Dear Melody,

As you know, the sun decided to make an appearance early this morning, kicking the early weather predictions in the teeth. I believe you had some hand in this event. How? I don't know, but that is what I believe. You wanted and perhaps needed the morning to unfold as it did as much (if not more) and I.

And unfold it did . . . temperature, sun, all the elements doing its part to present to us the ideal conditions for the inaugural run of the season.

Two cups of coffee, a bowl of cereal later I was ready. And there you were, readied days before in preparation, waiting patiently, confidently.
More confident than I, truth be told. Even though the run was nothing too complicated. Nothing too twisted. Nothing too involved. A small errand, an easy jaunt a bit over two miles, round trip.

Easy. Peasy.

Well, as it turns out not quite so easy and I have no idea what peasy means, if it even is a word, but it was nowhere to be found in the jaunt either. My knees crackled, my breaths shortened, and my back protested, but onward I pedaled, your shiny confidence urging me on.

Still, I must confess, my mind spun with alternatives for the return trip while securing you to the corral after the first leg. But, after I emerged from the post office, the parcel I'd gone to pick up safely packed in the bag, secured to my back, I noticed the wind velocity had lessened, the sun shone brighter, the traffic had eased.

Again, I know all that was your doing. You're a mighty force, my lovely blue machine.

So, thank you for being the strong one; for easing me up that slight incline, for steering me toward the softer, less pot-holed roads, for not mocking my ever so inelegant wheezing, the deafening noise of the crackling knees. Thank you for holding fast to our near snail's pace even as I ever so briefly, entertained of idea of being offended by the jogger in the pink fluorescent top out running us.

We made it back to the homestead, much as we left; you confident and me, achy but happy. You are parked in your usual place--anxious to weave your magic for the next clear day--for our next opportunity to be as one, again and again and again.

I am so grateful to have gotten this inaugural run under our collective belts, so happy it went as well as it did.

And so again, thank you for being there for me and being ready to go on the whims on the wind and the knees.

You are so lovely, my might blue machine.

Love,

Deborah
♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥  

Obese

Jillian Michaels said, "let's face it, you're obese!" I wasn't offended. I invited her opinion. I'd voluntarily gone to her website, filled out the questionnaire, and invited her to opine on my status and perhaps advice as to what I should might be less . .  (didn't / don't consider myself obese, but . . . ) less large.

Disclosure: I've never watched "The Biggest Loser".  I know of it due to it's (and by association, her) popularity and the show and / or contestants showing up in mainstream media from time to time; most recently, the criticism of a victor's extreme weight loss. I didn't really consider that I'd become a member of the BL bandwagon, I was just curious as to what her program would offer me for free and if that were anything different from what I could get elsewhere.

It wasn't.

The basic message was take in less, burn more: calories. 

Intellectually, I know this. Emotionally, I get it. As most of us know, it is much easier said than done.

I've been up and down this road these last few years. Most recently, I admit, more down and up

However, been there, done that, must do it again. Re-booting the campaign. I must. I not only huff and puff about the way I look, but huff and puff about the way I feel. I don't like the huffing and puffing.

So, with no thanks or offense to Jillian and her crew's program,  I will get back to what has worked in the past, tweaking to allow for my advanced age and other . . . advancements. Thankfully, time has come to get outside, get Melody out from under the stairs and on the road.  Adjustment to my diet began in earnest last week with further adjustments on tap for this week and beyond.

The loss won't be epic. It won't be quick. It certainly won't be easy. But, I will have measurable success.My emotional and physical health depends on some measure of success.

Goal set. Clock begun. Wheels turning.And a weigh we  go.

Inside Out

Spasmodic. If I had to ascribe one word to 1978 spasmodic comes the closest. During the first half I was seventeen and finishing my first year of college and during the second, eighteen and beginning the second (and ultimately, to date, my last) year of college. This work was produced in the midst of that. Which half? I don't remember, doesn't really matter because it was all .. . spasmodic.

