Here and Gone Again

I hate being ill with the power of a thousand suns.

I hate the paperwork and irritation of paperwork involved with having myself in one part of the country and my doctors in another even more--even if I've put myself in this position by moving to New York from Utah.

For many, many, many days, I waited for doctors and insurance companies and labs to get it all together enough to provide a little piece of paper that would give me the necessary medication that allows me to putter through my daily life with some semblance of normalcy.

I attempted to do this sans vital medication. Let me laugh.

Ha. Ha.

By Monday night, a week ago, I was forced to leave the film set early--too tired to walk up two flights of stairs to holding to find actors. By Tuesday night, I was in bed pretty much full time. Friday had me irritable, emotional, sleeping in one position because my body simply didn't have the "UMPHFFF" to move, my bones ached, I was cold....did I mention irritable?

Saturday morning, the pharmacy called, the 'script was in... after countless calls, a second fax of the blood results to my doctor, and me trying to sound firm when I was talking like this:

"I...am...not...doing...great. Could...someone...please...look...for...the...bloodwork ?"

Hard to sound angry when you are breathing between words.

I had Peter and Doppelgänger and Weather Guy and their daily IM's and others who kept in written contact to see how I was. Even with a few calls, I missed important voices on a phone, though. You need that sometimes...to hear you are thought of, cared about... silly, but, true.

I came to realise, I am pretty much alone out here, even with those I know near by... they have their own lives, and cannot be expected to come to my aid. My friends/landlords were good...letting me 'watch' the boys by sitting in a huge chair and doing nothing but, well, watch. They brought me a couple of meals I was too tired to eat.

Enough of that. Golfwidow did a post for me, I have 24 hours of meds in me, and by tomorrow, will be back in form just in time to mail Bob back to Gateway to be fixed.

Again.

For the same reason.

I hate Gateway with the power of a thousand suns, too.

The good things....

The Investment, sending me text messages from the dentist's chair, where he had the fun of nitrous oxide... "Mom, my eyes are dead." "Mom, I am pretty sure my hands are on backwards" "Son, if you hands are on backwards, how are you typing?" "I wondered that myself, and think it's some kind of magic"

I pitied the dentist.

Doppelgänger, who was discussing Blackberry's with me in IM's... a long pause... then, he admitted he was searching for the 'K' to spell QWERTY. (okay, I lied... I did use your name to tell the story)

CB, my friend/landlord, seeing something I wish he hadn't seen. Enough said.

Finding out New York State gives you deductions for everything from renting to the number of times you've touched a crazy person by accident on the subway. Thank you, New York State for my swell refund. I can pay back things, now.

The filthy smelly lady, who was offering up rolls and donuts for free on the "R" train, then screaming if you said no. (making a note for next year's taxes)

My old Theater Company for offering me a job as Prop Mistress for their 2008 season.
Hurrah!!

Guys from the UK I met on the Ferry on my way back from an appointment I had to keep on Thursday... they opened a bag of Malteasers, I advised them it was against the law to have good candy in the US...and they shared. We had a swell time chatting and eating until the landing. It was worth the long trip for me.

So, I'm good.....Bob is shite, and again, I'm taking a break....because I won't have a laptop.

Later, taters.


And, thank you, again, everyone who checked on me. Facing things alone is scary. I remain scared, but, not as much as I was.

See You In A Few Days

Time out.

I'm having to take one of these. I'd love for you to have a gander at some of the people who have online journals I lurk in, including Things I am Grateful For (there's a contest, mention my name!) who always gives me reasons to remember why I'm in a good mood, Austere, a woman who makes you hear in colour, My Inflammatory Writ...she writes a great journal, amusing and on point, Skinbeater Greg...I never know what I'll find there, he's on his game. My SortaMom... she rocks. And puns.

There isn't a single journal I list I don't read every day. Some amuse me, some make me think, they are all part of my routine.

I am immensely proud and humbled that people read the mumblings I put here.

Thank you, again.

Now, go, read....enjoy.

The Jewish Rainbow Connection

by

Golf Widow

Quin is under the weather. I am filling in.

My chosen topic touches upon a subject near and dear to both of our hearts.

Gay Boys.

Actually, the idea for this topic was given to me by Quin's and my (and many other people's) gay boyfriend, Peter. (a note from Quin...he's MY GLTDP)

He wanted to know how (since I used to be Jewish-American before I reached the age of Having Pretty Much Gotten Over Any Organized Religion Whatsoever) being Jewish and female affected my feelings toward (and interactions with) homosexual men.

I decided to see what other Jewish women had to say about it, so we wouldn't be dealing with just one point of view.

My cousin's internet is currently frigged up, because she is heterosexual and married to a gentile boy who doesn't know anything about computers but insists on mucking about with the connections anyway. So I have not had a reply from her on this, as yet.

