Nuts.

At work, we love it when crazy people call us. We'll save the messages for those who don't have access to an office phone, such as our maintenance crew, then play back the message for them on their breaks. We also forward these phone calls to others at City Hall, so they can enjoy them too. We can enjoy the crazy phone calls for weeks. Boss has a phone call on his voicemail message system that's eight weeks old, and like children asking for a bedtime story, we'll ask Boss to play the message back for us. Unfortunately, most of my calls aren't forwarded to voicemail, so I talk to the crazy people directly.


"City Public Works-- this is T-Bone. May I help you?"

Woman with German accent: "I vent to pick up my son at school today, and there was rain flooding the gutter next to de curb, and ven he got in my car, he lost his shoe!" She was very agitated.

"Gosh, I'm sorry he lost his shoe-- how can I help you?"

"Vell, de shoe washed down de street and into de drain. I vant you to stop water from flowing tru de system and get the shoe."

I envisioned our rain-swollen creek and my boss running alongside with a butterfly net, trying to rescue this kid's stupid shoe.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid we can't help you with that," I said apologetically.

"Vell, dey are his favorite shoes! I can't keep buying him a new pair of shoes every time he loses one in de drain! I just bought him dis pair-- he lost another one in de drain before! Dey cost $17.00 a PAIR!"

Maybe she should just buy a new kid-- one who's a little less klutzy getting in the car.

"Well," I explained, "The shoe is gone from our water system. Why don't you call Next Door's Water Department? They might be able to help you find your son's shoe." When in doubt, dump the pissed off German ladies with Next Door. They can deal with her.


Recently, we received a letter from a citizen saying that her tires had been damaged by a pothole at the intersection of Y and Z. She wanted reimbursement for these tires, due to The Hamlet's "refusal" to fill this pothole. Boss informed me that this particular intersection is Next Door's responsibility, as it is just outside our city limits, which is why we didn't fix the pothole. I wrote the citizen a letter advising her of such. Two weeks later, she* called.


"This is Betty. I'm calling to report a pothole."

"Okay," I answered. "Can you tell me where it is?"

"It's at the intersection of A and B in The Hamlet. I blew out two new tires on this pothole and," her voice winding up, up, up, like a generator, "I want to be reimbursed for them! They cost me $100.00! I'm on disability and I don't have the money for this! I want money for my tires today!"

"Ma'am, I'm sorry-- can I put you on hold for just a moment?"

"I guess," she said, exasperated.

I pulled her letter out of my file cabinet. In the letter, she specifically stated that the potholes that ruined her tires were at the intersection of Y and Z, located in Next Door's city limits. I got back on the phone with her.

"Ma'am, thanks for holding. You sent us a letter about this about two weeks ago, didn't you?"

"Yes. I. Did. I never got any kind of response from you people about it! You just don't want to take responsibility for blowing out my tires! I want my $100.00 for those tires right now!"

"Ma'am, according to your letter, it says that the potholes were at Y and Z, which is Next Door. We don't fix potholes for Next Door."

"Well, I'm telling you right now, the pothole is at A and B! I want my money," she concluded stubbornly.

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry-- but we sent you a letter the day after we received yours in the mail. Did you not receive that letter?"

Betty, overwrought and apparently really confused, starting crying. She said, "Well, I just don't know where my tires were blown out. I just moved here from another part of the city, and I'm all confused and turned around. I know those potholes were outside my house."

"Ma'am, did you receive our letter?"

"Well. I suppose I did. But later I thought about it and realized that the potholes that caused my tires to go flat were the ones outside my house, not those other ones."

"Ma'am, I need to ask you this and I'm sorry if my question upsets you-- but how do you know that for sure?"

"I DON'T KNOW THAT!" she screamed, "I don't know! I just know that my tires had to be replaced and I can't afford it!"

God, she is losing it, poor thing, I thought. But I also wasn't going to let her try to pilfer us out of $100.00 because she wasn't sure which potholes caused this. I tried one last question, hoping she'd give me the answer I needed to help her.

"Ma'am, did you file a police report or an insurance claim or anything that'll tell us exactly where your tires blew out?"

"Nooooo! I didn't!" she yelled.


Oh well. I tried.



Following is the eight week-old message on Boss's voicemail. What started off as a credible, run-of-the-mill call quickly turned into something... not so credible and yes, a little creepy.


"This is Sue. With all the rain we've been having lately, I'm really concerned about all the erosion. I live near the mountain and lots of it is washing down the street-- lots of dirt and mud and lots of other stuff too. One thing I'm really worried about are the bodies buried up on the mountain. You know, I've heard all those stories about people being buried up there, and then washing down the mountain when the rains get really bad. I just want you to know that I'm keeping an eye out for those bodies, you know. There's lots of stories around town and lots of people who bury people up on that mountain, and I want you to know that I'm watching for them-- the bodies-- because did you know that there is no statute of limitations on murder? All the people in The Hamlet know about those bodies. So I want you to know that I know all about it and I'm watching for them. Because there's no statute of limitations on murder, you know. Have a good day!"



* Why are the barking mad callers always female? It's perplexing.

Doc Brown, More Like.

Tim the Enchanter had a good idea: we should meet for dinner before the "date" on Saturday. I felt this was a good idea, as I was imagining shaking his hand and introducing myself for the first time early Saturday morning, then holding on to his waist for the next 12 hours. Not a very comfortable situation.

I walked into the restaurant and:

I will say that he's a very nice man and I enjoyed eating dinner with him, but I just wasn't feeling it, so today I rung him up and cancelled for Saturday.

Life's too short to spend an entire Saturday with someone, wishing you were at home, reading a book.

Thingies to Share.

THE HOVEL

I've been ignoring the state of The Hovel, dear readers. The previous two-and-a-half years' worth of neglect have finally registered in my little pea-brain. Last week I looked at the cobwebs hanging in the corners, the filth collecting under furniture, the fossilized cat puke, the unfinished paint job in the bathroom, the dirty wood floors, the dust collecting on the baseboards, and the broken lathing on the deck, and I thought, "This place really looks like shit!" So I'm committed to tackling my home improvement list over the next several weeks. Soon my home will be tolerable to visitors! The thing I hate about these kinds of projects is the inevitability of the Pandora's Box flipping open once a task is started. For instance, this weekend I decided to do the paint in the bathroom. The water-damaged wall from last spring had been repaired, so a simple fresh coat of paint was needed to make it look decent. Hahahahahah! I'm so naive. Instead of just slappin' some paint on there, I needed to spackle, sand, wipe down, prime, mask-off, THEN PAINT. What a pain in the ass. No wonder I chose to live in squalor. Anyway, it's been painted and I'm very pleased with the result. Perhaps when my family shows up for Thanksgiving-- five months from now-- I won't be embarrassed to let them in.

WORKING WITH GWH

The Brunette thinks that GWH isn't stalking me; rather, he's a socially inept person who happens to like me a lot. I think this may be the case, as the last couple of weeks he has been seen rarely around my office, nor has he been found skulking around places I happen to be. I can tell you that this is a relief.

BIKIN' GUY

I have a "date" this weekend with a friend of a friend.

His name is Tim, like Tim the Enchanter in The Holy Grail, but instead of a wand, he has a cane. Apparently he suffered some kind of injury and needs the cane to help him get around. We will be taking a ride on his Harley this Saturday, then have dinner afterward. I hate blind dates, but I will tell you that I've spoken to Tim on the phone and he does sound like a nice guy. We'll see how it goes. If it's anything like the blind dates I've had in the past, I'll be sitting right here afterward, sharing some horrifying tale with you.

Okay. That's my update and I'm sticking to it.

High Hopes

Today, I daydreamed.

I haven't done this in a long time, readers. Months and months.

I daydreamed about my life, my possibilities. I daydreamed about things I want to do, things I want to accomplish, things I want to overcome.

In thinking of these things today, I felt hope and happiness.

The old me is sputtering to life again.

Jew Food

I'm lightening my tone today, dear readers. Today I shall share with you an email the Redhead and I call JEW FOOD.


Jew Food burst from my brain as a result of a forwarded email. This email asked we list, from A to Z, particular things in our life that we enjoy. I forwarded the email to my desired recipients, dutifully deleted the existing answers and added my own answers. After hitting "send", I had several responses from those who had received my forwarded email, and they supplied their answers in kind.


The Brunette, under Y, shared that she had recently fixed a Yummy meal-- "Swedish meatballs with latkes with lingonberry sauce" as something she'd made recently for her boyfriend and my nephew. It does sound good, doesn't it? But of course the Redhead and I couldn't just leave it at that. Rather, we honed in on the Brunette's idea that we have Jews in our family tree* and instead of saying to one another, "Wow. That does sound like a nice meal!", we started to feed off of one another about the Brunette fixing latkes.


Following is my A to Z list, originally prepared for the Redhead, of our purported Jewish heritage.

A- Anadama bread, which Marcy makes. She's a Jew.

B- Babushka, which our ancestors in Russia wore, and balaliaka, an instrument our Jewish ancestors probably played.

C- Cossacks, soldiers that raped and pillaged our Jewish ancestors in the ghetto in Russia, where we came from.

D- Dreidl, for Max.

E- Eastern Europe, where our ancestors probably walked on their way to Germany.

F- Frankincense. Gift for Jesus, who was a Jew.

G- Gifelte fish, which Jews eat.

H- Hannukah, which we celebrate right before Christmas, because we are part Jewish.

I- Israel, the holy land where our ancestors are from.

J- Judaism, which I practice around Hannukah.

K- Kosher kitchen, which I keep.

L- Latke. Good with Swedish meatballs and lingonberry sauce.

M- Moses, head Jew, and Madonna, studying Kaballah, mystical Jewish text.

N- New York. Lots of Jews live there.

O- Ohio. Not so many Jews.

P- Purim. Holiday that us Jews celebrate.

Q- Quest. That's what the Jews where on when they were in the desert for 40 years with Moses, head Jew.

R- Rabbi. Guy at temple on Saturday night.

S- Sandwich. It's what Jews eat for lunch.

T- Torah. The thing we read at temple on Saturdays.

U- Uvula. All Jews have them.

V- Verklempt. Yiddish word for how I'm feeling.

W- Why doesn't anyone believe I'm part Jewish?

X- Xray. Jews get these when they have broken arms.

Y- Yeshiva. Where rabbi studied.

Z- Zipper. We Jews have these on our pants.

* Which is fine, you understand. It is, however, unsupportable by any documentation we have of our family's heritage, which is why we give the Brunette such a hard time about it. We do love her very much, though!

Houston, We Have a Problem.

