Da Goddess

In an unprecedented move, I’m using this week’s PROMPT to further last week’s story. Except I’m going in reverse. Sort of.

It’s all part of devious plan, I can assure you. Really. She made me do it.

—

It wasn’t just a trip to a foreign country. To her it was much more than that. Something about Kenya had been calling to her for a very long time. She didn’t know what it was, but she felt it deep in her heart. Her parents had tried to talk her out of going. Her sisters had tried, too. Even her brother begged her not to go. “You don’t know what could happen there. There are wild animals; snakes! Dangers of all sorts,” he cried. She was his favorite sister, after all. “You could encounter strange people who’ll hurt you!”

But go she did. And she felt a thrill course through her as she boarded the plane that would take her on the last leg of the trip, from Europe to Africa, where she was going to help in a medical clinic for two months, followed by a wildlife study for another two. It was all part of her Earthwatch adventure she’d been planning for the last six years.

She got comfortable in her seat by the window, not wanting to miss a single moment. She wanted to see everything she could see. Of course, so focused was she that she didn’t notice the man who took the seat next to her for quite some time. When she did turn and actually saw him, she gasped audibly. There was something about him that said, “Hi, I’m here to change your life.”

He must have heard her gasp because he turned to look at her. Offering his tanned hand, he introduced himself, “I’m Barry. Looks like we’re going to be flight mates for the next several hours. And you are?”

Jen was sure she was blushing nine ways to Sunday, but she somehow managed to reach out and take his hand, giving her name, and quite possibly babbling something terribly inane that she couldn’t remember to save her life. He didn’t seem to notice or mind. His eyes were locked on hers and they were both so caught up in the moment that it took the flight attendant several “ahems” to get their attention.

“I’m afraid it’s time for you to buckle up. We will be departing soon. I will return shortly to get your drink orders. Champagne, perhaps? It does look like a celebration is in order for you two.”

Jen and Barry laughed and protested, “no, no.” All the while the attendant smiled a brilliant white grin and said, “yes, I do believe there is a celebration about to begin.” With that, the attendant walked away.

“Wow! She’s gorgeous!” Jen declared. “She’s exactly what I would expect to see once I land in Mombasa.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” her new friend observed.

“Oh, thank you, um…thanks,” she giggled, blushing even more. “You…you’re…y…”

“What takes you to Mombasa?” Barry interrupted. “Work? Adventure? Romance?” There was a bit of twinkle in his eye as he uttered the last word.

“Uh, it’s, um…I’m going on an extended working vacation. No romance! I mean, no romance. And you? I mean, why are you going to Kenya?”

“Pretty much the same thing for me. Except now I think I may have to work romance into the itinerary.”

“O-oh?” Jen was flustered at this point and rather tongue tied. She was never very good at flirting and could never figure out how to respond when someone was flirting with her. However, her inability to think or speak when confronted with flirtation seemed even worse now as she sat next to this man. He was breathtakingly handsome. Model quality, really. And he was flirting with her!

The airplane started rolling down the runway, picking up speed, just like Jen’s heartbeat as she felt the warmth of Barry’s gaze upon her. She ducked her head a bit and looked out the window, hoping for distraction and some sense of social graces that would enable her to act like a human being in front of this modern day Adonis.

With a big swoop, the plane was lifted into the air. She turned to look at her new friend. He was smiling directly at her as he reached over once again and took her hand, raising his eyebrow and attempting a little boy face, “I hope you don’t mind. I get a little nervous when I fly.”

“No problem. No problem at all.”

Something about Kenya had been calling to her for a very long time. She didn’t know what it was, but she felt it deep in her heart. Was this it?

Or the end of the beginning. Either way, week’s PROMPT is a doozy!

The only direction we’ve been given is as follows:

She lifted the smudged glass to her lips, stopped mid-raise with that familiar lopsided smile and whispered, “This is the last you’ll see of me.”

And now, because I happen to have some crazy wild imagination, here is my take on that fun start.

—–

She lifted the smudged glass to her lips, stopped mid-raise with that familiar lopsided smile and whispered, “This is the last you’ll see of me.”

He looked at her, not believing a single word she said. He thought that smile was a little too playful, a little too sexy. So he leaned over to give her a kiss, stopping just short of her mouth when he saw the look in her eye. Nothing in her eyes said playful or sexy and, suddenly, he felt the icy fingers of panic rise within him.