(I do, however, feel her pain. I've got one of those at home myself, and I still cannot fathom how "If you don't know what to do, leave it alone" doesn't get through their respective skulls.)

My mother's response is, I think, indicative of the generational gap. It gave me a lot of insight in terms of "Lowered, how things do change."

She said, and I quote:

1. As a young Jewish girl, I didn't know what gay was.
2. When I first found out -- sort of -- the gay men I had met were not friendly or good people. They were very political and seemed to hate most girls. (And hell, we were all "girls." No women were in power in that place.)
3. It took me a while to sort it all out.

Having said that, at this stage in my life I am friendly with several men who just happen to be gay. In many cases it seems a shame that such nice guys don't want to produce more nice guys, but I didn't live through their troubles either.

It's a new world now. Television, our most common medium in the US, has invited shows like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and the new I've Got a Secret (both now, sadly, defunct) into our collective consciousness. Ellen DeGeneres has one of the most popular talk shows on daytime television. This was, obviously, not the case when my mother was young. The gay people she had encountered were obviously in a lot of emotional pain and terribly restricted in their freedom to express their lifestyles and personalities.

It's sad for them, really. My mother is a lot of fun.

And she raised me to respect everyone, regardless of their skin color, religious beliefs, or sexual preferences, until such time as they proved (as individuals, never as groups) that they were no longer worthy of my respect. After that, all bets tend to be off with me. My mother is still of the "give them the benefit of the doubt" school, but it is what it is.

Anyway, my first truly gay boy friend was not out of the closet, but we did bond terrifically well. That said, he was, himself, Irish Catholic, and he bonded equally well with most of my female friends at the same time, who were mostly Catholic or Protestant. He just liked being around girls. We didn't judge him. Neither religion nor home-tradition played any part in our individual or group friendships where he was involved.

This was also true of my first out-of-the-closet gay boy friend. His best friend was my friend Anna, who was Roman Catholic. But I was the one he chose to try to make out with, just to prove to his mother once and for all that he really, honestly, had given girls a fair shot and he just plain wasn't feeling it.

This probably had a lot more to do with the fact that Anna was also full-blooded Italian and had more facial hair than he did (whereas I look reasonably girly) than it did with Judaism.

Anyway, he was very cute (picture William Baldwin, but with brown eyes), and the experiment was a lot of fun. I also got a nice ego boost from the fact that he said, "You're a really good kisser. It's too bad you're not a guy."

Then he went back and told his mother, "Nope, I've checked. Definitely gay," and we continued merrily on with our friendship until he moved out of state. We keep in touch sporadically by email, but my wardrobe has, indeed, suffered without his guidance.

I was originally going to draw the conclusion that it wouldn't have mattered what my religion was -- my upbringing had been such that I could, and did, enjoy the company of a nice guy, sexual preferences aside. Gay boys tended to be a lot more in tune with me because I think they understood the pain of being different and were more careful of others' feelings than were regular old "accepted for whom they were" boys.

But I think, ultimately, I can sum up the whole experience by example rather than by explanation:

When I'm asked to compare Prince Gomolvilas to other men I've known, I'm hard pressed to do so, but when people ask me what sort of person he's like, the first person who comes to mind is my late Aunt Lillian.

Really.

When Prince says of Pork Chop, "There he is. There's my baby," I can totally picture Aunt Lillian saying the same thing. The only difference is that she would never have named a cat after any food that wasn't kosher.




Our Neville Fact:

Neville still hasn't figured out that Victoria Beckham and Posh Spice are not two different people. Margaret thinks that Victoria Beckham and Posh Spice Beckham are sisters. Their daughter is often tempted to introduce them to the music of The New York Dolls, David Johansen, and Buster Poindexter, just to really mess about with their heads.

Only The Dead Have Seen Then End Of War

I'll thank Plato for the blog title.

It's a small post today...small and insignificant. So much more insignificant than the number of those in the Armed Forces serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. It is nothing when you think of soldiers who have given their lives for that miserable bit of shit we call..what? War? Looking for who? Helping George W. Bush save face? You know, the 'I' word. 'I' want to be a player in the world, so 'I' want to go to Iraq. 'I'll show them!

And we did.

4,000 dead as of today....the average age 21..21!!...five years after we were told our troops would be coming home just as soon as possible, because, by, golly, we'd won!!

The first died 21 March 2003.

I guess Bush forgot about that promise...he forgot we won. But, then, he's forgotten a number of things, including the fact we had no reason being over there.

Jon Stewart's take on it, his always droll comments...using the quote of Cheney saying "So?" when told 2/3's of the American public opposes this wa..sorry, this spreading of democracy. (John Adams is spinning in his grave at the use of that phrase he worked so hard to win.) He uses Bush's own words to show how we're winning, if you look at the war in reverse time.

