tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86659293293016829882024-03-13T21:21:15.438+07:00When Life Hands You Lemons, Add Vodka!Musings of a female, recently arrived exhilarated, at the big 6-0 with renewed energy, passion, style, zest seeking my best self from new experiences outside my comfort zone ... an occasional martini (up, three olives) in hand!Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.comBlogger186125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-9700328980032734932012-03-30T10:04:00.000+07:002012-03-30T10:04:46.278+07:00Revelling in the Lemongrass ... jump-starting my life in a tuk-tuk!<div style="text-align: justify;">Wow.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It has been a long time since this steel magnolia appeared on the scene. But here I am. A wiser, more polished sixty-something yearning for moving to the edge of my comfort zone.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I am doing it. Yes. Following through on the dreams ruminating earlier in these columns. Relocating to Indochina on at first a temporary basis as an expert volunteer at a rights-based NGO in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. And with good fortune and the ancient Angkor god-kings shining benevolently, I hope to secure a real (read: salaried) position which leverages my real (read: seasoned and experienced) professional background.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And to top it off I leave Monday. <em>This</em> Monday, April 2nd!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I can soon be found half-way across the globe exploring and adventuring in the tufts of mosquito-repelling <a href="http://revellinginthelemongrass.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">lemongrass</a> at the confluence of three great Southeast Asian rivers. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Join me as my ramblings continue from the batik-covered back seat of a <a href="http://revellinginthelemongrass.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">tuk-tuk</a> surrey with the fringe on topcarefully balancing over bumpy roads chilled martini up three olives in hand ... as we wend through streets crowded with motos, cars, people, ox carts and the occasional elephant!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Cheers to new happenings, fresh perspectives and a zany sense of the absurd in the enchanted Kingdom of Cambodia whose tragic past is just that ... in the past ... and the air is a-buzz as this ancient country emerges onto the global stage!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-84989048831746593452011-02-03T06:19:00.006+07:002011-02-03T21:36:22.999+07:00Happy Birthday to Me!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TUnoD7AB7SI/AAAAAAAAAjY/O7XCRg4VZmI/s1600/birthday%2Bcake.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569237568295398690" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TUnoD7AB7SI/AAAAAAAAAjY/O7XCRg4VZmI/s200/birthday%2Bcake.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="justify">I arrived.<br /><br />At my big 6-0.<br /><br />Intact.<br /><br />Better than intact.<br /><br />The feeling of exhilaration washes over me. Energizes my being. Good things are in store.<br /><br />It is an auspicious birthday. The Eve of Chinese New Year. The year of, well, me!<br /><br />The 'me' in the sense that I have an exciting agenda that is unfolding. Promising to say the least.<br /><br />And, I feel good. Invigorated. At peace. Joyful.<br /><br />My dolphin energy abounds.<br /><br />I am ready for this, my seventh decade!<br /><br />Finally comfortable with the woman I have become. My inner strengths. My resilience. My playfulness. My vitality.<br /><br />Gracefully I smile as I face forward and stroll into the mellow sunshine of my future.<br /><br />Cheers!</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-25268750242344436202011-01-31T06:47:00.005+07:002011-02-03T21:37:31.411+07:00It's almost here!<div align="justify"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TUYABJn1jGI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/2YHYm1R-Ynw/s1600/Stage%2BNeck%2BInn%2Brestaurant%2BverticalfoodWinter.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 194px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568138009053072482" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TUYABJn1jGI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/2YHYm1R-Ynw/s200/Stage%2BNeck%2BInn%2Brestaurant%2BverticalfoodWinter.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="justify">Today we spent a lovely afternoon at a most delightful table by the sea. Not al fresco. No. That would have been crazy in the twenty degree weather. But close enough to enjoy the sunshine sparkling across a flat winter ocean. Gorgeous.</div><div align="justify"></div><br />So there we were. My gorgeous Mom, my darling sister, her husband my dear dear friend and my step-father. The only ones missing were my precious Charlie and my sweet sister Mary who is enjoying the warmest of weather in her home on the other coast.<br /><br />It was my 60th birthday celebration. A little early due to another impending blizzard. Special. And a day that I'll treasure. Imprinted indelibly. A memory maker. A sliver of rich dark chocolate mousse cake adorned with a raspberry glaze and a dollop of fresh cream. Forks all around. Smiles deep and broad. My loves. My family. My treasures.<br /><br />I am almost there. Oz. The sparkle and contours of my yellow brick road has beckoned these past twelve plus months. Leading me in a most circuitous route through the magic of revisiting old friendships to the joys of making new ones. From reliving prior relationships, to forging forward. Circumnavigating a few rocks strewn not so casually across my path. Gracefully strolling on. My smile glistening. My eyes a'sparkle. My heart open.<br /><br />I enter my seventh decade with a stronger sense of self. Proud of the woman I have become along the way. Empowered by my successes. Humbled by the hiccups. Liberated from preconceived notions that fastened me to a predetermined set of expectations. Free to be me.<br /><br />The runway shortens. Yet my opportunities seem boundless. I look forward with the greatest and most sincere joy to what lies ahead.<br /><br />Cheers to becoming the me I was destined to become. Cheers to my brilliance in imagining the possibilities. Cheers to adventures and discoveries just around the bend.<br /><br />I am well on my way. Look out world! And it is not even Groundhog's Day yet. Just think!! More, much more, to come.<br /><br />Wahoo! Almost happy birthday to me ... </div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-35349928926556266552011-01-29T21:00:00.004+07:002011-02-03T21:38:17.772+07:00I was screwed last night ...<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TUNA1bOcXYI/AAAAAAAAAjI/Ab52d1pHJLg/s1600/Tv%2Bin%2Bbed.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 190px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567364850945645954" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TUNA1bOcXYI/AAAAAAAAAjI/Ab52d1pHJLg/s200/Tv%2Bin%2Bbed.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="justify">... and the screwing got me good. Tight penetration. Difficult to twist. Then all the way in.<br /><br />Sadly, this is not at all what you are thinking.<br /><br />Not even close!<br /><br />My my that would have been a lovely pleasure. A dirty secret dream.<br /><br />But noooooooooooooooo. No such luck.<br /><br />My screwing involved a glistening sleek, hot off the BestBuy register, straight out of the box, tough to fit into place oval stand brand spankin' new flat screen television.<br /><br />Couldn't get it in. Neither of 'em. And lordy I tried. Hard and long.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />The two teeny screws not quite the correct length (size does matter) to slip easily into the openings firmly attaching the stay-in-the-box until tightly fastened screen. Three Phillips screw drivers, a pair of rusty pliers and wire pinchers were needed to guide the screws deeply into the pre-cut holes. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Tightly. No wobbling to undermine the soon to be pulsating signals from my sensitive to the touch, no chemicals allowed, pixillating voyeur into the depths of humankind broadcast throughout the night. Awakening even the most solemn deep sleeper.<br /><br />Not easy. Not one bit.<br /><br />I am out of commission. Way more than I imagined. My nearly sixty year old self limply gripping the rubberized tools. The ones from the shiny red metal tool box gleaming like a fire engine that recently replaced the tattered Barney's bag holding what I know now to be useless hardware.<br /><br />But with sheer determination. I twisted until it went in deeply. First the right, then the left. Success! </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />I have finally arrived. A decade into the new millennium. Resisting until now the sex appeal of the sleek gadgetry of the 21st century. The plug and play allure ... tantalizing me. Luring me to ditch my fifteen year old analog VCR combo and run head first into the decadence of gazing mindlessly into my new lover's high definition face. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Loyalty be damned. I am hooked. Lusting after the clarity. Charmed by its newness. Its youth.<br /><br />Cheers to all things electronic and their ability to at once deflate and excite me! </div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-21054136191217449422011-01-29T00:48:00.005+07:002011-02-03T21:38:42.166+07:00Finally ...