It Is What It Is

Once again Lauren spotted Lori standing in front of that painting. Lauren slid up behind Lori, wrapping her arms around Lori’s waist, planting her chin on Lori’s shoulders and trying to break through the reverie she imagined must be going on in Lori’s head. How could she stand and stare at this painting for hours?

Over and over again, Lauren fights to understand what Lori sees in the painting. The mystery has made her wary and sometimes weary.
Lauren shook off the doubts, leaned in closer and whispered into Lori’s ear, “darling.”

Not a muscle did Lori move. She barely took a breath. Lori stood stock still, cemented to the spot by some magical glue. Lauren kept hold of Lori’s waist as though to further anchor her to the spot. It seemed the thing to do, the only option available. Lauren looked at the painting summoning whatever data she’d gleaned from the Art History class taken so long ago. What is in this frame that is holding sweet, dear Lori hostage?

Lauren didn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. All she felt was confusion and overwhelming love for Lori. “Darling, what is it that you see. What are you feeling?”

A crowd began to form in the tiny gallery. Lauren, feeling self-conscious, began to fidget. “Baby, I think we should be moving on” she whispers to Lori. Lori became rigid, a statue staring at a painting. If it weren’t so nerve twisting Lauren would find it all somewhat comical. Lauren didn’t think she’d be able to stand here much longer, yet she clung even tighter to Lori’s waist trying to move her by sheer force of will. Still, Lori stood, staring.

Minutes felt like hours. Lauren began to feel swarmed by the crowd. It felt like she and Lori were on exhibit. It felt like the floor was shifting, the walls closing in, the air thinning. Lauren began to feel ill. One last plea went ignored like the others. Lauren was beside herself. She didn’t know what else to do. Lori was just transfixed and oblivious to everyone and everything but the painting. That stupid looking head with the freakishly weird expression and that nonsensical landscape has kidnapped her girlfriend. It was clear, Lori needed to be rescued.

How? What to do?

Lauren needed to regain her composure if she was going to rescue Lori. She was going to need all her wits to get them out of this pickle. She was going to……”Lori?” Lauren felt Lori move and then move again. The movements became quite herky jerky. Seconds before the sound emitted from Lori’s throat, Lauren knew she was laughing. Lori’s laughter had the swarming crowd receding, the floor settling and the walls returning to their posts. Lori’s laughter soothed the room.

Lori turned to face the love of her life, her eyes sparkling and her smile bright and asked between giggles, “have you seen that foot coming out of the head of that soldier? Isn’t that hilarious?”

November Wordsmiths exercise.

Please Don't Talk

…..to me when it’s dark, raining and Diamond is pooping. You see, I’m tracking the poop as I must scoop the poop expelled from the pooch. When the pooch finishes her poop she skitters. She sometimes skitters left and sometimes she skitters right so I must keep my eyes and mind on where she laid the poop.

It is November. There are small brownish leaves all over. In the rain and the dark clumps of small brownish leaves look a lot like the brownish poop of one small Diamond pooch.

So please, hush. I must focus.

Not Yet Scrambling

Help! The first full weekend marking the beginning of The Holiday shopping season is gone and not one shopping trip was made, not one gift procured. Not. A. One. Time is a-wasting, the clock is a-ticking and yours truly has got to get moving. Truly. But hope is not lost. Not by a long shot, no. Some thoughtful purveyors of some fine merchandise have flooded my mailbox with catalogs, flyers and brochures trying to garner my attention, attract my interest. Some of the items are indeed worthy of a look-see. I have a couple of candidates in mind for two such products.
I think GS would recognize some of his lunches in the selection the lunch lady has in her kitchen. Yum.

Surely, drunk dialer will appreciate having his heroine on top of his tee-vee.

No, not scrambling yet. There is plenty of time, tons of choices.

One More Thing

Thankful that this is not my cat, this week anyway.
Happy Thanksgiving All!!

Super? I Wish

According to the quiz I'm Spiderman, to wit: You are intelligent, witty, a bit geeky and have great power and responsibility.

So? My girlfriend is still in TN without ME--38 days.
My daughter is still thinking about giving the clueless boyfriend one more chance.
My mom is still asking 1001 questions--but not the question.
Pete the kitty is still enamored--with my leg.

38 days is still 38 days.

For, Fore, Four plus Tees, Teas

During much of 1999, many became mired in the dire doomsday scenarios predicted for the calendar's journey to double ought. 2000 or Y2K as it came to be known, was going to wreak havoc on the world to have the ubiquitous them tell the tale. I, however, couldn't be bogged down with those possible scenarios. I had my own, real-life stories to file. The year 2000 meant that I was turning f-o-r-t-y. Big whoop.

