Bored?
A bit. I've gone from full tilt boogie with three kids around, to just me. Yesterday, I went to see Australia, and was enthralled for the full three hours. It's epic, epic, epic in every way. Good guy, heroine, bad guy who is so stinking bad you want to kill him yourself. A great kid, magic, scenery that takes your breath away, great CGI (as good as CGI can be) a few continuity issues (what? you think I'm not going to mention them?), a romance so great you yearn for one like it, and Hugh Jackman without a shirt. That alone is worth the admission. Fifteen months of filming, three choices for leading man (Heath Ledger and that Crowe guy), and after you see it..you can't imagine anyone buy Jackman, both leads sign on without a script ("....but, Hugh, BAZ is directing! Of course you'll do it!")... it was beyond anything I expected. I do wish there had been an intermission....the classic epics had them, this needs a short one. Aside from that, an amazing film in every aspect.
I stopped at Whole Foods and grabbed some food for dinner, met an interesting man who used to go to New Orleans to play at the Jazz Fest. We chatted for around 20 minutes, then went our separate ways. Easy ride both ways on the train, the usual interesting people on the train. The ride into the city included some people who were talking of never riding the train, they went to "....show the kids". Well, the car we were all in had been hurled in rather recently, and they were stunned. I said sotto voce to the mother, "We do call it the F train for a reason." then told her why. She laughed as her kids yelled EWWWWW over the stench. Thankfully, my stop was next... and I was saved.
Today sent me back into the city, to Century 21 to return some gloves and a pair of pants I'd bought without trying on... they were far too big. A pair of size 10's. Once again, I'm dropping weight in New York, it's the reduced intake and increased walking at a brisk pace. I weighed myself, and I've lost 12 lbs since I arrived... I can live with this. It was an beautiful day, just the right temperature to move around, coat opened, cowboy boots on, iPod in place and finding the beat to move to as I walked, which, I have to say, looked odd to others. I went from "Walking on Broken Glass" fast beats to "Foggy Dew" mournful dirge slow. It leads one to do a bit of a hop and stride down the street.
When I get off the train or out of the door, the decision to walk on cracks or not is made by my first step. If I happen to step on one first off, I'm okay with the decision to continue to do so...if not, I have to add the odd mincing steps to fit in between cracks to the music beat.... I imagine I look a bit whacked when I walk. However, I wear sunglasses, so, if they can't see my eyes, it doesn't count.
Right?
There were a gazillion people there, I twitched and bobbed my way through the store, music on high to drown out the static sound.... made my way where I had to go, and left... almost throwing myself into the cold air, glad to be on the streets with only a million or so of my fellow humans. I had the nice compliment of some odd calls from construction workers I'm told are given to 'mature' ladies, a great companion who teaches in the public school system, a hold up on our train, allowing a group of us to soundly curse the MTA and bond over that very New York task, and I remembered to bring a cup of coffee home to heat up for tomorrow morning, so I don't have to go out tomorrow to get some.
All in all, keeping myself busy until I see C and R tomorrow.... I'm giddy over that event.
Hugh Jackman's half naked body as a thought isn't too bad, either.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
My Punishment
From Thom, leader of Three Word Wednesday and Surface Tension:
Plodding through the snow, he was surprised his fury didn’t melt the icy flakes before they settled around him. She showed no guilt throwing him out the house...why? He was truthful with her saggy old ass-self. She should be grateful he gave her any time at all, thankful for the attention. Yo, 44 is old when you’re 26.
ONE sentence? That's it? I mean, it's a fine sentence, a wonderful one. OK, your punishment? A Fiction in 58 - using fury, guilt and thankful. You may go now.Yo, Get OVER Yourself
Plodding through the snow, he was surprised his fury didn’t melt the icy flakes before they settled around him. She showed no guilt throwing him out the house...why? He was truthful with her saggy old ass-self. She should be grateful he gave her any time at all, thankful for the attention. Yo, 44 is old when you’re 26.
Three Word Wednesday~Fury, Thank, Grateful
Okay, I'm going for one sentence with the three words.... (deep breath)
"Thank you, my love" she'd said, pretending to be grateful while hiding the fury brought on by the comment her young lover made regarding her face-- "You look 44, but, let's be honest, that's still really old to me."
Hrumph
"Thank you, my love" she'd said, pretending to be grateful while hiding the fury brought on by the comment her young lover made regarding her face-- "You look 44, but, let's be honest, that's still really old to me."
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Ambien Isn't My Friend
I forgot to link this....
Thom wrote it... we won't mention whom it's about, or who they sent text messages to...
Thom wrote it... we won't mention whom it's about, or who they sent text messages to...
Star Light
There is something I do miss about the openness of Utah skies.
At night, you can open your hand, and feel the light of the heavens in your palm.
At night, you can open your hand, and feel the light of the heavens in your palm.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Mangi
Three years.... sometimes, it seems like forever, sometimes, I pick up the phone to call him, surprised not to hear a ring, a fumbling, his voice yelling, "HOLD ON!! HOLD ON!!" while he sorted out which end he was to talk into, trying to turn down the TV, changing the cable by mistake, cursing and yelling and I'd have to go over or send one of the kids to straighten it all out.
He could be an ass or a hoot, depending on the day, even before he was ill.
My father was Sicilian... oh, he was half Irish background, too...but, according to his mother, the Irish DNA sorta slipped through the genetic cracks, leaving him pure Sicilian. He looked it, as does The Investment. I'm more on the Irish side of things... hazel eyes, white skin... they are dark, dark eyes, black hair. Dad also inherited the gift of mangi, and I did take that one on full bore.
You never went to my Mawma's without leaving with a covered dish... I'm fairly sure she supported Reynolds single-handed. She'd wash bits of foil, then reuse them to cover dishes. We'd drive up from New Orleans, arriving at after hours of driving, and she'd have a full on meal... "Oh, you must be starving! Mangi! Mangi!!" And, we did.
I'm startled no one ever died of clogged arteries by the age of 10.
Pasta, stuffed peppers, ravioli, salad... all at 1AM, just a little something for the babies, who were falling asleep in their plates.
I learned the joy of Thanksgiving, my Dad's favourite holiday. Oh, he liked Christmas, because I make the best standing rib roast you'll ever have. No brag; fact. I'd bake a big ham on Christmas Eve, and create amazing pain perdu with Grand Marnier and an apple/pecan sauce on Christmas morning.
He and I also made delish fruitcakes... yes, fruitcakes. My gran's recipe.... ripe with whisky, so ripe you could smell them outside of the garage where we stored them. Our belief was a shot for the cake, a shot for us, one for the cake, one for us... By the end of fruitcake day, we were very, very happy. Rich and pale and full of nuts and dried fruit...the cakes and us.... butter, sugar... ...again, clogged arteries were not to be found. Go figure.
