Old School

It was the 70s.  The late seventies, and my family and I were back in the United States.  Not only were we back, we were back in Texas, and the culture shock made middle school even more horrible.  While all my classmates were showing up to school in jeans, I was still forced to dress in...polyester. Hand-me-down polyester.  My pants had seams on the front of them. 

As if that wasn't embarrassing enough, people said that I talked "funny".  I didn't have the same accent that everyone else did, and I hardly ever contracted "you" and "all" to fit in with the crowd. I didn't talk much to most people, just the two or three girls that let me hang around with them. I wasn't allowed to wear makeup, either, so I just let my long hair hang in my face, very similar to all those emo kids running about today.  I was pitiful, and I knew that I was pitiful. 

Except when the Commodores sang "Brick House" on the radio. 

To say that I was naive about some things is an understatement, but I had ZERO idea what the song was about.  I only knew that they were singing about a woman, and that she was "mighty-mighty", and she was confident enough to let "it all hang out".  She was sassy! That woman did not give a hoot that she was the only one at her school wearing polyester pants with a seam up the front.  That woman wore her hair pulled back from her face, and she talked however she wanted, dammit. 

And the tune was catchy!  I'd find myself moving in time with the beat, and if I wasn't careful, I'd break into my arms akimbo version of American Bandstand where ever I happened to be.  It was impossible to be down when the Commodores were singing "Brick House".  Even the most surly teenager in the midst of full-on angst cracked a smile hearing that tune.  It put a strut in your step.

I confess that I commandeered the song. I got a little sassy. I played it in my head to give myself a feeling of confidence, especially walking down the halls of Kirby Junior High School.  Hearing that song in my head gave me the spark to raise my hand in class, to try out for more solos in choir, and to at least try to talk to boys. 

For that, I am forever grateful.  If I could meet the Commodores, I would tell them just that.  I would also say "36? You got all excited over a 36? My 42s beat your 36s COLD!"

I never gave up the sass.






1.) An old school song that makes you happy.  Old School?  Old school?  I googled "Old School" to be sure. Because I'm anxious to fit in and be one of the blogger gang.

A Little Sunday

This is a lovely watercolor painted by my son.  Note the deer grazing peacefully in the foreground.  Never mind all that other stuff, just focus on the deer.  Feel better?

Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest.  Work is supposed to stop, and everyone is expected to pause, reflect.  Stores were closed, businesses were shuttered.  After all, the Lord rested on the seventh day, and we good Christians are supposed to follow that example.  I can remember Sundays when I slept in, remained in my pajamas, sat around on the couch and watched football all day long. 

Except that I don't know a single person who actually "rests" on Sundays anymore.  There's too much to keep track of these days, and often the only thing we don't do is rest.  We're expected to rush through the mornings to get everyone dressed and off to church.  After church comes a family dinner, and then...anything but resting. 

There's laundry to be completed,
clothes to be folded,
clothes and toys to be put away,
dishes to be washed,
lunches to be prepared, 
homework to be completed,
grocery shopping,
lawn work,
bathrooms to be cleaned,
rooms to be vacuumed...

What is it all for?  Would the world end if we just stopped for one day?  Studies have shown that pausing to rest, nap, meditate, whatever, increases productivity.  Other countries at least have siestas or other breaks where they pause and regenerate their energy.  But not America. 

Why not?  Church shouldn't be a chore, and neither should taking a moment to relax.  So many of us feel guilty when we aren't doing what we think others think we should; let's stop that.  Today, take five, or thirty, or even the afternoon.  Sit on the couch or in your comfy chair.  Read a book or watch your favorite movie or close your eyes and doze off.

Rest, recuperate, regenerate. 

Daydreams

Whenever
I close my eyes 
your hand 
gliding slowly
my naked thigh
tingles and shivers
mouths fused
while
rough fingertips
counterbalance  
the softness of your lips
as you trace the outline of
Me and fill it
with You
Naked
hips
surging against mine
rolling
the swell of
Us





TrifeXXXtra:  In honor of National Erotica Day, write 33 to 333 words of erotica.  I was going to title this 'Daydreams about Night Things' until I realized that that was the name of a Ronnie Milsap song.  

Friday Photo

What do you see in this picture?

Do you see a bunch of clouds in a picture of the sky?

I see the face of my beloved cat Tiger in the midst of a silent meow.  Tiger is no longer with us, having passed on a few years ago.  When I saw this in the sky, it made me smile at the end of a not so great day.  My husband thought that I was being silly; he didn't see anything.