You know the saying, "life begins at 40"? Well, my mom can often be heard uttering her own dire, "not mine!" She has said on numerous occasions how her life ended at 40 (or during her 40s). I find this statement terribly ironic as she was born in 1940. But, that's another post, for another day, or never.

Anyhoo..Me. 40. Big whoop. Even bigger than a 40 year-old me was an 18 year old son. He graduated from high school and started college that year. He voted in his first election and continued stretching those incredibly long "man" legs. Me. 40. Big whoop.

Me. 40. Big whoop. Even bigger than a 40 year-old- me was an 14 year-old going on oh my gosh could she possibly screech any louder? She came out of Jr. high that year and entered the BIG school. Not two minutes in the BIG school did the noise requests for practice driving time begin as did the screeching about following her "rock star" brother. If I said it once, I said it...oh, 40 times...following a good brother is rainbows better than following a bad brother. Whoop! Big.

I was newly single in the year 2000. I had no time to celebrate let alone ponder the significance of what--if you believe the ubiquitous them-- a most significant occurrence that is turning f-o-r-t-y. The celebration and the pondering came in between the seven subsequent birthdays. Given the givens--the periodic frustrations with adult progeny, an aging parent, achy knees, erratic marathon menses and other interesting health related concerns--all that aside, this I submit is my best decade to date.

The seven birthdays since have afforded the opportunity to see my adult progeny grow and glow. I have wallowed in a swell of respect and have been comforted by the strengths I witness within them daily. This seven subsequent birthdays have taught me more effective techniques when faced with the challenges of being my mother's only daughter. Yes, the seven birthdays that have come since 2000 also brought achy knees, erratic marathon menses and more--but those provided never-ending bitching and moaning conversation. Whoopie big.

The very best benefit to come from those seven subsequent birthdays was the emergence of me. The real, blossoming me has been un-folding petal by petal and the garden continues to grow. Sure, the seven birthdays brought cravings that I must be careful (re: health related concerns) about indulging, namely, salt, especially in the form of Spanish olives and potato chips. But the seven birthdays also brought cravings that I try to indulge every chance I get--if not in person, at least in spirit--namely, making love with women one special woman.

Those seven subsequent birthdays brought me out of my 30s and are bringing me into my 50s. The net result of those subsequent birthdays is the joy of seeing the next ones. I'm looking forward to each and every one, for i see them getting better and better.

Soon you will start seeing year-end review lists. The year that was will be condensed to to neat little lists of events great and small causing one to remember, reflect and wonder. Birthdays are like that too. One tends to remember previous celebrations, reflect on the significance of the age and wonder about what comes next. Add this date, November 15th to your lists of events, from this day forward. This date, November 15, 2007, my friend Teresa turns forty. 40. F-O-R-T-Y. Please. Take note.
Happy 40th Birthday, Teresa. Enjoy this decade, it will prove to be quite the ride. At least that's how the ubiquitous them will ultimately tell the tale.

The Play

Hamlet: I'll have grounds

More relative than this—the play's the thing

Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King .Hamlet Act 2, scene 2, 603–605

No butt bearing. Clothes were removed but only bare chests revealed (his, not hers). There was the illusion of being nekkid in one of the final scenes, but no, butts weren’t bared. M’s character, Lawrence tells his girlfriend a tale about warring Chinese rulers who want to negotiate peace. The meet on a mount with good intentions but little trust and goad each other into “proving” they are not hiding weapons upon their personage. Only by facing one another butt nekkid were they comfortable speaking honestly and openly about how to bring peace to their respective lands.

The play was about honesty and relationships. More acutely, honesty IN relationships, be they your business, personal (romantic) or with your god. We are shown how the house of cards constructed with the lies we tell others and the lies we tell ourselves can crumble under the weight of truth.

And oh yeah, my son, the actor—was good. And that’s the truth

In His Words

He titled the email: Menorahs and Turntables. It went on to say:
I invite you to Laura Jacqmin’s (Chicago Dramatists Resident Playwright) world premiere of Butt Nekkid directed by Side Project Ensemble Member Gina LoPiccolo.

The play tells a tale about a Jewish music producer, his determined daughter, and a Hip Hop artist. Their lives collide in this drama examining the truths about religion, race, and culture.

I play Lawrence, the ever aspiring Hip Hop artist looking to crossover to the rap game and get signed. The character is a lot of fun to play and I had such a blast doing the research. Nothing like waking up in the morning to the sounds of Public Enemy, Nas and The Last Poets.