Thanksgiving...now that, that that was our speciality. We'd sit and plan and examine turkeys and buy yams and potatoes and sour cream and butter, oh! the butter! Paula Dean learned from my father.... and, as Dad grew older, more feeble with Alzheimer's and his body started to give way, I did the dinners alone.
He would start talking about them in September, interspersing them with his other favourite topics-- Judge Judy and his body functions. To see a man who had three degrees in things from Mathematics to Archeology slip to this was difficult. He remained a gentleman... always called me to discuss his wardrobe... ironed shirts tucked into his khaki pants, his handkerchief in his pants pocket. He walked with a cane at the end, still holding the doors open for ladies, still pulling my hand, or HRH's, through his arm on occasion... always walking on the curb side of the walkway.
Oh, I make a wonderful turkey. He'd come over, and watch as I made up the brine, holding the bag when I put the turkey in, following me as we shoved it in the extra 'fridge downstairs, having an illicit glass of wine to celebrate. Brine it three days, rinse, stuff and bake... it would be crispy and perfect and he'd slap any one's hand that strayed near the skin. We'd have the china and silver and linen and food everywhere, and he'd be happy in his environment, snore through a nap, take home foil covered left overs.... then it was turkey soup and Christmas menus.
We threw all the food out without ever cutting into anything in 2005. I've not cooked Thanksgiving since. That's been difficult, because, well, I nurture. It's what I do best... cook or knit a lumpy scarf or be there as I can. I can't look you in the eye very well, I am annoying as hell, I can't talk without over talking you at times, I can't hold serious when I'm overcome because it makes me twitch. What I can do is invite you in, give you a plate, and say....
"Mangi!" and hope you realise that means I love you. I adore you. I'd give anything to make your life easier, happier.
Mangi, Dad. I miss you.
He could be an ass or a hoot, depending on the day, even before he was ill.
My father was Sicilian... oh, he was half Irish background, too...but, according to his mother, the Irish DNA sorta slipped through the genetic cracks, leaving him pure Sicilian. He looked it, as does The Investment. I'm more on the Irish side of things... hazel eyes, white skin... they are dark, dark eyes, black hair. Dad also inherited the gift of mangi, and I did take that one on full bore.
You never went to my Mawma's without leaving with a covered dish... I'm fairly sure she supported Reynolds single-handed. She'd wash bits of foil, then reuse them to cover dishes. We'd drive up from New Orleans, arriving at after hours of driving, and she'd have a full on meal... "Oh, you must be starving! Mangi! Mangi!!" And, we did.
I'm startled no one ever died of clogged arteries by the age of 10.
Pasta, stuffed peppers, ravioli, salad... all at 1AM, just a little something for the babies, who were falling asleep in their plates.
I learned the joy of Thanksgiving, my Dad's favourite holiday. Oh, he liked Christmas, because I make the best standing rib roast you'll ever have. No brag; fact. I'd bake a big ham on Christmas Eve, and create amazing pain perdu with Grand Marnier and an apple/pecan sauce on Christmas morning.
He and I also made delish fruitcakes... yes, fruitcakes. My gran's recipe.... ripe with whisky, so ripe you could smell them outside of the garage where we stored them. Our belief was a shot for the cake, a shot for us, one for the cake, one for us... By the end of fruitcake day, we were very, very happy. Rich and pale and full of nuts and dried fruit...the cakes and us.... butter, sugar... ...again, clogged arteries were not to be found. Go figure.
Thanksgiving...now that, that that was our speciality. We'd sit and plan and examine turkeys and buy yams and potatoes and sour cream and butter, oh! the butter! Paula Dean learned from my father.... and, as Dad grew older, more feeble with Alzheimer's and his body started to give way, I did the dinners alone.
He would start talking about them in September, interspersing them with his other favourite topics-- Judge Judy and his body functions. To see a man who had three degrees in things from Mathematics to Archeology slip to this was difficult. He remained a gentleman... always called me to discuss his wardrobe... ironed shirts tucked into his khaki pants, his handkerchief in his pants pocket. He walked with a cane at the end, still holding the doors open for ladies, still pulling my hand, or HRH's, through his arm on occasion... always walking on the curb side of the walkway.
Oh, I make a wonderful turkey. He'd come over, and watch as I made up the brine, holding the bag when I put the turkey in, following me as we shoved it in the extra 'fridge downstairs, having an illicit glass of wine to celebrate. Brine it three days, rinse, stuff and bake... it would be crispy and perfect and he'd slap any one's hand that strayed near the skin. We'd have the china and silver and linen and food everywhere, and he'd be happy in his environment, snore through a nap, take home foil covered left overs.... then it was turkey soup and Christmas menus.
We threw all the food out without ever cutting into anything in 2005. I've not cooked Thanksgiving since. That's been difficult, because, well, I nurture. It's what I do best... cook or knit a lumpy scarf or be there as I can. I can't look you in the eye very well, I am annoying as hell, I can't talk without over talking you at times, I can't hold serious when I'm overcome because it makes me twitch. What I can do is invite you in, give you a plate, and say....
"Mangi!" and hope you realise that means I love you. I adore you. I'd give anything to make your life easier, happier.
Mangi, Dad. I miss you.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
It's the Storm, II
I can't believe I'm this quivery.
My Blackberry Storm should be here no later than Tuesday....
I walked by the hours long lines Friday, and thought in a Nelson voice, "ah HA!! Haven't you heard of pre-orders, silly people!!" I understand their phones won't arrive until mid December, and that the Bold is selling on eBay for $900.
Hold on.
$900??
Nah, I've mucked up my current one so much, I'd have to buy something anyway, and by cheating and selling something that didn't cost me that much, aka scalping, I'd bring the gods of karma (which extracts a pound of flesh) on me...
So, I'll keep my new phone when it arrives.
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
My Blackberry Storm should be here no later than Tuesday....
I walked by the hours long lines Friday, and thought in a Nelson voice, "ah HA!! Haven't you heard of pre-orders, silly people!!" I understand their phones won't arrive until mid December, and that the Bold is selling on eBay for $900.
Hold on.
$900??
Nah, I've mucked up my current one so much, I'd have to buy something anyway, and by cheating and selling something that didn't cost me that much, aka scalping, I'd bring the gods of karma (which extracts a pound of flesh) on me...
So, I'll keep my new phone when it arrives.
Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Chorus Line
The girls take lessons.
ZF has this voice... well, they both do, but, ZF is having her voice trained to audition for one of the professional schools in New York, so, we go to voice lessons twice a week. Both of them take dance lessons... and all of the lessons are given by Russian instructors.