If you want a blog to read, from a soldier on the front lines, go here. Alone on the Isle linked it on his site, and it deserves to be linked in a number of places. I'll warn you now, the first post you'll see will gut you.

Our children, spouses, loved ones, are going over... again and again. They have faulty body armour, are beset by a people who rightfully don't want them there, doing a job in a place that will make Vietnam look like a playground argument by the time it's done. What has it done for this country? Oil is at it's highest price ever, homes are going into foreclosure at an enormous rate, and we are in a recession. Not a work slow down, George, a fucking recession. All this time, billions are being pumped into that sandbox you shit in.

Billions of dollars, equipment, tents, medical supplies, Army, Navy, Air Force, Reservists of all branches (who often serve the most tours of duty... leaving behind wives and no acceptable second income, adding to the entire financial issue) and Marines. Who face snipers, IED's (52% of them die this way)... who come home and face problems here. That's not even taking into account the number of civilians, innocent ones who simply want their lives to go to some kind of normal.

That's not even getting into what it will take to put the wounded back to some kind of normalcy...fix legs, arms, brain injuries, those are shuffled away in the statistics...the DOD isn't really sure of the exact numbers of wounded, their accounting system isn't very good. They have a rough idea.... last count, 30,000 give a few thousand. Sadly, the DOD doesn't count those who have breakdown's as among those wounded... estimates there are one in every 10 soldiers is removed for mental or emotional stress.It's not only the visible wounds... those who come home without a mark are marked--it's what's inside, how they change there, our beloved who wear uniforms...that is something that remains.

This is just Iraq.... there have been another 487 lost in Afghanistan. In addition to the 4,000.

Yes, all of that is there... all the machines, money, planes, tanks, trucks, cars, people. Let's ask ourselves--what has come back from this muck we are embroiled in so deeply? What?

4,487.

That Is Disgusting...Really, It Is.

I miss the terrier.

I've said that on more than one occasion, both in speech and here in my little journal. She was my companion, my foot warmer, the one who went everywhere with me, the one I figured would eat part of me eventually.

The FMDkids aren't very fond of her, but, then, she stood to inherit most of my vast fortune--all $475.27. And the car.

She's quite happy in Mississippi now, eating grits and an egg every morning, sniffing out the mouse that used potpourri and fake flowers stored under my mother's sofa to make a nest...it's nice to know it was a Martha Stewart kind of a mouse...content in her life. I've missed having a dog around, I'm a dog person, and I've had one almost all of my life.

My friends (and landlords) recently purchased a labradoodle, an interesting breed developed in Australia from mixing, yes, a Lab and a standard Poodle... two very bright breeds of dogs. This gives you a non-shedding long haired dog, great for people who have dog allergies, because they do not set off said allergies. Subsequently, the dogs are in big demand all over the world.

Who knew?

Layla is currently a bundle of golden fur and sharp four month old teeth that like to bite on everything that isn't a dog toy. She knows her way to my door, and feels this is her second home. I have no problem with that, although a good deal of her visits are spent with me yelling, "LAYLA...PUT THAT (fill in the blank) DOWN!"

She gives me huge puppy eyes, and stops chewing on my socks/yarn/slippers long enough to puppy smile, and promptly goes back to that endeavour, pushing aside the costly dog bones she has laying about.

She is crate trained, which is handy. During the day, I will let her out, and she dashes around the yard, growling at birds, rolling in the new grass that is appearing... generally being a good dog.

Recently, she's started to dig. Not so much fun. We've had to bathe her, which she loves... she's part Lab. She's learned digging means a bath... she's not stupid. She runs out, does her business, and heads straight for the dirt in the garden, trying to beat you in your attention to her, in order to roll about, necessitating a trip to the tub.

Right.

Today, she discovered so much more there.

Sniffing around the fence, she started to dig frantically, with both J and I calling to her to stop... I elected to go grab her before she became dirty.... she had moss hanging out of her mouth, and I did what any dog owner does, I put my hands in to pull it out... only, it moved. It had a tail, and it was partially chewed, and it moved.

I don't think I've made that kind of a scream or dashed that quickly in years. J and I did the "AH! AH! AH!" dance on the upper deck, as Layla finished her lizard snack, and licked her lips.

Disgusted, I refused to have anything to do with her for the rest of the day....until I wanted to watch television for a bit while everyone was gone.... plus, I did say I'd feed her and put her outside for a bit.

I mumbled to her how naughty she was, letting her out of her crate, patting her head while she lumbered around me, with that cute little smile... the neighbor and I chatted, wondering how large she'd get, his grandson telling me about their dog. Then, that child said, "What does dog have?"

She was back at the hole... pulling something out. I ran over, in the dusk, grabbed her head, pulled at the dark hunk of mud....

....and part of the long dead, dried up rat came away in my hand.