I'm going to the theatre tomorrow night to see my favorite actor do his thing. As he suggests he throws himself into researching a role and it shows on stage. Moreover, local theatre community is beginning to take note of his dedication, work ethic and talent. His name has been thrown into a few hats--opportunities that he's had to turn down because of other commitments, he was recently nominated by a local Arts Alliance for a best actor award for his last role and he was recently cast in a small but pivotal role with the very prestigious Steppenwolf Theatre that will go up in February.

The blast he gets from doing research is nothing compared to the blast I get from seeing him onstage. I hope all this blasting isn't hurting your ears.

Hello, the Weekend Calls

uhm..no, not me..but somebody, in this--80 somebodies. Enjoy.

Rest In Peace

Neta's LuLu died early this morning. She talks about it over at her place. What I want to say here is how utterly useless I felt when I couldn't wrap my arms around her and comfort her in the way that I know she needed. I could only listen, cry with her and say all the stuff you say--when that's all you can do. Being away in general is hard. Being away during trying times is unbearable.

Truly.

Lulu, Luie, Sissy or Sissy Lu was a cat with a lot of 'tude. In fact I dubbed her tail-i-tude after I met her in March. She had a way of 'flipping' you off with her tail that was just so feline. She and I hadn't a lot of time to bond as she was typically aloof. She was, however, much more visible during my July trip. She sat out and still long enough to snap this shot of her and to get to know her a bit better. I know she will be missed. Neta, baby, may peace be with you.

Fifty days.

Me a Meme, Another Meme

I’ve been tagged by a fellow blogger buddy. The game I will play but only to a point. There will be no tagging at the end-but if you feel the urge, splurge.
The game: list 10 acts of randomness and away we go:

1. I need a second job to feel like I can afford a car.
2. I’ll need a car to get a second job.
3. I may be suffering a case of decorator’s anxiety syndrome--DAS.
4. Are all cats afraid of the sound of ripping aluminum foil?—or just Pete.
5. I have an overdue library book that I renewed twice and still haven’t read.
6. I’ve read two other books in the interim.
7. When I talk about my brother, it’s the younger who is the subject.
8. The younger has gone and gotten arrested—again.
9. I don't feel good about having predicted this upon his release last year.
10. It's late. I should be asleep.

Extra! Extra!

Well, I’ll be dipped in donuts and rolled in sprinkles. Cate over at Sunday Dreams has voted me nice. Imagine that. I happen to think she’s pretty nice too. I discovered Cate by way of Nina and have enjoyed getting to know her and the kids. They are very groovy folks.

In keeping with the spirit of the tag—I’m to pass it on. It goes without saying that there are a number of people to whom this honor may be bestowed as I have met some fantastically nice folks out here in blog land in the bit over a year that I’ve been blogging. The person I’m going to honor though, I didn’t meet through blogging. However, blogging did give me the extra push I needed to create a profile and go “a dating.”

Neta started blogging only after finding my blog, checking out some previous postings, bloggers on my blogroll and deciding that blogging sounded looked and sounded like fun. Sharing blogging with her has added a new dimension to our relationship as well as providing some additional insight to and for both of us. I give you Neta who is as nicer than all the sprinkle covered donuts around

Craving

This one has provolone cheese. My version features mozzarella. A lot of mozzarella. My sandwich must also contain many sweet bell peppers in addition to the hot and be wet. Dripping, sopping, paper napkins not good enough, wet. Yeah, baby.

But, I'm being good. It will be grilled chicken or fish for dinner. Yum.

Pot Luck

Happy Wordsmiths Halloween exercise: Pot Luck

Maura was delighted to be alone, finally. She’d been waiting all day to get the kitchen all to herself. There was a lot of work to do if she was going to be ready for the pre- judging and she didn’t need the prying eyes of the other contestants peering over her shoulder. Maura thought a win here would set her apart from the rest of the students. Maybe Madame Cora would notice her, finally.

Madam Cora is the queen of culinary arts and Maura was in love with her.


Ingredients assembled, utensils aligned, Maura set about her work. She’d decided on three dishes, going for the maximum allowed. She told herself it wasn’t overkill. The banging overhead was annoying, but Maura was determined not let anything knock her off her stride. She was on a mission.


The cumin-spiced sirloin with tomatillo salsa was going to anchor Maura’s entries so she decided to concentrate most on this dish, which would be easier if that incessant banging would cease. Maura wondered who was upstairs making all the noise. She wondered if it was one of the other students trying to distract her. She’d show them, she refused to be rattled.


Maura put the ingredients for the salsa in the food processor and flipped the switch. Damn. Nothing, no juice, why? Maura flipped the switch a few more times and still, nothing. Maura walked over to the circuit box to check the fuses. Of course she didn’t know what the heck she was going to do when she got there. Food she knew, fuse boxes? Not so much.


