The Prose and Cons of...Everything

I Am Not My Brothers' Or My Sisters' Keeper

2011-02-16T16:12:00.001-05:00

...and I'm sure as hell not responsible for their whiney-assed kids' problems, right? Right!? Okey dokey, here's my take on it.

"Mutual Reciprocity" breaks down as "You scratch my back and I'll scratch your's." More finitely, it is the give and take in any relationship that make bonds that don't break easily, or conveniently, when the going gets tough.

The mutual reciprocity I want to address here is in my own very large family. I've been kicking this around in my head forever, but some recent spewing of drunken rhetoric by the youngest family dipso set me off afresh.

For background, I am the youngest of nine children. My now antique mother was quite scandalously married twice, having two children by a rather abusive, alcoholic and ignorant man, divorcing him - also very scandalously - and then marrying my father and proceeding to have {GULP!} seven more children.

My two oldest half-sibs could have been my parents at more than twenty years older than me at my birth. We basically grew up with my half-sister's kids and I am auntie to several nephews and nieces who are older than I am.

My oldest natural brother was 18 when I was born. He was married and had twin girls of his own when I was not quite five and they came back to Maine to live with us for awhile. He and his wife shortly thereafter had a little boy and divorced, and we all lost track of one another.

Now that we're all adults and life has taken its toll on us, the blame has started. It actually started a long time ago, but only recently has it come to a boiling pointing of fingers and gestures, accusations hurled and ultimatums laid down.

Here's the gist, at least as I see it. These few nieces and nephews expect me and my siblings to "do something for them." We are expected to somehow make up for the losses they suffered as children for all the divorces, their parents' substance abuses and various sufferings. As siblings to their parents - even though we were children and are virtually the same age as these now whining adults looking for "justice" - we are being looked at as the "Ones to Blame for Everything That Life Did Not Give Them."

My cool brother said to me that one of the nieces angrily said to him, "What did you ever do for me?!" He remarked laughingly to me that he didn't know he had any sort of obligations and golly gosh, what had she ever done for him?

Well, no shit, and that's my point. I cannot comprehend what it is we, as their parents' sibs were expected "to do" for them? Does that strike anyone as stupid? And does this give them the freedom to feel slighted all these years and blame their aunts and uncles for their crappy childhoods? Don't get me wrong - they blame everyone on earth, but we're closer and can be actually scorned in public. It's harder to make everyone on earth feel badly because those people truly don't give a shit about these whiney little pukes who stopped their emotional growth at age "whatever."

And here's some more truth: I grew up in a house of nine people, ten when my oldest half-sister was home when I was just a baby. We had one bathroom. My father worked his ass off and Mom kept things running at home. To say that we were poor doesn't even say enough. Mom suffered from severe depression and when my two older sisters graduated high school and left to make their own lives, I was nine years old and thus began the darkest days of my young life.

There is a huge misconception amongst the older nieces and nephews that our lives were a bed of roses. This is a dream, a lie, a construct they made up to get them through their darkest days. Sorry to burst your bubble, kids. We had it as hard as you did, just in a different way.

I will always love these "kids" because they are my brothers' and sisters' children, just like they will always love their brothers' and sisters' children. But I owe them nothing else. I cannot make up for what their parents did or didn't do. I can't bring back their childhoods or make them feel whole where life tore them apart. It's not my job; it's theirs.

Now, if I could only make my self believe my sober rhetoric and stop feeling guilty that my love for them clearly isn't enough to make them whole.

Revival of: When You've Got Nowhere to Turn, Turn On The Mask

2011-02-05T09:59:00.000-05:00

When You've Got Nowhere To Turn, Turn On The Mask, originally published 12/1/2009

Now I'm profaning Truman Capote's diabolical quote, "When you've got nowhere to turn, turn on the gas." I prefer my more passive(-aggressive) adaptation. It's less immutable, but no less fatal to the Self.

I have a hard time with masks, meaning they won't stay on my face for more than the blink it takes me to have a contrary thought. I once worked for an attorney we'll call "Sir Knowsalot." He sought to help me by instructing me that I was "so smart I should be better at playing dumb." [Insert gigantic pause here.] Hmmmm. Yeah. 'Not sure if his eyebrows have grown back yet for the scathing look he was given for that remark.

He felt he was right to instruct me thusly. After all, his mask was hereditary, like the buckteeth or insanity often seen bestowed upon the privileged, or on royalty in particular. I guess by then, age 25 or so, I should have learned to never leave the house without a mask or the majority opinion well in mind, thus securing my place amongst the obscure. But something kicked within me, and it wasn't Sir Knowsalot's love child. It was rage at being told to play dead. It was my not-so-inner jackass that braced its feet and brayed "Kiss my hairy cruppers!!"

Twenty years later, I say aloud I don't wish to be obscure. The obscure turned on Capote's gas years ago, failed to light it and don't yet realize they're dead from the neck up. F--k obscurity and f--k the attorney who told me to play dumb.

I'm Blaming Julia Childs...

2011-02-04T20:27:00.000-05:00

Today I bought, rather, my beloved bought an 18" strand of lovely rosy cultured pearls for me for Valentine's Day. Only he doesn't know it yet. He'll notice them eventually, at some point before Valentine's Day and I'll tell him that's what he got me and gosh, aren't they beautiful, and doesn't he have fabulous taste, and aren't they just what I wanted? He's so smart. I love him for letting me do this thing over and over again.

But, so it IS Julia Child's fault, all of this. The pearls, I mean. Yup. I just yesterday watched "Julie & Julia" and there she was with her pearls, and then Julie Powell had to get pearls. Well, then I had to get pearls. It's all very logical.

I love the way they grace my collar bone, skimming my neck line, and make me fall in love with my truest Self again after such a long absence of hardly recognizing I even exist. I realize, once again, that I'm no grunge babe, no hippie maven, and goth ain't never been my thang. I've always been the kind of girl - - who'm I kidding, I'm nearly 47 - - I'm a string-of-pearls-kind-of-woman.

Any one of you who really know me would agree. Of course, I swear like a pirate, I work at a dirty job as a landscaper, and I can throw back booze with the best of the louts. But at my core, at the end of the day, no one considers me one of the guys or even one of the "gals" probably. Sadly.

I not long ago related a story to an old, dear friend of mine where I'd sworn viciously in front of my new co-workers and how they'd been so shocked and how my boss had laughed so hard, seemingly in shock, tickled to death that I'd said something so vulgar. My friend replied, "Well, Toni, it was like the princess swore." I felt frankly stunned when he said that.

I chalk this "princess" estimation up to not having enough intuition or his bullshit-o-meter being on the fritz. It makes me think of a story I heard a while ago about Mary Travers of Peter, Paul & Mary. Peter spoke in an interview about her, saying how a review spoke of her cat-like movements on stage while she performed and that she had read that and laughed out loud about it. He went on to explain how nervous she was on stage, giving her these twitchy habits and making her move jerkily when she sang that others misread as "cat-like." She was glad, however, that the reviewer found her cat-like movements appealing, even sexy, but it was utterly by mistake that they occurred at all. It gave her credibility where she felt vulnerability.

My "princess" personna? It, too, is false, but I daresay it has afforded me more protection and credibility than I could adequately measure over these many years.

Serendipity + Synchronicity + Supercalifragalisticexpialidociousality

2011-02-01T15:29:00.000-05:00

Serendipity + Synchronicity + Supercalifragalisticexpialidociousality... Put them together and what have you got?

"It would happen that I've quite fortunately discovered I'm not only vastly brilliant, but I'm hiding behind my delicate beauty to allow you to feel like less of an ignoramus in my presence."

Isn't that delightful?

I love language, its nuances, difficulties and stickiness. Much to my beloved's chagrin, I adore finding and pointing out typos and poor language uses in signs and printed media, on television in the weather reports and such. And, it's not because I'm a pain-in-the-ass-know-it-all, though some would choose to differ. I find it comforting that I'm not the only person with her hands on the wrongs keys for a solid five minutes of typing without looking up from the text [insert woman screaming obscenities at the top of her lungs] or dangling this or that grammatical element by its dipthong.

So I'll just admit it: I read the dictionary and encyclopedias when the moods strikes. I am, in fact,one of "those" people. I'll go to look up one thing and end up reading through all of the E's or whatever. It's sad, I know.

Our Mom's most famous saying, after "Go out and play before I kill you all," was "Look it up." She just simply didn't have the time to help each and every one of her seven children with every definition and explanation and still get dinner on the table. As annoying as this was for us at the time, this latter directive came to be an invaluable tool in molding my personality to be an utterly independent researcher. As for the former directive? Let's just say I still know when to make a graceful exit.

...and All that Prophetic Jazz

2010-06-19T05:48:00.007-04:00

This was my astrological horoscope for yesterday, June 18, 2010:

CANCER (June 21-July 22): You need to make some serious changes to satisfy both personal and professional associations. Reconstruct the way things have been in the past and you will realize what needs to be done to make the future better.

Now, I used to be the kind of person who read my horoscope religiously [smirk] every single day, sometimes twice a day from different sources just to make sure I was on track. As time went by, I sifted through all the chaff to find the truth and philosophy I liked and could relate to. I finally settled down to make my peace with the Universe and practice My Thing. It's surely not Your Thing, but that's okay - - at least with me.

This horoscope, however, was after-the-fact-prophetic. Earlier that morning I discovered my intuition was correct, dead-on in fact, that I was not going to get the job with my dearest friend, Toughy the attorney. The silence had been deafening from his end and I knew in my depths that the coup was complete, that decisions had been made behind his back and he would be the last to know.

What I cannot change about the past is my past. I cannot change the depression I suffered after my car accident; it wasn't my fault and it simply happened. But my medical history was an open book to the powers that be and I was determined to be unfit for duty for my dearest friend, to return to my former career in that firm, and set him right in his direst time of need. Some, like the Maine Labor Board, might consider that Harrisment of a sort, and in case you didn't know, it's highly illegal to ask a new hire to reveal any medical information about themselves.

However, if an entire medical history from a car accident case is:

already there for the picking and choosing of facts;
for the sole purpose of eliminating a candidate for employment because she's gone batshit; and
if said perusement can be denied by all culpable parties - -
well, you get the picture.

[This is strictly my hyperbole, for the record, you cowards...just try me.]

I had gotten the news that I was never in the running for consideration on the drive to my mother's house to pick her up for her hearing aid appointment, and before I read the horoscope in the local newspaper. I was pretty teary-eyed about the whole thing but swallowed it whole in order to present a smiling face to my mother.

And, so here I am looking sort of dumbfounded at this finger-wagging horoscope in the hearing aid guy's office, waiting for my mom to get her adjustment. I'm trying to bend my already addled mind around this two sentence blurb. Should I not have even tried to recreate the past by going back to an old career? I'd had serious reservations about returning to law all along; I was only considering it for Toughy's sake. I was a jackass specialist as well as legal assistant and paralegal. Until Toughy came along, that's who I was hired to tend. And, working for lawyers is an art. You know the art that looks like the splatter a hefty Hereford could create after a large meal of corn and oats? That kind of art.

Today, I'm stuck in neutral; moving neither forward nor backward. Toughy and I are likely in the same mode. The Universe is forcing his hand to decide and make "some serious change" and "reconstruct" just like me.

I think I'll go for a long walk and try to find grace in all this confusion.

Baring the Blackened Sole

2010-06-14T07:36:00.003-04:00

These blackened soles of mine have traversed many the highway and bi-way, rumbling past hitching seraphims with trembling thumbs only half-heartedly exposed beneath their cloaks. I've tread there and beyond, baby, and only sometimes and rarely am I reminded of my somewhat naive and vaguely sordid youth and past when I get a faceful of someone else's.

See, I believe the focus should be not so much the dirt we "get on our hands" as the history, mystery, and experience we receive as a gift from daring to go where "angels fear to tread." It is the only place we get perspective on other people's lives. Sometimes, we get a glimmer of truth about ourselves but usually not until much later.

All that I am began in 1964 and ended here today, so far. All the good, the bad and the really unsavory stuff I've done, I believe I've both benefited from and paid dearly for along the way. When I finally met my truest love, my loving husband, I felt that I had "evened the score" on my Karmic dance card. I'd hurt and been hurt and finally I was back at zero and had a clean slate to work from. I could feel the Cosmic Cast Iron Frying Pan in the Sky hovering above me, waiting to swat the back of my head if I screwed up this time but I was now older and wiser. I knew I had gotten to a place in my life where my future could be grand.

All the suffering, inflicted by others and purely self-inflicted had been working toward this moment in time. It had prepared me for the love of my life; this thing I'd been dodging and unprepared for was finally mine to have. I deserved it. And, here I am many years later, content with my truest love, my husband, my life settled down and peaceful.

In order to be completely honest, completely human and "there" for my Self and my dearest friends, it is imperative that I never again forget my blackened soles and the dangerous paths I tread with my quivering angel hovering a step behind and whispering "Don't!"

You Gotta Know When to Hold 'Em, Know When to Fold 'Em...

2010-06-10T13:36:00.004-04:00

How does one approach the job market nowadays? Can there be any room whatsoever for bargaining, negotiation, or "feeling one's oats," as it were?

The reason I ask this very broad question is I'm really struggling with specific facts about my Self, which make me feel proud and a little self-righteous, if you want the whole truth:

I'm nearly 46 and I have an excellent resume that clearly stands out in a crowd. I am well-spoken, mature (when the mood strikes), and make an excellent first impression. I am well organized, can work for any jackass on the market with ease and professionalism, and can learn any job quickly and easily. These are FACTS about me.

Okay, facts aside and despite all of these glorious things: I have been unable to find a job after applying for between 45 and 50 jobs since I quit my job in September 2009. I have applied for jobs ranging from "Unemployment Specialist Hearings Officer" (hey, they sent the referral TO ME) to cleaning lady at the hospital (now you know what that would entail, right?).

I cite my age above because I feel I'm beyond certain types of jobs like working at McDonalds in a paper hat or hustling plates at the local diner in orthopedic shoes and a threadworn blue and white poplin waitress get-up. I would rather clean up hospital ickies than do either of those jobs.

Hundreds, no thousands of college grads are pounding the pavements for real and in the computer ethers, debt-laden and possessing papers that should be getting them through doors that are shut fast against them. Those people with jobs aren't budging and the companies who are downsizing are not rehiring. They are simply making do with less workforce.

And, here I am thinking I should be able to negotiate because I'm valuable. WOW.

Even as I write this and see how crazy it all looks and sounds as I read aloud, I'm still convinced I should be able to negotiate something better for my Self - because I'm valuable and I know it. Pride goeth before the fall, eh? Well, shit even after I fall down I'll still be rolling around screaming, "...but I'm valuable!!"

You Can't Cry Foul If You Aren't Playing The Game...

2010-06-03T14:19:00.005-04:00

Of late I find my Self reminiscing back in time when I was about eleven. This was when I realized my parents were no longer sleeping together in the Biblical sense. Mom had "cut Dad off," as it were for reasons that still mystify me some thirty-five years later. I know this because it was pretty obvious that they'd drifted apart, plus Mom told me, quite confidentially in that icky mother-daughter way that results from mommies losing their grip on who they are and what role they actually perform in their children's lives. She pole-vaulted the line from Mother to unwelcome and untrustworthy confidante in one fell swoop. At age eleven, I became the adult in our relationship. My mother could no longer be trusted to act as an adult, take care of me properly, or be confided in.

Many years later when Dad finally sought out the affections of another woman, Mom flipped out. She was incensed that he could "cheat on her like that." I was older then with a sensibility that sympathized with Dad's loneliness and anger at Mom. "Cheat on you like what" I asked her? My very handsome father who had seven children with my mother wanted to be with a woman who found him attractive and wanted to have sex with him. It was just that simple. After A DECADE of denial, hostility, criticism, and inattention Dad finally decided to go find a woman who actually wanted to talk to him, to find him irrepressibly funny, and to walk down the street with him at dusk in complete silence listening to the peepers and watching the dancing fireflies. And to have sex - lots and lots of life- and soul-affirming sex. My darling husband says that "even a hundred year old man wants to have sex." I'm sure he's correct.

Mom screamed that I didn't understand and she was one hundred percent correct. I obviously wasn't an insane sociopath like she was. To this day, I will never understand how Mom or any other person can treat their spouse like a cuckhold for years, sometimes decades, and then be surprised and angry when their husband or wife finally breaks down and finds someone else to love them - mind, body and soul.

Mom called all the shots in the marriage. It was her way or no way. Black or white were your two choices. She even had the nerve to try to bring all of us kids over to her side of the issue, succeeding only with one kid in making Dad the bad guy. Most of us recognized that although Dad wasn't perfect, we knew what Mom had done was just wrong in a marriage, or on a basic human level. Mom would threaten Dad in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that his fighting her or his telling us the truth would result in a loss of his children.

How do I reconcile this now that I'm much older, married, and looking at life with experienced eyes? I see it the same exact way I did when I was a kid. Mom was wrong and there was no fixing that. Dad wasn't "right," but he ended up giving up an important part of his real life for his kids out of fear he would lose us. Mom had no right to cry foul for Dad's infidelity. She treated him with incredible hostility with zero explanation.

I recently forgot about this life experience I've just chronicled when I was dealing with a very dearest friend's life event. I was called upon to use my intellect, powers of reasoning and love for him. Instead of doing these very things, I reacted to the hysterical rantings of a sociopathic woman. See, I didn't know any of her backstory, like I knew my mother's or I would have...waited. I let my friend down in a big way by not trusting that that he was fulfilling that very important part of his life that had been denied him for a decade.

I Dreamed Last Night I Was On A Boat To Heaven....

2010-05-20T16:46:00.005-04:00

...and by some light I had brought my flask along. And, there I stood nicely passin' out the whiskey, but the passengers they knew right from wrooooonnggg!!! And....the....people all said sit down, sit down, you're rockin' the boat!!!"

This is an excerpt from a song in "Guys and Dolls." We performed this show at my high school "back in the day," which would be some ten thousand plus days ago in actuality. I guess I've always been a "boat rocker." It's my nature. I'm a rule breaker, but you'd never know it by looking at me. I look quite docile. Ha, Hah! Fooled you didn't I?

