Live Your Dream ~ That's My Theme

With thanks and a tip of the hat to blogging friend Kirk Jusko, [He doesn't post his picture, so I can't either.] for the title, it occurs to me that really is one of my strong life themes. I want everyone to land on their dreams and achieve them. I've had some lofty dreams of my own and on the odd occasion, I've found myself existing in my dream just as I dreamed it. Maybe I should have bought that bracelet for myself, or at least a matching one. I wonder if the catalog . . . . maybe . . .

I lean toward being generous and pretty engaged/engaging, so if I find out that you have a dream, likely I'll cheer for you at some point. If your kid wants to sell the most Girl Scout cookies, I'll walk her around the neighborhood, sit with her in front of the store, buy some cookies myself and take her to lunch to celebrate after the sale. If you need a 12-step program, I'll take you there and stay with you. If you want a meal or a drink, I love providing those things maybe more than any other. I'm not shy about asking others to support you, either. If I watch you chase your dream and fail to reach it, I'll love you and keep hoping. If I watch you chase your dream and grab it, I'll holler right out loud.

Those who come here often, know the Badger had an important two-stage race last weekend. Not for the first time, I asked other bloggers to join me in some collaborative effort to cheer the man on with words - show our support and humor and admiration. I was pleased and touched once again to see the work of those who commented "I'm in!" Bloggers are creative, of course, but I never cease to be amazed at the generosity we show one another.

It is not for me to tell you all about the two-day race and how it was the most difficult thing he has ever done on a bicycle. It's not my deal to tell you about the dead rattlers and what the weather and road gradient were like. It isn't my job to explain that he found the experience transcendent. Click on the link and read the last few posts of his good blog. You'll get the picture! I will share the words I'd never heard him utter before. As he stepped out of the car for the pre-race course test, he e-mailed, "I don't know if I can do it." I wasn't sure whether to e-mail this: ;~} or this: "How serious are you, since I can't see your face?" He was serious. He didn't know if he could propel that Cervelo up those hills.

No, my job is to present the works of my wonderful blogging friends. Here you are, Badger, applauded and encouraged from spots all across the globe and blogosphere. In absolutely no order whatsoever, behold the offerings. Congratulations on your first place, you climbing old mountain goat. Transcend and do it again! Ride on and live your dream!

I used the offerings as stand-alone poems this time. One will see why! Each was that good.

From my dear friend Rachel Fenton, a published author in Auckland, New Zealand, comes wonderful poetry she constructed using some of the language from my prompt in the original post:

His mighty steed is the white Cervelo R3. A hound
with an orange saddle and handmade wheels.
Encircled: the heart monitored, wrist bound
by Garmin to give data, feed the needs he feels.

Erin O'Brien - yes, we all know she's Hot in Cleveland! - also a published author, rang in again:

The weather sure did make it hard
he did not end the Boulevard.
But upon the Callville Stage he stood
wearing proud a winner's hood.

He needs no introduction to you, Badge, but you knew friend Tag would play. His offering was dropped into my e-mail account, so this is the first public viewing:

Dead rattlers on the road
where Badger dares to fly
on wings of sinew and steel,
pushing to the summit
toward verging indigo sky.

All right, here we go. She hails from Sugarhouse, Salt Lake City, Utah. She is a poet, a fact recognized by many, many bloggers and readers. She is classy and sassy. She is Kassie. Her offering follows. I bow:

Listen, dear bloggers, and you shall hear
of Badger Morehouse with passion clear.
On a fine day in May he took his Cervelo R3
down to the floor of dry Death Valley.

Who remembers his spokes and tooth low gear?
Who remembers the miles he’s logged this year?
He says to friend, Les, “I’ll attack upslope,
I’ll ride with the wind, chase the ringer and hope.

Hang a bottle of water off of a tree,
one on the land, and two that I’ll see
on the opposite side of the valley.
Ready to ride, chains over the cogs,
I’ll attack the headwind and slide through bogs.”

Then he sees decayed asphalt and muffles a cry,
stands up out of his saddle and lets fly
a clatter of swearwords aimed at the sky.
His wheelness illness is evident now;
he’s careened with something left by a cow.

A paceline perfectly is formed,
under his slicker, his heart is warmed.
He’s mastered the switchback, he’s leading the pack;
he thinks of the past and takes a look back,
remembers the shot in his upper left thigh;
thinks of his death, of how he could die -
a punch in the kidneys by a teen upside down?

“I’m third in the nation,” he says with a frown.
I’ll not pass on in a way that is lame,
I want a sure victory, I must win this game.”

So laying a finger aside of his nose,
(Oh no, I’ve muddled, I’m in the wrong prose).
Let’s see, where were we, we’re talking of Jim
and how he cycles on more than a whim,
but now his heart is much like a wheel;

He won’t let go, his ambition is real.
His derailleurs will never derail his dream;
he’ll win this race, or so it would seem
to one who is waiting at his door,
with words that will echo forevermore!

For borne on the night-wind of the past,
through all their history, to the last,
in his hour of darkness and peril and need,
stands one without malice, corruption or greed.

Her heart will waken, she’ll welcome him home,
she’ll hand him the print-out of our collaborative poem.
He’s bound to listen and then he will hear
the resounding love of his cheerleader dear -
a love he can count on as simple as cycling -
it’s Leslie who’s waiting to announce, “You’re my King!"

And what does anyone have to say about that?

I didn't write any poetry this time. I'm not good with it. But I know it when I read it! My written offerings this time were my post, the endless e-mails as he traveled, prepared, and awaited the results. The Andy Griffith Show was my white noise - the episode where Thelma Lou's "dog" of a cousin, Mary Grace, comes to town and dazzles Gomer Pyle. It's one of the funniest things I've ever seen. It comforts me when I pace while absentmindedly getting dinner organized. I got an e-mail. "Outskirts of Las Vegas." I sent one back. "Would you like me to organize a parade, come out there and carry you, the Prius and your mighty steed into the city on my shoulder so you can bow and wave?" "Oh, no," came the reply. "That won't be necessary." He's modest, too! Enthusiastic, but modest.

In my ears right now: This is fun music. I was 22 years old.

Something that charmed me: This entire endeavor charmed me. The outcome charmed me. The 60-year-old dreamer charmed me. You may say I'm a dreamer. But I'm not the only one.

Photo credits: Good folks, I ask indulgence. I had to go a lot of places to get the pics. I'm going to take a flyer here, hoping that if you visit here to read, it means you've got a soft spot for me and you'll forgive me just this one time. Please. I don't mean to steal or offend.

