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

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!

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! 

HeRR BiRRthday ~ May It Be Easy

  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.

Turn Out the Lights, the Party's Over

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.

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

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:

Cartwheels

I cannot turn a cartwheel. Yes, I know any child can execute a beautiful cartwheel, but I could not do it as a child and I cannot do it now. I can perform other acrobatic stunts considered more difficult, including a flip (or at least I could in 1967), but the cartwheel eludes me. I can hula hoop until hell won't have me any more. Funny, because I cartwheel across that imaginary plane of free association so effortlessly. Want to come along? OK, join me.

I just looked it up. The comedienne Rita Rudner is almost precisely one year younger than I. That makes her 57. A Virgo, like me, she would be meticulous, diligent, a perfectionist, if one puts any stock in astrology. I see billboards for her Las Vegas show whenever I take the Desert Inn Road flyover to avoid the traffic at the Strip when bisecting the town east to west or vice-versa. What the hell is Rita thinking with that splits thing at her age? Yeah, I know she is a trained dancer. But those splits! I wonder if she has to be assisted to rise from the floor after the photo shoot. I wonder if her good-looking trousers withstand the strain without giving way and whether the photographer's assistants have to artfully drape the legs of those trousers so she looks more . . . natural. Natural?? I've never seen her show. She is really good looking and when I have heard her interviewed on local radio or TV, she seems like a regular, good citizen who drives her kid to school and worries about some of the same things that bother me. She seems to be an older mom, as I was/am . . . but those splits!
Readers must tire of Las Vegans continually bitching about the wind, and I promise that I sicken myself in that respect, too. However, I'm not sure I recall anything like last weekend, just when we'd been enjoying promises of warm, relatively calm days. Those who are more tightly wound than I in a literal sense may pick this to death, but I read the Severe Weather Alert. We had an airport watch in effect, with winds sustained at 34 knots and gusts to 47 knots. It was damnably windy. On Saturday, my hair was nearly torn from my scalp as I went in to an AA meeting. Coming out of the Wynn casino at 2:30 Sunday morning, I observed, "Well, we've been in there for 10 hours. Maybe the wind . . " With that, the skirt of my dress was tossed over my face and the rest of my comment was garbled. Throughout the day, the screaming blow only amped up, rendering the air a dull brown with flying dust and grit. I have experienced stronger winds, once in the desert, camped in a gale we later learned was likely 75 mph, for a shorter, overnight duration. It scared me. I was not scared this time in the house, listening to things - some of them remarkably heavy - being tossed around and into the pool. But I am driven nearly insane by it. If it were possible to die from allergies, I might just do that, eyes and nose streaming, lips and tongue adhering to my teeth from too many antihistamines. I am reminded of an Anais Nin essay I once read wherein the characters were driven nearly psychotic because of the scirocco. I comprehend that. The essay was not really about the wind, but she depicted it as a vivid character, an important part of her story. And though I am seated in the wrong part of the world for a real scirocco, I deeply felt the sense of madness approaching. The windchimes created a hellish din, and I remembered that a Scirocco is also a Volkswagen . .

An AA acquaintance has been grounded by the courts for a short time and I have been providing rides. AA places great emphasis on the many benefits of alcoholics helping other alcoholics, considering even the simple act of making the coffee for a meeting a "service". From my perspective, giving rides to someone who lives halfway between my home and AA is easy. It is my pleasure to help where I can, and I am grateful that my fat is not in the fire for once, driver's license revoked and possible jail time in the future. We make our way along some of the older, more congested and always-under-more-road-construction thoroughfares of the city, along the Boulder Strip. People get fidgety in the gridlock, and so do I. "You handle it pretty well," observed my companion. "I'd like to just start flipping them all off." My gut clenched, I broke into a sweat and began to babble, "No, no. No. Don't do that, please. No." I drew a pretty strange look as I sat, miserable in the driver's seat, recalling the last time I flipped anyone off except in jest in the privacy of my own home. July, 1976.