Any kind of Slavic instructor scares me. There was a time long ago, when leg warmers were first fashionable, that the Godmother, Miss Sof and I took aerobic class down at the YMCA. I don't remember Miss Sof showing up much.. she was the smart one back then, too. There was this instructor.. and I use this term kindly...who was from one of those countries where not only the cars, but the curtains were made of iron. Her classes made you weep with pain.... and finally, the Godmother said to her, "I take aerobics all the time, and you exhaust me!". She said this with her happy Godmother smile. Miss Czech 1967 said, "In my country, you must do 'dis. You do it, you not complain. (Silence. Glare.) Must I explain again?"
Right. We avoided her classes after that, no matter how firm our asses.
These instructors are nicer, maybe it's because they found out people have stopped throwing blood on fur coats. No one wears fur like the Russians. They have a sense of entitlement that shows when they walk down the street with the equivalent of a herd of mink on their backs and heads.
And lining their gloves. I feel so guilty knitting with lambswool, I find myself apologising when I split the strand.
On Tuesday, I took them to their group Modern Dance lesson with Hot Russian Boy (who is around 25..to me, that's 'Boy'). I felt it necessary to sit in the room and watch, you know, to make sure he didn't try anything with ZF because she is very pretty (read moving into beautiful age) and, you know, he's got the accent going and, well......
HF worries she won't do a good job, and tends to say, "I can't." They were doing some kind of stretch... one leg bent back, one out front. I'm looking to Peter to tell me what it is, because he would have adored the class, the students and Hot Russian Boy.
HRB says, "You do this" and strrrrrretches. The other three students do it easily. HF refuses. I put down my knitting and say, "It's easy, sweetpea" and slide out my chair into the stretch.
Yeah.
So, at this point, HRB is impressed I can stretch... I knew I was flexible, I can put my fingers under my toes when I bend over at the waist, I can also fully extend my legs with a hand in the arch of my foot... but, this stuff? I'm not that flexible and I'm old.
I'm also showing off for HRB.
I stretch, I bend, I flex, I do the damn PLOW from Yoga. I smile, I chat, I pray I don't blow out a knee.
Finally, I say, "These girls are paying for this class, and I shouldn't take your class! Thanks for your time!!" and I popped a Vicodin...God love that pain pill. I had another 4 hours later, and one at 2AM and one the next morning.
But, as far as Hot Russian Boy (who checked out my legs) knows, I can beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeend like a willow in the wind... strettttttttttch like a cat after a nap..... reeeeeeeeach like a woman with PMS for chocolate on a top shelf.
And that, my friends, is what counts.
ZF has this voice... well, they both do, but, ZF is having her voice trained to audition for one of the professional schools in New York, so, we go to voice lessons twice a week. Both of them take dance lessons... and all of the lessons are given by Russian instructors.
Any kind of Slavic instructor scares me. There was a time long ago, when leg warmers were first fashionable, that the Godmother, Miss Sof and I took aerobic class down at the YMCA. I don't remember Miss Sof showing up much.. she was the smart one back then, too. There was this instructor.. and I use this term kindly...who was from one of those countries where not only the cars, but the curtains were made of iron. Her classes made you weep with pain.... and finally, the Godmother said to her, "I take aerobics all the time, and you exhaust me!". She said this with her happy Godmother smile. Miss Czech 1967 said, "In my country, you must do 'dis. You do it, you not complain. (Silence. Glare.) Must I explain again?"
Right. We avoided her classes after that, no matter how firm our asses.
These instructors are nicer, maybe it's because they found out people have stopped throwing blood on fur coats. No one wears fur like the Russians. They have a sense of entitlement that shows when they walk down the street with the equivalent of a herd of mink on their backs and heads.
And lining their gloves. I feel so guilty knitting with lambswool, I find myself apologising when I split the strand.
On Tuesday, I took them to their group Modern Dance lesson with Hot Russian Boy (who is around 25..to me, that's 'Boy'). I felt it necessary to sit in the room and watch, you know, to make sure he didn't try anything with ZF because she is very pretty (read moving into beautiful age) and, you know, he's got the accent going and, well......
HF worries she won't do a good job, and tends to say, "I can't." They were doing some kind of stretch... one leg bent back, one out front. I'm looking to Peter to tell me what it is, because he would have adored the class, the students and Hot Russian Boy.
HRB says, "You do this" and strrrrrretches. The other three students do it easily. HF refuses. I put down my knitting and say, "It's easy, sweetpea" and slide out my chair into the stretch.
Yeah.
So, at this point, HRB is impressed I can stretch... I knew I was flexible, I can put my fingers under my toes when I bend over at the waist, I can also fully extend my legs with a hand in the arch of my foot... but, this stuff? I'm not that flexible and I'm old.
I'm also showing off for HRB.
I stretch, I bend, I flex, I do the damn PLOW from Yoga. I smile, I chat, I pray I don't blow out a knee.
Finally, I say, "These girls are paying for this class, and I shouldn't take your class! Thanks for your time!!" and I popped a Vicodin...God love that pain pill. I had another 4 hours later, and one at 2AM and one the next morning.
But, as far as Hot Russian Boy (who checked out my legs) knows, I can beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeend like a willow in the wind... strettttttttttch like a cat after a nap..... reeeeeeeeach like a woman with PMS for chocolate on a top shelf.
And that, my friends, is what counts.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Keepin' Warm
New York is cold.
To beat the cold back in the Land o'Utes, I tend to have coffee in my down filled bed, while watching TCM. Here, I sleep on a mattress in the middle of the kitchen, next to the radiator, under a rainbow sleeping bag, in my thermal jammies, cursing under my breath that I am sure I can see some mornings.
Once the children are off, I am free to do what is most important in my life... finding coffee.
The local Greek Cafe is a few blocks away, and I can make the walk in around 90 seconds it seems... I exchange thermals for jeans, throw on my long black wool coat, a really ugly red and black checked hat and my long scarf... shoes and I'm briskly moving towards Nick's place, where they have the cup ready for me at 8.17AM.
I don't even brush my teeth... I mean, I'm behind a scarf, right? I may chat with Bruno (I met him yesterday, he lives around the corner next to the 18 member Muslim family on the corner) or Barbara (the Wiccan) who is pretending to teach her dog obedience.
Mostly, he lunges at the end of his harness, wagging his tail and trying to slobber on you. We talk about this and that, and they are keeping an eye out for a flat for me... it's how it's done, remember... someone you know.
Back here, I pour a bowl of nectar of the gods (aka Capt'n Crunch) and have my coffee while catching up on my reading... shower, teeth (FINALLY!) and the odds and ends of a small flat.
I listen to the iPod quite a bit... it helps to keep moving to stay warm. You see, the landlord is nice, but, he doesn't show us, as Aretha is telling me, any heating.....
