Hunker in the Bunker

Officially, it's called the Imperial War Museum, comprised of the Cabinet War Rooms that housed an underground British government command center throughout the Second World War, and the Churchill Museum, a biographical museum exploring the life of British statesman Winston Churchill. Certainly I am not indifferent to its world-changing effects, but World War II does not fascinate me like some other conflicts. My father, however, was a child during that war and he is fascinated by it, his older brothers having gone off to military service, and all the reports coming over the huge family radio. It was Dad's only request on that particular trip to London, and I didn't want to be a jerk. Besides, I'll explore anything attached to the Churchill name, and so . . . although the government did not frequently retreat to the bunker to operate under emergency conditions, everything needed to do that was contained there. Located beneath the Treasury building in Whitehall, Westminster, the War Rooms contained everything needed, if retreat was required: state of the art telephone and radio transmitting equipment, close proximity to government and military leaders, dormitories for staff, private rooms for officers, and more. "This is the room from which I will direct the war," declared Sir Winston. I get that! Ex and I irreverently called it Hunker in the Bunker.

My first (modest and arbitrary) deadline for my writing project looms. This both excites me and makes me nervous. I've dedicated hours to exhaustive and sometimes esoteric research, interviewed a raft of (sometimes marginal) people, worked at honing the writing skills. I've refreshed talents I developed when I worked for the union, one of them being very active listening. If I only have one chance for an interview, I need to pay attention! I began the week with a whirlwind 24-hour trip to L.A. where I conducted more interviews and spent quite awhile touring and turning my hand to meaningful work at The Studio. I learned I am a deft hand at paint mixing and not so good at frame construction. I am in dead earnest here, folks. It is about to be showtime no. 1! Never mind that I could easily report, "I can't possibly be ready by Monday." That would not be held against me in any way. But I don't run like that. The first mile marker will be passed by Monday. That's how we planned it and that's how it will be.

I do not submit that this is the healthy way to approach a project, but this is the way I do it after many years of experience and successful delivery. I hole up for a ridiculous number of days (this time it will be 4 days and nights) and I surround myself with everything I could possibly need to complete my work, even if the world ended. My bed is covered with items in neat, orderly rows, leaving just a narrow slot for me when I decide the time is right to sleep awhile. Yes, I will need my AA daily devotional books. One doesn't put that aside, even for showtime. The little desk extension contains a miniature version of Office Depot. Well, it's possible I could require more than a ream of paper and a fresh ink cartridge in every color. [Not that I've printed any of this work even once, so far.] Cat food and litter have been toted in and form a small mountain next to the closet, while the French doors to the pool are set at an angle, just so. One wants a breath of real air, provided the freaking wind stops for just a moment. I ground coffee beans until my arm hurt, fighting with myself about at which point pre-ground beans no longer constituted "freshly ground". Two cell phones and a land line lie in wait, and no proud Mormon mommy ever had more healthy foods lined up on her basement shelves. My bathroom is attached, all necessary products in good supply.

Just in case I need a distraction, I've laid out two stacks of laundry on the floor to be cleaned while I write. I like the white noise of the washer and dryer. My stacks of CDs are arranged according to how each makes me feel and the array is quite startling. Last, but certainly not least, my body promises to complain about the abuse. Enter The Bean! Though I am not much of a TV watcher, and I would recognize few "As Seen on TV" items if they did not fly that flag on their packaging, somehow The Bean and I made friends a few years ago. "Better than a balance ball" goes the claim. It offers firm, non-jarring resistance, a DVD with multiple workouts, weighs nothing, can be wiped clean and it seems to work for me. When my head is whizzing, I get up frequently to use The Bean or weights or resistance bands and I manage to avoid coming out of the bunker with any lasting war wounds. The DVD player and big-screen TV are loaded with The Bean DVD. I know I'll want the Stress Reducer workout at the end of my day ~ a little hip and back stretching. But my favorite Bean activity - oh, it pleases me - is using the bright yellow foot pump to fill The Bean to proper inflation for my body and level of exercise. Man, I step on that pump and get my legs going . . . and never fail to check the blinds to make sure that no one, anywhere, could see this old woman pumping up The Bean in preparation for writing.

Before I slide down the rabbit hole, I had this small token for blogging friend Kirk, with these comments: The Blue Angel Motel draws my attention because of its mascot, the lovely, very natural-looking blond angel. Sometimes I wonder if she's not actually a fairy, because she does carry a wand (with one prong broken off, it appears) but she also sports a halo. Maybe she's conflicted? There are no photos available of the Blue Angel at night, which makes me wonder if they even shine the lights any more. I am sorry to report I don't even know any men whose company would make me feel safe enough to go to the area in the dark. And, p.s., you cannot imagine some of the images one sees after Googling "Blue Angel + Las Vegas"! Ahem. (Photos kept at high resolution. Just click.)

April Alliteration - Alcohol

My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey

Happy ending ~ 100% possible

Installment 4

Ex had a huge circle of relatives including a gaggle of aunts and uncles who were barely older than we were. His grandfather had had a much later second marriage and these were his younger offspring. Each of them had small children. I'd never met any of them until 3:30 one morning. The bars had closed, they'd made their weekly visit to Johnny's Shrimp Boat in downtown L.A. to have "6 and rice" and they weren't ready to go home to bed. The door shook in its frame as they pounded and called Ex's name, probably a dozen men and women, including spouses and dates. Into the tiny apartment they poured, each one seemingly with a bottle stashed in purse or pocket. "You guys have a stereo?" We did. "Let's play oldies," which in those days meant old time soul and R&B. There began the strangest, most surreal "party" I've ever seen. The liquor flowed. The brothers, sisters, aunts, friends hugged and danced and fought like hell. When they left, there was scalped hair all over the floor from the "bitch fights" and I had no dishes or crockery left intact. They threw things. Whether it was their own property or not. The women seemed pretty balanced about me. I'd say they decided to give me a chance. Some of the men were clearly disapproving. I was such a white girl, and I wouldn't drink. Others of the men leered. One uncle began that night and never gave up pulling me onto his lap whenever I was in the same building with him. It didn't matter if 8 of his male relatives lit into him 15 seconds after he pulled me onto his lap, he enjoyed those 15 seconds. I did not. "Dammit, Ex, get him out of here and keep him out of here. I don't appreciate him at all." By noon, half of them had left and the other half slumbered noisily on the floors of my home.

