Culmination or Gay Themed Week in Review

The week began with a trip to Chinatown, where I met up with some lesbian adventurers to partake of a Chinese dim sum brunch. It was my first foray into the land of dim sum and I found it to be both adventuresome and fun, much like the company.

After work on Tuesday I trekked to the north end of town to attend an open mic hosted by a local bookstore. The event, booked as an annual pride celebration featured some GLBTQ authors. A few of the dim sum adventurers were in attendance as were some others from the group that I had yet to meet.

Among the notable lines were, all I want for breakfast is coffee and sex, coffee and sex, coffee and sex and Do I touch her deeper than the surface of her pleasure?* We heard one author pondering what she'd do if she had a Harley and yet another read from his book detailing his stripper days . Needless to say it was both adventuresome and fun, much like the company.

Chicago's 40th Annual Pride parade was held this past Sunday. Yours truly was one of the tens of thousands in attendance. I was to meet with one of the women from the group (we'd arranged the get together following the reading, while schmoozing and noshing on pita chips, hummus, grape leaves and wine) who has attended the last several years, securing the 'perfect' parade viewing spot. There was also talk of a trip to the beach.

As it happens I didn't meet up with my new friend J until after the parade, but never fear. I was in the company of some fabulous folks who shared Bloody Marys, vodka and cranberry concoctions, and more. We danced, laughed, competed for beads and other parade 'swag' and had a party hearty good time.

I met J after the parade. We walked about the neighborhood still buzzing with energetic gay pride-filled folks. After a bit of dinner and a little more walking to further soak in the ambiance we parted ways, both looking forward to the next opportunity to meet.

Though I never made it to the beach, the parade and all related experiences capped a week of amazingly true adventures of this nearly 49 year-old, rather newbie lesbian.

*oddly enough there was no microphone at the open mic, so I didn't hear all the introductions, otherwise I certainly would credit the two authors referenced here.

Night, Day and Night Again

Last night we suffered our first power outage of the summer season. Earlier in the day a storm had torn through town, ripping up trees and though I hadn't heard specifically, I presume some lines were downed in the process.

I suspect that the various crews cleaning up the aftermath of the summer storm factored in the big boom and then...pfft. No electricity. No lights. No computer. No TV. It was still light when the power failed, so I decided to go for a bike ride. One to exert some energy and two, to survey the extent of the outage, if I could.

The ride around town and into a neighboring village revealed that though sporadic, the outage was extensive. Several blocks in one direction dark while the next several not, then dark and then, not. The last leg of ride home was in total darkness, street lights out and only businesses with alternative sources of power (McD's) operating. Our building was dark, save the emergency lights. Once back inside I find Danielle gone. She does not do well without her creature comforts, I'm with Blythe, they have electricity, I'm charging my phone so went a subsequent conversation.

So, I'm alone with the D dog and "the boys." The boys, as you might imagine took to being in near total darkness in stride. I think Buttah was more bothered by the heat than the dark. I found out on the ride that temps were still in the upper 80's range. D dog was particularly skittish. Barking at every sound and finding it hard to settle down. She tended to stay even closer.

I settled in for a long night, the power company estimated restoration of power around 2 AM. Gathering my power outage survival kit, tuning the radio to a local classical music station, enjoying a couple (or more) of cold ones and later engaging in a little inebriated, power outage texting and LOLing with a friend.

Today has been a typical summer day. Sunny, temps in the upper 80's with a heat index making it feel like 90 or more. Thunder and severe storm warnings have been issued for some areas of the state as have flood warnings (there has been a hella rain round these parts). It is my hope the fixes hold and we don't lose power again. If we do, I have fresh(er) batteries and more...provisions.

And oh, by the way, the power was restored at three this morning and for the record I don't have A/C. Danielle has a window unit in her bedroom, but I make do with a box and ceiling fans. And going without a shirt.

Hot fun in the summertime.

June. Pride.

Three years ago this month I told the blog community that I was a Lesbian. I'm happy and quite proud of that fact. I. Am. A. Lesbian. That said, this June...this month of P R I D E, only a few days away from Chicago's celebratory festival and parade, hasn't been the UP-filled time I was hoping for.