I know that our brains tend to see things that aren't there.  Matrixing, I think it's called. We're programmed to see faces, even in the pile of dirty laundry on the floor.  That's why the Virgin Mary and Jesus keep showing up on toast, on trees, on back doors, etc. While I'm not a big fan of venerating rust stains, I'll not hold it against anyone.  Sometimes we need to see something miraculous.

Why not in the clouds? Many people look to the heavens for answers, metaphorically and literally.  Is it wrong that I might find comfort in such things as might appear in the sky? Why not enjoy the moment, savoring what I see and holding it close to my heart? It makes me happy to do so, and it's not hurting anyone.  There's no law against it. 

So feel free to look at this photo, and see whatever you want. 

The Meaning of My Name

What is in a name?  Does your name change who you are?  If you had a different name, would that fundamentally erase who you would have been and created someone new?  I think about these sorts of things once in awhile, usually when I am sitting in an excruciatingly boring staff meeting someplace. 

My mother named me Tina after the actress Tina King of the King family.   I was not named Christina or any other named to be shortened, just Tina.  If looking in a dictionary of baby names, Tina is from the Old English and means river, which I find curious.  My name is also associated with Christianity, and in that aspect is supposed to mean strength. 

So I am a strong river?  Not with my bladder.

The Urban Dictionary defines my name as meaning "little one".  Which is true--I'm only 5'3".  There's more: "Derived from Latin. Competitive - a leader, independent, strength, creative and original. A refined intellectual, a woman who's studious, analytical and very research oriented . . ."  While I am definitely independent, intellectual, and strong, I wouldn't say that that I am very original. I've met tons of strong and independent women.  I'm also not competitive about most things.  (My name also appears to be a reference to meth, oddly; unless they are referring to the drug's volatile and explosive tendencies. I do have a bit of a temper.)

I also looked up my name on a weird website called the Kabalarians.  I guess they are interested in the Kabala?  (Well, either that or it's some cult--if I disappear or start spouting weird stuff and asking for money, you'll know which one.) This site says that I am very strong willed, which is true. But it also says that I desire leadership.  Not so much.  I'd much rather be the second in command,

The consistent theme, across these websites is that I am a strong and independent person.  I think my name does suit me in that regard.  Following the crowd has never been easy for me.  I've always preferred to go my own way.  As for strong, I have always seen myself as a survivor.  I've survived many things that would have put others in therapy, and killed a few.  I'm still here, scars on display. 

I don't think I'd be as adaptable if my father had had his way and I'd been named Bernadette.



5.) The meaning of your name...does it suit you?

Seeing Infinity--Fiction

"What brings you to see me this morning, Mrs. Bettelheim?" Dr. Clark held his pen over his clipboard and looked over his glasses at his new patient.

"Well, Dr. Clark, this is going to sound crazy..." Mrs. Bettleheim paused, her hands clenched together. She took a deep breath.  "I woke up this morning and my eyes were full of..."

"Floaters?" Dr. Clark asked helpfully as he scribbled on his clipboard. "Little black specks? Flashes of light?"

"...Uh, I guess." Mrs. Bettelheim hedged.  "I'm not sure."

"We'll take a look and see what's up?"  Dr. Clark smiled at her reassuringly as the nurse told Mrs. Bettelheim to sit in the chair and placed the eye drops.  While the patient's eyes dilated, Dr. Clark moved the slit lamp into place and asked her to place her chin and forehead on the designated pads. Based on the reported symptoms, he was sure that he would see at least one retinal tear, so common in the elderly.

"Look right at my finger here," he held his right index finger next to his head and looked into Mrs. Bettelheim's right eye.

Dr. Clark saw stars. He saw galaxies. Mrs. Bettelheim's eye was somehow full of them, stretching further back into her brain than he could see. 

He blinked, then turned away, and stared at the wall a moment. Perhaps his own eyes were failing.  Assured this was not the case, Dr. Clark moved the lamp to examine the left eye.

Each bright star in the infinite sky of Mrs. Bettelheim's left eye seemed to call to him, and Dr. Clark realized that each one was a soul. The souls of family and friends long past, those he had promised to remember each year during holy days, but had forgotten in the daily struggle of becoming a doctor and raising a family.  Tears poured from Dr. Clark's eyes, but he had no awareness of them.

Instead, he remembered.



The prompt is the third definition of the word REMEMBER.  This came to me as I contemplated the increased number of "floaters" in my own eyes.  I don't know if it works, and concrit is appreciated.

Trust Issues--Fiction

"Will you catch me?"  That had been their game together.  Before each leap off of the monkey bars, Callie would holler those words at Jason, and he would catch her, even though they were five.

"Will you catch me?" She'd sang them as she leapt from the diving board into the pool one summer when they were ten.

