Friday Trike Ride Blogging

Scenes from my morning ride.

Stunningly Clueless or Purposefully Mean?

 To the company where I recently, voluntarily, ended my employment:

Thank you just EVER so much for invoicing me 46 smackareenos for my mother’s funeral cards. Also too, thank you SO much for not extending any sort of bereavement leave pay for any of the time I had to be gone, you know for funeralizing and basic grieving.

Lucy, my mother died on the morning of October 31st (yes, on Halloween -- very eerie of her). I’d given 6 weeks notice at the job on October 12th. Why so much? October and November are busy times and I didn’t want to leave my co-workers in a lurch, scrambling to cover my job.

I wanted to give the company time to hire and train a replacement.

Sure, sure, I could’ve said ‘you know, I’m in a bad way, what with mia madre’s croak-age and all, so I won’t be fulfilling the rest of my notice.’ I had, after all, already given them the standard two weeks. But NOOOOOOOO! Donna has to do what Donna has to do -- the honorable bleedin’ thing. I took a week and a day off for wakes, funeral and light grieving and then returned to the pixel mines.

I was back there to work, work, work too. I’m fast, efficient, accurate, professional AND upbeat . All this despite being given, as the vast bulk of my responsibilities throughout my employ, ultra low level order processing tasks -- I had been hired to do, primarily, research and data analysis. I remained cheery and diligent despite being awarded THE worst, most buggy, app-less, out of date computer in the entire company. I maintained good-natured and industrious habits despite being scolded, in mega condescending fashion, for any and every infraction (real and imagined) no matter how small. And then, possibly the capper of them all, my desk was recently-ish placed in an area overrun by mice. The mice had fleas. I have fleas. OK, just a lot of bites.

Why did I stay with this company as long as I did (18 months total)? I kept hoping and expecting things would improve and I really HATE to give in/give up.

There were conversations with my manager about wanting/needing tasks more in line with my talents and abilities. We had tête-à-têtes about the inappropriate tone, manner and behaviors I encountered all too often. Boyhowdy I was doing the Firm, Direct yet Way Diplomatic Tarantella to beat the band. I was doing what a friend and long ago co-worker had once advised -- ‘managing up.’

The condescending, chide-a-thons ceased, I was given a few extra, less drone-like responsibilities but no, things didn’t turn around and become the gig I’d expected when I’d accepted their offer. Plus, the joint was still a chaos factory.

I’d had enough and began job hunting but not heavy duty, not 24/7.

And then, in mid October, there was a hefty straw and my camel’s back shattered. It was time to get gone.

My last day was yesterday. I got the bill for my mother’s funeral cards last night. Of course I wrote them a check immediately. You know "Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's...’

and shit.

Are they malignantly devoid of human empathy? Were they, prior to this post-parting indignity, purposefully trying to force me out?  Unwilling to risk a possible lawsuit for unjustly terminating a deafie so they were making things spectacularly, amazingly unpleasant in order to encourage me to quit?

Or are they just extraordinarily clueless?

Dunno. I just don’t know.

Grey Seal Days

From Grey Seal

Why's it never light on my lawn
Why does it rain and never say good-day to the new-born
On the big screen they showed us the sun
But not as bright in life as the real one
It's never quite the same as the real one

by the poet and painter Bernie Taupin, performed by Elton John

From You Look Like Rain

I want to know what you got to say
I want to know what you got to say
I want to know what you got to say
I can tell you taste like the sky cause you look like rain
You look like rain 

by Mark Sandman of Morphine, one of my all time favorite bands.

From Have You Ever Seen The Rain

There's a calm before the storm,
I know
It's been comin for some time.

When it's over, so they say,
It'll rain a sunny day,
I know
Shinin down like water.
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain
I want to know, have you ever seen the rain
Comin down on a sunny day

and

From Who'll Stop The Rain

Long as I remember The rain been coming down.
Clouds of myst'ry pouring Confusion on the ground.
Good men through the ages, Trying to find the sun;
And I wonder, Still I wonder, Who'll stop the rain.

both by John Fogerty, performed by Creedence Clearwater Revival

I want to know what you got to say I want to know what you got to say I want to know what you got to say I can tell you taste like the sky 'cause you look like rain

Read more: MORPHINE - YOU LOOK LIKE RAIN LYRICS

Read more: MORPHINE - YOU LOOK LIKE RAIN LYRICS

I want to know what you got to say I want to know what you got to say I want to know what you got to say I can tell you taste like the sky 'cause you look like rain

Read more: MORPHINE - YOU LOOK LIKE RAIN LYRICS

Squirrel Wars

The Amazing Bob and Oni have a thing about squirrels. They hate them. Since we moved down to the Neck it’s become quite the passion for them both.

