Monday, November 30, 2009

Secret Agent Man

(I always thought the song was called; Secret Asian Man.)

Okay.  I'm done. He's knocking on my door.  I have to go. 

Not him.  A different him.

Apparently...I'm irresistable. 

I'll tell you about it tomorrow.

Tom Bailey

Where in the hell did HE come from?

Did you read his comment on my last post?  He said I was not "emotionally stable".

Self aggrandizing fucker.

But maybe he's right.

I'm reading this book called, "Blink".  It's kind of a stupid book about rapid cognition and the snap judgements we make in fleeting moments.

It's about thinking without thinking (my favorite thing) and why our instincts are right.  (When they are wrong we are thinking too much, looking at evidence that will betray us.) The author, Malcom Gladwell, sites the time the Ghetty Museum almost bought a fake statue. 

It looked was in good a shape.  Too good to have been in the ground for 200 years.  The experts wanted to believe...

Moments before the deal was done another expert was called in to authenticate it.  His first words were..."It just doesn't look right."

You have to trust your gut.

I'd met her before. My first thought was...homewrecker, selfish self-serving disingenuous homewrecker.

I ignored my instincts.

She married a wealthy man, She had an affair with him...ripping him away from his wife and kids.  (I'm not excusing him...I'm just saying I don't respect either of them.)  Then BINGO...she's divorced and living in a mansion.  Then she went for my boyfriend.

I was there for Thanksgiving. I'm never going back.  She put the moves on my boyfriend, doe eyed and innocent...on the way home he and I broke up.

She's not innocent.  She's fucking brilliant.

She's got at least 15 years on me but looks half my age.  Plastic surgery and a trainer will do that. She pretends to be vulnerable.  Her act is a scientific marvel.

You should have seen her, bending over in front of the stove every time my boyfriend was in the kitchen.  She was wearing one of those belly necklaces...I don't know what they are called.

Sunday, November 29, 2009

The last day of feeling sorry for myself.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly you dissapear.

You're all over me when I'm witty, kicking some man ass or punching some guy in the gut...

What are you so afraid of?  My sadness?

Don't be scared.

Hello? Are you there?

Bachelor number two (2) is already in the wings.  I won't be deliriously happy...but I'll be safe. Safer.

He's not as dashing as our friend, The King. He is, however, more sincere.  The right guy is always the one you least suspect, don't notice at first...but he stays...there is not a thing you can do to dissuade him.

He's a brilliant artist, kind and compassionate and...slightly crazy. I understand crazy. I understand HIM.  Weird. He's all fire and passion.  Yet, there are moments when is kinder to me then anyone I've ever known.

Train wreck alert.

I need a break from heartache.  It's depleting.  It made me say something I have not uttered in years...I said, "Dad, help me". 

He didn't respond.  Dead people are like that.

They never speak up.

Friday, November 27, 2009

THAT Kind of Guy

He's the kind of guy that says, "I love the Kaleidoscope that is you."

He's the kind of guy that, despite being big and strong, cries when he talks about his dead grandmother or at movies depicting a dying child.

He doesn't have to "act" macho.  He IS macho.

He's the kind of guy that says, "You're beautiful," when you're not wearing make up.  "I love your pimples," he says.

If you yell at him; "You're a terrible driver!" he's the kind of guy that replies, "I love when you yell at me."

His confidence is unstoppable. When you're in his arms you're inside a fortress.  It's a bliss I've never known. I wanted to be there...forever.

He's the kind of guy that bribes you to help yourself. He bribes his kids too.  Bribery works.

He's the kind of guy that says, "I won't be late this time."  Then he is. It's a psychological "fuck you" in my humble opinion.

If you're in his arms having a hot flash (getting his cheek sweaty) he says, "I always wanted a woman to be hot for me."

I'm grateful...this Thanksgiving because "THAT" guy is my boyfriend.

Woops.  I spoke too soon.  He picked up his tools and left. We had an argument.  I said some things.  I took him to my friend's sister-in-laws house for Thanksgiving. We were in a mansion surrounded by zombies. So much should have seen the place.  I'm the only one that acknowleged it. She looked at me with disgust when I said, "your house is beautiful".  I remember where she lived before.  I guess your not supposed to remember.

Our millionaire hostess was flirting with him I think, with pretend vulnerability.  She told us her life story with her last billionaire husband.  The vulnerability that women convey mesmerizes me.  I know it's false because when it's REAL...all you do is try to cover it up.

