Jonah Had an Amazing Dream

If you really want insight into what's up in your children's psyche, ask them about their dreams. When we wake up, sometimes at dawn, sometimes at noon, we ask each other "Did you dream last night?" Sometimes we do, and sometimes we don't.

This morning, (really afternoon, but I didn't want you to know what slobs we are), when Jonah woke up, he climbed up in the big bed, and asked me just that. I told him that I had a lot of dreams the night before, (mostly involving my standard garden variety losing my car in a parking garage and having to walk uphill to get home) and he said so did he.

While I tried to remember some more of what went on in my dreams, Jonah told me about his. It was one of the best ones ever and I need to write it down before it disappears, like tears in the rain. (I lifted the 'tears in the rain' from "Blade Runner" so don't be too impressed.)

Anyplagiarized, he said that in the dream, it was years from now, when I was really old, "like in my sixties or something". I laughed when he said that. We were sitting together in the living room, watching TV and came across a movie that was about my life.

"My life?" I asked. "Yes, your life. It was like that Jersey Shore show on MTV"
"Like a reality show?" I asked, feeling horrified. "Exactly" he said.

My immediate response was "Oh shit". Did my Aunt Evie really get me on "The Biggest Loser"? Or, even worse, I finally won Intervention, or, good Lord, "HOARDERS"!!! This was the insight into the true feelings of my children I had been dreading all my life.

Reluctantly, I asked him if it involved an intervention or camera's barging into our house in general, and did it freak him out? Jonah started laughing that good belly laugh he gives me when I crack him up.

"No, it was about your life and all of the things you've been through."

"We were sitting together watching TV and we stumbled across the movie. We didn't know who made it, and were surprised to find it. It started when you were little and went through all the years and the things that happened to you. There was a lot about how you always tried to help people, no matter what. In one part, you got angry at someone because they were doing something that made you not be able to help them.

In the last scene of the movie, I'm in a car driving through the desert looking for you". Let me mention that we had been in Las Vegas last week for the holidays with our family.

"Am I lost?, Were you afraid?" I ask.

"No, I knew exactly where you were and just needed to drive there. There's a girl in the car, and she's annoyed with me for taking so long. We stop at a truck stop and she runs off with a trucker but I don't really care. I'm kinda glad because she was annoying. So I just get back in the car, and drive some more through the desert, looking for you. And then I woke up."

A Rose May Be a Rose, but Schiff is Still Better than Slutsky

My maiden name is Rosenberg and my family, on both sides, are a bunch of radical ass Russian Jews. All of them, all the way back to the beginning of time. So then I married this Catholic guy....oh, I'm sorry, that would be an entirely different post. This post is about my father's family.

Anyway, and I say this with pride, I am just about one generation away from being Euro-trash, both on my mother and father's side.  Before you wonder if I am related to THE Rosenbergs (you know, Ethel and Joseph? those treasonous communists?), let me just tell you straight off that Rosenberg is Jewish for Smith. So, if I am, I don't know it.

Sidney Rosenberg, my paternal grandfather, was born in New York City in 1902. His parents, Rachel and Max Rosenberg, had immigrated to the United States from Russia in 1875. They, like so many of my relatives, came by boat to Ellis Island. From there, his family went to Texas. They left Russia because of political reasons.

Eventually, Sidney moved to Chicago, and met the beautiful Annie Schiff, whom he immediately fell in love with and married. Annie Rosenberg is my paternal grandmother. She was a teacher and Sidney was a lawyer.

Annie's grandfathers name was Schuel Slutsky. He immigrated from Latvia, which was at the time an independent part of Russia. They were called "herring eaters" because the country was a peninsula surrounded by water on three sides.

Schuel Slutsky had immigrated at the age of ten because he was a 'known' radical and he was "in trouble with the authorities" and they were looking for him. By the time he was twelve, he lived in Manhattan and was a rag pedaler.

When my great-great grandfather Slutsky came through Ellis Island, they changed his name to Schiff. When he arrived, he was trying to tell the immigration officials, in broken english, that "he came on the ship". They thought he was saying "my name is Schiff". Apparently, this happened quite often in those days. Good ridence "Slutsky" and hello "Schiff".

My grandma Annie's father was named Isaac Schiff and her mother was named Rose. Rose was an amazing woman, one so after my own heart that I wish I'd known her. Isaac died and left Rose a widow with twelve children. Rose never remarried and scrubbed floors to support my grandma Annie and her eleven brothers and sisters. All twelve attended college.

This is my favorite story about Rose Schiff. Keep in mind that she had left Russia only years before and could barely speak English.

During the Great Depression, the bank was going to foreclose on their house. Rose marched all twelve children, with their little bags packed, down to the bank. She told the bank manager that if he did foreclose, she would have no choice but to leave all twelve children with him because they would be homeless.

She pretended to walk away, while twleve frantic children, who really believed her, cried 'mama mama!..' please, mama mama, don't leave us mama!. The manager relented, and they somehow managed to keep the house. Ain't that salty? I want to be just like Rose.

How We Got Around

You could describe my childhood as "transportationally challenged". My mother never learned to drive, which was good for society in two ways; nobody ever got hurt, and it inspired her to invent pizza delivery.

Fortunately, my father drove her everywhere. Unfortunately, he died when I was nine. My mothers favorite mode of transportation in a city that barely had mass transit was the taxi cab. Actually, it was perfect for her, they were driving and she was Miss Daisy.

Here's how my mother invented pizza delivery. She would call and order a pizza from the only pizza parlour in our neighborhood. It was called Berconi's, and was owned by Bert Cohen who was really a nice Jewish man. Next, she would call the taxi stand that was behind the pizza store, which was called Center Cab. She was so bonded with the taxi dispatchers, they would have a taxi pick up her pizza, and deliver it to our house. Then my mom would reimburse the driver for both the pizza and the cab fare.

She would shop for groceries at the beginning of the month, and would tip the driver to carry a months worth of groceries into the house for us. My mother taught my sisters and me how to tip correctly at a very young age. She is a very charming woman, and to this day, is loved and admired by cabbies coast-to-coast, LA to Chicago.....'cause she's a smooth oper-A-tor.

My sisters and I walked everywhere. Until we went off to Jr. High School, we never left our neighborhood unless we actually left town. If it wasn't walking distance, we didn't go. You'd be surprised how far walking distance becomes once you get used to it.

We always seemed to live at the bottom of really big hills, and the first mile was straight up. I always thought of it as a metaphor for life, and when I bought my first house, I looked for the flattest neighborhood I coud find in the seven hills area. Eventually, somewhere along the way, we got tired of walking 10 miles each way to school. That's when we learned how to ride the Metro.

The mass transit system in Cincinnati is sub-par compared to most major cities, but like a cheap liquor in a crunch, it will get you where you're going. Or, as Patrick said, cheap liquor helps if you have to ride the Metro. You should go back to older posts and read Patricks mass transit story about the guy and the booger, it's a classic.

The worst part about riding the Metro is that you have to do everything on their schedule, whether they have one or not. If you're not at the orange pole, waving, they'll pass your ass right up. Also, never try to run and catch the bus. The average Metro driver lives to pass you up, and the smug, pointing-and-laughing-at-you looks on the other passengers faces, who were actually at the bus stop on time, will just kill your entire week. Just pretend like you meant to miss the bus, trust me, it's easier on your ego.

When it came time to bust out of Cincinnati, it was always on the Greyhound. Now that's a special experience all un to itself. It's a sub-culture both on the buses and in the terminals. Interesting how it's called Greyhound and they keep their passengers in "terminals" just like race dogs. It just came to me and I had to point it out.

Anyway, however long any trip would be by car, multiply it by 5 and that's how long it takes to get there on the Greyhound. Also, if an obese man eating cold taco's gets on the bus, he will always sit next to you, sometimes for twelve hours or more. I won't even get started on whether or not you should ever sit anywhere near the on board potty.

The upside to riding the Greyhound is that it's cheap, and always takes the scenic routes. The stops along the way are sort of nostalgic to me. Who doesn't love stretching their legs at 4 in the morning at the Evansville, IN bus station? When you suddenly go from cold, smelly, diesel fuel to warm, smelly diesel fuel mixed with coffee and french fries, it's feels just like leaving home. So special.

Finally, when I was eighteen, I bought a car. It seemed to be a really good reason to get a drivers license so I did that next. Then, after 3 or so years, I got so sick of owning a car so I sold it and didn't buy another one for 5 years. After five years more of riding the Metro, it's a dream of mine to never ride it again. The Elevated it ain't. So there you have it.

Leadership

For the last ten years, I've had the privilege of being the president of the Cincinnati State chapter of SEIU/Local 1199. This January, I will be stepping down and going back to concentrating on my real job, which is being a software analyst.

It's been a wicked ten years. Our membership has gone from 80 members to 150 members in that time. SEIU represents all of the clerical, technical, and professional employee's at the college. I consider myself a war time president, having spent the last decade with a college president who is vemenently anti labor. He's gone now.

There is a hand full of people, mostly belligerent techs like myself, who have carried the burden of leadership with me. Every piece of successful contract enforcement came off of the back of this group. It affected all of our careers, and for the first time taught me what it meant to be truly hated.

Being a good leader is incredibly difficult, but I've changed so much for having had the experience. I never really wanted to be a leader, but in the end did it because I could. Leadership chose me, and man, did it change me.

