As the days count down to when my amazing daughter and I will no longer share space, I find I am weepy, giddy, manic, depressed - the entire gamete from sorrow to joy rips through me in an instant.
Sorrow - that I will no longer hear her laughter across the way as we are engaged in separate activities within the house we share.
Joy - that I've had this incredible opportunity to be with her.
And as I sit in my room tonight, I am reading a comic which bonds us - we gave each other the trilogy one Christmas during her college career - and she left me post its on the cartoons that mattered the most to her. Of course I am speaking of Calvin & Hobbs; she even created a class at Berkeley devoted to the philosophy of Calvin & Hobbs. I think she did it just to play Calvin Ball, but that's simply conjecture...
In Book Two, December 10, 1988, Calvin imagines he is a dragon - I stopped reading the cartoon, closed my eyes, and sang 'Puff'.
If you don't know 'Puff the Magic Dragon', stop now and look up the lyrics. No, it's not about drugs. Sheesh...
When Jordan was small, I'd sing her to sleep. Even then she didn't mind that I was tone deaf and sang off key - oh, and changed keys at will mid-song! Now, she shakes her head when she hears me sing and says, with great affection in her voice, 'Oh, Mom, you're so cute,' but she sings with me anyway. Except for Puff. Puff always made her cry. And tonight, when I sang it to myself, I felt I was Puff...'without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave, so Puff that mighty dragon sadly slipped into his cave.'
This time out of time that I've had with my daughter has allowed me an understanding and an acceptance of Jordan in ways that far transcend the mother-daughter relationship. I will always and forever be grateful.
And the child is doing what she aught -
Learning, absorbing, surpassing ...
to form the next generation.
Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea, and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called HannaLee; Puff the Magic Dragon lived by the sea, and frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called HannaLee...
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
The Things People Say to Strangers!
I decided it's time to truly take a look at what I want - out of my professional life, out of my personal life, out of the area in which I live. And I find that people have zero problem sharing with strangers.
Now, the point could be argued that I share with strangers by posting a blog. And I share with strangers through my writing - I'll share with even more strangers once I get published! But that isn't the point - the point is, yes, I share with strangers.
If I'm going to share with strangers, I always make sure the title is indicative of what might be found within. For instance, this title pretty much is what the blog is about. I'm discovering that is not always the case.
After we got robbed last Friday, I've spent more time on craigslist, looking for our stuff. And, while on craigslist, I am always drawn to the personal section. It's a sickness, I admit. But I am curious as to who is out there and why, what they are looking for, how they present themselves ... the whole thing.
What I'm finding out is that the bulk of men on craigslist have but one thing on their mind. Hold on, now - I see you rolling your eyes, shaking your head, making the 'tsk tsk' sound. Men don't ALWAYS have sex on their mind - sometimes it's food. Sometimes it's beer. Kidding, boys.... It isn't so much that the topic of sex is on their mind - it's how it's put out there. Spelled badly, presented poorly, desperate men looking for a quick fix.
I imagine a line of men, all races, all sizes, all ages, going into infinity, all with one thing in mind, waiting for just one thing - to get their rocks off. What I'm finding, though, is every man has a different ... trigger. And they aren't bashful about telling a perfect stranger what that trigger is! What happened to 'let's get to know each other'?
And I am wondering, as I read these posts, would these men be this forthright with a person they knew? Or would they be embarrassed that this other side of them was showing, and try even harder to hide under the guise of 'quiet and shy'?
It's a puzzler ...
And people wonder why I'm single ....
Now, the point could be argued that I share with strangers by posting a blog. And I share with strangers through my writing - I'll share with even more strangers once I get published! But that isn't the point - the point is, yes, I share with strangers.
If I'm going to share with strangers, I always make sure the title is indicative of what might be found within. For instance, this title pretty much is what the blog is about. I'm discovering that is not always the case.
After we got robbed last Friday, I've spent more time on craigslist, looking for our stuff. And, while on craigslist, I am always drawn to the personal section. It's a sickness, I admit. But I am curious as to who is out there and why, what they are looking for, how they present themselves ... the whole thing.
What I'm finding out is that the bulk of men on craigslist have but one thing on their mind. Hold on, now - I see you rolling your eyes, shaking your head, making the 'tsk tsk' sound. Men don't ALWAYS have sex on their mind - sometimes it's food. Sometimes it's beer. Kidding, boys.... It isn't so much that the topic of sex is on their mind - it's how it's put out there. Spelled badly, presented poorly, desperate men looking for a quick fix.