Bob’s fury is based in the fact that they, the wee furry grey bastards, keep getting into the food he leaves out for the birds. He works hard at putting the right mix of sunflower seeds, cracked corn, white millet, peanuts, squash seeds and stale bread out there so that the Blue Jays and Cardinals are regular visitors.

Yeah, we get the flash fowl but, more often, we have these fat fucking rodents waddling around the yard, chowing down like pre-game Steelers' fans with Pimanti Bros. deluxe double egg and cheese sandwiches in their grasp.

We quit putting up nice bird feeders after a few collapsed under their weight.

Why does Oni hate the varmints? Eh, I guess a few got into the basement and started redecorating with tiny turds instead of chintz curtains and danish modern side tables. He finally got them moved over to a lovely split level on Sea Street though -- so, ya know, it all worked out.

You should see Bob and Oni in summer. We’ll all be chilling on the veranda, watching the tide come and go, listening to the WEEI broadcast of the Sox getting their asses kicked, when, all of a sudden, giant rubber bands go flying, super soakers are brandished. Our menfolk are AT WAR!

Fluffy varmints scamper up trees. Jen and I put noses back in books. Our warriors go back to the game.

It’s an exciting life.

Below are two email exchanges between Bob and I. Notes from the front and all.

Me: I was reading that cardinals and blue jays prefer feeding platforms. I wonder what I can build that won't be overrun by squirrels.

The Amazing Bob: How about a feeding platform that accommodates birds and bird food
but all around the edges are sharp poisoned spikes and flame throwers and so on?

Me: Works for me. We'll have to ask the blue jays and cardinals what they think of the plan.

______________________________________

TAB: Just heard a noise on porch.  Went out, saw that a squirrel had pushed the squash
off the porch rail and was eating at it.  I never have a nuclear weapon handy when I need it. 

Me: I'm so sorry Hunny Bunny. Maybe Santa will bring you a Fat Boy for Christmas this year.

TAB: It's amazing you know that.  I've also heard it called Original Child Bomb,
but more often Fat Boy.  I love the way you know all these little but important things.

Me: Maybe I have that wrong and it's Fat Man and Little Boy (his faithful Indian companion). And yeah, my head is a jam packed store house of misremembered minutiae.

TAB: I love that you know what I'm talking about without me having to supply Cliff Notes.

Baby Love

Jen and I, post Sunday book binge, stopped by the Frog and Peach for coffee. (Honest and fer reals, it WAS coffee. OK, coffee by way of Dublin. Sue me)

The joint was jammed. It’s early afternoon on a Sunday and they’re packed. Why? Warum? Per quale motivo? Apparently they do vibrant, hot biz with the wedding and baby shower crowd.

Huh.

There were two separate Estrogen Fests going down yesterday. The group on the other side of the bar from us, hogging the warm cozy fireplace, were baby showering. Yup, in a bar. I thought on that and, well, what could possibly be more appropriate. Honest and serious now. One last bash before 18 years of always being the adult. ALWAYS having to be the mature and giving one. Makes perfect sense to me.

Engrossed as I was in my brandy new, mega elitist, deeply intellectual tome (My Life as a White Trash Zombie) I wasn’t paying them any mind.

Jen shakes my shoulder and asks, ‘Notice anything funny about that group of baby partiers?’

Me: ‘Wut? Huh?'

Jen: “They’re all dressed in black.’

Me: ‘K’

Jen: ‘It’s a BABY shower!’

Me: ‘Maybe it’s for Rosemary’s Baby or the next Damien or, hey, maybe the Son of Sam is gonna get a little brother or sister.

This could totally be appropriate and besides, the balloon bouquets are all opalescent white. They could be doing a Franz Kline sort of thing here. Maybe they’re all hipster art history types’

And then a heavily made up (I believe Jackson Pollack was her cosmetics advisor), neon blond sashayed by. Her artfully torn jeans, artistically dusted with sprays of rhinestone, were so tight that I’m quite certain, major arteries were being choked to an early death. Blondie’s salmon colored stilettos were nosebleed-worthy.

She was awesome plus and headed for the imminent, anklebiter festivities.

Me: ‘Huh? So it’s now de rigueur to have strippers at your baby showers? Damn, I am SO out of the loop.’

