New Year Dreams

It is New Year's Eve. Hubby is off to work again. I am alone with the dog, fortified Mountain Dew and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. It is not a night for dancing or partying, but it is a night to finalize my resolutions and to put my thoughts in order.

I'd like to lose those twenty pounds again, the same twenty I gain and lose on a regular basis. I'd like to resolve to get our house free of clutter for once (I did not inherit Zelda's passion for neatness).I'd like to cheer up a bit, and I know that will get better when the holidays end and spring is nigh. I want my faith to be stronger. I want another job, one I really like, to supplement the hours I'm losing at one place and not getting at the other. I want to retire, though I know I can't.

The other resolutions are far too personal to share.

For you, my friends, I have some wishes.

In 2013, I wish that all of your prayers be answered.

I wish that all your dreams (and maybe a few fantasies) come true.

I wish that you may learn to see people for who they are instead of their race, nationality, politics, weight, wealth or handicap.

I wish that you  would know friendship when it is offered and love when it is given, and to cherish it with all your being.

I wish that your faith will move mountains.

I wish you a happy, healthy and prosperous 2013.

Happy New Year!

Pfleugel and Gossamer

Dad's family had your normal amount of horse thieves, racketeers and the occasional soft porn star. Mom's family, however, sported a plethora of oddballs. There were carny folks, inventors, bank robbers, tightrope walkers and everything else one can think of, including a couple of politicians.  Where Dad's family was quietly productive, Mom's side was a bit more devious, twice as creative, rich and poor on alternate Fridays. It was never dull.

Take Uncle Pflugel (please) and his fifth wife Gossamer, the love of his long life. He was older by some twenty years, fat and bald, with a bad attitude and an annoying habit of never once answering a question, instead changing the subject to something more of his liking. He did have a certain charm, however, and women were struck by his bright blue eyes and winning smile, at least until they got to know him.

Gossamer was supposed to be the most gorgeous woman ever created (or so said her father, Ringworm Hutch). Instead, she was about three hundred pounds of well-placed chubby, with hazel eyes that could look into one's soul, platinum hair that curled strategically around tiny shell-shaped ears and a voice as soft as an angel's song (as long as she wasn't mad. It was quieter at Haight-Ashbury in the Sixties).

So when wife number four kicked the bucket (which she did, breaking her toe and getting gangrene and finally dying of boredom from being laid up so long) Gossamer and Pfleugel were a match made in, if not heaven, then at least purgatory. 

For his part, Pfleugel wasted the days dreaming of owning Gossamer yet making no move toward being with her. She, a bit more aggressive, broke into his car, stuffing it with helium balloons. She sent pizzas at midnight, spelling out his name in extra pepperoni. Flowers appeared on his desk and on his porch. Gossamer was smitten.

It was a long while before Pfleugel gave in. Wife four, still kicking at this point, didn't appreciate the attention Pfleugel was getting and, on the rare times when she left the house, carried a 357 in her pocket just waiting for Gossamer to show up anywhere near.

Gossamer tried every tactic known to woman. Then one day shortly after the demise of Four, Gossamer got an idea. Riding a red horse, a la Godiva, she lazily strode down the street where Pfleugel lived, tossing rose petals in little sachets made of  white lace, throwing apples (his favorite fruit) to those who gathered and finally throwing herself at his feet when he came outside to see what the blazes was happening in his normally peaceful cul de sac. 

 Pfleugel's heart was won. He leapt on to the back of her stallion, so goo-goo eyed that he missed the saddle and had to cling to a stirrup as they rode off into the sunset.

This tale, almost too good to be true, came to light on a thrice-folded page tucked in Aunt Tiddlewinks'  diary from which I began to narrate some months ago.

 Pfleugel and Gossamer led a charmed life until they set off in a kayak built for two, paddling down the Allegheny River toward Pittsburgh where they made a left instead of a right at the Lincoln Tunnel and were never seen again.

Growing Up: The Redi-Whip Days

You know Redi-Whip, or something like it...cool, creamy whipped cream in a spray can. There's nothing quite like the splurt of a fresh can, nozzle in your mouth, sweet sensation filling your throat, right from the can...

Then somebody figured out there was more than one way to enjoy the miracle of the can...hold it upright,  hit the nozzle and take a deep breath. What a waste of fluorocarbons. No satisfying splurt, no whipped cream...I say, if you want gas, eat beans.

In my son's house, a can of spray whipped cream sits on the refrigerator shelf right next to the spray cheese (not as much of an abomination as I expected). Every so often, I hear the door of the Frigidaire stealthily opening, a metallic rattle...I hold my breath, but there is no pfffft....there is a splurt, a splush, an mmmmmm. All is well, the children recognize the value of Redi-Whip.

Oh, yes, it is useful on a sundae, delicious on a slice of pumpkin pie, heavenly on a mug of hot cocoa (and please sample spray cheese on a Town House), but the high one gets from this simple pleasure is best when slurped straight.

That's the point, I guess.

When we are not necessarily young, but searching for something to give us a pleasant high, we sometimes turn to the artificial zing of drink or drugs (in my case caffeine), aerosols or pills or whatever else we can find.  It lasts awhile but we come crashing down, and it takes more and more of the attention, the praise, the substance, the money to achieve the result we want.

Finally there comes a day when we realize that what we needed all along was the sweet, simple things.

Red-Whip fits the profile.

Opportunity

Aunt Marjie always said that a door never closes without a window opening. She was right.

She also said something about jumping from the frying pan into the fire. She was right about that, too.

I am still learning to trust her judgement, and she's been gone from us for 22 years.

We miss so many opportunities of a lifetime because of low self-esteem, fear, thinking that something else will come along or (even worse) that something else won't come along.

Because of our pride or our fear of rejection or whatever, we don't leap into new friendships. So what if they don't work out? Say "oh, well" and begin again. Afraid because the friend-to-be isn't pretty enough or smart enough? Sounds like your own personal problem to me. You might be missing a treasure.

A job? You might not like it, it might be too hard or too time consuming or too something else. It might not pay enough. But it might be something you will grow to love and open many doors you thought were closed.

Aunt Marjie was maybe five feet high and five feet round. She wore big fancy earrings and vivid colors. Men adored her. Women wanted to be her friend. Kids idolized her. She could have a good time and still be a lady--a lost art for many. She could make you laugh with her stories and make you cry with compassion.  When Grandma D, not Marjie's fan, told me I was going to be just like her, I finally got the gumption to say, "Thank you!".

See, Aunt Marjie knew what opportunity looked like. When I look back I see many that I missed.  With maturity, I see the reasons I turned away--some acceptable, some not. A couple of years go I became determined not to miss any more and threw myself under a bus, trying to catch up with my freight train of a brain. Pardon the mixed metaphor.

A resolution for 2013 is to slow down the freight train, seize the opportunities and don't let my looks, my intelligence or anything outside myself tell me I can't.

Christmas at Cousin Cousin's House

Cousin Cousin (third cousin, twice removed, on Zelda's side but not my cousin at all unless you take in the fact that she was once married to my great-nephew's mother's first cousin by marriage, but very briefly. It was a small town). Cousin was named Cousin because she had so many that all the other names were taken.

Cousin loved Christmas. It was quite a production. She decorated the barn like a stable (which wasn't as hard as it sounds, because it was one) and set aside a corner with sofas and tables and a huge tree which actually grew to twenty feet high right in the barn, or rather they built the barn around the tree so they didn't have to cut it down (the tree, not the barn).

All of cousin Cousin's cousins were invited, each to bring a food representing their own heritage. Well, since they were all cousins from a large family in the very small town of Forking, Georgia, everybody brought green bean casserole except for the few in-laws who brought macaroni and cheese, tuna casserole and a short-lived significant other of cousin Cousin's cousin who dared to bring Sloppy Joe's.

Cousin Cousin provided the meat (most often Vienna sausages, Beannie Weenies and roadkilled venison), drinks (moonshine for the wicked and sarsaparilla punch for the good-uns) and dessert which was a magnificent birthday cake festooned with ribbons of marzipan and nestled in a bed of crushed pecan shells. Anybody who asked, "who's the birthday kid?" was immediately relegated to the library to memorize the story of Christmas before being allowed back in.