I imagine a line of men, all races, all sizes, all ages, going into infinity, all with one thing in mind, waiting for just one thing - to get their rocks off. What I'm finding, though, is every man has a different ... trigger. And they aren't bashful about telling a perfect stranger what that trigger is! What happened to 'let's get to know each other'?
And I am wondering, as I read these posts, would these men be this forthright with a person they knew? Or would they be embarrassed that this other side of them was showing, and try even harder to hide under the guise of 'quiet and shy'?
It's a puzzler ...
And people wonder why I'm single ....
Friday, May 4, 2012
Lemons and LemonAid
A 'for rent' notice was posted on our duplex fence today, and on the big oak, as well. Mimi (my landlady) and I talked, I told her of our (mine and Jordan's situation), and we decided it would be best to give notice, and let her get new tenants.
She came by, heard my concerns about several aspects of the rental, and even agreed with me, which was great! She's been a wonderful landlady. After we'd chatted, I needed to go into Solvang for a few minutes, and then into the Vet for Misty. And then I was going to return home. Lots to do, and all that rot.
I left my house at 1:10 p.m., a bright, breezy spring day. I returned to my house at 2:23 p.m. (roughly speaking). In that short space of time, my home had been robbed.
Since the dogs were with me, there was none to give the alarm - the "Intruders!" alert that was always being given to Will Rogers, along with 'Danger!' Nope, no one here to offer any resistance.
Someone, or someones, walked in through the back gate, came into the house, stole a MacBook 2009, 13" screen, a MacBookPro, 2011, 13" screen, two iPods, a digital camera, contents of one jewelry box, and another jewelry box complete with contents.
It took me a second to even grasp what had happened. I came into the house, and noticed the kitchen table was all cleared off. Oh, that's nice, I remember thinking. Right before panic hit me, a blow to the gut. The kitchen table was not all cleared off when I left; nope, when I left, it held my computer and my iPod and speakers. Now, it held a candle and a slate menu board. Okay, I've not been sleeping well; I'm sure I moved the computer, used it somewhere else, and don't remember. I visualized everywhere I'd used the computer this morning: in bed, right when I woke up; sitting on the bench at the end of my bed, taking a break from painting; at the kitchen table, playing solitaire, taking another break from painting. Then I visualized where it was when I left the house: kitchen table, closed but on. And the table was all cleared off.
I did what any rational woman would do in my circumstances: I moaned, right before tears flooded my eyes. My computer - six unpublished novels. Countless snippets and starts. Poetry. Photos - photos I can never get back, unless they've been published in another forum. Luckily, my professional file and my writings file had recently been saved to a stick. Photos? Gone. My silver bracelets, the trio Jordan gave to me when she was still in high school, that I wear damn near every day, even if I'm not going anywhere - gone. Not worth even a nickel, to anyone except me. Jordan's diamond solitaire I gave to her when she began her college career - gone. The diamond ring Nanny (Mrs. Presley - my first mother in law) gave to me, which I gave to Jordan - gone. Silly gold hoop earrings, same monetary value as my silver bracelets, gone. The ring given to my mother by Pat Lamont, a woman we called 'Aunt Pat' while growing up, because Pat and Bob Lamont were my parents' closest friends - said ring subsequently given to me - gone.
The sheriff department sent one of their men out to check for fingerprints - bastards wore gloves. Nothing. And, even though Jordan and I were able to get the serial numbers of our Mac computers, everything else was just ... gone.
Jordan kept telling me 'it's just stuff'. And she's right - it IS just stuff. But damn it, I have very little 'stuff' in this world as it is ... we live in a duplex, for cryin' out loud! What did they think was here that they could possibly benefit from?
The sheriff, and my next door neighbor, for that matter, think it's someone who knows us, whether we know them or not. Timing is too tight for it to be anything but.
All I know is - I've lost more, in the loss of my computer, than I ever thought possible. Jordan's prom; all of my Cleveland photos; my trips around California on my days off from the winery; my recent trip to DC. Gone. I'm not even going to think about what writings may be missing, not included in my last update. That thought really makes me want to vomit.
So, as Jordan takes these lemons and makes lemonade, I take these lemons and make Lynchburg Lemonade. Mine will at least let me sleep at some point in the near future.
She came by, heard my concerns about several aspects of the rental, and even agreed with me, which was great! She's been a wonderful landlady. After we'd chatted, I needed to go into Solvang for a few minutes, and then into the Vet for Misty. And then I was going to return home. Lots to do, and all that rot.
I left my house at 1:10 p.m., a bright, breezy spring day. I returned to my house at 2:23 p.m. (roughly speaking). In that short space of time, my home had been robbed.
Since the dogs were with me, there was none to give the alarm - the "Intruders!" alert that was always being given to Will Rogers, along with 'Danger!' Nope, no one here to offer any resistance.
