Sunny Saturday Mornings

Ohhhhhhhh, boy, my favorite time of the summer weeks: Saturday mornings at the Farmer's Market. Every Saturday, religiously.

Fresh fruit and vegetables. FRESH! Picked from a hot sunny field YESTERDAY...not picked, still green, in Florida 3 weeks ago, ethylene-ripened during transport.

Sometimes I wear a dress, and mosey around with a basket of flowers in my arms, walk down every row a couple of times, chatting with vendors and familiar faces. Sometimes I muck over in a rush, in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, get in, get what I need, and get out.

No matter my schedule, I always feel a bond with my fellow shoppers. We appreciate what we're buying there. We like to eat. We like to cook. We like festivals and markets and artisans and farmers. We like each other, usually, it is a morning full of "hello's" and "oh, excuse me's" and commenting on what we'll do with OUR basil. Mine's usually reserved for pesto, drying, or thai basil-fried rice.

It's early in the year, so the wares are relatively scarce, compared to what they'll be in 6 weeks or so, but here are a few images of this morning's trip.

There's breakfast for a buck (I had turkey):


There's bread and honey:





There are artisans and jewelers:



And cute little doogies:


And best of all, entertainment. This cool guy is here every week, he literally has bells on his toes. He has instruments strapped to elbows, feet, head, and he sings and plays. Little kids are simply MESMERIZED by him.

And this young man was doing a nice job this morning, so I gave him a buck for letting me take his picture.


I'll try to grab a pic or two each week for the blog; I LOVE starting my weekend here, so will drag you along for this summer's ride.

Willard Airport, 5-15-06

The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.

—Dorothy Parker

Mother's Day & Prized Possessions

I know it's sappy, but hey, I started this entry months ago, actually during Hurricane Katrina, and I tucked it away for Mother's Day. If I don't post it now, I'll have to wait another year.

Have you ever imagined, which material items you'd most want to rescue from your house, in case of total destruction? I grew up and currently live in the midwest. What could take my home? A tornado. Fire. What would I want to rush back in for, given, of course, that we are all safe? I wonder every time I see or hear a story of people's loss on television. My answer, to myself, is always unwaivering and immediate: The Coin Purse.

My son found that coin purse in a parking lot when he was 5 years old. No I.D., no cash, just a wet little coin purse in the middle of the Osco parking lot. What a cute little weathered thing it was; "Can I have it?" I asked him.

No. He liked it, he found it, it was his. He found a place for it in his bedroom, and there it stayed, for months.

Mother's Day rolled around, our first "alone" after his father and I split. We did the usual Mother's Day things, took flowers to Grandma, and had lunch with her and Grandpa, then came home and made cookies, a nice little day together. Dinner, and bath and bedtime, and Brian came padding out in his little pajamas. His dad was out of town, he said, and could not take him shopping for a gift for me (it was true). Since he had nothing to give, he wanted me to have the coin purse, because he remembered I like it.

For all of my footstomping and declarations that I hate "sap," the coin purse crumbled me then, and still does. It sits now in my curio cabinet, and still represents to me everything I ever tried to instill in my child—love, friendship, laughter, thoughtfulness, the golden rule, heart, independence, strength, dignity, honesty...to name but a few.

This year, I'm celebrating with a goofy sketch of a vase of flowers, and a note to tell Grandma Happy Mother's Day too, both stuck to the frig with magnets.

Just as good.

Gruesome Shoesome

130 miles since April 9. And this is what your shoes look like after you walk 5(.6) miles in the rain, all the while oblivous that a teensy sliver of a toenail is hacking into the side of your next toe.

Well, I guess that's how it happened. I'm not altogether sure. Maybe that we were yakking our hearts out (that's a given), or perhaps being soaked to the undies distracted me. All I know is that I was shuh-OCKED to pull off my shoe and find a bloody red sock after Wednesday night's walk.

I got right about finding what must have been a heinous wound, and found: Nothing. Zilch. Zip. I sat down, and took off my glasses, and inspected every toe very closely. I unscrewed my foot from my leg and put it under a microscope. Not even a pinprick of blood! I spent a goodly amount of time searching before I called Dana to scream about it. Poor dear, having made it home and just getting out of a warm shower, she had to deal with me yelping "my sock is all bloody, but there's no wound!!"

What did I expect her to do? She was kind enough to humor me, suggesting places I might look. As if I'd lost my keys. "Look between your toes." "Is there still a sticker in your shoe?" (I'd bogged down the walk after yardwork last week, with sticker-bush stickers in my shoes.) Nope, that's not it.

