The Newest Normal

Having not dated since my break-up I'll admit to being woefully out of practice. Having not dated locally since . . . well, shit, since before my oldest (30) was even conceived, I'll admit to being just . . . whoa.

But now I'm dating. Not dating as in seeing a few people to see how they fit. No, I'm dating one woman and discovering how we fit.  The indeterminate "US" from a couple of posts (and few weeks) ago has grown into a definite relationship as so declared on FB.

A good fit, yes. A good match, again, yes. Still, dating . . .

Dating can be, is . . . challenging. Even when one is ripe to the idea of opening heart, mind, body, and life to another, for another, there are . . . logistics; schedules, finances, families, and jobs just to name a few. Then there is all the newness, the first times, the discoveries . . . all of which can be, is . . . fun, exciting. It is, can be . . . daunting.

It is very, very easy to become accustomed to having good time, to become conditioned to expect it every time out, to fall into a routine and then become soundly disappointed with the routine is broken even for a very good reason, a very worthy cause.

And in our brief stint dating we've had both, the good times and the disappointments. The good times however, have outdistanced the disappointments. And while we are determined to maintain that ratio, there are those challenges, those logistics.

Still . .  I am up for the challenge, the earlier "whoa" not-with-standing, for we are a good fit.

We are dating one another exclusively. And this is my newest normal.

Whoa.







 

Distraction

Were I committed to participating in the A-Z April Blogging Challenge today's letter could be "D". And further, were I committed to participating in the A-Z April Blogging Challenge by letter "D" word, subject designation:  Distraction. 


You remember back in grade school when you were crushing on someone and you could barely keep your mind on your spelling words, cursive writing practice, or multiplication tables? All you could think about was that smile, those eyes, having lunch together, and passing one another on the way home from school?


Distraction 


And what about some time later when all you could do with any consistency is write their name over and over on your notebook? Using different color pens? Adding stickers? Making {Art} out their name by adding wings, curlicues, faces, or plants?

Distraction 


Now grown up, mature, with some life under your belt and a full menu of items clamoring for your attention and yet, you want to talk with her every minute of every day despite your respective busy schedules. You work to memorize her phone number so you don't waste a fraction of a second  scrolling your address book. (Assigning her number to a speed dial button seems...off, somehow).

Distraction

As one nifty day leads to another and then yet another, as you begin to adjust your life to encompass the thoughts, emotions, and being of another, as you begin to think of yourselves as an "US" you likely find your mind flitting from this idea to that, your body going through the motions of task completion but your mind clearly engaged elsewhere.  You likely find yourself in a Den of Distraction. Or, that could just be me.

But let me state for the record that being distracted by that smile, those eyes, the thought of having lunch (or whatever and then some) together . . .

desirable. delectable. dandy. 

There is an "US"

We met several weeks ago as many folks do, on-line. We were both on a meeting-to-dating site that made no more but no fewer promises than any of the others toward success at "finding a match." (Why do I feel compelled to break into song, matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch)? And we were both out there awhile before our respective profiles brushed against one another.

She wrote me. I wrote back. She responded. And then so did I.  We spoke via telephone and soon agreed to meet face-to-face.

We met in a cafe. Had a lunch that bled into the dinner set-up where we said our good-byes. But in the meantime, we talked. And talked. And talked. Such a good time we had, so much discovery.

That get together has led to others and even  hand-holding.  Ahhhhh . . .

She recently shared: <i>Somehow, I managed to find – managed to be found by – someone who shares my understanding of the world and the nature of reality . . .  

Which could have easily been my share. 

Still, as often as we have spoken, as grand a time we've had with one another, as close as we are becoming, we are both cautious and dare I say, somewhat fearful. This is new, is precious, is fragile in its beginnings. 

And it is everything. Again.   

Thus, despite her thinking me beautiful and me thinking the same about her, despite all we've shared and the eagerness we have for more, despite the discoveries made and the euphoria of the prospect of future discoveries, we are careful at naming this . . . confluence of events, except to mutually assert  that she and I are most assuredly, most gleefully, an US! 

