tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72479108601226855412024-03-05T01:32:41.745-08:00Slut Shoes or Flats...what's a girl to wear?For anyone wondering about the heart of a woman, it boils down to slut shoes or flats. Not that most guys would understand, but we know that when we're teetering in high heels, we are vulnerable - until we take off one of those little pumps and smack ya right in the middle of your little Neanderthal forehead. Then, not so much. But those heels make our legs look ever so sexy, and what woman couldn't use an extra three inches?Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-25089908147303351322017-10-09T13:30:00.003-07:002017-10-09T13:30:27.187-07:00My Eyes Twinkle like a Bowl of Chili?<div>
I am constantly amazed at how my life works out and that, in itself, is the present. Being here, now, in the present and not second guessing the hand of God is a wonderful thing. Let me try to explain.</div>
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Resigned to a pleasant Christmas with my brother Paul, but without other family members, I had made up my mind to opt for the Costco roasted chicken, pop a couple of yams in the m-wave, make a salad and call it Christmas dinner. I just didn't see myself making the trip to The Ham Store - you know the one - they sell a ham the size of...oh, I know, a pig's ass, and sugar coated at that - though they swear it's honey. Whatever. I knew that Paul would understand as long as there might be ice cream at the end - or pie.<br />
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An email came across my screen from a friend of mine - who happens to be Jewish. Was I planning on cooking on Christmas - not that she was begging an invitation, but she could taste my cooking. I glanced at my dining room table, hidden beneath a war zone of wrapping paper and ribbons, tissue and scissors and a roll of tape. Heavy sigh. I answered the email in a somewhat restrained fashion, explaining tough times, my lack of desire to cook a gargantuan feast, but invited her and her fiance nonetheless. They accepted.<br />
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Long story longer, I spent four hours at Costco today - a world record for me. And when I left, $347 later, it was with a basket of everything needed to a world class pot of turkey chili. When I got home I sent an email out to the probable "orphans" on my email list. Everyone else declined, we would be four. I concocted a chili from another stratosphere - layers of dark and light chili powder, caramelized onions, roasted turkey breast meat, ground turkey, red and black beans, tomatoes, a melange of colored bell peppers, and at the end a hint dark chocolate to cheer the palate from the dried jalapeno peppers, garlic, oregano, cumin and black pepper, and so on.The kitchen was disgusting and I was exhausted. It had to get cleaned, and the sooner the better as I was on my way out to The Other Side to sing - a beautiful gay piano bar in the Silver Lake district of Los Angeles.<br />
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Half of life is just showing up, they say. I washed counters, took out the garbage, and jumped in the shower to meet my friend Al at 8:30 - well, there was also the part about getting dressed and doing my hair and makeup. You get the drift. It would have been so easy to have stayed home on this cold night. Who needed to sing? I did. When I walked in the The Other Side, there were the familiar and handsome faces of some gorgeous, chisel-faced, well-dressed men whose hearts are bigger than the place that holds them. Amazing.<br />
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Christmas reached up and shook me loose. Suddenly, I heard myself - at least I think it was me- asking a couple of guys what they would be doing on Christmas. "Oh, just a quiet day..." the voices trailed off. And before you knew it, I was inviting and they were accepting my proposal that they come for the first time to my house on Christmas. Afterall, the chili was already made!<br />
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One by one, they accepted and I found my circle of love growing. Suddenly, my eyes were wide open and twinkling, my heart filled with love and excitement. Everything was magically falling into place. Not just for me, but for everyone. I love when God works that way. I'm pretty sure I was smiling like the Natalie Wood's character of the little girl in Miracle on 34th Street.<br />
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Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-31356574122604177252014-08-19T11:03:00.002-07:002017-10-09T13:17:07.225-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="font-size: x-large;">Our Most Basic Need and Our Most Valuable Asset</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I stepped away from the computer tonight to sit in my easy-chair and elevate a sensitive ankle, sip some water and play some TV Remote Control Roulette on the television. I flipped through the usual shows of cooking and half-finished movies. Then I came upon the news; tear gas being used on journalists and regular citizens. Our own. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We, as a nation have walked so far away, no - run from loving each other, that I was both shaken and saddened. In this anxiety-ridden world of natural disasters from floods to droughts, hurricanes to earthquakes, acts of God -where you can be stripped in minutes of every earthly possession and life itself, as you just live your ordinary life -turned around to answer a doorbell, take a ride in your car or a Sunday afternoon at the movies. We can lose it all, and yet the one most valuable asset we have, we trash without thinking about it. Our humanity. Shouldn't we be clinging to each with more love and compassion than ever before? We should be evolving into the best version of human mercy, while longing to feel safe for ourselves and families. What are we doing?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">SAFE. What does it mean to you? Safe food, water and air. Love. We should certainly feel safe enough to live with these common needs being met. And how about love? Seems we shouldn't have to feel second-class – in the experience and honor of loving whom we do without prejudice. To hold our loved one dear enough to our hearts and share dreams for our future and families... It goes without saying that we want to cleave to our partners in the middle of the night or in the state of matrimony without fear. Safe. We should feel safe in our homes, our streets and our schools. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Guns. They only make fools feel safe. You cannot write the word revolution wihtout containing the word evolution. We need both, of our hearts and souls. Love is the real weapon. Love prevails - I'm sure every religion fundamentally agrees. But then it gets “qualified” and love gets a bad name and becomes a threat. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Every American child should be able to walk to school, sit in a classroom, experience a first-class education with the tools they need, including healthy lunches and food education, the arts and sciences, physical and health education. To turn our backs on this is to rob the future from our children, from our nation. Every child, and I mean every child of every age, color, religion - boy or girl, able-bodied or challenged, should be cherished and raised up. An African American mother or father should be able say, "Have a nice day at school today”, and believe without even thinking about it, that they WILL see their child alive and well, and mentally healthy. Tell me, someone please, how you will ever feel safe again, when you get the call that your child is not walking through your kitchen door tonight because they have been killed - and not because they were hit by a car or some other tragic way, but because they were murdered at the hands of a fellow American. What's it going take to wave those flags again with the same passion of unity we felt after 9/11? Remember? We were no longer Caucasians Americans, African Americans, Mexican Americans, Korean Americans United for Separation of Church and State - and so on. We were American, and finally we were one, our separate paths merged into a journey of our common love of county. So. Now what? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Safe. Isn't there plenty of grief going around already? Here, have a cup of cancer, a gallon of diabetes, an incurable disease yet to be diagnosed. Isn't there enough uncertainty in this world already? Well? More than anything, we need to be expressing our human kindness. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Safe. Every woman should be safe enough to cross a college campus without threat of being raped and every man feel safe and secure able to protect his family, but not fromt each other, no. Every man and woman should be and feel safe enough to protect their family members from poverty consciousness, fear of not being worthy or ever enough. Our power to be the best us yet, as American citizens, as individuals and as who we are yet to become – well, that dream should be safe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Be safe, my dears - all the faces I know on a daily or weekly basis, old friends and family, new friends too, and those of you I only know here in the world of Facebook, be safe. Do not let anyone rob you of the love you were born to express. You are loved beyond measure and your presence here is a gift. Be safe from the darkness, the fear of never measuring up so that the only way you can express your strength or worthiness is with your fists. Be safe. Take care of and rescue the sentient beings around you. Be safe and Be THE Safe - allow others to put their trust in you, their love into you, their passions, and make sure they always feel safe enough to trust you with the contents of their minds and souls. Yes, be the safe harbor upon the rocky waters. Be safe. Be authentic. Be love.</span>Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-18920735942143035392013-06-25T11:43:00.000-07:002017-10-09T12:58:04.044-07:00HE RAISED HIS HAND TO ME<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He raised his hand to me. Right there in the light of day. He, in his plain, dark clothing, wore a black hat but didn't hide behind sunglasses with an anonymity you would think one might claim given the circumstances of the bright sun. He raised his hand to me boldly, without hesitation and looked me in my eyes while doing so. He was older, unshaved and his hands were rough like sandpaper. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There was not a trace of manscaping in his appearance, nothing flashy nor outstanding, except for how absolutely plain he was, yet his weathered face said more about him than I could imagine. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had never met him before, did not know his name then and still don't. This stranger remains anonymous to me but well known where he lives. He has family, that much I do know. And yet I was the stranger in the strange land, where time stood still in that brief moment when he claimed for himself a bit of my soul. He marked me. His face was captured in my mind's eye like a black and white photograph from my grandmother's photo album, names no longer known, only the fading image remaining in shades of black, white and gray. He was a man without any family pictures of birthday celebrations, weddings, family picnics, new grandchildren or even one tattered photo from his own childhood. I knew that if I wanted to recall him with great clarity that I would have to memorize that flash where time stood still.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was a day like many others for him and like no other for me. After the encounter, I continued my way going nowhere with intention, down a hushed road with the sun beating overhead in a postcard blue sky. He was used to it most certainly, his thick clothing betraying the 90 degree weather, but the cloying, sticky June humidity made me uncomfortable and I wanted a rush of refrigerated air to surround me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I looked in the rear view mirror and watched him slowly disappear as I continued forward on a road bookmarked with perfect symmetrically planted rows of corn still close to the ground; the dirt a rich dark brown, damp from the rain the night before punctuated with clapping thunder. I passed a perfectly maintained white house with a clothesline. A clothesline. If I had one in my front yard I would most certainly have the local authorities knocking on my door. Here, it was natural and the fleeting light gusts of wind turned the blue dresses, blue shirts and dark aprons into a vine of hanging fruit never seen where I live in the outskirts of Los Angeles. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For a moment I longed for my own car synced with my iPhone, and instead I reached for the radio dial but stopped. The man in the rear view mirror was almost completely gone now, nothing but a black square in the reflection. Forget the music. I rolled down the windows of my rented black car and drove on thinking about just how rushed we city dwellers are. We can't even enjoy a meal in public without checking our phones for texts, let alone accepting a phone call that is neither urgent or commanding, all the while ignoring the fact that our friend or family member or coworker is just across the table from us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He marked me, as did the next man coming towards me. He too raised his hand to me, and this time I returned the gesture. His wife sitting next to him with their two girls in the backseat, eyed me suspiciously, no trace of a smile, just a nod of acknowledgement. Still it was more than I would ever get at home on the freeways. If someone raised a hand to me there, it most certainly would have a middle finger extended because I had the nerve to want to merge into another lane. Their getting closer to me came with a cadence that pierced the quietude. It was the steady, rhythmic one-two beat of clip-clops that their sturdy, chestnut-colored horse and the creak of buggy wheels on asphalt offered up to me. If one listened with appreciation, it <i>was </i>music, and the brush of reins on horseback was no different than brushes used on drum skin by my best jazz drummer when I sing a ballad. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">There were no lanes on this Illinois country road. The only way to know where you were exactly was to know where you were in relation to the sun and by whose property you passed, and every once in awhile an intersection which criss-crossed the verdant farmland. There was no exhaust to cough as the strangers passed by me, only that which I left behind for them to inhale as I passed them. It felt embarrassing and for all of my own big city ways, I knew in my heart that I was the primitive one. An evolved society leaves no footprints; carbon or otherwise. Their boot prints in mud dries long enough to bear witness to hard work, but the next rain washes them away and the growing crops are the legacy of the men's arduous work and the sweat of his brow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I raised <i>my</i> hand as the next black buggy approached and nodded the nod that comes with the recognition we should offer when in the presence of strangers. It is afterall, a human acknowledgment of soul meeting soul. I slowed my car out of deep respect. Where was I going that I needed to go with so much <i>"horsepower"?</i> I was there to witness the peace of Amish country and the lesson was driven home to me. As each passing black buggy or open wagon approached me with the steady whir of wooden wheels, I realized that the wave was very specific. When the driver raised his hand to me, it was with with the index and middle finger slightly separated from the others on the left hand and the other two fingers slightly curled downwards, the thumb relaxed and pointed upwards. And then it hit me, I had seen this before, this was the "hand of benediction," a blessing. I have no idea if the strangers realized it, but I was never more keenly aware. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He raised his hand to me and I was blessed. I think I shall never wave the same way again to a passerby. I too shall slightly nod my head, recognizing the spirit in me sees the equal spirit of oneness in them, as I raise my hand and extend a blessing. I'm not sure how if it will work back home on the 405 Freeway, but for now I will continue to use it on my journey. Wherever your journey takes you today, may you know that we are one and our legacy is what we leave behind. May we strive to leave a better place than we found yesterday and know that each of us is as spokes of a wheel; we really need each other to get along, and to get along down the road of life, we need each other.</span></div>
