turkey trotting into the day

getting up at the crack of dawn to go run a 5K race (like my dad--the dude in the blue visor) and my kid (the schmoopie next to him in orange shirts) with 5,000 of your neighbors may sound kinda kooky but it's been a tradition in my family for 27 years. We have not missed one Turkey Trot in almost three decades. The GITB and I did the one-mile mosey. But it still means I get extra pie. 'Cause, hey, I walked a mile this morning, dammit.

yes, I did say the neighbors raise donkeys

There is nothing like a 700-mile road trip with your kid and your dog -- three women out on the open road armed with Diet Coke, pepper spray and a bag of leftover Halloween candy. It was the best weekend trip ever. I picked Schmoopie up after school and we hit the highway, giddy with anticipation and pleased with our independence. We arrived in the middle of the night after a harrowing last five miles--a straight-up corkscrew incline to the top of a mountain on which the cabin of my dreams is nestled. It is a gorgeous piece of property in the Smoky Mountains adjacent to the Smoky Mountain National Park (so nice to have friends with money) but when my ears started popping as the engine whined and I prayed we encountered no vehicles coming the other direction because the road was not wide enough to accommodate two vehicles, it was a little tense. Luckily the girls slept through it and I had Todd Rundgren singing reassuringly in my ear bud which helped. Thank you, Todd. And Jesus Christ, can it be any more pitch black? Haven't these mountain people heard of street lights for god's sake? But the stars were so brilliant and huge up there that it was as if an angel had leaned down and sprinkled them all over the mountainside, like a sugary canopy just over our heads we could touch without even standing on our toes.

So we staggered into the cabin and collapsed in a heap, pausing only to turn on the heat. But when we awoke the next day--heaven. The leaves were at their absolute glory of explosive color and when Schmoopie got out of bed and opened her shutters she gasped then shrieked in delight at the sight of the valleys and mountain slopes she could see from her window -- all afire in purple and yellow and gold and orange, as if someone had snuck in and thrown buckets of florescent paint on everything as we slept. The trees vibrated with color and the constant breeze sent a slow, steady shower of leaves whispering down on our heads as we walked in the woods, explored creeks, fed the donkeys the neighbors down the road raise and collected every variety of leaf we could find to press in the books on the mantle.

We talked about boys and bras and periods and the pros and cons of thong underwear and death and kissing and The Great Gatsby and the way my grandmother baked every Saturday, lining the counter-tops of her kitchen with mounds of bread dough covered with damp linen cloths, the smell tantalizing every cell of my body as the dough rose and aromas wafted from the oven-- and everything else that a 14-year-old girl might want to discuss with a mom who is not totally uncool. We built huge fires in the fireplace each night and snuggled on the couch and sipped coffee and painted each other's toenails. At one point as I watched her feed carrots to the smallest of the baby donkeys it occurred to me that she is everything I never was as a teenager--she is my hero and I love her so much. She will leave us too soon and I want to cram as much time with her into our crazy-busy lives right now as I can. This is the stuff that matters.

October

My lovely woman-child and I are trekking to the mountains of North Carolina in two weeks to laze around the cabin of a friend for a few days and walk in the leaves. She and I last walked together through oceans of golden and umber leaves in Ohio when she was a little over a year old, so I think it is time that she again see the glory that is the fall in the north. We will be accompanied by Miss Daisy, the fuzz-covered wildebeast who will romp through the woods with us and allegedly provide us with companionship and protection. The GITB will be home rebuilding the deck. In gratitude, I offer a poem about Autumn:

On Fields O'er Which the Reaper's Hand has Passed

On fields o'er which the reaper's hand has pass'd

Lit by the harvest moon and autumn sun,

My thoughts like stubble floating in the wind

And of such fineness as October airs,

There after harvest could I glean my life

A richer harvest reaping without toil,

And weaving gorgeous fancies at my will

In subtler webs than finest summer haze.

Henry David Thoreau

PS--hey Amber--wanna come along?

but we can't

because time passes no matter how tightly we hold on, no matter how warm and comforting the embrace. Things change and nature has a way of sneaking up and kicking us all in the ass. Sigh.

I knew it was you. I just pretended not to

I graduated from high school in 1979. Nineteen-seventy-fucking-nine, people and I still can't get away from it.

A girl I knew in high school died of breast cancer about a month ago and it felt like the right thing for me to do to attend her memorial. I didn't really know her as an adult, but as a teenager, Sarah was a super cool chick, very much into jazz and organic peanut butter and foot massages and just being whoever and whatever you felt like being back in high school and I really can't imagine that as an adult she changed all that much. She was a genuine free spirit and didn't give a damn what people thought.

Some people thought she was a weirdo back then and some folks still do, I suppose. I was at the community theatre the other night and as I casually shot the breeze with one of our musicians before the show I asked him if he knew Sarah and he said "Yeah. She was a strange woman. A great musician but a strange chick." I didn't feel the need to argue with him about it because his reality is his and mine is mine and whatever. Sarah was her own person and she was not like most people so it doesn't offend me that someone would think of her or refer to her as strange. She probably would have found it funny.

