No Ticket Friday!

It's a Flashback Friday!...

It's a No Ticket Concert...

It's two great tastes in one!













































Other than true Monkees fans, who'd a thunk they had so many songs? Not I, I tell ya.

I must away now, as chaos abounds, careening headfirst into my weekend. [Kid 2] had her final orchesta concert of the year last night. It was rather enjoyable, as the entire group plays well and the pieces selected for the concert were (with one or two exceptions) familiar and/or a delight.

[Kid 1] had her final concert earlier this week. A much more low key affair, but she received several honors and awards before the evening was over, and also received a bouquet of flowers from her chorus teacher. Not bad, huh?

Tonight, [Kid 3] has a "Fiesta Night" at her school. A celebration of the end of the school year. (Tuesday is the last day of school.) Music, games and food. It should be a good time. I'm sure Highlander can hardly wait...;)

I hope all of you have a great weekend!!

Flashback Friday!

Damn, it’s Friday and I’m totally coming up short. Could be that I’m not quite back to my normal (albeit demented) self. I just got nuttin’ this week.

There is a good deal of prom and graduation stuff going on around my place, and that would seem to be a good segue way, but prom was mostly uneventful and graduation was, well, pretty standard.

Derby stories of old would work, too. Hey, the derby party stories would be enough. But I’m just not up for it.

I've even got an OJ Simpson-esque tie in, but it's just not coming.

No. No.

High and dry this week, gang.

So, you’re stuck with a photographic Flashback Friday!



Three weeks ago (that's about as far back as I can remember clearly right now), I married the sweetest man in the world. It was a most beautiful day filled with very much gladness. (Hence the smiles.)

Our photographer dropped off proofs this week and my beloved has taken countless hours scanning those we liked into the computer. (Thanks, Baby!)


So, I'm totally scamming you on a Flashback Friday!, but posting a wedding picture in hopes it'll count and you'll cut me some slack. HA! (But it's a nice Flashback and if you're interested in seeing more pics, let me know and I'll send ya a little something via email!)

Now, everybody get outta here! Have a great weekend and do something nice for a mom!

Flashback Friday!

Due to the sudden onset of bronchitis in the super lungs of SuperWife (I suspect one of her arch enemies snuck some Kryptonite into a pile of shop drawings on her desk early this week, or something), this week’s Flashback Friday is brought to you by the letter H (for Highlander). That’s me. Now, let’s set the Wayback Machine for several years agone:

I was in Florida, working at a call center some few of you may remember me describing in hellish detail on previous incarnations of my blog. I was living in a tiny cinderblock shack divided down the middle into two tinier duplexes; I’d weathered the Autumn of Four Hurricanes, barely dodging when God threw the entire roof a nearby bar at me while I was sitting on my couch watching the storm reports on TV. (The duplex, my neighbor and I all survived; our power lines did not. But that’s another story.)

Life had been tolerable since moving out of my younger brother’s very small apartment as a concatenation of stressful developments there had made it necessary for me to get the fuck out or, y’know, just go insane. I’d gotten off the floor at the call center and onto the email team, a much coveted assignment, and gotten a schedule worked out where I went in for 10 hour shifts 1 pm to midnight Wednesdays through Saturdays, and had Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday off every week. Things were as good as they were going to get in that place and time. I had absolutely no real friends living within 800 miles of me and rarely saw any of the family members who lived much closer, and nearly the entirety of my human contact outside work came through fiber optic cables, either online or over the phone. You cannot truly be happy without sharing your existence in real time with people who give a fuck about you, but you can be content (if you like yourself, and I did and mostly do) and I was indeed content.

Mostly because my primary human contact at that time was a wonderful woman in River City I’d met on the Internet. We’d started out emailing and that had evolved into nightly phone calls by that time; I’d call her every night when I got home from my shift, waking her up, but she was always happy to hear my voice. She’d seen me through losing a job in Tampa and moving in with my brother, and successive emotional stresses and traumas there, and I’d seen her through the deterioration and eventual dissolution of her marriage. At a time when she felt pretty much no appreciation for all the many, many wonderful contributions she made to everyone else in her life from any of them, she turned the high pressure fire hose of her innate generosity on me, deluging me [editor’s note: ‘deluge’ is most certainly an exaggeration] in enormously thoughtful gift packages, which, along with boxes of HeroClix from good buddy Mike Norton, were nearly all that got me through that extremely trying time in my life.

My life in Florida had pretty much exploded on me at the point I’m about to describe; things had been going south at work for several months by then, and when various crises at work finally collided in a cataclysmic blow up and I realized I simply could not continue working in that call center, having exhausted every other recourse I had, I called my wonderful woman friend on the phone and asked if she could help me.

We had, at that point, been talking about me visiting her in River City with an eye towards maybe moving up there if I liked the place, and seemed to get along well with her three daughters. Suddenly that plan was set aside; I needed to get out of that call center ASAP, and that meant I needed to get out of the rotten little small town I was living in, because the call center was by far the most tolerable place to work there, and if I was getting out of that rotten small town, well, I might as well (if I could swing it) get out of the hell on Earth that is Florida at the same time.

My wonderful woman friend, whom we now all know as SuperWife, said yes, of course she could help me. And she did. I quit my job and packed my stuff, and a few weeks later, as the last of my funds were trickling out of the severed arteries of my decapitated checking account, she showed up with a rented truck to rescue me.

And this isn’t about that, it’s about something that happened that night, the last night I would spend in Florida. SuperT, your Oral Reporter, showed up fairly early in the afternoon, we spent several hours getting all my crap (and it’s an impressive amount of crap, much of which is to this day still packed downstairs in the storage room) shoved into the back of the truck, and then, after a little rest in the cool of the AC watching and listening to absolutely nothing (because everything was packed), once the sun went down, I asked my friend to come on a walk with me so I could show her around the neighborhood I was hopefully never coming back to.

We crossed Main Street and headed up a block and a half to one of that small town’s ubiquitous alleys, a labyrinth of which comprised one of its only charming features. I took her up that alley, running behind the back yards of houses on either side that faced the alley’s bordering, parallel paved streets, pointing out various things of interest (assuming you’re interested in dumb little small town features that can be seen just after dusk from a back alley, anyway) and we finally wound up coming out in the parking lot of a buffet restaurant several blocks up Main Street. I led SuperT over to it, still gabbing a mile a minute to distract her from what I was doing, then held the door open for her.

“What are we doing?” she asked, looking somewhat befuddled (SuperT looks adorable when befuddled, but, then, she looks adorable the rest of the time, too).

“This is that buffet restaurant I told you about a few times,” I said. I’d mentioned it to her in emails and our nightly phone calls; it was one of the places I enjoyed eating at most during my time in that wretched, miserable small town. “I thought I’d take you to dinner.” I smiled. “I really wanted you to see it before we left forever.”

And she cried. Not sad tears, but happy ones, which was my first real experience with that. I’d read about people crying from happiness, but had never seen it before. SuperT, as it turned out, did it whenever she was really happy.

I’ve always remembered that night; it was the first time I’d ever made SuperT so happy she cried.

The second time I can remember doing so was months later. I’d moved to River City. I was living in a tiny studio apartment SuperT had secured for me in a wonderful section of the city, although that’s really not quite true; my stuff was over there, and I did spend many nights over there, but I probably spent more time in the small, cramped apartment SuperT shared half the time with her three daughters. This was during one of the two week periods when the girls were over at their bio-dad’s. I imagine it must have been a weekend, as SuperT and I were both there in the day. It was around lunch time, and SuperT was out in the kitchen making sandwiches for us while I leaned against the wall and kept her company. Her phone rang and she went into the living room to get on the cordless, where she sat down to chat with whomever it was… her mother, I think.

She’d finished making my sandwich but hadn’t started in with hers yet. I wanted to eat, but both instinct and upbringing do not allow me to eat in front of other people without at least offering them something as well, so without giving it much thought, I slapped together a turkey sandwich for her, put it on a plate with some chips and a pickle, and carried it in to where she was sitting in a chair, bringing mine along.

She gave me an utterly astonished look, as if she just couldn’t believe what she was seeing, then got off the phone with her mother. She put her hand on my shoulder and drew me down and kissed me very tenderly, and I realized when she finished that she had tears running down her cheeks.

“Did I do something wrong?” I asked.

“No,” she said, looking down at the sandwich, then back up at me with that same wondering look. “But nobody has ever made me a sandwich before. Nobody has ever… ever… been that… thoughtf…”

She had to stop there as she choked on a little sob, and then took a bite out of her sandwich.

Now it was my turn to be astonished. I had no doubt, and have none at this point, either, that SuperT had created thousands of sandwiches in her time for other people – parents, friends, her kids, her ex husband. Certainly she’d made a few for me by that time, and has made hundreds more since then. And in all that time, nobody had ever made her a sandwich?

I couldn’t doubt it. The evidence was trickling down her face.

