translucency

Translucency means to see slightly through, like wax paper, ice, and frosted glass. I am to saute onions until translucent, make jelly which is translucent, and melt butter until the bottom of the pan slightly shows through. The onions should change a bit, from opaque white or red to a waxy color which shows light through. Ice allows light to pass through, but is not transparent until it is no longer ice, but water. Frosted glass is permanent, harsh action of chemicals or sanding keeps it forever in that state.

We are told to be transparent, to be open with our feelings and emotions in relationships. Financial accountants prove transparency when audits happen. Transparency is needed for glass, for honesty, for emotions, and emotional bonding.Or is it?

I have used parchment paper, and drafting paper to trace lines from logos in my graphic design work. The advantage of parchment is its high quality, ability to erase, and yet reveal the darker lines of the sketch underneath. And, some of my past drawings have layers upon layers of parchment on them, with subtle changes as I worked through my design. I can keep track of my work, rather than erase, I can build upon changes. Pentimento is the term for the regret, which an artist or writer has when one erases too much yet the ghost of the lines are still there. I like layers rather than erasing.

I have found recently that relationships I have been in are layers of parchment. The older have faded certainly, it is only in the flip book of review that I see my first self. And recent loves are fading as potentials, friends, and futures begin to layer my memories. The terrible longing and sadness is being replaced with a wry humor, a sense of melancholy of regret, and a beginning return to some happiness. But I don't think I will be ever truly happy, just as Jane Eyre said, " We will work hard and we will be content." I hope I am wrong, but this is my state right now.

In cooking, translucency is a desired state, and needs little explaining. The onions for example, are either raw; opaque, or translucent, or cooked until browned and caramelilzed. I love sauting onions and don't even think about the term translucent anymore, and must remember to put it into recipes when I write them for the public.

But, is transparency a true state for relationships? Should we reveal everything? At what point? I like translucency, with the ability to peel back a bit at a time to the underpinnings, to the first sketch of myself, at a time I choose. But here's the care, if I try to change too much, or build upon layers of the relationship I might even forget myself in the cause. I may become hidden under several layers of parchment. So, it is a paradox, reveal just enough, keep hidden what is needed, and don't lose your way. I don't want to melt, and I do not want to be so sanded that I stay forever translucent. I just want the choice, and to remember to be my own recipe.

And someone to rip the pages off to the bone.

lawyers no way, I need a mechanic! Mad Max indeed

In my upcoming,now,not next life, I will again like a little pack of covered wagons gather my friends around me. And I them.

What can I bring to the table, smarts, grace, good cooking, for the right person love and all its not friends with benefits but more, and ability to decorate, improvise, and use tools. For the women, whatever they need as my friends. For the men, I need skills: how to fix things I cannot, how to build fires, provide the more than friends benefits and be stand in brothers as mine are far away. And I need a mechanic. Really. I don't need a lawyer, I may need to know doctors, wait, I have one, but I certainly need a mechanic. Someone who can open the hood and tell me more than what I can figure out which is a reasonable amount.

In the old west or medieval times your horse was either ridden or lame. live or dead. fed or not. Now, I am driving a small computer on wheels and I just do not get what to do. My first car, a Pinto, seems dead simple to me; I could even find all the parts. But the damn check engine light came on again today as I was headed up into the mountains to meet a friend. It did this last week and I spend cash I had saved getting it fixed.

I hate like hell to inconvenience anyone, preferring taxis or leaving my car to pick ups at the airports unless I am convinced they truly want to do that. I try to take care of myself unless as I have said, I truly trust that they don't mind. I would do anything for anyone, but I hate to ask for help. Over the last year I learned to do that, to point out what I couldn't do for what I could. I deeply appreciate friends who come help me with my computer, my video, my plumbing, other things I don't know. And I feed them, and do what I can for pay back from my collective circled wagons of knowledge.

But I have two triggers I cannot control which scare me, one financial, and the other, car engines. I am getting better on the first, and the second trying to remind myself I am not dying, I simply have an engine light on. Years ago traveling in Scotland the BMW light came on and I was terrified for hours; riding with my father in law, and husband until they got to the hotel. My worrying put him over the top and he yelled at me; but really, I was scared we would crash, or catch on fire, it wasn't logical but there it was. They apologized later, but no one really knew why I was so upset. And a breach of sorts was created.

But it brings up all the fear; not logical but fear isn't. What it brings up is being alone, not having someone to call to help, not having someone to look under the hood. So, I called, cancelled the gathering, or at least my part, turned around and headed home. A day which loomed full of promise is now dark, soggy, and dreary. This is not fun. I am a prisoner of my self imposed retreat, feeling on top of htis hill adrift, and alone. Maybe in a few hours I will feel better, but I am not comfortable.

Now, everyone else, to my mind is having a blithe and happy day, somewhere, Casey, there is sun shining, hot dogs are grilling, and happy families cavort this Memorial Day weekend. Here is Mudville there is no mirth, some caffiene and one glass of wine left. I am going to sulk for a bit and then try to get involved in a project to keep busy. Bur darn it, that check engine light has reached huge proportions in my mind and like a karmic slap in the face, feels like I have been yanked back from fun.