Speechless

I'm an only child, sort of. Well, actually there is the brother, Gary, but he is profoundly retarded, never spoke, and never lived with us at home after he was 5 years old. Only children think that everyone wants to hear what they have to say. This is due to conditioning. When we spoke as children, the adults listened and responded. It encouraged us to be talkers. It is the same with my own only child. Some people appreciate that talkative nature more than others. Ex used to put his hands up in defense at the breakfast table as if to physically deflect the words. He was cursed to have a wife and a daughter who were both talkers.

Oh, but I am further induced to talk. I have a really quick mind. I'm a fast processor. And I absorb new information like a sponge. When someone speaks to me or when something happens, I have something to say about it before most people hear it or see it. And this is not boasting or touting fine skills I've developed with hard work and dedication. I'm just stating the way I am. I didn't ask for it. I just got it. This is how I am made. Ex processed more slowly and was slower to come up with commentary. Ex likely stuck his foot in his mouth far less frequently than I.

I had a long career and many jobs that have required me to communicate both verbally and in writing with people at various levels of an organization. When you need the impassioned speech filled with righteous indignation before the school board, I'm likely the woman you'd tap. If it's time for steely, barely controlled outrage with just a touch of civility at the negotiations table, I can do that well. And in a discplinary hearing, if one's client's behavior needs to be diluted with a soft, firm voice pleading for equal applications of reason and mercy, I manage that nicely. I have spent much time at the podium or on the stage training groups of up to 1,000 and I'm good at handling the questions that come in fast and hard from left field. I'm a talker. Always have something to say.

When I interviewed with David, I seemed an unlikely fit as his business manager. I knew nothing about carpet or carpet cleaning, I'd never seen the software, I'd never worked in a service industry or scheduled routes to include multiple vehicles and multiple technicians covering a valley filled with nearly 2 million people. I'd never seen GPS work and I was so pink-collar middle class, I stuck out like a sore thumb in the environment. I wonder why he would even consider hiring me? Well, technically, I know the answer. He read the resume. He listened to me speak. He wagered that I could get where he was going, based on where I'd already been. He told me he'd call me within a few days regardless of the decision he made. He called in an hour and asked me to come to work the next day. I was to turn 55 in a couple of months. I told him I'd give him 15 years. Many months later, I came across the file where he'd kept the resumes and applications. I saw some sad ones. David speaks plainly. "Used hard and not taken care of" appeared on one offering. "Does not speak well. She could never be put on the phones." And on mine, "Beginning a pension in two months. Smart! Looks good. Professional. Friendly. She will be great on the phones."

I reported the next day and was immediately tucked into an incubator. I caught on to the software pretty quickly, and GPS. But I was not allowed to answer a telephone and I was never, ever left alone. Not for a moment. For months. David and I shared a very large office, occupying two desks that each faced the other. We could practically bump knees except for the modesty panels on the front of each desk. And I listened to him book jobs all day, every day. Hundreds and hundreds of jobs. I could soon tell when he had a live one on the other end of the phone - the live ones want to be informed and educated. I could tell when he had one of those who does not want to converse about carpet cleaning, but simply wants to book the job. Let the technicians talk with those people at the door on the appointed day! I asked questions and I memorized the script. I learned to sense what kinds of accommodation to give a tender case - the elderly, someone who was ill, the pastor of a tiny church or the person who provided family day care in her home.

Before he hired me (or anyone else), David knew he'd want to send "her" to carpet cleaning classes. [And "her" could have been "him". David is not gender biased in any way.] Why? "She/he" was never going to clean a carpet. He knew he wanted someone on the phones who knew about carpet and carpet cleaning and pH levels and natural fibers like cotton or wool vs. common fourth generation nylon carpeting. He wanted someone who could talk Pet Urine 101 earnestly and sincerely, without scaring potential customers away. I went to the classes and determined I would ace the exam! I didn't get 100%, but I got the highest score of anyone ever in our company ~ 97%. I am a certified carpet technician. I have gained a wealth of knowledge listening to the technicians, too. When they speak of mixing a cleaning solution to pH 15, I know they nearly melted that carpet. When they speak of the valuable red, white and black custom wool rug, I know they used dye-lock to prevent color running.
Finally, David began to go out to the bank or out to pick up lunch and bring it back to eat at his desk. I was allowed, and then encouraged, to meet the general public of Las Vegas as fast as I could pick up the receiver. He critiqued me in the beginning, urging me sometimes to pull in the reins, and other times to keep talking. I listened to the daily horror stories and comical stories and I rarely failed to ask, "How did you fix that, homes? What did you do?" I became confident. I knew about carpet! There was talk for more than a year about taking me away from the office for a morning to go out on a route with selected technicians to see how it all happened. That didn't occur, with one thing and then another. Alas, I no longer want to go out with any of them. I've heard enough about the homes of the general public. I'm not made of tough enough stuff. I don't have to know everything there is to know in this world. After a couple of months on the phone, I went off on a potential customer and thought, "Well, that speaks well of you, right in front of David." I sneaked a peek at him. He was grinning from ear-to-ear. "I'd have used stronger language and applied it a full 5 minutes earlier. I didn't think you had it in you, and I was afraid you'd bleed to death someday."

After 6 months, it was deep winter and I made a comment one day. "I walk every day in complete dark, I arrive here in the near-dark, I go home in the near-dark and there's no window to the outside. I haven't seen daylight in weeks." I was moved immediately to the best seat in the house and I've operated mostly solo ever since. It is acknowledged that I book even more jobs than David does. If I am in the house and handling fewer than 3 telephones at a time, no one else is to answer an incoming call. I have had my share of being beaten up and I've barked back at people enough times to keep my reputation properly inflated. I've had odd calls and frightening ones and a couple of weeks ago, I recognized a scam that could have cost the company money. I can give the low-down on pet urine damage to the extent that I am called the Ph. D. of Pee. And, although it is a rare occurrence, it gets my goat that I've been caught speechless a time or two. It only seems to happen when I'm alone and have no one to call upon for assistance.

It was literally one of the first days I was alone at the desk with no one else anywhere nearby. We didn't use the radios or BlackBerries yet. I remembered setting the appointment for a man out in the farthest reaches of Henderson. He sounded elderly and afflicted by a respiratory problem. Maybe emphysema or severe asthma. I slowed my speech way down to talk with him, gave him several reassurances about our quality service and got the job. My best team did the work, a technician with 15 years experience and a strong assistant. They'd left the customer's home hours earlier. The customer called me, wheezing and distressed. "Your men cleaned the carpet and I took my wife to lunch and a movie. We just came back home. The carpet is bumpy and lumpy and rolling like ocean waves in every room!" "WTF?", thought I. My mind raced. What could the homes have done? Why had this happened? Where was my support team? When I was a sweet young thing just starting out with the union, an old cynical mentor taught me, "When you can't give them substance, give them form." But I couldn't give this poor man anything. Nearly speechless. I began to sputter. "Sir, I'm sorry. I don't know the answer. But I will find the answer out and you will hear from me." I waited an eternity for David to return and nearly plucked at his arm when he came in. The story tumbled out of my face and my eyes bugged. He grinned. "He has action-back carpet! It'll be right in the morning." "What? Are you sure?" He was sure. Action-back carpet relaxes during cleaning and buckles. It contracts as it dries and returns to its original condition. I got to tell that elderly man this information. He didn't believe me. I didn't believe me, either. He was gracious enough to call me the next morning to say, "You were right, lady!" OK, I love learning new things.

