One! Two! Three! (Ah, ah, ah...)

ONE! ONE giant leap for mankind:

TWO! TWO different characters:

THREE! THREE sad losses!

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

A Toast

...to the women who:

* finally say "no."
* recognize when enough really is enough.
* pack their shit.
* know that as scary as this is, it's still not as scary as it could be if they let it.
* know that as scary as this is, it's still not as scary as it will be if they let it.
* protect the right people.
* make the phone calls.
* don't make any more excuses.

...to the men who:

* know the difference between love and need.
* don't hit, yell, name call or abuse.
* are "real men" ~ in all their forms.
* don't need excuses.
* understand that fear has no place in a home or a family.

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

Getting It Right

Recently, I have been corrected regarding events here in NOLA. Corrected by two men who used to know more about the city than I, but who don't live here, have never lived here, and no longer know more about my hometown than I do. By two men who I have, in the past, thought knew me well enough to know that I a) rarely talk out of my ass b) usually admit to it when I do talk out of my ass and c) take polite correction (reasonably, if unhappily) well. I would actually prefer my friends to correct me, so I don't make a fool of myself in front of people who don't love me. But... If you are smug, and self-righteous, and seem to take pleasure in correcting me, I gotta be honest, it makes me question if you are actually my friend.

For the record, the weeks leading up to Fat Tuesday are indeed called Carnival. Mardi Gras is only the day before Lent starts. Locals don't interchange them.

French Quarter shopkeeper: I probably make 25% of my yearly profit during Carnival.
Uninitiated: Oh, so Mardi Gras is good for you?
FQS: Oh hell, no! I'm closed on Mardi Gras. I don't want their drunken asses in my shop!*

Also, White Linen Night is a Warehouse District Event in August.

It's a community stroll, where the shops and galleries stay open late, offer wine and hors d'oeuvres. People ~ yes, wearing white linen ~ come and stroll and look in the shops and galleries, drinking wine and eating hors d'oeuvres. Dirty Linen Night is a French Quarter event that takes place the next weekend. A few years ago, someone from the Quarter decided that no one else in the city the Warehouse District shouldn't get any attention at all have all the fun, and created Dirty Linen Night. It's the exact same thing, only down Royal Street, with more liquor and less wine, and dressed in the linens that got dirtied last week in the Warehouse District. I know this exists because I got caught in it last night when I decided I wanted brussel sprouts with my dinner and went to the grocery store. Plus, there's a website and signs and announcements and shit like that. Locals know about this.

Local 1: Did you go to White Linen Night last night?
Local 2: I did, but I dropped a cocktail weenie on my top.
Local 1: At least you're ready for Dirty Linen Night next week.
Local 2: True that.*


* Dialogue may be exaggerated for effect.

So, when I referred to Carnival and Dirty Linen Night, I actually meant Carnival and Dirty Linen Night. Surprise! I actually know about my town. Don't get me wrong; I'm not hurt that you corrected me. Not in any way. However, I would remind you when you correct me, be correct. Or, at least, don't be smug, and self-righteous when you correct me and you're wrong.

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

Restless

I always know something's going on when I start to get restless. As I am these days. I know what it is, and it's easily fixed. More writing, less second-guessing. All will be well. But until I get back in my rhythm, I am restless.

I have suspected it for a few days, but just really got it today, sending an email to a friend. See, just recently, Lithus and I made the conscious, deliberate decision that we would stop looking outward and elsewhere and beyond. We love New Orleans. Love it. And no, we really don't want to leave unless the reason for leaving is massively worth leaving. Manhattan? Boston? Sure. Absolutely. Missoula, MT? Hoboken, NJ? You know...really not so much. Which is why it took me a little while to realize I was restless this time. Because I am happy, and I do love where I am, and I want to stay here.

But I've spent the last few days not being satisfied with this:

Or this:

Or even this:

No, I realized I was restless when I found myself thinking that this:

photo by Vivienne Gucwa

or this:

could make my life so much different.

The truth, however, is that if I'm not writing in New Orleans, I won't be writing in New York or Puerto Rico. If I'm second guessing myself here, I'll second guess myself there, too. The geographic cure only works when the problem is the geographic location, no matter how restless you are.

Because really, there ain't a damn thing wrong with this:

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

A Little More Than a Week On...

