Grey Goose Redemption

So there I was....10:15 p.m., day 2 of the "BIG CONVENTION." I've just gone over the event orders for the next day and signed the banquet checks from this one. Convention staff have closed up shop for the night and I am so weary I think I will die.

I can't make it to my hotel room and have to make a brief stop in the restroom located on the ballroom/meeting room floor. I duck into a stall and in my exhaustion and delirium unwire the two-way radio from the waistband of my slacks, detangle the wire that runs up my back and unhook the headset from my ear...carefully placing it on the ground so it doesn't fall off my pants when I remove them, unhook my cell phone from the waist band for the same reason...make sure I don't lose the pens, chapstick, room keys, etc., in my pants pocket...and sit myself down on seat. From about two stalls over I suddenly hear grunting.

Now...first of all, if you've ever been in a women's restroom in a public place...grunting is not something you will hear. EVER! I'm thinking to myself...WTF???? That sounds like a man!!Suddenly...with complete clarity I recall the line of urinals I passed on my way to the stall. OH. MY. GOD.

At a frantic pace and bent over position so as not to jiggle the radio lying on the floor, I manage to get my pants back up and and radio and cell phone back in my hands and I am running past the afore-mentioned line of urinals with lightening speed. I fly out of the restroom and there are the remaining convention staff hanging around outside waiting for the fireworks. Apparently I was observed entering the offending restroom, word was spread, and seats improvised to more clearly witness my abject humiliation. We all had a great laugh, though...and then a martini.

Amazing how an icy cold shot of Grey Goose, straight up, entirely dry, with a twist, will change one's overall disposition.

On Gorgonzola and Unconditional Love

I'm thinking about Thanksgiving and spending it at my sister's on Saturday. Yes...Saturday...with so much extended family it just makes sense to pick an alternate day so that we're not scattered at the homes of spouses, children, parents, etc., etc.

I've been asked to bring a side dish and a salad. I think I've got it wired...for the salad baby greens; thin sliced green apples; pecans toasted in a skillet with sugar; crumbled, veiny, beautiful gorgonzola and a lightly sweetened balasamic, cider and olive oil dressing. For the side dish I think sweet potatoes coarsely chopped, tossed with freshly grated nutmeg and brown sugar and sea salt (mmmm...savory sweet), drizzled with dutch butter and 20 year balsamico and roasted at high heat to caramelize.

I am thinking of this gathering...amazingly the most entirely functional group of people I've ever known. How much I love this family...their humor, generosity, inability to judge, and unconditional love. I will watch my sister roll her eyes fondly at her husband's crazy stories ...my brother will absently caress the arm of his wife as they chat with their nephews...my mother's boyfriend of 5 years will dance her around the kitchen, their eyes locked on one another's face...my son will lean over and wrap his arms around his girlfriend, pressing his cheek against hers...my niece's boyfriend will unconsciously breathe in the smell of her hair...never really thinking of it. I watch my 12 year old son and my 13 year old nephew laughing and joking in the corner (no...I don't want to know the subject matter...the thought is alarming!)...both plugged into their PSPs.

We laugh uproariously...we fling good natured insults and open bottle after bottle of good red wine. We are together often and I tend to take these people and their love for granted. I am grateful at this moment for the conscious realization of how important they are and what an impact they've had in my life. And so...for the love these people inspire in me...for the happy life I lead, for the many joys and blessings...I am truly thankful. Happy Thanksgiving.

Man Jobs

We put the Christmas tree up night before last. I am such a girl though...I hate having to do things I call "Man Jobs." That would include the hauling in of the tree and wrestling it into the stand, screwing in those screws that never work and then putting on the lights. Those are the portions of the tree triming my father always did, and I really detest the job.

Anyway, my 12 year old and I wrestled the thing (Why oh why can't I ever get a tree that actually fits in my house???) into the house and sort of slid it into the stand. Then with my son holding the tree (at who knows what angle) and me lying on the floor giving instructions, "push it back a little...okay now over to the right a little...okay, now your other right...that's it," I screwed in those stupid screws...bypassed the trunk entirely on one side, screwed the screw right through the tree on the other, bent the third screw so that it wouldn't screw in at all, and got tired and quit on the 4th screw. I crawled out from under the tree and put my hands on my hips and told my son..."okay...you can let go now."