<div align="justify"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TUMGAT4jmwI/AAAAAAAAAjA/HGV3397u7Fo/s1600/close_the_deal1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 157px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5567300166767319810" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TUMGAT4jmwI/AAAAAAAAAjA/HGV3397u7Fo/s200/close_the_deal1.jpg" /></a><br />... after nearly three months of law, law, law there is touchdown.<br /><br />A connection to the me that was.<br /><br />My prior life. The one in the steel and glass scrapers of the sky in Manhattan. Connection.<br /><br />Now it is personal. And maybe, just maybe, there is a place for me after all as an integral part of a legal team. God, I was hoping.<br /><br />Corporate law. Commercial transactions. Litigation of perfected priorities, ownership rights, use of intellectual property.<br /><br />NOT, and I repeat NOT, prostituting the courts with personal melodramas of "he said, she said, and I don't care what you said because I am right" and who the hell really cares?<br /><br />Or the proliferation of product liability cases where ... of course, dumb ass, if you stick your penis in a vacuum hose for a thrill that you'll get that jolt ... it just might be electric in the real sense of the word. Gheesh.<br /><br />So now it hits home. My home. Yay. A discussion question on the online boards re just what floated my professional boat three decades ago. The germination of my interest, nay passion, in consummating a deal. The thrill of the negotiations. The exhilaration of closure. Ahhhh!<br /><br />Having spent years on the proverbial other side of the table as senior lender syndicating mega-million dollar credit facilities among multiple money center banks, the due diligence that I undertook coupled with the preparations for these humongous closings took considerable time and the coordination of a team of many, many players.<br /><br />Always, and I mean always, these deal ran to the wire. The last possible moment before the deal fell apart due to expiration dates on purchase agreements, etc. Invariably these were on a Friday. Or the last day of the month. And more than I care to remember, the last day of the calendar year. Goodbye week off between Christmas and New Years. Hello prickly sofa in a Wall Street law firm in between rewrites of documents being negotiated to the 11th plus hour.<br /><br />And, all of these HAD to be signed, sealed and delivered (i.e., UCCs files in multiple jurisdictions, mortgages recorded and released if necessary, etc.) BEFORE funds were wired anywhere. And with a 2 PM cutoff, it made for a hectic, exhausting but somehow energizing final few hours. And to top it off, more than a few deals also involved assets being secured in Louisiana where French law is still in place. Don't even ask!<br /><br />So here I am on the legal team. Not the client. And wow, there is as much due diligence, if not more.<br /><br />Steps I'd take to conduct and finalize DUE DILIGENCE for a $10,000,000 secured revolving credit would entail:<br /><br />-- Discuss terms of deal, parties, jurisdictions, timeline with my supervising attorney.<br />-- Start a file for all documents in preparation for the closing and to satisfy the opinions to be expressed in our law firm's Opinion Letter.<br />-- Create a Due Diligence checklist based on the discussion with the supervising attorney, the term sheet, etc. to be used also as a basis for the Closing Checklist and Closing Books.<br />-- Review term sheet, bank's letter of intent, Bank's commitment letter for deal specifics (amount, rate, term, maturity, repayment schedule, prepayment penalties, assets to secure facility, negative and affirmative covenants, reps and warranties, personal guarantees (if any).<br />-- Determine salient facts of transaction.<br />-- Review financial statements of entity and personal guarantors.<br />-- Confirm business entities involved actually exist and are in good standing in states of organization.<br />-- Check to ensure that if they are operating in multiple states that they have duly registered as foreign corporations and entitled to do business there.<br />-- Review bylaws and actions of the board to ensure that entity is empowered to enter into the credit facility and can encumber its assets.<br />-- Also for signatories who will execute documents. They must be empowered by board and duly authorized to sign on behalf of the entity to pledge assets, borrow funds, etc.<br />-- Identify and review financial statements of parties.<br />-- Identify and review all assets of parties to ensure they exist where they are said to (inventory, A/R, deposits, equipment, buildings, etc.)</div><div align="justify">-- Review licensing agreements and other IP for changes of control, transferability, assignment issues.<br />-- Order UCC and title searches.<br />-- Prepare UCC-1 and mortgage filings.<br />-- Keep copies of all documents received and provide draft (version) control for all red-lined changes in security agreement, etc. </div><div align="justify">-- Blah, blah blah<br /><br />In essence, my responsibility is to ensure that based on due diligence and proper filing of all financing documents that all is accurate and there are no errors or omissions. That the senior attorney on the case can opine as to the points in the letter to the client. Daunting to say the least!<br /><br />For the CLOSING, I would prepare the following:<br />-- Closing Checklist of all documents needed to be signed<br />-- Stickies on all documents (and enough signature pages for multiple copies) where signatures and dates are required<br />-- Copies of all documents from due diligence phase together with recording and filing documents (UCC-1s, Mortgages) in order so that they can be accessed or referred to as needed during the closing.<br />-- Verification of time and date and location filings are recorded before funds can be wired. This is critical.<br />-- The completed file will serve as the basis of the Closing Books.<br /><br />Whew ... and it is not over yet. Follow up on open items with copies (and conformed copies) of signature pages or pages with initialled changes included in respective document.<br /><br />And I am certain I left something critical out of the mix. But hey ... at least I am back in the game. Sidelined no longer.<br /><br />Cheers to new beginnings and the everlasting ability to reinvent my professional self ... and why my musings have been delayed since October!! </div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-83460053218014547912010-12-31T03:33:00.010+07:002011-01-03T05:55:49.740+07:00Pump Boys and Dinettes ... or the global travels of one pair of Brooks Brothers patent leather formal pumps with grosgrain bows<div align="justify"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TSEBTrTim9I/AAAAAAAAAio/oQH98yy3rgU/s1600/CAF%2Bin%2BJM%2527s%2BAll%2Bthat%2BJazz%2B%252811.30.2010%2529.jpeg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557724852705729490" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TSEBTrTim9I/AAAAAAAAAio/oQH98yy3rgU/s200/CAF%2Bin%2BJM%2527s%2BAll%2Bthat%2BJazz%2B%252811.30.2010%2529.jpeg" /></a><br /><div align="justify">Lesson learned. UPS is better, faster, more reliable (hands down) than its closest competitor who coined the generic overnight delivery term. But noooooooooo. Not this time. Took nearly a week for the white package with the blue and red logo to wend its way from our nation's capitol through Newark to southern Maine. Boo hoo on them. Yay, UPS!!</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 145px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557723913282333906" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TSEAc_rjLNI/AAAAAAAAAiQ/TMn7JqO0q-A/s200/ups%2Btruck.jpg" /><br />But the shoes. Charlie's precious shoes. The ones ordered from Brooks Brothers in November made it in time. The nick of time, I might add. But in time. Thanks in part to the diligence of his lovely chestnut haired Mama (c'est moi) and the ubiquitous brown trucks and planes that fly through her hometown in the deep blue grass and whoosh ... across the earth. Made a special compensatory nod to Charlie's dilemma, and delivered them with hours to spare. Around the world in a nano-second. So he could dance, Fred Astair had nothing on my boy, into 2011.<br /><br /><br /><div align="justify"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 35px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557723913478552642" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TSEAdAaVPEI/AAAAAAAAAig/v4A_wKAqrDQ/s200/Brooks%2BBrothers%2Blogo.gif" />Santa's route, indeed.<br /><br />The jolly bearded man in the red suit belted with a wide black cinch belt and spiffy high top black well polished boots looking oh so courant could make the trip around the circumference of the globe in the twinkle of his eye and a twitch of his pug nose.<br /><br />But not the FedEx-express. Nope. It's UPS all the way from here on out. No choice. Not unless requested specifically by the recipient.<br /><br />I should be so lucky. To travel from the east coast of the United States, through the rolling hills of Kentucky, pop up to Alaska, over the Pole and then wend my way to southern China and the new Hong Kong home of my darling son.<br /><br />But ... ah ... I am. Fortunate. I, too, will be following that route through Newark, over the pole (hey there Santa, pooped ol' man) and into the booming island metropolis where my sweet Charlie has taken up residence. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />In February! In celebration of my 60th. Wahoo!<br /><br />Cheers to safe travels ... to me ... dancing shoes ... and the new year!