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.    

Sweatin' through the 50s

Menopause. A milestone of sorts. Childbearing years are over. No more feminine products for you any more! Yay!!!

 Our grandmothers called menopause "The Change", which, in retrospect, is a more accurate description than the medical term used to identify the cessation of menses. Even "The Change" is a tidy euphemism for the uncontrollable mess those of us experience in our early onset of the "M" , No matter who tells you what to expect, even as you watch a woman fanning themselves with anything, including the report due on the boss' desk in 5 min., you still don't have the slightest idea of what you're in for. The hot flashes were the first indication that I was in trouble. It was Christmas, temperature hovering in the around 25 degrees. My family was gathered around the fire place, sipping potent egg nog when IT hit--one minute, I was sitting comfortably, enjoying the familiar chatter of my kin when IT hit. Within seconds, I was drenched, sweat streaming from every pore on my body, especially my head and face; hair styling products and makeup melted into my lap. I rushed outside, praying the slap of frigid weather would instantly stop the hot flash. But, alas, it didn't...the sweat just froze. Now I understand the other symptoms that accompany The Change; mood swings, insomnia, diminishing libido and a tendency to gain weight. Its all based on hot flashes. They would bring any man to his knees, pleading that death is better that all this Change business.

There is one advantage to menopause; mood swings. Now you can tell people how you really feel about them. Its open season!! And if
one of the recipients whispers something about your strange behavior, there's only one answer; "She's going through The Change".   

Fireworks!!

I hope all of you had a happy 4th of July!! It was the first 4th in my new house, so a friend of mine and I sat on my deck and watched the fireworks while chilling out in my rocking chairs. Which got me to thinking....(fireworks=romance...you get the connection) :

How did you..."pop the question" to your beloved, be it marriage, living together or exclusive dating?
Patrick, a life long friend and brother just because I said so (you drink that milk and you eat it! BAAAHHHH!!!) proposed to his wife, Pam, on a ski lift. She said that she practically floated down the mountain. My B.F.I.T.W.W.W. 's husband gave her the dream engagement ring with a new camera.  I don't think there's a bad way to propose...unless, of course, you're me, but we won't get into that!!

So, I want y'all to write about the best day of your life--when your loved one made it official! Just like the "$1,000,000 Question", this isn't rocket science. Just let your love light shine!!!!

When does a Fox become a Cougar?

Okay, so lets say you're @ 40-50something, single for whatever reason and are tired of sitting at home, perusing the "Seniors Love U" match site or spending the evenings with your other single friends, complaining about the lack of anything to do at night that would be considered "respectable" for a woman our age. You may (or may not) have a fulfilling career, but you always make sure your days are filled with activities, such as going to the gym, taking a Zumba class or immersing yourself in the beauty and strength of Yoga. Activities that make you feel good about yourself.

And then suddenly, its night time. You find yourself repeating "single woman" behavior almost like a robot: cook dinner. Pour a glass of wine. Set a place for yourself at the coffee table and turn on the evening news. Sometimes, on rare occasions, you pull out all the photo albums you've collected, or the diaries you meticulously wrote in daily (like me...I always had to go to the extreme), and spend the evening reminiscing about the days when you and your friends would gather at your house, put on  Purple Rain and dress to kill. Your hair was big. Leather skirt just short enough to be acceptable. Makeup flawless. You'd walk into a club and heads would turn. It was such a major rush.

So, what happened? You know you still look good--great skin, not too many wrinkles, good body...Of course you don't look like you did in those pictures, but who does? You make your mind up. Your decision is firm. You are going to call your friends and insist on a 'girls night out'. And then, that word flashes across your mind like a red neon light...Cougar. You try to dismiss it--you're not going out to pick up young drunk boys who haven't figured out yet that older women may be more experienced, but why would we waste it on a jackass? You know that going out that night is just was it is. Having fun. Doing something different. Stop from feeling old before your time. But what about the patrons of the bar...will they see you as a Cougar?

