$ $ $

To paraphrase Gordon Gekko, money works, money is good. Found money, even better. I put finding money somewhere just above triple chocolate fudge brownies sprinkled with coconut flakes and just below finding said brownies in the kitchen after a 14 hour day. Thanking the brownie fairy as we speak.

No matter the amount, I like to savor the joy that is found money. I don't spend it right away and when I do, I like to buy something I might not have otherwise bought. Or, better yet, spend it on someone else, I might buy a cheer 'em up greeting card, for instance.

My biggest found on the street hey day, pay day? $32.00.

This family of dollars is going towards something special, just what hasn't been decided. In the meantime, they will rest comfortably in a a box, on a shelf. Perhaps they'll be able to convince some friends to join them.

That would be sweet.

I Asked for This

Being a mom is one of the most challenging, frustrating, exhausting, yet rewarding, invigorating and exciting jobs I have ever had and probably ever will have.

My kids, yes, I know they're 24 and 21 respectively, but they'll always be my kids, expect from me, guidance, expertise in a variety of areas and data. They are constantly asking me not only for advice, but also seeking answers to questions Ask or Wikipedia certainly could handle. Yet, to me they come:

Daughter: Mom, I know Barney and Betty had Bam-Bam and I know Fred and Wilma had a baby girl. What the heck was her name?

Son: Hey Ma, who recorded that song from back when you were young. It might be a disco thing. I think the title is, "Ain't No Stopping Us."

Me to daughter: Pebbles. And oh, by the way, you do know that Bam-Bam was adopted.

Me to son: McFadden and Whitehead. They were a one hit wonder as performing artists, but a very successful song writing team.

It is acceptable to answer more than what was asked. A mom must be careful, however, to stop herself from giving too much information. Too much info will undoubtedly lead to the eye-roll and the fan favorite follow-up, 'oohhh, maahhm.'

I love this job.

! ! Mortified ! !

I was scheduled to work Sunday, 9:00 a.m. until 1:00 p.m. I'd gone to bed Saturday with thoughts of which route would avoid the worst of the marathon participants and spectators. Making every effort of follow the usual night before work routine, I gathered wardrobe, set and checked the alarm and then lights out.

The next vaguely lucid moment arrived when awakened by what I thought was a waste management crew run amok, but that couldn't be, it was Sunday. It was just my daughter going through her laundry preparations.

I lay there a moment thinking it was awfully early for her to be up and about on a Sunday. And oh, it's pretty light outside for 6 in the morn...oh my sweet jeans, it's not 6:00 a.m. it's 10:00 a.m.! I cannot flipping believe I slept through the alarm, well past even my normal wake-up time. With or without an alarm, I'm usually awake no later than 6:00 a.m.

"Mom, you're late for work." Gee, thanks kid. However, I'm only late, if I go. It's 10 a.m. now, the commute, under ideal circumstances, takes an hour. It is Chicago marathon Sunday and it's raining. I'm not going. I call off. I really do not like calling off. I cannot believe I'm missing a shift because I overslept.

I was mortified.

Since returning from Vegas, I've been out of step, out of sync, out of rhythm. I've been off my robustly enthusiastic resolve to regimented routine. I've been a slug.

I thought time was all I needed to shake the post vacation malaise. Not so, I need time and a list. I need a list. There are tons of chores, projects and tasks and I just realized, I haven't made a proper list since preparing to leave Vegas. It's all about routine. The list is routine. I've been winging it, making it up as I went along. Maybe sub-consciously extending the vacation. The routine won't keep-life goes on. I gotta get back on the clock.

I missed my shift. I am now adrift. I need the list, but...first, there's football and a soccer playoff. I spend some time thinking about the list while watching The Striking Viking, Ewa Laurance defeat Duchess of Doom, Allison Fischer in a trick shot competition.

It sounds like more slugging around, not so. It was just the ticket. I rounded out the early evening by clearing our patch of yard of fallen leaves, twigs and other debris, energizing mind and body for the work ahead.

The minutely detailed list is done, out of my head, onto paper where it will do me some good.

Monday was blissfully, beautifully routine, right down to missing not one but two busses, in the rain, getting home from the part-time gig.

Going for two today.

a d i d a s f

All day I dream about, no, not sports, but food. Well, not really, of course I'm exaggerating. I don't dream about food all day, but it is a constant. It has to be. From all appearances I'm not alone in this. I eat to survive, but also because I enjoy eating. Along with the eating, there must be shopping, storing and then, of course, the preparing of food.