At some point during 1978 I moved out of the rat, roach infested house my mom rented from "Mother" Allen, the meanest woman I'd met to that point. I was gone for several weeks before telling my mother where I'd moved--since she was powerless against my brothers and their enemies and I couldn't afford to have any of them them find me, harass me.

Talking about this time is still very difficult for me and I can't go further except to say, the ups and downs had ups and down . . . spasmodic. The Ups usually had to do with art; completing assignments, preparing to show and compete at fairs, thinking about which discipline to focus my efforts toward applying for admission to the respective department.

The piece shown above is one of the the very few pieces I have from that time, I sold or gave away nearly everything I created. This piece was resting in my portfolio. A few years ago, showing my daughter my work, I tok it out. My mother saw it, liked it, and offered to have it framed. One thing or another kept that from happening. I photographed it only a few days ago as I've just decided to get rid of it or alter it in some way.

Or not. I may put it back in the portfolio for a time, but either way, it has to get back out of sight, out of mind. For while it has been out in the open for some time now, I don't feel like I've really seen it, it has just sort of . . been. But, in recent days it seemed to be making noise, speaking to me, conjuring memories, good, bad, ugly, and . . . spasmodic.

Aprilair

               imagine

                these 

               pieces           

          together, like a page

               please 

A is for April. Air. Art. Apple. Anticipatory. Anxiety. Aggressive. Abalone. Affect. Aphrasia.

All those things and more. But now, it is about art. Contemplating art. Producing Art. Sharing Art. Going to see art. Contemplate. Rinse. And. Repeat. 

The above is my contribution to the Women's Circle Traveling Journal. An amazing undertaking of a blog pal  and a bunch of her artistic pals. I am awed to be in their company. I can hardly wait to see the finished journal. 

                                                                           

Additonally, the manada journey prompts continue to dance in my head. And at some point in these days of April they shall dance unto the page. 'Tis the plan, anyway. 

At last, there is seeing art. I haven't made time for going out to see art in a long, long time. The reasons are as plentiful as the opportunities missed and are not germane to the conversation. Point is, I'm thinking and planning. And even inviting. My cousin accepted my invite to the Hyde Park Art Center next weekend but has since cancelled. 

Anyway.

Attend. 

 . . . try. 

Art is in the April air in any case. 

It Began. It ContinUes.

sellf portrait 

Eight years and eight hundred and thirty one posts ago Middle Girl came into being; the companion piece for the journey of my life.

In the eight years of Middle Girl I saw my son graduate from college and  begin his career. He earned his first paycheck as an actor during his freshman year and has since, devoted his day-to-day to the pursuit of acting and related endeavors. His shift from treating acting as a career rather than a hobby changed him in ways that continue to manifest.

In the eight years of Middle Girl I saw my daughter become even more resolute in her pursuit of that which will make her happiest. She has worn a few educational and occupational hats in these eight years and is in the midst of more changes at this very moment. No matter where her life was, where it is, or where it is going, my daughter's core remains intact. She is a passionate young woman who works hard. She hasn't always made the best choices but continues to make the best of the choices made.

In the eight years of Middle Girl I have revealed my lesbianism to my son and daughter, community of bloggers and eventually, my mother. That revelation and the subsequent journey led me to the two women who at some point possessed my heart. While both relationships and the emotional holds are long gone both women remain close to my heart,  for the experiences they provided and what I learned about myself through those experiences and their respective gifts.

In the eight years of Middle Girl a career ended, another began and that, abandoned for a different style of opportunity. Each event taking a piece of me away but adding a component in its place. No matter what I'm doing to keep the lights on I remain committed to the goal: Work Hard. Do Good. Be Incredible. The current opportunity will allow time and space for community. And that was a major impetus for making the change.

Within the eight years of Middle Girl my dad died. And a few months later, my mom died. Long separated, to have lost them both within months, of the same disease, brought them together for me in a way the decades couldn't manage. My dad and I had been mostly estranged until the year prior to his death. We made our peace even as we didn't see eye-to-eye on the Yahweh, Jehovah, what-have-you front.