The Urban Dictionary describes Cougars as " an older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man. The Cougar can be anyone from an over surgically altered 'wind tunnel victim' to an absolutely sad and bloated version of her former self". In other words, she got dressed and put on her makeup without her glasses.

You hem and haw, not wanting to spend yet another boring night alone, yet afraid of embarrassing yourself by pretending to be who you aren't.

Next time, when you find yourself in this predicament, call me. My leather skirt still fits and thank God for false eyelashes! And guys? GGGGRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!

BFF

BFF...the common acronym for Best Friends Forever, became popular I guess @ 10 yrs ago, a quick and easy way to describe someone who is the most important person in your life.  BFF, like LOL, BRB, WTF, is just an abbreviation to make texting easier. In truth, the original acronym is B.F.I.T.W.W.W. --Bestest Friend In The Whole Wide World. So, its a lot longer compared to BFF, but then again, doesn't the most important person in your life deserve more that three letters?

My best friend and I met on the very first morning in 7th grade homeroom. Having a gaggle of giggling 13 yr old kids certainly didn't make seating arrangements easy for our home room teacher, who was a Science teacher and decided to take the easiest solution to this equation was to assign all of us alphabetically, two at each desk. My last name began with S, Kimberley her's started with T, Susan (I always called her Sue). She was as fair as I was Italian-dark, her strawberry blonde hair just skimming her shoulders, while mine was a short, chestnut brown. She was a classic beauty, I was some kind of combination of ethnicity  that bordered between mysteriously attractive and just another WAP. But here we were, seated together for better or worse, the entire school year. I can't remember who spoke first, but it was something about which elementary school we has come from (JH consisted of several elementary school combined). We compared schedules and saw that we shared many of the same classes. For some reason, that was comforting, even though we barely knew each other.

I don't remember how we went from homeroom partners to best friends. All I do remember is that from 1977-1979 we were inseparable. Sue was my best friend of "firsts"; we learned how to wear makeup without looking like clowns (Sue could never look like a clown, she was that beautiful). We shared the same teen idol crush on Shaun Cassidy. I remember my parents surprised me with tickets to one of Shaun's concerts and bringing Sue wasn't even questioned by my parents--they just assumed that she would be there.  I was screaming on the phone to Sue before my father had a chance to show me the tickets. We were barely coherent. The concert was on March 5, 1978 ( we still make some kind of reference to 3/5 to this day!). Sue and I spent the time before the concert working on a huge banner painting "YOU'RE OUR TEEN DREAM!!". My parents bought enough tickets for me to invite 2 more friends, so the banner had to be 5'-6' long and at least 4' wide for all of us to hold it. As if seeing Shaun in the flesh wasn't enough, he pointed to our banner, waved and sent one of his guards to take it at Shaun's request. Do you remember what its like to be 13 yrs and have something so extraordinary happen that you literally lost your mind? I mean, when you try to talk, you look like a gold fish sucking air? And your eyes bulge out like a "Coyote and the Roadrunner" cartoon? The only sound you're capable of making is a deafening scream. Shaun could've been singing "Ring-Around-The-Rosy" and we wouldn't have known. It was one of the greatest days of my life. I had started to 'write' a book earlier that year and was convinced it would be published--of course, it was a story about Shaun and I getting together and, of course Sue was a main character. Our 3 hr conversations consisted of shared ideas for The Book, boys we liked at school, and making fun of our Math teacher, who had a serious lisp and a major crush on Sue. We'd spend countless nights at each other's homes dancing and singing into our hairbrushes (she has an incredible voice), and enjoying our forbidden-yet sophisticated-midnight pleasure: Doritos, Pepsi and After Eight thin mint chocolate wafers. We started dating at the same time--in fact, she set me up with my first boyfriend ( the author of my very first love letter). Over night, we seemed to have grown out of losing our minds over a teen idol to acting like blooming idiots over Real Boys. Just when things were getting really good, just when Sue and I had become confident that we would always be as close as sisters, that we would always be B.F.I.T.W.W.W., my parents dropped the bombshell: My family was moving to Florida. In 2 months.

