Strangers in a Coffee House

I noticed him before he came inside. The coffee shop is located on the corner of a busy intersection. It has large windows that allow patrons to see the comings and goings on the street as they relax over espressos and other assorted beverages. He was bundled in a Mexican blanket; he had a full beard of salt and pepper. His hair was straggly but didn't appear to be grimy. On his feet he wore sandals with socks that couldn't possibly have warded off the bitter cold in the air. He clearly wasn't a local and he gave off the distinct aura of someone who had nowhere specific to go. I watched him come into the coffee shop but stopped watching him as he approached the counter. I didn't want to stare, and I feared that my companion would notice that she did not have my undivided attention.

The next time I saw him he was taking residence at the table adjacent to ours. In his hand he carried an espresso mug. I marveled at the sight. Something about a man who appeared to be near destitute sipping an espresso instead of an old fashioned cup of Joe struck me as humorous. At the same time he sparked an interest in me. He carried no belongings save the worn blanket that appeared to have been colorful earlier in its life.

After a couple of minutes he politely interrupted our conversation and inquired as to where he may purchase tobacco. We directed him to the nearest location and he thanked us profusely. I watched as he attempted to engage others in polite banter only to be rewarded with indifferent shrugs and hurried, mumbled responses.

I was mesmerized by his presence even as he fell asleep; his chin tucked into his chest, his breathing slowed, and his face set with a placid expression. I couldn't help but wish I had my camera. I knew that I was missing out on an amazing photographic opportunity. The photo would have been incredible. At the same time, I was cognizant of a sadness he invoked in me. He was passing through town on his way from somewhere else, to who-knows where. He was clearly a man with a story.

When he awoke he once again thanked us for the directions, left the shop, and has haunted my memory ever since. This was months ago, but I still picture him sitting there, bundled in his blanket, enjoying the warmth, and resting for a spell.

Kerplunk

I was involved in an incident today which left my sister hysterically laughing in a bathroom stall. In order for everyone to understand the level of hysteria she reached, I must give you a little background story.

The Good Guy (henceforth to be referred to as '2x4' because typing 'The Good Guy' has gotten REALLY old) generally takes his cell phone into the bathroom with him when he showers. If you want to know why you'll have to ask him, I'm not sure. One morning whilst 2x4 was showering I had to use the facilities. As I passed the vanity my arm brushed his phone (which was precariously placed on the edge of the vanity closest to the toilet) and it fell into the toilet. The kerplunk sound was quickly followed by my emitting "CRAP!" and reaching in after it. As I pulled it out of the water its lights went off, and it never fully recuperated. I will never live this down. The cell phone/toilet incident has lived on in infamy.

Today my sister and I needed to use the facilities in the mall prior to shopping. I decided that today wasn't a hovering day so I grabbed one of those tissue paper seat cover things and was placing it on the seat when KERPLUNK! Before my eyes my sunglasses dislodged themselves from their resting place hooked to my shirt and fell INTO THE TOILET! AAAAARGH!

Ok, I'll admit that for a split second I considered going in after them. A microsecond. Then I just yelled a profanity and stared in shock at my sunglasses resting in the bottom of the stupid dirty public toilet. DAMN IT!

My sister (who was in the next stall over) was laughing so hard that she couldn't speak. She came out of her stall all red and gulping for air. She made several comments about how it wouldn't be nearly as funny if I hadn't been involved in the cell phone incident.

Whatever.

Then, more people came into the bathroom. We barely contained our laughter as we washed our hands while watching them do that thing where you open several stalls in order to determine which is the cleanest. Each person stopped with a quizzical look at the stall I had abandoned with the toilet seat tissue and sunglasses still in place.

So, I text messaged 2x4. I told him that I need new sunglasses because I dropped mine in the J.C.Penny's toilet.

His response: Loser. Stop dropping things in toilets.

I now must accept the fact that this is one of those stories that will haunt me forever, like the time I misspelled my own name.

50 More by Popular Demand

I got three votes (and one challenge) for the next fifty. Enjoy.

51. I think that urine and freshly popped popcorn smell curiously similar. Same goes for raw onions and body odor.
52. I am AWFUL with geography. I skipped that day.
53. I frequently borrow intellectual and informative books from the library then exchange them for chick-lit. Unread.
54. I have a hard time clipping my toe nails. I can't seem to find a comfortable position.
55. I think that if I had received training early in life I would have made a hell of a dancer.
56. I tried out for cheerleading once in high school. That shit's hard.
57. I didn't believe that I was beautiful until The Good Guy convinced me. Now I believe that I'm a Goddess.
58. I've done a great deal of research on Witchcraft. If I were ever to subscribe to a religion, that's the path I'd choose. Not Wicca, Witchcraft. Nature worship. The earth would be my church. I guess it already is.
59. I always feel inferior in academic circles.
60. My favorite movie of all time is 'The Philadelphia Story'.
61. I love Cary Grant. He was dreamy.
62. I wish men still dressed like they did in Frank Sinatra's day.
63. I'm over Brad Pitt. Angelina made him weird.
64. Angelina Jolie is sexy. No doubt about it.
65. The Good Guy loves to correct grammar (whether you ask him to or not). It used to piss. me. off. Now I look to him for proof-reading.
66. I've figured out why my parents made so many mistakes, this parenting stuff is tricky.
67. I could spend hours in a craft store.
68. Chocolate makes my clothes shrink. (I saw this on a sign today-made me laugh out loud in the middle of the store) It's true.
69. Baby shoes are some of the cutest things on earth. They're right up there with kittens and puppies.
70. I once saved a dog from choking on a Milkbone by smacking him really hard on the back of the head. It flew out of his mouth and he proceeded to continue eating.
71. I rock out to Sean Paul in my car when nobody is watching. I belt out muddled non-word grunts instead of the lyrics because I have NO idea what the hell he is saying.
72. I wish kids were more innocent and lived to play ball on the local field instead of playing the latest shoot 'em up video game.
73. I'm an emotional woman. Remember those damn AT&T commercials? I cried EVERY time.
74. I'd rather be emotional than numb.
75. In high school a classmate spread a rumor that J and I were lesbian lovers because we turned him in for cheating.
76. I was voted 'Most Opinionated' in my senior yearbook. I refused to accept the title so they changed it to 'Most Tenacious".
77. In high school, Most Opinionated =Biggest Bitch.
78. I have a hard time with poetry. Most of it is too ambiguos for my simple mind.
79. Someday I want a loft apartment downtown in a bustling city.
80. I very much enjoy the smell of lavender and lilacs.
81. If I had to pick my four favorite flowers they would be tulips, sunflowers, gerber daisies, and roses. OH! and hydrangeas!
82. I once snuck into a movie without paying. A good friend chastized me and I felt horribly guilty.
83. I think some newborn babies are ugly.
84. I have a tattoo. I'm not telling you where ;-)
85. 'Taming of the Shrew' is my favorite Shakespeare play.
86. My first dog was a Chow. When she almost bit my face my parents sent her to a farm. No really, that's what they told me! It has to be true.
87. Buffet=All you can eat germ infested food.
88. I never once in my life ate my boogers. Not once.
89. I think naming your child after yourself is vain. I'm sorry, but I do.
90. I almost died from carbon monoxide poisoning.
91. My dad once removed rust from my bicycle using Pepsi. I stopped drinking soda for years thereafter.
92. I am scared to DEATH of driving in NYC. No way would I do it. Montreal was bad enough. I think I ran three red lights.
93. I can't parallel park. The last time I did was during my driving test.
94. I am a horrible speller.
95. Oh my goodness! One of the kids just ripped a HUGE fart in their sleep! LOL!
96. Farts are funny.
97. I used to own a Dalmation who smiled. She was the best dog ever. I miss her.
98. I have SUPER pale skin. People feel the need to point this out to me. Thanks. I never noticed.
99. Aloe is great for a sunburn.
100. I am in love with the most incredible man in the whole world. He loves me back, just as much. I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him. I'm a hopeless romantic. I believe in happy ever after. I believe in soul mates. I've found mine.

