Bunny Dreams

I dreamt that there were bunnies in my kitchen. Four cute fluffy white bunnies. They were trying to tell me something with their cute little twitching bunny noses, but I wasn't getting it. They were hopping around in a circle but their furry little feet kept slipping on the shiny linoleum. I had the brilliant idea to throw sugar on the floor to give them traction. It didn't. They just kept kicking it into little sugar dunes. They tried to lick the sugar off their feet but it just made them wet and the sugar turned to glue and they became stuck to the floor with sugar-glue.

This attracted the ant. He was a biggun. He was the size of a good house cat and walked on his hind legs like Mr. Peanut, but without the top hat and monocle. He carried a small green banjo and was playing and signing "Desperado" by the Eagles. Let me tell you "Desparado"on banjo is an interesting experience.

I tried to kill him but the only weapon I could find was a butter knife. I was fencing with a giant walking ant, me with a butter knife and he with his banjo. He was backing away from me when he fell over backwards over one of the bunnies that was stuck to the floor. When he hit the floor on the other side he burst into a puff of dust, like a vampire staked by Buffy. His banjo stayed behind.

All the commotion had awakened my son. He came to the kitchen door and stood there with his hands on his hips and yelled at me "remember you love me". Standing there in my kitchen of tiny sugar dunes, ant-dust and bunnies stuck to the floor with sugar-glue and shouted back at him. "Of course I love you." He yelled back at me "Him too, remember you love him too."

I suddenly remembered that Hubby and I had a big argument before he stormed off to go to bed and I let him go to bed mad. That whole thing about never go to bed angry, I had never subscribed to it. No matter how mad Hubby was when he went to bed he always woke up in a good mood and the storm would pass. If it was a really big fight, he woke up in a good mood but still wanted to talk about it. In my dream somehow it seemed very important that tonight I didn't let it end that way.

I wakened slightly and curled my body around my hubbys back, kissed the nape of his neck and said "I love you" he stirred, snuggled closer and said "mmghfmmmfj" but I'm pretty sure he got the message.

I went back to dream land and my kitchen. The kitchen was spotless, no bunnies sugar-glued to the floor, no tiny piles of sugar, no ant-dust. My son was sitting in the middle of the floor playing the tiny green banjo singing the theme from Barney "I love you, you love me, together we're a family", etc. He had the most beautiful smile on his face.

Sometimes are dreams are trying to tell us something, we just have to listen.

nevermind

Please

I've been away, inside my head, I tried to make peace with the things I said
I let it all out, I meant every word but I know what part is the part you heard
NOT happy, not HAPPY, NOT HAPPY
It didn't matter that I didn't mean you, that's the only part that got through
You tried to hide it and brush it away but I saw what you didn't want to say
You're hurt that you can't make it just go away, the darkness that is here today
It's not your fault my demons are back, its when I am alone they like to attack
Fear, longing, doubt, sadness, guilt take your pick, it's quite a tower I've built
You'll reach out, touch my face and for one pure moment I know I have a place
When the blackness recedes it is devine, I go on pretending that I am fine
Then the gates come down and the darkness descends, I wonder, will it end?
I know you don't get it and that's really okay, just don't let go, at least not today

The card

Cleaning out my desk I found a card I had made a friend of mine when her son was born with a poem I wrote.

I thought it was nice

I decided to share

ONE OF THE GREATEST THINGS

In all the world you'll find no greater joy
Than holding your sweet little baby boy

Hold him often and hug him tight
They grow so fast, as if overnight

You'll turn around, blink and stare
And a little boy will be standing there

While little boys are precious too
There is a certain magic only babies can do

A cry in the night means his lungs are strong
He's hot or cold or his diaper's on wrong

Remember, he doesn't cry to make you mad
Something in his little world has made him sad

So cuddle him up with a loving touch
It is impossible to do this too much

It is an old fashioned notion, but I think it's true
This is one of the greatest things you'll ever do

My Motto

I have a penchant for the silly. I don't strive to be silly. I think it is just the most natural state of my being. I entertain myself when there is no one else to do it. I sing silly songs. I make up stories and act them out. I have been on many talk shows promoting my new book. I have written hilarious and moving episodes of my favorite TV shows, guest starring me of course.

I once spent three hours in my bathroom recording a stupid song of my own creation (the acoustics are better in the biffy) which I played over and over again and marveled at my talent. No one else has ever or will ever hear this recording, I'd hate to overwhelm them with my creative genius. I am never, ever bored. I have reached the age now where I like to think of myself as eccentric instead of just weird. I have heard hundreds of times in my life "you are weird" like they think I would take that as an insult.

I have spent many hours at work (when I worked) talking to myself, the furniture, the computer or fellow co-workers in an English, Southern, Irish or Russian accent. I used to say "I am not having an identity crisis, just a nationality crisis". My favorite "character" was Guido Chang, an accent somewhat Asian by way of Italy. Much to my delight this drove my closest cohort nuts ("You're not starting that again are you?" was commonly heard). I did it to amuse myself the fact that it drove her crazy was just a wonderful bonus.

I need a creative outlet. Sometimes it is writing, sometimes it is singing or dancing or photography or just deciding that today I shall be a Persian princess and you shall treat me as such. I had a sign taped to my wall at work that announced "I am princess high and might big shot told you so boss of the world" and in my world I am. Sometimes people are uncomfortable in my world, they don't quite know where they should sit. I say pull up a piece of floor and lets talk Pig Latin. My friend Jess and I used to play a game where you had to speak with out using the letter "d". Very challenging and fun, you ought to try it sometime.

Thankfully, I have passed this gift on to my son who once spent an entire plane ride from Florida entertaining himself with three carrots. Give him a stick and two rocks and he is good to go. If all else fails he will use his fingers as his playmates and act out elaborate stories with good guys and bad guys and dragons and flying machines with rocket boosters, all with nothing more than his ten digits. This my friends is talent. I must admit this can also cause lack of focus at school because if he is bored, he wanders in to his imagination and plays. When one is trying to stop your crayons from taking over your pencil box, attention is diverted from the teacher. What he lacks in "discipline" he more than makes up for in imagination.

I try not to let tightly wound people derail my fun train. I used to worry that people would think I was just a big ditz. Then I realized I didn't really care. If someone takes the time to get to know me they would find out that I am one smart cookie, if they didn't get to know me then why should I care what they think of me? I realized a long time ago that nobody was going to make my life or work fun except me. I would much rather have fun and be silly than be serious all the time so people would know I was a serious minded, intelligent human. Red Skelton once said "Life is too short to be taken seriously" and Einstein said "Imagination is more important than knowledge" Amen brothers!

My motto: "I can be as mature as the situation warrants"
If in the mean time I get to do a silly dance, all the better for me.

Dear.............

I didn't want to play it this way, it shouldn't be like this. Your silence is deafening. I keep falling in the empty space you left behind. The wall that I keep running into has your picture on it. I keep tripping over the pieces of me that break off with every new disappointment and hurt. I am getting smaller because of you. I am becoming transparent because you can't see me anymore. You shut me out. Closed the door, turned off the lights and pulled the shades. Why? Oh wait the window is opening again, just a little, not all the way just enough to let a little fresh air and light in. I get a small piece back, Oh wait, I was wrong! The window slammed shut, piece lost again. I wanted to believe you wouldn't just discard me, yesterdays news, out of sight out of mind. We had a "thing" I know it was real, I didn't imagine it. It took years to build. My cold hands on you, comforted by the warmth between us, safe and unthreatening. Your smile lit me up even as you told me fabulous lies.I thought it was solid, it disappeared with the exhaled breath of unspoken words, nothing but shadows after all. You inspired me, made me work, think, see. You shared with me, then cut me off, then a note under the door, in the back, but still there, then gone again. What happened? When did I become nothing to you ?

State of Jojo

The more time I have the less I get done. I have been unemployed now for a few weeks and I have posted seldom (about once a week). When I was first unemployed I thought "well now I will have tons of time to write tons of fabulous posts". Needless to say, that did not happen. When I had to fit it in between 5:30 and 6:30 in the morning, my fingers would fly over the keys so fast my brain couldn't keep up. I would think, write, create in such a flurry sometimes I wasn't sure what I had written until it was done.

Now I have all the time in the world (relatively speaking) to post and I just can't seem to get my butt in the chair and do it. Maybe it is the fodder for my posts so often came from work, something someone said or did made me think or reminded me of something. Now there is just me and my cats on most days. My days are filled with cleaning, cooking, letter writing, reading want ads, sending resumes and e-mails, these are not the things great posts are made of. When I was on a tight schedule I couldn't wait to have my hour to myself to hammer out something. Now I think, "What do I have to say?" "Oh, I'll do it later" and then later never comes. There are so many things I still want to talk about and so many stories I want to tell. It is just so much harder to make myself do it.

I have never been prone to depression. Until now. It is not a deep depression but a mild case of worthlessness that is nagging at me. I have no marketable skills. I have worked in a very specific industry for a very long time and I am no longer young and cute. I read the ads and they all want skills I don't have or they want a four year degree I don't have. What difference does it make? Even if I had a degree from college it would have been from 20 years ago, who would care?