Years ago, I was living in Los Angeles and had the complete L.A. experience: I lived in a cute little bungalow off of Melrose and La Brea, had work as a personal assistant to society-type people and celebrities, and had the quintessential L.A. lifestyle accessory: my very own stalker.


This is something I would not wish on my worst enemy. Actually, my worst enemy is my former stalker, whom I christened "The Troll" (no need for fake names in this post, dear readers; that's just what I named the bitch), so I would wish a stalker on her, except she'd probably like it.


After leaving Los Angeles to escape The Troll, I had nightmares for years. Literally. The Troll reigned supreme in my nocturnal dramas, showing up in unexpected places, engineering evil outcomes to situations, sneering, laughing, conniving. You can imagine my joy, visiting with The Troll every fricking night, for three years after escaping from Los Angeles.


Well, that was twelve years ago, and dreams of The Troll have been dormant for a long time. What a relief.


However, something else came up last night and I'm fairly concerned.

Leaving a BBQ at about 10:00 p.m., GWH was across the street waiting for me.

"Hey purdy lady," he slurred, unsteady on his feet. "I was waiting for you."

"You were? How'd you know I was here, GWH?"

"Weelllll... I jes'... a little bird tol' me that there was a purdy lady up there at a BBQ, so I thought I'd come by an' see if I could escort you home."

Jesus Christ. Was he messing with me? Was it coincidence he saw me leaving (most likely) or did he really know where I was? I tried to think quickly and not panic. I had one clear thought: DO NOT LET HIM KNOW YOU'RE AFRAID.

"Well, sure GWH. If you want to walk me to my place, that's fine."

So we walked (rather, I walked and he staggered) down the street. He had been in Nebraska fishing over the holiday weekend, just got back this evening, was down at the local tavern where he "heard" I was at the BBQ. I told him nothing about my weekend, naturally. Anything I said was delivered in a neutral tone.

We reached my house.

"Oh! This's your place?" he asked. "Yes, it is," I answered, even though he knew full well where I lived. "Thanks for walking me down," I added.

"Oh, sure. Hey! I wanna tell ya that there's talk around the shop that I fried your cat. I dint fry your cat. I'm jus' a l'il 'lergic, thassal."

I said adamantly and firmly, "I NEVER said that to anyone. Never."

He replied, "Oh, well then-- they mus' jes' be teasin' me 'bout it. Can I have a hug before you go up?"

Don't piss him off. "Sure," and I gave him a quick hug, my skin crawling. "See you later." I unlocked my door and went it, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I went upstairs, drew all my shades, closed my curtains and turned off my lamp, leaving my house in total darkness. I kept walking to the windows, peeking outside from the shade's edge, hoping he wouldn't be standing across the street. I locked my slider. I performed my bedtime ablutions in pitch blackness. I got into my pj's and under the covers. It was difficult to get to sleep.

It's hard to know if GWH is toying with me, teasing me, or if he's telling the truth about knowing I was at the BBQ.

As far as Nicole the cat goes, I assume I'll never find out what happened to her. But I'll let you know-- when GWH mentioned the cat and that he hadn't "fried" her, then mentioned the guys around the office had been "teasing" him about her disappearance, it sent a chill down my spine. It makes me wonder just what kind of person I'm dealing with here.

A Note of Thanks on This Memorial Day.

Each morning on NPR, I hear Rene Montaigne or Steve Inskeep announce the day's number of deaths in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Hearing this number, I think of the families and friends whose lives have been irrevocably changed by a late-night phone call (because those calls always come when you're asleep, while you're safe in your bed).

Every day I think, "What are we going to do?", and every day a reply comes: "I don't think anyone knows what we're going to do."

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of
the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a
manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes
me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know
for whom the bell tolls;
it tolls for thee."

-- John Donne

Last Night I Dreamt of You.

"... And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face."

-Sara Teasdale

Armor

A couple of years ago, I was having lunch with a man whom I'd just started dating. We were having a conversation about people and the possibility they may let you see only what they want you to see, and therefore, you will be unable to get to know them.

"Okay, here's an example," I said between bites of my sandwich. "If I'm feeling sick one day and have to go to work, I don't necessarily want people to know I'm not feeling well. Maybe it's for personal reasons or because of a work dynamic, but I don't want people at work to know if I'm sick. So when I get ready for work, I put on my armor."

He looked at me. "Your armor?" he asked uncertainly.

"Yes. I'll fix my hair, put on my makeup, and put on an outfit that makes me feel really good. Then when I get to work, they think I look terrific, and they don't know I'm not feeling well, because I have on my armor."

"So what you do to yourself to get ready for work, or to go out, or whatever, is a way of presenting yourself to the world that isn't necessarily truthful?"

Hm, I thought. He doesn't like this. "Well, I suppose that's one way of saying it," I said. "Don't you do that? Don't you have a suit you like to wear to certain kinds of meetings or doesn't the car you drive say something about you?"

"I guess what I present to the world is truly me," he answered, a bit frostily.

"Oh." I said, feeling abashed that I'd hit a nerve with him. "I mean, I'm being honest with you right now-- I'm not covering anything up from you. Just because I'm wearing this skirt and have my hair this way today doesn't mean that I'm trying to keep anything from you," I explained, smiling, afraid I'd hurt his feelings somehow.

But the damage was done, and he never contacted me again (which is okay).

Well, I still call it my armor, although I'm a bit more choosy with whom I share my theory.

Lord, I'm So Tired. How Long Can This Go On?

This getting-up-at-5:00 a.m.-to-get-to-work-on-time bullshit is beginning to wear me out.

Q: Why do teenagers sleep until noon?

A: Because they can.

A Terrible Suspicion.

Last week, Boss came over to my desk and said, "You want another cat?"
"Oh my God-- no, but thanks."
"How many do you have?" he asked.
"Three. They rule my life. If I got another cat to upset the balance, they would probably murder me in my sleep," I said. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, there's a cat that's been living under the shed out back for the last couple of months. She's a nice little kitty. I'll take you to see her." Boss and I stepped out of the office and walked out to the equipment graveyard. We stood by the shed and called out to the kitty.
She slunk out from underneath the shed-- a beautiful silky-haired ginger tabby, with enormous paws, a long narrow face, and a long fluffy tail. She immediately came to me, and started rubbing her sides and face along my legs. Back and forth, this way and that. Awww! So sweet! I fell in love, instantly.
I asked Boss, "Do we need a shop cat?"
"Well," he said, "We sure do have a lot of mice in the water department. That building is infested with them. We could use a mouser, because those humane traps don't work very well."
"If I got permission from Dick, could we keep her in the shop at night and let her wander around outside during the day? I'll take responsibility for her food and water."
"Sure-- I don't see why not. We probably could use her, that's for sure."
During my lunch hour, I went down to the grocery store to get our new cat some food. Kitty was very lean from living outdoors and could probably use a good meal or two. While on my errand, I decided that "Nicole" would be the perfect name for her-- after Nicole Kidman-- being ginger-haired, long and lean.
After my return from the store, I talked to Dick, the supervisor of that department. "Sure, I think it's a great idea," he said. "I can't do it today, but next week I'll make a kitty door for her in the shop, and she can come and go as she pleases."
Later that afternoon, a guy who works with Dick in the water department found out we were going to have a shop cat. I'll call this guy "The Great White Hunter" ("GWH") for reasons I'll explain in a moment.
"Aw, we don't need a shop cat," GWH complained. "The last one we had died because it ate poison, and it shit and pissed all over the place. Who told you we could have a cat here?" he asked me.
"Dick did!" I said, pointing to him standing nearby. "The cat's not going to eat the poison-- she's going to have a cat door-- she'll go outside to go to the bathroom. You probably won't even see her."
"Well, shit," he said. "We just don't need one."
Dick commented, "GWH is allergic to cats."
I explained, "Well, she'll be outside, so I don't think you'll even notice she's been there." GWH, however, was not happy about Nicole living in the shop.
Now-- GWH travels all over the world to hunt. The water department is plastered with photos of him with his latest kills-- bush bucks, warthogs, zebras, deer, elk, ducks, and even a monkey (which horrified me). In the shop, stuffed and mounted heads of his quarry line the walls. A warthog skull sits on the kitchen table of the shop.
The thought crossed my mind that GWH would hurt Nicole, but I guiltily dismissed that idea.
Saturday, I stopped by the empty complex to make sure Nicole had enough food and water for the weekend.
She was gone.

Ding Dong

Jerry Fallwell died today.

I would be very interested to hear Jerry's conversation with God upon his arrival in Heaven, wouldn't you?

I have an idea that God is going to inform Jerry that while he was here with us on Earth, busy polarizing, preaching and pointing fingers, that he had been wrong to judge his fellow man; that same sex couples who love and respect one another are not committing a sin by being together; that divorces aren't sinful; that having a baby "out of the holy bonds of marriage" is not sinful; that indeed Jerry himself had committed many, many sins by stirring up hatred in those who refuse to understand the many subtleties of this life; that by his condemnation of sinners rather than letting God judge them, is in itself a paramount sin.

I hope that Fallwell, humbled, shaken and terrified in the presence of God, finally knows and sees and acknowledges his many mistakes. I hope he will finally know that he is not more important, more knowledgable or holier than anyone else populating that plane. I hope he realizes that now there is only a level playing field-- everyone equal, everyone equally loved, throughout eternity, and there isn't anyone there to impress or scare or bully or alienate.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

I slept most of the day, being exhausted from the events of the last 48 hours or so.

If you want a cheery, funny post, you won't find it here! Gird your loins, readers.

The big event occurred Thursday evening. My girlfriend Hilly and I were sitting down to some wine that evening, both ready for a long-overdue chat. We'd barely finished our first glass when the phone rang. It was Mom's assisted living facility informing me that Mom wanted to go the emergency room, as she was experiencing pain due to (sorry to tell you this) constipation. The facility felt it was a good idea too.

Now, everyone gets constipated occasionally, but with Mom's particular affliction and her current physical state, constipation could be serious. So I told the nurse I'd be up there in about 45 minutes to take her to the hospital. Hilly thankfully understood that our visit would have to be cut short. I walked Hilly to her car, got into my own vehicle and drove up to Mom's.

After letting myself into Mom's apartment, I found her in the bedroom shaving her legs.

"Mom. Why are you shaving your legs?"

"Because they're hairy," she said.

I remember my few visits to the emergency room over the years and I have got to tell you, the condition of my legs were of the least concern to me. More on those hideous stories in a future post.

So I went about the business of packing an overnight bag just in case the doctors wanted to keep her there for observation. Mom interjected various suggestions (i.e., commands) while I was packing the bag.

"No, not that. I want the robe instead", "Don't forget to put my makeup bag in there." Apparently she was ready for a very glamorous visit to the ER. "I need a glass of water," she commanded. As an afterthought, she said "Thanks."

