Damn

I was supposed to go to Houston tomorrow. This trip has been planned since June. Guess what? I ain't going. Guess what else? Some of my friends ain't leaving, either. Here's the thing, they don't live IN Houston. They live just outside of Galveston. Great.

So, I'm trying not to worry too much. Maybe it's because of Katrina. Maybe it's because this is the first hurricane that's hit since I've met a lot of these folks. Maybe it's because most of them are under 21 and are having to stay eventhough they want to leave because their parents are staying. Maybe I am completely overreacting. I don't know. I know I am scared for my friends.

The Duck ~ I'm not so much scared for her. She and her hub and her critters are going to be fine. They know when to leave. But "my" kids... I'm not used to having teenagers to be concerned about. Not like this. It's a new experience for me and, quite frankly, We are Not amused by it. I find myself wishing I was independently wealthy (okay, that's not a new experience but you get the idea) so that I could buy them all plane tickets and get them the hell out of there, if their parents wanted to go or not. But I can't.

So, instead, I am setting my intentions, charging my candles, and have sent them all orders to be in touch as soon as they can after Rita the bitch blows through. That is one of the joys of being an adult to teenagers; you can give orders. And once again am asking for prayers, energies, warm fuzzies ~ whatever. Not just for my friends but for the entire area, which has already seen and gone through too much.

One specific request: Brandon's dad. Yes, this is the same Brandon whose grandparents we were concerned about during Katrina. His name is Ronny. He's a Galveston cop and in charge of the dive team. He cannot leave. He will be leading rescues before, during and after the storm.

Those are Pobble Thoughts ~ and once again, Pobble Prayers.

It's DonDon's Fault

Here I am, happily checking my blog on a rainy Saturday, with my broken foot propped up and I get to DonDon's blog. Damn him. Now, The Lovely Cats and I have seen these tests and taken them before. (Spending Far Too Much time on them, as well and being more than a little shocked to learn that someone has a hidden camera on my life) But, oooo!!! oooo!!! ooooo!!!! Look! I can put them on my Blog!!!! They can be Pobble Thoughts!!!! This is why it's DonDon's fault. (We love DonDon)

SO! Without further ado (drumroll, please)...

You Are an Appletini

Most of the time, you're a typical party girl / guy. But when you get super sauced, you really up your sex appeal.

What Mixed Drink Are You?

You Are Somewhat Machiavellian

You're not going to mow over everyone to get ahead... But you're also powerful enough to make things happen for yourself. You understand how the world works, even when it's an ugly place. You just don't get ugly yourself - unless you have to!

How Machiavellian Are You?

Your Personality Profile

You are elegant, withdrawn, and brilliant. Your mind is a weapon, able to solve any puzzle. You are also great at poking holes in arguments and common beliefs. For you, comfort and calm are very important. You tend to thrive on your own and shrug off most affection. You prefer to protect your emotions and stay strong.

The World's Shortest Personality Test

Your Kissing Purity Score: 11% Pure

For you, it's all kiss and no talk. You're in a permanent lip lock.

Kissing Purity Test

Your Superhero Profile

Your Superhero Name is The Mega Glory Your Superpower is Gadgets Your Weakness is Cowboys Your Weapon is Your Nuclear Shotgun Your Mode of Transportation is Giraffe

What's your Superhero Name?

In a Past Life...

You Were: An Arrogant Monk. Where You Lived: Thailand. How You Died: Killed in Battle.

Who Were You In a Past Life?

Your Ideal Relationship is Polyamory

You want to have your cake... and everyone else's. Which isn't a bad thing, if everyone else gets to eat too! You're too much of a free spirit to be tied down by a traditional relationship. You think relationships should be open and free, with few restrictions.

What's Your Ideal Relationship?

Let me know who you end up being. Afterall, I've shown you mine...

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

Highly Recommended

So, Friend/Agent/Editor Extrordinaire brought over dinner tonight. And two bottles of wine. Five hours later, we have talked ourselves hoarse, finished off both bottles and my foot feels GREAT. If you've got something broken, think about an evening like this. Trust me. ;)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee (though I should probably just have water).

Looting or Living?

Over the last few days, I have really tried to refrain from writing about Katrina and her aftermath. Other people are saying what I would say and saying more eloquently. And, quite honestly, I've needed a break. But a conversation I had with the Grill Master has been simmering in the back of the brain and I need to get it out.

We have been appalled by the looters. Not the people who have been taking the food and goods they need to survive but the looters. I have been appalled myself. And yet, as I sat on the deck, warm and safe and dry with a fabulous dinner being prepared inside by the Divine M and spoke with the Grill Master, I got to thinking...

You have lost everything. Everything. There is nothing left but the wet, filthy clothes on your back and your crying baby or your eldery mother. You are wading through water up to your chest with your child on your back because the water is too high for him to walk. You have walked away from your dog knowing she will probably drown because your child is more important to you. You have no idea where your sister and her children are, or if they are even alive. Maybe you have a garbage bag of belongings floating out in front of you. You are heading to the Convention Center because, although it's in squalor, there is no where else to go. And, there, in a window are diamonds. A $10,000 necklace. A $5000 bracelet. A couple pair of earrings that would go for $500 a pop.

No one is looking because they are all in their own, personal struggles and too preoccupied with their own shattered lives to notice you. Or no one is looking because there is no one left to look.

In a day or a week or a month you are going to have to start over. From what? With what? When there is nothing, how do you even begin to start over? And who's to say those aren't great-grandmama's jewels? Who's to say they haven't been in the family for years and have just been too treasured to sell, even when times got a little tough? You've got a child on your back and all that is standing between you and having something to start over with is a thin plate of glass.

Or there is no child ~ and you've still lost everything.

I'm 35, no kids, and there is nothing because the flood waters took it? And there is a something. Right there. Behind a thin piece of glass. There is tomorrow. There is a glimmer of hope when I've lost everything else.

Honestly, I think I might just break that glass. Shove those jewels deep in my pockets where they would be harder for someone else to find and keep wading. I don't know. I might not. I might trust my friends and family and God and just keep on keeping on until I was out. The point is...I don't know.

Some of the looters were out of control and using the chaos as a cover for violence and crime. I have no doubt. But some of them...I'm more willing to give the benefit of the doubt than I was. Walk a mile in my shoes and all that. It's something to think about anyway. And something I hope I never have to truly learn.

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

The Pobble and the Break, Take 2

I have a broken foot. WTF!!! On the way up the stairs while being the Writer in the Basement, I tripped. Fell up the stairs. Coffee, books, papers, and the Pobble went flying. Now, I fall up their stairs once a visit. If I'm there a weekend or a week, it doesn't matter. I fall up the stairs. But this time...

This time, apparently, I broke one of those little bones in the top of my foot. And there's not really a damn thing that anyone can do about it. I have to keep it wrapped, keep it elevated, and stay off it. She looks at me and says "stay off it until Monday."

"Until Monday"...??? But I have places to go and people to visit and an apartment to clean and, and, and... And I get to spend the next three days hopping between my couch and my bed. We are Not amused.

Okay, We are. Falling up the stairs is amusing. But not having to stay off my foot when I'm busy dammit. Ah, Life as Pobble...