I could work at Wal-mart for $7.40 an hour. I make more than that on unemployment. I was at the high end of the pay scale for my industry. The industry is hurting, everywhere. There is no way someone is going to pay me what I was making, especially with no degree and no "skills" (Microsoft word, excel, photoshop, outlook, windows XP). All those things that almost all the want ads that aren't for forklift drivers ask that you have.

The "dislocated worker" program at the local Minnesota Work Force Center will hopefully pay for me to take classes to learn all these fun things so I am marketable to more places. I don't want to work in an office. I realize that is probably what it will come down to though. After so many years of freedom and autonomy it will be very very hard to have to tow the line and work in a structured environment.

I am sometimes still so angry about what happened and the way I was treated that I can hardly see straight. I fluctuate from wishing them all the ills in the world and hoping that they sink like the Titanic to feeling sorry for them and hoping that they survive and everythings works out an the business gets stronger. I heard they were hiring someone to come in and teach someone the things that I used to do that no one else knew how to do. The problem is I cared, he doesn't I hope they have fun. I still have this huge chunk of betrayal sitting in my gut that won't seem to go away. I try to put a positive spin on things and am trying really hard to find that silver lining I am sure is on this cloud but it gets harder everyday. I am running out of money and self-esteem.

I am going to go hug my kid now. That always makes me feel better.

Witness

Your teeth bared
behind angry lips
chewed up the silence
I tried to escape into

your words kept coming
at me like bullets
from your gun-mouth
piercing my skin

Your eyes throw
daggers of fire
that follow the bullets
to my heart

I close my eyes so
I won't see
that much hate
from the one I love

I am not the one
who is looking

from behind the door
a small blonde head
eyes full of fear
hands clenched in fists

How do I explain
the hurtful words we
throw at each other?

I need to hug
the small scared boy
who doesn't understand

that sometimes we hurt
most, those we love
the most
because we can

we have all the
right weapons
we know how to
push the buttons

we supply our
own ammo from
years of intimacy

in that moment
I hate that we do
this to each other

not because of
what was said
or the look
in your eyes

because of the
look
in his

Dog Envy

There I admit it. I have dog envy. I want a dog. A big dog. My neighbors have a miniature toy poodle (is that like a toy-toy?) that is small enough to fit in one hand, and she is full grown. Her name is Polly (isn't that cute?) When she is yapping and nipping at my ankles I have to fight the urge to shove her in my coat pocket and zip it. Why do people want little pocket puppies? If you want a tiny pet get a hamster or a guinea pig at least those you don't have to take outside every few hours. I have nothing against people with tiny dogs, I just don't understand it. If you want a dog, get "real" dog.

My sons best friend has a golden retriever. His name is Bubba. He is a real dog. He wanders around with a tennis ball in his mouth waiting for someone to play with him. He ambles over whenever we are outside and sits on my porch. Everywhere my sons friend goes, he is there. They are pals, constant companions. I think every boy should have a dog, yard permitting. We live by a lake we have park trails and woods in our back yard. I have visions of our dog and my son going off on adventures through the woods and if Son falls and sprains his ankle our furry friend will race home to get us so we can rescue him.

I want a big black lab and I want to name him Moses.

My husband say we can not have a dog. I know, I know. Why does my husband get to make all the rules? Well I can't very well force him to accept something he doesn't like. He grew up with dogs. Little kick-me dogs, they raised Chihuahua's. Then they moved on to slightly bigger dogs that always had bladder problems. More than once I sat on his moms carpet in a big puddle of dog pee. His mom sees her dogs as her children that have left the nest. Her new charge, a cairn terrier, is her baby, she feeds him with a spoon, she makes sweaters and booties for him so he won't get cold in the winter when he goes outside. Sometimes I am not sure she realizes he is a dog. My husbands past experience with dogs does not bode well for the future of a canine in my home. The older he gets the less he likes dogs, unless they belong to other people.

He says "Dogs are a lot of work" to which I replied. "So are kids but we had one of those". He says "You can't just leave a dog with food and water and go out of town for the weekend" to which I replied "You can't do that with a kid either, and we had one of those" My logic escapes him.

We have cats, I love cats. I have always had cats, I intend to always have cats. They are intregal to my personality, my lifestyle. At least my husband is a cat person too. I have never had a dog. I want to be dog person too. I want to have to go home straight after work (assuming I work again) so I can let the dog out. I want that unconditonal love with tail wagging when I come through the door at night. I want a big shaggy head on my feet as I watch TV. I want to throw slimy tennis balls until my arm is weak. I want my son to live in Mayberry and walk down long, dusty country lanes with a fishing pole and sandwiches with pickles tied up in a red bandana, with Moses at his side.

I want a big black lab and I want to name him Moses.

I have dog envy.

Reality Check

It has been made clear to me that the reality in which I thought I lived was an illusion. The things I thought were truths have been exposed as lies. The things I believed in have turned to water and slipped through my fingers. I have tried to maintain a sense of pride and honor and have found that the cost is far greater than anticipated.

I almost gave up. I almost threw in the towel. I was ready to concede defeat before that battle even started as I can not fight a foe that will not face me. I can not make peace with the "enemy" when they will not meet on neutral ground. When they will not acknowledge that I exist anymore. When they have turned their back on me without a word. People I thought were my friends have been shown to be otherwise. Personal relationships deemed "none of their business" How, I ask, can a personal relationship be none of their business?. The door was shut in my face one too many times this week and I didn't think I had it in me to continue. I don't mean in my life as a whole. I mean here, in this place that I have always sought solace and encouragement.

I had a post a few days ago, maybe some of you read it, it was up only a short time before I removed it. It was my farewell. It was my swan song as I had decided I could not continue with out the encouragement and friendship of my inspiration. Then I realized I was stronger than that. I was a better person than that. It took a lot out of me to admit the hurt and anguish and more even to admit I could stand up and say I will be counted if not by you, then maybe by others and certainly by me.

I hope others still find me here. If they don't I realize that's okay. I will find me here, as I always have. In these words and stories I will find myself, explore myself and push myself to reveal things that are hard, painful, funny, stupid, touching....whatever. I will trust that this is indeed my place, where I will stake my claim on my life. I hope others come along for the ride as I have enjoyed riding the comment train will continue to do so.

Jojo is back and ready to rumble.

Winds of change

The winds of change are blowing through my life
Hurricane velocity winds
I can barely stand
Against the onslaught of........everything

The fabric is torn, split, shredded
I want so badly to repair it
I want to sew up the holes
That I keep falling through

I wish I could turn in my cards
For a different hand
I didn't play mine well
I bet more than I had to lose
And now I am paying
For my hubris

I thought it mattered
I thought I was strong
I thought I was right
I thought it was about pride

I was wrong

Untethered

I am untethered, unhinged, unemployed. I have lost my place. The place I have always (for 15+ yrs) belonged. It was always more to me than a job, we were a family, there were only about 15 of us. I loved what I did and where I did it and I was (am) good at it. I have been cast adrift, pushed out to sea. I am more than heartbroken. I have been betrayed by people that I trusted, that I loved. I am hurt, confused, shocked. I am angry that it hurts so much. I am angry that I can't stop crying. I wish I could detach more but I can't. I am all raw nerve endings and open wounds.

I'm leaving now, don't know when I'll be back again, oh babe I hate to go........................................

MINE (part one)

I have always wanted something that is mine. Not material possessions, I have plenty of those. I mean something I do that belongs to me. Something that is not a shared project or experience. Something that is just mine.

A few years ago I decided that I wanted to photograph local bands. I would tote my cameras and film with me to every smoky, crammed, cramped over imbibed bar where a band I liked was playing. I would make my way through the crowds with my camera held over my head. I would stake out a place in front of the stage or on the stairs and shoot away. Lost in my own "creative space" within the throbbing, jumping, drunken masses. I felt like I had found something that was mine. I was pretty good at it and I loved doing it. I got to know local musicians, they would mug for me from stage. My friend would come along and watch my stuff at our table and make sure I had a base of operations and enjoy the music while I photographed.

Then one night my girlfriend decided to bring her camera and try it. She also found it to be quite a rush of creative energy and decided she wanted to give it a go also. We would do it together. We came up with a name to call ourselves, even had business cards printed up. We were a team. We photographed all over the place. To see us taking up booth space, loading film, changing rolls, standing on bar stools and tables was nothing unusual. Of course local struggling bands don't have any money to buy photographs but they enjoyed looking at them and telling us how good we were. We had a few favorites. There are some bands (some now defunct) that we have hundreds and hundreds of photographs of. But the point is, it no longer was a me thing, it was now as us thing. A partnership, a combined effort. Until my girlfriend decided she liked Long Island Tea's better than she liked her camera and as the months wore on, she would get increasingly intoxicated at our "shoots" to the point that we could no longer talk to the band afterward because she was too drunk and that just made us look bad and her drunken ramblings idiotic.

We had a lot of fun. We saw a lot of great bands and heard a lot of great music. We took a lot of pictures. We, we we. It was no longer mine. It was ours. I don't regret teaming up with her, she was a really good photographer when she was sober, and an excellent printer. There is a part of me however that wishes it was, could have been, just mine. It makes me feel petty and selfish to feel that way, but I do nonetheless.