My mom has always been, will always be, in my bones. We were together every day of her life, right until the very end. And while we had our disagreements and skirmishes over the years, she loved me like no one else has nor ever will. She was fierce in her devotion to me (and my brothers) despite often disagreeing with our respective approaches to our lives and loves. She worked to impart the benefit of her experiences and tried to give us what she felt we missed not having our dad in our lives.

And in spite of being a dyed-in-the-wool christian she gave me space to release the atheism I'd internalized for years. She, unlike my dad, didn't try to (re-recruit) me. She didn't totally understand since I was raised christian and she remained concerned for my soul, but she didn't haarangue me. About that, anyway.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

In the eight years of Middle Girl I made some lovely connections beyond the ladies previously noted; In the beginning of my blogging days there was a community of lesbian bloggers who welcomed me with open arms. And while most have stopped blogging, a few remain friends. Thanks to blogging I continue to meet inspirational, wonderful, entertaining, and engaging women.

Each year brought its own set of challenges, none more than last. The losses, the forced changes, the emotional and physical toll, the . . . everything was just so damn hard. And while I worked to work, keep an upbeat attitude, keep on with the business of "keeping on" it was so. damn. hard. and remains so, though, not quite as . . .

sharp.

In part, thanks to Middle Girl and what producing this space requires of me.

Thank you to all those who have visited in the past, who continue to visit, and to those who will visit down the road...for Middle Girl will continue. For another eight years? Remains to be seen. But for now, and the foreseeable future, I am embracing this companion on this journey of a life.

March. Women.

The month of March is designated women's history month in the same vein as February is for black history. As my friend Elizabeth (who was HERE a couple of weeks ago-wheeeeee!!) noted, "you get two back-to-back." To which I replied, . . . well, I forget the words as there was wine and beer, talk and laugh, and very much glee. But the sentiment was, YaY.

So, the month the March is designated women's history month and for each day, I've noted some woman of note who has touched me in some way throughout my own history. To date they are:

March 1st:  "And while I don’t expect you to save the world I do think it’s not asking too much for you to love those with whom you sleep, share the happiness of those whom you call friend, engage those among you who are visionary and remove from your life those who offer you depression, despair and disrespect." - Nikki Giovanni

March 2nd: "Never be afraid to sit and think." ~ Lorraine Hansberry

March 3rd: Anna Julia Cooper  March 4th Jessie Little Doe Baird March 5th: Leslie I. Hill 

March 6th: Anna Devere Smith  March 7th: Julie Murphy March 8th: Kim Ransom 
March 8th was also International Women's Day!!

March 9th: Toni Stone March 10th: Aretha Franklin: March 11th Lisa Taylor 

March 12th: Eleanor Taylor Bland  March 13th: Althea Gibson March 14th: Juanita Moore  

March 15th: Mahalia Jackson March 16th: Dr. M. Joycelyn Elders March 17th: Veronica O. Davis

March 18th: Sylvia Woods  March 19th: Wanda Sykes March 20th Diahanne Carroll 

March 21st: Debbie Allen March 22nd: Grace F. Edwards March 23rd: Marian Anderson

The mention of these women in particular is not to slight any others. I laud them (us) all in whatever endeavor(s) they (we) pursue; for they (we) all are worthy of note. Every day of every month. Women. March.

In addition reveling in the stories of women, a visit from my dear friend Elizabeth which included a journey of downtown Chicago, parts of the IL leg of historic Route 66, and my (surprisingly VERY IRISH) heritage, the other minutes of the month have been about 1. getting a new job and getting acclimated to all that THAT entails. 2. tending to a cousin who is tending to a mother-in-law who had a stroke AND a husband who had a stroke and heart surgery. 3. tending to my daughter who had her heart broken and the stress that brings not to mention her work and school stresses. 4. working to focus myself on health (mind and body) and one stated goal: the ever elusive weight loss. 5.thinking about longer, warmer days and the return of bicycle riding season. Melody has been patient.

