A Walk With Florence

Florence eased out onto the landing that led to the path. The path would eventually lead her to her most favorite area of the property. The early morning treks down the path grew more physically difficult every day, but emotionally Florence felt compelled to make the effort. Though somewhat arduous, the daily journey had become necessary.

The power of earth scents threatened to overcome Florence's senses. The early morning chill had Florence pulling her wrap a little bit tighter about her shoulders, but she was not daunted. She would not be denied this ritual. Taking one last look around the once pristine, now over-grown garden, she set off tentatively but resolutely down the well-worn path.

Though Florence’s memory fails her often these days. However, she never fails to re-call the slight slip, the near fall of some weeks ago. That recollection trains her to take it slower and easier especially as she approaches the curve a bit further down the path.

It will take Florence the better part of an hour to reach her destination. But, in her mind and in her heart it is a trip well worth taking. The kids, all grown up with kids of their own, don't come around much anymore. That thought and the ache that travels with it nestles in the pit of Florence's stomach. The daily destination will soothe that ache, erase those thoughts.

Slowly and as surely as she could possibly step, drawing nearer to her destination, the pulse quickened and the breath labored by the exertion, begins to slow and calm and that familiar sense of tranquility begins to take shape. The path ends suddenly with a slight step-off, opening to a clearing, awash with light and at this time, warmth from the sun high above.

In the middle of a clearing stands a fountain, dry and crumbly. Next to the fountain, a bench, just as decrepit. However, for Florence, the sight and the joyous times that traveled with it nestles in the caverns of her heart joining the sun to provide heat and warmth. Florence removes her wrap, places it squarely and gently upon the bench. She takes her seat and spends the rest of her days gazing at the water-less fountain.

*for the weekend wordsmiths exercise.

Early Morning Thought

My younger brother's daughter graduates from elementary school in a few days. it will be yet another momentous occasion in her young life that he'll miss. I can't help but to think of our own father and all the events he missed. The only difference is, my brother committed crimes for which he was convicted that took him away from his children's lives. Our father segregation from our lives were not the result of criminal activity, but a crime none-the-less, I'd come to decide.

I've ruminated mightily over what to do, if anything, about my relationship with dad. One month I'm over being sad about his silence and another, I'm not. I am sometimes angry, sometimes resigned to the relationship that is ours, which is no relationship at all. I wonder if I have yet another push in me. I wonder if it will hurt as much if I write him again and doesn't write me back. I wonder if I can believe he loves me, when he won't even talk with me. I wonder if I can stop thinking it is indeed about me. I wonder if I can see his side. I wonder what is his side.

I wonder if it matters.

My younger brother's scheduled release date is yet another year away. By which time, his daughter (and son) will have celebrated some other momentous events. Hopefully, my younger brother will be able to find a way to invest himself in the lives of his children. Hopefully, his daughter (and/or son) aren't years from now wondering, what? how?

Does it matter?

My Life At Present

At work I’m reviewing candidates for a new part-time position. The opportunity is available due to a new venture the owner is moving to Chicago, in the office building we occupy. Part of this person’s duties will be to assist me, and that is just about the extent of my knowledge of the whole shebang. The next few weeks should be interesting.

At home I wondering what possessed Danielle to snip Diamond’s facial hair soooo close. I loved the lop-sided bearded look. It gave her so much character. Thankfully, her hair grows very fast.

Also at home, I’m whooping for joy that Michael got a part he’d wanted. Details (more than you ever thought possible, likely) on that to come over time and as the performance time draws near. Michael told me that his co-workers (all women—he works at a children’s hospital) want to go to the performance on the night I’m there (or at least one of the night’s I’m there) as they are so very anxious to meet me. Makes me wonder what it is he talks about at the water cooler.

