dog

I wish I could be more dog
     more on my back in the grass, sun warming my belly
     more determined buzzing insect hunter
     more devoted to another
     more rolling, jumping and twisting
     more soulful, searching eyes
     more waiting for further information
     more chasing rabbits while I sleep
     more absolute passion towards every morsel I consume
     more standing by, no matter how long it takes
     more unrestrained joy when I see the one I adore
     more sharp curiosity about new faces
     more determination to fight a threat, even before it's fully identified
     more pulling on my leash to see what's around the corner
     more diving in with glee
I wish I could be more dog

ode to the one to whom I am addicted

You consume me.
I consume you.
Your sweetness calls to me and draws me near.
My token resistance stems from my awareness
       the you do not nourish me.
Nay, you increase my unhealthy ways.
And yet, I want you more and more.

I gaze at you sometimes, as you sit near me, unaware.
And I, longing for you, want to cry.
You're oblivious.
It will have to be my move.
No, I think, I will NOT DO IT.
But sooner or later ... I slink in your direction.

Pecan Pralines from Trader Joe's ...
     you undo me.

croissant

I lift the pillowy dough onto the cookie sheet while you taste the coffee I made for you. "These should be ready in about 15 minutes." You nod, surveying my croissant operation. You reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, lingering to caress my cheek. You wouldn't be so impressed if you knew I bought the frozen dough from the grocery store yesterday. Best thing since sliced bread - just leave out overnight to thaw and proof. And delicious!

The oven light goes off, so I scoot the cookie sheet in and set the timer. I bring out butter and cut some into a ramekin, setting it on the stove top to soften. You gather me up, holding your body against mine. Your nose is buried in my hair. I try to remember when I last washed it. Does it smell good, I wonder? "I don't know what I like best," you whisper, "the way you look, the way you smell, or the way you taste."

Months later, after I've left you, I still have to admit that your line, which you may or may not have said to dozens of women before me, is still the best I've ever heard. I smile when I think of it, which is every time I bite into a freshly baked croissant, forever linked to the feel of your beard scratching my cheek and to the scent of coffee on your sweet lips.

full disclosure

In Wellesley, Massachusetts, our house was built on a hilly lot. The original owner carefully landscaped to create an upper front yard and a lower front yard. Into both sections, Daddy had sunk empty orange juice cans into the dirt to create our own miniature golf course around which we happily played. The back yard was a largely ignored hill of weeds with a narrow stretch of green at the top of the hill next to the back of the house. I remember Daddy standing almost at the top of a very tall ladder, painting our house a brick red color, just prior to selling the house.

But this day was long before that. It was before the sad day I stood on the platform crying, watching my brother board the train that would take him off to college in Virginia and, unbeknownst to me, out of my life pretty much forever, except for occasional family reunions and rare, strained telephone conversations populated by rapid fire questions on my end and monosyllabic responses on his.

It was long before my oldest sister went off to college in North Carolina, leaving me to take over her tiny bedroom with the built-in furniture. Her departure didn't leave me feeling sad because she made it clear that my mere presence made her want to scream, an opinion that lasted throughout our adult lives until very recently, when she seems to have had a change of heart.

And it was long before Dad and Mom divorced, changing the lives of my other sister and me, leaving us bereft and vulnerable. For without Dad's presence, Mom's narcissism blossomed and we were left mostly to fend for ourselves. My sister descended into depression which still plagues her to this day. And I exploded into a million pieces, flying out into the world without a compass or the experience necessary to tell the difference between a friend or a predator. I would pay the price for all of us.

But that was all in the future. On this day, I was an innocent, unaware at 7 years old, of anything awful that might lie in the future. I was finally speaking English fluently, which meant that cruel taunts from other children were a thing of the past. After answering "I forget" a thousand times, they had stopped asking me to "speak some Japan". In fact, I don't think anyone really remembered that I had ever talked funny.