Sarah graduated a year ahead of me and we were never close but I always liked her. I heard when she finished undergrad she decided against med school even though she got accepted and instead spent a few years travelling around the world making a living as a street performer. We did not stay in touch after high school and went our own ways as we all do but I've always thought of her with fondness on the rare occasions that I do think about those days. When I read in the newspaper about a year ago that she was battling breast cancer and some area musicians were holding a benefit concert to help her with medical expenses it made me really sad. I decided to send a check but I never got around to it. She was always warm and I remember her kindness to me at a particularly dark time in my life when I was incapable of being kind to myself. So I wanted to acknowledge that in some small way which is why I decided to go to her funeral. I felt like Sarah would know I stopped by to say thanks and I liked the idea of that.

So I went to the memorial which was a rocking music-filled celebration that Sarah had planned at a Presbyterian church in the old neighborhood. I was surprised to learn during the service that Sarah had become an elder in the church in recent years. I sat in the back row of the sanctuary, and as the church filled up before the service started, the guy seated next to me greeted a lot of people who walked by us as they made their way to pews up front. He seemed to know a lot of people who looked vaguely familiar to me. Some I recognized but others had faces that I knew I knew some 30 years ago but could not now attach names to. It was a very odd feeling. I also noticed that the guy turned and smiled warmly at me several times but I shrugged it off--he probably figured I was there alone and he was being nice. Then midway through the service it dawned on me who he was. I sort of leaned a little toward him, looking straight ahead and said "John?" and he whispered back "Ell?". John and Sarah and I had all been band geeks. I remember him most for his Prince Valiant hair and the way his ears stuck out like handles on a trophy. He played the trombone in high school and dated a girl named Claudette who had a wicked unibrow but a rocking body. John is married now, has two kids and is a firefighter. He'd printed a bunch of photos from a trip the marching band had taken in 1977 and brought them with him. He wordlessly handed me the envelope and I browsed through them. It seemed like yesterday. And it seemed like someone else's life a million or so years ago.

After the service John and I hung out, I chatted casually with a few more acquaintances from high school and John and I exchanged e-mail addresses and I left. I'm glad I went.

But I had the distinct feeling that a few of my high school acquaintances were no less thrilled to see me than I was to see them. That reality came to me with some discomfort--resigned discomfort but a queasiness nonetheless. Teenagers can be such fucking assholes and I certainly was no exception. John seemed thrilled to renew our acquaintance (I guess I was never a bitch to him, I don't know, I really don't remember a lot about high school and a lot of what I do recall with clarity I really wish I didn't). I was no angel as a teenager but I wasn't evil. At least I don't think so. But I may have been. I think some people who are assholes as young people either get their shit together and finish the job of raising themselves into adulthood and become decent grown-ups and others just remain assholes. I am definitely the former. I have gotten my shit together and I am a decent human being now but there was a time many moons ago when it could have gone either way. Knowing that I have been granted a longer life than Sarah, who so deserved it more, humbles me and makes me want even more fervently to be as decent and kind and productive of a human being as I can possibly be.

Which brings me to my last story. Remember the show I mentioned? It was a god-awful musical that was miscast and badly directed and badly sung by most of the cast but it did have it's brilliant and moving moments and the audiences loved it.

One of the girls in the cast approached me last Sunday--the final performance of a three-week run that felt like an eternity in hell's coffee bar--and asked me if I had gone to ____ high school. I said that, yes, I had. She said "My mom wanted to know because she recognized you by your bio in the program." Which is flabbergasting to me because there is really no identifying info about me in my theatrical bio that could in any way connect me to the high school I attended. It was weird. Her mom must have recognized my headshot in the marquee in the lobby and because I really pretty much do look like I did in high school (my ass not included), that must have been it. But this woman would have eaten broken glass before she admitted it. And I had seen her in the lobby on opening night and had recognized her but chose to keep walking because she was a total bitch to me in high school so why the hell would I want to chat her up now, you know?

So what I wanted to say at that moment was "Tell your mom to kiss my ass." But I didn't. I said, "Oh! Wow! Small world! How is she?" even though I don't give a rat's ass how she is. The only thing the daughter could come up with was "Well, she's divorced and she's kind of unemployed right now." I stood there looking at this girl thinking that she looked very much like her mom which isn't a compliment, and it didn't make me feel good. It made me feel like I need to work harder on being kind.

I have a notation on my to-do list that reads "Donation to charity in Sarah's name." I need to do that first thing tomorrow.

"Never has there been a good war or a bad peace." Benjamin Franklin

we need to get our asses the hell out out of the Middle East.
That is all.