Further at home, ‘the boys’ are still lovey-dovey all over one another. Diamond isn’t crazy about her diet and I suspect really hates the new ‘do. Danielle is conflicted re: guys. Not, guys over ‘dolls’ but over two guys. ::sigh::

And finally, I may have mentioned that I joined a walking group. If not, then…I joined a walking group some weeks back. I didn’t walk with them for a few weeks after joining as it was cold, icy, rainy, snowy, and so on. Once the weather starting being more agreeable, I –rsvp’d- and attended more sessions. Seventeen walks in the last 8 or so weeks. The walks are approximately three miles at a pace that is well, let’s just say beyond my normal pace. The first few walks were quite the challenge. Recently and with each outing become less so. I have to bike a bit over a mile to meet-up with the walkers so, I have chosen to avoid going during high winds or rain. I don’t know yet, how I’ll manage when I can no longer bike. I’ve already tried to walk to the meet-up spot, participate in the walk, and then walk home. Two things: first, damn my ankles hurt by the time I got home and second, damn my ankles hurt by the time I got home. I hope to participate in no fewer than two walks a week. When I don’t walk, I’ll ride, except in the event of high winds and / or rain. I haven’t decided what I’ll do as winter approaches and I won’t be able to ride to the walks. Perhaps by then, I’ll be fit enough for the 5 miles (give or take) round-trip without my ankles hurting (too much).

And finally, finally (for real this time) Thanks to all for your concern, I’m, as Dave would say, when asked, ‘howya doin’?’ “living”.

Innocent Question

We are co-workers and enjoy a casual camaraderie. We trade tips on food and exercise, and barber stories. He is several years my senior and tends to act fatherly toward me, or at least very big brotherly…but at a distance. We don’t know each other beyond the carefully drawn lines. We don’t share the intimate details of our lives.

He couldn’t have known the impact his innocent question would have on me. The seven words with the lilt at the end sent me reeling, right into a tailspin.

Are you going south on your vacation?

He was in my office notifying me of his planned days off in July. He’s going home to Arkansas, to see his mom and other family. He knows about my trips south over the past couple of years. He was being kind, he had no way of knowing, because we hadn’t discussed that detail and likely we won’t. We don’t have that kind of relationship.

The days since those seven words have passed rather unspectacularly. I’ve gotten up, gone to work, on walks and rides, back to bed only to start all over again, trying not to think but not having much luck. The spinning, however, is beginning to slow. Soon enough I’ll be back where I was, and at some point, I’ll be beyond.

I suppose. I told co-worker my vacation is not yet planned.

Wet

My feet are wet. I get crabby when my feet are wet.

I normally have a spare pair in my desk drawer.

I also have spare shoes, and now and again a spare shirt and spare pants. But, usually it’s (just) socks and most definitely shoes, for I can’t stand for my feet to be wet.

But, my feet are wet now. And I’m crabby, because I get crabby when my feet are wet.

Upon arriving to work with the wet feet, I realized I’d forgotten to replace the last spare pair.

I get crabby when I forget.

I suppose I could take off my wet shoes and my wet socks, put on my dry shoes until the wet ones dry.

But I can’t. I can’t stand wearing shoes without socks.

I get crabby without socks.

Though, not quite as crabby as when I have socks and they are wet.

So maybe I can stand sock-less shoes on my towel dried feet.

Maybe I'll just have lunch.

Full

Updated: SEVEN Blogging Women.

You like my earring(s)? It's ok if you don't, mom didn't. I think her exact words were, "those are some ugly ass earrings." I hadn't asked her opinion, I rarely do, as she and I rarely see eye-to-eye about anything. Earrings being the least of our areas of differences.

I'm not nuts about the earrings, as I'm not a dangling earring kinda girl, but the purchase benefited a charity (mental illness) and they go with my new blue tee.

A fellow walker (from the walking group I joined) noted that they looked like the AT & T logo. Perhaps that's why mom had such a visceral reaction. She and AT & T are not the best of buds.

Ugly earrings aside, the late lunch/early dinner at a place new to me that Danielle and I certainly will visit again (the gift cards they gave away will help), was very pleasant. The food was great and I ate a bit too much, eventhough some of my bourbon salmon managed to get snagged.

That was Sunday.

Prior to this weekend I'd been lucky enough to meet four fellow blogging women. Now, I can say that I've met five, well six if you count M, which I do. We met, talked, drank, ate, and were having such a good time, the time seemed to fly by. The food was as good as the company and I ate (and drank) a bit too much.

That was Saturday.

My scale told the tale on Monday morning, but in my view well worth the two pound gain.

