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 |  This was my first blog, maybe my best blog...nah! The journey continues with another..!
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** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Check out this signature's match at Thomas  's blog** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** "You want to become aware of your thoughts and choose them carefully. You are the Michelangelo of your own life; the 'David' you are sculpting is YOU!" Dr. Joe Vitale
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When my wonderful friend Iowegian Skye and I recently  turned life's corner into our forties (sorry for "outing" you, buddy!) we pledged to each other that the ensuing decade would be more about our own wants and needs, less about what everyone else wanted and/or needed FROM us. She and I are alike in many ways...we both spent the majority of our adult lives dedicating ourselves to the well being of others. There's nothing wrong with caring for families and doing what it takes to grow happy, healthy children, but along the way, when I stopped to take a long look back at where I've been, I discovered something. Most of the times I spent bending myself so far over I almost broke my back...I didn't really need to. Most of the times I spent wringing my hands and full of worry over some situation or other...the future took care of itself. All my fretting and worrying didn't change a darn thing. In simple terms: Don't sweat the small stuff. And it's ALL small stuff. You've heard it before, but this time really take a look at it. Think back like I have to the times you were the most fretful, the most worried, the most hand-wringing to the point of losing your skin...did any of it do much good in the long run? I have come to believe that fretting and worrying about pretty much anything turns out to be a wasted endeavor. All that energy expended could have been turned to more productive means of getting the problem resolved, although most likely whatever it was resolved itself pretty much, anyway. The pay-off for "not sweating the small stuff" has everything to do with how I look at and perceive life. It's useless to dwell on the state of the nation or the financial failure of banks when there's little-to-nothing I can do about any of it on a grand scale. I can, however, keep working at making myself and my family solvent, therebye creating at least one more success story for U.S. consumption. I'd rather turn my efforts over to what I CAN control rather than what I can't. Does that make sense? As a parent I've learned that "not sweating the small stuff" has everything going for it. For too many years I did all the sweating for my kids and they did none of it. They became dependent on my sweat to get them through all of their "small stuff"...I thought I was being a supportive mother, but there comes a time when too much support becomes a hindrance; it becomes controlling and creates resentment for one, helpless people for two. I'm still working at turning it around, but I'm making progress. I've had to learn to take a step back from my girls and force them to fly or fall, their choice. I'm untying the apron strings one knot at a time, all the while reminding myself not to sweat it... For a while last year, at about this time, I worried and wondered where life was going to take me. I knew the clock was ticking for where I was living and that soon I would have to find another place to live, other means of support, some way to push myself and my girls through a topsy-turvy period of transition. Where we were at this time last year wasn't really working out for any of us, anyway. I felt stuck, Liz was getting no help, Rachael was turning into a recluse, Sarah's grades at school were falling...I worried. I fretted. I wrung my hands. When down from the heavens came my life. I found my soulmate in one of the best friends I've ever had, Thomas . Our relationship has certainly been heaven-sent from the first day we made that forward step into romance. Even with the onset of that relationship, though, there was fretting. I worried about the distance we were from each other, I fretted about moving Sarah from the school district she'd been a part of from her earliest years, I wrung my hands about the older two and what would be in store for them if we moved...In the end, thank goodness, I had no choice but to follow my heart and soul into Rochester, MN. I had no choice but to trust that things would work out for myself, for Thomas, for Liz, Rachael, and Sarah. They did. They have. I haven't been so satisfied in my own personal life-probably ever. Liz is finally getting the help she needs, here. Rachael is working and planning on a return to college this January. Sarah is loving every minute of her high school and dance team experience in Rochester. So I'm cruising along into my forties-and into 2009-feeling wiser and less worried about the future and what it has in store for me and the people I love most. Experience has taught me that Faith is where it's at: Don't sweat the small stuff. And it's ALL small stuff.  |
| MERRY CHRISTMAS! Not surprisingly, I am so far experiencing what is probably the best Christmas I've ever had in my 43 years of life. Of course that has everything in the world to do with one Thomas .  To tell the story:It could have been different. I mean this year has been one of my best ever for the simple reason that I discovered my soulmate right under my nose...but life is never ever perfect. The road to this place has not been without its bumps along the way, but anything worth having in life isn't easy, either. I think the more we work towards what we know we want and will make us complete, the more valuable even the journey becomes... Things have gotten tough over the last couple of months-not between Thomas and I in a relationship sense-the bottom line, no matter what we go through, is that for me, he makes getting up in the morning, muddling along in the turmoil and muck that sometimes rises up in the journey's path, and going to bed with a tired sigh at the end of a harrowing day...so totally worth it. There's nothing quite like the sensation of sharing a life and a home with someone you honestly love to BE with. I've never felt it before, this glow of knowing my best friend is also my life partner, my teammate, the one person I crave in every single sense of that word. I've known other people, here and there, who have actually been able to experience this amazingly wonderful kind of life, but I honestly never thought I'd be one of them. I'm gratified to have been proven wrong.  What has been tough lately has been financial. The girls' dad got himself kicked out of the army. He was a Sargaent First Class, literally months away from full retirement benefits which I would have been half entitled to. We, the girls and I, lost health care benefits along with every bit of payment we received from his military pay. I went from being comfortably middle class to living on a shoestring...within a day. It hasn't been easy. Thomas, of course, threw himself into our rocky situation with the gusto he gives to almost every life event-I've been known to call him my energizer bunny His heart is big and his dedication to our home, in every way, is mighty. Because he is so caring and wants so much for all of us though, he has been worried. He's so good for me! I have this tendency to see only today; if it's working for the present moment I'm cool...not always-in fact seldom-a great way to be. He grounds me, helps me to see more than the present moment and the importance of creating a foundation from which we can all grow...even financially.Christmas morning arrived. I wasn't able to get him the gift I have have in mind for him yet. We'd talked about it and pretty much agreed that our extended families and the girls came first. He was Santa Claus in every sense of the name for the girls and for my mother, aunt, and brother in Oklahoma. He didn't shirk for his family here in Rochester, either. The man just ROCKS, there's no other explanation for who he is. There is no wonder at all in the simple fact that he holds my heart firmly in his hands forever... In addition to already doing so much for so many, he quietly placed a white envelope amongst the branches of our Christmas Tree, the one purchased by Rachael with her Target pay check and discount. After all the other gifts had been dispensed (Tom received a chocolate kiss fondue pot from Rachael and Sarah, a Caribou coffee house gift card from Sarah-one of his favorite places to go-and a book light from just Rachael. Liz plans to give him something too, but since he hasn't seen her yet I won't "spill the beans" here yet ) Tom prompted Rachael to bring the envelope to me.In it were two pieces of paper. I opened the one which said "first" and read the heartwarming story inside about a woman, married to a man tired of Christmas' commercialism, who began a family tradition of giving to others in need for this man's Christmas gift. Even after he passed away she and the children, then grown and with their own children, kept placing white envelopes with the report of monetary gifts to various charities and sometimes just individual people in need. It made me teary. I opened the second piece of paper. Now for some backstory...I always have problems when people ask me what I want for Christmas or my birthday or whatnot. I'm not trying to be weird or make myself into someone I'm not, but I really do have the opinion that if I have what I need, I'm okay. I don't worry about what I want because usually I'll either get it or it wasn't worth having. I'd rather have someone DO something for me like clean the house!  Thomas and I have also talked about people in need and charities and all that. One of my favorites by far is the Salvation Army. I think they happen to be the ONE charity organization that works hard to appropriately distribute what others give. They actually HELP and give a leg up to those in the worst kind of need...Back to the second piece of paper. Thomas donated what is at this time in our lives a significant amount of money, in my name, to the Salvation Army. This man truly, really, and so very deeply...GETS me. *that's a heart almost bursting, by the way*MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!  |
| Yesterday the CEO of the corporation who owns the hotel where I work stopped in for a visit. Actually he left yesterday afternoon after staying for a night. I knew he was here but Sandy, our general manager, works hard to treat the days when we have visitors from "corporate" just like any other day. Her opinion is that we should be "on our game" every day and if we have to change something just because "they" are in the area, we're doing something wrong for the other guests. I didn't even know it was "him" until he told me what room he was checking out of-our best suite in the house. He had been standing silently and patiently while the head housekeeper and I were discussing some mundane issue...he smiled and his face crinkled up into kind lines. His voice was soft and he told us his stay was very enjoyable and he appreciated the cleanliness of our facility. He wore cheap-looking khaki pants and an inexpensive windbreaker-in our current subzero weather! He walked out of the hotel and stepped into a black SUV, but we are in snow country so that's not a huge expense for nothing around here... I think I've mentioned our own "big boss" who happens to be probably in his early 30s-his name is Brian. He is directly in charge of our hotel but he still answers to the CEO; perhaps those of you in the corporate know understand... Brian does not look anyone in the eye, not even Sandy. He has this uncanny ability to look through whomever isn't important to him. And that's just about everyone. His wife is the bookeeper for their part of the corporate enterprise; she's younger than her husband and the same way in personality. I find both of them very cold and distant and having them around makes me nervous. I don't like people who act like they're better than anyone...those who treat others poorly usually wonder why they're not happy, why nothing ever satisfies them and no one seems to notice how important and special they are. They never seem to get the clue that it's looking outside yourself and acknowledging the importance of others...that's the key to feeling good from the inside out. I don't think Brian ever feels very good. At least he always looks constipated  The real flummoxing issue here is the simple fact that the nice, personable, richer-than-midas-but-doesn't-flaunt-it CEO...is Brian's father. The situation got me thinking, started those wheels turning; how did it happen, that such a nice person who obviously sees the worth of others would produce a son who so obviously doesn't?!Last night Thomas and I drove (in arctic weather no less) to pick