She never said a word about her life...until my tall strapping boyfriend was there.

I miss Lynn.(Her mother) Had I been granted access..I would have saved her.

I don't think you know the effort it takes to save someone from this crazy healthcare system. You have to take on doctors, learn everything about the malady your loved one is facing (so they respect you). 

Then you have to fire the physicians that behave as if your mother/whomever is already in a coffin. You have to find watch dog organizations to oversee them (they hate that).  But everyone performs better when they know someone is watching.  You have to show up, make a million calls, ask the radiologist to give you a few months of anti-naseau meds because they are not covered by insurance. Sit on his desk, flip your things you would never do because life is on the line.

You'd do it again...if you loved someone.

So you call other doctors, nurses, hospice joints to get the goods on who IS the the right physcian.  You don't stop.  Not ever.  Then you find him.  The right physcian...the one that treats your loved one like a human being and it works.  She lives.  (exhales)

"Don't you know you're the only one?" he says.

No I don't. 

Then I escalate things, end things because I don't think I could handle getting hurt or rejected by him. I love him.  Love is a stranger to me, I don't know how to behave.  All I know is how to protect myself, you, my sisters and mother...anyone really...even him.

I'm abnormally good at endings. This time, he did it.

The little boy next door is singing "Jingle Bells" beneath my window.  His Golden Retriever is smashing against my gate...Life goes on.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Swine Flu and Other Tragedies

When I majored in Biology, the notion that a virus could jump species was unheard of.  I didn't do so great after transferring to the Molecular Dept.  "The Recombinant DNA does what?"  You want me to splice it?  Where's my lab partner?

Oh yea, he dumped me after my stupid Chlorine gas accident.

I faked a car crash in order to get out of taking my Organic Chemistry final.  I smeared white makeup on my face so I would appear more... "tragic".

"Professor, I simply can't go on.  Can't you see the blood has drained from my face? I'm going to faint.

Then, once, I missed a Ballet final.  My professor was from the ABT.  "If you miss one performance you're out," he said.  I missed a performance and went to see him afterward, head hung sorrowfully to announce, "I'm sorry I missed the performance.  I have cancer," I said.

I belonged in the Drama Department. 

As a child I directed plays on the front lawn.  My reluctant cast included my younger sisters.  I staged bike crashes, poured ketchup on their faces, turned their bikes upside down...spinned the wheels to convey a sence of immediacy.  I positioned their little heads hanging over the curb.

Eventually I was in a community theatre play.  My sister, in retaliation, sat in the front row.

The Denver Post and The Rocky Mountain News were there. It was review time.

I had a death scene. It was my moment. I had to die in an evening gown, rolling out of a chair, onto my head and ultimately collapsing. It was ludicrous.  Eventually she was howling.  I was dead on stage and joined her, laughing so hard I cried.  Ahh ha ha ha. Snort.

The audience was silent. My howling sister and the snorting corpse on center stage pierced the quiet.

I don't know which is more painful... watching a video of that performance or the procedure, filmed by my gynocologist to treat Endometriosis that featured my ovaries through a laprascope.  Ewe.


Friday, November 20, 2009

I Had a Dream

Nighmare really. I dreamt you were dead.
I know…it’s a terrible thing to say and confess.
In my dream, one of your kids called me. I showed up at the funeral. I felt out of place and stood in the back.
I know you think I’m stupid. If you’re ever in the hospital in real life, you’ll appreciate this stupid Molecular Biology drop out. Test me. No don’t…I can save you.  I've done it before.
Then the procession. People walked by the casket. Open casket. We all stood in line.
When I reached you, I climbed in.
I grabbed your arms and tried to make them go around me.

It wasn't easy to get in there.  I was wearing heels.  And looked terrific, by the way.
Someone screamed.

It was just a dream.  Don't get all crazy.

Oh, here she is again.  The Golden Retriever from next door. (Like she knew I was feeling a little blue.)  She's in my bedroom with a pair of underwear in her mouth.  She's trying to escape to the front yard. 

I'm tackling her.  We're in a tug of war.  "Cassie, let GO of my underwear"...tug tug tug...

She looks at me, I look at her...we both crash into the wall beside the door. she's fleeing with my flip flop...kerplunk down the stairs...she wants me to chase her.

I love that dog.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Sonnet # 9.

Let's start with my favorite sonnet, shall we?

I'm so excited.