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

Tag Time

I was tagged by Jaded. Here goes nothing:

7 things I plan to do before I die:

1. eat spaghetti in the Medina
2. visit Africa, Istanbul, and Zanzibar
3. live at the Ritz
4. have a house big enough for ~ and actually have ~ my Bed and Breakfast Party
5. quit smoking ~ for real
6. have a stranger recognize me from the picture on the back of her/his book and ask for my autograph
7. go on a national book signing/reading tour

7 things I can do:

1. write
2. sing
3. act
4. listen
5. entertain and plan parties
6. tell time within 15 minutes by looking at the sun
7. navigate red tape

7 things I cannot do:

1. understand anything remotely scientific
2. speak another language other than English
3. stay on an elliptical machine
4. drive the speed limit on the interstate
5. babysit children under the age of 6 for any length of time
6. keep my apartment organized
7. make any kind of craft, art project, sewing project, whatever

7 things that attract me to the opposite (or same) sex:
(for real, not just to look at and drool)
1. intelligence
2. sense of humor
3. ability to listen
4. independent but still connected
5. social skills
6. someone who doesn't always put up with my crap
7. the ability to know what stuff IS crap (yeah, Jaded, I have to keep these last two; couldn't have said them better)

7 things that I say most often:

1. I hear you clucking
2. Hear this the way I mean it
3. Son of a bitch!
4. Oooooo!!!! Oooooo!!! Ooooo!!!!!
5. How can there be no food in the house?
6. I could've sworn I left it right here.
7. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee

7 celebrity crushes:

1. Brian Dennehy
2. Morgan Freeman
3. Chow Yun-Fat
4. Raul Julia (sniff)
5. Richard T. Jones
6. Sean Connery
7. Josh Hartnett

7 people I want to do this:

See, this is the one I was dreading most. If you are hoping to be tagged, consider yourself tagged. Just let me know you are taking the tag. If you don't blog but read this and want to do it, leave it in the comments section. And if you really can't be bothered, don't worry about it. ;)

These are Pobble Thoughts (with a little help from Jaded). That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

The Pobble and the...

...Break: I needed some time off. Some time away from blogging and reading and thinking. Too many wounds opened at once. Too much good news at the same time. I felt like I was going to implode with everything that was going on inside of me at the same time. So I took a break. And now I'm back.

...Businessmen: On my way home from being the Writer in the Basement, I upgraded to first class ($35 ~ gotta love AirTran!). I'm sitting there in my capri pants, re-reading a Harry Potter, ponytail happily swinging behind me when I get THAT feeling ~ the feeling I'm being watched. So I look up. The two men across the aisle from me are looking at me. So, being a Bold and Brazen Pobble, I look back at them. They look away and begin a whispered conversation. I go back to Hogwarts. As we were getting off the plane, I think I figured it out. There were seven of us in first class. Six of us were white business men in suits and ties, carrying briefcases and looking important. Then there was me. The Boston Pobble. Looking as little like a New England businessman as I can possibly look. Now, maybe that wasn't why they were looking at me. Maybe I had something in my nose or reminded them of someone they once knew or maybe they were just playing the Make-Up-A-Story-About-The-Other-People-'Cause-We're-Bored game. Still, it was interesting to notice. Yes, I'm a sociology nerd.

...Lost Wallet: Same trip and I'm in the back of a cab so I don't have to lug my crap on the T. Stuck in the door handle across from me is a wallet. I reached over to hand it to the cabbie and, for some reason, decided to check it. $310 in cash. Oh shit. Now, $310 could have paid for the trip I had just taken, including food, and given me enough to do my laundry and buy my groceries. While no one would sneeze at being given $310, it's a lot of money for me right now. A LOT. But I couldn't do it. Because if it's a lot for me, it's probably a lot for him, too. And even if it's not, even if it's his play money, it's still his money. Luckily for me, all of Boston is under construction so there are police at every corner, standing there, doing...something, I assume. So I got out of the cab and bopped over to the cop on the corner and turned it in. It was the right decision. And I know that. And I am still wondering if I'm a really good person or just stupid.

...The Big Decision: I am afraid I have to move from Boston. I don't want to move from Boston. I love Boston. I have better friends here than anyone has a right to expect. I have the Agent Extrordinairre (still don't know how to spell that word) here. I have a publishing company here. I have the greatest apartment ever here. I am the Boston Pobble for God's sake. And Boston is now the most expensive city in the country (actual reports say this; I'm not just pulling it out of my ass). I'm thinking about Philadelphia or New Haven. New Haven probably isn't big enough (I'm a city girl through and through) but I haven't ruled it out. What I know is I can live in an equivalent apartment in an equivalent neighborhood in Philly for half (seriously, HALF) of what I pay to live in Boston. So I know I have to decide. And I have to decide BEFORE my money runs out and the decision is made by not making a decision. But I don't have to like it.

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

The Grill Master

As I mentioned in my last post, the Writer in the Basement has taken up residence again. ~Whew~ Too, too long.

While I knew it had been too long, that fact was brought home on Wednesday night when The Grill Master got home from work. He works steel contstruction so you can't touch him until he gets a shower. Trust me. So, he went into the shower and I got back on the computer. 30 minutes later, there were footsteps on the stairs. Showered, dressed and clean, he had come down for his hug. My arms went around him, I managed to say "I'll let go in a minute" and I burst into tears. Bless his heart, he understood. He's been there through most of it with me. And for the first time in two months, I felt safe enough to just let go.

TGM is a big man. BIG. Hell, he works steel construction. Don't tell him I told you but he's also a klondike bar ~ all hard and rough on the outside with a center that can melt in a heartbeat. He's the Divine M's husband, the Poo's father, and one of my favorite people. There is little more beautiful than walking in from shopping with The Divine M and finding TGM and the Poo asleep on the couch, her little body curled up on his (large) chest.

So, we have sat outside and shared the news of the last two months, spoken in silence, celebrated the good and grieved the bad. We have talked philosophically and stupidly (sometimes at the same time). I've gotten my Grill Master fix ~ and I already look forward to the next one.

He's a good man and I'm lucky to have him as a friend, as my family, as a reality check and a safe place. Tonight, we're having steaks. :)

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ but I don't need it 'cause The Grill Master will have it made for me when I get back up there.

Goodbye to a Good Man

I am finally back in the basement where I belong. It was less than three months and it feels like three years. And thank God I am here. I got one of the best phone calls of my life today ~ and will write about it in another post, I'm sure. But I also got a horrible one.

It was my ex-husband. It's actually good that he called because it assures us all he's alive and hasn't been killed in Iraq where he is serving. While I don't want to be married to him any longer, I don't want him dead either. But he was calling to tell me that his brother, 39, married with two young children, living in Rhode Island, put a shotgun to his head three weeks ago and pulled the trigger.

Apparently, he had been talking about it but there is this myth out there that says "if they talk about it, they won't really do it" so his wife, T, didn't pay it much mind. He and T got into a big fight, she mentioned divorce, and took the kids to her parents' for the weekend to think about it all. When she and the kids got home Sunday night, she found him.

And I am going through all the emotions that one goes through when someone we care about commits suicide. I'm sad, I'm hurting and I'm angry as hell. What kind of pain must he have been in? How loud must the demons have been? How alone must he have felt. And still, why did he have to go and do something so stupid, so permanent?

This person I've laughed with, argued with, cried with, spent holidays with, rolled my eyes at, shared meals with...isn't any more. My ex's family has been far more definitive about the divorce than mine (which I respect) so I lost him as a brother when I asked for a divorce. But it's different now.

My faith is such that he is safe, in heaven with his father, away from his demons and his pain, and embraced by a greater love than he ever could have known here. And I'm still angry. And sad. And hurting.

If you are thinking about suicide, please don't do it. Pick up the phone and call someone. Leave a comment here and let this community support you. Go to a hospital, a church, a friend. Because someone, even someone you think has already let go of you for other reasons, will care.

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

Bye, Pat. I'll miss you.

Two O' Clock

1. It's 2 a.m. and I'm awake. This was not the plan.
2. I have a headache.
3. My mind is racing.
4. I had a dream where Angelina Jolie was my best friend. No one believed me but Nemeria and The Lovely Cats so they were the only ones who met her. We ate chocolate and dangled our feet in the Charles River and all agreed she made a lovely best friend.
5. I have no idea if Angelina Jolie would make a good best friend and don't much care when I'm awake. Even at 2 a.m.
6. I used to work in a porn store. I sent my mother and step-father fun care packages. Sometimes I would forget where I worked and be momentarily startled by a nipple until I remembered. This is how I met the Muppet.
7. When you become friends with someone over a box of extra-large dildos, there is nothing you cannot discuss.
8. This is a boring post but I think I might sleep now.

Those are (sleepy, two in the morning) Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

A Weekend at the Cathouse

The Lovely Cats got the flu on Friday. On Saturday, it was worse. She woke up feverish, hoarse and achy. The Tom Cat took the kids and the laundry. I took The Lovely Cats. By Sunday morning, her fever had broken. By Sunday afternoon, mine had risen. The Tom Cat took the kids and the laundry. The Lovely Cats took me. What a pair we make.

