Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #14

Moob Man
He’s slim. He’s athletic looking. Yet his ex-pecs have drooped into moobs. These B-cups could get him hired at Hooters if only they were a tad less pendulous. And why is it that men with moobs wear clingy knit tops? In this case it’s unfortunate that he’s tall, because any short woman who slow danced with him would end up with a face full of man-mammaries. He also appeared to have had a face lift. Forgive me for saying it: wrong choice of cosmetic surgeries, Mr. Man-mams!

Next week: Summary One More

A Bountiful Harvest

Or maybe Christmas came early??!! Either way, I got an unbelievable surprise yesterday with this box full of goodies from Sioux Roslawskii of Sioux’s Page. I’m afraid my photography skills just don’t do it justice, but they are (clockwise from back):

-A gorgeous coffee table collection of bylines called Writers, photographs by Nancy Campton. How interesting to see the faces of people whose work I’ve read! And I was thrilled to see that John Updike’s office looks only slightly cleaner than mine (including stuff on the floor and everything!)…but with fewer Post-Its.

-A drop-dead-gorgeous, apparently hand-knit scarf (in rich colors that will look wonderful with my winter coat!) with some beautiful beading detail on the fringe. As someone who learned to knit in Girl Scouts and never progressed from there (am not even entirely sure if I earned the badge), I am positively fascinated by how perfect the workmanship is.

-A pretty journal in warm, autumn tones.

-The most beautiful fall quilt wall hanging that has inspired me to get out my autumn decorations. On the back, it says, “This quilt was started at a guild retreat several years ago, and was finally finished in July, 1999. Sioux Roslawski, Spanish Lake, Missouri.” It is a piece to be cherished.  Ditto about the workmanship.  I know I never earned that quilting badge.

-A bright yellow “Writer” button, and

-Luscious, dark chocolate covered coffee beans. Yum!!!  Perfect for when I am having either caffeine withdrawals or chocolate withdrawals, or (typical for me) both.  How did she know??!

Wow. All I can say is that Sioux is one talented and generous lady. AND I will be entering more contests from now on!!! Thank you so much, Sioux!!!

Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What? You, too? Thought I was the only one.’ ~ C.S. Lewis

Stuff from Around My House: More Art

I teach grades 6-12, so students don’t draw pictures for me very often. Every now and then, one does. And who do you think gives me a picture? Wouldn’t you think it would be a 6th grade girl? That would be my guess. But no. Strangely enough, the person who occasionally gives me a picture is a high school aged boy—usually a junior. Really.

This has happened several times. In every case so far, he’s the sweet, gregarious type who is talking to his friends. When I tell him to get to work, he grins up at me from his seat and tells me he is done with his work. Would I like him to draw me a picture? After I make sure he’s done whatever he’s supposed to do, I tell him sure. Anything to keep him quiet enough to allow others to get their work done.

This last one asked me for my favorite vacation spot and animal. He started to ask my favorite sport, but someone asked me a question and I got distracted. So here is the picture he gave me. I thanked him for giving me a nice LARGE bottle of rum and a volley ball net, though I later realized it was a hammock. My guess is I would need that rum in order to put up with the rabid-looking wolf-dog that is about to plunge itself into the ocean in pursuit of an apparent hallucination.

 Usually I make them put their name and age on it, but sad to say, the bell rang before I got a chance with this one. It is hanging on my refrigerator, though. Of course.

Overheard from high school boy: “In school, gum is gold. Like, if you’re in the outside world, and somebody is like, ‘Do you want a piece of gum?’ you’re like, ‘no, man.’ But if you’re in school, you’re like, ‘I want that piece of gum!’”

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #13

I’m-Not-Drunk Dude
The good news is that he is not a mean drunk. In fact, he’s a great guy, everyone’s friend—who can down half his weight in alcohol and not seem terribly drunk at all. He is proud of this accomplishment, and no wonder—he’s worked for years to build such tolerance. He thinks he’s no fun unless he’s drinking, so he finds an excuse to imbibe no matter where he is. He has the uncanny ability to sniff out a bar anywhere—even along a wilderness hiking trail. At an afternoon festival, he makes a beeline for the only booth he cares about—the beer garden. Whether it’s after a morning at the gym, at an afternoon charity event, or at the church picnic, every outing somehow involves alcohol. He frequently swears it off—say, for Lent—because if he can give it up for a few weeks, he’s sure that means it’s not a problem. Then he decides that God wouldn’t have put St. Patrick’s Day in the middle of Lent if people weren’t supposed to drink, and besides, he made his point. And since God said, it would practically be sacrilege NOT to! So drink up—he’s buying!

Next week: Episode #14 (? Send men! I need fresh ones!)

Contest Stuff

Announcement number one: the Objéct was…drum roll…An ANT, of course. A red one, I believe. Tsk, sigh…gol, you guys! ☺  As far as what its function was—I’m convinced it is merely to add joy to my life!

Announcement number two, which should really be one: I won Sioux’s blog prompt contest! Hooray!!! I normally don’t enter contests, but Becky Povich’s was so much fun last month that I decided to just take a peek. And Sioux’s wonderful blog has some great stuff on writing, teaching, and the teaching of writing.

As soon as I saw that picture, I knew I had to enter because I had a true story that just went with it. Last year I subbed as a middle school P.E. teacher on a very warm spring day, and the kids were outside playing soccer. At the far end of the field was one lone chair smack dab in the middle of nothing. Toward the end of the day, curiosity got the best of me and I finally wandered down there. The cool, fragrant breeze that hit that chair was pure heaven. It really did feel like being on the beach with an ocean of grass in front of me. When it was time to take the kids inside for the day, I truly hated to part with that chair and that field!

All the arts depend upon telepathy to some degree, but I believe that writing offers the purest distillation. ~Steven King, On Writing

Stuff...I Mean...Fancy Shmancy Objéct from Around My House

This stunning piece was hand-crafted by my son, I think when he was in kindergarten. Feel free to guess what it is. Sorry, you won’t get any prizes, but you will get the enviable distinction of being named the winner. Yay! And I will personally clap for you while sitting here at my computer, and probably some people will be impressed by your…um…appreciation of the finer things in life.

I used to keep this arranged on an antique table next to a Baccarat crystal candle holder because I am just that weird. I thought it was sort of funny. A Realtor with a background in home decorating was over, and I saw her eyes dart all over the table and then go back to the THING. Several times. “Oh,” she said. “This is an interesting…piece. What is this objéct d’art?”

Don’t you love it? “Objéct d’art.” I wish I could have kept a straight face and made something up (using a haughty voice) but I’m not nearly that cool. Instead, I made her guess. While she was examining it, it came apart in her hands. The look on her face makes me giggle to this day. We both ended up laughing so hard we had to fight over the bathroom.

