3 and 3

Lithus' official schedule has been 2 weeks on, 2 weeks off. As of this tour, however, he's going to 3 and 3. The money works out to be the same, and we have an extra week at home. We'll have time to relax, get used to being home, and then enjoy some time, before gearing back up to go out again. This works for us. 

We head home Sunday (no Superbowl for us) and don't go out again for three weeks. In those three weeks, we already have planned...

* Dinner at Emeril's, just because

* Valentine's Day at home, because when you eat in as many restaurants as we do, romance is often staying in. Plus, Lithus is a really good cook (not to mention sexy as hell; just look at that man!).

* Anniversary dinner at Mr. John's Steakhouse, one of the best ranked steakhouses in the country

* And tickets to Shen Yun, the Chinese dance company

We live in a town with so much happening. With 3 weeks at home, we can enjoy it without feeling rushed.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

I Remember...

Yesterday was the anniversary of the Challenger disaster. Many people in my generation (mid-40s) consider it our Kennedy Assassination: we all know where we were when we first heard about it. I was in Philadelphia, 10th grade. I had finished lunch early and wanted a minute to myself, so I went to my English class a few minutes before lunch was over. My teacher, Mr. Claus (seriously), said "have you heard?" I hadn't. We wept a little together, and hugged, and said "no, no, no..." over and over again. As other people came in, it got noisy and the atmosphere changed, even as we were still discussing the accident. Teenagers aren't the most sensitive bunch, after all. But for a moment, Mr. Claus and I had understood what had just happened, and been with the right person to process it.

But I also remember...

The Iranian hostages being freed. 1980. It was the first time another story trumped the headline of a presidential election. 

Nelson Mandela being freed. 1990. I was a student at a college in Virginia, waiting for my technical theatre class to start, when another student walked up to the board and wrote HE'S FREE! Most of us exploded, cheering, and thrilled, and in tears. A friend of mine looked at me and asked "who?" I said "Nelson Mandela!" And she asked "Who?" All I could do was shake my head at her.

Terry Anderson being freed. By 1991, I was a student at Northeastern University in my beloved Boston. We were all sitting around the table, in the Union, when a friend came up and said "Have you heard? He's free! Terry Anderson is free!" This time, all of us cheered and wept and hugged.

Scott O'Grady, coming out of the Bosnian woods, to be rescued. By 1995, I was a military wife ~ and moreso one than I had expected to be. We all thought he was dead. Sure, he might still be alive, but he was a dead man running. There was no way he could evade until there was a way to get him. And then...Then the news told us he was safe and sound. I was at an airport, half watching a running news report, half reading a book, when suddenly, I was riveted. Blinking back tears of joy.

Perhaps the Challenger is The Event of my generation. But for me, there were others ~ more hopeful, less destructive ~ that I remember, as well. And for that, I'm grateful.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

ETA ~ It's fascinating to hear from people of "the Kennedy Generation" ~ both here and privately ~ that they, too, remember the Challenger. This may be the first time I've taken the opportunity to discuss it as an adult with other adults. Very cool, and thanks to everyone who has shared their memories of the day with me!

An Easy Challenge

Okay white folks (and straight folks, and cis-folks, but yeah, mostly white folks), here's an easy challenge for you ~

For the next few days, call it a week, pay attention. Look around you. How many people of color (or gay or trans-people, but yeah, mostly people of color) do you see. How many on television? How many in movies ~ or movie trailers? How many in your neighborhoods? At your kids' schools? In your restaurants, grocery stores, and lobbies? Your place of worship? Your office, or university. Wherever you are, how many people do you see who don't look like you?

And where are they? Are they sitting next to you, like equals? Or are they serving you? Are they the star of the show, commercial, or movie? Or are they the sidekick? The one in a group of three or four or more?

Now, think about this, if the position was reversed, if you were the only white person, or one of the only white people, and everyone else had different skin than you do, how would you feel? Really? The easy answer, dear liberal Pobble Thoughts readers, all of whom I adore, is you'd be fine with it. But would you really? When was the last time you were in the situation to know?