Queen of the May

Happy birthday Randy, the sweetest queen I've ever known and the best girlfriend a girlfriend has ever had. Love ya, Miss Otis!

to my Coloroado soulmate: I have a great title for your manuscript: The Girl Who Fell From the Sky.

to my Destin soulmate: I forgot to ask you about the hiker. Is he still? Have you been in touch?

PS--my breast biopsy came back benign.

still hotter'n hell

My kid is off to her first day of high school tomorrow morning. I cannot believe it. She finished her required summer reading this morning and shot off an articulate and insightful summary of the Old Man and the Sea in no time--I was impressed that she got all the metaphor, the existential crisis and Hemingway's drama queen bent all on her own. She's a pretty cool kid. We have one more afternoon of sitting poolside--me working and her musing about the lackluster sequel of High School Musical. Life is sweet.

we are two months into the annual hurricane season with nary a tropical storm or even significant rains lately. Which makes me nervous. The last real ass-kicker of a hurricane we had close to home was Elena in 1985 and that was bad. The worst ones seem to kick up around Labor Day so I'm wondering if the unusually quiet summer storm season is more of the proverbial foreboding calm before a major ass-kicking from mother nature. I hope not.

On other fronts, Schmoopie is preparing to enter her freshman year of high school. I am stunned that she will be a HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT in a week and more depressing--that the time we have with her here at home with us is winding down. In four years she'll be gone. Argh.

Did I mention that the small, familial mom and pop operation I've worked for for 5 years was recently purchased by an entrepreneur from Seattle? It's been painful. It's been entertaining. I fear we will not exist a year from today. I hope I am wrong. But I don't think I am.

more fun on vacation

my kid is in love with a dolphin. At least he is appropriate age (17) and a mammal (unlike many of my former paramours).

more reasons why it aint so bad living in Inferno

we can get to Key West in short time.

yeah, baby

Oh, vacation, how I adore you.

I am contemplating getting a tattoo.
That is all.

hope yours was dandy

Nothing beats fireworks over the water. Awesome. We're off to the keys for vacation. Lots of snorkeling, lounging and pina coladas. Yay.

o-no!

one of my dearest lady friends confided to me the other day that she is pretty sure she has never had an orgasm. I told her that if she isn't quite sure -- she hasn't. Her eyes widened and she said "Well, maybe I have almost. I felt this tingling sensation a few times." Again, I assured her--if she had experienced an orgasm, chances are pretty damn good that she would be sure of it. I instructed her to get herself hooked up with a "Bob" (battery-operated boyfriend). BTW--my friend has been married for almost 25 years. I will never be able to look at her husband the same again. I'm a big girl-- I know I'm responsible for my own orgasm and all, but sheesh. What a putz. I dread the next dinner party.

the pride promenade in my hometown

what a glorious day of people letting their flags fly.

This is my Uncle Pete. He owns a small family restaurant in the downtown district of a rust-belt city. The restaurant smells exactly the same as it did when I was a kid, and my first sharp memory of being in Uncle Pete's restaurant is Christmas, 1966. My Dad had just returned from his first 12-month tour in Vietnam and we drove all night to spend the holidays not with family we are related to by DNA but the family we are related to by memory and affection, loss and shared history.

Uncle Pete isn't my genetic uncle (actually, he is my Godfather, I have the fading black and white pictures of him holding me in his meaty paw like a football on my christening day to prove it). Uncle Pete and my Dad met in basic training before they shipped off to Korea in 1956. They formed the core of a tight posse of Rangers who hung together through something harrowing enough to bond them for low these 50 years (but of which they have never spoken outside of their circle), made it back to the U.S., some stayed in and some rotated out (my Dad went back and finished college and OCS and re-upped as an officer and did another tour in Vietnam and later, Thailand and Cambodia).

Pete went back to his big fat Greek family in the northeast but he and Dad and their gang remain tight, through marriages, kids, divorces, the loss of two of their buddies in Southeast Asia (the only two times I have ever seen my father cry), illness and now, the assault of age.

Uncle Pete has always been like a second Dad to me. He's the kind of guy I can call at 3 a.m. and tell him I need $5,000 no questions asked and he's there. He wears Aqua Velva and always carries a little black comb in his back pocket. He goes to mass every Sunday and calls women "broads" and he cried when Roy Orbison died. They don't make guys like my Uncle Pete anymore. Happy Birthday Uncle Pete and congrats on the new heart valves. May your heart beat a gazillion more times.

I saw one of these on U.S. 19 today as I drove home trying to outrun the sunset. It pulled up next to me at a red light and I knew what it was just by the sound of it and the silhouette in my periphery. So I closed my eyes and heard David Bowie and Freddie Mercury howling about pressure and it was 1987 and we were driving home late at night, the windows down and the smell of cigarettes wafting through the humid air and I wanted to floor it and crank up the stereo as loud as it would go so that David and Freddie were screaming so loudly the words punched through my chest and out through the back of my seat then through the back of the car and out into the evening, swirling skyward...