The Princess Kitten and I had a miscommunication. She thought I was awake. I thought I was asleep. My assessment of the situation was the more accurate of the two. Until she pounced. At which point, I was brought around to her way of thinking. Now, waking up is not something I do under the best of circumstances. Having the flu is not the best of circumstances.

She pounced, as kittens are wont to do. I, believing it a giant, mutant spider attack (which I KNOW is being planned against me), start screaming. The Princess Kitten, not knowing what was going on but suddenly hearing her beloved Aunt Mame screaming like a banshee, started screaming. The Lovely Cats, oblivious to the miscommunication taking place in the other room, only aware that suddenly we are screaming, starts screaming. I came to my senses first, which is saying something, and slowly the screaming stopped. Eventually, we will laugh about it. At the time, there was just screaming.

Eleven hours of sleep last night instead of the drive back to Boston and I'm human again. The Princess Kitten was glad to see me feeling better this morning and only a little disappointed that I had chosen a school day to recover. My laundry was done, courtesy of The Tom Cat. The Pobble Mobile has returned me safely to Boston. It wasn't the weekend any of us expected. But I'm sure we will be able to laugh about it all...in another ten years or so. ;)

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

Snapshots v. Reality

Part of what I love about blogging is "meeting" new people. Getting some insight into others lives, thoughts, dreams, ideals. It's a lovely snapshot of anoher person. What is hard sometimes is to remember is that we are not meeting. We are seeing one or two facets of a (probably as most of us are) truly multi-faceted person. It is a snapshot. And it is a snapshot without any nonverbals to help us along. Just because I choose to post on one aspect of a situation, doesn't mean I am oblivious to or cannot see the logic in its opposite. If I write the words with a certain tone, how do you know which tone that is? Perhaps you are reading it with a completely different tone. And of course, how do you know I am reading (both literally and figuratively) you correctly? You don't. And, the point is, neither do I.

I hope that I am so much more than the person presented in this blog and my comments on other blogs. I hope my favorite bloggers are more than their blogs. I hope we all have nuances and subtlties and variations that make us More than anything we can capture on a computer screen. Everything here is honest and real and a very important part of me ~ and it's not all that I am. Dear God, please don't let me be only what I can write here. How horribly dull that would be.

I am liberal, conservative, a Constitutionalist, a woman of faith, a woman of doubt, angry, happy, dissatisfied, satisfied, searching and found. And so much more. And amazingly stable and comfortable in all of these things. We live in such an either or society. I feel like a great big AND. I expect other people to be great big ANDs as well. At least it's never dull.

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

A Sign of Intelligence

One of the professors I respected the most when I was in school defined intelligence as the ability and willingness to change one's mind when presented with a better arguement. Not necessarily a more eloquently presented one, but a truly better arguement. (Personally, I always thought it would take a respectable amount of intelligence to differentiate the two but that's neither here nor there...) That has been my personal measuring stick ever since. Am I being intelligent or am I being stubborn? Generally speaking, I do pretty well.

Unless it's something that makes me really, really passionate. At that point, I tend to not only ignore other arguements (eloquently presented or not) but also facts themselves. *Sigh*

On this topic, my biggest fear is that I will become as closed-minded as the people whose voices I try to counter. Because yes, even liberals can be closed-minded. I know one man who is so liberal he's consevative. He is always Right. He never misses a chance to try to prove his Rightness. Whereas, if you have read this blog previously, you are aware I also know a woman who is as consevative as he is liberal and as open-minded as he thinks he is.

I have two heros ~ John Adams (making his second aprearance in this blog) and Nelson Mandela. Talk about passionate men. Passionate, stubborn and idealistic men. And by whatever definition you use, whatever measurng stick, they were intelligent. They recognized the facts, even when the facts weren't what they wanted the facts to be. They kept their passion ~ and their intellgence.

There have been several things recently that have tapped into my passion and I have been Right about them. Don't give me facts. Don't give me statistics. I'm passionate and I'm Right. *sigh* If it were only that easy. On days like that, I envy the man who is always Right. He never has to question or listen or learn. Then I remember my professor. I read a particularly Jaded and Opinionated blog. I think about John and Nelson. And I decide I would rather be Intelligent than Right.

It's not easy. I'm not terribly good at it, honestly. And I will keep trying. Keep listening to the arguements and weighing the facts and, hopefully, growing.

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

Instead of a Comment

1. I have added new links. These are not every blog I have read. They are the ones that have touched me, moved me, made me think, made me love. I won't make that comment to all of them. I hope they read it here.

Those are Pobble (and Nemeria's, Cats's, CrackerLilo's, GMH's, Jaded's and DonDon's)Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

An Open Letter to W.

Dear Mr. President ~

Why? Why are the people of New Orleans disposable to you? Why are their lives worth less than yours? Is it because they are poor? Is it because they are black? Is it because they didn't vote for you? Tell us, please.

There are people who are angry you haven't gone to New Orleans yet. Honestly, I don't have a problem with that. What would you do there besides eat food that no one else has, drink potable water that no one else has and use flushing toilets which no one else has? But why, Mr. President, is not every single helicopter in this country not evacuating people out? Why aren't more of out National Guard soldiers here, guardng our nation? And why aren't you in the Astrodome serving turkey dinners to YOUR citizens who have become YOUR refugees as they finally make it to safety? Might you actually have to look them in the eyes?

You must know, as the rest of us do, that the US responded faster to the tsunami than we have responded to one of our own states. You must know, as the rest of us do, that the people who are still left in New Orleans are the ones who were too old, too weak or too poor to leave. You must know, as the rest of us do, that women are being raped. You must know, as the rest of us do, that "survivors" are dying.

These people, these black people, these poor people, these female people, these weak people, even these dead people ARE INDEED PEOPLE, Mr. President. And, last year, you stood up and took the responsibility of making them YOUR people. Do you know, as the rest of us do, that they are none of them, not a single one of them, disposable? Are you willng to know?

From ~

~ The Boston Pobble

The Rev. Dr. Weenie

Several blogs ago, Cracker Lilo was sitting on her front porch (with a glass of cold, sweet tea or a mimosa, I like to think) when she asked me when my dad died. I have been mulling that answer ever since. Now, the factual answer is easy. The Rev. Dr. C. Rex died on December 26, 1997 between the hours of 9:30 pm and 11:00 pm. I was the last person to see him alive and I was the first person to see him dead. That's why I know the time. His last words (as far as anyone knows, anyway) were to me, telling me he loved me as I went to bed. The last words he heard (as far as anyone knows) were me telling him I loved him as I went to bed. This doesn't suck. It was a massive stroke, very fast, and so major we are actually quite relieved he didn't survive.

So what's hard about answering this question? Because I won't talk about his death without talking about his life. And how do you capture a life like his in a blog ~ even a long one? Let's try anyway, shall we? :)

Daddy was a presence. He loved a good, long laugh, a strong drink, a cigarette and a beautiful woman. I called him a Weenie and told him he was being weenie-istic. He adopted it as his personal nickname from me and would sign cards to me that way. He was more willing to love and accept than anyone I've ever known. In his office, he had a sign that read "Feminism Spoken Here." Physically, he was a cross between Santa Claus and Col. Sanders (of the fried chicken fame). He was a college professor, a minister, a public speaker, and a singer. These four professions made for some interesting personality traits. As a minister, he was about Love and Acceptance. As a professor of communication studies, he was about communicating. His favorite line was "Never stop communicating. Communicate at the top of your lungs if you have to but don't stop communicating." As a public speaker, he was about meeting his audience where they were, not where he wanted them to already be. And as a singer, he was about passion.

We could play cribbage for HOURS as the world moved around us. He instilled in me a love of classical music and the tall ships. He was a sailor at heart and used to say he'd fought with Nelson at Trafalgar. He had originally wanted to be a Navy chaplain but, back in the day when rotator cuff surgery was still only a fantasy, failed the physical so often they finally told him to stop coming back. For which we are all eternally grateful because that's why his first love wouldn't marry him ~ she wanted to be an officer's wife. He was my staunchest defender, even more than I knew at the time. Once, one of his students asked me if I was ever jealous of the love and attention given to his students. All I could do was laugh. Because if you took all the love and attention he gave all of them ~ over 20 years worth of students ~ and added it all up, it still wouldn't come close to the love and attention he had for me and my sister.