I like food. I even like to prepare food. I'm a good cook, not amazing, but good. I can follow a recipe and can and do creep on the side of creativity, to keep things interesting. When I had to cook to sustain my family, I didn't enjoy it much, now that I don't need to cook daily, I'm finding more joy in the process.

Still, I'm a cautious cook. I know my limitations, I tend to not bite off more than I can chew. Yet, I do endeavor to stretch those limitations. I continue to practice some dishes repeatedly because I love eating them and want to make them to my satisfaction. The omelet is my current nemesis.

I adore omelets. I cannot make a decent omelet. I don't know why, it may be the filling, folding or the flipping. Because I cannot make an omelet to satisfy my omelet snobbery, I must call upon the self-proclaimed breakfast queen to soothe my monthly cravings. This must cease, however, because Ina's is becoming much too trendy and expensive to continue as my omelet outlet.

The San Diegan Omelette featured on a segment of the Rachel Ray $40.00 A Day show may have provided a solution, a temporary fix. This robust, open faced treat featured in the segment seems an acceptable alternative to the traditional omelet, one that I could and in all likelihood, will achieve.

I must, however, manage to get myself to a grocery store for the ingredients. We'll talk about me and grocery stores another time.


(a search from the home page will reveal the recipe.)

Serving "Darkies" Today?

Michael, a chai tea enthusiast, has been frequenting a Starbucks shop near his place of employment. He'd discovered a former classmates is one of the valued employees. They've chatted from time-to-time, like pals are wont to do.

The friend pulled Michael aside, relating that he had something to tell. He prefaced his tale by stating that he hoped Michael didn't get mad. Michael braced himself, guessing the context of what was about to follow.

The manager of this Starbucks location had spoken with Michael's friend; seems a customer had complained about an incorrect drink order. The manager did what manager's do, offered to make amends; a new drink, a refund, coupon, whatever it takes to soothe and keep the customer.

This customer didn't want soothing. This customer's position was that the order was incorrect because the Barista was distracted by the 'darkie' who was talking to him. The customer further noted, for the record, that there seemed to be 'darkies' in there all the time. As the customer was gearing up for a full on rant about 'darkies', the manager halted her, invited her to leave and never return, as that kind of talk was not going to be tolerated in this establishment.

Michael assured his friend that he wasn't mad.

He was concerned that his friend and some new friends he'd made, might be uncomfortable with his presence. He returned a few days later, asking cheerily, if 'darkies' were being served that day. Everyone exhaled, relaxed. They all chatted a bit, Michael got his chai, and all was well.

It pains me mightily that my son has to even have these conversations-still, that these actions, and worse are still part of our lives.

Michael started writing poetry during is Junior year in high school. His becoming interested in acting and drama was born from his writing and spoken word performances. He wrote the following when he was 19. He gifted it to me for my 41st birthday.

Leader of My Ambush

Before and after my birth
You have fought battles that I couldn't imagine being in the trenches of.
Despicable Wars of Racism Dejected Confrontations of Poverty Disputable Invasions of Infamy

Ordeals you charged into not for ego
but for survival of your children
and that is the courage I see in your scars
the sufferance I listen to in your stories
the pride vibrating in our home

reminding me

I'm a boy learning from a giving general
who has descended her combat tactics
so I could transcend into a soldier of literature.
As I age, I understand more
why immense vocabulary
is necessary

My battles to come are invented by
futuristic technology that can only be
countered with precise language explaining
allies or enemies made
and acquaintances caught in crossfire

Hail!
Mother of Protection
Mother of Benevolence
Mother of Comprehension
Mother of Accommodation
Mother of Humbleness
praises of warfare shouted on mountain tops
glory resonates in valleys
Responsibility bombs obligations
Craters of examples are guidance
I cheer explosive victory

Never question your
instinctive intentions to fight
'cause whether you've gained or lost

Your smile is a symbolic weapon of unconditional love.

by Michael (insert last name)
July 2001

Name Game

According to How Many of Me, based on a total United States of America population of 299,968,595, there are 740,922 people in the U.S. with the first name Deborah. 100% of the people with the first name of Deborah are female and statistically, Deborah is the 60th most popular name in the United States.

There are 9,869 people in the U.S. with my last name. My last name is statistically the 3728th most popular last name-tied with 18 other last names.

