Eclectic Tales

Prodigal Bloggers

2011-09-26T19:26:00.000-04:00

Hmmm. I have had many adventures since I have last spoken with y'all. I have missed every one of you. To bring you all up to date, I am now widowed, still working and have re-introduced myself to the, ahem, world of dating. I see I need to fix things up around here, and get back on track! My brain is brimming with tales old and new and many half written. So here we go, with hugs all around.

I kinda sorta have a boyfriend. He is 19 years younger than I. This is how we met...

I decided 6 months after my husband died it was time to go out, socialize and come what may, so I posted my profile on an adult site. (Let's be honest here, I'm almost 60, have been unwillingly chaste for way too long and time is drawing short). I am not easy to meet on these websites as I ignore most of the emails I receive, too young, don't wanna see what your Johnson looks like, and manners are glaring absent. So I didn't respond to the pictures of massive erections with come ons of "can last all night". What generally would happend is I would eventually begin a conversation with someone after they unfailingly wrote me several emails asking to meet me. I began a discourse with several men that lasted over a month.

Being bluntly honest, I described my self as a large woman who smoked like a chimney, posted a picture of me sans make up! When the time came to fish or cut bait I made dates with 3 men over one week-end. You know, just meet and eat. My first date was with an athletic marathon runner who is a business professional. We had lunch together. Was he a cutie! Dark, handsome and muscled and ready to play. He was not interested in anything but social entertainment, as was I. We had a nice lunch, flirted outrageously, frankly discussing what we liked about each other. We agreed we would like to connect, but as I had to go back to work as well as he, we left the restaurant, but not before he grabbed my hand and led me to a private corner on a very public street and kissed me like I have never been kissed in my life! Yes, I wobbled back to work and tried to work the rest of the day.

To be continued...

Troubled Waters

2008-04-14T08:05:00.010-04:00

Pirate sheepishly walked around the living room picking up the buttons from his shirt the next morning.

"I can't believe I ripped my shirt off like that," he laughed.

I just nodded my head in agreement and began collecting clothes as well. As I dressed he began planning the rest of the weekend by asking and making suggestions for places to go and things to do. That's what I liked most about Pirate. He took me out. We went to the hottest night spots in Savannah; Gay bars, after hours clubs, nice restaurants. We also did homey things like visit his folks, take all day and scoot about the intercoastal island in his Boston Whaler. Each day and night was different and exciting. The more time we spent together, the more his story became clear.

His father retired in South Carolina while he was still in school. Fishing and the sea sparked a desire in his blood, so after school he bought a shrimp boat and went out on his own. Being a capricious man during the height of the social revolution of the 60's and early 70's, importing certain herbs from Caribbean Islands seemed like such a little thing, plus it provided that extra surge of adrenalin needed to make his life exciting.

Pirate was not a very complex man. He was smart, kind, strong, but restless. His desire for constant excitement drove his existence to the point of bad decisions. While he had more of the qualities within his personality that I was attracted to, I was just a neophyte to him. His sexual appetite was jaded. He wanted more than he could ask me for and told me as much one night when we were lying in bed.

"I'm used to being with older women you know that don't you?" I nodded and wondered where this comment was leading. "I don't think I have been with anyone as young as you are." He continued.

"Ok..." I responded, thinking that I didn't usually go out with men younger than myself. He was younger by a year but his soul was as old as Methuselah.

"You see, I need more than you can give me. You need more experience."

I started to get that uneasy creepy crawly feeling, while a gnawing grew in the pit of my stomach.

"I'm used to doing more." He explained.

"Like what?" I asked.

Continuing he explained to me in detail the various sexual games and positions he enjoyed. He explained that my innocence in this regard compelled him to restrain himself from attempting to explore our sexual relationship further. He told me that my technique needed more work, which would come with time, something he did not have. I expressed a willingness to learn and do more, but his preference was for someone he did not have to tell or teach.

He explained all this in such a way, that I thought he was expanding his "dating" gallery and that I would not have the exclusivity I had enjoyed the past few months. Sadly, I never heard from him after that.

In the back of my mind I always knew that there would be no permanence with this relationship. The excitement of being with him and being a part of his life was a heady aphrodisiac. Coming to like him and his gentle way and studious mind was difficult to give up.

The abruptness of this breakup put me into a deep depression. The contrast of having my life peopled, back to the bleak loneliness I experienced prior, was difficult for me. I tried to adapt and adjust with out success. I decided to move. Move to Florida and become a sexually savvy woman so I would have a better chance of 'keeping a man'.

The sea can romance a person with her power, strength and beauty. She has been the mistress of many men and the bane of many women. No one ever tames her, she allows one to sail her waters until such time as one may lose a little respect. Pirate understood this, having been slapped by his mistress many times. I was just beginning to understand.

Buried Treasure

2008-03-27T07:49:00.022-04:00

I could barely contain my excitement. I nodded my head in the affirmative as I struggled to maintain my composure. We agreed on a time and I returned to work.

Thankfully, during this era of the 70's, jeans were the new formal wear. A sexy top, platform sandals and I was set.

Pirate was unlike anyone I had been out with. His abundant confidence and easy manner was infectious. His conversation was interesting and intellectual. His knowledge of cuisine and wines surpassed my Boone's Farm Concord experiences. He owned a Victorian House, which was unusual for a man his age.

He put me at ease with his conversation. We talked about his family, his recent adventure and our philosophies on life. It occurred to me during our dinner, that it was possible he was only taking me to dinner as a thank you. This thought relaxed me making it easier to enjoy his company. The wine helped with that as well. I took this opportunity to look at him fully in the face and enjoy his masculinity.

Pirate had dark chestnut tanned skin that accentuated his crystal blue eyes and flashing white smile. His exaggerated canines gave him the feral appearance of a lion guarding his pride. His whole manner oozed the slinky sexuality of a pride king on the Serengeti. The closer we got to the end of our meal the more engaging he became. He began to look at me in a way that confirmed we were on a date. His dangerous smile and cool blue eyes spoke of things to come.

We decided to go for drinks after dinner, maybe to a club, but he needed to swing by his house and get some cash. Once we got to his home, he invited me in so he could roll some doobies and maybe smoke one? He didn't have to twist my arm with that request.

He put Jackson Browne on, poured us a drink and rolled a pin joint. Smiling, he lit it up and sunk back on his black leather couch. We smoked while listening to the heartbreaking realities of Jackson Browne's lost loves. He reached out and touched my arm.

"Hey, let's not go any where. Honestly, I would rather stay in."

I hesitated. I had my car, so I had a way to maintain my respectability. His request was reasonable to me since he had only been out of jail a few hours.

"Sure, it's nice listening to music and smoking this joint." Thereupon I sunk back on the couch.

"Why don't you lie down, put your head in my lap." He suggested.

"Ok." I agreed.

We remained that way for about an hour, talking, listening to music, smoking. I decided that it was time to go home and got up. He looked at me and said, "I thought you were going to stay."

I looked at him and said nothing, thinking. I wanted to do a lot of things with him for longer than just one night. Experience told me to go home, play the game. He told me,

"Look, it's up to you. Stay. I don't want to be alone. We can have sex or not. Wait, that doesn't sound right. I want to have sex with you. But if we don't, it won't affect my feelings for you. Just stay." His request was matter-of-fact and believeable.

No one had ever been so frank with me. He would always be this way. He wasn't a fawning affectionate type. He was direct with out being crude.

He patted the couch and I lay back down, my head in his lap, continuing our conversation.

Yes, he kissed me. His kiss was soft and warm. Slow and lingering. He explored my neck and deftly unbuttoned my blouse driving me insane when his hot breath and moist lips teased my breasts. I was loosing control! I tensed to control my quivering. His lips found my stomach and his hands my zipper. I had never been stripped so expertly in my life. I began fumbling with his shirt buttons, he helped me by ripping it open. I ran my fingers through the thick and silken hair on his chest. He kissed me again, this time the texture of our flesh mingling added sensuality to our rhythm. Smoothly and quickly he removed his jeans and gently lowered himself on me, cradling me in this arms, kissing my lips. I closed my eyes to allow his slow deliberate kisses, his warm strong body and the cool gripping leather of the couch to envelope me.

His hot kisses began to roam, travelling down my neck, over the rise of my breast, burning down the valley of my abdomen. I wove my fingers in his hair as he lifted my hips gently to softly nuzzle and explore my special pearl. Soon, all too soon, I pleaded for his treasure and was quickly rewarded as he buried the most sensational jewel I had known.

~Intermission~

Smuggler's Cove

2008-03-07T16:36:00.005-05:00

I lived in a cinder block apartment with black linoleum floors and an oil burning furnace. It was furnished in Early American Orangecrate. Outside of my king size water bed, which saw little to no action, I had a cable spool as a coffee table, earthquake pillows for seating and stained tea crates as end tables. My only source of entertainment was my stereo/radio and books.

Most of my days consisted of my going to work and coming home. When the loneliness became overpowering, I would surprise visit people! I spent most weekends at one Grandmother's house or another. Since Pirate was in town fishing, I spent that time at my Grandmother's in the fishing village. Waiting. Of course, this was getting me no where fast. I would see him. He would wave. I would wave. My excitement for the day had come and gone.

One morning, while dressing for work and listening to the radio, I heard that Pirate and his boat had been arrested. For drug smuggling! Selfishly I thought, "Well that's it now. I will never get an inside to him."

That morning when I arrived at work, the office was abuzz with the news. Come to find out, the attorneys I worked for were representing Pirate! Maybe I can still catch a glimpse of him now and then. I began work while the lawyers busily worked on bail procedures. That afternoon, the head partner came to me and told me to drive him to the Federal Courthouse. He needed me to wait for him while get got Pirate out of holding.

Trying not to appear anxious, I asked why he needed me. "Because you will need to drive Pirate to hospital after I get him out. I will be elsewhere."

My brain and stomach began churning. I will be face to face with Pirate. Oh my God! Okay, settle down. Be cool. What will I say? What are you worried about? Did I shave my legs? How do I look? Partner knows. I know he knows.

When we arrived at the courthouse, Partner told me to wait for him on the steps. Barely maintaining a cool and calm exterior I rehearsed what I would say to Pirate on the ride to the hospital. It would be important that he not think I was all gooey over him. A few minutes later he hopped out on one foot with Partner.

"Help him down the stairs", Partner instructed. Bare-footed in raggedy cut-offs and a Cable Guy shirt, I nervously put my arm around Pirate's waist and his arm over my shoulder. I looked up into his dreamy blue eyes and gushed, "Ready?"

Wincing, while balancing on one foot, he asked me to help him to the stair rail. He then descended the stairs gingerly and hopped to the car. He maintained his independence by opening the door and getting into the car.

"Well, which hospital do you want to go to." I asked.

"Take me home, I'm not going anywhere like this," he asked.

"Are you sure? That foot looks pretty bad." I responded.

He nodded his head in the affirmative.

I strained to find something clever and interesting to say, but no words came out. He silently looked out of the window during the drive to his house. I felt opportunity pulling away and was beginning to accept it when...

"Listen, I really appreciate you driving me home." I turned to see Pirate looking directly at me.

"Your welcome." I said, fighting the urge to look away from him. Smiling into my eyes he continued, "Let's go to dinner tonight. It will be a couple of days before I get a car, would you mind driving?"

**Intermission**

Pirate of the Carribbean

2008-02-29T07:45:00.003-05:00

His blue bedroom eyes lazily caressed my face causing me to blush furiously and look away. He nodded and smiled as my cousin J introduced us. Pirate was a shrimp boat captain, my cousin his striker. They had just come in from a trip, both men, swarthy and muscled from working the nets on the sunny seas looked better than Johnny Depp ever had a right to.

My grandmother and I were sitting on her front porch when the boat docked. We waved, knowing that J would come over, as custom and culture deemed it so. My Grandmother was very popular among her nieces and nephews. After they walked away, my Grandmother nudged me, hissing,"That's the one who is smuggling dope!"

"Noo!" I exclaimed, in mock horror.

"He sure is cute, but not as cute as J!" She went on to say.

Yes, the early 70's was a time when many a fisherman augmented their income with a side trip or two. As a matter of fact, they used the old pirate hideouts along the intercoastal islands to "trade" their wares. Yarrr!

Pirate was a Marine brat whose parents retired in the Paris Island area. My cousin had been around shrimping all his life, as it is a huge business down here. When the two met up they began their adventures at sea. I knew I would never be involved with the Pirate, but one wink would have made me his wench!

Since Pirate docked his boat in front of my Grandmother's house, I had plenty of time to passively stalk him. My Grandmother chastised me often as I waited for the boat to dock. "You're waiting to see that drug smuggler," she would hiss. "Well he has a girlfriend. I saw her get on the boat with him!"

"It doesn't hurt to look!" I snapped back at her. "Anyway" I thought to myself, "he would never go out with a goof like me." Sure enough, as his boat docked one day, there she sat on top of the pilot house. Sunning herself in a leopard print bikini. I knew she was older than he. I also knew she was a headlining stripper at an old and established 'Gentlemen's Club' in town. She was definitely more sophisticated than I.

My Grandmother started up when she saw her. "Look at her, dyed hair! Oh! She has got to be older than him. That bikini is too small. Well, I told you he had a girlfriend! Besides, he's no good. You stay away from him!"

I just nodded my head fantasizing being at sea swashbuckling with my blued-eyed pirate.

~Intermission~

Promises Promises

2008-02-20T08:36:00.008-05:00

I know. I know. I promised a saga of epic proportions. Work has been a rat's nest of drama clouding my creative juices. I have so much emotion swirling around inside of me that I have become preoccupied with this situation which is just too raw to write about at this moment. So, I will treat you to a horror story of Employment Past.

I believe I have experienced most of what a person can experience in a work environment. You name it, it has more than likely happened to me. Maybe the funniest in retrospect is, a boyfriend of mine snuck into the back of the house to my office at the hotel. Drunk on his ass. As I escorted him toward the public area of the hotel, he stopped by the freight elevator and said, "I have to show you something." Pulling out his penis from his pants he asked me to polish his knob. I was mortified and he did not remain my boyfriend.

I do have an incident that wins the Boss Asshole Coward of the Year Award.

Many times people produce social events that entail donations of food and beverage. In essence, the hotel gets the product, charges a slight fee known as "corkage" to serve the product. If the event is a charity event, the venue is flexible on corkage fees, but if it is someone trying to save a few bucks on the alcohol or food costs, corkage fees are assessed. The venue will chill, prepare and serve the product, which is why a corkage fee is charged.

On one occasion we had a very formal VIP reception/dinner/dance put on by a local society club. All the wine for dinner was donated. As was the practice at the hotel, dinner wine was opened up by the banquet servers. In this case, since the wine was donated, it was definitely to be opened by the banquet servers-all decided and agreed to in our menu review.

Keep in mind that not only was I responsible for banquet bars, but the public bar, private bar, service bar, etc. I always had several things going on at one time. When time came for my bartenders to pick up the liquor for their bars, we met at my office/storeroom with flatbeds and loaded them up. In walks my F&B Director, dressed in his tux. He was agitated in his mid-western Uriah Heap way. Eyes darting back and forth with soto voce he spoke,"They are having trouble with the wine upstairs and we need your help."

I responded, "Sure, we are finishing up here. We will be up in about 15 minutes."

He spun around with a snap and stomped out, kicking the door open as he left. Yes, he did that in front of me and 5 bartenders. On of my senior bartenders exclaimed, "Oh no he didn't!" I said, "Yes he did!" She said, "I'll go up there and help while y'all finish here."

When we got upstairs, Mr. Milquetoast had become a fire-breathing dragoon. "This event is very important and you need to understand that this wine needs to be opened!"

I told him that the banquet servers had plenty of time, that we would help, but that the bars for the reception for that very event, were the priority at the moment and we only had 45 minutes left for set up. With no doors to kick, he marched off into the ballroom.

I went to my bars to check the progress and was told by the bartenders that the wine bottles were impossible to open and that 'he' was going to have to do something about it.

"Hmm, strange." I thought to myself. I went back to the abandoned banquet set up area, where the wine was. Oh what the Grapes of Wrath have wrought! It looked like a gang war of reds vs whites. Broken cork screws of every style lay in silent testimony to the stubborn corks. Even, oh no it can't be, the table anchored heavy duty banquet corker was broken! Three wine bottles had their corks removed. Several had been drilled with cork dust the only result. Hundreds remained, mutely mocking me to just try and open them.

Whipping out my trusty, unfailing cork screw I tackled the first bottle. No luck. This lever was not going to move that cork out of the bottle. I tried bottle after bottle until my personal corkscrew broke. I grabbed a houseman and had him hold the bottle and pull while I pulled. So what if a little wine spilled? That did not work either. I was sorely tempted to break the neck off against the sink.

The generous purveyor who had donated this particular Pino Grigio had not stored the wine properly and had allowed the corks to dry, but they did not shrink. Thereby making them unsellable and donatable.

Taking a deep breath I muslced up my nerve and found my boss. "I have tried to open the wine, and I am physically unable to open it." I left before he could say anything more to me.

A Fine Day for Bookmakers

2008-02-12T14:48:00.002-05:00

I love this town! Just when I get used to it, I see something amazing!

Today, we were treated to this spectacle. http://www.wtoc.com/global/story.asp?s=7860430
(Then click on the time lapse video link)

This was a ship transporting a container crane to be installed at the Georgia Port Authority. It is the largest ever. At lot of planning went into this arrival. The bridge clearance at dead low tide had to be reckoned along with the draft of the ship, weight of the cargo and bohemouth height/width of the davit.

People were lined up and down the river on both sides watching. Waiting. Waiting to see if the ship would make it without hitting the bridge. Makes my heart warm that the word of mouth method of communication down South is pretty damn effective!

Shoowee now! Back in the late 70's early 80's, when the old bridge was in use(not the one you see now). We would sit on the river smoking our doobies making side bets on whether the big container ships would make it under. After a couple of near misses(hits in reality) we got the go ahead for a new bridge. (The one you see now).

Working on another epic with first installment this week.

Delicate Matters

2008-01-22T07:42:00.000-05:00

I was blessed to have dark, almost black, luxuriant hair with twinkling red highlights. As a young girl, my friends liked to brush and 'fix' it. As a pubescent youth nature maintained that pattern of luxuriant growth in other places. As this was the correct and natural process of growing I put little thought into the improvements my body was going through, excepting the desire to have big boobs!

Until the advent of the bikini, hair in secret places was not a concern to many women. All we had to worry about was keeping our behinds and breasts within the confines of the elastic of our suits. But, the tinier the bathing suit became, inspections for errant hairs increased and discreet tucking became an art form.

Again, I was lucky to have cabiles growing EXACTLY where they should be, never venturing past the treasure it was protecting. As early as high school, I had friends who had to exfoliate the delicate areas connecting torso to thigh. The aesthetic correction often rashed up and itched making discrete scratching in public another behavorial art form. Not for me, I would think!

I am assuming that up until the 70's shaving the nether regions was was for medicinal or aesthetics. My first exposure to barbering and decoratively styling 'bunny' hair was found in the Woman's Feminine Bible of Fantasy-'Cosmopolitan'. They suggested shaving our precious asset in a heart shape to start a fire in our man. After mentally imagining how I could perform this tricky procedure, I decided that it would be too much of a risk on such an important area.

My thoughts were how would one do this exactly? One-handed, using a mirror and razor? What about symmetry? Anyone who has performed complex cosmetic maneuvers in front of a mirror knows that right and left are a matter of trial and error! What, Cosmo didn't provide a template and in depth instructions? Bah. They're nuts, reaching for readership I say. What healthy read-blooded male wants a bald woman. Down there.

Never thought much about it after that. Surgery did not endear me to braziling my privates either. First time I had a stent put in, the nurse, armed with a cheap disposable razor and nothing else scraped my entire right side. The optical effect was a source of constant amusement for my husband. My second surgery, a hysterectomy, the shaving nurse came out with the same disposable razor and scraped off the top half. Talk about cute. This drove my husband into wild fits of simile. "I say darlin', looks like ye have a little goatee there!" "Hey darlin', looks like the Doctor missed a spot, wouldn't you say?"

Ha ha!

I am all for people doing what they want to their bodies. I am. Really. We decorate our bodies everyday. Personal grooming is pretty basic with clean being the number one factor in my book. We all have our preferences. After much thought and deliberation I decided that I did not want the most important part of my sexual body to look the same way my legs did at 50. Skin that has been waxed continually over many years looks, well, shall we say old, scaly, wrinkled and stretched out.

Today, the unisex hairless look is in. Me, I prefer hair, in the right places, after all a man with all his body hair can't run as fast as a hairless one, right? Gives me a head start.

A Texas Christmas

2007-12-22T10:21:00.000-05:00

My father returned from Korea just before Christmas in 1957. He had received orders transferring him to Abilene, Texas. I had begun the first grade and this was the first of many times I would be leaving a school mid-year and moving during the holiday season. It was also the first of many times I would have to re-acquaint myself with my father after a long absence.

I was disappointed to be leaving my grandparents and the comfortable, familiar surroundings I had become accustomed to. My biggest concern during this move was finding the one missing dancing slipper from my ballerina doll I had received Christmas the year before. We moved without the slipper.