Oh, the music! The games! People of every age coming together or one magical night! They danced under the stars, praying for a flake of snow. They huddled around the bonfire, half a house long and twice as high. At midnight cousin Cousin would lay the baby (not a real one!) in the manger, and everyone would sing "Silent Night" before heading home, shouts of "Merry Christmas" echoing all along the road, fireworks lighting the sky behind them. Cousin Cousin knew how to throw a party.

I don't know if the rumor is true--Zelda would be the one to ask--but I'd heard that cousin Cousin was once a heartless wench who made Ebenezer look like a philanthropist. Supposedly she stole from the Salvation Army clothing bins, slipped cayenne into the family cat's bowl (she tried it with the dog, but he liked it), put plastic fruit in Christmas stockings and substituted margarine for butter in her cookies.  Some say she went to church and changed, some say Oz gave her a new heart and a few claim she was abducted and sent back with a new soul.

Whatever it was, cousin Cousin's family is certainly grateful.

Merry Christmas, cousin Cousin. And to all of you, too.

Revision

There comes a time when one has to take stock of her beliefs, her relationships, her ideas. Things change. The brain gets weary of sameness and repetition....the definition of insanity is doing the same thing, the same way, and expecting different results.

There is a Japanese gravy boat on my kitchen shelf (collecting dust and holding a few memories), given to be by a friend who found it at a yard sale. It was given to me because the friend knew I collect things marked "Made in Japan" or "Nippon". We shared a friendship only briefly, then, apparently  bored with each other or recognizing our dependence on each other, we went our own ways. I haven't seen Pat in a long while. It's time to put the pitcher away and fill its spot with something new.

I cleaned out my emails, too, and trashed the "helpful" criticisms, the useless spam, the briefly interesting tidbits and cartoons I had saved.

Lastly, I am vacuuming the shelves of my brain, ridding it of the wants I no longer want, the needs I have satisfied and the people and things I no longer wish to remember.

I can count on one hand the acquaintances who know I collect Japan, marked only, figurines and whatnots. How many know of my stash of salts and peppers, or my miniatures (especially Santas)? Do they offer a game of pinochle?  How many of them say stuff that hurts because they don't remember? The acquaintance that remarked I must be blind when she forgets that my loss of vision is no laughing matter, or the ones that tell me I'd be so pretty if I lost a few pounds.  I forgive. I have to decide if it is worthwhile to forget.

It's not that I'd dump somebody because they don't know much about me. I just want a few of them to want to be close enough to care. 

My resolution for 2013 is to hold tight to the people and things I love most, and to empty the closets and hiding places of the ones who don't care enough to get to know me. 

Second chances? Sure.

Doomsday

We have something like 12 hours left on Earth if the Mayans are right. They were smart enough, after all, to use mathematics and astronomy. However, they also gave human sacrifices to their gods.

The Mayans were a very complicated people. They had libraries full of their history and their discoveries. Invaders, instead of relishing the books and learning from these volumes chose instead to destroy them. Only four survive.

I am not willing to place my faith in a race of people who while creative and intelligent, were also murderers and cannibals.

Why their calendar ends tomorrow is anybody's guess. Perhaps they thought they would have many more centuries to add to the existing work. Maybe the predictions they made and the signs they tracked made sense to them. Maybe an alien presence gave them information we don't have today. Maybe they were just wrong.

Were the world as we know it to end, well, we wouldn't know it. We'd likely be gone. In the unlikely event that we survive, well, we'll do what human beings do so well--start over.

I am not afraid--not of the world ending, not of the world continuing, not of the world changing. We are resilient.

Should the Mayans be right (even descendants of the Mayans don't believe it), then I'll say good-bye, it was nice knowing you, I wish I'd had the chance to know you better.

But if they are wrong, I'll say "Merry Christmas" and "Happy New Year". I will say "Hello" when next we meet, share the news of the day and get to know you better.

See you tomorrow.

Complaining

I have noted in the past my dissatisfaction with my lip, my throat and my gut. I've been called obsessive about the above, and there's a possibility that could be true. It takes a big person to admit that (not a reference to my gut).

I looked into LifeLift for my throat. They send me lots of info but no prices.  I've turned the lip over to Sue, my amazing nail tech, for maintenance (eyebrows, too). The gut I have turned over to the Y.

So. Insert deep breath.

I have nothing to complain about

I mean, I have nothing to complain about.

I looked in the mirror today at work, quite by accident. The gut is still there, but it is shrinking, whether by clothing style or weight loss I can't say. I had on a choker, so the throat didn't show.

Dang, I look good for a woman of my years.

My hair is in need of a trim, but it is shiny and fluffy today. The earrings from my favorite jewelry store look perfect. I took extra care with my eyes today and they simply smoulder.

It's one of those days when I feel confident about everything, a rare instance in my world lately. I hope the feeling endures because I'm working every day through Christmas and every day after. We will be busy both places. How does one be comfortable, sell aggressively  and be warm to patrons all at once?

I need to make it a point to track down all those who make me feel like a champ and ignore the rest. I never said it was easy.

Another of my resolutions for 2013: I will be confident in myself and my abilities. I will see myself as I am and quit wishing to be what I am not. I will encourage closeness with people who want to be around me, and put up a wall between me and those who are rude, sarcastic, mean or who don't seem to give a damn about my feelings. I will reach out one last time.

When all is said and done, I'm not complaining.

We tend to get what's coming to us, one way or another.

Fa La La

A few days before Christmas, and I haven't found any mistletoe. Oh, I know I can't buy the real stuff anymore. I would settle  for recycled pop bottles, molded and dyed to assume the identity of berries and greens. I want a sprig to wear in my hair and one to dangle over my head should the mood strike.

I remember a time when we had a houseful of people on Christmas Eve. Mistletoe hung from the archway, nestled among the garlands of evergreen and red bows. The tree, a small flocked one in later years, bloomed with bunches of holly, pine cones and tiny crystal ornaments. Boxes of miniature toys, figurines and poinsettias graced the mantel and "ho-ho-ho" tissue resided in the bathroom.

There were candles in every votive cup, nativity scenes on every flat surface.  Yes, I once knew how to make Christmas happen.

This year, as last year, there is a wreath on the door, no piles of gaily wrapped gifts and no tree to put them under. There will be no houseful of guests at my house. Instead we will be guests at my son's. Hubby will go to work Christmas Eve night and Christmas night, I will work the day. It isn't fun anymore.

I got a t-shirt from one boss, cheese and crackers from another. There is nothing I need, nor even want ( maybe a Kindle and fancy earrings, maybe chocolate) excepting the mistletoe and perhaps a shared glass of Lambrusco.

And so, I pour what is left of myself into my writing. The highs and lows are evident.  My client, who became a dear friend, now lies at death's door with a rampant infection in her system. I think about the violence and the sadness around us. It is hard to find love and peace within.

It would take so little to make me whole again. I hate this feeling of being incomplete.

I will enjoy the party, of that I am certain. It is different, but it is still Christmas. I will find the mistletoe or someone will find it for me. I know it isn't real, but it's still something that makes me smile.

It's part of living. Things change, yet remain the same. The youthful energy wanes on the outside but bubbles within us. The love we feel for our families mellows into dependence and acceptance. The longing for excitement  withers when we think we are too old or too immersed in reality. 

And Christmas? For some, like me, it becomes a chore to be reckoned with instead of a light in the night. Once it is here I will enjoy the companionship of the gathering, the food and the wine. We will all hug, and I will absorb the love and energy of my family and friends.

Maybe somebody will bring mistletoe.

Skywalking

I know a man, eighty-something. Since we met a couple of years ago at the Y he has had a fascination with skydiving. He finally took the leap (pun intended. Like that?) on his birthday last summer.

My philosophy is: why take a perfectly stable aircraft and walk out of it on purpose?