It came to pass that at every major holiday for many years, all the children of the family would be dropped off at my home while the adults went out to drink for up to 3 or 4 days. I loved the kids and enjoyed feeding them, reading to them, giving them a bath, washing their clothes while they used one of Ex's T-shirts as a "robe". Some of the adults would invariably go to jail and I would coordinate their release(s). I was fortunate to earn a sizable "family" of children who loved me as I loved them. Some of them had children of their own before I had Amber (remember, I was a very late bloomer). I could go on with Ex-and-family stories forever and that is not the exercise here. The point is that I was the calm, but also dysfunctional, center in a cyclone of alcoholic madness. I hadn't trained for it. I didn't know what to do with it. I wanted Ex to stop drinking and be "normal". That was not going to happen. My chosen role in the dysfunction was as the "fixer", the micromanager of the world. If I didn't maintain control, who would? My shoulders were broad enough to handle a world of craziness. Yeah! Sure! I wouldn't have taken a drink with your mouth. And this rolled on for years.

In my ears right now: I can't even claim credit for locating it on YouTube. Another blogger had put it up. Jimmy Ruffin did it admirably, no question. But - oh! - for fun, you want to go here. [Sorry, embedding disabled. I guess I'd protect my rights, too!] Warning: Be prepared to dance. And grin. The woman can sing anything! She's not just another stranger on the bus. Please, tell me, in comments, that you listened to her!

Hey, Bloggers, throw me a lifeline from time to time!

Greetings on April Fool's Day

OF A FOOL

The Great Omi was a fine, strapping figure of a man, standing about 7'5" and weighing 315 pounds. He was well employed by a thriving sideshow, boasting a fine health plan and a 401k that would see him through retirement. Omi was stable and reliable - his word was his bond. But Omi was missing something in his life. He longed for the company of a stalwart wife and perhaps even a sideshow child or two.

Lu was the most popular dame in the kissing booth, eyes of dark fire and lips like ripe fruit. The carnies called her Abracadabra, for Lu knew how to get what she wanted (at least what she wanted for awhile) and then - like magic - she was gone down the road to the next traveling show. Yes, Lu was fickle. Omi was captivated after one look at Lu, ignoring the cries of the men who knew her longer and better: "Omi, she'll take you for a fool." When he thought about it later, Omi recalled it didn't take them very long to obtain their own tent and settle down forever.


Omi did not want Lu to work in the kissing booth after their marriage, but she was a strong willed woman. "She's playing you for a fool, Omi!" But Omi wasn't having it. He thought it took longer for babies to arrive, but Omi wholeheartedly welcomed his new son, Utitinga. The boy soon showed promise as a future contortionist. Lu worked extra shifts at the kissing booth and the saloon, tucking away money, she said, toward Utitinga's expected chiropractic and massage therapy bills. Omi thought that was admirable. The boy's work was going to render him achy.

And then came the day that the reliable, predictable Omi arrived home at the tent calling out for Lu and Utitinga. They had left, along with the household possessions, the family income, Lu's extra money, half of Omi's 401k and a health insurance card. Omi keened loudly for the loss of his family, his home, his possessions, his hopes and his future. Running up the lane, Omi called out, "Gone! My Lu is gone. Utitinga, gone! Whatever shall I do? My heart is breaking. How can this be?" For Omi was a fool.

The End

Special thanks to my esteemed sister blogger, Erin O'Brien for inspiring me to post some of my favorite vintage images.

OF A LUCKY FOOL

By 2010, I was not 7'5", but I had good employment and my retirement was predictable. I had a nice living situation and was not looking for a stalwart wife or any sideshow children. I was relatively stable and reliable.

Like Omi, I was captivated by an intoxicating presence. Mine was called alcohol. Like Lu, I was fickle about what mattered: my alcohol or my life, my employment or my assured fall from grace? Like Omi, I was counseled by those who knew more than I did. I ignored my advisers, too.

Like Omi, I ran down the lane crying. "Gone! My life is gone. Employment, gone! Whatever shall I do? My heart is breaking. How can this be?" For I was a fool.

This post is to have a happy ending. I am healing in every way. I am active in a program that shows me the way to find serenity. I am being hit in the head not by rainbows, but by the pots of gold that are supposed to be found at the end of the rainbow. Good things are finding me. Yes, it's hard work. I'm earning my way back and beyond.

Part of my program of recovery calls on me to reach out to support other alcoholics who may still be suffering. It also recommends that I keep in close, honest touch with my truest self. To both of those ends, I will write a couple of paragraphs per April post on the subject of my alcoholic journey. Remember, this is to have a happy outcome. I simply want and need to tell my story.

The End So Far

April Alliteration - Alcohol
Installment 1
As far as I am concerned, it is not a secret. Not any more. I have tried to bring it out gradually and gently, saying more to people who seem to need that or able to take it, and less to the more delicate. Perhaps some people think it is shameful, a commentary on my moral fiber. I know it is a disease, and illness doesn't typically land only on the "bad". I've learned something important across my years - to maintain sanity, I have to talk about things. I had a terrible post-surgical wound once. My doctor spoke very plainly: "Keep this clean, dry and packed - nurture it every day. If you let this bottle up, you will be in very grave danger." Boy, howdy. I understand that, and analogous situations.