Hummingbird Brain

Of late, I have all the concentration of a hummingbird on a 6 week meth bender. Just can’t get into any of the books on my nightstand. I’ve got some real beauts too:

Ready Player One -- Ernest Cline

‘The year is 2044 and the world is in near-ruins. The Great Recession has taken its toll on the world's economy, and resources are scarce. The Internet and gaming culture have evolved into a creation known as OASIS, a massive multiplayer online simulation game created by James Halliday and Ogden Morrow of Gregarious Simulation Systems (GSS), formerly known as Gregarious Games... ...The video says that whoever can collect three keys (Copper, Jade, and Crystal) that are hidden throughout the universe of OASIS and pass through the matching gates will receive his fortune and controlling stake in GSS.’ (from Wikipedia)

Sounds awesome -- total escapist geekdom, n'est-ce pas? What's my prob?

The Shadow of the Sun  by Ryszard Kapuscinski
I picked up his book Imperium not because I knew anything about him, his writing style or his opinions. Oh my, no. Imperium in paperback had a lovely silver cover with black text. The color and design sold me plus it looked, from a quick scan in Raven Used Books, like a journal of the author’s travels through Russia during interesting times.

‘...now bears witness in Imperium to the disintegration of the Soviet Union. This magisterial book combines childhood memory with unblinking journalism, a radar for the truth with a keen appreciation of the absurd.’

It was deep, heavy going but lyrical as well. His manner of storytelling made a tremendous impression. I truly am psyched to read The Shadow of the Sun.

Just not this week.

Neal Stephenson’s latest, Readme

‘Neal Stephenson's new novel begins with a family reunion in the Idaho panhandle, near the Canadian border, during which the "reserved, even hardbitten" men of the extended Forthrast clan engage in shooting practice with an impressive assortment of firearms.’ (from a review in The Guardian)

 I absolutely LOVED Snow Crash so it oughta be a given that I’d get lost in Readme, right? Em...maybe not this week.

Sherman Alexie’s newest, Blasphemy is on my nightstand now. He’s totally my fav author. I make an effort to buy his books in hardcover because I know I’ll read them over and again plus six times more.


Nope, can't get started.

There's Jayne Anne Phillips' Lark & Termite
Her first book Black Tickets, a collection of short stories, hit me big. Subtle, spare, poetic writing about hard times and difficult people.

"These stories of America's disenfranchised - men and women light years away from the American dream - are unlike any in our literature.
She's an original, and this book of hers is a crooked beauty."- Raymond Carver

I just don’t have the emotional energy (or cojones) to open up Lark & Termite right now.

I tried a couple of mysteries -- Donna Leon’s Drawing Conclusions. Her protagonist, Commissario Guido Brunetti is honest and warm -- he feels real. The Commissario understands that nothing is black and white in this world and unequivocal, happy endings are rare.

Started it -- found it filled with so many of the ambiguities contained in real life (duh and of course) -- had to put it down.

Lynda La Plante a fab television writer (Prime Suspect) and novelist. I have her recent mystery/police procedural Blood Line.

At the moment, it's just too gritty.

Earlier today I gave up, knocked on Jen’s door and announced ‘I can’t get into any of the books on my bed table. Clearly I need something really light. And funny. Possibly trashy. Wanna go to the bookstore with me?’

We entered the store with Jen allowing that she’d be in the children’s section hunting up some divine belles-lettres for her niece and nephew.

‘Cool, I’ll be over in Trash.’

What did I come home with?
My Life As A White Trash Zombie by Diana Rowland
and
Jam by Yahtzee Croshaw
First sentence of the book? 

“I woke up one morning to find that the entire city had been covered in a three-foot layer of man-eating jam.”

 Yep, this’ll do me up just fine.

Now We Are One

With apologies to A. A. Milne

When Bob and I go out for a walk,
We hold each other's hand and talk
Of all the things we mean to do
When  Bob and I are ninety-two.

Today is this blog’s birthday. Tell Me A Story is one year old today. Naturally we had to dash out to buy cuppycakes in order to commemorate this special day.

I began writing primarily because Jen would NOT stop nagging me. ‘You should write these stories down,’ ‘you could start a blog,’ ‘have you started writing any of this down yet?’

Nag, nag, nag!

Here's the thing though -- I want to hear/read other people’s sagas and old saws too. My own yarns, burlesques and dramas are pretty damned familiar to me.

I want to read about yours.