And why it it called sky DIVING? It gives me visions of hurtling through space and landing, best scenario, in a treetop. Why not sky FLOATING? or sky WALKING? Perhaps the nome de change would make me feel a bit more comfortable.

Never mind, you can't convince me this is a good thing to add to my bucket list.  My lists, published and private, include stuff like whitewater rafting, tubing, sailboat rides and floating in a hot air balloon. Some of the items are romantic, dancing on the beach in the moonlight with the man I love. Sipping mimosas at brunch, Kayaking in the lagoons on a summer morning . You'll notice none of the above include a death-by-jumping-out-of-airplane.

Here I am, a couple of years after the first bucket list. Still no mimosas or dancing in the moonlight, no sailboat or hot air balloon. Sigh...I will be sixty two in a few months...if not now, then when? After all, I am no spring chicken--more like a tough old roaster.

Grow up, I've been told.  I tried that once. I didn't like it. This time, I will grow up my way.  I think of Bob taking his life in his hands, trusting to brief instruction and a piece of cloth and string. He is twenty years my senior. He wasn't afraid to try something new, yet here I am full of wanting to try, but too frightened to take a chance!

By the time our class reunion comes in 2014, if I go at all, I will go with my bucket list--99% of it crossed off.

I'm a little scared of my long scroll of pursuits. Some are next to impossible because I have to depend on someone else to make them happen. Some are expensive. Give it up, they say when I tell them what I plan. Or they tell me I'm crazy.

Time will tell.

Maybe I should reconsider sky walking.

Great-great Grand Aunt Picklewick

It's better that you don't know how Aunt Picklewick was named, nor the circumstances of her birth. It would give you nightmares, and I don't want to cause trouble. Ask Zelda. She would happily blab for hours on the subject of Picklewick.

Aunt Picklewick was a relative by marriage and not of blood, thank goodness. I'd hate to think her family's genes ever were mixed with mine and Zelda's. We have enough nuts on our Filbert tree, thank you.

Anyway, I want to share a little tale, perhaps not historically accurate and maybe not even truthful, but hey, it was Zelda's cousin DyJohn who started this thing (I'm certain, but cannot prove that the "DY" in front of his name stood for "damn you" but in all fairness, I could be wrong) by mentioning, in passing, about how much time I spend making notes and talking way too much about nothing which isn't true and anyway, how would he know? Whew. Deep breath here.

Aunt Picklewick was a writer, too, mostly of suggestive limericks and lusty novellas, two fields into which I have not ventured. She had more men than she could handle, and married as many of them as she could in her lifetime, which turned out to be twelve. All of them, save Uncle Rueben, number six (Zelda's and my relation, and the only one with a decent name on that branch of the nut tree), died mysteriously (Uncle Rueben died from sauerkraut poisoning--not from eating it, but by breathing the brine up his nose and drowning in the crock--which sounds like a crock to me, but nobody thought it was all that unusual).

Poor Aunt Picklewick was devastated. She thought she was inheriting a bundle but Rueben's worth was invested in cabbage instead of life insurance. And yes, I know his name looks like it is spelled wrong (spellcheck keeps telling me) but hardly anybody in the nut tree could read, let alone spell. I digress.

When Picklewick made up her mind, everybody got out of the way! Husband number seven was all planned. Picklewick was a remarkably beautiful woman, fully rounded in all the right places; a wildcat we've heard if the novellas were any indication, and it is said that one look in her hazel eyes could drive a man mad. Of course, she also cooked with hallucinogenic herbs (but I can't prove that, anymore than I can prove Cousin Treadmill was a spy for Virginia), but how much and which ones died with her.

All we know is that men nicknamed her "Black Magic Woman" (which I'm told is where Santana got the name for the song) and that she never used black magic, only herbs with a dusting of THC..I mean, TLC...and a confident, slightly alluring, moderately suggestive attitude. She'd get drunk on caffeine and spill her guts (which scared more than a few of her admirers) but once they got a taste of her ...let's call it vegetable...stew, their resistance  was toast.

Husband number seven was Rupertable, a disreputable thug who grew money like corn and printed what he couldn't grow. Picklewick set her sights on Rupertable and the rest is history. He signed over his money fields, his printing press (ostensibly to print a weekly newsletter...yeah, right) and his somewhat large fortune to Picklewick. He died from  a massive pimple that he popped and he drowned  in his own pus. Dang.

It wasn't until husband number eleven that the authorities began to suspect that Picklewick may have had something to do with three husbands' deaths by drowning (pus, rainwater barrel and ink. Don't ask. They never suspected her in the sauerkraut incident), two by deadly paper cuts (really?), one at the hands of the up-and-coming husband ( I think number four, But he was mesmerized and couldn't help himself), one from drinking anti-freeze-laced Kool Aid and two others from inhaling goose down.

Well, Picklewick was in a pickle. She escaped with her skin and husband number twelve, a tool  maker with blue eyes and an  insatiable appetite for Picklewick's vegetable stew.  She talked him into walking with her on the beach at White Lace Bay where he was promptly devoured by  a mermaid, named, quite coincidentally, Picklewick.  Picklewick was never seen again, but she did write lovely letters.  I have heard that somebody wanted to publish them but the censors put the kibosh on that.

Someday I will tell you about Picklewick's second husband, Ferris Wheeler. He was a carny guy with big ears and a lust for life that was almost embarrassing, especially because he had a very loud voice and sorely need an attitude adjustment. I suspect it was the latter that contributed to his death by paper cut.

Mistakes

We've all made them. Some are serious ones that cost a life or a lifestyle. Others not so bad, it's just that they niggle at our conscience and make us a bit uncomfortable.

Sometimes we learn to live with them. Other times we ignore them, or try to cover them up. Sometimes we don't even know the gravity of the mistake until it is pointed out to us. Sometimes we realize too late that a mistake has been made.

Sometimes we try to make things right again.

When I began my journey to find myself some two years ago I made a list (I thought complete) of every wrongdoing I could remember. Some could never be fixed,  others could be if I had the chance to sit down face to face. Sigh...I strive for perfection, but I give up because I know I can never achieve it.

When I write, I try to make amends. I hope to reach just one person, to touch one heart so that a difference can be made in one life. Starting over, be it a relationship or a journey, is a powerful  thing. Life is too short to quibble over words.

I'm a firm believer that a hug can soothe much of the pain and indifference in our private worlds, and a bit of thoughtfulness--be it a letter or a tiny gift, a small word or a shared memory--can change our lives.

I  pray that my words, my gift to you, can make you remember a moment you passed by, a mistake you need to correct or a person from whom you need forgiveness.

At the risk of sounding trite: life is too short to waste.

Mourning

A psychotic maniac (no, not a "troubled young man") shot his mother, his father, the school principal and a classroom full of kindergartners. I was at the pizza shop when I heard the report.

Tears came unbidden.  How could such a thing happen?

It wasn't the gun. It was the man.

Were there signs? And if so, what could have been done to stop him?

I don't often cry over the news, even over a tragedy, but this time it was kids. Tiny little sprites who should have their whole lives ahead.

I don't grieve as much, however, for the children as I do for their parents. The innocents are on the lap of Jesus. They are learning the secrets of the universe, being comforted by God Himself. But those parents...how does one survive such a senseless loss? They, to the last one, are remembering every single thing they ever denied that child. They are remembering the last time they spoke, the last harsh words. It will take them years  and years to heal, if ever.

There is a moment in time for each of us, a moment we have said something we regret, a moment in anger perhaps, Or maybe one of passion or one of stupidity. If that person was lost to you today, is that how you want to remember your last days?

Not me. I will try harder to control my emotions. I don't wish to regret the loss of a friend or loved one. I would rather grovel and beg your forgiveness and your friendship than to someday regret losing you all together.

Those parents never had the opportunity to take back the anger. I will pray for them.

The Bay

Yes, I am writing a lot. It's cathartic. I am restless and a little malcontent. Add Christmas hubbub to my run-here-run-there life and I become a bundle of useless nerves.  Except for three things (well, a few more, but let's concentrate here) that soothe me: dancing night (I'm not a great dancer, just a happy one), church...and the Bayfront.