Now, take it up another notch. Pay attention to the other white folks around you. See them. How do you think they would treat a person of color (or openly LGBTQ person) if that person came in and expected to be treated as an equal. Again, the easy answer is the people around you would be fine. But would they? Take the time to think about it; to see the people around you.

Give it a week. Let me know what you see.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Facebook or Friendship Frustration

A close acquaintance is upset with me. Apparently, there has been stuff going on with this person on facebook and I haven't been supportive of my close acquaintance. Ummm... except I am hardly ever on facebook. I go for days without logging on at all. When I do log on, it's to update Pauline's status with something (usually) completely innocuous, and writing or romance related, before logging back off again. That is not where I choose to hang out.

Now, I realized a long time ago that I was going to miss things because I don't hang out at the right club. And yes, I have had friendships suffer because I am not facebook often, or substantially. But I am not unavailable. I can be found via email (several in fact), text, here, or good old fashioned phone calling. If you don't reply when I text or email you, if the only place you are willing to be is on facebook, if it "doesn't count" unless it's on facebook, that's not my problem. You don't get to judge me - as a bad or a good friend - just because I don't want to spend my time on that particular playground. And you don't get to judge my support of you - or your friends, family, cause, career, life - if you are unwilling to make sure I know you need my support. If you tell me you're hurting and I drop the ball, judge away. But if the only place you're willing to share, the only place a response matters to you, is on facebook, no, you don't get to judge me for that.

And yes, if I am given the opportunity, I will express all of this to the person in question. But not on facebook.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Amazing How That Works

A few weeks ago, I wrote about choosing to not be a novelist...right now...any longer...these days...something. Since then? Wow.

1. A dear friend is going to be signed with one of my dream houses. When I was telling Lithus, he asked how I felt about it. And the truth is I feel great. No pangs. No what-if's. No envy. I am so damn proud of her.

2. Out of the blue, my boss offered me a promotion and raise. More projects, more writing, more pay. I am being paid, and being paid well, to write. Writing books was/is great. Writing novels was/is great. But what I want to do ~ what I have always wanted to do ~ is write. What I write is, and always has been, irrelevant. Just let me write and pay me for my words. Now, guess what?

Peace is good.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Four Very Different NOLAs

In light of yesterday's nonpost of a post, I decided to take another tack. Instead of trying to explain the days with Starbuck, I'm going to write about a conversation she and I had/thing I realized. NOLA is an amazing city and I have an incredibly eclectic group of friends.

Starbuck was the third of an expected four trips to NOLA. Cam and Mrs. Pike came first. Then Dr. B. Just now, Starbuck. And Lori and I are planning a visit for her, to the point that, even though it hasn't happened yet, I will be shocked ~ shocked, I say ~ if it doesn't. And I could not have experienced 4 more disparate experiences.

Cam and Mrs. Pike ~ Wanted Classic New Orleans. French Quarter. Carriage rides. Cemeteries. Haunted tours. We spent time on Bourbon Street. Wandered Marie Laveau's. Ate beignets at Cafe duMonde. Drank at Jean Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop. Classic.

Dr. B ~ Was coming to see me. Had some stuff happening in her world and needed her friend. Her friend was about to have heart surgery, and she's a doctor. Where I lived was irrelevant. We left the apartment for food. Mostly, though, we left the apartment for chocolate. She loves chocolate. LOVES chocolate. NOLA has bazillions of places for homemade chocolates. We partook in an empirical study, in between sitting on the couch times.

Starbuck ~ Lives in the desert. Literally. Wanted green, growing things. And water. And flowing. And life. Hello. It's New Orleans. We spent every single day around green and next to water. We did other things. We rode the trolley and wandered the neighborhoods and drank in my favorite bars. She tried cajun food for the first time. But mostly, we found the parks. And the river.

Lori ~ Will appreciate culinary NOLA. Asian markets. Grocery stores. Neighborhoods. International groceries. Yes, a friend is coming to visit me and I'm taking her to...my grocery store. I can show a person a good time, I'm telling you. But it will be with her, that's the thing.

