The Week Has Ended, Almost

I'm not looking forward to the commute home today. The bus ride, barely tolerable on the best of days, degrades 400% on Halloween. I was hoping to bribe convince my daughter with a dinner in one of the many eateries in the work neighborhood if she'd drive down after her own work and then we'd ride home together. She wasn't exactly snapping up my suggestion. She served up a counter that included going to see Saw V , me still taking public transpo home, footing the bill for dinner and a movie.

I don't think so. Last I heard, the weather is supposed to be pleasant, maybe I'll take the train home. That will mean walking several extra blocks on both ends, but that's ok as I've been kinda lazy tired this week, the walking will do me good.

Saturday = Martinis. Yum.

Tone

Please advise asap! Thank you!

The email from a representative of the collection agency we use to help with some delinquent balances arrived yesterday with the ending you see above. It rubbed me the wrong way. I felt like I was being yelled at or at the very least that the agent was being snappish with me I didn't like that, not one bit.

We don't know one another and I felt that she was presuming I wouldn't take her request seriously or worse, would ignore the message altogether. My perceptions could have been off, I acknowledge as much in the email I sent back. I allowed as to how punching up her sentences and requests with exclamation points could just be her writing style with no (negative) connotation or intent on her part whatsoever.

The agent writes back (sans exclamations) thanking me for the information and for expressing my thoughts. She further writes, "I am a happy person and like to use the ! to express that although not always used properly. Thank you for advising me of that no telling how many other people feel that way."

It's pretty easy to mis-read or mis-interpret tone in emails. You don't have body language or vocal inflection to guide you. All you have are the words of the text and the images and punctuation the author chooses to add at their discretion. If the author is known to you pin-pointing their tone might be easier, but it is in no way a snap. I've stepped in some mis-read, mis-interpreted doo doo and will probably have to wipe my shoes a time or two or more in the future.

With business emails I usually just let these things go to my "oh well" bin and leave it at that. Yesterday was not an "oh well" day. I had to say something to the agent and in so doing I learned that she's a happy person. Good to know.

So It Begins...Again

When can I see you again

When can my heart beat again, baby

When can I see you again

And when can I breathe once again

And when can I see, babe, again

Wanna see you again

Again...*

The wait until the next time. At present that is tentatively February. Could be a small, short trip before then, but then again . . .

The trips are hard. The travel part is becoming easier and in some ways, sad yet routine. This trip down there was the usual: constantly chattering toddlers (& mother, aunt and grandma heading to Tennessee for a family wedding), someone who couldn't quite grasp the concept of the overhead bin door, a chronic (fill: cough, sneeze, wheeze, whine) and a cowboy hat wearer. The return travel featured the oh so routine sit-on-the-runway-30 minute-weather-related delay, the must make 400 phone calls before cellphones must be turned off person, sarcastic flight attendant, the "oh, is this row 7 I thought this was 6" person and the frantic fleeing of patrons trying to make connecting flights. Routine.

Though ecstatic at the thought and overjoyed at the actual experience of seeing, touching and being the the company of Neta I am always sad when our time comes to an end. We are always sad. This time and each time, even more so. This time after I returned we had...words. Many, many words later we are coupled in a different way and though not much closer to shrinking the physical distance, emotionally we couldn't be closer.

Long distance relationships are hard, everybody has told me so. 'Tis true. In general, though relationship are tough, especially in the beginnings and even more especially when you have the extra added pressures of all the coming and going.

Relationships go through phases. The transitions through said phases can be bumpy. Neta and I are able to talk and more importantly, listen to one another. It remains to be seen if, or rather when when we will be able to break through the barriers rooting us to our respective turfs. But at the end of the day we have a deep and abiding love and respect for one another. She is quite simply, my heart and I will move heaven and earth to be with her, always.

*When Will I See You Again Kenneth "Babyface" Edmonds

Buggin' Out

You know what bugs me? Well today most every little thing but on the top of that list is the head guy’s penchant for walking the distance (his office is two doors down) to my doorway to tell me he’s forwarded me an email. In addition to telling me that, he goes on to tell me what to do about the email (note: these emails are almost always from a vendor reporting that our order can’t be shipped because the account is delinquent and wanting to know when payment will be sent).

“….check it out, email {them} and copy me.” 9 of 10 times the payment had already been processed.

1. S O P
2. I’ve been doing this type of work for nearly 15 years*
3. S O P



2nd day back, I really should have taken the rest of the week off. I wish I could have. In honor of the head guy, ::heavy sigh::

*he’s been my boss for 9 of those years. He knows (or should) how I operate. Sheesh.