Someone, or someones, walked in through the back gate, came into the house, stole a MacBook 2009, 13" screen, a MacBookPro, 2011, 13" screen, two iPods, a digital camera, contents of one jewelry box, and another jewelry box complete with contents.
It took me a second to even grasp what had happened. I came into the house, and noticed the kitchen table was all cleared off. Oh, that's nice, I remember thinking. Right before panic hit me, a blow to the gut. The kitchen table was not all cleared off when I left; nope, when I left, it held my computer and my iPod and speakers. Now, it held a candle and a slate menu board. Okay, I've not been sleeping well; I'm sure I moved the computer, used it somewhere else, and don't remember. I visualized everywhere I'd used the computer this morning: in bed, right when I woke up; sitting on the bench at the end of my bed, taking a break from painting; at the kitchen table, playing solitaire, taking another break from painting. Then I visualized where it was when I left the house: kitchen table, closed but on. And the table was all cleared off.
I did what any rational woman would do in my circumstances: I moaned, right before tears flooded my eyes. My computer - six unpublished novels. Countless snippets and starts. Poetry. Photos - photos I can never get back, unless they've been published in another forum. Luckily, my professional file and my writings file had recently been saved to a stick. Photos? Gone. My silver bracelets, the trio Jordan gave to me when she was still in high school, that I wear damn near every day, even if I'm not going anywhere - gone. Not worth even a nickel, to anyone except me. Jordan's diamond solitaire I gave to her when she began her college career - gone. The diamond ring Nanny (Mrs. Presley - my first mother in law) gave to me, which I gave to Jordan - gone. Silly gold hoop earrings, same monetary value as my silver bracelets, gone. The ring given to my mother by Pat Lamont, a woman we called 'Aunt Pat' while growing up, because Pat and Bob Lamont were my parents' closest friends - said ring subsequently given to me - gone.
The sheriff department sent one of their men out to check for fingerprints - bastards wore gloves. Nothing. And, even though Jordan and I were able to get the serial numbers of our Mac computers, everything else was just ... gone.
Jordan kept telling me 'it's just stuff'. And she's right - it IS just stuff. But damn it, I have very little 'stuff' in this world as it is ... we live in a duplex, for cryin' out loud! What did they think was here that they could possibly benefit from?
The sheriff, and my next door neighbor, for that matter, think it's someone who knows us, whether we know them or not. Timing is too tight for it to be anything but.
All I know is - I've lost more, in the loss of my computer, than I ever thought possible. Jordan's prom; all of my Cleveland photos; my trips around California on my days off from the winery; my recent trip to DC. Gone. I'm not even going to think about what writings may be missing, not included in my last update. That thought really makes me want to vomit.
So, as Jordan takes these lemons and makes lemonade, I take these lemons and make Lynchburg Lemonade. Mine will at least let me sleep at some point in the near future.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Bridge Over Troubled Water
I have a HUGE fear of bridges. It began at an early age - I had a dream, as a wee thing, that my family was traveling by car, and for some reason my grandmother was with us, and the car flew over a bridge. Just went flying right through the concrete side, and 'Whee!', we were air-borne. Can you say 'Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang'? As is the way of dreams, the next second, my grandmother and I are slipping and sliding down this frozen hill, the bank, if you will, of the river over which the bridge runs. And we go skating across the frozen river. That's all I remember. But, for a woman of 53 years, who rarely remembers her dreams, this has stayed with me all my days. Only one other dream has had such power over me, and that one came to me when I was 33. Dreams - such weird things. But, from this wee girl's dream came the grown girls' fear of bridges.
I also have a love of the open road. I turn to my car, turn to the road, to mourn, to celebrate, to play, to run, to seek, and to hide. In the joyful blush of the first year of marriage to my first husband, we attended a Renaissance Faire in Houston, Texas, and there I had my palm read for the very first time. My then-husband attended the reading with me. The woman looked at my palm, as I watched, rapt with attention, seeking out that which she saw with ease, yet which remained hidden to me. The palm reader, garbed as a Gypsy (another interesting point, as I claim Gypsy heritage and write about Gypsy Queens and the powers therein), turned to my then-husband and said, "She drives when she's upset, doesn't she?" His and my mouths dropped open - wow, not a charlatan! She knows! How much she knew, or simply derived, I know not. I know only that she nailed me. I drive ... period.
Let us consider this, for just a moment. I have a HUGE fear of bridges. I drive ... period. Well, unless one is driving circles around a field, one is bound to encounter the stray bridge or dozen. As I encountered when my five year old and I moved from Atlanta, to San Diego. Pulling a U-Haul. With a Nissan pick-up truck. As I encountered again when I moved from Santa Barbara to Cleveland after a second divorce. And yet again, when I returned to Santa Barbara. Or simply drove the state for educational or family purposes.