Sue and I swore on our friendship that we would always be best friends, that the only thing separating us would be a few thousand miles. And we could visit. For the first few years, we did. But, as always, life goes on. We wrote all the time. Sue met her future husband, Anthony. She'd asked me to be her Maid of Honor at their wedding, as we'd always promised each other we would be, but my family was having some serious financial problems and I couldn't go. When she had her first baby, she told her husband to make sure to call me within minutes of giving birth. I don't think I'll ever forget his voice as he told me they had a son, Sue was fine and he'd keep  me posted.

I got married soon after, but it was such a disaster, I don't mention it anymore. I began my career in Retail Management that took me from Vero Beach (and Josh) to Dillard's in Orlando. I dated several men, most of whom were way over-the-top; like one guy didn't just play baseball, he was Major League; a very handsome, quirky guy who left a single rose the most unusual shade of lavender for me who was actually an honest-to-God rocket scientist. I met actors, theater directors, men who claimed to be wealthy and men who really, really were. And I worked. All the time. Even on my day off. I loved my job, wanted to learn as much as I could and was promoted from Assistant Area Sales Manager for all of Women's Wear (my boss and mentor was a woman who was the toughest boss I'd ever had, and I am forever grateful to her) to Area Sales Manager for Cosmetics, the highest Managerial position in the Store in about 3 yrs., considered a series of fast promotions With all this work, all this time, my contact with Sue became almost nonexistent.We  still wrote the occasional letter, she always sent me Christmas cards with pictures of her growing family, but I let the friendship wither away. I made the excuse that we had nothing in common any more. But it didn't occur to me that not having my B.F.I.T.W.W.W. affected all my female relationships to this day. I don't have a "grown up" best friend. I have situational acquaintances, friends that I become kind of close to when we're involved in the same volunteer group, class, etc. But as soon as that situations ends, so does the friendship. I don't trust anyone very easily, but I have yet to meet a woman that I can trust at any level. Some therapists that I've gone to help me understand why I'm like this, always diagnosis me with some weird childhood experience of being left alone by one of my parents and my lack of trust began then. But I know the answer: I was forced to leave my Best Friend.

A couple of years ago, after more than 20 yrs of silence, I received an email from Susan. I was so excited, you'd have thought Shaun Cassidy himself was finally getting around to thanking us for the lovely banner. She had bridged the 2 decade of silence and I was/am Thankful to God that I can talk to her again. We've both been through events in our life that we couldn't have imagined at 14 yrs old. We both shared the same friendship issues.  I was in the middle of a horrible depression and reading about anything she wrote to me was almost...a life line. She's the one who talked me (well, threatened me) into starting this blog. She doesn't know--until now--that she's truly changed my life.

Susan now has a career as a high powered exec in a quickly expanding company. Her boys are all grown (and I've never met them!). She travels extensively for work and pleasure. In short, she's one of the bravest women I know.

God is the only one who knows what direction  my friendship with Susan and I will take...but it doesn't really matter...she will always be my B.F.I.T.W.W.W.

The $1,000,000 Question!

Okay kids, here goes:

You've just started dating a guy (or girl) that you feel an amazing connection with. He meets all the criteria on your "He's A Keeper" list and,  O Joy of Joys! he thinks you're the best thing since football began to be televised (or whatever Male Nirvana is). Assuming that he truly doesn't have any major faults that trigger Red Flags, how long would you wait before agreeing to make the relationship exclusive?  If you're married or in a committed relationship, when did you know you'd found The One?

I'm looking forward to hearing from everyone!