Whether you are from my hometown or not, you can imagine the strength I absorb from the waters of Lake Erie.  I don't have much time in the afternoon these days, and I don't drive at night very much, but every chance I get I take a moment to do a loop around the water.

Sometimes I go to the channel with my Pepsi and yogurt, watching fishermen and sailboats and seagulls. To my left I see what Mom liked to call the "pyramids", big piles of sand and stone, and the  lake-size ships that deliver them. Noisy when the world is quiet, but I enjoy the satisfying grind of their engines and the "thunk" as they deliver their load.

Across the bay is the Peninsula ("Presque Isle"), with the monument to Oliver Hazard Perry at its tip. I can no longer make out the obelisk, but I know it is there. Directly across from me is the pier where masses of seagulls ignore Herry, the omnipresent great blue heron. Ah, to see what Herry sees, his great wings taking him over the blue bay waters and back to his perch.

Sometimes I choose the lake instead. Today the horizon is non-existent. The fog, still lifting, the grey of the morning clouds obscuring Gull Point. If one was put down here, with no reference to the city, one could imagine the ocean with little difficulty. On a north-wind day the waves smash the shore; give us a south wind and the water has an indescribably beautiful sheen. 

I love to cross the rickety tiny bridge and sit under the trees. People-watching, dog watching are great sports.

I remember every minute I've spent at the bay or on the beach. The water composes its own tune in my head, taking me on flights of fantasy and adventure that I can't even write about because no mortal like me can put those feelings into words.

I head back to my mundane day of laundry and groceries and work. For a few minutes I was somewhere else. I wish I could take you there, to see what I see, to experience what I experience.

It is renewal.

Metamorphosis

I started my blog because somebody said I should write.

I started my blog to determine who I am and what I want from life.

I started my blog because I felt a need to find something worthwhile inside of myself.
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I started to walk, because somebody said it was a good idea.

I began working out because I wanted to change my body.
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I changed jobs because I had come to hate the driving.

I changed my way of dressing because I felt frumpy.

I made a bucket list because I felt I was missing a lot in my life.

I went back to an organized church after many years of avoiding it.

My eyesight isn't improving. I can't drive far at night. I see double much of the time. I read with one eye. It scares me.
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I want to be beautiful, without the wrinkles on the throat and the pounds on my gut.  I want people to greet me with a kiss on the cheek and a hug instead of a royal wave. I want people to see things in me that make them want to be close to me.

I want to make a difference in the world.
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The months I spent writing the first time helped me to cry and to laugh..I don't expect to wake up and be a butterfly, more likely a moth of some sort (though even a moth is useful in its own way).

This time, much of my focus will be as I see things, literally. I want to draw you into my world.

I have so much I want to do, people I want to talk to and places I want to commit to memory.

Can you see what I see? We all need to change, to open our minds and hearts. Give life a chance to be an adventure!

Winning

I've been playing Facebook games--slots and Bingo mostly. I win some, lose a lot. I play Scrabble, WWF, Bejeweled.  Win some, lose some.  I am a little bit competitive.

Who am I kidding?  I hate to lose.

Losing at anything is hateful.  I need to be important. I need to have the best, the most, the bragging rights.  I need all the love and admiration and goodies you can bestow on me.  I need to win.

People like you more when you're a winner. They sidle up to you more when you're already popular, beautiful or smart. They smile more, want to pet your fur coat more and have an excuse to shake your hand so your luck rubs off on them.

There are those who refuse to give in to their envy, or lust to share power or whatever. C'mon. You know you want to. You want some of the luck that the winner has.  You fantasize about having those heart-stopping eyes, the fat wallet and the magnetism that draws power from the universe.

Even those who say it doesn't matter what others think--baloney. 99% of them do care, but they feel insignificant or put-upon or afraid to grasp the golden ring.

Part one of my New Year's resolution is to be a winner. I want to see myself in the bright lights. I will be the "It" girl, have my fifteen minutes of fame. I will be a legend in my own mind, as they say.

I read this post over and over, and will do so every day until it is true.    Losing is not an option.

The thing is--it really doesn't matter what others think.

I only become a winner when I feel it in myself.

Jean

 Jean was my neighbor since I was four years old. Her daughter Lin-Liz (I dare anyone except family, Jane, Mike and me to call her that!) has been my good friend for more years than I care to admit.

I mentioned Jean and her penuche (brown sugar fudge)  in passing and suddenly the floodgates opened...I was transported to our shared childhood. Rainy days of playing in the button box (don't knock it until you've tried it), learning to make taffy in the tiny Twentieth-Street kitchen, sleepovers where we'd harass her sisters, hours of Monopoly and baby dolls (long before Barbie). It was yesterday, wasn't it?

I was tempted to call Lin-Liz for permission to talk about her mom, but I knew in my heart it wasn't necessary. After all, Jean was like a second mom to me.

Do you know, she'd keep the cookie jar full of Oreos? If she was out one day, I could be sure when I came to get Lin-Liz for school the next day the jar would be full. I sometimes thought it was just for me, but there were five other young-uns in the house, too! She got a little peevish after the talcum powder fight, but she was silent when we burned the pan while cooking..was it fudge?

I remembered sitting at her dinner table eating her goulash (I loved that!) and savoring the penuche I could never duplicate--even when I owned my candy shop. I remember the ketchup sandwiches Lin and I would take to her shared bedroom. So simple, so satisfying. I was an only child until I was eleven, so the bustle of a family of five siblings was an adventure to me. Looking back I see that we were far more like sisters than friends, with Jean and Dot as co-mothers.

It was at Jean's house I stayed when Grandpa died, drawing crosses with flowers on them, and she, not one to show a lot of affection, patted my shoulder. It was she who let me spend many nights and she who let me tag along on her church picnics.

I moved away but Jean was there for many more years. We'd laugh at the slow, particular way she would park her car, and the way she had developed habits of certain times, certain days, certain events.

We didn't know much in those days about the changes in behavior that were taking place.

As the memories boiled in my brain, I realized that I miss her. Did I grieve? Yes, but not enough because maybe the memories weren't as precious then as they are now.

So here's a tribute to you, Jean--my other Mom, my friend.

Change Me!

Sometimes God whispers. Sometimes He shouts. Sometimes He hits me over the head with a brick in the form of Pastor Jeff.

Pastor is a little...uh...hyperactive. He is easily excited, easily distracted. But when he speaks of faith...his eyes are calm, his manner changes. He believes.

So when I attended the healing service tonight I knew what to expect, or so I thought. But he drew my aside after the service to talk about stewardship and faith and giving and changing hearts.

He said we can pray for a change in the heart of a non-believer. Or a curmudgeon. Or someone who doesn't like us for an unknown reason. We can pray about healing and giving and all sorts of things. We can pray about our place in the world, our relationships. We can ask God to intervene.

More importantly, we should pray about learning to accept what we have, the things God gave us to work with.

I'm no longer asking God to change the will of someone else. They will be the way I want them to be or they won't. They will give of themselves or they won't. I can't change them.

My prayer tonight is "CHANGE ME!"

I can't make my husband or my sons or anyone else I care deeply about to come around to my way of thinking. I've known this all along, of course, but sometimes it takes someone else to put my head on straight.

Change me, Lord. Show me what has to be done. Make me the kind of woman that will be strong and full of faith, so much faith that it shines like a beacon. Make me generous and wise, funny and smart. 

Change me into what you want me to be and put me where I belong. Make my words touch stubborn hearts. Give me back the joy of living. Let me see the better parts of life and teach me to accept pain of any kind as a learning experience.

I can't change the things that bug me about family or friends. I can only accept everyone as they are and leave the change of heart to you, Lord.

LORD, CHANGE ME!

And So It Is Christmas...

Or Hanuka. Or Happy Holidays (yuk. I hate that.).

One of my jobs right now is in retail, where Christmas starts before Halloween and ends at 5:00 on Christmas Eve.  Christmas music--not exactly the carols of old--play amongst the 50% off clothes racks. We are bursting with red sweaters and rhinestones, Christmas puppies (only 6.99 with purchase) and funky slipper socks and little coin purses no one will ever use.