She never guessed what it was, either. So here it is, lovingly glued back to its original configuration, although I must warn you that I really don’t know which direction it’s supposed to go. Your turn. Good luck.

Laughter is the shortest distance between two people. ~Victor Borge

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #12

Mr. Pick Up
I met Mr. Pick Up on a hot summer night. The excitement at the outdoor concert was almost electrical, the band, electrifying. He was tall, muscular, handsome. Considerably younger than I am. Was it that it was so dark out or that he just didn’t care? He slid an arm around my waist and I let him. Newly divorced, he said. Yes, it was obvious what he was after, but let’s face it, after forty-five a bad reputation is quirky at worst, almost admirable at best. Heck, cougars are practically a good thing! But…the bottom line is another one of those sad ironies of life. Respect matters at my age. And the question isn’t whether they respect me, but whether I respect them. Mr. Pick Up tucked his card into my hand. “Call,” he whispered. Months later, I still have the card. But I know I keep it only so I can say: What’s wrong with me?! I could have had a hot guy!

Next week: Episode #13, The I’m-Not-Drunk-Dude

Struggles with Awesomeness

Here’s Struggle #1. It’s mine. Ever since I got a Gmail address, Blogger will NOT let me sign up to follow some of your awesome blogs. It basically loops me through the process. So if I’m not following your blog, that’s why!! I was originally signed up to Blogger with my primary email address. But once I added Gmail, it doesn’t seem to recognize me. At first I thought a lot of people’s blogs were private. Yes, I am technologically challenged. But since then, I’ve tried shuffling accounts, coordinating passwords, etc. Yet I can sign in to post just fine.  Does anyone know what to do?

Here’s Struggle #2. It’s a student's struggle and my Quote for the Day. I like it so much, I almost gave it its own post.

Spoken by 10th grade boy: When I turn 18, should I change my name to Optimus Prime Megatron? Or should I just name my kid that?

Not Totally Done Tuesday: Paradise

Umm…okay, I know I said I wasn’t going to post these every week. But have you ever started feeling really tired of your hair, so you made the appointment to get it cut, and that seemed to make it start looking better? I guess this is like that.

Anyway. This past week reminded me what my concept of paradise used to be. I used to think it had to involve palm trees. And then I lived with a few palm trees, and I found out that paradise doesn’t automatically come attached.

Over the weekend, I woke up my own paradise. It was a Sunday morning, and the fall weather has begun to settle in, and I was under a down comforter listening to a cool rain outside my open windows. As I age, I find that paradise is less a place and more a state of being. I’m working on moving there permanently.

Announcing…Stuff

JUST when you thought this blog couldn’t get more exciting!

Coming Soon: Stuff I Found Around My House! About once a week or so, I will show you something from around my house. Just makes you want the week to fly by, doesn’t it? So that’s it. Stuff. You expected more, maybe? Uhhh, nope. Well, I’ll tell you about it, too. What makes this different from a kindergartener’s show and tell, you ask? The fact that I am about 45 years older than a kindergartener and only slightly more mature.

OH, GREAT EIGHT BALL…is this a good idea?

By the way, here’s the first one. My Eight Ball. Well, really it’s my daughter’s, but she doesn’t play with it anymore, and as you can see from the fact that the Eight Ball has its own blog label, I do.

Spoken by eighth grade boy last week: “Something smells good over here. Is that you? Ma’am, would it be inappropriate of me to ask if I could sniff you?”

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #11

Karma Chameleon
Karma Chameleon was slick, I’ll give him that. He was funny, witty, and interesting. There was something unbelievably familiar about him. He had an easy laugh. He had served in a public office, same party as my very political parents. Even though it’s not my party, I was astounded at how drawn I was toward this man. I later looked him up; he was telling the truth about his political background. But what I liked most was his incredibly diverse interests. Psych and journalism major. Right now he’s a counselor. My ears perked up. Writer? Counselor? At that point on, it was clear that his passions are writing and counseling. And—could it get more amazing?—when I mentioned I teach, it turns out he’s crazy about children, too. Still…it bothered me that he was trying so hard to impress me. And he later let something slip that led me to believe he still wasn’t over his divorce. Unhealed means not ready for a new relationship, and a counselor should have known that. But worse was the feeling I couldn’t shake that all of those interests and occupations were merely lines he was casting to see where the nibbles were. Something didn’t feel quite right. I decided to give him time and see what he did. The next time we met, I watched him hit on every woman in the room, one by one. When I passed him one time, I couldn’t help but overhear that he was a business owner. With another, he was in sales. Sales? Diversity is wonderful, but this felt way too much like a con. Karma Karma Karma Karma Karma Chameleon, you come and go. But…just go, ‘kay? 

Next week: Episode #12, Mr. Pick Up

Totally Tired Tuesday: Randomer Randomness

I’m officially tired of Totally Random Tuesday! Will eventually post more randomness, but not on a weekly basis. But since I need some direction in my wandering little journeys, stay tuned for new stuff!

In the meantime, here’s one more random thought: Lately I’ve been thinking that it’s almost disturbing how entertained I am by the act of writing. I think publishing is like getting a free pass to play. When you’re writing, you can even say to non-writers, “I’m working!” and they will believe you.

Amazing.

Have a great Tuesday. Wishing you…happy randomness. Or random happiness.

Brevity is the Soul of Wit, but Limbs and Outward Flourishes are Funner

Friend and wonderful writer Becky Povich recently had her September blog contest. The rules were: using the scene in the photo (reprinted with Becky's permission, below), write a story of 100 words or less. I don’t enter contests very often, but Becky gives some great prizes. Problem was (and always is) that word count. I just could NOT do 100 words. The leanest I could chop was 112. So after struggling far longer than I could spare, I gave up. Here it is, because now I don’t know what to do with all 266 words. Happy fall, y’all.

It was Cactus Day at the “Life is a Bed of Roses” nursery, and Berta Ebbercamper was feeling a bit prickly. So she tossed on her blue Ask Me About My Grandbabies t-shirt and headed on over.

When she saw the life-sized dragon sculpture out front, though, she knew it would look cute as a button next to some windmills on her front lawn, with maybe a cement goose in overalls underneath.

But when she reached for the door, Berta felt something hot on her back. Whirling around, Berta realized that it hadn’t been a lawn dragon, after all, but a real North American Brownbeard merely posing as one!

Berta hadn’t lived with Ed for 42 years for nothing. She knew ornery. She tripped that dragon with a pot of sedum ‘Autumn Joy,’ then beaned him with chrysanthemum ‘Golden Splendor.’ Berta, once a horticulture major on a fencing scholarship, fought the dragon off with the nearest carnegiea species, eventually pinning him with ferocactus horridus. Didn’t slay him, though. Berta was a practical woman and knew a real dragon might come in handy when Ed’s back was out.