Up, Up Away

And soon I'll be there with her! YUM! and YaY! and Happy, happy, joy, JOY!

Though I'd rather circumstances were different, traveling to TN gets easier and easier. I always used the same airline, the gates are usually the same (or very close), I generally even have the same kind of plane and my seat assignments (though totally random) have been eerily similar.

I wore this shirt last summer when I visited. On the Tennessee end some guy yelled out, "so, who is he?" I wish I'd said, "I'm sure you wouldn't know her." But I didn't, I just smiled and kept walking toward her because I knew she was there, waiting.

When I visited in the spring I missed my flight. Ayup, missed it. As excited, ready and anxious as I was to go, I was late. I was crushed. Oh sure I got on another flight 3-4 hours later, but still...

I will not miss my flight tomorrow. And to be clear, Neta is in TN and she loves me and I love her right back.

Soon, ah...very soon, I'll be there and we can love face-to-face, eye-to-eye, heart-to-heart.

YaY! and Yum!

Be Still My Heart

. . . well, not still. If it were still then I'd be, well, you know.

What I mean is slow down to, you know, normal. It's been racing you see. As has my mind. Racing with thoughts of being down there. By there, I mean in TN. Not just anywhere in Tennessee, but her part of Tennessee.

She'll be there at Nashville's airport, waiting in baggage claim, standing as usual, at the bottom of the escalator looking up to me with those eyes. The heart and mind will begin to slow and settle immediately upon sight of her. Of that, I am sure.

However, I could use some interim salve, for getting through this day and the next will be hard enough without the vroooooms booming the heart.

These Eyes

...are calling out to me.

Who Needs It?

We have to what amounts to 3 or 4 dates (albeit somewhat extended) a year. These buggers better be gone by Friday, or I'll... I'll... Well, I don't know what, but they just better vanish!

The Look of Love

The look of love is in your eyes

a look your smile can't disguise

the look of love

is saying so much more than these words could ever say

and what my heart has heard, well it takes my breath away

I can hardly wait to hold you, feel my arms around you

how long I have waited

waited just to love you, now that I have found you

don't ever go

You've got the

Look of love, it's on your face

a look that time can't erase

be mine tonight

let this be just the start of so many nights like this

let's take a lover's vow and then seal it with a kiss

I can hardly wait to hold you, feel my arms around you
how long I have waited
waited just to love you, now that I have found you
don't ever go
don't ever go
I love you so…

Upon seeing my frame (with photo installed) mom's only comments were, "Who is Herman Hesse? and That's a nice frame." I related what I knew of Herman Hesse which, to be frank, was a lot less than I now know. I thanked her for her compliment and thus ended that conversation.

Months later she spied some of the shots from Neta's visit this summer, framed and prominently very lived in living room. Mom didn't have much beyond, "those are nice pictures" to say.

. . . and I've totally lost where this post was meant to go, but I do know how it was meant to end:

Neta is prominent on my walls, my mind and my heart. I love the look of her eyes. I love even more what I see beyond them. When I see her I see the miracle that is life, I see hope, I see togetherness and I see joy.

Joy to my girl lady.

The Look of Love penned by B. Bacharach / H. David and performed by nearly everybody.

Miss October

That smile, it flashes and the room, seriously, lights up. Electric, that smile is purely electric. My former slugger is also fiercely loyal, sensitive, compassionate, funny and strong. Stronger than she realizes sometimes. She is incredibly sentimental and saves e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. Seriously.

Miss October, lover of big ball sports, animals, high heels, make-up, skulls and crossbones, Nikes, shoes, earrings, necklaces, bracelets, reality tv, entertainment gossip, cars, trucks, sweet and colorful cocktails, shoes, cooking, creating in th kitchen, horror films, video games, purses, rock and roll, hip-hop, old school, shoes, clothes, clothes and more clothes, family, friends, Diamond, Buttah and even Pete celebrates her 23rd birthday today.

Cheers to the girl woman who calls me mom and thereby making my smile as bright as her own.

Happy, happy, joy, joy.

Her Name

A friend asked Ellen DeG to give me a wake-up call. She did and I was tickled pink. Thanks friend.

I, in turn, asked Ellen DeG to call Neta (and a couple of others). Ellen DeG had a problem with my request for a call to Neta. "I'm sorry, I cannot say that name." I was given the option to have the call made without a name (boooo) or choose another name. Well, Neta has a middle name so I tried that. Nope. "I'm sorry, I cannot say that name." Well, fudge.

I went back to Neta, spelling it the way it sounds: n-e-e-t-a-h. No go.

I tried n-e-a-t-a. "Sorry, I..."