   

not crying, but there are tears

Whatever crying I do is done in private.

Quietly. 

In my room, in the shower, in the darkness of a theater. 

Silently. 

Without witnesses and very little evidence. 

But this isn't about crying. 

It is about tears. 

Allergies have attacked my eyes which have produced tears. 

A lot of tears. 

Additionally, I'm not sleeping very well at night and as a result grow very, very tired during the midst of my workdays. The train rides home turn into yawning marathons. 

Serial yawning produces tears. 

A lot of tears. 

Most of the other commuters ignore me and my waterlogged face. Some pretend to ignore but are clearly disturbed. While others, disturbed and concerned, ask outright, "are you okay, is there anything I can do for you?" 

Nothing to be done except take the anti-allergy meds, try to get enough rest, and keep my pockets stocked with tissues. 

never let them see me cry*

the week tested my mettle in more ways than one. it made me cancel plans to celebrate with my very dear friend one of those milestone birthdays. missing the event pained me deeply and will haunt me for days, if not weeks to come. it made me concerned over my financial present and scared me shit-less over my financial future. it made me cry. it made me sick. it made me tired, weary, and just . . . damn.

but.

i held it together, mostly.  thanks in large part to the presence and help of a new friend.  her listening to me this week, the silver around all the clouds.

she and i are navigating a path toward being more than friends. but for now a friend is what i needed and a friend is what she's been and for that i am truly grateful.  that said, traveling the path toward more . .  the thought, the moves, those feelings made the week bearable and the prospect of beyond, brighter, no matter what.

*six word saturday submission   

Moving to Living

Our little family of companies has been moving this week. It feels deja vu-ish as it was just June 2011 that we moved to where we are moving from. now. Still, as familiar as many of the activities are, this move feels different in a way.

First off, the owner bought the building that we're moving into and that has an, ahhh...finally, a home, kind of feel to it all. Secondly, the building we're moving into has some history. It recently housed a museum and some of the artifacts were left behind by the most recent owners.

Our owner decided to keep some of those, at least for a time. Fun, that.

As excited and eager as I am to settle into our new space, there is also a sense of nervousness. This move comes at the heels of the most challenging 18 or so months of my working life. Business has been bad and we've squeaked by but we are all showing the wear and tear of frustration. And the move? It will either finish us or be our saving grace.

If I were to bet, I'd place my chips on survive and thrive for a number of reasons a couple of which are the owner's commitment to success and the number 3 in our new address. This is my 33rd year with the family of companies (in its many incarnations). The most recent previous location aside, there has been a number 3 in every business (and home -save one-) address of my adult life.

I'm not superstitious or anything, but . . . well, it's THREE.

Who's Five?

With all the hustle and bustle of the actor turning thirty, phantom library book requests, company on the move (yet to be discussed) and various other happenings, this space failed to mention the momentous event of Buttah turning FIVE. Daughter adopted him in August of 2008 at which time he was a few months beyond his first year. He warmed his way in my heart only minutes after coming on scene. And while technically, he's her cat, our deal is, when she moves (which she promises is STILL the plan) he's to stay with me and Pete. Buttah, the friendlier, more gregarious of the two, is also a ham for the camera--not to mention, being anywhere I happen to be, smack in the middle of whatever I happen to be doing.

Before Art

Project Saturday  

After Art

You Read It Here 

 He's quite the helper, that one. Happy (belated *2/8*) Birthday Buttah Boy!

Ah, Muse

Books. I read a lot of books. Some weeks many books. And some weeks, it takes weeks to read {a}book. Lately, it has been the latter rather than the former scenario.

Most, if not all of the books that I read come from our local library. Well, libraries, since our library participates in a reciprocal lending program with libraries of many of the surround suburbs. I go on-line, select titles, and request a hold. The order is filled, I'm notified via e-mail and I go to our main branch to pick up and check out my selections.

The system is usually flawless. However, the last couple of times the books there for pick up turned out to be titles I didn't remember requesting. In fact, I'm pretty sure I didn't request them.