Before Maura had to decide what to do about the fuses in the box, the lights went out. Believing she must now be the un-lucky recipient of some prank, Maura didn’t panic. She did get angry and anxious. All she wanted was to finish her meals and every delay, every diversion hurt.


The banging stopped. Maura was ecstatic because her head was near splitting from the noise. Maura hoped for the lights to return without incident. She wondered why the pranksters would stop before the prank was concluded. Still, she hoped.


In either case, Maura was determined to cook these jerks under the table, putting her closer to the lovely Madam Cora. Madam Cora, hazel eyes that mesmerize, tantaliz..Bang! Maura was shaken from her reverie by big clanging sounds. Just then the lights return allowing Maura to see the source of the noise. Pots strewn from the pantry had landed in the middle of the kitchen floor.


Maura, full with all the shenanigans, stomps over to the pots building intent to do bodily harm to the first of her horrid classmates to show their putrid face. The rage taking over every fiber blinds Maura to the reality. Her last thought was how the cold floor could feel so warm.


Madam Cora’s thoughts wandered that morning during class. The lovely green eyed Maura must be sleeping in this morning-sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Daryl, Duuuuude...

Heard on ans. machine every couple weeks for the past several months: Hey Harold! This is your cousin Daryl, Daryl from California. I've been trying to get in touch with you. Give me a call.

A few weeks ago: Hey Harold! I hear there's a bun in the oven...and it's cooking too!!!! Congratulations man! Hey, this is your cousin Daryl, Daryl from California. Call me!!!

A couple weeks after that message I answer the call from California--recognizing the number. Daryl says hey and I go on to tell him that he's got the wrong number. But that daughter and I got a kick out of the 'bun in the oven' message. Daryl and I share a giggle. I tell Daryl that he's left several messages on my machine, he's dialed incorrectly a few times. Incredulous, he asks about the number, the town. I just assure him that while he's dialing the correct area for his cousin Harold, he is indeed dialing the wrong number. Daryl believes me, but unwilling to let go--asks me what I'm wearing. I laugh, quite out loud, before hanging up on him.

Heard on ans. machine once a week since: Hey Harold! This is your cousin Daryl, Daryl from California. I've been trying to get in touch with you man. give me a call.

Diva Dog

Diamond, or as she has come to be more affectionately known, Attention Whore, is so clearly D's dog but when I come home after an extended absence, she yips, yaps, skips, sprints and slides through two rooms with unbridled glee. An area rug has been planned for the living room for some time now, and I'm getting one, except now, I think I might miss her slide shows.
After she's run the gamut she crashes herself into my ankles. I reach down to pet her and she wiggles and waggles towards flipping over on her back, offering up her belly. Having her belly rubbed ranks high on the pleasure meter for diva dog, AW. Oh, don't get me wrong, D gets the same greeting, only times 12.

Diamond craves the touch. She wants her belly rubbed, head stroked and back scratched perpetually. Should the rubbing, stroking or scratching cease without her permission, she nudges her head into your hand until it resumes. When she is not clamoring for attention, she's assaulting playing with Pete the cat, or eating. When she's not doing any of those things, she is simply following D (or me) around--everywhere. Or snoring sleeping at D's (sometimes my) feet.

The Diva Diamond, AW has skittered her way right to the top of our little heap.

My Pete

The kitty, Pete or as he has come be known, Midnight Madness soooo his own cat is not so slowly and very surely become my cat. Midnight, though, is a misnomer as one of Pete's most active periods is the pre-dawn hours between 2 and 4 a.m. In the very beginning he was just talking, poking me with his paw to get my attention and yammering away about one thing or another. This was even before the lovely diva dog appeared on the scene.

As time has gone by he has become bolder. He climbs now. On me. Up and then down my body, hovering and then camping around my feet. He talks the entire time. The weather? The state of world affairs? Why his kibble bowl is blue? Who knows? Eventually, the parade of paws forces me to an upright position. He takes that opportunity to investigate my neck. I took this move as a want or need to hug, nuzzle. When I try, he skitters away only to return after my return to slumber. The process begins again. We have three or four rotations before he moves on to much more stimulating activities, like licking himself bald.

Over the past several days Pete the kitty has added a new wrinkle to his routine. He's much more at home, more at ease and I've noticed, more insistent. He no longer gingerly steps atop my body. He leaps now, usually towards my head. When the fur settles from this maneuver he assumes the previous practices of walking and talking. He has taken to wanting to settle his butt atop my head instead of feet. I am having little luck in dissuading him from this notion. However, eventually he returns to the feet, ankle and shin area. Pete the kitty has taken to clamping himself to my shin where he then proceeds to move his body in a motion reminiscent of an old-fashion water pump? A buoy bobbing in the bay? Whatever, point is...he moves.

