Whew

The warmer temperatures, partial purges of the storage cages, lunch with mom and a recovering sweety conjure up a weekend of sneezes, sweat, brood and cheers. The work in the rear storage room and an emptying of the cages and surrounding walk way proved to be dustier and heavier than imagined. A small dent was made in the mess that is that room. As I would have predicted, had anyone asked, not all of the cages were properly labeled by the deadline. I proceeded with the clearing of the walk way. I found stacked, old molding, pipes, joint compound and floor tiles along with some other items of little or no interest. In the trash it all went. Sweeping ensued. Much sweeping, hence, the sneezing

Old paint cans, a bathroom vanity, an artificial Christmas tree later I was sweating something fierce. I decided to call it a day, or rather an evening. Due to lunch with mom, I wasn’t able to start the work until late in the day on Saturday.

Me: What happened with the hearing test?
Mom: Essentially normal. What the hell does essentially normal mean?
Me: I think it means your hearing is fine, you hear sounds well enough.

Further testing is warranted, for while mom can hear, she does have some trouble discerning some words, for example, "crop" may sound like "crap" too many times for comfort. This added to other issues tend to layer the frustration and anxiety, hence the brood.

In other news, I did tell my mom that I’m going to Tennessee again. "You are sure traveling a lot, you moving to Tennessee?" No, I don’t think so. Later, after lunch, during shopping for arch support insoles, my cell phone chimes. Mom asks, "is that a text message thingy?" Yes. "You must be courting, you get a lot of those." Hmmm. I didn’t tell, this one said simply, "I Love You." Stepping away while mom re-ties her shoes, I send a message back conveying the sentiment in kind, smiling wide.

Neta, recovering from her illness started feeling much better yesterday, as evidenced by the most recent telephone dates, hence the cheers!

I know, I know, I will have to come clean to my mother, perhaps, someday soon.

This, however, was not that day.

Today is the Day

A few weeks ago, I posted two notices in our building. One, seeking donations of yard and garden supplies and goods. Anything, soil, mulch, flowers, plants, seeds, anything, really. I made that point abundantly clear. To date, of course, no donations have been received. I haven’t given up the expectation that any will ultimately come, but I must move ahead in either case.

The second notice had to do with the Spring Cleaning of our storage area. We have a room, accessed from the outside, off the court-yard, in the rear. The room has cages, 10 to the 9 units in the building. Each of the cages is filled with presumably goods belonging to current owners. Not all of the cages are labeled, not all of the cages have locks. I’ve believed for some time now that many of the cages are filled with goods belonging to past owners. Having talked with a few of the current owners, one or two, who didn’t even know the room existed, solidifies the opinion that the room must be filled with a plethora of goods representing past lives and ownership. A purge is in order.

Additionally, there is un-tended property in the walk way of this very small room, a lawn mower, for the non-existent lawn, for instance. There are also lamps, baby toys, parts of exercise equipment and tools, in short, debris. The notice asked owners who have commandeered a cage to so label this cage. Today is the day, any un-labeled cage will be marked for emptying, the contents given or thrown away. Today is the day, any property remaining in the walk way will be removed, to be given or thrown away.

Today is the day. I’ll give one more warning before any locks are cut. That time will be used to go on a tool hunt. The thought of wielding the tool to snap those locks is giving me quite the thrill. The idea of going on a tool hunt, is giving me a feeling, thrilling doesn't come close to describing.

Where O Where

A couple of weeks ago I received this notice:

March 23, 2007 (received 4/10—go ahead, count the days…I did)

Dear Patient:

This is to advise you that, effective March 23, 2007, Dr. MBO will not longer be affiliated with The WHC.

If you would like to continue as a patient of Dr. O’s you are free to do so, and WHC will transfer your medical records to Dr. O.

If you wish to remain a patient of WHC and to be treated by one of our other physicians, you may also do that.

Please let us know what your decision is by signing the enclosed form and either returning it to us in the enclosed envelope, or faxing it to us at 111-111-1111. You may also call us at 222-222-2222.

If you have any questions, please fee free to contact us.