There you have it folks! I hope you weren't too bored.

50 Things About Me

Ok, so I stole this idea from David who stole it from Thursday. It is also featured on Marty's blog. It's a shameless copy of someone else's idea, but it seemed like fun and I really want to be part of their club. They went with 100 but I'm not really that interesting. So, here you go, 50 pointless factoids about sheltered little ole me:

1. As a kid I was the finickiest eater in all the land. I wouldn't touch a vegetable. I lived on mayonnaise sandwiches, pb&j (grape jelly only) and hot dogs with the ends cut off (because they look like bellybuttons). My mom thinks it's hysterical that I'm now a health conscious vegetarian.
2. I have a tendency to ramble on and on.
3. I grew up in a house where I wasn't permitted to be loud. Children were to be seen and not heard. I now speak REALLY loudly if I'm not careful.
4. Chocolate is a food group in and of itself.
5. I enjoy the sound of horse hooves galloping and the sound gravel makes when tires drive accross it.
6. My dad's house, which I loved more than any home I've ever lived in, was razed many years ago to become a parking lot for a Moose Lodge. I've never driven by because I think I'd get too emotional.
7. I love dogs. I want a Weimereiner someday.
8. I didn't vote in a presidential election until a few years ago because I never felt informed enough to make such a huge decision.
9. Sometimes I think that the sound leaves make when blowing in the wind is the same sound rain makes when it falls on the roof.
10. I used books to escape my reality during childhood. I still do it to this day.
11. One of my guilty pleasures is Dirty Dancing (the movie!)
12. I've never actually danced dirty.
13. I smoked pot once. I got all paranoid and actually started to worry about Homeland Security-no joke. Won't ever touch the stuff again.
14. When I eat cooked eggs the whites and the yokes have to be mixed together. Otherwise they're just disgusting. And who the hell was the first person to smell a hard boiled egg and say mmmm...smells good lets EAT that!
15. I've hated churches since I first stepped foot into one. Even as a child I felt oppressed and wanted nothing more than to get the heck out of there A.S.A.P.
16. One of my biggest fears is getting fat.
17. Soy dogs aren't as bad as I thought.
18. I don't have any wisdom teeth. They were cut out of my head.
19. Red Wine Only.
20. I once puked the brussell sprouts that my mom was making me eat back onto my plate. She didn't make me eat them again. HA!
21. I became environmentally concsious when I took 8th grade Earth Science. From then on I became somewhat of a radical recycler.
22. I loved hiking when I was a kid. My dad bought me the coolest pair of pink hiking boots ever!
23. I used to love watching my grandparents get sloppy drunk on Saturday nights (Martini nights at their house).
24. I used to sneak into my sister's room at night because I was afraid the boogy man would get me, and I figured I'd use her as a sheild.
25. My family used to gather in the bathroom and wave goodbye to my sister's poo while she was potty training. Otherwise she wouldn't go.
26. I resented the fact that my sister broke my whole Black Beauty play set.
27. I once worked in a restaurant where I had to wear a t-shirt that said "Former Contortionist"
28. I have a black thumb. I kill plants.
29. One of my toes faces the wrong direction.
30. Sangria, guacamole, and chimichangas are all proof that Mexicans make damn fine cuisine.
31. I get sad every time I see road kill.
32. One Thanksgiving I drove my car into a ditch full of cow manure in order to avoid hitting a cat. That was fun.
33. One day I want people to look at me and think, "That's a classy lady."
34. I always have a problem with the word dearth. I think it means an overabundance.
35. The first movie I ever saw on a VCR was 'Ferris Beuller's Day Off'. My dad rented both the player and the movie.
36. I also saw 'Amadeus' on that player and was so scared I couldn't sleep. Check the opening scene. It's awful.
37. I used to watch 'Friends' all the time. I liked it. I thought it was funny. I refuse to be ashamed. Same goes for Will and Grace.
38. I could never choose a favorite song, artist, or book. I simply like too many to choose.
39. I love photographs. My apartment has pictures of friends and family all over the place.
40. My first camera was a Fisher Price camera with disposable flash cubes. Remember those?
41. I LOVE the smell of basil. If good pesto wasn't so expensive I'd eat it all the time.
42. Crossword puzzles are stupid.
43. I don't have cable television because I have no will power and would spend too large a portion of my life planted in front of the boob tube.
44. My dad used to call the television a boob tube. Cracked me up every time.
45. Eating ice cream makes my stomach hurt. That doesn't stop me.
46. I am my own worst critic, and I'm a control freak.
47. I procrastinate more than anyone I know.
48. Some guy in a grocery store parking lot once asked me if I would give him a $20 bill for 20 dollars in food stamps. He was holding a case of beer.
49. On my first day of work in a grocery store a guy came through my register with 2 cases of beer and an economy size box of condoms. He was gross. I seriously considered asking him what his plans were for the evening.
50. I was annoyed when my mom made me start wearing bras at 13 years of age.

There you go. If anyone has a burning desire to read 50 more factoids about me, let me know and I'll consider expanding my list to its intended length. If not, I totally understand. That's a lot of useless info.

Remember When?

Do you ever just want to bottle up a moment so that you can take it out later and enjoy it again?

Last night The Good Guy and I ventured out into the yard of apartment complex after dinner to take an evening walk. We conversed with some of the local kids who were patrolling for hornet nests and killing bees with a baseball bat. We talked to some young girls whose faces were covered in paint applied in elaborate butterfly patterns about their scooters and who has the best one. A neighbor blessed The Good Guy when he sneezed before informing him that it is hay-feaver season.

The weather was perfect. There was a comfortable breeze and the humidity was the lowest it had been for several days. The Black-eyed Susans were in full bloom all around the complex. We held hands as we strolled and enjoyed conversation on a variety of topics. The sun was setting and we paused for a while to watch the clouds morph and change their pink and gray hues as the sun sank lower and lower in the sky. As we watched the sky-line I could hear a woman inside of one of the apartments yelling to her daughter in Spanish. We joked about whether or not the heart-shaped cloud was placed in the sky just for us, we talked about the green flash, Venus' belt, evenings spent watching sunsets, mornings spent watching sun-rises, and considered the view of the sunset that other people were having at that very moment to the west of us.

It was peaceful, tranquil, and wonderful. We all know that time moves forward, and that you can't go back. I guess the next best thing is to write these moments down so that we can re-live them in memory.

Demons

We watched 'Walk the Line' the other night. If you haven't seen this movie, go out and rent it. It was excellent.