Every trip will bring at least one bridge into the driver's scope of trip. My most memorable bridge story, though, is fairly recent - 2010, I believe. Winter, California style. Rains so vicious that whole pieces of road are being washed away. Cities are flooded. People can't sandbag enough. And I'm at a conference in San Francisco. By rights, I should have stayed another night. My bosses urged me to do so; no, stubborn wench that I am, I insisted on coming home. It wasn't the stubborn in me speaking; it was the fear. I needed to be home. If hell were to rain down - quite literally, in the downpour - upon us, I wanted to be home, with child and dogs and pillows I knew and could bury my head under. So off I go. Into the deluge.
So far, it's no big deal; just a little rain. Until you factor in the part of California I was currently stationed; can you say Napa? Yes, that quaint, lovely wine country, the birth of the newest California Gold Rush ... Napa, that leads to San Francisco and all points south. San Francisco, which has named each bridge, due to the sheer scope and size of them.
Named each bridge. Even typing that makes me shudder. And a double decker bridge - what brain trust came up with that idea, I ask you. Not only one layer of lives, but two, for the price of one, that can go tumbling into the icy waters of the San Francisco Bay. Oh, joy!
And it was that double decker bridge I had to cross, in torrential rains. Panic set in; deep, paralyzing panic. Five lanes of traffic, merging into three, flying at speeds of 60+ miles an hour in rains so hard, so thick, the wipers are nothing but a game to the water as it streams, no, screams, from the heavens to attack any and all beneath.
I could literally feel my heart beat a little faster; I felt my palms grow damp against the steering wheel. That's when I realized my hands ached; I was gripping the wheel so tightly I couldn't unbend my fingers. I knew I was in serious trouble.
Using my bluetooth (which has since been lost, more's the pity, since I got a ticket for talking on my cell phone while driving), I phoned Philip. And got no love on the other end of the phone. Philip was always available; this couldn't be happening. I've known him since I was 14 years old; he's always been there when I needed him, no matter where he happened to be in the world. But no, as I have my HUGE panic attack in the wrath of God rain, he's nowhere around. Great; thanks ever so much, Philip. Okay, who else can I call? My mind was racing; I could feel the panic rising again, as the shadow of the bridge loomed large.
Keith! my mind screamed out at me. Call Keith! He'll answer. Well, not always true, but my mind wasn't interested in truisms at that particular moment. My mind was interested in succor ... I was desperate for the proverbial life line. He answered the phone - and my greeting to him was uttered in a hoarse, nearly guttural tone: 'Tell me a story,' I demanded.
'Huh?'
'Tell me a story - damnit, Keith, tell me anything. I'm scared to death, the bridge is huge, it's raining so hard I can't see - tell me a story!' By now I'm nearly screaming, so great is my terror.
He talked. I drove. I can't remember what he told me, and it didn't really matter. He could have been reading word definitions to me; I didn't care. The voice of someone I trusted, resonating in my ear, allowed me to breathe, kept my eyes from the edges of the bridge, away from that dangerous seductive side, where my car liked to steer itself, as if, from the depths of the canyon or body of water, the Troll is calling: come to me, my pretty - come, where life is simple and gay. My hands didn't loosen their grip until the bridge was gone; my eyes didn't relinquish the wide-eyed stare of terror until the bridge was gone; my muscles didn't unclench until LONG after the bridge was gone ... but the voice of someone I trusted got me over the bridge in God's own rain-wrath.
So I've learned to handle my fear of bridges, and still celebrate my joy of the road.
Until this morning, when I read an article about the group of five who had planned to blow up a bridge in the Cleveland, Ohio metropolis area - a bridge I've driven over many, many times.
It isn't enough we have to worry with wind and rain and our own deep seated fears when it comes to bridges. Now we have anarchists (as they were labeling themselves to be) wishing to show us the error of our ways by laying trust in the bridge.
Sure, I'm going to sleep at night. As if.....
I also have a love of the open road. I turn to my car, turn to the road, to mourn, to celebrate, to play, to run, to seek, and to hide. In the joyful blush of the first year of marriage to my first husband, we attended a Renaissance Faire in Houston, Texas, and there I had my palm read for the very first time. My then-husband attended the reading with me. The woman looked at my palm, as I watched, rapt with attention, seeking out that which she saw with ease, yet which remained hidden to me. The palm reader, garbed as a Gypsy (another interesting point, as I claim Gypsy heritage and write about Gypsy Queens and the powers therein), turned to my then-husband and said, "She drives when she's upset, doesn't she?" His and my mouths dropped open - wow, not a charlatan! She knows! How much she knew, or simply derived, I know not. I know only that she nailed me. I drive ... period.