She got sober, I had a baby, no more smoky bars for us.

Parental Justice?

After reading the post "God Help the Children" By lab munkay I was struck by the thought, what if there was parental justice? What if it was up to the parents or loved ones of the victims to decide what punishment the offender received? My first reaction is that vigilante justice would be the norm. I would want to beat the crap out of anyone that harmed someone I love. I would want them to suffer as their victim suffered. I'm not sure at what level you would prescribe this punishment. Not for petty theft and burglary, not that those are not serious but they don't carry the same emotional weight that a physical assault does. Or if the offender really was not capable of distinguishing between right and wrong. I mean for the people that are just bad, mean, evil, miserable people that leave a path of destruction, heartache and scars that never really heal through the lives of others.

I supposed first it has to be decided who actually meets out the punishment? Is there some organization of goonies that you send out to do your dirty work, under the strictest supervision of the "committee for family justice" to see that they don't get too carried away or do you do the deed yourself. I know I could order it done much easier than carry it out myself.

I started to think what would I really do? My first instinct would be a violent reaction. I would want them hurt, maimed, scarred for life. I would want them locked up in a tiny windowless room with no lights and chainsaw music 24/7. I would want to pull their fingernails out slowly one by one and listen to them scream. I would want to......... The list goes on and on and gets scarier and scarier. I think I am turning into one of them. I am turning into someone who would enjoy the pain of somebody else. If I sit by and let this happen does this not make me on the same level? In some way I think it does. Would it really make me feel any better about the crime they committed? If they had killed a loved one there is not enough pain in the world that they could go through that would be enough. Would it really help the healing process? Then I think of my son and what would I tell him? "Oh honey, it's okay you don't ever have to worry about that bad person hurting you again cuz I fixed him good". Finally I think I could not carry through because I know one thing for certain they will pay for their crimes in hell and I don't want to join them.

Our justice system is far from perfect and there are times when it makes my head spin how disproportionate sentences seem to the seriousness of the crime. I think it is a far cry from "make the punishment fit the crime". When a white collar criminal spends more time in jail than a rapist, something is wrong. I also realize they are doing the best they can with what they have to work with and I do not envy the people (lawyers, judges, psychiatrists, etc.) that make the decisions. I know deals are made and sometimes the impact of the crime on the victim and or their family gets lost.

A cry of "posse up boys" does not seem to be the answer either. I think a lot of parents would disagree with me and say "let me at 'em" but given the option could they really decide to hurt someone else? Lock them up, sure, but actually physically harming them with their own hands? If given the choice, the offender gets ten years in jail or you get to take out both knees with a baseball bat, what would the choice be? I wonder.

Never Outgrown

I am not afraid of monsters in my closet. I am not afraid of the dark. I am not afraid of werewolves or vampires or the boogie man. I am an adult. I know these things are not real. They haunt the moments before sleep of my son. He can see them in the long shadows cast through the moonlight in his bedroom. He can see them when he closes his eyes. We practice banishing them. I told him to yell in his mind "you are not real and you can not hurt me" Sometimes he does this out loud and I hear him in his room trying to put the nightmare visions in their place and out of his head. I do not have nightmares of fire breathing dragons and six legged dogs trying to eat me. I am not afraid of being home alone. I am not afraid to answer the phone for fear that there is a killer in the house upstairs, making the calls.

I remember the horror stories we told by the campfire. We tried to come up with the scariest things imaginable, always involving a girl in peril. Some I'm sure my parents heard, they had been around that long. Some we made up on the spot trying to freak each other out. There is nothing quite like scaring the pee out of a bunch of pre-teen girls and then sending them off to bed. These stories never really scared me. My father had been telling me scary stories since I was a little girl."The Man with The Golden Arm" got me every time. But not anymore.

We all knew the one about the couple who drove to lovers lane to make out and heard a report on the radio that a dangerous serial killer with a hook-hand has escaped and is on the loose in the area. Everyone should keep there doors and windows locked. The killer was last spotted heading into the woods, towards lovers lane. The couple is seriously wigged out and decide to get the hell out of there. When they get home, there is the hook-hand and bloody stump hanging from the door handle. They had narrowly escaped the wrath of the psycho killer. There are many variations of girl and boy in peril stories they always involve escaped psychopath or serial killers(which is a real threat these days you know). Still we tried to scare the sleep out of each other even with stories we had all heard repeatedly.

I loved to see the eyes get wide and the glances over the shoulder start, so nothing could sneak up on them out of the darkness. If you threw a rock into the woods at least three girls would come off their seats and yell "what was that?" turning in circles trying to look everywhere at once. I would get up to go the outhouse and creep back around behind them and moan and rattle leaves, or bang the outhouse door and stifle a scream. That got them every time. We woke up many a camp counselors with our screams.

There was one story about a girl baby sitting, after putting the children to bed she is watching the news and they are put out an alert because a dangerous psychopath has escaped from the mental institution and is in the area. She knows she has locked all the doors. She checks on the sleeping children and makes sure the windows are locked. She settles down to watch more TV and hangs her hand over the arm of the couch. She feels the dogs licking her fingers and then realizes the dog is on the chair. She looks down and it is the escaped psychopath who has been licking her fingers. I don't remember any more of the story and frankly don't care. This one still gives me the creeps (I quickly look over my shoulder). I don't know why this one in particular but it does. I get the creepy bone chilly goose bumps when I remember it (I have them right now). I have heard many a horror story but this is the one that sticks in my mind and will not go away and give me peace.

To this day I can not hang my hands over the arm of the couch or sleep with any part of my body hanging off the bed. It is not a fear I am even conscientiuosly aware of but It is there. I try and test myself and hang my foot off the side of the bed. I simply can not do it. I last about 15 seconds and then I have to pull it back. My hands remain on the bed at all times as well. I know that there is no psycho killer out there slithering across my bedroom floor waiting for the opportunity to lick my outstretched toes. But I figure, why take the chance?

Not in Kansas anymore

The letter came in a regular envelope. The return address was the local police department. I figured we had probably pledged money for the policeman's ball or something and forgot to pay and this was a gentle reminder to get my $20.00 in the mail. I absently tore it open and was already reading it in my mind (Dear Mr and Mrs so and so you recently pledged....) It took me a moment to register what it was actually about. There was going to be a town meeting of the neighbors in our vicinity (within a couple of miles) to inform us that a level 3 sex offender had moved in to our neighborhood.

I heard my illusions shatter all over the kitchen floor. A sex offender, in my neighborhood. My idyllic safe world was suddenly neither. I wanted to grab my son and hug him and tell him never to leave my sight ever. In fact he was not to go outside at all. He was to stay safely cacooned in my house where I could protect him. The reality came crashing home that the world is a different place than when I grew up. Ignorance was bliss. There have always been sex offenders and "funny uncles" but we never knew about them. They didn't have meetings in the local high school to tell you who they were and what they did. They kept them away, locked up longer. In the age of instant information and right to know. We all got the privilege of having our fears exposed and given a face.

At the meeting we got a sheet explaining who this person was and the specifics of his crime. He liked girls, little ones, under age 12. He was a repeat offender. His crimes were fondling and inappropriate touch with penetration (why didn't they call it what it was, rape?) He hadn't responded well to treatment in jail and had in fact quit or failed at the "program" and so would be monitored closely for a while. A while was never really defined, it was until his probation was done or they ran out of ankle bracelets or something. I stopped listening when they showed his picture on the big screen at the back of the stage. Twelve feet high. Twelve feet of menacing terror staring me in the face. He looked mean. He looked evil. He looked like I wouldn't want to meet him on a sunny day in the park. He might have looked like anybody normal, but not to me, not to any parent in that auditorium.

They wouldn't divulge his address but we already knew. I live next to the guy who knows everyone and everything that happens in our neighborhood. He knew which house he lived in. the guy had moved in with his grandparents after release. They are well known real estate agents, the kind with their picture on the signs that hang outside houses they are selling. I bet that was good for business.

It was apparent that a lot of people at the meeting were already aware of this new neighbor. Parents stood up to protest his moving in. The police said he had paid is debt that was mandated by the court and he had the right to live anywhere he wanted to. Parents said there was a bus stop at the end of this guys driveway. They petitioned the school to change it, but they wouldn't. So there was always at least two parents when the kids got on and off the bus. The guy liked to stand on the veranda and watch the kids. Maybe that wasn't what he was doing, maybe he was just getting some fresh air and having a smoke, but all the parents knew he was trolling for their children and they were not about to let him reel one in.

One of the things that struck me most about that meeting, other than the obvious ones. A lot of parents had brought their children some as young as six or seven. I am not sure that was a good idea. I certainly had no intention of bringing my son. I think it is important to be honest with your children and tell them the real dangers of the world in which we live. I am not sure it is a good idea to show them a picture of the monsters that live among us. Do they need to know who this guy is so they can stay away? I think they should stay away from anyone they don't know. We need to teach our children that there are mean people who could want to hurt them. We need to teach them how to be as safe as they can and what to do if they are frightened or feel in danger. I don't think we need to say "See that guy? Look at his picture. He is one of them". The world is a scary enough place.