What I'm facing and concerned with right now is going back to work - - in law. This surprises me and frightens me at the same time. While a decade ago a new legal secretarial/paralegal position wouldn't have given me two seconds thought or grimace, now I'm feeling sincere trepidation.

Why? Because I am a "boat rocker," and a dyed-in-the-wool rule breaker. I act and then ask for permission later. That's who I am; it's how I am. My motto is "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission." I swear to God that this is my credo and I am known for it, and oh so much more.

Who thought all those burned bridges would catch up with me one day? Hmmm? I sure didn't.

My land is bare of chattering folk, the clouds are low along the ridges and sweet's the air with curly smoke from all my burning bridges." Dorothy Parker

Ol' Dot sure knew, didn't she? What advice would she give me today, with all my trepidation? She'd tell me to f--k off and get the hell away from her until I grew a pair, in all likelihood. Ah, the days before Prozac...poor Dorothy.

But, the question is, do I really care how I'm "known?" No, I really don't. [Insert self-satisfied smirk] As I told my pal, Toughy today, I'm still quite pretty with a disarming smile, quick wit and possessing a nice rack. I can get away with almost anything with men. With women, I'm the kid sister, funny, kind and sincere. I'm a sister and a woman. If I'm playing anyone, it's the men, just like all women - we get what we want but we all stick together in the end. Sorry guys, someone had to tell you what you already knew.

Will I be okay? You bet I will. Dressed to the nines, ready in every respect, wanting this for my Self and for Toughy who needs me like the Sun. Wish me luck.

Language, people!!!

2010-05-15T15:42:00.003-04:00

My husband asked me what the southern guy said on the commercial for "Swamp Loggers" last night. I replied that he said "Mnnggrrhhhh flagarutty naglard, bida glangyrupy yup dare streem." Or at least that's what I heard. He said, yeah that's what he heard too. We still have no idea what that really means and that's okay; it's not radio and we'll get to see what they're talking about. Several fellas on this show are always subtitled because there's no way in hell you're going to figure out what they're saying. 'Could have something to do with the five disparately-spaced teeth and the wad of chew floating around...'just sayin'.

Now I fully realize that "the South" is a different country with a different language, much like the Midcoast is also a different country requiring an occasional interpretor or twelve. Our lovely Southern-belle neighbor, Solana often turns to me for a translation or two from my beloved hubby.

While watching "CSI: Crime Scene Investigation" the other night, both Hub and I distinctly heard the detective say to the perp, "Hey Sputum Booger Head!!!" Now, that's not really what he said of course but it snapped us to attention. We looked at each other quickly in disbelief and then roared with laughter once we realized we'd both heard the same thing. The detective actually said "Hey, put 'em behind your head." I actually think he did say "sputum booger head" and they just left it in to see if anyone would notice. Seriously.

The B.I.T.C.H. (Beautiful Intelligent Talented Charismatic Humorist) is Back...

2010-05-07T18:13:00.015-04:00

...from St. John, Newfoundland. And, can I just say right now, I LOVED this trip except for the dry-drunkard, know-it-all, Little-Man-Syndromer that we were semi-forced to drive to the Manchester Airport with and then subsequently fly with to and from St. John, Newfoundland. Let's call him...well, "Dog Shit on My Heel" is just too long - appropriate, yes, but too long. Geez, this is a tough one! How about "Scrappy?" A little guy, always looking for a fight, yet small enough to kick like a football.

Okay, my idiot tolerance is very low and that is not my fault. It is genetic. I come from a long line of Scottish-Russians with giant bony heads, tippy-in Eskimo tailbones (it's true - call my chiropractor), and an extremely low tolerance for stupidity or light-weight drinkers who can't put down a fifth of Scotch or Vodka without puking or passing out - - or worse - - sharing.

So here's Scrappy, about my height, all of 5'3", weighing a buck twenty soaking wet, with "dirty fighter" written all over him. He's totally going to go for your eyes and your nuts, and not necessarily in that order. So, Scrappy starts out in the car ride to Manchester by asking me - NO BY TELLING ME that I voted for Obama. Well, you pesky little dick head, you. This "man" is a business associate of my hub's, and not one he particularly likes and I know this. However, I can hear my lovely and demure mother's voice in the back of my head telling me to be polite or she'll knock my block off. So I'm polite against all odds and desires. I respond through smiley gritted teeth with a constrained-yet-politely-sarcastic response, and he changes topics all on his own to the fishing industry and starts ranting and raving. I glance over at my utterly tolerant husband and I see his eyes are rolling around in his head, so I'm satisfied that I'm not alone in my misery. I am silently wishing, however, that my car didn't have one of those new "Get the f--k out of the trunk free" glow-in-the-dark safety pull tab devices.

Blah, blah, blah, we finally get to Newfoundland after fog and delays. Scrappy and my sweet hubby get off to their fishing workshop just fine and I stagger jet-lagged and sleep deprived off to bed. Shit-heel keeps on doing his dry-drunk routine, telling me I smile too much and querying "just why I am so happy?" Well, just keep talking jackass and you'll f--k that all to hell eventually.

On Day Four, he finally pushes it to the edge of beyond. At breakfast he says, and I quote, "I know too much." [Insert meaningful and knowing tilt of the head and jutted chin....] Oh, spare me and just jump, you asshole. He's not jumping; he's sitting at our breakfast table in the Marriott dining room. He begins ranting for fifteen minutes ending by saying rather loudly "You should be involved in this too, Joni!! You can't hide your head in the sand, you know!," See, I've been just eating my breakfast during this tirade, basically ignoring him, and that's gotten Scrappy's diaper all wet, poopy-filled or up his crack. What I'm getting at is he's been made to feel like no one's listening BECAUSE NO ONE IS LISTENING. Now, at this point I quietly get up from the table - - seriously, I just say nothing and get up - - and go into the little computer area where I send off a missile of an e-mail to Abella spewing expletives left and right with a speed and pressure that would turn carbon into diamonds in a nanosecond. Upon finally returning to the table, hubby and I are exchanging looks that any carbon-based life-form would recognize as meaningful, but Scrap-meister actually has the cahones to say "I think I made Joni mad" and "I think your wife is angry at me." He says both of these things at least twice each. Can you even f--king believe that? Well, it's true. At this point, my hubby suggests that we both return to the room before he leaves for his fishing workshops that day.

Okay, I'm not made of stone. We return to the room and my resolve crumbles. I begin crying and now hubby is FINALLY showing some anger at this jerk. I've been trying so hard not to be rude to this guy for my husband's sake, and just for general mature polite behaviour's sake. All of this appears to escape Scrappy's notice or concern. To call him a Neanderthal would be an insult to evolution. This guy was "shit on a rock and hatched by the sun," as my sweet and demure mother would say.

Luckily for me, St. Johns, Newfoundland is a treasure of a town, and they have magnificent hiking trails just blocks from the hotel. At all costs, I must clear my psyche of anything and everything having to do with this morning's unpleasantness, so I started off for the Sentinal Hill hike. Not for the faint of heart, scared of heights, weak of knees, or badly out of shape, this hike is all business.

The first sight I encounter is Cape Spear, the northern-most point in North America. By way of background, this is the very first day of four that the sun has even shone, and it is forecast to be short-lived. This hiking trail is alive with people of all ages and all abilities. The wind blows mightily across these barren rocks and the beautiful pewter and feather-white sea. I have to fight to keep my footing just to take a picture or two once atop Sentinal Hill, which I find kind of funny but have no one to share my silliness with. Bracing my feet as far apart as they'll go without committing an act of treason to my hamstrings, I take glorious pictures of the ocean, skyline and carefully restored architecture. The buffeting wind is enough to, as my witty and articulate Dad would say, "Blow a sick whore off a piss pot." Ah, such a poet! How I miss you, you funny, quirky man.

The remainder of the trip was uneventful as Scrappy had been neutered, of sorts, coming to some realization all by his little teeny tiny self that he'd overstepped the bounds of normal and polite human interaction. Or possibly he'd spoken to his wife on the phone, relaying the situation to her, and she'd told him what a f--king dolt he was. Hard tellin'.

We plan to return to Newfoundland next summer when we can really spend some time vacationing, hiking and mellowing out with the warm, welcoming people. And, next time we'll make a point to get "screeched in" and become honorary Newfoundlanders by kissing the cod, downing the Screech, and reciting the requisite phrase: "Long may your big jib draw the ol' cocky, mate!"

The Hardest Thing, Revisited

2010-04-02T05:14:00.006-04:00

In all honesty, having a husband like mine who has been silently supportive of whatever it is I wish to do has been my silent undoing. This is the hardest thing about quitting a job, finding a writing life and following it.

His loving support has allowed me to wallow, fritter, dither, dally and every other word that literally means "f--k around" while he works diligently to make our lives happen.

Never before in my relatively short lifetime have I been afforded the luxury of being able to not work for a living, make a paycheck, bring home the bacon. Only now, my greatest fear has been realized in that ennui has set in and I'm playing Farmville and Fish World on Facebook more than I'm writing or being creative in my own thoughts. I've turned into the worst case scenario that I can even imagine, and I'm actually encouraging others to follow suit! Cest wut ler fuk do I think I'm doing with my life? Raising imaginary pixel sheep and grapes?

In my own defense, life has not been generous in that we've lost my husband's aunt and one of my sisters within days of one another, along with his mother being in and out of the hospital. These distractions have been a mighty influence on my ability to function creatively and my "little plantation" has given me many hours of simple and mindless enjoyment when I couldn't stand to speak or think in ways that were appropriate or without a measure of grief that others just don't want to see or be around. Pixel cows and chickens are happily fed by weeping women.

The Hardest Thing

2010-04-01T18:40:00.004-04:00

The hardest thing? As Stephen King and other well-worn writers would say, "a supportive family." Very bad. A very, very bad thing. They "love" you whether you pass or fail, so THEY say. I think that might be some kind of softsoap or "horseshit," as Tom Hanks likes to say.

I've been away from my writing FAR too long, my snarkiness too long; my bitterness and sarcasm, along with my soulful crooney doopy-doodling. Too bad, once again. People love the gamut of writing; I love to write what I love to read. And so I do what I love.

Take for instance today. I bought a car. This car salesman Jonathan Hindend (or Jack Ass for short) apparently thought I would appreciate his being rude to the On-Star man in the Philippines because I told him he was bullshitting me when he told me some BULLSHIT. I did not. I apologized to this man named Dan in the Philippines once Jack Ass was out of the car and gone for good. Dan from On-Star said it was no big deal. I assured him it was to me and apologized from the bottom of my heart. We continued installing and talking about the benefits of my On-Star and ended amicably. I'm sure he felt better for the interaction. I know I did. The last thing I want is some guy making minimum wage in the Philippines feeling bad about some car salesman being a twinkie to him for no good reason.

Okay, I'm way off track. The hardest thing to getting back to work is a supportive network of family or friends that says "it's okay" when no one will hire me. Me? My resume kick's ass, perhaps a little too much in this economy and in this "neck o' the woods." 'Story of my life.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm no longer going to be "sorry" [imply whiney sarcastic tone] that my resume looks better than most. I'm no longer going to be sorry that my interviewing skills make the average person twitchy and I end up asking most of the questions after the first two awkward minutes. And, I'm going to wear my very nice Bulova pearl-faced and diamond watch next time. I want a job and I'm going to stop apologizing for being who I am. Maybe that will actually work?

That being said...

I'm heavily considering a return to law. Yes, I've said it. Now it just has to happen.

Living Eulogy

2010-03-01T07:16:00.008-05:00

Another Toni friend of mine said when she was diagnosed with a breast tumor, she wrote her own obituary to ensure that everything would be said that she wanted known about her life. The tumor presented as benign, but Toni keeps the document alive as her life progresses to be used as her posthumous resume. Not a bad idea as I've seen a fair share of truly lousy, poorly written and just plain lacking obits in the paper, hastily pulled together by grieving loved ones who forgot everything but their longing for their loved ones.

My mother complained bitterly about the obituary written for her own mother. She was foot-stamping mad that it described her as "a simple country housewife" when Mom knew her to be a wildly talented self-taught musician and music teacher. The real glories of her vibrant youth and life, along with all of her accomplishments were forever misplaced, forgotten and displaced entirely by one three-inch newspaper blurb.

Rather than have a "posthumous resume," the obituary, let us approach this ending point differently. I propose a "living eulogy;" a running testament to all we give and take over the span of time. It would be a gift to those we leave behind. This way nothing would be lost when sterility of thought invades our loved ones in the early days after our passing.

This listing would have every conceivable highlight and lowlight in our lives outlined for others to read as we wished for them to see it. The funniest things we ever did, the best times we had, tears shed and why, smiles, kisses given and taken - you understand the concept. Everyone's living eulogy would be different depending on how they wanted to be remembered.

As I write this, my oldest sister is in the Intensive Care Unit of her local hospital fighting for her life. As well, my mother-in-law's older sister passed away on Saturday, with the memorial scheduled for Wednesday afternoon.

Time never stands still and while the minutes roll by, the living eulogy should be in action. Every day adding another line, making room on the page for another important addition, creating Volume X for the blue frosting goatee on a five year old or a cloud that looked like a dragon eating a popsicle - you know, the important things.

'You know what today is?

2010-02-28T07:02:00.004-05:00

'You know what today is? I mean, besides February 28th? Guess? Do it. Okay, I'll let you off the hook. It's the 12th anniversary of my now husband's and my first date. Pretty sweet that I actually remember that, huh? Hey, I know what you're thinking and cloying is not a nice word.

We dined at the now long gone "Village Restaurant" in Portland; a giant and wonderful Italian place, full of monstrous statues and geegaws that made it "authentic Italy pisano!" We sat in a somewhat romantic, darkened booth off to the side. He ordered chicken parmesan and spaghetti, with a Budweiser. I had chicken alfredo - and a Budweiser - to be congenial and show that I could span the culinary gap. It wasn't all that bad, but it's not something I'd recommend.

After dinner it was out dancing at a place in Standish called Country Crossroads. There was a darned good band playing that night and we'd actually met out dancing a year earlier - yeah, not jumping into anything with this relationship!! We arrived about 9 p.m. and the place was just getting heated up. As we were getting seated, a petite older woman came over to the table with her date in tow. She and my guy had dated a year earlier and the break-up wasn't particularly nice. Now for background, I am 14 years younger than my darling husband, and 12 years ago I looked extremely young. That being said, Ms. Petite Redhead whose went by the nickname "Puggy" (no shit and no kidding, seriously and I swear to God) introduced her date to my darling. He in turn introduced me to Puggy. She looked me up and down - and I looked GOOD - and said and I quote, "Oh, Toni, well, isn't that a cute name [insert self-satisfied smirk]."

Hmmm. Cest wut ler fuk, ler Puggymeister meisterpugger? Is it my fault that I made her look like an apple head doll that had sat in the sun a little too long? Mean Toni emerges. Ah, that was 12 years ago. Imagine what she looks like now?! HAH!

So today, tonight we celebrate with leftover KFC from lunch at my Mom's. Romantics to the end.

Feeling the Loss

2010-02-23T11:21:00.008-05:00

Love Enough

Who says love enough
to make a difference in a
world so lacking time

Decades gone before
the closing door swings to - A
life time giving way

By and by, goodbye
so cherish all you hold dear
that you may know love

The Joy of Joblessness

2010-02-19T10:31:00.004-05:00

I'm finding there are certain joys to being aimless, feckless, and jobless. I have time to take our grandsons, Taylor and Adam, and their first cousin, Jacob, during school vacation. Taylor is ten, Jacob is nine, and Adam has just turned seven.

The other grandmother, "Nanny" a/k/a Marie and I took the kids on an extended "field trip day" yesterday that began with bowling. We talked smack to the kids all the way there, saying that two old women were going to "kick their tiny hineys all the way up between their shoulder blades." It was hysterical listening to the retorts from the back seat. We told the boys that when they lost, and they would, we'd buy them nice frilly pink and yellow Easter dresses at Wal-Mart to go to lunch in as a penalty for being LOSERS!!! This got them going big time and they shouted back they'd rather go naked, they were going to win because we were girls and they were men, etc. and giggling up a storm.

We stopped at Dunkin Donuts on the way there because Marie and I needed coffee to brace ourselves up with. Has anyone else ever seen a boy child with a head no larger than, say, an oversized cantaloupe shove more than half of a Boston creme doughnut into their mouth? And still be able to chew? Well, I have...now. It was something like watching a boa constrictor eat a baby gazelle in one gulp. Little kids are so weird.

So we start bowling - - the big balls. Adam, the littlest one, picks out a 12 pounder because he likes the color. The guy running the front desk very kindly and surreptitiously places a 7 pounder onto the ball return with a wink at me. Adam quickly discovered he liked this ball a whole lot more than the other one due in great part to the fact he can actually carry and throw it. I don't believe Adam weighs much more than 60 pounds soaking wet. The kids are having a pretty good time. Jacob is the best bowler with his long arms and legs. He's also much more deliberate and patient. Marie and I are jumping around and whooping it up at every little victory. We're embarrassing the kids as much as possible until they beg for the quarters we brought for them so they could play the arcade games and get as far away from us as possible.

After bowling, and kicking some tiny hineys - hey it was three against two - we had lunch and then off to check out a buffalo farm out in West Bath that I'd passed going to my tax guy on Monday. That was an event for sure. The boys were all bravado and talking about manure and how gross the buffalo were, hooting and clanging around on the fence at them. That is, until the leader of the pack whom I'll call "Gargantua" showed up from down pasture. This fella weighed in at a ton plus manure weight on his fur. He started snorting loudly and eyeballing us, sidling around, wanting to know why we were looking at his harem. The kids were standing right up against the fence when this began and asked, all happy like, if the buffalo was farting. I said no, that he was snorting at them. Then to their great delight, he started licking his tongue up into his nose and that started off a whole volley of disgusting little boy comments.