up Sarah from her dance team practice. We parked behind a white mini van which sported a lovely white sign on its back window: "JM Rockettes," which is what John Marshall high school calls the dance team (they're the 'rockets'). I mentioned to Thomas that I hope the sign wasn't etched on, specifically made for the sake of touting the dance team and the vehicle owner's daughter...stranger things have happened when it comes what parents are willing to do and the money they're willing to spend for the sake of "bragging rights"  Once again I got to thinking...I don't know how Brian was raised by his parents, but I do speculate. I wonder if the kindly man I met yesterday was the sort of parent, with money to spend, who heralded everything his son did as wonderful beyond measure no matter what it was. I wonder if he bought a vehicle specifically for the sake of "tooting" whatever horn there was to toot for and about his son's school endeavors. I have to wonder if he took the time to remind his son that everyone on the planet has a purpose, that everyone, no matter how menial their job seems to be, matters. He knows it, obviously. I have to wonder if he remembered to impart the knowledge to his offspring. I like to tout my own offspring, I'll be the first to admit it. They're great girls! Rachael is so smart and received many academic awards during her years in school. Sarah is an amazingly dedicated dancer who still manages to keep her grades up and enjoy other interests and hobbies. Liz, even with all her emotional baggage, turns anything she tries into gold. I'm their mother and part of my job is to let them know how important and special they really are...but another part of my job is to remind them about others and what's important and special about us all, every single human on the planet. I am by no means a perfect parent. I know I blur the lines of more than just this issue far more often than I wish I did. I do think, however, that two of the most vital messages I will ever impart to them are the value of themselves coupled with the value of others. I will hug them, I will tell them how proud I am when they exhibit something-even a simple act of kindness-for me to be proud of. I will love them even when they are not at their most lovable. I will not buy a vehicle just to etch their team logo on it. No matter how much money I ever have. |
| I work with a man named Peter. He's the maintanance man for the hotel, becoming one when he suffered a stroke five years ago that left him without enough short term memory to continue with the job he had: programming computers. He's in his late 40s, maybe early 50s. He's a pleasant person with a sense of humor, a dry wit I can laugh at and a smile on his face for anyone willing to accept it. He lives with Doreen who works here at night on weekends. She's a smiler too Peter's last name, I noticed while handing him his paycheck, is Czok. I'm interested in other people, always have been. Some might call it "nosy" but I consider this trait to be one which enables me in my writing life. When I sit down to create a character and a story, my brain churns out bits and pieces of everyone I've met and their life circumstances. I think most writers have brains that churn in a similar way. How else can we invent true-to-life characters if they don't have their origins in-well-life? When I asked Peter about his name, he said he didn't know where the name comes from. What? It's obviously Eastern European so I started naming countries: Russia, Czechoslakia, Poland...it turns out his family was originally German with probably a smattering of Polish, something that became a kind of cross to bear... He started by telling me his mother was a war bride, bringing herself and a toddler son (Peter) over to Rochester, MN from Germany when her new husband returned Stateside. I asked Peter about his biological father. After the war a small part of Germany was annexed into Poland. When this happened, many Germans suddenly found themselves on the Polish side of things. Poles didn't like that, even with Germans who had a smattering of Polish and a Polish last name. They gave Germans a deadline for getting out of their country and leaving their land and possessions for the Poles to confiscate. Those who didn't do it quickly enough were executed. Peter's father and many of his father's family were casualties of this policy. After becoming a member of Rochester population, Peter still went back and forth once or twice a year to visit his grandparents and other family members. In his early twenties he actually lived in Germany for a time and worked at a bank in the town where he was born, Bonn. *Here comes an aside* That city isn't far from where we lived when we were in Germany, actually. Rachael's place of birth, Landstuhl, is maybe an hour away from where Peter's is. Talk about coincidence! To continue... He said one thing strikes him about the difference between the US and Europe, a difference almost no one in this country appreciates. We're a melting pot. Really. He said being a melting pot is different from being multi cultural. Our country isn't about many cultures trying to co-exist. It's about many cultures coming together, melding and blending in a way Europe or Africa or the Middle East never have, and probably never will. It's about blurring the lines of our origins and not paying attention to borders and who owns what land... It may not seem, to us, that our "melting pot" culture works, but look at it from Peter's perspective: He comes from a place where his father was killed for being of a nationality suddenly different from what the border told him he should be. He said it would be like Iowa and Minnesota changing the line of their borders and Minnesotans forcably, murderously ousting Iowans because they are not Minnesotans. The idea was ludicrous to me. And because it IS ludicrous...that is the fundemental difference between the United States and the rest of the world. Peter also mentioned that the U.S. is the only place in the world where, literally, class doesn't matter. We think it does, but another case in point: At the bank where he worked in Bonn, there was a card from an account holder that said "Princess Elizabeth," just that. Her account at the bank was grossly overdrawn and Germany-along with most European countries-doesn't even have a monarchy anymore. But class lines and where you originate matters. When she would come into the bank, Peter said she'd be led into a posh sitting room, handed tea and cookies and very respectfully asked if she could please make good on the negative balance of her account...in a very careful manner, of course. He said if an ordinary person, say a hairdresser, became overdrawn, her account was automatically closed with no question or argument. We're luckier here than we allow ourselves to believe. Of course we experience the unique problems that living in a capitalistic melting pot incures, but still...who I am and my basic worth in society does not begin with my lineage. It begins and ends directly with ME. Who I want to be is a choice I can make based on no other reasoning than myself. Like I wrote...lucky. |
| An interesting news day today: 1. Barack Obama is a citizen...really! Apparently a man actually took the time and trouble to bring forth a lawsuit against our President-elect on the premise that he's not actually a natural-born citizen of the United States. The Supreme Court refused to hear the case after a federal court already dismissed the suit. The same man contends that McCain was not a natural born citizen, either. The first thing that crossed my mind when I read this particular story had something to do with this man's need to stir a pot of some kind, any kind. Does he just want to make a name for himself? In layman's terms I'd call him a "shit disturber" with no other motive than to do just that. Disturb the status quo. And sadly, he's not the only one doing this sort of thing. Apparently there are several other similar charges pending about the validity of Obama's American citizenship and ability to claim the Presidency as his own. It has been established over and over that he was indeed born in the state of Hawaii and he is indeed an American citizen. LET IT GO, dear SDs!!! 2. Jerry Jones, the Dallas Cowboys' (football for those not in-the-know) team owner and resident idiot *just a personal observation*, totally insulted one of the best players on his team. Very publicly. Many don't know that I'm a football fan. I mean please, I was born in Texas, raised in the Oklahoma Panhandle, and teethed on the pigskin. So yes, one could say I'm a fan. I don't sit in front of the television for every single game my chosen team plays or even keep real current on statistics. I'd like to, but other pieces of my life became more prevelant and urgent-like parenthood-than following the game I grew up watching every Friday evening *high school*, Saturday afternoon *college-go Boomer Sooners!*, and Sunday *DALLAS COWBOYS!*. Just another reason to LOVE spending time with my soulmate is our mutual love of the game. Thomas has "turned" me into a bit of a Vikings fan *sorry Fred*, but my heart will always belong first to America's Team, my beloved Cowboys *sorry Thomas, sweetheart*. That said, Jerry Jones, who has owned the Cowboys since the early '90s I think...gives me a headache right between my temples. He's the quintessential Texan. He's brash, blunt, easy to be frustrated, and doesn't think about what his foot tastes like before he opens his mouth. Following Dallas' loss to the Pittsburgh Steelers-a sad moment for us all-he "dissed" Marion Barber for staying out of the game because of both a leg injury AND a dislocated pinky toe. Granted, the pinky toe thing doesn't sound all that bad, but I do have to agree with the writer of the article I read concerning this issue: until good ol' Jones is willing to hobble out there with his own dislocated toe and play the great game of football for three hours with the brutes on a professional football field...he needs to SHUT UP. Enough said. 3. A cause for celebration: Rod Blogovich, Governer and embarassment to me *I voted for the idiot* and the great state of Illinois, was arrested early this morning for trying to sell or trade Barack Obama's vacated Senate seat for personal gain. This is the man I wrote about probably a year ago, the one who had more than one temper tantrum, you read that right, on the State Senate floor because he wasn't getting exactly what he wanted from lawmakers. This is the man who has been known to openly threaten state congressmen when they refused to "see it his way" or back even one of his implemented ideas and/or plan, many which weren't bad...but still...it's just not the way an adult behaves. Especially an adult who is the Governer of a state with the third largest city in the country. The truly heinous part of the situation was Illinois' lack of any clause in the state constitution which would allow for the removal of a Governer who just isn't doing his job. He couldn't be fired when he had a 2% approval rating; I believe THAT percentage came from his parents and grandparents, heh heh. He CAN be arrested by the FBI, though. Gotta love a state where you can't impeach or fire a Governer under federal arrest. So there you have it. An exciting news day and finally some new reasons to blog and share. |