As I stood there nodding my head, the tree began leaning to the right. Well...okay...I pushed it back up and let go. It started to lean backward. Damn. I got some styrofoam I had laying around in the storage room, broke it up and stuffed it in all around the tree trunk. Again climbed out from under the tree, brushed myself off and again told my son, "you can let go now." Success! For about 15 seconds. The tree began a slow forward descent. I caught it and was able to manipulate it into a standing position where, as long as no one let out a breath, it might be okay.

I pulled all of the lights out of their box and plugged them in one by one. Hmmmm...3 of the 11 100-light strands failed to light. Fine. I said to my son, "make sure the tree doesn't fall over, I'll be right back." I hopped in the car and headed for Rite Aid. After very carefully scanning the lights to make sure I was getting "multi-color" strands (having accidentally purchased all green or all red before), I waited in line with all the other people making their yearly replacement light strand purchases, and headed back home.

Eager to get started triming the tree, I pulled the lights out of the box. ARGGGGGHHHHH! Multi colored lights alright...on WHITE wire. Back in the box, back in the car, back to Rite Aid...returned incorrect lights...purchased correct lights...back in the car...back home. I took off my coat for the third time in an hour and finally the lights went on the tree. Halleluiah! Lights strung, the fun process of going through the ornaments (we always remember them like old friends...its so fun to remember past Christmases) began and the tree was decorated. We had dinner, watched two episodes back to back of Who's Line is it Anyway...and went to bed.

3:00 a.m. CRASH!!!!!

I woke to that kind of noise you know instinctively is not a good noise. But 3 or 4 bleary seconds later, I knew exactly what it was. Ohhhhhh nooooooooo. I got up out of my warm bed and heard my son's bedroom door open. "The tree?" he said. "Yeah...think so," I replied. We headed out to the living room. There...lying across the floor, blocking our way, was our Christmas tree...ornaments flung hither and yon, water dripping out of the stand onto the carpet, lights draped in odd abstract patterns. The cat wandered in...stretched...surveyed the mess...and looked accusingly at me. "What?" I said. We pulled the tree up and leaned it against the window...sort of pushed everthing back to the corner and went back to bed.

Well...needless to say, yesterday morning I had to pull off the remaining ornaments, unstring the lights, wrestle the tree back out of the stand, soggy bits of styrofoam everywhere. But...I managed to get it back in, considerably more stable this time...lights back on, ornaments back on...etc., etc. What a lot of work! But ohhhhhh, it really is lovely. And the smell! Worth every bit of work in my opinion. It would have been much better, though, if there had been A MAN AROUND TO DO THE MAN JOBS. I told my son that I expect him to be a man by next Christmas. He rolled his eyes and went back to his playstation.

Today I had a list of chores "as long as my arm," as a very dear friend of mine likes to say. After a late breakfast and the dishes, putting on a load of laundry, my son and I went outside to put the Christmas lights on the front of the house. They're what I call "drippy lights." You know the kind...I think they're called icicle lights? Not sure. Anyway...THIS IS A MAN'S JOB. Hauling ladders, trying not to staple my eye with a staple gun, untangling the lights, climbing on top of the house, hanging precariously over the side to staple my finger that is holding the string of lights, crab-walking down incline of the roof to my son's horror and embarrassment (he looks up and down the street and says, "Mom, can't you just stand up and walk like a human?"), I finally got the lights up.

Its Christmas...my favorite time of year. All these events, the good and the bad, the rush and hustle, its all memory-making. After getting the lights on the house, my son and I raked the last of the leaves. We were bagging the leaves and had to stop...laughing hysterically at each other's stupid jokes, and it occurred to me that this is another one of those post card moments that I will pull out of my head when I'm an old, old woman...and will remember with such clarity and fondness. This Christmas with my son, past Christmases when my older son was home too, their faces, their words, their laughter. Future Christmas when I am with their families. Each one its own snapshop in time.