I thought about trying any one (or all--until accepted) of our endearments for one another. Then I thought, screw it and just went with the message without a name.

Well, double fudge.

I'm inclined to think it was just a glitch. Neta isn't a rare name nor particularly hard to pronounce. Oh sure, some folks might say Net-ta instead of Nee-ta, that would have been acceptable. But unable to say any variation at all? Odd.

Then again, my mom has a difficult time with Neta's name too.

Mom: How is...uhm, your friend, in Tennessee, what's her name?

Me: Nee-ta.

Mom: Oh, I thought it was Net-ta.

Me: No, it's Nee-ta and she's fine. (aside: yum).

Mom: Oh, I thought...well, you know your father's wife is.. Me: Yes, I know, but her name has two Ts, it's Net-tie.

Then, of course, we get on to a conversation about 'dear old dad' which is where I sign off.

Do It

We are approaching the 2nd annual Feel Your Boobies (TM) week. I understand that October has been designated Feel Your Boobies (TM) month. So go ahead, feel free to feel your boobies. And if you haven't already, make time for a visit to the mammomat.

I visited a mammomat week ago Thursday. While I found the mammomat cold and impersonal, the technician was warm and personable. The very vocal technician wanted me to know those were her hands touching me there. She was very good as we only needed one go-round. The entire visit (including registration) was accomplished in under 30 minutes.

Most excellent. Ta ta to mammomat. See you next October. In the meantime, feeling those boobies.

Mermaid, Roosters and Jesus

Minus the dad, one liners and sassy, sexy neighbor, we could have been Good Times. In fact, part of the exterior shots for the opening credits were of our housing project. My painted on smile aside, the times there were as bleak as the concrete floors and as stifling as the cinder block walls.


Though hope was hard to come by, hard to hold, it did exist.


It, the dissolution and destruction of little family unit went into hyper-drive during our 'projects' stint. Not very close when we moved into the projects, (mostly the usual sibling stuff) our time there drove a wedge into us that continues to mar our interactions (what few we share) to some degree. We were, remain, as disparate as the plaster mermaid, wooden roosters plaque and Jesus portrait you see there behind our respective heads.

My brothers both joined gangs, albeit different ones and very little was good from that day until I moved out of the the family shelter some six years later, having endured all the verbal, physical and emotional trauma perpetrated by my brothers and their various crews I could take. I was the "good one" trying with all my might to be all that they weren't and to make that be enough, more than enough. Accepting that my mother couldn't protect me and I couldn't save her, eventually had no choice but to leave them all to their own devices during Spring 1978.

I look back on those times and I recall going with mom to police stations to claim one or the other brother, the many fights, running from the bangers, crying myself to sleep or losing myself in tv programs, books and music. I recall any number of horrors that I experienced first hand, more that I witnessed and even more than I heard about.

Thankfully, remembering what good there was embedded with the bad comes easier as time goes on. My academic achievements, the piano my mother scrimped and saved to rent for me, my joy in playing it despite the teasing I took, the few celebratory moments we shared as a unit, the easy like Sunday morning times we had, like caring for the puppy little brother rescued from a gang banger who thought she too puny to live are but of a few pockets of memories it is a pleasure to recall.

My older brother turned fifty a few weeks ago, the card I sent him went un-answered. But that's ok as that is what I expected. I hope it made him smile. I hope it drove him to recall a pinch of whatever goodness we shared. I hope that one day we three can put that past and that which has transpired since behind us. Hope, it still exists.

Sofia the Beagle

Seriously?

Post Season

When the kids were kids we rooted for the White Sox. D was a softball player, a rather large (as compared to the other girls her age) player with a big swing. She was dubbed "lil Frank" by her teammates. Unlike Frank though, D wasn't just a big bat, she could field the ball. She was awesome at first base, if I do say so myself. But alas, softball gave way to soccer and volleyball.

As a kid I rooted for the Cubs. When I played ball with the other kids my player name was "Billy Williams" primarily because I batted from the left side. I also threw left-handed but was otherwise rigged to pursue the right-hand mind-set.

As adults we (D and me) kinda, sorta root for both teams. We are not big baseball fans but we are fans of the home town teams. M is not much of a fan either. But since he lives on the north side, a couple of miles from the "friendly confines", he has to at least pretend to bleed Cubby blue, especially on game days. He says the atmosphere is insane on game days, Win days.

Both home town teams have made it to the post season. I'm rooting for both for what it's worth, though truth be told I don't want to be anywhere near the city if by some chance they both make it to the World Series. Oh Me. Oh My. I think though, if they both do make it to the big show, Chicago is a shoo in for winning the 2016 Summer Olympic bid.

