Ramblings From Yet Another Stranger on the Bus

Drowned.Rat.

2011-09-22T20:04:00.000-07:00

"Would you like to go to Harvest Festival with me?" She said she'd like that. "Have you been there before?" She had - once, like I had. I don't know why they call it Harvest Festival, as it is held in late summer in the desert. Except for the merchandise in some of the vendors' booths, there is nothing remotely harvest-like about it. It is simply the Promised Land of craft shows, the presenters required to jump through a few hoops to prove the quality of their goods before being allowed a spot on the selling floor. On my prior visit, I'd come out with a haul for my friend's approaching birthday and a few trinkets for myself. This time, I was on a mission. I knew what I was after. I paid $4 to park Lucy Sue and $9 to walk through the door, this for the privilege of going in to spend even more of my money. Later, a companion laughed at me over that at dinner. "What? You paid how much to be allowed to spend more?" "Oh, it's a girl thing. I'll probably go back next year and pay for the privilege, too."

Click image for larger size.

I was searching for Chinese charm bracelets, a little item that mightily pleased me a couple of years ago. These confections consist of a slim black cord decorated with a gemstone figure, one temple bell and two charms. The gemstones and charms represent all manner of good things that might come one's way. Whenever the temple bell rings, which is approximately every time one breathes, one's prayer will be answered. I was a rookie last time at Harvest Festival. The bracelets are laid out on long tables in deep piles. There may be a million or so. Oh, yes, I saw the little code-breaker, telling what everything meant. But it was a bit overwhelming and I ultimately just bought 5 of them for the price of 4, some for birthday girlfriend and some for me, and made my way home.

Click image for larger size.

The next day at work, my home dudes helped me translate the charms and gemstones into an understanding of my next karmic gifts to be expected. They also had to help me, with a good deal of chin rubbing and furrowed-brow studying, learn how to operate the bracelet on its cord through the beads that tighten or loosen it. "Hey, Les, do they all have a bell?" I said they did. "Prayers answered." Great! Who doesn't seek that? "Anything like a yin and yang?" I had one - balance and harmony. "Do you have the money bag?" Sure did - riches! The cleverest of the group asked me about a fish. I didn't have one. He asked again. I said I didn't. The third time around, I queried, "What's up with the fish, Homey?" Freedom, prosperity and good sex. Damn! There were a million lying there. How'd I get away without a fish? I wore my bracelets on wrist and ankle until they fairly rotted off of me. Sure I could have gone online to order more, but there is something about running one's hands through the pile . . I bought nothing else there this time. My mission was accomplished.

It may have been sunny somewhere,
but certainly not where I was!

When we'd arrived it was a hot, late summer monsoonal afternoon. I'd cracked the windows of the car and put the shade in my windshield so we wouldn't melt when we left the place. Walking out, she needed a cigarette. I don't care for this, but I don't hammer. We've had the serious discussions. She knows how I feel about it and what the rules are regarding how close that activity may be performed to my person. I strive for tolerance. As she puffed, I watched the sky go a funny color and thunderclouds roll in faster than I can type it. "Smoke fast, please." But the thunder started to boom and the rain fell in sheets. We were placed nominally under an awning, but within seconds the pounding rain began to pummel us sideways. "Shit!" I bellowed. Mothers pushing strollers began to scatter, kids screamed, men repeated my sentiment loudly. The hail hit and when it began to pound me in the head and ear, I knew I couldn't just stand there. I was wearing sandals not fit to go anywhere near any form of liquid, but I moved along pretty smartly without face-planting. We (and 100 others) charged the door of the Cashman Center and they let us back in. "Lady, you can run like nothing I ever saw," said the ticket-taker. "Your dark hair is all full of hail stones." I was so grateful to receive that information. Soaked to the skin, water dripping off of us from everywhere, the air conditioning nearly froze us. I can attest that a small pair of jeans weighs a ton when fully saturated. If I hadn't worn a belt, I may have lost my pants.

The crowd milled around, listening to the thunder roll and watching the water come up over the curbs, hail piling up against the side of the building. And then the sun burst through, as suddenly as the storm had come in. The entire show took about 7 minutes. The aftermath was more lasting. Our choices for getting to the parking lot were few: 1) Walk on the sidewalk to Utah and circle around, or 2) ford the river and take our chances. We stepped into the current, twigs and debris swirling around our legs, mud collecting in my sandals, finally cresting the hill and spotting the car. Ah, the car. There was an inch of water in the cup holders, hailstones arranged in a pretty little tableau on the dashboard. The upholstery spewed a geyser when we sat on the seats. Hair product streamed down my neck and forehead, condensation forming on the lenses of my glasses. "Nice relaxing day out shopping, eh? Want some Starbucks?" She did. Teeth chattering, we drove off.

As I drove along, a text message dropped in. "Want to go for pizza? I'm hungry!" I sent a reply saying that I would enjoy pizza but explained I would need to go home first and fix myself up from the skin out. "I'm sure you look great. It's just Metro Pizza." I averred that I looked anything but great. "Oh, come on. How bad can you look?" I said I can actually look pretty bad under certain circumstances. Finally I sent the phone cam pictures. "Oh. OK, see you in an hour or so. Take your time." Well!

So this time I got a gemstone cat (for protection), a bamboo charm (strength and resilience), a Chinese coin (riches) and the temple bell to ring all my prayers to truth. I got a heart (love and fulfillment) and a yin/yang (harmony). And - oh, yeah, I got a lovely green jade fish (freedom, prosperity and good sex). I'll let you know how that works out for me.

In my ears right now: Because I love it.

Kirk's Fault, Birthdays and Growth

2011-09-19T20:44:00.000-07:00

OK, I'm not exactly apologizing for my musical obsession below. Just sayin'. It's Kirk's fault. I accept no responsibility. All right, I'd accept responsibility for the Civil War, so maybe I'll take on just a little of that here. For sometimes, someone has only to say a little tiny something and it gets me going. All he wrote was "Knocking on Heaven's Door" and I was off . . OK, it's short, easy to remember, conjures up different visions in all of us, I imagine, and there appears to be no worthy artist who has failed to do it ~ and do it well. I understand it is an easy four-chord tune for the musically inclined to play. So, in no particular order of appreciation, here are some versions that made me dance this morning. Yeah, I have a favorite version, but it may not be yours.

And that is not at all what I wanted to write about. David's birthday approached. I'd been back at work for a month. I like to cook for him and he likes what I make. It's been ages since I put on any form of a whoop-dee-doo, and I was in the mood. I spoke at length with my AA sponsor. This would not be a gift for David if I pressured myself to the point of breakdown. But a little challenge to myself could be a very good "next right step" as I find my way along. I started to pencil a menu. I needed to transport food for 25, set it up, serve it . . . Jennifer was soon on board. "I'll help you. I make killer fajitas!" (She does, too!) I pulled recipes, bought ingredients, cooked for 3 nights after work. Rice, beans, albondigas soup, chile relleno casserole, all the condiments, gourmet cupcakes, and Jenn's fajitas. I pondered why I had ever stopped cooking and making whoop-dee-doos since I love those things so much. Oh, wait. When one drinks as much as I was drinking, such things as complex plans, recipe cooking, shopping for ingredients and executing the whoop-dee-doo become insurmountable. Yet another of life's pleasures I sacrificed to King Alcohol.

Jenn cools her jets
with My Dog and
The Greatest.

But not this time. We both got up at 4:15 that morning and I picked her up by 6:00. We hauled my new purchases, a cupcake stand and an appliance used when one wants to take loose ingredients to make a quesadilla rather than just take fajitas and side dishes. And we hauled all that food. We invited Mailman Steve to pop in for a meal and FedEx driver Ray. They came! We made platters of "take-out" for the carpet technicians who were out working at lunch time. And we still hauled home mountains of food. The last cupcakes went to AA with us, where many recovering alcoholics enjoyed a little treat. "What, did you women give a party or something?" Boy, howdy.

Birthday Man with a little
wrist action on the paper plate.

OK, everything was not perfect. Sometimes I go in too many directions at one time. Who knew my camera had been set on macro and left that way? I barely remembered to run to get it before he blew out his candles and started to chow down. It was a rare event to see David without a baseball cap. He looked grand and I pitched him. "Sir, we haven't had our picture taken together in a long time. What do you say?" He said, "Yeah!" The crowd was thinning and we posed ourselves. Jennifer took the shot. Oh, it would be a sweet scene if we could clearly be seen. Alas, the macro setting! However, I love the picture. I know it's David and me. I know it was on the occasion of his birthday luncheon just after I'd returned to the place I know I want to belong for the foreseeable future. I know I need to slow down and pay attention to the details. Maybe the reader can imagine viewing the photo through a veil of sentimental tears, eh? That's how I look at it. And so it goes . . .

My Own Private 9-11

2011-09-11T01:55:00.000-07:00

I imagine there are few people over a certain age who do not know something about the horrible events of the September 11, 2001 attacks by al-Qaeda against the United States. The four coordinated suicide attacks on that Tuesday morning were shocking, devastating and resulted in many changes to the routine ways in which some things are conducted in the U.S. and throughout the world. I am not a good enough wordsmith to add anything cogent to the millions of words already written about the horrors. I don't have a photo or film clip to present. I was nowhere near any of the individual events. I was distracted that day. I had to learn much of what I know about 9-11 by reading and discovering long after the fact. For I, too, had been focusing on the 9-11-01 square on the calendar for some time. I had personal business to conduct on that day.

I was downstairs chatting distractedly with Ex, making the coffee, even though I would not be allowed to drink any that morning. That seems odd now - that little snippet. He was perfectly adept in the kitchen, by now acting as menu maker, shopper and cook. Why I, coffee hound, was messing with the makings when it was denied me is unclear. Likely I had insisted. I needed to keep my hands busy while my head spun out of control. Amber came down the stairs with an odd look on her face. While getting ready for school, she'd seen the first news bulletins on TV. She didn't fully comprehend what was happening (who did?), but she knew she should likely say something. "You know those twin buildings in New York? You guys better turn on the TV." We did so, and I have a sense of us staring like two slack-jaws at the screen, comprehending no part of what we were seeing. At the time we switched on the set, all eyes were on New York. Then the Pentagon was hit.

I knew my mother would be preparing and drinking her coffee in the north county, and I knew there was no chance she'd partake of news delivered by any media. She is a TV-phobe, not very interested in hearing about anything remotely resembling news. She likes floating around in her own world and her own head. She would soon join Ex and me at a hospital, for I was to have surgery that day and we'd all made careful plans to support me and to support Amber so she could have as normal a day as possible. Nevertheless, we felt Mom should be told what was going on. She can't always be allowed to float along in a bubble. "Mom, dust off the TV and turn it on. I think we may be at war." She asked a good question, given the hour: "With whom?" I didn't know. Anxiety was creeping up on me. I already had a good sense of fear and dread going on. I didn't have much fiber left with which to deal with the attacks. "Just turn it on, Mom. We'll both be available on cell phone. Please take yours out of your purse and turn it on. We're going to the hospital as planned."

Amber had seen and heard enough. She'd been offered some options for her day. She'd landed on going to school as usual and walking afterwards to Aunt Becky's. Her dad would pick her up for dinner and they'd come to see me in the hospital after their meal. She'd been made to understand Mom wouldn't be very frisky and they'd only stay a few minutes, just so she could see I'd come through surgery and now was on the other side. The breaking news distressed her - she was 11 - and now she wanted to simply spend the entire day with Aunt Becky. We actually preferred that. We wanted her in one known place rather than two places with a solo walk in between. Oh, yes, it was Lemon Grove. On her walk, she'd pass the homes of a few different relatives in a 6-block walk, but we still favored her being in one location with a person we trusted 100% to make good decisions.

Amber and I had had a Mom-Daughter sleep-together the night before, bunking in her waterbed playing music we both loved, talking as needed. I don't believe our hands ever ungrasped, even through the sleeping hours. We woke from time to time, both crying. We were scared. We were a well-counseled family, the bulk of that bestowed on me, a bit less on Ex and a sanitized version applied to Amber, appropriate to her age and understanding. Even my mother had been let in for a little bit of preparation. For this surgery was going to drastically change me, and - therefore - everyone close to me, everything I did, everywhere I went, everything I thought, felt and emanated. We were in for some change. I was 49 years of age. I was very reliable and predictable. Good old Les. A rock. The one you could count upon to remain steadfast. I wasn't known for changing up anything in any way.

At the hospital, I was ensconced in the corral where pre-surgical patients wait together in their anxiety and misery. The staff members were clearly distracted, patients' families gathering in front of TVs in the various waiting rooms. I heard one woman make a tart comment to her companion: "Hey, I'm having surgery. Can I get a little attention here?" Though my procedure was scheduled for the afternoon, I reported at 7:00 a.m. and was given an IV. This caused me to need the bathroom 2 or 3 times an hour, dragging my little pull-along contraption with me. I remember feeling absolutely frozen, begging warmed blankets which were produced repeatedly with a smile. Between them, Ex and my mother managed to both keep me company and monitor the news. And finally I went from the corral to the chute. "Bye, Mom. Bye, Ex. See you on the other side." In the chute, my hair was covered, I got a light sedative in my IV (odd, because I'd toughed out many hours without sedation and now I was about to go completely under, but sedate me they did). The nurses there were also distracted, chatting among themselves. One commented on a grisly TV scene wherein body parts could be seen on the roof of a New York building. I didn't think much of that in my sedated state, but she apologized to me for being too graphic. And suddenly, "he" was there.

By pure happenstance, one of the world's recognized front runners practiced his specialty at his clinic and at the hospital 5 miles from my home. I was - once again - the chosen one, the lucky child, to be in his care. I was his third surgery of the day. "Do you know what's happening in the world today or have you been too busy to hear it?" He said he knew about the attacks. "Are you distracted in any way?" He said he was good to go. "OK, then I am, too. I have an 11-year-old who is relying on you to be as expert as you are." He promised to do his best. I suffered a few slight indignities in the operating room, such as meeting the crew that would film my surgery. And then I was mercifully removed from consciousness.

I have said many times in writing that I have suffered more than one addiction. My surgery was to help me with but one of those. I walked into Alvarado Hospital that morning weighing 340 pounds. I'd been gaining toward that peak for many, many years. Though I had managed such things as a successful career, a pregnancy and childbirth, international travel and many more of life's most wonderful gifts, I was now beaten down with nowhere else to turn. I'd tried every reasonable remedy but I'd succeeded in nearly destroying myself. My surgery was Roux-en-Y gastric bypass, the hard way. I was not a candidate for the less invasive laparoscopic procedure. It would color everything that came afterward. Not all outcomes have been joyous. Amber calls 9-11-01 the day she lost her mother. That is an enormous and powerful statement she means completely. My truth is that this was the first enormous gift I gave myself in order to find myself. The 10-year journey has been one of tremendous highs and a few deep lows, those not directly related to the surgery or its results. I wouldn't change a thing. The enormity of the impact of all of my changes cannot possibly be expressed in one blog post. I will continue to write about them, though. I have wanted to write of this for a very long time, as it is such a deeply integral part of the me of today. And - there - now I have done so.

A few things I know: there are enough of "us" now that we know 5 years post-surgery, 80% of us have gained back 50% of our excess weight. I am not one of those. Knowing what my skeleton, blood, muscle and other parts should weigh, I was given a number that - if I reached it - I should accept with good grace and call it a day. I weigh 35 pounds less than that number, without ever once taking extraordinary steps to cause more weight loss. I know about infections and torn staples and all the other horror stories. I read the same news reports you do. I just haven't suffered any of them. I know "they" were right to counsel us about the number one side effect: broken relationships of all kinds. Though Ex and I had been together 30 years and scoffed at the notion my surgery would break us apart, the marriage collapsed in 13 months. I know that not everyone is happy for a person who finds her way out of a terrible trap. Mostly people want things to remain the same. For most of us, profound change is too difficult to contemplate. Good old Les. She changed everything in one fell swoop.

Personae, Debate and Mistaken Identity

2011-09-08T21:47:00.000-07:00

OK, you've already met me
as Stamp Girl.

What do you think of the new
and updated Stamp Woman?
Click for larger image.

A friend at work showed me a picture collage on his iPhone, featuring his young grand - son's face tricked up like stamp images. "Isn't that cool?" he asked. Boy, howdy! My head began to spin. "Hey, Mark, if I e-mailed a couple of pictures, would you mind . . .?" He said he didn't mind. When the picture landed, I chortled a little, being a woman who is pretty easily amused. Then landed another e-mail: "What do you think of this?" Ha! Coin Chick!

"Now you're the Leslie Morgan Silver Dollar," he wrote. Having not
seen this possibility before, I guffawed right out loud. David commented
that my hands resemble claws, as if I were clawing at my face, in the coin
version. "Yes, Sir. Distressed at the economy. Clawing for my life."

The end of the work day neared. Only George and I remained in the office. "Would it be bad form if I took the rest of my birthday cake away rather than leave it here to be enjoyed with coffee tomorrow?" For, despite having served plank sized portions, there was still half of that mammoth cake remaining. "Darlin', it's your birthday cake. You do whatever makes you happy." I decided to take it to AA. Sometimes some people there haven't eaten all day. The free coffee and refreshments might be all they get for awhile. Jenn and I attracted a lot of attention in the parking lot. Typically, when someone appears with cake at AA, it means they're celebrating a sobriety birthday. Everyone applauds that. But the cake, on its own, is appreciated, too. "Whose birthday?" "Mine!" "Oh, do you have a year now?" "Nope, I have 59 years!" Odd looks. We set up for the meeting, answering all the questions: "Leslie's birthday, brought the rest of the cake, etc." A woman who is rather contentious came in. "What's that?" We explained again, though we thought a giant slab o' cake was pretty self explanatory. "We're not supposed to celebrate belly button birthdays at AA," she pronounced.

I don't care for the term. I understood she meant we celebrate sobriety birthdays more than natal days, but her comment made me bristle a little. I looked around the room where are posted the 12 Steps, the 12 Traditions, all the short slogans we live by . . nothing about "celebrate no belly button birthdays here". I said, "We're not celebrating anything. I simply brought refreshments to be shared in fellowship." And, besides, there are no "supposed to's" in AA - it is a system of benevolent anarchy. Everyone does it his or her way. Jenn grinned. "Well done," she mouthed. Some others came along and someone said, "Hey, it's your birthday, why don't you lead the meeting?" I did so, with pleasure. The question of belly button birthdays vs. sobriety birthdays was thoroughly chewed upon, as AAs on both sides of the question munched away at my cake. Since I was leading, I got to observe rather quietly, and it pleased me to watch people rant about what was right and what was not and to tuck absentmindedly into that confection that aroused such passionate conversation.

Up just with the sunrise, I flipped on the coffeemaker and the TV, started the shower, stroked Virginia Woolf's fur for a moment, yawned. It requires a lot of my energy to get myself up and out every morning. Oh, I want to go! It's just been a long time since I kept a work schedule and I have to be disciplined about meeting all my obligations, one such demand being to allow myself rest and relaxation and pleasurable activities. An ad came on announcing a concert at a casino-resort I could walk to. I've walked to a concert before. It's kind of fun to simply stroll through the madness as everyone else tries to maneuver cars through chaos. The streets between the venue and home are well lit and busy around the clock. I'd be safe. Maybe . . I like John Sebastian, coffee-house folkie who fronted the Lovin' Spoonful and a handful of other good groups in the day, as well as having a solo career. He's a great songwriter whose voice remains true and who still looks adorable. Maybe . . The announcer raved on about the intimacy of the venue, the rare opportunity to see a performer as special as John Sebastian. One of the artist's songs kicked in, fairly loud compared to the spoken part of the ad, and I had a "WTF?" moment. For performing in person is one Joan (pronounced "John", at least in this TV spot) Sebastian. Not at all the man I had in mind. So, maybe not . . . Oh, I'm certain Joan Sebastian is a marvelous singer. Just not what I was expecting.

Special thanks to Mark Bubel for indulging my whimsy.

Transplanted

2011-09-04T15:30:00.000-07:00

I like the little truism "Bloom Where You're Planted". It encourages me to simply do the obvious next right thing, with what's at hand and I'll blossom. I've been back at my much loved work (with only a slightly different flavor and location) for a month now. When I look into the mirror, whether literally or metaphorically, I am amazed at the profusion of sprouts and blooms. Oh, to be sure, there are few stalks or full flowers yet. But compared to only a short time ago, it's as if I've been given a strong application of spiritual, mental and emotional Miracle Gro. Don't read this as "everything's wonderful". Everything is not. But almost everything is much better. And that is huge.

I never really knew George, beyond the knowledge that he was nominally related to "us". I worked only for A1 Carpet Care and was David's assistant. David's preference was that I be bonded to him and to A1 and that others in the special little world give me space to do what I do. And that worked fine for us all. Now I work for both David and George, seated in the place where George can be found most times. David pops in many times a day, many times simply to read my face, and we burn up the cyberworld with text messages and emails. It is a wonderful time in space for one who loves to connect with others, such as I.

George, it is clear to me, is a man who "does for" women. He is strong, well-established, sure of himself, knows his way around the planet, and - more importantly - around Las Vegas. He is rather aggressive and confrontational with men, seemingly unprovoked, sometimes. Conversely, he is rather courtly toward women - all women. When a female openly ponders about how to accomplish some task, George gets right in it, partly advising and partly trying to shoulder some of the required action. I am of mixed feelings about this "being taken care of". Mostly I resist it, though I listen to advice. Sometimes (less frequently), I'm simply grateful for a little assist in a mundane errand or dilemma. George calls me (and other females) "darlin' " with some degree of frequency. This is something I've never appreciated from anyone in business, but I have not yet prickled about it coming from George. That's what he does, naturally. If I find it truly objectionable, I'll say so, and I am certain he would modify.

I'd worked only a couple of weeks when my birthday came. I hadn't peeped a word about it, but it was not forgotten. I was only slightly taken aback when David popped in and said, "Grab a pen and pad. Come upstairs with me." No, he's not curt or rude. We just speak in shorthand sometimes. Usually when he goes short-of-words that way, it means his brain is bubbling with the newest idea. It never occurred to me we could have chatted downstairs right where we were at the time. I just hollered out, "Going upstairs with David!" and climbed the stairs in the broiling sun. When I went back down, with David hot on my heels, I learned I'd been had. George took me by the shoulder to the embarrassing moment . . .

Some of these made a much-
appreciated gift. Hey! I'd been
unemployed for a year. This was
exciting! My head whirled.

Edible flowers. I ate one to prove it.
I sprayed the rest with a matte acrylic
spray to preserve them for some
future use other than simply add-
ing to my momentary pleasure
and future body weight. ;~}

I decided to put half of my windfall into savings, use some to repair some of the harm to my personal business after a year of neglect, and some to buy a couple of things I'd not been able to afford before. Part of that was easy: make a bank deposit. Some of it was glorious: I bought a modest haul of art supplies I'd hungered to own and use. Some of it was daunting, just a little, because I still cannot easily handle more than a few demands at a time. My car, Lucy Sue, looked shameful. Mostly, she had sat for a year, collecting not miles, but dust and grime and hard-water stains. A drive-through car wash wasn't going to do the job and I'm not physically up to cleaning her decently. Along comes George. "I know just what to do, darlin'!" He fumbled for his cell phone and barked out, "Get your ass down here to the office. I need you." I cringed at the approach and waited for whomever to appear. Enter Pablo, a male who has given service to George for many years. He's likely accustomed to barked orders and good pay. An hour later, during which time George ran out into the parking lot windmilling his arms and pointing out tiny spots of Lucy Sue needing attention, the car gleamed. It smelled good. At the end of my day, George took me outside by the elbow, opened the car for me and damned nearly hooked up my seatbelt across my lap. I drove off feeling pretty happy. I'd paid the enormous sum of $20 plus tip. It was a small investment in feeling a whole lot better.

One finds it in the little
things, small connections.

