Transplanted

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One finds it in the little
things, small connections.

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

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

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

On the Glorious 4th, A Story of Some Americans

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

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

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

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

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

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

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









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

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

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



Blog post dedicated to the memory of Anthony Curtis Goodwin

Do You Want to Know a Secret?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Architect

What if your friend became an architect,
but failed to tell you that
and you sent no gift, no card, no flowers
for matriculation?
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

And what if your friend decided the
ancient edifice that was your relationship
needed renovation – oh, immediately, extensively -
but failed to tell you that?

What if you entered the home place you shared with your friend
and found she had applied skills she possessed
but had failed to tell you that?
What if you asked, “Friend, what is all this?”
And your friend replied, guilelessly, “What? Nothing's different.”

What if, upon your next visit, it could no longer be denied?
She had reassigned weight-bearing walls, reduced the size of
certain rooms and built an escape hatch as would be used in
the Underground Railroad, but failed to tell you that.

“Friend, I can and will live with anything between us,
my only requirement being truth.”
And what if your friend began to build such a
structure of lies that you could feel life, love
and esteem, as you knew them for her, slipping away?
But you failed to tell her that. Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend progressed from lies to silence, used interchangeably,
choosing the subjects about which she would or would not say anything at all?
“Friend, I am losing respect and admiration for you. I have been plain
about what I need. You have nothing to lose by being honest with me.
I will not abandon you.”
“Nothing has changed between us.”
What if you left the building having made a hard decision,
but you failed to tell her that? Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

What if your friend asked for a favor and explained
she needed you to lie?
She needed your lie to cover a lie she'd told another friend.
In fact, “Heh, heh,” she'd already misused your name and
a false premise to fool a perfectly innocent person for
whom you felt no enmity.
Used your name, or lack thereof, and your artistic property,
your own history, without permission or discussion.
Wouldn't a friend tell a friend?

For Kirk, By Request (Or At Least Upon Suggestion)

Blogging friend Kirk appreciates the beauty of a vintage neon sign against a dark sky and I knew that. I just didn't happen to be thinking about it when I last posted. I was daydreaming along Fremont Street in the car, fantasizing about the Lucky Cuss Motel in the sunshine. Kirk didn't complain. He simply commented that the sign would probably be amazing against the night sky. He was right! So here is the Lucky Cuss as it would be seen by some lucky cuss after dinner, drinks and a spin of the roulette wheel.
And, as added sprinkles on the top, these are Miss Vickie Vegas, the cowgirl (though I think she should be dubbed the Lovely Leslie Las Vegas - hey, I've got the boots and I can kick pretty high), and a view of the Neon Museum displays lit up at night.

I do not typically rely on pictures as the bulk of my posts, but my alcohol paragraphs run a little long this time. So I'll let the pictures tell a story and continue on with my real life one.

NO photo credits: Leslie Morgan (She couldn't do as well.)

April Alliteration - Alcohol

My month-long musing about my alcoholic journey

Happy ending ~ 100% possible

Installment 3

As a teenager, I consumed some alcohol, although pot and other substances were preferred by young people of the time. I am small, I share the genetic makeup, and I am foolishly mulish. The instant someone says "You'd better not drink any more," I'm off and running. Sometimes men who were not old but who were old enough to buy alcohol and who were certainly too old for me would ply me with liquor and, apparently, enjoy the "wind her up and watch her go" game. On my 18th birthday, an attentive young man bought me a pint of Southern Comfort, Janis Joplin fan that I was. I drank it very quickly and I was very ill for a great number of days. It was the last alcohol I would touch for a very, very long time. By 18, I'd had more than plenty to drink, and never anything CLOSE to "Let's have A drink." The memory of the Southern Comfort served me for decades. I attest: Janis must have had an iron gut.

Ex was full blooded Native American, of the Pima tribe from the Salt River Reservation in Arizona. The struggles of native peoples with alcohol is well-documented. I don't have to beat that drum. His parents and others of a similar age wanted to get off the reservation - considered a sign of progress and good fortune. They did get away. Right into the mean streets of Skid Row L.A. where they produced 5 children together, and she eventually produced 10 before dying of cirrhosis at the age of 32. After meeting Ex in my late teens, I heard and witnessed the most sorrowful and horrific stories imaginable, all related in some way to too much alcohol. I cried when I first heard the stories. The same stories and the ones that followed make me cry today.

