blue girl

Sunday Afternoon II

BK's friend's dad just got a new toy yesterday. This '68 Oldsmobile Ninety-eight convertible. He was nice enough (dumb enough?) to let his son and BK take it for a spin today. The boys didn't know how to take the top down and none of the men who suddenly appeared out of the blue in our driveway wanted to risk being the ones who did any sort of damage. So, BK and Dan drove around town and through the park with the hood up. Still fun for them.

Wish I would've gotten a shot of the dashboard. It was sculpture.

Sunday Afternoon

Our hostas in the dappled sun.

Buried Feelings

My stepfather B died in January and since then I've only had a couple of dreams about him. I had a few dreams about him before he died. In one, the faces of all the cancer patients I had observed at the Taussig Cancer Center were backing up, coming closer; fragmented, colorful images swirling out of control. There was no theme to it except for scary disorientation. Which fit. I had that dream the night before he died. And while I had a laser sharp focus at that point, everything was tumbling forward faster and faster, out of our control. There was nothing more to be done.

After my stepfather died, we were sitting with the man who runs the funeral home, making decisions. I wanted no part of it. Not because I was sad or in denial that he had passed away -- although I'm sure I was in shock -- but because I couldn't shake the feeling of knowing what B would say. How ridiculous all of it was. He would have been the last person sitting in a room like that listening to a man trying his best to speak in a soothing tone, describing the price differences between caskets. And since B couldn't be the last person, I had to take his place.

During the calling hours whenever I'd walk near the casket, my overriding feeling was to tell him, "These people have no idea what's going on. This is a bad party. Let's you and me get out of here!"

Yeah, he and I got it. They didn't.

In the first dream I had about him after he died, I was at a business luncheon. A large gathering where I was admiring the speaker's orange and brown dress thinking I'd like it better in black and white, while I organized flowers at the end of a long table.

The speaker was talking about where the dead go. She was never specific as to their destination but from what she was saying she had a definite opinion that they leave to go somewhere else. I looked over to the center of the room and B was sitting there listening to her. And as I arranged the white roses, I thought, Well, she has no idea what she's talking about! There he is. He's right here! He's not gone anywhere.

Back in November, my stepfather had a stroke and had to have emergency surgery. After his surgery, I was able to visit him in the intensive care unit. I stood by his bed side. After a few minutes, he opened his eyes. And all I could say to him was, "This stinks, B." He smiled groggily at me then reached up and squeezed my cheeks softly between his thumb and four fingers then he fell back to sleep. I watched as he winced, rolling his shoulders into the pillow. Although he never complained about his pain, he felt it most acutely in his shoulders over the months. And I knew that he must have been in a lot of pain if he felt it even in a post-surgery, drugged up state.

That night, when I got home from the hospital, I wrote to a friend, "I just want to steal him away so nothing else can happen to him."

By this time, I'd come to think that all the hospital visits, all the doctors and all the tests were ridiculous because I knew where it all was headed and the best of the best could continue to do their best and it would all end up meaning absolutely nothing except more pain, more fear and more false hope.

I awoke this morning from a dream. We were at B's calling hours with a roomful of people I used to work with. I sat in a chair near the casket, watching as people paid their respects. B was animated in this dream. He was wincing and rolling his shoulders. No one else seemed to notice. People were talking about him as if he couldn't hear them; as if he wasn't there. After someone had said something particularly ridiculous, he rolled his eyes, sighed and said, "Jesus Christ."

I said to him, "I know B. This just stinks."

Suddenly, I was standing next to my old boss as he talked on the phone.

"Who are you calling?"

"I'm calling Elaine. She'll order the food."

And I thought, Here we go again, everyone trying to make the best of a bad party.

A Talking Evil Clown Doll

I never could get what was the big deal about being pretty, it all seemed like a bunch of hokum to me. Who had the time to think about such things, and who would bother? I knew girls who even had those life-sized decapitated Barbie heads, and they would very concentratedly paint Barbie's eyelids a shade of blue not seen on a human face since Mooreland's too brief acquaintance with a town slut (or as my mother called her, man-dependent). And Barbie's lips would get painted a cheap crayony pink, with lumps and streaks, and it was not many hours after Christmas morning that my toiletry-leaning friends discovered that no matter what one did with Barbie's hair it turned out creepy and couldn't be undone. Then there she sat, gathering dust on her cheerful, ruined face and chopped-up vinyl hair and I don't know why my friends didn't just get themselves a talking evil clown doll and be done with it.

From She Got Up Off the Couch: And Other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana by Haven Kimmel.

I loved my decapitated Barbie heads when I was little. lol

C'mon Cavs! Gotta Make it Happen!

My headline is the Cavs' tag line from their playoff games in 1976. I was 12. I used to sit up in my bedroom on the shag carpeting in front of my nightstand, my ear pressed against the radio, listening to every WHOA! and SCORE! And OH! They lost it all!

