Revelling in the Lemongrass ... jump-starting my life in a tuk-tuk!

Wow.

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.

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.

And to top it off I leave Monday. This Monday, April 2nd!

I can soon be found half-way across the globe exploring and adventuring in the tufts of mosquito-repelling lemongrass at the confluence of three great Southeast Asian rivers. 

Join me as my ramblings continue from the batik-covered back seat of a tuk-tuk 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!

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!

Happy Birthday to Me!

I arrived.

At my big 6-0.

Intact.

Better than intact.

The feeling of exhilaration washes over me. Energizes my being. Good things are in store.

It is an auspicious birthday. The Eve of Chinese New Year. The year of, well, me!

The 'me' in the sense that I have an exciting agenda that is unfolding. Promising to say the least.

And, I feel good. Invigorated. At peace. Joyful.

My dolphin energy abounds.

I am ready for this, my seventh decade!

Finally comfortable with the woman I have become. My inner strengths. My resilience. My playfulness. My vitality.

Gracefully I smile as I face forward and stroll into the mellow sunshine of my future.

Cheers!

It's almost here!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The runway shortens. Yet my opportunities seem boundless. I look forward with the greatest and most sincere joy to what lies ahead.

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.

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.

Wahoo! Almost happy birthday to me ...

I was screwed last night ...

... and the screwing got me good. Tight penetration. Difficult to twist. Then all the way in.

Sadly, this is not at all what you are thinking.

Not even close!

My my that would have been a lovely pleasure. A dirty secret dream.

But noooooooooooooooo. No such luck.

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.

Couldn't get it in. Neither of 'em. And lordy I tried. Hard and long.

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.

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.

Not easy. Not one bit.

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.

But with sheer determination. I twisted until it went in deeply. First the right, then the left. Success!

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.

Loyalty be damned. I am hooked. Lusting after the clarity. Charmed by its newness. Its youth.

Cheers to all things electronic and their ability to at once deflate and excite me!

Finally ...

... after nearly three months of law, law, law there is touchdown.

A connection to the me that was.

My prior life. The one in the steel and glass scrapers of the sky in Manhattan. Connection.

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.

Corporate law. Commercial transactions. Litigation of perfected priorities, ownership rights, use of intellectual property.

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

So here I am on the legal team. Not the client. And wow, there is as much due diligence, if not more.

Steps I'd take to conduct and finalize DUE DILIGENCE for a $10,000,000 secured revolving credit would entail:

-- Discuss terms of deal, parties, jurisdictions, timeline with my supervising attorney.
-- 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.
-- 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.
-- 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).
-- Determine salient facts of transaction.
-- Review financial statements of entity and personal guarantors.
-- Confirm business entities involved actually exist and are in good standing in states of organization.
-- 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.
-- Review bylaws and actions of the board to ensure that entity is empowered to enter into the credit facility and can encumber its assets.
-- 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.
-- Identify and review financial statements of parties.
-- Identify and review all assets of parties to ensure they exist where they are said to (inventory, A/R, deposits, equipment, buildings, etc.)

-- Review licensing agreements and other IP for changes of control, transferability, assignment issues.
-- Order UCC and title searches.
-- Prepare UCC-1 and mortgage filings.
-- Keep copies of all documents received and provide draft (version) control for all red-lined changes in security agreement, etc.

-- Blah, blah blah

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!

For the CLOSING, I would prepare the following:
-- Closing Checklist of all documents needed to be signed
-- Stickies on all documents (and enough signature pages for multiple copies) where signatures and dates are required
-- 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.
-- Verification of time and date and location filings are recorded before funds can be wired. This is critical.
-- The completed file will serve as the basis of the Closing Books.

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.

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.

Cheers to new beginnings and the everlasting ability to reinvent my professional self ... and why my musings have been delayed since October!!

Pump Boys and Dinettes ... or the global travels of one pair of Brooks Brothers patent leather formal pumps with grosgrain bows

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!!

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.

Santa's route, indeed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

In February! In celebration of my 60th. Wahoo!

Cheers to safe travels ... to me ... dancing shoes ... and the new year!

Knocking the Doors Down

Curled up and leaning on the trapunto stitched blue and white toile 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.

We spoke of boundaryless travel and thousand-count boudoir linens and entertaining at home ... and of course, romance.

She was a restless romantic.

I inherited that from her.

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 Alices been burned. But rub on the salve, cover the wound with cotton gauze and with a flip of the head race in for more.

I'd listen intently, soaking up her glamour. Her femininity. Her siren songs. Lost in the Rodeo Drive and I. Magnin wonderment of what was to come my way. The gold cigarette holders dangling gracefully from a turned hand while men in Packards sped me to a candlelight supper where the Los Angeles (that's a hard 'g') lights twinkled through the windows onto her dreamy world.