Here we go. It's just Shakespeare...not rocket science.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may kee
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murderous shame commits.

Here's what it means, according to me:

Are you afraid of dying dumb ass?  If you are, that's fine.  But people will still morn you. 

If you forgot to have're supid.  In a childs eyes we live forever.  Don't you know that?

As a woman, your beauty is fading minute by minute.  The fact that you don't use it to hook some man is a crying shame.  You murder your own importance by not using it.  It's a crime. You don't love anyone...bitch.

Okay, next time we'll go line by line.  I'll be more literary.  I'll tell you what each word means, like "issueless" in this sonnet.  It means childless.

I won't swear next Friday.  I swear.

"Don't," he said.

"Don't come back here" he said, arm outstretched and hand flexed like a traffic cop trying to stop a truck.

He was in my bedroom, dressing after a shower.

"How sweet," I thought.  He's afraid if I go back there he will be overcome by desire and we'll be late for dinner.

I tried to go back three (3) more times. 

"Stop" he said.

Then I smelled it.
I'm the only person in America that could turn a fart into a romantic fantasy.

Tune in tomorrow, won't you.  I'm going to recite (write down) a Shakespearean sonnet every Friday.  Are you still there?

You won't get bored cuz I'm going to explain them.

Don't roll your eyes at me. It will be fun.

Is it Friday yet?

I'm so excited...I'm watching the clock.  Tick tick...what's taking so long?

The sonnets are all about love. And loss. Regret, adoration and tragedy. Things we experience yet never speak of.

In other words, life.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

What's YOUR Motto?

Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no, it is an ever-fixed mark.

Okay. I’ve altered. So shoot me. You still have to love me. It’s the rules. Didn’t you go to the school of Shakespeare?

I noticed I was the only one there. I hoped you were invisible… like everyone else.

I knew you weren’t there. But I felt you coming. It’s the reason I checked out of the school of Shakespeare. I had to find you. I had to.

Too much literature and romance can screw a person up.

Now you’re here and I don’t know how to deal with you. I guess you’re love. I’ve been in the dark for so long; maybe my eyes can’t see anymore? that you? Then I retreat to my friend…darkness. (He’s a bastard, by the way.)

You’re smarter then me. Not in the classic sense, the streetwise sense.

I run away. You tolerate this. It’s a ridiculous habit. I don’t want to repeat this mistake. But I do because there is something you don’t know about me.

Something I’m trying to say…

Okay, I’ll just say it. The only reason I feel like I’m alive at ALL is because I became good, a long time ago, at keeping an emotional distance. “I don’t care what you do, do whatever, it’s nothing to me. You can’t hurt me.”

That’s my Motto.

I don’t feel that way anymore. Still, I want my Motto back. It’s hiding under the couch, down the ally or beneath the bed…I can’t find it. You keep cleaning my house so my Motto is running out of places to hide.
Stupid Motto.

Never-around-when-you-need-it Motto.

When you come back, Motto, things are going to be different around here.

Dr. Cop-A-Feel

This is a re-posting of my third or fourth date...a timeless classic.

I charmed the 59 year old physician from India with my spectacular knowledge of his country, Salman Rushdie, Ganges River issues and the whole Hindu/Muslim thing.
I fascinated him with my understanding of Nehru, Lord Mountbatten and Edwina. (I studied, uh hem…prepared for the date.)
My Uncle (an Irish intellectual/physician) called to offer relevant material such as current events in India and Pakistan so I would "have something to talk about”. (Dating for me… it takes a village).
I added my own unique contributions such as reciting Shakespearean sonnets.
“Why would you memorize sonnets for no reason? " he asked. Trying to sound like an intellectual I responded, “Just cuz”.
He was smiling, grabbed my hands and rubbing my arms. “I had no idea we would have so much in common” he said.
There would definitely be a second date.

