Giggles Girls and Ghosts

Writing a blog after more than a month is like coming home after a long trip and wondering if the dogs will still remember me. Of course they always remember me, but there is always that sliver of tension between the opening of the front door and the first wag of a happy tail.

As most of you know, I've been traveling for the past month. Over the years so many miles have passed beneath these brave feet of mine, now cracked from wear and time, yet still carrying me to the end and back…and back again, because it never really is the end now is it?

In the past month I’ve kissed soft cheeks, tickled shy toes, checked in with the tribe—the youngest member, my granddaughter, with her sticky hands and determined spirit, reminded me to chill out–have fun and never EVER give up! I like to think that she got that from me, but it’s her mother’s hard-earned tenacity that has seeded within her cotton candy heart.

Trying on hats

And then there were the many sets of eyes—smiling eyes—happy to see me, pulling up a chair deep within my heart, sitting down with me, taking the time to connect. Loving me. Thank you Lano, Kathy, and Ruth.

I’ve met some new faces too. Friendly Facebook faces reaching out to me with long arms — excellent huggers who smell good—Debra and Megan, who up until that point had been comment makers on FB, but were now in a booth at the Laughing Owl with me, sipping cocktails, slowly revealing their sweet selves—getting to know one another was magic!

My friends are my angels.

Beth was with me all along. She usually is. One-shoe two-shoes, we fit with each other like a comfy pair, and I’m more than grateful for her presence in my life. She carried me south to Savannah—she and Alison, a new friend with a quick British wit and a kind heart. We were giggling girls on a road trip, forgetting the have tos and all the bullshit that chokes out the sun.

We stayed with a friend—a pragmatic woman, not given to any bibbidi bobbidi boo. She apologized about the enraged ghost occupying our bedroom, a farmer from the eighteenth century who refuses to let go. She told us the medium couldn’t budge him, and I wonder if this is his face in the photo, mocking my friend as the shutter snapped. I slept with fingers and toes carefully hidden beneath a blanket of false bravado, insisting that ghosts do not exist— yet jumping at the slightest noise.

And here I am now—home. Tucked back into the nest like a speckled chick cuddling with the twigs and feathers, the familiar scent and the softness—feeling a little larger than before I left, perhaps a bit cramped, evidence of my growth over the summer and perhaps the need for a change in digs—and diet;). But I’ll let life flow in that direction on its own as I occupy this nest and this moment.

It’s good to be home.

Lighten Up!

Looking back on the last several weeks, I’m finding it nearly impossible to return to my routine. Perhaps five weeks was too long to be gone, although it seems to have flown by. I miss reading by the swimming pool, or sitting on Linda’s porch at the end of the day, sharing the evening meal while solving all the problems in the world.

I loved strolling through Savannah’s narrow streets with her artsy shops and spooky parks—dripping in Spanish moss and tainted history.

And then there was Hilton Head with her highfalutin beaches tousled with mermaid-hair seaweed, looking all mystical and wild—the exact opposite of what I had expected from this high-class lady.

Being back after a five-week working vacation is like being at a rock concert and mid-way through your favorite song, the place loses its power, creating a head buzzing, ear blocking silence!

Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. I think I’m just in a funk, plus Tropical Storm Debby is getting to me. She’s been lingering off of our coast for days, with her gray bloated self, blowing and boohooing all over everything—going no where because she can’t decide which path to choose, and giving us coastal dwellers a bad case of the nerves. (I know there’s a metaphor in there somewhere;)

All these clouds are putting me in a deeply reflective place. I’ve become way too serious this week and I’m trying to distract myself from it. This morning I did a four-page blog on the origin of thoughts. Four pages!! Yeah, be lucky I didn’t hit you with that one. You’d be running to the Dr. for some Prozac.

I know that I can’t help who I am. I have a tendency to go deep. Even as a kid I was reflective, opting to sit under a tree and listen to the birds, or play wordy records in my room, rather than run the neighborhood with the rest of the kids. I like being reflective and observant; it’s who I am.