Ooops. 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 ... oui moi ... out on the town.

Ha!

Not on match.com ... nor jdate ... nor baddate.com. Sadly, not in the Harvard personals or an exotic airport lounge 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 ol' me. Much less clamoring and teetering to get past the butler through the portal to my lair.

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.

That we will connect inspires me. Motivates me. Ignites the fuel that will connect the two of us in some unimaginable way.

Cheers to my lover ... I am getting better with age ... and so is he!

Lost All My Baby Fat ...

... 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.

Wahoo! It took more than two decades, but I have arrived back at my fighting weight.

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.

Again ... loudly and proudly WAHOO!

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.

And I have done it. Lost the last five pounds. Doubled. Just to dare myself to be myself again. Lighten the load.

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 ever 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!

Cheers to shopping in my belt drawer ... and all that jazz!

Organic!

Somehow I backed into organic food.

Me!

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.

Oooh, I love fake sugar. In fact I adore sugar. Am a processed food lover extraordinaire.

Apparently.

Ersatz low fat or better yet non-fat cheeses, sour creams, half and half. Kind of defies the laws of nature.

So how did I back into this reader of labels and purchaser of foods sans chemicals?

Well, the simple truth. A diet recommended by my good friend Gayla.

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.

Then what? you are asking.

So if you really care to know. Drumroll ...

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.

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.

Ah, but I digress.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Feng Shui and the Far Corners of My Home

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We share an eclectic spirit, adventuresome sensibilities (read: wanderlust) an insane Dolphin energy.

Cheers to my new friend and local cohort!

Sweet Dreams, My Darling

It's the two month mark.

And we are doing great.

Both of us.

Redefining our paradigm. Our mother-son relationship. Our devoted family of two now spanning the globe.

The 8,000 miles that separate us. His night; my day. Has brought us closer together. Amazing.

This position is a perfect fit for Charlie. Perfect. It is as if he was hired solely on the basis of a few things:

1) He was a member of Hasty Pudding.

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.

2) He's a jolly good sport.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sweet dreams, my Charlie. I am so proud of your spirit and ability to imagine the possibilities!

Missed Calls

Is that my mobile phone vibrating in the back pocket of my jeans signalling a call?

Or my untoned ass jiggling as I stroll through town on my daily walk, Bailey tugging not so gently on her leash?

Yep. Missed call. Good lord. Another one.

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.

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).

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.

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.

Dropping it on the cement sidewalk. Now that would be a disaster of the first order. Missing that infamous call from Dialing for Dollars. Unfortunate.

This is my lifeline. My rolodex. No one knows (nor do I want them to) the number of my landline.

I am too mobile. Me and the phone. We are well suited. We fit.

Maybe I should set the phone to Vibe and Ring. Place it in the pocket of my coat. Or leave it at home.

Hmmm. Decisions.

There's No Place Like Home

Finally after nearly six and a half years I am calling this home. Finally.

Not parenthetically for the time being.

One of my feet or t'other has been ready to bolt periodically since I moved here.

I have teetered on the threshold one step out the door.

That's not right. Not fair. To me. To my family. To my friends.

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.

But most importantly ... my home, that I treasure and adore, is my nest.

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.

I know that I will continue to travel the world adventuring and connecting with the diverse cultures across the planet.

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.

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.

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.

I am blessed.

And furthermore ... to hell with loneliness ... the one thing that doesn't reside here anymore!

Ballet Shoes

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Through the decades I have always worn some variety of the delicate flat in a multitude of colors. Textures. Embellishments. Accoutrements.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I wear them everywhere. Even my bedroom slippers are pink kid Capezio ballet dance shoes sans elastic strap. Replaced, mais bien sûr, when tattered.

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.

I will never apologize for my love of ballet flats. Jamais.

All of life should be so harmonious. Cheers!

Laughing Faces

What is up with the universe? No I mean it. What gives?

As soon as ... and I mean as soon as ... I drove away from his apartment complex he had rejoined (or maybe he never resigned) one of those online dating services.

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?

Simple.

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!

So why the look-see?

Simple.

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.

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 never let me go.

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.

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.

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 ...

In a nutshell, I was saved by his tantrum in the car a few weeks ago. Big time. His head in his hands.

So who is smiling now? Me!

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.

To my tomorrows ...

In a Flash

I am cyber-challenged.

Not that I cannot wend my way through the world wide web. I can.

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.

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.

Techno-paralysis.

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?

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.

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.

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.

In the meantime, wish me luck!

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!