Suddenly Gargantua snorted really loudly and charged about five feet toward the fence. I have never in my life seen three little boys move so fast. I turned to look and Taylor was all the way up next to the road, Adam had dashed behind Marie, and Jacob was nearly back to the car some 25 yards away. Long legs win out every time. That ended our buffalo viewing for the day. On the way back to the car, we did pat some nice beef creatures and have running commentary from Taylor on manure. It's amazing the fresh perspective children can give something as simple as cow poop.

On the ride back, "someone," it might have been me, started trouble by winding a big squishy green ball into the back seat at three little heads. Hey, they taunted me by saying I wouldn't do it. Poor Jacob, was right in the middle and got most of action square in the forehead. We had to stop once the ball got lodged onto the back deck of the car out of reach. You never heard so much delighted giggling and shouting, but the car stayed completely under control, all you concerned parents. I can throw a ball and drive, just don't ask me to change a CD and drive. And, they started it.....

It was such a great day. A reminder of what it's like to be a kid and just laugh and have fun, act silly and smile until your face hurts. Or bowl until you can't lift your arm over head the next day. What I'm happiest about was the kids asking their father if they could come back again the next day even before they'd left yesterday afternoon.

I think this is the greatest job I've ever had.

Haiku! Gesundheit.

2010-02-17T10:54:00.004-05:00

Once again my hearing is not up to par. While driving back from Brunswick the other day, I thought my beloved husband said:

"That c--ksucker must have some kind of death wish."

I abruptly turned in the drivers seat and said "What the hell did you just say! Who has a death wish?" I'm thinking someone's flipped us off or whatever. He said, "Toni, I said, that hawk sitting up there must see a fish." I busted my chitterlings, people, and was unable to tell him for a few minutes what I was laughing about. He hates this with a passion and gets very grumpy. He says I'll laugh at anything, which may or may not be true, but this was funny with a capital FUH.

And, so anyhow, not only is my hearing shot, but I cannot remember what the hell I'm doing from one minute to the next. I put some garlic bread in the oven at 400 degrees. Remember this temperature as it is vital to the story, okay? My darling is late getting home from shrimp dragging; it's after 7 p.m. so I'm a little frazzled. He comes in and I dish up a very nice dinner, we dine, wash the dishes and chat awhile before trundling off to bed. The whole while I can smell something burning like toast, and I realize I haven't turned off the oven. Simple enough.

I awaken the next morning at 4 a.m. with a start, realizing that I never took the garlic bread out of the oven for dinner the night before. I leap from bed - why I don't know - and dash into the kitchen. What I find are two extremely large croutons at this point, drier than a old maid's...tears.

The next night, I left the lovely and highly coveted bread stuffing from the lovely roast chicken in the microwave overnight and had to toss that out the next day around 2 p.m. when I finally discovered it. That was a bummer. My bread stuffing is phenomenal. I nearly cried.

Menopause brain? Ennui? I think I'm off in my own little world much of the time, staring and absorbing my surroundings, "writing them," as it were. I've turned into quite the little geeker of late, giant purse that can hold my new read, Elizabeth Berg's "Escaping Into the Open," my notebook and pen, along with all my "girl" stuff. Pretty quick I'm going to have to have the voice recorder to record all my jaunty little thoughts as they pop up 'cause I'm too damned important/lazy/artistically fartzy to use a pen.

Too Early Thoughts

2010-02-16T11:49:00.008-05:00

These are what happen when I awaken at 2 a.m.

In the Drink

Drowning small joys, creative
pleasures, not sorrows.
Swamping hopes, filling
to the scuppers
and sinking
the Ship of Dreams
once and for
all
until it lies
on the bottom a wreck
finally given over to the end
of rising ambition.

See, sorrows don't lie
at the end, only joys.
Sorrow and grief stay
right
and wrong
up in front
or in the balcony
overlording all proceedings
ensuring the void.

The Lovers Not

Hiding lovers from the world
but most certainly not
from the other.
Money, status, winning, ah
the Wellesley Girl and Dartmouth Boy and their beautiful unseen scapegoats.

Waiting death, with hints at
true love 'round the edges
Sickening partnership
grown cold,
ironic, shameless flaunting sex and power, with greed beyond the reason.

Neither willing to concede
the sacred marriage bond
for freedom dear
and sweet.
The joke's on them, the world has eyes and ears but cares too late for their charade.

The scandalous gone to piteous
lives spent longing what was
handed them in
chalice.
Poor Wellesley Girl and Dartmouth Boy, a life without the boundaries of love.

...again at the beginning.

2010-02-04T07:29:00.013-05:00

My mind is like a rogue toddler on a mission to destroy the entire household by whatever means necessary. I used to be a champ meditator. Nothing could break my concentration and now I can't focus for two seconds, much less sit with my legs crossed for five minutes without pain. I've lost my mental edge along with my physical flexibility.

My favorite focusing technique is Caroline Myss's mantra from her book, Anatomy of the Spirit: The Seven Stages of Power and Healing. The point is to focus on the chakras, or the body's energy centers, from first to seventh, imagining them "light up," with their requisite colors and repeat for each one in order:

All is One
(Red, Base of Spine)

Honor One Another
(Orange, Reproductive)

Honor Oneself
(Yellow, Solar Plexus)

Love is Divine Power
(Green, Heart)

Surrender Personal Will to Divine Will
(Royal Blue, Throat)

Seek Only the Truth
(Indigo, Third Eye)

Live in the Present Moment
(Violet, Crown)

This is my preferred method because it doesn't require complete stillness of my body. Combined with the physical exertion of walking, it allows my mind to come to great conclusions unhindered by the day's stresses. Not being the "omming type," I can barely commit to sitting down and watching a DVD all the way through without wandering away to find something else to do. My doctor describes me as a "Type A-," an accurate description.

I loved meditation for the "afterward" and the portals of creativity it opened for me. My level of awareness became profound and my dreams prophetic. The Minions of Morpheus and I were on actual speaking terms. I began this practice during the time I worked in law, seeing pictures of dead people intermingled with pictures of fellas lying on picnic tables sporting the glory of their erections. Meditation was the outlet that offered me peace along with the clarity I used to write my earlier poems and work.

Lately my dreams have been about day-to-day things. I particularly recall a dream where I was tearfully telling my husband that no one would hire me, that I'd tried to get all these jobs, it wasn't my fault - - as I pulled moldy hotdogs, chickens and cabbage out of the cupboard. Then I dreamed that I was really taking my aggressions out on someone I couldn't name or know. There lurks a part of me that feels remiss in not being a viable wage earner and also some anger or disappointment in my Self for being talented and qualified for so many things yet unable to get hired. Yeah, I've joined the 10% National Unemployment Club.

Those dreams stick with me, along with the feelings they produce, and halt my creative flow big time. It has even stymied my colorful, hyphenated swearing capabilities of which I am legend. Now, that's hitting below the belt!

So we start again at the beginning. All is one.

"Healing requires far more of us than just the participation of our intellectual and even our emotional resources. And it certainly demands that we do more than look backwards at the dead-end archives of our past. Healing is, by definition, taking a process of disintegration of life and transforming into a process of return to life." Caroline Myss

The Simple Truth

2010-02-02T06:31:00.005-05:00

I've been hiding lately, doodling around the Internet, finding on-line games to play and anything else but writing.

I've just spent too many long days in the hospital with my mother-in-law, Cora. Now she's home and her health is stable, but she is precariously weepy and this worries me. My father went through a similar stage before he passed away; a recounting of youth and story telling about loves past and present. It is all too familiar and I feel myself bracing for what I feel is the inevitable outcome - the slipping away and letting go.

Cora's entitled at 86 years old to do as she pleases. Her daughter, Patsy, died two years ago at the age of 60 from colon cancer. Since then Cora's desire to live has steadily diminished. She sees Heaven as the place where Patsy awaits her and she wants to be with her again. This is the simple truth and my husband, her youngest child knows better than I how to accept this. He says she's an old woman and people die. The simple truth, once again.

Cora told me stories of my husband's youth, how they nearly lost him a couple of times to childhood illnesses and accidents, his shenanigans, and how his big sister always fingered him for the stuff she did and didn't want a spanking for. Her childhood stories were vivid and detailed, smiling at dead relatives in her mind's eye or maybe right in front of her and I just couldn't see. Speaking of "Mumma and Daddy" like it was yesterday they had held her in their arms. I've seen that look before, the watery and far away gaze, the recounting that holds regrets and memories close.

Cora's Song

I rocked my babies, all
three of them, black rocking chair
stood fast beneath me, holding up
to memories passed, and
soothing of our family tree.

Mumma swayed, black rocking chair,
by day or eve with child
in tow, to sing a lullaby
to ease a pain or soothe a tear
the oil lamp casting softening light.

Black rocking chair so small
yet strong, with binding wire to
stay the rails, a hundred years
ago now Grammy sat and rocked
the babes and soothed by tallow's glow.

Say What?

2010-01-31T05:49:00.003-05:00

I am perpetually mishearing things. Last evening on the news I distinctly thought I heard the reporter say that:

"a man awoke to find a big menacing guy standing in his bedroom with a pickle and he was scared for his life..."

I said to my loving husband, "A pickle?!" He said, quite exasperatedly, "No (you blithering idiot), a PIT BULL." Well, I started to laugh loudly and uncontrollably and could not stop. Being shot a look that would singe the hair off a slathering wolverine's hiney and send it ky-yiying into the wilderness, I got out of earshot of my beloved and laughed myself silly.

Running through my mind were all of these scenarios of what harm could befall someone at the hands of giant man armed with a pickle. "Ye gads! Is he going to shove that up my ass or down my throat?!

Anyway, I started thinking back over the many times that I've busted a gut listening to people sing lyrics to songs and discovering that they, too, were guilty of mishearing words or entire sentences. The substitutions were often completely ridiculous. I and others sang them this way for decades with the crazy lines fully intact. A co-worker of mine made up a screwball, and somewhat black humored line to "I Like Pina Coladas." The real chorus goes:

"If you like pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain, if you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain. If you'd like making love at midnight, in the dunes on the Cape..."

To which she sang: "If you'd like making love at midnight, in the dew suffocate."

That spun my head around in a hurry. I let her in on the secret of the correct wording since she'd only been singing it wrong since 1979.

I pulled some classic mishears off the Net for you, enjoy:

Somewhere over the rainbow, weigh a pie (Wizard of Oz)
Every time you go away, you take a piece of meat with you (Paul Young, Every Time You Go Away)
The only boy who could ever reach me was the son of a pizza man (Dusty Springfield, Son of a Preacher Man)
Doughnuts make my brown eyes blue (Crystal Gayle, Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue)
The Ants are My Friends (Bob Dylan, Blowin' In The Wind)
I can see Cleveland now, Lorraine has gone (Johnny Nash, I Can See Clearly Now)

Lighting the Way

2010-01-28T07:32:00.005-05:00

Yesterday, today and tomorrow I am faced with mortality, my own and others. Exploring it in words and pictures, all the darkness and light in this life astounds and lightens my load, as my words pour forth today.

This poem is for Cora as she negotiates with angels.

Since I Lived
Colder storm winds blowing
through my older ages
and numbing me to youth

I see my past go by
good bye to all that came
before and since I lived

No fear I feel as time
now running out for me
and Heaven waits the gate

My Journey Back to Invincible

2010-01-25T07:02:00.012-05:00

On February 12, 2010, it will be two years since I was broadsided into a snowbank by a man as he spun out of control on icy roads. He literally set wheels in motion that changed my life forever.

A month or so prior to the accident I sent for materials on the Susan G. Komen "3-Days for the Cure" sixty mile walk. My sister-in-law and several of my friends have survived breast cancer, and I wanted to do this for them. I had lots of endurance, walking three or four miles a day for many years and this would be the proverbial "piece of cake." (No cake in the proverbs? So you say.) Well, I didn't go to Boston that summer. The accident left with me with a very bum left leg, having struck hard up under the steering wheel on impact, stopping my entire body from going further. The impact caused a bruise the size of a salad plate and the muscle tissue is now dead in my little "dent." It also left me scared to drive, scared of traffic and afraid to walk on my beloved and familiar island road. I had been shown how quickly life took be altered and I just plain stopped in my tracks.

About six months after the accident, with counseling and a moderate dose of Prozac, I started walking again, determined to renew my favorite stress reliever. It was glorious and I felt so renewed until the splintering pain began in earnest. At the three mile mark, I was forced to call my husband to pick me up. I had tried to tough it out and paid the price for weeks after. Scathing humiliation stopped me from trying again. Instead I bought a treadmill so I could walk in privacy. No more roadside rescues for me. And it's not like my neighbors aren't good people and wouldn't have helped me, because they would have. I just felt so weak and pathetic. The only person I could have see me like that was my husband. I cried the whole way home.

Last week I received a brochure for the 2010 Susan G. Komen Walk scheduled for July 23rd-25th. I tossed it in the shredder trash but as I write today the brochure sits in front of me. The big pink word on the front "Invincible" stopped me from shredding it. I certainly used to feel invincible lacing up my walking shoes. In truth, I never felt that "not walking" was ever an option.
My rehabilitation has gone in fits and starts and I've had one terrific physical therapist, Jim. I've also had really good advice. My attorney pal, Isis the Fuzzy Pink Maribou Sledge Hammer, tells me that I'll get there and she knows what she's talking about having been through a much worse accident and rehab.

Now I pace myself, walking slower, inching up by quarters of a mile and quarters of an hour. I'm up to two miles in forty-five minutes. I try not to compare it to before the accident when I could "do the island" of 4.2 miles in well under an hour. Pushing too hard results in immediate backsliding and I've already done that enough.

I will not walk sixty miles in three days this year because I cannot be ready, but next year I could be invincible again.

I Still Have All My Marbles

2010-01-24T05:15:00.015-05:00

It's true, I do. I still have all my marbles from childhood, sixty-two of them. They sit on the windowsill in a wire-hasp Ball canning jar where I can see them every day. Now both the jar and the marbles would be considered valuable antiques. They range from pee-wee all the way to the big guys. They are my memory-makers. When I look at them I remember my days at Welchville School, a four room school house, where we actually played marbles, skipped rope, and all the other things kids did during recess in the early 70's.

My parents being antique dealers passed down to me many valuable things that I cherish and not because of their dollar value. My Staffordshire dogs, the oil on glass painting of birds in cattails, and a Mary Gregory cranberry glass bottle, are but a few of my prized possessions. When I look at them now, I remember my history and family history. For more than twenty years, I watched the sun rise on the white china dogs, the western sun shine through the cranberry bottle, and the sun set on the painting. I remember how old Mom and Dad were when they gave them to me. Therein lies their value.

Breaking down life into material objects, there are few of such great importance worth truly loving, fighting for and keeping close until our passing. They are things that continue to give you something today from the past with one look or touch.

"No memory is ever alone; it's at the end of a trail of memories, a dozen trails that each have their own associations." Louis L'Amour.

All of us kids have items of Mom and Dad's that we treasure with a lifetime of memories attached securely to them. My sister, Leelee-Bop has the massive twin chalk pastel river scenes of Scotland that hung on either side of the picture window in the living room from the time my older siblings were very young. They have now been restored to their original beauty and hang majestically in her home. I know when she looks at them, time flies through her mind from birth to now, along with recent memories made with her husband. I see them in my mind's eye as I write. Thinking of them reminds of me of watching "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" with Dad, as they hung behind where the television sat. Do you remember that show with Darren McGavin? Dad would always first berate us, "Now girls, I'll watch this with you, but don't you go to bed on me before this is over, okay?" We'd always promise vehemently, and half the time skedaddle off to bed after fifteen minutes. It was so scary, but naturally he'd be hooked and have to sit up until 10 p.m. to finish watching it by himself. Poor Dad. I wonder if L-Bop thinks of that when she looks at those pictures? Well, she will now.

I love the things that remind me of Mom and Dad, of growing up in the big old house with the strangest assortment of things you could not imagine. We had potato guns, trucks full of mattresses, trunks busting with silks and satins. My first wedding dress was a plaything my sister and I dragged out of an old trunk. My marbles didn't come from a store, not one of them. They came from "somewhere in time." Like my memories.

Some Letting Go, Some Holding On

2010-01-23T17:17:00.010-05:00

How do we let go of life? At forty-something? A friend has metastasized cancer now in their lungs, spine and liver. This person has battled, done all of the treatments their doctor recommended to them, and still they are facing death before Spring perhaps, and most certainly by Summer's end. The body has surrendered. Or so the doctors say. I have to say that, you know. It's the only way I can manage the awful truth, that perhaps the doctors are just plain wrong. Dearest God.

My chest tightens with blood running cold at the the thought of a such a diagnosis coming my way. I'm forty-something my Self. The thought of dying doesn't bother me so much as, first and foremost, leaving my husband alone, and second, leaving my book unwritten. There are certainly other considerations; my mother witnessing her youngest baby dying before her. I couldn't do that to her; I'd rather make up a story of traveling far away and forcing every one to go along with it for her sake until her passing.

Hearing of someone in the Great Circle nearing their own mortality is breathtaking. I hug my own body, my Self, and thank God, the Universe, Allah, Buddah, every single possible god and goddess who would hear me that I live and continue to walk and breathe and love my husband and my family. As I'm writing my husband came rushing in here to whisker kisses all over my neck, face and lips and then rush out again with a devilish smile on his face. He tells the dogs "I ran in to kiss your Mama." The tears spring hot into my eyes, thinking of this soul who is dying as I rejoice in my life, my every cell burning with love and hope for this unbelievably wonderful life I own for today and for now, if not for tomorrow.

"The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware." Henry Miller.

Hole, Woke, Open, Old, Toe, Oh

2010-01-22T06:43:00.016-05:00

Hole, Woke, Open, Old, Toe, Oh: these are not tough words to spell. However, four of these words can either be spelled differently and/or have two different meanings. These are spelling words that our seven year old, first-grader grandson, Adam brought to our house last night to work on. Adam and Taylor were spending time with me until their dad and my husband got back from shrimp dragging.

As I made my World-Famous Chocolate Truffle Cookies, we three worked on these words, spelling them out, writing them down, and making sentences out of them. The promise of these decadent cookies upon completion of six sentences did the trick. There was, of course, quite a bit of stalling, talking about Indiana Jones, Legos, the Titanic and other boy-related things, but we finally got the job done.