Introducing Her Highness, The Macaroni Queen

Every Italian family has one. She is the Matriarch of the clan. She is all seeing, all knowing so there's no point in believing you actually have a say in living your life the way you want to. If you actually have nerve to rebel against her decision, you will be sentenced to a lifetime of guilt. Its a punishment worse than death. The Macaroni Queen in our family ruled our us with the wooden spoon she used to make gravy ( spaghetti sauce). It was her scepter and it was used to emphasize her authority. When there were actions that threatens her Rule, she'd wave the spoon like a sword and exclaim " Its just shit for the birds!". It meant the accused would receive The Capitol punishment. The Macaroni Queen's reign is life long. A successor is crowned (there really is a crown! Its made with ziti noodles, elbow macaroni, bow tie pasta and spray painted gold)  and assume the position as Ruler of the family. However, there are complications rarely seen in what should be a smooth transition: There are three successors to the throne--The Queen's daughter, grandchild and my mother. And you thought England's Royal Family had problems! At least we have ravioli!  


Obviously, this is an exaggeration of my family. We have a kind of bond that keeps us together, regardless of the miles that may separate us. Get all of us under one roof and lovely chaos will ensue. There will always be a mouth-watering feast, wine flowing and drama that we thrive on. We put "fun" in dysfunctional. I can't think of a more perfect way to spend together, and who would want to?


The Macaroni Queen title may never be decided. It doesn't matter. We'll always continue to celebrate everything that makes us exceptional. And I call dibs on the cannoli!

Lip Service

What is a kiss?


Yes, we're all familiar with the dreaded aunt from our childhood who would plant a smacker that would leave whisker burns from her hairy upper lip, along with a hideous lipstick stain that was as permanent as a tattoo...oh the nightmares!


I'm talking about The Kiss--the first time your lips touched another's and the magic that you'd read about in fairy tales swirls around you like star dust...The Kiss may be your very first shared with your very first love. Or, like many of us, it might seems like you've been tortured by every single bad kisser on the planet (in a moment of desperation, you even tried kissing a frog, but that secret will stay between you and me). And then there's the night when one more second alone will have you dialing the last jackass you dated, so you grab your keys and drive. Maybe you'll catch a movie...have a coffee...it doesn't matter. You park the car and start walking, not paying a bit of attention when a restaurant door opens and almost hits you in the face. And just as you open your mouth to spew words that would make your mother faint, an absolutely horrified man apologizes profusely, takes you by the arm to sit with you on the nearest bench to make sure you're not hurt... and you're speechless. Its him. The one you've waited years for...You and he spend the evening strolling through town, telling each other goofy stories about your childhood until it gets late and he walks you to your car. He hesitates...and then it happens...the most perfect lips gently touch yours and the years of waiting melt away with your heart.


It's Valentine's Day--Cupid's one chance to aim his arrows in a love-struck stupor. And if you're lucky enough to be Love's bull's eye and find yourself gazing into the eyes meant only for you, indulge in the magic of The Kiss.


May each of you find the precious love you deserve...and celebrate each day with a special thanks for Cupid's Day of Crazy Love.


Oh, and ladies...just a gentle reminder: fight the urge to devour an entire box of chocolates. Your skinny jeans will thank you!

The Little Rascals

This will be the only time I'll use real first names, because everyone I write about in this post are so much a part of me, to change their names would be an insult. They're all my extended family and I know that if I ever needed any of them, there wouldn't be a question that they would do whatever they could, and vise-versa.

Bobby and Gail and my parents were the same age, got married about the same time, even had their babies within months of each other. They've know each other longer than I've been alive and I've always thought of them as my other parents. But it was their kids that made us "family".

Sean, the oldest, and I were born within months of each other. We were supposed to be the "responsible" ones--yeah, right. Patrick and my brother, Todd, followed. My brother was always doing something ridiculously funny and Patrick was--still is--his best audience. One time, my brother decided to stand on a busy corner in Stamford, CT and pretend he was blind. He stood there singing "Hand Bone " holding his wool hat in front of him. The rest of us were a few feet away, pretending we didn't know him. When a well intended passerby dropped a quarter in his hat, we all lost it, but its Pat's laugh that I remember the most, a side-splitting laugh that's never changed, especially when my brother's concerned.