Lessons of Leadership:

Learn how to choose your battles wisely. Our resources are very tight, and with full time jobs as well, you have to really look at the bigger picture. How will the energy best benefit the greatest amount of people? If I fight too many fronts, I can't win any. Also, many times, it means more to win the war than all of the battles.

Never let anyone live in your head rent free. Unless a person serves a real purpose in your life, don't spend tons of time thinking about them. It makes it easy to manipulate you, and is a favorite tactic of your opposition. If you allow it, they've won.

Know the difference between business and personal. In business, you can not open your heart and soul to every difference or conflict, it eats you alive. You will generally have someone pissed at you all the time, but it's not personal. How is it not personal? Because they don't know you. You are not the job you perform.

Good leadership means doing the right thing even when everyone wants to tell you it's wrong. Sometimes the decision a leader makes pisses their own side off as much as the other. For instance, the college instituted a four day work week for the entire campus for the summer term. The day before it started, the college approached the union leadership demanding a contractual change for our unit. It would change "sick days" to "sick hours", which is a change in working condition. The demographic of our membership is single heads of household with children, and with that change, inevitably, some would end up with odd hours of sick time and not have enough to cover a whole day and end up in the disciplinary process. We couldn't agree to a contractual change (not if they ever wanted the contract to be taken seriously as "legally binding") without a vote of the membership, and there was not time for a vote because the college waited so long to approach us (which they did on purpose). As their leadership, we were forced to say no and the college took back the four day work week. The membership hated my guts for it. Now, having watched things play out, I know we made the right decision and wouldn't change a thing even though it was a very painful year.

Always surround yourself with people who are smarter than you are. The burden of making decisions by yourself will kill you. I've always been surrounded by what I call "the brain trust". I never make any decisions on my own, everything is led by consensus of the group. We can scream at each other behind closed doors, and disagree, but when we walk out of that room, we are always a unified front.

Leadership is not a life perk. Good leadership never benefits you personally. It is absolute self sacrifice for something bigger than yourself. The only thanks is leaving something behind that is stronger and better than when you found it.

Democracy is for those who step up to the plate. If a business contract isn't enforced, then it just doesn't exist. A contract carries the rights of those it governs, but if you don't know your rights, you can't enforce them. Be careful what you wish for, because once you get it, you have to take care of it. So there you have it.

Payback

The two J's have more access to electronic devices than any child should have. Most of our children do. Along with this freedom, comes new lessons for all of us.

A couple of months ago, J2 walked away from the computer without signing out of Facebook. His brother, J1, took that opportunity to post the following on J2's status. "I LIKE PENIS". I was the first to discover it, because I'm all up in their computer use. After much ado, the post was removed and we all moved on, thinking the lesson had been learned.

HA! Not so fast.

Later that same evening, we were playing a board game which our good friend RWC brought over. It's called "Worst Case Scenario", and is a litmus test for how long you would survive in anarchy.

During the game, J1 is constantly texting someone. It behoves us to ask whom he's texting with so hot and heavy, and he says it's a girl he knows from school. After several hours, J1 sets down his cell phone and goes to use the restroom. J2, who must have been patiently waiting for the opportunity, calmly picks up J1's cell phone and texts "I LIKE PENIS".

J2 then calmly puts the cell phone right back where he found it, as he whispers to us what he did. This kid is absolutely diabolical. With the eye's of an angel, and the soul of a poet, he'll lull you into complacency, and just when you think he's forgotten what you did, he swoops.

When J1 came back into the living room, he picked right up texting where he had left off. Unfortunately, the girl at the other end had gone away. Perhaps I should have stepped in, but it was like on Star Trek where they can only observe or you change history. I decided to let it play out.

It was hysterical. RWC and I watched the whole thing transpire, like we were watching television. You just can't pay for that kind kind of entertainment. Oh, and by the way, I won "Worst Case Scenario" because women always live the longest.

"Just Remember, Guys Are Not Complicated"

me: Are you awake?
Zen: I'm awake,
and YOU?
me: Yes, and kinda ick as well... I have issues, got time to chat?
Zen: Sure
me: OK, so here's the thing......
I'm dating a man who's just the sweetest thing ever....but.....there is one thing that bothers me. He has been separated from his wife for three years but still isn't divorced. I actually know her and she's a good girl, so it's not really about her,
and.....I'm not looking to get married, so it's not that either,
but....that breaks one of my most strictly held, can you pass this quiz, kind of rules. It's all in such sharp contrast, it makes me question my own criteria...perhaps rules really are made to be broken...... so...
If it doesn't really matter and I don't even know why I care, why does it annoy me?
Zen: 'Cuz it's a law?
me: Apparently, its legal to date while you're still married in the state of Ohio, nor is Ohio big on any other kind of binding arbitration.
Zen: What's the big deal, is he still sharing a house with her?
me: Nope, and they have no kids together...although he does have a step-daughter that he adores, and it makes me like him even more....
Zen: Maybe she just doesn't really understand him
me: Just hilarious Zen.....
Zen: Oh man there's still a lot of material there, you're not just going to quit on it are you?
me: no, actually, I'm not. but not because of whatever it is you're referring to
Zen: It's a triangle! Damn, I never knew he was juggling you and an Ex
or should I type "Ex"?
me: excuse me, but I AM NOT BEING "JUGGLED"
Zen: (I'm just smiling here, take it easy now. )
me: I worry that there is no greater afferdesiak than seeing someone that once loved you starting to love someone else, and if they were divorced, I probably wouldn't be thinking it
Zen: aphrodisiac?
me: ...yeah that
Zen: Right, the legal contract would keep him straight.
If only you had an Iron Clad agreement...
See if you can get him to sign something!
me: pffffttttt, you're making fun of me and I'm serious.....so since there's no guarantees in life, his legal attachment to another woman doesn't matter?
Zen: I'm sure you could MAKE it matter, it seems like it's pissing you off, right?
me: Yes, but maybe I'm a drama queen
Zen: Mayhap, but everyone needs a hobby
Just remember guys are not complicated
me: Allegedly, but I'm rusty at this social drama
Exactly how are men not complicated?
because I always think they are
Zen: Most decisions can be made in under 15 minutes and they occur under the belly some where. They almost never bother with all that analyzing nonsense.
me: interesting........,
OK, zen, I gotta think about it
Zen: yes, women seem to do that alot more
me: Bliss is wasted on the ignorant
Zen: I never looked at it like that, I guess I'm not as aware as I thought.
have you seen the movie UP from pixar?
me: no, is it good
Zen: yes, you've got to see it. But it's kind of sad, definitely bittersweet
me: will it help me to understand men better?
Zen: no, not really...

Where Do You Look?

There are three different kinds of people. Those who tend to look straight ahead, those that tend to look down at the ground, and those who are always looking up.

Most people are straight ahead lookers and seem like emotionally healthy people. I don't know nothing about no straight lookers.

Ground starers are very introspective. I'm a ground looker, and I bump into shit, (people, poles, etc.) on a regular basis. Sometimes I find money. If you're telling me a story, I look down to listen. Some people look down out of bad self esteem, shyness, or depression. Not me.

In my case, it's just bad ADD combined with thinking as a hobby. If I'm not looking at the ground when you talk to me, I'd be busy interrupting you to point out the pretty colors. Right when you think I got the point, someone in the distance will steal my attention back to some story I'm making up. You know my type. If someone does that to you all the time, demand they look at the ground while you talk to them.

The rarest of people are the sky gazers. Sky gazers are always searching. Searching for more. They seem acutely aware of how small they are compared to the rest of the universe. Their ability to think "outside the box" is off the chain because no one really knows what could be.

It's the sky gazers that are the dreamers and the poets. DaVinci was a sky gazer. I will remind myself to look up more often. It's probably easier to breath anyway.

Georgia, 2008 and the Return of Zen

Here's the funny thing about writing a blog; if I haven't resolved it into story form yet, it's just miserable to write. Resolving it into the form of a story means that I'm already past the trauma-drama of the episode. It's all in the past and it's all good.

And so goes the story of "Georgia 2008". I started writing the post back in June of this year, and left you ever so rudely hanging in climatic pergatory. But here's the reason why. I HATE that fucking story. So I just stopped writing all together, what with my delicate artistic psyche feeling all off kilter, and what-not.

Hence the question "why did I start writing it at all"? Well, frankly, it was all because of that friend Zen of mine. He harps on me constantly to write. "Don't you have a blog to write?" he says. "You should tell the Georgia story" he prods.

When I tell Zen I have no interest in writing the Georgia story, he tells me it's because I'm still mad at someone over it. To this I say "BULLSHIT". Zen chuckles knowingly. That bastard. He says I still hold a grudge over it.

So here's a quick synopsis and then let's never speak of it again.

There was a knock on the cabin door at 7:30 in the morning and it really freaked my kids out. They started calling for me, and I was so tired I barely even knew where I was. As I stumbled down the wooden staircase, I was fine. Except for that one errant step that went off to the left away from the rest.

I missed the lone step, landed on my left foot and turned that ankle out, tried to catch myself on my right foot, which then also turned, all of it against a hard wood floor. I can still feel it today like it was yesterday, it makes me sick. Long story short, I broke both my feet and had to leave on a stretcher. I literally heard them "snap". I didn't want to scream because I didn't want to scare the boys, so I kinda whisper screamed, a very interesting mommy noise indeed.

