Tuesday, July 31, 2007

New York

Last day.

I'm on hiatus from New York for a few weeks, at the least, a month at the most.

Everything here is done, I've only to lug out the rubbish, take my shower and hail the gypsy cab (booya, anon).

I'm following another blog, reading about someone dealing with an ill father, which brings back the times sitting with my dad... I know his pain. Having met, it's harder than a simple read of an unknown. I'll keep an eye there, to see how it goes, and prayers will be said.

I keep an eye on my void, and wonder how long just now is... and sometimes, I wonder if I'm more comfortable with things the way they are... if the void opens, I face failure. I'm not too sure I can deal with that. I failed once, simply struck dumb, and now, I sit outside a locked door, waiting.

WeatherGuy is camping for a week, a last minute hurried phone call our only conversation. There will be more, a simple hiatus, he reminded me.

Friends here, one sending me furiously typed emails I'm responding to as I type this, most of them making me laugh.

I've a wedding to attend, no dress purchased yet, a new member of the family I'll be holding soon... my Investment will be there, the Slumlord and MissH.

Good times ahead.

See you soon, New York. Make sure you move as fast as you can while I'm gone. If you didn't, I'd worry.

Monday, July 30, 2007

Today's Blather

1. I was reading a journal today, and the writer said she tracks posts. Why? I never bother, because well, A) I don't know how and B) it's just too big brotherish.

I don't want to know how many people read me or what their ISP is or where they are from. I've had a few nasty comments, and a few nasty emails. For some reason, people usually email me their snarky remarks.

I appreciate that, you 47 readers!

But, to trace anyone who logs on here? *shudder* To be honest, it makes me wonder.. who traces me? I tend to log in, and sometimes sit on a site for hours... I don't close out windows. I take the terrier out, take a nap.... I am unemployed right now... whatever. Am I being...watched?

2. I did a farewell walk around the 'hood.

I've had my fair share of smack talk about the Bronx. I need to be careful and aim that talk at my particular area... there are some amazing places in the Bronx I've found. Parks and churches and neighborhoods that are leafy, green, the architecture is crisp. It's my neighborhood that drives me to staying inside, and walking home with a straight back and a firm stride.

Generational dependence on the area's big employer, the Government, has driven many to stay as they are. When you are handed money with each child, you keep having children. I live in a building that is 85% subsidised. It's nasty, the tiles are broken, the garbage piles up in a rotting mass. I listen to fights in the courtyards and have spent more than one evening with a child next to me, sitting on the stairs, waiting for a parent to unlock the door after being out until midnight or later. Kids become what they see. I've heard arguments stop when I walk past.... and start up again when I move on. They don't do that for anyone else. I live in my Little Apartment in the Projects, and I stand out like a sore thumb. Middle class in every way.

I have so many good things I'll take from here, the pizza place and the kids in the building... the young couple moved away. Queens, I heard. There's a group of men who play dominos down the street, their table set up in the shade of the building, they call out, "Mamii... how are you?" when I walk by. We all nod very politely.

I'll not miss the .99 Store that LIES.

"That is $1.49."

"Your sign says everything is .99"

"Yes, well, that is $1.49."

I hate that.

I won't miss the loud cars at 3A. I won't miss the piles of trash, or the crack house across the street or the heavy heat of the flat at midnight.

I'll miss the roses in the garden two houses over.

3. The 4 train. I took it up here for the last time today, and.. and... I had a seat from downtown all the way home.

'nuff said.

4. House is cleaned, clothes packed, I had cookies from Jack's .99 store downtown for my birthday.

5. Had the interview, where I was one of 10 narrowed down from over 100. Fingers crossed.

6. Read the ending of Harry Potter. Shame on you, JK Rowling. I skimmed the last half, then read the ending. Twaddle, it was... twaddle.

Tomorrow, I move suitcases, computer bag and a dog to Penn Station, then on the train to Newark... then to Utah. I leave here at 1P and arrive in my old home at 4A.

August should be great fun.

Sunday, July 29, 2007

When Life Isn't Beautiful

I don't agree that anything and everything is fair ground for comedy.

The comment was made elsewhere, and it was there that I said my piece on that particular subject.

I came to the realisation, I need to address it on my own journal.. if I'm going to be a righteous twat, I need to bring it to my own playground.

Anything and everything isn't fair grounds for comedy, plain and simple statement belief, in my plain and simple thought.

You don't go after children, in any fashion. You don't bring up the Holocaust. You don't use genocide in any fashion as a basis for comedy. Certain events... leave them alone.. the sheer smack to the spirit is enough. You can discuss them, plays are done, and done well.. films. Comedy? I guess I can't find anything amusing in those subjects, nothing droll, nothing in the slightest to make me, well, even smile with a twinge of amusement.

Sure, I'll laugh like crazy with Mel Brooks and his poking a sharp stick in the face of Hitler. He's right, you have to laugh at the man, or he wins. Chris Rock did an entire riff on the two boys who shot up Columbine, where a boy I knew was shot. No one had touched the idea of Columbine.

Chris touched on the people. Not the event, the people who he said, "...were crazy. They weren't outcasts, they were crazy." It let us all start to accept what had happened.

The Holocaust was a word to me....and when I was young, I saw a woman in Denver, where I was living at the time, near Sloans Lake. It was there, on her wrist... just, there. Dark against her white skin. She reached for something, I looked.. and, my breath was taken away. Our eyes met, she smiled, soft.. small. My breath was taken away. I went home, didn't even put my groceries away, sitting on my sofa, crying. I never saw the event the same way again.

R questioned how people say it never happened.

"Well, then, where did my relatives go?"

I shook my head. I wonder that , too. How do you explain the disappearance of six million? And, how to you trivialise it by asking for limericks? When that happens, you open the door for it to happen again.

Oh, wait.. Darfur.

Molest a child? I'll have no problem laughing at what is done to you. I won't laugh if someone makes a joke over what you did. In fact, I'll more than likely use words to cut you up myself, if I can restrain myself from slapping you, or washing your mouth out with Lava.

You don't hurt children, in any way, shape or form.

And, you don't use any of those events as a basis for comedy.

Some things are held as sacred. Hiroshima. The Holocaust. Darfur, along with the other horrific acts being perpetrated as we speak in Africa. 9/11. Harming children.

No, I'm sorry....well, actually, I'm not sorry.

Not everything and anything is fair game.

When that happens, we've truly lost our souls.

And, in this righteous twat's mind, when that happens, we might as well eat, drink and fuck ourselves silly, the only important things in life... settling in for the big black thereafter.

I'm not ready for that. I still have hope we'll sort something out.

That, that small hope, that is what makes life beautiful.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

My Name is Quin. Quin DuBois,

Sadly, I don't look like Vivian Leigh, however, I felt like her character thanks to the kindness of strangers.

I was even semi-caressed by a swarthy man in a white shirt today.... that's later down the page, scroll ahead if you feel the need.

Life has been, well, harsh.ish lately.

I've listened hard, to see what the universe was saying aside from, "Please enjoy this while we connect your call" and Pachelbel's Canon plays on my nerve while I sit on hold.

Things moved... slowly.

'Just now' was the Universe's modus operandi. I sweltered, worried, filled out forms, packed, re-packed, moaned and bemoaned my fate.

Things....changed. R wrote, "Hey, I'll come pick you up, take your stuff from the Bronx to Brooklyn."

Whoa. We'd never met. And she's driving from 90 minutes away, to take my stuff that far? This is on top of handing over miles she never uses to top off my Delta miles. R, thanks. Just.. thanks.

GW sends emails, making me laugh. Miss Sof and Loo remind me, your time is coming. K says, "Hiatus, keep saying, hiatus." WeatherGuy talks as if September is no big time away, the Jarhead is in touch again after a technical fubar and I get emails that I smile over.

I get a call from an ad I'd answered some time ago, "We love your resume, can you come in for an interview?"

Boom. Script supervising job in September, small indie, but, they are going for the internet serial thing, so, long term is ahead. They also want me to work with them on casting, based on my four years in the position in theater.

Okay. Okay, I'm feeling better.

I had found a way to do the apartment thing, if this one in mid-town didn't work out. It is a great place, but, it was at the top of my budget. My son stepped in, and told me not to worry. The SlumLord worries about his Mom. Let's be honest, he wanted a place to stay when he comes here.

Another call, out of the blue.... would I like to come interview as an assistant to a film producer on Monday? He, too, loves my resume. Well, I did use a pretty font and everything.... Oh! And, can I travel if it works out on the job?

Ummm, yes?

My mother calls... she is lonely. Would I mind terribly if she took the terrier?

This, ah, this was hard. I've been thinking lately, however, that it's not fair to the terrier... I'm out looking for work, and she's been here, alone. Her little face is not happy when I get back, and she's developing bad habits, like dumping trash cans, and burying her dog bones in my clothes.

My mother isn't a good parent to me, however, she adores the terrier. I'm thinking this may be a good thing all the way around. When I go to New Orleans, the terrier will stay behind.

I can't talk about this right now.

I managed to get everything into the alloted suitcases last night, a miracle in itself... and R arrives. We get along wonderfully, talking at, through, and around each other, setting guidelines on some areas.... I simply refuse to listen to her discuss how her friend got his nip... well, I refused. boundaries in place, we're off.

She has a GPS that she's set to have an Australian accent. It's very precise, "Turn left in 100 yards."

We stop at Dunkin' Donuts, and it goes mad.

"Reverse your direction, and turn left. Reverse your direction, and turn left. REVERSE YOUR BLOODY DIRECTION AND TURN FUCKING LEFT!!!'

I was impressed.

Fueled by caffeine and sugar, we headed out... and arrived in Brooklyn awhile later, our voices almost worn out.

I rang C, who said she wasn't home, but, was on her way.

"Oh, well, J is here," I said, naming her landlord, who was also my first landlord in the city. "He can let me in if that's okay." There was a moment of silence.

"Ummm, no. No, I'd rather you wait for me."

I was more than surprised. C and I go way back, I mean, she's my sister, and we walk in and out of each other's homes.