The first time I didn't think very much about it, figured it was some fluke or what my daughter describes as me being, "51."  Surely, I requested this book, I just couldn't remember having done so. Perplexing, as some years ago I'd decided this particular author, this particular serial was no longer my cup-of-tea. Ah well, I scratched my head, shrugged, my shoulders and  checked out the novel and read it, albeit very slowly.

It happened again and this time I was pretty damn sure I HAD NOT requested this book. One, it was too new and two, again I this (different) author and her series were not tops on my list. She, much less so than the first does still appeal on some level but as a back-up, a filler when all else fails, kind of read. Certainly, I would not request to have held her recently released novel I had not even known existed. Still, I was resigned to take it home and read it within the three weeks of the borrowing limit, hopefully.

When a faulty self check-out scanner forced me to see a librarian I decided to casually mention the phantom, random books held under my name. She seemed as perplexed as me and deeming the entire situation, "weird." A few taps of her keyboard, some pertinent questions later and we concluded that some some alternate "me" appeared to be using a card registered to my home address (from 15 years ago) and requesting novels by authors who were, at one time, high on my preferred borrow list.

Someone had stolen my identity but instead of ruining my credit they were ordering me out of favor (my current favor) library books?

And then I began to muse about some alternate Deborahs, one retro who is reading books that I read (or might have read) 15 years ago and some futuristic Deborah who is reading books that I might read 15 years from now. I began to muse about these three Ds getting together, gathering at one of the nearby coffee huts (or sandwich shops) to have spirited discussions about bad ass lady detectives, bad ass lady artists, and bad ass ladies in all walks (and flights) of life.

Fun, the musing.

The librarian snapped me out of my reverie by asking if she should cancel the "other" information.

Yes, please do. This present day Deborah has enough of her plate keeping up with the present day books requested from our local libraries.

I don't need the added pressure from any past or future Deborah gumming up the mix.  

One To Thirty

This week (Wednesday) the first born celebrates birthday number thirty. Gone by in an instant? No. Still, hard to fathom the trading of blocks for Transformers, Transformers for Ninja Turtles, Ninja Turtles for all the childhood things in between and then those for ties and cuff-links and all things gentlemanly.   

The boy became a man right before my eyes, thrilling, frightening, challenging, humoring, and inspiring me every day along the way. Love him? Of course, to pieces and more. He is a man of honor and courage, passion and conviction, discipline and fortitude, talent and humility, power and grace. And so much more. 

On stage or off the actor, the man is tailored to every moment. He approaches life with the wide-eyed wonderment of childhood augmenting that sense of joy with searing sensibility and methodical, insightful planning. As much as he has achieved he has so much more to encounter, conquer. For he may be about to turn thirty, but in some ways, he has only just begun.

Happy Birthday, Son. "Break Legs"    

Random. Fathom

Sleep not coming easily these days. The mind is muddled and is in need of some clearing. Perhaps the randoms will help, certainly a near perfect day like today does:

♥ It was 50 (plus) degrees today. Sunny. Clear. My daughter snapped this picture as she was leaving school today. Lovely, lovely sky.In fact, it was a lovely day. I read tomorrow is to be even better. I know some folks are missing the traditional winter, but I'm way okay with the turns we've had. Hey, it's the Midwest, we could be singing snow blues in April.

♥ Diamond's feeling better. However, her eyesight is failing. We're making things as easy as possible and keeping her in as much comfort as possible.
My younger brother got married a couple weeks ago. I met the new Mrs. briefly last week. I don't know if they were pen pals / romancers or he met her sometime after his release. In either case. I wish the new couple well. 

♥ I haven't given any thought to getting married (again). And given that I'm a lady loving lady A LOT of thought would be required (as it should be anyway), but, even more so since don't have the rights or luxury as does my brother and his new bride, for instance.

♥ What I have given a lot of thought to is death. Not my own, per se, but in general. Mostly due to Thought Question number 686 . It is a topic that doesn't come easy to most, we don't want to think about it, let alone discuss it. It' morbid. It is . . . eventual. My mother talks about death, not in any constructive way, just by way of offering up Obits and escalating every illness to fatalistic ends.
So, this text enhanced shit, anyone know how to turn it off? How to avoid having one's text enhanced with some broken down ad for some broken down service?