R-E-S-P-E-C-T!!
To beat the cold back in the Land o'Utes, I tend to have coffee in my down filled bed, while watching TCM. Here, I sleep on a mattress in the middle of the kitchen, next to the radiator, under a rainbow sleeping bag, in my thermal jammies, cursing under my breath that I am sure I can see some mornings.
Once the children are off, I am free to do what is most important in my life... finding coffee.
The local Greek Cafe is a few blocks away, and I can make the walk in around 90 seconds it seems... I exchange thermals for jeans, throw on my long black wool coat, a really ugly red and black checked hat and my long scarf... shoes and I'm briskly moving towards Nick's place, where they have the cup ready for me at 8.17AM.
I don't even brush my teeth... I mean, I'm behind a scarf, right? I may chat with Bruno (I met him yesterday, he lives around the corner next to the 18 member Muslim family on the corner) or Barbara (the Wiccan) who is pretending to teach her dog obedience.
Mostly, he lunges at the end of his harness, wagging his tail and trying to slobber on you. We talk about this and that, and they are keeping an eye out for a flat for me... it's how it's done, remember... someone you know.
Back here, I pour a bowl of nectar of the gods (aka Capt'n Crunch) and have my coffee while catching up on my reading... shower, teeth (FINALLY!) and the odds and ends of a small flat.
I listen to the iPod quite a bit... it helps to keep moving to stay warm. You see, the landlord is nice, but, he doesn't show us, as Aretha is telling me, any heating.....
R-E-S-P-E-C-T!!
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Béni Neighborhood
This location has all the bases covered.
We sit in a group of Orthodox Russian Catholics, with a smattering of Hasidim in the 10 block area. CF is a faithful member of the LDS Church, one of my PM's (Personal Mormons) to whom I attached myself back in the early days... she introduced me to theater in all forms, and supports my love of writing, along with the other sisters of my heart that I've not driven mad yet...
Me? I'm a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad Catholic, who doesn't attend Mass at any time, but, I DO make sure I use the various phrases when cursing,
"JESUSMARYANDJOSEPHANDALLTHESAINTSINHEAVEN!
WHATINGODSNAMEAREYOUDOINGCHILD?"
CHRISTONACRACKER!
HOLYMOTHEROFGOD
JESUSWEPT!!"
It's a learned thing, these phrases, right up there with genuflecting and The Lord's Prayer, without that extra tail of words the non Catholic Christians insist on using.
HF, the youngest of the brood, plays with EM next door.... best friends, they walk home from school...some days I pick them up.
So, in this holy neighborhood of Christians and Jews, I walk home the devout little Mormon girl and her friend, EM... whose parents are practicing Wiccans.
I LOVE THIS CITY!!!!
We sit in a group of Orthodox Russian Catholics, with a smattering of Hasidim in the 10 block area. CF is a faithful member of the LDS Church, one of my PM's (Personal Mormons) to whom I attached myself back in the early days... she introduced me to theater in all forms, and supports my love of writing, along with the other sisters of my heart that I've not driven mad yet...
Me? I'm a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad Catholic, who doesn't attend Mass at any time, but, I DO make sure I use the various phrases when cursing,
"JESUSMARYANDJOSEPHANDALLTHESAINTSINHEAVEN!
WHATINGODSNAMEAREYOUDOINGCHILD?"
CHRISTONACRACKER!
HOLYMOTHEROFGOD
JESUSWEPT!!"
It's a learned thing, these phrases, right up there with genuflecting and The Lord's Prayer, without that extra tail of words the non Catholic Christians insist on using.
HF, the youngest of the brood, plays with EM next door.... best friends, they walk home from school...some days I pick them up.
So, in this holy neighborhood of Christians and Jews, I walk home the devout little Mormon girl and her friend, EM... whose parents are practicing Wiccans.
I LOVE THIS CITY!!!!
OMG! I AM a Cat Lady!
I learned to download photos to the mac... and I miss her. I have a short tape of her fetching, and haven't the foggiest idea how to transfer it to the mac... but, I'll figure it out!
Note the circles on her fur!
Note the circles on her fur! 
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
This and That
Back in the City.
It was a long, long haul... changing my flight in at the request of a friend, putting me here on Saturday instead of yesterday, which meant no lovely non stop flight, but, going West in order to fly East. To accomplish this goal, I was up at 4am, played rounds of 'fetch' with Sophie, repacked the case, made sure food and water was filled up, left a note for The Investment, and headed off in Norma.
Times like this, in the cold pre-dawn on a long open highway, I'm glad I drive a Benz... you feel safe.
Drive to the shuttle van to Vegas to the airline that flew me to San Francisco (I've always wanted to see it.... looked really nice from the airport windows) to another plane to another long haul to New York City... I was teary when I saw the lights outside my window.
The flight turned out to be great fun.... I kept thinking one of the attendants looked familiar... and, finally, he said, "Didn't you fly to Dulles last spring?". Indeed I had... with his co partners in flight crime (as it were)... so, I again stood in the back of the plane in the galley with S and the crew, chatting about books and films and S's ideas for books and how weight had gone up and down for some and what we'd all been doing.... another passenger asked, "How can you remember each other from one flight?" We looked at her as if to say, "How can't you?" I was tickled to see them again, we laughed and talked and stood there until the weather and the captain, whom I'm sure really made the announcement out of jealousy, sent me back to my seat. Email addresses were exchanged, we agreed to try and meet for drinks while I'm here, and that was that.
Going from JFK to CF's was tough... I'm used to being picked up or taking a train a different way, as I did the last two times I flew. It was convenient, and always good to see a friend. This time, it's the AirTran, struggling with the MTA's biggest scam, the AirTran's ticket, which you cannot buy with a bill larger than a tenspot because you cannot get more than $6 in change. Swiping a card means not a real swipe, but, putting it in and out of a little slot at the perfect speed...not too fast, not too slow... just right. I felt like Goldilocks, only with short hair and a foul mouth.
Ah, then, there is the 'A' train.... one of two trains travelers rely on to go to and from JFK. So, it runs when it wants to run. We were there 40 minutes.... again, I was fortunate, a great guy sat with me so I'd not be alone on the train... we chatted and laughed and he gave me his MTA map. At 4th and Borrough Hall, I had to switch to the F train. The F is called the F for a good reason... it's simply the most Fucked Up train I've ever ridden. People who get out of psych wards are given their meds and a pass to the F train when they get out. When you are paroled, you get a pass to the F. Or the Goddamn G train. The F on a weekend night....oh, dear.
It's 2am. I have my suitcase, my 'purse' and my laptop bag. Two stops before mine, a large man gets on the train car with me, doubling the riding population.... he's large, smelly and drunk. He lights a bent cigarette, leans towards me and says, "Yo gots some nice titties!!".