Now the dragon sits nicely on a hay bale next to a garden gnome and two pumpkins, cradling some dried corn husks and a sign that says, “I ♥ Autumn.” Berta named him Ferdish, because it sounded like a fancy name, just like her real North American Brownbeard.

“Ferdish!” says Berta, “You go on an’ haul that wheelbarrow full of pea gravel out back, will you?”

“Yes ma’am,” says Ferdish.

Yep, dragons can go nicely in the garden sometimes.

You must bring us... a shrubbery! ~ Knights who say Ni (from Monty Python and the Holy Grail)

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #10

Bucket List Boy
This is the opposite of The Health Nut. He isn’t just embracing his mortality; he is hurtling himself toward it at the speed of a high-pitched scream. He has a list and he’s not afraid to plunge headlong into it…usually hanging on by something that looks a little like a large elastic ponytail holder. His midlife crisis is so out of control that the list usually involves too little oxygen and way too much gravity. He’s like an adolescent with plenty of money and no mom to yell at him.

Bucket List Boy asked me to jump out of an airplane with him. Amazingly, there was a time in my life when I actually wanted to do this. Now I have a child still at home whom I don’t want to leave homeless. But even if all that depended on me was my plumerias, I still couldn’t do it. As I age, I find that scary thrills like that lose their thrilling aspects—leaving behind just the scary part. I chickened out of the Mr. Freeze roller coaster at Six Flags and had to walk the long Loser Walk past the crowds of bubble gum-chewing tweens watching me with a combination of pity and adolescent superiority. It was the fact that they had you remove your earrings that got me. Anything that sucks the jewelry out of your body is just too much suckage. Serious, scary suckage. Besides, things already hurt at my age; do I really want to risk adding injuries? If I survive? Right now my idea of risky behavior is using a lower SPF sunscreen or skipping a year of mammograms. Worse—and this is a true confession—I am genuinely afraid that sheer terror would make me lose control of my bodily functions. And let’s face it—it’s just not cool at any age to poop on your date.

No question about it, though—Bucket List Boy is fun. He is a wild man who does everything with gusto. He has recreational vehicles galore. He loves to travel. Oh, the places you could go with Bucket List Boy! The question is, would you return?

Next week: Episode #11, Karma Chameleon

Senior Sex(less) Supplement: 10 More Things!

It’s baaaaaaack! Inspired by “The Health Nut” and his fetching pickup lines, here are:

10 REALLY BAD Pickup Lines for Middle Aged Folks

1. Darlin’, you put the grr in girdle.

2. Shake it, don’t break it.

3. I’d like to run my fingers through your…scalp.

4. Come on, Honey, let’s get horizontal. ‘Cause I’ve been standing too long and my knees are stiff and my back hurts.

5. I’ve always liked a woman with curves. Everywhere. Like on your knees and upper back.

6. Oh my darling, let me tilt your delicate little chin…ah, neck…ah, 45 degree angle where your chin and neck have melted into each other and become one body part, thereby making it look as if your head is sprouting out of a really fleshy turtle neck sweater….

7. What’s cookin’, good lookin’? Let me put my glasses on to gaze upon…Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry. Pardon me.

8. Okay, then, can I grope your back fat?

9. Let’s play “the Tickle Game.” Go put on your Depends.

10. And the one that inspired this: Hey baby, you put the “hot” in hot flash!

P.S. I had a Viagra one, but I took it out. You’re welcome. Feel free to suggest any of your own!!!

Bleeker's mom was possibly attractive once, but now she looks like a Hobbit. You know, the fat one that was in the Goonies. ~from the movie, “Juno”

Totally Random Tuesday: Life After Death

I think it would be interesting if, when we died, we got back all that we gave to the people who didn’t deserve whatever they'd been given. That would certainly account for heaven for some people...and hell for others.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #9

The Health Nut
We all have to face the fact that we are mortal creatures, and yes, more so at my age. But The Health Nut goes to ϋber-extremes. He is not just watching his cholesterol, but watching every particle in the environment which may or may not contribute to his demise, including toxic tooth fillings and evil air particles. True, he is slim and healthy looking, but this guy raises an eyebrow at certain organic products, even. Yet it wasn’t his diet that scared me off. What did it was the line about certain products “alleviating the symptoms of menopause.” Did I say anything about menopause? NO. Why? Because I’m not an idiot, that’s why. I don’t care how old I am, how natural it is or whether I am standing in a puddle created by my own hot-flash-induced sweat, if you’re male and not currently wearing a white coat and holding a speculum (I’m just immature enough that I can’t type that without adding: eww), that’s another fact of life you’d better avoid more carefully than your own eventual demise. My first thought was that he was trying to get rid of me (a technique which used to be known in high school as “The Gross-Out”), but it later became clear that he was just being obsessed with health and aging. I’ll take those tips when you’re ready for me to suggest that you need Viagra, testosterone supplements and male enhancement products, ‘kay, Bran Boy?

Next week: Episode #10, Bucket List Boy

Happy Hump Day

Things You Don’t Want to Hear:
Your dog, rooting under the sofa and going *CRUNCH*CRUNCH*CRUNCH* on something that doesn’t remotely sound like food. When I chased him around, he knew from experience that I was going to reach in there and pull it out. So…GLUP!  Gone before I could take away his treasure, whatever the heck it was. The remorse was very brief and quickly replaced by defiance, the booger.

Things You Do Want to Hear:
I’ve intended to read this…and now I’ve won Karen Greene’s new book, a poetry collection called Three Thousand Doors!!! I absolutely, positively never win anything, so I am thrilled that I struck the jackpot my first time!!! Thanks again, Karen!  Will be sure to let you know when I've read it.  In the meantime, check out her wonderful writing prompts!

Good books, like good friends, are few and chosen; the more select, the more enjoyable. ~Louisa May Alcott

Totally Random Tuesday: Books

Who is God? I know for sure on some days she is a friend with a pen.

Happy Labor Day

What a hot summer we’ve had! Heat-warning hot. Hit-you-in-the-face-and-suck-your-breath-out hot. Zap your strength, blow open all of your pores, and leak you into a puddle of misery hot. Burn your hands on the steering wheel hot. Burrito hot. Old dog breath hot, the kind that’s humid and smelly and too close to your face until you feel like you either can’t breathe or don’t want to.

That kind of hot. So hot that when I went out to clean up dog poop, the dog didn’t bound up to accompany me, but refused to budge from the dark, air conditioned hallway and watched me instead with his droopiest hound dog face. And when I got out there, I discovered the poop had baked into little black poop-shaped charcoal briquettes.