My scream caused her to drop the other part in disgust. Why didn't I see how tasty it would be? Why was I dragging her inside, still making odd human noises, and shuddering? Why did I dump a whole bottle of hand cleaner and then some bleach on my hands, still making those silly noises? Couldn't I see that it was a fun game to pull the dead things out of the ground?

She huffed off to sleep in the corner.... finally creeping up on me, when I'd calmed down, to lie down on the big pillow I was snuggled up against... to let me know she forgave me for taking away her toy outside.

She forgave me....and gave me a great big rat smelling lick on the cheek to prove it.







Our Neville Fact:

Our Neville and Margaret have a secret bank account that the children don't know about. It is to finance their villa in Greece. They plan on going away every November, to drink ouzo, sit on the beach, our Neville will wear shorts, and Margaret plans on not wearing hose. Of course, they've planned this for the last 20 years, and haven't done anything about it. Still, one day, they tell themselves, one day.

Shamless Self Promotion

Once in a bit, I submit my work to Six Sentences.

I've gone to a place that is a bit of a change for me... the Oddship said, "I refuse to touch this one." when I asked for feedback.

Ha!

Please let me know when you read this one what you think.... good or bad, by leaving a comment on the site.

I can take it, I promise.

The Weather Guy

We've known each other for a few years, the Weather Guy and I.

Both of us members of a forum board, we'd post on the same subjects, occasionally pass a message... once, he sent me candy I craved from the UK, where he went on a regular basis to work for his company. I was supposed to send him some peach jam I made... I never got around to it. I actually still have the wrapping with his address on it from the package he sent, still in my address book--the one that is in storage back in the Land O'Utes.

He'd text me photos from wherever he was, with a message, "Hello from (fill in the blank)!" and I'd send one back, "Hello from Utah!". I did send one once, taken from the window of Norma, of the desert between Las Vegas and California, just to shake things up a bit. It was an easy going thing, this occasional passing of text and photos... we'd never spoken nor seen each other.

When I moved to New York, he called... we discussed going out for a drink, built around his insane schedule of work and travel and two sons. Eventually, an evening cleared, and I met him at a pub near Penn Station... there he was, the Weather Guy, and he was sweet and charming and had that level Weather Guy voice.... and he was oh, so, handsome.

I am leery of getting attached to people in any way, shape or form. I do not like opening myself up, nor allowing some bits of me to become part of another person's life. I hold that you don't kiss, because kissing is giving promises you may not be able to live up to, a future you don't know you can give. It is handing over a part of yourself... I was fearful.

The Weather Guy spoiled me. He makes me laugh, he bought wonderful sheets for me, he'd keep his air conditioning on, even when it was cool outside because I can't control my body temperature. He laughs with me, and at me. He tries to explain his job or how to fix a program on my computer... then will say (or text) "You have The Look, don't you?"... and I do... this look of politeness, where I pretend I'm paying attention, but, I left the building around five seconds into the talk. We insist we don't have a relationship, we have... a whatever-it-is-ship. He is one of my best friends.

He was a place I have when things are scary or sad or great or funny or any of those things in the world. We spend hours talking, online or on the phone or into the night.

I grew comfortable with someone in my life for the first time in a very, very long time.

Winds of change blow.... Weather Guy is moving with those winds. He announced to me awhile ago he is going to be working in Europe for a good long time.... starting very, very soon. So soon, I more than likely won't be seeing him again before he leaves.

I had said in the beginning of our whatever-it-is-ship that kissing was not an option.... I was firm, I was polite, I gave my reasons. He respected that, and when we discussed it, said he understood. We've both been hurt deeply, and this was our healing time, I think. I will miss him so much... I miss him now, before he's gone, even with our conversations that still go on every day.... He knows I am lost as to how I will deal with this hole in my life, that I am floundering right now--I know he is swamped with closing up a house, a life, dealing with family and visas and there isn't a minute to spare... and that he is squeezing minutes out of busy days to spend in IM's and fast phone calls with me, doing his best to ease this time for me, while I worry about his stress level and all he has in front of him.

I will miss the horrible, horrible puns, that he cooks!, the good sheets, the kindness, his chuckle, the fact he knows how I like my coffee, his love of music, the amazing whisky, our long conversations about everything, how he taunts me with the C word (don't get all excited, it's Costco), the 47 guitars in the flat, the fact he spells the way I do, that he is a father who would do anything for his boys, his obliviousness to some things, his pin point attention to others, introducing me to different interests I had no idea existed, his dear smile, the fact he is there when I need him--even when he's surrounded by alligators. The Weather Guy voice.

It's not for another two weeks or so.... I want to get this out of the way, in order to set my life back in place. To adjust. You miss people who made a difference in your life, he made a difference in mine, in ways large and small...I will miss his presence just over the water, a train ride away. I had told him kissing was not an option, and he respected that.


I cannot convey how much I regret that decision.

Softly

It's the way I have to approach him--softly.