He never hit me. Didn't believe in physical discipline. In fact, at one point we were doing a show together and had been cast as father and daughter. The director told him to swat my butt as his character shooed me off stage. He refused. He said "I've never hit her before in her life; I'm not going to start now." The place froze. The director took a deep breath and said, "Well, can you raise your voice and shake your finger in her face?" We all laughed as Daddy said "Oh yeah. I'm really good at that." So that's what he did. And the man could sigh in a way that would make me want to climb in a hole. Whenever I got in trouble (and did I ever get into trouble!) he would send me to my room. Then, after things had calmed down, would come in and sit on my floor with me and talk ~ just to make sure I understood why I had been punished. When I decided to get divorced, I told people my mother and sister would eventually forgive me but my father wouldn't have ~ because there would be nothing to forgive in his mind.

At 17, my mother found me crying in a corner of my room. I wouldn't move; could barely speak. She called my dad and he canceled his classes and came home. Slowly, he talked me into letting him come in, letting him sit on my bed, letting him sit on my floor with me, getting me to move to the bed, and then, finally, oh so finally, got me to a place where I could leave my room, with him holding my hand. I was hospitalized for depression the next day ~ and Daddy wrote me everyday we didn't have visiting hours.

He taught me to keep score in baseball, sing tenor in barbershop, and to know the difference between a fun practiacl joke and a cruel one. I know 7x8 = 56 because of his infinite patience.

Now, don't get me wrong. The man could get on my very last nerve. He was NO saint. Yet when we got pissed with and at each other, we dealt with it. As a minister, a public speaker, and a singer, the man had Lungs. I mean, you wanted sustained volume, he could give you sustained volume. When I was a child, I would start to yell because I was angry and he would ask "Do you really want to get into a yelling match with me?" And I would calm down and we would talk. Then I grew up and became a public speaker and singer myself. The next time he asked that question, I took a deep breath and answered back "Hell yes 'cause I'm Pissed!" And we went at it. We argued many times after that but he never asked that question again. I could hold my own.

Still, he managed to raise two daughters ~ one a Pagan and one bi-sexual and accept us both to the point of nonchalance. To the day he died, I'm not sure he understood how rare that was. To the day he died, I'm not sure he knew how rare He was.

In the almost eight years since he died, I have done things that I wouldn't have done while he was alive. Some of them good, that would make him very proud. Some of them not so good, that I know would make him sigh. Yet through it all, I know he loves me. That was NEVER even a question I had to ask. Still don't.

So, that's my dad. The Rev. Dr. Weenie. If you knew him, you're life was better for it. And if you never had the opportunity to meet him, just wait. You will. He's waiting on the other side. Go up, introduce yourself. He'll be the one who looks like a cross between Santa Claus and Col. Sanders. You'll be met with a hug. I promise.

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

Time Out

You know, when my dad died, I remember pulling a friend into my bedroom and sitting there, holding her hand. We didn't talk or cry or rage. We just sat, holding hands. On 9/11, I finally pulled a trashy romance novel off my bookshelf and went to a restaurant I knew didn't have televisions. When my ex-husband was fighting his cancer, we took a day and went to buy little Christmas decorations for our room at Walter Reed.

The more stressful a time is, the more important time-outs are. It's a pretty fucking stressful time right now, friends. We are a nation at war ~ and are divided over it. We are facing one of, if not the, greatest natural disaster our country has ever known ~ and are divided over it. Our melting pot is beginning to crack from the heat of so many different peoples ~ and we are divided over it.

So here's a time out. These are things, people, events that have brought me amusement over the last few days. Let's take a time out.

* Men in bow ties. There is very little sexier to me than a man comfortable enough in his own skin to wear a bow tie in this day and age. Men who wear fun ties are a close second. Yes, I like the sexy-geek thing. I admit it. And, if you agree they're sexy or not, you gotta smile and admire them.

* Kids in Burger King crowns. Does it get better? You're six, you just got your favorite foods AND you get to wear a crown.

* UPS delivery trucks. I know, they double park, they block the street and they never come at convenient times. But you know what else? They are one of the few things that can make a little quiver in my tummy wondering "ooo...might it be for me? I wonder what it is????"

* Street kids holding their crotches. This is not something you see unless you live in an inner city (at least I've never see it anywhere but in major cities). I have, however, seen it in every major US city I've ever been. These young men walking around with a death grip on their penises. Between the ages of 16 and 21, is there a risk of them falling off that I, as a female, am unaware of?

* Extreme fashion sense. I'm not quite sure how to explain this. I'm not talking about the perfectly coiffed (sp?) man or woman. I'm talking about people with their own styles. People that ignore fashion trends. Or follow them religiously and somehow make them their own anyway. I'm talking about the people that make you think "Damn! S/He's got it going on!"

* Chance encounters. I was on the T (the Boston subway) and there stood a young woman dressed in rebellious city chic. I, on the other hand, was wearing my khaki pants, my blue silk blouse and my navy loafers. I could have been named Muffy. But I remember a time when I dressed just like her. As I read over the buttons all over her bag, I noticed one read "I do not consent to search." HOW COOL! So I mentioned it to her. She looked at me like I had three heads but managed to mumble her thanks. Then she looked at me again. And noticed the Eloise design on my briefcase. And smiled and told me it was really cool. And suddenly Muffy and the Goth Girl had more in common than the casual observer would have expected.

* Running out of toilet paper. I know, this isn't amusing. But when it happens (happened) to me, I have no one to blame but myself. I live alone. It's all my fault. And if you can't find amusement in waddling into the closet, muttering curses under your breath and hoping not to drip, then you need your pulse checked or a really strong dose of Valium.

* Fuzzy slippers and comfy pajamas. Big fan. Big. Huge. The other night, it was just all too much. I changed into my purple pajamas (XXL men's thank you very much) and my fuzzy pink slippers and felt better before the hot cocoa was even off the stove.

There. I hope you enjoyed them. Even more, I hope they triggered a thought, a memory, an experience from your own life that can make you smile. If we can't be united by crises, maybe we all need more time-outs.

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

Updates

Just to follow up with everyone:

...dondon009's crew is alive and well. my understanding of it is that the amount of damage is still unknown (as is the case for everyone). however, everyone is alive.
...Brandon's grandparents have checked in and are with friends
...still no word from Robert and Sharon but they may be out of the country completely; that happens sometimes

Hallelujah and Blessed Be!

And, if you are in the Boston area, my fabulous salon, Salon Red, is doing a "cut-a-thon" on September 18th. Here's what they have to say:

On Sunday, September 18th from 11AM-6PM, the staff at Salon Red & Spa will host a cut-a-thon to help raise funds for those who have lost so much in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Salon Red & Spa will be offering haircuts with blow-drys for a $25.00 donation. Salon Red & Spa will also be raffling off gift baskets and selling Hurricane Katrina Relief Bands for a $5 donation.

100% of all money made on September 18th will be donated to the American Red Cross.

"The staff and I have made it our goal to help those who are in need, anywhere in the world. We have been touched by what we have seen on television and if we
can offer just a little time and talent, maybe we can brighten someone's life".
- Arthur Harris
Owner of Salon Red & Spa

Whenever I feel blue, I just add "Red"

Salon Red & Spa
144B Newbury Street
Boston, MA 02116
617.267.1800

To make an appointment call 617-267-1800.

Salon Red & Spa is located at 144B Newbury Street, at the corner of Dartmouth and Newbury Street in Boston. Salon Red & Spa is accessible by the T via Copley stop.

Now, before anybody starts to wonder, No. I do not have any financial stake in Salon Red. They just really are that good a salon and that neat a group of people.

Glad to be able to write some happy stuff here.

Those are Pobble (and Salon Red's) thoughts. That and $25 on September 18th will get you good karma.

There is at Least One

Well, it's happened. The Religious Right has blamed the gay community for Katrina and the devastation in New Orleans. I am shocked but not surprised. We all should have seen this one coming.