This is obviously hard for Adam even though I tried to make it as fun as possible. So we also talked about how truly difficult the English language is to learn. I wanted Adam to understand it's not an intuitive skill, and to not get too frustrated with himself. I compared it to learning a new video game. He practices, he gets better. Simple. I don't believe he'll ever really love reading; it's not his "thing." But Adam's imagination and intelligence are keen and he will find his niche and brilliance elsewhere.

Taylor is much more intellectual at nearly ten years old and we talked about being from Africa, Germany or Japan and the difficulty of learning English as a second language. He said with great conviction that "he was glad he was born in the good old USA." He sounded like a pitchman and I had to a squelch a little laugh, and smiled really hard at him instead. He's so darned smart and cute, not that I'm at all biased.

The kids then settled into the living room with their snacks to watch a movie, "Major Payne" in the hour or so before their dad got home. As I listened to them laugh hysterically over every utterance of the word "turd," I worked on dinner pondering the construct of learning to read.

By the time I was five years old, I could read and oh so much more. That's the extreme value and utter downfall of being the youngest in a very large family; you are sponge to so much information. I was listening to Joe Cocker, The Beatles, and Petula Clark for music. Books were read to me and my next older sister, Leelee-Bop by Mom and older sisters. I was looking at Life Magazine and National Geographic, playing Super Spirograph with my high school age sisters, and hearing about Vietnam and everything else at the dinner table. And this is where Joni the Barbarian began.

At kindergarten, I wondered why I was sent someplace with so many stupid kids, and that's the God's honest truth. That first day, there were kids peeing their pants, crying for their mother, and then there was me. When the teacher told us to first outline our clearly outlined picture with black crayon, I distinctly recall muttering "I'm not doing that." That was for the dumb kids who couldn't color in the lines and it would make a mess. I was a teacher's nightmare, but thank God I was cute! No shit and no kidding; I saw what happened to the unruly homely kids. These were the days when corporal punishment was IN, baby! As it were, Leelee-Bop and I should have both been moved up a grade immediately, but back then they didn't do that stuff.

By the time I was in third grade, I was reading Anya Seton, Victoria Holt, Mary Stewart and the like; Mom's romance and mystery novels. She tried to direct me to Charles Dickens, but I found him confusing. That's kind of funny, isn't it? She really must have anticipated quite a lot from me at eight years old. Dickens was where reading ability and actual comprehension fell apart. Anyhow, we had tons of books, including lots of Readers Digest Condensed Books. That's where I found Jack London's, Call of the Wild. Wow, what a book! I was probably ten years old when I read it.

"If we succeed in giving the love of learning, the learning itself is sure to follow." John Lubbock.

As I see Adam struggling like any seven year old to learn the written language, I yearn to help him more than I know is possible. I wish I could tell him how to fall in love with the written word. There is no explanation. Self-discovery is the only way.

"For one who reads, there is no limit to the number of lives that may be lived, for fiction, biography, and history offer an inexhaustible number of lives in many parts of the world, in all periods of time." Louis L'Amour

Who Are You? Who who! Who who!...

2010-01-20T12:45:00.018-05:00

Identity seems like such a simple thing, but today I'm pondering it. Just this morning, I have identified my Self as Sparklefish, Joni the Barbarian, Mrs. Soandso, and Mr. Soandso's wife with no first name. Then the pharmacist called me Ms. Soandso and had to revert back to calling me Toni to get my attention.

Who the hell am I? Who are you? Who ar-are you, who who who who, I really wanna know!!! Seriously. First I was Bill and Jean's daughter, the youngest. This is Joni-in-training wearing brother, Glenn's combat boots.

Then, suddenly there I stood, eight years old, in the pink crepe paper skirt with the shiny face smiling innocently at the camera. The time in between was just time, and now excellent blog fodder. Years fly.

At twenty-one, I became Mr. Premature-ejaculator's wife, Mrs. Premature-ejaculator. You think this looks bad written here? You should have seen it printed on checks and in azure embroidery on an L.L. Bean bag for Christ's sake. What a four year stretch THAT was. Phew-whee! He very quickly became someone else's problem, having strayed to another's bed before officially leaving mine. (I hope it was the best ninety second sex she ever had...) Some years later my former wedding photographer gleefully informed me that ol' P-E's new bride was sick all through the pre-wedding pics. She then puked down the front of her wedding dress at the reception. Bad omen, anyone? (By the way, this is the only pic I saved with both me and P-E in it because I loved the expression on my face, the crumple and flow of the antique Irish slipper satin, and the joy with which Great Aunt Whozadingy was tossing the rice. And you can't see P-E's face.)

Okay, so then I'm just Bill and Jean's kid again, little Miss Nobody, until the guys at the Great Falls Post Office in Auburn come up with the nickname, "Toni the Ten." I was such a rube I even challenged them on it, questioning them about their sanity. They stood "firm," as it were. I was so innocent, even at 25 years old, I just passed it off as nothing, but these guys were jonesing for me bad. Men = penises with cars and money? I still haven't decided how to define them as a species and it's been a lifetime. My husband says "Even a hundred year old man wants to f--k." He's such a poet. Brings a tear to your eye doesn't it? I think he's channeling James Joyce...although James would proffer,

"Men are governed by lines of intellect - women: by curves of emotion."

(Right. "Lines of intellect" is man-code for "their peckers." That's how Jimmy rolled, dawg!)

Friedrich Nietzsche said, "The 'doer' is merely fiction added to the deed - the deed is everything." That reminds of Stephen King's repeating incessantly that "only story is about story." People, like books, are all about the story they create from what they're given; what they make of themselves by what is accomplished in the very short span of less than a hundred years. Status, wealth, and beauty fade into obscurity and vanish forever, but story remains.

Bit by bit, you're getting me unbound, funny and unfunny. What may seem blithe is measured well, unlike my earlier work. The comments I receive about being brave in sharing my pain, shock me a little because I don't feel brave or even honest writing about my life. It's my story, that's all. As my guts spill, I get stronger and lighter; my writing life becomes more and more real.

So who am I? I guess we'll find out together.

Two Women in One

2010-01-18T15:26:00.017-05:00

One of the blogs I'm following, Applehouse Poetry Workshop, had a lesson plan of sorts: write a poem about ten things you've not done, maybe wanted to do, never wanted to do, too scared to do, being sure to end with "But once I did...". I read through the poem comments they received and thought I'd give this a try for my two Selves. The first is for Toni, Woman of Letters and the second, for Joni the Barbarian.

The Missing Five or Ten
I never felt the free fall bliss
or silken parachute catch me up
from jumping from a perfect plane.

The rush of gratitude and love
from giving birth I've never known
but didn't miss, this time around.

Deepest blue green water scares me
I haven't dove the coral reefs
or breathed air bubbles from a tank.

I cannot say I'll ever know
the thrill of heights that others crave
to see the face of Everest's might.

A hairy legged tarantula
won't gaze at me upon my arm
I could not be as one with it.

As thrilling as it seems to be
I've never galloped free and wild
upon a horse who'd love it too.

Jamaica's where the rum is sweet
my sweeter husband wants to go
I just can't make my mind say yes.

The roller coaster tempts me Come
You won't fly off to Heaven yet
but I say no, I'm chicken still.

I've never stood upon a stage
with Karaoke mic in hand
I'd rather sing the Requiem.

I know too much about raw fish
to eat it in a sushi bar
I've pulled out squirmy worms myself.

But once I stood and braved the day
and said enough, I'm done at last.
I am a writer from now on.

Okay, now let's do one for good ol' Joni the Barbarian. Here are some things she did and shouldn't have, and one final thing Miss Joni regrets she's unable to do today.

That Ten That Made Me

Trajectory is everything when throwing
rocks at hornets' nests. So as I ran they
too could fly along, following air streams left
behind me, getting vengeance on the way.

A lovely cobalt bottle full of worms,
seemed a good idea one summer day
found, uncorked but strangely gone to liquid
Lost forever, sadly killed by little me.

Muttered "Stupid" when angry teacher stormed
had a temper tantrum in our classroom.
He had heard me, made me answer why, I
made up some excuse but wasn't sorry.

Flying Etch-a-Sketch sails through the antique
china hutch, and Thank God! smashing side glass
Meant to injure sis, but both of us will
suffer badly now when Mom and Dad get back.

Naked man with pecker-recktus picnic
table posing pictures, he's defendant
we're for plaintiff, wished I'd never seen them
Time cannot eradicate him from my mem'ry!

"You and your husband may come in now please."
My faux pas catching me too late, oh damn,
as hardened voice said "I'm a woman, too,"
the f--king ground refused to swallow me.

Warm champagne and hot lasagna, salad
with Italian dressing, seemed so very good,
Me drinked whole bottle. Riding, riding, homeward
Sick and spinning, porcelain is hugging me.

In my awful utter haste I stepped through
what I thought was solid ground, up to my
waist, my shoes and clothes all slick with slime.
Why can I never take the path more traveled?

"Geronimo!," I cried, as blue and deep the
ocean water called me from the wharf. My lover
said don't go, I jumped, he shook his head and
like a silly frozen fish gaffed me back in.

Summer party, kiddie pool, all done,
but tipsy me would do the trick. I lifted high
up on one edge, with weighty water pushing back,
to knock me down and souse me for the crowd.

But once I wish I'd known my Self enough
and slapped a privileged face real hard who
only wished to stall my life with talk of
love, far Lake Nipissing, scotch and little else.

Ta DAH!!!

The Pink Album

2010-01-16T06:09:00.011-05:00

I'm currently reading Stephen King's, On Writing, A Memoir of the Craft, as my walking-on-the-treadmill book. The book begins with his high praise for Mary Karr, and her novel The Liar's Club. He writes with shades of awe and envy for the "totality" of the recollections of her childhood being "an unbroken panorama." As a prelude to the story of his own childhood, which he says was "herky jerky," it seems to me self-preservation had a say in his choice of memories.

This first part of the book he says is "not an autobiography" but calls it the "C.V." He gives the reader snapshots of his life. After reading all about his childhood and his early struggles to write and succeed, I felt this was an author I never knew much about, only that I loved his work. By the time I reached the passages describing his mother's death, I was bawling and howling for the pain it laid before me. I just kept walking, sobbing, with my head down, tears falling on my sneakers and the black "ground" moving ever backward.

"Forget your personal tragedy. We are bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it - don't cheat with it." Ernest Hemingway.

The word "snapshots" reminded me of a project I've launched headlong into. I started scanning hundreds of photos from one of our oldest family albums, "The Pink Album." Making sure everyone in the family has access to these pictures on CD as real film degrades, pictures are lost, torn and fade, is important to me as the youngest child of nine. It's one of the little things I can take care of, seeing how I'm "aimless and fiddle-diddling" on the computer all day anyway. Picture five hundred eighty-eight or so has hit my hard drive with a thud and I'm looking forward to being done. I've four more albums to conquer yet. Wish me and my hard drive luck.

When I began the project I didn't expect the head trip it would take me on, filtering through memories - - The Pink Album Time Machine. This album starts back when my folks were in their mid-thirties, 1950-something. The black and white film does great justice to the time, way more than color film could have. There are pictures that make my parents look like something from The Grapes of Wrath, sans the dust storm. They were certainly as hard-pressed, poor and struggling, with too many kids.

Each child growing up, picture after picture, there's an evolution of each happy kid to teenager. Then some change would occur in each one. It was the sixties then the early seventies, the hippie days with alcohol, marijuana and worse. You could almost see the moment when the times and some "thing" overtook their lives. From one Christmas to the next, a once great, smart kid turned drunk or drug-addicted, or somehow now despondent, or uncaring about themselves. Then they'd just stop being in the pictures altogether. The older siblings then gone from the house, away on their own. They were either running off across county to escape responsibilities or desperately wanting to simply be gone from a small mill town. The worst of all? Getting married to cover the cost of a life carelessly tossed like a coin without first checking to see whether it landed heads or tails. All of us girls did that, me included.

"Memories may escape the action of the will, may sleep a long time, but when stirred by the right influence, though that influence be light as a shadow, they flash into full stature and life with everything in place." John Muir

I remember in these photos my parents turning from what I understood to be loving and responsive to no more pictures together, and no more kisses good-bye in the morning. Each picture showing how far apart, the body language now so obvious to my seeing eyes. A picture of our old kitchen reminds me of the day Mom threw a plate full of breakfast and an orange and white coffee cup at Dad's head across the room and missed. I loved that cup. It was iridescent when held up to the sun, all shimmery like an eggshell with orange stripes. I might have been five and I just couldn't understand why. She was always doing things like that, but there was no one to make her stand in the corner for being naughty. Dad never gave up but he knew when to walk away.

All the screaming and yelling was nothing compared to the silence, when I'd hide under the dining room table until Dad got home. I was so little at the time, I fit in the small space where all the inside legs came together, maybe eighteen inches square. Fear was a big part of my life before I started kindergarten and my days became filled with something other than soap operas. At this point in time, my oldest sister would frequently visit Mom with her children in tow. She always had a slap for me like I was her kid and not Mom's, and I hated her for it. She always had a lie to tell, too, and she and Mom were perpetually on the outs. Perhaps if she'd realized I'd become a writer, she might have thought twice before laying a hand on me and lying her ass off? Too damn late now.

"Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!" John Irving

This album takes me through my entire early life and family history as I look at the snapshots. Experts on family dynamics say that the youngest child does not have the most accurate memories of events. Mine may not be accurate, but they formed who I am today. These memories are where I live in my head and what sets me howling on my treadmill. They are why I write.

"It's surprising how much of memory is built around things unnoticed at the time." Barbara Kingsolver.

I Went to a Garden Party...

2010-01-15T06:00:00.014-05:00

...to make me some new friends
A chance to make good memories
& dispel my fears about them.

When I got to the garden party,
No one could care if I came
They all took turns ignoring me
I was the butt of their game

Bunch of nou-veau riche hags!
(Bum scum bum scum bum scum bum)
Hard drinking skags!
Think you're hot, but hey Cougars, you're not!
You're on the down-hi-ill draaaaag!

So, I'm reminded of a little "party" I went to this summer by a snide remark I see flit across the screen "somewhere." Funny, right? Not so funny. I'm apparently a bigger joke than I figured I was, my gut's never wrong, and it's not wrong now. Saddle up and tally ho!!!

This blog is not directly intended to slight the host of the party, but the other participants. At the time, her intentions were pure.

"The errors of women spring, almost always, from their faith in the good, or their confidence in the true." Honore de Balzac

She had high hopes for her friends, the "Coven." They are kind to her because...I don't really know why? She's very nice herself and forgiving of other people's natures, but I would proffer they are not always kind to her behind her back. Okay, shall we?

Soooo, I get talked into this little gathering. My not-so-inner jackass is really screaming at the top its lungs "NOOOOO!!!" but I've agreed and I can't back out. I've even bought these charming little cheesecake bites to bring. F--k, I say, how did I get my Self into this?

Allow me to describe the participants to the best of my remembering, and I'll start with the likeable ones. The only other nice person besides the host didn't show. I'll call her Eve, a natural, earthy and garden-loving woman. She talked my ear off the last time we met. Engaging, well-educated, very likeable - - a wholly dubious participant in this grouping, seriously.

Next, I'll call this one Amelia. Brunette, younger than the rest, all proud of herself for being accepted into the "group." A little tiresome, nice on the surface but there for a reason, right? There was a local teacher there, an innocuous, almost invisible woman, pale and disappearing - - a follower. I don't even remember her name so I'll call her Casper. There were several others there I can't recall because they've faded out of memory.

I chatted briefly with a woman I'll call Asshole, because that's just what she was, an asshole. Thin, dark frizzy hair, played the alto ukulele with her husband, "not from around here." She remarked to me that I "didn't even have an [Mainer] accent," in other words I didn't "sound like the rest of the f--king hicks she'd run into." What's interesting about this interaction is I very likely remember well more about her than she does about me, except that she thinks I'm an uneducated hick turd.

Onto the big hitters: Boner, the hard-drinking, hard looking bottle blonde whose looks are indicative of the "rode hard and put away wet" category. And, Petunia, the chunky monkey whose serene countenance belies a boiling point just below the surface; a Nazi in tight capris and sleeveless poplin button-up. These are the killers in the group; the leaders. They guide everything and everyone, including our host.

The party is moving, lots of nice food on the lovely table, our host flitting here and there. I am doing my best to go from grouping to grouping, chitting and chatting my way along. Suddenly I notice I'm standing in the dining room alone. Alone. I haven't really been aware that the groups as I've approached them have drifted away and into the living room. So I turn, by myself, and walk into the living room and see that everyone is grouped together, no more seats available. I stand there behind one of the chairs for a few minutes, smiling congenially, and not one person looks up or at me or says one word of greeting.

These "so-called" really nice people that my host wanted me to meet and be friends with had pulled a huge snub on me, quite deliberately, and I had a choice to make. Looking down at my half-finished drink, listening to the chatter, I'm wondering if there's any turning this around or making it better. I know with peripheral vision, Petunia and Boner can clearly see me standing there alone. If they're so nice, why aren't they saying "something?" Why isn't anyone saying something?

Having never been a very good "game-player," I decided I would rather be home with my loving husband than here with this group of awful women. He'd actually warned me this would likely be the outcome when he heard who'd be there. I dumped my drink, put the glass away and walked out the door. I'm almost home before our host even knew I was gone.

The joke was on me, and it seems it still is. To quote the master, "Hahahaha."

"Cruelty has a human heart, And Jealousy a human face. Terror, the human form divine, and Secrecy, the human dress." William Blake.

I've lived to fight another day, thick-skinned hick turd that I am. It made me wiser, kinder and sure to listen deeper to my intuition, "next time." If and when that bestseller comes pouring forth, I pray to God these staving bitches are still alive to see it. I'd better hurry...

The Bonfire of the Vagaries

2010-01-13T12:24:00.004-05:00

Okay, Witty-ville is where I'm from and it's where I'm comfortable. We have the Snark Bar where I drink my Bacardi & Coke. That's where I laugh and write the good stuff. Then I just walk downstreet to The Soul-in-the-Wall to have my Southern Pecan decaf with soy milk and make the other half of my brain say, "Aaaaah" and write my poetry. Kidding, it's all done right here in the Wanderlust Room on Banter Island. Pa-dum-pum, ching!