Again, it occured to me, I'm making the girl stand around in a towel (don't you go picturing it!) and WHAT do I want her to do about it? I let her off the phone.

And, since I couldn't find a wound anywhere, and there was no particular toe that seemed irritated, every single one of my toes was in excruciating, psychosomatic pain the next day. OH, my poor toesies, they didn't know what was wrong with them, they only knew that they MUST be hurting, and they screamed bloody murder. 2nd day after, though, I discovered 3 visible boo-boo's, any one of which could have been the offending bleeder. Where did they come from? I have no ideer.

What did I do about it?

I went WALKING!! Oh yeah baby! Bring it on!

We are walk-jocks.

Gooseses

These babies were walking down my street this evening. This is 1 of 3 families in their single-file line; 3 goosey couples, and 30 or more goosey babies.

Brian Called!

Hoo-rah! I got to talk to Brian for a good 20 minutes on Sunday afternoon. I've otherwise only had one 4-minute phone call from him; I have to share his phone time with his Dad.

I was in Walmart with my mother when his call came through. Have you taken a phone call in any Walmart, ever? No reception! Here's me* trying to get outside before I lost his call:

Yup, that's me all right, though somewhat falsely represented: I wasn't jumping hurdles. I was clearing shopping karts and toddlers effortlessly though, all the while telling Brian, "keep talking, don't waste our minutes!"

If I'd have known I had more than 4 minutes, I might not have acted such the spaz.

It was great to have a real conversation with him. Yeah, yeah, he knows all about my life, so I quizzed him about his. He opened up once I began interrogating, and I managed to learn a lot about his new life, in a short time. It may all be so inconsequential, but it's all I got!

Sunday was his first pass. He was in heaven, drinking a Mountain Dew. He otherwise drinks only water there.

At 4:30 in the morning, they are awakened by drill sargeants screaming "TOES ON THE LINE!!" and they have mere seconds to get up and their toes on the line. How rude.

He has physical training immediately after. He wears shorts and a t-shirt. Good, he won't get overheated.

After PT, he has 15 minutes to shower, shave, dress, and make his bed dime-bouncing tight. Brian makes his bed? I can hardly wrap my mind around it.

I only choked up once:

"Sundays." He said it like a complete sentence, before he went on.

"I'm living with 170 pissed-off guys. Everyone wants to be better than everyone else, everyone's a prick. Nothing but testosterone, 6 days a week," he said.

"Sundays is phone day. Mom, on Sundays, it's 170 guys crying."

My breath catches in my throat as I hear this, but I am determined to move on. We talk about it. Yes. They cry, we cry, but it's so much better after talking, hearing one another's voices. Some of those men have wives and children, don't they?

Yes. And some of these "men" are still babies. One of his roommates is 17 years old. "I'm just a kid, but this kid is REALLY a kid," he tells me and says, "I can't imagine being here at 17." We talk about that for a few minutes. 17 vs. 20.

"Am I writing too much?" I asked him. A resounding NO, I do not write too much. There can not be enough mail, they LOVE the mail. Their drill sargents randomly withheld their mail for 3 days last week, and they all found it devastating. Mail, mail, send mail, love the mail, is the message I get.

And some other stuff about clothes, food, friends, families; we covered a lot of territory, and we got in lots of I love you's. For some reason, I don't think he cried after he hung up.

Bye now; gotta go write a letter.

*I lied. That's not really me. It's Tiara, from www.beavertontrackclub.org. I have absolutely no permission to use this photo, and beg Tiara's forgiveness if she finds her photo here.

Bring On the Epson Salt

Yesterday I worked in my yard, which is barely larger than a postage stamp. 7 hours. 7 HOURS, with time out only for a quick trip out to buy a hose reel.

I picked up sticks and mowed. I raked leaves and pine needles out of crannies. I pruned bushes. I spray painted my new mailbox, put shiny new numbers on it and installed it. (Ok, I had help with the installation, I was too weenie to unscrew the bolts from the old one.)

I put the lawn furniture out.


I hacked a path, with a hand saw, between 2 bushes, so that my new hose reel would have a place to rest:


I hoe'd up the patches in the grass, weaseled in the new grass seed, and had a stern talk with the birds, asking them not to eat it.


I seeded a wild flower bed. Ok, it's more of a wild-flower "strip," but I seeded it, and tried to put the peat-chip-moss stuff back where I found it.


And at days' end, with a garage full of yardwaste that has to be dealt with, my yard looks...fine.


That's it. Just...fine. I mean, it hardly looks any different than it did when I started! How can this be? Where is my floral oasis?!!!

This is nothing like those Makeover Home Shows at all! I am an AMERICAN! I want INSTANT GRATIFICATION!! I DEMAND

oh...