I have never seen this man in person. I drive or ride my bike by his house and always look, like daring to look in the haunted house, waiting to see if you see the ghosts in the window. He is never there setting his trap for unsuspecting children, baiting it with laffy taffy and M&M's. "Paranoia runs deep, into your hearts it will creep". Truer word were never spoken/sung.

The initial shock fades a bit with time and we go about our lives. We try not to live in fear or let it dictate what we do and where we go. We know that sex offenders don't rush out out their houses with nets and nab children off the streets while we stand mute with horror unable to react as they scuttle away with our precious ones tucked under their arm. We know this in our heads but not in our paranoia. We know they are more subtle and that is even scarier. We take a different street to the park. We are more vigilant than before that meeting. My son does not know about the "monster" who lives down the lane. He knows about "stranger danger" and we talk about everything and do the best we can to make him safe. We don't know if the guy even lives there anymore. They tell you when they move in, they don't tell you when they move out.

Be safe. Give your children extra hugs tonight and hope you don't get a letter.

Laura

She knew him better than any of us. They were together for almost three years and lived together for over a year. They would have gotten married but knew they didn't have much time. He was dying. They tried to work around that. They didn't dwell on it. They tried to enjoy each moment, each day but it was there in the room with them always. Daring them to live life with out the knowledge of the inevitable in control. They were happy. They were in love.

I have always wanted to talk to her about him. What they went through as a couple, how she dealt with it as a partner, lover. How had he told her about his illness? He had been fighting this battle since he was 18. She had to have a lot of courage and love to go into this new relationship knowing what pain and hardship most likely was ahead of them. When he was very sick, toward the end, he refused to eat, he didn't have the energy and felt sick all the time. She threatened to leave him if he wouldn't eat. She didn't want to leave him but she was desperate. She knew she was going to lose him. But not like this, not by giving up. So she threatened the one thing she could, to take away her love, hoping it would jump start him. Rattle him enough to try. She broke his heart.

I remember when he came tell my mom about it. He was 6'2" my mom 5'1" but she had her arms wrapped around him cradling him to her chest. He was heartbroken, crying on her shoulder because Laura was going to leave him and he was going to die alone. He loved her more than she would ever know. I don't know what my mother told him, but she always knew the right words. She held his head against her shoulder and rocked him slowly, stroking his head whispering what he needed to hear.

Laura did not leave him. Finally it was he that did the leaving.

They were in class together at college. She said she couldn't help but notice this tall skinny guy with a red beard that kept moving his chair closer to hers. He, like most males of the ripe old age of 20, admired tall, leggy blondes as the ideal woman. Then came Laura. She was small and dark and fit neatly under his arm. She was smart and funny and one of the most genuine people I have ever met. I remember the first present she gave him for his birthday was an antique salt shaker in the shape of a rooster with a body of cut glass and its head made of silver. I have that now and think of her whenever I see it.

I have always wanted to ask her what he was like as an adult. What things was he passionate about? Was he scared? What did they talk about? How did they talk about the future knowing there wasn't going to be a long term one? What were his dreams? Was he angry that he wasn't going to get to fulfill them? What did he feel about leaving us all behind? What did he believe came next.? Was he really as strong as we all thought he was? These were all questions we never asked. There was just no way to get those words to fit in our mouths. We tried to visualize the cure, the return of health. We wanted to believe that this treatment would work. This medication would knock the cancer on it's ass. We couldn't bring ourselves to acknowledge that this was a battle we could not fight for him.This was not a battle he was going to win.

I knew him so little as a person, not just my brother, before he died We hadn't reached the stage yet when we knew each other outside that sibling bond, as people whole and unto ourselves. He moved out when I was 15. Then I was 17, he was 23 at that age the gap seemed huge. He was an adult, facing death. I was a scared kid facing his death. What could I possibly say to him? We talked about the daily things that made up our life, school, work, movies, etc. but never about his illness and all that entailed.

It has been many years since I have seen Laura. She used to show up at my parents house out of the blue on the weekends, she had a knack for arriving just at lunch time. She would stay and chat and tell us about what was going on with her. The bond was breaking. They weren't married, had no children. We had no claim on her. She came around less and less often. She called when she was getting married to invite us to the wedding. She wanted to do it in person not just have the invitation with her name show up in the mail. She was getting married on my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary so we could not go. We thought it was a good omen though and wished her well and sent a gift.

That was it. There was no more from Laura. She had moved on. She had a new life. A new husband and family. We were the 5th wheel. How could she bring a ghost and his family along? Maybe she never told her new family about her experience with her last boyfriend.

She meant so much to me back then. She was the only link to the man I never really knew. When my father died I wanted desperately to tell her, ask her to come to the funeral. I just couldn't pick up the phone and say "Hi, remember me? How has your life been these past twenty some years please tell me all about it. Oh by the way would you like to come share some more grief with us?"

I look her up on the internet sometimes. I write down her address and phone number. I think maybe someday I will call her. But what would I say? The what-ifs haunt me. What if she doesn't want to remember? What if she doesn't want to talk about it? What if she doesn't remember all the things I want to know? What if she has finished that chapter and does not want to go back and analyze it again? She can't have forgotten him or us. You don't forget losing your lover at age 23. I think it has been too many years and am afraid it is selfish to want this from her. I put the little piece of paper I have written her information on in the bottom drawer of my desk, under some papers, like I am trying to hide it, keep it safe. Maybe someday I will have the courage to call and ask and she will have the courage to talk.

Ever widening circle

I believe that I would be content to spend my days in cyber space. I could sit for hours, Okay I have sat for hours, bouncing from one blog to the next. Some I pause on briefly and quickly click away, from the vaguely disturbing to the downright scary or just plain yucky. I came across one through a link of a link of a link and as I was scrolling down the page suddenly assaulting my vision a nice picture of the bloggers anus. Why would I want to see that? I think of this woman telling her friends. "Hey check out my blog today, there is a great picture of my butthole"!?! I know, different strokes for different folks. I will just remember not to follow some links. I like going to the profile page and check out who has put the same books or movies on their list. It is amazing to see how different people are that have the same interests.

There are others that I linger on and read everything, depending on how far back the archives go. I check several everyday so see what is new in the life of Audi, Lab Munkay, Moon, Tykho, Red Clover, Real Cinderella, Lucky, Jules and others. I feel like I have a whole new world of "friends" out there. I realize they are not really friend friends. We don't go to movies together and have coffee the point is I feel like we could, with the ones that I trade comments back and forth. I feel like I know these people, at least part of them, for a brief moment I am a part of their lives, they have shared something important with me. I have been moved to tears and almost fallen off my chair with laughter. I like getting a small glimpse into the lives of people from my hometown to Iceland and Kenya and beyond. Peeking in the window of their life and culture, some vastly different from my own but on the web we are all neighbors. I love that.

I like following the comment train. I board at mine and move on stopping at various blogs along the way and follow the comments of blogs I have never been to and so on and then leave a comment and they come back and I have widened the circle. I like the input from other people. I get almost giddy when I realize I have a comment.

Where did my circle start? I have to thank Professor Batty for that. He kept talking about blogging so I had to check it out. Through our blogs we have discovered new things about each other, depths we never knew. I have found many of my favorite blogs through the Profs. He sifts through the throngs and picks the best of the best. Does that sound conceited since I am on his list?

Anyway, There are things I don't talk about and share in my "real" life. Sometimes I am willing to share more than someone is willing to hear. Sometimes truth and honesty about important, emotional things makes people uncomfortable. Trying to explain a small seemingly insignificant moment of pure beauty to people who don't get it becomes too hard. I end up sounding like one of those people who talk just to hear the sound of their own voice. Some stories are not "big" or important to anyone but me but I want to tell them anyway. So I kept most of it in my head and wrote it down in journals. Words that never saw the light of day once the page was turned. Then came blogger. I just like knowing it is out there. It is especially gratifying when I know someone else has read it, but I like just knowing it is out there. I have released it into the world. Be free my words, be free.

Let's all share. I am curios, where did your circle start and where has it taken you? Why do you blog?

Follow up

So my friend who had "The Episode" spent two days in the hospital being poked and prodded, imaged and screened. He had bloodwork done, an MRI, a CAT scan an ECG and EKG. The good news is. He is fine. He has no blockage or build up in his arteries. Everything checked out perfect or nearly so.

What caused it? The Doc says it was either a migraine episode, which he has had in the past but never like that, or a TAI (mild stroke). Okay to me those seem vastly different in severity. They don't really know what it was or what caused it. It seems so strange to me that in the age of technology in which we live that sometimes they still just shrug their shoulders and say "We don't really know."

Oh yeah, and they found a hole in his heart! "A WHAT!!" There is a small hole in his heart covered by a flap. Apparently about 16% of the population has one, but most people never even know it (so how do they know 16% have them???). It doesn't cause any problems and is not related to what happened it is just a new and interesting fact to add to his medical records. The Doc says it shouldn't interfere with his life or activities.

Doc says you've got a hole in your heart, what do you do? I asked him if it freaked him out at all, as I would be paranoid, he said "Let me put it to you this way, there are 64 steps between my office and the lunch room. I usually take them two at a time. Friday I stood at the bottom of the stairs and thought 'do I really want to do this?', I took the elevator." So it freaked him out a little.