</div></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-51646005806984197842010-12-20T23:01:00.010+07:002011-01-03T06:32:17.350+07:00Knocking the Doors Down<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TSEJqIeAWBI/AAAAAAAAAi4/iNHYhCLAKHI/s1600/mad-men-2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 133px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557734034584393746" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TSEJqIeAWBI/AAAAAAAAAi4/iNHYhCLAKHI/s200/mad-men-2.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div align="justify">Curled up and leaning on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">trapunto</span> stitched blue and white <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">toile</span> headboard on a lazy Friday night, my darling Grandma Alice, for whom I was named, would rub my back and tell me that all good things were in store for me. </div><div></div><br /><div>We spoke of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">boundaryless</span> travel and thousand-count boudoir linens and entertaining at home ... and of course, romance. </div><div></div><br /><div>She was a restless romantic. </div><div></div><br /><div>I inherited that from her.<br /><div></div></div><br /><div align="justify">We wear our hearts on our sleeves and turn a blind eye to faults and warning bells and red flags. And, flames. Wow, have the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Alices</span> been burned. But rub on the salve, cover the wound with cotton gauze and with a flip of the head race in for more.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">I'd listen intently, soaking up her glamour. Her femininity. Her siren songs. Lost in the Rodeo Drive and I. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Magnin</span> wonderment of what was to come my way. The gold cigarette holders dangling gracefully from a turned hand while men in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Packards</span> sped me to a candlelight supper where the Los Angeles (that's a hard 'g') lights twinkled through the windows onto her dreamy world.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ooops</span>. Did I say me? I wanted, with every fibre of my being, her word would portend my future. That my darling Grandma Alice was a soothsayer about my future love life. The deep, dark and alluring matinee-idol eyes which would peer into my hazel green eyes glistening with wonderment ... and who would wine and dine me and line up down the block waiting to take me ... <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">oui</span> moi ... out on the town.</div><br /><div></div><div>Ha!</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">Not on match.com ... nor <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">jdate</span> ... nor baddate.com. Sadly, not in the Harvard personals or an exotic airport <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">lounge</span> halfway around the globe ... nor the boardrooms of Manhattan ... a friend's dinner party. Nope. No line of eligible, drama-free, emotionally healthy males waiting for little <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">ol</span>' me. Much less clamoring and teetering to get past the butler through the portal to my lair.</div><br /><div align="justify">But I know in my heart. I truly do. Every time it flutters with hope and knowledge. That my guy is out there. The one who will make my spirit sing and my soul giggle. Who gets me in a way that is natural. Who lets me be me. And, I him.</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">That we will connect inspires me. Motivates me. Ignites the fuel that will connect the two of us in some unimaginable way.</div><br /><div></div><div>Cheers to my lover ... I am getting better with age ... and so is he!</div></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-61948396853027284942010-11-22T05:13:00.006+07:002010-11-22T23:13:01.497+07:00Lost All My Baby Fat ...<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TOqWTAt8mAI/AAAAAAAAAh8/z5rObGbP6Io/s1600/turkeys05.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 185px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542407544787212290" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TOqWTAt8mAI/AAAAAAAAAh8/z5rObGbP6Io/s200/turkeys05.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="justify">... it has been over 22 years. And I finally did it. Yep. Shed those unwanted pounds that accumulated when I gave birth to my 9 pound 10 ounce bouncing baby boy.<br /><br />Wahoo! It took more than two decades, but I have arrived back at my fighting weight.<br /><br />And surprisingly I feel great. Am not a major biatch. In fact not one at all. Haven't wanted to chew off my leg or arm. Amazing.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">Again ... loudly and proudly WAHOO!</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />So wanted to slide into my sixties with elegance and grace and slender. My old self. Physically and mentally. Shed the excess ... be free. Really free to move forward.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />And I have done it. Lost the last five pounds. Doubled. Just to dare myself to be myself again. Lighten the load.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />All would be well 'ceptin' my Mama ... in her most honest phase ... did mention that I look fabulous but might need to do something with my neck. So you know what? For the first time <em>ever </em>I am not going to pay her any heed. Sorry Mom! Love you dearly. But this girl's gotta do what this girl's gotta do!</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Cheers to shopping in my belt drawer ... and all that jazz!</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-64209635320012912012010-11-16T07:18:00.006+07:002010-11-16T08:36:04.701+07:00Organic!<div align="justify"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539943714046841810" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TOHVdL9rk9I/AAAAAAAAAhk/FCyucZthtIQ/s200/Organic%2BFood.jpg" /> Somehow I backed into organic food.<br /><br />Me!<br /><br />Imbiber of eight TaBs a day. User of dozens of those pink Sweet 'n Low packets on everything from grapefruit to oatmeal to vinaigrette to hot drinks and cold ones, too.<br /><br />Oooh, I love fake sugar. In fact I adore sugar. Am a processed food lover extraordinaire.<br /><br />Apparently.<br /><br />Ersatz low fat or better yet non-fat cheeses, sour creams, half and half. Kind of defies the laws of nature.<br /><br />So how did I back into this reader of labels and purchaser of foods sans chemicals?<br /><br />Well, the simple truth. A diet recommended by my good friend Gayla.<br /><br />I have been wanting to detox. Nope. Not from martinis ... I drink them rarely. Not from Newport Lights ... I stopped puffing my two packs a day almost thirty years ago ... not from a lusty Cab or a sexy, smoky Malbec. No overindulgence there. I never sip alone. So that leaves me sober as a granite stone.<br /><br />Then what? you are asking.<br /><br />So if you really care to know. Drumroll ...<br /><br />Chocolate chip cookies. Baking almost every night to be able to eat the batter (I know, I know salmonella lurks between the blades of the beaters). Brownies. Blueberry crumble. Banana bread. I swear I only buy fruit to see what I can bake it in with a streusel topping. Oh yes and candy. Most kinds. But M&Ms ... peanut ones ... by the bagful are my fave. Or coconut patties handdipped in dark bittersweet chocolate. The ones from Florida in the rectangular box. And, yep, that ubiquitous saccharin sweetener that I sprinkle on or stir in everything.<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539943713264031522" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TOHVdJDC1yI/AAAAAAAAAhc/bo3pYcZx-kA/s200/Sweet%2B%2527n%2BLow.jpg" /> <div align="justify"><br />You'd think I wouldn't be able to fit through a door. But I manage. Although there have been times when I bump into the refridgerator bacause my sonar is off and I underestimated my hip girth. I am the lightest I have been in over two decades. </div><br />Ah, but I digress.<br /><br />So now I find myself marching up the aisle at the supermarket looking for almond butter, forsaking Skippy's reduced sugar highly processed creamy that has forever been a staple in my larder forever. Or, looking for virgin pressed coconut oil. Arteries be damned. Stevia in green packets replace the Pepto Bismal pink ones that litter the bottom of every purse from every season.<br /><br />I read labels. Pass by all things white. Rice, bread, flour sugar, potatoes, pasta. Gheesh. Forego anything that ends in -ite ... or -ose ... or is difficult to pronounce and makes me feel as if Mrs. Wimp, our 11th grade chem teacher, is spraying her words re marble chips and Hcl as petry dishes bubble steamy.<br /><br />What's a girl to do? Gotta slide into my seventh (OMG) decade in style. Svelte. Healthy. Glowing skin. And speaking of skin ... in black skinny jeans and ballerina flats.<br /><br />Cheers to getting through the holidays with nary a sugar plum fairy hovering over my sweet chestnut mane whispering naughty things in my ears. Ever the temptress. </div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-70433310577358300172010-11-12T05:48:00.012+07:002010-11-16T09:47:52.117+07:00Feng Shui and the Far Corners of My Home<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TOHc18Sl7aI/AAAAAAAAAh0/t2P1Va9--Jw/s1600/Royal%2BCopenhagen%2BTea.