With teary good-byes, we loaded up one frosty December dawn to drive from Savannah to Abilene. My grandmothers had loaded us down with shoe boxes full of sandwiches, cookies, milk and a Coca-cola or two. I never believed we were leaving until we did. This feeling has remained with me all of my life.

Luckily, for my parents, I was a pretty good traveller. The world whizzing by my window captured my attention for years of cross-country journeys. My eyes and mind eagerly sucked in the assorted and various scenes I beheld. In my imagination I would invent stories and life styles of the people and buildings that passed by. The only time I would argue with my parents was when I got tired to their cigarette smoke. Yuck! I hated it.

The trip to Texas was uneventful, other than experiencing unknown lands and picnicking on the side of the road. Nothing, nothing is better than Grandmother's egg salad sandwich with lettuce and Wonder Bread and a hot coke. Especially when driving cross country. Of course, the gas emissions later, combined with the cigarette smoke was killer!

By day two, Texas couldn't come soon enough for me, and we had at least another full day of driving. Nothing brings a family together like travelling in a car for hours across country! I found I knew the back of my parents heads intimately. I learned that my mother had a nervous tick. She always put her left arm up on the seat back with her hand behind Daddy's head. For thousands of miles (and for years after) I watched her thumb twitch up and down. To say that I have learned to ignore the irritating habits of others is an understatement. I pointed it out to her once. She looked at me and turned back around and lit a cigarette. Oh well, as Daddy always said, "Children were meant to be seen and not heard." I would crack the window and stick my nose in the crack for noise and fresh air.

Texas wasn't very pretty to me. Vast expanses of red cracked ground resembling a jigsaw puzzle. I had to ask why and was told it was dry. Tumbleweeds rolled around like loose cannons, not caring whether they rolled across your path or not. I thought we had moved from the Garden of Eden to the Devil's Wasteland. Abilene wasn't a very pretty town either, when I first saw it. We settled down in a motel next to the railroad tracks, with a Sears across the track.

The room had a kitchenette and was very dark. This would be our home until we found a house. I asked my mother if Santa would be able to find us here and she assured me that he would. My parents found a small tree and we decorated it. One night my father took my brother and myself to Sears to buy Christmas presents. We decided on a lovely green stone necklace with matching earrings. I loved to decorate my mother.

The next morning I awoke covered head to toe with chicken pox. The next few days were a profound misery. Between baking soda baths and being slathered in calamine lotion, I lay on a cot in my underwear aching to scratch. I discovered ingenious ways to soothe the constant itch, while my parents admonished me not to scratch. My brother thought my pink lotion-caked body was a source of amusement, which engendered whining sessions from me.

As an adult, I would think back on that Christmas and know that my parents really wanted to kill my brother and myself. A family of 4 camped out in a motel room, in a strange city with a sick whiney kid and a comic. Maybe be it was the disparity of that Christmas that brought back memories, but my mother never wore the necklace. Years later I asked her why she continued to keep it. She told me that even though she thought the necklace was hideous, we gave it to her with love and admiration and that was her present.

UPDATE

2007-12-15T09:19:00.000-05:00

Drinking water, juice, broth and over-priced epsom salts for a day-$56.97

Oil Change (colonoscopy) and a 9 hour high-$2.500.00

Being praised for farting-Priceless!

Being told I could be the poster woman for healthy colons-Bonus (or was the doc just telling me I still have a nice ass!)

Confessions

2007-12-08T09:39:00.000-05:00

Most of you have noticed that my blog posts have diminished somewhat. There are some good reasons due to changes in activities and ritual.

I have a manic/depressive disorder. While medication prevents me from sinking to the depths of depravity or rising euphorically to the heavens, there are times that governance looses some of it's grip.

Anti-depressants do tend to make a person un-emotional during 'normal' times and keep the highs and lows to a dull roar when they occur, and they do occur. I have times I may go a week without the medication, a sin that all depressive personalities commit.

Retreat is a common defense mechanism that we use when depression gets a grip on us. The more savey one is about the condition, the easier it is to control. Unfortunately, retreat keeps us safe from ourselves and any undue destruction we may cause to ourselves while in a depressive state. God help us when we are high.

Many of my family members are and have been afflicted with manic/depressive syndrome, ergo my 'stories'. I have more stories in me, but lately the real dicey ones have been crowding out the tamer ones and I have been resisting the urge to write them down. Some are sad, some are funny, some are life lessons, all on the dark side.

I write this as a preamble to some stories that you may find dark or dicey, but I believe you will find them entertaining.

Real?

2007-11-30T08:59:00.000-05:00

If this is real it is hilarious, if it is contrived it is genius.

Opining on Relationships

2007-11-29T07:27:00.000-05:00

CP has been involved with a blogger who is trying to understand same sex relationships and having a difficult time with it. Drama and sensationalism have always surrounded what society considers sexual aberrations, though through time, the aberrations have changed.

I have observed real life and animal life. I have read books and opinions and my philosophy has been distilled to: "What ever happens between consenting adults is their business." Sexual freedom is important to us all.

Although, the church has adopted marriage as a sacrament, it's really a matter of property and paternal rights. We tend to romanticise it, I know I have, but it's value lies in the non-emotional benefits. Harsh you might say, but to me the only difference between being married and living with someone is the legalese. To let someone that deeply into my life is a serious step. Marriage=living together to me.

Who we fall in love with is a mystery to us all. Although love and sex are not the same 'things', love has no boundaries, and when it boils down to the basics, a relationship like marriage is not about sex. Not really. Love is pure, even though we taint it, put restrictions on it, try to define it and regulate it.

God = Love, or so we are told. It is not up to me to question why people love each other and how they choose their partners. Of course, I have an opinion about a couple, I may express to my husband the following:

"How in the hell can that nice looking woman stand to have that snaggly-toothed dumb-ass redneck kiss her, much less make love to her and produce 3 babies!!" Shudder. Love is blind.

We should be able to choose without impunity, who we spend the rest of our lives with.

Perception

2007-11-10T12:42:00.000-05:00

I loved the sparkling sunny days I spent at my grandmother's house when I was a little girl. There was enough to keep a child busy for days, what with catching lizards, making 4 o'clock lei's, digging for purree's and cat's eyes and running through Papa's shop in our bare feet. At any given moment someone could come roaring in the driveway, honking horns to get us out of the way, but like a pack of dogs we would run after the car gleefully.

For a sleepy little village there was always a lot of foot traffic. The ladies that worked in the fish houses walked in groups down the street, their hair in kerchiefs, carrying tote bags, and wearing a least 3 layers of clothes. The out layer of clothes came off once they clocked out and were headed toward home. There was much for children to do and watchful observation of life unfolding around us always held the most interest for us.

On any given day, my cousins, siblings and I would entertain ourselves by making up stories about the people that we saw. Often, we would sit on the front porch steps, stringing our lei's and watching the shrimp boats come in. Other times we would sit on the back stoop; six concrete steps that opened into the laundry room, talking about what we were going to do for the day.

One morning we were doing just that, when we noticed the yardman working next door. Back then landscapers were called yardmen. Only rich people had yardmen and the people next door were rich. He had been trimming trees and was taking the branches to the river to dump. He caught our eyes because, to us, he looked like a tree with legs. We started laughing and making up stories about the walking treeman.

"Look the tree is walking!" My cousin pointed and giggled.

"It's a monster tree and it's coming to get us!" I added with a squeal.

We all broke out in mock terror, laughing and giggling, each adding their own caption for the walking treeman scene.

I guess we were making too much noise, because my mother came up to the screen-door behind us.

"What are y'all doing?" She asked.

"Look Mommy, the man looks like a walking tree!" I gleefully pointed out to her, expecting her to join in our amusement.

"Well, stop it. You are being rude." She scolded.

With wide eyes and gaped mouths we all turned our heads at the rebuke.

"But Mommy..." I started, "Don't you think he looks funny, like a tree with legs?"

Lowering her voice she whispered to us, "He might think you all are laughing at him because he is a Negro."

"No, Mommy! NO! That's not why!" I bristled, getting angry.

"Just the same, stop laughing at him." She turned and left.

We sat in dead silence, feeling guilty and confused. Why on earth would we laugh at someone because they were a Negro? My mind could not fathom the meaning behind her correction of our behavior.

I looked back at the yardman and hoped like hell he didn't think we had done something mean.

Nightmares

2007-10-22T14:50:00.000-04:00

Life can get in the way of past-times and hobbies, as mine has been lately. The older I become the more I malinger and procrastinate on responsibilities that may or may not be necessary, depending upon how long a I want to live.

Now, having experienced death in many existential forms, I am not all that hell bent on knowing when I will shuffle off this mortal coil. I do not want to know that i am soooo sick I can't be fixed. Therefore, I am not the best patient in the world. I have a philosophy of 'Let Sleeping Dogs Lie'. I despise going to the doctor. My doctor has finally figured this out and controls my behavior by prescribing life extending medications for 3 month periods, requiring that I see her face before she refills them.

Recently, I asked her for a subscription to Chantrix. I am going to attempt to quit smoking. It will be like loosing an old lover, I suppose. It's an addiction I like. She looked at me and said, "What about the nightmares?"

"Nightmares?" I asked. "Everybody has nightmares. I have them all the time."

"Well, one of the side effects are bad nightmares. That concerns me." She said.

"Are people freaking out on this medication?"

I began thinking to myself, 'Wow, with the bad rap smokers get these days-we are all criminals, slobs, no account good for nothings that have no use in today's society other than to drill holes in the ozone and kill babies-she's trying to talk me out of taking this medicine!'

"Okay, Dr. X here's the deal, last night I dreamed I was a debutante. I was at the presentation ball with my husband, the psychologist from 'Running with Scissors'. He was lecturing me about what a tart I was, while all I could do was twirl in my dress like a whirling dervish as I descended the spiral staircase. Later on my father showed up in his dress mess and continued to escort me while the husband psychologist berated me about my stinky house. Just then my recurring furry monster(he shows up in a lot of dreams) joined us at the Debutante Ball and began chasing me. Do you think the dreams will be worse than that?"

Giggling, she wrote out the prescription.

Since Katie Couric allowed most of the world to see her plumbing on national television, Dr. X has been bugging me to have a colonoscopy. I must say that I have artfully avoided this procedure, due to my ostrich attitude on life and living, until my last visit. Quid pro quo, prescription for Chantrix = Colonoscopy. She made an appointment for me with the Hinney Doctor and I went in for a consultation.

I can think of no situation where a person is more intimidated than sitting in the waiting room of a rectal surgeon. One knows everyone has a problem with their fanny. People are much less gregarious. None the less, I had an interesting 1 1/2 hour wait.

A good ole boy about my age, wearing jammy bottoms and a #3 Dale Earnhardt T-shirt was barking orders to his employees over his cell phone. A man I assumed to be his father, due to his authoritative aire over Good Ole Boy, began waving his hand and shushing GOB.

"Quiet down!"

GOB continued his conversation.

Daddy went up to the admittance window. "When is he going to see the doctor. He is in pain. He just had surgery last week. It looks like it is infected."

Oh God! What grown man would let his father look at his ass? (I had a visual that still refuses to leave my brain.) Talk about control! GOB continues on the phone while Daddy demands immediate attention for his charge.

Shortly a nurse comes out, whom they both know. GOB wants stronger pain medication, Daddy wants the doctor to look at the incision because it is 'red and swollen'. I'm trying to keep a straight face.

The conversation soon turned to the nurse's love life and other things common to all 3. She asked about Daddy's new house. He explained that he was slowly getting rid of all the antiques he had when he lived in San Francisco in the '70's.

I thought, "Hmm, odd, GOB is definitely Southern. Daddy didn't have an accent. Well maybe a service brat. Lot of bases around here."

The piece of resistance came when the nurse called GOB back for the doctor to examine him and Daddy went along. "Damn," I thought, "this is the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life, in this part of the country. Most men I know wouldn't let their wives get this close without some kind of disagreement." I pondered this conundrum. Then I realized, slapping my forehead, I should have had a V-8! What do you think? Daddy or Spouse?

Arachnimaid

2007-09-27T07:36:00.000-04:00

Once upon a work-day dreary, while I pondered worksheets' queries,
I puffed my cigarette and drank my coffee, organizing my thoughts,
While I ciphered mentally I suddenly noticed an anomaly,
As of gravity taking a vacation, a vacation in my smoking area.
" 'Tis some hallucination," I thought, "invading my smoking area;
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, but upon closer inspection, I comprehended the invader that was beyond conception,
And as each look wrought a clearer image of the package, it inched closer to the floor.
I eagerly wished that more could see; vainly I searched and sent decree
Of this bundle gently lowering, lowering toward the loading dock floor.
For this was notable, truly a phenomenon most wonderful,
Nameless here on the loading dock floor.

The silken thread of a spider's treachery woven among the rafters above
Disease me---fill me with fantastic terrors of the arachnophobe;
So that now, to still my creeping flesh, I stood repeating
" 'Tis a spider casting it's waste upon the loading dock floor,
Some tidy spider throwing it's trash on the loading dock floor,
That it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
I stealthily crept to take a gander at the offending bit of insect gore.
"No," I spake, "Can it be? I wonder? A silk wrapped fly being gently guided,
by a delicate thread of arachnid crafting, floating with purpose toward the floor."
Silently gliding, gracefully falling in slow motion toward the floor--
3 feet from the trashcan-no score.

Deep in the darkness of my thoughts, I stood there wondering, puzzling
Thinking, disbelieving conclusions I am sure no one concluded before;
In the silence of this noon, once full of life, but now just a chore,
A single fly that flew no more, was simple garbage,
Drained and dessicated, prepared like a mummy looking for Styx
or some other restful shore.

Much I marvelled this offensive bug to see it's life so plainly,
Yet paralleled to my own. With more relevance than thought,
I cannot help agreeing that few living human beings
Ever yet have been blessed with seeing Spiders from Mars
Or spiders that clean. Blessed be those little buggers,
They wrap up their garbage and throw it back on our floors.

Thanks to Edgar

Beware of Greeks...

2007-09-17T07:54:00.000-04:00

The diversity of Savannah reflects the world's nationalities. We are truly an international city. This is a convenience when it comes to serving the crews on the merchant ships that port in our city. In this day of roll on-roll off container shipments, very few stay in over night. Unless they are loading/unloading special cargo or have to be paired or refitted a ship's stay is only hours. With a majority of the world's nationalities represented within Savannah's demographics, merchant marines are never too far away from "home".

Savannah is a city of full of ethnics eateries as well as ethnic and local church food festivals. Beginning in the fall and panning out through the spring we have our share of fish fries, barbeques, oyster roasts, low country boils, Asian, Greek, Hispanic and Jewish festivals. One of our biggest is the Greek Festival at St. Paul's Orthodox Greek Church. This annual fundraiser is eagerly anticipated by all.

The church's activities building is set up like a small village square with trinket booths and of course, hand made nic-nacs. Whole food stalls sell olive oil, cheese, wine, bread and olives. Cooking booths sell all of the known favorites a la carte while another sells dinners. Tables are set up for community dining while dancers and musicians entertain. Some families have been here so long they speak Greek with a southern accent! But I assure you, anyone of Greek descent can speak their mother tongue.

When I managed the bar at the hotel, I made acquaintance with a Greek ship captain and his mates. They were ported due to engine failure of their vessel and as is custom, they remained with their ship. We frequently went out as a group to various bars, I being their late night tourist guide. The Captain liked Emma's piano bar that was co-owned by Joe, so we spent a lot of time there. Me and 4 other men. Totally platonic. Really. (Not to say that I didn't enjoy the attention.)

Captain one day asked me about the Greek Festival. He had seen advertisements for it and expressed interest in going.

"You go with us to this Greek Festival. You take us so we know where it is." (I have never known a Greek man to ask.) I agreed to accompany him with his mates the day the festival opened. With plans set, he wondered out loud about bourzouki playing and dancing and exactly what kind of person to expect in America that was of 3rd or 4th generation Greek descent.

I wasn't thinking, nor did I much care, what it 'looked' like being escorted by several Greek sailors to a church event. I learned long ago not to care what people thought. I realized, once we walked into the auditorium loud with music, dancing and conversation, by the stares I received that people might not be thinking the best possible thing about our presence.

Captain bought a couple of bottles of Retsina while the rest of us found a table. The plan was to enjoy, celebrate, have some wine, conversation, eat a little, dance a little. Opa! We no sooner sat down, when whoosh! an imposing matron of the church slid into a chair next to the captain.

Looking at me, she questioned, "You speeeek Greek?" I shook my head no.

Thereupon she broke into conversation with Captain, speaking Greek. My translators, being the rest of the crew, told me she wanted to know who I was and what I was doing with a bunch of Greek sailors. Captain was a charmer and assured the woman that I was a platonic guide and friend. The rest of the night was Retsina, domolades, spanikopta, rich coffee and fun. My Greeks met other Greeks and had their social calendars filled by the time we left.

Holes in the Wall

2007-08-21T07:38:00.000-04:00

As Beth mentioned, there is nothing like a good ole southern Hole-in-the-Wall eatery. They are known for great local cuisine and an extremely casual dining. Like a neighborhood bar, locals frequent them more so than out-of-towners.

Sadly, road side hawking, which I think is a contributor to the Hole-in-the-Wall venue, has dwindled since the inception of the interstate and the prosperity of the 50's. Another influence for a Hole-in-the-Wall is genteel poverty. Many people after the Civil War and during the Depression, turned their homes into boarding houses and kitchens into back-door carry-out and their dining rooms into public eateries. As with any good Hole-in-the-Wall, the harder it is to find, the better the food.

There remain the back-door luncheonettes and out of the way eateries in Savannah. "Walls Barbeque" is particularly famous in an underground sort of way. Nestled in a lane in the historic district in what once was the outskirts of the city, Walls Barbeque serves pulled pork and ribs Georgia style. Access to this Savannah institution used to be gained through a hole in the wall (window opening) or by walking into the tiny reception area containing a table with chairs. It's cinderblock frame has the weathered name and menu painted on it's face.

Many years ago, I read a general review on restaurants and their names. The author was of the opinion that restaurants named after the owner had the best food. I concur.

Past Repast

2007-08-15T07:10:00.000-04:00

When my husband and I began dating, we enjoyed dining out. I was surprised to learned that during the three years he had lived here, he had yet to experience freshly steamed crabs and shrimp. He was pretty much a stranger to salt water delights, coming from the Land 'O Lakes. Ice and fresh water fishing were his areas of expertise.

Most of our outings in the beginning of our relationship involved introducing him to our coastal southern culinary delights. Some he liked; some not so much. He still won't try grits. I decided that one of our dates would include a visit to a popular restaurant in Thunderbolt. Desposito's. Desposito's is just over the Thunderbolt Bridge located on a dock where the shrimp boats unload at the fish house.

Desposito's is a wooden structure capped with a tin corrugated roof. Built on the dock, the diner receives product from boats unloading on one side, while diners come in on the other. A screen porch serves as a modified al fresco dining area. The parking lot is a simple dirt lot covered with years of cast off oyster shells, a common paving and masonry material down here. The audible crunching of the shells by automobile tires announces the arrival of customers. The inside of the restaurant also serves as an outlet for those who want to buy and cook their own fresh seafood. A display case with freshly crushed ice shows off the variety of local fish and shrimp.

Wooden and laminated tables with holes cut in the middle dot the main 'dining' area. Unmatched chairs surround the tables. The freshly painted walls are clean, but with no decoration other than permits and pictures of shrimp boats. Once inside the brine odor of marsh, fresh seafood and steaming crabs that permeate the restaurant are absorbed into ones clothes, hair and nose.

"This is where we are eating?" M asked. He was looking at me like I had lost my mind.

"Yes. It is not fancy. It's not supposed to be. But the crabs and shrimp are the best and fresh!"

Warily, he approached a table closest to the door, motioned for me to sit. When he sat down he began to look about. "I wanted to take you to a nice place."

"This is a nice place," I said. "I know it doesn't look like much, but we are here to eat crabs and shrimp, right? I have eaten here plenty of times and this place is a slice of my life and the life of my parents and grandparents. It is part of what we are down here."

His eyes darted around while I tried to comfort him. Looking at the hole in the table M. asked why it was there. I told him there was a trash can under it and the hole made it easier to throw the shells in.

We ordered a dozen steamed crabs and a pound of steamed shrimp and drank beers while we waited for our order. During the wait as we chatted, M relaxed and began to enjoy himself. He asked about the fish in the case and I told him what they were and how to fix them. The server came back to the table with a roll of paper towels, newspapers, crackers and 'cookies' (local slang for Captain's Wafers).

"What's this for?!" M exclaimed. "Where's the silver ware?"

"Eating steamed seafood is a little messy. You eat it with your hands. The newspaper is the "tablecloth" and paper towels are the "napkins". You'll see," I assured him.

I was beginning to think I had made a mistake. I had never seen anyone get so touchy about a meal!

When the server came out with the crabs and shrimp piled high in a cardboard Budweiser six-pack case bottom, M jumped up and exclaimed, "That's it, we're leaving!"

It took me a few minutes to settle the poor man down. Culture clash can be amusing and somber sometimes. But I can say that the man loves steamed crab and shrimp and has accepted the southern way of consuming them!