I had on a sweater and heavy coat.... I think he was remembering someone from long ago he had met OR it was a desperate move of flirtation.
I'm going with the first one.
He sat down, belched a couple of times, then threw up a little outside his mouth.... from there, he picked his nose.
My stop was there, I was off and laughing in relief.... it didn't bother me to drag my stuff down the wooden stairs of Avenue U to CF's house, with the two of us hugging and pleased and the older kids pulling my case of stairs that should never have passed inspection.
I sleep in the dining room on the floor on a nice mattress.... at least it's not the Titanic. The two cats show great interest in my stuff. I suddenly have a reader in Europe who also shows a great interest in my stuff, and it amuses me to no end. Funny how people hold themselves out to be womanly and tough, and what they really are tend to be controlling, toxic little girls... girls who think love is all about snooping, lying and showing no respect for anyone. I've found the more you announce what you are, the more you've no idea what it means.
I'm drifting here.
My life is going to be dance lessons with marvelous Russians who chatter with me after the girls are done, being able to cook again... huge meals for a family who loves my cooking... shopping on 86th Street again, seeing friends old and some I've met via the blog... and, and....
Going to my boys. That is best of all.
New York. It's my kind of town.
It was a long, long haul... changing my flight in at the request of a friend, putting me here on Saturday instead of yesterday, which meant no lovely non stop flight, but, going West in order to fly East. To accomplish this goal, I was up at 4am, played rounds of 'fetch' with Sophie, repacked the case, made sure food and water was filled up, left a note for The Investment, and headed off in Norma.
Times like this, in the cold pre-dawn on a long open highway, I'm glad I drive a Benz... you feel safe.
Drive to the shuttle van to Vegas to the airline that flew me to San Francisco (I've always wanted to see it.... looked really nice from the airport windows) to another plane to another long haul to New York City... I was teary when I saw the lights outside my window.
The flight turned out to be great fun.... I kept thinking one of the attendants looked familiar... and, finally, he said, "Didn't you fly to Dulles last spring?". Indeed I had... with his co partners in flight crime (as it were)... so, I again stood in the back of the plane in the galley with S and the crew, chatting about books and films and S's ideas for books and how weight had gone up and down for some and what we'd all been doing.... another passenger asked, "How can you remember each other from one flight?" We looked at her as if to say, "How can't you?" I was tickled to see them again, we laughed and talked and stood there until the weather and the captain, whom I'm sure really made the announcement out of jealousy, sent me back to my seat. Email addresses were exchanged, we agreed to try and meet for drinks while I'm here, and that was that.
Going from JFK to CF's was tough... I'm used to being picked up or taking a train a different way, as I did the last two times I flew. It was convenient, and always good to see a friend. This time, it's the AirTran, struggling with the MTA's biggest scam, the AirTran's ticket, which you cannot buy with a bill larger than a tenspot because you cannot get more than $6 in change. Swiping a card means not a real swipe, but, putting it in and out of a little slot at the perfect speed...not too fast, not too slow... just right. I felt like Goldilocks, only with short hair and a foul mouth.
Ah, then, there is the 'A' train.... one of two trains travelers rely on to go to and from JFK. So, it runs when it wants to run. We were there 40 minutes.... again, I was fortunate, a great guy sat with me so I'd not be alone on the train... we chatted and laughed and he gave me his MTA map. At 4th and Borrough Hall, I had to switch to the F train. The F is called the F for a good reason... it's simply the most Fucked Up train I've ever ridden. People who get out of psych wards are given their meds and a pass to the F train when they get out. When you are paroled, you get a pass to the F. Or the Goddamn G train. The F on a weekend night....oh, dear.
It's 2am. I have my suitcase, my 'purse' and my laptop bag. Two stops before mine, a large man gets on the train car with me, doubling the riding population.... he's large, smelly and drunk. He lights a bent cigarette, leans towards me and says, "Yo gots some nice titties!!".
I had on a sweater and heavy coat.... I think he was remembering someone from long ago he had met OR it was a desperate move of flirtation.
I'm going with the first one.
He sat down, belched a couple of times, then threw up a little outside his mouth.... from there, he picked his nose.
My stop was there, I was off and laughing in relief.... it didn't bother me to drag my stuff down the wooden stairs of Avenue U to CF's house, with the two of us hugging and pleased and the older kids pulling my case of stairs that should never have passed inspection.
I sleep in the dining room on the floor on a nice mattress.... at least it's not the Titanic. The two cats show great interest in my stuff. I suddenly have a reader in Europe who also shows a great interest in my stuff, and it amuses me to no end. Funny how people hold themselves out to be womanly and tough, and what they really are tend to be controlling, toxic little girls... girls who think love is all about snooping, lying and showing no respect for anyone. I've found the more you announce what you are, the more you've no idea what it means.
I'm drifting here.
My life is going to be dance lessons with marvelous Russians who chatter with me after the girls are done, being able to cook again... huge meals for a family who loves my cooking... shopping on 86th Street again, seeing friends old and some I've met via the blog... and, and....
Going to my boys. That is best of all.
New York. It's my kind of town.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Ladies and Ladies
Quilts and Dogs.
Yesterday, I had a touch of the flu... I have a feeling I won't be eating chili verde for some time.... today, however, I felt a bit better, and went along with The Sisterwife to her Relief Society (a group of Mormon women in each Church area who do, well, relief work). I've done this before with other friends, I like it, to be honest. There is no dividing line of faith in helping others, and my hands and willingness to contribute time are as welcome as any ones.
We worked on quilts for those who are in hard times this year, and those people are many in our area as they are any where else. One thing I'll say for Utah, you do not see people wandering the streets in need. The LDS Church is so very wrong in so many of it's political beliefs (I will not go into religious beliefs) but, they do step up and help out to those in need. I know far too many who have been without food, housing, furniture, money...and one call allows them no payback but time to others in the same condition. I've canned, made up hygiene kits (basic toothbrush, soap, etc), put together dresses for refugee camps (I do not care where you live, who you are, every little girl in the world deserves a dress she can twirl in, something sweet in colours if her culture doesn't allow a twirl.... no matter how difficult life is, they should have something to smile about), made teddy bears... you get the idea. I've done it with these women who sit and talk and laugh and bring food for each other.
I was in charge of finishing off the edges, me and my trusty sewing machine. Ahhh, something you didn't know about me, I sew! I used to make HRH's dresses when she was a little one, and all of the FMDKids costumes for schools and everything else. So, I sewed my fingers off, The SisterWife tied off with yarn, we had quilt frames everywhere, kids dashing about, women's voices low over their work. Most of them do this all the time, and our work was going to a good cause. Our quilts would keep children and adults warm in this cold climate, these cold times. I know I keep my house at 50F with my door shut and a safe space heater so I am okay. I can sorta pay my heating.... again, I am in long sleeves and sweat pants and I'm cold at times.