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 150px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539951835917708706" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TOHc18Sl7aI/AAAAAAAAAh0/t2P1Va9--Jw/s200/Royal%2BCopenhagen%2BTea.jpg" /></a><br /><div align="justify">Yesterday afternoon my new friend Jessica came over for tea. At 4 o'clock. A rather proper tea I might add. Unusual for this dyed in the wool New England village.<br /><br />Nonetheless, I dusted off (rinsed out really) my underused blue on grey porcelain Royal Copenhagen Tranguebar tea and coffee service schlepped by my parents on the plane from their wintertime visit to Denmark in 1969. Gifts for each of their three girls. Not sure what Willy received, but I am confident it wasn't a tea service.<br /><br />Mom disembarked into the International Terminal at JFK in New York wearing a most gorgeous pin seal coat from Berger Christianson ... (which incidentally hangs four decades later in my closet lengthened six inches from its original style when dresses and skirts were Mary Quant short-short never to be worn again for fear of someone throwing red paint in my direction protesting the murder of innocent endangered Scandinavian sea mammals). Not sure what Dad's souvenir was ... although I do remember some Aquavit on the bar when I was home that Christmas.<br /><br />Jessica is my cohort at the cavernous 12,000 square foot antiques shop where I dally on a very very limited part-time basis ... and she works regularly.<br /><br />Jessica, the self-proclaimed Obama Mama hales from a Nordic line herself and has the lemon white locks and azure eyes to prove it. She is an interior designer who needn't rely on workrooms because she can slipcover and make curtains like no one's business. A bona fide pizza oven is nested into the wall of her study next to the fireplace where her organic flatbread creations utilize only those ingredients grown in her five-acre yard replete with pond and cat-tails in the country. The whole wheat flour ground by her own hand from select crops across our country. She is most talented. Knowing Jessica is like having a jack-of-all homemaking trades at my disposal.<br /><br />But one of the most fascinating parts of Jessica's not-so-hidden allure is her ability to commune with nature spirits and, using herbs and tinctures grown around the pond in her lush vast gardens, make concoctions that heal what ails you. No. Not the psychedelics. But real remedies like the Native Americans or early pioneers.<br /><br />So when she appeared at my front door she first regaled in my home. Its lovely accessorized and wallpapered rooms, an eclectic mix of antiques and hand-me-downs from my grandmothers with a pink flamingo lamp or a contemporary brass sculpture tossed in casually. She loved my home. And that made me smile.<br /><br />But then she wanted to know which door (I have five leading to the outdoors. Imagine five in an 1800 square foot home!) I use to enter and exit the house.<br /><br />We share an eclectic spirit, adventuresome sensibilities (read: wanderlust) an insane Dolphin energy.<br /><br />Cheers to my new friend and local cohort!</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-32292290892240290942010-10-26T00:07:00.014+07:002010-10-26T02:13:52.385+07:00Sweet Dreams, My Darling<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TMXHkfY4WWI/AAAAAAAAAg0/fRluhyhfk2M/s1600/CAF+with+Jets+on+JM+Junk+(10.16.2010).jpeg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532047147009595746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TMXHkfY4WWI/AAAAAAAAAg0/fRluhyhfk2M/s200/CAF+with+Jets+on+JM+Junk+(10.16.2010).jpeg" border="0" /></a> It's the two month mark. <div></div><div><br />And we are doing great.</div><div><br />Both of us.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div align="justify">Redefining our paradigm. Our mother-son relationship. Our devoted family of two now spanning the globe.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>The 8,000 miles that separate us. His night; my day. Has brought us closer together. Amazing.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>This position is a perfect fit for Charlie. Perfect. It is as if he was hired solely on the basis of a few things:</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>1) He was a member of Hasty Pudding. </div><div></div><div align="justify">Although I am confident they think it was the theatrical wing. Costumed events. Rat races through Central. Singing skits. A sedan race in a team dressed as Rocky Balboa ... tailor-made black satin hooded boxing robes emblazoned with a gold dragon over silk trunks ... wow six men to a team carrying a tiny woman perched atop her ancient Asian chariot.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>2) He's a jolly good sport.</div><div></div><div align="justify">And can be called upon at a moment's notice to play cricket, in a tourney no less, when he has never held a bat in his hands. Or to start for the firm's soccer team when his last foray into shin guards and slimy shorts (as he called them then) was when he was in kindergarten and he stayed on the team only long enough to get his baseball-type card for posterity. In fact, all the rules and strategy that he knows about the game came from years of Sony PlayStation soccer matches with his Norweigan college friend!</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div align="justify">3) His senior honors thesis advisor is a highly celebrated global rock star who looks like Tony Blair, is a Brit and dazzles the press with his nonformist, contrarian views. An economist unparalleled. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div align="justify">That Charlie is a scholar whose post-colonial studies over the final six years of his education, depth of compassion, utmost sense of fairness, poise and passion ... or that he is fluent in Mandarin. Merely footnotes. I am guessing.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div align="justify">In ways he feels as if this firm, this storied colonial firm whose two Scottish founders colonized Hong Kong for Great Britain leveraging China trade to the Western world by their foothold at the gateway to Asia was tailored for him. A perfect fit. Whether five years, several decades or until retirement.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div align="justify">That opium was a primary export is immaterial. That the Opium Wars raged virulent in the early 1800s spiced up the landscape and adds to Jardine's backstory. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div align="justify">That trade with America was opening up in a very big way from ports in Canton (now Guangzhou) and Peking (now Beijing) propelled their business across multiple industries spanning the maps of the New World.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div align="justify">That the sea faring tall ships embarking across the globes waters from Boston and Nantucket were built in Maine and that the remnants of these shipbuilding landings still dot the shores of the Kennebunk River bring this home most poignantly over two centuries later.</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>The circle gets smaller. Aided by technology. But mostly by brave intrepid souls like my precious son. The new explorers. Pioneering in a new world order shedding the temptations of easy street in the familiar turf of New York or London to cast his net far and wide.</div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532047140942163426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TMXHkIySreI/AAAAAAAAAgs/78fp9Y4asm0/s200/CAF+Bedtime+(10.25.2010).png" border="0" /> <div></div><div align="justify">Sweet dreams, my Charlie. I am so proud of your spirit and ability to imagine the possibilities!</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-60963986994214785162010-10-19T20:29:00.014+07:002010-10-25T10:52:24.338+07:00Missed Calls<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TMTOpQCFWoI/AAAAAAAAAgU/K5z1EYtdrtU/s1600/Missed+call.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531773450391476866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 135px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TMTOpQCFWoI/AAAAAAAAAgU/K5z1EYtdrtU/s200/Missed+call.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Is that my mobile phone vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans signalling a call? </div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Or my untoned ass jiggling as I stroll through town on my daily walk, Bailey tugging not so gently on her leash?</div><div></div><br /><div>Yep. Missed call. Good lord. Another one.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">With the colder weather ... the need for gloves to warm my fingers against the frosty morning air ... and the zippered fleece substituting for a warm weather lining under my quilted Barbour barn jacket ... I miss calls. Many of them. And that is too bad. </div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">I only receive calls from a few of my dearest friends, my sisters and of course, the lovely Bobbie (my gorgeous mother who checks in daily if I don't first). </div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">Talking on the phone accelerates my outings. Time zips by. Before I can say "holy shit, is that my phone buzzing or an errant nerve ending?" I am back at my front door.</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">The only problem presented is how to gracefully bend over to scoop up the remnants of Bailey's breakfast, balance my ever present water bottle while keeping the phone delicately in place between my shoulder and ear so as not to interrupt the conversation.