Why - why - why ?

Love love love love love

Insanity laughs

under pressure we're cracking

Can't we give ourselves one more chance

Why can't we give love that one more chance

Why can't we give love give love give love give love give love give love give love give love give love

'Cause love's such an old fashioned word

And love dares you to care for

The people on the edge of the night

And loves dares you to change our way of

Caring about ourselves

This is our last dance

This is our last dance

This is ourselves

Under pressure

Under pressure

Pressure

parting is such sweet sorrow (but don't put it in writing, moron)

So we closed the show last night, struck the set, had a nice little cast & crew party and bid a tearful fare-thee-well to one another.

The two boys who played my sons in this show (reprising the same roles we all played in a blockbuster two years ago and won regional theatre awards for but who's bragging?) headed back to college, one to Tallahassee and the other to Orlando to jump into summer jobs, summer classes and internships. I say "boys" but they are 23 and 21 now and one of them actually grabbed my ass several times in the course of the last two months which was a little unsettling but what the hell? What 40-something broad doesn't mind a 20-something cutie grabbing her ass backstage once in a while? Huh? I love them both and it was hard to say goodbye. But anyway.

One sweet little tradition in the theatre is the practice of gift or card-giving. Sometimes the gifts are gags sometimes not, but there is, at the very least, an exchange -- on opening night or closing night -- of some sort of sentimentalism that may make some gag but there it is.

Yesterday's gift/card exchange was especially memorable. I snapped lots of pix throughout the six-week rehearsal period and our month-long run and put together little albums for all five of my cast mates. The boys wrote me sweet, lovely letters and presented me with trinkets to remember them by. Flowers were exchanged, cookies were exchanged, etc.

The guy who played my estranged husband (let's call him "Brad") wrote us all letters. Like his character, Brad is likewise estranged from the world. He is a bitter divorcee and kind of a weird dude, but a dead-on actor who met me line-for-line in every scene we had together. He was a joy to work opposite from onstage. But backstage, he and the woman who played my sister (let's call her "Ginger"), another bitter divorcee who recently became engaged to a sweet man she met at church were at each other's throats nonstop. She became a sniping shrew as the weeks wore on and he became a bombastic pompous ass. The one-upping of insults was ridiculous and especially so because they are both professed "Christians" and don't drink or swear or do any of that vile stuff. At first the rest of us kind of found it amusing but after a while it became exhausting. Like a real family.

So anyway, Brad's letters to his cast mates created a stir with the boys because they amounted to cursory sentimentality followed by lists of acting tips which really affronted both of them. Mine was pedestrian, garden variety sentimentality. But the one he wrote to Ginger was the best. The. Best.

Because she and he had been fighting so much, she feigned disinterest in what Brad may have had to say and pitched the envelope that read "Ginger" into her tote bag. When the stage manager stopped by she noticed it peeking out of Ginger's bag and asked,

"So, what did Brad have to say to you, Ginger?" To which Ginger replied,

"Oh, who cares? Throw it away. Or read it yourself, I don't give a rat's patootie."

"Really, you want me to read it?" Asked the stage manager.

"Sure--read it out loud to us," Ginger said, sashaying across the dressing room and closing the door for privacy. So as I finished my hair and adjusted the lines on the back of my stockings, our stage manager (my 13-year-old daughter) opened the envelope.

My first hint that maybe this might not be a good idea was when Ginger leapt to her feet and said, "Be careful! Don't tear the paper!" As Schmoopie opened the sealed flap and read...

"Dear Ginger, I may never again know the love of a woman but no matter what lies ahead for me, I will always treasure the memory of our last night together. I cannot forget the vision of your naked body bathed in blue light, the curves of the mounds and the musky scent of your womanliness, the depth of our hunger and passion, the spiritual feeling of our lovemaking, deeper and deeper..."

We three were so stunned we were frozen, unable to move. My sweet little daughter looked up from the paper, her eyes wide. "He saw you NAKED?????!!!!!!????" she asked.

After a long moment of silence (and all that ricocheted through our heads in that moment) Ginger jumped to her feet, knocking over the chair she had just vacated which collapsed to the floor with such alarming clattering as metal chairs are want to do, that the boys rushed down the hallway and knocked on our door to make sure we were alright.

Ginger ripped the paper from Schmoopie's hand and loudly and dramatically (as drama queens do so well) proclaimed Brad's insanity. But we know better. Brad and Ginger totally did the nasty.

Ew.

...and finally FINALLY rain

I durn near wept with relief to see the midday sky darken to this today. Pray it really is the earnest arrival of the rainy season. My poor little parched yard will finally wake up and shake itself off and put on some sassy summer green after months of huddling for shade in the brown sandy thatches that passed for "ground cover" lo these past few (but too many) months.

heat, humidity....

but the bouganvilla looks spectaular. This gorgeous fuscia explosion lolling across my fence and tickling the oak tree under its chin grew from a tiny clipping my neighbor, Mr. Jim, gave me.