...and I'm getting better. The itching has all but stopped. The swelling is gone. Once everything heals up, I'll be able to shave again! Yay!

It's the little things.

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

Time Passes

I woke up this morning to the headline "Three Special Forces Operations Soldiers Killed in Afghanistan." First, it's not hard people. "Special Forces" are the Green Berets. Nobody else. "Special Operations" are all of the elite units, including but not limited to, Green Berets. Second, I... didn't care.

Don't get me wrong. Of course I care. The war is supposed to be over. Soldiers are not even supposed to be there, let alone dying there, any longer. But that worry that it is the SGM, that worry that maybe the Golden Boy finally got caught... Nope.

It just seems so long ago now. He seems so long ago. I am happier than I ever was. I am loved more than I ever was. I love more than I ever did. Lithus and I have known each other a little over six years, been living together for five, and married for three and half. And he was...so very long ago. Which is odd, considering this blog was started as a way to process my divorce from him.

Reading the news, I realized no one would think to call me if it was him, but also, even if they did think to contact me, no one would know how any longer. And I am just fine with both of those facts.

As the day went on, more information came out and it appears they weren't Special Forces, which means it wasn't him, which is fine, because I do not wish him ill. The Golden Boy lives to fight another day and good for him.

But me? I'm where I belong. Living my life. With my dear Lithus. I can't imagine anything else, any longer.

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

Of Chicken, and Other Treats

It's Starbucks Day! Grab a coffee or a tea or a cookie or a bottle of water today and show your appreciation to companies that support LGBTQ rights. And, if you're craving a chicken sandwich while you're out, here are some alternatives.







Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ but the one from Starbucks is gonna cost a bit more.

94

Wednesday was a holiday for me, so I decided to take some cornbread and fruit and a couple sips of rum down to the river and watch the sun set. The entire walk there, I'm thinking to myself "just make sure you don't sit in an anthill." See, I am highly allergic to ants. And not just the red fire ants. Little, black, garden variety ants will get me.

In fact, the last time I was bitten by an ant, I went into anaphylactic shock. Another allergen was present ~ toasted coconut ~ and no docctor has ever really been able to tell me if it was one of these, or the combination of the two, that led to the anaphylaxis. I just make it a policy to avoid both.

Which brings us back to Wednesday evening. I get to the river and look around. No ants. Fabulous! I sit down, begin to unpack my cornbread when I realize my dress has pulled up and the grass is dry and therefore biting into my skin. I adjust my dress when ~ and I know you know ~ I realize I am covered in ants. On my hands. On my feet. On my legs. And yes, they are biting.

This is where I will toot my own horn. I did not start screaming. I did not throw myself into the Mississippi River. I did not panic. Instead I packed back up and started paying very close attention to my breathing. So far so good.

I mentally mapped the hotels between me and my apartment, figuring I would stop there and ask them to call for help if necessary. I remembered I had my phone and called the Divine M, who rose to the occasion beautifully. And I made it home.

Even holding off what could be a medical emergency, there is something disconcerting about stepping into a shower fully clothed. But I did it. Rinsed everything, washed everything. Still breathing well. I even thought to drown whatever ants were still in my clothes so they wouldn't be crawling around my apartment.

Yesterday, once the swelling started to go really go down, I decided to count the individual bites. I gave up after 94. Figured that was enough and I didn't need to count any higher than that. Now? Now it looks like I'm a plague-ridden serf from Tudor England and I itch so badly I can just barely stand it. And I'm more or less bedridden because getting up and moving around causes everything to swell back up and hurt. And I'm stoned out of my mind on benadryl, because longer than four hours and the itching gets to the point that I can't stand it. And everything, including my kidneys, aches just a little as my body processes everything.


The pictures below are a little icky, if you're squeamish. Feel free to skip them. You're not missing much else in terms of writing. Instead, envision the town crier coming through, yelling "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" and that's about the same thing. :)

These are just of the one ankle.

You don't really need to see the rest of my body



See? Plague-ridden medieval serf, right?

But I'm livin'. And I'll take that.

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

Overheard in NOLA

From a woman, getting into a cab:

Take me somewhere not here.


It was so not a good night, for her. But an intriguing little snippet of someone's life for me.

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

Thinky Thoughts

Lots in my brain the last few days...