Petticoat Junction

2007-08-07T15:32:00.001-04:00

I grew up in a time when slips, petticoats and crinolines were worn frequently. Girls wore dresses everywhere! Unless one wore a jumper*, all dresses and skirts had to have fluff and flare. Having a sense of style at a very young age, I hated when my mother cut my hair short and my father made me wear yucky shoes. I always wanted to wear my hair long and my patent leather Sunday shoes. I never had enough influence on my wardrobe.

My parents did not buy clothes for me often. There were way too many female relatives older than I whose clothes I inherited when they grew out of them. Hand-me-downs they were called. This included slips, petticoats and crinolines as well. As my Mother and both Grandmothers sewed, I rarely ever wore anything that was "store bought". We weren't poor, it was how things were done during that time. Nothing was wasted.

One day I came home from school and saw a red net and taffeta petticoat lying on my bed. This was the stiffest, russleiest most beautiful petticoat I had ever seen! My mother came up behind me and asked, "Do you like it?"

"Is it mine?" I asked not believing my dumb luck.

"Yes, try it on."

"It's so pretty. Can I wear it to school?" I pleaded as I held it up to admire. I quickly slipped it on to test it's effect on my dress.

The red petticoat transformed my dress from an orange trumpet flower to a mushroom . It swayed and and rustled just like a hoop skirt would. When I moved, the skirt part of my dress swung back and forth like a bell and I was the clapper. Of course, when I got to school the next day I showed everyone my brand new petticoat. This little dash of color in my wardrobe was invigorating. Unfortunately, the red petticoat was to become a disappointment.

During the winter Texas months, girls wore thick tights* as well as a sturdy pair of corduroys under their skirts. We walked to school and mothers dressed us this way to keep our legs warm. Once we arrived at school, we shed the corduroys! Spring led to bare legs and white socks. My legs enjoyed the cool soft breezes of spring. But walking to school I felt something scratching above my knee. I stopped and looked, saw scratches but not what caused them. By the time I got to school, red welts were scored across the tops of my knees. I had come to the conclusion that my pretty red petticoat was scratching me.

A child's logic keeps them from telling their parents things. I did not tell my mother for several of those reasons. It had to be my fault somehow. I tore the slip, maybe. It could be I wasn't wearing it correctly, but moving it around my waist didn't help. I tried walking differently, but that only made me fodder for ridicule. Nothing I tried worked, so, I stopped wearing the petticoat.

Yes, my mother eventually noticed I wasn't wearing the petticoat. I told her it was scratchy, but she didn't quite understand what I meant, and made me wear it. When I returned from school I was then able to show her exactly what the petticoat was doing to my knees! Upon inspection, she discovered how it was scratching my knees and fixed it! Gee if I had only showed her earlier I wouldn't have an aversion to red underwear!

Eight Things

2007-08-06T07:12:00.000-04:00

Coffey Pot wants me to divulge 8 unknown things about myself to all of you just because he did. Hmpphf! Who does he think he is anyway? Like I am going to tell all! Ha!

He thinks I am going to tell you things like I have a tendency to forget running water when I am filling things up or even draining the water when the fish are still in the pond. We all know what I do to eggs and that's enough!

He supposes that I will divulge personal things like I find bras uncomfortable and don't wear the damn things unless it is absolutely necessary!!! Who really wants to know that! TMI I say.

I suppose he would even want me to put a video cam in my bathroom so all can see exactly how many dogs and cats can fit into a 4X4 bathroom when I am taking a shower! Clearly I do not understand what the fascination is with these furry critters and my taking a shower.

I'm sure he wants me to reveal my dark side by admitting my addiction to Puzzle Pirates, particularly since I haven't made fleet officer yet. Damn him! But worse, oh much worse, is my tendency to collect and store things like a pack rat! Maybe I can sell them on the docks on my island!

Shoes? Who needs them! Certainly torture devices made by the Pot's ancestors to garner confessions for the town herald's daily town news hour.

Then, he absolutely needs to know that if I shave my legs, it is because I am wearing shorts! Pervert!

The one thing he will never find out is anything, nothing at all, about my carnal nature...but I can say that I don't eat meat as much as I used to!

(Thanks Pot fer lettin this wench plank ye in sport! Yarrr!)

Monster Chef

2007-07-10T07:37:00.000-04:00

As long as he didn't open his mouth he was easy to deal with. This tall, handsome young man from Massachusetts was our Sous Chef when I began working at the hotel. After my first day of work I came away with the impression that he was arrogant. But then, chefs are supposed to be arrogant, right?

I worked the service bar, which was in the kitchen. This afforded me a safe covey to observe kitchen operations. I was at most times fascinated and I learned a lot about food and cooking. I can make any sauce known to chefdom and make it well. I never did have the cojones to flame a pan though! Too scary.

Every day I worked brought me closer to the intense hatred I eventually came to have for our Monster Sous Chef. His arrogance was only superseded by his total contempt for all that was human. His sex life was an open book of nice girls that he treated like street corner hookers. Yes, he could cook good, but not so good that he impressed me with his lack of artistic flair. He was fast, loud and efficient. His iron-fisted terroristic management style produced the results that were needed to successfully manage a large multi-layered food and beverage operation.

Eventually he was transferred, to the joy and relief of us all in food & beverage. I progressed with my career with a promotion to beverage supervisor and then assistant manager of the casual restaurant. Running a restaurant is hard work. A manager has to have a tough hide in order to survive. Some days every one is bitching at you, line cooks, chefs, stewards, servers, customers.... This is way before the director comes down for his shift inspection. Did well enough though. At least Monster Chef was gone and we had a kinder gentler chef.

But, a dark cloud loomed on the horizon. Our Executive Chef was being transferred and an announcement was made that Monster Sous Chef would return to take his place. Stomach's lurched, assholes tightened. This was not good. A huge media presentation was made upon Monster Chef's return to the hotel as Executive Chef.

A term often heard in food and beverage is 'cost'. Directors and managers are guided and rewarded for their food & beverage costs. This is the actual gross percentage of cost of food divided by selling price. Nothing else is factored in. Chef's and Beverage Managers are constantly monitoring their food costs and ways to improve upon them. Waste is a huge hole that can impact food costs. Food items that were not used were returned to stock. This included things like sugar packets, butter pats and jellies. Sometimes the bussers could be careless and throw them away.

Shortly after Monster Chef had returned, the food and beverage division concentrated on recycling pc's (individual condiment packages). I remember reviewing with the staff the importance of saving the pc's and not throwing them away. About half-way through the mad breakfast rush one morning, a server came up to me and said, "Chef wants to see you in the kitchen."

"Shit!" I thought to myself, "What the hell does he want?"

As I entered the kitchen I saw him standing in the middle of the floor, next to the dish machine and across from the hot line. Thinking the servers were not picking up food fast enough, a huge restaurant sin, I smiled and asked, "What's the matter?"

"Come here, I want to show you something." He bellowed, striding over the the garbage can next to the dish line. He hoisted the 50 gallon trash can up in the air and slammed dumped it onto the floor at my feet.

"Look at this!" he screamed, pointing to the mushy mountain of breakfast garbage while he kicked the gelantinous goo around with his booted foot. "Your stupid bussers are throwing away perfectly good pc's!" He continued, kicking unused pc's out of the trash with the dexterity of a robin pulling worms from the ground.

I was unable to hear or see after that. I was so enraged that all I could do was struggle with the heat of anger burning through my body. I stood welded to the floor as he kicked, screamed and gesticulated through his caustic rant, pausing briefly at times to smile at his gapped mouthed staff.

They say revenge is always served best cold. Many days I smile inwardly as I think of his eventual fall from grace, as he sits in a 3rd world jail cell for drug trafficking.

The Strange Case of the Missing Egg

2007-06-25T16:09:00.000-04:00

"God Dammit!" my husband yelled, waking me up from a nice snugly nap. He was in the kitchen when I heard him exclaim, "What the hell is this?" As I struggled to clear the cobwebs of sleep from the brain, I stumbled into the kitchen and asked, "What's the matter?"

"Can't you smell that? You're burning the eggs!"

I looked at the pot of black and white cracked eggs and then at the clock. An hour and a half had passed since I went into the bedroom to make up the bed and decided to lay down for 'just a minute'. Looking back at my husband I said, "They didn't blow up." He continued to express his concerns about my carelessness, the smoke and how worried he was, while I surreptitiously glanced around the kitchen, looking for blown up egg bits.

"I thought I put 6 eggs in here," I mused, examining the charred pot for evidence. Putting my excellent physics skills to work, I tried to determine where an egg would go if it blew up from where the pot was on the stove. Finding nothing I determined that I had only put 5 eggs in and was spared a distasteful clean up job.

I grabbed the pot and dumped the extremely hard boiled eggs into the garbage can outside. As I entered the kitchen, I noticed my personal house keeping critic Lilly, bobbing up and down in front of the litter pan. With a look of great indignation on her face, she stretched as far as she could toward the litter box, transfixed on something. I looked down and saw the remains of 1/2 an egg lying in the middle of the pan.

Interesting, this piece of egg flew out of the pot took a right turn at the refrigerator, and without hitting the wall, landed into the kitty pan. Realizing that I had put 6 eggs in the pot to boil, I returned to divining exactly where the remaining egg was and if I could figure out how it travelled when it blew up, then I could find the rest. I love a mystery!

What would Grissom do? Donning my CSI hat I searched the kitchen high and low for the second half of the egg. Finding nothing and thinking the dogs may have eaten it, I began to clean the stove and the pot. It was when I reached for the paper towels that I found the second piece of egg. Behind the paper towels, which is opposite the position of the litter box.

"Damn, those were magic eggs!" I thought while I picked up the egg remains. Becoming conscious of the subliminal clicking of the spinning ceiling fan, I had an eureka moment.

The egg in question was rocketed by expanding hot air escaping by bursting the shell, causing it to fly out of the pot, at an angle toward the ceiling fan. The egg made contact with the tip of a fan blade causing the egg to split in two, hurling one half to the litter pan; and, proving the laws of centrifugal force, flinging the other half off when it had completed a 180 degree spin.

Miss E

2007-06-17T15:29:00.000-04:00

She never wore slacks, not even to do yard work. Stubbornly wearing a dress to suit the occasion, she gardened with legs astride and bent over, her behind greeting the neighbors as they passed by. Her intense propriety kept anyone from ever mentioning that this was anything less than lady-like. Sure it was suggested that she wear slacks to garden, but one was only greeted with a "Hmpf!" and "Do Jesus!"

She was a plain matter-of-fact woman with a determined jut in her jaw, steely blue eyes and dark long hair rolled past the nape of her neck pinned behind either ear. Her daily uniform was a floral cotton waist-dress layered with an apron tied around her waist.

Miss E. was a member of the family elite in this fishing village. Though a woman of property, she lived simply and economically. Practising as a nurse in the school system enabled her to be closer to her children. She placed so much importance on education that she bought duplicate books for each class her children took. Nightly she tutored her children until they graduated from high school.

This steel magnolia was my Grandmother's friend. Her dry sense of humor kept my Grandmother in stitches. Sitting on my Grandmother's porch they would shell peas, watch the shrimp boats and gossip. Miss E. would tell my Grandmother stories about her prissy widowed sister who doted over her sons. To me she was a woman of mystery as she had no husband. Whenever I asked about her absent husband, my mother would say it had to do with his drinking. My Grandmother would say, "He was a son of a bitch!"

I always admired her courage and independence during a time that single mothers 'living alone' were not well accepted.

Blessings

2007-06-08T07:34:00.000-04:00

This particular painting by my mother depicts the celebration of the shrimp boat blessing, an annual event in many a fishing community. The small fishing town put on a parade, had a beauty queen and celebrated the beginning of the fishing and shrimping season. The boats' rigging were festooned with strings of multicolored triangle flags. Families would pack picnics and sit on the bluff to watch the boats 'parading' in the river, queuing up to receive their blessing for a prosperous fishing year, from the local priest.

The Blessing of the Fleet was always held on a Sunday, after church. Plenty of fried chicken, cole slaw, potato salad, deviled egg, watermelon, sweet tea and lemonade picnics were made. This was the one day of the year the boat captain's families loaded up on the boats and made a recreational day of the event. With the rough purring of 50 fishing boats' diesel engines, the water slapping against the sides of the vessels and the flags snapping with the wind sounding like hands spanking flesh, an unusual orchestra created an air of excitement in an otherwise silent and somber procession. Indeterminable conversations could be heard coming from the clusters of people gathered at places of business and local landmarks, punctuated intermittently by shouts of salutation to a favored vessel and it's crew.

After all blessings had been received and the last watermelon seed spit the distance of the river's width, all sauntered home, stopping at each house on the way. As the locals caught up on the town's gossip and the general well being of each other's families, my mother's family would cruise to the outer islands in the Intercoastal Waterway. Diving off the out-rigs, they swam to the uninhabited island to harvest turtle eggs. (These things today would certainly raise more than an eyebrow.) This was always warm and wonderful day, filled with love, sun, bonding and fun. It was one of the few days out of each year that my grandfather participated, which made it all the better for them all.

Kissing Cousins II

2007-05-30T12:17:00.000-04:00

The girls grew to be women and married. The fact that my father was over-seas frequently afforded us the opportunity to live here on several different occasions. My mother and her friend were able to continue their relationship during those times. When I was 4 years old, we all lived in the same cul-de-sac in the same little fishing village my mother grew up in. Our communal lives made it seem like we were one huge family.

During this time Aunt S. was easily my surrogate mother. I enjoyed her dry wit and direct manner. She was good with children and made me laugh. One of her signature expressions was "You stoopid!" All who knew her understood her intention behind that statement and were never offended. People that come up hard use strange terms of endearment. I knew why my mother loved her so and I grew to love her as well. As time progressed and our families moved apart to explore opportunities in other sections of the country, I would wax nostalgic for those pre-school days.

Time passes and people change though. My mother certainly did. She was easily insulted, reading meaning into conversation that simply did not exist. She was slow to forgive and unable to let go. She would quickly cut those off who offended her. She also kept it a secret, making life more complicated than it needed to be. When she drank, these feelings and reactions were intensified.

The reunion was an event highly anticipated by my parents. Being excellent party people, they decided to reserve a room at the hotel the reunion was being held. By all accounts everyone was having a good time. My father was being his charming and flirtatious self. Something my mother was used to. She wasn't feeling well and had a scotch too many, so she decided to go up to the room. Some time later Aunt S. began calling my mother. She was trying to encourage my mother to come back down to the party. When my mother refused, Aunt S. came up to the room telling her to get her ass down and stop the shenanigans going on between my father and a woman he was flirting with.

An argument ensued between the two friends and my Aunt S., exasperated with my mother's obstinace said, "You stoopid!"

That was it, after 40 years of friendship it was over according to my mother. She never spoke, wrote or visited Aunt S. again. My mother died, never forgiving her friend.

Buried somewhere in my rubble of physical memories, in a room that is rarely used, I have the note off the flowers Aunt S. sent to my mother's memorial. She had remained my mother's true friend all those years.

Kissing Cousins

2007-05-20T11:47:00.000-04:00

The yellow house next door belonged to one of the wealthiest men in the fishing village, Mr. T. His wife, Miss M. was my grandmother's good friend. One of her daughters, Aunt S. was my mother's best friend.

No one liked Mr. T. He owned a fleet of shrimp boats, his own fish house and dock, a plumbing business, houses and real estate. Rumor had it he had shot his own toe off with his shot gun. He never used a toilet or thunder mug, choosing to pee out of his bedroom window in the middle of the night. For me he was a man full of mystery, for my mother a man to be shunned. How so much communion transpired between the households among the women was another mystery. My insistent questioning never brought forth anything concrete from my mother or grandmother.

"He and Papa didn't like each other." My mother would say. "He's a son-of-a-bitch!" My grandmother would say. Later I was to learned he was the third cousin of my grandmother on the South Carolina side of the family. We are all related in the South!

Miss M. came to the US from Europe with her mother, Granny K. and her sister. Granny K. lived above the grocer with her 2 daughters. They made their living by selling their favors. When Miss M. married Mr. T. her mother and sister no longer had to work. Miss M. had two daughters of her own when she married Mr. T. She then had several sons by him.

Miss M. eldest daughter Aunt S. and my mother were inseparable friends. Both girls loved olives. Olives were definitely a luxury during my mother's childhood. The girls would earn pocket change by collecting glass bottles, then walk to the grocer and buy a skinny jar of pimento stuffed spanish olives. On the walk home Aunt S. would eat her share, my mother saving most of hers to savor throughout the day. Always an argument would ensue between them because my mother refused to share her remaining olives.

Their friendship can almost be described as a love affair. They were inseparable. Every once in a while Grandmother would forbid my Mother to see her friend. This punishment was tortuous and heartbreaking for both girls. They would find ways to communicate with each other by writing notes tucked in match books that were left in trees. They would use the matches to burn the notes. Thankfully, these restrictions never lasted.

While their friendship lasted a considerable time, my Mother turned her back on her friend and never spoke to her again after their 20th High School reunion.

To be Continued.

Fire

2007-05-17T08:40:00.000-04:00

It rained all winter here, spring comes and poof! Rain no more. We need your collective prayers, rain dances, meditations, positive thoughts or whatever works best for you. Concentrate on South Georgia and North Florida for some good dousing rain to put the fires out.

Pogo's home is in danger. The Okeefeenokee Swamp has been burning due to arson and lightening strikes. The fire is beginning to encroach on tree farms and housing in this rural area of Georgia/Florida. So DANCE! Dance for rain, lots of it.

Smells like a barbeque outside today.

While the conditions were new to them, they did what they had to do to get the job done. "You've got the swamp, the peat that goes down 25 feet, so you have fire burning from underground and the only way you can really get all that fire out is to have plenty of rain, which we have had none of," said Capt. Dixon. (from wtoc.com)

Mother

2007-05-13T10:14:00.000-04:00

She was everything I wanted to be. Smart, talented, petite, pretty. As much as I tried I could never be like her. My most fervent dream was to be the artist she was, which was not in my genes.

Her art was her life and her passion. It was the outlet for all the pain and darkness in her soul. When she hurt she painted happy. She painted alternates to replace events that had transpired. She could draw real life, still life, copy pictures, copy images.

Mother worked with different media and styles but tended to favor primitive painting on odd pieces of wood. The wood, her canvas, was just as important as the image it would portray. After she sanded and shaped the surface, she would place it in a prominent spot until it 'spoke' to her and a picture appeared in her mind that was right for that piece of wood. From 2x3 inch pieces to door sized pieces, no piece she collected was more important than another. The historical pictorials from her childhood were the most popular and most in demand.

This is the beginning of a series about a woman's life chronicled through her art. Everything she did, she put her heart and soul into. Eventually, she had little to spare as she had given so much without fulfillment. Come, take my hand as we walk down the street of her home town together and I tell you tales of humor and nostalgia remembered by my Mother.

(Sorry about the flash mark!)

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm?

2007-05-12T10:23:00.000-04:00

The Gentle Coaster Punchman honored this Southern Belle by saying I wrote things that make him think. His challenge to me was to, in turn, name those in our circle that make me think. Well, you all do, in one way or another.

Echo has re-introduced me to grammar and instilled a new found love for the same by inducting me into the grammar police.

Creepy posts daily quotes on religion that force me to ponder my spiritual side.

Barbara fires my ambition as she describes her multi-faceted life.

Mother of Invention speaks to my Muse with her poetry.

Dale amazes me with his world play.

Grant Miller amuses me with his irony.

Steve keeps hope alive for the romantic in me.

Grizzbabe helps me maintain my sense of humor.

PinkFluffySlippers tells me it is never too late.

Haahnester is great for good healthy debate.

Beth is a Southern Belle in Arms.

Keith is like an old drinking buddy.

Marni is my day in the life treasure finder.

Klee keeps me down to earth.

Coffey Pot makes me squeal with laughter.

Gonzo takes me on trips of wonder.

Gizmo reminds me of myself when I first was on my own.

Coaster you artfully accomplish all of the above.

Now as for Mother Hen? Well, she's just Mother Hen.

It's no cop out, you all make my day and keep the synapses clickin'.

Have fun clicking on the side, you are all over there!

Close Encounters

2007-05-06T17:07:00.000-04:00

"I've been wondering where you went!"

I turned around to see a former bar customer leaning over the breakfast counter. She looked like a blond Orphan Annie, her face scarred with pox marks.

"Hey you!" I returned, "Been out partying?"

I was getting ready for the 3:00 am bar closing drunk breakfast crowd. I worked the 'graveyard' shift in this hash house and dreaded when the bars closed, but the money was better than the rest of the shift.

"Yes," she said smiling.

She sat down with her party as I continued to wait on other customers.

She had a crush on me that began when she first saw me when I worked at the bar. She had been asking me out since then as well. She knew I didn't date girls, but that never stopped her asking every time she saw me.

What made this particular relationship difficult was the fact that I did like her. She was such a nice person, but the fact that she wanted to make love to me hindered any progression of a friendship. She said things to me that men said to me and insisted that she would 'treat me right'. Each time I would tell her how flattered I was by her attention, but that I wasn't interested. The night, or morning that is, she showed up in the hash house was no exception.

"Tymothe, come here a minute, I want to talk to you," she requested. "Please give me a chance. I promise I won't touch you. I just want to go out with you. You are so pretty!"