Still, there is the quest. Back to the regime. Walking, riding, and lifting more. Eating (less).

Morning Train Bus

I always get a seat as I get on at the very beginning of the route and there aren’t that many people yet. It’s usually me and 2 or 3 other women, now and again a few students from one (or more) of the several high schools along the route.

The regular riders usually have a regular routine, a regular seat. I like to sit in the bench-style seats, with my back to the window, facing the aisle, across from the rear door. Once settled in, I pull out my book, adjust the volume on the music player and hope today’s ride is adventure-free, or at least adventure-less.

Somewhere between Cicero and Pulaski, between Prince’s Peach and Anna Nalick’s Wreck of the Day, just as I’m reading about Faye finding a dead man in the tub, I hear…a distinct, insistent noise. I realize the noise is someone talking, no…not talking, calling. Miss MISS I then realize the miss is being directed at me.

Oh. Now. What?

I take my mind and eyes away from Faye’s exploits, look in the direction of Mr. Insistent, the question written on my face, “what?” He answers with his own question, “Are You Rose?” Oh, for the love of Susan! I shake, no. Again he asks, “Are YOU Rose?” Harder shake, NO. He persists, “do you know Rose?” While shaking my head no, I reach for the volume, trying to return my attention to Faye and her dead body find, and trying not to guess as to how the db fits into the case she’s investigating.

Though I couldn’t quite hear what Mr. Insistent was saying through-out the rest of his ride, I could hear him speaking. The collective sigh of relief upon his exit told me that the other passengers had been less than thrilled with his . . . contributions.

I hope he found his Rose, whoever, wherever she might be.

Speaking of Food

Do you suffer from order envy?

You and a companion are sitting in a restaurant, the wait staff delivers the waters (no ice for me please) and the menus. You sip from the glass of water, spread a little chit, sprinkled with a little chat whilst checking out the menu selections. If you’re anything like me, you have a general idea of what you’ll be having before digging into the variety, you’re simply narrowing down to, “the one.”

Selections made, menus taken away, a few more sips and a little more chatter and before you know it, the food is arriving.

Once the plates are settled, all requests for condiments, extra napkins and what have you honored, you begin the process of digging in when you notice you’re not the only one who takes note of the delicious look of your selection.

Your companion is salivating over your dish “oooh that looks goooood”, they swoon.
And then, your companion asks, “may I have a little piece?”

Your companion suffers from order envy.

I had brunch with Michael on Sunday and we talked about (among other things) the various order envious folks we’ve dined with recently. I discovered, or rather re-discovered just how much he and I have in common.

Chicken, Chilled

Thanks to the quest, my goal to maintain blood pressure readings in the normal range, and economics, I’m not nearly as seduced by fast food establishments as I’d been once upon a time.

Particularly, those of a chicken variety.

I love chicken. Fried, baked, broiled, boiled, grilled, shredded for tacos and tostadas, sliced and dropped over salad greens. Chicken is my signature meal. That is, when beef isn’t in play for one reason or another.

I’ve run the gamut of fast food chicken available in my area, El Pollo Loco, Popeye's, KFC, Church's, Brown's and others, I’ve had them and then some. El Pollo Loco edged ahead of Popeye’s as my favorite. But, as I said, I don't indulge very often anymore.

However, I was still intrigued by KFC's new grilled offering. In spite of swearing off KFC due to bad experiences, I decided to give the new grilled chicken a try. Though, not before I read some reviews, talk to some folks who'd tried it, trying gauge if it was even worth the trouble I was sure I'd be in for inside any one of the 3 or 4 locations near my home and office.

The positive feedback convinced me to give it a whirl.

The menu touts a 2-piece meal combo for $4.99 (which includes a beverage). I order 2 (one each: white and dark).

Clerk: Sides?
Me: Mashed Potatoes / Coleslaw for one…
Clerk: We don’t have coleslaw
Me: Ok, corn-on-the-cob
Clerk: We don’t have corn-on-the-cob. What do you want for the other dinner?
Me: We haven’t resolved the 1st dinner yet. You don’t have 2 of the (6) available sides. Sounds like I don’t have much choice. What DO you have?****

****this kind of thing happens every time I break down and go into a KFC, which has me swearing them off, forever. . . until the next time.