| Earlier today Thomas wrote about our lovely and enjoyable day-long poetry class we attended on November 1st. He started to write about it almost a month ago and now has written more. I should add my "two cents" because the class was not only enjoyable, it was productive! I consider Thomas to be the premier poet of the two of us. We've agreed that each of us has our strengths when it comes to writing; poetry is one of his forte`s without question. I dabble in mostly "free verse" because form...well, it flummoxes me. It makes me impatient and sometimes downright petulant, sitting and trying to figure out exactly how I want to fit what I have to impart within the boundries of-gasp-FORM! It's so not my thing I'm a little bit of a rebel. No really! I don't like to break the big rules of society and life, but the small ones...I don't know, I guess I get a kick out of being just a little bad, a tad to the left of rigid law and order. When my older brother and I were children, he used to be absolutely aghast when I'd get "that" mutinous look on my face and openly challenge our mother. "Susie," he'd admonish in hushed tones, "you're going to get in trouble!" I didn't care. Especially if I thought I was in the right, which I often did And I ever wonder where my own girls get their strong will!So even with the written word I have to be a tad to the left of rigidity, of rules and regulation that would TELL me where to put a verse or word or syllable. Even with my daily writing of short stories and blog entries and articles I tend to be just a bit left what what would be considered absolutely grammatical. I know the rules. That's why I break them This is where Thomas and I are yin-and-yang; I actually find his adherence to form, his ability to fit words-and actions-into a workable and beautiful pattern within the parameters of rules positively charming, I really do! He's teaching me to bend a little less, and I think perhaps I teach him to bend a little more. It sure does work, that I know...in writing and in life. Here are two offerings I garnered from my poetry day on the first day in November: History It was when I was twelve-no, thirteen-that silence first spoke to me. I don't feel so much older, and oddly enough, not so much different. Silence and I, we are old friends, having shared with each other Our wisdom since that time. Okay, Silence shared wisdom with me. It was then I learned my company is more than enough. It was then I learned to enjoy the beauty of a crisp breeze, Lying on my back as I gazed into endless blue. When I experience such a day these days, a block of time With only Silence and myself for company, I journey back to the days where I was given the chance to discover just how Simple and Sweet life can be, how Silence never expects anything of me other than What I am. What I am...is more than enough. It is the preferred state of being. Watching Thomas Write I love watching Thomas write- He begins with a look of Determination, A frown of concentration. He is ready to tackle the blank page before him, It says- Then his dark brow clears, Brown eyes Widening in the joy of the moment, Of what His brain has begun to Produce- Of what his mind and heart And the beauty of his soul Combine To create. I love watching Thomas write. |
| ...in not-so-mysterious ways. On Saturday I was feeling a bit downtrodden about the state of our society. Where have we come that even in a mob mentality people find a bargain to be more important than human life...or ANY life, for that matter. On Sunday I dragged myself up, forced myself to shower and dress and force two girls to do likewise, and we made it to church. Providence. Our pastor began his sermon with the story about the man from WalMart who lost his life. He asked the same questions I did, then he told us that we are the most affluent generation in history; are we any happier? We know we're not. So what's wrong, what's missing? Why are we now a bunch of complainers?? First he mentioned that it seems the more we have, the more we tend to take for granted. The vast majority of we who live in "industrialized" countries have a roof over our heads, food on the table, and clothes on our backs. What other material possessions do we actually NEED to live?! Everything else we have is extra. I like to call it "gravy." We have the meat, we have the veggies, we have what we need to be healthy. What do we need to be happy? The pastor went on to say that aflluance pushes us in the wrong direction; it causes: 1. Envy-this is the big one. This is what keeps us from looking around us and being grateful for what WE have as opposed to wishing for what everyone else seems to have. 2. Pace of Life-we're moving too fast. When do we have time to look around us and give thanks for all we actually do have? 3. Pessimism-we have a sick pleasure for finding the bad in our lives instead of enjoying or looking for the GOOD. 4. Grudges-they make us feel powerful, and not in a good way. When we hold anger and resentfulness towards another we somehow feel in control of that person. We're missing the big picture, most of us-It's not about how much stuff we have! It's about living every single day to the fullest. It's about looking around for what's right instead of what's wrong. It's about giving thanks for what we have, not lamenting for what we DON'T have. You never see a hearse pulling a u-haul. That pastor said, "it's easy to embrace life and remember to thank God for your blessings when your bank account is full, your family and you are healthy, and everything is moving along swimmingly. When life isn't all sunshine and balloons...that's when gratitude for what you have matters most." True contentment is great wealth. We didn't bring anything with us when we came into the world, and we can't take anything with us when we leave. If we have food and clothing, let us be content." -Timothy 6:6-8 Amen. |
| What is happening to us? I mean as a society. On the yahoo front page today: a WalMart employee at a Manhattan store was trampled to death when he opened the doors of the place at 5am yesterday. When the loudspeaker announced that the store was closing because a worker had been trampled to death, people got angry and kept shopping, one man shouting about how he'd been in line since yesterday morning. This sort of materialistic behavior defies any kind of reason or rationality. Yesterday was what they call "black Friday" all across the land, the day after Thanksgiving when stores offer crazy deals to any and all "first come first serve" customers, which is what started this insane frenzy for "stuff." Half the time I don't even think it's the stuff. It's about getting caught up in the furer of it all. Who really thinks they "gotta have it" so badly they're willing to trample a human being to death and then become angry when people try to first, help the man, and second, respect the life he lived and express the proper sort of concern by closing the store? The whole thing boggles my mind. Yesterday was a crazy day at the hotel. People came swarming in from their buying frenzies and went at the breakfast buffet like it was their first meal after Pompeii. They checked out in droves after spending Thanksgiving with family and then the morning in that shopping stupor so many find strangely appealing. Our night front desk clerk said he actually had more than a few 3am wake up calls. Good grief. One woman told us about a man who set up a tent outside of Best Buy Thursday afternoon. After I left work Rachael told us stories about being one of the cashiers at Target on black Friday. It wasn't too insane here, but still...insane enough. Later in the afternoon when she and Sarah went out to do some Christmas shopping, Rachael was almost hit in the car two different times. I experienced a similar event myself in the WalMart parking lot and Tom told us a small story about people getting a tad nuts over bath towels. Okay people,, this is getting more than ridiculous. It's getting scary. Materialism is out of hand, it really is. When people are in such a mob mentality kind of way that they smash through the doors of a RETAIL STORE and KILL A MAN for the sake of some bargains...it's time to rethink our priorities. What is Christmas supposed to be about, anyway?!  |
| ...on Thanksgiving~not at this hotel, though That's right, I pulled an "all-nighter", working at the hotel of my employment the night before Thanksgiving. It's a GREAT thing Tom's mother is making the turkey. I don't envy her so much, but if I had to work all night AND make a turkey dinner...the family might end up with something like stuffed pumpkin turkey in a mashed potato casserole...who knows though, I could invent a whole new tradition! Maybe not- A couple of nights ago Tom, his mother, and I attended my youngest daughter Sarah's first high school dance team competition. It's the first time for ANY of my kids that a grandparent-type person has attended one of their functions...my mother has always been too far away or she'd have been to every one of them. It continuously breaks her heart that she wasn't there for so much. Regardless of that, the girls love her immensely; we're always telling "Grandma Bonnie" stories--yup, there are many. She makes me look positively staid But I know Sarah was absolutely thrilled to look up into the bleachers and see not just me or me and one of her sisters, but THREE adults rooting for her-just there for HER. Tom video taped the numbers she was in and his mom took digital pictures, some on her phone that she sent to his sisters. It feels good to feel like a part of his family. They are such a cool one After all the numbers had been danced-there are two categories for each team, high kick and jazz-the parents from John Marshall High school, because we were the host school, were called down according to each student and the mom was given a rose-aaah! But the really awesome part? Sarah listed Thomas as one of her parents and he "had" to make the trek down to the gym floor with me And when awards were announced, her JV kick line team won first place! Her picture was even in the local Wednesday newspaper, taken midkick. It's a nice picture with Sarah very much visible; we now have TWO local celebrities whose pictures have been in the newspaper-that would be my handsome Thomas and my adorable Sarah.And to top it all off, Thomas is now a NaNo winner--already! Congrats to everyone who's made it over that 50,000 word threshold. I don't know if I'll make it, but I do know that I now have SO MUCH respect for those of you who do. WOW is it time consuming and tougher than those who hasn't done it would think. So I have an hour left of work-allow me to list the occurances of my night: Not ten minutes after I got here the computer system upon which we record every single transaction...crashed. It was down for probably a half hour. During that time I had to kindly turn away one couple seeking hotel shelter and tell two others to call back and make reservations at a later date. I had no way of recording them or checking them in. We are slaves to the computer age. Following the computer malfunction, which thankfully was taken care of by the "home office," I belatedly discovered I can't get into a Manger's File I was supposed to download and print as the night auditor. Those who work nights-and I usually don't here-have a special code to get them in. I don't have it. Oops. So I'll have to explain to MY manager that I couldn't complete the Daily Cash Report because I didn't have that information. Sigh. Sure it's not my fault, but it happened on my watch...you know how it goes Now a night auditor also has to prepare the "continental" breakfast for those who amble down before 7am to partake of the lucious feast-cartoned scrambled eggs, lots of carb items, and a waffle mix with which one can make waffles. I've made this mix before at the hotel where I used to work, but that was a long time ago. Comedy of Errors coming up: I ended up, let's just cut to the chase, with waffle mix all over me. Heh heh. So I was forced to turn my shirt inside out because it will NOT come out! What is that stuff, GLUE?!  So yes, at 6am, with an hour left to go before I'm "sprung," here I sit with my shirt inside out and quite ready to call it a night-or day-or whatever. Ooh, here comes an early riser... What I'm thankful for is that I get to go home and then attend a lovely Thanksgiving feast with the girls-including Liz-at Tom's mom's house. I'm mostly thankful, though, for being with Thomas on Thanksgiving, no matter where we'd be. For that honor I'd STAY covered in that glue-like batter...but I'm glad I don't have to! |