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Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-88048476193153774252013-04-19T20:56:00.000-07:002013-06-25T13:08:59.181-07:00"If bullets and guns can be bought in the same store as lipstick, baby wipes and flaming hot Cheetos, then something is seriously effed up here, folks."<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;"><i>"If bullets and guns can be bought in the same store as lipstick, baby wipes and flaming hot Cheetos, then something is seriously effed up here, folks."</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">~ Mary Bogue</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">Love of Power vs. Power of Love </span></span></b><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">Someone on a thread tonight asked, "Why did the Boston bombing suspects do such a thing?" I thought about it, and maybe I'm dead wrong or maybe I'm a little right but here's my reflection:</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">In committing such heinous crimes that mar our conscience, rob our innocence and endow our stream of consciousness with raw fear, what were these two young men seeking? Notoriety? Fame? A "place" in the world, or becoming a celebrity whose names forever carry weight and foster hatred? Perhaps it was a "validation" of fame or family name, or being remembered by no other means possible - as perverted as that may be.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">Whether tied to an organization or not, the suspects were young men looking to show the world what "men" they were. When people feel powerless, worthless or like "losers," sometimes in desperation they cling to whatever tactics will "prove" in their eyes, that perception to be wrong. They are easy prey to the predators who would destroy us. Pawns, if you will.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">We shouldn't be surprised that the two suspects lived here in our own country. We glorify violence in our country; we refuse to cut down the killing machines - whether they be assault weapons, gun ownership legislation and background checks, or the Monsanto's of our world. Images of blood and guts, glory and winning at death can be found as close as the X-box or Quentin Tarantino re-runs. We torture animals to eat, and turn our heads away from the unpleasantness, yet we permit it. If bullets and guns can be bought in the same store as lipstick, baby wipes and flaming hot Cheetos, then something is seriously effed up here folks. Call it greed, the American way or whatever you want, but to me it is a testimony to how desensitized we are, so very cavalier and in my opinion, downright ignorant. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">Am I against gun ownership? Nope. But you ought have to do more than I had to adopt my golden retriever, or foster a child. I mean, really. Shouldn't a background check be mandatory, along with a gun safety class AND a gun safe installed before a gun is turned over? A gun has one purpose only. Killing. Anything else you tell yourself is bullshit, and I'm calling you on it. Let's just be real honest. And you don't need an AK-47 to kill your dinner or put meat in your freezer, unless you like your meat bullet ridden.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">We can do better. We can love better. We can grow men and women, young adults and children who strive to show their power by the degree of compassion they exhibit. Blessed be the men and women who went to the rescue of the injured, the doctors, nurses and therapists who pick up the torch from here, and mostly blessed be souls of those who paid the ultimate price for our stupidity -dying, as we continue turning our cheek and lacking the courage to stand up and represent the 90% of us who want to see real reform in gun control. Stand up. Violence begets violence. Love always prevails. Time to "man up" to love and compassion.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">I bid you peace and strength, health and happiness, and most of all, a kind and compassionate heart. We share the journey on this treasured planet but for a short time. And one more thing; You are so beautiful, you are a product of a loving expression itself, you are like no one else, and it is a wonderful thing. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;">Peace ~~ </span><br />
<a data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=507903180&extragetparams=%7B%22group_id%22%3A0%7D" href="https://www.facebook.com/mary.bogue.7?group_id=0" style="background-color: white; color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; line-height: 17px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mary Bogue</span></a>Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-24237911544568669152012-12-13T14:39:00.000-08:002017-10-09T13:10:12.150-07:00WHEN ALL THE WORLD IS A HOPELESS JUMBLE<span style="color: #474747; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">When All The World Is A Hopeless Jumble</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">How could they possibly know that the dark figure hidden within the over-sized grey hoody, tee shirt and checkered men's pajamas bottoms, with the thick soled, heavy black Velcro closing orthopedic shoes and glaring white athletic socks was really a masquerading queen of the highest order? This was a beautiful black woman with full, luscious lips from which sang heartfelt ballads. This person was more than a patient in a wheelchair. This was a queen, a doting daughter taking care of her own mother, a mother to her son, and girlfriend and lover to her sweetheart.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">To the parade of nursing staff dressed in green scrubs who floated down pristine white and mint-green halls adorned with plastic plants hanging on the walls of some obscure green floral print, Yolanda was a stroke victim, who as all patients seem to have no prior identity.Their current identity is that of Bed A or Bed B in Room 101 or the like, either the one who screams uncontrollably, drags his or her right foot behind them as if tethered to a ball and chain, or draws imaginary artwork on imaginary canvases of yesterdays memories. Maybe some others like Yolanda recognized the Christmas holiday decorations stapled and taped to their room doors. Who knows. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I cannot say I know Yolanda's personal hell. I know of it. It has been a year or more since that night of singing at Leimert Park's World Stage when she sat down, not feeling well. One minute she was a remarkable vocalist and the next she had been rushed by ambulance to Cedars Sinai Hospital across town.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #474747;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Her hell was different than my older sister Judy's. Judy was physically intact, able to walk with no difficulty. That meant she was also able to roam, lost down the corridors of her own mind, looking for her first-born son or her boyfriend who abandoned her as quickly as the first of several strokes took their toll, calling their names, "James, James, James..." or simply, "Ed."</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #474747;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">My father could not understand Judy's confused state. I tried my best to explain it." Remember, I asked, "how the radio sounds when you're between two stations? Well, Judy's brain is kind of stuck there. She knows what she wants to communicate, but suddenly the wires have crossed."</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #474747;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">That was Judy. Her personal hell was knowing just how effed up she was and that we couldn't help her. I was powerless to teach her the piano she had self-taught herself because I myself never learned to play. She was devastated that she could not figure out how to operate her keyboard or turn the television on or off. And pissed at me that I never learned so I could teach her. When I told her she was smarter than me, she shrugged her shoulders.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">On my last visit to Yolanda at the facility where she lives, which was way too long ago to even admit to myself, let alone to my friends or anyone reading this, it brought great introspection. Her mind was as sharp as ever, and though she was medicated, she clearly made her wants known. I was happy to go to the store and get her a charger for her iPad so that she could go online when possible. On her bed was a book, "Music Theory For Dummies." She was smarter than me. I've never studied music theory except for one brief semester in junior high school maybe. And I say maybe, because honestly, I can't remember with any certainty. I have the audacity to get up and sing from some organic place within me, but she has the determination to learn the mechanics of music. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Yolanda is confined to a wheel chair. No one knows for how long. It is her body that has betrayed her. She tells her left leg to move, her left arm to comply with her wishes, and her left ear to hear what it no longer does, but it is a rebel and refuses to do as asked. I wheeled her outside to the sparsely decorated patio where she asked me to push her. She told me with no uncertainty how to change direction of the chair and take her over the threshold backwards so as not to dump her on the ground. I did as instructed and we found a spot where she could look upwards at the sky, and I at her.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Music is our common denominator, so it comes naturally that we speak of it. She asked about certain people who have seem to have forgotten about her - there to donate some money at a fundraiser, but nowhere around now. I could relate. I remembered how when my husband died, people first flocked with more casseroles than my daughter and I could eat, but after that was said and done, it was much easier to go about their own day. I'm not faulting them, I have done it myself. Who hasn't? I agreed with her, nodding my head affirmatively. Sighing. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">And then Yolanda looked up at the sky and told me she couldn't wait to come back and sing, that singing is what frees her. "You know, Mary. I already know what I want to sing. One day I was sitting on the toilet, wishing I could really see more out of the window. But I was looking at the sky and I thought to myself, why? And then she sang, <i style="font-weight: bold;">"When all the world is a hopeless jumble and the raindrops tumble all around. Heaven opens up a magic lane.. When all the clouds darken up the skyway, there's a rainbow highway to be found, leading from your windowpane to a place behind the sun, just a step beyond..." </i>Oh my stars, it was the introductory verse to Harold Arlen's "Somewhere Over The Rainbow, " and she knew it. I was stunned.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">She went on and sang the familiar beginning of the iconic song, and it was lovely. But when she hit the next part of the song, I thought I was going to lose it, as a tear ran down her face, <b><i>"Someday I'll wish upon a star, and wake up where the clouds are far behind me, Where troubles melt like lemon drops, away above the chimney-tops, That's where you'll find me. Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, oh why can't I?" </i></b></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">By now, I was at a loss of words, which I assure you doesn't happen very often. Perhaps she took my silent reflection of just how amazing I thought her to be as a quiet sadness, and before I could interject, she added, "But maybe I won't sing that. I don't want to make anyone else sad."</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">We pretty much wrapped up our visit right after that, as her meds were starting to kick in and she got a little chill, asking me to take her back inside, and for me not to forget to turn that chair around. Again, I did as told. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I returned a month or so later with my friend Ada who volunteered her car which was better suited to transport Yolanda to the venue in Hollywood where we sang. She was wearing the easy on and easy off pull-on pants and a loose nondescript shirt. But around her face was the beautiful purple silk shawl that Ada had previously brought to her. She brought with her the faux fur coverlet I had given her to dress up a way too thin bedspread, and wrapped it around her like a jacket. The orderlies scooped Yolanda from her chair into the backseat with ease and then folded her chair and put it in the trunk. Though Ada and I tried to maneuver her safely from the car into her wheelchair, it was apparent we needed help. Two strong men came to our assistance, and soon enough Yolanda was inside. Everyone cheered her entrance, and then again when she signed up for open mic. She sang with heart and soul, but saved "Somewhere Over The Rainbow" for another time. People applauded and she seemed content to have had a "real dinner" out with friends and the opportunity to sing again. It had been so very long. But now she was tired and wanted to go "home." Through trial and tribulation we got her back to her care facility, and she was ready to sleep and dream another dream beyond the rainbow.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #474747; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">"When all the world is a hopeless jumble," Yolanda will see to it that heaven opens up a magic lane right into our hearts. Sometimes our earthly restraints are defined by being wheelchair bound, and sometimes our brains get stuck between two stations trying to figure out the world of telling each other what we mean. Sometimes a bluebird needs a nudge. Maybe this is yours and maybe mine too. Let's try to help each other take that elusive step beyond the rainbow. Maybe we just need to get off our ass and click our shoes. Damn. Sometimes I hate when I'm right.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #474747;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-2396014042811635242010-09-29T17:25:00.000-07:002010-10-09T11:32:33.509-07:00The Fine Art of Blending Life, Love and Veggies<b></b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can just hear a couple of folks wondering out loud, "Oh my, she's writing about blending now! That's it, she's flipped her lid!" No, not really - just a little wishful day dreaming about being able to appreciate our differences, but meld our humanity.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2SBFifYjPXP7H_V75M3PDwEC1e7N5IihQ7e3v1YVxW9cBkp3B5DJ0jo8SzFNZzUQM_p8GixpIWBpZDCtYm8uUxXXb2AjELXK2OYQhFQ9dlaf1G1j7wUfCzYdV8BisFt4pboi9lJWIhow/s1600/Blendtec+Love+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2SBFifYjPXP7H_V75M3PDwEC1e7N5IihQ7e3v1YVxW9cBkp3B5DJ0jo8SzFNZzUQM_p8GixpIWBpZDCtYm8uUxXXb2AjELXK2OYQhFQ9dlaf1G1j7wUfCzYdV8BisFt4pboi9lJWIhow/s320/Blendtec+Love+002.jpg" width="240" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyone who really knows me, I mean </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">really</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> knows me, knows that I have a great admiration for the finer things in life. While I don't mean some high-fa-luting designer label on the backside of my jeans, I do mean quality over quantity. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back up. If you really know <i>me</i>, you know I don't wear jeans. Sorry about that. Let's go with the shoe analogy. Take for example the Christian Louboutin red-soled high heels of Oprah fame. We're talking four inch plus stilettos - super sexy - but unless they come with two gorgeous gay guys to hold me up, an oil man's 401K and a Senator's health plan, forget about it. Give me my Birkenstocks - which, by the way is the gold standard for sandals and if made 2010 years ago, we all know who would have been sporting a pair.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last week, while wasting my time on Facebook, I got caught up in reading the posting from my online source of vitamins and health foods. This company posted what sounded like a great recipe for pork in a cilantro-lime sauce. Well, sure enough, in great big ol' CAPS, the first post was something to the order of "DON'T EAT PIGS!!!!!!!!!" followed by another cry denouncing meat-eaters, and yet another. You know me, I had to respond. I wrote that I didn't think that this was the appropriate forum to vent their anti-carnivorous outlook, and that the recipe had merit. In the words of my late husband, Rob, this fired up a sh*t storm of controversy. The retort was screamed at me in capital letters again, followed by lines of exclamation points and challenged anyone reading it that they believed in America and the freedom of speech, and if I were a vegetarian...yada, yada, yada. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Damn. Can't we all get along? The onus was on me to respond. I did so, and asked them to consider the fact that this was the very site where I buy all my <i><b>plant protein</b></i> for my one-a-day shakes, and really, couldn't we all just relax and edit or glean what we wanted from a posting without the ramifications of anger and drama? If only Blendtec (I'll get to that reference in a moment) could blend all of our wants and desires together and pour us out a big ol' plate of love.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheu7AhSASiXj3h58sy6fgMmZqK9aE7mrahJu0O2_1BDSNBgoqGKcfb1gglzwqOelex6NTr5H8c_BMGj1FylCaeRL0HN0pUBXSbJBtJ-NEw2zfAqvA3_sQtANojWDCvs9kkaa9Yl97bxsjV/s1600/Blendtec+Love+004+for+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheu7AhSASiXj3h58sy6fgMmZqK9aE7mrahJu0O2_1BDSNBgoqGKcfb1gglzwqOelex6NTr5H8c_BMGj1FylCaeRL0HN0pUBXSbJBtJ-NEw2zfAqvA3_sQtANojWDCvs9kkaa9Yl97bxsjV/s320/Blendtec+Love+004+for+blog.jpg" width="212" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I already know this blog sounds like a runaway train, but here's my point - let's take the best of who we are, our lives and life's experiences, our lessons learned and those we have yet to master, and just get along. Pollyanna-ish of me? Maybe. But if anything could do it, it would be my new Blendtec blender - the all powerful, super efficient, veggie-grinding, freshly frozen ice-cream making, instant homemade soup in just 90 seconds, bucket of love machine. The Blendtec. (Sigh.) If there was a peacemaker in a machine - it would be the Blendtec. Of course there are other blenders, and most of them do a really good job. But anything I do, I commit to for the long haul. Give me one great pair of sandals, a killer pair of heels and my Blendtec. Oh yeah, it's three horsepower of energy muscles this gargantuan task master while it easily creates a silken blend from the toughest greens and hardest fruits. Add a couple cups of ice. No problem. Throw in a carrot chopped in halves. Still, no problem. A whole pig - ah, not so much. However, it can handle whatever you throw at it within r<i>eason</i>. If only life were so simple.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even though the Blendtec nicked my AMEX card for a cool chunk of change - close to $400, mind you - at Costco, I have never appreciated such a workhorse of a machine - it does everything except ... hold on, I'm thinking...walk the dog. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine this world if we took all of our prejudices, all of our fears and loathing, and put them in the Blendtec on high - I'm guessing the soup button would work. What would pour out from it's giant mouth? L-O-V-E. Yup. It would grind up the anti-gay marriage concerns, pulverize "the world is coming to an end so get a gun and stockpile canned goods" terrors, cream the daylights out of the I'm too fat, too tall and too old - fears and worries, and in the end all you would have is big ol' cup of love. Get to work Blendtec, the world really needs you. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVUbGIPJB460yUxS_6KYHM_ArGFDnpeFO4h4ZsGbcVCoolIuYupJxn7S2t8wDXQrp2I1EMqGDXEAoMap5MdRcaE1PG0CEm-YNDSD-L9L9PZRCUKpLNcS5zI1IAnu_WWrhdwu-Arm_7G3HX/s1600/Blendtec+Love+007+for+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVUbGIPJB460yUxS_6KYHM_ArGFDnpeFO4h4ZsGbcVCoolIuYupJxn7S2t8wDXQrp2I1EMqGDXEAoMap5MdRcaE1PG0CEm-YNDSD-L9L9PZRCUKpLNcS5zI1IAnu_WWrhdwu-Arm_7G3HX/s320/Blendtec+Love+007+for+blog.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let me just kick off my sandals and barefoot my way over to the kitchen. I think I'll go make a protein drink loaded with kale, spinach and strawberries, some protein powder, ice and my liquid vitamins, and ponder the next generation and how love always prevails. </span><br />
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</span>Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-36788432754826965962010-05-06T14:01:00.000-07:002010-10-09T11:30:51.141-07:00DREAMS & SCHEMES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_PFINWG61q2ACuWElyazCRn9WRoZ7YT592v3tmSxXJqld-WWV1dHvrGXe5P5WHJ2YUzBmHZfBGyEZcr6fvRUv91Om8d7-XubjXRmFEYkfxmvx6P8-wy46umnygr4UhnTvunnK13mFjVi/s1600/DREAMS+and+SCHEMES.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_PFINWG61q2ACuWElyazCRn9WRoZ7YT592v3tmSxXJqld-WWV1dHvrGXe5P5WHJ2YUzBmHZfBGyEZcr6fvRUv91Om8d7-XubjXRmFEYkfxmvx6P8-wy46umnygr4UhnTvunnK13mFjVi/s320/DREAMS+and+SCHEMES.jpg" /></a></div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I'm performing tonight, over at the Hollywood Studio Bar & Grill on Sunset Boulevard, with world class musicians Karen Hernandez, Tony Dumas and Ralph Penland, and with my singing partner, Al Timss. In putting together a show, I always like to find the defining thread that carries one song to the next, one which will take the audience for a ride with me. I chose "DREAMS & SCHEMES" for this event. </span></b></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Take love for example. I'm not proud of it, but I have done some major scheming in my years. If you asked most women, I think most women would flat out deny that they scheme. But in fact, it is </span></b></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">major</span></b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> scheming when you deliberately put on a push-up bra, your best Spanx control slip, red patent leather high heels, have your hair colored, try an age-defying new foundation guaranteed for 16 hours, and a crimson colored lip-plumping, lipstick combination gloss that screams, "Choose </span></b></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">me.</span></b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">" Oh yeah. That's some serious scheming.</span></b></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Men on the other hand are the dreamers. Okay, mostly they're only dreaming of </span></b></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">one</span></b></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> thing, granted, but day dreams, night dreams or the other kind all add up to dreaming. As they age, the dreams change from imagining a "Yes, I'm gonna get some!" to more sophisticated imaginations such as a bigger house, better jobs and indeed, someone to grow old with. Because they need us. The helpless and hopeless dreamers need the breath, imagination and the beliefs of the schemers that they are worthy of our best efforts. We schemers know the truth - we scheme so that they will only dream of us in the midnight hours. </span></b></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: purple;">Here's to the illusions, the give and take and the seeing love from both sides now.</span></span>Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-13924265304514940452010-02-23T19:22:00.000-08:002010-02-23T19:24:27.261-08:00Oh, sure! I had to be wearing frickin Birkenstocks when all I wanted to do was ram a 4" high heel into the forehead of the frickin' Fascist Pig outside the Post Office.I actually drove to the Post Office to get a card out in time to send to the man who was my junior high school boyfriend...a mere 47 years ago, and now resides in the south of France.<br />
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But before I could go in, the sidewalk was blocked by The World's Largest Living Asshole sporting huge signs of our President wearing a Hitler mustache. Mother of God. I felt my chest start to heave, the rash of red fill my face and I went in to automatic orbit. How dare anyone, and sue me, I mean ANYONE, compare our President with anyone who has murdered, tortured, and mutilated 6,000,000 people! Veins were popping in my neck, my heart rate increased, and I was SO beyond myself, all I could mutter was something lame like, "Unbelievable! What audacity you have to compare our President with a mass murderer!" I then marched inside and handed over the Netflix rental of Inglorious Basterds, my birthday card to my guy friend in France, and made ugly with everyone in line.<br />
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Upon leaving, I remember calling the idiot boy-wonder with the propaganda, despicable. How dare you, how f*cking dare you undervalue the evilness of Hitler, how dare you compare him to a Harvard graduate who stepped up and inheriting a nation full of woes from the previous administration, is making the most of what's been handed him!" For crying out loud, it was I who was GOING POSTAL!<br />
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I <i>wanted</i> to knock him into tomorrow and confetti the air with his hate pamphlets. But really, that was just the mindless little fantasy. Instead I called the police. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don't go there with me. Of COURSE I know he has the right to expound his dribble. But he doesn't have the right to block the sidewalk doing so.<br />
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I called the new Match.com man in my life, "Talk me down. Talk me down, please." He had not heard me lose it, had not heard the astonishment in my voice, the heat, the passion and the venom. He was sweet and calm, assuring me that I said my peace and should go home now, that the police would NOT be coming. "Yes, they will! This is Arcadia. They come if you flush a turd down sideways!" He chuckled, called me endearing names which DID help calm me, I admit. I stayed parked in the lot, watching the man in the orange ski jacket hand out his crap and do his harm. "Honey, I have to go..."I offered without an excuse, seeing what was approaching.<br />
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And then, in the next breath, the police arrived. I put down the window of my bug, "It's me! I'm the one who called you, " I waved. They did the cop thing...one guy goes to the offender, the other to the "offendee." That's me. I assured the 13 year old officer that I knew the moron had the right to be a moron, but he couldn't block the sidewalk being one.<br />
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Soon, both officers were at my window, talking to me. Moronic Asshole was putting his stuff in his Toyota and taking off. They took my name and number which I joyfully volunteered, thanking them for their time.Turns out Moronic Asshole has been here for quite a while and I am not the first to have called. They continued to talk me down. "Have a nice evening, Ms. Bogue."<br />
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I came home and called Match.com man from my driveway. "Are you okay? You didn't run him over, did you? DID you?" I laughed. No, but I sure thought about returning with a pair of high heels and if harassed one more time, taking my shoe off and marking the Neanderthal right in the middle of his forehead. We all have to have a dream, and that was mine. Match.com man told me, "Well, I was afraid I would have to bail you out of jail..." Aw, I could feel my heart slowing, and my heat turning a hot pink instead of blood red. That's about the most romantic thing a man ever said to me. Really. I think I have a chunk of love in my heart...<br />
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Now, please pass the Johnnie Walker Red, please.Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-51371310985510259792010-02-20T12:31:00.000-08:002017-10-09T13:33:03.062-07:00EXCEL FOR WOMEN - pantyhose not included<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I am in the midst of transitioning what has been my art studio into a rental income unit - anything to keep me from getting caught up in that wretched corporate world where high heels click down cold hallways decorated with gold-framed oils of long-forgotten old white men or truly modernistic splat paintings; you know, a real job in executive management, not that I could even qualify anymore. And even if I did, generally speaking, the 25 and 30 year olds in hiring, are going to clearly see that I am <i>one new roof away from not needing a need a new roof. </i>Think about it. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">True. I have no desire to sit in a cubicle wearing pantyhose that are restiricting my va-jay-jay and making my inner thighs sweat like Tiger Woods at a <i>real</i> press conference, and do Excel spread sheets which seems to be a requirement these days. And let's face it, I would be working for the health care benefits which I would HAVE to have to cover the brain bleed brought on by the vice grips applied to my head in order to keep me focused on the computer screen, as I entered lists of numbers representing the latest sales figures of percentages of profits versus how many miles a monkey in a sales suit traveled to and from the most recent meeting. You get my drift. I'm already exhausted - and that's just from that run-on sentence!</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">See, that analogy is hell, and clearly I am a heaven on earth kind of woman. When it occurs to you that you have more sand at the top of the hourglass than below, it forces you to rethink your priorities. And if that doesn't do it, then just have someone dump half your sand out and see where that takes you. Profit versus losses. Let me break it on down:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><b><span style="background-color: white; color: #38761d; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 13.5pt;">MARY'S VERSION OF EXCEL<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 13.5pt;">PROFIT </span></b><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">LOSS</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "verdana";">Age 59 -all my own body parts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "verdana";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Age 59 - I've seen my own body parts in the daylight.</span></span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "verdana";">Raised a strong-willed, free-thinking daughter. </span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "verdana";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">She disowned her family for a new one. Sorry, Grandma Mae.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: "verdana";">Overcame breaking my back. </span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Had to break it to overcome it.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana";">Own my own home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Can’t complain to the land lady about the peeling paint and popcorn ceiling.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana";">Married Rob.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">Lost my best friend and man of the family.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana";">Match.com <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 13.5pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The expenses of new push-up bras, high heels, and sometimes faith in men who it turns out might not actually know the difference between an ax and a salad fork. Present man not included.</span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Recently, I had a group of ten extraordinary women here for Valentine's Day. I don't like to toss the word </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">extraordinary</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"> around, so you know these women are exceptional! I "advertised" it as a Chick Party, and when asked by a guy friend, he wanted to know how the "Hen Party" went. I suppose the truth is somewhere in between. These were women that spanned a good 30 years difference in age, definitely different backgrounds, culture and geographics. Yet here we were, brought together by both having love in our lives, and not having a valentine in our life right now, but being love and being the life in each other's heart which prods us, inspires us and challenges us to beat on. </span></span></span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">We found out that we shared histories of child-rearing, rapists-fearing, miscarriages, and Cinderella carriages, child abuse and no more the recluse. We ate foods that nourish, laughed with a flourish and recounted stories of loved ones who left us smiling long enough to enjoy wine and chocolate.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">Men don't understand women. If they did, they would never rape us, demean us, dehumanize us, pimp us or terrorize us with the threat of death for showing ankles beneath burkas. They would cherish each stretch mark that brought a human life forward, defend each tear and heartache caused us, give us a leg to stand on and a foot up - no matter if it was in a running shoe or a three inch heeled, silver and rhinestone, pointed-toe pump. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">My new Match.com guy, who I have strong feelings for but shall remain nameless (to protect his privacy) asked me on our first date why so many women seemed to dislike men or not trust them. And then he asked me why I seemed to love men. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;">I could only answer, that at one time or another in our lives, men have had control- whether in the board room or beneath their roofs. Being "good girls" we were told to behave and be nice, be quiet and be polite. It's pretty hard to be anything but that when as a little girl, a big, heavy man is on top of you, one hand pressed over your mouth and threatening your family while raping you, or to find the words to react when your father has up and left you to start a new family, or when your new husband steals the promises, hopes and dreams of what could be from you and you are empty hearted. Some of us process those feelings as internal rage and no doubt create cancers in our bodies. Others of us swallow it down, gain weight, and move numbly through the hurt. Yet others of us, process it and try to find a way to make our lives more meaningful to others. That's what we did on Valentine's Day. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana";">A full life having been lived to its fullest with ups and downs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana";">Wisdom to trust again.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana";">A rich life filled with beauty regardless of riches<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "verdana";">A beautiful life, regardless of hurts and disappointments, respectful of peace and beauty, love and joy, and trusting in our tomorrows, our family members, and mostly ourselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Oh, and to answer my date's question, why do I seem to love men: I love men, as do most other women, <i>for their potential</i> to be compassionate, loving, loyal, integrity-rich, strong, stand-up, manned-up, honest, caring, and even peaceful males. I need to believe that, for the sake of being a woman and for the sake of the world. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And that, my friends is <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">why</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"> women excel</span></b>. It is, after all, an art and a grace which allows us to love deeply, forgive but never forget, and trust in the here and now. In the end, at the end of God's page, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><b><i>we know it all adds up</i></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">.</span></span></div>