I spent the weekend housesitting for a friend. Huge mental health break and just when I was starting to talk to myself my friend Jen dropped in for wine and baked asparagus bites and talk about boys and a night swim. The water is still a little chilly but not enough to keep us out of it. As usual. Plunge.

the maxipad as a Post-it and other urban musings...

the GITB is endlessly fascinated by the intense bonding that often takes place in a short space of time when people are removed from their natural habitats, families, jobs, etc., and supplanted in strange environs. Such lift-outs occur in my masters program which allows distance work but requires grad students to live on campus one glorious, alcohol and neurosis/ego-soaked week per semester, requiring me to trek from hearth and home 700 miles to the north to commune with my classmates. We are all "serious" writers in pursuit of MFAs. Yes, I know.

This most recent residency, which ended Saturday (and from which I am still recovering) was especially raucous and emotional. One of my buddies from North Carolina told me that the moon phase may have contributed somewhat to the nonstop mayhem that ensued for eight days. SZ said in an e-mail to me that "there must have been something to the whole two moons blue moon thing in May." I think she's so right.

And as nuts as it was, it was difficult to part this time and the specter of re-entry made us all a little uncomfortable. Colin headed to the Smokies to "just sit in the woods and think for a day or two..." before heading home to his wife and three adorable girls in Myrtle Beach. Amber picked up a rental car and headed up I-85 and from there to Virginia to nestle in the bosom of her mom and do laundry and ruminate about bald boys and boys who do yoga and write poetry about vaginas before she flies home to Destin. Em headed back to the hated Buckeye state to confront Alex and his hysteria over the move to Germany. "He's waiting for me to come back and make it all okay," she said. And she will. Because she is Emily.

I drove home in a haze of cigarette smoke (I only smoke on the road to and from school and at school--it's stupid, I know, but fuck it) and channel-surfed the FM waves for 10 hours (the perfect block of time--enough for me to wrap my head around most of what went down the previous week and prepare for re-entry and the max my ass can stand sitting in the car). The bountiful pukiness on the radio at 1 a.m. ranges from: "Stop! The love you save may be your own, darling look ways before you cross me, you're headed for a danger zone..." to "Sorry, I never told you all I wanted to say..." Luckily, after driving through the black hole in the universe that only allowed me to receive stations that played the Jacksons and/or Mariah Carey, I landed on a classic hard rock station somewhere in the bowels of Georgia and reveled in Pink Floyd, Uriah Heep and the Rolling Stones. Thank you, Jeebus.

retreat

I am developing an affinity for blue moons with orange slices
getting up early and meaning it
bald men who wear Ramones t-shirts and baggy pants
dining outdoors with freeloading grad students who are about to go to Sweden for the summer
and plan to not spend a dime
liver mush and pig's feet in the grocery store
and aisles that stock cans of Our Lady of Guadalupe room spray, stagnant sweet roses
having no dishes to wash or carpools to manage, no dog to walk
stretching out on a twin bed (alone!), my shades pulled up so I can watch the tree branches shimmy as music drfts through from
the room next door

Good Boy

My co-worker, Mike, and his wife, Molly, lost their beloved dog, Hank yesterday. Hank was no spring chicken and has had health challenges lately but Mike and Molly have been the type of parents who did anything and everything to ease his pain. Molly took him to a doggie acupuncturist and labored over Hank's meals, feeding him a whole food-only diet. But still, Hank's passing was unexpected, sudden and we are all bereaved, but most especially Mike and Molly. Hank was one of the coolest dogs who's ever lived and my little corner of the world is dimmer because he's gone.

Here is a blog entry that Hank dictated and Mike wrote back in October, 2005:


Of Dogs, Blogs, and Automobiles

Freedom is the taste of speed on the tongue, of eyes half closed against wind that flaps and flutters your ears around your neck. Head out the car window, a succession of scents overwhelms you. The fried chicken restaurant, diesel fumes, rotting seaweed on the beach, the sweaty men in the road selling newspapers, gas station pumps, and dumpsters...it's endless and blending, a fast flowing, fluid landscape of smells that can be just too much for your average Labrador.

Sometimes it's best just to sit panting and waiting, getting the occasional whiff, biding your time till you sense you're nearly there, wherever it is. So, so often, you just know you're almost there. Maybe it's the bank, where dog biscuits mysteriously appear out of plastic projectiles zinging through noisy, popping tubes. Maybe it's the shore or the lake or the park (hurrah!). Maybe it's the dreaded vet, where you try to disappear behind your human. Or maybe it's Petsmart, just jam-packed with shelves of mouth-watering wonders.

Cars are the portals to other worlds, barely understood by us dogs. We willingly, even eagerly enter these alarming machines because they're our chariots to adventure, chance and companionship. It seems like car makers should have been thinking about dogs for a long time, but it's just not so. Only now has a new kind of car been invented, the "wonderful open-hearted wagon," or WOW. It has a special seat belt for bigger dogs so they can buckle up and it has built-in smaller crates for littler dogs.