So I’ve always remembered those two occasions, when I made my future wife cry tears of joy, by doing nothing much that seemed particularly out of the ordinary to me. But those minor, trivial little gestures on my part meant an enormous amount to her, so the memories of them mean an enormous amount to me.

As it turns out, I didn’t put enough salt on her sandwich. But I’ve gotten better at it since then. ;)

[Special thanks to Highlander for filling in for me. And to all of you who have sent along well wishes. I hope to be better very soon!]

Flashback Friday!

This Flashback Friday! is going to be many things. Too short. Too mushy. Too inept to adequately express the sentiment. One thing it will not be is too far in the past. Oh, and it may not mean a goddam thing to anyone other than me. But I'm okay with that. The rest of you may proceed to deal.

Just over two years ago, I took a trip.

I took a trip to meet a friend I’d known for about a year and a half at that point. A friend that I’d never seen face to face, but had only known via the electronic conveniences of the internet and the telephone.

I won’t drone on it, except to say that had Highlander not been an exceptional writer, I wouldn’t be with him today. That is not to say that I will only spend my time with people who fit that bill. (Oh, I’d RATHER, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not a requirement or anything.) Just that, had I not happened upon his writing and sent him a little note, we’d likely never have found each other.

And so, as you all know, we began a correspondence. Chatting first about science fiction and writing and then, as we became friends, about music and politics and philosophy and movies and life in general. We shared our pasts and our todays and our futures. Of course, in the beginning, they were two very different futures than the one we are at now. Which is actually rather odd to recall.

I remember being excited for him when a date with a coworker was in the offing. And being disappointed for him when it didn’t work out. I remember advice from him, when my ex and I were having problems, and then, after my ex and I had split, about him genuinely being glad I was having some fun with one of the guys I was seeing on a fairly regular basis. I don’t think either of us saw an “us” for a long time after that.

But we were becoming very close friends. When something happened in my life, I wanted to share it with him. When something happened in his, he felt the same. He made me laugh when I felt like crying. I made him smile when the world was kicking his ass.

So, sometime fairly early in 2005, we broached the subject of coupledom. It was impossible, of course. Hundreds of miles separated us and neither of us wanted (or could afford) a long-distance romance. I couldn’t live there. He didn’t want to live here. Plus, my single-mom life was chaos and I just couldn’t put a single guy through that.

There was something, though. In the back of both our minds, telling us that this relationship might really be good. Special. I remember him telling me at one point that it was too bad that it would never work out, because we were likely exactly what the other needed.

We let it lie for a long time. (Maybe it just felt like a long time.) Neither of us wanting to create more headaches for the other. It felt a little sad, but we both saw it as the smart choice at the time. Better to maintain the ever supportive friendship that was mutually beneficial, than it was to risk destroying it with romance nonsense.

Who was I to argue? That friendship (along with many others) saw me through more than a few hardships, and I didn't want to risk screwing it up.

When a three-day-weekend afforded us an opportunity to spend some time together, we talked it to death. And then decided to "just see". What could it hurt, right? Even if we didn't think we could have a romantic relationship, we could still have a fun weekend just hanging out and doing "friend stuff".

Okay. Okay. I hear you all cracking up. But we really didn't start at Syrupy Sweet Central. We didn't even take the express route there. (It just seems that way, I know.)

Consequently, I was southward bound. Normally I'm deeply directionally challenged, but I did pretty well finding his place...only getting slightly lost a couple times. When I pulled up in front, I couldn't help the smile that spread so easily across my face. He was sitting out front with a book...waiting for me...with a HUGE sign behind him that read "WELCOME TAMMY". (Because he's CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs, that's why.)

Although we both had a pretty nice weekend together, going to a movie and out to dinner along with a little sightseeing in his town, afterwards, we still didn't make the leap. Oh, the chemistry was everything we both knew it would be. We were intensely comfortable with each other. We talked about anything and everything. And it was fun. But the distance was just insane. And it had only been one weekend.

So, I went home (leaving his fridge full of leftover home-cooking). Not really disappointed, because we still had this great friendship. And we continued to talk every day. About our worlds. Our very separate worlds. Until one day, and I don't even remember the day, we started talking about what it would take to make a relationship between us work. The logistics of it all.

Both of us still so unsure about this. (Well, me anyway.)

By early April of 2005, we were making plans for Highlander to move to River City. A place he'd never set foot in, to embark on a relationship with a crazy woman with three kids and a whole lotta baggage.

The rest is history, as cliche' as that is. My best friend did, indeed, move to River City. Into the tiny apartment that is across the hall from the one where we now live together. The kids adored him immediately. He and I couldn't have meshed better. He made me intensely happy and my girls were afforded an opportunity to see how good it can be. That was (and still is) important to me. We really are so good for each other.

So, tomorrow, exactly two years to the day after Highlander's arrival in his newly adopted home (and our "official" beginning), since I've got the day open anyway, I'm gonna marry my best friend. I'm looking forward to spending the rest of my life with him. Laughing and talking, making each other happy, and growing old together as we bounce grandbabies on our knees. I can't think of anything in the world I'd rather do. Or anyone in the world I'd rather do it with.

It's funny. All I have to do is close my eyes and I can still see that gigantic cardboard sign welcoming me. Only this time, it's welcoming me into the next part of our lives together. Plus, there's jewelry...;)

Can't wait to see most of you there tomorrow. Those of you who are dear to us and who aren't going to be able to make it are in our hearts and our thoughts and we appreciate the contributions you've made to our day and our happiness. The next time I 'see' ya, I'll have a whole new name!

Flashback Friday!

Ah, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha, Ha! You guys are a crack up!

Did you really expect a Flashback Friday! to be up here today?

Really?

Please chalk it up to too sick/busy/stressed to work on the ol' bloggeroo right now.

I do actually have a little something already on tap for Sunday (so check back then), but, me-oh-my, catfish pie, I am hard pressed to do anything else HERE between now and...well...at least a week, I think!

If I get a break at work [insert more uproarious laughter here], I'll try to post something somewhere next week.

Until then, you'll have to stroll down Memory Lane via You Tube. Here's a few to get you started...















Now off with you, and enjoy your Friday the 13th!...;)

Flashback Friday!

Once upon a time, Superfiancee' was a wee little thang. Oh, she was still clever and funny, and had the prettiest curly brown hair evah! Even then. And so, of course, everyone loved her.

As the eldest grandchild (on both sides of the family, to boot!), she was adored and cherished long before those other rotten grandkids had the audacity to show up. Which was, of course, as it should have been. Hmph! Fucking interlopers cutting in on MY oh, so sweet arrangement! The nerve, I tell you!

Luckily, though, SF was (and continues to be, btw) truly adorable. Enough so that she was able to maintain a very special relationship with all her grandparents. Even through many, many more grandchildren/SF wannabes.

Now this particular Flashback Friday! happened when SF was in kindergarten. So the memories are a little fuzzy. However, this is pretty much exactly how it happened.

For the most part.

More or less.

Our tale begins on a beautiful, warm, spring afternoon and SF's parents had opted to take a drive out to the country to visit SF's paternal grandparents. Yes, yes, they took SF's little sister along, too. (Sheesh, couldn't go ANYwhere without the little sister.)

The sun was shining and the trees were just beginning to "leaf out" after a long, cold winter, and SF was muchly looking forward to spending a good deal of quality time being spoiled by her grandparents and maybe even playing in the woods at the back of their property. Both activities which she greatly enjoyed.

Grandma was making chicken and dumplings when SF's family got there. She always made chicken and dumplings for them. (That's why SF has been burnt out on chicken and dumplings for the last twenty years, btw.) They were pretty yummy, though.

After a lovely visit, in which SF sang and danced while her grandparents clapped and threw roses at her feet (or something like that), her father grew angry with her. Likely, it was because he was jealous that SF was becoming more beloved to his parents than even he, their eldest son, was. Of that, I'm not sure. It's possible that SF may have inadvertently done something else...however unlikely that may seem. The point is, though, that angry he was.

SF's father is a big teddybear now (having mellowed considerably in his advanced youth), but in those days, he had all the panache (and stature) of a marine drill Sergeant...and none of the cool clothes.

SF was not normally scared of her father, but on this particular occasion she was. She slipped outside before he had a chance to see. And as she eased off the back porch steps, watching carefully to see if he was following her, she felt someone's hand grasp hers from behind. It was a little startling, but she turned to see the trusted face of her grandfather.

With his free hand, he gestured to her to keep quiet and then to come with him. And they awayed into the wood. Stealing, quietly, deeper and deeper into the wood, SF found that she was no longer scared at all. She found that she felt completely free and safe. Surely her father would not defy the grandfather! Even if he did ever find them.