I've taken on watching the landlord's two lads a few afternoons a week...it offsets my rent, which is always a good thing. I'd seen them off and on in my dashes to and from the house, nice boys, 8 & 6 sweet looking, they would wave and smile. When I was offered the job, I took it...it's a whole five steps to work, I like the boys, they both have deep, dark black eyes in beautiful faces.

We get along, doing homework, snacks, then they take to their own times... R (the elder) is content to play his guitar, play his Wii, chat with me, he rubs his close cropped black hair when he's doing his homework. C...ah, C works his way around me, sliding up, touching my hair, he sniffs me. He will crawl in my lap, ask for the dinosaur page I have bookmarked on the laptop, "Have Bob find the dinosaurs!" and he knows the name of every mammal I show him, he knows which dinosaurs are carnivorous or herbivores or omnivores. He knows what that means...he reads the pages, he is far beyond his years in reading skills. We talk of the habitats of various reptiles and insects.... all on his terms.

I cannot move quickly around him, or ask for a hug, as I can from R. C is autistic. He's on the border, dancing on the edge, functional, brilliant, socially inept. He will dash out of that private place where he lives, taking the chance to make contact, his deep, dark red hair catches the sun as he sits on my lap...and lean over and kiss me, hug me hard, hold my face and say, never looking me directly in the eyes, "I love you!" and those two milliseconds mean the world, because with a child like C, it is a hard won phrase.

Sometimes, he will lie next to me on the sofa, and we watch Discovery. Sometimes, he won't answer me no matter how many times I say good-bye. We share popcorn at the movies, no one else can touch our bucket, or he starts to growl. He is learning he has to ask to touch my things, and I can get him to do his homework... we do it in bits and pieces; I allow him a few problems, then I let him dance or sit and stare. I understand his thought process, didn't I raise one who had some of those issues? Don't I go to those places myself?

So, I have two boys again, in my life. I am back to little boy smells and little boy yells and little boy refusals to brush their teeth and wash their hands, and having to remind them to put the seat up and flush.

I have one who will meet my eyes and smile and say please and thank you... and one who will, when I'm reading and I think he is upstairs watching his dinosaur video, will come down, lean on me, and feed me a marshmallow.

I have to move softly around him. Never reach for him, never look directly at him, or ask for affection.

When I get it, though, it's spontaneous, and that much more appreciated.



Our Neville Fact:

Our Neville's daughter has decided she wants to become one of the horse set, therefore, she's signed up for riding lessons with a friend of a friend who once met Princess Anne's husband, Read Admiral Timothy Laurence. She feels this allows her to say she is a friend of the Royals, making her a royal pain to be around, for not only does she wear her riding gear everywhere, bringing bits of horse muck into the house, she tells people to "Naff off!", to the annoyance of Margaret, who thinks Princess Anne should have had her mouth washed out when she said it, much less have to listen to her own daughter spout the phrase.

Shut UP!

Me. Me. Me.

I think I've ridden the Ferry more this week than I have in a month, bringing me into contact with more than a few people who surpass those who expose their personal lives in blogs and online journals everywhere. Who give up sex lives, marital problems, banking details, discussions with their doctors and basic gossip to the world around them. Indeed, "...millions of gasping little voices"

I am talking about the cell phone user.

More and more, people appear to believe when they are on their mobile phones, they are encased in a secure bubble, that blocks out everyone else... the way Cate Blanchett mentions when, as Elizabeth I, she turns to a suitor and says, "I pretend there is a piece of glass between all of them and myself." It's that "I am invisible" belief drivers who pick their noses or sing off key with the window open have.

People discuss anything and everything in huge crowds, in loud voices.... things I would go into my bathroom and shut the door to discuss (even though I live alone)....with no regard at all to those of us who don't want to hear, those who are offended by the conversations, amused by the conversations or those who strain their necks trying to hear as many as possible.

Those people will not be named in this journal.

In one morning, I heard a man ask the woman on his phone if he, "...... take the time to come up there, baby, and I'm keeping it real here, am I going to get the best fuck of my life? 'Cause I hear you want me in your (insert a graphic word) bad."

There was the woman discussing her upcoming hysterectomy with her mother. In graphic details.

The banker who told another he was pretty sure a large number of banks would be failing in the next two years. (There goes my $47.52 in savings!)

The girl screaming at her boyfriend, in words I'd never heard... although I did take notes for later use, just in case.

Phones ring, and you hear, "Hello? Hello? Hello?" The phone is shaken.... come on people.. the only electronic device to work when you shake it is a laptop.... then, "Hello? HELLO??" At this time, I want to lean over and say, "I don't think they are there." But, who am I to ruin a good time for the person who obviously likes saying "Hello?".

There are beep rings, buzz rings, bell rings... 8472 kinds of song downloads. "Hello?" is said in a number of voice tones and accents.