As for me, I don't know if I need one or not. Mike and Molly already buckle me up in the backseat, tethering my harness to the seatbelt with some kind of strap. Oh, I know I look pretty geeky and sheltered compared to those daredevil dogs hanging loose in the back of pickup truck beds, eyeballing me in pity and disdain. Those dogs are just too cool for training school. But then Mike stops the car short, jerking me forward, and I'm suddenly glad to be wearing a seatbelt. I worry about those other Labs who could crack their craniums on the cabs of trucks. Truth be told, I wouldn't trade spots with them for a bank vault of dog biscuits.

damn thee

whoever the twit is who invented "heelies," (those damnable sneakers that have little tiny wheels tucked into the soles) ought to be smacked by a smelly sock with a bar of soap in the toe. Because it really hurts. Which is my point.

Dear "Heelie" inventor,

You suck.

That is all.

I spent several hours snowbound in a hotel in Boston with David Halberstam a few years ago and it was one of the most memorable days of my life. The wind whipped 25 inches of snow at us that day but I could not have cared less as I sat mesmerized as David and Ken Burns swapped war stories about writing about baseball and trying to interview ball players like Ted Williams who didn't give a rat's ass about resumes and credentials. He gave you an interview if you would put up with his bullshit and liked fly fishing. But that's another story and you had to be there. David was one of the last of the old school journalists and for me, a hero. I fell in love with him and his ethics and the passion with which he lived and wrote The Best and the Brightest and The Teammates. Do yourself a favor and read some of David's stuff. He was righteous and brave and good and made me proud to be a reporter and I went home afterwards with a renewed resolve to tell the best stories I could, no mattter how small and insignificant. One of my pilot lights blew out today when I heard he died in a car accident in San Francisco.

note to self: you are still as bad at saying what you mean without being remorseful about it later on as you were when you were 25. Only now it's not so cute and he's not speaking to you and there are no more pink peeps in the house to be had. again.

this has not been the greatest of weeks for me but I am always aware that no matter how crappy I may be feeling, other people are having a crappier time of it and I should be glad I have just the regular crap I have to deal rather than crap like:

~Having to make a court appearance and plead guilty of DUI manslaughter.

~Having to grovel and plead for forgiveness (and my job) because I made a colossal asshole of myself on the national stage. I cannot imagine the self-loathing the Don Imus is dealing with. This particular scenario is horror to me--horror--to be hated and vilified (and not unjustifiably) on such a huge scale. What must that feel like? Don't wanna know. Ever. I like my fuck-ups private, thank you very much.

~Not being able to go to Albertsons for some bagels and olives without seeing a really bad photo of my bald self on the cover of every crappy tabloid rag in the rack next to the check out.

So I have that going for me...

Here is what I bought myself for my birthday. I have been working, lately, on feeling more comfortable with spending money on myself. It isn't easy. And I have no idea where the neurosis comes from. Money isn't really an issue at my house. We have enough, we've never paid a bill late, never had an argument in 15 years over money, life is good that way. But I can spend, spend, spend on others, yet I cringe when I buy myself a new tube of mascara for $5. It's weird. So here is my therapeutic birthday purchase and I cannot wait to hold it in my quivering hands. And thanks to the genius of Fed Ex, I can watch its progression as it makes its way around the world to my home in the hot, steamy little beach hamlet in which I dwell. It left Shanghai on Monday, arrived in Alaska, went to Indianapolis, then on to Memphis where it now sits awaiting its connection to Tampa. I picture Tom Hanks' "Chuck" character from Cast Away (pre-plane crash and tropical island marooning) carefully sorting it into the proper pile in Memphis and patting it on its little cardboard ass as it prepares to wing its way to its new mommy. A Mac!! Ooooooooooo, ahhhhhhhhhhh.....

Happy Birthday to me.

I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but I'm thinking that's not such a bad thing...

argh, the tourists are here...they tumble from their cars and RVs and swarm...like ants from a dark, breached mound...we will hide out on our secret island until the horde and Easter recede, whilst drinking down amber brew and humming "blow us a breeze..."

my daughter's school finally acquiesced to the insistence of some of us parents of girls and for the first time ever, we have a girl's softball team. I am one of two coaches. It's the sweetest thing I've experienced in a long, long time. The girls all have heart, baby, miles and miles and miles of heart. Yesterday we had our first victory against a private school from the next town over--the team was all boys and we gave the girls the option of playing them or not--they had just suffered through an impassioned girl-power pep talk from yours truly and they apparently bought it. We played the boys from the hoity-toity prep school. And we kicked some hoity-toity-prep-school-boy-ass. I wish you could have seen the girls strutting to the bus. God, it was sweet.