Aurora, Colorado. We were living there on April 20, 1999. Columbine. The SGM gave up his automatic weapon after that shooting because it made him rethink if people really needed access to that kind of weaponry. It was, simply, horrific. I know I'm not the only one remembering it in the wake of the movie theatre shootings. So much pain.

I still have my t-shirt. Timber saw me wear it once, and asked me if he could have it, because it was cool. My answer was no, because I knew it actually wasn't.


Sally Ride. "Ride, Sally Ride" was the chant. She was smart and she was beautiful, debunking so many myths just by showing up. She deserved to be up there.

She wasn't just part of a generation that opened doors for me, she was one of the individuals who came crashing through those doors, exploding them open. Thank you.

The Muppets. For the win. Not only are they breaking ties, they are refusing to make money. Check out the statement. So many reasons to love them.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the definition of class ~ delivered by a stuffed frog.

Best Friends, Old Friends. My best friend and my oldest friend both had birthdays this weekend. Interestingly enough, while their birthdays haven't changed, this the the first ever year I've been aware that they are within two days of each other. Seriously? I have known Nemeria since we were in 4th grade and been with the Divine M for (oh dear lord, hold onto your butts) twenty years now and have just now put together when their birthdays are.

The Divine M

Nemeria

The truth is that I would be utterly lost without etiher them. But they've stuck around, so I'm just going to keep being grateful. And try to remember their birthdays.

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

Fitting In

As I have written here before, I tend to stand out. This is not anything intentional on my part, in that I do not dress to shock or make a statement. I have always said that if I were ever to stop standing out, I would be okay with that, would still dress the way I do, because it's not about any of that.


Over the last several months, I've realized I meant what I always said. Because here in New Orleans? I don't stand out. In my purple dress and my purple parasol, I was told once that "that's an awesome outfit, ma'am" and in my black lace camisole carrying my black lace parasol, I had a little boy inform me that he loved my umbrella. And the rest of the time... I just fade into the scenery.


I am more colorful than some. Not nearly as colorful as others. Mostly, though, I am just me. For the first time in my life, for the first time anywhere ~ I am just me. The Boston Pobble. And I am infinitely okay with this.


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

My Own Private Noir

It's been a while. There's been...stuff. Including a busted computer and crappy internet. But I'm back. Because tonight was one of those nights.

We had a storm here in New Orleans. The lightning lit up the sky like special effects out of a movie. Neither Lithus, nor I, have ever seen anything like this. When it was just a burst, it would burst ~ and burst again, and again, and again, as if someone were standing offstage, flicking the lights. When it would crackle cloud to cloud, it would break off into two, three, sometimes even four branches. When it drove itself into the ground, it would spike down and then relight itself and relight itself again.

We grabbed our umbrellas and went out into it, standing in front of the old courthouse, watching the lights, listening to the booms and the rumbles. Under the streetlamps flickering with actual gas. And that's when the music started. Under this storm, in the rain, with the gas lamps...came the low, slow sound of a single saxophone.

I am not even making this shit up.

At that moment, we gave ourselves up to the night. There was nothing else to do, no other choice to make.

She walked up to me and asked me to take the job. I could tell she was trouble and my streak of bad luck had been as long as her legs. The last thing I needed in my life was this dame. But then I saw the the look in her eye. My luck was about to change...for the worse.

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

Words of Wisdom

I am currently surrounded by idiocy, unprofessionalism, and incompetence. Instead of bitching, I offer you these:

• Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in fruit salad.
• Sometimes, we all need someone else to make our peanut butter sandwiches for us.
• What doesn't kill you leaves you in a vegetative state for the next 50 years.

Also, the French Quarter may smell like people and beer, but New Orleans herself smells like hyacinth and summer.

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

You're a Great Big Deal, Maurice

In The Night Kitchen was always my favorite to read. I will never argue the brilliance of Where The Wild Things Are. But it was another one that stuck during those oh so important *ahem* formahtive yeahs...



Rest well, Maurice. You done good.


Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ and a spot in my movie!!!!