Recently my older son and I were at a work function of mine and he made a comment that absolutely blessed me...just warmed my heart so thoroughly. I can't remember how it came up, but he mentioned that whenever he smells cinnamon and other spices, he is thrown immediately back to his childhood and Christmas...he said, "it just smells like home." I must be something of a simpleton to be so easily pleased...but that really just did it for me.

Merry Christmas from our home to yours.

Organizational Arousal

I think I am happiest when there is something to look forward to. When there is any little thing out there on the horizon for which I can plan. I am the quintessential organizer - much to the dismay and chagrin of my cohorts and cronies. It is a struggle for me to resist putting, not only my own ducks in a row, but to resist neatly arranging the ducks of my friends and family as well (for I am often politely, and not so politely, requested to refrain from such activity).

And so how perfect for me that we face a new year…a moment of new beginnings. I have, at this very moment, an almost overwhelming impulse to rub my greedy hands together with glee as I contemplate the possibility. Teetering, as it were, on the brink of a new year…the threshold of 2006…I see limitless potential for organization and planning before me!

Typically at this time of year I am planning for a trip to Italy in March. However, this year I am shelving Italy and will go to London in February instead. And so there are airline and hotel reservations to make, fun places to scout out, theatre tickets to book, extensive research dedicated to determining whether there really are food substances called “toad-in-a-hole,” and the most bizarre of all…”beans on toast.” Ha! British humor…what?

Also…I want to know if a sweater is really a jumper, a trunk is really a boot, a lawyer is really a barrister, long distance calls are really trunk calls, and…most importantly…where does one fall if one does NOT “Mind the Gap?” I want to know how it feels to: drive on the wrong side of the road; sit on a ferris wheel so high that I can see all of London just by turning around; wander through streets where Shakespeare "barded"; be completely baffled by listening to my own language; pay nearly two dollars for every single English pound I spend (guess I could do that right here by running over to Nordstrom for the afternoon…heh), and be shot through a tunnel into Paris in only 3 hours. I want to: eat triffle with tea, marmalade with toast, fish and chips out of a newspaper, Yorkshire pudding with roast beef, and drink warm beer in a noisy pub. There will be people to meet, places to go, things to do.

There will be A D V E N T U R E ! Adventure requires planning. One must be well organized to plan for such a trip. (I do believe I am becoming aroused at this chain of thought…how twisted am I?)

I am in my element. I am looking forward to Londontown…oh yes I am.
2006…bring it on!!!

Well That's Just Odd

I had the most peculiar realization today.
I have this little village that lights up and makes a nice display at Christmas time. I always set it up on the piano and it lights up that side of the room…I’ve had it, ohhhh…I guess about 15 years.

Now that Christmas is over, the tree is down, all the other ornaments are packed away, I decided it was time to pack up the village too. After putting the buildings back in their boxes, I was wrapping each tree, lamp post, figurine individually for storage. I picked up the one of a young girl in late 1800’s dress…she has a large snowball next to her and is bent over it, patting the snow. As I began to wrap her in tissue I caught myself thinking with comfortable fondness…”okay, Lori…back you go, Christmas is over.”

Lori was my sister…she died when she was ten and I was fifteen. She was the youngest of four…I was the elder (still am…haha). I don’t often think of her, but as I caught myself thinking that thought, I was stunned. I also realized that I was accustomed, in some subconscious way, to having that thought. And not only was I used to having that thought, but that I was entirely comfortable with it. I have been associating that little figurine with my long dead sister for all these years…but never consciously realized it until now.

I wonder if my mind has conjured up some sort of convoluted way to keep her in the family? To have her with us at Christmas time? And I wonder…before I had the village, did I have some other way of keeping her near?

She was the most like me, of my siblings. She was fair and I was dark…but our body build was the same, our mannerisms…I think I would have been very close to her if she had made it to adulthood. I find that 33 years later I can still see her clearly…her blond pony tails and her lispy way of talking (she couldn’t say her R’s), and even as I write this I blink back tears. She would be 43 now…I wonder what she would be like.