And as Starbuck pointed out, the amazing thing about this city is that it can give you this many different, unique visits. It can give you more than this. Notice culture hasn't been touched on, let alone specific arts. All things Jazz, or theatre, or visual arts. Shopping. Museums. Antiquing. Architecture. VooDoo. There are so many sides to this city. Luckily for me, I have friends who are just as varied and interesting.

Those are Pobble Thoughts, with some help from my friends, and my city. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Starbuck

I have written so many drafts of this post. Started, deleted, edited, started over. Some people defy description. Starbuck is one of those people. We joked about writing "I Had The Hiccoughs" on the wall. I learned how one might love like a leopard. There was Jeff, at the bar, who knew me even though I had never seen him in my life. We visited with birthday pelicans and other water fowl. Laughter, tears, self-righteous anger, adoration, all to a New Orleans backdrop. 

How do I write about this and make it come alive for you? I...can't. Starbuck defies words.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Lonesome George

Lithus is out of town. Why I'm not on the road with him is exciting ~ really exciting and worth being home alone for a little bit (Starbuck!) ~ but I'm still not on the road with him. A few posts back, I wrote about how our apartment was too small. Yeah...this place is massive with him gone.

So I'm doing things like having popcorn for dinner. And watching a lot of Chopped on Food Network. And horror flicks on Netflix. And I'm learning to crop and save things. See?

It didn't look like this until I cropped and saved it!

And I live in a great city for exploring. Have work to do. Good friends who keep me company. Starbuck will be here today! Plus, there's always laundry. Still...

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Symmetry

We live in a building overlooking a hotel pool:

I love the pool. In summer, it's busy, crowded, noisy. In winter, it's quiet, one or two people over the course of the day, usually in the hot tub. Before a storm, the umbrellas get moved, the furniture gets protected. Regardless of the weather, though, the pool and surrounding deck are open year-round and cared for by staff.

Yesterday, when I got up and looked out over the pool first thing in the morning, a man in a suit was making the morning walk-around, to ensure the area was ready to be opened for the day. Last night, as I went to bed and looked out over the pool last thing in the evening, a man in a suit was making the nightly walk-around, to make sure the area was ready to be closed down for the night. I'm not the only one who loves the pool.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Starbuck...

...is coming to visit. Sunday. She's gonna be here Sunday.

I.
Cannot.
Wait.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Happy Birthday, My Heart

My Heart turned 21 yesterday. Twenty-one. How is this even possible? 21 years ago, I was a student at Northeastern University in Boston. My job was to pace, be distracted, call back to Virginia every other minute, and smoke a lot. I did my job well for all of January 7th, I believe, although I could be mistaken. But I do know for certain that January 8th, thanks no doubt to my long-distance moral support, my sister and he finished up their work and ta-dah! I had a nephew.

I remember going to FAO Schwarz that afternoon. My roommate and I went a little nuts. Finally, she told me I had enough in my hands, I could buy him no more stuff, and we headed to the register. Only by the time we got to the register, everything I had been so precariously balancing in both my hands had somehow gotten squashed into one, because I had a giant stuffed frog under my other arm.

You can't tell from this picture just how big he is, but my sister took a picture of the newborn nephew in question curled up in the frog's lap. He's a couple feet high (the frog, not the nephew). And, apparently, was coming home with me to be sent to My Heart. Who am I to deny the power of the frog?

And now he's 21 (both the frog and the nephew, I suppose, if the frog made it this long). How is that even possible?

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Let's Talk Book Burnings

This is not a post I particularly want to write, but I know myself well enough to know that, if I don't, I will look back on this time with a knot in my stomach for keeping quiet. I won't live with that knot for someone else. Recently, I have been...accused is too strong of a word...parallels have been drawn between my words/actions and Nazi Germany book burnings. Yep, Nazi Germany book burnings. This is a line I have to draw.