I managed to drive us home from Georgia with just light settings, and it was the most traumatic trip the boys and I ever took. Makes me nauseous just thinking about it. I ended up in a wheelchair for a week, and in casts for almost three months. Not to mention gaining 30 pounds not moving around for three months. That shit alone just really pisses me off.

So who was at the door? Well, it was the lady we were renting the cabin from. My mother, who was dog sitting, was worried because she couldn't reach me on my cell phone. She hadn't spoken to us since the day before. Three times the day before. And it was only 7:30 in the morning.

Zen said I stopped writing because I was secretly angry at my mother. That is just so absurd, so ridiculous, right?

I hate that Zen guy, all up in my head, picking at my brain. He's so fucking annoying in general. But regardless of all that, there you have it.

Ben Folds, "The Luckiest"

I like this. Thanks Joy!

Things that Happen in Three's

In the last several days, David Carradine, Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Micheal Jackson have all passed on to the next round. Each one of them where cultural icons and in my peripheral vision for almost my entire life. I never met any of them, and still, their deaths upset me. The death of the status quo, which is always inevitable, is just upsetting all in itself.

Kung Fu, to quote my friend Sharon, is "something I almost never get to say". To us ignorant westerners (me in particular), Kung Fu was David Carradine. As an actor, he pulled off the ethnic imitation that Yul Brenner failed so miserably at in the "King and I". To this day, I'm thinking about how Grasshopper scars himself by grasping the hot pot with his fore arms and then falls into the snow at the beginning of the show. I have to fight the urge to force my children to grab small stones out of my hand before I'll give them their dinner. I have pretended to quote the Kung Fu master for the last twenty years, giving my friends some of the worst advice ever given.

Kung Fu will always remind me of my first boyfriend Tom. It must have been our favorite show because we seemed to watch it a lot. There was once a picture of David Carradine holding a tarot card (the Fool, which is absolutely Kung Fu appropriate) in Rolling Stone magazine. That picture totally validated my obsession with mysticsm to Tom (Dr. Science), and elevated my status with him from crazy to kinda cool crazy. I really appreciated that. Even in dying, Carradine stayed in character. Somehow, I can picture Grasshopper hanging in a closet somewhere in Asia.

When I was a kid, my mother would sneak me out of bed after my sisters were asleep so I could sit with her and watch the Tonight show. While Johnny Carson was not warm and fuzzy, Ed McMahon certainly was. I didn't realize till years later that he actually wasn't a stuffed animal.

Ed may have been second banana to Johnny, but to me he was a role model for how to be a friend. If you are my friend, I will always laugh at your jokes, no matter how not funny they are, at worst just reminding you that no joke ever survived an autopsy. That loyalty is it's own reward, and that's what I learned from Ed.

Being a teenage girl in the seventies, I always have had mixed feelings about Farrah Fawcett. There she was, on that poster that defined beauty for the decade, with her good hair, bedazzling smile, blue eyes and perky little nipples. Then there was me, dark frizzy hair that would never feather no matter how hard I tried, hips I never could get rid of, and dark eyes that had no chance of ever being blue unless I was sad. Farrah was a really a horrendous role model for every teenage girl I knew, mostly because we would/could never achieve it.

But then, Farrah made this movie. I can't remember the title, but it was about this woman who gets attacked by this crazy, serial rapist/killer type in her own home. Just when you think you know that story line, she fights back, overpowers him, beats him senseless, stuffs him in a fireplace with a barred front made out of grating. Then, Farrah's character doesn't call the police, she tortures him all day first. That was the first woman empowered movies I had ever seen, and I fucking loved it! So, Farrah was a two sided sword to a whole generation of women.

Say what you will about Michael Jackson, but the Jackson 5 was the greatest boy band of all time. What Jonas Brothers song will ever stand the test of time like "I'll Be There"? As kids, my sisters and I would put on shows in our basement lip syncing to "ABC". My entire dating philosophy as a teen was based on "The Love You Save".

And then Michael grew up, after spending his entire childhood singing about grown up things, into a grown up who didn't understand that no amount of money, fame, or awards (Artist of the Century? Artist of the Millennium?) could ever bring his lost childhood back. He just never got it. Michael Jackson was an icon to mixed emotion, a man both revered and reviled, all at the same time.

That's a total of four deaths, which means one of two things. 1) the dying isn't over yet and the universe demands two more, or 2) some of you out there don't consider Ed or maybe David an important icon. Perhaps the combination of the two makes up for one Farrah or Michael to the universe. Let's go with option number two, it's my version of optimism. So there you have it.

1,000 Oceans

The PS22 Chorus is a public elementary school choir in New York. They've put out a lot of other songs since, but this one remains my favorite.

I solemnly swear, with Bill Gates as my witness, that if I have the nerve to post something of this nature on Paula Interrupted, it will always be worth the interruption. I hope you love it as much as I do.

She was a small, thick girl. She had vague brown hair, and vague brown eyes, and her hair was bobbed just above her shoulders. Because she voluteered her time teaching handicapped children how to swim, her lips were always painfully chapped. Not just for her, but for whomever hapened to be kissing her. She was the singer in a bland, 80's pop band that played for nothing at the local clubs.

Once, at a party, a woman slipped Patrick her number and begged him to call her. She cried real tears and said, voice cracking "don't say you're gonna call me, and not call me, please, promise me you'll call me". When Patrick was 22ish, he was still very romantic and very naive, and felt compelled to fulfill the promise, whether extracted by tears or not.

So, later that week, Patrick called her, as promised. She suggested that they go to pitcher night at a club where many of their friends also went. Everywhere they went, she clasped his hand, and repeated over and over "I can't believe I'm here with you, I can't believe it" as if she had won the dating lottory. When they first got to the club, patrick pulled up two chairs and sat in
one of them. Much to his surprise, she sat in the same chair.

3 and 1/2 Weeks

When Patrick was a young man, he still believed that if you made a promise, you had to keep it, no matter what. Perhaps that's why he's the only person I've ever met that was ever literally bullied into a relationship he had no interest in. It went beyond a pity date, it lasted 3 and 1/2 weeks.

When we were in our twenties, we met this girl named Odessa. She was a petite woman but had the thickness that comes from being a life long swimmer. What Patrick remembers most about her was that her hands and lips were always chapped because of all the time she had spent

in the water.

For the next six weeks, Odessa began one of the greatest campaigns to win someones affection ever. It was truelly impressive. Not only did she make her intentions clear to him, but also to any woman who came near him. Every he went, Odessa was there.

Finally, after a few months of relentless campaigning, Odessa slipped him her number at a party and begged him to call her. She cried real tears and said, voice cracking "don't say you're gonna call me, and not call me, please, promise me you'll call me". Patrick, in an effort to make her stop crying, promised to call her. He really took that promise to heart.

So, later that week, Patrick called Odessa. She suggested that they go to "pitcher night" at a bar. Everywhere they went that night, she would marvel at him. She clasped his hand, and repeated over and over "I can't believe I'm here with you, I can't believe it" as if she had won the lottery. This was her Cinderella moment.

When they first got to the club, Patrick pulled up two chairs and sat in one of them. Much to his surprise, she sat in the same chair. She looked like she was in heaven, and he looked like he was in hell.

It's still up for debate what turned Patrick off the most; the chapped skin, her taste in music , or her approach, but he just wasn't interested. She was the singer for a bland bar band that played bland 80's covers.

Georgia, 2008

Once, when I was a teenager, I was at my friends house, standing in the living room. Her grandmother walked into the room, looks at me, and says to my friend, in a deep southern accent, "When am I gonna get my Wandering Jew?". As I stood trying to think of the correct reply to that, and admitting to myself that I sort of resembled that statement, my friend says "There's a clipping for you in a glass on the kitchen sink." which made no sense what-so-ever. As i tried to decode this in my mind, I realized they were all looking above me. That's when I looked up and saw the hanging plant I was standing under. It was a Wandering Jew.

And so am I. My mother always said that there were three different money philosophies that people follow; people who spend their money on things like clothes and cars, people who spend their money on their home, and people who spend their money on travel. I am the latter, I am a wanderer.

Last summer, my cousin Ray, who lives in Florida, suggested we meet halfway between us. Halfway between us turned out to be Clayton, Georgia, which is a small town on the south side of the Great Smokey Mountains, right on the Tennessee border. Since our travel budget has been tight for the last several years, I have been favorable to car trips, and, so, agreed to her plan.

There was a part of this plan that made me more than uncomfortable. It was a nature trip, we would be staying in a cabin on the side of a creek, and going white water rafting. There would be fishing, cook outs, hiking and lots of other outdoor kind of stuff. This was going to be a boy vacation, and was dangerously close to actual camping, which is something I've always hated. After all the years struggling, why would I want to leave my air conditioned house to go sleep in the dirt? Camping is for rich people that want to experience poverty for a minute.

In spite of my misgivings, I told myself that it was time to leave my travel safety zone and go do boy stuff. We rented a car, paid extra for the GPS (don't leave home with out it), and off went the two J's and I, on a road trip.

Eight hours later, we arrived in Clayton at the little cabin by the creek. Ray and her son Bear were already there, and had coached us through the last 5 miles over the phone.