So, I do need a mechanic, anyone out there?

farmer's markets

Today I went with a girlfriend to the farmer's markets. It is side by side with the local artisenal hippie fair; a sort of Brigadoon of life which has fossilized from the 1960's Tie dye, glass bong jewelry, wretched jewelry in wire cages sits next to some spetacular artists who must crochet, stick, carve, whittle, and torch all winter in some yurt up in the mountains. I admire them and at the same time am somwehat tired of the stuff. But it is, like most codified ways of life, the Quakers, the Mennonites, the Krishnas, there; a part of the fabric of our society.

So, hopping across the street to the market. Most are direct farmers, and I support their coming into town to put up their stalls. I wish I could afford the luxuriant boquets of dephninnium, sturdy brilliant blue heads next to iris, lilies and foxglove and nicotia. ( always buy your poisons and pharmeceuticals with your bouquets)And, I don't have enough sun to be seduced by the tomato plants.

It was the wiry, stringy tap roots of the carrots and beets that caught my attention. I love fresh young carrots, these were displayed like a thicket, their roots all pointed out in a haphazard thatch, next to the striped beets and traditoinal beets with the two-tone leaves. The spring onions, morrels, and lush flagrantly sexy leaves of the red lettuce were a site.

I love vegetable shopping, it is so anticipatory. What can I make with them? I munch quietly on the beet greens as I walk around. I get vegetable lust and have written about it before. And, we were all there with our little baskets, totes, Kenyan water carriers, whole foods saved totes; I had my California grape tote bag from the lastcocnference. A little girl strawberry basket high was standing there eating them in front of her oblivious mother. My friend swooned over the goat cheese, bought pork and lamb from the butcher with a display case in his truck, and new eggs. We admired the various stands of farmers who sold script from their family farm where you could buy ahead, food for the summer. Wholesome lovely kids,happy home schooled Christian families with their farms, and thin emaciated rockers, older yuppie baby boomers, and driven runners were all clustered in a small block. We reeked of summer hopes and visions of picnics, balcony dinners and indolent lives.

I picked up some French radishes thin as a cigarello , a bunch of carrots only as big as my little fingers. I figured with the beets I got two dishes in one, including the greens. And the same with the Walla Walla new onions, salad tops and roasting bottoms. They look and smell heavenly in my fridge. The grape bag is hanging by my front door.

Yes it is a little expensive, but worth it. I was happy, it was a collective support, and the vegetables were right this minute from the farms nearby. I know the lamb producer, the pork producer, and the local baker. It was great. ANd so, I am out of budget the last week for the next two weeks, eating out, buying gas for myself and daughter, picking up a bit of music, and some wine.( well eating out lunch too, so I must watch this seduction.) But that is ok, I am fulfilled, I don't really need a stitch of food for 2 weeks, nor wine.

Tonight I had a plate of thin sliced white and pink radishes mixed with thin ovals of carrots. I dressed them with olive oil, salt and lemon pepper and ate them with my fingers, licking my fingertips. I sipped some Pinot Gris and now am having yogurt with vanilla on it. I had planned some beef breasolla, the air cured raw beef, sliced as thin as tissue paper for my protein. But I gobbled it up right off the butcher's paper when I came home. And finished the bittersweet chocolate bar as well. So, the peppery radishes, the sweet earthy carrots were a perfect entree.

Monday I plan to have a friend for dinner. I think I will roast the beets with a dash of rosemary, and have them with their tops and balsamic. I will plate up some more carrots and radishes with the lettuce greens, dressed with some sesame oil and onion slivers and fresh lemon thyme. I think I will go for eggs as the entree, either a simple omlette or slightly scrambled with a bit of cheese. No chicken, the two carcasses from last week are now stock made with ginger and parsnips.

This is fun, making up what I want and enjoying what my friend will think of it. No rules, just what I like, and how I like to eat.

And, I think I am on the way back to takikng care of myself. Summer looms and I am hopeful.

girl's night out

So, it is Friday and I am most definitely not attached. I planned to meet a woman friend at the local restaurant for drinks , some nosh, and visit after work. Then, we were planning to walk to another wine bar for a gathering of an outdoor club.

I love my friend. She is impossibly cute, one of those women who will look perky at 70 and the men will always love. And she is. And she is a good friend. I have been told I am attractive, I dress up well, and look good. But, when I am by her, in a gathering when all are trawling for dates, or checking out the ring finger, I feel like a porpoise. And, eventually it shows. In a room of single and some not single folks we all are competition and the coyotes or hyenas are circling for the kill.

I have always had a good time visiting with her and she me. We confide and share, and both have high standards for ourself, our loves, and our children.

Here's the deal. More than once, sitting there, men come to say hi and look right through me. I become anonymous, and invisible when I am next to her. She knows it is all in her words, "crap' and talk, but it still gets to me. Not so much hurt, but the old men don't make passes at women who wear glasses thing. I have had this imprinted since I was 14. Even if they are Italian designers frames, I am a reasonable size 12, and look 'good for my age'. They . see. through. me. We went to the gathering, I was saying hi and meeting a few folks I recognized. And one man came over started to tell us about his potluck for the group the next evening and quoted the price. And to her, "well you can pay the lower price because you are cute."