Laughter

Yesterday, I wrote an email to an old friend. She's one of those people that I won't speak to or hear from in, literally, years and then one or the other of us will email and we pick right back up again ~ until we fade off and go another couple years. This time, it's been a little over a year, which means the last she heard about my life, we were still in Anchorage. Well, holy shit, a lot has happened since then. Instead of trying to fill her in completely ~ which would've taken several hours and depressed her ~ I nutshelled it. And found myself describing Lithus like this:

"My relationship with Lithus continues to be such a blessing. We laugh and we dance in the kitchen."

Which is true, and got me thinking... We have always laughed. Even jobless and homeless and living in someone else's basement, we laughed. Being offered jobs that didn't really exist, not being offered jobs that did exist, taking jobs that existed in places we never wanted to see and don't ever want to see again, we laughed. We have always danced. On street corners and expensive clubs and dive bars and our own living rooms.

I could've written that same sentence for years, but I didn't. In thinking about it, I figured out why. It is, indeed, different now. When we started dancing, there on the corner of Boylston Street in Copley Square, it was new and shiny. Our laughter was nervous, wondering if the other was real, if the other shoe would drop, if this thing would last.

Then, dancing at clubs in Worcester and all over the Pacific Northwest, it became about proving to the other we really were real, that we were real, that this was and could continue to be our lives. And we laughed at the novelty of having found each other.

For the past two years, definitely, and possibly the last four since the accident, we have danced in living rooms and kitchens, in order to hold on to each other, to keep moving, to remember and remind that this isn't all there ever was, ever will be. We laughed so we didn't cry, with an edge, a little manically, even.

Now...a little wiser, a little older, a lot further down the road, we dance in our own home, that we both belong in, that we both know the other will return to, that no one controls but us, that we have created together, to music that sometimes comes from a source, but often no one hears but the two of us. And in clubs that pound out a beat we hardly hear, but feel. And we dance to the slow saxaphone that plays constantly on our streets. And in hotel rooms by the light of my laptop. Our laughter, even the most riotous explosions, has a peace behind it, without a hint of desperation. It's light and easy or deep and bellowing, but always real.

Which, is just a really long way of saying "My relationship with Lithus continues to be such a blessing. We laugh and we dance in the kitchen." I guess I did fill her in completely.

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

Stolen from Gamina

With thanks (but not permission, sorry dear friend!)

‎1. If Jesus did not mention a subject, it cannot be essential to his teachings.
2. You are not being persecuted when prevented from persecuting others.
3. Truth isn’t like wine that gets better with age. It’s more like manna you must recognize wherever you are and whoever you are with.
4. You cannot call it “special rights” when someone asks for the same rights you have.
5. It is no longer your personal religious view if you’re bothering someone else.
6. Marriage is a civil ceremony, which means it’s a civil right.
7. If how someone stimulates the public nerve has become the needle to your moral compass, you are the one who is lost.
8. To condemn homosexuality, you must use parts of the Bible you don’t yourself obey. Anyone who obeyed every part of Leviticus would rightly be put in prison.
9. If we do not do the right thing in our day, our grandchildren will look at us with same embarrassment we look at racist grandparents.
10. When Jesus forbade judging, that included you.

 

These are good for all of us, Christian or not. Let's keep it in mind, shall we?

 

Those are Gamina Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a peaceful, accepting, inclusive, just society ~ and a cup of coffee.

It Isn't Dull

Lithus and I have started collecting stories from the streets of the Quarter. In one single night, we were captivated by...


* the weeping woman sitting on the sidewalk with the obviously frustrated and over it man standing over her whispering "look, I really don't care; come on already"

* the (possibly) drunk reader arguing with the (definitely) drunk musician about how this is her corner and he has set up too close to her and his music is keeping her from being able to hear (???) her readings properly (which kind of makes sense and kind of doesn't)

* the handful of locals who passed us and exchanged the "locals' nod", which makes me feel really good

* the plethora of people our age and older, dressed to the Nines and staggering anyway

* the young man leaning on one of the lightposts here in the Alley, muttering "I just need food. If I could just eat something" but being far too drunk to make that possible right now

* the group of guys who were crossing against the light, coming toward me (it went like this)
                  Leader (to car not stopping): Are you gonna stop? Are you gonna stop? Jeez assho...
                  Me (crossing behind the car, pointing to the green light we are all crossing against: He's got the green light, dude.
                  Leader (to car): Nevermind!!!! I'm the asshole, not you!
                  Leader's Friend (to me): He's car-blind! How can you be so mean?
                  Leader (to no one in particular): I thought it was a stop sign! I'm the asshole here!