I apologize for the macabre nature of these thoughts…but they are just that…my thoughts. And what is a blog for but to purge idle and meandering thoughts from my hopelessly muddled and oh so scary mind?

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

There is a small coffee shop/cafe on the next street over from my office. I can reach it by going out the back door of my office building, crossing the alley that runs through the middle of the block, skirting the trash bins and water puddles, walking the pathway that runs along the right side the shop itself, finally coming out on the street and in front of the cafe. Next month the plum trees in the alley will be in bloom...looking every bit like spindly young girls in white lace bonnets. I walk through the brisk wind with my coat open and whipping about me. I think I must look like a crow flapping its wings.

I love this cafe. Not only is it a nice break to get up and walk out of the office for a while, giving my eyes a rest from spreadsheets and correspondence and my ears a rest from the incessant phone...but its my own personal little "Cheers." Robert and Erin are the owners...they're thirty something...both married (to other people) and both with young children (born since I've known them). They were high school buddies. My co-worker and I were their first customers when they first threw open the cafe doors two years ago and we've nourished our mutual dependency on each other (me on their caffeine, and they on my measly few dollars) on a daily basis ever since.

As quickly as I can when I arrive at my office each morning I drop off my computer, and dump whatever office crap I dragged home the night before, grab my cup and head out across the alley. Its always all the same people and the occasional straggler or two who wander it. They have these delectable pumpkin muffins with cream cheese inside and struesel on top and Erin makes soup every day. Robert brews up (Erin says it just for me...she lies!) Starlight blend coffee...its a really gorgeous dark espresso roast that I adore. I love to hold a cup of it and let it warm my hands while my nose is buried in the aroma.

The shop is painted in terra cotta with a rag wash finish, the walls are adorned with beautiful and awful art by local artists. There are two huge rattan peacock chairs, plump cushions and hassocks. It's a comfortable, homey place.

Everyday I greet the regulars who bring their computers (Robert has installed wireless internet) and sit for hours. There are the groups of noisy office workers from the converted Victorians up and down the street. There are the three guys in the green uniforms...I don't know where they come from but they're there every morning and always stop their conversation to say hello and joke around a little bit. We are comfortable in the fact that we belong there.

There is Cliff...something is wrong with him...I think he may have been a meth addict. He is very sweet, but clearly has his problems. Robert and Erin let him grafitti the front sidewalk with chalk. He makes beautiful, elaborate drawings...they're fantastic really. Once a month, Ben (one of the regulars), his partner Owen, and their little dog Brooklyn, sell jewlery outside. I love to browse through it all and chat with them. Ben wants to choreograph musicals in New York City...Owen just wants to be with Ben. And Brooklyn is whore to anyone who will pet her.

Mid mornings my co-worker and I slip over and get yet another coffee and share a cigarette...out of the sight of our office. We generally meet up with the guys in the office across the street from the coffee shop who are sneaking away to have a cigarette out of the site of their office...and we huddle together to the side of the cafe...like highschoolers sneaking a smoke in the bathroom...laughing, joking, flirting. It makes me feel young.

Lunchtime, if I don't have errands or a meeting, I'll wander over for a cup of Erin's soup. It doesn't matter what kind it is...its always fantastico! Erin gives me a big chunk of focaccia to go with it and it warms me from the inside out. I'll sit at one of the outdoor tables and chat with whoever else is out there...and we'll watch the world go by on the street.

Today I spoke briefly with a homeless guy called Dominick. He had dreadlocks, a black beret, a black leather coat...and a necklace made of dice. I complimented him on his coat and he told me that his mother gave it to him for Christmas. He told me sheepishly that he was her only child and was a terrible disappointment to her living the way he does. So...to honor her he was going to take very good care of his coat. I congratulated him on his decision and gave him my coffee. He offered me God's blessing, I thanked him politely and he blew me a kiss. If I see him tomorrow I will buy him a scone.