Very truly yours,

SRH, MD
Medical Director

Enclosure

You bet your bananas *I* have QUESTIONS!!!! Who the hell said my doctor could SPLIT. And WHY have *I* not heard from HER!!??!!!

I let the dust and my emotions settle before actually calling. When I did call I asked very calmly as to the whereabouts of Dr. MBO. The response was not at all encouraging. Basically, it was…uhm…well…uhm…mmmm..hmmm…”we don’t know.”

It seemed prudent to let that news settle for a day or two or three. Several days later I call back to ask if there were a forwarding number for Dr. MBO. The response, once again, was a muttering, sputtering….”we don’t know, er, no.”

One more call to inquire as to the status of one missing doc. And once again no sightings and no news regarding the good doctor MBO. Shit. I have had an appointment for Friday. I have conditions there were being monitored. Shit. I have no intention of staying with WHC and seeing one of the other docs. The only reason I was there in the first place was my doctor.

Now, in addition to still needing to find a dentist, I must also find a new doctor.

spillage

Some days ago, I quit my job, she hers. I sold the condo, she sold her home as well. With the proceeds we bought and RV, set out on the open road, enjoying the scenery and the company. We decided to settle on the California coast because she is, as you know, partial to water and we both wanted warm weather. We’ve decided to rent a store front and open a surf and skate board shop. (Did you know she surfed at one time? ooh whee!) D came along because she was again, between jobs and hey! Free trip to California! She’s trying to convince us to get her a video camera so she can make a tape to send in to Road Rules or one of the other reality type shows so she can be a STAR, out shining her brother. The cats (BoBo and LuLu) and the pup (Scamp) that we picked up from a shelter in Oklahoma are getting along famously.

Noooooooooooooooo… none of that is true, you’ll have to forgive me I’ve been suffering mad crazy hay fever type symptoms, itchy and then watery eyes and aaaaaahhhhhhhcccchhhhoooo!
Excuse me, periodic attacks of the sneezes. I’ve been sluggish, tired. My sweety hasn’t been feeling well lately either. Our respective ailments and other issues have cut into our phone snuggle time, which is making me above all else, cranky and perhaps somewhat delirious.

But the news…the real news, is about my actor fellow. M had two auditions last week. The first for a role with Steppenwolf, which, to many, is the Big Kahuna of Chicago theatre. He hasn’t heard yet, but got an email to say he was still in the running. Hopefully, a decision will be made by early next week. The second audition was for a film company. A movie staring Dennis Quaid is going to start production soon. M auditioned for these folks before (for a different role). He was not right for that role (he told me at the time that he thought he was too young and too slight of build). But, they’ve come back. In fact they spent a week trying to find him, his contact information. When he auditioned previously he was with an agency. M is currently representing himself, looking for an agent who is more in concert with his goals.

I asked him how each went, he replied ‘plonk—knocked them out the park!’ He felt encouraged and excited. Even if he isn’t cast this time around, he’s confident that he’s made enough of an impression that will lead to future opportunities.

He is currently in rehearsals for a play that opens late May. He plays a Rastafarian and must…gasp…sing. He hasn't had to sing in a show really, since his freshman year in college. He’s pretty over the moon about the role and the chance to work with one of his former professors, who is directing the production.

And…on Monday he looked at an apartment. Serendipity had him run into an acquaintance he hadn’t seen in several months. He mentioned looking for a place in the city, the guy said, "hey, I’m moving to New York at the beginning of May, you should look at my place.” And so he did. If the building manager approves, my young actor fellow will be in his own apartment by this time next month. Gasp!

All this good, positive news and energy flow is tempered by my wonky health, my daughter’s continuing boyfriend and workplace issues, worry over my girlfriend and missing the sound of her usually bubbly voice.

However, in two short weeks, I’ll be on a plane heading towards her. I’ll be able to wrap my arms around her, kiss her gently upon her soft, supple lips and hold her hand as we head for the car. An order of fried pickles, an ice cold beer and serious snuggling and more lie ahead.

I’ll keep you in the loop, re: the actor fellow. If you can’t tell, my buttons, they are a’bustin’.