* the man stumbling around, holding an unlit cigarette muttering. It went like this:
                  Drunken Guy: Anybody got a light? Anybody got a light? (stumbles a lot and gets ignored) Anybody got a light?
                  Good Samaritan: Yeah, dude, I got a light. (lights DG's cigarette)
                  Drunken Guy: Got a dollar?

Classic! And this was all just on a late-night run to the grocery store. God, I love my town.

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

Snippets of Life

When Worlds Collide

The other day, Lithus and I fell in love with this dress:

So, we bought it. It's perfect for a hot summer in New Orleans. Light and cool, yet fashionable and city-stylish. Perfect. We were scheduled to be traveling a few days later, and lucky enough to be flying first class all the way from Spokane to NOLA. He asked me to wear it; I loved the idea and agreed. At which point, the anxiety started. See, when we travel for his work, we lug and haul and move and lift. I carry a (truly magnificent) leather backpack instead of a purse. I get my hair out of my way, and deal in pure functionality. Standing and pointing isn't exactly part of the equation. And I didn't want to ruin my beautiful new dress. But Lithus really makes very few requests, and he had made this one. But it wasn't efficient. But... But... *sigh* When I explained the situation, he managed not to laugh at me or pat me on the head or get annoyed. Instead, simply said "Pobble, why don't you wear your suit? You can wear the dress when we go on our picnic." And just like that, I stopped being a crazy woman and regained my sanity. Who knew a summer dress could be so traumatic???

Politics

I really hope, now that the Republican race is basically tied up, people don't immediately forget the last few months. They happened. Racism. Misogyny. Classism. Homophobia. Religious oppression. Misdirection. Deflection. Bold-faced lies. I hope our attention spans aren't *that* short.

Home Again, Home Again

I've said it before, I'll say it again. Glinda was right. And for the first time in a long time ~ ever, maybe? ~ home isn't Boston. It isn't even New England. Of course, I've lived elsewhere. Many times. But they've never been home. NOLA is home, in the same way Boston is home. We're looking at other apartments. Living above a restaurant with poor ventilation is getting old ~ as is sharing their hot water. Screaming tourists all night, every weekend, outside of poorly insulated and completely not sound-proofed windows, also getting old. The specific apartment may (will) change. But I can't imagine living anywhere else right now. In another year? We'll see. Right now? No thanks. It feels to good to be home.

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

Can't Stay Away Completely

As I've written here before, I am really, really trying to stay away from politics these days. Have you seen the attacks on women? On people of color? On LGBTQ people? It's getting crazy, and I refuse to go crazy right along with it all. That being said, every so often, I have to blog something. Like the reason I'm not wearing a Trayvon Martin hoodie. Or this:

There. Because I can't stay away completely.

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

Over...Again.

Four years ago, there was an accident. It changed so much. Our friend died. Our present changed. Our futures changed. We are still trying to come back from this one accident. Some never will.

Two years ago, the NTSB investigation found that the aircraft was overweight and that the pilots were working with poor information. There's recently been a trial, as well, because there was question about who knew what and when.


The jury found the helicopter manufacturer, Sikorsky and the Carson Helicopters were partially at fault, but put most of the blame on G.E., finding it 57% responsible. The jury awarded $28.4 million to the estate of (Roark). Surviving pilot (Bill) was awarded $37 million, and his wife, $4.3 million dollars.
                                          ~ Nigel Duara Associated Press, Wednesday, March 28, 2012

And there was vindication: "They're heroes," said plaintiff's attorney Greg Anderson of the pilots, (Bill) and (Roark). "They saved as many people as they could. They have been pilloried before this."


Lithus hasn't read the reports or watched the latest news videos. He can't, doesn't want to. And I understand. Nothing has really changed. Oh, the families have a shitload of money, and that will make life easier on some levels. I won't argue that. But nothing has really changed. For me, though, it is... good. Somehow.

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

(Not So) Rare Form

Lithus and I are grateful to have found each other. We both bring a lot to the table, in our own rights. However, we are also grateful to have found each other because we have some crazy-ass exes. Both have reared their heads just in the last 72 hours.