"My nails are a mess," she commented after finishing her legs.

"Who gives a shit, Mom?"

"I DO. Put the nail polish remover in my purse. I can take off the polish on the way down," she commanded.

"No. No, you're not," I said, envisioning her spilling remover all over my front seat. "I'll do it. Jesus Christ, Mom," I said, frustrated. 'Is she in pain or not?' I thought to myself. I knew that to refuse her would bring her easy tears, leave me feeling guilty and forever regretting that I didn't take off the nail polish as she wished, I would think about manicures for weeks, dream about nails, obsess about my SELFISHNESS and what a rotten daughter I am. So I removed the polish.

After about an hour and a half, with the night still young (hooray), she was in my car, seatbelt on, overnight bag and wheelchair in the back. Off we went to the ER.

Check-in, triage, then the wait. Poor Mom, sitting there in her wheelchair, hunched over, uncomfortable, practically starving to death because she hadn't eaten in a day or so, but not too excited about a snack or any kind of sustenance because she felt nauseous. Me handing her kleenex, giving her sips of water from the water bottle, engaging in chit-chat. Both of us watching the incoming patients, some crying in pain. FINALLY, a room and a bed in the ER.

Then... more waiting. Xray tech arrives with a cotton cover-thingy. "She needs to put this on," he said. "She can leave on her underwear and socks." Then he disappeared. I wrangled Mom out of her clothes and into the thingy. Wait, wait, wait. A young man came in. "I'm the vampire," he said, holding up a needle and vials. "I'm going to take your blood." "This is where I turn away," I said. While he took Mom's blood, I watched the crappy local news with the sound turned off. Boy, we have some unattractive people anchoring the news in this town.

The Vampire bade us goodbye and we waited for xray man to return. After a long wait, he came in. "You done your urinalysis yet?" he asked. Mom and I looked at each other. "No-- we didn't know about that," I answered. Just then a nurse walked in. "She needs a urinalysis," xray man said to the nurse. "Yeah, well-- she's not my patient, so..." she reached into a cupboard for a urinalysis kit and threw it on the bed. "Here you go." Then she left.

Xray man said, "Okay. I'll do xrays after the urine test. I usually don't do it this way," he said, all confused that his little schedule had been messed up. "Well, thanks for being so patient," I said to him. He left, saying on his way out the door, "I'll be down the hall and check on you in a few minutes."

Clearly, a nurse wasn't going to help us with Mom's pee test. In fact, we hadn't even seen our nurse yet. "Okay, Mom. I guess we're on our own," I said grabbing the pee kit and getting her into her wheelchair. I wheeled her over the bathroom down the hall.

The next 25 minutes were a test of my patience. Halfway through our visit to the bathroom, there was a knock on the door. I cracked it and looked out. A crying, fat lady stood there with her husband. "Nope, sorry," I said coldly, closing and locking the door in their stunned faces.

Finally we got the specimen. I got Mom back to the room, where we waited for the xray guy. He showed up about 20 minutes later. "Okay, ready for your xrays?" he said, wheeling Mom down the hall. They were gone for about a half hour.

Back into the room she comes. We wait. The nurse finally ambled in after another 1/2 hour or so. "Hi, I'm Bitsy (or whatever her name was) and I'm your nurse tonight. The doctor will be in soon to talk about your tests."

The doctor, young and energetic, came in an hour later. "Well, you bloodwork is terrific, your urinalysis came back great and your xrays are super! I'm going to prescribe you a laxative and I don't think you'll be staying overnight tonight."

He disappeared through the doorway. I got Mom into her clothes and we waited. And waited. Entrez Bitsy.

"Great news! We'll be discharging you in a few minutes!" She disappeared. We wait and wait and wait. I go out into the hallway looking for Bitsy and found her talking to some other nurses at their station. "Bitsy, my Mom is fading fast. We need to get her out of here asap," I explained. "Oh! Okay! Her paperwork is right here." She grabs the papers and accompanies me to the room. She asked, "Is she dressed yet?" "Yes, she's dressed," I say, between clenched teeth.

Bitsy went over the discharge papers with us. She went over the laxative we were to get for Mom. I took Mom out to the valet parking and there we waited and waited and waited for the car. Mom into the car. Wheelchair in the back. Buckle in Mom. Drive her up to Stepford. Take out the wheelchair, Mom in the wheelchair, take her upstairs, go to find the nurse to inform her Mom's home, she needs to get Mom dressed for bed and she also needs her meds. I go back in to Mom's apartment, hug her goodbye, run down to the car, light up a ciggy, and look at my watch. It's 1:30 a.m.

Oh good. I'll get a whopping 3 hours of sleep tonight. I'm so glad the ER doctor prescribed that laxative, particularly after all this effort. It really made the do-it-yourself visit to the ER worth it.

So Mom's "fine", I guess, until her next fit of constipation and the Nazis at the nursing home make us take her to the ER.

So after working the next day then meeting friends out for beers Friday night, I got home at about midnight. Needless to say, I spent virtually the entire day in bed on Saturday. I did manage to get to the grocery store Saturday night, so I did do something productive.

I've told both of my sisters, "Honestly. If I ever get as sick as Mom, I'm offing myself. Don't feel surprised or anything-- I'll just do it and there'll be nothing you could have done or said, I'm just not going to go through what Mom's going through. I won't do it." This comment isn't met with any kind of happiness, of course-- I'm their baby sister! They'll miss me because they love me. But I'm telling you... I won't go through it.

Work

My new job is going really well, readers. This is a relief after my year of unemployed discontent.
There is a large cast of characters up here, mostly men. I'm certainly not complaining.

Is it an office filled with smug, know-it-all attorneys wearing golf shirts and Dockers? No! It's a warehouse filled with men who have rough hands, muddy boots, windburned faces and trucker caps. They drink, they cuss, they smoke. They know how to use tools. They can snake a toilet or fix a car. They can stop leaks, divert a creek, replace a fire hydrant, blow up boulders. Most of all, they are very sweet and solicitous, opening doors for ladies and fixing coffee for the crew in the morning.

These guys, particularly those who serve in tandem on The Hamlet's fire department, have seen it all-- wasp nests under park benches, public toilets clogged by vandals throwing rocks in the toilet bowl, dead bodies, floods, fires, holes in the street, downed telephone wires and poles and trees, car wrecks, enormous rock slides, drunks passed out in the park, and bears ambling around the neighborhood going through trash cans.

These guys know all the gossip, too-- like the former city hall janitor who used to show up drunk on the job and currently sits on our city council. They can give you the scoop on who wants to, has, or is still screwing who, who is getting a divorce or a separation, who is filing for bankruptcy, who has a dime less than God, who manufactures meth in their garage, who's been arrested for DUI, possession or domestic abuse.

Because of this love of gossip, the boss has police radios turned on throughout the day for information's sake, but also for entertainment value. The guys love this stuff-- the car chases, the accidents, the suspected drunk drivers. Yesterday the PD was led on a high-speed chase through The Hamlet, which led eastward to Next Door. The policeman radioed that the suspect had turned westward to evade the police, and a cheer rose up from the guys congregated in the boss's office: "HE'S COMING BACK!" they crowed. "FUCKING A!"

I'm certain that over the next few months I'll have lots of stories to share. Prepare yourself, readers. These are your public servants.

I'll Put a Bug in His Ear

"Night Gallery" was a family favorite when we were growing up. My sisters and I would crowd in front of the TV to watch it, sitting really close to one another to keep from getting too scared.

One episode in particular left a lasting impression on the three of us. This guy goes on a trip and upon his return, he starts experiencing terrible headaches. He makes a trip to the doctor, who finds an earwig in his ear and explains to his patient, "They laid eggs."

Aaaaaccckkk! Oh, the thrill that coursed through us girls! How horrible!

A college friend, Linus, told me that when she was growing up in North Carolina, she awoke one night crying and feverish. Her mother took her to the emergency room where the doctor examined her and found in her ear canal: a cockroach. "It's not as uncommon as you'd think," he told Linus' mom.

At CNN's website today, they reported that a boy had two spiders removed from his ear. One spider had died, the other was still alive when they were taken out. Being a boy, he of course had the doctor put them in a jar and he now he keeps them in his room. The boy said when the spiders set up camp on his eardrum, they'd move around and they "sounded like Rice Krispies."

Another thing to add to my nighttime ablutions: "Put cotton balls in ears."

Hideous Eruptions

I obsess about my skin. I stay out of the sun, wash carefully, use really good products, do the anti-aging regimen. I think it's paid off over the years.

Unfortunately, despite all the good things I do for my skin, once in awhile it rebells against me and I get a Vesuvi-zit. For me, one Vesuvi-zit cancels out every moment I have spent cleansing, moisturizing, fretting.

For the last several weeks I have a zit that's been gurgling under the surface for awhile and has finally surfaced. It's red. It's angry. It's on my jawline. Worst of all, it's not getting any better despite my best efforts to hold it at bay.

I loathe the Vesuvi-zit, those pimples that are so enormous and hard and refuse to come to a head. It's like a teeny-tiny silicone implant on my face. Worst of all, I keep touching it and I check on it in the mirror throughout the day.

If I were to leave it alone, how long will the Vesuvi-zit stay? I'll never know for sure because I try to perform surgery on these things before they get out of control. Would it stay for six months? A year? This one started forming two months ago. It's worn out its welcome. BEGONE!

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

After my recent notes on The Hamlet wherein I expressed doubts about the existence of witchcraft, sorcery, satanic worship, and general skulduggerous goings-on within these environs, Whoever Is In Charge decided it was time I see with my own eyes irrefutable proof of the mischief.

Here.

In The Hamlet.

Occurrence Number One

While at the gas station on Sunday, the kid parked in the forward gas pump had pentagram decals on the back window of his Subaru.

Occurrence Number Two

After my visit to the gas station, I pulled into my private parking spot and lo! On the ground in the parking lot lay a crushed and dirty (not-so-pointy) witch hat.

Coincidence? I think not.

Hamlet

My little Hamlet, a delightful splice of Cicely, Alaska and Bedford Falls, is tucked into the base of the mountains. I cherish the extreme beauty and character of this spot; the colors of the dirt, trees, scrub, and sky are as familiar to me as the color of my own eyes and skin.

Here, the mineral-laden underground springs gurgle upward to spit out of fountains, and this water is thought to have numerous healing properties. Centuries ago, the Native Americans believed these springs to be sacred. In the 19th Century, scores of Tuberculosis patients moved to The Hamlet for the beneficial healing waters and extreme dry air. The patients occupied "T.B. cabins", which are still scattered around town, now inhabited by modern-day residents.