The cabin was adorable, with one bedroom on the first floor, and then a loft with two queen sized beds above. There was a deck over looking the babbling creek on the back of the house. To get down from the deck to the creek, where there was a fire pit and a small beach area, you had to go down a steep set of stairs. There was also a steep staircase that went from the living room to the loft.

Walking on steps, rocks, or unlevel ground is dangerous for me. My balance is incredibly bad since all my head surgeries, and I tend to fall alot. I'm famous for it. From the moment we got there, I was on high alert, watching every step I took. This made the white water rafting trip we went on the next day especially phobia-licious.

We woke up at some outrageous time in the morning and drove the half hour to the rafting place. They have this information session in the beginning, teaching you about life jackets, raft safety, and the more I hear the more I'm freaking out. I keep reminding myself that I'm doing this for the two J's, and did my best to hide my terror. The outing would last six to seven hours, and, oh yes, they were level five rapids. Fortunately, because of ignorance being bliss, I had no idea what that meant.

After hiking downhill five miles, carrying rafts above our heads, we finally reached the river. As we put the rafts into the water, with only nature surrounding us as far as the eye can see, the guide mentions that this is "the same river they filmed 'Deliverance' on". To what I was sure was the sound of dueling banjo's and squealing pigs, we began our million mile trip down river.

I thought I was going to die. As we went down a seven foot drop, I shoved my foot further into the raft and refused to fall out. We stopped for lunch, on a rocky bank. Then we stopped on another rocky bank to see a waterfall. Then we stopped on a rocky bank to climb the rocky bank. And then we would raft and stop on rocky banks for the next seven hours.

When finally we reached the end of the rapids from hell, we had to walk uphill for five miles, carrying the rafts over our heads, to a waiting bus. It was the most harrowing day of my life, but the two J's loved it and so I was proud of myself for doing it.

The next day, I was more tired than I had ever been in my life. I was sleeping soundly up in the loft, half way listening to the boys eating breakfast. Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the cabin door. The boys, alarmed that anyone would be knocking on the door in the woods at seven in the morning (and perhaps remembering the "Deliverance" thing) began yelling "someones at the door, someones at the door!" and I sat up in a panic.

Going down the loft steps, half asleep and physically exhausted, I let my guard down, and ran on auto pilot. Unfortunately, there was one errant loft step that was off to the left of the rest, and I missed it. As my left foot hit the hard wood floor, my ankle buckled. In an effort to save myself, I switched the weight to my right foot, and that ankle buckled in the opposite direction. It was the most incredible pain I've ever felt in my life. TO BE CONTINUED

The Graduation

If someone would have told me five years ago that Ken would be bringing a date to our child's elementary school graduation ceremony, I would not have believed them.

It was a very big week at work for me, so i hadn't made many plans for J's sixth grade graduation other than to be there on time. It was on a Wednesday evening in late May, a day which the boys are normally with their father. That made it easy for me to just show up, straight from work, after a challenging day of technical processes that just didn't work right. It was as if the mercury retrograde really did effect these things.

The graduation started promptly at 6:30 pm and I of course arrived at 6:35 pm. The problem with that isn't so much that you missed the beginning, it's that everyone is already seated and aware of your presence.

Once, me and Traci went down to the Taft Theatre to see Cats, and Roger Grooms, whom is a local media critic, was sitting in our third row, center, seats. As we stood in the aisle, trying to make him get out of our seats, the show started. If you've seen Cats, you know that it starts with the cats entering for all entrances in the theater, through the audience, to the stage. Therefore, Traci and I became part of the show, and the entire audience was acutely aware of our existence, and that's just ugly. I hate Roger Grooms.

Then there was the time during the Nutcracker at Music Hall that I had to get up in the middle of "The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies", muttering 'excuse me, excuse me' from our second row seats because if I held it any longer I was going to faint. I hate pre-show champagne. I could go on, but I think you get my phobia.

Anyqueenoftangent, I'm very sensitive about walking into anywhere late. As soon as I got into the gym, where the ceremony was held, I saw that there was nowhere to sit, neither in the bleachers or on the floor. Next, I noticed that Ken was sitting with one of the J's up in the bleachers, along with the live in girlfriend, her daughters, who are the same age as the two J's, along with Kens parents, and a woman that looked suspiciously like Ken's girlfriends mom (the mom being a part I may have created in my head). They were like the Brady Brunch, and there I was, old and worn out, with bad feet and nowhere to sit.

I tried to find a place to stand on the floor inconspicuously, and it just wasn't happening. It seemed like (granted, it may have all been in my head which is nine-tenths of reality as far as I'm concerned) their eyes were on me for the next hour. I felt like a bug in a pink skirt.

I was so self-conscious that when they called J's name I tried to hoot and holler for him, which is just what I do at these things, and it came out sounding just like the the scream that killed Howard Dean's run for the presidency. No, it was worse than Howard Dean, it was horrendous!

Then, I'm standing there, and I get to thinking about how J had just been in kindergarten yesterday and our hopes and dreams where all so different then, but then again, maybe they hadn't changed so much after all. These thoughts, so romantic and simple, are often not the best things for me to ponder at such events as this, and, oh lord, there came the tears, and after a minute, they were too many for my bare hands to absorb. I said "girl, you've got to breath". and pulled myself together.

Then it was over and the graduates came walking down the aisle in the center of the gym, right where I was standing. When J saw me, he lit up. I hugged him as long and as tight as you can an eleven year old boy in front of his peers.

I took his boudinar for my keep sake box, hugged him again, and told him that I was so proud of him, and that I was going to get out of there and let him be with his dad. Then, before I boo-hoo'd some more, I slipped out through a back door that couldn't have been placed in a more dramatically strategic location if I had planned it, into the night, and in my head I was Mildred Pearce.

Sometimes,things are so painful, I'm in awe of my ability to stomach it, and it almost knocks the wind out of me. Then I spend a week or two looking for the humor, and, damn, I always find it. So, there you have it.

Andy aka Movie Boy

Some of the most glamorous things that have happened in my life were when I was with my good friend Laura B. She worked as a scenic artist on the movie sets that began springing up in the Tri-State area in the mid-eighties.

One of the movies that filmed here was an exact remake of "Pretty in Pink" with all the same actors and what seemed like an identical script. It was called "Wild Horses" and filmed in Northern Kentucky, and in the Clifton area of Cincinnati. Both movies starred eighties movie princess Molly Ringwald and, shit, I'm having trouble remembering his name. He always reminded me of Perry Como without the singing...just the dull, no, not John Cryer...oh yeah, ......poo, let me google it.....got it! Andrew McCarthy, and my inability to remember his name pretty much sums up his screen presence.

Anythathurtmybrain, Laura would always take me as her date to work parties if she didn't have a boyfriend at the moment. This particular party was a pre-production party for "Wild Horses" at this restaurant in Northern Kentucky. We had a terrible time finding the place, because neither Laura nor myself knew nothing about no Northern Kentucky.

Since I was always in doubt of what to wear to these functions, I just always wore black. One of my few fashion tips: when in doubt, wear black. We arrived fashionably late, as we always did, not because we were fashionable, more like irresponsible.

When we got there, it was like another planet, Planet Hollywood actually. Lot's of beautiful people, including the stars of the movie. The only thing I remember about them was chatting with Anne Archer, who I don't think was even in the movie. For some reason, I got the impression that she was having a romantic affair with Perry, uh, I mean, Andrew.

Laura, with me in tow, headed straight for all the set technicians. They consisted of light people, scenic artists, set builders, and the like. It was actually a very cliquish group looking back on it. Most of them were dudes, and Laura introduced me to all of them as they sat around a table in a back corner. Last, but certainly not least, she introduced me to Andy.

Andy was from Chicago, living in town for the duration of the movie shoot. He was very friendly and I could tell he was interested in me, very interested. Unfortunately, I would rather die than be some out-of-town guys local squeeze, no matter how nice and handsome, so I pretty much ignored him. He spent the evening trying to impress me and win me over but didn't get very far.

A couple of days after the party, Laura called and said that Andy was still asking about me. It turns out that he doesn't just work for the set company, he owns it. He was Laura's boss, which makes no difference to the story, but I thought I would mention it. At any rate, she asked if she could give him my phone number. After getting three yes's and a no on my pre-acknowledge your existence dating quiz, (Do you have a job, Do you own a car?, Do you have your own place to live?, and, Are you married?) I agreed.

The next day, Andy started his campaign for my affection. He called and asked me to dinner. It actually turned out to be a great date. We went to Dee Felice, had dinner and listened to the jazz band. I ordered Jambalaya and remember being surprised by how spicy it was. Hanging out with Andy was really fun because he had great stories. He had worked with Paul Newman on "The Color of Money" and a bunch of other stuff that I can't remember. To this day, I still look for his name in movie credits under "construction coordinator".

At the time, I was living in Clifton in my little Mary Richards apartment, across the hall from Patrick. Andy would show up at my little ghetto apartment, and just looked so out of place in it. He was very wealthy, and wasn't used to such living conditions. It was summertime, and it was really hot, and my third floor walk up had no air conditioning. The TV had a hanger for an antennae, and you had to use a pair of pliers to change the channel. I loved every bit of it because it was all mine, bought, earned and delivered.