♥ I'll probably watch most of the Superbowl game out of pure habit. I don't have any vested interest in either team. But, I do like football. I was the only one of my group yesterday who knew when the game was and the teams competing. But, I'm thinking too it would be the perfect day to take in a movie, get in an extra six thousand (or so) steps or clean out that closet one thing or another has kept me from.

♥ Speaking of thee Though Questions Number 697 has had my mind spinning as well. I did respond to his religious literature, told him I wasn't a Christian. He pities me. The conversation didn't end there but didn't go too far downhill. He will continue trying to convert me inasmuch as his health (and his communication disciplines) allow, I suppose.

♥ My good friend has (had) a birthday today. She probably won't see this (her computer has been on the fritz)  but it doesn't matter for I've extended my well wishes to her already and soon her gift will be in the mail. Never-the-less, Happy Birthday  Good Friend!! Many happy returns of this day and more. You know you are on my mind and in my heart, always. ♥

♥ My son (& my younger brother and several cousins) have milestone birth days within the coming days. More about the actor will be spoken on his special day.

♥ My Aunt Betty (mom's oldest sibling) will celebrate birthday number 92 in a few days.
On that note, I'll bid you goodnight. Five AM will be here before I know it.

Peace. 

Snow, Cold

Friday's fall wasn't as much as last February's (photo evidence) but it was enough. Enough to snarl traffic and to change plans, not only for the evening but the entire weekend.

Well, mine anyway.

Passing up an invite to hear some jazz because of a prior engagement only to pass on the prior engagement because of not only event of snow but also the timing of same (the bulk of it coming just prior to the evening rush) but even more than snow was the cold. No, not the air temps (though, that is a incredible motivator for staying indoors) but the onset of the virus called commonly, cold.

Stuffy nose, scratchy throat, sneezing, and a slight case of the chills. The symptoms beginning Thursday and continuing, building during Friday played the larger role into my altering the evening  and weekend plans.

The snow just capped it. IT being the decision to head directly home after work Friday.  And as I reported to a couple of friends via FB who very sweetly checked in with me:

Home, safe and sound. Soon there will be hot food, hotter toddies, and warm jammies and a wonderful knitted shawl-like cover-ette. ♥.

And that was pretty much the weekend. 

Not going to hear jazz. Not going to see a screening of "If These Walls Could Talk 2". Not meeting a new acquaintance for coffee (or something). Not going to the Garfield Park Conservatory's concert series. Not going to see "Red Tails". 

Full disclosure, all of these things weren't going to happen this weekend but they were considered and were within the realms of possibilities, along with laundry, closet purging, and other sundry weekend chores--had it not been for the need to tend to the sniffling (sometimes stuffy) nose, scratchy throat, sneezing and such. 

Now on the eve of the beginning of a new work week, feeling pretty much over the cold, I'm sorry I didn't (at least) attempt a trip to the laundry mat. 

Off to rummage through the (not yet purged) closet to find some things clean (and warm) to wear tomorrow. 

Numbers

 Sunday: 9,852  measurable steps taken. Atypical for me in that 1: I don't usually wear the gadget on the weekends. 2. a low daily total (judging by the weekday totals) for me. 3. Left to my own devices, I chose to take myself to the movies. Pariah I'll just say this for now: see this film!  

Monday: 10,633 measurable steps. Most weekday evenings I'm home between 6--6:15. Since I'm home before daughter I take up the pet care duties minus (the new normal: insulin injections). Dinner is often a crap shoot, as I routinely leave food prep to her. I must however, adjust that routine for 2012 as the "crap shoot" aspect is not working so well for my goals, I finally learned from 20111 experiences. The pedometer may or may not stay on my person until I retire (which simply means, I'm sitting, relaxing before bed) for the evening, which depends mostly on the day's attire. Monday's measurements would have occurred between about 7:30 am until about 8:30 pm .  