"Will you catch me?"  She'd whispered them the night she'd climbed out of her bedroom window, when they were seventeen.  They'd tumbled into love as easily as they'd tumbled into friendship, and Callie thought that they'd always be together.
 
Will you catch me?  The words came from another time, but Callie heard them again, as if they were now.  She sat on a log amid a mass of dead leaves and stared at the road.  Will you catch me?  It had been a long time since she'd been back here, but nothing had changed.  Their last time together was still an open wound in her heart, and Callie bit her lip to bring herself back to the present.

Jason had always answered 'yes'.  He'd always been there for her.  Until he wasn't.  And Callie had been falling ever since.

Without Jason to anchor her, Callie had drifted so very far from who she was and who she wanted to be. She loved him, but she was determined to forget, and to move on. It had been ten years of silence then. Her own self-loathing had kept her away when she might have relented. But one day she knew that she would never recover herself as long as she stayed in Phoenix.  Because she still loved him. She needed to forgive herself, and she needed to forgive Jason.  There was no changing the past, but what about the future?  So she wrote him a letter, her heart in each and every word.  Then she came back home to wait.  Will you catch me?  

Callie heard the sound of the car's engine long before the car pulled into the parking lot next to where she sat, and her relief brought her tears to the surface.  The door to the car opened and Callie's heart skipped a beat at the sight of Jason. She stood, head down, as he walked around the front of his car and stopped.  She waited.  Finally, his hand was underneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his own.

"No more, Callie," Jason's voice was firm, his eyes cold. 

It was the answer she had expected, but to hear him say it opened the floodgates on her grief. She fell to her knees, the dead leaves swirling around her. 

"Callie," Jason continued, his voice softer. "He doesn't even know who you are, and you're his mother.   Before I forgive you for anything, you need to meet your son. Come home to us. For good this time."

Used to Could

Getting old sucks sometimes.

There's all that great stuff about the wisdom that comes with age.  That part is pretty great. I don't feel as much "have to" as I did when I was younger, for example.  I don't "have to" have tons of money or things; as long as I have a roof over my head and food on the table.  I don't "have to" be a size zero(yes, there is such a thing!); these days I am just focusing on my health.  I don't "have to" pretend to be someone I'm not just so people will like me; I no longer feel a need to pretend to be someone I'm not just to fit in with a particular group. 

But other parts of getting old are difficult for me to accept.   Like the hair suddenly in weird places.  I have found several of the prerequisite old lady hairs on my chin, and now I'm a little paranoid about it.  Where else will hairs appear?   And everything creaks when you hit a certain age.  Knees creak.  Backs creak.  Necks creak.  Even fingers creak, which is sort of creepy if you're not expecting it.  And I'm always just...tired.  Not the bone-deep tired of someone ill, just the nagging tired that comes with the body beginning that downhill slide into old age. The tired that comes from having too many things to do and not enough hours in the day to get them done. The tired that has you in bed before 10pm each night, even as you curse having to be awake at 6am. 

There's a phrase that you hear around here that describes all this perfectly, as much as it offends the Grammar Police out there: Used to could.  I am not sure if the phrase is a vestige of the Old South that spread into Central Texas, or if it is a bastardized translation of one of the many languages, German, French, or Spanish, that are prominent in the area.  It really doesn't matter; the phrase fits perfectly. 

I (used to) could run a mile.  I (used to) could walk up and down stairs all day, without losing my breath or needing an inhaler. I (used to) could carry heavy things up the stairs by myself. I (used to) could eat lots of things and not gain an ounce. I (used to) could drink many beers and still dance upright.  I (used to) could dance most of the night, just because I wanted to.  I (used to) could leap into a mosh pit and not worry about getting stepped on.  I (used to) could stay awake all night if I was having a good time. I (used to) could never worry about most things, believing that all would be well.

Time for an attitude adjustment.  Again.

The secret is to focus on the here and now, to be in the present, and be happy in that.  Having a six year old boy tends to sharpen a mother's focus on the now.  Most of the time I think that I do pretty good with keeping up with my son. We do lots of exploring, for example, which means lots of walking, some climbing, and the occasional quick jog.  I love those times. 

But then something in my body creaks, or I need my inhaler, and then I start to think about all the things I (used to) could.  I (used to) could ignore them.  Now they just creep into my consciousness along with that nagging pain in my lower back. They're hard to dismiss, difficult to push into the back of my brain, and once they gain traction, they tend to stick around. 

Getting old sucks sometimes.

Glass Houses

My son drew this one day on my Kindle.   I wanted to see what he would do, so I asked him to draw a house for me.  The application isn't one that adds color, but that's all right. 