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Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-82333902038383314502010-01-24T22:55:00.000-08:002017-10-09T13:04:38.593-07:00Off The Chain Valentine's Day<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Ever since I've either been listening to or singing love songs, it always comes down to the lyrics and finding your own truth in them. If you're just listening, perhaps on the way to work while you're thinking of the day's agenda, or picking up your daughter from softball, chances are your mind is elsewhere. If you're a singer, you strive to find the emotion that best tells your own story in those finely crafted words.</span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Recently, I have turned my attention to the song, "Unchain My Heart," written by Bobby Sharp and you'll no doubt remember Ray Charles singing the hell out of this in 1961. Some have heard that it was written by Teddy Powell. Well, let's just say that Sharp, was using drugs at the time, and for a mere fifty bucks sold it to him. Powell bought it on the condition that he get half the songwriting credit. I mention this because I'm sure that before researching the song, I never heard the lyrics as those from the heart of an addict. Never.</span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This year, I had wanted to produce an <em>un-</em>Valentine's Day show called Unchained Hearts, aimed at celebrating we women who aren't married or otherwise "engaged" in a relationship with a man, or a woman for that matter. I had talked to the folks at a specialty tea room in Pasadena, and they were on board. Well, with conditions. It couldn't actually be <em>on</em> Valentine's Day because that was reserved for "the real Valentine's Day dinner crowd;" so it would be two days early, and they wanted to "upgrade" the menu. This had been done once before at one of my dinner show's there and I was mortified to find what they could actually charge for a veggie burger. How could I ask my friends or fans to pay a cover charge and then buy a veggie burger the equivalent in cost to a half a tank of gas in my VW? With a sigh, I declined. </span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I know I could have looked at other places to do this show, but this was the perfect venue that would have wrapped my women friends in shades of red and gold, showed them their reflections in beveled glass mirrors and warmed them with hot teas, red roses, sweet desserts and their house champagne. There, they would have heard every woman's stories in song and the spoken word, culminating in a ceremony of self-love.</span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Though the tea room would have proven to be a smash hit with every chair filled, I'm sure of it, I passed. I just couldn't bring myself to encourage an over-priced meal two nights before Valentines Day. In other words, while they feel sorry you won't be with the love of your life on Valentine's Day, they just couldn't wrap their minds around a matinee/lunch/tea of your own on this day and keep the fully loaded dinner in place for the "couples." It saddened me, so I relinquished the thought. Maybe next year.</span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I've decided instead to focus on five women specifically. First, I have a girl friend who just confided that her still fresh marriage is on the rocks, and upon further exploration that there was a pattern - a history, if you will, of regretful choices. We dug deep in the conversation and she revealed that when she was a little girl, her mother committed suicide on Valentine's Day. My second friend-girl also lost her mother at the age of three to the murdering hands of her father in plain sight. Woman friend number three lost her husband of almost 50 years not so long ago. And the fourth gal lives faraway, and lost her daughter in a tragic accident soon after I lost my husband, her uncle. Number five is me. I have had my own share of grief and loss of love, both in losing Rob and the grief I feel in my daughter's self-imposed exile.</span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My daughter's dad. Now, he was something! Every year on Valentine's Day, Rob would "kidnap" me for what he coined an "Urban Adventure." It was the one time of the year he pulled out all the stops. He never told me where we were going, only to pack for three days and the anticiapted weather. There was a surprise trip to New York City, one to Manhattan Beach to a Victorian hotel where all the help knew I was coming and pampered me all the way. God only knowS how much he had pre-tipped everyone to be so gracious. One year, Valentine's found us at a posh Arizona resort, and "I Love You" spelled out in chocolates on the bedspread, a bubbling hot tub, warm fireplace and icy champagne. </span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes the ties that bind are ephemeral. My first marriage only lasted until he raised his hand to me; and then while I was at work, he emptied the house and my jewelry box - including my grandmothers plain gold band. Other times, we are bound for what seems like until the end of time, only to find that the expectations and the realities are two different things. </span><br />
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We women roll with the punches and instead of red silk lingerie with our guys, we channel the love to our kids and add red food coloring to make milk pink, cook strawberry pancakes in the shapes of hearts and make an all-pink or red meal for their lunchboxes. And if you asked my daughter, she most assuredly remembers begging me to show up at her school in an over-sized red satin heart costume - a relic from my singing telegram days. Fast forward: Gone is the little girl who marveled at pink milk and swore it tasted sweeter, and in her place stands a woman of 19 years, married and expecting. She unchained a chunk of her family's heart by discarding the gold heart-shaped locket sent to her to wear at her wedding reception; a tiny necklace with a picture of her father. Truly, an unchained heart. Maybe there will be a red satin heart costume in her future. I wonder would she wear it for her child in years to come. </span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">And now that I think of it, I remember Rob begging me to bring that red heart costume on board the cruise ship to Mexico. I protested, "It's so bulky. It's too much. Honey, it would take another suitcase." He insisted, "Then I'll carry it. Please." I did, of course, and he in his dark pinstripe suit and red silk tie, accompanied me down to the dining room where he had tipped the maitre'd to set up a tiny table for two. This was right after HE set it up for us to re-take our wedding vows onboard with a beautiful Mexican sunset as our backdrop. </span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I haven't asked my gal pals yet if they will join me. I'm just thinking out the details now. But I'm pretty sure it will be passionate in a whole other way. I want to celebrate love where it finds me, not necessarily where it has always been before. But maybe that red heart costume has one last apperance in it...maybe. And maybe the unchained love will find a new way to define itself as <em>off the chain</em>. </span></div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Just in case you're still wondering, for the record, Buddy Sharp cleaned himself up and fought successfully to retain the rights to his song. His song had been chained to someone for fifty dollars and in 1987, Sharp was miraculously able to through his own publishing company renew the copyright. The company's name was B. Sharp Music. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: red;">I wish anyone and everyone who comes across this post to find a way to celebrate the day of romance with a day of love in service to someone else. Pay it forward, model love, do a kind deed. Buy a rose bush and plant it for someone or in someone's memory. And maybe, just maybe a 19 year old young woman will read this one day and ask if that ol' red heart costume is still around because one day her five year old daughter would love seeing her mommy in it. And if that day comes, I'll unhook it from the closet pole and send it away. Love is never wasted. Never.</span> </span></div>
Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-21609080456538107762010-01-23T10:53:00.000-08:002017-10-09T13:24:17.409-07:00Albondigas Soup - A Recipe for Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When my daughter was little, and came to us at the age of four, she was obsessed with food, and yet couldn't identify more than two fruits or one vegetable. And though we didn't go out often to eat, all the way home this kid would open and close the white to-go container, making sure the food was still there as we listened with disbelief to that unique crunchy sound that only styrofoam containers can make. Having lived with cocaine addicted parents, food wasn't a priority they shared and as told to me, it was mostly purchased from the driver-through of the golden arches.</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Children teach you many things, and foster children in particular teach you lessons you might never have learned from your natural born. I'll never forget one of our little girls who was astonished to learn that the food hydrator section of the refrigerator was not a toolbox, or the other who found it almost impossible to beleive that she didn't have to steal food and hide it, because there <em>would</em> be more, really.</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I quickly learned that what we smell is critical to how we feel. Can you imagine being sent to a new home to live - one in which you were not a part of the decision making? Each house has its own smells, and as its owners and tenants, we can no longer smell it, but a stranger can tell if you cooked cabbage last week, have two too many cats, or cook with garlic on a regular basis.</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yet these children came bravely to the front door. My kitchen, and more importantly, my oven is located directly next to my front door; and these children taught me the power of chocolate chip cookies slipped into the oven when the social worker was ten minutes out from arriving. It's a little more difficult to think about all the scary unknowns when a warm kitchen promises plates of security, comfort and love. And that is exactly what a warm chocolate chip cookie is. It mattered not if the cookies were cut from a store-bought log, or mixed in the bowl and scooped onto the cookie sheets. A warm chocolate chip cookie melting in your mouth <em>is</em> love.</span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In fact, food is love. When my teenaged daughter ran away for about the fifth time (I lost track after she ran away from the runway shelter), she landed with a family who apparently didn't share our particular love for all things culinary. Finally, she couldn't take it and asked if one day I would share my recipe for homemade albondigas soup so that she could make it for the "...family who treats me better than you ever did." Is it just me gagging on this memory, or are you finding it a little <em>distatsteful </em>too? </span><br />
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<span style="color: purple; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Nonetheless, I sat down to the computer and typed out the recipe, remembering all the times I made it and how that simple bowl of meatball soup could encourage conversations about her day at school, my husband's stressful day at work or my own interpretation of the events as mother and wife, caretaker, ... and, well, you get it. So, here's that recipe:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace; font-size: large;">Mom's Easy Homemade Albondigas Soup</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><strong><span style="color: #cc0000;">Turkey Meatballs</span></strong>: Mix in a bowl: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><strong>1 pound package of</strong> <strong>ground turkey </strong>(the pre-seasoned kind works great too,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> <strong>1/4 cup long grain uncooked rice</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> <strong>1/4 cup chopped cilantro</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> <strong>1 tsp. Mrs. Dash</strong> (spicy)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> <strong>1 beaten egg</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> <strong>1/2 tsp. dried oregano</strong>- crushed</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"> <strong>1/8 tsp. pepper</strong></span><br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: "courier new";">The Other Good Stuff</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new";">1 fresh, medium onion chopped (about 1/2 cup)</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new";">3 cloves garlic, minced</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new";">2 tbs. cooking oil</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new";">4 cups water</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new";">2 10-1/2 ounce cans chicken broth</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new";">1 6 ounce can of tomate paste</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";"><strong>2 medium potatoes cubed <span style="color: blue;">OR</span> 2 zucchinis chopped</strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new";">2 medium carrots, sliced (1 cup)</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "courier new";">1 can refried beans (great thickener)</span></strong><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">In a big saucepan, heat the oil and toss in the onion, garlic and carrots. Cook until the onion turns golden and add the zukes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">Cook for another five minutes or so, until the vegetables are tender. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">Stir in the water, broth and tomato paste and bring to boil. (<span style="color: blue;">IF you're using the potatoes</span>, add them now and simmer for five minutes.)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">While this is happening, mix the meat ingredients all together. I use a small ice cream scoop to divide the meat and make the meatballs uniform in size. Roll them in your hand if necessary and drop them into the simmering soup. Return to boiling: reduce heat and simmer about 30 minutes or until meatballs float to the top and potatoes are cooked through.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">I like to add fresh lime for garnish, or squeezed individually into the bowls of soup. On the table I add red pepper flakes, dried oregano and a stack of hot corn tortillas with pats of butter available. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "courier new";">Makes 8-10 servings.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, there you have it. It's my recipe for a big ol' bowl of love. After you've made it once, you'll realize just how easy this is, and what a crowd pleaser it always turns out to be. And just so ya know, it's heart-healthy in all ways, shapes and forms. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: purple; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Follow this later with a hot chocolate chip cookie and see if your family doesn't look like all the cares in the world have fallen away. That's what love does - heats you from the inside, brings a rosy glow to your face and makes you always remember it fondly. Ya gotta love LOVE.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
.Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-44542489225050836282009-12-30T13:24:00.000-08:002010-01-30T11:28:53.015-08:00My New Year's Resolution - Make a Joi Filled Noise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZVJvUOufzMbyhqIcUTzwAQoq7S0BFvC3XJiQjG0z_uT0jnV-bCIXtq29f42xmpsRdNF4rZ-NgDRCVt4EAnKMStDN1J8FCfkgIRqWSMOE8KUuvNCxnoxfERMH9g5JbX0px63eTiP4KFlRr/s1600-h/rose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZVJvUOufzMbyhqIcUTzwAQoq7S0BFvC3XJiQjG0z_uT0jnV-bCIXtq29f42xmpsRdNF4rZ-NgDRCVt4EAnKMStDN1J8FCfkgIRqWSMOE8KUuvNCxnoxfERMH9g5JbX0px63eTiP4KFlRr/s320/rose.jpg" /></a></div>Winter finally came to southern California, in the form of rain washed streets, trees blown over and the ever-present ringing of the Salvation Army bell outside the local post office. It's always an interesting time of the year for me, flooded with memories of living in upstate New York where you will learn the true meaning of cold, and literally turning another year older on New Year's Eve.<br />
<br />
<br />
I have perfected a recipe for dark gingerbread with chunks of dark chocolate, crystallized ginger and dried fruits of apricot, mango, date, pineapple, pears, apple, plum, and even papaya, just meant to be eaten slowly with a cup of hot cocoa or a glass of cold eggnog. It is a “wow” dessert for those who enjoy the bite of ginger paired with the sweet of dark chocolate. I love the way my whole house is perfumed with the scent of comfort and a sense of happiness comes over me and all who enter. <br />
<br />
To make this recipe, I always need a trip to Trader Joes to do some dried-fruit wrangling. Don't you just adore Trader Joe's? I do. I love that I can count on Hawaiian shirts in December, cool reusable shopping bags, pine wreaths out front, and things like their own gingerbread coffee which always sells out way before Christmas. One of the things I especially like about Trader Joe's is the folks who work there. In all the years I've gone for my Akmak crackers and peanut butter flavored dog bones, I don't recall ever seeing anything but a joyous countenance. Everyone wants to be of service, wants to know if they can help you find what you need and even offer up a taste of their French onion and gruyere pizza, a sip of their sparkling blueberry juice or a soupcon of coffee, while you fill your basket with whole wheat bread, flax seeded chips and lemon curd. <br />
<br />
That's where I met Joi, who was slicing tidbits of something or other and placing them on napkins or scooping spoonfuls into a paper cup for customers to try. Somehow we hit it off, and always got into conversations that kept me there way too long. My daughter did some fine growing up in front of Joi's eyes, and Joi could tell you all about my love life - or lack there of, and what she thought of the current guy in my life. <br />
<br />
Joi and I knew how to laugh at life and shake our heads while murmuring, "Mmmm, mmm, mmm!" Conversations always wound back around to our bodies and whether we loved them that day. You can't help but engage in those talks what with the contents of your cart on display. Inevitably, we were never happy with our female forms. Show me a woman who is. <br />
<br />
A couple of years ago, my friend Al hosted a huge Christmas soiree at his home, and hired me to do the catering. This was a job for more than one woman, and my daughter had long ago left the house to pursue her teenage dreams of freedom. I called Joi, who even though she showed up more than an hour late, was happy to be well paid and in her groove helping me wrap cantaloupe with prosciutto, make an antipasta tray the size of Chicago, and enough Pannetone bread pudding to make all the revelers smile hugely. You can always tell the hard core cooks at a party - for they have forsaken any political debates, discourse of the weather or talk of New Year's resolutions in order to watch you create some kitchen magic. And Joi and I could entertain while dishing it up. We worked side by side with great grace and efficiency - a well-rehearsed ballet as it were, costumed in our black slacks and white shirts. <br />
<br />
The last few times I went to Trader Joe's, Joi was no where to be found. And I reminded myself that in an attempt to cut back unnecessary expenditures, I had cut back the journeys to Trader Joe's. I had to admit, I missed our conversations about Match.com, eHarmony and whatever news I had about the "latest internet date." You should have seen her shake her head over the Mormon wrestler guy (my first blog here). Nonetheless, Joi would start in, while readjusting the white straw cowgirl hat she wore, "I need to get me on Match.com and find me a guy, but I wouldn't know where to start. First I got to lose some weight and you know I can't lose any of this big, black..." and she would lean in to me and finish the sentence with a whisper, "ass of mine!" It was true. Joi had a tiny waist which magically met with a very..."developed" derriere. She continued, "Now it's one thing to find someone who wants a gal THIS black, but girl, with this here butt, too...I dunno." I laughed. Joi's complexion was indeed the color of 85% cocoa dark chocolate, complete with a tempered shine. In my eyes, Joi was beautiful. No, not the Tyra Banks or the Queen Latifah beauty. It was Joi's approach to life that was so lovely. <br />
<br />
So, like I said, I was shopping for ingredients to make my Christmas gingerbread treats, and couldn't stand that once again, Joi was not in her place. Maybe she had the day off again and Matt, the happy-go-lucky guy with a grey goatee, who was busy serving up triangles of ham, could tell me when she would be in next. I would have to come by and see her and just catch up. I wheeled my cart over, and while "White Christmas" played over the loudspeaker, I asked. "Hey, Matt! Where in the world is Joi? I haven't seen her in forever!" He gave me a weak smile and seemed to wait for the mother with the grabby-handed child to leave the sample table. "How well do you know Joi?" he questioned with his head tilted to one side.<br />
<br />
How well do I know Joi? Internally I was saying, "Are you kidding? We've talked about security leaks and bladder leaks, children who back-talk their mothers and appear ungrateful and in her opinion need a good whooping with a switch. We talked about the world needing a little peace and a little piece of mind that a garage sale could bring. How well do I know Joi?" Iindeed.<br />
<br />
"Well," I thought, “Enough that she's in my cell phone directory. Why?" <br />
<br />
Matt hung his head, took a breath and then looked up to me. "I hate to be the one to tell you, but Joi is gone."<br />
<br />
"Gone? You mean gone as in retired? Or gone as in moved to another store closer to her home?"<br />
<br />
My heart sunk. I knew which "gone" he meant before he could utter it. <br />
<br />
"Nah." his breath escaped like a whoosh from a hot oven. "Joi passed away almost six months ago. I'm so sorry...."<br />
<br />
I was dumbfounded. Joi? There was only one Joi, so there was no need to clarify if we were talking about the same woman. I listened from inside my own head like a mayonnaise jar with the sounds kind of making a weird echo. "She hadn't come to work for three days in a row and so we called the police..." Matt's hand mindlessly obeyed him, doing his job while going on, "They did a welfare check and found her in her bathroom. She died of a heart attack. You know, she lived alone. She was there on that floor for three days, all alone."<br />
<br />
My own heart sank. I could see her there; hear her last thoughts, "Lord, like this?" Her hand to her chest, not even able to get to the phone before falling. I could feel her eyes roll back, the pain of an elephant sitting on her chest and her acquiescing, making her peace, saying her prayer, asking for forgiveness, reliving her life and then it was over. <br />
<br />
Matt broke my trance, "I'm so sorry. But a part of her will always be here." He looked upwards and pointed to the wall where Joi's hat was placed over her sample station."<br />
<br />
I mumbled something, thanked him, mumbled something else and pushed my cart along. It all hit me when I got to the car. I wept all the way home. Joi was gone. She did not leave an inheritance, I was sure of that. She did not write any famous books or record a standard to be played over and over on the airwaves. Joi's legacy was her warmth, her desire to serve the public with a smile and a heart full of gratitude, motherly and sisterly wisdom and a genuine love for people. Her legacy to me was a roll of her eyes, the sistah-to-sistah talks, the hugs and laughter and her live-and-let-live take on life. I loved her.<br />
<br />
For a couple of days, I thought of little else except for Joi's demise. How could she have been gone for six whole months and I didn't know or think to ask? Had I taken Joi for granted or expected Joi to always be in my life, but not IN my life? I had lots to think about as I whirred up my batches of dark gingerbread and realizing I needed to return to Trader Joe's for more crystallized ginger.<br />
<br />
Matt was there again, and we nodded, and had our own little moment of acknowledgement. And then he remembered something. "Hey, look, she really is all around us. Look what someone brought in today." From beneath the counter he lifted a tall white glass votive candle with a single feather tied to it. "And the lady who brought it didn't know Joi was gone either. She just brought it because it's Christmas." <br />
<br />
“Yeah. Wow.” I said beneath my breath. I wished Matt a Merry Christmas, and once again left Trader Joe’s with my reusable bags and once again thinking about my friend. Here’s my take on it all: You see, when you're as authentic and as approachable as Joi, it's only natural that you should have a little Joi in your own heart and want to share it. <br />
<br />
So, as 2009 comes to an end and 2010 is here in a matter of hours, I do believe that if asked what my New Year's resolution is, it will be to live with a little more Joi in my heart. No matter if your work is mighty or humble; be kind to others, smile a little and always be reminded that you're just fine the way you are right now, and your butt...is never too big. Everything is exactly how it's supposed to be right now. I wish you Joi.Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-86141910982743636832009-11-03T12:02:00.000-08:002010-01-30T11:34:12.350-08:00Autumn Leaves Me Great Full<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSeUC9w1N93-oFO8k7lGDE4GocyhDQ3u52CrY6D_AzL99FhR1uJfVOehvOaYnmERJXAcVXToyWqIyxXSnogInF0z5HAYOyZ7MGhZ4uRnQhPYXweNVP_BPAsgsizl4lDHpWmA5shgE4TOzP/s1600-h/autumn+leaves.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" sr="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSeUC9w1N93-oFO8k7lGDE4GocyhDQ3u52CrY6D_AzL99FhR1uJfVOehvOaYnmERJXAcVXToyWqIyxXSnogInF0z5HAYOyZ7MGhZ4uRnQhPYXweNVP_BPAsgsizl4lDHpWmA5shgE4TOzP/s400/autumn+leaves.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #783f04;">It's hard to be thankful for autumn when it's in the high 80's and the only crunch beneath your feet is not that of burnt orange and pale yellow leaves the color of the moon, but rather the strewn twigs left from a huge wind storm and brought in the house by a visiting spaniel and discovered by the instep of a bare foot.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">There is no crisp air to invite a deep breath and a feeling of excitement for the holidays which will surely roll around sooner than I can imagine. No need for a muffler tucked around the neck, or that coziness felt from nesting inside while falling leaves drift by your window, or the first fire inside to cast a glow of romance in your lover's eyes.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">Instead of leaves tinted that of a first summer sunburn, I have noticed that the lacey, May-blooming jacaranda tree I planted in the front yard as a memorial to my late husband, has surprised me with a sprig of its lavender flowers - like a single wave to me from heaven. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">Traditionally we see the loss of foilage as the benchmark of winter with spring waiting in the wings like an eager ingenue desperate to take center stage. Some will say that California has no seasons - or worse, that we do, but it is marked by heat, fires and then floods of mud when the rain does hit. I tend to think that it's all perspective. We will still have our bell-ringing Salvation Army soldiers of mercy posted outside the grocery store where we buy our holiday turkeys and pumpkin pies, and there will be the over-priced bundled firewood for sale in front near the un-manned customer service counter, and in my cart a big bag of cranberries to mix with wine, cinnamon, orange and sugar.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">When I hear disparaging comments about climate, I always wonder if our perspective is skewed towards attitude instead of gratitude. Recently I was lamenting that I had to take a pair of my favorite high heels to the shoe repair man, as the sole was wearing thin and the heels soon to lose that little rubber tip that keeps us from rat-a-tat-tatting into a room, a friend reminded me of something too beautiful not to recall here. She told me that my shoes could not have been run down if I had not been wearing them. Lori claims it was a typo that made her refer to them as fun-down instead of run-down. Of course I had to wear them out in order to wear them down. That's a no-brainer at first blush, but I pondered that for a bit. Where had those shoes been worn to in order to wear the leather so bare? I seem to wear them infrequently. Then I remembered that I love wearing them at night when I go out to sing, to restaurants to dine with a dear friend, and even a wedding or two. Ah, yes! They were not run-down, they were <em>fun-down</em>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">I'm of course looking forward to trading in my bare feet or my Birkenstock sandals for the long black patent leather boots that I was lucky to score because they actually fit my calves. And won't it be nice to wear the red hand crocheted scarf that Mom made me for a birthday one year! How lucky I am that Mom, at 89 is still alive and in relative good health. How lucky I am, though thousands of miles apart, to be able to pick up the phone and hear her tell me the same stories as the last time we spoke, or remind me that my sister and her husband who live next door to her, bring her dinner every night. In the next breath, Mom will tell me like she has for the last ten years, that she doesn't eat much. The irony is not lost on me and neither is the subtext. Though she may not have the appetite she did in years gone by, is not the point. Someone cares enough to cook, bundle up in a jacket and rainboots and walk next door in the 30 degree weather with a Tupperware in hand. She may not eat as much with her mouth, but her eyes are still hungry to see her daughter at the door. My sister Diane will sit and listen to Mom as if it is the first time she has heard Mom say the same thing for the thousandth time; that it always rains in southern Illinois. I am so blessed to have her taking such good care of Mom. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">I am so grateful for family, though it seems they have scattered like whirling leaves from our family tree. My daughter is now 19 and married, living hundreds of miles away with her new family and starting her own traditions. Dad is gone, my eldest sister Judy passed just after him, and like I said, my husband Rob is no longer here - all gone the same year. My youngest sister Barbara moved to Texas and has ex-communicated me from her life for what she obviously feels is a wrong-doing, though it defies definition to me. You can reach out to people, but you can't open their hands if instead of a extended palm you received a fist, the same they profess to use in prayer. Yet, I am thankful for her anger - because it means she is feeling. Of course I'd rather know her love, but I see blessings in the oddest of places now. Before our sister Judy died from a complication of strokes and a heart valve infection, other than pain, it was difficult to ascertain if she was cognizant at all. I'll take Barbara's discord as a sign that she is in the moment, and that, dear friends is kind of like winter. Even a bare, twisted and gnarled tree appearing dead in winter, will again sprout green come spring.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">In the past, this time of the year found me planning a holiday menu for as many family members as I could fit around the table adorned with Mom's hand-embroidered tablecloth made to complement my Country Roses patterened china that Rob bought in 1981 as our first gift together. Now, not so much. My brother Paul called me yesterday. Paul, now in his 60's is finding his stride of soul. For whatever reason, and there are a few, I remain the only one to invite him to the holiday dinners. And this year would not have been any different. The table has shrunk in size from that laden with enough for an army to that more appropriate of an old couple with a friend or two to share a much smaller turkey. Imagine my surprise when Paul asked <em>me</em> for the pleasure of <em>my</em> company this Thanksgiving. Yup. He asked me. "I've been thinking," he started, "you know, you always work so hard and do all the shopping and the cooking...so I was thinking I should take you out this year. And invite Al. He's awfully good to you. Whaddya think?" Before I could say too much, he blurted out, "Of course <em>I'll miss your cranberries</em>..." I smiled. "I'll still make you cranberries and..." I was cut off in his excitement, "<em>And I could bring one of those Honeybaked hams</em> so we have something to pick on, whaddya think?" I think my heart is filled with love and that what could be despair at the loss of what was, is filled with the joy of what is. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">Maybe the collective symphony of my twenty-something year old wedding gift Waterford crystal goblets will not be so resounding as yesteryears, but three glasses will still ring out, and a smile will still cross my face as we raise them in a toast of a mutual blessing - "Happy Thanksgiving." and when all is said and done, and we return from a restuarant Thanksgiving dinner, before calling it a night, we'll enjoy a tad of my cranberries and a slice of that ham on a small china plate, use one of Mom's napkins, and my heart and soul will have been nourished and my high heels fun-downed a little more.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">Happy Thanksgiving.</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">Love</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04;">Mary</span><br />
<a href="http://www.marybogue.com/">http://www.marybogue.com/</a>Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-20739692922805781222009-09-02T17:38:00.000-07:002009-11-03T12:34:16.571-08:00I Can See Hell From My KitchenIf Sarah <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Palin</span> can see Alaska from her kitchen, I can see hell. No, really. I have seen hell more than once from my view over the sink garden window filled with stained glass items and pictures of time spent in both a front yard of sunflowers and also the streets of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Montmarte</span>, Paris.<br />
<br />
My first recollection of hell outside my window was when I realized that the foster child I had been planning on arriving would not be the little blond with spools of ringlets and bright blue eyes, clutching a teddy bear. No, my first foster child was 15 years old, had dirty hair streaming down her face, was wearing thick Doc Marten style boots, torn and faded once-black jeans, a chain holding an empty wallet to her body and a shirt with the welcoming message every foster parent wants to see, "Death and Anthrax." What else says "Look, Honey," to the reluctant foster dad, "our first kid is walking up the path to the front door, we did the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">rght</span> thing," than a scruffy teen with a cigarette package in her hand. I sighed and prayed, concurrently.<br />
<br />
Kathleen turned out to be just fine - especially since I gave her permission to smoke her cigarettes. Those of you who know me, are thinking, "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">WTF</span>?" Ah, think again. You know me. Wait for it...wait for it. Here it comes: "No problem," I answered the question mark on her brow. " Nah, I'm good with that if you just follow my rules you can smoke as much as you want." The social worker looked horrified at me. Her mouth opened and before drool could form, I went on,"just walk out to the back of the property (a mere couple hundred of yards) and smoke behind the wall where the pool filter is..." She interrupted me, "Okay." Without missing a beat, I offered, "use the ashtray only, and when you're done empty the cigarette into the black trash bin, bring the ashtray in and wash it with hot water and soap," she started to speak again. I cut her off, "then walk out back and replace it, come back inside and take off all your clothes, do a load of laundry and take a shower and wash your hair, put on clean clothes and then do as you like. Her eyes were saucer-big. "And really," I finished, "I don't care how much you smoke as long as you do that and buy your own cigarettes. Go for it." Kathleen's eyes closed as she dropped her head to her chest, "I always wanted to quit," she mumbled. That was it, Kathleen never smoked again.<br />
<br />
Hell came once or twice more down my front door path. It came one June afternoon when a tall stranger in a dark suit hand-delivered the box of cremated remains of my late husband Robbie to me. I looked down at the box and smiled. You see, I had already given them Rob's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">favorite</span> hand carved stone box <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">depicting</span> a golden retriever, but the crematorium informed me that not all of Rob would fit. Dazed, I told them to just put the rest in a Ziploc. I think they were ready to faint on the the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">other</span> end. But certainly Rob would have <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">appreciated</span> it. Good G<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">od</span>, he used to joke that he should be stuffed, so he could sit upright in his favorite chair with a remote control in his hand. I thanked the stranger and sent him on his way. In my hands rested the "leftovers" of a man who had been bigger than life, reduced to ashes. There is no going back. You might think you can rebuild a similar man or life, but you can't. Here I am, eight years down the road, and I'm here to tell you it <em>is</em> ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. You can put a pretty bow on the cardboard box, but it still holds yesterday's happiness and tomorrow's uncertainty.<br />
<br />
Once, hell came in the form of a "friend" of my late husband. I remember hearing the asshole quite clearly. He pulled up on his motorcycle disturbing the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">flittering</span> buzz of a hummingbird which darted away. Mr. A-hole sauntered up the sidewalk, leather pants making a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">susshing</span> sound which grew louder with his approach. He considered himself to be a great friend to my husband, and yet, I had to inform him that Rob had died two years previously. A-hole took it all in, and then, moments later said to me - the still grieving widow, "Ya know, I really didn't like him the last time I saw him..." A-hole left my house with<em> my</em> definition of what a real friendship is. Oh, there were other lessons to be learned that day, for sure. But I was happy to see Hell's personal "Mr. Outreach" leave my my kitchen sink window perch-like view and straddle his "hog," leaving a horrid screech behind.<br />
<br />
Hell has also taken a more literal turn as well. We have been under attack by monster fires this last week. California is burning and surely some red-necked (so sue me, come on, really) illiterate is blaming the fires upon our gay population, the rights of same to get married if they should so choose, and let's not forget the right to choose abortion if necessary. Imagine the hell that is for any woman - what kind of a choice is that? But I digress.<br />
<br />
I came in late last night from a night of singing torch songs on the other side of town, where the air wasn't heavy with particulates. Upon opening the door to my car, I stepped out and realized that the "snow" on the ground was the charred remains of people's lives, swirling around my lace high heels. It was furniture, jewelry boxes, teddy bears, abandoned shoes, walls, forests, creatures unable to out-run the blistering inferno, wedding memories and family photographs of happier times when children are frozen in time at the age of five wearing their take on a gypsy- princess Halloween costume. It was dreams up in smoke. It was the devil. It was breath-taking, and try as I might, I could not breathe a bit of fresh air. Looking up, the moon hung orange in a smokey black curtain. I tasted the air and as it settled into my hair and clothes in just seconds, it tasted like charcoal briquettes waiting to explode. It tasted like death.<br />
<br />
So what's my point? I mean, I must have one, right? Good God, let's hope so! Here it is; we only have this moment which if we're lucky keeps regenerating. Take the time to create a breath of heaven today or tonight. Tell someone something to make their day. Today, I had a business meeting with a young man and I encouraged him to take the phone call which seemed to interrupt the flow of things betwen us. At the end of his phone conversaion he said to the person on the other end, " I love you, Sweetie." I promise, you can be standing in a mound of rubble and broken dreams, but when someone acknowledges or professes their love for you - you are lifted higher and your soul soars beyond the orange moon.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
MaryMary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-32709720605009992602009-02-25T09:09:00.000-08:002010-01-27T09:26:14.049-08:00Lemonade Stands, Hot Cocoa and Flaming Hot Cheetos<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiU3YrbQtj4tX5POrqrzcWlASAvW_qjYuFLP1Q13EtW38HOwcZuPD5aZa9WUN5V5zrQqr0k4GZ41l6yYsL_9vH7ALLf57frPGLwgNDcQKZYLpyHX5j4YUIahyphenhyphenKbFWfPF6-enXAbvgeoMy/s1600-h/Cambria+with+Charity+069.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306813520329720578" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiU3YrbQtj4tX5POrqrzcWlASAvW_qjYuFLP1Q13EtW38HOwcZuPD5aZa9WUN5V5zrQqr0k4GZ41l6yYsL_9vH7ALLf57frPGLwgNDcQKZYLpyHX5j4YUIahyphenhyphenKbFWfPF6-enXAbvgeoMy/s320/Cambria+with+Charity+069.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<div>When I last blogged, I was in the midst of the ultimate Christmas joy, having heard from Charity. I was so completely wrapped up in the experience that I failed to return to the computer to share the greatness of what transpired. So, here we go.<br />
<br />
I couldn't contain myself any longer (big surprise for those of you who know me) and ended up flying Charity out here. She told me that she was so excited that she was making arrangements to come for two weeks. Two weeks? I mean, I love her to pieces, but I hadn't seen her in more than a decade, and here she was, all grown up at 26. Who knows what could have changed in all those years? Look how much already had! Charity was so very excited that she put her own Christmas tree up, celebrated Christmas with her family and on the 26<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span> the tree was down, decorations put away, and her suitcase packed for her departure from Denver on the 27<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span>. Holy crap, talk about efficient.<br />
<br />
What was to be a few short hours to get here, turned out to be an all day event with plane delay after plane delay, and our novice traveler knew not of her rights to book on another plane immediately because the delays were due to actual airplane malfunction and not an "Act of God," (which by the way, don't you just love that whole concept. I could go off on that right now with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Octuplet</span> Mom's bullshit, but I'll spare you for the sake of this story). Anyway, by the time I arrived at LAX that evening, the airlines had of course lost her bag. Remember I said she was a novice traveler? Yeah. All of her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">meds</span> and important belongings were in the big luggage and the carry on piece held <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">junky</span> incidentals. Let's just say that her first big lesson was learned through actual hands-on or hands-off experience.<br />
<br />
I found her in the baggage claim area, wrestling with her jacket and carry on piece, whilst trying to fill out information should her bag be found. There she was! A woman now, with the same shock of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">blonde</span> hair that she had as a girl. Okay, yeah, yeah, yeah, it's not an Act of God anymore, but having said that, she looked pretty angelic to me. We flew into each other's arms and it was apparent that we needed each other to fill that long-emptied void. Family. Connectivity. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Assuredness</span>. Security. Safety. Unconditional love unlimited. We could hardly wait to get out to the car and get on the road.<br />
<br />
The mind is a funny thing, you'd agree, right? And this is the good part. Somehow, in Charity's mind, I was still Grandma, but because of her own coming of age and now having four kids of her own, she had imagined for herself that I was, shall we say, no doubt a little more dowdily and age-appropriate for a "grandma." Read that, granny-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ish</span>. In her mind's eye, I was on a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">pedastle</span>, the all-loving and all-knowing mother she never really had growing up and the only thing that could have changed was no doubt a dowager's hump, orthopedic shoes and tightly curled grey hair. Buzz. Wrong answer. Ah, not gonna happen as long as I can draw a breath and have my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Amex</span> card handy with a decent line of credit on it. As I told her, "Honey, I'm not going down without a fight.<br />
<br />
Like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">tweens</span> on a sleep-over, we stayed up, talking and laughing. There were memories of her high-tech lemonade stand built from fruit crates replete with wheels on casters, silver dollar sized pancakes just for her, and her favorite childhood memory of what we used to call "Hot Cocoa Baths." Basically, this was my attempt to drug an overly amped up kid with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">tryptophan</span> to help them sleep. I would bring homemade hot cocoa to the bathtub and offer it butler-style to the non-suspecting child. See, ya gotta love that grandma wisdom stuff. Anyway, all the conversations began with, "Oh my God, do you remember..." and ended with tears, some from laughter and some from remembering her grandpa and missing him with all our hearts. She could not imagine that I have moved on, and coming home without him here to welcome her was incredibly hard. "Charity, we'll never get over losing him, but we just manage to get through it, and when you look up, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">eventualy</span> enough time will have passed that you can breathe without choking on the memories and the dreams <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">unfullfilled</span>." I've found that when we dream for ourselves, we never interrupt it with the great "what if'" of life. What if that person I love so much becomes <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">incapcitated</span>, or what if something happens that I never realize just how much they mean to me and I never get to tell them. What if this photograph I'm snapping is the last one of them I'll ever have? Damn those what ifs.<br />
<br />