I settled on mashed potatoes / green beans for one and macaroni/cheese and green beans for the other. I tell the clerk, it doesn't matter which (Danielle and I were going to mix/match anyway).

The preparer had combined the mac/cheese with the potatoes on one dinner, but switched it out before bagging it up.

When I got home, I discovered they’d given me two white meat dinners, no dark. Not a big deal, Danielle would have eaten either, I'd only ordered one of each so we could trade and compare.

The chicken didn't taste bad, but I wasn't super impressed either. It certainly wasn't a knock-out and it didn't knock El Pollo Loco out of my personal top spot. The chicken might have fared better, had the experience not left such a bad taste.

So, once again, done with KFC. And since they are the closest of the establishments listed to either work or home, my quest, blood pressure, and wallet thanks you, Colonel's peeps.

Into Each Life

There have been two deaths in my family of relatives in past six months. Both were cousins the first, male and the most recent, female. Both of these cousins were older (by at least 15 years) as my mother has siblings who are nearly 20 her senior.

Both were cremated. Both families had (in the case of the latter, will be having) memorial services for the paying of last respects. I didn’t know either cousin very well, the male was very distant and hadn’t come to many family functions and the female lived out of state during much of my life, and didn’t attend may family gatherings either.

My Uncle Daniel, mom’s oldest brother who lost is oldest of two sons, Ronald to an aggressive cancer is fighting his own host of debilitating ailments.

My Aunt Betty, mom’s oldest sister, in fact, the oldest of the bunch, lost her daughter, Delores to a similarly aggressive cancer. My Aunt Betty who gave birth to ten children, has said (is saying) good-bye to three. Even Betty Jean, Aunt Betty's oldest daughter lost her only son last year, who was my youngest brother's age.

And I suppose given that I spent a glorious Sunday afternoon with my son, given that I get to see my daughter every day in happiness (and even sadness as she struggles with certain issues) and given that the past couple of days have been fabulous with regards to the weather, and the forecast calls for the next couple to be similarly wonderful, there are certainly brighter topics on which to touch.

But, I can’t shake this, this . . . sorrow. To say first to my uncle and now my aunt, “I’m so sorry for your loss” seems such an insignificant thing to say, as I cannot fathom the inconsolable, incomprehensible devastation that must be felt when your child, no matter their age, no matter the circumstances, dies. It is not meant to be, they say. Not supposed to happen, that way. Yet, it does. Often enough. And I simply . . .

Can. Not. Fathom.

But, sorry is what I am. “Sorry” is about all I can say.

Feces, Or Something

It has probably been mentioned a time or ten that Danielle works in an animal shelter. For over a year now she's worked exclusively within the clinic portion of the shelter. Usually, her work day stories involve some fantastical surgical thingy she was lucky enough to witness. But every now and again, she has a "dealing with the public" story to share.
A woman brought in her 5 month old ______ (breed escapes me) male to be neutered. The staff noted junk in the pup's rear-end. Danielle drew the short straw to talk to pet parent about examining her pup's anus and surrounding area and removing any feces or any other obstructions she may find. The pet parent trained a "deer in headlights" look at Danielle and queried, "feces"? Yes, Danielle continued to explain about poop not expelling all the way, sometimes getting caught in the hair. She went on to suggest that the woman clean the pup, clear the hair from that area routinely and examine the pup regularly. Explaining how the obstructions were probably making the pup uncomfortable and how a prolonged build-up might prevent the pup from wanting to poop.

Again, with the d. i. t. h. look of the eyes and query on the lips. Now, understand there was a time when Danielle would have (nearly) screamed, "clean the shit out of your dog's ass!" at this woman or any customer / client / pet parent who didn't seem to grasp even the most obvious and routine words and concepts. And she may have this time had it not been for Ellen, a co-worker, who passed on a look of her own that said, "Danielle, be niiiice." And so, Danielle explained to the pet parent a third time about clearing her pup's butt area of feces (and such). And she was nice about it. Until she got home of course, where she let it all hang out.