I’ve never been much for the surface stuff. I don’t give a flying flip about how high your income is, or how good your children’s grades are. I’m more interested in hearing about you—the real you. And finding out what it is that you yearn for as you watch the sun quietly slip below the summer horizon, with a band of strumming crickets robbing you of your cares—leaving you alone and disarmed before all of creation. That’s the stuff I want to hear about.

So I run deep—and I’m a huge mush. And right now I’m missing the many faces that hold such special places in my heart.

My girls.

Soul sister Beth & family.

Mallory at the beach.

Laine & Mathius

Sweet Melissa

The Hammoudeh gang

I hate never having enough time to completely catch up with them. I’m certain that that’s why I’m feeling a little out of sorts. There’s just too much quiet around me, and then there’s Debby’s wallowing.

So, I guess I’m stuck with my deep-blue self, on this rainy day, although I’m not so far gone that I can’t seek some comedic relief…

Like sporting a pair of wax lips with my goofball friend!

Me & Lano

Or watching reruns of Just For Laughs.

Sometimes you just gotta lighten up!!

The Itsy Bitsy Vacation

Mike and I are back from a much needed vacation, and although it went by far too quickly, I was amazed at how much fun we could squeeze into four little days. I’d say the absolute best part of the trip was seeing my in-laws. (No, I’m not joking.) We hung out at their place chatting, went out to eat, and even caught the final launching of the Space Shuttle Discovery right from their front lawn. Okay, we could only see its jet stream, but it was still very cool.

Mike’s dad has a knack for knowing the “in” places to go, so he steered us to a little place called The Old Key Lime House in Lantana Florida, just outside of Palm Beach, where they are rumored to have the best key lime pie in the state. Well, after a yummy lunch we ordered a slice of their famous pie with four forks……. BIG MISTAKE! After one bite I was hooked and ready to use my desert fork to stab any incoming hands. They should have named it key lime heroin pie because it was totally addictive!

That night we buzzed over to Bill and Charlie’s condo overlooking the ocean. They agreed to put us up for the weekend and even gave us their master suite. Their place was gorgeous, decorated in an Egyptian motif so luxurious that Cleopatra would have felt every bit of her queenliness living there. I could have done without the stuffed tarantula mounted on the bedroom hallway wall (just walking past it gave me the heebie jeebies) but I’d been meaning to work on my arachnophobia issues anyway.

The next day we swung by and kidnapped my recluse cousin, TJ, and then headed to the casino. We’re not big gamblers, unless you count using the rhythm method those ten years before my hysterectomy, but we had put aside a small budget just for gambling figuring we’d lose it all any way. Okay, I was hoping to hit the big one, but I wasn’t saying it out loud for fear of jinxing myself. In hindsight I can see that that theory doesn’t work. We gambled until Mike’s back started kinking, and cousin TJ’s gimpy hip gave out.

That evening we were invited to Italian night at Bill and Charlie’s condo. We were served a six course Italian dinner which consisted of pasta & sauce, stuffed pasta, spicy pasta, chicken with pasta, pasta balls and pasta salad. After the carb loading came the dancing part of the evening, and the music was …..Are you ready?........Italian! So, there was a lot of folk dancing going on with hand holding, skipping in circles, and at one point I was forced to crouch down Quasimodo style and dance under an archway of arms. While pushing through the fleshy tunnel, the old man behind me started scratching at the bare skin on my back just above the beltline of my jeans. My creep-o-meter registered at about 10.5.

Mike went home shortly thereafter, leaving me to fend for myself. I did enjoy a few dances with some of the feisty foreigners there. One gentleman was as round as he was high (about 5 ft nothing and didn’t speak a word of English) but he was light on his feet and had a gorgeous smile. Then Charlie and I showed off for a while on the dance floor doing a mix of dirty dancing and classic ballroom, complete with hot angry looks (tango style). I live for moments like that!

