This one's for the girls!

Alright already! So poetry isn't one of my strengths! Lets just pretend it wasn't written.

I'm working on a project (Ooooo that does make it sound important!) that takes a lot more research than I anticipated. Not that I'm complaining! Its actually been a blast going through a ton of teenage stuff and call it research. Especially when one of my two guy friends stop by and see me surrounded by a sea of magazine pictures, posters and diaries. Worst yet is that I am not the perfect hostess my mother taught me to be. Wanna drink? Something to eat? Me? Glasses are in the same place as they've always been, wine, beer is in the 'fridge and anything that doesn't have green fuzzy stuff growing on it is all your's. And I've taken a vow of chastity. Knock yourself out. Funnier still is that they get sort of jealous of my research subject.

My guys always play the age card first,    "You know, Kimmie the guy's, like, in his 70s or something."

"No, he's 56," I counter, too preoccupied to point out that my research subject is younger than both of them.

"He's gay."

"Don't think so. He's got six kids," as I scribble notes from an ancient 'Tiger Beat'.

Finally, "Why are you doing this, Kim? What, you think he's going to see this and give a shit?"

I lift my head and look them dead in the eye, " Know what? As much as I would love him to see this, it doesn't really matter. This isn't about him. Its a sort of tribute to life long friendships. Something I really don't think you understand. Now, go get your beer and watch 'Sons of Anarchy'. I'll join you in a little while," and turn my attention to the more important task at hand.

The amusing thing about this debate I have with these two men is always about this particular guy I'm writing about. They never pay attention to the millions of photos of me and my girls when we were teenagers, all caught up in makeup, clothes, hair, and teen idols. Its my life friendship with these women that are the inspirations for this project.

So let the boys clean out the questionable contents of my refrigerator, drink a few beers and yell at Jax for getting himself in yet another predicament. I'm too busy looking at pictures of the refined sophisticate, the out-of-this-world dreamer and the one who always laughed so hard, her mascara would be half way down her cheeks. They're my past and its important for me to immortalize them (and me) the only way I know how.

And now, back to my research.

Forgive Or Not Forgive?

Regardless of how we were raised, with religion or not, most of us were taught to forgive those who treated us badly. It is,by far, one of the most difficult tasks we try to understand. Ooooo, how good it felt to wish my offender to suffer a horrible case of pus-filled sores and complete baldness (yeah, I guess I've had my moments). Then, when I entered my 30's, I began to understand that my nasty "goochers" (curses) were unnecessary-- Karma would take care of my heartbreaking slights. And Karma is a bitch .But that didn't work, either .I just didn't get the concept of forgiveness.

This morning, one of my best friends, Dan Gibbs, posted a blog named "The Art Of Forgiveness". Its an incredibly insightful blog and I suggest all of you to read it (The Date Manifesto on blogspot). One of his quotes finally made forgiveness easier for all of us to understand:

     " I read somewhere that by letting go of grudges and bitterness can make way for kindness, compassion and peace. Its not even necessary for the other person to ask for forgiveness, but its important for me to grant it. That is when my healing begins."

We read self help books searching for ways to forgive. We seek the opinion of others to help us understand how to overcome this disabling hurdle. Dan seemed to have summed it up in a no-nonsense paragraph.

What a wise man. It is a shame that there are women out there who didn't appreciate the person he is. But that's none of my business. He's forgiven them. And so should I.

The Green Machine

"Are you serious? He said that?" I was sitting cross legged on the floor of my room, the receiver of my princess phone cradled between my ear and shoulder. Various school books and papers were scatter around me, but they were forgotten as I listened to my best friend tearfully describe her boyfriend's latest offense. Personally, I thought the guy was a jackass, but who was I to have an opinion?
 
My Dad poked his head into the doorway of my room and I knew I was busted for unauthorized phone use. " Hey Sue? I've gotta go. My Dad needs me. Talk to you later," and hung up before she could sniffle one more time and pushed the phone away. I was sooooo busted.