And now that the weather is cooling and summer is considered to be over, I have one thing to say:

Over already??!

To live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering. ~Gordon A. Allport

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #8

Martian Man
Remember Big Boy restaurants? Martian Man looked like Big Boy, but much more grave. He was grave on account of the Martians. It’s not for me to say whether he really did have a close encounter with a U.F.O. 30 years ago. But using that as his opening line didn’t overwhelm me with the excitement of his life. Even under the assumption that it did happen, if it was 30 years ago and that’s still all he’s talking about, it’s time to take the lawn chairs out to that hillside to stake out the firmament again. Oh, wait, he does that. So maybe time for a new kind of hobby. Or therapist.

Next week: Episode #9, The Health Nut

Totally Random Tuesday: Forgiveness

For years I’ve wondered what forgiveness really is. The people in my experience who require the most forgiving seem to think of it as something they are owed, like a “Get Out of Jail Free” card that they automatically collect along with $200 every time they pass Go.

I’m ashamed at how many years it took me to realize that forgiveness is not something that’s handed over automatically, but something that’s earned. And it doesn’t mean giving a chance to repeat the transgression, but giving a chance to demonstrate that it won’t be.

In the end, though, forgiveness simply means moving to a place where the hurtful thing truly no longer hurts and will no longer hurt again, wherever that may be. So forgiveness is something we really only owe ourselves.

Hey—here’s a bonus question. Which Monopoly piece are you and why? I’m usually the shoe, I think because life, to me, is a journey. And I like that little handle. Also because we seem to be missing the car, my former favorite. Did you notice?

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #7

Twinkly
“Twinkly” is a silly, sweet, wonderful man with eyes that light up a room and a soul that lights up the people in the room. He is a big person on the inside, spiritual without being remotely preachy, smart but fun. He gets along with everyone and seems to have an interest in everything. He is respectful of women, chivalrous, and kind. Whenever there’s an awkward situation, Twinkly comes to the rescue. Or if a party is lagging, Twinkly livens it up. When I was stuck next to a braggart, Twinkly came up and whispered, “I haven’t heard you say a word in ages. Is it because you can’t?” And then, eyes twinkling, he asked for my help elsewhere. Twinkly shines. If I were more ready for a relationship, I would want to be more than the friends that we are. But I’m not, and alas, Twinkly deserves someone who is. Still…I’m lucky to call Twinkly my friend.

Next week: Episode #8: Martian Man

Running in Circles

Donna over at Donna’s Book Pub (DBP) gave me the Circle of Friends award last Friday. My week as been so crazy, though, I’m afraid it’s taken me a while to post about it. Her blog is a font of resources for writers and a welcome place to gather. Thank you, Donna!!! The other exciting part of this award is that I get to spread the fun around to five blogger friends of my own. Here are the directions, pasted directly from Donna’s blog:

Pass the link to five other bloggers.
Post a link from their blog to mine.
Notify them that they have received the award.
So, here are my five selections for The Circle of Friend Award:

1. Linda. Of special interest to my dog-loving friends—check out Linda’s blog Write from the Heart! She has a story in the book My Dog is My Hero coming out Sept. 18!!! Congratulations, Linda!
2. A Woman with a Past is a woman who can write. Visit there when you have time to read.
3. Jessica at Just Gonna Be Me! is a lovely young woman with a lovely old soul.
4. Jules of Trying to Get Over the Rainbow is like a pot of warm gold.
5. Pat over at Critter Alley posts animal pictures that are worth a thousand words and captions that are far better than a thousand words.

My final job is to notify them that they have received the award and ask them to pass it along. Enjoy!

She is a friend of mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. It’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind. ~Toni Morrison

Totally Random Tuesday: Put Downs

Carving the people around you into canyons doesn’t make you into a mountain by comparison. It just makes you dirty and low.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #6

Sort of Married Guy
The divorce is almost final, he said. You know how it is, he said. Just waiting on the final signatures, he said. Almost divorced is like sort of pregnant. You are or you aren’t. No signatures? Come back when you get them. On second thought, don’t. Sort of Married Guy might as well wear a sign that says he A.)Wants to commit adultery, but B.)He doesn’t want to go after a sort-of married woman because he doesn’t want any husbands beating him up. Besides, even after those signatures, if he doesn’t take time to reflect and regroup, healthy relationships are not his priority. End of story. Except it’s not the end of this story! A few months later, I ran into Sort of Married Guy again. He asked me out again. “Get those papers signed yet?” I asked, just out of curiosity. Almost, he said. You know how it is, he said. Just have to get a couple of signatures, he said….

Next week: Episode #7, Twinkly

Reflections

It’s sad for all of us when my son leaves for college. The dog, however, mourns a little bit. And I think my son mourns the dog a little bit, too. Buddy, a lab mix, turned 14 in April. His age hangs in the air these days like a gathering storm.

My son has been packing, but he stops. “I think I’ll take Buddy for a walk,” he says.

We are empaths, the boy and I; we often sense what others are feeling. It isn’t ESP, but there are times when we are so sensitive to each other that the emotions volley silently between us, mirror on mirror. So when the rawness of what he is feeling settles on me and stops me in my tracks, we both look away out of politeness.

“Yes,” I say, to the floor. “He'll like that.”

They only go to the end of the block and back, but the dog—in spite of going blind and deaf—adores their time together. He knows that his boy will care for him always.

So do I.

The language of friendship is not words, but meanings. ~Henry David Thoreau

Totally Random Tuesday-Children

I didn’t realize how much growing up I had to do until I had children. I was an adult until they were born. Life has so many weird little ironies like that, and child-rearing has to have the most. I had a ton of things I wanted to teach my children, but over and over, they’ve taught me how much I had to learn from them. Then there was all I wanted to give them. Strange that they’ve given me so much more in return.

Caught by the Principal

In honor of school starting again, here is the true story of something that happened to me last year.

I’d dealt with an incident involving several high school kids. Although everything had worked out as well as it possibly could have, it’s always a good idea to document, so I started a rough draft of my documentation on a piece of scratch paper I had with me.

Earlier that day, I had been helping out in a history class where the teacher had been showing a PowerPoint presentation on Vietnam. Not having anything to do at the moment, I doodled.

I am a doodler. So I started doodling the picture of this Vietnamese dude. I know I should know the name, but I don’t. I’m sorry—I’m not a history buff. And I certainly mean no disrespect to anyone’s leaders. But the thing is, I was working on the guy’s beard when the teacher switched slides…so my doodling hand had to improvise. And I just don’t feel terribly responsible for what that doodling hand does.

The beard became a long braid.  Then I added a polka-dotted bow. Then earrings and a nose ring. I surrounded him with helicopters (á la M*A*S*H), palm trees, and for no explicable reason, volcanoes.