Now, I speak as someone who is no longer Christian but was raised one ("I'm not a doctor but I play one on t.v." and of course, there's always "I don't have any problems with them; some of my best friends are Christian." Okay, sorry. It's late and I'm tired.) And I was raised by deeply faithful, deeply committed and uber-liberal Christians. So much so that when I chose a different faith, it was accepted to the point of being a non-issue.

However, I was also raised in Jerry Falwell's hometown. This was fun. We even called ourselves "the other Christians." But here's the thing...

...there is one.

She grew up in Thomas Road Baptist Church. She went to the elementary school and the high school before graduating from Liberty University. She worked for the high school for a while before getting married to a man who works there still. They attend Jerry's church most Sundays. So why am I writing about her now? Because there is one.

We've been friends since early college. And what we've been through. Being raised so differently, we've had all kinds of discussions about faith, belief, politics, women's rights, gay rights, children...You name it, we've talked about it. And we don't often agree. She's a conservative Christian and I'm...well, I'm really, really not.

But the thing about her is her Love. That's the core of the message Jesus speaks to her. Love. She has no real use for tolerance. It's too limp a word, too fickle and uncommitted. You tolerate a head cold or corn pops when you really wanted apple jacks. That's not what you do with people. Christ's word was Love so that's her word too. She doesn't make judgment. She doesn't condescend. She doesn't patronize. And most importantly, for me anyway, she doesn't pray for the rest of us to be "fixed." What's the point, she'll tell you, when we have all been made in God's image so we must be just fine the way we are?

Okay, she and I disagree on George W., when life begins, a woman's place in the home and world, and the existence of Hell. And, throughout all the disagreements, she completely and totally respects my opinions and the choices I make. The "sinner" isn't the person who commits adultery or the thief or the homosexual or the doctor who performs abortions (or the woman who gets one). The "sinner" is the person who abuses children, who ignores poverty, who disrespects the elders of our community. It's called Love.

Now, she loves me, too. With a lower case "l" the way we all love our friends. And, she Loves. She Loves me, you, the people in New Orleans, the soldiers on both sides of the war, the stranger on the street, the drag queen in sequins, the priest, the rabbi, the shaman. She is a role model for other conservative Christians. Hell, she's a role model for all of us.

Luckily for us, she also a role model for her children. Which means she is the one raising the next generation of conservative Christians. These two little beings give me Hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, there is room for all beliefs, opinions, and interpretations. Hope that maybe we don't all have to think one way before those of us who are labeled "different" or "wrong" or "sinners" can simply be ... Us.

It's not an enormous wish. It's not even a huge reason to Hope. And it is all I can offer at this time when there is so much pain being caused in the name of Jesus Christ. When these rich, straight, white men start shouting, know that there is at least one. And Hope.

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

A Banner Day!

...Not only do we have reason to believe dondon009's people are well down around the Gulf Coast
...Not only have I received my first "anonymous" negative comment

BUT PEOPLE!

I got my first spam too!

I'm just too excited.

So, forgive the word verification that I am turning on (if I can figure out how). Yes, it's annoying ... but so is spam. First we had telemarketers...now Spam? Somehow I don't think this was the point of the No-Call List.

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

Whoo-Hoo!

I have received my first negative comment! Check it out!!! It's in the comments section of "One More Goodbye." I'm an official Blogger!!!

Now, here's what I find interesting...I know who left this comment. It's got his fingerprints all over it. And he still left it anonymous.

Now, here's where I'm torn...there is a part of me that wants to issue a challenge to this person to call me. There is another part of me that doesn't want to even dignify it. And then there's the part of me that feels like I've extended the challenge and given this guy too much publicity by writing about the comment.

However, it's my blog and I won't let this person take my ramblings and thoughts away.

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

New Orleans

Wow. Friends, bad things are happening down south. Louisiana and Mississippi are flooded. People are looting. People are dying. People are losing everything they have. And Martial Law has been declared. Here are my sources so you know the Writer in the Basement isn't just exaggerating (as is my wont to do, I know ~ but not with something like this)

"10:30 a.m.: Martial Law Declared: New Orleans is under martial law, according to state officials. The declaration is imposed to restore order in times of war and emergency. It could be weeks before displaced residents are allowed to return. -- WDSU chief meteorologist Dan Milham"

"11:04 a.m.: Looting Out Of Control: New Orleans police say looting is out of control in many parts of the city. Officials are focusing on the rescue effort, but a crackdown on looting is expected after the martial law declaration. -- WDSU anchor Kriss Fairbairn"

Now, in case you don't know what Martial Law is, here we go: "Martial law is the system of rules that takes effect (usually after a formal declaration) when a military authority takes control of the normal administration of justice ... Martial law is instituted most often when it becomes necessary to favour the activity of military authorities and organizations, usually for urgent unforeseen needs, and when the normal institutions of justice either cannot function or could be deemed too slow or too weak for the new situation, ... The need to preserve the public order during an emergency is the essential goal of martial law. ... Usually martial law reduces some of the personal rights ordinarily granted to the citizen..."
~ Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Which, translated loosely, means all kinds of shit is happening in New Orleans.

So I am now going to do something I don't often do. I am going to get off my Constitutional high horse ~ because now is not the time to debate Martial Law and the rights of citizens ~ and I am going to publicly ask for prayers. We can discuss Martial Law and the implications therein later. For now, please, however you pray, whatever name you call The Higher Power, whatever your personal feelings may be regarding sin or justice, whatever your personal soapbox is ~ please, today, just pray...
...for the people of the affected areas;
...for the animals who had even less understanding of what was happening than the humans did;
...for the rescue workers, the national guard, the medical personnel;
...for the Earth herself, who is in turmoil;
and because specifics are often important:
...for Brandon's grandparents;
...for Mark's parents;
...for dondon009's crew;
...for Robert and Sharon.
If you have someone you know personally in the area ~ New Orleans, elsewhere in Louisiana, Mississippi, anywhere affected by this devastation, please leave their name in the comments section of this post.

Blessed Be, everyone.

Closed Doors, Open Windows

It is easy, when life is shitty, to lose sight of the good things. And, as most of you know, life has been pretty shitty. Lots of people have reminded that "God has a plan" and, while I appreciate the sentiment, I have also had ample opportunity to use my favorite, homemade saying: So long as God reserves the right to keep this plan hidden from me, I reserve the right to be pissed off at him about it. Pretty simple 'cause I'm a pretty simple type o'gal.

That being said, I will not do myself, my friends, or my life the injustice of ignoring what has come from the last several, shitty years. Want to know?

* A larger and, quite honestly, more significant group of friends than I have ever had in my life. From friends to family to Girlfriends to "my" kids in Santa Fe to the coffee guy in Copley Square. I am so incredibly blessed.
* A family that IS my family, regardless of what blood runs through our veins.
* Along that line, people who not only welcome me and want me at holidays and events but EXPECT me. Why? 'Cause I'm family.
* A new job that I love that makes me wake up every morning wanting to get to work. And makes me think (in a good way!) "Holy shit ~ this is actually MY LIFE!"
* Agent Extraordinaire (sp? she's also Editor Extraordinaire). And she's an even better friend. And we have The Plan! :)
* A sense of myself and my own possibility.
* A stronger connection to God/the Goddess/the Higher Power ~ whatever you want to call that great, amazing, incredible being (who still hasn't decided to fill me in on the plan).
* Three nieces and three nephews. Two of the boys and one of the girls share genetic coding with me. The others don't. It doesn't matter. If anyone tried to tell The Poo or Princess Kitten that she was less my niece than Trinity...ooo! That would be ugly. Worth the price of admission but ugly.

And so...Life goes on. It gets better. We manage to swim through the gunk and the shit and the pain and come out the other end. And the other end isn't filled with ribbons and rainbows and calorie free chocolate for breakfast. Some days the other end is shitty, too. And some days it's just...what it is. But bottom line is, we get there. And there is a pretty cool place to be.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ pretty much wherever you are on the journey.

Vaya Con Dios

This has a companion piece, "Closed Doors, Open Windows" so please be sure to take the time to read that one as well once you're done here. Thanks.