Here's what happened: Over at another blog I read, the author praised Bill O'Reilly's book, Killing Lincoln. She started it with "Whatever your feelings are about Bill O'Reilly's politics are, put them aside" and then went on to talk about what a great book it was. I contacted her privately and said, in essence, "no." I would not simply set aside my feelings for a man who believes my family, friends, and I are less than he is because of our respective sexual/gender orientations, citizenship, skin color, race, and religions. That whatever he said about Lincoln does not trump what he says about the people I love. I explained I was hurt that she would advocate such a thing.

She apologized. Beautifully, publicly, and sincerely. She acknowledged that she found the man as loathsome as I and hadn't thought through the full implications of the post. When I asked her to take down the offending post, she did so. And that is when a man who reads her blog brought up censorship and book burnings.

So. Here we are.

Dear Sir ~ I want to address two issues that arose for me around your comments to my fellow blogger. First, book burning. Second, I believe, although acknowledge I do not know for certain, you said she should backup our shared beliefs that Bill O'Reilly is a vituperative pundit who preaches ignorance and hate from his usual platform.

First, book burning. Should we only read "approved" books? Should we only read what others tell us to read? Because this is what the Nazis advocated. Advocated to the point of book burning. So, I assume you are asking me (by way of my fellow blogger) these same questions. Since we do not know each other, I will not simply roll my eyes at you. No, we should not only read approved books. We should not only read what others tell us to read. However, drawing this line is a classic deflection and derailment technique. Speaking out against hate is not the same thing as burning books. Speaking out against people who want to exclude or make less than, is not the same thing as speaking out against people who want inclusion and equality. Requesting everyone think fully and completely is not the same thing as requiring everyone to think the same way. And speaking out against a book written by a man who preaches hate on a regular basis is not the same as preventing that man's book from being published or consumed. 

Nor is it the same as punishing people who do choose to read, or even cosign, this man's words. People caught reading banned books were subject to fines, imprisonment, labor, and worse. Speaking out against a book or an author, explaining why it is offensive, asking it not be touted holds none of the threat of punishment. If you are implying I somehow hold that power over her, it is her blog. It is her space. And yes, as someone she knows and loves, I have some power over her. It is still her blog, her choice, her power. Had my fellow blogger not removed her post, she would have no political, financial, or governmental repercussions for not doing so. Perhaps our relationship might have been damaged but that would have been based on the two of us deciding if we could still be in relationship with someone who disagreed with us about such a core issue ~ not anything remotely as punitive as a Nazi book burning or reading a banned book. 

The Nazis were also big into censorship. Might you be accusing us of that? If it was your word or not, it was the impression my fellow blogger took away from your comment. So let's look at censorship while we're at this. According to the free legal dictionary, censorship is the suppression or proscription of speech or writing that is deemed obscene, indecent, or unduly controversial. Cool. That's what censorship is. Censorship is not: telling someone why their words were hurtful. It is not explaining that someone's political beliefs are exclusive of several populations of people who are supposed to have the exact same rights as everyone else. It is not being angry at someone for holding those exclusionary political beliefs. It is not requesting that someone remove the praise of hateful people from a website.  

Censorship, like book burning, has no power from the bottom up. The people without power cannot censor the people with power. My fellow blogger and I cannot possibly censor Bill O'Reilly. The man has more power than she and I will ever have. 

The thing about freedom of speech is that we all have it. Yes, even Bill O'Reilly. That's why his book is available. But so do my fellow blogger and I. She has the right to post the blog. I have the right to ask her to take it down. She has the right to do so, or not, as she sees fit. And she is under no more pressure from me to take it down because O'Reilly's beliefs are offensive, than she is under pressure from you to leave it up because you will accuse her and her reader of being akin to Nazi book burners if she she doesn't continue to praise an author she finds offensive.

Second, the prove it, which may or may not have come, but I suspect did. My fellow blogger said she would not give O'Reilly the energy it took to find specific, direct quotes. My suspicion of the prove it comes from that. And to you, sir, I would say "educate yourself." It is not my fellow blogger's job to get you to really listen to what this man says. It is not her job to spell it all out for you. If you don't know, are scared she might be right, want to prove her wrong ~ google. Do enough research to get a sense of his whole body of work, not just a statement that backs you up. After all, a broken clock is right twice a day. And if you don't care enough to do the legwork yourself, don't expect her to do it for you. She is confident enough in her knowledge and understanding of the man to stand by her guns. If that's not enough for you, then do your own work. All that being said, in order to protect my fellow blogger from accusations of being malleable or manipulated by me or in some other way ignorant, I will accept your prove it and offer you this, this, this, this, this, this, and this. Those are nothing more than the top seven results I found. The results pages go on much, much longer.