R and I settled in to wait, after R took 47 minutes to parallel park.

While I waited, I started to chat with J, who is a nice, nice man.

"Where have you been living since you left here?" he asked. "We've missed seeing you around."

I filled him in, ending up with my current state of no apartment.

His nice Sicilian face filled with shock. "The BRONX??? You are off Fordham, in the BRONX???? No, no, I can't have that." With a question to his wife who was leaving, a fast phone call, and a comment on said phone call of "... I have a deposit, (winks at me) and you don't need to worry about checking, she's good people.", I found myself the tenant of his son, who owns a house on Staten Island, a place where J had just finished refurbishing the basement into a nice one bedroom apartment.

New bathroom, new flooring, new kitchen, new air conditioning. No credit check thing of 60 times the rent amount. No huge deposit (he wanted $100... I gave him $200) and, it's in a house. In a nice neighborhood. With a fenced yard.

How much? $725. Everything included.

On top of that, J told my new landlord (who is having me mail the check when I get to Utah) that he can pick up all my stuff from Brooklyn and move it to my new place. "She doesn't need to have to worry about that stuff, and you've got that big car."

I cried.

CB (no, not Caj), my landlord, spoke to me... would I mind, on rare occasions, to play nanny? No, but, the kids have to call me Miss Quin, I'm old fashioned. "Sure, but, what do I have to call you?" he asked, laughing.

"Hmmm. Well, I'd say M'am, but, that wasn't one of my more lucrative careers, so, just Quin is fine."

He laughed, this big laugh, and said, "We'll get along fine."

I'm a hop skip and a jump from the Ferry. A new place, that the landlord is moving my things into, and... I'm set.

I was, well, thrilled isn't the word. C arrived, and I filled her in. I went in to use the loo, and she told R that she had no idea why she told me I couldn't go into the house. She said she'd hung up her phone, looked to her friend who was driving, and said, "I have to apologise when I see Quin, I don't know why I told her 'no'..."

The Universe...

The Aussie told us how to get home, along the way, I saw the Statue of Liberty from a new angle, and a great sight... two nuns, in full habit, roller skating.

Once here, we stopped for my last Gyros. R is a veggie, and she went across the street to find something to eat there. The vendor and I have chatted over the last months, and I told him I'd miss his food.

He's from Egypt, and has only been here as long as I have, here in the city. He is one of those beautiful young men, classic faced, always pleasant to me. He's studying art, and rents the cart, making a decent salary. He said he's had his wallet stolen, but, he carries on, because the cart pays for his college tuition.

He told me he'd miss my smile. I laughed, and replied that he had a great line. "No, you have a lovely smile, you put your whole self into it. It makes people feel... good." He made up a huge container of gyros and rice and threw in a pita and a drink.

"$5."

I gave him $1o from my limited stash.

We bartered over the tip. He ended up keeping $2, refused the rest. Before I walked away, he gave me a huge hug, than another one.

"Lady, I will miss seeing you. Thank you for always being nice."

R and I wandered up the street, found a park, where she was flirted with (we think) by some drunk speaking some odd language and ate our food.

She bought cigarettes, drove me to the house, and was gone.

Thanks, R... thanks again.

One more thing happened, the normal shuttle that runs to my house... just added a new run, allowing me to get from the airport home...so, no one has to come to Vegas and pick me up...

Good day for the Trojan horse.

I now have to Google Staten Island, and see where the hell I'm moving. Thanks to the kindness of strangers, I had a great day, and... in a few weeks...I'll be coming home.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Way Down Yonder

Cajun posted a column yesterday, from the great Times Picayune writer, Chris Rose.

For those of you who are unsure of what a picayune is, it was a small Spanish coin, and came to mean something trivial.

Chris Rose was an entertainment writer for said Times Picayune.. as he once stated, he was Brittany Spear's worst nightmare, camping out around her home in Louisiana. When that big ass bitch, Katrina, hit, Chris headed out of town, along with a lot of other folk... thing is, he went back to what he saw as home.

He's become New Orleans' favourite son. You can find his work in an amazing book, One Dead in Attic, that talks about my city, my hometown, after Katrina. He also writes a daily column, and it's darn good reading. You'd never know he was a damn Yankee.

Thing is, after Caj's journal today, I re-read One Dead in Attic (the title is taken from the notes left on homes, to tell workers how many were.. well, you get the idea), a book suggested to me when it came out, as Chris' work was to me following Katrina, by the formidable MaryV.

My father was overwhelmed by all of this when it happened, this huge event, this storm that managed to bring New Orleans to her knees..to drop her face down. Even in his state with dementia and Alzheimer's, he was aware the city he'd been born in, that he considered home, that he adored, was being torn apart.

The neighborhood we played in.... a Dead Zone now. My cousins lived by the levee... their things, gone. We were thankful for cell phones, text messages went through. One set had raced to Purvis, Mississippi to seek shelter, only to be slammed by Katrina on her way north.

The city I'd grown up in, where my family had lived for generations, since the mid 1800's, where we have family vaults, and my great grandmother and her children had a vegetable stall in the French Quarter, my uncle is a New Orleans baseball legend, another one owned the Dodge dealerships, my Uncle G was from generations back, my Dad graduated Tulane (GO GREEN WAVE!), family who lived in the Quarter on Burgundy (pronounced baGUNdy) my cousins are Yats, my MawMaw went to the Ursuline Convent School and I grew up making groceries at Schwegmann's.... yeah, we were New Orleans... and I sat and watched her go under.

I'd lived though Betsy... whoa, there was a bitch. Carla, she tried to take us out, but, Besty... we'd run outside during the eye, so calm, so serene, talking about what we were doing, the parents hammering up the boards, doing a basic check on trees, watching as the winds started up again. Our bathtubs filled with water, food supplies ready.

With Betsy, the week before, the neighborhood had gotten together and made a huge amount of crawfish étouffée, a arduous task when you add in 100 lbs of crawfish, all the makings, and a large amount of beer and whiskey and sharp knives. My parents had recently purchased a chest style freezer, so, the food was parceled out, marked, and stored. When the electricity went out, as it will in a major hurricane, we started eating everything in the freezers, especially the food they'd worked so hard on...meaning we had étouffée for breakfast, lunch and supper. I think Mr Frank and Mr Warren (you don't call grown up's by their first names alone) and my Dad were still eating it when the dogs turned their noses up at the idea of touching the stuff.

Each time
we rebuilt, in the hot muggy air, each time saying, "The next one, that's the one that'll take out the levees" and, suddenly, there they were, bursting out on national television. Filling the city so quickly, it was surreal.

I'd volunteered to go work, and ended up having my knee taken apart and put back together, so, that stopped that. My father became upset that I would leave him.... and that stopped any future plans.

The GoldenChild ponied up, for once, and did some great relief work.

He and a friend in Santa Monica managed in four days time to fill a huge number of semi's with water, cots, clothes, food, blankets.... and a wad of cash to fill the fuel tanks of said semis.... and they were off. Now, the GoldenChild is funny, I'll give him that. He remarked that many a kind soul came to the trucks, after raiding their closets.

These were Santa Monica and West Hollywood women.

Classic, stereotypical Santa Monica and West Hollywood women.

<> big. They brought black cocktail dresses. Stiletto heels. Strapless gowns, capri pants, crop tops.... everything. And all of it <> big.

GoldenChild said, "I wanted to say, "Babe, I come from NEW ORLEANS... did you see the women at the Convention Center?" " But, you don't turn generosity aside.

We had a hard time getting the stuff down there, FEMA was a whore. If you had connections, your stuff got through. Otherwise, it rotted on the side of the road next to where they eventually parked their whoreish trailers.

He was stopped on the way, ice melting, sweating... called me, "Sis, DO something, if anyone can get something done, you can." He used to threaten his staff with me. He had two sayings that always made me laugh. If his grips were not working, he'd announce at full volume, "This is a LOcation, not a VAcation." and, to his entire staff inside, "If you can't get the job/site/things done, I'll call in my sis and fire your asses. She'll do it better and faster."

He was serious on both. He's a fuckwad, but, he knows his stuff.

I started calling, finally reaching the Slidell Police Department, and spoke to the Sheriff. You don't mess around with big ass governments in Louisiana, you just go local.

Suddenly, for a week, the GoldenChild was associated with the Slidell Police Department. His trucks got through. Generators were passed out, teeny tiny clothes, food, water... what was needed got there, to Slidell, East New Orleans, Ponchatoula.

Then, he slipped back into fuckwad mode. Sold his company, his family, his soul. Different story, not for here, ever. Let us just say, we don't speak anymore. But, what he did then? Well done, GC, well done.

Two months later, on Thanksgiving Day, Dad died. Now, the nice thing is, the last time he saw New Orleans, he was still doing pretty good. We walked the Quarter. Saw the family graves. Hit the River Walk. He spent time with my Aunt A, whom he said he should have married instead of her sister. He had grits and coffee and eggs and took a nap every day.

He ate his way though a huge ass pile of crabs and crawfish boiled up with potatoes and corn spread over newspaper on a table on the back patio out in Ponchatoula, at O and J's house. He drank cold beer, and sucked down the great desserts that J makes. My bread pudding is better, but, she doesn't read this journal, so, she'll never know I said so.

He ate and we drove around, and on the way to the airport, we went to the house where I grew up. The neighborhood had gone through changes in those years since we left. The last time we'd been there, it was pretty rough, to the point we didn't even slow down on the drive past. Now, people were taking care of things again, and our house was nice, lovely, painted gray. The big cyprus was cut down, the backyard had a vinyl fence around it... lots of flowers. We sat in the rental car across the street, and... talked. Of New Orleans itself, how his family had arrived there. How my MawMaw (his mom) taught me to hide money in the freezer (therefore, I was not surprised when a Louisiana politician was found to have tens of thousands in his freezer...made sense to me and many other New Orleanians) About when I was a kid, and the neighbors. Of all of them living in these tract homes, 700 square feet, 2.3 kids, with 3 bedrooms, 1 bath and my mom would shut off the living room... for company. He closed in the carport, added on a bedroom for his mother in law. They all were working hard, mowing that damn St Augustine grass. And, Mom's prized car, a deeply used 1954 Buick, with a wooden driver's window.