My Volkswagen was not a Scirocco, if those even existed at the time. Mine was the ubiquitous Beetle of the proletariat, 1972 model, yellow, with not the tiny or the huge tail lights of the earlier or later models but the mid-sized ones, regular old, beloved stick shift, not that silly Automatic Stick Shift thing Volkswagen offered at the time. That bug and I were well-suited to one another and I'd had many an adventure behind its wheel. Flying - oh, yes, way too fast - around the curve of one of the cloverleaf configurations of the LA freeways, I once came quickly upon an overturned truck that had deposited many dead cows in the roadway. Although quite distressed, I downshifted my little chariot, got onto the brakes and neatly, but narrowly avoided any cow collision. My timing was less fortuitous the time I got behind the semi-truck full of oranges that had spilled onto the Golden State Freeway, but oranges are less deadly than cows in a collision. I squeezed fresh OJ for about 10 minutes and went on my way. The VW had moved Ex and me, four kittens and all our worldly possessions to Las Vegas only a couple of weeks earlier. To my disappointment, it took Ex only about 14 seconds to find people to drink and play pool with. I was on my own in the evenings a lot.

It was monsoon season, something I'd never experienced. Hell for hot and humid enough to make it rain indoors. I drove to the 7-11 nearby and got an obscenely huge cold drink - it would have been the fully sugared stuff in the day, lots of ice. On the way out of the store, a man made a remark to me that I didn't care for. Given that this became such a life-altering event, one would expect me to remember the exact words, but I do not. It had to do with my appearance, in words I instinctively knew he thought were complimentary, but which I did not appreciate. Without giving the notion sufficient forethought, I flipped him off. Oh, it was a gentle flipping off, not truly intended to call the man out. If I'd chosen words instead of gestures, they would not have been the words typically associated with flipping off. The man ignited. He set his jaw and started to walk across the parking lot in a resolute way. Scared, I jumped into my car, started it and went out onto the street. He was on me in a minute, Barney Fife in the patrol car, chasing down a perpetrator. All he lacked was a siren. I knew how to handle my car and exhibited some fancy moves, spurting forward, dashing between other cars. He never missed a beat. I took parking lots at a fast diagonal following sharp, last-minute turn-ins. He was right there with me. Pouring sweat now, I was 23, shaken, didn't know the streets and we'd been at this for 20 minutes or more. There would be no cell phones for decades.

Appearances count for much in Las Vegas. We don't like to scare the tourists away. One of Metro's finest pulled me over on the Strip, probably for driving unbecoming a local or some such infraction. The angry man stopped and waited for me to get my ticket, apparently so that we could take up our chase again afterwards. Mortified, I told the officer my story. He went and had words with the angry man who finally moved on. "Are you new to Las Vegas?" I said I was. "From California?" What, was it stamped on me or something? I already had Nevada plates on the car. "Come on, honey. I'll see you home. I'd advise you not to flip people off in Las Vegas. They don't care for it." I've never done it again. It's the last time I felt kindly toward a traffic cop.

Something that charmed me: My fragile, ancient VHS videotape of "Enchanted April" has played as white noise and flashing gray/black/white/soft color distraction for days on the equally ancient 19" TV retained for the very purpose of playing those old tapes I'm not ready to toss. Enchanted April is . . narrow, I suppose. It doesn't appeal to hordes of people, but it is a firm favorite of mine. Ex tolerated it a few times a week and Amber became as dedicated a fan as I. Once a man who loved me agreed to sit by my side and try to watch it. Within 10 minutes, his book was open on his lap, but he stayed beside, hand occasionally patting my thigh, remaining together despite Enchanted April.