The next day, a Friday, it was monsoonal, hell for hot and threatening rain. This did not make me happy, as my car sat out in the open. I dreamed at the window a little bit, observing the gray sky and traveling back in time. I wondered whether Vicente still cleaned cars as poorly as a car can be "cleaned", still exuded the charm that pulled me magnetically and whether he had ever received his transplanted kidney. I experienced a little wave of sadness and went back to work. How can this happen in real time, reader? For I am not even slightly fictionalizing this: a man walked past my window outside. I only had a fraction of a second to experience the lightning bolts going off in my head. He opened our door to enter. He made eye contact with me as I sat behind the desk. He nearly dropped to the floor. He began to visibly tremble. He clutched at his chest a la Fred Sanford having the big one. "Leslie! Ay, dios mio!" I vacillated between grinning and tearing up. "Hola, Vicente." "Leslie!" He came behind the counter and took me by the hand. His English has not improved, nor has my Spanish. Other than talk about car cleaning, and limited talk at that, we have trouble communicating to completed concepts. This took me aback only a little: he put my open hand on his chest - hot from hellish heat, wet from his profession - car washing involves water, even for Vicente - heart pounding nearly out of his skin. I could physically feel all of this. He continued to grin at me, trembling. I was struck - for the 9 millionth time in life - by the mystery and joy of connecting purely with one other human being whom one can't help being drawn to. I don't know why I am so bonded to a man who really does a poor job that I pay him for. He is not "hot for me", nor am I for him. It's not that. But whatever one calls it, we have it and it goes deep. After he collected himself, Vicente (of course) put the moves on me about the car. That's his livelihood. I impressed upon him that the car had just been detailed "jesterday". "Oh, jesterday?" I nodded. "Next week, Leslie?" I nodded. David walked in and took in the grand reunion. Vicente left and David grinned from ear to ear. "And you'll still be giving him a 50% tip, won't you?" I nodded. The story of Vicente's return into my small arena does not end here. He (and others) will be the subject of my next post after I grab a couple of photos I need. Across the period of a year, Vicente got his transplant and Leslie got sober. I told him, partly in pantomime, about my alcohol fueled crash and burn. "Ay, dios mio! Now better, Leslie?" I told him I was better now.

David stayed nearby, leaning against my counter on his forearms, a stance I now recognize as the newest, "Let's talk" pose. I was intrigued by his look, as he isn't the only one between us who "reads face". "What's going on, Sir? I can see you're percolating." In our little world are represented many different beliefs and belief systems. A fragment of knowledge about astrology used to make us crow about the Virgo Brigade in our world under the stucco canopy, back where the world can't see us. For in a group of maybe 25 people, several key players were Virgos: David, me, the much-loved and now gone Rudy, Cesar, the wonderful carpet technician. We knew our world ran well because of our Virgoan superiority . . I'm kidding! We thought it was interesting. "You know Trudy?" Sure, I do. She now manages A1 Carpet Care and I don't resent her for it. She was looking for a job when I surrendered mine. She seems to have done well with it and David has told me she is now "one of the family". "Her birthday is the same day as yours, August 24th. She's exactly one year older than you are." I grinned. "Sir, how the hell did you manage that?" He grinned that slow, broad beam and shook his head from side to side, slowly. "I didn't know until a couple of days ago. I had to scramble so her birthday wouldn't go 'forgotten'." And so it goes . . .

In my ears this weekend: Because I love just about anything he performed . .

Dust-up in the Zen Garden

2011-09-01T21:42:00.000-07:00

Hello, there. Stamp Girl here. Chick on a sharp learning curve. The stamp people and I have developed an exciting atmosphere, everyone learning from everyone else, people chewing on "her database" who'd never heard of a database a month ago. "Can your database do this?" Probably can! From my side of the building, "Is this a Lincoln Commemorative or something else entirely?" I think philately is at least interesting, and maybe even kind of fun. They seem to think I am at least interesting, and maybe even kind of fun. New friendships formed, a Labor Day BBQ is planned and next week I will put on my first event since returning to work. More on that later, as my event is a surprise in honor of someone who happens to read this blog.

One does not work for David and expect slow easy days. He and George pay well and provide absolutely everything needed so the staff can work hard and do their jobs well. They're excited about what I bring to their company and want magic immediately. Without any pressure ~ they know everything about why I crashed and burned, approximately where I am in recovery, and some of the triggers that could be bad for me. It's been four weeks now and the days fairly gallop. I haven't missed one AA meeting for being too tired (or for any other reason), though I've had to be disciplined about managing it all. I know this, for certain: I was more than ready to return to work and people and to activities requiring the use of my brain and energy. I also know this: it takes everything I have to do everything I need to do in this new life and keep my balance at the same time. I am frustrated I cannot find time to write much to be posted. I long to "make art" now the creative juices are flowing. I must do my Fourth Step work and continue with my program. Yeah. And not lose myself in any way.

For the purpose of decompression, I made a little zen garden at my desk. I keep a plant, some essential oil to rub on the pulse points for relaxation aromatherapy, my Tao, some special rocks, a pair of framed Asian artworks Jenn made for me, a lovely little piece of Depression glass I got for my birthday, a pair of Asian art collages I've made, and - oh, yes - the fish. Though I always keep bettas in pairs - yes, in separate homes, but within sight of one another so they'll flare and put on a show for me - there was only one available the day I went fish shopping. He's a purple hazy little fellow I named Jimi and he was a pretty mousy little fish. Not

much to say. But I liked observing him in his cool watery world separated only by glass from the hellfire of the blacktop parking lot in a Las Vegas summer. Shopping again, I found Big Red, a crowntail betta with some blue areas against the scarlet fins and some attitude. I submit that few creatures contain as much testosterone, ounce for ounce, as a betta fish. Peace and tranquility are no longer. But I laugh out loud at the fish rowdies.

OK, so some insider philately fun:

To give the reader some sense of perspective, if this was a full set of the five stamps, it would be valued at somewhere between $7,000 and $26,000 depending on many things including whether the stamps had ever been hinged (listen to me talk stamp!), the condition of the gum and more. I don't know the value of these exact stamps. But let's say they're on the lower end of the price range. Wouldn't you still want the word "Louisiana" to be correctly spelled on your display? Just sayin'.

And for the truly discriminating investor: One of our consultants has a customer who wants a fine classic, but feels the price is too high. Alex is an older, courtly Russian man from Moscow who has seen many of the finer things in the world. His accent is slightly French and becomes more pronounced when he gets animated. "Leslie, he just doesn't understand. He's not stamp expert. We are. How can we show him?" Hmm . . well, let me see. 1875. Only 3 known to exist. eBay Buy it Now price: $64,999. "Mr. Smith, for a VIP client such as yourself, we'd be willing to match the eBay price. You'd save so much over full retail." Buy the stamp, dammit!

Leslie's hammer

So I've produced a few small pieces of mixed media collage work and they please me. I've even made some for myself and put them up. Sometimes completing a piece means stealing 10 minutes after work, standing at my counter gluing and arranging, hustling so I can have the pleasure of creating, but still making it to AA. The other staff watch me with interest and flattering me. One woman said I inspired her to decorate her office after sitting between blank walls for two years. I finished a piece and hollered indelicately, "Charles, do we have a hammer?" He said we didn't. What? We live amongst half of the world's Steve Kaufman paintings hanging on the walls and we don't have a hammer? "Could you get me something I could use to drive one small nail? I'd use my shoe if I had the right kind on." He moves pretty quickly for a big man. "Here you go. You can keep it to be used again." I asked if he was sure. Was it special for any reason to him or his son? "No, it's yours." That nail was about 2 inches long and not very big around. It required delicate application of the tool at hand. It worked really well.

In my ears right now: A double served either way you like it.

This Isn't a Performance Review, Is It?

2011-08-27T19:11:00.000-07:00

If the reader has visited here often, s/he knows I like words. Oh, I fairly consume the morsels, savoring the flavor, masticating them to a new consistency, sieving them through filters of dictionary, thesaurus, synonym, antonym and used-in-a-sentence. I love to take on new (to me) lexeme as my own small badges of personality and I love - love - to engage in wordplay, using phrases that don't seem the right ones to illustrate a point, or taking terms somewhat out of context to infer new meaning. A lot of paper and virtual images cross my desk, some of which please me and some not. I am pretty quick, glancing, digesting, concluding, filing for storage or recycling. My workplace is still new to me in some ways. I don't know all the tricks like "Oh, unplug the laser printer at night or it goes poltergeist." or "That coffeemaker on the left spews water like a pump." "No fooling," thought I as I mopped myself off. So one of the office machines suffered a contretemps and began to regurgitate hundreds of pages of stuff. I clicked on "Cancel", I hit the "End" key, I powered the rascal down by turning it off . . . to no avail. That apparatus was fully intent upon sending forth its spawn and all I could do was clear the output tray for a long time.

I am not one to dawdle. Though I can easily over-agitate, I seek some balance between catatonic and manic. I try to keep busy enough in the head to make life interesting and fun and quirky and droll. As the pages flew, some words and themes began to grab my attention. Originally, I'd deemed this output to be unknowable (by me) computer bullshit - you know - UCBS. But could it possibly be subliminal stimuli, an evaluation of my worth after two weeks of sterling performance? There were some 100,000 words that said absolutely nothing. I was sure of it. But then . . there seemed a suggestion that I am not stacked (true), that I am offensive and commanded to flush. A fairly harsh assessment, likely not deserved. Intentionally null? Oh, I don't think so. I didn't set out purposely to be that. Then came the comment that I needed to clean up my features (which it seemed I was able to begin and end) and was intentionally blank! The coup de grace, however, was that I have no installed memory. What the . . ? David walked by. He takes the temperature of a room by looking at my face. He says he never has to ask me how things are going and we must never enter me in a poker game. "What's wrong?" "Oh, nothing. Just a funky machine. It's been a couple of weeks now, David. Am I doing OK enough?" Big grins all around. All right, I can go back to my work now.

So, I love me some Mike. Mr. Mickey Man has introduced me to more new (to me) music than anyone else I can think of. And he pays attention to what the other music lover enjoys. If I'm not mistaken, his e-mail said nothing. Simply a link. Oh! Oh, my! New. New Lu.

The imagery, tempo and tone put me in mind of her 2003 tune, Ventura, which is important music to me.

Look, folks, I get it. You like her or you don't like her. That's OK. It takes all kinds to make a world. What I love among so many other things: she puts her age/generation right out there: " . .I'm 57 but I could be 7 years old . ."

Something bad happened to me this week. Another human being behaved really badly and sent terribly disturbing bad thoughts careening in my direction through the mist. I didn't deserve bad treatment, though I got it. I was supported by women friends, fellow AAs and I got through without drinking.

More, more to tell. I have a writing deadline of 9-11. For on THE 9-11 ('01 ~ it's been nearly 10 years) my tiny, personal world changed. And I'm trying to tiptoe up to writing about it. I am both compelled and hesitant. A terrible dilemma.

And, p.s.: some of the photos of Lucinda show an eroded chick a la Grace Slick in her dotage. Other, carefully artistic Lu - man! Could I be as glorious as that?

Signing off, a jumbly Leslie Morgan . . appreciated today (by others who expressed themselves in different ways) sufficiently to make me willing to try on tomorrow as another day . . .

The Advent of Atticus

2011-08-23T21:52:00.000-07:00

What an odd day. A fairly intense earthquake rattled the eastern part of the U.S., which is unusual. Hell for hot in Las Vegas which isn't unusual in August, but is still hell for hot. To the right below is a truly bad picture of one corner of one of my monitors. Oh, you get in between all the stuff through which I had to maneuver, and produce a grand photo. This is simply for illustrative purposes. You can just about make out that you're seeing WeatherBug. In the red strip across the top, it reads "Alert". The alert is for excessive heat. Ambient air temperature 107 at about 3:30 p.m., though when I got into the car, the sensor was reading 118-degrees down on the blacktop. I display the Microsoft jellyfish on my desktop, though it looks more like flames in my poor photo. I thought that was appropriate, given the temperatures. "Leslie, is that a jellyfish?" I said that it is. "Is it pooping?" I said I didn't believe so and that I thought that was just part of its body streaming along behind. "I wouldn't want to be the nature photographer who has to follow behind wildlife to take pictures of them pooping." I said it might be time to return to one's own desk and leave me alone to contemplate other things.

I had an itch - a yen - to make art and it couldn't be Asian in theme, because that's virtually all I've done since I very recently found ways to express myself again. I used a purchased large black initial "L" that I embellished with sand dollars, two fountain pen nibs, faux versions of the Penny Red Brown stamp that sells for many thousands of dollars each, a London postmark, a European house address number in metal, a glass stone, and paper images of a postcard and old sheet music. Art. I made it for me, the newly anointed Stamp Girl. Not sure what the two shiny, scuzzy looking marks are about. They don't appear in real time. And speaking again of shitty photography, this one is going to show more of my efforts if one clicks on the picture and gets the larger version.

My friend and I made a pilgrimage to Hobby Lobby. We'd printed the coupons, bought the Starbucks just before going in, wore comfortable shoes, carried pads and pens so we could scribble ideas. Hey, we know how to do this. We share or go halves on some art supplies, but playing the coupon game forces us to check out singly, each applying her coupon to the most expensive item in her basket. Our mothers didn't raise any fools. We already agreed we'd spend a long time there, each going her own way and then meet in the middle to ask "Did you see . . .?" or "Do you want to go in on this?" I came around the end of one aisle, having found some wonderful items marked 50% off. That's when I saw him. My blue eyes met his very dark ones and I looked away, trying not to appear too interested. I don't know if he was onto my game. I gave another sidelong glance and decided I'd sashay right past him like I was unaware of his presence. My decision didn't hold. I stopped right in front of him. To my surprise, I reached out my hand and touched him, only moments after first laying eyes upon him. I am compelled to confess I took that fella home with me to stay. I've wanted a male like him for a very long time and he seemed the perfect one, from his size to his sweet face. I made him my own.

This is Atticus, my new guy. Yes, that is the reason I named him Atticus. I don't know very many other Atticus references from which I would have drawn. He makes me smile from ear to ear. He reminds me of Amber's sock monkey, Martika, whom I bought for her at a street fair when the child was still riding in a stroller. Martika was my girl's good friend for years and we changed her up a little as Amber grew older and more fanciful. I made dresses for Martika, sewed on long, fluttery eyelashes, beaded a bracelet right onto her arm and occasionally exchanged her eyes for a new pair. We made up songs about Martika, and that sock monkey became one of the family, essentially a lovable relation who could be tossed into the washer and dryer when she got grungy. She wasn't ideally suited to going into the bath with Amber, but nobody is without shortcomings. Martika was right there beside us in good times and bad. She went into bed with a little girl who was sometimes happy and sometimes sad, scared from time to time, excited upon occasion. Once, on the night before I had a surgery, I'd invited Amber for a sleepover in my bed with me. We were scared about the surgery and both of us cried and held hands during the night. Martika was there, too. Remembering that simian sister makes me smile and feel a little tender around the edges. I hope, if she no longer goes into bed with Amber, that she at least has some protected spot in a closet, and hasn't been thrown out or lost across the years. If Atticus brings me half the joy I think he will, then I will long consider myself a golden child upon whom have been showered many wonderful gifts.

I'm at university to take a degree in juggling. After a year of reduced activity and reduced life, I'm on a fast track. If I hit warp speed, I will harm myself. I need and want to work, keep working my AA program, write, make art, read . . . and it's not all fitting with the frequency I'd like. I'm painfully aware of which of those things must take priority, whether it makes me happy or not. So ~ ~ every day another lesson or ten. Do not read this as depressed, down or anything negative. It is only "new". Something to be learned. I'm a good learner.

In my ears right now: Yep, I like it in its original form, as well.

Farewell, 58. Contained within you were the worst and some of the best days of my life so far.

My NEXT Great Idea ~ Let's Play a Word Game, Guys!

2011-08-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

Remember me, the kid who greeted other kids not with "Hi", but with "I've got an idea"? So I'm feeling just a tiny bit frustrated these days. Oh, I'll survive it and it's not going to be my excuse to pick up a drink, but I feel it a little. I get up really early to get ready for work. I work nonstop for several hours, jump up, navigate the streets of the city (ugh), pick up Jennifer, go to the library or wherever we've decided we'll pop into for the day, go to AA to fill my reserve tank, sometimes have to stop at Fresh & Easy or get my hair cut or whatever . . there isn't much time left in a day. I am pent up with words and ideas I want to get onto the blog and have not yet figured out how to make time to accomplish. But that's not exactly what this post is for.

I hold my sweet-natured little she-car - Lucy Sue - in similar esteem to that in which I hold my sweet-natured little she-cat, Virginia Woolf. Both of these girls have belonged to me only, not shared custody with anyone else. They rely upon me for their needs and I've managed to meet them, apparently, because both seem in good condition. When I stopped drinking and my life started to flow down the drain, Lucy Sue did what many alcoholics attempt unsuccessfully. She cut back on her drinking. For most of a year, I put in $10 of gas and it lasted a month. I wasn't going much of anywhere. Yes, I noticed all the signs on the gas stations. I knew gas prices were obscene. But I wasn't doing higher math. $10 is just $10. "How much will it cost to fill up my 12-gallon tank?" is another matter altogether. So I pulled in Wednesday, slid my card, used my preferred customer discount and started the pump. Man, it costs a lot to fill a tiny tank with fuel! Who knew? And - I swear this is true - I heard an audible reaction from Lucy Sue. She either groaned or emitted a little paroxysm of sated delight. She'd not felt so well-endowed in a long time. But that's not exactly what this post is for, either.

I love final resting places. Anyone's final resting place. Whether it's catacomb or crypt, graveyard or Golgotha, mausoleum or memorial park, I take great pleasure in communing with the departed. No, I'm not morbid. I don't want to imagine anything unpleasant. I simply want to weave through the rows, reading headstones and memorial plaques, imagining the people and their lives and those who cared about them. I've spent hours in the desert observing tiny ersatz funerary grounds and have been profoundly moved by what I saw there. I've slithered on my belly like a snake in pyramids both in Egypt and Mexico, viewed vast green plots with the white markers for fallen soldiers in several places in the world, and - oh, the promised land - St. Paul's Cathedral in London. Beneath the beautiful structure consecrated in 1708, sitting

there atop Ludgate Hill, the fifth structure known as St. Paul's is a place of great beauty, the tallest building in all of London until 1962, and possessing one of the world's largest domes, still. The stained glass is breathtaking and the American Memorial Chapel touching - remember, the Brits eventually became pretty affectionate toward us Yanks. St. Paul's fills me up with holiness, and I am not speaking of religion, as I don't do religion. At all. A person would have to be soulless, however, not to find something to love at St. Paul's.

After an awe-inspiring look around, almost always accompanied by profound silence from nearly every visitor, one descends to the crypt. Oh, here lie Lord Nelson, cheek by jowl with the Duke of Wellington and Lawrence of Arabia. There are the painters, Van Dyck and Sir Joshua Reynolds, poet laureate Nahum Tate (died 1715) . . my mind goes a mile a minute. The best memorial, however, houses

Sir Christopher Wren who designed the fifth St. Paul's, most of the prior structures having been consumed by fires dating as far back as the year 936. Wren's monument is unassuming dark marble, words inscribed: "Lector, si monumentum requiris circumspice". "Reader, if you seek his monument, look around you." I have never visited his resting place that his grave was not covered in fresh roses or daffodils, laid across the marble, bright punctuation on the deep-toned marble. Cathedral workers remove the floral overflow hourly. And all of that is sort of what this post is for.

Now, let's play the game. Imagine you have left the building, never to return. Those who loved you wish to construct a fitting commemorative tribute to the wonderful person who was you. What will it say? What will it look like? You are restricted to a headline of your choice (like I've used "Here lies Les" below) and 10 words to tell about your essence. Here is mine. Long may I lie in peace.

In my ears right now: Otis. If you don't love Otis, then I feel sorry for you.

Special thanks to esteemed Word Woman, Rachel Fenton, who recently applied the words "quirky" and "droll" to me. I can't claim those as my own brilliance.

Stamp Out . . Never Mind. Don't Stamp Out Anything, Please. Who Am I to Suggest What Should Be Stamped Out?

2011-08-15T21:40:00.000-07:00

What I once needed to know about.
I learned it well.

David's brilliant and he knew when he hired me in 2007 that he wanted to get me well-established in the office and then send me to carpet cleaning school. I was neither eager nor resistant. It was just on the to-do list. When the time came, I went to university and was immediately intrigued. I found I did know a little about the subject since I'd worked with textiles a lot in life and I am of the era when females were required to take home economics in school. Oh, we not only made pillow cases and ruffled aprons, we learned all bout the process of milling the fabric from cotton, warp, woof, weave and more. We were well rounded girls. In my carpet course, I was the only female, so I got extra attention from the instructor: read this "tutoring/mentoring", not "arranging a date". Man, I can talk warp, woof, fourth generation nylon and the synthetics made mostly from recycled plastic bottles (hell for carpet cleaners - plastic doesn't clean as easily as natural fibers). When it came time to take the test, I was hooked - a carpet cleaning nerd - and took a notion to ace the test. David and I later laughed: when he noticed it was time for the test to begin, he thought, "She's going to try to ace it." We knew each other that well 3 months after meeting one another. I didn't ace the test. I got 96% or 97%, an achievement I held over the heads of the actual carpet technicians for years when they got cocky with me. Knowing about carpets and cleaning them was good for me. I could talk to customers so brilliantly, I'm sure their eyes glazed. I could take fine woolen rugs from walk-in customers and dazzle them with my superior grasp of the care and feeding of their valuable asset. The one time I attempted a few swipes across some carpet with "the wand", I learned what separated the men from the woman, but I still knew my stuff, intellectually. David called that one beautifully. Make certain the person on the phone knows something. My certification expired last month. I didn't renew it because that wasn't part of my life any longer.

What I need to know about now.
I'm learning at warp speed.

Generally speaking, my immediate new task is to bring one narrow finger of David's and George's successful business empire into the 21st century. Oh, this slim portion of the enterprise has been quite promising for years, but it operates on the "write in pen on copied forms kept in 3-ring binders" model. Oh, and "don't forget this - write it down somewhere". So things have been written on scraps of paper and kept in perpetuity. Important things. Things that should not be entrusted to paper scraps, perhaps. Once more, it's my role first to make this business run like a modern-day operation. No. David wants more than that. David wants this machine to run like a world-class business. After all, it's highly successful and we're looking to g-r-o-w. Quickly and exponentially. That means I need to know a little something about what it is we do. What we do here is locate collectibles and sell them to collectors/investors. The primary focus is on valuable postage stamps. There is a 75-80 year demonstrable history of this investment losing virtually no ground,

The Inverted Jenny

ever. Oh, yeah, their value grows about as quickly as watching grass propagate on delayed-action film . But they don't lose and they do increase in worth. I knew how to spell philatelic, pronounce it and understand its meaning. That was about it. In the first week, I learned some things: the first postage stamp was a product of the British Post Office in 1840. In quick succession, the Penny Black, Penny Blue and Penny Other Colors appeared, and their cost today may startle the reader. I learned inside 5 days the difference between the Blue, the Black, the Red, the Brown, and not by looking at their color. I know some of the provenance and urban legend and the reasons these items are more valuable than the better-known Inverted Jenny with the biplane accidentally printed upside down. I still have everything in the world to learn, but here's something else I deduced in just a few days: my crash into alcoholic hell didn't wash away all my brain cells. I can still learn. And fast.

Stamp Girl - my newest,
temporary (?) alter ego.
Long may she stamp!