I hesitated. There are times in a person's life where they find themselves holding an other's heart in their hands. I had true affection for this person and did not wish to hurt her.

I looked her straight in the eyes and said, "If I liked women instead of men, I would go out with you. You are a very nice person and I like you a lot. The last thing in the world I want to do is to hurt you. I could go out with you, but I would be using you. I don't want to do that. I don't think you want to do that either."

She smiled and returned my look and nodded her head. Persistent to the end she said, "Well, if you ever change your mind, please let me know!"

Purple Girl

2007-04-25T07:23:00.000-04:00

It was my first day of class in my new Junior High. My father transferred mid-year, which can be painful to a fourteen year old. I was self-conscious and uncomfortable. On the first day of school, one always bore a lot of inspection. I worried if my outfit was cool enough and wished I had blond hair. As I waited for the class to occupy their desks so I could pick a seat, I felt the atmosphere in the room change. Hearing an odd clinking I looked up to see what made this unfamiliar noise.

A hush fell over the class as she hobbled into the room. Nothing on her was going in the right direction. Her gnarled hands gripped the creaky metal crutches which assisted her across the room. Her thin legs, encased in braces, helped to support her slight frame. I struggled not to stare at the purple blotches that covered her skin, or the face with sunken eyes that drooped, or her broken mouth that never melded together. The teacher broke my concentration by asking me to be seated. For that day, my self-conscious perspective was focused properly. Every day the purple girl was the last to come to class and every day the class would settle in an uneasy silence when she came in.

I wondered what happened to her. What was her life like, what were her parents were like? Was she in pain? Would she ever be loved or kissed? Did she like boys? How did she cope? Did she care? The social world of teen life was demanding and acceptance was crucial to self-confidence and happiness. Being new, I did not know if she had her own social circle. I soon had the answer to some of my questions.

One day, I was talking to some people outside of the class prior to the bell. We were startled when she walked up to the door. She had curled and styled her hair and wearing full make-up: foundation, blush, eye shadow and lipstick. Her outfit was a kicky dress typical of the '60's. The boys started laughing and I became embarrassed to be standing with them.

"Stop it!" I hissed at them.

Yes, it did look odd, but it did make her pretty. I know the laughter was more discomfort than meanness on the boys part. But I also knew she cared what people thought and cared about how she looked. I said to myself, "Good for you."

She wanted what we all want, but she had more than we ever would. That day she became one of my heroes.

Cable-phoney

2007-04-24T07:21:00.000-04:00

Well! I never! Come home one day and no internet. Paid the bill? Check. Message on phone from cable company rambling on and on about filters and line certification and borked lines that will be back soon. Not! Took 5 days. FIVE DAYS to fix!

Upside all new lines in the house and cable phoney in our area soon. Downside missing you guys!! Look for me in past blogs as I try and catch up!

Myopia

2007-04-13T07:16:00.000-04:00

Update: Notice the date-boy what a booch!

One of my greatest pleasures growing up was being included in the circle of women in my family. Whenever we could get together for a 'hen party' we would. My reason for liking these hen parties as much as I did was for the stories. After a day of shopping, cooking and eating, we would gather on the front porch of my Grandmother's house in the rocking chairs, shell peas or beans and talk.

My grandmother entertained us with stories about the family, from some distant cousin who had an unfortunate ocular infection that turned into a launch event to relatives stealing scissors and butter beans. Different women had stories of their own about the family and we stayed up through the wee hours of the night yakking.

At one of these hen parties we discussed the metaphysical world. Each of us had stories to tell supporting the existence of ESP, deja vu, ghosts and so on. My grandmother told a story of a distant relative, who was alive at the time, that had particularly strong powers of sight. This relative's visions always played, like a movie, on the wall in front of her.

"She was born with the caul over her face!" my grandmother would whisper, "which means a person can see the future." Grandmother then went on to outline this cousin's portfolio of 'sightings'. I was in awe of anyone with these powers and wondered out loud if I had met this person. The other 'hens' in the room allowed as I had not and as they continued talking, I thought about what it must be like to have powers such as this.

A couple of days after the 'hen party', my grandmother's sister received a call from the 'myopic one.' She went into great detail describing our hen party. She listed by name who was there and our conversation of the evening. The 'myopic one' even went so far as to describe people she did not know and ask who they were.

I wonder if the electronic age has dulled our senses. Who needs HBO when you can sit on your couch and watch your wall!

Double Nickels

2007-04-06T11:22:00.001-04:00

Things I have learned along the way:

Now I can shop on Wednesday and get that special discount.

There is no sex after marriage.

Leisure time MUST be stolen.

Life is full of suprises.

There really are no guarantees.

Life is more complicated than it needs to be.

The older a person becomes, the more important life becomes.

No is not a bad word.

Dancing is better than exercise.

A beautiful day is a Joy beyond compare!

Happy Birthday to me, another year bites the dust!

A Fishing Story

2007-04-01T18:23:00.000-04:00

I married a man from the big country of Northern America. He was hunter and fisher extraordinaire in Paul Bunyan's land of 10,000 Lakes. The Minnesota giant Mule deer puts Georgia's White Tails to shame. The thousands of fresh water lakes around his home town provided fishing all year.

I have always loved fishing. The only time I, a girl, could fish was at my Grandmother's house. Her house was located across the street from the shrimp boat docks. As children, we would gather string and safety pin (hooks on rare occasions) and rig up a gig. With trash shrimp heads from the boats, we loaded our hooks and threw the string in the water. Most times all we ever gigged was a Toad Fish.

Toad Fish are not keepers. Beside the fact that they are exceeding ugly, they are inedible. The ability to swallow fish hooks whole makes them completely detestable; thus, the Toad Fish becomes a perfect torture victim for little boys. I remember the boys twirling Mr. Toad Fish like lasso's over their heads, building energy until 'BAM' releasing the fish, splat, against the side of a boat. Ugh! I can not retell all the childish malicious treatment the fish under went. I always tried to get the hook out. I always threw mine back into the river.

I eventually became an average fisher person, fishing off of docks and in the surf. With the exception of living in Key West, salt water fishing is a sport of mystery. One never quite knows what is tugging on that line. Certain baits and hook sizes can narrow the field somewhat, but a shark will bite any size hook.

I couldn't wait to introduce my husband to the thrill of catching sea bass, flounder, whiting and crabs. The first time we went fishing together, I selected an inlet river that is on a federal landmark site open to the public. I showed him how to put shrimp on a hook and where to throw his line. I explained that the moving tides require re-casting and not to let his line get in the marsh. As he had the other fishing maneuvers down pat from experience, I baited my hook and cast my line.

Pow, something hit his line and he set the hook. I reeled my line in to assist him with his first salt water catch. Flushed with excitement, my husband reeled his fish in and shouted, "What the f*ck is that!"

"Oh, that's a Toad Fish."

"Is this the kind of fish you have down here?" He demanded. "Damn, that's an ugly fish!"

He balled up his fist as if to hit the fish and I stopped his hand. "Throw him back."

"I don't want to catch this son-of-a-bitch again! He ate my hook!" He exclaimed.

After a plethora of cursing and grumbling and snarling we finally got Mr. Toad Fish free and back in the river. We went back to fishing. He caught whiting the rest of the day thank God!

Story A Long

2007-03-26T19:19:00.000-04:00

A capricious 16 year old named Woozie hosted a story telling blog, which I liked and think all his commenters enjoyed. I would like to try one. I admire the writing style, wit and intelligence of all of you and I believe you all would enjoy this as well. The rules are I begin a story, which I will start in the comment section, then you all continue it, in the comment section. There are no other rules. So let's begin this journey and see what fun we can have.

Stress Free Cardio-Vascular Therapy?

2007-03-15T08:10:00.000-04:00

I completed my cardio-vascular rehabilitation last Friday. Basically, it is a program that rehabilitates one's heart to be less like Lindsay Lohan and more like the 'Arnold'. I cannot say that this was an exciting adventure for me, but it certainly was interesting.

Like all gyms or clubs, the rehab room is full of equipment that will exercise a person's heart. Also, like all gyms or clubs, a television was suspended from the ceiling to divert one's attention from the monotony of a treadmill. I am here to tell you that after 12 weeks, 3 days a week, 1 1/2 hour each day that I did not succum to the drivel of Fox News. But, I question the logic of airing Fox News 24/7 to cardiac patients in rehabilitation.

Mr Bean goes to the Beach

2007-03-10T13:18:00.001-05:00

This is how you do it. See post below.

Quick Change Artist

2007-03-10T09:42:00.000-05:00

I believe that I am the best quick change artist in the world. I can change from one outfit to another, in a semi-public venue with out revealing x-rated body parts! Last Friday I had to put this unusual talent to work, due to time constraints. I left my gym bag in the truck and therefore, was unable to change at work. When my husband picked me up, I changed my clothes in the truck while he drove. This talent was driven by necessity at an early age for me.

Central heat used to mean that the radiant heater was in the middle of the house. The Radiant Heat Source may have been a wood burning stove, fireplace or fuel burning heater. Waking up on a cold morning in the South during the 50's was a bit painful. The bed was warm from covers and body heat. The expanse between that and the heater or kitchen oven could suck the heat out of a 6 year old child in seconds flat. I would grab my clothes and run to the heater to dress in front of it, along with the rest of the family.

Changing from pajamas to school clothes, using my family method, is relatively easy. Put on a layer, take the layer underneath off. Skin was never exposed and remained warm. Warming the clothes on top of the heater was a benefit. The conversation through the house and the sheer energy of 3 generations preparing for their day was invigorating. The aroma of breakfast cooking in the kitchen, my grandfather stomping around the house trying to avoid seeing children and grandchildren in various states of dress, arguments about who's hogging the heater and who stole my aunt's bra. Three generations were braying, shifting and rotating around each other and the heater, like penguins in a winter storm. There were times I could not break the outer boundary and had to return to bed and dress under the covers! My favorite place to dress was in my closet, when we lived in Virginia. The quarters we lived in were supplied with steam heat and the pipes ran right through the closet. Once my brothers discovered my secret, we constantly battled for firsties.

Heating devices have characters of their own. I believe that I have experienced warming from most heat sources available; from the celebratory fire crackles of a hearth fire to the intestinal gurgling and belching of steam heat. Today's central heat pales in comparison.

Molly McGuire

2007-03-04T12:59:00.000-05:00

This tortoise zoftig beauty is the goddess of Laid Back. She maintains her own inertia, moving only to accomodate her mistress. Speaking only when she has something important to say, her days are filled with sunshine creeping softly through windows and mellow yellow dreams. Only at bedtime does she seek the comfort of human contact by curling up in the small of my back.

Paco

2007-02-24T10:40:00.000-05:00

He is the fierce protector of hearth, home and kitty litter treats. He takes homeland security seriously and nary a nit breaches the door way. He is master of his domain, as far as the eye can see. 24/7, ever vigilant, keeping all manner of critters at bay. All fear him, none can hide.

Behind closed doors his softer, nurturing nature reveals itself. If the cats squabble, he is there to break it up. Nurse maid to all 4-legged infants, he tenderly cares and cleans them until they are old enough to challenge him in faux battle.

I call him my cabana boy. Every night, after my shower, he is at the ready. Not with towel, but a soft warm tongue, to dry my feet and ankles!

Despite his gruff exterior, he is a mama's boy, who basks in lovies and snuggles.

If Your Gen..

2007-02-21T08:58:00.001-05:00

..itals could talk, what would they say? Grizzbabe posted a hilarious summary from a magazine on how we can spice up our sex lives. One helpful suggestion was for partners to name their organs and then have come hither conversations with each other.

After I dried my tears and caught my breath, I thought,"what would mine say?" My answer to that is above..

1st Annual Carlos Mencia Steal This Post

2007-02-16T19:26:00.000-05:00

Hey y'all! I am past mid-life crisis, past the change, lost all my lady parts. Where am I? I not sure. I don't feel desperate or old. It's more like I can't get enough or feel enough. Have I lost my fanny? Am I a crazy woman? Or am I flashing again? Who knows? Maybe it's that taste of freedom I'm getting now that I am wearing that brand spanking new thong. Having the little string in front is sheer genius on some one's part! I want to boogie (fast) and play (hard) and give my front porch the Brazilian treatment (eee haw)! What? Something wrong? The thong is on ...BACKWARDS! Maybe I'll change later, I need something to cover my hind end and that string just won't do. Come on Ned, let's go jukin'.

See original post and the re-write challenge. Let's have some fun!

Hpy Vlntns D

2007-02-13T20:17:00.000-05:00

My Valentine to y'all, once removed. This is my artist brother's creation (not the song of course) from a few years back. Love you all!

Show of hands, who used to deliver Valentines by slipping them under the door, knocking or ringing the door bell and run like hell?

Oh, and as is MY custom, I like to give more than one card on special occasions. I often wonder where my little mind was when I made this one.

Unmentionables

2007-02-10T12:41:00.000-05:00

I remember when bikini underwear first became popular. Scandalous, scandalous! I believe my auntie was first to get a pair. They were tiger-striped, even more scandalous!

We were visiting my grandmother, between moves and my mother and I burst into my aunt's bedroom to wake her. She jumped up from her bed in a groggy haze, exposing her little tiger bikinis.

"What are those! My goodness! I'm surprised Daddy doesn't come in here and rip them off of you!" My mother hissed.

"He doesn't have anything to do with my drawers. I don't go ripping his off because I don't like his. Besides, Mama bought these for me." My aunt retorted.

My aunt stomped over to her dresser and pulled out several wisps of nylon and silk to display to my mother. I, the spanky pants queen, stood there in awe. At 12 years old I was too young for anything fine or daring as silk bikinis!

"I can't believe Mother bought these for you." My mother said.

"Well, I did!" My grandmother injected as she entered the bedroom.

"Mother, she's not married!"

"So!" My aunt snapped.

My head was switching back and forth as this sibling spat was coming to a close.

"Why don't you get some, then?" My aunt added.

I decided to go for broke, I had a bra now, "I want some too."

All three women turned around and said, "No!"

"Let's go downtown and go to Chaskins!" My grandmother exclaimed.

Oooh. A shopping trip! I asked, "Can I go too?"

Yes, was the answer. I loved big girl shopping. It made me feel so mature. Chaskins was the finest lingerie store in town and I loved it. It was owned and operated by a local couple. Chaskins was on the main street downtown, but it was a very small store, about 10 feet wide and a half a city block long. Not only did they have foundations, but accessories, gowns, and mules.

Chaskins was the kind of store where product was brought to the customer to observe. Sure, they had some items on display, but they also had 'special' items they would hold back for 'special' customers.

When we walked into the store and after the customary greetings and updates the real show would begin.

"She wants to buy some bikinis, well, I'm buying, they are for her." My grandmother said pointing to my mother. "She wants to surprise her husband." Which was code for something sexy.

Quickly, a tissue lined lingerie box was placed on the showcase. Sheer and opaque panties were expertly displayed by the hands of the owner so that all could see the delicate lace hand-work.

"You can see right through those!" I said.

"Shush!" The women told me.

For the next hour I was hypnotized by frilly, lacy, soft and wispy bikinis, bras and negligees. I knew these were for sex, but I wasn't quite sure why they were necessary for sex. By the time we left, I was thinking about all the pretty things I could wear once I grew up. As a consolation, my mother bought me a pretty pair of spanky pants. Big Whoop!

Spotted Leopard-Epilouge

2007-02-06T22:44:00.000-05:00

The next couple of years were horrid. I forged a path toward total self-destruction. I refer to this as my death spiral. I lost all control. I lost jobs. I drank too much and abused drugs more. I lost all my 'friends'. I was disgusting. Why I stand alive today, I will never know.

I spent many days hoping J. would have a change of heart. Then I had to deal with his fucking clothes in my apartment. That really chapped my ass!

He never came in the bar again, when I was there. Often we would run into each other, both of us drunker than skunks. If I spoke to him, he would insult me.

Funny, I happened to run into him his last night in town. He was nice to me, so I asked him to give me one last dance. He complied and promptly dropped me on the floor during a dip and walked away.

He returned to town several times over the next couple of years. He either looked me up or called to see me. I had no will power. I would go to him.

His sister came to town once and he called to ask me to show her around, which I did. When he became engaged, she dropped by to tell me. She was on her way to Disney and felt I should know. She asked me to call J. because she did not like his intended. I told her that there wasn't anything I could do. I had humiliated myself enough. She insisted several times and I refused several times. A week before he was to get married, his sister called me and asked me again to speak to him. I told her what was done was done.

The End

Spotted Leopard-Part IV

2007-02-04T12:09:00.000-05:00

"What did he say? What did you say? What happened?" I blurted out. "I'm sorry that happened."

"I just reasoned with him, that's all."

"But.."

"Now, just forget about it, everything is alright. Let's go have some fun, huh?"

I am nosey to a fault. I was itching to know the details of the conversation, as is my nature, but I didn't want him to misinterpret my consuming curiosity as interest in my husband.

As our relationship developed into an exclusive partnership, he brought up the subject of maintaining a part-time residence in my apartment. He wanted to bring over some clothing and personal items for convenience sake. Each time he asked, I told him no, explaining my reasoning behind it.

"I don't mind if you bring a change of clothes over if you are spending the night. But, I need this time of separation." Inside I was screaming, "Yes, yes, move your whole life in!"

J. was such a nice person. He more than a sexy hunk of man. He knew how to handle people and he knew how to get his way. One night he decided that he did not want to wait until the week end to see me. He wanted to come over after work and relax, spend quiet time together. Something we had not done yet.

J. worked a long shift that day, so I was able to straighten up the apartment and get ready before he came over. I put on a pretty beige peignoir, some music, drank some wine and smoked a doobie while waiting. I had a nice happy buzz by the time he arrived. He walked in, arms laden with enough clothes for a week and his shave kit! I laughed and said, "Oh, what the hell!" and showed him where to put everything.

We settled down on the big fluffy floor pillows, drinking wine, listening to music and talking. The telephone rang, proving to be one of my girl friends and we talked...

The next morning I awoke, J. had left and taken my memory with him. I scrambled to make sense of the day and time, running from room to room checking clocks and the contents. I called my mother to confirm the day and time. At least I wouldn't be late for work! I scrambled to get ready for work trying to piece together the events of the evening. I couldn't believe I passed out. How tacky, poor J.! I called my friend to apologize for passing out on her only to find we had completed our conversation, most of which I could not remember.

On my way to work, I worried that J. might be angry because I passed out. What a long day this was going to be! Toward the end of happy hour he walked into the bar. I ran up to him and apologized for passing out on him. I will never forget the look he gave me. His eyes were black as coal, unreadable, blocking any emotion. He had a strained smile on his face and I could see his jaw muscles flexing. He told me we needed to talk, after work, took his drink and walked into the middle room of the bar.

I finished my shift, fixed a drink, lit up a cigarette and walked to the middle room to meet him.

"Have a seat." he said unsmiling.

"J. I'm really sorry I passed out. Please don't be angry with me." I pleaded.

"We can't see each other any more." he responded.

"I don't understand." my voice strangled. My mind was working furiously trying to grasp what he was saying while the earth was swallowing me whole.

"Because of what you said last night." he answered.

"What did I say?"

"You don't remember?"

"Please tell me what happened. I am confused. No, I'm sorry, I do not remember!" I forced myself to look into his deep dark eyes.

Pain flickered in and out of his eyes for a moment. Then he spoke, "While we were making love, you told me you loved me, you wanted to marry me and have my babies. I am still trying to get over my ex-wife, this is not what I want."

I couldn't breathe, I had betrayed my self and J. He got up and walked away as I sat feeling the pain of my heart shattering into a million pieces.

Epilouge to follow.

Spotted Leopard-Part III

2007-02-02T20:31:00.000-05:00

"What?! What's a gristle?" I asked looking up into his face.

He was smiling a crooked smile, "You've never heard of that before?"

"Oh!" I exclaimed suddenly realizing what he was referring to. "Only half?" I chuckled.

Sighing he pulled me even closer lowering his face toward mine. His kiss was warm and sweet. He never broke his stride dancing.

"Oh yes, let's go home, " I murmured, wishing I could twitch my nose and be there. I was happy in my inertia, not wanting to break the spell.

Making love with J. was wonderful. He was relaxed, confident, strong, slow, tender, deliberate, satisfying. His body was muscled and warm, with a chest full of soft hair. We made love with the lights on, drinking each other in with our eyes, exploring and discovering, not wanting to stop. I prayed that I made him as happy as he made me.

The next morning I woke and turned over to see if he was still there and came face to face with the most beautiful tattooed spotted leopard, stretched across his back, beginning at his left shoulder, trailing down to his fine behind.

Since both of us had recently came from bad marriages, we were able to commiserate regarding mistakes made and pain inflicted. His wife aborted their baby when she discovered she was pregnant. He was aware of my husband's cruelty and stalking.

We spent little time discussing our spouses and more time just talking about family and life. J. was hilariously funny. He may have been a country boy with a twang, but he had tons of sophistication and intelligence. We saw each other at happy hour every day, before he went home. We only spent time together on the weekends. This worked well for me, I was hooked and I wanted to play this one right.

The next weekend we went out, I had to dress, he said. He was taking me some place special. I went home from work to change where he was to pick me up. I wasn't quite ready when he arrived, so he paced around while I finished my make-up and hair. Through the window I noticed my husband's car in the lane, blocking J.'s car.