I'm still also working to complete the January Mandala journey. I did participate in the Women's Circle Traveling Journal, sending the journal on to the next link in the chain. I'll show the art produced for that in another post.

Yes, there is the last days of March to march through and I am happy for them. But, I am looking forward to April toward getting more involved with the new job, learning more terms and procedures. I am also looking forward to April toward focusing on A-R-T and hopefully, getting my cousin out of her house for some kind of recreation and down time. And of course, riding--rolling, rolling, rolling on.

What She Said

She* said 

Back in the day, as they say, she made art. Some of the art, some of the time, received recognition. Some of the time said recognition meant being interviewed by various folk.

Back in the day, as they say, she made words. Some of the words, some of the time found themselves printed in one rag or another. Every now and again, the words printed in said rag (or another) brought out some kindly attention.

The picture is a depiction of one of those times. She doesn't remember if the interveiw was because of art or words. It may have quite possibly been both.

No one remembers. No one made note, or the note is long, long gone.

What she said to the woman holding the microphone was she enjoyed producing whatever; art or words or both. Said art or words or both represented life.

No, she doesn't really remember the interview but the best guess is, yes...fun. life. brief. fleeting.


*she: Deborah being interviewed because she did arty stuff that some folks liked and made mention, at times, honorably.

March Ink On

Greetings and Salutations;

Simply put, it is freaking cold~still. And there is more snow. I know, I know, it is winter and it is what happens in winter. E-X-C-E-P-T this is the snowiest in many, many years. Plus we've broken temperature (sub zero actual and windchill) records. If feels like it has been going on forever with no end in sight.

I am not ashamed to admit that I haven't done well with the conditions this winter. Never my favorite season, I had here-to-fore been able to tolerate the snow and the cold. Not this season. It is more than the record breaking, sub zero temps and biting wind chills. More than it being the snowiest season in many, many years. More than the extraordinary rudeness of property owners who haven't been clearing their walkways.

I have spent a number of minutes throughout a number of days being annoyed. And tired. And sore.
And . . more.

On the plus side, I haven't fallen down very much this season.

And now it is March. True, it snowed yesterday and it barely made it out of the teens today and there is more of the same on the way for the coming week.

But, it is March. There are changes afoot for me.  Not because it is March, but changes are a'comin'. It just works out that the changes are beginning in March. It is March and hopefully that means winter will give way to spring because it is March.

Simply put, I'm ready for it not to be so freaking cold. But, even if it is for many more days to come the changes that are coming will make it feel not quite so.

Welcome Women's History Month and here, here to some happy in March.

Fresh(er) (Re)Start

Charles Alston Art 

However many days ago I posted I silently promised that I'd post more frequently. It isn't as though good (and bad) things are happening most every minute of most every day. The problems are 1. deciding if any of those things are story worthy. 2. mustering up the creative energetic flow to tell any of the decided upon stories. 3. Feeling like something other than eating, drinking, sleeping, working, and worrying about all those things (or rather, the effect) and more in unequal measure.

Long story short, I'm lost. Yes, I'm grieving runs deeper. I don't know who I am or what I want, for me. Or, I want too many things for me and

I can't sort it all out 

I can't sort it all out 

I can't sort it all out 

That said, the mandala lessons have helped. The daily prompts have ended as it was a 30-day journey. But, as of last weekend I completed up through lesson twenty-one. I will complete the others in my own time and space, as noted in some previous post. The 30 day journey will continue well beyond and beyond. 

Still . . . being alone, silent, sans color and light except when forced to be otherwise is the order of most days. The goal is to embrace those moments of joy, to seek them out, to create and extend that which brings the joyful noises. 

To wit: happy birthday wishes go out to my aunt (94) my brother (52) and my son (32). Congratulations to my daughter who has just completed the 2nd quarter of a culinary program and powered her way through the end (finally) of a toxic romanticized relationship. I am so proud of her while at the same time sorry I couldn't be more helpful. She says differently but I think she is being kind.