“You don’t mean that, Jen,” he said. “I know you love me. I know you do. Why else would you keep coming back here? I know you love me. I KNOW it! It’s written all over every look you’ve ever given me. The way you touch me. The way…”

“Barry, it’s not as simple as all that. It’s about so much more than love,” she said. “I do love you. There’s absolutely no question about that. The thing is, I’m always… It’s never… There’s more to it than love. That’s all.” She shook her head and turned away. She couldn’t look at him any longer or she’d lose her resolve.

“Babe, please…don’t be like this. I want you to be happy and I don’t think this is going to make you happy,” he tried.

Just then, she felt the tears well up and she cursed him silently for knowing this most definitely wasn’t making her happy. Jen turned away and pretended to be looking for something in her purse. She knew he was watching. Damn him!

Finally, she turned back, not caring if he saw her crying. “It may not be making me happy, but it’s better this way. I just don’t see how this could turn out any other way. I’ve been waiting…I’ve been…waiting…for a couple years for some indication that you…that I…that…we were making some sort of progress. That we were going to move forward somehow. Instead, all I see is us in this holding pattern. Nothing’s changed. Oh, sure. Yeah, we’ve made individual personal gains and all, but us? Together? Nothing’s changed. And the longer this goes on, the harder it’s going to be for us to break this pattern. I do love you, but I can’t keep doing this.”

With that, she got up, grabbed her coat and purse, and ran out, hoping desperately that he’d come for her…that he’d let her go…that…oh, she didn’t know what she hoped. Well, beyond a cab showing up, that is. What she didn’t know, what she couldn’t know, was that Barry was standing not far behind her, in the shadows, watching. And whispering, “This is not the last you’ll see of me.”

had that PROMPTuesday dealio with the whole six-word biography terror going on this week. And it just dawned on me what my real bio should say. Of course, I had to steal it from Otis over at RER, but who’s really original anymore? So I paraphrase:

If I do, I’ll never stop.

That about sums up my entire existence. If I embark on any journey, I tend to follow that path until I run out of road, blow the engine, or am chased off by a rabid bear. That’s just how I am. I pursue things with a passion that is very likely unhealthy after a certain point. I tend to be loyal and patient to a fault. I will worry a problem until it leaves someone (usually me) with a bloody stump.

And yet, there are just some things I don’t do. I know better than to try various things because I know how I am. I rarely drink. Not because I’m afraid I’ll become an alcoholic, but because it’s just too easy to let alcohol be the salve for whatever ails me or to rely on it for a good time. Same with drugs. Oh, for sure, I’ve dabbled, but those days are long behind me and it’s simply not something that I’d recommend for anyone, let alone a mother, a (former) nurse, or anyone who wants to succeed in life. Of course, there’s also the fact that I have plenty of meds to take these days and, even then, I’m reluctant to take those unless I have to.

I’d make a terrible junkie.

Unless it’s a life/goal junkie. I’m sort of stuck there. And that’s why I’m amending my damn biography.

I’m also stopping here, because if I let this go any longer, I’ll never stop.

Sometimes I think Debbie just wants to torture me. Other times, she’s totally in synch with me. Then she comes back to dig that knife in right where it’ll do the most damage.

words. I have to come up with a six-word life description. How the heck is that even possible? I’m wordy. I write long, rambling bits of fluff that add up to absolutely nothing. Concise? Not me. When I come anywhere near needing to be precise and exact, I become some bumbling, fumbling, hemming and hawing joke. I stumble. I stutter. I sputter. And I invariably end up shrugging because words actually fail to form in a meaningful way. But that’s another story. One that’s better left untold, I think. There’s one person who knows exactly what that means; thankfully that’s a secret just between us.

Anyhow, back to my life in six words. Hmmm.

She was always trying and waiting.

No. That sort of sucks.

She meant well and sometimes succeeded.

Kinda lame there, too.

She always wanted what she wanted.

At least that’s honest. Not entirely a full description though.

Earnest and hopeful, loving and kind.

Good Lord, that sounds like something you’d write in a scrapbook. For an aging (and dying) aunt.

She thought she’d done her best.

Sort of makes you believe she really didn’t.

She wanted her happily-ever-after.

Hmm, perhaps those hyphens count as one word. Yes, I could play with that.

All she wanted was her happily-ever-after.

Still doesn’t sound like it ended well.

She knew her heart was true.

It has potential.

Always remember: cheesecake doesn’t keep well.

And there you have it. Eat your dessert first. Life’s fleeting. Two for the price of one there, folks. I’m quite the value, aren’t I? Ooh! Three! This was easier than I thought. Four! (This was harder than I thought. Which makes number five.) Thank God they’re grading on a curve. They are, aren’t they? Maybe I am trying too hard. And there’s a sixth. And this is where I stop trying.

