An Update on Dick.

Dick, according to the media, has only a short time to decide if he wants to be put on a list for a heart transplant. At age 69, he will soon be too old to be considered for one.

Wow, that must really suck for him, facing his own mortality like that. Of course, I was surprised when they opened his chest the first time and actually found a beating human heart instead of a big, black, rotting hole.

Honestly, I don't wish Dick death or suffering. I just wish him a heart. Not the kind of heart one gets by sitting on a waiting list nor by surgical transplantation because of another's selflessness. I think you know what I mean.

Marjorie.

My grandmother, Marjorie, is the pretty young woman sitting on the swing. Next to her father and surrounded by siblings, I can't help but notice how beautiful she is. At age fifteen when this photo was taken, she had already become the surrogate mother to her five younger brothers and sisters - a role thrust upon her by tragic circumstances. To this day, I have never been told the entire story. Within a year of the day this photo was taken, my grandmother married a young soldier and left her family to start her own.

She is wearing lipstick for the photograph. I wonder if she found it among her absent mother's belongings, left behind in her rush to leave. I doubt her father bought it for her. He wasn't the nicest nor most generous of men, so I've heard.

Marjorie is and always has been the kindest, sweetest person I have ever known. I have never heard her say one negative thing about another human being. She always thinks of others before she thinks of herself. She has the most beautiful smile. Her eyes light up whenever she sees me, making me feel that I am as special to her as she is to me. We have always had a close bond - I am her oldest granddaughter and she is my first memory.

I am so grateful to have Marjorie still with me, as I know there are not too many 50-year-olds who still have living grandparents - and I'm lucky to have two. My grandfather is also still living, and he is the second sweetest person I have ever known. An ex-drill sargent and then a brick layer, Dale was a hard man with a soft spot for his grandchildren and an even softer spot for his bride of seventy-three years. At ages 91 and 89 - and still living independently with each other - they are so adorable and so delightful to be around.

Yesterday, my mother called. She is worried about Marjorie. She seems to be slowing down and is getting tired. I've already lost one grandmother to age - I know what "tired" means. It means Marjorie is starting to leave me. I can feel it in my heart. I feel she knows it, too. The last time I saw her, at Christmas, at our goodbyes, she clung to me just a little too tight, just a little too long. It made me hesitate and look deep into her face. I could see through her smile, she was saying goodbye. I hugged her again - just a little too tight, just a little too long. When we separated, we both had tears in our eyes. "I love you so much," I told her. She replied with her standard, "Not nearly as much as I love you."

I'm not ready to let her go. I'm not ready, dammit. But I know when the time comes, I'll have to be.

Crush.

Yesterday, I took down the Christmas tree. It's part of my annual post-holiday cleansing ritual performed each year on New Year's Day. I usually kick everyone out of the house, turn up the volume on the Bose stereo, and clean. Classic Rock being my genre of choice, I sing and dance along with the songs to which I use to "shake 'em down". Of course, home alone I don't have to stop and think about my dignity - to borrow a phrase from Bob - so I get down with my bad self as I dust and pack and sweep.

The first four notes play of a certain song. I stop and I am instantly enthralled. David Gilmour's guitar sings to me as no other musician's can. I close my eyes and let the notes embrace me, caress my skin as soft and tender as a long, lost lover finally returning to me through time and distance. I recall as a teen I would lie on my bed in my adolescent bedroom as the music would cover me like a warm, soft blanket. I would slowly dance my fingers through the delicate web of smoke that rose from the end of a stick of incense - the room dark except for the flame of a candle and the faint glow of a streetlight filtering through the curtain... the melodic strands of David's guitar and Roger's lyrics inducing me to a dream-like state. The scents of the incense and candle - my favorites of patchouli and blueberry - would commingle creating a sweet, natural high as David looked down from my ceiling. His smoldering eyes were so teasingly sexy to my teenage self, I could barely look away.

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom,
blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter,
come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!


The song ends, the spell is broken, I return to the present. Pedro returns from his assigned errands, I turn the volume down and resume cleaning. He doesn't recall the song when asked. Pedro was never a Floyd fan, so I let it drop.

