DREAMS & SCHEMES

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. 


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 major 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 me."  Oh yeah. That's some serious scheming.


Men on the other hand are the dreamers. Okay, mostly they're only dreaming of one 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. 


Here's to the illusions, the give and take and the seeing love from both sides now.

Oh, 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.

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.

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!

I wanted 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.

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.

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.

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."

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...

Now, please pass the Johnnie Walker Red, please.

EXCEL FOR WOMEN - pantyhose not included

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 one new roof away from not needing a need a new roof. Think about it. 

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 real 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!

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:

MARY'S VERSION OF EXCEL

PROFIT	LOSS
Age 59 -all my own body parts.	Age 59 - I've seen my own body parts in the daylight.
Raised a strong-willed, free-thinking daughter.	She disowned her family for a new one. Sorry, Grandma Mae.
Overcame breaking my back.	Had to break it to overcome it.
Own my own home.	Can’t complain to the land lady about the peeling paint and popcorn ceiling.
Married Rob.	Lost my best friend and man of the family.
Match.com	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.

Recently, I had a group of ten extraordinary women here for Valentine's Day. I don't like to toss the word extraordinary 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. 

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.

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.  

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. 

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. 

GROSS PROFITS A full life having been lived to its fullest with ups and downs.

NET PROFIT Wisdom to trust again.

SUB-TOTAL A rich life filled with beauty regardless of riches

GRAND TOTAL 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.

Oh, and to answer my date's question, why do I seem to love men: I love men, as do most other women, for their potential 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. 

And that, my friends is why women excel. 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, we know it all adds up.

Off The Chain Valentine's Day

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.

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.

This year, I had wanted to produce an un-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 on 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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 off the chain.

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. 

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.

Albondigas Soup - A Recipe for Love

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.


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 would be more, really.


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.


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 is love.


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 distatsteful too?


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:

Mom's Easy Homemade Albondigas Soup

Turkey Meatballs: Mix in a bowl:
1 pound package of ground turkey (the pre-seasoned kind works great too,
 1/4 cup long grain uncooked rice
 1/4 cup chopped cilantro
 1 tsp. Mrs. Dash (spicy)
 1 beaten egg
 1/2 tsp. dried oregano- crushed
 1/8 tsp. pepper

The Other Good Stuff
1 fresh, medium onion chopped (about 1/2 cup)
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbs. cooking oil
4 cups water
2 10-1/2 ounce cans chicken broth
1 6 ounce can of tomate paste
2 medium potatoes cubed OR 2 zucchinis chopped
2 medium carrots, sliced (1 cup)
1 can refried beans (great thickener)

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.
Cook for another five minutes or so, until the vegetables are tender.

Stir in the water, broth and tomato paste and bring to boil. (IF you're using the potatoes, add them now and simmer for five minutes.)

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.

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. 

Makes 8-10 servings.

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.


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.




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My New Year's Resolution - Make a Joi Filled Noise

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Well," I thought, “Enough that she's in my cell phone directory. Why?"

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."

"Gone? You mean gone as in retired? Or gone as in moved to another store closer to her home?"

My heart sunk. I knew which "gone" he meant before he could utter it.

"Nah." his breath escaped like a whoosh from a hot oven. "Joi passed away almost six months ago. I'm so sorry...."

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."

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.

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."

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.

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.

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."

“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.

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.

Autumn Leaves Me Great Full

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 fun-down.

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.

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.

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 me for the pleasure of my 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 I'll miss your cranberries..." I smiled. "I'll still make you cranberries and..." I was cut off in his excitement, "And I could bring one of those Honeybaked hams 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.

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.

Happy Thanksgiving.
Love
Mary
http://www.marybogue.com/