| Here is the next excerpt of my Nano novel, my first attempt to write anything of bulk and a winding tale...sometimes I have to work hard to remember the names of each character! This experience is most definately eye-opening and a vital one for those who think writing a novel might be calling to them...by the way, this little story is titled: The Sinner Within Chapter Two: Collision Course Billy Jean, 1985- She was more like a beauty queen from a movie screen I said, don't mind, but what do you mean I am the one Who will dance on the floor in the round... She slipped the walkman off her ears and into a denim bag on her shoulder as she rushed into her sophomore English class and slid into one of the many hard, wooden seats. She made sure to grab one near the front because she liked the front, especially in English or some subject like it. For math classes she tried to make herself invisible. Mary looked furtively around before she grabbed a compact mirror out of the bag she had just hung on the back of the desk chair. It was never a good idea to let someone see you staring at yourself, she figured. She peered into tiny glass, first at her eye makeup, dusky blue on the lid and a darker hue moving up to the eyebrows, and then her hair high ponytail and curls before determining she would be passable. After all, she reflected to herself, it WAS the first day of school in a new place. She wanted to make a good impression. "Okay, class." The teacher walked to the front of the room with the shrill tones of the bell, and a few milling students plopped themselves into remaining desk seats. Mary's eyes widened with the sight of him, the teacher. He was young, younger than she was used to seeing a teacher look. He had dark hair, lots of it, and light tan pants, hands in the pockets. His shirt was white with tan plaid, and he wore a dark maroon tie, school colors. He looked good. Really good. She sat up even straighter, smoothing her skirt over leggings without even realizing she did it. She bit a heavily glossed thick bottom lip. Mr...she looked quickly down at the schedule in front of her...Poulton. His name was Poulton. What a stupid name for a really cute teacher! She looked up when he began to speak again. "What's in a name," he uttered, standing with his hands in his pockets, dark hair falling across his forehead. Piercing blue eyes surveyed the room and landed on Mary. She almost gasped. He continued while he penetrated her with those eyes, "that which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet." She took his words, spoken so quickly on the heels of her thoughts, as a sign; she chose not to notice the glint of a ring on his left third finger when he raised it to scratch his nose. * * * * * * * People always told me Be careful what you do Don't go around breaking young girls' hearts And mama always told me Be careful who you love Be careful what you do Because a lie becomes the truth. She walked into the room with earphones attached to her ears. Her seated peers turned to stare at her as she hit the 'off' switch and plunked into a seat, pulling the earphones off as she did so. They hung on her neck, a decoration that seemed to match the ouftit: a white shirt with black piping at the neck and black polka dots, a ruffled black skirt with small white dots and thin suspenders over black leggings and ankle high, pointed white boots. Mary watched the girl two seats ahead, dyed blonde hair falling forward into her face, lean to the right and whisper something to the other girl, equally dyed blonde, who giggled and gave a furtive glance in Mary's direction. Both of them were wearing cable knit sweaters, one blue and the other pink, with jeans and Kaepas, the "in" tennis shoes. Stupid sheep, Mary thought with a snort and sat up straight, heavily lined eyes staring directly to the front. She felt like she was trapped in a sea of cable knit sweaters, but she didn't care. She wasn't here for them. With that thought, her eyes were drawn to the doorway where Mr. Poulton strode in, gliding to the front while he spoke softly and joked with some of the students at the front. He bent and picked up a pile of papers, handing them to a young man to give out. Then he looked up and Mary sucked in a breath. His face...there was something about his face with only a few fine wrinkes where his eyes crinkled when he smiled. She saw the hint of dark whiskers on his wrinkle free chin. "Good afternoon, children." He grinned and flashed a dimple in his left cheek. "Let's get organized, shall we? Martin," he gestured to the young man seated directly in front of him, "why don't you get us going since you are this year's Academic Team President." Mr. Poulton seemed to pull him up with a hand wave and the boy, pimpled with a red/brown cowlick, turned to face his audience. The boy's voice was strong and smooth, but Mary didn't listen to him. She spent her time staring at Mr. Poulton. She watched as he sat in one of the desk chairs, reclining and leaning to speak to a student on his left, his lips close to her ear. Mary suffused with jealous heat while she watched, wishing desperately that she was that girl. "One day you will be," she whispered softly to herself. She filled out the questionnaire when they came around and lied about why she wanted to be on the team. She never thought about being on a team focused on what you know. From the time she could remember her eyes had been on cheerleading, pep club, things like that. She had been so popular and life had been so on track back at her old school in Baton Rouge, but her mother had to ruin it all by divorcing her father and transporting her a thousand miles away. She shook her head when she thought about it and finished filling out the stupid form. When she did she stood and walked it to the front of the room, she set it down on the desk and waited patiently until he was done talking to other students. They were almost alone in the room when she looked into his eyes and smiled, showcasing her own dimple on the right. "So what do you think," she asked in her melodic voice, lilting with a hint of flirt as she pushed the paper forward. His gaze locked on her and then down to the paper. "You seem to be qualified," he answered in his own smooth voice. "Straight As, honor roll since the day you walked into a classroom." He looked up at her. "Why didn't you try out for your academic team, last year?" Mary shrugged. "No time. I was cheerleading." "Really." His gaze locked into her, she felt it, and her insides positively shivered. "You don't want to cheerleader here?" "Too late, even if I wanted to. Which I don't," she rushed to assure him, nodding her ponytailed head for emphasis. "I've decided to...broaden my scope." She knew that would get him, and it did. She could tell. He reached out a hand and she took it, holding it for a second before she shook it the way he'd intended. "Welcome to the team." "Thanks. I look forward to it." With one last dimpled grin she twisted around, being sure to move her skirt so it bounced provocatively as she walked out of the room, placing the earphones back onto her ears and hitting the "on" button. As the door shut behind her, Daniel Poulton could swear he heard the strains of Billy Jean is not my lover She's just a girl who Says that I am the one... * * * * * * * Mary did quite well on the academic team for the next two years. She worked hard at it, more to impress Daniel Poulton than anything else. She won a few trophies and more than a few accolades, and Mr. Poulton had a difficult time keeping his distance from the girl he would sternly remind himself was a student, nothing more. They talked, though, during long bus trips home when everyone else was sleeping. Mary stayed awake by will and purpose and would sit in the bouncing, springy seat across from him. They discussed everything from music to books to politics. What they never talked about was his marriage. Mary preferred to forget he had one, so she did. The woman, Kathy her name was, didn't exist to her. And their baby? In Mary's head there wasn't one. During the few times other students would ask about his wife and child and he'd show pictures of the woman, nondescript with dull brown hair and a lackluster sort of watery smile, and a little girl with dark, curly hair in ringlets, she would walk away and busy herself with something, anything so she wouldn't have to see or think about him with anyone else. Ever. He told her curtly once, after she asked, that his mother was dead and he had no idea where his father was. She could tell the subject was off limits and she understood. Her own family life was less than desirable. She didn't share the gory details with many, and certainly not with him. Only once did she slip and mention her deadbeat, drunken father, long out of work and living in the home where she grew up. The place was probably falling down around his ears but she didn't care. He'd never done anything for her. The slip happened during one of their many in depth conversations, when they were talking about Shakespeare and got into analyzing Hamlet. It was then she made the comment, regretting the moment as soon as it was out of her mouth. "I wouldn't care." If someone had offed her father. The problem was, she meant it and he could tell. But he didn't seem all that surprised or worried about her. He sat across from her in the dark, rumbling bus, a dark lock of hair falling onto his forehead and into those sea blue, dark lashed eyes, and he shrugged. He looked directly at her while he lounged on his own seat, slouched against the window in relaxation and familiarity. "I know what you mean," was all he said. By the look on his handsome face, she knew he meant it. She shivered and felt a little delicious. A little naughty. She licked her young, full lips slowly, deliberately, and stared at him. He stared back until the air between them practically crackled. He broke the contact with difficulty and chastised himself, but not harshly. The rest of the return journey was silent but not, electricity vibrating across the expanse of the two seats occupied by Mary and her teacher, Daniel Poulton. Around her was an aura of intense satisfaction; around him was one of discomfort and inevitability. * * * * * * * It happened after their last meet one night, when they had to stay overnight because of the worst snow Detroit had seen in over thirty years. There was no way they could drive back to Winnetka, Michigan on a ponderous, treacherous school bus. A group of eight teenagers and two adults blew into the Fairmont Inn, shivering and shaking from the cold and blowing snow. They shook off their coats, the teenagers chattering and loud, while Mr. Poulton went to the scarred, wooden front desk and dinged a bell. The proprieter shuffled in from behind a heavy door about five minutes after the thrid ding. He was stooped and looked disinterested and cranky at the same time. He gazed upon the group, stopped himself short, then sighed long and loudly, phlegm bubbling with the emission of air. "What can I do for you." His voice was thin and difficult to hear through the cacophony of young voices, so Daniel twisted around to shout "shut up!" He turned back to the desk and in as charming a manner as his frozen face would allow, he asked for six rooms. Daniel signed all the paperwork, handed out room keys, and bustled the students to their rooms and portly, friendly, middle aged Mrs. Scheer to hers. He spoke with her briefly about what sort of paperwork would be needed for the principal so they could be reimbursed, and then he rattled with the door lock on his own dark pine room door. He finally wrestled it open and was able to stand in the middle of a room smelling like a combination of lysol and stale urine. Wonderful, he thought to himself, standing on a yellow threadbare carpet, soaking it while he took in what looked like a rickety, spindly bed with a yellow, equally threadbare blanket on top. He sat gingerly on the bed after shedding his coat and plopping it on a stained, dark brown easy chair to the left, heard it squeak and lifted his butt up a little before he cautiously sat all the way down, again. He picked up the old, black rotary telephone's receiver and listened for a dial tone. When he heard one he dialed, waited, and then spoke. "Hey, it's me. No, we couldn't make it tonight without putting the kids and ourselves in jeapordy." He waited a bit, picking at his teeth and shivering with goose bumps, then he responded. "I know, I'll take care of it when I get home. You won't need the car for now, anyway. It's not like you can go anywhere. He peered out of his room window. "It's really coming down. Is Bridget sleeping? Okay, give her a hug for me. Love you. Bye." He put the receiver down with a small expulsion of air. He promised himself it wasn't a sigh of relief. Not really. He leaned back on the bed, gingerly, and stared up at the drywalled ceiling splotched with water marks. He hoped the ceiling wouldn't cave in tonight. He knew he should probably make one more round to be sure the kids were in their rooms and not trying to play around or something... He was startled awake by a soft knock on his door. He startled up with a sharp intake of breath and shook his head, momentarily disoriented. Then he remembered where he was and slid off the bed, weaved his way to the door. He opened it with the chain still attached, peeked a bloodshot eyeball out, and gazed upon his visitor. "Hi," Mary intoned softly, almost too softly for him to hear. "Okay if I come in?" She stood with her curly dark hair hanging down to her shoulders, creamy soft shoulders he could see because she wore a shirt with only thin spaghetti straps no bra. He couldn't help it, his eye traveled down to tantalizing nipples straining against thin fabric and couldn't help his own tongue reaching out to lick at his lips. He looked back up, to her eyes with lashes long and dark and her face, looking at him with an open invitation, one he'd read since the day she handed him her application to join the team. He knew he shouldn't, knew that now was the time to turn her away, stop the insanity before it got him into real trouble. He knew it like he knew he wasn't going to do it. He closed the door long enough to take the chain off the door and admit her. But the kid is not my son. |