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Dropping it on the cement sidewalk. Now that would be a disaster of the first order. Missing that infamous call from <em>Dialing for Dollars</em>. Unfortunate. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />This is my lifeline. My rolodex. No one knows (nor do I want them to) the number of my landline. </div><div></div><br /><div>I am too mobile. Me and the phone. We are well suited. We fit.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Maybe I should set the phone to Vibe and Ring. Place it in the pocket of my coat. Or leave it at home.</div><div></div><br /><div>Hmmm. Decisions. </div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-50751399935810291092010-10-05T18:03:00.009+07:002010-10-26T09:56:05.266+07:00There's No Place Like Home<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TMZAZnG4OWI/AAAAAAAAAhM/-mmjtFhmhSU/s1600/ruby-slippers-wizard-of-oz.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532180001009973602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TMZAZnG4OWI/AAAAAAAAAhM/-mmjtFhmhSU/s200/ruby-slippers-wizard-of-oz.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">Finally after nearly six and a half years I am calling this home. Finally.</div><br /><div></div><div>Not parenthetically <em>for the time being</em>.</div><div></div><br /><div>One of my feet or t'other has been ready to bolt periodically since I moved here.</div><div></div><br /><div>I have teetered on the threshold one step out the door.</div><div></div><br /><div>That's not right. Not fair. To me. To my family. To my friends.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">I live close to my darling, precious Mama. Have the dearest friends and most lovely neighbors. Am active in town and other civic affairs. Am vested in my quaint community village near the sandy Maine coast.</div><br /><div></div><div>But most importantly ... my home, that I treasure and adore, is my nest.</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">So without further ado I am going to figure out what it takes to integrate my physical self and emotional being into this one place. To subdue the wanderlust rearing its perky head for the moment. To roll up my shirtsleeves anew and enmesh myself in the fabric of my hometown.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">I know that I will continue to travel the world adventuring and connecting with the diverse cultures across the planet.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">I know that I will find my life love who together will cherish and protect me and love me quirks and all. As I will him. Together we will share in the bounty of our families and the riches of unexplored experiences. Who will co-imagine the possibilities even if they are slightly askew. And who might balance our lives partly in my antique village home and then his abode ... wherever. </div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">I know that the proximity to my darling Mama was paramount to my relocation to this corner of the world. And I am oh so appreciative to have the ability to frequently share an outing, a read on her porch overlooking the harbor, by the crackling fire watching a DVD and sharing giggles past midnight on one of our beds. She is my bestest bud. My confidant. My precious mother.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Just as I know that moving here would allow Charlie the opprotunity to board at school and begin the rest of his life was critical ... fueling his personal journey.</div><div></div><br /><div>I am blessed. </div><div></div><br /><div>And furthermore ... to hell with loneliness ... the one thing that doesn't reside here anymore!</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-78225215887208732062010-10-04T01:50:00.012+07:002010-10-06T00:18:35.837+07:00Ballet Shoes<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKpb4AgKYKI/AAAAAAAAAek/odexM7agmfI/s1600/ballet+shoes.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524328910689034402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 145px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 140px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKpb4AgKYKI/AAAAAAAAAek/odexM7agmfI/s200/ballet+shoes.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">My Mom took my pudgy hand in hers, our fingers laced, as she walked me down the wooden stairs of the stone church in St. Matthews to a large studio awhirl with cotton candy swirls. Mirrors framed the room's perimeter creating silvery-taupe reflections of the polished wooden floor. </div><br /><div align="justify">An upright piano stood solitary along the back wall. A woman with grey-blue hair tied delicately in a bun tinkled the ivories while little girls in black leotards and pink tights giggled as they twirled and slid gleefully. </div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">My steps were careful. One pink Capezio slipper in front of the other. My tummy filled with butterflies and magic. My first ballet lesson was about to begin. I was three.</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">Rooted deep within my being is an adoration of all shoes ballet. Not the toe shoes with pink ribbons encircling the turn of an ankle tied in a bow at the curve of a calf. From a prior life perhaps, when pirouetting en pointe was part of my daily regimen in the gaiety of 19th century Parisian courtier. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />I simply adore the graceful turn of a skimmer flat. The way it sits on the foot framing its shape, toe cleavage peaking shyly at the curvature of the last.</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">Through the decades I have always worn some variety of the delicate flat in a multitude of colors. Textures. Embellishments. Accoutrements.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Black patent Capezio (but of course) skimmer flats with mother of pearl buttons accessorized my frilly, hand-smocked 1950s birthday party dresses fanning tutu-like over ruffled crinoline slips. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />As a French student abroad in the mid to late 1960s, I purchased a half dozen assortment for 21 francs au Printemps in Paris. $4.20 a pair. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />In college I paired the ballet flat with my black velvet bell bottom pants sliding effortlessly across whatever dance floor, or not, I found myself on.</div><div></div><br /><div>Today, some fifty plus years later, my closet is filled with ballet flats. Mostly all are black: suede, patent, leather, velvet, silk, metallic, lizard. Some adorned with a small bow or a gold doo-dad. Most naked.</div><div> </div><div></div><div><br />I wear them everywhere. Even my bedroom slippers are pink kid Capezio ballet dance shoes sans elastic strap. Replaced, mais bien sûr, when tattered.</div><div></div><div></div><div><br />Audrey Hepburn chic. Skinny capris and a cigarette holder held limp in an arched wrist. I so enjoy the balance they bring to my gait. A stroll. A glide. Charm. Grace. </div><div></div><br /><div>I will never apologize for my love of ballet flats. Jamais.</div><div></div><br /><div>All of life should be so harmonious. Cheers!</div><div></div><div></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-26762249011848127312010-10-02T18:28:00.017+07:002010-10-02T22:58:21.949+07:00Laughing Faces<div align="justify"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKdB_JQtPNI/AAAAAAAAAeE/oZ9CHlx8HeA/s1600/Laughing+Face+1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523456021066759378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 90px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 114px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKdB_JQtPNI/AAAAAAAAAeE/oZ9CHlx8HeA/s200/Laughing+Face+1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">What is up with the universe? No I mean it. What gives?<br /><br />As soon as ... and I mean <em>as soon as</em> ... I drove away from his apartment complex he had rejoined (or maybe he never resigned) one of those online dating services.<br /><br />So you are asking: How do I know? And, what was I doing perusing the catalog of eligible sixty-somethings in a part of the northeast some 200 plus miles away?<br /><br />Simple.<br /><br />First, I am not a paying member. Nope. Not for me. Five years ago, well that was another story. Yep, back then I went out with ... count 'em ... two and a half dozen unattached guys everywhere from here to Buenos Aires. And to be honest, only a handful were what I'd call datable. One is still a dear friend. But the others? I can honestly say that there are around 24 women scattered over the country that are waking up every morning with a huge smile on their faces and screaming: THANK GOD HE'S NOT SLEEPING IN MY BED ANYMORE!<br /><br />So why the look-see?<br /><br />Simple.<br /><br />My darling friend, and fellow BSer, recently parted ways with her online dating partner after two years. They had grown apart. And if I do say so myself, weren't really headed in the same direction anyway. But that is not for me to judge. Anyhoo, she checked the site absentmindedly and drumroll ... amidst the sadness and crocodile tears that were streaming down the man's cheeks was his picture as big as day: Active within 24 hours.<br /><br />So I said to myself: Hmmmm. Weren't those emails from the dating site in his gmail inbox when I last visited? You know right under the letter from his daughter that he asked me to read? No. He wouldn't be searching while he was professing that I was the love of his life. That he couldn't believe his good fortune that we reconnected again after 17 years. That I was: Easy to love and that he'd <em>never</em> let me go.