So a year goes by and now I think I'm pretty smart. Cocky, maybe. I was pleased to land a job cleaning carpet and tile in the human resources department of a major hotel-casino group. If I posted the logo, the reader would say, "Ah!" Although a technician had gone out to measure and inspect the premises, the negotiation really occurred on e-mail between "the girls", an HR administrative assistant and me. I felt a lot of ownership for this job. On the designated evening, I dispatched every man and every van. They worked about 7 hours with Security dogging their every footstep. This enterprise employs about 8,000 people and there are laws governing human resources department records. In huddle, I'd teased them: "If you slip and start to take a fall, don't reach out for a file cabinet for support. Security will get you!" The job went smoothly and Cesar chirped me at 2:00 a.m. on Thursday morning to let me know they had finished. Dana paid promptly the next morning with a credit card and was effusive about the work performed. "We'll call you again next spring!" Great! We love repeat business, and especially large jobs like that. Dana called again on the next Tuesday. "Hi, Leslie, I just wanted to thank you again for the terrific job your crew did." "What's up with this?", I'm thinking. Then she said it. "I'm just wondering why we have mushrooms growing up through the carpet in the offices along one side of the building. Really big mushrooms." "WTF?" I was home alone again, too. And, once again, nearly speechless.

As the different teams checked in for the day, I grilled every man. "What can this be? How can that happen?" No one had a clue. We Googled. We called the IICRC, the organization that certifies each of us as technicians and our company as an IICRC-certified firm. I was promised a call back, but gained no concrete information. The last team rolled in and I put forth my quandary. One of the men looked as startled as I felt and stated he had no idea how such a thing could happen. The other man is not much of a talker. He is thrifty with words and he'd never try to out-holler the group or any one of the rest of us. He didn't join in the babbling and head scratching. But I could read his face. Something was working in his head. I began to hush the raucous crowd. "What? Do you know what could have happened here?" He spoke so quietly some of the men leaned forward to hear him. He did it with four sentences. "Leslie, call her tomorrow and have her ask Maintenance if they're sitting on a cracked slab. I think they must be. We introduced moisture when we cleaned. The water went down through the crack into the dark earth and started a mighty crop of mushrooms growing - they can only grow upward." I looked around the room. I know these men well. I could tell some of them thought that was a pretty credible diagnosis, and some of them said so out loud. I called Dana the next morning and it took her about an hour to learn that they are sitting on a cracked slab caused by a plumbing leak in 2003. Mushrooms. Nearly speechless.

This was going to be the something that charmed me, but something happened as I typed the last paragraph that has me grinning from ear to ear. So this is the honorary something that charmed me. Mother Badger had cataract surgery yesterday and to my happy surprise, by the evening she was e-mailing back and forth. She clearly had her wits about her and was learning to cover the one eye with a tissue while using her computer glasses for the eye that hasn't had the surgery yet. She has no pain, but she's glad we postponed my visit for a week so she can get firmly on her feet. She was back on e-mail this morning to say she is bruised to the extent that she doesn't think this is the time to go to the singles' club looking for a date or to a place where children gather. Yay, Mother Badger! One down and one to go.

In my ears right now: Two favored artists and a beautiful Louvin Brothers song. It's been covered by many artists, but this is the version for me. How's the world treating you?


Something that charmed me: This is literally true. This actually just happened. Cesar has a very good customer who has called for his services 8 times for various houses she owns. She is a generous tipper who knows the ropes about scheduling online so she'll get a discount. She knows to ask for Cesar in the Comments section. Cesar commented today that this was his first visit to the woman's personal home. It was a large job that took many hours and was a good money-maker for him. It's been a few hours since Cesar finished the job. The call came and the customer was as pleasant as she has always been. "Hi, Cesar cleaned my carpet this morning and it's not quite dry, but I'm a little concerned . . . there are bumps and waves throughout the house . . ." Altogether now: action-back carpet! Alas, I have never again been able to exhibit my genius about mushrooms growing through the carpet, but I do take some pleasure in reassuring the good people that their carpet will look as good as new in the morning!

The Week in Review

I felt that was a very lofty title for a piece about a set of anecdotes not so lofty, but I'm a little silly today. David has been on vacation and I have experienced a rebirth in my job, a flowering. I'd stopped living, just a little, without realizing it. My edge had dulled, in some respects, simply due to repetitive motion. I'm back. I'm alive. I remember how it feels to be creative and risk-taking. I remember how good it feels to laugh my ass off and continue to dig deep inside myself to find the positives and the support I can give as a gift to others.

I am surrounded in my work life by males exclusively. I care for each of them tremendously, and for different reasons. Each of them brings a raft of fine qualities to our world. Each of them is challenged by certain obstacles. Just like every other human being. Our work backgrounds could not be more diverse. The homes may be a little intimidated by the things I know how to do, and well. And they awe me with what they do that I know I'm not capable of doing. We just have different roles in the drama.

While David has been away, I've conducted morning huddle each day and the full-on staff meeting on Thursday. These gatherings are where we talk about the day's work ahead - what I gleaned from talking to the customer on the phone, what we ran into the last time we cleaned for this or that repeat customer, which vans or steam cleaning machines have issues, what product needs to be reordered and who did what last night. These are also the times when we air personal grievances or do a little hollering or give public kudos to one of our own who took a bullet for the team. In huddle, we rah! the Badger in his latest race and applaud the achievements of someone's child and ask about the health of someone else's mother. And before or after huddle, almost invariably, comes our version of the bedtime story - the blogs.

An entire culture has sprung up around the blogs. The homes now know the players and ask about them. "What's Tag got to say on either of his blogs?" "What's the Badger aiming his fine camera at today?" "What kind of mischief is Kass trying to draw you into, Les?" "Tell us about some of the new bloggers you've found." I read the blogs (they want to hear it aloud, not read it for themselves) and we cackle mightily, or react with sober silence or look at one another to say, "I have to go think about that for awhile. I'm not sure what I think/feel." They peer across my shoulder at the monitor. They ask me how it's done, how one adds pictures, how comments work. And now the homes want to give input to my blog! I've lightly tossed out the comment, "You know, you could have one of your very own. I'd help you." No one has taken me up on it. But they're decidedly curious and into these blogs.