Cousin Della has contributed, as have my pals Heike and Brian. Jen (AKA Jen The Pirate Blogger) kicked in some fabola drawings (and will proffer more, dammit!). My buddy Brenda shared her entrée to the yoga life. The Amazing Bob has ponied up poetry and memories. Hillel shared a note he wrote on the eve of his eldest son's departure for college.

More please!

Got a tale to tell? Email me at donna.maderer at gmail dot com. Let’s tawk.

Halva

What is it!?

Halva -- from Arabic حلوى (ḥalwā).
-- A confection usually made from crushed sesame seeds and honey. It is a traditional dessert in India, the Mediterranean, the Balkans, and the Middle East.

Lucy favored this sweetie something fierce. She could always get it at the corner stores in New Haven, Connecticut where she grew up.

Chuck and Lucy, with kids in tow, left New Haven for York, Pennsylvania and Daddy’s first teaching gig at York Country Day School. From there, we moved to Peapack-Gladstone, New Jersey and Saint Bernard’s School. Halva, back then, was an exotic treat. Foreign. Only found in urban neighborhoods. There was none to be had in these small rural-ish towns.

Lucy

We, Mommy, Daddy and us kiddles, were back in New Haven visiting family and friends. I must have been around five. Mother had waxed rhapsodic, sung odes and just went full metal Tarantella on the glories of this treat. I was, naturally, way psyched to try it.

Me, Pop and Carol

We were in a small corner store, close to where she’d grown up, when the opportunity came. Halva was sold right there at the cash register. She bought a packet, unwrapped it and held it to my little mouth with all the solemn pomp of a communion wafer’s presentation.

I’d expected something along the lines of marshmallows, maybe chocolate, certainly buttercream frosting or, better still, frosting covered, chocolate coated marshmallows.

Em...no. To my tiny palate it tasted of sugared, sand infused sawdust. Ewwwww!

Fast forward to me in my 40s, at a small deli in the Brighton section of Boston. There it was, sunflower halva, right up by the front counter. Filled with nostalgia, I had to try it again. I did -- this time I loved it. Yes, a tiny bit grainy but at the same time, smooth and not overly sweet. Heavenly. Wonderful.

I understand Lucy’s love of halva. I get it now.

Now, even if your local Piggly Wiggly doesn’t carry it (check the kosher section, if they have one) everything and anything can be found on line. Hell, you can order halva through Amazon.com.

The world gets smaller and smaller.

Memory Motel

Today is big with the anniversary-ness. On the evening of this day, 32 years ago -- Thanksgiving evening 1980, I boarded a Trailways bus in Indiana, Pennsylvania, headed for Boston and my next, new, fab adventure.

I was at my parent’s home for rucksack repacking and the traditional turkey feast before my northward journey.

College graduation had been the previous Spring. (I'd matriculated with an oh-so-useful degree in fine art, with a music minor. Thus preparing for one of those readily available, high paying gigs painting nekkid folk while listening to Liszt and Orff.) My final season on the road with the carnival was history, (topped off with my ignominious booting from the great state of Texas).  There were just a few last parties on campus to clock in at.

I went to university where my father taught, in the same town where I went to high school. My dream, my big fat, glorious, pie-in-the-sky, castle-in-the-air was to go away to school -- preferably Boston University or somewhere, anywhere in the San Francisco area. It was not to be though. My distinct dearth of dineros, combined with free tuition for professor’s kiddles, meant the choice was made for me. IUP's not a bad school at all -- just wasn't my fantasy.

In any case, I managed to find a drunken debauch or three and, what I thought would be, a farewell to western Pennsylvania fling. In post-sheet shaking kibbitz with my flingee, Sam, it somehow came up that my father was a math professor. 'What's your last name,' he asked. What a surprise -- he’d just thumped thighs WITH HIS ADVISOR’S DAUGHTER.

He was thrilled. I was a squicked out. He wanted to come over to the house and say hi to Pop. I was having none of that. Please, dude -- I don’t take my una botta e via’s home to meet the folks!

Mega sigh.

All the same, he managed to invite himself along to my bus station farewell on Thanksgiving evening. There we were in the dimly lit, grimy parking lot -- my little sister Ann, my father, mother and Sam, who was hovering at my side. I hugged mia famiglia goodbye and went to board. Arm proprietorially, snugly around me Sam escorted me to the coach door and then, dramatically, bent me over backwards for a big, wet, sloppy tonsillectomy.