The characters around town are easily seen. Folks here don't necessarily try to blend in-- all eccentricities are honored. When I was a child, there was a man who wore a Santa suit year-round and gave candy to all the kids (I know it sounds creepy--he was really nice though); the guy who dresses like D'Artagnan, who one day swept his hat off his head, bowed, and gallantly offered to assist me in carrying my groceries up the stairs ("Mi'lady" he called me); the man who dresses like General Custer and has long flaxen hair and a sharp goatee (I asked him how he was doing one morning and he answered "I'm still walking and talking, so I guess I'm good!"); the guy whose early 70's model Ford pickup is completely covered in hand-painted text of biblical references, poems, and quotations; the couple who keep two llamas on their property and take them and their dogs on daily walks; the man who rode an enormous mule up my street, and when he dismounted to chat with me, the mule blissfully rolled on its back in my front yard and munched on some flowers; a beloved local artist, whose tall, lanky figure you can see moseying around the streets of The Hamlet,wearing a blue cotton shirt, black pants and suspenders, his long, flowing white hair and grizzled beard making him look like an Amish farmer/prophet.

For years, rumors have persisted that practioners of the black arts populate The Hamlet. People from our neighboring city ("Next Door") discovering I live in The Hamlet often ask, "Oh, you're from The Hamlet. Seen any witches?" One guy said to me with perfect seriousness, "Yeah... I wanted to buy a house in this area and did some research on The Hamlet. I found evidence of lots of witchcraft, so I didn't buy there." An odd statement, I thought. Having grown up in The Hamlet and lived here for many years, I have yet to see any "evidence" of witchcraft. Where did he find this evidence? Did he drive through The Hamlet and see little dolls made of twigs hanging from the trees? Did he visit a realtor's website and its 360-cam panned over a bloody altar? Apparently he knows something I don't.

The privately-owned shops in The Hamlet are run by proprietors proud to be off the big American retail corporation grid. They sell antiques, souveniers, handmade musical instruments, pottery, handblown glassware, and custom-designed jewelry. Most Hamlet stores cater to the tourist trade and during the winter months, storeowners will tell you that money is tight. Their businesses rely almost exclusively on out-of-town visitors the summer months bring.

There are many Victorian homes in The Hamlet-- some updated, some shabby. The influx of well-off young professionals are eager to renovate these homes (understandably). Developers are attempting to upgrade The Hamlet's purported housing shortage by building over-priced homes and condominiums, knocking long-time residents out of the housing market. Despite these changes, most long-time residents want to stay in The Hamlet and jealously defend the time-worn, shabby charm on display here. They are suspicious of change.

The politics of The Hamlet is a very hot topic for the locals. Over beers at any one of the local bars, you'll find residents discussing the state of the roads, the ridiculousness of the "upgrades" being given to our town in the form of faux-Victorian streetlights and wider sidewalks, the ineptitude of The Hamlet's council, the Barney Fyfe-esque police force, etc. Overall, the political climate is quite liberal here, unlike Next Door, which is heavily populated with fundamentalist Christians, homophobes, and the like.

The Hamlet locals have a decided snobbishness about our side of town (because it's so cool) and avoid the "East Side" as much as possible. My girlfriend "Gwyneth" calls the East Side "The Brave New World" and we joke about the poor bastards who have bought brand new, quarter-million dollar homes directly under the flight path at the airport. The East Siders love it out there; it suits them perfectly. There are mega movie theatres, strip malls, chain restaurants and big department stores that suit their every need. On our side of town, we tend to see movies 1.) at home or 2.) venture to Downtown Next Door's old renovated theatre which typically features art films or film festival winners. At Christmas, we try valiantly to shop for gifts at our locally-owned stores (this is very difficult to do, but it IS possible. Sometimes, though, you do have to make a run to Toys-'R'-Us or Borders; it's practically unavoidable). When we eat out, we tend to gravitate to family-run places, but once in awhile we go to the dark side and eat at Next Door's Olive Garden (because of the salad dressing, don't you know, and those fucking heroin-laced breadsticks) or other chain-type places.

Of course I love our cemetery, as it is small and quaint. I visit it quite often not only because I like cemeteries, but also because many people I know are buried there: Lisa's grandmother, Delphine, who could make me laugh until I cried and who also had a perpetually perfect manicure. Jamie and Jeff, both plagued by depression and who both committed suicide. My brother-in-law, who died on a terrible Christmas Eve ten years ago, and the top of whose tombstone is still smeared with the long-ago lipstick of my sister's kisses. Tina, a life-long equestrian and horse lover, who one day fell off of her horse and suffered fatal head injuries. Deanna, whose sweet face is memorialized on her tombstone in a brooch-shaped photograph. Danny-- who I didn't know had passed until I saw his stone a year ago while taking a quiet walk among the graves-- has a pine tree next to his stone, which is dressed with faded Christmas ornaments dangling from the branches. From the cemetery, you can faintly hear the excited screams and cheers of kids up at the track of my old high school located just over the ridge, providing an additional shade of eloquence to the place in which you stand.

I'd like to say I'll never move from here, that I'll live out the rest of my life in The Hamlet, but Mom was right when she told you to never say never. I hope I'll always see the lilacs bloom in the spring here; the snow frozen on the mountains well into the summer; the gold leaves falling slowly to the ground in the fall and the perfect hush of a snowy night, snowflakes falling out of the sky illumed by the street lights below my house. While I am here, I know it's such a perfect place to be.

Unfettered Excitement

I now have a computer! I will now be posting on a regular basis rather than scuttling, crab-like, from place to place begging for computer time.

My heartfelt thanks to The Hessian for giving me this fabulous setup.

Chad Jones, 6684

After the bars let out the other night, I was treated to another freak show beneath my bedroom window.

A guy was walking up the street and boy was he pissed. He was screaming at the top of his lungs:

"THOSE FUCKERS STABBED ME IN THE HEAD. STABBED ME! COME ON! COME ON OUT! CHAD JONES 6684! CHAD JONES 6684! FUCKERS! FUCKERS FUCKING STABBED ME IN THE HEAD! 6684 MOTHERFUCKERS!" etc. Up the street Chad went, yelling, screaming, then he made a u-turn and came back down the street, screaming about getting stabbed in the head, how "they" had done this to him, and now where are they, they're hiding and they aren't gonna come out and face him.

A poor soul, apparently a friend waiting for him, said in a low voice to Chad, "Dude. Let me take you home. You'll feel so much better about this tomorrow." So Chad and his unfortunate babysitter left (in a car, natch).

Chad Jones 6684? Is this his spy number or something? "Jones. Chad Jones." Sitting at the roulette table in a tux, sipping a martini, with a big knife sticking out of his head.

So being the nosy bitch I am, the next morning I went downstairs right away to look for blood from 6684's head wound. No blood. No knife. No nothing!

I know-- the knife was a metaphor! That's it! Or maybe not. Maybe Chad is just a maniac with a drinking problem. Just like all the other drunks under my window.

God Is Great, Memsahib.

Well, dear readers, I have finally gotten a job.

I will be working for my fair city at the public works department, which includes sewer, streets and the like. I originally wanted the asphalt raking job they had open, but they filled that right away. Instead I will be their secretary/receptionist.

I've learned so many lessons this last year; I can't begin to count them. I've learned:

- That you can do without those nice cushy extras. If you've got a roof over your head and food in the fridge, you're good.
- Humilty-- it's a lifestyle.
- Don't assume the good things in your life are a constant. They can disappear tomorrow, so appreciate them.
- I've learned to shop at Wal-Mart, even though their produce sucks, because it's cheaper than anywhere else.
- Most importantly, having faith in the future is the most valuable thing you can possess.

Thanks to my friends and family (particularly The Brunette who gave me a heads-up on this new job) during this last year. Without you, I would have been living in my car. That would have sucked.

San Diego

I was in San Diego last weekend to visit my old boyfriend, The Hessian.

Once home, I realized that The Hessian and I are two people standing on a small bit of sand in the middle of a wide, rushing river. On our little island, our love and regard for one another has remained unchanged as time flows past us.

Years ago, I recited Robert Burns' poem to The Hessian while we sat on my deck one night:

"... and I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas gone dry.

"Till all the seas gone dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
And the sands of life shall run.

"And fare thee well, my only love!
And fare thee well awhile!
And I will come again, my love
Though it were ten thousand mile."

Taxes

It's tax time once again, dear readers. It's that time of year when we receive a little piece of paper in the mail encapsulating and distilling all the worry, sweat, political manuevering, yes'ing, meetings, office potlucks and fake smiles in the hallway, into a sterile number in Box 1 of your W-2.

Imagine my annoyance opening my W-2s from the Old Boy Network Law Firm, P.C. and found that the third copy of my W-2 wasn't mine. It was a copy of the Popcorn-Smell Hating Partner's W-2. Box 1 on his form let me know that he made a whopping $180,000.00 last year while sitting in his office on his fat Dockers-encased butt.

Naturally, I called the firm's bookkeeper and told her of the mistake. She said she'd send me a new set of W-2s. When I asked her what I should do with Dockerboy's W-2, she said to rip it up.

"I'm guessing that won't be a problem," she said kindly.

"I'm happy to do it!" I answered.

My computer took a large crap

Which is why I haven't been posting as of late. Today I'm on Mom's computer, so I will post a couple of items. Thanks for checking back!

Well, I'll Be Damned.

I don't have a fucking "error on this page" message, so I can actually post something from the computer in my home, rather than have to create the blog in Word, send it to my email address, then post it from one of my sisters' computers.

Tonight I want to write of my 12 year-old nephew G.

G and I spent this last weekend together as his parents were in L.A. on business, and we basically did stuff we both like to do, which is eat at restaurants and watch videos. He is the coolest little kid you could imagine. I call him "My Little Zen Boy", because he is calm and insightful-- a little Buddha minus the 20% body fat.

G's taste in music is exceptional (thanks to his equally cool Dad, he of the 5,000+ CD collection) and he likes to listen to Led Zeppelin, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Beatles, and most lovely of all, one of his new favorite albums "Madman Across the Water" by Elton John, a big family favorite. He's a third-level junior blackbelt, gets good grades in school, has a large posse of friends who look up to him as leader of their pack. He's a pacifist, sensitive, thoughtful and creative, and like most boys his age, opposed to taking showers. One of his greatest gifts is that of mimicry; the child can imitate any accent, tone of voice or voice inflection. Our favorite video this weekend was "SNL Best of Will Farrell", and for the rest of the weekend, G spouted off perfect renditions of Harry Caray expressing his lust for spareribs and the catchphrase "Goulet!"