I've written about Matt so many times, it led a woman friend to ask if I have a crush on him. What? No! It's just that he and I have a connection that is deep and electric. (If the reader wishes to learn more about Matt than I am going to write in this post, look for the label "Matt"). We are fascinated by one another. Matt has more IQ points than the law should allow. And yet he is innocent. Naive. Simple. Young. Things startle him. He's been around the block and has seen some of what the world contains. But it's as if someone took him around the world, showed him the sights, and failed to explain what he was looking at. He still possesses a huge sense of wonder. He is large and loud and blunt and hilarious and relentless.

Matt acts as my personal shopper at yard sales throughout the valley. He once located a solid oak dresser for me, sent a picture by the BlackBerry, fostered my negotiation with the seller through the BlackBerry and drove around all day with that dresser in the van like a passenger. The thing was so huge he could not see around it, not even to use the mirrors to drive. When he arrived back at the office that evening, he had to ask another technician to guide him into the driveway so he wouldn't be hit by another vehicle. He is full of surprises! This week he chirped me and asked, "Hey, Les, do you want a brand-new microwave, never out of the box?" Apropos of nothing. I wondered what was up, but I could hear his mother in the background, so I knew it wasn't a prank. "Ummm, sure. I've got the huge built-in one in good shape, but one can't have too many new, still-in-the-box microwaves, Matt." Where did he get the several microwaves he was handing out? Oh, it's very Las Vegas-y quirky. No, they're not stolen.

All right, so Matt has an up-and-down history with us. He was good and truly fired at Thanksgiving and we didn't hear from him for awhile. He stopped in one afternoon and spent hours with me. I commented to David that I sensed a difference. When he came to ask for his job back, David gave it to him with some conditions. He's succeeding this time, due in part (we believe) to a new addition to his life - a young lady with her head screwed on properly. She works and goes to school. She expects certain behaviors of Matt and gives him love in return. It's a beautiful thing. Alas, Miss Erin's parents retired and she was expected to move in order to remain living in the family home. Matt took a week off to help move the family to northern California. While staying in Shasta County, Matt encountered many signs for a political candidate for County Assessor-Recorder who has the same name as mine. This so fascinated the young man, it seems he nearly crashed the car every time he saw a sign. He has not been able to stop talking about it since he returned. I've finally said, "Matt, look in the phone directory of any sizable city. You'll find lots of people with my last name. And Leslie is a pretty common name among people of a certain age. In school, I always had to be Leslie M because there were other Leslies in the class." No. It's not computing for him. He knows the person who possesses my name and it's me and nobody else. Never mind that I've Googled that impostor in Shasta County and shown him her picture on the County government website. "Leslie, I think you're going to win, too, because you've got more signs out than anyone." OK, homey. It'll be a hellish commute, but once I'm elected, I shall do my best to serve the citizens of Shasta County. Yesterday, Matt chirped me from the van. He's loud when he whispers, and now he was shouting. I could hear Cesar in the background, trying to shush him. Miss Erin has had enough after 10 days away from her Matt. She's coming back to start a life with him!

We've drawn closer this week, the homes and me. We've laughed while delivering a week of stunning performance. But there's more. The homes got playful. They began to express some things that were funny to them and became a little creative and I like that because I've never seen it in them. One came up with an idea for a tagging blog that I may soon post. He thought it up on his own, too. Another asked if I had my camera at work. I did. He asked if he could take a picture of something he thought was hilarious and if I'd post it. I had to be diplomatic. "I'll post it as long as it doesn't completely mortify me." And so, I present the photograph that reveals my feet don't touch the floor when I sit in my chair. The good red leather Coach loafers just dangle in the air. This amuses them! Homey stretched out on his belly on the floor to take that picture, too. Everyone agreed that Matt and I had finally, officially, become twins this week, fostered by the many discussions about my upcoming election. "Hey, Les," came the request, "could we put up a picture that shows how much twins can look alike?" "Sure, guys!"


But it wasn't all fun and games. Something profound happened this week. Profound is a relative term and ours is a tiny little world, but profundity occurred. I am an efficient office monkey. I have perfected the art of the nearly paperless office. I sputter when David offers to buy us more file cabinets, because we're not going to collect any more paper here, thank you very much. I stand by the old administrative assistants' adage, "Touch every project as few times as possible." There has existed a cruel plot to mess with my sense of smooth operation. The homes, on every job they undertake, have to mess with a lot of numbers. Charges for various services, discounts, fuel surcharges, waste disposal fees. They are often hit with a counteroffer: "OK, you're quoting me $579.14 for that. Will you take $500 out the door?" Of course they will! No one walks away from a $500 job. The rub comes when homes start crunching the numbers, for the fuel and waste charges cannot be adjusted. Those belong to the company. The only movable part of the feast is the cost of their services. My men are not mathematicians. Not one of them. They radio in an amount they hope is pretty close to right on. Later in the job they sell a little teflon stainguard or pick up some tile and grout to clean and the numbers change again. Each time they call in numbers, I update several different tracking documents. When the numbers change, I update again. And again. And again. When the work orders come in at the end of the day, more times than not I discover that the numbers weren't correct in any one of the conversations. Last week I did the slow burn for the millionth time. We're busy now. I can't pat them on their heads any more and be their codependent. I took one particularly hideous job and counted how many reports and documents I had to adjust because the math was wrong. Again. 17 documents and reports. Literally.

It occurred to me while I was walking. A 10-mile walk in the dark before dawn allows one to solve many of the world's problems. I remembered something a wise person told me when Amber was a toddler. "Tell her what you want her to do. Don't tell her what not to do. She'll just land on something else that still may or may not be what you want her to do." Hmmm . . I do not suggest that my men are naughty children who need to be controlled. But maybe they simply don't know what I want or how to do it. In huddle I made an announcement I wasn't sure would fly. "I need everyone to get a calculator and a pen or pencil and some paper. Don't sit anywhere near each other and do not talk to each other. Although our golden rule is always to help each other out, this is a solo exercise. I need to find out your own personal stumbling blocks." I passed out a real, particularly harrowing math exercise. The one that I'd had to adjust 17 times. They got to see all the scritch-scratching on the work order and while they could easily visualize what the technician had gone through during that transaction, they didn't know how to sort it all out. "Your assignment is to provide me with three things: the correct amount for services, fuel and waste. If you don't even know where to begin, then man up and say so. I will give you a jump start." To my amazement, they were quiet and immediately started to work. No objections. No exchanged looks of pain. Justin spoke up after 5 minutes. "Les, I don't know the first thing to do. Looking at this paper with all these numbers just confuses me." Oh! OK. I needed to underwhelm Justin. We went into David's private office and after just a few reminders, he was able to get started.