What the hell? I quipped, "well, we both should get a lower price because we are new." What I wanted to say was, " Well, you rude son of a bitch, that is not flirting, that is damned objectionable, you are easily 65 with a grey pony tail and a bit pauncy yourself. What the fuck is this discount for cute? Am I ugly. What am I according to you?"

Don't men realize that this type of flirting is antiquated, damned insulting, and demeans? And my friend cannot help it, she just laughs and is sweet and flirtatious but just herself. But it has happened more than once with her and I do shut down. Where are the days of Venice when we all would wear masks at carnivale and then people whould think they knew us? Sunglasses have replaced it, but a size 2 is not a size 12, damn it, blondes have more fun and I just don't get it.

Last year I was appreciated, told I was a woman's beauty and began to appreciate myself. LIke a pawn tipped over, I then move to checkmate muyself with these awkward ploys by idiots. I know it. And it still hurts. It takes courage and adventure and plain grit to get out there, to not sit home to make an attempt to get out. And I know that the men do too. But four men patently ignored me when I tried to say hi. When I go to my food conventions all the men, gay or straight, say hi, I get hugs and give them back. Where are manners? Where is the well-turned phrase? Where indeed, are the gentlemen? I miss Pride and Prejudice, I miss Heathcliff.

Throw me over the sofa and kiss me firmly. Grasp my wrist, put your hand on the small of my back in public and steer me to the table when we meet. Open doors, buy me a glass of wine, be attentive. I hate this damned post liberation you are on your own bit. And walking in with other middle aged women with good clothing, good jewelry, make up, we are all in a cattle call and the bulls are all steers, but they don't know it. If they would just look more than once they would see the room. But no, give a discount to 'cute' and discount her, and me.

to hell with it.

coffee dates

oh my God, it is not the meet for wine, the wine tasting, the after hours social but the coffee date which has emerged. "I will meet you for coffee. Let's meet for coffee. Where do you want to meet for coffee?"

Does no one meet for wine anymore? What is this? I love coffee and am totally over thinking this , these, invitations.

Does this mean I shouldn't indicate I like wine? Does this make me look like a wineo? It the price point too high of wine markup and this is a revolt? Should we have a drink instead? Do we want to keep our heads and just burst with caffeine over jitters compared to the narcolepsy of two glasses of wine? Or, is it economics, coffee for two: $5.00 unless one orders a tripple latte double shot espresso carmel with non fat soy.....ye gods. And wine, could be say, almost $15.00 for two decent glasses, maybe $6.00 if we order the equivalent of two buck chuck or the house wine. (yellow, pink, and red.) (think pee, blush and blood ) So, coffee it is.

Or wait! Maybe it is because we are in the Northwest; I don't think that in Boston they say, " let's meet for our first date over coffee. " I am sure they mean a drink. And In LA I am sure it means a drink and something with a small plastic animal or umbrella in the drink. By the way, why umbrellas? Why not small rickshaws, surfboards or Ferraris? I don't get it.

I think that coffee houses are considered safe, cheap and one can get in and out in 45 minutes to an hour. DOn't linger my girlfriends tell me. There seems to be a magic time to linger over coffee, one cannot say to the barrista, "fill er up," or to the waitress, "hey babe, we will have another. " the coffee cools and the coffee date is over.

Never mind that the coffee houses were sources of sedition in the late Renaissance or even the Regency era. Young blades, romantics, and political students would meet in Vienna, Istanbul, London, Boston, and talk over endless cups of coffee. Fueled by intellect-driven caffeine they would change the world. And later, the beats would thump their bongos and wear black and make wierd geometric shapes of their bodies and order espresso in the 50's.

So, coffee dates. Somewhat cheap, somewhat safe (what if they don't drink? How do I order wine? What to do, what to do?" and with an exit strategy when the latte skims over.

What to wear? Do your manicure, all will be above the waist anyway. Is there huge suginficance in ordering a double shot skinny? Is there political environmental symbolism in ordering soy over milk? Over non-hormone milk? Is the coffee shade grown? Free trade? Or, just hacked off the bush by overwhelmed and disfranchised poor Columbians with a small donkey? And the cup! There is more danger. Is the cup re-usable? If it is take-a-way, is the paper recyclable, not bleached? And what of the ambiance? Starbucks "you feel good chain driven bistro coolness", with jazz mix in the background. Or, local support your local coffee heads and business with no mix in the background. And, why is it usually women there? The coffee houses in Turkey are for men, and the coffee houses in Germany are frou frous of lace, coffee mit schlag and women who do lunch.

I give up.
I like coffee.
And I would rather meet on a first date over champagne or a stiff Scotch.
But I still anticpate.
Off to do my manicure.

noshing

I really don't know where the term nosh came from but in my family it leads back to Germany. About sixteen years ago I took my daughter to Trier to stay with family. My sister in law is German American and the main meal is at lunch; with a sausage platter and cheeses often for dinner during the summer. I now know that as a charchuterie plate, with liverwurst, head cheese, lots of mortadella, salami, and kaiseri, jarlsburg, havarti, gouda, whatever is rolling around in the cold tray in the fridge. And cornichons, lots of stone ground mustard, and whatever else we can rustle up.
This turned into what we would call over the years, 'the nosh plate." In some homes, stir-fry is an euphanism for," I only have one of each of these vegetables and so this is a good way to use all these wilted things up for dinner. "

But a nosh plate conveys more to me.