It got me to thinking. Books and movies frequently do that. I can't turn off the T.V. or close a book and be done; they stay fresh in my mind for days as I mull them over, chew on them, and try hard to make more sense of them. Mr. Cash had some serious demons. He was a man who was full to the brim with hurt. His hurt manifested itself in a variety of ways, some good, and some bad. He became an amazing song writer and performer. He also became a man his family couldn't depend on, who abused his body with drug and drink.

I find that the older I get, the more the world is comprised of gray areas. When I was in my early teenage years, and knew everything, there was a whole lot more black and white. The answers were crystal clear.

Now, not so much. I've tried to make it harder and harder for myself to make blanket judgments of others. I've tried to inundate myself with information and alternative view points that allow me to consider the other side of the story, or to see the human behind the awful actions.

I read a book a while back titled, 'Last Chance in Texas, The Redemption of Criminal Youth' by John Hubner. Read it. You can't possibly read this book without gaining a new perspective on teenage criminals.

I also watched 'The Woodsman'. Watch it. It doesn't make excuses for a man who molests little girls, but it makes it clear that the man struggles day in and day out. He's a human being who has a problem. But he's a human none-the-less.

I remember being in a class and having a debate about what society should do with child predators and murderers. I took the position that they are humans, and we should do everything we can to not cast them aside and forget about them. When I took this position, I did it primarily because everyone else simply seemed to be in a lynching state of mind. Everyone in the class was on the same page. I hated that. It just seemed like the easy route to thrust criminals into a cell, consider them demon spawn, and think about it no more. I felt like someone should offer up an alternative. So, unsure as to whether I believed what I was saying or not, I began defending criminals who had committed heinous acts. I was of course not defending the crime, but the human hidden somewhere behind the ugly. I found myself taking the position that it is human society's JOB to eke out whatever is left of a criminal's humanity. I think we should try to shine a light on the part of a person's soul that is not damaged. I'm not saying that an intact portion exists in every criminal, (since I'm not entirely sure) but I am saying we should try and find out if one is still thriving.

I guess the long and short of this whole deal is that I'm still unsure exactly where I stand. I've written and re-written this post several times, and am still unhappy with the result. The point I'm trying to make, I suppose, is that it's really easy to cast aspersions. It's not difficult to saddle someone who did a bad thing with the reputation that he or she is a bad person. I think it's a challenge to try and look beyond someone's actions (regardless of severity) and try to understand what is going on underneath the surface.

Does this post make any sense at all?! Sometimes articulation is not my specialty. Grrrr...

My Sister

I have only one sibling who shares my blood. We have different fathers, but were for the most part raised in the same household by our mother and her second husband (my sister's father). I think, for the purpose of this post, that I will nickname my sister, Spaz. Spaz is about six years my junior and completely, totally, entirely different than I. After spending the day with her last week, I decided that I must devote a blog post to comparing and contrasting the two of us.

Spaz truly enjoys a good smoke now and again (or all the time). I mean both the legal and the illegal.
I have never tried the legal. Tried the illegal once. It was awful; I hated the whole damn experience, will never do it again.

Spaz can't go a day without discussing her bowel movements (in HORRIFIC detail) to anyone she happens to be around.
I don't discuss bowel movements. I close the door when I go in, I come out when I'm done. End of story.

Spaz is petite. She's like, a size 1. She walks like a damn HORSE!
I have struggled with my weight for my entire life. I have ranged between sizes 6 and 12. I do NOT walk like a horse.

Spaz (apparently) has a farting position. She shared this with me last week. Sometimes the gas needs assistance in getting out, so (for those of you interested) you should get on all fours, put your head and shoulders down, and stick your butt in the air. This gives the gas a clear path out through your back-end. I kid you not. She showed me the position.
I, if anything, have a hard time keeping the gas from coming out at embarrassing times.

Spaz will get out of the pool, drop trow in mom's back yard, squat, and relieve herself.
I will towel off and walk the ten feet to the house in order to use the restroom.

Spaz will order extra whipped cream on any dessert, ask for even more when it arrives, and proceed to shovel it into her mouth with a trowel. Half of it will end up hanging out of the corners of her mouth.
I generally go with the pre-determined amount of whipped topping, and take civilized bites.

Spaz will dip EVERYTHING in ranch dressing.
I don't really like ranch dressing.

Spaz knows a lot about wine and will spend fair amounts of money on good wine.
I know that inexpensive wines are frequently as good as the expensive stuff and stick to the cheap stuff unless Spaz is buying.

Spaz adds so much cream and sugar to her coffee that she ultimately drinks coffee flavored syrup.
I like cream and sugar in moderation, and will occasionally drink my java black.

Spaz will come into my home and plop down on my carpeted living room floor with every intention of trimming her toe nails.
I will yell at her for being gross and banish her to the bathroom, and when she emerges ask, "Did you clean up your mess?!" I will not trim my nails in someone else's home.

Spaz likes her men stocky with no necks.
I like my men trim, fit, and sexy in Levi's jeans.

Spaz likes Pugs.
I think if you're going to have a dog, it should be bigger than a cat.

Spaz is perfectly happy being a waitress. She makes good money, and enjoys her co-workers (several of them anyway).
I HATE waiting tables. I need the money. The hours are right. My co-workers are primarily a bunch of whine-asses with a lack of work-ethic. I'm counting down the days to when I no longer have to bring strangers their food.

Spaz can screw up even the most simple of art projects. Seriously, I didn't believe it until I saw it. It's unreal.
I live to be creative.

Spaz sowed her wild oats when she should have-during and right after high school.
I jumped into a committed relationship, got married, and divorced all before the age of 26-Wild oats still unsowed.

Spaz is perfectly content to go out into the world unshowered and run errands, visit, go out to eat or whatever else, all while being unbathed. (She's not a scum-bag or anything, she does shower)
I can't leave the house until I'm showered. I feel all icky and smelly.

Spaz would do anything in the world for me.
I would do the same for her.

Spaz loves me very much.
I feel the same about her.

I guess we're not entirely different.

'Vacation' Rant

The Good Guy received news the other day that his uncle had passed away. It wasn't entirely unexpected but was a shock none-the-less. In the interests of offering family solidarity, we made hurried plans and traveled to Baltimore in order to give our love and support to his grieving relatives. Unfortunately I never met the man, and will never have the pleasure of doing so.

This was my first time meeting the extended paternal family, and it was indeed an experience. In general they were a very comfortable people. Strangely, many of his relatives seemed familiar to me. It was as if his family reminded me of people I knew, though no specific individuals came to mind. After a while I decided it was the openness they offered that made me feel comfortable and them familiar.

We accomplished a great deal in a very short period of time. I am going to share a specific incident. It is certainly NOT indicative of The Good Guy's family interactions with me, and in no way reflects the overall tone of the trip. The trip was very enjoyable (despite the reason for the journey). I am only offering this story as a source of entertainment because this is just the sort of thing that happens to me.

A little foreshadowing...I meet my fiance's extended family for the first time and get into an altercation with a drunken twenty-something. Only ME.