It is quite obvious that I have mis-interpreted some of Pete's wee hours chatter.

Clearly, we have some bullet points to review.

Daddy Dear, Rest

I found a letter he wrote to me in 1980. I’m not sure why I deemed this one special enough to save. It wasn’t the only letter I got from him. There were a couple before and a couple after this one. After having read it over several times, nothing special, particularly endearing, clever or even true pops out at me. It starts with a “hi honey” and ends with a “love dad.” The stuff in between was mostly forgettable.

His letter to me in 1980 was in response to a letter I’d sent several months prior. He makes mention of this. I gather that in my letter I mentioned the plan to “hook up” with the man who would become father to my son and daughter, he makes mention of this as well, advising me to “be careful.” This communication in 1980 would have marked the first such communication in several years—on either side. I was trying to get past an intense hatred I felt for him. I don’t know what his motivations were. He said he loved me. I had a very difficult time believing he felt anything akin to love towards me.

Since 1980 there have been perhaps ten letters between us—his to me were usually in response to one of mine to him, always several months or years after the fact. Since 1980 I have seen him twice, talked with him on the phone perhaps a half-dozen times—the last time maybe 3 years ago. He did call and leave a message on the machine a year ago. When he didn’t call back like he said he would, I called him—got his machine, left a message of my own. I’d resigned myself to his silences leading into this exchange of messages. I’ve had to all over again. The silences really don’t bother me that much anymore. I prefer the silence over the lies.

In the years since 1980 I’ve come to feel something other than intense hatred for him. In all likelihood it wasn’t even hatred I was feeling. How could I hate my father? I didn’t even know him, not really. Further, what I’ve come to realize over that time-line was I don’t want to know him. Really, I don’t.

Still, he’s been on my mind a lot lately. Perhaps the letter, perhaps the birth date that recently passed, perhaps my younger brother—his spitting image—kicking up dust these days, is bringing him to my mind, perhaps.

The last time we talked he told me he loved me. I still have a hard time believing that sentiment. How could he love me? He doesn’t know me any better than I know him. Further, the realization has finally settled into my head, my bones, my soul-he doesn’t ever want to know me. Really, he doesn’t.

Mom always accused me of being said I was just like my father. I guess, in this, she must be right.

Sweets for my Sweet

A hug is a great gift - one size fits all, and it's easy to exchange. ~Author Unknown

“So what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get here in December?” She asked me during one of recent e-mailing sessions. That’s a snap. I’m going to hug her—for a long time. In fact, I may never let her go. I suppose we’ll have to break long enough to get to the car for the drive home, but only because neither one of us wants to spend my time there in the airport. We have other places we’d like to visit.

What I miss most about her being there and me being here is the touching. That touching to be sure, but all touching. The holding of hands, rubbing of backs, the sweet simple caresses of women in love—yes, I miss this most.

Well, that and the eggs. She does make a killer omelet.

The making of plans has begun in earnest as it’s starting to feel more real now. Only a bit more than 60 days, nearly close enough to taste it—oh the sweetness of it all. I miss you baby, I’ll be there soon. Be prepared to be touched, much.

'cause I would give sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey

Your perfect kiss thrills me so

Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey

I'll never ever let you go

The Earth Moves

Whew! Some final touches remain but the heavy lifting is done.

I’m sure you’ve noticed there have been some changes around here. I’m not sure why but then again, why not? I did like it the way it was but I was tooling around and before I knew it I was adding this, deleting that, previewing this and eschewing that. And voila…make-over.

I had a similar kind of oh, what the heck kind of sensation with my office space. I moved my desk 2 or three times in the last 4 or 5 weeks or so, raising all kinds of comments, some eyebrows and in the case of at one co-worker, eyeballs. To a man, every single one offered an opinion as to how much roomier the new configuration made the space appear. It does finally feel right, at least for now.

What on earth has gotten into me? Is it the season? I don’t think that’s it, not all of it anyway. Tweaking the template, re-ordering the office space are but small replies to larger questions. My personal living space, for instance is in need of some minor and major make-over moves. One thing or another is keeping much of that from being accomplished right now.

But there is more. Moving desks, re-working templates and even when I get around to purging, scrubbing, sanding and painting—that won’t solve everything that seems to be swirling. There is more. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Is it simple restlessness or……?

It’s still October, isn’t it?