And, they all share their private business. The worse offenders are the ones who feel the need to use the walkie talkie thingy (technical term) so we can hear both sides of a conversation we really, really don't want to hear.

Somehow, I'm not that interested in how he did you wrong by going to your girlfriends house and getting up on her booty and then she was in your face. Or something like that.

With a blog or online journal, I have the option of finding these things and reading them. Phone conversations are all around me, washing over me, filling my ears with words I don't want to hear, in languages I don't understand.

I am in E.A. to begin with.... Eavesdropper's Anonymous. I have a hard enough time not leaning and listening to things that are unique and worthy of note taking.

You discussing with your Aunt Louby how you passed your kidney stones, isn't.

Trust me.



Our Neville Fact:


Our Margaret refuses to allow the grandchildren to wear their shoes in her house. She takes great pride in the hardwood floors, and the handloomed rugs made by nuns who live in a convent off the coast of Malabar. They must wear only cotton socks, and walk around the rugs, which have plastic runners on them for the times one must step foot on them. When no one is around, Margaret takes off her shoes and stockings, and runs her toes in the dense wool, while drinking a cup of tea, and reading M.M. Kaye.

Enviromental Youth

Boys don't change.

Walking home from the bus, I was privy to the following conversation, held between two boys, sitting on their bikes... creating their perfect cars. It was a youthful pissing contest...one I'd heard my own brother have, my sons... this one, however, this was....current.



Boy 1--Yeah, my car... it's going to be black. Black with black leather interior.

Boy 2-- Mine is going to have stripes, thin racing stripes. And, blacked out windows.

Boy 1-- Well, I'm going to have fat tires, and spinner rims.

Boy 2-- Huh. Me, too. And, and, I'm going to have a (blah blah) stereo system, with surround sound.

Boy 1-- Yeah. And, I'm going to have a 350 engine, with an auto trannie.

Boy 2-- I'm going to have a 450 hemi... turbo.

Boy 1-- I'll have GPS. And a DVD player.

Silence. The gauntlet was thrown. How can this be surpassed??

Boy 2-- Mine will get 40 MPG.



Game. Set. Match.

GARGH

ignore the blog look until sisterwife fixes it.


thank you.

What Time Is It?

Spring forward, fall back?

I never get the time change right, thankfully, they do it on a Sunday, allowing me the luxury of a day with nothing to do in order to wake up in full panic wondering if I'm early/late for something because I didn't change the clocks.

Winds of change blowing. They make me wonder what is in store.


For WP...



Our Neville Fact:


Our Neville's favourite book is his well worn hard back copy of Three Men in a Boat:To Say Nothing of the Dog. He re-reads it on a regular basis, roaring with laughter over the antics of the scoundrels and their holiday contained within the covers of this novel. Margaret despises this bit of reading, and wishes our Neville would find something more solid to read, along the lines of Dame Agatha Christie or even the bloody Reader's Digest Condensed Books. But, no, year after year, he reads Three Men in a Boat, laughing before he finishes a line, mumbling them to himself when he shuts the book, all in all very pleased with the writer, the adventure he wanted so for himself, and the fact he'd hollowed out the inside long ago, and where he slips bodice ripper romances by Barbara Cartland to read, with Margaret being none the wiser.

Notes

From the week that was:

• Odd little man who stood at the bus stop last Monday, waiting for the bus, along with myself and others.... limping on his cane, obviously disabled... we stood aside as he clambered on board first, grumping the whole time about the delay. Forgiving of his rudeness because of his physical problems, trying to be politically correct, I suppose. He stood in front of a woman, a nicely dressed black woman, who was seated where he wanted to sit, ignoring the empty seat next to her. He stood and stared at her, finally saying, "Are you going to move or do I have to just sit on your lazy ass?" She looked up, and shifted over, not saying a word. Again, no one spoke. When the bus pulled over to the stop where he wanted to be, she moved up fluidly, and off the bus, while he struggled to get going and down the steps yelling at that point he needed the bus. Our driver honked his horn at the bus starting to pull away, to let them know he had a connection, to no avail. The woman passenger made the connection, it was no fault of hers the disabled man didn't make it...he'd not said a word until after she was gone. He was still going down the stairs when the other bus pulled away, at which point he started to yell, "FUCKING N*GGER BITCH!! GOT IN MY WAY, N*GGER BITCH!! MADE ME MISS MY BUS!" Our driver shut the door on his rant, merged into traffic, the hum of conversation was still. I spoke up into the lull, "I'm sorry, disabled doesn't excuse you from being an asshole." Everyone started to talk then.... It was a shock, we had all given way for him, made allowances for his slow movements, stepped aside, given up seats.... the huge wave of racist anger took us by surprise. Perhaps it was thinking just because he was disabled he was automatically meek, weak, gentle... all of those adjectives one would attach to someone who is low on the pecking order. Never judge a book, and all that jazz.