True story. Summer of 2007 when A1 Carpet Care still shared digs with David's and George's other interests. Though we'd known each other only a month or two, David already knew I was drawn to vintage, venerable things, paper ephemera, history and romantic notions. "Would you like to see something wonderful?" Sure I would! Who doesn't want to see something wonderful? He held it out in a pair of tweezers and began to speak. " . . British, 1861 . ." Well, I am a human being. I did what I am hardwired to do. Yep. Reached out my hand and took that stamp between my fingertips. Very bad form. The realization hadn't hit me yet when he began to tell me all the reasons why we didn't handle them barehanded. He never raised his voice, flinched or used colorful language. I didn't damage the stamp. I learned something. It must be noted, I also "shop" with my hands. I buy nothing I haven't touched. If my hands are soiled or if I damage the goods in some way, I'll remedy that, but I "see" with my paws. But no longer with stamps. I've now handled a few. I have tweezers and white nylon gloves and archival paper sleeves and . . . hey, you live, you learn. Given my degree of efficiency and the speed at which I take on life, we're lucky I didn't affix that stamp to an envelope and await dictation of the recipient's address!

George, David and I met for awhile each of the 5 days of the first week. Mostly, I brought an agenda, a list, questions, suggestions. Mostly they made decisions and heard my arguments in favor of this or against that. Ultimately, they asked me to lose every shred of hesitation, to move forward fast in combat boots and to ask forgiveness later (if needed), which they would grant. Apropos of not very much, the one who knows me best brought it up. I didn't mention it and hadn't really thought of it. "She hates 'secretary'. I don't want anyone to call her 'secretary'." And I do, too. It's the word and perception mostly. I am helpful and accommodating to anyone who comes my way in business, but if one calls me anything other than "Les", I'm touchy about what appellation is chosen. George looked startled. "Why would anyone call her that? That's not what she does here." David and I began the chorus: "only female among men, pleasant to everyone, greeter, sits near the front of the business." OK. George got it. "Well, we'll get business cards and a name plate. What are we going to call her?" Ah ~ a business meeting with time spent on weighing words . . my idea of heaven. I suggested "queen". They laughed, but did not agree. We settled on "manager". I am the manager of the business. I like that one!

A quote that pleased me: "The philatelist will tell you that stamps are educational, that they are valuable, that they are beautiful. This is only part of the truth. My notation is that the collection is a hedge, a comfort, a shelter into which the sorely beset mind can withdraw. It is orderly, it grows towards completion, it is something that can't be taken away from us." - Clifton Fadiman in Any Number Can Play.

To my surprise: No one - no one - commented on the picture of me in the previous post shooting a gun in the desert, Diet Dr. Pepper at the ready, tattered bullseye targets at the table. That would be a sight calling for the quick and firm application of brakes, folks!

Something that charmed me to tears: Justin returned to work upstairs as a carpet cleaner. He'd been banished much longer than a year. Justin doesn't ask permission for hugging. Justin hears the news, comes downstairs looking for me and says (arms extended), "Hey, Girl, come here." I did. He did. "What's new, honey?" "Same old, same old, Les." "Not me, Dude. Everything is new and wonderful!" "OK, Les. Me, too!" Good! Now, go earn money!

What the Hell?

2011-08-14T07:57:00.000-07:00

That was hilarious! I
laughed my ass off.

I can donkey laugh for a week about some insignificant thing I've seen in the streets. I tire my friends with the retelling and nearly wet my pants howling. Can't help it. I have a well-developed sense of humor that has long been called upon when maybe other coping skills would have been more appropriate and healthy. For many years, if certain subjects were to be discussed, Ex and I could not be seated in the same room, or at least had to refrain from eye contact, for fear we'd disrupt some proceedings. I make up stories in my head about stuff I see, too. Oh, please. I'm seeing a therapist. I take meds and avidly participate in a 12-step program. Some things are simply part of the fabric. These characteristics don't necessarily make me an ass.

Oink, oink! Baaaa! How ya doin'?

Now that I'm back to work, I get out in the world a little, driving through several distinctly different neighborhoods, past the convention center, over the Strip, through Chinatown, into the central part of the city which was the extreme west when I came here in 1976. I go right past the first home Ex and I owned, Mom's house next door, my aunt's home on the corner. They look a little shopworn now. Does the reader know some seemingly nice, regular people come to Las Vegas and behave stupidly, right out in the streets.? Believe it! At 6:30 a.m., traffic is light enough that I can safely rubberneck a little . . . I wonder if others wonder about the small woman in the nondescript automobile, shoulders shaking, eyes streaming, howling. So - it's a regular house on a regular street, no evidence that any type of business is conducted in the home. It's not a house converted for office use. What the hell, then, is with the MU? It's professionally painted, right onto the well-maintained garage door. I walked up there and ran my hands across it. The kids didn't simply smack up some vinyl letters while learning the alphabet. So, thought I, "Moron University, home of the mighty Mechanized Unicorns? Mayberry Union High (without the High)? In Memory of U?" Or could it possibly simply mean "moo"? What's your take on it? And sometime, when I regain a bit more self-confidence, I'm going to go up to the door, knock and ask.

Wish I'd known the end
was that near when I was
plummeting toward my
alcoholic "bottom".

Blogging, 'tend and real friend CramCake sent me a forward, something she does rarely. I suspect that for her, as for me, too many puppies, kittens, Disney characters and saccharine are not appreciated, but once in awhile comes a forward with just enough sauce or spice. So with thanks, and a tip of the hat, I'll incorporate a few of her forwarded smarty images with what I see in the mean streets. [Click on images for the full flavor!]

Oh, yeah. For sure. Woman driving alone, and all. Ex made me promise in the 1970s not to pick up hitchhikers any more. People were getting so weird. On the other hand, if a man has paid his debt to society and simply needs a ride to distance himself from the hated bastille . . . maybe I could just take him up to the next stop sign, let him out and he could hitch a ride with someone else . . . And if he gives me any grief, I know how to protect myself, because I practice. This is the wild west, one knows.

Hmmmm . . just thinking out loud here. So if I don't read the sign about the dry paint,are my person or my clothing in any peril of being smudged?

Lucy Sue's dash tells
it all. Proof I was at
a standstill when I took
the snapshot!

Does this chicken
make my butt
look huge?

All right, this voyage to silliness is nearing its end. One can see it's very hot in the mean streets. I've seen some great stuff, but now it's time to go ponder all of it (and my navel and the meaning of life as well). I heard a place nearby is giving away free food samples. I'm hungry. Maybe I'll go check it out. Is there any such thing as a free lunch?

In my ears right now: Buttercup. Just say her name - Lucinda Williams - and I will say "firm favorite". She's done little that I don't care for. Care for in a big way. Except for those couple of hip-hop influenced things, I'm crazy for her, and I salute her fierce willingness to try her hand at the hip-hop deal. It's been a long time since I heard anything new(ish) from her, and Buttercup pleases me. Do not expect a sweet flowery song. That's not Lucinda. I like that she writes her own (sometimes very hard) words and plays her own music. I like that she looks her (our) age. And good luck findin' your buttercup.

Readjusting to the Good (Work) Life

2011-08-12T08:26:00.000-07:00

Mornin', Junior!

How you doin', boy?

Give 'em hell, Champ!

What? What? What do you mean that's a weird collection of stuff? I've always written about what a funny, quirky place it is, world class technology utilized and excellent work product emitted from simple business systems that work because we work at them until they do work. Oh, yeah, if an uninitiated person looks around in a discerning way, he or she might be startled by some of the sights. But not me. I am now surrounded by $1 gwillion worth of Steve Kaufman art and I'm not complaining. From the Earnhardt, Jr. that I pass on the way to disarm the security system to the Ali who stares straight at me from across the lobby, fists at the ready, I'm in a slightly different world here. I'd like the readership to meet My Dog, a large, quiet plastic fellow who guards those telephone directories diligently, despite the apparent Exacto knife attack to his mouth. You should see what people toss into that aperture! "Is that an ashtray?" Uh, no. That's My Dog. I've been thinking of maybe taking My Dog home on a weekend, put him in the backseat of my car, perhaps. Give him a little ride in the sunshine.

I have a brief spell of solitude after I arrive and before the troops arrive. I make coffee, check emails and voicemail, perform all the wake-up tasks to be completed before others demand my attention. On my second day, the door chime told me someone had come in. Boy, howdy! My home dudes - those carpet cleaning chuckleheads I love! "Hey, Les, can I hug you?" Well, yeah. It was surreal to see them march in, route sheets in hand, forms to report for the day that I had created so long ago and that were still in use. As my new troops arrived, they were startled to see so many men hanging in the lobby. "How are you, Les?" "Sober, homes, and happy to be here." "How's the car running, Les?" Ah! The subject of the ages. My car, Lucy Sue, who still has not crossed 24,000 miles and who has never had a true mechanical issue, is a magnet for crazy maladies. Cesar and the other homes have saved my bacon many a time, and last summer got me ready for a road trip feeling confident about the car. "Well, homes, it's unanimous. All four window motors have gone out. Her windows are all at different heights. It's hell for hot when I'm driving." Silence for only a moment. "Got any suction cups, Les?" I did. I'd bought them and brought them purposely on my first day back at work. And suddenly, before my eyes (well, out the window), there were home dudes scrambling like squirrels in, out, over and around my car. And I liked that. Later in the day I told David my guys had come en masse to see me. "I knew they would," he said. Then he told me he'd rehired Justin - Justin who had problems, too, and who was fired long before I crashed into the mountainside. "He's done some growing up. He's worth giving another chance." Amen.

The heat is on ~ ~ I grew up in the LA and Salt Lake City areas. My dad read the LA Times and the Salt Lake Tribune. There were choices about one's newspapers in those cities, and those were Dad's choices. I don't know if these were or are world class publications, but I suspect they pretty accurately reported the news, with their individual political and social agendas being worked. When I first came to Las Vegas in 1976 as a 23-year-old, I laughed out loud at The Review-Journal, still the only game in town. This publication (then and now) has to dedicate a fair portion of print space each day to correcting (not retracting) yesterday's and last week's and last month's errors in reporting. The local newscasts aren't far different. It's tough to get reliable news here.

Each morning I listen (only listen, because I can't stop to watch) a local newscast while I get ready for work. This is a carry-forward habit across several years. I love the meteorologist, Sherry, who tends to get things really, really right. I suspect she does her own research and script writing. The anchors please me less, a 20-something, obviously educated, but needs-to-be-spanked woman and a way, way too conservative (for me) man in his 40s. It seems clear they use prepared scripting, and they often stumble during the delivery. I frequently snicker as I blow-dry, thinking I'd have used the word "fewer" instead of "less", "many" in place of "much" or that at least I know how to pronounce a word that flummoxed those in the spotlight.

So Sherry announced that we're very hot and dry, though cooler than normal, and the monsoon is being held down in Arizona until perhaps this Sunday when we may get showers. She was right, too! I've got proof. I leave home at 6:30 a.m. and it's 80-85 degrees. By noontime, it's in the high 90s and we peaked at about 106, guaranteeing at least 104 for the afternoon commute. Girl can predict the weather! The sensor in my car has shown 119 a few times, but it's down at the blacktop, not measuring ambient air temperature. It's indescribable getting into the car after it's been sitting for hours. Yes, the heat is on.

At 4:00 a.m., a semi-truck/trailer crashed and burst into flames on the busiest southwest/northeast interstate artery through Las Vegas. Burning diesel followed by the necessary inspection of the integrity of the burned asphalt promised hours of gridlock. It turned out to be 11 hours. What caught my attention was that three people were reporting on this breaking news, an on-the-scene reporter and two in the studio. On the third regurgitation, I realized they were alternately reporting 9,100 and 91,000 gallons of combustible to burn. I glanced at the TV. Yep, they were distressed. Their eyes were widening like panicked dogs as they took turns tossing out the number which, apparently, no one could nail down for certain. There's a slight difference between 9,100 and 91,000 gallons of burning fuel. I mean, I"m neither mathematician nor grand abstract thinker, but if the larger number was correct, wouldn't the burn be larger and/or longer by about ten times? Just sayin'. Was I going to be quizzed on the precise numbers? Certainly not. It was their transparent discomfort that got me hooting. Why not just say "a tractor-trailer with a full payload"? Thursday morning, it was reported that the freeway surface was damaged by the fire and had to be repaired before traffic could be allowed. They reported that "thousands of gallons of diesel fuel" burned. No number attached. It must have been hellish in that area during the conflagration. The heat is on.

My office is kept at a temperature appropriate to hanging freshly slaughtered meat. I have no illusions of growing visibly older in there. No, I'll just be preserved as I am today. The men strut around, "Man, it's pleasant in here," while my teeth chatter and my hands tremble. I took in the SOS (Shitty Office Sweater) and am using it ~ funny, while it's triple digits outdoors ~ contemplating the use of gloves for use while typing. Esteemed blogger CramCake crocheted a delightful little pair of demi-gloves I might be able to well use if I could replicate them. Thursday the A/C system went out on one side of the building. The men began to wilt. The telemarketers slowed to a stop, silence engulfing the normally noisy rooms. Someone said, "Les, you're pretty perky this afternoon." "Yes, Sir, first time I've been restored to normal human body temperature in a week." "Where's your SOS?" "Don't need it this afternoon." The heat is on.

For illustrative purposes only. This is not actually me modeling my SOS.

In my ears right now: Here's a heat wave worth hearing, even if it takes an extra step or two to get there. My woman, Joan Osborne.

Back in the Saddle Again

2011-08-10T20:05:00.000-07:00

The harbingers are positive. A text message that landed long after I was asleep the night before my return to work: "Drink plenty of water. Get up and walk around your desk a few times. Love, Me" I texted back: "<3 <3" Early morning email in my ear - hey, the alert tone had to be on, I needed to get up in a couple of hours!

-- On Mon, 8/8/11, Johnny wrote:
From: Johnny
To: limesnow57@yahoo.com
Date: Monday, August 8, 2011, 3:31 AM
good luck and have a great first day at work
johnny

He's a taxi driver delivering fares to the finest gentlemens' clubs in the valley. 3:31 a.m. is the middle of his workday. What counts is that he processed, first, that I'm going to work and, second, that this could be difficult for me. "Remember, if you need me, I'm off all day and I'll have the cell phone with me." I remembered that. I got up, roasted about 40 harvests worth of fresh vegetables I didn't take care of Sunday night, ground extra coffee beans and found the early morning newscast on TV that I used to enjoy. The veggies will feed me several meals, the extra beans will ensure that no Folger's passes my lips, and half-listening to the news will make me later appear less like I just left a sanatorium for a rest-cure of a year. I hope. My favorite woman weathercaster is still on and making me grin. Las Vegas is wimpy this year. We've had not one day in excess of 112-degrees officially, and what the heezy is the matter with us for that?

More emails and text messages landed: "I'm thinking about you!" "Knock 'em dead." I felt truly supported and grateful.

Things I forgot :

Some intersections in our city require more than 4 minutes to cross.
When one needs gas in the car, she needs to add 5-7 minutes to the trip.
A commute of twice the distance in the dead-opposite direction is going to take some getting used to.
The black cat will have curled up on the light clothes, the white cat on the dark ones. How do they do that when one only steps away for a moment?
The red cowgirl boots are the cutest, but highly impractical for a first day that includes moving stuff around the work area.
"The weekend" means Saturday and Sunday, free days, sandwiched between workdays. People do fun things on the weekends.

Distressed in the car on the way, I thought about other women who are doing brave things, and, after all, I'm simply returning somewhere familiar to work - what I do! Work. I was not (and will not be, in the future) competing in a triathlon like CramCake and her friend. I will not steal her thunder about her performance - one must watch my sidebar for her post. Unlike intrepid blog friend Doozyanner (who is already posting about her adventures), I was not about to hie myself off to teach in Abu-freaking-Dhabi, all by myself at a mature age. I was just going to work. So what the . . it hit me as I made my last major turn. I've been there before and highly regarded. I let down myself and many, many others when I crashed and burned a year ago. Badly. I'd need to do much better this time, and I felt a little pressure. Deep breath . . .

I may not be Rolling Stone, but I have my list of the 500 top hits of all time. I hadn't heard some of them in awhile and they sounded damned sweet . .

Here are all your keys. Give me 4 digits you'd like to have for your access code. Easy!
If you'll give me 10 minutes, your new computer and software are here. Love me some Windows 7 and Office 2010!
Would you like 2 monitors or 3? Oh, difficult choices!
Don't worry about how it's been done here before. Start popping ideas. OK, let me warm up.
We need you to fix about 25 Excel formulas everyone messed up. I'm the girl who counts on her fingers and toes and sometimes learns new software applications by using sticky notes and many tears, but in this world I am the champ at this task.
Give me a list of everything you'd like in office and break room supplies. He laughed at me when I asked for binder clips and liquid creamer with no fat or sugar.
Check this letter. We're pitching Maria Sharapova's people. [Yes, the Russian tennis pro.] Can you kick it up a notch? That's what I do!

I was asked how it is going. My first response has been "at warp speed". I'm tired, but not crazed. I'm working hard to balance everything I need to do. Four years ago when I went to work for David, I noted it was the first job I ever took where I caught on to things just one beat slower than I once might have. Oh, once I grasped something, it was mine! But it didn't come as easily as once it would have. I am four years older now, with a year of acute and chronic illness behind me. Once again, I'm working in a field about which I have no previous knowledge. But I'm pretty quick. I feel appreciated ~ maybe even impressive! To myself, too. David shoots downstairs from the carpet company to my office a few times a day (or e-mails) "Can you . . ?" Yes! "Remember how we . . ?" I remember! "Can you replicate that?" Without a doubt! [Note to self: HOW?]

Top tune on my top 500: It isn't really a tune at all. Or a statement. It is a lack of that. It is a business meeting of three where never once were uttered the words, "We don't want you to . . .". There would have been plenty of good reason for that. After all . . . well. But the word "don't" never came up. "Do" was much repeated. "Do what you do. That's why we want you." OK, then. I know what to do.

In my ears right now:

He Was a Friend of Mine

2011-08-08T19:30:00.000-07:00

Rudy in his role in Casino, 1995.

Today I went to my first day back at work. I steeled myself not to look for his familiar car in the parking lot. It wasn't going to be there. Since he died a month ago, all the hard, public sobbing had already been exhausted. His friend, George, now one of the men I work for and who is mentioned in the obituary below, seemed a little quiet to me. A little empty. David and I had already shared our pain on the telephone. Care had been taken to ensure I would not feel like I was following behind anyone in anyway. That was very generous and I appreciated it. "Do this the way you do it, Leslie. It doesn't matter how it was done before. We want what you bring."

The graceful spirit of Rudy attracted my attention subtly in the place so familiar to me. Here and there, I found notes in his distinctive hand. I could imagine him writing down the dinner orders of his favorite customers. There were some crib sheets in the files, notes to himself how to execute certain operations on the computer. But it was the notes about the damned chicken that reminded me I don't have the same grace that Rudy had. George caters lunch on Fridays for quite a large group of workers, with enough for most to take home leftovers. Sometimes lunch consists of mountains of pizza or pounds of Memphis barbecue. I've seen shovels full of Panda Express served, Rudy having taken my personal request privately and serving it on a real (not paper or styrofoam) plate. But - oh - the chicken lunch. You see, I can maybe come close some Friday if I design the lunch to be chicken. Because Rudy left a trail. I know where to call to place the order. 75 pieces, no wings. Potato and macaroni salad. OK, I can replicate that. The napkins won't be as nicely set out and I'm kind of lax about making sure to get those salads into glass bowls rather than the catering dishes. But I can bring in the same chicken and try to lend some semblance of fellowship shared over a meal. And I can try to be as good to other human beings as was Rudy.

I can see some emails and blog post comments coming in - very kindly - asking about my first day back at work. It was wonderful, exhausting, poignant. I'm already writing about it. But this one will first stand alone in Rudy's memory. "Les, you look good!" I thank my readers for their indulgence.

~ ~ ~

Rudy Guerrero

Rudy Guerrero, devoted husband and father and a true Las Vegas legend in his own right, died July 7, 2011. He was 80. He held the title of Maitred'Hotel at The Riviera Hotel and Casino showroom for nearly 40 years before retiring. He was born in Los Angeles, Sept. 9, 1930, to Jenny and Pablo Guerrero. He was one of four children. His father was a chef and head waiter at the famous Ambassador Hotel (where Bobby Kennedy was assassinated). This would later influence Rudy's career choice. As a young man, Rudy served in the U.S. Army during World War II. He served in the First Calvary, F-Troop and received commendations for his services overseas and in combat. This was something he was very proud of. He was a true American patriot. In 1949, he went to work at the Ambassador Hotel under the tutelage of his father where Rudy worked his way from bus boy to captain of the showroom. Soon after, he met and married a beautiful Greek lady from Detroit, Lyn. They had two sons, Nick and Ricky. In 1956, he moved his young family to Las Vegas where he eventually landed a position at the Riviera Hotel and Casino and worked his way up to the maitre'd of the main showroom. He worked during the Riviera's hay day with such notables as Don Rickles, Shecky Greene, Tony Orlando and Liza Minelli, serving nearly 40 years until retiring in 1994. Being that the Guerrero family is no stranger to show business. Rudy landed a role in the movie "Casino" opposite Robert Deniro and Sharon Stone. His son, Nick, became an accomplished musician forming his own band and his niece, Evelyn, became an actress and married actor Pat Morita of the Karate Kid films. In recent years, Rudy went back to work for businessman and beloved friend, George Tallas. They became close friends and George was at Rudy's side to the very end. The family wishes to thank him dearly for his love and support. Rudy was an avid golfer and loved all sports, especially boxing. He was often referred to as "The Champ" or as his name implies, Guerrero... The "Warrior". Don Rickles nicknamed him "El Caballo" (the horse) named after a drink that Rudy created especially for Rickles. To quote his niece, Evelyn, "He was our champ and the bravest man I ever knew. But, he was so much more than an uncle to me. He was a father figure and a mentor to me and my brother, Nemo, and the patriarch of the family. To many, he was this classy, "stand up" gentlemen with a heart of gold. His very presence would light up a room and he was adored by anyone that stood in his light. He was a prince of a man and the last of a dying breed. He will be greatly missed." He is survived by his son, Nick Guerrero; his grandson, Ricardo Guerrero; brother, Danny Guerrero (bro. Mateo); sister, Armeda Siqueiros; sister-in-law, Rita Guerrero; nieces and nephews, Evelyn Guerrero-Morita, Nemo Strang, Heidi Bonito, Vivian Mc Haffey, Adrianne Siqueiros

Working Girl, Walks Upright Among Humans, No Knuckle-Dragging, Makes Eye Contact With Others

2011-08-08T04:37:00.000-07:00

When this is posts, I will be readying myself for work. Not so unusual for a Monday morning, right? I began to work at the age of 14, in 1966. Except for the past year and one year of extremely harrowing pregnancy and childbirth, I have rarely not worked. Work is what I do. So why . . .

OK, look. I took a blood oath that I would not "over-do" as has sometimes been my wont. Yeah, I get wound up tighter than a cheap watch and, sometimes, break a spring or slip a gear. Some who care about me remind me that I don't want to blow - in any way - the second chance I've received that almost no other golden child in the universe would get on her best day. Agreed: I don't want to blow anything in any way in this reincarnation. They remind me I have been physically and spiritually ill - very ill - for a long stretch and that going back to work will be more, in every way, than I expected it to be. All right, I concede. This won't be perfectly easy.

So I'm soaking in the tub this morning, talking out loud to myself and I landed on some profound notions:

This working thing is going to take up a lot of my time.
This working thing requires getting up very early.
This working thing will break my isolation (good and bad).
This working thing will require me to be efficient with my time.
This working thing will give me money.
This working thing feels foreign to me, though it's only been a year.