Again.

And of course: There's always next year.

The cry of the damned. The cry of every Cleveland sports' fan everywhere.

My dad used to take me to those games. And I'd stand hanging over that narrow, dark hallway at the Coliseum---where the players would run in and out of the locker room---begging for their autographs. And I got them all. Footsie Walker. Bingo Smith. Walt Frazier. Nate Thurmond. Jim Brewer. Campy Russell. Austin Carr. Jim Chones. Elmore Smith. Dick Snyder. John Lambert. Terry Furlow.

My stepfather was traveling and saw the opponent in an airport and stepped outside his comfort zone to ask for an autograph for me.

I still have John Havlicek's autograph in a shoebox somewhere. He helped beat the Cavs.

Of course.

Tonight the Cavs are facing the Orlando Magic again. And we are down 3-1. Which means that the Cavs have to win three straight---three straight!---to get to the next set of playoff games that would rip your heart out if you were the type of person who cared about such things anymore!

The Skimmer's out of town on business tonight and we were talking on the phone earlier.

"Think they'll win?!"

"Three straight? Three straight?!"

"Typical Cleveland. Only Cleveland, who had the best record in the regular season could give it up now!"

"Man. So true."

"I was thinkin' today. Orlando! You've beat the Cavs! Whattya gonna do now?! Go to Disney World?! You're already in Orlando! You're already at Disney World, Goddammit!"

I laughed.

So true. So true.

But, the fifth game has only just begun. And who knows?

The Cavs may win the next three. It could happen!

C'mon Cavs! Gotta make it happen! C'mon Cavs! Gotta make it happen! C'mon Cavs! Gotta make it happen!

Oh, sorry. That's just the 12 year old comin' out in me.

Stars in My Eyes

I'm am an excellent celebrity spotter. I spot them all the time. Mistakenly. Forever. I'll be trying to find a parking spot at the grocery store and see a man across the way and I'll think, Is that Gene Wilder?!

I'll be pumping gas, watching the car roll out of the car wash and I'll think, Is that J.J. from Good Times?!

I'll be stopped at a traffic light, look over at the driver in the car next to me and I'll think, Is that Annie Potts?!

It's ridiculous how many times I think I've spotted some celebrity in this tiny, sleepy suburb. I've thought of writing a blog post about it since it's become a thing. I mean, how likely is it that Tom Wilkinson is buying M&Ms in front of me at the drugstore? That Craig T. Nelson is walking into Best Cuts? That Robert Patrick would be standing next to me at Starbucks?!

Pretty likely, actually.

Tonight, after I left the library, I drove over to Starbucks to get a cup of coffee and read for awhile. When I stepped up to the counter, three men, all dressed in Harley gear rolled through the front door making more commotion than three men usually do around these here parts. I looked over and immediately thought, Is that the guy from the Terminator?! I think that's the guy from The Terminator! Now, how could that be the guy from the Terminator? I swear it's him! Is it? What would the guy from the Terminator be doing at my Starbucks?! That's him, though, I think. Here I go again. Have I lost it?!

And as I was pondering my crazy celebrity spotting ways, I watched him swagger to the back where the restrooms were and as he passed a couple sitting at a table, the girl looked up, yanked out her ear buds and whispered excitedly to the guy sitting across from her, "Oh my God! That's the guy from Terminator!"

And I thought, It IS the guy from The Terminator. Isn't it?!

I came home and Googled him and it was the guy from the Terminator! He's older now and more filled-out. And he didn't morph into anything in front of my eyes. But he did give the barista a steely-eyed glare when he felt obligated to order a tall instead of a small. It was him.

Maybe I'm not so goofy now that I think about it. Maybe that was Father Guido Sarducci in line behind me at the bank that one time after all.

Beaming with Pride

Blue Kid went to prom Saturday night. The photo session began at BK's girlfriend's parents' house at 4:30pm. Well, it actually started at 4:45pm because BK's girlfriend was in her bedroom with her grandmother in a full-blown state of emergency.

At one point, her Grandma ran out into the living room saying, "She doesn't have a purse! She needs a silver purse! And her hair needs sprayed again!"

I glanced over at Blue Kid, who was standing quietly near the couch holding Em's corsage with both hands, grinning and looking somewhat clueless. I can guarantee he doesn't truly understand why needing and not having a silver purse could be viewed as a perfectly appropriate reason to call 911.

When every strand of Em's hair was sprayed in place and an acceptable purse had been found, they shyly exchanged flowers and stood for pictures in front of the fireplace.

From there, we all went to another parents' house where four other couples and all their parents and grandparents and possibly, by the size of the crowd, their great grandparents too, gathered for another photo session in the den. I didn't know any of these kids. And apparently no one else did either. It was the one boy's birthday. And the lady of the house walked around quietly, whispering to everyone, "In a few minutes, let's sing Happy Birthday to John!"