That first day, a couple of them were successful at landing on the correct number. But that wasn't good enough for me, because those two were already pretty adept at it before I presented the challenge. The second day, another couple rose above the surface of the water. By Wednesday, they appeared in huddle with calculators and pencils without being reminded. By Wednesday, those who were feeling sturdy began to tutor those who struggled. "Are we going to keep doing this, Les?" "Yes, homes, because I believe the way we learn things is to do them. And then do them again." On Friday I looked around the room and I was touched by how much they looked like gigantic children, silently working. I'm not being humorous here. I expected to get grief for this, and they each took it seriously, just going down the path where I pointed. Today is Saturday. "No math exercise this morning, homes!", I announced. Oh. I detected a little disappointment. "But I have the mother of all evil for you on Monday morning." They perked up a little. And then I heard it. For you see, I always preface the exercise with some lecture and I debrief the exercise with brainstorming and free input from everyone. I've used new phrases and descriptors they've never heard before. Some of them are sturdy enough to say, "Please explain that. I don't understand."

So this morning we had an in-depth discussion about the day's work. I was asked about my 2-hour massage last night and reported it "the best one ever". The fact that I called a woman a bitch on the telephone yesterday was poked and prodded by one and all. This was big copy for two reasons. I do not risk losing business except in the rarest of circumstances. And I do not believe bitch is a word that should be applied to anyone. I had a lapse in my usual balanced affect. Troy chimed in, "She was really level and reasonable until she wasn't any more. The woman doesn't know her and couldn't see her, so she didn't know Les was about to go off. But I knew. I couldn't look at her or I'd have started laughing. And she called her a bitch in a really calm voice, too." They began to drift away and mill about. Two of the men were talking about one of the week's math exercises. And then I heard it. "Naw, dude, the value of the job . . . . " A wide grin slowly took over my face. For you see, Justin - the crustiest of them all - had just naturally spoken a phrase I had coined and explained. "The value of the job." I said I felt that something really important had happened to us this week, and they all said they agreed. A homey consensus. And that's when Mr. Crusty said, "Hey, we should have a potluck like other places do. Let's bring what we know how to make and enjoy a meal together!" We're going to do that, too!

In my ears right now: I consider it to be her best. I'm disappointed that she is terribly under-represented on YouTube.

Something that charmed me: I'm soon to go visiting. I'm very excited, and it seems Mother Badger is also looking forward to it. She's about to have cataract surgery, but before she does that, she's lining up the stores where we'll shop, and what would I like to eat? How about that chili relleno casserole (meatless)? Cesar is vetting my car for me as I will not have cell phone signal for much of my journey. It has been too long since I got in my car and went away for the simple purpose of seeing someone I care for and just enjoying one another's company. It will be warm near Phoenix and there's that marvelous cushy walking track made from recycled milk cartons . . .

Dispatch from the Front Lines (Through an Interpreter)

I've been asked to play Charlie McCarthy to the Badger's Edgar Bergen. He's off at the first race of the season, the onerous Boulevard Road Race. From the requisite shanty racing weekend motel, he was able to post to his blog last night, but this morning the internet connection flits in and out like a small rodent popping in and out of its hole. He's tried to e-mail, he's tried to post to his blog and he's tried to comment on this blog, all to no avail. The reader should know he has thoroughly enjoyed the poetic tribute in my last post and he will be commenting to all the contributers either when he can get his words out of Boulevard or when he returns to Las Vegas. In the meantime, he has asked me to post an update and the race results once we know them this evening.

The cyclist's own accounting of his passion for road racing should not be missed and his blog is replete with writing about cycling in general and some very specific races. I am not a cyclist. I am an observer of his preoccupation as I am an observer of all things human. But I know about cycling and races and the equipment and the garb. I know what 53:11 means and I know the ins-and-outs of embrocations because I pay attention. If it's important to him, it's important to me.

A year ago this weekend he raced at Boulevard for the first time. He did not possess the confidence he has earned over last race season. Conditions there were miserable the entire weekend and he sent an e-mail from his BlackBerry at the starting line. "*#&!, it's snowing and sticking to the ground." 380 miles away, I was his support team. I could see the gun would go off in three minutes. I knew how deeply he'd had to reach within himself to even be on that starting line. I had to reach deeply within myself to take a hard stance with him, likely the only time I've ever done it. I e-mailed back:"You know what to do!" He rode that race and during it he had his epiphany that formed his training program over the past year: he doesn't lose races on the climbs, he loses them on the descents partly due to his fear of the fast downhills. He was 59 years old, riding in a group of age 45+ riders in a field where people were dropping like flies. The rain and snow rained and snowed. Riders weren't properly dressed for it and had to pull out. He finished 14th in his category. He was the last cyclist to complete the race. The photo is him at Boulevard in 2009. It must have been early in the race, because there is daylight. When he finished, it was almost completely dark.

Fast forward to the 2010 event. Last year, rain was pretty much guaranteed, with the mostly likely precipitation predicted for the time he'd be on the race course. Ditto today. 30% chance at 11:00 a.m., 80% chance at 1:00 p.m. when he goes off and throughout the afternoon. Last year the radar showed a massive wall of water aimed at San Diego County. Check! Same thing today. There are mudslide warnings, with a chance the crumbling, ancient race course road will be mud slicked. A few minutes ago he e-mailed from the start: "Pouring." I sent back my hard line statement. "You know what to do." Earlier this morning, in one e-mail he told me, "I feel compelled to go do this whatever the conditions are now." I like observing a mad dog.

So for those who like the minutiae: On his skin he's applied a double layer of Mad Alchemy's medium embrocation for some protection against the rain and cold. There is nothing medium about this stuff - it is hell for hot. He's wearing 3 underlayers beneath last year's Paramount Racing Club kit and knee warmers. He has put on his red Assos jacket and topped it off with his rain jacket. On his head he wears the cycling cap I gave him as a Solstice gift and his helmet. When he mounts up, he'll be in the saddle on his favored Cervelo R3 upon which he has put rain tires.

Phone call from the starting line, 29 minutes to go: He's all checked in and has given my phone number in the event of emergency. He holds the phone up to the roof of the car so I can hear the pounding rain. It sounds like rocks hitting the roof! His fellow cyclist, John Rubcic, has just gone by on a motorcycle (he's doing rider support this race). Rubcic is soaked to the skin and reports that the road has running streams of water throughout. In some places the water is deep enough to have come up through the cattle guards. The Badger is watching a rider out the window. The man sits in the saddle in cycling shorts, a jersey and arm warmers - nothing against the rain and nothing on his legs. Incredibly, given his lack of attention to weatherproofing himself, he's got shoe covers on. I guess he values the shoes. "So are you going, Badger?" He says he'll start the race and weigh it lap by lap. "Can I do anything for you?" He asks me to check the hour-by-hour weather and the radar. Serendipity! When the gun goes off, there is 100% chance of thunderstorms. However, by 2:00, there's only a 75% chance of light rain and by 3:00 and 4:00 it says "cloudy". The radar shows the storm is breaking up somewhat. If he can get through the first hour or two without mishap or hypothermia . . . my computer says 1:01 p.m. He's off!