| I went to see Liz tonight. She's in a residential facility on the South side of Rochester; we live on the North West side. Poor Thomas is sick again , this time with a sinus infection destined to last longer than a day. The poor man is falling victim to whatever bug is making the rounds at his place of business *symapthy* But because he was sick, Rachael was working and I dropped Sarah off at dance practice, I was in the car alone for the trek South to see Liz. Instead of taking the highway to an exit and making better time that way, I gave into the little voice in my head that told me to turn left from the school where I dropped Sarah off and drive through the city. I'm glad I did, because I was taken back, on my drive, to a history with the city of Rochester and my Thomas that I wouldn't have missed. I came to the downtown area before I knew it and looked right, on my drive, towards the Kahler Grand Hotel. Years ago we came to this city because Sarah had a dance competition there, before I ever became a part of WDC or knew who Thomas Harper was. It was a weird feeling to remember the day I walked out of the hotel to get some air and startled to realize that Rochester is the home of the famed Mayo Clinic. I hadn't known that before I stared up at the building which beheld the name. I felt a tingle at the memory, and a flash of sadness for the person I used to be, so unhappy in my life situation and wondering if I'd ever be truly happy, again. I continued the drive and to the left of me I spotted the Econo Lodge Hotel where Thomas and I stayed on one of my first weekends here, when I was "just" a visitor. What a wonderful and precious memory! Further down the road I spyed the WalMart where, after Thomas and I dealt with our first "difficult moments" as a couple, I jumped out of Mandy's car before it even stopped all the way and enveloped him in the tightest of embraces; we also spent some time in that WalMart once when my car was acting up and he bought motor oil for it. I stopped at the Subway where we once ate right before I had to get on the road, I think right after the oil purchase. I even glanced back at the table where we sat, where I tried hard not to be depressed because I was going to have to leave the man I knew I'd never want to leave. I passed by the Extended Stay Hotel where I briefly worked and where Thomas and I first stayed in Rochester, the first time I came to this lovely city, before I knew that right around the circular dirve from the Hotel is the place where Liz is getting better daily, where they are infusing her with the tools she will need to become a productive citizen and a successful human being. On my drive back, after spending a pleasant hour with my oldest daughter, I noticed the Taco Bell where Thomas, the girls, and I had our first family lunch together...Thomas gave us a great story about how, while we were seated, the people behind the counter tried to forget Sarah's Cinnamon desserts and he "leaped across the counter, demanded that they hand over the free cinnamon desserts she'd won fair and square, and they were so impressed and quaking in fear they gave them to him right away." The girls laughed for five minutes and a family was born. I noticed the Dairy Queen, now closed for the winter, where Thomas bought me and the girls treats after a wonderfully fun visit to the Olmstead County Fair. I also saw, out of the corner of my eye, the grocery store where Thomas and I now go every other weekend or so to buy our groceries, the Pannekueken Restaurant we visited over a month ago, all of us, and the Denny's where we went late in the night after Thomas' stand-up show, when Mandy came for her first weekend here and she experienced full-force how Thomas and I can be, heh heh! She didn't get a word in while we gave the restaurant our own two-person comedy routine .With my trip through Rochester, to-and-from, I relived my relationship with the love of my life, my soulmate, and I discovered something quite amazing that I hadn't paid a lot of attention to: much like Monica and Chandler in an episode of Friends-the fifith season where they "get together" and Thomas' and my favorite of course-I figured out that our relationship has changed...it has grown. It has grown from our solid-rock three-year friendship and then a move into grand romance...into more love, more friendship, more fun, more closeness...more of all of it. Every single experience we've shared in this city has been a catalyst to what we have with each other today. The most exciting part of my journey? Knowing it's far, far from over and knowing that I'll never, ever get tired of taking this crazy ride with my best friend who just happens to also be the man of my dreams. Thomas |
| I want to apologize to my wdc blogging friends because I haven't been much of a commenter to blogs recently. I haven't visited ports or read and reviewed new material, and I know I should! You have my word that when I feel a down moment coming on without a pressing need for any other task undone, you are ALL on an urgent "to do" list! Seriously!!  So following my heartfelt apology, here is the next installment of that good ol' NaNo endeavor, part of what's keeping me out of your blogs and writings: Chapter Two: Collision Course Billy Jean, 1985- She was more like a beauty queen from a movie screen I said, don't mind, but what do you mean I am the one Who will dance on the floor in the round... She slipped the walkman off her ears and into a denim bag on her shoulder as she rushed into her sophomore English class and slid into one of the many hard, wooden seats. She made sure to grab one near the front because she liked the front, especially in English or some subject like it. For math classes she tried to make herself invisible. Mary looked furtively around before she grabbed a compact mirror out of the bag she had just hung on the back of the desk chair. It was never a good idea to let someone see you staring at yourself, she figured. She peered into tiny glass, first at her eye makeup, dusky blue on the lid and a darker hue moving up to the eyebrows, and then her hair-high ponytail and curls-before determining she would be passable. After all, she reflected to herself, it WAS the first day of school in a new place. She wanted to make a good impression. "Okay, class." The teacher walked to the front of the room with the shrill tones of the bell, and a few milling students plopped themselves into remaining desk seats. Mary's eyes widened with the sight of him, the teacher. He was young, younger than she was used to seeing a teacher look. He had dark hair, lots of it, and light tan pants, hands in the pockets. His shirt was white with tan plaid, and he wore a dark maroon tie, school colors. He looked good. Really good. She sat up even straighter, smoothing her skirt over leggings without even realizing she did it. She bit a heavily glossed thick bottom lip. Mr...she looked quickly down at the schedule in front of her...Poulton. His name was Poulton. What a stupid name for a really cute teacher! She looked up when he began to speak again. "What's in a name," he uttered, standing with his hands in his pockets, dark hair falling across his forehead. Piercing blue eyes surveyed the room and landed on Mary. She almost gasped. He continued while he penetrated her with those eyes, "that which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet." She took his words, spoken so quickly on the heels of her thoughts, as a sign; she chose not to notice the glint of a ring on his left third finger when he raised it to scratch his nose. * * * * * * * People always told me Be careful what you do Don't go around breaking young girls' hearts And mama always told me Be careful who you love Be careful what you do Because a lie becomes the truth. She walked into the room with earphones attached to her ears. Her seated peers turned to stare at her as she hit the 'off' switch and plunked into a seat, pulling the earphones off as she did so. They hung on her neck, a decoration that seemed to match the ouftit: a white shirt with black piping at the neck and black polka dots, a ruffled black skirt with small white dots and thin suspenders over black leggings and ankle-high, pointed white boots. Mary watched the girl two seats ahead, dyed-blonde hair falling forward into her face, lean to the right and whisper something to the other girl, equally dyed-blonde, who giggled and gave a furtive glance in Mary's direction. Both of them were wearing cable knit sweaters, one blue and the other pink, with jeans and Kaepas, the "in" tennis shoes. Stupid sheep, Mary thought with a snort and sat up straight, heavily lined eyes staring directly to the front. She felt like she was trapped in a sea of cable knit sweaters, but she didn't care. She wasn't here for them. With that thought, her eyes were drawn to the doorway where Mr. Poulton strode in, gliding to the front while he spoke softly and joked with some of the students at the front. He bent and picked up a pile of papers, handing them to a young man to give out. Then he looked up and Mary sucked in a breath. His face...there was something about his face with only a few fine wrinkes where his eyes crinkled when he smiled. She saw the hint of dark whiskers on his wrinkle-free chin. "Good afternoon, children." He grinned and flashed a dimple in his left cheek. "Let's get organized, shall we? Martin," he gestured to the young man seated directly in front of him, "why don't you get us going since you are this year's Academic Team President." Mr. Poulton seemed to pull him up with a hand wave and the boy, pimpled with a red/brown cowlick, turned to face his audience. The boy's voice was strong and smooth, but Mary didn't listen to him. She spent her time staring at Mr. Poulton. She watched as he sat in one of the desk chairs, reclining and leaning to speak to a student on his left, his lips close to her ear. Mary suffused with jealous heat while she watched, wishing desperately that she was that girl. "One day you will be," she whispered softly to herself. She filled out the questionnaire when they came around and lied about why she wanted to be on the team. She never thought about being on a team focused on what you know. From the time she could remember her eyes had been on cheerleading, pep club, things like that. She had been so popular and life had been so on-track back at her old school in Baton Rouge, but her mother had to ruin it all by divorcing her father and transporting her a thousand miles away. She shook her head when she thought about it and finished filling out the stupid form. When she did she stood and walked it to the front of the room, she set it down on the desk and waited patiently until he was done talking to other students. They were almost alone in the room when she looked into his eyes and smiled, showcasing her own dimple on the right. "So what do you think," she asked in her melodic voice, lilting with a hint of flirt as she pushed the paper forward. His gaze locked on her and then down to the paper. "You seem to be qualified," he answered in his own smooth voice. "Straight As, honor roll since the day you walked into a classroom." He looked up at her. "Why didn't you try out for your academic team, last year?" Mary shrugged. "No time. I was cheerleading." "Really." His gaze locked into her, she felt it, and her insides positively shivered. "You don't want to cheerleader here?" "Too late, even if I wanted to. Which I don't," she rushed to assure him, nodding her ponytailed head for emphasis. "I've decided to...broaden my scope." She knew that would get him, and it did. She could tell. He reached out a hand and she took it, holding it for a second before she shook it the way he'd intended. "Welcome to the team." "Thanks. I look forward to it." With one last dimpled grin she twisted around, being sure to move her skirt so it bounced provocatively as she walked out of the room, placing the earphones back onto her ears and hitting the "on" button. As the door shut behind her, Daniel Poulton could swear he heard the strains of Billy Jean is not my lover She's just a girl who Says that I am the one... * * * * * * * Mary did quite well on the academic team for the next two years. She worked hard at it, more to impress Daniel Poulton than anything else. She won a few trophies and more than a few accolades, and Mr. Poulton had a difficult time keeping his distance from the girl he would sternly remind himself was a student, nothing more. They talked, though, during long bus trips home when everyone else was sleeping. Mary stayed awake by will and purpose and would sit in the bouncing, springy seat across from him. They discussed everything from music to books to politics. What they never talked about was his marriage. Mary preferred to forget he had one, so she did. The woman, Kathy her name was, didn't exist to her. And their baby? In Mary's head there wasn't one. During the few times other students would ask about his wife and child and he'd show pictures of the woman, nondescript with dull brown hair and a lackluster sort of watery smile, and a little girl with dark, curly hair in ringlets, she would walk away and busy herself with something, anything so she wouldn't have to see or think about him with anyone else. Ever. He told her curtly once, after she asked, that his mother was