When they came to a massive felled tree, the grandfather crouched down behind it with her. They stayed there for a very long time. Whispering about the animals that lived in the woods, and living in the country vs. the city, about the grandfather's vegetable garden, about how sometimes mommies and daddies get angry, about how my grandfather had gotten angry a time or two himself (he chuckled when he remembered that, and had to catch himself before he made too much noise). They talked about little sisters and bikes and friends and starting school and Christmas coming and why there weren't very many bugs in the woods yet and...well...a million other things. All the while whispering and still crouched down behind the big tree.

The grandfather, you see, was 6'6" and he couldn't really crouch as well as a six year old. But he did an admirable job for a grandpa, and SF was, rightfully, impressed. He stayed there with her for what felt like hours. Keeping her safe. Making her feel like the most special girl in the whole wide world. Knowing that her father would only be apt to yell at her, or paddle her bottom good, still the grandfather did not want the child to be afraid, and could not bear to see her spanked, or even to cry. The first grandchild that he so loved.

Eventually, the father, realizing that the grandfather was missing, too, and knowing that the grandfather adored SF, decided to quit looking for them. That he'd never be able to compete with the wise old man and the clever child! He yelled into the woods, "You can come out now! I'm not mad anymore! We need to get back to town."

At first SF thought it might be a trick (though it's possible that she just wanted to stay crouched behind the log whispering with her grandfather forever), but the old man took her hand and led her back out of the woods. All the while, telling her that she had nothing to fear.

So she didn't.

They walked out of the woods together and SF's father grinned at the grandfather and rolled his eyes. Then he tossled SF's hair and told her to get in the car. He didn't lose his temper at all (which was a shock to SF, I assure you). SF and her father never spoke of it again. SF wonders, sometimes, if he even remembers the incident at all.

But SF does.

And her grandfather did, too.

From time to time, they'd reminisce about him hiding with her in the woods behind that long ago house in Kendall, New York. In fact, when SF had daughters of her own, the grandfather would tell them the story of hiding their mother in the woods. It was one of the last laughs that SF and her grandfather had shared before he passed away nearly ten years ago. (Does that seem possible?!?!?)

The grandfather knew that SF's father just needed a little time to cool off. The grown-up SF did, too. But it never diminished the feeling of overwhelming love she got from hiding behind that fungus covered tree, her grandfather's giant hand holding hers, while he whispered to her about frogs and snails.

Sometimes, when life gets to be too much, she longs to do it again. To feel his hand grasping hers tightly and taking her somewhere quiet and safe to become lost in a moment all their own.

Even just one more time.

Have a good weekend, you guys! Mine is cram-packed with housework and wedding nonsense. And those of you who are experiencing some global warming issues, please send them here. Despite temps last week in the MID-80'S, this week it's been 30's and 40's!! I've had to pull coats and sweaters back out, and the weatherman said there's a chance of FLURRIES tonight into tomorrow.

And that ain't makin' me happy!

My girls won't be spending Easter with me and Highlander this year. It's the first time, ever, that I haven't had them for Easter. And that's a bit of a tough pill for me to swallow. However, we've made plans to have a little something waiting for them tomorrow morning when they awake. Kind of an Easter eve thing. It'll have to do, I guess. One more of the adjustments that have to be made in our situation.

Flashback Friday!

Today will afford me and [Kid 3] a little mom and kid bonding time that we don't usually get. Highlander is working until 8PM, [Kid 1] has a LAN party (which has been cancelled and rescheduled like 3 times) and [Kid 2] is going to a birthday party for a friend. And not that it makes any difference, but it's a gay friend. I have absolutely no problem with her attending the party. I note it only because it put me to mind of a few parties (hosted by gay friends) that I attended during my college years (and shortly thereafter). Particularly one friend that I cherished during that time.

Maybe more now.

I met Chick (that's her real nickname, btw), in the fall of 1980. Another friend, Michelle, had invited me along with her to a neighborhood bar she frequented. At 18, I was sure I'd be carded, but she convinced me otherwise. In all the time I went to the Hideaway...and I'll tell you we were way up in the triple digits here...I was never carded. The place closed not terribly long after my 21st birthday. Ironic, huh?

In any event, Michelle and I used to hang out and shoot pool at this place and Chick was also a regular there. She lived a couple blocks from the Hideaway and was a drummer in a local band. She was about 3 years older than I was and I thought she was just about the coolest person I'd ever met.

She was at nearly a foot shorter than I was and had very dark cropped hair and glasses. She was smart and funny and politically savvy. I loved talking to her about lots of different things. Plus she was always so generous and caring and kindhearted, and so passionate about her music...and life.

At the time, she was engaged to a pretty nice guy and they had an awesome apartment. Of course, I was still living at my folks' house and spending the occasional night on Michelle's couch, so an awesome apartment was nearly any one that didn't have a parent in it.

I didn't know what Chick did for a living (thought I know she wasn't a dealer), but she ALWAYS had money, and she always had pot. In those days, I wasn't as judgmental of the weed. I wasn't competing with it, I guess. Also, from time to time, I was known to enjoy a little of it myself. Chick was the only person I ever knew who used strawberry rolling papers. Which may be more information than I want to share here. Let's just say that seeing a pink joint was all Chick...in every sense of the word.

Not long after I met Chick, she and her fiance' split up. I remember sitting out in her car, parked in front of the Hideaway talking. I remember telling her I was sorry to hear about the break up and I remember her turning to me, putting her hand on my arm and telling me that she had done it. That she'd called off the wedding because she realized she could never truly love a man. That she was gay. And I remember exactly how I felt.

It was the first time I'd ever really known a gay person. I remember my brain cycling the facts that I truly admired and respected and LIKED this woman and that none of that was at all changed by her sexual orientation. I kept trying to see if I felt at all threatened or repulsed by her admission and I didn't. I wasn't sure if that should surprise me or not. I remember, too, wondering if she was telling me this because she was "hitting on me", but I think that was just because I hadn't been in the situation before. We had been friends for months, at that point, and we remained friends for years after.

I say "we remained friends for years after", because Chick was killed in a car accident in the late 1980's. That memory is the only sad memory I have of Chick. And it's a pretty sad one. Most all of my memories of Chick are good ones.

Memories of her and my (then) boyfriend, Rob, sitting at the bar critiquing the women in the bar. "Ooh, look at the legs on that one!", and "MAN, I'd love to get me some of that." Rob was always fond of Chick. For him, I think it was more because of the hope of getting two women into bed with him. I think Chick tolerated him because she liked me. But the two of them together were ALWAYS entertaining.

Memories of she and I sitting on the couch in her new apartment, after she and her longtime girlfriend split up, cracking up as we watched a cocaine-induced Baron hanging window blinds and unpacking boxes for her...at hyperspeed. I knew how badly she was hurting and it was good to see her laugh.

Memories of her rescuing me from the Hideaway one fateful night when a guy I'd broken up with didn't want to take "see ya" for an answer. Her leading me out of the bar to her apartment, where I poured out my heart to her about how miserable that guy was making me, and then we both poured a lot of bourbon and coke.

There are so many memories that I could share with you about Chick, but this post would be much longer than I had intended. Because, where this started was with [Kid 2] attending a party for a gay friend. I've been to a few parties thrown by a gay friend. My, oh my, were they some interesting soiree's!!

Chick (and her girlfriend 'Katie') first introduced me to this song (and I will admit it's disturbing how 80's...among other things...the video looks)...



They played it at every party.

For their male friends.

And also for me.

Nearly immediately, I liked this song. I always associated it with Chick and Katie and the fun I'd had at their parties.

Generally speaking, Rob and I (and later Baron and I) were the only 'straight' couple at these parties. Most of the time, there were about 8-10 couples at their apartment. Once, I arrived to see a very tall, youngish black woman, which a much older white man. Then I found out that the very tall, youngish black woman was not so much a woman after all. He was seriously working that black leather skirt, though.

They were always very nice people. Funny and intelligent and definitely stylish. I always felt more than a little out of place, but Chick always did her best to include me. She'd always introduce me to people and urge me to grab a drink and dance. While I can't say that I "looked forward" to Chick's parties, I can say that I always had fun when I went. And I always came away with a story.

None of which involved gay naked twister. They were regular parties. Parties like everyone else had at the time. Music and snacks and booze and usually some drugs, if you were into those things. People just enjoying each others' company in a very free environment.

The party-goers always seemed so open and nonjudgmental, and that always impressed me. Perhaps it's all about being "out", I don't know. Chick had always been a bit of a rebel, herself, but always so certain of who she was.

[Kid 2]'s social is in a public venue, so the alcohol and drugs should be eliminated from the formula. Plus, things are quite different in the world now...twenty plus years later. The stigma of being gay has not been eliminated, but it has been lessened.

My own children look past those things to know the person inside, and they accept people for who they are, not what "club" they are in. I couldn't be more proud.

I hope she has a wonderful time tonight. A little part of me wishes I could join her. And play "It's Raining Men" for them...;)

This weekend will be marked with picking up our wedding rings, teenagers spending the night at our place, and, from the looks of it, about twenty eight loads of laundry. Possibly twenty nine. As there is rain in the forecast, it's likely something indoors will work better anyway.