Now I pace or work distractedly for 4 or 4 1/2 hours or maybe 5. When he dismounts, he'll have to wipe down the bike and put it in the car, wipe down himself and put himself in the car, and then the phone call will come. I already have some interview questions sketched out. I'll update this post as soon as I can and we'll have it in his words when he finally busts out of Boulevard.

At the (at least) halfway point: 3:00 p.m. No phone call announcing emergency. No phone call from him to say he has had to pull the plug. The radar looks significantly better, although the hour-by-hour says it's still raining. Two hours into it. Up to two hours left to complete it. The speed will certainly have been affected by bad road conditions. No way to guess how much it has slowed the pace.

He's had to pull the plug - 3:40 p.m.: He is not hurt, nor is the bike. He made two laps - 45 miles. The wind and rain were so remarkable he barely had his wits about him to speak of it. More details on his blog or here when he gets warm and dry.

In my ears right now: The Rolling Stones. Start Me Up. Good starting line music. Good music to which to pace quickly (and dance just a little).

Something that charmed me: He called on me to help get his story and experience out. I found I knew how to tell about a cycling race. I like both of those things.

True Colors

When we worked for the union, Ex and I were swept away for 2 weeks each year to headquarters for some intensive training on varying topics. In election years, it was about political action, without question - we represented public employees whose income came from tax money. When important laws came down, we could expect deep immersion into the newest protected class under the Civil Rights Act or the finer points of objecting to random drug testing of school bus drivers in California (state law vs. federal law). As collective bargaining laws changed, we were the first to learn about the impacts on our members.

Annual training was always fun until we had a baby - then was a bit tougher. But the dynamics of 250 labor union business agents in a hotel ballroom for days on end was a beautiful thing. The egos are uncontainable. The passion is unequalled, because one can't do this work if one doesn't have the fire in the belly. If one isn't questioning, curious, rebellious, creative and gutsy, one is not respected by peers or the employer. If one cannot emote at a hearing like Clarence Darrow in the courtroom or write the post-hearing brief like a Supreme Court Justice, one should look for other work. The annual gathering gave us a chance to brag for and learn from our peers who covered every inch of California.

There came a year that we were losing disciplinary hearings at an alarming rate. Careful review showed strong evidence that in most of these losses, the rep had carefully prepared a case built on the accused member's version of events . . . and been derailed in the hearing because the member's version matched no one else's. Brainstorming sessions of battered representatives suggested that if only we could really understand what makes people tick, we could succeed for our members despite themselves. Now, where to locate that manual on human behavior?

Enter True Colors® ( http://www.true-colors.com/ ). We all got teasers preceding the training event: "Here's your manual on human beings!" True Colors® is a simple model of personality identification for people of all ages that improves communication through recognition of a person’s true character. Utilizing the colors of orange, green, blue and gold to differentiate four basic personality types, True Colors® is easily learned and is the real deal - recognized and used by mental health professionals around the globe. True Colors® training is always entertaining - participants absorb and use the information as they see fit. Some are briefly charmed to learn their dog Frisky is a green, while their third son is a glowing orange. Others become so connected to this method of understanding people, they become rabid. I would be one of those. I am a certified True Colors® facilitator and trainer.

At breaks, the reps milled around laughing, chatting, "accusing" one another of being "orange" or being "blue". Whether they would ever use this stuff again, they clearly understood the rudiments of it immediately. Soon we all looked beyond our best friend and toward, perhaps, our supervisor, spouse or the nemesis who sat across the table during contract negotiations. "Oh! I get it that when I say "X", he hears "Y". For his personality, I need to express it in these terms." By the end of the session, we all understood that every person is a rainbow, possessing each color to some degree. The point is that we all tend to lead with our strongest color most of the time and that is what defines us. After two weeks, we warbled Cyndi Lauper's "True Colors" and went our separate ways.

Some reps never used it again, preferring to use facts and logic to win cases rather than messing around figuring out human beings. Those people are green. Some used it forever after, seeking peace and harmony. Those people are blue. I cannot say what an impact True Colors® had on me. You see, I'd never understood other people at all. Now I had a roadmap! I've used it for 25 years now - it is part of me. I apply it to bosses, people I supervise, potential partners, girlfriends and store clerks. I knew Amber's rainbow was identical to my own by the time she was 2. It helped me to understand what she needed and how it needed to be presented to her. I have trained thousands of people in True Colors® and it is some of the most fun I've ever had.

True deal: True Colors® is so ingrained in me that one can take me to a cocktail party and have a bit of fun. Send me through a group of people I do not know and give me 5 minutes with each. I can go off to a private room and list these folks' rainbows, in order, with a little explanation beside each color. When I present these rainbows and ask if I'm correct, most people are pretty startled. I'm no Criss Angel, but I can work a little magic!
This won't surprise the reader - I use True Colors® daily. It's what makes me strong at booking jobs, at calming the angry customer, at helping a struggling home dude, at encouraging someone who is down, at getting my own needs met . . . I understand - at least at the surface, which is where we always start - what people need from me in terms of communication. That makes me feel powerful, because I can give whatever information I need to present in a way the listener will understand and value.

Should LimesNow sound just a little too full of herself to the reader, please consider this: I didn't make this stuff up. I don't own it. I'm not that good. It's just a tool that worked and works for me as I sit rambling on the bus trying to connect with others.

For a little fun, go take a free True Colors® test and learn something about yourself. I took one this morning and nearly fainted. I know myself well in True Colors® terms. Imagine my shock this morning to learn that I'm not what I once was - and I am what I thought I couldn't be. My faintest color for decades is right up there now. I think that attests to things I've achieved and a new mindset. An old dog can learn new tricks!

In my ears right now: What else? "I see your true colors shining through, I see your true colors and that's why I love you . . . "

Something that charmed me: Finding myself Green/ Blue/ Orange/Gold! I worked for years to stifle my gold a little and punch up my green. Or maybe it's just appropriate that Limes is green.