"J., I'm sorry, but P. has your car blocked and is standing out back looking up at the window." I told him we had better not go out because there might be trouble.

"Oh yeah?" J. said. "You stay up here, I'll be right back."

My stomach was in knots. I just knew they would get in a fight and go to jail and that would be it. What actually happened amazed and closed the deal for me.

No shouting, no fist-a-cuffs. P. calling me a fucking whore and J. being a calm, understanding gentleman. I eavesdropped as well as I could from 3 stories up in my apartment. I could hear their voices, but not what they were saying. After a few minutes, P. got in his car and left.

I rushed to finish by the time J. made it upstairs and stood there wide eyed in amazement as he entered my apartment.

"Ready to go?" J. asked.

End of Part III

Spotted Leopard - Part II

2007-01-31T22:48:00.000-05:00

J. maintained the status quo for the next couple of weeks. He continued to come into the bar during happy hour, have a few drinks, chat with my family and friends and then go home. Each day he wormed his way more into my family's hearts. Each day that passed, he would spend a few minutes with me talking about his job or his life in West Virginia. Sometimes he would ask me about things to do and places to go and after telling him, he would say, "That sounds nice. Would you like to go with me?" I continued to refuse him and he continued to drop by everyday and give me my daily sunshine.

I remember it being the Friday of Oktoberfest on the River when my mother and aunt had a 'talking to me' after J. left the bar for the evening.

My aunt said, "He really likes you!"

My mother countered, "Why won't you go out with him?"

I looked at my mother, confused and said, "I'm not divorced yet. It wouldn't be right, right?"

Both women, talking at the same time began to encourage me to go out with J. That was all I needed. My mind was made up. I went to work that Saturday stoked up with determination that IF he came into the bar, and asked me out I would accept.

Saturday of Oktoberfest was always a busy, fun day. Booths were set up on the river selling food and crafts. Bands played on the plaza and people danced. Festival weekends always brought different people into the bar. J. came in around noon, dressed in shorts (warm in October down here sometimes), the most casual I had seen him yet. Of course, I noticed that he had muscled strong legs.

After a couple of drinks, he picked up his car keys and walked toward the door. Panic gripped my throat and clutched my stomach, "Wait a second, please don't go!" I croaked. With no expression on his face and very casually he said, "I'll be right back, just going to the car for some cigarettes."

"Damn, Damn, Damn!" I thought. "Boy did you play that cool." I admonished myself. I was grateful that the bar had atmospheric lighting and he couldn't see my blushing face upon his return.

"So, what did you want to tell me?" he asked as he slid back onto to his stool.

None too gracefully, I asked him to enjoy the Oktoberfest festivities with me after my shift. He didn't say anything for a few seconds, just looked at me, smiling, mischievously.

"Hmm." he mused, "Is that what you really want to do? You don't want to go somewhere else?"

"Maybe later." I said. He then left to get ready.

We tore the town up that night. This man could dance! He could cut the rug, boogaloo, twist and shout! What's more he could waltz and waltz well. He spun me, twirled me and dipped me until my heart was jumping out of my chest and I was breathless. He held me close and firmly while whispering jokes and funny stories into my ear. He was the perfect gentleman until our last dance of the evening. He pulled me a little closer by putting both arms around my waist as I put mine around his neck. He kissed my hair, pressed his hands firmly into my lower back pressing me so close that I could feel him. He whispered huskily, "I'm working on a half-gristle. Wanna go home?"

End of Part II

Spotted Leopard

2007-01-27T18:17:00.000-05:00

Time had come for me to divorce my first husband. I remained in our apartment and he moved out. It was a highly emotional time for me, being alone again and having him stalk me. I did not and was not going out with other men during our legal separation, nor once I filed for divorce. Until...

One day while working in the bar, a stranger came in and sat down. I say stranger due to the fact that most of my customers were local regulars. He was quite handsome with sparkling dark blue eyes and a mischievous grin. His t-shirt outlined his muscular chest and fit perfectly down to his waist. He had the finest ass I had ever seen in a pair of jeans as well as other assets. I asked for his drink order.

"Crown & ginger ale" was his twangy response as he smiled and looked me directly in the eye. Thank God I had to turn around to make his drink because I could not let him see what was in my eyes!

"Hey, where's a good place to out around here? I just came into town and I am working on the bridge," his quirky accent broke the silence.

"Oh, you have a whole mile on the river to explore," I answered placing his drink in front of him.

"Oh yea, where would you like to go? I would like to take you some place nice." He said.

Well, spank me and make me feel like a school girl, I gushed. Gushed!

"I am in the process of getting a divorce, I can't go out with you, but thank you for asking." I stammered.

Another customer came in, who was a regular, I introduced the two and they began a conversation. Whew! I was out of that spot light. As more people came in for happy hour I became busier and he met all the regulars. Including my mother and my aunt.

He wormed his way into every one's heart and by the end of happy hour all deemed him a good ole boy. Before he left, he looked directly at me and held my gaze. I tingled in places that had not tingled in a while.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he smiled.

After shift, I sat down and had a bunch of drinks. My mother and aunt went on and on about him. He's so handsome. He really likes you. I went on and on. I don't know him from Adam's house cat. He's not from here. He could be a psychotic serial killer.

Oh, the next day baby was dressed and stylin'. Hair was perfect. Make-up carefully applied. Stomach was one huge knot. I couldn't wait to see him again. The day dragged as each second took an hour to pass. I was unable to concentrate, because the tingles remained.

When he walked into the bar my heart raced. I could not look him in the eye and made the other bartender go get his drink order. I flitted about waiting on other people, ignoring the hell out of him as he sat with tremendous ease smiling at me. He sat in front of the taps, so eventually I was going to have to acknowledge him. When I did finally come around to draw a beer, he leaned forward looking directly in my eyes and smiled. "Hello." His eyes began searching my face. I smiled back and croaked a hello back, and looked down.

After I delivered the beer, I made myself a drink, which he saw me do and bought. The rest of the happy hour went well. People were having a good time as usual and he didn't press me further. He did stay until I got off shift and sat next to me when I sat down with my mother to have a drink.

"Is it alright if I sit here?" I nodded and thought about how much I wanted to sink into his arms. "How about a drink?"

"Sure" I told him, "thank you."

Group conversation ensued and I began to learn about him. He was from West Virginia, ergo the twang. Lived close to the Ohio border. He was an Iron Worker. He was divorced. He was in town for a while. He had one drink with the group and announced he was leaving. Before he left, he bought me another drink and told all good-bye.

End of Part I

Pele

2007-01-21T14:57:00.000-05:00

My parents were very bohemian, particularly for their Republican political views and conservative way of life. My mother was an artist and had the mentality and creativity of an artist, which reflected in our home and education. They both enjoyed books and music, which was also passed down to us.

As everything else in my life, music in our house was eclectic. We listened and pantomimed to all the great operas, choreographed our own ballets to classical music, snapped our fingers to New Orleans Jazz and learned the fox trot to big band music. I can't remember a day with my parents that music wasn't playing in the background.

My brother's and I had an album that was a particular favorite of ours, entitled "Pele". The album cover was red and gold with a fiery volcano oozing lava while an exotic woman rose out of the volcano. This was Pele, Goddess of Fire. The music was orchestrated instrumental interpretations of the legend of Pele. Though mostly local Hawaiian instruments were used, piano was the principle instrument.

We would light candles and turn off the lights before starting the album. We sat in quiet anticipation, as the needle scratched it's way to the opening chords that would take us to Pele's world. Faintly, the ratcheting cricket sound of wooden stick instruments rubbing against each other filled the room, slowly working to crescendo with the staccato vibrations of the ivory keys in 4/4 time. Reed and pipes mimicked the sound of animal life in the tropical jungle of Hawaii. The Goddess Pele and her minions then danced and twirled their way through the house for the next 17 minutes.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

2007-01-15T09:23:00.000-05:00

Days before my sixteenth birthday a valiant and brave man was murdered before the eyes of my country. He was a man of peace vilified by many as a trouble maker and rabble rouser. He was viewed by some as the catalyst to an uprising of apocalyptic proportions, whereupon the black man would rise against the white man. Fear and anger permeated the air like a rotting corpse.

The times were fraught with change and revolution. Protests, riots and harsh policing were common, peaking in the summer when tempers wore thin. I was sickened by the stupidity of white trash committing horribly unspeakable acts, inciting violence where ever a march or rally took place. I was ashamed to be a white person.

I never did understand why Dr. King's words and marches angered so many people. Couldn't they see reason? We all believed in God, we all preached peace. What was this ugly sore that festered and refused to heal across the generations?

Today, many memorials will be spoken and written for a man who found a cure and showed the nation the way to heal. Peace is the salve and love the bandage.

Maybe You Just Don't Want to Know

2007-01-12T22:55:00.000-05:00

Grant Miller wrote a blog the other day listing things we just might not want to know about him. Well, that got me to thinking, as he more or less tagged all of this readers, about some things about me.

Do you all remember the day that all the girls and all the boys in school were separated and lead to a room and shown a movie about..."Becoming a Woman/Man"? We were shown a film explaining changes that would happen to our bodies and what to expect. This, of course, lead to a giggle fest among the sexes during class the rest of the day. Pity though, the movie sorta stopped at what changes occur to a girl's body when they reach menarche and that's it. I really wished it had continued, due to changes that continued with me.

Estrogen was never my friend. I never had enough of it at the appropriate times, which caused horribly embarrassing issues during my teen and early adult years. Standing by one's man and silently enduring painful menses was a woman's duty! Then I burned my bra. I was never able to fully reconcile with Estrogen. Bringing it to a stable level in my system was not in the cards or pill bottle, though doctors did what they could. As I grew older, I found myself looking forward to 'THE CHANGE'!

I was so young when I began to go through 'THE CHANGE' that even my doctors were in denial. My voice changed, my skin became course, hair in places I never wanted it, body thermostat unreasonably out of whack. But the worst was yet to come!

All of life, prior to 'THE CHANGE' I was a well mannered young lady who was in total control of her bodily functions. Never an embarrassing belch or toot! No ungodly stomach rumblings or effusive shvitzing! I could laugh off the the rumbling stomach, make a shtick out of belching, daintily mop my forehead with a handkerchief, but the methane emissions beat me down.

We are not talking the silent but deadly phffft! No siree! We are talking machine gun staccato, very unladylike rips, that would make a fart lighting frat boy jealous. Why I ask. Why is this happening? Hormones, the good doctor tells me. Great, I am my own one-woman-band!

I was faced with the dilemma of having to find a place to emit my flatulence and maintain what shreds of dignity I could muster. I became a liar, blaming audible blasts on my husband if we were in public. I often blamed odd odors on the paper mill, whose smell permeates our city daily. I became furtive, finding unoccupied aisles in stores to trail the maliciousness of my failing hormones. I would purposely miss elevators to avoid curious stares.

Ah, but there is an evil underbelly to controlling gas. A most horrible and foul joke the body plays on it's master. Farting makes me laugh, laughing makes me fart. That's how they get 'cha!Don't bend over either, not unless you want to become human bellows.

I am relieved to say that most of the trumpeting has quieted somewhat, becoming less intrusive as days go by.

Lilly

2007-01-11T18:50:00.000-05:00

I need to buy her a little pocket book. Lilly is a stray Siamese mix and our youngest. She half the size of a regular cat and amuses herself with a varied assortment of 'toys'.

Lilly is constantly on the prowl for the next 'toy' to play with. Recently, it has been the hair bands I use to put my hair in a pony tail. Since I store them in a shelf over the toilet, she has to stretch her full length from the basin to the shelf in order to obtain one. Being the crafty little sharp eyed minx she is, she 'shops' for them before expending any energy to capture one.

She has a high scratchy meow and is vocal when she is picked up. My husband likes to pick her up and hug her which makes her squeek. I promised Creepy that I would share my kitty pictures with him, as he is a cat lover too!

Slave to Fashion

2007-01-09T21:48:00.000-05:00

Before the days of women wearing combat boots with delicate voile dresses, Candies with tight jeans was all the rage. These 3 inch mules put a wiggle in a woman's walk that would make a 'bulldog break it's chain' as they say 'round these parts. In Savannah, a woman was put to the test walking in her Candies on River Street on a weekend night.

In the late '70's and early 80's River Street was the fresh new party spot of our City. Bars dominated the converted stone warehouses. Rebel Yells pierced the air on any given night as the wolves howled at women walking by. I wore Candies with the best of them, but I have to bow to a champion who could out walk any woman in Candies I knew.

River Street is a mile long collection of old stone warehousing built below the bluff of Savannah.
Originally, it was the prosperous port, where ships unloaded on the River Street level, goods were carried to the Factor's Walk area mid-way between the river and the bluff, and then sold. When the ships loaded with cargo, they would dump cobblestones, that were carried aboard as balasts, onto the warf. These stones, in turn, were used to pave the street and the ramps leading up to the bluff. Coming in manageable sizes, they varied in color and shape and added texture to a scenic maritime venue and open air marketing.

Fast forward a couple of hundred years with the cobblestones and buildings remaining. Though a couple of small parking lots were available on River Street itself, most people parked on the main street above and walked down to the bars and restaurants. River Street was made more for the pedestrian. Now, imagine tons of women walking up and down the river in Candies on cobblestones. There is a technique one can use to maintain their dignity as well as balance.

I had a female customer who came to the bar every Friday and Saturday night. She was a young quiet smiling woman, with sparkling blue eyes, short dark hair and enough freckles to give her a touch of innocense. Her figure was poured into her jeans and she had more Candies than anyone I knew. She drank double scotch on the rocks in a 12 oz plastic cup through 2 straws. All night long and never spending a dime. Her last drink was always for the road (it was the '70's) and as she left her walk was much less sure than when she came in. Every night when she left the bar, she cooly negotiated her way up the cobblestoned ramp unassisted. She was a true professional at walking in high heels.

Stepmother

2007-01-06T20:58:00.000-05:00

My father's wife, I called her. Now I refer to her as my father's widow. I never had a compunction to refer to my father's second wife as 'mother'. After 28 years of marriage my parents divorced. Six months after the divorce was final my father re-married. To this day, I still do not know the truth behind the reason for their divorce, but it marks the time when I and my brothers were no longer a part of his intimate family.

I will never know which is worse, parents divorcing while they still have children or after their children have grown. I am sure the emotional pain is the same, but caused by different circumstances. Though I tried, I never liked my father's wife. I tried and I failed so I pretended; to make him happy and to be able to see him on the occasions his real children were allowed to participate in.

To say that my father's wife was an unhappy woman is an understatement. Somewhere she had been dealt a bad hand, and has had a hard-on for the world since. She is feral regarding the boundaries of her house and who could enter. If one was not welcome they knew it. If a person did not agree with her on a topic of conversation she would yell at them to "Get the fuck out of my house."

"This is my god damned house! What is she doing in there? I can't wait for her to get out of my house." This was pretty much the rant and rancor I encountered each time I visited my father; said for my benefit, which I generally ignored, but supposedly 'out of hearing' to one of her children. If I or my brothers came over, one of her children would pop up. Years later I learned she had called them to come rescue her because she could not endure us being there and only her children could make her feel comfortable.

I hated Christmas after my parents got divorced for many postable reasons. One was the annual 2:00 pm dinner with opening of Christmas presents after at my father's wife's house. Infidels (my father's offspring and mother) were relegated to the living room and not allowed into the kitchen. All her children and my father had to attend to her needs in the kitchen. Every once in a while Daddy would sneak out to talk to us and she would scream his name, "I need you in the kitchen!"

Of course, my Grandmother would bake a fruit cake and bring it, which caused more consternation than was necessary for any human being. "I don't know why she brought this fucking shit into my house. I can't stand fucking fruit cake. Where in the hell am I supposed to put it?" My father standing there trying to hush her, so Grandmama won't hear and get her feelings hurt. "THIS IS MY GODDAM HOUSE!!! I'LL CUSS IF I FUCKING WANT TO!!!! IF SHE DOESN'T LIKE IT SHE CAN FUCKING LEAVE!! NO ONE TELLS ME WHAT TO DO IN MY FUCKING HOUSE!"

Dinner is ready. We sit to eat, with all her children around her and my father and the rest of us at the far end of the table. Now the ceremonial ass kissing from her children begins from the first bite of food to the end of the meal. "This is great, the best you've ever made. Good job Mom, et cetera, et cetra, et cetera."

"I can fucking cook better than anybody, but I'm not doing this next year, I'm too fucking tired!" is her thanks. I never joined the Culinary Hallelujah Club, stubbornly I refused to compliment her cooking.

Opening presents was always a test of my patience. My father was difficult to buy for. I always tried to get him practical presents he could use. What ever the present giving occasion, birthday, Christmas or Father's Day, Daddy would open his present from me and she would snatch it from his hands "That's mine, and you aren't getting it back, you don't need this!" And laugh. This was supposed to be a joke and it was one that lasted over 25 years until my father died.

One can say I have committed many sins in my life, but the only thing that ever kept me from taking a baseball bat up to the side of her head was my love for my father.

Hobbies

2007-01-01T15:30:00.000-05:00

Most people have hobbies. My father was a collector...of hobbies. His philosophy in life was to always be productive. Watching television was not a productive activity, which is why I am always doing something else while watching TV. Of all my father's hobbies, one that consumed him for many years was collecting live Chitons; a primitive 8-plated mollusk.

We were once stationed on Adak, Alaska, a small island in the Aleutians, almost at the tip. It was positioned directly under the USSR and used as a listening station. Also known as the 'Birthplace of the Winds' and situated on the Pacific Rim, it is surrounded by active volcanic islands. We moved there a month after the quake in Anchorage. Adak was cold most of the year, and I had serious issues with the length of the days and nights and the seismic activity. Though above the tree line, we had enough flora and fauna to keep us occupied in learning and discovering our environment, when we weren't being shook by tremblors.

My father became interested in collecting the chitons because my mother liked to beach comb. We had the largest collection of glass insulators and sea floats in the world from her beach combing. One day when they were looking for items on the beach, my father spied a plated, snail like creature clinging to the rocks. This was the beginning of what would become an all consuming passion with him.

He would go out to the beach at what ever hour the tides were low and pry chitons off of the rocks. He would bring them home, cook them, remove the plates then glue the plates together and then mount them. He began this enterprise in the kitchen and was quickly relegated to the garage for future boilings. This was a fortunate move on his part, because he began 'preserving' whole chitons as well and this required formaldehyde.

Our garage was one great big bio-chemistry lab, with chitons of all varieties and sizes lying about in all forms of preservation or decomposition. Of course, my father learned the anatomy, culture and biology of the chiton. All preserved and mounted chitons were catalogued and identified by phylum and genus. The most important word I learned from all of this was radula. This particular hobby of my father's also attracted a lot of attention from the neighbors, which made every night a social occasion.

My father was so well known all over this tiny base for his hobby, that he was 'captured' scraping chitons off of rocks while the base was on manoeuvres. Though he protested he was out during a non-playing time for him, the 'capture' still counted and his team had to take the loss as he was in the 'zone'. He was ragged endlessly, as it was the first time he was ever captured.

Stevie Ray Vaughan - Rude Mood

2006-12-27T21:31:00.001-05:00

A few weeks ago Haanasterand I got into a friendly debate about guitar players. Haanaster knows a lot about music, which I consider an understatement. I firmly believe he is an authority on rock and roll. I was exposed to a variety of music growing up. I consider myself lucky to have experienced rock and roll from close to the beginning.

I loved rock and roll, and while I don't always stick with the mainstream, I will admit to liking some pop tunes. As a teenager I lived with a transistor am radio at my side. My Grandmother was forever telling me to "Turn that 'Non PC Word' music down!"

I always responded by saying, "This isn't Motown, it's rock and roll!"

"Don't tell me I don't know what kind of music that is. Your Uncle R and I would sneak out of the house at night and go the the juke joints. I had to get up on a box to see in the window, but we watched them dance and listened to the music."

It took me some time before I realized that rock and roll was rooted in rhythm and blues. I began to notice who wrote the songs and search for information on the person. A new cool song would come out and my mother or grandmother would say, "That song is as old as the hills."

Eventually, I began searching for cd's of original artists, for example, Robert Johnson, to hear the songs as they were originally produced. I like guitar playing and liked Robert Johnson's romantic biography. I was late in discovering Stevie Ray Vaughn, but have loved his guitar since. Haanaster, I think you should put this one in your "VS" collection.

Ghost of Christmas Past

2006-12-24T16:59:00.000-05:00

Look at that mug. She had the face only a mother could love. Born the runt of the litter, and more things wrong with her than Carter had liver pills, I fell instantly in love and took her home with me. I named her Gizmo, because she looked like the gremlin of the same name. She was never able to jump up on anything, no power in her hind legs, but she sure could climb. Gizmo was fur, attitude and heart. She lived for eight years and I think I loved her more than any cat I ever had.

For all Gizmo's frailties, she loved to play games. She was the only cat I ever had that liked to play fetch. She used to play with the multi-striped foam balls and decided that she liked bows much better. She would climb up the couch with a bow in her mouth, drop the bow in my lap, meow and look at me with her larger than normal eyes.

Nothing she did was fast as she had co-ordination problems and poor eyesight. I would show her the bow and toss it, she would sit and look for it, ramble over to the bow and ramble back to me with the bow in her mouth. We would do this for a half an hour before she would tire.