So you guys have a great weekend for us, okay?

Oh, swing by and say "Hi" to Tony, if you get a chance. 'K?

Flashback Friday!

Hi, Gang! Here we are at another Friday! Has anyone else noticed how quiet things have gotten lately? Raise your hands. Come on. Maybe it's a Calm Before The Storm kinda thing. As wild as things have been at my house lately (three kids and a wedding to plan will do that), it feels anything but calm.

As my upcoming nuptials are in...augh!!...LESS THAN A MONTH!!!, I've been rather busy with details. I'm sure all you chicks out there know what I'm talking about. Oh, and Highlander's got a pretty good idea at this point, too.

Try as I might, it's difficult not to compare some aspects to the first time I did this...just a few months shy of twenty years ago. Things like comparing what my ex and I paid for rings then, and what Highlander and I are paying now. Things like wanting to do a different color scheme this time. Things like how weird it is that I got married on the Fourth of July the first time and Thunder over Louisville the second time. (Sure, I like fireworks as much as the next guy, but really I'm not THAT wild about them.)

In any event, it's put me to mind of a few stories from then that I thought I could share. Only one today, though. Come along.

We're going to the chapel and we're gonna get married...

Last time around, I had a much larger affair. My family, and the Baron's, are both pretty big. And 3/4ths of both families were relatively local. So, we had about 175 people show up that day.

Wanna know who didn't?

One of the groomsmen.

The wedding party consisted of my only sister (as my maid of honor), and Baron's sister, my best friend, and one of Baron's brother's girlfriends (who, five months later, became his wife)(as my bridesmaids), and Baron's oldest younger brother (as his best man), his youngest younger brother, a former roommate, and one of his oldest friends (as his groomsmen).

Baron's friend shared the same first name and the same first initial of their last name and so pronounced themselves, "Brothers of the 'R'". Over the four years that Baron and I had been dating/living together/engaged, I'd heard countless stories of the two of them "back in the day". The affection that Baron still felt for this man was pretty evident. And so, when we were selecting those we wanted to stand up with us at our wedding, when he named this friend, I was not so much surprised, as taken aback.

Yes, I'd heard many stories of this man, but in four years, had never met him. Not once. Baron hadn't spoken to him in at least that long, either. They hadn't really had a falling out, just that they'd lost touch.

He had so many other, closer, friends that I thought he should have asked (mostly because those friends knew both of us pretty well), but he was insistent. It had to be the "R Brother". Who was I to argue? He was the groom. His choice to select groomsmen, right?

So, he called up his old friend, and they made a date to get reacquainted. Baron told him that he was getting married and that it would mean alot if his friend would stand up with him.

We had the friend over for dinner a few days later. Seeing them together was nice. Watching them, as they reminisced about old times. Hearing the friend's spin on stories I'd heard dozens of times. He seemed like a nice guy. And he said he was honored to be included in our wedding. Ah, the salad days.

Most of the folks we'd asked to be in our wedding had limited means. Hell, all of them did. We were pretty young back then. Not that Baron and I were in great shape, but we were doing okay. So, we decided that we'd pay for the tux rentals for all the groomsmen, and the cost to have all the bridesmaid dresses sewn by a friend of Baron's family.

I couldn't tell you what a tux rental is now. Then it was $75. When you multiply that by five (for the groom and all his dudes), it came to what was alot of money for us. But, again, we wanted the day to be special. All the guys went for their tux fittings as the time grew closer. And all the clothes were "reserved", I guess.

Getting married on the Fourth of July, we'd opted to have a casual cook-out at Baron's parent's house as our rehearsal dinner. Which was nice. However, I became a little concerned when Baron's friend didn't show.

We'd seen him a few times over the months between when Baron had rekindled their friendship and the wedding. There didn't seem to be any reason to believe there was a problem.

At first, when Baron called him, he said he'd had to work over a little and was running late, but he'd be there shortly. Not likely he'd get lost, as he lived a couple miles away, and Baron's parent's house was the same one where he and Baron used to hang out during their teenaged years.

But he never showed that night. We went ahead with our celebration and planning and made some notes to pass along to the friend the next day. At the wedding.

That night, after we got home, I was more than a little worried. He could have been sick or hurt or something. I mean, hey, I didn't know the guy all that well, so I wasn't filled with the same confidence that Baron was that he'd show up at all.

At my insistence, Baron called him that night.

"You okay?" "Just wanted to make sure you remembered that the wedding is tomorrow, Man." "You remember where it is, right?" "We'll pick up your tux tomorrow morning when we go to get mine. That will save you from having to stop and pick it up. Just get to the wedding early enough to change." "If something happens and you need a ride or something, you just call us."

So, all the man had to do was show up the next afternoon. That's all. Or, you know, CALL us and say that he had a problem and needed help.

That, as it turned out, was far more difficult than we'd imagined. The next morning, for me, was filled with the unbelievable chaos of getting things delivered to the site, getting chairs and tables set up, getting dressed, getting the bar set up, and so on and so on and so on and so on (Highlander has no idea). And I didn't miss him. Frankly, I wasn't keeping track of the groomsmen. I had, as I said, a few million things going on.

I really didn't notice until I walked down the aisle and saw that we were one short on that side. It didn't even register whick groomsman wasn't there. At that point, there wasn't really anything I could do about it anyway. So, we went ahead as if everything was as we'd planned it, and the wedding turned out fine. As Mike Norton would note, it's only really important that the bride, the groom, and the officiant be there anyway.

After the wedding, we were in the "receiving line", when the friend's sister (and her date) came up and shook our hands. I had to be introduced (as I'd never met them), but she was CLEARLY embarrassed that her brother hadn't shown. I was mad at him, but I wasn't going to let it ruin my day. And I didn't.

We went home that night (we weren't leaving for our honeymoon until the next morning), and I kept expecting the friend to call. So sure I was, that he'd call and say that he'd been in an accident, or that someone in his family had been rushed to the hospital, or that he'd fallen and gotten temporary amnesia. SOMEthing. ANYthing. But he didn't.

We left fairly early the next morning and while on the road (to New York state), Baron and I talked about it. Hey, it was a long road trip, we talked about a great many things. He mused that his friend may not have called the previous night, assuming that we'd left directly for our honeymoon. Okay, sure. That's a reasonable expectation. So, we'd get a call from him (or his next of kin) when we got home. And there'd be some perfectly acceptable excuse why someone who considered himself an old and dear friend would completely diss you at your wedding. After you'd put out $75 for his tux. Yep. So, I'd let that one stay on the back burner, and I'd have a beautiful honeymoon.

And I did. And I did.

When we got back (the following Friday), we got no phone calls. Baron went back out on the road (for his job), the following Monday, and we still got no calls. Weeks and months went by and we still got no calls.

I'd ask Baron if he had tried to call the man. Baron said he had not, and had no plans to do so. Clearly, he wasn't worried about his friend's safety. Maybe previous history had taught him to expect this all along. I can't say.

Finally, just after our first anniversary, Baron mentioned to me that he'd run into his friend. I can't recall now, exactly where. But that he'd talked to him about the situation and his friend had apologized to him and said something like, "Sorry, Man. You know how it is.", or something equally lame that made no attempt to explain why he did it, or why he hadn't felt it necessary, as a FRIEND, to call and let us know he was alive. He didn't even have the class to offer to reimburse us for the $75 we were out because of what he did. And he never, not even to this day, has shown his face around me, or made any attempt to call me or write me anything remotely like an apology. In fact, I don't think Baron ever saw him more than once after that chance meeting during the entire seventeen years we were married.

(Fair warning, Nate, I really DO consider this an affront.)

Now, later today, Highlander and I will be picking up our marriage license. (Kinda cool, huh?) And, as usual, we've got a couple wedding projects that will have us busy this weekend (when the girls will be with their dad).

My parents are picking up [Kid 3] from school, so that they can spend a little time with her before she goes back to her dad's for the weekend. That is going to afford H and I a little time with just the two older girls and we're looking at maybe catching a matinee' later on. Something particularly NOT Disney, if you know what I mean. (In the meantime, you guys go out and have a great weekend. Hope that, wherever you are, you have some lovely weather (especially if you're head won't have it's natural 'hat' to keep it warm this weekend), and the time to enjoy it!!

Flashback Friday!

As you can imagine, as I get closer to the wedding, I've been having some little mini Flashbacks of the last time I did this. But that is not what I want to share today. (Perhaps, as it gets a little closer to the Highlander/Superfiancee' nuptials, I'll share a few of them.) For today's episode, however, I thought I'd share a little humor of another married couple I used to know some years ago.

Just after Ronald Reagan tightened his fist around my Pell Grant's throat, back in 1983, I got a job working nights in a laundrymat. It wasn't a great job, but it had it's perks.

Relatively quiet at night, leaving me time to read or chat with certain of my favorite customers. One in particular was a petite redheaded woman that I'll call Darla (for the purposes of this story).