After a couple of days to let it sink in, he decided he had to live his life and couldn't let fear of the unknown, unknowable or maybe-possibles run his life. The next time he faced the mountain of stairs, he took them two at a time, like always. He passed a fellow co-worker who asked him "Are you sure you should be doing that?" To which he replied "I guess we'll find out, if I die you might want to get out of they way of my falling body I'd hate to take you out on the way down."

I think he'll be fine.

Visitors

Insomnia seems to be my new companion. No nightmares last night, I don't know why sleep eluded me. I was blissfully sleeping and then I was awake, as simple as that. I was bone weary but just couldn't get back to sleep. I tossed and turned and flopped around fluffing my pillow and flapping my blanket until my hubby in a small tired voice said "don't I get to sleep either?" With a sigh of resignation I rose in the middle of the night like Nosferatu awake and thirsting for something I couldn't quite put my finger on, restless. I wandered the quiet rooms of my house. The world looks so different under cover of darkness everything looks peaceful and soft, lines smudged by the dark. The cats are curled up on the couch they barely notice me. I turn on the light in the fish tank. They swim in lazy circles wondering if it's time to eat.

I went outside to look at the sky. The night was cool and the breeze raised goosebumps on my arms. It felt refreshing. I took a deep cleansing breath. There is something different about night air. The moon cast an eerie glow across my landscape the stars were not as bright in the city as I remembered them from the north woods but I could see the big dipper and Orion's belt.

There were no lights on in any of the houses in my cul-de-sac. My neighbors were still tucked in their beds, unless like me they were at peace in the dark. Maybe they were looking out their window seeing me wondering what we have in common that we were both awake at this hour sitting in the dark. I sat on my front porch and just listened to the sounds of the night. I could hear cars on the freeway I wondered who were all the people in all the cars where were they going rushing to and fro in the middle of the night?.

I could hear the faint barking of a dog far away. I heard a rustle off to my left. I held my breath and waited quietly. I was not frightened, it was not the stealthy sound of someone sneaking. I heard crunching footfalls through the thicket of woods in my neighbors yard. Then I saw them. There were three of them. Deer, beautiful, sleek, gentle. They turned their dreamy brown gaze on me, for just a moment we regarded each other. I did not move or say anything. They stood perfectly still, gorgeous breathing statues. They were not spooked by me, perhaps they just thought I was another creature of the night. This is their time, the night belongs to them I am out of place in their space. They turned away, I was dismissed. They decided I was not a threat, just another piece of the landscape. They sauntered slowly past me and walked up the hill single file and disappeared behind another house.

I was reminded that the night has its own rhythm and people and creatures that move with it. I got another glimpse of my visitors as they crossed at the top of my street. I let out a whistle. They froze and looked at me again. Then turned and bolted like brown lightening, I saw the flash of their white tails and they disappeared into the night. I was suddenly very tired. This is what I woke up to see. I crawled in my bed and cuddled under my blankets slowly warming up and relaxing. I went peacefully back to sleep.

My protector

I had that falling sensation, barely conscious, vaguely aware of my surroundings. BAM! wide awake, adrenaline pumping my fists curled tightly in my blanket. I couldn't see. There was no sound. I was breathing like I couldn't catch my breath. In that split second before full awareness there was panic, sheer terror. Something was chasing me in my dream, I had leaped off a building to escape it. I couldn't see what was pursuing me but it was big and black and emitted bloodthirsty, wet snarls. I couldn't see teeth but I knew they were there I could feel it's hot putrid breath on my neck as it got closer and yet was far behind me (only in dreams is something there and not at the same time). I must have thought I could fly like Superman or Batman. Why else would I have leapt off the building. There was no choice. I had to fly or die. The panic in my brain was subsiding. My breathing returning to normal. But I still felt that lingering panic, fear. I looked at the clock it said 4:26 was it afternoon? No, it was dark must be the middle of the night. What day was it? did I have to get up for work? Where was I? Is this my bed? It didn't feel right. I flung my left arm out for my safety net, to stop my descent back into dream hell. There he was, my hubby. Big and strong enough to chase away all demons of the night and protect me. I curled up against his side. "I'm scared." He snuggled me in his strong, muscular arms and kissed the top of my head. I let my breath out and relaxed against his warm, solid body. With my head on his chest I could feel his steady reassuring heart beat. I am plagued with nightmares from time to time and he is always there to wrap me up in his strength and admonish them back to their dream scape. When he holds me I really feel held, safe and secure. Nightmare creatures and fears vanquished for another night.

Indifference

This was the game
We played it well

I open myself to you
You stare blankly

I try to touch you
you turn away

I say "I love you"
You say nothing

I say "I hate you"
You say "you'll get over it"

I want in your life
You shut the door

I try all my keys
You change the locks

I walk away
You say "Good-bye"

It means nothing
You make it clear

I come back
You say "Hello"

I am nothing
You make it clear

Can't you feel
Beside indifference?

I long for you
You reach in need

I respond
Pretend it matters

I stroke your cheek
You absently smile

How sad am I
That this is enough?

I try to change you
I am changed

I stop caring
You don't start

I am alone and lost
you don't look for me

I am here
You can't see me

I lose touch
You don't hold on

I drift away
You can't swim

I say "Good-bye"
You don't miss me

The Episode

I was reminded last night how precarious our hold on this life can be. How simply and quickly it can change from happiness to sadness from health to illness (unhealth?). I was at a friends house we were chatting and watching a movie. Her husband T was about, feeling restless he went for a bike ride, came back chatted a bit and took the dog for a walk, just a block or two and back.

He was sitting on the couch, we had our back to him, when we heard a heavy harsh intake of breath and deep sigh as he let his breath out. When we looked at him he was holding his head cocked like he was listening to something, he was flexing the fingers on his right hand. "T are you okay?"
He shook his head as if to clear it, turned towards us looking kind of dazed and said "I don't know, I can't really feel my right side, it's all tingely and numb and I feel like I can't control it and the vision in my right eye is gone."
"What!"
"yeah, I feel really weird."
I jumped out of my chair and knelt in front of him.
"Look at me." His pupils looked fine. I'd read somewhere, or maybe watching ER that if you have a stroke one of your pupils stays dilated, I don't know if this is true but I was checking anyway. I took his pulse, it was regular and strong. His breathing wasn't labored. I asked him his name, age, address and phone number. He stumbled over a couple words like he was having trouble spitting them out but he knew all the pertinent information. He looked at me
"The right half of you is gone, just gone, wait it's back, nope gone again" He laughed like this was some parlor trick his brain was playing on him. I had him grip both my hand in both of his, his strength felt the same on both sides, but he still said he couldn't really feel his right arm or right leg. While I was doing my best paramedic impression his wife couldn't decide what we should do.
"call 911"
"Do you think I should?
" huh? "Yes! call 911."
She starts flitting around looking for his wallet.
"Where is your insurance card? What is your doctors name? What hospital do we use?" I took her by the shoulders and stopped her mad pacing.
"Worry about that later, call 911"
She was doing her best to remain calm but was being distracted by things we didn't need to worry about right now. T was starting to list to the left and put his hand on his chest
"My breathing feels kind of funny, fluttery, like I can't catch my breath and I fell like I'm gonna barf" I ran and got a bucket just in case.
"Just hang on, keep talking, the paramedics will be here soon"
"What should I talk about?"
"I don't know, whatever you want, I just want to make sure your speech sounds okay and that you stay awake" He didn't look like he was going to pass out but what the hell did I know.
It was national night out so the police and firemen we out and about in the neighborhoods. It took the paramedics from the fire station approximately a minute and half to get there.

The short version the ensuing events. They check him out, took his pulse and blood pressure. Did and eye check, checked the strength in his hands and feet. Had him stand up, close his eyes and put his hands straight out to his sides and touch his nose (when in doubt do a sobriety test?)
He said the symptoms were subsiding and he was feeling better except now he had a headache. The ambulance arrived about this time. They did the same battery of tests as the firemen. They told him since the symptoms were almost gone it was unlikely he had had a stroke, or a mini stroke but that he should get checked out in the ER tonight because there was no way to know what caused the episode and she couldn't guarantee that something else wouldn't happen again tonight, he shouldn't wait until tomorrow to see his regular doctor.

When I left them they were packing up to take a trip to the ER, I don't know what the outcome was yet and anxiously await a call.

He is 44 years old, he doesn't drink or smoke. He eats healthy and exercises regularly. He doesn't take any medications daily, just a vitamin. He does all the things you are supposed to do to keep healthy at his age. With the exception of work. He is an architect. He works 60 to 70 hours a week constantly against tight deadlines and demanding clients.

He needs to take a break but says he can't. He may be forced to now. It is amazing how quickly we are reminded that we need to take care of our mental health as well as our physical health.
The old saying about stopping to smell the roses is true. We need to take time to decompress. Stress kills. It's not big and dramatic and messy, but it kills just the same. Sitting there watching TV and your body just says "That's it, I can't take the stress anymore, listen to me or I'm done" I hope he heeds this wake up call.