Now it’s your turn. Play along in the comments, in Deb’s comments, or on your own blog. Just make sure you leave a comment so I can read what you wrote.

I don’t know how she does it, but Deb so frequently knows what I’m about to write and she makes it into a assignment that I’m beginning to wonder if she can guess what I’m thinking…right now. Or now. (Oh, I hope she didn’t catch the following thought…) It’d be spooky if it weren’t so great. Sometimes I’m not sure whether I should be flattered or if I should file a restraining order.

First, let me explain a bit. See, I’ve written a few posts for while I’m away, right? Don’t want the blog to languish or anything in my absence. And, while I was writing one entry, I started thinking of a “what’s in your wallet” post as well. (You’ll totally get this when you read that post.) Then Debbie comes along and makes it a PROMPT! That lady is just too into my brain. Either that or she completely possesses what little I have left. Either way, here we are.

Now the second thing you must understand about why this particular PROMPT is special to me is because…I graduated to big girl purses recently. Yes, indeedy. I sure as shit went ahead and got myself a real purse. (For those of you who haven’t heard me go on and on about micro purses and the lack thereof, well, consider yourselves lucky.)

About a month ago, I was out with Little Dude and some friends of ours. I had to return my spare camera battery (because I totally found the one I thought I’d lost, but which was hiding in plain sight, of course. Which reminds me, in addition to Deadliest Catch coming back [is Phil back? Who’s captain if he’s not? Will the boys spend money foolishly while he’s not around? Who are the new captains? What’s with the new boats? Will I ever visit Alaska?] on April 14 on Discovery, In Plain Sight will be returning on April 19 on USA [Is Mary going to chill out? Will her sister stop being such a wild child? Will their mother ever grow up?]. Just sayin’.). Anyhow, I found my extra battery and was returning the other one, right? Okay. As I was getting the receipt out of my ratty smallish black purse, I had a revelation. If I’m going to look successful, I should have a purse that reflects that attitude and goal. Thankfully my girlfriends were also in the market for purses and that’s where we headed. (Poor LD, you’d think he’d have learned to call in sick on days like this.)

We began discussing the merits of size in relation to handbags, purses, pocketbooks, or whatever other term you choose. I jumped in and said, “Stacy and Clinton say that a small purse makes a heavier woman look even bigger. I’m going to get a freakin’ HUGE purse so I look tiny.” I’m not sure that’s exactly what they meant, but I was running with it anyway. I did not go for the largest purse in the world, thankyouverymuch. However, I did manage to find one of reasonable size and yet it still feels smaller. It has, get this, a cute giraffe print to it. What? Shhh! Let me finish the story, okay?

Where was I? Oh yeah, giraffe print. Laughing Rhino…wild theme…giraffe print purse…that makes sense. A cute giraffe print with red trim. It’s much cuter than it sounds. Seriously. (Ask Cheri! She’s seen it. It’s cute, isn’t it?) Of course, this meant that I’d have to do something about all the loose stuff I’d normally just tuck into a pocket in my smaller purse. So I started looking for a wallet. I had my hand on a zebra patterned wallet and LD protested. “Get the giraffe print wallet, Mom. Trust me on this.” Yeah, I know, I’m taking accessory advice from a 12 year old boy. What can I say? He’s never steered me wrong! And yes, he’s very much all boy. He just knows what goes together. Anyhow, I then had to decide whether I should get the giraffe print wallet with the red trim (like my purse) or the one with the brown trim. LD pointed out that the red on the wallet was different from the red on the purse and to make a long story only slightly shorter, I got the brown trimmed giraffe print wallet.

Whew.

Now, what’s in my wallet? My driver’s license, photos of the kids (they finally have a real home!), my ATM card, a couple of business cards, discount cards for Von’s, Barnes & Noble, Borders, Staples, and my Kinko’s card. Oh, and $1.28. And two receipts.

In my purse, I have my pain meds. I never go anywhere without them. Sure, I sound like a walking pharmacy, but whatever. I also have (in a single small pocket within the purse) house keys on a little rhino keychain, lipstick, lip gloss (so girly, isn’t it? I know!), ChapStick, a box of wooden matches (have to take those out before I fly), and back to the main part of the purse, I have a pair of sunglasses, an envelope I really must throw away, two pens, and a business card holder that sports a leopard print (in keeping with my wild theme).