When I met Darla, she was more than a little pregnant with her first child. She, and her husband Cliff (a tall, blond conventionally very attractive man), lived in the neighborhood and she'd drop in once or twice a week to do their laundry. Darla and I got along well and after a disagreement with the laundrymat management (when they became upset because I insisted on having them come and close up one night when I had 103 temperature and had to leave to go to the hospital) she offered me a job.

She had a little home business making craft baskets. I knew absolutely nothing about baskets and while I was a little "crafty", she'd certainly never seen anything of that. But she liked me and she didn't want to see me in that predicament.

Darla's husband was an attorney, which afforded her the opportunity to put aside her teaching credentials and make a living doing something she loved more. I could go on at some length about the type of cases Darla's husband regularly handled, but let's just say that his clients were not the cream of society and move on from there.

Often, Cliff's clients bartered with him to pay their bill. Frequently, during my time at their home (working), a new stereo system or tv would show up, as payment on someone's bill. I don't think any of us believed that those items were purchased, you know what I mean?

When Baron and I were dating, Cliff was looking for a law clerk and I recommended him for the job. Consequently, it became evident, pretty quickly, that Cliff didn't only take merchandise from some of his female clients.

In any event, Darla and Cliff cared about each other and, I suppose, because she had a nice life in a nice house, Darla tended to embrace the naivety whenever she could. I never quite understood that, but, figured to each his own. However, it would have been a mistake to consider Darla meek or mousy. She had no difficulty getting her point across when she wanted to. I could share a few stories that would clarify that, but one in particular comes to mind.

It was summer and Darla had had her baby at that point. A tow-headed boy with brilliant blue eyes and a sweet laugh. She was planning a trip to Tennessee to visit with her mother, but Cliff had trials coming up and had to stay in town. It meant I would be off from work a week. It could have been a thing, but I was okay with it. I mean, I was in my early twenties, I was sure, if I thought about it real hard I could find something to do with my time.

When Darla returned, she'd apparently found a few things that disturbed her. Of course, I only found out about it retroactively. Since this is my flashback, that's the way you'll get them, too.

Darla had come home on Saturday, but I didn't see her, or talk to her, until I came to work on Monday morning. As usual, she had a pitcher of bloody mary's waiting. (Did I mention this job had a few perks?)

We sipped on bloody mary's and set to work on a big order that had to be shipped to Japan by the end of the week. Though I was genuinely interested in her trip, I asked her how it went more to make small talk than anything else. She seemed pleased to tell me about how she'd enjoyed seeing her mother and how her parents had spoiled the baby rotten. She loved going home and always looked forward to it.

Jokingly, I asked if the house had been a wreck when she got home on Saturday. (Cliff was notorious for being to busy to do anything around the house.) The conversation, which had been bubbly and light, suddenly turned more serious. Her entire demeanor shifted and she began to tell me how she'd come home Saturday to a house that had been cleaner than it was when she'd left.

Most of us would assume that her husband was doing something sweet to welcome her and their son home. Knowing Cliff, neither Darla, nor I, made that foolish leap. I didn't say much, instead letting her talk through the events of the weekend. This was MUCH juicier than shopping with her mother.

Darla mentioned that it struck her odd to see candles on the dining room table when she came in the back door. Candles that hadn't been there when she left. Consequently, the suspicions started almost immediately. When she went upstairs and began putting unpacking suitcases, she noticed candles in the bedroom that hadn't been there before, either. Worse, the sheets had been changed. Further inspection indicated that, while no other laundry had been done in her absence, the sheets that were previously on her bed, had been laundered and put in the linen closet.

Now, all of that could have meant nothing for some couples. Could have, in fact, been a sign indicating the anticipation of a romantic welcome home. But Cliff was DEFINITELY not that guy. And Darla was smart enough to know that.

The clincher, apparently, came when a neighbor from across the street stopped over to report seeing a strange car in the driveway. Overnight.

OUCH!!

I wasn't quite sure what to say to her. It had seemed odd to me that she'd been all upbeat and casual when I first got there, if she'd just found out that her husband had been having an affair. Even though she seemed serious, she never really got emotional about it. I remember thinking I'd be angry and hurt and I'd likely be crying. She simply wasn't. She sat there working on baskets the entire time she was talking to me.

At some point I said, "So what are you going to do, Darla?", because, as we all know, you have to do something in that situation, right? As if lifted from a trance, the 'serious' left her face and she smiled and replied, "Oh, I've already done something, it's all done." in the upbeat, bubbly voice with which we'd begun our chat that morning. It was most eerie. But, oh was I ever curious.

For real, you can't leave someone hanging with that. It could have been like in the movies, where you ask "so what DID you do?" and the crazy woman tells you the body is cut up in pieces in the garage and then pulls a big honking knife out to cut your nosy ass up, too. 'Cause she had the look.

But it didn't go down like that. D'uh, or else there would be no flashback, right?

The "what DID you do" turned out to be pretty bizarre, though. She didn't talk to him about the situation at all over the weekend. On Sunday, they went to church as a family and he never had any indication that she was upset with him...or that he'd been found out. They'd taken the baby to the park afterwards and had a (from all accounts) very nice day. After putting the baby to bed, the two of them had planned a romantic evening.

Darla had cooked a nice supper for two and had picked up some wine. None of it was poisoned, or even drugged, but he had enough wine that it made him quite sleepy. That worked well for her. She'd helped him upstairs to their bed, tucked him in, and then waited. Waited for him to fall deeply asleep.

This was years before anything like FATAL ATTRACTION or SOMETHING TO TALK ABOUT, so when she got to this part of the story, my imagination was pages and pages ahead of her, while my attention was quite rapt.

She'd wanted to hit him where he lived. And she believed that if he weren't such a pretty boy, the other woman (or women) wouldn't be interested. (There's some truth to that theory, I suppose, but I don't think she took into consideration that some of those women were just paying off a bill and it wouldn't matter what he looked like.) She didn't want to do anything too permanent, so pulling a Lorena Bobbitt was out. Finally, she settled on shaving his head.

Completely.

He was so drunk that he never woke and she was able to turn him this way and that until he was totally baldheaded. She'd made a terrible mess on the pillowcases, she'd said, but it had gone pretty much as she'd have like it to have gone.

I was more than a little taken aback, but I gotta admit, I got a little charge out of the "justice" in it. And when Cliff came home early from work, wearing a ballcap, it was all I could do to keep from chortling in his face.

At the time, Baron was still clerking for him and when we both got home (we were living together at the time) after work that day, I just HAD to share the story. Baron's reply was that he'd "wondered why Cliff had been wearing a baseball cap all day." Which had me rolling in the floor laughing.

Over the next weeks, as his hair grew back in, Cliff had some issues with judges who felt it disrespectful for him to wear a hat in court, and got a good deal of ribbing from other lawyers in his firm.

Darla didn't leave him, though. He'd given her $500 to go buy herself "something nice" and had apologized to her. She accepted those terms (which I could not have) and they worked through things.

But I always thought about him in that hat, for months and years after his hair was back to it's former stylish cut. And remembering her telling me about it and the calm look on her face (and in her eyes) when she did. While I never thought about her quite the same afterwards, it's possible that she sparked a little something in me that day. Though I'm certain that Highlander will never have to test that...;)

Plans this weekend are just loaded up with kid stuff. They are due back from their father's on Saturday and I can hardly wait to see them!! Luckily, while the weather has turned a little cooler than it was last weekend (when temps were in the mid 70's), we have avoided the snow that our northern friends were expecting.

Hopefully, I can get a couple wedding projects knocked out this afternoon, so I'll have plenty of time to enjoy my girls this weekend.

Have a great one everybody!!

Flashback Friday!

I haven't quite gotten over the shock of Sabrina and Sundance being sent home last night...in lieu of HALEY and SANJAYA...what are people THINKING?!?!?!? PLEASE put down your crack pipes before calling the tollfree voting numbers!! I'm begging you!

Yes, yes, they FINALLY sent Antonella home, and it's unlikely that Sabrina or Sundance would have made it all the way, and, yes, I'm sure the drama of those choices added to the final 12 'event', but Sabrina? She has a great voice!! She had at least a few weeks left before she should have been cut. I suppose I should just move on to other matters, though. As ranting about American Idol isn't likely to get any of us anywhere.

I've been thinking about it and I'm not sure I can reign in this week's Flashback Friday! I fear I will be rambling on more tangents than even I usually do. Frightening, I know.

A couple of things became juxtaposed in my mind this week and led me to this one, I guess. The second of those things, the one that made it click into place, was part of a conversation with my sister yesterday evening. She had dropped by for a visit and we were chatting with my girls when an incident from our (mine and my younger sisters', that is) past crept into the conversation. I haven't thought about it in years. Immediately, though, I realized it would be this week's edition. For good or otherwise.