Don't ask how she drove it in our many rainstorms.

She parked it under the pine tree, on the side of our lot that nestled up to a shell half street.

He said, "I used to see you out there, in the car, what were you doing?"

I didn't realise anyone had ever noticed me.... so, I told him. I drove all over the world. All over the universe. Me, who hated cars with a passion, loved that Buick. It had a huge steering wheel, and I would hold on to it, and.... go places, far away. I'd sit and read in it, after the Chinese elm blew down in the back yard. I hid from the GC and other kids and the world.

He nodded... and laughed. "You were a funny child. I'm sorry I wasn't a better dad."

We had bought muffaletta's for lunch and brought them on the plane. The divine smell you get from olive salad smell soon circulated, and people were asking, "What is that? Can I get some?"

It was a great way to end his last trip home.

I had had Dad cremated, and since November of 2005, he's lived in a lovely jar. D has some of his ashes, but, I have the bulk of them. Since my move to New York, he was put into a closet from his old spot in the sunroom. He liked it there, it was comfortable. I'm not sure he likes the closet, he shares it with Barbies. He was never fond of small children or Barbies.

My point, and I have one here, is I need to bring him... home.

I've put it off and put it off... partly because I don't want to face this final goodbye, even though we had his funeral. Mostly, I don't want to go home. My Aunt A says, "Boo, you don't want to come here. It's not pretty."

I know. But, I have to go home. It's time. When I finish the wedding, and the maybe perhaps trip to LA, I'll pack up and fly to New Orleans one more time with my Dad.

I'll let his sister know, she can fly down from Monroe. We'll go to the family raised site. I'm next on the deed.... in New Orleans, you have to have a deed to open a grave...but, it's so complicated to get it all done. After the Hurricane, people actually trashed out the Archdiocese.... fortunately, someone had put all the records on the internet, so, I can prove who I am, and the lineage...still.

Why pay someone $150 to dig a little hole, when we can do it, then, when we can quietly stand. in St Pats (I won't say which one), pour him in, and I'll play a few of John Prine and Dr. John's pieces. I'll keep a little bit of the ash, too, so I can have some of him at home. I kind of miss the old fart.

We'll end with Ode to Joy. He loved Ludwig.

Then, we'll head over to the Lake and eat. A lot. I'll stay a week, and go see my City... help out with the relief work that is still going on. Do my part that I want to get done, to feel I've put back what I took out. Get this out of my system, and accept that although she's changed, she's still there, going strong, still with a big ol' murder rate, corrupt politicians, smells and tastes and sights you won't see anywhere else in the world... drink my coffee and cream, eat my french bread and red beans, have some decent seafood, and I'll be making the bread pudding.


One thing, though; I won't be eating any crawfish étouffée.... I lost my taste for that when I was a little kid.

And, The Rockin' Girl Blogger Goes To.....







Oh, yeah.


A bit ago, I received this from the ROCKIN' GIRL BLOGGER herself, GolfWidow.

I was stunned, I was flattered.. I procrastinated.


According to the Rules, I can only pass this on to five, count them, FIVE, other girl bloggers.


Sucks rocks... but, that's the rules.

I don't like things where you have to, well, pick... thankfully, GW has received hers... so, here are mine, after much thought and hard decision making.



Lisa B.~ I love Lisa's journal. She's snappy, on point, and makes me laugh. Plus, she's one of mine, by which I mean, she's a Southern Gal. 'Nuff said. She's amazing to talk to, and has a way of making you feel as if you've always known her.

Sally Tomato~ I've met Sally a couple of times now, she's as droll in person as she is on paper, and that's a mean feat. Plus, she doesn't name drop. I like that.

Irish and Jew ~ Yes, I'm cheating, but, they are joined at the Blog. What can you say about them? They put it out there, sometimes to the point I think, what are they DOING? However, they stand by their guns when it comes down to the line. It's not just fluff and who's zooming who. Met them, like them... although meeting has nothing to do with the passing of the pink.

The Bee
~ Went under fire. Came out of it, and kept on going. Life's lessons learned.

ASC~ She's working hard to achieve her dreams, to get to New York, to grab that Tony. And, she'd better fucking remember to thank me when she does.


Honourable Mention to The Prince... because he makes me giggle...and I expect him to pay for the coffee in August... and to PrincessinaPea~Carry on, A, carry on!


So, there you have it... The Passing of the Pink.


Carry on, you Rockin' Bloggers. Go forth, journal your hearts away, and remember..... I'm reading, even if I'm 1000 miles away.

Thursday, July 26, 2007

There is No Title Today

I've struggled today.

Last night, I found out Delta hadn't posted my airmiles. They'd slung them into someone else's account, and after a week of my calling to see why I didn't have miles, 'Robert' told me, they were elsewhere.

During this midnight chat, I was frantic, my new shiny phone was on one bar of power. Verizon had topped up the phone when I was on Wall Street.. and suddenly, my charger here was seen as "unknown". Robert kept giving me rhetoric, I finally said, "Bob, my man.. stop saying you are sorry, fine.. just DO something."

While I was on hold.. the phone died.

That was straightened out today, along with a new charger cord... and 124 of my cell minutes. Oh! And Delta charged me $65 for booking a 'fast' frequent flier trip. I may argue that based on the shitty transfer.

Plus, my favourite payment is ahead... the charge to put the dog under my seat as paid luggage.

I'd sent my credit cards ahead. I don't have a pin number and if I did, the account has dust in it. My cu..tw...fuckwit of an ex boss taunts me with emails, send her this, or a copy of that.. and she'll pay me. The next email says if I show up, she'll have me removed from the premises.

Yes, I've filed with the labor board. Yes, all my paperwork is letter perfect, I've the emails from her admitting she owes me everything, and that she's kept personal items that she swears she'll deliver.

Yes, in the end, the State of New York will sue her and I'll get my money.

I need it NOW.

I have a nice amount each month from my mighty corporate retirement fund, and, it's gone... rent, helping out a child or two... I counted on this usual cash to pay for things, and, remember, she'd not paid me for June. So, my budget was already a bit wobbly.

I realised when I fly out, I am schlepping out a HUGE suitcase, a carry on, the dogs case, the dog, and my computer bag. Two trains, the NJ Transit line... Bronx to Newark. Yeah.

Lots of other things, all written down in my YOU DON'T KNOW I'M HERE journal.

Life will be better tomorrow. There's some frozen hot dogs I found, and, I'm seeing some folk that make me laugh this evening.

So, in the end, I've a held reservation, a new phone cord, someone who is helping me move on Saturday, (thanks R!) I've washed my clothes by hand (Little House in the Projects), packed my things again, walked the dog twice, have a charged phone, found a cup of banana yogurt...my favourite... will nap, take a shower, and leave here soon to run an errand.

Tomorrow, it may stink again. If they don't pick up the trash, I know it will.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Miss Sof and the Land of Just Now

Acquaintances come, acquaintances go. meh.

Relatives? You are born with them, and, unless you snip snip snip them away, as I've done... you are stuck with them.

Friends add rich depth to your life, some enter it and stay for long periods, some slip in and slip out, never losing the well deserved term 'friend', they simply aren't around for the long haul. Time, distance... death.

They stay in your memories, you find a book, a card.. I watch K clearing out things, and her face lights up when she finds something from an old friend... you can see that drawer opening, things spilling out. She'll share a story or two, and we move on.

I have my sisters that come into my life, ones that are newer... three that have been around for decades, so long, I actually have times I forget they aren't blood.

Miss Sof is one of those.

Back in the day, I worked for a corporate behemoth.

I'd started out in the Rocky Mountain High, well dressed, one of the busy number of gazillion workers pouring out of a multi level office building. I'd started in a small office, where I learned a number of things... one of them was to tear a phone book in half.

Yes, I, Quin, can tear a phone book in half. Straight down the middle. I used to be able to do one the size of Manhattan...now, we're looking at Wantagh, still... the point is, it's a skill I possess.

It used to earn me rent money in biker bars on bar bets. Trust me, I never make a bet I know I won't win, and I won quite a bit back then on that little skill.

Where was I?

Oh, yes, Miss Sof.

I transferred to a city that people in L.A. have to train in oddness to move to... Mork would have been Mayor, he was that normal. I started out at a large facility and when they consolidated offices, we joined with the scruffy Customer Service branch.

They were the 'cool' kids. Very Boulder, very hip, very.... cool.

The Leader of the Pack was Miss Sof. No one argued the fact, it was a given. If you had to look for the Union label, you looked for Miss Sof. Had a question about anything in the system?

Miss Sof.

Where was the best place to eat?

Miss Sof.

What lens should I use to take that photo in the dawn with snow coming down?

Miss Sof.

How do you do this? Where to you get that? What team won the pennant in 1918?

Miss Sof.

She is the bomb. Red hair.. Russian Red, wiry, curly, thick, white skin, freckles soft on that white skin, fox eyes. Like all of my friends, she has a great laugh and a big, forgiving smile. She calls me Quin Anne.

She wore Levi 501 jeans, and tshirts when I wore suits. She knew, well, everything. I wanted her to like me.

She was everything that was cool in the world, in my eyes. And, she was so unaware of the amazing person she is, it was even better.

Her daughter has a unique name. Miss Sof and Mr R took the child with the amazing name to Disneyland. There, AmazingNamed child sulked. Why? Because there were no items ready made with her very unique moniker. She announced she was going to change her name, she was well done with it, she said, in a tone only she can use.

Oh, said Miss Sof, well, you can use your middle name, Brooke.

Piffffttt, declared her daughter, so like her... I'm going with Eddie. You can always find things with Eddie on them.

For years, if i saw anything with Eddie on it, I bought it for her. I would now, if she wasn't doing her doctorate and wouldn't use the wooden pencils I'd send.