*No, "The Boys" don't have anything to do with this tale except that Danielle shot these pics when I wasn't around to prove that (her cat) Buttah is always "topping" (my cat) Pete. She promised she rescued Pete shortly after snapping the shots. Pete though, can toss Buttah whenever he wants.

Our Game Day

My son and daughter both played soccer when they were very young. The first experiences were "just for fun" park district skills and games. Later, as their skills and interest level grew, they participated in a still, "everybody plays" league, but one more focused on skill development. Their experiences with the game were my first. I knew nothing of soccer during my youth.

Michael played with the "everybody plays" league until around sixth grade. He wasn't interested in the more competitive league, deciding instead to move toward basketball. Danielle moved to the more competitive league. The traveling "club" played other "clubs" statewide. In addition to playing with the traveling club, she played for her high school, having earned a spot on the varsity squad as a freshman. For a few years her life revolved around soccer. For a few years my life revolved around soccer. I learned the game and along with Danielle grew to love the game. Especially, the women's game.

We get tickets to see the Women's National Team whenever they roll through town. We were bummed when Chicago didn't field a WUSA team. Even more bummed when the WUSA folded it's tent. We were overjoyed at the announcement of creation of the WPS (Women's Professional Soccer) . We were gleeful of the news that Chicago would field a team and that team would play in the nearly brand new soccer specific stadium where the men's MLS play. Whooooopeeee!!!

This year is the inaugural year. Sunday was the inaugural game. We were there. And don't let the pout fool you, though it rained all day, all during the game, she had a blast. In fact,

we had a blast. The Chicago Red Stars and Sky Blue FC played to a 0 - 0 tie in the first WPS game played in Chicago (well, Bridgeview).

And we were so soaked stoked to be part of the experience.

Banking. Friendly. Husband.

A couple of years ago the big bank the company used was swallowed whole by an even bigger bank. It has taken the two years for the institutions to transition from one corporate identity to another. Now, the transition is complete and beyond the name, corporate logo, and color scheme changes, nothing about the banking process has changed.

Much

This new, larger, brighter bank is also friendlier. The employees all say hello. They say it chirpy, like we’re friends or something. This bank even has designated greeters. It’s eerie.

Kinda.

On a recent trip to one of the 4,000 (maybe not that many, but, it is a big bank) local branches, one near my home (instead of near work. I cut out early some Fridays with the premise of going “to the bank”) I’m met by a greeter who turns out to be the manager of this branch. I know because he told me in so many words, “hi, I’m John Williams. I’m the manager. I’ve spoken with your husband many times. It’s nice to meet you.”

Whoa.

1. I don’t have a husband
2. I haven’t had a husband (thank YOU very much!!) for eleven years
3. When I DID have a husband, THAT husband did not ever (ever) have convos w/bankers.

I didn’t correct John Williams as he seemed so pleased with his recognition. I was curious as to how he connected my company’s deposit slip with that of this MR. he has spoken with on so many occasions. But, I didn’t ask. I smiled, nodded and counted the seconds for BMF* Williams to hand over my receipt.

I do find myself wondering how long it will be before this bank is swallowed whole and what changes that might bring to the company's banking experience in general and mine in particular.

BMF (bank manager friendly)

Take This Dream

My dad is a mystery to me. I know his name, can still envision his face (provided he hasn’t changed too much in 15 or so years), and feel like I’d be able to recognize his voice were he to speak to me today. However, I’m at a total loss to relate any of his favorite foods, whether or not he’s into comedies or dramas, or even if he watches movies (or television) at all. I don’t have any inkling as to what even constitutes a typical day for him. I’m not a part of his life, nor he mine.

Imagine my shock and awe to find him, his dog (I don’t even know if he really HAS a dog), and his truck starring in my most recent remembered dream.

The scene opens somewhere in the middle, as usual. I’m on a street in the neighborhood I lived with my brothers and mother when I was about 15. My dad and mom had been separated / divorced for 7 or 8 years by that point. Though he was still in my life, it was sparse and growing more so with each passing day. So, my dream opens with me on this street, in my current adult incarnation. I have Diamond. No one else from my current life is visible.