Christ on a Cosmo, what a performance.

With stratospheric embarrassment, cheeks blooming 53 zillion shades of crimson, I stepped aboard and away into the future.

Martini Fascist

That's me, by the by.

This beauty has Bombay Sapphire in it BUT there's lemonade and Curaçao so this is def NOT a martini, no matter what the advertising copy says!

A proper martini is comprised of Sapphire, the slimmest rumor of vermouth and a big fat green olive. If we're gonna get all wild and crazy, the olive is stuffed with jalapenos. That's IT!

Anything else is a cocktail. Chocolate and pomegranate 'martinis' might be 12 shades of grand, yummy as all hell but they aren't martinis. Nope, they are not.

You know...just so you know and all.

My Alternate Time Traveling Reality

In my alternate time traveling reality, my parallel life, I get to be 54 at the same time as my mother, Lucy.

Yeah she had hearing then and I’m all deaf now and shit but I bet she had some awesome ASL chops before she really needed them.

I want to chat, dish, schmooze with Lu, woman to woman, about all that gooey shit that makes life grand.

I wanna talk pottery -- she was way keen on Terra Cotta, my mud of choice. Painting -- she was into the impressionists, not the expressionists but they were all about color and light, right? I’ll bet big dimes she’d have been WAY into the color field dudes. Maybe not Motherwell but Rothko and Barnett Newman -- OH yeah. 

BOYS! As I crashed into my 20s she all of a sudden felt comfortable, OK -- less uncomfortable, talking about sex. That is, she brought the subject up NOT me. Lucy nudged and needled me more than a few times about my BFF Kevin.  Mia madre was impatient. She wanted me to jump his bones and jump ‘em good -- figured he was just too shy to make the first move.That’s not quite how she worded it but it’s bloody close.

I want to be 38 in the same year Lucy was 38. That was the year we lived on the corner of Waterman and Butler in Providence, Rhode Island. It was the year of the Great Northeast Blackout. It was also the year that Help!, The Beatles’ second movie, came out. I imagine I was probably psyched to see it but, being just seven, didn’t figure it’d happen. I never even asked if she would please, please PUH-LEESE Mommy, take me.

And then she announced, one day after I came home from my second grade hell at Saint Sebastian’s, that she would take us to a theater on the Brown campus where it was playing. I was thrilled down to the subatomic level, giddier than a pack of rainbow colored soap bubbles chased by a herd of wee calicoes. I was 99 kinds of psyched.

We get to the auditorium and it’s jam packed with teenage girls...big people. Few were sitting down to begin with and then, THEN, the movie started. As one, they were all on their feet, many standing on the seats. The absolute second Ringo’s be-ringed hand entered the screen the shrieks, the cries, the squeals began and increased spectacularly when the camera panned out to take in the entire Fab Four.

Mein gott, I couldn’t see or hear a thing. I yanked on my mother’s skirt and asked why. I said, ‘I can’t see, I can’t hear the movie’ and ‘how can any of them enjoy the show if they’re all yelling.’ Heh, Lucy was standing too. She didn’t pay me much mind -- in fact I think she shushed me. I realize only now that's because SHE was standing and craning for a better view of Paul or John too.

Gaston and Rocco

Sounds all Jules and Jim-ish doesn't it?

G and R aren't speaking lately. In fact, they're now taking turns at breakfast. That is, they no longer show up  and dine together. The Amazing Bob tells me they had a shouting match the other week. No violence but much heat and fury -- probably all over some cat broad. You know how those Toms are.

That's Gaston at right, wondering what the fuck I'm doing and 'can't you see I'm extreme noshing here?'

And this is totally THE best I could do with our man Rocco. He was giving me such a glare too. I believe this was after muttering 'I get NO peace from the damned paparazzi!' Of course, he may have been demanding seconds on the Fancy Feast Whitefish and Shrimp. I've a hell of a time reading his lips (it's that whole Malevich Black on Black thing he's rockin')so I could have misunderstood. Possibly.

Peace

 Peace like a river ran through the city
Long past the midnight curfew
We sat starry-eyed
We were satisfied

And I remember
Misinformation followed us like a plague
Nobody knew from time to time
If the plans where changed
Oh, if the plans were changed

--Paul Simon

the rest of the lyrics are here

Report From Feral Cat Heaven

This is Greta. She’s the newest of our porch visiting felines. She sits demurely under the window near the door, looking up expectantly, hopefully -- patiently waiting. Bob and I always do the one-moment sign, letting her know we’ll be right out with her meal. When we open the door, naturally, she yells/growls at us and then zips away under Jen’s van.