Tuesday: 8,382 measurable steps. Not a good day on many, many levels. A weariness had gathered about my shoulders and moved south throughout the day. Focus was off and cravings ON and high . It can't be . . . but, alas, I fear it must be. Oh crap. Once home and and all the pet care needs attended I took (for all intents and purposes) to bed. However, early to bed meant much, MUCH too early to rise. Oh crap!  

Wednesday: 11,238 measurable steps. Big improvement over Tuesday but understand it was forced and aided by too many cups of coffee, zinger teas, and one sugar free R*ckstar energy drink. There was one side trip after work and with a mind toward the weekly goal of 12,000 steps I pushed as much as I could. Fell short though. Crashed and burned in fact, by lights out. Well, point of fact, I don't sleep in total darkness unless I'm in someone else's space. But, for all intents and purposes, lights were out by 11 p.m. The meter was about my person right until shower time. 

Thursday: 13,385 very unhappy steps taken. Snow. Houston, we have snow. (Note the pic was from last February's storm. We didn't get quite that much this time, but it is early yet.)   And the only reason I cracked twelve thousand was because of the snow shoveling in addition to the usual routines after work. Ironic since I'd mentioned to a friend earlier that I didn't think I'd crack ten thousand due to the snow.  

Friday: 11,261 flat, stick a fork in me, I'm done, steps taken. Along with the snow, which let's face it, is a given; this is the Midwest and this IS January for peeps sake, there is also frigid temps (anything below 30) and, AND . . .  well, let's just say I found myself gorging on mint dark chocolate M & M's which are freakin' fantastic, by the way, and downing one,two, three brown ales. I'll see the Tuesday's Oh Crap and Raise you a Holy F*ck!  Hi-ever, thank Goodness was Friday and as a friend counseled, I acted like it, dammit!!  

Saturday:  No measurable steps for today. Not that I haven't taken any. I've taken several hundred, at least. But, I didn't don the meter for 1. I don't (usually) do so on the weekends and 2. this day was a take it easy, easy like Sunday morning, a sleep in (after 9) kind of day. A thinking about how to achieve the goals for next week (and beyond) and how to work other routines into my routine, for the walking (alone) isn't going to get me where I want to get with regard to fitness. (Nor for that matter, are the mint chocolate M & M's as fantastic as they are or the multiple brown ales at a single sitting, no matter how therapeutic they may appear) kind of day. And a musing of what cruel jokers Mother Nature and her evil twin Aunt Flo have become, kind of day. 

And then it will be Sunday, again. Happy New Day, New Year, New Opportunity to achieve numbers and more.    



 

d is for . . .

In the many days since the previous post several topics, reasons to write presented themselves as possibly post-worthy. And then they were not, in fact, posted for they couldn't in all honesty post themselves. I would have to play blog post conduit and for one reason or another, I couldn't.

d is for December

And then there we were at year-end and if there is ever a topic ready-made for posting it is the looking back, looking ahead noise that permeates the end of one year and the beginning of another.  Memories take over, take control as does sense of resolve about the coming days, all 365 of 'em in one fell swoop. Oh wait, 2012 is a leap year, make that 366 days.
d is for dog
That post didn't write nor post itself either. Because as in previous days and prior posts not posted, I couldn't play blog post conduit, what with the trip to Houston, making room for the tree, preparations for the holiday meal, a short trip to Hoosier-ville, not to mention outside the home obligations, writing and posting (beyond that about making room for the tree) didn't work in the mix of things to say and do.
d is for Diva
And then here we are at the second day of the new year and finally a post is winding its way out of the ends of my fingers, off the tendrils of my mind. And this post is not at all about year ending, new year beginning or any resolve to be resolute*. This post is about the diva, our dog, Diamond.
Our sweet little fuzz face has been lethargic, losing weight, drinking beyond what you'd believe her body could hold and then of course, the body not holding it. A visit to the vet and a battery of tests reveal the underlying cause:

d is for diabetes
The news hit the other D rather hard. Her concern for the pup as well as her concern for caring for the pup (financially and otherwise) all causing, as one might expect, an overflow of emotions. The news hit this D rather hard too for the same reasons added to my concern for my daughter.
That was all several days ago and since then Diamond has been treated as an out-patient with fluids and d-daughter has administered several insulin injections, the vet tech training as well as sustaining relationships with a former co-worker (a vet M) playing vital roles is emotions calming and focusing on doing what we can to care for Diamond and care for one another.
D-dog has a bit more pep in her ten year old doggy steps and a bit more light in her eyes. She won't be well in that she won't be rid of diabetes but her condition can be treated and will be to the best of our ability. She won't be well but she is better today than she was in those days leading up to this day.
d is for Diamond our Diva, our ♥.  