Christmas has always been a challenge for me with the cats. So rather than fight their natural inclination to play with the shiny orbs hanging in the tree I tried several different decoration methods. One was to leave the bottom part of the tree bare. Lately, I have been placing the non-breakable ornaments that cannot roll on the bottom of the tree. The troupe I currently have just toussle for sleeping under the tree rights.

On Gizzy's first Christmas I thought she might be a problem trying to play with the ornaments. She was an extremely hard-headed cat and difficult to train. But she just stared at the lights and ornaments like an infant would. That reassured me she would not bother the tree. That night, the last thing I did before going to bed was to put the presents under the tree. Sometime during the night I was awakened by paper rustling and a gleeful meow. What the hell, I thought, throwing back the covers to get out of bed. My husband and I were showered with bows by that action. He woke up when the bows fell on his face, with the same exclamation. He turned on the light and saw we were surrounded by bows. Gizzy was climbing into the bed with another bow in her mouth.

During the night Gizmo found her mother lode of treasure in the bows on the packages. She pulled each and every bow off of the packages and one at the time brought them to me while I slept. I certainly miss her this time of year.

Eight Ball

2006-12-20T23:04:00.000-05:00

I learned to shoot pool in a tiny juke joint in South Georgia while attending college. I worked there tending bar and minding the liquor store that was attached to it. The liquor laws in this state vary from county to county. Some counties are dry, some don't allow 'liquor by the drink' sales. This particular county did not allow 'liquor by the drink' sales, which is why the bar was attached to the liquor store. The customers came into the store to buy their liquor, then walked back around into the bar to drink their liquor. Dimly lit and sparsely furnished the bar had a pool table, juke box, and tables scattered about. We offered pickled eggs and pigs feet, beef jerky and regular garlic dills to eat; and sold the set-ups for the drinks and cans of beer.

I made more money in pay than in tips with old fellas that came in this bar. They became my mentors on how to handle men. One regular offered to photograph me every time he came in. One would always ask me out. One offered to teach me how to shoot pool. I took up the offer to learn pool. So, when business was slow, which was most of the time, he would set shots up for me to make and explain how to make them. Often I wondered if he was professional as I saw him play for money and I never saw anyone beat him. I found that I quite enjoyed this game and over the years have played whenever I the opportunity arose.

I was a pretty good shot. Had a good stick as they say. I could stand on my own one on one against a man and make him sweat. Men don't much like losing to women, especially in a bar full of men. Shooting pool is a good ice breaker. In some of the bars I worked in, it was also a good way to get one's jaw broken. I never bet on a game, just played my quarter.

One night several years ago I was out by myself bar hopping. The first bar was always my first stop to shoot a few games. I was having a hot night, drinking tequila and holding the table, no one could touch me. This drew a crowd of curious on lookers and the room became a little close. That didn't effect me, I was nailing my opponent to the wall when I came to the 8 ball...

It was a classic scratch shot. 8 ball in the middle of the upper part of the table, cue ball at the opposite bank. I called my shot to sink in the right corner pocket and everyone became quiet. One could hear a pin drop. I bolted my tequila and leaned over the table to line up my shot. Some yahoo leaned over on top of me and would not move. I guess he had a side bet. I looked at him and everyone gasped. I turned back around, took my shot, made it, turned around looked Mr. Yahoo in the eyes and said, "I'm hoping that screwed your evening up, because it did not effect on mine." I turned to my opponent and said, "The table's yours," and I left.

Seasonal Favorites

2006-12-16T00:35:00.000-05:00

Kilroy came up with this seasonal meme for some of us to complete-anything for my knowledgeable friend!

Favorite Seasonal Movie-'Miracle on 34th Street' besides all of the others I liked this because miracles can happen to non-believers too.

Song You Most Enjoy This Time of Year-'Hallelujah' by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir - this was on my parents Top Ten mix.

Holiday Greeting-In my town they all apply so I use them all! Savannah is unique in that we represent every major religion. We celebrate everyone's festivals. Some even cover each other for work.

Decorate, inside, outside - Without a doubt! Though I have not reached Griswold status, I love to decorate.

Do you make a list, if so how many people are on it? No! I have stopped purchasing presents(long story) for family. I make things, shop for different organizations and my husband.

How up to the last minute do you shop? 12/23 and 12/26. If I am going to buy a big ticket item for hubby-I wait until the BIG SALE!

When do you open your gifts? Christmas Day

Holiday food you most savor? Sweet Potatoes I caint hep mysef!

Favorite Holiday Book? How the Grinch Stole Christmas My father used to read this to us and I adored it when he read to us.

New Years Resolutions? Ha! Never!

Hello!

2006-12-12T20:43:00.000-05:00

I understand Blogger is buggy and some of you can not get to the comment section. I have re-posted to see if that helps any! Or try Anonymous.

That's it, comment as Anonymous. Miss you all and love you!!!

Exotic Dancing

2006-12-11T21:41:00.000-05:00

10 years of single life spanned the years between my two marriages. Soon after my first marriage was dissolved I met a man who would be an on again off again friend. I was totally in lust with him and quite happy with the tacit arrangement we had. I have never been so openly unashamed with a man as I was with him. Our relationship was deeper than sex, but definitely charged with electricity. Many times we would talk for hours on the telephone about work, family and life. We often discussed our dreams and helped each other solve problems.

Sex with him was exciting, romantic, adventurous and all consuming. We communicated with each other openly about our needs, desires and fantasies. We could laugh at each other, like the time he came to my apartment all excited.

"I bought a ribbed condom. I have never used a ribbed condom so I thought we might try it!"
Like a little boy opening a present, his face lit with anticipation, he opened the condom and started cursing.

"What the hell is this?" he exclaimed when he saw the iddy biddy little hair-like lines on the condom. "I thought....this is nothing! Who can feel this?" We both started giggling like kids.

ATV's hold a special place in my heart from one night of wild riding in the woods with my work dress on. We spent 2 hours flying around on the ATV, making love and screaming. Needless to say one or the other of us came up with a surprise now and then.

I had the grand idea that I would perform a strip-tease for him. So I plotted and planned, purchased special garments, choreographed and practiced a dance. It took me awhile to bolster my confidence to perform for him. The day came when I was finally ready, he was on his way over, and I had to hurry!

Everything was white lace, bustier, thong, stockings and heels. My hair was perfect. I covered with a short kimono silk robe and answered the door when he rang.

"I have a present for you, you want it now or later?" I asked. He grinned a wicked grin and said, "Now!" trying to embrace me.

I slid from his arms and said, "Not so fast, go into the bedroom." He quickly obeyed as I put the music on. Atlanta Rhythm Section's "So Into You."

He politely watched as I frisked and pouted my way through the song, my knees shaking with stage fright. I wasn't planning on that, but I kept on, holding his eyes with mine, sliding bits and pieces of lace and stocking off, tantalizing him the best way I knew.

A friend of mine told me a couple of months later that he was bemused by my performance and didn't quite know what to make of it. That was my first and only attempt at exotic dancing.

How & Why I Am So Weird

2006-12-09T17:43:00.000-05:00

Steve tagged me for this one and I need six reason/examples of how and why I am weird. Almost every person I have met tells me I am weird at some point in time during our relationship. I have always asked them why this is so, only to be told that I was "just weird". Over the years I have come to realize somethings about myself that may make me weird. Such as:

1. I am a sucker for a lost cause. This can put a person in a vulnerable position when she is fighting for said lost cause.

2. I am stubborn to a fault. See Number 1 above. These two qualities combined have landed me in more scrapes that I will recount eventually.

3. I have an addictive personality. The list rambles on languorously from drugs to shopping. I struggle everyday not to fall into any addictive pit. What makes an addictive person weird is how the addiction is handled, or not.

4. I am extremely organized at work-but not anywhere else!

5. My sense of humor reaches depraved depths.

6. Sex-that's all I'm saying about that.

Garbage Soup

2006-12-05T19:50:00.000-05:00

There was a time in the 60's that freezers were sold to families with a frozen food plan. The freezer plan enabled a family to purchase frozen food making the price of the freezer was nominal. It still exists today. We used the Rich Plan.

There was no Marine base in Abilene. Texas, so we lived within the civilian community. My parents' budget was strained somewhat when they bought a house. So, frugality was extremely important. Not that my parents talked about money to us, but we were somewhat aware of certain restrictions.

My father was a thrifty man and loved a good deal. He often became excited about a purchase that 'saved money'. Generally, he would just 'surprise' us with his purchases. He was extremely proud of his perceived savings in purchasing this freezer/food plan. When the freezer was delivered, he took us in the garage to instruct us on the proper use of same-DON'T OPEN THE DOOR! All we cared about was if the plan produced ice cream or not. Every week a delivery of meats and vegetables was made. This was supposed to make life and shopping easier for my mother, as the Air Force base commissary was further than my mother cared to drive. Today, I can only imagine the conversation they had regarding this 'food plan'. I say that because is was not long after new furniture appeared in the living room.

One of the culinary delights that sprung forth from 'The Freezer' was garbage soup. Every night after supper we scraped our plates and left overs into a quart sized freezer container, which was stored in 'The Freezer'. When it filled up, Ma made soup. I thought everybody did this. They don't. But I am here to tell each and everyone of you garbage soup is great stuff and it is never the same. Try it!

Craftsman

2006-12-03T15:49:00.000-05:00

My toaster stompin' grandfather was a master carpenter. His relationship with wood was that of a lover. He knew how to form, shape and finish wood to reflect it's beauty and sensuality. Growing up with that influence, I have found there is a sensuality to working with wood. I love to smell it, stroke it, shape it and reveal the best of it's grain. I hate to paint it.

My grandfather was a perfectionist, which put him in high demand in the boat repair business. He worked for himself with one assistant. Those who wanted to learn from him worked with him for free, this included family. He worked 6 full days a week and a 1/2 a day on Sunday. He had the reputation as the best boat carpenter along the Eastern Seaboard. Boats were brought from various ports of call to Savannah for Cap'n Joe to fix.

Ted Turner grew up in my Grandmother's kitchen, being part of the gangly bunch of boys that hung around my Uncle. He loved Thunderbolt and the shrimp boats and Grandmama's cooking. Before he left Savannah for Atlanta, he would often come by to shoot the breeze with Grandmama and Papa. After my Grandfather died, he continued to visit my Grandmother when he came to town. She tried to get me to introduce myself to him when he spoke at a luncheon at our hotel some years ago. "Just tell him your Cap'n Joe's granddaughter!" she urged. "He won't bite you!"

When he started buying boats he brought them for Cap'n Joe to check out. Ted Turner has some magnificent vessels. The 'Intrepid', an all teak yacht first owned by Al Capone, was restored to it's 1920's beauty by my grandfather. The second was the 'American Eagle', which is now property of the USCG I believe. I was lucky enough to board and tour each vessel at some time during their repairs.

My grandfather also made beautiful boat steering wheels out of 'magny' with 10 coats of varnish. At one time every single shrimp boat in Thunderbolt had one of his wheels. He made the same wheels as presents for loved ones and beaux of loved ones to be used as wall ornaments or mirrors.

My grandfather worked up until the day he died, at his 50th Wedding Anniversary party, dancing with my mother.

Trailer Trashed

2006-12-01T07:53:00.000-05:00

My college was in a small South Georgia town. Damn, we had curfews our freshman year! Living in an apartment was almost unheard of during that time, though some people did. Of course any off campus residence was an immediate party haven. The guys I hung out with were an amiable group and made friends with young townies in order to have places to party. It was a good trade off, we got a place to party, the townie got free beer and pot. It was all very innocent. Just a bunch of kids letting off steam, yakking, getting high and playing air guitars to 'Roundabout' by Yes and 'Smoke on the Water' by Deep Purple. No harm done.

One local fella became a favorite of the gang. He had an extra set of keys made up so we could go to his trailer anytime we wanted. He worked shift work, making manufactured homes so his hours varied. Most of the time he was home and partied with us. We always had a good time and he was always a very nice host.

One night we were at 'The Trailer', but our host was still at work. One of the guys called him and told him we were there and he indicated he would be home shortly. So, we popped a few beers, lit up and cranked up the stereo. As we warmed up, we began talking and joking. One of the guys wanted to play a joke on our host. He said, "When he drives up, let's all go into his bedroom and shut the door. When he comes in, start moaning and groaning like we are having an orgy!" There was approximately 12 of us there.

We sat in the living room giddy with anticipation, buzzin' in high gear. The guys began a prediction one-upmanship of our host's reaction, while the girls just laughed. Suddenly, we saw the headlights of his truck piercing the dark and shining through the windows.

"Shh, shh, come on, everyone into the bedroom!" Snickering we shuffled into the bedroom and all plopped on the bed.

"Shh, shh, he's coming, I hear him," hissed one of the guys. Seriously quiet we listened for the key turning the lock.

Click!

"Okay, now!" a disembodied whisper broke the electric silence.

"ooooooo! Yeeees! MMMMMMMMM!" we all chorused loudly.

Thump, thump, thump, "What the hell are you doing?" our host demanded as he pushed the door open. "You all better be dressed!"

Click, he switched the light on.

"SURPRISE!!" we screamed, falling on the bed in laughter.

As he joined us in the laughter .. CRASH, THUMP! We screamed as the bed lurched through the floor!

I am not sure what arrangements he made with the guys, but his bedroom door was locked and stayed locked after that incident!

Crushes

2006-11-29T07:08:00.000-05:00

#1. He was a darkly handsome but homeless guttersnipe my father picked up off the streets of the city. My fascination and curiosity in this passionate boy grew to a shameful all consuming love that was forbidden between our classes. As we grew up under the same roof we tortured each other endlessly with this unspoken passion which in the end consumed us both in a godless carnal flame.

#2. He was a wealthy but brooding widower, who married me, a professional gentlewoman's companion. There was a fly in the ointment once he took me to his manor. He became depressed and brooding and I could do nothing to placate him. His lesbian housekeeper was infatuated with his former wife, who as it seems was grace and beauty personified. Our relationship became fraught with misunderstanding and I assumed that he married me with only companionship in mind. Though my soul ached for this man to be as he was when we first met, I was content to maintain the status quo, until the day his dead wife's body was found in her sunken sail boat. Much ado was made of this, which tested our relationship, but his passionate admission of his undying true love for me fulfilled all of my wildest fantasies.

#3. I tutored his children, this kind and wealthy landowner. His behaviour toward me confused and embarrassed me. I found myself inexorably drawn to this man, whose class was above mine and had many ladies to choose from. I spent much time dampening my emotions with downcast eyes in his presence. He couldn't find out. He reached through the morass of my timidity and drew me into his heart. But our love was not to be, as he harbored a mad woman in the attic, secreted for years, whom he was tricked into marrying many years prior.

I have unashamedly stolen Grant Miller's style for this, which I thought was incredibly brilliant!

Sam

2006-11-24T17:53:00.000-05:00

My husband brings home strays. Four-legged and 2-legged strays. I cannot say that I have always been as gracious as he, nor as generous. He brings them home and wants me to take care of them and fix them. Trouble is when he looks at me with his soulful blue eyes and wistful little boy expression on his face I give in.

One year, it was a little old man named Sam. When my husband went to work that day, Sam was sitting outside of his workshop on a suitcase. Sam had just come to town from Florida, looking for an old friend of his that used to live in the apartment complex. Apparently, Sam was dying. He had prostate cancer which had metastasized and he had returned to Savannah to be buried next to his wife.

Sam was a man full of stories. He was a cobbler that made and mended dancing shoes in New York City. He met a girl from Savannah and married her, much to the chagrin of her family. He knew a lot of famous people and in particular was pals with all the the Stooges, as you see from the picture above. He and Mike liked each other instantly.

My husband personally found a place for Sam to live, took him shopping, banking and to the doctor. Sam's wife's family wanted nothing to do with him. Every night Mike came home with questions which I could not answer. I knew we needed help with Sam as Mike was becoming frustrated in his attempt to 'take care' of Sam. He was working, going to school and checking on Sam every day. There were times Sam would walk about and forget where he lived. Many an evening Mike would get a call from some kind stranger to come and get him.

I pushed Mike for information and discovered that Sam was Jewish and his wife's family was prominent in the community. Unfortunately, I did not know which of the three temples to approach, Oy was this going to be some work.

Armed with Sam's wife's name and family name, I started making phone calls to the rabbis, in an attempt to identify the congregation Sam belonged to. Having no luck with that, I called the cemetery to ascertain that information. I learned she was buried in the Orthodox section. This, from my experience, needed special considerations and the rabbi definitely needed to be informed. I began calling the Orthodox temple to get help from the rabbi. After a couple of weeks I called the JEA and told them Sam's story and was put in touch with a gentleman within that was in charge of community outreach. I was able to get him to meet with my husband and Sam.

The representative from the JEA was a man sent from heaven. He assisted us in getting Sam into hospice, in touch with the rabbi, made arrangements for his funeral and burial. We continued to see Sam and attend to some of his needs. The representative from the JEA also visited from time to time.

When Sam died my husband was contacted by the gentleman from JEA. He advised Mike of the date and time of the funeral. The Jewish section of the Bonaventure Cemetery is beautiful with graves from over 100 years ago. Those markers have pictures of the people buried there. The Orthodox section is kept according to law and the ceremony is in Hebrew. Though people not of the faith can attend, they have a place to observe the ritual from.

When my husband arrived, he was beckoned by the rabbi to step closer, whereupon the relatives protested. Rabbi told them to go stand somewhere else and an argument in Hebrew ensued. Mike told me he did not know what was said, but the family physically backed off to a point of exile. The rabbi performed the burial ritual in English and Hebrew mentioning my husband's name occasionally. I do know that this is unusual, but I was not able to get much detail out of my husband as he is a man of few words. All he cared about was that Sam was finally next to his wife.

I sometimes am in awe of this simple man I am married to.

Friday

2006-11-21T20:15:00.000-05:00

I have always liked Friday. It was the day I wore my coolest outfit in school, smiled my best smile at whatever poor soul I had a crush on. I didn't have to do home work right away and Daddy was at Happy Hour. He always came home in a good mood. Friday is the end of the serious week and the beginning of play time and I like play time.

Fridays in a civilian community weren't as much fun for me as they were when we lived on base. When Daddy was overseas we would live in Savannah. My mother wouldn't drive at night and we lived in the boonies, so unless I had a date, I stayed at home. When we lived on base we were cloistered. Every base had a teen club where the kids met Friday and Saturday nights.

Teen Clubs were designed to keep us all in one place where our parents could "stop by and check on us." They did. At one such club we had pool tables, a jukebox, a television, tables to play whist; it was a teenager's paradise. Our chaperon was the widow of a Marine in her 60's, we called her "Mom". She was cool!

One could go to the Teen Club without a date, which allowed for flexibility and deception. The Teen Club was a place of assignations, liaisons and high tech espionage. We met boys we were forbidden to be around and friends that got us in trouble. So many people were always there that we could camouflage our behaviour if our next door neighbor was the volunteer chaperon that weekend.

I don't remember exactly what time the club closed, but it was between 11 and midnight. Our parents knew exactly when the club closed, so with drill team precision we would check in at the club, hang out for an hour or so, gather a gang of kids up and all drive out to an ancient cemetery buried in the woods on base. Once there, the guys would build a bonfire, break out the beer, booze and doobies, crank up the cars with all the radios on and the party would begin. We had to squeeze some serious partying into a couple of hours, including making-out with your boyfriend, and be home by the time the Teen Club closed. Yes, we all walked a thin precarious line while living on the edge.

Every week-end we went to the Teen Club and then the cemetery and every week-end around 11:00 pm the MP's (military police) would come up on us, tell us to put the fire out and go home or they would take us in. The girls would jump into the cars, scared silly. The guys would put the fire out the way guys like to. On the way out we would pass the MP's truck as they waited for us all to leave. Sweating bullets the ride home was silent, all of us praying our parents would never find out.

The MP's never turned us in. Maybe it was because they were not that far removed from us. Maybe they knew someones Old Man was waiting.

Float Like a Butterfly

2006-11-19T15:41:00.000-05:00

"Muhammed Ali is in the restaurant!" hissed the banquet server as he whisked by me. Continuing in the same direction, I too made a beeline for the restaurant.

As I approached the restaurant inside the hotel where I worked, the great man loomed before me. Mr. Beautiful, The Greatest, the man that thrilled the world with his technique and quick wit. Though consumed by a debilitating nervous disease, he smiled as he talked to a young child who recognized him.

Muhammed Ali was a man I did not care for much in the beginning. Like most people I was shocked by his outspoken manner. As I grew to be a woman I realized that his banter had substance and began to respect him for his steadfast fearlessness. Most people would shun the limelight with a disease such as his. But not Mr. Ali. His rebellious nature makes him determined to beat his illness. It is not going to knock him out. Savannah is a stop on the way to and from his treatments on Hilton Head Island.

I was privileged to watch a man comfortable with his celebrity and himself, interact with children. With a smile on his face and a trembling hand, he performed a classic magic trick by carefully making a quarter disappear and then reappear from one child's ear. I was in love.