My best friend Joanne and her younger brother Michael were visiting at our house, We were playing together, laughing and enjoying ourselves. Suddenly, Michael proposed a new game. He said he would show me his if I would show him mine. I didn't know what that meant. He explained that we were different. Well, I certainly DID want to see!!! So we gave each other a glimpse. There was no touching or anything sexual. It was just a show and tell. But afterwards, Joanne spoke to Michael. "Now you know we have to tell Father Donovan what we did." Michael answered, "I know."

What? Who was Father Donovan and why did they have to tell him what we did? Joanne explained to me that they went to something called Confession every week and told Father Donovan anything bad that they did during the week. I was mortified. If they were telling an adult what we did, it was only a matter of time before that adult would tell my parents. I was going to be in BIG trouble. I lived in fear for several weeks after that day, just waiting for the day when one or both of my parents would seek me out to have a conversation about what I had done. But it never happened. It was years before I understood why.

I would like to propose a change in the way Catholic children are trained. I believe they should be taught to provide FULL DISCLOSURE prior to participating in sinful behavior with non-Catholic children. In fact, I would suggest documentation, complete with signatures. The non-Catholic child would thus be protected from many weeks of terror and the process might just prevent all of the children from doing anything.

Joanne might have said, "Wait a minute, Michael. We have to go over the disclosure statement with Cathy before we go any further."

I/we JOANNE and MICHAEL do hearby disclose to CATHY that we are Catholic children. Each week, we meet with our priest and tell him all of the naughty things that we did during the week. He listens and metes out certain punishments, usually repetitive prayers. He keeps all information to himself and does not share our information with any other living human being. So there is no way that CATHY'S parents will find out what we did here today.

Maybe I might have still done it. But I don't think so. I think the whole disclosure process would have dampened my enthusiasm for what we had previously discussed. I would probably have suggested a nice game of miniature golf instead.

janine

She stands at the sink washing her hands, singing the birthday song under her breath. She glances up to find a shocking image. Mismatched pajamas. She looks at her light blue Land's End cotton three quarter sleeve pajama top, which is on inside out. She vaguely remembers throwing it off during the night when she found she was burning up, then rooting for it in the pile of clothes next to her bed when she felt cold again. With it, she's wearing red flannel pajama bottoms that are two sizes too large. Faded penguins wearing scarves and hats decorate the pants. She's had those flannel pajama bottoms for 20 years.

Worse than the mismatched pajamas, she can not remember when she last showered or even washed her hair. She leans in close and studies her skin, not that she can see the dirt and oil that is probably there. She bares her teeth and she CAN see the gunk there. Quickly, she grabs her toothbrush, squirts some Colgate on it and brushes her teeth, followed by a mouthwash blast that makes her shake her head. That will have to do for now. She has Venomhide Ravasaurs to kill.

staying

Oh, light of early morning, chasing fear away and bringing with you a promise, and permission to believe that all things are possible, that nothing is decided just yet. You let me envision joy and the utter relaxation of knowing I did the right thing - that the staying was my best and boldest act. Because running has often been my greatest skill. But staying has been hard, particularly when surrounded by voices that hissed or screamed or whispered - "GO!"

I may yet find that the many voices were right and that the staying was my most ridiculous act - repeated a multitude of times over many, many years. But just in this moment, as the hint of a sun creates hazy pinks and melting oranges across the purple Arizona mountains, I allow myself to imagine the joy that will accompany the sweet knowledge that he was worth it. I stayed and we were worth it. I stayed and we are better for it, a faith rewarded by the sigh of a shared slow release of breath and the sweet smiles as we look into each other's eyes.

susan

Susan was two weeks overdue for her monthly trip to the Hair Castle. Her short cut was looking a little shaggy and her mustache was making its presence known. One of the cruel ironies of aging is that your eyesight begins to go just as your body decides to sprout little black hairs in places you would never have dreamed they would grow. Susan had still not recovered from the view in the 5X magnification pocket mirror she had purchased. So many dark hairs on her face!!! Horrible. How did Charlie find her attractive? Well, his eyesight was going too, she supposed.

