Just Another Pint

Tired of sad and lonely, tired of depressed; want to make it go away. My love left an ache that just doesn't quit, not one little bit. I loved my life with my honey; we were both assholes from time to time, but other times we clicked along beautifully. We were the average people of this planet in love; because of love, I believe in God. Love takes a hard day’s work and transforms it into a gift for someone more important, yeah, someone more important than you.

Do you know how many people haven’t felt that? People tell me to let go of the past so I can enjoy my now, but I cling to the time when love lived in my life. Now, too many angry people want to hurt each other; who wants to go near?

Place, the other great character in any story needs to provide for the plot. I live on a tropical island bitching about being sad and lonely; why don’t I move? Where would I go?

July, the month my honey died, proves painful annually; the month of widowhood picks the scab off wounds not healed. In July lifting weights only hurts, I feel inches away from crying, but it’s my job to make myself feel better. All I can say is repeated applications of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia and hot fudge topping does wonders after four years. 

What's It Gonna Be

To my dear sweet niece,

At twenty I married your mother’s brother; he liked to hang with the guys at the bar, so I went to the library because I like to read. We were young and in love so we picnicked and made love in the woods, but twenty years later, I’d say,

 “Wanna go to the movies; come on, let’s go.”

“Nah, I don’t want to go,” meant an evening watching TV.

If I wanted to go to the movies, I should go to the movies, so I said,

“I’m going to the movies; you want to come?”

He replied with his usual,

“Nah,” not missing a step towards the family room sofa.

Never had I gone to the movies alone; I held the notion that we should do things together, but had to honor that if he didn’t want to go, it was his right, so when I opened the front door, with my heart pounding, I called,

“See ya later.”

Looking back, I wonder why all the drama; the thought of being a married woman alone in a movie theater upset me, but determined to for once do what I wanted to do even if he didn’t, I left.

I remember my fingers being all sweaty, wanting to sob, but being me, I thought, fuck him and started the car, threw it into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Before I could get into forward gear the front door opened; he threw his shirt on while heading to the car.

“Yeah, a movie sounds good,” 

was all he said in his best nonchalant, cool dude style.

Honey, I don’t know anyone’s life but my own, but I have learned to love and value myself enough to do what pleases me.

Your mom and her brother were tight; she’d tell me stories of things she and her brother did. Oh, my, your family had love.

I remember you with long blond hair and bangs; it seems you were one of the taller kids. What a sweet girl, I thought, you took after your mom.

This much I know; a man who loves you may not go to the ballet with you, but he’ll join you on things he likes because he wants to be with you.

The times I went to things without him, surprisingly, I’d come home smiling. Learning I could have a good time alone helped me get out on my own after he passed.

With or without the love of my life, I must try to enjoy my life or be a miserable old bitch; what’s it gonna be, honey?

Life's Questions and Lessons

We think; we wonder why we’re here or why this or that happened in childhood. Every age challenges us to grow or decline. Pain, suffering, joy, and happiness color our lives.

Each unique journey weaves in and out with others creating the cacophony of our cultures. When life becomes too painful some reach for booze or drugs, some become mean, others turn to religion. We all have a personal solution; even helplessness is a way of dealing with harsh reality.

In one of the neighborhoods I lived in as a young adult, “Take it easy” or “Don’t work too hard,” people said frequently. Their mantra reflected how they limited themselves; from the south side of Chicago, many had never even ventured into the Loop.

Being a driven soul, I bristled at this advice; being young I argued for my opinion as a better way not yet realizing what mental masturbation means.

Over the years we’re exposed to an amazing amount of energy that we absorb and reflect or deflect; through personal choice, we create who we are. Looking back on a life, wondering how well it served my soul, I’m kinder about my mistakes than when I was young.

Not judging others, do we find that difficult? Come on, don’t add lying. Whether we find them wonderful or awful, we judge. Superior or inferior, we see ourselves in that linear way or safe versus frightening; we find valid reasons for judgment.

In my twenties, I doubted that God exists. If you created us couldn’t you take better care of your creations? Who are you kidding? You created everything; that means you created evil. That’s no kind of god I could wrap my head around, so one day for no reason there was this big bang.

Many nights under the stars with cold wind on my face put my thoughts in a different order to glimpse how complex life is and that order began with God. The understanding I have gives me respect for all life whether I like them or not.

How we live now creates our heaven or hell, so it’s not a stretch to think we’re creating our future (life) according to the law of karma.