I got Ex when he was 17 years old and already an entrenched alcoholic. In retrospect, it is shocking how quickly I fit into the mold of enabler and codependent. I was perfectly suited. If only I did ABC, then Ex wouldn't drink any more. Uh-huh. I believed that for more than 20 years. In our extremely young years, there were events I could relate in a humorous way. Except that right now I can't work up a cackle. Rare for me. I can usually work up a donkey laugh about most things - the more painful, the heartier the laugh. There was the time he went out in the rain to buy more beer before the stores stopped selling at 2:00 a.m. When he didn't appear after a couple of hours, I figured he was in jail and went to bed to read and wait for the bad news. I was startled when he burst through the front door, soaked. He'd stranded our only car in the mud on the train tracks and had spent awhile trying to push it to safe ground. When he finally had to give it up - that car was good and truly stuck - he came home. He had not failed to get into the store in time to buy beer and then return to the car on the tracks.

I am not blessed with a deep well of patience. While I continued to try to do things that would divert him from drinking - keep a perfect house, cook wonderfully - my tongue sharpened very quickly. I am quick with a quip, and was then, but it didn't do a lot of good things. He learned to turn off my volume a little sooner in an altercation. I became an embittered young woman. When I grew sturdy enough to snap, "Go sleep it off awhile before you go out again!", he sometimes didn't argue. Once he took matters into his own hands. Rather than have me follow him, bitching, to the door, he opened the kitchen window in our second floor apartment and leapt out. I blinked a few times and rushed to the open window when I heard a loud yelp from below. Had he broken a leg, cut himself? No. He had landed on the back of the landlord's very large dog, Chunky. Chunky was not hurt, but was very, very surprised to have a dark young man with waist-length braids fly out of a window and land on his back. "Shut up, Chunky, " I heard the landlord snap out of his own kitchen window. Ex got up, dusted himself off, jumped the fence of Chunky's dog run and went off to find some fun. One of his ankles remained fragile for the remainder of his life.

In my ears right now: Very poor quality video and sound take nothing away from Natalie Merchant for me. Scritchy scratchy is OK enough. Just for today.

Something that charmed me: This morning I got a double-yolked egg - the first one I've ever seen, I believe. I don't get away from home much, I guess.

A Friend to All Who Knew Him

The other evening I was happily participating in Cramcake's gratitude posts which had entertained me for several days. Writing items for which to be thankful comes pretty naturally to me. I am grateful for many, many small and larger things. I thought to type that I was thankful/grateful to have enjoyed Stepfather in my life, but I got all jumbly. I decided to go to Walgreens and distract myself awhile buying hair goo and other important items. I came home and tried to type again about my honor to have known Stepfather. I lost it. Shoulders heaving, sobbing out loud. And that's before I really got going. Clearly I could not stick this man simply on commentary somewhere, no matter how special the blog might be to me. I needed to write about him because it was clear I had some wires that were still live.

If the reader wants to split hairs, come on. Strictly speaking, technically, he was not my stepfather. There were some pieces missing in that process. But he was my mother's mate and I don't know what else I'd call him. Or consider him. I come from a family that does not fit many molds perfectly. So he was my Stepfather, OK? And a second grandpa to Amber - to my eternal gratitude. He entered my life in 1966. I was 13. He left it by death in 2001. At his death, he was watching with great anticipation as I headed for a life-changing moment to come in September of that year. He missed it, to my eternal sorrow. He'd have cheered for me.