There are a whopping 24 people in the United States who share both my first and last name.

Thanks Betty for the link.

Vacation? What Vacation?

There isn't anything like two full work days to vanquish the last vestiges of vacation memories from your psyche, except for maybe, cold, wet, windy weather. Thank goodness for photos.

It must be said, here and now, that my daughter, the brand new twenty-one year old, shown here enjoying her Dreamsicle, is the countess of consumerism. She would be the queen if she (or I ? ) were more fiscally fit. Her Vegas agenda was simply, shop until mom drops and of course, the Fights.


Before getting to the rest, let me just say that for my first flight (s) I did pretty well. I didn't scream or shriek or otherwise embarrass my daughter. Both flights were relatively smooth. I was nauseous for the first hour of so after take off on Wednesday. I didn't experience any of that on the return flight Sunday.

We visited two malls, Las Vegas Premium Outlets and The Meadows, an embarrassing number of gift and souvenir shops, sidewalk vendors and even a drugstore or two. While not my favorite sport, I did get caught up in the frenzy and even allowed myself some new sneaks, tees and jeans. There was music, drinks, food, drinks, masks and drinks all lending to the carnival and party air. We returned home with three bags more.

The only down side were the sidewalk hawkers. The time-share hawkers are situated inside hotels, as well as, up and down "The Strip" or Las Vegas Blvd. Some approach with a hard sell, most are annoying. We discovered pretty quickly the magic words to turn off their motors; "we're flying out tonight."

All the trips up, down and over the boulevard and beyond were fun, tiring (we came quite close to developing the 'Las Vegas limp') and illuminating. We found out many fun facts, like, women are not allowed in strip clubs (or sections of clubs) where women perform, unless they are accompanied by a man. Not, mind you, that Dani and I were planning such an excursion. One of our cabbies, Mary, offered up that tidbit. She also related a story of how she'd been verbally attacked by a performer when she'd gone to a club to pick up her husband. The performer thought Mary might have been a pro who was trying to poach. It seems that pre-rule, prostitutes would go into the clubs to make...connections. The dancers took offense and after many scuffles and skirmishes, the clubs started banning un-accompanied women. Mary provided us with our Las Vegas quotable, 'Bitch! You tryin' to take my buck?' We didn't see any strippers, male or female or prostitutes, for that matter-at least we don't think so. There were billboards advertising in-room service, guaranteed to arrive in 30 minutes or less, like Dominos. Sin city, you know.

Our hotel, the Luxor, sported an Egyptian theme. There were pyramids, pharohs, rivers, rocks and well, Egyptian artifacts all over. One of the most popular spots, New York, New York sported faux Liberty and Coney Islands and a monster roller coaster that went through, up and out of the building. No, I did not try it. I don't do roller coasters, the plane ride was plenty, thank you very much.

The fight. Dani is a huge UFC fan. Prior to planning for this trip, I was oblivious to UFC, it's players, rules and so on. Still, not an expert, I know more than I ever thought I might. There were title bouts on Saturday, the 14th and according to my daughter, her birthday celebration trip would not be complete unless she could be in attendance witnessing fighters box, kick and wrestle each other into submission or better yet, a knock out. This event was the talk of the town. Everywhere we went, when discovered we were there to see the fights, stats, predictions, proclamations and grunts were exchanged. It was quite the spectacle.

Fight night found us in a throng of several hundred guys. So many guys that I though we'd od on the testosterone. Some guys brought babes. Some babes came without guys. Some brought kids. There were some celebs, like Jason Giambi, who was booed LOUDLY, in attendance. Everyone, it seemed, screamed allegiance to their favorites. Dani lost her voice. I didn't. She was in birthday princess heaven. Her main guy, Kenny Florian lost in five rounds, but he didn't 'tap out' (cry uncle). He held is own against a heavier fighter, and she was pleased with his effort.

My best bud and I flew home Sunday, a little tired, a lot stuffed and very much happy to have spent this time together.

Home Again, Jiggity Jig

While not the payday Elizabeth scored on her trip to the KC slots, it was more than I walked in with, so it was a good spin. Dani scored more than I, but then, she's charmed.

Kmae was too right about the smoke in the casinos. We did have serious issue with the huffy puffingness of the players. The only place in our hotel's casino where smoking was prohibited was the poker room-which was really just an area. That area seemed particularly stern-we walked by, briskly.