The absolute second we disappear inside she’s back, chowing down.

Rocco’s new head wound is taking a very slow ass time to heal. I suspect he’s fucking with it, picking at it, trying to clean. We worry OF COURSE. He’s still so feral that all we can really do is set out great big meals of tuna and speak to him in soothing tones.

Helpless -- feelin’ helpless here. Hating it!

His cheek wound, which I figured would kill him, is completely healed over now. I have hope.

 Gaston’s winter coat is in and he’s sporting the full blow Maine Coon Cat look. God he’s a beauty -- Hermes winter line has got nothing on our boy! No pics of his massive fur bound self yet, sadly. He tends not to sit and pose when there’s breaky in the offing.

Virgin of Mercy of Saint Theodore, c.950, Byzantine

This is Skitter, at left, as a wee bairn with her mother Trixie. Trixie was the visitor who decided to move in and no she didn't bother to ask if that was OK with us or our poor timid Coco.  She now has a wonderful home with a lovely woman over in the Mission Hill section of Boston. Skitter moved in with Jen and Oni.
Opportunistic little cusses.

And this is Skitter as the leggy super model-ish young adult that she is now. Her favorite activity is to fuck with the older cats in Jen and Oni’s house. Thelma loves the play, the activity. Rosie plays the grouchy old matron, hissing and growling at Skitter’s attempts to play, and then spends the day napping away with her as though they were Madonna and child.

They're all, indoor and out, feral and tame, pretty damned spoiled now. As it should be.

Anticipation

Marsh View from the Trike

God, I am MOLTO, wicked psyched to go for my morning trike ride tomorrow. Lately, it feels like I spend my entire week looking forward to my next ride. Probably because I am. Like totally, man.

The Mega Cosmic Fun Machine

Kind of Blue

It’s easier, for me anyway, to be angry than sad.

I think, possibly this is about fear -- that is, if I allow myself to be sad, to truly experience the great weight of loss, to sink into the devil’s sub-sub-basement of enervated disconsolateness, I may never come back up. This being what I’m anxious about -- being stuck in an inescapable muddy mire, a morass of the deepest Ultramarine Blue (there’d be a touch of Alizarin Crimson and Burnt Umber added in, ‘natch).

I’m afraid I won’t have the energy to pull myself up out of the Sea of Melancholia (located on the dark side of the moon. Not even close to the Sea of Tranquility). Rejoining the day won’t be accomplishable even with the Death Star lifting abilities of the giant Liebherr Crane

I’ll be stuck in a place that’s duller than an evening spent in the company of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Wild Rose, Wisconsin. Nope -- not my bag.

I distract myself with fury inspiring people and events – it keeps me back from the shores of Mournful Loss Springs. Lucky me, the recent elections supplied near endless amounts of that outrage elevation stuff.

The trick here, the key, the big, fat gold ring is to avoid hunting up fuel for this sorrow avoidance trap of mine. There will always be something to awaken the old anima. Always and forever. Living in a constant state of ire is just too painful and draining though (been there, done that. It blows concrete space junk).

It’s time to dive into Lamentation Lake or at least dip in my tootsies.

I really, truly know that I’ll rise to the surface, that I’ll be all buoyantly, purple/orange polka dotted happy again. Mia Madre, Lucia Fanelli Maderer, would have wanted that. Me too.

Where to now then? As my fabulous cousin Gary said, just yesterday, ‘Enjoy every sandwich.’  We never know when our picnic baskets will be short one Dagwood. 

Miles and Coltrane -- Kind of Blue

Fripperies and Finery

I got my first bra at 11 -- a ‘training bra’ which was basically just an undershirt made of stretchy material in a brassiere-like shape. Honestly, it was more just a way for mother to shut me up than an actual physical necessity. I had giant, horking envy of my older sister’s entrance into the mysteries of puberty and simply HATED to be left behind

Also, ‘training’ bra? How does one ‘train’ a budding pair of Angel Cakes? No, don’t answer that one. Please.

I’m from a large-ish family so there wasn’t the extra change around for frilly, colorful dainties. Plus, since I went from 10 years old to 20 (bodywise – emotional maturity has yet to catch up) in the space of a couple of years mia madre wasn’t about to waste the dough on the KEE-UTEST little 28A (it had a bumble bee right in the center!) when she knew my allegrissimo growth spurt would blow me through that in another couple of months.