What a wonder that such a highly-evolved creature is related to me. I am truly thankful.

My Girls

My girl Scarlet is a beautiful creature with milky skin, a staggering vocabulary and the best conversational skills of anyone I’ve ever met. She’s a bohemian, creative and funny, with a girlish little giggle. She could be anything- a doctor, a writer, a dominatrix, a shrink, a person who sells her home-grown produce at the farmer’s market. Scarlet is simply a lovely woman.

However, Scarlet doubts the course her life is taking. She is currently planning to get her doctorate in English Lit and teach at the university level. This is causing Scarlet distress because she foresees a future filled with grading badly written papers, cajoling hungover college students to appreciate Emily Dickinson, creating lesson plans and publishing or perishing. She has chosen this path primarily because she’d be really good at it, but another reason is because Scarlet feels that she is expected to do something significant with her highly superior brain power that would meet with the approval of her loved ones. Further, Scarlet is bisexual. This is viewed with suspicion by some of her “friends”, who see her sexual orientation as greedy and possibly false.

My other girl, Delaney, is struggling with a different kind of problem. She is transgendered- man to woman. Delaney was brought up in a rural, conservative community. She is the former frontman of a heavy metal band, formerly married and the father of two boys. Delaney is fighting on a day-to-day basis with others’ prejudices and fears. She is in a battle to convince the people she loves—her parents, siblings, children and old friends—that despite the fact she is in the process of becoming a woman, that she is indeed the same person she was before-- inside.

Two women with two different lives, yet they share a common problem: how can they happily become who they need to be and yet have the support and approval of those they love?

Bill Moyer recently interviewed author Jeanette Winterson on his show. Winterson was brought up in England by strict Pentecostal Christian parents and throughout her childhood attended tent revivals, prayer meetings and the like. She began to step off her parents’ path, much to their consternation and extreme disapproval. As a teenager, Winterson fell in love with a girl and they decided to move in together. Winterson was leaving her mother’s home for the last time and while walking out the door, her mother called after her:

“WHY BE HAPPY WHEN YOU CAN BE NORMAL?”

It’s such a funny and telling statement from a woman who wanted only a “nice” life for her daughter. What mother wouldn’t want a simple, tidy life for their child, without confusion, without mess, without trouble? Alternatively, what person doesn’t want understanding and support from their friends during the travails of becoming who they are?

So there is the clash. The child who loves the parent and wants their approval, and the parent who wants an easy life for their child. The person who was once loved by friends and is now treated with suspicion and is the object of anger and resentment.

We all know people who fit into the generic, simple molds made available by our society. There are also those people who realize they don’t fit into the generic mold yet they fear retribution of some kind, so they squeeze themselves into the ill-fitting little confine (Ted Haggard). I think those that fit into the simple mold are happy—they’re really lucky. The others who contort themselves and struggle to fit inside the simple mold are conflicted at best, because I think they’re hiding stuff from themselves and from others.

Then there are those mavericks who state, “Well, I’m never going to fit into any of those molds and furthermore, I’m not interested into trying to squeeze in there.” Those are the people who step out to become themselves—white-hot, pure, unapologetic and unforgettable.

It takes thick skin to be a maverick. It also takes a little bit of “Fuck you very much”. Hardest of all, it takes “Sorry you don’t like it. I love you anyway.”

To paraphrase Mrs. Winterson: “WHY BE NORMAL WHEN YOU CAN BE HAPPY?”

The Unwashed Horde

Tonight I received another lesson in humility, wherein my path joined that of the White Trash Horde.

After washing my filthy laundry at the coin-op, I went to Wendy's and ate a cheeseburger with fries, chewing away in a desultory manner while Dexie's Midnight Runners played over the loudspeakers. Afterward, I drove to Wal-Mart, where I bought some crappy produce and fought crowds of tired, grumpy people. I made my way out to the car and loaded my groceries in the trunk. I drove home while smoking a ciggy. Once home, I hauled my laundry and groceries up the steps to my apartment.

With tonight's "events", I've been reminded I'm no different than those folks at Wal-Mart-- the everyday people who live their lives under the radar, the men and women who lead their lives the best they can. No matter how smart, special and clever you think you are, how dazzling you look, what a nice shiny life you lead-- at one point or another, you're going to wind up living a bare bones existence, and you wouldn't recognize yourself, even if someone held a mirror up to your face.

Goodbye

He awoke in a black room, not knowing where he was or why he had woken up so suddenly.

His mind accelerated, making order of the maze of events, working backward to the phone call he received less than 24 hours ago. His breath caught in his throat and his stomach ached with dread.

He then remembered with terrible clarity where he was and why.

My Grandma Esther had sister named Betty. Being the much older sister, Grandma loved Betty as her own child and for all intents and purposes, raised her.

As a young woman, Aunt Betty married a man named Bob, and they settled in the Detroit area not far from my grandparents. Grandma Esther had since married and was raising two sons-- my Dad and his brother Bill.

Betty and my father weren’t far apart in age, and Dad was very close to Betty and Bob. After my parents met and became a serious item, the first family members to whom he introduced Mom were Betty and Bob.

I’ve asked my parents about Betty and what she was like as a person, as I barely remember her. I still have a stuffed animal that she gave me, which I loved. I remember Betty and Bob had clover in their front yard. I remember playing touch football with my cousin in their lawn. Most of all, I remember Betty being very sweet. Mom and Dad both describe her as very shy, sweet, soft-spoken. Betty and Bob shared many interests, most of all hunting, camping, and fishing together. Overall, Betty led a traditional life in that she was a wife, mother and homemaker.

As the years went on, Betty and Bob had a baby boy, and my parents had us three girls. About the time I was entering school, Bob was offered a good job in Indiana and much to Betty’s consternation, they moved away from Detroit, buying a house in Indiana. Betty’s family being her world, the move away from her sister and her family in Detroit was, in my parents’ view, the beginning of the end for her.

Mom and Dad have both told me that during our final trip to see Betty, Bob and my cousin, they didn’t notice a difference in Betty’s demeanor. She was as kind and sweet as she had always been. However, she was hiding a sadness that hounded her.

A few months following this visit, my uncle and cousin went to church. Betty normally accompanied them, but she begged off that day. After the service, Bob and my cousin came home, where Bob found Betty dead in the bedroom. She had shot herself with a .22.

The next day, we all drove to Indiana. I remember only snippets of that trip. We girls stayed at the neighbors’ house—the twins, Melody and Harmony (I kid you not)—which was exciting to The Redhead, The Brunette and me because the twins had canopy beds in which to sleep. The rest of my family stayed at Betty and Bob’s. I remember how sad everyone was, particularly my Grandmother. I remember being led up to Aunt Betty’s coffin by Uncle Bob’s sister (who was married to a mobster and had, according to another aunt, a ring with a diamond in it “as big as your fist”). She told me to touch Aunt Betty to say goodbye, and not to be afraid to do this. I did touch Betty’s hand and remember thinking that it did not feel like her skin, which I knew was soft and warm.

Over the years, Betty’s life and death have churned around in my mind, because I hate there isn’t an answer as to why she killed herself. I try to imagine the depths of agony that a person must be experiencing to commit suicide, how trapped a person in a situation must feel, that the only answer, the only relief from the poisonous, creeping, unrelenting thoughts, is death. The duplicity of her life strikes me-- this soft-spoken, feminine, thoughtful, sweet woman-- harbored another woman inside, a person who ended her life with such violence and finality.


Years later, I asked my father if Betty had left a suicide note and he said yes, but he had not read it. He said that Grandma had it, but oddly, he didn’t find the note among Grandma’s things after she died. I asked Mom if she knew the contents of the note, and she said no, but she did tell me that after Betty died, my father stopped speaking to Uncle Bob, as Dad thought that Betty had killed herself not only as a result of moving from her family in Michigan, but also because he thought Bob was having an affair. This idea does make a certain kind of sense, knowing the things that Betty held close to her heart. Actually, Bob did get married quite soon after Betty’s death, but this doesn’t prove anything.

I have a picture of my family taken on the day of Betty’s funeral. We are standing on the front porch of Betty’s house. My sisters, my cousin and I are in the center of this group of sixteen people. My sisters and I wear sweaters, tartan skirts and half-smiles, and our knee socks are pulled up over our skinny little legs. My cousin wears a black suit, probably bought for the occasion. His face is without expression. Grandma and Grandpa flank us girls, and Grandma’s arm encircles my right shoulder. My parents, my aunt and uncle, Bob’s sister and her husband, the mobster, are all there. The pain on Grandma’s and Dad’s face is plain, and his hand grips my sister’s shoulder.

Although he was wide awake, his wife slept deeply in the bed next to him. He felt the hair rise all over his body, as if a low electrical current was coursing through him. He knew someone else was in the room with them.

He saw a faint glow in the vanity area where Betty had died. In the gloom, a form took shape and it moved to the bedside where Dad lay. “Betty?” whispered Dad, as she leaned over to peer at him, staring, with no expression on her face. Silence, then she faded away.

Dad said years later, “I think she was saying goodbye."

Lost Weekend

Saturday- up, breakfast, pets, beautify, out partying re: Mardi Gras until approximately 3 p.m., home, sleep, up, movies, bed.

Sunday- up, breakfast, pets, job hunt via computer, movie, nap, errands, home, movie, movie, movie (all very unsatisfying), dishes, write this, perform bedtime ablutions, sleep.

Walking the Minefield

As I've mentioned in previous entries, my Mom has Parkinson's Disease.

This mysterious unnamed thing that was taking over her body was finally diagnosed a few years ago. The disease then became vaguely manageable, in that we (Mom, my sisters and I) had an idea what to expect as far as its progression, the medications Mom could take to ease her symptoms, etc. Truth be told, Mom is handling the slow deterioration of her body with much more dignity and calm than any of us girls.

However, despite our efforts in trying to out-think and out-manuever the illness, a minefield lies before us. This minefield is littered with situations that could explode-- such as emptying bank accounts, the possibility of a nasty fall, the spectre of moving Mom to a nursing facility. None of these situations are sure things, but the possibility of these things are there, buried under the dust of this minefield, waiting for one of us to step off of the trigger.

One mine we could not and did not plan for is the ferocious Stupid People Mine (SPM).

The SPM isn't easily detected. In fact, sometimes we're not aware when one has exploded. The only way we know a SPM has been detonated is afterward we will feel annoyance, betrayal and utter confusion. Other residual effects of the SPM include a sudden rise in body temperature, an elevated heart rate and roiling intestinal trauma.

Here are a few ways SPMs have recently hit their target (i.e., Mom and us):

- SPs will stare at the afflicted person (in this case Mom). Apparently they've never seen a little old lady in a wheelchair before.