dead and he had no idea where his father was. She could tell the subject was off limits and she understood. Her own family life was less than desirable. She didn't share the gory details with many, and certainly not with him. Only once did she slip and mention her deadbeat, drunken father, long out of work and living in the home where she grew up. The place was probably falling down around his ears but she didn't care. He'd never done anything for her. The slip happened during one of their many in depth conversations, when they were talking about Shakespeare and got into analyzing Hamlet. It was then she made the comment, regretting the moment as soon as it was out of her mouth. "I wouldn't care." If someone had offed her father. The problem was, she meant it and he could tell. But he didn't seem all that surprised or worried about her. He sat across from her in the dark, rumbling bus, a dark lock of hair falling onto his forehead and into those sea blue, dark lashed eyes, and he shrugged. He looked directly at her while he lounged on his own seat, slouched against the window in relaxation and familiarity. "I know what you mean," was all he said. By the look on his handsome face, she knew he meant it. She shivered and felt a little delicious. A little naughty. She licked her young, full lips slowly, deliberately, and stared at him. He stared back until the air between them practically crackled. He broke the contact with difficulty and chastised himself, but not harshly. The rest of the return journey was silent but not, electricity vibrating across the expanse of the two seats occupied by Mary and her teacher, Daniel Poulton. Around her was an aura of intense satisfaction; around him was one of discomfort-and inevitability. * * * * * * * It happened after their last meet one night, when they had to stay overnight because of the worst snow Detroit had seen in over thirty years. There was no way they could drive back to Winnetka, Michigan on a ponderous, treacherous school bus. A group of eight teenagers and two adults blew into the Fairmont Inn, shivering and shaking from the cold and blowing snow. They shook off their coats, the teenagers chattering and loud, while Mr. Poulton went to the scarred, wooden front desk and dinged a bell. The proprieter shuffled in from behind a heavy door about five minutes after the thrid ding. He was stooped and looked disinterested and cranky at the same time. He gazed upon the group, stopped himself short, then sighed long and loudly, phlegm bubbling with the emission of air. "What can I do for you." His voice was thin and difficult to hear through the cacophony of young voices, so Daniel twisted around to shout "shut up!" He turned back to the desk and in as charming a manner as his frozen face would allow, he asked for six rooms. Daniel signed all the paperwork, handed out room keys, and bustled the students to their rooms and portly, friendly, middle-aged Mrs. Scheer to hers. He spoke with her briefly about what sort of paperwork would be needed for the principal so they could be reimbursed, and then he rattled with the door lock on his own dark pine room door. He finally wrestled it open and was able to stand in the middle of a room smelling like a combination of lysol and stale urine. Wonderful, he thought to himself, standing on a yellow threadbare carpet, soaking it while he took in what looked like a rickety, spindly bed with a yellow, equally threadbare blanket on top. He sat gingerly on the bed after shedding his coat and plopping it on a stained, dark brown easy chair to the left, heard it squeak and lifted his butt up a little before he cautiously sat all the way down, again. He picked up the old, black rotary telephone's receiver and listened for a dial tone. When he heard one he dialed, waited, and then spoke. "Hey, it's me. No, we couldn't make it tonight without putting the kids and ourselves in jeapordy." He waited a bit, picking at his teeth and shivering with goose bumps, then he responded. "I know, I'll take care of it when I get home. You won't need the car for now, anyway. It's not like you can go anywhere. He peered out of his room window. "It's really coming down. Is Bridget sleeping? Okay, give her a hug for me. Love you. Bye." He put the receiver down with a small expulsion of air. He promised himself it wasn't a sigh of relief. Not really. He leaned back on the bed, gingerly, and stared up at the drywalled ceiling splotched with water marks. He hoped the ceiling wouldn't cave in tonight. He knew he should probably make one more round to be sure the kids were in their rooms and not trying to play around or something... He was startled awake by a soft knock on his door. He startled up with a sharp intake of breath and shook his head, momentarily disoriented. Then he remembered where he was and slid off the bed, weaved his way to the door. He opened it with the chain still attached, peeked a bloodshot eyeball out, and gazed upon his visitor. "Hi," Mary intoned softly, almost too softly for him to hear. "Okay if I come in?" She stood with her curly dark hair hanging down to her shoulders, creamy soft shoulders he could see because she wore a shirt with only thin spaghetti straps--no bra. He couldn't help it, his eye traveled down to tantalizing nipples straining against thin fabric and couldn't help his own tongue reaching out to lick at his lips. He looked back up, to her eyes with lashes long and dark and her face, looking at him with an open invitation, one he'd read since the day she handed him her application to join the team. He knew he shouldn't, knew that now was the time to turn her away, stop the insanity before it got him into real trouble. He knew it like he knew he wasn't going to do it. He closed the door long enough to take the chain off the door and admit her. But the kid is not my son. |
| Things are happening for Liz, which means they're happening for the rest of us. She is going into a residential treatment facility today, here in Rochester. Two days ago, when we went to visit at the hospital where she was taken (an "exciting" trip to a place over two hours away on mostly two-lane highways covered in thick blankets of fog), she was obviously manic. The only thing she wasn't doing in the visitors' area was literally bouncing off the walls. I was annoyed most especially when she informed me that the psychiatrist she'd seen told her she might not be bipolar...WHAT?! After my hours of ponderous research over the condition my daughter has dealt with since she was very young, I am more than 100% sure that the diagnosis made six years ago is accurate. She has more than just the condition, but bipolar disorder type 2 is the primary one. Upon speaking with her social worker, an absolutely lovely woman who came into the unit on an evening she didn't have to simply to speak with me, I discovered that St Mary's, a celebrated hospital attached to the Mayo Clinic here in Rochester, left Liz at their facility with no background information at all. Once I relayed Liz's history to both her and the doctor, there was an "ah ha" moment from both of them. I also didn't mind the surprise they registered upon realizing I have a handle on what Liz's diagnosis is and what it means. They were able to understand that it's not Liz's "domestic situation" causing her problems...it's her brain chemistry.I'm so glad she's getting the help she needs, and I'm glad to feel the burden lift from me. I love my daughter but I know I can't be everything to her. I am her MOTHER and as such I can't be her psychiatrist, psychologist, and social worker. When I talked to the professionals I used a phrase my wonderful friend Kåre Enga going to Montana  coined for me concerning the situation: I've been wearing too many hats when it comes to Liz's care. No kidding. I was able to stand firm on my opinion that Liz has to be given real care this time. Liz actually called on Wednesday and said her Dr. thought she could go home. The dread welled up in me because I knew she wasn't ready and I knew I didn't want her to come HOME to our family anytime in the near future. It's not about whether I love her because of course I do. But when someone's presence becomes toxic to everyone, including herself, it's time for an alternate plan. I was able to stand firm because of the pillar behind me. His name is Thomas Between his mother and him, I feel the support I've lacked before. And it's AWESOME!!! |
| I thought I'd post just a bit more of my Nano story, the first Nano I've ever done, thank you very much! So for your enjoyment, should you choose to read, is what comes after the prologue from a few days ago: Chapter one: And So It Begins Stairway to Heaven, 1972- It rang out in a tinny reverbation around the room. There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold And she's buying a stairway to heaven. When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed With a word she can get what she came for. Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven. He wondered what his mother would buy with the money from her latest, but he really didn't care, and even though he was the one who had turned on the radio to blast out the sounds of her and the fat, balding man she'd brought home this time, he covered his head with his sweat-soaked pillow, sure he could still hear them through the loud radio, the blasting television in the living room, and even his grimy pillow. "She's buying a Stairway to Heaven," crooned the radio, almost like an admonition to him, a finger-wave to remember not to judge her too harshly, like his grandmom always said when he visited her at the home. "Don't judge her harshly," the bent, sick woman would say as she coughed bloody spittle into an old, ratty handkerchief. "She's doing the best she can for us, Daniel Boy. The best she can." And then the coughing would get worse and he would have to leave because he couldn't stand seeing her so sick. She didn't live far, in a home about seven blocks down and over, across from the shoe factory where his grandpa used to work before a stroke took him away. Before his mother had to bring home weird, strange men who made her do things he sometimes saw, and it made him sick to his stomach, so sick that he didn't even eat much ever. His stomach always rolled and heaved, especially when he saw her. It didn't help that she wouldn't even look at him, anymore. He knew she was probably ashamed, but she was making him feel ashamed too, damn her, and he wasn't doing anything wrong...she was. He lay there, in his grimy bed with his grimy pillow around his ears, and he thought about what it used to be like, before everything went to hell-literally. He never had a father in his entire thirteen years of life, but he never cared. He used to have a grandpop named Bill who took him fishing sometimes and even to work once in a while. He used to love being surrounded by all that leather in the shoe factory, the smell tickled his nose and made him a little dizzy, sometimes, and when he told his pop, Bill would throw back his head and laugh long and loud. Then he died. Damn him. His grandmom used to make him oatmeal, all lumpy and steamy and "good for you" she'd say with a look in her eyes that told him he'd better eat it or else. So he'd swallow ever last morsel because she wanted him to, and then she'd pat his head, call him a good boy, and send him to school with a kiss. That was before she got sick too, so sick she couldn't get up and make him oatmeal anymore by the time he was in the fifth grade. He started having to make his own breakfast. Once he tried to make oatmeal like she did, but it came out wrong and it tasted like the leather from his grandfather's shoe factory. He dumped it down an ancient, white sink full of scratches from constant scrubbing, and he never tried it again. He never liked oatmeal anymore because it reminded him of shoe leather. Damn her, too. Back then his mother wasn't around so much, but it wasn't a problem because he had them, the grandparents, and honestly he liked them better. She did used to smell good though, like those flowers, the tiny purple ones that grow in bunches. There was a tiny bush of them right outside his bedroom window and he used to inhale the scent at night, opening the window so the smell would cover him while he read William Faulkner or Kurt Vonnegut by flashlight or slept. Now the smell made him nauseous. She used to work in an office for a man who she said didn't treat her so good, a man his grandparents would yell about. Sometimes his grandmom would cry and his pop would get red and blotchy in the face. "Kathleen," he could remember his grandfather saying in a thick Irish Brogue, "You need to get away from that arse before he impregnates you, again. Then what you gonna do? We can't have two of your little bastards to feed while he lives high and mighty up there on his hill!" His grandfather would get mad at those times, then