I’m walking Diamond down this street and we meet my dad and his dog, a greyhound puppy of indeterminate gender. Diamond goes nuts over this dog, she won’t back off from sniffing the dog’s butt, making the younger pup quite nervous, which makes my dad nervous. Yet, he never says a word. The dog sniffing and related dance goes on for some minutes when, inexplicably dad reaches into his pocket and hands me keys and points to a truck, his truck, I surmise.

In the midst of sniffing, dancing, yapping dogs, he motions to the truck, picks up the greyhound, turns tail and breaks into a full out run. A perplexed Diamond barks louder, then whimpers as they disappear from view. She looks up at me and I shrug. I grab her up and head for the truck. It is the truck from my youth. A 1965 or ’66 green GMC pick-up. I’m curious and excited. I get in and crank ‘er up. Vrrrroooooom. I drive around a couple of blocks, turn another corner and plop, find myself smack dab in the middle of a muddy field. Well, shit.

Every effort to extricate the truck from the mud fails miserably. I grow increasingly nervous. I look across the field to see another truck, full of people of indeterminate gender having some sort of party, or something and several start to make their way toward me, Diamond, and the truck.

As they draw nearer, my brain snaps me awake. I look at the clock-radio and realize that the song I thought was playing as part of the dream was not, or was but has leaked over to my conscious life.

Her Cat. My Cat. Our Cats, The Boys

Her cat is newest to the fold. He's also the youngest of the two cats. In fact he's the youngest of the three fur babies. Diamond, D-dog, the Diva is the grande dame (she'd be so even if she weren't seven, going on eight). Her (Danielle's) cat is Buttah. He came to us last August. Since then, he's celebrated a birthday (he's 2) and has become quite the fixture. He never passes an opportunity to be petted, hugged or fed. He and Diamond aren't the best of friends, but they aren't mean about it, they just give each other a certain amount of s-p-a-c-e. My cat was the first fur baby to arrive. Pete too, was a resident of the Animal Care League. He had been surrendered and was only a few months shy of his second birthday when he came to us in August, 2007. It took Pete a little longer to feel "at home" probably because he was the first and for a few weeks, the only, with Diamond arriving some weeks later. Diamond and Pete weren't instant hits, but they warmed to one another soon enough. Pete let Diamond have her way (and her way with him) and she since that's the way she wanted it, golden.

The two of them, Pete and Buttah, or "the boys" are more often than not, in the same place at the same time. Buttah, the heavier of the two, powers Pete aside from a feed bowl, rather than seek out the other bowl. Buttah usually initiates the romps as well as their other interactions, despite Pete being the more aggressive of the two. However, Pete is also more skittish. Pete jumps at nearly every noise, he is particularly dis-trustful of plastic bag rustling and aluminum foil ripping. He likes to be held (for about 30 seconds) and tends to be picky about moist food. He doesn't seem to hold any preferences when it comes to the dry kibble. By contrast, Buttah will eat anything wet, balks at the kibble, but will, if desperate, gobble it up as well. Buttah is not skittish. All hell can be breaking loose and he won't budge, especially if food is in the vicinity.

We love our boys as much as they love one another. Individually they are fantastic. Together they are simply, the best.

Better Late?

I probably should have let this in drift away, especially since I've missed the deadline by a few days. But, for some reason it wouldn't let me go. For March Wordsmiths Unlimited.

M O R N

It is this kind of day, dappled sky, calm wind, and placid water that Lexi has grown to despise. It is this kind of day that finds Lexi fighting to maintain the tenuous grasp on her all-togetherness. When she woke to find the mocking cheeriness, she repelled a strong desire to return to bed, cover her head, and wait out the storm of bright, sort of sunshiny day.

Bring on the dark clouds, rolling winds and waves.

Having no choice but to face this day, Lexi lumbered from her bed with combat boot-like clumsiness. She made her way to the bathroom. Once there, a look in the mirror revealed the horror that was the night before. Gin held the starring spot with tonic playing a bit part. And though the horror that is too many gin and tonics was playing out on her face, Lexi decided that a few more would have minimized the assault of this mocking sky. Frigid water to the face did little to jar the memory from Lexi's mind. The shock of the water did little to silence those chirping...whatever brand of bird she heard chattering away just outside the bathroom window.

