Drowned.Rat.

"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

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

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

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.

Dust-up in the Zen Garden

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?

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 . . .

Readjusting to the Good (Work) Life

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

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 :

1. Some intersections in our city require more than 4 minutes to cross.
2. When one needs gas in the car, she needs to add 5-7 minutes to the trip.
3. A commute of twice the distance in the dead-opposite direction is going to take some getting used to.
4. 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?
5. The red cowgirl boots are the cutest, but highly impractical for a first day that includes moving stuff around the work area.
6. "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:

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

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!