A couple times in my blog, I have alluded to the nastiness that the past few years have been. This is a time to release those things, as much as I can.

* My husband and trusted confidant. Be smart. Be safe. Be well. Hopefully one day we can forgive each other.
* Two of my Girlfriends. One, because the move to Nashville has taken and you're really not coming home. The other, because we were foolish and moved in together. You were more important than saving money. I miss you still.
* My mostly companion, CD. For two years you made life bearable from 9-5. Thank you.
* Hobbes. I hope you fill those holes in your soul.
* Mama Bear. My last living grandparent. Please God, I will carry your wisdom and love with me for the rest of my life.
* My ideas of what makes biological family special. This was the hardest to let go. It still hurts sometimes; I won't pretend it doesn't. And we all have to do what we have to do. I can live with sad. At least it doesn't make me feel unworthy any longer.
* Linda. Four years and I'm healthier and happier than I've ever been. And, finally able to deal with all those things.
* My biological sister and biological mother. I am able to release my understanding/expectations/hopes of what it means to be part of your family unit. The rules are different for me. That makes me sadder for you than it does for me, now. And, as I said above, I can live with sad.
* My fella. It was a good year ~ even when it wasn't. I'm glad I know you.
* The job I really, really loved. I'm not angry anymore at being used up.
* Quinn. I'm sorry we had to put you down. I'm sorry you never saw Daddy again. It wasn't supposed to be that way.
* Lynchburg. For a town I hated the entire time I had to be there, to have almost no connection any longer (almost, Cin, almost) is more painful than I had expected. 1977-2005 is a long time to go and not get to say goodbye.

There it all is. It seems so...ordinary...in black and white. But God, it hurt like hell going through it. And grief and loss can't be boiled down to a list. It is what it is for each of us. So I release the pain and hold the love. I am the love, the love is me. As I will, so mote it be.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee. (Now read the companion piece. ;))

A MadGay Tag

The Mad Gay Housewife asks the following question: What 5 Things Do You Miss from Your Childhood? He was tagged by Crackers. I don't know if Crackers was tagged or if it's Crackers's brilliance that brought us here (and she told two friends, and she told two friends, and so on and so on...) However! Here we are. Drumroll please...

1. This is a no-brainer. The first thing I miss from my childhood is my father. The man was no saint. In fact he was a weenie. And he was my best friend, my primary parent, and protector. He always smelled good. And made us hot cocoa from scratch when we couldn't sleep. Here's to you old man.

2. Visits with my grandparents. My Mamoo and Papa, as we called them, were great to go visit. I can't tell you why. They didn't really have kids' stuff; they lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment and yet...I don't ever remember being bored. No matter how early we got up, they were already up. Mamoo cooking and Papa sitting in his chair, drinking his coffee and smoking his pipe. They had unlimited amounts of energy. Papa had this superball that would bounce forever and we would take it outside and bounce it and listen to the echos it made in the stairwell. And I collected a lot of bugs that Mamoo always seemed to have a jar we could keep them in. As I write this, I realize what a sacrifice that would have been for her. Wow.

3. Sleeping in the backseat. We would have gone out or even on a road trip and it would be late and my sister and I would fall asleep in the back. I would, inevitably, wake up at some point. The window on my father's side (which meant my side, too because I always sat behind him) would be cracked for his cigarette, classical music would be on the radio, and my parents would be talking in low whispers. It was dark and quiet and safe and wonderful. I'm not sure we ever get to feel quite that way as adults.

4. Singing at the piano with my mother (see, they're not all bad memories). We would sit and she would play and we would sing. Out of one particular songbook, especially. To this day, I still expect all the songs we sang to come from that one songbook, eventhough I know they didn't. "What Do We Do With the Drunken Sailor" was my favorite. (No comments from the peanut gallery, please. Thank you. :))

5. Christmastide. My family had a strict rule that said nothing Christmas before Thanksgivng. The Friday after Thanksgiving was fair game but nothing before then. I would sit in the big red chair with the Kingston Trio Christmas album and ache to be able to play it. Then sometime on the Friday after Thanksgiving, my mother would say "Oh, we should put Christmas music on" and it would officially begin.

There are other things I miss from my childhood. There's not much I wouldn't give to be seven again. But 35 doesn't suck, either. And you couldn't pay me enough to be 20 another time so maybe it's a good thing to remember ~ and stay where I am.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee. (but when I was a kid, I remember it was only fifty cents...)

Now That's Just Wrong...

1. After getting to sleep at 2 a.m., there was a noise on the street that woke me this morning ~ AT FIVE O'CLOCK. It's Sunday, people...

2. Just got an email from a friend of mine who had to move to Rhode Island so she and her girlfriend could get domestic partner insurance without getting married. While my straight friends from upstairs are excited because his insurance just approved their domestic partner status. What the fuck, Massachusetts???

3. The house I grew up in has been sold and I can never go back again to say goodbye. I didn't even know my mother had put it on the market.

4. A rather...ahem...stocky (being nice here) man I know from the neighborhood just informed me that I would have a hard time finding a boyfriend because I had put so much weight on in the last year. This from a man with hairy arms in a wife beater with his belly hanging out.

5. My fridge is full of food ~ and I have nothing to eat in the house.

6. One of my favorite author's book was just reissued. The hero is a cop living in Denver. I have NEVER READ THIS BOOK BEFORE. My book currently under consideration has a Denver cop as the hero.

7. When I finished this, I was going to take a nap. Except the new neighbors who just moved in immediately below my bedroom are hammering.

I gotta be due for my period...

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee (so you leave me alone while I'm grumpy!).

One More Goodbye

I am officially single. Didn't get to tell him until today but it happened last night at midnight or so. Let's get one thing straight, first: I'm a demanding bitch. However, I am also a very fair demanding bitch. I do not expect people to read my mind. I spell out what my expectations are very clearly. There are two things that send me into very dark places ~ being ignored and being left hanging. I make no bones about these two things and, even so, give a guy a couple chances to get it.

Last night, my fella and I hadn't seen each other in a couple days 'cause The Lovely Cats and Princess Kitten were in town. He called and we agreed he would be over about 9-ish. At 9, he called and said he wanted to go out with the guys. NO PROBLEM. I asked if I would see him at all that evening and he said yes. 10:15-ish. No later than 10:30 because his buddy had a 10 o'clock train back to the 'burbs. So, I took a bath in our favorite scent and settled in with a good book to wait for him.

At 11:30, refusing to go into my dark place, I went to bed. At midnight, he called. Still out with the guys. ~ sigh ~ I told him to go home when he was done.

At two in the morning, my phone rang. His buddy, drunk. And it rang again at 2:03. His buddy, drunk. And again at 2:05. I finally took the phone into the living room which is a good thing because my caller i.d. shows that my phone rang again at 3:10 and 3:13.

When we talked today, he thought I was breaking up with him because of the drunk dial. Now, admittedly, Alan did him no favors. But that's not why I ended it. I'm not THAT much of a bitch. Partly, I ended it because of the hour and a half lag time between the time he said he would be here "at the latest" and the time he called. At some point, Alan decided not to take a 10 o'clock train. A phone call then would have made this whole thing a non-issue.

But, partly, I broke up with him because, after a year, and knowing what silence does to me, he still thought I was breaking up with him because of the drunk dial. He truly didn't get the other aspect of it. Which means, after a year, he truly didn't get me ~ and wasn't going to. And that's MOSTLY why I broke up with him.

And I will miss him. Not just because he did my dishes or because he helped with the trash (although those were always nice) but because he's a nice guy. Nice guys are...well...nice. There are still peaches on my counter that he brought over so I could make a cobbler. He was a good friend. And, at the same time, I need a partner who gets me.

So, I am single again. This time I think I'll stay this way for a little while. Maybe get a dog, maybe not. Whichever way, I'm just going to enjoy being me and with me for a little while. There have been an awful lot of good byes recently. I think I'll spend some time with somebody I won't ever be saying goodbye to. She's really good company.

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

Backlogged Blog

It's been long enough since I've written that I have several posts in my head just waiting to work their way through the bottle neck and become actual reading material. SO! Instead of me trying to write every single one of them and making several long posts in one day, we're doing a shortened version of each here. (Yay! It's kinda like a list!)