Message for April

Data being collected, clearances obtained. Spill, I will, promise. In the meantime, my second favorite omelet chef produces a newsletter. In April's issue she offers the following messages, food for thought, if you will.

Life is short
Break the rules
Forgive quickly
Kiss slowly
Love truly
Laugh uncontrollably

And never regret anything that makes you smile.

I've had occasion to think about my overall state of happiness recently. While generally happy, even sometimes quite giddy with glee, I do find myself blanketed with sadness from time-to-time. These sad states, of late are mostly brought on by situations and issues related to my mom, daughter and other family. Memories and regrets are also contributing factors. I'm working on 'letting the past go' and being kinder to myself. I am trying to relinquish the enthusiasm for control over that which clearly I have no control.

My favorite omelet chef is assisting in the re-discovery of parts left dormant for a very long time. New awakenings, horizons, and memories are combining to build a new happiness tier. The infusion is a welcomed addition and the slow kissing wasn't bad either.

Friday, April 13th

There is news, possibly. Some of it good, maybe. I am not at liberty to discuss any of it, for fear I may apply a jinx. Apparently I have that power, to jinx. I....oh, I may have said too much already. Pretend I was never here.

Swimming

I’ve referred to periods of my childhood often in this past year of posting. Reading back over some of the posts it occurs to me that the happier moments expressed were all pre break-up. The other times were post break-up. This apparently is how I’ve categorized my memories. My parents’ marriage dissipated the year I was seven going on eight. My world changed, for better or worse we’ll never really know. Immediately though, it was worse and there weren't many happy times that followed that event.

Throughout the entire sum of my childhood there were pockets of pleasures. While basically a shy and reserved kid, I did manage, in spite of the periodic brutality and dismissals of my father and later my brothers, mom’s debilitating illnesses and eventual “checking out”, general economic, emotional and social struggles, to make some friends, engage in some joyful activities and carve out some good times and pleasant memories, pockets of pleasures.

Which brings me, oddly enough, to swimming. Sober asked yesterday if I ever learned how to swim.

As noted, pre break-up I went to day camps for a few summers. Swimming lessons and other pool activities were in the menu of daily activities during these camps. I was not required to participate in any pool activities. I made use of pool time by crafting more stuff out of popsicle sticks. I was satisfied with this arrangement.

Post break-up I was for at least one summer forced strongly encouraged to take swimming lessons at the local boys (and girls) club. I wouldn’t characterize what I learned as swimming. I’d say I learned not to drown while crabbing my way across the waters.

Since that tenth year of my life, I’ve spent very little time in large pools of water. My high school didn’t have a pool so there was so swimming component to my physical education. I did some wading in the waters of Lake Michigan, very little wading in very shallow waters. I did not enter another pool until my son was three years old. I sat my five, six and seventh month pregnant self in the local kiddie pool to watch him frolic under the sprays.

He graduated to the big pool only after his sister started to explore by her own third birthday. He, like me, was not a fan of large bodies of water. She, the daughter, took to the water like it was a calling. She dove from the high board by the time she was five. The son, not wanting to be outdone by little sis, followed her over. I watched from the deck, sure that my heart would stop any second.

They were able to convince me to join in games, which involved getting IN the water, during family swim times. I was even able to quiet my horror dislike of large bodies of water long and often enough to visit a few water parks during their childhood years.

I am not a fan of pools water and in no stretch of the imagination would I be considered a swimmer. This didn’t stop me from buying a bathing suit last year for the trip to Vegas. I haven’t worn it yet. I might have cause to pull it out this summer, as it appears someone I've come to know and love is a fan of pools, beaches and such. Swimming or any facsimile thereof however, won’t be on the menu, of this I can be sure.

Season of the Sun

It’s that time of year. The time where thoughts of summer take over many corners of the brain. What to do, when to do, where to do dot many to do lists. If children are in the mix, even more to dos must be considered. Brochures, flyers, catalogs from the local park district, various sports programs, academic outlets, day and sleep away camps and others hoping to get your attention, registration and fees begin to crowd the mailboxes, litter counter-tops and desks.