Mostly, we walked through the casinos, I think we visited 5 or 6, throwing a buck or two into a random slot-eschewing those with too many buttons, too many options. Dani hit 4 out of 5 times. I think her highest take was $3.00 on a $0.25 bet. We didn't rest on those laurels because, of, well, the smoke and because we were there to shop and see the fights (more later on that), after all.

There is more, but I hear the slumber sirens wailing their tunes. For now, know that we had a blast and as great as it was...it's good to be home. We missed Mike like craazzy.

Glenda knew her stuff, there is no place like home.

Until Now

It was coming on the Summer of 1980. I had been working my first real job for a little over 5 months and had just earned 5 paid pays off with pay. I was going to be twenty years old in a few months, my mom and I weren’t in the best of places, my brothers and I were not speaking, I was feeling close to my best friend in a way that I shouldn’t talk about and the guy I’d attached myself to for distraction and relief from the other happenings, had started the, ‘take this to the next level’ talk.

Vacation. The concept was foreign to me. My parents never talked of vacations, let alone ever taken any. Breaks from school were spent working. What the heck did a girl do, when she didn’t have to work to work?

I couldn’t talk with my mom. My brothers were hopeless. I was making every effort to avoid my best friend, difficult, since I was renting a room in the house she shared with her boyfriend. Out of options, I talked with the guy. He invited me to travel with him, his brother and other family and friends-home.

Home for them was Itta Bena, MS. Our car was part of the caravan of Cadillacs and customized vans, packed to the bumpers with coolers full of soda, beer, fried chicken, potato salad and all kinds of sandwiches on white bread.

This first trip to his hometown to meet his parents and sister was memorable. I remember it being hot, damn hot. Hot doesn’t bother me much, I’m pretty comfortable with heat and I would have been fine, except that’s all anybody ever talked about, that and the mosquitoes. When it got dark, it was damn dark. This did take some getting used to. I remember rabbit and deer meat being nasty, no matter how it was prepared. Finally, I remember that in deference to my first visit, the pigs were not allowed inside the house. Considering the size of the house, for this, I was extremely grateful.

Itta Bena, MS in and of itself was not all bad, but certainly not a vacation idea that bore repeating. So of course I became engaged to and married the man from Itta Bena, MS, conscripting me to annual pilgrimages to his parents’ place. Our eventual family of four stayed in Bud and Tip’s 2-bedroom, 1 bath ranch style house, with little to no water pressure, for 5 to 7 days. Most summers sharing the modest home, perched on the lip of a swampy lake, surrounded on three sides by trees and cotton fields, with up to 10 other family members. Some of the people I met were really pretty sweet. But the conditions were less than ideal and over 13 years he would not vary, by one iota, the arrangements. Each trip was more stressful than the one before.

The summer of 1994, I'd had enough and refused to go south. We took the kids to Wisconsin Dells instead. When we arrived, I found he’d invited his brother’s family and other Mississippi buddies to meet us there and hang. My niece and I entertained and chaperoned the kids, while the guys stayed in the parking lots or picnic grounds drinking and talking. This was our last vacation together. We separated 3 ½ years later.

Little did I know that this would be my last vacation, until now.

As you may have heard, I’m taking my baby girl, who will be 21 years old in just about 23 hours, to Vegas. We will get on a plane, (my very first time-ever), heading southwest at approximately 9:30 a.m. Wednesday. Excitement doesn’t even begin to cover the range of emotions twitching her newly arched eyebrows and spiraling through my newly buffed and painted fingers and toes.

Until now, vacations meant caravans of Cadillacs and customized vans, a yard full of turkeys and chickens, pigs with house privileges, trickling tepid bath water, cotton picking stories, endless talk about heat and mosquitoes. Not to mention, snuff dipping men, women and children.

That was then, without which, there wouldn't be a now, a new friend reminds.

See you guys in 6 minutes days.