So now I’m wondering, how do I best set myself up for my next existence? If this life could be a bank account of knowledge I could send to myself, what wisdom would I impart? What questions should a soul preparing for life ask?

Wouldn’t it be nice to know how we pick our families? How many misplaced zygotes are there? Why was I one? Or was I?

And thanks for this life; it’ been a trip.

Unsolicited advice

If people want advice, they ask for it, right? What do you think about this? What do you think I should do? If you were me, what would you do?

It’s reasonable and even prudent to get other points of view. Often rather than accepting advice a la carte off the menu, I re-think and revise my plans, but value the input that sparked a new path.

“Thanks, I’ll think about what you’ve said,” has become my closing line because I’ve found it better to consider gradually; I’m really slow like that.

Don’t people get that venting doesn’t require a sage response? It’s a bitch that doesn’t ask for more acknowledgment than, “Poor baby.”

A tale of similar woe response can be bonding, but a monolog on what I should have done annoys me to the point I find myself sharing less with friends, which means I listen to their gripe-moans without my part of the sharing that cements these relationships. Finding my place in a group of friends has been problematic. Either I piss them off or; don’t get me wrong, I have friends.

I hung out with a woman whose immediate response to whatever anyone talked about was I followed by her experience whether related or not, even this never changing non-empathetic conversation I found better than the you shoulds.

Yes, we must take our friends as we find them or move along, but why don’t people understand that if I don’t ask for your advice, please, don’t keep volunteering it; it’s not the gift you believe it to be.

I’ll admit that if someone has a particular experience or knowledge unsolicited advice is helpful, but overwhelmingly it’s just annoying.

Shortly after my husband died, in one day, I ran into three women I know, each said, “Your husband would want you to be happy,” followed by some variation on the theme. Not a one asked how I was doing. That day my eyes crossed and I wanted to bang my head, my tolerance surpassed; surprisingly, I remained polite but went home aggravated.

Advice givers don’t know how annoying that is because they are well intended. Heaven forbid that the advice is eye-roll worthy like recent advice to get out of my closed mind by taking hallucinogenics. Value to this advice was that great scientists from the 70’s opened their minds with drugs; this is apparently the gold standard for tripping your mind, which firmly asserted could cause one to feel remiss, but I didn’t do it in the 70’s; why would I try now that I’m approaching seventy.

Sometimes, I won’t consider an unsolicited suggestion; why do people act so offended? I could keep saying, “Thanks, I’ll think about it,” but now that I’m just a poor, old widow, it comes some days in backhoes.

I don’t wish to lose my manners; there’s too much of that going around these days. Perhaps, I should learn the art of the conversational dodge; did it rain by you last night? What’s the latest presidential tweet? Nah, we really don’t want to go there.

Senior Lady Dating Manifesto

I'm looking for someone to spend a pleasant day with, who has a zest for life. We don't have forever; each day needs to have a little sparkle. Do you spoil yourself?

My day begins with thanks for another chance and a stretch to bring my soul back into the body followed immediately by coffee. Two hours later coffee and I are on the internet before I head for the gym. My days are lovely, my roads wind through tropical forests with sheer facing rock walls before showing me the ocean.

A handsome man to look into my eyes, who enjoys my wit and finds me attractive spells a fine afternoon, but a man with humor and candor makes a day too short.

The laundrymen listing all they have and what their friends have from the moment we meet are in the top five of those to avoid; what do I care? I’m not a young chick in nesting mode.

An interesting attractive man may command my attention for a while, but drone on and on without wondering about the woman you’re with becomes too braggadocio for my taste; I’m not a chick just out of the nest.

When your stories match his, you feel like you’ve met a male kindred spirit. You could do a freaking happy dance because you’re sharing your stories with someone who has the same sense of adventure. Little by little you question, disbelief dampens the flames of desire. Ladies, you know how deflating a liar is, right.

A man with a passion for almost anything, I prefer to the guy who lists his assets, upon deciding that those assets should be enough to attract you slides rather rapidly into fault finding, a constant complainer. Yuck.

I’ve had real love and I’ve had forever, at least forty-five years of it. As I recall, we built that a day at a time.

A man who loves his job can tell me stories about something I don’t understand; I’ll ask questions while admiring the twinkle in his eyes as he speaks, but he must ask about me. I don’t spew or interrupt a man waxing eloquent on himself. A man who doesn’t ask about the woman he’s with doesn’t care who you are; screw that and bye-bye.