"Are you nervous at all, Les?" "No, oh no! After all, everything about it is familiar to me." I lie. I'm nervous. A few days before Amber started at a wonderful Montessori academy, I asked my therapist, tearfully, "Do you think they suffer any thoughts like 'Why did Mommy leave me here alone?' " Paul and I had a long relationship by then and he laughed at me. "No, I think they have thoughts like 'I wonder where to hang up my sweater' and 'I wonder where they put my lunch bag'." A very few days into that process, I realized he was likely right and I was likely stressing too much. Is that the case now? I know where to hang my sweater and locate my lunch and even more. I'm worried about the "me" I am delivering. Will I resemble the good me they remember and want on their team? Or will I have lost too much and be only a shadow of my former self? Will they clap each other on the back, exclaiming, "Yeah. It was worth waiting for her to get uncrazy!" or will they exchange glances translated as, "Oh, the poor old bag."? And - oh! best of all - can I manage a job and the 12-step program that keeps me alive? I know plenty of people do. But will I? I guess we don't know the answers to these things yet. It will all have to be revealed. I shall have to wait and see. This is not a position I enjoy.

Jenn and I have developed a nice little flexible system of spending time together based upon the whims of her weird work schedule. She has become my friend as well as my AA sponsor. We're pretty funny, quirky women and most recently have begun to make art together - oh, wait until you see! "Uh, what time will you get off work each day?" That was easy. In time to cross town and pick her up for AA and other pursuits. "Will we still be able to volunteer for things?" We will, though she has agreed to become the "wife", making the commitment and simply telling me to put it in my calendar. "Library? We haven't read it dry yet." Yes, M'am. Until they have no books remaining. And Starbucks every day, too. "I assume no contact during your work hours, right?" Wrong! Where I am headed, there are few rules of any kind and no stupid rules at all. It is understood a person needs to maintain contacts with the rest of her life even if it is midmorning on a weekday. In unison: "Hey, this won't be so bad!"

In the interest of not taxing myself, my brain, my soul, I shall be silly if the reader will indulge me. I see stuff on the streets all the time that makes me laugh out loud even when I am by myself. Yesterday, while Jenn went in to a discount house to buy cigarettes (ugh), I was observing a newly opened Chinese herbal place. One of those where they cover the windows entirely so one can't observe anything going on inside. I'm reading the advertising on the door . . . I could have offered assistance with some of the copy there. I jumped out into about 1,000-degrees of heat just to take a closer look. I engaged the phone cam . . I know next time I'm suffering from that pesky ailment, "lack of pain", I'm going to the 24/7 herbalist. While I'm there, I might pick up some T-Man for my (imaginary) fella, too!

In my ears right now: Because I needed an old friend as I packed my briefcase and desk accessories and, and, and . . .

Something that charmed me until I cried: When I step out of my car, the home dudes will be readying their vans and equipment for the day's work. I doubt David will have told them I'm coming. There wasn't much time to tell stories, and David knows how to let a "moment" build. That's it! I'm wearing the red cowgirl boots!

379 Days, But Who's Counting?

2011-08-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

I had a terrible week. There's no nice word I can call to mind to apply to it. Medical inconveniences hit as hard and smoothly as if I deserved them - a planned attack, and take no prisoners. For the record, I don't deserve them and I'm not referring to any illnesses I brought on myself by abusing my mind and body. I've been equivocal about a number of things most recently, likely because I need different things than I needed just months ago when I was unwell and perhaps even disabled in some ways. I'm looking for "more" right now, but it's a vague "more". "More" challenging work to do, "more" structure, a "more" regular-looking life, "more" opportunities to learn about new things to occupy me. That regular-looking life thing is a dangerous abyss, but I didn't go in the deep end. As I've become more disorganized, some of the good things I've incorporated into daily life have lost a little of their shine. I'm not tearing through books as I was before and I'm snoozing a little too much. I passed on a couple of volunteer opportunities there was no reason to skip and - oh! have I said? - my AA program hasn't felt electric for awhile. No, I've not decided irretrievably to return to my drinking career. I've simply been less enthusiastic than once I was. I was heard to audibly snort at AA during the recital of The Promises. "Fear of . . . economic insecurity will leave us." Well, it hasn't. And while a pension is a wonderful thing, a person doesn't want to try to live on it. Not even when it's supplemented by other sporadic income. So - the reader likely gets the picture: not "Danger, Will Robinson!" More like "meh" and "how am I going to un-meh this?"

Yesterday I was gritching (this is a cross between griping and bitching) around when I got the phone call. Both voicemail and text message alerts rang because I couldn't locate the phone. David. "Call me when u can." He is as economical with words as I am extravagant. Only one of our yin-yang duets. Since we have a meeting together on Monday with his business partner, George, I felt pretty sure this would be a reschedule or a "don't forget" of some kind. "Hey, Sir, how are you?" I kept all downer tones out of my voice and attitude. "Got a minute to talk, Lezzlie?" He does not use "Les" and he uses the "zz" sound in my name as my Granny did. My parents intended the sibilant "ss", but who cares? It's my name now. Friends may use it as they like. "Sure. What's up?" He hemmed and hawed just a little. Uh-oh. This wasn't going to be good. I don't have to be in the same room to read him very, very well. It wasn't good. Someone died. I had to weep about it just a little bit. "I know, Lezzlie. Me, too." The person who died left an empty desk chair to be filled. Would I like to fill it? Read this: "a job". Would I? My cell phone tells me it took fewer than 5 minutes. "Just so we're on the same page, are you coming Monday to talk about the job or to start working?" he asked. I laughed out loud. "Yeah, I thought so. See you at 7:30."

David was put into my life because some power "out there" thought I deserved something good and steady. If you've followed my blog a long time, you've read much about him. He has that large a place in my life. If you don't recognize his name, it's worth reading this which will reveal that he is not simply "a boss" or "an employer". He once put his million dollar baby business in my hands and I flew it beautifully until the alcohol began to fly me. The wonder is that when he had to rescue his business from me and stop rescuing me, he didn't stop caring about me. Or stop valuing my skills. He's reached out to me twice now in my sobriety with semi-employment and (now) employment. Eagerly, without reservations. "I'm sober," I reassured him yesterday. "I knew you would be."

Everything comes at a price, right? The cost of my ticket was the death of Rudy, an elegant gentleman probably in his 80s. He thought I was wonderful. He never had to say so with words. He simply behaved as if he did. In my more recent visits for business meetings, he'd jump up from his desk and come outside to greet me when I arrived. "Les, you look so good!" And he'd try to feed me. Tall, aristocratic, silver-haired and tan of skin, he was somebody in this town in his day and time. To my knowledge, he only ever worked two jobs here. He was a "keeper" in the fine dining rooms of certain establishments. He took care of the needs of the individual members of the Rat Pack and others. He had the stories to tell about it. He knew which forks to set where and he knew about presentation of food and other important requests: "Quality, quantity and presentation, Les. That's all that's needed." I would add "and discretion." I'm sure Rudy had more stories he didn't tell. In the movie Casino, he played a version of himself and his few peers here. I need to rent that movie today. But those aren't the best things about Rudy.

Image intended for
illustrative purposes only.

We had a few things to talk about together, even though we might not have appeared the ideal match on paper. There was L.A., though I suspect he'd left there about the time I was born, since so many of his Las Vegas stories took place in the earliest years of my life. And there were our spouses. Lynne had the same debilitating heart ailment Ex suffered, and though she'd received a heart transplant, her last years were no walk in the park. On her worst days, Rudy took extra steps to make her life better. This meant he applied her makeup, fixed her hair beautifully, dressed her, and took her out into the world for entertainment until she tired. I imagine she was very grateful to greet him a couple of weeks ago. She'd been gone a couple of years by then and I suspect he was sorely missed.

So Monday morning, I will slide my ass into Rudy's chair with some trepidation. I will be grateful to drive the streets I know to the little business plaza, to pass under the stucco canopy into the small world where all the denizens work in some way for David and/or George and so we are all somehow kin. Each such person is a few degrees left or right of the center of the road in some way and I do well in that kind of world. I'll work fewer hours and fewer days than before and I won't run A1 Carpet Care again. My pay will be what once it was, my alcoholism and precancerous condition accommodated as long as I do not pick up a bottle, and I can remain with my AA home group, traveling back across the city each evening with plenty of time. I'll be downstairs doing some vestige of Rudy's work. Since Rudy largely appeared to me to simply lend some grace to a quirky place, I'm not sure precisely what my duties will be, but I feel up to whatever they are. I imagine some computer and graphics magic will be expected of me, some original ideas and energy and some ability to snap at nasty people who require such. Rudy probably never said an unkind word to any human being, but I can do that. I'm going right where I am supposed to be. I am reminded of something I've learned in AA. When I feel jumbly, I need to not start making decisions and taking action. I need to stop, listen and breathe. The answers will be revealed to me. 379 days of no employment. But no more.

Something that charmed me: I'm busy. Distracted busy because I'm lining up wardrobe and desk necessities and the beautiful things with which I surround myself when I work. I've only got a couple of days, after all. And my hair needs to be colored, and . . . WTF? Why is this presenting itself to me? I'd Googled and there - on Google's splash page - was a little playable TV with I Love Lucy snippets. The lovable redhead would be 100 years old today. Someday I must write about my unnatural connection with Lucy. She loomed large in my small landscape of life. When she died, I was on a business trip and saw the morning news. I fell apart even more alarmingly than one might expect, though it was - after all - Lucy and Leslie. I later learned I had been pregnant and therefore, extra emotional, when I lost it there in the San Jose Hyatt . . . "Lucy, you've got some 'splainin' to do!"

Singular Events

2011-08-01T11:58:00.000-07:00

So it's been one month since I learned I must get some medical monitoring and be very alert for the return of an old affliction after a routine blood draw gave up some worrisome news. Yes, it is a serious ailment and I've already had a 2-year turn standing in the watchtower. I don't care for it much. I wrote about whirling around like a dervish for a week, doing the avoidance dance and then being hit hard after seven days when I was forced to slow down and look it in the eye. Get an update on the enemy's position and plan from there. I don't like "one". It is the loneliest number, just as we were told. One day, one week, one month, one year out of how many? How many ones make "all"? As in "all over, let down the drawbridges". I like definition, as the reader can see.

At least half of the illness fear focuses upon my head and what goes on inside it. No illness ever arrives at a convenient time, I am sure, but when I had to face this beginning in 2006, I handled it perhaps as poorly as it could be handled. Fired by the flaming fuel of terror, I got myself to appointments, procedures, blood draws and emergency rooms, in the company of advocates when needed. I was well-supported by friends and loved ones. My work did not suffer and I maintained my home as usual. I weathered more than 2 years of chaos and came out "optimistically good" in the end. That's when I lost it. The erosion of my self by fear caused me to behave in ways that are unlike me. I acted out. I drank. I broke things that may never be repaired. I harmed myself and others in ways that may never be remedied. My personal store of resources is still low and I cannot afford to "lose it" again, for any good reason. I can pony up for any briefly unpleasant form of treatment or diagnosis. I feel less certain of my ability to hold myself together metaphysically.

Ah, but there is this: almost literally simultaneously with my little physical surprise, I'd been enjoying some temporary sunshine. I was renewing a relationship that is important to me, with a person I love. This was exciting, and I fairly bubbled over with it. I suffered a good deal of teasing and winking. However, the issues that have always been issues are still issues, to my disquietude. I imagine it is my sobriety that has cleared my head, but some things cannot be molded to perfection and I became silent. We're two nice people who shouldn't spend a lot more time beating a dead horse, in my opinion. My withdrawal into self was noticed at AA. "Why so quiet, Les?" I said I had more on my plate than I could deal with. I didn't feel up to handling any of it well, and that I'd possibly make a mess of all of it (again). I was encouraged, day after day, in meetings and in private, to get every bit of the buffet out onto the table in full view. Guess what? I still have health issues. I have resolved a human issue. Everyone involved it in has retained their dignity and love for one another. In fact a love offering was delivered right to my door on Saturday, to my surprise. I nearly broke my face grinning! This may sound day-to-day dull to some readers. This is earth-shattering for me. I don't resolve issues. I bomb the planet and leave no man standing. Including myself. I sense this new way is going to save me a lot of time formerly spent in reinvention. I got through without drinking, without destruction, without hurting anyone. Even myself.

If you heard a thundering din followed by the roar of a rushing river, that was me. For my years-long creative logjam has been freed by a surge of ideas, adhesives and more. I have made and completed a project I am OK good with! I cannot show it here and now as it is a gift for a friend who won't see it for a few days. It is an imperfect item, to be sure, but it is whole and it shall be presented with joy. It should be noted that I called out for my usual absolutions: "Wrong adhesives on hand." "Don't own the good scissors any more." "I'm depressed." I was gently urged forward. "Try this." Keep at it." Finally it was completed after some pretty close handwork accomplished without my glasses and with muttered curses. I christened it with a histrionic and overwrought name, will feature it on my blog at some future date, and immediately jumped into plans for more such items. As described in my recent post, I'm in full "Hey, I've Got an Idea!" mode. Oh, this will affect others and change the world as we know it. Or so I see it right now. And the beauty of this is that my strong yen to create has lay dormant for so long, I thought it was irretrievable. But maybe not.

The monsoonal season is back in full force with a day of showers and glowering clouds on Sunday. Oh, I enjoy a rainshower~~junk~~ art supply treasure. Yeah! Uh-huh. Within moments, I opened the big garage door in order to breathe. After 5 minutes, I needed to sit down, sweat pouring. Unlike myself, I felt a little faint. Short of breath, kind of. Glancing at the new instrument, I saw it was only about 80-degrees, with humidity at 65%! We're accustomed to single-digit humidity. I came inside, wiped my brow and wondered how people in the east can tolerate that for even a moment. Ugh!

A man introduced himself as a newcomer at AA. There's no requirement for a person to do so, but when one does it, we who are veterans make a point of welcoming him or her. He said it was the first AA meeting he'd ever attended and he was fewer than 24 hours sober. He was back today. "Hi, this is my second AA meeting ever. I'm more than 24 hours sober." Members applauded. I was sitting near him, so I smiled and said, "Good for you! Keep coming back." During the meeting, the topic being discussed prompted me to share an anecdote. It was a rerun, but that happens. Sometimes the day's subject only reminds me of one event, or I'm in a different group. It's OK to tell a story more than once. Some AAs even become legends due to their one seminal story. So I told my true tale and spent the rest of the meeting feeling uncomfortable as I'd been sandwiched tightly between a couple who were sparring and tossing angry energy at one another through me. I bolted for the door after the Lord's Prayer.

In the patio, the man made a beeline for me. He'd been struck by my sharing and took pains to say so. He reiterated he was 24-hours sober and hit my sponsor up for a cigarette, but turned his attention back to me. "Well, let's talk, though I can't help you with a smoke." He said he wouldn't have thought so. I must give off rays or something. For those who do not share our disease, this man is in a hard spot. His face showed it. We talked about my sharing and about how difficult the first days are. He asked when he could find meetings during the week, so we agreed to meet up tomorrow when Jenn and I will introduce him to some of the men in our group who can perhaps sponsor him and who can certainly help him. He was so grateful. He said so. And he showed it. Walking to the parking lot, I said, "Well. My first. A newcomer reached out for help from me." Jenn said, "Yep. He was definitely seeking you. And you did it really well." Imagine this. Exactly one year ago I lost my job and other major parts of my life because my drinking was so out of control. And today I helped a man. He didn't know my story was a retread. He didn't know I'm struggling to work my own program as I am distressed over my other problems. He gave me the opportunity to be of the highest service we can give: get sober, stay sober and help another alcoholic get sober. I just seemed safe haven to him. A drunk with something to offer another drunk. I am humbled and awed.

And so, another day. It's August! Driver's license to be renewed, already. A writing deadline looms, which promises income. The humidity is torturous, causing even my straight-as-pins hair to curl a little. Smokey Robinson on the iPod. And so it goes.

In my ears right now: Because I love it, because it makes me dance, and because the focus just now is on "up", "fun", "hand-clapping".

This post dedicated to the memories that were made.

HeRR BiRRthday ~ May It Be Easy

2011-07-31T02:22:00.000-07:00

I'm privileged to be party to several birthday celebrations this summer. I've tried to herald this one in just a slightly different way. It's a special birthday. Yes, I agree ~ they're all special. But, stick with me. First a little music. I like Fiona Apple's cover of Across the Universe and that's saying something. I don't appreciate everyone who covers a tune originally written and sung by John Lennon. But Fiona does it nicely. I think the lyrics present us with a picture of a spirit easing through a wondrous, loving world and that would be appropriate for today's birthday girl.

She's my friend and her name is Rraine, hence the silliness with the Double-R brand in the post title. She's turning 60 and perhaps the next song dedicated should be "It Don't Come Easy". Oh, don't call me a bitch for revealing her true age! She's already done that, and admirably, on her own fine blog where she lets us know - with a wink - that there is both good and bad in everything that comes along. Now how ya gonna deal with it? Actually, Rraine is only my most recent friend in the past few years to turn 60. To a person, they have approached it cautiously and with humor juxtaposed with chagrin. My turn will come late next summer. I'm not fooling myself into thinking I'm going to like it. I hope I will be as graceful as some others have been. If I don't feel graceful, I might consider the alternative to reaching 60. And, so, young lady ~ my thoughts on turning 60 have taken me many places. I wish you the happiest day and hope you enjoy my musings.

For me, personally, 30, 40 and 50 were not painful. Now I'll confess that turning 40 and having a 2-year-old baby at the same time did keep me up some nights, until my friend pointed out that only "young" women have toddlers. Oh, yeah. I hadn't thought of it that way. And - as has been chatted up a little over on Rraine's blog in comments, I think back to my cherished Granny at age 60. She was energetic and active and brilliant, but - alas - she was an "old" woman. We're not like that any more. We're still vital if that's what we've chosen to be and if we've been fortunate enough to enjoy good health. We've got plans for ourselves, if we've remained committed to forward thinking. We've got more interests than time to pursue them all.

I was having a haircut and it must have been spring or summer of 1999. "Hey, Sandy, may I take this magazine home with me if I give you another one?" "Sure, Hon, how come?" It was in the days when I still hunted and gathered more crafting projects to work on. The magazine had directions for a cross-stitch sampler commemorating the many wondrous things that occurred during the 20th century. Yes, there was the Kitty Hawk and JFK, Iwo Jima and the 1969 walk on the moon - most of the highlights. That's all nice, but it was more personal to me. Dear Granny was born in the last three weeks of 1899. She died in 1987, so she didn't see the full century out, but no one can argue she was witness to many, many marvels. She always felt as if she'd been situated near the north Atlantic when the Titanic went down. Her brother sold newspapers in the street and had spent the vast sum of a nickel to bring home the headlines that spring morning of 1912. Tennessee was far removed from any ocean, but she read so much about it, she felt sure that was part of her tapestry. The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on her 41st birthday and she later sent four of six sons to war. All of them returned home safe. That certainly was a part of her landscape. And yet, what strikes me hard as I write this is that the big events in Granny's world seem so far removed from her own proximity. As if she lived her life watching the world happen.

I can do "corn" really well, and here I go: I am nearly overcome with pleasure and gratitude for having been an American baby boomer, the place and generation I share with Rraine and millions of others. Yes, our nation suffers many ailments right about now - enough to make me groan, gripe and bellow, uh oh! rather like my father. So I take solace in reminding myself how special "we" really are. Our generation really defies any narrow definitions. Lavished with privilege, we have been able to think, to create, to challenge, to disagree, to fight, to make up, to love, to live and to die. We have wrought great change in the arts, in politics, in economics, in civil rights, in ecology, in vision, in goodness, in technology and more. Yes, the whole damn thing has been ours. Right up close and very, very personal. And I think I just made the argument for turning 60 (or seeing it over the dashboard or in the rearview). We've got to live our lives, so far, right in the middle of it all. To make it up as we go along, for good or for bad. And I'm not sure it gets any better than that, any time, any place.

So ~ as a gift, a little eye treat with an explanation. I told Rraine I'd been busy making something. And I do have something tangible to give as a real gift when we share lunch later in the week. For the blog, however, I've made collages. I tried to put a "gentle on the 60 thing" spin on it, so there are four separate collages, each with 15 images. Taking things in little bites is better sometimes, I have found. It's still 60. (Yes, that is one of my own quite amateurish photos hidden in there, to make the gift personal.)

Hey, hey, readers, please send Rraine a happy birthday greeting by commenting on this post. Enjoy the collages below and don't miss the song at the end.

Seek within, seek without

Birthday girl with attitude

Soft and dreamy

Look east

In my ears right now: Three old women. Oh, yeah, they're old. Way older than we are. I see gray hair and extra pounds and evidence of plastic surgery. I hear them making music and I observe them creating with friends. They'd likely know many of the same paths we've walked. 60+ is a good thing! Now, let's go do something.

Hey, I've Got An Idea!

2011-07-24T15:17:00.000-07:00

The e-mail I received that caused me to look into my blog archive and remember a place of long ago and fairly far away is still having an effect on me. Oh, yes, I'm fairly prone to reverie these days. A predilection for preoccupation, one might say. You see, I am not a graceful pathfinder. I require a good deal of angst to be thrown in with finding my way through things. I smack and flop along the road like a square wheel, gnashing my teeth . . . and then the way is usually revealed to me. I'm waiting for that augury now. In the meantime, I'll fiddle around until I don't any longer.

So, back to that summer of 1958. I have such strong sensory memories of the heat, muggy in the afternoons when there would generally come a thunderstorm to mix things up a little. We wore colorful, short cotton midriff tops with shorts, sometimes cutoffs, and went barefooted until the scorching blacktop and concrete required thongs at least. I was the kid with sunburn blisters on my nose and shoulders, the long, thick, dark braid snaking down my back and bangs always cut at just a slight slant not intended. There was typically a tooth or two missing during that time, and I sported a cast on my right arm that summer. It weighed approximately what I weighed and rubbed a blister on the web between my thumb and forefinger. It did not hamper hopscotch, swinging or managing my bike. That cast brought me the closest I ever came to being spanked when I was busted behind the garage using a stick to scratch my horribly itchy arm. It nearly scared my parents to death and they proved that they knew some strong language. When the doctor removed the cast just before school started in September, it proved to contain more dirt and grime than the average vacuum cleaner bag. Small pebbles, sand, dog hair, shredding skin, broken bits of stick (ahem).

I greeted other kids rarely with "Hi!" and frequently with "I've got an idea!" I did, too. Lots of ideas. About anything and everything one would care to name. I read voraciously, including under the blankets and in my bedroom closet after bedtime. I watched a little TV - likely 90% less than any other kid of the era, but I saw enough to feed my idea machine. It was an active little idea machine, producer of big old dreams in technicolor and detail. I was a kid who spawned notions that required some action and some sweat and lots of fun in the execution. I've never known whether other kids thought "Yay!" or "Run!" when I came along with my latest dream. Perhaps I wouldn't want to know. Rarely, however, did I have any difficulty recruiting others to my fancies. And I've grown up not very different from that young child.

Perhaps that show-offy thing existed in embryonic form in the day, because - often - my ideas focused on the performing arts. In later years, this tendency was honed to near perfection. Give me a microphone and an audience of hundreds and I become utterly, breathtakingly brilliant. But that is another story for another day. I once spent some considerable amount of saved allowance to buy a booklet setting forth a child's production of The Emperor's New Clothes. This required someone's dad to apply a saw to plywood and a neighborhood mom to sew costumes. And they did that! My mother made brownies. People came to watch us. It sired a monster in me. Theme parties a specialty. Extravagant whoop-dee-doos are my middle name.

I tend to do better in life when I have a project bubbling. It keeps me focused and gives me a sense of purpose. I need a little of that about now. And it's been a long time since we did anything collaborative on this blog like a drop in poem. I guess I ran out of conquering heroes to celebrate or something, because I got away from that really fun activity. Let's put that to bed! Reader, beware: I've got an idea.