The story follows:

Background...We didn't attend the services because we simply couldn't plan, pay for, and execute our journey quickly enough to do so. Instead we joined the family the day after the funeral for a get-together at the abode of a family member. There was swimming, cajoling, eating, reminiscing, drinking, drinking, and more drinking. I didn't drink. I was in a new place with new people, the kids were there, and beer (for whatever reason) was totally unappealing to me that day. In hind-sight it's a damn good thing because I lose some of my ability to reason rationally with alcohol cruising through my system (weird-I KNOW).

The setting...The host of the get-together was another uncle (brother to The Good Guy's father, and brother to the uncle who passed away). Several people were sitting on the outside patio as the evening was winding down. The Good Guy was in the basement with his kids enjoying re-runs of The Pink Panther cartoon. I felt it was important for at least one of us to mingle at any given time, so I was hanging out on the patio with his parents, our host, our host's wife, a neighbor, and the future son-in-law of the host.

The Players...I'll call the future son-in-law L.C. (for Loose Cannon) as he is the villain in my story. He's one of those people that give you a bad-vibe from the get-go. I pride myself on my women's intuition. My intution told me he was an insincere poser, but, quite frankly I didn't think twice about it . To be totally honest, I simply dismissed him as someone who is irrelevant to me in almost every way, as I will probably never see him again, and if I do it will be brief and inconsequential. However, later, my intuition proved to be right-on, and any guilt I felt about judging a complete stranger dissipated.

The INCIDENT...As we were sitting around talking I noticed The Good Guy's swimming trunks laying on the ground in front of L.C. (who was seated next to me). The last I knew they had been draped over the chair on the other side of L.C. in order to dry.

Sidebar...I'm kind of anal-retentive. I need cabinet doors to be closed just-right, I need towels to be folded the correct way, I need curtains to be symmetrical, and I need the discard pile to be organized when playing cards. Otherwise it's like there's a buzzing mosquito flying around my ear. It's like this thing is annoying me and must be fixed in order for me to have peace. So, I didn't know how they got there, and I didn't care. Swim trunks should NOT be on the ground...they must.be.picked.up.

The INCIDENT, cont...Upon noticing the trunks on the ground I got up from my seat and bent over to pick them up and place them back on the chair. As I picked them up, without saying a word, L.C. violently grabbed them out of my hand and chucked them behind me and across the patio.

now, had I been drinking alcohol, the story may have gone as follows, "I then kicked him in the shin, LOUDLY called him a rotten bastard, and punched him in the face"

however...I had NOT been drinking, so, this is what happened:

I looked behind me (in the direction of said trunks), turned back (with eyes BULGING) gave L.C. the scariest stare I could muster, and in a voice that was raised but not yet screaming said,

"YOU are going to go pick those up, because they are MINE and that was RUDE!" Keep in mind that this was a watered down version of what I truly wanted to say (several expletives came to mind) since I was in the presence of strangers and my future parents-in-law.

Thankfully, I think my tone and the 'stare-o-DEATH' knocked some sense into the drunken L.C. because he looked at me for a moment (deer-in-the-headlights-like) and said, "I'll pick them up, ok?"

I then turned around, saw my future mother-in-law smile and wink at me and I said, "I can handle a drunk" as I sat back down. I was EXTREMELY grateful that she was communicating a distinct lack of anger at what I had done. It was one of those moments when I needed some form of back-up and she offered it to me in the best manner she could. She was silent, but I heard her loud and clear. "Good for you". She knew she didn't have to do a thing, I had it covered.

Then the host picked up the trunks and attempted to hand them to me when L.C. stopped him, took them, handed them to me and said, "I'm very sorry"

I responded "Apology accepted" You Jack-Ass.

Then the porch cleared out, I felt like a lepper, and our host made excuses about the boy being young and really upset about the death of his fiance's uncle.

Whatever. This guy's gonna marry your daughter, dude. You might wanna think about this. He apologized, which is great, and not always easy to do, so...I'll give him that.

Shortly thereafter The Good Guy appeared (totally unaware of what had taken place) and we did goodbyes, thank-yous, nice-to-meet-yous, sorry about your loss, etc.

As we walked to the car I told him what had happened and he expressed that he was proud of me and the manner in which I handled the situation. I needed to hear that, I was REALLY uncomfortable and had begun second-guessing my response to the situation.

I am a woman who can hold my own. I am also a woman with a temper. I must say, I'm proud of the decorum I used. I guess I am growing up!

*walks away to ice shoulder which now hurts from patting self on back*

Next Step to Self Improvement Goal: Work on Forgiving and Forgetting. (I think I've made this goal before-it's a hard one)

More about trip to Baltimore to come...the rest of the trip was wonderful. We stayed in a really nice hotel, the weather was great, and a whole lot of writing material was born from the experience. Stay Tuned.

Big News (brought to you in a humble manner)

It's been a while since I've posted. Sorry about that. Mom's been in the hospital (good results this time around), my birthday was the other day (this will be my last year as a twenty-something), and, well, this happened:

J and her kids were over. We had already eaten dinner and the kids were scattered throughout the apartment playing here and there as J and I cleaned up the kitchen. I noticed The Good Guy whispering something to The Girl but didn't think much of it (sometimes they do that).

Suddenly J and I had the sensation that we were being watched. We looked around and noticed we were surrounded by all of the children who were intently staring at us. We were both confused as The Good Guy started to speak from the other side of the partition that separates the living room from the kitchen.

"The kids and I have a question for you." He had that soft tone in his voice, that sorta nervous, and hoping that you understand this is serious tone.

I took a deep breath as he proceeded.

"Will you marry us?"

The girl took the box out from behind her back and handed it to me.

I was speachless. I knew this was coming, but I didn't know how, and I certianly didn't expect it that evening. When I had envisioned this moment I always figured I'd be reduced to tears, but I think I was too shocked. I went to The Good Guy and gave him a huge hug. The Girl followed me and wrapped us both in her arms, looking up at us with a huge smile on her face. Aloud she announced my first name with her surname and The Good Guy asked, "Is that a yes?"

Of COURSE it's a yes! Would I EVER let this wonderful man go?! Hell NO! Be his wife? Duh, YEAH!

The Boy was unmoved by the experience and as the three of us stood in an embrace, he and J's son stood at the door holding a kickball and asked, "Can we go outside?"

You gotta love little boys.

The girl started asking questions like, "What do I call you now?" I think she was perhaps more excited than I. It truly took me a couple of days to process it. I get teary in the telling of the tale, but I did not get teary in the moment. I seemed to have difficulty forming words (which doesn't happen often).

When deciding to write about this I thought about sharing more details, trying to get the descriptions just right, agonizing over how to explain the beauty of our relationship, but I decided this is it. Our love doesn't need adornment. It doesn't need jazzy descriptions and long winded explanations. I simply love this man to death, and he feels the same for me. Pretty words won't make this occasion any more special or meaningful, I simply want to spend the rest of my life loving him. What could possibly be better than that?

So, It's been a busy week. My mom's colon is whole again, I had a LOT of cake, and...I'm engaged!

Cake and Poo; A Day in the Life of a Parent

Apparently there is a seedy underbelly to this whole parenting thing that no one speaks of. I don't know that I am accomplished enough as a writer to do the events of this day justice, but I'm sure as hell going to try. J is anxiously anticipating the editorial following the events she witnessed today. She has more faith in my writing ability than I.