Three O'clock or so I wander back over to the cafe each day for a cappuccino. Generally Erin and Robert have gone home for the day and one of younger twenty something crew are working. Alicia has a stud in her tongue and she likes to click it against her teeth in time to whatever CD is playing. She slips me bites of chewey macaroons dipped in dark chocolate. I love Alicia. Tiffany is new...a tiny little girl. She is still shy and seems confused by all our boisterous banter and insult slinging. She'll get used to it and will one of these days join right in.

This is MY cafe. Another extension of home.

The Grand Scheme of Things

So I was at the office today, plugging away at my computer when I realized that I was straining to see what was on the screen. I could see all around the particular word, symbol, cell…whatever I was trying to focus on…but not the actual item. Half an hour or so went by and I realized I was straining more and more to see clearly. I began looking around my office and realized I really couldn't focus clearly on anything at all. It was remotely disturbing and prompted the thought, "I need more coffee. I’ll just get out of here and clear my head a little."

I walked over to the coffee shop across the alleyway and back…and was still having trouble seeing when I returned to my office. I mentioned the problem to a co-worker and she very strongly suggested I call my eye doctor…NOW! So I did and they said, “come in NOW!” The urgent insistence from my co-worker and the doctor’s office prompted this next disturbing thought:

Oh. My. God. I’ve got eye cancer. At the very least, a Killer Brain Tumor.


As I drove to the doctor's office, I swallowed the lead ball in my throat and thought to myself...I must be brave. I vaguely wondered how long it would take me to learn Braille. I imagined my children...deprived of their loving mother and secretely wondered how many people would attend my funeral and would the ones who were mean to me in grade school be really sorry now???.


Assuming I survive, would I have to go into some kind of rehab to learn another occupation? How would I make a living? By the time I had arrived at the doctor’s office I had planned out an entire scenario of selling my house, moving into an ADA apartment, getting a cane and a seeing eye dog, determining bus routes, learning sign language (I don’t know…maybe brain tumors cause deafness too???), installing wheelchair ramps and lowered light switchplates, learning how to give myself insulin shots and change a colostomy bag, Yes…I had a minor meltdown.


The doctor asked a lot of questions, took blood pressure (at the eye doctor???), dilated my eyes, etc., etc., stepped back and announced that I had a migraine headache.


Huh? Migraine headache? But…well, yeah…I had a slight headache, but no big deal. I wasn’t nauseated, wasn’t light sensitive (well…I wasn’t until he dilated my eyes!). I thought migraines caused horrendous pain and other symptoms?


And then he said in a very authoritative voice...(I can hardly bear to think of it)...he said..."you have to cut back on caffeine." I stared dumbly in stupified shock...the words not yet registering. He suggested, at my look of horror and disbelief, that I begin slowly by mixing decaf with regular coffee beans. I wonder if my insurance covers trauma counseling?


The doctor pronounced me cured and provided me with some hideously unfashionable paper sunglasses to wear outside. Because my eyes had been dilated…he said the light would hurt them. It was a foggy, overcast day today and I was determined to rip them off just as soon as I got outside. I don't need no stinkin' sunglasses! I was certain I couldn’t bear the humiliation of having to wear such a frightfully unattractive accessory. I’m not yet 85 and recovering from cataract surgery, ya’ know? Besides…I’m tough, I have a pretty high pain tolerance. So I stepped outside the doctor’s office into the daylight, removed the offending cardboard specs and...YOOOOOOWSA!!! Well…as it turns out, I am an eye-pain wimp. To my dismay I found it necessary to wear those things IN PUBLIC back to my car until I could get my REAL sunglasses on.


I sat in my car and put on my normal sunglasses and it occured to me that I was no longer afraid. And in spite of my spectacularly overactive imagination, I am just fine. I am so grateful to be healthy...and in the grand scheme of things, what's a little headache???

Age Spots

Tonight I am wistful as I witness the demise of my youth. I’ve just had a fantastic evening out with my son, my mother and her boyfriend, and my sister and her husband. We spent the evening at Il Fornaio. I split a carpaccio with my sister, had a plate of cappelacci di zucca and half a bottle of Falesco Vitiano. We had a great time...one of our typical gatherings with great food, some good wine and lots and lots of laughter.