It means: we have such a wonderful array of condiments, pickles, meats and cheeses we cannot possibly focus on one. We should plate them all up in pretty ways and with our fingers we can build our own plates and combinations. yum.

There is a reason I have in my fridge right now: three types of chicken leftovers, liverwurst,kalmata olives, peanut butter, endive, green olives, capers, celery, spinach, artichoke hearts, ricotta, cottage, string cheese, harissa sauce, and arugula.This array is the result of over 2 weeks of cooking, company, take out and fiddling. This doesn't even count what is in my pantry, last night I used up my chick peas, artichoke hearts, and fridge spinach in a olive oil side with spices. I figure if no one else likes my flavor combinations, at least I like my leftovers.

so: a nosh evening is in store. Bits of this and that, mustards, and spices. Pick and choose, mix and match flavors and it will be fun.

Let's see, should I invite someone over or nosh all to myself when I can be a little piglet?

Today I met two women for lunch, playing hookey from work. I had the charchuterie plate with mini radishes, three types of pate', smooth and buttery; country style with texture, and some with outright fat and gristle. My arteries are dying and will need to have massive infusions of citrus, arugula and veggies for 2 days.

But, as I write this there is a wierd parallel. I nosh on friends and on men. A bit here and there, some are to put it mildly, daily mustard, and some are stone ground to be served up in bed with champagne. A few plate up, and some I can nibble with my fingers, others need chilling, and some have a shelf life of eons. Some I really should have discarded long ago, but like some of my fridge contents keep long past their expiration date simply because I am used to cleaning around them on the shelf.
Corny metaphor but it is in how you do the small things, as well as the large.

My nosh plate of men or food is a mixture of frugality: generic cottage cheese, and expense: imported harissa. It is a mix of low cal: skim mozzarella and high end: cornichons. My men have been the same, daily bread and tempting in their comfyness, and some new ones on the horizon, tempting, somewhat moving in on my territory before I define the boundaries, and apparently expensive. I want to be the expensive condiment. Not as in money but as in worth, to draw them in, to nurture myself and also them so we both are toppings for each other. I am most definitely not low cal or low class. But I do want to have a chance to hang around and be tried out in differing combinations.

And I want someone to be on my nosh plate, comfy again, when I come home too tired to cook they, he is there in just the right combination of mix and match flavors. Noshing, as Groucho Marz said, 'You can eat crackers in my bed anytime,". And, I would add, kalmatas, and capers, and caviar, and cornichons, and lick the peanut butter off the endive.

foraging on one's own

So, this week I have taught a class for eleven women at a night school, and then made a dinner at home for a friend.
The first, chicken stuffed with duxelles, and unctious mix of mushrooms and cream. Also, a gratin, with an ungodly amount of shredded gruyere with a custard base on potatoes with thyme, roasted asparagus and a variety of salts, and finally a lovely, rich and creamy buttermilk sorbet with strawberries, blackberries and melon on the side.
Last night I made one of my favorites, sauteed chicken with mangoes, green olives, onions and turmeric, cinnamon, biber, cumin and black pepper spice, steamed broccoli and brown rice. Lovely.
I was stressed cooking the class, quite a feat to turn out food for eleven in two hours plus one hour prep, teaching and talking at the same time.
Last night, anticipation of a great revisit with a good long-lost, now re-found friend, old lover, and ?, and great mind. I was content,even happy, cleaned up the house, spruced up, shaved my legs ( who knows), played Leonard Cohen very loud, and sang while cooking. I love cooking for friends and family. I love putting myself into food for that chance to gather at the table, light the candles and just be with someone. BE.
And later, in an exhausting pas de deux of repartee, riposte, innuendo, and overt comments, we discussed any and all things. As I wrote later, a Pandora's box; he reconnecting with the declining known world after a solitude a la John the Baptist spiritual quiet of the desert; Me, reconnecting with friendship after a day with kids whose minds are younger than most of my jewelry.
I had a good time, the night ended much too early, it would have been good to curl up and just BE, in a muddle huddle of warmth together. But we were both being smart, and I tucked into bed with a book and pjs.

note and sidebar, wearing flannel pjs on flannel sheets is becoming your own velcro, I was my own flannel board, trying to toss and turn in ennui dreams all night but remaining stuck.

tonight, I am home, and trying to remember that Friday is just a day, there is no constitution or rule that says I must be out. I leave tomorrow am for a night trip to Portland, my car is loaded with Japanese ingredients for a friend.

So, after the excesses and fun of the week what do I eat?
I forage.

Let's see, before the coat comes off, a large class of sparkling water tangerine flavored. One half of a melted chocolate bar which I chilled back in the fridge.
Then, a bowl of Japanese salted and vinegared cucumber pickles, picked up when shopping for my friend. Then, several stuff-them-in-your-mouthwhen no one is looking:six to eight small sheets of toasted, salty nori, seaweed wraps for snacking.
Here I am eating seaweed and cucumbers, then a little chicken from Sunday's carcass still in the fridge. Standing at the fridge nibbling on bones. No
candles, mostly standing up, and in between shifts to the laundry.

