Utah Vegetables

I am one of these.

My routine is now: get up, talk to Sophie, make coffee, make the bed, surf the web, read, water part of the lawn, stare over the vast valley, drink water, talk to Sophie, read, write a bit, exchange emails with Kimi, talk to Sophie, move the water, sit on the front swing again-looking at the hummingbirds and bees on my huge lavender patch, talk to Sophie, eat supper, watch a movie, read, go to bed.

The excitement is killing me.

Sometimes, this routine is broken up by calling my Mom and exchanging animal stories with her, each of us trying to one up the other. She has the Terrier, I have Sophie, who is the oddest cat I've ever seen. She plays fetch, she follows me through the house, sits on the sink when I shower, knows I am going out when I put on my jeans (she attempts to bite them), and basically runs my life. She lies down by whatever door I've gone out of, waiting for me to return. And, she still cleans my chin every morning. At least, she's got it in her head the human's breast is not for her, and no longer waits in anticipation for it's appearance.

Sometimes, I have coffee with HRH, who is the substitute American Sign Language teacher for one of the high schools. We have interesting conversations, as I tend to do with my interesting children:

-So, someone posted I am a three bagger on my blog.

-Wow, Mom! That was harsh.

-Yeah, I thought so, because, I mean, one bag is sufficient, don't you think?

-Totally! Especially if it's burlap, because it won't slid around or make noise like a paper bag...it would cling to your hair and stuff, and you won't have to worry about it coming off.

-Good point!

-You know, Mom, two words make everyone in the world look beautiful....

-Oh?

-Ah huh.... Light. Switch.

We both nod and finish our coffee.


I go to movies with The Investment, and sadly, we've seen everything, so, last night, our choices were either a film about Mormon missionaries or "Death Race". We tossed a coin, and the Mormons lost.

So did we.

The funniest thing was, the rest of the packed theater was there because they actually thought this was a good film to come see, and, from their reaction, they got their money's worth. The Investment and I ate our popcorn, candy and drinks... and sat silently staring at what is up for one of the worst films I've seen... ever. We didn't leave (our usual M.O.) simply because the Mormon movie had already started, so, there was nothing else we could sneak into.

The upside is, I'm healthy, I have great good times with The Investment and HRH and her family, Sophie keeps me entertained, and I'm writing.

As long as I don't find myself with my ass attached to the chair by roots, I should be okay.

ZenMaster

Yesterday, The Zenmaster was 32.

Never fails to surprise me when he shows up, and he has hair on his face.... he's tall and has a deep voice... never fails to surprise me when he gets out of a car that he's driving. Somewhere in my head, he remains the 6 year old boy I met long ago, when I first started dating his dad. The dark brown hair is the same, as are the blue eyes that never lost that deep twinkle.... his smile still spreads over his face, his laugh is still goofy, his hands are as big, he retains an 'aw, shucks' kind of a manner... he has, however, learned, finally, to dress better.

The days of bright green shorts and an orange teeshirt are over.

This is the man that holds his siblings together.... he is the center of the universe they've built as a unit. He is the eldest of five.... two mothers, one father... none of them seeing that DNA split. He provides advice, money, laughter, scoldings, love, hugs, kisses....he set up a fund for his niece so she'll have something there for college. He buys a house so his sister and said niece will not have to worry about landlords and rent issues. He is our rock.

He came to my home, put it in shape to be sold, he and his lovely lady... dashed in, dashed out... always giving me advice on how to handle the whole thing. He lets me rant when I'm upset, his calm voice, -Now, Mom, he says.

Mom. The best gift he ever gave me. He was 12, and suddenly started calling me Mom. He doesn't know I went in the bathroom after that conversation, when he just started using the name, asking me a question, then going outside... and I cried. One thing to have his sister start when she was 2 and a younger sibling saying it... and another to have him make a conscious choice to give me that gift.

He was heard one day by a neighbor, out in our back yard...swinging his baby sister, HRH, and singing to her... he was 13 or so... she came inside, and called me. He made up the song, he didn't see Eileen out there... and he was telling HRH in his very off key voice how much she meant to all of us, how much he loved her, how he'd always protect her, and care for her.... and he has.

Oh, he's not perfect by any means. I dumped a cup o'noodles on his head in the car in pure anger once. Don't worry, they were warm by then. He pretty much destroyed the car we gave him. He almost flunked out of his University the second semester. He didn't always make good choices.

I remember dropping him off at the Jesuit High School, his pants so far down on his ass, I think I drove home through traffic and had coffee made before he slouched his way up to the front door.

He also worked at a Hospice, and came to lie down by me the first time someone died while he was at work.

He pulled up those University grades, and worked jobs to help pay his tuition. He has had his best friend since they were around 8, I think. He is an amazing role model to his siblings, although he did try to kill one of them once. He made clever movies with GI Joe, he babysat, he survived a step-father from hell who did the wonderful thing of dying on Zenmaster's birthday a few years ago. He works hard, he is my little geek with his own LAN system in his house, who takes his cats with him when he comes to visit.

He is handsome, witty, loving, kind, odd, intense, loyal, has a temper at times, will do anything for his family, has a black belt in some throw you around thing, he thinks about presents he gives you.... He is my ZenMaster. I am blessed to have him in my life, we all are.


Happy Birthday, Son of my heart.

I Can't Write, Don't Ask Me

I quit writing.