Is it a wonder I have so little joy for the holidays? James Brown singing about Santa's brand new bag and some chick crooning about the yacht and convertible, light blue, are not conducive to the real meaning of Christmas.

Give me no gifts (unless you've already bought the Kindle Fire, of course!) save a small token that really means something to me--like the piece of rope my step-grandson gave me when he was four--"to tie up the monsters, Grandma." Spare me the last-minute sweater. I'd like homemade penuche (brown sugar fudge to the ill-informed, just like Jean Swanson used to make). 

A kiss under the mistletoe would be nice. A bottle of Tangueray. A warm hug. A dance to the Righteous Brothers in the snow. Send me an email telling me I am your friend. I'm not hard to get along with--a no-cost dose of affection is all I need--plus the Tangueray and Kindle.

We spend too much time and too much money, many of us buying for the sake of buying because we "should", when all we need to do is invite a sad friend for coffee, or compose a poem or draft a note.

I won't go to church on Christmas Eve because Hubby will have to go to work, but I know in my heart that is where Christmas belongs. It isn't the tree or the wrappings. Christ makes Christmas.

But I won't turn down a Kindle.

The Matriarch

I come by the title "matriarch" honestly. Grandma told me I was in line for it when I was probably thirteen ( I had no idea what it meant).  She said that after her passing, Aunt Marjie would take over and then me.  We were talking about the Royal family as I recall, and she was doing her best to explain what it all meant.

I remember asking Aunt Marjie about it later on, maybe when I was twenty or so. She, in her slightly blond terminology, made it sound like a great triumph. And when she died. Mom came into the title. We talked about it a few times, then her interest waned. It came to my mind again when Mom passed over in May of 2010.

I am the matriarch of my family. Certainly I can't claim the same status as Rose Kennedy or the Queen Mother. I am wife, Ma, Grandma.  I am Matriarch.

There is something about the title, however.

It is an ancient rite of passage, or maybe just old-fashioned, given to the oldest female--or at least the one who manages to remember the title and carry it forward. It should bring with it respect, wisdom and maybe a bit of groveling on the family's part.

Alas, nobody in my family recognizes the entitlement. To them I am Ma ( can you make the meatballs?), wife (Honey, what's for dinner!) and Grandma ( Can you buy me some XBox games?). If is mentioned at all, it is with a snigger and a comment, "That means you're OLD, Ma!"

I am thinking that when I turn 62 in seven months that I should do it up right, with a tiara, a royal wave and my subjects rolling out a purple carpet while I in my ermine-trimmed robe make my way to a silver Bentley jammed with Matriarch-worthy gifts....sigh.

Here's the thing. I will settle for the wisdom, the respect and a hug now and then. I don't need anything, not really, except maybe a Kindle Fire and the sway bar link on my car fixed.  Or maybe a license plate that acknowledges the fact. And a few of my traditions carried on.

Nope, I'm not the Queen Mother--not even the Queen.

I am Ma, Wife, Grandma.

I am also MATRIARCH.

I'm Baaack!

What a year this has been.

I quit my job, but I told you that.

I've started three different jobs, one of which I really like but they are going out of business. The second I like, but after finding my client near death I'm not sure I can go back. The third...well, we'll see. I don't feel like I'm a good fit,  especially after the Christmas party, but time will tell. Six months and 21 days to decide, less if the Mayans are right.

My book is creeping along. I find it light in some areas, too sentimental in others.  Well, in six months and 21 days I will decide if I should continue. Less if the Mayans are right.

I've been thinking about those Mayans. If I believed their end-of-days calendar, I could be out spending right now, stuffing my face with gin and chocolate without fear of the consequences, driving Hubby's sports car without the horror of dinging it, telling all those people who bug me where to take a leap and on and on. But I don't believe them, so I will keep my doctor appointment on Tuesday, get the sway bar link (or whatever that thing is) fixed and go back to religiously working out at the Y.

The blog may take a new bend. It depends on where my heart lies at the moment I put fingertips to keyboard.  Cousin Zelda inspires me to write about our slightly moronic but...uh... interesting relatives. Love inspires some sentimentality. My church inspires me to write about faith and my friends and acquaintances give me ideas without knowing it.

So I'm back, semi-regularly. Please read, comment, share, laugh (I hope) and cry if you feel like it.

Jezlebub and Zitzenbio, Tiddlewinks' Relatives

Jezlebub was the sister of Zitzenbio and they were the children of Katinbloom and Snodgrass Smith. third cousins of Tiddlewinks some times removed.  The two were inseparable, not like Toobald and Hirsute, but because they liked each other. An older sibling, Annie (who was made fun of because of her name) didn't quite fit in with their mischievous behavior. Besides, Annie was positive that there was a Higher Power, and Jez and Zits were never really sure.  The chasm grew between the three (four if you count their brother Hurtsalot who was  constantly fighting with Ezra, the town drunk) till it made the Grand Canyon look puny.

It was a sunny day in the middle of May when everything came to a head, including seven pimples on Zitzenbio's nose and three on his neck.  Biganddumb Nosebetter, the town bully, was on a rampage. For most of March, all of April and all but two days so far in May he had terrorized Jezlebub and poor Zitz, and with Zitz' nose getting ready to erupt any second, well, he just made a better target for Biganddumb. It had reached a point where townspeople would line the streets at 4:02 p.m., waving flags; the town cheerleader would bounce around with her pompoms and little white boots (they hurt her feet but the town fathers insisted on them) and everybody would sing "On, Wisconsin".

Along would come Biganddumb, and he'd stand in the middle of Main Street waiting for Zitz and Jez, and soon as he saw them he'd wind up that big ol' arm of his and start pounding poor Zitz while Jez wrung her hands and wailed. Why nobody came to his rescue is a mystery.  An even bigger mystery was why Zitz and Jezlebub walked that way every day as if wanting to see poor Zitz bloodied. (It later came out that Jez really did have some issues and in therapy years later she admitted to a secret crush on Biganddumb.)

Well, on that day in May Zitz got wind of a bookie who was taking bets on the daily outcome.  Actually, Zitz was downwind from the bookie (Jeremiah Sludgebody) who had a terrible body odor and when he went to investigate the stench, he overheard several townsmen and one woman kibitzing on his fate-to-be.

Well, Zitz had had enough. He dropped to his knees and said a heart-felt prayer and asked for a miracle, and when he stood up lo and behold, his forearms were like tree stumps with fingers, his biceps were big as cannons, his triceps were like, like, like...well, I don't know, but you get the idea. He popped out of his shirt like some sort of Incredible Hulk (how come David Banner never ran out of shirts?) and ran towards Biganddumb like an out-of-control freight train (or like Jezlebub after a few Manhattans).

Biganddumb, being too stupid to move his carcass, stood stunned while Zitz  had his way, punching here and squeezing a zit there, until Biganddumb couldn't take much more and threw up on Zitzenbio's patent leather shoes.

Oh, the reaction of the townspeople! Hey, they had lost a ton of cash betting on Biganddumb, the "sure thing" and they took after Zitz and ran him and Jez straight into Bugspit, Georgia. So the bookie made a bundle, huh? Not exactly....one townswoman, full of faith that Zitzenbio would win one of these days had wagered two dollars for every dollar the town put up against Zitz.

Annie walked away with a big smile and and a scrub bucket full of moolah.

From the Diary: Hiswife

Hiswife had a given name, Justina, I think it was, but back in those days she was so often referred to as "his wife" that eventually the nickname stuck.  Hiswife decided to go into politics before most women had political ambitions, and, indeed, before they had the right to vote in most states.  Her frustrated husband, Webster, disapproved, but stopping Hiswife from doing what she wanted was like trying to stop me from eating peanut butter.  She would go on a rant, starting about Washington (the man, not the city) and ending...well, not ending, which drove him crazy.