My father glanced at the maelstrom of papers, books, and various teenage paraphernalia with his 17 year old daughter at the center. In what seemed like a million years, his blue eyes met my brown ones. I loved his eyes, the color of faded denim. They sparkled when he smiled.

"I'd like to come in and talk to my girl, but I don't know where to step."

I grimmed at him and waved my hand over the mess. "Anywhere. It doesn't really matter."

And it didn't matter--the man wore a 15 shoe size. At 6'3", he had enough trouble avoiding decapitation from the ceiling fan. He finally collapsed on the bed next to me with a WHOOSH .

" I keep forgetting it's a long fall from up there," he gestured toward the ceiling. Then silence. I was starting to get nervous. Maybe I was going to be punished for being on the phone? Maybe my parents had decided to send me to an all-girl boarding school in Outer Mongolia?

"Dad? You said you wanted to talk to me?" I chewed my lower lip and tried to brace myself for anything.

"Well, I've been thinking."

My heart started pounding in my chest.

"You've had your driver's license for over a year now and your mother and I are proud of the respect and responsibility you've shown, even when your friends are driving like lunatics."

Butterflies were attacking my stomach. My heart felt like it was going to explode.

"So we decided to buy you a car of your own." He turned to me smiling as he watched his announcement finally register. When it appeared that the ability to speak may not return for hours, he took my hand and helped me to my feet. "C'mon, lets go take a look."

I jumped up and practically sprinted to the door that lead to the garage, all the while trying to figure out what kind of car waited for me. Could it be the red convertible I begged my parents for as soon as I turned 16? Or maybe it was that black Mercedes the Blond Adonis cruised in? Oh my god!!

Finally, we reached the garage door, the only thing that separated me from euphoria on rubber.

"Close your eyes," Dad instructed and I obeyed, holding my breath. I heard the door open, felt the cool air caress my cheeks, and inhaled all the garage smells, knowing that my beloved car added it's own scent.

"Now...1. 2. 3! SURPRISE!!!!"

The bright lights suspended from the high ceiling  of the garage blinded me for a second.
A large, green blur began to take shape. And it was huge. This couldn't be a car. It was a tank. I was speechless.

Dad didn't notice. "Isn't she a beauty? 1970 Pontiac Grand Prix. 455 cu in V8 engine. Takes off like a bat outta hell." He paced around the car, patting it here, caressing it there. When he reached the front end, his hand formed a fist and he slammed it on the hood. "Hear that? Steel. Solid steel. Nothing's safer. Go ahead! Climb inside! See how the console wraps around you? Exactly the same as a cockpit of a plane."

He was right about that. Yeah, the leather seats were cracked, there was an odd sticky substance that covered the dashboard, but I could handle that. Still there was the matter of the car's color.

Dad tossed me the keys and climbed in the passenger side door. "C'mon. Let's see what this baby can do." He looked like a kid on Christmas morning who still believed in Santa Claus. How could I tell him that this car was the ugliest thing I'd ever seen?

We drove out of town toward acres and acres of nothing but dirt. I had to admit that I liked the cockpit design, felt the rumble of the engine and began to understand why Dad thought that this was the kind of car he had when he was my age. Suddenly, the ugly paint, the cracked seats and dashboard goop disappeared. We finally reached a spot in the middle of nowhere. I turned to my Dad and smiled. "Ready?"

He nodded. "Let's hit it."

I floored it, tires squealing before the traction caught the dirt surface, and then we were flying. The engine was singing.

My father reached  across the console and gave my hand a squeeze. And then Dad and I roared into the horizon of perfect memories.
.

Can we taaawwk?