For once in my life, I have a big girl purse with lots of room and it’s kind of fun, too. It’s not some boring granny pocketbook. It’s totally…me! And somehow, I feel so much better walking around with this thing than I ever thought possible. Go figure.

Hey Deb, are you sorry you asked? Now, shh…I’m casting my votes for Fug Madness 2009.

There’s a proposal about to happen and I know it’s not happening to me. Still, I like to believe that love is possible and love is grand. Honest! I’m not nearly as jaded nor as disbelieving as I pretend to be.

Luckily, this post also counts as a PROMPTuesday entry.

I remember the one proposal I had that actually led to marriage. (There have been others, but all were called off for one reason or another.) But at one time I did walk down the aisle. Yep. And I remember how it felt to see someone before me on bended knee, how it felt on my wedding day, and how, for a while, it was good.

The funny thing about the proposal from my ex is that it came about in an odd way. It was Christmas Day 1994. We were at my sister and brother-in-law’s old house. The presents had all been opened, the paper picked up and thrown away, Mojo was running around having a good time, and the man and I were in the living room putting toys and other gifts in bags for easier loading into the car later. I looked at the man and asked, “so are we going to Mr. and Mrs. next year or are we going to continue to be just ‘You’ and ‘Me’?” It was a rather big question because I’d uprooted my daughter and our home in Colorado to move back to San Diego because of him (and because I missed my family, if I’m being 100% honest). He looked at me and said, “we’ll always be ‘You’ and ‘Me’, but I know there’s a Mr. and Mrs. in our future.”

I’d given my mom a date book for Christmas so we grabbed that and started looking through it to see when might be a good time. We picked a date: September 23. It was the first day of autumn and it was also the day after his mom and dad had been married. We also chose the date because it was out of the prime wedding season, which is when my brother-in-law is always booked and we wanted him, and only him, to shoot the wedding. So, we had the date and then we began loading vehicles with presents to clear the house out a little. It was also an excuse for the man to talk to my dad about us getting married. My dad was thrilled. He hugged us both and then sent us off to talk to my mom. The man got tongue tied and ended up asking for my mom’s hand in marriage, but once he got it all straightened out, it was okay. My mom wasn’t as enthused as my dad was and we had a bit of a discussion. She was worried we were rushing things. Having known the man for ten years already (though our dating history had been rather on/off/on/off and eventually ceded to friendship), I was confident we were heading in the right direction. Not so much. But that’s a different story.

Eventually, once my mom and dad had been notified, the man got down on one knee and proposed to me in the studio in front of everyone. I still have photos of that moment, too. Mojo was excited that we (she and I) were going to marry the man she had chosen as her “Daddy” (forget the father she knew, she wanted the man as her daddy).

We went shopping for a ring the next day, I believe, and while the man was convinced he needed to spend a lot for a ring, I bristled and said, “I want something small, tasteful, and uncomplicated. I’m always having to pull gloves on or off at work. I don’t want to not be able to wear my ring all the time.” So I got a small diamond. All three rings — engagement, plus his and hers wedding bands — were less than $400. I was happy and I know he heaved a huge sigh of relief.

I remember the moment the wedding band was placed on my finger, 13 1/2 years later, even though we’re no longer together. It meant the world to me then and I would hope that I will feel that way again someday, standing before some officiant, pledging my undying love for someone. (I didn’t pledge anything last time as it was a Greek Orthodox ceremony and you don’t say anything at all during one of those!)

Anyhow, to whomever is receiving the proposal, I wish you all the love and luck in the world. My advice: Don’t hesitate to take a chance on love just because some people get divorced. All that proves is that some unions weren’t as solid as they should have been in the first place. Don’t be afraid of love. And don’t forget to work on it every single day. When you make that commitment, make it fully and don’t be afraid of the bad times. You will get through them, especially if you have chosen well. You better believe I’ll choose well next time and I’ll commit fully. I believe in love that much.

Now, when do we get to find out who this is?

It doesn’t look like there are any hard and fast rules week, other than including the following items in a poem or a story: a skein of red yarn, a comb and a bottle of water.

I can do that. You can, too. C’mon, play along! It’s FUN! (Yep, so much fun that it’s in all caps.)

Back when I was working in pediatrics (my first job out of nursing school), we admitted a newborn who was suffering from a severe case of jaundice (oddly enough, my own son had higher levels than this baby but was not admitted). Surrounded by bright lights, wrapped in UV blankets, and sporting protective baby goggles, this adorable little boy was progressing well. His mother was rather young, but she was very attentive and loving. I’d often have to go in and encourage her to take a break for the bathroom, food, a shower, or even a nap. Occasionally she would step out and get some fresh air, but only if she knew for certain there were no other patients (for most of the baby’s stay with us, there were no other patients on the unit) and I could stay with her little boy the whole time.