• I've noticed some languages sound the way they are written. This great revelation came to me after my second long (15 hours) day on the set, again on my bus, during the last leg of my trip home. The woman next to me was reading her newspaper, covered with Oriental markings, when her phone rang. She had an extended conversation that I was privy to (aka eavesdropped), whereupon I noticed the words spoken were like the words on that paper--sharply edged, precise, blunt, landing in my ear the way they lay in print. Either that or the long days may not lend themselves to logical thought process, but, do give themselves over to unique flights of fantasy.

• No matter how you want it to happen, a 37 inch wide sofa will not fit down a 36 inch wide stairwell. End of story.

• Will Ferrell needs to accept he has to find something new to do.... playing the same character over and over no longer works. Trust me on this one, Will.... Semi Pro sucks rocks.

• So does The Other Boleyn Girl. Please, if you are going to do historical drama, at least pretend to know the history.... okay?

• After 15 months in New York, I can finally say, with complete honesty, after a long study, the W train does move. Not often, which is why it is called the "Waithere Train"...however, it DOES move. Sometimes. Once. Really. It did.

• If you wear galoshes into the city based on NOAA's weather report, it will not rain, and you look stupid.

• While filming in a church in Brooklyn, I was reading about the various Saints listed around the Baptismal Font. Each panel of walnut had a Saint painted, with the reasons for sainthood placed beneath their likeness.... St. Thomas More-Martyr for the Faith. Mother Cabrini-Patron Saint of Immigrants. St. Christopher-Patron Saint of Travelers. St. Jude-Invoked for Lost Causes. Elizabeth Seton-Mother, New Yorker. St. Augustine-Bish....wait a minute. Hold on. Elizabeth Seton is a Saint because she was a NEW YORKER? Does that mean I'll be sainted because I've ridden the 'F' and the 'G' trains and lived to tell the tale? Is she sainted because she knew where to buy the best knish? She had an in for knock off purses? She wasn't a martyr, she was a New Yorker! If she was from Jersey, she'd just have been a woman who became a nun who did good things...never have made sainthood, I guess.
  

• There is a revival of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, with James Earl Jones as Big Daddy. I may have to sell a piece of liver to go, but, I'm going. Imagine..... the quintessential Southern play, by Tennessee Williams, with colourblind casting. Word.
  

• Spoke to Loo, Miss Sof, DebB, HRH, WeatherGuy and Jarhead this week. Letters from GW and Peter and my Oddship. I'm smiling.

Slow week, soft week, standing outside on the Ferry for the first time in a long time. Listening to tourists chattering, watching the city pull up out of the water the way it does, have Sweeney Todd discuss politics with me while he cuts my hair, then the great fun of street food on my way home.

What more do I need?

HRH

Twenty years right at this minute.

I'm stunned it's been that long, when I think about it.... twenty years since that day I went to see some long since forgotten film with Mother, that ended with her leaving in a huff, me waddling up the long drive to the house, the Ex helping me put Jarhead and TheInvestment to bed.... he decided to run errands, his way of getting out for a bit.

My back hurt some, but, then, I was the size of a house... a split level house. He was gone a bit when I realised my back hurting was something we call 'labour'. No cell phones, none of my friends were home, I was not due for another five weeks.

My Mother's phone was busy, and even though I worked for the Corporate Giant, I didn't think to have the operator break in on the line to tell Mom she needed to get back in her car and come to where I was.

I did call my friend and doctor, who lost her usual composure to tell me to "....get here ASAP!!" when I said my contractions were around 5 minutes apart.

Instead, I washed out some nice underwear and took a shower.

The Ex came in, humming a tune, and asked why the dryer was running for a few things. I toweled off and said I was in labour.

By this time, a friend had shown up to watch the boys in their sleep. I was still quite calm. He went into throw everything into the van mode, including me and my still damp underwear. Off we went into the dark Colorado night.

I was panting and clocking things at every two minutes.

His comforting words?

"Don't push, for God's sake, don't push!" Since I agreed with his thought process, I worked on not pushing. After all, I was a tad bit early in the delivery process.

We raced down the Diagonal Highway between Longmont and Boulder, me huffing and puffing, him trying to keep me calm. I still remember him reaching over, smoothing my shirt over my tummy, speaking to me, to our unborn child.

We hit the outskirts of Boulder and I said, still very calmly, "You have to stop.. we need film."

"What?"

"We need film. I have a camera, no film. Get some."

The Ex was one to watch pennies... he had to, we had a large family.... the only thing open was the corner store, the kind that charges you $2.00 for a candy bar. He dashed in, threw a large bill at the counter clerk, and yelled, "Keep the change!", running back out to the van with the insisted upon film in his hand.

I heed and hooed.

Finally, we arrived at the hospital, two hours after I'd made the call to the doctor, telling her I was in labour. You think she'd have been happy to see me, right?