His Ex: Has spent years being crazy and mean ~ then last winter asked Lithus to come (on our dime) to the town where she lives and be her handyman with the honey-do list around the house so she could get it sold. Nope. Didn't happen. Fast forward to last Sunday. Lithus has an early day, we are in the area, we go to have dinner with Timber. Who texts us as we are getting close that we have to park away from the house because his mom is freaking out, doesn't want us at the house even just to pick up Timber, doesn't understand why we have to pick him up there. Honestly, we take this with a grain of salt, because it could've gone down this way, but it might've been Timber hunting up some drama on his own. But it is not ~ notnotnot ~ an impossibility. Then just today, Lithus gets his yearly credit report and funniest thing, has an account with Lowes. That has almost $1700 on it. Huh. So he shoots off a text to his ex. Why yes, yes she does have an account there and, oh my goodness, is his name on it, too? How did that ever happen? She will certainly make sure his name gets taken off of it. ... ... ... Really?????

My Ex: Shows up every so often. It's been long enough now that I thought maybe he wouldn't show back up again. After all, the last time I heard from him was a fwd while we were in Galena. The last time I got an "I miss you" email was shortly before Lithus and I got married. So, it's been awhile. Guess who emailed me? He found my professional site over on Facebook and emailed me there. Said he's been sober for three years, in a committed relationship for two, and is doing well. I told him I was pleased to hear it, asked him not to email me there again because it is a professional site, not a personal one, and assured him I was well, too. Then, I admit it, my curiosity got the better of me and I went to the Facebook account affiliated with the email. It's locked down, and only friends can see it. But at the top of his friends list (I didn't go looking for it) was another name, with the same picture, another known nickname ~ and the same tattoo I know he has on his back. And this is the facebook account that is very active, has pictures of him and his lady friend, where he was just a few days ago. Which leads me to extrapolate that he is going behind said lady friend's back to get in touch with me. I admit, it's a guess. But it's a damn well educated guess. ... ... ... Really????? But he "misses his friend." ... ... ... REALLY?????

Lithus and I have laughed, shaken our heads, and sighed deeply over the craziness ~ grateful to be free of it. And oh so very happy to be us.

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

No Hoodie for Me

The current trend is to post a picture of yourself wearing a hoodie in defense of Trayvon Martin. I'm not doing that. You know why? Because I am white and, in spite of what Geraldo Rivera would have us believe, it's not about the hoodie. Should anyone see me wearing a hoodie, once they see my face, they will not shoot me.

I am not Trayvon Martin. I have never been Trayvon Martin. I will never be Trayvon Martin. Other white women, for whatever struggles we may face due to our gender ~ and Goddess knows we are facing them right now ~ are not and never will be Trayvon Martin. To imply otherwise isn't standing with him; it's insulting him, and every other black face under a hoodie.

March. Protest. Write. Call. Demand. Insist. Donate. But do not post a picture of your white face under a hoodie and call it support. At least I won't be. Because once they see your white face, they will not shoot you ~ and that makes all the difference.

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

Randomness

Since it is no longer Read An E-Book Week (as if it ever really was; I still think they made that shit up), I figured I should post something else. Only I don't really have much to talk about today. Instead, I leave you with random pictures and images I have on my computer. Honestly, I'm not even sure why I have some of these, but I do. Might as well share them.

Also, for the last of the Mardi Gras 2012 stories and pictures, you can go here, and here, and here.


Those are (more random than usual) Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

An image sent to me years ago

Addictive little buggers

From Gamina. Brilliant!

A cat saying hi in Mexico

The fountain here in NOLA

Shameless Plug

It's Read An E-Book Week. I had no idea the thing existed, and, honestly, suspect it may have been made up. Don't really care. Why? Because my latest novel is available for 50% off through the 10th of the month. Go ahead...You know you wanna...

My Latest Novel

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

Mini Blog: I'll Take It

* I started this morning under an open window, next to fresh flowers, doing yoga. Have moved on to toast and coffee ~ hot, fresh, strong with cream. It ain't a bad way to start the day.

* I just saw that my alma mater, Northeastern University, is denying Chik-fil-A a place in their student center. Well done, Huskies!

* I was able to come up with a solution for a problem Lithus was having waaaay too early this morning. Because I know so little about his work, there is usually not a lot I can offer except to listen. This morning, I was able to solve the problem, and that makes me feel good.