Hair: Exhibit A

It's been suggested by one blogger and then another that photos re: Reverent Hair should be offered. Here are those offerings. These are both afters, as Dani will rarely appear on camera without her hair and there just aren't many shots of me, suitable for this venue. Danielle spent the better part of Saturday morning getting her hair done. Having washed her natural hair the night before, she was ready for the stylist to begin immediately. The stylist braided Dani's short, thick hair in a circular cornrow pattern, different from this in that one continuous braid is fashioned around the crown. The hair pieces or tracks are sewn into the rows, layered and following the braid pattern. Dani had supplied the stylist with a photo of the style she preferred and according to her, Crystal, the stylist, nailed it. The process took 4 1/2 hours and cost $220.00, including the hair. I'm told a well done weave, with proper care, will last two months.
After work on Friday I went to the barber. The finished product shown here is a bit shorter that I generally would prefer, but the barber had no choice. My usual stylist, my son Michael, very busy with work and rehearsals, hasn't been able to fit me into his schedule. Impatient, what with trip preparations taking over my mind, I decided I could do it myself. Barber Jamie gracefully corrected my un-handiwork. My hair grows pretty fast, so it will be at the optimum length in pretty short order.

Mom came over Saturday to get her hair braided for her own home weaving session. She loved Dani's hair.

Public Service

In my capacity as a jobs line recruiter (part-time), I talk to people, lots of people. The company's client base brings me in phone contact with people across the US and Canada. While much of the work is scripted and repetitive, the range of clients, jobs offered and the applicants provide plenty of variety.

Having worked for the outfit for three years now, I feel qualified to offer some advice or tips, if you will, should you find yourself out of work, about to be out of work or just looking for something new, and you are calling a similar provider, in search of a job.

1. Call Center positions mean you will be talking on the phone. You probably should sound like you enjoy talking on the phone. Try being enthusiastic without being silly.

1a. speak clearly
1b. don't eat, chew gum or smoke--inhaling sounds awful on the other end.
1c. don't call from your car while you are on the interstate, or you know, moving.
1d. don't talk to your children, pets, parents, the counter person at Stuckey's, or current boss or co-workers, whilst on the phone with a recruiter.

2. Know who you are. A recruiter is likely to ask your name. If you don't say anything else with confidence, you should be saying your name, with supreme confidence.

3. Please don't be offended if a recruiter asks you to confirm the spelling of your name-even if it is Jon/John, Sheila/Sheilah, Shenequah/Sheneequah or Chris/Kris-we are supposed to ask, even if we think we know-especially if we think we know.

4. It might be helpful if you knew your zip / postal code.

5. It might be helpful if you knew your phone number(s) & area code(s).

6. The response to, Are you fluent in Spanish? is not, "I know some words."

7. The response to, In what state would you like to work? is not, "Salt Lake."

8. Recruiters might need to call you back; outbound messages on voice mail and ring tones probably should not include references to any part of the anatomy, the words shit, damn, fuck or any of the genre.

9. Have a pen and paper handy, you might need to take notes, record some instructions.

10. If you are asked to read something as an example of sight reading skills, you might want to avoid reading your court summons.

Bonus: You might look into getting an email address-that you will check.

Thank you for calling and Good Luck!

Reverent Hair

Beyond the many hours spent washing, combing, brushing and cutting hair; in my household, there has also been budgeting, shopping, procuring and the choosing of practitioners; hair issues galore.

Michael wears his hair short and will usually go with just a mustache. He has, for various roles, alternated between wooly mammoth to totally bald, head and face, and variations between. Having grown weary, some time ago, of barbershops, he learned to cut and style his own head and face. Since my conversion to short hair earlier this year, he takes care of my 'do, too.

Dani has struggled with hair issues. Since her teen years her hair has been a major disappointment and the source of much debate and expense. Once she kicked me out of her head convinced me that micro-braids were the way to go, buying hair and paying braiders to work their magic has been a near quarterly ritual, for a few years now.

Before my conversion to short hair, it seem life was all about what to do with my hair. Since kicking my mom out of my head convincing my mom that I could do my own hair when I was 11, very few people have had their hands in my head, a situation that rankled some closest to me. I ran the gamut of the super afros popular in the mid to late 1970's, cornrows, press and curl and chemical perms; all towards keeping current and within cultural conventions. I became a pretty fair hair-dresser, for my own head. I just didn't obsess take it as seriously as others.

Hair and all the related actions and decisions are like a religion in some black communities. There are nearly as many beauty supply and beauty shops as there are churches in many of the predominately black neighborhoods I have frequented in my commutes. I've been told more than once, that I don't have proper reverence for my blessed tresses. I've often felt that I'd been too bound to conventions.

