Yo, Kid

March 7, 2014

“Kids these days!” Isn’t that what our parents muttered when we did something completely baffling. Fell on the ice again today, bumping my right wrist lightly against the concrete slab on the corner of Bigelow and Robie. The young man, barely bundled, crossing the street, down a ways, hollered out, “Lady, wave if you are ok!” At least he acknowledges the fact that I went down. A wobbly Beauty Queen Parade Wave sends him on his way.

Tears stream down my face. I realize the little bump brought back troubling times in Brasil when I fractured my fibula, and dislocated the tibia. Incredible, after sixteen months, I can still feel the isolation and agony of the public hospital in Registro. Work at replacing the images and sensations with my years in Hawaii, at Green Sands Beach, lolling in the surf with the dragging arms-unable-to-reach-around black sea turtles. I have to close my eyes to create the vision since the 27 degree temps challenge me. Suppose it is best to wait until I get home, plunk myself on the couch near the fuming radiator, to melt into the salty waves.

The next time, I will speak with the nonchalant teen. To quote Aristotle: “All improvements in society begin with the educations of the youth.” Not certain what I will say but it may just start with “Yo.” Isn’t that what kids say these days?

My Own Truth (Again)

March 6, 2014

I want to be the first in line to get my brownie points, earned for the on-going suffering, endless sacrifice, or an ocean of tears. There isn’t even a line, rumor has it, for coupons from the tortured anguish, generous altruism, or constant selflessness. In fact, I don't even get any for my countless bigheartedness, daily gratitude, or doling out mucho compassion. 

So I may as well just do what makes me passionate, accept the thrill with each day, whatever that amounts to, and be in the moment.

I am moved to find a way to work with the homeless youth somewhere. Monday, I stood at the SafeZone’s locked door, shivering in the subzero temps in my big girl skirt, hose, wavering in my uncomfortable fashion boots. Made numerous phone calls to the un-named disrespectful man I was scheduled to meet and the “Operator.” Had to leave forced cheery messages while my blue lips chattered, knees knocked together and unfeeling toes curled. Just now, three days later, heard from The Man. He had an emergency.

Read the article this morning: http://readersupportednews.org/news-section2/318-66/22404-from-death-row-a-powerful-letter-on-slavery and am all the more determined to get out of my own head and do something to educate the youth.

Onward!

My Clark

He came around the bend, handsome like Clark Kent, younger than expected, a shy grin on his face, motioning with his hand that dons a thumb ring (I have a thing for rings,) that he is with me, as long as I am Paula. He seems genuinely surprised that I want to treat him to a coffee, or perhaps a carton of milk? Snack?

“Cranberry” leaks out of his mouth when the laptop wouldn’t cooperate during our jam session. No, it honestly doesn’t carry an exclamation point behind it. More like a statement than a negative response. How charming!

Talk of widgets, links, tables, layout, overriding code, header/footer images, templates, schedulers, calendars, blog posts and image inserts plagues me with vexation. A slow server, choreographing several tabs, security warnings and stuff sends me spinning, fervorantly (ok, I made up that word) slurping my-mistake-caffeinated coffee. Mr. D calmly jots notes on his phone/mini-computer thingamajig and moves onto my next outrageous request.

My website collage material is eeking along during the two hour conversation, sprinkled with comments like “That drove me nuttier that a forest full of stuffed squirrels” I am delighted. Today, we choose to scrap the old website and begin anew, much to everyone’s relief (you, him, me, and the other hundreds of thousands of my future website followers ). Scratching through “bad” *bad* *bad* *bad*  developing and outdated technology (I am unfamiliar with either, so I remain unfettered) leads us to this conclusion.

All I know is, I feel as though I am in “Allstate Hands” and can relax, create my blogs, write my e-books, schedule with the photographer, process the bookkeeping, sort stuff, and drink stand-up-and-shout coffee. 

Deciding Not To Decide

March 4, 2014

I can’t decide whether to get a yummy double vanilla latte, a steamy espresso, almond croissant, poppy seed muffin, dark chocolate cake, or several goodies. The indecision is disconcerting, frustrating, not to mention creates impatience in the line behind me at Dunn Brothers.

So frequently, the process of choosing sets me into a frenzy. I normally jump into the great dark abyss, not completely comprehending what outcome is expected (aside from too much sugar.) In times of inconsistent poor results, I pull back and then can’t even determine what I am hankering for at the coffee shop. A full blown tantrum may be effective when I was three (or fourteen) but now, at 50 something (most days I cannot recall what age I am,)it isn’t so charming.