I have to admit that baby time was one of my favorite parts of my job. Nobody rushed through baby time unless there was an emergency. There’s something about holding an infant that just makes everything in the world “okay” again. For me, I knew more children were out of the question (what with having had a hysterectomy three years before), so I soaked up every precious moment I could get whenever a baby would come in.

The young mother, whenever she wasn’t dozing off, feeding the baby, or cradling him, spent a lot of time knitting. While in the hospital, she’d finished two beautiful blankets and a few little hats. Most of the items were in vibrant colors, with red featured predominantly. In fact, several skeins of red yarn were in the mom’s knitting bag. More than once, I’d come in to check the baby’s vitals and find a small swirl of red thread — one strand pulled from a bit of yarn — in the middle of his forehead. I’d carefully and gently remove it, comb the four hairs on his head with my fingers, and reposition him after I finished with vital signs and a bottle of mom’s breast milk. It was only after I’d done that several times that sweet young mom informed me that the thread was supposed to be there. Seems her abuela had always said a bit of red thread on a baby’s forehead would help ward off any true danger and she was bound and determined to do whatever she could to protect her tiny son. I apologized profusely for not knowing and she laughed and apologized for not telling me sooner!

I always think of that whenever I come across an errant thread or bit of yarn, much like I did last night on my pillow.

I miss nursing so much sometimes. Sigh. I miss the people I met — the patients and their families. I miss the wonderful things I’d learn from each of them. But, I think I miss the babies most of all, though. Holding a baby is like holding a bit of heaven in your arms.

Creative Every Day Challenge: 9-15. Are you going to play? My entries for today:

Raindrops on cactus? Next thing I know, you’ll be telling me there’s whiskers on toenails or something.

I couldn’t pass up these cheery red berry-type things. Have no idea what they are. But they are and I liked, so here you go.

Last week, Deb wanted us to conduct interview, real or imagined. This week we have to tell about our first job. I’m not sure if I should talk about babysitting and then being a nanny or if I should talk about working at Baskin-Robbins. Babysitting was very profitable for me, so I did consider it a job. But working as a nanny for twins, THAT was hard work and it paid good money. Do either of those really count, though? I didn’t have to pay taxes on either of them, so maybe I should talk about Baskin-Robbins. Hmm. Decisions, decisions. While I decide, let’s review the rules, then we’ll go to the interview, and THEN you’ll find out which job I discuss.

Da Rules:

• Try to write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kick in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.
• Aim for 250 words or less.
• Please have fun. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Together, let’s rediscover the simple joy in the writing process.
• Post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.

Okey-dokey, here’s the interview. God and I were having a little chat. I was granted the interview based on my request for answers to three questions.

Me: God, why are some people such jerks? I know that seems like a softball, but I’m really quite curious.

God: Excellent third question! The answer is “yes” and I’m buying.

—–

First job:

Baskin-Robbins. Back in when they still made us wear those wretched pink and brown short dresses with shorts. And those awful hats. Blech!

My first day of work, I showed up, rarin’ to go. The owners, Russ and Edie, were both there. Edie was a chain-smokin’ old biddy who brought her horny standard poodle into the store with her all the time. Russ was a dirty old man who tried to stick his hand down my uniform to “help me put my nametag on”. I grabbed it from him and said, “thank you, I think I can manage.” I was 15, almost 16 and I knew a perv when I saw one.

In my first week of work, I got called by another employee’s name about 37 times. Her name was Joanne. (I still hate that name.) The confusion wasn’t because of the name. People thought I was her. When I finally met her, I had to admit we did look a little alike. Both of us had long blonde hair and were tan and blah blah blah. Turned out her birthday was two days before mine, too. Weird, huh? Gets weirder.

After four months or so, I stopped giving a shit about the job. Between the dirty old guy and the dog and the crabby old bat, I’d had enough. I quit at the same time they fired me. I went to work at THE pizza place in town. It was where you worked if you were cool. And guess who followed me there? Joanne. We also worked with a Jane and a Janet. Best part about it was if something went wrong, you could always blame one of the other “J” gals and nobody could tell the difference, nor did they care. Not that things often went wrong.

Oh, and that wasn’t the last time I worked with Joanne, either. But that’s another story.