Why the difference? In part, this is all I want, too much last night,and two glasses of wine went to my head but I didn't know it until I woke. Salt and caffiene all day.
And second, because I can. I can sit here at the computer, flirting on
line and slowly not wear clothing, just my black bra and pants...with seaweed in a bowl. Who knows, who cares, and does it matter?

My last lover said to take care for one good meal a day. I get that. And I applaud that, just because I am sitting here basically nude with a seaweed wrap doesn't mean I don't matter. To myself.

But in a way I am lying. I put it on for friends and lovers, but to sit down alone at the table, light the candle, means I am alone. And, I don't like that. I don't like eating alone traveling, and I admire those who can.

So, I fill the space, eating what I want while multitasking with the tv in the background, laundry running, im and e mails going, and the generalized noise of electricity around me.

My late mother in law always sat down to dinner with candles and a little glass of wine. I can't seem to do a little glass of wine, so right now none is around. And, in my view of the future dimly, see myself aging here sitting down alone to food and wine. I really really don't think we should be alone. I can get into a commune, shared spaces and times, someone to cook for and cook with, and someone who points out to me the absurdity of foraging while wandering around in Victoria's secret.
Off to bed sans the velcro.

limbic brains and boredom

We have tiny little limbic brains inside our massive nifty advanced ones. Little lizard selves, overliad with chicken brains, overlaid with fishy ones, and finally the mastadons and cro-magnons of thinking. And today I was thinking of drawing one on the board and labeling the one in the interior, that vast undiscovered non-neutron firing wilderness, The Senior Brain.

I teach, among other things, and sometimes I fear for our nation. I really really mean it. I know, I know, Plato and Socrates said 'the elders' said the same about their generation and look where that got 'em. Greek revival and decline. But really, I truly have seen a decline in 20 years, most especially since the advent of techno-speak.

I write, I blog, I have a cel phone, and I understand what passes for conversation is not the same as face to face, or instead of pixels, ink to paper. Sure, but that is because I am PRE the cel age. These kids are a scary version of the Ray Bradbury story where one would save to buy one wall at a time, eventually being able to step into a room and live the scene. Precursor of the holo-deck on Star Trek which I have always wanted. Only , in this story, "The Veldt": the evil children send their parents in and the lions eat them. I am the gladiator of education and they are the lions. And they are winning.

I think that my students are too lazy to even conceptualize this idea. They do not take a chance, and I am bored with them. I have an afternoon class of high energy Latino boys who could give a shit about what I have to teach but at least in my frustration I am not bored; I am just trying to herd iguanas until 3:08 p.m. But the morning class is for honors! I am not alone when I write, and vent, that they are fucking boring. These kids to not interact, do not talk to me, and do not apparently, think. Or, they are smimply ( pick one" a. tooo sleepy b. to ininvolved c. could give a shit d. intellectually dormant. e. need caffiene. ( who doesn't?)

They are not venal, lasvicious, criminal, they are just dull. I have just spent my year examing my physical, dancing, sexual, out-there try-anything side. And, at the same time I have given 3 keynote lectures, traveled to three countries and talked, written three articles, taught 36 night food classes, cheffed at a restuarant and read at least 30 books. I realize I need both very much. The limbic and the cro- magnon.

This with an indolent life to mainstream tv, and lots of magazines. I am not a super woman, I just don't get how these kids think. And, by extension, how they will raise engaged citizens of the world, have interesting lives, and conduct interesting conversations. Yeah, yeah, a value judgement but I am entitled to my pissy little values. Maybe they will all indeed pump gas, come home to the Barbie, and bbq, raise sweet little newts, and go to bed without homework, books, or reflection. I may have escaped successfully this possible existence, of not thinking in my recent relationship, limbic like, but not really the magnon of the magnums I want. .

So, we are the Alphas and I think sometimes, I am teaching the Zeds. (But the Christian Zeds are taking over the world.) Thank goodness these kids want to just pump gas and I don't. I know, in Zen, all jobs are noble and equal, but you know, unless you are the best gas pumper you know and go home to an enlightened life, these kids are just not, Victoria, making any chlorophyl at all. No cost there, going back into the ether. Just etherized.

god, I need to retire.

likes candles and walking on the beach

Interesting, over the last year I have read a lot of personals, and we all want the same thing: thunderstorms, a fun person, someone to cuddle with, lilkes music, likes to dance, every sport under the sun, travel, movies, being nice, intelligent...etc, etc. yeah, yeah, knee jerk Hallmark descriptors, culturally relevant.

Are we supposed to write that we are misanthropes? That candles make us sneeze, and warm beaches in Oregon are a myth? Of course not. But really, doesn't it become familiar, and old? Of course we all love to travel, ride our bikes, hang glide, go to wine tastings, music, concerts, dancing, and fine dining.

But folks what we all really want is someone to sleep next to, who brings us soup when sick, and is willing to eat simple food and just watch tv if need be. Why don't we just say that? Everyone who posts personals is really looking for the same thing, to appreciate and to be appreciated. Sex...the candles are just a set up. And music, ditto. Fine dining, well would we really want to eat in a dive? ( I do, but it has to be in another country on small chairs in the middle of a souk).