I do not know you, Sir. I suspect, however, you are a white man. Your fear of people ~ especially women ~ not falling in line with the status quo, in other words a world in which you are at the top and the rest of us ... aren't, is palpable in your conversation with my fellow blogger. At the end, your debate with her seems to have ended with "love wins" ~ meaning her love for me trumps your sound, logical arguments. Let me be very clear: it's not that love won. It's that your arguments were invalid. There was nothing akin to a book burning. No censorship. Not even the underlying undertone of a threat should someone choose to read Bill O'Reilly. Nothing. It's not that love won; it's that you lost.

Actually, I'd like to think it was both.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Another Season By

I've gone back to work. Lithus goes back to work tomorrow. The holiday winds down. But, oh, it was an amazing one. From Samhain dinner with Country Boy to undecorating the house last night ~ with Thanksgiving, my little pot, Christmas lights in Richfield, shopping, wrapping, mailing, singing, laughing, Holiday High Tea, hot cocoa, red/gold serving pieces, lights and more lights, and a ball (a ball!) in between. A gorgeous, happy, loving, musical, fulfilling holiday season.

Thanks for sharing it with me.

Having now blogged every day ~ sometimes twice a day ~ for 65 days, I may take a bit of a break. Or, I may not. It's 2014; let's embrace the unknown. And may your year be shiny and bright.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Worth A Thousand Words

We're starting with the music again today, because this is a short-ish post. Not because it's late (although it is) but because there are far more pictures here, at Stilettos. There were, however, a few pictures I felt were better suited to the tone of Pobble Thoughts than the less...Gorey-esque, shall we say...tone of Stilettos. Pictures like the one I took for Crow...

Please note, the clown and the duck are blind. The rabbit is screaming. This is a children's holiday image HOW?

Or, the one I took for Starbuck, which is less gruesome, but equally as obscure...

Yep. It's a fish on a bicycle

Then there's the one for Lori...

It's a woman. In purple sunglasses. And a yellow hat. With a possum ~ wearing a diaper ~ on her lap.

Sometimes, there are no words.

Those are stunned into silence Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Being Who We Are

Our apartment is too small. Okay, truth is, our apartment is huge. 880 square feet for two people. We even have a half bath. But, in functionality, our apartment is too small.

We have one closet. While it's a walk-in, it's not the size of a room. It's in the bedroom, which means we have to do something else with our coats ~ and contrary to popular belief, it does get cold down here. Plus, you know, we've got a bit of rain occasionally. It also means we have to share closet space. And, with only one closet, no storage.

The living space is one room. For the living, the dining, the reading and painting and working and praying and meditating and XBoxing and hanging out.

The kitchen has five cabinets, two of which I cannot reach. Two people cannot stand back to back ~ say at the stove and at the sink ~ and function. They have to stagger, so they are shoulder to shoulder.

Our apartment is too small.

And yet ~ I love it. Oh, when our lease is up next November, I suspect we will move and I will quite happily occupy larger space. But, in spite of it all, I love it.  However, we have realized over the last few days that some changes need to be made if we are going to continue to live here until next November. If I am going to be able to continue to love it.

Both Lithus and I were on very different professional paths, at one point. He owned a wireless service business and had images of selling wireless internet access to hotels, so that they could offer their guests in-room internet. No one bought the idea, because no one would possibly want to be online on their computers while they were in a hotel room. :/ Anyway! He had his business, and even if hotels were short-sighted, it was his and it was going well. He had it made and this was who he was going to be! Until.

Until a series of unfortunate events. One afternoon, he stood in the office that was supposed to be his and realized ~ he was done. He was too beaten down, after this series of events, and just wanted out. So, he went back to aviation and here we are. But he's kept several boxes of stuff from that time.