After Pedro has gone to bed and the house is quiet, I sit still tense from the day's events. I go downstairs and dig through my old CDs. I'm pretty sure my oldest daughter owns a CD of Pink Floyd's greatest hits - did she take it with her when she moved? Ah, here it is. I run back upstairs and place the disc into the player. I turn off the lamps and light a nearby candle. I plug in my earphones and lie down on the couch.

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond.
Well, you wore out your welcome with random precision,
rode on the steel breeze.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions,
come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

I remember my crush and smile as the music washes over me like a warm blanket of Valium. I become comfortably numb.

It's been awhile. I'll try to be better.

Today, the temperature dropped noticeably by several degrees. The air smells different. The cicadas are quiet. Summer is quietly slipping her sun-kissed shoulders into a sweater the colors of pumpkin and purple. I love Fall, but I really hate to see Summer fade. Sigh.

This summer, I worked. I worked to the point of exhaustion - so much so that I literally did nothing but vegetate on my days off. I look back over the last several days and weeks, and I regret the wasted time. However, there were a few highlights.

I spent a fun week in our nation's capitol exploring the many museums and historic landmarks to the point of total saturation.

I ended a stressful relationship with a long-time friend and felt only relief.

I nursed a friend in need - not only by my skills with a needle, but with my compassion for a friend with a wounded heart.

I gave up and got bifocals. . .and, with great pleasure, started to read books again.

I turned fifty, dammit.

I shared an extremely private moment (which will remain private) with my best friend in a bathroom in a bar after many shots of Patron. . .and fell in love with her all over again.

I danced.

I got a concussion while being dipped while dancing. (No comments from the peanut gallery, thankyouverymuch.)

I watched my best friend fall deeply in love with the right man.

I helped my youngest daughter move into her first apartment.

I spent hours at a time in deep discussions about life, love, and the future with my middle daughter and enjoyed every minute of it.

I helped my oldest daughter come to the realization that a Harvard degree doesn't mean much when the man holding it isn't the one she truly loves.

I spent a warm summer's night on a trampoline sleeping under the stars with an eighty-pound dog as my blanket buddy.

I danced. . .again.


Wow. I was wrong. This was one of the best fucking summers of my life.

Miss you, Ash.

Transition.

tran-si-tion: – noun 1. movement, passage, or change from one position, state, stage, subject, concept, etc., to another; change: the transition from adolescence to adulthood.



I turn 50 in nine months. For some reason, that surprises me. '50' has managed to sneak up on me... or is that 'creep' up on me? I'm not sure which, but I am sure of one thing. I'm in transition. Not from youth to middle age or middle age to old age, but from denial and/or ignoring the signs of aging to "I'm not quite ready to sell the farm, Billy!" The only problem is the bank of youth is wanting to close my account - I get a memo to that effect each time I look in the mirror - and it's not taking "no" for an answer, dammit.

It's the drying up that bothers me the most. Dry hair. Dry skin. Dry eyes. And dare I say it? ("Yes," you're thinking, "we're all in this together - just say it.") Okay. Dry vajayjay. Now, doesn't that just sound sooo sexy? I feel like Coleen Gray in the movie "The Leech Woman" when she was between men, so to speak. Where's a girl's 'young stud pineal gland tapper' when she needs one? (Google it and you'll get it.)

True story. I'm sitting in the driver's seat in my car waiting for my daughter. She gets into the car... and the windows in the entire car instantly steam up EXCEPT for the driver's side window and my side of the windshield. I am so dry, her youthful moisture could not penetrate the parched barrier surrounding me, leaving my small section of the car as dry and arid as the Sahara Desert. Grrr.

Today in the mail, I got a special edition of People Magazine titled "Sexy at Any Age." I perused the photos of celebrities who look younger at age 40-something than they did when 20-something. The beauty secrets of the Stars! Anti-oxidents! Organic diets! 5-mile daily runs! 4-hour daily workouts! Um... no.

By the way, Valerie Bertinelli is totally hot. And she is my age. I'm thinking she might be inspiring me to ... exercise. Gasp! But inspiring and actually "doing" are two different things and I haven't been very reliable in the past in the "doing" department when it comes to exercise. So that leads me back to my transition.