Be The Ly

My son loves to make me things. He is always presenting me little treasures that he has made for me. Little boxes that he has wrapped in tissue paper and glue and painted to look like stain glass, paper roses or bracelets made from colorful pipe cleaners. An old tobasco bottle with layers of colored sand, suncatchers that he has painted hang on almost every window. He made me a Tour de France trophy out of modeling clay. I have a number baby food jars that are painted bright colors, for holding paper clips, rubber bands etc.

Beads are his favorite. I have a beaded lizard key fob, a beaded bookmark(makes the book rather unhandy and keeps falling out, but he insisted it was a bookmark). A beaded ponytail bungee. My hair is approximately 2" long "it's for when you grow it out". I have many bracelets full of bright plastic beads, when he gets help from Grandma sometimes there are small chunks of turquoise or malachite.

My favorite of all the things he has made me is a necklace. It is white elastic with pink, blue, yellow and orange beads, a couple silver beads with the words "friend" and "live" stamped on them. In the center of the necklace are three white beads with words in black type "Be The Ly". I asked him "Why does it say Be The Ly?" He looked sheepishly at the floor "Well I wanted to spell "Be The Leader" but I didn't have enough letters. I told him I liked Be The Ly better, because anyone can be the leader but only I can be the Ly. He smiled at me with that bright blue eyed twinkle of his, swelling with pride because I didn't mind being the Ly instead of the leader. I asked him what Ly meant, he said "the best, first, most, better than anyone." I put my necklace on with joy. I felt like the supreme Ly.

Safe Deposit

When my father died my mother and I had the task of going to the bank to retrieve the "important" papers from the safe-deposit box. My father had always been the one to handle those things so I went along to go through everything and make sure we got all the insurance papers and whatever else might be of value. We took our box down the long hallway to a little room and set it on the counter. My mother just stared  at it, she didn't really want to look, it was too real. If we found the insurance policies, etc. that meant he was really gone and we had to move on. Inside the box there was a collection of stocks from companies that no longer existed, their passports, his discharge papers from the army, birth certificates and the like. Nestled in the insurance policy jacket, knowing the only reason my mother would find it was in case of his death was a note, it was dated some years prior and said simply.

                       M-
                               I have always loved you.
                               And if it really possible to continue to,
                               then I really will.
                                                                -D                       

Talking to Grandpa

My best non-human friend Buster died a year or so ago after a long drawn out illness, he was almost 18 years old.  On his last day we knew it would not be much longer for him. He was not in pain but he had stopped eating or drinking. That morning he followed me around from room to room and would lay at my feet. Every time I reached down to pet him he would look up at me, purr and smile (yes smile). I have had other cats but they were just "cats". Buster was a little person in a cat suit. I don't care what anyone says Buster and I had a relationship. 

A few days after he was gone I was feeling very sad and missing him. I was talking to my son about how much I was hurting. He told me how much he missed Buster too but that it was okay because he was in heaven. I asked how he knew that and he told me "Grandpa told me".  This threw me for a huge loop as my father had died two summers before.  I said "Grandpa told you, what do you mean?" He said "Well I was feeling bad about Buster and Grandpa said not to worry cuz he had found his way to him in heaven and they are together now and everything is alright" I am seriously freaking out at this point but trying to remain calm. Maybe this is just a childhood fantasy phase that will pass. Or is he like that kid from Sixth Sense only "I talk to dead people" or is this some new psychosis I have to keep tabs on or should I sign him up for his own cable show ala John Edwards, "The amazing Kid who converses with the hereafter"? I asked him if "other" people talked to him too, thankfully no, just Grandpa. I am torn between worrying and immense sadness at the loss of my Dad and that he doesn't talk to me, if he could. 

With tears threatening, in my calmest "tell me all about it" motherly voice I ask him about talking to Grandpa. He says he talks to him a lot that Grandpa tells him stuff. "Like what kind of stuff?" I'm thinking the worst put the cat in the microwave crazy talk. "Like about heaven and sometimes when I'm at school I'll ask him what 100 times 100 is and he tells me or sometimes when I am scared at night he tells me it's okay to be scared but I don't have to be cuz he's there, you know stuff like that" and he shrugs his shoulders so nonchalantly like "hey it is no big deal that my dead Grandpa talks to me"  I have no idea how to respond to this. "What does he tell you about heaven?" He smiles "He says it's nice and now Buster is there it's better". My brain can not wrap itself around this. Why does he think Grandpa talks to him? Does Grandpa really talk to him? Stranger things have happened right?  I just say "That's great honey, I'm glad Grandpa talks to you". I don't want him to feel weird about it.

I asked him recently if Grandpa still talked to him. He said "not so much anymore". I can't decide if that is a good or bad thing.  Has he passed through this phase or has some unseen door closed?

The Tick

My friend M hates bugs ,all bugs, any creepy crawly, slithery thing.  This is a tough, smart, take no crap from anybody single mom, but bugs are her undoing. They can send her screaming like a, dare I say it, little girl doing that skittering baby step run with her hands fluttering about her shoulders going "oohhh, icky, icky. I like bugs, if I am outside and they are outside where they belong. If they venture inside they are subject to the wrath of Jojo. But this is about M. She hates ticks the worst. Those vampiric little beasties that gorge themselves on you blood until they are bloated green globules, thankfully they usually only get to that point on animals.

M and her daughter B had spent the day before at the park with her sister and her kids, they ran around in the woods and the tall grass. The next morning as M is taking a shower and washing her hair she feels something behind her ear. She knows it is a tick and she starts to freak. She yells to her daughter. "Hurry up and get dressed we have to go to Auntie's quick". Her sister lives in the same building and she was going to  make her pull the tick off, she is afraid to try because she if afraid she'll leave the head behind and that is grosser than the whole tick plus there is just no way she was going to touch it, or even look at it for that matter. Her daughter asks "Why" and M, hyperventilating at this point knowing the little blood sucker is feasting on her. "cuz Mommy has a tick and we have to go make Auntie pull it off." B says "okay Mommy but can I see the tick" So M leans down brushes her long hair aside and shows here the back of her ear, " See right there behind my ear" B accepts this and runs to get dressed quickly.

M is getting her stuff together, calls her sister to tell her of the emergency and that she is coming down when B comes back. She is dressed and ready but she says "Mommy can I look at the tick again?" M lets out an exaggerated sigh, she wants wants to be gone and have the thing removed but she says " Sure honey, look" and again shows it to her. B looks at it and stands back and looks at it again and says " Mom, I don't think that is a tick " to which M says "why?" There is  a note of hesitation in B's voice "cuz it's pink".  Thinking B must be mistaken she says" What do you mean, of course it's a tick" and B replies " No Mom it looks like a sticker, it looks like one of my pink heart stickers" . Steeling her will against what she know is going to make her gag. She pulls the offending creature off of her and looks at it. It is in fact a small pink heart sticker.  You gotta watch out for those, their dangerous little buggers you know.

Sparky

I very rarely feel cute. I sometimes feel smart or sexy or adorable or downright dangerous but very seldom cute. I am of the age when cute seems to no longer apply, but thankfully still too young to be a "cute old lady". I work with a bunch of twenty-somethings who tip the cute meter heavily in their direction.  It is odd to have such good friends and realize I am darn near old enough to be their mother.

I work in a customer service business and was standing waiting for a customer to make his way to the counter. He popped his order on the counter and said "Are you feeling sparky today?"  I wasn't quite sure what that meant but I jiggled my head back and forth with my bright red/orange hair, my multitude of dangley earrings swinging to and fro and said "Do I look sparky today?" in my best little girl voice. He smiled at me and said "You look damn good, I know that much!" I wasn't quite sure how to respond, it was so unexpected so I just laughed and said "Thanks".  Did I mention he was old enough to be my Dad? It wasn't creepy or lecherous, it was like he was feeling good, thought I looked good and took  a chance that I wouldn't think he was a big ol pervert and just said it. Probably made his day as well as mine.

I would have much preferred that some hunky 30 year old had deemed me "damn good" but such was not the case. Sadly, I must face the fact that I am no longer within the radar sights of 30 year olds. I have moved on to "older" and "looks pretty good for her age". But for one moment of one day when some sweet old guy though I was a hottie, I felt cute again.

Slugs

Do you ever feel like a big ol' slug? It usually happens on Sundays.
 
I forced myself to turn off Trading Spaces: Inside out at 11:16 Saturday night. I really wanted to see Hildy's house in Paris but I knew my parental duty must come first and yon wee one is usually up at the crack of dawn. I have to drag his skinny behind out of bed on a school day at 6:50 but on the weekend he is up at 6:00 sometimes 5:30.  He says his brain just wakes him up because he has lots of playing to do on the weekends.
 
We tried the "I don't care what time you get up but you are not coming into this bedroom until 7:30" Well then he would just stand in the door way "Mom!! Mom!!! will you get up already I am staaaarvvvinnggggg!!!!!! But this morning as I  turn my head to read the glowing red numbers I realize it says 8:17. OH MY GOD, he must be dead!! I race to his bedroom and there he is still fast asleep flung among his blankets like a stuffed animal. He is perpendicular to the bed and the only thing visible are his legs from the knees down. Those look like his knees, I am pretty sure it is he. I lightly tickle the bottom of his foot to make sure he is still breathing, his healthy kick tells me that he is. To what do I owe this reprieve? I wonder. Maybe the boy finally just ran his battery down too far. I am disappointed to realize if I had known I was going to get to sleep in so late I could have stayed up to see the glory that is Hildy's house and see what Doug is like in real life.
 