A year ago, June Neta was arriving and then she was here. We attended the parade (my first ever) and had a glorious time before, during, and well after. We visited the next few days, dropping in on the Taste of Chicago, nearly melting in the sweltering heat, but cooling with a delectable Rainbow cone. She was in my town, in my condo, in my arms. Last year when she departed, I fully expected we'd repeat all of that, and then some this year.




But here we are this year, no longer a couple, no plans to visit. No, . . . just, no.


Anyhoo, I didn't expect to be lulled so completely and utterly into the splendor of love. But, because I was and my focus was on building and nurturing that love, I didn't have much of a chance to explore much beyond that long-distance relationship. Now with that gone, I'm back where I was three years ago June.



Well, not exactly. The time and experience have had an affect.


Still, I consider myself newbie with a community to explore, experiences to . . . experience.


Toward that end I have became a joiner this year. In addition to the walking group, which is not (much) of a social vehicle, I joined Thrifty Queer Adventurers, and Lesbians in Movieland, just to name two. There are other groups (and invites to others still) revolved around my various interests. Some are more active than others. Some offer events that are more to my liking than the others. All offer an opportunity to get out and explore, and to not be solo while doing so.




I will also continue to attend the monthly Woman Like Me meetings whenever I can, because they help me and I think might offer an opportunity for me to help someone else.



So, this June, though there is a a tremendous void in my life, around my heart, I'm out there, exploring and experiencing...the city, the gay and lesbian community, and more of myself. No, I am not as UP this June, but I'm more OUT.

Progress? Why Yes, Some

What with all the walking talk I thought I'd let you in on where all the walking has and will continue to lead this determined Deborah.

You know about the quest. As you'll recall and as declared to my co-piggies my goal was to lose 40 pounds by July 6th. Like I said over there* a little bit ago, I won't make it, not by July 6th anyway. The last update has me at a total loss of 21 pounds. There was another one gone at the beginning of this week, which means 18 to go by July 6th. No, I won't make it, but that will not deter me.

I set the bar particularly high because I needed the motivation. I joined the groups because I needed the motivation.

I'll admit here and now that I haven't done much more than much more walking. I toyed with dancing to dvds, and various other work out regimes not the least of which was riding my bicycle across a few towns. But weather, a downstairs neighbor, more work responsibilities, mood swings, and other factors kept me from being consistent in anything but the walking.

As a result of the relative in-activity I didn't lost loads of poundage over the course of any of the given, recent weeks. But that does not deter me. I will not be deterred. For as I said, not only do I intend to lose the forty, but I intend to lose more. More than that though, I intend to maintain a healthful life that will lead to maintaining the weight that is my goal.

And if I can take the words from my own mouth fingers: I’ve learned some things along this journey. I’ve learned that I can’t lose without moving. I’ve learned that I can’t lose unless a move much. I’ve learned that the rah-rahs, atta girls, and positive reinforcements are important to and for me. I’ve learned that I can. I’ve grown to learn that I will.

One of my iGoogle home-page gadgets is a to-do list. The first and only item on the list is: get off your ass.

So there.

*you'll note that over there, I said July 1st, should be the 6th.

Walking, Too

Most of us figure out how to do it within the first couple of years of our existence. As we grow out of infancy, we begin to become aware of our extremities and start testing. We grasp with our pudgy fingers, using our rubbery arms to pull ourselves up on wobbly legs to a very shaky stance.

Then it happens. We toddle. A process that includes more falling than anything resembling walking.

Eventually, we grow more confident, stronger and before we know it we’re walking, running, and heck, some of us are even jumping.

I don’t know about you but I never gave much thought to the process of walking. It was just something you did. It wasn’t like learning how to ride a bike, or even learning how to roller skate. With those activities there were instructions, rules even, to follow.

About the only things I ever heard about walking was, “walk, don’t run!” or “be careful where you walk” or even, "walk this way" which, I guess can be construed as instruction.