My son (the actor) is cast in a play opening soon with two more booked back-to-back. He has a small part in the pilot of a series premiering in a few weeks. He has auditions for two more screen projects in the coming days. He is writing again.

And I went out on Saturday, spent some time with some wonderful ladies via one of the meet-up groups. We watched an enlightening film followed by energetic conversation. That kind of thing should happen more frequently. 

Like writing. Like art. Like laughter.

Like, celebrating life. 

Look Inside

A full week has passed since I was nearly caught up with the lessons and projects. I landed on the vocation lesson and . . .

nothing.

Not, mind you that I don't have ideas. I do. But, turning those ideas into something and putting them on paper . . . did not happen over the past week and certainly not this weekend.

That said, I do intend to do the remaining assignments and look forward to the prompts for the week (the last week) to come.

In the interim, I volunteered to contribute to a traveling art journal. When the journal arrives I'll have to insert my artistic imprint on two pages. I think I'm 5th on the list and given the schedule, if each of the 4 ahead take the full seven days, plus factoring mailing time, I'd say the journal will land in my maillbox, oh, maybe 1st or rather 2nd week of March?

Did you know the cost of first class postage went up .03. The cost of mailing a first class letter is now .49. If you have forever stamps on had, no immediate impact. I have forever stamps on hand.

However, when I go to purchase more stamps: impact.

My mind is racing in about 45 different directions in about as many speeds. My heart isn't far behind. I cannot be trusted to make any rational decisions. About anything. Seriously.

I don't understand why no one is getting back to me. Well, not "no one" but a particular someone. I'm afraid. I miss her, but it isn't about me. I worry. About her. I hope all is well. And if it is something I said, did (or didn't) . . .    ::doves:::

You may have heard that Monday and Tuesday are going to be too fucking cold to move. Yet, move I must.

Any positive energy you can send this way, greatly appreciated.

Truly.

I know. All over the place today....stream of consciousness kind of post. I blame the diet 7-UP.

ta ta

Mandala and Recent Days

 Well, the cold that was getting better slid back. And so, I was down for most of the last few days.

 But, I'm better again. Just in time for the weekend (well, after Friday) and I believe, more snow.

 But, before going down for the count this last time, I did finish some of the assignments. These

were posted to the private group FB page. There have been some really amazing 

submissions. I'm awed by the journeys, stories, and artistic expressions being shared. 

I have three more completed that have yet to be scanned and uploaded. Still, I'm three (or is it four?) behind as of tomorrow morning. Whichever of the next lessons I choose, I'd like my interpretations to be more . . . elaborate, I guess. But, I am limited to the supplies and resources I have on hand and of course, time (and head space) to execute the lessons. I must remember not not concern myself with being behind or or playing catch-up or how artistic my offerings. I must remember what the true goal, the lessons being taught, and the insight I hope to glean from the exercises. 

Long story short, I'm having fun creating and questioning. YaY for PLAY

While I Was Sleeping

You know being relevant or coming up with something interesting, funny to say about what's current is just as hard as it might ever be depending on the serendipity of it all.

Lily and her lady got married on New Year's Eve. They've been together forever. Well, not literally, but a really long time. So, one-congratulations to them (and the families).  And two, this along with the Robin Roberts oh-so-pedestrian, "thank you to my girlfriend" statement of a few days ago fired up digital and print media types (again and again) about how we gays are ruining the planet. 

ain't she somthin' ? ! 

To which I say: pfffft. 

Oh, there is more but I don't want to spend the very small feeling better window treating narrow-minded, ignorant bigots. 

So, congratulations ladies, all.  

In other news, I'm several days behind on my mandala journal/journey. But, it is cool. It is that kind of deal. I have the emails and know what the subsequent assignments are. I may or may not choose to do them all to catchup. It is not about catching up, it is about my thinking, feeling, creating each day as I see fit and as fits me. 