We were giving help for people to keep going.
I left there, heading home, and stopped at the Animal Shelter, where my friend AH works... she's the, well, dog catcher in town. We met when the person who used to have her job killed our dog illegally, and her soft voiced question to me of "Would you like to speak to my Captain?" was met with my low shaking voice saying, "Well, unless his name is Jesus Fucking Christ, and he can raise the fucking dead, I'm not sure what good that's going to do me, do you??"
From that encounter, the former man was fired, a new law was passed and we obtained Douglass.
I also had a new friend.
She's on her last stretch on this job... five years of putting down dogs and cats when you love animals is too much. The usual stint on the job is two years. I said, "Let's go look at the animals!" and she said, "I can't go look at a group I have to put down tomorrow, I can't do it anymore.... I feed them with my eyes shut these days." She's doing her best to get a new job somewhere else, and the only thing that is easily obtainable is....animal control.
She and JB sat outside with me, they chain smoked and twitched, both women chatting away, good friends on the job, both flicking their eyes over at one dog in the outside pen they'd managed to save for a few months, but, her lease was up. She was this lanky lurcher, a dog that would be snapped up in the UK, ignored here.
"We'll flip to see who puts her down tomorrow." said JB. "It's come to that." Around that point, a woman pulled up with a box, inside a cat she'd found. With the woman inside filling out paperwork, the two flipped a coin to put down a cat to make room for this one.
I won't say which one it was... she was ashen when she came back. "We've both started Xanax and Lunesta." she said. " Come on, tell us about New York, act out the parts..."
And I did, making an ass of myself, exaggerating stories.... they laughed.
A call came in, a cop had shot a spaniel, who, he said, attacked him. "FUCK!" both said. "Fuck."
JB was off work by then, AH picked up keys, laid a tarp in the back of the truck.... "I hate the washing out of the truck later." We all did the hug and cheek kiss and drove our separate ways....
Warmth and death....
I don't have to tell you which one left a better feeling in my heart.
UPDATE:
From an email I received late last night... and please note, AH weighs around 135 lbs...
Yesterday, I had a touch of the flu... I have a feeling I won't be eating chili verde for some time.... today, however, I felt a bit better, and went along with The Sisterwife to her Relief Society (a group of Mormon women in each Church area who do, well, relief work). I've done this before with other friends, I like it, to be honest. There is no dividing line of faith in helping others, and my hands and willingness to contribute time are as welcome as any ones.
We worked on quilts for those who are in hard times this year, and those people are many in our area as they are any where else. One thing I'll say for Utah, you do not see people wandering the streets in need. The LDS Church is so very wrong in so many of it's political beliefs (I will not go into religious beliefs) but, they do step up and help out to those in need. I know far too many who have been without food, housing, furniture, money...and one call allows them no payback but time to others in the same condition. I've canned, made up hygiene kits (basic toothbrush, soap, etc), put together dresses for refugee camps (I do not care where you live, who you are, every little girl in the world deserves a dress she can twirl in, something sweet in colours if her culture doesn't allow a twirl.... no matter how difficult life is, they should have something to smile about), made teddy bears... you get the idea. I've done it with these women who sit and talk and laugh and bring food for each other.
I was in charge of finishing off the edges, me and my trusty sewing machine. Ahhh, something you didn't know about me, I sew! I used to make HRH's dresses when she was a little one, and all of the FMDKids costumes for schools and everything else. So, I sewed my fingers off, The SisterWife tied off with yarn, we had quilt frames everywhere, kids dashing about, women's voices low over their work. Most of them do this all the time, and our work was going to a good cause. Our quilts would keep children and adults warm in this cold climate, these cold times. I know I keep my house at 50F with my door shut and a safe space heater so I am okay. I can sorta pay my heating.... again, I am in long sleeves and sweat pants and I'm cold at times.
We were giving help for people to keep going.
I left there, heading home, and stopped at the Animal Shelter, where my friend AH works... she's the, well, dog catcher in town. We met when the person who used to have her job killed our dog illegally, and her soft voiced question to me of "Would you like to speak to my Captain?" was met with my low shaking voice saying, "Well, unless his name is Jesus Fucking Christ, and he can raise the fucking dead, I'm not sure what good that's going to do me, do you??"
From that encounter, the former man was fired, a new law was passed and we obtained Douglass.
I also had a new friend.
She's on her last stretch on this job... five years of putting down dogs and cats when you love animals is too much. The usual stint on the job is two years. I said, "Let's go look at the animals!" and she said, "I can't go look at a group I have to put down tomorrow, I can't do it anymore.... I feed them with my eyes shut these days." She's doing her best to get a new job somewhere else, and the only thing that is easily obtainable is....animal control.
She and JB sat outside with me, they chain smoked and twitched, both women chatting away, good friends on the job, both flicking their eyes over at one dog in the outside pen they'd managed to save for a few months, but, her lease was up. She was this lanky lurcher, a dog that would be snapped up in the UK, ignored here.
"We'll flip to see who puts her down tomorrow." said JB. "It's come to that." Around that point, a woman pulled up with a box, inside a cat she'd found. With the woman inside filling out paperwork, the two flipped a coin to put down a cat to make room for this one.
I won't say which one it was... she was ashen when she came back. "We've both started Xanax and Lunesta." she said. " Come on, tell us about New York, act out the parts..."
And I did, making an ass of myself, exaggerating stories.... they laughed.
A call came in, a cop had shot a spaniel, who, he said, attacked him. "FUCK!" both said. "Fuck."
JB was off work by then, AH picked up keys, laid a tarp in the back of the truck.... "I hate the washing out of the truck later." We all did the hug and cheek kiss and drove our separate ways....
Warmth and death....
I don't have to tell you which one left a better feeling in my heart.
UPDATE:
From an email I received late last night... and please note, AH weighs around 135 lbs...
Well, the dead cocker spaniel ended up being a 200lb rotweiller and the owner was a hysterical drunk 300lb woman who at one time actually fainted in my arms.
It was a blood bath from start to finish. At some point I will have to act out for you the details that followed but let us suffice to say that
...I know how the Romans conquered the known world. Their war dogs (rots) CANNOT be breached by any weapon known to modern man let alone some poor celtic tribes tools 2,000yrs ago...I had to use my teeth at one point to try to tear a hole in the dogs skin BECAUSE WE'D ALREADY BROKEN EVERY BLADE AND SAW WE HAD AT THE SHELTER TRYING TO CUT THRU HIS SKIN. (he wasn't dead, and they had to insert an IV)
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Three Word Wednesday~KIDS, DON'T READ THIS!!