I mentioned to my mom about getting Michael to shape up my hair this weekend, for the trip. My mom wanted to know how long I was going to keep my, good, pretty hair, so short. She said short like it was the dirtiest of dirty words. My hair is still good and is still pretty, it's just short. These days wash and go hair is the only way to go, I'm sorry I didn't have the courage and sensibilities to do it sooner.

Dani's getting a new 'do for the trip. She cut out the micros and has decided on a full head weave. We shopped for hair yesterday, bypassing the hair that Brandy wears for a brand the new stylist recommended. Filling time while she's being done on Saturday, I will work in the yard, do my laundry, run an errand or two, check my packing list, start to pack and fix something for lunch. I might even have time for a nap before she returns.

Have I mentioned how I love my wash and go hair?

Target Market

When I married a lifetime ago, I didn't take his name. No politics, no fanfare, I didn't like his name, he didn't argue. I stayed me.

Likewise, the children bear my last name. I briefly considered hyphenating them, as was a trend in my area, dismissing that as unnecessarily unwieldy and stupid.

My ex and I haven't lived together in over 8 years. I moved to my current address some three years after we split. Yet, some weeks ago, I started getting mail for him. Well, almost. The mail, mostly from realtors and hearing aid purveyors, is addressed to his first name and my last name.

He's never owned any property, as such, has never had any to sell. While he spent many of our years not hearing me, I doubt even the most sophisticated device would have provided a remedy.

Things change. He may very well need the services of a realtor. He may very well need to procure devices to aid his hearing.

Than again, it's not really he, the marketers are targeting. The person addressed doesn't exist, not here, anyway.

A Story for Wordsmiths Unltd

Serena had to give herself a shake. She had to get in gear, she’d been sitting in the car reminiscing for over twenty minutes now. She was thinking, among other thoughts, that she should not have put it off for this long. The bulldozers were going to be here is less than two weeks.

But she couldn’t help it. When she came out six months ago with the surveyors, it blind-sided her. She hadn’t expected to be thrown so far, so hard, into the past. Looking over this property brought it all back; "Shucky-ducky, go out to the kitchen and get me a swallow of water, please." Poppy and his silly pet name, she very nearly cried right there in front of the surveyors.

Serena remembered a small house, much like the one before her now. She remembered lying on the bed, listening to the coyotes and being afraid they’d come down from the mountain and eat her and Poppy. He always told her not to worry; coyotes had better things to chew on that one grizzled old man and one talkative little girl.

Serena wondered if the girl who rode the bike, at one time, would be home now. She remembered when she begged Poppy for a bike. He fussed and argued for a bit, saying he couldn’t understand why anybody would want a bike when there were perfectly stout ponies to ride. "Bike won’t do you any good on that raggedy road," he said time and time again. But there, outside, by the hitching post sat the second-hand bike, he’d painted her favorite color, blue, on the morning of her 10th birthday.

On that morning, with the surveyors, and on this morning, with the weight of her task, slowing her down, Serena remembered the good times and the bad. She remembered saying a final goodbye to Poppy only two days after her 18th birthday. She remembered talking with the lawyer who handled Poppy’s affairs; he was polite and all business.

Serena remembered how the attorney handed her a check that more than covered law school, which had been her dream, forever. She remembered how, after graduation she landed a job with Essay, Rives and Knowles, that job landing her here, in front of this little house, outside in her car, shivering from the memories and the thought of the chilly work ahead.

Serena must shake off this sadness, she must get out of this car, walk up to that door and tell the family who has called this house home for the past 25 years that it was time. They must leave. They’ve lost the battle and their home. There will be no more family bar-be-ques in the back yard. There will be no more hikes to the secret spots on the mountain. There will be no grand-children trying to ride the old bike, down the bumpy road.

Serena must do this, she must do this now, because the bulldozers will be here in less than two weeks.

Bargain

I love Boston Ferns because they are wild and unruly looking. When full and healthy, they have attitude. They practically growl. I’ve owned a few over the years, but haven’t had very much luck. They are very difficult to care for. Unlike, pothos, of which I have many, Boston Ferns require dedication, time and the right conditions. The dedication I have, the time is in short supply, Further, I don’t believe conditions in my unit would be conducive to flourishing a fern.

A wholesale florist in the building where my office is located, has an overstock of Boston Ferns. They are selling them off at $5.00 a pop. I’ve been volleying the notion back and forth-for a week now. The pickings are getting slim-which is perhaps what I want. Again, I don’t believe the conditions in my condo are right for a fern, I believe this yet, $5.00 a pop.