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

It Happened

I was at the florist today, talking with the woman behind the counter when I realized...

My southern accent was back.

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

Screaming Liberal Post #5

Say it with me, people: Are You Fucking Kidding ME?????

Now, I am avoiding blogging about politics, as much as I can. The online break I took a couple months ago really woke me up about how much happier I am if I am reading and staying aware, but not dwelling. Not that there hasn't been fodder... Digressing, Pobble... Anyway, I haven't been writing about politics and have been happier for it.

However. This guy...part of me doesn't want to give him the attention of a post. At the same time, sometimes I have to rail just a little bit. Now is one of those times. From here on out, whenever anyone asks me why exactly I think this country is going backwards instead of moving forward (and yes, I have gotten that question more than once), this will be the example to which I point. Thank you, G. W. Epperly, for proving my point so eloquently.

In an official complaint, filed with the courts of Alaska (ah, that lovely state ~ all the social awareness and inclusiveness of the South, without the warm temperatures), the individual named above states that the President isn't actually allowed to be President because, as a black man, he cannot actually be a citizen of the United States. I wish I was kidding.

As stated above, for an Individual to be a candidate for the office of president of the United States, the candidate must meet the qualifications set forth in the United States Constitution and one of those qualifications is that the Candidate shall be a "natural born citizen" of the United States. As Barack Hussein Obama II is of the "mulatto" race, his status of citizenship is founded upon the Fourteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution. Before the [purported] ratification of the Fourteenth Amendment, the race of "Negro" or "mulatto" had no standing to be citizens of the United States under the United States Constitution."
                                                 ~ GWE v. Barack Hussein Obama, Nomination Petition Objection
                                                               Year 2012 Primary and General Elections

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

Dear Cam and Mrs. Pike...

Even public transportation gets into the act

This is an email I sent Lady Blackbelt. I realized not only would it have made a great blog post, but I should have added a couple other friends' addresses...

We have just come out of our first Mardi Gras and holy shit, it was amazing. The lights and colors and pervasive music, all of it, was indescribable. The city was alive and big and pulsing. We got here right in the middle of Carnival, so literally didn't have a quiet night until Wednesday, when it was all over.

At one point actually on Mardi Gras night, we decided to go down Bourbon Street, just to say we had. I have never been in a crowd so thick I could.not.move. until then. And I wasn't the least bit afraid ~ although I did stick my hand in my pocket with the house keys. My ass got squeezed once. I turned around, looked at the three guys who were close to have done it and said "REALLY?!!!?" Two of them had no idea what I was talking about. The third was busted. I just shook my head and said "happy Mardi Gras" and kept on. That was the only incident.

At the club earlier, we had a couple try to pick us up. Me mostly, though. She was dressed like a pig and wanted people to fondle her nipples. Need I say the pick up didn't work?

The October weekend in Salem and the Fourth of July on the Cape... This was right there up with those. One of these days, I'd love to share it with you. Honestly, I don't know if I would've enjoyed it nearly as much if we'd been here on vacation. Part of what made it so good was the ability to remove myself from the touristy aspects. However, I do understand why people do this as their vacation.

Just...wow.
Miss you. Love you. Think of you all the time.

 

Every bead from the last week. Yep, just one week.

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

Being Neighborly

This afternoon, I walked out of the bedroom, through the livingroom and into the kitchen. Lithus wasn't here. Which made no sense, because he had just been here. And there's no more apartment than that, so it's not like he was in another room. Still, I finished what I was doing and sure enough, he wandered back into the bedroom. When I asked where he'd gone, his response was "Up to the fourth floor."

To the spider owners. To talk about the horrible thing and ask them to take it down.

Tonight, we went for our late night walk. It's gone. I'm sitting here in front of my bedroom window, with the blinds wide open, totally safe. Tomorrow, we're buying them a bottle of scotch to say thanks. And having our coffee on the balcony.

Those are grateful Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ on a lovely little balcony in the spider-free French Quarter.

Carnival and Mardi Gras

Look for pictures, reports, and updates over at Stilettos In The Outback. Just 'cause it's fun!

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

Who Would DO That?????