A while back I had this bright idea to have a bunch of kids over and make tie-dye shirts. I think it's important for the kids to make friends here, and I want to facilitate this. So, I got ambitious, invited a bunch of kids, begged J to stay and help, and let 7 urchins under the age of 9 loose in my apartment with permanent dye.

Amazingly, the tie-dying was the easiest part of the day.

Eating cake however, became very complicated.

Table manners are big in our house. Near as I can tell the kid's mother doesn't enforce the same rules as we do when it comes to table etiquette, but that's neither here nor there. The kids sometimes forget themselves. They will periodically turn into raving lunatics at the table and act as if their food is going to be taken away if they can't cram every last morsel in their pie holes within 2.4 seconds of the plate making contact with the table.

The Boy learned a lesson today (or so I hope). He learned that shoving an entire piece of cake into your mouth at one time leads to gagging, hinders breathing, and may cause death. That's right people, I almost Heimliched The Boy. The only thing that kept me from breaking a rib in a failed attempt to extract the cake from his wind pipe was J saying "No, he can breath, not yet!" I thought it was time to cash in on the knowledge gained from high school health class, but luckily for me, The Boy dislodged the cake on his own as I stood with my arms wrapped around him, ready to give him the bear-hug of all bear-hugs.

Then, he finished the cake in his mouth, ate the rest of his ice cream, and went outside to play. This of course left nobody to perform CPR on me (J got a phone call), as I began to experience heart attack symptoms from the aftermath of fear that I had killed the child of the man I love. My weapon of choice? Chocolate cake with chocolate frosting. It seriously took me a good twenty minutes to stop shaking.

Then came the bowel situation. It was not The Boy's day. Nor mine for that matter.

After a few moments outside The Boy came running in claiming that he was going to change his clothes (which he had just done 10 minutes prior). I told him no friggin' way, the laundry stack is WAY to high for this crap to be taking place. Two outfits a day is the LIMIT.

The following is the conversation that took place between The Boy and me.

The Boy: "But I went to the bathroom in my pants"

Me: "Um, what? I mean, pee, right?"

The Boy: "No"

Me: "How did that happen?" (he's SEVEN!!!)

The Boy: "I thought I had to fart"

Me: Thinking, 'Oh, well the fart oops has happened to the best of us, no need to embarrass the boy', "Oh, okay, here's some clean underwear and a washcloth. The washcloth is for your butt, not your pants." (Because with kids you have to spell these things out)

The Boy: "Ok" He disappeared into the bathroom.

Meanwhile J was in hysterics as she watched this scene unfold. The look on my face must have been priceless. She loves that she can now share the horrors that come with parenting. She used to be in this boat alone. Now she has my company. Poop is not my thing. I'm the hold your hair and rub your back while you puke parent. The other end is The Good Guy's territory. The bastard (I mean that in the most loving way possible) was at work!

The Boy finally emerged from the bathroom with the offending undergarment and handed it to me.

The boxers were totally clean.

Now, pardon my frankness, but we're all familiar with the fart poop. They're runny, right? It's kind of like diarrhea that just sneaks up on you. It's messy, not a pretty thing. But The Boy's drawers were CLEAN. In my head I'm trying very hard to figure out what to say next.

Me: "Um, these are clean"

The Boy: "Yeah"

Me: "What happened to the poop?"

The Boy: "It fell out"

OH.MY.GOD. We're talking a full-on turd and it's M.I.A?!

Me: "Where?" (trying not to panic about the missing turd in my apartment)

The Boy: "It must have fallen out of the bottom of my boxers and then my shorts, like this" (He motions the trajectory of the stray poo from start to finish)

J (barely containing herself): "No bud, where is the poo now?"

The Boy: "Outside"

Me: "THANK YOU for losing it outside, now go play"

Later, all the extra children went home, I went to work, drank a crap-load (pardon the pun) of coffee to get through, and now I'm here, sharing my experience with my blogging friends. I hope you got as much of a laugh as J and I did. In hind-sight it's funny. At the time, not-so-much.

Family on the Fourth

The day began with temperatures in the seventies and a cool breeze blowing through the trees. We lugged our gear of folding chairs, various pieces of sports equipment, water bottles, and a cooler to the park. The chosen location was very near the carousel. After shuffling of chairs, discussion and sighs as we debated who will sit next to whom and doling out of sandwiches and potato chips, our meal was consumed while we basked in the sunlight of a much deserved pleasant day. The music of the carousel became the tranquil soundtrack to our afternoon of relaxation.

We alternated between playing kickball (wherein the ghost runners did most of the jaunting between bases), frisbee (which only landed in the mucky fish pond once) and stole away for moments in the shade and swigs of water as the sun became more intense and the humidity kept our sweat glistening on skin instead of evaporating into the now dissipated breeze.

The leisure time was filled with delicious exercise, giggling children, cajoling with families passing by, and the occasional childhood drama resulting from a tumble in the grass.

It was a glorious afternoon. One for the books (or blogs).

We ventured into a restaurant for dinner at just the right moment. The sky had not indicated to us that it was about to open the flood gates, so when we looked out the window while waiting for our food to arrive, we realized that we had timed our meal just right.

When we emerged from the restaurant, the town had come alive. An hour before we entered the eatery the streets had been bare. Now the neighborhood was filled with mirth, bustling bodies, and crowds watching the remnants of an Independence Day parade. The sky had cleared once again.

As dusk set in we traversed the paths of the park and watched our serene sanctuary fill with the crowds that had earlier converged on the street for the parade. In the fountain, the two marble men sprayed water at each other, and we debated which was named Spit, and which was pegged Spat.

Finally we settled back into our chairs, tired from the day, but excitedly anticipating the fireworks display that was yet to come. The children became antsy (as children do when it is late, and they are tired), so a book was read aloud using the animated voices of pirates and adventurers.

At last, the sky was lit with explosions and color. The pyrotechnics did not disappoint even as they were forced to pause so that the accumulated smoke could fade.

The show was lengthy enough that the youngest child kept anxiously asking "Is this the grand finale?"

With the grand finale complete, the tired children packed into the car, and the traffic negotiated, we all settled in for a fitful night's sleep.

As I lay in bed, waiting for the dreams to take over, I thought to myself...'This is by far the best Fourth of July I have ever experienced.' Like a child on their birthday, I didn't want it to end.

The Unaccompanied Chapter

A while back I got this great idea that I could write a novel, become a famous author, and never worry about finding a job again...so I started writing. The following is not an excerpt, it's the whole shebang. I forgot about it until today, and since I'll probably never end up doing anything with it, I've decided to turn it into a blog post. I hope you enjoy it. Re-reading it made me realize that I should leave novel writing to others. I'll just keep reading them.


“Why is it that in books and movies, even the people with crappy jobs, no skills and a serious lack of cash live in apartments that in the real world would cost approximately $1500 a month?” Hanna asked her best friend Jade; fully expecting Jade would simply roll her eyes and act as if Hanna had asked a rhetorical question.

“Because a movie that takes place in a complete shit hole isn’t entertainment” was Jade’s flippant response.

“Yeah, but doesn’t it tick you off? I mean don’t people want some reality in the story, a dose of camaraderie?”

“No, people want to be entertained, and to imagine that the life they see in the movies is one they can attain. They don’t want to pay $8 to see someone living their life. They want glamour, glitz, a dream, and all that happy horseshit.”