5 Gross Things

2006-11-17T22:35:00.000-05:00

Coaster Punchman has challenged our circle to name 5 Gross Things about ourselves you don't know. It will be difficult to best him, but here I go anyway:

1. I took diving lessons when I lived in Key West. It is absolutely the most perfect place to learn this pastime. Our instructor was good and thorough. We had classroom instruction regarding the qualities of gas and air pressure, which directly relates to diving. We practiced underwater in a pool prior to going out in the big bad ocean for our final dive for certification. There was only one other female in the class and she was my best friend. The final dive was wonderful. We dove off of some old Navy ship wrecks, which are used to form reefs. We went through all our underwater tests and trials and after about 1/2 hour we re-boarded our boat. My friend and I were the last to board. As we began to take our tanks off, the guys looked and pointed to our nether regions and asked us what was going on. It seems an abundant amount of water was running out of us down our legs. Science in action. The law of air pressure and what it pushes where was proved. I said, "Well, at least we don't have to douche for a while!"

2. In the seventh grade I was in school, sitting in the front of the class, wearing my best wool pleated skirt. I was having my period when I felt I needed to go take care of business. Right at that moment I became nauseous and erked on the front of my skirt. I got up to leave and the class gasped because there was blood all over the back of the skirt. Burned that skirt!

3. When I was a little girl my cousin and best friend tried to get me to drink their pee by telling me it was lemonade.

4. One day many years ago, during the spring, I was walking to work downtown. As I stood on the corner waiting for traffic , a man in a truck turned in front of me. He had a half gristle going on, exposed all the way down to his balls. His penis was bouncing around like a jack-in-the-box.
I couldn't move.

5. One day, again many years ago, as I was looking out my window, downtown, in the back lane,
I saw a man walking down the lane, with his penis in his hand, peeing while walking into it.

Restriction

2006-11-14T10:30:00.000-05:00

The first time I met Robert Downey, Jr. was when he was in town filming "1969" . He was staying at the hotel were I worked and occasionally would descend upon my bar with a gaggle of girls from the local art college. Nothing for the papparrazzi here, just people having a good time in a bar. The second time was several years later while he was filming "The Gingerbread Man".

Robert Downey, Jr. had been all over the news prior to arriving in Savannah. He was on a special parole having just been released from jail. Again, he stayed at the hotel where I worked. We saw precious little of him this time. He did befriend one of the assistant managers at the hotel, whom he later hired to manage his production company.

During this time, my husband's daughter had come down from the Land 'O Lakes for a visit. The three of us were putzing around the downtown area and decided to have a coffee at a local coffee shop. Sipping coffee alfresco, we soaked in the beautiful day, chatted and watched the passers by.

At the cafe table next to us sat a handsome young man. He looked so familiar I nearly spoke, but decided to wait until I could remember his name. I stole furtive glances at the young man, trying to place him. He caught my eye and nodded in salutation. This simple gesture made me realize that I was oggling Robert Downey, Jr. What ever was reflecting on my face caused an expression of apprehension on his, so I lowered my eyes. Turning to my husband's daughter I said, "Come inside with me a minute."

Thinking this would be a thrill for her, I told her who we were sitting next to. She knew him not! We returned to our table to finish our coffee and sit next to a famous movie star who was enjoying his anonymity.

Semper Fidelis

2006-11-12T14:55:00.000-05:00

Taking a quiet day to reflect a double remembrance for a great warrior and defender of my country. Friday, November 10 was the Marine Corps birthday and Saturday, November 11 was Veterans Day.

My father was a man committed to his duty as an officer in the Marine Corps. His promise to defend and protect the Constitution of the United States was made in earnest. I did not always agree with his politics, but I was always proud of him. He did not always agree with his Commander in Chief, but he loved his country and his men. Those who love him, love him dearly.

Semper Fi, Daddy.

Chicken Run

2006-11-09T19:59:00.000-05:00

My mother's childhood home was small, but on a rather large piece of property. The back of the lot was full of pecan trees and nicely shaded. My grandfather had a shop that would make 'The Tool Man' green with envy. Across from the shop was a huge slat wood garage and 'freezer' house.

My grandmother was a thrifty woman and interested in ways to turn a buck. One year she decided to raise chickens. Grandmama knew how to raise chickens, as she had done so all of her life. Visions of free eggs, eggs to sell and chickens to eat filled her head with dollars signs. Unfortunately, my mother and her siblings were charged with keeping them fed and cleaned.

Grandmama set up the garage as one huge coop; my uncle and grandfather built a fence to separate the chickens from his shop. My mother enjoyed feeding the chickens and even made a pet out of one, which my uncle had a penchant to kick upon occasion. Not all of the chickens would stay inside the fence, particularly the one that my mother befriended.

Grandmama was in charge of selecting the chicken for the evening meal. She tried to teach my mother how to catch one and wring it's neck, to no avail. My mother rarely defied her mother, but on this point she refused. She and her sister did have to pluck and clean the chicken after it was killed (saving the feathers of course). Farm life can be a starkly real. The vision of my grandmother swinging a chicken around like a whirly gig to ring it's neck probably has less of an impact on me than my mother, who actually witnessed the act. My grandmother preferred this method, she would say, because, chopping their heads off gave her the heebies, as they continued to run about without their heads.

None the less, the chicken industry at my grandmother's house was perking right along until the onset of late fall. Generally, the weather is very mild during winter in the southern states, so farmers don't have to do much to protect stock and plants from freezing. That particular fall an early freeze hit the south. Grandmama decided to put the chickens in the living room of the house for two reasons. Most of the chickens were biddies and the living room had a wood stove for heat. With all the doors to the living room closed the chickens would be warm, safe and easy to feed.

Pleased with herself for coming up with this brilliant idea to save the chickens, life continued at my Grandmother's house. Meanwhile trouble was a brewin' behind the closed doors of the living room. Not only was it difficult to prevent chickens escaping the living room; once inside, my Mother had to hold her nose and step carefully. Between the poop and chickens running amok, very little of the hardwood floor was available for purchase.

By the third day, the chickens were released on their own recognizance; back to the garage to grow and be attritioned as time saw fit. I am not sure how long it took to sanitize the living room back to it's former status, but I do know that it was the coldest room in the house as it 'aired'.

Stars In My Eyes

2006-11-07T21:55:00.000-05:00

Several mainstream and not so mainstream movies have been made in Savannah. Between living here and working at a 4-Star hotel I have managed to meet several famous people. One October in the mid-80's a movie called "1969" was being filmed here. The main stars were Keifer Sutherland and Robert Downey, Jr.

In Savannah a movie star can walk down the street naked and a person who is a native would just nod and say "Hey." It is considered grossly inappropriate to fawn over a famous person. Gawking is another thing altogether, if done surreptitiously.

One night, when I was helping my bartenders close down the bar, in walks Keifer Sutherland with the director of the film. As he sat down he asked if he could still get a drink and I nodded yes to the bartender. She came over to me and asked me who he was, so instead of whispering I said, "That is Keifer Sutherland, his father is Donald Sutherland and they are both movie stars."

"And what are your names?" Keifer asked. We introduced ourselves and continued with some small talk.

He came in the bar regularly after that, for a single malt night cap and lessons in 'Southern.' He generously left nice tips for the bartenders if they would talk to him so he could listen to their accents.

He was well liked among the hotel staff and even remembered names a couple of months later when he came back for re-takes. He appears smaller and shorter in person than on screen. He is very relaxed and open to people. He walks in a smooth and confident manner.

5 Things

2006-11-05T14:57:00.000-05:00

I am late, but I had to think a bit on this one Dale

1. I adore dark chocolate covered cherry cordials.

2. I love pretty, lacy, frilly things.

3. I have met many famous people.

4. My outside doesn't match my inside.

5. I wish I didn't have to work.

Womanhood

2006-11-05T13:33:00.000-05:00

My mother set the dates and times for the events in my life that would advance me toward womanhood. I would get to wear stockings, heels and shave my legs at 13, date at 16. Little did she know how rapidly the 60's would wear down the social dictates of the 40's! Every early advance I gained was a long and hard fought victory.

I was physically mature at an early age. My menses began the summer after sixth grade. I was still a child and I hated it. My breasts were growing and I had to wear stretch panel bras. Grow as you grow sort of device. To add to my discomfort, I had hairy legs. Black hair. Many boys were envious of the hairiness of my legs. Often they would tug and pull at the hair on my legs as I passed by them on the bus. When I began 7th grade, I asked my mother to please let me shave my legs. She stubbornly refused. The only condition that was in my favor was that I was attending school on base and everyone had parents with strange rules and restrictions. The boys eased up on the teasing and the girls definitely understood. Finally my mother broke down and allowed me to shave my legs a week before my 13th birthday.

I can remember it clearly. We lived in quarters in Quantico that were built in the 20's. The single bathroom had a huge claw foot tub. I filled it full with hot water and bubble bath. Wielding my father's double-edged razor with Wilkerson blades I began. I propped one foot on the edge of the tub and drew the razor from my ankle and 2 inches up when the blade clogged with hair. I rinsed and shaved another 2 inches. Repeatedly. 20 minutes, 2 legs and massive amounts of hair floating on top of the bathwater later I was through. Outside the bathroom, banging on the door were my parents, "Are you alright in there?" I told them I was fine and would be through soon.

I drained the tub and turned on the shower to rinse myself and the tub. As I dried off I admired how pretty my legs looked bare. I ran my hand over them and was thrilled by their smoothness. I felt so much better. This moment was my own. I knew once I left the bathroom that I would have to pass an inspection and answer questions, but I was the only one who mattered during this moment of pleasure and acceptance.

The Slasher

2006-10-31T07:32:00.000-05:00

My husband was a skip tracer toward the end of his career with the Marine Corps. He was part of an elite group of military police that went all over the world tracking AWOL Marines and bringing them back to the fold.

Needless to say, after 2 consecutive tours of duty in Viet Nam he certainly was tough enough for the job. One would easily think that he had experienced all the horrors of a lifetime for a 20 year old man. He doesn't frequently discuss his 'adventures' in the Marine Corps, but he did tell me this story.

My husband and his partner were tracking a particularly notorious and slippery Marine who was AWOL. They had received notice that the Marine was in jail in Arizona, locked up good and tight, waiting for the Marine Corps to pick him up. Thinking this would be an easy transfer, my husband and his partner quickly flew to Arizona so they could expedite the prisoner and have some 'ahem' off duty time.

When my husband and his partner arrived at the jail housing the Marine, the Sheriff lead them to his cell. The Marine was sitting inside a circle of purloined candles, trancing and chanting. My husband and his partner pulled their weapons and sticks and entered the cell, commanding "On your feet Marine!"

The AWOL Marine continued his chant with increasing timbre. "Did you hear me Marine? I said on your feet!" was the second command my husband gave. The AWOL chanted louder, ignoring the order.

Holstering their weapons, my husband and his partner reached for the Marine. Thud! A fist hit my husband in the chest so hard, it threw him back a couple of feet. Shaking his head he attempted to rise, only to be held down by an unseen force. He called to his partner, who answered, but was backed up against the cell bars in much the same manner.

"What the hell is going on?" My husband shouted. "Marine answer me!"

The AWOL Marine's chanting was now ecstatic and my husband watched in awe and horror as the Marine elevated and began screaming. Unbelievably the AWOL Marine was being slashed to pieces by some unseen entity, who then threw his lifeless body to the ground, releasing my husband and his partner as well from it's death grip.

My husband looked at his partner and said, "Did you see that?" His partner responded, "No, let's get the hell out of here."

Smedley D. Butler

2006-10-26T21:28:00.000-04:00

Smedley was a tough old battle scarred Boxer. A standard Boxer with wide muscled shoulders and a head as big as my own. Much like his namesake, he was a proud warrior during his youth. When I asked his mistress about Smedley's scars, she declared, "You should have seen the other dog!"

Smedley belonged to my parents best friends and was my company and protection as I baby sat their daughter. I baby sat for them frequently, as military social life and entertaining is demanding and frequent. Smedley and I became fast friends. He was so old and stiff that he preferred to lie on the floor and sleep. If he moved, it was done sedately but with much nasal intonation, as is characteristic of Boxers. The only puppy left in him was his stubby little tail. Only about 1/2 an inch long, he would wag it as best he could when his owners came home.

Often Smedley's owners would go out of town and leave Smedley at our house to babysit him. He seemed to enjoy his visits to our house, as we had a little dog and a cat. The 3 of them would sit in front of the fire place and toast themselves to sleep.

During one such visit from Smedley, my brother and I were in the kitchen doing the dishes and grab assin'. My brother would pop me with the dish towel and I in turn would wop him in the face with the wet sponge. We chased each other around the kitchen and outside. I slipped back in the kitchen quickly and locked him out. He came around to another door, got back into the kitchen and started snapping the towel again. When I sprayed him with the sink sprayer all bets were off and I ran into the living room where everyone else was.

The animals looked at me quizzically because I was laughing so hard, when suddenly I heard my brother growl on the other side of the living room. With a skullie pulled over his head he came out of the kitchen growling like a monster and walking like Frankenstein. I screamed and started running and laughing. Smedley leaped to his feet with a low growl deep in his throat. He crouched to jump and gave a fierce warning bark. I stopped dead in my tracks and turned toward my brother who ripped the skullie off of his head and exclaimed, "No Smedley, no, it's me!" Smedley sat back on his haunches in wonder, cocked his head to one side and looked at my brother, got up and began searching the house for the 'monster'. We had to give him the skullie to appease him

Odds

2006-10-24T21:57:00.000-04:00

I majored in Biology in college. This was mostly my father's idea, as he didn't want me to major in dance-my love. He didn't think ballet was 'productive.' Years later I pointed out to him that Paula Abdul was certainly making a good living at dance. Unlike most girls at the time, I didn't recoil at dissecting animals. I was truly fascinated by the major and pulled a decent GPA.

The ratio of men to women in the science and math classes was about 3:1. As a matter of fact, my Genetics course only had one female. Me! Our first lab was breeding fruit flies. My partner lived off campus and elected me to breed the flies in my dorm room. The purpose of this lab was to trace the physical characteristics of the fruit fly progeny and continue to breed them for a set amount of time, recording each generation's physical attributes. My lab partner stood me up every time we needed to record stats of the new generation. At the end of the project I gave him a copy of the results. The next day he came back and said, "I compared your results with another group and they aren't the same."

"Why would they be?" I asked him.

"Well, I think they should be, so I'm writing my own report. I am not using yours."

"Suit yourself," I said.

When the professor handed the results back, my lab partner got an 'A' and I received a 'C'. The professor then told me I got the 'C' because our reports were different. I told him that my report contained my results and my partner's report contained someone else's.

This professor loved statistics. His favorite lesson plan was a coffee tin filled with slips of paper with different instructions written on them; for example, 'no class today', 'pop test', 'lecture'.
The number of slips in the tin equal the number of students in the class, always with 1 'no class today' and the remaining 2 instructions in varied amounts. He would walk into class, shaking the tin while stating the odds of any one of the slips of paper being drawn, proffer the tin to a student who would then select our lesson plan of the day. Of course, it was either pop test or lecture. One day he walked into class, shaking that tin and said, "Miss Bourne, since you are the only female in this class, you will pick the slip today." I reached into the tin that was above my head and made my selection, which was 'no class today'!

Woosh! is all I heard as the fellas leaped from their seats and ran from the class, leaving me and the professor staring at each other. I was dumbfounded, he was pissed! He remained pissed the rest of the quarter, 'forgetting' to give me hand outs and tests, forcing me to ask for them.

I barely made a 'B' in that class, even though I aced the final and the only C I got was on the one lab. My lab partner, made C's and B's all quarter and received an 'A' for his final grade.

I can honestly say that my Genetics course taught me volumes.

Confession

2006-10-22T13:39:00.000-04:00

God only knows what was on my mother's mind when she named me. My father was in Korea fighting the conflict, so his input was nil. My grandparents on both sides raised holy hell with my mother. She was steadfast in her determination to name me Tymothe.

For 54 years I have born this moniker with as much dignity as a female possibly can. The reactions of people once learning my name vary from friendly to rude. "Oh what an interesting name!" to "What are you, a dyke?" Men have a harder time with it than women, and tend to not call me by my name. Even my father called me 'Sissy' or 'Samantha'. In recent years, younger people call me "T", I prefer Tym or Tymothe. NO ONE is allowed to call me Timmy-except my dead grandmother.

I have come to hate certain pieces of literature, particularly anything that had an animal named Timothy with a carapace. One school principal insisted on likening me to horse hay, as that is the name of the type of hay grown for horses to consume. I have been accused of cannibalism because of a certain song.

It wasn't long before I grew tired of giving people my name or telling people how to pronounce my name. I believe it was in my first year of school, after I had come home crying because I was being teased about my name, that I asked my mother why she gave me such a name.

"There was this little old man," she began, "who lived close to us. He was a dapper dresser who scuffled about the fishing village with a cane. His name was Timothy and I liked his name so I named you Tymothe."

Long silence. Made absolutely no sense to me at all. Ever. That's the only explanation I ever got and I have no other clue as to why she gave me that name. My brothers have manly men names.

A caveat to any of you young enough to have children-give your kids regular names. Don't name them after family members or get all cutesy with spelling or throw a bunch of syllables together for uniqueness sake. But most of all-don't give a boy a girls name or a girl a boy's name. It really sucks in the long run.

Merchant Marines

2006-10-20T23:00:00.000-04:00

I met people from all walks of life and from all over the world when I worked in the bar on the river. Savannah has a big and profitable port located in the city limits. It adds to the mystique of this city. She is a sophisticated lady with street smarts.

I had opportunities to extend my relationships with my customers beyond the confines of the bar, but chose not to 99% of the time. I particularly enjoyed merchant marines and sailors from the UK. They were fun to talk with and hilarious. Many times we had international NATO fleets come to port and we would be inundated with sailors. Sailors with one thing and one thing only on their minds. No woman with two legs had to buy her own drink when they were in town and Savannah is known for it's pretty women.

After my shift, I would sit and have a drink with the fellas, but I didn't go out with them and here's why.

Once a merchant ship came in from the UK that was in port for a couple of days. A few of the guys came in my bar and stayed the whole time they were in port. They had been all over the world and told stories of their international adventures. What was unusual about this crew was they all rolled their own cigarettes. As they sat at the bar, instead of putting a pack of cigarettes down, the put down a tin with papers.

My mother collected tins. She had a big tins, little tins, fancy tins, antique tins, tins, tins, tins. I decided that she needed more. I explained this to my merchant marines, and asked if they would be so kind as to leave an empty one or two. The day they left port, one of the sailors stopped by and left some tins with me. He made his farewells, told me that they would be back in six weeks, but a sister ship would be here between now and then.

A few weeks later, different bunch of merchant marines from the UK came in the bar, sat down and placed 3 paper grocery bags full of tins on the bar and asked, "Are you Tymothe?" That is why I did not date sailors!

AC/DC

2006-10-17T19:51:00.000-04:00

For 20 years I lived in old houses converted into apartments in downtown Savannah. Because I also worked in the downtown area, I walked to work. In downtown Savannah houses, restaurants and other businesses are nestled together with a garden squares within a block or two from where a person lives. Walking around town was always an adventure and a pleasure for me. I never knew who or what I would encounter from day to day.

Cats are prolific is this town. Most businesses in the downtown area have a resident cat. Some even have ghost cats. There is ususally a dish of food outside of the kitchen of every restaurant downtown, as well as the houses. The Downtown Savannah cats are very fat and happy.

One day while walking home I heard a mournful "mrow" behind me. I turned around and saw nothing, so I continued to head toward my home. "Mrow, mrow." Again, this cat meowing! Where is it? I turned around and walked toward the sound and saw a beautiful 4 month old tuxedo kitten behind a dumpster in a parking lot. He looked at me with his big green eyes and funny twisted mouth and mewed again. Thinking this wasn't the best place in the world for him, I picked him up and took him to the closest square, across from a restaurant.

I forged on toward my apartment. "Mrow." Yes, the cat followed me all the way home and wormed his way into my apartment and life. He is dubbed AC/DC because he is charged with electricity. AC is very confident cat, who my other cats do not care for, but he could care less.

AC would chase my ankles and bat at them. He loved to run up and down the handrail of the spiral staircase to the attic room. Even though he was fixed, he took on a Ty stuffed kitty as his lover for a couple of years. He was, or so he thought, the alpha male of the house. To this day he remains under the illusion he is the master of the house.

AC and my husband have locked horns on many occasions. AC did not like being told no and would have a cat tantrum. An AC cat tantrum is a sight to behold. He runs back and forth jumping up on and down off of furniture vocalizing with a continuous "mmrrrrwwwwmmrrrrw!" One day a couple of years ago, AC got on the counter and we told him to get down. He sat on the counter giving us a stony stare that said "Make me." My husband got up from his seat and stood in front of AC and said "Look here Hammerhead, get your ass off the counter now. You don't want to lock assholes with me!" My husband turned around and walked toward this seat, while a glowering AC swatted at him missing (on purpose) by a good 6 inches. My husband turned around, AC jumped off the counter strolling on by my husband, tail in the air twitching, like nothing happened.

Krispy Kreme

2006-10-15T14:41:00.000-04:00

Hot Krispy Kreme glazed doughnuts are light, melt-in-your mouth orgasms that have no equal. I was introduced to this hot southern treat as a little girl, by my mother's mother.