Dragonflies Flitting Around the Swamp that is my Mind

If the driver of my bus could peer into my muddled head today, he'd make me take a seat on the roof or the bike rack to blow said head out. I'm not particularly down, I'm just not particularly focused. In the 5-mile commute to work I was everywhere my head goes, and floating a little above the ground. I laughed, I cried, I ran the gamut of emotions. Then I tried, yet again, to run the 22 stairs to my office door. I'll keep trying until I've really run all 22. I have a way to go.

I was sad to see that Gidget died, and I'm not being wise. When that Taco Bell campaign was roaring, Amber was about 7. We collected all the stuffed toys, all the T-shirts and perfected our inflection of "Yo quiero." We "Yo quiero"ed everything from "Pepsi" to "a kiss" to "my allowance". I don't particularly care for dogs, and especially not for chihuahuas, but Gidget made me snicker and her dying made me a little nostalgic, for Amber isn't 7 any more and we don't snicker about such things.

Last night Stephanie pummeled me on the masssage table until I spoke uncommon words. "Back off a little, Stephanie." At that moment, she was pulling my leg backward over my shoulder to stretch me. I was using Lamaze breathing and focusing on my own personal beautiful imagined place. She had torn hell out of the neck from hell and never landed on relief. I was a little fretful. She finally asked me if I could possibly be overtraining. Hmmmmm. I wondered. When I got home, I referred to the marathoners bible I refer to. Maybe. Yes. Way too much, way too soon. Common eager rookie mistake. This needs to be paced.

I cackled a little bit about this anecdote in my theme of "I don't get men." I bought a top, cheap at Ross on Geezer Day. The label said its color is "grape". I wore it the next day. When David crossed the threshold, his eyes widened and he blurted spontaneously, "You look lovely today." There was absolutely no hubba hubba in this, folks. He simply walked in, saw something fresh and new, and gave his version of "Oh, how nice." The instant he said it, the home dudes - to a man - dropped their gaze to the floor and began to shuffle their feet. The place was dead silent as I said, "Well, thank you, that's a nice way to start my day." What the heezy? What struck them all identically and froze them in their tracks? It's been suggested that they frequently forget I'm a girl and that may have reminded them. I just don't know.

I sent Justin out to give an estimate yesterday. A commercial account - a well known country club clubhouse. Justin's just getting the hang of commercial quotations. He radioed me: "Limes, I'm going to be at least 2 hours measuring this." What? "Justin, what are you measuring? Are you using a ruler?" "Limes, if we get this, it will be the biggest job we've ever done. And they want it next week." Well, I'm a pretty quick study, people. Next week is still July. We're on pace for only a break-even month. I know the amount of the largest job we've ever done. I focused on my writing skills. For in giving estimates, home dudes inspect and measure. Limes is the wordsmith. I want that income for July.

And now, over the last cup of coffee for this day, an "I wonder". I wonder why, when I'm witnessing sunrise each day there is slight cloudiness. I wonder why, when I'm driving to work there is sunshine and few clouds. I wonder why the monsoon slides in as soon as our phone traffic should be starting for the day. It's only predicted for another week or so. Sigh . . .

In my ears right now: It's REM every time I get this way. Right now, it's Everybody Hurts, but I'll need to change it soon or I'll bleed to death.

Something that charmed me: I sat with Justin to "interview" him about his inspection of the country club. I do that so I can write my quote with more punch than if I simply looked at numbers written on a work order. He kept choking on his replies to me. "Justin, what's up? Aren't you comfortable with what you saw or what you're telling me?" He replied: "No, Limes, I don't know fancy words." Said I: "Just tell me what you saw in home dude terms. The words are my job." He just beamed and gave me a beautifully descriptive verbal tour of that vast carpeted area.

No More Bitchy Pills for You, Little Miss Crabby Ass

Mr. Insomnia and I were blogging around together on our date. I'd stepped away from the computer for a few days - surprising, because I've come to love to blog and have quite a group of favorites I follow, interspersed with writing my own. To be really straight about it, I was so unprepared to succeed at my first long training walk that I kind of stopped in my tracks and spent a couple of days changing the way I approach almost everything. There were actually some Bambi-in-the-Highbeams moments of fear. "Even if I did 17, I bet I won't be able to do 20." Which is rubbish, because adding 3 the next time won't be anything. But there were far more moments that were simply "What just happened here and what do I do next?" Should I go get the M(arathoner) tattoo? Probably premature, since I am not one yet. So, in the spirit of regaining my equilibrium:

David's back from vacation and I was never as happy to see a head covered by a baseball cap rising up out of the stairwell. He grinned, I grinned. In the first hour he made a one-sentence proclamation, "It was a $70 job - give the woman her money back," that took the weight of the world off of my shoulders. Geez, I know his philosophy very well. Why didn't I think of that? He took a group of extended family to San Diego for a week and did everything the way he does things - top shelf. He rented a boat and jet skis on the Fourth. He had some good stories spawned by the fact that multiple members of the family turned out not to be seafarers. Been there. A zillion times. San Diego Bay is choppy much of the time. One's skin really does turn a greenish hue.


As I sat at my desk doing not less work, but more "my" work as David did "his" work all day, I was repeatedly annoyed by the chirp of the WeatherBug. I keep the WeatherBug on my desktop at work and at home. I can glance at the temperature any time, and if there's anything remarkable to tell, the WeatherBug chirps at me. It's a very efficient arrangement. So WeatherBug was at me all day long - the alert went from moderate to high to extreme fire danger alerts throughout southern Nevada as we are enjoying screaming winds, extremely high temperatures and single digit humidity. OK, makes sense to me. We're sittin' on a tinder box and we see fires frequently in the mountains nearby. So how does that comport with . . . .

Shocking to me, as I am a SoCal woman and we haven't seen such a sight in decades, the fireworks stands begin to spring up in every convenience store parking lot in the city about 10 days before the Fourth. We have a lot of convenience stores, folks. I'm going to say there are not hundreds, but thousands of stands, each one benefitting this good cause, that charity or club, another wonderful organization. Sold from these stands are notorious poorly made fireworks imported from China. [Yes, this paragraph is going to contain all manner of assaults to my sensibilities.] The prices are shocking, the fireworks are well known, maybe even expected. to be duds or faulty or dangerous. Oh yeah, and anyone one can buy them and set fire to them late at night after a day that might have included BBQ and beer.


Friday as I stepped out of the car at 7-11, the Metro PD K-9 unit volunteers were setting up their fireworks booth ~ hey! it was the day before the Fourth. A few officers were there with their K-9 vehicles and several of the mammoth beasts sat obediently and quietly in a row. That was to my left. To my right was the Channel 3 news van, cameras at the ready, staffers looking for a story. I was one of few patrons in the parking lot and a young cameraman and a chirpy girl reporter stepped my way. "Uh-uh, guys. I'm not the one you want. I don't approve of the fireworks and that's not the organization that tugs at my heart. You'll have wasted your time getting bad video." Shocked looks! I was concerned the K-9s might be loosed on me. But just silence, and I walked on to buy my crappy cup of 7-11 coffee.