Anyway, the opening scenes take place in an impossible-to-fully-describe sodden, gray morning in London just after World War I. As Lottie rides in the bus, crushed in with disabled veterans and heavy clouds of cigarette smoke, one can feel the damp chill, smell the wet wool uniforms, lunches carried in baskets, shopping items perched on laps, some passengers standing in the aisles. The rain pounds on from a solid gray sky. Lottie sees an advertisement in The Times on the back of the newspaper being read by a man seated across from her. She dreams of "letting" (leasing) the vaunted villa on the Mediterranean just to escape London in April . . . The first 2-3 minutes of the video bring my words to life. Skip through the opening credits, if you must. And, yep, the first strains of the lead-in music are like nails scraping a blackboard. It's still worth that visual of 1916 London in April.

I didn't intend to do an Enchanted April snippet until a quote grabbed me: "It's easy to understand why the most beautiful poems about England in the spring were written by poets living in Italy at the time." [Philip Dunne, 1908-1992, American screenwriter]

And now, I shall cartwheel myself to a hot bath followed by sleep if I am lucky tonight, for tomorrow is to be busy and I need to be on my game. I surely do thank the reader for company during my mini-vacation for which I only had to travel as far as the confines of my own head. Have I mentioned I am pretty easily entertained?

Petals and Pricks

After 58 years of some really convoluted relationships, I have determined that the ones between mothers and their children are the hairiest. Oh, yes, mother-child arrangements are the most schizophrenic of all - soft, moist, vibrantly colored petals, some even scented, juxtaposed with the equally colorful pods with thorns so long and thin as to be almost invisible. There's the prize, with all of its elements. Take it or leave it. Here, for every mother's child, whether you grew just beneath her heart, or in it, is my Mother's Day offering ~



Yes, I did plant my body right in that mighty stand of cholla with my camera. Yes, I got jabbed. No, it didn't hurt nearly as much as some of the metaphorical pricks. Nor were the petals as lovely as some of the intangible ones that I have enjoyed.

Just Passin' Through

While it is true that I always have much to say, I don't always have exactly the right thing to say on the spur of the moment. Sometimes I want to say something a little more correctly, so I take a day or two to polish my language, making sure it matches what I feel.

Her name is Kim and her husband is Dave. I've touted her blog several times here, but I want to go on record again. If you want to see the most beautiful and creative art in all manner of media - collage, jewelry, hand made beads, paper-decorated ephemera - then you need to spend some time on her wonderful blog. Those of you who have a short attention span will lose out. It is worth reviewing many, many of Kim's past posts and checking out all the links on her sidebar. Hers is a blog treasure chest of delights.

We'd planned this blogger get-together for some weeks and on Sunday morning, we began making high security coordinates worthy of a military mission on our cell phones. Kim and Dave are on their snowbirding trip from Arizona to Alaska and it is luck that landed them in my neighborhood on Easter Sunday at dinner time. We appeared in the parking lot at approximately the same time, and each said what must be Blogging 101 script: "You look just like your pictures!" Introductions were made and we repaired into the Lindo Michoacan - one of my favorite spots to dine, and they liked it, too. They were hot and tired and parched after 7 hours of travel, so they tidied up a bit and we tucked into a booth where we shared a most lovely early evening. Dave did not feel stiff in any way - come on, I know when someone is enjoying himself! - which was wonderful. One of my friends had said earlier, "Oh, that poor man." No. He had fun, too. It was grand to meet with new friends who were not precisely strangers. We had much to say to one another, photos to be snapped on 3 different cameras, stories to tell and Kim's jewelry offerings brought out for my own private showing.

I've mentioned that Kim is generous, and she did not come empty handed. She had recently posted photos of some postcards she had collaged but said they were not very practical, since she'd become overly excited and decorated both sides of the cards. My comment at the time was that they were so beautiful, I wouldn't want to mail them away anyway, but would just keep them to enjoy in all their beauty. She handed me a stack and said, "You choose!" Oh, I don't like to make decisions on a too full belly. One later always thinks, "Hmmmm, I wonder . . ." But I love, love, love my Asian flavored offering that now sits perched against my computer monitor. Check the little wind-up pelican on the one side! (upper left-hand corner, photo on the right.) All photos have been kept at high resolution to retain the detail. Just click on them. So now I was ready for my private showing of the most recent jewelry creations, but Kim wasn't finished pulling surprises out of her hat. "Here," she said. "I made this just for you." And it's this part I wanted to be sure to relate in a properly descriptive way.