<br /><br />So he must have done an about face. Or was searching all along. Just in cases. But no. In one of his final communications he emphasized that it might take another few months to appreciate me and we should just be friends. Appreciate me? He has had, off and on, 39 years to figure me out. But I digress.<br /><br />He wrote that he is a simple man and wants to focus on two things: his thirty year old daughter and managing his shrinking retirement funds which were downsized by the shift in the markets a few years ago. Out with his love life.<br /><br />But I looked anyway. And lo and behold his gorgeous eyes were staring back at me from among the lineup of eligibles in his neck of the woods. ACTIVE WITHIN 24 HOURS. Whoa ...</div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="justify">In a nutshell, I was saved by his tantrum in the car a few weeks ago. Big time. His head in his hands.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />So who is smiling now? Me! </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Not because I am happy with this turn of events. I am not. I truly thought this was our forever. But because it is early. Any later and I would be devastated.<br /><br />To my tomorrows ...</div></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-86165760902266601182010-10-01T22:49:00.006+07:002010-10-02T05:52:13.144+07:00In a Flash<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKZiNSXgCmI/AAAAAAAAAd0/YtOVAxgDkxc/s1600/cyberspace.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523209973424720482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 130px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 152px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKZiNSXgCmI/AAAAAAAAAd0/YtOVAxgDkxc/s200/cyberspace.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKZh9YxT-rI/AAAAAAAAAds/ffwhKDdtjQU/s1600/Laptop.jpg"></a>I am cyber-challenged.<br /><div></div><br /><div>Not that I cannot wend my way through the world wide web. I can. </div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">But I am all thumbs and no brain when it comes to getting a new device up and running. Like my new Sony Cyber-Shot camera. Or, the Lenovo ThinkPad Edge I am picking up from Best Buy tomorrow. Fear pervades my every pore. Swirls through the vacuous dimensions of space.</div><div></div><br /><div>Fear that I will lose my entire Outlook Contact List. Or, my email trails for Charlie, Mom and all my bestest friends. What happens then? Gheesh. Or, my blog posts in Word format. And the tax return backups for the past umpteen years. </div><br /><div></div><div>Techno-paralysis.</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">With Charlie 8,000 miles from home how can I be assured that all this will transfer? Seamlessly. Like before. The mishy-gosh that is currently connecting my Dell Latitude laptop to my wireless router. Will this all be lost, too?</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">Can I trust the geek who, in under 30 minutes, sets it all up. He is about 14 years old. And this is not his laptop. His photos. His files. His life on my C drive. I don't think so.</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">With trepidation I will back everything I can up to my stick drives. Yep, two of them. Fingers crossed that I can connect to Charlie via Skype. Connect to BU's online paralegal course which starts in a few short weeks.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">This is why I rub the letters off the keys before I agree to upgrade. Next time I'll be Medicare eligible. Now that is worth the wait.</div><div></div><br /><div>In the meantime, wish me luck!</div></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-43188579611674705172010-09-30T21:15:00.011+07:002010-10-01T06:43:45.425+07:00Dancing with Fits and Starts<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKUftCm7rAI/AAAAAAAAAcs/iU7a9P9mBek/s1600/Allie+Jive+Dancing.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522855376694520834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 172px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKUftCm7rAI/AAAAAAAAAcs/iU7a9P9mBek/s200/Allie+Jive+Dancing.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Greetings from yet another fork in the road!</div><br /><div></div><div>Okay. By now you are wondering. I am wondering. Where is this going? Where has it been? Why all this jumping around?</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Well to be truthful this has been one hell of a wierd and wacky few months. One in. Then out. Another in. Charlie woking in NYC. Then home. Then over the pole. The other out.</div><div></div><br /><div>Zig-zags. Ups-downs. Those crazy, hazy days of summer a big fucking blur.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">So I am trying to get it all back in sync. To follow the journey. Dodge the bullets. Hop over the rocks coming Indiana Jones-style down the hill.</div><br /><div></div><div align="justify">I'm all over the place trying to fill it all in. The open but not yet finished nor published posts. My hopscotch to the big 6-0.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Not so gracefully, but ahead none-the-less. One foot in front of the other ... a hop ... a pas de deux ... puis en solo encore. Déplacement par mon individu. You get the picture.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Thanks for indulging me this diversion. This foray into the what could have been and what is in reality. My loves. Unblemished recounts of the unconventional dance to which I am learning the steps.</div><div></div><br /><div align="justify">Maks, Derek, Corky ... where are you now that I need to become in tune with the melody that is enriching my story?</div><div></div><br /><div>I, too, want to dance with the stars. I'm dancing as fast as I can ... so don't drop me now!</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-43579131756671471202010-09-30T06:00:00.005+07:002010-10-01T08:07:08.631+07:00Safe!<div align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKSad8HyjUI/AAAAAAAAAbU/zJrebGXb5K4/s1600/Baseball+runner+sliding+into+home.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522708882208755010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKSad8HyjUI/AAAAAAAAAbU/zJrebGXb5K4/s200/Baseball+runner+sliding+into+home.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:78%;"> [Image from zazzle.com]</span><br /><br /><div align="justify">Sliding into home plate. A race against the whizzing ball. Dirt flies. My calf gets hit. A yellow-purple bruise the size of a peach erupts on the underside of my leading leg. The right one. I hit the canvas bag. Hard. Tears sting my eyes. I look up at the blur of the cheering crowd. I am safe. Once again. Home. </div></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-71717664031632222462010-09-27T22:51:00.010+07:002010-10-02T23:15:06.581+07:0055 ... and Floating<div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKdYWlYqFmI/AAAAAAAAAeM/QnQhu5T5-QY/s1600/WF2+(September+2000).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523480613009102434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 133px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKdYWlYqFmI/AAAAAAAAAeM/QnQhu5T5-QY/s200/WF2+(September+2000).jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Happy birthday, sweet William.</div><div></div><div><br />Today would have been your 55th. </div><div></div><div><br />A celebration marked not by joyful toasts and the tinkling of ice cubes, but whispers to the universe.</div><div></div><div align="justify"><br />You are close by always, tucked safely into that velvet pocket in my heart. We speak often. Of jazz, of entrepreneurial insights, of raising sons.</div><div></div><div><br />I miss you, darling brother. Cheers!</div><div></div><div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523480616372736306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 169px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 161px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKdYWx6nETI/AAAAAAAAAeU/oWrnVnRqSdw/s200/pepperland+(wf2).jpg" border="0" /></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-74417199257706942062010-09-24T20:35:00.009+07:002010-10-01T03:17:28.397+07:00My 2 Gs<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKTr1C-ncXI/AAAAAAAAAb8/94Q4g0m8tCo/s1600/Girl+Friends+Celebrating.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522798339628167538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKTr1C-ncXI/AAAAAAAAAb8/94Q4g0m8tCo/s200/Girl+Friends+Celebrating.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify">What would I do without my best girlfriends? My 2 Gs in a 4 G world?<br /><br />One lives on the edge of the prairie, where the dust devils swirl when the wind blows wild and woolly across the plains. The other lives in the foothills of my beloved Rockies where wolves and elk roam her neighborhood and snow drifts ten feet high in January. </div><div></div><div align="justify"><br />Gale and I were study group partners at b-school over thirty years ago in that academic mecca called Boston. We bonded and together with Judy racked up As to the utter dispair and frustration of the uber-competitive all male teams. Crazy smart. Our sensibilities, intellects and sense of selves aligned. We rocked their boats and emerged successfully into the world of biz.</div><div></div><div align="justify"><br />Fifteen years ago, Gayla and I befriended each other in the carpool line at our sons' grade school. Third grade boys who were ... and are ... the apple of our eyes. She and I walked and talked and got to know each other through middle school years of dances and football games. Our similar upbringings as one of three sisters and the mothers of the most precious boys this side of the Mississippi forged our forever friendship.