Grandmama would get a hankering for Krispy Kreme and tell us to "Go jump in the car, we're going to Krispy Kreme." while she grabbed her purse and keys. We would scramble out of the house all trying to get out of the door at the same time, screaming front seat rights. Grandmama's Impala had the continuous front seat that she and 3 grandchildren could fit in, the back seat held at least 6.

During this pre-seatbelt era and flying at a low altitude, we careened the few miles to the only Krispy Kreme in town, hoping against hope the doughnuts would be HOT. We swarmed into the store and watched the doughnuts on the Goldbergesque conveyor system. Starting at the up/down swingy proofing trays we would pick a doughnut and watch it go up and down until it was flipped into a swimming pool of frying oil. Magically swimming along they moved forward only to be flipped over into another pool to finish cooking. Inching toward the glazer conveyor they bobbed like inner tubes in a faux excitement toward the last conveyor. Once grabbed by the conveyor, they remain in their inertia to be evenly sprayed with sugar water.

At Krispy Kreme, when the doughnuts are hot, order glazed doughnuts and you get hot doughnuts. The high tech tool the associates use to retrieve the hot doughnuts are plastic drinking straws. Quick as a wink they place the doughnuts into the green and white box that holds a dozen. My grandmother always bought 2 dozen. Whoever sat in the front seat next to Grandmama held the boxes of doughnuts. On the ride home she would say, "Open that box and give me a doughnut and pass them around." Grandmama always got 2 dozen doughnuts because one way or the other, a dozen disappeared on the way home.

Picture Man

2006-10-11T21:14:00.000-04:00

Standing up, his head just came over the top of the bar. Wearing a baseball cap on his head and a Polaroid handing around his neck, he extended his hand to me saying, "Henno, Um pnicnure man."

We shook hands. "Hello, my name is Tymothe," I responded.

"Nymone, you name Nymone?" he asked. "Yes," I responded.

He just shook his head, as all people do, and then continued to explain to me that he took pictures of people all over Savannah with his camera. Shorty/Pictureman is a well known icon in my town. He can be found at any public or sporting event, taking pictures of people with his Polaroid. I have seen him from one end of town to the other on the same evening.

I never knew anything about Shorty other than what I saw and over the years I have seen and spoken with him a lot. He never ages. He always wears a baseball cap and is never without his camera. He is a cute, tawny skinned man that speaks with a speech impediment and is only about 4'8" tall. I have never seen him angry. He has the confidence of a giant and interacts with people easily. Everyone likes him.

Whenever he entered the bar I worked in, I could see he was casing the potential of picture taking. He was unassuming in this respect. I imagined that this was his modus operandi in gaining and maintaining acceptance of his pandering in a venue. He never asked an owner's permission to come in and take pictures. He would walk in, begin conversations with people and make friends. Once his foot was in the door, he was in for good and whenever he wanted to be. He was never charged a cover, never charged for a drink, which was soda or water.

Seven days a week and I don't know how many hours a day or for how many years this man has worked out of his car. I know he has walked millions of miles and must have millions of friends from all over the world. Above is a picture taken of my deceased mother and her deceased boyfriend taken by Shorty.

She Loves Me, She Love Me Not

2006-10-09T16:04:00.000-04:00

I have always enjoyed exploring outdoors and the wonders of nature. Every place I ever lived offered me an abundance of Mother Nature's wonder.

I liked to catch things and provide them with suitable habitats so that I could watch them grow.
Catching fireflies during the hot summer nights was one of my favorite activities. Sometimes I would join my brother in catching toads to throw on my aunt. Once I found tadpoles in a drainage ditch. Trembling with excitement I ran back to the house to get a jar so I could capture some. My mother fixed a mayonnaise jar for me by punching holes in the top and we went back to the ditch to catch tadpoles. Watching the tadpoles grow was very exciting, but my mother made me put them back after their legs sprouted. I remember arguing with her about them not being finished yet, but she explained that they needed to go back before their tails disappeared.

I would also spend my day digging in the dirt, making mud pies, looking for marbles and other treasure buried in the earth. At the end of the day I would bestow my mother with the bits of glass, rocks and china I had unearthed. I kept the marbles. I loved flowers. Anything that flowered no matter how big or small, to me, was a flower. Weed was not in my vocabulary.
I picked flowers everyday that I could find them for my mother. Her reaction at the presentation was always the same. She would smile and proclaim their fabulous beauty, then
put them in a vessel made just for them.

When we live in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, we had some woods behind our quarters. I found some lovely big flowers with lots of green pretty leaves and I picked a whole vase full. Wanting to surprise my mother with the flowers, I snuck in the house and ran into the bathroom. Once I had ascertained that the coast was clear, I put the flowers behind my back and crept up on her.

"Mommy, look!" I said holding the flowers out to her.

"OH!" she exclaimed. I puffed up with pride thinking I had really found something special.

"Sweetie, go put those in the sink. I'm sorry but that's poison ivy."

I looked at her and said "What's poison ivy?"

As she scrubbed me down with soap and water she explained. Unfortunately, the next day I did have itchy welts all over, but at least Daddy was sent out to get rid of bad nasty poison ivy!

Breastuses

2006-10-07T01:33:00.000-04:00

Okay I'm stepping out of format here, but it's these kids you see, challenging me all the time. This time for Boobiethon a Breast Cancer Charity. I want you all to know I had to scan these babies!

Many Blessings

2006-10-06T18:54:00.000-04:00

During my hospital incarceration I endured many states of dress. For several hours it was my shorts and a hospital shirt thrown over my shoulders and chest to ensure decency. This allowed technicians to run EKG's and x-ray, etc. By the time I got up to my room I was hoping to get one of the snapping gowns, which allow a person to put it on around all the wires and tubes. The snaps are on either side of the shoulders and there's a nifty pocket for the portable telemetry device. All in all the gown has to go over an IV, six wires, a telemetry device and an intermittent BP cuff at the minimum. Needless to say I was in a semi state of dress, but I was in a hospital.

The next morning my nurse's assistant fixed a little bath tub so I could stand in the middle of the floor in a freezing cold room to wash. It was as if I were strung up like a puppet, wires and tubes were flailing about, telemetry device dangling off my chest with it's octopus like suction cups, machines beeping 'she's f'd up again, she's f'd up again'. That lasted about 2 minutes. I dried off while the nurse's assistant finished changing sheets. The only gown was the regular gown which I draped over the front of me. I then jumped in the bed and got under the covers, shivering my ass off.

"Could you possibly get me one of those snap gowns?" I asked the nurse. "Oh, sure honey I thought you had one." She answered.

While I waited shivering under the covers, in pops Mama Gin's Brother, literally. You see, this hospital is a Catholic hospital founded by a convent. The priest on duty was a shy, smiling Asian, who stood halfway between the room door and my bed

"Hello, I am Father Somebody, I come to comfor you in you time of need." As he inched wide-eyed toward my bed. Standing about 2 feet away from me, he looked back toward the door and then back at me. "Would you like a prayer?" I nodded because that's his job, but I think he would have rather I said no.

"Okay," crosses himself, "Father pleas watch over dis ladee and cure her of what ever is wrong with her, okay?" crosses himself again. "Okay, I go, hope you get better, whatever wrong!" Shoots out the door, didn't even hit him in the ass on the way out.

I sat in a quandary, how could I possibly intimidate a Priest! Got up, looked in the mirror and said to myself, "yea I guess I would run too!"

232

2006-10-05T16:31:00.000-04:00

This past week-end I was incarcerated in hospital for necessary reaming of arteries. I have never been fond of hospitals and never had to stay in one until 1997. I am the same with doctors. I go when I absolutely have to, which means they will no longer refill necessary prescriptions until I go in for a check up.

Thanks to the rapid progression of medical science, cardio surgery and recovery can be blindingly quick. I am not the best cardio patient in the world due to the fact I have one fatal habit. I do my exercises, follow my diet, take my pills, but continue to smoke. That's my weakness and I make no excuses. I try and continue to fail to quit smoking-I am sure that I will continue to try and succeed eventually. Each time I try, the ground I gain is reducing the amount that I do smoke. I have come from a 2 pack a day to 1/2 pack a day habit. That's progress but it does need to improve.

I went in the hospital Saturday afternoon, thinking 'Shit, now I can't post my freaking picture and everyone is going to tease me about being a wimp!' Then I told them not to give me anything for pain, because morphine turns me into a wailing femme fatale. So they got all the appropriate drips going, made all the appropriate x-rays and cardio-grams and ran me up to my room to wait for procedure the next day.

Being in the hospital is like being in Grand Central Station. They really should put revolving doors on the rooms. The first 2 visitors I had was a comical nursing team that took vitals and rolled around a scale. At the same time a nurse came in to set up and calibrate the juicing machines. Juicing nurse told Vital Stats nurses to weigh me first so she could calibrate the heperin(made from sea urchins).

"Okay sweetie," The Vitals said, "Jump on here and we'll get your weight"

"232 lbs. That's 232 pounds." One Vital said.

"232 lbs?" The other Vital asked.

"Yes, 232 lbs." Was the response.

"Okay, that's 232 lbs. you got that?" to Juicy nurse.

"Yes, 232 lbs, now how many kilos is 232 lbs?" Juicy asked.

"We can set the scale for kilo, you want her to get back on?" Vitals asked

"No, 232lbs is 110 kilos," Juicy said as she sciphered on her note paper. "Now that's 232 lbs equals 110 kilos and @#$@ heperin at @#@$ per cc's."

"232 lbs is 110 kilos" One Vital said to the other.

"Okay, I've got that down"

They FINALLY left after everyone on the floor found out how much the patient in Room 341 weighed. But, the next morning, in they come again, the same 2 Vital Statistics nurses.

"Okay sweetie time to weigh in, on the scales. 232 lbs. Still 232 lbs and you didn't eat anything? She's still at 232 lbs!" One Vital said to the other.

"Check it again, that can't be right, you sure she still at 232 lbs?"

"Yes, 232 lbs!"

They left, not to be seen for another 24 hours, because after a angioplasty one is now allowed to stand for eight hours, nor can one move the right leg. To make this 8 hours more comfortable they flush fluid through a person to get rid of the dyes, soooo, yup, you guessed it I had to pee every half-hour. I slept as much as I could until midnight. Then peed the rest of the night.

"Good morning Sweetie, time to weigh you again!" My same 2 Vitals nurses.

"230 lbs. Well it's about time! That's 2 lbs less than yesterday. Write that down 230 lbs!"

"What's that in kilos?" I asked.

Hoochie Mama

2006-10-04T14:45:00.000-04:00

I found a picture of me in the offending bikini!

Now remember, this is 1977!!

Cheesy

2006-10-03T14:20:00.000-04:00

Okay, this is a later pix. My mother had just cut my waist long hair because I had huge knots in it. I hated it. My father told me I looked like George Washington. You can tell I was not a happy camper!

Tardy

2006-10-02T13:21:00.000-04:00

I have an excuse from my doctor!

Graffiti

2006-09-28T22:26:00.000-04:00

Everyone at one time or another has used a public bathroom, the birthplace of ribald graffiti. Some are cute rhymes like-If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie.
Some are raucous-Here is sit broken hearted, Tried to sh*t but only farted. Some are romantic-Mary luvs Mike 4 ever. Then there are the x-rated ones that use exotic words.

I have always enjoyed graffiti, especially as a child. It appealed to my sense of curiosity. I would read the words and just know they were nasty but never knew exactly what they meant, but I knew they were words a person could not speak in polite society.

I was in the third grade when my curiosity got the best of me. I lived in Abilene, Texas at the time, a staunchly religious town in a dry county. The school was an old 3 story brick building with wooden floors. The bathrooms were an after thought; modern institutional with adult sized fixtures. Often the teachers were in there during breaks to assist the little ones.

One of the stalls had the following legend-So & so f*cked so & so in the p*ssy. Probably some sixth grader wrote it. This phrase burned a hole in my mind. I looked the words up in the dictionary, but they weren't there. I was going to have to ask my mother, but I wanted to make sure I got it right before I did. One day at school, I went to the bathroom with paper and pencil and copied the phrase down, folded the paper up very small and stuck it in my book bag.

Unfortunately, the preacher's daughter saw me and told the teacher. The teacher called me to the front of the class and asked me what I wrote on the paper. I went back to my desk and retrieved the paper and showed it to her. She then asked me what I was going to do with it. I told her I was taking it home to show my mother so she could tell me what it meant. Teacher folded the note back up, returned it to me and said, "Fine."

My mother did explain it to me and she got a bit of a chuckle out of the story I told her.

Pictures

2006-09-27T22:09:00.000-04:00

I can safely say I have witnessed a great part of the evolution of the camera. That is the personal camera. I can remember my grandparents little brownie. It was shaped like a little box and it was metallic brown. The view finder was an inset on the top of the box. In order to take a picture one held the camera on either side and looked down into the view finder until the image appeared. Very, very carefully one pushed down a sliding button on the side, while holding the camera still.

One of my favorite pastimes was to peruse photo albums. I still do. I do not particularly like to have my picture taken.

Since we have decided to have the 1st Annual Little Miss Sunshine Contest I have been going through pictures. This has stirred memories for future tales, but tonight I decided to post a picture of one of my grandmothers. You will see she is wearing one of her long dress muu-muus with her mink stole!

Fashion Faux Pas?

2006-09-25T20:48:00.000-04:00

One of the things I liked about sewing was creating unique clothing. I could choose the pattern, material & buttons and co-ordinate colors in novel ways. Up until I turned 16 I had to share my mother's sewing machine. For my 16th birthday my grandmother gave me her old Singer. Mother gave me my own little space in her sewing room. I kept this machine for 25 more years.

I was a fashion conscious as any 16 year old at the time. The fashion here was very conservative. Collegiate they called it. Gant oxford shirts, Burberry before it was 'cool', saddle shoes, Bass Weejuns, box pleated skirts, Etienne Aigner and so on. In 1968 the world was changing and so was the South, albeit slowly. I had just a few store bought collegiate style clothes. The rest of my wardrobe consisted of wildly colored handmade fashions.

If I had a date to a dance, I would make my own dress. Loving red as much as I did, I once made a red moire taffeta dress that had a high lace collar and long Shakespearean sleeves edged with lace. School dresses were so much fun. I liked flowered material and I made a bunch of flowered dresses. For the spring I sewed a sleeveless straight shift style dress. I made it out of a light broad cloth, almost lime green, scattered with white, yellow centered daisies. I wore that dress frequently during the spring.

One day, in the midst of changing classes, I noticed people looking at me, then looking behind themselves. I continued walking toward my class. The crowd in the hall began to divide and slow down somewhat and that was when I saw what everyone was staring at. The most popular girl in school, beauty contest winner, head cheerleader had on a dress made out of the same material. She was covering her face with her books.

Excited, I ran over to her, which was a mistake, and said, "This is cool! Did you make your dress too!"

She looked at me, "No, I bought it at Lady Jane." and she rushed away continuing to cover her face. I shrugged my shoulders and went on to class. While I continued to wear my dress to school, she never wore hers again.

Searching for Critters in All the Wrong Places

2006-09-21T00:17:00.000-04:00

Key West, Florida was my personal paradise. I lived there in the late '70's and I had all the shrimp and lobster I could eat. Trees and plants grew on air and sunshine. Animals were on the small and insecty or reptilian side.

My best friend at the time warned me about varmits in the toilets. "Make sure you check the bowl before you sit down," she said, "I have found frogs and snakes in the toilet since I have lived here." I certainly didn't use the john in the dark after that.

My apartment was a duplex located next to a scrap iron junk yard. I had a patio with a brick fence surround that I rarely used due to the fact that I worked 2 jobs. The apartment community was small and quiet, with mostly sailors as tenants. I have always had difficulty getting up in the morning and would often leave my bed unmade. During lunch I would run back to the apartment and make up my bed.

One day when I came home to make the bed, I noticed that the junk yard had been cleaned up and most of the steel up against my fence had been moved. It looked so much better. Back to the bed, I began smoothing the sheets out and tucking them back between the mattress and box spring. I touched a small twig and thought, "What is a stick doing between the mattress and box spring?" I reached a little further and grasped the stick and immediately felt an intense hot pain pierce my finger. "What the hell?" I thought, pulling out my hand.

I turned my hand over and opened it up to see a little brown scorpion stabbing the hell out of my hand. I screamed, the scorpion went flying, I ran out of the apartment screaming and jumping up and down pointing at the apartment "Scorpion, scorpion!" over and over. One of the sailors ran out of his apartment in response to my caterwalling, I showed him my swelling hand and pointed with the other repeating "Scorpion. In the house. Stung me. Scorpion loose in the house."

He went in and found it and scrunched it flat. Seems that when the junkyard performed their cleaning and organizing it disturbed the devious little critters that live under flat rocks and a few decided to visit me! I will tell you that every inch of that apartment was inspected throughly every single day for a month after that!

Pepper Trees

2006-09-18T23:57:00.000-04:00

Camp Pendleton, California is a huge military base stretching from the Pacific Ocean to the small dry canyons inland. It is just due south of San Diego. Identifying wildlife indigenous to that area was a form of entertainment for us. We got to see (beep, beep) road runners in action, couldn't blink when they ran by. Watched Mama quail with her chicks toddling from bush to bush which was a sweet pleasure.

At dusk the coyotes would skulk around the edges of the quarters. It was a thrill for us to watch their furtive foraging for sustenance, behind closed doors, peeking through the windows. Bunny rabbits were prolific. They were nocturnal and unfortunately food for coyotes.

I learned about wildlife culling the first month after we moved to Camp Pendleton. During the early '60's man was still trying to control nature, including on the base. We received a notice that the troops would be performing a cull on a night certain. No one could come outside during that time. It was a spooky night. I could see the spot lights flashing and bobbing about and hear the sharp reports of the rifles. "Poor bunny rabbits," I thought. "What did they do to deserve this?" The next morning when I got up I ran outside to look. I do not know why I thought bunny rabbits would be lying around, but I was relieved they weren't. That was the last cull during the 2 years I was there. Earlier that year they had culled the coyotes, which caused the bunny rabbit population to grow unnaturally large.

The only snakes I saw in California were the boas my neighbor owned; but, we did see tarantulas. The snake boy captured one in the lane behind the quarters, and it became an addition to his collection of exotic pets. His mother was a patient person.

Other than nature watching, we had wonderfully tall pepper trees to climb. Pepper trees are huge branchy trees that seed peppercorns. We made hovels and platforms in these trees and spent the whole day in them. At lunch time our mothers would come out with sandwiches and we would picnic in the trees. One day all the kids in the neighborhood were in the tree, playing "Who Could Climb the Highest", a game of dexterity and courage. My brother S. was rather high and ahead of us all. My baby brother J. was on the ground yelling, "S! S! Spider!" pointing to a branch above my head and below S. Silence permeated the air as we turned our heads to look at the big, huge fat tarantula creeping toward us.

We let out a collective scream while scrambling, jumping and falling out of the tree, as horrified parents ran toward the hysteria piercing the air. Once on the ground we gazed up to see... no tarantula! Backing away and checking each other's backs and hair we gave the pepper tree a wide berth. It took about two weeks for us to start playing in the trees again.

Dress up

2006-09-16T13:16:00.000-04:00

Playing dress-up was one of my favorite pastimes. Being allowed access to the intersanctum of Mother's or Grandmother's closet was exciting and sensual. When I opened either woman's closet the light left-over scent of their favorite cologne drifted out and pulled me into their grown up world.

I ran my hands over the cool soft dresses, luxuriating in the different textures, stroking the silky ones. My eyes feasted on the bold colors and twinkling rhinestones fastened to taffeta and moire. In my grandmothers closet, during the winter, furs hung in protective bags. She had a fox fur collar made out of a whole fox. The jaws of the fox were inserted with a spring clip that served to attach the collar by clipping the jaws to it's tail. This piece suffered much inspection by me. I would pet it's head and stroke it's back as if it were alive. Once around a person's neck it's little paws would dangle fashionably. Grandmama's fur stole was so beautiful, brown and soft. I would bury my face in it and nuzzle it as if it were a cat.

Once sated with clothes I could not wear, I moved to shoes. Mountains of shoes in their boxes, labeled and stacked neatly. I went directly to the 4 inch Alligator heels and put them on. Next were the black satin formal heels with rhinestone clips. I would practice my grown up woman walk, counting the years it would be before I could wear these shoes.

Looking at and selecting the jewelry I would wear was most pleasurable for me. I carefully studied the velvet boxes before I opened them to reveal lustrous pearls in their satin bed. I wasn't allowed to play with these, but I could look. Next was the crystal cut bead necklace that I would hold up to the light to produce a rainbow. So many earrings that matched every dress in the closet, but my favorite were the round clip-on's that had a set of interchangeable snap-on centers of every color. I would put those on, then walk over to the peg board of hanging necklaces I was allowed to wear, and make a selection.

The finishing touch was make up. I would search until I found the reddest red lipstick and carefully paint my lips the way my mother did, remembering to blot. Next I would apply green eye shadow and rouge, real rouge. Mascara then came in a cake that required a touch of water before applying with its little brush. Most of that ended up below my eyes than on my lashes!

After finding an appropriate hat to match my shoes, I would empty the tissue box and fashion breasts underneath my shirt before presenting my capricious transformation to the adults.