Bring on the dark clouds, rolling winds and waves.

Lexi blamed the day, the drink, the dark moodiness on the channel 7 weather girl, rather, woman. The cheerful young woman waxed poetic about perfect boating weather. The moment Lexi heard that forecast yesterday, the rest of the day threatened to spiral woefully out of control. A will of steel kept her from throwing in the towel at work. She was, however, on the verge of biting off the head of every project manager who crossed her path. She was able to contain pressure bulge through the commute home. But once home...heeeerrreeee's Gin and Tonic!

One drink turned into two, two turned into ten. Still, throughout the night, Lexi couldn't erase the audio running in a constant loop "this is not the answer, Lexi" chirped Roxanne's disapproving voice. Each loop brought another sip. Lexi eschewed the audio's message, rationalizing Roxanne's absence justified continuing. "You're not here anymore. I can do what I damn well please", Lexi screamed to the air.

Roxanne left Lexi on a morning much like the one the channel 7 weather woman predicted, much like the one that was in fact, here. The perfect boating weather had done Lexi in. Roxanne and Lexi had planned a boating outing boating weather day. A filled cooler full of soda, drinking water, sandwiches, and salad sat in the foyer for the next two days. After Roxanne’s exit Lexi was unable to move it, or herself, for that matter.

There was no discussion, no re-course just silence and rotting lettuce.

Now, on this day that was so much like that day, there is the aftermath of too much gin and not enough tonic.

Lexi spied her image in the mirror wishing for dark skies, rolling winds and waves for the third time this morning.

Beach Boys

I'm not sure what they are discussing. If I had to take a guess, I'd guess that Pete is trying to negotiate a little alone time. Buttah is probably trying to negotiate Pete out of his share of kibble.

Keys, Mice, and a Possum

I may have mentioned a time or two that I don't dream often. Well, it is probably more accurate to say that I don't remember my dreams often. Point is, more often than not, I sleep. I wake up. Whatever happened in-between is lost, forever.

Tuesday night / Wednesday morning was one of those rare occasions where I dreamt and I remembered.

Open scene:

Mom and I were in a library. I don't know why, my mom and I have not ever been in a library together.

Anyway...we were in a library, a very large library. We were in the children's section so identified by titles and decoration.

We seemed to be on a hunt of some sort, as mom had me going to and fro (while she sat) retrieving various items from various areas of this very large library. I found it odd that we were
1. in a library
2. none of the items being retrieved were books
3. we seemed to be the only people in the library

Whenever I questioned what we were doing she would reply, "it must be done."

Several times I had to go through a door to access a particular area. All the doors were locked and required special keys. Mom held the keys. Whenever I reached a locked door I had to return to get the keys.

Many, many trips and items later, we were done. We were leaving the children's area of the library with a wagon-load of items. (Not clear what the items were.) Mom stopped before we reached the final exit, turned and asked, "where are the keys?"

I'd left the keys...somewhere.

She implored me to go back and get them, insisting that they were too hard to replace, too expensive, too precious...I don't know what all, but back I trudged to retrieve the keys.

Once I reach an area where I thought I'd left them, I see a table I hadn't seen before and a mound of what looked like the bundle of keys. I move closer to the table and the closer I got, the more I see the mound isn't keys, but still not clear what.

I reach the table, upset that the keys are not there, but curious about this mound, which is something covered with a silvery-gray blanket. I make a move to look underneath the blanket.

Possum. Dead I think.

I don't study it too long, distracted by scurrying mice and my blood curdling scream.

3:30 a.m. awake for the duration.

End Scene.

In addition to the dream memory, the other aberration is my sleep pattern. Where before, months ago (and for years) I had trouble getting to sleep. Now, I fall asleep pretty much minutes after hitting the hay, shortly after 10 p.m. most nights. And sleep quite soundly, for about two hours, dream or no dream. I don't (usually) have too much trouble going back to sleep, but then within an hour or so, I'm awake again.

At one time, the cats were impacting my sleep. But that hasn't been the case (though, they do still start the "feed me" banging at 4ish but since they can't get in the room I'm now conditioned to largely ignore all but the most obnoxious of their noises) for a little bit now.