I have been asked, nay, challenged(!) to share my private awesome thoughts with you. cunning Deb has dared me to reveal my secrets. I’m totally down with that.

Rules? You want rules? Fine!

…this week’s PROMPTuesday asks that you post about your favorite — or “most awesome” things. What do you love? What can’t you live without? What do you like to watch on TV? What are your favorite websites? What do you use on your hair? (This last one is a requirement.)

I promise to include the hair stuff, Deb.

• One of the more awesome people I’ve actually met through blogging is our PROMPT hostess her own bad self. Yes, Deb. We had lunch at a restaurant at University Town Center, although the name of it escapes me at the moment. Hey, in my defense, it was like six and a half years ago. What I found so amazing and awesome about her was her sense of humor and her determination to become a published novelist. This woman is a goldmine when it comes to stories. One of these days, I’m going to challenge her to stop dithering and collect some of her blog posts, expand them a bit, and then submit them to a publisher. Whether it’s poop sticks, the Rock, Toots & Booger, a tangled flag, a scary stalker, hypochondria, or a sweet neighbor, there is something warm and genuine and inherently captivating in her words. Plus, she’s really pretty and isn’t all stuck up about it. She is one of three people I would like to call upon to speak at my funeral because I’m pretty sure she’d make people laugh and cry and then tilt their heads in a bewildered manner. Which is totally what I want. I want her to paint me in a way they’ve never imagined me. I’m positive she could convince even my family that I was tall, thin, movie star gorgeous, and the funniest (okay, SECOND funniest — Deb would be #1) woman on earth.
• Awesomeness comes in the form of my Canon EF 35-135mm f/4-5.6 US lens. I use it for just about everything these days. Portraits, scenery, whatever. It’s the perfect “in between” lens. If I need anything longer, I haul out my Canon 70-300mm DO. However, with the 35-135 on hand, those situations are rare. I’m really happy with it and consider it to be one of the wisest purchases I ever made. Big thanks go to my brother-in-law for giving me a good deal on it.
• Morgan Freeman is awesome. I’m not a big starstruck groupie type of person. I joke about crushing hard on Craig Ferguson (have you seen and heard the man? I know! He’s delightful and yummy! And, yes, he’s awesome, too), but the simple fact is, I’m really kind of not so awed by most Hollywood types. Morgan Freeman, though, he’s different. I mean, he’s played God in a couple of movies and he’s pretty convincing in that role. He also exudes a sense of supreme dignity and earthiness that most people lack. He’s one of the three I’d want to eulogize me. (Deb, make sure you keep this list close at hand, okay? I’ll tell you who the third one is privately, because that one’s a surprise.)
• Deadliest Catch is awesome. Little Dude on the Cornelia Marie website is even more awesome. But the ultimate in awesomeness is that Captain Phil is in the wheelhouse again, at least for opilio season. Woo hoo!
• I have a Goody “Privado” hairbrush that they no longer make that’s so awesome I won’t throw it away even though the grip on the handle is trying to secede from the rest of the brush. Honest. I’ve tried other brushes that look similar enough, but they don’t come close to how this one feels on my hair.
• L’Oreal has the Out of Bed Texturizer that rocks my hair like no other gel. This is awesomeness squared!
• I have an awesome surgeon, but then again, you already knew that, didn’t you?
• My children are awesome. More awesome than yours, too. I say this with great confidence and with my tongue only slightly in cheek. Both are funny, smart, considerate, creative, and rather good looking. Plus, they’re nice to hang around (well, my daughter, whenever I get the chance). They’re good kids and I’m very blessed.
• I have some really awesome blog pals I’ve yet to meet. Without naming all, because I’d surely forget some and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, let’s just say the list includes Pam, Temple, Jan, a Wolf, two Debbies, a kidney patient, a punk, rebels of all kinds, moms, dads, people of every hue, sexual preference, geographic location, religious beliefs, political affiliation, and an wide assortment of other interesting characters.
• I have had a blast working with Soldiers’ Angels. They’re awesome, as is what they do for the military and all the military families.
• Boobie-Thon is awesome! And I’m very proud to have been working with them since its inception. Equally awesome are the people who donated and helped us raise almost $10k in 2008.
• My black and white faux wrap dress is beyond awesome! I love that dress.
• There are three pairs of the most awesome shoes in my house. A pair of sandals (I actually bought two pair because I figured by the time the first pair wore out, the shoes would be either sold out or discontinued), a pair of brown espadrilles, and a pair of cute black pumps. All are comfortable, attractive, and mine.
• My parents are awesome. Each brings something special to the table. They love me. I love them. They love my kids. The kids love them. And we’re at that stage in life now where, yes, they’re still mom and dad, but they’re also my friends. I didn’t always comprehend what they were doing when I was growing up, yet I’ve learned so much from them and come to understand the lessons they were teaching me along the way as I’ve aged and entered the parenting game myself. Best part? I just recently told them both, in no uncertain terms, “Thank you” for teaching me so well.
• This image is awesome, if I do say so myself. It gave me the confidence to try only about a million more techniques I’d always been afraid to try.
• Charlie is awesome. Charlie is my camera. Also awesome? All of you who helped make him a reality for me. In fact, it was a certain Wolf who blogged about my camera fund that led to Jan and I becoming friends. And it was after I got the camera that I fell in with a really good group of people, one of which I have become great friends and for whom I work on occasion.
• My life, when I’m not being crabby and ungrateful or constipated, is truly awesome at times. In fact, I dare say it’s awesome more often than I could have ever dreamed as a child, or even just a few years ago. I have met legends and other very talented artists, and have been able to introduce them to my son. I have had the great privilege of interviewing some of them, too. As has Little Dude!
• Really, though, it all keeps coming back to my friends and my kids, my parents and some of the other people I’ve encountered as I’ve taken steps to broaden my world over the last few years that make me feel like my life is awesome.