Douchebag of the Month: Miss March

"...I was going to have a few comments on the other Democratic presidential candidate, John Edwards, but it turns out you have to go into rehab if you use the word 'faggot'".

~Ann Coulter

PS: I was going to wait until the end of the month, but Annie made this month's choice a slam-dunk.

If I live to see the seven wonders...

I'll make a path to the rainbows end...

...and here are the seven wonders per the smooth waxings of dearest eb.

Watch yourself, there is some frankness and what some may consider racy, even pornographic. It's also all true. Every. Damn. Word.

And as you ponder the wisdom of the great and powerful eb, check out these here seven wonders of good ole down-home southern cooking. It was the fare at Kimmie's all-girl St. Paddy's Day chicklit party (except for her husband, Gary, who had to endure being called "Mangina" all night--a small price to pay to bask in our collective loveliness without having a vagina--a condition of admission to our partays).

So here's what we et: (clockwise, let's start with the bowl at the bottom, shall we? Chicken wings, tossed salad sprinkled with bacon and scallions, crackers and home made hummus, collard greens, potato salad, Kimmie's special cheddar creamed corn bread (Oh, YES), and in the center, the requisite ribs. Heaven. We had Key lime pie for dessert. And people, real native Florida Key lime pie is NOT green. It is yellow.

dear god,

I confess that I don't believe in you, at least not in the way that they taught me in Sunday school to...but at this very moment, right when Kip was snapping this picture, I was thinking, "Thank you, God, for my bodacious girlfriends. I love every one of them and would be lost without them." But I guess you already knew that.

some day we'll all be dead and none of this will matter anyhow

A friend of mine is soon hosting his annual Shakespeare's Sonnet Reading, an evening of highbrow wine-ing and cheese-ing and recitation of what I like to refer to as "the Best-O-Bill." John has asked me to recite this year but I must choose my own sonnet, as he is loathe to assign, being a retired professor and all. When he called, I allowed that sure, I have some favorites. I like the one Kate Winselt reads in Sense and Sensibility to the cad who loves her but dumps her anyway because the other girl offers stability and he is, after all, a coward, #116:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Yeah, I like that one. But I also like #29:

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur'd like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee,--and then my state (
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings'.

Love kind of sucks and makes us feel like total unabashed retards sometimes, doesn't it?
That was me, not Bill.

fear and loathing in the WC

I am afraid of my toilet. This irrational fear only grips me late at night, when everyone else in the house is slumbering and I am working well into the wee hours, flailing away at the keyboard and alternately staring at the nudie NYFD firefighters calendar my sweet daughter gave me for Christmas. Because she knows I have a thing for the firefighters going on. Anyway. I drink a lot of water and tea and too much Diet Coke and so of course, I must trip to the loo, but it never fails to occur to me as I sit there all naked from the waist down and vulnerable, that something is going to bite me. On my hienie. In my warped mind I see huge fangs coming up from the deep waters of the pottie, poised to sink into my ass. Or worse, Freddie Kruger-like talons sinking into my bare naked bottom. I try to avoid the pottie thing at night whenever possible.

I'm in love and I don't care who thinks I am a horse's ass because of it. This little green guy is the best damn $139 I have ever spent in my life. In. My. Life, people. Kip turned me on to Woot, a cool little site that offers great deals every day (the deals are good only on that day or until the Woot-o-de-Day sells out) on super groovy cool tech stuff. I have never bought anything remotely techie in my life, save my cell phone and the requisite PC. And I admit, the first time I saw the Roomba advertised on TV, I thought it was as idiotic as the dumbass Popeil Pocket Fisherman. But wait, there's more! I was wrong, so wrong. Please forgive me, my sweet little Roomba. This baby vacuums my entire house in two hours and for the first time since Miss Daisy came to live with us, my house does not smell like dog (thank you, sweet baby jesus!!!!). Plus, it makes cute little R2D2 noises to tell me it's off to go clean, call to me when it runs into trouble (rarely) and when it's done, the cute little bastard even puts itself away. Yup. It returns itself to it's docking station to recharge and await my next command. Why, oh why, didn't God make guys like this? But who the hell needs men when I have my Roomba? Seriously. I'm done.

a poem for March

Youth, Day, Old Age and Night

Youth, large, lusty, loving-youth full of grace, force, fascination,

Do you know that Old Age may come after you with equal grace,force, fascination?

Day full-blown and splendid-day of the immense sun, action,ambition, laughter,

The Night follows close with millions of suns, and sleep and restoring darkness.

~Walt Whitman

(because March is my birthday month, which means it is Spring, and it is the time of year when I always believe that all things really are possible and I am more hopeful than any of the other 11 months in the calendar...)