My cold is feverishly working its way out of my body. Today is the first day in many that my entire nose is working more often than not. The chills that are not weather (what about that  weather, yo?) related  are abating.I'm still coughing like crazy but my energy and its cousin, appetite are inching back into existence. 

While all won't be well, being physically well is two steps in the right direction. 

To close and to bring it back to the lovely . . . a friend's Robin Roberts post elicited a, "why should we care" type comment from one of her friends. To which I replied, "I'm excited for the day where it just IS. . . that is to say, not newsBut, today is not that day and so, it matters and so, we 

(some of us) care, quite a lot."


Happy Wednesday soon to be Thursday! 

And welcome air temperatures well above zero. 


*click on the images

The Gift

My good friend Maxine gave me a gift*. Her gift offered entry into a community of sharing. A prompt will be presented each day. I can choose to participate or not. In either case, I get to see other entries, reflect and relate to my life, as needed. No pressure. No deadlines. No supplies to buy.

Today I chose to participate. The first prompt: PLAY.  Accompanying the above image the text as follows:

Throughout my childhood play meant music and bicycles, not necessarily together but all the better if such was the case. I am not a musician by any stretch but love music and the art of creating same. I am not an expert cyclist either but from my very first ride at age 7, reveled in the joy (and the freedom) it allowed. 2013 was an extremely trying and challenging year. For a variety of reasons that I have not been able to fully articulate, neither music or bicycling offered the solace I needed. I didn't play. I couldn't play. Now I feel as though I must play, if only for a little bit, everyday.

And so, here's to the first day of 2014 and my effort to bring some measure of play back into my day-to-day. 


*Mandala Discovery: 30 Days of Mandala Journaling

From, Me

image courtesy of The Bluestocking Review

                                                             

                                                       LOVE & PEACE

To, You.

Year In Review

Pictured here with the daughter is my mother's younger (youngest) sister. A few weeks after my mother's death my aunt had a stroke. It was a mild one as those things go and she's done remarkably well with physical therapy. There are some lingering signs, but still, she is recovering nicely.

Of all her sisters my mother's youngest resembled her (physical features) the most. Since mom's death and my aunt's stroke her physical resemblance to my mother is even sharper. Could be that is due to the slack in her jaw or as much, her adopting some of my mother's mannerisms and attitudes. Then again, it could be all in my mind.  

Twenty-thirteen is the year my mother died--within six months of my father's death. Twenty-thirteen is the year I ceased being a daughter--at least in an active sense. While my father had not been part of my day-to-day for many, many years prior to his sickness and ultimate demise, my mother was very much a part of my day-to-day. The last six months of her life I was with or spoke with her every day.

There were other major changes in my life in twenty-thirteen but none compare to bearing witness to the light extinguishing from my mother's eyes. Being there at that moment, that moment has been in my bones every day since. Thus, impacting every day since.

In recent weeks I've come to the realization that I have about 5 hours of activity in me. I'm easily winded and as easily, wearied. This is not boding very well for getting the new career off the ground. And so, floundering in that regard. A re-booting is becoming apparent.

Building relationships with my brothers (and other family) have floundered as well.  Outside of my aunt pictured and one cousin I haven't been very successful in getting others to maintain connections. I've decided to move on. I think. Hurts like a son-of-a-bitch, and so, not sure I'm ready to just stop. In fact, holiday cards posted this weekend.

Some of my friends have had, are having an extremely challenging twenty-thirteen as well. I can't help them except to extend an encouraging and empathetic word now and again. To each of you, I wish I could do more. I love you more than you probably know.

When I look back at twenty-thirteen I see emptiness. The twinkling lights, glittered balls, and chirpy carols of recent weeks haven't done much to fill the void or erase the sense of desolation, despair--try as they might.

Sadness aside, twenty-thirteen has seen some positive moments, some upbeat themes. I shall embrace those joys and build upon them. I shall look forward to deepening relationships with newer connections. I shall distance myself from the only daughter I used to be and become . . . TBD

For my mother's younger (youngest) sister, for my mother and father, for my son and daughter, for my cousin and my friends, for me I shall look back at twenty-thirteen and use the sights seen, feelings felt, experiences survived to stand up, walk, and eventually run. Well, metaphorically speaking, anyway--you all should know, I don't run unless absolutely necessary.