The waiter was so cute...so young. And I am ashamed to say I flirted shamelessly. Ehhhhhhhhh...I am not growing older gracefully, I’m afraid to say. I am fighting it every step of the way. My body is showing the ravages of time...but my head still erroneously thinks I’m a teenager. When will I just relax and accept that I am growing older. It’s not that I WANT to be younger...really! I don’t want to go back at all. But it is painful to see the slow and inevitable aging of my body while I remain young inside. When will my mind accept what my body already knows? Oh sure...we mature. But what about the yearnings we still have? What about our passions? I still have them and feel them with the same exuberance I felt 20 years ago, but somehow tonight I feel on the slippery downhill slope.

A couple of weeks ago as I was dropping my 12 year old son off for school, I noticed dark areas at the corners of his mouth. I leaned toward him for a closer look and said with astonishment, "wait..are those...are you getting...do you have whiskers on your upper lip???" He looked directly at me and without missing a beat said, "why not...you do." You can certainly imagine how fast that visor mirror came down and, my face shoved into it, I began searching out the offending folicles. This NEVER happened when I was young! And then...same child...a couple of weeks before that made the offhand comment that I was too old to have an imagination.
Is it a wonder I am having these thoughts?

Perhaps my wistfulness tonight comes not from wishing I were younger, but from the realization that this life as I know it...which is not a bad life by any means...is likely what I shall have from here on out. It’s not possible for me to be complacent for I am always looking forward to the next escapade and adventure. But are the surprises and momentous occasions of my life over? It it time to remember that I am, in actuality, a middle aged woman? I have had my marriage and my children...I have seen a child married, a grandchild born and buried. I have had my share of joys and sorrows. I have been ridiculously fortunate. There is still half a life to live and although I know I will do it well, it is somehow without the great expectations that I had in my youth. The hopes and dreams I had as a young woman are radically different from the reality of the life I know. Not in a bad way, mind you. Simply...different...not as I thought things would be.

Hmmmm...perhaps I should just lay off the Falesco Vitiano. No doubt when the sun comes up tomorrow I will feel the same optimism I feel each new day and these tendrils of doubt and apprehension, self-absorption and pessimism, and this wallowing in my own personal pity-party will disappear with the night.

It is probably wise to disregard all the above.

Ciao é buona notte.

By the way...London was AWESOME! Paris was…pretty good. But I am desperately missing my beloved Italia.

An End to It

Two weeks ago today I had my last cigarette. I’ve planned to quit smoking many times. I’ve thought...okay, once this pack is finished, that will be the end of it. But I would think about it too much and probably actually blow it up out of proportion in my mind. Make a much bigger deal of it than it is...worry that I couldn’t do it. And so I didn’t.

I actually did quit once before and didn’t smoke at all for 10 years. The odd thing is that I quit in exactly the same way I did this time. I didn’t really think about it. Just sort of ran out and didn’t go buy any more. That’s what happened this time. I didn’t plan to stop...simply ran out of cigarettes and thought, “well...that’s done.” Also, the thought occured to me that I am a very strong woman...sensible and determined. How is it that I have the good sense and strong will to keep destructive people and behaviours out of my life...but allow something like a cigarette to control me? What a ridiculous notion. That thought alone may have helped more than anything else to close the deal.

Unless I was around other smokers (which was VERY rare), I didn’t smoke very much at all. Still...I am amazingly addicted and very much want to smoke on those occasions that I always did. I think I went 2 or 3 days before I REALLY had a craving. But by then...I was so astonished that I had made it 2 or 3 days, I didn’t dare go backward. The second week seemed much harder than the first week…but since I had already made it a week without smoking, I DEFINITELY didn’t want to have to start over. I am so very pleased that I’ve made it two weeks!