I'm making a promise to myself to do more. I promise to exercise more. I promise to dance more. I promise to protect my skin more with SPFs and pretty, floppy hats. I promise to eat a more healthier diet and to drink less caffiene. I promise to get more sleep. I promise to laugh more (laugh lines, I don't mind at all, thankyouverymuch). I promise to forgive myself when I fail. And the hardest promise I make to myself is to accept the fact that I am aging. I promise to do it with dignity, with grace, with my friends, and most definitely with a sense of humor.

Transition. It can be a bitch, but sometimes it can lead you to the most satisfying time of your life... if you just let it.

Arm & Hammer

I hear my cell phone beep.

I'm tired, and it's hard to get my ass off of the couch. Why did I leave the phone in the other room? Blah.

It's Erica. I know because I have caller ID.

"Hi, Erica."

"Hey."

"What's up?"

"Something terrible's happened."

"Should I sit down?"

"Hammer got hit by a car, and he didn't make it." I hear a sniffle.

Hammer is her labrador retriever mix. A happy 120 lb. chocolate puppy - reckless, fearless, and totally untrainable.

"Oh no!" I cry. "The poor sweetie. Did he suffer?" I silently hope to myself he didn't suffer.

"No. It was instant. Juan is burying him right now... in the backyard, you know, with the others."

Erica hasn't been too lucky with dogs.

First, there was Kenneth Wayne. Kenneth Wayne was a cute mutt of the Heinz 57 variety who developed heartworm because Erica could never remember to give him his heartworm prevention cookie. He died in her arms, gasping for each breath and with a hacking cough reminiscent of an old man with a 30-year smoking habit.

Next was Number 5. She wasn't a particularly nice dog, but she was very loyal to Erica and Juan. She was a gift to Erica from her mother-in-law after Kenneth Wayne died and was the only pure bred dog of the bunch. A black and white springer spaniel, Number 5 oddly loved to eat the green peppers in Erica's garden. Unfortunately for Number 5, she choked to death on one.

Then there was Waldo. Waldo, a mutt with a little german shepherd in him and a little collie in him and a lot of hair on him, was a three-legged dog. That's how he was when he showed up one day just out of the blue. He climbed up onto her front porch, stretched out under the porch swing, and that was where he could be found for the next four years at any time of the day or night - unless he was chasing a rabbit. Waldo hated rabbits. One day Waldo chased a rabbit with his surprisingly fast 3-legged sprint into the woods behind Erica and Juan's house, and he was never seen again. We looked for Waldo for a couple of hours. Erica was beside herself with worry, but we never found him. We hope he now sleeps on another porch and dreams of chasing rabbits.

Patty-cake appeared soon after Waldo disappeared. Patty-cake was huge pregnant and delivered her puppies two days after her arrival. The first four puppies were stillborn, but the last one born, a little female, lived. Erica named her Patty-cake Too. Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too met an untimely end about a year later when Erica and Juan's crazy neighbor to the North decided he didn't like Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too getting into his yard, even though they were harmless. He fed each of them raw hamburger he had laced with rat poison. Juan confronted the neighbor and threatened to sue him, but he never did. He buried Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too next to Kenneth Wayne and Number 5.

Then just about a year ago, someone dumped two lab puppies in the corn field across from Erica and Juan's small farm. Erica immediately claimed ownership and named the two male puppies Arm & Hammer - after the baking soda.

"Oh, Erica. I'm so sorry. How is Arm taking it?"

"He's alright. He's a dog. I gave him a flip-chip and he's fine."

"That's good."

"You know, it just dawned on me now that Hammer is gone - 'Arm' is kind of a dumb name for a dog."

I smile at this. Poor Arm. A big dumb dog with a stupid name and a careless owner. I can't help but think his days are numbered.

Dick needs a hobby.

George seems to be handling retirement okay, but Dick appears to have issues with it. I've met people who just can't seem to 'let go' when they lose their job, even though the rest of us have already moved on. Dick is one of those who just won't let go.

Someone else now sits at Dick's old desk, and Dick doesn't like the guy. The new guy is congenial and likeable, and people laugh around him and seem, well, happy. Dick is sour and cynical and never lets people laugh around him. Dick doesn't like 'happy'. He likes war, power, and money. I hate that in a person. I really do.

Dick, do us all a favor and find yourself a hobby.