Basil! Little tiny baby basil that I planted 2 weeks ago! VWAH-hoo! Weet-weet! Houston, we have BASIL!!! Pesto, here we come! Oh boy o boy o boy!!!

I can hardly wait til next Saturday.

Aye, yii, yii, yiii

Aye, yii, yii, yiiii,
I am dee Frito Bandito.
I love Frito's Corn Chips,
I love dem I do.
I love Frito's Corn Chips,
I take dem from you.

How many of you remember having one of these on the end of your pencil in grade school? Who amongst you will be haunted by this jingle for the next 4 days?

This is the beautiful view out of my window at work. The Frito Lay Distributor. I've worked next to this place for 19 years, and never once have they been neighborly enough to bring us a Frito Care-Package. No holiday baskets. No "hey, just thought you could use a few bags of potato chips for the weekend picnic." Not one lousy chip.

They hoard their chips. Look carefully at the fence. Barbed wire! Is all that necessary?

Yesterday, while I was e-mailing Wendy working hard at my desk, a panicky voice rang through my window: "ABORT! ABORT!" I stewed on that for a few minutes, thinking at first that it was women's voices I heard, just a few employees having fun in the parking lot on their way home. But the voices were so frantic that I decided I'd best survey the situation, see if there was any blood present, determine that an ambulance didn't need to be summoned.

I peeked out to find: It was raining chips! Bag after bag came flying over the brush, and a little kid on our side of the fence was catching them, gathering up what he could. A second child appeared on the other side of the fence, the chip pitcher.

I'm not sure why I found this so amusing; if it had been my own kid, I would have tanned his lily-white hide. Or at least, grounded him. But it wasn't my kid, so it was funny. I took alternate action: I ran to get my co-worker, Elena. "Psst, 2 lil' kids are robbing Frito Lay. Come see!"

We huddled in the window and witnessed the heist unfold, the kids continuing to yell military commands about aborting the mission and getting back to base.

Elena was just as concerned as I was. She watched for a few minutes then said, "too bad we're too old to do that."

Take a closer look:


They left behind some of their booty! Valuable pork rinds, I think it is!

I imagine myself crawling out the window (I really think I could fit), and grabbing those chips and racing back in. heh heh hehhhhh!

I also imagine helicopters appearing out of nowhere, with SWAT members repelling out of it, screaming at me with bullhorns: "Put the chips on the ground and back away! Back away from the chips!!" Elena, of course, would be inside, screaming "ABORT!" but it would be too late. I'd end up serving time, Frito-framed by two wily little boys.

I guess it's not worth all that.

...but...

...I did forget to bring lunch today...

...

Art Night, Movie Stars, and Smoked Fish

Hey, this night is bigger than New Year's Eve for me, so you get a report. It was a packed house. The pics above would have been impossible to take on Friday night, so I went back on Saturday to get a few snaps. These shots don't begin to do the place justice. There are 2 floors, a few rooms, and the old bank vault full of jewelry.

We dressed up. This is a fun little city but if you dress to the nines, you're bound to be overdressed no matter where you go. On Artists Against Aids Night, anything goes. No one blinks an eye at stripey tights or evening gowns.

That's MovieStahhh Momo, bundled up in Mikey's jacket. Doesn't she look glamorous?

Hubba hubba, there's Mikey in a tie!

There's me. I prepared for this photo shoot by drinking 85 dixie cups of free red wine.

Them dogs are barkin! Mel takes a break after 6 hours in stiletto's.

Ilaiy couldn't be there on opening night, but he showed up Saturday.
I TOLD you Atef swings you around when he sees you! Here's photographic proof.

In attendance also were close friends Diane, Kaye, Kristy, and Dana. And a little hole in my heart, I miss one of my best friends, Becky. It was with her that I first dressed up and painted the town red at this show, so many years ago. She and hubby up and moved to Tucson without my permission. Missed ya girl!

The party aspect of it's all well and good, but of course we were there for a cause. We did leave with art in hand, the purchase of which was win-win for everyone: GCAP made some money, an artist made some money, and we brought home something beauty-ous.

My purchase this year was glass. A clown fish. A vase. I contemplated that glass fish for awhile. I made note of it, checked out the rest of the show and came back to it. I asked Melissa, "yes, but...does it look at all like a bong?" She laughed and assured me it did not.

The staff carefully packed my fish up for me in bubblewrap and stuffed it into a Van's shoebox. Show over, we went hopping on over to Cafe Kopi...

...sauntering past a cafe table where THE John Malkovich happened to be dining. And sauntering back again. And, ever the goober, maybe-just-once-more, how often do we see a celebrity in our space, for heaven's sake?