Looking in the mirror in her giant "spa" bathroom, she worked with some hair wax to shape her unruly hair into something a little less mad-scientist and a little more just-in-from-the-beach. She wasn't satisfied but it would have to do. Lunch with the Optimist Club was not exactly a major social event, but she would see many people who played a role in her business life, so she didn't want to look disheveled. She wore her red suit, which she always felt confident in, and black pumps. Her daughter had recently convinced her to forego the panty hose, so her legs were bare. That felt quite peculiar, but she supposed she would get used to it eventually. Gold earrings, Tiffany necklace and Coach purse. She was ready.

As she made her way down the stairs, she fantasized about quitting the Optimist Club. She wasn't an optimist and she had no desire to participate in any of the activities or fundraisers. In fact, she hated everything except the lunches at Rita's. She was very fond of Rita's pies. But one could not live in a small, Southern town and not belong to a civic organization. Susan wondered how many people in the Optimist Club felt the way she did. And which was the greater virtue? Being the kind of person who DID want to be there? Or being the kind of person who DIDN'T want to be there, but who attended faithfully anyway?

In the car now, she pressed the button for the garage door. She adjusted the mirror and applied her lipstick as the door rolled up. She put the car in gear and started forward, but jammed the brake pedal when she saw two boys with Halloween masks on, standing in her driveway with their peckers hanging out. They were wiggling their hips around so their small penises danced around in the air. Before she could react, they ran off. Honestly, why did boys and men always think the world revolved around their private parts? Even Charlie unveiled his as if she should be newly astonished and impressed every time she saw that thing. And she played her part, oohing and aahing over it and everything he did with it. To be honest though, she could have easily lived without ever seeing it again. But she'd never tell HIM that! Oh, no!

Driving down the hill towards town, she passed by other large houses with immaculate lawns. Is this my life? Is this all there is ever going to be? Susan felt like rolling down her window and screaming out, "Lord, give me some magic and excitement!" She would give anything to find herself transported to another life, one in which she had a daily dose of fun. Maybe she could become an artist and live on a commune. She waved at her neighbor Jimmy, out walking Aristotle, the little frou-frou dog that he shared with his roommate, Howard. Everyone knew they were a couple, but since they never talked about it, nobody ever said anything - not to their faces, anyway.

Crap. She had forgotten her list. She didn't have time to go back, so she'd just have to try to remember what was on it. She knew she needed to grab some crafting supplies. The grandchildren were coming home with her after church on Sunday so Mike & Shelly Ann could have some "alone time," as they called it. Susan planned to make Christmas ornaments with the two older kids during nap time for the youngest. It would be an ungodly mess, but they would have fun and Shelly Ann would be forced to hang the tacky things on her precious tree. Susan smiled to think of it. She didn't care for her daughter-in-law who had a permanent case of one-upmanship that mainly ran towards comparing her things to Susan's things. If Shelly Ann actually found herself liking something that Susan had, she would drop hints about it, hoping that Susan would give it to her. Susan sometimes packed an item and put it away, just so she could lie to Shelly Ann and tell her she had sent it to her daughter in Seattle. She loved seeing the mixture of astonishment and frustration on Shelly Ann's face. She knew it was not nice, but it was the only revenge she could think of for the theft of her only son. Mike would not stand up to Shelly Ann, which was smart, Susan supposed. He wanted peace and he got peace as long as Shelly Ann had her way.

What else did she need? Oh, a new journal. Hers was almost full. She had long ago realized that Charlie read her journal. He often read it while she was out showing houses on Saturday. She could always tell because he had sticky fingers from his Crackerjack addiction. She had even found popcorn residue. So she had stopped writing her deepest secrets and now used the journal to communicate wishes to Charlie about gifts, vacations and restaurant picks. She pretended that she believed he was coming up with these ideas on her own. Maybe he had figured it out. Maybe he hadn't. But it worked for them, so she kept doing it.

amendment 1 is dead

Amendment 1 is dead in North Carolina. Of all of the efforts of the hateful among us, amendment 1 cut me to the quick more than any other. North Carolina is my birth state. And although we moved away before I turned one, we returned in time for my high school years. I also attended college there. And almost every summer of my life, I have returned to a small mountain community where my extended family has summered since 1906. My heart is always in North Carolina and the hate that was there codified into law hurt me deeply.