</div><div align="justify"><br />We stay in touch ... my soul sistahs and me ... over the miles, through the years via phone, email and irregular visits. I love them both. Dearly. Each is from a most special part of my life. But neither knows the other. Sadly. They'd like each other.<br /><br />Cheers to Gale and Gayla ... love ya, darlins, like sisters! LYLAS!</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-47475013601485663052010-09-22T19:07:00.025+07:002010-10-26T07:19:17.124+07:00BP<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKTiGyP5ePI/AAAAAAAAAb0/bNHnEjNi_74/s1600/capping+the+well.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522787649258617074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 120px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKTiGyP5ePI/AAAAAAAAAb0/bNHnEjNi_74/s200/capping+the+well.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Today officially ends the summer of wackos.<br /><br />Capped. Cemented shut. Gushing no more. The Deep Horizon well. And, me.<br /><br /><div align="justify">Yep. Since spring of this year. BPs loom large. Wreaking havoc with innocence. Casting a pall. Shrouding the light. Science, technology and chemistry run amuk.</div><br /><div align="justify">BP (British Petroleum): The gulf oil spill gunking up the waters, the shores, sea life for decades to come. Polluting the environment and the economy in catastrophic proportions. </div><div align="justify"><br />BP (bipolar): Men mucking up my sense of stability. My good natured self. Wreaking havoc with my soul. Their tortured demons spilling into the calm of my sea. My compassionate self swept into their respective storms. One right after the other. Boom. A one-two jab. Sucker punched. Jerked back and fro by my own gullible doing. Their episodes rocking the boat. Capsizing my confidence. My sense of self. My dreams. Another crack in the lens of my once-rosy view.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">The well that spewed millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico is finally dead. So is the craziness of the summer. The ups. The downs. The all-arounds. Revived dreams. A make-good. Bringing my best self. Real. Honest. Compassionate. Giving. Loving. Trusting.</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">So today marks the end. Officially.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />A permanent cement plug sealed BP's well nearly 2.5 miles below the sea floor, five agonizing months after an explosion sank a drilling rig and led to the worst offshore oil spill in U.S. history. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />A tourettes-like rant out of nowhere, unsolicited, uncalled for, undeserved, devalued my values, intellect and belief system plugged my romantic heart, three hope filled months after being reawakened after seventeen years. <em>Get out of the fucking country. </em>What?! OMG. Jolted into reality. Exactly why it all fell apart twice before. [A girl can hope, can't she? Or, be stupidly blinded. Guilty as charged.]</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Dead. Both the deep water oil well and the recent resurfacing of my so-called life love. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />I dodged a bullet. Again. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />The light filters in. Oddly I still feel that there is something great just around the corner. I just know it. Bring it on. This time leave the BPs out of the equation.</div></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-91829250813845351372010-09-21T05:17:00.005+07:002010-10-02T05:54:46.655+07:00Back to the Future<div align="justify"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKVDzIfw7sI/AAAAAAAAAc8/PuDrB-dzvbs/s1600/Time+Machine.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522895063772884674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKVDzIfw7sI/AAAAAAAAAc8/PuDrB-dzvbs/s200/Time+Machine.jpg" border="0" /></a>To say that I am crushed is an understatement. I am overwhelmed that this man, my first real love, could disappoint me for the third time. It is over. Fini. Final.<br /><br /><div align="justify">Once again his inner turmoil, his pent up not-too-far-below-the-surface anger bubbled up. One insult after another. Rage. Battering my intelligence. My values. My belief system. </div><br /><div align="justify">We are not meant to be. I’ll leave it at that. But this rejection. This pushing away. It manifested in less than a week. A shock to my senses. </div><br />Not that he hasn't behaved exactly the same. He has. In exactly the same manner.<br /><div align="justify"><br />But the words he professed. How easy it is to love me. His earnest desire to provide a safe haven. Emotionally. To never hurt me again. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />The changes he swore he internalized over the decades. The declarations of love. Of honoring my spirit and protecting my soul. Of caring deeply, profoundly for the woman I became from the girl he knew. He betrayed that confidence. Not only with me. But my darling mother. And, my precious son. He vowed to the three of us that he was back in our lives forever and a day. To honor and cherish our deep bonds that span four decades.</div><br /><div align="justify">Now he wants me to be <em>just friends</em>. To satiate his codependency. But that I cannot do. I am extraordinarily independent. And, more importantly, I do not trust him. Not as a friend. Nor an equal. I would have to carefully measure each of my words so as not to throw him into a tailspin. So that I am not shut down. Pushed aside. Ignored. It is not meant to be. In any capacity.</div><br /><div align="justify">I am the fool. I believed. Deeply and utterly. And ... I must let it go. Learn from the experience the richness of what I offer. My boundless generosity. My patience. My serene nature. My exquisite love. </div><br />Solo I journey onward with grace. Stronger. Wiser. More loving than before.<br /><br />To my resilience and inner strength ... cheers! </div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-42559592003435748382010-09-19T04:51:00.010+07:002010-10-26T07:08:47.777+07:00Grand Central Station<div align="justify"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKdi_CN2n9I/AAAAAAAAAec/8h__l265EIE/s1600/Grand+Central+Station.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523492303059460050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 128px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKdi_CN2n9I/AAAAAAAAAec/8h__l265EIE/s200/Grand+Central+Station.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />The first time I arrived alone on a train at Grand Central Terminal I was eighteen. Not that that was my first visit to the city. I was a frequent guest for most of my life.<br /><br />It is familiar. In that part of my genetic makeup way. Not sure why. But it is.<br /><br />My memories of that bejeweled grand dame -- the storied train depot -- began, however, in my formative years.<br /><br />Under six, I believe. Not sure how old. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Visiting my aunt, uncle and cousins in leafy Summit, New Jersey. A trip into "the city" to see the first of many Broadway musicals. <em>Peter Pan</em>. Starring Mary Martin. A very special treat. Dressed to the nines in a smocked cotton dress, Capezio Mary Janes and white cotton gloves we boarded the train to the Emerald City ... ah, New York.<br /><br />Little did I know that (1) the filming of this classic play would be a television holiday broadcast every year of my childhood, or (2) that I would be disembarking on a platform leading to this majestical station hundreds of times.<br /><br />I just remember that it was magical. In that sparkly Oz kind of way. Mesmerizing. Alluring.<br /><br />Her cavernous domed ceilings etched with gilded arches and pediments. So very different from our train station on Broadway in Louisville where the L&N whisked me to Lexington stays with Ma and Baba, my maternal grandparents who would later be known as plain ol' Grandmother and Grandfather.<br /><br />The city sparkled glittery. Pulsating with an electric current that coursed through my veins the moment the train submerged into the darkened underground rails of the city. I arrived flushed at dinnertime. In awe.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Thousands of businessmen ... uniformly attired in tailored flannel suits, their felt hats placed just so on their carefully groomed heads ... streamed by grey-brown neon. Their leather briefcases deftly swerving to avoid unnecessary impact. Beautifully choreographed. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Women in silk dresses, delicate high-heeled pumps and nylon stockings raced this way and that. Some with fox collars; others on their way from the glass and steel office buildings lining the streets of Manhattan carrying brown bags and bulky purses.<br /><br />Evisceral. Stimulating. I knew then I wanted to be part of this world. </div><div align="justify"></div><p align="justify">And over the years, I was.</p><div align="justify"></div><p align="justify">College nearby brought me into The City all the time. Dressed in style to fit the day: bell bottom Landlubber jeans when weekend hippies. Sophisticated little black mini dresses and pearls when partying at The Dakotas or Pen and Pencil. Lovely wool dresses trimmed to match Papagallo shoes, our coats when meeting a friend's parents for tea. We could play the part. Any part. And did.