We headed home somewhere around 1:30, walking past a tableful of good ol' boys from Tennessee, that wanted to know why I was carrying a shoebox. Ever jovial, I was happy to open the box and show off my beautiful purchase:


Our new gentlemen friends were very supportive and enthusiastic:

WHOO HOO! YOU BOUGHT A BONG!!! they yelled, and proceeded to pass my fish around and pretend to smoke out of it.

Poster Post

Frank Lloyd Wright.

This great poster was begifted to me a few years ago, by someone who turned around and did something a kinda mean to me. It's been in a cardboard tube since then, while I insolently refused to hang it....

...but it IS...

...a nice poster. Heavy stock. And I love the image.

So dang, I broke down and took the thing into Michael's Crafts on Sunday afternoon. I told the girl in the custom framing department that I wanted to go cheapest possible route to frame the thing. Just make in hang-able.

A mat? NO!

Glass, she asked me? Glass, or plexiglass, whatever's CHEAP.

I purposefully did not use the word "inexpensive" because "inexpensive" simply sounds more expensive than "cheap," and I wanted CHEAP. Look, I'm not making an investment to frame something an...assbutthole gave me. Don't worry, he's never heard of this blog before in his life. I think.

So, the clerk at Michael's tallied up the cheap frame and glass, and gives me a grand total: $178.99.

$179.00?!! I made some coughing-snorting-laughing sounds, as I removed their weights from the corners of my poster and rolled it up. Look, she's working for little more than minimum wage, and I KNOW she knows that almost $200 for a poster frame is outrageous. But if that's what they charge, it's what they charge. Thanks for your time.

She caught me. Wait!

"What kind of money were you thinking about?" she asked me.

Ok. I know full well that custom framing is not cheap, but I'll bite. "Fifty bucks."

She messed around with the computer calculator, and quoted me back: "$61.88."

I asked her, "for what?"

For the very same frame and glass that she'd just quoted me $179 on!!!

Get OUT!! I was incredulous, and it took every ounce of my being not to write a number on a piece of paper, slide it face down to the girl, and ask her to go show it to her manager for approval.

All I could think was, "what would have happened here if I'd sprung for the $179?" Would she have ever, in a million years recalculated the cheaper price?

I don't think so. And $61.88 was a hell of a price for a custom frame and glass...but Michael's doesn't get my money.

I'd rather pay more to a vendor that won't try to screw me over.

Like the guy that gave me the poster.

Hellooooo

The nicest things happen to me.

A few years ago I ran into a familiar face in an antique store. I'd seen him around downtown. He asked me "what do YOU collect?" and we were off chatting about furnishings and decorations. I told him where I hoped to steer my home decor: colorful and retro. And cheap. I've referred to my "style" here before as "Retro-Garrish."

We still run into one another now and again. I've introduced him to several friends, and we always enjoy capturing his attention and listening to his wise ramblings. And, occasionally arguing or debating. And watching him do magic tricks.

What nice thing happened to me then? Last weekend while I yuk-yukked the evening away with friends at the coffee shop, Mr. Familiar Face (whom I have not gotten permission to use his name, hence the mystery) approached my table with a plastic bag in his hand. He said only, "here's a little something for you."

Wasn't I surprised to see the vintage, cherry red, rotary-dial telephone pictured above. God, how do you say thank you?!! I sputtered and gushed, and offered to reimburse him for the find. He waved me off and walked into the sunset, podnah.

I'm still shocked and touched and...grateful. Sometimes I just feel like I live in this little make-a-wish world, and I can only shake my head.

Marcy loaned me her Mike today, who acted as telephone installer for me, and just LOOK at how darned adorable this phone looks in my space! Don't you just LOVE it? It makes me downright giggly!



I have to go now. I gotta go make some cookies or something, and then wander around downtown, looking for A Familiar Face.

My Mom's Son Too

I've been so busy the last few weeks, I haven't even had time to notify you all that Brian and I DID get a chance to speak on the phone last weekend.

4 whole minutes. We said a LOT in 4 minutes, speaking as fast as auctioneers. He's doing ok. Tired of cafeteria food. Working out a lot. Misses home. Looking forward to more privileges, which will come every 2 weeks or so. He's made some friends. Can I send him his checkbook? And a picture of his car? Shit, one minute! I love you, I'm proud of you, and know that you have no idea how many people here care, ask about you and wish you well, I love you...bye....bye...

More people than you know....

Excerpts from an email correspondence I had, this week, with Brian's friend, Chris.