I had grown close to Miss Sof, I called her on the half hour when I was in labour with the Jarhead.

"Watching Donahue now," I'd announce. She'd pass the word on to the office. She laughed as I passed my day, struggling to give birth, and marking time with sitcoms and talk shows.

Miss Sof married Mr R, and they had TheCaptain. She wouldn't wear maternity pants for ages, the silly ducks and flowers completely out of character for her. So, she threaded rubber bands though the buttonholes of her 501's and looped them over the buttons, stretching them as long as she could, wearing big shirts. She schlepped in flip flops the day of her surprise shower, late to work, all of us dancing about.. Miss Sof was NEVER late, don't tell me she picked today to have the baby... it was her shower, ffs.

TheCaptain, like Eddie, is a woman in her own right. Brought up by a strong woman, with a supportive dad, she's a delight. I'm lucky like that... I've yet to have a friend with shitty kids.

We'd hang around together, go to aerobics... the other women in spandex, Miss Sof and I in huge shirts and sweat pants. One day, my nursing pad fell out as we marched around, and we suppressed laughter, as we kicked it away each time we passed the spot.

I'm sure no one noticed.

Our children grew up around each other for a few years, TheCaptain even spending nights when we moved down further south below the old house.

There was a time I didn't see Miss Sof. It had to do with the ex, and because my children read this journal, I won't go into details. I was given an option.

I lost. For 'just now', I had to pretend I didn't have a Miss Sof, and I grieved quietly.

One day, I woke up, and dialed her number, and she said, "Quin Anne, how are you?". It was bumpy, it was sobbing on my side, and it was her dear voice and, she was, there. 'Just now' was over.

She simply waited, for 'just now' to pass.

She is a photographer and an artist. She's given me the great gift of my children's photos as they grew up, one set so spectacular, that the GoldenChild's ex wife kept them when they split... she loved the beauty of the work, not the subject matter.

The photos still hang in her home, 17 years later.

Miss Sof makes me laugh, she's one of my best audiences. She keeps me...honest. I can't squirm or twist or move around... she pins me down with those two words...

"Quin Anne."

She moves on quiet feet, with a back that pains her... something she keeps to herself, listening to my woes... she raised her daughters, believed in them, let 'just now' pass there, too, for Eddie.

I can't find the words for Miss Sof. She is still the coolest of the cool, the one you go to. She has strong opinions and won't back down, no matter if you are her best friend or not. She does not make excuses for who she is or what she believes.

She doesn't have much of a blood family.... so, one year, I gave her photos of people I'd found in a junk store... and wrote on them, "To Miss Sof, Love Uncle Ferd and Aunt Gussie". She displayed them, and visitors thought they were real family.

She had what was the worst betrayal in the world happen from the person who is to love you unconditionally.... and, she walked with that hole in her being... angry, hurt, and she learned from it, what to do, how to live... what not to do. She moved slowly through 'just now'.

Miss Sof teaches patience with the phrase, 'just now', when I chafe at constraints of time, when she knows I want to howl at a closed door. She laughs, and chides and reminds me there is no right or wrong. Only decisions and consequences.

She, too, gives me the great gift of her friendship.

God loves me. Look at my friends, and tell me he doesn't.

Can You Hear Me Now?

I've said, I'm not one of the cool kids.

Have I left my mark on New York City?

Well, the guys at the bodaga miss me... I dropped by, and we chatted for a bit, they stopped pre-setting out the sausage for the dogs... I gave them $5 in the tip jar, for all the times they handed it to me as I walked in.

Over at the Grand, the doormen asked where I'd been... that was nice, too.

And, although I didn't make the Gawker, (I'm totally okay with that), I did make...


OVERHEARD IN NEW YORK




Thanks, GolfWidow, for the heads up.


Made me laugh.

Monday, July 23, 2007

It's HOW Much to Fly to London?

There it was.

Finally, a dead cheap airfare to the U of K. Under $279. Yes, I, Quin, would fly to see Loo and all of my friends in the U of K for under $300.

American, no less.

I was stunned, gobsmacked, tickled pink.

Then, I read the small print... the t a x e s.

What? $298 in TAXES????

Is the payback for Boston? We started drinking tea again... I use the 'u' whenever I use an 'o'. Come ON. We even let Fergie in, and we LIKE her.

Maybe that's the problem.

damn.

Robot Comments

Dear 47 Readers,

Thanks to knicksgirl0917 who has discovered my journal, and feels the need to tell me about her weekend in cali (although she's not coming back until september) on a regular basis, I'm going to have to do the whole word verification thing.

I hate the word verification thing, mostly because I never get it right on the first try.

Or the second for that matter.

I apologise in advance for all of you who are like me.

And, knicksgrl0917?



Oh, never mind... you're a robot... waste of a good curse... and I've only so many more I can use.

Harry

Saturday, I looked under sofa cushions, under the bed, in dresser drawers, did the inside out jean pocket trick, and finally went to my last resort for hidden cash in the tradition of all dwellers from New Orleans, checked my freezer.

I found enough pennies, nickels, dimes and bills to purchase the last of the Harry Potter books.

Harry Potter has been a tradition in my home since the first book came out ten years ago. A friend and her children were visiting from the U of K, and she brought over this first in a planned series of books, Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

It was a lovely gift for my then ten year old HRH. It wasn't a first edition, or I'd not be living in a sub-let, but, I digress.

Before then, she wasn't much of a reader, HRH wasn't. They left, I picked up the book, read it in a night, and told her, "You might like this."

She grumbled a bit, groaned, and finally picked it up. She's never looked back.

We would go through the ritual of gathering up pennies and nickels and dimes... going to the bookstore and standing in line until the magic hour when they would let us inside, snagging a chair, settling in for the midnight hour.

I'd chat with other parents, she would talk to the Potter fans, her friend S with her as they wandered about, touching books, discussing Phillip Pullman's writing vs Rowling. With her loyalty to Harry, The Golden Compass remains her favourite book of all time, after Hamlet.

My child has eclectic taste.

Eventually, she would curl up in my lap on those release dates...when she was 12, 14... that long wait we had until the 6th book... she was in Colorado, and called me when I stood in line alone. She waited with me on the phone, and I bought our book. As always, she read it first.... devouring the words, handing it over to me, and dancing in excitement as I read at breakneck speed to catch up, so we could discuss what had happened.

She would walk in, find me crying... "Oh!", she would say, "Sirus, eh?" and we'd cuddle, mourning.

This year, I rang her back in the Land of Utes. No, she wasn't going to bother getting in line. After all, the book was over at WalMart, she'd get it the next day. "We've got company, Mom. I'll talk to you later." and the line went dead.

I took the train down to 86th and Lex, to the nearest bookstore, sharing it with the Yankees fans who were leaving the game early... I like the early leaving fans, they are only semi drunk, and are far nicer than the later fans, and tons better than the last fans from a losing game. That I had to go to 86th and Lex to find a bookstore is a sad statement in and of itself, but, once there, it was a simple thing to walk in, and buy myself some Harry Potter.

Normally, I'd have hopped back on the train, schlepped up the stairs, changed into my well worn grey tshirt that comforts me, and read, even in the trapped hellhole of heat that is my flat.

Instead, I had the terrier's poor butchered coat shaved, I meandered down and looked at real dresses I couldn't afford, I bought bagels... I did everything I could to avoid Harry.

Eventually, I had no choice... we were homeward bound.

Once there, I did my usual OCD routine... keys hung up, dog released from the leash, shoes off and put just there, food in 'fridge, back to my room... it's a routine, I don't vary.

The book was placed on the coffee table, where I eyed it as I sat down and did...nothing. Talked to friends, set up my air travel, wrote, muttered about shit to the air, pushed the book around, did the text thing, and... studiously avoided Harry.

I told the WeatherGuy I was going to bed to read it, and I lied. I read two chapters... and put it down.

It sat in the same spot all day yesterday, while I made excuses... I accepted an invitation to go see K, and help her out with her flat. Now, granted, helping K out helps me out. She can look for a flat where she wants to move, which opens up her flat near that same bookstore, for me to move into.

I'm not stupid.... plus, she's a hoot. Plus, it kept me away from Harry.

Harry still sits on my table, I am still in meh clothes, having down nowt today. I am leery of opening the book, of moving on... I'm told there is a major "EEK!!" on a page I'm coming up on soon... that's not what is stopping me.

It's not the end of the series that's stopping me, although, I'll miss Harry.

It's the realisation my time with HRH is over. The last of our rituals. They've been disappearing slowly over the last year or so, the little things we've done together over the years. She and TheInvestment and I were a team, and she and I... well, we were the things I never had with my mother.

Every Sunday, we worshiped at the Church of the Cinema 8. We discussed Jimmy Stewart's good looks vs. Henry Fonda. She thought she should marry Jimmy. I quietly told her he was dead... she wasn't disturbed, and turned it to a good point, advising me he'd be very quiet at family gatherings.

We played gin. We read together. The three of us watched zombie films. Orgainise before they rise!

Slowly, her now fiancé became part of the group, and, one day... she went to a film we were going to see with him first.

My little heart cracked.

I know it's time, I know she's a big girl....hell, she's getting married and will be a step mom. I know she's doing what she wants in life, that she's bright and wonderful and all those things.

When Harry ends, it's the last of those old ties we had.

Perhaps, that's why Harry sits, dust jacket in place, on my coffee table. Perhaps, that's why I may not open him for some time.

It's the last of my little HRH here in my heart. He has my big, grown HRH.... but, Harry and I? We have the other one.

And, well, we want to hold on to her... I want to hold on to both of them for a few days longer.

Saturday, July 21, 2007

Show Business

If, by any chance, you are headed to the Land of Utes, there are a number of things you can see and do there..

I'm looking forward to Costco, myself... so, ha, WeatherGuy!

A huge number of National Parks, sweltering hot weather, the polygamist group that is the basis for Nicky's family on Big Love, and a few noteworthy theater Festivals.

One of them has a few of my friends in starring roles this year...

So, congrats to the cast in the Neil Simon Festival!