*as coined by ef

   

Making Room

Some years ago I had the bright idea to stage the Christmas tree in the dining room. Prior to that ephipany the Christmas tree held court front and center in the living room. Lights ablaze, blinds cranked open, a dazzling array for the world to see.

Well, at least the part of the world who happened down our street and then happened to look up a bit.

The first year The Middle Girl's Family Christmas Tree and related holiday regalia called the dining room home there was no nearly five foot tall cat condo, pet crate, yard sale dishes (for when daughter moves out) bookcase, desk, or other overflow from the living room (where returning son has most of his belongings).

The living (or front) room seemed the logical location in the very beginning of our residence in this small condo because it was the most comfortable room at the time and was (or seemed) the easier to de-clutter adjust furnishings and the like to make room for the tree and related holiday regalia. 

Plus there was the showing the tree (and lights) to the world (that fraction who happened down our street . . . ) and I always enjoyed seeing the lights from the street when I came home from work in the evenings (I knew to look up.)

The bright idea from some years ago seems positively brillant today. Despite the groaning at the seams fullness of the dining room space, the tree must go there, cannot go anywhere else. No other room is suitable, no other space even remotely ready for its presence.

Moreover, I discovered that I like having dinner by the twinkling lights along with a couple of bottles glasses of wine, mom, son, daughter, and a condo full of fur babies (though the cats must be housed in my bedroom).

Sometime over the next 3, 4, or . .  today the tree and related holiday regalia will be installed, lights ablaze, a dazzling array for all of us to see and enjoy.






  

By The Light of the Wine

This space, middle girl dot blogspot dot com began March 29, 2006 after several months of my finding, lurking, and then commenting on other personal blogs. 

My search for a community led me to a cadre of some amazing women (mostly). That is to say there were mostly women, all totally amazing.  Many of those visited then are long gone now. Some others lie dormant but available for the random trips down bloggy lane.

One of the first regularly visited blogs belonged to The Lovely Elizabeth. The space she maintained then is long gone as are others she started in the years since. But, she still blogs and is still one of my favorite blog destinations.

Elizabeth, commented on one of my earliest posts:

Well, well...you have a blog. I get to put you on my blogroll. The pressure is on.

Congratulations to your son and to you for helping him get to this point.

Maxine (Elizabeth's wife) also maintained a blog or two over the years now dormant but replaced by two others.

Shortly after meeting on the nets arrangements were being made to meet face-to-face and that meeting cemented in real life that which began in the virtual world. I have recently returned from my second trip to Houston visiting with the lovely lady bloggers, knitters (well, one knits) painters (of pictures and houses) all and things fabulous.

Epic Party!

Elizabeth was my conduit to fantastic beer, kick-ass wine, insight and laughs galore.

Maxine is . . . in a word, AWESOME!

The brief respite from my day-to-day was precisely what the doctor would have ordered had she been consulted. It was most amazing plus I came home with a finely crafted knit blanket. (Repeat: Maxine is awesome.)  Win. Win. Win.

I can't thank you ladies enough for being the marvelous ladies you are and helping me take those very important early steps in my journey. I can hardly wait for the next event that has us in the same place at the same time.

Thank you for a memorable weekend.

 

Games. People.

 

A part of me feels the need to write about my father but a much larger part is sick and tired of the entire rather road weary affair.  It must be addressed and it will be, just not here or now. I will say that the let's get his family together experiment is, in the words of SJP's Carrie Bradshaw, "so over we need a new word for over."