I am an alcoholic. Nothing in all the world, in all my life, has been as shocking as that realization. For, you see, I didn't intend to be one of those. I refused. I repeat: I am an alcoholic. I came as close as one wants to come to ruining myself physically. The mental and emotional toll is unfathomable. The wreckage and carnage in my rearview mirror is some days tolerable and some days almost not. I was a lucky drunk. I knew where to go seek help. When I got serious about it because I had no other choice except death, I learned I owned all the books and had read them cover to cover many times. They hold good, solid truths and they show "the way" for alcoholics. I knew that. I just didn't want to stop drinking. And then I did. I wish I could share some of the stories, some of what I have learned in the rooms of AA. I can't. For then my fellows would not be anonymous, would they? Here is my truth: I meet for an hour a day with people who are unlike me in 175 demonstrable ways. But they are exactly like me in the only way that really matters. I learn from them. I'm a good, lifelong learner. I like to learn new things. That may give me a very slight chance to be successful.

Something that charmed me: That picture of Utitinga charmed me, the little fool!

Wrestling Bear

The names of persons I use here are those of my followers, easily located on the sidebar. If the reader will indulge me, I don't feel up to creating all the links today. I appreciate my followers, though, and display each of you proudly. But right now, I'd rather spend my time visiting your posts which have gone up since I took a breather. Also, please indulge the use of "today", "tomorrow" and "yesterday". Sometimes things don't punch a time card. It was all written across a short time frame this week.

It's a delicate phrase (that conjures up quite an image when applied to me!) - "wrestling bear" - that means "dealing with stuff". Sorting out the jiggle in one's Jell-0, the junk in one's trunk. Handling one's problems or chewing on stuff. I'd just completed conducting a whirlwind, 'round-the-world magical mystery birthday tour on my bus and I ran out of gas. Precipitously. I knew I needed to apply the brakes, park the bus and retreat to some quiet place. I stayed off the blogs almost 100% for 3 1/2-4 days. I didn't give up e-mails as completely. A girl doesn't want to lose her oxygen or blood supply. I added extra walking miles, read a complete book, ate some foods I hadn't enjoyed in awhile - no, this does not mean overeating. It means consuming good foods that require some actual preparation. And I am better for all of that. Clearer headed. For you see, although when we enter the ring, the bear expects to win the match and I expect to lose it, that's not usually how it shakes out.

And so . . have I bent anyone's ear (or eye, since one reads the blogs) about liking things that work as intended and disliking things that do not? Ahem. Blogger is a mixed bag of stuff for me. A free platform to write and interact with others. But I'm sometimes left with Blogger egg on my face. Do other bloggers get into such a twist as I do when Blogger conspires against them? The answer is probably "yes", "no" or "maybe". But I get into a twist. I've blogged about the Starbucks mug given to me by a very young woman who considers me her mentor. It says "Meticulosity: an extreme attention to detail." Little Jazzy laughs and says it would have helped her to have seen that tattoo on my forehead the first time we met, but she soon figured it out. That's how I am - I give attention to the small stuff. So imagine my horror today to look at my own blog and discover what Blogger or the gods had done to me on Kass' birthday post. I spent hours sizing the pics so they'd line up side-by-side. I'd spent forever downsizing the YouTube clips that had nothing but one photo and the soundtrack. I'd been meticulous about the size of the photos so Elisabeth's head would not be 1/6th the size of her husband's famous onion tartlet, and what was I looking at now? Why was Tag's poem spaced with so much open air running through it? How come Kim's beautiful gifts were oversized splats in the middle of the post, with miles of pink air space? How in the world did I post Kass' birthday at 2:00 a.m.on her birthday, yet 3 comments had been posted on April 24th the day before? Look closely, those of you who wrote to say, "Where did my comment go? I know you posted it. I saw it." [For the record, I post virtually every comment except those I'm asked not to - the ones that are a shoulder tap kind of message. I've now fixed that up by attaching an e-mail account to the Profile.] And why, the Sam Hill, did it all look completely different again one hour later? Yow. I don't know the answers. I am not required to be knowledgeable about everything, and I cannot be such. First these things made me crabby. Then they made me crabby about blogging.

It struck me that I posted my first blog post exactly 11 months ago. Blogging has fulfilled me and frustrated me. It has connected me with both like-minded and polar-opposite people. It has taught me to appreciate how well some people do things that don't even intrigue me. But their passion draws me. I've watched some bloggers simply disappear and others announce they're taking a break. Some who are taking a break pop up for a moment at the most wonderful times. I read both Kass and Elisabeth at some length commenting on the amount of time the blogs take up and I'm right there with you, ladies. Writing for my own, commenting to those I follow. I am struck, after my bear wrestling, with something that unsettles me. I work far too much. Old news. I walk way too many miles which also takes up too much time. Seven-year-old news. I spend too much time time blogging. That's news. And I do little else at all too much. Hmm.

During this week of experiencing some malaise, I forgot to go check that newly attached-to-my-blog e-mail account. It's one I've rarely used, and I forget to check it very frequently. Thank you to those who dropped me a note and I'm sorry if I seemed a tortoise before responding. Friend Tag, who was in my real e-mail account, you'll know I wasn't handling it very well, either, or something you sent would have seen the light of the blogosphere by now. It's coming! Even when I have to arrive late, I still arrive. Full of sincere apologies.