Over time we each develop our own walking form. This form is predicated on many factors. But, still, I don’t think there is much thought about the process, except of course for those folks walking competitively or those folks who learn to walk for fitness. There are rules of form related to such walking.

My concerted efforts to walk faster have resulted in me paying much more attention to form. I’ve discovered that to walk faster I must breathe differently. I’ve had to alter my gait. Not to mention adjust my posture and surprise, surprise lift my feet. In fact, my entire leg (well both of them) is fully engaged. Actually, this walking exercise is a full body experience.

Imagine that.

Anyhoo, I am so into the process now that I’m inclined to believe that the occasional trip on a sidewalk that inexplicably rises up to meet me is just me feeling nostalgic for the good old days, like March 3, 2009.

Stepping off.

Walking

Since joining the walking group, I’ve come to discover that what I was doing prior to joining the walking group was not walking. Not walking in the least.

One might have described what I was doing as strolling, or sauntering.

At some points I may have even appeared to be rambling.

But, walking? No, I certainly wasn’t walking, at least as compared to the group.

I may as well have been crawling.

Just let me say that the pace was a tad quick. And me? I’m a tad slow. In fact, I’m more than a tad slow. I am v-e-r-y slow. My nickname was “Christmas” for a time growing up, because it took me so long to finish, move. I was deliberate, is all.

I was going to have to step up my game if I had any hope of surviving staying even with this group. I mean, a woman several inches shorter, walking on the backs of her shoes due to blisters on her feet, was walking faster than me and not even breathing as hard.

How these folks can walk and talk still bugs boggles me.

Never-the-less, after some several very many outings with the group, I’m keeping relative pace. My breathing at the end of the trial and tribulation walk is not as labored these days as in the beginning.

Maybe a few more outings I will be able to talk while I walk.

Then again, maybe I’ll just focus on the walking. The quick pace further fuels the klutz factor. I haven’t tripped (too much) yet, but it’s only a matter of time, maybe.

Focus.

These Dreams

Easing into my Sunday morning while sipping java, reading blogs, news, and responding to emails from my pal, I was listening to my streaming customized Sunday morning mix. Most of the tunes were familiar, if not lyrically certainly harmonically. Tunes lending themselves to humming.

Quiet time.

Suddenly, I heard something that just seared through me.

I'd heard it before, I must have because I'd given it a thumbs up. But, I don't know that I'd heard it before Sunday.

. . . and since Sunday morning, I can't stop dreaming.

Once we were lovers

One night there were several dreams. Snippets, not very lucid. Not at all linear.

What came between us?

One night there were Planes. Trains. Automobiles. And ships? Seriously?

and sometimes at night I think I hear you calling me name

She was there. But, so too were a few of my female friends. Sometimes we were all talking, laughing. Other times we were . . . well, not. Not like an orgy. Each separate. Distinct. An event. We were always caught. We were always chagrined. We always cried and then we had wine.

Clearly, I'm lonely. But, it isn't present daily. I'm sad, but that too is fleeting. Most days I'm ok and parts of some days, I'm happy, cheerful, even. Still, I am missing. You know, the fall out of a loverly pairing is . . . well, there are songs that say it well.

For now,

. . .these dreams, they keep me going these days.


Jim Croce, These Dreams

A Family Affair

Our biggest battles as kids were about going outside to play. Mother didn’t want us outside when she wasn’t home and Father (while he was around) didn’t want us outside (ever) I don’t think. He seemed to relish in dashing our hopes and dreams of F-U-N. During the last year of their togetherness we were rarely left in Father’s sole care. Mother had come to believe that Father was not quite dedicated to our safety.

There were incidents that caused Mother to question Father’s judgment, loudly.

Mother, the softest touch of the two held her ground on this going out to play business.

We’d ask, “Can we go outside?” and she’d reply, “May we”.

Again we’d ask, “May we go outside?” and she’d reply, “go clean your room.”

After we (re)clean the room we’d ask again. And she’d give us another chore. After completing that chore, we’d ask again and get a chore. Again and again, rinse and repeat. After forever and a million chores, she would acquiesce.