I'm in the midst of a booger-flavored gobstopper of a personal injury lawsuit and I get these boilerplate questions I have to answer called "Interrogatories." (That's French for "Cest wat lur fuk?") I'm sorry to say I cranked out this offal in my before life as a legal secretary. Only now I'm looking on them with fresh eyes and see how blatantly ignorant they are. Here's a fine example:

"State whether you have been convicted within the past 14 years of a crime which was either (a) punishable by death or ..."

My smart ass answer was "Yes, I was executed." Would I be filing suit if I were dead?

To one of the other questions about any injuries I've sustained over the last ten years prior to accident, I am forced to answer, "stepped on a tack; had to have a tetanus shot," because that IS my only answer.

Actually, I was getting ready to step into the tanning booth at my hairdresser's salon and stepped onto a large upholstery tack that had dislodged from somewhere. I felt this sharp pain in my big toe i.e., Old Tom Bumble. (For those of you without Yankee parents, the lineup goes Achey Pea, Penny Rue, Rudy Whistle, Mary Tossle and Old Tom Bumble). I lifted up my foot and thought I'd stepped on glass, but it was the shiny head of this GIANT tack, smack up against the bottom of my toe. After pulling for what seemed like an eternity, it finally dislodged with a popping sound. Holy Mother of Goog! But, being a Yankee myself, I tanned anyway, standing my gusher toe on a paper towel, and told the gals about it before I left.

Here's another beauty:

Set forth in full the substance of any admission by a party or by any alleged agent of a party, and include within your answer the name of the person making each such admission, the date and time of the admission and the names and addresses of all persons present at the time of the admission.

You know what the standard answer is to this one? F--k off. No really. Only they say it like this: "Plaintiff is without knowledge or information sufficient to....aw, just f--k off!" See I told you.

Interrogatories by their very nature are designed to make the other side just give up and fork over whatever it is the other wants: the money, the truth, the secret treasure map, etc. I've seen these documents contain hundreds of pointless and horrifying questions all designed to humiliate and wear down the opposing party. The really nasty lawsuits ask for personal information the likes of which you'd see on Jerry Springer, and even he'd blush.

Someday, it will all be an expensive nightmare, I mean, memory. I'll still limp, predict the weather with my kneecap, and hate driving on icy roads. But "cest wat lur fuk?"

Back to soul...for now

2010-01-13T07:16:00.010-05:00

These are all poems I wrote more than ten years ago. They unearthed themselves for me.

Change of Season
The leaves of red and gold
the paler sun and bitter winds
did once foretell the chill
ascending in a soul
a life was rendered
changed forever.

Subconscious tricks of heart
and soul that left you breathless
The sun that once would
warm your core
departed now and
evermore.

Now reds and golds tell of light
and fire that burns of love anew
enduring patience made to ease
erase the pain
and change the season
once again

Becoming One
A long time coming, this contentment.

Stirring where forgotten feeling lies
and distant memory lifts its head
to ponder where the good life went.
But slowly, still yet crystal clear
the recollection comes in view
and to a heart once shuttered fast
the promise of a calm renewed.
So now instead of lonely days and nights
spent praying to whomever hears
the plaintive words to send a love
the days fall sweetly down and rest
an easy calm ascends the night
with paler moon then brighter sun
begins the day with hope anew
embracing hearts
becoming one.

For You
How do I let you know my love?
What once was thought to be sigh,
and inner breath was said aloud
and to the night, you by my side,
not daring breathe
not knowing how or if to move
but you
love you

I, too, have heard the words and seen
the look and know the lie in sound
and how the eyes deceive.
What looks like love is often lust
the words we hear, we want to trust
in you
love you

We fit like gloves, each hand in hand
We walk the step in time and yet
the fear of what could be
keeps us a measure off
away from me
and you
love you
I love you

The Dance

We met, we danced
we shared our stories on the edge.
We knew the something that we felt
Could not be shared until the
me and you
were there in whole
not just in part.

And now each one is one
our pasts and futures
turning 'round, entwining hearts
that felt a spark
when we were half
and touched again as
we are whole.

Waiter, there's a foot in my mouth!

2010-01-12T07:00:00.003-05:00

Oopsey whoopsey! Here's the awful truth about me, once again.

For some unfathomable reason, I believed I could go back to work in law. With lawyers. In a law firm. Crazy, ain't I?

Our local rag had all of five help wanted ads and one of them was for a legal secretary, "excellent pay, part time, flexible hours." Hey, just the thing, right? I called and left a message saying I was interested in speaking to him about his job opening. My kick-ass resume and cover letter had been mailed in order to be on his desk by Monday for review prior to his calling me. That's what professionals do. Keep that in mind as you read on.

Sooooooo, last night he calls me back. Let's just say the poor bastard is now a little wiser for having spoken with me, and I can cross law off my list once and for all. Here's how it went down.

Little Sir Whipper Snapper calls, all self-important, saying how gosh-darned busy he was all weekend, blabbity blah, asks about my credentials. I suggest my resume should be on his desk. He retorts he doesn't have time to look for it. (Say what, you gumptionless turd?) So I rattle off the many fields of law in which I've worked, realizing I should have started with the short list of law I've not done. I tell him who I've worked for and he's quick to say he knows the "big guys." (Groveling kiss-ass.) Then he drops the bomb: "I'll want you to take a typing test."

Oh ho ho, wait just a minute there skippy boy! Polite as I can muster, I say, "I think at this stage of the game, that would be unnecessary with my level of experience. That's a bit offensive."... [insert dead silence on his end of the phone]. Or in the words of a master,

"All great truths begin as blasphemies." George Bernard Shaw.

Sir Snapper's Spideyman underroos are now riding up and he's stymied for the moment. He finally splutters back that no one has ever refused to take a typing test. He just keeps repeating in different ways that he's never heard of anyone being offended, mutter, mutter, mutter. Now I just feel sorry for him and he knows it. I reply, "Wait until you see my resume and perhaps then you'll understand." HIII-YAH!!! Right below the belt, kiddo! How'd that feel?

You must realize at this point, I could not care less. The tone of this kid's voice, his eagerness to ride on coat tails of the "big guys" I mentioned, and his obvious lack of organization speak volumes to me without meeting him face to face. My desire to babysit a cluttery, muttery wet-behind-the-ears braggart are ZE-ROH.

We end the call after I tell him if he finds in his eighteen applicants a no-hitter, to call me. Ha ha HAH! Like that's going to happen. That little punk had nightmares: "Hither came Joni the Barbarian! Curly-haired, sullen-eyed, lipstick in hand, a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, and tiny fists, to tread the jeweled thrones and typewriter of Sir Whipper Snapper under her sandalled feet!!!"

"Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold." Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy

The Universe wants me to write every day. She wants me to listen to Heaven's mandate to create. For whatever reason I keep trying to make an outside work life, it is in vain. My work is here; my writing life is my work. That is the golden truth.

Eulogy

2010-01-11T10:14:00.009-05:00

As the anniversary of my father's passing, February 26, 2005, draws nearer, I draw closer to him. This was my eulogy on the First Day of Spring, March 20, 2005.

EULOGY
First of all, let me say that Dad would never have attended an event like this except in that urn.

Dad never rested on formality in his life, or on convention, trends of fashion or any other normal, polite way of being that most people accept as "the right thing to do."

Dad marched to the tune of his own drummer - - always.

Dad was about living. He was a collector of things; a packrat with the intention of saving stuff that someone, someday, might want.

He was also a collector of people - - a wildly diverse group that he held close in his life. His stories about them kept them alive for him and the rest of us long after they'd passed.

Dad lived to tell a story, a joke, or some how make people laugh. He was always keenly aware of any opportunity to be the center of attention or to make a heavy moment lighter.
I'll tell a Dad-esque joke: A skeleton walks into a bar. The bartender says "What'll you have?" The skeleton says, "A beer and a mop."

All of us kids inherited the ability to find humor even in the darkest moment, however seemingly irreverent. We owe this skill, of sorts, to Dad.

I'll tell you a story from the hospital bedside and I pray I get through it with tears of laughter:

We were all sitting quietly and Dad was unconscious but listening as the hospice nurse proved to us. As some of you know, Dad would often say "What?" if you said something directly to him, but he could distinctly hear a whisper to Mom in the other room that you didn't want him to hear.

So Mom asked Kerry if she'd thought to bring the stuffed gargoyle toy to put on Dad's bed. Kerry said no, that Dad didn't like it and kept turning it around last time. Kerry then said that she'd thought to bring the other stuffed creature - - a vulture - - but thought it might be inappropriate.

This took one long second to reach the rest of us and we all began to laugh really hard, knowing how terribly funny Dad would have found that, too.

This is a day and a time to remember the best, tell your funny and perhaps irreverent story and laugh with Dad, who is definitely listening. Please share with us today all of the happy, crazy, wonderful reasons we all loved him.

Thank you.

When will YOU write something profitable?

2010-01-11T07:44:00.005-05:00

That's what my husband said to me this morning, a bit tongue-in-cheek but also a real question. We were watching the news and the New York Times Bestseller Top Five came on. Naturally, Dan Brown's "The Lost Symbol" was number one and has been since it's release in mid-September, 2009.

I've just researched Mr. Brown to find he wanted very much to be a singer/songwriter. He self-produced music for children and the adult-genre, fighting mightily to gain ground in that field for years. He eventually turned to his true calling and "became" an author in 1996. He wrote several humorous books, then wrote and published his first suspense novel, Digital Fortress with limited success in 1996.

Fame and fortune did not reach him until his fourth novel and blockbuster in 2003 entitled The Da Vinci Code. See, all ol' Dan needed to do was start nudging his size elevens towards the Vatican's fat rich ass and the brass ring was his. Take a swing at the big man in the pointy hat, yessir!

"Oh's what's that you say? Jesus had a penis and he used it to bear children? Well, he did no such thing! Blasphemy!!"

Seven years is a long time to churn out great writing, waiting for the "thing" that the World notices. At least he wasn't crawling toward death before he was recognized for his talent as a writer. (One might postulate that Danny-boy signed his one-way ticket to Hell when he shat on the path of righteousness. But, I'm not saying money can't buy forgiveness if the check is papally, I mean, properly endorsed...)

Does the public want to read the drivel that pops up in my mind? I don't know. You're reading it. It's also the kind of stuff I like to read and isn't that the point?

Father Times

2010-01-10T09:37:00.022-05:00

Captive Ashes
Above my head white birds soar
in silver sky etched
with teal and gray
swirling fast like water white
flowing from far away

Seldom now do tears take me
down the long road of
my memory
Smiles then laughter filling space
feeling finally free

Captive ashes, in silver
urn rests like death and
quiet now and sees
all, it sits just marking time
with both of us at peace

Wild River
Sunbaked rocks, picnic blanket sand,
Hydrox cookie crumbles on our lips.
Sandwiches made special for these times
and these alone, with root beer floats to celebrate
our return home.

Daddy always jumped in first so's we'd
be braver someday soon.
Playing silly games to teach
us swimming skills, and nature lessons
along side watching minnows nibbling toes.

Picture-taking Momma on the shore,
not so much a beach as sandy spots
among the rocks and tree debris
from winter's slashing fury of spring
turned to summer's glory.

Others swim for the huge rock ledge
The wicked wild water's fast and deep
Memories of peanut butter and jelly
never tasting more like heaven here
in days of Wild River swimming.

Critique, Schmitique: don't backhand my blog...

2010-01-09T07:18:00.017-05:00

...with a parable about a woman thinking someone's hanging dirty laundry only to learn she was looking through dirty windows. Instead, do something. Take your light from under the bushel and share it, bare it and make it public. Then tell me about "my view" from your own experience and crushed vulnerabilities, out loud.

"The lot of critics is to be remembered by what they failed to understand." George Moore.

Moore was said to be the first great modern Irish novelist. Wikipedia cites that Moore's first novel, A Modern Lover (1883) deals with the art scene of the 1870s and 1880s in which many characters are "identifiably real," and banned the book because of "its explicit portrayal of the amorous pursuits of its hero." I think Moore would have entirely approved of the blog-scene, particularly my blog and many like it, for it's reality-based writing.

Whenever I ponder criticism of my own work, I recall Wayne Dyer speaking to this very issue. He says that he wrote back to a reader who heavily criticized his work. He responded by saying that he was "reading the man's letter in the smallest room in his house and was gratified to know he'd have something with which to solve his dilemma in a few moments when he found himself without toilet paper." I'm totally paraphrasing, but you get the gist.

"The strength of criticism lies only in the weakness of the thing criticized." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

How do I feel about my work thus far? Just today I've deleted a great deal of it from November and early December that was no longer pertinent to my life or my continued growth as a writer. It was mostly pure snark and catharsis. Like vomit, that stuff is best disposed of at the earliest possible moment.

Also today I've changed my profile to reveal more of who I am today. My chanteuse shot profile picture carries with it a far more authentic caption for today's Toni, Woman of Letters. Amidst the honesty that is my life and what I choose to share with others, I am still beaming at the future with a wide open perspective.

"What the public criticizes in you, cultivate. It is you." Jean Cocteau (1889-1963)

I dream angels whisper...

2010-01-08T09:09:00.009-05:00

Poems:

I dream angels whisper
that love is a leap of trust
Let it under your skin
Listen to the heart hungering
Embrace life by escaping into joy
Love gives life its fullness
Linger together through time
Explore the gift between souls
with true promise
Sacred
Always
Forever

This is a poem I "wrote" for my husband on the refrigerator about ten years ago in those "magnetic poetry Romance edition" tiles.

These are poems I wrote after my father died about five years ago.

Wicker Rocking Chair

Sun swings low in the summer sky
Daddy's calling, girls come in
Lightening bugs just getting glowing
Wicker rocker in the twilight
Daddy sits with us awhile

Momma wants us off to sleep
Daddy singing low
and close to curly heads
Rock-a-bye your baby
with a Dixie melody
rocker creaking, squeaking
trying to harmonize

Prayer Phone

Dreaming deep I dial the phone
I hear the ring and wait
My father answers from far away, "Hi hon."
It's Heaven I guess, my eyes open

This dream is fresh as tears
start falling.
He's so close, I hear his voice,
and now I see his face plain as day.

"Hey Dad how's the weather up there,' I say
'Do you live among the clouds?
Or are you making the devil wish
he'd lived a different life?"

I wrote this poem for Father's Day June 14, 1980:

DAD

One hundred feet tall
and unwavering
In the palm of your hand
sometimes wrapped round
your little finger
A volcano, always grumbling and muttering
hardly ever erupting
Your security blanket and water bearer
in the middle of the night.
Your comrade, guiding spirit
and friend.

See? I don't always write snark. Sometimes I write...and bare my real soul.

Thanks for the Memories...

2010-01-07T07:27:00.010-05:00

How do we want to be remembered in this life? Benjamin Franklin said,

"If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead and rotten, either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."

As for me, I would prefer to do both at the same time. Until then, I will be content with every day works I consciously accomplish, both good and "memorable."

I would like to be known for my humanity and simple acts of every day kindness. I would like to think the things I do make a difference in how the world views me, the people in it, the bugs I don't step on or save from others who might - - things like that. Today in Wal-Mart, I traded carts with an elderly lady. Her's was squeaking up a storm and it was embarrassing her. It bothered her so much she stopped to tell me how awful it was. Seeing her dismay, I offered her my perfect, unsqueaky cart and we swapped our stuff over. She was grateful and toddled off - - in silence. I squeaked away, laughing to my Self, wondering if I would ever be old enough to care if my cart squeaked? Doubtful!! I mean this is not give-someone-a-kidney-great, it's paying-attention-kindness-great.

One time, and to my husband's EXTREME dismay, I hugged a fella who was standing outside in the cold giving away poppies and taking donations on Veterans Day. I put some money in the can and took my poppy. The guy said how cold it was so I threw my arms around him and hugged him before either of us really knew what happened. It was great and rewarding. I didn't stop to think about the propriety of it, but my husband did. He just kept looking at me all the way home, like I'd lost my mind. It was very cold, and it wasn't at all sexual. It meant people can reach out without risk sometimes and give to strangers from their heart.

I also want to be remembered for being a fierce single-minded warrior. Many years ago, I lived and worked in a different locale, way more city-fied than here. I was divorced and living alone. I left my apartment one morning, headed for work, and needed to stop first at the local grocery store. I noticed this weird guy driving a shit-box car who looked like he was following me, so I drove an alternate route all over hell to see if I was right. Well, I was. He followed me to the grocery store, INTO the store, and was in the next line, buying tacks, tractor tires and dental floss or some other unlikely combination. I was really checking him out at this point, all slitty-eyed and pissed off. How DARE this jackass follow ME? THEN he followed me to the gas station, where I stopped. He parked at the pump on the other side from mine and was standing there outside his car not pumping gas. I was so f--king furious, not scared, mind you like a normal person would have been. Spitting nails furious.

There's a saying that ignorance is bliss? Ever heard that one? Yeah...let's just say, I was ignorant of the implications of what this gorilla could have done to me even on a very busy street in broad daylight. Television shows like "Criminal Minds" and "CSI-Miami" weren't even thought of then.

Anyhow, so I say to this guy, "I know you're following me, you jerk." Yeah, why pull any punches? Let's piss off the psychotic slasher who could bash my head in with one slam of his ham-fist and toss me into his trunk. I weighed all of a buck-ten at the time? And I continue, "I've written down your license plate number and I'm going to call the police as soon as I get to work you f--king asshole."

Even though it has been many years since this encounter, I know this is my verbatim speech to a certified psycho killer/serial rapist/cannibal with zero regard to my safety or my continued safety. This guy obviously knew where I lived. (Hey, Bees, you think I have balls now, you should have known me then...!!!)

What I'm trying to say in more words than most people would use - - is I want to be all things, good and "memorable." I want to be remembered. That's what this whole exercise is about. Finding my place.

"So Attention Must Be Paid."