So, there you have it. My awesomeness is nothing to fear. My guess is that you have a lot of it in your life, too. You must, cuz you, at the very least, know me. All kidding aside, I’m sure if you think about it, you’ll discover awesome-osity beyond your wildest expectations.

I found book I mentioned earlier!

I thought I remembered the title, and I was pretty damn near right.

Take Me Home by Dare Wright was a staple of my childhood. It was my sister’s book, but I got it once she outgrew it. I was always painfully sad over the thought that the doll was left sitting in the woods. It seemed so real to me because we had the same sort of woods right out behind our house. And I had a doll. Yes, yes, I did. It could happen, I thought.

Every time I went into the woods, I looked for lost dolls and other toys. No toy would ever be left to feel unwanted as long as I was on duty! Because, you know, it just wouldn’t do to have any toy feel unloved. They were living, breathing creatures, just as I was. Seriously. I thought this. I remember being as young as two and thinking this. I had a very dramatic and active imagination back then. What? You expected something different from me?

Yes, even as a very small child I would lose myself in the magic of books and my own little blonde head. Oh, the places I went as a kid. All I had to do was grab a book and find a quiet corner and I was off in my own world.

Making this even more magical: Dare Wright grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, like me (at least until I was seven). And she loved all manner of artistic pursuits. Just like me. Especially photography. Again…need I say it? Of course, our lives were very different, but it seemed there must have been some magic there.

It also seems to me that we, at one time, possessed other books by Wright. There was a whole collection. For me, though, Take Me Home was the one that mesmerized me and the one I remember to this day.

I guess I can also call this my default catch up entry for PROMPTuesday #37. I can, can’t I, Deb?

There’s a photo of a man on a bus. Deb’s done her thinking thing once again and has asked us to come up with a story or a poem or something about him. There’s a song, too. I’m not listening to the song. I’m boycotting songs today for some reason.

Anyhow, here are the PROMPT rules and my story follows.

• Try to write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kick in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.
• Aim for 250 words or less.
• Please have fun. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Together, let’s rediscover the simple joy in the writing process.
• Post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments

I see him sitting there, unaware of me and my musings. I realize I could say something. I could. I could attempt to engage him in conversation, but I don’t. Somehow, I get the feeling he’s not a talker. You can usually tell who’s a talker and who’s not just by the set of their jaw. He’s not a talker.

My head fills with things I want to say to him, were I to try to break the ice. You know how that is: a list of things that will remain unsaid. Later, long after I’m off that bus and warming myself in the steam of the hot shower, I wonder if he’s still awake, or even if he’s still alive. I imagine the worst. You know, that he was severely depressed and just waiting for someone to break the silence and turn his world around. What if, really, he’d been depressed and my words could have saved his life? Suddenly, I go from crazy woman musing in her shower to accomplice to suicide. The water turns cold and I realize I haven’t moved in 20 minutes, stunned by my overactive imagination.