Me: [all mail] must now be addressed "Jolley [comma], Brian"

Chris: I will make sure I make the changes every time I mail Brian, after all nobody wants to make him do more push-ups than he alreadys has to. ;)

Me: He told me they gas'd him last week! I may have to kick some army ass. No one gases my babies! [...] Is that what's the lesson about...teaching you to identify when to put the mask on...?

I'll wollop them with my pocketbook.

Chris: Yea, that drill is supposed to make you realize the importance of reacting quickly when it comes to biological weapons.

I would LOVE to go see you kick some Army Ass! They should be more afraid of you than they should their commanding officer. You better but a brick in your pocketbook!

Me: I don't really say pocketbook, but does sound like a cooler thing to beat the shit out of a drill sargeant with. Maybe your mom could help me out. Bricks for everyone!

Chris: Oh yea, Brian is my mom's son too and I KNOW she will kick some ass with ya!

Hm. "Brian is my Mom's son too." These words comfort me more than this kid knows. Because I know he speaks the truth.

Brian "ran" with a circle of 5, loyal. These 5 boys with different personalities, different interests, different lifestyles and backgrounds and home lives, and yet this in common: fierce mothers. Trying to save our own and offering what we could to each other's, knowing that there aren't too many teenage boys that want to confide in their own parents. And we hung on like hell and sometimes had to let go, and be thankful for this: What he doesn't want to hear from me, She will tell him.

Chris's Mom, Beth. God Bless her, I say! She helped me drag my kid across the graduation stage 2 years ago. She offered him a neutral environment to do his homework, and he was never offended when she didn't cut him slack. The last semester of Brian's high school was ROUGH, baby, and I don't know what I'd have done without her. I take some solace in knowing that while she nurtured mine, I was in my home, busy telling another to stay the night, cool off, and then rise above the conflicts in his own home.

And now, I hear "...my Mom's son too." and I love her all over again. And I recognize something more:

That you ALL are Brian's Mom too. That so many of you, reading this, commenting, and sending e-mails on the side, that you care for my kid's future, and his welfare. As I do you and yours. And there are those who stop me downtown, and my girlfriends send him notes and cards. And my male friends are to be recognized also, they ask about him, they ask about me, they ask to see the letter I'm passing around (hi Mike!)...

And I am doing fine. I am "coping" with missing my kid. And it so much easier because you care.

About him.

Portrait of a Starving Artist

$1 Pair Of Shoes

With $1 I bought
My pair of shoes.
No more than $1;
But still,
They are my shoes.

Atef Ayadi

I have blogged about him before, our friend Atef Ayadi. He is a poet, yes. And a painter. A painter with a blue-eyed frog in his head. We don't know what that means. We often don't know the meaning of anything Atef says. But we listen. And we love him.

Atef. How can I possibly make you understand? He's a bobblehead doll, only every joint of his being is bobbled.

He's our own, lovable, Tunisian Kramer-from-Seinfeld. The entrance. The exit. The cel phone falling into pieces as he answers it, and yet he keeps talking, while we recover bits from the sidewalk. Whose glass is this? No matter, he'll drink from it; it's a free-for-all; the closest glass is his. He once showed up for a dinner party at my house driving on a tire so flat that it was nothing but a rim. We pointed it out, and he admitted he was aware of the flat, but needed to get to the party. "What I can do?" he said. What indeed, as long as he was in attendance.

He lives a crazy, romantic, bohemian, fly-by-the-seat-of-yer-pants lifestyle. He's a genius, I'd wager, but cares little about all that. He needs only to make next month's rent, and enough dough for coffee and cigarettes. Food? Worry not! Food will come.

This Friday night: An art show. A fundraiser. Spotlight: Atef.

Atef's been "missing in action" lately. Working like a madman, awake for days, forgetting to eat. Deadlines to be met, he intends to enter 200+ pieces in this year's show. We are fascinated, as he shows up to our Cafe table with a stack of painted backgrounds, and begins whipping out oil pastel drawings, one after another.


Deadlines for the artshow were last weekend. He was in and out. Those among us ran errands. We do what we can. We research a medium to dry oil paint FAST. A meal. A sweatshirt, when he's too busy to know a cold front's coming in. And in return, he picks us up right off the ground when he hugs us. What could be better than that?!

I gave him a ride home Saturday night, and was invited into his humble abode, to check out what's going on. Want to see? Want to see what the apartment of a guy who is going to make enough money this weekend to get him through til next October?

There are paintings stacked EVERYWHERE. Paintings on top of paintings; you can barely move around them. This is the living room:


There are some on easels, still in progress:


They line the hallway:

You step over tools and supplies:

There is one room just for framing:

It is...even more amazing in person. I wished him the best and assure him "you're going to do SO great next weekend." He gave a shrug: "it doesn't matter, really. I only care that my friends are around me next Friday night."