What do you see when you look at this picture? 

I've looked at it quite a bit. At first glance, I thought that my son had drawn an angry house, bellowing at me.  Then I thought that he was drawing a jack o'lantern, since the windows were triangular.  Still later, it seemed that there was a person standing in front of the door to the angry house, and this person appeared to either be knocking at the door or about to enter.  After that, I got a migraine from thinking too hard. 

I've been trained to look at drawings like these, to search them for any signs of emotional upheaval they may contain.  It would be easy to draw conclusions here.  It would be easy to say that my son was angry when he drew this picture.  This is why I was also taught to never use a single piece of evidence; it's the picture as a whole that shows the child within, not one tiny picture.  My child, at least at this time, is relatively happy and healthy, and not in the least bit angry.

We tend to make assumptions about other people based on OUR interpretations of what we see and hear.  We do this thoughtlessly, and these assumptions are often completely off the mark.  I guess that it makes us feel better about ourselves to do so. While we're making assumptions about others, they are making assumptions about us. 

I need to remember that saying about glass houses and throwing stones.  I also need to remember that sometimes a badly drawn house is just a badly drawn house.

Time Be A River

This is a photograph of my Uncle Mike and Aunt Rosie on their wedding day, circa the late 40s.  See that little kid in the front row, looking off camera?  That's my father, and behind him are his parents, my grandmother and grandfather.  My father looks as though he would rather be anywhere else on earth than posing for pictures. I've seen that same look on my own child, when I can get him to stand still.

The idea that my own father was once a child, and that my own child will one day be an adult with children of his own,  always fills me with wonder as well as melancholy.  It's quite a revelation to finally understand that all things are born, and all things must die, including the people we love.  Most people shy away from ever thinking about death, and I'm no different on most days.  But then I see photographs like this, and I understand that time is indeed a river, and all of us are fallen leaves floating wherever the current takes us. 

Those who came before us aren't really gone; they're just downstream.

Deep In The Heart

Texas is my home state.  I was born here, and even though I spent most of my childhood in other places, I am still a Texan.  This is a great state.  There are some not-so-good parts of Texas, Rick Perry and the Tea Party idiots, but the good parts outweigh the bad.

1.  The History.   Parts of Texas were colonized by Spain back in the early 1600s, and some of those buildings are not only still standing, they are still in use.  When people visit the Alamo, they can still see the bullet holes from the battle. People who drive randomly around Dallas may suddenly find themselves in Dealey Plaza, following the same route of the motorcade.  That sense of awe that I get from walking the same path as some historical figure never goes away. 

2. Cool Nickname.  We're the Lone Star State, which I think is the coolest nickname ever.  We could have been named for something else we're famous for, like beer or bad drivers, but this nickname truly reflects our personality. We're a state of stars, all shining bright, but independently. 

3.  Independence.  People in Texas are downright fierce about their independence.  Texas was an independent country at one point; we chose to join the United States.  But we prefer to handle things our way.  If there's a law forbidding something, odds are good that there will be a multitude of Texans upset about it.  Not because we especially want whatever is being banned, but because we don't like anybody telling us what to do.  We prefer to make our decisions on our own, thank you. 

4. Diversity.  Texas was actually named from a Native American word, tejas, which means friends.  Many countries sent colonies to settle in the United States, and a number of them ended up here in Texas.  France, Spain, Germany, Poland, Czechloslavakia--it's a mini-Europe. We also have large Vietnamese, African, and Korean populations to balance things out.  There are people from just about every country on the planet who come to Texas and stay.

5. Geography.  Like mountains? Like arid climates?  Sleep best next to rivers?  Enjoy lots of pine trees?  Prefer the open plain? Enjoy fly fishing?  It's all in Texas.  If you prefer city life, there are cities with impossibly tall skylines and sidewalks full of people.  If you'd rather get as far away from people as possible, there's plenty of room for that, too.

6. Location, location, location.  Yes, it takes an entire 24 hours to drive across the state, but Texas is located in a spot that makes trips to other places easier.  If I want to visit Mexico, it's not that far.  If I head to Memphis, I can be there by the end of the day.  A vacation in Florida is just a hop, skip, and a jump away, as is California.

7. There's always a party somewhere in this state.    We can't help it. Anytime, anywhere, there's a festival or a fair going on some place.  Right now in New Braunfels, they are having Wurstfest.  If there's no festival scheduled, there will be a Taste of the Town, or a Wine Event.  Anytime someone can drink a beer or two is a good thing.  This past weekend there was an event called...Meatopia.  Yes, we even have festivals dedicated to the eating of meat!