For me, you've all seen me through becoming a published author, then an actual and for real novelist, then it took a hiccup. Then a lurch. What I didn't make public, though, because I had no witnesses to it, and didn't want to seem to be bragging at first, and then didn't want to say something that couldn't be verified later, was that the editor who died and whose death changed the course of my career wasn't just an editor in the romance genre. She was the editor. I have had authors literally bow down to me when they discovered this woman had signed me. I have had others stop being nice to me, because this woman had rejected them. And here's the thing ~ she loved my writing. The quote I have heard in my head at least once a week since her death is "You remind me of Barbabra Delinsky. You can be the next Nora Roberts. And Pobble, we are are going to make a lot of money together."

Only here's the rub ~ to my knowledge, she never told anyone else that but me. She assured me I had to write the second book on my own, but that she would be back in time to finalize the trilogy with me. And then we'd move on to even bigger and better things. It was the last conversation I ever had with her. Her successor didn't sign me to another contract. Our life hit the roughest patch either of us had ever seen. And writing fiction became a chore. A hobby. A way to feel like a failure. Um...really, not the point.

So, since the Christmas holiday, and the influx of new stuff that came with it ~ in fairness, stuff we love, stuff that increases happiness, not just stuff for stuff's sake, because we don't do that, but stuff that needs somewhere for it to live, nonetheless ~ we have looked at letting go. Accepting. Moving on. 

Lithus is not an IT guy any longer. The boxes of tech he has lugged around can be let go. Even if he gets back into the field, the technology is different enough that what we had in those boxes is irrelevant now, let alone if he ever gets back to programming. Space in our closet.

And me? I am not a novelist. Not right now, anyway. I'm a writer. Absolutely. And I love writing. I really love being paid to write. Both of those things are happening currently ~ the writing and the being paid to write ~ and that is making me happier and more fulfilled than being a novelist has in a very, very long time. Perhaps I will write another novel. For now, though, I'm not a novelist. Admitting it feels really good. I'm keeping a few copies of my novels, donating the rest. Space in our living room.

The extra space in the apartment feels good. The extra space in our souls feels even better.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Happy New Year!

It's 2014. Wow. How did it get to be 2014? I ask that every year, I know, but the question remains every year.

Last night, Lithus and I partied like it was 1944. Seriously. We went to the WWII museum ball. 17 piece big band. Band leader. USO-style singers. 1930's and '40's music. Benny Goodman. Artie Shaw. Louis Pima. Louis Armstrong. The Andrew Sisters. The greats.

Interestingly enough, though, it didn't feel fake. It wasn't a costume ball. We were all (mostly) in our own clothes. Since there were prizes for best 40s look and hairstyle, there were some costumes, but not nearly as many as we had feared. Lots of men in tuxes ~ some even with tails, at the table of Federal judges next to us ~ lots of women in floor length. The most casual anyone got was one man wearing a suit without a tie. Some of the dancers on the dance floor were formal dancers with moves and steps. The rest of us, just got out there and bumped around a bit. All of it was done with absolute joy and abandon.

By whom even I was out Mame-d.

Dinner was a beef carving station with creamed spinach and Yorkshire pudding; a seafood station; a lobster pasta station; bananas foster; Belgium waffles; mini pastries. All prepared perfectly. I have never really considered stations to be fine dining experiences. Last night, I was proven to be mistaken.

The "specialty cocktail" was citron vodka, splash of lime, splash of lemon, splash of simple syrup, topped off with champagne. Alternating that with club soda made me very happy. Lithus was quite pleased with the scotch selection. And, while there were certainly people who had imbibed quite nicely, no one was messy drunk. When dealing with an open bar, that's quite a feat.

At midnight, there was a champagne toast, complete with balloon drop. I was at a ball with a balloon drop.

The music, the food, the atmosphere, the people...it was an amazing night.

Louis Pima's daughter. She sounds like you would expect his daughter to sound.

May 2014 be everything you want it to be.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.