The other Laura, Laura C. had moved to Atlanta earlier in the year. She kept inviting me to visit and I could never afford to do it. I must of mentioned it to Andy, because the next time we were at dinner, he casually slid a thick wad of cash across the table. I, of course, was highly insulted.

After recovering from me almost slapping the shit out of him, Andy went on to explain that the money meant absolutely nothing to him, and so much more to me, why couldn't he give it to me. He said that his per Diem for the movie was more than I made in a week, and he wanted to be good to me. For the first time in my life, I said to myself "fuck this shit, I'm taking the cash". The next thing I knew, I was on my way to see Laura C. for a week.

When I got back, Andy was waiting for me. The movie was filming a scene at the bar down the street from my apartment. He wanted me to come and hang around, which I was weary of, because I felt like he wanted to parade me around for all his friends. So after much convincing, we went down to the bar, hung out in the movie trailers, where I drank way too much, mostly because I felt uncomfortable. We came back to my apartment, where Andy tucked me in, and left for the night.

The next morning, I had a hang-over like none I've ever had, except for the one I got in Cancun drinking too much tequila with Laura C. Once again, a whole other post. Anyway, on this particular early afternoon, I was sick as a dog. Afternoon turned in to evening and I was still sick. Andy called and wanted to go out, and I told him I was far too busy throwing up to do any such thing.

Two hours later, there was a knock at my door. When I opened the door, there was Andy with a dozen red roses, Gatorade, and a 32 inch color television. I still have the petals from the roses in a mason jar to this day. It was like I was dating the "Wheel-of-Fortune". He set up the new television, handed me the remote, and went into the kitchen and started making me chicken soup.

His gifts weren't just extravagant, they were also very thoughtful and sentimental. When I ruined my favorite pink sweater by spilling printer ink on it at work, a cashmere sweater would take it's place. At one point, after noticing I never wore much jewelry, he gave me an emerald and diamond necklace. I drew the line on that one, and wouldn't accept it, because I knew I didn't feel the same way about him that he felt about me. There would be other gifts I wouldn't accept, like a car because I didn't own one, and a better apartment.

At Christmas time, he gave me a silver key chain with a silver heart on it from Tiffany's. He had them engrave "always my love, Andy" on the back of the heart. I still suspect my ex-husband of throwing it away because, years later, my keys, that had been on the counter, mysteriously disappeared never to be seen again.

After we had been seeing each other for four or five months, the movie wrapped and Andy headed back to Chicago and on to the next movie. He still visited me on the weekends, either flying me there or him coming here. It's not that hard to live in different cities if you have money.

I know that he was very sincere, and probably would have changed my life completely, but here's the thing. Have you noticed that the entire post has been about material things as opposed to how much I loved him? Well, I noticed that too, and that really bothered me. I argued with myself that people love people for different reasons and theirs nothing wrong with that. Andy was a handsome, talented, smart and funny man, and I should have loved him. But I just didn't, who knows why? Maybe not having to struggle in life seemed like cheating to me.

Andy and I still chat with each other from time to time. I think he likes to check periodically to see if I've changed my mind. His birthday is in the middle of April, so he's on my mind this time of year, so it was a good time to tell you about him. Ahhh, April, taxes, cherry blossoms, and Andy.

The Baptism

I have a secret, one of those secrets that you can never tell my mother. It's a religious secret, and up till now, I've never told my family. The time has come to confess, which is very much in line with the secret.

My ex-husband, my babies daddy, is Catholic, and he was considered a little bit of a rebel when he married a Jew. He is the youngest son of six brothers and sisters, and his parents have been married for almost sixty years. I know this because I was at their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, along with Ken's 102 year old grandfather. How often does a father get to go to his son's fiftieth wedding party?

Anyoldasdirt, they are a huge, devout, go to mass on Sunday Catholic family. They are also a very close family, and socialize mostly with each other. They're part of the reason I married Ken, I loved his family, and wanted that relationship for my kids. I wanted that for me.

There's a certain amount of romance that accompanies the birth of your first child. Ken and I were thick as thieves, like two vagabonds that had been mistaken for responsible adults. We were two best friends going to boot camp, baby boot camp. Everything we did, including naming the baby, had to be a joint decision.

During this time of romantic democracy, we agreed that we would raise our children with the utmost sensitivity towards each others cultural backgrounds. Being Catholic and Jewish is a lot more alike than you would think, just opposite ends of the same spectrum. Both are as much cultures as they are religions.

For his family, that meant having the baby baptized. "Look at it this way," I rationalized to myself "if it turns out that the Christians were right, the baby would have his bases covered." What's not to love? So I went with Ken to "get your baby baptized" school at our local Catholic church, St. James of the Valley, which happens to be almost right next store to our local Jewish temple, Valley Temple.

It was an odd experience. We had to go to three one hour sessions, and it was like religious therapy. They wanted to know exactly what my commitment was to raising my children Catholic. Frankly, my commitment was very little, I just wanted to fit in with the in-laws. To this day I'm wondering if anyone has ever flunked and been denied. Would the Catholics allow the soul of an innocent baby to burn in hell just because his parents were a mess? Let's just say I did my best to say all the right things.

When the big Sunday arrived, the entire Ken dynasty met us at the church for the baby's big dip. He wore a beautiful little dress that every family member before him had worn. As we walked up to the alter, holding the baby, I prayed to God not to strike me dead or ever let my mother find out that I did this.

Unfortunately, the priest at the "get your baby baptized" school didn't tell me exactly what happens in a Baptism, and I was too ignorant to ask. We get up to the alter, and all I can think of is the Baptism scene at the end of "The Godfather".

The priest looks at me and says "What is it that you want for this child?", and I have no idea what the correct answer is.

So, I'm standing there, thinking, "What would Don Corleone say?" and I tell the priest "That he always be happy and healthy?" sort of more of a question than an answer.

The priest says "Well, while all that's very nice, how about a Baptism?" Like a deer frozen in headlights, still waiting for God's wrath for even agreeing to this in the first place, I manage to say "Why, yes, a baptism." Somehow, I got out of there alive.

By the time the second baby arrived, the romance was completely gone. I unilaterally named that baby, with no input from the peanut gallery. Then, I informed Ken that while I would be happy to attend a baptism, I couldn't possibly be the driving force behind it.

Needless to say, that second baby never did get baptized, because you can't expect a Jewish girl to make that happen for you twice. So there you have it, and please don't tell my mother.

Patrick and the Return of Velma

Myra

Since it's Mother's Day in just a few hours, I thought I would introduce you to my mother. Her name is Myra and she is the last of the fifties brides that went straight from their fathers house to their husbands. Her generation did not have apartments and careers. They got married.

She grew up in South Beach, Florida, where she lived with her parents and her sister, just off of Collins Avenue. When she was in high school, she loved a boy named Allen. Towards the end of their senior year, my grandfather AJ began asking what Allen's "intentions" where. Allen crumbled under the pressure, and ran away from my mother as fast as he could. Grandpa AJ had that same effect on all of us. We still wonder about Allen to this day and what could have been.

To escape her father, she moved to Chicago to live with her cousin. My mother's best friend, Binnie, had a brother named Larry. One day, my mother wandered into the brothers bedroom and he was on the top bunk listening to a record. My mother, who thought it was strange sounding music, asked my father "what's that music?", to which he replied "that's jazz", thus beggining a conversation that continued for the next twenty odd years. And that's how my mother met my father.

Once, when they were still dating, my father told my mother that he felt sad. It was a very rainy afternoon, and he thought they should go walk in the rain and just embrace the sadness. My mother, who is a beauty queen, melts in the rain, but agreed to go anyway, because that's love.

She was wearing a wig, which she had just washed the night before using just a dab of dish soup. As they walked in the rain, holding hands and being poetic, her wig began to bubble up. Soon, she had soap streaming everywhere and my father is looking at her like a science project. They start to laugh, but then the soap starts to run in her eyes and blind her, so my father pulls the wig off her head and they stand laughing hysterically in the rain.

In the next four years, my mother gave birth to three girls. Back in those days, before the epidural, women in labor were given sodium penathol for pain. Sodium penathol is a very strong narcotic known as "truth" serum. She had been in labor for many hours, and for the last few hours had been listening to the rhythm of the screaming of another woman giving birth down the hall.

At first the screaming was a bit of a curiosity to her, thinking "better her than me", while still feeling empathy. After about three hours, though, my mother couldn't stand listening to the woman screaming down the hall any longer and was beginning to resent her.

So, my mother finally says to the nurse "NURSE, CAN YOU PUH-LEASSSSE SHUT THAT WOMAN UP?!!"

To which the nurse replied "But Mrs. Rosenberg, that's you".

At the height of her career outside of the home, she was working in the basket room at a local gym. People would come in to work out, change in the locker room, put their belongings in a basket, and check the basket at the counter. My mother was the "basket lady".

My sisters and I spent a lot of time after school at the gym, waiting for our mother to get off work. It was a great job for her because it came with facilities that served as after school care for us. When I was around 8, I would hang around the basket room with my mother and listen to all the conversations she had with people checking in and out. It was how I first became a conversational voyeur, I loved listening to people confide in my mother, asking her advice about their lives.

It was the first time that it ever occurred to me that she had a name other than "mom" or "honey", and I liked that. She seemed like a Myra. When I asked her if I could call her Myra, she thought it was funny. Nothing made me happier than making my mother laugh. From that day on, I've called her Myra and it stills cracks her up.