</p><div align="justify"></div><p align="justify">My early penchant for government and the American legislative process introduced me to political campaigns. Handing out leaflets for cousin Dick Ottinger's senate race. Telephone polling for support of Lindsey's mayoral re-election. Accompanying Andrew Stein in his inaugural bif for the City Council to the decaying streets of Bed-Sty to meet and greet the edgy constituents. </p><div align="justify">Earth Day. Autumn peace rallies at the NYC Library serenaded by Joan Baez and Peter, Paul and Mary with speeches from Bella Abzug and Ralph Nader. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />So many times I whirled through the now familiar portal, flowed up the escalators through the Pan Am building exiting through the arched hallways onto Park Avenue aglitter with holiday twinkle lights or fields of yellow tulips. Often just heading out the lower doors to hail a cab or catch the subway at 42nd street to the Village.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Theatre of the street, the absurd or legit. At the Fillmore East seeing rock's legends before they were known, on the stage, <em>Hair</em> (eight times) in one season backstage, in the house seats of the compliments of the producer's niece, my dear Jorie, Cafe La Mama, concerts on Central Park's Great Lawn, the Village Vanguard and Blue Note, hip Bleeker Street, seedy Times Square. 25 cents and breakfast. Ah, the memories. </div><div align="justify"></div><p align="justify">Shopping sprees at my four Bs ... porting enough shiny black boxes and elegant striped bags to make Holly Golightly's spree pale in comparison.</p><div align="justify"></div><p align="justify">The time my friends, Chris, Sue, Jill and I missed the last train back to Westchester and slept on the floor as close to the Information Booth as humanly possible. The Commodore and Biltmore Hotels atop Grand Central unwilling to allow us a room for the night. Thinking we were god knows what. Four preppy girls in Gucci shoes and Pucci panties. But how would they know that?</p><div align="justify"></div><p align="justify">Once, when traveling back to college alone after having met my parents for drinks When I fainted and nearly collapsed amid a sea of swirling people rushing past. The time we didn't have enough cash to purchase our ticket and borrowed from a man who looked like Dad (and whom I later repaid in full).</p><div align="justify">I came of age here. Me and Holden Caufield. Grand Central the portal to newly shaped values, passions and delights.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />So it saddens me to be seated on the circular bench this gorgeous September afternoon in the recently spruced up waiting area outside the track that will once again transport me to Westchester with an uneasy feeling in my gut from an unknown source. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Things just don't feel the way they should.</div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-75304654925059507192010-09-17T22:27:00.007+07:002010-10-01T07:24:56.180+07:00Shut It Down<div align="justify"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKUokWGtmII/AAAAAAAAAc0/SrGFXiPczMo/s1600/shut_it_down.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522865122913917058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 130px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKUokWGtmII/AAAAAAAAAc0/SrGFXiPczMo/s200/shut_it_down.png" border="0" /></a><br />Well it happened.<br /><br />I was shut down. Again. In less than a week.<br /><br />He really has no interest in what makes me, me.<br /><br />Just that I jive with his rigid logic and fearful ways.<br /><br /><div align="justify">An adult, an attorney, I expected more. At least the courtesy of being heard. Then the debate, if necessary. A spirited discussion. Listening to the other. Not being swayed, just presenting the case. Debate in the true sense of the word. No animosity. Intelligent parlaying of ideas.</div><div align="justify"></div> <br />But that is not the way it is to be. If he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't believe in it, has no idea where I am coming from then ... poof ... <em>don't say another word 'cause I am not listening.</em><br /><em></em><br />Rude. Immature. Uncaring.<br /><br /><div align="justify">And this is someone who loves me? Swears up and down that I am the love of his life. Sa raison d'être. No way, José. </div><br /><div align="justify">So I close my eyes. Roll to the far edge of the bed heart pounding loudly within my chest try to fall asleep. Not to brood. Dissipate his anger. His not-so-hidden rage. </div><br /><div align="justify">Without an explanation, a decent one, this is the final blow. Perhaps the morning sun will shed some light on his tone. Maybe not. But I will quietly and calmly speak my peace ... then move.</div><br />Yikes. Shutting me out redux. No more. I want to be heard. Not agreed with. Just listened to.<br /><br />Is this asking too much?<br /></div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8665929329301682988.post-61113786243698431512010-09-14T21:01:00.014+07:002010-10-26T09:08:53.086+07:00La Mama, A Wedding Cake House and A Fellow Lexingtonian<div align="justify"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKUSXEhJ9QI/AAAAAAAAAcc/QCa_XPWfzE8/s1600/Wedding+Cake+House,+Kennebunk.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522840705598878978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TKUSXEhJ9QI/AAAAAAAAAcc/QCa_XPWfzE8/s200/Wedding+Cake+House,+Kennebunk.jpg" border="0" /></a>My beautiful mother gracefully slowly swung her long still-coltish legs to step out of the car. I was there to balance her step into the gravel shoulder on Summer Street. </div><div align="justify"><br />Her deep brown liquid eyes scanned the historic homes and manicured landscape taking in every minute detail. Her face glows. Her smile, her signature smile, spread across her face beaming.<br /><br />It is a gorgeous September day. One of those clear bright ones where the sky is so blue that the vibrancy of each autumn leaf pops with definite edges. The palette is breathtaking. Vivid reds, rusty orange, lemony yellow.<br /><br />Quintessential New England brilliantly color-coordinated by Mother Nature herself. The other decorator extraordinaire.<br /><br />Mom has impeccable taste. </div><br />Always has.<br /><br />Whether it is the warmth of a gracious life reflected in her interior design.<br /><br /><div align="justify">Her bountiful gardens laden with budding bougainvillea vines leafing over trellised porticoes. Or the clematis and wisteria snaking up and over twin pergolas framing her screened veranda overlooking the harbor. </div><br /><div align="justify">Or, the elegant style of her clothes ... whether jeans or dressy slacks or evening attire. Accessorized perfectly from her over-abundant collections. Scarves tossed casually, perfectly accenting her outfit. Whether Maine<br /><br />Mom's got <em>it</em> in a way I can only hope to imitate.<br /><br />Her soft Kentucky drawl breaks my rambling thoughts. She wants to bottle today. Protect and save its ephemeral beauty with her treasures. Those collected over a lifetime. Her eighty-plus years.<br /><br />A warmth envelopes my being. She is elegant, my Mom. Simply stunning. These days, too, are fleeting. We turn to each other and nod knowingly.<br /><br />On to our business. Touring the rarely opened Wedding Cake House. Hosted by its eccentric octogenarian owner, Jimmy Barker. A fellow Lexingtonian. A Southern gentleman art dealer of the first order. A character in his own right with homes here on the coast of Maine, in the rolling bluegrass of Kentucky and in swanky Palm Beach.<br /><br />We purchase the tickets which will benefit local food pantries and stroll the immaculate grounds. Birds sing. A few leaves swirl and fall to the ground. The gentle breeze flutters flower petals in the English urns on either side of the front door. We take a seat on a lovely painted Chinese Chippendale outdoors bench. And wait for the small group to assemble.</div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Inside the Wedding Cake House we are treated to its fabled historied past. The furnishings are period some. Others fine pieces giving the home an eclectic spirit. Old and new. Like us. Our style. I escort her from one room to the next. Up the narrow winding 18th century staircase built by out of work ship carpenters. Like in my home. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />Jimmy Barker himself is there. Cooking for his dinner guests. The lovely walnut trestle table set in a riot of colors. He spins around looking spry for his eighty-something years. He and Mom connect. Stories from earlier times in their old Kentucky home roll excitedly off their tongues. Memories of people long forgotten stream back. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />I stand aside and take it all in. Happily. Mom is enraptured. There accents so thick a knife might not cut through. It has been a fun afternoon reminiscing. Visiting old friends in an out-of-context surroundings.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532158718600260274" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 176px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 152px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_LCftlo2luZQ/TMYtCz8_qrI/AAAAAAAAAhE/17YUAIEbkiQ/s200/BBK+-+AF+Reading+Room+(8.5.2010).jpg" border="0" />Cheers, darling Mama, with all my love and deep devotion ... and then some! May you live forever. </div>Steel Magnoliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10783619834217060682noreply@blogger.com0