We live in a truly wonderful alley in a truly wonderful part of New Orleans, smack in the middle of the French Quarter. It was six months between times home, so it is particularly nice to be back. Sleep in our own bed, on our own sheets. Use our own towels. Lithus would add cook in his own kitchen, but I am all about the linens.

Our very first night home, we stepped out onto our beautiful little balcony and sighed. Looked left. Lovely neighborhood. Looked right. Giant Enormous the size of Lithus with his arms spread and Much Bigger Bodied "decorative" spider. On the wall of our neighbors' building, "climbing" down...and sideways. Toward my beautiful little balcony.

Who The Fuck Would Do That?????

And no, there isn't a picture. Because while people who hate spiders can post pictures of HUGE GINORMOUS spiders and talk about how scary that is and isn't that a nightmare, people who are arachnaphobic are wracked with sobs and have a hard time breathing at the thought of writing this paragraph, let alone taking a fucking picture of the damn thing. So you'll just have to trust me. It's huge. And scary. And huge.

So, there we are on our first night home and I start to hyperventilate. I looked at Lithus and managed to say "I have to go in." He followed me and asked if I was okay. Nope. I wasn't. There was sobbing. And profanity. We are hoping it's a (warped) Mardi Gras and will come down after the 21st. Because I'd really like to use my lovely little balcony.

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

Happy Valentine's Day!

From 1066 to Now and...Beyond

If I say the name Cutty Sark, odds are good you will think of the scotch. That's more than fair. Most of us know Cutty Sark to be this:

In reality, though, the Cutty Sark was this:

And her owner was Jock "White Hat" Willis. Part businessman, part pirate, all class act.

How can a man with that hat and that beard *not* be a class act?

He had a wife and kids. And they had a wives and husbands and kids. Right on down the line...

A man who married a woman with "dangerous eyes"

A coin toss. An adventure. Children to carry on the name. A long, full life.

Totally worthy of an ancestor named for his fashion sense

Angels and ministers of grace defend thee, Mike Willis.

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

RIP Don Cornelius

SOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUULLLLLLLLLLLLL TRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAINNNNN!

*sigh*

Rest in peace, sir. And many thanks.

Those are Pobble Thoughts.

Thoughts on Try

At my first job out of college, we had a wonderful client who used to tell her children not to use the word try. "Don't talk to me about trying," she'd say. "Talk to me about doing." Now, you and I both know this is a take on Yoda's "Do or do not. There is no try" but her kids were young enough to think this was all mom's wisdom.

To a great extent, I believe in this, if it comes from my former client or if it comes from Yoda. But to a great extent, I recognize that dealing in absolutes or extremes stifles us. If we don't 100% know we are going to suceed, we don't even try.

Because what happens when you have something that other people have the final say over? Something that you cannot, eventually, control. As I've gotten older, I've come to understand that sometimes the fact that you tried at all is the success. Sometimes, that's where the real courage is. Whatever the outcome, the fact that you tried, that you had the courage to even put yourself out there, is something no one can take away from you. Sometimes, "try" is "do" after all.

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

Well, Hi Internet!

I remember you!

Oh, so much time has passed. For a pictoral review of the last several months, go here: Pobble Travels.

Back? Hi. Pobble Thoughts isn't the only place I've been neglecting. I've been more or less offline everywhere. My professional website hasn't been updated in a year. My professional facebook (because I still don't have a personal one) is gathering dust. I haven't done an interview; I haven't done a critique. The only writing I've done is my monthly article out of Washington. Aside from that, I've checked email and...that's it. And it's been wonderful. Surprisingly so.

We've traveled. We've changed jobs. We've changed locations. The latest book made it to Barnes and Noble and iTunes. I didn't even know iTunes sold books! I've taken a break. I've ignored the news and politics. I've reconnected with my best friend (not that we ever disconnected, but still). I've seen our family loads and loads, in three different states and two different countries. I've been a good friend, a good partner, a good person. I've been breathing, and eating right and moving better and taking care of myself.

Having been reminded of how life can be, I'm hoping to keep it all in perspective. Politics are important. My family and friends are moreso. Maintaining a web presence for my work is important. Actually writing, doing my work, is moreso. I'm taking hot baths and lighting candles and snuggling with Lithus. Not giving those up, again. Can't believe I ever let them slip away. But what matters is that I got them back.

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