I’m reminded of my ex-husband, who came home often with articles of clothing that were too big, too small or just wrong and I’d ask, why? He would just shrug and say, because it was only $5.00.
A bargain isn’t a bargain if no one can use it-or if you know you will ultimately have to mulch it sooner, rather than later.

W (2)

Yesterday was Wednesday. I know because 1) I have no fewer than five calendars between my home and work offices and 2) I worked the PTG (part-time gig) yesterday. I work the part-time gig on Mondays and Wednesdays-I’m too tired for yesterday to have been Monday, so it must have been Wednesday.

Yesterday, Wednesday and for many Wednesdays prior, I walked to the PTG. The route takes me past the Chicago Chocolate Company Café . I’ve spoken of feeling smug good about not succumbing to the temptation to step inside for a taste.

Five weeks ago, the CCCC began advertising White Chocolate Wednesday, offering 15% off White Chocolate. This advertisement is in the form of a chalkboard sandwich sign. For the past four weeks, the sign has been worth notice.

Week 1: It’s White Chocolate Wenesday 15% off White Chocolate
Week 2: White Chocolate Wensday 15% off White Chocolate
Week 3: Come in for White Chocolate Wenisday 15% off White Chocolate
Week 4: Wennsday is White Chocolate day-come in for 15% off White Chocolate

The temptation to enter the Chicago Chocolate Company Café is even greater-not to taste-but to tell whomever is responsible for the chalkboard sandwich sign that Wednesday is spelled:
W-E-D-N-E-S-D-A-Y.

Then and Now

My work-out routine sometimes include rope jumping. These days I must feel particularly perky to include it, but every now and then, I can still skip a rope. I was once a pretty decent rope jumper. As an adult, it's been the solo, single rope, gym style skipping, you know-like boxers. As a kid, it was a game. A group activity. A cult. We jumped Double Dutch.

In my neighborhood, well, neighborhoods-we moved often-Double Dutch rope jumping was a rite of passage. it was the ticket to acceptance. It was the recipe for survival. There were two camps, jumpers and turners. No one wanted to turn. If a jumper didn't jump well, the fault was on the turner-not the jumper. Some of the girls were beyond extreme about jumping.

My daughter never learned how to jump Double Dutch. Rope jumping, in this fashion, was not in fashion during her youth, and as such she wasn't interested in learning. Today, she regrets having let the opportunity pass, as I often speak of the experience fondly, in the same way I speak of paddle balling.

Paddling is wonderfully fun and relaxing.

I bought a new paddle ball recently. I haven't had one for several years now, as they are hard to find. I re-discovered the rhythm fairly quickly.

I adore my paddle, my Roxanne, Foxy Roxy. She is sturdy. She is responsive. She is kind. Much to my delight, Dani wants to learn to paddle. She's been practicing like crazy, hoping to match or surpass my paddle prowess.

She may, one day, but not anytime soon.

She Might be There

There she was, out of the blue, out of the past. Standing there all vivid and sparkling. Damn, she looks good. What is she, 54 now? She looks 35, short sporty hair, bright funky attitude. Trouble in the check-out line.

Seeing her now, remembering the time, brings it all back; the confusion, the energy, the moment that never came-never could.

She was into guys, I was supposed to be, trying to be-married to he. She was married too, but also had nibbles on the side. She was way into guys. Yet, she made me warm.

Before saying out good-byes, following the chit-chat, I invited her to email me, again. She said she would. I know that she won't. She never has before. She doesn't welcome women into her circle-too afraid they're after her men. I'm no threat, which I would tell her, now, if she gave me a shot.

But, it's better this way. Extreme physical attraction aside, she's not an option. She was a fantasy.

My energy is better spent perusing the profiles scattered about the in-box; 'Hello, I am a lesbian female who is looking for disease free, serious lesbian women only-no men please!! An Aries, with a slender, average, athletic, fit or thick body type; with an explorer, idealist, leader or giver personality type; who loves being aggressive and submissive, who is between the ages of 26-42 and who is 5' 4" to 7' 11" tall.'

I'm not a man and I think I could be agressive and submissive. I am older than her criteria nor am I an Aries, but deal breakers, she didn't specify.

Seeing her on Friday served to help turn this into one long, restless, frustrating week-end. The wet weather was a welcomed diversion.