You see, I was 17 and my sister was 16, in February of 1979. (We're a whopping 12 1/2 months apart. Go, Mom!) I had gotten my driver's permit some time before the incident in question (a delay because of some surgery my mom had at the time), and she'd just gotten hers.

Both of us, as you can imagine, were chomping at the bit to get our own cars and do far more driving than we had been. Which likely led to a rather bad decision on our part. Even for teenagers.

There had been a death in the family. In an attempt to make it as clear as possible, let's say that my mother (who was my grandmother's eldest) has 5 half brothers and sisters. Their father adopted my mother when she was 3. At some point, when my mother was a teenager, and after WWII, my step-grandfather abandoned his family. He, literally, went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came home.

Ever, again.

My grandmother tried to find him for a good many years. Begging his family for help raising the man's large family. But it was in vain. They likely knew where he was, but they weren't going to help her.

Because he'd been in the army, she was able to continue to draw benefits for her children and, at the time of this story, a pension. In any event, in February of 1979, my step-grandfather died. I'd never met the man. My grandmother had long since moved on. He was a non-entity to me in most ways. Everything except his name.

Ironically, his family had called my grandmother when the man died. She hadn't seen or heard from him in more than twenty years, but her brother-in-law (I don't say 'former', because she was never divorced) called her. Interesting that he had known where she was all along. He wanted her to know that her husband had been living in Phoenix and that he was dead. All those years struggling to raise his children and they wait until he's dead to contact her. But it gets better.

The reason he'd called was because he expected her to do something about the funeral arrangements. I'm totally serious.

My grandmother was a bit of a spitfire (oh, yeah, totally genetic), but she had loved the man. Further, she had children with him. She was conflicted, however, because she had been in a long-term relationship with the only man I ever knew as a grandfather and didn't want to hurt him.

So she called my mother, and she asked her to do this for her. My mother could never refuse her, so she, my dad, and one of my mom's brothers flew out to Phoenix to clear out the tiny apartment and make arrangements to bring his body back to Kentucky. (I remember my mother telling me that, when they walked into his apartment, the first thing they saw was a tiny photograph of all of the kids, that was sitting on a nightstand near his bed.)

It was a very strange time. My mother's two sisters and one of the other boys were furious that anyone was doing this. The man had abandoned them, after all. They were still harboring some hurt, and were fiercely defensive of their mother, who had been put in an unimaginable position all those years ago.

Given our ages, my mother decided to trust us on our own, while they went out west to handle these things.

You are right to groan. Even in the presence of tragedy, we were, first and foremost, teenagers.

I will quantify what follows by saying that we did not throw even one party. Not one. Also, we did not burn down the house. So, I'd like a little credit for that, please.

We didn't touch the car the first two days. Not at all. But when we heard a weather report indicating icy conditions coming overnight, and we were expecting our parents back the next day, we wanted to go to the grocery to get some things to cook dinner for them and that way they wouldn't have to go out in the bad weather. That was the justification, anyway.

So we stole the car.

The grocery was maybe 3/4 of a mile. Certainly close enough that we could have walked. Sure, we would have both had to go to carry the bags, but it wasn't as if we weren't both going anyway.

But, you know, we figured we could get it done faster with the car and we'd be right back, so who'd be the wiser, right? I was funny, even then!

I drove. My sister was such a chicken. And it was all going pretty well, too. Got to the grocery. Parked the car in an actual space. Sure, I was nervous, but I was rockin' the grand theft auto in a big way.

Of course, we both kept thinking we'd see a neighbor or someone would just know we only had permits. My sister explained, though that we had TWO permits, so that was the same has having ONE license. Which made TOTAL sense...at the time.

But we didn't see anyone we knew. Which may us feel we were home free. Of course, we weren't.

While we were in the store, picking up just a few bags of groceries, the temperature kept dropping. When we came out, the car wouldn't start. We kept trying, but it just wouldn't cooperate. I don't know if it was the car. Or the cold. Or my inexperience (maybe I flooded it, I don't know). But the damned thing wouldn't start. And my parents were due home in like 12 hours.

We walked home. Leaving my parents' car in the grocery parking lot. I remember we kept talking about what we were going to do...

SF: Look, we can say it was stolen or something.

SF SISTER: Isn't there anyone you know that could help us get it home?

SF: If we can't get it home, they're gonna be really mad!

SF SISTER: Maybe we should be walking in another direction...instead of towards home...

Granted, it was a pretty good suggestion, given the mess we had to clean up, but hardly the most practical option.

So, after we put the groceries away, and hurriedly made out our wills, we walked next door and asked our neighbor to help us. Gratefully, he did.

In the icy conditions, he took me back up the grocery. After trying to jump the car, unsuccessfully, he chained it to the back of his pick up truck and towed it home, parking it in front of the house. That is to say, not in the driveway where my parents had left it.

They were, as you'd expect, pretty furious when they got home. Upset, I'm sure, because they felt betrayed. They'd trusted us and we'd let them down. Plus there was the whole thing where the car was broken and we could have wrecked it (and the insurance wouldn't cover us driving it) and somewhere way down the list, "we could've gotten killed". Lastly, there was the immense guilt of, "I was away dealing with getting my long lost stepfather's effects in order and arranging for his burial and THIS is what you do to me?" Of course, by that point we were wishing we had been killed in a car crash. My sister was giving me that I Told You We Should Have Run Away look, but I couldn't be bothered with that. I countered with a Shut Up, Bitch, Don't Make Me Put A Beat Down On You look, which ended that whole non-existent conversation right there.

The fact that we had done this so that we could cook a welcome home dinner (which we still did) didn't seem to insulate us from the full-on wrath. (Of course, it had been a tenuous excuse at best anyway). Having teens of my own now, I guess I'm in a better place to understand it. Grown-up implications and all.

The warden handed down a month-long grounding. And it was even longer before we were allowed around the car again. I don't recall what exactly was wrong with the car, but it was something that was easily (and thankfully, inexpensively, fixed). As of this date, our criminal records have been expunged due to our status as juveniles at the time of the incident.

Sometimes, I wonder what deviltry my own girls will put me through. I've been exceptionally lucky in that regard. How much longer can I expect that to hold out? I don't know, but you better believe I'm gonna ride it as long as I can.

This weekend, I'm taking them back to spend a week with their dad. Always hard for me, but Highlander is always there to help me through. Before they get away, though, we have a picnic in the park scheduled for this afternoon (when temps are supposed to hit SEVENTY...WooHoo!!).

On tap this weekend are a couple wedding related items (ordering our rings, picking up a few decoration items, and possibly working on a cardbox idea I had), doing my folks' taxes, and maybe catching a movie. Mostly, we're hoping to have some quiet time to relax a little before the week starts up with a furor once again. (Though my next week HAS to be a little easier, as Lexus' last day is today!)

Hoping that all of you have a restful weekend! Don't steal any cars...but if you do, try to give a little love...;)

Flashback Friday!

Time has gotten away from me this week! And my Friday afternoon is full of all kinds of adventures, sooooooo, I'm slacking off giving you a special Flashback Friday treat!

It's a You Tube Flashback Friday! this week!! The theme is tv shows my kids watched in their younger days! It's a Flashback for me, too, as I had to sit through so very many episodes of all of them. And revisiting them now has given me a little insight on why my kids are who they are...;) I couldn't find clips for a few (Are You Afraid of the Dark?, The Adventures of Pete & Pete, KaBlam!, and Kenan and Kel, for instance), but those I did include were regulars at my house in the early 90's.

I hope all of you have a great weekend! Mine will be a flurry of activity. Some of which I may share with you on the other side of it.




























(I wanted just the opening here, but couldn't work that out. My apologies.)

Flashback Friday!

Sometimes, the oddest things start me on a Flashback Friday! topic. The smell of lilacs. The sound of a kitten purring. My mind wanders through the maze and comes out in the most interesting places sometimes.

I say this because this Flashback Friday! starts out with "My watch died this week". Boring news, I realize. It was a cheap little watch I'd picked up to replace a much loved watch, which I'd gotten as a gift to replace one that was even more treasured. In any event, as I was sitting in the dentist's office earlier this week, waiting for a couple holes in my kids' heads to be filled, I started thinking about watches and decided that this week's Flash would be about just that.

As it went through my head, so, too, shall I recount it to you. (My apologies in advance.)

More than two years ago, I was involved in a car accident. I was driving to work one morning, and while checking for oncoming traffic, failed to notice that the rest of the traffic in front of me on the on-ramp had slowed dramatically. Sad to say, my Ford Taurus station wagon and I rear-ended a mini-van and hit it hard enough that it rear-ended an SUV in front of it. Not one of my shinier moments, I will tell you.

It was my first personal experience with the deployment of airbags. While they likely saved me from significant injury in this particular case, those things scare the HELL out of you when they open up. Another fact I didn't know until the time, they are filled with some kind of particulate that had me thinking the damned car was on fire after the accident.