I stumble to the kitchen to make my coffee. I assume my husband is out running because he is no where to be found. While my coffee is brewing, strong and dark I try to clear my head. It feels as if someone has stuffed it with cotton batting.  My eyes don't feel like they will open all the way. I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face but all that does is make my face cold and pink it does not make me more awake. I try the coffee, mmmmm "Damn fine coffee.........and hot" (Twin Peaks anyone?)I stare at the newspaper waiting for the caffeine to kick in so I can actually read it.
 
I realize Son still isn't up and it is now 8:50. I flush the toilet, turn on the hair dryer, close the door really loudly, stomp around in my slippers trying to make enough noise so he will wake up on his own. He does not, I give up and go back the couch and wait some more. Eventually he comes stumbling out of his bedroom dragging his blankets behind him and drops into his usual spot on the couch. He yawns and rubs his eyes and says "I'm still really tired". He also has a case of cotton head. We had no plans for the day, no soccer games or birthday parties or trips to the zoo so we could lounge for a while, you know, till we "wake" up.
 
My husband comes home from his run showers, eats, changes clothes to mow the lawn. All the while Son and I remain inert on the couch watching Sponge Bob Square Pants and the Fairly Odd Parents and whatever else is on Nickolodeon because we are too lazy to find the remote and change the channel. My husband makes a few vain attempts at conversation but he gets frustrated at our noncommittal grunts and gives up. While my husband goes about his day Son and I remain couch bound. The world moves around us but we are motionless, except for an occasional trip to the bathroom. We remain like this for most of the day. We just can't seem to shake the bed head.  My husband drifts in and out of our lair occasionally inquiring "Aren't you going to do anything today?" I thought we were doing something just not something useful or important or requiring anything but the most basic level of consciousness.
 
After a few hours of this the guilt is starting to come.  I should not allow Son to watch this many hours in a row of mindless TV.  I make a concerted effort to find the remote and change the channel to Animal Planet. He barely seems to notice.  Now it's educational,  guilt assuaged.
 
Sometime in the late afternoon, I have drifted off and am having a nice little cat nap involving me and some friendly dolphins with pink saddles. I hear a crash followed by a bellow. Son has tried to reach the soda on the coffee table without rising from the couch and has fallen off and whacked his head. While I try and quiet his cries by reaching my hand towards him and patting the air in his general direction and say soothingly  "there, there honey you'll be okay, you should probably just relax till your head stops hurting" I realize just how long we have been here, we have not eaten, bathed or brushed our teeth.  I am a big boneless, squishy, amorphous slug. I feel as if my muscles have liquefied and my bones have melted and I am unable to move them in any coherent fashion. Try as I might, I can't seem to get my butt off the couch I think someone has coated the bottom of my jammies with super glue. This can not go on.
 
With great resolve and determination I rise from the couch, in small stages. First I raise my head and put my feet on the floor. Then I rest my elbows on my knees to stop the ringing in my head from sitting up (not to fast, just at all after so many hours of inertia). Slowly pushing off my knees I stand. Hurray I am vertical!!!!! I decide what I need is a shower. This accomplished, I actually do feel more or less human. I force Son to take one also, this is accompanied by much protest and whining until I snap and say "do you want to spend the rest of the day sitting on the couch in a big ol' time-out?" Dumb question." How is that different than the way I spent the rest of the day so far.?"  "It will be punishment, it won't be fun" To which I get the eye roll and "whatever Mom." 
 
We finally enter the world of the completely awake just in time to make dinner after which my husband is ready settle down on the couch to "relax" for the evening. Son and I join him. My what a day we have had! Hey everyone needs a slacker day once in a while.

Pocket Change

What do you have in your pockets?
 
Monday: two pennies, the aglet from a shoe lace,a gum wrapper and the broken top half of a ball point pen.

Tuesday: flimsy fake Discover card from the mail, three rocks (two actual rocks and a piece of concrete), two blue pipe cleaners, 4 tiny fuzzy pompoms (blue, yellow, orange and pink) from an abandoned art project and an earring back(?)

Wednesday: two more pennies plus a nickel, a broken toothpick, a yu-gi-oh card ( Hysteric Fairy), paper clip, blue glittery super ball, cherry jolly rancher wrapper and one green die.  And that's just one pocket

Thursday:Thread from "Bluey" his favorite blanket, a small stick, 3 green, two pink, one brown, one orange and a purple "purler" bead (anyone with small children in day care will know what those are), a small square white bead with the letter "a" on it, a folded up scooby-doo coloring page to be finished at a later date.

Friday: More letter beads, this time "q", "t", "o" ,"w" and a "p" (qwopt - of course!), a black piece of stretchy elastic about 3" long, the sticker from an apple and a power rangers fruit snack package with one slighty melted, squishy gummy thing still in residence.

Saturday: Shorts with no pockets. Where did he stash his treasures?

Sunday: A very big day, cargo pants-lots of pockets. Perfume sample from the Sunday paper- Taboo, Neo-pet card (Yellow  Shyru) from some long ago Mcdonalds Happy Meal, the summer pool schedule from the community center,  the pink eraser from a pencil-but no pencil, a bottle cap, tire off a hot wheels car, piece of red ribbon (his favorite color) the spring from a ball point pen stretched to about 5", the head to a lego guy and a battery.
 
These are the treasures I found in my seven year olds pockets one week. I have an old kitchen cannister that I put all these treasures in and when it is full maybe we will take them out and try and figure out why these things are the ones that he deemed worthy of saving. Yet he passed by the pink glass bead that was on the floor in the bathroom for a week and the three sea shells and blue feather I left on the table to see if they would make their way into his pocket of treasures but they never did.
 
I was at the post office picking up the mail from work one day and there was $.87 due. I reached into my jacket pockets and I had my ever present "folding dollars" (to be explained in a later post), a pokemon card (squirtle), three paper clips, two grape jolly ranchers, a pack of Cherry Rush bubble gum, a green marble,  a  hot wheels car ,two small rocks and a red power ranger action figure that try as I might she would not take it trade. I had no actual pocket change, well there was my "folding dollars" but I couldn't spend those. I have been infected by my seven year old, his penchant for picking up the bits of flotsam that he encounters on his daily journey has become my own. At least my "pocket change" is more interesting than it used to be.
 
So, what's in your pockets?

Anonymous

Most of us want to be noticed. We spend a lot of time on our clothes or hair so that people won't miss us. They will notice my bright pink shirt or the beautiful necklace I have on or my custom made "happy monkey" shoes. We want to pass by and have people look because we feel good about ourselves and it shows. Its not that we want to be, or feel we could ever be one of the "beautiful people". But we are content with ourselves, at ease in our life and our bodies, however imperfect they may be. I have a friend who is morbidly obese. She is going through the steps to have gastric bypass surgery that could save, or at least prolong her life. She probably will not live to see 50 without it. The road that took her to this place was long, frustrating, fraught will peril,pain and despair. She must make this new journey to regain her life. She wants it for so many reasons. She wants to be able to ride a bicycle again. She wants to go hiking with her husband, shop at the mall without having to stop and rest so often. She wants to take her dogs for a long walk, play catch with her nieces. She wants to take back control of her life and her health from this bulk that she has been hiding in for so many years, pushing people away, hiding inside her safe haven of fat. I was talking to her recently about all the changes that can take place after such surgery. Not physical changes those are a given. Changes in relationships. Many marriages end after one has gastric bypass. They rediscover themselves and can't "fit" the same role they used to have in the relationship. It is like finding someone you thought was lost and maybe your partner liked it better when you were hiding. The thing that she said she was looking forward to the most, being anonymous. She wants to walk into a clothing store (one for "normal" people). Go to a movie theater and not wonder how big the seats are. Go to a restaurant and order extra butter without the barely concealed sneer of the skinny blonde waitress "sure that's what you need more of". With great guilt I admit I also have thought this. She wants to be anonymous. To go anyplace, every place and have nobody notice her. She is not anonymous now. People notice, gawk, stare, small children point and giggle or ask their moms "why is that lady so fat" (I have heard this). In a world where we are all trying to be noticed what she want more than anything is to be invisible. An interesting perspective.

Butterscotch Kisses

When I was a little girl there was an old couple, the Rydmarks, that lived next door. I used to love to spend time visiting them. They would tell me stories and I would help them bake cookies or peel carrots. It was like having an extra set of grandparents. Everytime I was at their house, just as I was getting ready to go home Mr. Rydmark would say "don't forget your kiss" and he would slip a butterscotch kiss into my hand. That sweet buttery little piece of heaven wrapped in crinkly yellow cellophane. I was telling my son, who was 3 or 4 at the time, about the Rydmarks and the butterscotch kisses Mr. Rydmark always gave me. He thought about it, looked at me a little confused, cocked his head, and said "butterscotch kisses?". I explained to him what they were. He remembered once I described them. There was a long pause and he said "oh, I thought you meant he had butterscotch lips". Because in his world this was possible. Sometimes I wish I could remember when having butterscotch lips was within the realm of possibility.