I have a project in mind, for presentation on this blog. The gala will be presented on August 24th for good reason. It will feature video and all manner of things to delight one's sense of humor, particularly if yours is as twisted as my own. I need help! I need words. I am looking for a jingle, if not an outright song (which I'd prefer) to laud the hoppy taw, perhaps a poem or two, even an essay. The themes should be hoppy taws and hopscotch, days of summer, nostalgia, easier times. To get a feel for it, just read this and my last post or if one wants to refer to the original hoppy taw post, there you have it. Please send some words to the e-mail address in My Profile and let's have some fun. Two lines or two pages - everything helps! I'll provide updates and maybe a sneak peek or two as we get some stuff on video. Oh, yeah! I have both a film crew and an editor. It will be epic, even if only in my own mind.

Right before my eyes just now: It makes me snicker! Poor Frank, with his delicate sensibilities.

The most fun my eyes and ears have had in days:

Ah, a Faint Voice From the Distant Past ~ Oh, No! It's MY Voice.

2011-07-21T20:20:00.000-07:00

Just to call a spade what it is, I'm struggling. There is more bubbling on my plate than I'm currently capable of sorting out easily and I was a bit premature in the last couple of posts saying, "I'm back, things are fine!" A more correct assessment would be "I've had a few brilliant spots of diversion and pleasure in the middle of some miserable and frightening and depressing times and I am grateful for them." I have friends who check on me nearly constantly on e-mail, the phone, texting and at AA meetings. I have a friend who makes me nearly insane asking me how I feel. "I don't anything except frightened - it's asymptomatic," I reply invariably. I've decided he doesn't comprehend the meaning of the word. I'll use a different one in future and simply be happy that he thinks to check in on me. I'm not doing anything "bad", "wrong" or "forbidden". I haven't once been tempted to take a drink. I'm just not doing very much of anything. And the verdict on that has been unanimous: "You don't have to do anything. Wait and listen for the answer. And then you'll know what to do next." OK. That's my short-term plan.

I got the darnedest e-mail yesterday:

Dear Limes, I am embarrassed to say I don't know how to blog so the email is it....... I was so excited to see your story. I grew up in Ogden Utah, and there, Hoppy Taws were a serious thing!!!! I loved it and recall one day that I fell playing hopscotch and ripped my new white leotards in both knees, but did I give up, no way..... My Grandma Jensen worked for the Hoppy Taw Co. in the early 50's so we always had them and loved them. I am an artist and I think that my love of color swirls and individuality came from the hoppy taws. Every one was different . I have been trying to get the real history behind the hoppy taw co. Do you have any info . The company on line just gives you current revenue potential and stuff like that, who cares.
Any way just thought I would write to a fellow hoppy taw lover and tell her "you are not alone". Thanks for your story, Debi in Idaho

I had to do some quick thinking. She called me Limes, so she has read something from long ago when I was known only as LimesNow in the blogosphere. Now, of course, and for quite some time, I am Leslie Morgan, the same name that appears on my birth certificate and driver's license. And I sport my face all over the place. But I didn't at first. And Debi refers to the hoppy taw, so she has to have read something I wrote about my childhood in Salt Lake City. I noodled around in my blog archives and found it - voila - December 2, 2009! How and why Debi has come across it now, I am uncertain, but that's OK. A writer appreciates having been read. A human being appreciates a connection. And no, I will not give up "hoppy taw" in this post. The reader must follow the link to the original post.

Referring back to my original hoppy taw post, I re-read my own words. I was reminded of yet another time in my life when I was unsure and frightened of things. I leaned on others to help me through. My father and my friend modeled good behaviors for me to follow. I learned to plan, to strategize, to size up others and to trust my judgement. I learned toughness and commitment and I learned to be a sponge, soaking up everything I could from any situation. I became fair and honest and tenacious. Maybe, in a tiny number of situations in life, even heroic, if that simply means reaching beyond one's assumed limitations and acting. I learned that more people are good than bad. More people will like you than hate you. I learned that on a really good day, one might make a connection with another human being never contemplated before. I learned that one might say something that resonates with another person, and that is magic to me.

After my AA meeting tonight, I sat outside on the picnic benches talking with a group of people I really enjoy. I'd done some research online for a man who shall be called a rascal here. He likely deserves a harsher assessment sometimes, but we'll stick with rascal. I shared the information I'd found for him and then spoke of the pleasure I get from writing my blog. I told him some things I'd written about. "But you don't use your name, right?" I told him that I do, and my photograph as well. His eyes got big and for the second time in a few days, someone called me "brave". Emotionally brave. I wonder. Did I learn that, too? And how will I apply that now?

Some hoppy taw art for Debi, though I am not an artist:

In my ears right now:

Turn Out the Lights, the Party's Over

2011-07-17T18:31:00.000-07:00

Okey dokey, then ~ we put up the birthday post and went out to do some shopping and spend some girl time. We fairly exhausted the thrift store and a used book store, checked to see whether Mike had seen his birthday party online . . . no sign of him. That's OK. We're resourceful women. Let's call him! We did so. He said he wouldn't be able to connect to the internet until the next morning. Arrrggghh! But this was his birthday. Well, nothing else for it: we each wished him a happy birthday and told him to go blogging as soon as he was able. And then we proceeded to blow out his candles and eat the chocolate muffins Rraine had brought, so thoughtfully. They were good - mine served as lunch and dinner. Sorry you missed them, Mike.

And then we thought, seeing we were three blogger women gathered, seeing Rraine is expert with a camera, seeing I have become addicted to Picasa photo collage, seeing Jenn is young and adorable, seeing Rraine and I are . . . um . . . adorable, we'd go outside and take some pictures. Yeah!

One kvetched about her glasses. The other two did not. One had us try a couple of different spots to get the best location and light. One whined that she never photographs well, so please be sure to snap two of everything. The names shall be withheld to preserve our dignity. Rraine recalled being shown how to execute a becoming pose by thrusting a foot forward, hand on hip. We all tried it and thought we were pretty cute. Jenn knew a showgirl pose, arms extended. Rraine said she wanted a big headdress. I said I wasn't doing any showgirl stuff, though I'd try the foot-forward, hand-on-hip thing. We thought we were something!

And so ended an afternoon enjoyed in female company. There were friends to be met for dinner, AA meetings to attend. We'd shared some irreverent laughs and some serious talk, giggled about vanity when the camera came out, and pledged to get together again soon. Two of us had cackled at terrible shoes for sale and wondered why selected items were considered "designer". We all talked about ideas for future blog posts and congratulated one another for being brilliant. I needed this sunny, happy afternoon. I've been under some duress. And I was reminded of at least one of the things I can engage in to keep my spirits up and my fever down. Thanks, Good Women and Mike, for making my day! Damn you, Rraine, for wearing Rocket Dogs when I didn't even think of it. But I'll be back on my game soon enough. I can feel it!

In my ears right now: An old favorite. Just because I feel like it today.

Birthday Greetings to Mike from a Bevy of Las Vegas Beauties

2011-07-15T14:09:00.000-07:00

Oh, please! Get over it. All females from Las Vegas, Nevada, are not showgirls, whether vintage or contemporary. No, no. Some of us are kind of regular - all the good and bad things that make up real people like intellect, heart, creativity. We are a toothsome trio of blogging tootsies who write, draw, photograph, emote, laugh and cry out into the blogosphere. Though we are different from one another in many ways, we share some common experiences, hopes and dreams. We have similar ideas about peace, harmony and a good quality of life for all beings. We have grand senses of humor and dignity and we treasure the times one can spend with her female friends. Collectively, we are 158 years old. In terms of intellect and creativity, you can't count high enough. And that's a good thing, because there is a task at hand. Today we gathered together to muse on what we could do - virtually - to celebrate the birthday of our esteemed blogger friend Mike. Mike, you see is in Norfolk, Virginia. We are in the desert southwest. The Lear Jet is in the shop. Whatever shall we do?

It seems logical to start with an invitation to everyone who reads this - and please, tell a friend! - to add your happy birthday wishes to this post in comments. He'll see them here. And then - please - go visit Mike on his own blog to wish him a grand day. After that, how about visiting yet another blog near and dear to Mike's heart. Noodle around on this blog, beginning at the bottom. It's new and there have been only 4 posts. Find out what Mike's been dreaming about. And finally, don't miss this. Give yourself 15 minutes to navigate through the new website and learn what our man really wants for his birthday. Perhaps you'll please Mike and all of us by throwing your support with ours for We Can Work It Out.

For Mike, you see, is a man who dreams big and thinks of others. I've watched him for years on blog, cheering for others, entertaining us with his Saturday Masters music posts, boldly trying new forms of writing when challenged, maintaining a positive and supportive demeanor toward all. He has no problem saying "you're my hero" or "I love you" to another blogger when he feels those things. I know, because he has said those things to me. Though he has serious health problems and life burdens like the rest of us bear, Mike thinks of others who suffer, both locally and globally. We Work It Out is only his most recent dream of peace, harmony, love and equality.

OK, that's my little message of birthday love! I'm Leslie, the owner of this blog.

Hey, Mikey, Rraine here. I don't have the way with words that the rest of you bloggers do, so I bring you the gift of song and light. You light up my world in more ways than I can say. Please, keep on keepin' on, and spread the words-all the words!

Mike, although new to We Can Work It Out and the world of bloggers in general, I wanted to take a moment to let you know that I find it to be a good website and hope to be one to spread the word and encourage others to join. I sense from your writing that this is truly near and dear to your heart. As I said in the Samantha article on the website, I believe one person can make a difference in the world. I sense you will be one of them. Thank you for you efforts towards change, diversity, peace and understanding. Hope you have a wonderful Birthday.

Sincerely, Jenn

Seven Days

2011-07-12T15:10:00.000-07:00

It took about 7 days. I was still speaking and writing joyously for having some new things fall into my life and about how much I was going to relish experiencing them. Somehow - perhaps this is just very human and not at all specific to me - I connected those nice new things with the degree to which I've been working my AA program and my sobriety. Hey, if you save your money, you get a nest egg. Work your body, you get fit. Start leading a good and righteous life, good things come your way. Right? Sure! I had a busy July 4th weekend planned - busy for one who has been emerging from shadows and clouds for many months. Things were going well. I hadn't said it out loud in too many places yet, but I was beginning to think - just a little - that I was getting this "life" shit down pretty well.

Then came the routine blood draw with dubious results. Yes, it's an old enemy and one I understand very clearly. My doctors were wonderful to fully school me about it the first time around. I know percentages and survival odds depending upon age at onset, gender and ethnicity. I know what the levels should be each time I have a blood draw. I know many people walk around for years with the precursor and it never develops further. The precursor is as much as I ever had to deal with, and I found it nearly made me insane. Blood tests, wait ages for the returns. Biopsies, wait longer for the returns. Medicate as necessary, begin entire process again in 90 days. It is maddening and terrifying. In fact, last time it nearly sent me around the bend. It broke me in a handful of ways from which I have not recovered.

Frequently mistaken for Cleopatra, Queen of Denial, I went into my usual mode. I spun. Man, it was 4th of July weekend and I had some plans. A party here, a dinner outing there, some rare mall shopping, AA meetings with coffee afterwards. I had a couple of pieces of writing in mind and planned to work on them with the French doors open, the monsoon blowing cool breezes into my little work station. I spent some hours helping a friend create a blog and I was asked - for one of the first times - to listen to and advise a struggling alcoholic. A fellow member of AA asked me to critique his thesis paper and then to work with him on the presentation. I was flattered to be asked! My friend and I are planning a joint blog post featuring some of the only-in-Las-Vegas things we see every day. We spotted out some locations to shoot photos and kept eyes and ears open for more of the startling things unfolding on every corner when a woman stops for a red light. Yep, I got through that long weekend just fine. Tired, in fact, just a little bit, for all the increased activity. The neighborhood fireworks banged on a few hours longer than I hoped, but that's what earplugs are used for.

Tuesday morning rolled around. I felt unsettled. No more long weekend stretching ahead. No more forgiving doctor's offices that did not return calls immediately - the holiday was over now. Time to get serious. I spent the morning digging out records, making phone calls. I noticed I needed to change the bed sheets and the cat litter in both boxes. The monsoonal thunderstorms have occurred daily, remarkable in intensity, mucking up windows which I hurry to clean before they dry dirty. Yes, I am eating a little. Not very much coffee. I arranged for someone to come in to repair the fine, fancy, new washing machine that spews water everywhere. And then I just stopped. Stopped everything. No reading library books, which I bring home by the bushel. No e-mail, no text messages, no phone calls. No blogging, either reading or writing. No writing for pleasure or economic purposes. No meditation, no music, no movies that make men scrunch up their toes in their shoes, no daily readings for AA and other forms of serenity. I have stopped, utterly and completely. Slammed into the wall. Splat.

I have not missed an AA meeting, and I am talking at those meetings. AAs give good advice to their fellows. They are kind to me, but will not kill me with kindness. Many have approached me to tell me how they meshed their program of sobriety with their own or another's illness. I thank them. Some simple speakers say, "Just keep coming back every day." Yes, I will. I get good encouragement like, "Tomorrow try to make it to the meeting and just read one of your books." I shall try that. And one man I'd never seen before said something really profound to me: "I can tell by your face and your words you're beating yourself up pretty badly. This isn't crazy, alcoholic reaction. Anyone would be concerned about this." That helped me! I didn't know. How would I compare my reaction to anything "normal"? I've written before about my intense distaste for using the words "I can't" about any endeavor I take on. I don't allow myself that very much. It can be a very difficult burden to carry. It is an old reaction I've not yet been able to correct in myself, and yes - that is my safety button: "I've not yet been able to . . . "

Yes, rely upon it - I am in near constant evaluation of just what I'm waiting for. The other shoe to fall? Perhaps. The lab to call me back to say "Sorry to have scared you to death. It was a mistake!" That would be nice, but I don't expect it. Am I channeling the Beatles' "Maxwell's Silver Hammer"?

. . . Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Came down upon her head
Bang, bang, Maxwell's silver hammer
Made sure that she was dead . . .

I've been crazier than that before! Channeling isn't so weird. So, the best I can say is I'm struggling. I'm modeling Bambi in the High Beams. I don't have all the answers for it yet. And I'm working on all of it as best I can. My sponsor gave me a new tool yesterday. "Les, can you live with 'I can't today, but I may be able to tomorrow'?" Hey! I can live with that.

There has been little sleep in these almost couple of weeks. That's a chronic condition for me, though this bout is more intense and I've found myself both tearful and irritable. This morning after coffee, I managed to read one of my daily meditations and thought I could doze a little. I popped in some earplugs, pushing each almost through to the other side. I located the most boring book in my current repertoire, firmly planted a cat on either side of me. I was ready! And soon enough, I felt myself drift. Until, through the earplugs, an unholy noise sufficient to raise my body from the bed tore me from sleep. When my heart slowed to the rate of a mouse's, I stuck my head out to see WTF? Ah! Home dudes here to fix up that washer leak. It seems the concrete slab has to be jackhammered, followed by some other ungodly noises. This has continued for hours. The very structure is shaking on its foundation. There are 6 homies on the property speaking very loud in Spanish. For hours. And so it goes. I can't do my laundry today, but maybe tomorrow.

In my ears right now: I need a little lift!

On the Glorious 4th, A Story of Some Americans

2011-07-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

I moved to Las Vegas 35 years ago today. My god. Oh, certainly, I went away for about 22 years between that first residency and the current one, but it can't be denied that I have a long history here. I don't care for the place much. Not the first time and not now. Yet, recently, when a friend commented that I have the luxury of portable income and would I consider relocating somewhere that more suited me, I pondered that and said, "No, I don't think so. Not now."

Last evening I went to a birthday gathering at a local restaurant. I was not enthusiastic about any part of this enterprise. Unlike my old, drinking self, however, I worked out my resentments ahead of time and was able to arrive with a smile, a gift in hand, an appetite and a readiness to enjoy whatever came my way. I was seated so that I could see out through the broad expanse of plate glass windows, looking south. Earlier this week, running errands on various days, I noticed cloud formations that made me realize the monsoon will soon be upon us, that cloudy, humid stretch that mingles with the 100+-degree days just to make summer fairly insufferable. Yes, the storms do ease the humidity for a few minutes. Oh, we get booming thunderstorms with remarkable shows of lightning and sometimes serious flooding in the streets. Our valley is shaped like a large bowl lying on its side. I live on the downside where all liquid ends up when too much of it is applied to the desert floor. Sitting at the table in the diner, I saw the clouds finally form something serious after teasing us all day. I'd been hit with 7 or so raindrops on my windshield earlier - just enough to annoy. The winds kicked up and a few splats hit the windows. "Storm coming," everyone muttered. And then it began in earnest.

Leaving the eatery, running through actual rain now, I grinned at my friend, "You don't want to see me in a rainstorm, Girlie. All that crap I use to give my hair that just-rolled-out-of-the-sack look starts running down my forehead and neck. It's pretty bad!" We laughed, leaped gratefully into our chariot and I drove us into the mouth of hell. The storm got worse by the minute, the road and the sky taking on the same color, water hammering us. The gutters and storm drains were immediately overtaxed, deep water snaking across all lanes of the boulevard. The windshield wipers did little to improve conditions and I observed, "I can't see shit." "I noticed that," Jenn replied. I toyed with the notion of pulling over, but I feared we would be washed downstream. "Keep moving, slowly, with lights," is the advice I've always been given. We became awfully quiet for a duo as communicative as we usually are together and I finally deposited her in her driveway, watching her run up the hill with her go-box from the party and her Bath & Body Works haul we'd made earlier. "Text me when you get home. I don't mean to sound like your mother!," she hollered. "Will do!"

"Well, driving uphill ought to be better," I foolishly surmised. "And it's only 3 miles." Yow. I have never maneuvered a car or anything else through such conditions. The sidespray, when I finally thought "screw it" and drove right down the middle of the road, shot high above the roof of the car. Chunks of tree limbs washed up onto the hood, the wipers yelped "Uncle!" and I was pretty concerned about the evident strain of the monster mobile to work uphill against the torrent. As I passed through intersections, the screaming wind T-boned me, actually causing the car to sway. Had I been in my Nissan, I may have ended up in a ditch. I remembered that July of 1976, which was also tremendously stormy. It had taken Ex about a week to make friends to join in the bars at night, so I was home alone quite a lot. Once, at 2:00 a.m., I called my mother to come and collect me, terrified at the thunderstorm that shook the timbers of our home. I was 23. The memories washed over me now. With my most recent progress in AA, the continual working of my program, I have had some pleasant and poignant recollections about him and I've even managed some forgiveness for Ex.

In connection with a project I've recently embraced, I have been doing some research. The general subject is acceptance of racial and ethnic diversity which leads, often, to stories about past discrimination and bad treatment of some classes of human beings.This is material that draws me, deeply. I was appalled to learn that I am nearly completely ignorant about the struggles of some of the world's populace. Oh, I grew up in that O'Farrell clan hearing about the oppression of the Irish by the British and I certainly didn't miss any of the U.S. Civil Rights movement that played out right under my nose during my teens and early adulthood. Beyond our borders, though, I am unschooled. But there is a group of indigenous people I have learned about - just a little.

When Ex and I were very young and had just set up housekeeping, I began - at his request - weekly letter-writing with his grandmother on the reservation in Sacaton, Arizona. Ex's parents were young and modern-minded Pima Indians who worked hard to get off the reservation, and though their life was not good in the mean streets of L.A., at least they were "off". Those of us who are not natives and are not induced to live on a reservation, even if no longer forced, may not understand the drive to "get off". Ex and his siblings had never visited Arizona and knew little about their culture. They did know they were full-blooded Indians and that made them rare, if not "special". They'd all grown up being mistaken for Mexican, very common in southern California, and saying to people, apologetically, "Sorry, I don't speak Spanish." I learned from the encyclopedia and shared with Ex that his people were the Akimel O'odham, "river people", who subsisted by farming, hunting and gathering, though they are largely know for their expertise in textiles and for the production of intricately beautiful hand-woven baskets and woven cloth. It is thought the name "Pima" came from the natives' frequent invocation "pi mac" to European settlers. "Pi mac" means "I don't know". They didn't understand the language of the "visitors".

Ex knew that, though tiny, his tribe had a hero to brag about - one Ira Hayes. Hayes was born in Sacaton in 1923 and was said to be a shy, sensitive and quiet young man - almost "distant" - who read at a very young age and easily mastered the English language that escaped many of the Pima. After Pearl Harbor was bombed in 1941, Ira set his sights on becoming a United States Marine. After the War, the much-decorated corporal was often portrayed in art and film, for he became an American icon on Iwo Jima when he and 5 other Marines planted the U.S. flag atop Mt. Suribachi on February 23, 1945. His return to civilian life, though he was revered and much-celebrated, was troubled. Asked by a reporter how he liked the pomp and circumstance after President Eisenhower declared Hayes a hero, he hung his head and said, "I don't." Attempting to return to a normal civilian life, Hayes racked up 52 arrests for public drunkenness and spoke often of his "good buddies who were better men and wouldn't be returning". He was found dead, choked on his own blood and vomit in January, 1955. He had just turned 32, and died of alcoholism and exposure.

I knew a bit about the Ira Hayes story, and had seen pictures of him, but researching last week, I saw a photo that took my breath away. It would seem to be the type of picture taken when a recruit graduates from boot camp. I'd never seen this photo before. It looks so much like Ex at a similar age that I burst into tears and they slid slowly down my face for a long, long time. Ira lacks only the long braids worn by the young man in 1971. Ex wanted to enter the Marines like his tribal and American hero. I was a war protester and convinced him otherwise. Today, just for today, I am rethinking that. Maybe . . . Despite their physical resemblance, Ex was not related to Ira Hayes, as far as we know. If the family had any claim to those bragging rights, I'm sure we would have heard it at some time. Nevertheless, in a population so tiny that six degrees of separation is likely reduced to two degrees, I am reflecting today on some of the tragedy and pathos that befell these two men who tried to assimilate and never completely succeeded, despite their mighty efforts.

I asked Ex early in our time together why his last name (which would also become mine) was so English-sounding. He had been taught that if one's name looked something like this "daghim 'o 'ab wu:sañhim" and you were the census taker on the newly established reservation, you might also say, "Yep, sounds like Smith to me." Would the reader join me in a tip of the hat to some Americans who may not seem so very American?

In my ears right now and I'd be pleased if it was in your ears, too:

Blog post dedicated to the memory of Anthony Curtis Goodwin

Life Is What Happens While You're Busy Making Other Plans

2011-06-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

I've had a busy week of appointments, errands, a few utterly joyous events, commitment to my commitments, and precious little time to write for pleasure. This bothered me more than usual, because I had a serendipitous blog post coming along in draft form, but coming too slowly to suit me. Well, actually, I still have that post in draft form, but it will likely have to wait awhile. Here's what I had to say in my first paragraph:

"I have been caught in a downpour of good things, an unpredicted storm that has left a few large gifts in a terrifically truncated period of time. Maybe some would holler "Hallelujah!" and run off to enjoy themselves, but I am a perverse creature. Oh, believe me, I've hoped for some good fortune, but now that a little of that has fallen into my lap, I am unsure how one handles some of it. If I blink, will it go away? Why have some of these things come to me and why now? Will I handle the details differently from my methods in the past? What are the deal-breakers, so I can make certain not to commit any of them? And - oh, the sleep-robber - "am I worthy?"

Jennifer Layne
Copyright 1994

This afternoon I was showering, blow-drying, seeking out clothes in which I would not roast, pushing the clock just a little, which is unlike me. When the phone rang, I thought, "I have no time for this, whomever it is. Just let it roll to voicemail." But I recognized the telephone number as I've called it a few times in the last few days. "Hi, is this Leslie?" I said it was. "This is Kerry from the clinic." Oh. The Vampire Department just drained me yesterday. This may not be a good phone call. She said that my blood test results were in. There is no anemia. That's great, as I have a chronic problem. My cholesterol is on the "watch list" - for the first time in my life. OK, people deal with that every day. None of the medications I've been prescribed are causing any mischief. Good, good. I thought to myself, "Then why is this woman calling me?" "It's about your white blood cell count. Dr. Q is very concerned. She wants you to see your physician. We have a copy of the lab results for you but we're closed for the holiday weekend until Tuesday morning." I said I'd come Tuesday, then see my doctor. "No. She wants you to see your doctor tomorrow. Tell them it is urgent and what I've just told you about your test results." Well, I didn't scream or faint, but I'm not stupid. I've been down this road before. This call has a sense of deja vu. "Just how bad is the white cell count?" I have .7 when I need 4.0. Oh, that's pretty bad. "We're concerned about your immunity to any infections. It shouldn't be this low. You need to be seen right away." Boy, howdy.