Let us then move on to a new game, Holiday (psst, Christmas) gifting One Oh None.  

 The Granny Sling Shot.  None. For one, I loved my granny. Well, both of them actually, though I didn't know the paternal one very long or very well (she died when I was young a due to fractured family ties we didn't visit often.) But she seemed nice enough. She made great pancakes. Or at least she did that one time I remember staying over. While the pictured granny doesn't put me in the mind of either of my grandmothers as neither was Caucasian, I would still feel quite uncomfortable flinging a granny off the edge of my fingers, sending her soaring through the air only to crash . . . somewhere. Ouch. No.

Now, a book. . . One! Books are almost always a good idea. You know, as much as I read, as much as I love reading, my loved ones rarely gift me with books. Weird, that. Anyways . . I have already turned fifty, in fact am a year over that mark and well on the way to fifty-two. Still, I presume much of the advice and insights from the fifty notables is applicable to fiftysomethings as well as to the 50 year old.  For example, something like, "wear comfortable clothes" means as much to me at 51 as it would have at 50. Heck, I've been following that sage advice since my thirties, at least.    

A thoughtful gift-giver musing over the 50 Things might wander over to what I'm considering the companion piece, "60 Things To Do . . . " Gifting this tome to a 50something provides said fiftysomething a bit of a head-start in absorbing the words of wisdom from the sixty experts featured. A head-start is an extremely thoughtful pose. For a fiftysomething might need the rest of her fifties, for instance, to prepare for such sixties advice like, "take your clothes off."

Okay, maybe not.

Still, I bet there is a treasure trove of useful, relevant, and uplifting thoughts within the 678 pages (combined) offered up by the one hundred and ten (again, combined) experts who have "been there."

Okay, forget the books. How about just a treasure?

Or, given how I feel today, one whiskey, neat.  

a ha

For days I've felt a little . . . off, for lack of a more descriptive word. I thought it was tiredness brought on by too much work and too little rest. Or perhaps a malaise brought on by dreary weather accompanied by inexplicable? bloating, achy knees, odd cravings, emotional jags.  


Then I attributed the out of step feeling with the chore of first, reading (objectively) and then commenting to my dad about the material he sent. The material, in and of itself (though truly a chore) didn't upset me overmuch but the fact that he, of all people, would send me (among other material) a booklet titled, "How to Raise Responsible Children" really set my teeth on edge.


Oh, then there was an aching tooth. 


Two thoughts however, never crossed my mind as possible causes for the turbidity of  my daily experience in recent days, weeks.  One: this. and Two: the actual cause or perhaps more accurately, the root: P M freakin' S! 


That's right sports fans, yours truly is having an unplanned visitor.  At fifty-one. After over a year. 


It has been so long I misread all the tell-tell signs. The bloating, the cravings, the tiredness, the insomnia, the . . . everything. 


Oy to the Vey.


For all that, now that there is a face on the issue, now that the situation is flowing, so to speak, I'm much better. Well, not better in the sense that I am intensely annoyed at having to deal with this again, still. But, now I fully understand with what I'm dealing and can therefore be more focused on that root. There are known remedies. 


Still, I find myself on this Thanksgiving Eve quite thankful and full gratitude. Miss Flo and achy knees aside, there is my good health, the good health of both and actor and his sister (though she has been suffering with a wicked cold and upper respiratory infection over the past several days) and being able to put a full dinner on the table tomorrow that we will all share (along with my mother). We will trade stories old and new, laughs, and the like. And as much as I lack enthusiasm for the process, the shopping and prepping, I am overwhelmingly enthusiastic over the end result, the fullness of body and spirit. 


Happy Thanksgiving to one and all. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to shoo the actor away from the ham (again).

The Posts I Lost

 . . . were some sweet posts. Well, not really. The first was about dating, or more specifically one date conducted via telephone for she is in another state (in more ways than one.) It is probably good that the post got eaten by a post eating animal, as it wasn't very . . . well, sweet. 