Big news, yes, but our eyes are also trained on the Fire and we are looking forward to the inaugural season of Women's Pro Soccer ( re-vamped form of the defunct WUSA) next year.

Chicago, it seems is building a pretty impressive team.

The LA Sparks are not playing for the championship and in that case, Go Silver Stars!

Another Cat Tai..Tale

Buttah. deciding that Pete's ears needed attention, tending them with loving care.

The daughter hasn't given up the idea of dressing the cat. However, now she has her own cat to embarrass dress. Someone donated a bag of pet costumes for a variety seasons and occasions to the shelter. Daughter snagged a few items for possible consideration.

So far, only the rubber band ball will wear the pilgrim hat. I'll keep you posted.

Woman's Work

For September's Wordsmith's Challenge: Woman's Work

The drink order was delivered without benefit of eye contact from the morose waitress. The absence of that little bit of familiarity and camaraderie would normally upset this customer. Not today, today is not a normal day. The customer, Dusty, was in a funky mood and the plan was to drink her way to a more agreeable mood, fast.

Dusty Lickliter’s funky mood was caused by her termination. She was fired from the job she loved as the number one taste tester for the Kook-ee Candies and Confections Company. For three years Dusty poured her heart and soul into this job. She never missed a day and she applied for extra hours whenever she could.

Proposed all-day-sucker flavors always warranted extra hours.

There would be no more extra hours though. Dusty was fired. No reason to get up in the morning. Gone was the sniffing and licking ritual that defined tasting. Gone was Lickliter’s joy except for that which she hoped would be found at the bottom of this drink. Well, truth be told, many drinks.

Deep into drink number four, Dusty began to accept that her termination was justified. She recalled the day the Pink Pulse samples were delivered to her cubicle.

Pink Pulse, a new hard candy flavor sensation, was slated for a vigorous round of tasting. Dusty gave it all she had. She sniffed and licked the Pink for five days before finally awarding the flavor four tongues up, the highest praise a hard candy could achieve. Pink Pulse went into production almost immediately, based exclusively on Dusty Lickliter’s trusty tasting skills.

The Pink bombed.

Kook-ee Candiies and Confections lost millions. While the business survived the fall-out, Dusty was not so lucky. She was out, a taster without a purpose. Her tongue was once considered the best little licker in town. That’s all kaput now.

Though content to drown her sorrows in as many of the tasty concoctions the morose but pretty waitress of the garishly decorated restaurant / bar could bring her, Dusty was pleased to have been able to walk home under her own steam.

Checking her receipts several days later, Dusty saw that the delectable concoction she’d been drinking that night was called Pretty in Pink.

If there were such a concept of ‘lucky color’, Dusty Lickliter has decided that the color pink is certainly out of the running as her charm.

Knock On Wood

You’ve had one of those days, I’m sure. You wake to a shining sun. You’re hair is working with you instead of against. You don’t burn your breakfast and the pets manage the morning without too much fuss. Your mind is as clear as your goals for the day. Your very workable things-to-do list will rule the day. You are feeling good, so good you are literally humming on your way to work.

The first hour is good. Your commute is un-eventful, you don’t spill your tea and you’re not nearly killed by a crazed motorist.

Into the second hour is when it starts. Barely half-way through your list, Justin appears in your doorway. Somehow he has managed to erase the system administrator password for the antiquated phone system. Helping him reset and restore kills too many minutes and much momentum. Yet, the rest of your list looms.

You take a break, get some air and eat an apple. After your burps, you get back on the case.

No sooner do you get humping on the rest of the list items, the phone rings. It is your mother. The topic—doesn’t matter, the conversation rips into the next several minutes the way the kids in the neighborhood rip into flamin’ hot chee-tohs.

Then a flurry of minor, mind numbing disturbances swirl around like dumpster flies.

Your last ditch effort to salvage any remnant of focus is thwarted by the ache creeping up your back and deciding to nestle itself at the base of your skull. Thankfully it is close enough to 5 to call it a day.

You head home, done in before you could finish the list which now adds to the challenge for the next day.

However, you’re met at the door by the smiling eyes of one curly haired pup, a sauntering orange tabby and a wary grey one. They all are happy to see you, but they want to eat so they’re happier to see food. You walk the pup, take care of some essentials and prepare your own dinner.

You share a meal of turkey tacos with your daughter who relates the best and worst of her own hopeful day. You talk (by phone) with girlfriend and then your son and then your girlfriend again. They both make you laugh and you feel relaxation taking over where tautness once reigned.

The night ends with you and girlfriend exchanging, 'I love you', giving one another a virtual kiss and you dreaming of her sparkling eyes.