Yesterday, I drove home through a war zone. The weather is the enemy and the wind the most ferocious weapon in its arsenal. All I had at hand was a very small Nissan. The more ballsy forecasters had predicted wind gusts up to 70 mph. They were right! I left the office going south on Rainbow. Every side street acted as a tunnel, slamming me with crosswinds that moved my car around. I remembered the reminders on TV ~ "Keep both hands on the wheel!" No kidding. I knew what I was in for. Turning west on Desert Inn, I started to buck the headwind. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced. Oh, yes, I am the woman who camped through a night of 75 mph gusts, but I remained in the tent. I didn't have to see anything. Now, the traffic light standards bounced and that always freaks me out. I had to stop at the store. Cat food and coffee creamer are big copy in my home and I was nearing empty on both. My aunt did family day care for decades and she had a saying that would make most misbehaving little boys pause: "If you don't stop that, I'm going to snatch you bald-headed." I know the feeling. And I don't like my hair mussed up. This morning as I walked, I had mainly very black thoughts as I passed downed trees, many window screens torn from homes, tumbling trash cans and various other distasteful flying objects. I learned on the news that small, private aircraft were overturned and a carport roof was torn away in an apartment community. Some Las Vegas-y attention-grabbing event scheduled for 8:00 this morning was expected to be cancelled. If the girls still wanted to sky dive in their bikinis, that was one thing. But it was deemed unsafe for the aircraft to be airborne. Justin said it best: "Imagine. Bikini tops and bottoms and half naked girls flung all over the valley." Have I mentioned I am sick of it? Sick to death of it? Literally almost ill from it? It's now been 36 hours. It's about the same as 36 hours ago, although some brief periods have been more tolerable.

So what shall I do with myself, because I'm fairly in a snit? Mr. Insomnia crawled in with me at 1:30 this morning and never let me slide from his loving embrace. Someone hacked our bank account number at work and created several fake checking accounts with their names (multiple entities, multiple names, multiple IDs given) and our account number. One even had our logo and company name replicated, and a very good rendition of David's signature! Yes, Wells Fargo Bank is behaving in a very helpful way and, thankfully, the rotters didn't hit us for nearly what they could have, had they been higher achievers. But the inconvenience has been staggering. No checks, no credit or debit cards for 10 days to 2 weeks. I may need to pay one week of payroll in cash. I have three - count 'em - posts in draft form that I can't complete. They're painful, each for a different reason. I've invested too much in them to hit the delete button, but I avoid them studiously because they hurt.

Here's my plan. Tomorrow night is the 2-hour massage. I'm going to wave good-bye to David Saturday and take the wheel. Last May, he and his wife booked a Mexican cruise to celebrate 5 years of marriage. Remember that nasty little illness we first called swine flu? The cruise was cancelled. They're going for their 6th anniversary now. While David's away, I'll start the e-mails to plan my girlfriend-visit trip away. I've hung home too long! But before that, I'm going to the desert. I'm going to the place that has a convenient parking lot, so I can just pull up. I'm going to the place where I went in the winter and did my DIY primal therapy, screaming at the heavens and throwing fiery balls of my anger off the planet. I'm going to the place that will be replete with cactus flowers and horned toads ~ I know about these things. For in this place, at this exact time of year, in the year I was 52 . . . the cactus flowers were abundant and I held 52 horned toads in one sunny hike.

And, now, the Kass Birthday Grand Finale. Tag just kept spinning birthday joy after I'd stopped checking my e-mail box. Here is what he spun for Kass starting with my lame 4 lines and continuing with brilliance:

The lovely Kass, so fair of face,
Exudes a state of natural grace.
But while she shares with us a grand felicity,
There's also that spark of raw electricity.

An accomplished young lady of many phases;
A heck of a poet, she has a way with phrases.
Her home is Sugarhouse, I believe that's Utah.
Is there really such a thing called a Hoppy Taw?
Very crafty! I've heard she redoes the undone and
shoots strangers in restaurants without a gun.
A dangerous hobby, it sounds to this friend,
but she's just keeping up with the latest trend.
Time to end my contribution. It's getting late.
Great idea, friend Limes, on a way to celebrate!
Friend Kass, you are loved by many, it's clear.
So lets do this again same time, next year!

In my ears right now:


Something that charmed me: I don't feel too charmed, actually. But I'll find something . . . OK, here we go. I let my post sit in the box overnight, even though I was pretty sure I was done. When I re-read it this morning it pointed out to me that there are reasons I'm not feeling all that charmed and I do have a plan to change the dynamic. One step forward. Then another one. Do it again. And I remember that the last time I went to the place of primal screaming, fireball hurling, cactus flowers and horned toads, I returned cleansed. It's lasted a long time. I just need to go get another dose.

Some photo credits: J. D. Morehouse

Buffet Table, Chafing Dishes

I assume there is widespread general knowledge that Las Vegas is replete with buffet restaurants. In "the day", some of these establishments constituted fine dining at a bargain price and were a kind of "reward" or thanks from the house for the gambling money left behind by the tourist. I'm sure there are still some fine ones, but if I had to take a stab at how many there are, I'd say three bazillion, mostly identical, and they serve up shlocky food for big bucks. These are a kind of "reward" or thanks from the house to say "Leave more of your money behind in exchange for little or nothing. Leave it for us to line the pockets of the fat cat corporations that do little or nothing to support programs and infrastructure in Nevada." Does the reader get the mood I'm in?

I've been emotionally dining at a buffet that serves only beef jerky, corn on the cob, overcooked tortilla chips and taffy (for dessert). I am emotionally toothless and suited only to yogurt and vegetable broth. I've had a lot to chew on and it has given me verbal constipation. I can't write. Forget "can't write". I can't even organize my thoughts. I'm not only down. I'm up and down and up again. This is unusual and I don't know myself, for mostly I'm pretty level, pretty routine.