The Female Enigma
Here's what I don't get. You hear women say there is a Sisterhood among us. That powerful things occur when women gather without men. And yet, you also hear women ~ myself included ~ say things along the lines of how we get along better with men than with other women. And I have watched women be harder on other women in professional situations. The Cat Fight is practically cliche. You can't turn on a daytime talk show without watching two women calling each other names while the man sits between them looking all proud of himself when, in reality, he's the one who's cheating on both of THEM. So which is it? The Cat Fight or the Sisterhood? I pray to everything holy we can manage the Sisterhood. Men are Fabulous! I love men. Any man between 18 and death works for me. And yet...it's my girlfriends. It's the Sisterhood. I just hope we can find a way to embrace the Sisterhood as strongly as we have embraced the Cat Fight. Which seques nicely into...

Girlfriends
What's the difference between a female friend and a Girlfriend? (this is assuming one is heterosexual and female) And there is a difference. It's like art or porn, I suppose. I'm not sure what it is but I know what it isn't. When a male friend recently stepped on an old, silly trigger of mine who did I run it by for a reality check? A Girlfriend. When I had two days completely off, who did I go see? A Girlfriend. Who did I invite to come with me? A Girlfriend. A female friend of mine is getting married and I am SO EXCITED for her. Yet once I saw the ring, we were both ready to move on. Didn't need to spend the next three days talking about it. I've been playing email/phone tag with a female friend. I hope we catch up. And, if we don't... Ah well. And then there are those in between people. There are three of them in my life right now. Women who are female friends but I want them as Girlfriends. But what's the difference? And how does one make that transition? And is it even something that can be decided upon? Or do you just wake up one day and realize she's a Girlfriend? Again, I don't know. I know I am grateful for my female friends. I am grateful for my Girlfriends. Let's face it; this isn't a bad dilemma to have.

Impotence is Bliss
(WARNING: If you consider me daughterly in any way shape or form, you might want to skip this paragraph) Okay, I'm not really impotent but it makes a great title, doesn't it? What IS going on is that I have no sex drive at all. None. Zip. Zero. Nada. Not interested. Really could care less. In some ways, this is distressing to me. I'm in a relationship that, while it is winding down, has always been ~ahem~ just fine in that area. Also, what if it's gone forever? I mean...Wow. Really would rather that not be the case. On the other hand, however, it's not as bad as you might think. Let's be honest ~ hormones can get you in more trouble than a shoe sale and a box of chocolate combined. I write, hang out with my friends, snuggle with my fella, and life goes on quite nicely. Now, that being said...

20 Year Old Guilt
Wow am I horrible. I have a crush. I have a crush on someone I really ~ I mean REALLY ~ shouldn't have a crush on. But he's adorable. And he's legal. And I don't want a relationship with him, for heaven's sake. I just want to borrow him for a month or so. Borrow him from his small town and his Southern girlfriend and bring him up here to Boston for a little while. They can have him back. It's not like I want to keep him forever. Now, before anybody panics, I am NOT going to do a damn thing about this. I am ~ believe it or not ~ an adult. I can be trusted in a room alone with him and everything. But good heavens. I don't remember them looking like that. Maybe Mrs. Robinson wasn't so crazy afterall.

It's Not All About Me
This is my new motto. I know, this sounds pretty shocking coming from The Boston Pobble considering we all know it actually IS all about me so let me explain. I have decided that if someone else responds in a way I don't understand, that is unexpected, that is...whatever...It's Not All About Me. Basically, what I'm doing here is giving up rejection issues. They were fun while they lasted but I really think the relationship has run its course and I'm moving on. So, if someone doesn't call or doesn't want to hang or isn't into something I am or seems distant I will no longer get bent about it. Why? (Say it with me...) It's Not All About Me. Now, that being said, if someone comes to me and says "This IS about you" then I will listen. Otherwise, I'm going to assume that the people who tell me they love me actually do AND that they love me enough to call me out on my shit and not pussy foot around me about it. We'll see where this takes me. It's a little scary but exciting too. I'll keep you posted.

Fred and Snack
Fred and Snack are my dachshunds. Now, I don't have dachshunds ~ and may never have dachshunds. But if I ever do, by God, their names are going to be Fred and Snack!

Shipping
So, earlier I sat down at Bob, My Hoo-Hah Computer (yes, that's his name) and did some online shopping for things I needed. Now, these were things I actually, really did need unlike that sexy pair of black sandals or that great bag that is on sale for $50. No, these are things I actually NEED. And I found a site that gave me pretty good prices so I had a basket with nearly 15 things in it for less than 200 bucks. As I said, not bad. And then I hit the checkout button. My bill was over 300 dollars! You read that correctly. Over THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS! Over one hundred dollars in shipping charges. You know, I can grab some friends and a shopping cart and hit Target a couple of different times for a hundred bucks. Three hundred dollars! Please...

So, there you have it. The backlog of Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Shhhhh...

...don't tell anyone but I'm having an affair. I know, I know. It's a whirlwind romance, no way it could last and, honestly, ends tonight. I will return to my love as loyal and faithful as ever ~ but the smile on my face when no one is looking will be me remembering my weekend fling.

Boston is home. Boston is comfort and history and the knowledge that life goes on in spite of whatever craziness comes along. Boston is dependable, comfortable sex every Tuesday night and Saturday morning. There are parts of Boston that look exactly as they did 100 years ago and will look exactly the same 100 years from now. And I am so indescribably grateful for that.

But Chicago...Chicago is the craziness that comes along. Chicago is bright lights and smoky jazz clubs that stay open until 3. Chicago is moving and changing and try to keep up 'cause you're swept off your feet. Chicago is a fast and frantic fuck, up against the wall, trying to stay quiet so your party guests don't hear.

So, I will go home. Go home to my wonderful Back Bay apartment, a T system that stops running at 12:30 p.m., my old men and college students, and be ever so grateful I am home. That's Boston.

But every so often...I will smile when no one is looking.

That's Chicago.

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

Travels with Pobble

I am in Chicago. I LOVE Chicago. It's big, bright and busy. The people are friendly. Things are open LATE into the evening or even ~gasp~ 24-hours. I know. It's radical.

Now, you know I love Boston. And this trip has pointed out some ... deficiencies ... about Boston that, while I had been aware of, I hadn't realized JUST how much I had been affected by them. Yes, things are open late and that's wonderful.

However, there are actually things to do here in Chicago that don't involve drinking games and fake i.d.s. Places to go where the median age ISN'T 21 or 60. Being 35 and out on the town doesn't mean you have to pretend to still be 25 or that you really did want to catch that lecture at the BPL. Last night, having no tickets to see anything, no real plans, and no idea what the hell we were doing, we stumbled onto a jazz restaurant. We were seated immediately, next to the stage. The jazz was live and hot. The drinks were cold and delicious. The food was spicy and sinful (that could have been the description of the jazz for that matter!). The plans for tonight involve a piano bar that's open until 3 o'clock in the morning. I'm hoping we close the place.

And there is something else here ~ there is culture beyond rich, white, and Puritan. Yes, Boston has history. Boston has the BSO, the theatre district, and sports, sports, sports. But if you are looking for something to do that involves or embraces another culture, good luck in finding it on an average night. Here, we are choosing between jazz, blues, swing, reggae, and piano bars. The faces in front of the counters are as diverse and the faces behind the counters.

I have no doubt that if I lived here, I would grow bored of the same old places in the way that it always happens. And I would see the sides of Chicago that make it someone's boring hometown. But tonight, right now...Wow! If you are between 27 and death, come to Chicago. Trust me. ;)

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

The Writer in the Basement

I'm due for a trip to see my family in New Jersey. I haven't seen them since June. What's funny about that is until last summer, I hadn't seen them in years. Then, last summer, I went down for a weekend and have been going every 6 to 8 weeks since then. What's even funnier is I just counted the weeks and it's only been 8 weeks since I've been there. But it feels longer. Perhaps it's because I don't yet have my reservations for next time. Perhaps it's because so much has happened between then and now. Perhaps it's just because they are that much a part of my life that I miss them when we are apart. I don't know and I don't care.