My mother was a widow at 36, living in a strange city with no family, with three little girls to raise. She didn't do everything as well as I wish she had, but I never doubted her love. When I was a kid, she told me if I ever ran away, I had to take her with me. We said we would go to Switzerland, and eat choclate covered almonds for dinner, and never come back. Hey, it's never too late.

When Trisha Turned Thirty

Trisha and I were born almost exactly one year apart, we're both Libra's. When she turned 30, she and the Boss where already living in Southern California in what I liked to refer to as "Club Trisha".

The first time I visited, the Boss opened the blinds on the back of the house with a flourish. There, along with special mood lighting, was their swimming pool, along with a custom built water fall, and built-in jacuzzi. The house was built for entertaining, and I like being entertained. It was perfect for me.

But I digress, this is about when Trisha turned 30 and we took the most amazing birthday trip, just she and me. We had agreed as teenagers that we would be together on our 30th birthdays no matter where we were in life. We kept that promise. Actually, it was more of an odyssey than a vacation.

When I first got there, we hung out at Club Trisha for a few days and chilled. Then, it was time to hit the road to Vegas. The Boss stayed home with the kids for the first time in his or their life, and we headed west on the 115 in a brand new Lexus sports car.

So, there we are, going 90 miles an hour in the middle of the desert, windows down, hair blowing, radio blaring some Cement Blond song that I can't remember. We must have been such a sight. Unfortunately, red sport cars are pulled over more than any other car on the road.

Our bliss scratched to a stop like a needle on a vinyl record, when Trisha glanced up into the rear view mirror, and saw with horror, the flashing of police lights. We both said "shit" simultaneously, and Trisha pulled off the highway. We sat in the car and waited for the Nevada State Trooper to walk, more like swagger, to the Lexus.

I must tell you, this guy was super hot. We watch him stroll up to the car in our side-view mirrors, black leather gloves, tight outfit. When he finally gets there, he leans into the driver side window, one arm up on the window frame, and the entire car fills with the smell of testosterone. Not some bad cologne, no cologne, just testosterone. He's smiles at Trisha, with beautiful teeth, and says "I've been chasing you two for ninety miles now." I can't remember if he wrote her a speeding ticket, or not, but I do remember him hitting on her so I'd prefer to believe he didn't write the ticket.

After telling the officer that "yes, she was married" and "no, she wasn't interested" we were off on our way. Trisha had booked a room for us at the Flamingo Hilton, and since that's where we always stayed, I just assumed that's where everybody stayed. That place, until the second part of our trip, was the fanciest hotel (and I love hotels) I ever stayed at.

I don't remember too much more about that leg of the birthday tour. If you've been to Vegas a lot, it all starts to run together. But, I do remember Trisha letting me drive the Lexus through the desert on the way home. I can't even come up with a metaphor for what that felt like.

We went back to Club Trisha, and hung around for a few days. Swam with the kids, cooked in the gourmet kitchen, oh my God, I'm so shallow! Is it bad that I loved her good fortune? It was just so different from anything either one of us had ever experienced.

Next on the "When Trisha Turned 30" west coast tour, was Northern California. Our friend Jimmy had been living there for several years and we decided we would go visit him. Once again, we stayed at The Hilton, (have I mentioned I love hotels?). This one was located right in the heart of downtown San Francisco.

When you first walked into the lobby, which can only be described as just big and fat, there were live flowers in ginormous arrangements like never I had seen before. I went to smell the flowers, they where some kind of Lilly, and the yellow Lilly dust stained my nose yellow. Trisha and Jimmy thought this was hilarious. Pooh Bear goes to the City.

Our room was on the 20,000 floor (I'm guesstimating), and had a balcony. When we opened the drapes, it was night time, and there was a full moon. You could see the silhouette of that famous insurance company building, with the full moon behind it. It was one of the most amazing sights I've ever seen.

Trisha decided we needed to test our mortality, and suggested we go sky diving. She's so existential sometimes. I, on the other hand, not so much. We agreed on a compromise, we would go hot air ballooning instead. At first I gave her a hard time about it, we had to get up at 4:30 in the morning and I hate that shit. Then I got back with the program, and Trisha made the arrangements.

What comes before the crack of dawn? The dark before the dawn, I suppose, and I know this because that's when we got up. We had to get from San Francisco to the Sonoma Valley by 5:30 and it was about an hours drive. Off into the darkness we drove, me whining the entire way.

In my usual way, I didn't ask many details beforehand. It turned out to be a 2 hour balloon ride over the Sonoma and Napa Valleys. Then, when you landed on the other side, there was a champagne brunch! Our basket consisted of Trisha and me, a couple of couple's, and what I remember as a lot of guys. One of these guys said to me "Hey, look down there, it's black deer!" It was really a cow, and I sounded like Jessica Simpson because I believed him and commented on how cute black deer were. Who the hell gets to do that? It was one of the best days of my life.

The next day, we walked from our hotel to Fishermans Wharf. We walked, and walked for blocks and blocks. Along the way, we stopped to have coffee at a sidewalk cafe and I saw a tattoo shop. I was just starting to date Ken, and knew that things were getting ready to change forever. So I got this tattoo, and, no, it wasn't for Ken.

It's on my right shoulder blade and is the pegasus from "Fantasia" and he looks like he is about to fly over my shoulder. It was a tribute to an old, most-favored boyfriend that I had loved in my twenties, who's ghost I was ready to put behind me. He always loved "Fantasia" and I'm a lover of tributes. I'm a sentimental fool.

When we finally got to Fishermans Wharf, Trisha and I bought matching bracelets. The next day, we flew back to LA, and from there, I flew back east. It was one hell of a time. Thanks Trish. xxxooo

Dhyanna

The first conversation I ever had with Dhyanna was in the bathroom of the bar I was working at. When I first went in, she was sitting cross-legged on the sink vanity, smoking what appeared to be a very large joint. As I waited for the next available stall, she handed me the joint as if we were in the middle of a conversation. Two things came out of that chance encounter: I made a new friend whom I would create much debauchery and havoc with for the next several years, and I learned that a really big joint is called a spliff (sp?).

Dhyanna, while all of 5 foot nothing and weighing in at less than a buck wet, was like a force of nature. If I close my eyes, I can still smell her, clove cigarettes and patchouli oil. Her hair was red and baby fine, and her eyes sparkled when she was pleased. She dressed in mostly dark clothing, and lots of layers. Sometimes, she looked like a bag lady, a really beautiful bag lady.

She didn't show it, but Dhyanna had had a difficult life. When she was a little girl, like maybe 8 or 9, her mother was diagnosed with bowel cancer, a particularly painful and ugly form of cancer. Her mother died roughly a year after first being diagnosed. A child losing their mother is as cruel as fate can be.

When Dhyanna was a teenager, she was diagnosed with the exact same kind of cancer that she had watched her mother die from. By then, the colostomy had been perfected and her life was spared. Still, she lived the rest of her life with a bag connected to her side, something which very few people knew about her.

Her response to all this was wild abandon, she lived on the edge, with everything she did a blur of colored flourish. If she was angry, she was known to break dishes. If she was happy, she was known to dance on the bar. When she partied, it was known to go on for days. When she broke up with a man, it was always a magnificent show. I was more than happy to go along for the ride.

As a rule, I have no use for people who seem to have made it through life unscathed. They are the least interesting of all. It's the souls that have been to hell and back that can teach you the most and take you out of your comfort zone. That's why she was such a great friend for me,
fear was always a huge theme in my life, and she would rip me from it, and make me dance on the bar with her. Dhyanna was the Pied Piper of mayhem.

When we first met, Dyhanna was living in the strange building on Main and Liberty that I mentioned in an earlier post, and I was back living with my mother. Her apartment was bohemian chic, and needless to say, I began spending most of my time there.

This is the neighborhood that coined the phrase "racial diversity". A lot of the residents were left over from a great Appalachian exodus, others arriving from an exodus from the south. It was urban living in it's truest form, and being the urban Jew that I am, I knew I had found my planet.

That first visit, I remember helping here peel contact paper off of her kitchen table. It was the perfect activity as far as I was concerned, because it was just like picking and I like to pick. (ewwww, I know). So, there we sat, peeling the table, chatting, smoking and drinking. Eventually, her boyfriend Jimmy came home and joined us. You have no idea how bonding neurotic behavior, like the love of picking, can be.

We would go to this strange little store across Main Street for beer. Everything in the store was behind chicken wire. You had to point to what you wanted and the clerk would have to get it off the shelf for you. What I remember the most about this Mom and Pop operation were all the hand written signs posted all over the store. Each had a message that was phonetically spelled, like "Bee good", "Dont Steele", and "Wate yur turn". You can't pay for that kind of cultural entertainment.

At the time, Main Street was occupied by low income families and punk rockers. Every friend I ever had that you would classify as "punk" were really just artists. Personally, I haven't changed my hair since the second grade. The whole atmosphere was actually more salon like (think Gertrude Stein or Dorothy Parker) than thrash like. It was like Paris in A Movable Feast, poor but rich.

The rent was incredibly low, and the apartments huge with character. It was oddly safe to live there because, against common perception, it's the wealthy neighborhoods that have crime, mostly because there is more to steal in suburbia. None of us had anything that wasn't already second hand. Good Will was our fashion mecca, the Salvation Army our Clossen's.