Break some collective legs....

Nothing to Create

I have done absolutely nothing today.

I sit in my secondary gray tshirt, that says USMC on it, hording my coffee stash, begging Delta employees to find me a seat on a plane, and you better believe I played the cancer card, looking at what still has to be done on my list, wishing I was anywhere but here, wishing there was a bookstore anywhere near here, wishing my words didn't fall against the door of a freightcar.

I guess I could do my taxes.

I hoard that money, waiting to come back waiting to have an apartment to come back to, wanting to use the funds in order to not be stressed when it's time to move...home.

Now, this is blather.

I'm sure I'll find more to blather about later on...

Friday, July 20, 2007

Meh'ing Friday

I was to bed... my rented bed, my sub-letted bed (I know it's not a word...it's a place), my uncomfortable bed where I sprawl out every night, sheets tangled around my feet, seeking some draft of cold air from the 47btu's coughing out of the sub-letted air conditioner that I run at full speed, landlord be damned!

I'm searching for my plane ticket, because the availability of a plane ticket back to the Land of Utes... one seat per flight per day in months with an R in them.... makes using points a dodgy way to fly. Thanks to the kindness of people I know...who have an R in their names... I have enough points to try and manage that task. Now, it's finding the flight.

I start to want to whine and moan about things, twats that won't pay me, who thumb their nose at the system, the fact I am not well, that I am very alone right now, and that I would very much like to be curled up somewhere on good sheets...if only to be told I'm okay, and things are going to work out the way they'll work out, and to stop whining.... the good sheets help me deal with issues, you see.

I can do this. I came here for the wrong reasons at the right time, and let myself fall into the old rut.

What I thought would happen never will, what I know is in me grows, and I think somewhere in all of this, I'm making sense.

Or not.

If nothing else, I've a shiny new red phone to play with. Can't ask for more than that....if only it didn't have a f'ing manual to go with it.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

To Journal or Not To Journal...

The journalworld buzzes... those who spend part of their day telling of what they've done, or who they've done or things they think the world wants to know sat back in shock today as a mirror was held up... and there we were.

Okay, not everyone, but, some of us...okay, I sat back and thought about it for awhile when I wasn't sweating. Yes, for an entire 7.23 minutes, it consumed my attention. Let's be honest, I live in a five floor walk up under the roof. I sweat quite a bit these days without the lovely air conditioned flat.

Why do people journal online?

A mother's prompt answer to the question why is always, because.

Because I can. Because I want to. Because it's free.

Free is good.

No one reads me unless they want to, and, to be dead honest, my reading audience of 47 people isn't going to cause riots if I quit.

Still, it's a valid point made in the short short I read today...not to mention a well written short short. Thanks, Mr. LaBute. As always, your words hold up that mirror that makes us go, "Wait a minute...does he mean... me?"

Personally, I know it's not me... again, blather, 47 readers.... I bore myself.

I am not a writer by any stretch of the imagination. I play with words, I force my aunt and my friends to listen when I've put together enough of them to make a short short... I have to yell them to my aunt, who always says, "Oh, Boo.. that's COULD YOU GRANDBABIES BE QUIET! I'M LISTENING TO YOUR AUNT BOO!!... are you finished yet? You could be Tennessee Williams."

Not really, Aunt A, he was male, gay and he had amazing talent.. although your sister is the basis for most of his alpha female characters.

When I'm low on myself, Aunt A is the one I call.

Why do people journal? The same reason they always have... to leave something of themselves behind. We used to write in lovely bound books, sometimes editing ourselves, sometimes spilling out secrets we thought no one would ever discover...if they were secrets we thought no one would discover, why write them down?... it's the same process here.

I have this journal, one I give out to friends and some family members (pffffffffttttttt Mother) so they can keep an eye on my life and know if I go a few days and don't write, it's time to worry the terrier is having me for dinner. And breakfast. And lunch... you get the idea.

I have another one.

No one knows about that one... it's chock full of my secrets. No names (I hear a sigh of relief from a number of people) but, my life is there, in full techicolour. Sex, lies, childhood (what little I remember of that wreckage) soul aches, all of it... no links, no way of knowing it's me.

Live with it, you won't find it anywhere.

When I reach the point where I'm saying, "Oh, look! A new dress!!" every day, and it's the same cotton number, I won't find it either.

Since it's not built in under firefox, you have to know the name and password... no use trying that....

Is it of any interest to anyone?

No.

Is it all me me me?

Of COURSE it is.

That's why it's called a journal... however, with this lovely technology, it's locked, blocked, and tied down. You can't access it, read it, look at it, or post to it... I love the fact it exists.

The bad thing is, my handwriting suffers... but, can I type like a jack russel terrier on speed.

Well, That Was Close

Normally, I'd have been on the 4/5/6 line coming home from work at the time the big ol' explosion hit at Grand Central.

Instead, I was doing...erm.... nothing.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Mrs S

One of the bestest things about going back to the Land of the Utes, or the Utities, as Mrs S calls them, is, well, Mrs S.

Her daughter, M, went to school with HRH, and they became best buds when we first moved to our little town. It took a bit for Mrs S and I to finally meet, and when we did, I realised it was one of those people the Universe puts in your path and says, "If you don't appreciate and love this person, I will give you boils for eternity"

I'm not fond of boils.

She has this way of looking at you, with this grin.... you can't help but grin back. She converted to the LDS faith, and she is one of those people that makes you understand why people bind themselves to a belief, a religion, a way of life. She lives her belief in God. Not in a pushy way, not in a method that ever made me feel I was wrong in any sense.

Trust me, there were those who did make me feel an outsider in Utah. I will not pretend otherwise... she is not one of them.

She misses the smell of coffee. I come into her home sometimes, and she will stop and INNNNNNNNNNNhale, and grin that grin. She'll wiggle her eyebrows at me, her china blue eyes will sparkle, and we move on.

She taught me to can.. yes, the Quin can can. I've put up so many jars of peaches, plums, apricots.... all in her pristine kitchen, with us in aprons, sweaty, timing things, laughing, measuring sugar, water, cut up peaches and peachacots.....oh, wait, you are asking, "Quin, what is a peachacot?"

Well, it's what we thought were apricots in my back yard. Turns out, they were underwatered peach trees. The following year, I had peaches.

One year, we had a bumper crop. We had barrels, and bushels and pans and bags and tubs of peaches. A friend offered us plums... so, we said, "Sure, why not?" and she let ME climb the tree. Up I would go, doing something I'd not done in, well, a wealth of years.

We added to our bonanza of fruit, as if we had nothing else to do.. and that fall, we put up (that's what you call it, 'putting up') over 300 jars of just peach products.

I also peed my pants in her kitchen.

We'll skip right over that.

It was in her kitchen I discovered some people keep salt in a salt cellar, and not in a shaker. Other people, who are visiting, don't know this, so, when they are making Leslie's Luscious Lemon Loaves, and need to glaze them, they dump a cup of salt into the mix.

This person remains un-named.

This person also gave Mrs S a container that says SALT on it, to prevent future mishaps.

Every fall, Mrs S and I go on the Model Home Tour, taking the day to drive a good 100 miles round trip to see all the builders dream homes... we walk though, ohhh'ing and ahhhh'ing, and nodding at what we like, giggling at the air toilet and lying on the foam mattress in the master bedroom. You vote on these tours, for the top home.

We vote based on the best candy and/or give away. I don't care if you have a view of Cedar Breaks that will break your heart.. if you have mini Hershey's, and the upscale trailer has full size homemade rockyroad brownies... you have our vote.

We get lost, we end up on mountain roads, we gossip, we laugh, we cry... it is our ritual.

This woman, this amazing, wonderful woman took in her mother in law, who had Alzheimer's. She cared for her for a number of years, putting her own life on hold, dealing with the issues of her mother in law, also loving and caring for her brother in law, who also had medical problems. She raised four children who are the bomb. I'd take any of them in a, well, New York minute.

She lets me in her life. She forces her way in mine, because I don't open my door easily. She loves me. She lets me love her and hers. Her husband is a dear, sweet man, who blesses me, L discusses faith with me, M hugs me and thinks I'm odd, S treats me like an aunt, and E... she's a bit like a younger sister to me.

And Mrs S? She will lie on the lawn with me, looking at clouds. We laugh about birdfeeders made out of cowboy boots. We wear aprons. We have picnics. We are barked at in films because we giggle and talk. On one home tour, we found a home NOT on the tour, and broke in.

It was HER fault, she made me do it, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

She actually talks me into doing crafts. Me. Crafts. Sitting still long enough to make cute crafts. As I type this, I can look up, and on the wall hangs my Santa made from a stick of cinnamon she made for me.. it was one of the few things I brought with me aside from clothes when I moved.. mine didn't look like hers. My Santa's looked a bit like the guys near the homeless shelters after they've had a few bottles of MD20/20.

She has a face and a smile and eyes and a heart that prove God does love us enough to put someone special here for us.

I don't have sisters of birth. I have my sisters of my heart.....I'm lucky enough she wants to be one of mine.

She's picking me up when I go back....and I'll be staying there with the terrier, dear, dear Mrs S.

That alone earns her a special place in the Universe.

Good is...

  • the perfect email response to a letter I wrote. not the words of someone who makes promises left on the wayside, but, honest ones that mean a great deal.
  • having the sound of a text message being received waking you up, even if you did oversleep.
  • putting on a pair of jeans to go to the bank, to withdraw the last of your cash, and finding $20 in the pocket
  • finding out you are very much needed in the land of the Utes job. booya.
  • waking up to the sound of thunder in the early hours of the morning. sure, the storm makes moving through the air like swimming in a warm pool, still... the sound of thunder is a good thing to lie there and listen to as you drift back off to sleep.
  • knowing people are excited you are coming back to visit
  • a phone call from my wonderful sister in law last night
  • a phone call from an old friend
  • a call from C, who worries
  • all of those calls reminding me to be quiet, and listen
  • an email to interview as a Production Manager
  • a new phone awaits you picking it up on friday... and the word chocolate isn't attached to the name
  • you managed to fit all of your clothing into two big suitcases, reducing your trips to Brooklyn to store your things down to four trips (there is the rug and the woven wicker table) instead of six.
  • realising that you only have to take TWO trains to make said trips
  • a gathering on the 26th
  • I'm breathing....always good to not wake up and find the terrier munching on me. Good to wake up, period.
  • two Six Sentence shorts in a week.