Hiswife decided she needed a cause if she planned to win any kind of seat in Fleabasket County. From there Hiswife  dreamed she would go  to the state senate, then to the governorship, maybe even president someday. She made a list of everything that troubled her in the small community of Looselice and went to work.

First of all,  Fleabasket County was a hotbed of bugs. Little bugs, big bugs, bedbugs, biting bugs, creepy crawlies and head lice.  Her slogan became "Bugs Out!' and since the other candidate's name was Butthorn Bugs, well, the men (not the brightest of creatures in Looselice) thought she meant him, and since they didn't like Butthorn Bugs  much anyway because he cheated at Texas Hold 'Em, they voted for her. The women, who were a majority in Looselice and had the vote, knew exactly what she meant and came out in swarms (so to speak) to vote for the eradication of insects.

So Hiswife became the first woman custodian of Looselice and probably would have stayed in office till she died, except for one bug in the ointment. Community council voted to merge with the neighboring township of Westofhere and her office was abolished as part of the agreement. I heard it went up for grabs in a game of Penny-Ante, but I have no documentation of that.

The "bugs out" slogan didn't work so well during the state race and went nowhere when she ran as a candidate for president although her idea that women everywhere should vote did catch on. She made a small fortune on fly traps and sticky strips, hair wash made from kerosene and tiny little combs which she called nitpickers. Sales of anti-itch creams dropped considerably under her watch.  The sales of convenience foods grew exponentially because nobody cooked from scratch anymore. Yes, it was a shame to see her reign end.

Webster was so proud of Hiswife that he quit his job as a soap salesman to become Hiswife's campaign manager when she decided to run for mayor.  His untimely death due to the bite of a black widow spider made Hiswife even more determined to succeed at the political game.  Her new slogan would be "Stomp Out Arachnids!"......

And since the mayor's name was Arachnid Redbelly, and he wasn't well-liked anyway because he cheated at Texas Hold 'Em, well, her political web caught all the people and she went on to serve eight and a half terms.

I don't know why Tiddlewinks included Hiswife in the diary because I can't see how she could be related to me and Zelda unless it's from the time great-great granduncle Protrude  (also called "Probe") went out west with the harem girl and came back with ringworm, three puppies, eleven kids and a scorpion called 'Ray'.

Politics and Me

I see that two old acquaintances are vying for the same seat in our primary election in April. They are both filing their petitions under my registered party. There are others running, too.  In a city this size I am amazed that I don't know all of the candidates on a first-name basis.

I was thinking that I should choose. Fortunately, I have grown enough to know that I don't have to choose.  Neither of them espouses my political ideals. This may be the first election where I decide to abstain--at least in the primary.  I haven't missed one since I turned twenty-one, the first year I was allowed by law to vote.

I'm disgusted with politics.  The in-fighting of the candidates irritates me--aren't they all of the same party?  For the most part the current crop of elected officials are leaches on the taxpayers' wallets.  How dare they criticize welfare recipients and corporate hand-outs when they are living on the public dole themselves?  They work for it? They work fewer days a year than many children attend school.

I don't want politicians telling me that it is wrong or right to be pro-choice or pro-life. Stay out of my medicine.  Stay out of my bed--who I sleep with or choose to marry isn't for government to decide.  Don't tell me where I have to go to school.  Stay out of my church.

Don't tell me it's OK to get drunk as a skunk on Jack Daniels but it's not OK to get high on marijuana. Of course I don't want heroin for sale at the corner CVS, but for an adult to choose pot? The same rules apply as to alcohol--DUI, no selling to minors. Jail time for an ounce? I don't think so.

I don't want the feds intervening in education, housing, insurance or business. Let the states set rules if they must.  In business, forget federal interference.  The consumer will weed out the incompetent and make wealthy the reputable.  No, we don't need feds to regulate our milk or our vitamins.   Americans are independent and resourceful when they have to be.  The candidate I'm looking for will back off personal issues and let the government get back to defending our liberty.

The federal government is our biggest employer. They have no incentive to be creative or productive. If a program fails taxes go up and they throw money at it.  They spend precious time and money passing legislation that is designed for their own job security.  Government  adds nothing to the consumer--no product, no distribution--only rules that keep Grandma from selling the jelly she makes in her own kitchen.

I get so angry when I think about it!

So to you who choose to run for political office I ask this: WHY?? Are you willing to be a servant of the people?  Or are you in it for the perks?  Will you answer honestly when asked a question? Or will you ignore it and hope it passes? No, I will not sign your petition and no, you will not get my vote unless you can show me you believe as I do. You believe as your conscience will allow.  Maybe there is a middle ground somewhere.

I may not vote at all this year for the first time.  It's quite a struggle to separate the wheat from the chaff.

The Book of Felsnaptha

Felsnaptha had a mouth like a fishmonger's wife (but not knowing any fishmongers' wives, I can't verify that) or perhaps Tom Brady's grandma who I heard say some choice phrases on Super Bowl Sunday. Felsnaptha (fourth cousin, twice removed, I think on Zelda's mother's father's side, but that's a little fuzzy), whose real name was Ebenezra (I am not making this up...) was so nicknamed because she spent much of her younger days with a bar of soap in her mouth in the useless attempt to clean up her language.  Nobody knew where she had learned those words, though I suspect Jon Crapper, the second-floor houseman had something to do with that, just to get even with the nanny (Bruce Twoshoes, of course nicknamed Goody) who told Felsnaptha's aunt that he had been trying on her wigs and...oh, never mind.

Felsnaptha's mouth was a source of irritation to everyone around her, especially to the pharmacist Mr. Pillmaker.  She would go into the pharmacy-slash-soda bar, wait until he was concentrating on mixing drugs for a special order (often a particularly volatile one that she had called in herself) and wait...wait...wait for it ..."$#$% ^&*( %%#@!!!" till poor Mr. Pillmaker would leap skyward and cling to the bars he had installed on the ceiling for this very purpose when Felsnaptha came of age.  She'd proceed to laugh her BWAHAHAHA laugh until Mr. Pillmaker would drop exhausted from his branch, then go on to ridicule street children, cab drivers (who often responded with a "<>?$" of their own) and the humans at Watcherwalkin Pet Park...

Felsnaptha was well into maturity when she met her match, a mostly soft-spoken vet (animal doctor, not disengaged service personnel) who specialized in wild animals.  She had actually gone to see him, thinking he was a doctor for humans, for a sore hoof...uh...foot. (They were quite clunky. It was hard to tell.) When he stroked the offending appendage, she let off a stream of expletives that would have made George Carlin blush. Well, young Dr. Halfpigeon took her under his wing (literally--you should have seen it! White, with feather-shaped fingers), amazed at her extensive vocabulary.

They instantly fell in love.  He taught her how to reserve her language for the hyenas who laughed at it and the gorillas who mocked her and Felsnaptha found that she was quite the animal whisperer.  She of course preferred to tutor parrots and toucans which wouldn't have bothered Dr. Halfpigeon quite as much if they hadn't been boarding an African blue for a preacher from Redneck, Kentucky and a cockatoo from Hewhospeaksfoulgetsslapped, Minnesota. It took months to re-educate the birds and of course by that time every six year old in the Land of a Thousand Lakes knew a thousand ways to call somebody a dirty name.

Dr. Halfpigeon and Felsnaptha have spent the last few years in Catchupwitchu, Peru where they teach the Mayan descendants how to speak English slang.

Their mission ends on December 21, 2012.

Reminded

There are two kinds of people in the world...those who give and those who take.
Or those who give darkness and those who light a candle.
Or those who need healing and those who lead them to the way of healing.
Or those who reject the will of God and those who embrace His Word.

You see what I mean?  My social studies teacher (they called it Civics back then) said the world is full of "haves" and "have nots". Which kind are you?

I believe most of us are "haves", but we are unable to accept that and dwell instead on our troubles and our wants, becoming willing "have nots".

I believe that everyone has a calling--one has to listen carefully to know what the calling is. In real life I see those who are called and those who are pew-warmers. It's so sad. Many are called but few are chosen?  Many are called, but few hear.