We are living art, created to help others to hang on, stand up, forbear, continue. ~Maya Angelou

Baby, It's Cold

cold weather cat

Most days I want to cry all the time. When I do cry I feel guilty and ashamed. When I don't, I feel the same. Most days I want to cry all the time, especially when it is cold.

It is cold now.

Most days I want to cry all the time. When I do cry I pretend it is because of something sad I saw, read, or heard. I deliberately seek the sad for a reason, because I think I need a reason, beyond the reason that is my reason. Most days I want to cry all the time, especially when it is cold.

It is cold now.

Most days I want to cry all the time. Beyond not feeling festive, I want to cry out loud. You know that feeling. Your chest heaves, your throat swells...you've seen a cat getting ready to vomit...it looks, feels like that. All. The. Time. Most days I want to cry all the time, especially when it is cold.

It is cold now.

Most days, I don't feel like working. I don't feel like playing. I don't feel like writing. I don't feel like drawing. I don't even feel like reading. Reading is everything. Reading is life ....I don't feel like...yeah, life.
Most days I want to cry all the time. Especially when it is cold.

I'm not saying I want my life over, I'm saying I don't have the energy for something more than what is at present.  I'm saying, most days I feel like crying all the time and that this feeling (not to mention the actual crying) is preventing much of anything else. It isn't the feeling like crying, but the reason . . . plural.

I'm saying especially when it is cold. And it is cold. Now.

Pass the Rum Gravy, Cabbage, and Rolls

Truth be told, I haven't had rum in several years. In fact, the last taste of rum was gifted to me by a very dear friend. I don't there will be any rolls either. It has just occurred to me that I forgot to buy them and unless there is something vital that seems to have been forgotten as well, dinner will go on without them.

No biggie.



Yes, there will be a dinner. Poultry, dressing (not stuffing in my corner of the universe) macaroni and cheese, cabbage (two ways--with meat and without) and . . . I know I'm forgetting something, can't put my finger on it...oh well, point is, food.

And drink. And . . well, and . . . just . .

Truth be told I'm not feeling particularly festive. I'm trying for daughter's sake but my heart really isn't in it. But, there will be food and if the cabbage (both ways) and the macaroni and cheese are any indication it will be good. Maybe not great, maybe not amazing, but good. Okay, very good.

Damn, the gooey, cheesy . . good. Must stop tasting.

Truth be told, while not feeling particularly festive I do recognize there is much for which thanks should be given. And so I do give thanks for my decent health, the good health of the actor and his sister, the comfort of loving pets, shelter, food (damn, the gooey, cheesy . .) drink, other family, friends particularly those who have experienced a recent turn of (woot woot) events allowing for a sense of safety, security, inching toward home,  warming me all over.

Yes, there will be a dinner, the menu changed (slightly) to minimize the onslaught of memories.And while not feeling particularly festive, I am thankful to be here to be able to share a meal with my son and my daughter and to have connections with people who bring me great comfort and joy.

Peace to you.

Too Long

It was my intent to be back long before now. But the last couple of weeks have been, in a word, crappy. Without going into an inordinate amount of detail, which is torturous for me, just so you know, I'll just say fifty-three year old women should not be having periods. Okay, maybe I shouldn't speak (or type) for ALL fifty-three year old women. But, for sure and for certain THIS fifty three-year old woman should most definitely, absolutely, positively NOT be having a period. Ever again. Please. Thank You. 

Yes, yes, I should be careful of what I ask for. I could be trading one painfully, inconvenient, uncomfortable, mind-numbing, aggravating event for another. Still, I ask. 

The hereafter never-mentioned-again period is not (in and of itself) the only cause for crappy feelings over the past couple of weeks. There were the usual subjects; frustrations at work, weather, commuting debacles, minor household upheavals, my hair, the impending holidays, grief, wardrobe malfunctions (fucking socks) . . . quite possibly all exacerbated by . . . yeah, that. 