Last weekend I was giddy. I'm a woman who loves a holiday celebrating love. There was a hint of spring in the light and the feel of the air and the temperature. I actually managed two days in a row off from work. I got the good haircut, entertained people I care for, exhanged Valentine cards and little gifties.

Monday I shifted from giddy to shitty. I was unkind in a way I cannot believe of myself. Oh, I can tell anyone the reason for it. It's that I simply cannot believe it of myself. This rendered the middle of the week "shaky ground and shaming oneself". Yesterday I offered an abject and sincere apology and found myself able to look at my own visage in the mirror last night. When I looked at myself I appeared tired and drawn. I reminded myself to be kind and generous, for I certainly want to be treated that way.Someone who cares for me reminded me I suffered a bereavement not a month ago and I still haven't finished the book about dealing with grief that Mother Badger sent me. I'm still wearing the rubber band on my wrist to snap when I want to feel something other than what I am actually feeling. Note to self: Stop trying to run from it. Walk through it, experience it and move forward. It's still there, no matter how fast you run.

Last night I was asked whether it was possible for two people (another person and I, specifically) to behave in a certain way with one another. The question blew me out of my chair. The behavior is a positive one, productive, peace-giving. Not negative in any way. But I was overwhelmed by the enormity of what I don't know. We're complex, we human beings. Layers of phyllo dough built inches thick. Some of the layers are crimped around the edges and some have tiny tears. We're patched in places, with unsightly scars. And we're crispy in other spots that might crumble when pressure is applied. Some of us possess the honey intended to be included in baklava and some of us seem empty, unable to present sweetness. I had to reply that I don't know what's possible between people (the two of us specifically). I don't have it all figured out. Worse - I don't have anything figured out. I got back a good response: "I don't know what's possible, either. We'll just make it up as we go." All right. Where there are human beings of good nature in the mix, the way will be found.

I observed something this week. I noodle around (like I suspect most bloggers do) in 25-30 blogs, adding some from time to time, slowing on reading others. I read the serious and humorous things some very talented sorts write. I read people who are passionate about their avocations and I see the art presented by those with a special eye for capturing and presenting beauty digitally, in clay, with paint. Sometimes I favor a trend that this blogger is following right now, and other times that one over there pulls me strongly. Almost invariably, the bloggers have posted pieces, whether verbal or visual, that tell of the angst they feel from time to time. This is natural I think. We are expressive sorts (that's why we blog), so we express. It awes me that, just as the readers and followers cheer over a happy or brilliant post, they also reach out in kindness when the blogger is troubled. I was touched to see men offering another male blogger comfort this week. Yes, I do know that men can be kind just as women can be kind. I was touched that the male followers reached out to say it.

So, I really do already know the answer to my ailment. One foot in front of the other. Do it again. Inhale. Exhale. Do it again. I think I'll make the appointment for the indulgently long massage and while I lie on the table, I'll think some more. I'm looking forward to a more usual weekend. No visitors, no holiday, no bicycle race. More balanced. I think I'll step up to the buffet table again and . . . Hey! Look there! Mashed potatoes. Applesauce. Cottage cheese and soup. And I feel a new tooth growing in!


In my ears right now: Another important part of the soundtrack from my misspent youth. Written by Dylan, performed by The Byrds. Does it get any better?



Something that charmed me: It intrigues me how friend Kirk often "thinks" in movies, and Tag sometimes in music. The Badger surely thinks in flowerly terms, and Kass appears a multilingual thinker to me, favored reader. Others I follow think in cycling and good writing and things psychological and beautiful poetry within their fiction. I think in food. Not at all times, but often. Food and I have a long and fiery relationship. I understand it very well. So, no, I wasn't starving to death when I wrote this post. At least not in the physical sense.

Things Aren't Always What They Seem ~ Or ~ A New Man in My Life

Version I ~ For the Romantic

It wasn't planned. There was no New Year's resolution made. And I never saw it coming. I've been lightning struck! Of course, enchantment doesn't typically announce itself, so perhaps I shouldn't beat myself up for failing to expect it. Suffice it to say, favored reader, it has happened and his name is Dennis. New year, new man.

He's different in many ways from other men who have fascinated me. For one thing, he is young. I've never been drawn to younger men. But he is that. Significantly younger. About 18 years younger. And good looking! He presents quite nicely in his uniform and I'm made to feel confident seeing his belt with the tools of his trade tucked into it.

What I like about him: He didn't ask me. It wasn't discussed. But when I arrived at his door, my drink was waiting. No questions asked. "Here, Leslie. This is for you." "I thank you, Dennis." I like that he took my coat off of my shoulders and put it on a hanger, not on a heap of whatever. He is thrifty with words, using only enough of them to make comfortable conversation. His voice is soft and warm in the darkened room.

I like his hands. He is a good-sized man with large hands. When he touches my skin, I feel warmth and electricity and energy and peace. I want to feel those hands on my skin again and the date has been set. Soon we shall spend time together again. Reader, this is heady stuff!

Version II ~ For the Pragmatic

I badly needed to have some body work done, for I am an aching massage addict of decades. Stephanie disappeared from Massage Envy employment and I've had a pretty miserable time trying to hit-and-miss with the several massage therapists she'd recommended. I called yet again to make an appointment and found that none of the women I wanted were available. I started to do the slow burn. I pay the membership, I want the work and I'm finding it damned inconvenient to never land on a day and time with anyone I want who is licensed to touch.