Note about photos: The lighting is not good. I needed to use my little lamp that has a base that behaves like an easel to display my goods. The lamp is dear to me. But it does not shed as much light as the sparks from my brain shoot out of my ears. Click in for a larger, closer view. Ha! I must be feeling very secure today because I'm not even inclined to apologize for being unskilled at taking pictures. That's not what I do. I tell stories. And I'm OK with that.

First of all, Kim doesn't bring a gift and just toss it at the recipient. I already knew this because when I have purchased jewelry from her, the
first thing that has always impressed me is her beautiful packaging and presentation. Across the table, she handed me a rectangular package wrapped in sewing directions from a paper pattern and adorned with a collaged tag she had made. I grinned. I'm a woman who recognizes sewing directions. My gift is a journal, but that does not begin to tell the story. In this journal, one does not want to record that she went to Fresh & Easy for the cucumber sale or to Ross on Geezer Day. There is no place in this journal for mundane notations such as "get oil changed in car" or "make annual gynecology appointment". No, this journal begs the recording of important events or a recital of one's loftiest thoughts and emotions, maybe a poem or a snippet of meaningful lyrics. Important births and deaths might be memorialized in a journal such as this, and it must always be displayed so visitors can appreciate its beauty. Here is my best effort to appropriately describe the journal:

She made it pink - a nod to my blog's pink presence. Kim pays attention to details. Its cover is muslin, stiffened by paint applied to cover and batik-decorate it. Pink, deep fuchsia, purple and gold coexist alongside funky golden buttons and a lovely, distressed length of burgundy ribbon which serve to secure the journal when not in use. The pages inside the bound book are made from differently colored heavy art paper, decorated with every imaginable kind of ephemera from vintage postage stamps to old photos, cuts of musical scores and antique books.
Some of these images make me grin - the pansy my Granny and I so loved (even though Kim didn't know that), the 1950s high-heeled shoe and dance steps, some old advertising art. Some made me sentimental or moony - the lovely teacup and very, very old botanical images and reproduction woodcuts of crying babies. Kim gets her paper ephemera from many countries, estate sales, stamp shows - she is not a typical "go to Michael's and buy what's there" woman. As I flipped the pages slowly, enjoying and exclaiming, I came upon something that I had to hold up into better light, for the restaurant is not brightly lit. "Corralejo!", I exclaimed a little loudly. Kim's eyes asked, "What?" On the bottom right hand page was a picture of 3 blue bottles of some of the best tequila I've ever enjoyed! And Kim didn't know that, either. We laughed and laughed. Six months ago, I'd have said, "Let's go get some. I have something to show you."


I did get my private showing of the Collection and bought a glorious pair of earrings which will be revealed when I partner them with the right dress and get someone to snap my picture. And then it was time for them to leave. Hugs and more hugs were exchanged. I walked them in the wind to the curb to pint out where they'd make their turn to get back on the highway and continue driving for as long as they could tolerate. Later that evening Kim commented on my blog to say they'd enjoyed dinner and had driven as far as Alamo, Nevada. And so it goes . . .

In my ears right now: Another big hit from the Sea Hags' repertoire. I imagine everyone knows the part I sang. I hate it when I'm pushy and selfish! Sort of.

Something that charmed me: I shared the story of the journal and the Corralejo at an AA meeting. I had to do a little back story to set the table, and I was going to lose the men, so I cut to the chase. Suddenly, I had everyone's attention again. "You never told her that was your booze of choice?" "Never did." "How'd she do that?" "Well, I'm not sure, but it is remarkable." "Yeah, like an omen from god or something. You should stop at a casino on the way home and play a few hands. The stars are aligned in your favor." Uh-huh. I need a new addiction.