Exit

Examine, explain, example, explore
Circling with my pencil, on the floor.
My mothers fingers counting every heart beat.
"Don't try to feed him, he can't really eat"

That's what the nurses said
Don't bother with dinner, he's mostly dead.
He needed that meatloaf, potatoes and corn,
And when he was done, the pride he'd worn

"Look Dad, I ate all my dinner."
Victorious, in his last hours still a winner.
He talked about finding the stairway to heaven.
Exalt, exude, exist, I'd neatly circled seven.

"Come here, front and center" he beckoned to me,
He looked small and broken, like a fallen tree.
That paper wrapped skeleton barely touching the bed,
I wish I could remember the things he said.

I remember the whiteness and smell of that place.
He held my hand and smiled with simple grace.
I kissed his forehead and rubbed his cheek.
This ornery strong man, sunken and weak.

Extinct, expose, exclude, excite,
His skin like chalk dust, smooth and white.
I told myself "Be strong, don't cry",
I had never seen someone I loved die.

I watched my brother pass to some other shore,
When her fingertips couldn't hold him anymore.
She truly believed if she counted this way
Somehow she could keep him from dying that day.

extol, exclaim, extrapolate,
Words searches and counting heartbeats, these I hate.

Mildly dysfunctional

Every family is somewhat dysfunctional, some profoundly so. I have a friend who grew up in a house full of fear. Fear of retribution, mostly for being born, but that story is for another day. The dysfunction in my family was emotion. Showing true emotions or talking about the emotional implications of our actions and words. We discussed world affairs and history and writing and reading and art and beauty and all the things that smart cosmopolitan families talk about. My father was a newspaper man for 40 years, he knew everything and what he didn't know my mother knew. I could ask him to edit a story, explain a war, how an engine worked or help me spell obstreperous but I couldn't ask him how it felt when his oldest son was diagnosed with cancer. We didn't talk about feelings unless it related to something outside ourselves. I remember my father talking about his love of dance. He loved the fluid motion of their bodies the way they seemed to float just above the floor, effortless flight that took your breath away. The perfection of their bodies the way light played on the curves of their muscles and made them seem magical. He could understand the magic, the power or dance, music, art, photography and words to evoke emotion. In this way he was accessible to me. He was open and loving, he never hesitated to put his arms around me and tell me I was his "golden girl" and that he loved me. He taught me so many of the things that make me who I am, things I hope I have the courage and the words to teach my son. In other ways he was closed to me, always distant. This is why I turned to writing. I was free to feel whatever I wanted without thinking, I could let my true emotions out. I could tell my journal how scared, happy, sad, lonely, depressed, insecure, conflicted I was. I could pour out all those things I wanted to tell my father, that he couldn't hear, because he couldn't share. He grew up in a time when men were "strong and silent". You did what you had to do to provide for your family and you taught your children the lessons they needed to learn to get through life. I always thought it odd that for a man who was so open to emotion in the world was so closed to it in his family. The place where he should be the safest, he was so guarded. He couldn't see what we needed from him was the freedom, permission if you will, to be emotionally available, honest, open. If he was always strong and sure and never let his weaknesses show, how could we?.........More later

The right words

I will never have the power of words that I want. I want to touch, inspire, provoke, entertain. I want to use words to stake my claim on my place in the world, in my own life. I don't know the words that will set me free. They seem simple and uninspiring. They elude my fingers at the keyboard. I stare at my hands and want them to take the initiative and speak their own story, like maybe my fingers will know the way to the truth I want to speak. If I open my mind and try not to think about it too much will the words find their own way from my heart? I read others, a lot, and I am deeply inspired and awed and feel like I should just pack up my pens and paper and take up knitting. I have always wanted to write and I have always been afraid of it. I have always kept my writing to myself, with a few rare exceptions. I can not risk rejection if I don't let anyone see it. I can tell myself I am good at it. I can believe that I have a steak knife not a butter knife with which to "cut" my work. I can tell myself I know the right words and I can believe it because there is no one to say "I don't think so" But how can I inspire or provoke or entertain if I don't share? How can I gauge my effectiveness in conveying my life if I won't let people in? This is what I struggle with. The need to be good at it and the need for people to see it and the need to keep it to myself. If I risk nothing I can not lose. So I will begin to offer up these things that I have always held closest to me, my words. And hope that I have not been wrong. That sometimes I do get it right and sometimes I do know the right words.

Flirting in a bar

We met in a bar, thrust hand to hand. "Hello" we smiled and I went away. Like a magnet I was drawn back to him. That face, the ease with which he laughed his funny laugh. We swapped stories and jokes and pretended to have "meaningful" conversation. We flirted and smoked and drank from each others glasses and he loved me. We tied cherry stems with our tongues (I was much better at it) and I was Irish. Others faded and left I barely remember seeing them or the room. We wrapped ourselves around each other and spent time in a world of our own creation right there next to the popcorn cart. They turned on the lights and four hours had evaporated and we said "Good Night"

The language I used to know

Whistled songs and tunes I can't remember. Snatches of music send signals to my brain, memories of long ago when I knew how to sing. I knew what music felt like. I didn't know the different kinds of music, only its language. Some seemed soft and made me sad. Others made me want to sway like pussy willows in the breeze. Some music scared me, it hissed and screamed at me and made me afraid to be alone. I tried to close my ears. I could feel the screeching, pounding pulse of it in my stomach, invading my body. There was happy music too that made me want to dance and felt like cool summer days. It caressed me, held me with its gentle tune and promises of love and happiness. Music still touches me deeply. I can still feel it coursing through my veins. But now I know what sounds caress and what instruments scream. I know the words they sing. They are seldom real and often cruel. I liked music better when I was a child. When I knew its language but didn't understand the words.

I Will Follow

Where you lead I will follow.
Anywhere you want.
Except,
the darkest caverns
where spiders dwell in
webs thick with dark moisture.
Where eyes stare out of the darkness
into my soul.
Except,
into the forest, dense with
underbrush.
Where snakes wait to wrap themselves
around my ankles and drown me
in quicksand.
I'll follow where you lead.
Except,
into the hot barren desert
where sand burns a pattern
into my searing feet.
Where the sun beats inscessantly
scortching my brain, my skin, my life.
Where you lead, I will follow.
Anywhere you want.
Except...........
Hey, wait!!

Fishing #1

Clouds reflected on still waters.
Shattered by a baited hook.
She fishes from him
here.
In this favorite spot.
Hoping,
somehow he could catch
the line
to say
he misses her too.
A gentle tug, awareness
of what she can no longer
have.
She reels in
the hook empty again.

Fishing #2

She fishes for him
here.
In his favorite spot.
Wishing
she could cast a line
through time
to him somewhere.
Reel him in
for just a little while.
Borrow him from
the other side
just long enough
to say
"I Love You"
"Goodbye"
"I wasn't ready"
"I won't forget"
The water's too cold.
The wind too strong.
Time allows
no second chances.

Fishing #3

She fished for him
here.
In his favorite spot.
Wishing
she could cast her line
through time.
The water is still
with reflected clouds.
She sees his face,
shimmering, changing,
then gone.
With a swirl of gentle waves.
She knows he was here,
for her.
Because this is where
he was most alive.

Fishing #4

The river runs wild.
But in this spot
he used to fish.
The waters are still
with reflected clouds.
She stands alone
on the river bank.
What kind of bait
to catch a soul?
She fishes for him
here.
Where he was most alive.
Shattering the clouds
with her baited hook.
Hoping.
He'll catch the line.

An Appendage

Like the arm
you can never get comfortable
when trying to sleep
with my fist against my mouth
so you won't hear me scream
"When did we become leftovers?"
too little to save
too much to throw away?
my head used to fit perfectly
under your chin
now it seems I don't fit
in the bed
the tangle of sheets confuses me
I've put my pillow on the floor
we can no longer share
the same blanket, curled tightly
around your feet, my nakedness
is cold beside you, beneath your gaze
a look, not like I was invisible
like it wouldn't matter if I were
like the appendix you never think about
until it's got to go
I have to leave
I wonder if you'll miss me
or if I'll leave a scar

This double life

I have a double life. The one where I am sane and the one where I am crazy. I can't always tell them apart. They blend and bleed into each other and I can't remember what it is like to feel completely whole and normal

The Addiction

From across time and space you awaken in me that sleeping beast. That addiction for you. The insatiable need to walk right into the fire, that tantalizing dance with temptation. It is an addiction I have for you. It is never enough and always too much. Close enough to touch you but much too close to hold you. Close enough to touch you but wanting really to hold you, really wanting to hold you at arms length. Wrap myself in your life but knowing I can not stay. I try and walk that line and pretend it won't destroy me.

I know your name

I know your name. Not the name everyone calls us, that is written in black magic marker on a white square taped to the front of your shirt that says "hello my name is..."The other name, that secret name we call ourselves late at night when no one is listening. the name that voices our secret desire and passion that no one else could truly understand, no one who does not carry the name. I know who you are cuz I am the same. Writer, creator, poet, dreamer