He was born to a large Mormon family in Riverside, California, in 1914. He maintained that Riverside connection all his life, though he eventually moved many places far removed from the Inland Empire. I have never known a man of 80 who still had so many friends left from his childhood. I've met about 20 of them, ancient fellows who still thought they were young boys. He had a childhood friend who became a Cadillac dealer and provided many, many cars across the decades. One sport from his youth was one of the Graber sons, the Grabers of olive fame. Graber olives can now be purchased in many grocery stores around the country for $5-7 a can. They are a treat that will not be forgotten. Every holiday season for decades, some lucky contingent was dispatched to Graber's and hauled back cases and cases of the olives for which no money had changed hands. Little kids in my family would pop 10 of them onto fingertips and grin from ear to ear. A favorite story concerns the year Stepfather went to his 60th high school reunion. Ex and I asked him, bellowing, for he was quite deaf by this time, how he'd enjoyed himself. He had, indeed, but he was disappointed so many of the cute girls had put on weight. He said this in dead seriousness. Ex had to step outside to laugh, visions of plump 78-year-old women dancing in his head. For many years, my mother marveled at finding herself in Italy or Sweden or in some dark corner of Timbuktu and suddenly running into some group of Stepfather's dearest friends. It was uncanny.

He had an extreme case of rheumatic fever in his youth, and was troubled later by rheumatoid arthritis. When I met him, one of his legs was much shorter than the other and he wore the highest, most built-up shoe I'd ever seen. At least 6 inches. He ultimately had one of the earliest hip replacement surgeries in the nation, repeated a few times across the years. It is my sense he was probably an average-to-good student. His spelling was always, ummmm, curious. But he was a shining artist in many methods, stained glass in particular. I know family legends get a little slick, a little too smooth with the retelling, but this is approximately how it went. He was poor. There was no hope of higher education for him. I don't know if college scholarships existed at the time, but they surely were not common. So the story goes that he went to a nearby college (now a university) and connected with the right person whom he told that he had no money but had a burning desire to be an artist and teach art to others and if they would allow him to go to school, he would someday return and do something fine for the college. He graduated with the class of 1939. He did return and endow the university with the swimming pool and aquatic center that bear his name, construction beginning in 1996 with continued enhancements after his death.

By the time I met him (1966), he was a very wealthy man whose net worth would increase exponentially throughout his life. He worked hard to make that happen. No longer teaching in the classroom at L.A. City College, he'd had an exciting life and he still had 35 years to go. He had owned bars in the far southeastern stretches of California. Once he went on a circuit to collect the receipts and one of the bars was held up while he was there. The robber shot Stepfather and every time he ever told the story, he spoke not of fear or pain. He marveled for the rest of his days that the blast blew him right out of his shoes. He owned a very large rose farm in San Diego County - the flower growing capital of the world at the time. He owned vast tracts of land in Las Vegas and had already started building houses there. He piloted his own planes and he owned fine sportfishing vessels that grew in size and luxury with each new purchase. He was generous to a fault. He enjoyed feeding people, entertaining them, taking them out to sea and up into the wild blue.
Some small minded people in my mother's own family still spew poison about Stepfather bankrolling her. They are mistaken. He taught her how to make her own money and she was a good student. In the early 1970s, my mother called to say that if Ex and I wanted to own a home at a much younger age than most Californians, we might want to come over to Las Vegas for just a short time and start making money. Our cottage industry was lovely. Stepfather built houses, my mother sold them, I escrowed them, Ex was the landscape contractor. Stepfather put up a lot of houses each year. Life was pretty exciting. When Ex and I finally decided to marry, Stepfather flew his plane over, completely stuffed with yellow roses, my wedding signature flower. For these flowers, no money exchanged hands. It took multiple florists to arrange these in time for the wedding. When my mother's alcoholism made her life unmanageable, he curtailed enjoying his own cocktails and took her to AA meetings. When Las Vegas busted, following the heady boom, he told us we were right to run for the coast to get jobs. We were too young to have a big enough cushion to carry us through a bust.