We worshiped "The Little Rascals" and watched it religiously until we had the most of the episodes memorized. One of our favorites "The Weet-Waaaah" cake baked with an assortment of prizes, including a hair brush. The lucky recipient of the brush tried to use his new prize and admitted to no one in particular, "Ouch. It hurts, my brush." That was Pat's favorite.

  Sean and I laughed at all of them, especially Spanky. For my birthday last year, he sent me an entire collection of our favorite scenes, including a few that I had forgotten about. It was the best birthday present I've received.

We adored Bill Cosby. We used to listen to "Chicken Heart That Ate New York City" and stories about Bill's brother, Russell and he sharing a room together when they were young, This was way before the days of cable, video tape or even broadcasting anything like this, so we all gathered around a record player, giggling like idiots, until the records eventually wore out.

Maureen was the youngest of all of us--the baby. We all wanted to play with her, teach her The Ways of Our Force, but she sized all of us up pretty quick, saw that we all acted like retards and chose a more dry sense of humor, but her quips were always well-timed, when you least expected them. Although, she did have her moments. She and I used to make up stupid poems and Todd was as crazy around her as he was with Pat, so some of our dementia did affect her in its own way.

Its astonishing to realize that we're all grown up now. Sean, Pat and Maureen each have been married to exceptional wives/husband and have children heading to college--kids I've never met. But I know my friends have passed down our legacy of ridiculousness. And I pray that some day, when we're all old and depending on Depends, we will laugh like we did when we were kids, while their own grown children will shake their heads and whisper. "Alzheimer's".

Glittering Balls aren't the only thing dropping for New Year's Eve

Christmas and New Year's are pretty laid  back in the mountains. The only claim to fame we have is the (in)famous "Possum Drop" over in Brass Town--there were 72,000 attendants this year. Now, before y'all call PITA (who fights this every year), have you ever seen a possum? I don't know where the idea of friendly possum Mommies hanging upside down from tree branches, along with her numerous offspring, but let me tell you...there ain't no such thing in these here parts. Possums are some of the nastiest,vicious types of vermin you'll ever come across. They have razor-sharp teeth, will attack anyone or thing in its way (including small pets), and carry every sort of disease imaginable. The folks that originated the Possum Drop would find a healthy adult, place him in a large cage and feed him delicacies that only possums can appreciate. On New Year's Eve, our now-full bellied possum is escorted into a large plexiglass chamber containing more of his favorite snacks, plenty of water and more air holes/vents, one isn't always sure the chamber, filled with a fat possum and all those dots and slashes for ventilation, not to mention all the tiny, white sparkling lights that surround the the entire container--mimicking NYC's Time Square spectacle. And at the 10 second countdown to the new year, His Highness, King Possum encased in his brightly lit carrier, is lowered to the ground at the stroke of midnight, celebrating the arrival of the new year. He is then released back into the forests that make up these mountain, complete with a sort of Special Agent to ensure that the possum makes it out of the sight of the crowds and can resume his life of avoiding cars on the highway.

According to WRTB, the NBC affiliate in Chattanooga, TN,  reported that the " residents say it's just good, clean family fun.

"Rednecks have a lot of fun, and it don't take a lot of money or things to do. We just do plain old silly, stupid stuff, just Southern things that we do," says event founder Clay Logan. "You know, we're not rednecks anymore, we're Appalachian Americans so we can do other things now than just being silly."

The event featured music, fireworks and a womanless beauty pageant. " 

To experience the festivities for yourself, follow the link below.
http://www.wrcbtv.com/story/24340754/north-carolina-residents-celebrate-possum-drop

Music, food , (slowly) dropping possums AND a womenless beauty contest? What more could anyone ask for? Whoops! Gotta go! Just saw someone walk by with a place full of deliciousness!  Oh, and girls? If you want to know what its like to be treated like a Lady, believe me...you won't be disappointed!  2014, bring it on!!!!!!!