mean, threatening to kick him and his mother out on the street for her producing a bastard and him for being one. Daniel never quite understood what Pop meant when he called him that, not when he was just a kid. Grandmom never called him a bastard. She called him Daniel Boy, had since he could remember. He never understood why because he never heard of a GIRL named Daniel, but he didn't question her because he liked it. The name was uniquely hers to him. It felt good. But now it was over, all of it. Pop was dead, buried last year at the cemetary where Daniel laid his fishing pole down, on top of the fresh soil dug for a new grave. He didn't feel much like fishing, anymore. Right after, a couple of months, Grandmom got so bad they couldn't take care of her anymore, just him and his mother. It was when she left to live in the home that his mother started bringing home "friends" who weren't really friends at all. He even remembered the first time it happened, when he banged in after school, threw his books on Pop's old threadbare recliner. He heard it then, stilling himself to listen to weird sounds coming from inside her room, the one that used to be Pop's and Grandmom's. The one right across from his own small room in an old house that was built before even Pop was alive, probably. Daniel listened and didn't want to believe it, the sounds he heard that were just the way Karen Davenport sounded when she and Rogert Price got going at night, outside the bedroom window of his friend Paul. With Paul and him listening to Karen and Roger the sounds had been funny and kind of a turn-on, but with his mother...it started to make his stomach hurt in a way that never stopped. And she's buying a stairway to heaven. The song ended and he burrowed even deeper, sure he could hear moans from the other side of his wall. He rocked back and forth in his own squeaky bed, his lean, young body jerking back and forth in a sort of dance with the tinny, raucous music. His white-turned-tan pillowcase encasing his pillow surrounded his head, strategically around his ears, and finally, fitfully, he slept for a few hours before dawn. It wasn't until after the fat man went home, though, and his mother's bedroom light went dark. * * * * * * * * * Sounds of Silence, 1973- Hello darkness, my old friend I've come to talk with you again Because a vision softly creeping Left its seeds while I was sleeping And the vision that was planted in my brain Still remains Within the sound of silence. She played with her dolls and refused to listen to them, the shouting grownups whose cacophany rang through the tiny, studiously clean house, the shrillness of it seeping through the record player that was turning, belting out Simon and Garfunkel in the small, immaculate living room. She sat on the shiny wooden floor in her tiny, shiny room and changed their clothes with sure little fingers. She talked to them, telling them not to worry because mommy and daddy always do this in the afternoon when daddy comes home. "There's nothing to worry about," she told her Chatty Kathy doll as she shoved tiny little boots on plastic feet. "You don't need to worry. They'll stop and they won't talk at supper, and then we'll go to sleep and Daddy will be gone in the morning." She brought the doll close to her face and looked somberly into it's cardboard-blue eyes. "He goes to work all the time, and sometimes he doesn't even come home at all. Then mommy worries and gets mad, but when he comes home she yells." She suddenly pushed the doll hard. It landed on the floor with a thump. The little girl scrambled up, smoothed the lime green, flaring skirt of her dress, and looked down at her face which was reflected in the mary jane shoes on her feet. She took in the plump, rosy cheeks, the wide eyes with long, dark lashes, the brown sausage curls that fell around her face. "Dumb," she told the reflection. "You are dumb. You are the dumbest girl in the world." She didn't know why she said that. Mommy always told her how smart she was and so did Miss Borenholtz at kindergarten. She didn't know why she didn't believe it. She sat down again, crosslegged, and picked up Chatty Kathy. She liked Chatty Kathy because she was easy to dress and she talked, too. She gasped and sat up straight when she heard her mother call, "Mary, it's time to eat." She stood again, brushed her skirt and pulled her sausage curls behind her back, and turned to stare at her closed wooden door. She didn't want to go. She didn't like supper ever, but she had to go, so she opened the door with her small, chubby, five-year-old hand and marched out and down the hall. She stood at the edge of the hall and looked to the left, at her parents seating themselves around a shiny wooden table, dark cherry wood. "Well come on, sweetheart. Come sit down." Her mother motioned to the seat where Mary always sat. She looked over at the empty seat across from it. "Where's Steven?" She asked the question and held her breath. Daddy was always telling him he should leave, but Mary didn't want him to. She loved her big brother with all of her small heart. More than she loved Daddy, she would sometimes think, then call herself dumb for being that way. You are supposed to love your daddy more than your brother. Everybody does. But Steven, Mary reflected while she stood, played with her the way Daddy never did. on the floor with her dolls or Candyland or Chutes and Ladders. He even taught her to play Parcheesi and never once called her stupid. Steven, with wavy, thick, dark hair and vibrant greenish eyes, made her feel important and pretty and smart and sometimes like a fairy princess. Last year when he was still in high school, Steven would bring his football friends into the kitchen. He would grab Mary when she sat on the stool beside her mother and lift her high, tell his friends that she was the best part of his family. Steven's friends would laugh and smile and call her their "little girlfriend." Sometimes she would be a little scared because they were all so big, but she always felt special. Steven told her all the time that she was special. "Steven is out tonight," her mother told her as she motioned again to the seat, dark and wooden like the table. Mary went to it and slid in. She stared down at her plate yet to be filled with boiled red potatoes, wax beans, and meatloaf steaming in the center of the table on a potholder. She looked at the slices of bread with butter sitting next to it in a pristine white dish and her mouth started to water. She loved bread and butter the best. She looked up at her father, at his imposing face with dark whiskers already sprouting and dark eyes bent in a perpetual frown. She wished he liked her more. Maybe then she'd feel like loving him more. She sighed and bowed her head obediently, waiting for the prayer so she could have some bread and butter. And the people bowed and prayed To the neon god they made And the sign flashed out its warning In the words that it was forming And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls And tenement halls" And whispered in the sounds of silence. "Oh," uttered her mother with a surprised lift to her head. "I'll go shut that off." She bustled over to the record player then returned, smoothed down her blue dress, and sat primly on the edge of her own chair. She patted her shiny brown hair, sprayed stiff into an undercurl, and lowered her head as the father began to utter a prayer by rote, the same one he uttered every night: "Lord bless us and bless this food about to enter our bodies. Keep us in Your tender mercies and grace us with Your benevolent hand. Amen." With the last word he was already reaching forward, burnt umber shirtsleeves rolled up past his elbows, towards the meatloaf and potatoes. Mary had to sit and wait in the silence of clacking dishes and the wordless passing of bread and butter. To Be Continued... |
| My poor Thomas. It happened again and he was drawn into the drama. Of course it was Liz. We've had a good run for almost a year without one of these hospital runs. Actually, there were times when I should have taken her in and left her, forced "them" to get her the help she needed. When we were in Moline and would make these trips, though, I was faced with medical personnel who didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation, of what living with a mentally ill person, especially one who is bipolar, is really all about. They didn't get it and it blew my mind. Don't these people get PAID to get it?!?! Sometimes I'd leave the place wondering if it really was me, if I was overreacting to the screaming, the ranting, the name-calling, the threats, the temper tantrums from a grown person...and on and on. I knew I wasn't but where do you go with an entire medical system in your city that just doesn't seem equipped to "get it" or help in any way?? I tried to take her different places away from Moline and the Trinity Health System which never did much for her, but traveling hours to dr.'s appointments often proved tough-to-impossible. I felt like I was at an impasse. And the times police in Illinois simply handed her back to me after she'd screamed obscenities at them! I just never knew what to do to make my home a more peaceful one, a better one. With Liz in the house there is turmoil.I love my daughter, but she has problems, big ones. She needs help for those problems and in Illinois, the Quad Cities, I never got it. Fast forward to last night... Here we go again, and I felt even worse that Thomas had to be placed in the middle of it all. This is the thing with Liz and most people who are bipolar-to-borderline: she knows how to push buttons. She knows exactly what to say and exactly how to say it in a way that will garner the desired result...an authority figure's loss of control. She knows how to make me see red to the point that I've yelled, cursed, said and done things I'd never say and do if I was in my right mind. She does this on purpose, something she even admitted last night. She goes for the jugular. The fact that Thomas had to be on the receiving end of her machinations breaks my heart. It really does. After stirring up our family and spewing her screams and curses and threats, throwing the remote and smashing it against a wall...I told her it was time to go to a hospital. She refused, then Tom and I, always of a like mind, both called 911 on different phones in practically the same minute! We'd talked about it, we knew what we had to do. Make her accountable. The first Policeman who showed up both irritated and amused me. I think he just irritated Tom! He was young-green-and when Liz "turned on a dime" and acted like little miss Sweetheart, implying the rest of us were the "ogres," he bought it. Thankfully some other officers followed on his heels, middle aged men who "knew the score" and tried to subtley let him in on it. We got Liz to volunteer to go to the hospital, St Mary's which is an offshoot of the Mayo here in Rochester, and we were escorted by the young policeman, sheepish by this time. I smiled at him when we got to the hospital and thanked him. He averted his eyes after nodding his head briefly. Ah, youth! But Liz is getting the help she needs. She didn't snow the psychiatrist at St. Mary's. She didn't snow the nurses and other sundry medical personnel. It took them ten minutes of visiting with her for them to diagnose that she is "actively mentally ill" and a danger to herself and others. It was as if they knew her and were prepared for her. FABULOUS!!! At St. Mary's I felt vindicated, listened to, and ultimately HELPED. These people knew their jobs and they did it in a smooth and timely manner. It was like clockwork. Impressive.I left Liz at 3am while they were still finding her a bed at a psychiatric facility. They've done so and called me promptly to tell me where she is. I'm relieved to the point of tears. Liz is going to receive the help she desperately needs and our family is going to once again become a more peaceful, healthy unit. Rochester ROCKS! I'm still grieved that Thomas had to experience what he did. I told him before that I wouldn't wish parts of my life on anyone, much less someone I love to the degree that I love him. He seems to think I'm worth it. Crazy guy. |