Two little stinkers showed up for Story Time this morning. One precocious yellow-haired shout-it-out two years old as of October, stuck with the stories about gardens and bugs but the other dull brown-topped a bit younger girl, roamed around the table, screamed at the computer lab to "turn it on," threw crayons, and "didn’t wanna hear the story." Her primitive little brain wasn’t the least bit interested in learning about dirt, creatures of the garden, watering plants, or even looking at the colorful pictures.We colored shapes for most of the Gardening Story Time.

If I were two, I might be able to choose what flavor coffee drink I want right now. In the moment, I let the person behind me decide, so I pay for his drink too. He is delighted in my irritation around indecision. Don’t count on it happening tomorrow.

Must be a Who's Who

March 03, 2014

This came in my IN box this morning, not certain why I took the time to read it to the end yet, criminy, are there people out there who would jump at this offer?

“Hello,

 

I got your email through America online database. I am looking for someone that can handle my business errands during his or her spare time. I need your service because I am constantly traveling abroad on business. I own an Art Gallery

 

Responsibilities

1. Receive my mail and  Drop them off at the post office or shipping center.

2. Pay my bills on my behalf and sit for delivery at home.

3. Pick up my items at your nearby post office at your convenience.

4. When you get my mail or package, you would mail all items to where I want them shipped. .All expenses and shipping charges will be covered by me.

 

The contents of the packages are mostly art materials and paintings. In addition, there will be clothing I need for business and personal letters. No heavy packages is involved

 

I would love to meet with you to discuss this job in more detail, but I am currently away on business in Asia. If you decide to accept the position, please read the employment requirements listed below.

 

EMPLOYMENT REQUIREMENTS:

A. You are an honest and trustworthy citizen.

B. You will be required to work between 15 and 20hrs a month.

C. You need to be able to check your EMAIL 1 to 3 times daily.

 

THE PAY IS $500 WEEKLY and you are entitle to a brand new car after 3month if you are hardworking and honest with me, WHICH IS NOT A BAD OFFER.

 

In closing, I have a couple of questions for you.

 

First, If I were to mail you money to do my shopping plus an upfront payment for your service, where would you want it mailed to?

Second, how would you like for your name appear on the money order or check?

 

Maybe you can provide me with the following details below

 

Full Name:      Address: City: State: Zip Code: Phone No: Age:

Present Occupation:

 

Respectfully,

Joe Brooks (asshole crook!)

Baked By the Chicken

March 2, 2014

I’d left the six breaded drumsticks in Mrs “Bs” oven last night. Yes, it was turned “OFF.” I didn’t realize until 2:00am, give or take a few hours. Impossible to call her and ask to toss the pan in the freezer, or better yet, place them in a plastic ziplock to store. Unfortunately, by the time I could reach her, she insists I come to her place and take care of the cooked poultry.

Mirrors smashed against the door of vehicles parked along the side of the road, indicate a slippery street. Creeping along, breaking every few feet is the only solution. Getting to Mrs. “B’s” chicken rescue takes twice as long as it should. I open the door to her place and find her, none to keen on my error, telling me I need to take the chicken home for the dog, she cannot eat it. I will buy her another package of drumsticks and Shake ‘N Bake them my next scheduled day. Toss a salad and heat up her dinner while she runs to the toilet. Now I am a very unhappy camper but know the Park Ranger has spoken.

Seasonal Affect Disorder

March 1, 2014

Free samples brings a stampede of folks, wanting to appear satisfied with empty hands yet actually succumbing to the tendrils of complimentary plastic, paper, metal rings at the end of nylon, bright colors and tacky fabrics, that entice raccoons after curious shiny objects. The mob needing the instant experience of something delectable, and unique, elbows to experiment the products before they disappear. Herds plod the Convention Center, where, close by, the Dalai Lama is presenting. A murmur of powerful awe leans into the staff behind our booth as someone mentions his name. Most turn to peer around the arena, as though he will round the corner at any moment, the incredible Spiritual Leader of the Tibetans. Just talking of him gives us a little more hope.

Women, following their spouse down the row of bottles of colorful alcoholic beverages, show favoritism. The men nod to the “boss” in expectation of the next move. One is always the leader. It isn’t always easy to distinguish which is the director, from a distance. The chief tends to fess up, at some point, to beguile the party into one more sip of enticing sample, to encourage another gift to the bag, or turn away, moving onto better tastings. It is all the same to them.

Randy, “The Barefoot Guy,” ambushes the thrill of camaraderie with his glow of command. Three bartenders, the man in charge of all of North America, two regional managers, and five workers bees crash around under the perilous tent, aiding and abetting the consumers of spirits. We almost get it kind of together and the next shift arrives. Giddy with relief, we dance away into the crowd of tasters, mingling among them, disappearing into nobody special.