I sat down hard on the bed, forgetting that I was running late. Damn it, what is this? The karmic cost for the good things that have just come along? And how would I deal with it this time, new in sobriety, but a veteran for having gone through it before? "It" is an insidious thing, a precursor to a deadly cancer that few survive for 5 years. The good news: I am not "sick" as it is asymptomatic, almost always revealed in a routine blood test. And many people live with the precursor for years, never developing the end disease. The bad news: This is not my first rodeo. I was closely monitored for 2 years, monitoring including regular bone marrow biopsies. A bone marrow biopsy is not an enjoyable experience. But the physical assault can't hold a candle to what these things do to one's head. And then there is the wait between the biopsy and the appointment to learn the results. And then count 90 more days, with blood testing in between. I can do every every part of that, I feel, tonight. And I must remember to pack all the good things into each and every day that I can. I already have a team in place, just in case one is needed: driver, hand-holder during the procedures, soup maker, prayer givers, well-wishers. OK, I think this will be all right.

At the large AA Club where I attend various meetings, the kudos, grins, hugs, high-fives and questions still flew about the wonderful things so recently fallen upon my head. I've been teased mightily and reminded that such good things happen to those who work their program well and truthfully. I chose not to mention today's news. It's not time. People are joyous for me. There's no good reason to put a damper on the joy others can feel for a fellow. "Hey, meet Les. She is a hard case, but she's worked diligently and after 8 months, good things are happening to her." If the time comes to share information at AA, I have no doubt I'll be fully supported there, too. Given everything I need. I'm no more fully identified by any other disease I may have than I was by alcoholism. A person wants to be both graceful and sturdy. Admirable, like.

In my ears right now, just because:

You Didn't Pass the Audition

2011-06-26T16:38:00.000-07:00

You know, at the first, he had me. Yes, I was on his side, even though - on paper - this wasn't an ideal match. I'd now had a little dating experience. I wasn't precisely jaded or cynical, but the words "almost spent" come to mind. And while I'd had a few snickers, maybe one or two actual guffaws, never once had I had even a hint of that slight lift of heart and mood that comes when . . . well, I know it comes sometimes. It's happened to me.

He was responsive to e-mails, something to which I attribute perhaps too much merit. He was literate in those e-mails, something of importance to me. On the other hand, he showed no symptoms of the great sense of humor I value. His look wasn't dead-on, and may I elaborate on that, please? In all my life I've never weighed going out with a man based on his extreme good looks. No male models needed here. I have written about being blown away at age 15 when I met a young man who turned out to be gorgeous. I'd never considered that possibility, but only wanted to get to know him whom I'd met and so enjoyed in conversation on the telephone. "Gorgeous" was an unexpected delight. Following my long and bitter divorce, someone important in my life referred to Ex as an "ugly fuck" and I went off! Oh, yes, an alcoholic who ruined his health and was not an ideal spouse to me - guilty. Ugly? Maybe to you, but not to me. So, while there are some deal-breakers, such as the man who looked identical to Stepfather in his latest years, mostly I accept people as they look, within wide reason. Bald? Not a problem. Large nose? Likely OK. Physique imperfect? Let's talk about that, because I am an imperfect person, too. Generally, if I reject a possibility based on looks, it relates more to attitude projected by the look than actual physical traits.

So, he suggested a coffee house that was located 2 blocks from my office and I thought, "Well, that's pretty easy. I drink coffee, anyway." He looked average in his photos: height, weight, hair, coloring. He was age appropriate and able to converse about a variety of topics. He worked in an industry I knew nothing about and I was going to mark that down as a plus - I could learn something new. He owned a car and had that job (so he said), putting him miles ahead of some Las Vegans who put themselves on the open market. The car claim might be put to partial proof when I arrived at Starbucks, providing he hadn't borrowed one. Yes, I would meet for coffee.

When I pulled into the parking lot and left my car, I glanced around, tidied my shirt and slacks and immediately received a text message. "I'm already inside. Your coffee awaits you." Oh. All right. That's nice, though I felt just a touch odd being watched through the window. But that's what one might get when meeting in public places. As I walked in and aimed for the table, he stood up to greet me - nice. Lots of men don't do that any longer. He'd got my coffee correctly and I sat down to a nice conversation. I knew quickly that there weren't going to be any fireworks on my side, and I didn't know him well enough to know if he would experience any. I hoped not, since I couldn't be reciprocal. But we talked congenially about things the other knew nothing about, each seeming to be interested in what the other had to say. I'm not sure we could have been much less likely matched, but that was OK. If I was west, he was east, I read, he watched TV, etc. We agreed to a second cup of coffee, neither with a gun held to our head.

Over the second cup, he told me something that many people would not easily share, at least not in a first meeting. He suffered from an acute case of genital herpes of longstanding, resistant to drugs and spread beyond the area one might expect. This did not make me run away or start eyeballing the door. You see, just as I don't judge first on any person's appearance, I do not attach stigma to anyone who has an illness or who has suffered some attack or wrong by another person. There are certain medical descriptions that may ultimately cause me some distress, but I knew a little about this condition and it wasn't harrowing for me to hear. I also knew I wasn't ever going to engage in any activity that would put me in harm's way in that respect. It was safe discussion and I rather credited the man with being straightforward about something many sufferers hide from their associates until it is too late for them to make informed decisions. Besides, maybe it helped him to speak openly about a problem and not be censured. This cost me nothing except the price of the second round of coffee. No, I'm not patting myself on the back for my humanity. I'm suggesting that it costs little to be nonjudgmental.

The second coffee was getting low and I was about to say, "Well, thanks, it was really pleasant to meet you." I wouldn't mislead with any complicated comments. Besides, if he was drooling over me, he hid it well. Agreement is a good way to end a meeting, right? And then he said it. I looked up quickly to make eye contact so I could laugh along with him, though he'd made not one original humorous remark the entire time. "You didn't pass the audition. I'd never go with you. Would you like me to tell you the reasons?" Genuinely floored, I began to sputter, "No, oh no, thanks, but no . . .". Not to be rebuffed, Mr. Herpes told me I was a reject because I was well-traveled (true), well-educated (not as true) and had a job I loved (yes, very true). Though I am rarely at a loss for words, I couldn't think of any response, whether appropriate or idiotic. I began to gather my jacket and purse, not kicking over tables, chairs and cups, but decidedly ready to take my leave. Not really as hip, slick and cool as I'd like to be, as I got into my car, I thought, "Damn me for listening to my mother and Granny again! I thought those were the things I was supposed to reveal."

I regret to say it bothered me. I'm a little sensitive. I work rather hard to be well-liked and admired, though I will not be false. Over time, when I have felt myself in a situation safe enough, I've mentioned this put-down episode to friends. I have trouble saying "arrogant idiot" and stomping off. No, I have to analyze it. "What's wrong with me?" Though Mr. Herpes had left little doubt of what was wrong with me, unless he had more on his list that he didn't spew before I got up to leave. I've landed somewhere pretty solid. Likely his take on me was that I was independent and didn't need him (or anyone else) to fulfill me. That threatens some people or turns them off. They feel extraneous. But wasn't he taught to keep his mouth shut and simply move on? I guess not. Like I was trying out for the lead in the school play!

Every now and then Facebook lands in my Yahoo mailbox attempting to woo me into their evil game. (I don't and, so far, won't Facebook, for reasons that are my own.) In their offering is a yoo-hoo from seemingly everyone I've ever e-mailed with. "Let's be friends!" Yeah. Uh-huh. Mr. Herpes is invariably in the mix, with a new photo since I met him. His face shows no evidence of having recently been smacked by some angry woman. I'm pleased to see his health is holding out. No, really.

It's a Bitch

2011-06-22T23:15:00.000-07:00

It was so hot you
could have fried an
egg on the pavement!

I use the word as it might relate to the dog days of summer, as that season has officially arrived. And today was hotter than one of those - 108-degrees on the blacktop when I arrived at AA at nearly 5:00 p.m. I'd been somewhat asleep at the wheel, only vaguely registering its imminent arrival, when my Tao Daily Meditation hit me between the eyes and said, "Hey, solstice is here!" Oh, yeah! Thanks, Tao. The "fun" time of year, though difficult to love in the Mojave Desert. And I'd like to be on record as one who rarely uses that "b" word about another person.

So, a brief quotation from Tao Meditation No. 172 and how it resonates with what I've currently got going on, which is also a bitch. By the way, I do not claim to be a practiced Taoist. When I am that good, I will claim to be so. I read Tao and try to harmonize its teachings with other daily devotionals that are important to me. The best days are the ones when each of my three testaments expresses the same (or a similar) idea in a different voice. It happens, randomly, on more days than one might expect. In one language or another, sometimes my simple mind can comprehend and integrate more complex truths.

When the true light appears,
The entire planet turns to face it.

The summer solstice is the time of greatest light. It is a day of enormous power . . .

This great culmination is not static or permanent. Indeed, solstice as a time of culmination is only a barely perceptible point. The sun appears to stand still. Its diurnal motions seems to nearly cease. Yesterday it was still reaching this point; tomorrow, it will begin a new phase of its cycle.

Those who follow Tao celebrate this day to remind themselves of the cycles of existence . . . left and right, up and down, zenith and nadir . . . All of life is cycles. All of life is balance.

Ah, OK then, a powerful zenith in the sun's strongest light, maybe all the world pulled up to a visible projection just briefly, and a reminder to seek balance, to recognize nothing will be permanent, that ebb and flow are the only certain things. A message to alcoholics and other addicts: this constant motion thing is OK. It's the way of the world. In our language, this is "accepting life on life's terms."

I've been a member of AA for quite awhile now. I am encouraged to lead meetings and when the right person feels I am a woman who talks the talk and walks the walk and we agree I should be her sponsor, then that will happen. I own and voraciously read many of the recommended books, attempting to incorporate certain principles into my little life. I am progressing through my 12-steps at a slower pace than some because I have to argue about everything. I am made that way. It is not a footrace, luckily for me. But after I've argued something to death, if I ultimately accept it, I am a true believer because I've tried to deflate it and found it can't be mitigated. For myself only. I don't try to tell anyone else what is and isn't right for them. I'm not that good. By every benchmark, I should have bombed out by now for my first time. Those are the odds. That information and $1 will get you a cup of coffee at a really cheap place.

It's that balance thing that threatens my happy summer sunshine, that accepting life on life's terms and making my way forward. I am a person knows how to learn, and once I learn something, I have confidence in it and myself. Why can't I learn this balance deal? Am I an alcoholic because I lack balance or do I lack balance because I am an alcoholic? Regardless, it is the hardest thing I have ever struggled to reach. Most of "us" have a lot of human wreckage to repair once we become sober. I am no different and it is daunting. We are not obliged to undertake this in any particular way. We must not attempt to make direct amends to someone if to do so would further harm them. We are even allowed to not make direct amends to someone if to do so would be harmful to our own sobriety. That is a powerful freedom that must be tempered with "at what point does that become a cop-out?" If necessary, we are even encouraged to write a letter of amends we never intend to mail or send a letter to a dead man or to conduct a ritual of our own design. We may make an amends looking into and speaking to a mirror or a doorknob or we may make a "living amends" which means to let our present and future behavior say all there is to be said. In every case, we must somehow make amends to those we have harmed or whom we have lost in some way, expecting nothing from the other person, but only sweeping our own side of the street. Now we are sober, we hope we are so approachable we may reach some form of resolution with those who have harmed us, even though we may not owe them amends and we have no ability to design any detente. Yow. It is a tall order. But until we do this step properly and thoroughly, we will not have completed our 12 steps or know peace. And we must design our current and future behaviors to minimize resentments which are what cause our alcoholic breakdowns in human relationships. Ugh. Balance. Assertion in place of passivity or aggression. Responsibility for self and no one else and being OK with whatever happens. Wait a minute! It's my inability to do that which got me into trouble in the first place. No, I am not being funny.

Recently my friend and I discussed how we each were so misaligned that, as children, we failed to scream "pervert" in real personal crises, for fear of appearing impolite. Really. I have a long history of failing to holler for the CIA, the SSA, the FBI, a parent, someone's parole officer or a policeman on my own behalf when at least that needed to occur. On the other hand, I have some history of committing reprehensible, unfathomable, aggressive human crimes, of holding grudges, of being very difficult to love or forgive. Yes, I do want to find the sweet spot between the extremes. I think I see it, right there on the razor's edge. Without the assistance of alcohol, here are some things I've been working on. I think I'm doing halfway all right, though in some cases I am not making others very happy. And that's OK, too. I was in the people-pleasing business much too long.

So, would I really expose the shortcomings of an upstanding-looking blighter by publishing essays and badly written poetry (it exists, a suitcase full of it)? Unlikely. How does harming another person help me? Good logic, eh? Or write a letter to one parent on each coast of the U.S. to apologize for being such a difficult, colicky infant? Not going to happen. To my dear friend for whom I always pay and my friend who never, ever thinks of inviting me first: you may expect different behavior from me. Regarding the man who pressed his luck when I said, "I've told you this repeatedly for years." and he replied, "Well, you know, sometimes you don't pay attention to someone.": I was not loud, profane or difficult to understand. It was recommended I send official anger notification to those who "assisted" me in nearly killing myself with booze: already done. "You treated me terribly." Now I can begin my amends to each of them for I certainly have responsibility, too. [This should not be misconstrued as me saying ____ made me drink. This only refers to undeserved bad treatment by others. I dealt with it by choosing to drink.] Can I tell my friend and business associate I can't support the program as it stands? Done, well received and discussion to ensue. And for the friend who tells me what to do with my life before saying hello: get ready, dear!

Those things and similar ones can, did and could make me drink. That's not how I choose to do it today. What do you think? Progress? Old dogs/new tricks? In May and in June I attempted amends, expecting nothing. In both cases that is precisely what I got. These were not the giant roaring monsters like parents or ex-spouses. In one case, I do not believe I harmed the person directly, but I apologized if I had done that and said I'd love to have him/her in my life. In the other case, I had harmed the person but felt our bond had been deep enough for us to find some common ground. I did not get what I hoped for. I did not drink.

Something that charmed me: It charmed me just now to type "I did not drink". It charmed me to find Ms. Janis singing "Summertime". It charms me to go out 4 feet from the French doors and slide into the pool nekkid under the moon. It charms me that tomorrow is expected to be 110-degrees. It charms me to keep trying as hard as I can try, apologizing when I have been clumsy. I wish everyone a joyful summer.

This does not charm me: I'm invited to a BBQ, a big bing-bang bash hosted by a friend of a friend. "What can I bring?," is always my first utterance. I love to make melon ball baskets and really good potato salad by the bathtubfull and 80 dozen deviled eggs, or whatever the host wants. "Oh, how about a big old bottle of tequila?" Really! "Um, that would be really difficult for me. Terribly difficult, actually. I can maintain balance with all of you and your tequila shots game like you played at Christmas, but I don't know about buying it, supplying it." This brought a smartassed comment which caused further conversation during which I gave no ground. She seems to have kind of dug her feet in. I've used no profanity, nor loud tone of voice. I'm surely not going to drink over it. But it's a bitch, you know?

The Concert, or the Night the Smallest Vests Were Large and We Weren't

2011-06-21T11:10:00.000-07:00

Does this vest make
my butt look huge?

Pull it up on your shoulder,
dear, you're losing it.

OK, so at P. F. Chang's where our adorable server, Chad, custom-concocted a fiery sauce to our specifications, we chopsticked through a really good dinner and scooted on over to the Henderson Pavilion for our second volunteer gig as ushers. It is not common for me to struggle for the proper words to describe something I've thought or felt or experienced, but I'll have to dig hard this time. This evening was kind of surreal in ways. Not at all like the afternoon we ushered families to their seats for the live play, The Wizard of Oz. I wish I'd done a little online research before the concert, to learn more about Yellow Brick Road. Then I'd have known they were a local iconic cover band and we were going to be in the midst of an event of epic proportion. I'd have known the lead singer, Brody (age about 15 by appearance), was "retiring" after 14 years of leading the band and this was his last performance. Women wept. T-shirts sold like hotcakes. The Pavilion sold out to its biggest crowd ever, with 3,300 in the seats and 700 on the lawn. My comment that there didn't appear to be enough Security should have earned me a free ticket to a future show! "You two are old hands at this, I want you down in front, stage right," exclaimed the volunteer coordinator. I'd have preferred the word "veterans", but it's nice to be recognized. "I've got tough news," she continued. "All the vests are enormous tonight. Sorry!" Boy, howdy.

Picture a big old dumb hound that doesn't get to leave the yard much. Picture him taken out on a leash to an event packed with smells, noise, color, people . . like that hound, I took in the night with all my senses. From flowing beer to wafting pot, from women who should know better but dressed that way anyway, from hard-working event staff to some slightly cowardly Security, I fairly consumed all there was to be had from that evening. Had I a tail, I'd have wagged it! Science question: Why, if my body was going to complain so badly within 24 hours, did it even allow me to sprint up and down those stadium stairs so many times? I was a sprite! Now I am not. I moved wheelchairs and jumped into a fight I had no business taking on. I worked my friend, the security guard, into allowing me onto the stage, much to Brody's surprise, though he didn't miss a note. Disclaimer: All pictures and video taken in poor lighting conditions on a cell phone by a woman who was also working. However, if the words appeal, some of them may be worth mashing one's nose up on the monitor to see. Click on any photo to see it larger, but still poorly. Double size the video for perhaps a better view.

Click for insider
shirt caption!

I'm pretty fascinated by the staging of a show. I have no knowledge of it, though Jenn has a degree and many years experience. Twice she has commented that were she producing the show, the sets would have been ready long before curtain time and tested twice. That doesn't seem to be the way at The Pavilion, a bevy of activity right up until the last moment and sometimes a rather late curtain. I asked questions a mile a minute. We'd already seen all the band and orchestra instruments, music stands ready, piano taken through a dry run. Now they were moved backstage in a jumble, a really ugly curtain dropped, what appeared to be paint dropcloths placed and duct taped to the floor and paint buckets brought out. "WTF, Jenn?" She had no idea. When the stage crew rolled out the gigantic bell in bumblebee colors, I raised my eyebrow at her. Still no idea. So we simply watched, like everyone else. For a good sound venue as to the concert music and play dialog, the Pavilion lacks a lot in quality of the announcements mike. The opening act was announced without fanfare - just his name, which I missed. He defied description.

He stepped out onto the stage and yelled into that mike in a very loud voice. The mike distorted every sound and his French accent was thick enough to require a machete for cutting. He stood before his gigantic bell, throwing up both arms now and again, to much cheering. Ah. And the bell tolled. We looked at each other. "What?" "What?" "What the hell?" I felt some relief that Jenn didn't understand it, either, and she is much younger than I. Let's see. How to tell it? In words? Frenchy had a bad collection of very poorly recorded music and a collection of pretty remarkable dancers if they were still in middle school. In costumes one couldn't quite mesh with the music, the dancers worked their asses off, the music thundered, and Frenchy . . . got into the paint buckets with his hands, rendering some pretty credible likenesses of Hendrix and other rockers. With each number, Frenchy got more worked up, flinging paint from his fingers at each completed canvas, hollering louder but still incomprehensibly. Ultimately, he slipped on the paint and fell - hey! It was wet up there. He ended his show with a frantic rendering of Led Zeppelin on the curtain. Alas, I cannot name the icon he painted on the gigantic bumblebee bell, but said rocker sported a big old helmet like Brunnhilde in the opera. It is my opinion that Frenchy

Video # 1 - Yep, me (voice only) directing a patron to row RR. Hey, I sound as good as Frenchy.

Video # 2 - Frenchy's Dancing Queens.

Video #3 - Frenchy's Hendrix painted by his bare hands on a spinning platform.

Frenchy gets his Led Zep on to close the opening act!

OK, we tolerated that for a good long while, directing folks to restrooms, concessions stands, lawn chairs and more. We grinned, we chuckled and we guffawed. We asked one another over and over and over again, "Why?" I still don't know the answer. I only know the first act is over and I'll serve up an intermission before the headliner comes on.

Yet to come:

Les jumps into the fray during a fracas, but manages to avoid the tampon fight in the womens restroom (yes, really).
Les impresses the Security Captain as "being someone" so the Captain consults her on everything for the rest of the night.
Les works herself onstage to the surprise of the lead singer.

Do You Want to Know a Secret?

2011-06-19T14:49:00.000-07:00

Likely my dating confusion may be at least partly laid at the feet of Greg Clarkson who ruined me that beautiful spring for (many, if not all) other men. In the summer of 1963, we'd moved again from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City. I grew to my full adult height and from about 90 pounds to maybe 105 between the end of the last school year and my birthday at the end of the summer. My teeth were not snaggly new growth any longer, though it seems there were still a couple of molars to come, and the wisdom teeth that never did make it through the gums but were finally surgically removed when I was over 40. I could fix hair nicely, my own in a dark Gidget flip, and I washed and set my mother's to earn money. I worked cheaper than a professional in a beauty parlor (now called a salon). At the coming Christmas, I would receive makeup in my stocking - Angel Face pressed powder and the palest pink lipstick ever seen. Upon my body, curves existed where none had before and these made me feel just slightly awkward at the country club pool. (My parents eschewed the golf side of that club so I could make full use of the pool. It was a bargain to them to pay half-price and they knew I'd swim more than they would golf.) I turned 11 late that August.

The truck transporting our household belongings to Salt Lake was involved in a terrific accident along the way. Everything we owned was destroyed and my parents received a sizable insurance settlement. We gathered donated items from relatives to use in an apartment while we gathered ourselves. By early autumn, they had bought a house on the (then) far west stretches. Construction having just begun, there was still time to add a few custom touches and then we waited. We'd often drive out to the site after my dad came home from work. He'd hoist me up onto the second floor into what would be my bedroom and I could see all over the valley, lights beginning to twinkle here and there. I dreamed. This was to be the nicest home they ever owned, decorated nicely, with everything in it brand new. There was little development yet near Taylorsville. Everything needed to sustain life was also under construction to accommodate the booming growth in housing and residents. Oh, yes, there were gas stations and some mom-and-pop stores. But for major shopping, the library, and other necessities, we'd have to drive a bit. Dad would actually have a commute into the city.

Though some families were already moving into their completed new homes, the schools weren't springing up quickly enough to accommodate all the kids. The Valley West developer, whether a thoughtful Mormon father himself or under pressure from the new homeowners, devised a shortcut for the kids to take to the elementary school thereby avoiding Redwood Road. This heavily trafficked thoroughfare was used by everyone coming into and going out of the area and also by semi-truck drivers passing through. There were no sidewalks, the crumbly blacktop meeting the gravelly, weed-choked dirtpack irregularly. During the early autumn months, the shortcut flowed with a veritable river of kids going through the covered pathway and across a now-deserted sugar beet field. The school was an ancient, forbidding hulk of dark brick and no architectural relief, 3-stories and maybe 100 years old. Until the new schools were ready, the youngest children began their day at 6:00 a.m. and upperclassmen at 1:00 p.m., with school getting out at 6:00 in time for dinner, an imperfect temporary situation. When the snow flew, the shortcut became difficult and I remember trudging along Redwood Road in the afternoon, arms filled with books, heavy coat, gloves and boots. Soon enough I came to understand the honking, hooting truck drivers were not sounding "Hey, kids, get up farther on the verge to walk" messages, but "Hey, baby" salutations. Parents carpooled the kids home in the dark and snow, and soon enough John C. Fremont Elementary School was ready for us.