In my children’s experiences most of the summer-time activities revolved around summer school, reading and sports camps. It took some doing to coordinate activities for the entire summer for a boy and a girl with a 3 ½ age gap, wide ranging interests and limited transportation options.

My own childhood summers were mostly un-constructed affairs. My brothers and I were more often than not, left to our own devices. For me that meant mostly keeping to myself, reading. Some summers particularly, pre break-up, found us entrenched in our local park’s day camp program. We were out-fitted with logo t-shirts, shorts, sneakers and duffle bags. Along with many neighborhood kids we walked to the park to play, learn to swim (not me, mind you), sing songs, make stuff out of popsicle sticks, rag strips, clay and pipe cleaners. There were also field trips.

We went to the Aquarium, Planetarium, amusement parks, zoos and more. The highlight of any trip being the outcry of the kid who discovered her previously frozen can soda had burst and soaked their bologna sandwich through and through. The pain went deep because soda was a treat given only on trip days.

I was spared the trauma of soaked bologna because I never got soda, previously frozen or otherwise. I had allergies and milk products followed me everywhere.

Every weekday, on my way to and from work, I pass the park where I spent a couple of summers in the sixties and remember. I remember a couple of friends sharing the experience of the crafts and games. I remember spending hours in happy association with kids who were not my brothers or cousins. I remember the day we moved away and realizing that I would never see my friends or participate in any of the day camp activities again.

Riding past the park has put the thoughts of summer in my head, especially as the grass greens, the trees bud and the geese squawk. I think about the songs dedicated to and depicting the madness of the season, the hot fun times to be had. I think about what my son and daughter might be doing this summer, what memories will be constructed.

Of course I think about what summer will hold for me, what songs will tell my summer story. I think about how much I'm looking forward to another season of the sun.

Happy Always Happy

Wishes for a happy birthday, anniversary, Friday or really most any happy wishing generally fills one with glee. Always, the flexi-wing maxi and mini pad folks, are wishing women and girls happy periods.

The glee over this happy wish is fleeting

Not, mind you, that I’m un-happy with beinggirl, I’m perfectly happy with beinggirl, it’s just that at 46, I’m not all that happy to still be having a period, as periodic as they may be these days. I’ve been meeen-oooo-paws-ahl for nearly two years. The cycle has feted me to periods of lost focus and concentration, anxiousness, insomnia leading to fatigue, weight gain, diminished libido, surging libido, overwhelming menses, scant menses and missing menses. Oh, it’s been a happy, happy time in Middle Girl world. Really.

In all seriousness, happy does live here, not happy periods, but happy, generally and genuinely.

If Aunty Flo were to take a sudden and permanent powder, I would be even happier.

Happy…Days!

Tennessee

We met in December, barely. Barely, in that it was very nearly January, 12/30 to be exact. Barely, in that after a couple hours, following a couple of months or perusing profiles, floating hello balloons, drafting and sending actual emails, few hits and many misses, I'd very nearly given up meeting anyone who might fit or at least anyone good for a few laughs, some good times.

Then..I saw her profile. I took in the photos, studied the text and thought, hmmm interesting. We are the same age. We like many of the same things. We have some differences that might make for energetic encounters. She is in another state. Some cause for concern, though, not an insurmountable obstacle, it's not that far. Her profiles states, no 'break the ice HIs, only real emails!' Well! I click to place her profile in the hot list to save, giving myself time to think about the email, the real email that would be sent later.

Little did I know that we was checking me out, checking her out. She'd seen that I had looked at her profile and decided to write, as it happens her email arrived in my IN box box while I was composing my email to her. I fired off my email, which now instead of being an introduction, was a reply. She replied right back. She expressed some concern about the physical distance between us, but would love to 'talk' with me. I seemed fun, she wrote and so different from every one else she'd encountered for months. I replied with similar sentiments.

For the next several days we emailed each other multiple times a day. She noted how exciting it was to get up in the mornings and 'see me in her box'. I tittered at her terminology, or more accurately, my connotation of her terminology. We shared mostly silly, non-essential factoids and stories about one another and our lives. Falling immediately into an easy camaraderie. At some point we moved the communication thread from the meeting site to our own personal email addresses.