Thom at Three Word Wednesday is making this difficult to be PG.
Our words? Blush, tender and quiver.... we should change the site name to Erotic R' Us.
I usually pick at the tissue paper with my fingertips, breath held, teeth nibbling my lower lip, my entire body quivers until I see that first glimpse of colour folded against itself. I tend to stay with the same tones--black or cream-- love how the silk, in those hues, looks against the ivory of my skin, which is pale for a brunette.... my veins show through on my neck, my inner arms, my thighs, breasts... the silk accentuates this, making me feel delicate.
I have a ritual, lying the beautiful lingerie on my quilt, walking quietly around the room, admiring it, loving the idea it's already been hand laundered, ready for me to wear. As I pass, I touch where the silk will rest, blush.
Long bath, rose-scented salts, I let my hands glide over my skin once again, dream of his tenderness when he removes the delicate bits of silk in the next room. Where he removes my inhibitions, too - and leaves me open, willing and wanting from him all I need, all I can give.
I dry and in the coolness, goosebumps ripple as I lift the bra and slip it on, hook it, adjusting cups, straps and let fingertips drift over the front, feel the dainty lightness of the material. The tap short knickers follow, and settled on my hips, I feel very 30s, very perfect and inviting - whether he takes them off or not.
I stand - on the verge of going over the edge, flushed- brought here by the perfection of these overpriced bits of silk and hooks I have sent from France. I skimp elsewhere for the simple pleasure to open my drawer, see matched sets, scented by roses from my garden. Worked into complete sensual bliss by grazing my palm over the shirt or sweater I wear, feel the silk pressed against my skin, my hardened nipples. I am as content leaving these bits on, as I am when they are removed - and he knows this. Feeling them against his skin, as it slides against mine, makes me breathless. He knows this, and uses them as foreplay, a prelude to our lovemaking.
Skin warmed, I leave the house, head for Ralph's, simple chores, life - there is a pleasurable swing to my hips... beneath my jeans, my cotton sweater.... the $400 of silk undergarments... and resist temptation, the make the detour, slowly peel off my clothing in his office, a preview of things to come. I resist, maneuver the cart, an aimless smile on my lips.
It really is better to give than receive, right?
Our words? Blush, tender and quiver.... we should change the site name to Erotic R' Us.
What Lies Beneath
I usually pick at the tissue paper with my fingertips, breath held, teeth nibbling my lower lip, my entire body quivers until I see that first glimpse of colour folded against itself. I tend to stay with the same tones--black or cream-- love how the silk, in those hues, looks against the ivory of my skin, which is pale for a brunette.... my veins show through on my neck, my inner arms, my thighs, breasts... the silk accentuates this, making me feel delicate.
I have a ritual, lying the beautiful lingerie on my quilt, walking quietly around the room, admiring it, loving the idea it's already been hand laundered, ready for me to wear. As I pass, I touch where the silk will rest, blush.
Long bath, rose-scented salts, I let my hands glide over my skin once again, dream of his tenderness when he removes the delicate bits of silk in the next room. Where he removes my inhibitions, too - and leaves me open, willing and wanting from him all I need, all I can give.
I dry and in the coolness, goosebumps ripple as I lift the bra and slip it on, hook it, adjusting cups, straps and let fingertips drift over the front, feel the dainty lightness of the material. The tap short knickers follow, and settled on my hips, I feel very 30s, very perfect and inviting - whether he takes them off or not.
I stand - on the verge of going over the edge, flushed- brought here by the perfection of these overpriced bits of silk and hooks I have sent from France. I skimp elsewhere for the simple pleasure to open my drawer, see matched sets, scented by roses from my garden. Worked into complete sensual bliss by grazing my palm over the shirt or sweater I wear, feel the silk pressed against my skin, my hardened nipples. I am as content leaving these bits on, as I am when they are removed - and he knows this. Feeling them against his skin, as it slides against mine, makes me breathless. He knows this, and uses them as foreplay, a prelude to our lovemaking.
Skin warmed, I leave the house, head for Ralph's, simple chores, life - there is a pleasurable swing to my hips... beneath my jeans, my cotton sweater.... the $400 of silk undergarments... and resist temptation, the make the detour, slowly peel off my clothing in his office, a preview of things to come. I resist, maneuver the cart, an aimless smile on my lips.
It really is better to give than receive, right?
Monday, November 10, 2008
Storm
I am not a gadget person, I kill them with my magic powers.
I have the iPod, protected now with not one, but TWO cases and never held by me for longer than a second or two.
I just saw something that made me whimper in desire... moan in anticipation...wheeze in need.
This....The Blackberry Storm. They even give you a site to test drive it... like I'm going to do that. AHAHAHAHA! RTFM? ME?? *snicker*
A phone, you say? A PHONE???
Oh, not a phone, not a phone, but, a PHONE. A Blackberry, with a touch screen with bounceback buttons, a sleek case, lots of programs and shit that I have no idea how to work, 3G (whatever that is), the internet (I live on this... I am never bored anymore), a slidey screen thingy, buttons and pretty colours.
Oh, yes, it will be mine. I will kill it soon after I have it in my hands, however... you should see my sad new one. It doesn't look new.
It will... be mine.
I have the iPod, protected now with not one, but TWO cases and never held by me for longer than a second or two.
I just saw something that made me whimper in desire... moan in anticipation...wheeze in need.
This....The Blackberry Storm. They even give you a site to test drive it... like I'm going to do that. AHAHAHAHA! RTFM? ME?? *snicker*
A phone, you say? A PHONE???
Oh, not a phone, not a phone, but, a PHONE. A Blackberry, with a touch screen with bounceback buttons, a sleek case, lots of programs and shit that I have no idea how to work, 3G (whatever that is), the internet (I live on this... I am never bored anymore), a slidey screen thingy, buttons and pretty colours.
Oh, yes, it will be mine. I will kill it soon after I have it in my hands, however... you should see my sad new one. It doesn't look new.
It will... be mine.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Tale of Two Films
Two films last night, two.
One, The Dutchess, doesn't deserve a link, the names of stars, photos, nuttin'. It was the longest two hours of my life. It made me weep. It made me moan. It made me complain. It made me eat too much chocolate and popcorn. It made me glare at Sisterwife a bunch.
Entire plot? Kirea Knightly close ups with damp eyes, wigs, lavish costumes, wine, BABY, Kira, wigs, costumes, wine BABY, rinse, repeat. One good line, "Please put out the fire in Her Grace's hair." One line. One.
I came home, worn out with my complaining.