Eventually, Dhyanna moved away. She had a baby boy, and wanted to live near her sister somewhere in the Ozarks. In my head, I can see her sitting on a porch somewhere in the mountains, watching her herb garden grow.

The Two Laura's

Long before it's most recent regentrification, Over-the-Rhine in downtown Cincinnati is where most of my friends lived. It all started when my friend Dhyanna moved into an apartment building at the corner of Liberty and Main, which is there to this day.

I met Dhyanna when I was working the door at a now defunct bar called JR's in Clifton, checking ID's and taking money. My friend Kevin was the bartender/entertainment booker, and hired me on the weekends. Working there changed the face of my social life completely, it's where I first met Patrick as well. I was living on the corner of Jefferson and Nixon at the time, so I could drink on the job and walk home if I had to, which I almost never did.

The apartments on Liberty and Main had strange configurations, with what is known as a "Dutch split". This means the kitchen and bathroom were across a common hall from the living room and bedroom. That meant you had to leave your apartment, go into the public hall, and back into your apartment to get to the other side. (Why did the punk rocker cross the hall? Because he was safety pinned to the chicken who crossed it to get to the other side to use the bathroom).

The building, which was probably over a 100 years old even back then, was actually made up of two buildings connected by catwalks. Hidden behind the front gate was a court yard that both buildings shared.

Dhyanna lived on the third floor. Laura C. lived on the floor below, with Tamara living in the building across the catwalk with her boyfriend Bill. Our friend Jimmy lived next to Dyanna, and then their were these guys that lived somewhere in there as well. Most of them were artists and musicians, at the very least appreciators of these things. That's the role I fell into, and may have been considered by some to be a muse.

The first time I met Laura C. was while we were both at my friend Derricks. Derrick owned a small shop on Main Street that sold African American art, and it got broken into like five thousand times till he finally gave up. He lived in a courtyard apartment and had hung chinese lanterns all over.

We were sitting in the courtyard, in the summertime, drinking espresso from tiny little cups with little gold spoons. Not being the sophisticate at the time, I had no idea what a ton of espresso in little cups could do to you. Laura C. and I ended up sitting all night talking talking talking, smoking, smoking, smoking, talking, talking, talking, well, you get the idea.

Laura C. could do a lot of things really well. She knew all about music, and cooking, and world travel, and literature, and art. She was so brilliant that I got an instant girl crush on her. Maybe I should define a girl crush. A girl crush is not a sex thing, it's meeting someone that you just admire everything about, and I wanted to be just like her. Laura C. and I were way too busy chasing men to chase each other.

Laura C., along the way, introduced me to Laura B., who lived over on Court Street over a dry goods store front. Eventually, both Dhyanna and Laura C. moved next door to Laura B. on Court Street. They lived in these apartments that were huge and the rent was like forty dollars a month, no exaggeration. Instead of going into the front, where the stores were, you had to go to a back alley where the entry to the above apartments were.

Laura B. became one of my dearest friends. She is the most profoundly talented person I've ever personally known. Most of the really great pieces in my house are Laura B.'s creations. She was in the artist's union, and was a scenic artist, first for the Cincinnati Ballet, and then for the movie business. She always went to the best opening night parties, post production parties, just really great stuff that you wouldn't expect to find in Cincinnati. Whenever she didn't have a date, I got to go with. A post all in its own.

Laura B. and Laura C. have already come up in a few posts so I wanted to introduce them to you. Laura B. was with me when I met Carlos aka New York Boy, and spent that incredible night in Manhattan with me. Laura C. showed up in a post but with an alias.

During my married time, I lost track of both of them. I keep an eye out for them on Facebook and Myspace but can't find either of them. If you see them, could you tell them to call Paula? They'll know who I am.

Zen and the Art of Self Awareness

For the last week or so, I have been having what can only be described as an out-of-body experience. This is bigger than an epiphany, more like ten epiphanies at once.

I am not what anyone would call self aware, if I was, all of this wouldn't have shocked me. It's no accident, my total lack of self awareness, it's something I've worked on my entire life. To me, self awareness is almost a luxury, a self indulgence I can't afford. I've lived the kind of life where you learn to pick yourself up by the boot straps, suck up whatever the emotional soup Du jour happens to be at that moment, and move on.

Trisha has always said that "you can't go around things, you have to go through them", and it's always bummed me out every time she's said it because I know it's true. But I hate that shit, you have no idea how much I hate self reflection. Let me say that one more time, damn I hate that shit.

So, listen to this story. On this blog, I am lucky enough to have people that actually follow my adventures. This is different than just reading it, to follow it you have to actually set up an account, which in my short attention world is a real commitment. I appreciate my ten followers because they are my audience, and they are to whom I am speaking. Without knowing they were there, I probably would stop writing.

I used to have eleven followers but I recently lost one. The profile name was Noam Dplume, which to me was just a profile name and I didn't really read much further into what it meant. I don't know who half my followers are, so I just try to be myself, and hope I don't offend anyone with my base, twelve year old humor.

About a month-ish ago, I posted a rant on middle managers, which was fairly mean spirited. Soon after that, I lost Noam Dplume as a follower, and felt really bad about it. Ironically, it wasn't the face sitting or booger stories that finally ran a follower away, it was a middle manager rant.

It surprised me so much, that I went looking for Noam Dplume. All the profile description said was that she/he lived in the midwest and was born in 1942. So, now, in my head, I was sure that this was an older guy in his sixties who had spent his life being a middle manager, and I felt horrible about it. It became my personal mission to reach out in reconciliation to this poor guy.

The only thing else on her/his profile was that they were writing their own blog. It was called some Latin mumbo jumbo that I didn't know what it meant, and it had a picture of a flower. Once again, I read absolutely nothing into what the Latin might mean...details, details. The story was about this guys first love, of which I read the first two paragraphs, and, having the attention span of an eight year old on crack cocaine, moved on to my next thought.

(I'd like to state that having attention deficit doesn't mean I'm the one with the disability, it just means that everyone who doesn't have it is really fucking slow and I can fit entirely new topics into a conversation while I'm waiting for you to form your first sentence, kinda like I just did.)

My next thought was that the poor middle manager who was writing what could almost be described as a love letter to a woman he once loved, and she never showed up to read it. This made me even sadder, and I felt an even stronger connection to my once ago follower. To make it up to him, I became his first follower, thinking that this silent gesture would let him know that I, for one, had noticed his presence and his absence, even if no one else did.

That was about a month ago, and Noam Dplume never came back. I never read any more of the blog because of that attention span issue I have. Plus, I generally do not give much thought time to things after my initial impression. I like to go through life with no real facts, just vague impressions, things are so much more pleasant that way.

I had recently, by chance, ran into my old friend Zen, who has always loved talking to me in riddles, perhaps because he knows how shallow I really am. He's always driven me crazy, always talking in riddles, when I prefer that he'd just get to the point. I had noticed that for the last few weeks, Zen, whom I almost never heard from, or for that matter, really even thought of, was becoming more cryptic in his conversations with me than ever. I could tell he was becoming annoyed with me and my inability to understand him.

Finally, one day, Zen says to me "How about that Noam Dplume?"

"What do you know about Noam Dplume?" I asked him, "What does Noam Dplume mean anyway"

To which Zen replied "That's what online dictionaries are for"

So typical, make me go Google it for myself instead of just telling me the answer. It turns out, and perhaps you already knew this, that "Noam Dplume" means "no pen name", the writer is anonymous.

So, I say to Zen "Well, maybe I didn't know that fancy name, but I still knew it was anonymous",

"But what do you make of the Latin around the flower" he asks me.

Now I'm starting to freak out, the out of body experience has begun, and Zen knows it. How does he know about the Latin?

"I have not idea what the Latin means, and it's too much work to type it into Google, so I'm going to live without ever knowing" I tell him.

He laughs at me like I'm his student and says "Did you always love the story of the Scarlett Pimpernel?" I always did, it was true.

After much ado, Zen explains that the picture is of a scarlet pimpernel, which is what the Latin means. A Scarlett Pimpernel is a flower that closes up when bad weather is approaching. The Scarlett Pimpernel is the name of a romantic story, where this average aristocrat is meek and effeminate by day, but at night becomes the Scarlett Pimpernel, rescuer of damsels in distress, who love him by night but do not recognize him by day.

Ok, fine, so somehow Zen is following the same blog, maybe he saw the follower on my blog, of which Zen has been known to read from time to time. Then he asks me my opinion of the story, and isn't it strangely familiar, which, of course, I haven't actually read. So I mutter something about how it's about some guys first love, named Cola (hated the name, may be why I stopped reading), who was once the guys babysitter."

"Babysitter? What the fuck are you reading?" Zen says, and I realize that he really has read it and knows that I'm making this up. Apparently, there was no babysitter, and I have to confess that I never actually read anything that's not summed up in the first two paragraphs.

I put Zen on hold, and run to read the "The Story of Cola, My First Love" which by now is up to several chapters.

I couldn't believe what I was reading. Though thinly veiled, it was our story and I was Cola! Zen was telling the story of our love affair and it was so beautiful it made me cry. I'd forgotten all the things we shared, and had just moved on when it was over because it was too painful for me to reflect on.