Some of my fondest memories include Stepfather's many kindnesses to my Granny. He called her Mary Belle, which no other human could get by with. She detested the "Belle" part of her name. I recall the summer when he had 75 houses completed except for the toilets. There was a toilet shortage. Seriously. Stepfather secured a sizable stack of Elvis Presley tickets which he parlayed into porcelain fixtures from California and other locations. We closed the deals on our houses while others sat throneless throughout the valley. Stepfather knew about some beautiful hams, as lean as poultry, and shaped rather like a football, maybe somewhat larger. I'd like a nickel for every one of those hams I've tucked under my arm alongside him, cans of olives, too, and gallons of good liquor. We'd take holiday gifts to each and every employee of each and every subcontractor at each construction site. That's how he felt it should be. The 1980s ensued. Ex and I jumped up to our necks into union work. Mom and Stepfather languished in Las Vegas half of the time and on the coast the other half. When Las Vegas was booming, they built. For years and years and years.

Amber was born in 1990. My mother and I were in the middle of a bitter, but temporary estrangement and she did not meet her only grandchild until the little girl was 5 - about to enter kindergarten. Of course, meeting Grandma also meant meeting Step. He liked Amber and she liked him. It was as simple as that. When she was 5 and taking bowling lessons, he produced a leather bowling bag, shoes and a swirly purple ball. When she sold Girl Scout cookies, he bought so many boxes he took them all to Father Beno's soup kitchen to treat the clients. He talked with her. Why do some people not know or know how to talk to children? He contributed a shocking sum of money to her education trust fund so she could go to Harvard or Yale or the local business college, as it pleased her. But the best thing he did for her, by far, was take her out on the boat. Oh, yeah, we went, too. We'd take her out of school for a month, get special assignments designed to play on what she'd be doing on the boat (different species of fish seen, weather faxes, GPS readings, keeping the diesel engines in good order) and we were gone. She knew by the age of 8 that she wanted to spend her life in and on the water. She never considered anything else. She was a brilliant student, and will be working as either an oceanographer or a marine biologist with master's degrees in both, before she is 25. Amber, an only child, has always been just a little reserved. Not chilly or hostile. It just takes her awhile to feel secure. She also has a soft, tender voice as her father did. Stepfather was very deaf by the time she was born. We taught her to stand directly in front of him, make and keep eye contact and holler. She did it! They were grand friends.

Late in Stepfather's life, he learned about McDonald's. He did love a chocolate shake and my mother took him for a large one every Tuesday. I don't know why Tuesday. It has nothing to do with the story. Some months before he died, she pulled into the driveway between errands on a Tuesday afternoon to the shocking sight of lots and lots of police cars, fire trucks and paramedic vehicles. What the heezy? Oh, we all knew he was done. One didn't have to be clairvoyant. He was 87 and he wasn't squeezing all the good things out of life any longer. He and Mom had only realized a couple of years previously that he was 20 years older than she and their lives weren't going to end at a similar time. He was tired. He'd packed about 107 years of life into that 87 years. When she went out on errands that morning, he'd gone to his stained glass studio where the .357 magnum was secreted in his workbench. He shot himself in the chest as he had planned to do, but it did not kill him. No amount of money or fast talk would keep him out of the psych ward. "Mom, do you need me, specifically, to go with you?" "No, I think Ex would handle it better." Agreed! I couldn't go. I stayed home with my little child. When Ex came home, he sobbed. Stepfather sat in a wheelchair, doped up, head hanging. He might have been dead. My mother wrung her hands. Ex stepped up and said, "Stepfather, we love you. What were you thinking?" "Ex, I'm an old, old man. Five years ago, I wouldn't have missed." He died of natural causes, at home, fewer than 90 days later. He and I had a little fun going on. On 9-11-01, the 9-11, my life was going to change. He was rooting for me. I'm sad he did not share in my success. He died on 7-11-01, not such a lucky date for him or us.

Likely, I know (at least partially) why his children eschewed him. OK. So be it. Their experience was not mine. Mine, not theirs. Why did his grandchildren value him so little? Likely because of watching their parents' treatment of him. He was smart enough not to try to be my dad - I had one I valued tremendously, thank you very much. He was flawed. He was the best example I ever knew of a person who got up every day and went forth to do good things and to do things well.