There, on cable was a brilliant indie film, The Quiet... not a single bad moment in the entire film, not a single wasted line, frame of film, shot, amazingly wonderful score (how can you lose with Beethoven?) good plot, nice twists, harsh words (To Dot: "Oh, your mother was my best friend, and so beautiful. I only slept with one man, my husband. She was such a slut!") A girl who is deaf mute moves in with her godparents after her father dies... her mother died when she was seven. The family is not what it seems, things skitter in the dark, lies, betrayals, and Dot moves quietly, taking it all in... over it all, the perfection of Beethoven's piano sonatas play weaving the story together. Everyone uses Dot as a confessional, because she cannot hear their words, nor share them if she did... she's the perfect person to abuse.
Rent The Quiet. Run from The Dutchess.
BABY.
One, The Dutchess, doesn't deserve a link, the names of stars, photos, nuttin'. It was the longest two hours of my life. It made me weep. It made me moan. It made me complain. It made me eat too much chocolate and popcorn. It made me glare at Sisterwife a bunch.
Entire plot? Kirea Knightly close ups with damp eyes, wigs, lavish costumes, wine, BABY, Kira, wigs, costumes, wine BABY, rinse, repeat. One good line, "Please put out the fire in Her Grace's hair." One line. One.
I came home, worn out with my complaining.
There, on cable was a brilliant indie film, The Quiet... not a single bad moment in the entire film, not a single wasted line, frame of film, shot, amazingly wonderful score (how can you lose with Beethoven?) good plot, nice twists, harsh words (To Dot: "Oh, your mother was my best friend, and so beautiful. I only slept with one man, my husband. She was such a slut!") A girl who is deaf mute moves in with her godparents after her father dies... her mother died when she was seven. The family is not what it seems, things skitter in the dark, lies, betrayals, and Dot moves quietly, taking it all in... over it all, the perfection of Beethoven's piano sonatas play weaving the story together. Everyone uses Dot as a confessional, because she cannot hear their words, nor share them if she did... she's the perfect person to abuse.
Rent The Quiet. Run from The Dutchess.
BABY.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Three Word Wednesday~Hope, Gravity, Nuance
Read the Small Print
She sat, huddled and trembling on the exam table, paper gown grasped in her right hand... the left one absently rubbing a piece of hair in front of her ear.
So wrapped in thought, she startled when Dr. Silvers walked back in, reading her chart, professionally tanned face setting off his blue white teeth, his lab coat the exact same shade of Arctic ice. She'd liked him from the start, his office out in the 'burbs were in shades of warm peach, his staff that didn't look like the usual plastic surgery staffs, all pictureperfect, but, normal woman who made you feel it was okay to look the way you did, and okay to want to change...he believed in hiring his family as staff, and, he did his operations in his little suite of rooms in the back. All of those little things helped keep his prices affordable, he told her.
"Lila, if you'll just stand, I can show you what is going to happen today." he said, holding out his rather freakishly soft hand to her nail bitten one.
Barely touching her gown, he pulled it aside, gazing at what gravity and a 220 lb weight loss had done to her breasts, her stomach, her arms, thighs, bottom. She thought here was a quick intake of breath, a look of, "This is what makes the Baby Jesus cry." ....more a nuance that an actual look. She had to be wrong. The only expressions he'd ever shown before was his usual, well, smile or a furrowing of his brow... at least she thought that's what he was doing, the Botox did remove the actual furrowing capability...the expression he'd worn when she told him of her life as a heavy woman. He had never seen her naked before, said there was no need, simply quoted her a flat fee based on the work he said she'd want done to perfect her body, remove all that was left hanging around (here he gave a kind of a giggle) after the two years of dieting.
He worked quickly, his black pen drawing circles and arrows...sometimes pulling out the drooping flesh to make notes. Scribbling on the chart in code, muttering, taking digital photos and finally announcing, "Okay! When we are done today, you'll have a tummy tuck, lipo on your outer thighs and hips, we'll take excess skin from your upper arms and inner thighs, a 'butt' lift, remove those chins, pull your face up, do an upper and lower eye lift, take some fat from your butt and put it in your lips. I'll make those 44 Longs into nice tight 36D's (again with the giggle), reduce your waist, do a few hair plugs, fix your nose and pin down that one ear. A little Botox here and there, and I'll whiten your teeth for free! Piece O'Cake! Any questions, Miss Turner?"
She whispered no, not wanting the tears to fall, grabbing the gown together again, and thought ahead, to how she'd look, how this would change her life... the sacrifices made, the money saved, the years and years of diets, ridicule, believing one day... one day. Her un-Botox'd face was a smile, at him, at life, a huge smile, full of hope.
In all of her prep work, all of the saving, the double jobs, the reading about the long recovery, the pain... the one thing she didn't do was check state laws, which stated anyone who had an MD could obtain a license for plastic surgery without doing a residency. So it was, the last thoughts she'd have were why the medical diplomas for her doctor, hanging on the walls she was wheeled past on her way to the tiny, cramped back operating room, were for Podiatry.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
I Have Asperger's...Are You Sure 6 Is Enough??
I swore I'd not do meme's, and I've kept that... still, I like Vinny, so...
1. Link to the person that tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself
4. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs
5. Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website
1. I can tear a phone book in half.
2. I once threatened to stab an actor in the eye with a sharp pencil, then denied it to his agent.
3. My Confirmation name is Rita. Yeah.
4. I watch the Sci-Fi channel quite a bit.
5. Sometimes, when I start laughing, I can't stop, especially when my boys egg me on.
6. I demonstrated and sold dulcimers at one time.
I'm not going to tag anyone, sorry!
1. Link to the person that tagged you
2. Post the rules on your blog
3. Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself
4. Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs
5. Let each random person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website
1. I can tear a phone book in half.
2. I once threatened to stab an actor in the eye with a sharp pencil, then denied it to his agent.
3. My Confirmation name is Rita. Yeah.
4. I watch the Sci-Fi channel quite a bit.
5. Sometimes, when I start laughing, I can't stop, especially when my boys egg me on.
6. I demonstrated and sold dulcimers at one time.
I'm not going to tag anyone, sorry!
Monday, November 3, 2008
We Resume Our Regularly Scheduled Postings....
Apologies.
There are times we face a bigass black hole, and we have to withdraw to deal with it... I'm pretty much the little engine that could, but, this last glitch along with those that have come along over the last few years, well... this little engine ran out of steam.
I'm back on track, grateful for all who believed in me when I forgot to believe in me.
Thanks, as always.
There are times we face a bigass black hole, and we have to withdraw to deal with it... I'm pretty much the little engine that could, but, this last glitch along with those that have come along over the last few years, well... this little engine ran out of steam.
I'm back on track, grateful for all who believed in me when I forgot to believe in me.
Thanks, as always.
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