The perky little receptionist sensed my displeasure and said, "What about Dennis?" Dennis? Uh-uh. Never have had a male massage therapist work on me. I have trouble with that. It's difficult for me to even contemplate. Lacey said, "He's our best deep tissue therapist - everyone agrees on that - and that's what you said you need. He's available at the time you requested and he could give you an hour and a half." There was a pregnant silence and then someone's voice said, "OK, Dennis it is."

I stewed at my desk all day wondering how I'd handle certain parts of discussion and just precisely how much disrobing I'd want to do. You see, not only am I old, I have certain bodily things I want to explain before I offer myself up in any state of undress. Yes, I understand that most people, or at least women, have some body image issues. Many of us think our rear ends are too big or our chests are too small. But I have some more esoteric things going on and I feel a need to speak of them. Double burden: the speaking of them is also difficult.

I drove through the downpour, spontaneously landing on necessary little errands to accomplish. No, that's bullshit. I was diddling time away so I'd certainly be late. Or maybe I just wouldn't go. Of course, there'd be a cancellation fee . . . . my pecuniary sensibilities won out, I drove on and walked into Massage Envy just as he was walking into the lobby to collect me.


My romantic rendition above is all too true. He did take my coat and he did hand me my drink (of water). He does look good in the ME polo shirt and I was pleased to see his trigger bottle of massage gel in his tool belt. He was easy for me to talk with, and he didn't talk me to death like some of the women therapists. I landed in a place that was comfortable for him and comfortable for me, somewhere between completely dressed and completely undressed. And then Dennis proceeded to give me the massage that made me understand I've never actually been massaged before.

I asked him about half way through if being a man of a certain size gave him an advantage for deep tissue massage. It seemed to me that with larger hands and more strength than most women, he might have a leg up on it. He said that might be part of it. He asked me if I'd like my feet to be massaged. I laughed and said I would like that, but having kept my tights on would interfere. He said he could do it through the tights. "OK, Dennis, just don't use any massage gel. I have to go home in these tights."

My friend had been having a massage in another room while Dennis worked on me. I waited in the lobby and we chatted a bit. "Would you like to stop by my place and pick up those things I forgot to bring you?" Uh-uh. "No. I've just had a life moving experience. I'm going home to sleep the deep sleep of the innocent."

In my ears right now:



Something that charmed me: Dennis charmed me. "How did I do for you?" I told him, sincerely, he'd delivered the best massage I've ever enjoyed. "Do you think you'll lose the tights next time?" I think I will!

Of Massage, Bacon, Elevator Cars and Fireballs

Friend Kass gets my nomination for the Girlock Holmes Super Sleuth Award which has utterly no value other than it's tribute to her sensitivity to me. And that makes it worth millions. To me. "The silence is deafening," she wrote. "What kind of shit are you dealing with?" This woman and I are simpatico, favored reader. Congenial. We've never met and yet there is an electrical connection. And she was right.

I'd been pleased and proud to limp out of the holiday season upright. There were still the daughter's and the mother's birthdays to deal with and the every few days' (or once a week) sly and sometimes unkind shots made across my bow, but I thought I was doing pretty well. And then I made the phone call. When I was told that Stephanie no longer worked at Massage Envy, I couldn't reply. I don't think I said, "OK, good-bye." Now, I know how to find Stephanie. Her major job is in the spa at a high-end resort on the Strip. Although she'd never said a word about leaving Massage Envy, she had been bringing me spa magazines and speaking to me of vichy baths, exfoliation and various mud treatments, so maybe . . . . She'd been trying to figure out the best discounts for me, based on credit cards I held or frequent traveler scams I might belong to. Uh-uh. I'm not doing it. We found a way for me to get a 70% discount, and the day's treatment was still hundreds of dollars. I don't want a spa citron salad and a fluffy terrycloth robe all day once a month with treatments I don't seek made on my naked person. I want my frequent deep tissue massage, delivered by one person I trust and rely upon.

The phones took off dramatically at work. It was evident that none of us had kept our edge sharp for dealing with nearly impossible demands of time and resources when we're booming. Homes and I were feeling the pressure, steam cleaning machine hoses sprung funny leaks and the general public's attitude has improved little. One customer had a major flood in his home, resulting in a huge water damage job. No, we don't wish anyone ill. But that's income for us. That's what we do. We didn't flood his home. We just fix it. Unfortunately, the man appears to be a tremendous alcoholic. Sober when Troy arrived to do the work, he required assistance to write his check at the end of the job. Now we cannot raise the man from the bed he shares with his demons to get our industrial fans out of his house. We are also concerned about the man's welfare. For me, there is pressure because it was month-end, year-end, accountants, taxes, and the anticipation of helping to breathe life into David's new business venture. This is all shared simply to say, "New day, same old stuff." I get through it better at some times than others.

I'd asked Stephanie for recommendations of some of the other massage therapists. My friend was looking for a way to reduce the cost of frequent massage and wanted to give Massage Envy a spin. "How about if we each book a massage, pay attention to the talents of the therapists, compare notes, and go from there?" "Good idea!" "OK, I'll book the appointments." We presented ourselves at the appointed time and met in the lobby afterwards. Walking toward the car, I asked, "How was yours?" He said it wasn't bad. Not perfect, but slide her some points for this being the first massage. "How was yours, Les?" I'd have to say it was good. Definitely promising. I'm not shy about saying, "Hey, is there any therapeutic reason you can't _____?" And now we know three different massage therapists there who are at least acceptable. Other massage days will roll around, and so it goes.