So these were the notes I used to draft my documentation. Except…just as I was finishing up the rough draft, the principal showed up at the door and asked to see me in the hall. He was happy with the way I had handled the situation, but he needed the names of the children who were involved. I started to check my notes and told him I had been drafting a statement.

“May I see it?” he asked. Um. Well. I sort of hid the paper behind myself, guiltily.

“I need to recopy it,” I explained. “But first I could just check the names….”

He told me that was okay—he could just read my draft. He held out his hand. I stood there like an idiot. “I’ve drawn all over the page,” I blurted out. “It’s a…habit. It was Vietnam, and I….It might be hard to read. Why don’t you let me recopy my notes quickly?”

He wasn’t buying it. He needed to see it, please. Now.

So I shuffled my feet and looked at the floor. Here I was, a forty-something-year-old-teacher, summoned by the principal, admonished to hand over a paper with silly drawings on it. I handed it over.

I watched his eyes dart around the page, and the corners of his mouth quivered ever so slightly. Still, I have to hand it to him, he held his face as still as possible and read my notes without giggling. Then when he was done, he sort of winked and said, “I’ll let you get back to Vietnam.”

In all fairness, it could have been much, much worse. I’m partial to silly hairdos, and I’d given the guy a sort of modified “Betty Boop” earlier but had erased it off because it just wasn’t the look I was going for.

I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam ~Popeye the Sailor Man

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #5

Mr. Pushy
Mr. Pushy doesn’t ask you to dance. He says, “Come on, let’s dance.” He’s a grabber. He tries to take what he wants because no one will give it to him…and he just can’t figure out why. He asks you out only minutes after he’s met you. An understandable strategy in his case. I think deep down he knows that if you get to know him, you’ll run away. Push off, Mr. Pushy! The delicate dance of courtship is not a sale that needs closing. And if it were…I’m not buying. I hate pushy salespeople, too.

Next week: Episode #6, Sort of Married Guy

Totally Random Tuesday-Relationships

I’ve learned that the opposite of wrong isn’t necessarily right when it comes to relationships. I know a woman whose first husband was so wrong for her that she later married his opposite—who turned out to be just another kind of wrong. I know a couple of other people who reasoned that if you create a spoiled child by handing him everything, you must therefore create an unspoiled child by surrounding him with spoiled people and handing him nothing at all, ever. But the opposite of spoiled isn’t unspoiled. It’s usually another disorder, like codependence. I’ve learned that healthy is generally somewhere in the middle where give meets take.

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #4

The Flaky Fake
I can’t quite figure out if he got a bad batch of Botox on top of it all. Can Botox go bad, by the way? I mean, really, can botulism go any badder? Regardless, Flaky Fake creeps me out. Some people think he’s good looking in a George Hamilton sort of way, but, wait…maybe it’s just Flaky, who is his own greatest admirer even though he looks a wee bit stuffed. Already roasted to the color of Italian leather when he got the Super Deluxe Rain-X version of a spray on tan on top of it all, he is now antiqued to the hue of turkey jerky. If I want yellowish and preserved, I’ll get a jar of pickles. Dills. And they will undoubtedly be sweeter. I’ve learned the hard way that, whether the person is a man or a female friend, overwhelmingly concerned with outside appearances = ugly on the inside. Narcissists suck. And I mean that literally. They will feed on every one of your reserves in the attempt to fill their bottomlessly empty souls.

Next week: Episode #5, Mr. Pushy

It Contains a Root Word for Death for a Reason

Warning: the following is true, right down to the names. It’s also very long because I actually took notes while I was on hold. I had to call my mortgage company because I had a question. It was a small question, really, but I needed to know the answer and couldn’t get it any other way.

After being passed through several voice mail options, I was routed back to the beginning. So I experimented with pressing different buttons until I got Hassad. Hassad’s entire job seemed to be to tell me that he would have to transfer me. So sorry! Please hold.

Unfortunately, the holding was more like being death-gripped, or being seized, maybe—by music that was recorded specifically to be a deterrent. A phone deterrent. I understand that handling phone calls is expensive and time consuming for companies, but sometimes you really must speak to a person.

This is not elevator music I’m talking about. I don’t mean “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” set to violin. It is aggressive, blood-pressure-pumping stuff that sounds like a really bad magic trick is about to be performed, one in which a lady might just get sawed in half, but what the heck, the audience really doesn’t care because her screams might drown out that music. Or maybe if Halloween were the kind of holiday that involved parades, this is what the band would play while floats of evil super heroes crash into buildings and mangle the mobs of onlookers. It involves random trumpets and organs and very windy wind instruments and lots and lots of cymbals. Doomp-doompa-doomp! Doompa-doompa-doompa-doomp! went the music, and then CLASH!! with the cymbals. Then a plaintive, somewhat nasally female recording came on and told me that if I would just go on their WEBSITE, I could get my answers much FASTER! Problem was, what I needed didn’t come from a website. I had to have a live human.

I would not let them win, so I pushed my phone headset away from my ears and waited. Except the sound was so obnoxious that it vibrated straight through my skull. Doomp-doompa-doomp!! REALLY, if I would just go on the WEBSITE!! …CLASH!!!

I played several games of computer Solitaire until I won. Finally I got Amy. Amy explained that the company has been sold (over a year ago) and still doesn’t have its information transferred over. Amy had no information whatsoever! So sorry! She’d put me through to someone who could answer my question, though! Hold please!

Doomp-doompa-doomp! Doompa-doompa-doompa-doomp!! …CLASH!!! The WEBSITE!…. Doompa-doompa-doomp!!!

I played—and won—a couple of games of Free Cell. By this point it was clear that the music was scientifically designed to give people headaches after prolonged exposure. Next was Manuel. Manuel sounded like he was struggling with depression. So sorry that he would have to transfer me again. Very very sorry. Was there anything else he could help me with?

I actually wondered if Manuel was forced to listen to that music. Maybe that was what was depressing him so. I figured he might be sympathetic and asked him if I could just be on hold without it. Pleeeease. I was not above begging at this point. Manuel sounded like he was almost in tears and explained that the next wait would be much shorter. So sorry.

Doomp-doompa-doomp! Doompa-doompa-doompa-doomp!!!! CLASH CLASH!!! My head throbbed. WEBSITE! More Doompa-doomp. Spider Solitaire. Won that one. Doompa-doomp some more.

After the longest wait yet, Kyle got on. Kyle couldn’t answer my question. Sorry!—I had been transferred in error! I needed to go back to the previous department, back to Manuel. Hold please!

Doomp-doompa-doomp! Doompa-doompa-doompa-doomp!!!... The WEBSITE!…. CLASH!!! CLASH!!! The pain in my head kept time with the beat.