Overall crappy feeling aside, there were some inspirational touches, some, "I'm grateful to be here in this time, in the place" moments, some, "let's forge ahead" attitudinal brio, if you will. This video was such a touch. It is long but if you have or find the time, it is worth it.  

Aging in general and my aging specifically has been front and center these past couple of weeks and not in such a kind way, thanks to the screaming muscles and achy joints, among other things. The Fabulous Fashionistas came into my time and space and just the right time an space. 

The physical aches and pains are still in residence and seem destined to visit for quite a while longer. On the flip-side, the emotional crappy is lifting. Some. 

No Skirts, No Glory

6. Black pencil skirt

Versatile, stylish and surprisingly flattering, no matter what your size. Wear it to the knee (or slightly shorter if worn with black tights), and make sure it has a little stretch and some draping but is not tight. Pair with black tights and booties, or patent-leather pumps for night. Don't wear a flat shoe, but a mid-heel or high-heel pump, wedge shoe or boots.

See Figure 1: 

figure 1

Line item number six of ten, women aged 50 plus should have in their closet according to some AARP column writer. Noted.

 . . . and that is where it ends. I had a reaction to the AARP column and this item (in my closet) in particular immediately upon reading it. I began this post but couldn't get past the above noted point in fashioning a proper post. So, it sat in the drafts folder for day. For weeks.

Because I don't like trashing (except for spam or spam-like emails) here it is, in all its unfinished, lack luster glory. I may figure out how to say what I think I want to say.

Or not.

P. B. and C.

The Boys - couple years ago*

The boys have decided that I am their new best friend. They have made it their mission to break into my bedroom at 30 minutes prior to the crack of dawn each day for the past week.

During the week, the workdays it isn't a humongous deal since I'm up pretty early anyway but I'd still like the option of not having two sacks of fur scratching and cat-body knocking on the door--causing the larger bundle of fur (Cinnamon) pretending to be asleep on the other side of said door--to whimper and pounce around, making it near impossible to ignore the scratching and cat-body knocking.

Again, during the work week, not a humongous deal, but on the weekends? Large. Deal. Larger? the weekend where I was to have gained an hour of . . . if not, sleep then certainly rest.

My Saturday and Sunday mornings are designed (in my head) to be lazy, hazy risings. No alarms. No alerts. Letting the day unfold somewhat organically. After a trip outdoors to allow the puppy dog to do her puppy dog business, all bundles of fur are fed while coffee is brewing or water (for tea) is boiling. After all are settled, a cup is poured, and . . .  

This weekend, in addition to the hour (earlier) scratching and cat-body knocking the boys has made it their mission to sack out on top of my bed most of the day. Now, again, not a humongous deal because of course, I love the boys and as they are relatively small cats (compared to the good sized dog) and were not in the way. They also didn't make a nuisance of themselves. Much.

The problem with the boys deciding to be my new best friend and wanting (needing) to spend so much time with me, next to me, is . . . Cinnamon. She is extremely excited to play with her personal radio control pets. She is mostly frustrated because they (normally) spend so much time on their higher perches and when they are not on higher ground, they are shielded against her ministrations by myself or daughter--mostly.

Now, as the boys have spent so much time on the floor, or bed, just nearer to Cinnamon, that it has been . . . let's us just say,  the opposite of lazy, hazy.

All that said, I'm happy that Cinnamon likes to play with the boys, that the boys recognize what she's doing as play and that their interactions are of a mostly friendly nature. My concern is that she is so much larger and heavier that she might injure them without meaning to do so. Or that they (especially Pete) might become less than pleased with her attention and strike out.

I feel, however,  they are all coming to a meeting of the fur minds and working out an arrangement that suits them all.

My interests don't seem to be part of the overall negotiations.

Though, I must say,the loss of lazy, hazy aside, it is pleasant having so much company.

Mostly.