Yep, it's all good.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Little Girls and Wedding Veils



With no train to ride, no downtown to wander, being stuck in the apartment for a day or two packing up to move the cases before I start my tour of the UPside of the city, I plan on waxing on about whatever I please, and digging up and reworking old shi..stuff to ramble on about.

Be patient. I'm jobless and homeless. If you see me on the 4/6, don't make me have to sing before you give me a dime in my cup, okay?

As the always droll LisaB pointed out, the Mother of the Bride dress tends to make one look like Mamie Eisenhower... HRH, however, is in that wonderful position of being...

THE BRIDE.

Notice that I actually opened up the option of using colour and used it for once on my journal. This is the same colour her 47 bridesmaids will be wearing as they move down the aisle in August, to whatever music it is she's chosen.

Last February, I was back in the Land of Utes, and she and I went shopping. We went shopping for The Dress. You know, the One.

"Mom, what about this one?"

I had looked up over from the text I was writing, over the rims of my reading glasses... and my heart stopped.

It is the day every little girl plays with... bath towel pinned to her hair, red lipstick on, marching in a line. The day every mother thinks about, when she knows it's going to be a girl. The date is picked, colours chosen... perhaps... it's the day to start looking at dresses. The fluff of white/cream/ivory/beige she will wear, queen of the day, walking down the aisle on the arm of her father, THE dress of her life.

I looked up from the text I had been writing, over the rims of my reading glasses...and my heart stopped at the baby I carried, who came five weeks early, born purple black, silent, pneumonia almost instantly, who stopped breathing at two weeks, held in my arms as I drove like a madwoman through town, shaking her every time she quit, begging God... my heart stopped at the little girl who fell when trying to walk, hitting the edge of a table, creating a perfect dimple... at the lanky child, with all the good genes, long legs like mine, long arms, long torso, a neck reminiscent of Audry Hepburn, slim, curvy... my heart stops as her wide mouth with it's full lips that tip up on the edge, shy smile lighting her black eyes. Her ivory skin glows over high cheekbones, firm chin, smooth jawbone... chestnut hair sweeping over her shoulders as she steps forward, the dress moving with her.

She is flawless.

People turn, watch her walk over... the dress skimming her tiny waist, moving over her hips to a train... like her, it's simple, classic, just a smidgen of sass to sparkle though in a serious time. She reaches up with her hands, those beautiful long fingered hands that are grace in motion when she works to translate speech to sign, and pulls her hair into an impromptu bun. A single long veil is attached to her hair... she turns slowly again.

"Mom?"

She has sloe eyes under straight brows. Her hands spread the dress down in the front... holding it slightly away from her... she chews her lower lip, a habit I have.

I couldn't speak that day, watching her.

She is my soul. My unplanned, precious, beloved, laughs like me, can't dance, can't sing, watch films with, still crawls into bed with me and sleeps sometimes, play gin with, proved you can have a daughter and have things be GOOD... she is my all in so many ways.

"Mom? Momma? "

She went and tried on another dress... I cried to know she'll never be just mine again. I cried because she is so beautiful it hurts to look at her. I cried because her spirit is as wonderful as her face.

I cried because I had no one to turn to and share. I have no sister. My mother and I do not speak. I picked up my phone, and sent a text to the one person I tell all to, that I give my secrets to, that I trust the most in the world... one that is also a good parent, who recognises my feelings doing this alone, and will knew how deep my emotions run... I wrote it out and hit send. I didn't worry about an answer, it's was the knowledge there is someone who will read it with care and who will understand... that was enough.

"Okay, what do you think of this one?"

Easy answer, it sucked...

"HRH?"

"Yes?"

"Try the next one without wearing your white socks."

I hear her laugh as I saw the tip of the veil go around the corner towards the dressing room.



The day approaches, she ended up buying a dress I've not seen yet. I'm taking the upbeat side that my no longer having a job here lets me leave earlier than I'd planned, and I can be there to help out with more of the wedding, we'll do the shower thing, and I'll drive around with her, and, yes, I'll more than likely look like Mamie Eisenhower with an attitude.

Her brothers, sans one will be there, her sister and the newest addition to the family, along with her dad.... he's walking her down the aisle to where I stand and there she wants me to take over. I'll take her hand, and walk her to her beloved.

I'm put her veil back, I'll lean over, right before I put her hand in his, and I say our little poem in her ear. That's what she thinks. I may sing softly, "I love you, a bushel and a peck"... we have a whole stupid routine we used to do.

Then, she passes out of my world into his.

In that dress, in that smile, with her whole life ahead of her.


Yeah, I love her, a bushel and a peck. More than she knows....

Sunday, July 15, 2007

And Then....

....there was Sunday, and the WeatherGuy.

Saturday, July 14, 2007

So, What's Next?

I'll miss the scents and, yes, the smells of the City.

There is a difference.

I'll miss the huge variety of people I've met every day, from the odd tourist to the street people who let me know it was spring by their presence in the park, to the sweet guys in the bodaga on West Broadway across from the Grand, that had the sausage ready every day for the dogs.

I've talked to some really interesting folk; artists, actors, directors, mothers, kids.... I spent a train ride on Thursday talking to a man who had that beautiful lilt to his voice you hear from people native to Jamaica. He walked up to me on the platform while I juggled the terrier, my lemonade from my pizza place, a book and my metropass.

"Where did you get such a fine animal?", he asked, ignoring her butchered haircut. She leaned into him, inhaling. He smiled at me, his teeth brilliant against his skin, and as he bent over him, I was in love. Lime, cilantro, chili, a wealth of spices wafted from his clothing, his skin....I, too, leaned into him and inhaled.

We were his.

He pulled out his phone after we settled into our seats, me removing my giant bag from my back and putting it under the seat, and showed me his own big terrier. We discussed dogs, children, travel, his homes in three countries, Thomas Paine and then moved on to discuss the four restaurants he owned in New York and Jamaica, and his job as a personal chef to blah blah. Our conversation was the way I like conversations, lively, full of laughter, a variety of subjects, sassy... nothing that it shouldn't be, all that was right. He asked me to keep in touch, I was welcome to join both he and his wife for dinner... he didn't have a card.. I never have a card, what would it say? Jill of Many Trades, Master of None?...so, he pulled out a major culinary magazine, and opened it to his featured monthly column and wrote down his email address and took down mine.

I'll miss that, the quick connections, the people from all walks of life.

The woman who sat next to me last night, while I was crammed in on my seat, no dog this time, a huge woven basket I'd found as trash outside a posh shop in SoHo, my things from the flat, the bag... stunned over the turn of events. She had a Lord and Taylor bag, so, I asked if they had things that weren't Mamie Eisenhower.. told her where the comment came from. She threw back her head and laughed. We talked about her upcoming 25th anniversary, that she and her husband were going to spend it in the Keys. They didn't have children, so, it was up to her nieces and nephews to put her in a good home. I told her about the Jarhead's plan for me on a bus. She liked that, and said she may see me there.

The people I've met, that I like... some of the people I've met up with at the drinking fests. Todd
(yes, you'll still get your wedding gift) and Sally and Cajun and Jew and Irish and NYCP and Midwestern and Gal... EVI... the pool shark who goes by the deceptive name, Oobster... we're not best buddies, yet, I know they exist. To so many, they are words. To me, they are faces, and laughter, and a real person, who buys me vodka in my tonic. And, oh, Lisa.... she's amazing.

To those I've not met, who keep in touch, Bee and Corey's Mom and Amber. I'll not have that chance, now.

I won't be able to answer the question that plagues MB's and my soul... why DO they drink everything out of paper bags in the Bronx?

People who have become my extended family of the heart... GW... and Mom. No WalMart for me now. Wicked GW and her fucking puns.

This City that I really love. The stench of forced labour, roaches in bad food, the fact there is a city above the train I didn't know existed. Looking out over it all when a storm comes in... when that lightening was popping across the East River during our shoot... watching the city shut down at 3A... the lights cutting out building by building. You could hear it yawning as it went to sleep.

The stuff that is a fortune because it's stuff from here.... I decided to buy new underwear. The kids don't have to turn away, they've seen laundry, they know I wear underwear. I used to be a full on underwear whore, but, it was expensive, and it was that or food... so, I stopped while I was out yesterday, before the Big Job Loss, and asked the price of a pair of dark chocolate coloured panties. I have a bra that colour and wanted to match it... you never know when you'll be in an accident or swimming in a hotel pool in your underwear, right, Bee?

"Ummm, how much are these simple cotton panties in this nice dark chocolate colour?"
"Those? Oh, those are on clearance!"
I like the word clearance... my friend, CL, and I always do the "Clearance, Clarance" line from Airplane when we see it in a store.
"Lovely!" I flipped over the tag, and was happy for the bigass backpack that let me bounce back up when I fell backwards on the floor.

$24.

For cotton panties.

Cotton.

Panties.

Not the thong things that I don't understand because I've spent most of my life pulling underwear OUT of my ass, but, full on hipster cotton panties. Like WalMart, only in a store in mid-town Manhattan.

Thankfully, they didn't have my size....there were two reasons I smiled when she said, "Oh, a large would be far too big on you."

And, the not having to admit I didn't want to pay the price was one of them.

I'm not sure why this is happening all at once. My K, the director who writes so wonderfully you do believe in God watching us, in the purity of the soul, who is my friend, said there is something that is to happen, this is being done for a good reason. As I said, I wish I had a letter telling me what.

C is also positive. "Go, see, relax. Don't expect anything, don't ask, just receive." I'm not patient. I fear things not happening, I fear all my dreams dying. That I will go back to being someone's caregiver, someone's P.A., shuffled away....my words locked up as tight as my heart.