The night of the Fourth, it was arranged that a group of us home dudes would meet up on the deck at the office, BBQ food left over and frozen from Limes Appreciation Day, with David's blessing . . . and watch all of the valley's offerings of fireworks. Limes didn't go after all, having practically erased her feet and legs from her body that day. Yesterday morning (Monday, after the holiday weekend), I was regaled with a story. In the yard just behind and below our office, a family was setting off an impressive number of dud fireworks. Children and adults were excited and the home dudes were having fun watching them from above. When the store of fireworks was exhausted, the piece de resistance was brought out. This object resembled a small hot air balloon - and, yes - the apparent "dad" ignited it in the same place such balloons are fired up. Home dudes watched the upper balloon portion inflate as it filled with hot air and started to rise slowly. Once the balloon rose to a height higher than the block wall surrounding the yard, the wind caught it. Flung it across the yard into a tree which immediately caught fire. "Get the hose!"

Extreme fire danger alert, indeed. After the story was told, I said, "Now, I have a problem with that." Silence in the office. "Aw, Limes, it's all in good fun." I'm just in from my walk and time to get ready for work. Flipped on the TV newscast I enjoy and half-listen to on weekday mornings. Right this moment, fire in the Wetlands near Sam Boyd Stadium. Flames 25 feet high. Roaring for hours. We don't have many wetlands areas in the Mojave, folks.

In my ears right now: Reports and predictions of heat, wind, fire danger. WeatherBug chirping, which intrigues Dylan and Virginia Woolf.

Something that doesn't charm me: The Michael Jackson Traveling Circus rolls on to its seminal moment this morning. Enough - more than enough - already! I liked his music, too. Everything else is not our business. Millions of people vying for 8,750 seats x 2 in the Staples Center. 250,000 people expected in the streets. As David said, "When they have the Coliseum, Dodger Stadium . . . . "

Independence Day

Ex and I moved to Las Vegas on the Bicentennial Day - July 4, 1976. My mother had beckoned, saying if we wanted to be homeowners at a relatively young age, we might forego SoCal for a few years and start building our financial foundation in a place that was booming (but it does always bust eventually). Stepfather was a general contractor building homes faster than I can type it. Mom was the real estate broker who sold the homes. A post was found for me as an escrow officer - I escrowed the homes. Ex learned landscape and sprinkler systems - he put in the yards. It was a nice little dynasty we had.

We left LA that morning in our yellow VW Beetle with four kittens aged 8 weeks, a tiny traveling litter box, and everything we owned. Our home was to be one of the model homes in Stepfather's latest development. It was beautifully upgraded and we were excited . . . until we arrived in Las Vegas in 113 degrees to hear that decorating on the new model homes hadn't been completed and we'd need an apartment for a couple of months. OK ~ we quickly got one.

The 2 months rolled by and we did move into that first home. It was where I morphed from a teenager to a young woman. I learned to entertain and manage a "large estate" (ha!), keep a yard in an impossible climate, prevent my pack of cats from terrorizing the neighborhood. I belonged there. We (finally) married while living in this home. We spoke of beginning a family there. We hosted my Granny, my Dad and every known relative there. When you live in Las Vegas, you get lots of house guests. Funny how that works!

It should be noted, however, that while Ex loved everything about Las Vegas, I did not. I just liked where my life was during the time we happened to be in Las Vegas. He trenched by hand for sprinkler systems at high noon in August, no shirt on, braids to his waist . . and loved it. If I got a little dewy from heat, I hated life. When it snowed and my car spun off the road, I was ready to pack it in. He trenched for sprinkler systems in the snow and loved it.

When the economy busted, we headed for San Diego for the next 21 years (well, 21 years for me). Amber was born. We lived in one place for the longest time I've ever lived anywhere. When we divorced, circumstances were such that Ex got San Diego and I got - oh, NO, I've already served my sentence there - Las Vegas. Viva. ;(

Shortly after I returned here in 2003, and while the divorce conflagration was still roaring, I took a ride in my car to a well-known neighborhood. I parked and got out onto the sidewalk. An older man and his dog were in the yard, which was beautifully maintained, as was the paint, the wrought iron trimmings, the concrete driveway. I started to cry and he asked if he could be of assistance. "I'm sorry, Sir, I used to live here." "Then you must be Limes." Huh?

Ex and I had left Las Vegas before the house sold. We'd never met the eventual buyers. This couple had now lived in my former home for more than 20 years, and one might call them houseproud because they clearly spent a lot of time taking care of their home. For many years they had received catalogs in the mail addressed to Limes Now and had seen my name in the concrete patio with the date 6-18-78. The wife made me a cup of tea and gave me an inspirational book and then these lovely people did the most amazing thing - remember, he'd just picked me up sobbing on the sidewalk and I hadn't presented ID.

They went out into the yard with their dog. I remained in "my" home to walk through the rooms alone. The block hearth and mantelpiece I'd painted every year because the soot and ashes made it messy. The carefully concealed bullet hole from Ex's gun going off unexpectedly. My name and Ex's on the patio. Numerous rose bushes in the yard that I'd planted with my own hands. In the master bedroom, ex once hung some wallpaper I'd fallen in love with. He'd done a credible job of it for a man who'd never hung wallpaper. There it was in 2003 . . and, yep - the ferns on that wallpaper were still upside down.

I've never gone back there. I don't need to. Ex divorced me. And I divorced him right back during my stroll through our past home.

It happens that I will have the rare 2 days off in a row this weekend. I need a major walk to continue training. I've plotted my route. From my present home past the house that Stepfather built to the apartment shared with Ex and the kittens (which is now a pretty rough area). One of those kittens was in my life 17 years and waited in the bassinette when I brought newborn Amber home from the hospital. Turn around and retrace my steps. I figure it to be 16.75 miles round trip. On the 4th of July through Las Vegas. From my present through my past and back again. Very fitting!

In my ears right now: The Star Spangled Banner, what else? And James Taylor's truly beautiful tune, "The Fourth of July".

Something that charmed me: Choosing my words very carefully, so as not to ruin young men for life, I was telling some of the home dudes about different challenges of extremely long walks in heat. One is perspiring everywhere so that shirt, shorts, socks and shoes are soaked by the time one gets home. I also mentioned that my skin is irritated from moisture. "Men's clear antiperspirant, Limes. Even in the weird spots." Well, yeah! Duh. I shall try it immediately.

Something else that charmed me: Writing the blog post and scheduling it to post while I am out on my 16+ mile walk. I'll return home and maybe have comments before I've even checked out the post. We live in wondrous times!