Doctor Cop-A-Feel picked me up for Date two (2)  in his shiny Lexus. I slipped into the car and met a confident grin that insinuated…."You think I'm sexy, don't you?”
One had to admire his confidence. (He was a nice but "sexy" did not spring to mind.)
Soon we were gliding down the Pacific Coast Highway. I adjusted my passenger climate settings, jacking down the temperature because I was sweating. I already knew he was too old for me.  I did not, however, know I was having a hot flash. 
We arrived at Sapphire Grill in Laguna Beach, a hip new restaurant. Rivers of women, alone and in pairs watched...looked, strolled and trolled.No one was getting their hands on my doctor.
We drank wine for hours waiting for our table. We had an excellent meal. The doctor was giggling and enjoying my sparkling conversation.
He ended dinner with “Would you like to come to my house for a night-cap” “or was it “would you like to see my etchings”? I don’t recall because of the wine haze. "Sure…hiccup…why not? " I replied.  I forced myself. I HAD to get over my shyness.  (You have no idea what an uptight prude I am.  Really, you don't.)
He gave me a tour of his overly decorated mini-mansion.
After pouring two amber glasses of desert wine we strolled to the tiny couch in front of a gargantuan plasma screen.
Then…it happened.
It’s what I dread, the second date kiss.

I’ve been known to bob, weave, accidentally trip...ANYTHING to dodge the terrifying second date kiss.
This time I was going for it. My date had been married for 24 years. It would be a well rehearsed kiss.

Seconds after our lips touched, with the focus of a pit bull, the doctor attempted to suck every last drop of blood from my lower lip. I couldn’t believe it. The sheer pain of it.

I moved, adjusted, pulled back and in every manner available to me... tried to shake him loose.
If you can visualize me pulling away from his face…my lower lip stretching out between us because he would NOT LET GO.
I thought for a second, maybe this is some new technique?  But my eyes started tearing up… I couldn’t take it.

After extricating myself and tracing my lips with my fingers to check for blood, he looked at me seriously and inquired, “Are you breasts real?”

I tilted my head to the side like a dog responding to a high-pitched whistle.  Uh...“yes”.
Then, in a moment I replay in slow motion in my head, the man reached out and grabbed my right breast.
It was no fondle or any manner of caress, it was a grab.
“You are correct” he said. "They are real".

My mind was in a swirl. I didn’t know how to respond. I was speechless. I looked him in the eye and said intelligently, “I can't believe you grabbed my breast”!
With a considerable Indian accent he retorted, “Eets ok. Omm a doctor”.

I laughed out loud.

Then I went home.

The next morning I saw it in the mirror as I was brushing my teeth. There was a purple bruise on my lower lip.
Doctor Cop-A-Feel gave me a lip hicky. Wha the?

Restaurant Date Review
Sapphire Laguna

It's a place to be and be seen. Just try to get a reservation on Friday night. Go ahead. Try.
The vibe is cool and casual. Lot's of locals. I had the braised short rib perched above a potato and celery root puree peppered with pieces of caramelized parsnip and carrot. It was lightly perfumed with clove and melted off the bone. Despite devouring it completely, the effects of drinking wine for 2 hours straight were upon me. I might have actually had the Duck.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

My Dad

Hey Dad.  How are you?

Why are you dead? I thought I'd never get over it.  You know, when you died? Just the thought of you  missing my entire life. It makes me mad.

I tried to sue the moronic Cardiogist that killed you. I did all I could. I was too young.

Mom's okay.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Rent Me.

Due to these hard economic times, I had to lower my rates.

During a mid-life crisis, I dyed my hair brown.  Considering my new career path... should I have opted for blond?

My hair color is as unstable as Uranium.

Trying to "act sexy" when uptight AND of Irish descent sitting on a van bumper in a neighbourhood where drug deals were taking place...was no easy task.  Did I mention "unstable"?

What was I doing there?  Oh, you know...just advertising picking up a piece of furniture.  I was with "The King".  Unlike most men, he likes to read about himself in my blog.  Most men go ballistic. (Like their mother is reading my blog.)

Talk about a guilty conscious.

Speaking of new careers: I tried to become a famous rap star but it didn't work out. (See below) My nephew and I rap on a hip hop radio station. 

When Auntie Charmaine comes to town...let's just say my nephews are introduced to new experiences.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

Turning Point

There are turning points in every relationship.
My "turning point" generally includes a left turn, sending me through the guard rail, over a cliff and onto jagged rocks below.

"Soaring through air I exclaim, "Wee, this is fun.  I'm flying".


I tend to take my eye off the road.

Mesmerized by the beauty of the landscape, I drive directly into it. It only hurts for a minute.

The King and I drove to pick up an Armoir he generously purchased for me. (Very unlike me.)  It wasn't expensive enough to ingratiate me (a little over a hundred bucks at a consignment joint) but appreciated! There was a time I NEVER would have allowed a man to buy me ANYTHING.  I don't need help.

Maybe I do, just a little.

We rented a van and proceeded to the warehouse.