And this, this is why I turn my head away sometimes. Why I put up that wall and seem indifferent. The imagined fate of one man can bring my world to a screeching halt in mere moments. I have a hard enough time handling my own life. I can’t worry over his or any other stranger’s life as I sit on the bus. I have to focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. And then I remember that we’re all in this together, aren’t we? If we don’t occasionally worry about one another, what’s the point? What really separates me from strangers on a bus? So I worry, but I also try to be a little more proactive. I’ll at least make the effort to say hello. If someone’s not a talker, they don’t have to answer. They don’t even need to make eye contact. But I’ll try and I’ll feel a little better knowing that maybe at least one person will hear a friendly voice on a bus full of strangers and maybe not feel so alone in this great big world.

Miss Holidays wants us to write a holiday limerick. That meanie!

I wasn’t gonna do it. But as I was looking longingly at pumpkin pie, the damn thing went and wrote itself.

Every year when the Holidays come,
I grumble and the bug I bah hum
An oh the hubbub is all quite distressing.
The kids need new clothes
For those they outgrows
I pray none of the new stuff needs pressing.

Nothing to get excited about, but there you have it.

“I’m going for easy peasy lemon squeezy today,” Deb. And she lies. Liar liar, plants for hire (says Patrick Starfish). “So think back to when you were 15. Let the year play itself back to you. Pick one memory — even if it’s just a mere moment that stands out — and write about it.” That’s not easy. Not even close! I’m 42. And, yeah, I remember a lot about when I was 15 and frankly, I don’t want to remember it.

• Try to write your entry in 10 minutes. This encourages top-of-mind, primal thinking before the ego and judgmental brain kick in. Just set a timer, make your kid count to 600 slowly, whatever. It’s an honor system. And I trust you.
• Aim for 250 words or less.
• Please have fun. Don’t put pressure on yourself. Together, let’s rediscover the simple joy in the writing process.
• Post your submission in the comments OR post in your blog and leave a link to your blog in the comments.

The long and short of 15 is this: My best friend pawned a very bad guy off on me. When he raped me, she, at first, acted surprised, and then later said, “well, he was always trying something with me but didn’t take it very far because of my dad.” Her dad was a cop. Did she warn me about this guy? No. Instead, she talked him up and pushed him at me. Football player. Father who was a city councilman. Big man on campus sort of shit. And a rapist. Not only that, but he had a friend join in “the fun” as he called it. It took me years to get over what happened. Years. And it took me years to acknowledge what my friend had set in motion. She knew. And she later admitted she knew it was likely to happen. I’m talking years. Like six or eight years later. She never apologized though. For her, it was an unburdening, an offloading of garbage. For me, it was a nightmare.

I ended up raped, treated like a punching bag with a bruised belly and thighs, and pregnant. I went through the trips to Planned Parenthood alone, except for one time when my little sister went with me. To this day, I don’t know why she kept that secret — that wasn’t how we went about most things at the time. Another friend bailed on me the day I was supposed to have my abortion, so I walked to and from the clinic. Well, almost completely home…my mom saw me walking and picked me up when I was a little over halfway home. She knew nothing. Not until later, when there was a “billing mistake”.

When my parents found out, my mom cried and my dad yelled. As the details became known, my mom cried a little more and my dad was ready to hire a hitman he was so angry. And then, things calmed down. It was never really talked about again, except later with my mom when I was about to have my daughter.

Fifteen wasn’t a great time in my life. Sure, I did end up with a truly wonderful boyfriend eventually. My first love. And it was all so romantic. But there were scars. Lots of scars. And some of those never really fade.

I did eventually cut the “best friend” from my life. It took years. Too many, to be honest. It took a long time to realize that she’d never understand how her actions almost ruined me, almost killed me. Even now, when my mom mentions her name, I simply reply, “she’s dead to me,” instead of feigning interest. I just can’t do it. I can’t pretend. Nor should I.

To this day, I hate “15”. I’m no longer haunted by nightmares about the rape. I do, however, worry about my daughter and the dangers that I know are out there. Yet, she’s different than I was. She’s bolder and stronger and steadier than I was at her age. She doesn’t take shit from anyone. Thank God! I worry about her, though. Because it can happen. It does happen. I just pray it doesn’t.

I almost didn’t write this. Then I thought about how many girls, how many women have been through the same thing and hide it from the world like it’s something they did wrong and something of which they should be ashamed. I figured it was worth writing it out (I’ve done it before, but it’s been a while) and making it public if it makes even one woman feel less alone, afraid, or ashamed. We did nothing wrong. And we survived. The only way to take one’s life back is to move forward and let the past be a part of our lives and not the sole definer. We had something bad happen to us and we are still here. We are more than rape victims or rape survivors. We prevail. And life keeps happening. I’m not ashamed and that’s that.

But I still hate “15”.