Yet this time I did not get Manuel. I got Fay. Fay had a very distinct, high-pitched voice. Fay listened to my question and was certain I needed another department. She would transfer me.

Doompa-doompa-doomp!!!...CLASH!!!

Someone picked up a little quicker this time. It was…Fay again. Same Fay. Same accent…Philippines, maybe? Same high-pitched voice. Could she help me? Struggling between maniacal laughter and tears, I told her she had just transferred me and it must not have gone through. Fay had absolutely no idea what I was talking about. She did not remember me from 15 seconds earlier, but what was my problem? So I explained it all over again. That’s when she said it.

“Yes,” New-Old Fay said. “I believe I can answer that.”

Huh? And…HUH???

Amazingly, Fay-the-Second answered my question. It took less than a minute.

I am now convinced it’s a game, like a video game. I am writing this as living proof that it can, in fact, be beaten. If we hang on long enough and are determined enough, and if we press the right buttons and get through the various levels and battle repeated assaults from the evil music, ultimately Fay will link us to Twilight Zone Fay, Repeat-Fay, Warmed-Over Fay, Fay’s Clone Fay, the Ultimate Fay of Bizarro World, Keeper-of-the-Mortgage-Answers-Fay. The Wizard of Fay.

I imagine that somewhere at this mortgage company there is a tiny office in the Philippines where Fay sits behind a curtain, transferring people to herself, while people all over the world—Hassad and Amy and Kyle among them (but not Manuel because he’s just depressed by the whole thing)—snicker and giggle at the unsuspecting customers who attempt to make it to the Ultimate Level of Faydom without their heads exploding.

Well I made it. I did. I’d ask for a t-shirt to commemorate the occasion, but Fay would have to transfer me to sales.

If I have to pull up my big girl panties and deal with it one more time the elastic is going to break and I really will have to show my ass! ~Sign seen in Catalog Favorites

Totally Random Tuesday-Child Rearing

In child rearing, the toughest part hasn’t been all of the things I have to do for my children, but all of the things I have to restrain myself from doing for their sakes. In many situations, my mantra has become let them handle it. Sometimes I have to mentally pinch myself to remember that the wisest words I can offer them when they ask my opinion are, “I don’t know—what do you think?”

Downer Hill Skiing

I recently visited the website of sillyswedishskier who sounded eerily like a younger version of me…I, too, like to peel things! And I am compelled to peek behind shower curtains at parties!

Except that she calls herself a skier. That’s where we part ways. Dramatically. In fact, just the word brings back traumatically suppressed memories….

Warning. This is long.

I’ve snow skied twice in my life. Once was in Nebraska, where I’m from, so it probably only counts as half. In Nebraska, you basically ski down into a giant hole. Since I didn’t have the slightest idea how to ski, I snapped on those contraptions and just went, thinking it would somehow come naturally. It didn’t. My legs were locked perfectly straight with fear, which makes you go really fast. I managed to stay upright due to the same force that kept my legs so rigid—sheer terror of falling. I had no idea how to stop, but the good thing about skiing into a big hole is that you automatically stop when you start to go up the other side.

So I had done that once in my early 20s and thought it was a good beginning.

Then in my late 20s, I moved to Denver for about three years. During that time I only skied once. It was enough. I went to Breckenridge with my friend Deb, who is also from Nebraska, but Deb had truly lost her ski virginity due to having skied on an actual mountain before. Whereas I had maybe only been felt up by one. Deb and I both got instructors, but hers was more advanced than mine.

In hindsight, I should have known that things were not going to go well when Deb got Jean-Claude as her instructor and I got Bob. (Note: These are actual, non-made-up names.)

Bob was proud of the fact that he could teach any beginner to ski. He kept telling me his statistic: “I’ve never been unsuccessful in teaching someone to ski!” I have to hand it to Bob, he stuck with me for a long time—even after he had to take away my poles because I narrowly missed impaling him—long, long after I begged him to stop. But even Bob eventually gave up and left me in a snow bank along with his former record and the shame of being the one person who had broken it.

The rest is sort of hazy because it was so traumatic that my brain actually blocked it out. I believe nuns were involved, or maybe that was my mind playing tricks on me, but I don’t think so, because my mind was too exhausted to actually make things worse. I do distinctly remember these smiley older women zipping past me, and when I would fall and flail about in the snow like a stranded June bug, they would stop long enough to help me up. That’s when I’m sure one of them told me that she and a few of the other sisters were on vacation from some convent in Iowa. But I also think she told me it was their first time skiing…and then she zipped off again. She was about 60.

The EVENT happened, I think, when I was getting off the lift. Or maybe trying to get on. The memory is gooey from the horror of it. I just remember not jumping at the correct time and getting stuck, and then getting tangled maybe, and somehow dropping like a lead weight. I do know that I landed on people. I also know that a little girl was one of the people I landed on, but I also know everyone assured me she was just fine and that there were no serious injuries! Really!—and I know for a fact no ambulances were called—but I also remember that it was scary for a while when they shut down the entire ski lift and had to untangle the big pile of people. Oh, the screams, the horror, the pandemonium.

Because of me.

So nuns were involved in the story, but not in the actual mayhem. I’m almost 100% sure they weren’t using the lift then because I don’t remember their smiley nun faces. Unless they were buried under the pile of human rubble. So at least 60% positive for sure.

But that’s really all I remember, other than searching for someplace that sold alcoholic beverages after that. I do know I never found a toasty ski lodge with a fireplace and cute guys in casts sipping hot buttered rum like you see on TV. I seem to remember a picnic bench, and beer. And I discovered that you can cry pretty effectively behind sunglasses as long as you wipe the tears when they escape from underneath and also if you are careful not to sob much.

What I remember most is vowing NEVER to ski again. My guess is the nuns prayed on it as well.

“In the foster home, my hair was my room.” ~Erin in “The Office”

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #3

E-pologetic
E-pologetic Guy asks you out by email. Okay, I get it, no one likes rejection. And frankly, it was great to discover after my divorce that courtship-by-email is much easier (for both parties) because you get time to think about the wording. So after I sent my “no, thank you, I’m not ready to date yet,” here came the email apologizing for not being clear. Did I think it was a date? He didn’t mean it as a date. It was just dinner! Because everyone has to eat, right? And he just thought I’d want to sit next to him at the same place and eat at the same time. So sorry; he certainly didn’t mean to offend! Excuse him for even suggesting such a thing! Really! Stupid me: I emailed back no problem. His response to that was so huffy that he practically came out and said it was a pity invitation, anyway, so there! ‘K, E-pologetic, I get it! You don’t like me! You really, truly don’t like me! Does this mean we can stop emailing now?