A lively conversation, friendly banter and a bit of innuendo don’t mean a thing, but time well spent; I could enjoy that, but too many woe-be-gone faces want to tell me their problems. They remind me of a very talented woman who applied for a job as my secretary. I was liking her for the job, told her I’d call her, and on the way out the door she said, “I suffer from melancholia.”

Companions, partners, or mates should bring us up; some days we struggle to enjoy our day. Before we’ll help each other; we must care. Time well spent together brings that, so don’t tell me about forever; let’s just make a beautiful day and see what happens.

By the way, I’m a spoiler; do you know what that is?

It’s a woman who when she’s happy, she spoils you silly.  

Always, My Love

“Get over it,”

some have had the guts to say.

“Move along with your life,”

others counsel.

“He’d want you to be happy,”

A few console.

Fourth anniversary here in a bit

I miss being your wife

The showers of love poems

Sweet and sappy

People who like me, a small council

But no one on Earth to touch my soul

Alone, no you to hold my hand

Sampling life’s wares

Many shores to meander

Sunsets seen with toes in sand

Postcards wishing you were there

Always, my love

New Days, Old Ways

Game of Thrones, The Last Kingdom, and The Tudors are some of my favorite shows. Perhaps it’s my overactive imagination, but sometimes I picture the cast of our Congress in medieval attire and our president with a crown banishing and tweeting with abandon waiting for the beheading to begin or maybe it has and I just don’t know it.

In the age of political correctness, we held our tongues and made a stab at considering the other guy’s feelings. Some people took that rather hard.

Given our history, we should understand by now that accepting others isn’t easy and figure out how to get over ourselves, but no, we’re the snake eating its own behind.

In the beginning of the age of political correctness, we learned about how win-win negotiation might actually be better for everybody than the historic win-lose warriors adore.

Paying lip service to respect for your opponent, giving value to the other guy’s wants couldn’t have been all that difficult; could it? What’s the worse that might happen; we gain empathy? Or heaven forbid we appreciate the other guy’s point of view.

Humans considering the wants and needs of others would be so utopia, so Renaissance. We strive for an age of enlightenment; what the hell happened?

Elected official freed to tackle citizen to the floor, power broker sends witch who laughed at him to the stockade, and a first son declares, 

“Democrats aren’t even human.”

Lords and ladies in charge of public programs figuring out how to keep the lower classes barefoot, dumb, and pregnant. If they wore their regal garb, we’d see them for the offspring of aliens they are.

A return to the Dark Ages doesn’t benefit people. If the one percent, the lords have no respect for the needs of the serfs, what are citizens going to do about it?

If we, the people are going to have any power of negotiation, perhaps we ought to do it before robots replace us in the workforce.

Whose Utopia would it be if the 1% outsourced the rest of the human race?

It Is a Big Deal

Sometime in my early sixties thoughts switched to retirement. As part of that process, one takes the look over the shoulder to see the accomplishments of a lifetime.  For me, it was the moment of looking myself in the eye to know that I had earned my respect.

So many things in life aren’t as big a deal as we make them out to be, but liking who you are at the end of your career is important. It’s not a number thing like he who dies with the most toys wins; they’re just toys. I’d rather have integrity than more money, but no mistake I wanted to earn a comfortable living and worked hard.

Over the years there’s always bad times, but I plucked along relentlessly. Earning a big salary may be its own reward, but spending years doing something I didn’t like never made me happy, so I followed the rule of love what you do.

Dogs have perfected the art of presence; in silence, they look at us and perhaps wag their tail with no obvious judgment. Since childhood, I have loved dogs; thank you, God.

After jobs and businesses I enjoyed, the last thirty years of my career I worked with dogs; what could be better? I played with dogs for a living until I ran a dog business that played with dogs, which is almost as much fun but paid better.

Nobody wants to leave a thriving business, but age ain’t easy, so you contemplate and consider before rebelliously declaring,

“I have another good ten years in me, maybe more.”

But the property and the business appraised at a tidy sum, so best think about it; it made so much sense to quit in time to enjoy life. My husband suffered from chronic pain, so he voted to go; we put it on the market and buyers came, but nobody could get a loan.

Bankers lead the news each evening, they called it, the “Great Recession.” Too big to fail, that was the slogan, followed by bailout and lay off.

My modest dog business didn’t count for shit when regular clients can’t afford daycare for the kids and dog, so the dog lived in the yard all day and other clients, I carried. My clients, my neighbors were upside down, as they called it, meaning they owed more than the property was worth. I wasn’t in that boat, but found myself working way harder for a lot less; it was an ugly time, I picked to absolutely need to rest.