As a heterosexual woman, how do I explain the ignorance and hatred that leads to such an action by other human beings? It is un-explainable. It boggles the mind that otherwise loving people, many who profess to follow the teachings of Christ, could commit such a heinous act. I wept frustrated and angry tears when it happened. Today, I weep tears of joy that the almost 900 days of legal discrimination are now behind us.

Tomorrow and forever, love wins in North Carolina. With 30+ states now celebrating love, the rest of the country will follow. The idiot states are always last when it comes to doing the right thing and that pattern appears to be holding true. But even they will come around eventually. So, today I cheer!!! Love wins!

jimmy

The morning light filters through the beige vertical shades, which shiver from the movement of the ceiling fan, casting ever-changing geometrical patterns of shade on the dingy carpet. There is the slight smell of dog, as if someone has made a Herculean effort to clean up an accidental puddle, but hasn't quite conquered the odor. The air shifts and the smell is gone. Then it's back, causing me to wrinkle my nose.

Everything is almost in its place, but there is just enough out of place that I know I'm in the house of someone who simply isn't that committed to a regular cleaning routine. The Arizona dust lightly covers the television stand and the shelves in the cubby whose door stands open, as if my arrival interrupted a search for an item. A blue exercise ball sits in one corner, an empty ceramic plant pot in another. A few scattered leaves are in the pot, suggesting the presence of a large plant that didn't make it.

From where I'm sitting, I can see tracks on the carpet where people have walked through the room. One track travels from the front door to the hallway, another from the front door to the sliding glass door and a trough just in front of the sofa. Besides the dirt, there are small pieces of debris here and there - a thread, a small, torn piece of blue paper and assorted unidentifiable pieces of dark stuff, all small enough to just barely be noticeable.

"Here we are," Jimmy carols, bringing in a tray. His magnificent orange and blue caftan flows around him as he moves towards me. I am so thirsty and am thrilled to see glasses of iced something. Is it tea? And a plate of cookies. They look like Pepperidge Farm. Things are looking up.

"Please look over my mess," Jimmy begs, "I have not given this place a thorough cleaning since I got back from the cruise. I haven't even done laundry!"

"You should see my place," I lie. "It's a complete disaster area. Stuff everywhere!"

"Oh, I'm sure your place is gorgeous." Jimmy hands me a glass. I take a sip. It's tea and it's sweet - but not TOO sweet. "I fixed it Southern style, just for you."

"Delicious." I say, because it is!

Jimmy hands me a paper napkin, then offers the plate of cookies. I take one - a Pirouette, my favorite. Jimmy lets out a trill of laughter. "One cookie? Don't make me look bad!" I take two more - a Bordeaux and a Brussels.

"Thanks," I say. "These are my favorite cookies." Jimmy nods.

I wonder how long it will take for the subject to come up. I'm not bringing it up. If Jimmy wants to talk about it, he'll have to be the one. I study his face. He is munching on a Chessman and studying the carpet. I bet he's thinking about how to start. Finally, he looks up at me and smiles. I smile too.

"Do you know why I invited you over?" Jimmy asks. Okay - here we go.

I take another sip of my tea. "I have an idea, but I was going to wait for you to bring it up."

Jimmy gets up and walks back into the kitchen. He comes right back, carrying coasters, which he places on the table between us. I put my glass down. It makes a click sound when the glass meets the coaster, which has a colorful sun face on it.

"I heard that you sometimes look into things for people." Jimmy says. I nod my head, waiting. "I need to know where Rico went." There it is. It was exactly what I was expecting. Ahead of me, I see hours and hours of crazy travel, including Brazil and all points between. I'm happy to take it on, but I'm not sure if Jimmy has the money.

"Jimmy, sometimes people don't want to be found. And finding a person who doesn't want to be found can be extremely expensive."