Next week: Episode #4, The Flaky Fake

Totally Random Tuesday-Magic Words

Asking a friend how they are (in that sincere way that means it and listens for the answer) is like offering magic words, because the question itself is a gift. Whenever someone sincerely asks me that, I want to say, "Thanks to your question, I am cared about."

Senior Sex(less) and the City: Episode #2

Sporty Skimpster
“Sporty” is an older gentleman, and good for him for being in such great shape. The problem is that he wears shorts that are really short. No, I mean reeeeally short. As if that’s not bad enough, when Sporty climbs off his bike, the shorts remain in a seated position. You just know that at any moment, there’s going to be a spillage of junk in a catastrophe that rivals BP’s. It’s hard to talk face to face with Sporty because you’re just waiting for that avalanche to occur. Whoa—get back on that bike, Sporty! Wait, no, don’t do that, either! Sporty was, no doubt, a Speedo man 40 years ago. Or last week. There’s a male friend in my biking group who claims that older men should never wear spandex, either, but said friend also commented that my silver nail polish was the exact color of a Ford truck he used to own. Even though I later had trouble driving due to counting how many cars matched my fingertips (three), we won’t listen to him! Spandex is way better than the reeeeally short shorts because at least those macho man-girdles restrain the bits—perhaps a little too violently—to keep them from escaping into the great outdoors. Who cares if that shiny black pelvis-stocking would fit a Ken doll when he first took it off the hanger? Either way, to the Skimpster, sports are a chance to sport body parts that should be kept under wraps. And not Saran Wrap, either! Bigger wraps. Much bigger, roomier wraps.

Next week: Episode #3, E-pologetic.

Psst—Does This Make My Blog Look Substantial?

When I heard the news that I was going to be an official “Blogger of Note” (BON) at Words of Wisdom (WOW) today, I was flattered to think that anyone would consider anything I have to say to be substantial. WOW is right. BONs mots, moi??! For a while I was left positively typeless. Click the WOW link above or the typewriter link on the sidebar to get to this great place that helps “bloggers of substance” to find one another!

When you connect with a person through writing, you know you are the truest of kindred spirits. That’s what happened with the person who nominated me, Becky Povich. We first met through our writing, but Becky is one of those people whose warm, fun spirit shines though both in writing and in person. Now when we occasionally get together for a cup of coffee, we usually end up laughing so hard that coffee comes out our noses (well, okay, mostly mine). So thank you to Becky, who was a BON herself on Monday.

This blog has changed a lot since its inception, and it’s still changing. Life is like that, though, right? It was originally a way to help me connect with others who shared a particular set of difficult circumstances, but a funny thing happened. The more I launched my message that I will survive into the sea of blogdom, the easier it became to survive. We’re all, of course, surviving something. Sometimes we do it by being silly, and sometimes by being serious, and sometimes by just trying to figure it all out. That’s the art of being broken: as soon as we celebrate the brokenness, it ceases to be truly broken and becomes merely…art. Isn’t life wonderful?!

So now this blog is less about being broken and more about being silly and being serious and trying to figure it all out. It’s about the art, about writing. No, that’s not quite true…it’s about rewriting. It’s about taking a look at the poopy things in life and saying, I will rewrite this. Not rewrite it in a way that changes the truth or covers bad behavior, because that’s how evils are allowed to flourish in the first place. But rewrite it in a way that tries to find the art in it. Art that heals.

That’s the intent, anyway.

I’ve loved words as long as I can remember and have tried to embrace that love as long as I could grip a pencil. Even though my topics are all over the place, I’m trying to keep certain ones scheduled for certain days so that it’s easier to skip what doesn’t appeal to you. I hope you are, in some way, a kindred spirit.

Because it’s our link with one another that is the sea, the art, the hope, the healing, and the divine. Thank you for bothering to reach out, however briefly, and read my little message. Thank you for casting your own laughter and wisdom into the sea for me to find (and I cherish them!—just read the quotes). And thank you to Sandy and Pam for not only helping us to find one another, but for making my random, bobbing “bloggle”…oooh!...could it be??!! More substantial.

-Tammy (wish I knew how to do those cool signatures! I’m shamefully tech-challenged. So just imagine one, ‘k?)

WOW is a place for bloggers who enjoy reading and writing great content to find each other. ~Sandy and Pam, Words of Wisdom

Totally Random Tuesday-Rose

A rose by any other name will smell as sweet, sure. But if you give a rose a name like, say, “smick,” and you have a celebrity go on TV and say smicks are passé and tacky, and then you sell long stemmed smicks for 5 cents at the discount store, I guarantee you that sophisticated people will sneer at the ones who exclaim, “Yippee, cheap smicks!”

And AFTER Them, Too

When I married, I wore white pearls. And when I divorced, I purchased a strand of black ones.

It was the only time I’ve ever bought myself better jewelry. It was an impulse. They were the perfect divorce gift. Although not usually a jewelry person, I love them and all that they celebrate.

There is nothing proper or pristine about them. They are neither trite…nor polite. They don’t stand at picket-fence-perfect attention or march virtuously across my skin. No Pearls of Innocence, these.

To me, they are smoky, exotic. They are sultry sunset-lustered and night-nacred. They are city lights in the rain. They are oil slicks on blacktop after a race. They are a Caribbean adventure. They are the sea just before sunrise. They are the anti-June Cleavers.

And they represent a promise to myself, my black pearls, that I will take me for better or for worse, that I will honor me all the days of my life. And that I will stay true to myself, always.

The simplest things are often the truest.~Richard Bach

Senior Sex(less) and the City-Episode #1

Welcome to my very first post in which I will showcase the various hot senior single men out there! Here we go…DRUM ROLL!...I will start off with this one that I’ll call:


Cool Dude

I’m not sure if he was trying to convey the image of international playboy or trying to get in touch with his imaginary inner black man. He went on and on…and on…about his various trips around the world. I couldn’t tell you about those, though, because my mind kept wandering to his ear. This overly white, 50-something man was sporting gangsta bling in one ear. Only on him it looked a little like he was affixing pieces of Great Aunt Esther’s mourning brooch to random body parts. He was probably a strawberry blonde back when he had a full head of hair. Now the places where the hair had vacated were getting sunburned to a disturbing shade of pink. Note to pink, fleshy men in your 40s and beyond: Nix the earring. Really. You do not look like a rapper dude. You look like a large, sweaty Muppet who’s maybe considering transvestitism but just isn’t willing to fully commit.

Next week: Episode #2, Sporty Skimpster.

Midsummer Night’s Magic

 Here in Missouri there is usually about a week around this time when the lilies and jasmines and phlox and alyssum all bloom at once (with a few other things thrown in), and the summer breeze waves like a gentle baton that orchestrates their various perfumes.