I'd been given a generous gift card that could be used at any of four dining establishments. We were massage-lazy, so we chose the nearest, not the one we already knew we liked. Being seated was smooth and easy and the vivacious Vicky soon had brought his Tanqueray martini and my iced tea (no, not the Long Island variety). She enthused to us for quite a long while about the restaurant's new menu and pointed out several ways for us to "get more" and "pay less". We could actually get about 5,000 calories worth of food for less than the fewer than 1,000 we'd hoped for. But the fun really began when we opened the new menus and began to study them. For we - two truly irreverent, sarcastic and sometimes rude individuals - found ourselves in the west's last bastion of applewood smoked bacon. We are two people with a serious aversion to bacon. After seeing it on the menu, even in the desserts (no, not literally), I began to notice the plaques on the wall celebrating the greasy stuff. I heard him say, "Oink" and "Do you see anything you'll eat in here?" And I started to hoot in my seat. His burger was decent he said - "Hold the bacon, please." My quesadilla explosion salad fed me three meals - "Hold the bacon, please." Note to self: Avoid that diner ~ it smells of bacon!

And then, the end of the evening. We took time, again, to speak gently, with care, of things damaged between us. We acknowledged again that neither of us knows how to fix these things, completely. We committed again to wanting to repair what is broken - to find the way. A week prior, he'd come up with a brilliant idea and I'd pursued it. I shared my findings and the comments made to me to be shared with him. We shared schedules for availability and we took hands and agreed, there are some things not to be put down forever broken, but pursued until they are fixed or until there seems no reason to pursue them. We spoke of camping soon to be shared, and a blanket of peace settled.

So, dear Kass, you were right. The little elevator car that is me slipped a cable and took a dive down a couple of floors. I did not crash into the floor 20 stories down. I just slipped a little ways. And now I hear the professionals gathering. Tools rattling, measurements being made, voices. "Broken cable over here on Number 4 - easily fixed." "Little shot of WD-40 and some duct tape, this will be as good as new." "As long as we're here, let's polish up the buttons and replace the light bulbs." You see, when you don't know how to fix it yourself, you ask for help. Call for service. Trust in the good intentions and ability of all the players (I understand that, I work in a service industry!), set the appointment and go.

I share this, feeling somewhat vulnerable. This could be easily mistaken for "crazier than batshit". I would hope the reader has read enough from me in this and past posts to understand it is pretty healthy. I performed a ritual this week. I drove to the Mojave Preserve and parked in a paved, well marked parking lot. I took the fairly short hike that is nearly flat in the first half and pretty torturous rock climbing in the second. I am never 100% certain I'll make that last 500 yards. One ends up in a rock citadel with a 360-degree view of the world. This being a weekday, I saw no other human being on foot. I did not create this ritual. I read about it and I understood it. I "got" it. One gathers her anger into a fiery ball and hurls that flaming orb into the cosmos. I flung that fireball like an Olympian discus thrower. And then the next. And the next. I threw balls of pain and anger and every other kind of rot until my ancient shoulder forced me to stop. I began to sag a little in the climb down the rocks. Before Las Vegas came into view, I was worried I'd fall asleep at the wheel. I slept all night long, never getting up to use the bathroom, tend to meowing cats or explore why the BlackBerry was breeeeeng-ing me at 2:00 a.m.


Photo credit: Hammer Head - J. D. Morehouse

In my ears right now: "Crying", a most beautiful song. I've loved it by Roy Orbision, Roy Orbision and k.d. lang in duet, Don McLean and k.d. lang solo. Yes, I'm playing them obsessively in order.

Something that charmed me:



I like k. d. lang's "baring my soul", "baring my feet" performance style. I suspect splinters are an occupational hazard and a warm, wool rug is a perk.

The Thoughts Wafting Through My Head, Like Dragonflies at the Swamp

OK, I've done the thoughts ~ dragonflies ~ swamp thing before, but I will shoulder the embarrassment of repeating the theme. For it is true that today I am full of random, misaligned trains of thought vying to be examined first and best. Also, this post was written across Friday and Saturday, so my "today" and "yesterday" references may be scrambled, but I think that's not crucial.

How did they know? And yes, this charms me. Last night a little repeating drama was played out. I dozed under the dryer at the Hair Attic, overtired. The hot air baked the customized blond tones into my follicles as I (probably) snored and drooled down the front of the robe that I detest, but Christine insists I wear. I'll be straight: I don't really want to undress and wear someone else's robe to get my hair cut and colored. I also don't want Christine to pick up my legs and feet to place them on an ottoman. But that is part of the treatment, and Christine insists. This seems to be of overarching importance to her. It's what she does. So, we take the bad with the good. My session was nearly over and it was time for the fun. Product! For Christine trots out some new potion, glop or goo every time and tantalizes me with its properties and fragrance. This time, I was struck by the coconutty fragrance. I gave it 5 stars. As long as the product did for the hair what I wanted it to do, I intended to own some of this. She'd completed the look (too bad I was just going to go home to bed), handed me my glasses to check it out, and I was sold. I wanted some of the new stuff. "What is it, Christine? Who makes it?" She told me it was a BedHead product and I wasn't surprised it drew me so strongly, because I like their hair care line. The Badger chortles when I speak of the shampoo called Self-Absorbed. How did they know? For about 3 years, I used their definition product called Wax Stick for Cool People. How did they know? And, now, the new, blue, kind of gooey, coconutty smelling putty . . . Manipulator. How did they know?