Okay, lately my posts haven't exactly been, well, jamming up internet connections. Not that I'm complaining! I am very fortunate to have a loyal, substantial following. Best of all, each of you have intelligent and diverse opinions. And I'm counting on those qualities to answer a question that, for the life of me, cannot figure out. So here goes:  What are men looking for in a mate? Specifically single men in their late 40s and up. No, I'm not trying to find a guy for myself. Even if I was, I wouldn't know how to begin. It seems that computer dating sites continue to grow more and more popular, and that makes perfect sense to me--who wants to go to a bar and look for a 50ish gal clad in her granddaughter's black leather mini skirt with skin that looks like Tan Mom? Is physical appearance more important than substance? Intelligence? Life experience? Confidence? Assuming that a lady is healthy, doesn't have too much drama (sorry, guys...everyone has drama--even all of you. It just doesn't count because, well...it is your's), and is looking for someone to enjoy spending time with (the level, if any, commitment isn't an issue. I'm assuming all of you are gentlemen), is physical beauty as important as it was when you were younger?

Your responses are extremely important to me and the future blog entries. PLEASE participate!!!

Thanks!

Teen Dream

     Sunday March 5th, 1978. Nassau Coliseum, Long Island.  I was 13 years old and this was, by far, the most incredible day in my young life. I was about to see the love of my life, Shaun Cassidy!!! AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!
      The show was sold out, but my father had managed to purchase 4 tickets and I was allowed to invite 2 of my friends. There was no question how would come with me for this miraculous event, my best friends Susan and Mary Ellen.
      The cacophony of screaming teen boppers grew louder as the arena filled, anticipation mounting until it was almost palpable, but I was oblivious of it all. My heart slammed in my chest, excitement coursed through my veins until I thought I would burst. I tugged on my father's shirt sleeve for the millionth time. "Dad," I shouted above the din, "what time is it?" The show was scheduled to begin at
2.  He pulled his cuff back so I could see his watch. 1:40, a mere 20 minutes; but to me it was almost a lifetime. Would I last that long?
      1:55. I turned to Susan next to me, "Let's get the banner ready!"
We had ripped a white sheet lengthwise and painted, "YOU'RE OUR TEEN DREAM!!!" in the brightest red we could find. Susan unfolded it, gave one end to Mary Ellen and grabbed the other end, while she held up the middle. We turned towards each other for one final delirious moment. Suddenly, all of the lights went out, plunging all us into darkness. For a nanosecond there was a collective silence. OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD!!!!!!
      We heard him before we saw him, He was singing the first verse of one of hit songs:
                                                                   "Well I was sixteen
                                                                     and sick of school
                                                                     I didn't know what I wanted to do
                                                                    I bought a guitar
                                                                   I got the feeling
                                                                   That's Rock 'n Roll"
     Just as he sang the last note, the entire stage explode with blinding light. And there he was...my sweetheart, the only guy I would ever love, Shaun Cassidy.
     A few years later, I met my first boyfriend, Michael. After an agonizing soul searching, I decided that it was time for Shaun and I to move on. I promised that he would always have a special place in my heart.
     Shaun took the news very well.


                                                                     
     


     

Don't Laugh

My first attempt at poetry. Tell me what you think.

Snowflakes

Cold

Cold air

Cold heart

Cold soul

I think I was about 7 and was ironing

The never ending chore

With only one happy thought

Warmth

Gram

She was at least a million years old

Wiser than God

Laughed at the Devil

She stepped silently into the room,

Placed her hand on the freshly starched shirts of my father’s

Both of us knowing they’d be ruined by tomorrow’s light

It didn’t matter; he and Momma had to look respectable

When they entered the bar.

Gram’s touch was as light as a butterfly,

Filled with rainbows

Promise

Hope

Draped in the black wool shawl

I’d knitted her for Christmas last year,

Disaster though it was,

She wore it everywhere.

Proudly.

“Come child”,

Her voice was a caress,

Like the finest velvet.

And for a moment,

I forgot who I was.

We stepped out onto the covered porch

I held her elbow as we descended

The icy steps

She looked up

Up

Up

At the steel gray sky

As snow silently fell,

Covering all of the ugliness

“Look Emma…”

Her voice was barely a whisper.

Her finger, gnarled with arthritis,

Gestured to the snowflakes

Accumulating on her shawl.

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

Yes. Yes, they were. All intricate designs of crystal lace.

“You know something?” She leaned close to me, her voice the softest whisper

I shook my head.

“No two snowflakes are alike.”