So, I embroidered bees, flowers and patterns on my plain old white Montgomery Ward Teenform specials. There were a couple of failed tie dye experiments too. Christ a’ mighty, I wanted a pretty and fun soutien-gorge.

It wasn’t until after I was in college and out visiting a friend in San Francisco that I discovered Sugar Plum Heaven. Yup,Victoria’s Secret.

I was 18 and just a few weeks from joining up with that traveling carnival. Julia took me down to Ghirardelli Square. We walked into what looked like, to my young imagination, a turn of the century, way upscale English boudoir. Everything was draped in swathes of sheer lavender gossamer, silk and satin. The door was of heavily carved dark wood with stained glass bits embedded, there were peacock feathers hanging from the ceiling and bright Tiffany lamps on every little end table.

And then I saw the brassieres. More beautiful than I could have imagined and well beyond my poor college student budget. This became one of my goals -- to be able to buy, to wear undergarments made of silk, satin and lace -- in the colors of twilight, aubergine, emerald and crimson.

Eventually I was able to afford the occasional, gloriously beautiful frippery and, to wear them under my Tshirt and jeans, gave me a lovely secret joy.

Years passed. Much sensible, yet brightly colored cotton, moved into my top drawer -- the silk and satin dainties shifted to the back, brought out only on special occasion. New fancies and flash were clearly needed so Jen and I ventured out to our local shopping emporium and what had once been the Ciel de Lingerie.

Mein Gott, things have changed! Sure, sure, there are still some wonders on those racks but at more astronomical prices than I’d remembered. Plus, so much of it is clearly meant for the catwalk or just the bedroom -- definitely not intended for every day use.

I remembered Victoria's Secret having more affordable bits. They carried cotton bras and panties in stripes and polka dots, in oranges, teals and vermilions. All in just the right sizes and cuts. Yes, they still have a less expensive line but now it’s all this horrible, nasty-ass, cheesy, nylon crapola. There’s little difference now between VS and Frederick’s of Hollywood. Hell, they’re two Kamikazes and one pool hall Tshirt away from the Spencer’s Gifts market.

And the lighting -- oof, no more the decor, the soft lighting which brought to mind Lady Chatterley's Lover and Wuthering Heights. No, no. Police Station line ups have more forgiving illumination.

Once again, so many eons later, I’m on the hunt for comfortable, pretty, elegant fancies.

Valhalla Morning

 Sea and Sand

A Bird for Nixon and Kissinger

Veteran’s Day — a complicated thing for Bob and I. He was in the Air Force during Viet Nam — two tours. 
These are a few of the poems he wrote after rotating home.
Desertion

They shook us from our roots, gave us new skills:
How to pop salutes, shine our boots,
Then they taught us how to kill.
Congress jumped through Army’s hoop
As Agent Orange dusted our troops.
The press reported all they knew
Of what the White House claimed was true,
And you can’t desert your country
When your country’s deserted you.
We obeyed the orders, moved it along.
Though we sensed that things were going all wrong.
We learned a heinous new song:
Well, if they’re dead, they’re Viet Cong.
Poor folks gone to early graves; we killed the people we would save.
You all sat home, waved some flags while grunts put tags on body bags.
I’ll slay the monsters of my past with feelings felt and questions asked.
I’ll burn the bridges, spike the guns: what’s past is past, what’s done is done.
Time to bend but not to break, time to cancel old mistakes.
Time to give and maybe take, time to risk and not to fake.
No more booze and sleepless nights, time not to be so uptight.
From the shadows to the sun: Past is past and done is done.

-- Probably written in the early ‘70s
Fall River, Massachusetts 

My First Nuke

Did TDY on a tiny atoll which wasn’t very bad duty at all:
Great chow, cheap booze, nice lagoon...and missiles.
One day some APs arrived blowing whistles,
Backed us off the bird, waving M-16s,
Backed up a trailer, looking kind of mean.
Some techs removed the bird’s plastic nose cone
Then replaced it with a metallic cone.
‘What’s that?’ we asked. ‘Real thing,’ one of them said.
We gaped. It slowly sunk into my head. I was ten feet away.
‘That’s a nuclear bomb! They’re serious!
These motherfuckers are delirious!’ I thought and walked away.
After that, it changed. I still liked the booze
and the chow, but I came down with the blues.
My Pacific vacation had a crack. Soon enough my squadron rotated back.
Soon after that I got my 1040.
Couldn’t rotate that warhead from my brain.
To this day I still think it’s all insane.