Up she walked... all 5'4" of her, blonde curls quivering in rage.... she grabbed the front of my cute maternity smock and said, "WHERE. IN. THE. FUCK. HAVE. YOU. BEEN?"

What? I can't shower and shave and pick up film? Just because my baby is breech and early?

I was thrown into a bed, wires attached, machines turned on and everyone peered at the sonar machine....

A collective gasp of relief went up.... the baby had turned, no breech birth was going to happen. '

"So, do I get to go home?" Five heads, including the Ex's turned and five voices said as one, "NO!"

I was in for a birth....

A needle in my back, blessed relief from the labour pain (yes, it is pain) and we were ready. Ex was with me the whole time, holding my hand... both of us worried... she was going to be very early.

The usual jovial nature of my doctors was subdued, they worked quickly to get her out... I felt the tug, the pull... and silence. No cry that I was used to hearing upon the immediate touch of air to my child's face.

A small gasp, then she cried... still not huge yelps, but, a cry nonetheless. They held her up for me to see, my girl I'd waited for.... she was deep blue. Before I could appreciate her beautiful face, she was whisked over to the doctors waiting to rub her, get her going, help her breathe. I heard them give her APGAR.... it wasn't very high.

Ex patted me, stroked my face... I had him go with her, I'd be fine. Suddenly, I was in pain, the meds were wearing off and I was there, with my body cut open.

"I can feel that!", I said. "I can feel you."

They brought my daughter over, quickly.....she was so, so beautiful... soft, pink... mewling now. My sweet baby girl. Then, I was out.

I woke up a few hours later, and looked over to a crooning in my dimly lit room. In the other births, the Ex had gone home, dealt with the children there, home, work. With this one, he chose to stay with me, had a cot put there in my room... he was sitting on the cot, our tiny preemie in his arms, an IV strapped to her arm, oxygen being fed to her, she already had pneumonia. He was singing to her, talking to her, kissing on her minute face.

"Here's your Mom." he said. "She's been waiting for you for a long, long time."

I've never bonded with any of my children at first sight... I'm not wired that way. I would fight for them, defend them, at one point, I suddenly adore them... but, that instant love never happens.

With HRH, there was something... she was my own baby girl. She was helpless and there and struggling. She opened her eyes and that was that.

I looked down on her, and sang to her the song my grandmother sang to me...."Oh, K-K-K-Katie, beautiful Katie... you're the only g-g-g-girl that I adore. When the m-m-m-m-moonshine comes over the c-c-c-cowshed, I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-k-kitchen door."

Hokey, yes...but, it made sense at the time.

She and I snuggled down and went to sleep, with our matching IV's and oxygen bottles.... she later went on to have RSV and croup and to drive me mad with a number of other things.

She's married now, with a husband and two children she's learning to raise...she's in school and growing to be a woman. I am as proud of her now as I have ever been. Our road together isn't always smooth, she is far too much like me for that to happen. I don't like every decision she's made, she's not wild about mine. Still, I can close my eyes, and think of that first time, of the time I saw her last.... her joy in life, her belief in herself, her love of her husband and her new family, her devotion to her siblings, the deep satisfaction she gets in learning, the chuckle that starts low in her throat, her dimple, her quick anger and her quicker forgiveness, slender arms, beautiful hands moving in the silent language of the deaf, body folded up on itself when we watch films together, bumperbutt, my one, my only HRH.

I'll be waiting at the k-k-k-k-kitchen door.


Happy Birthday, heart of mine.

Boys Who Are Blonde

Double Duty Day.

Bunch of years ago, my dad came to my school, and announced to me that I wasn't going to get that puppy I wanted...

....again.

Instead, again, I was getting another sibling.

Another brother.

This one, I adored... he wasn't held out as the successor to Jesus Christ, nor as all I should be... he was a great toy for me to play with. He wore diapers my Mawma always seemed to bleach with something coloured in the washload, so, they were tinted pastel colours of green and blue and pink and yellow... He was blonde and blue eyed, a wonderment to my dark self.

I was allowed to name him, and name him I did.... to his later disgusted self.

He stands godfather to TheInvestment, he works hard, is a good man and his wife... I adore his wife. They are both people you wish you could have in your life, and when you find out they are, send a prayer out to God in gratitude.

He wasn't always swell, but, he's my Baby Bro... He and the Wife take on Jarhead, who looks like their child, and who will more than likely work for BB when he gets out of the service.

Happy Birthday, BB...

The segue to Jarhead is simple... today, he was promoted to Corporal Jarhead in the USMC. I was going to go watch him receive his stripe....but, he said they have a hazing ceremony he'd prefer I not know about...so....

I'm still on the set, too... 15 hours yesterday, 13 today, another long haul tomorrow.

The upside is the unique folk on the bus...but, that's for tomorrow's ramble...

Today is about my blonde haired boys...