Father wouldn’t make us do anything, he’d just say, “No!”

One sunny day during my sixth (or seventh) year, my brothers and I were left in Father’s care. An odd occurrence, as ours had not been a particularly happy home and Father was rarely in it. To find him not only home but our care-giver for the afternoon, quite odd indeed.

The brothers and I quickly collaborated and decided that a sole Father (sacked out on the sofa) was a good thing. Best behavior and careful wording of our plaintive plea would certainly net us the grand reward, outside time.

We decided to approach him one-on-one, thinking “the baby” had the best shot. J was shot down, “no.”

The middle child went in. I plastered on my best smile, blanketed in my sweetest “daddy’s little girl” disposition and again, “no.”

The eldest was our last hope. Like trainers preparing a prize fighter for another round, little brother and I rubbed his shoulders and whispered encouragement. In he went. Time went by, so slowly.

Finally he returned with a smile splitting his face in two. “He said yes!! He said yes!!”

Woooo Hooooo!!!

I grabbed my jump rope. They grabbed whatever it is little boys grab and out the door we flew. Scrambling down the two flights of stairs and bounding onto the concrete, my brothers disappeared around the corner and I skipped a few buildings down the street to the home of my best friend Pam. She, Diane and Lei-lani were on the porch, and that’s where I planted my rear.

Not too many giggles later I hear the familiar clomp, clomp, clomp of Father’s combat boot slippers. He does not look amused. His voice backed up his look, “where are your brothers?”

Shoulder shrug. I never knew where they went, the just, poofed.

I was assigned to find them and the three of us were to report back to our second floor apartment.

After forever I find them, huffing at elder brother the entire way back, “you said, he said yes!”

For years after eldest swore Father said yes.

We got our asses whipped that sunny afternoon. Father had a specially cured razor strop for this express purpose. We had to lie according to age, across their bed, bare butt. He’d hit one, then the next and the next and so on, and so on.

On this sunny afternoon, the windows open, our friends down below heard our screams. Eldest was busy (once Mother let us back outside) for days after, kicking the ass of everybody who teased us, well, him really.

Father wasn’t with us for too many more weeks after that sunny afternoon. The events of that sunny afternoon were likely the beginnings of the end of any further collaboration between me and my brothers.

China Comes to Chicago

The goal was to get out, meet-up with some lovely lesbians and listen to docent types talk about some visitors from China. The meet-up withe the lovely lesbians didn't happen. Boo! to that, but out I did get. I missed the talk-about, but I picked up a brochure. The talks are given often, so I can catch that another time. It was a lovely Saturday afternoon and grrrr...there was red in the square. This lovely fellow is Windy City Dinosaur. He, as you might have guessed, was quite popular with the kids. Several moms were trying to get they're young charges to pose "without the face" in front of WCD. I think several pics sported, "the face" the little tykes just couldn't help themselves.

Valiant Struggle No. 11, a pig being held by a man, who is being held by a woman, all hanging from a crane that looked like a VW bug with a rather long tongue drew much attention. Not quite as much as WCD, but the colorful grouping held the interest of many.

Jia Shan Shi No. 46 wasn't quite so popular with the kids. One, decided that it looked like a big hunk of twisted up tin foil. He was not impressed. According to the brochure the artist, Zhan Wang has become world famous for his stainless steel copies of "scholars' rocks" found in classical Chinese gardens. I found the piece calming yet forceful.

So, while I missed out on meeting-up with the lovely lesbians I was scheduled to meet, I had a lovely time in the lovely Millennium Park. In addition to seeing wonderfully provocative pieces of art, I got to help some German women find "The Bean" or rather, Cloud Gate. Though they didn't speak much English we were able to understand each other enough...I escorted them to the sculpture and they were grateful.

I wasn't able to show the two Chinese women who asked (and no, I wasn't wearing a uniform, people just ask me stuff) about the location of a bathroom. I did point out park personnel whom I assured would be pleased to assist.

All-in-all, it was a pretty good Saturday afternoon in the park.

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.