- SPs will avoid talking to Mom directly. Rather, they will speak to the person accompanying Mom (me, my sisters). Examples: a restaurant during dinner. The waiter comes over with a pepper mill. Waiter looks at me and asks, "Does she want fresh ground pepper on her salad?" During a recent bridal shower, the hostess asked me, "Does she (Mom) want cake?" My standard answer to these idiotic questions is, "I have no clue. She's sitting right there-- why don't you ask her?"

- Due to pride, embarrassment or other murky reasons, SPs will refrain from asking Mom to repeat herself, as her speech is slurred and she is difficult to understand. Rather, SPs will pretend they heard everything Mom had to say, then give her a nod or say a bland "oh really?" and look away. Particularly amusing is when Mom has asked them a question. Example: Mom asked a person, "So how's everything going at the condo?" The person smiled faintly, nodded sagely, then looked away, unaware of what Mom just asked, but tried to cover it all up by nodding. This is when I piped up: "Mom just asked you how it's going at the condo." "Oh!" said the SP brightly, "Just great." Mom looked over at me, her eyes saying, "Boy, is she a dolt."

- SPs will decide for Mom whether she should attend parties, weddings, and other social functions to which Mom has already been invited. Recently, a woman I know disinvited Mom from her daughter's wedding. This woman felt that Mom's attendance at this blessed event would detract from the attention that should be directed at the bride and groom. This hurt my mother deeply, and I'm still astonished that this woman felt it was the right thing to do.

I am surprised that many people I know-- and liked-- are stupid. Mom's illness has been a real eye-opener in many unexpected ways.

Jesus-- He's My Friend

Reminisce of a Halloween party that Rene and I threw one year:

We held it in the courtyard of our apartment complex, which had a high brick wall surrounding the front and back of a common area. There was one way in and one way out. We were charging a small fee to each partygoer, and Rene and I worked the door for the first several hours (before the cops showed up). There were approximately two hundred drunken revelers milling about in the courtyard-- Spaceman Spiff, a drum major, Cat in the Hat, Cat Woman, a murdered bride. The party was in FUUUULLLLLLLL swing.

Soon, a long white limousine pulled up slowly in front of the complex. A chauffeur got out and walked around the limo to open the back door.

Rene and I stood there on pins and needles. First, a tiny woman got out, dressed as the Virgin Mary, cradling a toy Baby Jesus wrapped in swaddling clothes. "Cool," said Rene.

Then a guy dressed as fat Las Vegas Elvis got out. We both squealed, "Ooooh!!! It's the king! It's the king!"

Then a guy dressed as Jesus got out of the limo. With awe, I said to Rene, "Oooh. It's The King! It's the King!"

Jobs 'n' Shit

The burst of optimism I was feeling last week in the afterglow of scheduling two interviews...has faded.

Law Firm: Ms. Partner and The Other Partner decided to hire someone else. Got a phone call on Thursday from one of their paralegals who had the dirty job of calling the rejects to inform them of the bad news. "I'm just curious," I said, "But could you tell me why they decided not to hire me?" "Gosh, I'm so sorry," she stuttered, "But the attorneys made that decision and I'm just calling people to let them know." "Lucky you!" I said.

Sheriff's Office: I was given a spelling, grammar and typing test last week, which I passed, and the HR department called me that day to set up an interview. I met with the (female) division commander and the assistant commander last Wednesday. Suffice to say, I was unfocused, nervous and intimidated by Ms. Commander who, as you could probably guess, was a tough cookie. My words flowed like sap and my feeble mind short-circuited, rendering me unable to form a clear thought, let alone verbalize the fucking thing. I failed the interview miserably. Afterward, I went out to my car and I cried.

So! Time to recoup, refit, replenish, reflect, reflux, rehabilitate, reincarnate, etc., etc. and all those other re- words. I wish I could retire.

Anna Nicole

Well, she's gone.

A surprise at such a young age. But then again, maybe her death isn't so surprising, as the poor woman was a train wreck. To those who think a person cannot die of a broken heart, I would strenuously argue your point. I believe her life was shortened by trouble.

The circus has already begun, a little over 24 hours following her death. Three men are claiming the paternity of her daughter- one being Anna Nicole's lawyer/handler, another is the photographer/ex-lover, and finally, Zsa-Zsa Gabor's husband, a prince from some obscure royal family.

You know, I have an idea that Anna Nicole will become an American icon, along the lines of Marilyn Monroe. Soon teenagers and gay men will have pictures of Anna Nicole on their walls. There will be countless websites dedicated to her life. There will be conspiracy theories surrounding her death. A new wine will be concocted and on it's label will be Anna Nicole's picture. Elton John and Bernie Taupin will write a song about her. Actually, that one probably isn't going to happen.

I would watch Anna Nicole on E!, in interviews, in print, and I always had the impression that she was a little lost, a little dotty, but overall, sweet. Frankly, I'll miss her.

Cold Mountain

While frozen to my couch these last several days, I've been rereading "Cold Mountain".

With this book in existence, why would anyone say, "I hate to read"?

Every conceivable human emotion is examined in its pages. One becomes lost in time reading its words. Every kind of person you've met in your life is represented in the tale. Love, revenge, tragedy, death, survival, hope, faith, beauty, cruelty-- all are in there.

In rereading this book and in the current state of mind I'm in, I won't read the last chapter. Instead, I'll close the book. This way, Inman and Ada will always be in their cabin by the creek, making plans to take their grandchildren up on the mountain and show them the arrowhead buried in the bark of the poplar tree.

Brief Update

I won't be writing anything of interest to you over the next several days, dear readers. I am in the midst of brain-lock, wherein my mind cannot focus on anything except "Will I get one of the goddamned jobs or not?".

Meanwhile, I'll once again be frozen on the couch next to the telephone, afraid to go to the bathroom, to eat, to take out the trash, lest I miss a VERY IMPORTANT PHONE CALL. I figured that staying on the couch next to the phone worked last time, so maybe it'll work this time, too.

Light a candle, keep your fingers crossed, pray to God, whatever-- just keep me in your thoughts so this will soon be over.

Oh, Delaney-- I'm thinking of you while you're sitting on your couch north of here.

Item

I have a second interview at the law firm downtown tomorrow afternoon. I will be meeting with The Other Partner. I am trying to anticipate any questions he may ask that Ms. Partner did not, such as, "Why did you stay only six months at The Old Boy Network Law Firm, P.C.?" and "Why should we hire you?" etc. I want to be prepared for all possible questions he may ask-- otherwise, I might be caught unawares with my eyes bulging, hands shaking, and pee running down my leg while I scramble for a good answer. I'm assuming if I urinated during the interview, I wouldn't be considered a "good fit". Or maybe I would be-- who the hell knows? Anyway, keep your fingers crossed, readers.

For the last two days I have been frozen to my couch thinking, reading and watching T.V., afraid to leave the phone unattended should a prospective employer call. You may say to yourself, "God! Why doesn't she get off the couch?" Well, smartypants, I didn't leave the couch and see?!? I got an interview. It's magic.

I See Possibilities... More Than Meets The Eye

News flash from the hard-bitten, chain-smokin' city desk of Sixty-Four Twelve:

I actually had a job interview today. Even more news-worthy-- it went well.

My loyal readers and friends all know I have developed an aversion to law firms since the debacle at the Old Boy Network, P.C. (abbreviation for Pompous Cocksuckers). I can say with honesty (and with a dash of understatement) I'm skittish about the idea of working at another law firm. However, due to my dire financial situation, I'm ready to accept work, even in this capacity.

The ad I answered in the local paper was for a "legal assistant". It was a bland, vague, standard advertisement, listing typical requirements for the position to be filled. I sent them my resume and after a flurry of emails and phone calls, an interview was arranged for today at 3:30 p.m.

I met with one of the partners-- a woman who is highly respected in this legal community and who was given the title of "Super Attorney" in a well-known publication. We talked about the basic stuff including my skills, my background, my experience.

Ms. Partner then filled me in on the position itself. Primarily, it's a receptionist position with legal assistant duties tossed in. As she skimmed over my resume, she said, "You may be over-qualified for this position." I assured Ms. Partner that she may perceive it that way, but I'd be completely happy greeting clients, making coffee and the like. "Besides, I'd be thrilled to be back working in the land of the living," I said.

After I left, it occurred to me that ten years ago I would have turned my nose up at this job, saying, "Hah. It took me years to get away from the reception desk. I'll never go back." But after one goes through the wringer and is left to cure in the hot sun for a few months, one's pride diminishes bit by bit. Besides, I give really good phone.

The second interview will be scheduled for later in the week. This hard-bitten, chain-smoking editor will keep you posted as to what transpires.

Scraping the Bottom of the Barrel

My unemployment payments are done.

By now the fear should be pressed into a dense, hard rock of matter sitting in the middle of my chest where my heart normally would be, but something very strange has happened-- I feel very calm.

Inexplicably, and I think as a result of non-stop worrying for these past nine months, the worry has changed to pragmatism. In being pragmatic, I've realized that I have done absolutely everything I could do to find a job in "my field". I feel completely blameless in all that's transpired, nor do I feel the necessity to point my finger at anyone. Inside, I am clean and without rancor.

Pride is one of the seven deadlies for very good reason. Pride stops you from doing necessary things that may otherwise stand in the way of living life properly. I have been stripped of my pride and simply need to work. "Work" no longer means the necessity of wearing professional clothing, getting a big paycheck or a Christmas bonus, or any of the other things I used to equate with a good job. Getting those particular things doesn't mean you have a good job; it means you work at a place where they can offer you those things-- nothing more. "Work" means a good, honest effort to complete a task well and be paid for it. "Work" doesn't necessarily have to be 9 to 5, Monday through Friday anymore. If you happen to like what you do for a living, that should be the bonus.

I don't know what's going to happen to me in the next couple of months, but there's nothing I can do except take care of myself, and all that implies.

Got Myself a Gun

I watched The Sopranos last night on A & E. One of my favorite episodes!

Tony and his crew are hired by an elderly Hassidic gentleman to force his son-in-law into divorcing his daughter, because he's an abusive husband. The son-in-law is resistant to the divorce and hides piously behind his religious beliefs to avoid it. However, he says he'll divorce his wife if he receives a 50% share of the gentleman's business. So not only is the son-in-law a complete weasel, but he's a hypocrite, a blackmailer and beats up women. Tony's thrilled to have his crew do the job.

His crew has a tough time convincing the son-in-law to divorce his wife. They've beaten him, they've threatened him, and still the little weasel won't agree to the divorce. So the crew calls Tony in for backup.

When Tony arrives, the son-in-law is reeling, laying on the floor after the beating, but is still indignant, pious and arrogant.