After we were finished singing, the kids were cracking up. The boy's name wasn't John. Not-John was a good sport. He didn't seem to care at all.

The rain, which had been pouring down all day, finally let up. So, we all went outside to take photos in front of the large evergreens. I watched as they joked and laughed and hugged and preened for the cameras.

One of the girls yelled, "Come and get a shot of Jim and I up close! And her dad yelled, "Jim and me, Lauren. Jim and me."

And I thought, BP and this guy would get along great!

The rain began to fall and as the kids all piled into the limo and drove away, I choked up for the second time that day. The first time being when I saw BK beaming when he put on his tuxedo.

After-prom ended at 4:00am. I fought off sleep until 12:30 and then proceeded to fight off consciousness every fifteen minutes. At 3:00am, I nudged The Skimmer.

"I'm worried."

"Don't be worried."

"Ok."

"They're contained."

"Yeah, they are prom inmates."

Proms are different now. Everything including dinner beforehand is all held at the same place. There is a lengthy security process the kids have to go through if they want to leave after-prom before it's over. I think handcuffs, ropes and tasers are involved. Which is fine by me.

You wouldn't have caught me dead at my after-prom. Or maybe you would have. I would have been tasered.

Good thing, too. From the details (I got actual details!) I got the next morning, after-prom was a hit. Primarily because BK won $100 in a raffle.

Last night, The Skimmer and I were in bed. He said, "I was just so proud last night."

"I know."

"How come though?"

"Cuz!"

"Yeah, but really. Why? Because he was dressed up?"

"Yeah, when your son is dressed up and doesn't smell it always makes you proud."

He laughed, "Well, I keep thinking about it."

"It's because he was so happy."

"He was beaming."

"He really was."

His Fabulous Face

My story is much too sad to be told,
but practically everything
leaves me totally cold.
The only exception I know is the case,
when I'm out on a quiet spree,
fighting vainly the old ennui
and I suddenly turn and see
your fabulous face...

She Got a Kick Out of Him

Wednesday evening I went back to my old high school, which is now a middle school, to hear my 12 year old niece play trumpet in a band concert. When they took the stage we couldn't see her. And because it was just as important to see her as to hear her, we quietly snuck out of the second row and made our way to the back of the auditorium.

When I sat down in my new seat, I heard a lady behind me say to the person sitting next to her, "You want to switch with me?"

Because I'm so tall, especially from the waist up, I was blocking the little old lady behind me. So, I slunk down as far as possible in my seat, peering at my niece between the shoulders of the man and woman in front of me who never thought to slunk at all.

The sixth grade band sounded just great. And of course, my niece was the best trumpet player on stage. I'm sure Dizzie Gillespie would completely agree with me.

The high school jazz ensemble made a special appearance at the end of the concert. They had just returned from performing in New Orleans and were there to entertain us and also to inspire the middle schoolers.

They ended their set with Frank Sinatra's version of "I Get a Kick Out of You." The vocalist, a 17 year old boy, wearing a black tux, a red rose in his lapel and an adorable smile had his moves down pat. He knew when to point, when to slide seamlessly to the left while holding a note and how to toss the mic from one hand to another as he winked at the audience.

When the song was over, they got a standing ovation.

As the noise from the clapping and whistling died down, the little old lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder.

"Oh! I'm sorry I was blocking you!"

"Oh, honey, I could see just fine! Weren't they good?"

"Yeah! They were really great!"

"Especially that boy who just sang. Oooooh, he was really something!"

"Yeah, he's really good!"

"And so, so cute. Oooooh, so cute. So handsome!"

"Yeah, he's adorable."

"I can get away with that more than you can."

Confused, I said, "What?"

"Well, he is really something. And I can say that! No one would ever think a thing about it! It's one of the benefits of being 82!"

Zombie Luv, BG Style

First of all, I will never call him Rotten Zombie McDonald. Or Zombie Rotten McDonald. Or McDonald Rotten Zombie. Or whatever he changed his name to. He started out as TC to me but then changed his name to Billy Pilgram, so he became BP.

And BP he shall remain.

No matter who he looks like...

I don't care!

Secondly, I will never listen to You'll Be In My Heart with BP. No matter how much he loves that song.

What's next? This?

But I do agree with Patrick Bateman. Invisible touch is indeed the group's undisputed masterpiece.

Third. I will not get all embroiled in a big fight that has to do with the English language in any way. Ever again! We will never again discuss spelling or grammer or punctuation. I will put commas wherever I want. Forevermore! And I will embrace run-on sentences like there's no tomorrow. The Typo?

Pa-leez.

It is my signature style.

And if he tries to pick a fight with me on any of this? He will get what. What?

You know it, people.