Jade always had a colorful way of viewing things. Her carefully placed expletives made even the most mundane conversations more engaging. These were some of the reasons Hanna had dragged Jade to their favorite coffee shop for some lattes, or coffee flavored milk syrup as Hanna’s dad referred to them. She hadn’t been feeling like herself for several months now, and knew that if she continued to sit in her drab apartment longing for summer weather and a million dollars to fall into her lap she may never make it into the light of day again. Trivial conversations with Jade had seemed just the thing she needed to climb out of her funk, if even just for a couple of hours.

“You know what else bothers me? The fact that stories are always about beginnings and endings. You know what I mean? The beginning of a romance, the end of a marriage and beginning of a life in some romantic land, why doesn’t anyone write a story about the middle years? The part where you’re working your butt off, and can’t pay any bills, and your debt is slowly strangling you, and the light at the end of the tunnel is so far away that you can’t even see it-it’s just a long dark pathway. And who gives a crap about Mr. Right, who the hell has the time?”

“Are you okay?” Jade seemed finally to be catching on that Hanna was not in the best of moods, and the latte didn’t seem to be helping as much as usual.

“No…yes… I have no idea.” Hanna really didn’t. She didn’t know what to attribute her awful mood to, and nothing she had attempted so far had any effect. She had stopped listening to any music that wasn’t upbeat, she limited her movie viewing to anything with a happy ending and her casual reading was reduced to chick lit, or any book that was written for pure enjoyment-no biographies, and anything political was entirely off limits. She did however, refuse to give up sugar. If nothing else made her happy, chocolate was the one friend she had that would never let her down. Each bite was like ambrosia, and it lasted until the very last morsel had been consumed. It was a wonder she didn’t weigh 300 pounds.

“What’s eating you?”

“Good Question. Wish I new the answer.”

Wisdom of a Starry Night-Take 2

For what are you grateful?

I can't possibly list everything. I have a whole lot to be grateful for; like the fact that I live in this country (which in turn comes with lots of specific thanks), I'm healthy, I'm happy, I'm surrounded by loving and supportive friends and family, I have a roof over my head (and always have), I have food on the table, someone once upon a time discovered the magical substance we call chocolate...but I digress.

The other day The Good Guy and I attended an event (the details are irrelevant) where his daughter took the stage. She stood in front of a room full of people (many of them family and friends) and as she stood there and I watched her glowing with comfort in the love of her family, my heart grew ten sizes. Is this what it's like to be a parent? Does being a parent mean that your heart swells inside of your chest and you feel like it is going to explode inside of you with love for this little person? I was teary, it was like an epiphany...not that I love this little girl (because that's nothing new), but that its so damn powerful. I had to stop looking at her because I would have been blubbering in front of lots of people (who would have thought it was for totally different reasons).

The Good Guy and I have discussed on many occasions what my role is in the lives of his children. He refers to me as a parent, and I have been uncomfortable with that term. I have always treaded lightly in that arena, as I don't want anyone to get the impression that I am trying to replace the children's mother. Though I'm not a big fan of many of her choices, I respect that the she does indeed love her children very much, and I don't want anyone to feel that I have a desire to threaten that bond-I truly do not. When Mother's Day rolled around this year, J (who is a mother of 2) sent me a text message wishing me a happy Mother's Day. When I responded that I'm not a mother, she said that there isn't a day honoring "daddy's girlfriend who holds my hair when I'm throwing up, and loves me and takes great care of me" so Mother's day is for me too. (Isn't she great? Talk about supportive friends and family!)

As I sat in that room, holding back tears, wanting to run up and wrap that beautiful little girl in my arms, tell her how much I love and support her, I made a decision...The Good Guy can call me a parent. My being termed 'parent' to that little girl (and her brother) threatens nobody. I am one more person who loves and cares about both of those kids unconditionally, and that shouldn't be threatening to anyone. They come to me when they're upset and need comfort, they share with me when they're excited, they learn ways to annoy their sibling from me, I hold hair and rub backs when stomach bugs attack, I know how they like their waffles, they want me to attend their important events, they give me random hugs and kisses, they know I'll do my darndest to make them happy...if that's not parenting, then what is?

I am grateful for the opportunity to share in the lives of those kids. I am grateful that I am capable of giving and receiving so much love. I am grateful that I have been influenced by a variety of people who have demonstrated how to love by loving me.

I am grateful that angry and venomous anonymous comments have no bearing in reality, and simply validate the lunacy and irrelevance of the person writing them ;-) yes, I know you stop by, and it matters not.

Creative Minds Unite!

Ok, not a lot of people read my blog, but I am familiar with the written work of the few who do, and I know that you all have exceptionally imaginative and poetic minds...I need your creative help.

This is a pencil drawing that I'm working on. The image of the girl is my rendition of a beautiful photograph I found on a greeting card. However, the background on the greeting card isn't something I want to recreate.

The problem: My creative juices seem to have run dry. I can't for the life of me decide what this little girl in her nightgown is witnessing/heading towards/gawking at. I considered laundry hung to dry and raspberry bushes, but both seemed so...dull.

So, my request of my loyal and ever helpful readers, is: "What is this little girl standing in front of?" Be creative! Have fun with it! Help me PLEASE!

The Wisdom of a Starry Night-Take 1

With whom would you like to reconnect?

Several Posts ago I mentioned purchasing a book entitled, "The Wisdom of a Starry Night", a book that combines works of art with introspective questions. This is the painting shown with the question, it is titled, "Postcard" and the artist's name is Fernand Leger.

The answer to the above question is the first I would like to unearth.

My father's second wife was the woman I called step-mother for the majority of my childhood. Her name was/is Michele, but she always went by the nickname Mickey. My father is currently on his third marriage (and I hope for him that the third time's a charm).

My relationship with Mickey was complex. My mother is a good woman, but she was bitter for many years towards both my father and my step-mother. It was no secret to me that my mother loathed them both. I loved and respected both of my parents, but I suffered the same struggle that I believe many children with step-parents experience; I didn't know how to love someone that my parent despised without feeling as though I was betraying my loyalty.

Mickey was an interesting woman, and very unlike my mother. My current capacity as pseudo-parent (possibly future step-parent) to The Good Guy's children has left me on many occasions ruminating about my relationship with Mickey. I've considered what she offered me, I wonder where she is now, and I regret that she isn't around any longer. I am remorseful that when she and my father divorced I wasn't receptive to her attempts at maintaining a relationship with me. I can't change the past, but perhaps I can pay homage to a woman who had a significant influence in my becoming the person I am today. Only now, as an adult, can I fully appreciate all that she offered, how hard she tried, and the difficult road she traveled prior to becoming my step-mother.

Mickey and her two sisters spent their childhood being bounced around in foster care. I don't recall the circumstances that lead them to this fate, perhaps she never told me, as it was too awful to share with a child. She shared with me the following story and it haunted me for years. It gave me a sense of how far she had come, and how many obstacles she had conquered. I fear that this experience was one of many, and one of the few G-rated enough to share with a child. As she explained, there wasn't much regulation in place to protect foster kids when she was a child. Many foster parents took on their foster charges simply for the small monetary stipend. One such man allowed Mickey and her sisters to use one lone square of toilet paper each time they used the restroom. He would stand outside of the bathroom door, and they weren't permitted to flush until he determined that only one square had been consumed.