A thank you, in awe: This week I began to write about childhood, family of origin, memories and life events. It will take a long, long time to write it all out. It has been pent up for so long and it is huge. Almost as if the feelings are bigger than me in my entirety, and where do the feelings stop and I begin? This is painful writing, hard to organize and putting it out there makes me feel a little vulnerable, a little susceptible to harsh criticism. When I wrote the first installment, I drew a comment that contained two words that so deflated one of the biggest chaos balloons, I am still rocked backward. You see, when I think of my mother, when I purposely allow her into my immediate consciousness, I hear whirring and I smell vinegar and I taste tea tree oil. This tiny woman, old now, takes on Paul Bunyan-esque dimensions, and I cannot organize my thoughts or feelings. Writing and thinking about her early motherhood during my infancy and childhood occupied a football field full of questions, feelings, sorrow, confusion, resentment . . . but Kass said "anxious mother". Oh. Two words. Two words that helped me see with crystal clarity that I could put some of that stuff in a trash compactor, label the bag "anxious mother" and not churn any longer on what it was. It was an anxious mother. No more. No less. I wonder why none of the therapists, none of the professionals ever thought to take out the sharp hat pin of two words, "anxious mother", and hand it to me. Or is this the first time I am able to accept the condensed version, "anxious mother", as the answer to so much? I bubbled on that throughout my walk this morning. For I surely am feeling peaceful. I allowed her onto the battlefield of my psyche. I held the shiny shield "anxious mother". And I didn't smell or hear or taste anything. Just quietude.

New business venture - who wants in on the ground floor? I'm surprised I only just mentioned my love of Mary Engelbreit art on the blog yesterday, for the images play a large part in my daily fun and humor. I wrote that my alter ego for decades has been The Queen of Everything. Blogger Kass commented this morning: "The Queen of Everything Emblem should be on the hood of your car. I wonder if someone has thought of that yet. Coats of armor for cars? Let's get on that." Folks, I am for that! I'm a bit of an entrepreneur and I surely know how to sell. Auto coats of armor and related mottoes appeal to me. I like a little irony. My car is a nondescript, decent enough thing. People who glance at it quickly and then turn away will say "Nissan, no - Honda, no - Toyota. . . " and "Silver, no - gold, no - gray, no-champagne". This car is unremarkable in any way. So I kind of like the tongue-in-cheek pronouncement that the woman who owns this little bit of nothing is The Queen of Everything. My daughter drives an adorable Mini-Cooper that I covet. She needs this on the doors and her license plate frame should read "A Trust Fund Beneath Every Velvet Pillow" :


My coat of arms would be The Queen of Everything. My license plate frame would say: I want the good goods ~ I refuse to pay full retail for anything.

By the way, favored readers, during all the years Amber and I were Queen and Princess, Ex was the Prince of Whatever's Left, which I always thought was appropri ~ ~ ~ oh, come on! Mary Engelbreit didn't have all that many male characters at the time. It's not like I made that one up. I have no influence over Mary Engelbreit. And Ex actually thought that was pretty funny. I heard him repeat it many times with a laugh, the hierarchical order of Queen, Princess and Prince. But there's another irony in this. It was Ex who drove the Cadillacs, the shiny, flashy big beasties of the automobile world. It was Ex who had all the road flash and splash. So the Queen has the economy car and the Prince of Whatever's Left has one fine automobile.

Commenters, ring in! What would be your coat of arms and what would be your motto? Let's get this thing going! [No, it doesn't need to be Mary Engelbreit. Just tell us what your form of self-expression would be.]

I don't know where I'm going. I wonder if I'll know when I get there. My blogger friend commented: "What's to become of all this crazy/wonderful writing? Are you going to put it in book form? I understand there's a way to do that through blogger." There is no question that the writing is pouring out of me. And I am personally and emotionally emerging from some dark, musty, frightening place. By the way, I occupied that nasty cellar for decades. I am finding my voice after a lifetime of silence. I can say the words without running from them. I can accept the replies without dying on the spot. I am able to look at things that previously burned my retinas. And it is damned heady stuff. Sometimes I feel a little drunk with emotion. Sometimes I feel a little hungover from the weight of so much unsettled debris.

So, I'm not looking for a book deal. I couldn't yet write a book. I am disorganized, with thoughts firing off in every direction, and quickly - like an automatic. I am more interested in continuing to examine and then write about the things that have slowed me or stopped me because I didn't have the coping skills to deal with them. I am interested in telling my stories, simply because I need to.

I was asked how I crawled out of the gray, miserable rut. My first answer is "I'm not out. I'm still crawling." My next answer isn't well formulated yet, but I'll try. I stopped living. And I went downhill from there, depressed, unhappy, aching. I nearly destroyed myself in a variety of ways. I know a person named Westerman. Who or what Westerman is to me doesn't matter to the reader. But it should be known that I trust Westerman and listen to the advice dispensed. It is Westerman who told me over and over again, across years, that if I started to deal with just one issue that ailed me, I'd gain some of my confidence back. Westerman reminded me that I succeed at most things I take on and that dealing with life issues isn't much different from dealing with nasty customers or anything else that comes our way. I finally believed Westerman, but had so many abortive attempts to deal with things, I created a new reason to dislike myself. However, finally, under the stars in the desert, I squeaked out my first and biggest set of troubles and found peace. And I haven't looked back. What's happening in my life since that night is profound and fast-moving. And I'm liking it.

So, Kass, I will get to Sugarhouse, by slow boat. And, Badge, I'll get those purchases made, but probably a few days after I said I would. Tree, I'll pop up on your blog maybe less frequently, but just because I'm writing for mine. Tag, please keep providing the music, because it gets me across some rough spots. Kirk, please keep making me laugh because I need that, too. GJ, if you pop in and stroke my ego, I'll keep writing. Doozyanner, you always cheer for me and it's appreciated. Everyone who pops on to say "Yay!" or "Funny, Limes!" gives me a boost and I appreciate it as I zoom through busy days trying to right a life. It's mine. I need to take care of it.

In my ears right now: It's still REM. Losing My Religion. It resonates so strongly, I wear some of the words as body art.

Something that charmed me: The car coat of arms idea ~ creative and funny.