The WeatherGuy is here, too. We had years of being friends, of sending text messages saying on his part, "Hello from (fill in the blank)" and my end was "Hello from Utah". It's a find our way slowly thing... and, now... well, now.... we are back to a bunch of states apart, and the other thing, there I was told my words were a burden.

I'll be in the same place, but, a universe away. Funny, I'm okay with that, and I'll miss my WG's voice.

I'll miss my Chinese lady and her cart on Lafayette, she throws in extra eggrolls for me now.

I'll miss the kids in the courtyard, who yell, "The Lady is home!!"

I'll miss the way the air feels after the rain.

I'll miss the pizza guys telling me they brought black olives for my chicken roll, and telling the local drunk guy to fuck off, leave baby alone. And laughing behind his back while I politely try to ignore his advances, rolling their eyes at me. "Hey, baby... how's life, eh?", keeping me there, the next day giving me a hard time about my beau.

I'll miss the train packed with Yankee fa.... who am I kidding?

I'll miss that feel of the air as it pushes up on you when the train rushes into the station.

The way we all bond together, watching down the track, tapping our feet, the collective groan when the 4 or the A or the F pulls in, so full of people, you know you'll never get in, and pushing in anyway.

The musicians in the stations, that guy on the 4/5/6 platfom at Union Square, who plays the plastic buckets.... omg, he is outstanding. The beggers, the girls in giggling groups heading places in the Bronx, the girls in the East Village, discussing the same things, in different accents, different clothes, all young and vibrant...some with a look of confusion deep in their eyes, others with a predatory gleam... different neighborhoods, different levels of educations, different tax brackets, all the same sisters under the trappings over their skin. Men in suits, in dreads, in jesussandals, with the look of practiced boredom, eyes flicking over women....women looking back.

Same sex, different sex... and those who are content to talk to me and the terrier.

This is to be my time, mine. I didn't mind the struggle with the disease, the wait afterwards, the odd roommate.. I loved me my N, I learned to enjoy the Bronx. I've spent two hours plus a day on the train to walk dogs and play serf to a person who needs taking care of, but, not by me anymore. That place had some bad gris gris, and, it was time... I stayed too long and it bit me in the ass.

I didn't listen to the Universe then, it showed me why it gives you hints.. it's like the dog standing up and stretching... you should heed it well.

I've interviewed for some jobs, one as a line producer. I'm fairly certain I could have that one... but, without housing, it's a no go right now.

So, I'm headed back to the land of Utes for a bit.... I'll leave right after my birthday at the end of July.... no fires and s'mores and ghost stories for me this summer. Two more weeks of packing up my bigass suitcases, taking them one at a time on three trains out to Brooklyn to store them at C's house. I'll pack one bag, have my leather messenger bag and the terrier's case, and we'll fly out on August 1st.

I'm listening, Universe. Tell me why I have to leave right now, make the next two weeks glorious....

And, I'll see what's in store for me down the road.

Patience was never one of my virtues.






Oh, and this does NOT mean you can take me off your blogroll..... I will return.


And I know where you drink.

Jack's and What Does the Universe Want Now?

Cajunboy, bless him, directed me to Jack's in a blog a month or two ago.

Buddhaonabagel! What a place!

I went to the location he mentioned, on 40th and 5th... it was.....bliss. I was advised, however, that the location at 110 W 32nd St is three, count 'em, three full floors of .99ness. What I love the most is, they sell .99 cloth bags to haul your .99 goodies home. CozyShack pudding (which was much needed last night), turkey/cranberry/nut/dressing salad fixings, coffee, reading glasses, stuff you didn't know you needed.... it's all there. If you are tired and need a snack, Jack's has it for you to munch on, and you know how much it is? .99.

Oh, yeah.

It looks as if I'll be headed west for a month. I simply cannot see paying rent here for two weeks during August. SO, I'll mosey to the land of Utes (when I'm paid so I can AFFORD THE PLANE TICKET), settle there for the ten days of wedding festivities, drive out to L.A. to see D. and the lovely S, write a bit on the stuff I've been asked to write, then, drive back, park my little two seater Benz (you didn't know Quin had a little Benz, did you?) and hide the keys again before I fly back here.

My director, who has become another sister of my heart explained to me, things happen for a reason, and for all of this to occur at once, the Universe is slapping me, saying I'm supposed to be on the West Coast.

Now, if the Universe would drop me a telegram giving me the reason why, I'd appreciate it.

If anyone knows anyone who needs a rock solid, slightly OCD, comes with my own way of organising things, P.A., let me know.

I'm going to nap now... it's that time of day, and, being stressed, I ate most of the food I bought at Jack's yesterday. I'm not feeling so good....

Friday, July 13, 2007

Friday, the Fck Me Dead Thirteenth

I had quit.

And, I was asked back... lulled by a big ass air conditioner, all the Fiji water I could drink, lots of time in a loft downtown, and two dogs who thought I was the leader of the pack, I stayed. It was an easy gig in many ways, I could overlook the odd parts.

Today, after asking for my pay for the fourth time for June, I was fired. Why? Because I refused to submit invoices for March-May.

Again.

How do you invoice what I do? "Arrived at noon. Walked dogs noon - one. From 1-1.19, picked up bits of chewed up tennis ball. Cleared up owners shopping bags from 1.30 until 1.34." You bill by the hour, simple as that.

Now, I'm having to fight for my bloody paycheck.

ARUGH. I should have stuck to my guns, instead of thinking we were used to each other, and never saw each other and it was an easy gig.


Now, the rest of my ramblings:

  • I've noticed a number of places carry the 'Sport Do-Rag'. Will there soon be the 'Formal Do-Rag'? The 'Business Do-Rag'? Do you change into the 'Sport Do-Rag' after 5PM? Is GQ aware of this?
  • Be wary when being polite, and standing to offer your seat to a woman that is wearing what seems to be a maternity top. Yes, although you are popping up and willing to stand with a full backpack and holding a terrier who sighs because someone has on a billowly top, it could just be the current baby-doll fashion and a hearty eater, and you are there, crammed in with 1,147 other passangers from Times Square to 149th for no other reason than, well, being polite.
  • While walking the pit bull and the terrier, I was stopped by two women who had no idea what SPF 70 meant. They didn't know what SPF 10 meant... they were beet red, and had that horror of a burn called, 'letting your hair hang down your back and shoulders'.
"Do you live here, here in New York City?"
"Yes, I do...may I help you find something?" They had a map, so, that was a given.
Usually, people want to find SoHo, I tell them to follow the smell of money.
"We want to find THE TWIN TOWERS. You know, THE WORLD TRADE CENTER." Yes,
it was said in capital letters. I'm like a number of other people, it unsettles me still to see
or hear it on the E, it throws me off.
"What? The what?"
I was given a look as if I were deaf or stupid. "THE TWIN TOWERS!!! THE WTC!!!"
"Well, you can walk that way down Church for around 20 minutes or so. But, you won't
see them. I'm not sure if you heard the news... but.... they're gone. BUT, you might be
able to buy a plate or something with them in bas relief." With that, I walked off. I know,
I know, I was mean. I've been cranky lately.
  • In being packed into the train with 1, 147 people, you are forced to stand there, unable to hold onto anything. The other bodies hold you in place... and, sometimes, all the bodies are male. I find this slightly embarrassing... especially when the only train advertising is "Don't let ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION RUIN YOUR SEX LIFE!!" and you really do hope what is pressing into your butt is someone's cell phone and that they need the medication advertised
  • I am a whore. No, I am. I will not sleep on less than 600 count sheets of Egyptian cotton. Thank you WeatherGuy. And, I did say sleep. I have 47 pairs of reading glasses, all very cute and clever... but, then, I need these because I lose them. I eye fountain pens with the drooling desire some women eye designer bags or shoes. My dresses and shirts? Silk or cotton only in that soft, soft, weave...in the winter, the sweaters have to be cotton in a fine weave or a pure wool...the skirts have to sway around my legs, or the shirts made to brush against my skin. I adore silk underwear. I collect carrying bags of all sorts, and they have to be leather or a good canvas. Notebooks to write in with the aforementioned fountain pens... leather or clothbound, with handmade paper. My longed for red sunglasses. Things that appeal to my senses, I collect and lust for as wantonly as some lust for Victorian porn. There, you know my secret. I am not ashamed.
  • I use the number 47 all the time. Sometimes, I add 100 or 1000 to it, it's a comfortable number. I also use the name Jack for everyone. When asked a question, I tend to say, "Run around naked?" "Oh, know what we did?" "You ran around naked?" "What would you like to do today?" "Run around naked?" My children do not find this an amusing habit. I do.
  • Backpacks take getting used to, I've found. When you are pregnant, you learn to manouver your large belly around as you move places. A backpack, especially one as full as the one the WeatherGuy gave me, is the same thing, only in reverse. I say, "Excuse me" quite a lot these days getting on and off trains. I also found out you can't just plop onto a seat.
  • When the terrier stands up on your lap and stretches, heed the stretch. Do not scold her, and have her sit back down so you can continue reading. The terrier is listening to the automated train messages, and hears your stop being announced. You do not. Therefore, you have to ride back three stops, with a disgruntled terrier on your lap.
  • When eating a Reese cup, it's not a good idea to put it near the hot spot of your laptop and forget it. It's also not a good idea to put your phone on top of the forgotten Reese cup. When the phone rings, it's a good idea to check the phone before you put it to your ear, thus removing the need to wash your ear, face and hands to remove melted chocolate and peanut butter, not to mention bemoaning the loss of a good candy.
  • Having a collection of bags is a good thing when you are emptying them out, and find a box of Jujyfruits, that have gone good and hard. If you put your mind away from Cajunboy's post on said candy, all is good in your world.
  • The Icy Glare, while a wonderful technique in stopping someone from grabbing your popcorn in a film, doesn't always work when they ignore the "Hey! You can safely walk here" guy, and turn in front of you. However, smartly hitting their hood and yelling, "Hey, JACK!" helps.
  • Your landlord calling and saying, "You know how we never got around to you signing a lease? Well, you need to leave on August 1st." sucks. I really hate Friday, the Fck Me Dead Thirteenth.