As an adult Mickey maintained a close relationship with one sister, the other I believe was lost to her within the child welfare system.

Mickey had a husband prior to marrying my father. She also had children, but her ex-husband gained custody of the children, and kept her from seeing them. My mother commented that a mother had to be REALLY bad to lose custody of her children in the day and age when Mickey did so. I was never privy to the particulars, but I can't help but wonder how on earth Mickey could have been a good parent, as she never truly experienced a loving dependable attachment to a parent.

Despite all of this, Mickey was a classy lady. She was creative, articulate, confident, and dependable. She was an excellent cook. To this day her twice-baked potatoes, macaroni salad, and blueberry pie have been unmatched by any others I have tasted. She loved to garden, and her backyard was always landscaped elegantly. Her Christmas wrapping and decorating were things of beauty, and to this day I strive to match her expertise. She kept a near immaculate home, and I don't ever recall hearing her complain about housework. I am well aware that she did the gift shopping for my birthdays and for Christmas. Though I hated her fashion sense (and the 'girly' clothes she insisted on purchasing for her tomboy step-daughter), I realized that she had done all of the work in choosing and wrapping the gifts labeled: From Dad and Mickey.

From Mickey I learned how to decorate a home, how to make a home homey, how to appreciate art, how to relax and enjoy a good book, that I like James Taylor, how to make faces in the sand at the beach, that a dog should be well trained, that confidence is attractive, and that a step-mother isn't always personified by Cinderella's step-monster.

I believe I was about fourteen years of age when my father sat down with his parents and myself to inform us that he and Mickey were divorcing. I remember being furious that he didn't tell me in private. I also recall that I couldn't name any single emotion amongst those whirling within the funnel cloud of confusion. I hadn't had the slightest indication that this had been coming, and was caught totally unaware.

Mickey tried to maintain communication with me, but I was a teenager and even my mother (with whom I resided) had a difficult time fitting into my social calendar. Splitting time between friends and two parents was tricky enough, so Mickey and I lost contact.

I am truly sorry for this. I could sure use her expertise in the step-parenting arena. Advice from someone who has been in the trenches would be extremely helpful on some days. However, I think the most resounding reason that I regret not maintaining contact is that I think she deserves thanks; a thanks she never received from me because I was too young to understand all that she offered. Now, I'm not delusional, or idealistic, the woman wasn't perfect (who is?) But at the very least, she should know that I now recognize all that she did, and all she attempted to do. I have no doubt that she cared about me, that she helped make my second home as important as my first, and that she made my childhood more full just by being around, and offering me a bit of herself.

Just.Don't.Think.About.It!

The weather in my little corner of the country has been total crap lately, but today we had a reprieve. The sun was out, and the temperature and humidity were both tolerable (a rarity this time of year in my neck of the woods) . It was a good day to be outside, which worked out well since I assisted my aunt in weeding and spreading mulch for several hours this morning and afternoon.

She has started her own gardening business, and I help out once in a while when she needs an extra pair of hands. I'll spare you the details, but the woman is ALWAYS late. The circumstances are unforseen every time, but you can count on 3 things in life, death, taxes, and my aunt will always be later than she counted on. Today we started a mere hour and a half later than originally planned.

Whatever...that's not the reason for this post, it simply had to be mentioned.

Here's the reason for this post:

The house we worked on today is approximately 30 minutes away from my apartment. I had to depart earlier than my aunt so that I could drive home and shower the stink off in order to wait tables.

I drove the thirty minutes back to my town, stopped at the drug store, and then went home. When I got home I went into the bathroom. (I'm sure that at this point you're wondering why you're getting a blow-by-blow account of my day, but hang in there, I think it's worth it). I started taking my clothes off and putting them in a pile on the floor (they were filthy, I was going to take a shower, and no-this isn't going where you think it's going!).

As I was getting ready to hop into the shower I noticed something emerging out of the pile of clothes.

Something BIG.

It was a cricket! Not just a baby cricket, we're talking a full grown (freight train sized) adult cricket-came out of my clothes! I had a stow-away cricket in my drawers for at LEAST 40 minutes.

Just to re-cap: A CRICKET was in my pants and I was oblivious!

I hate bugs. I also hate to kill them (or anything for that matter). So I spent the next several minutes dancing around the bathroom (half naked) trying not to think about where the cricket had been for the last hour, and cogitating on how I was going to remove it from the bathroom. I was afraid that if I left the room, it would hide, and then I would never find it-ohmyGOD! So I ran to the kitchen, grabbed one of the kid's cups (it has a lid) and ran back to the bathroom. I caught the savage beast, but the top didn't fit (I grabbed the wrong lid), therefore, I couldn't set the cup down for fear I would lose my prey.

I then held the cup in one hand, contemplated my next move (I had the cricket but I was still half-naked), then proceeded to dress, one-handed (into CLEAN clothes), and went outside to set the cricket free into the wild.

Happy ending?

Yeah, as long as I don't spend too much time pondering where exactly that big-ass bug was hiding all that time. If I think about the fact that a HUMUNGOUS bug was on me for all that time, I can't help but wonder how many small insects (like SPIDERS AAARGH!) found their way into my clothing. If I think about that, I am left wondering...where are they NOW? What about the bugs I didn't notice crawling out of my clothes because I was focused on the cricket?! Are they in my BED now?

If I keep thinking like this...I will never leave the house again. It's a dangerous, bug infested world out there, and I don't have what it takes to stay sane while I am COVERED in insects.

So, I've resigned to just.not.think.about.it.

When This Expensive Education Pays Off.

Today I was grocery shopping, pinching pennies, counting the monetary value of items in my basket, going over my list and deciding which items I can do without this week in order to stay within my tight budget, when I walked by Regina Something-Or-Other. Regina and I graduated in the same high school class (class of 1995 *gasp*). I didn't really like her. She was somewhat snobby, clearly from a family that had money, and couldn't be bothered with classmates who didn't fit into her social and scholarly clique (the one with all of the wealthy honors students, the privileged few who could concentrate on their school work because they didn't have to work after school instead of concentrating on homework). However, in her defense, she wasn't ever awful either. She was just, well…snobby blah.

Neither of us acknowledged that we recognized the other, even when we ran into each other for the second time in the parking lot. Our cars were parked next to each other, and apparently we departed at the same time (what are the friggin' odds?).

Her car- A brand new black Volkswagen Jetta.

My car- A 1997 two door Toyota Tercel with a garbage bag on the driver's seat to catch the rain seeping through the leaky moon-roof (I've never had enough spare change to have it repaired). My car was sold long before keyless entry was standard (I have to use the KEY) and in order to get the window up or down one must use his or her arm muscles, not simply utilize a wussy finger push.

I was immediately embarrassed, and at the same time I was pissed off that I was embarrassed. Why the hell should I care about status? I'm happy damn it! I'm in love, I have a roof over my head, and overall I'm a very lucky human being. However, her shiny fancy car made me overly aware of the fact that I'm still pinching pennies. Financial woes have been at the forefront as of late, and it's a touchy subject.

My reaction to Regina's car, and my (completely ridiculous and ludicrous) fear of what she'd think of me (which is totally irrelevant to anything) made me decide that I need to make several vows to myself.