The multiple daily emails continued for many more days. Soon we began chatting via Google chat. Soon, that hours of chats became known around my apartment as my 'dates' with one of the (g)oogle (l)esbian (b)uddies. This buddy and I chatting into the wee hours of many mornings.

We dated in this manner for for several days, a few weeks, during the Superbowl, the Academy Awards and more. Our emails and on-line chats and instant messages continued, growing in duration and intensity until 2/26. On this night we talked on the phone for the very first time. On the basis of this conversation and a few that followed, we decided we should meet, sooner rather than later. She was coming up on a break from work and other commitments and big bam boom, before I knew it, I was booked on a flight to see the her I'd been in near constant communication with for two months.

Filled with equal parts fear and excitement, the days until the 3/9 flight date couldn't pass fast enough. I let M and D know I was going. They both accepted the news with grace, D starting immediately to plan her party, asking me if I could be gone longer; M taking note to hang around home a bit more that weekend.

She and I continued to talk every day, via email, instant messages, on-line chats and telephone calls. In the interim there were even snail mail cards and letters. The flight date arrived, D dropped me at the airport a few hours early, with too much time to think. What I thought was, 'have I lost my mind?' That thought was quashed pretty quickly. I hadn't, I was sure. Still, I was nervous and excited, not knowing what to expect, what was going to happen.

I arrive and as you may recall, some kissing took place, eventually. In addition to the hours upon hours of delectable face suckage, there was talking, eating, drinking and.....laughing. Oh how we laughed! We had a ton of fun....laughing. So much so that I switched out my early Sunday flight to one later in the day, which I nearly missed. Oh, the fun! The laughing! The...WoW!

On the flight home, already missing her face, voice, I wrote her a letter in my journal. I copied it to stationery and mailed it the very next day. We are back to the daily missives and the hours on the phone. The daily, nightly phones calls quickly becoming the hi-lights of my days. I will go back in May. This time, instead of the 1 full day and some hours, we will have 3 full days and some hours. Three full, glorious days together. WoW, I am itchy twitchy with excitement. M is hoping to have secured his apartment and is tentatively planning to move out the very same weekend. D, upon hearing our news, danced a little jig, not quite believing she could be lucky enough to have the apartment totally to herself.

I will arrive on the evening of 5/3, in much the same manner as before, minus the nervousness. I know what to expect, I know what will happen, although she promises some surprises. WoW! We will go out for a bite to eat, some drink, talk and I'm sure, laughs. We will go home and spend the next hours and three full days thoroughly enjoying being in the same state, together.

I have a girlfiend. I love her. Her name is....Neta.

He Did What!?!

My son loves to dance. He also loves live music. Quite often you might find

him twisting and shouting in one of the city's fine blues clubs. He was in one such establishment when he was treated rather rudely. He tells the story in his trademark nonchalant and humorous manner. I believe he adopts this method, especially when telling me such stories, so as to not bear witness to my head being flung from the rest of my body, thus forcing him to clean the mess that might be caused. Although, the event, I'm sure, would at some point, become a star in his repertoire of tales.

I am paraphrasing his tale of the Hoochie Coochie man incident.

Lacy and Tammy were visiting from from Minnesota. They met dancing man M at the blues club. Dancing Man, decked out in his usual suit, tie, hat (although not while inside the club) and cane is a vision, quite like no other in the club. The ladies are drawn to him like moths to a flame, flies to butter, D to shoes, you get the picture. The three of them proceeded to have a grand old time, talking, laughing and of course, dancing the night away.

It was edging towards final call and the trio was saying their good-byes. Hoochie Coochie man foisted his way into the scene, smashing into their space. Never one to pass up an opportunity to annoy impress women, he barked out a "HEY! I'M HOOCHIE COOCHIE man!" The ladies, startled by his insistent intrusion managed to mumble a soft hello. The ever polite, gentlemanly, M, offered his own greeting, addressing H C man by his given name. Hoochie Coochie responded to M's greeting with a stream of spit towards the vicinity of M's freshly buffed shoes.