Since I accepted my own calling some months ago, I find that I am being called again and again.  Sometimes I move too quickly, like today.  The object of my concern wanted me to listen. I did. For some reason, she is unwilling to share her plight with the people of the church--those who would be so willing to pray with her and for her.  I find it hard to understand. . . why reject the helping hand of God through people who are filled with the Holy Spirit?  She is too private to share, and I should have realized that, but a burden of a hundred pounds becomes only ten--or five--or nothing-- when others help to lift it.

The sermon caught me off guard.  I had finished writing and was set to edit and post a column about how dissatisfied  I am with my work of late and how I was thinking about going back into sales. I've been on a roller-coaster of highs and lows, never leveling off for long enough to see where I am. As I usually do, I asked at the start of the service for God to release my mind, that I could concentrate on His Word instead of my daily tribulations. When the woman said to me, "I want to be at peace", I knew exactly what she was talking about. Being at peace trumps my niggling dissatisfaction. And then I heard the words of the sermon. I knew that it was time to accept another calling.  Being a listening ear? Yes. Turning water to wine? No.

I know that my calling is to write.  I hope that my words will be shared.  I have recently been called to caregiving, and my newest client shows me exactly what that means.  I believe I have been called to chair the Stewardship Committee because of the blinding flash that accompanied my revelations about stewardship...the words, unrehearsed and unwritten,  came as I stood before the congregational meeting.  As they came from my mouth, I knew that they were coming from my heart.

What about you? Are you called to bring joy to someone's life with a plate of muffins? To crochet a prayer shawl to bring someone peace? To serve as a lay pastor to help share the Word?  Are you supposed to use your skills as a mechanic to help keep someone safe? Or as a teacher to give knowledge? Or to surprise a friend with a care package you know she needs but for which she would never ask?

Your calling may not be inside the Church, but just the same it is something that will serve God as well as your community. OK, so you are not a preacher.  Are you a friend?  OK, so you are not a gung-ho evangelist or a committee person.  Did you cut your neighbor's grass or shovel snow?  Were you there to pick up a child who had fallen from his bike?  Sometimes your calling isn't a big thing with a grandiose purpose, but a small thing with gentle impact. 

You never know when your tiniest deed, your seemingly insignificant spoken word, your touch of a hand or kiss on the cheek, your gift of applesauce or venison, your compliment or your saying, "I'm thinking of you" could be the hope that makes someone go on for another day.

I am reminded today that one has to take stock in one's position in life on a regular basis. One has to listen carefully to find out if God has a new reason for you to be alive. As circumstances change, maybe your calling has, too. 

Maybe my words fall on deaf ears.  Maybe you are at best agnostic, even an atheist who denies the existence of the Creator, Sustainer and Redeemer. I will pray that He reveals Himself to you, and that your purpose and your calling are made clear to you.  Perhaps your calling, be it as a secretary or a tool-maker or maintenance worker, is exactly where God wants you to be. Ask, and He will show Himself.

There are two kinds of people...those who have a purpose in life and those who accept chaos.
Or those who choose a calling instead of those who are led to it.
Or those who wallow in their loneliness and misery and those who reach out of their comfort zone for help.

Sometimes we need to be reminded of which kind of person we are.

Page Next: Alibaba

Alibaba was one of Chester Macalvey's thirty-seven children by his nine wives and two concubines.  Chester was a very busy man.  He ran a grocery store to get all the family's food at a discount (and charged exorbitant prices to the rest of the folks in Dead Plants, Arkansas), worked part time at Ding and Felter's Department Store for the employee savings and bought their clothes at the thrift stores. He also had a small dairy farm, trained the middle kids to dumpster-dive and claimed that the youngest two were descendants of Anastasia (their mother was Czech, not Russian, but that didn't matter to Chester) in a reckless effort to gain the Russian throne.  Not only was his claim dismissed, but he was forbidden to ever  enter Moscow again. Since he had never set foot on Moscowian soil in the first place, he was not impressed.

Alibaba was daughter number six, born to our cousin (third, four times removed, I think--barely a relative at all, thank goodness).  She was actually quite pretty if you viewed her from the left side and not at all from the right. Her right side resembled a carp--scaly and yellowish with this thing that looked like a fin sticking out only not as sharp.  She had a striking figure, long golden blond hair, a big blue eye (sigh...yes, only one, the other was devoid of color and lashes. When one asked her if she could see out of it, she most often replied, "What?", so we were never sure if it was an eye after all, or maybe an ear).

She could be sweet as her left face or as mean as her right implied. Trust me. Mean.

I explained to her, after being victimized by one of her pranks that I won't discuss, that Murphy Brown was just a TV show and that Murphy had a nasty streak, yes, but it was all for comedy's sake. It isn't appropriate in the real world to do those thing, plus plenty more Murphy hadn't thought of.  Like filling a Miata to the brim with water balloons. Like calling every pizza shop in town, asking them to deliver large supreme every fifteen minutes to a certain address on Pennsylvania Avenue (the Secret Service ate leftovers for weeks. Bubba got fat). Like opening the door to an ant farm in a spa that featured a honey-wrap, and rubbing habenero peppers on the door handles of the men's room at Quantico....oh, I could go on and on.

Eventually, the pastor at Snake Breath Believers Church in Yallcomebacknow, Kentucky (where she lived while being married to her first cousin, no times removed, until his death from an asp bite) decided she was possessed by son of Satan and ordered her to subject herself to a rattler calling contest. If the snakes came, she was NOT possessed, and if they didn't come, she was. (Did you guess the pastor only had a second-grade schooling?) I never found out what happened after she spewed pea soup and spun her head around clockwise and chased the snakes so far that none one in Yallcomebacknow has seen one since.  Of course, that could be a fairy tale.

Last I heard, Alibaba was working in Washington, DC with forty thieves and some part-time lobbyists. She had cosmetic surgery and now resembles a carp from both angles.  She decided to have the work-up because she didn't want anybody to think that everyone in Washington was two-faced.

Tootsweet

Toastre (AKA Gruntsmuch) had a daughter that no one knew about, except of course Tiddlewinks, possibly the girl's birth father (who I think may have been Troubadour, the singer in the rock group Night Terrors and Sweat) and probably cousin Zelda's paternal grand uncle Kibbles who had started the Kennel and met Gruntsmuch when he saw her dancing at Limber Puppies Nightclub.  (What kind of dogs did he breed? Well, he didn't exactly breed dogs. He was a undocumented {his word} plastic surgeon who specialized in women's breasts and affectionately called his operating studio 'the Kennel'. He also had a majority interest in Limber Puppies. Anyway....)

Tootsweet was her name, and a nicer person there never was.  She had none of Gruntsmuch's dance moves, couldn't sing the ABC's without the words in front of her and had frizzy blond hair (frizzy because it should have been black) she tied back with a chiffon scarf twisted into a big bow.  But she was a sweetheart, never arguing, always trying to give everyone she met a laugh and a compliment.

Gruntsmuch had given her up at birth, but little Tootsweet sniffed out her mother at the tender age of six and they instantly bonded. Her father by then had gone the way of many rock stars (into rehab) and had not much to do with Tootsweet until some years later when he began playing again and let her bang on the tambourine. When she hit a sour note (not hard for Tootsweet, even on a tambourine), they just played louder.  It is said that they set off car alarms in seven counties, but I don't believe it. Any one of our relatives could have done that.

Anyway, Tootsweet by her smile alone (one would rather not look at her face) could charm almost anyone. Her voice (while not a singing one) was still quite musical.  So when she met Moundsof Q. Moneybucks he simply fell in love BOOM! like a thunderbolt had come from the sky and singed his heart.  He and Tootsweet had twelve children, ten of them born with blond hair and black roots and two who resembled Shrek although he swore they never met.