It feels really, really good to say...”I am a non-smoker.” I waited a week before I did it...just in case. But I think I’m going to make it. I feel like beating my chest and proclaiming to the world this great feat I have accomplished. Here’s the thing though – I was a closet smoker and went way out of my way to hide from most everyone the fact that I was smoking. Consequently...there is no one to brag to. No one to understand that every day is difficult and no one to pat me on the back and encourage me (I’m having a little bit of a wimpy-whine here). Perhaps that’s the reason I’m posting here. I want to brag!

(The little voice inside my head repeats over and over...I hope I’ve stopped in time to save my life.)

Mixed Berry Medley

I want to write, but can’t think of a thing to write about. Nothing that would be of interest, anyway. To you. Still I have that urge to expunge the demons from my head. Except that there aren’t currently any demons in my head...only...just...simply the desire to expunge them. If there were any. Which there aren’t.

Really I only wanted to use the word expunge. Another word I would like to use is benevolent. I am feeling particularly benevolent tonight. I will not harm you. Her scathing wit was benevolent...for it found no purchase, no niche in which the malevolent roots of sarcasm could adhere. Like glue...like super glue…like flour and water paste...like rubber cement. Do you remember rubber cement? Would one need to be from my generation to remember rubber cement? Brown bottle resplendent with a sticky, cum-like substance...brush attached to bottle cap. Is there still rubber cement? Is/was it rubber? Is/was it cement? Is/was? Is it neither rubber nor cement?

Old school days...rubber cement and mimeographed worksheets fresh from the (mimeographer?) machine. I would take the original sheet to the school office and the principal’s secretary would run them off the (mimeographer?) machine. She would crank the handle of the drum...around and around and around it would go...depositing the fragrant sheets in a pile. I would take the sheets back to class...my nose buried in them.

My nose buried in them..my nose buried...in a glass of wine...in a man's neck. A man’s neck. There is nothing like the smell of a man’s neck. Not just any man...a man with the all-important Chemistry. It is an aphrodisiac...the smell of a man’s neck. The right man’s neck. I am inhaling at this moment...remembering. Necks...different necks. The strongest connections involved the most fragrant necks. Soooooooooooo important, the smell of a man’s neck. The fragrance. I don’t mean the stifling, nauseating, overpowering odor of the fragrance department of a department store. I mean the organic, heady, musky, clean, soap and water, manly aroma of a man’s neck. Au naturale. The cause of those curious little contractions in my belly and the source of my desire.

And I am desirous. Insatiable. Insatiable desire. Insatiably desirous of so many things. Overly passionate and always wanting...always left wanting. It is never, ever, ever enough. Even when it is enough…when I am exhausted and beaten and unable to lift even my hand. The moment it stops...I want more, always more, more, more. If you look at me do you see that desire and passion? Passion in every little thing – a passion for living, you might say. Passion that permeates like an ultrasound to the core of my id, my psyche...exposing and leaving vulnerable all the achy places so desperate and needy and greedy for stimuli...for deliverance...for sustenance, nourishment. And for rest.

I want to rest. I want to let go of the passion so I can rest. I want to sleep...no dreams. Just quiet and dark. No mariachi music from the house across the street puncturing my oblivion, no Harley guy two houses down from mariachi house (life in the ghetto is so bohemian) rev ving his bike just as I’ve drifted off, no accidentally set alarm clock announcing 5:30 a.m., no waking at 2:37 a.m. in panic and cold sweat wondering how in the hell I will pull everything together in time for the next conference, how I will make the repairs needed on the house to put it up for sale, how I will fund my retirement, how I have failed my children, how I allowed my marriage to dissolve, how I don’t contact my parents enough...why are there no cheerful thoughts at 2:37 a.m.? Why am I not waking up and thinking...hmmm...what about mixed berry medley in my next batch of scones?

Nicotine Withdrawal? Maybe.

A sense of expectancy...something is going to happen. I’ve no clue what it is, but I’m here, waiting for it. Maybe I’m supposed to do something or maybe something is supposed to be done to me. There is this sense of urgency and unrest. An edginess. I can’t wrap my hands around it, can’t get entirely comfortable. I seem to be just a little on the edge of my seat. I feel I need to be prepared. But for what?