The lovely Barb had a setback recently because a lump was discovered in her other breast. I guess I could say in her breast because she has but one now, but anyway, another sharp intake of breath that we have all been holding. Barb has refused to lie down and let the cancer take her because, dammit, she's not done yet. And she has survived past any time frames the doctors have given her. (In spite of the time frames, or in order to spite them. She's that kinda girl :)

Anyway, so here's the latest from my girl:

My biopsy came back and it was nonmalignant, so I am very happy about that. I went to my chemo treatment and asked the nurse if Dr. Diaz could call and find out for me. She came back and said that the report wasn't in yet. However, on the way out we ran into Dr. Diaz and he said he would call the pathologist if we could just wait for a few more minutes. Well, it was more that a few minutes and every time he would walk by his face looked bad. I was freaking out. Then, he finally came in and gave me the report and we all kissed and hugged. He told me to go home and enjoy the weekend. That used to mean a drink, but today it meant a bowl of ice cream. I was at one appointment or the other until 1:30. So, by the time I got home and had lunch, I was totally exhausted. But, it was a good tired. I am just going to sleep and not wake up worrying about things. That is a good feeling. Thank you for all of your prayers and good spirits, my peeps. Hope you all will sleep well tonight also. Love me.

cooking up taffy, teach, not heroin

this is the best tale from middle school by far this year:

Okay, one of my daughter's homies lives next door to the establishment pictured here to the left. Lyle is an enterprising young man. Back in sixth grade (two years ago), Lyle had an idea. He began a covert candy delivery service. Call him a candy concierge, if you will.

This little industry has been humming along undetected by the adults at the school for going on its third year. (Imagine the horror for the sixth graders who have grown accustomed to this service, who will be deprived of it once Lyle graduates middle school this May. Next year will be a desolate, sugar-free wasteland unless Lyle hands off the business to an underling willing to kick some $ up to the Godfather). But I digress.

It seems that Lyle was busted this week. The math teacher caught him in the hallway with a list of names and code words next to the names like "pixies" (as in "stix," not fucking PCP), "red" (as in licorice, not downers) and "black" (as in not black beauties, idiot) and of course, the paper sack stuffed with cash, all small bills, was the icing on the cake. Yes, Lyle was busted for dealing drugs. The teachers were convinced. Until they did a raid on his locker and found a huge stock pile of Lemon Heads, Atomic Fireballs, chocolate covered raisins and peanuts, gummie bears, Whoppers, Hot Tamales, Sweet Tarts, Pop Rocks, Airheads, etc.

The candy train has come to a screeching halt. For now. Schmoopie tells me that Lyle is regrouping, he has a new plan for delivery. He has customers, after all, and they need their fixes. He is, after all, The Man.

this is my favorite post on today's postsecret site.

I didn't write it. But I could have.

why I am a bad journalist

I have some ethics.

Okay, not all of them. But some of them...

admit it: you want to eat me

Yes, I do. If this makes me sad, pathetic, weak, a pound heavier this week, so be it. I wish I had some self-discipline, but I don't.

karma. again.

this is what I get for bragging about how our weather is perfect and yours sucks ass. Everyone in my house has come down with a respiratory sludge that meets the criteria for a rocking case of "Captain Trips" ala Stephen King's apocalyptic tome The Stand (which the kid is now plowing through at raging speed). We all are over-producing gallons of mucus and sneezing and aching and feeling generally wretched and wanting to die.

Except that I am not having dreams of the Walking Dude calling me West or the sweet old black lady who is setting on her porch just-a-rockin' away in her rickety chair and telling me to stop by for some sweet potato pie. No, I have chills and a fever that comes and goes and the dog keeps getting into bed to comfort me and I keep waking up with tufts of matted black furballs stuck to the side of my face from where I drooled as I slept while she snuggled.

I swear, I think if I cough any more my throat will just prolapse and fling itself out of my mouth in permanent protest--a new sort of angry auxiliary tongue. I have been wearing the same sweat pants and OJ-stained t-shirt for three days and I don't care. Not pretty.

I did get up for a bit today because I had a (short-lived) burst of energy and thought (delusionally)I wanted to clean and tidy but I ended up with stacks of stuff(really important stuff) and realized I was just walking in circles around my piles and I had no more energy. So now I am sitting and staring at my stacked piles of esoteric shit. What is in these stacks? Me. Little bits and pieces and chunks of me. Stuff that reminds me of days and boys long past. Some of them are good reminders, some stuff I would run over with the car or burn if I cared or had the energy (which I don't anymore because I am old and it's all over for me anyway) and other stuff is just, eh. whatever. Did I mention I'm sick?

Here's what I do know: it's fucking Girl Scout cookie time people and I just may have to bribe the guy in the boxers to put on some pants and and run down to Publix to get me a box of thin mints because I HAVE NO OTHER REASON TO LIVE RIGHT NOW. That is all.

Douchebag of the Month

Meet Mr. February (the flaming asshole judge presiding over last week's Anna Nicole embalming/paternity/cluster fuck hearing). Hands down, no contest. No elaboration needed. No wonder the Europeans think we're a bunch of ignorant horse's asses.