There are so MANY people out there who want a" slightly slender, fit, toned, average, all signs, multi religious tolerant, smart, loving, person to have fun with. " While walking on the beach in a thunderstorm hugging another slightly slender fit, toned person who has a 6 figure income and is, "easy on the eyes.". Of course.

So, I don't blame them and have crafted something similer.

But in the DNA of what clicks and what morphs, what goes mutant and what goes dormant in relationships, it still comes down to who you want to wake up next to in the morning, hair looking like hell, before you brush your teeth, lying on their back snoring...and you still like them, Love them over time, and willing to do so when sick, snotty, tired, hung over, and needing a haircut, or without make up. Get real.

We all have what I call a front door, back door style of life. Front door, nice, clean, shaved, waxed, depilitory, deodorant, and clean clothes of frontal landscaping. Backdoor, what you show more than company, the garbage that needs taking out, the lawn that needs mowing, and the stuff in the attic, or for people, the times you do not shave your legs, the quirks, oddities, flaws and snivvly noise you make when you sleep. Wearing the clothes more than once, maybe not changing your socks.

And this is the door to advertise folks, like a realtor who makes an offer but the house must pass inspection that the plumbing is not too bad, there is no dry rot, or that it can be repaired, the schmutzy paint job can indeed be cleaned up, new roof, new plants in the foyer, and cinnamon on the stove. In the midst of relationships we tend to forget, to turn to dry rot, and promise that next week we will clean out the attic. And, once we are listed again like a house on the market, whoops, out comes the new razors, the hair streaking, the new underwear if not new sheets, and a few extra pounds get worked on.

I tried very hard to keep that new house look, to continue to be groomed and landscaped. So the rehab isn't too significant. But there are a few remodelings that took place, some good, some to be returned to the original state. And a few layers of paint went on that I should burn off, like a refinished floor to be me. But not too bad all in all.

Now what do I write on that "be your own yenta" place? How true to the core? And how true to the core is everyone else? SO, I intend to ask to see the backyard first, not the landscaping. Strip search, check the laundry, look at the books behind the ones in front, and kick the tires.

meaner mini mes

gosh, I am a nice person.really, more than I sometimes post.

My friends say I take the high road, provide largesse when thwarted. I do my best and so many love me. I thank them.

But who is this harpie who swears all over the blog? Where does SHE come from?

I have been told that people who talk out loud to themselves do because they do not have enough external stimulation. Hit your food, shout ouch and go on. Or, damn, and go on. but in writing, why do I use the word fuck so much? Because I live alone so much?

I think it is in part the good girl, bad girl syndrome. Be good, but underneath it all is red underwear, black bras and really, an invisible set of tatoos. ( too bored to really get one, hell, I get tired of my glasses) No whips thank you mamm, but a firm grip does wonders for me, alternating with caresses. Shit, it comes back to sex. There I go again, another obscenity.

But wait! there's more! What if these aren't really obscenities but truly Schwartzenegger words? Pumped up on steroid words that I cannot, in polite company, or as a public employee say in public? Linen shirt outsides, haircloth and sack ashes inside. Hmmm, "Honey I love you", and inside, "Who in the Hell do you think you are?"

Is it duplicitous or a release? I think the latter.

I AM nice. And, I have a naughty, highly critical, dyseptic, misanthropic side that I generally try to keep to myself. Unless; reading murder mysteries, which are really happily cathartic, kill the son of a bitch. Or, forget the cuisinart, just wack the hell out of the garlic, and throw it in the hot oil like a cannibal cooking in a chef coat.

I have two women friends who swear. One, a blue blood Eastern Jewess, Sarah Lawrence hippie of indeterminate age ;except she was driving her kids in the van across Afghanistan when I was just starting college. "Fuck this and that", I love her for her forthrightness and what I imagine Katherine Hepburn to be if she had not had Spence but a wok instead. The other, a true brilliantly neurotic woman; now running a B and B in Eastern Oregon. A Berkley graduate in comparative literature who taught in Ethiopia. I see a similarity here. And, they both speak their mind, sometimes uncomfortably so. And they love me, I can count on them to speak truth.

So, maybe I am not a crank, but similar in a way, I would sooner take you out than feed you if you crossed me about my daughter. I would defend you to the death, truly, if you loved me and needed help. And, muzzled in the daily world of my teaching, I can express myself in words which sometimes surprise me in intensity, and obscenity. The chipotle of words, obscenities, but if overused they flood the palate and ear with too much. So I will go sotto voice darn it, because truly I am not that cranky at all. Just a veneer, a charcoaled marshmallow over the fire and sweet gooey insides to suck out. gosh darn it, gee whiz, and pretty please, just read through to the soft bits.

chicken little

ok, a weak title. Until you consider how we use the word chicken.
"You chicken", a taunt for the faint of heart, those who are cowardly, who" turn tail and run". who call to cancel, to end it, not do it face to face. But that is a few blog postings back. Still chicken. White feathered, weak of spirit and spine.

But the chicken endurs, he, or she, (who can tell), lives all over the world. No Victoria, pigeons are not chickens, and penguins think they are, but not.

back to chickens.