Moneybucks and Tootsweet had adventures that amazed Zelda and me. One time she began to swing and sway to the music on a trip to India and seventeen cobras began to dance. Another time Moneybucks bought a genuine Rafeal (no, not Raphael)  and paid only twenty six hundred and thirty-two dollars and twelve cents plus tax because the vendor was so enthralled with Tootsweet. At Starbucks she got them free whipped cream on their lattes, and McDonald's left off the pickles when they saw her coming.  Even Barnes and Noble (the taxidermists, not the book sellers) had a special area of stuffed wolverines and hyenas that had Tootsweet's name on a plaque.  Somebody said she scared them to death and she brought their limp little bodies to Barnes because she thought he was a vet and Noble, by his name alone, must be a very kind man (which he wasn't, not really) and they gave her a song and dance (much better than hers) and told her they would take care of her pets. Yes, Tootsweet was a charmer.

Tootsweet and Moneybucks eventually moved to Gromax, Texas, to open an indoor flea market and pub which they called the Junk Stop and Beer. People from all over brought their stuff to sell at a booth that Tootsweet rented them for only seventy-three cents an hour as long as they drank beer all day at eight seventy five a bottle, six bottle minimum, two for toddlers. By the time they got to the fourth beer of their special brew, they were sure it was a bargain and spent happy hours hawking junk and swilling lager. 

The health department closed down Junk Stop and Beer when one of the marketeers brought in actual trained fleas to sell and they got loose and wouldn't come back when the whistle blew. They got into the custom brew, got stinkin' drunk and terrorized the marketplace. The whole thing was stupid. The fleas didn't have enough money between them to pay for the beer they drank and Tootsweet decided they took advantage of her good nature, took care of the tab and they never bothered reopening even after the fine was paid and the flea carcasses removed.

The diary ends here--this page, anyhow--so I'm not sure yet what happened to Tootsweet and Moneybucks.  I do know they kept the surviving fleas and formed a circus so the fleas could work off their beer binge bill.

I think they called it Itchkabibble.

Be Nice

I recently attended a gathering where camera-happy people were in abundance.  For the most part, I think I stayed out of range of flashbulbs and video recordings, but you know how it is. Thank goodness I was not the reason for the get-together. I would have banned the lens from the premises.

There's always one you can't avoid.

Knowing full well how I feel about being photographed, you'd think this one would have left me alone, too. It was not to be.

The camera wielder herself was kind, and she snapped quickly and without a half-dozen poses and tries. She wanted to show me the results, but I declined saying, "No thanks, I know I'm not photogenic", to which the other perpetrator replied, ""Hey, the camera doesn't lie! You look like what you look like! It is what it is!"  Thanks a lot.

Lie to me. Tell me I'm hot. Tell me I'm beautiful. Don't tell me what a great picture I take. Tell me it doesn't do justice to my lovely face. Be nice.

Honesty is a double-edge sword.  It keeps us grounded so we don't outgrow our hat size.  It lets us know where we stand in the eyes of friends and fellow humans.  Yes, honesty is a good thing. It's the brutality with which it is delivered that I can live without.

No one wants to be perpetually put down by your critical commentary whether it is said jokingly or not. A constant barrage of "just being honest with you" is nothing more than asking permission to insult one's looks, accomplishments (or lack thereof), talents (or lack thereof) or whatever.  Chances are, those very criticisms reflect your own shortcomings. Wanna hear about them?

I can't believe I look as awful in person as I do in a photograph.  I know what my failures are (trust me on this--I know), though I prefer to be blissfully unaware.  I am trying to make a conscious effort not to notice the things that bug me, or at least not to mention them.  Hard, very very hard.

All I want from you is for you to be nice.

There are times we are feeling high on life; we don't need to be brought down to earth.

A little white lie will do nicely.

Crazy? I Was Crazy Once...

I have had some commentary and criticism, both public and private, on my tales of Tiddlewinks and other ancestors. Most of it begins with various interpretations of the phrase, "Are you crazy?" to which I answer in impeccable politically correct language, "Hell, no!"

Hubby asks what happens if somebody believes me?  Bring it on. Would I lie?  If even one sovereign nation won't admit to snatching their passports (and I think the Czech Republic may have had Aunt Greasemonkey's) and the CIA won't acknowledge their existence, does that make them less real?

Zelda reminds me of tales not in the diary and I am making notes.  You think my tidbits are outlandish? That's because I haven't yet revealed a lot of Zelda's memories, like the time she (or was it Carcassie, the anorexic niece of Tush?)  flew over the Sears building and her hemline got caught on the cell phone tower and she almost fell, but an updraft caught her and took her south to Phlegm, Wisconsin  where her husband-to-be coughed up a fortune...well, you get the picture.

I have been told that my ancestry explains a lot of why I am who I am and why when I speak of these nut cases I talk in run-on-and-on sentences, but that's really the only way to describe them. Zelda concurs.

I've been asked how I obtained the diary and I can only say I didn't steal it...not really...it was out in the open, covered only with a cherrywood top...and sides...and back..and a little lock that opened without a key (I used a hairpin).  The fact that it was in Lovelace's boudoir has no bearing on my eventual ownership and the lawyer agrees.

After studying my genealogy, I am convinced that I come from a long line of slightly homely relatives (our grandmothers being the first generation of  'lookers'--oh, you haven't seen their pics, have you?)  who, for the most part were smart (or at least smart-ass), rich (none of 'em left us a dime--they all spent our inheritance) and wacky. They were also adventurous and of dubious reputation. Most of the still-living ones must be on the run because Zelda found me and had to come out of witness protection when she did and then she blew my cover as an international spy and we haven't yet located any other long-lost cousins, except Hoopla, but she really doesn't count, and it's just as well.   I assume the rest of the family is also in some quirky business.

I've been told that I am politically incorrect (see paragraph one)--especially about Gutsy and the bare-naked ride through Persia on a camel-- and that I'm sure to get in S-O  M-U-C-H  T-R-O-U-B-L-E.  I call 'em as I see 'em.

No matter--one can't choose blood (except perhaps in a case like this where their creation and viability give Zelda and I a reason for being)--which is why we must carefully choose our friends.

Time to get back to the diary.

Next Page: Titchfiddle

Uncle Titchfiddle, actually a cousin of great-great Grandpa Horsebucket's half brother Cheatsat (and you wonder why first names aren't handed down in this family?) from Freshpants, Arkansas, was a rich old curmudgeon who had been abandoned by his sister in the Grand Canyon when the family went on vacation and then was left to the mountain lions because his father never liked him anyhow and believed his sister because she was blond and cute and clearly his favorite child. Truth is, he wasn't sure he was Titchfiddle's real dad and always suspected that the birth father was the funeral director in Infested, Louisiana, but that's another story. Anyway, the lions did find Titch and raised them as their own. He turned into a mostly OK man after escaping although he did like to bring home dead birds and lay them at your feet.

He also purred, but that's another story.

Titchfiddle made his first money in unknown ways, although it was suspected that he was a rum-runner with the Kennedy clan from Chappedquick, Minnesota.  It was never proven, alas, and his dirty laundry was soaked till it gleamed.  Titchfiddle bought a chain of laundromats and a factory that made dribble glasses and made a fortune until the citizens of Freshpants caught on.

Titchfiddle's special love was archaeology, and he spent years traveling in South America looking for proof that modern man came from Brazil despite evidence to the contrary.  He wasn't opposed to manufacturing 'facts', and on one trip to Sao Paulo planted artifacts that showed a cave-drawing of a native (who looked much like himself) and a winged creature that looked like the Mothman. It wasn't hard to denounce, and Titchfiddle left the site in disgrace. For many years before being banned from South America (except the Balkans), most of Africa, Australia and several European states he plotted ways to get back in good stead with the archaeological community. When that didn't work he fabricated flying machines and amused himself setting them off over Nevada. One crashed, unfortunately, and the government spent years trying to explain it, lying through their collective teeth to make sense of it all when they themselves had no idea what was going on.

Titchfiddle died mysteriously when, shortly after marrying Augustina Hootchiemama, he was in the gondola of a giant weather balloon when it was shot down by apparently not-so-friendly fire, in fact some say it was a bazooka but there was no evidence of bubble gum and the Utah cops refused to believe it was anything but an accident.

His tombstone reads 'Rest in Pieces'.