Shocked, Lacy and Tammy emit a gasp. Undaunted, M excused himself, walked calmly over to the security station and reported Mr. H C's actions. Mr. Hoochie Coochie was then escorted from the building with security talking very sternly into his ear. M returned to the ladies, bid them a good night and safe travels by to Minnesota.

A little background: Hoochie Coochie man is a musician at the club. Sometimes a headliner. He wasn't playing the night in question. I'd heard tales of Hoochie Coochie's actions before. Hoochie has been sneering and snorting at M for some weeks now, presumably because of M's attractiveness to the ladies, infringing on that which Hoochie considers his territory. I suppose. He could of course, just be a nut, he does introduce himself to women as hoochie coochie man. Throughout all his dealings with Hoochie Coochie, M has continued to be polite making sure to congratulate and praise him on his good sets.

I am pleased and proud of M's handling of the situation and his over-all composure and demeanor. His more volatile sister had some choice suggestions for alternate responses to becoming the target of someone's spit. Never-the-less, we couldn't stop laughing during M's recitation, as he does exhibit a certain story telling flair.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder what Hoochie Coochie would have looked like with a size 13 freshly buffed shoe print all over his hoochie coochie butt.

GMail

Gone? for Good?

Probably not. But not having access for over two days now, feels like a lifetime, a forever kind of thing.

Very frustrating, to say the least.

friends are like bras: close to your heart and there for support

My friend Nina is celebrating a birthday today. I know this because she told me so months ago when we became acquainted through blogging. Some months after I started my blog, I found hers via some link from some other blog. I commented on hers and she responded in kind. She went back to Inauguration and offered the bit of trivia about her birthday.

That is what I love about blogging.

During these past 12 months I’ve shared stories, stories of my past and present. Embedded within those stories are some hopes for my future. I’ve gone on journeys with these stories. I’ve ventured into some fictional exercises with posts like, Jolly and I’ve even been lucky ducky enough to have a post published in the brainchild of some cool ladies from Houston.

I was afforded the opportunity to attend a conference in Memphis, which in turn gave me the chance to meet those cool ladies, Elizabeth and Maxine in full living color and lesbian glory. How cool is that? Say it with me…waaaaaay cooooool ! ! !

Or to put it another way, too totally tubular !

Blogging has been for me, a voice different from that mom, daughter, sister, worker, friend voice I use daily. It is my voice, for me alone. Sharing that voice has prompted others to share, speaking to me through the comments and in some cases, email. Those comments and emails have helped clarify, raise questions, offered solutions, and on many occasions made me laugh out loud.

That is what I love about blogging.

It was the blogging I believe, that gave me the confidence to come out. Hitching up that confidence, I ventured further, endeavoring to meet other lesbian ladies. I held to the hope of finding some who would be friends and perhaps one who would be more. One such lady is currently positioning herself to be the jelly in my roll. How cool is that? Yep yep, that cool.

I’ve had fun, more than I thought I would. I’ve made friends, more than I thought plausible. That inaugural post ended with, I’m not quite sure where I’m going but I do hope the ride will be vigorous, entertaining and enlightening.

That, dear friends, thanks to all of you, it has and continues to be.

How cool is that?

Happy Birthday Nina!

...mooch some homemade hooch

I could be so much more productive if I didn't have to re-fax, re-mail.
(electronic or puhleeze snail), REITERATE, re-invent the freaking
wheel.

Insurance Broker: did you email that form?
Me: I faxed it, your assistant asked me to fax the form.
IB: When?
Me: January 16th
IB: Did we talk afterwards?
Me: Yes, several times
IB: Can you fax it again?
Me:....well, of course I can.

Once a day, every day, it seems, I must follow up with someone about something they should have done, only to be told they don't
have, can't find or don't remember the original contact.

You have any idea how annoying this is? Of course you do!

I think I'll mooch some homemade hooch, and go out for a lark, just to drive off these mean old....