Something that charmed me: A favored bit of videotape exists and - oh! - it charms me. It was the July 4th holiday and we were out at sea, pulling in so much fish that we'd press it on everyone we ever knew and Father Beno's soup kitchen. When we went onboard, Stepfather told Amber he had a little project for them to do to surprise everyone else aboard. She was about 5, big black eyes sparkling at the notion of a surprise project. They went off together into the galley and we all swore we weren't looking at them. Yes, the sound of the electric mixer and the eventual good smells told us they were likely baking a cake, and they were. It would be iced white with strawberries and blueberries to fashion an American flag. Captain Sean had free range on the boat. He had work to do nearly 24/7 and orders such as "don't come into the galley" did not apply to him. He grinned, watching the cooks and it is he who saw what had to be caught on videotape. It was loud on that vessel. Diesel engines roaring, excited anglers one-upping each other outside on deck, electric mixer going. Amber is a talker - one who feels compelled to communicate. Stepfather was as deaf as a post. On the tape, she stands on an ice chest next to Stepfather, the only way she could reach the countertop. The viewer can see her mouth moving and her head turning toward him. No response of any kind. She continued to crack eggs and her mouth continued to move, though she got no recognition. She figured it out for herself. Not missing a beat in her egg-cracking, she shot an elbow into Stepfather's ribs. He gave a little start and smiled at her. She engaged in her own version of sign language to get across whatever important cake-making message she felt so driven to deliver. He bobbed his head. They were having fun.

Change of Address and More

The lovely black cat, Virginia Woolf, and I do not live in the same place where we resided when I started the blog. We do, however, live in an area of the city with which we are both familiar. VW may like this community. I haven't asked her specifically. She does like to pussyfoot around outside my French doors along the tiled areas of the pool and hot tub. The wall surrounding the yard is so high that even a jungle cat could not escape, and VW now enjoys her first-ever forays into the outdoors. She likes the sun shining on her black fur. She does not like the little spray of water that disturbs her sense of all that's right as my head emerges from the water.

To my last post, esteemed blogger Erin O'Brien encouraged me to "do the 4-miler", meaning a fairly long walk, to snap a photo op. I'd spent years clocking miles and miles of walking each day of life. But I'd fallen away from it and felt very sad about that. I'm walking again. Not 10 miles, yet, on any given day, but I'm moving myself a little. There's a woman I see frequently who seems generally my age and about the same degree of fitness. I've toyed with the idea of asking her to meet up for a walk, but I haven't done so yet. I have befriended the man who passes my home every morning with two white dogs the size of lions. He is very pleasant. The dogs still make me retreat, pressing my backside into the nearest chainlink fence, which I could scale better than a block wall, should they decide to eat me. I passed a remotely familiar community one morning, its posted name ringing a bell from 33 years ago. Yes, it was the one and only section Stepfather built on the eastside all those years ago - homes a little larger and grander that ours in the far west of the city. I strode on streets named for Mom and myself, intersected with that Terrace named for Ex. A contractor could do that in those days. No streets had existed there before. It was just open desert.

I am surprised, intrigued and a little anxious about regaining my fitness. I'd been ill awhile. I'd stopped all fitness routines and my previously inspiring muscles left me so quickly and completely. I wear 2007 (smallest ever) clothes now, or - rather - they wear me, waistbands cinched up like the top of the paper bag around the neck of a wino's bottle. Last week, I went to a medical appointment where I had to be weighed and have my waist measured. I take a medication that can cause unwanted, very quick weight-gain. "Hmmm," said the nurse. "You've lost X pounds." I allowed as how that wasn't such a lot of weight, but he said, "It's about 10% of your body weight in 90 days."Oh.OK, I know what to do. I know to set a timer to remind me to eat, and I know what to eat. I am a fairly decent problem solver.