"Have you ever heard of Masada?" asks the son-in-law.

"No, I haven't," says Tony.

"Masada was a town surrounded by stone walls and just 900 Jews lived there," he says. "For three years 15,000 Roman soldiers surrounded Masada, trying to take it, and when they finally did, all the Jews living in Masada committed suicide, rather than become Roman slaves." Here he pauses and looks at Tony, pityingly. "Where are those Romans now?" he asked.

"You're lookin' at 'em, asshole," replies Tony.

Pleased to Meetchoo! Won'tcha Guess My Name?

I'm a person who provides everyone I know with a nickname. Katie is "Missy". Heidi is "Slushie". Monica is "Nicki", Deborah is "Deborah Lee", Mark is "Marky," "The Hessian", or "The Wonder of Nature". Laurel is "Prima". The list goes on and on.

The list of nicknames extends to my cats and birds. The nicknames are so ridiculous, I have to share them with you.

CATS

Claudio, a.k.a. Claudie, Claudie-cat, Tender, Tender Stuff, Tender Stuffins, Tender Toes, Friend, Tendy-Friendy, Tendore, Tenderlicious, Tenderlicious Tenderling, Tendolito, Kitten Man.

Layla, a.k.a La, La-la-la-la-la, Laylakins, Kins, Kinny-Kins, Playla, Sleeky, Sleeky-Sleekertones, Tones, My Little Cougar Cat, Triangle Head, Little Soft Toes, Exotica.

Pickles, a.k.a. Pickle-Lean, Pickletones, Pickies, Lickles, The Glosser, Sweet Baby Girl, Tweet Baby Dirl, Dood Dirl, Proud, Hider, Shit Breath (but in a nice way).

BIRDS

Cyrano, a.k.a C-Boy, Busterboy, the Boos, Boostaboy, Smooth 'N' Green, Smoothie, Toe Picker.

Phoebe, a.k.a. Phoebes, The Phoebinator, Phoebers-Bejeebers, Gray Girl, Shesocute, Citrus Cheeks.


I am a freak for sure.

It's All About FINE LIVING-- Part Deux

More observations on FINE LIVING, because that's what it's all about.

T-Bone:

It's all about pretentious programming, resplendent with individuals
who must hire someone to decorate their McMansions, leasing expensive
automobiles each year rather than buying, desperately searching for
their Marriott Rewards summary so they too can stay in close
proximity to the slopes in Aspen, feverishly taking golf lessons at
their local greens so they can "rub elbows" with the big-timers at
Pebble Beach next week. It's all about FINE LIVING.

The Redhead:

It's all about the self-importance of men dressed in coats made from
unborn animals, solving important crises on their Palm Treos
while nodding their heads and gesturing impatiently at wives half
their age trying on size-0 pants at Ralph Lauren in Aspen. It's all
about deciding how to fit in a quick trip to St. Lucia next month
while still making it back in time for the "Green-Built House" raffle
at your children's progressive feng-shui private school. It's all
about getting your kids riding lessons, harp lessons, lacrosse team
equipment, piano, hockey, salsa dance, private gymnastics instructors,
sailing camp, organic farm camp, computer camp, ..... and still
complaining about how there's not anything available for children of
their creativity and intelligence level.

It's all about FINE LIVING.

Thankfully, FINE LIVING's method of advertising has not gone unnoticed in the print media. I recently saw a FINE LIVING-esque ad in Architectural Digest for Fairmont Hotels and Resorts, where a sweetly rumpled 40-ish yuppie wanna-be hipster leans casually against a stone wall located on a cobblestone street somewhere in Quebec. Upon a hill in the background sits the majestic Fairmont Le Chateau Frontenac, where connoisseurs presumably stay. The print:

plays in a jazz quartet

collects vintage running shoes

likes to pretend he understands french when staying at the Fairmont Le Chateau Frontenac

In short, the guy is full of merde, which is French for "shit", in case you're an amateur.

Will Work for Food (and Cable, Phone, etc.)

Well, folks—I have less than one week of unemployment left to claim, and despite the fact I have sent out literally dozens upon dozens of resumes, I am still without a job.

During these long months, it has been an emotional struggle trying to remember that I am a worthy human, a person who deserves to be employed. But my doubts still linger.

These doubts are raised each time I recall my “final interview” nine months ago with the stormtroopers of the Old Boy Network Law Firm where I last worked. Their words come back to me, seared on my gray matter like a brand on a steer. “Ah’ve bin a law-yuh fer forty years now, and this is the fust time Ah’d evuh go home and worry ‘bout what mah legal assistant had done that day,” said the senior partner of this firm, who I will call LBJ, during this final interview. “You made all kinds of silly mistakes that Ah don’t understand. The questions you’d ask on a day-to-day basis raised many concerns among the pardners heah at the firm.”

Reading that you would think that I was an absolute legal virgin, a bubblehead that they’d randomly hired off of the street, that I’d never before typed a pleading, filed a document, mailed a letter, talked to a client. But this is not the case; I’d done all of those things, hundreds of times, and done them well.

So why did they consider me to be such a liability? This is where LBJ’s words haunt me, because although intellectually I know I am an experienced legal assistant/secretary, I doubted myself and my skills while working for the Old Boy Network. I have allowed LBJ’s words wiggle their way into my psyche, where they have lodged and created a kind of mythological truth.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was LBJ’s deceased brother’s trust, LBJ being trustee. The beneficiary of these monies was LBJ’s sister-in-law, The Harpy, who LBJ despised with all of his heart. Each month, checks would come to our office from oil companies in Texas and Oklahoma. I was to deposit these checks into the trust account, then write a check to The Harpy, minus expenses. I was to also include a spreadsheet that detailed each check, such as the name of the oil company and the amount of the check itself, and all supporting documentation. Finally, I was expected to reconcile this account each month.

I will tell you that I am not a bookkeeper, not by any stretch of the imagination. I had handled accounts payable and receivable at other firms in the past. However, writing a check and mailing it to someone is completely different than having to reconcile an account on a month-to-month basis, particularly to someone such as The Harpy, who was also an accountant and would go over my work with a fine-toothed comb. Inevitably, she would find my mistakes and write vicious emails and faxes to LBJ, accusing him of trying to cheat her out of her money.

These poisonous bits of communication would infuriate LBJ, rightfully so, as they were written to attack his honesty and integrity as the Trustee of his beloved brother’s trust. Naturally, LBJ became very frustrated with me, because I could not accurately perform this particular task.

Knowing LBJ’s displeasure with me, I did what should have been done. I spoke frankly with him, saying that I felt uncomfortable performing this personal business for him, particularly something of this magnitude which caused him such worry. He brushed me off, saying he thought I could do it if I just applied myself. I attacked the task with renewed vigor.

I continued to make mistakes.

Desperate to redeem myself, I spoke to the firm administrator, sharing with her my concerns about the trust account and expressing my desire to learn how to do it properly so I could make LBJ happy. She was glad I had spoken to her, said she would talk to LBJ about it, and suggest to him that our in house accountant work on this task, rather than me, the lowly and meek legal assistant with the math phobia.

One week later, I was called into the Popcorn Smell-Hating Managing Partner’s office, where the stormtroopers-- he, LBJ and the firm administrator-- sat, ready to hand me my walking papers.

I still recall this event with wonder and shame, helpless against the thought that it was my fault that I failed.

Luckily, however, time has given me the chance to form some thoughts of my own, and they are these:

- Why wasn’t I told during my interview with LBJ that upon hire, I would be expected to do this task?
- Although the Old Boy Network Law Firm employed a fully qualified in-house bookkeeper/accountant/payroll person, why did LBJ insist that his legal assistant perform the task of reconciling his family’s trust account?
- What questions, exactly, did I ask during my time at the Old Boy Network Law Firm that “worried” the partners? During my 90-day review with the stormtroopers, they said I was doing very well, that they were pleased with my work, however, the only thing I could possibly improve upon was that I needed to ask more questions rather than “guess” at what I was doing. So I did. Apparently, my questions weren’t the right questions—the questions that they felt I should have been asking. Silly me for not having my Questions For Partners That Won’t Worry Them Tarot Cards on hand.
- LBJ Quote: “Ah’ve bin a law-yuh fer forty years now, and this is the fust time Ah’d evuh go home and worry ‘bout what mah legal assistant had done that day.” Why do I find this so difficult to believe?!?
- Why did the Firm Administrator, seemingly so benign and anxious to help me succeed, stab me in the back? What on earth happened there?
- Why is the Old Boy Network Law Firm unable to keep someone, anyone, in that position for more than a year?

I think I may know why.

It's All About... FINE LIVING.

If you haven’t heard of FINE LIVING, it’s both a network and a website that targets rich folks without ideas as to how to spend their cash. Unfortunately, I have never had the opportunity to watch FINE LIVING Network because my cable package doesn’t include it. Believe me, if I had FINE LIVING Network, it would definitely shove CNN and Bravo out of their top spots on my channel lineup.

However, I do have a computer, so the other day I decided to visit FINE LIVING online. It covers “lifestyle” (should you be unable to create your own), travel, food and shopping. Basically, FINE LIVING is a big advertisement for five-star destinations. Most of all, to The Redhead and me, it’s very amusing.

At the FINE LIVING homepage, note the section called “Practical Living”. I didn’t open that section, but I’m pretty sure when you do, it doesn’t take you to the Wal-Mart website. Perhaps it lists all the kiddie financial planning summer day camps in your area. Anyway, some helpful articles at FINE LIVING include:

- Rediscover sake!
- Best destinations- Harrod’s January Sale! (I am not kidding.)

One of the top searches at FINE LIVING online is “Wines over $1,000.00”. Honey, if you need to go online to FINE LIVING for advice on which $1,000 bottle of wine to buy, I can assure you that you won’t know the difference from Wine A or Wine B. Rather, drive over to Liquor Barn, pick up an $8.00 bottle of Little Boomey, and put that in your Baccarat decanter. You’re not going to notice the difference between that and a bottle of $1,000 Wine A.

There was a fun test on the website called “Fine Living IQ”: “Are you a connoisseur*? Merely an expert? Heaven forbid- an amateur? Or worse yet, a slug? Take our Fine Living IQ test to find how you rate.” Well, I took the quiz and according to the folks at FINE LIVING, I am an amateur. Quelle horreur! Sacre bleu! Insert other French expletives here!

In the section “FINE LIVING Every Day”, they had helpful articles entitled “Make Your Tailgating Memorable”, “5 Things You Need To Know About Maintaining Your Vehicle’s Appearance” and the popular “Luxury Sips Everyday—Proper Decanting, Preserving Open Wine, Storing Wine.”