They stink, they are noisy, and really, not much room up there to be smart. They are just smart enough to be, well, a chicken! Birdbrained is just dandy for them. But they don't make wars, they don't want to take over the world, they just are.

And a darn efficient little food machine they are too. If you are Vietnamese, or from the American south, you can eat the whole bird. Little fried chicken feet to nibble on, Tom Hanks in Big-like nibbling on the corncob, eat the gristle and spit out the toenails. Suck on the vertebrae, bite and suck out the marrow, fry the gizzard, saute the liver in soy sauce and ginger, and eat all the meat, white or dark. Render the fat to fry something else, baste the skin until it is crunchy, strip it off, douse with salt and pepper and eat it standing over the stove. Rip it apart with your hands, or use a knife to eat the meat. Don't be squeamish now, the whole darn bird is a gift.

Victorians, respressed souls in public, but ragingly, neurotically sexual in the boudoir, decried the use of the word leg or breast. Don't even consider that women, moving like automatons gliding without showing their feet fro perambulation ( Victorian word) might have legs. limbs. SO, all their furniture was draped, no swaddled in fabric down to the carpet to cover the table LEG, the piano LEG. And, at the table Sherlock, one ordered a drumstick, not a chicken leg. And, after the excess nonchallance of the Napoleonic era when bodices dropped to the sternum and women powdered their breasts with powder, Mrs Darcy in the manor house of 1860 would order 'white meat'not chicken breasts.

Good thing that the chicken's genetalia wasn't in evidence, ( was it ever?) or heaven's knows what we would be ordering down there. anyway....

Once you eat the bird and make soup of the bones, and suck out the marrow, strain and deglaze the stock of those nasty fats, you can always turn the bones into costume jewelry. And the feathers can be used for stuffing for pillows. Great thing, a chicken.

And eggs! They make eggs! Well, all birds do, and alligators, but that is another topic. I spent today shelling, halving, rinsing, and piping pureed egg yolks with an ungodly amount of mayonaise and hot sauce into the bottoms for a restaurant gig. Four dozen halved, and rinsed egg whites looked like a pile of squid suckers sans the squid. But eggs are a good thing, they are sculptural, you can use the egg shells to filter coffee if you are, pardner, home on the range; add calcium to your dog's food, paint them and make mosaics with glue if you have no other ideas for Sunday School projects.

Yep, the chicken is a noble little bird. Productive, not too smart, but does what God intended he do as a chicken. No resume, no what to do, no chicken angst that he should be more than a chicken, and until you kill the beast, can produce a nifty best example of natural design for food that I can think of.

So, why do we say someone is "chicken"? Why do we have a campaign that says what we cannot identify, ' tastes like chicken" Why, when we are upset, do we say, ' now, dear, don't get your feathers ruffled," or, " running like a chicken without his head.? Poor thing, just a little bird. The sky is falling. Sometimes I have been chicken, I have been without my head.

Yet, tomorrow, I will massage the beast, rub olive oil over its whole body, slowly, plunge inside lots and lots of garlic, insert under the skin some dijion, and minced onion, dill, thyme, and bake it off in the oven. I will lovingly heat it to 500 while I make some coffee. Five minutes later , I will reduce the heat and cook it slowly for about 90 minutes while I deglaze the pan around it with some wine and olive oil again. I'll make some broccoli on the side, some roast onions carmelizing in its pan juices, and some sliced nectarines drizzled with vanilla and brown sugar. The house will smell not like a ditzy little beast, or a scared little bird, it will smell like home, like love, like memories, a warm fragrance sweet as Mother's love.

My daughter is coming for Mother's day, we will share dinner together in the few hours we will have together before she goes back to work on classes.

I would rather have dinner with her at home than go out to have someone else's chicken, drumsticks, white meat, and all.

time spent

Time. I have had several conversations about time lately, from wasting my time...or not, in a try-on relationship, to lying on the sofa in a wallow of inertia during the week waiting for The Call. It came. and so, no, it wasn't a wasted year, but gee, if I could shift time, would I get a do over? Can we take our finger of the match picture and still move the checker back?

Or maybe, just maybe, my twin in the other universe has thin thighs, several lovers, and...no wait! A Third universe, one with a 30 year old marriage, happy children, still those thin thighs, and loving husband who gives her the walks on the beach, the fierceness during sex she wants, and at the same time a Room to Herself when needed.

Love of books, love of people, A house full of kids running in and out, with family and friends dropping by whenever they want, and the coffee is always hot.

Nope, this is the universe and I can look at it several ways. One, that I spend my day in an environment hwich I think is broken, with some kids who are great, others who are limpets, are lichens on society and I don't, Alice, think they will ever get out of the worm hole. And that I spend my evenings with myself in a home that somedays I love, because each and every thing in my home is loved, has history and a story. No compromises where and what I have it is all mine.

And, that I have many many friends who do love me, called when I was upset, took my many many compulsive death throws of the relationship calls.