2010-01-06T08:12:00.014-05:00

W. H. Auden, the poet and playwright, said, "Choice of attention - to pay attention to this and ignore that - is to the inner life what choice of action is to the outer. In both cases, a man is responsible for his choice and must accept the consequences, whatever they may be."

Consequences...hmmm? Would anyone venture to guess how many times in the past four months I've destroyed good food because my entire attention was focused on my writing instead of the burner I turned on and forgot about? Or how many times the toaster oven has been found to contain petrified bagels that neither my dogs nor the omnivorous crows will even look at? Just this morning, I neglected my oatmeal. My habit is to plump the raisins as the water boils and then add the oatmeal. It takes awhile for the water to boil, so I came back to my work, sat down and zoned out. To make a long story short, there were grapes in my oatmeal this morning. Lucky for me, I like grapes.

I sometimes even burn hubby's lunch, if I make toasted cheese and soup for us. Woe betide him if he makes the tragic error of going outside or down cellar for longer than a minute. I take that as an opportunity to dash back here to work on my writing. I'll smell cheese-turned-charcoal - - that's my version of alchemy. I can make it back just before he reenters the kitchen, but I never fool him. He says he "didn't come down with the last rain, you know. Ayuh."

Dinner, well, it's the same thing, only now I usually have Bacardi & Coke and WADD (Writer's Attention Deficit Disorder) to contend with. [Sigh] But that's hubby's fault. It is, too! I never drank rum until I met him. I am not deflecting. Balderdash! That's a kids game, did you know that? A kid is either a human child or a young goat. Domesticated goats are a subspecies of goat from the wild goat of southwest Asia and Eastern Europe. Eastern Europeans live in Belarus, Bulgaria, Czech Republic....OKAY, I'll stop deflecting. Dinner is not often neglected because my husband is more watchful as he has a vested interest in the outcome. He's also an excellent cook.

I look at everything now as an opportunity to write. Memories bubbling to the surface of past events funny and unfunny, relationships long since cooled and dead, secrets that no longer matter to anyone. When I walk the dogs, do the dishes, drive in the car; my eyes, my mind both wandering and watching for that moment of inspiration. Overheard comments or seeing something that reminds me of something else can trigger an explosion of scribbled notes on any available paper product. A remark made in an e-mail that sets off a flurry of memories, or forgotten resentment at a tone not heard in decades can change the course of any writer's ebb and flow. It's all for the taking, the musing, the writing and revealing. In not so many words, or a whole lot. Margo and I say, "Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy ride."

"The writer should not be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that does not require his attention." Flannery O'Connor.

Still Waters Run Deep; Babbling Brooks Don't Mind Their Keep.

2010-01-05T08:29:00.023-05:00

What is the most fearsome thing? Is it the deep, dark stillness you cannot see through or get to the bottom of? Or is it the never ending turmoil you can't stop, limit or change the course of?

(Don't let your dingle-dangle dangle in the dirt, but always let your preposition dangle when flow matters more than "correct" grammar. And it always does...)

Leeches and other dark, slimy things abide in still water, deep or not. My Dad, the Prophet of Welchville, warned me about this very thing many times. I paid attention but thought perhaps it wasn't always true. Nothing's always true, every single time. Right? (He also told me not to play on the sprucewood car rack that was temporarily on the ground because I would get a splinter. I paid no heed, that is, until I drove a very robust three inch splinter into my five inch little girl hand from tip of middle finger to middle of palm.)

As a young child, sitting on a rock at Wild River, I once dangled my feet in the warm, still water that was so soothing after paddling in the unforgiving frigid, whitewater outflow from the White Mountains. After a few minutes, I found to my horror a shiny black leech overtaking my little toe, otherwise known in our family as "Achy Pea." (The line up from smallest to biggest is: "Achy Pea, Penny Rue, Rudy Whistle, Mary Tostle, and Old Man Bumble." Oh, ayuh.)

I ran screaming to my mother, who after eight other kids was non-plussed. She plucked it off, did little to assuage my heebie-jeebies and offered me into the care of one of my older sisters. Wild River was more than an hour's drive from home and my savaged little toe bled the entire way. It was a real life lesson for me at age five to avoid still water at all costs from that day forward.

Forty years later, I continue to avoid still water for the leeches I know live there, both real and imagined. People who seem mysterious or who are not at once likeable in any small way are also avoided because I know there's a leech in there somewhere. I would summarize my feelings as "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." Or, as our ex-president, George W. Bush so eloquently said,

"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again.".

Right now, I'm just howling with laughter because I pulled this quote off YouTube and watched the video of him saying this. Oh my GOD!!! I need to take a pee break!!!! Phew, I think I'm done laughing for now. Whooo doggie! Will Rogers said "The problem with practical jokes is that very often they get elected." Poor Georgie boy, the bumbling, bubbling brook, always off course, while his pal, Cheney, the indiscriminate shotgun-toting leech, slithered around in silent deep cover making a lot of terrible stuff happen. Both very dangerous men for very different reasons in my naive opinion.

So for me, the babbling brooks of this world that ferret and swirl don't give me a moment's worry. I accept that change is the only constant, as my resume will reveal. Only now, this lack-of-career move makes sense. I kept trying to resign my Self to some mainstream thing, a normal career with a normal paycheck, benefits, vacation time, insurance coverage and it never worked for me. Now I know why.

I finally did the right thing, launching headlong into the eddy, in my pajamas and diamonds. (I really need to sit down and write some lyrics for that song, "Pajamas & Diamonds." )

"All you need to do is hold on tight...and believe." Stephen King.

"Find a Penny, Pick it Up...

2010-01-02T09:22:00.008-05:00

...keep on looking, find a buck. Toss the copper to the ground, let another's luck be found." As quoted in bastardized fashion by the spectacular and super anonymous...ME.

The other day I spied a penny in the supermarket parking lot, picked it up and stashed it in my pocket, as I always do. My husband hates it when I do this and keeps on walking like he doesn't know me. What the hell? It's not like it's gum or garbage. I must interject a story about my hubby. He's very "proper" or hyper-aware of politeness or what he feels as societal pressure at times and it just cracks me up. He said he once drove by a couple of guys he'd known for years who were working on a house pounding nails, and shouted out, "Hey don't hit your thumb" and then remembered that one of the guys had cut his thumb off in a table saw accident. He related this story to me, all horrified that he'd said that. I laughed so hard I thought I'd break a rib. It wasn't so much the story that got me as it was this look of dismay and honest shame he felt, which I humored out of him as I rolled all over the floor trying in vain to regain my composure. We told this story at Christmas Eve to my family and got the same hilarious response. The laughter was deafening and hubby felt a lot better about his alleged faux pas. This is hubby in a nutshell. He's so damned funny and he never tries to be. Unlike me....

Anyhow, when I retrieved the penny hours later and inspected it, I saw it was dated 1964 - - the year of my birth. I remarked all aflutter about this to my nonplussed husband who replied "Oh ayuh."

Now, what are the chances of that happening?

"Of all the jeans pockets, in all the world, it 'walks' into mine....[swaggering inflection inferred]."

The "Megapenny Project" states that since the first penny was minted in 1787, over 300 billion pennies have been minted in the U.S. Those in current circulation are estimated by the U.S. Mint to be 140 billion. And I found one with my birthdate on it out of mega-ton of pennies?

Like everything else that has happened since I gave my old job the heave-ho, I'm seeing this numismatic find as a lucky coin-kydink. Albert Einstein said "Coincidence is God's way of remaining anonymous." In my estimation, He Who Floats My Cosmic Boat and I are at last on the same wavelength and it feels far less mysterious than ever to be handed a penny with my birthdate on it than it would have six months ago. I liken it to becoming an experienced hiker versus a woods-walker. The markers are no longer necessary as your intuition now guides you, but you glance at them, thankful nonetheless.

This penny is now bright and shiny, thanks to some elbow grease and copper cleaner, and has a place on my desk within easy reach and view. It reminds me that time has flown and continues to fly. It tells me that there are one hundred ninety-six days to my next birthday. What I accomplish between now and then is up to me.

"Do not wait; the time will never be 'just right.' Start where you stand and work with whatever tools you may have at your command, and better tools will be found as you go along." George Herbert, 1593-1633

In the Days of Old Long Since...

2010-01-01T11:13:00.010-05:00

I love literal translations. This is the translation of the song title "Auld Lang Syne," written in part by Robert Burns in 1789, and to a lesser known poet, Sir Robert Ayton. The Scottish folksong collector and editor, George Thomson set the poem to a Lowland melody, "I Fee'd a Lad at Michaelmas" around 1796. (You did what to a lad at a party?) There is a very fine recording of Frank C. Stanley's 1910 robust performance on Wikipedia. Mr. Stanley's rolling Scottish brogue does great justice to this song, now two hundred fourteen years old. Tune in and be inspired to sing it better next year, you clamoring mokes.

Seeing as it's January 1st, I'm cleaning up and clearing out, per usual. I made two resolutions, believing for once I could handle a limited number with complete success. They are: 1) to use my treadmill everyday and 2) to stop using chocolate as a meal substitute. I have failed already even though it's only a little past noon. I do still have time to walk, but I'm not going to. Why kid myself? In defragging my computer and deleting a shitload of unused program files, useless documents, cookies, etc., I regained more than ten percent hard drive space. I know, I was surprised, too.

I've also off-loaded several people from my Facebook friends list. I will admit the allure of having 267 friends or some other insane number is quite appealing. It would make me look pretty darned popular, wouldn't it? As it stands, I am very comfortable at less than twenty friends, and I'll talk to all of them on a regular basis.

Now, this may come as a complete surprise to you, but I've never been the girl who wanted to win the popularity contest. Hey, now don't act like that! I'm sorry to rip your time space continuum all to hell. I know what you're thinking. It's like I've grabbed you by the hand to wantonly and willy-nilly hokey-pokey around the blackhole that is your reality. But, yes, I've pretty much always marched to the beat of my own drummer. There I've said it. Just deal!!

I was never in the geek squad in school. I floated amongst the advanced placement, college-bound pains in the ass, the music-focused, drama club type kids, and the business school, accounting class pencil pushers. I fit in pretty much everywhere except with the smoking area kids. I was a singer, so I didn't smoke; mezzo soprano in case you're taking notes.

Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach said, "We are so vain that we even care for the opinions of those we don't care for." Ms. von Ebner-Eschenbach was one of the most important German-language writers of the latter 19th century, and is credited with the aphorism, "Even a stopped clock is right twice a day." (Her picture on Wikipedia is grim and she looks like a monster, so don't look it up or you'll have the wooly-booger nightmares. It's something to do with her lips...)

Anyhow, those were my "vain thoughts," Marie, when I "friended" this guy on Facebook that we all used to call "Sammy Smellsmore." That is the barest alteration of his actual name, mind you. He sent me a friend request, but I feared he hadn't changed much for the better since high school, knowing full well I hadn't for sure. Before friending him, I checked to see who his other friends were. Seeing that some of the more popular kids from high school had friended him, I "accepted." It wasn't long before he proved himself to be the same perverted, repulsive, intrusive, disgusting, leering, icky guy he was twenty-eight years ago. I spat him back into the Internet-ethers never to be friended again, at least not by me.

I mean how far had I sunk to friend this guy I knew in my gut was going to be a pervert? Just to add another "friend" to my list? All to gather "friends" on Facebook? Looking back over this perv's list of friends, all these nice, decent people who never spoke to this guy in high school, who don't speak to him now but just want another body to add to their list.

Let's face it, I'm not the "Facebook type." My one reason for being on there is to network with family and a few used-to-be-close friends from high school and work life. It's not about how popular I think I am or desire to be. It's a vehicle for revealing the tenor of my life thus far; what I love and who I love. I share so we can all reminisce on "days of old long since."

'Pajamas Worn Boldly...

2009-12-31T08:29:00.018-05:00

...in diamonds from Za-ales! Pajamas they sold me, Hon! I'm doing the dog walk, and baking a squash pie. And when the laundry is done.....I'm strolling to my space. To do my own thing! To write with some zing! My blo-ooog, while there's light....Whoo-oo-eee...whoo-oo-eeee..."

To get the real feel for the beginning of this blog, you have to sing it to the tune of "Blues in the Night." Also, it is Rosemary Clooney's version and the best rendering in my estimation. Now try it again, with feeling and emphasis where appropriate. And sing nice and loud; no one can hear you. I can wait....... (As an aside, my diamonds are not from Zales, but it rhymed.)

This is one of my favorite songs from "Rosemary Clooney's 16 Greatest Hits" CD. I listen to this album quite often while I'm writing. The song was written in 1941 by Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer for the film of the same name. Arlen is quoted as saying, "The whole thing just poured out. And I knew in my guts, without even thinking, what Johnny would write for a lyric...".

Whenever I read those words "I knew in my guts" and "just poured out" from a writer of any medium, I feel so envious. Is it that writers become so attuned to writing that they eat, sleep and drink it? Is it the years or decades of hard work that result in the flood of so-called "sudden" inspiration? To sit and write with no critical thoughts, no thoughts of rewrites; the words coming from God's mouth to your ear. I am in awe of this entire concept.

"You never have to change anything that you got up in the middle of the night to write." This is quote by Saul Bellow, an esteemed author, lecturer, winner of the Pulitzer Prize in 1975 for his book, Humbolt's Gift, and the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1976. I would add to that: "... or change anything you wrote under the affluence of incohol before dinner fot cully gooked."

Anyone else have this problem? Ever e-mail anyone after a couple of grogs? "Fix" your resume or your blog entry when you've tried on a few belts for the evening? Got a few night caps pulled on and thought to be irretrievably witty??? Oi. It's not the very worst idea I ever had. My worst idea to date was in helping my friend, Suzy, down a flight of stairs when she was fully debauched. Her big toe folded under her foot, she crunched it like fat African grub and the party ended.

Quite often I revise my blog entries between my first rum and Coke while making dinner and again at the end of my second rum and Coke after the dishes are done and hubby's watching the news. (I'm a very cheap date; two drink limit.) The next day when I review my blogs for content and continuity, I'll notice changes I didn't realize I made. The revisions are usually not so bad that I'm horrified. Sometimes, but not often, they are better, funnier, and wittier. Maybe there a Hemingway-esque, alcohol-induced quality to my writing? It is said he wrote well in spite of his "little problem" and not because of it. But, I don't think ol' Ernie had a two-drink limit like I do.

This process of writing isn't so much about writing after all. For me it's about reading, more reading, research and more research. And let's not forget staring blankly out the window while I pickity-pick a friggin' hangnail clear to my elbow trying to chart my next move on the keyboard. Excuse me while I go get a bandaid...

Leave the Seat Up, I'm On a Diet...

2009-12-30T13:55:00.012-05:00

My wild, beautiful, intelligent hairdresser, whom I'll call, Amiya, meaning "boundless" in Sanskrit, suggested the subject of this blog. She is a world traveler, funny, a laugh like a temple bell. She thinks I'm hysterical. What more is there to like about her?

She's fast approaching a landmark birthday and, like all of us gals, wants to be the same size we were back "when." We got on this subject in such a roundabout way. We were grousing about men and their habits of leaving stuff places and leaving the toilet seat up and such. She said "Don't you hate it when you get up in the middle of the night to go pee, and you don't put on the light because you don't want to wake up all the way. You get in there and go to sit and your ass hits the water because YOUR HUSBAND LEFT THE GODDAMNED SEAT UP?!!! Of course, we'd been laughing the whole time she'd been cutting my hair, so we were in prime form for continuing in this vein. So I said, "Amiya, you know what would be terrible? Is if your ass was so big it didn't fit into the toilet when the seat was up. That would be so much worse than taking a frigid fanny founder at midnight."

Well, we struck on an idea at that point. We've come up with a new diet plan. No more weighing on a hateful scale. No more more taking stock with cold plastic measuring tapes that we can't read with our aging corneas anyway!!

Here it is: When you can sit on the toilet with the seat up and sink to your waist in the freezing water, you will have achieved Nirvana. Let your ass be your guide.

Is that not the simplest, most direct method you've ever heard of for weight loss? No tricks. Nothing to buy. No membership dues. No special food. Everyone has a toilet and there are toilets everywhere, all over the world. Well almost everywhere, except for Switzerland where they straddle a hole and try not to pee down their leg or poop on their shoes. No wonder they're neutral; they don't care if they go nasty cahcah on themselves for Christ's sake.

Anyhow, no more excuses for anyone! You just - - and this is key - - work your ever-lovin' ass off.

St. Augustine said, "Pray as though everything depended on God. Work as though everything depended on you." This applies to every thing in life that is worth having. For some that is a smaller heiny, for others a bestseller on the New York Times Top Ten List. I want both and I'd settle for something in a six in either case.

The Cryin', the Twitchin' and Wardrobe Malfunction

2009-12-30T07:39:00.012-05:00

I thought today I'd reminisce about a few instances of outright hilarity or frustration I've come to find funny from my work life over the past one score and eight years ago. These things are long hidden and have risen to the surface for reasons I cannot explain. I think it has to do with the holidays, perhaps, and getting together with my crazy family.

At my first real job, I was only nineteen, a very innocent, untraveled kid and completely unaware of my pretty good looks. I worked with only one older woman in the office of a large machine shop. That is to say, an all-male environment, before the No-Sexual-Harassment-You-F--king-Bunch-of-Apes Guidelines were made law. I was prime pickings for these pre-neanderthals.

The guy just outside the reception room door, Hacky Damon, had a huge beer gut and his nickname was "Hackys Crack." Can you guess why? C'mon, guess!! Part of my job included collecting reports from the Engineering Department. So I'd leave reception, walking out into the shop area, where Hacky worked at his machine to my left and facing me. "Hey Hacky, how're ya", I'd say, then I'd turn a sharp right, into the engineering offices and collect my reports. This was the uneventful part of my journey. It was the return trip that all the other machinists waited for with great delight because then and only then could I see the glory that was Hackys Crack. This man's pants would be suspended by the grace of God somewhere on his thighs and his entire ass-crack would be exposed for me to see along with his hairy, pimpled old man buttocks. All of the men would be standing stock still, grinning and staring, silent as lambs until I got back into my office. Then they'd burst into hysterical laughter, screaming Hacky's name, hooting and hollering. I'd like to say it was more humiliating for Hacky, but I don't think it was. It may well have been the highlight of his day.