What I do know is I miss the feel of the Poo's head on my shoulder when it's time for her to go to sleep and the feel of her hand on my cheek when she decides it's time for me to wake up. And the quiet times with The Grill Master, where we can speak volumes in the silence between us. And, always, always, always, the times with the Divine M. (keeping people anonymous is tough!)

Last summer, when I first started going down there, it was because I needed to jumpstart my book. So, I went down there, took over their basement and wrote. By the third or fourth time of this, we were all so comfortable with the routine that we didn't even notice if I was rude or indifferent to other people who would come by. Hell, we hardly realized when I was rude or indifferent to them. My job was to go down to the basement and write. I'll pop up to pee or grab more coffee or to ask The Grill Master a "guy" question (as in "Would a guy say it this way or is that too girly?") and descend back into the basement.

One of our favorite stories is the time I was down in the basement and they simply forgot I was down there. Apparently, they left, ran some errands and then remembered me. The actual length of time changes with the telling of the story but it was at least long enough for them to hit one store. Possibly as long as a couple hours. But, however long they were gone, they came racing home and the Divine M. came to check on me, to apologize. You see this coming, right? I didn't even know they had gone. It wasn't until the next trip she could even bring herself to tell me it had happened. They are so good at leaving me be and I had fallen far enough into my pages that... If I had written it, no one would believe it.

So I miss them, my Jersey family. The Writer in the Basement needs to take up residence again. Regardless of what the calendar says, it's been too long. That's just the way it works sometimes. Calendars and clocks may tell us days and times but only our hearts can tell us when it's passing too fast.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee (if you aren't lucky enough to have the Grill Master keep a pot going for you).

My Muppet

My Muppet, also known previously in this blog as Cynthea's son, is an enigma. He is one of the most gentle souls I have ever had the honor of knowing. And that's him, there on the right of this post. He's my 24-year-old-rocker-porn-store-manager-best-guy-friend. If you've clicked on the link to The Glamourous StuntCocks, that's his band, eventhough he's not on there yet.

So, why am I writing about him? Because he has been strong enough and brave enough to do what is right, even when that is hard. Make that HARD. Make that scary. Make that HARDSCARYHARD. Don't misunderstand, the relief outweighs the pain. I've heard it in his voice and I've seen it in his eyes and the change in his shoulders. He's not stooped any more. And yet...

We've all been there. You stand at a crossroad, knowing what you want and knowing how to get it and knowing what you must release to get there. And you stand... And you rethink and double-guess and hem and haw and wonder. Because letting go is scary. Moving on is frightening. Leaving our comfort zones and jumping into the void takes so much courage and faith. And this 24-year-old-rocker-porn-store-manager has spent the last year jumping...and jumping...and jumping. Oh yeah, and jumping.

I was once given a wonderful quote. I have no idea where it comes from orginally: When you come to the edge of all the light you know, And are about to step off into the darkness of the unknown, Faith is knowing one of two things will happen ~ There will be something solid to stand on Or you will be taught how to fly.

When it comes time for it, I hope that I have the Faith and trust he has shown over the course of this last year. When you are your crossroad, may you have the faith and trust of the Muppet. We could all do a hell of a lot worse.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee (until the Muppet is a bazillionaire and then he'll buy it for all of us!).

City Oases

So, it's confession time. I'm supposed to be cleaning my apartment. First, it needs it. Seoncd, I've got my Frank Sinatra (my cleaning music of choice) going in the background. Third, it's Sunday and that makes a good cleaning day. Fourth, my apartment needs cleaning. Guess what? I'm sitting here writing Pobble Thoughts.

What brought me here was thinking about how much my apartment ~ when clean, anyway ~ is a real oasis for me. My name is on a lease, not a mortgage, and yet it is my home, not just where I live. The Library (my name for the place: when the building was a single family back in the 1800s, the space that is now my apartment was the library. I figure I've got the best ghosts in the place but that's a Thought for another day.) is gorgeous, beautiful, and peaceful. I'm lucky. I enjoy being here.

Which then led to thinking about other places that give me this same relaxing away-from-it-all feeling. My salon, Salon Red. Even before they knew me there, when I walked in, I was comfortable, relaxed. And the people are the best. The Ritz. Not the new one. I'm sure it's nice but it's not The Ritz. The old one, the Grand Dame, that's The Ritz. Go there for tea and the world disappears. A friend of mine used to say that the staff there keeps "it" out ~ whatever "it" happens to be. And they do. They really do. Copley Square. Yes, it can get crowded. Yes, it can be too hot or too cold depending on the season. But there is still something about Copley Square. For sitting, for being, for people watching, for reading, for whatever.

Sometimes we find peaceful places where we expect them. Sometimes we find them where we least expect them. What's important is that we keep our eyes, our minds, and our hearts open so that when a place brings us peace, we welcome it into our hectic, crazy lives and let it sit with us, even just for a little while.

My apartment still needs cleaning so I need to get on that. However, now I have the peace of a welcoming salon, the staff at the Ritz and the beauty of Copley Square ~ along with a good dose of Ol' Blue Eyes ~ to help me get through the crap, to the oasis that can be my home.

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

Too Much on my Mind

I discovered last night that I've got too much on my mind. While I sort of knew this, it became clear at 3 o'clock this morning when I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Normally, I can listen to my book on tape or tell myself The Three Bears and next thing I know, I don't know anything because I'm asleep. Not so last night. Which is a sure sign my brain is in overload.

Now, understand, I don't think I have more on my mind than anyone else. We've all got crap going on. But my crap is the crap that's keeping me awake so it's the most important crap to me.

There are bills to pay; a book to write; a name to change; an apartment to clean; friends to catch up with; weight to lose; meals to prepare; appointments to make; errands to run... You get the idea.

When I make out a list (and you know I love lists) like the one above, it doesn't seem so overwhelming. And somehow, when it comes time to Do It, it feels more overwhelming than ever, even than it did at 3 o'clock in the dark of the day. It just seems easier to sit and read my book ~ mine as in I own it, not mine as in I've written it ~ or noodle on the computer or write Pobble Thoughts or sit in Copley Square and people watch. There's always a nap to take.

What I know is that eventually, the bills will get paid; the book will get written...you understand. It will all happen in time. Just probably not today. And I guess that's okay, too.

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

The Cat in the Hat

The Lovely Cats was in (rather dire) need of a play date so Bear and I jumped in the Pobble Mobile and drove down for two nights. Honestly, I had no idea what I was going to go for. I might have been walking into a situation where she said "Great! Wash the dishes, clean the bathtub and I'll be home in four hours. Oh, and here's the kid." Or, I might have been walking into a shoot the moon 36 hours. Or somewhere in between. Turned out to be somewhere in between.

I spent time playing with Princess Kitten and watching t.v. with The Silent Prince. Tom Cat and I sat at the table and caught up. But I was there for The Lovely Cats so we did what girlfriends do; we found the Target and went shopping.

She is relatively new to her town and had a general idea of where it was but hadn't made the trek yet. So we made it together. Once there, she mentioned how she wished she could wear hats and threw one on her head to prove how horrendous they looked on her.

She looked great. Serious ass backfire.

After trying on several, she settled on the first one. A teal newsboy cap. Except she would only get it if I got one. I agreed to get the one she chose for me. We walked out in a teal newsboy and a brown, courderoy cowboy hat.

But let me tell you what happened. We went from being two, stressed women in a small town to being totally tough and bad ass. I mean, we were Cool. Cool with a capital "c". Men flirted. Women sneered. Even our walks changed. We could have ordered whiskey in a dirty glass and not made fools of ourselves.

This morning, reality was back. It was time for me to get back to Boston and her to put on her clerics and go back to work. We decided the teal newsboy wouldn't exactly work with her collar but that it would go back on as soon as she changed shirts. And the cowboy hat worked fabulously with me ~ even if it only worked so well with my clothes. In fact, I have just now taken it off in order to settle down and go to sleep. Hopefully, the newsboy stayed on her head as long.

God willing, we learn something new everyday. What I learned is buy a hat. Next time you need to go from stressed to bad ass, buy a hat. You'll look great. And feel even better.

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