My head spun so fast, I felt the world tilt.

“Really? Honest-to-God?”

Her smile warmed me

Warmed my cold, cold heart.

“My dearest Emma…”

She caressed my cheek,

“You will always be my snowflake.”

 

What's Your Name, Little Girl, What's Your Name?"

I probably shouldn't write about this because it happened within the last year, but...well, all is fair in Love and Laughter. Anyway, I met this guy, Brett, on one of the more reputable dating sites. We went through the usual process of emailing, talking on the phone before agreeing to a 'Meet and Greet' at the only local bar in town. As a rule, I don't like to meet an online date at a night, especially at a bar, but Brett seemed like a straight-up kind of guy and the place we were meeting was only a few a miles from my house should a quick escape be necessary. I arrived first and waited as close to the bar's entrance as I could so we wouldn't miss each other. When I saw long, jean clad legs unfold from the Ford pickup, I was intrigued. As he stood, adjusting his Stetson (it had to be a Stetson-- a guy like this would only wear the best), he glanced towards the entrance and spotted me, certainly catching my curious expression; I mean, this guy was hot, Mel Gibson hot. So why was he looking for girls on a dating site? Then again, I wasn't exactly chopped liver...We chose a table outside, away from all of the ruckus at the bar, ordered drinks and talked ourselves speechless. It wasn't until the waitress reminded us that it was 'last call' that we realized that it was already 2 am. Brett held my hand casually as we walked towards my car. He whispered so softly that I could barely hear his "May I?" as he kissed me so ...tenderly...that I didn't want him to stop. Ah, but alas, he did, stepping away towards his truck. "I had a real nice time tonight," he smiled.
     " Me too." I felt like a teenager on her very first date. I turned to unlock my car.
     "Hey, hang on there, darlin'...I just thought of something."
 Oh really?? I'll do anything, I promise!!
       "I have to make a run down to Atlanta tomorrow morning to make a delivery" He had told me earlier that he and his brother manufactured a specific tool necessary for hand-dipped candles. Didn't make any sense to me, but what did I know?  "I'd sure appreciated the company, especially with a lady as beautiful as you."
Did I have anything going on tomorrow? Hell no!!  "Okay..."

Brett and I headed southwest to Atlanta. We bantered back and forth, and time seemed to fly by the time we backed towards the Receiving Dock of our destination.. While Brett and the Receiving Foreman named Rick unloaded the. truck, I found my way to the ladies room. I washed my hands and glanced at the reflection in the mirror above the sink. Damn, I looked pretty good for a 40ish year old broad. I sauntered back to the receiving area and found Brett and Rick shootin' the shit. Then Rick's gaze settled on me and he asked," And who is this lovely lady, Brett?"
     "Oh damn, sorry Rick. This is Lisa."
LISA??? Was he nuts?! LISA????
Rick nodded his head in approval, "Pretty name, Lisa is. Reminds me of that 'ol painting hanging somewhere in France.  Well, it was very nice to meet you, Miss Lisa.. Keep an eye on this guy," he motioned with his thumb to Brett. I just smiled and climbed in the passenger side of the truck. Lisa?? Where the hell did he dream that one up? I mean, Lisa is a beautiful name-if that's indeed your name. But Brett and I had been emailing, phoning, had spent hours together last night and this morning talking about, what I'd assumed was everything. How could he possibly not know my name?

Brett climbed into the truck and started the engine. "Rick's a good guy. Sure took a liking to you," he grinned before we pulled onto the highway. I tried to think of a tactful way to correct his mistaking my name, but there wasn't one.
     "Hey, I'm starved, " Brett announced, "Wanna get some lunch?"
     " My name's not Lisa." I blurted it out so fast, that I almost didn't understand myself.
     " Whaaaat? Your name's not-"
     "Lisa. My name isn't Lisa. It's Kim."

Needless to say, Brett and "Lisa" never make it to a third date. And  after that little mishap, I insist on being called Kimberley, then inevitably Kimmie. I don't think my name is a difficult one to remember. Unless you're a Stetson-wearing guy named Brett.