Now to the reason why I no longer wear half-slips. They fall down. The goddamned things fall down while you're standing beside your boss getting instructions on a project. With a rush of horror, you feel a gossamer poof around your feet. You know what I said about peripheral vision being a blessing and a curse? Well, this applies here as well. The trick, men, is to get as close as possible, blurring the edges of the peripheral vision, thus limiting it, without touching the other person. Much to my great dismay, this happened in the presence of Sir Twitchy, J.D. ("Junk Diddler") my voodoo victim, and I really didn't want to get closer for fear he'd get the wrong impression and get "ideas." But I just had no choice. I felt my son-of-a-bitchin slip whoosh down my legs, and Thank Goog, I had a long skirt on that day. Horrified, I leaned in, stepped out of it, and balled it up in my right hand. Now this couldn't have happened at a better time. Sir Twitchy was such a self-absorbed crotch-whopper that he probably thought I was coming onto him, so he was riding that wave to shore while I was taking care of my little issue. Now, it's a full slip or nothing. On a clear day, you can see forever, and through my skirt.

One of my sisters said she was crossing the post office parking lot after lunch, and felt her half slip fall down around her ankles. Thinking fast, she kicked it under a nearby car and kept on walking like nothing ever happened. I would love to have seen that.

The comedian, Sinbad has a skit about a man falling down versus a woman falling down. Men trip and fall, and the whole world hears about it. He stands back up, arms flailing, getting all the attention he can for it. A woman falls down with her groceries scattered in a fifteen foot radius. You ask her if she's alright, and she has no idea what you're talking about. It wasn't her and no, those aren't her groceries. I once worked with a woman who while crossing the street was hit by a slow moving car. She rolled over the hood, landed on her high heels and kept on walking. She said the guy jumped out of his car to ask if she was okay and she said she just yelled over her shoulder "Uh huh" and kept on going. I'm laughing as I'm writing, remembering her telling about it. She was completely indifferent to admitting it even happened, just as I never admitted to anyone that my slip fell down. Until now.

Ah, memories!

Ding, Dong, Heaven Calling!!!

2009-12-29T10:10:00.011-05:00

Caroline Myss says in her book, "Your Power to Create,"

"When your whole system fills with this 'I've had enough,'... that is your first indication that Heaven is about to move you. That is your first sign that the power to create is something you better start animating. You may think that the power to create is your choice. You are absolutely mistaken."

I have read most everything that Caroline Myss has written over the years. I bought this book in audio form not long after I left my job. I was headed home after visiting my mom and when this passage came on, I started weeping and had to pull over. I played this section of the CD, entitled "Creating begins with revolution," over and over, and sat crying on the shoulder of the road. Heaven had moved me, I felt the revolt and I did something - - I quit my job and I started my writing life. To hear Caroline Myss speak the words of her book is more powerful than simply reading it. This is a woman whose plain talk appeals to me, and she believes what she writes.

What reminded me of this wonderful book was an e-mail I got from a new friend, whom I'll call Abella. This name finds its roots as a Catalan byname for beekeeper or "small and active." She is my one and only follower of this blog to date and is becoming a good friend I've never met. Not yet anyway. I've offered her a pitcher of our Island Blaster's if she'll cross the country to visit. These drinks look so benign, pink and fuzzy like a ballerina, and I'll even throw in nice blankey to curl up in when her limbs and limbic brain no longer speak to one another. Our next door summer neighbor, Solana has sworn off the Blasters because she teleported home once from our house which is maybe, and to her advantage, fifty feet away and didn't remember how. We're the people Solana visits when she wants to let her hair down, come over without makeup in her gardening clothes, eat potato chips with abandon, drop the "F" bomb, etc. We're the fun neighbors who love her for who she is.

Anyhow, so Abella e-mails me and says "...you risk so much with the potential of being judged, or misunderstood, or hurt so deeply," in reference to my blog. It was then I remembered what drove me to this thing I call my muse. It was Caroline Myss' voice saying Heaven had moved me and I'd better start animating this power to create because I had no other choice. I recalled the "cosmic fry pan to head" emotion I felt that afternoon, sought out the CD and listened again.

I e-mailed back to Abella that I suffered from episodes of panic where I wondered what people thought of me and my writing; most fearful of the opinions of my family and friends. I've come close to abandoning the blog many times for fear of my identity being discovered, particularly around here where I live. My not-so-inner jackass always thrashes around at those times, slinging hyphenated obscenities at my ridiculous anxieties so I can continue writing.

Eleanor Roosevelt is quoted as saying "Do one thing everyday that scares you." I think this qualifies.

The Price Is Wrong

2009-12-27T12:08:00.014-05:00

Come on dooooooooown!!! And here's your host...........GOD!!!!!!! Wouldn't it be a kick in the head if you got to the Pearly Gates and it was just like the "Price is Right" stage? And God was a guy in a suit with a mic who just wanted to know, in fact, needed to know how much you paid for the sum of your life? "How much did it cost you to live your life the way you did,' he'd ask, 'and how much of what I gave you didn't you use?" You'd be made to guess and you'd fail, of course, because you never paid attention. A giant flashing sign would light up to show you and the audience the glaring disparity. And the condemning, pitying silence would hurt like Hell.

What has me wound up and unfunny for the moment is a quote I found by the oh so great and talented Erma Bombeck who passed away in 1996. She said:

"When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left and could say, 'I used everything you gave me.' "

I've had plenty of time now to really think about the job I left, and it's real meaning to my life as a whole. The job itself meant nothing. A trained monkey, or my successor, could do the work.

Touching the people the way I did, now that's another story. This job was instrumental in reviving my compassion, where law had excised almost all of my humanity. Law is a very hands-off profession, all paper, no touching, no real concern; it's all about money, maneuvering, and horseshit. Working with people requires paying attention and honest-to-goodness caring. That job taught me patience and the art of true communication: eye-to-eye contact and real listening skills that are hard to learn and even harder to practice.

Now time seems to fly when I write, and I feel possessed by the word on the screen or page. Like Issac Asimov said, "Nothing interferes with my concentration. You could put an orgy in my office and I wouldn't look up. Well maybe once." Sounds hopeful to me, Isaac, but well-said and I agree. Will someone please put an orgy in my office for crying out loud so I can check the theory!!! Kidding... I notice the "space time continuum" most when I'm cooking something during the day. I put the timer on for forty-five minutes or whatever and it seems to ding just after I sit down to continue writing. This is astonishing to me. One blink and dawn has turned to twilight.

"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it." Henry David Thoreau

Sitting here, tappity-tapping out my blog, or crammed in my recliner handwriting my kids book, I forfeit nothing.

Those Three Little Words...

2009-12-26T07:42:00.015-05:00

...that are four but one is a contraction? You know which ones I mean, don't you? You're afraid to utter them aloud, but you get cornered somewhere by someone you haven't seen in awhile. And you like this person, you've known one another for years, so you feel you can tell them, right? Right? Oh no...here it comes!

"Hey,' they say, 'I haven't seen you in so long. What are you doing now?" "Oh, I pursuing other things, so...." Now you have to tell them, after they ask you what you're doing, and you just blurt it out:

"I'M A WRITER."

(Holy Mother of Goog! Did I just say that to someone other than the dogs and cats? Did that come out of MY MOUTH? In public - - outside of the house? Where it's unsafe, and, and, and... Why are they smiling at me like that? Oh, cock-knocking-son-of-a-whore-to-hell! Now I have to follow through with this and I don't know if I've got what it takes or not! I live in my f--king pajamas and diamond earrings. I've only the barest of fleshed out kid's book!! My mother likes it, but she's hard-wired to like it, and she's lying her ass off because she's my mother!!!)

That's my morning in a nutshell. Yup. I ran into this old friend and former client at the local Dunkin' Donuts, whom I'll call Ezra. He was one of my favorites; a well-educated and well-traveled, very intellectual guy whose charming and eccentric wife, whom I'll call Electra, passed away several years ago. They were a fantastic, exciting couple; the kind of people you wanted to know for a lifetime because they entered a room with an "oh, there YOU are" feeling. I mourned Electra's passing with Ezra, and he trudges along without her, never to be the same again. There's a great mutual admiration between us. You'd want to sip single malt with this guy.

Ezra hailed my new "career" as stellar and wished me all the luck in the world, not seeing any reason whatsoever why I won't be the next John Steinbeck. That's how he is. I told him I "hoped he lived long enough to see me become famous," as he's now in his early 80's. We laughed and went our separate ways. I certainly hope I live long enough to see my own fame and fortune!!!

Samuel Johnson is quoted as saying "When a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully." My mind is now a bit more concentrated than it was, Sam, and I can see the gallows in my mind's eye. Say now, that might be a good idea. I'll go make up a symbolic noose and hang it in one of the trees that I can see from my computer chair. Perhaps I could some sort of effigy in it to symbolize the death of my old profession? I'll think of something. I always do.

I once made a voodoo doll for a pal who was going to take over working for my awful attorney when I left. It looked exactly like him complete with velcro rip-off limbs and head. She needed something to take her frustrations out on, being only a few years from her pension. This guy was a misogynistic, twitchy, philandering, knucklehead who thought himself a ladies man and had perpetual jock itch or "something." What is it with some men who cannot leave their junk alone? What IS that? It's attached isn't it? It's not magnetic where gravity might have some say as to where it ends up after walking across the room, right? Or like a compass where it points true north so you have to wiggle it around depending on which way you're facing? (By the way, I've had enough exposure to said "instrument" that these questions are purely rhetorical in nature.) And, let me tell you, gents - - we can see you do this even if we're making eye contact. Peripheral vision is both a blessing and a curse.

"The story of the human race is the story of men and women selling themselves short." Abraham Maslow. This quote speaks eloquently of many people's lives. If I had played it dumb, or dumbed down my resume in any way, to get any of the jobs I've applied for thus far, I would be miserable now. As it stands, I'm very happy being unemployed and striking out at this writing life I've spoken up for. I've gone and said those three little words, "I'm a writer." And so I am.

...a Big Difference Between Kneeling Down and Bending Over."

2009-12-22T07:15:00.021-05:00

The original quote by Frank Zappa reads, "Remember, there's a big difference between kneeling down and bending over." Naughty, suggestive, outright crude: those things always appeal to me and that's why this quote caught my eye. The gift here is that after you smirk and chuckle at the inference, every fiber of your being agrees with the greater meaning.

I've come to accept a few key things about myself since leaving a job I thought I would retire from in twenty years. Well, "knock a sick whore off a piss pot!" my father would say. (He was a poet: it's the same meaning as "what light through yonder window breaks?" Just let that sink in....Okay, how about this: it's the "A'Hah Moment" Oprah talks about all the time. She just can't say "whore" and "piss pot" on national television, that's all, alright?) Looking back, it seems impossible I could ever have felt that way. I am thankful that the Universe forced me into a level of awareness and clarity that loosened my tongue sufficiently to seriously hasten my departure. The fact is, I deserved a better life. All my angels in Heaven wanted this for me. They were up there with their pom-poms and air horns shouting, "J-O-N-I!!! Kick 'em low! Kick 'em high! Don't give in! Don't you cry!! We'll make sure you prosper! WHY? Beeeeee Cuz We Love You!! HEY!!!" See Frank? I finally stopped bending over.

I accept the fact that I'm not going find a regular job any time soon. In chatting with Solana yesterday on Facebook, I learned that a pal of hers, a paralegal, has been unemployed for more than a year in a large metropolitan setting. Both she and her attorney were laid off at the same time and neither has found work. That's grim. Living here in a small coastal tourist town, having less than five ads in the help wanted section of the local paper is not uncommon as winter creeps in. We accept that here.

The exuberant Pearl Bailey, "sultry and statuesque, a muse in high heels," is quoted as saying, "You never find yourself until you face the truth." My revelations also include the fact that I no longer find my Self able to feel or really, pretend to be subordinate to any one ever again. This may well be the admission of a lifetime: I've never felt subordinate to anyone. Defined as: "under the control or authority of another; submissive to authority; to make subservient; of lesser order or importance; subdue," in it's various forms and usages. I could bray just reading the definition, me and my not-so-inner jackass. I don't even see this as arrogance, but self-awareness; as facing the truth about my Self. I need to work for me.

I owe this unfortunate calling to a hearty strain of kick-ass entrepreneurial genetics. Mom said Dad came home one day from his regular paying job and told her he'd quit. (They only had FIVE kids at home then.) After he picked himself up from the floor and pried the frying pan out of his skull, he explained to her that he wanted to try antique dealing and believed he could make a go of it. In fact, he knew it. Over time, both Dad and Mom became antique dealers and they were very successful, running Pigeon Hill Antiques for many years. They were self-taught and savvy as hell. I wouldn't say Dad was a liar, but he could talk the hind leg off a mule. Mark Twain said "Never tell a lie except for practice." So, let's just say, he was well-rehearsed. I guess once you took into consideration the wife and the now seven kids at home who depended upon him, it was easy to cut him some slack for his lack of veracity.

I'd like to think that my Dad sees all this, and reads my blogs from somewhere between Heaven and Hell. I'd also like to think he has access to both; one for climate and the other for society. I know he'd be proud of me because I'm proud of me.

"My Father, now in Heaven is a keeper of the birds. And his eye is on his sparrow." Don Williams, Jr.

Burning Bridges, Falling Down, Falling Down, Falling Down.....

2009-12-19T08:27:00.014-05:00

What is it with people saying they don't "burn their bridges?" When you leave a job or a relationship of any kind, I'm here to tell you - - that bridge is burned whether you know it or not. Whatever delusion you might be under that the other person or persons who loved you or worked with you still feel the same way about you are, at best, wishful, and, at worst, just plain wrong.

I met up with a woman I used to work with because she had something I needed. Otherwise I wouldn't have been caught dead with her out in public. You will understand why as you read along. She "retired" from that fine establishment after threatening to do so for about seven years. It was always going to be "two years from now, I'm outta here!" And that's how it went for seven years, so something got screwed up because seven is not divisible by two. The new math, perhaps?

Let's call her Martha, after Martha Stewart. She was talented; a gifted crafter and baker, but so f--king annoying, so cloying and pawing for attention for her skills that you couldn't help but hate her just a little or a whole goddamned lot. I think that's how most people feel about Martha Stewart. She couldn't even go to jail without getting all kinds of attention, and making a killing off some other inmate's crocheted poncho. It's one thing to steal from the rich, you bitch, but to steal from another inmate? That's low.

So, Martha told me at breakfast that she liked to visit the old haunt on a regular basis. She went to see her many friends because after all she worked there for nine million years and she just couldn't walk away from them. She loved them and they loved her and it was such a treat. Wow-zer. I gotta say, folks, this barely passed the straight-face test for me.

Having worked for attorneys for so long, I am very good at keeping a dead pan expression on my face because I had to. A man once told me he had great pain from a "genital defect in his back," and a woman told me that she suffered from "a detached rectum in her eye." In both cases I was forced to repeat back to these sad, sad Darwinian failures the words "CON-genital" and "re-TINA" so they would not repeat those phrases to anyone else. Though judging from the gene pools these folks frolicked in, I doubt anyone else in their circle of friends had ever noticed the misstep.

Anyhow, Martha's chirping along about our mutual past job, and she was just there, how I deserved to be let go if couldn't get along with so-and-so, that she put up another stunning quilted rooster wallhanging, and that everyone seemed SOOOO happy to see her..................... I'm sorry? What did you say, you malevolent, girdle-wearing, piggy-eyed, gopher-toothed, over-permed, pidgeon-bodied, ass-kisser? Did she have the nerve to say I deserved to be let go because I couldn't get along with the objet-du-suc' mah dik sum dey'? Cest' wat ler fuk? I just "mmm-hmmd" and smile-smirked and kept on eating my breakfast. I was thinking back to the multitude of heinous comments that followed her leaving from the bosses on down and how she didn't even suspect. She was the object of constant ridicule for her rigid work habits and her general demeanor (and her girdle), even though she was good at her very complicated job. She was the A-Number-One ass-kisser, tattle-tale for all those years and she made a lot of enemies. The bridge she thinks she hasn't burned was torched the second she left by all of her so-called "friends."

Fridtjof Nansen said, "I demolish my bridges behind me, then there is no choice but forward." He was an esteemed Norwegian scientist, explorer and diplomat, awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1922, among other awards and honors. He was the first person to ski across Greenland. Skied across Greenland, in case you didn't read that fully. Check him out on Wikipedia. He was a remarkable man, and that's a remarkable and curious quote for someone with his life. By today's standards, it seems impossible to believe that bridge-burning and successful diplomacy could go hand in hand, doesn't it? Perhaps Nansen believed in himself and his works to such an extent that his magnetism kept the best people right behind him, also marching forward and not caring if the bridges were burned? Maybe he stood alone, but by the look of his biography and his pictures, I would proffer he wouldn't have noticed if people thought him arrogant or foolish. He was brilliant, brave and a humanitarian of the age.

"My land is bare of chattering folk, the clouds are low along the ridges and sweet's the air with curly smoke from all my burning bridges." Dorothy Parker

Isn't that a great quote by the Queen of Demean? I say that with respect, as Dorothy Parker is a folk hero of women, in my estimation at least. She spoke her mind and no doubt sparked off more than her fair share of bridges. I've been accused of being a bridge burner by Toughy, my attorney pal. That's no lie and I'm far from insulted. Would I want to return to any job I've ever had? Any relationship? (Now there's a line-up I don't want to see!!!)

A pal of mine, I'll call Solana, meaning "sunshine" says "Bloom where you are planted." That reminds me of my voluptuous gardens, and hers which are next door to me. The wind carries seeds everywhere and each spring she and I try to figure out what's where and why, what to pull and keep, having to wait and see in many cases until bloom-time just what we have in our respective plots and spots. Sometimes if we just leave them, we get weeds that we've babied all summer. But more often than not we are rewarded with a luscious patch of fragrant yellow primrose or some other stunning revelation. All for a little patience and faith.