You see, why we love him.

And you know where we'll be Friday night.

Dear U.S. Army:

Please excuse my son, Brian Jolley, from any further training that involves removing one's gas mask in a chamber filled with gas.

Thank you very much.

Laura Stewart

Think it'll fly?

50.4 miles

I have a new friend, neighbor, walking partner. Dana. It seems hard to believe that I met her only 2 weeks ago today, as we have covered a LOT of territory in the last 2 weeks, both topographical and conversational.

Dana was a guest at Rani's going-away party, and, it so happens, a neighbor. We hit it off right away, which, if you meet her, would be no big surprise, as Dana seems to hit it off with everyone right away. That's JUST the kind of person she is.

I was thrilled to have met someone interested in walking, I needed the motivation; I wasn't sure if I would actually crank out TWO WHOLE MILES a day on my own; I'd probably find excuses...

We laced up and hit the street for the first time 11 days ago. We walked clear to the next town, but I admit we live on "the border." An hour-and-45 minutes later, we were wrapping up about 5 miles, by our estimate. We agreed to meet the next day....and every day after that. We've missed 1 or 2, but are determined to keep going.

After a week, I finally mapped out our path. 5.8 miles from the starting point! And we walk to the starting point. Yeesh! No wonder getting out of a chair was so excruciating for the first 3 days of last week.

It got easier by day 4, and it's been a cake-walk since then, save a few rough spots after her personal trainer cracked the whip, and both of our shins (that is, all 4 of our shins) screamed bloody murder after we decided that shiny new shoes would be a good investment.

It's been so fun! We meet up and start yakking our fool female heads off, talking and venting and clucking away until we're home already! We're not even done talking!

Dana is a brilliant conversationalist. She's a African Art History Professor at the university, and has amazing tales of traveling and living in Africa. Not to be outdone, I am wow'ing her with stories of becoming a local celebrity for photographing roadkill. We are quite a match.

She has also taught me a few other very important things, things that all female walkers, runners, and worker-outer's should know. Invaluable tidibits: German women have a term for that chafing that occurs when your thighs rub together while walking or running. (If you have no idea what we're talking about, then you just shut up.) "It's called Wolf," she told me.

Not wanting to risk grammatical faux pas, I asked her please to use it in a sentence. "I've got the wolf," she said. Ohhhh. THE wolf. My mind is a sponge. I pushed on: what's it called if the rash is under your arms? Because it so happens that my t-shirt sleeves have rubbed a wolf on my inner arm, from swinging my arms while I walk.

"That's a coyote," she said, all knowingly. She TOTALLY made that up, but I'm using it anyway. "I have the coyote."

Anyway, we're walking and walking, and we celebrated the 50-mile mark with glasses of cool ice-tea at the snooty wine-shop in our neighborhood, once we determined that they'd let 2 sweaty women frequent their sidewalk cafe.

We've plans to celebrate the 100-mile mark with real live wine. Then we'll be sweaty and drunk, and I imagine it won't be long before Sunsinger Wines incorporates a dress code: No gym shorts, no tennis shoes...no coyotes.

Old Kimchee

This, yesterday, at one of my favorite Asian stores.

Me don't think so.

Rani

We saw Rani off, at O'Hare airport, last Saturday. It's difficult to tell you about someone that emanates pure serenity, at the same time touching and changing lives with whirlwind energy.

Daily, we discussed the differences in our lives, in women's lives. Here vs. India. We covered everything we could think of, from arranged marriages to funerals. We accepted and celebrated our differences.

We both cried each other's presence, while she was here: she upon finding that she would not be able to visit her sister in Canada, me over Brian's "shipping out." Cultural differences disappear where boundaries girlfriends, sisters, and mothers are concerned. We "there-there'd" each other and cheered up.

We laughed. A LOT. She taught us "Laughter Therapy": Hold your hand on your diaphragm and laugh heartily. Good for inner organs, good for soul. It really works, she had me, Marcy, and my mother nearly falling off the couch with laughter. Try it in a group. It works.

Try it alone, and you'll feel kooky but definitely better! Go do it. I'm not kidding. Try it, I say!

We cooked. Oh, baby, I have eaten biryanis and curries, idly's and dosas and dahls and upmas, and potatoes this and that, and murka and rices. She could make millions here. We fed her lasagna, jambalaya, spaghetti, pizza, crab chili, apple crisp, and more.


She happily cooked for my friends, at my shy request.


