Dancing with Fits and Starts

Greetings from yet another fork in the road!

Okay. By now you are wondering. I am wondering. Where is this going? Where has it been? Why all this jumping around?

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.

Zig-zags. Ups-downs. Those crazy, hazy days of summer a big fucking blur.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Maks, Derek, Corky ... where are you now that I need to become in tune with the melody that is enriching my story?

I, too, want to dance with the stars. I'm dancing as fast as I can ... so don't drop me now!

Safe!

[Image from zazzle.com]

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.

55 ... and Floating

Happy birthday, sweet William.

Today would have been your 55th.

A celebration marked not by joyful toasts and the tinkling of ice cubes, but whispers to the universe.

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.

I miss you, darling brother. Cheers!

My 2 Gs

What would I do without my best girlfriends? My 2 Gs in a 4 G world?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Cheers to Gale and Gayla ... love ya, darlins, like sisters! LYLAS!

BP

Today officially ends the summer of wackos.

Capped. Cemented shut. Gushing no more. The Deep Horizon well. And, me.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So today marks the end. Officially.

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.

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. Get out of the fucking country. 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.]

Dead. Both the deep water oil well and the recent resurfacing of my so-called life love.

I dodged a bullet. Again.

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.