And a daughter whom I love more than God, sometimes self absorbed, ( after all she is in college) but sweet, caring, and all I could want. I have family that I adore, brothers that I think walk on icebergs, and a sense of style that won't quit. The other way I can look at my time is, I am on the cliff and cannot see through the fog. If I could only go forward, say just a year, would it be worth it? Would I become more disillusioned, or encouraged. I don't know the future, I cannot change my past, and I am in the matrix of right now. Seeing through a mirror, seeing through a plate glass window out my computer, talking to the ether on the blog. I have been lucky, no, it isn't luck, it is personal contact, to re-connect with two friends this week.

One, a man who knows me from the past, a brilliant eccentric intellect, somewhat certifiable, but a fey nature that I just love to visit with. Some heat. In fact, a disturbing amount of heat. Interesting that, since it appears I have a lot of thermals stored up. Cannot I live in a commune, or feminine harem with the bits and pieces, Frankenstein like, of all the men I have loved?

The other, is a call today from my Turkish 'baba', a man my folks knew when we lived there in the 50's. It is tradition, maybe a remembered past that keeps us talking to each other long after my parents have died.

( Sidebar:I hate that term "passed", just as I hate, "partner", "significant other", "pleasure" and " interact with". ) They are dead. He/she is your mate, your lover, or your husband/wife. A partner is Donald Trump. Are there others who are NOT significant? Turn on, be sexual, to pleasure implies a Twinkie for Christ's sake. I interact with my tv, not humans.)

So, back to time. Time shift by connecting with an old lover, with family friends from almost 50 years ago. Scare time by not knowing the future, in fact, I may not have a future. I just might like the Ray Bradbury story just go to bed and not wake up, the end of the Earth. I just may be in a snowglobe and someone is shaking me up. I want time, I want to bend it and bring someone here tonight to lie next to and not worry what it means. If I had known it was the last time, would I have kissed more, loved more, touched more? Is there a memory bank I am supposed to live off of now, bear like now that I am in a new hibernation. fuck it, I am not ready to do the dance again, and yet I don't want the ice cave.

I want time to look ahead and feel like I matter. I want those thin thighs but since I never had them to begin with, I will tell myself, hell, if someone sees me undressed now, again, revealing myself anew, well, this body serves me well. It is mine, it is me, and I am not a 20 something. It has taken me around the world, works and moves. My daughter bought shoes when little, and each time I would get a kick asking her, "Do they work? " She would jump up and down and run and say, " Yes, they work!" I jump and down, and run, and I work. The parts that need to, work very well thank you very much. Really well. In fact, I have just had a lube job and tune up, so the mechanics are good. I just want time again to use them.


Finally, I hate the time from 5 until I go to bed. It is long, it is quiet, and I find it slows down. Minutes are hell, and I don't know what to do with myself. Time does not, fly, it drags. That has nothing to to with what I need to do, with the constant slings and arrows and stockade of "have to's." There is not enough time, there is too much time, I wait on time, time has passed, I want time to shift, to not put a value on moving forward "too fast" and I want time to if I don't get a re-do, to get at least a re-done.

I tried

Well, I have had a glorious year, discovered that I Liked fishing, basketball, and having fun, dancing, pool etc. etc. etc.
but it is ended.
I tried on someone's life and learned. He tried on mine. It didn't fit. Incompatability of politics, of cultural groups, of music. But who the hell cares. That isn't the real reason. And the hell of it, I don't know what. Did I look sideways; maybe. I ignored two years of inattention as my marriage died, did I do the same?

I tried to be honest as I rejuvinated, rediscovered my sexual self, that at 56 I don't look bad and had fun. This is a great guy. but it didn't work.

But, I have never quit on a person. Is it, limpet like, clinging on? Or is it hope? Or is it belief that it will all work out?

but nooooooooo.......I dont' get the Druid's answer, it is just four days of angst and crying and sucking at teaching and he calls. No go. Why not? But for Christ's sake, I have heard this before, "it is not you it is me." That should be a fucking bumper sticker of the unenlightened. This phrase is a cop-out. And if I hear once more how fabulous I am, I will take a god damu uzi to them, I am tired of being fabulous, smart, beautuful...I want someone who loves me, snoring in the morning.
So fucking there.

I will be nicer to students who cry in my room. And, I will quit teaching in a year. I hate being under-used, under-sexed, under-apprecated, under-educated and under no one. fuck it, I will assert myself. I loved this man, I spoke up, and I ried to be me. not fit. darn. But he is still a good person, and I appreciate his attention after a fucking bad years of drought. But damn,I was just coming into my own.

So, they are out there, the friends, the ex-lovers, the former husbands, the unknowns. And, I hope my daughter doesn't think her mom is a slut. I want happiness, I want to be honest, and I want a warm person next me. It is too bad that it isn't him after I opened my heart

what was I thinking?

I was on a rant the other night and truly it was more about me than a lovely man I know. We all have lives, and business, and for god's sake I was mad I couldn't have more time. This persoh is generous, kind, honest, forthright, and a hell of a lot of fun. So why was I ranting and cranky?
I truly think it is because I get scared and this drives much of my life. Must not be scared. Live life. If you see someone do. If they are busy, get busy yourself. I will try to remember this. Good people, good men, are gifts and I don't want this to become encumbered with my own angst. Take a nap. thank those you love. and don't over talk or think, just be. I will try to follow my own advice.