Let us consider this, for just a moment. I have a HUGE fear of bridges. I drive ... period. Well, unless one is driving circles around a field, one is bound to encounter the stray bridge or dozen. As I encountered when my five year old and I moved from Atlanta, to San Diego. Pulling a U-Haul. With a Nissan pick-up truck. As I encountered again when I moved from Santa Barbara to Cleveland after a second divorce. And yet again, when I returned to Santa Barbara. Or simply drove the state for educational or family purposes.
Every trip will bring at least one bridge into the driver's scope of trip. My most memorable bridge story, though, is fairly recent - 2010, I believe. Winter, California style. Rains so vicious that whole pieces of road are being washed away. Cities are flooded. People can't sandbag enough. And I'm at a conference in San Francisco. By rights, I should have stayed another night. My bosses urged me to do so; no, stubborn wench that I am, I insisted on coming home. It wasn't the stubborn in me speaking; it was the fear. I needed to be home. If hell were to rain down - quite literally, in the downpour - upon us, I wanted to be home, with child and dogs and pillows I knew and could bury my head under. So off I go. Into the deluge.
So far, it's no big deal; just a little rain. Until you factor in the part of California I was currently stationed; can you say Napa? Yes, that quaint, lovely wine country, the birth of the newest California Gold Rush ... Napa, that leads to San Francisco and all points south. San Francisco, which has named each bridge, due to the sheer scope and size of them.
Named each bridge. Even typing that makes me shudder. And a double decker bridge - what brain trust came up with that idea, I ask you. Not only one layer of lives, but two, for the price of one, that can go tumbling into the icy waters of the San Francisco Bay. Oh, joy!
And it was that double decker bridge I had to cross, in torrential rains. Panic set in; deep, paralyzing panic. Five lanes of traffic, merging into three, flying at speeds of 60+ miles an hour in rains so hard, so thick, the wipers are nothing but a game to the water as it streams, no, screams, from the heavens to attack any and all beneath.
I could literally feel my heart beat a little faster; I felt my palms grow damp against the steering wheel. That's when I realized my hands ached; I was gripping the wheel so tightly I couldn't unbend my fingers. I knew I was in serious trouble.
Using my bluetooth (which has since been lost, more's the pity, since I got a ticket for talking on my cell phone while driving), I phoned Philip. And got no love on the other end of the phone. Philip was always available; this couldn't be happening. I've known him since I was 14 years old; he's always been there when I needed him, no matter where he happened to be in the world. But no, as I have my HUGE panic attack in the wrath of God rain, he's nowhere around. Great; thanks ever so much, Philip. Okay, who else can I call? My mind was racing; I could feel the panic rising again, as the shadow of the bridge loomed large.
Keith! my mind screamed out at me. Call Keith! He'll answer. Well, not always true, but my mind wasn't interested in truisms at that particular moment. My mind was interested in succor ... I was desperate for the proverbial life line. He answered the phone - and my greeting to him was uttered in a hoarse, nearly guttural tone: 'Tell me a story,' I demanded.
'Huh?'
'Tell me a story - damnit, Keith, tell me anything. I'm scared to death, the bridge is huge, it's raining so hard I can't see - tell me a story!' By now I'm nearly screaming, so great is my terror.
He talked. I drove. I can't remember what he told me, and it didn't really matter. He could have been reading word definitions to me; I didn't care. The voice of someone I trusted, resonating in my ear, allowed me to breathe, kept my eyes from the edges of the bridge, away from that dangerous seductive side, where my car liked to steer itself, as if, from the depths of the canyon or body of water, the Troll is calling: come to me, my pretty - come, where life is simple and gay. My hands didn't loosen their grip until the bridge was gone; my eyes didn't relinquish the wide-eyed stare of terror until the bridge was gone; my muscles didn't unclench until LONG after the bridge was gone ... but the voice of someone I trusted got me over the bridge in God's own rain-wrath.
So I've learned to handle my fear of bridges, and still celebrate my joy of the road.
Until this morning, when I read an article about the group of five who had planned to blow up a bridge in the Cleveland, Ohio metropolis area - a bridge I've driven over many, many times.
It isn't enough we have to worry with wind and rain and our own deep seated fears when it comes to bridges. Now we have anarchists (as they were labeling themselves to be) wishing to show us the error of our ways by laying trust in the bridge.
Sure, I'm going to sleep at night. As if.....
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