In all of the times we had with Charity as a little girl, we had not taken her up the coast. The thing about California is, once you live here, it lives in you forever. It does. Where else can you sit on your patio with a cup of coffee, orange trees and birds of paradise in bloom all around you and a dusting of snow on the local mountains within your eyesight? Charity was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">jones</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">ing</span> for California big time, so I made reservations at my favorite dog-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">fiendly</span> hotel in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Cambria</span>, The Fog Catcher Inn. We rented a mini-van that could be accessed by Stallone, my aging golden retriever who had some serious mobility issues going on, and made our journey, ooh-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">ing</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">ahh</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">ing</span> at Half Moon Bay, the vineyards and clean gas stations along the way. Gas stations can be a God send, and those with convenience store attached - even better. There, Charity was suddenly opting for water instead of her announced addiction to soda, but could not and would not give up the salty snacks of Flaming Hot, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Limon</span> Flavored, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">CHEETOHS</span>. No. Orange fingered, I drove up the coast and our homemade sandwiches and cut veggies supplemented the "This has got to be made with crap" snack. Yum.<br />
<br />
<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Cambria</span> lived up to my expectations, as it always does. Garbo and Stallone loved the comfort of laying next to the fireplace at the foot of our king-sized beds, and seemed absolutely in bliss when <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Chari</span>-boo (my nickname for the kid) would return from the dining room with left over chunks of fresh waffles, sausage and eggs. You have to admit, your eyes grow big with full expectations of being able to consume all you have managed to put on your plate, seeing as how someone else has made it for you. But that's another story. I digress.<br />
<br />
For two nights we made <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Cambria</span> our home, walked beach side, cozy in our jackets and mufflers and the new <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Uggs</span> I gave her as a Christmas present. It was hard to believe, but we never even made it into town. Books lay with pages unturned and unlimited miles on the rental car were used instead to see everything on the way to Big <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Sur</span>. Redwood needles crunched beneath our boots, rain washed away the miles of crust on the windshield and everywhere we went, we nested. It was sheer heaven- all of it - the way she gently helped Stallone in and out of the car, stopped to make sure both dogs were properly watered and of course, helped them find their perfect square of grass when necessary. I watched with the eyes of a proud parent, satisfied that if I died that same day, I would know that the world was a better place for having this woman in it. She is remarkable.<br />
<br />
Back home, we moved through the house as we always had, but now grown up. It was a dance in the kitchen, the choreography in place of washing and drying dishes, preparing our next meals, feeding the dogs, and reaching for pots and pans to make new meals of homemade <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">ablondigas</span> and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">favorties</span> she remembered. I gave her my last copy of the cookbook I wrote and dedicated to her, so that she could continue making things like Firecracker Corn and her great grandma's Award Winning Chili. The recipes for life, she had <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">apprently</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">commited</span> to memory. Charity knows that love isn't conditional upon ones gender or love for each other no matter if it is same sexed, that the meaning of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Carpe</span> Diem has greater weight now than before, and that old dogs need a little more love and time to get around. Yeah, she's cooking with gas, as my mother would say.<br />
<br />
Come New Year's Eve and she accompanied me to Colombo's for my New Year's Eve show, helping the entire time, savoring the magic of it all. We are two old souls and the rhythm of our souls expression is like dessert - sweet, unexpected and satisfying. She seemed to love the standards we all sang, the people in my life who have become so important to me in the recent years and, of course, the scampi, calamari, steaks, eggplant, salmon and chocolate-chocolate desserts didn't hurt either.<br />
<br />
To her husband back home, Charity couldn't get back soon enough - for several reasons, a few of them - well, I love Charity too much to talk about here - but for Charity and me, the time was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">evaporating</span> quickly. Tears splashed against sunglasses, rolled down our cheeks and fell to our necklines. A cardboard box or two had to be sent home ahead of her because we knew her luggage would now be over by at least 30 pounds. There were clothes for the kids, souvenirs from our trip, new sweaters for Charity from my sister and Mom and a new 16 hour red lipstick in her carry on. Thankfully, we didn't have to pack the memory of procuring it. That went something like this: <br />
</div><div>"Hey <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Chari</span>-boo, have you ever thought of wearing a red lipstick? I think it would be so pretty with your skin tone and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">blonde</span> hair." Her eyes danced.<br />
"Red lipstick. Oh my God, I'm so embarrassed."<br />
"What? Over what?" I asked incredulously.<br />
"Grandma, I feel so stupid. I don't even know how to wear blush. Here I am, going to be 27 in a couple of days and no one ever showed me how to wear it, so I don't."<br />
Proudly, yes proudly, like a long ago programmed tribal dance between women, I showed her the apples of her cheeks, and also found the perfect orange-red, not blue-red color for her lips and helped her apply both.<br />
"How do I look?" she asked, so jubilant in her reflection.<br />
"Like you, all grown up. Beautiful, honey, just beautiful."<br />
And I thought to myself, on the outside she is a flaming hot <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Cheeto</span>, and inside, pure, sweet and yummy hot cocoa. She had learned everything she needed to from that Lemonade Stand - that when you smile at people and offer them a cup of love, they'll even pay for it when it tastes like a cup of lemonade.<br />
<br />
Can you tell, how much I love that kid. And in the words of my late husband, "Did I tell you today how much I love you?" Well, I just did.<br />
</div>Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-67739855072632177962008-12-16T08:43:00.000-08:002009-12-08T14:45:45.190-08:00If you decorate a tree, will Christmas come?<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8lYDF1bJIvovOvbsR5xUXSXudCKNQuh0kzk3MG9hGxFl4cmRxO0AJFKXpobKeW3xt10GWKqZI3lyejqpzP4Vqa9cQ2-zFyxPIxNDQoWxJQpvIQR4RfX7dN_ar1EhPQy9xeynBFh7sHTZ/s1600-h/Christmas+Ornaments+2+048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" er="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-8lYDF1bJIvovOvbsR5xUXSXudCKNQuh0kzk3MG9hGxFl4cmRxO0AJFKXpobKeW3xt10GWKqZI3lyejqpzP4Vqa9cQ2-zFyxPIxNDQoWxJQpvIQR4RfX7dN_ar1EhPQy9xeynBFh7sHTZ/s320/Christmas+Ornaments+2+048.jpg" /></a><br />
</div><span style="color: #3366ff;">Christmas has been my defining holiday all my life. As an adult, there wasn't a room untouched with a sprinkle of Christmas cheer for my family. The tree went up early so that we could enjoy it longer, presents were bought in September and tucked away, and our Christmas cards were actually mailed the day before Thanksgiving so that ours would be the first heartbeat of the Season.<br />
<br />
Yet this year, I barely brought the tree from the garage. No cards have hit the mail. I never even bought any! Was it the winter cold that caught <em>me</em> and robbed me of enough umph, or had the meaning of Christmas lost its charm without a man next to me in bed to snuggle-in with, children to surprise with a little Santa magic or the thought that ham for one is just wrong?<br />
<br />
Torn between putting it up or forgetting it altogether, I actually thought, maybe this is the first year I don't put up a tree and settle for a decorated mantel. Who will possibly notice or care if the tree stays in the box in the corner of the garage? And as far as that goes, I never even heard back from my over-the-top Christian sister and her family about the gifts bought in their name last year - shoes and a uniform for a little girl in Africa so that she could go to school, a goat for a widow with kids in Rwanda to start her own business and a well for a village to have water. You would think charity would be a cool gift.<br />
<br />
Screw it, I thought. I had the Christmas blues. And then the realization hit that maybe I could be on my way to "old ladydom?" What's the point of hoisting your cleavage into a steel foundation, red 16 hour lipstick, or leopard high heels, if you start acting your age? No, I could at least put up a tree and best to do it before the anticipated rain storm hit. I ventured in the cold air to the garage, and there it stood on its end like a toy soldier next to the fortress of red and green tubs. I brought it in the house, plopped the three pieces together and plugged it in. Magic. Part of me was content to keep it just like that. It would be so much less work; just one, two, three and it would be back in the garage in a couple of weeks. Who cared in the end if my prized collection of Christopher Radko ornaments each took their designated place on the tree?<br />
<br />
You see, over the last 25 years, this house has held 16 foster children, a husband and wife, father and mother, children, step-mother, step-children, adopted mother and father, and even a 'grand daughter." But times have changed. Life is like a Christmas box of ornaments, marked FRAGILE on the outside, and inside - breathtaking contents to be admired, but very breakable if dropped - even shattered.<br />
<br />
The kids grew up and even grew away. My husband Rob passed away from a stunning accident doing what he loved, and even the family pets came and went. The number of presents under the tree dwindled, more Christmas storage boxes stayed in the garage than came out and even more left in garage sales. Away went the animated black angel doll, the moving Dicken's character of Tiny Tim on his dad's shoulders, and all the Santas and Mrs. Santas with their metronome-like rhythm of moving candles held in their hands. I slept on it overnight. Not the tree, the idea of keeping it as is. Screw the ornaments. The house was freezing, and I went to bed, bringing the covers up under my chin and falling asleep.<br />
<br />
Somehow, I woke feeling better and with reluctance, dodged the raindrops and opened the garage again. Methodically, I brought in each box of ornaments and then I discovered something. It wasn't just decorating a tree with expensive blown glass figures meticulously painted over a weeks time in an Italian factory. My hands held the tattered brown construction paper bear made in my daughter's kindergarten class, and a picture of her five year old face smiled back at me in place of the bear's. I found the "Our First Christmas Together" plastic ornament with two swans engraved and remembered the joy of buying it for our tree. Our tree. There was Rob's white moose ornament with "Studmuffin" in calligraphy on it, and the one he bought me with "Sugar Britches," emblazoned (my God, Rob was irreverent) and there was a little cat ornament made of flour and baking soda and salt. It was the very first ornament in the collection, made by hand because it was all I could afford. I placed it next to the Radko cat honoring breast cancer survivors - my way of acknowledging my grandmother and mother.<br />
<br />
My collection of ornaments, it turned out, is more than that. It is a time capsule. A little gold castle from San Simeon reminded me of our family trip there, a cable car from San Francisco, an Eiffel tower for our Parisian vacation, and Tinkerbell from a trip to Disneyland. The family of elephants circle the tree because Rob so loved them that each year I would buy a special decoration for him. The year he died, I "accidentally" found a little tin elephant with a halo. There were angels and mermaids from my sisters, a glass bee and honey comb for my brother the beekeeper, a clown with an AIDS ribbon reminding me of friends long gone, and at the top of the tree the religious ornaments and the star. Jesus and the gang looked down at me, and my hand-made stained glass window of Mary and the Baby Jesus - too heavy for the tree - stands on a easel next to the computer monitor.<br />
<br />
Now, maybe this trip down Christmas Tree Lane would be enough to suffice, but truthfully, it wasn't yet, and there was no way of knowing if Christmas would show up. That is, until yesterday. Christmas came on December 15 in the way of a phone call. Out of nowhere a voice announced itself after a little more than ten years. "It's me, Charity."<br />
<br />
You see, about 25 years ago a little two year old girl showed up in our lives. Rob's son Jeffrey (now estranged) came through the door holding in his arms a tiny bit of a toddler with platinum blond hair. Turns out his girlfriend was doing drugs and busted, was now in jail. Jeff couldn't keep care of her and rather than see her go into foster care, Charity came here to live for a while. Rob became "Grandpa" and though 32 years old, I became "Grandma." You should have seen the scrunched up faces of women in the supermarket trying to do the slut-math when they heard her call me Grandma. Off and on for many years, Charity would call this home until her mother would get out of jail - again - and whisk her home with her. Then those teen years came and Charity moved on. Life goes on.<br />
<br />
"How are you guys doing?"she asked. I had to tell her that while I was fine, her grandfather had passed away seven years ago. Both of our voices were filled with that gasping for air thing and punctuated with sobs. I could hear in her voice the invisible sound of remorse for time gone by and the chance for reconciliation and renewal gone. "Charity," I told her, "You were the reason your grandpa said yes to foster kids. Because of you and the love you brought into our home, we had 16 foster kids. You did good, kid. You did good."<br />
<br />
There's no fooling ourselves that Rob would have loved to have seen the emails that followed our conversation, and the attached family pictures of her four children. There, right in the midst of those three young dark-haired boys was a little blond creature looking just like her mommy did all those years ago. The kids stand in front of their respective Christmas stockings, names emblazoned in silver glitter and in their eyes is the sparkle of Christmas hope.<br />
<br />
So, if you're a quart low on faith this year, let me be the first to wish you a little Charity in your life. And with a pint of hope, perhaps our new year will measure up to what we create it to be. Find your own charity, make some calls, reconcile while you can and let's measure up to our potential.<br />
<br />
Yes Virginia, if you decorate a tree, Christmas will come. And by the way, that Tinkerbell ornament - Charity bought it at the age of five with her little fistful of allowance and gave it to me to hang on the tree so I could always have a little magic. You did good, Sweetheart. Real good. <strong>By the way, if you're wondering, a little Charity <em>is</em> a cool gift.</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