The second post I lost was about my bat shit crazy older brother. I won't express just how un-sweet the ranting and raving flying off the tips of my fingers sounded even to my own ears. It was likely headed to draft purgatory. That is, had it not been eaten by the same post eating animal that swallowed post number one.  

Then I composed most of a third post about my dad (or rather, a package he sent me) in my head. I decided it best stay in my head. 

Post number one made me happily nostalgic. Post number two and the idea of number three had the opposite effect, that is to say not happily nostalgic.  

Bottom line: LOST IT

Shot Without the Sound

For the record I didn't hear the gunfire, only reports its existence. While walking to the train station on my way home from work on that particular day, talking to Dad on the phone, three ladies in scrubs standing outside of the Respiratory Health Center smoking warned me against advancing further toward the park by shouting in unison, "there was gunfire over there, don't go over there!!"  The last bit I didn't need for my number one rule of thumb: Gunfire, heard or reported equals stay away, as far away as possible.

Thus I detoured to the parking lot of the Respiratory Health Center, away from the smoking scrub wearers but still allowing me an unobstructed view of the action in the park across the way. The action; bystanders scurrying, sirens blaring, dome lights flashing, announcing police presence and the expectation of order being returned, led to the conversation with Dad took on a "my, how the city has changed"  tone. 

For the record this area is one of the least likely to experience gunfire, these days, hence the quick police response.The  area near my work has been upwardly mobile for a few years now. There are expensive loft spaces, townhouses, trendy restaurants and even trendier boutiques, east of the park. And while west of the park is on the move upward as well, with the demolished projects and new condos in their place, it is still in transition and due to the influence of the neighborhood just east of the park, relatively gun violence free. 

I spent several years of my childhood in a housing project just west of the park, circa 1970--1973. Dad and Mom were already divorced by then, but was still in the city and quite familiar with the neighborhood. Back then gunfire, stabbings, beatings, and various other crimes against people and nature were the rule rather than the exception. Police action was slow, if ever.  

Dad moved away from Chicago a very long time ago limiting his visits to one every 10 or 15 years, I think. I know I've only seen him once here in the city since he moved away in the late 70s. He may have returned other than that time for I don't think he sought me out whenever he was in (or near) town. And so we  talked about changes.  My remarks of the various changes to various neighborhoods specifically the one I was standing in at the moment were met with his remark of how he's sure he wouldn't recognize much, if anything. 

Since that conversation some realizations began to crystallize; my dad hasn't seen me or a photo of me for many, many years. My younger brother may have provided Dad with a photo (of a photo) of me, but it would be a very old one. I never refer to my dad as "Dad" when I'm speaking with him, He hasn't been that for so long, the verbal expression of the term is foreign to my tongue. I notice, even when relaying conversations I've had with him to M or D, I hesitate or stumble when I'm about to say, "my dad." He isn't even listed as "DAD" in my phone listings.  

For the record I didn't hear the gunfire. I do however, feel as though I've been shot. 

  

*pirate pumpkin seen around my little town.  

A Week's Worth

 

Monday: A patchwork of emotions welling up inside, threatening to bubble over the surface at any given moment. 

Tuesday: Much like Monday except for the charming spillage of hot tea all over the desk creating accidental watercolors of hand-written reports. 

Wednesday: What was that? Gunfire? Right where I need(ed) to be? Abort Mission (at least temporarily). 

Thursday: Another conversation with James (aka: DAD). He asked for my address (I've only lived in the same location for eleven years next month) but, no worries, I understand. He asked if he sent me something, would I read it. Hmmm... now, wondering WHAT could it be? Though, I suspect it has to do with his faith. We'll see 1. if he sends or 2. when it arrives. 

Friday: Much too tired to go to the store for beer, wine, or other. Probably just as well. 

Saturday: Scrubbing bubbles and shelf liner rule the day. 

Sunday: What? Here already? No booze, no dates, no clean underwear! I.E. Laundry. Where, yet again, some dip shit messes with our clothes. In Danielle's words, "what the fuck is wrong with people?" 

 . . . and it is Monday again: A patchwork of emotions welling up inside, threatening to to bubble over the surface at any given moment.   

Peace. Out.