That was not the case, however. There was simply a dust cloud rising inside the car. Now, bear in mind I'd just been in an accident, was a little disoriented and thought my vehicle was on fire. I made it out (and I'd grabbed my purse as well), so I was okay. I looked down and noticed my watch was missing. A much loved piece of jewelry, indeed.

I waited a second, mulling over whether I should risk getting back into a burning car to try to rescue the watch. Then, I did just that. I ran around to the driver's side door, threw it open and began frantically searching. Instinctively, I'd raised my left arm to protect my face at the moment of impact, and that must have been when I'd lost the watch. The cloud of "smoke" had become so thick that it was difficult to see inside the car, but somehow, I found the watch on the floorboard. It was in pieces and I scooped up all of them that I could find, intending to have it repaired at some point in the future, should I survive the car explosion I just KNEW was coming.

The watch had been a gift from my mother. Something I'd wanted for many months (since my last watch finally died). After my sister had been on a trip to Rochester, she'd returned and was wearing it. It was a lovely bracelet watch and I'd never seen anything so pretty. It was love at first sight, and I RARELY get that excited over anything. Especially jewelry.

She'd purchased me a dress on her trip and delivered it to me, but I wanted the watch, and in completely uncharacteristic fashion, I began begging her for it. Offering to buy it from her or trade her something else for it. She let me know that she'd only paid $15 for it and that she liked it, too. And she wasn't going to part with it (despite the fact that she had THREE other watches and I had none...oh cruel fate, thou art foul, indeed!). Which made me sad, let me tell you.

I began looking all over town for one. Never doubting that if there was one in this city, I'd find it. It would be mine...[insert maniacal laugh here].

The last laugh was not to be mine, though, as there simply was not another one to be had, even at double (or triple) the price. The delicate and simple little silver bracelet watch that I so coveted would remain on my sister's wrist and I was to forever live in envy. So, it was, for the next many months.

Until my birthday. When my mother presented me with a small box and upon opening it, I discovered that my mother had the capacity to be one of the more thoughtful and generous (and competent) people in the world. Yes, of course, it was "the watch". Not my sister's, as she was not parting with hers, but one of my very own.

Mom had contacted the store in Rochester, where she'd learned the item had been discontinued, and then she began a laborious search at each location of the store, nationwide, until she found one that had not yet sold. She'd had it shipped to River City and it became one of my more special birthday gifts. I wore it daily for years.

Until that fateful accident had destroyed it.

I may not have been so interested in my sister's watch in the first place, had my previous one not elected to croak around the same time.

My previous watch had been a beautiful silver Bulova watch that had been a wedding gift from my (then) husband. I helped him pick it out just days before our wedding. I loved it and wore it for about fifteen years, through several battery changes and temporary misplacements. It came with me to work every day and was equally at home on my wrist when I dressed up. It was with me through every important milestone, including when my children were born. Every time I looked at it, I felt like royalty. A little guilty, thinking I didn't deserve something so beautiful and expensive.

It was not ornate in it's composition, but it was elegant and stylish and I always loved the way it made me feel and the way it looked.

I was sad when it was accidentally dropped into the (empty) sink and became damaged beyond reasonable repair costs.

Both of these (non-functioning) watches are still in my jewelry box. Yes, even the one that is in pieces. (In fact, my Cinderella watch that I had as a little girl is in there, too.) They are important to me. They are special to me even in their condition.

You won't see me wearing a lot of jewelry. That's just not who I am. But I do love a pretty watch. And now that my little cheapie replacement one has given up the ghost, I'm thinking it's just about time for another very special one to enter my life...(Does anyone think he's gotten the hint, yet?)

Now, despite the fact that I have no idea what time it is, I can say without hesitation that I am deeply looking forward to spending some time with friends this weekend. In addition to our weekend plans, I have been notified that Girl Scout Cookies are coming in today. I've volunteered to help sort cookies for the troop this afternoon, so I'll be tied up with that. My girls are going for a visit with their Dad this weekend, and I will, of course, miss them terribly. But I'm sure the time will fly until they are back with me.

I hope all of you have a great one, too. (Especially those of you coming to visit!! See ya soon!!)

Flashback Friday!

Some of you were feeling a little cheated since you didn’t get a Flashback Friday! last week. (Sadly, you'll probably still feel a little cheated after reading this one.) You’re all probably getting as tired of the "drama is interfering with my plans" excuse, as I am.

Whew. Every time they drag us through the sewer I have to get one of those SILKWOOD showers to wash off the karmic stench. Life would be so much easier if they would just be happy with their own lives, not mistreat my kids, and leave us alone. You'd think that wouldn't be so much to ask. But...

That behind me, I thought I’d lighten things up a little.

There are likely a few of you out there that know I have a relatively kind and generous nature. (I’ll ignore the dissenting snickerers, because I know better.) Most of you are similarly inclined. Over the years there have been a great many gifts and gestures extended towards family, friends and complete strangers with the hope that I could bring a smile to someone's face. If only a fleeting one. Like you guys, I don't do it with any expectation of repayment. I honestly never even think about that.

Many years ago, when I was a newlywed (the last time), my ex had several friends that we "hung around with". They were "The Guys".

Some of them he'd known for years. One since high school. ONE since grade school! Only one of the guys (besides my ex) had been married at the time (this was about 1988), but he divorced less than a year later. So, for all intents and purposes, they were a bunch of bachelors. At this story's point in history, I'd known them for about five years.

At 25, I found myself married to a man who worked on the road. He worked in the telecommunications business and travelled throughout the midwest to install equipment at various phone company buildings. The impact to my life, was that I had an at-home husband, at max, two days out of seven each week. To say I was lonely would be a vast understatement. I didn't dwell on that, though. I'm sure it was hard on him, too. We made the best of it.

I had friends and family and I worked full time and, most of the time, I was okay. Oh, and my phone bill was often pretty close the same as my rent payment. Which sucked, but I was in love, so it wasn't a big thing.

"The Guys" would check in with me every few days. To make sure I was okay and invite me along on various outings. They were very sweet and worried about me, I think. They had a sense of loyalty to Baron, but don't get me wrong, I know they liked me in my own right, too. When I was having a bad day, they were always there with a shoulder for me to cry on. If I had a problem, they were eager to help in his absence.

I won't name their names, except to say that there were three of them, usually, with an additional couple that would be more sporadic in their attachment to our little group. All of them were older than me (as is Baron), and I suppose I was something of a little sister to them. At least that's how it felt at first.

During that time, I did very little cooking. Not that I didn't know how or like to, just that living, for the most part, alone, I didn't see much sense in it. I'd eat carryout, or something quick, most nights. Then do my cooking when Baron was in town. (Don't touch it, Mr. Norton!)

At some point, I decided that an excellent way to pay "The Guys" back for being such good friends to me was to have them all over for a home-cooked meal. And so was born, the "bachelor dinner party".

The first time I did it, I wasn't fully aware what an impact it would have for me to offer home-cooking to single guys. I thought they'd appreciate it, sure, but I was to learn that single guys don't get much in the way of home-cooking. So, feet-kissing and rose-throwing should not be an entirely unanticipated response.

Try as I might, I can't remember what I fixed the first time. I remember the three of them sitting down and eating voraciously and praising me as if I'd painted the Sistine Chapel.

And it was wonderful. I'd done it for them, but I'd enjoyed having the opportunity to do something I love doing (cooking) and then to have been showered so richly with praise and appreciation, was simply icing on the cake. It was something very rare for me and I ate it up. And I wanted more. LOTS more.

"The Guys" were always receptive when I'd invite them over. Usually, it would be in the middle of the week (once or twice a month) and I'd send them home with leftovers. We'd talk for hours about anything and everything, and laugh, and I just had so much fun with them. And I never felt lonely.

Every single bachelor dinner I cooked was met with rave reviews and they were so very special to me. The times and "The Guys".

I remember on one occasion that they all showed up dressed up (instead of the more casual attire we usually opted for) and brought a bottle of wine and a bouquet of roses. It made me smile. They were all such sweethearts and treated me like a princess. All for such a tiny little (very selfish) gesture on my part.

One of the guys asked if he could bring a date to one of the dinners, telling me that he "really liked her, but wanted me to sign off on her before things went any farther between them". I don't think he was being completely serious, but I know he valued my opinions.

Over the period of a year, I think I hosted about fifteen or twenty bachelor dinner parties for "The Guys". Cooking anything from an Italian pasta casserole to chicken thighs sauteed in butter and chicken boullion. There was never much money, but I could be creative and always wanted to do something different and special for them.

When the babies started coming for us, it made it more difficult to work out a social schedule, and then Baron and I moved out of town for a while. We'd still see "The Guys" (none of whom have married to this day, btw) from time to time, but not often. Certainly, not like it was in the early days. When we moved back to town, Baron didn't enjoy their company as much anymore, and we always had something going on with the kids, and we didn't live very close to "The Guys" anymore. People growing apart, I suppose.

