Little Girls and Wedding Veils

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

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

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

THE BRIDE.

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

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

"Mom, what about this one?"

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

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

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

She is flawless.

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

"Mom?"

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

I couldn't speak that day, watching her.

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

"Mom? Momma? "

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

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

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

Easy answer, it sucked...

"HRH?"

"Yes?"

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

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



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

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

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

Then, she passes out of my world into his.

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


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

And Then....

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

So, What's Next?

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

There is a difference.

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

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

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

We were his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

$24.

For cotton panties.

Cotton.

Panties.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patience was never one of my virtues.






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


And I know where you drink.

Jack's and What Does the Universe Want Now?

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

Buddhaonabagel! What a place!

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

Oh, yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, the Fck Me Dead Thirteenth

I had quit.

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

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

Again.

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

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

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


Now, the rest of my ramblings:

• I've noticed a number of places carry the 'Sport Do-Rag'. Will there soon be the 'Formal Do-Rag'? The 'Business Do-Rag'? Do you change into the 'Sport Do-Rag' after 5PM? Is GQ aware of this?
  

• Be wary when being polite, and standing to offer your seat to a woman that is wearing what seems to be a maternity top. Yes, although you are popping up and willing to stand with a full backpack and holding a terrier who sighs because someone has on a billowly top, it could just be the current baby-doll fashion and a hearty eater, and you are there, crammed in with 1,147 other passangers from Times Square to 149th for no other reason than, well, being polite.

• While walking the pit bull and the terrier, I was stopped by two women who had no idea what SPF 70 meant. They didn't know what SPF 10 meant... they were beet red, and had that horror of a burn called, 'letting your hair hang down your back and shoulders'.

"Do you live here, here in New York City?"
"Yes, I do...may I help you find something?" They had a map, so, that was a given.
Usually, people want to find SoHo, I tell them to follow the smell of money.
"We want to find THE TWIN TOWERS. You know, THE WORLD TRADE CENTER." Yes,
it was said in capital letters. I'm like a number of other people, it unsettles me still to see
or hear it on the E, it throws me off.
"What? The what?"
I was given a look as if I were deaf or stupid. "THE TWIN TOWERS!!! THE WTC!!!"
"Well, you can walk that way down Church for around 20 minutes or so. But, you won't
see them. I'm not sure if you heard the news... but.... they're gone. BUT, you might be
able to buy a plate or something with them in bas relief." With that, I walked off. I know,
I know, I was mean. I've been cranky lately.

• In being packed into the train with 1, 147 people, you are forced to stand there, unable to hold onto anything. The other bodies hold you in place... and, sometimes, all the bodies are male. I find this slightly embarrassing... especially when the only train advertising is "Don't let ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION RUIN YOUR SEX LIFE!!" and you really do hope what is pressing into your butt is someone's cell phone and that they need the medication advertised

• I am a whore. No, I am. I will not sleep on less than 600 count sheets of Egyptian cotton. Thank you WeatherGuy. And, I did say sleep. I have 47 pairs of reading glasses, all very cute and clever... but, then, I need these because I lose them. I eye fountain pens with the drooling desire some women eye designer bags or shoes. My dresses and shirts? Silk or cotton only in that soft, soft, weave...in the winter, the sweaters have to be cotton in a fine weave or a pure wool...the skirts have to sway around my legs, or the shirts made to brush against my skin. I adore silk underwear. I collect carrying bags of all sorts, and they have to be leather or a good canvas. Notebooks to write in with the aforementioned fountain pens... leather or clothbound, with handmade paper. My longed for red sunglasses. Things that appeal to my senses, I collect and lust for as wantonly as some lust for Victorian porn. There, you know my secret. I am not ashamed.

• I use the number 47 all the time. Sometimes, I add 100 or 1000 to it, it's a comfortable number. I also use the name Jack for everyone. When asked a question, I tend to say, "Run around naked?" "Oh, know what we did?" "You ran around naked?" "What would you like to do today?" "Run around naked?" My children do not find this an amusing habit. I do.

• Backpacks take getting used to, I've found. When you are pregnant, you learn to manouver your large belly around as you move places. A backpack, especially one as full as the one the WeatherGuy gave me, is the same thing, only in reverse. I say, "Excuse me" quite a lot these days getting on and off trains. I also found out you can't just plop onto a seat.

• When the terrier stands up on your lap and stretches, heed the stretch. Do not scold her, and have her sit back down so you can continue reading. The terrier is listening to the automated train messages, and hears your stop being announced. You do not. Therefore, you have to ride back three stops, with a disgruntled terrier on your lap.

• When eating a Reese cup, it's not a good idea to put it near the hot spot of your laptop and forget it. It's also not a good idea to put your phone on top of the forgotten Reese cup. When the phone rings, it's a good idea to check the phone before you put it to your ear, thus removing the need to wash your ear, face and hands to remove melted chocolate and peanut butter, not to mention bemoaning the loss of a good candy.

• Having a collection of bags is a good thing when you are emptying them out, and find a box of Jujyfruits, that have gone good and hard. If you put your mind away from Cajunboy's post on said candy, all is good in your world.

• The Icy Glare, while a wonderful technique in stopping someone from grabbing your popcorn in a film, doesn't always work when they ignore the "Hey! You can safely walk here" guy, and turn in front of you. However, smartly hitting their hood and yelling, "Hey, JACK!" helps.

• Your landlord calling and saying, "You know how we never got around to you signing a lease? Well, you need to leave on August 1st." sucks. I really hate Friday, the Fck Me Dead Thirteenth.

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


booya.

Sex, Lies and Relationships

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

It can work, it appears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, we view relationships from such a different angle.

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

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

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

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

Fairy tales can come true, can't they?

They Call Me Nonnie Quin

Last night, Miss H called me.

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

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

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

That's my girl!

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

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

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

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

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

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

I started to look at airline tickets.

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

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

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

Then, at 2.15PM, my phone rang.

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


I'm a Nonnie.

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

Nonnie.

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