That's how I feel about burning bridges, that sticking to what was doesn't let the future bloom. I believe God or Allah or Buddah or whoever floats your Cosmic Boat can't get to you unless there's curly smoke in the air signaling release of the past.

When I Was Seventeen, It Was a Sucky, Sucky Year...

2009-12-17T07:41:00.019-05:00

...it was a sucky, sucky year for finding a job,
Cuz I'd never work'd a lick,
And these people were dicks,
No one to hire the likes of me,
When I was seventeen...

And now I'm forty-five,
And it's a sucky, sucky year,
It is a sucky, sucky year for some one like me,
With a kick ass resume,
They send me on my way,
They know I'll want THEIR job,
You bet your sweet ass they're right,
Cuz now I'm forty-five....

I used to find that song very sad back in the day. It's even sadder now that I've completely slaughtered it.... Alas, I wasn't even a twinkle in the old man' eye when it was written in 1961, but I remember it playing on the radio and on Merv Griffin. But, I LIKE my version; it's more 21st century, more Bush-o-nomics era. It fits the ten percent unemployment decade doesn't it? Yeah I know what you're thinking, but it's not Obama's fault. He got handed the keys to a burned out economy with a slap on the back from ol' Georgie boy sneaking a "Hey Dick, duck hunting much?" sign onto his coat.

This is my problem now. No one wants to hire me and it's the reverse of the problem I had when I graduated from high school a "few" years ago. (Ahem.) My resume's big. I can't hide the fact that I'm a go-getter, that I'm confident, a people-person, and intelligent. My husband offered to help me with that by showing me several facial constructs I could adopt when I walked in but I declined. You've all seen them on the Three Stooges so that's all I'm going to say about that.

I should have been more like a recent ex-co-worker of mine with a less than stellar resume. Being over-qualified for something is certainly not one of her biggest concerns. Her resume reads like this: bartender, shop clerk, factory assembly worker, bartender, shop clerk, waitress, hostess, bartender, Professional Person. Ta DAH!!! Ain't no one afraid of this chick busting through any glass ceilings any time in the future. She doesn't scare anyone with her talent; only when she turns around and you thank God it's not a dark alleyway at midnight. Anyhow, I bet she can mix a mean cosmopolitan or make change for a twenty in two seconds flat. Quite ironically, she probably could have gotten either of the two jobs for which I just interviewed, which makes me feel pretty good. She's got something I'll never have: zero expectations of greatness.

I didn't want those jobs; I just wanted to be "wanted."It's a product of being unemployed, feckless, living in my pajamas (and liking it more than just a little bit) for more than three months now. But, it's not "right," this kind of life. Is it? I feel I am productive. I'm trying to write this book in my head onto paper. I also blog.......and it will pay-off somehow, someday. The house is clean, the laundry is all done. I prepare delicious and thoughtful meals every night like mustard pork with homemade spaetzle or potato crust chicken pie with a tarragon cheese sauce, and homemade biscuits. Tonight is cumin-laced meatloaf with butter-laced mashed russet potatoes with green beans. (I'll tell you a secret: there is butter in everything now!!!) Luscious desserts, like pecan sweet bread, chocolate chip banana bread and sweet potato pie are waiting to make us (me) fatter. The big ol' woodstove is cranked up and the whole house toasty warm, like 85 degrees warm. Yeah baby!!!

How would it be if I were back at work? The house would be clean enough and warm enough. No desserts except for store-bought cookies or candy. The laundry would be manageable. Hubby would have to rush home like always and scrounge dinner onto the table, something quick. I'd get home at 5:30 if I was lucky, big dark circles under my eyes again. I'd have the residual shakiness from my caffeine addiction of no less than ten cups of regular coffee and yucky fast food roiling in my gut from lunch. I'd be just shaking off the "irritated beyond belief" sensation from whatever horseshit I took from "whoever" all day long. Driving lots of miles a day in good and really bad weather on winding, narrow island roads engineered by drunken pirates. Now I remember why I love my pajamas more than my work.

The late, great George Carlin said, "Most people work just hard enough not to get fired and get paid just enough money not to quit." I really like that quote and it is sadly the truth. But it never applied to me. I worked my ass off because that was how I was raised by my Depression-era parents. And I was never paid enough to not quit... OBVIOUSLY.

Still I struggle with the construct of working at a "real" job vs. sort of working, trying to work at home, trying to build a writing life while keeping my sanity and assure my husband of "something" I still can't define or put a price tag on. But, he truly believes in me and knows my tenacity of spirit. He's even seen my tenacity...'nuf' said.

Gotta dumb it down doobie doo down dow-own....

2009-12-14T09:36:00.016-05:00

...dumba dumba down doobie doo down dow-own, dumb my resume down, doobie doo down dow-own -- findin' work is hard to-ooh ooooh do!!! bum bum bum bum bum buuuuum.....

Wow. Went for another interview yesterday, only this one was different from the last. I had zero expectations of getting this job. Zee-roh. It was for a file clerk position, only temporary; 24 hours a week for twelve weeks. Luckily for me, the interviewer was funny and hip with really cool dark lavender glasses. Let's call her "Elelta." It's a name that means "laughter." She was bright, pretty and sincere.

Elelta and I chatted for awhile and she told me all TWO things I'd have to do in this job and asked me about my qualifications. It think it was agonizing for both of us really. After we got through these preliminaries I just knew I could speak my mind, so I said, "you're not going to hire me for this job are you?" She laughed and said no. I already knew the answer and knew she would tell me the truth. We had been laughing and chatting the whole time, not much of an interview really; more like new friends meeting for the first time.

Elelta relayed with some frustration how they received resumes from people with masters degrees applying for these piddley-assed jobs (my description, not hers) and how she just couldn't even interview them. It would be like trying to hire a down-and-out Albert Einstein to flip burgers at McDonalds. How do you interview a person who is more qualified than you are to do a job that is truly not worthy of their skill set and experience? I don't know the answer to that question.

So here I am today, trying to figure out how to dumb-down my resume. Pretend I don't have one at all? That may be my best bet. Until I go in for an interview and my face tells all and then I can't shut up and I reveal that I was lying all along just to get my foot in the door. Ha ha fooled you. Yes, I can find my way out, thank you very much for seeing me today. Sorry about the trickery. Please don't call the police....

Not So Much Free As Loose....

2009-12-11T07:45:00.013-05:00

Annie Dillard said her father had a dream of spending a summer riding a river barge on the Mississippi. When he found the time, the reality sent his dream to hell. The days were long and tedious, with no one to talk to but dull-witted river men. He had hoped to experience a "Tom Sawyer" kind of freedom, realizing he was "not so much free, as loose." Me, I am loose. Loose as a goose freed by truce from a noose in a spruce by a sluice made of juice that a moose bought from Jews wearing puce in a caboose. Okay I'll stop, but not because I have to.

Most people are hard-wired to work, to do something each and every day. Certainly we're not meant to sit around in our pajamas, swilling Southern Pecan decaf with soy milk until lunchtime, tapping out a dumb, self-serving blog? Or cram into a recliner next to a cranked-up woodstove in our pajamas, swilling now-cold-and-disgusting-decaf with soy milk handwriting a childrens book on a pink-papered legal pad? I'm not even really ashamed to be seen in my pajamas anymore. My husband's grown kids are now pretty used to seeing me any time of day in them, along with the next door neighbors, and the UPS man. To my credit, I am always showered, hair semi-done, lipstick on, with my diamond earrings in place. That counts for something doesn't it? Pajamas, Lipstick and Diamonds. Didn't Peggy Lee record that sultry refrain?

Greg Levoy wrote in his book, "Callings:"

"Last year I saw a movie called City of Angels. It opens in the emergency room of a hospital where a little girl has just died, and the camera slowly pans away from this scene until we're looking down a long corridor in the hospital, with a light at the far end. The little girl is walking down the corridor, toward the light, holding hands with an angel played by Nicholas Cage.

Halfway down the hallway, the angel turns to her and asks, "So, what did you like best about it?" Meaning life. And the girl says "Pajamas!" I've posed this exact same question to several thousand people in the last year in my "Callings" workshops; asked them to imagine that they're walking down The Corridor toward the proverbial light, holding hands with an angel-----or with Nicholas Cage if they prefer-----and the angel asks them what them liked best about it.

Not one person has ever said work."

This was a giant quote, but I feel strongly about Greg Levoy's book and his wisdom. I've owned this book and audio book since it was published in 1997. He was wise enough to quote from many masters throughout his writing. I've listened to his audio book so often over the last twelve years that now it crawls to a near mumble toward the end of the tape. But I almost know it by heart at this point and can speak it right along with him in some places.

Can I do it? Can I live it? Can I, as he says, "walk the talk?" I think I'm getting there. I know I love my pajamas more than I loved my work and I know that's progress.

"Hope is the thing with feathers,...

2009-12-07T07:11:00.013-05:00

...that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all." Emily Dickinson

I hope to reach a conclusion today, and arrive at sanity but I fear it's more than a day trip.

Since talking over my ambivalence with my husband regarding taking a job that I feel is "beneath my skill set and pay requirements," my mind is unsettled and my legs vibrating under my desk like tongs on a tuning fork. He informed me in no uncertain terms that he has done much work for little money when the situation called for it........[insert gigantic pause]....and these times were not few and will be again [now insert man scowling at the television.]

My darling husband has little, actual point of reference here. He's always called his own shots, having never applied for any job anywhere. He's either been a carpenter, sought out by others, or he's fished, dug clams and worms or picked periwinkles. Mother Nature is his boss, and he answers to her. He complains about her like a real employer, damning her for too much wind or rain, when either of those things cramp his style. But she favors him as he always returns to me from his sea voyages. He delights in coming home to tell me how giant waves came "right over the boat today" and "sometimes all you could see was water on all sides." She's no small boat either at 42' feet long, 18' feet wide; a Nova Scotia or "Novi" hull with a riding sail. Built to take "it," he says. He's very proud of his girl.

Friedrich Nietzsche said, "One must separate from anything that forces one to repeat 'No' again and again." Ah, that has been my mantra since the brightness of the interview wore off. As a matter of fact, I've refused several jobs for this same "No" my not-so-inner jackass brayed when it saw my potential working conditions. I knew I wouldn't be able to function and would soon seek my own undoing as I have done again and again.

Is this ego? Am I too good to do certain work? No, it's not about being too "good." I would rather shovel manure in a cow barn than sit behind a sliding glass window. At least I would be doing something for the cows out in the fresh air, no pantyhose required, no lipstick, no mascara; no mask whatsoever. I think environment says everything about the kind of work a person will be expected to perform. The more a place looks like a jail cell, the more a prisoner you are. I once visited an old jail here on the Midcoast. The cells were carved from solid rock. I'll never forget the feeling of me, at 5'3", having to stoop well down to walk into those dark and fetid rooms. I am reminded of those cells whenever I am shown the kind of environment I saw at that interview. They don't show you the leg chain until after you agree to work there.

As I look around my home office I am more than pleased to work here. I've painted it a color called "Wanderlust," a lush dark blue periwinkle color; my shelves are painted "Pink Adobe." Off-white berber rugs and lacy curtains in the windows. A honey-birch desk that my husband made is tucked into the corner. All my paintings, framed certificates, favorite poems, funny cartoons and memorabilia are posted here and there around me. Abalone, oyster and hen clam shells gathered on the shores of Prince Edward Island fill my ginger jar desk lamp. Pens shaped like red poppies and ladybugs sit in flowered handmade pottery cups given to me as a wedding present. My beagle and shepherd snore, sprawled behind me on the floor. One kitty lies behind the computer in the sunshine; the other watches the cursor on the screen with great fascination. This is not a huge space, but I don't have to stoop to enter and there is no leg chain. There is but a spiritual tether to keep me grounded.

Toni Morrison said, "If there's a book you really want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." I have a book in mind, but the blank white page stymies me as it has thousands of others before me, and millions ahead of me. Onward...

Working Stiffs

2009-12-06T06:46:00.009-05:00

I think I just got the meaning of "working stiff" as I wrote it. The working a/k/a walking dead? Sorry to say, I'd agree for most of my life I was a working stiff and working "stiff." Hey, I must be accepting this path I'm on!

"One of the symptoms of an approaching nervous breakdown is the belief that one's work is terribly important," said Bertrand Russell. I felt my work and my position were vital. Truly vital. [Sigh] In truth, I realize it was just an amoeba's pisshole in the Cosmic Snowbank of Life. I'm sure by the following Monday, all traces of me were gone, the coup complete, and my effigy, ash. I'm also sure that all decorum is lost and the standards have slipped sufficiently that no one like me will ever work there again.

Now I work here, at home, trying my best to write my best. Pondering my next move on the keyboard, delving the depths of my forgotten knowings, I'm awake every second. Getting the day-to-day out of the way, laundry, vacuuming, dishes, or cooking; it never stops being about the writing. By day's end, after researching and reading more now than I have in years, I feel brain-tired for better reasons than I've ever known. Sir Roget and I are tight again and we're both pretty happy about it. Tennessee Williams wrote, "When I stop working the rest of the day is posthumous. I'm only really alive when I'm writing."

As seemingly trivial as this blog has been, it is a launching pad for what lies within. Every thing starts somewhere; the first blotch of paint, the tap of the chisel, pen to paper. Do I possess any talent? Sure I do, but the only way I'll ever know for sure is to tell Houston I'm a go, light the fuse and fearlessly blast into the unknown.

"Work while you have the light. You are responsible for the talent that has been entrusted to you." Henri Frederic Amiel

When the Music Changes, So Does the Dance

2009-12-05T06:59:00.014-05:00

The title of this blog is from a proverb. Simple, direct and to the point. How unlike me? I don't like the music I'm hearing right now and I don't want to dance. It's rap and I don't like rap. It goes like this: "You gotta take a job, you're a big lazy slob. The pay's gonna suck, but you gotta make a buck. Yo Yo!! You're a gerbil, not a fox, gonna put you in a box, make you run, for their fun, pay you shit when you're done. Hey y'aaaalllll!!" This song bites my burgeoning ass.

Anyhow, my interview yesterday was great. I was witty, smart, interesting, and motivated. Allegra, the interviewer, was a straight shooter, and I believe she liked me. In fact, she was great and someone I'd like to work with, as an equal. I even got "the tour" of the facility where I'd be working should I get this job. She gave me the whole run-down on what I could expect, why the other girl didn't work out, salary ($10.50 an hour.......say what?!), working conditions. We laughed, chatted, and she thought my resume was kick-ass, which it IS. In attending a career workshop several weeks ago, I was informed that my resume was an antique. It is now revamped to run the rigors of the big biz computer scanner, ensuring ID of all key words like "ass kisser," "tattle tale," etc.)

The problem? I took one look at the gerbil cage I'd be working in and I felt my not-so-inner jackass starting to shuffle around and mumble obscenities under its breath. It wasn't that the working environs weren't absolutely nice, the other girls appearing friendly, even hinting at being sarcastic, funny bitches like myself, which I would thoroughly enjoy. I just wondered if I could ever reconcile my Self to how mindless this job would be, while still traveling the same miles a day for a shitload less than I was making at my last job. Only here I would trapped behind a desk and sliding glass window, numbing along at work that I could do with half my brain tied behind my back. Total Recoil. I had this job already. Twenty-six years ago. I didn't like it then. I'm going to hate it now.

Then I got a gander at the "job description," all four lines of it. I noticed a typo in this burdensome narrative, which I considered to be a very bad omen. These are the duties: register patients, answer phones, schedule appointments, collect and distribute mail. On page two I see that "while performing the duties of this job [I may be] frequently exposed to risk of electrical shock." Well, thank Christ. I daresay I'd praying for death before too long and electrocution would be a quick and easy solution. Actually this made me laugh right out loud and Allegra still seemed to like me, even after my inappropriate outburst. I wonder if she would have still liked me if I'd pointed out the typo??? Mmmmm? I don't know.

I have nothing to worry about. Allegra will get some nice person in to interview and forget all about me. I have a big personality and a big resume, and she's no dummy. I wouldn't hire me for this job. I'd be afraid of me and what I might say and do down the road, how much anarchy I'd incite, or how quickly I'd be eyeing her job for myself. While this makes me a little sad, the truth is I'd rather be me than most people.

I've had my own sort of "thing," called the shots, been virtually autonomous, and I liked it. I don't know where to go from there. My dear friend, Suzy always says, "Confusion is a state of grace; do nothing." Good advice.

Would You Like To Swing on a Star?

2009-12-03T08:48:00.014-05:00

I'd say I'm finally swingin' on that star, takin' moonbeams home in a jar, and be better off than I are, but would I rather be employed? Thank you Bing, thank you very much. How's that for a song virus that won't leave your head? Or would you rather be a mule? A mule is an animal with long floppy ears, that kicks up at anything he hears.......la lah lah la la la la lah lah laaaah.........brutal isn't it?! I put a song virus in here for those of who are susceptible because I was actually singing in the shower this morning for the first time in I don't know how long. I was singing Rosemary Clooney's version of "Mangoes" from her "16 Biggest Hits" CD. This song was recorded back in 1956 and spent 16 weeks on the charts at number ten. It's an intoxicating little ditty. You can check it out on YouTube.

George Santayana wrote,

"A string of excited miscellaneous fugitive pleasures is not happiness; happiness resides in imaginative reflection and judgment, when the picture of one's life, or of human life, as it truly has been or is, satisfies the will and is gladly accepted."

Now that I've shrugged off this burdensome, smelly hide that labeled me and told me and the rest of the world what I was and what I did, I feel renewed. I realize I am happy, and have been all along in this beautiful world I live in, the house I share with my truest love, this place I've always known was "home."

I've gotten back in touch with my love of cooking and domesticity in general. I'm going to find it very difficult to leave this behind and adopt a new work persona and title, because I cherish this trusted and ancient way of living. I'm baking bread on a Wednesday because I have time and because I embrace the sensuousness of flour and wonder still at the miracle of risen dough. Or I'm walking the dogs at 10 a.m. instead of rushing them up and down the road before work, yelling at them to go faster when all they want to do is experience nature like I should be doing, sniffing the air and mocking the crows. This is me, always was me, and will forever be me.

"The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves." Carl Jung