Excuse Me

The idiom touts apples and good health, how one a day keeps doctors away. I'd read somewhere recently a quote attributed to Mae West, replacing orgasm with apples. Orgasms have nothing to do with the post, except that given a choice of an apple a day or an orgasm a day, to keep doctors at bay, well, I don't suppose I have to spell out the choice I'd make. Do I?

I do, however, like apples. Very much so. I eat them often. Not everyday, but very often. Eating apples, though, does present a problem, or shall I say, a challenge, as I do like to eat them on the run. Apples are the most portable of my favorite fruit selections. Eating apples on the run or in public present a problem for me because I belch after finishing the apple. No sooner do I swallow the last bite, does a barrage of belches well up and spew out like the dirty words that spew out of the mouth of the carpenter who has banged her hand with the hammer, again.

No other fruit or other food product produces this reaction. I suppose there could be worse reactions, so perhaps I shouldn't complain. If however, you do see me eating an apple, which you probably won't because as you might imagine, even though I might eat the apple on the run, I do tend to avoid being in the vicinity of people when I do...but, should you see me eating an apple, you will excuse me, while I take my leave until the belches have passed.

Violet Tendencies

Well, in all honesty, not violets, really. Or violets exclusively. Or violets obsessively. I do buy one or two every year and like the way of the ferns, they tend to fail me, or I them. not quite sure how the bargain is struck or where it goes awry. But awry it does go. I keep trying because I really do like violets. There is a violet in need of tending, in my office right now, in fact.

You may have noticed, it is Spring. As is my ritual, lately, I will get down and dirty with plants and flowers, inside and out. For the inside it will be mostly more non-flowering house plants . I had a couple of large plants or small trees, depending on your perspective, give me their final notices. They were with me a long time, but they apparently decided it was time to move on. That they did so simultaneously, oddly enough, softened the sting.


For the outside, I must clear leaves, twigs and other debris left over from the ravages of a Midwestern winter and more recently, that left by kids and others leaving the nearby McDonald's. I will then continue the work begun a few Springs ago, cultivating perennials, ground cover and shrubs already in place. I will plant more, fill in more. As I've mentioned before, it is a work in progress. Slow going because of more misses than hits and economic realities.
This year the call goes out to fellow owners. I am willing to do all the work (help will not be turned away) but I announced how it would be fabulous if any or all could contribute plants, shrubs, bulbs, top soil, mulch. I will provide information about zone suitable plants and specifics about what the experts feel will work best given our sun / shade exposures.

I don't know if any will heed the call. Given previous experiences with these people, I don't have any expectations. If I don't get any donations, the progress will continue along the current path. I won't be bothered, much, as there remains much to treat my tendencies.

plots: June 2005 shot by my mom

Jackie's Back!

Hooray! and Yahoo!

Can't believe I missed the premier episode of tee vee girlfriend's show, Work Out . I have an excellent excuse. A couple, actually. I'm sure I would be excused due to being on the phone wooing and cooing with actual girlfriend and then listening to daughter recount her boyfriend troubles into the wee winky hours of the morning. One must have priorities and proper perspective.

Thank goodness, though, that there are re-runs and hippy hippy hooray, marathon showings. Not to mention this wonderful invention called the Internet.

Bravo TV has episodes, blogs and all manner of fodder to feed an addict's fan's tank.

If you are looking for me, I'll be working out with Jackie.

Sprung? No! Spring.

It is my daughter's not so humble opinion that her 46, knocking on the door to 47 year-old mother, is sprung. She believes she has, again, in her not so humble opinion, several facts in evidence to support her position.

Not quite ready to concede her point, I will admit to feeling a buzz, a certain breeziness, the feeling of having some air in my oh so short hair. I offer however, several factors which may account for such a condition.

For instance, I have resolved to not get too totally tweaked about the work situation. In the not so immortal words of my oh so befuddled boss, 'it is what it is.' I believe it was Maya Angelou who said, if you don't like something, change it, if you can't change it, change your attitude. Don't complain. Well, I can't change it and I can't leave it, at least not now, so, I will do my best to maintain my decorum, professionalism, and personal standards. (That doesn't mean that I won't try to change it..because IT is pretty stupid and needs to change.)