For a few weeks there I'd been able to get up at 5, pert and perky enough to stretch, exercise, even go out for a short ride, before work. Now, over the last week or so, what with the broken sleep, I'm lucky to lumber out of bed by six.

I'm having to get my exercise in during the course of the day and / or after work, which is fine, mostly, I guess. But I felt better when I did something before work. Plus, if I did something before work, during the day AND after, more exercise, better weight loss results.

I'm not sure if it's one thing or several roaming around my mind working to upset my pattern, whatever it is though, I have to find a way back to the previous patter as IT seemed much more agreeable to my over all well-being.

And I haven't a clue as to what that dream meant.

Oh Girl ! !

Diamond is seven in human years. According to one chart, that makes her over 40, like me. Though according to that chart if I were a 48 year old dog, that would put me over 200 in human years.

Seven year old Diamond experienced trouble maneuvering stairs and though she has been on joint care tabs since coming to live with us, she also re-developed a pronounced and persistent limp.

Danielle took her to see Vet Mary who prescribed a two week regime of Rimadyl chewables to address the apparent injury to Diamond’s right rear knee joint. Vet Mary directed us to continue the joint care tablets. Further, we were instructed to limit D-dog’s movements by removing stair climbing and to de-motivate running for two weeks.

Diamond quickly understood that she was to be carried like the diva she is, up and down the stairs, so that part of the regime has been a snap to institute and maintain.

De-motivating running, however, has proven a challenge.

Merely three days into her two week regime, we wouldn’t throw her soccer ball to chase so she threw it herself.

Despite our best efforts, birds, squirrels, leaves, and blowing paper were all working in concert motivating the pup to scamper around like a two-year old.

Even her up on hind legs, “Aren’t I the most adorable pup you’ve ever seen?” dance continued.

Diamond sees Vet Mary again on Wednesday. Hopefully the cold and snow (yes, snow) will keep the birds and squirrels scarce over the next few days. While we can keep her from climbing any steps and can keep her from dancing (so much) we can certainly use the extra help in de-motivating the running.

I can’t help but marvel at how she wears her over 40 crown.

Pieces

A woman I have not met face to face, but with whom I've maintained a relationship for quite some time now and who i am honored to call my friend as recently suffered a tremendously devastating tragedy. I can't divulge the details, mostly out of respect for her privacy but also because I find it hard to even type about it without breaking down into a puddle of tears. I've cried much for her and her family this past week. I've cried much for all the families who have suffered in a similar manner.

I don't talk much about my art. My art mostly exists in a past I would rather forget. The forgetting hasn't worked out very well. In the spring of 1979 after a year and a half of classes, I submitted an application and portfolio to the art department chairs of the liberal arts college I attended. The purpose: to declare drawing, painting, sculpture or textiles as a major area of concentration. After flip flopping between painting, drawing and sculpture, I settled on painting. My application and portfolio was deemed worthy, but for a multitude of reasons, I was unable to return to school in the fall of 1979. I haven't forgotten the worst parts of my past and though much of the art from that time was sold (before I could take pictures) or destroyed, some of the art from then lives with me today.

Though relegated to the background, a bit player in the theatre of my life since 1979, art has continued to have a voice. Beyond my healthy appreciation for the art of others, there have been a helping hand with kids' artistic projects, illustrations for a church cookbook, scant artful touches into various aspects of life and living over the years and the execution of some rough doodles for my personal enjoyment and release.

A couple of years ago I talked about getting "out" more. Part of that getting out was to re-acquaint myself with art and the art all around me. I've done some, not as much as I would have hoped, but some. I'm still, however, on the getting out bent and art is definitely a part of the journey.

I am reluctant to talk about my art. I am as reluctant to share my art. I'm not sure why. Perhaps I'm muddle-minded about what my art says to (or about) me, what it says to everybody. Perhaps it is some kind of fear.

More and more, I find that part of my process for dealing with tremendously devastating events like the one my friend just suffered, involves art. My doodles, rough as they are, provide a soft place for my tears to land, a place that could turn the ugliness of tragedy into something else a little less ugly.

Dear OTC, you are on my mind, in my heart, and the tip of my marker.