Normal school hours and a new facility, not yet even filled to capacity, made for a wonderful spring. Softball began and counted as our PE portion of the day, with my 6th grade class pitted against the other. Remember the year: girls were not required to play softball if they didn't care to, but they had to go to study hall if they didn't play. Once a month for a few days, a girl could plead a physical excuse if she cared to. And then - the Promise Land - on softball days girls could begin to wear some form of trousers, but only on the diamond, not during the rest of the school day. That was OK enough for me. My father always, but always, treated me like his kid, not only like his daughter. I knew how to play softball. I was now bigger than most of the other kids and stronger, including the boys. I was fearless and skilled, sliding into base having never bothered me. I was pretty fast and I could catch a hurtling cannonball without dropping it. "Don't drop that ball, Les. Morgans play hard!" "OK, Dad!" But, oh!, the piece de resistance. My father owned a most wonderful wooden bat, 36" long and 33 oz. - a most manly bat and likely too much bat for me at the time. On softball days, I attracted some noise carrying in my bat and my bag, which I think was a bowling bag, with my pants and sneakers in it, for we also did not wear sneakers during the rest of the school day. These days were the highlight of my week and I learned much that spring. I learned never, ever to throw my bat again after making a young fellow drop to his knees in tears. I'd never much thrown my bat before that, but I got a little show-offy there on home plate, adding a little elan to my swing. I learned that some of the glee expressed by others on softball days had to do with me running the bases like the wind and getting in under a high pop fly. It wasn't so different from the swimming pool or the honking, hooting truck drivers.

"Hey, Greg Clarkson really likes you." A boy from the other 6th grade delivered this message and I flinched, I am sure. "Oh?" "Yeah, he thinks you play really well and you're cute." Uh-oh. "Oh." I walked away, completely unprepared for such an announcement and not knowing how to cope with it. Oh sure, I knew who he was. He was in the other class and may have been the only player more talented than I. Quite tall and very thin, he was strong and fast and tough. He stared me down at the plate and on the field. I always knew I had to play against Greg Clarkson and not so much against anyone else. The other pee wees kind of ran around and Clarkson was the only real competitor. I imagine he felt the same, in softball terms, about me. We always pretended not to be looking at the other, but now I noticed his hair was longish and curly, dark. Oh, not long hair as an original affectation like the Beatles who were taking over all of our pubescent or prepubescent minds. More like his mother had allowed him to skip one haircut because the Beatles had taken over his mind. Soon we began to exchange notes. I was comfortable with that, easily finding my voice in written word. He had miniature messengers at his command and the notes fairly flew back and forth. Then it was telephone calls. I began to use a phone upstairs so my parents, both with eyes bugged out at the notion of a boy calling me, would not be able to hear every (innocent) word of my side of the conversation.

The girls who were my friends were fascinated and began to suit up for softball so they could watch us on the field. The boys who were his friends seemed to watch him exclusively. Were they taking lessons from his example or had they been warned that I was his and they should not even look? We'd each dawdle on the grounds for a short time after school and finally a chaste, quick peck of a kiss was exchanged, some 20 child observers marking the occasion in silent awe. One afternoon he head gestured me to join him around the corner of the building. I looked toward my friends and weighed whether I would do this. I did. Around the bend, he wasted no time pushing a small parcel toward me, a jewelry box, to be precise. Taking it from him and feeling not on solid ground, I noticed he had dirt under his fingernails at the end of the day. Inside was a modest neck chain and a clear pendant with a mustard seed inside, perfectly appropriate for an 11-year-old girl heading for 12. Since that time I have heard a couple of different mustard seed legends, but when Greg asked me if I knew what it meant and I said I did not, he told me it represented "I love you." I did not respond to that in any verbal way, but I felt my eyes widen. Then he proposed what he knew to be my favorite tune as "our song", the meaning of which also had to be explained to me. We exchanged a kiss no more heated than the ones delivered in view of mesmerized 6th graders, he put the chain around my neck and we emerged onto the playground. I surmise Greg had older brothers or sisters because he was smooth - smooth! - and I knew nothing about any of the steps. But I liked the dance.

We became local celebrities, Greg Clarkson and Leslie Morgan. Even the teachers seemed aware of the chaste connection and smiled at us. The mustard seed pendant was much handled by young girls. I don't know what Greg had to deal with in his crowd of admiring boys. We held hands while walking in the hallway, though we would never have kissed openly and nothing, nothing changed on the softball field except that I tucked my necklace down the front of my shirt. The end of the school year approached following an idyllic spring and it was announced we'd have a 6th grade party day to include a movie in the cafeteria, "free dress" (slacks and sneakers ~ yay!), and if we brought our own records, we could play them and dance. A number of the moms provided better-than-school-cafeteria snacks and it was a red-letter day. Funny that I do not recall what movie was shown. But I remember that we sat close and held hands throughout as other kids exchanged looks and grins. No other young people so coupled up. What, we were enough for everyone, even if it was vicarious? When the music started, it was revealed that Greg arranged for our song to be played first. We danced, surrounded by silent classmates. He danced quite well, actually. Soon I saw some girls dancing together. When some fast tunes came on, some of the braver boys jumped on board. It was better than a prom.

He told me his family was moving to Alaska in the summer. I was good at geography and I knew his bike wasn't going to carry him to my house or the pool any longer. He reminded me we were nearly 12 - well, he actually was already. It wouldn't be so long until we could design our own lives and not be held hostage by our parents. My mother told me to invite him for dinner. She grilled steaks and did not act weird in front of Greg. My dad talked decently with him about baseball. He held my hand in front of them and kissed me goodbye at the door. They saw this. And then he was gone. He was an excellent letter-writer and he was allowed to call me once a month for 10 minutes. My parents allowed reciprocal phone calls. I did not cry or pine miserably, though I missed his company. Eventually it faded away, perhaps when we moved back to California in a couple of years. Or perhaps when the next youngblood said "My friend thinks you're cute." Or maybe Greg was attracted to a lovely young female in a parka. Anyway, it ended predictably, without rancor. I owned the mustard seed necklace for a very long time - decades. I do not know where it is now.

In my ears right now: Oh, come on, what do you think?

(With Plenty of Experience Now) I Only Date My Own Species

2011-06-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

I may sometimes come across as both articulate and loquacious which is sometimes interpreted to mean "outgoing, sturdy, not thin-skinned". Nothing could be farther from my actuality. I'm highly sensitive and somewhat easily hurt. But I take risks by showing myself and telling truths about me - the person - in almost every relationship I undertake. Why would I take a chance making myself vulnerable to people I don't know well? That's how I relate with other human beings. I'm not so comfortable with casual relationships or fleeting friendships. Relating only on the surface doesn't work for me. I'm curious about others and am willing to show myself, within reason. It is always my hope the other person will eventually show me at least something real about themselves. By nature and by training, that is how I interact with other humans. Does this point out how difficult it is for me to deal with the dating bullshitter, the closed-down and the tight-lipped? Oh, and one last thing: I am pretty scrupulous about not being unnecessarily harsh with others, even when they have sometimes set themselves up for such treatment. Even when . . .

He was literate and he read books on purpose for entertainment. He worked in a field similar to mine, so we understood one another's workday stories. He sought outdoor activities and claimed to be physically fit, liked some of the movies that were my favorites and had a sense of humor. We were age appropriate and had exchanged photos, finding one another attractive, or at least worth continuing to talk with. Until he found out my name. You see, he'd just been hurt by a Leslie and didn't feel he could engage with another so soon. Or that's what he said and I have no supporting information whatsoever to confirm that as truth or untruth. I was gracious. "OK, well, I certainly understand that. Thanks for chatting." I am not 100% certain I do understand that, as a common name never was a deterrent to me, but I felt no need to be nasty to a man who had been pleasant throughout.

Conversely . . . Before I learned to pull the plug at the first, not the seventh, warning sign, I let conversations continue past the date they should have ended. And this man was one waving red flags from the first e-mail. HE WAS ONE OF THOSE "ALL IN CAPS" FELLAS. I didn't know there were any such communicators left, but I now can attest there are. It annoyed me, but I didn't immediately say "Stop it." He said he kept 5 dogs and I felt further disinterested. Not hostile. Just not enthusiastic. "I CAN GET YOU INTO A 3-YEAR-OLD CAR THAT LOOKS BRAND NEW," he virtually screamed. "Oh, well, thanks. Mine is less than a year old and perfectly suited to me." I decided to try the path of least resistance, simply distancing myself by e-mailing less frequently and then not at all. It was my impression that online conversations faded quickly if one party slowed or stopped for 24 hours. He was slow to understand and, in fact, turned up the heat in direct proportion to my cooling. "WELL, AT LEAST LET'S EXCHANGE PICTURES." He attached his to that message. He looked exactly like Stepfather. I cringed, actually recoiled from my computer monitor, but said nothing. This did not satisfy him. "WELL, I KNOW I'M GOOD LOOKING, SO WHY HAVEN'T I HEARD FROM YOU?" I remained quiet and (foolishly) passive. He turned up his aggression, bombarding me with e-mails assaulting both my character and appearance, though he really knew nothing about either of those. I finally had to unload. "You look just exactly like my stepfather. It creeps me out." Never heard from him again.

I cannot say how many times I have been challenged with "Is that really your picture?" "Yes, it is me, taken 10 days ago." "It's not your daughter or your girlfriend or sister?" "Uh, no. It is me." "Ten days ago, you said?" WTF? "Yes, 10 days ago." I gather it is common for both women and men to send pictures that are 10 years old, 100 pounds lighter, or simply not their own photograph while still in the just-talking phase. I never understood that. If I send a misleading image of myself in order to snare a man into meeting me somewhere, will I not be exposed as a fraud the moment I walk into the place? Apparently it is not unusual. OK, so noted. I don't believe I ever met a man who had sent me someone else's photo, but I met several who selected pictures of themselves no longer very recognizable when compared to the reality.

Closely related: age, height and weight claims. "How old did you say you are?" I've told the man several times and it is in my profile. Why am I asked about this continually? Ah, because people pad or whittle these things by many years, inches or pounds. Almost always, I am told. I didn't understand that one, either. What if I flip open my wallet to pay the tip or the bill for coffee and expose my drivers license? What if I'm not good enough in math to adjust my entire life experience to an era 10 years later than my own? What if I just find it easier to tell my real age for simplicity and let him make an assessment of height and weight by looking at me and deciding whether the full package is worth pursuing or not?

The man was educated and brilliant (seemingly) in his field. I know when he went to lunch with a woman, his office called, paged and sent text messages constantly, he was so sorely missed. We engaged in e-mail, text and telephone conversations for quite some time before meeting for a bagel and coffee. We had to, you see, because he was going to have to get something out in the open before showing himself. Though I was not bragging to friends or dreaming about him, I thought this was an OK man. I was interested, not rabid. We discussed the headlines, politics, trade unionism and the ubiquitous "what brought you to Las Vegas?" I remain convinced each of us was truthful about previous marriages. After a month or so, he broke the news: "I am younger than you are." Hmm . . what constitutes "younger"? I think I'm pretty moderate about that, feeling maybe a 5 year difference in either direction is rarely an issue and more than that should be discussed. I looked at his profile again. Yes, it was true. He didn't reveal his age there, as I had mine. I'd been juggling so many men, I had failed to check my assumptions. "OK, so how old are you?" I asked, pretty bravely. Yow. Significantly younger.

"OK, back to 5 squares negative of Square One: what are you doing? My profile divulges my age. What did you not get from your mother that you want from me?" We talked for another month or 6 weeks. He wasn't looking for money - he made more than I did, owned a nice home, had investments. This was not verified by me. I am repeating what he told me. He claimed no fantasies of parading me on the Strip in granny garb while he sported diapers. He made a strong case for simply being attracted to an older woman both because of appearance and common interests. To support this, he cited some musical favorites that actually fell between my own youth and his, but OK. He wasn't quoting current Top 40. We finally met several times for a meal and I learned some things about myself. I wasn't mortified to be seen "dating" him, though he was clearly quite a bit younger. I was really excellent about taking my turn at buying lunch or coffee. He did not take advantage of that. I began to relax and said I'd consider it when he asked me for a more serious date (as in after dark to a comedy club). He called before I could give my final answer. He was in a panic. He'd been called away to LA on business and he had a huge dilemma. Could I help him out? "Well, what's up? Do you need a ride to the airport?" No. No. His ex-wife, a drug- and gambling-addict who was camped out on his couch because he couldn't bring himself to throw her in the streets (this is not unusual in Las Vegas, either) was in the throes of her addictions and could not be relied upon to take care of Matthew in his absence. Though I'd never heard of Matthew, he was age 7 and his father had full custody. Would I be willing to take care of Matthew for "a few days"? I am sure the sound of my foot being pulled from the sucking mudhole was audible. I never learned whether Matthew was taken to LA and got to visit Disneyland, as I never heard from his father again. Some people look to their (figurative) mothers as problem solvers, caretakers. I probably disappointed, as I delivered a message filled with fiery "you might have mentioned" words.

Oh, I'm on a roll now and rather regret holding back for so long! Yes, I do realize there could be some old dudes out there who may think, speak or write about the goofiest woman they ever encountered and picture my face in so doing. That's OK! My point is not to take anything away from anyone. My point is that human beings are damned complicated, heavily layered things driven by stuff we may not even contemplate. When someone such as I, already feeling a bit challenged by these fascinating animals, is faced with stuff she does not immediately know how to handle . . things can get funny or sparky or mean or frightening. And I haven't even spoken yet of He Who Told Me What Was Wrong With Me (to whom I was never grateful), nor He Who Was Actually Kind of Scary in His Intensity, nor even He Who Would Have Been the One Worth Keeping for Awhile. Talk soon ~ I've got a date. Nah!

May I Offer You Some Dates?

2011-06-16T00:47:00.000-07:00

All right, I've avoided it long enough. The taboo material. Oldster dating. Odd, because I have much to say on the subject, and I don't usually hold back when something is on my mind. Perhaps I've been too self-protective because I know that in telling the anecdotes I will be mortified from time to time. However, when I slipped in one short sentence on the topic a few posts back, esteemed follower JF responded that it seemed we had some experiences in common. Then I was taking a walk with another woman friend and said the "d(ating)" word. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Another good and decent woman of a similar age with some less-than-wonderful experiences. So let's talk about this. Disclaimer: no part of this post or future ones on the subject is meant to generally bash males. It is more to express my amazement and confusion at some human behavior. And, yes, sometimes even my own.

I am on record as having little understanding of other human beings and even less about males than females. My father, my husband of 32 years and the love of my life were much too close for me to make objective observations about the species. I know today that those 3 are pretty sterling examples of the breed. I was sheltered and fortunate for the men I knew well. I did not date from 1971 until 2007. I was rusty. Nor had I ever been the prom queen, so I was no serial dater, even in my teens. On my best day of life, which was many decades ago, I was likely a cutie and not a beauty. I was reasonably intelligent, dressed all right and was probably somewhat interesting. I could dance and I had all the newest records. I did OK. When Ex and I set up housekeeping together, I looked forward to a happy future, and was just a little relieved to be done with the dating thing.

To my surprise, in my maturity, I found myself uncoupled and I felt like a square peg. No, I didn't need anyone to help feed, clothe or house me. I simply wasn't sure what to do without a man hanging from me like a charm bracelet. I was in a female-dominated work situation and developed my plan after much consultation with women of all ages. After deciding all the safety measures I would exercise at all times, I went online. There were lots of men out there! All the websites said so. I made firm rules about always having my own car at hand, cash, credit cards and my cell phone. I would go on no date without telling someone where I was going and with whom. Bring someone back to the apartment? Not in the immediate future. Always park close to the doors under a light standard and don't be shy about telling someone, "I don't think this is going to work for me." Be both honest and truthful. Don't waste anyone's time. Talk to people just like I talked with business associates - this would just be a "getting to know you". And do not cruise for a man on a free website. If both he and I had not paid a fee, I should not even consider him. "OK, gotcha, roger and check. Thanks, ladies."

I know many more things now than I did then, about myself and others. I needed to spend some time alone, getting to know myself as I was "right now". Why was I looking for a date? What did I want or expect and what would I not tolerate? Did I have anything whatsoever to offer a companion, and what were the things that interested me? What did I like to do and what would I like to learn about from someone else? Who knew? I didn't ask myself any of those things. I just blindly went looking for a date. It took no time to attract some e-mail attention. I am a quick learner. Men who seemed illiterate wouldn't be a match for me. Those who seemed to only check their e-mail once a week weren't operating at the same speed as I. Telling me in the first e-mail they were hopeful for a job and a car soon (hey, this is Las Vegas!) - delete. If "I make $150,000 a year!" was his hello, I thought, "I bet you don't, actually." Hey! I was a pretty quick study. This wasn't so difficult.

I was fortunate the first time I went out. He was a very kind, age appropriate, long-time recovering alcoholic. I'd ridden on the back of his fine motorcycle to the Fremont Street Experience. This was a completely different mode of transportation for me, and kind of fun, though I've never again sought it out ~ he'd thoughtfully provided both helmet and goggles. We stepped first into Hogs & Heifers Saloon where I was immediately knocked to the floor by a very large woman dancing like there was no tomorrow. Picking myself up and dusting myself off, I had to say, "I'm not really so comfortable in bars." My friend was OK with that. Walking outside, we came upon a Soul Food Festival and Street Fair. I stretched out of my comfort zone ~ the fried catfish was good. My friend insisted that I be photographed (twice) with the Chippendale's dancers on the street, which is also not at all what I do. But I did, with fairly good grace. I did not like this experience. I had to ask hotties how to pose. They told me. Hey - they pose with young and old women all day every day in little clothing and for a price. I wasn't anything new, special or different. They shave their backs. Apparently about once a week, judging by the prickly new growth. They autographed my picture frame. "Vegas, baby!" wrote Matt. In case I forgot where I lived, I suppose. He is the one with the offensive belt buckle and the Vegas tan. "Love Ricky," wrote the one whose zipper is down about an inch in the photo. He didn't have to spell as many words as Matt. I'd be the one who looks like a carousel horse mounted on the head of that silhouetted Chippendale's dancer. How did they get that so perfectly? We rode on the motorcycle to the other side of the valley to hear live music. And finally, freezing on that bike at an hour I had forgotten existed, he yelled, "Want to come to my place?" I said no. "Can I come to yours?" I said no.

Returning to work on Monday morning, I was greeted by expectant faces and exhortations to "tell". I did so. Now the faces wore shocked looks. "How many of the rules did you break in one short evening? He could have boiled you into soup and eaten you!" I admitted to a few infractions of my own rules and adopted a hangdog look. I think the women felt I was behaving properly remorseful. I was. For not the reasons they imagined. You see, I was studying what I felt I should "do" with this man I now knew. He was pleasant and bright and he was interested in me, trying to present me with things to do that he thought I might enjoy. He'd called all weekend after our Friday night outing. I dodged the calls. For not only did I not know what to do with him, I wasn't sure I even wanted or needed anything to do with him. Although it took some thinking time, I was on the way to learning that I do not need or want a date or, necessarily, a man only for the purpose of filling time. For that, there are friends of longstanding and books and writing and camping and hiking and meditation and movies and music and walking and pets and shopping and any number of things. If I wanted a date for the specific purpose of developing a relationship with a man, then that was different. I didn't learn that until I was 55 years old and it would still take me awhile to land there firmly.

I've traveled a little. I've often tried to familiarize myself with some rudimentary phrases for communication in the native tongue so I'd feel more comfortable in a new environment. With the vast experience of one date tucked under my belt, I now felt qualified to analyze what should and should not happen for the dating future. I needed to speak the language more fluently, for sure. Absent a Berlitz course or Rosetta Stone, I decided I could use my own talents of observation and online research to develop dating eloquence and comprehension. Once again, I was a pretty quick study. It took me little time to understand that "This is not a recent picture" could mean the background music was K.C. and the Sunshine Band. "A few extra pounds" might mean 50-75 extra. I filed these away for future reference. The best early lesson, however, was the one that taught me not to lower my personal standards in the interest of "just going out". Oh, I knew better than to test this. I did it anyway, for I have a history of pushing the boundaries. "Considerate smoker," he wrote. "Don't do this, Les," thought I. I did it. The wind blew like hell and we were meeting at a coffee house. I thought maybe he'd forgo smoking for the short time it takes to meet, greet and down a cuppa Joe. But no. No. And that evening I learned that "considerate smoker" could be construed as a man who puffed like a locomotive, tucking his date against the stucco side of a building while the wind shrieked by at a sustained 25 mph. Almost as useful a discovery as "Donde esta el bano?"

Between the Covers

2011-06-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a book I own for, I believe, the fourth time: Savage Beauty, The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay, by Nancy Milford. It is an extremely well-researched and beautifully written record of the very complex and difficult alcoholic, bisexual, repeatedly aborted, first female to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. (Side note: Milford's biography of Zelda [Mrs. F. Scott] Fitzgerald is an equally wonderful read. One feels that Milford brings these women to life before our eyes.) So what, right? Well the quirks are these: when one recommends a writer to me, what I really want to know is about the writer, not necessarily what s/he wrote. And I am a sheepish poetry ignoramus due to failure of teachers to prod me and lack of sufficient interest to dig out poetry on my own until about the past year and I'm doing nicely, thank you. Oh, and I do not, do not, appreciate most of Millay's poetry. But I love reading her life story. Though much celebrated, she suffered many harsh cruelties and few of life's truly beautiful things. I wonder if, after earliest childhood, she ever had a moment free of worry except when she drank.

My friend loves poetry perhaps above anything else because she considers the beauty of the desert and of light through glass and of flowers purchased at the farmers' market poetry, not to mention what she finds in print. She sought out lyric in school and has a minor scandal in her past relating to her tremendous desire to own a particular volume of rhyme. We'd only known each other a short time and she'd been sending me favorite poems frequently. "What are your favorite poems?" she asked. I had to confess I was ignorant and a little bit prickly about being ignorant and not, after all, starving for the relief that only verse can bring. I was doing OK without poetry. She persisted in sending me sonnets and quatrains and then began to assign me the task of interpreting certain of them. WTF? I'm not a schoolgirl. But my friend is an oldest child and I think her sister and brother probably jumped when she said "jump".

I reluctantly began to scratch the surface and learned that I did know Charles Bukowski's writings quite well and who wouldn't consider Bob Dylan a poet? I can recite volumes of his words. I have been fortunate to read and enjoy the offerings of unpublished everyman kinds of poets, so perhaps I wasn't quite as benighted as I feared. I actually like Emily Dickinson and Robert Service and I've happily read some Sara Teasdale after being exposed to her in the book about Vincent Millay. My friend and I got into a discussion - perhaps a spirited debate - about Millay after I began the book this time and after she confessed she'd never finished reading her copy even once. I commented that I skipped right over her poems when they were printed in full in the body of my book. "What?" exclaimed Friend. I admitted I just didn't like Millay's poems for the most part. Friend immediately began to shoot me some of her favorite Millay pieces. "No," said I. "Don't care for it at all." Friend couldn't understand me at all.

Our discussion rolled on and Friend e-mailed me Recuerdo (don't Google it, Reader, you're about to have it from the source). I wrote back that though I am the woman who likes Victoriana, I find Millay's language stiff and dated. I did, however, describe to my friend the spirit of the poem as I believed it to be, and the sun broke through the clouds. "Yes!" she cheered, "You've got it exactly." Well, yes, Friend - I'm not soulless or stupid. And I do understand that Renascence rocked the world 100 years ago and rocks the world now, expounding on beautiful, lofty concepts, but I don't care for the words presented to relate the concepts. My friend commented that she likes old-fashioned language and does not care for today's overused hip, slick and cool talk. I agreed that I like good, descriptive language that people from many generations would understand ("rock the world", notwithstanding), but I'm unlikely to say that I am "merry" about anything. We congratulated one another for making a good case for our respective beliefs and I imagine she grinned as widely as I did.