"I just inherited a lot of money from my grandmother. I can afford to send you around the world several times over." His hands flutter as he talks, like birds trying to get out of an aviary. He picks up a cookie, then puts it back down. "I just need to know. He doesn't even need to know that I was looking."

"Rico knows me. If he sees me, he'll know it's you that's looking."

Then Jimmy is crying, but just barely. Tears flow from his eyes and he carefully blots under each eye, trying not to smear his make-up. "I'm an idiot," he says. "But the heart wants what the heart wants." Emily Dickinson, no less. He's in deep.

Not a stranger to unrequited love, I nod. I know I'm going to do it, so I might as well get to it. "You know I'll help you in any way I can. Tell me anything you do know that might help me find him. Then we can calculate what the first few weeks will cost you. I can't travel right away because I have some other commitments, but I can do some work from here to get started. If you want to go forward, I'm committed."

Jimmy swoops me up into a bear hug. His caftan smells of L'eau D'issey and the material is silky against my face. He lets me go. "I knew you would." We both sit back down. He holds out the cookie plate. What the hell, I think. I take two more.

fitbit II

Well, here we are a month later. I am easily getting my 10,000 steps per day. In the Arizona heat, some planning was absolutely vital to my success. Luckily, Priscilla, my recently adopted chiweenie, is an early bird. She starts her energetic rousting process between 4 and 5 each morning. She usually succeeds in getting me out the door by 5. We walk the entire circumference of the complex, which is just under 1500 steps. Sometimes we go a bit further in order to achieve the REAL goal of our walk. (Dog owners will know what this is. People who don't like dogs will NOT want to read about it.)

If I am working that day, I can count on 4000-5000 steps at work. At the library, I spend a good deal of time sitting at the front desk. But I often walk with customers to various sections of the library to help them look for something or to help with a computer. (I find it comical that I am helping anyone with a computer.) When I'm in the book drop, there are many, many walks from the book drop slot to the check-in computer. When I look back at my daily steps, I can see that my total number is really determined by my time in the book drop. I also volunteer to carry donations to the back room. Heck, I volunteer for anything that involves adding steps to my daily count! (And I still absolutely LOVE working at the library! It's the perfect post-retirement job for me.)

The rest of my steps I can easily add in with remaining walks with Priscilla and normal walking within my home. The real challenge is on days that I'm NOT working. On those days, I resort to walking inside my small apartment, which feels absolutely ridiculous, but works! I've counted during a walk through my space and it adds up to 180 steps. This means that I just need to calculate how many trips are needed to get to my goal and pace myself to get there. It is boring. But my other option is to go over to the little workout room on the property and walk on the treadmill. At least at home I can walk during TV commercials. Or I can turn on some great music and walk through three songs (or whatever.) I'm rather fond of John Phillips Sousa for marching about my house.

The best news over the last month is that I've lost 32 pounds since I started working on it in early May. I didn't get my Fitbit until June 26th, but I'm glad I got it when I did, because my weight loss had definitely plateaued. Walking those steps has allowed me to add more carbs to my daily calorie intake. I also do some beginner Yoga stretches and some other specific exercises to help my muscle growth.

Fatty McPhatty (introduced to you two posts ago) was very helpful in pointing out that I certainly deserved a pig out day when I hit 175 pounds (down from 203.) For once, I let Fatty have her way. My sweetheart and I went downtown to the Phoenix Market and enjoyed some delicious food off the various food trucks that gather there on Wednesday nights. Music was good. Food was good. Company was good. Although I'm blessed to have a partner who loves me and my body no matter its size, I feel better each day and he can't argue with that.

I'm now at 171. My goal is 140. Feeling confident and healthier than in years! I even pulled some pants out of my closet that I haven't worn since 2008. I originally bought them for my trip to Tahiti and I have pictures of myself wearing them. I wondered, how much further do I have to go before I can wear these? I tried them on. They fit!!! They're even a little loose in the hips. Amazing.

So far I've avoided spending money on new clothes. If I can shop my own closet, why buy clothes that I might be too small for in another month? But at some point, I will run out of old things. I remember donating things I thought I would never fit in to again. Oh well! Forward march!!!