With that said, WeatherGuy is back from out of the country, and Sunday the Fifteenth is just around the corner.


booya.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

Sex, Lies and Relationships

I read quite a few online journals. Ones written by people I've met, people I feel I've met, those I've shared emails with, people I worry about, people who worry about me... men, women... some in the arts world, some in a world of their own.

A common thread is sex, lies and relationships. Lies we tell ourselves, our significant others, the world, friends, what it takes to get us through the day. Sex with someone we love, like, admire...a pick-up, a glance in a bar when you are hazy, an old flame, a need to feel comfort for the night, for the hour, a reminder you are attractive or were attractive or that you both felt something at one time for each other. Relationships old, new, forgotten...ones we wish we could forget, ones we never want to forget. Ones that broke us, made us, tore out our souls, re-built our hearts and spirits.. they can be physical, emotional, spiritual...same sex, different sex, non-physical ones. You can have an intimate relationship with someone you've never touched. Souls can find a home with a person that you only share words with, that you know you'll never share a physical space with, that you know this life isn't to be, it's only going to be those words, that sense of safety, that knowledge they are there for you in that deepest meaning of the words safe and home.

I recently finished a book, Rapture, by Susan Minot. It was a fast read, a trip to work and home on the 6/4.

A number of quotes stood out in my mind, of the many, many words she said that resonated in that short novel.

"Kay was still trying to figure it out. she was not prepared to give up her reverence for sex. It was too mysterious, too powerful, too magic. a kiss for instance. What was it? Two mouths coming into contact with each other, and yet a kiss had the power to make a person believe that not only was love possible, it was really quite likely, not only was life going to turn out all right, there was a very good chance it would turn out gloriously. So, it had it's deceptive side.

But, sex inspired hope, the water we swim in."


Kisses are magic, and what can make or break a relationship. They are that intimate bit of self sharing we hope for. They are special, beyond sex. I am reminded of the scene in French Kiss, when Luc (Kevin Kline) tells Kate (Meg Ryan) he saved up to go back to the prostitute in order to kiss her. Women who are raped feel more violated if the man kisses her, it's that push beyond into the private boundary, they area we hold sacred. We hand over kisses, playful, passion-filled, the fast peck on the cheek... but the ones on the mouth, they are a gift.

They do inspire the belief that love is possible... the dream, the hope.

Sex... it is something handed out in an easier way by many. That fast connection, that hope of becoming one with a person, if only for a short time.. the need to be cherished, if for a short time, the hope it will let you click and build on the physical to an emotional level.

I know couples who met, slept together, and are still locked in their coupledom thirty years later.

It can work, it appears.

A kiss gives us the belief we can be cherished, beloved... sex adds the senses to the flavour of that belief.

In relationships, the subject of the book, women, I've found, find it easier to walk away than men do. We may grieve, wail, have that soul rendering pain that finds us crawling on the floor unable to breathe...but, we can walk away. We are able, I feel, to deal with the knowing something is over, and the moving on.

Men. Ah, men. She speaks of how most men will suffer though twenty years of anguish rather than twenty minutes of discomfort. That men would rather stay in a bad relationship than move forward into being alone if it means they will be alone. I do not know a single man who can be, well, single. There is always the search for a new partner, an old partner, a brief partner, a fast hookup, even a flirt.

They will be madly in love with someone, living with another, but..will not leave the old if the new doesn't come out and say, "Leave them, be with me."

That assured position has to be there, or.... they'll stay and be miserable. It's easier. They will accept work as a substitute for a partner, something to fill the void, however, they cannot be...alone.

I'm not saying all men, it just appears to me that most men can't settle in on their own... perhaps that is why we women outlive you males. We learn to make do.

And, we view relationships from such a different angle.

The entire book is set in a single afternoon, covering the lifetime of a relationship, as the two characters engage in a single act of lovemaking... going from one point of view to the other.

She sees what they've done as 'worship'... and he says, "she'd learn, soon enough."

What we think is the end all is someone's passing by, and their bliss is our one night stand.

Sometimes, the untruths are not there, the kiss is magic, we breathe in counterpoint.... lie isn't at the core of the word believe, and the Trojan horse, Hope, holds the universe.

Fairy tales can come true, can't they?




Wednesday, July 11, 2007

They Call Me Nonnie Quin

Last night, Miss H called me.

"Mom, I'm in the hospital. I've been having labour pains for the last few days, and, well, this is it."

Being a sensible parent, I asked, "Did you ask for drugs yet?"

Being a sensible daughter she responded, "Of course. I told them my mom taught me if I was meant to have a baby surrounded in pain, I'd be squatting in a field in the year 1830."

That's my girl!

The drip and the antibiotics she needs to fend off a severe infection she picked up that seems to be showing up in more and more pregnant women stayed in her arm and back all during the night. Her dad drove the three hours from his home to be with her. We giggled on the phone, calling each other Grandpa and Nonnie.

Then I cried, because I've been there since she was six months old.

I wasn't there when I wanted to be... there were three events I needed to be around my children for this summer, I could only pick one, and that was the wedding, when I could be around all of them at the same time... then the Jarhead got deployed, ruining that plan.

We spoke off and on all night, she was at 3 centimeters, then 5.... so tired, her lips struggling to make words.

Her dad started to take the calls... I slept for a few hours, then rang again this morning.

"She's at 8.... she's been there for hours. If she doesn't move, they are going to do a C-Section."

I started to look at airline tickets.

It was emotional for me.... I raised her, and her natural mother was there, cooing along, the woman who walked away from both Miss H and The Slumlord years ago. It's a struggle to not want to yell she shouldn't be there.

At 11.45A my time, the 4 was getting ready to go underground... no one was answering any phones. My stress level rose higher.

I went for two hours, no one answering a phone... no one sending any messages.

Then, at 2.15PM, my phone rang.

I could hear her in the background, little Zori, who popped into the world at 11.55AM, MST... a week late.


I'm a Nonnie.

No, it's not the grandma name I'd have chosen.. I grew up with MawMaw's...

Nonnie.

I was going for Miss Quin, but, hey, we can't have everything.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

ARUUUUGHHHH!!!!

If it doesn't cool off soon, I'm joining the kids in the water gushing out of the illegally open water hydrant.

Life's Lessons This Week

1. Remember where you left your vintage red Wayfarer sunglasses.

2. If you don't remember where you left them, be prepared to brave Canal Street vendors.

3. When braving Canal Street vendors, pick one that you've chatted with recently, that remembers you, and one who is somewhat intimidated by your large pitbull, even if said dog smiles all the time and is flopped down on the floor. This way, when the manager comes close to you, to tell you the price you've offered is too low, the dog gets up, and, still smiling, gets between the two of you. That action facilitates a quick transaction at your price.

4. Watch the vendor. They bargain for one style of cute glasses for $5, then try to slip you an ugly pair. Both are knock offs, but, one is the ugly step-sister. Make sure you walk away with Emberella. I said they were knock-offs, Cinderella would cost you $150.

5. Westie's are like straight hair, unforgiving when you clip their fur. In fact, their fur is actually hair. Curly hair is made to clip and chop at, and will allow you to make mistakes, unless you do what Miss H did one year, and shave down to the scalp trying to trim your curly hair, necessitating a Sinead O'Connor haircut. Straight hair requires a steady hand and shows every mis-cut of the scissors. There is a reason the doggy salon in SoHo charges more to trim the terrier than the Aveya training salon does to cut my hair... they are in SoHo. With that aside, there is a reason you take terriers, particularly Westies who have double coats to professionals. Attempting to trim your own dog with scissors is akin to my mother trimming the Golden Child's hair back in the day. You end up dropping off the pet/child at a salon while you wear a scarf and big, dark sunglasses and use a pseudonym. In the Golden Child's case, my mother had one side of his head shaved up to the crown and the other side shaved along the side. In the Westie's case... well, we'll say she now looks pathetic and won't come near me.

6. Do not buy the Chocolate phone, even if it is cute and red. I am getting my third, count it THIRD one this week. They've said they may just give me a new model phone. Gee, you think three phones for bad inner workings in four months constitutes a bad phone? I've not mentioned the fact I burn out watch batteries, laptop batteries, mouse batteries.. pretty much anything electrical and hand held. We'll keep that our little secret.

7. When will I learn to stay away from the heavy food at the salad buffet?

8. I was reminded my mother is a bitch. She has a lame excuse for not attending HRH's wedding... I keep opening that Trojan horse labeled hope around her. I forget it's as empty as her soul.

9. Small children cannot keep secrets. Sit next to one on the train, and they will tell you everything. The little girl this morning who sat on the lap of the woman she was with told me she had on new underware, that they were going to the beach, and that the woman she was with was her daddy's girlfriend, and they couldn't tell mom. Yeah, that's going to be a secret for a long time.

10. The inventor of the air conditioner is a god.

11. Sometimes, text messages can make your day.

12. Before you leave the landing of your five floor walk-up, make sure you have everything you need. When you are in the lobby, and realise you've left your never ending metrocard... it's 95 outside, and you look at allllllllllllll of those stairs... pay the $4 for a day pass.

13. Do not hand over your never ending metrocard even if your hands are full for someone to kindly swipe it for you... they switch cards. I deserved that... and he deserved it when I had it canceled. Poohead. (I'm going back to the land of Utes soon, I'm getting back into practice)

14. As nice as the breeze feels from the oncoming train, do not lean too close over the tracks...the look of total fear and panic on the drivers face really isn't worth the coolness of the air.

15. Isn't it wonderful to have your arms full of stuff on your way home on a hot, hot, hot, muggy day, dreading the walk to the train, the six block walk home and knowing you have to transfer at Union Station...and suddenly there it is...the 4...running local on weekends. Booya.

16. Did I mention remember where you left your vintage red Wayfarer sunglasses?