The next morning I dawdled at the computer nursing coffee more slowly than usual. My friend is a night owl and often drops e-mails late at night to greet me on my virtual breakfast tray. I wanted to send her something, and on a hunch I Googled. Oh, yeah! There it was! YouTube, of course. Millay reciting her own Recuerdo. I played it for myself and nearly toppled over. I'd been reading about Vincent's beautiful voice and speech patterns. I'm not sure who highjacked her and gave this reading, but it was a mean, mean trick. Had I paid a quarter or half-dollar in 1940s money to attend a reading, I'd have demanded my money back, I'm afraid. I just sent it to my friend without comment and said "Let me know what you think." Even my poetry loving cohort had to admit the rendering has lost something across the decades. We shared a laugh and she quickly sent me another poem. Edna St. Vincent Millay was from Maine. I know Maine. My father lives in Maine. I have never heard another human being speak in Millay's manner. Not from Maine or anywhere else. I still absolutely love her story.

Something that charmed me: I have found one of Millay's works I like, read beautifully by a man who sounds like perhaps he is from Maine. Have I mentioned I love learning new things?

Learn From Yesterday

2011-06-13T14:17:00.000-07:00

I'm dreamy-like. Kind of moony. In my head a lot. I am focused more on the past, both good and bad, than present. Perhaps this is because I've been actively working on "what's next" in my life. Having the past to retreat to is soft and gentle, or at least familiar, when I need that. I don't feel completely capable of moving myself along.

Apropos of absolutely nothing:

"You aren't very demanding. You don't ask for much."

She didn't reveal she'd given that up in vain long ago.

Last night we went out for Chinese food, a treat because I've had no one with which to share that particular cuisine in awhile. It was good food and I loaded up my plate like a greedy pig. I can only plead, "Yeah, but this will feed me four meals for the cost of one moderately priced dinner." We sat as far as possible across the restaurant from the family with the, ummm . . . , energetic young children, none of whom will have to worry about being heard if they ever have to holler for help in an emergency. As we sat dining, I got rather dreamy, viewing snippets from a past life, and I'm not sure what triggered that. The tastes? The smells? What, doesn't everyone go into a reverie with the fragrance of Beijing Beef?

Amber was 2 1/2 that summer. We'd learned in the previous February that Ex had ruined himself with drink. He wasn't expected to live until Christmas. He lived, dying, for 18 more years. There weren't very many pleasant moments during that time for him. I had the job that defied every description - time commitment, stress, pay, health benefits, travel, fulfillment of every sort. Now I was afraid to go to that job. What if Ex fell ill while driving Amber to daycare or passed out while taking care of her at home? I sometimes left at 5:00 a.m. and didn't get home until midnight. Who would know if they were in trouble?

The finest case of employee representation I ever delivered was spent in getting Ex removed from his job as a union organizer. Oh, I wasn't fighting cruel monsters, even though labor unions can be notoriously evil employers. No, I was still going to work there, and we were valued. They weren't out to cut him off at the knees. When he became so ill he couldn't walk to the car any more, I basically had to quit for him. He couldn't throw in the towel himself, verbally. He was 90 days from being vested in his pension. The union kept him on the books for 91 days, paying him all salary and benefits, giving us time to apply for state and social security disability. And get him to doctors for tests and medication and heart monitors. He was 38 years old.

I'd always been convinced Ex would ruin us by killing someone in a drunk driving incident or in a round of fisticuffs over the pool table at the bar or that he'd cripple himself and I'd be required to push him around in a wheelchair. Because I'd given up hoping for a child in our lives, I'd never contemplated him getting ill and leaving me alone with that child. In all of my life, through everything, I have never before or since been as sad and frightened as I was that summer. Amber deserved to have 2 parents. I was not capable of taking proper care of her, giving her a good life, taking care of Ex and being the breadwinner. I had other burdens, as well, not yet written about for publication, but soon to come. I began therapy, Ex took his medications, both of us deeply depressed.

Surprise! This post is not going to go down the path of what a great savior I was. I "god-damned" Ex so many times each day, he may have thought that was his name. I was terrified and hugely angry at him. "I told you Budweiser was going to take us down." "And now we have this beautiful baby who needs every good thing we can give her and I don't have everything it takes to give her by myself." It didn't take me long to lose a little of my edge on the job. I had an enormous early mobile phone that rarely had signal and I listened with one ear constantly for it to ring with the bad news. I was as harsh and unkind as a person can be toward another person. He mostly was not harsh or unkind. It took him 7 years to learn to do something with his time and little stores of energy. For that first 7, he sat a lot. Watched TV. Visited doctors. Once he got up from the recliner, he was fairly admirable for awhile, taking our little dogs to visit shut-ins, volunteering for sedentary activities.

That summer I allowed something to happen many times over that shames me still. I allowed Amber to get a little bit lost in the shuffle. I hope to god I never said, "Leave Mommy alone." I don't believe I did. But when she fell in love with The Jungle Book video, I just let her go with it. Though she'd never been one to sit for hours in front of the TV, now she did, Mowgli and Baloo and Bagheera and Kaa playing over and over again. She'd nap and snack and call me over to see the best parts, which I tried to do with great cheer. No, she didn't miss bathing or meals. I just couldn't push hard enough to get myself and her up from the damned Jungle Book. It is painful and one of my lowest sins, to have diverted my attention from her or to have allowed Disney to care for her for great blocks of time.

I turned 40 that August. After Labor Day, I bought winter clothes for all of us and my work schedule picked back up because school had started and all my union members were back at work. Ex had fallen into a slow, quiet, predictable daily schedule and wasn't exhibiting any signs of imminent death. It wasn't too soon to start shopping for Christmas gifts. One day, I snapped off The Jungle Book and Little Black Eyes looked at me. "No more, Mommy?" "Uh-uh. Let's go find something to do. Maybe Daddy would like to take a ride with us."

So why is this gray little slice of life popping up now? Because I am undertaking change again. I do not care for change, even good change. I do not feel strong or capable in many ways. I think I am reviewing times when I had to take difficult steps, about which I did not feel secure. Oh, in a life as long as mine, there are plenty of face-plant episodes, but there are some glowing successes, too. The little child was not ruined by her summer of The Jungle Book. It gave me time to regroup and devise a new "normal". And then I went on.

We went to a different library branch, larger and farther away. I've pretty much read my local branch dry, at least the books that interest me. I don't love the Library of Congress Cataloging System, mostly because each branch puts up a poster describing it, but one can't find the books in the right places from one location to the next. Finally, I hit a treasure trove, spinning me from a Virginia Woolf study on the effect of her sexual abuse on her writing, to a Tennessee Williams bio, a Violet Trefusis study and Nigel Nicolson's autobiography "Long Life". Not sleeping more than an hour or two, I am holed up with books, dreaming and doing little else. My version of The Jungle Book for just a little while so I can think things through.

No Offense!

2011-06-07T13:46:00.000-07:00

Old age and menopause (not always 100% the same thing) have loosened my tongue. No longer am I choked by the harsh words that bubble into my mind when I am assaulted, affronted, annoyed or attacked. They now pop out into the sound waves. This is both a good thing and a bad thing. No longer am I nearly ready to explode with pent-up resentments. But I have had to learn to make a quick getaway. Yes, yes, I do understand that we all go out into the world with our own individual makeup of education, experience, culture and personal sensibilities. I get it that many of the strangers we encounter won't have all that much in common with us. Strangers aren't necessarily friends we simply haven't met yet. They may not speak our language, even if we all appear to be spewing English. I am fascinated by the utterances that get a person's goat. Or don't. I live in a place where people seem, increasingly, compelled to throw words around at high volume. I'm as bad as the next old bag with a surly attitude.

Early in life, I learned how to deal with "Hey, Baby" and later with "Hey, Mama". Those come less frequently now, and most often when he can see my clothes, but not my face - maybe hidden a little by sunglasses or hat. I've yet to hear "Hey, Granny", but that could come. While I do not invite or appreciate those greetings, usually I put an end to the quick exchange with "Not your baby, not your mama!" I've always felt those gents are not looking for an actual dialog and the very sound of another person's voice in reply shuts them up. I believe those comments are made for some show of bravado for the entertainment of other males and really have little to do with me. More recently, the barbs contain the word "bitch" which angers me immediately. "F*#king bitch" or "old bitch" get me going. "Old white bitch" is worse. I feel like that takes unpleasantness to a new plane. I have found that women almost always use only the word "bitch" toward one another. Shame on us.

Replying to the unexpected verbal assault is tricky business. I'm already on record with the reasons I no longer flip strangers off. Nope. Not since July, 1976. So, for me at least, sometimes I censor myself out of concern for my safety and well-being. I'm small, older, possess no martial arts skills or weapons. If I assess that we're going to restrict ourselves to verbal warfare, I'm likely in it to win it. This works well with a pack of not too scary adolescent males who are too afraid to make eye contact. Maybe I decide not to say anything because of security worries, but walk off muttering brilliant bon mots to myself. Observation: the best riposte in the world loses steam if delivered over coffee with friends rather than right in the face of some lexical antagonist. One feels kind of chickenshitly brilliant. "Wish I'd said that right in his face."

It is important to me to explain I don't go looking for trouble, at least not out in the streets among strangers. Mostly, I do not carry a chip on my shoulder. By nature and by training, I am a peacemaker, a mediator. I'd much prefer to converse with a stranger about the 8-inch dog she's walking on a string than get into a mouth fight. But I grapple with the fact that I've also allowed myself to be attacked too much in life, abused, without objection. Turning the other cheek too often can result in sore, chapped skin. Neither aggressive nor timid, I am looking for the middle ground where I can live with myself. I try to weigh whether I'm ever going to see some spouting fool again, whether I think s/he is a threat to myself or others or offensive to people who cannot defend themselves. Then I decide whether to waste my breath. Mostly, I don't. Sometimes I cannot contain myself. Occasionally, I resort to good, strong Anglo-Saxon words of no ambiguity.

Each of us has our boundaries. I won't tolerate overt sexual epithets, or those that touch on race, gender, creed, disability and more, whether the comment is aimed at me or someone else. I have to bark back about those, unless my safety is in question. I get that men do not wish to be called "boys". I understand that certain descriptors of country-of-origin have changed across time and I try to be aware of the most acceptable, least hate-inciting versions and to use those. Having suffered a few pangs of my own when I pushed my biracial baby in her stroller, I try to walk very, very softly and carry no stick at all. Sometimes, the less said, the better.

I heard the phrase when I was a child and I thought it was hilarious. It contained no terrible individual words but conjured up, in my fertile imagination, contortions and results that I found funny. It packed a lot of sass and told the recipient just exactly what s/he could go do, short of the big guns phrase involving the word "f*#k". It is still hilarious to me and I might pay the price of - oh, say - lunch or a beer to watch an attempt made. I wouldn't attempt it myself.

School is out and there are vehicles everywhere filled with excited young people. I stopped at a red light, cars both in front of me and behind me. I read sign language well, and the gesticulations of the driver behind me indicated he wanted me to pull up a little so he could scoot around me. I guess he and the other 16-year-olds were in a hurry. I didn't intend to move. I didn't have more than 18 inches clearance. He tapped my bumper twice. I didn't care for it and hung my head out to say, "Look, Asshole." I used the appellation "Asshole" as if it were his given name as his mother christened him. He did not care for that and maneuvered his urban assault vehicle alongside mine, using bike lane and gutter/sidewalk. From a pretty sharp tilt, he began to go off on me, his face not 12 inches from my passenger's own countenance. When he stopped for breath, I unleashed it, my smarty phrase. "You go piss up a rope!" The young Turks in Asshole's SUV truly loved my repartee, but it appears Asshole took exception to it. I suspect it was his youthful inexperience that caused him to accelerate his Suburban right into the trunk of a pretty substantial palm tree located on the same sidewalk that had so recently given him a leg up.

So how about you? What gets your goat out in the world of shouted warfare?

Something that charmed me: I've driven past it for years, the Dental Implant Institute with the shaded, rolling green grounds that make me think about the place Simon & Garfunkel's Mrs. Robinson went for her rest cure. Oh, the place clearly uses entirely too much water that we don't have to keep its lawns emerald, and I've never understood about the dolphin statuary here in the desert, but - hey - who am I? Maybe the owners love dolphins or come from an ocean environment or maybe there was a sale on dolphin sculpture. And I've pondered whether, should I decide to get dental implants after my free exam, they'd send their courtesy limo or their "fun van" to pick me up and deliver me safely home. So today, I'm rolling along the road. It's a little warmer than the past several days and soon we'll hit summer heat. WTF? I spun the block. New statuary at the Dental Implant Institute! Great big dental implants, brand new, judging by the condition of the paint. Custom made it would appear. Taller than I.

The Bear Came Back

2011-06-06T12:08:00.000-07:00

Hey, I've been wrestling bear again, with a bit of a twist. This time I brought no bottle to help me either beef up and whup the bear or to help me high-tail it and run out of the woods. With apologies to those who are adept at problem solving, I have not always, nor have I often, been good at making positive decisions on my own when it comes to my problems. Oh, put me in charge of 8,000 school employees about to lose their health benefits in a bad economy and I am the go-to-girl. I advocate nearly to the death for others in trouble, but I don't support myself as well as I represent a stranger. These things belong in the "I'm not worth it" basket. That basket belongs in the long line of character defects I'm (re)discovering as I work my very hard AA Step Four. The basket, however, is being dismantled. It seems to be more gap, more split than basket, more "not there". It seems to sieve the rot a little faster, the torrent washing away. But it won't be completely fixed immediately, if ever.

A change was to occur in my day-to-day living situation. It was beyond my control (thanks, Serenity Prayer, for helping me to figure that out, for this would have been a big order to micromanage). I had no vote. Really, it was only very nominally any of my business except for the way this change would feel to me. I was given 3 weeks notice. On paper, it didn't seem like it might affect me all that much. Two hours into the "new", and I was done. Not having it. My whole world had just changed and I had to "do something". Frequent visitors to this blog know that I am very big on "doing something", often too soon and too ill-conceived to have any positive results. I got annoyed. I got a little too quiet. I got angry. I disappeared into my private quarters and refused to come out. Note: this is the point at which I typically introduce the bottle or some really regrettable behavior to break the tension and ratchet it up a little. But I did it differently this time, if not so prettily.

It can't have been attractive. It was hell for hot and my scalp dripped perspiration. I spread out all the books on the bed. I printed a few worksheets and threw out the cats, to their shock. I lined up phone numbers I might need. Oddly, I ran from both music and TV/movie white noise and just sat in near-silence. And sat. Scribbled and sat. I did not cry. I flipped through the books to the pages I've highlighted so diligently for 7 months. I Googled some things. I used some self-soothing techniques I have learned. It may be interesting to know that in one particular modality, self-soothing can range from masturbation to eating a favored food. I did not feel sex with myself was the best choice in this case. I made some phone calls. I looked in the mirror (literally) and I did not care for what looked back at me. It was a face that revealed all the flaws from my internal landscape. I looked old and mean. I went to an AA meeting and told my woes, spinning in a little humor, because I am driven to do that. When they laughed, I had to laugh, too, and sincerely. I'm goony and I know it. Soon began e-mails, phone calls and knocks at the door. "What's wrong? You almost seem depressed." That was a good word for it, though I didn't intend to succumb to it. "Are you eating and drinking fluids?" I was. As much as I felt I needed. "Do you need me to come over?" No. Please. Finally, the insistent plea I did not care for, but relented to: "I need you to open the door and let me see you, just for a moment." I resented that. There was no bottle in there with me. I opened the door and proved that, delivering up a few harsh words to show my displeasure. She just grinned at my foul mouth.

Although I am an advanced age, there are certain basic skills which are not well-developed in me. I talked myself down this time, without alcohol or drama (if one dismisses my running to my room and slamming the door - please, it was a first attempt). I walked out realizing that my whole world had not just changed. One element had changed, no matter whether I supported it or not. Now I have options. I can do anything I want to do. This may require me to rise up out of my comfort-wallow and do some things differently, but it was time for that anyway. Perhaps I was growing just a little complacent. I'm not really all that entitled, one knows. Or I can just hold completely still and suck it up, tolerate that which does not please me. I'm not drunk, I'm not homeless, I've lost nothing. I've simply had something enter my atmosphere that does not charm me, and now . . . . what will I do with that? I wonder. Biggest lesson learned: I could have set fire to my hair, slit my wrists, and jumped off a bridge simultaneously while brandishing a bottle. Then I'd have more problems to solve. I didn't choose to go that way. The choice is within my power to make. It may shock the reader to learn that this may well be the first time I've ever made such a conscious choice in a matter that has thrown me, unless I was being managed by keepers stronger than I. That may be literally true.

When I first started in AA, I was told I only needed to be willing to believe in a higher power, not actually have one. This was a relief to me as that higher power thing was difficult and I was already struggling. At first, like many of us, I chose the AA group itself as my higher power. Surely that collective had to be more powerful than I on my own. No Jesus Christ for me, I began to read voraciously, in search of my higher power who has developed into a loving power, with the appearance of a lizard made from many spare lizard parts (I have seen such a lizard in the desert). Higher power's name is Roland. Come on, of course this is not literally true, but this is what I am willing to share - I've been told I can pray to a lightbulb or a doorknob if that's what works for me. The tenets of Rolandism draw from many learned writings and I seem to have well integrated one narrow precept fairly well. I applied it to my problem, worked it until I believed it, and came out healthy and sober, with a plan.

As much as I would like things to remain static, black and white, they don't. Everything changes every moment. I don't control that. But I do have to live with it. It occurs to me (lighting bolt at age 58) that, as nothing is black and white, then my tendencies to assign like/dislike, love/hate or right/wrong designation to a situation probably contribute to self-delusion. Rather than opposites, those things seem to be integral parts of the same whole concept, which I cannot dissect. I am forced to accept things as they are, not as I wish them to be and then stab them with a poster pin to hold them in place at the opportune stage. So, as the wind screams and my appointment was just pushed out until tomorrow, I believe I'll go put a few miles on my aching body.

Something that charms me/disarms me, that I like/dislike, love/hate: I have lived a life down a groundhog hole in the dark. Reveal nothing! I am musing on the dichotomy of my groundhogly self now superimposed by someone transparent enough to be understood, even just a little. When I went too quiet, others noticed and asked me about it. More yin and yang? I'll have to meditate and let you know.

Nailed

2011-05-31T14:47:00.000-07:00

Girlfriend Terri and I determined long ago that we have been profiled in this city. Oh, yes, without question. We are targets. Each of us is a small woman of a particular age, respectable looking. People would likely guess that we pay our bills and our taxes. On time. We each drive a modest, decent, newer model car of a color that defies description - unremarkable in every way. For the most part, each of us drives her car reasonably, abiding by the laws no one else here seems to understand. No police officer would ever spend a moment's thought on the possibility that one of us might be a threat to him or her. We're unlikely to be packing. Our reward for fitting this profile is regular citing for some truly ingenious "traffic violations". We call these events "Metro's (Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department) fundraiser". Hit the little women and add to the city's coffers. We are ticketed for things nearly as silly as going airborne to pass other cars or digging a tunnel to avoid a busy intersection. Really. We pay up, too. While I have a moral twinge about paying for extortion, I also object to the traffic court system which requires multiple appearances downtown, taking time out of one's life repeatedly, just to be required to pay in the end, anyway. Profiled. Sitting ducks.

Most recently, I have had the kind use of a friend's car more often than I have driven my own. I believe the friend sees this as a meaningful way to assist me at a time when I am coming out of some difficulties. He won't take gas money, he won't take no for an answer and he won't move his car so I can my own out of the garage. OK. I an accept a kindness graciously. The trouble is that bright red, V8 Mustang GT embarrasses the living hell out of me. No chastisement, please! I understand it's a classic car, an icon, that many Americans love. I just don't happen to be one of them. The trouble is that the car is so anti-me, so far from anything I represent, so big, so roaring, so heavy, such a gas guzzler . . . I don't care for it at all. When I arrive at AA in it, the bikers sitting outside smoking give me the "Hey, honey" look or make comments that border on unwelcome. Young Turks pull up next to me at stoplights and check out the machine from bumper to bumper, jaws dropping when they see me at the wheel. Recently a friend walked me out to this car and kind of grinned at me. Hey, the windows are tinted so dark, at least it would be difficult for an observer to be certain it was me. And finally, an older man at AA saw me arrive in my Nissan recently and said, "Weren't you driving a much finer car the other night?" Grrr . . None of my friends has any issue jumping in, reclining the seat back to an angle I can't use to drive, and hitting the sound system, so what is it with me?

By the way, I was also mortified in my 20s when I was tapped to move my mother's Cadillac from one location to another, for fear someone might see me in that conveyance which is not reflective of me, either, so I have long-standing issues. Which is not the point of this story. I was driving home feeling clean - cleansed - from my AA meeting. I started up a gentle incline on a street that is residential, quiet, but quite wide, sun-dappled at 6:30 p.m., and notorious for the motorcycle cops who lie in wait under the freeway overpass seemingly 24/7. I saw him there from a couple of blocks back. I made certain my foot was scarcely touching the gas pedal. It occurred to me (again) that that V8 engine roars even when the driver is not gunning it. But I felt I was doing all right. He was starting up the motorcycle and pulling out as I passed him. He hit his lights and I pulled over. I know how to behave. Don't flail my arms around, don't dive for purse or glove compartment, just wait for him to arrive at the window.

We immediately established a grand rapport. "Do you know why I stopped you, M'am?" "Sir, I don't." "Well, this is a 25 mph zone and I clocked you at 39 mph." "Ah," said I. We danced a little. I explained that I needed to get out of the car to get to my purse from the back. I had difficulty locating registration and insurance (hey, it's not my car!), but he was patient and level about all of it. When he gave me the ticket, he said, "You've been really cooperative. I wrote you up for only 5 mph above the speed limit." "Well, I thank you, Sir. Could we list the Ford Motor Company as partly responsible since this car likely goes 50 mph when the ignition is turned on?" Smiles. "Drive safely." I did. And slow. Not to split hairs, but when I got home and examined the ticket more carefully, I noted that it reads "Actual speed: 39, Cited speed: 30." I'm not quite sure I understand this. It's not like anyone else (the Court, DMV) will fail to know I got clocked at 39 mph. I'm required to contact the Court before August 10, so I can't even rely on the Rapture to get me off on this one. And as I drove off, I did not call the man a rat bastard or any other derogatory name, even under my breath.

OK, well it can't be blamed on anyone other than myself. It's not a weird charge - simply "going too fast". It'll cost more than I want to pay and I'll likely moan about that when the time arrives, too. I can't dance and I'm too fat to fly. "Pay the ticket and shut up, Les." "All right I will."

Last night I went a pretty far stretch across the city to listen to an AA speaker. He was an older man, very lively and entertaining to the 300 or so of us who gathered to hear yet the next drunk's tale. Yes, we really do get something good from that. It's part of the AA juju. The reason the program works. I am good at a speaker meeting. I absorb what the presenter has to say and I spend time rehashing it, spending time in the larger and smaller themes. I can't shake this, even though I've had a night's sleep and other distractions . . . this man's "bottom" (the place an alcoholic must reach before he is finally ready to admit that he has a problem) was remarkably bad by the standards of most people. He arose out of the wreckage across many years and regained a truly admirable way of life. His date of continuous sobriety? September, 1958. You should have seen me doing the math on my fingers and toes. I'm in awe.

So, we're going to volunteer at the Henderson Pavilion again through the stewardship of Acts of Kindness, the organization I support with my time and efforts. So this time, it's a local rock band combined with a symphony orchestra doing The Who, Pink Floyd and Led Zep, or so they say. All righty then. But I'm going and I'm scratching my head about why the damned Yellow Brick Road thing keeps popping up in my life. I don't like the yellow brick road reference or any images it conjures up. I know, I know. Dig out the black pants, white shirt, collect the vest at Will Call and listen to the music.