Soon after our discovery of FINE LIVING, there was a flurry of emails between The Redhead and I skewering the concept of such idiocy. Following are the contents of those emails:

The Redhead:

“It's all about being targeted by predatory focus group studies that decide you are the poor sap that's going to fall for this fairy-tale bullshit. It's all about the hopeless insecurity felt by many when they find they really CAN'T keep up with the simple, lively, and creative lifestyle projects demonstrated by editors with a huge production staff. It's all about the idea that you need to be so fucking cool, day and night, from bow to stern, inside and out, private and public, from now till the end of time, that you are trapped in a maelstrom of self-induced tail-chasing forever. It's about FINE LIVING.”

T-Bone:

“It's all about having about a dime less than God and then retiring in your 30's to paint shitty amateurish pictures in your custom-built studio in Santa Fe. It's all about squeezing your ex-husband dry in the divorce and opening a homeless shelter/day spa in Fiji. It's all about useless crap that won't mean anything to you once you've purchased it. It's all about FINE LIVING.”

*(Here, FINE LIVING offers a definition of “connoisseur”, in case you aren’t sure what a connoisseur is, yet you are one, according to the FL quiz. Note the tutorial on the French root words for “connoisseur”, so you can memorize it and bore your equally pretentious and stupid dinner guests) “A connoisseur (Fr. Connaisseur, from conoistre, connaitre meaning “to be acquainted with something”) is someone with a great deal of knowledge about the fine arts or an expert judge in matters of taste.”

Tabula Rasa

It seems natural to write about resolutions on New Years Eve. The other night, a friend of mine and I spoke of making resolutions, and he stated that he does not make them. Many folks I know make them, lots of them don't. I'm in the middle-- I make resolutions in a fit of inspiration, then typically don't keep them. This year, I've made a few resolutions I hope I can keep.

1.) Get "healthy".

I look fairly well for a 44 year-old woman, but I could use a bit of improvement. At this age, you either jump on the physical preservation bandwagon, or you watch it drive past and it disappears around the bend, never to return. I plan to quit smoking (again), and I plan to start working out (again). The little band o' fat around my middle isn't going to go away on its own, nor the cottage cheese on my ass. I know-- I sound FABULOUS. Thankfully, my diet is in pretty good shape, so I don't have to alter it much.

2.) Get a job.

No comment needed here.

3.) Write more.

I like to write-- I think it's fun. I believe I haven't found my true voice, so I want to work to find it. Additionally, a writing project that has been haunting me will begin. I only need to think of this project and I become overwhelmed, but if I chip away at it, it'll be beneficial in so many ways.

4.) Live life with grace.

I'll be the first person to tell you that I'm impatient. For example, my Mom needs lots of extra care (even though she lives in an assisted living facility). I tend to get very short with her and I hear myself speaking to her like she's a child. I roll my eyes at her and sigh loudly and do all that stuff a bad daughter does. Over the Christmas holiday, it occurred to me: "You need grace." Listen to the U2 song of that name, and the lyrics describe perfectly what grace really is. I need it.

Happy 2007, everyone.

Winter Poem

Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as a white cow's milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes;
Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
On white silence below,
We shall walk in the snow.

- Elinor Wylie, "Velvet Shoes"

But If You Try Sometime, You Just Might Find, You Get What You Need

After moving to San Diego in my twenties, I looked for a roommate situation on the beach. I found Rene. During our first meeting at her house, she reclined languidly on the couch, as she asked me questions about how I'd come to San Diego, where I worked, if I was a party person, my standards of housecleaning. Our ideas and interests meshed, and she invited me to move in that week, which I did.

Living with Rene also meant joining her circle of friends (which were legion) and to happily participate in the quintessential beach lifestyle of people our age-- sitting in lawn chairs in our front yard, watching the world go by while drinking many, many beers; going to the beach to work on the tan; bar-hopping; nursing hangovers; going to parties; giving parties. Housework- once a week, if that. Venturing out to the livingroom on a Sunday morning and seeing various people asleep on the couch, the floor, the loveseat-- a guarantee.

Rene had an amused and pragmatic view of the world as a result of her upbringing by her mother, a young widow, who prioritized her wants and needs over those of her children’s. Rene realized if she wanted anything out of life, she was going to have to get it herself. Thus, Rene became a Machiavellian character.

For Rene, the primary method of getting what she wanted was keeping a circle of adoring men around her, all of them dazzled by her looks and charm. They bought her gifts, gave her money, took her out for dinner. For three years I lived with her while a succession of unsuspecting men marched in and out of our house. One day they were there, the next day they'd be crying in their drinks over Rene. Poor bastards-- they never knew what hit 'em.

Then she met Mick, a native of London, and he came to live with us. Mick's friends blended with our group. There was Junior, Sean, John, Scottish John, and a host of others. These guys were tough, sharp-tongued, hilarious and a little dangerous.

Mick had been living with us for several months when Rene realized she was really attracted to the dashing and aristocratic Scottish John. They flirted with one another openly, but Mick didn’t mind this. He was confident that Rene wouldn't cross that line, so to him it was a non-issue.

One night, the Brits and Rene went out, and for reasons I can't remember, I stayed home. I awoke late to the sound of the front door slamming. I heard Rene and Scottish John talking out in our living room, Rene's little musical voice and Scottish John's unintelligible brogue. Laugh, laugh, giggle, ice clinking in glasses. Then silence.

Oh, Jesus, I thought. Where the hell is Mick? He's gonna walk in on them. I itched to check on what was going on out there. I got out of bed, opened my door and peeked around the corner into the living room.

Scottish John lay on the floor, zipper down, passed out. Rene was on the couch, unconscious, skirt hiked up, garters showing. I poked Rene on the shoulder. "Rene. Wake up. Mick's gonna be home soon." Rene, eyes still closed, smiled. "Oh well! Not my problem," she said in her little voice.

Just then, the door opened and Mick came in.

"Hey, Mick," I said nervously.

"Hey," said Mick, in a flat, deadly tone, surveying the scene.

"Would you like me to fix you a cup of tea?" I asked impotently.

Mick walked over to the prone Scottish John, dragged him out into the front yard, and proceeded to give him an old-fashioned ass-whipping. Rene stumbled over the coffee table, launching herself out the front door to stop the fight. Mick yelling, Rene crying, they came back into the house and retired to Rene’s room, where they argued for a couple of hours.

The next morning, Mick tenderly nursed Rene's hangover. You do the math.

A couple of months went by. Mick was a household memory and Rene, who was facing some financial difficulties, decided she needed a boost to her income. To do so, she set her sights on Navy John. After a whirlwind of three or four dates, they traveled to Vegas to make it all legal. Rene figured as a Navy spouse, John would get extra money each month, then give it to her off the top (which he did, faithfully). “It’s purely a business arrangement,” Rene explained airily. They kept separate quarters for over a year—Rene lived in our house, and John lived on base. They saw each other a couple times a week. It was an ideal arrangement.

Bored with San Diego, Rene decided to take a trip to Hawaii to visit friends. She was gone for two weeks. Upon her return, she said, “I’ve met a wonderful guy! I’m in love! I’m moving to Hawaii!” She and Navy John got a quicky divorce, she sold her belongings, packed her clothes, and left. She sent a picture of she and the groom on their wedding day. Rene wore a black evening dress, white gloves and carried a bouquet of orchids. The groom looked happy too-- considering.

Today, Rene has three beautiful children with D., the nuclear engineer, and a lovely home in California. Rene doesn’t work, of course, because she never has. Rene has what she always wanted—a beautiful life, a beautiful husband, and together, they've had beautiful children. I'm certain she's the coolest mom on the planet. She used everything she could to get these things. It being Rene, I never-- EVER-- doubted for a moment that she would go without.

The Puke Armada

I lay in bed one hot summer evening and I hear the unmistakable crescendo of voices from the bar down the street, letting loose its patrons after last call. The drunks pass beneath my bedroom window on their way home, and bits of their conversations float up to my window.

"Yeah, well you know what? FUCK THAT."

"Don' say that. You know he dint mean it."

"Yeah, he did! Tooooootally meant it. I'm gonna call him when we get home..."

Fading voices as they walk up the street. Then a couple more drunks. This time, they stop beneath my window.

"Jesus Christ, dude! Gimme the keys!"

"Nope, I'm good. I'm gonna drive."

"You're not good! Lookit you-- you barely keepin' your eyes open, you're slurring--"

"You're just as fucked up as I am. You had jussa much ta drink than I did!" A beat. "Uh... shit. I think I'm gonna be sick."

Oh no, I think to myself, I hate hearing people barf. It makes me want to barf. I swing my feet onto the floor, go to the window and peek down onto the sick guy. Retch, retch, retch.

"Shit. I shounnna had that Mexican food."

"Yeah, you shounnna drunk all that fucking Jager either."

"Okay. I'm good to drive." They climb into the Jeep, start it up and careen down the street.

I lay in my bed, horrified. There's a big pile of Mexican-Jager barf in the gutter directly in front of my door downstairs. What am I going to do? If I go down there to clean it up, I'll get sick. Just the idea of the potential smell alone made my throat close up. If I try to clean up the puke, what do I do with it? Throw it into the middle of the street? Toss it onto my neighbor's lilac bushes? So I decide to pull a Scarlett O'Hara: "I'll think about it tomorrow."

Several hours later I awake with a start. The sun is rising and the temperature is already climbing. My bedroom is like an oven at 5:30 a.m. I realize with horror, "THE PUKE HAS DRIED AND NOW IT'S GONNA BE THERE ALL DAY." I jump out of bed and look out the window. Sho' nuff-- the puke was still there, a stiffened, lumpy mound. Well, I'm sure as shit not gonna clean it up NOW.

Impatiently, I wait for 8 o'clock. I call the City. "This guy puked in the gutter outside my front door. I'm in a high-traffic area and all the tourists are going to have to walk around it today. Is there someone who could come out here and remove it or something?" I felt like such an asshole for asking. The City Puke-Removal Dispatcher said cheerily, "Sure! I'll send someone right out!"

Which they didn't. The hours drag by, the heat rises, and the puke still has not been removed. It sits there, like an ill-mannered, smelly and unattractive guest who won't leave. I poke my head out the window every quarter-hour, like a cuckoo, checking on the status of the puke removal. The tourists step gingerly as they approach the repulsiveness outside my door.

Finally, a lovely bouquet of black storm clouds move over the mountains. Thunder and lightning, but no rain. Rain, goddammit, I think to myself.

While on puke check, the rain starts to fall in sheets. The gutters quickly fill. The mound of hurl is lifted by the water and sails off to distant shores. A Puke Armada. Thank God.