It was located in a sketchy neighbourhood.

We witnessed a drug sale. The drug pusher was a woman wearing pajamas and slippers. (You NEVER would have suspected her.) The client looked like walking death.  He watched us. He knew we'd witnessed the transaction.  He was too drunk to care. 

Skid row types limped past, taking swigs of Vodka.  Folks meandered looking forlorn and homeless. A granny shuffled past with a grocery cart. A man slept on a plot of grass.

I felt nothing but compassion.  I wasn't afraid in the least.  I said, "See King? Without friends or family (and unemployment insurance) that could be me. Nobody cares about these people."

The King took me by the arm.  He opened the passenger door and whispered, "Please get in.  It's not safe here.  I don't want anything to happen to you."

That was my turning point.

If I wrote a note to God (below).

Monday, November 9, 2009

Charlotte Vale Allen

She's a writer. She was relevant in my life.  She lived next door. I loved her middle name.  I still do. I mean, my middle name is Mary.

I didn't know it at the time.  I was 15.  Later, when we reconnected, I knew.

She knew my mother. The hell of my mother.  

Her first book was called, "Love Life".  She survived abuse.  Then she became a woman's advocate.

I remember the day she brought the manuscript of her first novel to our house in Connecticut.

She was consequently published 36 times.

She adopted me and my two (2) sisters.  She took us everywhere.

She was glamorous, beautiful, impudent and brilliant. Now she is mostly kind.

I'm lucky.  Not lucky in love.  Lucky in other ways. I get to know interesting people.

The Lyin' King

(Another reprisal.  What can I say?  I have nothing new to report.)
The Lyin' King's name is "Blue Eyes Looking for You".

In the first paragraph of his profile he admits lying about his age. (What's the point if you're going to confess?)

He asked me out. I said I would agree if he changed his profile to reflect his real age. He did.

After making an "honest man of him" we met at Bandara restaurant in Corona Del Mar. I go there on dates.

The receptionists are beginning to look at me funny.

We met for drinks to test his theory that women want to kiss him after one Martini.

If you know anything about me KNOW I disproved that one.
He was very good looking.

It was one of those dates where the man tells you who he is as opposed to BEING who he reciting his biography. "I'm this, I'm that, I like walks on the beach".

He's a lawyer. I like lawyers. Really, I do.

When I returned home he called to say how much he enjoyed meeting me. He said I was warm (obviously doesn't know me) and attractive. Then today, at work, another email. He sent "virtual flowers" and expressed how lucky he felt to have met me. Then more...and MORE emails.  I had to return a call to the IT department.

"Your emails are congesting the network," said Fred.

"Shut up Fred," I demurely responded.

He's coming on strong...I like it. But I've learned not to get my hopes up. The minute I do...CRASH.

One of the first things he said was, "I was recently layed off".

Question: Is that a Red flag? I'd hate to be judged similarly.

Wait for round two.  The part where he asks me for a  job. 

Sunday, November 8, 2009

I Miss Him

I don't know why I run away. I go days without speaking to him. 

I'm conflicted.  I think I shouldn't be dating a man with a minor child.  I think his kids should be up and out before he get's involved with me. 

I think of them before I think of myself.

Then I look at a picture of him.

Heart melts.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

I want to be Jewish.

That's a weird thing to say.

I've been to Israel.  I climbed the mountain.  

Do I have to be Barbara Streisand?  Yentle?  Read the Torah?

I never read the Bible but the Catholics let me in.

Check out my friends video below (if you need a laugh).

Friday, November 6, 2009

Ireland, Love and Life.

There were mounds of haystacks as far as the eye could see arching above miles of verdant green grass. You can't understand green until you go to Ireland.

Not the new variety of haystack, the homemade variety. The kind a 5-year old could climb as her father pulled her leg causing her to topple off.
Climb, pull, giggle. Climb, pull, giggle.
The farm belonged to Auntie Eileen. She resided outside of Dundalk, Ireland.
Visiting her was more mysterious then going to the moon.
We were American and rich. She didn't have indoor plumbing. We had to pee in a pot hidden under her bed beneath a lace doily.
It was very glamorous.
We sat at her table with dainty china cups clinking, drinking extra tea with pinkees extended just to gain the opportunity to pee in that metal pot.
That is what it means to be Irish. The illusion of grandeur, the mystery of shame...and laughter.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Come Outside

Ring Ring

I fail to answer.