I was able to get some of the owners of the condo association to agree, at least in principle, to donate some garden supplies, plants, mulch and such to aid in my continuing efforts to beautify out little piece of earth. This news and the possible confluence of events is certainly worthy of a buzz or two.

My mother, though still believing she is under surveillance, is much less anxious over the sight of taxicabs parked on her street that in years past. She has also had some resolution to some long standing health issues. Others remain, but getting some answers where there were only questions and confusions is comforting, to some degree.

There are other little triumphs, like losing nearly 8 lbs since mid-January, causing some pep to my steps, some glides to my strides, prompting my daughter to assign the sprung label to my general state of breeziness. I could make my case with any one of the reasons already stated. I'll offer another. One could chalk my buzz, the breeziness, up to the onset of Spring. Warm weather alone is cause enough for a buzz, a breeziness of steps and spirit.

I do not buy her contention that the buzz has anything at all to do with the cards, letters, emails, hours of telephone conversations, some past and the prospect of future kissing and...more, that a certain someone and I have shared over these past several weeks. No, I do not buy that, at all.

This buzz has nothing at all to do with correspondence, soft conversations and more. Not any of that, no. This buzz, my daughter, is not your sprung mother.

It's Spring! Darn it!

All In The Family

For some years, as a young woman, I harbored the illusion that my paternal ancestors were of French descent. I do not know how or exactly when I came upon the notion, but it was there. The idea of my French ancestry was lying dormant, awaiting the time and opportunity to be known out loud and in color.

At some point, I co-opted an accent for my last name, borrowing an extra syllable. Words like au revoir, bonjour and merci beaucoup were becoming part of my daily speech patterns. I'd even gone so far as to take a semester of French in an attempt to get closer to a heritage I'd presumed was mine.

Or course, I was wrong. This notion of French ancestors is completely false, without merit. At least, that's what I've come to believe. Some preliminary investigation surrounding the origins of my last name seem to indicate that my paternal ancestors were more likely of Irish descent.

Further, some discovery reveals that my last name was at one time slang for what amounts to a laze-about or perhaps more accurately, someone who travels the least challenging path. Further still, I discovered that combined with another word, which coincidentally, is the family name of some related by marriage relatives, the Irish version of my last name roughly translates to 'kiss my ass.'

As you may imagine I was not overly excited about these discoveries. Yet, I remain interested not only in the origins of my name but the family heritage as well. I'm wondering if I might be distant relatives of the family wearing my last name, who produce a bourbon bearing that same name. The plot thickens.

Kiss Me. I'm Irish. Maybe.

Progeny

Something extra-ordinary happened while I was out of town, kissing my weekend away. My son and daughter talked with one another. The talking, in and of itself, is not that extra-ordinary. They talk all the time. They are two talkers, those kids of mine.

She usually says something like, “you are such a nerd” in rebuttal to one of his many stories. He usually says something to the tune of, “why do you talk like that?” in abject horror to one of hers. A healthy disdain for one another’s style seems to be the common glue holding them together.

I kid. My son admires his sister’s spirit and verve. My daughter, in turn, admires her brother’s talent and drive. Shhh…don’t tell them I know or that I told.

Yet, like many sibling sets they get a charge out of getting a rise out of each other and enjoy rousing bouts of good-natured teasing. One of my very deliberate acts and goals as a parent was to foster a good relationship between these two. I wanted them to be friends. I wanted them to be able to count on each other. I wanted them to have the relationship I couldn’t, didn’t, don’t share with my brothers.

This past weekend, while I was away, they talked. Really talked. True to their routines, understanding their respective roles, they kidded each other often. I know this because they each told me their own versions of their weekend exploits. Yet, somewhere in there, some real talking took place.

Late last night, very early this morning, my daughter, in the midst of telling me one thousand things, said, “You know what, that guy. (pointing at her brother’s bedroom door) is a great guy. He’s very smart and very insightful. He helped me a lot.” I did know.

Still, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Seriously.

They are two talkers, my son and my daughter. I’m so glad they talk with each other almost as much as they talk with me.