She introduced me and Marcy-Momo to her friends here. We gathered together at my place for a little going away party the Thursday before she left. Her friend, and now ours, Shanti, showed up with a gorgeous silk sari in hand.

The women whisked me off and dressed me in this stunning fabric. Have you ever seen a sari, unwrapped?


It's LONG! And there is tucking and accordion folding, and wrapping and swooping and pinning to be done! I felt QUITE the princess as they dressed me. They do this by themselves! "Oh, you get used to it" they assure me.




I gave it a shot: I tried to continue cooking for a few minutes: if they can do it, I can do it, yes?

No, I am clumsy and trippy and afraid of setting myself afire while I rotate lasagnas. Having your hostess go up in flames almost always ruins the party. I tackled my way out of the sari to continue cooking.

A vegetarian dinner was marvelous, and afterwards, Shanti sang for us. I wish I had a photo, I wish I had a recording, I wish you were there, as her voice rose strong and loud while we sat listening in candlelight. Marcy and I both teared up.



Once we dried our eyes, Mike was "on deck" for dessert. He makes a killer caramelized banana something that Rani dubbed "Banana Delight" and she wanted it one more time before heading home. Served over vanilla ice cream, it comes to about 4000 calories per serving, but you don't even care.

Sigh. Well, I miss her. We ALL miss her. She may return with her husband in August, though, so I guess I can wait that long to see her again.

In the meantime, I'll keep laughing. I promised her I would.

For the record...

Not!

The U.S. Army does NOT let boot-camp babies phone their Momma's on Easter Sunday.

Those dirty rats.

Drive-By Lickity Lick

I hint of silk sari's. Of Greek Food. Of Chicago. And still everyone wants to hear of The Licking.

Let's call her Shirley, shall we?

Shirley's in her mid-50s. Relatively well put-together, if I'm being fair. A little on the garrish side, if I'm being truthful. And D-cup breasts. I know this, as anyone within earshot knows this. She likes to announce "they're boughten!"

I don't usually care, these things. You want green eye shadow? Knock yourself out, I respect you for expressing yourself. Larger breasts make you feel better? Go for it.

I'd "heard things" about Shirley, before I met her. She's a real pistol. Shirley looooooves those new D-cups, and she encourages you to take a look. Cop a feel. Shirl is getting her money's worth!

She's married to a pleasant enough guy, and as far as I know, scrutiny is for Ladies Only. Shirl also loves to touch and kiss other girls. Whether she's truly attracted to other women, or if it's a cute little game between her and her husband, I do not know.

So, I'd heard THANGS before I first encountered Shirley-and-The-Pips for the first time, a few months ago. She joined a large table of friends I was sitting with. True to form, Shirley was bawdy. Rowdy. Outrageous.

I guess. I suppose it's a matter of personal preference, when "life of the party" crosses over to "a bit tiresome." I know nothing about her besides her boobs, and though there must be more than that, she didn't have anything else to say. Surely there's more Shirley?

LAST FRIDAY EVENING, EARLY

I ran downtown to get Rani a going-away gift, and then found myself waiting with Momo at an outdoor cafe, for her hubby Mikey to get off work. We were then to run off for dinner and final good-byes. The temperature dropped, and we went inside, entering the bar with another couple, "Sharon" and "Dan."

Sharon and Dan made a beeline to friendly faces, and we followed. Said faces:

Shirl & Mr. Shirl!

I frantically whisper-warned to Momo, "THAT's Shirley! Watch out."

Shirley greeted Sharon by moving in behind her, and humping her like a dog. I was only pleased because I could then say to Momo, "See?"

It was standing room only, and Momo and I moved off to wait for Mike, and get out of Shirley's hump-line-of-fire.

But wait! I remembered that the last time I saw Sharon, I had been contemplating a tattoo, and NOW I have one! I had to show her how it turned out.

I called her over, "Look, I did it! I got it!" Unfortunately I was wearing a plain ol' black t-shirt, not conducive to viewing shoulder tattoos. Marcy and Sharon yanked down the back of my t-shirt, causing the front collar to tighten around my windpipe so that much gagging and choking ensued. But they got a peek.

A moment later, Shirley sidled up behind me out of the blue, and shimmied her breasts across my back.

GAAaaack! I moved away from her, and, through my teeth, seethed to Marcy, "she just rubbed those fake breasts all over my back."

Marcy responded, "Yeah I know. And I can't believe she licked your tattoo."

Yes.





Wait.

What?

Sharon confirmed it: Shirley had snuck in and executed a drive-by-licking.

I had no idea! Had she slipped a date-lick drug into my drink?!! I guess I was too busy trying to get my breath from the t-shirt choking to have been aware of it.

How did this make me feel?