Message:  "What are you doing back there?  Are you locked up?  Are you hiding? I'm at the front house.  I'm taking the dog for a walk.  Come outside." he says.

Bark Bark. An adorable Golden Retriever runs up my steps and lurches against my gate. Bang.
Knock knock.  I don't answer.

"Charmaine" she says from the alley.  (It's my neighbor this time.)  I go outside.

"Can you believe this guy?  Our neighbor cut one branch from his tree.  The only branch whose removal doesn't allow light to spill onto our little garden below.  That schmuck."

"Let's call the city again," I say.  "But I'm afraid we won't win this time.  The tree no longer interferes with the powerlines. How did he manage to correct the problem and STILL not give us what we want?  Fucker."

He's bald and I'm hybernating.

He made me bloom like a Persian  rosebush.
He's bald.  But I think he's the most attractive person.
I don't want to talk to him today.
The complexity of his life, and mine (which isn't complex) makes me want to run.
Plus, look how gigantic his ear is.

Political Stability

Just kidding.

I wanted to see if I could make a post wherein nobody commented. 

It's not self sabatoge...just an experiment.

There is an interesting woman running for the Senate in my state of California.  She is the former President of Hewlett Packard. I catered an international party for them when I was 21.
She was fired and given a 21 million dollar golden parachute.

She's running against Barbara Boxer, who I like... but don't know why.  I like the way she looks. Yes, I AM that shallow.

She points out that Barbara has done little during her 17 year tenure but write books.  She comments that Barabara is generally on a book tour as opposed to doing anything meaningful in the Senate.

"Let's give Barbara her dream and make her a full-time novelist" she says.

People don't like her.  She's a woman with money and a novice to politics.

But I like her. She's gutsy. If she was able to survive in a male dominated computer manufacturing firm for even a year, I know what kind of woman she is: Ninja.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

I See Dead People

I’m dating a wonderful man..
I admire him. (That doesn't happen every day.)
He looked up my father on the Internet, who was born in Minnesota… where he was born. He was trying to figure out if we were related.
He was impressed by the fact my father was an Eagle Scout and Aerospace Engineer.
I miss my father.
I remember looking at the front door, expecting him to walk in.

He wouldn't.  He couldn't.

I can still see the hospital room…and the Cardiologist. I could pick him out in a line-up. I can't find my car keys, but I can draw a picture of his face. He killed my dad. He didn't mean to.

I grilled him for 2 hours and he endured it.

My mother, sisters, friends and neighbors fled to the corners of the waiting room, crying, after the Cardiologist emerged through swinging doors to say, “We did all we could”.

I stayed with him.

The man that watched my father die drew diagrams with a blue pen on his green scrub pant legs in response to my endless questions. I could not release him from the converstation until I obtained his confession.

"During the Angiogram we hit a plaque caused a massive heart attack" he said."Yes, your father was watching on the monitor, Yes he knew. Yes, his death is a result of the procedure." 

I was 20 years old.

I launched a lawsuit. Back then, malpractice was unheard of. Nobody helped.  Plus I was trying to study for my English Lit class…I failed despite the fact I am terrific at English Literature.I started failing everything...My 4.0 turned into "we regret to inform you" letters.

Nobody noticed.

I was too young to save my father.

I’m not too young anymore.
I saved my mother from a sea of doctors. They declared she would be dead in a month due to her particular cancer.
I fired them, called in cancer specialists, monitored her medications and met with her physicians. I made sure they knew I was watching. I hired a watchdog organization to oversee things when I wasn’t there. I flirted and threatened. I showed her how to use her feeding tube with tears slipping from my left eye. It worked. She's not dead.
An Eagle Scout raised me.
By example, he taught me how to do the right thing.

I couldn't save him.  I saved his wife instead.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Something's Fishy

When you're 57 years old, are you too OLD to dress up for Halloween?
I painted fish on our face(s). We traveled across town giving "kissing performances".
The fish looked better in the dark. (The camera flash destroyed the affect.)
He opened his mouth wide showing teeth... transforming into a Piranha as I appeared to swim innocently into his mouth.
The day I marry a Senator, this picture will re-surface.
I don't know anyone who would allow me to paint a fish on his cheek and then, gleefully, agree to take the show "on the road. You need to enjoy the spotlight.  He does.
The link below is my Halloween e-card. Go ahead, click on it. Watch me slap my butt as a werewolf.  It's wholesome family fun!