survey says

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

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

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

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

How annoying is / was:

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Hands, Our Hands

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

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

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

I know.

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

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

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

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

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

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



*image

A Beautiful Day

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

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

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

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

I smile, nod, and thank them kindly.

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

Whip It

Where O Where does a three day weekend go?

Two words: LUNCH NAP

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

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

In other news . . .

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

Meandering (2)

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

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

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

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

Ideas?

forty-eight, twenty-eight, and three

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

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

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

Happy birthday boys, play nice.

It's Been One of Those

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

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

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

Fourth, it's probably just as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Being. Evermore.

*portion of "The L Word" theme.

I'd Blame It On the Rain

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

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

Nothing.

Comes.

To.

Mind.

NaDa.

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

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

So far.

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

And Oh, BTW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10. End of random update.

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

A Thought

Losing one glove

is certainly painful,

but nothing

compared to the pain,

of losing one,

throwing away the other,

and finding

the first one again.

Piet Hein, poet and scientist (1905-1996)

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

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


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

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

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

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

Special, Special Day*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*according to them.

DAGNABBIT

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

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

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

AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!! That would be me.

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

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

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

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

Thanks much to driver B and her skills.

Driver A can go suck it.

image cred

BLAST

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

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

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

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

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

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

PEACE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . . liberty and justice for ALL

Six Points

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

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

Six. Lousy. Points.

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

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

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

SIX LOUSY POINTS!!!

Best Laid Plans

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

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