For the record: Not aroused. I'm no prude, dearies; there is a long list of ya's—all genders, races, and sexual preferences—that would be ALLOWED to lick my tattoo. In fact, I would be honored.

But Shirley was not on the list. In fact, I was *tuh-OTALLY,* shiveringly, creeped out, and I left feeling like I needed a shower, and wondering why on earth that woman acts like that: who she is besides a Double-D, if she has a job, if she's good at it, if she has kids, if she has any or all of those things and thinks it's fun to lick strangers, if her husband thinks it's adorable, at what age will she stop groping other women, if she really thinks it's cute, if she'd stop if she knew what people are *really* saying about her.

If a man had done the same thing, how would the incident have differed? I'd have felt the same way, but I imagine there would have been a little more interference and protection from those around me, both male and female. Isn't that interesting?

Well. Damn.

I've always wanted to throw my drink in someone's face, and this would have been a perfect, justifiable opportunity! I'm upset that I lost my chance, but not so upset that I'll hang out with old Shirl ever again: My entire shoulder broke out the next day; I'm not making it up.

I consider this a public service warning, then: watch out for little 'ol large-breasted red-heads with satan saliva.

Sssssssssssssss!

Dances with Momo

I've been crazy-busy for the last 5-6 days. There have been dinner parties and sari's, and trips to Chicago, and Indian food, Italian food, Mandarin food and Greek food, my son's new address is en route via U.S. mail, a strange woman walked up and licked my tattoo when I was showing it to a friend, and this is the first time I've sat down in dayz and dayz.

I have so many new blog-worthy stories, but am numb with exhaustion, I'm copping out, asking you to turn your monitor on its side, and watch this video, taken on some snowy Saturday night at my house.

This is what we do after dinner "and a few" at my house. This was dinner for 3; imagine how much fun it would have been if you all had joined us. It's Marcy (Momo) dancing, and Ilaiy singing along with "My Best Friend's Wedding." I am, conveniently, running the camera, which wasn't really designed for video.

Catch ya latah!

Change Is Good...

Photo from www.lightmorning.org

Today is the one-week anniversary of Brian's sayonara. Bri-o-nara. I'm holding up well, thanks. Here are a few things that have thrown me for a loop in the last week:

I do not know what to do in a grocery store: What do I want? I have no idea; I've walked in, and left empty-handed twice.

I went to Chicago over the weekend. What did I want? No looking at clothes, snacks, or housewares for Brian while we shopped. Me, me, me.

No checking in. No telling him where I am, where I'll be, when I'll be home. (Yes, we filled each other in on such things.)

Almost no laundry to do after a week.

Ran the dishwasher only once in the last week. It was full of coffee cups and water glasses.

I don't have to wear a robe, or granny-nighties around the house anymore. I can walk right out into the living room any time I please, wearing anything I please. Or nothing.

No closing the bedroom door when I head off to bed.

I can do whatever I want, whenever I want.

And I am paralyzed with the SELF-ishness of it. It's very bizarre.

I think the one thing I'm most surprised to discover is how much I considered him in my daily decision making, even though we both basically led separate lives.

It's all right, although the awareness of it sometimes make me feel a tiny bit like I've been punched in the stomach. I keep forgetting that I don't have to consider him.

I imagine it will grow on me. When I get used to this, I'm planning to run out and buy myself a cute lil something that is NOT made of flannel.

It's good to have a plan.

You're It, Baggy Eyes

I've been tagged, by Boston Pobble. My first tagging. I'm no longer a tag-virgin. [blush]

Four jobs I've had
1. Fast Food clerk
2. Bindery clerk, printing factory
3. Press camera operator
4. Textbook Compositor

Four movies I can watch over and over
1. Grosse Pointe Blank
2. A Bronx Tale
3. Under the Tuscan Sun
4. Room with a View

Four places I have lived
1. San Diego, CA
2. Urbana, IL
3. Champaign, IL
4. There is no #4; I'm a townie.

Four TV shows I love
1. Any stand-up comedy
2. CSI
3. Survivor
4. Reno 911

Four places I've vacationed
1. South Dakota
2. Disney World, Florida
3. Cancun, Mexico
4. San Diego, Ca

Four of my favorite dishes
1. sushi
2. basil fried rice
3. ceviche
4. briyani

Four sites I visit daily
1. www.bloglines.com
2. www.gapersblock.com
3. www.boardmansarttheatre.com/
4. www.dictionary.com

Four places I would rather be right now
1. New York
2. Tucson
3. Los Angeles
4. Bangalore

Four people I am tagging
1. Tangental C
2. Momo
3. Ilaiy
4. Neurotransition