Lately my head turns quickly. I dart cautious glances over my shoulder...afraid I will miss some sign. Some indicator. My spirit is restless and wary. Tense and jittery. The ringing of the phone startles me. Concentration eludes me and my sleep is broken. When sitting still and reading, writing...whatever...there is an odd idea in the back of my mind that I need to get up and get...what?


Not cranky or grouchy. Not irritable. Not like that. It’s something else that causes me to wander aimlessly through the rooms in my house. The TV won’t hold my attention. I lean against the window, forehead and palms pressed against the cold of the glass. I can hear the wind and it disturbs me...it moans and the branches dance crazily. I peer outside into the gloom of a gray evening...rain threatens. Did someone call me?


I vaguely recollect conversations at work these past few days. People talk at me and I watch curiously while their mouths move. I nod my head...make appropriate noises, phone calls, emails. But I don’t remember exactly what was said...what was written...what was accomplished. My mind is elsewhere.


In my routine quiet of the evening, while completing my chores, cooking some dinner, talking to the cat, I stop and listen...again and again. For what am I listening? I wander aimlessly through the rooms in my house. I pass the door, turn and go back...open it and lean outside. Looking suspiciously right and left. (oh my God...I've become the neighborhood crazy lady...feared by small children jeered at by teenagers.) What is it?


Where did I leave my quietude? Is this all some manifestation of middle age and menopause? I am missing my composure and characteristic calm. I want a cigarette.

If Only

If only there was the time...If only I were inspired more often...If only, if only, if only...
I know...I haven't written anything in a long time. I need inspiration! Not necessarily anything beyond normal daily events...nothing cataclysmic need happen. Often I find the details that pique my interest most and cause that peculiar desire to "scribble," are the quirkly little tidbits that just go unnoticed in my day to day tedium.

I suppose I could blame it on being too busy...having too many irons in the fire. Just the getting by and getting it done of living life as we know it. What a shame not to notice the minutia...those seeminly insignificant moments that in retrospect were the stuff of fond memories and heart-warming stories. One of these days...and oh, it will pass quickly...I'll be lounging in my comfy old rocking chair on the front porch, hair gone white, hands spotted with age, and I'll be remembering the golden, shining moments of a long and well-lived life.

What I will remember most won't be how great that convention went...and it won't be how well I beat the clock getting from work to daycare to grocery store to dinner on the table...and it won't be the ridiculous number of hours I’ve wasted on the internet...it won't be that hairstyle I just had to have...and it won't be the car I dreamed would be the ultimate happiness. It will be those little moments...the snapshots of memory that gave me quiet joy, or broke my heart, or made me tall with pride, or were just too beautiful for words.

It will be the satisfaction of just canned fruits and jams...row upon row of gleaming jeweled jars in every hue lined up on my kitchen counter. It will be the way my heart swelled when I watched my then 3 year old son with his father from the window on a summer day -- the sun making a halo of his babysoft auburn hair and the look of pure, unadulterated joy as he bit into a warm, ripe tomato. It will be the ethereal beauty of a spring evening in Tuscany, gazing down from the window of an ancient stone house onto vineyards and olive orchards, and watching twilight paint the sky a thousand shades of purple, indigo, crimson and orange. It will be the shame I still feel recalling a childhood lie for which my sister accepted the blame and punishment...and I did nothing to stop. It will be the wonderful contrast of a sweet, grainy, perfectly ripe pear and richly veined gorgonzola...complimented by a mouthful of velvety brunello. It will be the searing pain and helplessness on my older son’s face, and in my own heart, as he watched his first child die in his arms. It will be the absolute, without a doubt knowledge of the presence of God...as I stood alone atop a mountain, turned 360 degrees and saw clearly the pristine beauty and stillness of a Montana sunrise.

If you've read older blog entries of mine, you'll find them punctuated with such remembrances. I know these events are there...happening all around me in every single moment. I think perhaps if I imagine myself in the rocking chair...looking back. Perhaps then I will know what to write.

Bella Italia!

I was in Florence, Italy last week. As always, it was incredible. I've put together a little video show of the photos from the trip...I hope you enjoy it!