We're beaten and broken over time, so when we’re done there’s no debating. I hated to give up everything when we were covering for banking crooks by decree of GWB and company because they caused my pain. Who gives a f---, right?

Greedy bankers invented new products to sell for more than it was worth, oops. We, the people, had to pay; I had to pay when I needed my lifetime payout, another oops.

The Dodd-Frank Act became law to prevent these same greedy bankers we bailed out less than ten years ago from doing the same thing to us again.

I am disgusted by a legislature that would consider repeal of Dodd-Frank. Does the abuse of the people need to become a real ass whipping before we say, “No.”

People in power talked around the problem until I felt dizzy, but superb performances from a stellar cast in The Big Short and Margin Call shine a light on the bad behavior of reputable robbers/bankers. These movies are the modern day equivalent of Redford and Hoffman getting the goods on Nixon.

What is my generation supposed to say to the next?

“Every generation gets its ass beat by government whores with fat wallets of big business money, shut your mouth and take it.”

Please, don’t. 

Hello Mary

Early in the morning, gray-filtered into the valley, light showed up later, about when Mary made morning coffee. With no rush to hurry her about her day, Mary looked past the trees to the fluffy white clouds in the sky lost in thought until she smelled the coffee.

Coffee, chocolate, bread, Mary thought she must have always liked those, but wondered; that’s all she does is wonder.

She felt as if she’d been dropped into a stranger’s life; nothing felt familiar. People spoke to her as if in the middle of a conversation, but she didn’t know them or what they were talking about, it frightened her.

“You’re high. You’ve been drinking. You’ll be fine in the morning. It was a great party. Goodnight, Mary.”

And with that, there was Mary, alone in the night with no memory of a moment before. She sat on the porch staring at Orion’s Belt, saw a shooting star, and then coqui-coqui, coqui-coqui caught her attention until she found a tiny frog that made the sound. It’s odd how faced with something monumental a person will focus on something inconsequential.

Utterly confused, Mary wandered into the living room and down the hall to a bedroom where she dropped onto a bed and sobbed herself to sleep

Nobody needed to tell Mary to go to the bathroom in the morning, but she started at the mirror. “Who is this woman?” She stared at the face not knowing who stared back. “I need help,” she mumbled.

“Who am I? What am I doing here?”

Mary raced out the door to find out. A couple of dogs greeted her warmly. A rich texture of green overwhelmed her eyes.

“Oh, my, it’s beautiful, “ she thought as she looked across the valley.

Just then she saw an older lady walking on the road. Mary scrambled down the driveway determined to find out what was going on.

“Hello,” she called.

The woman walked into a yard across the street; the gate swung closed and locked behind her. She turned to Mary.

“Buen dia. Como esta? Todo bien? Todo bien.” She said, smiled and walked into her house; the door closed.

Mary stopped at the bottom of the driveway. “Huh?”

“What was that? Where am I?”

“God help me.”

She searched the dense green foliage and found colorful houses peeking out; a couple of dogs barked. Cows on a hillside munched and a car went down a road. Mary retreated to the bedroom, where she tried to calm down enough to think; mercifully she fell asleep, only waking after dark.

A dome of sparkling lights set in dark blue ink reflected the twinkling lights of in the bowl of a valley. Tired of the terror, the befuddlement of her situation, Mary sat forbidding herself to think. She stared at clusters of stars when one shot across the sky. “Like me,” she thought and began wondering again.

The next morning the phone rang, caller ID read: Miranda.

“Hello,” Mary answered.

“Hey, Colt’s having a party tomorrow night, wanted you to come. Stop by my house. We’ll walk over together. Bye.”

Mary stood looking at the phone in her hand; what just happened? Miranda sounded friendly perhaps she could help, but then Mary got lost in the pictures on the walls, each one seemed to tell a different tale and one picture looked like the woman in the mirror, not her.

The woman looked happy in the picture, so did the man with her, even the dog with them looked happy. 

Who was looking for her?

Mary examined the cell phone, surprised at how easily she navigated from contact list to the internet and the treasure trove of information, messaging.

With a little information, she calmed out of bonkers insanity, moving into sweaty fingers scared where she spends part of each day despite feeling that she landed in someone’s nice little life.  

Meet Miz Mary

Mary felt melancholy wondering what would make her cheer up after an evening of stories and jokes with a couple of men she barely knew.

Conversation, Mary found herself starved for the give and take of thoughts. The two friends traded quips to her delight, their well-matched wits worked overtime as one fellow stole the spotlight while his buddy waxed eloquent.