Saturday morning I woke up with “Bed Face.” That’s when the wrinkles in the bedding become embossed on your face. I looked like I had a terrible scar going down the entire right side of my cheek. It was ragged and red…..and looked a little like the bolt of lightning that runs across Harry Potter’s forehead. When I was young Bed Face would go away after about ten minutes, but the older I get the longer it takes to go away. Saturday’s Bed Face lasted 5 hours…ARG!! Luckily I didn’t have any public appearances planned and was able to practically ignore the whole ugly incident.

So Sunday we returned home and resumed dealing with all the big stuff that earns us the right to take our little vacations. In the morning we went to the beach, had lunch at our favorite restaurant, and then we visited some friends before coming back home to watch a movie. It’s not easy getting back into the daily grind of Florida living, but I suppose we can hack it until we shuffle off to Miami next weekend for a wedding.

Vacation Anxiety...Really???

My husband Mike and I are about to head out on a much deserved two day vacation. Okay, maybe it’s just a staycation, seeing that we’re not going far, but being in Florida…in February, makes even a staycation something special. We’re heading across the state to Fort Lauderdale, where white sandy beaches, interesting restaurants, and friends and family are awaiting us.

It’s been a while since we’ve gone away and I have a shopping list of activities planned, including a trip to the Hard Rock, and a night of romantic dancing. Getting away from my normal routine is going to be so rejuvenating….and a bit unnerving. I know, silly me, but being a creature of habit, and somewhat of a control freak, leaving the predictable, and mundane, cradle of my existence for the wide open world, where anything can happen, has set my nerves on edge a bit. I guess it’s like getting the jitters on an airplane, or right before the wedding. You know what? This little talk really isn’t helping so let’s move on here.

My son has agreed to dog watch for us, and although I know he’s perfectly capable, a part of me is a tad worried…okay I’m kind of freaking out. He’s great with my 4 lb Chihuahua, really, but he is a bit clumsy….. why do I do this to myself?

It's just that I can’t help it if I’m overly protective about my dog. I guess I’ve bonded with her in ways that I haven’t with my kids. For one thing I obviously didn’t give birth to her so I carry no guilt for her genetic weaknesses; like the kink in her tail, or her overbite. Plus, she never argues with me, or asks me for money, and I have never had to apologize to her for the way I raised her. She loves me just as I am and all I have to do is keep her food and water bowls filled and show her some affection. I need my dog around to worship me unconditionally. You know I never thought I’d be the type to get stupid over a pocket puppy, but there it is.

In spite of everything I really am excited about getting away, and chilling on the beach with a good book and a cold drink. I should buy a new bathing suit though because mine is awful. Actually, it’s not the bathing suit so much as it is my dimpling thighs and Elmer’s Glue pallor. I wish they designed bathing suits with built in panty hose. This staycation thing isn’t as pretty as it appears on the surface. Pray for me…I’m heading out!

Vacation Separation

Vacation is over; gone like yesterday’s weather, leaving me as full as a jelly donut with all the pleasures I gorged myself on over the last week. Of course it’s a mellow residual sort of feeling by now, like the after glow following good sex; fragile as a shadow but still oh so satisfying. Monday morning looms over me, bossy and overbearing, ordering me to get in line and report to duty like a loud mouthed drill sergeant on crack. I can feel my sedative little glow slipping away, leaving me dependant on my naked resolve to stay upbeat. I paint my face, throw on some work clothes, and head out the door, telling myself that I can make it through the day by conjuring the next vacation I will get to take… in only 364 days. It doesn't get much more real than this. Seeing the work days stretched out ahead of me is like approaching a vast mountain range that I must cross, alone….and barefooted. But then I remember the old adage “One day at a time.” and the mountain range shrinks down to one solitary mountain. But damn it’s tall, so I search my mental flash drive for a better adage and quote loudly “One minute at a time.” to myself and God and all those who can read lips in the cars around me, thus reducing my mountain to a large speed bump on the road of life. Turning up my car radio, and taking a deep breathe, I let the music drive deep into my soul, inspiring my hands to drum against the steering wheel, while a determined smile spreads across my vulnerable face. Yup.