-- 1968, California

TDY - Temporary Duty Assignment
APs - Air Police
Bird - Medium range ballistic missile
M-16 - .223 caliber automatic rifle
Rotation - Normal crew cycle
1040 - Honorable military discharge document

Welcome Home
Welcome home you Viet Vets
You walking wounded puzzles
We read in Time and Newsweek that
You’re out without your muzzles
Welcome home you scarred up grunts
Two decades down the road
You’re still bruised and we’re confused
By such a heavy load
We’ve welcomed Indo-refugees
Forgiven those Evaders
We put the fun in war again
By shooting up Grenada
So welcome home you psychopaths
You heroes and you junkies
We weep at interviews with you
By anchormen and flunkies
Now what are we supposed to do
To welcome you back home?
We’re all on meatless diets now
So we can’t throw you a bone
Ronzo has our votes, you know
The Pentagon is fat
We’re sending aid to Contras now
We’re very proud of that
A few more years from now we’ll meet
To have parades and fun --
Walking wounded once again:
We’ll welcome home your son.

--early '70s, Fall River
revised 1986, Boston

Grands

Unicorn In a Dress by Julianna

One week ago today, at about this time, my fabulous niece Helen, her husband John and two of their three amazing kiddles, my GRANDnieces, were at the hotel bar -- adults decompressing and wee ones zooming about. This was after the wakes, the two viewings for my mother, Helen’s grandmother and Crysta, Madison and Juliana’s great grandmother.

For me the wakes had been a marathon of good behavior -- one I was hard pressed to finish. I’m not the most socially ept human to start with plus, fer fuck’s sake, mia madre just joined the Seraphim Choir and Marching Band.

It was a major plus, a big ass gold star for my forehead, that I was able to keep myself from insulting and berating my fellow mourners generally, specifically and to their faces. We all experience/live through grief differently. My first reaction is always anger. I’m angry that she’s gone. I’m angry at myself for not being able to make my mother all better and live forever. I’m angry that Lucy had to experience any pain EVER in this life. I’m just an angry old bee.

Hearts and Angels by Julianna

That and it rankled me nine ways to Christmas that there were folks in attendance displaying astounding levels of damp morosity who, seemingly, expected me to ease their trauma or join them in wailing concertos.

Christ almighty on pane casareccia Barese -- y’all are there to HELP the family, n'est–ce pas? If you’re uncontrollably distraught, PLEASE muthafuckas, don’t go to the wake and assuredly, don’t go with the expectation that the famiglia is there to make you feel better. We’re all keeping it together with silk floss, spit and paperclips. There’s NO room to support, to buoy, strangers.

So, there we were, afterwards, at the bar of the worst Holiday Inn I’ve ever stayed in. Damp carpeting in the room, no wi fi, front desk help who didn’t have a clear concept of what constitutes winning customer service and a bar that was probably fresh, happening and inviting back in the...OK, never. Clearly no one in the joint had ever seen any of the John Cleese vids.

In any case, seven year old Madison and four year old Julianna were buzzing around like the overheated atomic particles they are. They came to rest-ish and were showing me this cute drawing program that Helen has on her phone. Having a grand time making neon abstracts, Juliana wanted me to try. It was a simple program. I should’ve been able to make cute doggy and kitten pics for them but NOOOOO. I can muck about successfully in Illustrator and PhotoShop but this phone app? Forget it.

How embarrassing and cliche is it that my four year old grandniece had to sort out and reboot for me not once, not twice but FOUR different times.


I made my way back up to the calm, dimly lit room I was sharing with 18 year old Crysta. She offered me a hit off her jay which felt utterly comforting and totally bizarre. Kind of like the first time I split a beer with my grandfather.

It's Been a Long, Long Day

This song brings me back to my first year out on the road with the carnival. It had just come out and, with my constant nagging and whining over the jumps from one spot to the next, the driver always let me pop in the 8 track (sigh. yes, 8 track).

It's also a good song for illustrating my week, not just today.

When I see him standing there
I said, “Hey, there’s a guy who needs a laugh”
That’s what I said to myself

What the hell, we’re both alone
And I’m just standing here
Jukebox in the corner
Shooting to kill

And it’s been a …
It’s been a long, long day

I sure could use a friend
Don’t know what else to say
I hate to abuse an old cliché
But it’s been a long, long day
It’s been a long, long day

 Mr. Paul Simon -- here with the amazing Steve Gadd