I mentioned in the last post that I might need a step ladder to do justice to any pictures I might take to show something I found remarkable and funny in my travels. On my first on-foot outing, I determined I was going to need a really big ladder. On my second visit, I realized I was going to need a cherry-picker and far more refined camera equipment than any I can access. But I am resourceful. Circling this curiosity, I spotted some words and thought maybe I could Google something. I also developed a prickly feeling that maybe some copyrights and trademarks might be at work. There were posted some signs and notices relating anger and dissent. At home, in front of the computer, I learned that this jaw-dropper place has already attracted much attention, many photographs, was once an attraction to which one paid admission, and now was the subject of numerous lawsuits and protests. What in the world made me think I was going to be the first to photograph and point to an unusual item? This is Las Vegas, for crying out loud! I'd asked a couple of photographers to make the 7-mile journey with me for years. All I wanted was a snap of the perfectly normal house on a perfectly normal street that had a full-scale roller coaster (with cars) protruding from an upstairs wall, presumably someone's bedroom. There were a few other interesting items, but the owner had not yet gone full amusement park. Should I have been more persuasive, or should the photographers have been more attentive to what I wanted to do those days when I asked for a little field trip? Not sure about that.

I have a decades-long routine for visiting the book store, carefully choreographed by me and explained to with whomever I am going into the store. This dance has been performed with Ex and Amber as my companions, girlfriends, colleagues with whom I am doing research for some presentation. We spill into the entrance of the store, scrambling like roaches spilled out of a jar. I furtively make my way to the section where are sold those kind of unsavory, unseemly, rather lowbrow books I love (I watch the same genre on TV) and fill my arms with as many as I can carry without attracting too much attention. After an agreed-upon amount of time, we meet at some common area of the store and proceed with our day. I'd just loaded up, finding a fresh pile of new offerings by two of my favorite authors. I backed up a little to make a final scan of the shelves and found I'd reversed a step too far - my rear end had pressed onto the shelves of poetry. Ha! Poetry placed cheek-by-jowl with my sneaky pleasure. I had some time before meeting up with my companion. I set down my books and my Starbucks and began to flip through some volumes. Yeah. Just as I thought: I don't care for poetry. Now, the reader should know I've suffered a little due to my lack of poetry prowess and appreciation. A woman friend asked me to tell her about my best loved poetry. Many, many favored bloggers both read and write poetry. And I'm a dud. It was not forced upon me at school and I never sought it out. This does not make me soulless or stupid, unromantic or unimaginative. Poetry is simply not what I do. So I told the girlfriend I have no best loved poems, as I also have no big cleavage or gray hairs. And I've sneaked around peeking at poetry ever since.

Who knows why the title nabbed me? It just did, and I took the volume from the shelf, flipping through the pages. Oooh. No Emily Dickinson here (although I can tolerate Emily). No. Grit here, sometimes, and deep emotion, and hard truths, accepted by the poet. This is not like me - I paid full retail for the slim volume. I have read from it and spilled coffee on it daily for awhile now. While it has not led me yet to other poets and their works, it has led me to another plane of my inner self. It reminded me, after many days, of a poem that did erupt from me once - oh, it's been a few years - that was actually good. I knew it was good. It was painful and bloody, wounded, nearly dying. But it was good and it perfectly reflected the way I felt about things at a place in time. I have begun a new poem of my own writing. It is not ready for presentation yet. I think it may be good. It may be sprung upon unsuspecting readers as it shakes out. We shall see. I'll need more muscles. I'll need more nutrition. I highly recommend "The Cinnamon Peeler" by Michael Ondaatje, probably best known as the author of "The English Patient". There, old girlfriend. I have some best-loved poems.

This afternoon, I am moderating a discussion group during some good talk to take place while the Super Bowl drones in other places. If you think me unAmerican because I detest everything about football, OK. I'll bear the shame. If you choose to participate in my tar-and-feathering, OK, but the line is long and they're getting unruly in the back there. The point is, I'm moderating this discussion and I'm a little dicey about it. For you see, I am new to the group and I don't really know all that much about the topic of discussion. I haven't made my bones there. I was selected to moderate because I speak well and I manage groups of people well. That's all. Things that both come naturally to me and which I was trained to do - kind of a no-brainer. I feel a bit fraudulent. Talking the talk before I've walked the walk. I don't want to be "Still Skating After All These Years". And I intend to say as much once I've completed my assignment.

In my ears right now: Well, not my ears, but my head, I guess. Michael Ondaatje ~

Having to put forward candidates for God,
I nominate Henri Rousseau and . . . . .

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