| Do I look like the sort of person who would write a romance novel? Do I look like the sort of person who would write a children's book?? Just a little bit ago, while I was sitting here at work, our shuttle bus driver came in, used the facilities, and on his walk back asked me what I was concentrating so hard on. I told him bluntly that I'm writing a novel. I am. It's for NaNoWrimo, of course, my first time trying this on for size. I didn't tell him all that, of couse, I just mentioned the part about writing a novel (I'm stuck again right now, by the way). When he got over his surprise at my answer, what I was concentrating on, that was when he asked if it was a romance, obviously expecting the affirmative! I said "no" and that was when he asked if it was a children's book. Um, NO! He reminded me of Liz's psychiatrist who, when I told him several years ago that I'm a writer, responded with a bit of a sneer and asked if I write romances.  First of all, writing a romance is nothing to be ashamed of, certainly. I tried my hand at it once, and though the results were actually pretty good, it's simply not the genre I choose to write in. But romance writers...they work as hard as any other kind. So why the sneer? Why the instant assumption that I'm writing "fluff"...and you know that's what it is! Sheesh, gender discrimination is alive and well. We're lucky enough, at this point in history, to enjoy the first black President in these United States. Perhaps after Barack's eight years it'll be Michelle's turn And now what I AM writing: it is a further study I began with a short story once. That story has nothing to do with what I'm creating now, so no I'm not breaking any NaNo rules, but it's more in depth and a further development into... The creation of a serial killer. Nope, no romance or children's novels for me. Not even close. Prologue The elderly couple smiled tremulously at the kind young man, dressed nattily in a crisp, new-looking white shirt with a black slacks, as he rang up their purchases and counted back their change. He asked where they were staying and they pointed trembling fingers in the direction of the local motel next door, the Fairmont Inn. It was cheap and a little shabby but clean, most folks who stayed were heard to comment. The cleanliness was almost strange, one or two individuals would venture with squints to their observant eyes. But most didn’t notice or pay attention to how the tub’s enamel was scrubbed to the point of scratches on its surface, or how the sheets were almost scratchy from too much starch and bleach in the wash cycle. For the majority of folks coming in off the highway, exhausted and in search of something cockroach-free and affordable, the Fairmont Inn was both. The young man nodded and smiled, the dimples in his cheeks exposed to a lonely grandmother who became misty at his resemblance to her own son, long since departed and with a home of his own. He remembered to call now and then, she reminded herself sternly when she felt saltwater tears pricking at the corners of her aging blue eyes. She looked to the right, at her husband of more than fifty years, and wondered if he was thinking the same thing. Probably not. He wasn’t as sentimental as she was and he became impatient with her “whining” as he called it. He told her she got what she wanted, didn’t she. The kids were independent and living their own lives. “We did a good job, Virginia. They’re successful and mostly happy. What more do you want.” She knew he was right, but still- “Well, you have a good stay,” the boy nodded and smiled again. So polite, Virginia thought dimly, blinking her eyes rapidly to dispel the tears she knew would bring a snort from her husband. With a finger wave she drifted out of silently swinging doors of the convenience store. The young man watched them, gazing at their departing backs. The elderly man was still tall even though he was now in a stooped position, in well-washed-to-a-shine dark blue pants with a white shirt and a blue blazer. His hair was a motionless iron gray. He shuffled along beside his smaller and seemingly more fragile wife. She was dressed in a musty flowered skirt and jacket, her blouse cream-colored with a big tied bow at the front. She wore matching cream-colored heels which she shuffled along in, and her hair was a mass of angel-white cotton candy. The man, as he watched, narrowed his own blue eyes. The kindly smile slowly morphed into something more resembling a pursed sort of scowl. The elderly woman, Virginia, wouldn’t have recognized him. That's all I'm going to share for now. |
| Here endeth the lesson. - Elliot Ness in the Untouchables, his last words to Al Capone. Very fitting. |
| Tomorrow is it, the day of reckoning... I'm on pins and needles. I don't think I've ever put so much of myself into an election as I have this one. I believe so strongly in my candidate of choice, Barack Obama, that I've given money, time, and have written ad nauseum, singing his praises. It's not that I think he's perfect or walks on water or even that he can fix every single thing that ails our current government's problems, but I do think he'll go a long way towards healing situations, relations, and people. I am not a hardline democrat. I consider myself to be a member of neither party. I'm independent because there are ways in which I am conservative just as there are ways in which I could call myself liberal. More often I would place myself somewhere in the middle. To me, moderation in all things is the key. No matter what Fox News or Republican and sundry conservative commentators have been telling you, Barack Obama is not a radical liberal. He is almost as moderate as me. There is very little I disagree with him about...when it's not an election year. He did cave to what a candidate needs to do who is seeking a political office through the votes of the masses. He became dirtier than he wanted to be, he dived into the muck of politics and either had to come out swining at least a little or suffer the slings and arrows of those who listen to rhetoric instead of taking a hard look at issues and a potential office-holders stance on them. He had to become what he reviled, in some ways, to get where he is. I saw this line exploded onto the screen when I watched The Untouchables, one of my all time favorite movies: I have foresworn myself. I have broken every law I have sworn to uphold, I have become what I beheld with contempt and I am content that I have done right. It's a sad commentary on our world that it takes digging down into the muck and mire with the "big boys" to make it at all in politics, to capture the attention of the masses, but there it is. And still he and his campaign did not reach the depths of others. Thank goodness. According to the polls, Obama is comfortably ahead. I do not and never have believed in the validity of polls, and so I and those who believe as strongly as I-or even more so in some cases-that Obama is the hope of a nation in need of something different and better, I again turn to the movie I love: Never stop, never stop fighting till the fight is done. |
| ...what a difference a year makes. I went back to read my entry from Halloween last year and it was interesting. I'm in a different place this year, a different house, city, state, and state of MIND I'll share something with the masses that I have, before today, only shared with my handsome and wonderful Thomas: Last year on Halloween I was working hard to pull myself out of a pit of deep depression. I had blogged a few days prior about how I was sick and hadn't been visiting or writing on this site due to a stomach virus. That was a lie. At the time I didn't feel strong enough to admit that I was sick all right, but it was with such a deep and horrific depression I was having trouble getting out of bed at all, ever. Halloween rolled around and helped pull me out of it. I've always been a fan of the holiday-what's not to like? Dressing up as someone and/or something else (I've always been an actress in my heart), connecting with friends and neighbors as they skip over to your house and you to theirs (I've always been a people person), and of course we cannot forget the CANDY!!! I just LOVE Halloween...I even get to give in to my inner tacky decorator and place Halloween decorations all around me...I mean really, what's not to love about this holiday??? It even pulled me up from the Abyss, last year...I did listen to myself after such a horrific experience in "the pit" and after Halloween, when I felt my mood once again plunge into the depths, I visited my doctor and took antidepressents for a period of time. They saved my life. I told Voxxylady  not long ago that they literally saved my life. I believe that. No...I don't think I'd have done anything drastic to myself, but there's a difference between LIVING and EXISTING. Today I am living, in no small part because of a small pill I took daily for about six months. After that I was able to be regulated without it, but I do monitor myself carefully. If I think I'm going into such a dark place again and feel an inability to pull myself up alone, I won't hesitiate to seek the help I need. It's SO much better than "suffering in silence" and as a result, neglecting to LIVE.HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! |
| A few days ago a woman returned to stay with us at the hotel where I work. She'd been here not too long ago to complete treatment for breast cancer; last year when she started going through treatment, she suffered a stroke and was in a wheelchair for a few months. She's a surgical nurse, herself, and used to being the careGIVER, she said. She's my age, 43. She's a nice woman, I like her. She has long brown/red hair and an open sort of face-the kind a good nurse should have. She was talking to me about the tough year she's had. First the cancer when she'd hardly been sick a day in her life, then the stroke, then her grandfather died and no one told her because they were afraid-she'd just had a stroke, I could understand. But with tears in her eyes she repeated, "it's been a tough year." I hear stories like this alot around here. I commisserated with her and then mentioned softly, hesitantly, "I know it's been really hard for you, but in every life experience there's a silver lining somewhere if you look for it." We talked about learning to appreciate the little things, then her eyes widened and she said, "You know, before I got sick I never once saw my kids off to school (she has two older teenagers, a jr and sr in high school). Last spring and this fall I've seen them off every day. I've made their lunches, had cookies waiting for them...I was never able to do that before. And my husband..." She looked over to where he was standing, watching the news on a television in the breakfast room..."I was married to my work." She looked up at me and tears glistened again. "You know, I've gotten to know my kids in a way I never did, before. I know my husband again and he's my best friend." Her eyes widened and we smiled at each other. Silver linings. My mother and aunt are elderly women in their 70s. My brother lives in my hometown with them and takes care of them as they decline slowly with age and need more help. They have needed a lot of help, lately. The house they live in-my grandmother's which was built in 1928, is crumbling down around them and my mother can't afford to get it fixed. A group of men from the Methodist Church in town are going on Saturday to fix it. Wonderful news! Along with this development my mother, aunt, and brother received a visit from a woman who works for the DHS in town, a social worker I'm sure. The woman's eyes widened when she spied all the antiques in the home, and there are a lot. My family used to run the movie theatre in town so we have posters from movies-gone-by. We have old '78s of Judy Garland and others of that era. My grandmother preserved her possessions in a way I can't and don't. The result is a house FULL of collectibles. The next day a woman from the auction house in town paid a visit. She practically drooled and walked away with an ancient victrola and the Judy Garland records with a promise to sell them at auction. The next day my brother had a charge of "elder abuse" lodged against him. Coincidence? We think not. It would be nice to trust people all the time and consider their motives to be altruistic and giving, but who among us, of any advanced age, know better? I used to think everyone thought like I do and wanted the best for everyone...not so. The complaint, if one knows my mother "but at all" is hilarious. Supposedly my brother "spoke roughly" and she cried. My mother, God love her, would knock him across the room before she'd cry! I knew upon reading this complaint that it was ludicrous and had its origins in greed.I called my cousin Kathy promptly. My hometown is rife with cousins and other sundry relatives that tend to let life bog them down-as we all do-and the family doesn't get together very often, if ever. The minute I called, however, she got busy. She called another cousin's husband who is a police officer and her father who is a respected businessman and my mother's first cousin. The family is rallying in a way we haven't for years and the issue will be promptly dealt with. Kathy urged me to find some time to get there and we'll inventory the house and hold our OWN auction. So my mother will be the recipient of some much needed funds, and the family is already communicating like we haven't in far too long. It's all about the silver linings.  |
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