Beyond a doubt Mary enjoyed male company; they assaulted each other verbally in mock battle with her laughter encouraging. Men, Miz Mary thought, talk differently, the raucous ribbing never punctuates a conversation with the girls; men are funny. They challenge and retreat talking over the other to demonstrate prowess with Mary’s attention the symbol of superiority. The coffee and conversation buzzed in her brain on the way home.

Mary doesn’t remember the event that led to her memory loss as if she fell out of the sky landing in someone’s house. How she manages her life is anyone’s guess. Some say she sleepwalks through her life, but really nobody much talks about her.

You see her at the gym sometimes; she smiles and nods. The expression on her face tells the world she’s lost, but no one seems to notice. Vaguely, she thinks she remembers exercising in a younger body, but she paused, wondering if that’s the body she imagines having. There aren’t enough repetitions in the world she thinks as she does another set.

Why can’t I remember who I am? Why am I here? This world seems strange but familiar. A wispy veil separates Mary from others; brief moments like last night she reached through the veil. Mary analyzed every second as if it would help her remember.

Tchaikovsky’s Serenade for Strings soothed her disorientation; she likes men, but the man who grabbed her,

“For the warmth of human contact, “ upset her.

“Keep your f’ing hands off me,” she snapped.

“Calm down.”

Did men always tell you to calm down after doing something upsetting? A familiar chord, perhaps she is remembering her life on Earth.  

A Tale of Two Men

Today look to see a young man in a wheelchair, his face contorted with anger ranting at another man speaking to his mom in Spanish in San Juan airport of all places.

The hellfire torture a person feels over the loss of mobility can only be inadequately imagined, my heart felt for this soul, so I watched him rave a second time. Nothing justifies his behavior to people who were minding their own business, but my heart hurts for him none the less.

Only those who have lost a limb or mobility have any idea of how this young man hurts over the life that might have been his or what he could have done. You’re right; it’s no excuse for bad behavior, if you watch it again it’s a cry for help.

Look in the ranting man’s face; do you see rage? You’re speaking Spanish in the airport is getting on my last nerve rage?

Picture the scene that set the rage monster off, a mom chatting with and cooing over her fit and fine young military son in a way Latina women have of adoring their sons. Looking whole and wonderful her son reflected her adoration, and in hellfire, he sat dwelling on his loss; you can say, how sad or man up, but neither change that this man needs help and more compassion than he showed.

The raging man in a wheelchair may be the focus of this story, but on the flip side, we have a young man who I’d like to recognize for his cool and appropriate behavior. Way to go!!

The young man off camera spoke in reasonable tones telling him he too was military; he was talking to his mom who spoke Spanish, hoping for the angry man to empathize. Blessed are the peacemakers. 

Earth School

Souls come to the Earthly plane to learn. I’ve read that frequently; haven’t you?

“Why am I here?”  She asked at age seven, a tender age for so many encounters yet to come.

Self-control, a practice, a goal became her wish, her lesson; what child does this or don’t we all?

No one had the right to hurt her; beating a small child, that should be prohibited in all holy books. All the hate and evil an Earth person does is inversely proportioned to what they suffered in childhood.

Tag on a tad extra just because and you have hell fire. Little bodies quench parental fires feeling the licks of bonfires, not their doing. Outwardly the child learned control, studied her parents to understand what triggered their volatile behavior.

If you love me, why do you hurt me?

Don’t you love me?

Am I so bad, I deserve this?

No matter what I do you hit me, why can’t I ever get things right?

A child with no hope of being fairly treated learns life through a fractured lens. Teens suffer at best, becoming an adult can be more difficult than learning to walk.

From the pain of creation came hell fire; everything is about quenching hell fire’s pain.

The little girl survived her childhood to search for her place and respect; she has many lessons to learn. We learn them or don’t; life is still ours to mold to perfection or screw up royally.

The little girl’s mother shielded herself from hell fire with her daughter's tiny body; karma comes for her, as will compassion.

A life lesson I’m learning is how intertwined we are. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how much each encounter I have affects me. People who entered my life for moments star in capsules of compassionate warmth.

Those who suffer and manage to quell the fire to a wonderful learn to be A life lesson I’m learning is how intertwined we are. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how much each encounter I have affects me. People who entered my life for moments star in capsules of compassionate warmth.

Learn respect, learn to be kind; things improve with that. Haven’t we learned on the Earthly plane cruelty doesn’t douse any flames? Or you could believe life’s a bitch and then you die.