I've seen them less still since the divorce. In fact, I've only seen one of them in the last few years (on a couple of different occasions). He was as glad to see me as I was him.

I suppose inviting them all for dinner, now that I'm with someone else, would be a little weird for them. But I'd very much like to catch up with them and maybe share a little home-cooking with some guys I know would appreciate it. Though, I won't deny a little selfish motivation there...;)

Hope all of you have a most excellent weekend. My girls come home tomorrow and we have some plans with the older two to go see HANNIBAL RISING while the littlest one attends a birthday party. Other than that, Highlander is planning to take us all out to dinner at a restaurant that the kids have long wanted to patronize, but never have. I'm greatly looking forward to it. If I can squeeze in a couple wedding related projects, I'd very much like to, but we'll have to see how that goes.

Lastly, thanks to all of you for your support here (and elsewhere) as we attempt, once again, to move my baggage from center stage. I really appreciate the resounding voice of sanity in the chaos. I can't tell you how much!!

Flashback Friday!

Taking the easy way out today, Gang. Those of you with no You Tube access can thank me later. Nate, be EXTRA careful with today's post. Time for working on a Flashback for today has completely gotten away from me.

It would appear that some dangerous idiots' wreckless disregard for my children has forced me to spend my energies elsewise. So, instead of tripping down memory lane, my focus has been on my kids' safety (and investigating legal responses). I've had to sit my daughters down and discuss what's going on, so that they can make a more concerted effort to protect themselves. Because my older two girls come home from school and are here for a few hours before any of us get home from work, well, it's prudent, to say the least.

Anyway, as I have been somewhat preoccupied (and, hey, let me say that it's been a pretty good week as far as wedding progress, too), Flashback Friday! takes the hit.

Ran across a You Tube vid (just so you'll know how "Martha" it's been this week, it was while setting up a playlist of all the reception music on You Tube) that I wanted to share, and I think I can tie it in. Extra points because of the romantic tie-in to the wedding, too!

I've mentioned it to some of you before, but for the uninitiated, I'm named after a song that my mother adored. It's a terrible, terrible song,(Nate, see note above) and yet, so you'll see the birthmark I carry, I'm revealing it here. The shame is heavy upon me.

I can't count how many times I've watched this series of movies. (Rarely of my own volition.) All four of them share one thing.

This song. (And, no, it didn't make the cut on the reception playlist. Btw, I couldn't find videos for four of the songs I want, and probably need to back out about five songs. Any suggestions?)

Flashback Friday!

This is the Flashback Friday! that almost wasn't (when I lost it last week). I’m not sure it’s better or worse than the last time I wrote it all down, but here it is. For what it’s worth...

It began (last week), as an homage, of sorts, because Highlander and I were both having pretty crappy work weeks. Consequently, it prompted me to recall another Tale of Previous Employment. And so (even though it’s attempt #2), let’s set about getting a few things 'reported'.

I’d only been working for Yunger Construction for a couple weeks when the receptionist quit. She didn’t give any notice. She just didn’t show up one morning. Over the next few months and years, I’d get a much better understanding for just what a consistent issue that was. At the time, all it meant was that I was moved to the front desk to "fill in" until some new girl showed up. It was the first of many such engagements while I worked there.

Being new myself, I wasn’t terribly familiar with the field personnel. So, as the guys would call in to speak with someone, or ask a question, it gave me the opportunity to get to know them a little better.

I have found that most construction guys flirt at every opportunity. George was certainly no exception there. The first time I talked to him on the phone, he was very friendly and let me know that I’d be hearing a lot from him. He was the most experienced superintendent we had. Though he was thirty years my senior, he was likeable and knew his business.

For the next several weeks, I found myself answering the phones and each day when George called, we’d exchange pleasantries long distance. He was building a gymnasium at a high school in the far eastern part of the state. Having just started the project, he was getting the appropriate permitting arranged and setting up a trailer and then ordering materials.

It got to the point where George would get himself a cup of coffee each morning and then he’d call me. We’d go over his progress from the previous day and discuss what he’d be doing that day. I’d issue him any purchase orders he’d need or look up phone numbers for him or send him paperwork.

With December looming, George’s mission was to get concrete poured, framing up and the roof on before the snow came. It was a push, but not impossible. He’d scheduled an early concrete pour, for footers, so, I didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t call one morning. I’d assumed he was busy with the concrete pour and would catch up with me later. No biggie.

About 9AM that morning, I got a call from a woman who refused to identify herself. She asked if George had called in that morning, or if I knew where he was. Not knowing who she was, I was reluctant to give her any information. The panic in her voice was unmistakable, however. "Something had happened," she alluded, but gave me no details.

This was the early nineties, so our guys had pagers, not cell phones. The caller was insistent that I page George, and advised me that she’d “call back” momentarily.

Becoming a little nervous myself, I paged George, and then, while I waited for him to call back, I went to my boss and let him know about the call. He told me to keep him apprised, but he wasn't terribly worried. Like me, he assumed George was busy pouring concrete and didn’t want to be bothered. It made perfect sense, of course. But something inside me wouldn’t accept it.

I found myself torn between watching the clock and watching the switchboard lights…waiting for some information that would allow me to move beyond my anxious state.

It was nearly two hours later when she called back. The panic was no longer evident in her voice. It had been replaced by a numb calm. I remember thinking it was the same sound of defeat I’d sometimes get after I’d “cried it all out”. She asked if George had called back and didn’t seem particularly surprised when I told her he had not.

She gave me only the sketchiest of details about how her husband had found out, the night before, about a relationship that she and George had been having. Her husband had threatened to hurt George and, well, she couldn’t find George and her husband had never come home either. It had, apparently, been a pretty sleepless night for her.

I never did get her name, but she did give me her husband’s name and the type of vehicle he drove and where he worked. I’m sure she was as afraid for herself as she was for George. At the time, given the way she was reporting the information, it seemed as though she was getting ready to go away for an extended trip. Since I never heard from her again, I couldn’t say whether that feeling was founded or not.

When she hung up I briefly spoke with my boss and then called the state police to give them the information I had. (The information I’d received about ‘Mr. Pendleton’, as well as information about where George had been staying and where the jobsite was located.)

None of us in the office got a great deal of work done that day. Each time the phone rang it filled us with dread. It was just after three when the state police called back. Despite the fact that I’d been the one to originally contact them, they wanted to speak only to my boss. So while he spoke to them, a couple of us in the office were waiting nervously for the call to be concluded.

The look on his face as he emerged from the office was pretty clear. He asked me to call everyone together in the conference room. And then he told us all how the police had found George’s body.

He’d been dead since the early morning. His death caused (presumably at that point, though it would later be confirmed) by three gunshot wounds to the upper back. They suspected, given clues at the scene, that George had just started getting things going on his concrete pour when he’d been surprised by the murderer. They couldn’t say whether he’d slumped into the footer of the building as he’d been shot, or if his body had been put there after the fact, but that they'd found him there, covered in wet cement. They might not have found him at all, had his pager not gone off while they were there looking for clues about his whereabouts.

Despite the voice I’d been hearing all day, I, like everyone else in the room, sat there in shock. My boss said he’d have to find someone else to go down and finish the job, and that he wanted George’s personnel file so that he could call his ex-wife (who would be charged with the unenviable task of notifying George’s teenaged son of his father’s murder). In the meantime, he, himself, was going there to collect George’s things and make sure things were being handled appropriately.

For weeks afterwards, little things would remind me of George. There’d be a delivery ticket that would have his signature on it, or someone would call and say they hadn’t been able to reach him, and I’d tear up a little, missing the morning banter I’d grown so accustomed to.

I’d start thinking about all kinds of crazy things. Wondering whether George had loved Mrs. Pendleton...or whether she’d been a convenient piece of tail in a temporary town. Curious about whether Mr. Pendleton had announced himself and told George why he was killing him...or if he never saw it coming at all. I’d think about what would have come next for him in life had he not been killed. Sometimes, I’d even wonder if Mrs. Pendleton had run away somewhere.

Your mind can find all sorts of mazes sometimes. And, yes, trying to resolve questions to which you will never find answers is definitely in that category. As someone who’s been known to overthink things from time to time, I’m not sure how to keep myself from heading down those paths. But time and distance have helped.

It’s been more than a dozen years since George died. I hardly think of him at all anymore. In fact, before I started this Flashback, I don’t think I’d thought about him in several years. But I don’t think, even though I never saw his face and only "knew" him for a few months, that I’ll ever completely forget him.

Now, finish up what you must and head off into your weekend. I hope it’s a most excellent one. For my own, I have a few things on tap. Dress shopping with my girls on Saturday afternoon and then a cheesecake tasting and decorating meeting with a couple friends on Sunday. In between there somewhere, the kids are having some friends over and there is likely some laundry and grocery shopping that will beg my attention. Oh yeah, I think there’s football on sometime on Sunday, too...;)