Eating In

Eating is good. Eating is...fun. Heck, eating is fundamental.

Lunch at the office is not a particularly inspired affair. It is in place to keep the tummy from revolting and thus, interrupting the flow as I dutifully execute my tasks. Lunch usually consists of variations of a theme. The theme these days being low fat, low sodium and due to gym time and lunch time, fast and easy. I try to limit usage of the office micro-wave, for a variety of reasons, so you may find me noshing on one or more of some kind of salad, tuna or salmon, fruit, cottage cheese, tortillas and with all respect to Bent, Triscuits or some multi-grain crackers.

Sometimes I like to eat, heat. In that I like a warm meal. Going out to eat at one of the nearby eateries is not an option. The recourse is to nuke leftovers brought from home. I have a 24 year old eating machine at home, leftovers are few and far between. The other option is to nuke a frozen entree. Given the sodium and fat concerns and considering the yucky factor, few options exist.

Some varieties of Lean Cuisine fit the bill, or are at least passable.

I opened my LC, Lemon Chicken entree, nuked and went to dig in, when I saw something that didn't look like seasoning. It appeared to be a hair. I promptly tossed the meal and dug out some crackers.

Later, I fired off a letter to the LC customer service. Julia, the rep assigned to my case, called.

Julia apologized profusely for the inconvenience of finding a hair in my meal. She wanted to to know and believe that sanitary standards are of the highest, they do their best to...blah blah blah.
Yes, I understood, but still...

Ms. Julia blathered on and on about the standards and then she asked questions.

How long was the hair?
What color was the hair?
Where in the meal was the hair-was it on top or embedded?
Did it appear to be a human hair?

Uhm, I don't know, not too long--long enough to be seen.
Huh? Oh, I think black-it was dark.
It. Was. On. Top. (Otherwise, I might not have seen it --ick.)
I DON'T KNOW! My Bill Nye Science Guy kit is on backorder.

Julia apologize some more. She promised me some coupons to, you know, further apologize and to show LC's appreciation for my patronage.

I thanked Julia, telling her I understood.

Coupons for more? I think, not.

21 days

Twenty one years ago today, I'd just begun my second and final maternity leave. The idea was to give myself a month to finalize the preparations for the new arrival, as it happens-I didn't have the whole month.

Full of wonder I was on this day. Wonder if baby would be healthy. Wonder if my son, Michael, would make a good brother. Wonder if my mother would be able to handle the two-when I returned to work. Wonder what I would do-if not. Wonder why I gained so much weight this time. Wonder if I would be able to lose the extra. Wonder when we'd be able to move because it's going to be crowded. Wonder, boy or girl. Full of wonder, I was on that day and the 20 days that followed.

On the twenty first day, twenty-one years ago, a baby girl was placed into my experienced yet novice arms. She nestled snugly against my practiced, yet anxious chest. She had a cap of silky black hair and dark, piercing eyes. She also had a mouth on her, oh my goodness, she was loud.

This girl of mine was different. Beyond gender-she was different in every way. I could see it in her eyes, hear it in her wails. Whatever knowledge or understanding I'd gleaned from her brother was going to be useless to me here. She's a new ball game, a new breed, a new attitude.

Through teething, crawling, walking and learning to talk-everything was different. She followed him, yet blazed her own trail. She was the first to learn to ride a two-wheeled bike. She went off the diving board first. She climbed over and fell off a fence, first. She, not he, broke a bone-wore a cast. Though she had most of the same teachers-her experiences and by proxy, mine, were different.

Through girl scout meetings, sleepovers, gymnastics, sleepovers, t-ball, sleepovers, soccer, sleepovers, softball, sleepovers, more soccer, sleepovers, changing instruments three times before settling on the clarinet, sleepovers, birthday parties, sleepover, girlfriends, sleepovers, boyfriends and. ..everything was different.

Through the laughter, joy and love-everything was different.

Through the pain, tears, anger, pills, the call and panic-everything was different.

Through relief, recovery, healing and hope-everything was different.

In twenty-one days, Danielle, my daughter, my best bud (we'll have the tee shirts to prove it) will be twenty-one years old. We're going to be kickin up some dust in Vegas to celebrate, rejoicing for the days gone by and trumpeting the days to come.

Because everything was different. Because everything is different.

photo legend: top Danielle & Michael (3 yrs ago), middle- my mom and Danielle (2006) bottom Danielle and her *pets*