If and when I ever have an income which is sufficient to be comfortable and I have money to spare (which is different than being wealthy, but the same rules apply-except, I'd donate more to worthy causes), I vow to do the following:

1. Donate annually to NPR

2. Continue driving cars that are economical and practical. Fuel economy is at the forefront (not just for money's sake, but for our environment's sake). For instance, if I could buy any car right now-I'd buy a Toyota Prius. (However, I can't speak for The Good Guy who has had his heart set on a BMW since I met him.)

3. Purchase only organic produce, and as many fair-trade and sweat-shop free products as I can get my hands on.

4. Live in a practical home, nothing monstrous with more room than we need. Something comfortable and homey, not a home whose purpose is to make others envious of all that we have.

5. Always, always, always tip well. (I do that now and I'm poor, no problem there).

6. Never-ever shop in big-box stores. I will frequent small independently owned shops.

7. Have a compost pile and use the soil in my garden, which I will use to grow my own herbs and vegetables.

8. Not spoil the kids. With that, teach the kids that wealth doesn't equate virtue or morality. As my friend J told her son, "Some good people are poor, and some rich people are not good people, it has nothing to do with money"

9. Not have cable television. (The Good Guy will not be happy about this one. Is there a way to not have cable, and still watch baseball?)

10. Treat family and friends to dinner out, and slip my mom a twenty now and then (which she currently does for me)

11. Wear cocktail gowns and go to galas.
~Drink good wine.
~Have elegant dinner parties in a dining room decorated with elaborate place settings and fresh flowers.
~Have a stocked liquor cabinet-plenty of Jamesons, Tequila, Bailey's, Frangelico, (and Malibu-also known as 'sunscreen with alcohol' for you J. *bleck*)
~Dress fashionably.
~Give the Good Guy all the kitchen gadgets he asks for.
~Never forget that once upon a time I couldn't do these things.

And, although this is petty, and I shouldn't even add the following sentiment, I must say: I'm skinnier than Regina Something-Or-Other. HA!

Hey-I'm only human, and sometimes I'm a little petty.

If you learn to speak correct English, whom are you going to speak it to? ~Clarence Darrow

Having been in school for the last 2 years, immersed in text book and peer reviewed article hell, I haven't had much time for leisurely reading.

This summer I have decided to make up for lost time. The library has become my new intimate niche. I began with several novels in the chick-lit genre. They were entertaining, and a good way to ease myself out of the purely informational written works I have been deciphering. I have now moved on to a memoir. I was reticent at first, afraid that the transition from the predictable and humorous to meaninful and tragic would be difficult.

It wasn't. The memoir is well written and I'm captivated. (For those of you interested, it is titled The Tender Bar, the author, J.R. Moehringer.)

All of this chain-reading is stimulating the deaply burried creative writer in me. (I'm fairly certain there is one in there, however, its level of ability is certainly in question). This memoir business got me pondering, What makes a memoir readable? How does one's life story become interesting to the masses? Would my memoir be marketable? Would I want to share my life story with just anyone? Then I decided that my childhood memories are extrememly disjointed and vague. Conveying them through an organized written work would be nearly impossible (and there is still the question of entertainment value).

Then I thought-I could write chick-lit! Although, I realized shortly after this epiphany that any chick-lit I write will be a variation of my memoir. Experience (I believe) is the best material.



I have also resolved to read more classics. I have never read "The Great Gatsby", nor Dante's "Inferno", never read any Tolstoy, nor any Sylvia Plath, and I have only seen movie versions of the Bronte sisters works (though my hopes are not high after seeing Wuthering Heights-sorry TN I'll read Jane Eyre first, okay?).

Who knows? Maybe one day I will sit down and begin writing something other than a thesis, or an article review, or a blog post. I think I'll just keep blogging and reading for the time being. You know, build up my writing momentum.

The Legacy of Frank

He stands at the grill, spatula in hand, his few hamburgers are surrounded by veggie burgers while he is surrounded by other cooks tending to them. He wonders when he became obsolete, when his large family became too busy to attend a holiday gathering, when the meat and potatoes he worked so hard to feed his wife and children for so many years became poison, replaced by rabbit food patties. This was his post for decades. He stood at the grill, and fired up hot dog after buger after hot dog. He handed them out to adults and children alike following the question, "How do you like it cooked?" The kids would shovel in their food as quickly as possible so as to make it back to the pool in time to not miss any of the action. He was surrounded by family then. His six children, and their children (his 12 grandchildren), all cajoling, laughing, and back slapping. Today he looks around. Only three of his children are in attendance; one son with his third wife, his only daughters are the other two that came, both divorced, one still single (who will always be) and the other with her beau. Two grandchildren are present, one who has her own son, his great-grandson, a child with a beautiful smile and an infectious laugh.

He loves having them there. He has worked hard his entire life to be surrounded by family. His devotion to his family is part of his heritage. His father was an immigrant from Italy, this type of get-together is his legacy. He is saddened that the importance of family gatherings is lost on the next two generations. The swimming pool that used to be in the back corner of the yard has been filled in. He has become too old to keep up with maintaining it, and these gatherings have become so few and far between that it was never used anyway. The spans of this large backyard seems almost a waste, as nobody comes around to celebrate in it anymore.

He finds himself getting weepy as they leave. He is saddened when these gatherings draw to a close, as the next one will certainly be far into the future. Until then the house will be full of silence and echoes of times past when the bedrooms were full, and the comings and goings numerous.

As they leave he thinks, "God bless their souls". He has lived a good life. He has wonderful children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren (there are 4 now!). He has lived to see his family grow and thrive. He is proud of what he and his wife have accomplished, the legacy they have left. He pours himself another drink and begins cleaning the yard, already looking forward to the next time he will see them all.

**My grandfather is an amazing man. He is full of love. He can't sit still for very long (even though he is in his eighties), as his entire life has been an active one (he worked three jobs to support his wife and children). He is the hardest worker you will ever meet, and more devoted to those he loves that anyone I have every known. He is a veteran (United Stated Marine Corps). His Memorial Day backyard get together was very sparse this year. I was saddened by the small turnout. I am one of the rabbit food patty eaters. I seriously considered eating a burger just to make him feel better. Amusingly enough, The Good Guy confided in me later that he too had considered eating a burger so that my grandfather would feel more essential. We did have a good time, as did all of those who came.

Udder

The Good Guy's daughter (reminder: she's 8) was at the playground in our apartment complex the other day swinging next to and chatting with a little boy who is close to her in age (his name is Taylor). After a little while she came running over to where we were seated, sat down next to her father and asked:

"Daddy, what does udder mean?"

"Well, it means a couple of things, for instance, you know cows have udders, right?"

"Yeah, but, Taylor said he was going to play with his udder friends"

I simultaneously had three thoughts (while trying not to laugh out loud).

One: Poor thing, that little snot nosed brat didn't want to play with her-she's going to feel rejected*

Two: She's better off. That kid is really weird...And he can't even pronounce 'other'.(Have I mentioned how protective I am of the people I love? I don't generally have prejudices about speach impediments)

Three: This is hysterically funny, and I must share it with the blogging world.

Kids truly do say the darndest things.

*FYI: She was far from traumatized; she found something else fun to do within approximately 2 minutes of discovering (via her father's diplomatic translation) that Taylor was seeking out alternative playmates.