I'm not sure when or why, I simply quit the process of putting down my thoughts and ideas and the world that lives in my head... it all ground to a halt. I find pieces of paper with a word here or a phrase there, and I've no idea what I was going for or what I meant to say or why I even wrote that word or phrase. I'm not deep in the dumps or upset, I am simply caught up in a place of white noise and no inspiration, is all I can think.

I love Six Sentences.... I can't even compose six words.

There is the continuing feeling I am on the cusp of something... that I am waiting to tip over the edge of a big change in my life, and I have to save all my words for that to happen.

Or, I'm simply out of words to say. (I can hear everyone who knows me laughing there).

I go for a day at a time, not speaking.... listening to whatever it is God is telling me, wondering if he can get past the clutter that is in my head... all the babble and confetti and scraps of ideas and thoughts and left over mish mash that constitutes my interior world.

Or, is all of that his answers to my questions?

The Letdown

Three days after strike, and I am still moping around the empty house.

Strike always depresses me to no end. You spend countless hours designing, building, creating costumes, characters, finding props, set dressing.... doing it all. Rehearsals, fittings, finding time on stage, last minute, and I mean last minute changes to the sets and things the actors had to fit into their blocking... opening nights that rocked, a season that was spectacular... standing ovations on a regular basis for one show.

Then, strike... and in a whir of motion, props are inventoried and put away, costumes marked for cleaning, photos taken, the whine of screw guns ripping apart the sets and in 24 hours... everything is packed up and put away.

Clean stage. Clean dressing rooms. Clean build area. It's as if we were never there...and I'm always sad about it all.

Sophie tries to make me feel better by playing "Let's eat your hand!", a game she finds far more interesting than I do. She also plays, "Lie on your chest when you are reading." and "Sit on your forearms while you are typing on the laptop.". Still, she comes when I call, and is very tidy... I can't ask for more (except for a halt to the eating my hand). The bad thing about a cat is, you can't walk it... I walk alone, and it's hot and I don't like heat and I don't want to garden and waaahhhh.

So, yeah, that's it, The Letdown after theater season. I'm settled into my big room, my huge closet is nicely organised, pictures are on my wall, I've had a nice time with a sleep over when Golfwidow stopped in on her way to Vegas to live, and I'm ready to have something new occur.

I'd like it to happen, oh, now? Until then, I've a trip coming up to see Peter and Prince and my brother, and that should be fun. Still, I want something to happen... I feel it in my bones, and I so hate waiting.

Now, now would be nice.

Life After 40

On a blog I read, an unsent email was posted that caught my eye.

The writer is 24, and she spoke of having women reaching their sexual prime at 40...

I have to comment on letter, on women coming into their 'prime' at 40. Is it a sexual prime, or, is it more an acceptance of who we are as women, a feeling of comfort in our own skin, making it living life in it's prime? A realisation we don't really care who likes or doesn't like us anymore... a sense of not being bovvered (thanks Catherine Tate!) by very much, therefore, we aren't hampered by worries of comparisons anymore, so, we smile, and jump happily into the world, including a sexual world, thrilled with all that it entails?

As a mature woman, I find myself more involved with the things I find interesting, I don't concern myself with people that drain me, I devote myself to those I love, to things that are important to me, I understand time is not my friend...I'm not focused on the party scene, I want to have a place of comfort for the man I would be involved with, and focus on those needs... flirting is a waste of time and an insult to the person I am with... I know what I want, what I need. I also know I am okay on my own, so, anyone in my life is there because I choose to have a relationship, not because I feel something is missing otherwise.

When a woman does get involved, I think we are more focused in many ways...not as raw in our emotions. There is more depth in a sense. We project a very real sense of comfort, security, acceptance.. of both self and the person we are with... there isn't that game playing, of trying to compete with everyone around, we are past all of that. Set, settled, secure. We are women, not girls, not trying to figure out life.. we've done it, and we are delighted to share what we know. There is a sense of ease, of comfort, of texture, of richness in all we have to offer... women over 40 have learned to enjoy life, including sex, to embrace it, to welcome what it has to offer. We are fearless.

Granted, there are some who reach this place earlier, and some who never do... I am speaking from a personal place, from my own perspective, from those women in my life who are, indeed, fearless, content, good with being 40 and very sensual in that space. Ask the men in their lives if you don't believe me... we may have Advil next to our beds, but, that doesn't stop us from enjoying ourselves in those beds.

It's odd... I find myself being told I look better now than I did ten years ago. I believe it's the acceptance of who I am, and being quite content with that person.

I wouldn't be in my 20's or 30's again for anything.... I wasn't very good at life back then...but, enjoy it, those of you who are. And to those of my generation?

Rock on, ladies, rock on.

And When I Die...

What do you want to be remembered for?

Simple question... when you have thrown off this mortal coil... what do you want to have as the thing you are remembered for?

I look forward to the answers...

He Listened

A line in the play, "Brighton Beach Memoirs" always stays with me.

The father, Jack, is bemoaning all that is going on; a large family, one of the jobs he worked during this Depression closed... he's feeling lost...and his wife says to him, he'll be able to pray at Temple all day Saturday.

Jack: There are men who have been praying in that Temple for 40 years. Do you know how long it will take for my prayer to get to the top of the list?

Kate: (nods) God has time for everyone.


On my birthday, the GodMother called to let me know God listened, and indeed had time for all of our prayers, her family and friends... including the many kind words from people here.... with her last test out of the way, she is currently cancer free. She asked to say, "Thank you", and I have to you....Thank you, for caring, and praying... it was a wonderful phone call, I assure you.

A birthday present I can enjoy for years.