And then there are those magical few moments during summer twilights when the various scents of day and night briefly mingle just as the lightning bugs start to glow and the cicada rhythm pulses and the sky turns a rainbow of sunset-colors. When that time of year and that time of day happen to collide, there is a summer concert of senses so magical that life itself takes on an almost transcendent quality. I think these must be the midsummer’s eve moments of lore, as rare and fleeting and exquisite and uncapturable as fairies. All you can do is sit outside on a glider at twilight and just…breathe, trying to become one with it.

All things are our relatives; what we do to everything, we do to ourselves. All is really One. ~Black Elk, Lakota religious leader

Totally Random Tuesday-Talk

Not only is talk cheap, but insincerity is a theft.

Senior Sex(less) and the City-Intro and Disclaimer

It’s coming, so prepare yourself. It’s—are you ready?—Senior Sex(less) and the City! Can you even imagine anything more exciting than reading about an older woman’s sadly sexless escapades as a single woman about town?!? I know! So hang onto those red hats, ladies, because I am about to put the KABOOM in boomer!!! That’s right—prepare to fan yourself with all that mail that the A.A.R.P. keeps sending me (and believe me, I have plenty to go around because they seem to be confused about my age—silly them!), because…wait, what was I saying? I lost my train of thought again. Oh, yes—it’s about to get HOT in here!

Or maybe that’s just a hot flash?

But first, a serious word. I’m sorry if it’s snarky of me to poke fun a bit. YES, I am aware that there is plenty to make fun of about me. And I have! And fear not, I will continue to do so. So I figure I’m covered there. Time to spread the joy around a bit!

Also. We’ve all heard the saying that there are “no good fish in the sea.” True, at my age that sea has shrunk to a very small dating pool. A wading pool, really, like the ones you had when your children were toddlers? That hold about 3” of warm, greenish water with some leaves and dead June bugs floating around, that the dog thinks is a big water bowl? That one. BUT as simple as Suess, there will always be good fish and bad fish—just fewer of them. So I certainly don’t mean to imply there are no good ones out there! And at some point I may just give those a nod.

But let’s face it, they’re just not as much fun to write about. And who wants to hear about normal?? So every Friday in the coming weeks (or maybe Saturday), I plan to showcase the various older single men I have met. There will be no quotes.

All righty then…enough for today! You have been forewarned!

Coming next week: Episode #1, Cool Dude.

Totally Random Tuesday-Writing

Writing, to me, is cheating. It’s like having a therapist you hope will pay you.

And Speaking of Signs

I have a teen and a young adult at home. We keep this dry erase board on the refrigerator to let each other know where we are, when we’ll be home, etc. My son and his friends think it’s funny. Wise guys.

At least no one said, “Went to the bathroom.”

Do Not Lock This Door! See Smaller Sign Below!

                   This Door Is To Be Kept Unlocked At All Times

                                    
~Sign seen hanging on a door at a local high school

Beware Ye Who Ignore the Sanctity of the Sign

This is my No Soliciting sign. You tell me:  Is there anything unclear about it?  Because I find it’s one of the sad ironies of life that Boy and Girl Scouts are the only salespeople on earth who seem to know the definition of soliciting. And of course they are the only groups for whom the sign is not intended.

I think I nearly have my technique down for those who ignore it. I look for my beloved sign and ask, “Did my sign fall down?” It’s always there, of course, so I point to it. “No!” I say, “There it is!” Then I quietly shut the door.

Because it shocks me how many people ignore the sign. I know people need to make a living and all, but it is generally accepted that we don’t disrespect others to do it.  And I figure my sign pretty much warns them that I am not going to be terribly receptive to whatever it is they want me to do.

According to Dictionary.com, a definition of soliciting is: “To seek to obtain by persuasion, entreaty, or formal application.” I looked it up, because one guy tried to tell me that soliciting only referred to sales, and he just wanted to ask me to change my religion. Or sometimes they just want to ask me a question, which turns out to be do I want to buy their product or service. Once someone told me his sales pitch was a “customer service update.”   Here’s news, Mr. door-to-door Customer Service Updater: poop, by any other name, still stinks.

Then today, a guy who was apparently working for a politician came to my door at the wrong time. I had my headset on to make a phone call as soon as a fax had gone through, which I was hoping to get accomplished before leaving for an appointment that I was trying not to be late for.

He told me he needed to get so many names of people who believed in non-violence. Was I non-violent?

I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic. Really. It just came out. I pointed to the sign, then my phone, and earnestly exclaimed, “No, I am extremely violent.”

He ran. Actually ran! Well, to be technical about it, he stumbled backwards a few paces first.

No Motorcycles

No Chicken Suits

No Exceptions

~Sign from TV show, “My Name is Earl”

Totally Random Tuesday-Charm

I’ve learned the hard way that Charm has an evil twin…called Manipulation.

Summer’s Submerged Treasure

When I was a kid, my friends and I spent every summer up at the neighborhood pool. We’d get up in the morning, swim till we went home for lunch, and then go back. I can remember being so sore-eyed and sunburned and freckled and worn out that I’d go home and fall asleep in the afternoons on top of my bedspread and a tangle of wet, chlorine-bleached hair.

Now my kids are involved with our subdivision’s swim team. When we first got started, my then four-year-old struggled down his lane looking more like he was drowning than swimming. I had to fight the urge to jump in and save him with each bob of his little head.

He grew up to be a lifeguard as a teenager and now runs that same swim team as head coach.

A few years later my daughter decided she wanted to be on the team because her big brother was. You had to be able to swim the length of the pool in order to join. So with her characteristic, iron-willed determination crammed into a preschool body, she plunged in and swam the fastest, funniest little dog paddle I’ve ever seen. Now also a teenaged lifeguard, she seems to slip through the pool with the long-legged ease of a water nymph.

Swim meets last a long, long time. So long that my survival depended on learning to love it all—from the bullhorn to the banners to the warm, heavy honeysuckle musk of sultry summer night air.

But here’s my little secret: it’s the properties of pool water that I really love. It’s weird, I know, but I am mesmerized by the shifting shimmers of color, the shivers of light, the sparkle of a silver splash. I was horrible as a stroke judge. Everything was okay in the beginning of those Monday night meets when I could remain transfixed by the fluidity of movement. But as the sky darkened, I had to fight the hypnotic draw of the movement of fluid instead.

Because the most exotic magic happens at night when the sky turns to cobalt and the pool lights up in that molten-turquoise glow with streams of golden bubbles. Oh, those bubbles! Silver in the day but gold at night—there and then gone, a precious treasure, alchemy of air, champagne of summer nights.

Art, aching to be born, will find a way! ~Karen Greene