</span>Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-57391304579656743952008-12-16T01:45:00.000-08:002008-12-24T17:30:47.317-08:00Nuts and ChewsHere's the deal. I'm a dark chocolate chick. Give me dark chocolate in any combination of fruit, creamy center or nuts and I am there. My mom on the other hand is strictly milk chocolate and "chews." Polar opposites, yet I love her. She will swear to you with all the conviction in the world that milk chocolate is better, and I, armed with the latest research and my passion for all things dark chocolate, will attest to the benefits of dark chocolate and even act indignant at the "opponents" view.<br /><br />Kind of like tonight. I went to my Monday night haunt - the Italian restaurant where I occasionally sing and depending who you asked about the venue, they either want the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">TVs</span> louder and the live music softer, or the musicians want the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">TVs</span> off. Both are vehement. Nuts and chews. Dark vs. light. They're both candy. But bottom line is, which pays the bills? The television/bar patrons seems - oh, so very droll, so I root for the live musicians and the singers. Then I look at the row of empty tables and the broke-ass musicians coming in to play and sing, while nursing a beer costing $3.50, and by the way, the restaurant gave them a coupon worth $4.00 in honor of their "gift" of talent. On the other side of the plastic spit guard/room divider, is a row of loud-mouth patrons hooting and hollering over the football game. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Plebeians</span>, I think. Yet, upon reflection, those ARE the folks paying the bills tonight. I hate it. I want the arts to win every time. But complacency is a disease, and now too comfortable to see the picture, the house band pianist shows up with old marinara sauce on his tie and a smirk of imperialism. The folks at the bar don't pretend to give a shit, don't apologize for it, and the truth is, it is they who pay for the lights, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Workman's</span> comp, busboys, waitresses, and so on. Both are candy, but one is nuts and the other - chews.<br /><br />Change! Change! Change! "Turn off that TV and listen to us. " Really? Why? Because your music is so esoteric, so thought provoking, so intellectual? How intellectual can it be if because of its very complacency it sucks the air out of the place and extinguishes itself. Oh, crap. You mean, this wasn't a high school party where we could just come hang out and play and sing and not pay the piper? Truffles cost money. You want the best? Sure you do, but are you willing to pay for it?<br /><br />The truth is, the really great musicians worked last night and Saturday night too. Maybe even Friday night. Tonight is their day off. They rest. The "jam session folks" come in, nurse a glass of Rose or a cold Coors for three hours, spread their instruments across a clean tablecloth and want a round of applause when all is said and done. Nuts and chews. Is it plausible to think that one's talent is so great that the restaurant should stay open in order to satisfy their high school "jam" sessions which sound more like a practice session? Do I want to get up and sing my ass off? Absolutely. Do I think I should get up there and do it for free - gracing all who come to eat and are lucky enough to find me singing? Yeah, I kind of wish. But the truth is so far from that. And yet I hear others complain, "The owner is cheap." Wow, I think. Let's review. You came in, took up a table, screwed up the linens, dirtied a water glass, left no tip for the help, soiled a linen, kept the lights burning by the very nature of showing up, used the restroom , tp, and soap and still didn't even bring a chart for the bass player, let alone the pianist, and had the nerve to be flat or read your lyrics while "singing" your heart out to no one in particular, because you didn't even think to bring anyone who might order more than the free bread. I guess what I'm bitching about is the air of entitlement I see in so many folks these days. Doesn't matter if its your kids or your co-workers, it's lame, people. The truth is, we all need each other to co-exist in the arts or in the restaurant business in such hard, economic times. And then to hear someone whine that they got $50 for the night; while crappy pay for the "professional," it leads me to wonder what is it that makes that this person's work so much more valuable than the poor woman who stands in her sensible shoes all night long, working the tables or the guy in the back, washing dishes and not a place to sit and take a breather for hours.<br /><br />While we may all like the candy, some of us need to remember that it costs money to keep the store open, the candy lady passing out the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">darks</span> and lights, chews and nuts, truffles and hard candies and pay the cashier, the rent, lights, insurance, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Workman's</span> comp and so on. Where are you going to get your dark chocolate fix, your milk chocolate high and your nuts and chews if the candy store goes belly up because you want more free samples and walk out with a couple of suckers instead of a pound or two of candy. We have become so of the "let the deep pockets suck it up" mentality, that we are the nuts. Chew on that my fellow singers and musicians who fail to market their craft, press the flesh, engender customers, forget to asks for requests, or shake a hand, asking them to make reservations for your upcoming show. Then we can all sit around and talk about the good <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ol</span>' days when restaurants had live jazz every night of the week. But we won't be sitting around a white table linen having that conversation, and chances are as this Titanic sinks, there won't be any musicians playing as we sink into the depths of a dark chocolate sea. And all the while you'll be remembering when someone asked if you would like that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">gift </span>wrapped. No thanks, I'm waiting for my sensible chews.Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7247910860122685541.post-49814193412030441072008-12-14T21:20:00.001-08:002010-01-30T11:43:07.277-08:00Fish or Cut Bait Internet DateInternet dating. There I said it. Tonight was the fish or cut bait date. The third one, you know, the one where you realize that even though this guy is genuine and sweet, that you can't get over the fact that while he's laying a kiss on you, your eyes are open and you're wondering why he still has colonial furniture and served you a glass of water in a throwaway plastic glass. Ah, but I've gotten ahead of myself.<br />
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Should I be a grateful date - ya know, grateful that out of all the fish in the c<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ity</span> of Los Angeles, that this 48 year old guy found my profile to be engaging enough to overlook the fact that I'm 57 - just shy by days of 58...which is of course, just shy of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">frickin</span>' 60? Or that the fact that I list myself as "Curvy" - a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">euphenism</span> for far from a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">vomitting</span> stick figure and far from a 'Hand over that chicken fried steak or you die," kind of woman. I'm somewhere in between - never threw up to make myself thinner and certainly never even thought of consuming the Elmer's glue of food, that nasty milk gravy that smothers those southern dishes.<br />
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The first date went well enough.He was cuter than his picture - which, right there says <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">a lot</span> - about crappy pictures that somehow men think define them so well. No, he spared me the picture of him posing with some monster fish that he caught, or standing next to the truck/motorcycle/sports car with folded arms over his chest. In fact, I had to squint to see the guy in the photo, and based on my comparison of him in size to the stairs in the background, I had every reason to believe he was every bit of 6'3" he claimed to be. A moot point I guess, since most of the guys who lie about their height are those under 5"8" who for the last 30 years have listed their height as that on numerous forms so much that they actually believe they are not 5'4" in lifts. Kind of like me and my weight on my drivers license, except I don't plan on actually dating anyone from the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">freakin</span>' <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">DMV</span>.<br />
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To sum up the first date, he was cute and on time, his hands didn't sweat and his breath was fine. I looked great - proudly pouring my frame into a dress that made me look like a dessert of yum and a pair of leopard print shoes with pointed toes; shoes that once have made my imitation Italian waiter say to me, "If I was the man in your life I would start at your shoes and work my way up." He - my date, (I guess I should give him a name and yet protect him from being public flogged - or blogged) was well dressed for an undefined date - in other words, a Meet and Greet. Okay, he was clean and neat in his appearance, this man with a great smile who for the sake of this blog I'll call The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Mormon</span> Wrestler, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">TMW</span>. Yeah, you read that right. At our age we all come to the table with a list of vast experiences, but even that combo threw me a new one. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Anyways</span>, I digress again. Without a game plan, I suggested we go to a local place for some Italian food. It's always nice to see if a guy can tell the difference between an axe and a salad fork, I'm just saying. And he passed the test. But there was still the tip test. And he kind of failed. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Mmm</span>. Not good. I threw in an extra five bucks. It's like this: We went to a place where I sing, and the dinner tab was picked up by management. Thus, the tip was the only thing to pay for two dinners and a couple glasses of red. And yet, he failed. But I'm not one to throw away a whole man so quickly. After singing "Fever" and a couple of other torch songs, we left and drove back to my place. And then he did the "Can I come in and pee?" move. Silently, you just say "Crap," and you let him in. Then he makes "the move for the kiss and tit-feel" if he can. I felt warmed but not hot, if you know what I mean. He asked when he could see me again.<br />
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Fast forward past cell phone calls to Date Two, where because I was down with a cold and home with a stack of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">screeners</span> to vote on for the SAG Awards, he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">glommed</span> on to the notion of joining me to watch "The Wrestler" with Mickey Rourke. Turns out that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">TMW</span> (The <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Mormon</span> Wrestler, remember? Oh, ex-Mormon) was a pro wrestler in earlier years. But instead of showing up with a little din-din or a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">bowl </span>of chicken soup for me, he arrived empty handed. Is it just me, or do you hate that crap too? Come on, he was already getting a piece of my couch and a viewing with me of a movie yet to be released. I'm just saying. This left me to wonder if on the love/match web site when he mentioned he loved "hole in the wall restaurants," if what he really meant was, he loved cheap joints that required nothing of the consumer except that you turn your head to the dirty knife in the place setting. As credits rolled, he went in for the move - again with the kiss.<br />
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Now let me establish here, that I am a passionate woman. I love LOVE, the making of LOVE and the love of making LOVE. But when a guy goes in, like he's "going in," and there is no intimacy involved, I'm SO not there. Nonetheless, we kissed. I kissed back, trying to ascertain if there was a flicker of heat. Nope. Bummer. Was this a hopeless romance, romantic hopelessness, or would more time spent together engender some heat?<br />
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Two days later. Date Three. Oh God. I failed to tell you how I had struggled with the "Be the woman you love to be - seductive and strictly female in a dress with all the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">lacy</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">underpinnings</span>." But it should have been a clue when today I met him on the fly after doing some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">pre</span>-Christmas return shopping. Better now than later I had told myself. I was comfortable in the black <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Misook</span> slacks and white <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Caslon</span> long sleeved tee underneath the jean jacket and the fuzzy leopard scarf around my neck. Oh, and the sensible shoes I hadn't worn in ages since I worked for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Nordstrom</span> and had to be on my feet all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">frickin</span>' day long without a break except for a 30 minute lunch period where you just wanted to put your feet up and feel blood curse through your body once more.<br />
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This time I did the driving. I drove to Chino - about 35 minutes or so from my place. Not too bad. And still, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">TMW</span> had no game plan though we knew we were going to get some dinner. No, he asked did I want to "hang out." Hang out? I'm 57 not 17. Hang out??? When pressed, he offered me a choice between Italian and Chinese and I acquiesced to his choice of Chinese. No sense giving you the name of the joint, but suffice it to say that the burned Pu Pu Platter was enough to turn me off. I smiled sweetly and said nothing, and smiled again as he told me that the Pu Pu Platter was No. 2 on the menu. In the back of my head I was seeing him as a pimply-faced 12 year old boy that would have wet himself on that one. Snapped back to reality, we made space on the table for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">kungpao</span> chicken and the orange beef. I don't want to exaggerate, but the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">kungpao</span> tasted like what I imagined the bottom of my oven to taste like after pie drippings hit the bottom and stayed for a month. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Blerk</span>. Still, I said nothing. Give me a break, he was beaming. I took a bite of the brown glob <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">referred</span> to as the orange beef. Good God, worse than the other burnt crap. I had to ask, and I did so tactfully. Yet <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">TMW</span> assured me it was just as tasty as always.<br />
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Can you dump a guy because he has no taste buds? On one hand, think how easy it would be to cook for him! It wouldn't matter if you substituted whitefish for a fabric softener cloth. Nah. The governor phoned in a pardon. I pushed around the brown <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">camouflage</span> of stuff on the plate and listened intently to his stories of days gone by - men in tight <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">underwear</span> throwing grown men in masks and the equivalent of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Speedos</span> around a ring, body slamming each other. At least I would be safe when in his presence. Unless of course you meant safe from cliches. Those, were in abundance. Sure enough, when we got back to his place and I further exacerbated the situation by going in, he made "the move" to the couch and actually went for the lamp, claiming that the ball of light emanating was just too bright - <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">blerk</span>. The tasteless move was like a bit of charcoal repeating. Overdone. Maybe <em><strong>I </strong></em>was burned out. Yup. Still, he kissed, and lifting my hair, moved in for the neck, a move that would normally turn me into a creme <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">brulee</span> of womanhood. Nothing. Instead, my eyes were wide open and I was left in the brief darkness to make out the shadows of artificial yellow roses and his mother's throw pillows piled on chairs with no place left to sit. CLANG CLANG CLANG. Go to your corners. I had to admit out loud that intimacy was not to be our dessert and though our fortune cookies hinted otherwise, it was time to cut bait. The match was over.<br />
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I drove home, my sensible shoes pressing pedals to the floor and though he promised to call me, for the first time ever, I thought, "No, please, don't." It was simply part of God's great Catch and Release project and once again, I settled for the big down pillow, the couch and the Food channel. The leopard high heels sit perched in their box like bait waiting for a hook. Maybe tomorrow night will be their night.Mary Boguehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17660882384408180696noreply@blogger.com1