8.  It's in the blood.  Texas is one of those places that you either love immediately or you hate it. Those who hate this state leave as soon as they can for parts unknown. If you love this state, however, being a Texan gets in your blood and you cannot even think that you ever wanted to be anywhere else.


What's your state?



4.) List 8 best reasons you love living in your state.

Dinner Date

The mark sat by himself at a lovely table near the window, a glass of a pretentious chardonnay in his hand.  Clare nodded to herself from her vantage point near the ladies' room; he looked just desperate enough for her company to be welcome, but she decided to give him a couple more minutes to stew. 
Clare had grown up hard, and had learned very early that the fastest way to success in life was by using what she had to get what she wanted.  Her mother had taught her all about men; Clare had lost count of the number of dates her mother brought home.  But it kept the rent paid and put food on the table for Clare and her sisters, and that was all that mattered to them.  Now Clare was out on her own.

Stand up, shoulders back, chin level with the floor, and smile.  Clare sashayed into the main room of the restaurant, aiming straight for her target.  The mark watched her walk his way, anticipation tensing his features.  Clare walked right past him to sit at the next table, where her own glass of wine sat.  The waiter approached her, and she ordered the prime rib.

The mark was waiting for his blind date to appear, Clare knew. She'd happened to hear her coworker discussing an upcoming date; it wasn't difficult to leave a phone message indicating that the date had been cancelled.  Then she'd made reservations at the same place, requesting a nearby table.  When he was sufficiently upset about being stood up, Clare would begin her routine, sobbing quietly, but loud enough.  He would be curious, they would talk.  The two of them would bond over their woeful experiences, and soon, his money would be all hers.

Clare had it all planned out.  She knew her craft. She just hoped that this one wouldn't need killing.





The prompt is the third definition of the word CRAFT.  And you get a bonus verse, just because I happened to have it running through my brain while I was writing, and I had to get it out.



Every spider knows well his craft,

knows just which silver, silken webs to weave,

to draw each briefly dazzled fly into his lair.
 
The spider's lifelong task is to ever so cleverly deceive.

Sea Tale

Killian Frost was not the kind of man women gave a second glance.  He wasn't handsome, but rather nondescript and bland.  His neatly cut brown hair did not catch the sunlight, his brown eyes were not soulful or poetic.  Most women let their gaze slide right over Killian, as if he weren't there, and spent their attention elsewhere.  

He preferred it that way.  It was safer.

Killian's life was also nondescript and bland.  He awoke at the same time each day, showered and dressed, fed his cat Socrates, and walked the 10 blocks to his office.  On the way he stopped at the local coffee shop and ordered a black coffee and a bran muffin.  He sat at a small table in the back corner of the shop and read the newspaper while he ate his muffin. The same routine, every day, except for Sundays.  Killian never had to think about what he was going to wear or what he was going to do; it was already decided. There was comfort in that routine, and a sense of safety as well.

"Hello handsome!"

Killian looked up from his newspaper, uncertain.  An icy blonde woman with a fake tan and brilliant blue eyes stood in front of him.  She pointed to the seat across from him.

"Mind if I sit down?"  Her voice rolled in like the tide, a swelling intonation that broke over him. He was speechless. Not waiting for a response, the woman pulled out the chair and sat. She put her elbows on the table and leaned toward Killian, who leaned back in his chair.   He was not sure what to do, but he was only halfway through his muffin. If he didn't finish it, he'd be regretting it all day.

"Name's Sam," she said, her smile catching a beam of sunlight like water.  "What's your name, sailor?"

"Um...it's Killian," he coughed a little, not used to speaking to other people. "But I'm not a sailor."

"Ah, Killian, does it really matter that you're not a sailor now?" Sam winked at him, her eyes dancing like ocean waves.  "You could fall in love with the sea tomorrow!"

"Uh...right." Killian did not know what to say.  He hadn't been to the beach in years, not since he was a small child. He didn't even know how to swim.  He wasn't sure how he was going to fall in love with the sea, or why.  But at the sound of Sam's words, Killian's heart expanded.  The sea was calling to him.  He could smell the salt, hear the gulls crying, and feel the roll of the waves underneath the deck of a ship.  He stared at the half piece of bran muffin, wondering if the barista would wrap it for him to go. 

He could already tell that his life was never going to be the same.





"The third day comes a frost, a killing frost." Shakespeare.  When I read this, I didn't have my glasses on, and so I read it as "killian frost" instead of 'killing frost'.  I liked the name.   I've also always wanted a cat named Socrates, but he hasn't shown up yet, except here. Constructive criticism is most welcome.