You wake the next morning (much too early) but you know the sun will be up soon. You prepare breakfast for you and the pets. You move onward to the rest of your day. Another shot to crack that augmented list and then some. If you succeed fantastic and if you don’t, well, knock on wood there is another day.

You understand your days can turn on a dime, your well-laid plans melt like ice cream in the summer heat, leaving residue all over your hands (unless you had a napkin). You never seem to have a napkin when you need one. But there is soap and water, all is well.

The day will go the way it goes and then you’re home. You talk with son, daughter and girlfriend. You go to sleep dreaming of sparkling eyes knowing that each day that passes, brings you closer to days without work and with those eyes (and the rest of her).

Knock on wood.

Cel-e-bra-tion

D-dog, Diamond, the diva is seven years old today. Since coming to us a year ago (next week) she has revealed a feisty, sweet, fierce, perpetually hungry, loving, happy, hefty bundle of curly grey fur.

The plans for the day, I think, were to eat, sleep, punk the cats, sleep, lick her paws, punk the cats, sleep, beg for daughter's cheeseburgers (or whatever she decided to have for lunch), sleep, walk, piss, poop, sleep, drink some water, punk the cats, roll over many times for belly rubs and for good measure, punk the cats. She lived in one household prior to being surrendered to the shelter. Daughter scooped her up before anyone else, even before she was deemed "adoptable." She sure knows how to pick 'em. Happy 7th Diamond girl.

As an aside, Syd talked about meat, more specifically BBQ which of course, made me want some, bad. I entertained thoughts of tossing the cottage cheese that was lunch out the window, but decided just to save it for another day. I did go out for BBQ (flavor anyway). I don't go just anywhere for BBQ and there isn't anyplace around work that comes close to being acceptable. There is a fairly new place that I thought might work for flavorful sauciness. I tested them with a grilled chicken sandwich a couple of weeks ago. It wasn't bad, but they could do better by the chicken by upgrading the bun. Wimpy buns bum me out.

Well, I decided today (since Syd was all over meat BBQ) to try their BBQ chicken breast sandwich. Now, the wimpy bun I expected and was willing to give a pass, but the limp lettuce? Ewww

Worse than the wimpy bun and limpy lettuce was the crap-tastic shit swill they were passing off as BBQ sauce. I don't say (or rather write) this often but...WTF? Seriously. I needed 2 cups of water to wash that muck out of my mouth.

I'm going to go brush my teeth now.

Happy, happy, joy, joy to daughter's dog.

Bits on a Thursday

Mom has called every day this week asking about my labs. I had blood drawn on Saturday morning for the routine screenings connected to my routine annual physical. No, I don’t have the results (as of yesterday). “You are very patient”, says she. These weren’t urgent, it is routine. Anxious is her middle name.

I was nearly run over yesterday. Shhhh, don’t tell Neta (or my mom or my daughter). I had a rant all booted up to talk about the dipshit who blew a red light and nearly turned off my lights. I’ve calmed down some, mostly because this kind of thing happens much too frequently. Such are the hazards of walking and pedaling among thousands of motorized vehicles, handled by moronic, inconsiderate speed demons.

Holly sheets!!

A friend of my daughter’s had to swim away from his car on Monday. He was driving down River Rd. when suddenly it became…a river. A mis-calculation had him stranded in the middle of a flooded intersection. Daughter drove out to rescue him, bummed by the fact that Micky D’s was closed. Of course it was…there is a river of water where the sidewalks used to be. He was able to salvage his tools and textbooks (studying to be an auto mechanic) and his teacher says car may not necessarily be toast.

It is harder to be a daughter than a mother. That may not be universal, could just be in my universe. Not, mind you, that mothering son and daughter didn’t have challenges along the way (or still) it’s just that I felt surer of my own steps in those regards.

I got word that dad (& wife) evacuated for Gustav by heading to Georgia. For all I know they may still be there. dad James celebrated his 70th birthday at the beginning of this month. I have no idea what form that celebration took. I wasn’t in that loop.

I broke down and gave a cousin my email address, hoping that maybe we could “re-connect” in some meaningful way. I thought that she, being 5 or so years my senior might be able to offer some insight from the over 50 point of view. A few of her messages so far:
FWD: Guurl I just got my nails did FWD: Men! ! FWD: Prom day in the ‘hood

Sometimes I feel like I sprang from a pod. I am one of them, but I’m not.

Neta’s newest nickname for me is “Detail Deb” as my tales tend to go a little long. Heh!

My wasband took to calling me “chocolate” for a time. Yours truly didn't feel endeared by the term.