Since reading it, I have realized so many things that I just never knew. It was almost as if Zen dragged me kicking and screaming to reflect on what was a really important part of my life. That Zen, he made me go through it instead of around it, without me even knowing where I was going! Damn that Zen and his riddles, he got me again.

Someday, when he is ready to share our story, Zen will leave the address to his blog for you. Until then, it belongs to he and me, and it was amazing.

When Trisha Got Married

Trisha was the very first close friend I had to get married. She dated her husband for a couple of years, he was ten years older than us, very grown-up, and very much her polar opposite. He was very responsible, made good money, and loved Trisha desperately. He went about winning her over with every ounce of the salesman he was, and he was a great salesman.

I, of course, hated him instantly. Both Trisha and I were raised in matriarcle households, and I didn't know nothing about no alpha male. Eventually, the Boss won me over, but I had to have been the most belligerent, cranky-ass maid-of-honor any poor bride ever got stuck with. Trisha was also my matron-of-honor when I got married years later, and she was so wonderful to me, which was punishment enough for my earlier behavior. Damn, I'm pissed at myself to this day about being such a shitty maid-of-honor.......more like maid-of-horror.

Anyimabitch, Trisha marrying the Boss changed both of our lives. It introduced us both to what we thought was how normal people lived. The Boss had a big grown up job at a very well known company and was very successful. Eventually, he started his own distribution company and became extremely wealthy. One of the fun things about him was that he liked to spend his money keeping up with the Jones's, and that shit was too fun. I liked it...there, I said it!

Soon after they married, Trisha and the Boss moved to Atlanta. It was the first of two moves around the country that Trisha never returned from, except for the occasional visit. But in true-blue Trisha fashion, she would send for me no matter where she lived, and I would always go.

When Trisha and I get together, we hang around. Neither one of us were really raised to be domestic and neither one of us were particularly motivated when it came to house chores, nor were we very particular. The Boss, on the other hand, was a neat freak, wanted things done just so, and God forbid they ever ran out of paper towels. Everything was always fully stocked and in its place.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not criticizing. In many ways, Trisha and I needed adult supervision. He had a way of keeping us on the straight and narrow. We were not the most structured of girls. Like I mentioned earlier, Trisha and the Boss were polar opposites.

As the years went by, they became wealthier and wealthier. It was were I learned the concept of "when one of us do well, we all do well". Trisha is extremely low maintenance, and I think she always felt secretly guilty about having so much money.

She is not a shopper, not into clothes, doesn't care that much about "stuff". What Trisha did love doing was giving away the Boss's money. Not spending it, giving it away. If times were tight for me, she'd pay my rent. She loaned me the down payment for my first car. I have sat with Trisha and watched her write check after check to ALOT of charities. She wrote those checks once a month, every month. The Boss and Trisha took me to swanky places, on vacations, and were so good to me, it was like I had married well. Trisha, even before her good fortune, was always giving and generous and now she really had the tools to work with. If her family ever wondered why I always tried to be so good to them, it was because Trisha was always so good to me. You play it forward.

The Boss was often frustrated with us. There was what I like to refer to as "The Hamburger Incident of 1985". They were living in Atlanta at the time, and had two small children. The Boss traveled a lot, and Trisha was left to take care of the babies. I was in town visiting, and as soon as the Boss hit the runway, we hit the chill mode.

Before he got back, we went to the grocery store, which was a huge endeavor because the Boss liked to buy in bulk. Trisha bought this huge mega lump of hamburger, which would be dived into smaller sections once we got it home.

When the Boss got back from his business trip, everything seemed cool. We never got around to breaking up the hunka hunka hamburger, so it remained in the fridge. Everyday, the Boss would ask if we had done the hamburger. Everyday, we forgot. Finally, on the third day, we hid it in the freezer. When the Boss discovered it there, HE WAS SO PISSED! I, of course, was mesmerized, because we had done much worse things and he never got that pissed.

Eventually, they moved out to the land of fruits and nuts. Yes, they went west, where Trisha still lives today. She's no longer married to the Boss, and I'm no longer married to mine. Looking back on it, though, those were some great adventures that we would never have had, had Trisha not married the Boss.

The Kids from the Old Neighborhood

Tami and I grew up in a neighborhood named Roselawn, where we attended Roselawn Elementary. As I mentioned in an earlier post, we met on the first day of kindergarten and enjoyed many a snack time together. It's where I got my very first brain freeze, drinking the milk from the red and white mini carton too quick, and thought my eyes were gonna pop out of my head like that slick wolf's cartoon character in the in the zoot suit does whenever he see's a hot bitch. Ahhh, those were the glory days at Cincinnati Public, back when they still refrigerated the perishables.

Along the way, I met the group of friends that I'm still hanging out with 40 years later. After Tami, I met Traci, the third of my three T's. We would have met Traci in kindergarten, except for she was still home in diapers because she's two years younger than us.

Traci is the friend whose life has most paralleled mine as far as timing goes. We were lucky enough to have our children around the same time, and went through all that together. We once quit smoking at the same time without knowing the other was doing it. While Traci still doesn't smoke to this day, I started again after 12 years of not smoking. Sorry, I'm weak. So shoot me.

Anypuffpuff, after we met Traci, next came Jimmy. After Jimmy, we met Dean. After Dean, we met Patrick. After Patrick, we met Cathy. And that completed the core group we would travel through time with.

Jimmy, who moved to San Francisco years ago, was in town for Easter this year. Traci hosted a party for him at her house, and we were all there. So, I got to looking around the room

Trisha Delisha

As I mentioned in an earlier post, when it comes to girlfriends, I have what I consider to be the three greatest loves of my life; Tami, Traci, and Trisha. It's important that I introduce you to all three, because they come up in my stories a lot. This post is about Trisha.

The first time I saw Trisha was outside of the entry way to our high school. There was this huge building maintenance mechanical metal thing, which to this day I have no idea what the hell it was, but it sat in our presence, on a huge block of cement, watching over us like a griffin. Trisha was sitting there by herself, one leg crossed over the other, observing the chaos around her.

I can still see her like it was yesterday; she was wearing a light blue t-shirt with little cap sleeves, bell bottom jeans that were a little on the long side, and brown suede shoes. She had long curly hair, which she kept in a tight ponytail behind her ears, in an attempt to tame what was one of her greatest assets. Trisha is unusually beautiful, and when she was young, she worked at downplaying that beauty. Her eyes were always so blue, sometimes I thought they were violet, and it was the depth of her soul that created that illusion.

Trisha is the oldest of three children, and always had a ton of responsibility. Her mother raised them by herself, and worked really hard. A lot of the day-to-day stuff, like driving kids to school, making sure everybody was accounted for after school, grocery shopping, etc., fell to Trisha. She never complained not once, to this day. But I noticed, and it made her very serious at a very young age.

Have I mentioned how brilliant Trisha is? I'm talking card carrying Mensa member. She always tried to get me to take the Mensa test because she always assumed I was as smart as her. This is not the case. It was another shining part of Trisha that got downplayed. To this day, I would bet their are people who know her well that have no idea that she was the Valedictorian of her graduating class.

Someone who did recognize her brilliance was our school principle. He always had all these Trisha schemes, and I was always first in line behind her because I was her number one believer. This school principle, who is an entire post all in himself, had Trisha spear-heading all kinds of political endeavors.

One scheme involved Trisha's leadership in protesting the discrimination of students in Clifton because store owners wouldn't let us in more than two at a time. Off the class went, to testify at a full city council meeting, media and all. Jerry Springer was the mayor of Cincinnati at the time, and the whole thing was very official. The entire class freaked at the last moment, and no one would get up to testify. So there I was, not even part of the class, just there hanging out with Trish, and she volunteers me. Considering that I would jump off a cliff if Trish asked me (mostly because I know she never would, unless there was a crazed mob behind us) this seemed like a reasonable request. So, I walk up to the podium with all my 15 years of life experience behind me, nod my head in greeting to all the officials and say "Congressman". The whole room starts laughing and Jerry says "Yeah, we wish".

My second favorite is when the school principal convinced Trisha to run for the Cincinnati Public School Board, thereby making her the first actual student to ever sit on the board. In theory, a great concept. She went to be interviewed at the Enquirer newspaper, had a photo taken, I know this because, as usual, I was hanging around. It really was a big deal. Unfortunately, the school principal, after the initial hoopla, kinda disappeared and didn't help like he should have. The worst part of running for office is the damn signatures, you have to have a gazillion of them to even get on the ballet. We spent hours and hours collecting signatures at grocery stores and in the end, it was just too much. We just didn't have the grown up support. Trisha always blamed herself, while I always blamed the school principle, whom I've disliked ever since.

That was always an ongoing theme with Trisha: getting grownup responsibilities dumped on her when she just should of got to be a kid. I knew she was really sad because her compassion and intellect were so overwhelming. Maybe I was the only one who knew it. I always wanted to be the doberman to her angel, and support and protect her, because she deserved me.

Trisha and I have had many adventures together, and will remain close forever. Her sense of what is right and her generosity have much to do with the person I am today. Today, she is living out west, and married to a wonderful man, and so deserves every ounce of happiness that ever comes her way. I know she still worries deeply about the state of humanity, and hope she never let's it take away from what she has in the moment.

God bless my Trisha, keep her well, keep her happy, and, most of all, let her feel the optimism that should accompany a life so well lived. When I grow up, I want to be just like her.